Death Defying Acts Video Review

Kristin Battestella chats about the 2007 film Death Defying Acts and it's problematic behind the scenes meddling that hurts the onscreen results of what should be an enchanting Edwardian movie with Guy Pearce and Catherine Zeta-Jones. 

Thank you for Watching! 

You can follow the latest in my ongoing Guy Pearce Career Re-Watch on Blue Sky with the new #PearceofMind hashtag. I've done so many reviews, rankings, essays, podcasts, and videos in this Pearce oeuvre assessment that it's easier to brand under one name. My DMs are open on Blue Sky if you wish to collaborate! Look for more content coming soon or browse past Pearce including: 

Neighbours 1985-89

Jack Irish

Women InSession: Underrated Guy Pearce Picks

Pearce of Mind Video Playlist

Aliens Guest Podcast

 

It's been a difficult summer - one of the toughest I can recall - yet I was determined to keep my recording date with the Greatest Movies of All Time Podcast to chat about one of my favorites, Aliens! 

You can listen or watch this anniversary revisit episode and don't forget to also check out GMOAT's Cinema Legacy Poll, in which I also had a small contribution among the cinephile and podcast community.

Browse more Podcast episodes and revisit past appearances including:

The Searchers

Ben-Hur

Women InSession 2025

Desert Hearts

 

Desert Hearts is a Lovely Little Film

by Kristin Battestella

Helen Shaver (Poltergeist: The Legacy) is Vivian Bell, a repressed New York literary professor who comes to Nevada for a quickie divorce from her perfectly unfulfilling 1959 high society marriage in the 1985 lesbian romance drama Desert Hearts. Casino worker Cay Rivvers (Patricia Charbonneau) is a wild artist also yearning for more, and she isn't afraid to express her attraction to Vivian – opening both their lives to scorn and new emotions.

Director Donna Deitch (The Women of Brewster Place) and late writer Natalie Cooper adapt the 1964 novel by Jane Rule with a realistic attention to dialogue and heartfelt conversations that anchor the fine performances. Men serve their purpose here as negative catalysts or lecherous bosses while happily married women on tranquilizers tell the upscale versus the steamy desert star-crossed to stay away from one another. However, both Vivian and Cay each say they never asked for anyone else's opinion on any same sex taboos. Their lives are nobody's concern, and the poetic script progresses well amid going to the movies and shopping montages as their attachment grows. Complaints about bad shoes and painful girdles feel natural; demure in pearls lets her hair down and puts on a pair of jeans. Rather than scandalous or titillating as lesbian scenes are so often played for the shock, gaze, or tease; Desert Hearts at times has an innocent, innocuous feeling. Women sit around in their slips on a hot day and it doesn't mean anything. Women can also kiss on a rainy night by the lake and it means everything. Townsfolk want to point the finger at who seduced whom, but as our couple bonds, a certain equality grows. The final train moments are very romantic – holding on to the railing, jogging alongside the train, charming declarations to continue to the next stop together. It rivals any similar cis hetero sweeping moment, and I often think of that “What do you want? Another forty minutes with you.”

Stylish, educated city woman Vivian is 35 and it's no longer worth staying in her “professional” childless marriage when she may yet find herself. Her career was her purpose, but she takes long cigarette drags and only gives answers when prodded into talking. Vivian never lingers, surprised by married women who gossip about sex and their husbands or departing when too many people crowd her – especially flirtatious, complimentary men. Vivian thinks the nicest thing anyone says to her is that it's okay to take off her painful pumps yet she hides behind her glasses and stays in her room working, laughing at the mess she makes in the kitchen but not wanting the lights full on if she looks bad late at night. She second guesses this move – she may end up alone and doesn't fit in with the cowboy hats but Vivian wants to be free of the perfect life she's had. Her longest conversations are with Cay, but Vivian doesn't want to mislead her like some tawdry student affair. She's never felt this way before and it's all happening too fast. In some facets, Desert Hearts isn't so much about the lesbianism as the repression and how the traditional idea of marriage holds one back. Up close, slow motion shower scenes imply new masturbatory experiences, but Vivian's a respected scholar, this humiliation is beneath her, and Cay needs to keep her voice down in public. The kiss in the rain is well done, with nothing but natural sounds and Vivian's subsequent conflict. It was just an impulse, a momentary lapse. She pulls back, arguing without raising her voice – still the submissive wife who won't remove her robe despite the smiles, laughter, and touching that makes her feel exposed and beautiful. Vivian confesses she doesn't know what to do, and the viewer wonders if this is perhaps her first orgasmic experience. Cay accuses her of just visiting this life until her divorce is finalized, but Vivian is not used to being in love of any kind. Clueless men still flirt with Vivian, unaware they are not needed, and her change is apparent in her loose hair and glowing smile. She may be ready to face New York again, but she wants to make it work with Cay, too.

Patricia Charbonneau's (Call Me) Cay says it isn't happening with her boss cum boyfriend and she's used to people talking about her rock and roll ways or dalliances with other women. She needs to be accepted for who she is man or woman but is also the first to get in her convertible and drive away from a serious relationship. Her boyfriend will have to look the other way at what she does, he may even enjoy the potential of multiple women she brings, but Cay doesn't want to be used and has a sensitive side. She admits Vivian is a keeper right away, declaring she was kicked out of college for “unnatural ways” and that she is not of Vivian's caliber. Vivian is not shocked at Cay's casual talk of getting it off with women, but Cay almost sees Vivian as the upscale man who can take her away from the desert and she must act to keep her. Cay stands up to those who oppose them and declares her intentions to seduce Vivian and see her naked. In the lengthy sex scene, it's clear Cay has the masculine know-how as she puts the do not disturb on the door and waits in the bed until Vivian's ready. They even argue about who should leave or obey, but then the subsequent deflowering takes its tender time. The lesbian saucy that today's viewers may expect actually happens very late in Desert Hearts, taking its time in the last half hour with focus on sounds, kissing, and rustling fabrics. Cay leads the gentle nipples to nipples as the hands go lower, but the specifics of who's doing what also doesn't matter. Both women are having a new intimate experience. Afterward it's initially all love and compliments, but Vivian dislikes Cay's demands to stay and have things her way. Cay doesn't think it's selfish to love Vivian, but she won't be mere pen pals or say goodbye.

Of supporting note I must mention Three's Company's Mrs. Roper herself Audra Lindley as Cay's sassy, bourbon swindling, sort of adoptive mother Frances. As the long time mistress of Cay's late father, at times the jealous Frances lives vicariously through Cay – never fully over her youthful lover and seeing him in his daughter's recklessness. She dislikes conversing with Vivian and kicks her out, uncomfortable with a sophisticated East Coast beauty. Frances is “normal” and doesn't need to pretend they are friends. She can't accept Cay either, questioning if every hug, dance, and laugh they share will become gossip. Frances doesn't understand how women together can compare to her great love. Being a kept mistress was an acceptable scandal in the good ole days, but Cay eventually helps Frances see they want a chance at happiness, too. Downtrodden trains and excellent Patsy Cline music set this romantic mood for Desert Hearts – a time when the eighties does fifties look was possible with rustic quaint interiors, creaking back porches, and screen doors. Hats and pearls provide old fashioned demure while slips and stockings hint at the feminine behind closed doors. The casino cha-chings and dusty views imply that the west is still a little wild. Women are allowed to be risque cruising in their big old sweet cars while the great rock and roll soundtrack blasts. The top is down, the hair is blowing. Desert Hearts is only a lean ninety minutes with odd fades to black or vignette style chapter transitions. These both seem unnecessary yet also make one wonder if they were short on assembly footage. Some disjointed scenes highlight secondary characters that are never seen again while other backstory is implied in later dialogue as if there were missing scenes. Other lookalike women and who's who at the family breakfast table aren't fully explained as if editing and story changes happened in media res, shrewdly pairing down the story to its core relationship. The train sounds echoing throughout the film also serve as a lovely ticking clock reminder of how this romance effects each woman's life.

In the eighties, this type of production was almost unheard of and outside of rainbow audiences, Desert Hearts seems perhaps deliberately obscured or dismissed by the mainstream. This was recommended for me to review with Jaylan Salah on the The Jays Days Show, and I'm glad to have seen this tender character driven piece. With a restored Criterion release available, there's no reason not to discover Desert Hearts.

Re-watch my Desert Hearts Video Review on The Jay Days and find more rainbow reviews including:

The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of The Desert

Bound

When We Rise

The Birdcage and Tootsie

Female Gaze Podcast - Hateship Loveship

 

I had a tremendous time chatting with Morgan at the Female Gaze Film Podcast about the 2013 film Hateship Loveship!

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Thank you for listening to our conversation! Follow me on Blue Sky for more upcoming Podcast and Video appearances or browse previous audio/visual guest spots:

The Revisionist Almanac Women's History Month Collab

1999: The Podcast – The End of the Affair

Greatest Movies of All Time – Ben-Hur

2024 Guest Podcast Round Up

Revisionist Almanac Women's History Month Collaboration

This month it was such a privilege to be part a small part of The Revisionist Almanac's Women's History Month Collaboration podcast!

You can hear many amazing voices amid this epic episode and stay tuned for more video chats with Jaylan Salah on The Jay Days YouTube Channel as well as my guest spot on an upcoming episode of The Female Gaze Film Club! 

DMs are open on Blue Sky for collaborations or follow our Podcast tag for past episodes including:

The Revisionist Almanac – 1956

Greatest Movies of All Time – Ben-Hur

1999: The Podcast – The End of the Affair

2024 Guest Podcast Round Up

2 Too Obvious Horrors

 

Two Too Obvious Horrors

by Kristin Battestella

These recent women in horror films make for an unfortunately obvious duo playing into cliches and doing much too much. Pity.

Hold Your Breath – Sarah Paulson (American Horror Story) anchors this 2024 Hulu original set in 1930s Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl. Coughing and gasping dreams, our mother's prayers to not be evil, and already deceased children giveaway everything upfront along with flashbacks of dad leaving to work on the railroad and daughters locking their door. Dust lingers in streams of light shining between wood planks; the women wipe, sweep, and beat the sheets but dust is everywhere. On edge neighbors trying to escape monstrous storm clouds lead to wagon accidents and burying dead animals. Families must cling to the safety lines or be swept away in the howling winds. Bedtime stories of the previously tall, golden wheat fields don't alleviate the rattling house, creaking wood, and dirt dunes billowing against the door. Promises to join their father when he sends money become notches on the wall counting his absence while the cows quit and a self-proclaimed healing hands minister hides in the barn. Unfortunately, ridiculously loud modern crescendos interfere with the suspense – deflating the innate breathing, nosebleeds, and dirt in their mouths. There should be no music save for the banging shutters, and although they serve the plot, one wonders if all the other townsfolk are truly necessary. Even our deaf daughter is a contrivance rather than a fully developed character serving the masks, sleeping pills, unknown man, women alone, and mailbag warnings. Entertaining angels unaware Lot scripture reiterates the feminine dangers while the superfluous town gossips whisper about what violence goes on behind closed doors. Friendly knocks on the door from those colloquial ninnies are rebuffed as mom practices putting on her smile in the mirror amid congested interior barricades, fires, and sleepwalking. Pretty white dresses are ruined with blood and no one believes there was a man terrorizing them once you say he's a speck of dust that came in under the door. Viewers understand our unfit mother's selfish descent as the family cycle perpetuates with sewing needle mishaps, shooting at voices in the dust, and children in peril. However grieving visions playing at the mental versus horror metaphors become an overlong, predictable excuse when the crazed, everything's fine pretending was enough for a straight isolation thriller. Despite a fine setting, atmosphere, and performances; this is laid on thick and obvious from the opening scene. 

Immaculate – The similarities to The First Omen are indeed apparent, and the obvious title is obvious to everyone but novice Sydney Sweeney (Madame Web) in this 2024 seen it all before nunsploitation yarn. Although questions at customs and searching the suitcase establish the Italian dictionary, Bible, and stuffed animal nervousness about taking the forthcoming vows; the opening runaway nun caught for buried alive screams is unnecessary. I wish the lovely on location filming and scenery were bright enough to actually see and I'm not sure when this is supposed to take place? However the American accent is jarring – an out of place modernity amid the rapid intermixed Italian exposition, diegetic choir chants, and eerie courtyard processions. Suggestive bridal vows, handsome priests, kneeling before the men, and kissing the ring innuendo are laid on thick but the spooky atmosphere and rituals beneath the inner sanctum aren't scary because the audience knows more than our vomiting novitiate. Brief visual distortions and nightmares give way to a happy daylight montage with chores and kitchen quaint even as chickens are killed and old convent patients die. Giggling bathing gossip and questions about if she has been chaste lead to humorous crescendos as they whip the cover off the ultrasound machine. Apparently, she's so faithful the miraculous mom never questions why a convent for dying nuns needs an obstetrician on call. It's tough to support a protagonist that has wine, faints, and wakes up pregnant but isn't suspicious despite Madonna ceremonies, teeth falling out, and jealous drowning attempts. Askew funerary angles, hidden scripture, hair effigies, cross brandings, and a tortured nun getting her tongue cut out attempt medieval touches while mom-to-be in white roams the halls at night with a candle. Chicken ruses, bleeding emergencies, and prayers over said bloody sheets lead to chases and a rough shower scrubbing. The priest puts on black gloves and apologizes if she feels unsafe after being subjected to a rusty nail with 2,000 year old sinews yet it's all so on the nose thanks to egotistical experiments, fetus failures in jars, misused scripture, and secret lab equipment. Questions debating why God hasn't stopped them and Ave Maria choirs feel religion-lite as our woman in labor runs, fights, and climbs the cool catacombs. She damns her water for breaking after bludgeoning the mother superior with hefty a crucifix while Carol of the Bells plays. She strangles the eminence with a rosary when he's smoking and sets the genetics priest on fire, too, as you do. Despite being eighty-odd minutes with lengthy credits eating into the actual runtime, this feels both overlong yet lacking in resolution or consequences. Fortunately our wild, covered in blood mother bites off her umbilical cord and smashes her unseen demon baby with a rock – actions accented by nails on chalkboard screaming and humorous “thump” and “sloshing” closed captions. This is a comedy and I laughed out loud.

When We Rise

 

Why No One Saw When We Rise (and Why You Should)

by Kristin Battestella

Despite a worthy ensemble including Guy Pearce, Mary-Louise Parker (Weeds), and Rachel Griffiths (The Hard Word) with appearances by Whoopi Goldberg (Ghost), Rosie O'Donnell (A League of Their Own), and more; the 2017 LGBT+ docudrama series from Dustin Lance Black (Milk) and Gus Van Sant (My Own Private Idaho) When We Rise came and went quickly on ABC.

In chronicling the history of the Gay Rights movement and AIDS epidemic from the seventies to the present, When We Rise takes on a bit more than it can chew thanks to faulty framework and unbalanced story telling. Hulu even originally listed the episodes as four “Night I-IV” two-hour parts before changing it to eight forty-four minute parts confusingly billed as “Episode Three Night II Part 1” and online episode guides likewise list both formats. Younger players shrewdly address the racism and sexism in the 1972 start before the elder ensemble tackles marriage equality and all the wonderful performances look the period part. However, this should have been two seasons worth with an episode each per character, and it almost feels like When We Rise may have been cut down from ten or twelve episodes – rushing over critical moments across the nation and the decades. Cheap sound alike cover songs likewise punctuate both unequal make out romps for the rebellious titillation and heavy handed declarations on lesbianism, women's rights, homosexuality as mental illness, and religion both as a solace or harsh master. Archive footage and famous cameos pepper the San Francisco oasis, sailors down low, underground clubs, and protests; but the disjointed montages deflate the impactful moments.

Every story in When We Rise has necessary weight and we are emotionally moved by the personal tenderness when we have a chance to breathe. Unfortunately, the magnitudes are uneven – deaths, interrogations, ostracizing, assaults, and speeches crowd together rather than giving the front line lovers or coming out to parents their full attention. We unfairly hurry through Vietnam, feminism, legislation fights, and violence just so every scene has one stern look from an angry lesbian or powerful words from a gay rebel that instantly, conveniently change some nonbeliever's mind. Lovers, friends, and enemies come and go amid raids, sanctioned hate crimes, and assassinations as Transgender activists and Rainbow Flag creators are glossed over and lost in the busy storytelling. Personal struggles on cruising gone wrong or fears of losing jobs if found out are used to string along the bigger revolution with platitudes and voiceover speeches instead of conversations – compromising intimate reflections on poverty, prostitution, idealism versus action, and who we love. Narrations and letters mean our characters aren't talking to each other, and it's lovely when our separate activists do finally meet during interracial relationships, cover marriages, not being able to inherit or adopt, bath houses, drugs, and increasing illness. Today this past and present would be edited as concurrent rather than chronological – negating the individual stories even further – and When We Rise is noticeably better once the voiceover montages stop and the drama is allowed to play out amid eighties neon, roller skating, and the healthcare crisis of what was then called GRID. Gay backlash, panic, the government's blind eye, and candle vigils need no hyperbole because the viewer realizes almost all the men depicted in When We Rise have died. Moving into the new millennium, unfortunately, loses steam again by falling back on voiceover catch ups and divided storytelling.

Although now understandably persona non grata, Jonathan Majors (Loki) is impressive before the subsequent Michael K. Williams (The Wire) as Ken Jones' self medicating drink and drugs remains largely separate from the rest of our leaders. A daughter of lesbian parents clearly assaulted is also inexplicably never addressed as again When We Rise's uneven structure does a disservice to the younger performers. Thankfully, lovely interview montages of symptoms, fatalities, and fears of being alone and forgotten are well done in the second half before strides in the nineties with the AIDS quilt giving the elder stars more to do. Much more time is spent in the final episodes on the medical give and take and more recent legislation than the initial protests and gay liberation – scripting issues which perhaps stem from Cleve Jones' memoirs as the series' primary source. Pearce's portrayal as Jones is very different than his over the top turn in The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert, petite and effeminate yet with an emotional strength to match the sassy sage for the next generation of activists. There's a tenderness to his hobnobbing for presidential acknowledgment alongside sad adoption attempts and wonderful scenes with David Hyde Pierce (Frasier) as Jones' unwavering, considering electroshock therapy psychologist father. Generations clash amid legal achievements and setbacks before contemporary marital laws come round to embracing the blended nontraditional family.

When We Rise is moving to watch and remember what it was like then. However it's also especially emotional re-watching When We Rise after the not so dissimilar COVID pandemic. To think we only went through a few months of willful spread, misinformation, and turmoil before the expedited COVID vaccine while AIDS victims died en masse in slow, painful decades before the right medical cocktail was available and HIV no longer became a death sentence. Seeing such sociological and scientific parallels only makes me more angry at contemporary bigots and misled anti-vaxxers who are so ungrateful about the privileges we have today – voluntarily ignorant of the high price others have paid to achieve our supposedly better living. Busy, preempted Network television seven years ago at the beginning of the woeful Trump presidency was also not the place for When We Rise and its overdue representation. Although I would buy the video and G-rated Disney parent of ABC could delete your digital purchase at any time, When We Rise is not available on DVD and not always free streaming on Hulu. If it weren't so tough to find, I believe a re-released edition of When We Rise would probably be well received now – a relatable parable since we must fight yet again for women, minorities, and LGBTQIA+ rights in America. When We Rise is a sad, uneasy watch. However despite its structural flaws, this is a necessary historical overview, educational experience, and essential conversation starter.

Recent Female Helmed Horror

 

Recent Female Helmed Horror

by Kristin Battestella

This trio of pandemic era horror releases is led by female directors – each with an interesting perspective on the love, blood, and gore of the genre.

Fresh – Every female viewer will be hooked in the first five minutes of this Mimi Cave 2022 directorial debut thanks to a crappy date complaining about spicy food, talking down to the waitress, wishing women dressed nicer, expecting her to pay, not holding the door, and calling Daisy Edgar-Jones (Under the Banner of Heaven) a stuck up bitch. Phone chimes, swipe left apps, and unsolicited dick pics add to our innate fears of a woman walking alone at night, keys ready, looking over her shoulder. Snacking on carrots leads to a puffy coat and goofy sneakers for a solo grocery run, but Sebastian Stan (We Have Always Lived in the Castle) is flirting in the produce section with awkward ice breakers and demands she taste the grapes. Noa didn't think people met in real life anymore but she's excited when he texts for drinks, and the exposition is for them as much as us with his plastic surgeon jokes and her hatred of all the dating pressure and projections. Up close smiles and blurred laughter overlays visually reflect the blissful time before kisses, red lighting, and a well filmed consensual that's risque without being for the male gaze. Multiple mirrors reflect the pretenses, dual facades, or who we really are revelations as the red flags get lost in the whirlwind excitement. He's not on social media yet takes pictures of her and is ready to go away for a weekend together, but viewers notice the real world warnings beyond the horror movie. No cell service, leathery artwork, drinks,and red furniture lead to a fuzzy point of view, camera distortions, slurring audio, and drugged movements just before the credits appear a half hour into the film. It's shrewd they arrive once the premise is revealed, but it's odd to disrupt the momentum as Noa awakens chained and pleading while her captor is calm and upfront: he will keep her alive and sell her meat because he's still a nice guy, but if she loses his trust, there will be consequences. Arena rock and singing along while dicing up a leg provide demented humor amid the surgical violence, epidurals, and invasive carvings. Fifties-esque pink dresses and ironic eighties dances punctuate the captive delirium, disgust, and duplicitous layers that don't underestimate the audience. Meat presses, packing the ladies' photos, and shipping the meal plans to his exclusive clientele are all in a day's work. Chainsawing the ribs, meat grinders, jerky, and limbs suggest succulence instead of gore, however the carnivorous flashes and creepy deliveries should be the only point of view breaks and the “wistful music playing” cues for every scene transition are also unnecessary. Hectic chases and a somewhat unfinished end feel a little too long, but cowards and man meat get a taste of their own medicine. Though perhaps tough to stomach more than once, there are numerous visual references of eating with the left hand, mark of the beast dinnerware, and gory bites at $30k a plate. Women must still worry about their body, looks, and beauty to go along with the crazy men and free themselves. Tagged and labeled freezer bags create a system of ritual feast that rich white men get away with while the women are chewed up and spit out – literally.

Rose: A Love Story – A secluded couple has everything they need off the grid in this 2020 horror romance from director Jennifer Sheridan (The Snow Spider) – generators, water jugs, extra locks on the door, wind chimes alarms, and typewriters for low tech, low light living. Hunting and animal traps are a necessity with rabbits and deer a plenty in the snowy forest, but mail order leeches and a cut through the glove leave our Mrs. sickly and pale. Writer's block, semantics, and miscommunication hamper their affections, for she doesn't want him to police her and keep track but they both have to stick to the rules, keep their home secure, and take no risks. Fine lighting, UV colors, lanterns, candlelight, and shadows accent the humble, cluttered cabin while the laid back pacing matches the routine, if ominous lifestyle. They try to make saucy time, but she's afraid he'll think her gross, and the realistic relationship and honest characterizations are firmly established. Faulty electricity and sounds of a struggle in the dark mean only blood can calm her, but our husband is committed to his growling wife's care despite debates on who is unhappy or giving up on life. There is no elaborate explanation about how this happened, but arranged roadside contacts for supplies gone awry necessitate a paranoid drive into town and the rush to return home. Date night is a walk outside so long as she wears her mask, and seemingly innocuous classical music montages and reading her writing aloud foreshadow their precarious pretense. Screams in the night lead to an injured woman caught in one of their animal traps, disrupting their careful situation with bone settings, bloody clean ups, and threats to tell the police if they force the injured runaway to go back home. She becomes like a child between the couple as well as an audience anchor – doing tasks with each, gardening, and asking why they live like this. The getting away from the bustle, self sustaining model, skin issues, and sunlight troubles are crafty excuses, too, but we know there is something worse at the source. It's best to go into this cold and I don't want to give everything away, however this is not for viewers looking for full on, in your face horror. Not much happens, but the slow pace maintains the taut focus and doesn't overstay its welcome. The underlying horror, angry answers, bloody bites, and tragic violence are worth seeing to the end here.

I Wanted to Like It but...

Carmilla – Period frocks, lovely landscapes, slow still lifes, and rippling waters reflect the repressed monotony of this 2019 Le Fanu inspired British piece from writer and director Emily Harris (Borges and I). Candlelight, nibs, and no exterior views of the manor provide a claustrophobic, congested attention to detail as the sense of restless boredom grows for our budding teenager who's still treated like a child by her governess, struck with a ruler, and forced to bind her preferred left hand. She is punished for secretly reading anatomy books and left to peer around the corner as the adults talk or come and go freely while she's supposed to be practicing her elocution. Moss and greenery contrast the cold interiors amid conversations about nature and dead animals, however far too much time is spent on artistic insect shots, yearning out the window up close angles, and more crawling bugs arty awe. Such scenes and any brief point of view breaks are unnecessary once we are within the lonely character. Fortunately, thunderstorms and a carriage crash bring the unexpected titular guest who stays to recuperate. The firelight glow accents Carmilla's eerie appearance and feline eyes as the nights become bold with red hair down, loose white shifts, and bloody dreams. The girls laugh, run, hold their breath, and climb trees while the stifled governess rings the tea bell and sits alone, rigid and scraping her toast. The cross above Carmilla's bed is found on the floor, and macabre dreams escalate with disemboweling gore, gurgling kisses, smeared lips, and promises to become blood sisters. Is our ingenue sick from the blood exchange or just distraught at being separated from Carmilla after being caught bumping corsets and forced to pray? The young cast does quite well, but the brief kisses could come across as modern lez be friends baiting since neither the romance nor the vampire symbolism ever fully culminate. The slow unknown may be meant to mirror the period look, don't touch admire from afar beauty of women keeping themselves unexplored. Unfortunately, the intriguing phobias and finger pointing statements unravel in the ambiguous, arty commentary by time our jealous governess jumps to conclusions and persecutes Carmilla. Once again, the troubles may stem from a one and the same writer and director that went for something existential rather than making the vampirism clear. This is lovely for period piece fans and those looking for a unique gothic romance or lesbian drama, but the tragic relationship versus vampire blood could have been much more.

Movie of the Week Horrors

 

Movie of the Week Horrors

by Kristin Battestella

This throwback trio of women-centric network television movies consists of questionable larks at best and inexplicably disturbing at worse. Yet somehow, there remains some bemusing entertainment value – if you overlook a lot.

The Invasion of Carol Enders – TV movie queen Meredith Baxter (Family Ties) wakes up possessed in this unusual 1974 Dan Curtis (Dark Shadows) produced tale that seems more like a soap opera pilot at only sixty-seven minutes. Some acting is laid on thick and the bare production tries its best as blindness, car accidents, an heiress, the suspicious stepson, and more soap opera tropes rely on reused Dark Shadows sets and familiar Robert Cobert music intruding to create more ominous mood. Military men and space engineers can't handle the financial downturns as husbands and boyfriends become angry, violent drunkards and the women suffer for it. The premise is eerie enough thanks to the more subtle chills as a patient claims a man she never met is her husband and he refuses to believe it as nothing more than a demented con. Our dead woman calls her broker like nothing is wrong amid the horror of looking in the mirror and seeing someone different. Of course, the ladies happen to be in the same hospital at the same time for the eponymous switch-a-roo, relying on convenient leaps as even the physician diagnoses one spirit as saving the other. The deceased also magically knows she was murdered when her car went off the road alongside faulty brakes, shady ex-husbands, bank forgeries, and then high-tech copy machine culprits. Baxter spends half the time sitting in a hospital bed with bandages on her eyes – used or removed as needed – before easily leaving for her own investigation. There are compelling one on ones and even some tense action, but the authorities bend to the supernatural or rational just to move the plot along – nonbelievers accepting a possession story that seems intended for Dark Shadows had that series continued. This isn't anything one hasn't seen already, yet I can't lie, I fell for the red herring!

Satan's Triangle – Bermuda Triangle shipwrecks and Coast Guard rescues spell doom for lieutenant Doug McClure (The Virginian) and lone survivor Kim Novak (Vertigo) in this 1975 movie of the week that looks ten years too late. The first twenty minutes could have been skipped – a dry reenactment with hovering helicopters, terrible radio banter, and airlifts that are somehow so plain despite the distress calls and sinking boats. Bodies are impaled and strung up on the mast, however the snail's pace back and forth focuses on the search protocol. Flashbacks to big game fishing and a previously rescued priest suggest that's where our story should be. The messy storytelling constructs interfere with the action at hand while wind, fog, and poor video quality make the schooner tough to see. A supposedly sexy priest and Jock Ewing himself Jim Davis chomping down on his food amid the disaster are inadvertently humorous despite lightning, ominous music, and then saucy bare backs of topless women. Recountings of another person within the flashback mean we never directly see anything as it happens, and nonsensical narrating over dialogue leaves the audience unable to share in the scary experience. The rescuer who wasn't even there repeats the deaths as if everything was a secret in need of explanation before tacked on religion and predictable twists. The devil said to be testing people's mettle could be intriguing without the artificially created constraints, and although we balk at this past bad, today numerous shows do the same deliberate delay and cut up mystery. One can usually forgive these ABC yarns, but in spite of a very chilling ending, this playing at spooky nothing burger obvious would have been much more effective as a half hour anthology entry.

She Waits – The print is understandably poor for this 1972 CBS production featuring newlywed Patty Duke (The Miracle Worker) and mother-in-law Dorothy McGuire (Old Yeller) confronting the spirit of David McCallum's (The Man from U.N.C.L.E) late first wife, and the elegant, romantic music plays up the Rebecca wannabe mood. The ghosts and crazy old ladies jump right into the spooky old home ominous, but the California set piece doesn't have much gothic atmosphere. The deceased's pictures are pulled from the albums amid music boxes, voices in the night, phantom humming, and occult books in the library. However the antique shopping coincidences and contrived relationships skip over any slow burn scares. Claustrophobic rooms, billowing curtains, unseen spirits, and slamming doors are effective with very little, but the haunting is never used to full advantage. Superfluous characters come and go as needed, and it takes a half hour for something scary to happen. Naturally the droll son/husband and old man doctor don't believe the hysterical women and don't want them to frighten one another, but the derivative lack of surprises means there's no real torment for the characters. The hear tell talk of the titular Elaine doesn't create her presence, for we're repeatedly told she will possess and intends to harm her husband – giving away everything that's going to happen as if we've haven't seen Patty Duke play doubles already. Clueless men save themselves by talking their way out of the revenge as the reveals move fast because the seventy-four minutes says so. Instead of a warped battle of wills between the ladies, this merely limps into the same old, same old.

Unpopular Opinion: Sense and Sensibility (1995)

An Unpopular Opinion on Sense and Sensibility

by Kristin Battestella

It's an unpopular take, but Sense and Sensibility is really a terrible story. How does no one else see it? Allow me to summarize director Ang Lee's (Crouching Tiger, HiddenDragon) 1995 adaptation of the Jane Austen novel as thus:

Brother John Dashwood (James Fleet) and his snobbish wife Fanny (Harriet Walter) cast out his late father's (Tom Wilkinson) second wife (Gemma Jones) and his three half-sisters to live off cousins in what they think is a meager, destitute humble in a delicious three story cottage with servants, picturesque views, and neighborly gentry. To escape this supposed squalor and regain their financial status, the only option is for one of the daughters to marry well. Eldest Elinor (Emma Thompson) becomes esteemed with her sister-in-law's brother Edward Ferrars (Hugh Grant), head over heels in their stiff upper lip after one country visit while middle daughter Marianne (Kate Winslet) throws herself at the enchanting John Willoughby (Greg Wise) after he touches her sprained ankle in a scandalous rescue in the rain. Poetry, picnics, locks of hair – it all seems like a marriage is in the bag until Willoughby is cast out by his wealthy country relations. Marianne continues to pathetically write a bunch of unanswered letters, throwing herself at him during a ball as high society whispers behind the backs of these reeking of desperation Dashwood ladies who really don't know how to pick men. Two hundred year old book spoiler alert – smooth talker Willoughby got a girl pregnant, so instead of making right by her, he's marrying another rich lady to cover his costs. Viewers are meant to feel sad by the fact that the one of his count 'em three women her really loves is Marianne, but clearly she does not love herself, just like Lucy Steele (Imogen Stubbs), who's been secretly engaged to Edward– yes, Elinor's awkward enchantment – for five years. At this point, it feels like the audience need a flow chart to follow these ironic inter-relations as more cousins, in-laws, and families threatening to disinherited men who marry penniless women enter the crowded narrative.

Elinor, Marianne, and Lucy go off with more rich, distantly related folks as all everyone seems to do is invite people over to gossip and play matchmaker or reveal secrets to people they hardly know. They enter, greet, bow, curtsy, sit for five minutes of discomfort and misunderstandings before abruptly standing and suddenly departing. Carriage distances make these grand estates seem so far apart that it takes a day's rest to travel, yet the men for whom the women pine manage to speed to and fro on horseback at will – remaining absentee crushes for most of the two hours plus. Lucy is taken in by that snobby sister-in-law Fanny because The Ferrars don't know about the secret engagement and toss her out once they do hear of it, but Lucy takes a liking to Edward's younger brother Robert (Richard Lumsden) anyway. Marianne, meanwhile, ends up sick with a fever because she ran out in a storm so Willoughby could literally be her hill to die on, and her convalescence kicks another set of loosely related wealthy neighbors The Palmers (Hugh Laurie and Imelda Staunton) out of their own house. This time, Marianne was rescued by Colonel Brandon (Alan Rickman), another nearby gent who's been moon eyeing at her while she looks the other way at the heroic shadow of cad Willoughby. Brandon, you see, couldn't tell Marianne that the girl Willoughby knocked up was his ward – at least not until it's time to dump the stiff upper lip excuses, contrived suspense, and backdoor connected secrets on long suffering and heavy burdened Elinor, who's saving her lip tremble for hearing that Lucy is now Mrs. Ferrars. Of course, Lucy isn't Edward's Mrs. Ferrars, but Elinor doesn't get that memo. With fifteen minutes left, Edward finally shows up once more to tell Elinor what he should have said in the first dang place, which would have saved us all from one lame ass misunderstanding. Now, there can be a double wedding; the Dashwood women are no longer so desperate nor destitute, just relying on different men for their money and maybe happiness. Marianne has learned to like the Colonel after all and Elinor and Edward have apparently overcome their communication problem. Bravo, I guess.

Despite trying on numerous occasions, I've never made it all the way through Sense and Sensibility in one sitting. Why do I keep trying to catch the whole thing in bits and spurts? I can't lie, I just like looking at all the Regency costumes. Disliking the supposedly charming story also doesn't mean one hates on these ladies. Emilie Francois (Now with a PHD you go girl) as youngest sister Margaret is, unfortunately, pretty much an afterthought. The potential for youthful spying to find the truth about what's not been intimated or speaking bluntly to ask the right damn questions of these bumbling men is not used to full advantage. Likewise Margaret's spirited reckless but possible sense of what's what remains underutilized as a positive example that perhaps the titular best of both her sisters can be embodied together, and if she's not there for any future hopeful, viewers may wonder why she's here at all. Thankfully, we all love Kate Winslet's (Titanic) flustered cheeks and wispy tendrils as Marianne, the perfect Regency rose. The audience wants her to be happy in love, escaping these crappy social circumstances with whatever throwing herself at a guy it's going to take. The whirlwind, butterflies in the stomach, heartbreak, and tears remain relatable. We're protective of these ladies, so whatever bug's up Sense and Sensibility's butt, we don't fault screenwriter Emma Thompson (Howards End) in doing the best she could – earning an Adapted Screenplay Oscar and other acclaim for pairing down the obnoxious for love or money trite into something streamlined and mildly bemusing thanks to the Dashwood femininity. In spite of the intertwined back and forth mistaken jolly goods with too many characters' hands in the pot, we enjoy how our screenwriter also pulls off a Best Actress nominated restrained performance. Elinor is the oldest, the responsible, good sister taking care of everyone else but herself. Everyone else is allowed to be problematic, and the culmination of the movie isn't so much that her dang love interest comes clean, but that Elinor expresses herself after spending all her time bottling up her emotions alongside everyone else's crying and secrets. Ironically, the self-insertion from Austen writing in her first published novel about what she knows as a woman stuck under the misogynistic Regency's thumb is a bit too much life imitating art. She never got a happy marital ending, so it's doubly ironic that Dame Thompson ended up marrying Greg “Willoughby” Wise in real life. Touché. Sadly however, Gemma Jones' (MI-5) Mrs. Dashwood misses the opportunity to capitalize on being witty and Dame Maggie on Downton sassy, remaining passive and accepting of the circumstances rather than standing up for her daughters by worming the bullshit out of the men. Instead mother Mrs. Jennings Elisabeth Spriggs (A Christmas Carol) and daughter Mrs. Palmer Imelda Staunton (Harry Potter) carry the matchmaker quirky, because in Sense and Sensibility, only once a woman has married rich and spend her youth is she allowed to be a busybody eccentric.

Like Diana Ross said in Mahogany, the men of Sense and Sensibility, however, ain't shit. All of them. Too many named John and multiples with the same last name acerbate the wash out male confusion, leaving every conversation with the opposite sex laden by a Who's on First back and forth. While this can start off bemusing for some, it inevitably ends up so, so tiring for most. We wouldn't put up with this crap, so it's infuriating that our girls have to settle for this patriarchal, pussyfooting gentry. Wise's Willoughby is supposed to be the most handsome therefore he drops the most poon in his wake, yet we don't even see him most of the time. In Sense and Sensibility, the men's roles are more about how the women have built up the intimations while pining for the gents in their absence. Again, we're supposed to like Hugh Grant's (Four Weddings and a Funeral, which as Al Bundy said, is really just five of the same thing.) Edward Ferrars because he's befuddling charming with our Elinor, but it's just too damn awkward in his bathroom break and you miss him handful of scenes. Did the whirlwind actually happened or was all love goggles? Even Edward's collars and jackets looks too big for him as he hunches over and mumbles something honorable enough to get a passing grade. Visually, Alan Rickman (Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves) is the upstanding opposite as Colonel Brandon literally on his high horse when not taking his own friend zone shit from Marianne. Why is he bothering when she won't give him the time of day? The Colonel with no first name seems more suited in temperament with Elinor, but these secret keeping wallflowers only exchange help or whispers as needed rather then develop something more – never mind that in the book, Brandon is over thirty and Marianne is supposed to be a teenager. o_O Whipped brother James Fleet (Death Comes to Pemberley) is there so his wife Harriet Walter (Little Dorrit) can have her only power through him, and Imogen Stubbs (Twelfth Night) as Lucy Steele is likewise defined as villainous because she is competing in the same shallow gentry pool. Poor domesticated Hugh Laurie (The Night Manager) is the man around the most, surrounded by the increasing number of flustered skirts his wife and mother-in-law invite into his home with only a newspaper and a few witty jabs to shield him. Obviously, there is a specific decorum and social control in Sense and Sensibility – men had all the financial and marital rights, remaining responsible for all their nearest women. However, that doesn't mean they had to be spineless dicks about it. Is this a twenty-first century perspective on a two hundred year old story? Yes, but with so much acclaim on the supposed romance herein, one keeps watching for a timeless characterization that isn't there. Instead of worthwhile men to our ladies, the males are all bloated and self-important, and it's tough to find the men are weak meta bemusing because it's true.

Thankfully Sense and Sensibility's Regency costumes, feathers, cravats, and gems are divine. Particularly now in a pandemic re-watch when it's been all pajamas with no need to dress up; the breezy frocks, purposeful yet pretty bonnets, and warm shawls provide elegance with their simple Greco-Roman revival touches as well as about the manor house comforting. Likewise, the landscaped estates, country cottages, and London town houses have candles, antiques, fireplaces, woodwork, and craftsmanship be they lavish or seemingly meager. Sense and Sensibility is bright with open spaces and sunny picnics. It's the typical English countryside ideal, yet all these dang people are so gosh darn unhappy about their expansive homes and picturesque views. It's such a chore apparently to ride on beautiful horses or in delicious carriages, going back and forth between neighbors when not breaking out the quills and inkwells and writing letters saying you are on your way. After all, there isn't much else to do when not reading idyllic poetry to escalate the socially unreciprocated yearning. Although right now, we can't even go over to a distant relation's mansion and kick them out of their own place when we get a fever, so I guess the grass is always greener amirite. Unpopular opinion or not, even an ardent Austen fan must admit Sense and Sensibility is a saccharin for love or money story with stupid guys who can't say what they mean, relatable in their pent up waiting women, and heaps of misunderstands going round and round on each intertwined couple. It's musical chairs until time's up and somebody finally tells who they love for real for reals – or at least learned to like for all their material assets.

Growing up reading Jane Austen, I always felt her books end up saying the same dang thing, and after all these tries, this Sense and Sensibility's main redeeming value is ultimately it's pretty dressings. I can't lie, when I'm in those Regency frocks feelings, I often fall asleep watching this on mute. The lack of sound makes one realize how this terrible who likes whom social confusion and heartache over nothing derivative can be so readily deduced. Even the British decorum hindrances permeate without hearing a word, rightly or wrongly indicative of the expected Austen same old, same old. I guess if it takes you dozens of times to see one adaptation, you really have seen them all. I'm utterly flummoxed how Sense and Sensibility's terrible story and time wasting bore – and possibly sleep inducing pace – can be so beloved. Sorry! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯