Maybe the dingo ate your baby.

Seinfeld

2.9: The Stranded

The Premise

George and Elaine are stranded at a party in Long Island, with a disgruntled hostess.

Observational

Another episode that doesn’t quite come together. It has an all-time classic moment (Elaine’s riff on Meryl Streep in A Cry in the Dark) and some reasonablt effective sequences (Kramer’s arrival at the party house, George’s indignation over being short-changed) but it’s front-loaded with all the good material and limps to the finish line. Larry David may well have agreed; he was responsible for delaying its airdate until the third season (it’s in the correct order on the DVD collection).

If George is going to win, he usually has to lose even more resoundingly. The trip to Long Island is at his behest, since he has a chance with work colleague Ava (hearing his apparent enthusiasm over a real estate deal does not compute, it must be said). And her forwardness unsettles him, first resulting in a randomly classical literature-sounding response (“I long for you”) and then desperation (“I can’t perform under pressure”). It gets worse when he realises the repercussions of dating a work colleague (“Every day is a date”) and he reaches the only decision he can in order to end the anxiety (“I have no choice. I’m quitting”). Cue out-of-work George (although his demise comes a couple of episodes later, in spectacular fashion), ripe for material and the introduction of his parents.

If he reverses out of that situation, his approach to dealing with the money he feels is owed is to dig his heels in. He attempts to steal medicine from the same store we saw in the opening (“I have to do this. It’s a matter of honour”) and ends up being arrested. But ending with George and Jerry swapping incarceration stories feels off (maybe if Larry Charles had written this one the exaggeration would play better). His reasoning for his date’s advances is a nicely self-deprecating, however (“I don’t know. Maybe a safe fell on her head”).

Jerry and Elaine’s boredom and frustration at a party where they have nothing in common with those they’re stuck talking to no one to talk to is skilfully sustained from the moment they arrive (“Yeah, this has disaster written all over it”). Jerry’s the one forwarding the anti-social ethos this time (“Have a bunch of strangers treat your house like a hotel room”) and everything goes wrong. Their attempts to signal each other when they get into an awkward conversation never connect, so they have to amuse themselves by taking the piss out of their co-guests. Jerry explains where he gets the inspiration for his material (“I hear a voice”) while Elaine confounds Gwen, who won’t stop talking about her fi-ancé in particularly shrill tones (“Maybe the dingo ate your baby”).

The dingo exchange is a delightful Elaine “crazy” moment, her getting worked up over the wearing of fur less so. Jerry’s “Pendant? Those bastards!” when he eventually does come to Elaine’s aid is gleefully over-the-top. We also hear about “the Code” from Jerry; George gets to take the car because he has scored. The duo’s pain as they attempt to pass conversation while their hostess is on the verge of evicting them is palpable.

So it’s a relief to have Kramer disorganised arrival, at 2am and having knocked on every door in the area (he knows the numbers of the address, just no what order they come in). He peers in through the window, causing the hostess to scream out in horror. And, although he comes to their rescue, since he couldn’t get the top on his convertible up both Elaine and Jerry catch a chill. Following this, Matt Goldman, David and Seinfeld are stuck for how to continue the story and fix on a bit of a stiff.

The Michael Chiklis plotline just doesn’t work. As Steve, the apparently meek and mild host of the party, it’s certainly something different from Chilkis’ work on The Shield, he turns up at Jerry’s apartment to indulge in his own bit of carousing. Even with Kramer around, there’s a dearth of real laughs and it leads to a weak conclusion where Jerry is arrested for solicitation.

Quotable

George: You haven’t won. You may think you’ve won but you haven’t. You know why, because it’s not over. This is not over. I’m not forgetting what’s happening here. You have my ten dollars. I will get it back. It’s all right. It’s not over. I’m going now. Goodbye. I will be back. Ho-ho-hoo.

Man: Where do you get your material?

Jerry: I hear a voice.

Man: What kind of voice?

Jerry: A man’s voice. But he speaks German so I have to get it translated.

Gwen: Ellen, have you seen my fi-ancé? I have lost my fi-ancé, the poor baby.

Elaine: Maybe the dingo ate your baby.

Gwen: What?

Elaine: The dingo ate your baby.

George: That’s a lot of pressure. “Make love to me.” What am I, in the circus? I can’t perform under pressure.

Verdict:

Comments

She writes Twilight fan fiction.

Vampire Academy (2014)
My willingness to give writer Daniel Waters some slack on the grounds of early glories sometimes pays off (Sex and Death 101) and sometimes, as with this messy and indistinct Young Adult adaptation, it doesn’t. If Vampire Academy plods along as a less than innovative smart-mouthed Buffy rip-off that might be because, if you added vampires to Heathers, you would probably get something not so far from the world of Joss Whedon. Unfortunately inspiration is a low ebb throughout, not helped any by tepid direction from Daniel’s sometimes-reliable brother Mark and a couple of hopelessly plankish leads who do their best to dampen down any wit that occasionally attempts to surface.

I can only presume there’s a never-ending pile of Young Adult fiction poised for big screen failure, all of it comprising multi-novel storylines just begging for a moment in the Sun. Every time an adaptation crashes and burns (and the odds are that they will) another one rises, hydra-like, hoping…

Prepare the Heathen’s Stand! By order of purification!

Apostle (2018)
(SPOILERS) Another week, another undercooked Netflix flick from an undeniably talented director. What’s up with their quality control? Do they have any? Are they so set on attracting an embarrassment of creatives, they give them carte blanche, to hell with whether the results are any good or not? Apostle's an ungainly folk-horror mashup of The Wicker Man (most obviously, but without the remotest trace of that screenplay's finesse) and any cult-centric Brit horror movie you’d care to think of (including Ben Wheatley's, himself an exponent of similar influences-on-sleeve filmmaking with Kill List), taking in tropes from Hammer, torture porn, and pagan lore but revealing nothing much that's different or original beyond them.

You can’t just outsource your entire life.

Tully (2018)
(SPOILERS) A major twist is revealed in the last fifteen minutes of Tully, one I'll happily admit not to have seen coming, but it says something about the movie that it failed to affect my misgivings over the picture up to that point either way. About the worst thing you can say about a twist is that it leaves you shrugging.

There's something wrong with the sky.

Hold the Dark (2018)
(SPOILERS) Hold the Dark, an adaptation of William Giraldi's 2014 novel, is big on atmosphere, as you'd expect from director Jeremy Saulnier (Blue Ruin, Green Room) and actor-now-director (I Don’t Want to Live in This World Anymore) pal Macon Blair (furnishing the screenplay and appearing in one scene), but contrastingly low on satisfying resolutions. Being wilfully oblique can be a winner if you’re entirely sure what you're trying to achieve, but the effect here is rather that it’s "for the sake of it" than purposeful.

No one understands the lonely perfection of my dreams.

Ridley Scott Ridders Ranked
During the '80s, I anticipated few filmmakers' movies more than Ridley Scott's; those of his fellow xenomorph wrangler James Cameron, perhaps. In both cases, that eagerness for something equalling their early efforts receded as they studiously managed to avoid the heights they had once reached. Cameron's output dropped off a cliff after he won an Oscar. Contrastingly, Scott's surged like never before when his film took home gold. Which at least meant he occasionally delivered something interesting, but sadly, it was mostly quantity over quality. Here are the movies Scott has directed in his career thus far - and with his rate of productivity, another 25 by the time he's 100 may well be feasible – ranked from worst to best.

Well, you did take advantage of a drunken sailor.

Tomb Raider (2018)
(SPOILERS) There's evidently an appetite out there for a decent Tomb Raider movie, given that the lousy 2001 incarnation was successful enough to spawn a (lousy) sequel, and that this lousier reboot, scarcely conceivably, may have attracted enough bums on seats to do likewise. If we're going to distinguish between order of demerits, we could characterise the Angelina Jolie movies as both pretty bad; Tomb Raider, in contrast, is unforgivably tedious.

This is it. This is the moment of my death.

Fearless (1993)
Hollywood tends to make a hash of any exploration of existential or spiritual themes. The urge towards the simplistic, the treacly or the mawkishly uplifting, without appropriate filtering or insight, usually overpowers even the best intentions. Rarely, a movie comes along that makes good on its potential and then, more than likely, it gets completely ignored. Such a fate befell Fearless, Peter Weir’s plane crash survivor-angst film, despite roundly positive critical notices. For some reason audiences were willing to see a rubgy team turn cannibal in Alive, but this was a turn-off? Yet invariably anyone who has seen Fearless speaks of it in glowing terms, and rightly so.

Weir’s pictures are often thematically rich, more anchored by narrative than those of, say, Terrence Malick but similarly preoccupied with big ideas and their expression. He has a rare grasp of poetry, symbolism and the mythic. Weir also displays an acute grasp of the subjective mind-set, and possesses …

If you want to have a staring contest with me, you will lose.

Phantom Thread (2017)
(SPOILERS) Perhaps surprisingly not the lowest grossing of last year's Best Picture Oscar nominees (that was Call Me by Your Name) but certainly the one with the least buzz as a genuine contender, subjected as Phantom Thread was to a range of views from masterpiece (the critics) to drudge (a fair selection of general viewers). The mixed reaction wasn’t so very far from Paul Thomas Anderson's earlier The Master, and one suspects the nomination was more to do with the golden glow of Daniel Day-Lewis in his first role in half a decade (and last ever, if he's to be believed) than mass Academy rapture with the picture. Which is ironic, as the relatively unknown Vicky Krieps steals the film from under him.

My name is Dr. King Schultz, this is my valet, Django, and these are our horses, Fritz, and Tony.

He mobilised the English language and sent it into battle.

Darkest Hour (2017)
(SPOILERS) Watching Joe Wright’s return to the rarefied plane of prestige – and heritage to boot – filmmaking following the execrable folly of the panned Pan, I was struck by the difference an engaged director, one who cares about his characters, makes to material. Only last week, Ridley Scott’s serviceable All the Money in the World made for a pointed illustration of strong material in the hands of someone with no such investment, unless they’re androids. Wright’s dedication to a relatable Winston Churchill ensures that, for the first hour-plus, Darkest Hour is a first-rate affair, a piece of myth-making that barely puts a foot wrong. It has that much in common with Wright’s earlier Word War II tale, Atonement. But then, like Atonement, it comes unstuck.

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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