Talking about the now can sometimes put one in the then.

Space Station 76

(2014)

A 1970s space soap opera, actor turned director Jack Plotnick’s debut feature Space Station 76 is a casually kitsch idiosyncratic curiosity. It’s possibly too high concept, the visual affectation suggesting a capacity for comedy and camp that is never really made good. But Space Station 76 (1976, obviously) is undeniably well observed, balancing out the retro-indulgence with surprisingly strong characterisation and performances.

The picture has little in the way of narrative trajectory, hence the concentration on soapy elements; characters work through their issues in a very ‘70s fashion, which naturally includes period-appropriate drink, drugs, sex and psychoanalysis. The crew include the unhappy, closeted, chain-smoking Captain Glenn (Patrick Wilson, offering a more subdued but tache-laden approximation of Ron Burgundy).

New co-pilot Jessica (Liv Tyler) struggles with inherent sexism in the work place and her conflicted feelings on not being able to have children. She forms a maternal friendship with Sunshine (Kylie Rogers) a seven-year old who doesn’t have much luck with pets and has no friends her own age. Her adversarial parents are robot-handed mechanic Ted (Matt Bomer) and self-involved, manipulative Misty (Marisa Coughlan). Misty is seeing Steve (Jerry O’Connell) on the side, and Ted and Jessica become attracted to each other. And, of course, tensions escalate. In a fairly lackadaisical manner. You get the idea.

Embedded in this space suburbia are recognisable ‘70s artefacts and mores. Ted is growing weed in the geodesic garden (very Silent Running, well not the weed bit although you know Bruce Dern would have been), Missy is addicted to prescription medicines (with which her robot shrink plies her), the Captain attempts to hide his drinking (when he gets pissed he powers the engines up and down continuously, a substitute automobile) and sexuality and takes out his tensions on those around him. There are ‘70s futurism ideas like food machines, and then-modern toys like videotapes and viewfinders. Burnt orange is a common colour for walls, and turtleneck sweaters are in.

Because the picture is unwilling to be pigeonholed, it’s easy to assume it is misrepresenting itself. The space age material is limited to Kubrick nods (the sets, Keir Dullea cameoing - and bearing a passing resemblance to Emperor Palpatine) and a reflection of the essential mundanity of space that evokes Dark Star by way of sets and lighting that consciously evoke ‘70s TV science fiction; there’s no proper science fiction here, and comments about never having been to Earth and the Quasar Revolution are more nods to those trappings than suggestive of any interest in them.

Occasionally it looks as if Plotnick intends to veer off into Airplane! territory; the dramatic music during an opening sequence, where it appears as if the captain is about to open fire, merely leads to him sparking the equivalent of a car cigarette lighter. The captain’s attempts at suicide or consistently foiled by the ship computer, be it electrocution or poisoning.

Therapy sessions with Sleeper-esque Dr Bot, a programmed psychotherapy robot, are consistently very funny and invariably lead to the suggestion, “Perhaps you would you like to try valium?” His response to Missy’s declaration of feelings for her therapist is “Emotional overload!”. But this isn’t really a spoof, and the performances aren’t self-mocking, they’re treading a line between Frank Drebin deadpan and earnest portrayal.

Space Station 76 is reasonably engaging once one slips into its groove, but it’s very slight. The science fiction conceit is just that, obstinately refusing to indulge its potential aside from the occasional comedy (Dr Bot) or emotional beat (Sunshine’s favourite game is playing zero gravity). It’s a decision that is likely to elicit Marmite responses of “Oh, that’s clever; I see what they did there” (it isn’t especially, but it is attention seeking) or discontent that the makers have done some misleading. I’m somewhere between the two, however. This isn’t really much of comedy or, drugs references aside, much of an oddball stoner movie either. And yet, while there are interludes of borderline boredom, the characters themselves gradually creep up on you, aided by an ensemble of strong performances.

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She was addicted to Tums for a while.

Marriage Story (2019)
(SPOILERS) I don’t tend to fall heavily for Noah Baumbach fare. He’s undoubtedly a distinctive voice – even if his collaborations with Wes Anderson are the least of that director’s efforts – but his devotion to an exclusive, rarefied New York bubble becomes ever more off-putting with each new project. And ever more identifiable as being a lesser chronicler of the city’s privileged quirks than his now disinherited forbear Woody Allen, who at his peak mastered a balancing act between the insightful, hilarious and self-effacing. Marriage Story finds Baumbach going yet again where Woody went before, this time brushing up against the director’s Ingmar Bergman fixation.

You're not only wrong. You're wrong at the top of your voice.

Bad Day at Black Rock (1955)
I’ve seen comments suggesting that John Sturges’ thriller hasn’t aged well, which I find rather mystifying. Sure, some of the characterisations border on the cardboard, but the director imbues the story with a taut, economical backbone.

You can’t climb a ladder, no. But you can skip like a goat into a bar.

Juno and the Paycock (1930)
(SPOILERS) Hitchcock’s second sound feature. Such was the lustre of this technological advance that a wordy play was picked. By Sean O’Casey, upon whom Hitchcock based the prophet of doom at the end of The Birds. Juno and the Paycock, set in 1922 during the Irish Civil War, begins as a broad comedy of domestic manners, but by the end has descended into full-blown Greek (or Catholic) tragedy. As such, it’s an uneven but still watchable affair, even if Hitch does nothing to disguise its stage origins.

To defeat the darkness out there, you must defeat the darkness inside yourself.

The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (2010)
Easily the best of the Narnia films, which is maybe damning it with faint praise.

Michael Apted does a competent job directing (certainly compared to his Bond film - maybe he talked to his second unit this time), Dante Spinotti's cinematography is stunning and the CGI mostly well-integrated with the action.

Performance-wise, Will Poulter is a stand-out as a tremendously obnoxious little toff, so charismatic you're almost rooting for him. Simon Pegg replaces Eddie Izzard as the voice of Reepicheep and delivers a touching performance.
***

He tasks me. He tasks me, and I shall have him.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan
(1982)
(SPOILERS) I don’t love Star Trek, but I do love Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. That probably isn’t just me, but a common refrain of many a non-devotee of the series. Although, it used to apply to The Voyage Home (the funny one, with the whales, the Star Trek even the target audience for Three Men and a Baby could enjoy). Unfortunately, its high regard has also become the desperate, self-destructive, song-and-verse, be-all-and-end-all of the overlords of the franchise itself, in whichever iteration, it seems. This is understandable to an extent, as Khan is that rare movie sequel made to transcendent effect on almost every level, and one that stands the test of time every bit as well (better, even) as when it was first unveiled.

So long, sky trash!

Star Wars The Saga Ranked
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When I barked, I was enormous.

Dean Spanley (2008)
(SPOILERS) There is such a profusion of average, respectable – but immaculately made – British period drama held up for instant adulation, it’s hardly surprising that, when something truly worthy of acclaim comes along, it should be singularly ignored. To be fair, Dean Spanleywas well liked by critics upon its release, but its subsequent impact has proved disappointingly slight. Based on Lord Dunsany’s 1939 novella, My Talks with Dean Spanley, our narrator relates how the titular Dean’s imbibification of a moderate quantity of Imperial Tokay (“too syrupy”, is the conclusion reached by both members of the Fisk family regarding this Hungarian wine) precludes his recollection of a past life as a dog.

Inevitably, reviews pounced on the chance to reference Dean Spanley as a literal shaggy dog story, so I shall get that out of the way now. While the phrase is more than fitting, it serves to underrepresent how affecting the picture is when it has cause to be, as does any re…

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Bubba Ho-Tep (2002)
Everyone loves Bruce Campbell. He’s eminently lovable; self-depracating, a natural wit, enthusiastic about his “art” and interactive with his fans. It’s easy to be seduced into cutting anything he shows up in some slack, just by virtue of his mighty Bruce-ness. I know, I’ve done it. Unfortunately, not everything he does has the crazy, slapstick energy of his most famous role. Most of it doesn’t. Don Cascarelli’s Elvis versus Mummy movie has a considerable cult following, based as much on the cult of Don as the cult of Bruce, but its charms are erratic ones. As usual, however, Campbell is the breezy highlight.

The blames rests with Cascarelli, since he adapted Joe R. Lansdale’s short story. The premise is a great high concept mash-up; Elvis Presley, a nursing home resident in declining health, must fight off an ancient Egyptian mummy. Is he really Elvis, or Elvis impersonator Sebastian Haff? Or both, as the King claims to have switched places with the real Haff so as t…

Poor Easy Breezy.

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(SPOILERS) My initial reaction to Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood was mild disbelief that Tarantino managed to hoodwink studios into coming begging to make it, so wilfully perverse is it in disregarding any standard expectations of narrative or plotting. Then I remembered that studios, or studios that aren’t Disney, are desperate for product, and more especially, product that might guarantee them a hit. Quentin’s latest appears to be that, but whether it’s a sufficient one to justify the expense of his absurd vanity project remains to be seen.

That Freud stuff’s a bunch of hooey.

Spellbound (1945)
Spellbound is something of a stumbling follow-up to Rebecca, producer David O Selznick’s previous collaboration with Hitchcock. Selznick was a devotee of psychoanalysis, and the idea of basing a film on the subject was already in the mind of the director. To that end, the producer’s own therapist, May Romm, was brought in as a technical advisor (resulting in Hitchcock’s famous response when she pointed out an inaccuracy, “My dear, it’s only a movie”).

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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