Folks, you can count me proudly (and sadly) amongst that contingent of fans who firmly believe that Star Wars – under Disney’s wrath of terror – is pretty much dead.
 
Now, let me qualify this for the readership: this isn’t meant to say that I haven’t eeked some enjoyment out of series like The Mandalorian, The Book Of Boba Fett, The Bad Batch, Andor, and Ahsoka because that would be far from the truth.  When you watch programs the way I do – always trying to find some silver lining here and there – then it becomes easy to see glimmers of ‘a new hope’ in random spaces.  The problem is that the quality of the writing has been so horribly, horribly, horribly inconsistent – along with certain elements of the production and performances – that I’ve been unable to make any emotional investment in these respective yarns.  If I can’t connect on any level, then it’s hard for the show to truly resonate with me.  Think what you may, but I believe this is how a vast portion of Star Wars fandom feels about the current state of the Galactic Empire.
 
Still, I couldn’t (and didn’t) pass up the chance to take in Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace on the big screen as part of the annual ‘May The Fourth Be With You’ Celebration.  Yes, I’m aware that this re-release also tied in with the movie’s twenty-fifth anniversary – do you think yours truly lives on an island? – and so I wanted to take a few minutes to reflect (in review fashion) on this particular Menace.  While this won’t be a full-fledged review the likes of which regular patrons to SciFiHistory.Net get with each and every release I cover, I believe these modest observations do ‘fit the bill’ close enough that I wanted to share them in conjunction with this special occasion.
 
In case any of you are wondering, yes, I was there when this one was originally released in theaters back in 1999; and, yes, I was one of the long-time Star Wars fans who was thrilled to see George Lucas finally getting around to continuing the star saga in that galaxy far, far away.  While I fully understood that Luke, Han, and Leia weren’t even a twinkle in anyone’s eye at this point of the mythology, I desperately wanted answers to how the Republic got to such a lowly state that it transformed into the Galactic Empire.  This is precisely want audiences were promised; and – like so many – I was a bit underwhelmed.
 
Again, I feel the need to clarify: this isn’t to suggest in any way that I disliked The Phantom Menace.  Rather, it kinda/sorta confused me.
 
In talking about the project both back then and even today, I’ve long maintained that it’s perfectly fine as a film but it doesn’t quite involve me as a story.  (I know, I know … hang with me a minute, and I think it’ll all become clear.)  As works of art, films don’t have to be perfect to be beloved; they merely have to be made and serve as an inspiration to those who discover it.  Stories – on the other hand – should either intellectually engage or challenge those who tune in, unspooling their peoples, places, and events in such a way as everything adds up to something greater than the sum of its parts.  So … it’s pretty clear to even those who loathe Menace that few can argue about its technical wizardry and visual flair: nothing quite like it existed in our universe at the time, and it arguably took audiences someplace that they hadn’t been in that fictional world.  But as for the peoples, places, and events?  Well … it was more than a bit flat.
​

As a story, Menace really has no narrative center, and a suitable argument could be made that it’s like a series of events strung together only to introduce some of the blandest players in an otherwise colorful stew.  There’s no foundation under all of its images and sequences; and its characters at times seem to exist solely because Lucas both crafted and put them there to advance some piece of a grander saga he was trying to weave.  The opening crawl – a technique that truly sets the stage for audiences in this world – discusses things like ‘trade routes’ and ‘taxation’ as if that’s what brought fandom to their feet; and it’s all a bit too nebulous to provide the level of definition that might elevate a ‘Phantom Menace’ to the point of our collective understanding.  ‘Turmoil’ is even the first word, and I dare anyone in any day and age to get excited much less sympathetic or interested in ‘turmoil.’
 
Because Menace invests an awful lot of screen time never quite quickly and painlessly introducing audiences to any characters other than Qui-Gon Jinn (played by Liam Neeson) and Obi-Wan Kenobi (Ewan McGregor), nothing coalesces around any particular lead.  I remember thinking to myself, “Whose story really is this?” as several points the first time I watched in on screen; and that’s honestly how I felt about it when I re-experienced it over the weekend.  The first forty minutes (or so) are particularly messy, haphazardly brushing over practically everything, a technique that leads me to believe it’s entirely unimportant.
 
Lo and behold, that’s the dirty little secret to so very much of Menace: in the grand scale of Star Wars mythology, it’s damn near irrelevant.
 
Practically everything covered in any detail in the picture bears little to no narrative weight on anything that occurs later in the saga.  Naboo gets revisited largely because Padme Amidala (Natalie Portman) continues to be a key player in galactic affairs as well as the personal affairs of Anakin Skywalker (the young Jake Lloyd gets recast with the much older Hayden Christensen for obvious reasons); but there’s hardly any interaction with the world’s people, its symbiotically-linked races, or any other of its bits and pieces.  Yes, I realize that Coruscant, the Jedi Council, and a few other important faces earn a bit of screen time; and yet there’s still so very little of what transpires anywhere in the picture that couldn’t have been somehow introduced either in Star Wars: Episode II – Attack Of The Clones (2002) or Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge Of The Sith (2005).
​

Some of this structural weakness could be owed to the fact that Lucas himself is on record (in a few places) in talking about how he wanted the Prequel Trilogy to ‘echo’ thematically to events that had already occurred in the Original Trilogy, strongly suggesting that the entirety of this particular story would in some ways be history repeating itself.  I’ve always taken issue with that idea: while it sounds poetic – in practice – it also kinda/sorta cheapens both Anakin’s and Luke’s respective struggles if, ultimately, they were identical on a textural level.  As a character, I’ve always seen Luke’s journey as being focused on achieving what his father failed to accomplish, thus redeeming a family legacy in the process; the fact that he winds up saving his father’s soul in the finale of Star Wars: Episode VI – Return Of The Jedi is just icing on the cake.  But Anakin’s path revolves empathically around failure or failing, so I take issue with anyone – even Lucas – suggesting that both men were inevitably on the same path in any way.
 
Where Menace does have some legs to stand on – and this is where I do diverge in thinking with most of fandom – is with the appearance of young Anakin.  Though I’ll concede that there may’ve been some acting issues here and there, I kinda/sorta ‘dug’ having a kid fall smack dab in the center of the galaxy far, far away, mostly because we never saw one before in the Original Trilogy.  This gave the production a new perspective – one that I understand audiences may not exactly have fallen in love with – and the freshness rings true in a few small ways.  Could it have been written better?  Sure.  Could it have been performed differently?  Of course.  Still, there’s no denying that Anakin’s character was reaching to be the center around which Menace unfolded once he was introduced; and I’m thankful that, at least, this was a ‘beat’ Lucas got right.  (Imperfect?  Sure.)
 
In fact, I’ve often argued that Menace is a film that is too long especially given the fact that – as I stated above – so little of it resonates in the rest of the ongoing saga.  It’s theatrical cotton candy, if you will, and it could’ve been better served by being a bit shorter, trimmed strategically here and there.  (Producer Rick McCallum famously observed in an interview that no one involved knew quite what to make of it after seeing the first cut, and I wonder if this isn’t exactly the same sentiment I felt only phrased a bit differently.)  Losing the opening set-up on Naboo could’ve vastly helped the film’s plodding pace in those early moments; and I don’t think anything would’ve been tragically sacrificed in the process.
 
I’ve written about this suggestion before, but here’s the thrust of how I’d alter the flick:

1. Keep the opening crawl as is, but end with the sentiment that this conflict was going to spread to the galaxy at large very quickly.
2. Open with flashing, fever dream images drawn from what happened on Naboo as well as some hints of what would happen in the final act; and all of this would slowly emerge as a Force dream young Anakin Skywalker was having in his bed.  He wakes up, goes outside, and sees a ship setting down just over the horizon.  (This would be Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, Padme, and JarJar arriving.)
3. Anakin would be joined by his mother; and they’d have a brief conversation about the dream waking him up – he’s been plagued by Force dreams, not knowing what they are.  This sets up the obvious tie-in that the young boy is destined for other things than being a slave on Tatooine.  He goes back to bed at his mother’s urging, and she could have some knowing glance at the horizon before she, too, goes in to bed.

​

From here, pretty much everything else that takes place in the current draft of Menace would, functionally, be the same.  Granted, there might be some edits and minor dialogue fixes; but such a structural change would turn the existing film from one with fluctuating centers and shifts of focus to one wherein it’s entirely Anakin’s story.  This gives it the necessary footing around which everything else can unfold; and it also dramatically shortens the flick to a length respectfully of the fact that most of its contents vanish into the fictional ether.  Lastly, it gets audiences to the podrace much more quickly; and that’s a huge, huge plus, given the fact that it’s debatably the story’s centerpiece.
 
But, hey … as I always ask … who am I?  I’m just a lowly critic.  Unpaid, too!  What do I know about making a big budget motion picture?  Absolutely nothing.  What I do know, however, is that Menace never quite worked as a story for me – as I said, it’s fine as a film – and I can only hope that I’ve clearly explained what I feel are obvious weaknesses.  Tightening a few of its strongest strings might’ve made for a tapestry worth hanging on the wall for the theatrical ages; and I’ve tried to offer my suggestions with the right spirit in mind.  I care … and I want it to be better or maybe even just a bit less imperfect.
 
I still cherish the film over the Sequel Trilogy.  I’ve only seen each of those installments a single time, and I’ve absolutely no personal or professional interest in re-experiencing them at any point in the remainder of my lifetime.  That’s how disappointed I was in them.
 
Anakin deserved a stronger introduction, especially given how all six films revolve around whether or not he was meant to deliver Balance to the Force or not.  Given him such an unbalance first adventure hurt but thankfully didn’t kill the franchise.  That’s how powerful the Menace was and continues to be for audiences today.
 
May the Force be with us.
 
Always.

​-- EZ

Word: Jidaigeki
Meaning: A form of Japanese period drama
 
Sometimes, one has to go into a new experience with a foreign film knowing full well that he may be lost culturally.  This is not to say that the story is beyond comprehension; rather, it’s only to suggest that a Japanese film may by its very nature include elements best known by a Japanese person.  Like any nation’s storytellers might do, the Japanese often pull from established history in order to weave a compelling drama or melodrama; and when these efforts finally find audiences in far-off, distant lands, it’s entirely understandable how those pieces might get somewhat lost in translation.
 
Word: Shinobi
Meaning: Those who act in stealth
 
Here in the West, a great number of Japanese films exploring the rich, textural traditions of the samurai have served as inspiration for remakes and/or revisitations.  Why, the much-celebrated George Lucas has been on record multiple times citing 1958’s The Hidden Fortress from Akira Kurosawa as the single greatest vision that put him well on the path to creating his Jedi Knights from the Star Wars saga.  Furthermore, Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (1954) has enjoyed a handful of makeovers from various filmmakers, including John Sturges’ The Magnificent Seven (1960), Jean Negulesco’s The Invincible Six (1970), Jimmy T. Murakami’s Battle Beyond The Stars (1980), or Zack Snyder’s Rebel Moon (2023).
 
However, another uniquely Japanese persona from history – the Ninja – hasn’t enjoyed the same level of Western imitation.  While there have been some modest attempts after these somewhat mysterious figures broke into pop culture in the 1960’s and 1970’s, it wasn’t until the 1980’s that they kinda/sorta emerged in some modest exploitation-style action thrillers like Enter The Ninja (1981), Revenge Of The Ninja (1983), American Ninja (1985), and even Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (1990).  It was at this point that ninjas were here to stay – theatrically, that is – and they truly took a place in our global collective consciousness.
 
But the dirty little secret is that ninjas had somewhat made their introduction into filmdom much earlier.  In fact, Wikipedia.org shows them emerging from the shadows all the way back to the 1930’s; and some might argue they finally were forced front-and-center of the subject matter with the Shinobi no Mono series of flicks (1962-1970).  Having finally seen the first installment – titled Shinobi no Mono (aka Shinobi: Band Of Assassin) – I thought I’d share some remarks on this theatrical beginning.
 
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters.  If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for the final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
​

From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“A young ninja becomes embroiled in a plot to kill a tyrannical warlord.  He journeys across feudal Japan, facing deceit, betrayal, and enemy ninja at every turn.  Goemon must complete his mission, regain his honor, and survive.”
 
Without a doubt, I found this review of Shinobi to be one of the hardest I’ve ever written.  Also, I’m not ashamed to admit this to the readership of SciFiHistory.Net.
 
It isn’t as if I’ve nothing to say about the film because – hey, you know me – nothing could be further from the truth.  Instead, it’s that I found the overall experience more than a bit befuddling.  This Band Of Assassins delves fairly deeply into Japanese history – both with its brief set-up and, apparently, with events spread liberally across its 100+ minute run-time – and I’m afraid my lack of knowledge might color my impressions of it slightly to the negative.  After viewing, I did a bit of Googling to try and establish a greater understanding of how a few of these dates figured into the broader narrative, but – alas – I still came away just a wee bit perplexed due to a shaky grasp on peoples, places, and things.
 
Now, in my defense, my take does grow even dicier over the way director Satsuo Yamamoto chose to construct the piece, framing a sizable portion of the plot with voiceovers and whatnot.  Some of these are meant to kinda/sorta instruct the audience as to a particular character’s mindset or to cleverly reintroduce an earlier bit of dialogue, hoping to clear up any confusion as to another’s motivations.  It’s a curious choice in a few places, mostly because I thought the villain’s machinations were pretty obvious; but the end result was that it likely helped more often than it hurt, especially for those who may not have been watching as closely as others.
 
Essentially, Band Of Assassins tells the parallel story of two men: our protagonist Ishikawa Goemon (played by Raizô Ichikawa) and his antagonist Sandayû Momochi (Yûnosuke Itô).  The two are wrapped in a power struggle that descends mostly from Momochi’s attempts to maintain the ruling seat of power over a small mountainous district secured by modest fortress walls.  In order to do so – and this is specifically where Band gets a bit more complicated – actor Itô plays two roles, that of the perennial downtrodden (and seemingly constantly tired) Momochi as well as that of Fujibayashi, apparently the lord of a rival clan residing just at the bottom of the mountain.  By doing so, the villain would seemingly have two forces at his disposal to enact whatever evil deeds he sets his sights upon.
 
Still, there’s a third key player in all of this: Oda Nobunaga (Tomisaburô Wakayama) is hellbent on uniting all of the clans into a unified force, even if it means toppling every provincial lord and overlord as far as the eye can see.  Thus, Momochi knows full well that eventually the madman’s sights will turn toward the Ida clan; and it’s his aforementioned quest for ultimate power that fuels most of Band’s plots and subplots … of which there are a few.
​

Should all of this sound a bit, well, labyrinthian, that’s likely because it is.  Unlike my experience with samurai pictures, this ninja business winds up being supplanted by a great deal more human drama – Goemon falling in and out of love, Goemon and others starting over once fleeing the Ida clan, the constantly shifting personalities and personas, etc. – and that’s why I offered up the definition of Jidaigeki above.  So much of Band works as a classical period drama more than anything else; and those of you showing up expecting action set pieces – the veritable backbone of most samurai efforts – are going to be unimpressed.  Like Game Of Thrones, this film balances subtle shifts of power and authority as Momochi/Fujibayashi tries to get his dastardly hooks into everything.  If that sounds a bit soap opera-like, then such estimation wouldn’t be all that far off.
 
Perhaps the best way to embrace what Band offers by way of story and characters is to understand – first and foremost – than its much-lauded exploration of ninjas and the ninja code really is secondary to the main drama, that of the two men – Momochi and the humble Goemon – forever at odds.  Indeed, much of the ninja business is involved in Goemon’s plot threads: bound to serve his master, he’s given a curious promotion early in the picture (that of – believe it or not – clan accountant) which is secretly a set-up to get him to bed with Momochi’s amorous yet seriously undersexed wife Inone (Kyōko Kishada).  This gives the clan leader the scheme to kill the woman – whom he no longer desires – and privately frame Goemon for her murder; as one might guess, all kinds of blackmail of the innocent man extends from hereafter, forcing this ninja-turned-bookkeeper-turned-ninja-again to violate his shinobi oath time and time again, setting the audience up for an incredible number of voiceover reminders.
 
(Didn’t I warn you this one was a bit hard to follow?)
 
Thankfully, Ichikawa and Itô are quite good in their respective roles, and it’s this moral polarity that makes Band worth the investment.  Goemon flees his home village, only to discover at each and every impasse that Momochi is far from finished with him.  The overlord appears whenever life starts to get livable again, only demanding more and more from the man who refuses to be broken down by the corruption.  Albeit he submits relatively easily, director Yamamoto reminds the audience often of the stakes, making all of this a far more human affair that some martial arts battleground.  In fact, the action is largely incidental throughout the first half of the picture; in the second half, Goemon’s failed assassination attempt of Nobunaga (set in motion by Momochi) clears the way for the big finish … yet, sadly, Goemon is more of an observer at this point and less of a participant in the bloody rampage.  He gets his wishes, mind you, but redemption occurs more as a consequence of evil than anything resembling goodness.
​

Shinobi: Band Of Assassins (1962) was produced by Daiei Studios.  DVD distribution (for this particular release) has been coordinated by the fine folks at Radiance Films.  As for the technical specifications?  While I’m no trained video expert, I found the sights-and-sounds to what’s advertised as the first high-definition presentation of the project available outside of its native Japan to be exceptional in all regards.  There were a few sequences where sound faded abruptly – setting up a transition between scenes on screen – and I can only assume that’s owed to some flaws of the original.  As for the special features?  In order to do justice to the package, I’m doing the copy-and-paste from Radiance Film’s original press materials as posted on Blu-ray.com:

• High-Definition digital transfer of each film presented on two discs
• Uncompressed mono PCM audio
• Interview with Shozo Ichiyama, artistic director of the Tokyo International Film Festival, about director Satsuo Yamamoto
• Visual essay on the ninja in Japanese cinema by film scholar Mance Thompson
• Interview with film critic Toshiaki Sato on star Raizo Ichikawa
• Trailers
• New and improved optional English subtitles
• Six postcards of promotional material from the films
• Reversible sleeves featuring artwork based on original promotional materials
• Limited edition booklet featuring new writing by Jonathan Clements on the Shinobi no mono series and Diane Wei Lewis on writer Tomoyoshi Murayama
• Limited Edition of 3000 copies, presented in a rigid box with full-height Scanavo cases and removable OBI strip leaving packaging free of certificates and markings
• REGION-A/B "LOCKED"

Now, as I’m provided only physical copies of the original discs, I can’t speak to the efficacy of the other materials provided in this limited edition.  In those items, you’ll have to exercise the old ‘buyer beware’ rule.
 
Recommended.
 
As I tried to be clear above, Shinobi: Band Of Assassins was a bit of a mixed bag for me.  Going in blind to how much of the narrative was tied to what I can only assume are historical events kept me guessing in a few spots, so much so that I could understand others simply turning this on off out of frustration.  About a quarter of the way in, I realized that the accounting of history was really secondary to what was otherwise a very relatable struggle of one good man versus one corrupt man; and the rest of the picture unspooled nicely.  The film has some incredible production details – ninja houses are equipped in ways not unlike Bruce Wayne’s Wayne Manor, if you catch my drift – and both lead performances are definitely worthy of note.  Stick with it if you feel the way I do right out of the gate, and I think you’ll be equally rewarded.
 
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Radiance Films provided me with a Blu-ray copy of Shinobi: Band Of Assassins (1962) – as part of their Shinobi Trilogy Set – by request for the expressed purpose of completing this review.  Their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.

​-- EZ

I’ve said it before, and I find myself saying it again: Hollywood loves to attack people of faith.
 
While I might be even more accurate suggesting that Hollywood and their collective ilk prefer to attack people of a specific faith (i.e. the prophet Muhammad seems to be forever off limits), I’m fine with leaving that opening statement as is.  Generally, I believe people rebel against that which they either disagree with philosophically or misunderstand heretically; and I’ve read enough about the behavior of Tinseltown giants – both onscreen and behind it – to know that their somewhat salacious and decadent lifestyles can be decisively at odds with what the faithful might accept.  Worshippers and/or commoners are ‘the little people’ and will always suffer the wrath of the vengeful artistic elite, even if that means their pictures might underperform at the domestic box office.  They still got their paycheck, mind you, so all’s well with the terrestrial High and Mighty.
 
But since 1973’s The Exorcist – a production that reinvented what screen Horror could be for a generation – Hollywood has been chasing that inescapable demon of catching lightning in a bottle.  Studios have worked tirelessly to come up with something to match that winning formula of one part possession, one part religion, and one part realism.  Realism, you see, is hugely significant because it helps ground the extraordinary within the ordinary world.  But what elevates the William Peter Blatty script above the usual ruckus is the fact that its priests were actively doing God’s work, a sentiment today’s artistic elite can’t abide.
 
The end result of such bigotry – and, yes, it is bigotry – might be summed up nicely in a picture like Stigmata (1999).  Scripted by Tom Lazarus (no, I’m not kidding) and Rick Ramage and directed by famed music video director Rupert Wainwright, the film is the story of Frankie Paige, a hairdresser who somehow personally endures the wrath of God despite not believing in him nor giving organized religion a second thought.  Thankfully, there’s a man of science turned man of the cloth who risks both titles in an attempt to both explain the unexplainable and maybe rediscover his own lost faith along the way.
 
Why … it’s a match made on cinema heaven!
 
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters.  If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for the final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
​

From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“When a young woman becomes afflicted by stigmata, a priest is sent to investigate her case, which may have severe ramifications for his faith and for the Catholic Church itself.”
 
No, no, and no: I don’t like to rag on Hollywood for ragging on religion, but there are times when I think their obvious disdain of Christianity gets in the way of what might be an otherwise entertaining story.  Like many of you, I can ignore political, ideological, or theological leanings in any work of art, and I can only do it if the pronounced bents aren’t pervasive.  Frankly, I resent anyone ‘beating a drum’ in the middle of my escapism – and I think we all should be offended by such propaganda – so here’s looking at you, the cast and crew of Stigmata.  You ruined an otherwise engaging though horrifically flawed idea.
 
Father Andrew Kiernan (played by Gabriel Byrne) works on behalf of the Catholic Church at debunking the various miracles that pop up around the globe.  A recent trip to Brazil has the man particularly flummoxed as it would appear that authentic tears of human blood have been caught flowed from a statue of the Virgin Mary.  The authorities in Rome – given personification here in the form of Cardinal Daniel Houseman (the generally stiff yet authoritative Jonathan Pryce) – are unwilling to accept such possibility; and they inevitably go so far as to dismiss the entire parish from the official records.  Needless to say, Kiernan’s skepticism begins to grow even more pronounced when Houseman dispatches him to study the events surrounding Pittsburgh native Frankie Paige (Patricia Arquette), a hairdresser who seems to have come down with a case of stigmata.
 
Initially, the rational debunker asserts that – following Church doctrine – the young lady couldn’t possibly be undergoing such Biblical conversion because she’s a devout atheist.  Stigmata, he insists, is a physical development predicated on the firmest of convictions to the teachings of Jesus Christ; and since the woman whiles away her days and nights between nothing more than working and clubbing she couldn’t conceivably be stricken by the Divine.  But the more time he spends with the woman – ultimately seeing things he can’t explain up to and beyond the appearance of wounds on her body – Kiernan becomes convinced something spiritual is indeed afoot.
 
It’s precisely here where Stigmata’s universe begins to fall apart.

Frankly, I’m at a loss to understand the driving force behind Paige’s ‘possession.’  There’s a breakdown of logic consistently throughout Stigmata, so much so that I’m wondering precisely how this script got approved as is, though I can understand the ‘why’ pretty easy enough.  It’s Horror – don’t you know – and Horrors tend to make money.  All well and good, but did anyone even pause to think this one through?
​

First: though she’s clearly displaying what might be commonly accepted as symptoms of demonic possession here and there (manipulation, grating voices, mood swings, visions, etc.), I was under the working impression that stigmata is a kinda/sorta possession of an angelic power.  In other words, stigmatics are described as being almost rapturously overcome with Christ’s love; and the stigmata are a physiological outbreak of the wounds he suffered on the cross.  Wouldn’t Paige – as a consequence – be showing signs of universal love, grace, and acceptance?  What she’s enduring clearly isn’t God’s love as even Kiernan seems somewhat convinced this phenomenon is killing her.
 
Second: expanding upon the above, I can only assume that instead of experiencing authentic stigmata, Paige is instead being spiritually and/or supernaturally afflicted from the other side by some entity.  The script clearly suggests at several points that this force is none other than the recently deceased Father Paulo Alameida (Jack Donner).  While the story elaborates on precisely why Father Alameida might have a bone or two to pick with his Earthly bosses, mustn’t the audience suspend all level of disbelief to accept that a deceased man of God would assume the powers of a demonic entity to carry out an act of vengeance?  What about all of that not harming the innocent?  Did his faith teach him nothing?  And how, pray tell, did he exactly infect Paige?  Via his rosary?  It’s their only connection, so?  Erm … I hate to tell it to anyone, but possession isn’t exactly communicable that way from what I’ve read … but whatever.
 
Third: expanding upon the second above, if I accept that Father Alameida is the guilty culprit here, then what does his motivation really say about Christianity?  It’s all ‘well and good’ until you find yourself on the receiving end of Catholic rejection, so instead of turning another cheek you wait until death, assume the powers of a demon, and then carry out your own campaign of retribution not against those who wronged you but destroy the life of an entirely innocent young woman all over a grudge?  Writers Lazarus and Ramage are more likely the ones with an ax to grind here – not their creation – and they’re simply spinning yarn all in hopes that no one will notice the house of cards they’ve built isn’t even made of cards.  It’s all smoke and mirrors – much like a healthy portion of the flick’s cinematography – which makes it as hollow as the institution they’re attacking … over its hollowness.
 
None of this even touches upon the holes in this particular universe that go beyond creed.
 
Somehow – and we’ve never told how – Paige maintains an expansive penthouse-style apartment in Philadelphia on little more than a hairdresser’s salary.  Given the fact that the salon in which she works is never busy, one might even wonder how it stays afloat.  Only in motion pictures would such a small and most likely privately-owned business offer its staff a healthcare plan that covers the extraordinary investment in medical and psychological services our leading lady requires – all because of these Godly shenanigans, you know – so don’t look for that aforementioned ‘realism’ to play all that much in this corner of the universe.
 
To their benefit, scribes Lazarus and Ramage imbue their lead female with some serious daddy issues as that’s the only likely reason I can muster to believe this free-spirited, club-hopping go-getter would consider Father Kiernan as a potential suitor.  (A quick bit of Googling suggests a twenty-year age difference, so make of that what you will.)  Their relationship is the biggest bit of artifice in all of this; and – to some degree – that’s a shame as Byrne makes the most of a few knowing glances at Arquette.  The best she does in return is a somewhat stoic expression that barely hints of a smile somewhere under that disheveled womanhood.
​

To his credit, Wainwright fills Stigmata with a good deal of visual shock and awe, the kind that just might dazzle and distract viewers who are trying to look a bit too closely at the flawed material.  There’s a good deal of cinematography put to solid use, though I’m still at a loss to explain why he wanted there to be so much dripping water everywhere.  Given that his background was in helming music videos, it’s easy to see those influences put into active use here and there.  I just wish all of it added up to greater substance … but perhaps that’s what you get when all that seemingly matters is throwing the Catholic Church under the proverbial bus.
 
Stigmata (1999) was produced by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM), FGM Entertainment, and Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes (INBA).  DVD distribution (for this particular release) has been coordinated by the fine folks at MVD Visual Entertainment, Dark Sky Films, and Capelight Pictures.  As for the technical specifications?  While I’m no trained video expert, I found the sights-and-sounds to this Blu-ray release to be exceptional; there’s a great deal of visual post-production trickery at work here, but none of it fails on any level except for being occasionally confusing at to its particular meaning.  Lastly, if you’re looking for special features?  The disc boasts a 25-minute ‘making-of’ that’s pretty interesting though a bit light on specifics along with some deleted scenes, an alternate ending (honestly, much better and vastly more realistic than the theatrical one), the trailer, and an audio commentary from director Wainwright.
 
Alas … only mildly recommended.
 
Imperfect and more than a bit ideologically invested, Stigmata (1999) might look, sound, and feel like it was intended to be a late 1990’s recreation of The Exorcist (1973); but – rest assured – it wasn’t quite meant to be.  I vaguely recall seeing this one originally on the big screen and being less than impressed, though I also believe its release may’ve been sandwiched between some like-minded fare that perhaps robbed a bit of the possible limelight.  In all seriousness, I wanted to like it much more than I did, but perhaps that’s just the Devil in me speaking.  This whole thing might have you asking, "Why, God, why?" for all the wrong reasons.
 
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Capelight Pictures provided me with a complimentary Blu-ray of Stigmata (1999) by request for the expressed purpose of completing this review.  Their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.

​-- EZ

What makes a picture into a cult film?
 
Well, the simplest definition – from what I’ve been told – is that the production has somehow amassed a following over the years; but methinks we all know that the ‘hows’ and the ‘whys’ such a following shows up in the first place is vastly more complicated than that.  When discussing the phenomenon, I’ve often stated that I think such projects deliver something a bit ‘out there’ for viewers, presenting them with either a subject matter or perspective that they’ve never or rarely seen elsewhere; the consequence of the experience is that some indelible connection is established between the observer and the artwork.  As more and more folks find themselves drawn to it or referred there, then a faction forms around it … and the rest, as they say, is history.
 
 A great deal has been hypothesized that cult films – at the core – should be transgressive in some way, and such a definition implies that the subject matter is taboo, falling just outside of what civil society accepts as ‘normal.’  (Erm … haven’t we also been told that ‘normal’ is a measure always in flux?)  While such a descriptor might apply to a healthy contingent of cult projects, I’d argue that there still exists a plethora of entries that might only dabble with something ‘abnormal’ for its time and place; as norms grow and change, what was considered inappropriate two or three decades earlier might be passé by today’s standards.  Because of the ever-changing world in which we live in, I tend to look for other traits to substantiate cult status, though I realize I might be in the critical minority on that front.
 
So … how exactly does a film like The Mask Of Fu Manchu (1932) acquire the cult label?
 
Produced by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the project was mired in some controversy at the time, rushed into assembly with the hope of capitalizing on the new trend of exploring full-blown Horrors on the silver screen.  I’ve read (see Wikipedia.org for some details) that because of this frenzied pace there was no authentic shooting script at the inception, and the actors and actresses were often provided pages to coincide with whatever they were shooting on that day and time.  That and some behind-the-scenes antics resulted in a production shutdown so that a new director could be brought in while producers continued hammering out plot details.  Despite the best and worst efforts, Fu Manchu was released to the public on November 5, 1932; and it went on to some respectable box office and very well may have disappeared into film history if it hadn’t been ‘rediscovered’ in the early 1970’s when a re-release resulted in the decades-old project mustering up a bit more controversy over its portrayal of Asians.
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Such notoriety usually generates the effect of pushing certain folks to see a blasphemed picture, and Fu Manchu was no different.  Despite some efforts to see the film desecrated, Warner Archive is releasing now in its full glory – warts and all – and I found it easy to understand the many sides of a difficult issue.  The new disc comes with an opening placard that explains in a few words why they’ve chosen to restore the feature to its original condition – perhaps knowing that they might be courting a bit of the same controversy along the way – but I’m hoping detractors just stay the hell away.  The Mask Of Fu Manchu is a theatrical delight from that time and place; and it deserves to be celebrated by those – like myself – who are able to turn off (or squelch) politics and simply enjoy the ride.
 
And what a wild ride it is!
 
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters.  If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for the final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
 
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“Englishmen race to find the tomb of Genghis Khan before the sinister Fu Manchu does.”
 
For those unaware, the character of Fu Manchu was the creation of author Sax Rohmer (1883-1959).  With the first novel written in 1913 (“The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu”), Rohmer crafted an evil supervillain that would go on to spawn a veritable franchise to which several other writers picked up the mythology and expanded on it greatly.  Over a century after the evil mastermind first sprang to life in print, the character continues to pop up in novels, comics, television, and movies despite the fact that all along the way he’s had more than his share of hecklers insisting his roots are deeply mired in racism of the worst kind.
 
But as one who grew up on a steady diet of comic books and flawed second- and third-tier movies, I tend to see the detestable Fu Manchu – especially as portrayed here as genre legend Boris Karloff – as a campy caricature, one so entirely removed from reality that his heritage isn’t intended as a sleight so much as it was monopolized as being distinctly non-white.  (Again, folks, let me be perfectly clear: I understand the complaint.  I’m merely conceding that the man’s physical traits could’ve been reptilian as opposed to Asian, but as Rohmer based the character on real-life criminals he met as a reporter it is what it is.)  He’s no more real than was Ming The Merciless or Sith Lord Darth Vader; and I don’t think approaching him as anything more than a stock outlaw is productive.  He serves a narrative purpose – to be the visible source of evil – and little else.  This is how these stories function.
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​In order to establish his dominance over the world in pursuit of total supremacy, Fu Manchu wants to locate the tomb of the late Genghis Khan.  Prophecy suggests that the ruler of any New World Order must carry the sword of the late Mongolian warlord, so Fu and his forces will stop at nothing … even if that means capturing Nayland Smith (Lewis Stone) and his archaeological team – Sir Lionel Barton (Lawrence Grant), his daughter Sheila Barton (Karen Morley), her beau Terrence Granville (Charles Starrett), and a few others – and torturing them to reveal the whereabouts.  And if Fu can’t get the job done, then perhaps his equally cunning and evil daughter Fah Lo See (Myrna Loy) will.
 
So at its core the story of Mask is little more than a serialized adventure – a race against time between two opposing armies to seize the magical and mystical power of a lost era (given shape with Khan’s sword) and subvert those energies for their respective platforms.  In that regard, I caution no one to look to the film as anything other than carnival fluff, much in the same way that George Lucas and Steven Spielberg brought back to the silver screen with their original Indiana Jones trilogy.  Mask feels very much similar to those 80’s gems – albeit at a vastly reduced scale – and it touches on the same kind of manic, infectious energy that did other serials of the age of which I’ll mention Flash Gordon (1936), Buck Rogers (1939), and Adventures Of Captain Marvel (1941).
 
Furthermore, it’s this same camp sensibility of said serials that fuels the picture’s two central performances, that of Karloff and Loy.  What can I say?  Villains love the spotlight.  I’d challenge anyone to show me evidence wherein either of these talents appear to be taking their jobs entirely seriously as their work implies otherwise.  It’s all theatrical, and it works wonderfully on that level.
 
Karloff leers so easily in scenes he shares with those his character obviously despises and would do harm, making him particularly effective as the dispenser of torture on Sir Barton and (later) the hunky Granville.  While I have read online the suggestion that the actor fueled these scenes with a loose homo-erotic flair, I’d have to honestly say that his dialogue only suggests here and there the fascination with the male sex.  (FYI: this was pre-Code Hollywood, I’m no prude, and I’m not denying it.  Again, I’m just underscoring that it’s camp, nothing is acted upon in such a manner, and – again – it is what it is.)  Given that this was reportedly the actor’s first speaking role as a true screen baddie, who can seriously fault the Thespian for giving it a little something extra?
 
In comparison, Loy definitely gets into the act of chewing scenery here and there, but I saw her work as a bit more nuanced, perhaps even a bit more delightfully flippant in tactical ways.  Clearly driven by a repressed sexual appetite, she’s drawn to the bare-chested Granville in the whip-torture scene and wants him for her own despite the wishes of an overbearing mastermind/father.  While I’m not sure she relished her speeches as much as did Karloff (vocally she sounds a bit wooden and dull here and there), it still seems abundantly clear to this viewer that she sought to make Fah Lo See less authentic and more artificial … albeit with the sex drive of any thirteen-year-old male rushing headfirst into puberty.
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Like those aforementioned serials, production details are the icing on the cake that inevitably convince audiences that they’ve been transported to some other time and place; and – on that front – Mask looks just damned incredible.  IMDB.com credits the award-winning Cedric Gibbons (1939’s The Wizard Of Oz and 1956’s Forbidden Planet, to name a few of his biggest gigs); and I was honestly gob smacked with how wonderful so many of the sets look, including the archaeological digs, Manchu’s expansive estate/compound with its multiple rooms, and Khan’s ornate burial tomb.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lucas and Spielberg ever credited this film as an inspiration for the places Indiana Jones did his business as they feel as if they occupy an older and quainter corner of the same universe.
 
The Mask Of Fu Manchu (1932) was produced by Cosmopolitan Productions and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM).  DVD distribution (for this particular release) has been coordinated by the fine folks at Warner Archive.  As for the technical specifications?  While I’m no trained video expert, I found the sights-and-sounds to what’s reported as an all-new 4K restoration from the best preservation elements to be exceptional: it all looks and sounds really good, perhaps the best it has since its original release.  Lastly, if you’re looking for special features?  The disc includes an audio commentary from film historian Greg Mank (it’s very solid and even occasionally very animated, a rare discussion of an older flick that’s worth the time) along with a few period cartoons and subtitles (for the feature).
 
Highly recommended.
 
If you can forgive this old man’s momentary gushing, then I hope you can appreciate that 1932’s The Mask Of Fu Manchu was a wonderful discovery.  Yes, it has some cultural issues.  Yes, it’s obviously drawn on inspirations from some dark moments of history.  But Mask lives and breathes in that same space that’s been filled more recently by Secret Of The Incas (1954), Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom (1984), Allan Quartermain And The Lost City Of Gold (1986), and The Mummy (1999).  It’s cinematic serialized fun, and – on that level alone – it most certainly defied my expections.
 
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Warner Archive provided me with a complimentary Blu-ray of The Mask Of Fu Manchu (1932) by request for the expressed purpose of completing this review.  Their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.

​-- EZ