It all comes down to trust. For a filmaker like Martin Scorsese, who is old enough to have attained complete command of his craft, and sharp enough to still wield it, creating a movie that evinced disgust at the actions of one Jordan Belfort would be all too easy. Boring, even. Like his friend Werner Herzog, Scorsese has directed documentaries and knows how to present "facts" to create emotion. But that would be easy. Easy to make, easy to watch. The Wolf of Wall Street is not an easy film. It has been accused of celebrating the actions of Belfort and his merry band of scumbags. Celebrating? No. Warning. Scorsese's project goes far, far beyond a simple evisceration of the debauchery he depicts. He wants to show us exactly why and how Belfort could be so sucessful, the siren song of money and power and drugs and women. As I wrote in my year-in-film piece; This isn't a feting, it's a bio-hazard sign.
Scorsese's movies are frequently very funny; Many, indeed, function better as pitch-black comedy than as dramas. And that, I think, is the source of much confusion around this particular film. That it is a comedy is fairly obvious. Obvious, but mistaken. This is not a comedy, but a satire. A vicous, razored, cold-as-black-ice satire. What does it mean for a film to be satirical? There are three elements; Exagerated accuracy, humor, anger. Consider the scene in which Belfort and his cronies discuss the horrifying activities they anticipate undertaking which a group of dwarves hired for their entertainment. The scene is not inaccurate as a depiction of the kinds of immature, gross discussions that take place among wealthy young men in the workplace. It displays humor, considerable dry wit, and the strong chemistry between a crew of gifted comedic actors. Scorsese shoots it (and remember, this is a bunch of guys talking around a big table), with the snappy, quick-cutting rythmn of a Three Stooges skit. He does this because the men in their expensive suits and slicked-back hair are the jokes of the scene. They are the punchlines, the grotesques, the twisted little demons. How could anyone watch this scene and not draw the same conclusion? Only, one assumes, if they are as ugly as the subjects of this film.
Ugly, you ask. What about DiCaprio?! Ladies, please relax. I'm not calling Leo ugly. Actually, that's part of the joke. He's one of our best, brightest, movie stars, and ageless even as he approaches 40. And unlike his peers at the top of the Hollywood food chain, DiCaprio is completely ego-less as an actor. Let's face it, Jordan Belfort is a raging asshole, and a complete weasel. Could you imagine Will Smith, for example, playing a role that fit that description? Thought not. Too protective of the old image. Which, incidentally, is why he's fading as a star and DiCaprio is bigger than ever, but that's a whole 'nother article. I digress…. Anyways, DiCaprio's performance is huge, bravura, charismatic, and astonishingly subtle in all the right ways. Belfort is magnetic, but not nearly as smart as he thinks he is. The cracks show, all the insecurity and fear playing out across his face. This is anything but a hero.
But, you ask, what does it all mean? The primary criticism of this film seems to be that it lacks a point, beyond the fairly obvious statement that being a rich asshole is awesome. Not so. Scorsese respects his audience enough to know that they'll see Belfort as he truly is. It is striking that, in this technically dazzling film, Scorsese trusts character, story, and absolutely nothing else. Consider what exactly he chooses to show us. These are the back-alley dealings, the parts you never read about in the papers. Notice that Belfort is profiled by a journalist, and his reaction is one of revulsion. Scorsese's project is to lay bare the beating, corrupt heart of the whole system, to hold it up and let us weigh it on the figurative scales. He does not pass judgement, and some have mistaken that for a lack of viewpoint. People forget, and quickly, how quickly "preachy" films are excoriated. This movie has a viewpoint, and it is one of violent fury. It holds Belfort and his cronies up for our examination, and shouts "Can you believe this shit? Can you fucking believe these are the people we celebrate? What in the Hell is wrong with us?"It all comes down to trust.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Thursday, February 20, 2014
The Bling Life
Sofia Coppola's The Bling Ring is the finest horror movie of recent years. It depicts a group of dead-eyed demons, passing through Los Angeles like a wind from the gates of hell. And those are the victims.
I don't wish to give undue credit. This is a film about unimportant people doing unimportant things. They are trivial, ephemeral, ultimately worthless. The horror of the film comes in the titanic importance they place on their own struggles, in the utter disconnect with anything resembling reality. Consider, for example, the protagonist so chillingly embodied by Katie Chang. In a few years, we sense that she will become the girl of Patrick Bateman's dreams. She has no friends, only disciples. No aspirations, only greed. No morality beyond what she's seen glaring from the television. Her expression is the same opening a car and robbing a house, snorting cocaine and gyrating on the dance floor. She smiles only when in her paradise, surrounded by the neon embodiments of fame and glitz. This is our brainwashed youth.
Consider Marc, the sad, lonely, besotted fame whore played by Israel Broussard. Is he gay? Perhaps, but his occasionally carnal glances at Nikki suggest otherwise. Note that he takes very little part in the robberies. Often, Coppola frames him apart, standing in a corner or trapped by dark lines within space. Caged. He is intriguing for the suggestions that he knows what the Ring is doing to be wrong, morally as well as legally. And yet, he never acts. He stands in his corners and watches, a horrified but ultimately complicit audience. This is us. Watching, enabling, giving the glitterati what they need to survive.
Consider Nikki, played by Emma Watson with a shaky accent and a viper's low cunning. She might be too stupid to have what she considers a successful life, but more frightening is the suggestion that she might be too stupid not too. A special note must be made of Watson, who delivers the film's best performance. It's hard not to view this project as a calculated shedding of her most famous role, but the truth remains inescapable that this is a fantastically talented young actress.
Coppola remains one of the true auteurs in modern cinema. Actually "voyeur" might be a better term. Her films are those of an observer, a mostly-stationary camera serving as our window into these twisted souls. There is an intellectual remove to this movie, a pulled-back, almost shocked distance. We understand that Coppola, who of course is the child of Hollywood royalty, is glad that she didn't turn out as these twisted chidren have done.
To that end, she almost completely masks her considerable skill as a technical director. The movie is quietly beautiful to look at, shot primarily by the late, great Harris Saviedies. Sound design, location scouting, blocking, and costuming are all impeccable. Much like her father in his early years, Coppola trusts character, story, and absolutely nothing else. Any flashes of auteuristic flair, such as a justly famous sequence depicting a robbery in a single shot, draw attention by virtue of so completely sublimating their form to the function of the story. The one-take robbery is a masterpiece of blocking and execution, but it is Coppola's slow, subtle push-in that makes the scene.
First, the camera-movement inexorably restricts the boundaries of the shot, reducing the frame to a tight cage around a glowing glass house. The idiot children, scampering inside, are similarly constrained, by their greed and ugly ambition, into the glowing world to which they do not belong. Second, Coppola's zoom implicates the viewer in the crime they are watching. Slow it might be, but the camera is active, in motion, suggestive of a personality behind the eye. We watch, and are entertained, and do nothing. The whole movie in this was is a dare, a question. If you were Marc, standing on the fringes of the beautiful fake world with a girl's hand outstretched to you, what would you do?
I don't wish to give undue credit. This is a film about unimportant people doing unimportant things. They are trivial, ephemeral, ultimately worthless. The horror of the film comes in the titanic importance they place on their own struggles, in the utter disconnect with anything resembling reality. Consider, for example, the protagonist so chillingly embodied by Katie Chang. In a few years, we sense that she will become the girl of Patrick Bateman's dreams. She has no friends, only disciples. No aspirations, only greed. No morality beyond what she's seen glaring from the television. Her expression is the same opening a car and robbing a house, snorting cocaine and gyrating on the dance floor. She smiles only when in her paradise, surrounded by the neon embodiments of fame and glitz. This is our brainwashed youth.
Consider Marc, the sad, lonely, besotted fame whore played by Israel Broussard. Is he gay? Perhaps, but his occasionally carnal glances at Nikki suggest otherwise. Note that he takes very little part in the robberies. Often, Coppola frames him apart, standing in a corner or trapped by dark lines within space. Caged. He is intriguing for the suggestions that he knows what the Ring is doing to be wrong, morally as well as legally. And yet, he never acts. He stands in his corners and watches, a horrified but ultimately complicit audience. This is us. Watching, enabling, giving the glitterati what they need to survive.
Consider Nikki, played by Emma Watson with a shaky accent and a viper's low cunning. She might be too stupid to have what she considers a successful life, but more frightening is the suggestion that she might be too stupid not too. A special note must be made of Watson, who delivers the film's best performance. It's hard not to view this project as a calculated shedding of her most famous role, but the truth remains inescapable that this is a fantastically talented young actress.
Coppola remains one of the true auteurs in modern cinema. Actually "voyeur" might be a better term. Her films are those of an observer, a mostly-stationary camera serving as our window into these twisted souls. There is an intellectual remove to this movie, a pulled-back, almost shocked distance. We understand that Coppola, who of course is the child of Hollywood royalty, is glad that she didn't turn out as these twisted chidren have done.
To that end, she almost completely masks her considerable skill as a technical director. The movie is quietly beautiful to look at, shot primarily by the late, great Harris Saviedies. Sound design, location scouting, blocking, and costuming are all impeccable. Much like her father in his early years, Coppola trusts character, story, and absolutely nothing else. Any flashes of auteuristic flair, such as a justly famous sequence depicting a robbery in a single shot, draw attention by virtue of so completely sublimating their form to the function of the story. The one-take robbery is a masterpiece of blocking and execution, but it is Coppola's slow, subtle push-in that makes the scene.
First, the camera-movement inexorably restricts the boundaries of the shot, reducing the frame to a tight cage around a glowing glass house. The idiot children, scampering inside, are similarly constrained, by their greed and ugly ambition, into the glowing world to which they do not belong. Second, Coppola's zoom implicates the viewer in the crime they are watching. Slow it might be, but the camera is active, in motion, suggestive of a personality behind the eye. We watch, and are entertained, and do nothing. The whole movie in this was is a dare, a question. If you were Marc, standing on the fringes of the beautiful fake world with a girl's hand outstretched to you, what would you do?
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Ending all the Games
Ender Wiggin has to know.
Let me explain; Ender is a military savant, preposterously intelligent, and possesses an amazing gift for forging empathetic connections with people (and species) of all kinds. Often, he uses his empathy to figure out just how to motivate his subordinates, to connect with them and find the right words to draw out each individual’s particular talents. On other occasions, he uses the same gift to commit genocide. Ender is lethal because his empathy allows him to anticipate military opponents on a near-telepathic level, to understand the precise workings of his enemy’s mind through streaks of light in a holographic display. And yet, in the climactic battle of Gavin Hood’s film and the novel from which it takes its title, the audience is meant to believe that Ender has been tricked into thinking he is fighting a computer simulation guided by the decidedly human Mazer Rackham, when in reality he is facing a hive-mind fleet of Formics. To emphasize; Ender wins because his empathy lets him see inside the enemy, to know it on an impossibly intimate level. And the audience is meant to think that Ender can’t even tell if he’s fighting a human or a Formic.
So I say again; Ender Wiggin has to know.
Maybe, at the end with the Little Doctor whirling up, Ender lies to himself. This would be understandable, a very young child processing what he’s about to do in a way that will allow him to maintain his sanity long enough to finish the job. But somewhere, deep down, Ender understands that he’s about to annihilate a species, and he orders the trigger pulled anyways. Why? Well, perhaps because he thinks it’s necessary. The various adult characters (and government behind them) may not have Ender’s raw intelligence, but they are very, very good at manipulating him into believing that the war is a zero-sum game, with species-wide survival hanging on the outcome. That’s a possible explanation, but an uncertain one. And the uncertainty represents the largest flaw with Hood’s mostly-admirable adaptation. We don’t know what Ender is thinking, or how he can be capable of such brutality. For an answer, we turn back to the novel.
We all know at this point that books and movies work in fundamentally different ways. Books can convey inner life and emotional complexity to a greater extent, movies have a visceral and emotional impact much closer to that of real experience, etc etc. There’s another, mostly logistical issue; Books are really, really long. Ender’s Game is not a large novel, and still Gavin Hood had to cut big sections in order to get it on-screen. Thing is, he cut out the important parts.
Way back when, 14 year old me read the novel and loved it, but was a little bored by all the Earth-bound, Wiggins-family-centric-bits. In other news, 14 year old me was an idiot. Much has been made of the ways in which the Wiggins siblings interact. Much more could be written on the genre tropes each fulfills (rampaging id/hotheaded loose cannon, nurturing female, tortured genius/hero’s journey). Except that they don’t. Card’s best trick in the book is to present three children, all brilliant, all deeply disturbed (in large part because of that brilliance), and spend the rest of the novel showing, not how they’re different, but how they’re all very much alike. Blood, as ever, calls to blood.
Peter Wiggin is the most logical, grounded character in the novel. Yes, I said it. By the end of the book, his methods have greatly evolved, but his perspective on society and desire to rip it apart and build something new in its place have not. He is savage, but precise in his goals and efficient in his methods. To put it simply, Peter looks at the world, applies his intelligence to figuring out exactly what it needs, then spends the rest of the book becoming that person. And Valentine, sweet, gentle, caring Valentine. How is she different? Yes, as a child she is more compassionate but…. It’s no accident that Card inverts the two characters in their selection of internet personas, with Peter becoming the thoughtful voice of reason, and Valentine the anarchic rabble-rouser. Yes, each of them is playing a part, but they’re so good at it because they believe in what they’re doing. Each of them really, truly thinks that the global system is broken, and they’re the ones to remake it.
Ender’s journey in the novel has little to do with the growth of his military abilities (those arrive more-or-less fully formed), nor is it in the formation of relationships with his army; Petra et al are undoubtedly important to him, but not vital to his sense of identity in the way that Valentine is. Instead, book-Ender is growing into his family legacy. He’s becoming a Wiggin, admitting to himself that he has the capacity for immense violence, and the God-complex / arrogance to pull it off. Yes, he’s the youngest and probably smartest of the siblings. But Peter and Valentine are much more honest about who they are, and the places they wish to take on Earth. They grow into those roles at greater speed. Ender is different, but only in the sense that guilt over his actions can overwhelm him afterwards. If we accept that he did know, on some level, what he was doing to the Formics, then we also have to accept that he’s capable of suppressing that guilt to an enormous extent, sublimating his own personal agony in the service of humankind.
Ok, back to the film. This piece comes from a feeling that’s been nagging at me since seeing it, a feeling of something missing. I think it’s this; Film-Ender really is duped. He doesn’t know that he’s slaughtering real, live Formics. I stand by my statement that, for the character to be internally consistent, he has to know on some level that he’s committing genocide, but there’s nothing in the film text in support of that particular reading. Movie-Ender doesn’t know. He’s an isolated kid, pushed past the point of exhaustion, who thinks he’s playing a giant video-game programmed by another person. And that is disappointing. The novel is made great by its use of the siblings to inform the character of the protagonist, to show that violence, empathy, savagery and compassion are all bundled together in these three extraordinary children. Ender is slightly different because he better-balances the defining qualities of his brother and sister, but this a difference of degree rather than type. By largely cutting Peter (stock bully character, barely onscreen), and Valentine (equally stock cry-on-shoulder sister), the film robs Ender of much complexity.
I’d argue that this is a mistake, although it’s a deeply understandable one given the constraints of a film’s running time, not to mention the all-important master of 4 quadrant appeal. The film gives us a version of Ender who is appropriately intelligent, cerebral in combat, and tormented by the actions he is forced to take. What he is not, though, is complex. He fights back when bullied, is taken from his home, fights more, flirts with Petra, almost kills Bonso (the worst Deux-Ex-Machina in a film with plenty of those), makes a heroic decision, does heroic stuff etc etc. He’s a good kid. Precise, clinical, with a lot of buried rage, but fundamentally good. The Ender of Card’s novel is something very different, something much darker and much more dangerous. And yet, he makes the “right” choice (based on the information he has, but that isn’t his fault).
So I ask, which of these characters is more human?
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Viva Dracula
The world needs a new Dracula like it needs more Beiberific headlines, but NBC's epynonomous show is a swell one to have. The recently concluded first (possibly last) season is one of the more worthy adaptations of the last decade, bringing a genuine sense of horror, considerable visual flair, and a healthy respect of, but not slavish devotion to, its source material. It's also poorly paced, inconsistently acted, and not nearly as smart as it imagines itself to be. Let's take a closer look:
Good
The Acting - Jonathan Rhys-Myers is hilariously bad at accents, and not what one would call an emotionally nuanced performer. That said, the guy looks great in a suit, smolders well, and delivers a genuine sense of danger to the proceedings. I never bought him as a besotted suitor, but he's entirely believable as a raging, sexily soulfull monster. The show could've done much, much worse in picking a lead. In other news…. Nonso Anozie brings huge presence to a beautifully re-interpreted Renfield, Thomas Kreitschmann schemes and sneers skilfully in a lot of corners, and Victoria Smurfit is a fierce, strong heroine. Well played by all.
Renfield - Those who've read Bram Stoker's novel know that Renfield is depicted as a disgusting little lunatic sleazeball. Spiders for breakfast etc etc. Among the show's strongest choices is a new, far more interesting consigliere for the vampire, as titanically embodied by Nonso Anozie. This Renfield is capable and intelligent, proud and loyal to death. He serves Dracula out of gratitude, but comes to the position with his mind intact and eyes very wide open. Throughout the season, characters challenge and dismiss him as a simple manservant, only to be lacerated by his wit and crushed by the sheer force of his presence. Lunatics, you see, are boring and ultimately quite predictable. It is far more enjoyable to watch a man whose weapons are his brain and his words, delivered as they are in that booming, cultured voice. It helps immensely that Anozie is very funny, and that the writers give him many of the bon mots in a series not short on those. "So, not a bad morning."
The Blood - We've been inundated with toothless vampires who want to do nothing but make out and mope (see; Saga, The Twilight). It's time for bloodsuckers with fangs again. Yes, there's a stretch in mid-season involving Dracula having an existential crisis, wants to be good for Mina blah f-ing blah. Then, he shoves a pool cue through a pair of door handles, and I start grinning like an idiot. Anti-heros are supposed to have some genuine anti to them, and the show doesn't shy away from it in the slightest. Better yet, it delivers these moments with a strong sense of style. Observe the delicate, painterly images of Lucy in the bath, the way the camera lingers on her. Gasp as Dracula enters, flicker-fast, his dark clothing a razored contrast to the milk. Shiver as crimson blossoms in the white. This is simple stuff, but it's beautifully done, and on a very small budget.
Sex - And lots of it. Dracula, the novel, is largely a metaphor for the Victorian terrors of pre-marital sex, the plague, and the meeting of those things which we now call STDs. In the show, Dracula neutralizes the Order Draco's greatest weapon by having sex with her. Is this coincidental? Do I need to draw anyone a map? This is what I mean by fidelity to the source material. This is a show of respect, a distillation of thematic concerns. This is how you make something understandable as visual text. Also, and refreshingly, the show gives us a romantic relationship between two men. While much of how that situation plays out is in questionable taste, I appreciated immensely that it is treated as both tragic and worthy of equal consideration to its more traditional counterparts. This is a progressive and modern show, made by intelligent and sensitive people. Both qualities are rare and worthy of applause.
Jayne - Victoria Smurfit is the best actor on a show with a lot of good ones, and her (entirely original) character is its most interesting personality. She is gorgeous, sexually liberated, and a formidable fighter and "huntsman" of the undead. These qualities are presented in a consistent, decidedly human character, and all as good things. She's not over-masculanized, a slut, or any of the other freakish descriptors one might expect for such a woman in Victorian society. I have some small quibbles with her inability to, for example, notice that her lover is lacking a heartbeat, but overall this is the sort of character we need more of on television. If the show gets another season, I sincerely hope the writers come up with a way to bring her back from the dead. And come on, how hard could that really be?
Bad
The Acting - Oliver Jackson-Cohen and Jessica De Goux seem like wonderful people, and lord knows they've got the looks for this kind of thing. Problem is, they're simply not very good. Dracula looks like he's molesting a scared girl in his romantic scenes with Mina, and Anozie blows Jackson-Cohen off the screen at every opportunity. The parts call for actors with intensity and charisma, and these two just look lost. A shame. The less said about the hammy dunces portraying the Order Draco, the better. Actually, never mind…..
The Order Draco - What. In. The. Bloody. Hell? This is Dracula's ancient enemy? These idiots? Blah blah blah oil prices blah blah sacred oaths blah blah blaaaaaah. Badly acted, poorly concieved, inconsistently motivated, and generally moronic, this collection of idiots wouldn't scare a Monty Python troop. Moving on…
British Fucking Imperial Coolant - The show's base premise, of Dracula going to Victorian London to wreak havoc on his tormentors, is just fine. Fun, even. The execution sucks. Quick thought experiment: If you were an immortal vampire / badass martial artist killing machine, and had some people to off, would you track them down and rip out throats, or ruin them economically by inventing an incredible new energy technology which would then drive down the price of oil? Who takes the second plan? Anyone? Bueller? Thought not. I understand that this is a Friday-night television show, and that battles are a lot more expensive than board meetings in production terms. But still, an audience tuning into a program named after the most infamous vampire in literary history doesn't want to hear about stock prices. I could live with the plot, if it occupied one or two episodes. As is, it ruins the season's pacing and occupies far too great a percentage of the (very limited) screentime.
And that's a wrap. I have a hard time seeing this show coming back for another season, which is a shame. We need more genre on tv, in movies and books. There are seeds of true greatness here, and I can see another season, made by the same people but with the improvements of experience, reaching stunning new heights. The prevalence of vampires in pop culture won't be lessening anytime soon, and it's nice being reminded that the first bloodsucker hasn't let his fangs grow dull.
Good
The Acting - Jonathan Rhys-Myers is hilariously bad at accents, and not what one would call an emotionally nuanced performer. That said, the guy looks great in a suit, smolders well, and delivers a genuine sense of danger to the proceedings. I never bought him as a besotted suitor, but he's entirely believable as a raging, sexily soulfull monster. The show could've done much, much worse in picking a lead. In other news…. Nonso Anozie brings huge presence to a beautifully re-interpreted Renfield, Thomas Kreitschmann schemes and sneers skilfully in a lot of corners, and Victoria Smurfit is a fierce, strong heroine. Well played by all.
Renfield - Those who've read Bram Stoker's novel know that Renfield is depicted as a disgusting little lunatic sleazeball. Spiders for breakfast etc etc. Among the show's strongest choices is a new, far more interesting consigliere for the vampire, as titanically embodied by Nonso Anozie. This Renfield is capable and intelligent, proud and loyal to death. He serves Dracula out of gratitude, but comes to the position with his mind intact and eyes very wide open. Throughout the season, characters challenge and dismiss him as a simple manservant, only to be lacerated by his wit and crushed by the sheer force of his presence. Lunatics, you see, are boring and ultimately quite predictable. It is far more enjoyable to watch a man whose weapons are his brain and his words, delivered as they are in that booming, cultured voice. It helps immensely that Anozie is very funny, and that the writers give him many of the bon mots in a series not short on those. "So, not a bad morning."
The Blood - We've been inundated with toothless vampires who want to do nothing but make out and mope (see; Saga, The Twilight). It's time for bloodsuckers with fangs again. Yes, there's a stretch in mid-season involving Dracula having an existential crisis, wants to be good for Mina blah f-ing blah. Then, he shoves a pool cue through a pair of door handles, and I start grinning like an idiot. Anti-heros are supposed to have some genuine anti to them, and the show doesn't shy away from it in the slightest. Better yet, it delivers these moments with a strong sense of style. Observe the delicate, painterly images of Lucy in the bath, the way the camera lingers on her. Gasp as Dracula enters, flicker-fast, his dark clothing a razored contrast to the milk. Shiver as crimson blossoms in the white. This is simple stuff, but it's beautifully done, and on a very small budget.
Sex - And lots of it. Dracula, the novel, is largely a metaphor for the Victorian terrors of pre-marital sex, the plague, and the meeting of those things which we now call STDs. In the show, Dracula neutralizes the Order Draco's greatest weapon by having sex with her. Is this coincidental? Do I need to draw anyone a map? This is what I mean by fidelity to the source material. This is a show of respect, a distillation of thematic concerns. This is how you make something understandable as visual text. Also, and refreshingly, the show gives us a romantic relationship between two men. While much of how that situation plays out is in questionable taste, I appreciated immensely that it is treated as both tragic and worthy of equal consideration to its more traditional counterparts. This is a progressive and modern show, made by intelligent and sensitive people. Both qualities are rare and worthy of applause.
Jayne - Victoria Smurfit is the best actor on a show with a lot of good ones, and her (entirely original) character is its most interesting personality. She is gorgeous, sexually liberated, and a formidable fighter and "huntsman" of the undead. These qualities are presented in a consistent, decidedly human character, and all as good things. She's not over-masculanized, a slut, or any of the other freakish descriptors one might expect for such a woman in Victorian society. I have some small quibbles with her inability to, for example, notice that her lover is lacking a heartbeat, but overall this is the sort of character we need more of on television. If the show gets another season, I sincerely hope the writers come up with a way to bring her back from the dead. And come on, how hard could that really be?
Bad
The Acting - Oliver Jackson-Cohen and Jessica De Goux seem like wonderful people, and lord knows they've got the looks for this kind of thing. Problem is, they're simply not very good. Dracula looks like he's molesting a scared girl in his romantic scenes with Mina, and Anozie blows Jackson-Cohen off the screen at every opportunity. The parts call for actors with intensity and charisma, and these two just look lost. A shame. The less said about the hammy dunces portraying the Order Draco, the better. Actually, never mind…..
The Order Draco - What. In. The. Bloody. Hell? This is Dracula's ancient enemy? These idiots? Blah blah blah oil prices blah blah sacred oaths blah blah blaaaaaah. Badly acted, poorly concieved, inconsistently motivated, and generally moronic, this collection of idiots wouldn't scare a Monty Python troop. Moving on…
British Fucking Imperial Coolant - The show's base premise, of Dracula going to Victorian London to wreak havoc on his tormentors, is just fine. Fun, even. The execution sucks. Quick thought experiment: If you were an immortal vampire / badass martial artist killing machine, and had some people to off, would you track them down and rip out throats, or ruin them economically by inventing an incredible new energy technology which would then drive down the price of oil? Who takes the second plan? Anyone? Bueller? Thought not. I understand that this is a Friday-night television show, and that battles are a lot more expensive than board meetings in production terms. But still, an audience tuning into a program named after the most infamous vampire in literary history doesn't want to hear about stock prices. I could live with the plot, if it occupied one or two episodes. As is, it ruins the season's pacing and occupies far too great a percentage of the (very limited) screentime.
And that's a wrap. I have a hard time seeing this show coming back for another season, which is a shame. We need more genre on tv, in movies and books. There are seeds of true greatness here, and I can see another season, made by the same people but with the improvements of experience, reaching stunning new heights. The prevalence of vampires in pop culture won't be lessening anytime soon, and it's nice being reminded that the first bloodsucker hasn't let his fangs grow dull.
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