drqshadow-reviews

Vincent Price plays a relatively straight role as a wax sculptor, passionate about his craft, who bristles when his cash-strapped business partner offers a choice between more grisly, audience-pleasing material and an "accidental" fire to collect on their insurance policy. The two come to blows, flames inevitably wipe the slate clean and, some time later, Price's jaded artiste (now confined to a wheelchair) resurfaces with a new portfolio of macabre diorama work ready to go. But, as his revitalized museum prepares for its grand opening extravaganza, a string of murders and suicides jostle the city and corpses begin mysteriously disappearing from the morgue.

Many Price horror joints from this era wear a winking, kitschy similarity. Just a bit over the top, they crank up the camp and nod, wryly, to the camera; a playful act that lets us know the stars are in on the joke. Not so for House of Wax, which goes full Phantom of the Opera in its quest for fiendish frights and shadowy thrills. Although it's his first-ever leading performance in a horror film, this is all Vincent's show. Price reigns over each scene with a regal confidence, but his tasty turn towards the sinister is more composed than I expected and his supporting players keep their cards equally close to the vest. It's not a total mortuary - House of Wax was among the first major studio releases filmed for 3D, and boy, do they lean into it - but the plot takes itself seriously and the performances are composed of far stiffer stuff than, say, House on Haunted Hill.

I'm sure the 3D stunts were magical in the right environment, especially given this film's renewed popularity on the re-release circuit each time the gimmick bubbles back up, but those scenes have a negative effect on standard viewings. We can usually tell when we're missing something - the man shamelessly dribbling a paddleball straight into the lens is a pretty dead giveaway - but these scenes still linger for an eternity, pumping the brakes to admire the effect without accounting for those of us without a set of special glasses.

House of Wax's setup chapters are good fun, quick with exposition and executions alike, but the second act slows to a crawl until its big, startling reveal sends us dashing into the home stretch. Price is magnetic and the screen buzzes any time he's around, but he's often relegated to the shadows and then we're left to tail Phyllis Kirk's wary, gunshy scream queen through a lackluster one-woman investigation. There's probably a good reason he made a home of horror and she quickly moved on to other genres. Still, there's plenty to like in this creepy old fright show, and that's not entirely due to the main man on the marquee. This house has no shortage of problems, but it's rare for a film this old to still bring so many goods. That unmasking caught me completely off-guard!

At several high-profile destinations around the world, a mysterious hired assassin evades detection and serenely checks names from his list. Some may recognize his moniker, a few might remember his face, but none truly know Duke Togo, the mysterious man codenamed Golgo 13. Many hope to learn, though, be they the ravishing women who eagerly share his bed or the irate collateral affected by his hits. This time, one such casualty has the power to make a difference - the wealthy father of his latest contract - and directs a tsunami of retaliatory firepower in his direction. Now, with everyone from secret military operatives to genetically enhanced monsters on his tail, Togo might just be concerned enough to remove his sunglasses. If only for a moment.

There's no reason to dance around the facts here: Golgo 13 is quite obviously influenced by James Bond. And, like Bond, he pursues a very clear mission: masculine wish fulfillment, particularly for the teenage audience. Though he's more mature than Bond (not much of a stretch), a man better suited for the dirty '70s and early '80s, the vast majority of Togo's adventures focus on girls, guns and grim expressions. Oh, and sports cars. Only the quickest and snazziest. Where 007 works with the British government to apprehend international criminals, 13 has no qualms about spreading the crosshairs around. Meet his asking price and he'll find a way to complete the job, be the target an angel or a devil. That ruthless M. O. gives him an edge on Bond, makes him more cold-blooded and dangerous, and firmly sets him in a dark moral gray zone. He's cool - intrinsically, effortlessly cool - and that makes the series cool, too.

But there's a difference between cool and fulfilling. At some point, we crave more than just neon glare and muzzle flashes, and I don't mean another hilariously OTT love montage (we get four of those in The Professional). If there's nothing behind all the fiery action, softcore T&A and stylish framing experiments, no thought beyond the most basic of carnal desires, then everything begins to feel hollow and redundant. Even at a scant ninety-three minutes, Golgo 13 repeats itself time and time again. It's a turbo six-speed that's missing all the middle gears: we're either going two miles an hour or two hundred. The animation is bold and powerful, impressive for its age despite the laughably primitive implementation of computer graphics in two scenes, and the lead character is brazen and ballsy. Maybe his plot armor is a hair thick (okay, he's downright impervious), but he makes for an exciting focal point and that's what the series wants. At the end of the job, though, he icily walks away to snipe and sex in another metropolis and we're left, titillated but empty, right where we started. Even the worst Bond movies have given me more than that.

As the final chapter of the OT and the last new Star Wars movie for sixteen years, Return of the Jedi serves as a competent installment and an adequate finale, even if it can't match the energy of A New Hope or the drama of The Empire Strikes Back. In leaping between desert planets, forest moons, swamp huts and space stations, it certainly matches the ambition of its predecessors, if not their breezy tempo. No, Jedi really gets bogged down at times, especially during the unnecessarily elongated opening visit to Jabba's palace. Though it offers important plot developments, this long scene sprawls uncontrollably, walking where the others would have run with an eye on the clock, and it's far from the only example. Even the climactic outer space dogfights don't feel so compelling, stuck in a delayed holding pattern while the Emperor gloats and cackles inside a command ship. Where episodes four and five gave us glimpses of this universe in a blur, part six slows down to smell the roses. Since it's still framed as an action movie, this gives the impression that Jedi doesn't have as much to say, a shortfall that's only reinforced by its limp efforts to replicate the cultural bombshell that was "I am your father."

Most everything in Episode VI is lesser by comparison. Luke's Rancor fight is louder, but less suspenseful, than his escape from the Wampa's lair. The new Death Star looks cooler than its beta test brother, but proves far less formidable. Chewy's unique luster is lessened when he's paired with a primitive tribe of equally fuzzed-out teddy bears. Jedi does get the little things right, meaningful moments like a monster handler's plight or an Ewok warrior's grief, and those carry a lot of weight. Each makes its world feel lived-in and human, even when the subjects are barely anthropomorphic, and that's sorely lacking in the prequels and sequels. The important character beats, though, replete in earlier installments, have been downgraded. Han and Leia aren't as daring and magical this time around and Vader has started pulling his punches. Only Luke's arc has much bite, his struggle to balance a lust for vengeance with a desire to rise above, and while that adds some badly-needed tension to the proceedings, it also feels like a foregone conclusion. We aren't left wondering about the "if," so much as the "how."

There are also technical concerns. Over the years, I must've watched every version of this film, countless times, with one exception. This time around, to complete the set, I opted for the Blu-Ray release which, regrettably, features a further-meddled version of 1997's Special Edition. I'll need a minute to vent here. More than the other reworks, Jedi is teeming with unnecessary visual junk, from the background (quiet establishing shots now interrupted by belching wildlife) to the front and center (the embarrassing new song and dance number). These fresh additions fail the cardinal rule of improving without interfering; they're downright egregious, demanding attention without a purpose beyond, I guess, proving they could do it. Not that the original left no room for improvement: this HD treatment makes Lucasfilm's use of matte paintings and green screens far more obvious. I wouldn't mind some touch-ups in that respect, cleaning up rough edges and adding a little pizzazz, but I draw the line at eyebrow removal and ghost replacement.

Ahem. Anyway. I don't dislike Return of the Jedi so much as I'm disappointed by it. This installment still shows a marvelous knack for scale and power, its plot favors tolerance and unity in the face of oppression, its special effects push the medium right up to (and sometimes over) the edge. The villains collect their comeuppance and the heroes get their flowers. It's Star Wars but it's not New Hope and it's certainly not Empire. And, sweet lord, this endless habit of tacking on extra bits and unwanted prequel tie-ins is well beyond exhausting. I'm removing half a point for that alone. Consider the Laserdisc release to be a 6/10, but even that feels generous.