The Weekly Gravy #134

El Super (1979) – ***½

It’s not off-base to compare El Super to Chan is Missing. Both were released by New Yorker Films, both were pioneering works in ethnic American cinema, both explore identity and culture with sympathetic humor by setting their characters against the forces of assimilation, bureaucracy, and capitalism, and they opened just three years apart. I also give them the same score, and have some of the same quibbles about both.

But besides being set on separate sides of the country (Super is set in New York and Chan is set in San Francisco), they differ widely in terms of lasting recognition. Chan is a part of both the National Film Registry and the Criterion Collection and has over 1,500 votes on the IMDb; El Super has never been officially released on DVD and has just 140 votes as of this writing. In 2013, a restoration of El Super was screened, but as far as I can tell was never made available for home viewing. You can see the trailer, with clear imagery and crisp subtitles, but to watch the whole film, like me you’ll have to make do with an upload from the old New Yorker VHS, with blurry images and hard-to-read subtitles.

That’s a shame, not only because a better print is out there, but because it’s a good film and its portrait of 70s New York is a part of why. Robert (Raimundo Hidalgo-Gato) has been in exile from his native Cuba for 10 years, and currently lives in New York, working as superintendent for a run-down apartment building. He doesn’t much like the job and he doesn’t much like New York, or America for that matter; he hasn’t learned that much English and spends much of his time longing for Cuba, vowing to return once Castro falls.

He lives with his wife Aurelia (Zully Montero) and teenage daughter Aurelita (Elizabeth Peña in her first film); Aurelita is relatively assimilated and more interested in boys and parties than in her parents’ wishes. He spends much of his time hanging out with fellow Cuban exile Pancho (Reynaldo Medina), who brags incessantly about his role in the Bay of Pigs invasion, and Puerto Rican Bobby (Efraín López Neris), who tends to butt heads with the outspoken Pancho.

There’s not that much of a plot, just a couple of months (from winter into spring) in the lives of these characters as various issues come and go – a visit from city inspectors here, a domestic argument there, a pregnancy scare, a death in the family – until finally Roberto is able to arrange a long-sought move to Miami, where at the very least he won’t have to suffer through another winter. The film ends with a party, a simultaneous birthday party for Aurelia and a farewell party for the family, at which Roberto struggles to enjoy himself; the very end of the film suggests a budding epiphany, as if he realizes that simply moving won’t solve all his problems, as if he’s begun to grasp the notion that no matter where you go, there you are.

It’s admittedly somewhat episodic – it’s based on a play by Iván Acosta and you can definitely tell – with finely observes developed scenes alongside just a few too many plot threads that come and go too abruptly. It lacks the cohesion that might push it just higher on my scale; it can sit comfortably alongside the many subsequent slice-of-life indies without rising as far above them as one might like.

But it’s pretty good nonetheless, not least because it allows for a measure of complexity and interpretation regarding Roberto and his attitudes towards Cuba and America. It’s easy to imagine that Roberto sees pre-Castro Cuba through rose-colored glasses (it’s not like Batista was so great), just as it’s easy to imagine how difficult it is to be stuck so far from home, unable to easily communicate with his family and unable to be there when his mother passes away. And just as we can see why Roberto finds American society so vulgar, so self-indulgent, so alien, we can also see those shots of New York in all its scope, all its variety and possibility, and think that Roberto, in refusing to engage with the city more than he can possibly help, is only hurting himself.

All of this comes through in Hidalgo-Gato’s performance, which balances moments of charm and warmth (as when he and Aurelia sing the song they first danced to) with scenes of petulant anger (a rant in his workroom as he paces restlessly about) and quiet anxiety, namely in the final scene, where he seems ill at ease amongst the festivities, tries to make an emotional speech but is discouraged, and finally goes to the basement to face the boiler (the tending of which is one of his main responsibilities) and smile ruefully.

There’s also solid work from Medina as the brash Pancho (his rants are obnoxiously amusing), Montero as the supportive Aurelia, and Peña as the strong-willed Aurelita. The script, by co-director Leon Ichaso and Manuel Arce, has plenty of moments of insight and wit, the cinematography (from what I could tell) captures the sheer size and energy of the city (and the dingy claustrophobia of Roberto’s building) well, and Enrique Ubieta’s excellent score encompasses lively, often comical themes with tense and melancholy elements which reflect the film’s complex mood. It makes for a film which should be better remembered than it seems to be.

Score: 81

The Boy Who Saw Through (1958) – ***

In a small town in turn-of-the-century America, young Ernest Torch suddenly gains the ability to see through walls, but when he informs his parents about what he sees, they’re mortified. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t seen anything he shouldn’t (this isn’t that kind of film), or that he’s never less than honest and good-natured; seeing through is just not something people do, especially if they want to be respectable. Ernest’s mother takes him to see a doctor who’s intrigued by his case – and understands what society will and will not accept.

Produced by Mary Ellen Bute (it was directed by George C. Stoney, mainly known as a documentarian) and based on a story by John Pudney, the main reason for seeing The Boy nowadays is because Ernest is played by a very young Christopher Walken (credited as “Ronnie”). He doesn’t display the intensity or offbeat energy that would become his trademark, but as juvenile performances go, it’s a respectable effort.

Otherwise, it’s not much to write home about. There are some interesting touches in the editing – inventive wipes and irises – the period detail is solid, it has a nicely whimsical score, and the rest of the actors do solid work. There’s just not a lot to it – there’s a bit of a satirical point being made about the hypocrisy and closed-mindedness of society, but it would have a lot more bite if it were set in the present day rather than the nostalgic past. And despite running just 24 minutes, it moves sluggishly; Disney or Warner Brothers could’ve knocked this material out in 7 minutes flat.

Score: 65

Enys Men (2022) – ***

(NOTE: Although Enys Men was first shown at the 2022 Cannes Festival, it was not publicly released until January, so I’m counting it towards this year.)

I’m not particularly fond of describing a film in terms of other films (“Like X meets Y!”), but in the case of Enys Men, it might be helpful to describe it as the triangulation of Skinamarink (a committed ambiguity that gives the viewer little, if any, foundation of reality to stand on and little in the way of character to connect to), The Wicker Man (the 1973 setting, the remote-island setting, the elements of pagan/folk culture), and The Lighthouse (isolation on an island, visions of uncertain provenance). Or, if that’s too complicated, it might best be described as Cornish. Because it very much is.

In April 1973, a volunteer (Mary Woodvine) lives on the Cornish island of Enys Men (“Stone Island”) and her daily routine consists of taking the temperature of the soil, examining a small patch of flowers, dropping a rock down a well and waiting for the splash, going back to her cottage, starting up the generator, making a cup of tea, listening to the broadcast radio and/or the two-way radio, turning off the generator, going to bed and reading the environmentalist book A Blueprint for Survival by candlelight, then going to sleep and starting the process over again.

For much of the film, this routine is repeated with little change – indeed, her notebook is filled with entries tersely noting “No change” in the status of the flowers. But then there’s the matter of the girl (Flo Crowe) who appears from time to time without raising an eyebrow on the volunteer. And the boatman (Edward Rowe) who delivers the volunteer’s supplies and might be an occasional sex partner. And the elderly preacher (John Woodvine). And the ore miners from decades past, and the lifeboat crew, supposedly lost 75 years before, and the Seven Sisters, dressed in traditional Cornish garb, who seem to have stepped right off a skimmed-milk can.

And there’s the stone which juts out of the earth in front of the volunteer’s cottage – which occasionally appears as an abandoned ruin – and the lichens which grow, first on the flowers, then on the volunteer’s body.

I don’t think it’s much of a spoiler to say that we never do learn what’s real and what’s not; we never know if the volunteer is being literally haunted by the ghosts of the past, hallucinating, vividly remembering her own past, or vividly imagining what we see. We never know who, outside of her time on the island, the volunteer is, how she came to be on the island, or what exactly her objective is – did she really come here just to observe a few flowers?

The power of Enys Men is partly in its images, shot on film with all the rich grain, vivid color, and beguiling imperfection that entails; the stark beauty of Cornwall itself, and the ruined buildings the volunteer passes by, provide ample fascination even before the surreal and disturbing elements make themselves known. Partly it’s in the sound of the film – the dialogue and sound effects often sound as if we’re hearing them over a radio or from another room, and the droning score often reminds one of the wind blowing across the island, across the chimney, or through the ruins.

And partly it’s in the presence of Woodvine herself, who never breaks the enigma of the volunteer but doesn’t hide behind that status, giving us instead a character who seems quite at home on Enys Men and rather amenable to encountering people who may not be there or may be long dead, and to finding plant life literally sprouting from the mysterious scar on her stomach.

She’s been the partner, in art and life, of Mark Jenkin for some years; Jenkin wrote, directed, shot, edited, and scored the film. It’s clear how much Woodvine trusts his vision and how simpatico she is to it, and we can see why, at least for much of the film; despite a few shots that feel like a first-timer seeing what the camera can do (despite Jenkin not being a first-timer in the slightest), or what editing can achieve, it’s clearly the work of someone who knows what he’s trying to do.

But after a while, and especially towards the end of the film, the film begins to feel a bit like ambiguity for ambiguity’s sake, and even at 96 minutes, it begins to drag just a bit; like Skinamarink, it could’ve done just as well with 10-15 minutes less time to fill. (It’s never as monotonous as the first half of that film, however.) And so, as much as I appreciate Jenkin’s vision and the degree to which he realized it, I fall just short of really embracing the film, which effectively establishes a mood, but in playing by its own rules, can only do so much with it.

Score: 76

Renfield (2023) – ***½

Sometimes, a comedy gives away its best jokes in the trailer. Sometimes, it foregrounds its worst jokes for some reason (Bros, anyone?). But in the case of Renfield, the worst joke in the trailer (the Postmates reference) isn’t actually in the film, and some of the cleverer touches weren’t so much as hinted at in the advertising, like the insertion of Nicolas Cage’s Dracula and Nicholas Hoult’s Renfield into the iconic 1931 Dracula, a touch which required some care in the special effects, costume design, and makeup/hairstyling departments, but which reflects the fact that Renfield has a little more going for it than you might guess based on the advertising or the reviews. It’s not a new horror-comedy classic, but it’s a damn good bit of fun.

After a century or so of doing Dracula’s dirty work (and having to eat bugs to enjoy even a fraction of his master’s strength) Renfield is really beginning to regret selling his soul and abandoning his family. He finds some solace in a co-dependents’ support group, and gets his first taste of real validation when he helps New Orleans cop Rebecca Quinn (Awkwafina) defeat a gang of enforcers led by the obnoxious Teddy Lobo (Ben Schwartz), son of crime boss Bellafrancesca Lobo (Shohreh Aghdashloo); the Lobos have much of the New Orleans police force in their pocket, and are responsible for the death of Rebecca’s father.

Smitten with Rebecca and eager to turn a new leaf, Renfield starts working to build a new life apart from Dracula, who’s contemplating a plan for world domination – and after learning of Renfield’s “betrayal,” he finds new allies in the Lobos, leading ultimately to a showdown where Rebecca will get her revenge and Renfield will finally stand up for himself. Along the way, lots and lots (and lots) of blood will be spilled, and, at least in my experience, quite a few laughs will be had.

Obviously, the main draw of Renfield is Nicolas Cage as Dracula, and he most definitely delivers. The real triumph of this performance is that he doesn’t just offer us masterfully hammy comic villainy (even in comparatively subdued moments, he’s wonderfully overripe), but that he shows just what a manipulative bastard Dracula is, rubbing Renfield’s nose in his own weakness when he tries to stand up for himself. It’s a delightful performance, but Cage never lets his Dracula become cute.

But Hoult holds his own as Renfield, his huge puppy-dog eyes and sweetly nervous energy ably conveying what a sad, self-loathing man he is, and how, bit by bit, he starts to blossom in the light of new possibilities. He gets stuck with some dodgy one-liners, especially early on, when the script deploys rather too much voiceover to set the scene and cram in some additional quips, but in his way he’s as aptly cast as Cage.

Awkwafina isn’t bad either as Rebecca, though her character reflects some of the weaknesses in Ryan Ridley’s script; an uncertain balance of comedy and drama, and more specifically an imbalance between broad farce and grounded reality, as well as an info-dump approach to exposition. But she sells the desperate determination of an honest cop in a thoroughly corrupt department and the wary confusion of someone discovering that vampires are not only real, but close at hand. The rest of the supporting cast do their jobs comparably well, with Schwartz a viscerally slimy little failson and Aghdashloo a gracefully amoral capo.

The reviews I’ve seen tend to suggest that the cop and crime-family elements of the film actively detract from its strengths, but I didn’t really mind them; the film could’ve omitted them (or given them more weight) and been as good or better, but they serve their purpose in the film’s admittedly slender narrative – namely, to allow for scenes of villainous acting and bloody mayhem.

That mayhem is certainly where Chris McKay’s direction shines brightest (although the tête-à-têtes between Renfield and Dracula have a special energy of their own), as do the visual effects, the makeup (which is excellent throughout), and the stunt choreography; these scenes revel in spraying blood, vicious kicks (there’s one near the end that’s so over-the-top it’s hysterical), and severed limbs. It may not be as masterfully executed as John Wick (not many films are), but it’s gruesomely satisfying, which for me sums up the film as a whole.

Is it great? No – it’s not quite sharp enough or inventive enough for that. But it’s an awful lot of fun, and hits its modest goals squarely enough to be worth recommending, especially if you can see it with an audience who wants to see Cage chew the scenery – and a few of his co-stars.

Score: 79