Robin Hood (1973) – ***
I know I’d seen Robin Hood as a child, but very little of it felt familiar this time around. Maybe I didn’t see it that many times. Or maybe it’s just not that memorable of a film. I know it has its defenders – and not just among the furry community – and I’d definitely put it above Peter Pan or The Sword in the Stone, but like most of the other Disney features directed by Wolfgang Reitherman, it’s pleasant, modestly charming, and ultimately uninspired.
Narrated by Allan-a-dale (Roger Miller), a rooster troubadour, it tells the basic Robin Hood story with an all-animal cast. You’ve got Robin (Brian Bedford) and Maid Marian (Monica Evans) as foxes, Little John (Phil Harris) as a bear, Prince John (Peter Ustinov) as a lion, the Sheriff of Nottingham (Pat Buttram) as a wolf, and Friar Tuck (Andy Devine!) as a badger. You’ve also got John’s snake lackey Sir Hiss (Terry-Thomas), Marian’s hen-in-waiting Lady Kluck (Carole Shelley), and, among the poor Robin robs the rich to feed, a family of adorably oppressed rabbits.
The film moves through the fundamental beats – John’s misrule in the absence of Richard the Lion-Hearted, Nottingham’s enforcement of John’s crushing taxes, Robin and Little John’s daring exploits, Robin and Marian’s romance, the archery tournament, the escape into Sherwood Forest, and the final showdown which defeats John and Nottingham before Richard returns to see Robin and Marian married – “I have an outlaw for an in-law!”
But it doesn’t do so with that much urgency or excitement, continuing the laid-back style of Reitherman’s other efforts and boasting villains who pose so little threat to our heroes you wonder how they got to power in the first place. John, Hiss, and Nottingham are all amusing enough, thanks to Ustinov’s boisterous arrogance, Terry-Thomas’ posh sleaziness, and Buttram’s oafish bluster, but between them they boast enough comic ineffectuality to neutralize the stakes – and most of their real comeuppance takes place offscreen!
Bedford is an affably charming Robin and Harris’ throaty tones are always welcome, but the film rarely plays their schemes for dash and daring, preferring broad humor which plays on the impossible stupidity of the villains, as when Little John cuts open the bottom of a treasure chest while John’s guards are holding it! In broad daylight! Sure, it plays well enough for little kids, but so would The Adventures of Robin Hood, a film which soars where this film is content to amble.
The animation doesn’t help that much. It’s fine, but even without the reused animation from earlier works (a notorious habit of Reitherman’s), the film has a cheap, corner-cutting feel to it from the opening credits, which flash ugly sans-serif text over clips from the film and antics on a blank background. The close-ups of eyes, especially in the scenes with Robin and Marian, would be tenderly romantic in a better film, but here feel like a symptom of the overall laziness.
The lack of memorable songs really doesn’t help. Aside from Allan-a-dale’s opening songs, “Whistle Stop” and “Oo-de-lally,” which are quite catchy, the relatively few songs are quite forgettable. “Love” got an Oscar nomination, but it’s already slipped from my memory, as has “The Phony King of England” (sung by Little John about Prince John); Allan-a-dale’s downbeat “Not in Nottingham” is a bit better, but outside of its downbeat context, it’s not too noteworthy either.
There is one really good sequence. The archery tournament, where Robin masquerades as a stork, Little John pretends to be an aristocrat (calling Prince John “PJ”), and a huge fracas takes place after Robin’s cover is blown, has something like the energy and wit that most of the film just doesn’t quite achieve.
That’s not to say it’s a bad film by any means; it’s charming throughout, Robin and Marian make a likable couple (Evans’ voice acting is also solid), and – well, I don’t really have much more to say. And that really says it all, doesn’t it? At least it’s better than the Ridley Scott-Russell Crowe version. But is it better than Disney’s 1952 live-action version? I should find out.
Score: 71
Master Gardener (2022) – ***½
Forming a loose trilogy with First Reformed and The Card Counter (and repeating themes he’s deployed in the past) Paul Schrader’s latest film deals with another quiet man who keeps a diary, lives a simple, even ascetic life, and is haunted by the ghosts of his past even as he forms a relationship which opens the door to a happier future. It’s not as good as those films (and Card Counter was a definite step down from First Reformed in my book), but it’s certainly got strengths of its own.
Narvel Roth (Joel Edgerton) works as the master gardener for the prestigious Gracewood Gardens, owned by Norma Haverhill (Sigourney Weaver), with whom Roth has sporadic relations. Norma asks Roth to mentor her grand-niece Maya (Quintessa Swindell), who has been on a rocky path since the death of her mother. Roth takes Maya under his wing and teaches her the finer points of gardening, which she takes to quickly.
But there are wrinkles to this seemingly happy arrangement. Maya has a strained relationship with Norma (who may or may not have hang-ups about Maya’s biracialism) and faces trouble from a violent drug dealer, which Roth decides to address via Oscar Neruda (Esai Morales), his Witness Protection Program agent. Oh yeah, Roth has a really ugly past, having been involved in hate groups before turning informant to avoid jail time, and his body is still covered with white-supremacist tattoos.
So when Maya becomes interested in him romantically, he’s doubly nervous – and when Norma calls them out despite nothing having happened, they leave Gracewood and try to face the world together. But Maya will learn Roth’s secret, and the dealer who abused her will rear his ugly head again, leading our characters to a moment of decision – though the ultimate outcome may not be quite what you’d expect.
The elephant in the room, of course, is that this is a film about a former violent racist falling in a love with a person of color; that Swindell is over 20 years younger than Edgerton doesn’t help. For me, the bigger issue is that the film doesn’t develop the romantic aspect of their relationship enough to really justify taking the story in that direction, and it works better when he’s simply a father figure towards her – for her, he’s the father she never had; for him, she’s the daughter he lost contact with years ago.
But then, Schrader’s script leaves a surprising amount of thematic and narrative potential on the table. While I’m no gardener, it would’ve been interesting to further explore how gardening, a quiet and meticulous practice, has helped bring stability to Roth’s once-chaotic life; it would’ve also been nice to dig deeper into the tensions between Maya and Norma, as well as the romantic elements of Roth and Norma’ relationship, and how she feels about how his body bears the marks of his past.
It’s still a very solid film, thanks to Edgerton’s quietly controlled performance, which never does indulge in the violent emotions clearly simmering beneath the surface, to Swindell’s fine turn as Maya, taking an underwritten role and finding a quiet, unforced grace, and to Weaver’s enjoyable turn as a woman whose detachment from the real world via wealth and privilege can be summed up in the way she says “mixed-blood.”
It’s also got a great score by Devonté Hynes, full of odd, dreamy synths, some fun production design (that jellyfish wallpaper!), and some good shots courtesy of cinematographer Alexander Dynan (though some shots suggest either dubious lighting choices or lacking equipment). And of course, Schrader’s writing is still above average and his direction is quite solid.
It just doesn’t stimulate the mind like its immediate predecessors or feature a truly bravura lead turn to compensate (which isn’t Edgerton’s fault, the material just isn’t as strong), and the final scenes are too rushed to be satisfying. It’s a good film, even a very good one, but it doesn’t threaten to become great.
Score: 82
After hearing about the passing of Kenneth Anger, I figured it might be a good time to watch some of his shorts:
- Fireworks (1947) – Anger’s first major film is described – by Anger himself in a voiceover added later – as a dream, in which the fantasies suppressed by day are released by night. Here, those fantasies consist of homoerotic encounters with sailors which turn masochistically violent, punctuated by extremely unsubtle symbols like flowing white liquid and a sailor with lit fireworks coming out of his pants. No question that it’s a pioneering work of queer cinema, and much of Anger’s imagery is arresting – the obscured face of the protagonist’s partner in the final moments is quite eerie – but’s also clearly the work of an amateur and can seem pretty silly at times. Such are the risks of illustrating sexual fantasy. Score: 73 – ***
- Puce Moment (1949) – We see a series of dresses, 1920s fashion, the last of which is donned by a woman (Yvonne Marquis) who treats her toilette as an ecstatic religious experience; she applies perfume with great ceremony before reclining on a sofa, which moves out onto the patio of her mansion. She then takes several Borzois for a walk, the last shot showing another person watching her, possibly hinting this is some kind of asylum, If it didn’t predate Sunset Blvd., you could consider this a kind of abstract counterpart, albeit in glorious color, which Anger takes full advantage of (his command of lighting and focus is considerably stronger than in Fireworks). Owing to limited resources, it’s quite short and only a taste of what might have been – but between the rich images and Marquis’ dreamy presence, it’s a tantalizing one. Score: 75 – ***
- Kustom Kar Kommandos (1965) – Jumping ahead a bit, this 3-minute short is basically a music video for the Paris Sisters’ cover of “Dream Lover” (I prefer the original), which plays over a young man polishing a vintage car. Anger indulges in a pan across his (clothed) rear and the car’s “highly vaginal” seat cushions raise an eyebrow, but otherwise, it’s not especially provocative or stimulating; it’s not much of anything. Score: 58 – **½
- Invocation of My Demon Brother (1969) – A collage of Satanic rituals (presided over by Anton LaVey himself), visual allusions to Vietnam, drug use, and nude young men; it’s quintessential Anger, all right, and scored by Mick Jagger (seen in split-second bits of concert footage) on a synthesizer! I’m not sure there’s much meaning to be found here, unless you’re a LaVeyan or a devoted Anger fan, but the images and their assembly are often hypnotic, and there’s one moment which got a sincere chuckle out of me. Score: 69 – ***
- Rabbit’s Moon (1950/1971) – One night in the forest, the clown Pierrot gazes at the Moon, which is somehow connected with a white rabbit, and reaches for it in dreamy futility. The braggart Harlequin appears, waving a sword, and turns on a magic lantern, which reveals the dancing Columbina. Pierrot pines for her, but she ends up with the assertive Harlequin instead, and Pierrot continues to grasp dreamily at the Moon – until the final punchline. Probably my favorite Anger so far; his style fits this kind of whimsy (even if I’m not really into mime as an art form), and he’s able to balance his aesthetic imagination with a greater polish and control than I’ve seen elsewhere. At 16 minutes, it’s a bit long and repetitive, at least until Harlequin appears (Anger would later release a shortened version which I haven’t seen), but for me it’s more fully realized than his other works, albeit narrowly. Score: 77 – ***½
Rye Lane (2023) – ****
London has always been a special city for me. My parents both adored it; my mom considered it a second home. I was first taken there when I was maybe 18 months old, and have been there several times since, often staying at the Martel Guest House in Golders Green. There are plenty of things to love about London, but for me the three most appealing aspects are the museums, the theaters, and the Tube. (I do love my trains.) Rye Lane may focus on parts of London I never explored (aside from the finale on the banks of the Thames), but it was made with a palpable affection for the city – but one of the many joys this charming film has to offer.
Dom (David Jonsson) is still reeling from his breakup with Gia (Karene Peter), who left him for his lifelong friend Eric (Benjamin Sarpong-Broni). At an art show, crying to himself in the unisex bathroom, he’s overhead by Yas (Vivian Oparah), and they share an awkward conversation which continues as they look at the art – pictures of open mouths taken by their pretentious mutual friend Nathan (Simon Manyonda). They gradually warm to each other as they leave the show and walk through the streets of South London, and Dom reveals he’s on his way to meet with Gia and Eric to “clear the air,” which he asks to do by himself.
He does, and it goes poorly, but when Yas crashes the meeting and calls out Gia and Eric for their behavior, it lifts his spirits, and they continue to spend the day together, as Dom tries to learn the details of Yas’ own recent breakup with Jules (Malcolm Atobrah); she tells him it was sparked by a conflict over the album The Low-End Theory (which I’m quite sympathetic to, it’s full of bangers), and she recruits Dom into a low-key heist to get her copy of the album back. Revelations and a falling-out follow, but it’s hardly a spoiler to say that love wins out.
Rye Lane hews to a fairly classic romantic-comedy template, with colorful supporting characters, touches of drama, and complications which keep the happy ending at bay long enough to reach feature length. But it follows that path with such charm and style, thanks in no small part to writers Nathan Bryon and Tom Melia, that it manages to become one of the better films I’ve seen this year.
It’s especially dynamic in the visual realm, a credit to director Raine Allen-Miller, cinematographer Olan Collardy, and production designer Anna Rhoades. Drawing on the aesthetics of the South London neighborhoods it’s set in – populated heavily by Black Britons of Jamaican heritage – and the heightened style of the modern-art world the characters pass through, it has a bright, happy vibe throughout, which it manages to push a bit farther when it dips into outright fantasy.
The most notable examples of this are when Dom and Yas are relating their own breakup stories, with the other appearing in the flashbacks as a witness to, respectively, pathetic heartbreak and defiant self-assertion. But there are other moments, like when a character sings along to “Sign Your Name” at a backyard picnic, which reflect not fantasy but the magic of real life.
That also comes through in the relationship between Dom and Yas, thanks to Jonsson and Oparah’s immensely appealing performances. Jonsson makes Dom’s despondency amusing and sympathetic but doesn’t wallow in it too long to become tiresome, blossoming instead into his better self – friendly, a bit nerdy, and lovably sentimental. Oparah at once shows the forceful liveliness which allows her to sweep into Dom’s life and induces him to welcome her, and the ways in which Yas uses that energy to keep from confronting her own fears and sensitivities. They make a lovely pair.
Although Sarpong-Broni is easily the standout in the supporting cast as the hilariously doltish Eric, everyone involved holds their own, from Manyonda as the absurd Nathan (“We know more about Neptune than we do the human anus”) to Gary Beadle as the deadpan sage Peter to Omari Douglas as the snarky Mona, who sets Dom and Yas up for a karaoke disaster which ends in triumph.
For those looking for a good romantic comedy and a brisk, good-natured watch (it runs only 82 minutes and gets quite a lot done in that time), Rye Lane comes recommended. A few quibbles aside (I didn’t really love the use of fisheye lenses), I found it a real treat; funny, sweet, and full of spirit. There’s never a bad time for such a film, but nowadays, it seems especially welcome.
Score: 87
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