Vagabond (1985)

Sans toit ni loi, France / UK, 105 minutes

Director/writer: Agnes Varda

Photography: Patrick Blossier

Music: Joanna Bruzdowicz

Editors: Patricia Mazuy, Agnes Varda

Cast: Sandrine Bonnaire, Macha Meril, Stephane Freiss, Laurence Cortadellas, Marthe Jarnias, Yolande Moreau, Joel Fosse

In some ways it feels like director and writer Agnes Varda grew more carefree and even whimsical over the course of her career. In this century she made gentle, freewheeling, perpetually curious documentaries like The Gleaners & I and Faces Places. By contrast, 1962’s Cleo From 5 to 7 is about a young woman awaiting results of a biopsy. Vagabond, between them, is about Mona (Sandrine Bonnaire), a runaway girl in rural France who finally dies of exposure—a sad and foredoomed story. Mona’s body is discovered at the beginning of the picture and the rest is flashback types of episodes. They follow the last months of her life as she hitchhiked from place to place, set up her tent, and lived her life as she could. These scenes are ostensibly based on journalistic interviews of those who interacted with and knew her—to the degree, of course, that anyone knew her. Varda’s instinct is often to go at least semi-documentary in tone.

We never see Mona in the home she ran away from. The picture is silent on her life before. We don’t hear from her family in these supposed interviews and we never hear why. Perhaps they just didn’t want to speak with interviewers, but it’s never explained. Varda is more interested purely in Mona’s life on her own and how she survives (and doesn’t) rather than potential details of domestic abuse and such. There is one scene here where it appears Mona is going to be assaulted at one of her campsites, but the picture quickly cuts away and we never hear anything of it again. It’s as if Varda wants us to know she’s aware of all the dangers of Mona’s life, but doesn’t want to dwell on them too much, doesn’t want the lurid details to distort what she wants us to see in Mona.

Silver Apples, “Oscillations” (1968)

[listen up!]

Here’s some early—and choice—pop electronica so far ahead of its time it takes some sorting out to get oriented. But the main point, as with Kraftwerk’s deadpan paeans to the PC, is the goofy pleasure of it. The drumming pattern recalls krautrock practically before there was krautrock. Silver Apples is just two guys alone in the studio with a producer. Dan Taylor beats that drum pattern and sings. Simeon works the oscillators and he sings too. They took their name from an album that came out the previous year by composer and electronics experimenter Morton Subotnick, Silver Apples of the Moon. Their self-titled debut LP opens with this song, as if the first order of business were to master the oscillator and now it is time for worship and celebration. The oscillator, Wikipedia tells me, “is an electronic circuit that produces a periodic, oscillating or alternating current (AC) signal, usually a sine wave, square wave or a triangle wave.” The song wobbles into existence on the angled-off tones, like some moist blind newborn amphibian. The drum pattern puts it in motion, granting it life and propulsion, redolent of a dark, throbbing place. A sound like a steam whistle, as the groove sets, lets us know it’s all in fun. The song trundles directly to your heart. Taylor and Simeon sound hypnotized, chanting, “Oscillations, oscillations / Electronic evocations of sound's reality / Spinning, magnetic fluctuations / Waves of wave configurations / That dance between the poles of sound / And bind my world to soul.” Gary Numan couldn’t have put it any better. Silver Apples was so far ahead of its time their patents still haven’t met yet.

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple (2026)

I wasn’t sure what to expect with this one, a sequel shot at the same time as the original (28 Years Later, itself a sequel), directed by Nia DaCosta (Hedda, Candyman) rather than Danny Boyle. But the story was rarely less than interesting and that helped a lot. Screenwriter Alex Garland has written all the entries in the franchise so far except 28 Weeks Later. That’s good for continuity and he seems to know what he’s doing. Garland also wrote Ex Machina, Annihilation, and Men, which are also interesting and generally worth seeing, especially Annihilation. The violence here is predictably extreme, with lots of horrible screaming and torture and things you’ll want to look away from. Most of them involve a terrible rampaging gang of teens and a heavy Apocalypse Now vibe. Ralph Fiennes is back from 28 Years Later as Dr. Ian Kelson, a scientist making the best of the zombie armageddon and also the architect of the so-called bone temple, which he primly calls an ossuary as he calls the zombies “infecteds.” In his spare time Kelson enjoys listening to Duran Duran and Radiohead. He is working with opioids to civilize one of the new type of zombies, super-creatures he calls “alphas,” who are giant and powerful and quite dangerous. There’s a lingering sense in all this that we may be witnessing actual devolution. The terrible rampaging gang of teens is led by Sir Jimmy Crystal (Jack O’Connell), who calls his various hooligan followers “fingers” and names them all “Jimmy” (or, for a young woman, “Jimmima”) They wear blonde wigs. One is our old friend the young boy Spike (Alfie Williams) from the first movie, an unwilling participant just doing what he has to to survive. This gang is pretty sure Kelson is actually Satan, a view he accommodates and affirms with a somewhat unlikely Iron Maiden interpretive dance set to “The Number of the Beast.” On the whole The Bone Temple is fairly predictable, including a big spectacle at the finish. But it was better than I expected. The end leaves wide open the option for further sequels. My bet would be on a first season of a TV series, but we’ll have to see how these movies do at the box office. I am as dubious about further sequels as I was about this one coming into it. But I admit The Bone Temple was entertaining and I have few regrets about seeing it.

“Dead Air” (1988)

There’s not much information online about Gregory Nicoll, author of this longish story, which has intriguing points—namely, rock ‘n’ roll and Jack the Ripper—in a fast-moving tale set in an isolated broadcasting building late at night. The DJ, Mary Clark, is new to the job but seems to be pretty good at it. It’s a classic rock station, so she’s playing things like a Blue Oyster Cult “superset” (we’re told that means at least four songs). The DJ from the previous night was named Mary Kelly, which is close to Mary Jane Kelly, the last victim of Jack the Ripper. The Ripper connection is strained. Really, the whole thing barely hangs together. Time dilates and a lot can happen in the space of a minute or two. The DJ and indeed the story are busy with incident and motion, not entirely believable. It’s influenced by a lot of Stephen King tricks designed to scare or thrill, lots of action and anxious interior dialogue. On the rock ‘n’ roll side it’s attempting to bring in Screaming Lord Sutch, a self-consciously outrageous British rocker of the early ‘60s under direct influence of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. Among other things Sutch wrote a song called “Jack the Ripper” and also adopted a stage persona as Jack the Ripper. Here the song is referred to as “The Hands of Jack the Ripper” and it’s nearly 10 minutes long, which does not appear to be factual. This is thus another story suggesting that Jack the Ripper is some kind of immortal being. It appears that the radio station manager, Bert, is him, even as the story reaches its screaming climax. I like a lot of the elements here, but somehow the whole misfires for me. I was distracted by its strange sense of time, which felt like Nicoll trying to pack too much action into too little time more than an intentional effect. I wasn’t convinced the story knew what it wanted from rock ‘n’ roll or Jack the Ripper, except to invoke them for effect. They are there not so much to scare as to give the story a modern-day gloss. But I might be complaining too much. The story has flaws, it may not all add up, but it’s still a fun one to read.

The Year's Best Horror Stories XVII, ed. Karl Edward Wagner
Story not available online.

“The Poacher” (1992)

This interesting story by Ursula K. Le Guin rolls through fantasy all the way back to fairy tales, according to coeditor Terry Windling in her introduction in a Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror anthology. “The Poacher” is fantastic and vaguely allegorical, with a mysterious forest, a castle, a sleeping princess (actually a sleeping everyone), and much more. The main character, out foraging for mushrooms and berries, discovers a hedge in the forest so dense and tall it’s impossible to see beyond it. Then he discovers it is encircling a space and he sets out to hack his way through it with tools he steals, or poaches—he is a poacher in many different ways. Even reaching this interior space takes him something close to two years. “The hedge grew unnaturally fast, in season and out, even in midwinter thick, pale shoots would grow across my passageway, and in summer I had to spend some time every day clearing out new growth, thorny green sprays full of stinging sap.” The story takes its time getting to its points—if it takes years to enter the space, what he finds inside is fully and amply described: a castle, a full household of masters and servants busy at their tasks, except—they are all sleeping and remain asleep for as long as the main character is there, which at story’s end is decades. He discovers a princess sleeping in her chambers, and somehow knows that all this is her dream, that even touching her will awaken her with wholly unknown results, potentially including the end of everything. He’s taking no chances. The food replenishes every day, the weather is beautiful, the place is wonderful. He stays. Le Guin’s writing is patient and lovely, in no hurry at all, and thus her revelations are unforced and somehow believable. It reminds me of a 1964 story by Robert Aickman called “The School Friend,” which also concerns a mysterious space in the deep woods with fairy tale appointments. Aickman’s story at least leaves something of a line tracing back to reality but that’s much less the case in “The Poacher,” which seems to exist unconnected from anything we would call reality. We are verging on pure magic here, which Le Guin somehow keeps within range of suspended disbelief as we read, as if casting spells herself.

Ursula K. Le Guin, Unlocking the Air and Other Stories
The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror Seventh Annual Collection, ed. Ellen Datlow & Terri Windling
Story not available online.

Billy Nicholls, “Would You Believe” (1968)

[listen up!]

Some interesting names associated with Billy Nicholls and this luscious confection. The famous and infamous Andrew Loog Oldham hired Nicholls as a staff writer for his Immediate label and gave him an office. Del Shannon was a fan and recorded some of his songs. John Paul Jones plays bass. And the Small Faces are producers, notably with Steve Marriott bawling in the most swirling, dense, and wholly unexpected passages. Financial problems with Oldham’s Immediate label limited the original release and the album was shelved until Nicholls rereleased it on his own in 1998. Amazing that it could stay virtually hidden so long. It starts out barely there, then entertains a soothing lullaby mood by way of the Swingle Singers style, before ultimately exploding with the title line at about 0:45 in a song that runs 2:40. Nicholls’s vocal is clarion, fully aware of its utility as the primary irresistible hook. The title line anchors it from there. The song goes to it frequently, but it’s always good to return to. It might be where you are singing along. This hook does not seem capable of wearing out and they’re not afraid to pummel it. What’s more, the song has an equally beguiling second hook, a gorgeous wheedling violin figure. The rest is clouds of sparkling glitter. Here comes a ... banjo? A tuba? What? Then even more layers: someone calling urgently from a distance (Marriott?). A droning high note that seems to bear the meaning of everything. Finally the song leaves us approximately the way it arrived. Perhaps the most wonderful thing about it is that you can always listen to it again.

Caught by the Tides (2024)

Here’s an unusual picture, a kind of lightly fictionalized, impressionistic memoir of China in this century. It’s directed by Jia Zhang-ke and what makes it unusual is that he has used footage shot by him across this century, both in his personal life and for movies he has made. The only one I can vouch for is Still Life (2006), but I can tell you it’s a great picture, well worth tracking down. Caught by the Tides also includes scenes from Unknown Pleasures (2002) and Ash Is Purest White (2018), which I intend to seek out. All three feature Zhang-ke’s wife, Tao Zhao, who is rendered a silent woman in this picture for some reason, at least until she lets out a yelp in the last shot. By that point I was too muddled to really get it. There are many lovely shots here—notably those from the Three Gorges area and its massive damming project, featured in Still Life—and some reliably nice musical interludes too, EDM at random to juice up the energy, and pop tunes presumably for the nostalgic feels. But it must be said there’s little by way of obvious narrative here—it’s a guess for me (and largely because of what I’ve read about it) that this is even a historical allegory about China at all. My own sense from my Western perspective, and my distance, is that the 2008 Olympics were a certain cultural high-water mark in China. That seems to be supported by the way this movie goes. My further sense is that China continues to be an economic juggernaut poised well for the future. The commitment to EVs and alternative, sustainable energy sources are just obvious examples. Early scenes in Caught by the Tides gradually give way to scenes of the pandemic, where arguably (again supported by what we see) it was taken appropriately seriously, much unlike the US experience. So the movie may be a good place for testing ideas about China. I take Zhang-ke, based on Still Life, as a great filmmaker and now more than ever want to get to some of his other work. But Caught by the Tides felt confused and weak as much as anything, too allusive and ambiguous for me to get a good grip on what it’s all about.

The Book of Skulls (1972)

I read this 1972 Robert Silverberg novel in a kindle edition which included an afterword by Silverberg from 2004. He was at pains to defend it as science fiction because it is about an arguably scientific approach to seeking and perhaps finding immortality. But, well, no, I must demur. This novel hews far closer to horror, with its imagery and mythifying and above all with its ingeniously intricate premise. A college boy, Eli, has shown an aptitude for the study of ancient civilizations, which gains him entry to an archive where he discovers an untranslated document (in Catalan) called The Book of Skulls, which among other things dictates a route to immortality. By an amazing coincidence, Eli also notices an item in the newspaper about a cult in the Arizona desert that uses skull imagery. And so we are off to Arizona. Here are the terms: the cult must be approached in groups of four to submit to a trial for entry. During the trial, one of them must willingly commit suicide. Then two of the others must murder the third and the survivors will subsequently live forever. Easy-peasy. It’s a beauty of a concept, symmetrical, balanced, and savage. Silverberg tells the story in a tour de force of shifting first-person narratives among the four casual college chums on their spring break. Each of the four is individual but of a type. Eli, the instigator, is a scrawny brainy Jew. Ned is the scrawny sarcastic gay boy-man. Timothy is the rich and entitled WASP—his credit card is paying for the road trip. And Oliver is the scrappy Midwestern survivor, an orphan who is making it on charity, government assistance, and talent. In typical Silverberg fashion much about the tales, the present action and the flashbacks, are highly sexualized—“pervy,” as one reviewer noted. That reviewer approved of the novel overall but worried about the sex, which is constant. In fairness, that’s how lots of bestselling novelists were doing it in 1972. Also, apparently Silverberg wrote softcore porn for money at some point or points in his career. All the sex does date the novel somewhat in embarrassing ways, but at the same time it might be fair to say that Silverberg was clear-sighted and even prescient on gays. It’s a rollicking good time here. A genuine page-turner. But I claim it for horror, not science fiction.

In case the library is closed due to pandemic, which is over.

Aerial Ballet (1968)

It’s not surprising that Harry Nilsson, the man responsible for the theme songs for the 1960s TV sitcom The Courtship of Eddie’s Father, would serve up a tub of corn syrup on his third LP, where he was well coming into his own as a recording artist. The album is rich and delicious, veering in lounge directions but saved always by the musicality. I don’t know Nilsson that well, at least not until recently. I have tended to think of him as a songwriter chiefly—and he is that, however eccentric—but recent forays into Aerial Ballet have convinced me his real strength is as a singer. His exuberant swoops and scats are only more impressive when you try to sing with them, and he packs his most surprising bolts of feeling into exactly that. Or, as he might put it, “Doo-wack doo-wack doo-wack doo-wacka-doo wacka-doo wacka-doo.” This album is the home of “Everybody’s Talkin’,” his inspired cover of Greenwich Village folkie Fred Neil, and “One,” later covered by Three Dog Night into a #5 hit. Both sound more amazing than ever in the context of this album. The album also includes performative turns of innocence that remind me a little of Jonathan Richman, in all the best ways (and make me wonder what Richman, a dedicated VU fan approximately then, might have thought of Nilsson). I read somewhere, for example, that “Little Cowboy” and its reprise was a lullaby his mother sang to him (I also remember reading that he copyrighted it to her, but that does not appear to be the case). Or, perhaps my favorite, “Good Old Desk,” in which he celebrates his dedicated workspace. “My old desk does an arabesque / In the morning when I first arrive / It's a pleasure to see it's waiting there for me / To keep my hopes alive.” Versioning problems exist with Aerial Ballet, unfortunately. A couple of songs, “Daddy’s Song” and “Bath,” were deleted at the last minute before the original release. Nilsson wrote both but had sold the exclusive rights to the Monkees, who had it removed from the album. The songs are back on streaming versions now but three bonus tracks from a later version have been separated away from the album. “Girlfriend”—adapted for the theme to The Courtship of Eddie’s Father (which I seem to recall did not have a laugh track, but maybe I’m confusing it with Room 222)—“Girlfriend” is there but you have to search for it specifically on my service.

Young Frankenstein (1974)

USA, 106 minutes

Director: Mel Brooks

Writers: Gene Wilder, Mel Brooks, Mary Shelley

Photography: Gerald Hirschfeld

Music: John Morris

Editor: John C. Howard

Cast: Gene Wilder, Marty Feldman, Madeline Kahn, Peter Boyle, Cloris Leachman, Teri Garr, Kenneth Mars, Gene Hackman, Richard Haydn, Mel Brooks, Danny Goldman

Young Frankenstein is so scrupulously faithful to the 1930s Universal franchise that it fairly fits itself into the canon itself. You must start with the 1931 Frankenstein and 1935 Bride of Frankenstein, of course. But then I say it’s your choice: the star-studded 1939 Son of Frankenstein (Boris Karloff! Bela Lugosi! Basil Rathbone!) or this affectionate send-up. It boasts a luminous black & white palette, old-fashioned wipes from one scene to the next, and arguably cowriter Gene Wilder’s greatest single performance. It comes with all the trimmings too, including the little girl, the bride, the blind man, pitchforks, torches, elaborate mechanical wind-up law enforcement out of Peter Sellers, and more.

Wilder is Dr. Frederick Frankenstein (pronounced fronk-un-steen in a running gag), grandson of the mad scientist Victor (renamed Henry in the old movies for some reason). Frederick is a professor of human anatomy and biology trying to live down his grandfather’s crimes, constantly needled by his students. Wilder, as ever, and perhaps more so here, is a paradox of style, a quiet-mannered player who uses off-beat pauses, the position of his head, and the volume of his speaking voice to convey great stores of molten angst, rage, and depression, which erupt in calibrated, pitch-perfect sobbing rants. The ongoing, never-ending, exhausting battle over the pronunciation of his name is just a foretaste of what’s to come with the driven, neurotic, obsessed fool Wilder has made of Dr. Frankenstein.