Transformers, No. 3 - Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (2009)

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (need I really go into its backstory? No!) is the poster movie for the “just turn off your brain and enjoy” school of film watching. Amongst many thoughtful movie fans, it has generated an intense amount of hatred, with which I agree, though hopefully with moderation. As a sequel to Transformers, Revenge of the Fallen errs in a lot of significant ways. It doesn’t repeat to an absurd degree, possibly because even the relatively more stately Transformers is already a freeform jazz sort of blockbuster. Rather, Revenge of the Fallen takes the classic sequel maxim of going bigger, as director Michael Bay tests just how much bigger it can possibly become, but in a way that is still strangely mellow and inconsequential.

By sacrificing nearly every sane thought in human history in its quest to achieve every horrible sequel sin possible, Revenge of the Fallen loses the following – story, plot, characters, emotion, basic comprehensibility. Even while at least one lesson was learned – the action is clearer, especially in regards to the robots. Plus I took several Advils before this movie, and didn’t drink. Everything else is just a magnification of the rather damning faults already present in all “Transformers” media.

It’s like a litmus test. At what point do you totally bail on Revenge of the Fallen, or can you follow its arbitrary form of explosion-based stream-of-consciousness all the way to the overblown finale? For me, there are intentional moments of rule-breaking (changing continent in mid-scene with no justification, or altering the universe’s rules for a single set piece), almost as though Bay knew the challenge he was creating for calmer, more rational viewers. Do you surrender entirely to the willful anti-intellectualism of Revenge of the Fallen, or do you draw the line and say “No, I like a good popcorn movie, but even these unpretentious films need to respect their audiences to at least some degree?”

Because Revenge of the Fallen is, by design, an exercise in thumbing its nose at good storytelling (while embracing purely technical skill), it is not sporting to approach the film by standard means. As often individual shots have no greater context, rather I choose to just pick out random moments of known idiocy. Sometimes I shall just nitpick…

- 10,000 B.C. one-upped with a 17,000 B.C. intro, to no end

- The setting is now “today,” as opposed to Transformers’ “present day”

- General masses of collateral damage left unaddressed

- “Punk-ass Decepticon.”

- Sam’s (Shia LeBrlspltttt) parents maintain an obsession with rap culture

- Perpetual gay Chihuahua dog anus sodomy:


- Random object found (sliver of the Cube) just in time for the sequel, and never sooner

- Single scene Gremlins plagiary wedged in

- The state of alien knowledge changes in each scene, with hugely varying degrees of acceptance

- Bumblebee’s voice, though restored at end of Transformers, is gone again

- Sam gives up Megan Fox (Megan Fox) and a sentient transformin’ car for a frattastic college freshman experience, simply to artificially return us to “relatability”

- References to “the president” seem a preemptive rejection of Obama’s anticipated pacifism, following Transformers’ “parody” of Bush

- Sam’s mother buys “pure Hawaiian green” marijuana brownies, having missed all pop culture since 1936. As proof this is not our physical universe, the marijuana affects her like methamphetamines, which entirely demands a multi-minute detour, because this movie isn’t 147 minutes long or anything


- A Decepticon “camouflaged” as a gigantic metallic saber-toothed tiger doesn’t really make logical sense, but that’s consistent with the toy line

- Humans can rarely see Decepticons hiding in plain sight, because to them the CGI is not yet rendered

- Decepticons can now also transform into humans (specifically, supermodel blondes, for those odd males without a taste for Megan Fox), in keeping with no preexisting brand lore I am aware of. This fembot was presumably enrolled in advance at Random Generic East Coast College just in case Sam went there, and just in case Arbitrary Shard Rules X, Y and Z were to occur…or something

- Bumblebee cockblocks

- Bumblebee ejaculates on the fembot


- Autobots hide in a massive photogenic graveyard without repercussion (“without repercussion,” the Automot mantra)

- The screenwriters cannot do basic arithmetic (though they do cop to this), as 5 – 1 + 1 ≠ 6. Though maybe Decepticons count differently

- A general observation: The plot conditions change roughly every 5 to 10 minutes as it conveniences the latest pre-shot set piece

- Sam cannot stand Dwight K. Shrute, professor. Instead one of those loopy plot tumors inspires him to act out – i.e. to combine his mother’s stoned capering with LeBooooooooof’s Ian Malcolm

- “Standing up on web-chat dates” is now the grist for major emotional arcs!

- More traditionally, so does a male’s inability to mouth the word “love”

- “What’re ya lookin’ at, slobberpuss?”

- “Ow, that’s my eye, you crazy bitch!”


- Director in-jokes are usually hidden in some way

- The fembot reads textbooks on astrophysics. In America, this is how you know somebody is evil

- The fembot runs through a Terminator/Species “homage” (read: rip-off), which would completely upend the rules of this universe/franchise, if they were to ever to commit to an idea for longer than one scene. ADHD must be an entertaining condition!

- Sam vomits randomly. I do not remember this from the theatrical cut!

- In most movies, the hero dangling hundreds of feet in the air would have some excitement to it. Michael Bay’s approach kills that connection – a problem he shares with the Star Wars prequels

- Sam undergoes a variation on that “swallowed biomechanical insect” scene early in The Matrix, the assumption here (as when any movie is stolen from) is that Bayification makes a scene automatically better


- Optimus Prime dukes it out with multiple Decepticons in a forest, and I genuinely have no complaints

- …until I realize all other Autobots are lost in a continuity error, in order to facilitate Optimus’ rather early death (in keeping with The Transformers: The Movie)

- It has been shown robots can be resurrected by pieces of other robots, as with Megatron’s return; this will for whatever reason not work for Optimus. It has been stated Sam’s Cube Shard can restore robot life; this will for whatever reason not work for Optimus. What was that about the plot proceeding arbitrarily?

- The Decepticons just ripped down an American flag! That’s the last straw!

- France is a land of mimes, snails, and incomprehensible words. This is the live action, serious version of Team America

- Oh look, Michael Bay is destroying Paris…again

- The Decepticons just murdered at least 7,000 people randomly, without provocation, and without ultimate dramatic implication. At least it makes for a nifty special effect

- Skids and Mudflap:


- “That’s old school, yo.” “Read? We – we – we really don’t do so much readin’. Not so much.” “That’s ‘cause you a pussy.”

- John Turturro’s glorious wedging back in

- The movie has circled around a deep, dark conspiracy. As with all movies which do that, it turns out to be ancient alien architects. Why do people keep insisting the Egyptians couldn’t construct their own buildings?!

- “Wanna throw down, you pubic fro head?”

- Ass:


- The Shard, which might’ve been used to revive Optimus, is used instead to revive Jetfire, who reveals how to revive Optimus.

- Opening the doors of Washington D.C.’s Smithsonian reveals an airfield in Arizona. This decision was made solely for the better visuals

- A Decepticon (but not Megatron) humps Megan Fox’s leg


- Jetfire farts a parachute

- Jetfire teleports everybody to Egypt, even though he is a jet, an event which has never happened before, and never shall again, because the plot…

- “You landed on my testicles.”

- The Sahara is mistaken for Las Vegas, reflecting the characters’ small reference pool

- “Beginning. Middle. End. Facts. Details. Condense. Plot. Tell it.” A rare lucid moment from our screenwriters?

- Plot, revealed 90 minutes in: A million billion jillion years ago, possibly during the 15th century, the Deceptoboticons hid a sun-destroying machine within Egypt’s pyramids, for shits and giggles mostly, and to fuel a sequel, should the need someday arise. The titular Fallen wants to destroy our Sun, for Energon, but he needs the Matrix of Leadership, hidden a whole several miles away from the pyramids, inside Sam’s mind, and…Okay, re-simplifying: MUST STOP BAD GUYS

- Car chase: 25 seconds

- An Egyptian midget is played for laughs

- Sam and Megan Fox have their first opportunity for a calm heart-to-heart, in reference to something which happened an hour ago (movie time)

- Petra: within driving distance of Giza

- Skipping DVD. My player has entered self-preservation mode

- The pornographic destruction of the Great Pyramid proceeds for our delectation, with an expected minimum of cultural sensitivity.

- Oh hey, Luxor is also right next door to Giza!

- Marines arrive with Optimus’ body, for Sam to somehow revive (in a way even Sam doesn’t understand). Rather than airdrop it right next to Sam, they drop it several miles away, so Sam can race through an action sequence first

- Winds strong enough to suction up entire vans, but not Turturro

- Oh hey, Sam’s parents are here in Egypt now!...for whatever reason

- “I don’t know what’s going on!” More self-aware dialogue

- Military pornography. I’m impressed Bay held that load for so long

- Decepti-scrotum!


- This action sequence has been going on for twenty-five minutes, which is enjoyable in that lizard sort of way. It also temporarily cripples the critical facilities

- Sam dies and goes to Transformers Purgatory (!), which is apparently exactly what was needed to bring both himself and Optimus Prime back to life


- “Fulfill your destiny.”

- “This was always your destiny.”

- “Let’s roll.”

- With nigh a half hour of buildup, Optimus flies in to do battle at once with both Megatron and the Fallen. Oh, this is gonna be utterly kick-a- Oh wait, it’s over already…

- Sam loves Megan Fox, a touching and permanent moment – until Dark of the Moon

Many smart people I know have the enviable skill of being able to fully embrace Revenge of the Fallen on its own terms. They possibly notice the obvious plot holes and awkward non-plot, but don’t see that as important – not when shit blows up real good-like. I do not share this skill. When watching it with them (that’s back in 2009, shuffling to the theater with the same resigned sense of duty as we all once brought to Attack of the Clones), it was nearly an out-of-body experience. Am I that far beyond the average moviegoer? Why am I enjoying the movie purely as a sort of Manos exercise, while others are perfectly pleased to grant it just under a million jillion bazilgzjillion dollars in box office?

Then, two years later, I go and watch The Tree of Life with a like-minded audience of appreciative cineastes, and all is well. I think there’s a value in judging films by their own intent, and embracing an action movie on more simplistic terms than an art film. (I also hold art films to an impossibly higher standard.) Yet I believe that, despite my desires to be cinematically all-embracing, that there are certain movies that are simply worthless…and Revenge of the Fallen sure does straddle that line!

Mr. Wong, No. 3 - Mr. Wong in Chinatown (1939)

A desperate Chinese woman (a returning Lotus Long in a new role, because Asian actresses were a rarity in 1939 Hollywood) seeks Mr. Wong’s help. While the butler goes to collect Mr. James Lee Wong (Boris Karloff), an assassin gathers. A dart strikes her the neck! Mr. Wong arrives only to find her dead, the lone clue a hastily scribbled message:

CAPTAIN J

So begins Mr. Wong in Chinatown. That’s a propulsive opening, giving Wong a murder to solve with greatest efficiency – only to be one-upped if a cadaver simply splatted in, “Flying Circus” style. We don’t even have suspects yet! Instead, Wong wends his way along a chronological trail of clues, Hangover style, making Mr. Wong in Chinatown structurally a very different beast.

And in the Wong series’ mania to imitate the Charlie Chan movies as much as possible, it’s done the impossible, and ripped off Chan’s The Chinese Ring…which wasn’t released until 1947…Hold up! Did Chan rip off Wong?!?!...Indeed he did, though I didn’t know it at the time! But that was when Chan had Wong, er, long been banished to Monogram Pictures, fulfilling Monogram’s desire to have the true Chan series, thus negating them of the need to create any more Mr. Wongs. So it goes, that on top of recycling sets, props, actors, footage and musical cues, Monogram also recycles scripts. But with an eight-year gap, one World War and no internet, who would’ve noticed? Seriously, we bloggers today are perhaps a far more demanding lot.


The similarities between Mr. Wong in Chinatown and The Chinese Ring are extreme! Like, I could probably just repost my old Chan write-up, and trade out Chan puns for Wong puns. Let’s explore the similarities.

The Chinese Ring likewise opens with a Chinese gal – I now reveal in each case she’s a Chinese princess (!) – killed in Wong-Chan’s San Francisco home (for Chan, this means an awkward relocation away from Honolulu, which only now becomes clear – it’s plagiary). The only difference is in name – Princess Lin Hwa here, Mei Ling there. And her note in that one concerns a Captain K. …Oh, and the Chan princess abbreviates: “Capt.,” not “Captain,” which seems more efficient when death is upon you, only now I’m really splitting hairs.


In either case, J or K (or Rowling?), it’s a pretty useless clue, once Wong-Chan discovers the Princess’ ship has two Captains J/K upon it. Today, that’s Jackson (George Lynn) and Jaime (William Royle). To spoil (thou hast been warned!), it turns out the Princess didn’t specify further, because they’re both culpable – not for murder, however, but something far more boring (i.e. more appropriate for the rather draggy Mr. Wong franchise)…

The Js (or Ks) are committing – bank fraud! That bored me to tears previously, and it’s no better in original form. Chinese check chat, Chan or Wong, does not belong. It’s all bank account this, forged signature that, assorted unrelated airplane nonsense this…


Back to the parallels! Wong-Chan’s investigation(s) leads him-them to San Francisco’s Chinatown, where big trouble evidently is afoot. Our Chinese detective hero, by either name, discovers the Princess’ maid in an apartment. After some brief dialogue, enough to justify the hiring of a second Asian-American actress, Wong-Chan leaves, then returns just as quickly, to find the woman now dead. That’s rather soon to get the formula-dictated second murder, but oh well.

As this is going on, there’s also a small, mute “Chinaman” for Charlie Wong to play charades with. Soon the mute is also dead – okay, we learn this much sooner in The Chinese Ring, because here the movies begin to part ways, though they follow the same broad plot structure. As an example of where they diverge, the earlier Mr. Wong in Chinatown makes its mute a midget, a bizarre choice which cannot help but get your attention. This midget choice is also essential for a future clue – it’s no arbitrary bit of oddity. The Chinese Ring, meanwhile, employs a mute child, and child murder is far worse than midget murder (see In Bruges).


I’ll now relate, for the second halves, the broader details where the two pictures remain of a piece: Either way, Captains J/K lure Wong-Chan to an ambush, and take him hostage down to the docks. Then the police arrive (coincidentally in Chan’s case, due to careful scripting in Wong’s), and the day is saved. In the Chan entry, the Ks are the ultimate criminals, as for Wong the Js are just there as a distraction from the real murderer who is then surprisingly revealed. Odd how the earlier film is more intricate.

This is because, as a series, Mr. Wong has certain regular elements to rely upon, which the Chan entry didn’t, despite being Part Forty-Two (long series!). Basically, Mr. Wong has his recurring ally, Captain (J? no) Street (Grant Withers) of the SFPD. (In Mr. Wong in Chinatown, his first name inexplicably switches from Sam to Bill – something else audiences of the past wouldn’t dwell upon at quite the same length.) Street helps investigate, and is a foil for Wong’s Chan-like cleverness. The Chinese Ring, meanwhile, was something of a Chan reboot (a new lead actor, for one), and thus ditched much of what Mr. Wong in Chinatown could build upon.


So Bill Street follows the same set of clues as Wong does, usually a few steps behind him. Thus it makes perfect sense for Street to barge in on the Js’ thuggishness towards the end, when in Chan the anonymous cops’ intrusion was much more left field. Plus, there are a few more interim pieces in the Wong version, such as an extra suspect (a thrilling and captivating suited banker named Davidson – Huntley Gordon) to give Wong just that little extra oomph.

All this gives me something to talk about, which is nice because on its own Mr. Wong in Chinatown isn’t hugely distinctive from the former Wongs. It loses that drawing room mystery element of Mr. Wong, Detective and The Mysterious Mr. Wong, in favor of something just the slightest bit more adventurous. It also ends with a clear cut climax, involving the pseudo-villainous Js, which nicely distracts before Wong whips out the “surprise” extra bad guy revelation. There’s also a little more focus upon Chinese elements, giving Mr. Wong in Chinatown the flavor it desperately needs.


Yes, the series is boring, but they’ve solved that…sort of…at least for one entry. Mr. Wong is, sadly, a lost cause, for in Karloff’s aim to not be racist (i.e. overtly Asian), his Wong is a non-entity. That leaves Street, who regains a little of his Mr. Wong, Detective surliness, without crossing back over into “asshole” (don’t cross Street – uh hyuck hyuck!). And with Wong wrong, Street instead intersects with a new character, to better bounce off of him: reporteress “Bobbie” Logan (Marjorie Reynolds). That character name would suggest, circa 1939, Torchie Blaine – or, in terms we might still understand, Lois Lane – Either way, Bobbie is a rip-off of another popular character, a tabloid newswoman full of spunk and gumption and sticktoitiveness and whatever, prone to creeping around, uncovering clues, and screwballing it up. And in Bobbie’s case, rather than needing rescue by Superman, she herself occasionally rescues Wong (from a taxicab explosion, e.g.), as Wong is starting to actively embrace uselessness by now.

Actually, Bobbie is what saves Mr. Wong in Chinatown, so I’m glad that I peaked ahead to learn she’ll become a franchise regular. She sort of steals the thunder from Wong, but so be it. More importantly, she enjoys a love-hate relationship with Street, who hates her but also somehow loves her. This has, from a certain skewed perspective, the makings of a typical 1930s screwball comedy, ala His Girl Friday, married to a generic murder mystery. This is element is, I’d wager, what will set the remaining Wongs apart from the general morass of mis-mustered Monogram murder.


There isn’t much more to say about Mr. Wong in Chinatown – lo, even with a couple of distinct angles, this is a rather anemic little flick. I’ll just fulfill my brief promise that the midget’s very midgetness comes into play later. One learns, by watching mysteries, that the most randomly extraneous, B.S. little factoids often come back to bite. Either I’m getting better at locating these hidden hints (such as the mattress in The Hangover, which is honestly the mystery movie most of us know best nowadays), or the Mr. Wong movies are that lousy at hiding them – I’d wager the latter.

Anyway, while Wong is engaging a certain character in the old “five minute chat because here’s this set we must use” routine, that character for no reason discusses burying a ferocious Great Dane (Scooby?) in the pet cemetery. Wong, ever a fount of totally obscure and arcane trivialities as the plot demands, knows enough of pet cemetery politics (!) to deduce, from that, that it’s actually the midget buried there. In a grave most folk couldn’t fit in. And this is the key which determines the whole denouement! Pretty neato little bunch of clues there, Mr. Wong in Chinatown. Too bad The Chinese Ring couldn’t’ve copied those.

The Tramp, No. 3 - The Gold Rush (1925)

To recap (mostly for myself), by 1921 and The Kid, Charlie Chaplin enjoyed the following freedoms: Autonomy as lead actor, writer, director, producer, editor, choreographer, composer, et cetera, free to make movies unhindered by financial necessity or the whims of a distributor, subservient solely to his muse. The only way Chaplin’s self-dictated Little Tramp series could get even more privileged would be if Chaplin started his very own movie studio.

Well, he’d already done just that…in 1919, Chaplin created United Artists (with D.W. Griffith, Douglas Fairbanks, and Mary Pickford) to escape the standard studio system.

We are well into the 1920s now, the height of the silent film era…and Chaplin significantly slows down his output, with the assurance he would remain a draw regardless. It has been opined [citation needed] that Chaplin wouldn’t create new comedies for his Tramp character unless inspiration hit. One could say, with The Kid building upon assorted shorts, that the Tramp had done all he could in his usual setting of urban poverty. The Gold Rush hails a setting switch.


This wouldn’t come out until 1925, four years after The Kid, with nothing in between to rival it (just a few minor shorts such as The Idle Class, Pay Day and The Pilgrim). By modern terms, four years isn’t that long to wait for a sequel, but compare this to Chaplin’s initial turnaround, between Kid Auto Races at Venice and Mabel’s Strange Predicament: Two days! Two days to four years, a quantitative change which indicates the effect of switching over to feature filmmaking. As vindication of this slow-down, The Gold Rush wrangled up an unfathomable gross of $4,250,000, plus one extra dollar. Four million dollars, in 1926 money (the highest grossing of all silent comedies!) – not only did Chaplin remain a draw in considerable absence, he became a rarity, more valuable in measured doses.

The Gold Rush's genesis lies in sudden inspiration, since Chaplin wasn’t simply developing Tramp vehicles willy-nilly, but waiting for the perfect concept. Chaplin read up on the 1897 Klondike Gold Rush, about the hardships prospectors faced in the icy north. For whatever obscure reason, this historical reality of mass poverty and starvation, this material spoke out to Chaplin and said “I would make for an hilarious comedy.”

It’s true that Chaplin’s comedies derive much of their power from non-comic scenarios. Look to the The Kid’s black comedy of child abandonment, then picture an entire movie based around funny death. Slapping the Tramp into 1897 lets Chaplin mine for comedy just as the Tramp simultaneously mines for gold. Some of The Gold Rush’s funniest moments come early, through the simply contrast of the Tramp ambling awkwardly past icy precipices and unseen brown bears.

Actually, The Gold Rush is no mere pastiche of a more ostensibly serious gold rush movie. It is the era’s premiere, nay possibly only worthwhile look into the setting. The Trail of ’98 and Klondike Annie would only come later, for the spirit of copycatting is as old as time itself. Chaplin, in assembling his picture, did painstaking historical research, creating an accurate look back into the nostalgic “Gay Nineties” (tee hee hee!, I know), which just happens to feature the Tramp. Hell, some of Chaplin’s (the director’s) heaviest lifting occurs in sequences not even having to do with the Tramp! Consider his staged recreation of the Chikoot Trail –


- compared to the real deal –


For a comedy film, this is nearing Cecile B. DeMille levels of spectacle, what with the hundreds of faceless extras, meticulously recreated ginormous sets, and an utter lack of special effects to cheapen the effort – “spectacle” is the most successful form of silent film drama. Since Chaplin, with his storied love of pathos, is increasingly inclined to create serio-comic dramedies, it’s welcome that he embraces this mode of seriousness.

Actually, there is an element of The Gold Rush which recalls some of the less maudlin works of Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd – fellow comedians more wholly devoted to comedy-as-thriller, comedy-as-stunt-show. There is a palpable danger in the wintry Klondike, well beyond the mere tragedy of the gutter – Chaplin’s favored setting. The Gold Rush is an adventure film, in its way, repeatedly placing the Tramp in harm’s way, then devising comic solutions to rescue him. This being Chaplin, and not Keaton, there is a noted de-emphasis upon stunt work; danger comes from different areas, of greater interest to Chaplin.


For instance, much of The Gold Rush sees the Tramp ensconced away in a single, one-room cabin during the worst of winter. His solitary mate: Big Jim (Mack Swain, professionally enormous man). Ignoring a brief run-in with a murderous fugitive (Tom Murray), the duo mostly holes up to face hunger and want and loneliness – certainly subject matter dear to Chaplin’s heart. Despite whatever hazards the setting itself might toss out – blizzards, bears, cliffs, ice flows, avalanches – cabin fever is Chaplin’s meat. Chaplin himself (or the Tramp, at least) is also meat, to go by Big Jim’s famished hallucinations of a man-sized chicken.

Keaton, given the same setting, would have no doubt emphasized the storm – Steamboat Bill, Jr. provides a good example of that. He would have also played up the mechanical fact of mining, be it panning for gold, or digging shafts, or chipping away at cliff side. It’s surprising then to note that the Tramp never mines on screen, just as the Dude never bowls. One might consider this an oversight on Chaplin’s part, except he clearly retains an interest in depravation for its own sake – In place of a raucous mining set piece, instead the Tramp boils his boots, and eats the laces like spaghetti. (A classic example of Chaplin humor, more gentle than hilarious.) There is greater humanism in joking about hunger, especially with Chaplin’s street urchin childhood, not his millionaire superstar 1920s fame.

It’s easy enough to question how Chaplin could draw out a feature film (meaning now 96 minutes) with the Tramp merely sequestered in a cabin. He cannot. Before the film is even halfway over, Chaplin relocates the Tramp to a gold rush town, to basically forego prospecting lunacy for the rest of the running time. This is, for me, a mistake, as it removes that danger element which makes The Gold Rush so involving. The Tramp, being a timid soul, instead becomes the Alaskan equivalent of a street bum (Levi Johnston?), attempting to survive via odd jobs and whatnot. Snow shoveling, largely, a chance for momentary physical hijinks. This is much closer to a generic Tramp movie, with the setting barely even mattering. Sigh, at least they’re not going with one of those archaic “Tramp falls for the Girl” stories.


Oh curse it all, they are! Meet Georgia (Georgia Hale – no points for that name), the saloon girl. The Tramp falls instantly in love with her and…well, quite frankly, I can barely even recall much of what occupies the vast majority of The Gold Rush – at least, not in the specifics. An occasionally lopsided tale of frontier romance plays out. The Tramp plays each moment of romantic success by smiling warmly towards the camera, or otherwise telegraphing his joy. I suppose it makes me a heartless curmudgeon that I am mostly apathetic towards this. Chaplin’s appeals to genuine emotion, while no doubt hugely effective, always seem somehow distant in my mind. I am more moved by Buster Keaton’s completely emotionless stone face than all the heart-grabbing, spontaneous joy the Tramp evokes. (Yeah, yeah, my devotion to the other great silent comedian becomes my great undoing in trying to engage this series.)


So be it. It still behooves me to at least point out the classic moments. Chief is Thanksgiving dinner, where the Tramp (now inundated with food) performs a little soft shoe routine involving a couple of dancing bread rolls. Just as Duck Soup’s immortal mirror routine didn’t originate with the Marx Brothers, so can Chaplin’s famous loaf dance be traced back further, to The Rough House with Fatty Arbuckle and – oh no, here it comes! – Buster Keaton. Okay, okay, calm down, Chaplin is good, he elevates a forgotten gag to the level of revered pantomime, I am a Grinch.

This whole middle section is, in retrospect, greatly irksome, when the same exact tomfoolery wouldn’t be out of place in a more typical Tramp short. Why? That Klondike setting. There’s so much potential, with the whole great outdoors, and thousands of men all desperately facing the elements to discover minimal financial reward. Why why why take that promise, deliver a few good starvation gags, then revert into the same standard love story as always?! What’d odd is The Gold Rush feels, somehow, less coherently singular than the lesser The Kid – which made its pseudo-fatherhood story the crux. The Gold Rush has moments of greatness, almost all pertaining directly to the fact of, well, a gold rush. The cabin scenes beforehand – totally wonderful. Thankfully, there’s a bit more where that came from.


Pausing for a moment…Chaplin films, more so than other silent comedies, dwell upon their happy endings, to a fault. Whether the Tramp gets the Girl or not, attains wealth or not, there is a carefully controlled emotion (i.e. pathos) to go out on. (Meanwhile, Keaton would sometimes end his onscreen romances with tombstones, to avoid all treacle.) Given a gold rush, the natural conclusion is to see the Tramp attain riches…and Georgia on his side, for good measure. And it just so happens that Big Jim had discovered a mighty gold claim before ever even meeting the Tramp. Only now he’s come down with the amnesia, as obedient to plot as ever, and the cowardly Tramp is called upon to return to the feared Arctic and find Jim’s lode.

So the two head back to the cabin, and it’s astounding to see the Tramp actually, in some vague way, earning his triumph for once. Compare it to A Dog’s Life, where he simple finds stolen riches, the end. Here, the Klondike demands some degree of effort, and even if we never see the Tramp directly seeking gold (despite that being his reason for being in Alaska to begin with!). At least he does something to earn his top hat and monocle at the end.

But first, this happens…


That occurred during an overnight snowstorm, with Jim and the Tramp (sounds like a morning drive-time DJ combo) asleep unaware in their beloved death cabin. And thanks to immortal drunkenness, when the cabin tilts, it’s written off as a hangover. So start many, many minutes of sublime comic suspense, a literal cliffhanger of balancing this precarious building. Now this is the sort of physical adventure I’d hoped for throughout, even if it retains that Chaplinesque air of pantomime, never inching into Keatonian daredevilry. That means when the Tramp wanders out into the drop-off – which is inevitable, given the scenario – his dangling is shown not through insane stunt work, but with a stop motion, miniature Tramp. The effect is rather noticeable today, but it doesn’t harm the sequence – the thrill comes from how things are choreographed, not just executed. And with this climax, The Gold Rush completely redeems itself.


I’ll largely pass over the epilogue in silence, where the Tramp, Robber Baron, has his final romantic reconciliation with Georgia. As an ending, it means to emphasize the value of love over money, and I’m not touching that one.

Postscript: In 1942, Chaplin re-released The Gold Rush as a talkie (…sort of). It features a musical track, with Chaplin himself narrating the film as a substitute for the usual title cards. There are some further changes, to projection speed and the romantic subplot. As tinkering goes, it’s not nearly as infuriating as George Lucas’ Special Editions, but it seems fed by the same sort of myopia. The additional aural elements overemphasize the maudlin pathos of the endeavor, which is appropriate enough in the Georgia sequences, but not really needed with Big Jim. With silence, one is freer to read a preferred mood (the great joy, and great challenge, of silent cinema, which demands much more of the audience). I personally prefer the silent version (which is, oddly enough, completely silent, thanks to the 1942 version’s impact – I just put on some Ennio Morricone instead). Though for the average viewer, the sound version is certainly more accessible. I’d almost call it a perfect gateway to silent films.

X-Men, No. 3 - X-Men: The Last Stand (2006)

There should’ve been NO difficulty in making a third X-Men movie – X2 saw to that, laying the foundations in advance for an adaptation of one of “X-Men’s” most reputable story arcs: “The Dark Phoenix Saga.” It’s now safe to say that the main character killed at X2’s end was Dr. Jean Grey (Famke Janssen). One presumes, even during X2’s end credits (if armed with the proper knowledge of comic history) that Jean is thus fated to return, alive and newly imagined as the Phoenix – the most powerful entity in the cosmos, seeking godhood.

Early on, when director Bryan Singer was still connected to this project, indeed this was the planned direction, up to debating new characters integral to the “Phoenix Saga,” such as Emma Frost – who would’ve been played by Sigourney Weaver, had things gone through. But then Singer opted to go do Superman Returns instead, which is a story for another time.


The Fox that we all know and dread then started to flex its own unholy might, most Phoenix-like, demanding production of an X3 come hell, high water, or 2006. Multitudes of directors to rival the X-Men themselves were considered: Darren Aronofsky, Rob Bowman, Joss Whedon, Alex Proyas, Zack Snyder, Matthew Vaughn. Switching directors is no simple feat in the best of times, especially with a series as personally felt as this one evidently was for Singer. For one reason or another, none of the proposed helmers was capable. Vaughn went the furthest in the process, until he butted heads with Fox – not a good sign. (There is more to the Vaughn story later in the franchise.) The studio wasn’t even remotely concerned with shepherding this project, or ensuring its quality – unless you consider the then-priciest budget in history to indicate “quality.”

And who eventually inherited that limitless checkbook, along with the outsized expectations of a trilogy capper built on the exemplary X2? Why Brett Ratner, a director with the uncanny ability to cause movies to exist. That’s it…there’s nothing else to distinguish him, except perhaps an ability to shallowly imitate better directors (Red Dragon), or create films I’m convinced I must’ve actually seen at some point, but maybe I didn’t (the Rush Hour series). Ratner is the rat you turn to when you simply need a movie made, no questions asked. Hoo boy! (Though consider it a partial bullet dodged; Ratner was in some dark age considered for the first X-Men as well, which might’ve snuffed out superhero cinema as a whole in its cradle.)


But wait, the problems don’t stop there! “The Dark Phoenix Saga” wouldn’t suffice, presumably because some myopic producer got too big for his britches, and didn’t like it. (Recall archaic tales told of Cannon Films trying to make Spider-Man a horror movie villain, and weep.) Therefore, while the slightest kernel of “Phoenix” remains (less, indeed, than exists even in X2), new adaptations come into play. With 50 years of comic back issues to carefully choose from, the recent Whedon-penned “Gifted” arc was chosen, because the notion of a “mutant cure” opens up that same thematic arena of civil liberties Singer dabbled in quite well – now selected cynically by makers not actually concerned with Singer’s thematics.

On its own, a “mutant cure” is a potent idea, allowing individual X-Men to debate abandoning their powers for good, and provoking a far more militant response from hardliner Magneto (Ian McKellen). It somewhat keeps the series’ wheels spinning, recycling ideas already in place circa Part One, while “Phoenix” might’ve evolved (or mutated) the series to the next level. But there are more problems to come, nascent issues inherent in a filmed “X-Men” universe, bubbling to the surface now for the first time – I am struggling to avoid further similes to Phoenix.

In the comics run, there are innumerable X-Men (and other mutants), dozens upon dozens. Yet the comics do not struggle with an overloaded cast, partly because of the serialized medium, and partly by picking and choosing. The central X-Men roster alternates with time, much like the Avengers, keeping the focus forever manageable. Film franchises, alas, do not work that way, as escalation is the perverse norm (amongst producers only thinking of making the next one the biggest, with no long-term schemes). Casts accumulate, without anyone willing to make some difficult culling decisions. X-Men: The Last Stand (a loopy “title: subtitle” name sans number, a false indicator of finality retroactively making X2 an anomaly) tips onto the wrong side of the casting scale, cramming in an unfathomable pile of new mutants, lest they never make another entry.

Therefore we have our mutants, new – Beast (Kelsey Grammer), Kitty Pride (Ellen Page), Colossus (Daniel Cudmore), Angel (Ben Foster), Juggernaut (Vinnie Jones), Multiple Man (Eric Dane), Callisto (Dania Ramirez), Psylocke (Meiling Melançon), Arclight (Omahyra Mota), Quill (Ken Leung), Leech (Cameron Bright) – and old – Jean Grey, Magneto, Professor Xavier (Patrick Stewart), Wolverine (Hugh Jackman), Storm (Halle Berry), Rogue (Anna Paquin), Cyclops (James Marsden), Iceman (Shawn Ashmore), Mystique (Rebecca Romijn), Pyro (Aaron Stanford). Strangely absent – Nightcrawler.

(That some of those actors are distractingly famous doesn’t help one’s attention span none.)


It’s a struggle to find something worthwhile for each of those players to do…and sometimes myopic producer insistence plays a hand. Cyclops is mostly out, killed off twenty minutes in, as part of some misguided grudge vengeance against Marsden deciding to play a minor role in Superman Returns. So…you’re willing to sabotage the entire emotional fabric of your movie, and murder a lead character, over that? Surely waiting, like, half a year would’ve made Marsden available again (plus, that would’ve been time well spent fixing the story). Or there’s always recasting – Iron Man 2 wasn’t scuttled by the departure of Terrence Howard. (You’re a $210 million movie! Surely there are other options?) But noooo, for zero reason that’s justifiable in-film, Cyclops is blinked from existence. Ta!

(A counterargument says it is a brave move to assassinate a presumably “safe” character. It’s taking a risk, the challenge being that risks often fail. If audiences do not go along with your wholesale slaughter of recurring icons, you’ve got the majority of a movie they’ll be against from this point on.)


Recounting the ways returning characters are marginalized would be an exercise in futility. Professor X is himself killed dead before midway, probably just because Ratner’s crew has no clue how to use him. Before even that, Mystique is…well, not “killed,” but “demutated,” which has the same basic effect upon her relevance to this story. A shame that Ratner and Magneto both abandon her, newly made human, as one might swat a fly. There is the potential for drama in Mystique’s new plight, but either Ratner doesn’t see it, or he just doesn’t care, as he’s too busy getting to the next special effects moment.

About those special effects: In X2, effects technology passed to the point of being obtrusive, and effects are no worse – technically – in The Last Stand. What does distract, though, is that X2 carefully used those necessary CGI moments to tell a story. Here, they are the story, as moments of grandeur occur sans context, and sans emotional payoff.

Take for instance new mutant Angel. He is, against his will, placed first in line to receive the cure, to thus shear away his chintzy angel wings. Rather, he lets said wings spread open, then flies off to effectively never appear again, except for maybe in portions of another two scenes. That’s a lot of work to no end, except to create an image for all the trailers, and also blog screen caps...


Similarly, I didn’t even realize Kitty Pride was in this movie until an hour in, when she finally gets a pertinent character scene – I find myself asking “Wait a minute, since when is Juno an “X-(Wo)Man’?!” Kitty then gets a major portion of the climax, something that surely couldn’t have gone to, say, Rogue.

Oh, Rogue! (I swear, I’m not simply trying to discover random nitpicks.) Since she is unable to touch anybody, she is another character anxious for the cure. Certain questions are brought up, like if this is true to her innate mutant self, or if it’s right for a mutant like her less capable of existing in society. Once again, all potential is squandered immediately after it’s broached, leaving just another loose end that could’ve been done away with altogether (except we’re interested in Rogue, as opposed to New Mutant #509). Actually, Ratner’s myriad efforts to do Singer proud instead highlight his deficiencies far more than mere foolish schlock ever could.


There are, however, certain mutants – obvious ones – who get sufficient attention, for various reasons. Magneto is among those fortunate figures, partly because his new villainous quest to amass as many eeeevil mutants as possible, which allows The Last Stand a window to new characters, potentially new toys, potentially spin-offs involving earth-shakers like, oh, Arclight. Plus, a conflicted villain is valuable asset – called Jean Grey!!! Honestly, Famke Janssen isn’t going anywhere! Use her!


Wolverine also escapes unscathed – at least, whatever wounds he receives heal quickly enough. It’s as it’s always been, ever since the character’s introduction in 1974; Wolverine’s uncouth, working class, cigar-chomping antics appeal to fans, even when wholly divorced from the greater “X-Men” whole. To that end, in The Last Stand Wolverine gets to race around a forest slashing people with impunity, much like Jason Voorhees. This moment feels almost contractual, for how little energy it possesses. Even with a beefy role, Wolverine is lost in the shuffle…compared to what he could do.

Making it out with the king’s ransom of focus, however, is Storm – I couldn’t name a less deserving character. Honestly, Cyclops is more interesting than her! But Halle Berry’s narcissistic megalomania had, if anything, grown since 2003, to the point she was convinced it was she, and she alone who made X-Men important. Even with Catwoman already having earned her a coveted Razzie (to go right alongside her Oscar, no doubt)! But don’t tell Berry I question her endless value, or she’ll say I’m racist. And she’ll point to her People’s Choice Award for “Female Action Star” (as if 2006 offered that much variety), then orchestrate a letter-writing campaign demanding X4, “for all the black women out there.”

The emotional stories, the characters – all are lost in the sheer complexity of it all…At least The Last Stand is easy to understand. The plot line may not be crackerjack, but it is itself never lost in side-motivations or anything.

Ultimately, X-Men: The Last Stand succumbs to the same issues which plague many trilogy cappers – oddly, since X2 didn’t openly aim to be a middle chapter, and avoided all those potential pitfalls. Mostly, The Last Stand gets caught up in its own hype and ambition, convinced of the essential grandiosity of its tale. And whenever a multi-entry Hollywood property gets that in its noggin, that means extended epic battle scenes are sure to follow. So it is for Ratner, though it’s a danged strange thing to stage an X-Men action sequence as the superhero version of a Lord of the Rings siege – Magneto’s Brotherhood misuses the Golden Gate Bridge to gain access to Alcatraz, incongruous site of the cure (this landmark decision lacks the portent of Part One’s Statue of Liberty, but all its surface gloss). The X-Men, alongside several humans, oppose the Brotherhood. An all-superhero battle is a viable idea, as the comics have shown for decades – particularly in their all-continuity crossover “crises.” That remains a fantastical idea that’d be far harder to capture on film, with budget and technical limitations which never plague an ink artist.


And at last, adding insult to whatever injury preceded it, the final shot of The Last Stand undermines all the de-mutating finality before it – with a hint that an ex-X’s powers are, for no reason, back. It’s probably meant as cheeky (and no doubt sequel baiting), but it just seems contemptuous – as if the people who couldn’t take the changes of Rogue or Mystique seriously cannot take any of their premise seriously. This is dangerous ground, for all of The Last Stand’s pseudo-seriousness, a sort of dismissal more akin to the poisonous pre-X-Men adaptation output, exemplified by Batman & Robin.

Well, The Last Stand can sequel bait as much as it wants, for all it wants to be an ending. The fact remains that the X-Men model as it stands here is unsustainable. It’s just too expensive! And the cast is too big! There’s nothing in here which increases The Last Stand’s worth, certainly nothing which puts in on a level with the much more controlled X2. Obviously, moneymen still see value in this franchise, especially when The Last Stand was able to mint a pretty penny, but not at the increased risks they’ve now incurred. Paring down is the next option. Just remember, guys: There are decades of material available, plus the comics’ example of how it works best. Follow that lead.

The Wrestling Women, No. 3 - Las lobas del ring (1965)

Aka Wolf-Babes of the Ring (liberal translation)!

The Wrestling Women vs. the Aztec Mummy did what it did for the Wrestling Women franchise (screw that dusty, shambling Aztec Mummy!), opening it up to sequels. That’s all well and good except for one thing: They had no idea for a sequel…

Well, that didn’t stop ‘em (“‘em” being producer Guillermo Calderón and director René Cardona) from simply making Las lobas del ring anyway, accurse it all! As if working under a sense of deadline, Las lobas del ring is a Wrestling Women movie in that the Wrestling Women appear in it and…yeah, that’s kind of all that happens. In the storied luchadore Mexican subgenre, so often rife with vampires, mummies, secret societies, aliens, witches, ghosts, superheroes, mad scientists, robots and sombreros, Las lobas is just a luchadore film…in that it only shows wrestling scenes, and adds nothing else of value.


It is my hypothesis that lucha libre cinema developed when it did as a substitute or supplement for televised wrestling matches. Given Mexico’s technological limitations in the 1960s, broadcasting these fights live wasn’t an option. But so many of the star luchadores – Santo, Blue Demon, Hurácan Ramírez, Mil Máscaras, Rey Mysterio, La Parka, Eddie Guerrero, Hijo de Santo, Nacho Libre – were national superstars anyway, beloved as living iconic folk heroes in a way I can’t even find a parallel for. Audiences wanted to see these storied gods-among-men, and so movies floated that bill, creating fictional escapist fantasies surrounding masked personas in the wrestling arena.


This feels akin to the fictionality which has come to encompass popular U.S. wrestling, where it’s commonly accepted the “sport” is essentially live theater, telling outsized tales of outsized men. By the framework of professional wrestling entities, the WCW, the WWE, the WWF, the WWEF, the WWC, the WWJD, WWWWAFCHFS, the QVC and the WTF, the sport and a larger bizarre interest in narratives unite into a single spectacle – only don’t tell my preteen cousin it’s fake, lest he piledrive his bed in defiance for some reason. (God, it seems I’ve said far more on wrestling over this blog’s existence than I, a total ringside apathetic, have any right to!)

Eh, so it is with lucha libre, that utterly ridiculous fiction becomes intertwined with the films. But owing to the nature of cinema, of lucha flicks, these fictions remain accepted as fictions – that is, unless some young Mexican fanboys genuinely thought Santo went off to defeat supernatural psychotics on a yearly basis in between wrestling professionally, and I wouldn’t put it past them. Still we get wrestling matches in these lucha películas, filmed with all the cinematic verve and energy one would expect from live single-camera recordings in the 1960s third world. These in-film matches, as far as I can tell, are genuine (for wrestling is a sport there); you then add a story about lizard people or some damn thing around the edges, tie it in vaguely with the matches presented (where the hero always wins, which raises some eyebrows), and you got mucha lucha!


Now belatedly I return to Las lobas del ring – and when I say all it concerns is wrestling, I mean there are no otherworldly beasties nor any other such B-movie nonsense for our heroines to contend with. Nope, there’s just a mighty million peso pot (aka $85,506.60) at the end of the year’s wrestling season, awaiting the champ. Some criminals seek the prize; so do our stars, Loreta Venus and Golden Rubi (Lorena Velásquez and Elizabeth Campbell). Intersperse wrestling scenes with static, unenergetic talking scenes, leading up to Loreta’s oh-so-inevitable final victory, incorporate some scant gangsterism and kidnapping and mamacitas into the mix, and that is the entirety of Las lobas del ring.

Therefore, all in all, it isn’t a very interesting movie, certainly not when (having seen but two lucha libre movies to my name at this stage) wrestling is but the baseline for juvenile insanity. I want insanity! Thus this movie is a sequel made without even a plot to support it – pretty much the notion of an automatic sequel dragged to its logical extreme.


Too bad this lucha-chica lunacy doesn’t work on its own. Hence all that dwelling upon the genre above. Unique among luchadore flicks, The Wrestling Women does not showcase actual wrestlers. There’s no way (and I’ve explored this before) that Velásquez and Campbell, with their Amazonian sex bomb bodies and hazardously accentuated breasts and ginormous Texas-style ‘60s beehive hairdos, there’s no way these chicas could function in the professional fighting circuit – let alone escape from every match with their hair unmussed, while the troll-like real “female” wrestlers they defeat so handily emerge looking like Stallone at the end of Rocky. Thus the fights are thoroughly faked, improvised, performed by attractive non-wrestlers with a “do not harm” clause hanging invisibly around their necks. The verisimilitude which actually underwrites fictionalized wrestling, in either its Mexican or U.S. form, is lacking here, which is entirely too fake to be taken as sport, and too lacking in any other qualities too.

It’s telling just how uniform the screen caps are. Hell, I wasn’t even trying to make the movie look monotonous! Well over ten minutes separate each image, at least, to show the sort of visual blandness that is Las lobas del ring.


It goes without saying, with all these handicaps, that Las lobas del ring wasn’t nearly as popular as the greater Wrestling Women efforts, such as Rock ‘n’ Roll Wrestling Women vs. the Aztec Ape (that title alone makes it the better film!). At least, Las lobas had no sway in the U.S. – hence my insistence upon its Spanish title. Therefore – and this is me grasping at straws in order to keep on jabbering pointlessly – it isn’t dubbed. I watched it in Spanish. This couldn’t have helped matters much, as much of the dialogue (and there is a lot of it, when wrestling isn’t happening) totally went over my monolingual head. Though not from complexity of vocabulary – they say most movies employ a roughly 3rd grade use of language, and we’re talking Mexican schooling here. It just got tiring trying to translate chatty chatter for so long, when it became quickly obvious how fruitless it was. As an example of my efforts, here’s how my note-taking went at the outset:

Talk on lucha libre, an important deporte. Es mas dramatic que los otros deportes. Necesitamos propaganda. Los luchas mujeres son atractivas. Van a ver…uno cosa yo no sey con las luchas de mujeres.

Then it just became a drinking game. At every utterance of “lucha” or “mujer,” I imbibed. I write about this now the day afterwards, damaged enough from the effort that I lack discussion points more intriguing than my own alcoholism.


At least there’s one other notable fact about Las lobas del ring – it marks Lorena Velásquez’s final entry in the series. It’s not a total farewell, as she’d go on to do some Santo flicks, so whatever ostensible attempt at respectability in Las lobas (by dropping the superstitious hocus pocus we come for – I mean, they couldn’t even deliver on she-werewolves, as the title indicates) didn’t stick. It’d be the nice thing to do at this stage to retrospect upon Velásquez’s Wrestling Women career, except…except I feel none of these casts have ever risen above adequate. The acting itself leaves little impression, so all one can say for Velásquez is that, yup, she sure was an attractive enough lady. Which, you know, is such a rarity in film and all.

Meaning the series will have to continue now without its star. If they can toss in some dinosaurs or zombies or whatever, it’ll be a trade up, frankly.

The Aztec Mummy, No. 3 - The Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy (1957)

Presented in Hypno-Scope!!!
To Heighten the Horror, Thrill Your Senses, Kill Your Brain!!!

…Well, I suppose that’s one way to make a sequel.

Recall that the Aztec Mummy trilogy (calm down, there will be further sequels) was conceived as a single, gigantic (by Mexican standards) movie. This didn’t hurt The Aztec Mummy too egregiously. But to wrest the maximum amount of motion picture for the minimum effort, director Rafael Portillo formed Part Two, The Curse of the Aztec Mummy, with 25% recycled footage. Now The Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy, with two whole movies preceding it, stretches that filthy practice even further. Nearly 50% of this movie is recycled!

Literally the entire first half of this 64 minute film is a recapitulation of what’s come before. In a most inelegant framework, ostensible series hero Dr. Almada (Ramón Gay) invites a duo of his associates over for a friendly exposition session. As if directed primarily towards us, the audience, he begs patience before the new stuff starts, for he has a story to tell. Oh boy! It is one sloppy construction, sitting three men (and a woman) before a table and having one listlessly narrate former set pieces, some of which I’m now seeing for the third time in as many days!


How does a sequel come about to employ this trick?! There are a number of potential explanations…

1. The extensive saga of the Aztec Mummy is so complex, we’d be genuinely confused at this stage without generous time spent getting everyone up to speed.

2. Owing to Mexico’s relative cinematic isolation (as evidenced by their 1957 habit of aping solely movies Hollywood made in 1931), it’s possibly they seriously believed this was the way all sequels were done.

3. It’s a cheap ploy to save money.

Bingo!

In three movies, totaling 210 minutes, there are only 165 minutes of footage (estimation). I can’t say that I feel too kindly about this. Trusting you yourself can recall what’s come before (or can at least find out somewhere someplace online – possibly this blog – or simply don’t care), I shan’t attempt an in-depth recap of Almeda’s in-depth recap. For what it’s worth, here’s how the movie bides its time:

4th minute: Flashback to the series-opening lecture on past lives. “Years ago.”

6th minute: Flashback to the Aztec mummification.

9th minute: Almeda’s hypnosis of Flor (Rosa Arenas).

10th minute: Almeda’s group discovers the tomb of the mummy Popoca

16th minute: Almeda’s group returns to the tomb, does the same thing.

20th minute: They reach the tomb yet again, resolving Part One.

Pausing (as the film is wont to do) for new footage of Almeda relating all this – like the visits with Verbal in The Usual Suspects, only without dramatic interest – Almeda makes the awkward verbal pirouettes necessary to make the seamless transition between Part One and Part Two.

23rd minute: The entire climax of Curse is barreled through heedlessly, edited into shreds in order to eliminate all that film’s evidence of luchadores, so as not to confuse matters more.


Then new footage starts up, in the 27th minute. Let actual discussion of The Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy commence – or rather The Aztec Mummy vs. the Human Robot, a title I prefer, since it accidentally suggests Aztecs and humans are two separate classes. An actual discussion of The Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy addresses the falsely created impression of a crossover (there is no Human Robot franchise to speak of). However, we’re too far into the running time to do so now.

Rather, Almeda’s narrated flashbacks continue, even though the footage now is brand new. This highlights the noted inelegance of the whole construct, that even now we’ll be well into the 47th minute by the time Almeda finally shuts up, and lets some actual plot take hold. Something tells me they should’ve done another pass or two at the screenplay.

Anyway, even as it is, let’s count this as the film’s proper start. And for all that effort in getting here, the situation is no different than ever: The evil mad scientist called the Bat (Luis Aceves Castañeda, the series’ best element) seeks to obtain certain artifacts from the Aztec mummy in order to find the Aztec treasure. Almeda & Co. wishes to prevent this. It’s a sequel, you know.

Therefore, the Bat starts out by again putting Flor into a trance, so that she might pinpoint Popoca’s latest hangout spot. This time (simply to save effort, time, etc.), the Bat merely has to drive up to Flor’s house, and speak towards the front door! Flor, who’s sound asleep mind you, thus wanders out under his power – it’s just that easy! There is later suggestion this is post-hypnotic suggestion. Quoth Almeda: “It’s logical.” I love how easily their whatever-babble patches up the plot holes the crew was aware of.


Flor knows, for no reason, that Popoca is in “the ancient cemetery.” Indeed, there he snoozes, clutching his artifacts. Discovering this, the Bat lets Flor go and…does nothing. Again let us examine the Bat’s motives. He needs to translate something that “devilish mummy” possesses, to go find a treasure to get the funds to further his research. I imagine it’s like Doc Ock – yeah, the Bat is making a miniature sun in Manhattan. Now it all makes sense!

The only way the Bat can think of to translate these objects is to steal them from the mummy. Doing so will arouse the mummy’s ancient dire wrath, and the Bat will die. Therefore, because no other notion occurs to him, the Bat vows to first defeat the mummy. To that end he sets about creating, well…well, the climax reveals it, as does the title, but we’ll leave it be for now.

Meanwhile, there’s plenty of Almeda’s bloody exposition to get through still. Back in the unclear past, he spies mud on Flor’s slippers, and suspects the obvious – An affair! No…wait…that the Bat temporarily kidnapped her again for the fourth time or so. Following his own line of reasoning, which does not involve hypnosis (because the series has perhaps finally grown bored of that conceit), Almeda discovers the same graveyard, and discovers the same mummy-housing mausoleum. And…does nothing. Instead, Almeda just pays the restful mummy an occasional visit, to ensure the Bat has done nothing.

Then…five years pass. Really?! Yet still we remain in Almeda’s flashback, because that’s how sloppy this thing is. And flashback Almeda learns in the newspaper of the local university’s stolen cadaver. Obvious signs of the Bat, who’s been inactive lo this past half decade. Furthermore, a whole pile of lead has just been delivered, and isn’t it just like the Bat to freely give out his secret hideout’s address to local businesses? Naturally, those businesses then happily give this info to Almeda. Everyone is a perfect little cog.


And only now do we enter the present time. Almeda explains the reason he invited several of his associates over, and told them these heaping, steaming reels worth of exposition: He (Almeda) is going alone (that is, sans policemen, for arbitrary reasons) to bust up the Bat’s secret lab. He simply needs these two men to phone the police, should he not return by a certain time. Of course, Flor could just as easily accomplish this except, A) there’d be no value in expositing to her stuff she already knows, and B) this is one of those movies that posits women are incompetent. Seeing how Flor eventually bungles the task Almeda gave other people, it’s a reasonable assumption on Almeda’s part.

So Almeda heads over to the Bat’s lair and – to no one’s surprise – he is captured instantly. So much for that then.

It having been five years since we’ve spent time with the Bat, he feels the same compulsion Almeda recently expunged, and treats Almeda to his expository recap. Thankfully, it’s shorter, and with no flashbacks – just Castañeda bugging his eyes out and acting rather like Coffin Joe mixed with your average sub-Frankenstein Dr. Frankenstein.

It takes the Bat a good long while to get to his point – naturally. He monologues about discovering a new realm of science – justification for the five year gap, I suppose. Dr. Almeda, himself a scientist, gets the usual anti-science screed each and every one of these B-movies boasts: “Then that means that you [the Bat] defy all the limits that were put down by God.” Buh?!?! By discovering a…something?! At least let the man finish, Almeda, before jumping to reductive conclusions!

So the Bat digs his own ethical grave as he droolingly spouts his Bela Lugosi-esque nonsense: “I tortured many animals – with pleasure – to find the answers to man’s existence.” And this grand “answer to man’s existence” turns out to be…a robot! Betcha didn’t see that one coming!


Let’s see that again!


But this is no mere robot. It’s a human robot – a robot shell with a rich, gooey, delicious human center. Sure, why the hell not, it isn’t like the other incidental Aztec Mummy details aren’t insane. Plus, it means they don’t have to hide the obvious stuntman inside that gloriously chintzy robot costume – I really do love that robot design.

(Mind you the robot doesn’t even appear until minute 54 of 64. While we have seen the mummy before, we haven’t seen it move – ignoring flashbacks – so this movie is a long way from satisfying its titular claim.)

That satisfaction, that title fight, is comin’ right up. For the Bat has designed this earth-shattering new technology – one with which he, if sane, could become a legitimate entrepreneur, or by his own admission enslave all of mankind – this wonderful new machine the Bat has created solely to kill the Aztec mummy. So he can then have Almeda translate the same thing Almeda translated last time, to be 1/20th of the way towards discovering the Aztec treasure…so that then the Bat can get the funding he needs to realize his true scientific desire, which is never outright stated. Okay then.


So be it, the (human) robot fights the (Aztec) mummy. As these sort of things go, it’s more Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus than Alien vs. Predator. That is, the matchup is profoundly disappointing, and this is coming after days of realizing old B-movies always renege on their promises. With but three minutes of running time left, the battle begins. One minute and a half later (being generous) it ends, with Popoca easily the victor. That danged robot’s useless, T-Rex arms never even did anything! Though Popoca, true to his compulsion, limits himself to the old shoulder tap attack, which somehow does the trick.

At least this time Popoca unequivocally kills the Bat (and friend), ensuring at least this particular Bat-based arc is good and done. Though there will be a sequel.

Even at this stage, it’s amazing how useful footage from these films has proven. Ignoring the in-series recycling, Aztec Mummy imagery has (illegally?) found its way into a few of Jerry Warren’s U.S. B-sagas – Attack of the Mayan Mummy, Face of the Screaming Werewolf, The Wild World of Batwoman. These movies do not count for the official series – thank Quetzalcoatl, for I don’t know how many more times I could’ve weathered that exact same sacrifice scene – but so be it. Producer Guillermo Calderón would do well enough on his own.