Screen Grabs: Red Sonja rides again

If nothing else—though of course there’s plenty else—the ongoing brouhaha over the Kennedy Center for the Arts has demonstrated that the arts themselves are another frontier in which our current POTUS has the worst yet most assertive taste, primarily shaped by the cheesier extravagances of the 1970s and ’80s. The Kennedy Center Honors were always a populist affair, not to be confused with the somewhat more upscale National Medal of the Arts (which Presidents are also traditionally associated with). But under Trump, who shunned them entirely in his prior term, the announced next recipients are an almost comically MOR roundup: Phantom of the Opera Michael Crawford, “I Will Survive” singer Gloria Gaynor, cartoon metal act KISS, cartoon movie machismo exemplar Sylvester Stallone, and veteran country star George Strait, who couldn’t be any straiter.

These artists all have their value individually, but as a group they’re the kind of “balanced meal” that’s in fact five types of potato salad in different packages. Ah well: Onward and downward we go.

As a rare heterosexual male who stayed loyal to disco well past its official expiration date—into the sunsetting Studio 54 era depicted in Whit Stillman’s The Last Days of Disco—as well as a moviegoer naturally disposed towards the likes of Rambo (movies in which one lone he-man saved freedom via neverending hails of bullets), Trump naturally remains true to the 1980s. After all, it was the period when he first found wide fame, had not yet begun filing bankruptcies, and was as yet regarded as a genuine if problematic business success story—before that became more a matter of image than reality, and before US banks stopped viewing him as a viable loan risk.

Movies weren’t better in the 1980s, certainly not in comparison with prior decades. But they were bigger, or at least noisier, with engorged biceps and breasts abetting a one-XXL-size-fits-all concept of brash and blowsy pride in Murrica. Even the many fantasy worlds depicted in the imitative wake of Star Wars had the same general tenor. Several films arriving this week (including a revival) recall that era, when Reagan in the White House played one artificial note of picket-fence nostalgia while so much of pop culture was conversely all about sex, money and everything else in excess.

The yugest star of that period—in sheer muscle mass at least—was Schwarzenegger, though he did not begin reaching that status until 1982’s Conan the Barbarian. It singlehandedly revived the sword-and-sorcery genre, prompting innumerable cheap imitations and a few expensive ones, like official sequel Red Sonja. From Doctor Doolittle and Boston Strangler director Richard Fleischer, the 1985 release had Ahnold returning in his loincloth, but was mostly about another Robert E. Howard pulp figure: The titular female warrior played by Danish model Brigitte Nielsen, who that same year would marry Stallone. This movie was not a commercial or critical success, but it immediately attained a certain guilty-pleasure camp cachet.

There was certainly room for improvement, and over the years various talents (including directors Robert Rodriguez, Simon West, and Bryan Singer) were linked to announced remakes. One has finally arrived, albeit with relatively little ballyhoo and lesser-known names attached. This Red Sonja has Matilda Lutz, who starred in Revenge by The Substance’s Coralie Fargeat, playing the crimson-tressed heroine who’s orphaned by barbarians who invade her peaceful village in a mythological prehistory. When such louts later disturb her solitary life in the forest, she ends up captured for gladiatorial-type arena bloodsport by sneering Emperor Dragan (Robert Sheehan). Eventually, of course, she fosters a rebellion.

This version has been judged better than its predecessor, though hampered by budgetary limitations. Well, sue me, but in a very fan-targeted movie referencing everything from mad-scientist horror to Lord of the Rings to fabled stop-motion monster animator Ray Harryhausen, I thought occasional visible CGI seams only heightened a sense of enjoyably retro spectacle. In any case, it’s a project that doesn’t take itself too seriously, save a few over-earnest moments towards the end.

Directed by M.J. Bassett (who worked under the name Michael J. Bassett before coming out as a trans woman) and written by Tasha Huo (of Netflix series Tomb Raider: The Legend of Lara Croft), it’s a fast-paced, well-cast, colorful mix of swordplay and fantasy. I’ve no idea how closely it follows Howard’s model—there’s scant overlap with the prior film. But it does a neat job shrugging off his old-school gender dynamics in favor of a good-humored, self-aware feminist tilt only the most fragile defenders of “masculinity” will chafe at. Yes it’s kinda dumb, but it is fun. Red Sonja had a one-day theatrical release earlier this month, and now releases to VOD platforms on Fri/29.

Though there were certainly more overtly gay or gender-blurring celebrities around, few personalities challenged traditional notions of masculinity more in the 1980s than Prince. He was a pop superstar—bigger than anyone for a while, perhaps, save his “rival” Michael Jackson—who nonetheless demanded the public meet him on his own very eccentric terms. He figured to be a movie star, too, because why not. But after 1984’s Purple Rain, a crazy mixed bag shored up by its incredible soundtrack, that didn’t work out so well. Two years later, Under the Cherry Moon became the kind of flop that people joke about for years, like Ishtar and Howard the Duck. Between that and another messily conceived fizzle, Graffiti Bridge (1990), Prince made what is (by default if nothing else) his best feature.

That would be 1987’s Sign o’ the Times, which is getting re-released in remastered form to play IMAX screens for the first time starting Thurs/28. It’s pretty much a concert film, even if primarily shot at Paisley Park Studios with extras applauding the lip-synching performers, after footage at actual shows in Rotterdam and Antwerp turned out to be unusable (though their audio was apparently retained). You also get somewhat inscrutable, unnecessary skit sequences, and a more conspicuously music-video-like “U Got the Look” with Sheena Easton that’s credited to a different director (Barb Wire’s David Hogan, rather than Prince himself). The whole thing duly looks like it was done on a soundstage, with all the hot colors, sexy silhouettes, and neon you’d expect from the artist’s aesthetic at this juncture.

That might make it a less than “pure” live experience. But Sign is still the closest you’re likely to get to the experience of Prince in concert, something I managed several times during the ’80s. The band (with Sheila E. on drum kit) is big and hot, the costume changes are frequent, and Prince seems to be enjoying himself—even if everybody else is commanded to look at him as if stupefied by sex appeal. You won’t hear then-past hits here. Instead, there’s the Sign o’ the Times material, a double album many consider his recorded apex, and who’d object to that? Though I do wonder what these 85 minutes would be like to some young’un who didn’t grow up at least somewhat taking him for granted. Because even at the time, Prince was brilliant, magnetic, and strange—how would he strike a newbie now, a decade A.D.? For theaters and showtimes, go here.

Lurker

A contrastingly very 2020’s world of social media-driven celebrity is the background for writer-director Alex Russell’s first feature: Matthew (Theodore Pellerin) is a seemingly ordinary twentysomething working at a clothing store when in walks rising pop star Oliver (Archie Madekwe) and his entourage. Matt feigns ignorance, but in fact knows enough about Oliver to stealthily ingratiate himself within a few minutes’ span. That gets him invited backstage at a show later on, then tentatively welcomed into the singer’s inner circle. Somehow it’s not obvious to his new best friends—though it is to the viewer—that this slightly awkward, over-eager addition to their world is a fiercely competitive schemer and manipulator who’ll do anything to remain in the milieu he’s wormed his way into. That includes sabotaging others within Oliver’s crew, and even eventually using blackmail to reverse the hierarchy in his relationship with Oliver himself.

This may sound like “crazy stalker fan thriller” terrain, but Lurker never quite succumbs to more formulaic expectations. It leaves the workings of Matt’s mind somewhat opaque—is he straight or gay? is he truly obsessed with Oliver, or could he just as easily have chosen another target?—while secondary characters also have a degree of ambiguity. The result is a bit like Joseph Losey’s The Servant meets All About Eve on an episode of MTV Cribs. It’s not a knockout, but precisely crafted and consistently intriguing. Lurker opens Fri/29 at SF’s Alamo Drafthouse New Mission and AMC Kabuki 8.