CANDYMAN (2021)

Warning: Spoilers for the Candyman series.

The idea of going back to the Candyman franchise thirty years after the original terrified the previous generation seemed a little unwise and fairly arrogant—for all kinds of reasons. Where to start? Though it’s generally (and unfairly) lumped in with other slasher sagas, the Candyman series only made it to three entries, very much on the low end when compared to its double-digit-reaching colleagues. Indeed, the series has been extinct for over twenty years, thanks to 1995’s underwhelming Farewell to the Flesh and 1999’s atrocious direct-to-video Day of the Dead. On top of that, the irreplaceable Tony Todd had obviously aged out of the title role, and there was really no one left standing at the end of that brilliant original movie to continue the story (…or was there?). Probably the most important question: could a modern filmmaker working on behalf of a major studio have the same uncanny ability for unnerving audiences like writer/director Bernard Rose had back in the dark ages of 1992? Could anything baring the Candyman name in this day and age really be as terrifying?

For once, though the trailers gave away a lot, they didn’t give away everything, and what was assumed to be a straight-up reboot of the series’ overall concept was actually a sequel in very sly sheep’s clothing, allowing for the return of characters (and actors) not seen since Candyman ‘92. Much like 2018’s Halloween, this belated Candyman follow-up has ditched its association with every sequel outside of the original, only keeping the real name of Candyman intact as Daniel Robitaille, as established in Farewell to the Flesh. It’s also very much a loyal sequel, calling back to the original as much as possible while still digging deeper into the concept of Candyman as a character, as a legend, as a concept, and as something much more—“the whole damn hive” as the movie explains.

Anthony McCoy (Yahya Abdul-Mateen II, the upcoming The Matrix Resurrections) is an artist in a rut, living with his art promoter girlfriend Brianna Cartwright (Teyonah Parris, the fucking hysterical They Came Together) in a swanky Chicago apartment that, once upon a time, had been part of the Cabrini-Green housing projects where large portions of the original film took place. After hearing the legend of Helen Lyle, Virginia Madsen’s character from Candyman ‘92, whose life story has been rewritten to make her a Candyman-like villain as opposed to the hero, Anthony begins to research the mythos by heading to where it all went down: what remains of the Cabrini-Green projects. He soon meets William (Colman Domingo, Selma), manager of a local laundromat, who tells him of his own murderous run-in with Candyman as a child…only it’s not the Candyman audiences already know (Todd), but an altogether different hook-handed weirdo in a flowing jacket named Sherman Fields (Michael Hargrove), a well-meaning but slow-witted local killed by police after having been falsely accused of injuring children with razor-blade candy. Following his killing, Sherman returns as the eponymous mirror man, killing those who call him by his new name, which directly results in the death of William’s sister. Now infected with Sherman’s image, and, naturally, after repeating the name “Candyman” five times into the nearest mirror, Anthony begins to suffer hallucinations of a bloodied and mutilated Sherman Fields appearing in every mirror reflection, all while a nasty bee sting seems to be transforming his body into a hideous husk. Meanwhile, his previously dismissed art gallery exhibits inspired by Candyman begin to gain traction…in conjunction with the deaths of those with immediate ties to Anthony’s work as an artist. Soon, as word of Candyman’s terror begins to spread, so does that of the means to summon him: by looking into the nearest mirror and saying his name.

It’s often said for belated sequels like this that prior knowledge of previous movies isn’t necessary to enjoy any updated take (especially those belated sequels that drop all numerals and subtitles and reuse the original moniker, a trend I really wish would go out of style), but when it comes to Candyman ‘21, written/produced by Jordan Peele (Get Out, Us) and directed by Nia DaCosta, I could not disagree more. Sure, if you’ve never seen the original film, you could still find things to enjoy and grasp the overall concept while also getting a nice dose of the creeps, but by default it would prove to be an almost hollow experience—especially with its ending. Candyman ’21 isn’t just an homage or a universe side adventure—it depends on the original film to flesh out its story in the very same way it depends on it for its entire existence. If Candyman ’21 were a haunted house, Candyman ’92 would be its ghost. The original film’s events, ideas, and characters permeate the events in this new take, which finds dozens of loving ways to loop itself in with its predecessor, falling back on even its most background details (like the razor-blade candy, which remained unexplained in the original and remains unexplained here). Relievedly, there are no radical reinventions of the concept—at least, none that don’t expand on ideas already well established. Even the musical score by Robert Aiki Aubrey Lowe presents in the same spirit as Philip Glass’s score for the original, crafting a very experimental and non-traditional soundtrack, along with lifting its most recognizable theme and reinventing it as a pensive and melancholy melody on electric organ. Candyman ’21 isn’t out to exploit its namesake while pushing aside everything that made it so wonderful; if there’s any one modern sequel that proves its love for its source material, it’s this one.

Candyman ’92 laid the groundwork for who Candyman is, and most importantly, why he persists. As intimated, Candyman is a walking embodiment of his own legend and of the fear he causes in those who believe in him. As the legend of Candyman grows, so does his presence in the world, and as his presence grows more well known, the legends about him grow further, and on and on, an endless loop of a mythical being’s willed existence. Though the main thrust of events is centralized to Cabrini-Green in Chicago, it’s suggested his legend is known everywhere, including the middle-of-nowhere suburbs, the setting that provides the film’s opening kill. When Helen Lyle saves Baby Anthony, previously kidnapped by Candyman to serve as a sacrifice that would make both Candyman and Helen immortal in story and together forever, those Cabrini-Green residents who bore witness to the act credit her with having killed the boogeyman who has long haunted their lives. Over time, however, as evidenced during Candyman 21’s opening modern-day moments, it would seem that Helen Lyle has inherited the Candyman mythos. We, the audience, know the truth, but for those characters in the room hearing the story for the first time, that version of the myth becomes their truth. That’s how urban legends spread, growing more and more powerful with every new person who tells them. To destroy the Candyman, one must destroy the belief in him, but following this logic, that also allows the Candyman legend to change at will, so long as enough people disseminate all the different variations of the story. “The hive,” as it’s called, is the accumulation of black lives lost to hate in the decades since the lynching of Daniel Robitaille; though the identities and details change, with certain people being haunted by their version of their Candyman, all of those variations are ultimately absorbed back into, for lack of a better word, the myth of the OG Candyman (Tony Todd, who returns for just one brief moment). He is the dumping ground for the world’s racial hate—a sort of anti-Batman on whom Cabrini-Green needs to hang its history of pain. This concept of “the hive” is the backbone of Candyman ’21 and is a major feat pulled off by the filmmakers with great success. It not only remains faithful to all the rules established by its predecessor, it greatly expands the mythos and brilliantly allows Todd to reprise the role in just a single appearance, limited to a single line, while reestablishing his Candyman as the Candyman. It doesn’t matter that he’s not the main Candyman glimpsed throughout the movie; ultimately, it’s still the story of the Candyman who started it all.

Also returning is Anne-Marie McCoy (a quietly devastating Vanessa Williams), not seen in this series since the closing moments of Candyman ’92 in which she peers down into the open grave of Helen Lyle, the savior of her son. Her one scene offers affirmation to the audience that the histories of the McCoy family and that of the Candyman are intertwined and sadly inescapable; though Anthony begins to suspect his place in Candyman lore, it’s not until the confrontation with his mother that we know it’s all true—in that moment, Anthony believes, thus giving the Candyman legend power, and thus setting into motion his own transformation. Seeing Williams return to the role not only cements this “twist” in the story and brings with it a series history that works in tandem with Candyman’s own, but also provides a nice little shot of romanticism, as we horror fans love nothing more than seeing iconic faces return to our beloved franchises. (Also, that woman does not age.)

Candyman’s biggest detriment is its incapability of executing any sequences of real fear—at least the kind of fear with the same staying power of its predecessor…though perhaps that’s unfair. Candyman ‘92 remains one of the scariest mainstream horror films of all time; its very first frame establishes a sense of dread and ominousness that continues until its very last. (The bathroom murder sequence involving a young child is still a top-ten “that fucked me up” moment of my entire horror-watching life.) That’s not to say Candyman ’21 doesn’t contain its own collection of eerie images because it certainly does, and “new” Candyman Michael Hargrove unnerves the viewer with nothing more than a smile, but it never reaches those “dangerous” scary heights that give you pause to continue watching any further.

By its very design, Candyman ’21 has an awful lot of balls in the air, and for the most part it keeps them all moving fluidly without causing a catastrophe, though threatening to overcomplicate matters is an underexplored subplot in which Brianna deals with a past trauma involving the suicide of her father, who was also an artist. Though likely existing to draw parallels to Anthony’s worsening mental state, there’s also a sly inference that Brianna’s father was a version of her own personal Candyman, in the sense that she’s also being haunted by someone with a tragic end whose image she can’t seem to escape. Candyman ’21 seems to even be implying that every person has his or her own unshakeable ghost—not walking visages of those gunned down unduly in the streets or lynched by angry white mobs, but more along the lines of the abstract concepts a ghost can represent: guilt, sadness, regret, or the sense of something left unfinished.

Predictably, some critics and audience members have dismissed this new take as being the “woke” version of Candyman, stopping at the surface level of seeing a black man dealing with black issues caused by the fallout of racial injustices and dismissing it unseen, but there’s not a single idea present here that hadn’t already been established by its predecessor: first, there’s gentrification—Helen Lyle reveals that her swanky apartment building was originally built as a housing project before some modifications transformed the units into upscale condos in an effort to keep the rest of the housing projects contained to the other side of the highway; and then there’s black tragedy at the hands of an angry and racist white mob—literally how the Candyman legend was born: his having fallen in love with a white woman and getting her pregnant; and of course there’s a racist police system—more than once, stories are told about how black residents of the Cabrini-Green housing projects would call 911 to report someone coming through the walls to kill them, but that no one would come help because of how “scared” they were to come into the ghetto—and it’s not until Helen is attacked in the projects while pursuing her research that the cops finally act. Racial indifference, economic disparity—they are old themes made new again. It’s ironic that William tells Anthony the legend of original Candyman Daniel Robitaille, a renowned artist hired by wealthy families to paint their portraits, and says, “You know how it goes: they love what we make, but not us.” He could’ve been talking about the very movie he was in, almost anticipating close-minded audiences to dismiss a movie with the full right to discuss genuine societal issues—something the horror genre has only been doing for the last hundred years—as “woke,” a term I’ve come to despise. What bullshit.

On the lighter side, Candyman is filled with all kinds of fun Easter eggs—homages to Clive Barker, whose short story, “The Forbidden,” originated the Candyman character, are peppered throughout, along with an unexpected but sweet homage, via Brianna’s surname, to genre legend Veronica Cartwright (Alien, Invasion of the Body Snatchers), who appeared in Farewell to the Flesh as Candyman’s great-granddaughter. (There’s also a pretty lame nod to Jurassic Park.) I won’t point them all out, as spotting them is part of the fun, but with Peele’s influence, they are plentiful, reminding the audience that, yes, this movie is to be taken seriously, but that it’s also okay to have a little fun with it.   

To loop back around on the Halloween comparison, my hope is that Peele et al. leave this newly resurrected franchise alone, as further exploration of this newborn concept may very well result in a bed-shit a la Halloween Kills. Like Halloween ’18, Candyman ’21 works better as a one-off companion to its lineage and doesn’t need any additional follow-ups to further explore its themes. Maybe I’m just resorting back to my home-base cynicism, since I didn’t have any faith that I would enjoy this new Candyman as much as I did, but it seems doubtful the same kind of risks can be taken in a sequel to further explore Candyman as a phenomenon without it buckling under the weight of its own ambition. After all, Candyman ’21 is the fourth time Candyman’s name has been called. Call him a fifth time and things could get painful.

LOVECRAFT COUNTRY (2020)

When Lovecraft Country was first announced by HBO, and the concept was loosely described as the stories and style of H.P. Lovecraft reimagined in the Jim Crow era to highlight the African-American experience, I was fully onboard. That Jordan Peele, director of Get Out and Us, was going to be an executive producer and spiritual consultant for the project was icing. Southern gothic storytelling has always been my jam, especially when it pertains to the horror genre, even if it’s so sadly underutilized. And with Lovecraft enjoying a mini resurgence thanks to Richard Stanley’s recent Color Out Of Space, his coming adaption The Dunwich Horror, and pop culture’s simmering infatuation with everything Cthulhu, it was the right time for someone big like HBO to get behind something prestigious like Lovecraft Country. Having read the source novel by Matt Ruff and now watched the series developed by Misha Green and produced by Peele and J.J. Abrams, I found myself both in awe of how beautifully made it was and baffled by the presentation of its story, both in structure and in tone.

Like the novel, the ten-episode series blurs the lines between a standard narrative and a very loose anthology. Each primary character, like Atticus (Jonathan Majors), Letitia (Jurnee Smollett), and Montrose (Michael K. Williams) each have their own mini arcs throughout the series, with some of them feeling, at least at the time, very standalone (like Letitia’s recently acquired 13-room Victorian house that just so happens to be haunted), yet all these arcs, somehow, directly or indirectly, tie into the main thrust of the story being told. This particular device required that the source story choose one of two options: give each character a similar story to maintain consistency but risk redundancy, or give them diverse stories to maintain dynamism but risk a schizophrenic outcome. Lovecraft Country chose the latter.

The season opener, “Sundown,” along with its immediate follow-up, firmly embraces Lovecraft’s roots, eagerly introducing the kinds of indescribable monsters that often dwelt in the darkest corners or other worlds from his stories. Episode three, “Holy Ghost,” the aforementioned haunted house arc, feels a little more traditional and really ups the gore factor, giving everything a sheen of (intended) pulp fiction storytelling. Episode four, “A History of Violence,” is a full-on ode to the Indiana Jones series, dropping the more horrific aspects in favor of an action-adventure aesthetic that easily could’ve played as a short serial in movie theaters on Saturday mornings during the 1950s. Lovecraft Country continues this trajectory of reinvention throughout its run, sometimes confidently selling its everchanging tone and sometimes falling victim to it. (I could also whine incessantly about all the changes made from the novel that I would consider to be unnecessary and trivial right down to haphazard – along with all the added graphic sex scenes because HBO gonna HBO – but no one ever likes talking to that person so I’ll abstain.)

What’s firmly preserved from the source novel is the African-American experience, which is appropriately, expectedly, and significantly the backbone of Lovecraft Country. What’s witnessed here is ugly, sometimes mind-bogglingly so, and, sadly, doesn’t conjure reflections of “remember when?” but more like realizations of “this is now.” This will no doubt turn off certain viewers (as it did critics) who felt that the infusion of real-life tragedies into this otherwise fictitious series feels exploitative and sensational, so if you’re one of those folks who think that our current society is racially hunky dory, then this series is…probably not for you. 

Each episode is beautifully directed, utilizing a soundtrack that includes an array of Black artists from the 1950s up to the modern era – and in an unusual but fitting move, in place of standard musical selections, the soundtrack also utilizes spoken word performances by prominent Black orators. The “Whitey’s on the Moon” sequence alone is one of the most powerful in the entire series – from the words being spoken to the images it plays over.

The ensemble’s performances are pretty terrific, with few weak spots. Smollett is especially terrific as she reinvents Letitia as more of a fire brand, but it works well in the adaptation’s version of her. Majors, too, presents Atticus as a bit more alpha male; his intensity and his almost-unrealistic physique turns him into an intimidating hero who is hampered with complex emotional baggage – all of which stem from the people he loves, the people who love him, and the people who are supposed to.

Lovecraft Country didn’t fully land with me following my first viewing, but I’ve been thinking about it since then, so obviously an impression was left behind, and I may just give this another spin at some point down the road. Naturally there will be literary folks out there even snobbier than I who turn their noses up at the way this series both acknowledges H.P. Lovecraft as a real and flawed person (along with one of his controversially-titled poems, “On the Creation of N-ggers”), as well as visualizes some of the monstrous archetypes he created, but the overall point of the series is what’s important, and that particular conversation is far more important than its source of inspiration. The below selection, lifted straight from the book and paraphrased in the opening episode, is not just the crux of the story, but a response to our current climate of cancel culture and our ongoing challenge of seeking ways to reconcile the fact that our heroes are sometimes not just unheroic but villainous inside their own minds:

“...stories are like people, Atticus. Loving them doesn’t make them perfect. You try to cherish their virtues and overlook their flaws. … I don’t get mad. Not at stories. They do disappoint me sometimes. Sometimes, they stab me in the heart.”

GET OUT (2016)

Within Get Out’s opening moments, writer/director Jordan Peele manages to homage both John Carpenter’s Halloween – as the camera glides across leafy, suburban streets and an obscured humanoid threat shadows an innocent person in the wrong place at the wrong time – and Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, as this same person remarks about how those same suburban streets are “like a hedge maze.” This opening concludes with a simply done but expertly executed sequence which doesn’t linger long enough for its suspense to grow tedious; it’s over before you fully realize it’s begun, and as you see this play out before you, you’re taken with the bizarre notion that not only are you about to watch a horror/thriller from one of television’s best and underrated comedians – but that the guy knows his genre shit.

When critical praise for Peele’s directorial debut began rolling in – and for an entirely different genre from which he was previously known – it was during these commendations that reviewers insisted on downplaying the different aspects of comedy that were still pretty prevalent in what was marketed as a straight horror/thriller. From the more obvious broader moments of white-meets-black-culture clash, to the severe black comedy aspects of the admittedly over-the-top twist, Get Out’s creator was smart enough to know that making a film as still inherently angry as it was would go over better so long as it could rely on these multi-layered approaches to humor. That’s something that only the comedy genre – and especially the black comedy sub-genre – allows. That’s its biggest strength: that it can still reflect the anger and fears and frustrations of its writer or director, but without sacrificing the good time and titillation that audiences still want to experience in the theater. If you’re watching Get Out and not recognizing it as a black comedy, then you’re risking your enjoyment. Yes, it’s a horror film, but it is a comedy as well – just one very different than what Peele and his comedian partner Keegan-Michael Key farmed so well during their successful run of Comedy Central’s Key & Peele.

Get Out, a sort of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? meets The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, exists in a post-Black Lives Matter and post-Trump world. Up to now, the stain of racism that will sadly always permeate throughout this country, had been dormant – not altogether extinct, but quiet. And then wave after wave of controversial police shootings began; and, like almost anything else in the era of Modern America, they became politicized. Liberals backed the victims; conservatives backed the police. It just became one more line drawn in the sand. And politicians seized on this. Trump fanned those flames and made hate speak socially acceptable. It’s no coincidence that hate groups have felt empowered following not just his victory on election day but since the earliest days of his presidency. As I write this, white supremacists are gathering – proudly – in New Orleans, bearing torches, to protest the removal of state symbols representing hatred and a “once”-divided nation. Drunken Texans are shouting slurs on beaches at Muslim families. Racist incidents are surging in schools. 

Schools! 

What the fuck is happening! 

For so long things weren’t racially perfect (nowhere near), but it was put back in the closet — only taken back out for special occasions or the random, isolated incident. But these days, it’s apparently not just okay to be a proud, outspoken racist — it’s your American duty. And those in the community who represent the target of this hate are speaking out against it. Everyone is finding their own outlet to do it. With Get Out, Jordan Peele is using his usual brand married to a horror approach — and if nothing else, the horror genre has proven time and time again that it can be used to tell (while disguising) the angriest stories told by the most frustrated filmmakers.

Some people – in their undying drive to become fake outraged via the Internet whenever they read something they don’t agree with — probably won’t like that, but this is a matter that has to be confronted if Get Out is to be fairly appraised and explain why it’s so relevant. [And the remainder of this paragraph gets into spoiler territory, so if you’re a Get Out virgin, then GET OUT…to the next section.] The idea behind Get Out – the crux behind the motivations of the Armitage family (I’m sensing another Carpenter reference there) – is absurd: the harvesting of strong and vibrant black men and women for their more desirable traits, with the leftovers being turned into soulless automatons serving their white owners in whatever ways they’ve been programmed. Taking that silliness from the film and examining the concept under the microscope of the real world, is it really that absurd? Society chooses to worship certain African Americans as athletes, as actors, as musicians. We adopt certain aspects of their culture and fashion and leave others behind. Sometimes we even elect them to political office so we can feel really good about ourselves and we can pretend that racism is that thing which died in the 1960s. (Yet we get annoyed that black Santa Clause decorations exist because THE REAL SANTA MIGHT BE OFFENDED.) But even as we shower our chosen few with adoration and celebrity worship, we discard the rest. We change the channel mid-news report about an unarmed black man or boy being shot by the police in a sketchy shooting. “I’m no racist, but,” begins the guy in your family who is obviously racist. “They’re not ALL bad, but,” begins the woman at your office who thinks they’re all bad. Get Out's message isn’t anything new, but it is conveying it in a different way. And the message is that racism hasn’t gone away — will probably never go away — and for all the time it’s here, those affected aren’t going to take it sitting down.

These days, in America, everyone is angry. I am, and you are. Even if you got the president you wanted, chances are good that you’re either feeling buyer’s remorse, or you were angry to begin with and voted for the orange Hail Mary hoping his magic wand would reverse everything you think is wrong with our country. But the thing to remember is you don’t have exclusivity on anger. No one does. Jordan Peele is allowed to be as angry as the rest of us, but while we all complain on the Internet behind avatars bearing anything other than our real faces and nicknames bearing anything other than what’s on our birth certificate, Peele is at least out there, first, contributing a solid title to the horror genre, but second, crafting something that kicks at the hornet’s nest in a way that’s both playful as well as furious. Though Get Out falls victim to predictability in certain areas and laziness in others, its uniqueness and bravery more than make up for it – and, above all, it wants to start a conversation that many of us aren’t ready to have.

THE TWILIGHT ZONE (2019): THE COMPLETE FIRST SEASON

This newest iteration of The Twilight Zone marks the third attempt at resurrecting the infamous science-fiction/horror brand in a short-form format since the original and still highly celebrated run from the 1950s-60s. Confined to CBS’ All Access streaming service instead of network television, the Jordan Peele-produced version is also the most adult, heaping doses of profanity and slightly graphic violence into the proceedings. For some reason, The Twilight Zone has been a tricky brand to keep going, and besides for HBO’s Tales from the Crypt, its initial run and its 1980s revival were the only horror anthologies to enjoy a successful run on television. The second revival of The Twilight Zone lasted only two seasons. It’s interesting why that would be, because, as any horror writer or director will tell you, there are no limits in the sci-fi/horror/fantasy genre. There are no rules or boundaries. Write the wackiest story you want, and so long as it has a “point”—something that ties back into the human condition or puts society under the microscope—then it’s already a success. The genre offers an infinite number of opportunities to tell an engaging story and yet so many of these short-form programs fail to catch fire. This newest version of the brand has been greenlit for a second season, so CBS definitely sees the potential, but so far this relaunch is off to a rocky start.

The nature of anthologies leads to pitting the one-off stories against each other. Which one was the best, the worst, the funniest, the scariest? Which one had the best twist, the best cast, the best special effects? Similar titles like Creepshow or Tales from the Darkside can attest to this—ask a horror fan, and everyone has their favorite segment. Me? I’ve always been more of a Creepshow 2 person, and I pretty much get @-punched in the face every time I say that. The Twilight Zone 2019 is no different, offering a very different collection of episodes made with different sensibilities and all vying for a different experience. Some of them, like the show’s opener, “The Comedian” starring Kumail Nanjiani, in which a comedian makes your classic deal with the devil (an understated Tracy Morgan), is your simple monkey’s paw morality tale (and the strongest episode of the series). Some of the other episodes, however, like “Replay,” about a black mother and son using a magical video camera to keep going back in time to avoid being harassed and killed by a racist cop, or “Not All Men,” in which a meteor crashes to earth and turns the world’s men into violent, sex-crazed assholes, obviously have something to say about the dangers of living in the modern age if you’re an underrepresented demographic. 

Many fans have been vocal about the overly political agendas of this new series revival, and I agree with them, but only to a certain extent. As confirmed by Rod Serling himself and those who knew him in the supplements included on the home video release, The Twilight Zone’s mission was to tackle issues like these and present them as allegories as a means of deconstructing the human experience. The original run dealt very much with issues that were prevalent during the 1950s, like the McCarthy communist hearings and the constant fears of nuclear war. Still, this new revival is intent on making nearly every episode political or societal in at least some way, and more than one episode is a thinly veiled stab at Trump (which should surprise exactly no one). “The Wunderkind,” starring John Cho and everyone’s favorite little boy Jacob Tremblay, is an update on one of The Twilight Zone’s most famous stories, “It’s a Good Life,” about a godlike six-year-old boy with the power to create anything he wants. Resurrecting that concept, “The Wunderkind” is about an eleven-year-old who mounts a successful run for the presidency, becoming corrupted by power and turning into a jerk, and surrounding himself by yes men who do whatever he wants. (Tremblay even wears the fat red tie and everything. It’s not exactly subtle.)

This newest revival isn’t a total lost cause, as a handful of episodes manage to evoke that classic Twilight Zone feeling (I’ll come back to “The Comedian” again, because that episode nails it). Having said that, if CBS want this series to enjoy a lasting run, showrunners Peele and Simon Kinberg should consider dialing down the political and societal natures of the episodes at least to tolerable levels. The best episodes of the original The Twilight Zone, of course, had something to say about the human condition and that should in no way stop, but they also didn’t have to beat their audience with a hammer to make their point. The aforementioned “Replay” is one of the least subtle allegories I’ve seen in the horror genre since Joe Dante’s Iraq War satire “Homecoming” for Showtime’s first season of Masters of Horror, and even though it ends in an obviously unreal landscape, it still feels too much like real life and not like the escapism the audience was hoping to lose themselves in.

The supplements included on the home video release are thankfully rich in content, especially the featurette on the first disc entitled “Remembering Rod Serling,” which is not just the best supplement on this release, but essential viewing for all aspiring and seasoned writers. Intimate footage of Serling talking about his approach to writing, both for the show and in his everyday life, gets at the heart of what the best writers can do and what their responsibilities are as people with the ability to tell a story. (He also very clearly states that the competitive nature of writing during his era ensured that only the best stories made it to the limelight, so I have a feeling he’d run screaming from Amazon’s e-book search results.) During this segment, Serling’s daughter shares a haunting story in which her father witnessed the decapitation of a fellow solder during World War II after he was struck by a care parcel thrown from a helicopter, which would eerily foretell the tragedy experienced during the shooting of John Landis’ segment in 1983’s The Twilight Zone: The Movie. This five-disc release also includes all ten episodes in alternate black and white versions to amp up that classic Twilight Zone feeling.

If nothing else, this newest take on The Twilight Zone will expose newer audiences to the older series, which has aged beautifully (and which is available on Blu-ray from CBS). Top talent behind and in front of the camera has resulted in a very okay first season, and Peele admirably steps in for Serling as the new mysterious “Narrator”, but if this brand is to stick around, it needs to strive harder to nail that Twilight Zone feeling, dial down the agenda, and only bring the best possible stories into the limelight. As Serling himself said, if writing was easy, everyone would be doing it. I hope season two embraces that. 

[Reprinted from Daily Grindhouse.]

US (2019)

At this point, Jordan Peele is only two films into a career as a director, and already he’s successfully established his own brand – as easily, or even more easily than M. Night Shymalan did when he debuted with The Sixth Sense all those years ago. Effortlessly, Peele has established what a Jordan Peele film looks like, feels like, and what it’s about. This branding, of sorts, becomes apparent as early as the opening credits for his newest film, Us, over which plays an unusual, vocal-driven piece by composer Michael Abels. However, Peele isn’t interested in regurgitating his race-based runaway film debut, Get Out. This time around, despite a similar satirical look at American culture as it pertains to wealth disparities as well as its “work hard/play hard” mentality, Us’s story is more comfortable rooting itself in a higher-concept, almost Twilight Zone-inspired environment. What that means is US more comfortably resides in the horror genre, which, I would think, makes it a bit more accessible to viewers put off by his race-driven debut.

Get Out, while injecting a healthy amount of humor into the horror, is an angry film. Though the anger is well-disguised, it delved heavily into matters regarding racism, and more specifically, cultural appropriation. Us packs more of a visceral punch, leaning more on violence and gore gags than Get Out did, but without rendering it as strictly pulpy but ultimately empty horror. Us has every bit a purpose as Get Out, but it strives toward different goals in presenting that purpose to the audience. 

If you’ve seen Us and delved into the subtext contained within, by now, you’ve likely seen interviews with Peele in which he breaks down the film’s most mooted line of dialogue: when Adelaide Wilson (Lupita Nyong’o) asks her family’s terrifying doppelgangers who they are, her shadow double, named Red, replies simply, “We’re Americans.” What may sound like an abstract answer is a pretty blunt statement from Peele about the origin of his screen monsters. They don’t hail from a distant land, or planet, or another dimension. They are flesh and blood and they exist in the same country as “normal” Americans. They just happen to exist below it instead of on its surface. (I’m assuming that the title Us is a play on “the U.S.”)

Even if you’re not interested in subtext (and Peele’s films are designed to be at least engaging and thrilling if you’re not), Us still packs a hell of a horror wallop. The opening sequence in which a young Adelaide wanders off from her drunken father and across a nighttime beach with a lightning-infused sky behind her feels wrong, but we don’t yet know why. And once she ends up in an isolated carnival house of mirrors where she encounters her equally young double for the first time, it’s unnerving, but again, without relying on anything obviously scary. And as for the doppelgangers’ first long-shot appearance, forget it: it’s fucking eerie, especially when Adelaide asks her husband, Gabe (Winston Duke), what’s out in the yard of their vacation home, and he responds, in total befuddlement, “It’s…a family.”

Putting the horror aside, Us is also unexpectedly poignant and beautiful at times, especially during the final act when Adelaide has her final encounter with her subterranean double, and in an unexpected moment of connection between them, Red tells Adelaide, “If it weren't for you, I never would've danced at all.” In spite of the horror we’ve seen Red and her brood inflict upon Adelaide and her family over the course of Us, we’re still taken aback by this moment of…what is it? Empathy? Understanding? Appreciation? Maybe resentment, as Adelaide dancing on the surface of the earth was the thing that made Red realize just how empty her existence really is?

And, lastly, there’s the humor. As expected, based on Peele’s comedy beginnings and the light touch he administered throughout Get Out, Us also manages to be very funny at times, with Winston Duke’s Gabe stealing nearly every scene he’s in. Tim Heidecker, from the insane Tim And Eric’s Awesome Show, Great Job, and Elizabeth Moss (Mad Men), appear as friends of the Wilson family, which leads to some amusing exchanges between the two, getting a lot of morbid mileage from what appears to be a near-loveless marriage. (That their vacation home is much more opulent than the Wilsons’ is a sly comment on wealth disparity.)

Us is absolutely no sophomore slump. Every bit as worthy as Peele’s celebrated and critically adored debut, and perhaps better, Us is horrific, poignant, and somehow hilarious, solidifying Peele’s place as a fresh new voice in the genre. Whether or nor you’re on board with Peele’s approach to the genre, his is a voice that the genre desperately needs right now, if nothing more than to remind critics and audiences that the genre is capable of so much more than what we often get -- more importantly: that it’s just as deserving of the celebration and conversation as more mainstream genres. 

[Reprinted from the Daily Grindhouse.]