Review: Apocalypse Now Redux (dir. by Francis Ford Coppola)

Posted on May 16, 2026 by Arleigh

“The horror… the horror…” — Col. Walter Kurtz

There is a specific kind of cinematic fever dream that only war, isolation, and a touch of madness can produce, and Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now remains its gold standard. Co-written by Coppola and John Milius (the latter a colorful, larger-than-life figure in 1970s Hollywood), the film’s screenplay originally leaned harder into Milius’s romantic vision of martial will before Coppola reshaped it into something more hallucinatory and morally ambiguous. When we talk about the Redux version, released in 2001, twenty-two years after the original, we are not just revisiting that fever dream; we are plunging back into an even more hallucinatory, bloated, and revealing cut of the material.

At over three hours and twenty minutes, Apocalypse Now Redux is both a gift and a test of endurance. For those who only know the theatrical cut, this version feels less like a director’s tweak and more like unearthing a lost, more indulgent diary entry from Coppola’s own heart of darkness. The core remains the same: Captain Benjamin Willard (Martin Sheen), a morally hollowed-out assassin, is sent upriver during the Vietnam War to terminate Colonel Walter Kurtz (Marlon Brando), a once-brilliant Green Beret who has gone rogue and set himself up as a demi-god in the Cambodian jungle. The structure is a loose but unmistakable adaptation of Joseph Conrad’s classic 1899 novella Heart of Darkness, transposing Conrad’s grim critique of Belgian colonialism onto America’s own imperial overreach in Southeast Asia. Conrad’s journey up the Congo River becomes the Navy patrol boat’s crawl up the Nùng River, with each stop revealing a new layer of absurdity, violence, and spiritual decay.

The most immediate thing to address is what Redux adds, because those additions fundamentally alter the rhythm of the film. The theatrical cut is a lean, relentless descent. Redux is a meandering, hypnotic, and sometimes frustratingly pensive journey. Several major extended sequences distinguish this cut from the original. The first involves the Playboy Playmates. In the theatrical cut, we see them briefly at a chaotic USO show. In Redux, we get an extended sequence where Willard’s crew trades a canister of fuel for two hours with the stranded bunnies after their helicopter runs low on fuel. Later comes the brutal, psychedelic chaos of the Do Lung Bridge, which is extended in Redux to emphasize the utter breakdown of command and reality. And finally, deep in the journey, after surviving a tiger attack, Willard and the crew stumble upon the French rubber plantation, where a family of colonial planters refuses to leave their dying world. Each of these sequences grinds the forward momentum in different ways—the bunnies through desperate transaction, the bridge through absurd chaos, the plantation through nostalgic rot.

But to truly appreciate what Coppola is doing in Redux, you have to stop thinking of the Nùng River as a simple journey and start seeing it as a vertical descent—a layered, infernal funnel where each stop corresponds to a different circle of moral decay, much like the structure of Dante Alighieri’s Inferno, the first part of his epic narrative poem The Divine Comedy. The patrol boat is not just transport; it is a cramped, filthy ferry crossing the River Styx, and the further Willard and his crew go, the thinner the veil between civilization and savagery becomes. The Redux version, with its extended sequences, actually sharpens this Dantesque geometry rather than diluting it, because each added stop becomes another hellish layer, another specific flavor of corruption rotting under the jungle canopy. And importantly, the order of these stops tells a specific story of descent. Willard first encounters raw, commodified desire at the USO show, then plunges into the absurd mechanical chaos of the Do Lung Bridge, and finally drifts into the refined, decaying nostalgia of the French plantation—each circle deeper, stranger, and more spiritually corrosive than the last.

Consider the first major stop after leaving the relative order of the Delta: the extended Playboy Playmate sequence. In Dante’s Inferno, the early circles punish the lustful and the gluttonous—sins of appetite and passion that still acknowledge desire, however distorted. This stop is the hell of commodified desire, and it functions as the upper circle of Redux’s inferno. The bunnies are not seductresses; they are air-dropped promises of home, stranded and forced to barter their presence for fuel. The crew’s transaction—a canister of gas for two hours of the bunnies’ company—is transactional depravity laid bare. There is nothing refined here. The soldiers who swarm the boat are not conquering heroes; they are starving ghosts pawing at a mirage of femininity. The corruption is the commodification of intimacy, the way the war machine grinds up even fantasy into a trade good. In Dante’s Inferno, the lustful are eternally swept by winds, never at rest. Here, the winds are helicopter rotors, and no one finds peace. This stop still has energy, still has motion—it is desperate, ugly, and pathetic, but not yet defeated. It is the first circle: sin as transaction.

Further upriver, deeper into the jungle, you hit the second major stop in Redux’s order: the Do Lung Bridge. In Dante’s structure, the middle and lower circles punish the violent, the fraudulent, and the sowers of discord—those whose sins actively tear apart the fabric of order. The bridge is a sustained vision of the eighth circle—the Malebolge, the evil ditches of the fraudulent. This is the hell of absurd, endless combat, and it sits far below the bunnies’ desperate lust because it has abandoned desire altogether. The bridge is supposed to be a strategic point, but no one in command knows who is fighting whom or even which side holds which trench. Soldiers fire blindly into the dark; engineers build and rebuild sections of bridge that are destroyed every night by an invisible enemy. The wounded groan, a psychedelic light show of flares and tracers turns the sky into a flickering carnival of death, and a dazed soldier informs Willard that this place has been “crazy” for days. There is no front line, no objective, only endless, repetitive, pointless construction and destruction. The corruption here is systemic: the war has become an autopilot nightmare where violence generates nothing but more violence. Unlike the bunnies, who still want something, the soldiers at the bridge don’t even know what they are doing anymore. They simply perform the same broken task for eternity. Willard’s only reaction is a numb observation that he should inform his superiors, but he never will. The bridge is the point where any remaining belief in order or purpose dissolves into white noise. It is the second circle: sin as automation.

Then, after the bridge’s chaos, the crew drifts into the third major stop: the French rubber plantation. In Dante’s Inferno, the deepest circles before the frozen center punish heresy and treachery—sins of the intellect and will, where belief becomes a cage. The plantation functions exactly like this. It is the hell of nostalgia and colonial rot, a step deeper than the bridge’s chaos because it has calcified into ideology. After the raw transaction of the bunnies and the absurd violence of the bridge, the crew stumbles upon a walled pocket of denial. Here, the French family sips wine, argues geopolitics, and pretends the war is a tragic inconvenience rather than a total collapse. This is the hell of the static dead—people who refuse to acknowledge that their world has already ended. The rubber trees themselves, planted in neat, tyrannical rows, symbolize extractive cruelty made mundane. Willard sleeps with a widowed French woman, a moment of hollow lust that feels more like a funeral rite than passion. The corruption here is polite, intellectual, and almost seductive—but it is still decay wearing a starched shirt. Unlike the bunnies’ squalid desperation, the plantation has manners. Unlike the bridge’s chaotic noise, the plantation has quiet arguments. That makes it more insidious, and therefore deeper in the infernal funnel. This is the third circle: sin as denial.

By the time Willard finally reaches Kurtz’s compound, he has descended past all these preparatory circles into the ninth and final circle of Dante’s Inferno—Cocytus, the frozen lake of treachery, where Satan himself is trapped in ice. Kurtz is no longer a man but a fixed point of absolute darkness. His compound is a Cambodian nightmare of severed heads, pagan rituals, and whispered monologues. Unlike the bunnies’ desperate transaction, the bridge’s absurd chaos, or the plantation’s nostalgic denial, Kurtz’s hell is complete stillness. He has murdered and been worshipped for it. He has rejected every prior layer—commerce, command, colonialism—and arrived at a nihilistic truth: that horror is the only moral absolute. Willard’s task is not to understand Kurtz but to kill him, and in doing so, to become him. That is the final descent: not into fire, but into the ice of total moral withdrawal. The Redux version emphasizes this by making Kurtz more verbose but also more inert. He is trapped not by chains, but by his own unbearable clarity. The three stops before him—the bunnies, the bridge, the plantation—are all failed attempts to build meaning in the jungle. Kurtz is the place where meaning dies entirely.

What remains unchanged, across both cuts, is the technical majesty. Vittorio Storaro’s cinematography still haunts the soul. The opening shot—a napalm-blasted jungle dissolving into the slow rotation of a ceiling fan in a Saigon hotel room, with The Doors’ “The End” whispering over the soundtrack—is one of the great tone-setters in cinema history. The Redux cut luxuriates in these images even longer, letting the heat and humidity seep through the screen. The attack on a Vietnamese sampan, where an innocent family is slaughtered in a burst of trigger-happy panic, remains devastating. Laurence Fishburne’s young, wide-eyed Clean, Dennis Hopper’s jittery, sycophantic photojournalist (a role that feels like pure id), and Robert Duvall’s iconic Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore, who loves the smell of napalm in the morning, all deliver performances that feel less like acting and more like channeling. Duvall’s surf-obsessed madman is even more absurdly perfect in Redux because the added length makes his brief screentime feel like a welcome blast of cold air before the suffocating final act.

Which brings us back to Marlon Brando as Kurtz. Here is where Redux both helps and hurts. The theatrical cut gives Kurtz a mythic, almost abstract presence—shadowy, whispering, half-sculpted. Brando showed up overweight and unprepared, so Coppola shot him mostly in shadow. In Redux, those shadows remain, but the added material includes a longer, more discursive monologue where Kurtz reads from a Time magazine article about the war and rambles about the horror of administering lethal injections to polio-stricken villagers. It is more Brando, which is never nothing, but it also demystifies the monster. The terror of Kurtz in the original cut is that he is an idea, a reflection of Willard’s own potential. In Redux, he becomes a sweaty, slightly boring philosopher. The famous “the horror, the horror” death scene still lands, but getting there feels like you have already been swimming in his rhetoric for too long. The added footage makes Kurtz more human but less terrifying, which may or may not be an improvement depending on your tolerance for Brando’s mumbling.

The casual viewer might find Redux interminable. Let’s be honest: three and a half hours of madness, helicopters, and nihilism is a lot. There are stretches in the plantation sequence where you might check your phone. The pacing is deliberately, almost arrogantly slow. Coppola is not trying to entertain you; he is trying to drown you. And in those moments of slog—when the French family drones on about geopolitics, when the bunnies’ desperation overstays its welcome, when the bridge’s chaos becomes repetitive rather than shocking—you might be tempted to declare the whole Redux experiment a failure. But here is the uncomfortable truth that separates Apocalypse Now Redux from mere indulgent director’s cuts: the film’s occasional sluggishness, its bloated digressions, its refusal to maintain a clean narrative spine, are not flaws so much as they are the correct representation of the very thing the film’s themes and narrative ideas were trying to explore. This is a movie about a journey into moral rot, about the collapse of linear purpose into circular nightmare, about men who have stared too long into the abyss and lost the ability to tell a clean story. Why should the film itself be clean? The theatrical cut is a masterpiece of compression, yes—but compression is an act of control, and Apocalypse Now is ultimately about the loss of control. The Redux version, for all its unevenness, is the more honest artifact because it refuses to polish the madness into neat dramatic beats. The original film is a nightmare you cannot wake from; Redux is the insomnia that precedes it, the sweaty, bored, terrifying awareness that there is no ending, only more jungle.

This is why, despite its longer running time and the areas where the pacing sometimes slogs through, the film overall succeeds as not just a fever dream of the filmmaker, writers, and actors who survived its legendary production—the typhoons, the heart attacks, Brando’s chaos, Sheen’s breakdown—but as the correct representation of the very thing the film’s themes and narrative ideas were trying to explore. Apocalypse Now is about the impossibility of remaining sane in an insane environment. The Redux cut, by refusing to be efficiently sane, becomes a more immersive simulation of that condition. The theatrical cut tells you about the horror; the Redux cut makes you live inside its tedious, exhausting, occasionally boring reality. And boredom is part of horror, too—the long stretches between atrocities, the waiting, the pointless arguments, the nights that won’t end. Coppola, Milius, Sheen, Brando, and everyone else who survived the Philippines shoot did not emerge with a clean story. They emerged with scars, footage, and a kind of shell-shocked awe. The Redux version honors that survival by refusing to pretend the experience was anything other than a mess. It is the director’s cut as wound, not as polish.

For the obsessive, for those who want to see the entire messy, unfinished vision behind one of the great artistic catastrophes (the documentary Hearts of Darkness is essential companion viewing), Redux is invaluable. It reveals that the original 1979 cut was a miracle of editing—a salvage job that turned a troubled production into a masterpiece. Redux is the rough draft of that miracle. It has a bloated, novelistic quality, more concerned with atmosphere than narrative efficiency. As a loose adaptation of Heart of Darkness, it is oddly more faithful than the original cut—because Conrad’s novella is also meandering, digressive, and filled with colonial asides that do not advance the plot. But faithfulness is not the same as greatness.

The Redux version is a flawed, overstuffed, hypnotic masterpiece that sometimes trips over its own ambition. It earns its runtime not through tight storytelling, but through sheer, oppressive mood. And in the end, that is the point. You are not supposed to leave Apocalypse Now feeling satisfied. You are supposed to leave feeling like you have stared into something ancient and ugly. The Redux version just makes you stare longer, dragging you down through each Dantesque circle—from the desperate, transactional depravity of the Playboy bunnies, through the absurd, autopilot chaos of the Do Lung Bridge, past the polite, rotting nostalgia of the French plantation, and finally into the frozen stillness of Kurtz’s compound—until there is nothing left but the ice and the horror. And in those moments when the film slows to a crawl, when you check your watch and wonder why we are still at the plantation, that is not a failure of art. That is the art itself, reminding you that hell is not a nonstop carnival of screams. Hell is also a long, boring dinner with people who refuse to die. Whether that is luxury or punishment is for you to decide. But Apocalypse Now Redux succeeds precisely because it trusts you to sit with that discomfort and recognize it for what it is: the truth.

Late Night Retro Television Review: Freddy’s Nightmares 1.12 “The End of the World”

Posted on October 10, 2025 by Lisa Marie Bowman

Welcome to Late Night Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Fridays, I will be reviewing Freddy’s Nightmares, a horror anthology show which ran in syndication from 1988 to 1990. The entire series can be found on Plex!

This week, dreaming saves the world.

Episode 1.12 “The End of the World”

(Dir by Jonathan R. Betuel, originally aired on January 15th, 1989)

Weird episode.

The first half of the episode featured Mary Kohnert as Amy Collins, a young woman who starts to have dreams about the past and discovers that she can change reality depending on what she does in her dream. Most of the dreams center around the accidental death of her mother. Amy sets about to save her mother’s life but she discovers that changing the past will always lead to unforeseen consequences.

Unfortunately, her psychiatrist (George Lazenby) rats her out to the CIA and Amy is soon being forced to work for the U.S. military. When she senses that a soldier is planning on launching a nuclear attack and plunging the world into war, Amy is forced to do a mind-meld of sorts with him. She watches as the army manages to break into his bunker and gun him down right before he launches the nukes.

I can’t complain about a show trying something different and I actually found it interesting how the two stories were totally different in style and tone. The second story featured a dream about a nuclear war that was pretty disturbing. On TV, Gumby and his horse melted from the atomic heat. That said, this episode suffered from the same flaw as many of the episode of Freddy’s Nightmares, in that it really didn’t have the budget necessary to achieve what it was hoping to accomplish.

Still, who can forget the image of Freddy Krueger riding a nuclear missile in the style of Slim Pickens at the end of Dr. Strangelove?

Along with having an interesting premise, this one also had some interesting guest stars. Along with George Lazenby and Gumby, Walter Gotell, Andrew Prine, and Albert Hall all made appearances. I guess when Freddy Krueger invites you, you don’t say no.

Lisa Marie Reviews An Oscar Nominee: Apocalypse Now (dir by Francis Ford Coppola)

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Lisa Marie Bowman

1979’s Apocalypse Now reimagines the Vietnam War as pop art.

Jim Morrison sings The End in the background as slow-motion helicopters pass in front of a lush jungle. The jungle erupts into flame while in a dingy hotel room, Captain Benjamin Willard (Martin Sheen) gets drunks, practices his karate moves, and smashes a mirror before collapsing to the floor in tears. The next morning, the hung-over and bandaged Willard ends up at a U.S. military base where he has a nice lunch with Lt. General Corman (G.D. Spradlin) and Col. Lucas (Harrison Ford) and a nearly silent man wearing an undone tie. Willard is asked if it’s true that he assassinated an enemy colonel. Willard replies that he did not and that the operation was classified, proving that he can both lie and follow military protocol. Willard is told that a Col. Walter Kurtz (Marlon Brando) has gone rogue and his mission is to go into Cambodia and terminate his command with “extreme” prejudice. It’s a famous scene that features G.D. Spradlin delivering a brilliant monologue about good and evil and yet it’s often missed that Willard is getting his orders from Roger Corman and George Lucas.

(Roger Corman was the mentor of director Francis Ford Coppola while the pre-Star Wars George Lucas was Coppola’s business partner. Indeed, Apocalypse Now was originally somewhat improbably planned to be a George Lucas film.)

Up the river, Willard heads on a patrol boat that is populated with characters who could have come out of an old World War II service drama. Chief (Albert Hall) is tough and no-nonsense. Lance (Sam Bottoms) is the goofy comic relief who likes to surf. Clean (Laurence Fishburne) is the kid who is obviously doomed from the minute we first see him. Chef (Fredric Forrest) is the overage, tightly-wound soldier who just wants to find mangoes in the jungle and who worries that, if he dies in a bad place, his soul won’t be able to find Heaven. The Rolling Stones are heard on the boat’s radio. Soldiers on the other patrol boats moon the boat and toss incendiary devices on the roof. It’s like a frat prank war in the middle of a war.

Colonel Bill Kilgore (Robert Duvall) is a badass calvary officer whose helicopter raids are legendary amongst the enemy and a dedicated surfer who tries to turn every night into the equivalent of an AIP Beach Party film. He’s a brilliant warrior who speaks with Malibu accent (“Charlie don’t surf!”) and who doesn’t flinch when a bomb goes off near him. “I love the smell a napalm in the morning,” he says and, for a few moments, you really wish the film would just abandon Willard so we could spend more time with Kilgore. “Some day this war is going to end,” he says with a reassuring nod, showing a non-neurotic attitude that is the opposite of Kurtz’s. Willard says that he could tell Kilgore was going to get through the war without even a scratch and it’s true. Kilgore doesn’t try to rationalize or understand things. He just accepts the reality and adjusts. He’s a true surfer.

The film grows progressively more surreal the closer the boat heads up the river and gets closer to Cambodia. A USO show turns violent as soldiers go crazy at the sight of the Playboy Bunnies, dressed in denim outfits and cowboy hats and twirling cap guns like the love interest in a John Wayne western. A visit to a bridge that is built every day and blown up every night is a neon-lit, beautiful nightmare. Who’s the commanding officer? No one knows and no one cares.

The closer Willard gets to Kurtz, the stranger the world gets. Fog covers the jungles. A tiger leaps out of nowhere. Dennis Hopper shows up as a photojournalist who rambles as if Billy from Easy Rider headed over to Vietnam instead of going to Mardi Gras. Scott Glenn stands silently in front of a temple, surrounded by dead bodies that feel as if they could have been brought over from an Italian cannibal film. Kurtz, when he shows up, is an overweight, bald behemoth who talks in riddles and who hardly seem to be the fearsome warrior that he’s been described as being. “The horror, the horror,” he says at one point in one of the few moments that links Apocalypse Now to its inspiration, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.

Directed by near-communist Francis Ford Coppola and written by the unapologetically right-wing John Milius, Apocalypse Now is actually less about the reality of Vietnam and more about how the images of the war shaped pop culture the world over. It’s a reminder that Vietnam was known for being the first television war and that counterculture was not just made up of dropouts but also of writers, actors, and directors. Kurtz may say that Willard’s been sent by grocery store clerks but actually, he’s been sent by the B-movie producers who first employed and mentored the directors and the actors who would eventually become the mainstays of the New Hollywood. The film subverts many classic war film cliches but, at the same time, it stays true to others. Clean dying while listening to a tape recording of his mother telling him not to get shot and to come home safe is the type of manipulative, heart-tugging moment that could have appeared in any number of World War II-era films. And while Coppola has always said the film was meant to be anti-war, Col. Kilgore remains the most compelling character. Most viewers would probably happily ride along with Kilgore while he flies over Vietnam and plays Wagner. The striking images of Vietnam — the jungle, the explosions, the helicopters flying through the air — stay in the mind far more than the piles of dead bodies that appear in the background.

It’s a big, messy, and ultimately overwhelming film and, while watching it, it’s hard not to get the feeling that Coppola wasn’t totally sure what he was really trying to say. It’s a glorious mess, full of stunning visuals, haunting music, and perhaps the best performance of Robert Duvall’s legendary career. The film is too touched with genius to not be watchable but how one reacts overall to the film will probably depend on which version you see.

The original version, which was released in 1979 and was nominated for Best Picture, is relentless with its emphasis on getting up the river and finding Kurtz. Willard obsesses on Kurtz and really doesn’t have much to do with the other people on the boat. It gives the story some much-needed narrative momentum but it also makes Kurtz into such a legendary badass that it’s hard not to be disappointed when Willard actually meets him. You’re left to wonder how, if Kurtz has been living in the jungle and fighting a brutal and never-ending guerilla war against the communists, he’s managed to gain so much weight. Brando, who reportedly showed up on set unprepared and spent days improvising dialogue, gives a bizarre performance and it’s hard to view the Kurtz we meet as being the Kurtz we’ve heard about. As strong as the film is, it’s hard not to be let down by who Kurtz ultimately turns out to be.

In 2001 and 2019, Coppola released two more versions of the film, Redux and The Final Cut. These versions re-inserted a good deal of footage that was edited out of the original cut. Most of that footage deals with Willard dealing with the crew on the boat and it’s easy to see why it was cut. The scenes of Willard bonding with the crew feel out of character for both Willard and the rest of the crew. A scene where Willard arranges for Clean, Lance, and Chef to spend time with the Playboy bunnies seems to go on forever and features some truly unfortunate acting. Worst of all, Redux totally ruins Kilgore’s “I love the smell of napalm in the morning” monologue by having Willard suddenly steal his surf board. Again, it’s out of character for Willard and it actually feels a bit disrespectful to Duvall’s performance to suddenly turn Kilgore into a buffoon.

But then there are moments that do work. I actually like the lengthy French Plantation scene. By the time Willard, Lance, and Chef stumble into the plantation, the journey upriver has gotten so surreal that it makes a strange sort of sense that they would run into a large French family arguing politics while a clown tries to keep everyone distracted. The new versions of the film are undeniably disjointed but they also shift the focus off of finding Kurtz and place it more on Willard discovering how weird things are getting in Vietnam. As such, it’s less of a disappointment when Kurtz actually shows up. Much as with the French Plantation scene, the journey has become so weird that Kurtz being overweight and pretentious feels somehow appropriate.

What all the versions of the film have in common is that they’re all essentially a neon-lit dream of pop cultural horror. Is Apocalypse Now a horror film? Critic Kim Newman argued that it owed a lot to the genre. Certainly, that’s the case when Willard reaches the temple and finds himself surrounded by corpses and and detached heads. Even before that, though, there are elements of horror. The enemy is always unseen in the jungle and, when they attack, they do so quickly and without mercy. In a scene that could almost have come from a Herzog film, the boat is attacked with toy arrows until suddenly, out of nowhere, someone throws a very real spear. Until he’s revealed, Kurtz is a ghostly figure and Willard is the witch hunter, sent to root him out of his lair and set his followers on fire. If the post-60s American horror genre was shaped by the images coming out of Vietnam then Apocalypse Now definitely deserves to be considered, at the very least, horror-adjacent.

Apocalypse Now was controversial when it was released. (It’s troubled production had been the talk of Hollywood for years before Coppola finally finished his film.) It was nominated for Best Picture but lost to the far more conventional Kramer vs Kramer. Robert Duvall was the film’s sole acting nominee but he lost the award to Melvyn Douglas’s turn in Being There. Douglas was very good in Being There and I imagine giving him the Oscar was also seen as a way of honoring his entire career. That said, Duvall’s performance was amazing. In his relatively brief screen time, Duvall somehow managed to take over and ground one of the most unruly films ever made. The Oscar definitely should have gone to him.

As for the film itself, all three versions, flaws and all, are classics. It’s a film that proves that genius can be found in even the messiest of productions.

Retro Television Review: Miami Vice 2.13 “Definitely Miami”

Posted on May 6, 2024 by Lisa Marie Bowman

Welcome to Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Mondays, I will be reviewing Miami Vice, which ran on NBC from 1984 to 1989. The entire show can be purchased on Prime!

Things get weird this week.

Episode 2.13 “Definitely Miami”

(Dir by Rob Cohen, originally aired on January 10th, 1986)

This week’s episode of Miami Vice is all about heat.

Seriously, it literally starts with a shot of a solar flares erupting off the surface of the sun. The camera then pulls away, letting us see what the sun looks like a cloudless blue sky. Finally, we find ourselves in Miami, where the sky is clear and a heat wave is raging. The camera focuses on the beads of sweat forming on skin. Every pastel shirt is stained with sweat and everyone is wearing sunglasses. When a drug dealer drives out to a quarry to meet connection, the heat seems to radiate out of the screen. When he’s shot and killed by Charlie Basset (Ted Nugent — yes, the musician and gun enthusiast), the dust that rises up looks like smoke rising from a burning planet.

Sonny and Rico are working undercover as Burnett and Cooper, hanging out at a hotel pool and complaining about the heat. Their target is Sergio Clemente (Roger Pretto) but Sonny is actually more interested in Callie (Arielle Dombasle), a beautiful blonde who he spots laying by the pool. Callie sees Sonny watching her and brings him a drink. Sonny introduces himself as Sonny Burnett.

Clemente is willing to turn himself in but only if he can see his sister, Maria (Kamala Lopez), and know that she’s still alive. Maria testified against her brother at a trial and is currently in the witness protecting program. Joe Dalva (Albert Hall), an arrogant Department of Justice official, is willing to bring Maria to Clemente, despite the fact that Maria indicates that Clemente used to sexually abuse her. Castillo thinks that it’s a terrible idea and tries to use a decoy. In the end, the government orders Castillo to do what Dalva wants. Castillo stands in a corner and stares down at the ground, which viewers of the show know is something Castillo does whenever he knows just how badly things are going to turn out. When the meeting finally happens, Tubbs, Castillo, and Davla can only watch as Maria pulls a knife and stabs her brother to death.

Sonny is not there to see Clemente die. Callie has told him that her husband is physically abusive and she wants Sonny — as Burnett — to meet him in a quarry, make a drug deal with him, and then kill him. Sonny suspects that he’s being set up and he’s right. Callie’s husband is Charlie and he only hits her when she tells him to. Callie seduces drug dealers and then Charlie kills them. Sonny, however, is smart enough to bring Zito with him to the quarry. During a shoot out, Charlie ends up dead. While the police dig up the quarry and find body after body, Sonny goes to the beach so that he can arrest Callie. When Sonny approaches Callie, she’s making a sand castle that looks exactly like the quarry. At first, Callie thinks that Sonny is Charlie but then she forces herself to smile when she sees that Charlie is dead. She assumes Sonny will be her new partner. Instead, Sonny calls in a police helicopter and Callie is taken into custody by two cops. Callie flirts with one of the cops while she’s being led to the helicopter.

And the sun continues to burn in the sky….

This was an odd episode, one that put far more emphasis on vivid and sometimes surreal imagery than it did on telling a coherent story. That’s not a complaint, of course. This episode had a dream-like intensity to it that I really appreciated. It was weird but entertaining, with the grinning Ted Nugent popping up like a gleefully evil goblin. Sonny is targeted because Callie thinks that he’s a drug dealer when he’s actually a cop. The idea of Sonny being able to maintain his undercover identity despite having personally arrested or killed a countless number of Miami drug dealers has always been one of the stranger elements of Miami Vice. This episode, though, it makes a strange sense that Sonny could be mistaken for a drug dealer despite always acting like a cop. That’s definitely Miami.

Retro Television Review: The Night They Saved Christmas (dir by Jackie Cooper)

Posted on December 24, 2023 by Lisa Marie Bowman

Welcome to Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Sundays, I will be reviewing the made-for-television movies that used to be a primetime mainstay. Today’s film is 1984’s The Night They Saved Christmas! It can be viewed on Tubi and YouTube.

The Night They Saved Christmas argues that there are two types of people in the world.

There are people who still believe in Santa Claus and all that he represents and then there are the people who gave up their belief a long time ago. Those who believe in Santa Claus are still full of the Christmas spirit and, under the right circumstances, they might even get to meet the elves and the jolly old man himself. Those who do not believe are destined to waste their holiday on focusing on material things that aren’t really important.

Petroleum engineer Michael Baldwin (Paul Le Mat) doesn’t believe in Santa Claus and that’s why he had no trouble moving his entire family to the North Pole so that they could freeze while he headed up an oil exploration project. Michael and his boss, billionaire Sumner Murdock (Mason Adams), are determined to find oil and they’ve got an endless supply of dynamite with which to search for it.

Michael’s wife, Claudia (Jaclyn Smith), still believes in the spirit of Santa and she encourages their children to believe as well. For that reason, Ed the Elf (played by singer Paul Williams), is willing to take Claudia and the kids to North Pole City. They get to meet Santa (Art Carney) and they even learn how Santa uses satellite technology to deliver presents all over the world. The city is really quite impressive, with the movie making good use of matte paintings and miniatures to create the impression of a magical metropolis. And Santa turns out to be a pretty nice guy, even if he does tell the elves that he’s sick of them singing Jingle Bells.

Unfortunately, North Pole City is in danger! Every day, the oil company’s dynamite causes a mini-earthquake. With the dynamiting getting closer and closer to North Pole City, Santa and the elves worry that they might be on the verge of getting blown up! Can Claudia and the kids convince Michael to stop blowing up huge chunks of the North Pole before Christmas is ruined!?

Well, listen — I don’t think it’s a spoiler for me to tell you that Christmas is not ruined. It would be pretty cynical for the movie to end with Michael blowing up Santa Claus and cynical is one thing that The Night They Saved Christmas is not. This is a very earnest film, full of cheery elves, a paternal Santa, and lots of Christmas music. Even greedy old Mr. Murdock turns out to be not that bad of a guy. In the end, this film says that Santa and the spirit of Christmas is for everyone and that’s certainly not a bad message. It’s a likeable movie for the holiday season and Art Carney is a perfect Santa Claus, even if he does appear to be a little underweight for the role. As played by Carney, Santa is welcoming, good-humored, and still enthusiastic about his job, even after centuries of doing it. He’s exactly the way you would want Santa to be. This is a film that earns the right to wish everyone a merry Christmas!

18 Days of Paranoia #11: Betrayed (dir by Costa-Gavras)

Posted on March 24, 2020 by Lisa Marie Bowman

The 1988 film, Betrayed, starts out on a strong note but then quickly becomes annoying as Hell.

It opens with shots of a radio talk show host, an outspoken liberal named Sam Kraus (Richard Libertini). Kraus berates his callers. Kraus ridicules anyone who is to the left of Bernie Sanders. When a man with a rural-accent calls in and attacks Karus for being Jewish, Kraus calls the man an idiot. After he gets off the air, Kraus walks through a parking garage and stops in front of his car. Another car pulls up beside Kraus and suddenly, a masked man with a gun opens fire on Kraus, killing him. The gunman gets out of the car and spray paints, “ZOG” on Kraus’s car before then fleeing the garage.

(ZOG stands for Zionist Occupational Government. It’s a term used by the type of anti-Semitic dipshits who thinks that the Protocols of Elder Zion are real.)

From this shockingly brutal opening, we cut to panoramic shots of beautiful farmland and crops being harvested in the American midwest, the heartland. Gary Simmons (Tom Berenger) owns a farm. He’s a Vietnam vet who nearly received the medal of honor. He lives with his mother and he has two children. (He’s divorced and his ex-wife died as the result of a mysterious hit-and-run in California.) Almost everyone in his small hometown seems to worship Gary. They’re certainly curious about his new girlfriend, Katie Phillips (Debra Winger).

And really, they probably should be. Katie Phillips isn’t Katie Phillips at all. She’s actually an FBI agent named Cathy Weaver and she’s been sent undercover to investigate whether or not Gary was involved in the murder of Kraus. Cathy, who comes from a broken family and who we’re told has always been seeking some sort of deeper meaning in her life, is charmed by both Gary and his family. In fact, she falls in love with Gary. She tells her superior, Mike Carnes (John Heard), that there’s no way Gary is dangerous. Mike doesn’t believe her but, of course, Mike has a personal stake in this because he and Cathy used to be romantically involved.

(That’s right, everyone. Betrayed is so narratively lazy that it resorts to making Mike a scorned lover, even though the film’s plot would have worked just as well if he wasn’t.)

As I said, the first part of the movie works. Debra Wingers gives a strong performance and Tom Berenger is a charming roughneck. For the first half-hour or so, the film does a good job of showing why men like Gary and his friends are susceptible to conspiracy theories and why they feel that the entire world is stacked against them. You can understand why Cathy is so troubled by her assignment because Gary’s friends are hardly master criminals. For the most part, they’re farmers who feel like their entire way of life has been taken away from them.

Unfortunately, almost immediately after Mike refuses to allow her to end her investigation, Cathy returns to the farm and sleeps with Gary. Not only is this a plot development a disservice to everything that has previously been established about Cathy as a character but it also marks the point where the movie entirely falls apart. Immediately after sleeping with Cathy, Gary suddenly goes from being a complex but troubled character to being a cartoonish super villain. And listen — we’ve all been there. You meet a guy. He’s handsome. He says all the right things. He seems like he’s sensitive. He makes you feel safe. You let down your defenses for one night and the next morning, he’s yelling at you for wearing a short skirt in public. It happens. Of course, in Gary’s case, it means that he’s not only criticizing the way that Cathy dresses but he’s also taking her on a hunt where the prey is terrified person of color who Gary and his friends have kidnapped. It also means that Gary drags Cathy along on a bank robbery and then expects her to join him when he wants to assassinate a presidential candidate. Even after all that, Cathy remains conflicted about what to do with Gary. The problem is that it’s not like Gary’s a guy who needs sensitivity training or who spends too much time watching ESPN. Gary is a guy who is carting around weapons and talking about how he wants to kill “mud people.” That Cathy still has mixed emotions after all of that goes against everything that the film previously asked us to believe about her. Gary becomes too cartoonish to be plausible and, as a result, he drags down Cathy’s character as well.

Unfortunately, as the film’s narrative falls apart, so do the majority of the performances. While Debra Winger struggles to make her character’s motivations plausible, Tom Berenger is reduced to doing a lot of glaring. (Poor John Heard spends most of the movie shouting and bugging his eyes.) About the only actor who comes out Betrayed unscathed is John Mahoney, who plays Shorty. Shorty is one of Gary’s friends. He’s a friendly and personable guy who seems to sincerely care about everyone and who has a charmingly gentle smile. He’s also a total racist and the contrast between Shorty’s amiable nature and his hateful thoughts provide the latter half of Betrayed with its only powerful moments. Mahoney gets one big scene, where he talks to Cathy about how much he hates violence but, at the same time, he feels that the world has left him no other choice. Mahoney does a great job with his small role. It’s unfortunate that the rest of Betrayed couldn’t live up to his performance.