AWAITING DAREDEVIL'S REBIRTH: SEASON 2

Though the epic topic has struck left and right in conversations among my peers, I intended to wait until the second season of Marvel/Disney+'s Daredevil: Born Again was done to comment on it, just as I did with the prior stretch. (My projections regarding what might materialize for any given series, I fear, may have grown old hat, and yet ...)

I realize that Krysten Ritter's Jessica Jones will rejoin Charlie Cox's titular hero, aka Matt Murdock, but Jon Bernthal's Frank Castle, aka the Punisher, is said to be roaming Queens/Manhattan (or thereabout) for a Brand New Day, "special presentation" segue. All the same, the various pieces are being set in motion for a "Defenders (Re)Assemble!" (re)launch (aka Daredevil Born Again: Season 3). 

Despite the exciting, long-term prospects, for the interim, I'm more interested in seeing how Vincent D'Onofrio's Wilson Fisk, aka the Kingpin, finishes his dictatorial trip, and if, in fact, he'll make Michael Gandolfini's Daniel Blake an honorary Kingpin Jr.. (What can I say? I'm hankerin' for a Sopranos extension.) 

As far as Born Again's climate goes, I realize Season 1 reflects (as William Joel would say/sing) a "New York State of Mind." In the antagonistic, allegorical intersection of Andrew Cuomo and Zohran Mamdani, the political specks do make Daredevil's resurrection all the timelier. I can only presume that Season 2 will exploit the variables for all they're worth.  

On the other hand, as much as the NY regurgitation distinguishes this Man Without Fear incarnation, it's Trenton and Hamilton, NJ that bleed through for me. Those areas comprise my stomping ground, with all of their bad-is-good and good-is-bad vexations, where criminals are made into heroes and the worst of the worst have been pardoned by a former governor who's been puppeteered by a slippery, political boss, with (alas) a new, "golden dome" pundit now playing much the same part. (Okay, the ingredients still mirror NY, but it's really just a matter of "You like potato and I like ...," well, you get my drift.) 

No matter the geographic relegation or parallel placement, I'm confident I'll enjoy Born Again's philosophical, criminality dives no matter the twists and tucks. If that doesn't prove the case for some incalculable cause, I'm sure the fallback of two-fisted brawls will at least keep things tolerable. 

Daredevil: Born Again, Season 2 begins March 24 on Disney +. 

TERRIFIC TEAM-UP IMAGE: DAREDEVIL, BLACK WIDOW & MAN-THING

I SAW THE BEAUTY

I was wary of engaging FX/Hulu/Disney+'s The Beauty, based on Jason A. Hurley and Jeremy Haun's comic-book series, if only because its showrunner, Ryan Murphy, ruined American Horror Story for me by adding a bunch of socio-political horseshit into the later seasons. (Hell, some of that holier-than-though/PC nonsense even infiltrated Murphy's Feud, the Bette Davis/Joan Crawford/Baby Jane miniseries, which could have thrived just off the melodramatic facts.)

All the same, I found the fortitude to give The Beauty a shot, and by jingo, I dug it. I guess that's because it did no more than deliver a bloody, body-horror count, which in turn works as a companion piece to Coralie Fargeat's The Substance, which means it also links to most of David Cronenberg's freaky library, in addition to Phillipe Mora/Tom Holland/Edward Levy's The Beast Within, if only during its impetuous stretches and trust me, there are plenty. 

The idea of a high-end drug manufactured to make one young (after one forms within, and breaks from out, a slimy cocoon), only then to grow feverish, then thirsty ... then explode is, well, pretty powerful stuff from a visceral perspective, but as with any mad-scientist concoction on the loose, The Beauty's isn't meant to be taken beyond ugly-face value. Murphy's series is, therefore (like its comic-book inspiration, from at least what I've seen of it), just objectionable exploitation for the sake of it, and I, for one, say bravo. 

I particularly favored Ashton Kutcher's egomaniacal Byron Forst, aka "the Corporation," who pushes his Ponce de Leon drug ad nauseum, and my appreciation for the villain increased when Vincent D'Onofrio found his way into the bastard's background, thanks to a fascinating, flashback episode. I won't spoil the catch there, but it does strike a chilling chord, but then so do many passages and performers in The Beauty. 

Such includes Isabella Rosellini, Rebecca Hall, Jessica Alexander, Evan Peters, Anthony Ramos, Jeremy Pope, John Carroll Lynch, Rob Yang, Ari Graynor, Bella Hadid, et al. 

Peters is another stand-out as agile FBI Agent Cooper Madsen, who strives to seek the truth (rather like Peter Fonda's Chuck Browning in Futureworld, or so I fancied), but on the antithesis end, the dangerous duo of Ramos' "Assassin" and Pope's Jeremy layer a whole other tier to the sneaky succession, so that I'll never listen to Christopher Cross' "Ride Like the Wind" the same way again. 

No matter where or when one visits the series, each of its eleven episodes has something to show and tell. The season is also open-ended, so that means if we don't get a Season 2, we're left in a lurch. I do hope that's not the case, because there's lots more gory fun to be had, as long as The Beauty doesn't opt for the preachy propaganda of American Horror Story. I'd rather see this thing stained by eternal ambiguity than have that happen. 

FOR THE FUN OF IT:

 

I SAW THE BRIDE!

 

A new Frankenstein has stomped its way into theaters: writer/director Maggie Gyllenhaal's The Bride! 

Through Gyllenhaal's zippy direction, the Depression-era, Chicago-sprung/New York-bound story spins Mary Shelley's concept back to James Whales' classic sequel, with the filmmaker's Dark Knight costar, Christian Bale, playing the bolted Monster, aka Frank, who asks a revered scientist, Annette Bening's Pretorius surrogate, Dr. Ephronious, to bestow him Jessie Buckley's not-so-hideous Ida, aka Pretty Penny Rogers, aka the Bride! (BTW: Buckley also portrays Shelley, in a nice nod to Elsa Lanchester's famous double whammy; only in this case, the author's channeled narration intersects throughout, with fourth-wall-breaking audacity and indignant, parallel-plane pomposity.)

Frank and the Bride! embark on a Natural Born Killers-ish adventure and down the Kerouac-esque road meet Jake Gyllenhaal's Fred Astaire-molded movie idol, Ronnie Reed, who Frank taps as his template for better living, while detectives, Peter Sarsgaard's Jake Wiles and Penelope Cruz's Myrna Mallow, track the revived antiheroes, since the duo does perform certain unwitting (ahem) travesties that warrant investigation.

On the surface, the movie is a creature-ized Bonnie and Clyde, with Bale's Frank being (ironically) Joker-esque at times and Buckley's Ida representing Harley Quinn, though with a strand of Metropolis' Maria-Robotrix whenever she hits full throttle. The idea doesn't promote waywardness as much as it does pulpy, noir-ish, inner probing (with dandy, dance sequences sewn in, to stir the showy stew further). And as for the titular character, there's a speak-thy-mind, steampunk, feminist vibe. Ida even achieves enough notoriety to inspire an impetuous "Brain Attack" movement that's ripped straight from Star Trek's "Amok Time." 

On another level, The Bride! mirrors Yorgos Lanthimos' Poor Things (that chaotic cross of Frankenstein and Candide), and in a more obvious yet outlandish way (for those who have the decency to remember and respect it), Franc Roddam's underrated The Bride, where a feminist motif manifests, though with the Monster winning the favor of his female counterpart, hinting at adventures yet to come, even if much more subdued than what Gyllenhaal renders. 

Based on the above, one may deduce that The Bride! isn't always as out-of-the box as some proclaim, but in the inexhaustible string of Frankenstein adaptations, including Guillermo del Toro's recent epic, that's okay. It's the execution that counts, with this one being irreverent, sorrowful and amusing, designed for evident, cult status, ala Frank Miller's The Spirit: a direction that sometimes wins and sometimes (as with the latter) loses. 

Keep in mind, a genuine cult film starts small, gets overlooked, only later to rise high in the public eye. It's not made to ignite a pop-cultural sensation. That sort of thing can (and should) never be forced. The Bride!, as such, comes installed with big-time, publicized splash, anticipated and reviewed by mainstream critics and fans alike. The question is, how long will its "novelty" last? 

The answer: a long, long time. It's Frankenstein, pure and simple, and it just so happens to be (in my estimation) engaging as hell. Some will love it; some may bypass it, with others misunderstanding it altogether, but like Shelley's novel and its many offspring, it'll always remain on the cinematic slab, inviting audiences' dissection. If that's not a foolproof guarantee for eternal success, shoot, what is? 

THEY DON'T CARE ABOUT US

Last week, additional snowfalls struck NJ, one being the worst the state has experienced in decades, with twenty-plus inches having fallen in most sectors.   

Before and during the mighty storm, the elected/appointed magistrates held court, grinned with twinkling eyes and told us to stay off the roads so that cleanup crews could do their jobs, but such never happened. No plowing, no salting ... no nothin'. 

Though such is par for the course in NJ, some citizens are infuriated by the deceit, considering the  amount of taxes they pay for basic necessities, but taxpayers are perceived as chumps by our snide, political pundits. 

The varying weather reports didn't help the situation, either. Though a few meteorologists were on target, most leapt among outcomes, fearful of being proven wrong. One such example, who touts his avoidance of hyperbole, altered his analysis many times over in last-minute spurts, and in the end, still didn't hit the bullseye.

Some would say such erratic predictions are no big deal. However, people don't tune into weather reports for fun. They do it to plan, to gauge ... to survive. A steadfast prediction during pending calamity is essential. Waffling, on the other hand, just prompts more tension and angst. 

I don't know what else can be said or done regarding either of these agitating fronts, beyond complaining, and yes, complaining is therapeutic. My heart goes out to those like me, who do complain, because we're never allowed to sit back when trouble strikes. We're the ones required to take the kids to school, to accompany loved ones on doctors' appointments and even on occasion tend to own own health concerns. We're the ones left trapped and mocked by inactivity and ambiguity, by those who care only about themselves, even though they've pledged to high heaven to care about us; and so if a gripe or two (a post or two) may besmirch such deception, so be it. Better that than remaining silent, and to remain silent, is akin to being complicit.    

WISE WORDS: