Crisp winds have been rushing through the trees at night with my window has been open. The weather, both day and night, has been the best it has been in ages. Perfect to listen to leaves dance across shingles and pavement. However, you must admit it can be slightly unsettling to hear that and nothing else. The early evening cricket chatter giving way to…what exactly? With that in mind, I started listen to a song by Dusty Springfield that felt appropriate. And like the lyrics, I am here to meet together and see movies.
A stroll to a theater will yield a milder result in Practical Magic 2. Seems fitting that the summer was bookended with this and The Devil Wears Prada 2. Both are legacy sequels of near-cult like features centering women coming into their own. Also, like Prada, Magic relies on fan service to tell its two-hour-and-ten-minute run time together. Also still, the originals told their stories much better in less. This isn’t to completely knock these films. They kept me entertained, albeit you will barely remember a hint of dialogue or plot in a week’s time.
Blame can’t be dealt to screenwriters Kelly Marcel and Akiva Goldsman, as I found that this was based on author Alice Hoffman’s own continuation. She should have left well enough alone. As for the story, Aidan Quinn’s sheriff is out of the picture and Sandra Bullock’s Sally Owens casts a spell so her daughters know nothing about magic. This comes back to bite them in the butt as Kylie falls in love with her boyfriend Gideon, instantly having him hurt and in a coma. Upon finding out the curse that has been a part of their family, Kylie uses a book her aunt finds in order to lift said curse once and for all. Sadly, the aunts played by Dianne Wiest and Stockard Channing are very underutilized. Bullock just moping through the film, more than she did in the first. And Nicole Kidman is just waltzing through, something she does best under frequent collaborator Susanne Bier’s direction.
Some Easter eggs is here for fans. Who else but us would turn out? We get to see the sisters practice magic on an incapacitated male. There is Stevie Nicks and midnight margaritas. What is missing in the alchemy: the things witches do best. It’s the lack of a spark, conjured with breath on a candle wick.
Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma (mouthful of a title) is the third feature from Jane Schoenbrun. Their pervious film I Saw The TV Glow had irked me, especially with its ending. And by the time I finished this other film, it was plain to see why. Camp Miasma concerns an indie director Kris (Hannah Einbinder) who has been asked by a big studio to resurrect a long-dead slasher franchise. She has been now contacted Billie, the original actress who played the final girl in the first movie. Played with gusto by Gillian Anderson, her southern accent and odd demeanor plays into the faded starlet stereotype but not in a bad way. She wears a turban and a cape like Norma Desmond for heaven’s sake. Living at the abandoned camp where they filmed the first movie, Billie begins to cast her spell on Kris in a profound way. She hopes to direct this with the queer subtext, but becomes lost in the world of the film like Billie.
This year has been a boon for heady horror movies with deeper levels of meaning. And Camp Miasma is no exception. But that does make it without its charm. The painted backdrops and unrealistic bloodshed added to the film’s unabashed nature. I laughed at the central rampage in the in-universe original film and its use of music. An ode to innocence lost and pleasure regained streaming on MUBI, Schoenbrun gives us a tale of joy, whether it is our first time finding a lover or that perfect piece of wrapped gummy candy.
