The nature of justice (5/31/02)
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Thir13en Ghosts. [Steve Beck, 2001. Written by Robb White, Neal Stevens and Richard D’Ovidio.]
Lugubriously angstridden widower Tony Shalhoub is unquietly going to pieces in the stinking kitchen of the cockroach-and-coldwater flat where he, his darling children Shannon Elizabeth and Alec Roberts, and their wiseass nanny Rah Digga [Whoopi might consider a suit for patent infringement] are none-too-successfully hiding from those circling vultures their numerous creditors, when abruptly an unusually repulsive lawyer [a guy who seems to leave a physical trial of slime] disposing of the estate of Tony’s recently-deceased uncle F. Murray Abraham materializes at the door, pronounces them heirs to a fortune, and spirits them all away to the bizarre mansion which seems to be the principal bequest: an enormous Chinese block-puzzle of steel and glass, a kind of three-dimensional maze which is constantly rearranging its moving glass walls, which are covered with what look like Elvish runes [mere Latin would not have been sufficiently exotic], and powered by an elaborate interior clockwork mechanism of such diabolical ingenuity that it comes as no surprise to learn, when the inevitable ancient book of necromantic lore is trotted forward to explain everything, that the blueprints were literally provided by the Devil. Uncle Murray, we have already figured out, moonlighted as a freelance ghostbuster, and employed some retro-futuristic containment apparatus and a paramilitary corps of psychic ninjas to assemble a captive menagerie of malevolent spirits — a dirty dozen [associated with the cards of some slasher Tarot] referred to as the signs of the Black Zodiac: The First Born Son, The Torso, The Bound Woman, The Withered Lover, The Torn Prince, The Angry Princess, The Pilgrimess, The Great Child, The Dire Mother, The Hammer, The Jackal, The Juggernaut — whose dire energies he somehow intended to harness within this architectural specimen of postmodern Gothic; as explained by his erstwhile colleague Matthew Lillard [The Tormented Psychic] and former professional nemesis Embeth Davidtz [The Liberal Crusader; apparently some kind of tireless advocate for the liberation of the vitally challenged], both of whom conveniently pop up to provide lengthy expository lectures on the nature and properties of the denizens of the spirit world and Abraham’s wicked designs upon them.
The principals thus united in this strange and marvelous setting, they all put goofy glasses on that allow them to see the supernatural marauders, and, promptly, the house [as always in Gothic, the real protagonist] comes to life: the walls start moving, the doors disappear so that nobody can get out, the rooms rearrange themselves, the invisible bars fall from the hidden cages, and the evil dead are set free to hunt the living.
The chase commences, naturally, with the grisly demise of the lawyer, and, in keeping with the general theme of meting out cosmic justice, proceeds down the list of the actors [The Talentless Buffoons] to the remarkable denouement, in which, after Uncle F. Murray returns from the grave and, with a startling postmodern reversal of camera angle, turns the tables on the film crew, the ghostly posse corner the director and the writers [The Witless Boobs] and prepare to offer them up as sacrifices to Satan, patron of the Black Film Arts. But at the last moment the putative auteurs are revealed to be animatronic puppets manipulated by the real villain of the piece — Joel Silver! [The Shameless Ripoff Artist], whose master plan for the domination of world cinema is now unveiled: a sinister scheme to form a production company called Dark Castle Entertainment, with which he intends systematically to remake all the old Castle classics with flashier f/x and even more shameless [if much less imaginative] promotion — exploiting, the while, the prodigious talents of Howard Berger [The Makeup Artist] and Sean Hargreaves [The Production Designer], whose services he procured by unscrupulous exercises in the white slave trade.
Fortunately the thirteenth ghost turns out to be William Castle [The Inspired Huckster] himself — who leaps from a closet, denounces this scheme in a speech recalling the glories of the individualistic era of the Sixties, throws a mysterious brass lever in a hidden control panel, and cackles theatrically as — a glass wall of razor sharpness descends from the ceiling with astonishing rapidity! bisecting the repulsive Silver! so rapidly that the two halves of the evil producer are still making separate pitches as they separate, melt to the floor, thaw, and resolve themselves into a noxious dew; ensuring a happy ending, and forever putting an end to the possibility of
Lethal Weapon Five.
Or was this just another hallucination of The Weary Critic? I guess we’ll know soon enough. In the meantime, I think I’ll look up this irate Princess; anger-management issues or no, on her they certainly look good.
____________Once again, pinheads rule (5/14/02)
