Slangin' fang
9 things that turned me out in December, like Bill Skarsgård in 'Nosferatu'
This month, we walked calmly toward our goals, declared war on “Elf,” abandoned higher brain functions to fall in love with “Kraven the Hunter,” and found ourselves where the lovelight gleams.
Paid subscribers also read about my 24 favorite movies of 2024. (Thank y’all for your support!) If you’d like to check that out, here’s the toll booth.
And now, a few more things that turned me out in December. I promise it’s not just 10 Vince Guaraldi tracks.
Bill Skarsgård in ‘Nosferatu’
Oooohweeeeee, now this … this is my guy. This is a movie monster. This is a character. This what it looks like to lock in. Bill Skarsgård — famously Swedish, famously not his brother — has done for vampires what Ikea did for particle board.
Robert Eggers didn’t really need to remake “Nosferatu.” It’s fine that he did! The film is quite lovely, in an “everything is Teutonic and monochrome and there are a lot of artfully placed rats” way. Eggers’ script follows the beats of the original 1922 silent film pretty exactly. That version was a “Dracula” rip, anyhoo.
After a few days, the truth has become clear. Like Lily-Rose Depp’s heroine Ellen was born with a connection to the spirit realm that destined her to vanquish an ancient evil, Eggers had to remake “Nosferatu” so Skarsgård could do a funny voice.
See, in the silent film, Count Orlok is a goofy little guy. He’s got pointy ears and bugged-out eyes. The bat connection? Tenuous. His teeth are giving Pinky, of “and the Brain.” In my favorite scene, he schleps his own coffin across town with a cute little shuffle, like me trying to carry a case of sparkling water up the stairs of my apartment building.
Skarsgård’s Orlok would never shuffle. He’s an absolute beast, and sounds like one. I’ll be talking in his voice for the rest of the year, so for about 17 hours. It’s both a boom and a croak — literally the sound of a mausoleum door opening, if the door sold turnips on the streets of Bucharest. Me, in my deepest register and a heavy Romanian accent, as I open my oven to remove a tray of cookies: “COME TO ME.”
Desire and shame swirl over the new “Nosferatu” like fog. Accordingly, Skarsgård gives his Orlok a disturbingly carnal physical presence. When he’s sucking, those hips go bump in the night, let me tell you what.
And then there’s the mustache. I don’t know why it took this long to give a vampire a mustache. It’s not groomed, which is key. A decaying ghoul who looks like Tom Selleck? Not scary. A decaying corpse who looks like Frank Zappa? So scary.
The talons, the imposing posture, the maggot-ridden skin, the full frontal jump shot of his Nosferatool — all of it works together to make Orlok ’24 a credible evil. Eggers never lets the camera glimpse all of the count at once. When he does, there’s no time to linger. The hellish nosferatu is more terrible if you can’t used to him (something the “Longlegs” folks should’ve tried).
… should I grow out my mustache again?
‘Polari’ by Olly Alexander
Back when he was still part of British pop band Years & Years, Olly Alexander performed at the MTVU Woodie Awards in my office’s parking lot. I vaguely remember seeing them on my birthday? That’s not important right now, but I don’t get to bring it up often, so hey.
Ever since Alexander went solo, I’ve been mixed on his output. Especially his Eurovision 2024 entry, which could not be saved by shirtless men in a giant rock tumbler.
The title track off his upcoming album, “Polari,” has me paying attention. It sounds like leather jackets, ice, and a 1990s VR sequence. The thudding beat takes you into a hydraulic machine. Sometimes, the track whiplashes into chirpy digital distortions or flirty chimes. Alexander wants someone to speak up: “Say what you gotta say.” (Polari is a slang dialect historically used by some queer communities in England.)
Tbh, “Polari” has a real Janet Jackson circa “Rhythm Nation” vibe. P short, too.
‘The Apartment,’ directed by Billy Wilder
This year’s holiday movie hunt led me to 1960’s “The Apartment,” which I’d never seen before. It’s saucy: An office drone (Jack Lemmon) lets his bosses use his apartment to canoodle with their mistresses, which goes fine until he falls in love at Christmastime with an elevator operator (Shirley MacLaine) who happens to be one of said mistresses.
I don’t feel compelled to sell anyone on a beloved classic of American cinema. Instead, I’ll long for more romcoms that nail the dynamic Lemmon and MacLaine so sweetly inhabit here.
Lemmon’s mild-mannered Bud might pine after a girl he can’t have, but he’s not an incel about it. There’s not a smack of entitlement or creepiness in how he treats MacLaine’s Fran. He can be a wormy sorta schmuck, but he (mostly) treats her with respect and warmth.
Likewise, the plucky, romantic Fran would so easily be written today as an imaginary creature, a just-one-of-the-guys fantasy whose quirks are siphoned off by a parasite without his own personality. Not in “The Apartment.” MacLaine plays Fran’s coolness as a byproduct of her complexity, not her sole reason to exist.
Also, I liked when Jack Lemmon strained the spaghetti with a tennis racket.
‘Leash’ by Sky Ferreira
Sky Ferreira’s new track for the “Babygirl” soundtrack gives me what I expect from indie-pop’s frustrater in chief: city lights, sultry shadows, and great night-driving music.
Ferreira fills the verses of “Leash” with flowery images that evoke fantasy: a bitter moon, a mirrored room, sprays of stars and bruises, evaporated mercury. Somewhere in all that abstraction, there’s a relationship with high highs and low lows, which does map pretty well to Nicole Kidman’s unorthodox corporate mentorship strategy in “Babygirl.”
The lyrics don’t literally connect to the BDSM plot of Halina Reijn’s film, which is just as well, since “Babygirl” is tamer than its marketing suggests. The chorus of “Leash” comes closest: “You're my heart in human form/ Always crawl and kiss the ground/ Surrender to the master/ In the end, nothing matters.”
‘I Don’t Want You’ by Sven Johnson
I love when 2007 releases a new song for me to enjoy. The mall-ready pop-punk structure of “I Don’t Want You” mobilizes the pleasure center of my brain. I picture little “Inside Out” versions of the Blink-182 guys scrambling around in there like air raid wardens. The simplistic electronic touches are giving Hellogoodbye, or perhaps something in a PlayRadioPlay! neighborhood. This one might An Eric Thing, so move along if you’re uncomfortable.
‘A Quiet Thing,’ as performed by Liza Minnelli and Kermit the Frog
The time for Kermit the Frog’s comeback is now. As we flail our arms with anxiety over late-stage capitalism and its attendant social alienation, do we better understand that it’s not easy being green? Does Kermit’s persecution at the hooves of a pig speak to our discomfort with the police state? Can the frog, stolid in his pain, act as a receptacle for our collective melancholy — a modern sin-eater who consumes and assumes the grief that would otherwise consign us to a living hell?
I don’t know. But here’s a video of Kermit and Liza Minnelli singing a really sad song in 1979. Note how Liza interacts with this Muppet as if she’d raised him from birth.
‘I Come in Peace,’ directed by Craig R. Baxley
Courtesy of Weird Wednesday at Alamo Drafthouse. This 1990 sci-fi/action flick had been on my Letterboxd watchlist for a while. It’s set in Houston at Christmas but isn’t about Houston at Christmas, in the way that “Challengers” isn’t really about tennis.
“I Come in Peace,” also known as “Dark Angel,” concerns renegade cop Jack Caine (Dolph Lundgren), whose war with drug-dealing yuppies (called The White Boys; love it) is interrupted by an alien who harvests endorphins from heroin users (oh; well, go on), because people on his planet are addicted to a drug made with human endorphins (spectacular; I’m back). I can’t fathom what else you need to know.
My brain dispensed good chemicals every time Dolph was on screen. I feared an alien would use me to make drugs. On top of wondering why/how humans come shaped like him (a blonde refrigerator) but also like me (a roomba), I realized that Grace Jones’ ex-boyfriend is a truly charismatic action star? How did Hollywood not churn out 1,000 successful Dolph vehicles? I guess they tried and people weren’t ready.
Consensus says this film is a charming paean to stupidity, and I’m not going to pretend it has lofty ideas. But hot dang, it has comedic savvy and great popcorn instincts from start to finish. And if I’ve learned anything from Houston vice cop Jack Caine, it’s to trust instincts.
If ever there was a movie that should be on Tubi, it’s this, but it’s streaming on MGM+, the wisdom tooth of streaming services. You can also rent it on digital (i.e., Amazon).
‘Justice League Unlimited’ by Mark Waid and Dan Mora
My little treat time at the comic book shop skates perilously close to big treat time, thanks to DC Comics’s new “All-In” initiative. The publisher’s launching lots of new series that tap into the character-driven history that’s always fascinated me most.
Perhaps my favorite of the bunch right now: “Justice League Unlimited,” written by modern master Mark Waid and drawn by his frequent collaborator, Dan Mora, whose energetic, manga-tinged pencils are the closest thing DC has to a house style right now. (Seriously, I saw a pop-up book in the BookPeople kids’ section the other day with Mora’s art all over it.)
“Justice League Unlimited” borrows its premise from the 2000s cartoon of the same name: every hero in the DC Universe is a member of the team, essentially. That means panel time for deep-cut characters and team-ups usually reserved for the reader’s imagination. Doctor Occult, created in 1935 and arguably the first superhero created for comic books, fights space demons in the jungle with Superman in the second issue. C’mon!
‘Very Delta’ Live
One day, I’ll write a full issue on Delta Work’s “Very Delta” podcast. I once read a TikTok comment that compared her “luxury public access” talk show to “Cocomelon for adults.” And yeah, there’s something undeniably hypnotic — nay, soothing — about Delta’s extemporaneous monologues on Cheesecake Factory, Diet Coke, and other American mundanities.
A few weeks ago, my friend Beth and I saw the “Very Delta” Live show at Oilcan Harry’s. Even sprang for the seat upgrade. Delta was in fine form. She held court about the indignities of hotel toiletries. She interviewed local drag star Louisianna Purchase. She exuded the genial yet authoritative glow of your most fabulous English teacher. A true holiday treat.
Outbound messages
I listened to an interview with Willem Dafoe on “The New Yorker Radio Hour,” and the host asked him a question about press tours. These days, Dafoe said with a degree of mournfulness, actors are expected to play little games for social media videos instead of talk about their craft. He accepts this, but it did not sound like he values this.
So anyway, to promote “A Complete Unknown,” Timothée Chalamet has ripped Milk Duds with Nardwuar, bowed down to Supreme Leader Brittany Broski, and held space with Gay Media Tracy. They pumped that boy full of Fanta and launched him out of a cannon, straight into the algorithm.
Vogue examined the Timmy Media Blitz:
“What appeared like a series of very random choices has paid off, garnering more organic press for this film than any traditional media circuit would have. It’s refreshing. For the past couple of years, we’ve been inundated with over-the-top press tours. … Chalamet is breaking the mold, though—and it won’t be long before other big studios copy his genius PR strategy.”
If we’re not gonna make stars do “Hollywood Squares” anymore, I’ll take a thousand things like this. No more celebrities playing with puppies for Buzzfeed. Put Angelina Jolie and the cast of “Conclave” in a room with Trisha Paytas. Only manic goblin capers from here on out.