cinema history class: the mummy (1959)

The session: I Want My Mummy!
We revisit our bandaged buddies

As always, there may be spoilers here. And the trailer may be NSFW and/or NSFL.

Week 2: The Mummy (1959)
Directed by Terence Fisher

My Level of Prior Knowledge:
I'd known that there were a bunch of movies titled "The Mummy." 

Plot Synopsis:
An archaeological expedition uncovers the tomb of an ancient Egyptian princess. After the tomb is desecrated, a resurrected mummy, Kharis, is sent to England by a fanatical guardian to take revenge on those responsible. As the killings mount, the surviving archaeologists discover that the mummy's relentless quest is tied to a tragic love story from thousands of years earlier.

Reaction and Other Folderol:
I went into this one with modest expectations. Egyptian-themed horror and historical curses have never really been my thing. But this was better than expected.

One thing that immediately stood out was Christopher Lee's performance. The man spends almost the entire movie wrapped head to toe in bandages and makeup, yet somehow manages to convey emotion, determination, anger, and even sadness almost entirely through his eyes. It's an impressive piece of acting when you consider how little of his face is actually visible. Lee's Kharis isn't just a shambling monster; there's a sense of tragedy underneath all those wrappings.

I also thoroughly enjoyed the verbal sparring between Peter Cushing's John Banning and the villainous Mehemet Bey. Every scene between them crackles with tension. Cushing, as always, brings intelligence and stubborn determination to his role, while George Pastell's Bey is cultured, polite, and quietly menacing. Their exchanges are often more entertaining than the action scenes.

One aspect of the story left me scratching my head. Did they ever actually explain why Banning's wife looks exactly like Princess Ananka? The resemblance is central to the plot, but I don't recall the film ever providing a clear explanation. Are we supposed to assume reincarnation? Some mystical connection across the centuries? Admittedly, that's a common enough trope in mummy movies that perhaps I shouldn't hold it against them, but it still felt like the screenplay skipped over a detail that might have deserved a little more attention.

The version we watched also reminded me how much censorship could affect these older horror films. Several bits of gore that were present in later restorations were absent here. We hear about the severed tongue but don't actually see it. Likewise, the climactic destruction of Kharis is much less graphic than in the restored versions, with much of the footage of him being riddled with bullets removed. The movie still works perfectly well, but it's unfortunate that audiences for years saw a trimmed-down version.

The title itself is a little misleading. This isn't really the traditional "Mummy awakens and stalks modern victims" story that most people think of when they hear The Mummy. The real driving force of the plot is Mehemet Bey, the loyal guardian carrying out a mission of vengeance. In some ways, Guardian of the Mummy's Tomb might actually be a more accurate title. Kharis is certainly important, but he's essentially the weapon wielded by someone else. And, of course, there's the tragic love story which adds an interesting element.

Beyond all that, the film benefits enormously from Hammer's production values. The rich color cinematography, atmospheric sets, and strong performances elevate material that could easily have become routine monster fare. It's easy to see why so many fans consider this one of Hammer's best horror films.

Overall, this was much better than I expected. Not one of my favorite horror films, and not enough giant radioactive insects or vicious murderous gangs for my tastes, but an entertaining and surprisingly thoughtful monster movie with strong performances from both Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing.

As for Joe, nothing would stop him from giving it a 10. Rumor has it he was preparing to award it an 12 before remembering that ancient Egyptian mathematics had not yet invented that number (and Bobbo wouldn't let him anyway).

cinema history class: pharaoh's curse (1957)

The session: I Want My Mummy!
We revisit our bandaged buddies

As always, there may be spoilers here. And the trailer may be NSFW and/or NSFL.

Week 1: Pharaoh's Curse (1957)
Directed by Lee Sholem

My Level of Prior Knowledge:
I'd never heard of it.

Plot Synopsis:
An archaeological expedition in Egypt uncovers the tomb of an ancient high priest, only to unleash a supernatural curse that causes members of the party to die mysteriously one by one. As panic spreads, the survivors realize the mummy may be possessing the living in order to continue its revenge from beyond the grave.

Reaction and Other Folderol:
Keith started this ad hoc Egyptian archaeology festival with Pharaoh’s Curse (1957). The setup is pure drive-in B-movie comfort food: archaeologists crack open an ancient tomb, ignore every possible warning sign, and then act surprised when people start dying under mysterious circumstances. Somewhere, an undead Egyptian priest is very disappointed in modern workplace safety standards.

What makes Pharaoh’s Curse interesting (to the limited extent that it is) is that it’s not really a “big spectacle” mummy movie in the Universal style. The mummy itself barely appears for long stretches, and the movie leans more heavily on atmosphere, suspicious behavior, and a general sense that everyone on the expedition is making terrible decisions. The desert locations actually look pretty good for a low-budget film, and the whole thing has that dusty late-50s indie horror vibe where every scene feels like it was shot three minutes before the crew lost access to the set.

The cast mostly consists of earnest scientists, nervous assistants, and people who seem contractually obligated to wander off alone at night. Mark Dana plays the expedition leader with the exact level of confidence required for a man whose plan is basically “let’s keep digging while the body count rises.” Meanwhile, the locals repeatedly warn everyone that desecrating tombs is a bad idea, which naturally guarantees that the Americans and Europeans continue desecrating tombs at full speed.

One odd thing about the movie is that the “curse” itself feels slightly improvised from scene to scene. Sometimes it’s a mummy attack movie, sometimes it’s a possession movie, sometimes it feels like a murder mystery where the murderer just happens to be several thousand years old. The film never seems overly concerned with explaining the mechanics, which honestly may have been the correct creative decision.

The pacing drifts a bit in the middle, but that’s part of the charm with these 1950s programmers. You settle into the rhythm: ominous music, torch-lit corridors, suspicious glances, another doomed side character, repeat. And at just over 70 minutes, it has the good manners not to overstay its welcome.

Joe wasn’t there, but let’s be honest: if he had been, he probably would have given it a 10.

howard hamlin and hannibal hamlin: the detail everyone missed

 

One of the things that separated Better Call Saul from ordinary television was the frightening level of detail embedded into the writing. Nothing in that universe was accidental. Colors mattered. Background objects mattered. Throwaway lines mattered. The writers built entire emotional arcs around whether a coffee mug was facing left or right. Which is why I no longer believe it was a coincidence that the doomed attorney Howard Hamlin shares a surname with Hannibal Hamlin, Abraham Lincoln’s first vice president.

At first glance, this sounds ridiculous. But the more you examine it, the harder it becomes to dismiss.

Hannibal Hamlin famously served as vice president during Lincoln’s first term, only to be quietly replaced before the second inauguration. Historians have long noted that Hamlin was competent, respectable, and ultimately expendable — a polished institutional figure pushed aside as political realities shifted around him. Howard Hamlin occupies almost the exact same structural role within Better Call Saul. He is the embodiment of establishment legitimacy: immaculate suits, careful manners, elite credentials, and a sprawling, meticulously designed law office complex whose polished corporate aesthetic projects permanence and authority. And yet, despite all that prestige, he becomes collateral damage in a transformation he barely comprehends.

That part matters.

Because the creators of Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul consistently portrayed institutions as grand facades already beginning to crack internally. HHM’s immaculate office complex is not merely a workplace. It is a monument to the illusion of stability — carefully landscaped, tastefully modern, expensive without being flashy, radiating the confidence of an institution that assumes it will exist forever. Howard walks its serene hallways the same way late-1850s political figures walked through Washington believing the old systems would somehow hold together. Both Hamlins are men of decorum trapped in eras that have already moved beyond decorum.

And then there’s the visual coding.

The showrunners used color symbolism with almost pathological precision. Howard’s signature blues evoke calm authority, professionalism, and institutional continuity. He practically glows with “respectable establishment energy.” Compare that with Jimmy McGill’s carnival palette and Saul Goodman’s eventual aesthetic descent into Constitution-themed chaos. Howard visually represents the old order — the same way Hannibal Hamlin represented an older, more restrained phase of Republican politics before the country slid fully into existential conflict.

The architecture of HHM is itself part of the symbolism. Rather than a predatory Manhattan skyscraper, the firm occupies a sprawling, serene corporate compound — the kind of place designed to reassure clients that serious adults remain firmly in control of civilization. Which, in the Better Call Saul universe, is usually a sign that catastrophe is about fifteen minutes away.

Even the hidden instability fits the theory. Beneath HHM’s polished exterior sits Chuck McGill’s unraveling mental state, simmering resentments, succession anxieties, financial pressure, and reputational fragility. In other words, it’s basically a metaphorical pre-Civil War Union with valet parking.

The key clue, however, may be Howard’s fate itself.

The tragedy of Howard Hamlin is that he thinks he is participating in a conventional professional rivalry when he is actually standing inside a completely different genre. He believes he’s in a legal drama about office politics. In reality, he wandered into a moral catastrophe populated by cartel psychopaths and human wrecking balls. Hannibal Hamlin faced a strangely similar historical predicament. He entered national politics assuming traditional democratic norms still governed the country, only to find himself adjacent to the collapse of the old political order and the onset of the Civil War.

Coincidence? Maybe.

But this is the same creative team that embedded symbolic meaning into shoelaces, ice cream cones, and parking validation stickers.

You really think they spent years constructing one of television’s most obsessively detailed fictional universes and then accidentally named a major tragic figure “Hamlin”?

cinema history class: man of a thousand faces (1957)

The session: Happy (Belated) 100th Birthday to the Phantom of the Opera
Keith shows us three classic Lon Chaney silent films and a documentary about his career

As always, there may be spoilers here. And the trailer may be NSFW and/or NSFL.

Week 4: Man of a Thousand Faces (1957)
Directed by Joseph Pevney

My Level of Prior Knowledge:
I'd never heard of it.

Plot Synopsis:
A gifted vaudeville performer rises to silent-film stardom by transforming himself into unforgettable screen monsters and outcasts, earning a reputation as Hollywood’s “Man of a Thousand Faces.” Behind the makeup and acclaim, however, he struggles to hold together a complicated family life shaped by sacrifice, secrecy, and personal heartbreak.

Reaction and Other Folderol:
Man of a Thousand Faces is a biopic of Lon Chaney, one of the first true superstars of the movie industry and the man whose elaborate makeup transformations earned him the nickname “The Man of a Thousand Faces.” Long before modern prosthetics and CGI, Chaney built unforgettable characters through sheer physical performance and painstaking makeup work, becoming famous for films like The Hunchback of Notre Dame and The Phantom of the Opera. The movie leans heavily into both the tragedy and mythology surrounding Chaney, and it works remarkably well.

I went into this with fairly low expectations, partly because I somehow expected more of a dry documentary than a full-fledged Hollywood drama. Instead, this turned out to be an extremely entertaining and well-crafted biopic, with a lot more emotional weight and energy than I anticipated. It moves quickly, covers a lot of ground, and never really drags.

One of the most interesting aspects of the movie is the strange double-layered performance at its center. Chaney himself was legendary for disappearing into grotesque and emotionally tortured characters, and James Cagney somehow manages the difficult task of playing Chaney while also recreating Chaney’s famous performances. Watching Cagney reproduce moments from Hunchback and Phantom could have come across as gimmicky, but instead it becomes one of the movie’s biggest strengths. He’s excellent throughout, and there are moments where you almost forget you’re watching an actor portray another actor.

Keith filled us in afterward on some of the behind-the-scenes reactions to the film, which added an interesting layer. Apparently, Lon Chaney Jr. felt the movie heavily whitewashed his father’s flaws, and honestly, I can believe that. The elder Chaney is portrayed in overwhelmingly sympathetic terms for most of the running time. Still, I can forgive a certain amount of mythmaking here because I was watching this primarily as entertainment rather than as a strict historical document.

Keith also mentioned that Chaney’s first wife, Cleva, reportedly walked out of a screening because she was upset with how she was portrayed. Early in the movie, it’s easy to see why. The film initially presents her in fairly harsh terms, starting with the scenes involving Chaney’s deaf parents, and extending into her growing emotional separation from both her husband and her son. It's particularly noteworthy that she is shown as not feeling any maternal love for her son until she is sure that he is not deaf. Ironically, by leaving early, Cleva missed the part where the movie eventually softens and rehabilitates the character considerably.

Actually, even while watching it, I found myself somewhat conflicted about Cleva — meaning the character in the movie, not necessarily the real person. Her angry reaction upon discovering that Lon’s parents were deaf comes across badly at first. But at the same time, Lon really should have prepared her before suddenly introducing her to them. From her perspective, she was blindsided and embarrassed in a very uncomfortable situation. Of course, as Keith explained afterward, that entire episode was apparently fabricated for dramatic purposes anyway.

In fact, Keith pointed out that a number of scenes in the movie were either exaggerated or completely invented. That’s hardly unusual for Hollywood biopics, especially from that era. Still, one shocking moment that was apparently real was Cleva’s onstage suicide attempt by drinking acid, which remains one of the film’s most startling scenes. Knowing afterward that this part actually happened made it land even harder in retrospect.

And Joe rated it a 10. Of course, I also rated it a 10 so I am hardly in a position to criticize. This time.

still the place to be

I joined a Zoom meeting at work a few minutes early last week, which is always a dangerous time. There’s just enough silence for small talk, and just enough audience for someone (me) to say something.

Someone noted the size of the meeting. “It’s the place to be,” he said.

And before I could stop myself, I chirped in: “Like Green Acres!”

Among people of a certain vintage, this is a layup. The phrase practically demands the response. A few people chuckled immediately.

The younger employees? Blank stares. One of them actually asked what I meant.

Someone else (thank God it wasn't me) helpfully explained the premise of Green Acres—big city lawyer moves to a farm, chaos ensues. He even quoted the opening line of the theme: “Green Acres is the place to be…”

By then, more people had joined, the moment had passed, and we got down to business. But it stuck with me.

Because if a perfectly good Green Acres reference now requires a footnote, maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s time for a reboot.

The Premise Aged Into Relevance

In the 1960s Green Acres was a fish-out-of-water comedy. Oliver Douglas leaves his Manhattan law practice to live his dream on a farm, while his glamorous wife wonders what on earth he’s thinking.

In 2026, that’s not a joke. That’s a lifestyle pivot.

The modern twist practically writes itself: Oliver doesn’t give up his law practice. He just relocates it.

He’s now a remote worker. A Zoom lawyer. A man with three monitors, a hotspot, and a deep belief that he can have it all—peaceful rural life and high-powered professional relevance.

But the farm disagrees.

The Zoom Problem

This is where the show lives now.

Oliver is presenting to clients while:

• a chicken walks across his keyboard
• another one pecks directly at the camera lens
• a goat quietly chews its way through his Ethernet cable mid-sentence
• a rooster times its crowing to land exactly on his most important point

He tries to maintain composure.

“If you look at page—no, sorry, that’s…that’s not a slide.”

He thinks he’s handled it. He never has. The animals don’t respect the meeting. The meeting doesn’t respect the animals. And Oliver is stuck in the middle, insisting that everything is “under control” while the screen share drops and something feathers its way across the desk again.

The joke isn’t that he left the city. It’s that he didn’t. He brought it with him—and the farm refuses to cooperate.

Life Off the Call

And it doesn’t get better when the laptop closes.

Oliver expects:

• restaurants that answer the phone
• stores within walking distance
• cell service that exists

Instead, he gets:

• limited hours that seem more like suggestions
• One restaurant called the Wagon Wheel, with fifteen items on the menu
• a general store that may or may not have what he needs
• a drive that is longer than he thinks it should be, every time
• a signal that drops the moment he needs it most

He sounds, frankly, like an entitled snob.

“There has to be somewhere that delivers.”
“There isn’t.”
“Within…what, ten miles?”
“Within…reality.”

Meanwhile, the locals:

• plan ahead
• fix things themselves
• understand that some problems don’t have immediate solutions

They’re not struggling. He is.

And they’re amused.

Who’s Actually the Joke?

It’s easy to remember Green Acres as a show that made fun of the locals.

That’s not quite right.

Yes, the townspeople were eccentric. Surreal, even. But they weren’t simply the butt of the joke. More often than not, they understood how their world worked far better than Oliver did.

The real joke was Oliver:

• convinced he knew better
• armed with logic, law, and confidence
• and consistently out of his depth

He tried to impose order on a place that ran on its own rules—and lost that battle over and over again.

In other words, the show wasn’t “city vs. country.”

It was certainty vs. reality

The Reboot Gets to Lean Into That

A modern version doesn’t need to flip the premise—it just needs to sharpen it.

The locals aren’t fools. They’re competent in ways Oliver isn’t.

• They understand land, systems, and consequences
• They navigate rules Oliver doesn’t even know exist
• They don’t explain themselves unless necessary

Oliver, meanwhile, still thinks he’s the smartest person in the room.

He knows contracts. They know what happens when contracts meet weather, animals, and time.

And every version of this town needs someone who operates by a completely different set of rules. In this one, she’s less a stereotype and more a force of nature—and Oliver, naturally, has no idea how to handle it.

The Cast (Because This Is Where It Gets Fun)

You don’t reboot something like this halfway.

Oliver: Jason Bateman

A man who insists everything is under control while nothing is under control.

Lisa: Jennifer Aniston

Not the fish out of water this time. She adapts faster than Oliver—and may quietly thrive.

The HOA President: beloved character actress, Margo Martindale

Runs everything. Never says she does. Never needs to.

If you’ve seen her in The Americans, you know the energy: calm voice, measured delivery, and just enough steel underneath that you don’t even consider pushing back.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t threaten. She just states things.

“Your grass is out of compliance.”

And that’s it. No explanation, no escalation. You don’t laugh. You don’t argue. You go get the mower.

She represents the rules—not the written ones, necessarily, but the ones that actually matter. The ones everyone else already understands.

With Oliver, she’s patient, but not indulgent:

“That’s not how this works.”
“Legally, I—”
“This isn’t legal.”

With the rest of the town, she barely needs to speak. Things get done.

And when she and Aubrey Plaza share a scene, there’s a sense that they both understand something Oliver never will—and have no particular interest in explaining it.

The Real Estate Agent / Something Else Entirely: Aubrey Plaza

She starts out as the real estate agent who sells Oliver the dream—“charming,” “rustic,” “full of potential”—and then never quite leaves.

After that, she’s just…around.

Sometimes she’s handling paperwork. Sometimes she’s enforcing something. Sometimes she’s advising Lisa. Sometimes she’s just standing there, observing.

Oliver, increasingly unsettled, eventually asks:

“What do you do?”

Her answer never changes:

“I’m involved.”

No one else finds this strange. The town accepts it completely. Only Oliver needs an explanation—and he’s the only one who never gets one.

The Neighboring Farmer: Keith Crocker

The kind of guy Oliver thinks he understands immediately—and completely doesn’t.

He looks like exactly what Oliver expects: pitchfork, overalls, the whole thing. But unlike Oliver, he actually knows what he’s doing.

He doesn’t explain much. He doesn’t need to.

“You’re gonna want to fix that.”
“Fix what?”
“…that.”

He shows up, gives just enough guidance to keep things from collapsing, and then moves on. The rest of the town treats him as entirely normal—which, in this town, tells you everything.

The Local Who Shouldn’t Be Underestimated: Brent Spiner

Seems like the most stereotypical country oddball—until he casually proves he understands everything better than Oliver does.

The Free-Spirit Neighbor: Paz de la Huerta

That “different set of rules” character. Always just around, always slightly disarming, and always treating Oliver’s sense of order as optional.

She flirts with him—casually, persistently, without much effort. Oliver has absolutely no idea how to handle it. He overcorrects into politeness, then into formality, then into mild panic.

Nothing ever comes of it. That’s not the point.

Lisa, importantly, is not threatened in the slightest. She understands exactly what’s going on and treats it as just another part of the landscape. If anything, she enjoys watching Oliver squirm.

“She likes you.”
“I wish she didn’t.”
“Why? You need the attention.”

Which, of course, only makes it worse for him.

The New York Paralegal (The True Power): Kate Micucci

Never leaves the office. Keeps the entire legal operation functioning. Solves problems before Oliver knows they exist.

The Agricultural Inspector: Christina Zuber Crocker

Shows up when things go wrong. Which is always. Takes everything completely seriously.

For those who remember her from The Bloody Ape—where she memorably played “Lady Who Has Her Car Stolen by Ape”—this would be a chance to show off her full comedic abilities. We got a glimpse there. Here, she gets the runway.

She doesn’t joke. She doesn’t react. She just documents, inspects, and enforces—no matter how absurd the situation.

“I’m going to need you to account for the poultry.”
“Don’t take the whole cake. That’s for everybody.”

It doesn’t matter what the situation is. The tone never changes.

And the Theme Song…

You don’t mess with it. Update it, remix it, rearrange it however you like—but there are two lines that are non-negotiable.

It has to begin with “Green Acres is the place to be…”

And it has to end with “Green Acres, we are there.”

Everything in between is up for grabs. Those bookends are not.

Because if you’re going to bring it back, you might as well get the part right that everyone remembers—well, everyone of a certain age.

Final Thought

The original Green Acres didn’t just laugh at the locals. It laughed at the guy who thought he had everything figured out.

A reboot doesn’t need to change that. If anything, it needs to make it clearer.

Because in 2026, we have a lot of Olivers—confident, connected, convinced we can drop into a new world and master it immediately.

And if someone makes that show?

I’ll be there.