“Bring me my TV pantsuit.” Masters of the Universe and Stop! That! Train!

Happy Pride, y’all! I have a tendency to schedule my filmgoing in obsessive bursts. If I see a block of time and can figure out how to squeeze two movies in *just so.* I do it. This has resulted in some nightmarish double feature pairings. For example, Noah and The Grand Budapest Hotel (I’m still nauseous from that experience) or Coraline and The Reader (that one caused pure psychological whiplash). This brings me to what will likely be the (inadvertently) gayest double feature I’ve navigated: Masters of the Universe and Stop! That! Train! Loin cloths and drag queens and Sarah Michelle Gellar, oh my!

I’m a child of the 80s. When we got HBO for the first time (maybe around 1982 or so?), you’d get a little glossy booklet every month, teeming with entertainment ‘round the clock. There were always one or two big splashy blockbusters to draw you in, and then … a whole LOT of d-list 80s dreck. I would dutifully circle every showing of Star Wars and ET and The Neverending Story but also Xanadu and Krull and Flash Gordon. And I would watch them all over and over and over and over. I suppose that’s why my brain is a block of day-glo Swiss cheese to this day.

Masters is an unapologetic throwback to those (very) financially unsuccessful fantasy films of the Reagan era – Flash Gordon particularly – and Stop! That! Train! is essentially (also unapologetically) Airplane! but with drag queens … on a train. And with that low bar to entry in mind, both work reasonably well. Ten year old Roy would have watched both movies 98 times in one summer while my horrified parents stared on in disbelief they’d raised a child with such dodgy taste. Fifty three year old Roy will have seen both of these movies once, will likely buy the DVDs for “collecting sake,” but admittedly was neither fully transported nor utterly delighted by either. Try as I might to tap into my misspent youth while watching these films, I just couldn’t get there.

And that’s a shame. I don’t know if that says more about me, the fraught cultural moment in which we perpetually find ourselves, or the performative goofiness that afflicts both films. It’s clear that Travis Knight (director of Masters) and Adam Shankman (director of Stop! That! Train!) are as informed by the same oeuvre (can I even really call it that?) as I. But neither of them quite land the oomph to bring these influences full circle in a way that acknowledges the past while connecting with arguably savvier audiences today.

Masters clearly aspires to have its cake and eat it too (a la Barbie), simultaneously lampooning and celebrating its source material while weaving in a modern message about overcoming toxic masculinity with empathy and heart and self-effacement. But unlike BarbieMasters is missing a certain sparkle or joie de vivre. I wish I could pinpoint where it misses the mark. Perhaps in aping the very plodding structure of a throwback like Krull, the film kneecaps itself by tying a nostalgic boat anchor around its neck. Sorry (not sorry) for the mixed metaphor. The visuals are there, the Easter eggs are plentiful, and Nicholas Galitzine does a bang-up job as the follicularly blessed, muscle bound, fish-out-of-water protagonist He-Man. Honestly, he deserved a much punchier script to match the gorgeous production design.

As for Stop! That! Train!, RuPaul is (naturally) the best thing in a film that likely should have just been a hourlong special episode of Drag Race. While I kept a stupid smile on my face for the entire film, I only laughed out loud about 3.5 times. And those guffaws were when the criminally underused Ru appeared onscreen. I would giddily watch two hours of RuPaul strutting around the White House as the sassy glamazon President Gagwell. Dealing with the “national crisis” of a runaway train barreling through literally EVERY possible calamitous weather front in the meteorologist’s lexicon, Ru commands “bring me my TV pantsuit” as she’s about to address an angry press corps. I *may* have snorted at the line delivery. Ru is an utter delight, and I wish the filmmakers, rather than go the tired route of Mad! Magazine-style spoof, would have written a sharp satire about our tumultuous political age centered around the spicy, stylish delivery of Ru. Le sigh.

If wishes were horses, we all would ride. Or something like that.

Better luck next time, Hollywood. Maybe pair President Gagwell with He-Man for the sequel. And actually write a decent script for them both.

“We’re invisible to people like that. It’s our superpower.” Blue Beetle

I still haven’t seen Oppenheimer. But I did just see Blue Beetle. And it’s a delight. I’m not one bit ashamed!

Representation matters. It is especially impactful when done with such love and with detailed cultural inclusion. It’s a shame the film isn’t doing better than it is at the box office – whether due to the impact of actors’ strikes, weather weirdness, and just late summer doldrums. We can simply hope it finds an expanded audience on streaming and cable and gathers good-hearted steam the way the equally charming Encanto did. 

In fact, both films, albeit showcasing different cultures (Blue Beetle the Mexican-American experience, Encanto set in Colombia), center themselves on the ties that bind: mi familia. This theme gives both films their superpowers, highlighting the magic, both tangible and ephemeral, in a close-knit clan.

Director Angel Manuel Soto slows the pace, not often a luxury in superhero spectacles, to shape our understanding of the Reyes family, who are hitting hard times in the fictional Palmera City but never losing their love for each other, their hopefulness, nor their senses of humor. Much of the rest of the film is a paint-by-numbers superhero origin tale, but it works because of the moments we spend early in the film, investing in this beautiful family dynamic.

Karate Kid’s Xolo Maridueña is well-cast as the Peter Parker-esque Jaime, recently graduated from college and quickly realizing that the “American Dream” is not all its cracked up to be. Maridueña acquits himself nicely in the film with an easy charm as he finds himself in possession of a mystical alien scarab that affixes itself to his back (and soul) and imbues him with seemingly limitless superpowers (much to the chagrin of the furnishings and structure of his family’s home). Maridueña deftly makes the leap from small to large screen and carries the film without breaking a sweat.

But his family, oh, his family. I deeply wish DC Studios’ head James Gunn posthaste would turn this film into a streaming series, following the Reyes’ misadventures. Soulful Damián Alcázar as gentle patriarch Alberto, compelling Elpidia Carrillo as deep-feeling mama Rocio, sparkling Belissa Escobedo as quick-witted sister Milagro, zany George López as conspiracy-theorist/tech-aficionado uncle Rudy, and, most notably, beguiling Adriana Barraza as flinty/sassy Nana are a collective, well, marvel. Their ensemble scenes crackle with a world-weary merriment and a canny resilience that give the film its corazón.

There are so many intentional, thoughtful touches throughout, highlighting the socioeconomic and cultural challenges endemic in this country, without ever devolving into moralizing. The film doesn’t pull its punches, though – particularly where fictional global conglomerate Kord Enterprises is concerned. Kord is the chief source of all disparity in Palmera City, a creeping corporate fungus reshaping anything down-to-earth (like the Reyes’ neighborhood) into a Blade Runner-esque high rise megalopolis. At one point, Milagro observes (with a healthy hint of justifiable anger), “We’re invisible to people like that. It’s our superpower.”

Kord is run by Victoria Kord, portrayed in an understated way by Susan Sarandon, who, quite honestly looks a bit lost amidst the summer blockbuster bombast, but holds her own. Blessedly, Sarandon, as the film’s primary villain, plays the role like the misanthropic captain of industry Victoria is, not like Cruella de Vil. A trap lesser actors would fall into, chewing every bit of scenery in their path. It’s just that Sarandon’s believability – refreshing as it is – can’t quite keep pace with a kid who gets glowing blue superpowers from alien tech. Ah well.

Victoria is after the scarab – natch – to develop an army of tech-infused killing machine warriors … and, more importantly to her, to make a lot of moolah by selling to the highest bidding nation state. Eventually the film does devolve into the wham/bam/CGI-fest that one would expect. There are refreshing differences, however.

The film is not afraid to offer overt critique of the evils the military industrial complex wreaks upon the world, nor to question the corrosive impact rampant capitalism can have on authentic community. In a final act twist, Victoria’s henchman Carapax (an occasionally haunting Raoul Max Trujillo) is revealed to have been tragically shaped by the very real-world human collateral damage such warmongering causes. It’s a bit of a stunning reveal for a popcorn kids’ movie, unfortunately a bit rushed, but nonetheless impactful. Kudos to the production team for including.

Structurally, the film feels like a modern-spin on 80s blockbusters that championed the underdog, cracked more than a few ill-timed (but funny) jokes, used moments of tragedy to impel their heroes onward (sometimes defying logic TBH), and gifted us a joyous ending (with one spectacularly prurient one-liner). Ah, memories. Hell, Blue Beetle’s evocative, synth-soaked score by Bobby Krlic sounds like something Tangerine Dream would have knocked out in an afternoon.

Blue Beetle is a charmer. Great cinema? Nah. But a lovely and loving exploration of the Mexican-American experience (the warm, the heartbreaking, the inspiring) in the guise of a superhero yarn. I can only hope that the sociocultural critique subtly woven throughout will impact positively the young people who find this gem on streaming – much like I used to discover cult classics like Buckaroo Banzai and Flash Gordon and Time Bandits and The NeverEnding Story on HBO in the 80s, eating sugary cereal and staying in my pajamas all day but nonetheless … thinking.