Aaaugh! Falling behind again, this time because I'm having computer problems. Hoping to have everything resolved by Tuesday or Wednesday, at which point there will be a flurry of posts for a few days.

MOVIES: By Any Means (2026, Elegance Bratton)

The movie begins with a "based on a true story" text card, and ends with text telling us that the FBI has never confirmed any of the story the movie tells. It would seem that Bratton has left it up to us how much faith we should put in his ostensibly true story.

It is, if nothing else, a colorful tale, and a few parts of it are confirmable history. In 1966, the home of Mississippi civil rights activist Vernon Dahmer is firebombed by the KKK; Dahmer dies in the fire. The FBI sends one of its agents, a Black man originally from the area, to investigate.

And here we have our first "really?" moment. It is unsurprising that no one in the area is willing to talk to anyone from the FBI, for fear of Klan retribution; surely even the blinkered white guys at the FBI would have understood that a Black agent was even less likely to get cooperation. It also seems unlikely to me that they would place in charge of the investigation an agent who was a close friend of the deceased.

But in this telling of the tale, at any rate, they send a Black agent, who gets no cooperation. And that leads his superiors at the Jackson field office to send him a partner, a Brooklyn Mafia hitman who is sent in with instructions to get information -- ideally, to get a confession -- by any means necessary, including violence, torture, and murder. The hitman has done this before, he tells the agent, working on the investigation into the Chaney/Goodman/Schwerner murders. The FBI agent is initially shocked, but eventually swayed by the results the thug is getting.

Bratton has certainly assembled (with one exception, which we'll get to) a fine cast to tell his story. Yahya Abdul-Mateen II is Agent Wayne Strider; Nicole Beharie is his wife, Allison. Dahmer and his wife, Hattie, are played by Giancarlo Esposito and LaChanze. The bosses at the FBI field office are Josh Lucas and David Strathairn, and LisaGay Hamilton shows up for one impeccable scene as Dahmer's neighbor, who witnessed the firebombing and is reluctant to say anything.

There are moments when those actors deliver fine work, and Bratton's movie comes to vibrant life. The Dahmers and the Striders chat after a voting rights rally; that lone scene between Abdul-Mateen and Hamilton -- in those moments, the movie is populated with real people and genuine emotion.

But too often, especially as the violence gets more intense, Sascha Penn's screenplay is content to skim the surface, offering us the familiar cliches of the 1960s civil rights movie. And when he does veer away from cliches, he does so in improbable ways. Is it really likely that Agent Strider would need to have Malcolm X's "by any means" philosophy explained to him, or that a dimwitted Mafioso would be the one to do it?

And the even bigger problem, the one that really sinks the movie, is the casting of Mark Wahlberg as the Mafia hitman. Wahlberg dives cheerfully into full "dese/dem/dose" mode, playing the cartoon version of a violent thug; you get a better, more nuanced portrayal of evil from Foghorn Leghorn in Coyote vs. Acme.

I mostly liked Bratton's first feature film, The Inspection,  a semi-autobiographical story of a gay Black man in Marines basic training. It had the typical problems of a first film, but as is (mostly) true in this movie, Bratton got strong performances from a smartly chosen cast. I'm happy to see that his work on that movie has gotten him the opportunity to work with bigger names and a larger budget. Given his usually sharp eye for finding the right actors, I'd be willing to bet that Wahlberg was foisted on him by a studio that wanted at least one possible box-office draw (albeit a somewhat faded one) in a big role.

I am hugely skeptical about the "true story" aspect of this movie; its unusually violent version of a "white savior" narrative is extremely icky; and there is no getting past the sheer awfulness of Wahlberg's performance. But the things that do work here are enough to keep me interested in following Bratton's career

MOVIES: The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1982, Colin Higgins)

We are still at heart an intensely Puritan nation, and sex makes us uncomfortable. We've made some progress in recent years -- some of us are more likely to use the phrase "sex workers" than the word "whores," and to treat them with at least a little bit more respect than we once did  -- but I don't think we're ever going to fully get over our queasiness about the fact that sex is pleasurable enough that some people are willing to pay for it, and some people are willing to sell it.

And so it is a measure of just how much America loves Dolly Parton that in a movie released in the dark ages of 1982, she plays a madam and has us fully rooting for her in the first five minutes of the movie. Miss Mona might be a prostitute, but by god, she is also Dolly Parton, and that matters more.

The movie's premise is efficiently laid out by our narrator, Deputy Fred (Jim Nabors, doing the full Gomer Pyle voice, and a character only a smidge less dimwitted and naive), who explains that Mona has recently taken over the management of the Chicken Ranch, the bordello on the outskirts of Gilbert, Texas. Local men have been visiting the Chicken Ranch for generations, and it is a beloved local landmark. It has earned that status by hard work on the part of Mona and her predecessors, who use their arguably ill-gotten gains to benefit the community; we see Mona dropping off a check to pay for uniforms for the entire Little League team, and it's clearly not the first time she's done something similar.

Even Ed Earl Dodd (Burt Reynolds), the county sheriff, is willing to ignore the law when it comes to the Chicken Ranch, if only because he and Mona have an ongoing romantic relationship.

But the Chicken Ranch's cozy position is disrupted by TV consumer watchdog Melvin P. Thorpe (Dom DeLuise), who has made it his mission to shut the place down.

I am not familiar with the musical on which this movie is based. About half of Carol Hall's songs have been chopped for the movie; of the surviving songs, the only one I knew (and I suspect the only one anyone else is likely to know) is "Hard Candy Christmas," a melancholy ballad sung by Mona and her girls late in the movie (Parton also recorded a solo version, which did well on country radio).

And the reason you probably haven't heard any of Hall's other songs is that they aren't terribly interesting. "Hard Candy Christmas" is by far the best of them, and even it pales in comparison to the two Parton songs that were added to the film. To be sure, most songs look flimsy next to "I Will Always Love You," but Parton trumps Hall even with the relatively minor "Sneakin' Around," a duet for Parton and Reynolds.

What you remember about the Hall numbers in the movie is not the quality of the songs, but the skill of the performance. "The Aggie Song" is an energetic ensemble dance number for a college football team; "The Sidestep" gives us an unexpectedly nimble bit of song and dance from Charles Durning, playing the Texas Governor.

You may have guessed from the cast list that this movie steers firmly into broad comedy. Parton, Reynolds, and Nabors are skilled comic actors when playing within their comfort zones, but none are given to nuance or understatement. Even by those standards, though, Dom DeLuise is off in a world of his own. It is a performance so enormously flamboyant, so vastly over-the-top, that it is too big for even this movie; I'm not sure any technology exists that is powerful enough to contain what DeLuise is doing here. He struts across the screen dressed as if he'd been invited to the Sgt. Pepper's cover shoot, gesturing so broadly and screaming so loudly that the audience could hear him from across the Grand Canyon. It is painful and unpleasant, and the realization at one point that he is about to break into a second reprise of his song ("Texas Has a Whorehouse in It") is the most depressing thing in the movie.

But the movie survives or fails on the charm of Parton and Reynolds, which is considerable. In her memoir, Parton talks about how unpleasant this shoot was for her, and how poorly she and Reynolds got along. None of that shows.  Their relationship is convincing whether they're flirting, arguing (the audience I saw the movie with gasped audibly when Ed Earl hurled the word "whore" at Mona), or reconciling; and Parton tones down her voice enough to allow Reynolds to keep up in their duet, which is his only singing in the movie.

DeLuise aside, it's a likeable bit of fluffy musical comedy, and I'm grateful to my local AMC for taking the sad opportunity of Parton's death to put it on the big screen for a few shows.

TV: House of Cards (1990) / To Play the King (1993) / The Final Cut (1995)

British trilogy of miniseries, each consisting of 4 one-hour episodes; loosely adapted into an American political context by Netflix beginning in 2013. All three miniseries are streaming in the US at Peacock, with the latter two identified as House of Cards: To Play the King and House of Cards: The Final Cut.

Ian Carmichael stars as Francis Urquhart, fictional Chief Whip (*) of the Conservative Party and a master of political scheming and manipulation. In the first installment of the trilogy, Francis maneuvers his way into becoming the party's new Prime Minister. To Play the King finds him confronting the new King -- never given a more specific name than "the King," but clearly modeled on then-Prince Charles -- who has the audacity to express political opinions in public; even worse, the King's opinions do not align with those of Francis and his Conservative government. The Final Cut begins at the (fictional) funeral of Maggie Thatcher -- in reality, she would live for another 18 years -- as Francis approaches her record as the longest-serving post-war Prime Minister.

(* -- There's no real equivalent to this position in the US government, but it's sort of as if the Speaker of the House was a Cabinet official who had a lot more insitiutional force and tradition behind him to hold members of his party in line on key votes.)

When Michael Dobbs wrote the novel that served as the source for the first miniseries, he had no thought of continuing it; he actually killed off Francis at the end of the book. But the TV version was so popular that Dobbs was forced to ignore that death to write the novels that were adapted as the second and third installments in the series.

When this began airing, 36 years ago, it must have felt like pure escapism. Surely politics wasn't this  viciously nasty and cruel in the depths of its conniving and struggling for power, but there was a naughty thrill in imagining that it might be. Watching it these days, I suspect it plays more darkly than it once did; if there's any escapism left in it these days, it probably takes the form of longing for the good old days when this was as bad as it got.

Whatever the era and however the story might compare to the politics of the real world, the great constant of the series is Ian Carmichael's magnificent performance. Francis frequently breaks the fourth wall to directly address the audience, commenting on the stupidity of political colleagues and rivals, the ease of manipulating the media, and (of course) his own unparalleled political brilliance. It's a performance of silky smarm and oozing charisma, and remains one of television's towering achievements. 

The supporting players don't quite rise to that level, but there are fine performances among them. Susannah Harker shines in House of Cards as a naive young reporter who trusts Francis too much for her own good; Michael Kitchen finds the precisely correct mix of smug self-satisfaction and genuine concern for his people as the King in To Play the King; and throughout, Diane Fletcher performs her own subtle manipulation as Francis's wife, a Lady Macbeth manque who takes on a steadily increasing role in the scheming, truly coming into her own in The Final Cut.

At heart, this is trashy soap opera, Dallas set in the world of British politics instead of Texas oil. But it's the classiest possible version of trashy soap opera, and it's a grand good time.

TV: Ellis (2024 - ?)

British police/crime drama; streaming in the US on Acorn, where it's labeled as Inspector Ellis. Two seasons, each short even by British standards; season 1 is 3 90-minute episodes, and season 2 is 4 45-minute episodes, comprising two 90-minute stories. Haven't been able to find info on whether a third season is planned.

Sharon D. Clarke stars as DCI Ellis (her first name is never revealed), who is sent by her boss in London to lead murder investigations at smaller police departments that don't have the staffing or experience to deal with complicated major crimes. On her first case, she's partnered with DS Chet Harper (Andrew Gower) who will leave his position in that local department to become Ellis's partner in traveling investigation. 

The "I'm from the city, and I'm here to help" sets up an unusual dynamic, with local departments usually resenting Ellis's presence and the implication that they aren't up to the task; their attitude is often one of reluctant cooperation at best, outright hostility at worst. And in some of those rural departments, the hostility is only made worse by the fact that Ellis is a Black woman.

Clarke is terrific here, and it's a challenging role, because she's not given a large, colorful personality to play. She's reserved, quiet, and actively resists small talk. When she finally, near the end of the first season, tells Chet that she has a daughter (we viewers have known that fact, and gotten some hints that their relationship might be strained, but we don't know any more than that), it's a major step forward in their partnership, the first moment in which she's acknowledging that either of them has a life beyond the job. That daughter is the show's biggest step towards any sort of serialized storytelling; this is firmly a case-of-the-week procedural, which these days, is a refreshing change.

Gower's role is more familiar -- the junior officer, almost puppyish in his eagerness to impress the boss -- and the writers haven't done much to broaden him beyond that trope. (Three of the five stories are written or co-written by the show's creator, Sian Ejiwunmi-Le Barre.) He gets to flirt a bit with the IT officer (Charlotte McCurry) who occasionally joins Ellis and Harper on their cases, but even that slight hint of personality is quickly closed off when he finds out that she's married.

The opaque nature of the lead characters is the most frustrating element for me, and if there is a third season, I hope that Ellis and Harper will be allowed to develop a more relaxed relationship and reveal more, even if only between themselves. But that's my only mild problem with the show. The cases Ellis and Harper are sent to work on are interesting and complex, darker and grittier than the cozies we usually get in rural settings. Each story gives us a large cast of suspects, friends, and relatives, played very well by actors who will mostly be unfamiliar to American viewers; Mark Addy was the only major guest actor I recognized at all, and he's not exactly a household name here.

Not essential viewing, but a good solid procedural, greatly aided by strong casting from top to bottom.

Still trying to get back in the habit of posting here more regularly after watching something. There are a few posts waiting to be written, and I plan to get caught up by the end of the weekend.