Reviews

To say that David Lynch's "Mulholland Drive" is one of the quirkier films of 2001 would be a masterpiece of understatement. A more imperfect example of linear storytelling probably cannot be found, yet it remains compelling and fascinating. By the film's end, however, the resolution to the fantastically surreal visions we have witnessed seems contrived and something of a cop-out.

Beginning with what seems to be a scene from a completely different film (wholesome teenagers doing the jitterbug), "Mulholland Drive" establishes its clarity-be-damned style from the get-go. We are then introduced to a sultry brunette riding in the back seat of a stretch limousine. The ride abruptly ends when the gun-toting chauffeur seems about to perform a "hit"...but those plans are foiled by a head-on collision with joy-riding teens.

Escaping with a nasty gash on her head, the brunette staggers her way to Sunset Blvd., hooks up with perky blonde Betty (an aspiring actress) and attempts to unravel the mystery of her amnesia. Taking the name Rita from a movie poster of Rita Hayworth as "Gilda," the mystery brunette gives us a not-so-subtle clue that she just might be a femme fatale. Along the way, we are treated to a dizzying array of images and seemingly disconnected scenes--all of which make sense once you see the denouement.

POSSIBLE SPOILERS TO FOLLOW!

Although the ending tied up most of the loose ends, that's precisely why it strikes such a false note: for 90% of the film, Lynch creates a world of beautiful, baffling images...to have them tidily explained away is akin to being told there is no Santa Claus. Leaving us dangling would have been deliciously frustrating; instead, the ending left me incredibly dissatisfied.

That aside, the first 2 hours of the film are worth the ticket price. The cast of unknowns is excellent, particularly Naomi Watts, who has a radiant screen presence and the ability to change moods on a dime. She may emerge as an underdog Oscar nominee, an honor she would most definitely deserve.

Laura Harring is sexy beyond belief, although her line readings are stiff and halting; OK, so she's playing an amnesia victim--she still could have injected a little more life into her character. Still, she is undeniably photogenic. Justin Theroux is dry, funny and thoroughly engaging as a likably self-absorped film director whose sudden plunge into a nightmarish dreamscape of strange mobsters, double-crossing wives and philosophical cowboys may or may not be connected to the Betty/Rita plotline.

There are also wonderfully weird cameos by the likes of Ann Miller, Lee Grant, Chad Everett and Billy Ray Cyrus, adding to the carnival-like atmosphere. The haunting score by Angelo Badalamenti (who also cameos as a hypnotic, sinister-yet-sexy performance artist) is complimented by two 60's kitsch classics (Connie Stevens' "16 Reasons" and Linda Scott's "I've Told Every Little Star" never sounded so subversive) and a stunning, a cappella version of "Crying," delivered in Spanish by Rebekah Del Rio. This performance is one of the high points of the film.

"Mulholland Drive" was originally intended as a TV series, along the same lines as the (in)famous "Twin Peaks." It's perhaps a pity that those plans didn't develop; wrapping up all these wonderful twists and turns in a neat, 2 1/2 hour package just doesn't seem fitting.

"How to Marry a Millionaire" (1953) set the template--get three beautiful gals, throw 'em together in one impossibly huge apartment, and let the husband-hunting begin! But dated as "Millionaire" is today, it benefits from good casting, a reasonably witty script and solid comic performances. Its direct descendant, "Three Coins in the Fountain," camped the story up, and began a whole sub-genre of trashy flicks: Three Gals Lookin' for Love!

You know what you're in for as soon as Frank Sinatra, the studio orchestra, and a chorus of thousands begin blasting the swoony theme song, as the CinemaScope camera pans on countless smoochin' couples all around Rome.

POSSIBLE SPOILERS...The three girls in question are Dorothy McGuire (the sensible spinster), Jean Peters (the working girl), and Maggie McNamara (the perky one). Actually, only Maggie technically qualifies as a "girl," but this is 1954, and all women were "girls," doncha know. The ridiculous plot has each of them meeting their future hubbies in various picturesque settings; the weirdest and creepiest union has to be McGuire and ancient, effete Clifton Webb. That's one honeymoon that I wouldn't want to be privy to.

Considerably more eye-catching are Peters' and McNamara's beaux, the hunky Rosanno Brazzi and impossibly beautiful Louis Jourdan. Actually, these two slabs of Franco-Italo beefcake are better looking than the rather pedestrian female cast, and kinda make you wish that Peters and McNamara had been replaced by, say, John Gavin and Jeffrey Hunter. But I digress--

Anyway, a few melodramatic turns are provided by the fact that Webb is suffering from some Fatal Movie Disease, and Peters and Brazzi become persona non grata at the office they work at because of their lustful union. But all's well that ends well, and like every single women, er, GIRL, wanted in 1954, all three wind up married. This despite the fact that two gals will almost certainly wind up divorcees, and one will be a widow in what looks to be about 6 months at most. But hey--you wanted a happy, marriage-minded, 1954 ending, right?

Those who dismiss "The Stepford Wives" as absurdist 1) miss the black comedy/satirical point, and 2) obviously never lived in an affluent Connecticut suburb. I grew up not too far from where "The Stepford Wives" was filmed, and trust me, this film got the mileu exactly right.

Despite its apparent lack of blockbuster success upon its 1975 release, the film has aquired an almost mythic reputation; indeed, even those who have never seen the movie or read the book upon which it's based will recognize the term "Stepford wife" when applied to a particularly vapid, "perfect" homemaker.

*SPOILERS!*

The plot is simple and scary: Joanna (Katharine Ross) moves to the seemingly perfect burg of Stepford, Connecticut, at the insistence of her husband. There, the liberated (this is the 70's, after all) Joanna is shocked to find every housewife seems to be right out of a Betty Crocker commercial. Are they really all so thrilled to be dedicated homemakers, cooks and sex objects? And just what is this "men's association" that demands so much of the husbands' time?

Joanna's shock turns to paranoia as she begins to suspect that some kind of evil force is behind the all-too-perfect veneer of Stepford. She makes a new friend, Bobbie (Paula Prentiss), who is also a newcomer to Stepford. Both women are determined to find out exactly what is causing "us to turn into hausfraus!" What Joanna discovers, to her horror, is that the "association" is behind the killing of the wives, only to replace them with programmed robots. In one of the most famous scenes, Joanna learns that Bobbie has "Stepford-ized," and stabs her in the stomach with a carving knife--only to have "Bobbie" malfunction rather than bleed!

Yes, this is high camp; the sight of Prentiss mechanically dropping coffee cup after coffee cup while spinning around and muttering, "I thought we were friends! I thought we were friends!", as computerized bleeps and squiggles dominate the soundtrack, is darkly funny--but also very, very spooky. That such ridiculous scenes play well as both camp and black humor suggests that this is what the filmmakers had in mind all along.

Katharine Ross is beautiful and perfectly cast as Joanna; she doesn't really hit any highs or lows, but conveys the character's fear and frustration well. Paula Prentiss, on the other hand, is hysterically funny and over-the-top. She comes off as a big, goosy drag queen--sort of like Jack Lemmon's characterization of "Daphne" in "Some Like it Hot"!

Nannette Newman took some critical heat because she was primarily cast due to her marriage to Bryan Forbes, the film's director, but she's perfect as Carol. Some insisted that the older more matronly Newman didn't fit in with the idea that the Assocation wanted a line of perfect, young, beautiful trophy wives; but Newman isn't exactly Totie Fields, and, after all, wouldn't a suburb-full of Playboy Bunnies make Joanna and Bobbie head back to New York City without even a second thought? Newman also gets off the most memorable line in the film: malfunctioning at a surreal garden party, she intones to every guest: "I'll just DIE if I don't get this recipe!"

Look for the absolutely stunning Tina "Ginger" Louise as Charmaine--in her initial, pre-robotic scenes, she's salty and brassy and incredibly sexy. What a shame she was forever typecast and left to waste away on "Gilligan's Island." The only real complaint I would have is that little or no motivation is given for the husbands' willingness to kill their wives and have them replaced by these domestically- and anatomically-perfect doubles. In the end, though, I suppose it's irrelevant. The film's message, if entertainment MUST have a message, is really a manifesto against a male dominated society's unwritten, unspoken and pretty much unchallenged desire to control women.

Forbes' direction is slick and assured, and aided by the gauzy, soft-focus photography and EZ-listening score. Believe me, towns like Stepford really did exist (still do?), and this movie not only made me laugh very hard, but also scared the hell out of me--because it made the reality that much more chilling.

SPOILERS WITHIN SUMMARY

"What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?" (1962) should have been the springboard to further successes for stars Bette Davis and Joan Crawford; instead, both were typecast in increasingly unsavory horror productions, with Davis faring somewhat better than Crawford in this respect.

With "Strait-Jacket," released a scant two years after "Baby Jane"'s flurry of publicity and critical acclaim, Crawford began her descent into B-grade territory; the legendary glamour icon would never again appear in a first class production.

As Lucy Harper, Crawford certainly dominates the proceedings, but gives one of her most laughable performances. The material, to be fair, gives her precious little to work with. Twenty years ago, we are told, Lucy Harper was declared legally insane. She walked in on her studly, younger hubby (a pre-fame Lee Majors) sleeping with the local floozy, and took an axe to both of them.

This initial double murder is shown in flashback, and the scariest thing about it is Crawford's entrance: by narration, we are told that Lucy Harper was "very much a woman, and very much aware of it!" Lucy steps off a train platform, strikes a seductive pose, throws her cigarette over her shoulder and walks to her shabby little house as screeching jazz blares in the background. This would've been a hysterically camp entrance for ANYONE, but the fact that it's a sixty-ish Joan Crawford made up to look thirtysomething (sleazy floral dress, jangling charm bracelets and a ridiculous black wig) transcends camp and sends it into orbit.

Flash forward to the present; Lucy is being released from the mental hospital and coming to live with her daughter, Carol (Diane Baker), and her brother and sister-in-law, on their farm. As soon as Lucy arrives, murders begin occurring again. Who could be behind them? Well, since this is a Joan Crawford film, you can bet that she ain't the villain. (You can also bet that a case of PEPSI makes a prominent cameo appearance, at the behest of the former Mrs. Alfred Steele, international spokeswoman for the soda pop.) Instead, it is revealed at the crazed finale, that Carol is the new murderess--she witnessed the original double homicide, and that trauma, plus her growing resentment of her mother, caused her to snap.

In an obvious nod to "Psycho," Carol-as-a-murderess is shown committing her final crime dressed AS her mother--complete with a rubber mask fashioned after Crawford's face! In a sublimely surreal moment, mother and daughter tussle wearing the same dress, same bad wig...and then Lucy rips the mask off of Carol's face. The only scarier scene possible was when Crawford-in-blackface ripped off her wig in "Torch Song," revealing her flaming orange hair.

There are more howlingly funny scenes: Lucy regressing to her sex kitten past by cranking up bad jazz records, swigging her liquor, and then lighting a match on the spinning record! Brilliant! Or the loony confrontation between Lucy and the rich bitch mother of Carol's fiance, as Lucy freaks out:

MRS FIELDS: It wasn't JUST a sanitorium, was it? WAS IT!!!!!

LUCY: NO! It was an ASYLUM!!!! And it was HELL! Twenty years of PURE HELL!

The completely insane coda has Lucy explaining how Carol carried out her diabolical scheme ("She must have hidden it in her purse," she deadpans--watch the film and understand why that line gives this writer fits of laughter), and then calmly preparing to visit Carol in the loony bin. Never mind that the woman axed two people in a jealous rage. Never mind that she's been portrayed as teetering on the brink of insanity for the last 80 minutes. Suddenly, Crawford is playing her as she would one of her noble, composed 1930's MGM heroines. Absolutely twisted.

The axe murders aren't graphic in the least (there's more gore in the bigger-budgeted, higher-brow Davis vehicle, "Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte), and in the end, this is less a horror movie than it is another in a long line of mother vs. daughter Joan Crawford melodramas. However, this is a far way down from "Mildred Pierce." For sheer enjoyment, camp appeal and demented guilty pleasure, "Strait-Jacket" is ideal. And remember: "Don't give away the surprise, shock ending!"

The dawn of such technical advances as heightened Technicolor usage, widescreen effects and stereophonic sound prompted many studios in the 1950's to re-hash their most successful stories and "pump up" the glamour in a bid to compete with television.

So, "The Women" (1939) became "The Opposite Sex" (1956); "The Philadelphia Story" (1940) became "High Society" (1956); "My Man Godfrey" (1936) was disastrously remade under the same title in 1957; and, in one of the more successful attempts, "Love Story" (1939) morphed into "An Affair to Remember" (1957).

The classic original film starred Irene Dunne and Charles Boyer as the ill-fated lovers; the update didn't skimp on star power, and reeled in heavyweights Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr.

Grant, of course, was already a legend, and if a few missteps in the early 1950's put him in a mild slump, he scored a tremendous success in 1955 with Hitchcock's "To catch a Thief." Kerr, on the other hand, was enjoying huge acclaim as a result of her performance in "The King and I" (which itself was a super-deluxe, musical retelling of "Anna and the King of Siam," 1948, also starring Dunne).

All the elements seemed to be in "An Affair to Remember"'s favor: popular, charismatic stars; lavish production values; and even the same director as the 1939 original, Leo McCary. Unfortunately, some of the sparkle seems to have gotten smothered beneath the Technicolor trappings, hackeneyed melodrama cliches, and the swelling, swooning theme song.

Everything starts out perfectly fine: Grant, a notorious international playboy, meets Kerr, a sensible nightclub singer, while onboard a luxurious cruise ship. Although both are spoken for (Grant's engagement is humorously reported upon at the film's start), there is an immediate spark, and the banter is quite charming and witty. The film is handled with a light, comic touch, and it seems as if, for once, a 1950's remake is going to at least be on a par with its predecessor, if not exactly surpassing it.

Unfortunately, things begin to fall apart as soon as the star-crossed pair hit dry land. Except for a surprisingly touching (if calculated) scene where Kerr and Grant visit his frail Italian grandmother (the always-wonderful Cathleen Nesbitt), the remainder of the picture veers sharply into pure 1950's soap. **(SPOILERS TO FOLLOW)** Grant and Kerr promise each other to dump their respective fiance(e)s, and meet atop the Empire State Building to reaffirm their love and get married. On her way to the meeting, Kerr gets near-killed crossing a street (no doubt Vic Damone belting that damn song distracted her) and Grant, not knowing of the accident, believes that she's had a change of heart.

Kerr is now confined to a wheelchair; Grant follows his life's dream to become a painter; Kerr buys one of his paintings; Grant tracks her down; Grant learns of her accident by opening her bedroom door and finding a wheelchair in the darkened room, hit by a spotlight. (Groan.) Together at last, Kerr and Grant dissolve into happy tears, with Kerr uttering perhaps the most cringe-worthy line in big budget soap opera history: "If you can paint, I can walk!"

In trying to combine the screwball romantic comedy elements of the 1930's with a tackier, 1950's-era "Love is a Many Splendored Thing"-type mentality creates a very schizophrenic film. The first half is very enjoyable, fast-paced, and charming. The second half is mawkish and shrill; still entertaining, but a disappointment after the relative excellence of the first half. (There's even a horrid musical sequence with Kerr and a disadvantaged children's chorus--a crude and obvious nod to her previous "King and I" success.)

You could do a lot worse than "An Affair to Remember" when it comes to lowbrow melodrama gussied up in deluxe trappings; after all, nothing with Cary Grant is completely without merit. But it's also a sad reminder of the film it could have been.

Even today, almost a half-century later, there is excitement in watching "Roman Holiday." How even more thrilling it must have been to be in a 1953 theater, watching this story unfold, and knowing that you were witnessing the birth of a truly remarkable star.

Of course, that star is Audrey Hepburn, and her American film debut earned her a Best Actress Oscar and the hearts of millions. Miraculously, "Roman Holiday" still holds up and doesn't collapse under the weight of years and myth.

The story is simple and well-known (POSSIBLE SPOILERS): Princess Anne (Hepburn) is a young, popular European princess on a goodwill tour of Europe. In Rome, she finally tires of smothering protocol, slips out of her embassy disguised as a schoolgirl, and meets Joe Bradley (Gregory Peck), who takes her on a whirlwind tour of Rome. Bradley is a newspaperman, unbeknownst to Anne, and is recording this carefree day with the intent of selling the story and accompanying photos for a high sum. Of course, Bradley falls in love with Anne; she returns to her duties as princess an even more regal and endearing leader thanks to having discovered love, and Bradley loses some of his cynicism as he forfeits the story (and its price) for the sake of his love.

Don't be put off by any details of the plot which may sound trite. Of course, the very idea of a princess running away from the palace to mingle with the commoners requires the suspension of disbelief anyway. The script is so well-written, and the performers are so persuasive, natural and beguiling, one cannot help but believe in it, as well.

As Princess Anne, Hepburn never hits a false note. While radiating, even at that early age, the serene elegance that would become her trademark, she also projects a charming awkwardness that fits Anne's naitivity and youth. This writer, I think, fell in love with her in the moment that the Italian hairdresser tells Anne that she is the prettiest girl. There is a moment of shock that crosses Audrey's face, then a shy and utterly delighted smile--as if she's never been told she was pretty before.

Such scenes as Anne on an impromptu, reckless spin on a Vespa, could come off as contrived or forced in other hands. Hepburn's joy and exuberance are contagious, and we willingly go along for the ride. The ending, too, is extremely satisfying (SPOILER CNT'D!): Anne, having returned to her royal duties, holds a press conference at which Bradley is present. They can only express their mutual affection and sadness through their eyes--a trick which invites silent-star-mugging, but which Hepburn and Peck carry off effortlessly.

At the close of the conference, Bradley remains after all the other journalists have left, perhaps hoping that Anne will reappear. Then, slowly, he walks down a long corridor, toward the exit. Throughout this long sequence, one expects (hopes?) that Anne will reappear, cry "Joe!", and rush into his arms as the studio orchestra swells to a big Paramount Pictures finish.

But she doesn't. Joe keeps on walking. And, even though our hearts have dropped, it is the perfect ending. A "fairy tale" ending would have cheapened and lessened the film. Instead, there is the bittersweet knowledge that Anne has learned through her one-day experience of complete freedom (her perfectly-played confrontation scene with her advisors and chaperones, as well as the press conference scene, conveys this wonderfully), and Joe has learned a few lessons as well.

This is as good a time as any to point out that, though Hepburn obviously steals the show, Peck is a fantastic leading man. Combining Cary Grant's smoothness with Bill Holden's ruggedness, Peck is the ideal match for Hepburn's first major pairing. He doesn't overshadow her, but neither is he a colorless sop. Eddie Albert is also extremely engaging as Irving, the smart aleck photographer, and Paolo Carlini is adorable as the Italian hairdresser who cuts Princess Anne's locks, and tells her how pretty she is. He may have been the first; we have lined up to echo his sentiments ever since.

"Dark Victory" was a huge success for Bette Davis; the "women's picture" was entering its golden age, and the public ate it up, while the critics (who most often scoffed at such material) were unusually kind and lavished every acting superlative upon Davis. She was nominated for yet another Best Actress Oscar, and probably would have won, had she not been pitted against Vivien Leigh in "Gone with the Wind."

However, Davis' performance is not nearly as controlled as it might have been. The director, Eddie Goulding, had a very good rapport with the star, but was hardly a rough taskmaster like William Wyler, who wrangled with Davis, cursed her out, and forced her to reign in her nervous quirks: the eye popping, the twitching walk, the flailing arms and hands. Under Goulding's direction, Davis gives a good performance, but not the great one many have claimed she did.

SPOILERS TO FOLLOW

Judith Tremaine (Davis) is a high-flying Long Island playgirl, concerned primarily with her horses, cocktails, and her sodden group of rich brat friends. The only voice of reason is her best friend, Ann (Geraldine Fitzgerald), who acts as both Judith's conscience and a Greek chorus in the film. Judith's eyesight, exacerbated by blinding headaches, has grown increasingly poor, deteriorating to the point that she is thrown from her prize stallion because she has double vision as she approaches a jump. Sufficiently shaken by this accident, Judith grudgingly agrees to visit neurosurgeon Dr. Steele (George Grent). Outwardly scornful and dismissive, Judith is actually very frightened, and Steele's quiet, authorative manner finally brings her to admit that her health has been in a downslide for some time. Steele diagnoses her with an incurable brain cancer, but he and Ann keep the truth from Judith--so that she may live a happy, unfettered life. Judith and Steele fall in love, and Judith seems to be on the path to a fulfilled life--she is no longer wrapped up in the superficialities of her socialite existance. However, Judith soon learns of her terminal condition, and lashes out at Steele, accusing him of wanting to marry her only out of pity. Choked with self-pity and rage, Judith embarks on a binge of drinking and partying, but, of course, comes back to Steele, so that she may live her final months on earth with dignity, and someone who truly loves her. Judith and Steele marry, move to Maine, and lead a happy, simple life. He works tirelessly at advances in neurology, while she devotes herself to enjoying life to the fullest--not through drink, but by sharing her life with someone. Ann comes for a visit just as Steele is called away to a medical conference; at that moment, Judith experiences a dimming of her vision--the telltale sign that her death is imminent. Determined to end her life with dignity and without hurting those she loves, she sends Ann away, manages to hide her blindness from Steele even as she "helps" him pack for his trip, bids him farewell, then climbs the stairs to her bedroom, where she peacefully and contentedly nears death as Max Steiner's score and an angelic choir soar behind her.

Whew! Certainly, the plot was ripe for overdramatics, but handled properly, similar material could be done compellingly and with a minimum of corn (see Davis' own "Now, Voyager"). This is not a bad movie, by any means, but some of the scenes play very poorly indeed. Watching the increasingly blind Judith pack Steele's bags and then grope her way down the steps invariably induces this writer to giggles. (On the other hand, Judith's actual death scene, as mawkish as it sounds on paper, plays exceedingly well--choir or not.) Davis is wonderful in some scenes, and then completely over-the-top in others, giving her performance a somewhat off-kilter feel.

The script, considering that it was written in 1939, has the right idea: Judith becomes insolent and self-pitying when she learns of her illness, not noble and self-sacrificing. Even after her "reform" and marriage to Steele, Judith is thankfully not written as a latter-day saint. Also adding immeasurably is Geraldine Fitzgerald's marvelous portrayal of Ann; her cool, elegant beauty and wonderful speaking voice are perfect for the character. Her tearful (but not maudlin) reactions to Judith's illness, negative prognosis, and death also effectively relieve the Judith character from having to similarly be awash in tears--a very wise move.

"Dark Victory" is quite a good film, extremely well-produced, and smartly scripted. However, it might have been a truly towering achievement, had stronger direction been applied to Davis. Unquestionably, Miss Davis was one of the greatest actresses in film history, but it is also undeniable that without a strong presence at the helm, she was prone to overplaying. That is why her portrait of Judith Tremaine just misses greatness.

When "Deception" was first released, one gushy fan mag declared that it was "just like opera, only the people are thinner!" That remark isn't too far off the mark; the swoony music, florid dialogue and ridiculous situations Bette Davis, Paul Henreid and Claude Rains find themselves saddled with make for terrifically overblown entertainment. Coming at the tail end of the glory days of "women's pictures", "Deception" is a harbinger of the camp artifacts the genre would harden into (see any Ross Hunter production). Just a few short years earlier, in Bette's own vehicles ("Now, Voyager" or "The Great Lie"), the same kind of material could be treated with a degree of sensitivity and artistry. Now, it seems, Davis and crew were allowed to pull out all the stops. Which means that Davis bugs her eyes and flails about; Henreid veers between completely underplaying and going into hilariously manic overacting; and Rains gives the performance of a lifetime as the egomaniacal, bitchy villain. Evilly stroking his white cat, Rains predates the cartoonish baddies of James Bond by several decades, and gives a, well, operatic performance that not even Donald Pleasance (or Michael Myers) could top. A plot summary gives a hint of the sheer silliness that unfolds in "Deception" (POSSIBLE SPOILERS): Christine (nicknamed "Schatzy"!) is the kept woman of brilliant composer Hellanious (Rains). She has really been in love with cellist Karel (Henreid), but thought him a war casualty, and circumstances forced her into her relationship with Hellanious. (For her trouble, Christine has a wardrobe full of fur coats and a soundstage-sized apartment that I'd kill for.) Of course, Karel turns up alive and well, and Christine keeps her relationship with Hellanious a Big Secret. Needless to say, hell hath no fury like a Hellanious scored, and the remainder of the film has Christine telling lie upon lie to keep the truth from Karel (who is prone to fits of jealous rage), while the vindictive Hellanious watches on in malicious amusement. And when Hellanious writes a stunning concerto, guess which cellist he decides to use to debut his piece? Will Hellanious spill the beans about his "protegee"? Will Karel's jealousy ruin his chance of a lifetime? Will Christine have the proper fur to wear to the symphony hall? Watch and see!