tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13998679860550300642024-02-19T07:43:55.020-05:00Movie OutlawFilm History's Rarities, Oddities, Grotesqueries and Other Things That May Have Escaped Your Attention.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-13340401864537546742013-10-24T11:34:00.001-04:002013-10-24T11:34:15.925-04:00GLORIA (1980)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/7/78/Gloria_1980_movie_poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/7/78/Gloria_1980_movie_poster.jpg" /></a></div><p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">“I’d do anything for you, Jeri, but I can’t take [your children]. I hate kids. Espeically yours.”</span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Today John Cassavettes seems to be known as either one of two men: the Hollywood tough-guy actor of <i>The Dirty Dozen</i>, or the borderline-avant guarde creator of such challenging studies of the human condition as <i>Mikey and Nicky </i>and <i>A Woman Under the Influence</i>. While his highly-scripted movies seem improvisational thanks to his unique directing style, making them darlings of “serious” film scholars, they were so far from being considered commercially viable by Hollywood that they were almost considered a different species of thing all together. Therefore, in order to raise the funds for these personal explorations, Cassavettes took work when it was offered and even then he wasn’t always successful. Between 1977 and 1984, for example, Cassavettes attempted to finance a number of projects by accepting roles in such disparate films as Brian DePalma’s <i>The Fury</i>, an adaptation of Brian Clark’s euthenasia stage play <i>Who’s Life is it Anyway?</i>, and the inarguably trashy sub-B-monster movie <i>The Incubus</i>. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">In 1980, he wrote what he considered to be a simple pot-boiler for the sake of a direct studio sale. Originally intented for MGM’s meal ticket Ricky Schroeder, mob-moll-on-the-run-with-child screenplay <i>Gloria </i>ultimately wound up at Columbia Pictures. Having written the title role for his wife, Gena Rowlands, Columbia slouched toward the opportunity but only under the condition that Cassavettes also direct. Overnight, the director’s intended sell-off script became his responsibility. Even today, the resulting movie remains an odd duck in his filmography.</span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Jack Dawn (surprise appearance by Buck Henry) is a mob accountant whose off-hand remark to one of his cronies leads to the discovery that he’s been skimming from the outfit for years. With a price on their heads, the Dawn family is packing up to leave, hoping to be ahead of the button men coming for them—and if it weren’t for the cleaner’s unfamiliarity with the neighborhood, their grace period would have been even shorter—when their middle-aged neighbor, Gloria Swenson, runs out of coffee. Jeri Dawn begs her friend to take the kids with her and hide them, and the hard-nosed Gloria reluctantly agrees, leaving with six-year-old Phil (John Adames). Before he goes, Jack gives Phil a little book, referring to it as the Bible. “This is everything I know about everything in the world. It’s your future. Always be a man. Be tough. Don’t trust anybody.” Phil barely arrives at Gloria’s apartment before his parents’ window explodes out and his father’s voice vanishes from the phone. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Stunned—and probably more in need of caffienne than before—Gloria is suddenly responsible for a whole other life. “What do I do with you? What do I do? You’re not my family. You’re the neighbor’s kid. You’re probably too young to understand about making a living, but I have a job. I have my own life. My cat…”</span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">With neighbors and cops filing the hallway, Gloria manages to bully her way out of the building with Phil. The kid’s only way of dealing with the situation is to heed his father’s words and “be a man”. Overcompensating, he channels machismo by way of Harvey Keitel, alternately bossing Gloria around and clinging to her out of terror. “Look, I’m trying to tell you something,” he tells her at a flophouse hotel room that night, “You’re a good kid, Gloria. You ever been in love?” Later he gets stuck in a loop, trying to make sense of things. “I am the man! <i>I </i>am the man. You are not the man. You… you are a stupid person. A pig!” </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">“You’re not the man,” she tells him calmly, tired beyond words. “You don’t listen. You don’t know anything. You’re driving me crazy.”</span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">It occurs to Gloria just how bad things have become when she realizes that she knows the murderers. Having once been the girlfriend to boss Tony Tenzini, she did time for this relationship. She can’t go to the cops—the media has already painted her as Phil’s abductor—and she can’t go to the crooks. She doesn’t even <i>like</i> this kid, but makes her decision when a car rolls up to them on the street. “We’re not interested in you, Gloria. We just want the kid and his book.” Gloria responds by shooting at them. The car flips and she escapes with Phil on a bus, knowing that she’s in it completely now. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">This all seems like standard thriller material, maybe better suited for Sharon Stone (who starred in the 1999 remake) than the unconventional Rowlands. But it’s Rowlands who makes the journey worth taking. First and foremost, the utter absense of sentimentality raises this above the level of the average kid-com drama. Gloria remains conflicted throughout the film and on several occassions not only entertains the idea of leaving the kid to his own devices, but <i>actually does so</i> at one point. Her crisis of conscience isn’t played for laughs either. She doesn’t return to save him in a gruff-but-loveable way but in a genuine “what choice do I have?” fatalism. The men she’s dealing with aren’t big on the negotiations, so in many cases crisis resolution comes at the barrel of her gun. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">While Gloria is not nurturing, Phil isn’t all that lovable either. Masking his fear behind TV machismo, the little Puerto Rican kid acts like a stunted Freddy Prinze and is frequently obnoxious in a way that only real kids can be. (Fortunately he never sinks to the depths of, say, <i>Shane</i>’s Brandon deWilde, who was nominated for an Academy Award for his glass-shattering whine, lazy eye and Mortimer Snerd overbite. Adames’ performance, however, did earn him a Worst Supporting Actor Razzie award, tying with Sir Laurence Olivier’s whatever-he-was-doing in <i>The Jazz Singer</i>.) We believe his phony bravery and his laughably chauvenistic advances. Yeah, Gloria might pack a gun and talk tough, but she’s still a girl and needs a man. Right? TV says so! “He don’t know the score,” he says of a hotel manager who denies them one of the ritzy room. “He sees a dame like you and a guy like me. He don’t know.” It precisely because he doesn’t burst into wailing tears every few seconds—despite the fact that his whole family has been violently murdered—is what keeps us rooting for him. It’s probably what keeps Gloria from chucking him into traffic as well. </span><br />
</div><p><span lang="EN" style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Despite the winning formula, Columbia started to get cold feet as <i>Gloria </i>reached conclusion. Cassavettes was hardly a box office sure-thing like Friedkin or Scorcese and despite the gritty material, his camera spent more time on characters’ faces than on the gun play or set pieces. Cassvettes feared, and for good reason, that the studio might ultimately shelve the film. Fortunately, a well-timed retrospective of his work at the Museum of Modern Art helped to change their mind. It also helped that its screening at the Venice Film Festival resulted in its tying with Louis Malle’s <i>Atlantic City</i> for the Golden Lion award. “It was television fare as a screenplay but handled by the actors to make it better. It’s an adult fairy-tale. And I never pretended it was anything else but fiction. I always thought I understood it. And I was bored because I knew the answer to that picture the minute we began. And that’s why I could never be wildly enthusiastic about the picture—because it’s so simple. Whereas <i>Husbands</i> is not simple, whereas <i>A Woman Under the Influence </i>is not simple, <i>Opening Night </i>is not simple. You have to think about those pictures.” <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=_1OELt31O70C&lpg=PA8&dq=gloria%20cassavetes&pg=PA439#v=onepage&q=gloria&f=false"><i>Cassavetes on Cassavetes</i></a>, <span class="addmd">By John Cassavetes</span> </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Ironically, the same critics who’d savaged his previous movies for being too esoteric now praised <i>Gloria</i> for its mainstream appeal, while his supporters accused him of pandering to a “Hollywood” audience. “For once, his characters aren't all over the map in nonstop dialogue, as they were in <i>Husbands</i>, the talkathon he made in 1970 with Peter Falk, Gazzara and himself,” <a href="http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/gloria-1998">wrote RogerEbert</a>. “<i>Gloria</i> is tough, sweet and goofy. […] Well, it's a cute idea for a movie, and maybe that's why they've had this particular idea so often. You start with tough-talking, streetwise gangster types, you hook them up with a little kid, you put them in fear of their lives, and then you milk the situation for poignancy, pathos, excitement, comedy and anything else that turns up. It's the basic situation of <i>Little Miss Marker</i>, the Damon Runyon story that has been filmed three times.” </span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">(Then there’s <a href="http://www.jonathanrosenbaum.com/?p=18496">this from Jonathan Rosenbaum</a>, who reminds me that film criticism is often, by its very nature, an exercise in masturbation: “</span><span style="font-family: Times; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">According to some local scribes, this all takes place in Never Never Land, unlike such alleged True-Life Adventures as <i>An Unmarried Woman, Manhattan</i>, and <i>Kramer vs. Kramer</i>. I’d argue, on the contrary, that it’s merely a fantasy serving different class, race, and temperamental interests, which include separate definitions of what’s real or important. Recalling Godard’s equations of cinema and voyeurism. I often wonder if “taste” in film criticism is any more than a rationalization of unacknowledged erotic preferences. From this standpoint, <i>Gloria</i><b> </b>gets me off in a way that middle-class chic never could.”<i>)</i></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/8NImDlin6hE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><span style="font-family: Times; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><i> </i> </span><span lang="EN"></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-73794060420432389602013-10-23T13:59:00.002-04:002013-10-23T13:59:35.062-04:00ESCAPE FROM TOMORROW (2013)<style>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://blog.planet5d.com/wp-content/uploads/Escape-from-Tomorrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="536" src="http://blog.planet5d.com/wp-content/uploads/Escape-from-Tomorrow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">On a Disney vacation, the minute you disembark your plane you become a symbiotic part of the company—you’re their guest and your every wish is their command. Surrounded at all times by representatives of happiness, from the perpetually smiley staff to the galavanting costumed characters to the candy-coated facades, the parks especially defy cynicism. The Magic Kingdom was given the title “The Happiest Place on Earth” for a reason, and everyone involved works their asses off to ensure the perfect time for all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Removed from the Disney spell, the fairy dust and magic, it’s tempting—and easy—to wonder about the company’s base motivations. Of course they want your money and of course they’ll exploit Third World workers to entice you to spend. Merchandise stores occupy a full third of the combined park space, tickets are expensive but come with the promise of luxury. If you stay on property, your credit card is tied to your room key, which also serves as your electronic identification and in return they promise you’ll become one of the priviledged, a member of the Disney Family. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">The darling of the 2013 Sundance Film Festival was the inarguably daring debut film of Randy Moore. Shot surreptitiously in both DisneyWorld and Disneyland, <a href="http://escapefromtomorrow.com/"><i>Escape From Tomorrow</i></a> attempts to lift the family-friendly veil from the corporate juggernaut and expose the otherworldly insidiousness lurking behind the hyper-reality composed of all-encompassing artificiality. What demons are hidden behind all the happy animatronics? What horrors lie behind those doors marked “Cast Members Only”? That the Disney Corporation has gone and continues to go to great lengths to protect their intellectual property, grow their brand and consume other corporations only adds to the temptation to seek for alien motivation. Which is why the making of <i>Escape From Tomorrow</i> is as facinating and compelling as it is. The cast and crew went to great lengths to shoot a feature-length film undetected by the parks’ thousands of employees, surveillance and copyright lawyers. As <i>Ain’t It Cool</i>’s <a href="http://www.hitfix.com/motion-captured/review-escape-from-tomorrow-is-a-surrealist-treat-that-will-give-disneys-lawyers-nightmares">Drew McWeeny stated</a> this film “should not exist”. At the very least, you’d expect the corporation to descend like a Biblical plague upon Moore and company for daring to infringe on its slightest copyright and suppress the film from public eyes for eternity. Yet, that isn’t what happened. Unfortunately, the finished film doesn’t compare to its making-of. The story behind the story makes a much better story. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">The film opens with Jim White standing on his hotel room balcony, overlooking Disney’s vast Orlando property beyond. His boss fires him over the phone, but Jim is determined to have a perfect “last day” at the parks with his family, which includes his high-strung wife Emily and their two plot-device children, Elliot and Sarah. It’s quickly established that Jim and Emily’s marriage is already strained and that he feels alienated from his children. That Elliot’s introduction involves him locking his father on the balcony then scampering back to bed with his mother can be interpreted in a variety of ways, especially Freudian. From there on, Elliot’s only concern is to ride the Buzz Lightyear attraction. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">The incumbent stress that comes with a family vacation, with the additional tension of losing one’s job during the obsession to have fun—and, due to the cost of the trip, to have a superhuman amount of fun less the money seem wasted—already has Jim and the audience on edge. During the already-intolerable <i>It’s a Small World</i> ride, he begins hallucinating, demonic faces glare back at him from the multi-cultural puppets. Worse, he sees Elliot’s eyes change to solid black, hears Emily lean in and cheerfully delare, “I hate you”, while the ride goes on and on and on. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Then we’re given a little insight into Jim. He becomes obsessed with two young, pseudo-Sapphic French teenaged girls (including one young enough to still wear braces). Slack-jawed, the Ugly American Father splits from the family unit and uses Elliot as an excuse to stalk the girls through the park. Elliot asks if his father thinks their pretty and he dodges the question. “’Pretty’ is open to interpretation.” When asked if he still finds his wife pretty, Jim responds with a rambling, absent-minded, “Oh, yeah, sure. Your mother’s beautiful. But not in the classic sense. More like an Emily Dickinson, bookish way.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">On one hand, Jim is entranced with the Disney interpretation of beauty, with its eternally young princesses and their flowing gowns, compared to the beauty of youth of the two teenagers coming out of their awkward stages and embracing their inner nymphets. On the other hand, Jim comes off as enormously creepy almost to the point of criminality. For the next half hour or so, the audience stays with Jim and Elliot as they ride one popular trademark attraction after another as Jim fantasizes about being with the girls as they gush and coo over him. Later, after reuniting with the other half of the family, Emily berates him for neglecting fatherly things like forgetting to put sunscreen on the kids, falling into that stereotype meant to justify Jim’s childish desires for the younger girls. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Jim’s Freudian desires become reality when he wakes from a seemingly hypnotic trance to find himself tied to a hotel bed, beneath a strange woman who begs him to find her “hidden Mickey”. She may have used her piece of garish costume jewelry to entrance him. She tells him that the actresses playing the princesses sell themselves for thousands of dollars to Asian businessmen. Later, at EPCOT, his drinking and side-tracked amour frustrated Emily to the point of slapping Sarah and storming off. The inebriated Jim loses Sarah and winds up getting tazed by cartoonishly-dressed security. After a five-second INTERMISSION title card, he awakes strapped to a chair beneath Spaceship Earth (the giant golf-ball mascot of EPCOT), while a scientist with an alternating French and German accent operates various SIEMANS’ brand panels (again, the corporate sponsor of the ride) to create a deco-sphere around Jim’s head, purging his imagination. “Almost as great as W.D. himself,” the mysterious man tells him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">The rest of the film concerns itself with Jim’s now-insidious are-they-or-aren’t-they? halucinations. Combined with the disorienting geography of the parks, the claustrophobia of the crowds, the unwashed lower-class masses upstanding WASPs encounter (portrayed as an overweight Southerner with a neck collar and a rascal scooter whose loutish son pushes Sarah over), plus the warnings of the uber-contagious “cat flu” spreading through the park and you already have a recipe for paranoia. With the inherent surrealism of the park, all kinds of horrible mysteries should be expected. Does Disney work for alien overlords? Is it a front for Hell itself? Have the animatronic robots taken over, <i>Westworld</i>-style? Those are just examples of the roads not traveled in <i>Escape from Tomorrow</i>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Lest this become a criticism of a movie I’d have preferred to see, let me finish by saying that <i>Escape From Tomorrow</i>’s hints at horror have been compared to the works of Polanski and David Lynch, and that the human mind is capable of conjuring inexplicable terrors. Which is not only valid but removes any sort of narrative responsibility from the fiction. Keeping the unreal in Jim’s POV leaves interpretation up to the audience. Is there evil afoot beneath the Disney wholesomeness? Or is it base human need to find flaw in artificial perfection in the way that created stories of Mr. Rogers’ blood-soaked adventures as a sniper in Viet Nam? In this day and age, are things like imagination, wonder and “fairy dust” to be mistrusted and even disdained? Again, the filmmakers leave this responsibility of meaning to the viewer. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Because Disney is such an unstoppable capitalistic engine, legendary for encompassing lawsuits, strict security and enforcing their own rules, hearing about a movie shot on their property <i>without their knowledge</i> instantly stokes the curiosity. It’s particularly enticing to the legions of Disney-bashers already on the side of the “common man” that fears Disney may have too much power, control or share of the free market. The natural expectation for <i>Escape from Tomorrow</i> is to view something heinously subversive, almost heretical, slinging mud upon the House of Mouse. Expectation is high for scab-picking and wound-poking. The mere suggestion of high-priced Disney hookers should be enough to extract glee, but actually going so far as to show glimpses of the sex inherent in the system! Delicious blasphemy, right? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://mesfilmclub.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/escape-from-tomorrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://mesfilmclub.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/escape-from-tomorrow.jpg" width="414" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Moore’s audacity is the force driving the hype and excitement of <i>Escape from Tomorrow</i>. Scenes were blocked in hotel rooms days in advance prior to filming on park property. Consumer cameras were used to allow the filmmakers to blend in with the rest of the obsessively-filming crowd. Brilliantly, Moore used this compulsive sharing culture as a masquerade. Scripts were hidden on cell phones and the various “units” were organized via call and text. Even Moore himself has expressed shock at what infractions they were able to commit, from groups of people constantly cycling through the same line, having endless varations of the same conversation. The film production was, in fact, operating behind the very veil they were hoping to peel back, with Disney employees (almost) completely ignorant of their presence beyond visitation. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Paranoia over Disney’s legendary undead cadre of copyright lawyers drove Moore to edit the film in South Korea and he was shocked that the heavily-sponsored Sundance would even accept the film. In fact, the film festival organizers used that paranoia to <i>their</i> advantage by only hinting at the subversion the creators pulled off. Fest attendees climbed over each other to see the movie that got one over on the Great and Powerful Disney Corporation. Heralded as “the ultimate guerrilla film”, <i>Escape from Tomorrow</i> was decreed an impossible feat. Everyone in the business was certain that the film would never see a wide release, that the Happiest Company on Earth would sue the producers into oblivion. In order to circumvent heavier expected fines, Moore removed the “It’s a Small World” earworm song from the track, replacing it with a similarly designed bit of old Hollywood treacle (and brilliantly composed by </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Abel Korzeniowski), and was careful not to use actual scenes from the animated epics playing on the constant background hum of monitors throughout the park. The beloved Disney characters—particularly Mickey Mouse—was used at an absolute minimum, and the costumed character’s appearance actually serves as a shock cut late in the film. And still, the majority of those who’d borne witness to the film feared worse than a lawsuit—that one day Disney would just blackbag Moore and company, disappearing them forever. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">So with all of this expectation, the eagerness to see the emperor uncloathed, it is impossible for the film to artistically succeed. The story is trite and Jim White is a shallow protagonist. Played by Roy Abramsohn, Jim is nearly impossible to like or sympathize with. Elena Schuber’s Emily is shrill, the kids are pretty much props to get Jim from one end of the park to another, and if they were a real family, you’d go out of your way to change tables at a restaurant if seated near them. </span><span lang="EN">Alison Lees-Taylor as the mysterious former-princess who hints at the various immoral activities seems to be having far more fun as a wanton cipher, but by the time the film revisits her and her “game” of stealing children, I was already looking at my watch. I’d been so prepared for shock and outrageousness, to see the triumph of the little indie filmmaker in the face of the corporate giant, that the film’s terrible pace and characterization were the only things that caught me off guard. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">After viewing, my magnificently-witty Facebook post was that the movie was like “the world’s greatest heist where after the thieves spent the loot on chewing gum”. I stand by that. <i>Escape from Tomorrow</i> was doomed to be disappointing, like any over-hyped movie will be, but my main surprise came at how banal the final assemblage was. None of the work and subversion and misdirection that went into the production is visible on screen. In fact, with how careful Moore was with the final product (the name “Disney” is only uttered onscreen once and gets audibly bleeped), the story could have taken place at any theme park. The magic and majesty and real life power of the parks have very little presence. Shooting the film in black and white, to overcome difficult color balancing and lighting requirements, gave the movie an old fashioned look and seems like a lost <i>Wonderful World of Disney</i> special, and indeed Moore does make good use of the iconic monuments, but he rarely integrates them into the story. It’s as if all the risk and chutzpah were unnecessary. The results could have been achieved as an all-greenscreen film. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">When all was said and done, <i>Escape from Tomorrow</i> received a handsome release package from Warner Brothers and is currently available as VOD. Meanwhile, Disney has adopted a cavalier attitude towards it, calling it "An independent surrealistic cult film surreptitiously filmed at Walt Disney World and Disneyland," on its online companion to the </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disney_A_to_Z:_The_Official_Encyclopedia" title="Disney A to Z: The Official Encyclopedia">Disney A to Z: The Official Encyclopedia</a></span></i><span lang="EN">. Rather than add to any hype or, as many have suggested, purchasing the film and releasing it under the official banner, thus capitalizing from both Disney supporters and detractors, their official response seems to be more of a shrug. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Nothing can be taken away from Moore and company: they went up against giants and got away with their scheme. They managed to overcome every obstacle from budget to police, but in the end, it was lack of imagination that scuttles <i>Escape from Tomorrow</i>. "As great as W.D. himself." Whatever his flaws, real or attributed, Uncle Walt's visions extended beyond shagging a pair of barely-legal French girls.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Should Disney decide to base a movie on the making of <i>Escape from Tomorrow</i>, I rather think I’ll be first in line. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-46068399264528197122013-10-21T14:37:00.000-04:002013-10-21T14:37:51.566-04:00KILLER TONGUE (aka La lengua asesina, 1996)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i2.listal.com/image/154867/600full-killer-tongue-poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i2.listal.com/image/154867/600full-killer-tongue-poster.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Before she became network TV’s go-to dominatrix, Melinda “Mindy” Clarke gnawed her way into the hearts of horror fans as, aguably, cinema’s first sexy zombie, Julie, in Brian Yuzna’s <i>Return of the Living Dead 3</i>. The movie’s poster ghoul, “Julie”, was the ultimate gothy pierced princess and in 1993 her image graced the covers of countless horror magazines, the zombie equivalent of The IT Girl. Clarke followed this iconic role with appearances in other cult hits like <i>Xena: Warrior Princess</i>, <i>Firefly</i>, and the mainstream obsessional <i>CSI</i> (as Gus Grissom’s personal top, “Lady Heather”). </span><p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">But before becoming a genre darling, the actress-formerly-known-as-“Mindy” took a delightful side trip to Spain to star in the indescribably goofy <i>La lengua asesina</i>—better known to English speakers as <i>Killer Tongue</i>. </span></div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<span lang="EN">“I know now I should have listened to my mother. And I should have followed her ways. Stayed in our nice harmonious little town in Sombreroland. And become a straight and untroubled, well-respected Valium-bound husband-killer alcoholic. Then cook my head like a turkey in a gas oven on a beautiful Thanksgiving day. Just like she did. But now it’s too late. And anyway things don’t come that easy any more. It all started four years ago with a heist… and a kiss.”</span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">After puling a bank job and betraying their accomplices (Chip and Frank, leaving them tied up with their lips glued together in a painful-to-remove kiss), Johnny and Candy split up to lie low. Johnny gets picked up by the cops—no doubt investigating his suspicious wearing of a gold lame` suit—while Candy gets she to a nunnery and raises giant multi-colored poodles while helping to run the sisters’ side business, God’s Gas & Diesel, a last chance out there in the desert. </span></div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Johnny has the ass-end of the deal, having to contend with the vicious Prison Director (Robert Englund appropriately eschewing subtlety) with a confusing message of submission tattooed on his knuckles. While it <i>says</i> “Fuck You”, prisoners are meant to read that as “Fuck Me”. Failure to communicate ensues. Also, he has to be constantly aware of the duplicit nature of his fellow inmates, particularly the Chief’s favorite, Mr. Wigs (Doug Bradley). </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Grown bitter over the intervening four years, Chip and Frank discover the whereabouts of Candy, but she’s already lammed out to rendesvous with Johnny, unaware of his incarceration. In a simple desert shack, Candy dons some domesticity and makes soup for her and her poodles. Just then, a bit of meteorite survives atmospheric entry and lands in their meal. One sip transforms her from a ‘50s housewife to a veiny creature in an armored exoskeleton, with back spines and kinky dark hair. The poodles transform into drag queens. Remi, Loca, Portia and, of course, Rudolph (inexplicably played by Jonathan Rhys Myers). “It’s us, your bitches. Remember? Little fluffy things?”</span></div><p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://media.screened.com/uploads/0/2709/335065-killertongue_posterb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://media.screened.com/uploads/0/2709/335065-killertongue_posterb.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Before you can evoke the sacred name of Pedro Almodovar, <i>Killer Tongue</i> gets weird. –Er. Namely with the introduction of the titular character, Candy’s oral appendage that talks like Harvey Fierstein, grows to miles in length and can punch through solid objects without effort (including Chip, and then the porcelain tub beneath him, and the floor, and possibly the Earth’s crust). It desires human flesh and is terribly jealous of any mention of Johnny. It also comes with its own theme music.</span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Speaking of Johnny, he’s escaped into the desert with the Chief in pursuit. Somewhere along the line, he winds up handcuffed to the bumper of the vehicle, which he drags behind him, undeterred in his quest for Candy. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">While waiting for Johnny, Candy bides her time trying to rid herself of the evil alien tongue via iron and butcher knife. In response, the tongue tries to suffocate her by wrapping around her face, suspends her from the ceiling, and ultimately gets her pregnant. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">And if that doesn’t spell entertainment, I don’t know what does. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Depending on your mood, <i>Killer Tongue </i>runs at a length of time equal to either 90 minutes or forever. Made with a very specific audience in mind, <i>Killer Tongue</i> is the definition of both “campy” and “wacky”. None of the outrageousness is presented with so much as a wink or a tongue-in-cheek. To the filmmakers, the world of <i>Killer Tongue </i>is how the real world should be, transpecies poodles and latex S&M outfits for all. You can’t accuse the cast of being over-the-top because there doesn’t seem to be a baseline. It starts at hysteria and ramps up from there. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">In attempting to short-hand a summary for it, I’ve compared it in turn to “John Waters’ <i>Wild at Heart</i>” and “David Cronenberg’s <i>Raising Arizona</i>.” But really, writer / director Alberto Sciamma has created a chimera that exists all on its own, without mate or even sibling. It actually feels like a ‘50s sitcom reinterpreted by aliens, a <i>Meet the Hollowheads</i> for telenova fans. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">It can’t really be said that the cast are playing their roles “straight”, though every character is presented without irony—in fact, this may be one of the least ironic films ever made. It’s definitely sincere in its insanity even when you can tell it’s lost all sense of a narrative thread in the third act. That being said, there are genuinely inspired bits of character utterly organic to the film’s reality. Clarke’s horror at her 90’ tongue has less to do with the consequences of being infected by an alien parasite and is more about her big plans being ruined for Johnny’s return. Englund’s vicious Prison Chief, for the best example, is as complex as a cartoon character can get. During the day, it’s his job to be foul, brutal and sadistic, beating up men left and right, putting them on dreaded “survey duty”. But at night he walks through the barracks with a simple smile on his face, tucking a blanket around Wig and comforting a wounded dove by making a nest for it out of his toupee. The Chief’s <i>raison d’etre</i> is to make Johnny screw up his probation, but it isn’t too long before you understand he’s doing that less out of sadism and more because he’ll miss the handsome lug when he goes. Englund doesn’t play this with a s<p>ense of homoeroticism either, but complicated affection. </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">While the poodles are meant to enduce squeals of delight and/or derision, each of them having stepped from an episode of <i>Ru Paul’s Drag Race</i>, their love for Candy is both endearing and evocative of a pet’s love for its human. Even the tongue’s relationship with Candy has an edge of love and devotion, even though it’s technically an alien parasite relying on her to sustain its life. As for her and Johnny’s love, well that’s the sort of devotion you can only find in movies and <span class="searchmatch">Shirelles</span> songs. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Loud and colorful, with an infectious, possibly sexually-transmitted score by Spanish band Fangoria, <i>Killer Tongue </i>is the perfect movie for people who like this sort of thing. I say that smart-assedly, but sincerely. <i>Killer Tongue</i> is one of those cult-films-by-design that you’ll either love or hate. Take all of those cliches for what they’re worth. The only way to measure the film’s success is through personal opinion. I happened to really enjoy it the first time and my love hasn’t waned since. But, then again, I’m not you. As with most cult movies, enjoyment comes with some assembly required. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Now, unlike most of the movies I yak about, <i>Killer Tongue</i> is not difficult to obtain and shows up on at least two different collections accompanying other wacky wonders like <i>Jack Frost 2</i> (a killer snowman in the Bahamas!). However, the presentation varies. Try very hard to avoid a full screen version as you not only lose a lot of peripheral happiness, but it also comes with washed out color and a soft image, probably sourced from the original EP mode VHS released before the turn of the milennium. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">If you do manage to fall in love with this film as I have, might I recommend that, upon meeting Melinda Clarke, you refrain from asking her to lick you from across the room. </span><br />
</div><p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Just… trust me on that. She isn’t into it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/bVx7Yfdy-1Q?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-13618434123890929392013-10-20T15:29:00.001-04:002013-10-20T15:31:28.077-04:00VOLERE VOLARE (aka TO WANT TO FLY – 1991)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span id="goog_1818472082"></span><span id="goog_1818472083"></span>Apart from my deep dislike of Stanley Kubrick’s <i>The Shining</i>, my reputation as a film scholar is more often called into question due to my disdain for Italian cinema. It’s especially difficult to be taken seriously as a zombie enthusiast if you find it impossible to embrace the ouevre of Lucio Fulci, Ruggero Deodato or any of the other alphabet soup masters of flesh-eating mayhem. While I am proud to say that among my favorite films you will find Argento’s <i>Deep Red, Suspiria </i>and <i>Tenebrae</i>, my opinion of the maestro’s later work diminishes. I like the visuals of Mario Bava, but the pacing and stories of his masterpieces I’ve often found to be wanting.<br />
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<span lang="EN">This terminal case of “meh” extends beyond the horror genre as well, for I’m loathe to sit through another Fellini, Antonioni, Bertolucci, or, for the love of god, de Sica. Indeed, upon my third class-required viewing of <i>The Bicycle Thief</i>, I began to sympathise with Mussolini. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">And please, don’t even get me started with the likes of Leone, Corbucci or Chef Boy-ar-dee. There aren’t enough hours in the day. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">As with any rule, I have an exception, and that exception is Maurizio Nichetti. A one-man embodiment of the three Marx Brothers, Nichetti is an Italian Jacques Tati; a pop-eyed, mustachioed clown whose default expression seems to be innocent bewilderment. Nichetti was put on this Earth as reassurance that Italy has something to offer me in terms of its cinema, and seems to have the same problems with <i>The Bicycle Thief</i> as I do, as evinced in his satirical love-letter to Neo-Realism, the hilarious <i>The Icicle Thief. </i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Unfortunately, as far as America goes, he’s no Roberto Benigni. I see that as a good thing, since the latter wore out his welcome six seconds into the 1997 Academy Awards ceremony, following America’s identity crisis upon embracing <i>Life is Beautiful</i> (<i>The Day the Clown Cried</i> without the good taste). Nichetti is virtually unknown in the Land of the Free, Home of the Bacon and that, my friends, is a cultural tragedy. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Even hardcore film geeks might have a difficult time identifying Nichetti. If his name rings any bells, it’s due to his “starring” role in the live action sections of animator Bruno Bozzetto’s <i>Fantasia </i>parody, <i>Allegro Non Troppo </i>(1976, which Nichetti cowrote). Famous for its extended sequence celebrating evolution, with life springing from a discarded Coca-Cola bottle set to Ravel’s <i>Bolero</i>, <i>Allegro Non Troppo</i> achieved some minor success in the U.S., but when initially released to Home Video, the film’s live-action sequences were excised, rendering Nichetti anonymous again. The majority of his filmography, including movies he wrote, directed and starred in, have never been released in the United States. While this might be great for us more-with-it-than-thou movie geeks, it’s a bit of a tragedy for the rest of the country’s film-goer-to-ers who’ve thusly been robbed.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Nichetti created his own iconic persona, a goofy, bushy everyman prone to misadventure —evoking, for shorthand sake, Chaplin, Groucho, Keaton and Mr. Bean—for his directorial debut, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ratataplan</span></i><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> (1979). Playing variations of this role in a half-dozen other movies, he took the idea of human cartoon to its absurdly literal conclusion in the surprising and playful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volere volare</i>. </span><span lang="EN"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Co-directed with animator and past collaborator Guido Manuli, <i>Volere volare</i> begins with Martina (Angela Finocchiaro from <i>My Brother is an Only Child</i>) lamenting to her friend Loredana (Mariella Valentini) that she doesn’t need a man in her life to be happy. Marriage is what’s expected, and she refuses to marry only for money. Which is all well and good for her to say since she’s surrounded by rich men. You see, she sees her career as that of a very specialized “social worker”, her job to understand people with personal eccentricities. For instance, one of her best clients is an elderly man with the (disturbing) voice of a toddler, who she bathes and rocks to sleep after his bottle. Then there are the “Architechts”, espresso-drinking twins who silently hang out at her home to watch her sleep, shower, dress for work and then lock up after she leaves. There’s a chef who likes to turn her naked body into elaborate deserts (“including a vat of melted chocolate; soon she's dressed in her sundae best.” <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/style/longterm/movies/videos/volerevolarenrharrington_a0ab60.htm">Harrington, Washington Post, 1993</a>), but can settle for casually spilling things on her when time is limited. She gets a workout from a married couple who take turns being dead, requiring her to assist the mourning partner left behind, make sure the body gets to the ambulance, etc. Things get difficult on those nights when the couple can’t decide who survived that night. While she refers to these quirks as “fetishes”, she’s never depicted doing anything sexual with her clients. Even the guy who likes her to sit on his photocopier only enjoys admiring the lacework on her underwear. Sex seems to be the furthest thing from their minds. (Thus, I think it’s inaccurate to echo my fellow critics in describing her as a “prostitute”.)</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Nearby, Maurizio owns a film dubbing company with his brother. They split the work evenly: Maurizio provides the sound effects for old cartoons; Patrizio employs a lingerie-clad stable of mono-lingual actresses for the “specialty” audio of “art” movies. Spending his day either recording sound or searching for interesting noisemakers in hardware stores, Maurizio (called “Little Mustache” by his brother—“Ever since he grew one when he was three.”) manages to just miss meeting Martina on a number of occasions. But fortune won’t stay elusive for long. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">One night, Maurizio frequently finds himself in the right place. When both of her “Necrophyles” decide to be dead, Martina finds herself needing an extra pair of hands to wrestle the loving bodies onto a parking lot gurney. Later that evening, he stumbles upon her again and accompanies her on another job, this time with a crazed cab driver who gets off on terrorizing her with his auto-acrobatics. Maurizio does panic better than she does. Finding himself stuck at her apartment—“Where do you live?” she asked. “Where you picked me up.”—he is assaulted by another of her clients who is contientious about stalking her and doesn’t like the competition. In a single night, Martina’s job has him strained, terrorized and assaulted. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Much to her chagrin, she realizes later that her clients enjoyed the extra company. The thrill waning, Maurizio was just the extra shot in the arm their needs needed. Not wanting to risk losing her income, Martina attempts to hunt him down. The only trouble is, because of the multiple bicycle horns he keeps in his pockets in case of dubbing emergency, she only knows Maurizo by the nickname she’s given him: “Trumpetto”.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Meanwhile, Maurizo is experiencing his own job-related phenomenons. Each time he steps in front of his projector, one or more of the animated co-stars find their way into his pocket. At first, it’s just a simple turtle from a Fleischer Brothers cartoon, which manages to knock over stacks of film cans in its escape. Later, a flock of ducks defect from a <i>Popeye</i> short into the real world to cavort in the rain and get squished flat by cars. This condition becomes contagious, as he discovers on his first “date” with Martina at a swanky restaurant. A persistent itch on his hand reveals yellow cartoon gloves growing beneath his skin. Worse: the hands take on a life of their own—“animated” in all senses of the word—and fly off without him! Fortunately for him, Martina is too distracted by her spill-prone chef and his “accidents” that leave her covered with spaghetti.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">The rest of the film follows this comedy of surreal errors to its logical absurdist conclusion: Martina finally finds the love of her life, just as he completes his transformation into a living—and very naked—cartoon character. (Which wasn’t that much of a stretch for Nichetti, being 75% cartoon anyway.) </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Gentle and uncomplicated, <i>Volere volare </i>makes no attept to explain Maurizio’s transformation, just as it sees no reason to explain Martina’s growing attraction to the odd little man. Just like love, human-to-cartoon evolution requires no deconstruction. And if you can allow that to satisfy your left-brain’s needs, that’s all that <i>Volere volare </i>asks of you. Without turning this into a discourse on economical-cultural dichotomy of comedy, the movie should seem unique to those raised on American sex comedies. The American-view blend of <i>Night Shift </i>with <i>Who Framed Roger Rabbit?</i> resulted in Ralph Bakshi’s raunchier <i>Cool World</i>, released just a year later. In contrast, once you become comfortable with the “non-exploitative European-style nudity” (to quote Richard Harrington’s Washington Post review), <i>Volere volare</i> is charming and utterly inoffensive. Even Patrizio’s stable of “actresses” and his blue movies are played for laughs, not titilation. Nichetti keeps the film’s heart in the clouds, rather than the gutter and avoids the cheap laugh in favor of the corny one. (Even more surprising considering that one of the film’s producers was Italy’s infamous prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi, whose political career was overshadowed by his notorious “bunga-bunga parties”!)</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">The usual unfortunate caveat exists here, however. Unlike the better-distributed <i>Allegro Non Troppo</i>, <i>Volere volare</i> is difficult to come by and doesn’t seem to have gotten an international DVD release. The VHS image is dark and grainy, working against the movie’s intrinsic breezy charm. But perhaps, if we all get together and clap our goofy gloved hands together, maybe we can all will a DVD into existence. Or, at least, keep Tinkerbell alive long enough to make us one out of fairy dust. (Sorry, it’s a sexy cartoon fairy tale; I couldn’t resist.)</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">For added pleasure, please visit <a href="http://www.nichetti.it/">Nichetti’s website</a>.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-10050424580143577572013-10-09T17:47:00.000-04:002013-10-09T17:48:41.499-04:00KILLING OF AMERICA (1981)<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT8XwsTL94V1Di6SPvJG6w4Go91_DafrF8lO7Odj7hLk6CTmdBxw4anpJt4ggZC26D0Jy85Yg-mMSxrYpHdv7333NIPflf9-YLBAvTx5xMT0Gk7tuwjYWu9dO6VnVisO7FWXBGvAZeTCLU/s1600/killing01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT8XwsTL94V1Di6SPvJG6w4Go91_DafrF8lO7Odj7hLk6CTmdBxw4anpJt4ggZC26D0Jy85Yg-mMSxrYpHdv7333NIPflf9-YLBAvTx5xMT0Gk7tuwjYWu9dO6VnVisO7FWXBGvAZeTCLU/s1600/killing01.jpg" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN">Once upon a time, we didn’t have 24-hour news coverage. As a society, we weren’t bombarded with images of atrocity. But even with the Internet it takes a bit of work to find unedited footage of real death. When Osama bin Laden, arguably America’s greatest villain, was shot and killed by Navy SEALS in 2011, images of his corpse were with held from the public, deemed “too gruesome” and leading to even more theories of conspiracy and government malfeasance. In a way, the post-9/11 culture was denied emotional closure after years of living under outside and domestic terrorism. Contrast that with the horrific execution video of journalist Daniel Pearl by Al-Qaeda operatives, which horrified (and fascinated) all who viewed it, even in its jittery form. As has been stated by countless psychologists, we’re a culture both attracted to and repelled by violence. We are addicted to gazing into the abyss.</span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br />In 1981, Leonard Schrader, brother of filmmaker Paul Schrader (whose films are far from pacifist), wrote <i>The Killing of America</i> for the Japanese market. Uncomfortably lumped in with the sensationalistic so-called “mondo” movies of the ‘60s and ‘70s, Killing of America is a deadly serious look at the rise of gun violence in the country. As a catalyst, it starts its analysis with the assassination of John F. Kennedy in Dallas, Texas, repeating a tight close-up of the infamous Zapruder footage so familiar to us now from Oliver Stone’s JFK. During the images of the aftermath, the funeral procession and the iconically uncomfortable prompting of John Jr. to salute the body of his father, we are presented with a montage of Wild West Shows, the attempted assassinations of Ronald Reagan, Jim Brady, George Wallace. On a regular afternoon, police gun down “sidewalk sniper” Sam Brown at point-blank range. As he collapses to the sidewalk the narration tells us, “America is the only industrialized country with the murder rate of countries at civil war like Cambodia and Nicaragua. An attempted murder every 3 minutes. A murder every 20 minutes.” It leaves us with a statistic of 20,000 murders a year by 1980. (Today, according to some <a href="http://momsdemandaction.org/facts-about-gun-violence/">sources</a>, that number has grown to 100,000 deaths by gunshot annually.)</span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br />Following RFK’s assassination from the gun of Palestinian fanatic Sirhan Sirhan—“He looked like a saint. I wish that Son of a Gun were alive today. So I wouldn’t be here. […] I’m not mentally ill, sir, but I’m not perfect either.”—Charles Whitman’s sniper rampage in ’66, it’s posited that these incidents gave rise to a “new kind of killer,” and a surge of “the random murder of strangers.” At no point does the camera shy away from the true-life tragedy captured by news cameras. The viewer sees blood spurting and bodies dropping in a way that belies all the cinematic heroic bloodshed we’ve been conditioned against. The raw, grainy imagery screams “reality” in a way that the crispness of modern-day reality does not. Maybe it’s the impact of history, but there’s an element of <i>The Killing of America</i> that doesn’t offer a release. The footage is, to use the coveted marketing phrase, “shocking”. </span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br />Chuck Riley’s narration drags us through twenty years of violence, touching on the familiar like John Wayne Gacy and the chilling off-handed confessions of Ed Kemper, who threw darts at his mother’s severed head, “I did it in my society.”—the less-familiar like “Mondays are so boring” child-killer Brenda Spencer, through events obscure but no less hideous. James Hoskins’ unhinged 1980 take-over of a TV station following his murder of his girlfriend; bystander Richard Townsend forced to rob a bank at gun point; mortgage broker Richard Hall taken hostage in his own office by bartender Anthony Karitzis, who wired a shotgun to the back of Hall’s head and marched him through Manhattan for three days. “I hope that this doesn’t go off, I’m having too much fun.” The birth of the murderer as cause celebre. </span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br />As the film progresses, it stretches the causation of “more guns equal more lunatics” that the right constantly accuses the left of using erroneously, but it’s hard to argue when heads are bursting undramatically before your eyes. Following Whitman’s rampage, the practice of ordering guns and rifles through the mail was suspended, which, the movie posits, resulted in the skyrocketing of private gun ownership. During the 1980 candle light vigil for John Lennon which caps the documentary—the only footage I personally witnessed in my lifetime—over the inevitable soundtrack of “Imagine”, the narration tells us, “While you watched this movie, five people were murdered. One was the random killing of a stranger.”</span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br />While history supports that gun violence did taper off during the mid-80s and through the ‘90s, thanks in part to the Brady Bill, following 9/11 it’s difficult to dispute that gun violence has once again been on the rise, and in a manner that the documentary could not have foreseen, despite all of its portents. The tragedies in Sandy Hook, in Columbine, in Aurora, Colorado, would seem to indicate that we’ve returned to the cycle of violence so persuasive through the ‘60s and ‘70s, making <i>Killing of America</i> all the more relevant today. </span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br />Since 1981, we’ve grown accustomed to sensationalistic reporting and biased, agenda-driven “enternewsment”. Which makes the hindsight viewing of <i>Killing of America</i> so much more powerful. Modern eyes may take a few minutes to adjust because the film is presented without irony, without self-reflection. It states its case that America has grown increasingly dangerous because of political disillusionment, special interest groups and the decline of mental health care. Today this message is still espoused, but it’s tinged with barely-related self-righteous outrage from both sides of the political divide, the dialogue almost as violent as the misanthropic gunfire. Just as today, America had as many voices shouting for the right to own murder weapons versus those who shout for the complete eradication of firearms. Neither side is any more willing to discuss the problem now than they ever were. </span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br />As Vonnegut would say, “And so it goes.”</span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br /><i>The Killing of America</i> was released on a special edition DVD through Exploited. It may be difficult to find, but a good starting point is <a href="http://www.exploitedfilms.com/">www.exploitedfilms.com.</a><span id="goog_736206629"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_736206630"></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-13997544273003945182013-07-18T16:06:00.003-04:002013-07-18T16:11:47.450-04:00THE LEGEND OF THE LONE RANGER (1981)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I really wanted to start this piece off with “Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear!”. But every other critic in the world has already done that recently, mostly to set up their savaging of 2013’s The Lone Ranger reboot starring Johnny Depp as a “Sorta-Tonto”.<br />
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<span lang="EN">So I’m not gonna do that. Instead, I will present to you the Lone Ranger’s creed: </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">"I believe that to have a friend,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">a man must be one.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">That all men are created equal</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">and that everyone has within himself</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">the power to make this a better world.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">That God put the firewood there</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">but that every man</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">must gather and light it himself.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">In being prepared</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">physically, mentally, and morally</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">to fight when necessary</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">for that which is right.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">That a man should make the most</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">of what equipment he has.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">That 'This government,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">of the people, by the people</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">and for the people'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">shall live always.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">That men should live by</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">the rule of what is best</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">for the greatest number.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">That sooner or later...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">somewhere...somehow...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">we must settle with the world</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">and make payment for what we have taken.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">That all things change but truth,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">and that truth alone, lives on forever.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">In my Creator, my country, my fellow man." </span><br />
<span lang="EN"> (NPR, “<a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=18073741#18074057">The Lone Ranger: Justice from Outside the Law</a>” by Fran Striker. January 14, 2008)</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Please, athiest friends, put your fists down, the Lone Ranger is making a point here. This is strictly a deist creed. I think it would be very difficult to argue against this creed, even in this cyni-hip day and age. This is the American Exceptionalism everyone likes to talk about but few aspire to, this is the antithesis of “Nothing personal, it’s just business” which lurks invisible on our money like a fnord. Like Doc Savage’s similar speech, it’s meant to be something aspiration. Something our young men and women were meant to grow up with—if you can’t do good, at least do no harm. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">It’s very easy to look at these proto-pop culture ideals askance and find them dismissable because for the last two decades Americans have stopped believing in heroes. Perfectly understandable, of course. But we live in a culture of anti-heroism, people who do good because it’s in their best interest. A modern prototypical hero that comes to my mind is John McClain, played by Bruce Willis in the <i>Die Hard </i>movies. He started as a regular guy who did the right thing because he was the only one who could. He was constantly frightened, stressed out, but brave five seconds longer than most other good people would be. (That’s the way it started, anyway, and the “real” John McClain is still in there despite the character assassination of <i>A Good Day to Die Hard</i>.) Certainly McClain is a distillation of our “classic” heroes, but passed through the emotionally-fried filter of the ‘70s and ‘80s. McClain aside, who do we aspire to be in our post-9/11 world when our most recent heroes can’t even bear to be seen in public with white hats? </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">The Lone Ranger first rode into culture in 1933, in the midst of the Great Depression, where radio was really the only thing that was free. WXYZ (Detroit) radio station owner, George W. Trendle, and writer Fran Striker, conceived of the masked man and his “trusted Indian companion” as a window into an even simpler time. At a time when Wall Street had failed the entire country, once a week, The Lone Ranger looked out for the interests of the “little people”. He wore a mask for the same reason as Batman—to strike fear in the hearts of superstitious and usually uneducated criminals, generally men made mean by the world or, mostly, out of simple stupid greed. He wore a white hat, rode a “firey white horse”, shot silver bullets, looked out for the oppressed and his best friend, a member of the Potawatomi (which would make him, in Texas, very far south of his tribe’s normal territory, I believe, but what do I know?) who was constantly the target of simple-minded racism and prejudice. The Lone Ranger never killed. He shot guns out of villains’ hands and treated every arrest as a teachable moment. Throughout the ‘30s and ‘40s—and then again throughout the ‘50s once the characters transitioned to television—little boys (and tomboy girls) wore official and unofficial domino masks, the General Mills-sponsored premium rings and deputy badges, having devoured boxes of Cheerios to amount the boxtops needed. They named their bikes and broomstick horses and announced their comings and goings with “Hi-Yo, Silver! Away!” This is all a matter of cultural record. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">On the radio, he is most associated with the throaty voice of Brace Beemer. On television, he and Tonto were brought to vivid life by Clayton Moore and Jay Silverheels, the best-remembered depictions of the characters. (There was an awkward season where the Ranger was played by John Hart and, for some reason, those were the episodes most often in syndication when I was growing up, mixed with the fifth season which was the only one in color.) </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">After a couple of full-length television movies starring Moore and Silverheels, the world was suddenly empty of the duo from 1956 until the early ‘80s. There was an animated show on CBS between ’66 and ’68 that thrust the Ranger and Tonto into a steampunk reality and suffered from a bizarre and arty stylistic design. When I was growing up, a few of these would sneak in with the Filmation <i>The Lone Ranger and Tarzan Adventure Hour</i>. But growing up with parents who’d grown up with The Lone Ranger, I was well-versed in the masked man by the time 1980 rolled around, bringing to audiences a new introduction to the stalwart heroes: William A. Fraker’s <i>The Legend of the Lone Ranger</i>. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">With a screenplay credited to no less than five writers (Ivan Goff, Michael Kane, Ben Roberts, William Roberts, Gerald B. Derloshon (as Jerry Derloshon), and a rumored three or four more brought on during shooting, not even to mention bafflingly uncredited George MacDonald Frasier), this was meant to be the new Lone Ranger for a new generation, for the kids that knew only <i>Scooby-Doo </i>and <i>Johnny Quest </i>and especially <i>Star Wars</i>, the post-moon-shot generation who seemed to be looking more to the heavens than to the west. It was meant to launch the career of a carefully-chosen “It Boy” wonderfully-named Klinton Spillsbury in the title role, white hat and mask. Tonto underwent the most radical transformation. Gone was the halting pidgen English he’d been known for (which drove genuine Native American actor Jay Silverheels crazy). As portrayed by the handsome Yaqui actor Michael Horse, Tonto had no trouble with the “white man’s tongue”—neither did any other Indian character for that matter—and far from the “stereotype servant” the hippies had dismissed him to be in the late ‘60s, Horse’s Tonto was fully The Lone Ranger’s partner (even though Moore and Silverheels made this pretty clear already, but political correctness has deep roots). It was to be the difinitive re-establishment of the characters’ origins. Toys, tie-ins and, especially, costume accessories had been prepared more than a year in anticipation of the premiere. Indeed, seven year-old me was not the only kid in the theater wearing that scratchy plastic domino mask put out by Gabriel Toys.</span><br />
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<i><span lang="EN">The Legend of the Lone Ranger </span></i><span lang="EN">faithfully recreated the “second” origin of the title character (he was much more vaguely drawn in the early episodes of the radio show) and goes even further, starting with a ten-year-old John Reid rescuing a same-aged Tonto from a group of masked vigilantes. Hiding the young brave in a culvert, John hears the men proclaim that the Reid family was probably harboring the filthy savage and arrives just in time to watch his father bloodily gunned down, his mother dragged around the ranch from behind a horse (and then shot) and see his entire home burned to the ground. Tonto takes the young John back to his tribe where he learns the ways of the (now) Comanche. (Let’s set the history of the Comanche aside for a minute and try to forget just what a bloodthirsty group they were—towards whites and anyone else that happened to be standing where they wanted to walk.) Before long, John’s older brother Dan finds him and sends him back East “to learn”. Before bidding his new family farewell, John and Tonto become blood brothers and Tonto gives him a silver amulet, declaring him to be forever “kemosabe” aka “Trusted Friend”. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">A decade later, adult learned lawyer John Reid is on a stagecoach traveling to Texas. On the stage he meets the lovely Amy Stryker and behaves chivolrously. When the stage is suddenly attacked by men wearing burlap hoods who want the postal bag containing land deeds, John is one of the first to act. (This sequence contains a number of really great practical stunts, including stuntman Terry Leonard performing an undercrawl beneath the horses’ post and the coach itself—a tribute to Yakima Canutt’s stunt originated in John Ford’s <i>Stagecoach </i>(1939), and nearly identical to a stunt he would further recreate in a little movie later that year: <i>Raiders of the Lost Ark</i>.) Reining in the horses, John and the other passengers manage to subdue two of the bandits—John convinces the others not to simply kill them but to bring them back to Del Rio for lawful justice. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">John to a Deputy as he delivers the bandits: “Will you require a deposition?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Deputy: “I dunno. You got one you wanna get rid of?”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Now, as Merle Haggard tells us during his narration, “Del Rio was a town with a gun in its back”, under seige by the villainously mad former Union Captain Butch (for “Butcher”) Cavendish and his behooded gang. We are also told that the sheriff is crooked and on Butch’s take (since he’s played by Matt Clark, we already know something is up) and that the half-dozen Texas Rangers, led by John’s bro Dan, have their hands full. After the malicious murdering of Amy’s newspaperman uncle (over a disparaging editorial of Cavendish), John joins the posse to run the gang down, deputized along the way. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">One of Dan’s friends and trusted men, guy by the name of Collins, leads the men into a box canyon, rides ahead and betrays them. Cavendish’s gang swarm over the hills above and blow the Rangers to pieces with Henry rifles, plummeting dynamite wagons and a friggin’ gatling gun! This sequence is also rife with terrific stunts including some blood-curdling high falls (during which one seasoned Ranger quips, “It ain’t the bullet that kills ya, it’s the fall!”). Butch, himself a sharpshooter, personally puts down Dan with four shots then shoots John in the head. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Miraculously, John is only grazed by the lead and is therefore still alive when Tonto happens by and finds him. After converting a cave into a sweatlodge to heal his friend, Tonto once again brings John Reid back to the Comanche, who are at this point pretty damned sick of white guys (and everyone else since the Spanish arrived in 1706) and broken treaties. Still, John is <i>kemosabe</i> and Tonto will always care for his friend. A few weeks of mending, which includes rescuing a wild albino horse from a deep ditch and then riding it to a standstill (which in itself is a pretty exciting sequence), John has made up his mind. He digs a sixth grave alongside the others in Bryant’s Gap and chooses the way of the spirit warrior. As staged in the film, we see John, his back to the camera, pledging his duty to his dead brother, sketching out his plan to go back to the world disguised but still wearing his badge. Spillsbury stands, places his large-brimmed white hat on his head and turns into his close-up, face bisected by a black leather mask. And then the <i>William Tell Overture </i>kicks in!</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">(I’m going to return to this famous piece of Rossini music in a minute, but everyone in America has heard it. They may not know what it’s called or who William Tell was aside from the apple-on-the-head thing, but <i>everyone </i>knows that the <i>William Tell Overture </i>is the Lone Ranger’s theme song. And it’s one of the most exciting pieces of music ever written.)</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">With the origin over, finally, at the 56:00 minute mark, <i>The Legend of the Lone Ranger</i> finally kicks to life. John and Tonto and Silver and Scout (Tonto’s horse; “Victor” is John’s nephew’s horse. Everybody knows that.) thunder across the plains. They discover that Butch’s big evil scheme is to hijack a train car containing the President of the United States, Ulysses S. Grant. The “why” of this has something to do with Cavendish’s court martial and his plans toward enacting his own form of Manifest Destiny but, really, who cares? The President is in danger!</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Following a rousing introduction to the town—the people have decided that Tonto is somehow to blame for something terrible and aim to hang him—The Lone Ranger shoots the rope of Tonto’s noose before the long drop, shoots the guns out of the hands of damned near everybody, rescues his buddy and then off they are again to stop Cavendish from doing that voodoo Cavendish does so well. Which is not to imply that he performs any voodoo in this movie. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">The last twenty minutes of <i>The Legend of the Lone Ranger</i> are knock-down, drag out, good old fashioned excitement and adventure. Dams explode, the Cavalry rides in, John and Butch face off for the first and last time. Wild Bill Hickock and Buffalo Bill join General Custer on the rescue (they were on the same train so they felt obligated)! Everything magical about the old west comes to brilliant chaotic life, beautiflly captured by Laszlo Kovacs’ photography and all set to that famous music of maestro Gioachino Rossini. By the end, justice has been delivered, peace restored, and The Lone Ranger, sadly leaving Amy Stryker behind thinking John Reid dead, bellows “Hi-Yo, Silver! Away!” and off go the Ranger and Tonto into the sunset. President Grant, fingering a silver bullet, wonders aloud, “Who is that Masked Man?” Merle Haggard wraps things up and the credits roll. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Between 1980 and the film’s release in ’81, <i>The Legend of the Lone Ranger</i> was frought with problems, as one can tell from the platoon of screenwriters kicking the thing into place. Production delays were considerable and the film’s new star, fresh out of a brief stint at Brigham Young University, was, to put it mildly, a bit of an asshole. Reportedly hard to get along with, Spillsbury picked fights with both cast and crew and was quite the social carouser off-set. (Andy Warhol reported in his <i>Diaries</i> (published in 1989) that during his interview with the actor, Spillsbury was drunk and rambling about his unrequited crushes on Dennis Christopher and Bud Cort, in Warhol’s words, “blowing his whole image”. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Worse still—if not worse than anything else in the history of ever—Universal Pictures gave their blessing to producer and <i>Lone Ranger </i>TV producer/character rights-owner, a millionaire robber baron named Jack Wrather, to “sue the mask off” Clayton Moore. Moore, who had, in his own words, “fallen in love” with the character, frequently wore his costume and mask to events, charities, and childrens’ hospital wards. More than once he broke up altercations with strangers on the streets. The man <i>was </i>The Lone Ranger and a hero in his own right. Yet neither Wrather nor the studio wanted to give anyone the impression that the then 65-year-old actor was reprising his part in the film (or would have <i>anything </i>to do with it at all). So they got a court order to stop Moore from making any public appearances wearing the mask. Moore fought back and in the meantime adopted a pair of dark Foster Grant sunglasses, only slightly altering the costume. Public response was a <i>disaster</i>. Moore was one miracle short of sainthood in the eyes of the people and they held this grudge against the movie. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Meanwhile, with their drunken jerk of a star making a drunken jerk of himself, Universal opted to distance themselves from Spillsbury and brought in James Keach to redub all of Spillsbury’s dialogue. Keach—whose sole “good” performance to date (as opposed to his brother, Stacy, and his career of genius) was as Jesse James in <i>The Long Riders</i>, but let’s face it, he had a <i>lot </i>of support in that film—turned in a dazzling performance that rivaled Harrison Ford’s original <i>Blade Runner </i>narration in terms of excitement. The dubbing is poor and even now sounds like John Reid’s voice floats somewhere else while interacting with the other characters. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Now combine all of that with an over-burdened and sluggish—and surprisingly violent and bloody—first hour and what you wind up with is box office cyanide. To paraphrase the great Yogi Berra, “If people don’t wanna go to [a movie], you can’t stop ‘em.” Despite some really cool action figures (which I still have), the costumes, the lunch boxes, the Underoos (remember those?), <i>The Legend of the Lone Ranger</i> landed with a thud, with a worldwide gross of only $12M against an $18M not-insubstantial budget for the time. After a brief summer run and a take-home of three Golden Raspberry Awards, the movie revived zombie like on HBO and home video for a while, but left behind a legacy with a bad aftertaste, still ridiculed to this day. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">But something magical happened in July, 2013. Having acquired the rights to <i>The Lone Ranger</i> and all characters, Disney decided way back in 2007 that they would redo <i>The Lone Ranger </i>for the even newer post-millennial generation. Their ace-in-the-hole was box-office busting Johnny Depp, who would “rescue” Tonto from the disgraceful role of step’n fetchit “sidekick” (as he described the faithful Indian companion over and over again despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, pidgen English notwithstanding). Depp, on a career high due to his inarguably brilliant creation of “Captain Jack Sparrow” that led the <i>Pirates of the Carribbean </i>franchise to monumental riches, was proclaimed to be unable to do no wrong. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">In between 2007 and 2013, however, Depp grew abjectly weirder in his role choices, actually infusing weird where weird wasn’t there originally. His Willy Wonka creeped out virtually everyone who witnessed the <i>Charlie and the Chocolate Factory </i>train wreck; his Barnabas Collins (which was, in my opinion, speaking as a non-fan of the original series) enraged <i>Dark Shadows </i>fans (especially after the passing of original Barnabas Jonathan Frid just prior to the release of Tim Burton’s newest flop reboot). In between those Burton-Depp pairings came also a less-than-successful (but nonetheless brilliant) <i>Sweeney Todd</i>, the ill-advised <i>Alice in Wonderland</i>, and the grudgingly-accepted <i>Pirates: On Stranger Tides</i>, mothers began to whisper Depp’s name to their children in order to get them to eat their vegetables. By the time the first stills of the masked man’s latest incarnation were released, the only thing people could focus on was that Depp’s Tonto, for whatever reason, wore a dead crow on his head. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Almost a year before its release, the Gore Verbinski-directed <i>The Lone Ranger</i> was declared to be a future flop of <i>John Carter</i>-esque proportions. Unlike the much-maligned <i>John Carter</i>, however, this might not have been the declaration of bloodthirsty critics eager to see the fall of Disney. If you’ll allow me further digression, the latest <i>Lone Ranger </i>film does, indeed, place <i>The Legend of the Lone Ranger </i>in a better light, though it does bear resemblance to its most recent past incarnation.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">First and foremost, Depp and Verbinski’s <i>Lone Ranger</i> also features a bloated script, this time from <i>Pirates </i>scribes Ted Elliott, Terry Rossio, with some last-minute rescuing by <i>Revolutionary Road </i>writer Justin Haythe, who managed to expunge the former’s script of its pre-occupation with werewolves. As John Reid, Armie Hammer has far more charisma than the Hasselhoff-esque Spillsbury (though the bar was already pretty low), but this story is told by an elderly Tonto to a young Lone Ranger admirer, from the confines of an exhibit in a traveling circus, circa 1930. Tonto’s version of the story prevails and allows for comic asides, gags, and cartoon logic. We’re not supposed to take it literally when, for example, he and Reid are hurled from a moving train and tumble for a couple of miles amidst iron and wood train track debris and are spared being crushed by the inertia-defying engine by a happily-placed wheel rod that impales itself between the two of them. That neither of them have been atomized or even bruised by this adventure is because of the spritely and saggy old Tonto’s imagination. Which also allows for other leaps of logic. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Not to mention several <i>Princess Bride </i>moments where the kid, speaking for the audience, exasperatedly accuses Tonto of “telling it wrong”. For in this version, gone is the childhood bond, the reaching out of races, the “trusted brother”. In This Tonto’s memory, John is a pale comparison to his heroic brother Dan. In This Tonto’s translation, “kemosabe” means “Wrong Brother”. In Depp’s Tonto’s telling, it is still the Indian (and still Comanche, though a tribal exile) that nurses the young Reid back to health following the even more violent ambush at Bryant’s Gap. It’s still Butch Cavendish that’s the bad guy—only this time he’s no dignified mad military man but rather the greasiest outlaw this side of <i>Lonesome Dove</i>’s Blue Duck, with a cruelly scarred face, committing the sadistic of cutting out and eating Dan Reid’s heart while the Ranger lies dying. He’s also responsible, along with the movie’s “secret” obvious villain, of massacring a younger Tonto’s tribe after brought there at the edge of death by none-other than Tonto. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Let’s pause to let that sink in. A young Comanche brave finds two dying white guys in Texas, during the midst of a seemingly endless Comanche War, and instead of building bonfires in their crotches, he brings them back to the rest of his Comanche settlement, replete with adult male Comanches taking a brief respite from murdering whites, Mexicans, Spanish and other tribes. And instead of hollowing out the skulls of these two white dopes for use in ersatz hockey games, the tribal elders not only nurse the clowns to life, but are unaware that Tonto has led the men to a silver mine in exchange for a tin watch (echoing, of course, the idea that Indians are attracted to shiny things in exchange for land—when the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indians themselves were laughing at the very notion of “selling” land and believed to be getting the better end of the deal—“Hey, I just “sold” some morons that entire island over there. No, that one. What’d Drunken Buffalo call it? ‘Manhattan’. Yeah, that one. They gave me some shiny rocks in exchange. It was the strangest conversation I’ve ever had!”). And THEN we’re supposed to believe that these two white guys, not even smart enough to pack water for lengthy trips into the desert although they remembered to bring their heavy black leather duster coats, massacred an entire Comanche encampment by themselves, leaving only Tonto alive. Not exactly the Sand Creek Massacre involving mostly women and children, these idiots were up against healthy male Comanches who, even in 1854, <i>knew what rifles were and possessed them!</i> But, anyway, back to senile Tonto’s story. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">To combat all the universally negative reaction to the bird-hat, the screenwriters turned it into a motif during production. The bird on his head may or may not be a spirit animal. He feeds it grain just in case. In fact, he gives grain to everyone he meets, sort of like “Aloha” means both “hello” and “goodbye” and “what time is it?” The Lone Ranger is pretty much a bumbling dunce in Tonto’s eyes and while he’s certainly no step’n fetchit, this poor, half-crazed-with-guilt Tonto still hasn’t grasped the use of personal pronouns, prepositional phrases or linking verbs and sounds even worse than Jay Silverheels—and it wasn’t Jay’s choice to talk that way to begin with. I found less problem with his constantly wearing “war paint” (as the media consistently harped on) because Tonto’s mind is trapped between Earth and Spirit, and seems more like Hopi medicine mask than anything else (and I don’t really know that much jack about American Indians). </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Now, once you get past all of the above. One you get into whatever hole Verbinski and Depp have dug for themselves, it becomes more or less a groove. But there’s still the sluggish nature of the origin story. It takes just as long for John to don his mask and dig the extra grave. Tonto has practically no respect of or confidence in Reid and only hangs out with him because the white spirit horse keeps telling him to. (The horse(s) playing Silver—as in <i>The Legend of, </i>a combination of geldings and mares—is marvelous and actually has more chemistry with Depp than Hammer does during the endless second act.) Let’s set aside, again, the idea that many tribes considered albino horses to be extremely bad luck and usually avoided them because, c’mon, what’s The Lone Ranger without Silver? </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">As opposed to Christopher Lloyd’s Cavendish (and let’s not underestimate the disconnect we kids of the ‘70s had seeing <i>Taxi</i>’s Reverend Jim ordering two of his own men executed), William Fichtner is depraved both outside and in, as a visual shortcut for evil, mainly because Cavendish the character is mostly wasted and forgotten by the third act, relegated to third-banana in the villain line-up. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Where <i>The Legend of </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>triumphs over <i>Lone Ranger</i> is in two areas: first, the former plays the story straight. It trusted the audience to accept the adventure as it stands. Verbinski and Disney had no such confidence in todays attention-deficit moviegoers, so, in spite of many clever moments, the gags and jokes flow even more egregiously than in any of the <i>Pirates </i>films, yet still injects some, quite frankly, shocking amounts of bloody violence. Verbinski borrowed more heavily from Leone and Peckinpah than Fraker, and Fraker had Reid’s parents <i>murdered </i>in front of him. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Second, when Spillsbury’s Reid first dons his mask, turns into his close up and reveals himself to be THE Lone Ranger, <i>The William Tell Overture</i> erupts from the soundtrack. 56 minutes in, that score covers the movie like a blanket of awesome. 2013’s <i>Lone Ranger </i>waits until almost 95 minutes before finally unleashing that famous score. In both instances, the music transforms the films. The music, those famous galloping trumpets, gives both movies <i>permission</i> to be what they are. No matter how impossible the task or ridiculous the stunt (or even, in the recent case, how stunningly clumsy the CGI), <i>The William Tell Overture</i> paves over the improbable. By the time it appears in 2013’s <i>Lone Ranger, </i>the film has already devolved into a Bugs Bunny cartoon, with its crossing runaway trains, magical leaps and outstanding marksmanship. But it doesn’t matter. Because “the song” is playing. </span><br />
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<i><span lang="EN">The Legend of the Lone Ranger </span></i><span lang="EN">doesn’t become so until the music starts. As integral as Tonto, silver bullets and the mask, it’s that music that announces that The Lone Ranger has arrived. At this point I’d like to posit that <i>The William Tell Overture </i>is part of both our cultural and <i>physical </i>DNA. My five-year-old neice, while still growing up under the “yesteryear” eye of my father, knows what that music means, even if she wasn’t immediately clear who the Lone Ranger was. More than anything, <i>The William Tell </i>electrifies the American bloodstream. It more than brings out the seven-year-old kid in all of us, it erases cynicism to a very large and instant degree. NSA, IRS, CIA, Republicans, Democrats, foreign wars, lousy economy—it’ll all be okay because, right now, The Lone Ranger is here, and he’s telling us we can do something about all this too. <i>The William Tell </i>delivers unto all of us a white hat and a black mask, tells us to earn friends by being friends, that a bullet-to-the-head is not the way to bring in the bad guy and that John McClain was correct in adopting as his catch phrase “Yippie-Ki-Yay”. In fact, as fellow journalist Mike Haushalter told me at the screening we attended, if that music had played over the endless trailers, the 2013 <i>Lone Ranger </i>would not have bombed on its opening weekend. That music draws Americans to it like iron filings to a magnet, and just as naturally. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">It’s been 80 years since that music first thundered into living rooms from the tinny speakers of torso-sized radios and economically the world isn’t much different. We still mistrust our governmental officials, determined to put us all into Hoover camps and keep the poor ground under the heels of corporate progress. Once again, Bankers put their own interests ahead of the greater good and went unpunished for it. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">In 1981, the economy was climbing out of a recession, we were still more or less at war with others, only in this case, Middle Easterners and not Comanches (just like today). And in all three cases, we needed The Lone Ranger. But after the ‘60s, we had lost faith in the Masked Man. He wasn’t enough to stop the march of distruction and poverty. Neither the ’81 Lone Ranger nor the 2013 incarnation were conceived and executed in the seeming purity of the man from the ‘30s or ‘50s. “American Exceptionalism” doesn’t mean what it used to. We’re no better or worse-off than we were when the two men first rode, but heroes have come to be redefined. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Fraker made an admirable stab at reintroducing the archetypical hero. By ’81 we had Luke Skywalker instead of Popeye Doyle and the former was easier for the seven-year-olds to swallow. But we also had Indiana Jones and he seemed to stand a little taller than our masked man. At least we had Indiana Jones. Our heroes today seem to be heroes in spite of themselves. As of right now, the number one movie at the box office is the animated <i>Despicable Me 2</i>, about a man who, despite his greatest desires, sucks as a supervillain so becomes a hero. Even Superman flies with a heavy conscience. There are quotes around Truth, Justice and, especially, The American Way, where there didn’t use to be. It’s nothing to mourn; culture changes. Times change. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Both recent <i>Lone Rangers </i>failed for different reasons. The former because greed wished to replace the original, the man who embodied the character, with a shinier, younger version. The latter because the shinier star can no longer hear the word “no” because it’s never uttered in his direction. Depp’s Tonto isn’t offensive but it is disingenuous, no matter how much or how little Choctaw or Cherokee his blood possesses, he made the decision for whatever reason to deliver halting sentences and give us all the bird. Michael Horse rewarded Jay Silverheels. Johnny Depp couldn’t bear to be off-center of attention. Neither Fraker nor Verbinski could see that <i>The Lone Ranger </i>isn’t about grand sweeping change. John Reid’s story is not an epic. It’s about one man—in this case, two—overcoming cultural prejudices and making tiny changes by showing others how they, too, can affect the world in a positive way. There’s no need for apologies for the Lone Ranger or Tonto of yesteryear, no matter how “quaint” they seem to be now. What they symbolized is what mattered. The absence of irony and cynicism. Still, in the end, 2013’s <i>Lone Ranger </i>gets John Reid as right in the end as he’s ever been. He does not take a life. He does not succumb to the vigilante justice that constantly befell his best friend. Right to the end both Spillsbury’s and Hammer’s John Reid stayed pure to the notion of justice. Sinking to the level of the villain may be emotionally satisfying, but is it moral? Of course not. But decades of Charlie Bronson <i>Death Wish </i>clones have continued to give us the easy way out. Neither Reid nor Tonto ever made the easy decisions and that is what made them heroes. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">And it isn’t wrong or old fashioned to think that way, so long as you have <i>The William Tell Overture</i> playing in your ears. </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-63863072559320432212013-07-03T21:21:00.000-04:002013-07-03T21:21:38.065-04:00TREASURE OF THE FOUR CROWNS (1983)<style>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“In the universe there are things man cannot hope to understand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Powers he cannot hope to possess.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Forces he cannot hope to control.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The Four Crowns are such things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Yet the search has begun. A Soldier of Fortune takes the first step.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He seeks a key that will unlock the power of The Four Crowns </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and unleash a world where good and evil collide.”</span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">So decrees the <i>Star Wars</i> scroll opening of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0084781/"><b><i>Treasure of the Four Crowns</i></b></a>, just before it hits you with the scariest things the movie has to offer:</span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Cannon Film Group.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A Golan-Globus Production.</span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Cue mind-shattering terror. </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I kid. I kid because I love. </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As soon as the titles are done rushing out at you, screaming “3-fucking-D!”, we are introduced to our hero, J.T. Striker, clad in his red satin jacket, lighting a cigarette against the wind, standing in front of a grand forced-perspective castle. Possibly Spanish. So far, we appear to be on an adventure with <i>That ‘70s Show</i>’s Bob Pinciotti, adventurer, outfitted by Jackie Chan’s Asian Hawk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Minutes later, he’s inside the castle, its interior transformed into a live-action <i>Scooby-Doo</i> set, and he’s immediately beset by vultures and rubber pterodactyls. Spears stab out of the walls, tunnel doors slam shut behind him. Ropes dangle over obvious trapdoors. A boa constructor lowers towards him. He grimaces in fear as it slithers over him. A guard dog chases him across crumbling edifaces, where it is joined by more friendly German Shepherds, tails wagging. He leaps through a glass window, runs past a bubbling volcanic cauldron, drops through a skylight, rolls down a tunnel, which conveniently explodes allowing him to do a daring flip over a pile of wood. While a skeleton and a suit of armor point at him courtesy of wires attached by phone linemen, he blows up an entombment and finally retrieves a key from inside a brass scepter. This, took, launches more booby traps, and wonks out the soundtrack, speeding up and slowing down ominous voices that bubble up from a dry ice cabinet. Nearly killed by a thrice-repeated shot of a fired spear, he’s then shot at by some laughing pottery and manages to dodge a spiked rolling pin swinging from the ceiling. And then come the fireballs (!), one of which he tries to catch. Finally comes the obligatory burning boulders—about the size of hefty pumpkins—that chase him around the room. The message here is to not concern yourself with all this precious archaeology. </span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">During rape and pillage, temples have a way of shutting that all down.</span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Obviously, this is a very important key. Once he gets back to whatever he calls home, he stoically yells at his friend and partner, Ed, for not telling him how dangerous the place can be. As it turns out, the key fits one of the “legendary” four golden crowns forged by the Visigoths in the 6<sup>th</sup> Century, some time after their conquest of Spain. Inside they find a little scroll that says, basically, “The very existence of this scroll supports the legend.” Or, “The legend is true because I, the scroll, say so. QED.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Now for the tricky part. Stryker is hired to put together a team to find the rest of the crowns, which lie deep within the bowels of The City of Love and Unity and the Temple of the Crowns. It’s the sorta-secret lair of “Brother Jonas” (aka Leo Green, from Brooklyn, who served a goodly amount of time in Sing Sing) who has begun his own religion. Has his own pig-mask-wearing Indoctrination Squad to round up willing (or not) Apostles and stuff them into his heavily-guarded mountain retreat. Brother Jonas says things like, “I want you to see what I see. Be what I am. And if you will not, then go to Hell!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Edmond whips out a brilliant scale-model of of the fortress to plan the job. “For Jonas, the crowns are a source of destructive power. Weapons of fear. But I want to preserve that power for the future of mankind. They are part of an incredible legacy.” Only JT Stryker can pull off a job like this. So of course he refuses. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Until the very next scene where he and Edmond are shown recruiting a team. Let’s go to Video Junkie for a summary: “His team consists of an alcoholic electronics expert Rick (Jerry Lazarus), an over the hill circus strongman Socrates (Francisco Rabal), and his nimble and nubile daughter Liz (Ana Obregon). Also, Edmond (Gene Quintano), the operation’s liaison insists on tagging along to keep an eye on things and generally be a pain in the ass.” (<a href="http://originalvidjunkie.blogspot.com/2010/06/revenge-of-3-d-comin-at-ya%201981.html?zx=5d71cc07960e9fb6">“Scribbled” by Thomas T. Sueyres.</a>) Rick describes them as “A tired old man, an inexperienced female and me, a guy with 90 proof courage.”</span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Mr. Sueyers also describes the Crowns’ potential: “They are believed to contain secrets of unimaginable power. So unimaginable that the </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">five</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> credited writers couldn’t come up with anything.” And let’s not forget to mention the very power of the stupid <i>key</i>! Without warning, the crazy thing will shoot out of Stryker’s hands, blow up crockery, knock over furniture and explode windows, letting all the snow in. The key can also create unmotivated red light. While it jiggles in JT’s hands, the others are attacked by lens flares.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As to be expected, the Crowns are protected by state-of-the-art technology and heavily-armed guards. Pressure-sensitive floors and walls, laser eye alarms, an intricate matrix of security the likes of which won’t be seen again until all the parodies of <i>Mission: Impossible</i>. </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Skipping the rest of anything resembling a second act, our insipid—sorry, <i>intrepid</i>—team has been air dropped onto the Citadel of Silliness. For the next twenty minutes, we’re actually treated to an actually tense and non-silly sequence involving the team rappelling across the ceiling beams, trapezing over the laser beams, electric fences and the pressurized floor. Sequence involves the occasional guard popping in for a spot-check during lots of dangling and trying to be quiet. The acrobatics in this sequence are actually worth your time. </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">To break that up, we go behind-the-scenes with Brother Jonas as he collects chunks of Apostle hair to burn and help the Crowns heal a diseased “lost lamb” and bring her back into the fold. Part of the healing process has the masked guards rattle tambourines in the faces of the other cult members. Curiously, once the chanting and hysterics have passed, the little “lost lamb” winks at Brother Jonas and starts to peel off her facial wounds. Don’t get hung up on this as it’s never addressed again and the producers really wish you’d all stop bringing it up. </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Now, normally I wouldn’t do this, but I will now reveal to you the ending. Just the same, I promise you that I’m not giving anything away because, like the preceeding scenes, it doesn’t make a damned bit of sense. Swinging down from the beams, J.T. mounts this ugly blob of an idol--“Here I come, you magical son of a bitch.”—and uses the key to unlock the Crowns just as Brother Jonas and his guards burst in to spray bullets in random directions. The second he touches them, his head spins around like a malfunctioning Linda Blair doll and when it comes to rest, JT’s face is covered in lizard scales, cloudy eyes, and an even dopier expression than he’d worn at any previous point. He also becomes a subhuman flame thrower, spewing fire from the crystals he’d taken from the crowns and setting ablaze Jonas, his acolytes, his minions, his grunions and also his onions. Being special, Brother Jonas doesn’t just catch fire, but his skin falls off of his skull in little chunks at a time. Stryker is only changed back by Liz’s screams and sobs, which seem to be her specialty. Triumphantly, and with only the majority of his team dead, JT claims the Crowns, having more or less saved the day from evil. Or perhaps good. It’s hard to tell.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">In in a final coda, a thrice-repeated shot of a snake-head bursting forth from a pulsing lump of goo, never glimpsed before in the film. Or since.</span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The best and most accurate review I’ve ever read of <i>The Treasure of the Four Crowns</i> comes from the wonderful website, <a href="http://www.kindertrauma.com/?p=11087">KinderTrauma</a>, and it goes like this: “[…] it’s mostly not boring.” And it’s impossible to argue with that assessment. If anything, the blessed few slow parts allow the viewer time to attempt comprehension of what he just witnessed. Please bear in mind that I have not come here to trash <i>Treasure of the Four Crowns</i>, for to do that would be like booing the Special Olympics. Honestly, this movie just doesn’t know any better. </span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The team behind <i>Treasure </i>were more or less responsible for kicking off the brief 3-D boom of the early eighties with the reasonably enjoyable Spaghetti Western, <i>Comin’ At Ya!. </i>This golden era came to a head in 1983 with a Summer glut of poke-a-vision like <i>Jaws 3D, Amityville 3D, </i>Steve Guttenberg as <i>The Man Who Wasn’t There, Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone, </i>and <i>Metalstorm: The </i>[Non-] <i>Destruction of Jared-Syn</i>. (God, what a wonderful summer that was!) Because of the success of <i>Comin’ At Ya!</i>, <i>Treasure</i> was rushed into production by Canon using the same team of Tony Anthony, Gene Quintano and director Ferdinando Baldi. Conceived as a blatant rip-off of <i>Raiders of the Lost Ark</i>, the most <i>Treasure </i>had to boast was a score by none-other than Ennio Morricone who, judging by the laconic orchestration, must have done the composing at gun point. </span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">At the time of <i>Comin’ At Ya!</i>, Anthony (best-known to his schoolyard chums as Roger Pettito) was a familiar face to Spaghetti Western fans, largely due to his coincidental presence in Europe at the time of Sergio Leone’s world-wide success with the <i>Dollars </i>trilogy. Anthony starred as “The Stranger”, a shotgun-weilding anti-hero, in the moderately-successful <i>A Stranger In Town</i>, <i>The Stranger Returns</i> and <i>The Silent Stranger</i>, as well as a Zatoichi rip-off titled <i>Blindman, </i>which also starred Ringo Starr as a Mexican bandito. </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">More interesting than the films themselves is the fact that Anthony achieved this by partnering with MGM stockholder and record producer Alan Klein. Klein is a notorious personality in ‘70s entertainment history for a number of reasons. For one, he re-negotiated a contract between The Beatles and EMI, garnering them higher royalties per records sold ($.69) and assisted George Harrison’s Apple Records financially by basically turning the company into a factory, complete with time clocks and an on-site kitchen, cancelling take-out meals and personal charge-accounts for the Beatles’ many hangers-on. He also assisted in the finishing of one of the most uncomfortable documentaries ever made, <i>Let It Be</i>, with help from future-murderer Phil Spector. In the end, as McCartney and Lennon chose to dissolve The Beatles (McCartney in particular disliked the producer and felt that the his cutthroat business methods were diminishing The Beatles’ legacy), Klein more or less successfully sued the band in what he called a “divorce”.</span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Perhaps more notatble, Klein was personally responsible for the long 30-year period of unavailabilty of Alejandro Jodorowski’s esoteric masterpieces, <i>El Topo </i>and <i>The Holy Mountain. </i>Persuaded by John Lennon to buy the rights to <i>El Topo </i>and bankroll <i>Mountain</i>, Klein intended to partner with Jodorowsky’s next film as well. Instead, after witnessing the financial success of “art pornography” like <i>The Devil in Miss Jones </i>and the infamous <i>Deep Throat</i>, he tried to persuade the avante guarde director to direct an adaptation of Pauline Réage's S&M bestseller <i>The Story Of O</i>. To Klein’s surprise (if no one else’s), Jodorowsky refused. Klein’s revenge was to withdraw all prints of <i>El Topo </i>and <i>Holy Mountain </i>from US distribution, denied all film festival requests for screening and reportedly flipped off the posters every morning before work (I may have made that last part up). This led to Jodorowsky’s public endorsement of any and all bootlegs of his films. It wasn’t until Klein gracefully died in 2009, that the director reconciled with the Klein heirs that the films were finally released to the eager public at Cannes and on gorgeous Blu-Ray.</span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But I digress. </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The point is, despite looking like the first guy to be rubbed out in any given gangster movie, and even after the world-wide failure of his final “Stranger” film, <i>Get Mean </i>in 1976, Tony Anthony’s star was still hovering above the horizon in the ‘80s thanks to <i>Comin’ At Ya!</i> But have no fear, <i>Treasure of the Four Crowns </i>put an end to all of that. But not for lack of trying. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As Roger Ebert <a href="http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/treasure-of-the-four-crowns-1983">wrote at the time</a>: “It's fun to find a 3-D movie that doesn't beat around the bush. Within 60 seconds after <i>Treasure of the Four Crowns</i> begins, the movie is throwing things at the audience. This is, of course, in the great tradition of 3-D movies that began in 1953 with <i>Bwana Devil</i>" a horrible movie that made a lot of money by throwing stones, spears and elephants at the audience. You want to get your money's worth. […] In fact, with its cheerful high energy, <i>Treasure of the Four Crowns</i> may not only be the first of the 1983 3-D wave but one of the best.”</span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The sad fact of the matter is that, while <i>Treasure </i>was not a failure financially and went on to become an HBO staple (in 2D of course) for more than a year after, it suffered from the timing of its release. As popcorn movies go, it probably was a high point during that ridiculous summer. But when you get down to it, it was a gimmick movie, and a rip-off gimmick movie at that. By August, audiences had grown weary of having their eyes poked at, actors picking up tools for the sheer purpose of having things emerge from the screen (<i>Treasure </i>was particularly guilty of this, with more than one instance of one character handing a magnifying glass and the like to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>another by waving it back and forth in front of the lens like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEnCKEfSgUM">SCTV’s Count Floyd</a>), not to mention the intense migraines that came from having their rods and cones batted around for 90 minutes. </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The 3D “craze” continued sporadically through the summers of ’84 and ’85, the animated <i>Starchaser: The Legend of Orin </i>one of the final straws and then disappeared to obscurity. With no demand, Anthony and Baldi saw the cancelation of their own science-fiction follow-up (hinted at by <i>Treasure</i>’s non-sequiter coda), alternately known as <i>Escape from Beyond </i>and <i>Seeing is Beliving</i>. Baldi returned to Italy but <i>Treasure </i>basically marked the end of Anthony’s career, at least as far as acting goes. He did produce the Zalman King-directed <i>Wild Orchid </i>with Mickey Roarke, but mostly he concentrated on running an optics company, specializing in lenses that worked with the so-called “over-and-under” 3D technique. In 2009, he oversaw the transfer of <i>Comin’ At Ya! </i>to digital 3D and has hinted at giving similar attention to <i>Treasure of the Four Crowns</i>. </span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing is in the crossed-eyes of the beholder, but the timing seems perfect. What with the “immersion” use of 3D in modern-day blockbusters, it might actually be a nice change to have spears jump out at us once again, even if the wires do come with them.</span>
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<span style="background-color: #444444;"></span><span style="font-size: small;"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-86115412525962140592013-07-03T20:41:00.001-04:002013-07-05T13:54:26.640-04:00Brain Dead (1990)<style>
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/8/84/Brain_Dead_(1990_film).jpg/220px-Brain_Dead_(1990_film).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/8/84/Brain_Dead_(1990_film).jpg/220px-Brain_Dead_(1990_film).jpg" width="275" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“How do we really know that we exist? What if we’re
some sort of computer program, predestined to live out our lives in a certain
way? How do we know if we’re awake or in some hyper-real dream and when we wake
up, <i>that </i>will be ‘real life’?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There are two types of people who frequently ask these
questions: science fiction writers and people trying weed for the first time.
Actually, the question of existence and reality is the fundament of most
philosophies. How do we ever know what we’re experiencing is <i>real</i>. As </span><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Abraham Sofaer as “The Swami” put it in <i>Head</i>:
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“We were speaking
of belief. Beliefs and conditioning. All belief can be said to be the result of
some conditioning. Thus the study of history is simply the study of one system
of belief deposing another. And so on and so on. A psychologically tested
belief of our time is that the central nervous system, which feeds its impulses
directly to the brain, conscious and subconscious, is unable is unable to
discern between the real and the vividly imagined experience. If there is a
difference. And most of us believe there is. Am I being clear? For to examine
these concepts requires tremendous energy and discipline. To experience the
‘now’ without preconception of belief. To allow the unknown to occur and to
occur requires clarity. For where there is clarity there is no choice, and
where there is choice there is misery. Then why should anyone listen to me? Why
should I speak? For I know nothing!”</span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In the Julie (wife of Roger) Corman-produced <i>Brain
Dead </i>(and not the alternative title to Peter Jackson’s <i>Dead*Alive</i>),
Dr. Rex Martin (Bill Pullman) is a brilliant neurosurgeon studying the part of
the brain that produces paranoia. He spends his days in a dim storage room (Number
8, the number constantly flipping upside down)surrounded by shelves upon
shelves lined with human brains in glass jars, the kind you’d find in <i>Young
Frankenstein </i>or <i>The Man With Two Brains</i>. His assistant treats these
brains like office supplies, thinking little beyond the mess it makes when he
happens to drop one. “People, Birkovich. Individuals. Minds, souls. Every brain
is a living record of a journey taken,” Dr. Martin tells him. “Who knows what
journey they’re on now?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Martin’s new journey begins when he gets a visit from
his old friend, Jim Reston (Bill Paxton), an executive climbing the ranks and
upgrading suits. The company Reston works for, The Eunice Corporation, wants
Martin to meet with and diagnose John Halsey (all hail Bud Cort), a
mathematician institutionalized for murdering his entire family. Halsey created
an elaborate mathematical formual that the Eunice Corporation desperately
requires. The problem is that Halsey is so wracked with the paranoia that drove
him to kill, the formula is locked away deep inside his mind. Indeed, Halsey
has invented a false persona for himself in which he believes he is being
persecuted by his “former boss” at Conklin Mattresses, who was having an affair
with Halsey’s wife. Halsey believes that Conklin spied on him through money,
“Instead of Ben Franklin I saw Conklin’s greasy face staring up at me.” His
plastic wallet is filled with home made construction paper dollars, to fool
Conklin and any of his agents still snooping around. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Returning to Reston, Martin is skeptical that he could
do anything surgically to remove Halsey’s paranoia. “We can’t all do good, but
at least do no harm.” Eunice Corp suggests an alternative then: cut into
Halsey’s brain and destroy the formula, ensure that no one else can ever get at
it. Martin balks at this as well. “It could be worse,” Reston tells him.” You
could be the patient and Halsey could be the doctor.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">That afternoon, while walking to his car, carrying one
of his favorite brains to work on at home, he is accosted by a raving homeless
man who insists that the brain in the jar is <i>his</i>. Wrestling with the man
and juggling the jar, Martin is suddenly hit by a car belonging to Conklin
Mattresses, their slogan: “To Sleep, Perchance to Dream.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Suffering only a mild concussion, Dr. Martin awakes
from a bad dream in his own bed next to his wife, Dana (<i>Desert Hearts</i>’ Patricia
Charbonneau) who he believes is having an affair with Reston. He makes the
decision to operate on Halsey after all, and the next morning, before the
entire board of the Eunice Company (including George Kennedy in a thankless
cameo), behind two-way glass, he opens up Halsey’s head and starts poking
around in the man’s brain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Whatever visions plaguing Halsey almost immediately
plague Martin. He finds himself pursued by a man in a bloody white coat
(Nicholas Pryor, playing multiple roles here…or maybe just one), witnesses
Reston having sex with his wife on their dining room table. Martin’s behavior
changes. He’s often confused, dazed, speaking and acting inappropriately. Just
the same, Reston approaches him with a brand new idea: custom lobotomies,
cosmetic surgery for the brain, “kinder, gentler lobotomies”, to eliminate
painful memories and bolster self-esteem without the cost of therapy. “Change
their personalities, their very souls.” He even has a slogan, “The new you,
from Eunice.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The next morning, Dr. Martin wakes up in the Mayside
Sanitarium, his doctor is the same man in the bloody coat who has been stalking
him, and that somehow his own office has been moved to this building, and now
houses the new doctor, who tells him that he’s been there for days. “We can be
distracted by too much detail.” Martin is told that his psyche is shattered. He
has projected Halsey to be his patient and himself Halsey’s doctor. Martin
resists this explanation, insists that the office is his office and he knows
who he is, insisting, “I have a Ph.D from Miskatonic University!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Worse, Reston arrives, identified as the hospital’s
accountant. Martin, too, is an accountant, the prize of Conklin Mattresses.
Halsey visits him at his bedside at night and each visit ends in Martin waking
up from a nightmare. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Halsey: “They told me the same stinking story. That
you didn’t exist. That we’re the same person!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Martin: “Didn’t we do this before?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Halsey: “Are we doing this now?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The pair pass in and out of each other’s subconscious
minds, each insisting they’re part of the other’s dream. Each time a dream
ends, Martin finds himself in a new location and a confused state of mind.
People insist on calling him Halsey. The number 8 on his door has fallen again
and again he spins it, stopping halfway to ∞. “No, I’m not dreaming,” he insists.
“I’ve ruled that out. It’s like I’m being dreamed. Like we’re all being dreamed
by Eunice.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Before too long, it’s Martin in that chair, his brain
exposed, and at the probe is not Halsey but the man in the bloody coat, Dr.
Reston, aka Ed Conklin, owner of Conklin Mattresses, a partner with (or dummy
name for) the Eunice Corporation. Martin repeats, “Just do no harm. No harm
done.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Originally scripted by <i>Twilight Zone </i>staple
Charles Beaumont, <i>Brain Dead </i>is how Cronenberg would handle a slapstick
comedy. The writer behind such classic episodes as “Long Live Walter Jameson”
and “Shadow Play”, involving tricks of the mind, dreams and memory, Beaumont
(aka Charles Leroy Nutt) wrote short stories for <i>Amazing Stories </i>and
other pulp science-fiction magazines, he was also the first writer to publish a
short story in <i>Playboy</i>. His original script for <i>Brain Dead</i>
written (obviously) some time before his death in 1967, possibly around the
same time he was writing for Corman and AIP, turning out the screenplays for <i>Premature
Burial </i>(1962), <i>The Haunted Palace </i>(1963) and <i>The Masque of the
Red Death</i> (1964) (as well as <i>Burn, Witch, Burn</i> (1961) and <i>7 Faces
of Dr Lao </i>(1964). So much was made out of this “new” Beaumont credit when <i>Brain
Dead </i>was released in 1989 (in some markets as <i>Paranoia</i>), many fans
apparently forgot that he was dead and saw this as his big comeback movie.
“Big” being a relative term here, of course. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“The script was one that had been sitting around in
Roger Corman’s possession for several years. It is rather amusing to picture
Corman trying to get such a whacked out script off the ground in the days
before [<i>Nightmare on</i>] <i>Elm Street</i> made this baffling reality flip
type of film commonplace,” <a href="http://moria.co.nz/horror/brain-dead-1989-paranoia.htm">wrote Richard Scheib</a>. “The final ending arrived at
is amazingly bleak. While in another film all the reality bendings would
collapse into meaninglessness, <i>Brain Dead</i> sustains them at such a
dextrous series of whiplash reversals that it contrarily becomes thoroughly
ingenious.” </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Brain Dead </span></i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">never saw much success. Released on VHS in the latter part of
’90 after playing a few late nights on HBO, it was finally dumped on DVD as
part of “Roger Corman Presents: The Actor Series”, its cover showing a face
stretched across a metal frame, taken from a visual non-sequitur in the
beginning of the film. “The opening scene shows Dr. Martin’s assistant smiling
gleefully as he wields what looks like a soldering iron above an exposed brain,
connected by wires to a stretched, boneless face whose muscles the brain
apparently controls. As the assistant shocks the brain in different areas, the
eyes on the face turn to the left, then to the right, and finally go cross-eyed
as the assistant titters to himself. Actually, this image of a grotesque,
surgically removed face gone cross-eyed is a wonderful metaphor for a film
whose cringe-worthy visuals are mitigated by a pervasive and singular humor.” (<a href="http://notcoming.com/reviews/brain-dead/">JonathanFoltz ©2010 NotComing.com</a>)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Over the years, it’s acquired a modest cult following,
due to no little help from its confusion with Peter Jackson’s <i>Braindead</i>.
Directed by (<i>A Haunting in Conneticut </i>screenwriter)<i> </i>Adam Simon,
Beaumont’s posthumous movie offers a lot of mind teasing to make up for its
utter lack of zombies. Aside from Foltz’s and Scheib’s reviews, it’s difficult
to find a critic who doesn’t treat <i>Brain Dead </i>with condescension, if not
outright disrespect. Much humor is to be found in the movie’s primitive effects
(Cort’s open-brain prosthetic in no way resembles the actual brain-surgery
footage projected in the board room during the first act surgery), and many
have dismissed it as being “nonsensical”. However, as Foltz later writes, “Once
the labyrinthine plot takes its initial turn, <i>Brain Dead</i> offers little
consolation that it all makes sense, moving at a disorienting pace through
realities and alternate realities. In fact there are so many scenes where Dr.
Martin wakes up as from a dream that reality starts to lose its meaning, even
for the viewer. This slippery, mise en abyme structure owes a debt to the
script by Charles Beaumont, the legendary <i>Twilight Zone</i> writer whose
life was cut short by disease. Indeed, <i>Brain Dead</i>’s contorted but campy
brilliance feels like a faithful adaptation of the classic <i>Twilight Zone</i>
aesthetic, but updated to be at once gorier and goofier.” [ibid]</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Which still seems a little harsh. Maybe in these post-<i>Matrix</i>,
post-<i>Inception</i> days <i>Brain Dead </i>has little to offer audiences who
have become accustomed to dream logic narratives. But unlike modern mind-fuck
movies, <i>Brain Dead </i>revels in its playfulness. Martin doesn’t
chiropractically dodge bullets or rely on a spinning top to know when he’s
awake, but wanders around in an uncomprehending daze of contradictory
information, and the viewer is right there on his shoulders, looking for hints
and clues amidst the film’s many details to figure out who, exactly—if <i>anybody</i>—is
the sane party of the first part. If you decide that you did dig it the first
time through, give it a second go and see if the movie changes your mind in
whatever direction. It’s a fun movie filled with narrative close-up magic. And
it has Bud Cort in it. Everything is better with Bud Cort.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-59756505615556050052013-07-02T18:06:00.002-04:002013-07-02T18:24:44.193-04:00THE BRAVE (1997)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHr29mIkxpiF0SqcZl9ikzVT30bg7ApELa1u0KwczCInEpXCmbvxWPsXUYY7RkS4gbaJPhuT_1Fo91ZGjkVFdnczWKHQuUh1JJNYdZ_-0wZU7CIUDAcU9ni19InOCvgyPj805cxOtfNUI/s900/The+Brave+1997+Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHr29mIkxpiF0SqcZl9ikzVT30bg7ApELa1u0KwczCInEpXCmbvxWPsXUYY7RkS4gbaJPhuT_1Fo91ZGjkVFdnczWKHQuUh1JJNYdZ_-0wZU7CIUDAcU9ni19InOCvgyPj805cxOtfNUI/s640/The+Brave+1997+Poster.jpg" width="451" /></a>"He could have, had he wanted to, cast himself as the Lone Ranger, and put a qualified, capable Native American actor ... of whom there are quite a few now, in the role of Tonto," said UCLA professor Hanay Geiogamah, a Kiowa tribe member. Once head of UCLA's American Indian Studies program, Geiogamah had been twice consulted by Disney for their previous <i>Pocahontas</i> animated features and was dismayed—along with many, many others—at Depp’s portrayal of the legendary Tonto in the Mouse’s redeaux of <i>The Lone Ranger</i>. From the actor’s speech patterns<i>—</i>"That sort of monosyllabic stuttering, uttering. Hollywood Indian-speak.”—to his borderline ridiculous appearance “inspired” by a painting Depp ran across on the internet, "We've got Johnny Depp with a taxidermied crow on top of his head and painted to the nth degree with paint, and he looks like a gothic freak.”<br />
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On the flip side of that, Depp was honored by Wallace Coffey, chairman of the Comanche Nation, and Santa Fe activist La Donna Harris adopted Depp as “an honorary son and member of the Comanche tribe.” Depp and Disney gave the proceeds from the movie’s world premiere to the American Indian College Fund. For his own part, it’s long been a dream of his to “fix” Tonto’s reputation as simply the Lone Ranger’s “sidekick” (though every incarnation of the story refers to Tonto as the masked man’s “faithful Indian companion”) by ensuring the Native was in all ways equal to his vigilante buddy.<br />
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So why the pidgin English? More importantly, why the bird on his head? </div>
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While we may never get proper answers to those questions, it all speaks to the actor’s long fascination of Native Americans, who we like to call “the guys who were here first.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Asked if he's Native American, Depp says he grew up in Kentucky, where his great-grandmother and great-grandfather told him he had Cherokee blood. ‘But over there, could have been Cherokee, could have been Creek, could have been Choctaw,’ he says. ‘It was always something that I always felt very proud to have.’” (This quote and info above taken from <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/codeswitch/2013/07/02/196333864/does-disneys-tonto-reinforce-stereotypes-or-overcome-them">NPR article</a>, "Does Disney's Tonto Reinforce Stereotypes Or Overcome Them?" by Mandalit del Barco, July 02, 2013.)</div>
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Of course, Tonto is not the first Native American character Depp has tackled, but it will always be his best-known. For his first portrayal was that of Raphael, the poverty-stricken wet-brain of indistinct tribal origin who sells his life and body to a snuff film producer in exchange for a sum of money that will allow his family to survive. If this role doesn’t ring a bell for even die-hard Deppianados that can be excused. <b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0118768/"><i>The Brave</i></a></b>, based on Gregory MacDonald’s grim novel, was Depp’s directorial debut, notoriously booed at the Cannes Film Festival, prompting him to prevent its official release in the United States.<br />
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Best-known for the <i>Fletch </i>novels, MacDonald wrote the slim novel in 1991, where it received a decent audience and a notorious reputation for its third chapter, wherein McCarthy, the producer, describes in graphic detail what will happen to Raphael for the film. Two ex-wrestlers—“real monsters”—will strip him, beat him, tear out his fingernails, gouge out his eye, sever fingers and toes. It will be an hour of pain in exchange for a modest sum of money that, to Raphael, is a fortune. (The chapter, a challenge even for hardcore horror fans, prompted the author to issue a preface warning-slash-justification for its inclusion.) This is an act of ultimate desperation for Raphael. Hopelessly alcoholic, illiterate (he spells his name three different ways throughout the course of the book), at not-yet 21 he has a wife and three kids—without “knowing” how he got there—and lives with a community of junk-pickers who live on the outskirts of a city dump. They are unwanted by the dump owners, by the city, by everyone, and exist in a state of poverty that most of us can’t even comprehend. Checks “from the state” stopped coming because the man who delivered them stopped coming, or at least that’s how they understand it.<br />
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Yet, despondent and terrified, Raphael feels astonishingly emboldened with his “contract” and $200 advance from McCarthy. He has knowledge no one on Earth has: he knows exactly how and when he will die. And with this in mind, he spends the money and the remainder of his three days on Earth, trying to make things better, and more peaceful, for his family and community. Depp’s adaptation takes the central premise of the novel and takes a slightly different path towards the end. While the book is brutally straightforward, the film has a surreal quality to it, and an almost ethereal pace (which many critics found “leaden”, and from many standpoints it’s difficult to disagree). Depp’s Raphael still lives in a dump with his family and the many transients that make up their “tribe”. It’s still unclear what “kind” of Indian he is—even his father, played by Floyd “Red Crow” Westerman (who once recorded an album titled “Custer Died for Your Sins”) isn’t quite sure. Unlike his father in the book he doesn’t get offended, however, when asked. </div>
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When not steadily framed on the plaintive Raphael watching the sun rise and fall, the camera constantly floats around the dump, focusing on the many odd details. The denizens of “Morgantown”, as they call the dump, appear more like survivors from an apocalypse. Grotesqueries abound. There’s a man walking around in a shredded tuxedo while pigs drink from baby pools. A father and son, Joe and Joe Jr. (Frederic Forrest and Max Perlich, seen at one point poking at the backend of a goat) have spent their lives drilling for oil. Like many other ancillary characters, Joe Jr. seems to have been plucked whole from Harmony Korine’s <i>Gummo. </i>There’s also the presence of Iggy Pop (who provided the score), so you know just how far this community has sunk.<br />
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Raphael’s wife, Rita, practically simple-minded and knowing no other life in the book, is worn to the bone in the film. She’s suspicious of the gifts Raphael brings and believes he’s returned to stealing, as are many of their neighbors. Morgantown’s sole big shot is a thief and a pimp named Luis (Luis Guzman, the one-stop shop actor when you need a vicious ethnic villain), who constantly blackmails Raphael, holding over his head some job they’d done in the past. And once Raphael is arrested and taken away, Rita will end up “working for him”. The invention of the Luis character, who is a strange composite of several novel characters ramped up for movie purposes, gives Raphael a sense of urgency. Luis is the danger that threatens his family’s chances of getting out of Morgantown once he’s paid for his services rendered.<br />
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The most glaring—and aggravating—change from novel to film has everything to do with Marlon Brando. Long having abandoned even the pretense of taking direction, Brando’s snuff producer McCarthy is a melancholy Baron Harkonnen here, wheelchair-bound and obese. He waxes philosophical about the upcoming film and is completely vague about what is to happen, or even what is happening at the moment. The McCarthy in the novel is an amoral but straightforward slug. “You look tough. You could stand an hour of pain, right? The more you can take, the better it’ll be. And you’ll be seen all over the world. You’ll be a movie star.”<br />
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Brando’s McCarthy weeps, is overcome by the beauty of what’s to come, and, in typical Brando style, is barely comprehensible during his meandering monologue. “What we have here is a little bit of shadow play,” he says, in between little blasts on a harmonica. “Maybe the more painful the death… it’s a sort of refinement. Pain is the completion of an equation. […] Childbirth is pain punctuated by joy. Watching a painful death can be a great inspiration to those who are not dying so that they can see how brave we can be when it’s time to go. It is the final measure of bravery to stand up to death in exquisite anguish.” Tears flow. “I’m sorry. But when death comes and pays us our final visit we can bid him welcome.”<br />
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In Depp’s hands—having rewritten the script with his brother, Don (billed as D.P. Depp) from Paul McCudden’s original adaptation—MacDonald’s very simple story, told from Raphael’s point of view but largely externalized and matter-of-fact—Raphael’s screen journey is turned inside. Depp is positively beautiful thanks to Vilko Filač and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eugene D. Shlugleit’s photography. The camerawork is languid and works well with the patient editing scheme provided by Pascale Buba [by way of trivia, Buba is the brother of Romero editor and my own editing mentor, Tony Buba] and Hervé Schneid. In a sequence invented for the screen, the camera remains on Rita and the children, watching television in their trailer, while Raphael can be heard crashing around outside. When he urges them to come out, they discover that he’s built a little amusement park outside with scavenged materials and Christmas lights. The camera goes into an unbroken 180-degree pan across the various rides and games he’s constructed, and Raphael appears beside or astride each one, without a single cut (which means Depp raced around the camera for each appearance) but it’s a delightful shot, rife with love—Raphael for his children and Depp and company for the medium and the story they’re telling.<br />
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To build on that love, <i>The Brave </i>had a long and torturous journey to the screen. Paul McCudden licensed and adapted the novel and began shopping it around in 1993, finding a pair of first-time producers Charles Evans, Jr. and Carroll Kemp, who had just founded Acappella Pictures. They were captivated by the script and put together a package to make the film with a friend, USC film school stock room manager Aziz Ghazal. So strong was the story that the two fledglings were able to attract the attention of Disney’s Touchstone Pictures, despite their negative track record and Ghazal’s position as first-time director.<br />
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Just before filming was to begin in December, 1993, Ghazal murdered his three-year-old daughter, his estranged wife and then killed himself. His body wasn’t found until a month later. First-time director Touchstone could work with. Multiple murderers are harder to spin.<br />
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Finally, after already investing half-million dollars themselves into the project, Evans and Kemp managed to get it in front of Johnny Depp. Depp’s star was on the rise thanks to the successes of <i>Edward Scissorhands </i>and <i>Don Juan DeMarco</i>, and there was positive buzz about his titular role in Tim Burton’s upcoming biopic, <i>Ed Wood</i>, so he had some pull and he was garnering cred at an alarming rate. Unimpressed with the script, Depp loved the central message, “I liked the idea of sacrifice for family. And I kept thinking of things I'd like to add.” (<a href="http://articles.latimes.com/1997-05-19/entertainment/ca-60345_1_johnny-depp">The Sad, Strange Journey of Johnny Depp's 'The Brave'</a>, LA Times, May 19, 1997 by Mark Saylor.<a href="http://articles.latimes.com/1997-05-19/entertainment/ca-60345_1_johnny-depp"></a>)<br />
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In addition to co-writing and directing, Depp also sank a reported $2 million of his own money into the picture. Seeking completion funds at the Cannes Film Festival, <i>The Brave </i>was met with the same polarized reactions that the festival is known for. Boos and accolades. European studios began a bidding war. U.S. studios just wanted to release “A Film By Johnny Depp” and every offer came with a proviso of steep changes. "I'm prepared to listen if there's a problem with length," Depp said, but rather than be forced to make changes, "I'll put it in a vault and let it sit." [ibid] In the end, <i>The Brave </i>played briefly overseas and Depp kept the U.S. rights to himself, basically refusing to allow it to be seen in his native land.<br />
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Because of the nature of humans and the subhuman nature of the press, this decision led to the urban legend that Depp had been “humiliated” at Cannes, that the reviews had been “overwhelmingly” negative and that he hid the film away out of shame. Which isn’t the case at all. </div>
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Yes, <i>The Brave </i>is slow. It’s multiple long shots of a wistful Depp/Raphael communicate a tendency towards vanity after a while, leaving quiet contemplation behind. It has some supremely bizarre moments and there are injections of <i>noir</i> that seem out of place, particularly those involving McCarthy’s right-hand man, Larry (played by “Hey, it’s that guy” <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marshall_Bell">Marshall Bell</a>), who keeps popping in on Raphael to make sure he returns to the cavernous warehouse studio “on time and as promised”. But so many of the quiet moments with Depp and Elpidia Carrillo, who plays Rita, intensified by the gorgeous photography, make <i>The Brave </i>a worthy journey. If nothing else, it will take you on your own internal meditation, however briefly—would <i>you </i>do what Raphael agrees to in order to ensure a better life for your family? Do you love anyone enough to die, horribly, for their future?<br />
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Call it an art film or a think piece or whatever you want, but give it a shot before you dismiss it as a Johnny Depp vanity project. Especially these days, in the wake of his off-the-rails portrayals of Willy Wonka and Barnabas Collins, <i>The Brave </i>is a much-needed reminder of how good an actor Johnny Depp can actually be when he doesn’t let caricature get in the way. And don’t fret that the film has never received an “official” U.S. DVD release. It’s one of the easiest bootlegs to come by, all reproduced from overseas import prints.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-60499019673872776712013-07-01T19:03:00.000-04:002013-07-01T19:04:35.016-04:00GOSPEL ACCORDING TO VIC (1986)<br />
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/f/f8/The_Gospel_According_to_Vic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/f/f8/The_Gospel_According_to_Vic.jpg" width="406" /></a></div>
Also known as <i>Heavenly Blessings</i>, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089221/"><b><i>Gospel According to Vic</i></b></a> tells a small story about a time-honored theme: that favorite teacher who succeeds simply by believing that his students are human beings, capable of learning if you find the right way to reach them. This teacher is usually at odds with the establishment—i.e. school administration—should be more than a little eccentric and more than enough inspiration to ralley his students at the end to go on to great things. Think of <i>Dead Poets Society</i>, <i>Take the Lead</i>, <i>Dangerous Minds, Stand and Deliver, The Substitute, Class of 1984...</i><br />
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Now forget those movies because <i>Gospel According to Vic </i>isn’t like any of those movies. It’s far more subtler in both theme and storytelling and, if I might be so bold as to say it, better for all of that. It also stars the tragically-underrated Tom Conti as well as a young Helen Mirren, and those two things can only bring harmony to the universe. </div>
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Beginning in the Vatican, a young priest named Father Cobb (ubiquitous you-know-him-when-you-see-him actor, Brian Pettifer) is petitioning for the canonization of the Blessed Edith Semple, for whom his Scottish parochial school is named. While a nice old woman, she’s considered illegitimate for sainthood because her only vague miracle was performed in WWI. ''One nice little miracle - and then off,'' says the Vatican Mouthpiece. Everyone knows you need to perform three miracles to be considered a saint. Besides, the church has been downplaying the whole “miracle” thing since <i>The Exorcist </i>and penicillin. Disappointed but nonetheless resolved, Father Cobb returns to the school and leads a prayer service in the Blessed Edith’s honor, including in his invocation little <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Alice McKenzie, who is crippled. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Now we meet Vic Mathews, the irreverant non-believer who teaches remedial kids and is locked in an ongoing fight to keep one of his students, Stevie Dean, from being shuffled off to a “special school” due to his learning disabilities and disinterest in participation. In fact, most of his students require a specific touch to respond—one child has trouble reading and must follow along to Vic’s recordings of texts (“Turn the page, Robbie. I said turn the page, Robbie,” instructs one particular recording.), another can barely write his name and there are more than a few with emotional problems to boot. But Vic keeps them all engaged and motivated. When the class goes off-topic, he goes with them. When asked which language is “the hardest” to learn, Vic uses a comparative technique and has the class blurting out the names of different languages, and when Stevie Dean only half-listening pipes up with “Harley Davidson”, Vic continues in this vein, prompting the class in the direction of vehicle manufacturers. And running out of answers himself, he allows Stevie to win.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">He’s also a champion of the childhood spirit. When, Ruth arrives, the new and very fetching music teacher, she catches a boy masturbating <i>in </i>her class. Vic is quick to defend the poor kid. “Look, there’s no problem,” Vic explains, and with a wink to Ruth. “I’ll just have a talk with him and instruct him to do it in private like the rest of us.”</span></div>
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“Do I look out of place?” he asks Ruth later, putting fingers up to his temples as horns. “Can you tell I’m a non-believer.” </div>
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One day after a visit to his sadistic dentist, Vic is waiting for a bus when he suddenly faints. The doctors send him home and once he’s gone, discuss among themselves the significance of the shadow on his x-ray crowning the top of skull. It won’t likely give him much time to live and since they’ve already sent him home, they decide there’s no point in telling him. That night, in an attempt to work his record player, he mumbles sarcastically to himself, “What we need here is a very minor miracle.” Suddenly, despite its not being plugged in, the player starts. </div>
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In the morning, he has a breakthrough with Stevie, teaching percentages by using the verbiage of off-track betting. Stevie grasps the idea of betting and returns in percentages immediately and, for once, not only participates but begins to explain the matter to the other students. However, Vic’s triumph is upstaged by the news that little Alice Mac has begun to walk again. In the evening, while trying to make friends with Ruth, he gets quite drunk, makes a series of inappropriate jokes about Alice’s mother setting up the whole miracle display, and manages to faint just before an offended “Wee Man in Pub” (as Jake D’Arcy is credited) socks him out. Ruth drives him home and, still giddy, he stomps on her gas pedal. They manage to make it all the way down the road without hitting a single red light. </div>
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“I feel I can help,” he tells her, referring to his students. “I feel I can help just by touching.”</div>
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Suddenly, the devout believer Ruth is in the curious position of trying to keep grounded the non-theist Vic. He’s discovering new ways to encourage his students to succeed every day and starts to believe that, perhaps, he is gifted. During a parent conference, Vic discovers that one of his boys is trapped on a high roof. Leaping from one roof to the other to save him, both the boy and Vic fall four stories and survive—the boy maintaining a few fractures and Vic lands with barely a scratch. Even better, his x-rays return minus the ominous shadow. Discussing this with Father Cobb who off-handedly calls the event a miracle, the doctor replies “Are you telling me that a man falls forty feet and only bangs himself up enough to cure his incurable cancer? Could set the whole of medical science back to the Dark Ages! You don’t need hospital, just miracles!”</div>
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Newspaper reports of “Miracle Teacher” set Vic’s teeth on edge and makes things worse for the school. The Headmaster quietly moves Stevie Dean to the special school of his and almost immediately removes another student from his charge for accidentally speaking to a reporter. Vic doesn’t care for this and doesn’t care for the extra attention he’s receiving from Father Cobb, going so far as to confront him during Holy Communion “I don’t want your prayers. You want to pray for someone, pray for the boy in the hospital. You’re not going to make a miracle man out of me!”<br />
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It would seem that Vic’s sudden survival is causing him a reverse crisis of faith. He’s invested so much in being an atheist that he doesn’t want to believe in miracles, but as a practical man he’s finding it difficult to shrug off everything as co-incidence. So begins his tightrope walk between glory and ego. “It wasn’t the Blessed Edith that got Steavie Deans off the hook,” he tells his union rep and friend, Jeff Jeffires. “It was me, and I’m no miracle man. I’m a teacher.”</div>
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The conclusions he, Ruth, the headmaster, Father Cobb, et al, come to are—atypical for the movies—far from Earth-shattering in any sense of the term. In this world of Scottish quiet eccentric desperation, acceptance is just as miraculous as surviving a fall, which is to say, not very—or, to look at it from another angle, <b><i>very</i></b>. Who is really to say what a miracle is or isn’t? The Vatican can’t be bothered, Father Cobb looks for anything because of his love for the school’s namesake, while Vic and Ruth want nothing to do with the blasted things. Proof of God, Ruth explains casually, is in the ordinary. </div>
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<i>Gospel According to Vic </i>leaves the viewer not with halleluiahs but with simple affirmation that good people exist, even if they are at odds with what your personal beliefs are. The Headmaster (Dave Anderson) doesn’t have Stevie removed out of animosity towards Stevie <i>or </i>Vic, just actual concern for the boy’s well-being, bureaucratic as it might seem. Vic’s disbelief is not at odds with Ruth’s faith, nor Cobb’s devout calling. More than anything, the characters in <i>Gospel According to Vic</i> do little to antagonize each other as they just want to get through the day seeing one or more of their insular group in a crisis. Tom Conti may raise his voice both in and out of class, but this is very much a quiet movie, with “little” things to say. And ultimately, it says a lot. But ike Stevie and Robbie and the others in Vic’s class, don’t expect to be given the answers.</div>
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It’s no coincidence that writer/director Charles Gormley’s movie brings to mind the gentle humanist quality of the comedies of fellow Scot Bill Forsyth. The latter gentleman behind such understated movies as <i>Gregory’s Girl </i>and <i>Local Hero </i>was and is a good friend to Gormley, and his staunch belief in human nature seems to have rubbed off on <i>Vic</i>’s director. Gormley’s every touch from script to screen has been light, guiding rather than nudging. No better proof of this can be found than in both Conti’s and Mirren’s performances. As Vic, Conti embodies the nice-guy-smart-ass teacher in the most likable way possible. And his Vic isn’t disdainful of those of faith, but is playful with the concepts. As he and Ruth get romantic on a desk in a newspaper morgue, Vic asks, “If there are saints watching us, do you think they’ll be able to see us okay with the lights off? Wouldn’t want to spoil their fun.”</div>
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Now for the inevitable tragedy of <i>Gospel According to Vic</i>: except for a stripped down Region 2 DVD, there’s been no home video release since its original VHS. It didn’t even play on HBO for long in the ‘80s, whereas <i>Gregory’s Girl </i>could be counted on to pop up every other month or so. And that should bring a tear to film lovers because you don’t come across a movie like this that often. At the risk of being precious, stumbling over a <i>Gospel According to Vic </i>can be a miracle in and of itself.</div>
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[By the way, the name “Blessed Edith Semple” led me on a snipe hunt to draw some parallel to famous radio evangelist and reported faith healer, Sister Aimee Semple, who I first heard mentioned in Jim Carroll’s song “Catholic Boy”, off the album of the same name. I’ve come to the conclusion, given the sparce details on “Blessed Edith” and the vast amount of information given Sister Aimee, that Gormley just liked the name.]<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-23038770433559729702013-07-01T18:51:00.000-04:002013-07-01T18:53:07.735-04:00BRITANNIA HOSPITAL (1982)<br />
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A running gag on Spike Milligan’s sketch shows involved a patient visiting a doctor’s office. The doctor would ask, “Will this be on the National Health or private insurance?”</div>
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Patient: “Oh, private insurance.”</div>
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Doctor: “Right.” Then he’d flip down the flag on a taxi meter and let it run. </div>
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Now Americans, of course, don’t have this option. If we were to say “National Health”, a conservative clown car would drive up and heave us right out of there. In Great Britain (and the majority of Europe, Asia, Japan, China, Russia, Canada and far-flung Greenland) the state takes charge of its citizens’ medical needs. If you can’t afford fancy “private insurance”, well the hospitals will care for your tired carcass regardless. It’s a working system, not however without its flaws, as with any system. The main difference between, say Great Britain and America, is that ol’ Blighty won’t let you die of the plague just because you’re penniless. If you die, it’ll be due to something else. Probably unrelated. </div>
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By Lindsay Anderson’s own admission: “<i><b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0083694/">Britannia Hospital </a></b></i>(as my picture is called) is the usual over-ambitious conception, satirical, ominous and absurd – designed to annoy practically everyone.” (LA/1/9/3/5/10, Lindsay Anderson writing to Pauline Melville, 31/07/1981, The Lindsay Anderson Collection, University of Stirling.) <span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(Unless indicated, all quotes taken from <a href="http://www.participations.org/Volume%206/Issue%202/special/mackenzie.htm">Participations, Journal of Audience & Reception Studies</a><b>, Walking the talk: reflections on Indigenous media audience research methods, </b>by Kathryn Mackenzie and Karl Magee, Stirling University, UK Volume 6, Issue 2 (November 2009</span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">). </span>If that designation was sincere, then in 1982 Anderson definitely succeeded. According to Brit critic David Robinson, “…no major British film can ever have suffered so calamitous a debut” (David Robinson, ‘Time to reconsider a masterly vision’, <i>The Times</i>, 15/10/1982.), and not because the movie was seen as an unsatisfactory wrap-up of the so-called “Mick Travis Trilogy” Anderson had begun when he cast Malcolm McDowell in <i>…If </i>and its ambitious follow-up (co-written by McDowell), <i>O Lucky Man</i>. </div>
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In the Autumn of 1982, the United Kingdom and its people were under considerable stress. Unempolyment was at a record high, unseen since the ‘30s, and to top that a large number of union worker strikes broke out throughout the island. Add to that the controversial war raging in the Falklands and increasing IRA-attributed terrorist strikes, the upper-lips of all England were wilting. Hardly the best timing for a movie satirizing the nation’s health system, the monarchy, unions, class warfare, rising media chicanery and even Hammer Horrors. As Mackenzie and Magee wrote in “Participations”, “In the light of this social context it is hard to overstate the effect that negative reviews, and articles in which the film was portrayed as being ‘unpatriotic’, would have on the cinema-going public.” If the movie-going population hadn’t already dropped to another all-time low since 1972, the number of outraged might have been even greater. Barely publicized by EMI, <i>Britannia Hospital </i>was met with spectacularly negative reviews. And (ironically, considering the film’s primary McGuffin) with his Holiness the Pope John Paul II arriving in London that very weekend, few were keen on checking out what was being advertised as a high brow entry of the <i>Carry On</i> series.</div>
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The film’s set-up requires the entirety of its first act, but its tone is set during the credits. An ambulance drives slowly through the wrought-iron gates of the hospital estate, winding up a driveway choked with striking workers (including Robbie Coltrane) and angry protestors. The outrage is almost evenly split along two grievances—one involving the admittance of African despotic President Ngami, guilty of war crimes against his own people who has turned his own separate suite at the hospital into a mini-village filled with bodyguards, multiple relatives and even farm animals; the second and no-less angry mob consists of Britain’s working class who demand that the hospital discharge the wealthier “private insurance” patients who receive special treatment for their generous pocketbooks. </div>
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Joining this latter protest are the hospital’s union workers and supporters. The short kitchen staff refuse to make the special breakfasts and other meals for the upper class sickies. There’s also a matter of workers who are meant to get the hallway painted in time for the arrival of a “very special visitor”, but the paints don’t match and they’re waiting on supplies, “You may not believe it, sir, but we take pride in our work!” one says over his latest cup of tea. </div>
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Fighting through the crowds, two disinterested ambulance workers haul a dying man out of the back on a gurney, bumping and jarring him through the emergency room doors. Only a handful of late-night staff are present and none of them acknowledge the new arrival. It’s time for the drivers’ tea break and the head nurse is officially off duty. As they edge their way between the admit desk and the gurney, the neglected patient takes a final breath and dies, his arm dangling limp over the side. Two orderlies return to their card game. </div>
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Come the morning shift and things are no better. Mr. Biles (<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Brian Pettifer)</span>, Assistant to the <span id="goog_426260311"></span><span id="goog_426260312"></span>Administrator, and Mr. Potter (<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Leonard Rossiter<b>)</b></span>, Administrator, have to constantly negotiate to get anything done. Like the corpse on the gurney, for instance, blocking traffic. He gets back nothing but cheek. “Don’t you call us men. We’re staff.” To keep from running to the union, they’ll settle for double time, eggs, toast and sausage. Meanwhile, there’s the usual rigamarole in the kitchens. Union rep Ben Keating (<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robin Askwith</span>) insists on the rights of the staff and of the public patients. “It’s the same for everyone, or nothing at all!” This, of course, angers the Private patients who are outraged at the treatment. “For the amount you charge, matron, we expect more than a British rails box lunch.” And cite their years of service. “I drove a bus for 15 years to pay for this operation!”</div>
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To add to everyone’s pressures, “Her Royal Majesty (aka “HRM”) will be visiting in celebration of <sup>th</sup> Anniversary of the establishment of Britannia Hospital since its opening under Elizabeth I. Queen will be touring the facilitiesand the archways are still a shambles. Potter protests and a worker responds, “An insult to me is an insult to every unskilled worker in this hospital. Think upon that.” Within the hour, Potter is dogged by the ministers of etiquette, Sir Antony Mount (little person actor Marcus Powell) and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the Lady Felicity (John Bett in drag). Scotland Yard will have snipers on the grounds. Patients have been selected for presentation. “Nothing too gruesome, I hope,” twitters Lady Felicity.<br />
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the hospital’s 500</div>
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This very day also marks the grand opening of the Millar Centre for Advanced Surgical Science, named for its founder, a master of “experimental surgical Darwinism”, the sinister Dr. Millar (Graham Crowden, whom fans will recognize as the same sinister doctor who gave patients sheep legs in <i>O Lucky Man</i>). He eludes to his newest, greatest experiment, “Genesis”, and after greeting Dr. MacMillan (Jill Bennett) with a passionate but quite British kiss, they exchange a bit of dialogue regarding a new patient:</div>
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Millar: “How’s McReady doing?”</div>
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MacMillan: “Splendid, we’re expecting death within the hour.”</div>
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Millar: “I have high hopes for McReady.”</div>
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Unfortunately, McReady (a non-speaking cameo by Alan Bates) continues to linger. Taking advantage of the elsewhere chaos, Millar chooses to gently remove the patient from life support and sever his head with a laser saw. Also unfortunately, this act has been witnessed by TV journalist Mick Travis (McDowell), who has bribed a union window-washer to sneak him down the side of the building so he can spy with his state-of-the-art mini-camera. “Citizen of the world, that’s me. I started in coffee.” Mick’s inside man, such as she is, is Nurse Amanda Purcil (Marsha Hunt), who helps smuggle Mick into the Centre, has a go at him in a supply closet, then preps him for disguise as a doctor. Before long, they come to Dr. Millar’s personal storage room, containing banks of window freezers containing harvested body parts. Mick manages to move a torso from one freezer and hide there just in time to hear MacMillan report to Millar: “There’s a small problem with the left buttock. It will need to be replaced.”</div>
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Down on the street in the midst of a growing riot, Travis’ cameramen Red (Mark Hamill) and Sam (Frank Grimes), are far more interested in the medicinal offerings of the various countries they’ve visited and decide to try them all out at once, their backs to Mick’s camera feed. </div>
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Having already insulted the ministers of etiquette and embarrassed administration—sez Sir Geoffrey: “You’re not a doctor, you’re a vampire. To you Patients aren’t suffering beings to cure, but raw material for your egomania.”—Millar has little interest in the Important Visit save for how it will affect his own presentation of “Man Remade”. His own documentary film crew is documenting his opening. To the cameras, Millar purees a brain to demonstrate the possibility of harnessing the full potential of 10 billion neurons. And then invites the director to take a swig.<br />
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Quickly—or, maybe, <i>quicklier</i>—negotiations, manipulations, protests and preparations have all whipped up quite a head of steam, with Potter and Biles bribing union heads with seats at the Royal Luncheon if they’ll co-operate outside of their own best interests, which turns out to be a rather simple solution to a complex problem. They also have to contend with the increasingly radical Anti-Ngami factions who threaten the safety of HRM and the Luncheon. Meanwhile, Travis is found out by Millar and his staff, but happens to possess a number of…items that Millar can utilize in his experiment. After much skullduggery, HRM arrives but so, at that very moment, to the riot police lose control of the protestors. For Dr. Millar, this all means a much larger—and captive—audience to witness his perfection, his “Genesis”.<br />
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There’s a lot of running around in <i>Britannia Hospital</i> and it is a bit of a satire smoothy—heavier-handed social commentary than <i>If…</i> and more slapstick than <i>O Lucky Man</i>, yet, somehow more accessible than either of Anderson’s previous entries. It doesn’t have a patience-trying running time, nor the cultural disparity of boarding school life to keep the audience at arm’s length. Many viewers have expressed disappointment that Travis is not the central character this time around and it is true that he tends to get lost in the chaos (until the wonderful set piece which I insist was inspired by Gordon Hessler’s <i>Scream and Scream Again</i>). There’s a lot to take in, a lot of characters to keep track of and a lot of rules to be acknowledged before they’re discarded. This isn’t the anarchy of <i>Monty Python</i>, but rather something akin to the daily cruelty of <i>The Ruling Class</i>. And despite the incomprehensibility of some of the Northern accents, <i>Britannia Hospital </i>manages to speak to cultures outside of Great Britain—really anywhere that contains a broken system of bureaucracy, government and public welfare.<br />
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“When it came to promoting <i>Britannia Hospital</i> outside the UK, Anderson was keen to stress that it was not a parochial work. In interviews and correspondence he repeatedly stresses that the themes of Britannia Hospital are universal and have relevance to all societies, not just Britain. This point was picked up by Alexander Walker (one of the few British critics who supported the film) in an article about its screening at the Cannes Film Festival in the Evening Standard in May 1982: ‘Its British setting in a London hospital, Anderson’s metaphor for a sick Britain suffering a nervous breakdown, hasn’t stopped practically every nationality present at Cannes from recognising and applying the truth of its savage comedy to the conditions of their own ailing countries’.”<br />
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With all the hooraw surrounding the derogatorily-named “Obamacare” and constant hysteria in the US, perhaps <i>Britannia Hospital </i>was ahead of its time and would be more warmly-welecomed now. In 1982, however, United Artists had less idea how to promote it than EMI in the UK. It had been ten years since the US release of <i>O Lucky Man</i>, and while it was met favorably by critics, it didn’t do tremendously well with American audiences. A superstar in Britain, Lindsay Anderson was far from a household name in the Colonies. UA’s trailers for the film were cut to make it appear a “zany” Python-esque romp, focusing on familiar faces like McDowell and <i>Star Wars</i>’<i> </i>Hamill, who actually had a much smaller presence in the film than Malcolm. Anderson was “ashamed” of the strategies in his native land and was appalled by the obscene attempts at “blockbusterizing” <i>Britannia Hospital </i>abroad.<br />
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“I am quite ashamed to find that the general English-speaking hostility towards<i> BH </i>and the film’s dismissal by prejudice and resentment masquerading as criticism have disturbed me more deeply than is healthy. Not caused me to doubt the work, exactly, but made me aware of the near impossibility of getting across a point of view, values of reason and morality so alien to the spirit of our times. It is not so much the strength of the opposition that has discouraged me, as the lack of support, the indifference of the ‘uncommitted’ majority, and their willingness to be led by the enemy behind the typewriter … I have very little confidence that the film will do well. I don’t know whether it <i>could</i> have, given the benefit of a brilliantly intelligent campaign. But that is pure fantasy anyway.”<br />
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<i>Britannia Hospital </i>basically came and went. The US critics reviews were kinder to Anderson, perhaps due to Anglophilia towards the director, but it never found the correct audience. While it’s returned to the spotlight in recent years, thanks to McDowell’s praise of it in interviews and, particularly, on his one-man show about Anderson titled <i>Never Apologize</i>, <i>Britannia Hospital </i>remains, as Mackenzi and Magee observe, “perhaps the most unfairly neglected of his films.” Its lack of acceptance led to Anderson temporarily retiring from film, returning only to direct <i>The Whales of August </i>in 1987.<br />
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It is absolutely true that, in terms of it being a “Mick Travis” film, <i>Britannia Hospital </i>does not measure up to what came before. On its own, however, the movie is solid and often extremely funny. It also manages to be shocking even in this modern age of torture porn and endless war. Not only in terms of the Hammer-esque <i>grand guignol</i> climax of Millar’s “Man Remade” operation, but also in terms of corporate neglect, worker apathy, and the appaling conditions both staff and paitents face in modern hospitals (take, for example, the hospital’s Rudyard Kipling Wing, the most expensive, up-to-date, state-of-the-art, CCTV-covered ward, capable of housing 75 patients in complete comfort, but lays unused at the moment due to lack of cleaning staff). It’s also an example of how class warfare is alive and well in the 21<sup>st</sup> Century, even in the so-called “all men created equal” realm of the United States. As one placard in the crowd reads, “Priviledge is a crime!” Answering that, as the riot breaks free of the barracades and literally chases the Royal Family into Millar’s wing, Chief Inspector Johns declares that there’s only one thing left to do.<br />
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To which, Potter replies: Potter: “Cut the Luncheon!”<br />
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Without giving away the surprise (or, perhaps, lack-thereof) of what Millar’s “Genesis” is revealed to be, I’ll leave you with his final speech. What might have seemed heavy-handed in the ‘80s seems much more relevant today:<br />
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“Friends! Fellow Members of the Human Race! We are gathered here for a purpose. Let us look together at Mankind. What do we see? We see Mastery. What wonders Mankind can perform. He can cross the oceans and continents today, as easily as our grandfathers crossed the street. Tomorrow he will as easily cross the vast territories of space. He can make deserts fertile and plant cabbages on the Moon. And what does man choose? Alone among the creatures of this world, the Human Race chooses to annihilate itself. Since the last world conflict ended, there has not been one day in which Human Beings have not been slaughtering or wounding one another, in two-hundred and thirty different wars. And man breeds as recklessly as he lays waste. By the end of the century, the population of the world will have tripled. Two-thirds of our plant species will have been destroyed. 55% of the Animal Kingdom. And 70% of our mineral resources. Out of every hundred Human Beings now living, 80 will die without ever knowing what it feels like to be fully nourished... While a tiny minority indulge themselves in absurd and extravagant luxuries. A motion picture entertainer of North America will receive as much money in a month as would feed a starving South American tribe for a hundred years! We waste! We destroy! And, we cling like savages to our superstitions. We give power to leaders of State and Church as prejudiced and small-minded as ourselves, who squander our resources on instruments of destruction... While millions continue to suffer and go hungry, condemned forever to lives of ignorance and deprivation. And why is this? It is because mankind has denied Intelligence, the unique glory of our species - the Human Brain. Man is entering an era of infinite possibility, still imprisoned in a feeble, inefficient body... Still manacled by primitive notions of morality, which have no place in an Age of Science... Still powered by a brain that has hardly developed since the species emerged from the caves. Only a new intelligence can save Mankind! Only a new Human Being of pure brain can lead man forward into the new era. I do not speak of dreams. Such a being exists already. I have created it! It is here. Now. Prepare yourselves to meet the Human of the Future. Neither Man nor Woman. Greater than either. I have given it a name. Genesis. Birth. A New Birth. A New Beginning for Mankind. People of Today, Behold Your Future!”<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-11694621221259603572013-06-19T18:42:00.001-04:002013-06-19T18:42:35.829-04:00I BOUGHT A VAMPIRE MOTORCYCLE (1990)<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.ukmovieposters.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/I-BOUGHT-A-VAMPIRE-MOTORCYCLE-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://www.ukmovieposters.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/I-BOUGHT-A-VAMPIRE-MOTORCYCLE-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Image stolen from <a href="http://www.ukmovieposters.co.uk/ukpostertax/sci-fi-and-horror-uk-quad-posters/">UK Movie Posters</a></span> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">No film addict can survive on a steady diet of the same. You can watch Turner Classic Movies all day long but after such a marathon, you start to hunger for something different. Dare I say even something “worse”. “Worse”, of course, is subjective, so let’s say instead “ridiculous”. After a week of viewing heady and/or heavy movies, movies that made me think and feel, I was in dire need of the ridiculous. You can’t ask for more ridiculous than what is offered by the gory horror-spoof <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097550/"><b><i>I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle</i>. </b></a></span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Director Dirk Campbell, very soon a maestro of children’s television programming, got hold of a script by Mycal Miller and John Wolskel (the latter a frequent writer of English-version anime like <i>Appleseed</i>), rang up half the cast (and sets and even the composer) of the BBC series <i>Boon </i>(including title character Michael Elphick, Neil Morrissey (future voice of <i>Bob the Builder</i>), Amanda Noar (aka Mrs. Morrissey, at the time, anyway), and C:3PO himself, Anthony Daniels. They gathered together and said, to borrow a quote from Daniels’ Priest character, “Right. Let's go kick some bottom!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">I would say that the film’s beginning—taking place in an old churchyard while a biker in a red hood that just screams “Satanist!” is obviously up to no good—with a turf war between two bike clubs, the unnamed Satanists and the vicious rabble “The Road Toads”, occurs for no good reason, but really, reason went out the window with the title. (In fact <i>little </i>happens in this film for any reason, so let’s just suspend that expectation altogether, shall we?) What happens is that The Road Toads lay brutal waste to the rival gang using crossbows and jump cuts. The hooded Satanist most near the center of the frame is cut down in the prime of his incantation, and the little animated Pokemon demon summoned has to quickly find a host. Its new home is the biker’s own abused Norton 850 Commando—as good as any in a pinch and, we’re told, a “quite reliable” vehicle. In a lovely scene, the dying biker-Satanist-guy slashes his throat and bleeds into the tank. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">We then meet lovable slacker rascal Nick Oddy (Morrissey)—aka “Noddy”—who purchases the bike for £1100, tells his girlfriend Kim (Noar) he only spent £600, then calls his buddy Buzzer (Daniel Peacock) to take a butcher’s at it to see what it’ll need to make it go. As a gag, Buzzer steals the bike’s gas cap. The next day, he’s found strewn about his apartment (“That’s Buzzy. I’d know his head anywhere.”) but at least the bike runs perfectly now, so long as you don’t try to take it into the sunlight. Inspector Cleaver comes ‘round to make inquiries about who would have it in enough for Buzzer to dismantle him in such a way, but Noddy honestly can’t say. Partly because he doesn’t know and partly because Cleaver’s garlic breath has him momentarily stupified. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">While out for a jag, Noddy informally meets The Road Toads and the bike bucks beneath him, running several of them, including their leader, Roach (Andrew Powell, <i>Joshua Then and Now</i> [review coming soon]), the crossbow-wielding mad lad-cum-teddy boy what done in the Satanist biker in the first place. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Later, they have a proper funeral for Buzzer, his coffin stuffed upright in some geezer’s sidecar. No hearse for Buzzer, “He wouldn’t be caught dead in one’a them things.” Noddy and Kim stop off for a pint and in walk Roach and his Road Toads. After a protracted brawl involving the entire pub, most of the crockery and several of the mock battle weapons decorating the walls, Noddy and Kim manage to escape on the bike. Still peckish, they swing by Fu King (ordering from none-other than Inspector Clousseu’s Cato (Burt Kwouk) for some Chinese, but the minute Kim suggests “garlic prawns” the bike takes off with her still on it. Around a corner, it tosses her off and seems about to front wheel her head off when the cross around her neck gleams and makes it back off. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Noddy finds Kim but the bike has gone out into the night to exact revenge on the rest of the Road Toads. First spikes grow out of its tank in punk porcupine fashion, used as both methods of impalation and projectile, then its cracked headlamp develops a chomping action rarely seen in motorcycles of that model. That’s not even to mention its <i>Ben-Hur-</i>styled arrowhead wheel protrusions. Only Roach escapes, albeit with a tie-rod lodged deep in his… er, tailpipe, as it were. Its bloodlust unsated, the motorcycle has a go at a woman Jack the Ripper-style in an alley. Then, just for fun, it eats a parking maid. This bit of greed gives it away. Unable to eat the whole woman, it returns to Noddy’s dark shed and that’s where its owner finds it, sleeping and with a support-hosed leg in its headlamp. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Understanding little of anything is a natural state for Noddy, so he goes off in search of a Vicar. Unfortunately, he has to make do with a Priest. </span><br />
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<a href="http://www.flatpackfestival.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/vampire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://www.flatpackfestival.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/vampire.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Image stolen from <a href="http://www.flatpackfestival.org.uk/">Flat Pack Film Festival</a></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Noddy: “I don’t want to confess. It’s about my motorcycle.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">Priest: “Are you sure it isn’t a garage you want?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Noddy: “My motorcycle has turned into a vampire!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Priest: “Pull the other one.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Soon the Priest understands what he’s up against when, whist attempting to haul the beast out into the sunlight, the clutch handle snaps his hand and severs his fingers. Now the problem arises: unless the Priest knows what demon he’s dealing with, any exorcism performed could just make things infinitely worse. And infinitely worse is what happens. The vampire motorcycle goes on an unprescendented maraude of slaughter and vehicular homicide, eventually trapping Noddy, Kim, the Priest and garlic-breathed Cleaver inside a gym for the chronically steroidal. And dawn is a long way off. Will Birmingham ever again be safe for the god-fearing members of the C. of E.? Or, okay, fine, the Catholics as well? </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times-Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Times-Roman;">And anyone involved in this project should be proud. The script is knowing and self deprecating, plus it doesn’t mind making Morrissey, the movie’s hero, out to be a lazy male-chauvinist pig. The British predilection with toilet humour is here in full force (the ‘talking turd’ sequence [<i>a nightmare scene in which Buzzy embodies Noddy’s bowel movement</i>] being a particularly disgusting highlight, especially when it jumps into Noddy’s mouth) as is our obsession with having nice cups of tea to solve everything. The music is also suitably ridiculous, ranging an incidental score that sounds like it was lifted from a <i>Carry On </i>movie (yes, they borrowed the composer from <i>Boon</i>, would you believe) to pumping rock tracks, one of which is called “She Runs On Blood... She Don't Run On Gasoline” (which is included in it’s separate entirety as a special feature on the DVD). But the biggest gem in this pot of treasure is seeing Anthony Daniels – Mr C-3PO himself – as a camp gung-ho biker exorcist, complete with razor-sharp throwing-crosses.” (<a href="http://www.eatmybrains.com/showreview.php?id=127">Eatmybrains.com</a>)<a href="http://www.eatmybrains.com/showreview.php?id=127"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Times-Roman; mso-bidi-font-family: Times-Roman; mso-hansi-font-family: Times-Roman;"></span></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times-Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Times-Roman;">So, well… does this not summon to mind the word aforementioned: “ridiculous”? <i>I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle </i>is a gleefully gory horror-spoof-slash-homage. Never once does it take itself seriously because, well and again, it’s bloody title is “<i>I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle</i>”. If it were “<i>Tea and Chips with the Missus</i>”, that’d make it something else entirely. Everyone is on board here too, ‘all in’ as ‘they say’. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times-Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Times-Roman;">Truth be told, this was was a blind rental from our late-lamented local store, Incredibly Strange Video, sold by both the title and the prospect of watching His Lord and Lady Anthony Daniels perform sans gold outerwear. While not quite as hysterical as <i>Braindead </i>/ <i>Dead*Alive</i>’s Father Jon McGruder (Stuart Devenie) (“I kick arse for the Lord!”), Daniels is highly entertaining and even kicks the film’s absurdity up another notch.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times-Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Times-Roman;">Speaking of the just-mentioned Peter Jackson cult favorite, there are numerous “touches” both movies share. Aside from the Priests and the anarchy, both possess comic relief bikers and a breakneck pace. Since they were released within a few years of each other (1990 for <i>Motorcycle </i>and 1993 for pre-<i>LOTR</i> Jackson), though from different areas of the English-speaking world, it wouldn’t be hard to imagine that both Jackson and Campbell hit on the same horror-spoof zeitgeist that drives both films. The biggest difference would be zombies vs. vampiric vehicles and a budget of $3 million versus whatever change was found inside the cushions in the <i>Boon </i>communal couch. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times-Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Times-Roman;">When you’re in need of ridiculous look no further. If ‘ridiculous is as ridiculous does’, then <i>I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle </i>does nicely. </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-10360630844213966542013-06-14T18:14:00.000-04:002013-06-14T18:18:39.005-04:00POSSESSION (1981)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://fantasticvoyages.files.wordpress.com/2010/03/possession1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://fantasticvoyages.files.wordpress.com/2010/03/possession1.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN">Andrzej Żuławski wrote <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0082933/"><b><i>Possession</i></b></a>, his only English-language film, in the midst of a soul-murdering divorce from his first wife (and star of his first film, <i>Third Part of the Night</i>), actress Malgorzata Braunek. Just prior, he’d spent a handful of years adapting a movie he’d hoped would become his masterpiece, <i>On the Silver Globe</i>, based on a series of novels by his turn-of-the-century Polish writer grand-uncle, Jerzy Żuławski. Just as it was nearing completion, Poland underwent a series of political upheavals. The newly-appointed vice-minister of cultural affairs, Janusz Wilhelmi, saw Żuławski’s science fiction story as being too allegorical to the Polish and their seemingly endless battle with Communism—which infected their country <i>immediately </i>upon the defeat of the genocidal Nazis in WWII. The film, props and costumes of <i>On the Silver Globe </i>were confiscated and believed destroyed. Żuławski was exiled from Poland. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“[S]ocieties are very ugly, basically. And a filmmaker who flatters the society in which he lives for me is a skunk. Almost everyday in the Polish radio, TV and newspapers it slowly, slowly emerges that everyday in the countryside they murdered the Jews, because they were free to do so. And so there are very few clean spots, even as they are kept, of course, magnificently clean. But it is mostly the intelligentsia which preserves this <i>consciousness</i> and moral attitudes.” (“</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="http://mubi.com/notebook/posts/beginnings-are-useless-a-conversation-with-andrzej-zulawski">Beginnings Are Useless: A Conversation with Andrzej Żuławski</a>”--Written by The Ferroni Brigade, Published on 12 March 2012)</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">He returned to his second-home of France in utter emotional turmoil. The venom he felt inside towards Polish politicos, history, filmmaking and women came spilling out of him in the form of a screenplay about the apocalyptic dissolution of a marriage, externalization of unhappiness, basically every cruelty two former lovers can commit on each other. It is also a film about hideous transformations and bloodlust that can come about from internalized rage-fueled need to remake one’s world for satisfaction. A film that Żuławski would attempt to pitch to Paramount head Charles Bluhdorn as, “a film about a woman who fucks an octopus.” </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Having waded through the excess and excretion of <i>Possession </i>for two days now and reading as much about it in an attempt to understand it more fully, I’ve come to the conclusion that no one has ever seen the film in the exact same way, nor have they ever seen the film in the same way twice. For all the hysteria, convulsion and viscera, <i>Possession </i>is the visual representation of “mercurial”, slipping and changing from you as you watch. A viewer is a different person at the end of a screening and, therefore by the act of observation, the film has become a different thing as well. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Husband Mark (Sam Neill, fresh off of <i>The Final Conflict: Omen III</i>, which he won "thanks" to his mentor James Mason) has just returned from some sort of vague business trip and Wife Anna (</span><span lang="EN">Isabelle Adjani) meets him outside their West German apartment complex with the posture of a coiled cobra. The divide between them is already present, and Mark isn’t sure if he should pick up his luggage or leave it on the sidewalk. Finally, he must pursue her into their home, juggling bags as he goes. They have a son, Bob, who enjoys scuba dives in the bathtub. Bob greets Mark warmly, happy to see his father, and in the presence of their son, husband and wife are smiling, doting parents. Later, in bed, the couple try to reconcile their emotional distance. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“Maybe all couples go through this,” Anna suggests, without a hint of belief in her words. “Were you unfaithful to me?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“Truthfully, not really,” is Mark’s cryptic reply. “Without you I wouldn’t feel anything at all.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Anna: “And what do you feel?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Mark: “Are you honestly interested?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Anna shakes her head, “No.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">The next morning he resigns his position with his firm, giving a suggestion for his successor. He will no longer report on the comings and goings of “their subject” who wears pink socks. When pressed for a reason for his leaving, he answers “Family.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">But as far as Anna is concerned, there is no family any longer. She stays away from them for days at a time. Going through her things, Mark finds a postcard of the Taj Mahal from a man he believes to be her lover. It’s inscribed in block lettering: “I’ve seen half of Gods’s face here. The other half is you… Heinrich.” Back-and-forth follows—Mark destroys a café and must be tackled by several workers before he hurts Anna; Anna leaves, returns to see Bob, leaves again. Mark checks into a hotel for three weeks and undergoes what can only be described as “withdrawl”, foaming at the mouth and rocking. When he returns to their shared apartment, he finds Bob sitting in filth, his face smeared with whatever he’s found to eat. Mommy has been gone “a long time”. When she finally does come back, Mark tells her that he’s taking over and she’s to leave. But she never leaves for good, never long enough for either of them to heal. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">During their separation, Mark obsesses over Anna. She never did find the ability to explain to him what went wrong, where he was inadequate. Truthfully, she’s unable to speak coherently to him; whatever breakdown she’s suffering affects her concentration and articulation. While he is gripped with psychotic rage and desperation, she is gripped by desperation of a different kind, as well as an engulfing sense of shame, regret and even schizophrenia.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Confronting Heinrich for himself, Mark finds a middle-aged poseur-philosopher-playboy who swans about and invades Mark’s space, touching him too much and too intimately, yet still manages to beat the husband to a pulp. And the truth is that Heinrich hasn’t seen Anna either. Not for some time, and he’d like to know where she is as well. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Humiliated as much as a man can be, Mark concentrates on Bob, trying to be a good father while constantly teetering on the brink of madness. (Indeed, there are sequences of him in a rocking chair, violently swaying too far back, too far forward, and there is certainly an abyss yawning at his feet.) Meeting Bob’s teacher, Helen, he’s shocked at the resemblance to Anna, convinced his wife is wearing a wig and colored contacts to turn her eyes such magnificent, alien green. Helen is everything that Anna is not: clad in whites and creams as opposed to Anna’s dark blues and blacks; she laughs and the laughter reaches her eyes. She dotes on Bob. For a desperate moment, Mark thinks that she might even be a replacement for Anna, but Bob’s inconsolable nightmare leaves him begging for his real “mommy”, and will not take Helen as a substitute.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Where Mark has desperation, Anna has her mad secrets. In a sharp narrative left-turn, it’s revealed that she’s taken up residence in an unfurnished and decrepit apartment and has been joined by something bloody, fleshy and pulsing in the corner of the bathroom. Confronted by a detective Mark has hired to find her, her reticence in his presence turns to lunatic laughter and finally bloody murder as she slashes his throat with a broken wine bottle. When this man’s partner—and lover—Zimmerman, turns up looking for him, he too becomes something for the mutating creature to consume. Before murdering him as well she indicates the monster to Zimmerman and says, flatly, “He’s very tired. He made love to me all night.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Breaking points actually come and go from here on out. Still shutting Mark out of her love, she stops his questions by holding an electric carving knife to her neck. After he tenderly sees to his wounds, she rejects him again and he too has a go with the knife, carving furrows into his arm. “It doesn’t hurt.” Anna says. He shakes his head, agreeing. And we know this is all going to come to a horrific conclusion. “Horrific” in the full sense of the word and not because of some phallic creature bloodying up Anna’s sheets. These two people are going to tear each other into atoms and take out everyone around them—Heinrich, Anna’s friend (and Mark’s convenient baby sitter and lover (or “loather” perhaps) Margit, Helen, Bob, Heinrich’s elderly mother—no one here is going to get out alive, no matter what your definition of “alive” might be. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">I believe I could describe <i>Possession </i>scene-by-scene in great detail, down to the last shot, and still not give anything away. Looking over my notes, sequences written down don’t correspond with the way I’m remembering them. What is foremost in my mind is the final shot of the film—not to overuse the word, but it is truly <i>apocalyptic</i>, bathed in white light, with the din of war planes dominating the soundtrack; and the final shot of little Bob running from Helen, screaming “don’t open it”, don’t reveal that figure caressing the frosted glass of the front door, hurling himself face down into the tub but refusing to come up for air. Or the scene of Anna and Mark, his past having come out of nowhere to finally destroy them, their faces drenched with blood, kissing and, seemingly, trying to devour the mouth of the other. When the credits rolled, I felt like I’d witnessed something I shouldn’t have, and I’m not speaking hyperbolicly. But I’m not sure if it was the intimate and personal mutual destruction that still makes me uneasy, or if it was—finally, for someone who once-devoured “extreme cinema”—something that may have very well been the definition of taboo. Forbidden.</span><br />
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<b><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">TFB: </span></b><span lang="EN">We think it is one of the ideas that contributes to making your work so personal that you have no other choice but taking it personal. Which may be another reason they don't fit this concept of categorization: Putting things into categories helps to maintain a distance, to keep the art at arm's length.</span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ŻUŁAWSKI:</span></b><span lang="EN"> Distance...well, that is a question which could be debated for hours. I am also a member of the audience, and since I was educated in a certain way I can see so many different kinds of films and like them equally. I don't want to be pretentious and say: That's the only way—my way! And please hate the others, but not my film! That would be absolutely monstrous and I am too aware of the fact that cinema is like a tree. On a tree, of course, you have different branches, but we're all sitting on the same tree. Now it's electronic, but yesterday it was still chemical and theatrical. You have to humble and accept that we all are on that tree. But at the same time I am not humble because I do what I please. And I do this only because I think I am absolutely the same guy as any other guy in the cinema. I am not different.</span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">TFB: </span></b><span lang="EN">That is the democratic idea: that everybody is the same in the audience.</span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ŻUŁAWSKI:</span></b><span lang="EN"> Yes. But sometimes the audience elects Hitler and sometimes they applaud Stalin.</span><br />
<span lang="EN">(<a href="http://mubi.com/notebook/posts/beginnings-are-useless-a-conversation-with-andrzej-zulawski">The Ferroni Brigade</a>) </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">As said, </span><b><span lang="EN" style="font-weight: normal;">Żuławski</span></b><span lang="EN"> was not in the healthiest frame of mind when he conceived of <i>Possession</i>. Nor, apparently, was he any better during production. The performances of both Adjani and Neill are off-putting from the very beginning. One reviewer wrote that the movie “starts with hysteria and ramps up from there” and that’s very true. Both actors emote like caricatures from the silent era, eyes and tongues lolling, hands grasping at their throats or clawing through the air. For the first half of the film they scream relentlessly at each other, becoming incoherent with their inability to communicate. When the two alpha males meet for the first time, Mark and Heinrich almost literally dance a waltz around each other in the narrow hallway. Even Heinrich’s beating of Mark has a balletic, stylized quality, half Baryshnikov and half Maxwell Smart (he karate-chops a lot). </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">But where Mark is all Noh Theater, Adjani is given the unenviable task of creating a person out of the beautiful, treacherous china doll Anna. She is all wild eyes, wide eyes, silently mouthing answers and delivering gibbering, nearly nonsensical dialogue while trying to explain herself. In one heart-rending scene, she stands beneath a crucified Christ statue and whimpers, pleads, begs for answers without saying a single word, pleading like a child or a wounded animal for some comfort. Minutes later she walks in an oblivious daze, immune to the world. While on a bus a wino reaches into her groceries and nicks a banana from her bunch, replacing the rest, and she never even looks up. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">In the film’s most central set piece, after Mark receives a film shot by Heinrich of Anna teaching ballet—and literally torturing a young ballerina, holding her extended leg in the air and grasping her head back—Anna reveals a moment she experienced within a German subway tunnel. At first stunned and sleepwalking, she bursts into uncontrollable laughter, slamming herself and her satchel of milk against the wall, covering everything in filmy white. Within seconds she is gyrating in the air, seemingly and alternately raped or pleasured by something invisible, her limbs and head lolling like a drunken marionette, hips thrusting and throat choking. Finally she collapses to her knees as blood, and a variety of other-colored liquids, pour out of her, forming a pool between her legs. “I had two sisters fighting inside of me,” she tells Mark. “Sister Faith and Sister Chance, with their fingers clawed around each other’s necks. What I miscarried that day was Sister Faith. All I had left was Sister Chance and I had to take care of her.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Unlike the other scenes of rampant emoting, the tunnel miscarriage, a five-minute, near-unbroken shot, never takes on a ludicrous edge. We are party to a lone woman’s nervous breakdown. (Indeed, both Mark and Anna are virtually alone throughout the movie. There are only a handful of extras who share the frame with them during the infrequent exterior street scenes.) “Possession is at once a dread-inducing ordeal, a bloody arabesque, and a swooning celebration of Adjani’s long, cloaked form in perpetual motion. The convulsive action reaches its peak, if not its dramatic climax, in the near-real-time scene in which, famously directed to “fuck the air,” contortionist Adjani bounces off the walls of an underground passage, hemorrhaging bloody goo from every orifice.” (J. Hoberman, The Village Voice)</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">According to Ben Sachs (<a href="http://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/andrzej-zulawskis-possession-at-gene-siskel-film-center/Content?oid=6379947">Andrzej Zulawski's <i>Possession</i>, uncut</a>)<b>, </b>“<i>Possession </i>is an extraordinary document of actors pushed to their breaking point: it's frightening partly because Neill and Adjani look as if they're really losing their minds. Before shooting began, </span><span lang="EN"><span lang="EN">Żuławski </span>spent several days working them into a trance-like state that allowed them to express freely their most primal emotions. This method was inspired by Polish theater director Jerzy Grotowski (a major influence on </span><span lang="EN"><span lang="EN">Żuławski </span>), who viewed performing as a "total act" and felt that actors should exploit the intimacy of live theater to confront the audience directly. <i>Possession</i> succeeds like few other movies in re-creating this onscreen; in fact </span><span lang="EN"><span lang="EN">Żuławski </span> claims that when Adjani saw the completed film, she couldn't believe what she'd done. She shouted at him, ‘You have no right to put the camera in this way because it looks inside one's soul!’” Despite being crowned Best Actress at the 1981 Cannes Film Festival, Adjani was so shaken as witness to her own performances she attempted suicide (some report at the festival itself immediately after the screening). </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“<span class="notranslate">And even if it is a naively mystical vision, I think there's something [deep] going on stage or screen, if we give up, sacrifice.</span> <span class="notranslate">Of course, I never accept the [productions] such as </span></span><i><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Possession,</span></i><span class="notranslate"><span lang="EN"> which </span></span><span class="notranslate"><span lang="EN"><span lang="EN">Żuławski </span> thought insulting me [would] make myself better embody my crazy character: never revile me like that ...</span></span><span lang="EN"> <span class="notranslate">But interpreting a wandering soul, I know.</span> <span class="notranslate">The female misfortune, I know.” [<a href="http://www.telerama.fr/cinema/isabelle-adjani-j-aime-passionnement-ce-metier-mais-je-passe-mon-temps-a-y-echapper,40850.php">Adjani, </a></span><span class="t12-art-meta-aut"><a href="http://www.telerama.fr/cinema/isabelle-adjani-j-aime-passionnement-ce-metier-mais-je-passe-mon-temps-a-y-echapper,40850.php">Interview</a> by Fabienne Pascaud</span><span class="notranslate"> (poorly translated by Google Translate and yours truly)- </span><span class="t12-art-meta-edi">Télérama No. 3089</span>]</span></div>
<i><span lang="EN" style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Possession </span></i><b><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">has been singled out lately on the repertory circuit in the U.S. after a very successful run at Film Forum. You’ve called it a “personal” film. What do you think of its recent success?”</span></b><span lang="EN"></span>
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<span lang="EN">“Please, how can I answer that? </span><i><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Possession </span></i><span lang="EN">was born of a totally private experience. After making </span><i><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That Most Important Thing </span></i><i><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;">(1975) </span></i><span lang="EN">in France, I went back to Poland to get my family (which at the time was my wife and my kid) and bring them to France. I had two or three interesting proposals to make really big European films. But when I returned to Poland I saw exactly what the guy in </span><i><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Possession </span></i><span lang="EN">sees when he opens the door to his flat, which is an abandoned child in an empty flat and a woman who is doing something somewhere else. It’s so basically private. Now I can go back to it many years later, but even the dialogue in certain kitchen scenes and certain private scenes is like I just wrote it down after some harrowing day. So it’s amazing how such a private thing became a kind of icon. You know Adjani got the prize at Cannes for this film, she got the Cesar which is the French Oscar and 14 other prizes in many festivals. Please believe me, it’s mentally very disturbing to see that your very private little film became something in which so many people recognize something of themselves. Thirty years later I’m still thinking about it.” [</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="http://filmcomment.com/entry/film-comment-interview-andrzej-zulawski">Film Comment Interview: Andrzej Zulawski</a> By Margaret Barton-Fumo on 3.6.2012]</span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I suppose one could endlessly argue Żuławski’s misogyny—“I would say that Sam Neill, Francis Huster, and the others had the difficult parts to play because the women in these films appear like a tornado. They were banging into a scene and making a great fuss and being so expressive, and like you said at the beginning, “hysterical,” right? They make all of this noise, but the male actors are just playing the glue between the scenes. They keep the films together, which may not seem like such a fantastic starring role, but they did it with such talent and devotion that I almost like them better than the women. The women got the prizes, they got the applause, they were brilliant, they were spastic. But the men had the hard work of keeping the whole film together.”—and one can make excuses for this by reminding the viewer of the director’s hideous divorce, or the dehumanization he suffered as a Pole growing up under first Nazi rule and then Stalin’s iron fist. To me, these arguments are as hazardous as defending Roman Polanski the man to justify appreciating Polanski the artist. As personal as <i>Possession </i>is—for the director, the actors, Carlo Rambaldi creator of “the creature”—it remains what it is on the screen. What would you think of it on its own if you had none of the information before you? </span>
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<span lang="EN">In point of fact, how would one judge the U.S. release of <i>Possession</i>, cut by over 40 minutes into an incoherent and over-stimulated miasma? “Two men and a woman no one could ever possess,” warns the over dramatic American voice over. “Mortal terror, inhuman ecstasy. Soon you will know the meaning of <i>Possession</i>.” Which is a big fat lie if there ever was one. (See below) If at two hours Żuławski’s cut remains open to interpretation, then the edit for the consumer culture is rendered incomprehensible for pandering to the visceral. The very first time I viewed <i>Possession </i>in 1994, before I was even aware of another version, the videocassette was just an assault of two people screaming at each other, excelling even the most portentous madness to be found in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0060668/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1"><i>Marat/Sade</i></a>, which is at least set in a real asylum. This “cut” also beefs up the part of the monster, adding and duplicating shots, optically rendering Anna’s periodic murders in slow motion to get the best of the spurting blood. The ending is altered (from what I remember) and nothing is resolved to anyone’s satisfaction. With the emphasis on the blood and the sex, it’s no wonder <i>Possession </i>got caught up in Great Britain’s “<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Watching-Video-Nasties/267419253287613%E2%80%8E">Video Nasty</a>” crusade in the ‘80s; the narrative has been reduced to prurience. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">That’s not to say that Żuławski’s version delivers any real satisfaction either. This isn’t a film about resolution by any stretch. Conversations end abruptly, with slamming doors or mutual mutilation, slaps, sneers, bloodied faces. Scenes halt, the players suspended in inaction or impotence (however you want to define that word). Even the ending is just a stopping point and answers pour over the viewer like rain. Is this miscarried, tentacled lover/child of Anna’s her attempt to create a “perfect” version of Mark, for that’s apparently what it’s been morphing into (and with the appearance of a second Mark near the end, one of the few rational suppositions in an irrational narrative)? Is Helen really a doppelganger of Anna, or a more perfect mate that Mark has projected an Anna mask upon, preserving her delicate beauty by stretching it over a genuine Madonna/whore? What was Mark’s “assignment” and why was he hunted for it in the end? And was that part of the story intentionally left up in the air, as a commentary on Poland’s Stasi? </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">However, the biggest question is the one that begins the film and it’s the only one the characters beg answering: “What happened to us?” “<i>Possession</i> is honest enough to depict the emotional extremes of passion and conflict experienced during a breakup, yet self-aware enough to acknowledge how histrionic and ridiculous such squabbles can appear to outside observers. It’s both uncomfortably candid and deeply cynical. And with its blood-and-gasoline-drenched apocalyptic ending, <i>Possession</i> joins the recent <i>Melancholia</i> in portraying the sense that it must be the literal end of the world simply because it feels that way.” [L. Caldoran, Cinespect]</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Rediscovery of <i>Possession </i>is relatively recent. It was unseen in its uncut form until a VHS release in 1999, where it was quickly embraced by many of the same critics who originally dismissed it. It’s been compared to Polanski’s English-language debut, <i>Repulsion</i>, as well as Cronenberg’s <i>The Brood</i> and most recently to Von Trier’s hateful <i>Anti-Christ</i>. And while all of those high-class films touch on similar emotions, <i>Possession </i>remains something ineffable. At times it’s an endurance test, a heartbreaking <i>Scenes of a Marriage</i>, a shrill theatrical camp, a monster movie, an end-of-the-world allegory, a spy thriller. All of these elements keep <i>Possession </i>outside of an appropriate genre box but its these disparities that keep the film, as I said, <i>fluid</i>. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">As a jaded film student watching a bastardized version, I was just as quick to dismiss <i>Possession </i>as those who saw it premiere. My initial distaste prevented me from revisiting it despite owning the original cut for several years now. During my first viewing, untainted by much of the film’s or filmmaker’s history, I was put off by the histrionics, the unsatisfying narrative, the seemingly improvisational jumble of dialogue spewed out by Neill and Adjani as if they were given single emotions—rage and despair—to act out. But the film began its transformation approximately ten minutes in, with the introduction of young Bob and the mutable influence he has over his psychopathic parents. During their all-too-brief interactions with their son, one can see the Anna and Mark that existed during the good times. It’s the film’s sole emotional anchor and it leaves an impression deep enough to prevail when the screaming renews. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">My second time through, the next day, was more investigative. Now that the shrill surface had washed away, I could see what was really underneath. Specifically: anguish. When Mark goes on his hotel bender, he really does seem to be suffering some sort of withdrawal. He no longer understands the woman he fell in love with. Worse, she doesn’t understand who she is any longer either. Helen and the monster/Mark clone are simultaneously projections, doppelgangers, wishes and manifestations of shame. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Suddenly, the title made much more sense, but in even more esoteric ways. Think of the word, “Possession”. Is Anna literally possessed (as the American trailer would have you believe) by some pseudo-Christian demon? Is Mark possessed by the need to retrieve the Anna who once was? Or is Anna <i>a possession</i>, the flag that Mark and Heinrich scramble over each other to capture? </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">I suspect that should I revisit this movie in the future, I will have not only different answers to my many questions, but different questions as well. Between viewings #1 and #2, <i>Possession </i>slipped from my grasp, becoming something than I thought it was over the span of less than 24 hours. What would ten years’ worth of insight bring me, now that I know about Żuławski’s history, his inexcusable abuses—both inflicted and inflicted upon? What man will I be the next time I visit <i>Possession</i>? For guaranteed, I will not be watching the same movie I just watched last night.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-31427546806150352822013-06-08T00:52:00.000-04:002013-06-08T00:54:44.555-04:00DON’S PLUM (2001)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span lang="EN">DAVID STUTMAN, doing business as POLO PICTURES ENTERTAINMENT, Plaintiff, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span lang="EN">vs. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span lang="EN">LEONARDO DICAPRIO; TOBEY MAGUIRE; and DOES 1 through 25, Inclusive, Defendants.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span lang="EN">Case Number B C189400. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span lang="EN">COMPLAINT FOR THE DECLARATORY RELIEF, INTERFERENCE WITH PROSEPCTIVE ECONOMIC ADVANTAGE, BREAK OF CONTRACT, SLANER OF TITLE AND INJUNCTIVE RELIEF. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><u><span lang="EN">DEMAND FOR JURY TRIAL.</span></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span lang="EN">FILED Los Angeles Superior Court </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span lang="EN">Apr. 14, 1998. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span lang="EN">JOHN A CLARKE, CLERK</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span lang="EN">PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN">(<a href="http://www.thesmokinggun.com/documents/crime/producer-dicaprio-capsized-my-film-0">Excerpt from The Smoking Gun</a>)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span lang="EN"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Two young actors, Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire were anxious to make a film with a group of their friends. They induced plaintiff to make the film and agreed to act in it. Plaintiff made the film, employing DiCaprio, Maguire and a group of their friends as actors and another of their friends as director. DiCaprio expressed great enthusiams for the completed film. But, later, although plaintiff had done everything he had promised, Maguire and DiCaprio decided to “stop” the film for their own egomaniacal purposes. Using DiCaprio’s “clout” as a newly anointed “superstar,” they carried out a fraudulent and coercive campaing to prevent release of the film and destroy its value, depriving not only plaintiff, but also numerous members of the cast and crew, of the proceeds of exploiting the film for which they had labored and on which they had relied.”</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN">In 1995, future superstars DiCaprio and Maguire joined a large cast of other soon-to-be-famous actors, including Amber Benson (<i>Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Drones</i>), Kevin Connolly (“E” from <i>Entourage</i>), Jenny Lewis (actress and member of band Rilo Kiley), Scott Bloom (“FBI Agent #3” from <i>Smoking Aces</i> (and “Jesse” from <i>Who’s the Boss</i>), Heather McComb (the first mutant “Jubilee” as seen in <i>Generation X</i>) and Meadow Sisto (<i>Captain Ron</i>), whose young brother, Jeremy Sisto (<i>May, Suburgatory</i>), appears in a brief cameo at the beginning of the film, literally kicking Benson out of his car (thus winning no points from Amberholics). Cameo appearances include <i>My Name is Earl’s</i> Ethan Suplee, Nikki Cox (who’s part is so brief, she must’ve been Connolly’s ride that night), and Byron Thames (young <i>Johnny Dangerously</i>) as the titular Don. Not to mention Gaffer and Key Grip “Cool Breeze” as “the Slappee”. The whole thing was written by </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Bethany Ashton, Tawd Hackman, David Stutman, and Dale Wheatley and directed by <i>A Christmas Story</i>’s Schwartz (the kid who doesn’t get his tongue stuck to a pole or go on to do porn), R.D. Robb, who also contributed to the script. Which was then, apparently, thrown away in favor of heavy improv. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Originally a short titled <i>The Saturday Night Club</i>, additional scenes were shot a year later in order to bring the running time to feature length. <i>Don’s Plum</i> plays like a post-modern and very unsentimental version of <i>Diner</i>, about a quartet of fellows who enjoy bringing new female companions to the titular restaurant/bar, and hope to impress them with their candor, coolness and brilliance. The movie begins with Ian (Maguire) sitting in a jazz club, not listening to admittedly cool Toledo Diamond and his dancers, begging the likes of Marissas Ribisi and Ryan (married to Sisto at the time), to come with him to meet his friends. Similarly, Derek (DiCaprio) is similarly striking out after calling half a dozen people with his friend’s paving brick-sized portable phone. Eventually, Ian convinces waitress Juliet (Meadow Sisto) to accompany him. Derek arrives solo. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Brad (Bloom) has just had casual sex with Sara (Lewis) and she joins him in the increasingly-crowded booth. Budding actor Jeremy (Connelly) comes to “hippie chick” Amy’s (Benson) rescue. And finally Constance, Sara’s lesbian (or bisexual) stalker, joins the party. Together they harass poor Flo the Ditzy Waitress (Stephanie Cambria – billed as Stephanie Friedman), brazenly mock the other patrons, worry Don the owner, break up and incite fist fights between themselves and others. Mostly, what they do is talk, doing their best to shock and awe the potential paramours. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But much to their surprise, the girls are easily their matches—if not betters—in terms of conversational raunch, insult and psychobabble. Discussions range from whether women masturbate, a male’s “anal g-spot” and how to stimulate it, why it’s less acceptable for men to be bisexual than women (because of the whole “AIDS thing”). This latter point of view is initiated by Sara, just after she cavalierly makes out with Constance, and amazingly enough is shouted down as being “narrow” by Ian and Derek. Even though, later, Derek outs Brad as bi in front of the others, either intentionally or un-. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before and after all of this, Derek and Amy take an instant dislike to each other, resulting in her hurling a birkenstock at him (allegedly a serious throw as the shoe broke on impact with said target’s cranium) as she storms out and takes a bat to Jeremy’s jeep. Having already been abused by Sisto, she is obviously under extreme duress. Jeremy makes a very positive impression on a movie producer (co-producer Bethany Ashton Wolf), Derek is provoked into making a very personal confession that almost explains his misogyny, and every character has brief “bathroom interludes” where they reveal their true selves (why they’re there despite disliking the group, whether they’re worth loving, various bouts of ethical self-loathing). </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Shot in high-contrast black and white, the movie has an immediate and familiar feel to it. Again, this is no <i>Diner</i>, nor are the characters cut from the Harmony Korine <i>Kids</i> cloth. As a group, they’re rattled when the stranger, Amy, calls them out for being shallow and crude. The guys care about each other’s friendship, but their ribbing of each other is far from harmless—best displayed during a variation of “I’ve Never” called “Fuck You Because”. There are underlying glimpses of insecurity, uncertainty, confusion (sexual and otherwise) and an overall sense of aimlessly trying to connect with people outside of their little group.</span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Don’s Plum </span></i><span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">is at turns ingratiating and grating, a ruderless <i>Clerks</i> talkfest with some moments of truth peppered in amongst the put downs, “fuck you”s and “bro”s (DiCaprio’s Derek ends every sentence with “bro”, no matter who he’s talking to). Anyone watching either knows someone like these characters or <i>has been</i> (and might still be) like these characters. They’re just kids hanging out on a Saturday night who “think they’re kings” (according to Flo during one of her “bathroom interludes” where she reveals that the “sexy ditz” thing is all an act) but really have no place in the world at the current time. Maybe that will change sooner than later, maybe for some, particularly Derek, that change will never come at all. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But when you get right down to it, <i>Don’s Plum</i> only stands out in its sea of Generation X “Decade of the Indie” movies because of its cast. If it weren’t for the presences of DiCaprio, Maguire and Benson, and the ensuing controversy that followed, <i>Don’s Plum </i>would be off the radar in the same way as <i>Reality Bites </i>and <i>Threesome</i>. As far as the two main leads go, you don’t see much in the way of future brilliance. They both have an unmistakable presence, but Connelly is the more animated character. And all of the guys are put to shame by the women, many of whom aren’t even acting much today. Lewis, as Sara, does the most to carve out a character, but Sisto and McComb are more appealing, laughing at the limp machismo and shock talk. The main tragedy, and I’m not saying this just as a Benson devotee, is that the hippie chick Amy’s part in the film is too brief. It’s understandable that someone so offended by Derek’s hatred of women (and the others’ tolerance of his rudeness) would storm off and find a new ride to Vegas, but it would have been interesting if Amy had stayed with the group in spite of herself, to further interject the complete outsider’s point of view. After a while, the group just solidifies in circular argument, breaking up into exhausted animosity, but real antagonism stops when Amy exits. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still, it was a movie starring a number of soon-to-be superstars and was interesting enough to hold attention. But just prior to its prospective premiere at Sundance and possible pick-up from Miramax, Maguire and DiCaprio apparently sabotaged the film. According to the lawsuit brought against them (and later dropped) by the producers, initial screenings were met with enthusiasm by DiCaprio and the rest of the cast. Then, as told in paragraph 9: </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Meanwhile, Maguire and his manager had determined that, in the Film, Maguire did not come off as strong a “leading man” as DiCaprio and that some of the improvisational comments Maguire had made durng the Film revealed personal experiences or tendencies that would undermine the public image he and his manager were trying to project. Accordingly, they set out to do everything in their power to stop the Film. Maguire used his long and close relationship with DiCaprio to cause DiCaprio to join him in a campaign to prevent release of the Film. Maguire carefully kept his plan a secret from Plaintiff, telling Plaintiff, like DiCaprio, that he really, really liked the film and though it was “great”.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Later in the lawsuit, it describes how Maguire got in Robb’s face and screamed that he was taking advantage of their fame and decried the producers for trying to exhibit the film, going so far as to strong arm distributors, not the least of which the House that Indie Built, Miramax. Personally, while I’ve never met either of the gentlemen, I doubt if I were screamed at by Tobey Maguire I’d be able to keep a straight face. I mean, really, he’s what now? In his 60s? And he still looks like a teenager. And even though DiCaprio already had an Oscar nom under his belt, neither of these guys would have been able to pull off this sort of obstructionism if not for one little thing: <i>Titanic</i>, another little indie that could. Released in 1997, James Cameron put these words in DiCaprio’s mouth (before finally uttering them himself at the Academy Awards): “I’m king of the world!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">While Maguire wasn’t yet endowed with Peter Parker clout, DiCaprio pretty much punched his own ticket after <i>Titanic</i>, and if his lil buddy Tobey wasn’t happy with <i>Don’s Plum</i>, then by-golly no one else would be either. Neither of the stars have spoken much publically about the debacle, what is known is that they were sued twice, once by Stutman and again by another producer named John Schindler. The first was dropped and the second was settled with the upshot being that the film would not be released or distributed in the United States or Canada. Lars Von Trier’s Zentropa Films wound up as the highest bidder for distribution (which is where the copious bootlegs originate) and it premiered to equal parts huzzahs and derision at the 2001 Berlin Film Festival. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s the controversy that’s driven the continuing interest in the film. Between the lawsuits and the restricted release the press made sure to keep curious the prurient and conjecture yellow. Fer instance: </span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><a href="http://www.thefreelibrary.com/LEO%27S+GAY+FILM+PAST+ON+SHOW%3B+Cannes+date+for+movie+he+tried+to+ban.-a060884895)" target="_blank">LEO'S GAY FILM PAST ON SHOW; Cannes date for movie he tried to ban</a>. “Leo, currently starring in <i>The Beach</i> with Robert Carlyle, is Hollywood's biggest male sex symbol. But his private life has been dogged by rumours he is gay.”</span></div>
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<a href="http://articles.philly.com/1998-04-16/news/25767844_1_leonardo-dicaprio-georgia-campaign-don-s-plum" target="_blank"><span lang="EN"></span></a><span lang="EN"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1399867986055030064">“Leo Doesn't Want Us Seeing Him As A Punk.”</a> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">And this bit from the obsessive and exhaustive <a href="http://the-grand-panjandrum.tripod.com/index2.html" target="_blank">A DON’S PLUM PAGE</a>: </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“According to numerous sources of ours (at least five), during the film, which was shot in a very free-form fashion, with the actors and actresses improvising much of the dialogue, Tobey's character, "Ian," who is allegedly based on Tobey himself, asks whether or not any of the others who hang out in his group at their favorite diner, "Don's Plum," get off by inserting their pinky fingers . . . ah . . . rectally within themselves while . . . ah . . . er . . . achieving orgasm during sex? (Which is not of course, how Tobey/Ian phrases it!) What follows is a conversation which not only grosses out some of his fellow characters, but (allegedly) also grossed out some of his cast mates, as well.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">"SO! Just what does Tobey like to do at the moment of "the little death," and with whom does Tobey like to do it? Frankly, we have no idea, but the consensus seems in on what the Tobey-like character of "Ian" likes. The verdict is still out as to whether or not Ian actually got it on with "Derek" (Leonardo DiCaprio's character), but, as we have said, by all reputable reports which we have received, Leo really liked the first screening of Don's Plum, and only turned against the film when his good buddy Tobey got upset that hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of people would be listening in on "Ian's" pinky sex conversation.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">There were also wildly imaginative explanations: </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">"At this point Don's Plum became a bit of a Hollywood legend: what exactly was in it that the actors didn't want America to see? Some news outlets covering the court case described Don's Plum as "the story of a young man exploring all kinds of sexuality and human emotion," which featured "Leonardo DiCaprio as a bisexual who appears nude in one scene." Adjectives like "sexy" and "steamy" were liberally thrown around, making it seem like this was the next Pamela Anderson/Tommy Lee tape." (<a href="http://www.blogger.com/Read%20more:%20http://www.cracked.com/article_19287_10-movies-that-famous-people-dont-want-you-to-see.html#ixzz2Vb4d5tSD">Cracked.com</a>)<br /><br /> Strangely, the most bizarre tidbit might be the closest to the truth: “The actors have said they made the film as a favor to a friend, under the agreement that it would never be promoted as a feature-length movie.” <a href="http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/life/people/2006-12-22-dicaprio-maguire_x.htm">http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/life/people/2006-12-22-dicaprio-maguire_x.htm</a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Unlike the gossip-rag reporting, doing a film under the condition it never be seen actually employs Hollywood Logic. Certainly, it makes less human sense than buyer’s guilt over a film that may out two big stars as having “experimented” with each other or others—Tobey’s “Ian” is certainly quick to jump to Brad’s defense of having been “outed” as bi—Hollywood Logic is far more Machiavellian and supports both Maguire’s alleged accusation that Robb and the producers were rubbing their hands over having a “lost” film involving the stars of <i>What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? </i>and <i>The Cider House Rules</i>, as well as said-stars managers, agents, entourages and hangers-on wanting to protect the carefully crafted heart-throb reputations of their respective pots of gold. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">As my esteemed Film Threat colleague, Phil Hall, <a href="http://www.filmthreat.com/features/1324/#ixzz2VO9nN7Uf" target="_blank">wrote in his analysis of <i>Don’s Plum</i></a>: </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">“In retrospect, the idea of doing a no-budget black-and-white movie as a favor with the promise that the film never get shown seems a bit odd, especially since DiCaprio was already established as an Oscar-nominated movie star (Maguire’s fame took a little longer to secure). […] According to both Stutman and Schindler’s respective lawsuits, DiCaprio and Maguire used their influence to shoo away major distributors, with the alleged threat that neither actor would work with any company that picked up the film. In fairness, it seems strange given that “Don’s Plum” would not be considered as multiplex material given its style and substance. One could imagine a smaller boutique distributor expressing interest, but a Hollywood studio would probably balk at the flick even with its well-known stars.” </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">All in all, this is all sound and fury over what amounts to very little. If you’re seeking out <i>Don’s Plum </i>to see embryonic genius from the two bad boys of law suits now that <i>The Great Gatsby</i> has captured the hearts and wallets of the American public, you’re going to be disappointed. While I wouldn’t go as far as to declare them “awful” as Phil does, neither are very interesting, unless you’re impressed with Leo’s ability to be, simultaneously, a sympathetic scumbag. The girls steal the show right out from under the power players anyway and the film’s delay certainly didn’t hurt any careers, except maybe that of poor Schwartz, who hasn’t done much of anything since. Certainly not any directing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the Daily Telegraph reported from Berlin: </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">"Yeah, it's a divorce," Robb managed to say between phrases of lawyer-speak like "We want to put this misunderstanding behind us." Constrained by a gag order not to discuss the settlement, a cheerful Robb got a kick out of his inquisition-style handling at the press conference.” (16.02.01 SF Said reports from the Berlin Film Festival”)</span><br />
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And, hell, you can see the whole movie here:</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-900058976469754212013-05-15T14:44:00.002-04:002013-05-15T14:50:29.797-04:00SOUTHLAND TALES (2007)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhffBbRJasV5TY7EHM9YUi4vb-eB6TkZhsXiLvg1RWA2dotgLAtXO43jdKysMB1n0pavWAGVVn-5AQuNI-G4rQWVYHogN_tkmxSlDMLEj5u_dcjj3s32477DSE5QCDoiuVRukcmOLwF0SQ/s1600/southland_tales_r1-5bcdcovers_cc5d-front1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhffBbRJasV5TY7EHM9YUi4vb-eB6TkZhsXiLvg1RWA2dotgLAtXO43jdKysMB1n0pavWAGVVn-5AQuNI-G4rQWVYHogN_tkmxSlDMLEj5u_dcjj3s32477DSE5QCDoiuVRukcmOLwF0SQ/s640/southland_tales_r1-5bcdcovers_cc5d-front1.jpg" width="456" /></a></div>
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</style> <span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As a long-time fan of “quirky” movies, I was predestined to enjoy Richard Kelly’s debut feature film, the quirk-filled <i>Donnie Darko</i>. Taken as I was with the theatrical release, I was very excited about the upcoming “Director’s Cut” and to prep for it, I listened to the director’s commentary on the original DVD. About ten minutes into it, director Kelly said something that threw me off completely:</span>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“And from this point on we’re in the alternate universe…”</span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“What?” I said. I literally said this to the television and demanded Kelly to repeat what he said. I’d watched <i>Donnie Darko </i>a couple of times prior to the commentary and his pronouncement caught me completely off-guard, making me question not only my understanding of his movie, but <i>his </i>understanding of his movie. Like most viewers, I considered the titular Donnie’s journey throughout the film to be a Lynchian dreamscape while his awake body quivered with fear over nuclear destruction, just as we all did in the ‘80s. When I viewed the “Director’s Cut”, I saw where Kelly labored to leave additional clues to time travel and alternate time lines, but I still felt, in the end, that I never would have come to those conclusions without him <i>telling me</i>. His commentary definitely changed my view of the film. Where before I thought it was enjoyable, trippy and intelligent, I was now thinking of it as a muddled, metaphysical mess. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So it came as no surprise to me when<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>his sophomore film, the $17 million dollar-plus <i>Southland Tales, </i>with its stunt cast and visual tics, I viewed it as a plainly, laid-right-out-there-in-front-of-god-and-everybody, muddled, semi-metaphysical mess, albeit with some ham-handed satire. I enjoyed it, in much the same way I love fever dreams like <i>Forbidden Zone </i>and <i>Dr. Caligari</i>, but my final thought was that every scene was terrific, but none of them were actually in the same movie. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The film’s sprawling narrative takes us from a nuclear blast in Abilene, Texas, in 2005, to the “present” of 2008, where America is in the middle of a tight electorial race (the shudder-inducing Clinton/Lieberman vs. Eliot/Frost), is under the constant watch of Orwelian surveillance via the company USIDent (overseen by Bobby Frost’s wife, Nana Mae Frost (Miranda Richardson), is on the threshold of a new Tesla-esque machine that will turn the ocean into a perpetual motion machine of renewable energy, and an extreme Democratic Left-turned-terrorists, weilding guns and poetry and going under the umbrella of “Neo-Marxists”.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But that’s all background. The meat of the story involves an action movie star named Boxer Santaros (Dwayne Johnson) (married to Madeline Frost, daughter of Republican VP nominate Sen. Bobby Frost), who has been missing but was found with amnesia by porn-star-turned-talk-show-host Krysta Now (Sarah Michelle Gellar, who’s line about “I like to get fucked and I like to get fucked hard. But violence has no place in porn. That’s why I don’t do anal.” Surely caused some fanboy heads to explode.) The two of them wrote a screenplay called <i>The Power</i>, in which both will star, that tells about the last three days of the world, as prophesized by a newborn baby that has not produced a bowel movement in almost a week. To research his part, Krysta arranges for Boxer to ride-along with Officer Roland Taverner (an appropriately bewildered Seann William Scott). </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Parallel to this, a Neo-Marxist group run by Cindy Pinziki (Nora Dunn) and Zora </span><span lang="EN">Carmichaels (Cheri Oteri) have hatched a plot to rig the election using “donated” severed thumbs, whose prints can be reused in multiple districts. Cindy (as “Deep Throat 2”) is also in possession of an incriminating sex tape starring Boxer and Krysta that could only spell scandall to the Frost campaign if released. In exchange for this tape she demands one million dollars and a vote of “Yes” on “Prop 69”, which will limit the powers of USIDent.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">The third part of their plot seems to have been Zora’s brainchild. She forces the amnesiac Ronald Taverner to kidnap his twin policeman brother to pose as him and manipulate Boxer’s ride-along. The plan is to catch “Roland”, a “racist cop”, gunning down activist performance artists Dion Element and Dream (Amy Poehler), using blanks and squibs, of course. Once Boxer catches this assassination on tape, it can be used as further leverage against the campaign and Frost advisor Vaughn Smallhouse (John Laroquette). </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Thirdly, there is Baron von Westphalen (Wallace Shawn), grandson of Karl Marx’s wife Jenny Von Westphalen, who is the genius behind “Fluid Karma”, the gigantic machine that harnesses the oceans waves to produce a continent-wide energy field to reduce America’s dependence on foreign oil—from which we’ve been embargoed anyway due to four Middle East Wars (Iraq, Iran, Syria and Afghanistan). But the Baron, far from a philanthropist, wants to use Fluid Karma for world domination. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Finally there’s the narrator, Pilot Abilene (Justin Timberlake), a disfigured war vet, omnicient from his perch in an anti-aircraft turret, who has ties to the major players, deals a drug version of “Fluid Karma” from his arcade on the Santa Monica pier, and warns us from the beginning, “This is the way the world ends: not with a whimper, but a bang.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">This reworking of the T.S. Eliot poem, “The Hollow Men”, is reiterated several times throughout the film. As are lyrics from Jane’s Addiction’s “Three Days”, The Killer’s “All the Things I’ve Done” (which is used as an extended music video-dream sequence starring Pilot Abilene and a group of nurses who are meant to look like Marilyn Monroe, but bear the platinum locks of Jean Harlow). The question is, are these lines meant to represent the weight of the narrative, or are they misdirects, giving over the propecy to dialogue like, “I am a pimp, and pimps don’t commit suicide.”? </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’m going to make a grand, sweeping statement that anyone will find <i>Southland Tales</i> impenetrable on first viewing, and may very well conclude at the nebulous anti-climax that it isn’t worth a second. That was certainly my attitude as the credits rolled. But something nagged at me. And continued to nag at me for a couple of years. Was there more to this pseudo-satirical jab at celebrity worship, government over-reach, fascism, Marxism, action film parody and theoretical physics than just all of the ingredients fed into a salad shooter and sprayed all over the viewer? Or is this another <i>Donnie Darko</i>, that will only make complete sense to its creator?</span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As I’ve found, on subsequent viewings, that the answer is probably a combination of the two. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When Kelly debuted a rough near-3 hour cut of <i>Southland Tales </i>at the 2006 Cannes Film Festival, it was met with jeers, boos and walk-outs. Notoriously, Roger Ebert wrote that it was as big a disaster as his most-hated <i>The Brown Bunny</i>. But Sony found promise in it and agreed to bankroll $1M worth of visual effects for completion if Kelly agreed to lose at least 20 minutes of running time. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN">“Part of me feels like I got away with murder,” Mr. Kelly, 32, said in a recent interview in Manhattan. “It’s a film some people might consider an inaccessible B movie, and it’s been slaughtered at the biggest film festival in the world. They could have been like, ‘You want more money now?’” (</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/28/movies/28lim.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0" target="_blank">NY Times, by Dennis Lim, 10/28/2007</a>) </span>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Returning to the editing room, Kelly removed the requested twenty minutes, excising an entire subplot involving Jeaneane Garafalo as a military general working in collusion with Simon Theory (the gratefully-underused Kevin Smith), the only two upper brass who know the identity of the charred corpse found in Boxer’s SUV following his disappearance. Also reworked was the structure, moving a gruesomely funny scene involving the Baron and a Japanese business rival and the terms of a contract for Fluid Karma, from the first act to the second. Placing this scene later in the film manages to keep the Baron out of the “villain” role until much later. In the theatrical version, Wallace Shawn is simply a creepier version of <i>The Princess Bride’</i>s Vizini up until the “contract negotiation”. Further overtly villainous lines are also removed, but this also vagues up his connection to the Neo-Marxists, the identity of the burned corpse, and what role he expected Boxer to play in his scheme. While the Garafalo/Smith interactions didn’t add much to the plot (and only one scene with Smith had to be reworked to make it appear that he’s instead working under Nana Mae), but its removal makes a quick shot of Garafalo during the end celebrations a head-scratcher, but by this point, you should be through scalp and down to skull. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The real irony of the reworking is that the Cannes Cut is actually much more straight-forward of a narrative, inasmuch as <i>Southland Tales </i>can be considered straightforward. One thing that’s much more clear is how often Boxer slips into his character of Jericho Cane (an explicit dig/homage to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character in <i>End of Days</i>) and the world of his screenplay when his psyche can’t handle the reality around him. Dwayne Johnson’s performance as Boxer among the highlights of the movie—when he’s stressed, he tents his fingers and twiddles them together, and to combat that he will “take a moment” and slip into the macho Jericho and, fortunately or not, the world of <i>The Power</i>. In the theatrical cut, this isn’t immediately clear and only alienates the viewer from the ostensible hero.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Kelly seems to have directed all of the actors to deliver lines as either stilted or overly-sinister. Then again, with so many hidden agendas, maybe it’s possible that every character suffers from some sort of identity crisis, even if they haven’t traveled back in time 69 minutes to meet their future selves. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The film’s primary problem lies in the fact that it does not stand alone as a film in its current state. It requires patience and multiple viewings, but, as I stated above, if one is feels completely disconnected from the characters by quirk and misdirected satire, those multiple viewings will not occur. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Then there’s the argument that <i>Southland Tales </i>was never meant to stand alone. Prio to the film’s release, Kelly wrote three prequel graphic novels which apparently give further clues to the story’s intricate mysteries: Abilene and “his best friend” (as he says in the last line of the movie) Roland Taverner were subjected to experiments in Iraq that resulted in a panicked Roland lobbing a grenade in Abilene’s direction, causing his disfigurement and PTSD. It’s also implied that Abilene and Taverner—and anyone who takes Fluid Karma injections—become telepathic. The comics also explain Boxer’s numerous tattoos and how he received them under Krysta Now’s guidance (including the portrait of Christ on his back that bleeds through his shirt during a critical point in the climax), and even why that dumb Killer’s song is relevant. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I came upon all of this knowledge after the fact, and in point of argument, rather resented it. I am aware, now, of the “immersive” marketing studios do now, leading fans to hidden videos and website scavenger hunts, but that still feels a bit like a cheat to me, especially if critical information is being withheld by this strategy. If the movie can’t stand as its own entity, then it isn’t really a movie, it’s something else. In this case, <i>Southland Tales</i> is a story told in six chapters, broken across three graphic novels and the three “chapters” presented in the film. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">To call Kelly’s vision for the movie “ambitious” is akin to referring to the ocean as “damp”. Inspired by the events of 9/11, Kelly had a lot on his mind and did his damnedest to cram it all in: political culture, instant celebrity culture, the evils of the Patriot Act, the idea of perpetual war, PTSD, conspiracy and the near-magical realm of quantum mechanical coincidence. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It’s no wonder that any first viewing feels like a high-pressure mental delousing. As Kelly said in an interview for About.com: </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“You know, there’s always that risk [that the audience won’t get it]. But I think we’ve made it as accessible overload. It’s going to be overload. It’s one of those movies that’s going to melt your brain. It’s definitely going to melt your brain when you watch it, but I think it’s now going to melt your brain in a way where you’re understanding it just enough to keep going with it. And the important thing also is you’re laughing.” (<a href="http://movies.about.com/od/donniedarko/a/darko052604.htm" target="_blank">Exclusive Interview with Southland Tales Writer/Director Richard Kelly By <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Rebecca Murray</span>, About.com Guide</a>)</span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">When <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southland Tales </i>was finally released, it was met with largely negative reviews. Because, no surprise, nobody knew what the hell to make of it. Over the years, it’s started to garner a cult following and has shown up on at least one “Most Under-rated Movie” list that I’m aware of. And that’s because the film, for all of its goofy obtusity, is worth multiple viewings. Like a character in a Dan Brown novel, on the second or third time through you start to see the connections, albeit slowly. You begin to see how pieces fit together—particularly if you pay close attention to the multiple computer-voice readouts of news reports that are ubiquitous in the soundtrack background. And if you don’t mind pausing every few seconds to read the scrolling info on Abilene’s laptop screen, other clues can be found and other connections can be inferred. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Between the Cannes cut and the theatrical, I found a very rich, dense and thought-provoking satire. Had I not heard of the Cannes cut and managed to run it down, to be honest I might never have revisited the film. But at least as far as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southland Tales</i> goes, it’s not the “makes sense in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>head” movie that Kelly thinks he made. Rather it’s a mystery puzzle box with clues scattered throughout the frames and running time. If you want to make sense of it, the movie demands your participation. Otherwise, you’re just stuck in a room with a bunch of folks with violent tourettes trying to explain the Book of Revelations.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[This article barely scratches the surface. Until I can further analyze this movie under controlled conditions, <a href="http://www.salon.com/2007/12/19/southland_tales_analysis/" target="_blank">please check out this piece from Salon.com</a>) </span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/Vp9QaXOxHzg?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fervid-Filmmaking-Pictures-Vision-Self-Restraint/dp/0786470666/ref=tmm_pap_title_0" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;"><span id="btAsinTitle">Fervid Filmmaking: 66 Cult Pictures of Vision, Verve and No Self-Restraint </span></span></a></h1>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span id="btAsinTitle">Now Available through McFarland Press </span></span></h1>
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<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/71uqOHga5mL._SL1356_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/71uqOHga5mL._SL1356_.jpg" width="448" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> </span> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-46538201835291176032013-05-03T18:16:00.000-04:002013-05-12T12:52:48.627-04:00HAMMETT (1982)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">[Image stolen from <a href="http://www.widerscreenings.com/hammettposter.jpg" target="_blank">Wider Screenings</a>]</span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">As the picture fades up on the smoky visage of late ‘20s San Francisco, the following preface appears: “This is an entirely imaginary story about the writer Samuel Dashiell Hammett, who…in the words of one of his most gifted contemporaries…helped get murder out of the Vicar’s rose garden and back to the people who are really good at it.</span><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">“The detective story has not been the same since.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">Hammett, of course, is the author of <i>The Maltese Falcon</i>, a book and film that laid the floorplan for the modern day American detective story. A private eye is hired to find a mysterious object but after his partner is murdered during the investigation, the hero must look past the allure of the women, the danger of the men, and solve what has become a personal quest. Drawing from his own past working for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, Hammett told tough stories with a tight, spare style, about hard men existing in a labyrinth of criminals. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bNRYCatlrhTUnAlNOsujjk_qOiXel8a-ebq4Jx-izusPQLI8FAQkwW0UimOO9jj0F5aoy-fYEHP5_t7hWfBSxqV1aYNDD0boDA6ubw21O2mR1_CUb22auody76fgK0H6uUSmWJPrj04/s400/HammettJacket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="background-color: black;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bNRYCatlrhTUnAlNOsujjk_qOiXel8a-ebq4Jx-izusPQLI8FAQkwW0UimOO9jj0F5aoy-fYEHP5_t7hWfBSxqV1aYNDD0boDA6ubw21O2mR1_CUb22auody76fgK0H6uUSmWJPrj04/s320/HammettJacket.jpg" width="206" /></span></a><span lang="EN"><span style="background-color: black;">In 1975 Joe Gores, another private investigator-turned-author cast Hammett as the lead character in his fictional novel of the same name, giving the struggling writer a famous “one last case” that would test his limits and his honor before giving new spark to his creative output. As in <i>The Maltese Falcon</i>, in <i>Hammett</i> the murder of a good friend and former partner draws him into a web of corruption involving low lifes and “big money”. Not too long after its publication, director and producer Francis Ford Coppola bought the rights to Gores’ book with the intention of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>spearheading a new studio he’d established with fellow conquering hero George Lucas, American Zoetrope. Originally announced as a project with Nicholas Roeg, scheduling problems had Coppola looking elsewhere for a director. Having made up his mind that a European director would bring the correct mood to the project, Coppola approached German artist Wim Wenders, whose gritty <i>The American Friend, </i>an adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s own thriller <i>Ripley’s Game</i>, had garnered praise in both Europe and the United States in 1977. Wenders came on the job in 1978 to make his first American movie. But </span><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0085640/" target="_blank"><b><i><span style="background-color: black;">Hammett</span></i></b></a><span style="background-color: black;"> wouldn’t see a release until 1983.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">The movie that hit the screen starred Coppola regular Frederic Forrest as the writer, who is introduced typing away at a (fictional) manuscript entitled “Caught in the Middle”. He drinks whiskey and succumbs to crippling coughing bouts due to tuberculosis (a result of the Spanish Flu he’d contracted during his stint in the Army prior to World War I), but he gets the story finished and the audience gets to see the pictures formed by Sam’s words: his unnamed protagonist—likely the famous “Continental Op” character of his pre-Sam Spade works—and a shady red-head parked on a lonely river dock, waiting to do a final deal. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">Real life comes calling without so much as a knock on the door. Hammett’s old partner, James Francis Xavier Ryan (Peter Boyle, who also plays the detective in Hammett’s story), needs his help in locating a young girl, Chinese immigrant by the name of Crystal Ling, who has gone missing from a gambling den owned by notorious rascal Fong Wei Tau. Sam is cozier with the local law than Ryan, so he needs his old partner to be his go-between, his “tin mittens”. Sam asks his muse, Kit Conger (Marilu Henner), the inspiration for the story’s “Sue Alabama” (real name ‘something Greek and unpronouncable’, he writes), to keep an eye on things while he’s out with Jimmy. Tough gal, Kit, and easy on the eyes. The kind of woman who greets you at the door with a sharp remark, like she’d been standing there all day sharpening it. Along the way he plans to mail out his manuscript. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">They’ve barely stepped foot in Chinatown before they pick up a tail (David Patrick Kelly), a young punk with a ruined voice and taps on his shoes, always giving him away. After some noise, Sam and Jimmy are separated. Loses his manuscript as well. Not too long after the rest of the players sleaze out of the woodwork. Newspaper man Gary Salt (David Lynch hero Jack Nance) is doing a piece on the Chinatown slave trades. His cop buddies (R. G. Armstrong as Lt. O'Mara, Richard Bradford as Detective Bradford) are quick to warn him away, to forget he’d ever heard of the name Crystal Ling. Somehow everyone is tied to the recent suicide of business magnate C.F. Callahan. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">By now, Sam’s up to his neck in it. He checks with his own eyes on the streets: Pops (Royal Dano) who runs a newstand and sets aside bottles for Sam, as well as the new issues of <i>Black Mask Magazine </i>bearing his name; then there’s the Old Man at the pool hall (played by Sam Fuller in a don’t-blink cameo); his personal chauffer, Eli the ex-anarchist and hack driver (Elisha Cook, Jr.); finally old Doc Fallon (Elmer Kline) who did the autopsy on Callahan. Seems the rich man did himself in with a half-dozen or so blows to the back of his head with a blunt object. Finally, the mystery leads to the richest men in California, all tied together by refined thug English Eddie Hagedorn (Roy Kinnear in a terrific nod to Sidney Greenstreet, introduced in a bathtub). Took a lot of twists and turns to get there. Fake-outs, murder, drugs, prostitution, pornography, blackmail, betrayal—it’s all laid out on the table, end to filthy end, and winds up with Sam, Kit and Ryan all standing on that narrow riverside dock, where the story began. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><i><span lang="EN">Hammett </span></i><span lang="EN">is a fine nod to the genre Hammett helped create and Hollywood worked overtime to polish. Sure, maybe the plot is more Raymond Chandler than Dash, maybe the dialogue is punched a little too hard—particularly by Boyle who seems to barking from cue cards—and maybe, sometimes, the whole thing seems forced. And bound to interior Zoetrope-built sets, <i>Hammett’</i>s San Francisco seems too cramped and all kinds of phony, particularly exterior street scenes. But it manages to work, especially with Forrest helping it along. As Hammett, he’s tops. In the end, if all the pieces don’t seem to fit, if threads are left dangling while others tugged too hard, maybe that’s because life is messy. An obituary just seems like a neat little package; all the fat and flavor gets trimmed to fit it all in. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">In 1982, <i>Hammett </i>premiered at the Cannes Film Festival and received critical praise, but its theatrical release was inauspicious. It spent more time on HBO than it did on the big screens and it wasn’t given a proper DVD release until 2005, and even that was a bare-bones disc packaged with a handful of other Coppola productions. The story behind the movie and its journey seems even more convoluted than the fiction. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><a href="http://blogs.indiewire.com/theplaylist/nyff_wim_wenders_discusses_painful_hammet_collaboration_with_coppola_friend" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: black;">According to Edward Davis’ 2005 article forIndiewire, “Wim Wenders Discusses Painful 'Hammett' Collaboration With Coppola,Friendship With Nicholas Ray</span></a><span style="background-color: black;">”, the 33-year-old Wenders walked in to what he would later call “a long, amazing experience” and a “too good to be true” experience that would last more than five years. Working with four different writers over the period, Wenders oversaw more than 40 drafts of the script before he started shooting. Coppola was lost in the jungle shooting <i>Apocalypse Now</i>, so most of Wenders’ work was done </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: black;">[Photo courtesy of </span><a href="http://www.joblo.com/posters/images/full/1982-hammett-poster1.jpg" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: black;">Arrow in the Head</span></a><span style="background-color: black;">.]</span></span><span style="background-color: black;"> “under the radar”. When he began shooting, having already been denied Sam Shepard to play the title character, Wenders’ version had Brian Keith, Sylvia Sidney and his new wife, Ronee Blakely, in the major roles, with an expanded part for his friend Sam Fuller. Filming was done on location in San Franciso, and it was distinctly different from Gores novel (in no small part due to a dispute with Hammett’s estate who objected to some of the more “on the nose” biographical content). While he shot, Wenders reworked the ending, changed it drastically, and no one knew what to make of it. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">According to Indiewire: “Actually it had not much to do with the script and there were even characters they didn’t even know,” [Wenders] said with a chuckle. “And they looked at it and said, ‘What are you shooting here?’ And I said, ‘Yeah, well, that’s the necessary ending for the film I’ve been making so far.' ” Suffice to say, production shut down immediately. Coppola then suggested Wenders stop the shoot and edit the film so he could understand the ending. “I didn’t have a choice anyhow,” Wenders said and then when he finished editing the film a year later, “Nobody liked it. At least the studio didn’t like it. Francis sort of liked it, but he said, ‘They think it’s way too lyrical and it’s about the writer and not the detective story we had given you’ …but they felt it was too slow and didn’t have enough action.” </span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="background-color: black;">Between 1979 and 1980, production on <i>Hammett </i>was halted while a new ending could be crafted. Coppola so liked what Ross Thomas had come up with he ordered the whole script rewritten. It took so much time that both he and Wenders were each able to shoot a new movie in the interim, with Coppola working on <i>One From the Heart</i>, which would lead to Zoetrope’s ruin, and Wenders shooting a personal exorcism of his experience in <i>The State of Things.</i></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">Production resumed in 1981, after another waiting period so the sets could be rebuilt and Frederick Forrest could slim down, both consequences of <i>One from the Heart. </i>Once underway, the rumor mills began, with many sources insisting that Coppola directed the more than 90% of footage reshot. Sometimes Wenders disputes this, particularly in a 17-minute short documentary of the experience titled <i>Reverse Angle</i>. Sometimes he just avoids the question. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">Grudgingly praised at the time, <i>Hammett </i>is usually described as “messy” by contemporary critics, and that is a valid assessment. The mystery central to the story is a Gordian knot and solved in roughly the same way as Solomon, by simply chopping through it at the end, via a long –albeit beautifully-written and performed—monologue by Forrest. The fabricated studio sets do impose a sense of artificiality to the film and sometimes impedes the tone where the <i>noir </i>films of the ‘40s and ‘50s were able to work around such constraints. The camera work includes some shakey Steadicam but also a handful of grand crane shots swooping from rooftops to street level which add gravity to the picture. While Forrest and Henner display some crackling chemistry (they would marry and divorce over the course of the production), the real stars are art directors Angelo Graham, Leon Erickson, and Joseph Biroc’s photography, which brings every shot to life with a mixture of Edward Hopper and Will Eisner. Even some of the possibly intentionally-corny scenes—those out of Sam’s manuscript in particular—are beautifully composed, so it’s easy to forgive if an actor, especially Boyle, chews on the scenery a little too much. (Boyle, too, adds to the artificiality and never rings true as a person). Forrest and Roy Kinnear handle the tough guy dialogue the best.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="background-color: black;">The final product is flawed, to be sure, but is still a satisfiable little hard-boiled movie, standing tall between <i>Chinatown </i>on one end and Michael Winter’s version of <i>The Big Sleep</i> at the other end of the spectrum. Those familiar with Wenders more dreamlike work like <i>Wings of Desire</i> can imagine what his original now lost footage, photography first by Robby Müller (who would later shoot Wenders’ Paris, Texas), and then Philip Lathrop, whose work exists in the final cut just enough to allow him credit for 'other photography'. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="background-color: black;">Coppola wanted a European take on the American mystery, an outsider to look in and bring his own perspective. Ultimately, as far as the producers were concerned, Wenders was obsessed with solving the wrong mystery. As he writes on his official website, “Hammett: detective, writer—this aspect of the character fascinated me. And it was this aspect that blocked the shooting of the film for so long. I wanted to find a balance between the detective story and the story of the writer who begins to confuse reality with fiction.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/tDoSZhYXFHg?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span><br />
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<span lang="EN"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="background-color: black;">Since the DVD is out of print, you can actually watch the whole thing </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/movie?v=tDoSZhYXFHg" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: black;">HERE</span></a><span style="background-color: black;"> for just $1.99</span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-7806088171502493182013-04-30T17:43:00.000-04:002013-05-12T12:53:37.525-04:00BLOOD ON THE MOON (1948)<br />
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<span class="Heading3Char"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://westofriver.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">P</a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://westofriver.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">icture Stolen from <span style="font-size: x-small;">West<span style="font-size: x-small;"> of the River</span></span></a></span></span></span></span></h1>
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<a href="http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/6158/Blood-on-the-Moon/overview" target="_blank"><span lang="EN">The New York Times </span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></a><span lang="EN"><a href="http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/6158/Blood-on-the-Moon/overview" target="_blank">describes</a> <i>Blood on the Moon,</i> “one of the best
"psychological" westerns of the 1940s”. I’ve read this assessment
from other sources as well. While I’ve turned this over and around in my head,
I’m still not quite sure what it means. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Directed by Robert Wise (from an adaptation of
Luke Short’s <i>Gunman’s Chance</i> by Lillie Hayward and Harold Shumate), <i>Blood
on the Moon </i>stars Robert Mitchum as Jim Garry, a lonesome cowboy (and
archetypal “Mitchum Good Guy Role”) who is first introduced to us on horseback
and in the pouring rain, silhouetted against a steel gray sky. Making camp for
the night beneath the shelter of the woods, he’s barely got his boots off
before he has to climb a tree to escape a stampede of cattle. Coming up armed
behind them is cowhand Bart Daniels (<i>Lassie’</i>s Robert Bray), who strongly
suggests that Garry accompany him to his outfit’s camp. There he meets another
pair of rifles, carried by steer boss John Lufton and Cap Willis (Tom Tully (Academy
Award nominee for <i>The Caine Mutiny</i>) and latter-day Ed Wood regular Bud
Osborne). “Make a fella feel right at home, don’t you?” says Garry.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">He learns that Lufton was the main supplier of
beef to the local Indian reservation but has since been kicked out by a new
agent named Pindalest. Coincidentally, a guy name Tate Riling has been bringing
in gunmen to support the local ranchers and homesteaders who sell through
Pindalest. So, pardon the guns but, Lufton tells him, “It’s work for me or keep
on riding.” As Garry is headed to the nearest town, Sundust, he decides on the
latter. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Lufton asks him the favor (and test) of
delivering a note to his “womenfolk” over on his mesa spread along the way.
There, Garry is greeted by Lufton’s younger daughter, Amy (Barbara Bel Geddes),
who shoots at him to keep him from crossing the river. Circling behind her,
Garry uses his own Winchester prowess to dance her back into the water to “cool
off”. Once he delivers Lufton’s note to older daughter Carol, Amy shows up to
give him his own dance lessons. “Guess I deserved that,” Garry says quietly. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Things aren’t any less opaque in Sundust. Upon
arrival, he’s immediately made for a gun hand apparently hired by Lufton in
retaliation. Walking into the saloon, he becomes instantly aware of the
tension. We’ve already been made privy to this because Walter Brennan (as Kris
Barden) is sitting at the card table and he’s wearing his teeth, indicating a
serious turn of events about to take place. Plus, unshaven Milo demands that
one of his compatriots pretend to be Tate Riling, asking. “Want the law to come
in here and find out what we’re doing?” Which isn’t the sort of thing honest
folk would say, cards, teeth or not. Turns out that Tate himself had called for
Garry, and since the two used to be partners, Jim sees through the masquerade
immediately. Before long, people are turning over tables and crashing through
doors. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“Same old Jim,” says Tate, as his old partner
steps out of the shadows. “When lighting strikes, you’re there.” Tate Riling is
a man with big ideas. He’s partnered with Pindalest on a plan to set the
ranchers against Lufton, and since Pindalest has already managed to revoke
Lufton’s passthrough on Indian land, if his herd winds up across the mesa, the
cattle will be seized by the U.S. Army. Faced with the choice of losing the
herd or selling low, Lufton will have no choice but to accept Riling’s
spontaneous offer of $4 per head. After which, Riling and Pindalest will make a
profit after selling Lufton’s herd right back to the Indians. Jim is Riling’s
whole card, and he’s willing to pay $10,000 to put it up his sleeve. “Lufton’s
men are tough and my ranchers aren’t.” </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">While Garry could certainly
use the money, he isn’t keen on getting lumped in with nasty mercenaries like Joe
Shotten (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clifton_Young" title="Clifton Young"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Clifton Young</span></a>, <i>Our Gang</i>’s “Bonedust”)
and Frank Reardon (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Tyler" title="Tom Tyler"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Tom Tyler</span></a>, who appeared as both <i>Captain
Marvel</i> and <i>The Phantom</i> for the Republic and Columbia serials). Since
Riling is played by Robert Preston, he really sells the job to Garry. “Shotten
and Reardon get paid in gold eagles,” he says to Jim. “You get paid in
thousands.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“Yeah,” Garry replies. “The only difference
between us is the price.” </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Now if you couldn’t tell by his second-billing
or his being played by Robert Preston, Tate Riling is a bit of a snake and he’s
playing both sides against the middle. Carol Lufton is in love with him, and
he’s double-talked his way into convincing her that the fight is in her best
interest too. After all, he’ll need money if they’re to get married, and her
father has more than enough to spare. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">The next night, Riling and his men stampede
Lufton’s herd back across the Massacree River, but both sides suffer losses. Bart
is trampled and Bardens son falls off his horse and is dragged to his death.
Lufton’s men remember him as a friend and a “nice boy”. In the morning, Garry
delivers the news to Barden. “Big price to pay for a little bit of graze,” Barden
whispers, then does some shaming: “I signed up with the little ranchers because
I believed their fight was my fight. We ain’t being <i>paid</i> to fight,
mister.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">When Garry has to stop Shotten and Reardon
from gunning Lofton down in the Sundust streets, everything crystalizes for
him. He tries to brush off Amy Lufton’s gratitude—“Don’t let a man’s whim fool
you.”—but he can’t fool himself. Particularly after seeing the delight on
Riling’s face. Knowing Lofton would never do business with him willingly, not
even if forced to by the Army confiscation of his herd, Riling brought Garry in
to intermediate. Now that Jim’s saved the older man’s life, Lufton will be
obliged to work with the scheme. “It’s come all the way back around to here,”
Garry says. “I’ve seen dogs wouldn’t claim you for a son, Tate.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">This magnificently-placed turn of phrase
results in one of the most brutal fist fights the ‘40s have ever seen.
(Possibly not to be rivaled until Richard Conte beats down Lee J. Cobb at the
climax of Jules Dassin’s 1949 <i>Thieves Highway</i>.) The two men pummel each
other with their fists until their knuckles are bloodied and broken. By the
end, the winner can barely stand, dazed, hurt and looking hurt. Which is why
Barden tells the bartender, “Give ‘im a minute,” before escorting him out of
the bar. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">The remainder of the film plays out as most
range-war dramas do. You won’t need a program to know the players or to predict
the outcome. As far as the central story goes, it really is straightforward.
But “psychological”? Well…</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">In 1947, Mitchum starred in an extremely dark
Warner Brothers western titled <i>Pursued</i>, directed by Raoul Walsh with
photography by James Wong Howe. Dark in both shadow and theme, <i>Pursued </i>involves
the sole-survivor of a family massacred by very bad men and his desperation to
avoid them in later life. In many ways, <i>Blood on the Moon </i>is not only
considered to be a thematic follow-up to <i>Pursued</i>, but also RKO’s answer
to the decently-received film. Like Walsh, Robert Wise took a fairly standard
western story and presented it like a <i>film noir, </i>the hardboiled film
genre that was all the rage in Post-War America. The movie is set predominantly
at night, exterior day scenes are sparce and short—and RKO’s cheap
rear-projection of mountain tops on close-up shots add an artificiality to the
daylight. Inside the bars and cabins there are more swaths of shadow than there
are characters. So much of that savage fight between Mitchum and Preston take
place outside of the lantern light, with fists emerging from the black to evoke
hard grunts and cries of pain from the receiver. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Key to <i>Blood on the Moon’</i>s look is
cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca, who sculpted with light and created the
now-legendary fog-thick moods of Val Lewton’s masterpiece productions <i>Stranger
on the Third</i> <i>Floor</i> (1940), <i>Cat People</i> (1942) and <i>The
Seventh Victim</i> (1943), as well as one of the most perfect <i>noir </i>mysteries
ever made, <i>Out of the Past</i>. As per <a href="http://www.filmreference.com/Writers-and-Production-Artists-Me-Ni/Musuraca-Nicholas.html" target="_blank">film historian Eric Schaefer</a>:
“Along with Gregg Toland's work on <i>Citizen Kane</i> , Musuraca's
cinematography for <i>The Stranger on the Third Floor</i> defined the visual
conventions for the film noir and codified the RKO look for the 1940s.
Musuraca's photography begins and ends with shadows, owing a major debt to
German Expressionism, and can be seen as the leading factor in the resurrection
of the style in Hollywood in the 1940s. The dominant tone in his work is black,
a stylistic bias that lent itself to the film noir and the moody horror films
of Val Lewton. But even within the confines of the studio system Musuraca
succeeded in transposing his style to other genres. The western <i>Blood on the
Moon</i> and George Stevens's nostalgic family drama <i>I</i> <i>Remember Mama</i>
are both infused with the same shadowy visuals that Musuraca brought to the
horror film in <i>Cat People</i> and the film noir in <i>The Locket</i> .
Through the conventions of varying genres and the differing requirements of
numerous directors, Musuraca maintained a uniform personal aesthetic.” His
aesthetic has led Schaefer to further consider, <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Nicholas Musuraca's name
remains unjustly obscure among the ranks of cinematographers from Hollywood's
golden age.”</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">At the time, <i>The New York Times</i> wrote,<i>
</i>“Lillie Hayward's screen play, taken from a novel by Luke Short, is solidly
constructed and by not over-emphasizing Jim Garry's inherent honesty, she has
permitted Mr. Mitchum to illuminate a character that is reasonable and most
always interesting.” The review further praises the rest of the cast, but where
Bel Geddes is certainly spunky and atypical of the suffering female of the
range war drama—this role is fulfilled by Phyllis Thaxter as Carol)—Mitchum and
Preston manage to make the most out of what should be stock characters. To take
nothing away from Short’s source novel or Hayward’s adaptation, the actors
sculpt these characters from within. Preston never lets Riling’s malevolence
slip to dastardly. He’s actually a pleasant sort and fairly easy going (until
that “dog” comment). Riling is a man who has a great idea to strike it rich. He
certainly doesn’t want or intend for anyone to get hurt, but if it happens, it
happens. His love affair with Carol is as insincere and transparent as you can
get, but his affection for his former partner is never in question, nor does he
ever imply that Garry’s higher moral character is a sign of weakness or
stupidity. There’s a genuine respect that Riling feels for Jim Garry. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Mitchum, too, carves Garry out of deeds rather
than words. We don’t know much about his past relationship with Tate, but we
don’t have to. The men have a history that doesn’t need to be marred by
hand-holding exposition. “Remember that time we…” The only catching up they do
is to fill in the space between when they weren’t partners to their most recent
meeting, and only then with a handful of words. Indeed, Garry is so
tight-lipped that he doesn’t even let the audience in on whose side he’s on
until he makes up his own mind. He has an altruism that doesn’t feed him during
the lean times and maybe he’s even considered Riling’s Big Idea to be okay so
long as no one really gets hurt. It’s not until Fred Barden and Bart are killed
by actions he’s participated in, that he really starts to see how these things
are fairing. The two actors can be witnessed thinking through their scenes and
their character’s actions, and everything unfolds naturally. When their fight
erupts, it comes with deep resentment, hurt and the need to prevail and make a
point. This isn’t a typical Hollywood dust-up; these men aim to kill each
other. And it’s only through outside intervention that they fail. Maybe this is
the “psychological” part the critics referred to.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">(Brennan, too, has a good turn midway through.
His character Barden is the real deal, a tough bastard who carved his way of
living out of the harshest of environments. He’s no shrinking, cowering townie
from <i>High Noon</i>. When he receives news of his son’s death, you can see
the years of regret and wasted effort welling up behind his words to Garry.
Later, he definitely means it when he says, “I always wanted to shoot one of
ya. And he was the handiest.”)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">While it looks familiar, <i>Blood on the Moon </i>really
is a tough film the chew through, and I don’t mean that disparagingly. It’s
“leisurely pace”—to use the words most often used by its critics—is measured
and steeped with a tension of upcoming violence. You feel it from the opening
shot, before you even know who Jim Garry is, or what he’s doing so far out in
the nothing and in the pouring rain.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Now, the movie is one of those famous
copyright orphans. Having slipped through the legal cracks during RKO’s change
of hands over the years, <i>Blood on the Moon </i>pops up on TCM every now and
then—and before TCM, it was <i>really </i>hard to catch by chance on TV,
believe me, I know—and if you dig deep enough into those 25-movie collections
at the bottom of the Wal-Mart bins, you may find a cheap transfer of the public
domain print, with its snowy “white dirt” noise and scratches that grow into
visibly taped-up tears running through entire shots. Interestingly, the extreme
high contrast of the print actually adds to the western’s <i>noirish</i> feel,
making even the outdoor sequences on the mountains, feel constrained and
claustrophobic. Certainly well worth keeping an eye-out.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN"><a href="http://www.tcm.com/mediaroom/video/12524/Blood-on-the-Moon-Original-Trailer-.html" target="_blank">Visit TCM and check out the film's trailer.</a> </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-11617839925252583272012-12-28T14:25:00.001-05:002012-12-28T14:29:13.508-05:00SWORD OF THE VALIANT (1984)<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://images.moviepostershop.com/sword-of-the-valiant-movie-poster-1984-1020363538.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://images.moviepostershop.com/sword-of-the-valiant-movie-poster-1984-1020363538.jpg" width="414" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">The story of Sir Gawain, the bravest knight of
Camelot, and his encounter as a squire with the mysterious Green Knight is one
of the best-known stories in Arthurian legend. While it appeared in various
forms, its definitive version comes from an unknown 14<sup>th</sup> Century
author (known among academics as the “Pearl Poet” due to North West Midland dialect
idiosyncracies in the stanzas, or more familiarly “The Gawain Poet”--J.R.R. Tolkien was a big fan and contributor to the poem's preservation), who wrote
a long-form poem depicting the young knight’s adventure. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Gawain, a brash and wide-eyed youth, was but a
squire in Arthur’s court on the New Year’s Feast when the Green Knight burst
through the hall’s doors and proposed a wager. Who among them would take the
Knight’s mighty axe, strike a single blow and behead him. The catch? “Should
the power remain in his body” he would deliver a blow in kind within a year and
a day. Bewildered and suspicious of the challenge, the other knights were
hesitant to take up the challenge, but young Gawain, seeing the others injuring
the King’s honor, accepted. But once he delivered the blow, instead of dying
the Knight simply picked up his head, waggled the bloody part at Queen
Guineviere, and told Gawain he would see him at the Green Chamber, the Knight’s
fortress, one year and a day from then. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Instead of mourning his last year, Gawain
decides to seize his remaining time. Rewarded by Arthur of a knighthood, Gawain
set off on grand adventures of chivalry, honor and chastity. At several points
during his wanderings, he finds himself tempted by seductive women,
particularly the wife of a lord who has given him shelter. He rebuffs her three
times and on the last night, she rewards his honor with a gift of a magical
green girdle (or shirt or sash, it varies) that will protect him from harm.
Hedging his bets, Gawain meets with the Green Knight on the appointed time.
However, he flinches before the Knight can deliver his killing blow. Laughing,
the Green Knight reveals himself to be the Lord who gave him shelter, that he
knows Gawain is cheating by wearing the girdle and instead gives the lad a mild
cut on the back of his neck, a reminder of his last-minute cowardice and a
lesson in gallantry to the end. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Ultimately, the whole ordeal is revealed to
have been a trick of Morgan Le Fay, the enchantress and Arthur’s sister, who
wanted to embaress the King and frighten Guineviere. Gawain was just a pawn and
yet emerged a hero despite his failings. </span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN">Sword of the Valiant </span></i><span lang="EN"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is the cinematic retelling of
this classic tale. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Sorta. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.moviepostermem.com/images/products/square/6b474f52-fa7b-4267-97d9-e913218818bc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://www.moviepostermem.com/images/products/square/6b474f52-fa7b-4267-97d9-e913218818bc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN">A pet project of British director Stephen
Weeks, he’d already filmed the tale once before in 1973 with Murray Head as
Gawain, but a dispute between producers and studios hampered production and the
film was never given proper distribution. So when Yoram Globus and Menahem
Golan, the Israeli equivalents of Dino DeLaurentis, offered Weeks the
opportunity to redo the movie, Weeks leapt at the chance. He loaded his cast
with a handful of heavy lifters in British entertainment including <i>Raiders
of the Lost Ark </i>co-star John Rhys-Davies, Peter Cushing in a completely
sitting-down role as the Senechal, veteran character actor Trevor Howard as the
King, and for the coup de gras, superstar Sean Connery (who was filming <i>Never
Say Never Again </i>simultaneously) as the Green Knight. (He’d even managed to
bring back Rhys-Davies’ fellow <i>Raiders </i>allum Ronald Lacey to reprise his
role as the villainous Oswald from the previous incarnation of the film.) And
while he really wanted Mark Hamill to round out the cast as Gawain, Messers
Golan and Globus insisted on another international superstar to play the hero:
Miles O’Keeffe. After his impressive and acclaimed debut in Bo Derek’s <i>Tarzan,
the Ape Man</i>, not to mention all those stellar <i>Ator </i>movies, he was an
obvious slam-dunk to play the role of one of the greatest knights in mythology.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Following the success of John Boorman’s <i>Excalibur</i>,
<i>Sword of the Valiant </i>probably seemed great on paper. And it starts quite
well with Connery’s magnificent entrance astride a white horse, his horned
crown and armor glittering green, he looks magical. Good timing too, since “The
King” (the name “Arthur” is never uttered, nor are any of the be-bearded
knights), has just finished bitching that all his nobles have gone soft after
wretched peacetie has settled over the land. “The Old Year limps to its grave
ashamed,” he says, and demands to see some proof that knightliness exists
within his castle walls. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://s3.amazonaws.com/auteurs_production/images/film/sword-of-the-valiant-the-legend-of-sir-gawain-and-the-green-knight/w448/sword-of-the-valiant-the-legend-of-sir-gawain-and-the-green-knight.jpg?1307876888" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/auteurs_production/images/film/sword-of-the-valiant-the-legend-of-sir-gawain-and-the-green-knight/w448/sword-of-the-valiant-the-legend-of-sir-gawain-and-the-green-knight.jpg?1307876888" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN">Bathed in emerald light, the Green Bond uses
his axe to cut through a helmet, proving its sharpness. “Let any of you take up
my axe and hack the head from my shoulders. One blow only. And if the power be
left in me, I demand the right to deliver a blow in the same manner.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">When no one steps up, the King is about to
accept but squire Gawain leaps to the rescue. He’s knighted on the spot and the
Green Knight laughs. “I ask for a knight but what do I get? A youth that has
not yet earned his beard.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">So Gawain beheads the Knight, a headless
Connery picks up the (lousy animatronic) head and reattachs it (both the
beheading and reheading are achieved by pretty fancy invisible cuts and whip
pans). The Knight grants Gawain his year and even grants him a loophole. Gawain
keeps his head as long as he can solve a riddle:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN">Where life is emptiness, gladness</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN">Where life is darkness, fire</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN">Where life is golden, sorrow</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN">Where life is lost, wisdom</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">(Connery’s horse does not want to stand still
during this poem.) And he tells Gawain to seize his year, “Only fools and
priests squander life by fearing death.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">So off goes Gawain, his new squire, Humphrey (</span><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Leigh Lawson)</span><span lang="EN">,
and his new armor—all of which once belonged to King Maybe-Not-Arthur and
leaves Too-Small-for-Camelot to “seek his beard”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">And oh! The adventures. Ten minutes from the
castle, he requires a church key to remove his codpiece and relieve himself.
And Humphrey just happens to have one. Then he decides to eat a unicorn, since,
being rare and magic, it’ll probably taste better. But that creature
disappears, a tent appears in its place and an Enchantress sends them to Lyonesse,
for no real particular reason. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Gawain defeats the “Guardian of Lyonesse”—a
land in which no man has entered nor cannot leave—leading to a circular logic
that comes from updating medieval texts for the mass market—but after taking
the wounded man back to the town, the dying Guardian points at Gawain and calls
him his murderer. He’s able to escape the angry mob because the beautiful
Linnet (French actress </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cyrielle
Clair clumsily dubbed) gives him a magic ring that lets him disappear but
reveals him to the Eye of Sauron… no, wait, it just makes him disappear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Anyway,
other things happen. He rescues Linnet, then loses her. Then the Green Knight
tells him using magic is cheating and not part of the game. So he gives it up,
meets two of the dwarves from <i>Time Bandits</i> (David Rappaport and Mike
Edmonds), they send him somewhere else, he rescues Linnet again and then loses
her again, this time to the lustful Lord Oswald and his Senechal father (who
wishes to use her to bargain with a rival lord, played by Rhys-Davies doing a
Brian Blessed impression). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Then more
stuff happens. A lot of walking left, then right, particularly in extremely
claustrophopic stone corridors and staircases, which could come from shooting
on location in real castles in Wales and France. He’s involved in numerous
uninspired fights, clunky sword duels and one of the worst-shot battle
sequences in recent memory (involving a cast of dozens!). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Along the
way, Gawain uncovers the mystery of the riddle save the last stanza, earns his
spurs (or beard, once he can grow one) and meets the Knight on the appropriate
day. Only this time, he’s wearing a sash of invincibility that Linnet gave him,
which allows him to cheat again, battle the Knight and finally learn how wisdom
is acquired through loss of life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">And
credits. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Though I
have not yet seen Weeks’ previous incarnation of the story, I’m told that <i>Sir
Gawain and the Green Knight </i>resembles <i>Monty Python and the Holy Grail</i>
in terms of production value. <i>Sword of the Valiant </i>also has much in
common with the quotable Pythonian-Arthurian take, but mostly accidentally.
Everyone in it seems to be having a good time, particularly Connery, but
O’Keeffe is slightly better in motion and silent than he is when having to
deliver lines like, to his torturer, “Does your mother know what you do for a
living?” Much of his delivery is stiff and sore-thumb contemporary. When he’s
not talking, he looks okay in a romance novel-cover type of way, even when he’s
trying not to fall over in his clunky armor (borrowed from Royal National
Theatre and the Old Vic). But even taking that aside—I mean, who goes “Miles
O’Keeffe! What a thespian!”—there are many moments where he cuts an impressive,
knightly figure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Even the
clumsy action and photography can be forgiven, particularly with a modern eye,
as the staging and angles call to mind some of Robert Taylor’s bosoms-and-armor
pics like <i>Knights of the Round Table </i>or even <i>Ivanhoe</i>. They’re
costume dramas and at heart so is <i>Sword of the Valiant</i>. The lame
attempts to modernize the dialogue aside, it’s an earnest attempt at a story of
chivalry, even if most of the source material is jettisoned in favor of
Gawain’s and Linnet’s love story. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">If you
drop all of the niggling faults, there’s an interesting allegory going on under
the surface that actually does call to mind the endless interpretations of the
original poem. Scholars over the years have called <i>Gawain and the Green
Knight </i>a Christ analogy, an early work of feminist literature (due to
Morgan Le Fay calling the shots and even in young Gawain’s passive nature),
even an early look at queer literature (though given the time it was written,
this has been determined to be quite a stretch), due to a subplot in which
Gawain must deliver a kiss to the Lord harboring him. The Green Knight is
usually interpreted as the Green Man of European folklore, the guardian of the
woods and an embodiment of nature. <i>Sword of the Valiant </i>takes this
course as well. While the climactic scene seems rushed (likely due to Connery’s
schedule on the non-Bond Bond movie), as the Green Knight dies from his wound,
his green fades to white and he starts to crumble like snow, leaving the idea
that The Green Knight was Gawain’s entire borrowed year. It’s an interesting
idea and it even allows for a rewatch (which does reveal little hints to this
end throughout), but by this point, you may done the first time through. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">But, wait Mike,
if this movie isn’t all puppies and blowjobs, why bother seeking it out? Good
question, particularly due to the controversy surrounding the domestic DVD
release. For all its missteps, <i>Sword of the Valiant </i>was gorgeously shot
in 2.35:1 widescreen and makes wonderful use of the real locations (in some
scenes anyway). But since it did bupkis at the box office and is pretty much
reviled, the only way to get it is to locate the out of print DVD which, of
course, is in an ugly cable-adapted pan-and-scan version, leaving one to focus
solely on faces and acting. There is a silver lining for collectors with
multi-region players: a 2.35:1 DVD is available as a Polish import and
sometimes that version shows up on YouTube. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">So to
answer my self-posed question: that’s my riddle for you. See you back here in a
year and a day. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-79152120466405308862012-12-18T18:41:00.001-05:002012-12-18T18:47:22.274-05:00THE MADWOMAN OF CHAILLOT (1969)<style>
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<a href="http://img.movieberry.com/static/photos/39051/poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.movieberry.com/static/photos/39051/poster.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN">“This is the story of the triumph of good over evil,” we are told by the opening titles. “Obviously it is a fantasy.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">It is said that Molière and La Fontaine used to frequent the Cafe de l'Alma in the Chaillot district of Paris. But today it is visted by a group of leaders, including The Chairman (Yul Brynner), The General (Paul Henreid), The Commissar (Oskar Homolka), and The Prospector (Donald Pleasence), who privately refers to them as, “Just faceless, ordinary monsters.” Together, they form the Board of Directors of International Substrate, and they have hatched a plan to dig up Paris in order to get to the oil that lies beneath the city. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Now, it is well known that all districts of Paris have their own dotty protectors, the Madwomen, if you will. The titular <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&ved=0CDUQFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.imdb.com%2Ftitle%2Ftt0064621%2F&ei=lPjQUPLQDI_K9QS144FY&usg=AFQjCNHiuNemxQf91o_Liy3AHOrGj8wTww&bvm=bv.1355534169,d.eWU" target="_blank">"Madwoman of Chaillot"</a> is Countess Aurelia (Katharine Hepburn, in her best performance as far as I'm concerned), who prefers to live every day as one specific date. “First, the morning paper. Not these current sheets full of vulgar lies. I always read the Gaulois for March 22, 1919. It’s by far the best. Delightful scandal. Excellent fashion notes. And of course the last-minute bulletin on the death of Leonide Leblanc. She used to live next door. And when I learn of her death every morning it gives me quite a start. To recover from which, Chaillot calls. It is time to dress for my morning walk. That takes much longer without a maid . . .”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">She’s not so mad as to imagine that life really is the same as that one March morning. Time is passing, of course, but it’s not like she has to acknowledge it. “Of course, in the morning it doesn’t always feel so gay. Not when you’re taking your hair out of the dresser and your teeth out of the glass. And particularly if you’ve been dreaming that you’re a little girl on a pony looking for strawberries in the woods. But then comes a letter in the morning mail. One you wrote to yourself, giving your schedule for the day. Then, when I have washed in rosewater and put on my pins, rings, brooches, pearls, necklaces, I’m ready to begin again.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">The Prospector’s son, a radical activist named Rodrick (Richard Chamberlain), brings the Board’s scheme to the attention of the genteel lady, as well as her cadre of peers, including the waitress Irma (Nanette Newman), the Folksinger (Gordon Heath) and her most confident of confidants, the Ragpicker (Danny Kaye). “The world is being taken over by the pimps,” says master Ragpicker. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">The Countess is appalled, “The world is unhappy? Why wasn’t I told?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">So distraught is she by this news of scheming, of men living life as if it was disposable, Countess Aurelia gathers the other Madwomen of the districts—Josephine, the Madwoman of La Concorde (Edith Evans), Constance, the Madwoman of Passy (Margaret Leighton), (Josephine, the Madwoman of La Concorde (Edith Evans), and Gabrielle, the Madwoman of Sulpice (Giulietta Masina). Together with the street people, her people, she desides to hold a trial for these despoilers, in absentia. The rich men and their destructive ways are represented by The Ragpicker. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“Criminals are always represented by their opposites,” assured Josephine, who was to be the judge. The trial was absolutely necessary, for something had to be done. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“If you kill them, they’ll be missed,” protested Constance. “And we’ll be fined. They fine you for every little thing, you know?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">To which the Countess replies, “Do you miss a cold when it’s gone? They’ll never be missed.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Thus, the Ragpicker prepares the case, defending against the charge that he and his ilk worship money. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“Worship money? Me?” says the Ragpicker. “I plead not guilty! I don’t worship money. It’s the other way around. Money worships me. It won’t let me alone. The first time money came to me, I was a mere boy. Untouched. Untainted. It came quite suddenly when I innocently picked a bar of gold bullion out of a garbage can while playing. As you can imagine, I was horrified. I tried swapping it for a little, rundown one-track railroad. To my childish amazement this immediately sold itself for a hundred times its value. I made desperate efforts to get rid of this unwanted wealth. I bought refineries, department stores, every munitions factory I could lay hands on. The rest is history. They stuck to me. They multiplied. And now I am powerless. Everyone knows the poor have no one but themselves to blame for their poverty. But how is it the fault of the rich if they’re rich? Oh, I don’t ask for your pity. All I ask for is a little human understanding.” </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">He continues, “Ah, without money nobody likes or trusts you. But to have money is to be virtuous, beautiful, honest and witty. To have none is to be ugly and boring and stupid and useless.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“One last question,” asks the Countess. “Suppose you find this oil you’re looking for? What will you do with it?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">“I’ll make <i>war</i>! I’ll destroy what remains of the world!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">When the trial concludes the verdict is clear: guilty. But how to carry out the sentence, and what shall the sentence be?</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.impawards.com/1969/posters/madwoman_of_chaillot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://www.impawards.com/1969/posters/madwoman_of_chaillot.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
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<i><span lang="EN">The Madwoman of Challot </span></i><span lang="EN">began life as the play, <i>La Folle de Chaillot</i>, written by acclaimed writer Jean Giraudoux and was first performed in Paris in 1945, a year after his death. In 1949, fellow playwright Maurice Valency adapted the story into English and it was warmly received in the United States. Subsequently, the play was reworked by <i>Inherit the Wind </i>authors Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee (with music and lyrics by Jerry Herman) into the musical <i>Dear World</i>, which won star Angela Lansbury a Tony Award. That same year, 1969, screenwriter, producer and pulp writer (with wife Edith), Edward Anhalt (<i>The Boston Strangler</i>), adapted the Valency script for the big screen, which was directed by Bryan Forbes (<i>Séance on a Wet Afternoon</i>). The film premiered in October, was met with favorable reviews from critics and not-too-shabby attendence, then quietly bowed out of the limelight, fading away with the final breaths of the “Summer (and Autumn) of Love”. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Anhalt’s screenplay adheres closely to Giraudoux’s play and embellishes only where he needs to. Just the same, spending the first act with the odious Board members gets a little tedious. While it is indeed fun to watch Brynner rail against the indignities he must suffer every day when exposed to the world’s rabble, the sequence becomes a slog. After about ten minutes, you’ll catch yourself saying, “I get it. They’re evil, cruel capitalists. What else is new?” But if you can stick with the movie until Hepburn’s marvelous Countess is introduced, the movie becomes a delightful ride from there. Until it slows down again with the introduction of the other Madwomen. Their first scene together unfortunately drags as well, mirroring the Board’s callousness with their own fractured-mirror outlooks on life. But the reward for coming this far is without question Danny Kaye’s moment as the Ragpicker during the trial. Assuming the collective persona of all cruel overseers and misers, the Ragpicker seems to shock himself by the end with the imperious self-righteousness he finds within. It’s a chilling moment of black comedy and the centerpiece of the film (as, I’m sure, it was the centerpiece of the play) and Kaye left me breathless, at least. </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.magcine.valladolidweb.es/especiales/webhepburnk/carteles/peliculas/images/1969%20LA%20LOCA%20DE%20CHAILLOT%20-%20THE%20MADWOMAN%20OF%20CHAILLOT%20-%20%201969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://www.magcine.valladolidweb.es/especiales/webhepburnk/carteles/peliculas/images/1969%20LA%20LOCA%20DE%20CHAILLOT%20-%20THE%20MADWOMAN%20OF%20CHAILLOT%20-%20%201969.jpg" width="271" /></a><span lang="EN"> </span><br />
<span lang="EN">The particulars of <i>The Madwoman of Chaillot </i>are, unfortunately, timeless. The rich will always run roughshod over the poor and life is wasted on the forward-thinkers, only appreciated by the young and the mad. And while the underlying themes are also universal, this particular movie seems more appropriate today than it might have in the post-war Paris of the ‘40s or mid-war America of the late ‘60s. The Madwomen and the street people, including the idealistic Irma and Roderick, could easily fit the mold of the modern “Occupy” movement; the Board of Directors are an easy surrogate for Wall Street and Corporate Culture. As the opening title card points out, almost bitterly, the results are pure fantasy. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">While Anhalt invented scenes involving The Prospector and his son inside their home (where Pleasance’s character collects and displays old bathroom doors, hanging them on the wall as modern art), they wisely resisted the temptation to update the play for modern times. The Café and the Countess’s domiciles exist in stasis, the first eternally quaint and the latter decaying along with its owner’s mental stability, yet still retaining its dignity. Certainly Roderick and the Board members are given a more modern cut of suit, no hippies or swinging Londoners lurk in the background of the frame. The story stays put in its fantasy time period and could be easily trotted out for any generation. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Unfortunately, it really <i>could </i>be applied to any generation, as class warfare is less cyclical than it is a never-ending hypno-spiral. But how lovely would it be if we could just round up our ruthless rulers, bankers, despoilers and pimps and just march them off the end of the Earth? It’s of course an insurmountable solution. The best we can do is get up, dress up in our best, and pick a personal time from our past where life was perfect, without the simple evil of reality shattering our illusions of happiness. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">For therein lies the true tragedy of <i>The Madwoman of Challot</i>: in the end, the Countess’s world has been intruded. Tomorrow may again be March 22, 1919, but it won’t change the fact that yesterday was quite gloomy, cold and hard. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Again, we must bow our head in silent prayer to the <b><a href="http://www.wbshop.com/product/madwoman+of+chaillot+the+1000181549.do" target="_blank">Warner Brothers Archives</a></b> for preserving this handsome oil painting brought to life (thanks to the photography of Burnett Guffey and Claude Renoir). At the moment, it’s available as one of their movie-only standalone DVD-Rs, but it’s better than nothing at all. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Madwoman-of-Chaillot/dp/B000MRBSS4" target="_blank">Amazon also has made it available on their Instant Video Service. </a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">For another take on the story, be sure to check out the <a href="http://www.richardchamberlain.net/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=383&Itemid=37" target="_blank">novelization on Richard Chamberlain’s website</a>.</span></div>
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<a href="http://ferdyonfilms.com/Madwoman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="http://ferdyonfilms.com/Madwoman.jpg" width="640" /></a><a href="http://www.ferdyonfilms.com/2008/the-madwoman-of-chaillot-1969/388/" target="_blank"> </a></div>
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<a href="http://www.ferdyonfilms.com/2008/the-madwoman-of-chaillot-1969/388/" target="_blank">And for another excellent review, head on over to Ferdy on Films.</a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-81145305116961072122012-12-04T19:29:00.003-05:002012-12-04T19:40:15.679-05:00EDDIE PRESLEY (1992)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Nobody in Hollywood is what they are; they’re always something else. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">Waitstaff are actors, security guards are screenwriters, guys who set up shop in diner booths aren’t oddballs, they’re agents. The street dancers, the buskers, the living statues, all living on “donations” from passers-by, they’re all in the business. “You have to remember that show business is all a show and it’s all business,” says Sal-the-Agent (Clu Gulager) to one of his many fresh-off-the-bus prospects. “It’s both a show and a business. I tell all my clients that. I’m an agent but I’m also a professional communicator.”</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">All across the world, people have that famous HOLLYWOOD sign in their eyes, and the sign is surrounded by stars, literally and figuratively. The Muppets called it “The Magic Store”. It’s where dreams come true. Where beautiful girls are discovered at soda fountains. But the further down the hill you get from those famous white letters, more litter is visible, and those names on the stars on the Walk of Fame become less-familiar as you go. The most-devoted can be found hosing condoms off of Ann Sheridan’s star. And, in an image that sums up the primary theme of the film, our title hero brushes cigarette butts of the star belonging to Elvis Presley. Where once were legends, today nobody gives a damn. It’s worse for the has-beens, but not as bad as the never-weres have it. At street level, that dream Hollywood’s been pitching for a hundred years—that anyone with talent and heart can be a star—is as faded and tattered as its namesake boulevard. It’s a town of dreamers and ghosts. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">Eddie Presley (Duane Whitaker) is not just a down-on-his-luck security guard living out of a van parked behind the Frederick’s of Hollywood building. He’s lounge star waiting for his comeback: an Elvis impersonator who got into that game before there was even a demand for it. He played all the big rooms. “Okay,” he amends. “Maybe not the big rooms, but small-to-medium rooms all over the country. All over the <i>country</i>!”</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">In recent days, he pumps his breakfast money into a pay phone to check an empty answering service, stuffs the junk mail in his PO Box into the holes in his shoes. Whatever’s left, he gives to a homeless guy, out of kindness and sympathy, only to have the bum throw it back at him in outrage: “What am I supposed to do with a fucking <i>quarter</i>?”</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">Eddie’s girlfriend (Stacie Randall billed here as Stacie Bourgeois), who goes by the stage name of Tyranny, works double and triple-shifts as a diner waitress. Everyday she dodges the regular human debris—a goggle-eyed maybe-biker, maybe-skin head named Ace; Sal the Agent set up in his office in his regular booth, taking calls on the diner’s payphone. On her breaks, she sits with a lesbian friend (Julie Rhode-Browne ) who is trying to convince her to “make her start” in porn. “A lot of actresses do it that way,” she insists. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">To make ends get slightly closer every month, Eddie works graveyard security shifts at a warehouse, but the supervisor has it in for him. He’s already on probation for taking a shower on the job at 2am. For the most part, his co-workers like him, particularly female guard Becky, who practically throws herself at him, though he barely notices. Eddie’s too preoccupied with a call that never seems to come, something that will usher in his comeback Elvis act. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Eddie’s dying for that call, a little more every day. His old friend owns a club called “Doc’s Back Door”, and he’s always looking for new acts. Doc spends his days auditioning an endless parade of hopefuls alongside his even more critical Mexican bartender, Smokey. First there’s the horrible ventriloquist who berates the dummy when the lines don’t come out right. There’s the performance artist whose schtick involves a cockroach representing Iraq and a knock-off brand of RAID representing U.S. involvement.<span class="Heading3Char"><span lang="EN"> </span></span> (Doc: “You get out of here, you commie bastard! We kicked ass in the Gulf!”) The only act Smokey likes is a shock comic (played by Tim Thomerson—“I went to a very sexually-liberated college. It was called ‘Fuck U’!” (“Hey, I do some clean material, too. I once opened for the Cowsills.”) The only act Doc likes is a smarmy cruise liner agent named “Keystone the Magnificent” (played by Daniel Roebuck)—“I taught Doug Henning my best stuff. He stole ‘em, that bastard!”
<span lang="EN"> </span> </span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">Meanwhile, Tyranny’s own bitter frustration—“Serving shit food to shit people all day long!”—is sucking him dry. “My life is out of synch,” she tells him. Becky shows her interest in him by trying to relate to his act: “I’m a singer. Kind of an easy-listening type,” she says. “Maybe I could be your… backup singer?” At the end of a long day, Eddie doses off at work and Supervisor West (Lawrence Tierney) captures the moment on Polaroid. And why the cruelty from him? “Because I don’t like you, Presley! You’re one of those wanna-be Hollywood faggots. You’re a loser and you’ll always be a loser.” Maybe West had a dream deferred himself some time ago, so he does his best to revenge it by stomping upon the dreams of everyone around him, even those just trying to get by. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">When Eddie finally gets that call from Doc (the wonderful Roscoe Lee Browne), his security guard buddies couldn’t be more supportive. Nick and Scooter (Willard Pugh and Ted Raimi) raise money to get him a stretch limo for the big night. Becky plans to get all dolled up for the occasion. The humiliation continues to pile up, though. He hands Sid his mock-up flier, invites him to the show, only to have to ask for it back so he can make copies. Tyranny can’t get off work and won’t be there. His dry cleaner agrees to come so long as he can get in for free. Worst of all, he’s billed beneath Keystone on the slap-dash marquee. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">Then comes the big night and out comes Eddie Presley—King of the Kings—opening with a Southern medley and <i>killing</i>. Then the club’s cassette player eats his back-up music tape. At a loss, on the verge of panic, Eddie sits down with his accoustic guitar and opens up to his dwindling single-digit audience, and he lays bare the story that up until now we’ve only gotten glimpses of: a son he never sees, a business he no longer owns, a nightmare asylum where he lived after hearing the news that his hero—his <i>Messiah—</i>died in 1977. On stage, Eddie Presley becomes who he really is. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">And anyone who has ever undertaken some sort of public art—musical performance, art installation, stand-up, film screening, play premiere—will for a few minutes share that space with Eddie. Anyone who has ever given voice to their art to a near-empty room, leaning solely on the support of the handful of family or friends who have come out of whatever—respect, love, pity—you’ll recognize that lonely spotlight and the agony of never giving up and never knowing why. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">Whitaker opened up his original one-man play with director Jeff Burr to create this tone poem ode to disappointment. Described by <a href="http://wiki.tarantino.info/index.php/Eddie_Presley_DVD_review" target="_blank">The Quentin Tarantino Archives</a> as “the story of a man who didn't make it back up after he fell down”, <i>Eddie Presley </i>is about the potential danger of following your dreams without a plan. By his own admission, Eddie gave up his family and lucrative career because he “wasn’t happy”, and took that unhappiness to its most illogical of conclusions. But since Hollywood is filled with the shattered remains of ill-conceived dreams, he’s lonely but never alone. His tunnel-vision is no different from anyone elses “out there”, which is why he focuses on his distant girlfriend with “attainable beauty” and cannot see the genuine affection his plain “friend” Becky has for him. He sees just how empty Doc’s room is during his act, but doesn’t really see the standing ovation he gets from two friends. Raimi and Pugh give beautiful if wordless performances as they watch Eddie on stage—in their eyes, he is living a dream they don’t dare pursue. </span>
<span lang="EN">So many people around Eddie call him a loser behind his back but who are they to judge? Who is Sid the Agent who “handled them all” (from Freddie Bartholomew to Anne Francis)? Who is Keystone the Magnificent who sets his glove on fire on stage and gets savaged by the rabbit within his hat? Who is Smokey the bartender to have such disdain towards those, in his vast esteem, “suck”? Indeed, who are any of us to judge anyone following their dreams, however misguided they may be? The irony in the film is that Eddie, like Rupert Pupkin or Mickey One, is actually a pretty good performer, but the fates are not on his side. Kim Kardashian has never done one thing of note during her entirety of her existence, but she stands far above this broken dreamer alone on a dive-bar stage. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">You don’t need a Ph.D. in Jeff Burr to be able to see <i>Eddie Presley </i>for the personal project that it is. First came Whitaker’s play, where he poured out his own personal pain. Then Burr’s adaptation, which came on the heels of a creatively-disappointing string of franchise sequels—<i>The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Stepfather 2</i>—where he had no control over the final cut nor the wishes of those “suits” above him. “[<i>The Offspring, Straight into Darkness </i>and <i>Eddie Presley</i>] are more representative of what I want to do and am capable of doing,” Burr told <a href="http://www.iconsoffright.com/IV_Burr.htm" target="_blank">Icons of Fright</a>. “The frustration for me is to not be able to be allowed to put the creativity you know you have on the screen, for various reasons. That’s the frustration.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.peacheschrist.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/eddie-presley-outtakes-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.peacheschrist.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/eddie-presley-outtakes-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN" style="font-weight: normal; text-transform: none;">But with all the pathos and desperation in the movie, you can tell from the cast how much the principal creators were and are. Browne, Tierney, Gulagher, Thomerson, Roebuck, Raimi, Kitten Natividad—even very brief cameos by Bruce Campbell and soon-to-be-legend Quentin Tarantino—all appeared for very little money. Michael Varrati (<a href="http://www.peacheschrist.com/?p=9943" target="_blank">Master of the Massacre: An Interview with Filmmaker Jeff Burr</a> </span><span lang="EN" style="font-weight: normal; text-transform: none;">) asserts that Burr “somehow managed to put together this “Ocean’s 11 of cult” ensemble”, to help Burr and Whitaker get their 16mm epic off the ground. and at no point does the story take the easy way out. you know very well that at the end of his performance, Eddie’s existence will probably not change. there won’t be a rush of agents or even a steady gig to come of it all.</span><span lang="EN" style="text-transform: none;"> </span><span lang="EN" style="font-weight: normal; text-transform: none;">But that time in the spotlight may very well have been worth it all in the long run. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">Bill Gibron, a critic I respect immensely, <a href="http://www.dvdverdict.com/reviews/eddiepresley.php" target="_blank">wrote in his review</a>, “</span><i><span lang="EN">Eddie</span></i><span lang="EN"> never really gets a transcendent moment, a chance for the film to combine its incredible elements to lift you out of the story and into something more special. We keep waiting for it to come and it never quite does. The movie pushes it, though. It comes awful goddamn close, so close in fact that you could get confused and claim to experience the inspirational, when in reality it was all a ruse, a cinematic sham caused with jumpsuits and jokes. Indeed, what </span><i><span lang="EN">Eddie Presley</span></i><span lang="EN"> may need is more proof of our hero's music and mimicry.”</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It’s a valid criticism, but it’s not one that I share. To tip its hand and show Eddie as a competent Elvis would have undercut the film’s third act punch (and just because I’ve told you about it won’t lessen the squeeze upon your heart during viewing) With <i>Eddie Presley </i>you have a movie that, like the dead talent on the Walk of Fame, you don’t see much of these days. And to give Eddie’s story a moment of inspiration would be grossly disingenuous. This isn’t a larger-than-life story; it’s one that’s actual size, far too intimate for gross grandeur. It’s a story that’s sensitive without sentiment; cynical without cruelty. Even though it’s set in Hollywood, don’t expect a Hollywood ending. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/2Li6IgItYmM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: large;">[Special note for Pittsburghers: <i>Eddie Presley </i>is playing on a double-bill with Henrique Couto's <i>Depression: The Movie</i>, Friday, December 7 starting at 7pm at the <a href="http://www.thehollywooddormont.org/" target="_blank">Hollywood Theater in Dormont</a>.] </span> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-23863928272313436892012-11-28T18:15:00.002-05:002012-11-28T20:35:30.383-05:00DUST UP (2012)<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.ruthvaca.com/wp-content/uploads/wppa/31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://www.ruthvaca.com/wp-content/uploads/wppa/31.jpg" width="430" /></a>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">In 2008, Roger Ebert wrote a piece for his
SunTimes blog titled, “<a href="http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2008/09/this_is_the_dawning_of_the_age.html" target="_blank">This is the dawning of the Age of Credulity</a>”, in which
he relates a conversation he had with <i>Taxi Driver </i>author Paul Schrader. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He told me that after <i>Pulp Fiction</i>, we
were leaving an existential age and entering an age of irony. ‘The existential
dilemma,’ he said, ‘is, 'should I live?' And the ironic answer is, 'does it
matter?' Everything in the ironic world has quotation marks around it. You
don't actually kill somebody; you 'kill' them. It doesn't really matter if you
put the baby in front of the runaway car because it's only a 'baby' and it's
only a 'car'.’ In other words, the scene isn't about the baby. The scene is
about scenes about babies.”</span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Which I feel was more than adequately boiled
down by Rene Magritte in his painting, <i>The Treachery of Images</i> (<i>La
trahison des images</i>, 1928–29), a painting of a pipe which he captions,
"Ceci n'est pas une pipe": “This is not a pipe.” And it isn’t. It’s a
painting of a pipe. “The famous pipe,” Magritte lamented. “How people
reproached me for it! And yet, could you stuff my pipe? No, it's just a representation,
is it not? So if I had written on my picture "This is a pipe," I'd
have been lying!” </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="citation"><span lang="EN">(<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treachery_of_Images" target="_blank">Torczyner, Harry. </a></span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treachery_of_Images" target="_blank"><span class="citation"><i><span lang="EN">Magritte: Ideas and Images</span></i></span><span class="citation"><span lang="EN">. p. 71.)</span></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/b/b9/MagrittePipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/b/b9/MagrittePipe.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN">Taking this all further, Ebert noted about the
cinematic culture around him, “We may be leaving an age of irony and entering
an age of credulity. In a time of shortened attention spans and instant
gratification, trained by web surfing and movies with an average shot length of
seconds, we absorb rather than contemplate. We want to gobble all the food on
the plate, instead of considering each bite. We accept rather than select.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Modern movies, from this point of view, are
neither self-contained nor created in a vaccuum. Every movie is made of
particles from other movies. “Homage” has moved beyond the in-joke, background
detail or set-piece and into literal and thematic presentation. So much of this
is personified by Quentin Tarantino and his contemporaries. They’re not making
movies, they’re making their versions of movies that had come before. “I told
Robert [Rodriguez], ‘You made your <i>Fistful of Dollars </i>with <i>El
Mariachi</i>, now’s the time to make your epic, your <i>Once Upon a Time in the
West</i>”, sez the world’s most successful fanboy on the audio commentary for <i>Once
Upon a Time in Mexico</i>. It’s like the self-referential humor of <i>The
Family Guy</i>: “That’s funny because I get it.” <i>The Inglorious Basterds </i>was
neither a remake of <i>The Inglorious Bastards</i> nor simply a World War II
adventure, but it was <i>Tarantino’s WWII movie</i>. Coming up is Tarantino’s
spaghetti western, <i>Django Unchained</i>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">For better or worse, we’re slowly coming out
of the age of irony and/or credulity because the most recent crop of
movie-goers, including but not limited to the Twi-hards, are simply unaware of
what came before, so every movie cliché is new to them. I remember a <i>Twilight
</i>fan swooning over Edward because, “When he says cheesy stuff, it’s sincere
because he doesn’t know it’s cheesy!” And thus we get <i>Total Recall </i>for
this generation, <i>Red Dawn </i>for this generation. And this generation
doesn’t know that they’re cheesy retreads, thus, they’re sincere. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">All of this is a backhanded way of introducing
Ward Roberts new film, <b><a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&ved=0CDEQFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fdustupfilm.com%2F&ei=_Zm2UKjjGOa02AWt1oHgBg&usg=AFQjCNH0ehsjxX-SoGZJ_7jQ8jqM8bSdAw" target="_blank"><i>Dust Up</i></a></b>, because it lands somewhere between
ironic and post-ironic. Produced through his <a href="http://www.drexelbox.com/" target="_blank">Drexel Box</a> production house, <i>Dust
Up </i>at first glance is a loving send-up of ‘70s exploitation, the
“grindhouse” genre that is all the rage. Ironic because it takes the
market-driven selling points of gratuitous sex, violence and mayhem and
embraces them. Post-Ironic because it takes the most ludicrous of these
elements to their logical conclusion. And post-credulous because it does it
with sincerity, honesty and a passion for all of the sources that came before
it. And in the end, <i>Dust Up </i>is not “Ward Roberts’ exploitation movie”; <i>Dust
Up </i>is Ward Roberts’ <i>Dust Up</i>. It takes all the other-movie particles
and molds them into something from his point of view and his sensibilities, and
those of his collaborators, and makes something that’s both familiar and
outrageous at the same time, but never seems derivative. It’s a balancing act
to be sure, and on either side of the tightrope lies disaster. Fortunately,
Roberts and company manage the middle walk very well. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN">Dust Up </span></i><span lang="EN">is about
the accidental—if not destined—collision of five people. New mom Ella and her
junkie husband Herman, and two opposing forces: the stoic and enigmatic
peaceful warrior Jack (Aaron Gaffney) and his Indian sidekick Mo (Devin Barry) on
one end; the twisted and gleefully evil narcissistic personality Buzz on the
other. Jack wears an eyepatch, a constant reminder of a tortured past as a
violent soldier; Mo wears a Jay Silverheels outfit and yellow-striped tube
socks, to both honor and mock his Native American forebears who have gotten
rich and fat off of casino living. Buzz (Jeremiah Birkett) ingests chemicals,
tortures people and declares everything to be his: “This is MY house. The House
of Buzz. In the Land of Buzz. In the <i>Time </i>of Buzz.” </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJR4XDPGyC1kYYeripKoSVBmoql1HpKrIXo2QzeG-_w05cOiq9OiQ_aaJTBX42YJ17MdCEFckVyu39SZ583wDCbSeAzsVOrHp5C8oFFaJsRLbKv-qBxh3EmBpBHQgWw3LcXiQQ2ml72E/s1600/dust_up_shot2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJR4XDPGyC1kYYeripKoSVBmoql1HpKrIXo2QzeG-_w05cOiq9OiQ_aaJTBX42YJ17MdCEFckVyu39SZ583wDCbSeAzsVOrHp5C8oFFaJsRLbKv-qBxh3EmBpBHQgWw3LcXiQQ2ml72E/s400/dust_up_shot2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Ella (Amber Benson) is a young mother living
in a house with severe plumbing problems. Her husband Herman (fellow filmmaker
Travis Betz), a roadie for Hoobastank (of all things), went a little loopy
after the birth of their daughter, Lucy, and is now holed up at Buzz’s in a
drug-induced, debt-heavy sabattacal. In need of clean water, Ella picks Jack’s
name out of the phone book—the way of this peaceful warrior is that of the
handyman. This is before Ella learns of her deadbeat spouse’s debt to
psychopath, Buzz. Actually, Buzz is much more than a psychopath, more than a
sociopath. He’s a charismatic, amoral, self-affirming bar owner-cum-cult leader
who promises those he doesn’t like—or happens to notice—with death via
dismantling at the hands of his chief thug, Mr. Lizard. What’s more amoral than
a sociopath? An <i>anthropath</i>, perhaps? Whatever, you don’t want to owe
money to Buzz. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">You know what annoys Buzz more than being owed
money? Owing money to someone else. In this case, the corrupt, racist Sherriff
Haggler (<i>The Hills Have Eyes</i> remake’s Ezra Buzzington), who wants his
payoff and demands it in a most demeaning fashion. The laws of physics dictate
that shit rolls downhill, to Buzz calls in poor Herman’s marker, gives him 24
hours to get the money and then has Mr. Lizard eject him from the bar in a most
unfriendly fashion. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Over the course of a few scenes, Jack becomes
involved in Herman’s plight because it has become Ella’s plight. Jack is cut
from the same cloth as most wayward heroes on the path of
redemption—particularly <i>Shane</i>, <a href="http://dailygrindhouse.com/thewire/interview-with-dust-up-director-ward-roberts/?fb_action_ids=10151126249441921&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_source=aggregation&fb_aggregation_id=246965925417366" target="_blank">according to an interview with Roberts at the Daily Grindhouse</a>—so he isn’t likely to leave a damsel in distress. Before
you jump to conclusions, he’s doing this out of pure spirit. Yes, Herman is a
junkie, a bad husband, irresponsible, lazy, most likely unwashed and very much
an ungrateful jerk, but these facts aren’t lost on anybody. The deeper he drags
Jack (and Mo) into his pit of karmic despair, the more everyone—even
Buzz!—questions why they’re bothering to help him out at all. The lesson to be
taken away is if you’re going to be a selfish schlep of a person, you’d better
have a pretty and capable wife and an adorable baby at home. Otherwise even
Mother Theresa would be inclined to throw you to the wolves. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://horrornews.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/Dustup-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="http://horrornews.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/Dustup-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">As can be expected, things spiral out of
control, epically and apocalyptically. Jack attempts to make good on Herman’s
debt by lending him half of the money he owes Buzz in a show of good faith, but
Buzz isn’t one to focus on problem-solving. In a matter of minutes, the casual
morning meeting results in Buzz accidentally blowing up his bar—it’s a Rube
Goldberg-esque chain of cause and effect, but the end result is that Buzz
accidentally shoots one of his meth chemists mid-cook and, as we all know, meth
is a most volatile and tempermental chemical potion. Emotionally, it’s the
fourteen-year-old-girl of drugs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">The rest of the film could be titled “Buzz’s
Bad Day”, as he punishes everyone in his path for his own misfortune. He and
reason aren’t even in the same time zone, and if you’re wondering if depravity
has a baseline, as far as Buzz goes, the answer is ‘no’. He does know how to
whip up a freak frenzy. Unfortunately, he doesn’t choose his followers wisely.
Drug-addled desert-scum aren’t known for their stamina, no matter how many
barbecued human bodies they’re fed. This is best demonstrated when Buzz
declares, “It’s orgy time!” and receives the same dismayed reaction as if he’d
announced a pop quiz. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ctnM2QdcHdsVxMYB1ZqLc3SLFOYxQocpiJWujHEb5ndqFjl9iGwFKxKskACdYKqE3UmXUWe5-7y7vfhRt5jeR5tk6336MBHc3TVp5i7FK3bUxxD2ZY99wjQdqBfhUxSdtNwW0IJsNfna/s1600/dust_up%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ctnM2QdcHdsVxMYB1ZqLc3SLFOYxQocpiJWujHEb5ndqFjl9iGwFKxKskACdYKqE3UmXUWe5-7y7vfhRt5jeR5tk6336MBHc3TVp5i7FK3bUxxD2ZY99wjQdqBfhUxSdtNwW0IJsNfna/s400/dust_up%5B1%5D.jpg" width="308" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN">Dust Up </span></i><span lang="EN">was
obviously crafted to be a fun time for all, and it’s one of the rare movies,
indie or otherwise, that is as much fun to watch as apparently it was to make.
Behind it all are smart filmmakers who know which conventions to turn on their
heads and which ones to embrace. As wacky as <i>Dust Up </i>is it never once
tries to act like it’s better than either the genre or its audience. Unlike
recent “grindhouse” movies like <i>Hobo with a Shotgun</i>, <i>Dust Up </i>wasn’t
designed as a party tray of excess and nihilism. It asks you to care about its
characters and then gives you characters to care about. Every one of the actors
is pitch-perfect in their performances so it’s hard to single any one out.
Gaffney’s a terrific hero archetype, violently opposed to violence lik Billy
Jack, but with the smooth vocal tones of Joel McCrea. Barry brings just enough
dry wit to Mo to comment on the insanity of things—even his own actions—without
becoming hipster about it all. As Herman, Travis Betz—whose amazing allegorical
demon cabaret, <i><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhFsK7e8wUo" target="_blank">Lo</a></b> </i>(starring Birkett as the title character), introduced me to the majority of the versatile
cast—gives the jerk of a catalyst an affability that earns a little bit of
redemption at the end. Birkett doesn’t so much steal every scene he’s in as he
attempts to corner the market on it. Buzz could all too easily be a cartoon
villain, the word “Evil” given bushy eyebrows and pop eyeballs, but Birkett
hints at a humanity buried deep beneath the viciousness and drug-induced
paranoia. Both he and Jack project a loneliness and sense of loss, making them
each other’s dark mirror. Perhaps the hardest job was placed on Benson’s
shoulders. The filmmaker/author has the dubious honor of portraying the lone
sane person in this sea of multi-colored insanity. Like Bob Newhart in all
incarnations, she’s the only rational one in the room at any given time, and
she does it with a sense of humor that anchors all the madness together. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Roberts, Betz and Benson not only love film
but understand it as well, as they’ve proven through this movie and previous
offerings like Betz’s <i>Joshua </i>and Benson’s <i><b><a href="http://movieoutlaw.blogspot.com/2011/10/drones-2010.html" target="_blank">Drones</a></b> </i>(which she
co-wrote and directed with Adam Busch). They’re not into the popular mash-ups
of movie iconography and theme so much as they are into creating new forms from
previously-used clay. As far as <i>Dust Up </i>goes, Roberts has taken the
history of movies he loves and built upon it, rather than attempt to reflect it
in some mirror he fractured himself. The result is both familiar to those who
know the territory and unique at the same time. A ‘70s sex ‘n death-fest with
an altruistic attitude taken from Howard Hawks westerns. A salute to what came
before even as it moves forward. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">As the saying goes, “This is <i>Dust Up</i>.
There are others like it, but this one is…” Roberts’, Drexel Box’s, and now
ours. </span></div><center><iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/7mUec7marG8" width="560"></iframe></center>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-5314923760766224152012-11-27T19:10:00.002-05:002012-11-28T20:34:31.388-05:00KILLER JOE (2012)<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://behance.vo.llnwd.net/profiles21/939550/projects/4037639/dfc4b83b5c93b3fb0032a031183bdc81.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://behance.vo.llnwd.net/profiles21/939550/projects/4037639/dfc4b83b5c93b3fb0032a031183bdc81.jpg" width="480" /></a>
</div><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">One of the most difficult things to learn as a critic of
any kind is objectivity. Most critics fall victim to their own preconceived
notions at some point in their careers. In many cases, it’s because the movie
they watched isn’t the movie they expected to see. The most blatant example
I’ve ever seen was from a reviewer who gave the low-budget indie adventure <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0360903/" target="_blank">Project:Valkyrie</a> </i>a lousy rating because he, for whatever reason, expected giant
fighting robots in the movie, instead of the lone man-sized one that was
actually in the film. <span style="font-size: x-small;">(Above image found at <a href="http://www.behance.net/gallery/Killer-Joe-typography-and-poster-concept/4037639">http://www.behance.net/gallery/Killer-Joe-typography-and-poster-concept/4037639</a>)</span></span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">In a perfect world, all critics would approach every piece
of art with an open mind, judging it only against itself in terms of success or
failure. But since critics are human beings, and our knowledge is based on past
experiences, that approach will never happen, so we have to rely on
intellectual filters to avoid bias. If, as a critic, one can attain
self-awareness and avoid self-righteousness, then your reviews will reflect
fact and opinion honestly.</span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Obviously, this isn’t just the failing of critics. Everyone
dislikes at least one movie for not being what they expected. I’m just as
guilty as anyone. I did not review Cronenberg’s <i>History of Violence </i>when
it was released, not because it departed so radically from the graphic novel it
adapted, but because it went in a third direction I didn’t anticipate. I wasn’t
expecting David Cronenberg, of all artists, to take the storyline into familiar
action movie territory. Because the movie didn’t live up to my ill-conceived
expectations, I felt resentful towards it for some time. (Maybe I should be
proud of myself for not expressing those feelings in print, instead of the
more-reasonable reaction of being disgusted with myself for setting my own
trap.)</span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Fortunately, I knew going into it that I was going to be
biased, both pro and con, towards <i>Killer Joe. </i>First, I was already
pre-disposed to liking it because of director William Friedkin’s first
adaptation of a grim Tracy Letts’ play, <i>Bug. Bug </i>was my intro to Letts’
surreal Southern Gothic gallows humor and <i>Killer Joe </i>is the only of his
plays I’ve seen performed live. It’s a violent, crass and grotesquely funny
slice-of-horror involving a white trash family and a hired killer. People are
violently assaulted and bloodily murdered on stage throughout the course of the
film (effects in this case courtesy of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1584730/" target="_blank"><i>A Far Cry From Home</i>’</a>s Benzy).
There’s also a better-than-fair amount of nudity in the play, made much more
graphic by my position in the front row, about a foot or so from the stage.
Plus, these were local actors who I knew for the most part and, considering the
play opens with the lead actress bare from the waist-down, again, a little over
a foot from my face, it’s hard not to get involved. The second act opens with
the titular character, a corrupt Dallas police detective, completely nude, feet
from my face, and during which time seemed to slow down to eternity (again,
small theater).</span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.pghcitypaper.com/binary/a996/26_play1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="http://www.pghcitypaper.com/binary/a996/26_play1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">[From the <a href="http://www.pghcitypaper.com/pittsburgh/killer-joe/Content?oid=1343962" target="_blank">Pittsburgh City P</a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.pghcitypaper.com/pittsburgh/killer-joe/Content?oid=1343962" target="_blank">aper</a>: </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">in background, from left) John Gresh,
Lissa Brennan, John Steffanauer </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">and <b>Hayley Nielsen</b>, and (foreground)
Patrick Jordan in </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">barebones productions' <i>Killer Joe</i>.<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo by </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ilya Goldin.]
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span> I was blown away by Letts’ script, shocked by the violence
(I dodged a flying chicken leg during the climax), and astounded by several of
the performances. In particular, I was struck by Haley Nielsen, who played the
family’s possibly brain damaged pseudo-Lolita, Dottie. Dottie sleepwalks and
sleeptalks, says odd things at inopportune times and appears almost psychic at
others. She’s damaged and fragile and is the audience’s anchor to the
story—even if you couldn’t care about the other characters, doomed and damned
by their own bad decisions, you want to see that Dottie is safe in the end.
Nielsen, a local actress I wasn’t familiar and thus wasn’t saddled with any of
my personal baggage, performed Dottie with a far-away, almost ethereal quality,
fully aware of what was happening, yet at the same time far-removed and
emotionally stunted. Dottie is the key character in <i>Killer Joe</i>, all of
the action revolves around her to some degree, and I think any performance of
the play would hinge on the actress playing her. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">So, as a fan of the play, I was simulataneously excited and
trepidatious about a film adaptation. Given Friedkin as a director, I figured
the story was in good hands, particularly with Letts adapting his own script
for screen. Because Billy F. never struck me as a guy who particularly gave a
shit about mainstream success, I figured all the violence and sex would remain
intact. My biggest fear, though, was not who would play Joe but Dottie.
Friedkin could stick Adam Sandler in the title role and still pull off a good
movie. But Dottie… no Hollywood actress even came to mind. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.spectacularoptical.ca/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/killer-joe-poster-neil-cook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="454" src="http://www.spectacularoptical.ca/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/killer-joe-poster-neil-cook.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">[Image found at <a href="http://www.spectacularoptical.ca/">http://www.spectacularoptical.ca</a><span style="font-size: x-small;">]</span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Just like the play, <i>Killer Joe</i> begins with Chris (Emile
Hirsch) banging on his father’s trailer door, begging to be let in. He is
answered by his stepmother, Sharla (Gina Gershon)—she’s naked from the
waist-down and her crotch is in his direct line-of-sight. This is how both
Letts and Friedkin establish the sophistication of the crowd. “You answer the
door like that?” Chris demands. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">To which Sharla replies, “Shut up—I didn’t know it was
you!”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">“Class” is not an issue with these people. So it comes as
no surprise that Chris is in debt to drug dealers and wants to hire someone to
kill his birth mother for $50K worth of insurance money. It’s less of a
surprise when his wet-brain father, Ansel (Thomas Hayden Church), less than a
generation older than his son, puts up little argument against the plan.
Somebody told Chris “about a guy” who does murder-for-hire, Dallas cop Joe
Campbell (Matthew McConaughey), aka “Killer Joe”, and Chris figures that the
guy might be charitable enough to do the job on spec and take a cut of the
insurance money after. But Joe isn’t the kind of guy to give away murder
services and demands twenty-five grand up front, non-negotiable. The story
might have ended there, with the Smith family returning to their no-class
hovel, if it weren’t for Dottie (Juno Temple). As a baby, Dottie’s mother tried
to suffocate her with a pillow because “she was young and didn’t want to give
up her life.” It didn’t work, obviously—Dottie just “wasn’t” for a short
while—and returned to the land of the living as a constant disappointment. When
Joe asks Dottie how she knows this happened, being an infant and all, Dottie
replies, “I remember it.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Dottie is part of the family without serving any specific
function. Ansel treats her like a little girl; to Chris, she’s the only shred
of anything good; to Sharla, she’s just around, to make dinner or run errands.
Emotionally, Dottie is twelve and no one does anything to help her mature. The
only giveaway that she’s older is her body and her unconsciously-hyper
sexuality, which disturbs Chris’ dreams and enchants Joe. Joe agrees to do the
job as long as Dottie is his “retainer”. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Joe and Dottie’s “first date” starts off uncomfortable
enough. She rebels at wearing a cocktail dress and is sobbing when Joe arrives.
He speaks kindly to her, but matter-of-factly, without condescension, without
walking on egg shells around her. Midway through their meal, he puts an end to
her incessant absent-minded and skittish babbling by having her stand up,
remove her clothes and put on the dress for him. As in the play, this is an
electrically creepy moment but for completely different reasons. On stage,
Nielsen stripped in front of Joe and, thus, in front of the entire audience,
rendering herself completely vulnerable and not just to him, but to the
audience. It’s meant to draw forth instinctual protectiveness from everyone
watching, accentuating that Joe is a predator. But in the film, Friedkin stages
the action in a single shot where Joe stands with his back to Dottie as she
changes. The camera doesn’t focus on her nudity but it doesn’t shy from it
either. What we focus on, then, is a similar transition in Joe’s character, but
one with far more menace. Never once does he face her, and barely looks at her
even when he moves her in front of him, and instead keeps his eyes on some
faraway spot on the ceiling. “How old are you right now?” he asks. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">“Twelve.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">“So am I.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">By now if you’re expecting any kind of happy ending, I wish
I could live a day inside your mind. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">The underlying violence begins to ripple forth at this
point, as Joe installs himself in the family’s trailer and their life. Chris’s
sense of morality keeps butting up with his instinct for survival and he
continually flip-flops over the plan—kill her, Joe; don’t kill her, Joe—and
then he focusses purely on rescuing Dottie, who at this point may not even need
to be rescued. But since Chris hasn’t made a single winning move since the film
started, the outcome, to quote the Magic 8 Ball, “is doubtful”. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Friedkin plays Letts for all its worth, squeezing every
drop of amorality and depravity onto the screen. Even if you know all the beats
of the story, the violent beats are still shocks of cold water. And everyone in
the film holds their own. Matthew McConaughy is a stand-out as the cold-blooded
Joe, who is sweapt out to sea by the dotty Dottie. There is a moment, after
Sharla has been beaten and humiliated, where the camera stays in tight close-up
on Gina Gershon’s face and you know she’s never been better. Emile Hirsch as
Chris and Thomas Hayden Church as Ansel keep our sympathies in the air like a
heated game of volleyball. None of the Smiths are remotely bright; their
desperation drives their mundane existences and there’s no real loyalty lost
between them. It’s almost too easy for a reptile like Joe to slide in and
dominate them all, especially when they think they can use chest-beating to
gain the upper hand. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">So it all comes down to Juno Temple as Dottie. Not an
illogical choice, given her impressive performance in <i>Atonement</i>. (Hey,
it got her into four collective minutes of <i>The Dark Knight Rises</i>.) In <i>Killer
Joe</i>, she is uninhibited and unashamed, her vulnerability is communicated by
her big doe eyes and post-pubescent movements. And it’s here that my objective
dissonance took hold. It’s entirely unfair to compare Temple’s performance to
an actress in a regional production of the play, but Hayley Nielsen was my
introduction to the story and her performance defined the character to me. As
Dottie, Nielsen was ephemeral and on another plane of existence than the rest
of the characters. Most of her lines were delivered in a breathless and excited
monotone, every line a declaration and, thus, a non-sequiter. For me—and only
for me, obviously—Temple was too grounded in her portrayal of Dottie. Within
tight close-ups her Dottie was never farther from me than Nielsen,
spacially-speaking, and her fragile, damaged persona is in perfect service of
the story and script. But she had a physical presence that Nielsen
intentionally abandoned, and it drags the rest of the story, and all of its
horror and grit and despair, down into the gutter where it began. Temple Dottie
struck me as too real. The rest of the family you could meet at any Wal-Mart in
the country. A physical realization of Dottie, even though she is a “pure”
character, brings these low-lifes into too-sharp of a relief. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">But</span></i></span><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;"> a real Dottie allows for a more
believable Killer Joe. I have no real proof in my suspicion, but I think it
would be an easy temptation for actors to play Joe as a bad-ass, smooth and
over-the-top thug who is only in control because he’s slightly smarter than
those around him. Everyone in the story is in danger of characature, just a few
millimeters off in either direction will result in something balloony and lumpy
from a Ralph Bakshi movie. But McConnaughy plays Joe as a well-oiled
psychopathic watch, a mass of coiled springs contained by the exterior. His
interaction with Dottie brings out a different man, a man used to control but
unused to an unpredictable factor like Dottie. Though he does manage to possess
her, there’s something of her at work on him beyond her childish sexuality. She
mentions “pure love” several times throughout the film, and what Joe feels for
her is obviously far from pure, but maybe to his mind it is. His interest in
her may be a result of something human unlocked inside of him. As with Dottie’s
nudity, Joe’s interaction with her allows for something vulnerable to shine
out. It isn’t redemption, but it isn’t the revulsion you’re meant to feel
during a live performance. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">It could be quibbling, but this leads to one point of
genuine disappointment in the film. In the play, Joe’s dominance and subjugation
of the family is presented at the beginning of the second act. Having been
brutally beaten by the drug dealers, Chris collapses through the trailer’s
front door. Instead of Sharla, he encounters a completely naked and
gun-weilding Joe. Thinking Chris might be a burglar, Joe has lept out Dottie’s
bed and onto Chris as the complete alpha male. On stage, it’s shocking,
naturally, and awkwardly funny and uncomfortable, but it establishes Joe’s new
position in the dynamic. Like Beowulf, he’ll face his greatest challenges with
only a weapon and the skin he was born in. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">In the film, Friedkin declines to show McConaughey in his
full-frontal glory. It’s obvious that he’s completely nude, but the reveal
isn’t as strong. We stay on a neutral point of view as Chris crashes through
the door and Joe is already waiting for him on the other side. Visually, it
removes a great deal of dynamism from both the scene and Joe’s character. In
the film, instead of a Grecian athlete or an unbridled predator, he’s simply a
naked guy with a gun. An argument can be made for many things—that it cheapens
Temple’s and Gershon’s nudity, that it was staged thusly to avoid further
problems with censors (even though Friedkin allowed the film to go to theaters
unrated, which waters down this latter argument). All it does is diminishes the
ferocity of the scene. I’ve thought it over and come to the conclusion that
this is a thematic mistake. My issues with Juno Temple’s performance are my own
hang-up. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">With all the other fearless choices made with the material
it’s disappointing that Friedkin and/or McConaughey--to quote an actor I’ve
worked with who is accustomed to nude scenes--“pussied out on the dick shot”. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Ultimately, a play isn’t a movie and a movie isn’t a play
and critics should remember that before they waste time writing a review.
Report on the art you saw, not the art you expected. And definitely don’t watch
<i>Killer Joe </i>without a designated moral compass.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><center><iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/cxpvzmvFHTM" width="560"></iframe></center><div class="MsoNormal">[Special blame goes to Eric Thornett (writer/director of <a href="http://www.asweetandviciousbeauty.com/" target="_blank"><i>A Sweet and Vicious Beauty</i></a>) for originally dragging us to the play in 2009. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-88759812705347437492012-11-16T12:02:00.000-05:002012-11-28T20:33:07.027-05:00THE PHYNX (1970) <style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://vintagestills.com/photosales2/214phynx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="562" src="http://vintagestills.com/photosales2/214phynx.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: center;"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">(Image <span style="font-size: x-small;">from <a href="http://www.vintagestills.com/1970s.html" target="_blank">Vintage Stills.com</a>)</span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"></div><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Let us bow our head in thanks to Bob Rafelson and Jack
Nicholson and Dennis Hopper, to Mike Nesmith, Micky Dolenz, Peter Tork and the
late Davy Jones. For they resisted the temptation to make a two-hour <i>Monkees
</i>episode and rather made the wonderous <i>Head</i>, effectively destroying
the “Pre-Fab Five” for the betterment of all. Because if they’d given the fans
what they’d expected, it would have been <i>The Phynx.</i></span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Starting with a baffling sequence in which a man who is
later revealed to be an American spy repeatedly hurls himself over a wall only
to be captured by a foreign general played by Michael Ansara. He’s then
summarily booted back over the wall. On the third attempt, the spy goes to a
conveniently-located carnival and fires himself out of a cannon. But the wiley
General Ansara—I mean, Col. Rostinov—is waiting with a team of men and a
fireman’s catch. The spy bounces so hard, he soars into the animated title
sequence. Like most animated title sequences, it’s the best part of the movie. </span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">What seems like days later, he finally identifies himself
as “Agent Corrigan” (Lou Antonio). He enters the secret headquarters of the SSA
(Super Secret Agency) via a super secret men’s room stall, complete with a pair
of decoy feet showing behind the door to deter the … curious? Embladdered?
Anyway, he drops a coin, the toilet and wall spin and he’s in the bowels of the
agency. No pun intended. </span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Now make no mistake, the SSA is powerful. They have
divisions for everything. SSA “Sock It To Me” Division, a “Bigotry Department”
and a “Hooker Division”, a Bureau of Invisible Men,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Madison Avenue Undercover and the Underage
Undercover Department (filled with boy scouts).</span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">His superior is Mr. Bogey and is played by character actor
Mike Kellin. His impression of Bogart more resembles Wallace Shawn doing George
Raft but, you know, whatever. Their superior is “No. 1”, who wears a suit and a
box on his head with a face drawn on it. His voice is provided by Rich Little
doing an impression of Rich Little. There’s big trouble here in the God-fearing
United States, great world leaders are going missing. “World Leaders” in this
case being George Jessel, Dorothy Lamour, Butterfly McQueen, Charlie MacCarthy <i>and
</i>Edgar Bergan, and “the one and only Col. Sanders”. Before you can say “No
big loss”, the two non-boxed agents rush to MOTHA (“Mechanical Oracle That
Helps Americans”) to manufacture a plan to rescue their missing leaders. Like <i>Hitchhiker’s
Guide</i>’s “Deep Thought”, the computer spits out the strategy: “form a pop
group and stage a concert in Albania.”</span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">The SSA “recruits” the disparate young men by abducting
them. Michael D. Miller is a student protester hoisting a sign reading “Space
Available”; Ray Chippeway is a American Indian college graduate whose father
declares “White man make son pansy”; Dennis Larden, college athlete, is working
a barbell while his latest conquest is awaiting in bed to be conquested when he
is literally sucked into a vent via a giant magnet; and then there’s Lonny
Stevens, stutteringly referred to as the “Young Negro”, the “Colored Guy”, and
finally the “Afro-American”. Lonny is a seemingly successful commercial actor,
doing an ad for beer. When he’s wrapped, a white guy takes his place as the
producer announces, “Now let’s shoot one for the southern states.” And that,
dear friends, is the height of the satire. </span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">What follows is a series of gags that are either hysterical
or painful depending on your state of consciousness while viewing. Clint Walker
is their drill instructor, Richard Pryor serves them “soul food” (looking like
he has no idea where he is or how he got there and surely pissed that he didn’t
get the punchline), and after they’re thoroughly trained in the art of both
military spy-stuff and music, they are given a seal of approval by Dick Clark.
MOTHA provides the group name: “The Phynx”. …You know, like “finks”? A ‘60s
word for “narc”? “Snitch”? “Stoolie”? Shut up, it’s funny (which I think was
the movie’s tag line). </span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">To make them stars, the SSA hires “Philbaby”, a music guru
played by Larry Hankin, best known as Larry David’s first choice to play Kramer
on <i>Seinfeld</i>. He creates a wall of sound for their song, “What’s Your
Sign?” The Phynx debut on Ed Sullivan (who is held at gunpoint in front of his
live studio audience) and the fans go absolutely Beatlemania over their
softboiled Rutles song. Their first record leaps to Gold in twenty minutes
(awarded to them by James Brown, the Ambassador of the Record Industry of the
United States). Soon they’re loved and lusted after all over the world. Which
shows the absolute power of Ed Sullivan more than anything else. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Now that they’re pop sensations, now comes the spy stuff,
right? The trip to Albania? Well, no. The next hitch in the geddy-up arrives by
a staggering Martha Raye (literally staggering because she’s supposed to be
dying of some sort of wound—the location of which changes depending on where
she’s clutching). There’s something about a map to the palace of Albanian ruler
Markevitch (veteran second-to-third banana, George Tobias)—to keep it secret,
Foxy (Raye) tattooed a third of the map upon the stomachs of her three
daughters, located in London, Copenhagen and Rome. Because she’s in such a
hurry dying, Foxy doesn’t give the girl’s names, but does provide three
pictures of the girls with their faces obscured. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">So before you can say “PG-rated <i>Get Charlie Tully</i>”,
The Phynx are off on a girl-filled scavenger hunt, filled with schemes to get
endless girls out of their clothes (including a young Sally Struthers in her
first big-screen role)—x-ray specs in Rome, a take-a-number bang-me line in
Copenhagen (which hysterically leaves the three non-black guys drained of fluid
and lividity by around girl 1000. Lonny appears with the right girl and just
quietly calls for a medic). This eats up a good chunk of the second act. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Finally </span></i></span><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">they get to Albania and learn that
the conspiracy is even worse than they imagined! More world-leaders have been
abducted—Joe Louis, Huntz Hall, Leo Gorcey (the latter two the only reason I
watched this in the first place, I’m not ashamed to say), Jay Silverheels and
the replacement Lone Ranger, John Hart (identified only as their character
names), Buzby Berkeley <i>and </i>his original Gold Diggers—and are being held
inside the palace to… sorta hang out with the royal family, including Joan
Blondell as the Mrs. Monarch, Ruby. It seems that the actual rulers of the
government are being held captive by Col. Michael Ansara, and that it was his
plan to bring in The Phynx to “give the proletariat what they want” while still
ruling the country on whatever vague form of Communism is being utilized.
Fortunately for every one, Huntz Hall himself comes up with the plan to escape:
“Radishes!”, he proclaims as a very sick-looking Gorcey hits him with his hat. </span></span>
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://theageofcomedy.com/other/phynx.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="http://theageofcomedy.com/other/phynx.jpg" width="400" /></a> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Image from <a href="http://theageofcomedy.com/bowgall.html" target="_blank">Age of Comedy.com</a>)</span></span></span> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: small;">Then comes another song, the final escape and,
proof that there is a God, the end credits. </span></span>
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_jD9xTpwMVMJVmD5tTmqb0NOJctlg98jucV9zn9pDMHQwZJ6vXVRsikK9fMsfpj0x9oHr1lDE7cakNRcUE7EqDcUylXBqDfyruQYFViy2O0AYpml4JSiX4xA2HC3Lif89Cg740NIycdU/s1600/PHYNX.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_jD9xTpwMVMJVmD5tTmqb0NOJctlg98jucV9zn9pDMHQwZJ6vXVRsikK9fMsfpj0x9oHr1lDE7cakNRcUE7EqDcUylXBqDfyruQYFViy2O0AYpml4JSiX4xA2HC3Lif89Cg740NIycdU/s640/PHYNX.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="464" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><h3><span lang="EN"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, many—okay, <i>few</i>, those who’ve actually
seen this mess—have declared this overlong Monkees episode to be one of the
worst movies ever made, but that’s not true by half. It’s simply a low-rent,
no-budget “star-stravaganza” along the lines of future <i>Love Boat </i>and <i>Fantasy
Island</i>. The music comes courtesy of Mike Stoller who, with his partner Jeff
Leiber, wrote “Hound Dog”, “Jailhouse Rock”, “Is That All There Is?” and reams
of other pop songs, to The Phynx’s sets are pleasantly familiar-sounding, with
knowing little nods to Herman’s Hermets, the Beatles and the Monkees, and the
Moody Blues. </span></span></span><span lang="EN"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">(</span></span></span></span><span lang="EN"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://unseenfilms.blogspot.com/2011/02/phynx-1970.html" target="_blank">Poster courtesy of Unseen Films</a>)</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></h3><h3><span lang="EN"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Veteran TV director</span></span> </span><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Lee H. Katzan does the best with
the borcht-belt gags and lame attempts at “hip” humor from writers Bob Booker, Stan
Cornyn, George Foster, but much of it is still from hunger because it’s just
not that funny. Amusing, yes, at times, if you dig this sort of thing. The
biggest problem is with The Phynx themselves. Except for Lonny Stevens, who has
actual charisma and was the only one of the four to make a go at a real acting
career (near as I can tell), the three other guys are virtually
indistinguishable from each other. A running gag has Chippaway bristling at
casual “racist” remarks (When one girl leaps onto him with a cry of
“Geronimo!”, he mutters, as if afraid he’ll be heard, “Is nothing sacred?”)
then proceeds to speak Tonto-ese himself. Worst of all—he has no interplay with
Silverheels (also speaking his trademark Tonto-ese) so the gag you figure
they’re building toward never comes.</span></span></h3></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Depending on your affection for the guest stars, you’ll
either be angered that their time is utterly wasted or you’ll just end up
feeling sorry for them. For many, this was the plumbest role they’d landed in a
while (Gorcey, at this point, was incurable alcoholic and was dead before the
film was even released; many of the others would follow suit throughout the
decade), and for the others you start to wonder if they really <i>had</i> been
abducted for the film, being World Leaders and all. Not one of the “special
guest stars” is given anything to do. It just seems as if the green room of <i>Laugh-In
</i>had been tipped into a cart and carried off into the night. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">At the end of the day, during the final tank and
radish-cart chase as the end credits scroll, you’ll be no better nor worse off
for having seen <i>The Phynx</i>. After many, many years of VHS bootlegs taken
from a single television airing (complete with animated station bumpers every
ten minutes, no matter who is talking or if they’re done), Warner Brothers
Archive has restored the film in all its 1.85 glory and mono-to-stereo sound
mix. Now, you too can have The Phynx play for you in your very own living room. </span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Meanwhile, the Monkees have reunited for a world-reunion
tour after never once doing anything remotely like this again. </span></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">…Okay, <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uOGgNkU189w" target="_blank">33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee</a> </i>notwithstanding.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span class="Heading3Char"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-3819380435917649622012-11-15T19:24:00.002-05:002012-11-28T20:48:03.787-05:00TWINS OF EVIL (1971)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://wrongsideoftheart.com/wp-content/gallery/posters-t/twins_of_evil_poster_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="497" src="http://wrongsideoftheart.com/wp-content/gallery/posters-t/twins_of_evil_poster_02.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><style>
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</style><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Image from <a href="http://wrongsideoftheart.com/2010/02/twins-of-evil-aka-twins-of-dracula-1971-uk/" target="_blank">Wrong Side of the Art</a>)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><style>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">If we’re going to maintain our open and honest
relationship here, I have to confess that I’m more a Hammer afficianado than an
outright fan. Even during their heyday in the mid- to late-‘60s, their budgets
were minimal and it showed all over the screen. My favorite of their dubious
trademarks included towns located on some strange time-split where it was often
and simultaneously daylight on one side and misty night on the other. But where
they lacked in money their movies made up for in atmosphere and a sense of
otherworldliness. More importantly, they employed a pair of actors who lent
gravitas to the proceedings: Peter Cushing and / or Christopher Lee. As long as
one or the other appeared in the film, you were guaranteed some level of
enjoyment. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">For me, Hammer movies seemed to follow a
standard beat sheet: Intriguing opening, usually bloody; then came the long
middle part where carbon-copy young lovers, usually star-crossed, are
introduced, their family feuds established, and perhaps hidden amongst all of
this you’ll get a fun set-piece involving fangs or monsters but always
cleavage. Finally, an exciting climax and a bloody ending. Since Hammer was
competing with larger companies they continually pushed their “blood ‘n boobs”
formula as hard as they could against the membrane of censorship also known as
the British Board of Film Classification. Long before the board caved to
pressure from self-appointed Minister of Decency, Mary Whitehouse, the BBFC
during the Hammer years were actually pretty progressive, as far as censoring
outfits go. This is largely due to the presence of Secretary of the Board, John
Trevelyan, who saw his role in and of the board as men who are “paid to have
dirty minds”. From 1958–1971, Trevelyan attempted to work with filmmakers and
explain what cuts had to be made prior to a film’s release. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Of course, that’s his point of view. Some
filmmakers, naturally, felt that he was the ultimate enemy. Roy Ward Baker, who
directed</span><span class="Heading3Char"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </span></span><i><span lang="EN">The Vampire Lovers</span></i><span lang="EN"> and <i>Scars of Dracula</i> for Hammer, notoriously called Trevelyan a
“sinister mean hypocrite”, who played favorites with those he felt were in the
“art house crowd” as opposed to commercial film directors. Acording to Baker
and echoed by others, Trevelyan “kissed ass” with the bigger names in British
Cinema. This relationship was sorely tested by Ken Russell and his
still-controversial masterpiece, <i>The Devils</i>. While the two men warred
over a sequence dubbed “the Rape of Christ” (a ten-minute scene that has only
recently been restored to prints of the movie), John Hough took advantage of
the distraction as he readied <i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Twins-Evil-Blu-ray-Combo-Pack/dp/B007ZFSBWW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1353025075&sr=8-1&keywords=TWINS+OF+EVIL+%281971%29" target="_blank">Twins of Evil</a></b> </i>for screens.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN">Twins of Evil </span></i><span lang="EN">is
the third film of the so-called “Karnstein Trilogy”—the previous being <i>The
Vampire Lovers </i>with Ingrid Pitt and its follow up <i>Lust for a Vampire</i>—all
based on J. Sheridan LeFanu’s ode to the sapphic vampiric, <i>Carmilla. </i>Adapted
by future rabble-rouser and trade unionist, Tudor Gates, the “Karnstein
Trilogy” are perceived by some to be the last “great” films of the Hammer era,
before their slide into utter poverty, and are notable for daring depictions of
lesbianism, a theme that had gotten ten minutes chopped from “art house” film, <i>The
Killing of Sister George</i>, in 1968. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">As a trilogy, the “Karnstein” storyline
doesn’t really work, having no real continuity to speak of, except for the name
of the evil family and their matron, Mircalla (aka Carmilla). The first film of
the series, <i>The Vampire Lovers</i>, set film-goers all a-twitter with its
boundary-leaping scenes of blood and nudity and girl-vampire on girl-vampire
action. The next two installments were toned down for British sensibilities. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">While tamer than its predecessors, Hough’s
Twins of Evil exploits some of this newfound exploitative freedom by casting
Playboy’s first twin playmates, Mary and Madeleine Collinson, as the titular
characters (no puns, please, we’re British). Maria and Frieda Gellhorn arrive
in Karnstein from Venice, two years after their parents died. They show up at
their Aunt Katy’s house in green, instead of the customary
black-for-the-rest-of-your-lives. This enrages puritanical Uncle Gustav Weill
(Cushing). “What kind of plumage is this? Birds of paradise?” But don’t be too
hard on Uncle Gustav, he and The Brotherhood have been busy burning witches all
night, doing God’s work. And by “witches”, these Bible-weilding psychopaths
mean “unmarried women”, “women walking alone on a road”, “old crones”, anyone
who has ever thought about having sex—you know, witches. In fact, the title
sequence portrays one of these boys-being-boys bonfires after dragging a
teenage girl forcibly from her home, lashing her cruxifix-style to a tree and
then setting her on fire. And she screams and screams as the “devils” flee from
her “purified” body. In the back, Pat Buchannan nods approvingly. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Within seconds of arriving, the more-willful
Frieda is ready to skip town as soon as she can find someone appropriately
handsome and dangerous. One of Gustav’s primary adversaries is Count Karnstein
himself (played by Damian Thomas, best-known as the baboon prince Kassim in <i>Sinbad
and the Eye of the Tiger</i>), a decadent lover, vague ruler and admitted
Satanist who takes great delight in humiliating Gustav and his puritanical
ways. Which, this early in the film, is a point in his favor since thus far
Gustav has failed to win the hearts of the minds of the viewer. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">But then we are whisked away to Castle
Karnstein where the Count is being bored out of his mind during an actual
Satanic pageant. Once he angrily dismisses the players, he finishes the sacred
“stab the naked girl” ritual himself, evokes Satan but winds up with Mircalla
instead. She makes him into a vampire (in a nifty shot in which she stands
behind Karnstein but he alone is reflected in the mirror, and he watches
himself fade away as he turns fangy). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Before long, Karnstein is out to find
something of Gustav’s to corrupt and sets his sights on Frieda. Frieda is loved
and admired by schoolmaster Anton (David Warbeck of Fulci’s <i>The Beyond</i>)—literally,
he can only see her, the rest is vaseline on the lens—when he really should be
attracted to the more-demure Maria because… well, hell, she looks just like
Frieda but she isn’t a bitch. Besides, as everyone—<i>everyone</i>—points out,
the two sisters simply cannot be told apart. Frieda exploits this by sneaking
about at night and making Maria pretend to be her, so that Maria gets beaten
twice (it’s implied by not only Gustav but every patriarchal figure they’ve
ever encountered). Strangely, Maria can sense when Frieda is hurt, but either
Frieda can’t feel Maria or just doesn’t give a damn. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">As typical of Hammer, no one heeds the vampire
warnings (even though, apparently, there’s already one running around long
before the Count is turned during sex with his dead relative), more busty girls
are either bitten or are flame-broiled by Gustav, and Frieda tramps around with
Karnstein until she, too, is a mistress of the night. Her first task is to bite
into the plump breast of Luan Peters (aka singer Karol Keyes) before the camera
quickly cuts to anything else lest Trevelan wield his scissors. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">If you’ve seen a Hammer film—any of them—you
know what’s going to happen. But Hough and Gates pull some nifty turns along
the way. When Gustav catches neice Frieda feasting on one of the Brotherhood,
he has her locked up so that he can make sure the rest of the family is safe,
planning on burning her later. Sorry, <i>purifying</i> her later. But Karnstein
manages to switch Maria for Frieda and soon it’s the nice slutty twin that’s
heading to the stake and Hough plays this sequence to the hilt of suspense. </span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://d2oz5j6ef5tbf6.cloudfront.net/movie/large/Twins_of_evil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" src="http://d2oz5j6ef5tbf6.cloudfront.net/movie/large/Twins_of_evil.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">The second twist is far more subtle and
involves Gustav’s character, which more than proves Cushing’s a master
thespian. After he almost turns the incorrect neice into jerk chicken, Gustav’s
faith in his own crusade gets shattered. This is never discussed openly, but
you can watch it work on Cushing’s face. Used to the seat of power, when Anton presents
Maria with a crucifix and she kisses—rather than sizzling beneath it like Fried
did—Gustav is visibly shaken. While he never says it, it’s clear he’s wondering
how many other innocent women have been put to death under his pious wrath. We
see a glimpse of his regret just as he’s about to put the torch to Maria, refusing
to pass it to his second in command—this isn’t some random wench to be roasted
for fun and, you know, “God’s will”; this is his neice, who he swore to
protect. The realization that he could very well have killed his own flesh and
blood in the same manner as he had “purified” so many others chills him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">After this sequence, Gustav still leads the
Brotherhood but defers to Anton. “You’re sure a stake to the heart will release
[Frieda]? That her pure spirit will be saved?” For the first time in the film,
we see all his noxious, prideful bull-puckey summed up in a question. Maybe the
others in The Brotherhood were just out for a rolicking witch-burning, but
Gustav honestly—<i>honestly—</i>believed he was saving the innocent souls of
the wicked. Without the subtlety of Cushing’s performance revealing the man
beneath the zealot, Gustav could have remained a villainous figure for the rest
of the picture. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">While Count Karnstein is really the villain of
the piece—with his fangs, his <i>coiffure</i> and cape—but more than anything,
he’s just kind of a dick. He spends the climax in a vault, shoving out or
dragging in one sister after another and locking the door again, taking few
steps to take the upper hand. Gustav, for all his evangelical lunacy, was a man
of action and principals. Yes, he shared Karnstein’s arrogance, but he wasn’t
out burning witches every night because he was bored. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">It’s this last-act transformation that allows <i>Twins
of Evil </i>to rise above its formula. It’s not the first time Cushing has
helped this elevation; each of his turns as Baron Frankeinstein in the Hammer
series shows a different man beneath the madness. But beyond the sex, blood,
atmosphere and pretty photography, <i>Twins of Evil </i>gives the viewer
something to think about, namely: think long and hard before you’re convinced
of your own righteous. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/aq3Y-krfCjA" width="420"></iframe>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05840622317899413996noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399867986055030064.post-83527378406383681422012-11-09T20:22:00.001-05:002012-11-09T20:25:40.329-05:00FEDORA (1978)<style>
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<br />
<div class="WordSection1">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.fotos.org/galeria/data/576/Fedora-tt0077539-1978-Billy-Wilder-it.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.fotos.org/galeria/data/576/Fedora-tt0077539-1978-Billy-Wilder-it.jpg" /></a></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">Before we begin,
I have two caveats: First, I will ruin both the ending and the beginning of
this movie. Second, this is less an essay than it is an apology, but more on
that later. </span><br />
<br /></div>
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Now then: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Fedora </span></i><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">opens with the titular character, a one-time movie star with a literally
ageless beauty (played by Swiss actress Marthe Keller), hurls herself in front
of a moving train, ending her life and her legacy. (That she does this after
having fallen in love with Michael York, playing himself, is revealed later and
should come to no great surprise to anyone, really.) Her funeral is an event
unto itself and chief among the mourners is her once-upon-a-time lover and
soon-to-be-has-been producer, Barry “Dutch” Detweiler (William Holden). Just
two weeks before her suicide, Dutch had visited her in the hopes of convincing
Fedora to return to the screen as a new <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anna
Karenina</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Not only does she
refuse the role, but she tells him a strange tale that she’s being held captive
in a private Villa on an island near Corfu, Greece. Her gaolers included her
shady chauffeur Kritos, her shadier and jumpier servant Miss Balfour, her
personal physician and possible plastic surgeon, the mysterious (and shady but
less-jumpy) Dr. Vando and, last but not least, the extremely old Countess Sobryanski.
When Dutch tries to help Fedora escape, Kristos clonks him unconscious, in
which state he remains for over a week. By the time he recovers, Fedora has
killed herself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Dutch flashes
back to the time when he first met the beautiful and (supposedly) talented
Fedora, when they were both young, when he was an up-and-comer and she was an
already-there. In the form of Stephen Collins (an almost-acceptable choice for
a younger Holden), they begin their brief and torrid affair. As Dutch’s career
ramps up, Fedora disappears for a spell, then reappears years later without
having aged a day. Her only affectation seems to be for shoulder-length gloves,
which she wears everywhere. It’s even in her contract that she be permitted the
accessories on film, regardless of the role or the temperature. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Fedora resumes
her stardom with nary a hitch. But she starts to get weird after meeting and
falling for Michael York. Prior to their first scene together in a new film, he
confesses that he was so taken with her as a child that he wet himself in the
theater. And if that isn’t a turn-on, you tell me what is. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Thus, the film
drags itself along like a man dying of a gunshot wound. Constantly, we’re
reminded of Fedora’s stature, her beauty and her second-to-none talent. That we’re
shown little of Fedora’s acting seems to be neither here nor there, and in the
presence of the actors around her—Holden, Henry Fonda in a cameo, Jose Ferrer
(constantly looking for an escape hatch as Dr. Vando)—Ms. Keller does not hold
her own. (Truthfully, she is less-wooden than York, but what English writing
desk isn’t?) </span></div>
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<a href="http://img368.imageshack.us/img368/7689/vlcsnap395509mg1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="http://img368.imageshack.us/img368/7689/vlcsnap395509mg1.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Ew.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">At the same time,
we’re also constantly reminded of what a sleazy, degrading, sweatshop of a
business that is show. Hollywood, as described by Dutch and portrayed by its
citizens, is the literal polished dog-dropping of the world. Beneath all the
marble and champagne and chandeliers is the churning stuff Hell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wishes</i> it were made of. And the older
Dutch gets, contrasted with the still-youthful Fedora, his own star begins to
fade, then dim, then get lost under a couch. This <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anna Karenina </i>deal is his last shot at staying relevant in the
world obsessed with youth. </span></div>
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<a href="http://d2oz5j6ef5tbf6.cloudfront.net/movie/large/Fedora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://d2oz5j6ef5tbf6.cloudfront.net/movie/large/Fedora.jpg" width="271" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">And when Fedora
takes her own life, something snaps within him. In Fedora he saw not only her
youth but his own as well. She was a perfect thing and obviously the fame and
her keepers had poisoned her mind. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Now here’s that
spoiler I warned you about: when Dutch confronts the Countess at Fedora’s
funeral and accuses her and her accomplices of this complicitness and
murder-accessory, the truth is revealed: Countess Sobryanski is actually
Fedora. The dead girl was her daughter, Antonia. It seems that one too many
“treatments” from Dr. Vando disfigured the star and she forced Antonia to take
up the role, playing Fedora in public. Therefore the gloves, for only her hands
would give away her real age. When Antonia wanted to run away with York, her
madness was finally revealed… uh, the jig was up, so to speak, so the Countess,
Kristos, Miss Balfour, Vando (the Professor, Mary-Ann…) kept her drugged and
secluded until Vando could come up with a cure for York-love. As a way of
proof, the Countess offers Dutch the contents of Antonia’s room, in which are
kept drawers full of gloves, and diaries filled with the sentence “My name is
Fedora.” </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Dutch then sees
that Hollywood has no incorruptible corner, that innocence is its eternal meal,
and it will never be cheated of its hunger for youth. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Billy Wilder was
at the top of the food chain by the time he made the daring, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Apartment</i> in 1960. After that, his
career started on a more downward spiral. It had a brief recovery for 1966’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Fortune Cookie, </i>which netted Walter
Matthau an Academy Award, Wilder unfortunately followed it with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes</i>,
which was brutalized in post by the studio and has never been fully restored.
Never a big fan of the business in which he worked, descended even further into
bitterness and anger—the bitching in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fedora
</i>makes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sunset Boulevard </i>seem like a
dirty fork in comparison. </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span></b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Fedora </span></i><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">was Wilder’s penultimate film and it seethes and gnashes against Hollywood.
Based on a novella by actor-turned-novelist Tom Tryon (wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Other</i>, starred in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Married a Monster From Outer Space</i>),
Wilder had trouble securing financing for the film. Hollywood suits claimed
that the failure of recent “Hollywood movies” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">W.C. Fields and Me, Gable and Lombard</i>, etc., made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fedora </i>automatically uncommercial.
Wilder showed them! He found some wealthy Germans and shot in and around
Europe. Like Dutch, he spent a good deal of time trying to Woo Marlene Dietrich
for the title role, but the actress hated the book, the script and allegedly
Wilder’s tie. (I may have made that last part up.) The resulting film is a slog
and has little of Wilder’s twinkle, his grin in the face of doom. Holden was
often a screen surrogate for Wilder but there’s little satire in the
frustration here. It shows in the faces of the actors, especially Ferrer and
especially Holden (who would be in 1981 (after completing a slightly more-Wilderish
Hollywood movie, Blake Edwards’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">S.O.B.</i>),
of a headwound sustained by a drunken trip into a nightstand, and his body
wouldn’t be discovered for four days). Holden looks tired and in some scenes he
is clearly inebriated. Whatever it took to get through his director’s painful
personal struggle. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">The film was a commercial
failure—it kept audiences laughing, but in all the wrong places. While some
critics were kind to it, for the most part it was reviled in the press. It was
the first movie Wilder had made in four years (following the most bitter
adaptation of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Front Page</i>) and he
wouldn’t make another one until <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buddy,
Buddy </i>in 1981. Following this film’s failure he ostensibly retired from the
business he so loathed and spent his twilight years cultivating a
world-reknowned art collection. To his credit, he never slapped on a pair of
shoulder-length gloves to hide his age. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Now for the
apology: since we first met, my wife <b><a href="http://www.amylynnbest.net/" target="_blank">Amy</a></b> talked about this “gloves” movie she
saw on TV as a kid. We consulted other film scholars, including my father and
even Josh Becker (who’s seen, like, everything), but nobody could recall seeing
a movie “where the daughter of this old actress wears long gloves so no one
would know she was younger than she could have been. And she had notebooks
filled with ‘My name is Fiona, or Folana’, something like that”. Even the
ever-reliable internet offered no help. The closest we thought we’d come was an
episode of either <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Twilight Zone </i>or
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Outer Limits </i>(yeah, my memory
ain’t so good either). After a while, it became a family joke at Amy’s expense.
Anytime anyone was at a loss for a movie title, someone would chime in, “Are
there gloves in it?” And we talk about movies <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a lot</i> in the Watt household, so we all decided that, obviously, Amy
was nuts. “No,” she’d say, “I saw it with a babysitter.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Did this baby
sitter give you little activites like licking stamps or eating special
brownies?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Which would
usually result with me suffering from a throat full of teeth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">And as
oh-so-smart as we all are, peerless in our movie knowledge, I found <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fedora </i>by accident. I was on a Wilder
kick while researching him for a book and tried to run down all of his
unreleased stuff by, uh, grey-area means. I’d never even heard of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fedora</i> at the time I downloaded—er, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">procured</i> it. So when I popped it in, not
only was Amy vindicated, but I realized that I’d seen it as well, as a kid
around her age and probably on the same TV station. I instantly recognized the
scene where the young Collins met a topless Keller swimming in a marble pool.
The scene caught my eyes at such a young age for two reasons: 1) I had been a
devotee of Collins’ short-lived adventure series <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tales of the Gold Monkey </i>(long before he got all Jesus-y on us),
and 2), dude, there were boobs on regular TV! HBO was not unknown to us in
1982, so people my age knew what boobs looked like, but here they were right
after a commercial! Yeah, they were distorted by the water but, still. I was
lucky my grandmother hadn’t made me turn it off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">So after eighteen
years of being together, my doubts of my wife’s sanity were washed away, along
with a good dose of crow. (Sorry, sweetie!) When I excitedly called my father
about this fact his response was underwhelming. “Oh, okay, sure. I think I saw
that when it came out. Awful movie, isn’t it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Yes it is, dad.
Yes it is. (See for yourself and watch the whole thing <b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL112DADBD3777E201" target="_blank">HERE</a></b>.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">But like the most
famous line from one of Wilder’s best movies goes: “Nobody’s perfect.”</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi50TKGSAMr9qDvgaZDSo8FSG1g_Av5senTD7v5NDLng_PVkpBt8704cZUiVzuKfB15_eekgpZcpNI3B-cGZ7XwL-1MC6_dT2P_ViSl_1MduBTPTN0Bk67TtMUDBCj2x2npNyEDRehh0TM/s1600/1978%20FEDORA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi50TKGSAMr9qDvgaZDSo8FSG1g_Av5senTD7v5NDLng_PVkpBt8704cZUiVzuKfB15_eekgpZcpNI3B-cGZ7XwL-1MC6_dT2P_ViSl_1MduBTPTN0Bk67TtMUDBCj2x2npNyEDRehh0TM/s640/1978%20FEDORA.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"> Image courtesy of <a href="http://billy-wilder.blogspot.com/2012/01/fedora-1978.html" target="_blank">Billy Wilder Blogspot</a></span></b></span></div>
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