Am I a writer? Well, I've written, that's for sure. But by the accepted metric - the drive, the focus, the determination to I'll fill in the rest of this phrase later - nahh, probably not. And, y'know, that's fine. There are plenty of people out there with plenty to say and the burning desire to share it with the world, and I don't feel the need to count myself among their number at this time. Right now, it's just too stressful a task, especially when deadlines are involved - at this point, I'm unlikely to make much money doing it, and the ego boost of getting one's words in print is short-lived, so unless and until I can regain the sense of fun and personal satisfaction that writing used to provide (and getting this blog going again is in large part an experiment to see if that's possible), I'm fine with ceding the task to those more temperamentally suited to it.
Like my
brother, for example. Now
he's a writer. How couldn't he be? It's in
his Twitter handle and everything. No doubt he's written more (and better) words today than I have in the last six months, and bless him for going all-in in the never-more-precarious full-time freelance game as he has. Check his stuff out; it's damn good. And bless him doubly for his occasional attempts to bring me back into the fold. For example, a couple years ago, he decided to start Daily Projections, a newsletter featuring daily capsule reviews of whatever pictures are unspooling at the revival houses and second-run cinemas of Portland at a given time, and enlisted me to assist with branding (meaning I came up with the name - I'm good with titles, it's the stuff underneath them I suck at) and providing regular content. Which I did, as long as you add the prefix "dis" to the last word in that last sentence, for the seemingly simple task of knocking off 500 words about an old movie every couple of weeks proved too much for this thin-wristed pantywaist. So much too much so, I dropped the ball on at least one occasion, resulting in a missed day for this otherwise-daily publication. Which may or may not have factored into my brother's decision, soon thereafter, to shutter the whole project and delete the site and everything on it. Were it not for my inability to delete anything from my Outlook outbox, these would have been lost forever. Whether that's a good thing or not, I can't really say. I can't vouch for the quality of the writing - all I can glean from them is the sweat, the pacing, the agony of their composition, which is frankly rather pathetic. But here they are, regardless; all five of the reviews I managed to eke out, in order of appearance. That sound you hear? Ahh, just Pauline Kael grumbling from the great beyond. Ignore it.
(Incidentally, mi hermano has taken up the task again, in a less-stressworthy weekly format.
Do check it out.)
Stir Crazy (Sidney Poitier, 1980)
Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor made four films together. (It would have
been five, had Warner Brothers not wussed out in casting Blazing
Saddles, but the world’s an unjust place.) Not surprising, seeing as
Pryor’s arrival in the
last third of the Wilder-led Hitchcock knockoff Silver Streak
(1976) brought a vital jolt of comic energy that rescued the picture
from obscurity and practically invented the mismatched-partner
action-comedy template. Wilder and Pryor’s unique chemistry
– unlike the straight man/wacky sidekick dynamic of most comedy duos,
they were often funniest when reduced to barely-contained mutual
hysteria – paid off most handsomely with their second pairing.
Stir Crazy was an enormous hit on its initial release, pulling in $110 million to become the third-most-popular movie of 1980 (behind
The Empire Strikes Back and 9 to 5). This success can
be credited almost wholly to the talents of the two co-leads, who manage
to transcend the schematic farcicality of humorist Bruce Jay Friedman’s
screenplay and Sidney Poitier’s serviceable
but somewhat ramshackle direction until they get trapped in the gears
of the plot machinery of the picture’s second half.
The series of events that take struggling playwright Skip Donahue
(Wilder) and failed actor Harry Monroe (Pryor) from hand-to-mouth
lifestyles in New York City to being framed for bank robbery in Arizona
and sentenced to 125 years
in the state pen (“I’ll be 161 when I get out!”) are dealt with quickly
and economically (perhaps too much so – several early scenes feel like
setups for payoffs that never arrive), all the better to pit them
against the grim (but not too grim) realities of
the penal system and the archetypes that populate it. Gay convict with a
crush on one of them? Good-natured Hispanic prisoner? Hulking
bald-headed killer resembling a sentient thumb who turns out to be a
softie in the end? Check, check, check. The middle half
hour is Stir Crazy’s strongest, showcasing Pryor’s talents for
improvisation and physical comedy and Wilder’s inspired naivete to such
entertaining ends that the film’s final act seems almost – you will
excuse the expression – criminal.
For you see, the prison’s corrupt, corpulent warden (Barry Corbin) holds
a prison rodeo every year, its profits ostensibly going to the prison
population but really – spoiler alert – winding up lining his oversized
pockets. And city-boy Skip turns out to be
an unexpected natural at bronco-busting (it’s a 1980 film, so of course
there’s a mechanical bull in the warden’s office). So, he gets coerced
and bullied into becoming the rodeo’s star attraction, which inspires he
and Harry to devise a clever escape plan.
And this is where the whole thing deflates. It’s hardly uncommon for a
comedy to lose steam in the last act—otherwise classic films like
M*A*S*H and Stripes famously failed to stick their
respective landings—but the endless, repetitive denouement here strands
its stars and squanders their comedic gifts. Still, there’s enough
peak-level comic fizz in
Stir Crazy’s best moments, and enough goodwill generated by the
sadly departed duo at its center, to make up for the fact that it
ultimately goes flat.
(September 14, 2016)
The Wicker Man (Robin Hardy, 1973)
To use a theologically inappropriate metaphor, it’s a miracle that we are able to see
The Wicker Man.
The 1973 film’s maltreatment at the hands of original distributor
British Lion Films is legendary-unto-infamous: chopped up, rearranged,
sent out into the world to die a quick death at the bottom of a
double-bill. Longstanding rumor has it that the original
negative wound up as landfill underneath the M3 motorway; factually
apocryphal, perhaps, but metaphorically spot-on.
Even after its resurrection, the result of the tireless detective work
and cheerleading of several key members of the production, hurdles
continued to be thrown in its path: lifelong enmity between screenwriter
Anthony Shaffer and director Robin Hardy, claims
of plagiarism, the absence of a "definitive" cut of the film, and the
notoriously misbegotten 2006 remake. Yet
The Wicker Man perseveres, with a devoted cult following and a growing reputation as one of the greatest British horror films of all time.
It would be unsporting to give too much of the story away (if you somehow come to
TWM unspoiled, so much the better). So, briefly then: the film
follows West Highlands policeman Sgt. Neil Howie (Edward Woodward) as he
investigates the disappearance of a young girl on the remote Hebridean
island of Summerisle. Once there, what he
finds disturbs him. The locals all claim, unconvincingly, not to know
the child, or even that she exists.
Even more troubling to devout churchgoer Howie: this isolated community
seems to have rejected Christianity altogether in favor of the “old
gods” – paganism, in other words. Schoolgirls dance naked around
bonfires. Couples, um, couple in the open air. And it
seems that Summerisle’s famed apple harvest failed the previous year,
and with May Day festivities on the horizon, the old gods are going to
need appeasement...
The Wicker Man really shouldn’t hold up as well as it does.
First-time director Hardy’s work is occasionally awkward, which the
excisions and reshufflings of the various cuts don’t help. The version
currently playing at the Laurelhurst Theater was
approved by the director in 2013 and reinstates scenes removed from the
original theatrical release but excises material from the longest-known
version of the film. If you find that confusing, that’s not the half of
it. Unfortunately, there’s no room here
for a spreadsheet.
But its flaws are handily compensated for by its virtues. Shaffer’s
screenplay is magnificent, combining a love of game-playing reminiscent
of his 1970 stage play
Sleuth; a wry, almost surrealist sense of wit; and an unusually
intelligent take on comparative religion and blind faith embodied in
the performances of his two male leads. Christopher Lee considered his
role as island patriarch Lord Summerisle the
best of his career, and it’s hard to disagree.
It’s Edward Woodward who pulls off the trickiest achievement. His
ability to weave in touches of comic haplessness and subtle shades of
vulnerability keep the audience on his side right up to his bravura turn
in the film’s unforgettable final act. (And it would
be remiss of me not to lavish all available praise on the music of the
late Paul Giovanni that runs throughout. This film is as much a musical
as anything else.)
By the time The Wicker Man fades out on one of the most
chillingly beautiful final shots in all of cinema, its signal
accomplishment is clear. This is strange cinematic fruit, every bit as
unlikely as the apples brought forth from the volcanic soil
of its setting, and all the more delicious for it.
(October 6, 2016)
In The Loop (Armando Iannucci, 2009)
It’s the curious paradox of cinematic satire – take the darkest, most
horrific and repugnant subjects, and ramp them up as far as they can go, and in the right hands, it’s exhilarating. The gold standard remains
Dr. Strangelove, where the threat of nuclear annihilation was
rendered giddily hilarious, even to audiences for whom mutually assured
destruction was a very real possibility. Which is just my way of
suggesting that while you may be exhausted, nauseated,
and crazed from watching our democratic process reduced to a clown car
with its brakes cut rolling toward the abyss, you shouldn’t be dissuaded
from seeing
In The Loop, one of the very few filmic satires of recent
vintage worthy of mention alongside the Kubrick classic. In fact, it may
be just the catharsis we need.
This won’t be news to anyone familiar with director/co-writer Armando Iannucci’s brilliant series
The Thick of It and Veep, both of which In The Loop
resembles closely with its jittery, handheld pseudo-documentary
camerawork and the participation of certain key cast members (Peter
Capaldi and Chris Addison from the former, Anna Chlumsky
from the latter). His milieu is not the idealistic, Sorkinesque realm
of high-minded wonks dedicated to doing the right thing for the common
good. This is a collection of mid-level dysfunctionaries blundering down
the corridors of power and trying all the
doorknobs.
Many have attempted to satirize the geopolitical clusterfuck that
throttled the world in the years following 9/11; few succeeded. Maybe
the objects of ridicule at the top of the pile were so close to
caricature to begin with that punching upward came off like
punching down. Maybe the anger and outrage thus engendered made it
impossible to wield the comic cudgel with the necessary accuracy.
Whatever the reason, Iannucci and co-writers Jesse Armstrong, Simon
Blackwell and Tony Roche (who received an Academy Award
nomination for their troubles) sidestep these pitfalls handily by
keeping their targets small.
There are hints of military intervention in the Middle East by the US
and the UK; the nature and even the location of said invasion remain
unspecified. The only bloodshed comes from the gingivitic gums of one
character, the only victim of violence an innocent
fax machine. The military is represented by a single, anti-war general
(the late James Gandolfini), the government by individuals with unwieldy
titles like Minister for International Development and Assistant
Secretary of State for Diplomacy and their various
aides and assistants. And the path to war is paved with tiny slips of
the tongue, petty interpersonal score-settling, and frantically
improvised scheming.
So where does the catharsis come in? From some of the most beautifully
profane, gloriously mean-spirited dialogue you’re ever likely to come
across. With the national discourse now firmly wedged in the gutter and
fear and loathing running well into toxic levels,
the relentless powerwash of beautifully-constructed obscenity that runs
through
In The Loop has a surprisingly cleansing effect, making it the perfect film for our terrible times.
(October 13, 2016)
Cat People (Paul Schrader, 1982)
Paul Schrader, whether in his celebrated career as a screenwriter or his
decidedly less-celebrated career as a director, has never specialized
in what one might call “light entertainment.” This shouldn’t be all that
surprising,
coming from a man whose chief influences are the spare, elliptical
films of Robert Bresson and the dour, fatalistic tenets of Dutch
Calvinism.
Consequently, his films tend to be unfailingly intelligent but grim
character studies of tormented souls futilely struggling against
seemingly predetermined fates, claustrophobic familial bonds and carnal
desires so bent, clogged and frustrated that the only
release possible is the catharsis of violence. Why producer Jerry
Bruckheimer and Universal Pictures considered him the right man to
remake Jacques Tourneur’s 1942 creature feature
Cat People remains a mystery, but they may have been onto
something. Schrader may not be the first guy you turn to for genre
exercises, but then again, from a certain angle, all of his films are
horror pictures.
Any resemblance to Tourneur’s original is, at best, superficial. In
Schrader’s version, virginal, sheltered Irena Gallier (Nastassja Kinski)
arrives in New Orleans, having been summoned by her long-lost brother
Paul (Malcolm McDowell). Her arrival coincides
with a series of gruesome maulings of prostitutes, perpetrated by what
appears to be a black leopard running loose in the city. What’s the
explanation? Well, here’s another clue for you all – the leopard is
Paul. Seems that bro and sis are the last of a mixed
breed, half-man, half-cat, and Paul has tracked Irena down to have
someone to mate with that he won't be compelled to kill afterwards. This
renders her budding romance with a hunky zoologist (John Heard) a
trifle...complicated.
If this all sounds a little ridiculous - well, it is. It doesn't help that, having laid out this premise,
Cat People violates its own internal logic repeatedly. Nor that
the main supporting cast are mostly functional: Ruby Dee’s there to
provide a touch of ill-defined gris-gris, Annette O’Toole to bring
non-feline sex appeal, and Ed Begley, Jr. to get
his arm ripped out of its damn socket.
The leads fare better, especially Kinski, mesmerizingly projecting a
kind of feral innocence that overrides the sillier contortions the
screenplay forces her into. This hypnotic aspect extends to the visual
schema designed by the great Ferdinando Scarfiotti
and Giorgio Moroder's pulsing, minimalist electronics, all in service
of Schrader, whose ascetic approach and storied lack of levity wind up
serving the material well.
The sanguinary sexuality of eroticized horror turns out to be an
unusually powerful delivery system for his pet themes. In fact, by the
time you reach the film's climax - one of the tensest, most bizarre sex
scenes you’re likely to encounter in American cinema
- it's hard to escape the notion that Cat People is one of Schrader's most personal films. And that may be the scariest thing about it.
(October 30, 2016)
Ishtar (Elaine May, 1987)
There are few films whose name alone is synonymous with “disaster” quite like
Ishtar. Well before its release, rumors and gossip filled the
entertainment press casting aspersions on the profligate excesses of the
production, infighting among the stars and director, and lack of
creative focus from the top down. A lengthy, allegedly
contentious editing process and several release-date delays only added
fuel to the fire.
And sure enough, once Ishtar finally reached theaters in the
spring of 1987, it was gleefully savaged by the critics and died an
ignominious death at the box office, effectively destroying the career
of its (female) writer-director, though its (male)
co-leads - one of whom, as producer, was responsible for getting it off
the ground in the first place - somehow escaped the wreckage basically
unscathed. Forever after, to speak the name of
Ishtar was to invoke a combination punchline/curse, all that is
wasteful, blinkered and out-of-touch inside the Hollywood bubble boiled
down to two contemptuous syllables.
If, as is fairly likely, your knowledge of Ishtar consists
mainly of some combination of the above, uncomplicated by actually
having viewed the work in question, allow me to submit a dissenting
opinion. No, it’s not a perfect picture. Yes, its reach
exceeds its grasp. And yes, for all her comic brilliance, Elaine May
never matched the directorial ease of her ex-partner Mike Nichols.
But, at a three-decade remove, it’s hard to make the case that Ishtar is
one of “the worst movies ever made.” (In fact, it’s not the even the
worst attempt at combining a modernized take on the Hope/Crosby Road
pictures with geopolitical satire from the mid-eighties.
Track down a copy of Spies Like Us and get back to me.) For all its flaws,
Ishtar deserves consideration as one of the smarter and, yes, funnier artifacts of its era.
Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman play Lyle Rogers and Chuck Clarke, two
middle-aged would-be songwriters as determined as they are untalented.
(Most of their brilliantly mediocre repertoire was composed by Paul
Williams.) They bumble into a (barely) paying
gig in Morocco, but get embroiled almost immediately in a standoff
between the CIA-backed government of the (fictitious) titular country
(represented by Charles Grodin as an unctuous operative) and a group of
leftist insurgents (led by Isabelle Adjani).
The plot is, admittedly, a touch convoluted - a mysterious map, a band
of gunrunners and a blind camel all figure into the proceedings somehow -
but May’s gift for the cerebrally ridiculous and the central
performances carry the day. (Beatty, playing against
his public persona as a sexually inexperienced naif, may never have
been funnier.) Far from the cinematic catastrophe of legend,
Ishtar deserves a clear-eyed viewing to belatedly honor one of
the more unique sensibilities to slip, however briefly, through the
studio gates.
(November 19, 2016)
