The random decision to pick up Streets of Fire was based in Walter Hill's other work and its vague relation to The Warriors. I ended up liking it a lot more, so when I wandered across Eddie and the Cruisers and saw that it starred Michael Paré, who starred in Streets, I was suddenly more interested in it. I was reluctant to watch it when it came up in my personal "queue" (which is nothing like a NetFlix queue, because I own all the discs and can change my mind and grab something I just picked up instead if I really want to, but I try not to) because the concept was not grabbing me, and sounded like it might end up something iffy or boring that I was riding for actor charisma more than anything else. Still, I decided I'd give it a go and watched it when the urge struck.

It's the 1980s, and almost 20 years earlier in 1964, the biggest hit in the country was Eddie and the Cruisers' "On the Dark Side," but now it's a hit again thanks to a revival. A television magazine latches onto this anniversary and decides to look into the band again. Reporter Maggie Foley (Ellen Barkin) suspects even that Eddie Wilson (Paré) did not die in the car accident that he was reported killed in in 1964, but wonders, more importantly, what happened to Season in Hell, their sophomore album that was never released. The tapes for it disappeared and were never released when the label shelved it for being too "out there"--now believed to be "ahead of its time." She begins to hit up the Cruisers, all wandering off to different places--Frank "Wordman" Ridgeway (Tom Berenger), the keyboardist who wrote their lyrics and has become a high school English teacher, Sal Amato (Matthew Laurance) who works in a club as head of a "tribute" band, manager Doc Robbins (Joe Pantoliano) who now DJs in Asbury Park where they all came from, and the more estranged female vocalist Joann Carlino (Helen Schneider), drummer Kenny Hopkins (David Wilson) and the more definitively deceased saxophonist Wendell Newton (Michael "Tunes" Antunes). The former Cruisers all recollect the events that led to their success--Ridgeway recalls being found in a bar, discussing lyrics with Eddie, a gig at Ridgeway's own former college--while they are all re-ignited with an interest in whether Eddie (whose body was never found) is perhaps actually still alive, and what happened to the tapes of that last album.

I'll be straight about this: this is not the first review I've done for this film. The other, however, was purely audio, completely off-the-cuff and not easily returned from its current location (and, in fact, it may actually be gone from the world already). The ideas I put forth in it, rapid and condensed though they were, are the same ideas I have now, though. This movie really got to me, in a good way. I expected to just sort of like the music, maybe appreciate the cast (Pantoliano, Paré, Berenger) and have a decent time watching it. Far from it. I really enjoyed it, actually, more than I was even expecting. I won't say that it was flawless, because it wasn't. The intro of the magazine staff discussing the Cruisers and watching archival footage sets up the plot perfectly, but it's pretty clumsy and awkward, so even though it puts forth exactly the right information in exactly the right amounts, it's not wonderful at the delivery. But it sets the plot up so well that it's easily forgotten. The transition between contemporary and flashback footage is spot-on, both in terms of being fluid and in terms of being appropriately paced. It never goes on long enough to confuse us, make us forget what movie we're watching, but always goes on long enough to fully establish a flashback's time and events.

What's most important is that the movie perfectly creates Eddie Wilson. Paré is--inevitably, considering the time the movie is set and the exit of his character--not the star, Berenger is. It's the perfect window into a rising band, showing us their way from bar band to new hot thing, with someone who has never heard of them being brought into their inner circle, and brought in far enough that he contributes in a meaningful way. Eddie is a distant thing, an enigmatic, charismatic and emotional star. He's kind of an asshole sometimes, in the way that most big talents seem to be in music, and yet sympathetic and clearly driven and tortured by a need to do what he does. We're brought to wonder what happened to him, brought to both possible conclusions: that he took that car off that bridge and went with it, that he made the whole thing up. He's close enough to be interesting and magnetic, but distant enough to be a mystery. He almost becomes a real rockstar--even though Paré is only lip-synching, no less--almost inspiring curiosity about what actually happened to Eddie Wilson, until you remember there isn't one. It feels like a real biopic, almost more authentic because he doesn't exist and there are no facts to point out as being misrepresented.

Berenger has an interesting role, actually. I'm used to him playing Sgt. Barnes or "The Substitute" (though I've never seen it) and the like, but here he's a poetry-reading English major, a kid in a bar who interjects his knowledge of cæsura into an intra-band argument by reading from Rimbaud. I was happily surprised to find Berenger does not have to be a gruff, dominant alpha male, and is actually pretty good at being a slightly arrogant bookworm, proud--perhaps too much so--of his upbringing and education. His character isn't the only perfectly defined one though, all are given strong motivations, and are the kinds of people that someone like Eddie draws around him as help to enact his need to create art--a manager who knows how to talk and who is driven and dreams, a bassist who writes their early lyrics and who wants nothing more than to be a star, a saxophonist who just means the music, and a drummer who knows his instrument but doesn't need to shine ahead of everyone. This is, however, a very rough caricature of each of them--even the egocentric Sal is shown in a contemporary moment to be conflicted. He confesses his anger at Eddie for disappearing and denying him fame, but he's clearly still suffering the loss of his bandmate and friend.

As far as the music, some people can't tolerate its anachronistic flavour--the Asbury Park reference definitely solidifies a feeling of E Street Band origins to the music, and director/screenwriter Martin Davidson has admitted that Springsteen was an influence on the style of the band's music (which was written and performed by John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band). Of course, it's acceptable because, for one thing, it reflects the sensibilities of the era in which the music was actually recorded (it was the production style, to be sure), and in another because it does reflect more a bar band than a cleanly produced pop band from the 1960s. Much is made of it being ahead of its time, anyway. It's also, of course, a fantasy world, and this is the most important element. The songs are good and strong without feeling like they're reaching too far. They're not supposed to be the best songs ever written, but lost hits, which they easily could be--and in fact were, a few months after the film was released, in a strange sort of parallel "art imitates reality" story.

This may be one of the best rock and roll movies I've seen about a band, barring those that were actually OF a band (which hold a different allure) because it feels most true and real for its lack of necessary factual grounding.

The title actually translates to something more like "Empty Houses," by the way, rather than "3-Iron," which seems to reflect differing naming conventions by culture. Or maybe the title was not picked by an American distributor as I cynically think, and is not intended to re-frame the focus from the airy idea of transience to the visceral physicality of an item used repeatedly as an expression of anger in the film. It's anyone's guess until someone comes forward, and I'm unlikely to hear it when they do, so I'm going to grimly stick to my theory there, and suggest that the translated title would, in fact, be more appropriate.

Tae-Suk (Hyun-Kyoon Lee) is tasked with taping restaurant menus to the doors of residences from his motorcycle, but takes this job--if indeed it is an actual paying job--as a method of serving his true way of living. Waiting to see if the menus, all placed over the doors' locks, are removed hours later, he determines which houses are empty. Those which are empty he enters and enjoys, fixing broken mechanics and washing clothes by hand. He makes use of food, toiletries, beds and appliances, then disappears with no clear trace of his presence. At the first house we see him marking, he has a brief exchange of dark looks with the home's owner, Min-Gyu (Hyuk-Ho Kwon), before the two go their separate ways. When he comes back later to find no one has re-entered this house, he goes about his normal activities, not noticing that Min-Gyu's wife Sun-Hwa (Seung-Yeon Lee) is still there and shadowing his movements, smiling when he fixes their scale or peruses their art. Tae-Suk finally recognizes her presence when she finds him in bed, and Tae-Suk quickly leaves. After pondering his decision, Tae-Suk returns and finds Sun-Hwa sobbing in the shower, her eye still bruised from what can only be the less-than-affectionate attentions of Min-Gyu. Creating a more comforting environment, Tae-Suk tentatively shows a more respectful approach to Sun-Hwa, until Min-Gyu returns and finds them both. Tae-Suk disappears before Min-Gyu sees him, but does not leave, instead convincing Sun-Hwa to leave with him and try his own way of living.

I've been reluctant to watch this, knowing what I did about it. First I have to be in the mood to be stationary enough for a subtitled movie (some foods are complex to eat when you need your eyes on the screen consistently), and then I have to be in the mood for something arty, and, as memory told me, nearly silent. If I'd really thought about it, I might've put these two ideas together and realized there weren't going to be many subtitles when the protagonists are indeed silent through the majority of the film (and, in addition to that, often the only presences on-screen). Still, when I thought of watching it today, I thought, "Why not?" and pounced, determined to avoid losing a willingness on my part to see it. I was a little worried that, despite the minimal running time of 84 minutes, it would be slow (as it has been described as such). Apparently, I needn't have worried, because it's far from slow. If you can't tolerate the idea of a film with almost no dialogue, you likely will find it interminably slow and frustratingly incomprehensible. There are ridiculous reviews claiming that there is no characterization and no way to identify with the characters because they don't speak. This is the sign of a pretty limited view of people (and probably not the best sign for reading people around you). It's very clear what kind of characters these two are, insofar as the relevance of this definition to the film. It's not perfect and complete rounding, but that's very difficult to do in the space of a movie anyway--and it isn't always the point.

There's also raging debate as to the reality or believability of the film, which is somewhat frustrating as it's yet another limited way of seeing things. It's not that one can't prefer a naturalistic or realistic approach, nor even that one can demand that of the films they like or watch, but it's not the only approach to be taken, nor the only one that can be successful--just the only one that can be successful for those who demand it. It's not intended to be a perfectly realistic film, asking for a relatively large degree of suspension of disbelief, but not in the sense of suspending what is possible in reality so much as suspending the belief that you are watching reality. This is a dream-like world, but not in the stream-of-consciousness sense so much as a floating, ethereal one. Tae-Suk is unnaturally good at sneaking around people and their homes, but at the same time does do enough that one would think someone might at least notice that he had been there, even if he wasn't found while there. There's a further debate on the subject when the end is reached, and some feel that Tae-Suk has become a literal ghost, where others feel he has become, well, a ninja, if you'll pardon the tongue-in-cheek interpretation of the film. It's got a sense of humour though, so I suspect writer/director Ki-Duk Kim does as well, and thus won't mind. I'm in favour of the second interpretation, though also not opposed to the more open interpretation that these are not distinct or "real" people in the first place, and identifying along such lines is moot.

This is, as you might guess, a pretty visual movie. Many, even those who hated the movie, have noted that Korean film has a distinct tendency to be well-filmed. I'm inclined to agree--all the Korean films I've seen, as well, seem to be pretty beautifully shot. There's a careful attention to reflections and framing, making it always look intentional but never artificial, a difficult but very aesthetically pleasing balance. The pacing around this, as well as the camera movements that support this pacing and aesthetic, is well-balanced and keeps things moving even through relative silence (pierced only by environmental noise and the odd bit of music). It's cut perfectly to never make the protagonists' silence too questionable, and to keep any scenes with such kinds of silence from becoming uncomfortable or unsettling. Even when someone is speaking to them, it comes off as believable, at least in this film's world, that they will not respond, and so it maintains the right sensibility to propel a rather unusual film forward. It's quite pleasing as a film, touching and easily affecting, even with the detached eye of Eastern film that always seems to nudge at me when I watch a film made in eastern Asia. Definitely worth your time if you have any romantic proclivities, and a willingness to experience a movie that does not rely in the slightest on dialogue.

I always put my foot in my mouth just a bit when talking about comedy, especially modern comedy. I insist that I have no taste for the modern style of overly-raunchy comedy, and find none of it funny. This isn't strictly true (though I do strictly hate Will Ferrell and Ben Stiller, only making exceptions for movies they are in, never for their roles in them--unless they are, perhaps, not intended to be comedic) because I do like Kevin Smith's movies. I freely admit to a strong distaste for Chasing Amy (for reasons that would spoil the movie if you haven't seen it, but that are well known to anyone who brings it up around me) and find both Mallrats and Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back leave me shrugging, neither loving nor disliking them, but sort of letting them be reasonably enjoyable. I really like Clerks. and Dogma quite a bit though, so I was happy to go see Clerks II in theatres--obviously, though, this was three years ago. I picked the DVD up about two ago and got around to re-watching it just recently.

Dante Hicks (Brian O'Halloran) and Randal Graves (Jeff Anderson) are still hanging around Leonardo, NJ ten years after the events of Clerks., but when a fire takes out the QuickStop, they move on to fast food chain Mooby's. Despite ten years passage, the two of them have not changed an awful lot, Dante being insistent on complaining about his life failing to meet the expectations he has of it and Randal turning up his nose at anything and everything, but especially the "normal" life. Jay (Jason Mewes) and Silent Bob (Smith) have taken up the Mooby's as their place to hang out, lean on a wall, sell pot and dance to music. Dante, though, is now engaged to Emma (Jennifer Schwalbach, later Jennifer Schwalbach Smith--Kevin's wife), the ex-prom queen who has decided she is tired of going through the "hot guys" and settled on the "nice guy." There's a bit of friction though, as Dante and Randal's boss is Becky (Rosario Dawson), with whom Dante is clearly pretty close, and who has a pretty clear interest in Dante. Added to the mix, though, is the young, sheltered Elias (Trevor Fehrman), who is less-than-prepared for Dante's willingness to discuss anything, nevermind Randal's willingness to open any topic for discussion. Dante's engagement, though, makes this his last day in New Jersey, which is straining things even further--but doesn't stop the periodic flow of customers that are so familiar to the pair of them, and always a source of derision for Randal.

This is the right way to do a sequel. Smith makes a script that contains the same characters in a similar environment and a similar sort of life situation, but he tweaks elements of these to both fit the changed characters and to bring something new to the film. But the characters aren't abandoned. Randal and Dante are still themselves, as are Jay and Silent Bob, pop culture references (especially geeky ones) are just as present, as are frank discussions of sex and especially taboo and, uh, unusual subtopics thereof. The fact that Dante and Randal are still themselves does not mean they haven't changed though. They're older, dealing with new things in different ways--and some things in exactly the same ways. It's just the right mix of faithfulness to the original that ties it to it with just the right addition of new material to feel fresh. It also doesn't make the mistake (at least, it's usually a mistake) of looking like it's deliberately trying to "outdo" the original. It certainly does in some respects (the going away present for Dante would be the obvious way in which it does...) but it never feels like it's deliberately reaching for that.

O'Halloran and Anderson are also improved as actors--in the original they were amateurs, still rough around the edges, though nicely settled into their characters. They're even more settled this time, and it ends up sort of "meta," with actors grown into roles that have grown in and of themselves. Both still have the marks of their roots, but as before it makes them more endearing. A lot of this is, of course, credit to Smith's writing, which is sort of the raunchier version of John Hughes, if you will--I don't mean that as literal or exact comparison, because I hate those comparisons. Still, it's something like that because his characters are always familiar despite their excessiveness. They're endearing even when they're jerks, they're relatable and sympathetic even when they're exasperating. One character can hate another and we can like both, one can treat everyone like dirt and say horrific things (obviously, I mean Randal) and we still like him because Smith and Anderson build real, solid characters into this, but without going too far with the drama and drawing the tone too far outside comedy.

It's a worthy sequel, something that doesn't happen often, and happens even less often with comedies and even LESS often with small independent ones. It was a risk, but it works out. Is it better than the original? Not really a relevant comparison. They're too different despite their similarities, because they are made so differently and about different things. One is coming into the "real world" and being aimless, one is having been that aimless person and realizing that things aren't just going to change of their own accord, no matter how long you wait. Oh, and it has King Diamond's music in it. I was intensely excited by this in the theatre, though there was no one I saw it with (and few people since) to explain this excitement to. It's awesome, though, to hear his voice coming out of a theatre's sound system, without a doubt.

The Beatles become a more and more curious subject as time goes on, especially in the circles I run in. I grew up listening to them, and never thought a thing of judging their music. I always liked it, which is no surprise if one knows that the 1968 animated film Yellow Submarine is one of my all-time favourite movies. I've got some of the figures produced from that film hanging about my apartment, as well as a well-worn shirt advertising the film. It was one of my earlier DVD acquisitions, before it went out of print. However, it was not until sometime in college that I began to learn that there were actually people who flat-out disliked or even hated the Beatles. I had no idea, and honestly still don't quite understand the people that do. Generally, it seems that this opinion is more response to response than response to the original stimulus (that is, their music). Obviously there are going to be people who just dislike their music, but mostly I find people who have been annoyed by how much other people like them. It's really a shame, but it is the nature of people to form such opinions (and I'm not immune to them myself, though I tend more to exaggerate dislike when things become more and more popular, but never move from like to dislike over it) so I suppose we're best off accepting it. Obviously if one took the concept of reviewing this movie and the concept of not talking about the Beatles' music and put them in a room, they'd not shake hands or greet, they'd stare in slack-jawed wonder at how you put them in the same room. I'm not planning to review the music or discuss it in detail, but I'm not going to skip around it either.

The Beatles (John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Richard "Ringo Starr" Starkey, if you somehow don't know) are set to perform on television one day in London, away from their home of Liverpool. Coming along with them are their manager Norm (Norman Rossington), road manager Shake (John Junkin), and Paul's grandfather (Wilfrid Brambell). Paul refers to his grandfather as a "mixer" or troublemaker, and suggests that he needs to be watched closely as they go about their busy schedules. Norm and Shake conflict periodically, usually from the subtle incitement of said grandfather. The boys try to escape their responsibilities as stars, skipping out on Norm whenever possible, whether assigned to respond to fan mail or to simply show up for any performance. They wander in and out of situations that they stumble into, while Paul's grandfather attempts to feed his own desires, which are usually a mix of greed and lechery. As a final spiteful act to remove himself from the watchful eye of others, he even tries to incite Ringo to leaving the group because of their relentless mockery of them.

This isn't a plot-heavy film, though it's not quite as plotless as many of the "rock and roll films" that predated (or followed) it. Or, at least, the absence of plot is not so worrisome. The Beatles are all rather charismatic as actors (even if clearly pretty amateurish), and Alun Owen's script serves them well. The words he wrote for them at least some of them agreed were very natural and believable for their real personalities, which was Owen's intention. It makes for a snappy, cracking sort of wit, one-liners, sarcastic retorts and wordplay bandied about without pause for laughter or between funny lines. There's a nice injection of absurdity to it all that gives a lovely hint of a smile with a certain element of snarkiness to all of them, as they find themselves mistaken for people they're not (or occasionally people they are) and they always take advantage of the people making these mistakes. Not cruelly, but often falling into the role they're mistaken for and responding with honest opinion. Nowhere is this more apparent than in George's mistaken appearance in an advertising office. He's taken for a new spokesperson, which he attempts to fight only briefly and eventually neglects to argue with, after which he sparks a bit of fear in the trend-obsessed advertising manager Simon, played by Kenneth Haigh.

Owen's script intentionally and clearly draws a neat little box around each of the boys, with Lennon as the smart-ass, McCartney as the "sensible" one, George as the shy one and Ringo as the good-hearted whipping boy. This is certainly an oversimplification of any human being, but it's appropriate when one is basing a film around a band as a purely business-oriented enterprise. It's not really the place for nuanced characterization and pathos, and it's good not only that Owen made the decision, but professional of the Beatles to accept the roles and run with them. There's no real mean-spiritedness to all of it, with the closest thing to an antagonist being Paul's grandfather, who's made out to be enough of a "rascal" (there's really no better word) that he's still fun, even as we see the havoc he creates. Brambell deserves plenty of credit for this, as his strange character is just a fantastically over-the-top foil for the rather subdued nature of four guys who didn't really do any acting before. Richard Lester directs it pretty brilliantly (nevermind John Jympson's tightly sloppy editing) and keeps everything in control and in place, which makes the whole thing hugely entertaining. While he bemusedly rejects the idea, certainly this film has some part in the origin of the promotional music video, with nicely cut montages and actual scenes behind their songs, from the beginning act of running from screaming fans on to the final television stage performance.

I normally express a general shrugging neutrality about the Beatles' music prior to 1966's Revolver (occasionally scaling it back to Help! or Beatles for Sale, but rarely earlier), often finding it too formulaically poppy and repetitive for my own tastes. I've never quite figured out why, however, but in films a lot of music that I shrug at or like all right seems to strike just the right sound dynamic and image juxtaposition to really make it pop out. I found myself with renewed appreciation for the songs the film contains, and for the greater nuance in the instrumentation than I had previously noticed. Generally one thinks of these songs and their simple and repetitive choruses ("She Loves You," "A Hard Day's Night," "Can't Buy Me Love," etc.) but there's actually a decent amount going on behind them. I'm not saying I suddenly rate it as equally interesting when compared to their later work, but still, it's more impressive than I once realized. It's this that I think is often missed by other people, but plenty of folks simply don't want to see it (or don't care about whether they see it).

What's best about the film, though, is not the music--it's great that a film built to advertise a band was controlled by strong voices like Owen and Lester, who made it an interesting movie in its own right, in some strange paradoxical way making it function almost like the Monkees (whose show was allegedly inspired by the film) in that it could be about a band that doesn't really exist and just happens to hold the Beatles' music as if the actors playing this made-up band were the ones who made it. In essence, the music is good, but separate from the main characters in the film even though it is indeed them who wrote and performed it--and of course that fact adds an exciting note of authenticity and justification to their casting. It's a very tenuous tone and quite a balance to strike, but the film maintains it perfectly, never losing its pace or its sense of humour, never stopping to rely completely on who is in the movie even as it feeds on the energy of that fact.

"What the hell?" I'm sure some folks are asking, "Why is he reviewing this? It has a 2.5 on IMDb!" I'd point to other films I've reviewed in response to this, but anyone who would say or think that would clearly not be paying close attention to what I review in the first place, so it would not serve as much of a clarification for those folks, who are clearly new to my taste in movies. There's no real good explanation for my taste, there never has been and there never will be one. That aside, this is the fourth and as-yet-final (in all likelihood, forever final--though a remake of the original is rumoured) Killer Tomatoes movie. It follows 1979's Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, 1988's Return of the Killer Tomatoes, and 1990's Killer Tomatoes Strike Back. I've seen them all, the first two numerous times.

Professor Mortimer Gangreen (John Astin, the original Gomez Addams for anyone who doesn't know that name immediately) is up to his old tricks, plotting world domination through the cunning use of fruits cooked as vegetables, but is currently residing in prison in France. He carries a large and dusty tome as he is brought before the prison's warden to be given his final fate. The warden releases him instead, to the confusion of the official who brought him there. Of course, the warden is none other than the Animated Series* villainous tomatoes re-designed: Zoltan, Ketchuck and Viper (who is based on the cartoon's Fang). They all help Gangreen to escape to a waiting hot air balloon, which is of course piloted by Gangreen's faithful assistant Igor (Steve Lundquist), who looks far more like he's a football player of Scandinavian ancestry from the midwest than a hunchback. Their escape leads to dropping a sandbag of ballast onto the face of a complaining actor (Marc Price) who is woken by a French Country girl named Marie (Angela Visser). She asks his name only for him to lie and tell her he's Michael J. Fox. Stumbling onto a plot that involves the kidnapping of Fuzzy Tomato (aka "FT," aka "Le Tomato Fuzzy") in an attempt to manufacture the prophesy hiding in Gangreen's tome that will bring the monarchy back to France--in the form of Igor.

It's stunning sometimes to watch people who don't seem to get that these movies are jokes. One hopes that some of the reviews out there are indicative of some strange subversive attempt at falsely stubborn ignorance that, while not funny, is at least intended to be. If not, there are some pretty horrifically stupid people out there, who talk about how ridiculous it is that anyone would find tomatoes reasonable villains, or wonder how they could keep in a shot of a cameraman tripping down the stairs. Both of these are intentional and intentionally ridiculous. As with the last two films (and unlike the first), returning writers John De Bello (directing as always, too), J. Stephen Peace (not appearing in this film, sadly, perhaps to busy campaigning for his upcoming California Senate seat), and Costa Dillon (who makes more bizarre appearances, this time as a recurring vendor/plot device) work in plenty of fourth wall-breaking material. This time, though, it's a little more surreal, as characters wander in and out of sets, note their presence in a movie and so on. Marc begins the film by bemoaning his b-movie status as compared to the real Michael J. Fox (with whom he shared the small screen in Family Ties). It's never subtle, but nor is it terribly clumsy.

That's the appeal of these films--yes, including this last one--they don't take even their sense of humour too seriously. They know when their puns are bad, and they revel in it. The scenes centered around them have the shrug of resigned acceptance of their ludicrousness mixed with the snap of treating even those puns like any good joke. Some of them can get a pretty good laugh as a result, and sometimes they build on each other in just the right way, or build and build to a lateral move that catches you off guard (Marc's final ascent of the "Tower of 900 Steps" got in the one joke that really took me by surprise and appealed to my referential sense of humour, then turned a corner and really got me with an awful pun--that was also referential). There's a clear intelligence behind even the stupid humour, with too many touches revealing an understanding of their own idiocy to really believe it's actual idiocy. The French accents are deliberately outrageous and over the top (some delivered by the prior film's star Rick Rockwell), with amusing French "rants" that consist entirely of strange sets of words that are commonly used untranslated in English (or at least that are cultural touchstones for English-speaking audiences). There's actually a handy trick to this--any dated reference is not overtly dated because the sense of humour is so consciously over-the-top and "bad." I could go into my rant about how much I dislike the idea of "movies so bad they're good," but I've done it before and I'll just leave it at this: I don't believe in that. These movies are not bad, because they are deliberately like this, but they revel in being ridiculous, and that's just fun. They're good at it, well-enough directed, written and performed to carry their intentionally stupid humour for their running lengths.

Price is a better lead than Rockwell, I must say, with a less smarmy role, one closer to Anthony Starke's as Chad Finletter in Return of the Killer Tomatoes than Rockwell's Lance Boyle. This isn't the fault of Rockwell, he's just better suited to things like a caricature of a French soldier being assaulted with tomato juice than a lead. Price is better as a guide through all of this because he's a little more innocent and wide-eyed a character, aware of how ridiculous things around him are and a little less ridiculous himself as a result, which is a better way to experience humour like this. There are plenty of jokes that falter, but they're all delivered with such gusto--and tongues planted so firmly and obviously in cheeks--that it works anyway, and the film never really stumbles too badly, keeping up its pace throughout a reasonable ninety minute running time. This doesn't mean that anyone would find it as amusing as I did--or even tolerable. I'm not really going to rush out and recommend it to anyone, but I can definitely say its IMDb rating is utterly ridiculous, and most of the reviews on there seem to indicate the reviews come from people who are unaware of the film's sense of humour, despite the fact that it's so obviously on display. Ho-hum. The film's too bouncy and upbeat (even if in a stupid way...) to be let down by this, but it's a shame for the voices behind it, who are doing what they want how they want, nudging at other pop culture elements but always showing enough of their own sensibilities to keep claims to relative freshness.

I'll save you any puns about tomatoes and freshness, even if I am talking about rating the film better than it is. But Rotten Tomatoes ought to maybe latch onto it.

*Yes, there was a Killer Tomatoes cartoon. I've seen a few episodes, one of those obnoxiously difficult to catch cartoons of my youth. Absurd hours on Sunday mornings, if memory serves.

Slowly I'm making my way through the Millennium/X series of Godzilla films, the only series completely available in Region 1 DVD releases. There are notable exceptions from both the Showa and Heisei series over here, unfortunately--well, notably absent, not necessarily notable films--nevermind the releases that fail to have original language tracks or original aspect ratios. Unfortunately even this series suffers from the repellently lazy phenomenon of "dubtitles," subtitles that are merely transcriptions of the dub and thus carry over all its re-written scripting that is designed in a dub to bring mouth movement at least closer to the audio track. Unfortunately it often deviates a fair bit, to the point that at one point I could swear a character cursed and the screen read, "Excellent!"--when cursing would have been more appropriate for the context. I caught on much earlier, though, when I began to hear words I knew--the light curse of knowing a smattering of Japanese and watching poorly translated subtitles--and saw nothing resembling them, even in spirit, in the subtitles. A quick change of audio tracks confirmed my suspicion, but dubtitles are better than the treatment alluded to above for other films, at least.

Fifty years after Godzilla attacked Tokyo in 1954, rumours and hints of more monsters in the vicinity of Japan begin to come in, worrying Japan's defensive forces who repelled Godzilla in that first attack. Low rent sci fi production company BS Digital Q is filming one of their typical productions only to be rocked by an earthquake. Their reporter Yuri Tachibana (Chiharu Nîyama) is present for this, and glances over to see a strange old man (Eisei Amamoto) who disappears when she looks back. She's taken in by him and the earthquake and pursues the idea until she digs up information about the "Guardian Monsters"* Baragon, Ghidorah and Mothra. Brief appearances by all are seen when a motorcycle gang goes joyriding and finds a tunnel collapsing on them, while some thieving youths find themselves unsettled on a lake. Yuri is able to find the old prophet she saw before at a police station, identified as Hirotoshi Isayama. He tells her that she must wake the "thousand year old dragon" to defeat the returning Godzilla, who he tells her was created by nuclear energy but is imbued with the anger of the souls lost in the second World War, angry at Japan itself for forgetting them. When Godzilla resurfaces, he takes to his old stomping grounds, heading immediately for Tokyo, with the curious new monsters attempting to stop him, from the quadrupedal, tunneling Baragon to the floating and graceful Mothra on to Ghidorah himself. Yuri's father is SDF Adm. Taizô Tachibana (Ryudo Uzaki), who is proud of his organization's role in repelling Godzilla originally, critical of Yuri's company and worried about the oncoming attack, while science writer for BS Digital Q Teruaki Terada is clearly very interested in Yuri.

Shusuke Kaneko's only Godzilla film, he is responsible for the admirable revival of Gamera in the 1990s, directing the entire trilogy of films that came out that time period (which I own but have only seen one of) but only taking this one opportunity to direct Gamera's far better known daikaiju "relative" (in the loosest sense, since they aren't even related by rights). It, like most of the Millennium series, is a direct sequel to the original 1954 Gojira and has no interest in any of the films that followed it. Godzilla is returned to his malevolent roots, while King Ghidorah is re-purposed into a mystical protagonist instead of a horrific alien experiment to create the ultimate monster--this is most definitely not the Astro-Monster/Monster Zero. Mothra remains as aloof and benevolent as ever, though Kaneko firmly notes that these monsters are here to protect the land of Japan, not the people or society on top of it. This makes for a pretty tense chunk of destructive action, because not only are the "good" monsters unconcerned about the humans around them, Godzilla is outright evil this time. Normally an unstoppable force of nature driven to destroy, this Godzilla actively pursues the destruction of people in some pretty dark moments, and always acts to retaliate against any one or anything that attacks him or tries to defend itself. As a result, there's a much greater intelligence to all of the kaiju that is usually not seen. Fights are less "choreograph it with the limitations of suitmation in mind" and more "find a way for these beasts to fight each other with the powers and design each of them has." This does mean, of course, that Toho had invested in a bit of CGI by this time (though not for the first time--but it's a pretty CGI-heavy Mothra appearance).

The story is even more closely tied in to the kaiju action than the last film I saw (Godzilla Against Mecha Godzilla, which actually follows this one in terms of release, but bears no relation to it otherwise), this time being more of a window into the human world in a world that is really centered on kaiju. They are mystical as Kaneko made Gamera, elder spirits designed to protect our destroy, infused with the souls of people long dead for either revenge or protective purposes. They are bigger than us in both the literal sense and the sense of "meaning," their conflicts beyond our means and understanding, to an extent. Yuri and her father are the only really big human characters, and they both act primarily by responding and reacting to the conflicts. This is actually sort of interesting when one considers that this is film chooses to show more thoroughly the effects of Godzilla's destructive nature on people. It's clearly stated that numerous people die over the course of the film, rather than seeing a building destroyed without any real explicit declaration of its occupants (or a lack). It does make things a little darker than usual, while paradoxically adding this human element to a world largely unconcerned with humans.

This makes for a pretty darn good Godzilla movie, albeit one that is clearly a deviation from most expectations (to the annoyance or disgust of some). It's interesting to see a Godzilla so clearly and actively motivated, though the design for this Godzilla is a bit off, being extremely dumpy and given creepy solid-white eyes that only enhance the malicious emphasis of the character this time around. Mizuo Yoshida is not to be criticized for his work, though, nor Fuyuki Shinada for his designs, at least not harshly. It's actually very well sculpted, and mostly works for this evil Godzilla, but is just a bit too tubby to be appropriately menacing from some angles Kaneko chooses. Still, it's good that the design differs as it does, because between the character changes, the varied approach and the new designs--all set to an unusually electronic score, albeit an effective one--gives the film the feeling of what Godzilla movies might be in an alternate universe, still entertaining and well-made, but different enough to remain recognizable but also recognizably different.

A very good entry in the series, but a very unusual and somewhat out of character one.

*A lame translation I'm guessing--either overly literal one or someone's idea of something that sounded "better."

"Tom Cruise in his second film role!" a sticker proudly proclaims on the 25th anniversary release of this film. It seems to have been added later, possibly to push sales of the film by riding the name of the biggest star of the lot. Sort of a shame, because the film has some better actors in it--Timothy Hutton (fresh off of his Oscar-winning role in Ordinary People), Sean Penn, George C. Scott, Giancarlo Esposito, Ronny Cox. Unfortunately (?) none of them ever wandered into the "movie star" realm (except a brief flirtation in the 1980s for Penn) that means that you just plaster their name all over things and people take interest, whether it's good or not. I'm not saying Cruise is necessarily a bad actor, or even that his role doesn't intrigue me, but simply that this is just a tag that screams of marketing over anything interesting in the movie itself. At least Cruise's role is reasonably large and it isn't jumping on a cameo to sell it.

At Bunker Hill Military Academy, Brian Moreland (Hutton) is part of the rising senior class, attending a brief and intimate dinner with the parting Cadet Major and the commander of the academy, General Harlan Bache (Scott), where he is promoted to Cadet Major, the head of the student body, for the next year. After this honour is bestowed, Moreland returns to his dormitory to see his roommate, Alex Dwyer (Penn) and fellow rising senior David Shawn (Cruise). Shawn has his company of "red berets" perform a drill in the hallway to honour Moreland, while J.C. Pierce (Esposito) congratulates him and offers to gather food for him from the care package fellow student Shovel (Jeff Rochlin). At the parade that celebrates the end of the school year, Bache announces the bad news--the school is to be closed in one year. Distraught but confident after a speech Bache gives Moreland in private, the students finally attend a last dance. Resentful "townies" catcall the dates the cadets are bringing and harass them from just outside the school grounds. A scuffle turns into a brawl, which Bache wades in to try to break up. When one of the locals jumps on Bache's back, he reaches around him and draws Bache's sidearm, the trigger squeezed in a brief moment, killing one of the locals. Bache is shocked that he managed to leave a round in the chamber and is carted away by the police. When a news report announces that now the school is to be closed immediately after this event, Moreland makes a plan to take back the school and hold it until they are given a chance to fight for its continuation. Many of the students who were to stay for the summer session join him in this, including even the youngest of cadets like Charlie Auden (Brendan Ward) and Derek Mellott (John P. Navin, Jr.). They take the arms that were stockpiled and hold the school against the police, accepting attempts by parents--including Moreland's own father, Master Sergeant Kevin Moreland (Wayne Tippet)--and eventually even the National Guard, represented by Colonel Kerby (Cox) as they doggedly fight to keep their school open and alive.

It's interesting enough to hold a position like I do on the military, never really able to discuss it logically with many, and yet another to see a film like this. I am neither the overtly militaristic type nor the anti-military type, and don't get along terribly well with the most fanatical elements of either. I think that the overly emphatic beliefs of those who devote the entirety of their minds to the idea of war are disturbing and out of touch with reality to a dangerous extent. I do not mean those who devote their lives, necessarily, as it is one thing to devote a life, and another to devote one's mind entirely. The opposite side has this silly idea that somehow you can have a country in this world and not maintain a military, or criticizes the military for forcing soldiers to accept killing and death. On the first thought, it's absurd when you live in a world where there are other people who will only respect or give pause for competing power. It can incite and promote conflict, to be sure, but it's highly unlikely that any country would be let alone--especially one that maintains a large role in world affairs--if they did not keep any form of defensive force. It wouldn't necessarily have to be used, of course (such as in aggressive actions of any kind), but the absence seems absurdly naïve to hope for. The second note, of training soldiers to accept death, is only logical: it's the only way to perform that job. This is a very strange position to hold, it seems, neither sneering at soldiers nor feeling the urge to salute their "endless, amazing, perfect duty and sacrifice" or what have you. I am opposed to conflict, but not to the idea of a military.

That's a pretty long discussion of my personal beliefs on the subject, I realize, but there's a reason for that. This film shows an interesting point of view on military training (even if it is technically civilian military training), with General Bache suggesting that Moreland should never be ashamed of humanity, and that it is humanity that keeps any leader from being a tyrant. The students are not all automatons or typically divisive. Shovel--whose name almost definitely comes from the idea of shovelling things into his face--is not constantly abused and taunted for his weight and eating, but neither is it ignored. "Plebs" (the new class of students) are harassed, but the understanding motivation of it, the idea that this is simply ritual, is actually conveyed to these new students instead of just openly abusing them. Few seem to be on power trips, or of that dangerous sort of future soldier that just wants to shoot things--with the notable exception of the overly aggressive Shawn. It's a view that building military leaders is an honourable affair, not something derided by director Harold Becker for its "insane militarism" nor steeled to a sharpened edge of "awesome badassness." Shawn is shown as dangerous--as either side of the issue should think he is--but nearly everyone else is muddled. Dwyer is not quite the sharp student that Moreland is, but Moreland is truly friends with him and respects him. He's also not a slacker in an open caricature sense, having a greater sense of humour and a more open conscience than anyone else, but never derided as a poor cadet for this reason.

It's a fascinating approach that makes the films points a lot easier to understand and digest. This is a stance that is rarely taken, with films usually either promoting the military agenda or slaughtering it wholesale, in either end case only ever preaching to the converted. The military and the building of officers is treated with respect and honour, drills, marching and the skills and leadership the school builds and maintains all being portrayed as affairs of disciplined and honourable intention. The military approaches Moreland begins to use to control the campus are not ruthless or bloodthirsty, and are rooted in this sense of honour he was given by General Bache. His motivation is solid and good, his intentions as well, and his actions, while not terribly smart or good, are generally well-carried out and reasonable, insofar as such actions can be. It's only after they've hold up in the school for multiple days that it begins to come clear what the movie is saying. This isn't a deplorable action by rebellious students as the outside world thinks (the outside world being a little cartoonish, but this is offset when it is contrasted with the cadets), it's a misguided action by cadets who mistake themselves for full soldiers. They have enough training that it ends up a relatively professional affair, but they are still young and not yet ready to take on the responsibility of the entire action for themselves. Most of the adults from the outside world bear nothing of Bache's respect for his students and deride them openly as insane or mere children, with only Kerby attempting in any fashion to actually understand and reach Moreland. He treats him with respect without pretending his actions are acceptable, but that only proves that Moreland is too lost in his nebulous definitions of "honour" and "duty" to really perform any action so grand.

For a cast this young, this is very well carried out. Scott (who, of course, is one of the ones who isn't young) has an unusually pleasant warmth to his role (at least, as compared to what I've seen him in before), being truly fatherly and kind to his students, respecting and honouring them in everything he does without going terribly lax on the discipline they are there to learn and receive. Hutton has wandered into a role that is pretty tough and full right after a similarly difficult one, and he proceeds admirably. A verbal confrontation between Kerby and Moreland through a fence manages to highlight both the skill of Cox and Moreland and of editor Maury Winetrobe, with some nods to Becker and those behind the cameras. There are lingering shots of purely physical emotional reactions on these characters that don't feel forced but contain no words, showing that Moreland is losing his grip on his belief in the righteousness of his cause just as he attempts to deal with the grief of the unfortunate happenings that have led to this conflict in the first place. It's a telling shot for Hutton especially, showing a fight to maintain the emotional neutrality that will allow him to carry this out as his grief and frustration fight to break him down. Penn is caught in that most interesting role, the slacker who is not quite a slacker, who is respected even by the best students, a truly good friend despite whatever flaws he has as a student. Cruise is the most caricatured of the characters, a hothead who wants nothing more than to be a soldier--so he can shoot things. He treats the whole thing like kids playing war, never fully recognizing the reality of actual conflict and death, the thing that Moreland struggles to acknowledge maturely despite never being given the chance to deal with the idea. Cruise is very solid and believably out of control, but isn't doing anything terribly complex at the same time. Evan Handler (who would go on to various sarcastic, vaguely-weaselly roles in the last decade or two) portrays yet another of the commanding officers, Lieutenant West, who is torn by a devotion to Moreland and a recognition that this is all out of their control, possibly the most mature of all the responses any of them has to the events. Esposito is a sort of a sidelong mirror to Penn, playing J.C. not as a polar opposite, but as another cadet who respects, admires and likes Moreland and does his duty, but does it more as a duty born of respect than friendship. He is not dropped completely into the role of regimented soldier, but he's edging more toward a soldier with hints of civilian than Penn's openly civilian attitude.

This isn't a perfect movie, of course, as the entire concept raises some questions as to what on earth would possess anyone to think that taking a school by force was a good way to be heard, but that is sort of the point at the same time. Even the very young Ward and Navin manage to bring a lot of character to their roles as "pleb" freshmen, mixing that growing sense of pride and duty with the fear of very young children. It's disconcerting to say the least, but that's the point as well: these are kids-in-training, not full-fledged soldiers, and they are not really prepared emotionally for this, no matter how well-trained they may be. The film is absolutely successful at this, and clever at choosing a back door into this idea and message, avoiding insult to the cadets it's portraying while criticizing them harshly but reasonably.

On a message board I used to wander daily, there were a number of action film fans, and the subject of the best car chase ever filmed often came up. Naturally this was often down to some famous contenders, and two titles in particular tended to stick in my mind, being some of the most renowned for their car chases in general: Ronin and The French Connection. I'd never seen either, but when they kept coming up, the titles would get just a little more firmly ingrained in my mind, and I'd at least be overtaken with curiosity by wondering what exactly these movies consisted of, and how one rated these car chases as better than any others. I saw Bullitt a few years back, so I've already seen that chase, as well as Ronin's (which I also saw a few years back). Now I've completed the trio of films most recognized and, more important for me, the pair that I heard about so many times.

Jimmy "Popeye" Doyle (Gene Hackman) and Buddy "Cloudy" Russo (Roy Scheider) are two cops in Brooklyn who work in narcotics, who are trying to get somewhere nearer to an actual source of heroin. Popeye's pursuit of the job even in the face of time off leads them to a bar where a man flashing money around catches his eyes. The men he's with are familiar faces to Popeye, so they begin to tail the man, Sal Boca (Tony Lo Bianco), until they stumble into Weinstock (Harold Gary), a man who smells dirty to everyone but comes out clean every time. They convince their superior Simonson (Eddie Egan, the actual cop Popeye is based on, his partner Sonny Grosso appearing as Bill Klein) to let them pursue things further, and find that the source is a Frenchman, Alain Charnier (Fernando Rey), who has arrived with actor Henri Devereaux (Frédéric de Pasquale) as a cover and cold-blooded assassin Pierre Nicoli (Marcel Bozzuffi). Two wiretaps are how they luck into this and a meeting time for Boca and this source. Simonson gives them federal agent Mulderig (Bill Hickman, an actual stunt driver), who dislikes Popeye--who has no love for Mulderig either--and reveals Doyle's iffy past with "hunches." Charnier is smarter than the folks that Doyle and Russo are used to and easily makes them, making things difficult for everyone. Now Charnier has to find a way to make his deal with Boca in time for a real estate deal back in Marseilles, France, while Doyle and Russo must catch Charnier, Devereaux and Boca.

The only other factoid I had about this film as I sat down for it was that the chain of Popeye's restaurants actually had nothing to do with E.C. Segar's amusing cartoon strip creation and everything to do with Gene Hackman in The French Connection. This was news to me when I heard it a couple years back, and was almost the most intriguing thing about it. I never really connected the film as a Best Picture winner (or Best Actor, Best Screenplay and Best Director, really), and understood the car chase to be a car chase with two cars. I didn't remember the Academy Awards until I had already finished watching the movie, and had no idea about the chase until I saw it. I knew Hackman and Scheider were in it (which is fine by me, I like both of them a lot) and that Friedkin directed it, but Friedkin I know in a strange way, as I didn't enjoy The Exorcist when I watched it some years ago, and I've only seen Sorceror since then, and To Live and Die in LA, which I was severely disappointed by (though more because of a lead I disliked than anything else). Still, I have an intellectual respect for Friedkin by reputation that comes from respectable sources, so I counted it as a plus anyway.

As soon as it starts, the movie is filled with an immediacy driven by an unusual score from Don Ellis (who composed the soundtrack for the also-Scheider-starring The Seven-Ups, though that score bothered me) that is very light on melody, heavy on rhythm and sound. It's perfectly in keeping with the "induced documentary" feeling that Friedkin says he aimed for in making the film. It's an accent and a supporting prop, loud and brassy without being obnoxious or off-putting. It shows up momentarily and often almost out of the blue, playing underneath scenes that don't immediately show a need for that emotional intensity, thus giving it to them, being uncommon enough to let us know that this is something important without giving the slightest hint of what's about to happen. It's a pretty amazing effect, especially for a film nearly forty years old, because no one seems to have undercut this effect by overusing it--though I do feel like it has been tried. It makes you uneasy and uncomfortable and ramps up the tension even when nothing about the way things are acted or cut changes the feeling of what is being visually portrayed.

From there, it's clear that Friedkin has made a no-nonsense, perfectly economic film. Never is any time wasted, but at the same time it's not rapid cutting and brief, terse moments for cuts or scenes. Each cut and scene lasts just as long as it needs to for events to roll along and put forth all the information necessary to understand them. Similarly, dialogue is not built purely for exposition, but never lingers long enough to fall into any kind of forced, intended characterization. Friedkin does come from documentary work, but I almost disagree with the tone he says he intended. As I watched, I did not get the idea that this was documentarian, but at the same time it had the right tinges of it to build a fictional-story-based-on-fact into something that screamed of reality even as it was clear that it was only something that resembled it. The camera doesn't seem to know where everyone is going to be, or even everything, yet at the same time they're edited in to cut out the chaff of pondering a building while we wait between moments that drive the story. It's a perfect line between pure fiction film and documentary, creating some strange amalgamation of the two that is utterly fascinating for its hook of dramatic tension and the exciting tinge of real events--the reason people see a movie "Based on true events" or studios market them as such. It almost doesn't even matter that it actually is, because Friedkin has perfectly conveyed the idea anyway.

Hackman and Scheider are not used to carry the film because of this, because it would destroy the feeling of reality. Neither one is an actor who tries to steal the screen, though, with Hackman especially more interested and real acting and Scheider always seeming a cool character who just slides into roles and then back out of them and into the next one. It's not quite the same thing as a devoted character actor like Hackman, but it has the same feeling of relaxed reality to it. Their characters are not wonderful people, especially Doyle, and this is something that was once new--not that old at this point, in fact. Doyle is racist and obsessive, uninterested in anything but doing his job. He takes Cloudy along on bar trips to scope out possible targets for surveillance or busts, he criticizes his techniques on the job and spends days and nights on his surveillance without concern for much else. Cloudy is loyal and more passive behind Doyle's crass, smart alec obsessiveness, but strong enough to break up Doyle's conflicts and support his moves. Charnier is a strange counterpoint to this, an ultra-slick, suave and cosmopolitan sort of villain, neither twirling his moustache nor combing it into an ultra-slimy configuration. He knows what he's doing and it's what he does, the only thing he really shares with the two cops pursuing him. Rey is successful despite the mix-up that led to his hiring and his poor--by his admission, at least, prior to the film--French.

So, of course, I started talking about this film by bringing up the car chase. I'd say "you're probably wondering..." but I think things like car chases are silly to talk about, as I know I never got a handle on what was cool about any particular chase that I had never seen, so I don't expect anyone to want to hear what it's like or about. What it IS, though, is absolutely breath-taking. Popeye is not chasing another car but an el train above his car. The filming of this scene is unbelievable, clearly filmed in live traffic and swerving and diving at rapid speed through screeching cars as he lays on the horn. Like many of the truly great chases, there's not much music behind this. It's almost all engine sounds and the constantly blaring horn of Popeye attempting to keep people from driving into his path. Like the rest of the film, there's never a feeling that it's prepared and calculated, even as the camera knows exactly where it needs to be, even if it's just a bit behind or a bit ahead or a bit off. It never looks sloppy, but it always looks like it was dropped into the moment, capturing something already existing, even if it wasn't real.

This film was absolutely amazing, and I don't think I was expecting that. I thought it would be good, I thought it'd be engaging, but it was absolutely thrilling, the way thrillers rarely actually are. Usually they're too slick and calculated and fake to really entangle you, but the effect Friedkin creates is affecting and more than engaging, it's captivating--and I mean that in the sense of holding the viewer prisoner. There's no way out of the scene because it draws you in and locks you down and forces your eyes to watch, not because you necessarily want to know what happens next, though you may very well want to, but because you just absolutely have to know. It's not a possible lack of want that comes from a sick sense of pessimistic unease, but because you really don't know what's going to happen--you can tell it could be just about anything, this is too real to have a calculated ending (even though it does, of course, and a brilliantly enigmatic one--not lacking in closure and yet somehow open and inexplicable) and so maybe they won't catch him, mabye he won't get away, maybe he will--who knows? You have to know, though, because it's so well put together that you can't just turn away and shrug and let it go. Do yourself a favour: let this one drop its hooks into you and watch it straight through. Probably the most frenetic, kinetic film of this laidback kind, that has such energy without forcing it that it's almost unbelievable.

I'm always a sucker for any film at least three decades old that receives some kind of special features-heavy DVD release, if it looks like the studio behind it really put their backs into moving things onto the discs. If I've heard of the film, I'll probably pick it up if the fancy edition drops to a price I consider reasonable. It doesn't guarantee I'll like it, but it generally means it's a film I "should" see. It's worse when it comes to musicals, which depend on someone's interest in the songs to a degree, or can, for some people. That means asking for opinions can be an iffy process, and that it's sort of a crapshoot picking such a thing up. Doesn't generally stop me, of course, as I have to treat musicals as crapshoots most of the time since I've watched so few in the first place, due to an early dislike of them.

Tevye (Chaim Topol, usually credited, like here, as just Topol) is the father of five girls in the village of Anatevka in Tsarist Russia. He introduces us to the village and describes its general nature and overall attitude toward the world, any white lies he tells easily countered by the scenery and characters behind him. Tradition is established as the order of the day with the first song, and then there is a brief interlude for the credits, after which we learn of the village matchmaker Yente (Molly Picon) and her news of a match found for Tevye's oldest, Tzeitel (Rosalind Harris), the rich butcher Lazar Wolf* (Paul Mann). The daughters closest in age to Tzeitel are excited at the idea of news for her because it means they're next, and next eldest Hodel (Michele Marsh) and Chava (Neva Small) sing of their hopes, only to have Tzeitel interrupt with her cynical fears that infect the rest. Tevye's wife Golde (Norma Crane) is the one who speaks to Yente and sends Tevye to meet with Lazar Wolf and attempt to broker an agreement for the arranged marraige. Tzeitel, though, wants to marry the poverty-stricken tailor Motel (Leonard Frey). Tevye is confronted with this affront to tradition that he values so much, and has to decide whether to relent, only to have his other daughters follow in her footsteps. Drifting revolutionary Perchik (Michael Glaser) catches the eye of Hodel, while the gentile Fyedka (Raymond Lovelock) catches Chava's. Interrupting this is also the encroaching policy of pogroms, brought about through the local Constable (Louis Zorich), who attempts to be reasonable within an unreasonable set of orders.

There's certainly more to the plot, and of course songs push the running time until it ends up just a tiny bit over three hours in total. This is no surprise for a musical from a stageplay, really, because many of those run such lengths anyway. It doesn't feel too long, though, and in fact runs about as quickly as three hours can. Not exactly "Really? Three hours?" sort of quick, but not "Ugh, is this over yet?" at all. There was complaint when the film was being made that Zero Mostel was not being cast as Tevye, because he had originated the Broadway role, but Topol did at least originate it in London. It was really Topol who put my foot into the door of watching this; I caught a flash of it once, about six years ago, while at the home of a friend of my then-girlfriend's parents** and was intrigued (but more interested, at the time, in my girlfriend and the--I think it was Christmas, that or Thanksgiving--dinner that was awaiting). I found him intriguing and interesting. He's not a perfectly pretty face, but has a strong voice and character. The dancing used in "If I Were a Rich Man" was what I caught, and I found it terribly interesting. Apologies to Mostel, but I can't separate him from The Producers in my head, and that just seems a bit weird for Tevye in my brain (though it probably wouldn't be if I saw it, really).

Topol is definitely the best part of the movie as a whole. When the story shifted to Perchik and Hodel in particular, I cringed a little. Occasionally Glaser looked a bit too much like he was picked for his looks, as did Marsh. Glaser and Lovelock both had the obnoxious--usually seemingly stage-born--habit of enunciating by edging in a hint of a posh British accent (stretched R's, for instance). It's grating, especially when surrounded by people working with Yiddish accents and mannerisms (Picon probably being the most enthusiastic about taking on such cultural mores). Neither really had the charisma, background or fire to really sell this, either, so it's a little nudge at the suspension of disbelief (or maybe a child jumping up and down on the bridge--suspension and all that). And Marsh's singing voice made me think she was only considering the song and singing, and not the character. This is one of the things I find offputting in musicals when it occurs, so it made the scenes with Marsh and Glaser the most uncomfortable. These are just nudges though, thankfully, especially because they are nowhere near the leading roles. Mann is probably the next most exciting actor, with a nice whiplash-inducing mood change in him.

The approach Norman Jewison took in directing this (after reminding the producers who called him in that, despite the suggestive name, he's not Jewish) is the kind that works best in adapting stage musicals: he envelops the feel of the stage musical in film-dressing, giving it the kind of life that preserves its origins while giving it something that original medium cannot. Dancing is never a focal point in a scene (with the possible exception of Topol's solo dancing), nor is singing. It's never framed to say, "And now they're going to dance!" or "Here's an actor singing!" There's no way to make someone bursting into song feel completely realistic or believable (even if some people might actually burst into song in reality, it's rarely so perfectly relevant), but it is possible to make it seem less jarring. That's what's achieved here, with framing and filming done to treat most of these scenes like dialogue in the way actors play and in the way the camera follows them. There's a different rhythm and movement inherent in this because they are singing and not talking, but it's not the rhythm that really draws one's eye to the fact of the song. The minimal dancing usually takes place only where appropriate: characters dance at a wedding, or in drunken celebration at a bar, or to express joy in a way that is not overly choreographed in feeling. Probably the most constructed of these scenes is the bar, where a group of Russians comes in to congratulate Tevye on the upcoming marriage of his daughter. They reel out dances that are widely recognized as "Russian," and often do so in clear lines or groups, but it all comes off through its cultural association as a way of establishing the Russians and matched to the appropriate nature of dancing in the scene, it doesn't come off strangely. It's also filmed from peculiar angles, and always with stationary crowds around watching (usually the Jews, who are somewhat confused by and wary of this intrusion), many from under a table or chair, resulting in a focus on feet without following them in an unnatural way.

The extra techniques included were most clear whenever Tevye was faced with some kind of decision as to whether to let others encroach on the way his life was currently being lived. First Lazar Wolf is frozen while Tevye ponders "aloud"--though the freezing of course tells us it is not aloud at all--whether to agree to let him marry Tzeitel. It occurs again whenever confronted with his daughters, though now, instead of freezing, they are suddenly many yards away from where they just were, which was right next to him. It's a clever method of continuing Tevye's established habit of asides, first with his narration and later with his discussions with God, which is always filmed with Tevye in the foreground and simply looking out of the scene in some direction that is near the camera (without being the camera). It's very effective and feels right for the character--as does, curiously, his tendency to burst into song, or dance (which he mostly just does with "If I Were a Rich Man"). There's a moment that comes from not from the camera or Jewison though--unless he suggested it--but from Topol that was probably my favourite. It's strange and momentary, but it was a perfect encapsulation of the character of Tevye, or at least what I liked about him. He's about to sing "Do You Love Me" to Golde, and he begins to get into the subject by picking aimlessly at a door frame, almost as if he were a child preparing to tell his childhood crush that he liked her. Tevye is like this; he's stubborn and interested in tradition, but is an honourable and good man and measures things, discussing them with God and trying to get a feel for what the truth is--even if it violates his previously held beliefs.

The songs are not all as catchy as the ones that I think are the most famous ("If I Were a Rich Man" and "Matchmaker"), but that may be due to the fact that I have not heard them near so much. Still, none bear the marks of unpleasant musical convention for me--though they often happily end on the horn blast that marks the moment where the cast would freeze in some productions of any musical--perhaps thanks to John Williams' choices in arranging them, but I imagine more due to the songs themselves. This is perhaps the most important element of the film for some people, but not me. I like to think of musicals as a medium in the genre sense--a way of telling a story and conveying an idea (like the changing of traditions and the established way, in this case) rather than a showcase for the elements of the medium or genre. To draw an absurd comparison (albeit one that shouldn't be surprising from me), it's the difference between horror that uses the fantastic for itself and as part of a story, and horror that throws a story out as a showcase for gory setpiece murders. It's possible to blur the line (in horror AND musicals, I mean), but that's not at issue here. This is definitely more a story being told that happens to have good songs in it, which makes sense since it did come from stories originally. Regardless of the detail, though, this is how I like my musicals.

*I harp on the morons who wouldn't stop laughing at the dog named "Homo" in The Man Who Laughed, but I definitely heard this name and thought, "...I did not just hear that." I continued to think that for the rest of the movie, then read the credits and yes, barring a little spelling, I DID hear that. I did not, however, laugh aloud at it--even though I was by myself. It's weird, but it's a name that happens to sound like Laser Wolf. That doesn't mean it IS Laser Wolf. Even if that's exactly what you hear. Over and over.

**Sorry, unless I just made up the relation, I couldn't make that any simpler.

Some have called it one of the worst films ever made, and a Pulitzer Prize winning writer called it a masterpiece. I couldn't remember why I had vague notions of dislike attached to the movie--dislike from others, I mean--until I started wandering around trying to find out why. It wasn't hard; a lot of people seem to think the movie is just irretrievably awful, though it's the only film Sam Peckinpah ever had final cut on, and the one he apparently called his most personal. It's to be expected--just look at the title!--that this is not a film that was going to do anything to shake his nickname of Bloody Sam. I have seen many Peckinpah films, actually, which is unusual when I'm reviewing something by a director whose name is so well known, but this time I can point to reviews of The Ballad of Cable Hogue and Ride the High Country, and say I've also seen The Wild Bunch, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, Straw Dogs and The Getaway.

Theresa (Janine Maldonado) is the young daughter of the clearly powerful El Jefe (Emilio Fernández), who summons her with tough guys who say her father is asking for her. She's pregnant and the way she clutches at her belly makes it clear that this child is relevant to her summons. Taken in hand by the two men, Theresa is held roughly and El Jefe demands to know who the father of her child is. Shrinking in no way from finding this out by any means necessary, he pries the name from his daughter--Alfredo Garcia. He offers a million dollars to whoever brings him the head of Garcia, a veritable caravan of eager, greedy bounty hunters leaving his estate to find the man. Spreading out, Quill (Gig Young) and Sappensly (Robert Webber, more on him later) wander into a bar after trying numerous other leads, and find a man behind a piano (Warren Oates), playing and chatting up the customers of the bar. They latch onto this man, Bennie, when no one else will give them any information. They offer him a miniscule chunk of cash for his services, and he accepts, following his own local contacts. He's told that Elita (Isela Vega) is most likely to know Garcia's whereabouts, which leads him to a swearing bout, because Elita is his girlfriend (albeit a prostitute). Elita tells him that Garcia is already dead because of an accident, and so Bennie decides to gamble for more money from the bounty hunters. He argues them up to ten thousand, and heads off. Unknowingly, he and Elita are followed by two of the other bounty hunters already on Garcia's trail.

It's worth noting that the Pulitzer Prize winning writer is deserving of it for his writing skill, but it's also worth noting that he's a colossal moron. I'm speaking, of course, of Roger Ebert. The unfortunate fact of this is that he's not consistently wrong OR right. He hates movies for stupid reasons, or praises them for worse ones. So, that does not mean that I should have felt dread if I'd known he said this was a masterpiece, nor excitement. I don't know Michael Medved's opinions or qualities very well, so I have little to say about his claim that this is one of the worst movies ever made, except that I was pretty sure he'd seen enough movies to have actual bad ones on such a list. Shows what I know about him, I guess.

This (as the "Peckinpah Scholars" commentary suggest repeatedly) is not an easy film. It's not a fun film--though it can be funny--and it's not a pleasant one. It's dark and it's violent (most people expect these things if they know Sam, though, at least) and it's thoroughly unrelenting in its cynical feeling about humanity and the world. Many people die (the trailer claims 25, I feel that's probably rounded, even if it's rounded up, but am not the type to go back and count), there are some unpleasant scenes of brief torture and assault and the like, and a pair of bikers (Kris Kristofferson and Donny Fritts) come upon Bennie and Elita in the wilderness only to take a liking to her--with an obvious end intention. Bennie and Elita are sympathetic characters, even if likable may or may not be the right word, to it's not a hollow or detached set of unpleasant events either. That isn't to say that the film is just crushingly depressing or hopeless in tone, but rather in its "message" about the world. It moves along and doesn't leave you with that feeling that you just want it to end because it's so horrifically awful, but you are still shaking your head and hoping something goes just a little better. There's a secret satisfaction that this hinges on, as we do have a protagonist to get through the whole movie with, after all. We know we've got Bennie to the end for sure, because this story can't continue without him.

Oates is not an actor whose work I know very well. I've seen small roles from him in 1941 (and considering I've forgotten most of that movie, it's no surprise, I think, that I don't remember him in it), Badlands, Shenandoah, Ride the High Country, Stripes and In the Heat of the Night. I honestly couldn't tell you where in any of those, so I'm left primarily with The Wild Bunch, where I still don't have a role held down in my head. He's fantastic here, allegedly playing a version of Sam himself, an ex-pat in Mexico who thinks of himself as a tough guy but who stumbles when faced with actual tough men. He doesn't lack the actual skill (he's pretty good with a gun), but he is miserable at the attitude and the mannerism. Gig Young and Robert Webber show the opposite, both cold and calculating in their approach to the whole business, disinterested in anything else and willing to do anything to get what they want. This was a bit disorienting when Webber's face kept floating through my head as someone with glasses and an easy, friendly manner of speech. I couldn't identify the role until I looked back through his work and there it was: 12 Angry Men. He was the ad-exec with funny anecdotes who didn't pay attention at first. This is essentially a complete opposite role, as he is absolutely creepy and terrifying as a clearly psychopathic sadist. Vega has the right balance to match Oates, an outward vulnerability of sorts--playing on accepted social conditions for women--that hides a superior strength, unlike Oates' attempts to be a tough guy that make him look ridiculous.

There's a lot to be said about the film in terms of its expressions of love lost or unrecognized, the possible costs of greed, the nature of revenge and trying to achieve it (and I mean this in the Chan-Wook Park sense, incidentally). This is most of what makes it unhappy as a film, because we see a certain madness encroach on Bennie, as well as the circling whirlwind of violence that surrounds the search for Alfredo Garcia's head. Not everyone harmed is even involved, some are completely innocent, but the greed and vengeance drive violence into their vicinity and bring violence into their lives anyway. Bennie manages to maintain his "innocence" in the audience's eyes not by avoiding moral transgressions, but by justifying them. Not justifying in a way that makes them acceptable, but in a way that tells us both that he is trying to convince himself and believes what he says after a fashion, and that he is really not completely sure, but has devoted himself to this and to trying to get this, this last chance to escape his dead-end job.


So, was Ebert wrong? Not this time, not at all. The film is clearly doing exactly what it intends to, with all of its violence and darkness, and it does it very, very well.

I've been a fan of Godzilla for as long as I can remember, as I've noted in other daikaiju movie reviews. It was only the beginning of this year that I had to resist the urge to snag some vinyl figures from a closing store, and I still half-wish for console systems just to play the Godzilla games for the last couple of systems. Not enough to actually get any or ever try any of these games (I have no friends who like them as much as I do, so I couldn't possibly nudge in the suggestion of those who have consoles getting one or two of them, because I'd be the only one interested in them), but still, I love daikaiju like crazy, and always have, and probably always will. I've still seen only a handful of the "X/Millennium" series, though, and this is only the second I've watched. I thought I was watching them in order, but screwed up a bit and instead created a pattern of watching two of director Masaaki Tezuka's efforts in a row (skipping Shusuke Kaneko's Godzilla, Mother, and King Ghidorah: Giant Monsters All-Out Attack), but it doesn't matter too much, as the Millennium series was the set of films least interested in continuing stories, rebooting every movie or so as a direct sequel to Honda's 1954 original.

Akane Yashiro (Yumiko Shaku) is a hotshot pilot for the AMF (Anti-Megalosaurus Force) in Japan, driving a Maser unit (those giant flashlight tanks that have been in Godzilla movies since the 60s, if not the 50s...) into battle against the sudden re-appearance of a second Godzilla in 1999, 45 years after the first one appeared. When Godzilla causes an avalanche, she clips another retreating unit--a much smaller one--and sends them careening into the path of Godzilla's monstrous feet. Feeling guilty for her actions, Akane takes a demotion to a data unit as the government attempts to devise a weapon capable of taking down Godzilla. Eccentric scientist Tokumitsu Yuhara (Shin Takuma), who works on "bio-robots" is called in to the AMF to begin work on this project. The reclamation of the original Godzilla's skeleton from the oxygen destroyer has led to plans to create a bio-robotic Godzilla. Yuhara initially declines, telling his young daughter Sara (Kana Onodera) that he must take care of her. When offered the chance to let her in to the compound, Yuhara finally agrees and joins the project, finalizing the creation of the mechanical Godzilla--dubbed Kiryu.* Akane is called in to pilot Kiryu because of her skill, only to find that one of the other pilots is Hayama (Yûsuke Tomoi), brother of one of the men who died in the accident that took Akane away from piloting.

I was extremely happy with this movie. Apparently most kaiju fans were sort of "pleased," not terribly excited or disappointed or even just "satisfied," but something just above that. Some people don't like the prominence of the dramatic plot for the human characters, others just seem to think it doesn't do anything especially good. Occasionally reading reviews from others after seeing a film refines or nudges my feelings in a particular direction as I see whether others got out of it what I did, or whether anyone has legitimate gripes or alternate interpretations. In this case, I feel exactly the same. This was probably one of my favourite Godzilla movies I've seen. I've not seen some of the heisei series, mind you (including, shamefully, though understandably if one knows about its availability, Godzilla vs. Biollante), but still. This is, I feel, the best design yet for any Mechagodzilla, with a look that ignores the angular 1970s original, as well as the stubby and rounded (albeit better) 1990s version. There's a nice long tail and the feel of wirey mobility under the steel plating (okay, probably not steel, but this time the metal isn't named), all giving it, in line with their reasoning of using organic materials as a base, a greater liveliness to it. The head is less like a makeshift skull or metallic version of Godzilla himself and more like its own character, which is good design for a being that is intended to be an opponent of Godzilla rather than a clone.

The idea of the organic components leads to a subplot that isn't much of a surprise, but is still a little more subversive than is usually seen in Godzilla films. Some wonder why it was done, when it's clearly stated that the organic components are to give it a closer approximation of life. I've avoided the term "cyborg" because, while it is a combination of organic and robotic components, it is essentially a robot that happens to use some organic components for locomotion and calculation. The organics are added afterward, rather than being an organic being turned cybernetic. It's a fine line (probably a non-existent one, if I really think about it), but it's an important one because it helps to differentiate Kiryu as its own character, which is a nice, fresh approach to Mechagodzilla--formerly an alien clone and then later a simplistic, purely mechanical replica. It's also a nice tie-in for the human plot, which is one of the better ones I've seen: it actually relates to the Godzilla portion of the film and they work in unison. Of course, Godzilla is simply a force of nature as always (at least, outside most of the Showa films), so there's not much motivation or clever plotting there (and shouldn't really be, as he IS a force of nature, almost by definition), but that lets Godzilla be the framework for this human story, a necessary framework to give the events their possibility and to tie in the idea of Sara's youthful concerns about death, that relate to her absent mother. On the same note as the changes in Mechagodzilla, this is another good choice. Usually children are mis-used or overused in movies of a fantastical nature, either as strangely inserted and irritating plot devices (I'm sorry, Mothra movies!) or as unnaturally precocious miniature adults who have less-than-adult thoughts forced through mouths that are otherwise all-too-adult in nature. Here, Sara is a smart girl, but not unnervingly so for her age, able to bring the eyes of a child to things without interfering or controlling things, but still having an effect on the adults around her. This is the effect that's usually reached for, but Wataru Mimura's script is one of the more successful examples of it.

The fight scenes, which I realize are what most people are interested in, are actually very successful. Of course Japanese films have never had the budgets of big Western movies, and that's still apparent, but pretty well hidden this time. Kiryu is pretty breath-takingly badass, managing both the inevitable multiple-rocket launching attacks and more direct and close-quarters ones. The vernier thrusters are used to give Kiryu a more lively method of flight, enhanced a touch by CGI and some better suit work than is usually employed, with a whipping tail behind a dive and more rapid movements than usual. The close-up battles between Godzilla and his opponent are also a lot more satisfying than usual, mixing a bit of wrestling (usually all that's employed) and even a bit of boxing, which feels a bit more natural than the usually restrained motion. Effects all around are solid, and between the excellent Kiryu design and the usage of what may or may not be my favourite Godzilla design, I was pleased with both the kaiju and the human elements. Oh, and that Godzilla design is the one that seems to have a softened throat or belly, a sort of "collar" to his neck, and a face that is a throwback to the heisei (instead of the flattened, snake or cat-like head of Godzilla X Megaguirus and Millennium) and its rather menacing reptilian look, albeit with a more narrow snout.


*As in named, not dubbed over. I watch these things subtitled.

Robert Altman usually inspires a lot of confidence in more "independent" movie-watchers, and is often a bit off-putting for many "regular" movie-watchers. I know my father was in the group of people who cannot stand Altman's habit of over-lapping dialogue. As someone who is often filtering conversations in and out (one might call it eavesdropping in some circumstances, but never anywhere but in public places), this is very natural and lacks distraction for me most of the time. I'd also heard many times that this film was, yes, a Raymond Chandler adaptation, but not in the spirit of any of the other adaptations around, and a more unusual interpretation of them, modern and unusual. So, I did know this going in (thankfully, it seems).

Philip Marlowe (Elliott Gould) is a private eye in Hollywood, living alone with a cat that refuses to touch any food that is not a specific brand. When a substitute fails, Marlowe goes out to buy more cat food (and brownie mix for his often half-nude neighbors) and returns to find his friend Terry Lennox (Jim Bouton) coming to ask him for a favour--a quick trip to Tijuana. Lennox is scratched up, but Marlowe notes that this is just a result of Lennox getting in a fight with his wife Sylvia again. Two cops wake Marlowe up the next day, though, and arrest him, asking him where he took Lennox. When he refuses, he finds out Sylvia is dead, but knowing his friend could not have done this, refuses to speak against him or otherwise cooperate. Let free after three days, he finds out Lennox apparently committed suicide in Mexico and so the cops are disinterested in continuing any investigation. Marlowe takes on a case listlessly anyway, because of course there's no funding to pursue the investigation on his own. The case, however, is that of Eileen Wade (Nina van Pallandt), who wants him to find her husband, famous writer Robert Wade (Sterling Hayden)--a couple who happens to live in "The Malibu Colony"--the same complex that the Lennoxes lived in. Marlowe takes on the job for itself, but doesn't resist the urge to poke around and see if these two know anything of Terry and Sylvia. Wade is discovered under the care of Doctor Verringer (Henry Gibson), but entwined in all of this is Marty Augustine (Mark Rydell), a gangster who has unresolved money issues with Wade and lost $350k in Terry's disappearance, leading him to threaten Marlowe's well-being.

Much has been made of the changes and liberties Leigh Brackett (who of course scripted Bogie/Hawks' The Big Sleep, which is also a Chandler adaptation) and Robert Altman took when making this adaptation, some of it appreciative, much of it damning. Many are most displeased with Gould's performance as Marlowe. This Marlowe is not a snappy wit, a sharp dresser or particularly suave. He mumbles and makes smart-ass remarks without regard for who hears them, shambles and stumbles from place to place, though he still seems to know his business well enough to work most people and situations to his advantage--within reason. It's not the Marlowe we know, and that's a given, really. It's not a bad one though; he's an anachronism in one sense, always wearing a two piece suit, smoking constantly and driving a car straight out of the fifties, but modern in his manner and sense of humour. As long as you can deal with these changes, the film ought to do well for you. Why should it do well? A good question, of course, and one I intend to answer as best I can.

Marlowe is, in this transition that traps him firmly in the modern age but leaves his morals, principles and approach to life mired in decades lost, an every day guy. He's not smoother, quicker or better than everyone else, but he's not a total chump, either. He is still the everyman of noir, but without the hard-boiled edge that most of those protagonists had in a decent scrape, even if the best could be gotten of them on occasion. This edge of believability is necessary for the world Altman is putting together (helped by the always able-bodied DP Vilmos Zsigmond and his constantly-in-motion camera chosen for the film by Altman), because it's a world more readily identifiable as "real" for its modernity.We can accept Gould's Marlowe in the real world, whereas we could not accept the Bogart one because it is too pat--it's fun pat, mind you, and not a kind I'm at all opposed to, but one that simply wouldn't fit in a world portrayed as "real." He does have a quickness to his sense of humour that strengthens him into a slightly elevated place where we accept him simultaneously as "a protagonist," though, but in a way that only makes him seem like one of those funny people you might know--or at least one of those people you might know who sure thinks they're funny. It's a strong character and a fun one--as long as you aren't constantly thinking of it as "not the Marlowe I know!" (which is the same approach I take to the upcoming Robert Downey Jr./Guy Ritchie version of Sherlock Holmes--though that doesn't guarantee it will turn out well, it at least gives it the opportunity to).

Surrounding Gould we have a strong cast, from Nina van Pallandt's first English-language role to Sterling Hayden's brilliantly outrageous but tender frustrated writer, storming and ranting with the best of them, but easily showing it's all to make up for an easily wounded sense of pride and easily tarnished sense of self-worth. Mark Rydell, first off, shocked me in his performance. I saw his name in the credits and thought, "Really?! The director of The Cowboys and On Golden Pond?!" and then forgot about it, only to discover he had the role of the psychotic Marty Augustine. The role is commanding and scene-stealing, vicious and cold, but with that demented sense of egocentric humour that makes him all the more scary, and all in a role that sort of made me think of Harlan Ellison (which I mean in a good way to both of them). Henry Gibson starts out the film with the kind of quiet mouseyness that seems to define most of his work, but that turns into a sort of Napoleonic manipulation of power later. And let's not forget a fun little cameo from an anti-establishment cellmate--David Carradine. Only appropriate for me to have stumbled across him today, the day of his death.

The tone of the film is what's most fascinating though. John Williams and Johnny Mercer co-wrote the title theme, and simply re-organized and re-recorded it for all appropriate scenes to form almost the entirety of the film's music. Many scenes are not ended by sharp cuts, dissolves or crossfades, but by zooming in on background details--be they waves rolling in, half-naked neighbors, reflections in foreground windows or anything else--and then choosing one of those types of transitions. The effect is that the zoom is the real end of the scene, done in a way that seems to clarify that there is a world beyond the events we are being told about, much like Altman's over-lapping dialogue approach. Things are going on behind and around our characters that have no effect on them, no relation to them and no real importance to the story, but they're still there. It instills a greater sense of reality, as Altman also records sound at equal volume no matter what the circumstances. When filming Marlowe's interrogation through an observation window, the sound is muffled as it would be from behind that window. Sometimes dialogue is completely inaudible, characters seen speaking through a window at a distance, to reflect the fact that the words themselves are not important in this context, so much as their isolation from the spot at which we're seeing them being spoken--at one point to show Marlowe's hidden position and at another to show what the characters speaking are unaware of. This kind of reality is rarely dealt in, because it's difficult to maintain, off-putting to many and somewhat disorienting for its contradiction of expectation. It works very effectively here, though, highlighting the few instances of out and out violence by making them a good bit more disturbing and shocking for their relatively realistic surroundings.


So, no, this isn't a great "Philip Marlowe" movie, but it IS a great Philip Marlowe movie--it's an updating of the character that acknowledges complete cultural changes, in part by mocking and satirizing them, with knocks at clichés and ideas that were once omnipresent, and in other parts by ignoring them completely in favour of this more modern approach. This may now be my favourite Altman.

Other than the fact that it has remained a sort of cult favourite of its own accord, I think Hot Fuzz is easily responsible for much (if any?) resurgence this film has seen in the last few years. I know my interest was re-ignited some time ago when I discovered Kathryn Bigelow had directed it, which is a very good thing to me--since she was responsible for Near Dark, in all honesty probably my favourite vampire film of all time. I also saw this movie on TV, sometime shortly after its release, because one of my parents was watching it (I can't recall which, though by the nature of the film I'm more inclined toward my mother, but it's so far back I could only make wild guesses, really). It has its reputation more from its stars than anything else--people think of Patrick Swayze and they think of Dirty Dancing or Roadhouse (though now they may think "pedophile"*), then they think of Keanu Reeves and his horrific accent in Bram Stoker's Dracula, or
Ted Logan--or any of a number of other very wooden roles he's played. Sticking Keanu--with his Ted reputation--into surfing, well, now...it's the perfect mash-up of surfer stereotypes in a character and a film. It's not too hard to understand why the film is, then, snickered at.

Johnny Utah (Reeves) is a newly Quantico-graduated FBI Agent, assigned to Los Angeles and the bank robbery division. His partner is 22-year veteran Pappas (Gary Busey), who is not the favourite agent of their superior Harp (John C. McGinley) or their fellow agents. Pappas has a theory about the incredibly effective team of bank robbers known as the Ex-Presidents because of their rubber ex-President masks (Nixon, LBJ, Carter and Reagan) who have never been caught, despite 27 robberies over three years. Pappas' theory is especially unpopular, because it seems ludicrous and random--he believes the Ex-Presidents are surfers. His plan to prove this involves Utah going undercover as a surfer to attempt to find these guys. The contact he chooses is the person who saves him on his first (untrained) attempt at surfing: Tyler (Lori Petty). Pappas is incredulous at this contact, but she teaches Johnny to surf and introduces him to local surf guru known as Bodhisvatta, or "Bodhi" for short (Swayze). It's with his help that Utah escapes the wild aggression of an extremely suspicious group of surfers--Warchild (Vincent Klyn),** Bunker (Chris Pedersen), Tone (Anthony Kiedis), and Archbold (Dave Olson). Pappas and Utah are given their suspects, and now only need to take them down.

In starting to watch this movie, I knew basically instantly that in fact I was not being set-up for a movie that was just a good action movie, fun, exciting and adrenaline-pumping. A score by Mark Isham opens the movie with beautiful, silhouetted images of surfing set to a dully throbbing, low-pitched synthetic score. Intercut with this are the rain-soaked images of Johnny Utah's test at target shooting. I knew immediately that I was right to have faith in Kathryn Bigelow being behind this, though I also watched as more and more familiar and pleasing names crossed the screen that were previously (and probably still, for most) dwarfed by the two stars. John C. McGinley, who I think is going to be sadly always referred to as "Oh yeah, Perry Cox!" to most people of my generation as if he hasn't done much better work? Gary Busey, known to be utterly out of his mind, but always incredibly engaging as an actor? Lori Petty, who is an atypical choice for leading lady but who has a lot more spirit than many of those simplistic pretty faces? Hell, this doesn't even cover the names I didn't recognize. We have poor baby-faced James LeGros as Bodhi's pal Roach (who is too strange looking to ever have a leading role--I think, but who is continuing on with Bigelow after a brief appearance in Near Dark). We have Lee Tergesen as the psychotic Rosie, who I couldn't place to a specific role no matter how I tried until I realize that, yes, he was the replacement for Bill Paxton in the television version of Weird Science. We have John Philbin, who played the rather geeky Chuck in Return of the Living Dead (but reveals in the special features for this film that he was an actual surfer). Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, for crying out loud. And, of course, a brief (and uncredited) appearance by Tom Sizemore!

Still, the cast aside, what's most impressive about this film is how it does not resemble other action films. Apparently some have said Bigelow gave it a "softer touch" via her femininity, but this is pretty absurd. There's a little more truth to the love scenes, but it's actually a little colder and harder truth rather than a schmaltzy truth. Beyond that, a scene that involves a lawnmower actually made me think, for about two seconds, "Gosh, I wish Bigelow would do a horro--oh, right." "She'd be good at it," I thought in that brief moment. Of course, I was right, but not making the right synapses fire at the right time I didn't realize that I already knew she was good at it because she HAS done it. So it isn't softer, not in the least. There is a shoot-out leading immediately into a car chase leading immediately into a foot chase leading immediately into gunfire. There's even a makeshift flamethrower in the middle of all of this, and it's all incredibly intense. It's filmed in tight shots, especially the footchase, and avoids the usual gag of the innocent bystander sneaking a note of buffoonery into the scene. There is, of course, one bystander who beats at Johnny Utah, but it's not exactly unbelievable since he just destroyed her glass door and a number of items right behind it in his chase. Otherwise, though, faces of the bystanders knocked down and pushed aside are barely glanced at, keeping the focus of the scene on the actual pursuit. It's always right behind the actors (or stuntmen, I think stuntmen did these scenes, but the point remains) and never leaves away from them for a cheap sight gag that interrupts the tension.

The adrenaline junkie activities, too, are well-filmed and avoid any real element of unintentional cheese. Skydiving is often filmed with plenty of room to keep stuntmen looking enough like actors while still showing off the actual skydiving, with close-up shots constructed in a way that is very helpful in tying together the close-ups to the wide shots. The surfing does the same, with everyone filmed in silhouette when their entire body is visible, making it a part of the "language" of the picture that surfers are shown in silhouette and thus maintaining the illusion that it is the same person in the actual waves as the actor we know to be playing the character. The bank robberies are not overly theatrical, but rapidly cut to emphasize their rapidity, and sleek and mechanical without feeling staged to give us the sense that these are professionals. When we learn later that it is a concerted effort to achieve the end goals via pure intimidation and instillation of fear, the scenes fit even better.

It's actually worth noting that the actors in this film, even beyond those you expect (or should expect) to be good, are uniformly pretty excellent, or near enough to it. Considering the wild variance in performances from some over their careers, one is inclined to believe that the cast and crew are very correct in suggesting Bigelow deserves far and away the most credit for this film. Keanu has intensity where necessary, though he does maintain that stoic distance throughout, but a scene where Lori Petty as Tyler calls attention to his distant scowl sort of seals the performance as utterly appropriate for the character, sealing Keanu into that sheath of "Johnny Utah." Swayze is absolutely magnetic as the intensely charismatic and philosophical Bodhi, with an appropriate wildness to him behind the calm Bodhi is known for. Busey is as over-the-top and out there as always, but it's right for the character. His interactions with Reeves and everyone else are so unbelievably organic and natural that it's easy to lose him in the role. He smacks of a guarded man with amusingly open idiosyncrasies who will be prickly until he trusts someone, but who is more than happy to do so. Petty has the kind of defensive-but-vulnerable feeling one feels ought to come from someone who has suffered a loss like Tyler has (one that Utah exploits, no less, thus bringing in the vulnerability), especially when she chooses to run with a group as known for insular behaviour and territoriality as surfers.

I was expecting the film to be better than its reputation with snobs, but I didn't quite expect it to be this good. I'm not surprised when there's someone like Bigelow at the helm--now I really DO need to see Strange Days--but it's still good to see something this stylistic and pretty without it resorting to degradation of its status as action movie. It's not Terrence Malick kind of pretty, it's Bigelow kind--very, very well shot and rich with feeling and suspense in the very colours and images of each frame. It's a subtle art but a very effective one that she uses.


*If you don't know what I'm talking about and your heart skipped a beat, fear not, Swayze is not (to the best of my knowledge) any kind of pedophile, he just played one on TV.
Okay, film, but come on. That just wouldn't replicate the old phrase right.
If you're still lost, Donnie Darko.

**Weird trivia: Klyn played "Utah Johnny Montana" in The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr.. Johnny Utah was named a la Joe Montana. Coincidence? You decide.

In essence, the presence of Henry Fonda was enough for me to decide to watch this film. Fonda's the kind of actor who is just always worth watching (at least, in all my experience), and a film like this has a strong enough reputation in and of itself that it made it a no-brainer. Of course, as always, I waited for it to be a reasonable enough price that fell into my hands (which adds that thread of excitement to the acquisition itself) before I picked it up. I was out of the mood for westerns, or perhaps even an impression of the film that didn't match its actual nature, for some time now and so put it off, but (as one might guess from the fact that I'm reviewing it) decided to watch it today.

Gil Carter (Fonda) and Art Croft (Harry Morgan) are two drifters who wander into the town of Bridger's Wells, Nevada to find something to do. They happen upon the local bar and ask what there is to do, the local drunk Smith (Paul Hurst) wandering about behind them, and surly rancher Farnley (Marc Lawrence) starting a fight with Gil over the idea that he might be a rustler because he's new in town. When Art takes Gil out to clear his head (and his stomach) after his many drinks and short fight, a rider comes careening into town on horseback only to run full tilt into the bar and announce the death of Farnley's friend and partner Larry Kinkaid. Smith continues his bemused and drunken tirades at this, encouraging the idea of forming a lynching posse to find the men responsible. Others chip in with their own belief that hanging is the best approach, with local shop proprietor Arthur Davies (Harry Davenport) acting as the only voice of the law and reason, suggesting the men should be given trial before a hanging, but finding his voice lost to Farnley's anger, Smith's cold sense of humour, and the voices of many other men who are so fully in favour of it. Davies sends Croft and Carter to bring Judge Tyler (Matt Briggs) and the Sheriff back to talk sense and law into the men. Unfortunately, only the Sheriff's deputy is present, Deputy Mapes (Dick Rich), who Croft and Carter were already warned would be no help. Tyler and Davies are no help in stopping the mob, who manage to ensnare the religious Sparks (Leigh Whipper) as they go to find the three men accused of being responsible in the middle of the night. The lead they gain comes from Major Tetley (Frank Conroy), who brings his son Gerald (William Eythe) and assisstant Poncho (Chris-Pin Martin), who identify three men leading some of Kinkaid's cattle. They find them in the middle of the night, being Juan Martinez (Anthony Quinn), Donald Martin (Dana Andrews) and Alva Hardwick (Francis Ford). A makeshift trial and what can only be described as a kangaroo court proceeds to try the men, to the frustration of the handful of souls interested in real justice.

I shrugged at dropping this disc in today because the running time is only 75 minutes, and that's usually a mark of fast enough pacing that I ought to be drawn in quickly even if my instinct is not to go for a film of such an age, with the expectations that follow it (an extra-staginess being at the forefront, as well as a similar feeling of melodrama). Imagine my surprise to find the film was almost devoid of music, very subdued and terse in dialogue. It's not like other westerns of the time, and it's not really specifically a western at all, though of course it has the setting and the mentality of a world that is still being formed, with civilization meeting the wilderness that lacks a specifically drawn system and clashing over this. There isn't really a starring role, either, for all that it's called a Fonda picture. It drifts in and out of focus on characters, with the interesting feeling that Croft and Carter are our windows into this town and its people, and the events taking place, without having voice-over or other narration to tell us this directly, which allows the film to move completely over and follow another group or pair of characters at any given time. We have our own view of things, but we have the connection of, okay, it is primarily Croft, but still not exclusively.

The film is actually pretty dark, with Smith's sense of humour about hanging being slightly amusing but mostly disturbing (I'll resist the similar sense of humour that wants to call his actions "gallows humour"), and the coldness of Farnley that is borne not of emotionless evil or clichéd "bad guy-ness," but of loyalty to a friend of many years. We're not opposed to Farnley getting justice, certainly, we're just wary of whether this will give it to him, and the manner in which he's carrying it out. Tetley is probably the most vile, using the events as an excuse to try to "man up" Gerald, dressed constantly in a Confederate uniform (that is alluded to be nothing more than gesture, and not the actual relic of his own past battles) to feed his sense of pride, honour and authority, which are all trapped in his clear lust for control and power, to be perceived as something he clearly isn't but desperately wants to be. The sick joke of this is that no one really respects him, despite his belief that his actions will encourage it. Mapes is not much better, also interested in power, but more open and clumsy about it, bear-like in manner and appearance as he attempts to prove that he has authority as a Deputy, even when he doesn't, feeling that somehow being made a legal source of power gives him power beyond the law that bestowed it on him.

Carter and Croft are not saints, either, both being reluctant to get too terribly involved for fear that the mob could turn on them as drifters, while Gerald's growing sense of disgust and discomfort at the events is not enough to give him power over his cowardice. Even Davies oversteps his bounds of goodness as he tries to use a letter Martin writes to his wife to prove to Tetley that the group is innocent, enraging Martin, who feels that the letter is no one else's business. Sparks is the most consistently good, but still does little to actually interfere with the actions that he claims are budging too far into the territory of God. Smith and Jenny Grier (who is played by Jane Darwell) are the most despicable in character, though this relegates them to the role of assistantship to the ones who actually attempt to have control over the mob. Neither seems to feel any concern over guilt, being more interested in actually hanging people than worrying about who to hang or whether they should be hanged.

Performances all around are actually somewhat more in the style that Fonda himself was known for, all very quiet but pointed, with economic dialogue and action. Anthony Quinn manages one of the less embarrassing European-as-Mexican performances of the western era, looking less unrealistically and falsely swarthy, and speaking Spanish well enough to be at least taken as a fluent learner, even if not a native speaker. His character is also interestingly distant, disinterested in defending himself in the face of a group of people who clearly have no interest in doing anything but what they already plan to do, even as the seemingly honest Martin tries his best to answer truthfully and defend the three men, including the extremely confused Hardwick, who makes vague attempts at defense that even he can't keep track of, only to be reduced to begging when convinced they might actually go through with their hanging plans. It's amazing how well-developed and rounded all these characters feel despite the low level of open characterization the film has, which is a credit to the performers and to director William A. Wellman.

Much of the film--forced by wary 20th Century Fox head Darryl F. Zanuck to film on sets despite being set outdoors--is shot with sharp editing (there are not many cross-fades and fades, despite the relative popularity of that approach around that time) and an interesting focus on closeups. There are some especially interesting movements chosen, occasionally focusing on a character as they rant about the justice of hangings as the camera slowly zooms in on them, or occasionally the opposite in other scenes, all serving to push the character into a sort of emotional focus as well, in a way that I don't know if I can fully describe. It just seems to strangely magnify the character rather than the image or the actor, allowing us to see the flaws and imperfections of what they say more clearly, despite the fact that nothing about what they say is being audibly enhanced.


A damn fine movie.

After a long hiatus from film-watching, I came back and finished watching this. Of course, it came out at the same time as The Prestige and will likely be forever entwined in the public conscious with that other film. Maybe not "forever," I guess, but certainly for a long time. I've seen The Prestige, saw it in theatres, in fact, and heard long ago that the films really oughtn't be compared. That's not going to stop me, of course, but I am going to note the reasons I don't disagree with the idea that they aren't to be compared, per se (even as I'm doing it). I took interest in the film mostly for Edward Norton, Rufus Sewell and Paul Giamatti, though I'd heard mostly disappointing or middling reviews of the film.

A young Edward, also known as Eisenheim (Aaron Johnson) finds himself friendly with young Sophie, also known as Duchess von Teschen (Eleanor Tomlinson) despite their class differences, and even find themselves drawn instinctively to love with one another. It's not to be, though, and the Duchess is taken away from him before they can escape together. Eisenheim disappears, too, and learns more fully the arts of illusion, returning to Vienna later to practice this art on stage (and now played by Norton). At a show, his volunteer is none other than Duchess von Teschen (now played by Jessica Biel), though she is volunteered rather than choosing the role herself, by her future husband, the Crown Prince Leopold (Sewell). The two recognize each other, and Eisenheim begins to trade wits, pride and shame with Leopold, who is arrogant and cold in his actions, holding pride over all else. Police Chief Inspector Walter Uhl (Giamatti) is set on Eisenheim's trail to disgrace him as fraud, only for everyone's plans to be tripped up by an unexpected accident, leading Eisenheim to act even more outwardly aggressive toward Leopold, who attempts to hold his grown out of his stubborn belief in his own worth.

The similarities between this film and The Prestige are passing and simplistic: both deal in magic and illusion, are period films and work on competition between two male leads. There are other connections to be drawn, certainly, but in general they are entirely dissimilar films. The Prestige--an irony considering its title--is less interested in spectacle and more interested in morality and philosophy, character motivation and depth, setting aside story as the vehicle to examine these things. The Illusionist is all about spectacle; it is entertainment in its entirety, a story told to tell a story, with devices and bells and whistles to give it character and identity. This isn't to say it's utterly shallow or without any thought behind it, but rather that it is not interested in wrapping itself too tightly in such ideas. There is flirtation with the idea of enlightenment and retaliation against this rather pragmatic approach to life and reality, and on the absurdity of class division, but it primarily centers on the idea of illusion or magic (and which Eisenheim practices), and on the story of the love he and Sophie share. It's almost a fairy tale in this respect, a simple love story wrapped behind a simple story spiced with the fantastic.

There's a strangeness to the entire film, being as the real stumbling block of the film is the script. It's not a bad story, nor is the dialogue stilted in terms of word choices, but it is rather bare. Norton and Giamatti actually come off a bit lost with this, trying to bring character to roles that are not written up enough to contain much. Both have strong and clear presence physically, but suffer the De Niro-Period-Effect (which I first discovered watching The Mission, and consists of a feeling of inherent anachronism when some actors perform in period pieces) to a degree whenever they open their mouths. Both maintain their (admittedly light) accents rather solidly, but seem to be a bit too focused on keeping their words short and clipped to match the feeling of the language they are mimicking by accent. Sewell and Biel actually do best in their roles, Sewell simmering and feeling just shy of explosion as the conceited and proud Prince, sure of his own worth and the lack of worth of others. Biel shows a defiance and independence that is matched by her devotion and love for Eisenheim--nothing terribly fancy or complex, but well performed (in spite of my previous impression of Biel, which was probably most coloured by Marcus Nispel's terrible remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre--leading me to write her off as a hollow pretty face).

What makes the film, though, is the experience of it. DP Dick Pope was Oscar-nominated and deserved it, with a very rich, thick feeling of colour throughout the film, often very dark but lit well enough to hold the lines of all the important details, and with little nudges toward elder silent film via iris lens transitions and the occasional circular frame that mimics the darkened corners of the inferior exposure process used in early film, as well as even flickering for the scenes of the young lovers. There's a fantastic mix of stage, screen and painting in many scenes, in the sense that the world feels constructed and planned like a stage show, artfully balanced like a painting and near-real like film. It's quite beautiful, and often just shy of distractingly so. Behind this we of course have the sound of a Philip Glass score, which caught my ear before I even saw his name, and began waiting to see who it was--and was reminded that I, in fact, did actually know this but had forgotten. It matters not, though, because Glass' music is fantastic as usual, and that's more relevant than the fact that it was him who wrote it. It bears that signature repetition of Glass' work, but with that lovely building of permutation that seems almost mathematical and yet perfectly organic--perhaps like the rigid but natural formation of crystal (or maybe the prisms on the cover of his Glassworks are just stuck in my head).

Director Neil Burger has very astutely assembled the parts to make a beautiful film, and one that I didn't see as focusing on plot--though this is harped on most by critics--because it seems consciously hollow of this based on its focus on the visual and auditory experience, which is only enhanced by the feeling that Norton and Giamatti's best work in the film is all visual. Don't watch hoping for or expecting a transcendently original plot, because it isn't about that. Keep that in mind and you ought to enjoy yourself thoroughly.

My interest in this film fluctuated wildly as I heard mixed reviews (I think, perhaps, the most mixed reviews I've ever heard--utter loathing and absolute love, but that's probably just the fault of my memory) and saw the cast and watched the trailer. Some faces and names were interesting (Anthony Stewart Head, Paul Sorvino, Bill Moseley, Ogre, I mean, Kevin, I mean Nivek....from Skinny Puppy) and some were not, or were even cause to think about maybe NOT seeing the film (Paris Hilton, Sarah Brightman...).. The concept intrigued me, but I wasn't sure about the musical option--which could be either fantastically engaging or intensely obnoxious and uncomfortable.

Shilo Wallace (Alexa Vega) is the daughter of Nathan (Head), confined to her room by a blood disease, and thus almost unaware of the world around her. It's the distant future, and massive organ failure has led to the rise of GeneCo, a company that leases organs to people. By appropriately swinging their growing influence, the company manages to push through a bill that legalizes the repossession of organs on which loans have defaulted. GeneCo employes "Repo Men" for this purpose, and the most prominent one is Nathan. This is not a simple matter of employment, though, as there is a twisted and tragic story behind Nathan, his daughter, her mother and the current owner of GeneCo, Rotti Largo (Sorvino). Rotti and Nathan loved the same woman, the mother of Shilo. Rotti holds Nathan to an oath over her to keep him in his employ, while trying to contend with his selfish children Pavi (Ogre), Luigi (Moseley) and Heather Sweet (Hilton). Wandering around outside the endless tragedy of these lives, but affecting them, are the Graverobber (Terrance Zdunich, who co-created and wrote the film) and Blind Mag (Brightman), who is GeneCo's face and spokesperson for her beautiful voice.

This is a musical, in case that somehow has not yet reached you. It's also a movie interested in gore (using the name of director Darren Lynn Bousman to market it, because he produced some of the Saw films) and horror and science fiction ideas. It's filled with ideas, really, some of which are rather Grand Guignol--especially the idea of a man who repossesses organs from living defaulters. Drugs marketed specifically to take advantage of their addictive nature but bootlegged by the Graverobber from corpses, addiction to surgery (the phrase alone has tinges of bands like Cannibal Corpse, Pungent Stench and a more clumsy Carcass) and the melodramatic enhanced clichés that make up the Lotti children--Sweet being the surgery addict, Pavi wearing other faces over his scarred one and womanizing constantly. It's all incredibly over-the-top, and one had better know that going into this. It's absurd and ridiculous and there's no way around it. The music is not designed to be like pop songs with clearly rhyming lyrics, though it often has something rather like a chorus.

The sanely critical reviews I read said that the film overreaches itself, has too much for its budget, and this isn't an unfair take on it. It is reaching further than its budget would allow, and it does show, but it does very well with what it has, actually. The world is pretty fully realized (though it often shows that it's indoors, in truth, when it seems like it oughtn't) and interesting visually, all lit in bizarre and garish colours, with costuming and sets all very impressive and unusual. The story is solid and engaging, twisty enough to hold your interest without needing to be as ridiculous as the setting and effects are, which they are supposed to be as well. A lot of the music has a nice tinge of catchiness, with very appropriate lyrics.

However, there are definitely some flaws here. Many of the lyrics are, frankly, juvenile in their angst and melodrama. Some of the music is a little simplistic, too, and that's definitely the biggest failing. It's occasionally a little awkward, though it's all earnest enough in its performance that it usually works just fine anyway. Of course, it's also somewhat humourous (deliberately, naturally) so that can often offset this (with the distinct exception of "17," which is an awful and ridiculous and stupid song), and also offset the other problem: Bill Moseley and Ogre are not opera singers. Really, no one in the cast is except Brightman, and possibly Sorvino--who at least seems to know the style well enough to fake it if he hasn't, and it shows. It's not offensive, but it has the same awkwardness as the occasionally deficient lyrics.

Interestingly, the most exciting roles, at least vocally, were from Sorvino and Zdunich. Brightman and Head have great voices for different reasons, and possibly the most engaging songs as a result, but Zdunich and Sorvino manage to bring character to their voices instead of either performance or trying to push character into the voice (which is what Moseley does--which is actually probably the best approach for a man who strikes me as a non-singer, to be fair to him). Sorvino's menacingly tortured and torturous Lotti Largo comes out in his dark laughter and his well-paced singing, that is close to spoken word in a sense until it comes to appropriate crescendos. Zdunich, of course, is devoted to the role because he originated it, and it shows. He smirks and smiles in perfect ways for his extremely "goth" look, which works very well for both him and the character. His songs make his character very well-defined, and he uses his body and his face to enhance the songs and his singing. Hilton, for the record, is neither offensive nor problematic (and the cast and crew said she was actually fun to work with, even!).


It's a film that trips itself ups a number of times, but it's still a fun experience if you are willing to forgive its limitations and appreciate the insane aesthetic and gory interests behind it.

When I was younger and this had come out, it was forever "the movie with the woman with three breasts." Most jokes made about it these days seem to reference this, too (or maybe they were just the only ones I got prior to seeing it...), though there was also the Fangoria cover that showed up while it was in production, related to the effects Rob Bottin did. Of course it's another example of the failure to adapt Philip K. Dick to the screen for many people, too, but I've still read the most bizarre cross-section of PKD, one that fails to include the most popular of his works.

Douglas Quaid (Arnold Schwarzenegger) is a construction worker in the future, married to a beautiful wife, Lori (Sharon Stone), and working a simple job. He keeps dreaming of being on Mars with a woman (Rachel Ticotin), but doesn't know why. An ad for memory-based vacations that can be inserted into the minds of clients via the company Rekall inspires Quaid to try and go to Mars in this fashion when his wife refuses to actually go there. His coworker Harry (Bobby Costanzo) warns him that he's in danger of being lobotomized by the procedure, but Quaid finds the prospect irresistible. He picks a vacation that lets him be a "secret agent," and takes on the trip. A strange reaction to the procedure leads Rekall to attempt to bury Quaid's presence and release him with a wiped memory. When he wanders out and Harry asks him how he was, Quaid suddenly finds that everyone thinks he is a secret agent--despite the fact that Rekall has said the implant was never made, in a conversation Quaid was not party to. Now on the run from the people who believe this, he makes his way to Mars to solve the strange dreams, the bizarre reaction and why people are after him.

I don't know what I expected from this movie. I knew going in that Schwarzenegger's lead, Shusett's approach to scripting and Verhoeven's approach to directing would make for a movie that was pure action entertainment, and had little concern for much beyond this. Still, it was disappointing. I know Verhoeven can make a good film, and Shusett has good ideas, and Schwarzenegger rarely lets me down as a cartoonish lead. I dearly love Predator, as well as The Terminator, and like Terminator 2 as well. Something just seemed wrong here though. The dialogue seemed somewhat imbecilic, the plotting was a bit naff and the acting left a lot to be desired. Sure, we're talking about a cartoon, a ham (Michael Ironside, who plays the villainous Richter)--even if it's a ham I like a lot, an actor who mostly worked in television (Ticotin) and a well-known pile of wood (Stone), but still, something was just...bad. Maybe it's that I'm first seeing this now, when I am not as easily amused, maybe I was looking for the wrong thing, I don't know. I started to enjoy it a lot more toward the end, but the Republic serial approach to things was a little tired and uncomfortable, with blaringly obvious villains and ridiculous heroes (I mean...come on, it's Arnold!) mixed into complex and PKD-style twists.

I don't have any hatred for Verhoeven. I've never seen Basic Instinct (barring the infamous interrogation), but Starship Troopers was--I'm not kidding--the first DVD I ever got. I love Robocop dearly. I, um, didn't hate Hollow Man. I know how Paul does things--generally I can hear him saying, "Taste? Restraint? Vut are zeez vurts you speak ov?" (no, his Dutch accent has not lessened over the years it seems). I don't mind that. I'm not Janet Maslin calling the film out on being ultraviolent. I could not care less about that--or maybe I could, because I sure liked Rob Bottin's work (as usual, he's never a letdown). It was made on the cusp of digital, but primarily physical and optical effects were used here, and they're fantastic. They're ridiculous and over the top (in true Verohoeven style), but they work and they fit. I know that's what interests Verhoeven--based on his released work I've seen at least--effects and moving the story. He's not an idiot, he's not bloodthirsty, he's not incompetent, but characterization and subtlety seem to be things he just feels no real need to employ. I don't begrudge him that, but perhaps it's having the ludicrously inhuman Schwarzenegger as "a guy" (basically, anyway) and the unnatural Stone (her mannerisms and voice have no elements of emotional truth to my eyes and ears) open the film, or the clumsy glove-to-helmet caress of Quaid's dream. Maybe it's just that Schwarzenegger is no Peter Weller, or something else entirely. I really have no idea what isn't working here, but it comes off as oozing with cheese, but without knowing it. Despite what some people might guess from my taste, I'm not a big fan of cheese in movies, except the really earnest kind. Verhoeven's work usually just kind of has it dropped along the top and melting down around the sides. In moderation that's no problem...but here? It's just a bit too much. The ultra-evil corporation, the average guy who isn't average at all (despite what Schwarzenegger says, this was not an improvement--I was often left wondering how much better it might've been with someone who at least LOOKED relatively normal)...it's just too much, and something about the way all of these sloppy elements run into each other just glops up the gears of the movie.


I was basically left with an answer to that immortal PKD question of "What is reality?": I dunno, but it sure spurts a lotta blood when it explodes--and man does it look cool.

When I was younger, I'd rapidly develop ideas of which actors were funny. Unlike my modern approach to humour, I tended toward the familiar, and toward the bigger, easily recognized and omnipresent sorts of personalities I would inherit from my parents' viewing. Of course, there was the filter of what I would watch at the time (it would have to be consistent humour, broad humour and in colour), so there were limits, and little was surprising. Sitcoms were funny to me then (which may or may not shock the people who know me now), and I enjoyed them thoroughly. I didn't really get George Carlin (RIP, George, even if I still don't think you're really all that funny) or many of the more atypical comics, but the energetic comedians who were starting to carry movies in the late 80s and early 90s were both familiar and automatically funny to me. It was strange, sort of an understanding of their funniness rather than an actual personal recognition for me. I remember this distinctly because when my parents settled in to watch this and I was about 8 or 10 years old, I didn't get it, even though I "knew" Robin Williams was hilarious. I remember feeling really disappointed that this comedy seemed to be unfunny and wandered away (or at least mentally wandered back into the world of my toys, I don't remember that for sure). It was knowing how much I've changed that I decided to revisit this film.

Adrian Cronauer (Williams) has been shipped to Saigon from Crete to act as disc jockey for the Army's troop radio station, his reputation as a funny man preceding him. Arriving there, he's greeted by Garlick (Forest Whitaker), the rather submissive PFC who is charged with Cronauer's treatment and position. He's introduced to his two superiors going forward, primarily Lt. Steven Hauk (Bruno Kirby), but also Sgt. Major Dickerson (J.T. Walsh). Hauk feels he shares a camaraderie with Cronauer because he has an interest in comedy as a hobby, while Dickerson is very straight-edged and disinterested. Disinterested, that is, until Cronauer's first broadcast. Cronauer begins to play modern music in violation of the standards of prior broadcasts, and use humour that leaves Garlick and fellow troops Pvt. Abersold (Richard Edson) and Cronauer's broadcasting colleague Marty Lee Dreiwitz (Robert Wuhl) in stitches. Hauk is disappointed in the humour and Dickerson is incensed by the subject matter. They bring the matter to the attention of General Taylor (Noble Willingham), who dumps the problem back in their laps because he actually likes Cronauer's approach. Cronauer spends his time away from the mic chasing down Trinh (Chintara Sukhapatana), a pretty Vietnamese girl who catches his eye. He ends up teaching her English class, but runs into the brick wall of her brother Tuan (Tung Thanh Tran), who is protective of his sister and the differing customs. Adrian decides to use Tuan as a way in to Trinh but ends up legitimately befriending him despite this, to the chagrin of his superiors.

The selling point of this film for essentially anyone seems to be the comedy of Robin Williams, especially his "on-air" monologues, which are rapid-fire with their sudden changes in direction and approach. As I say, I was first totally unimpressed, with a slew of jokes that were too referential (and often political) for my young mind to really get. My sense of humour has changed in the interceding years, but I've also become a lot more stone-faced when it comes to humour. It's not easy to get me really laughing, simply because it's difficult for humour to really get in enough of a surprise on me that I can have that instinctual kind of laughter. All the same, I can see a more natural flow and a good delivery and respect it for what it is. A good delivery is still very engaging for me, even when the humour doesn't do much for me, where a bad delivery is repulsive and obnoxious to me (hence my distaste for Will Ferrell, Ben Stiller and a handful of others). Williams, when he was doing so much comedy, was always enthusiastic, warm and natural, and never felt false. This was no exception--even when I wasn't doing much more than smiling at his rapid banter, I was interested in what he was saying.

This comes to the other aspect of Robin Williams that is more fascinating. There's this perception--which I fully admit I might have been alone in--that he was no dramatic actor, or rather, that Good Will Hunting and the like gave him a chance to shine as one. I've since seen a chunk of his work prior to that, some after this and before that, some contemporary to this. There's also this itself. The movie gets a bit darker and more serious toward the end, though Williams' Cronauer remains devoted to humour. He really is a very good lead in all capacities, often doing well enough at it that it's lost behind the bombast of his loud and emphatic comedic senses. It's natural for this character (and I say character because the real Cronauer is very different and has a different sense of humour) to make tension-relieving quips, so that only enhances the moments where he is within the character and responding in less humourous ways to less humourous situations. It makes me regret pigeon-holing him in my youth, unfair though that may be to criticize a no longer existent ten-year-old. It's a very good performance from Williams, not necessarily one I would call his best, as it does still hinge on his comedy more than anything else, but it is one that is never let down.

I do recognize the concerns the studio had at the time, too--a comedy about Vietnam? That doesn't seem like the best idea in the world, not like something that would go over well, but it works, and it works in part because Barry Levinson's direction (including an ironic montage to Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World") and in the other part because of Mitch Markowitz' script. The film itself finally turns and not only becomes darker but becomes a sort of microcosmic examination of the conflict in Vietnam. We see the macrocosmic issue of troop morale, of soldiers dropped in by draft from a life that had none of the hardship of soldiering and how a little familiarity can help with that, but we also see the issues of infighting and generational conflict, as well as the confusion about who has what role in a foreign country, and in what part of the country was on the US' side, and what part wasn't, and what side the US itself was on (if any, sometimes), and just how confusing it was in general. I'm not going to say it was a perfectly accurate discussion of this, nor that it's the best example of it, but it is a nice surprise to see the film manage to work this in organically and address the issue of Vietnam without getting openly preachy or discussing the actual issues. It deals only in interpersonal relationships within the structure of the story, and it manages to use these perfectly to illustrate its points.


This was a lot better a movie than I knew once, and further strengthens my appreciation of Levinson's work as a director.

"Take 'em to Missouri, Matt."

I've heard and read that quote a few times now--first I read it in Garth Ennis' Preacher, one of the John Wayne quotes Jesse Custer's father had him repeat as he tried to raise him with an appreciation for the Duke, and later in The Last Picture Show where the scene containing the line was shown in the theatre. Of course, I was quite miffed, believing I'd just seen the ending scene (something suggested to me this was the ending, mostly the energy of it, but possibly some dialogue) and now knew how the film ended. Whoops. If you're reading this, I imagine you've seen Red River before (as I know few people who would willingly keep reading after "John Wayne" unless they already liked his work), so you know that it's nothing of the kind. It's even fairly early, for that matter. Still, I tried to push it from my mind--forget who said it, whether perhaps it was Montgomery Clift repeating it in "tribute" to Wayne at the end to commemorate his death or something. No, it was that scene from early in the film, and there was no repetition of his lines to commemorate his character of Dunson (who may or may not die--you'll have to watch, sorry).

Thomas Dunson (Wayne) and "Groot" Nadine (Walter Brennan) split from a wagon train to take up land in Texas where Dunson plans to start a ranch. He refuses to take along Fen (Coleen Gray), suggesting the road he's on will be too tough for a woman. She tries to prove in an embrace that she's not so weak as he think, but he is immovable, and off the two of them set. As Dunson makes camp some miles off, they notice that there is smoke in the distance behind them. The Comanche have destroyed the wagon train, and Dunson and Groot lie in wait for them to reach their own, lone wagon. They arrive in small groups, enough for Groot and Dunson to take down, but one is wearing a bracelet of Fen's, and Dunson realizes that she is lost for his decision to keep her back. Out of the distance finally wanders a small boy, Matthew Garth (Mickey Kuhn), leading a cow. He's in shock, but Dunson brings him out of it. They make their way out toward the Rio Grande and Dunson lays claim to the land north of it, killing representatives of Don Diego, who maintains ownership of enormous stretches of land north and south of the river. Dunson plans for his ranch, and creates his brand for the two cattle they have so far, and we come forward fourteen years to see a herd of cattle that numbers in the thousands. Matt has returned older (now played by Clift), and they prepare to drive the cattle to Missouri to bring some worth to fourteen years' work. Gathering gunslinger Cherry Valance (John Ireland) and many restless inhabitants of the dying town, they begin the thousand mile drive. They deal with ranchers whose cattle have wandered into Dunson's herd and a stampede caused by an innocent vice, all of which slowly build into the increased drinking and sleeplessness of the increasingly cruel and strict Dunson, until Matt decides he must take over the drive and leave Dunson's methods behind.

I think I was expecting something entirely different from this, which is something I know I say a lot--but this was indeed the movie my father kept suggesting when I said I was starting to watch John Wayne movies. I think I forgot why over the course of time, and that John Ford said of him after seeing the movie that he "never knew the big son-of-a-bitch could act." The opening scenes in particular led me to low expectations, with some stilted acting, both physically and vocally, from most of the early cast (who left the film after it flashed forward, barring Wayne). I thought I was in for a pretty standard western, with dialogue (based on Borden Chase's newspaper-published story and scripted by Chase and Charles Schnee, whose name simply made me titter as I thought "Snow?" and said "Schnee" aloud for fun) that borders on an intensity of melodrama I really can't quite stomach--"Those two are going to come to a conflict, and it will be something to see," sorts of things, just terribly obvious "foreshadowing" (almost more like in-movie spoilers, really). Oddly, the film seems to wander out of this territory about a third of the way through as Dunson begins to overreact and decide he is judge, jury and executioner, doling out severe punishments for mistakes and offenses that, while possibly horrendous in end result, do not exactly deserve such a response.

Suddenly Dunson is effectively the villain and I'm left wondering why this is a role that fit into the context it was used in by Garth Ennis. This is not a positive role for Wayne as a character, though it is indeed an excellent one for him as an actor. He's stubborn and impulsive, but not in that irascible (but lovable!) way he is in, say, Mark Rydell's The Cowboys some decades later. He's a colossal jerk, and none of the other characters (especially Matt) are unwilling to tell him this. Perhaps this may have some relevance to Wayne's homophobic distaste for Clift, I can't be sure, but it feels authentic and right, and not as if the other characters are misleading us away from Dunson. The film itself condones their condemnation of his actions, and I was quite surprised by this--though of course it was not at the height of Wayne's career, but far enough along that I'm sure he had an existing fanbase. There's a certain level of Ethan Edwards at play here, but more openly and obviously condemned than that role, where I think I expected something more like Rooster Cogburn, Wil Andersen or John T. Chance (as this was, of course, also a Howard Hawks/Wayne collaboration). It was a pleasant surprise really, in, I suppose, the same way it was for Ford himself.

I've talked about the three primary approaches to stuntwork before, at least in action films, but I neglected to mention earlier ones, which tend to bear a resemblance to the approach of 70s film but seem even more ludicrously unsafe. It's as if they turn on the camera and cross their fingers as they set an actor or stuntman out to do something. The stampede is magnificent--brilliantly set up with a tense discussion of how likely a stampede will be, and how scary their results can be--but some of the fear from it is a little knotting of the stomach over wondering what on earth possessed some of these stuntmen to take part in the scene. There's no easy way to control a herd of thousands of cattle (apparently Herefords disguised as the then-near extinct Texas longhorns by putting a handful of longhorns in front of scenes where the herd appears) while making them appear to (hopefully not actually) stampede that I can imagine, but there they are, expert riders or not. There's always that moment of "all-too-visible" danger that looks not even remotely dangerous as they relied on editing (perhaps double exposure) to make it appear that someone falls into the herd, made effective by good editing this time (though not always effective in other instances).

Dmitri Tiomkin puts in an excellent score, too, which is very brassy in that classic western way, but gives itself its own identity at the same time, making this in general an unusual western that seems to nest politely in genre confines like many an animal, circling and rearranging the padding of the box it's choosing to place itself in, but not disturbing the outer boundaries too terribly much. This is probably the movie to show anyone who doubts Wayne's ability, or suggests he always plays the same character. This isn't to say it's without flaws, as I was left a little bewildered by a few dangling threads (what happened to Cherry at the end, exactly? what about Meeker's payment?) and felt that there had clearly been some fat excised from the film, but felt some of it was a little clumsy in its removal, with lead-ins for plots (the claim that Cherry and Matt will come to blows or shots, for instance) that go nowhere, not even with anticlimactic resolution. Still, the film around these odd patches is excellent and holds to itself very well, despite its rocky beginning and becomes thoroughly engaging and interesting.

Allegedly based on the real-life puzzle/treasure hunt that has been held annually for 36 years in San Francisco and Seattle, this film bears little resemblance to the descriptions I've read of those games. I grabbed it mostly because it was a David Fincher film, but also for a reason I prefer not to--shall we say--elucidate at this juncture. Or any juncture. Or at all. Let's leave it alone, shall we? Anyway, this is probably the most poorly received of Fincher's films (okay, barring Alien³, I guess--or Panic Room, which I've yet to see), at least publicly. Critics were all right with it (or even quite happy) but it didn't catch on in general. I don't hear much bile spit about it, nor do I hear praise or shrugs (however audible they may or may not be) tossed at it. Still, Fincher's a director I respect more and more all the time, and will happily give his films a go either way (I've even got Panic Room waiting in the wings of my enormously out of control DVD collection).

Nicholas Van Orton (Michael Douglas) is the son of a wealthy businessman who committed suicide by leaping from their large estate's roof at 48, right in front of Nicholas' eyes. He's been dissociated from emotional reality since that point, completely enveloped in business and ignoring his ex-wife Elizabeth (Anna Katarina) and brother Conrad (Sean Penn). It is his 48th birthday as the film opens, and Conrad makes a cryptic offer to meet him for dinner via an old, lame injoke routed through Nicholas' assistant. This being the one connection Nicholas is willing to go with, he takes Conrad up on the offer and meets him. Conrad hands Nicholas a card with the number for "Consumer Recreation Services," and tells him this is his present, that he has enjoyed this service himself--knocking down Nicholas' guesses at its identity ("An escort service?"). After a battery of tests that Nicholas reluctantly agrees to, he's met with the image of a fallen body in front of the home that has stayed in his hands since his father was alive, mimicking his father's own fate. Angry, Nicholas brings the "body"--a clown doll--inside, and finds that he was not rejected from "The Game" provided by CRS as he believed. He's now led from place to place by intentionally abstruse clues, albeit ones that seem to find their use quite naturally in Nicholas' regular life. At first annoyed, Nicholas rapidly finds himself fearful of where the Game is taking him, and his fear is repeatedly given cause, only to have it removed.

There are two primary components of this film I feel are worth discussing (or, more accurately, want to discuss): first, Fincher's approach to the story and Van Orton, and second, the hotly contested ending (and its quality or lack thereof).

The thing that caught my eye first--and it was trained by seeing Fincher's careful eye in prior films, which is fed by my understanding that he is a meticulous perfectionist of a director--was the way the film opened. Scored (by Howard Shore) with minimalistic music, but strong enough to carry a feeling of distant, sad memory, is a carefully cut set of 8mm "home movies" of Nicholas' early life. It's bright and sunny, and filled with his birthdays as a child, his brother, his father, their home--and interspersed are elements of his father's suicide. It cuts from this to Nicholas at home. His house is silent, the only sounds coming from a financial television show and the echoes of huge hallways and rooms as he moves through them alone. Douglas' face betrays almost no emotion, and his interactions are clipped and brief. They aren't unfriendly, generally speaking, but they are not warm. Sometimes they're short and snarky, but even outright anger is unusual. When speaking to his wife he is flat and cold, cruel even as he cuts her off and shows a total disinterest in her. The way this is worked together is brilliant: it works in that way that I appreciate, the way a friend of mine has always appreciated music that I never could. In the way that he hears separate instruments, I have one part of my brain looking for technique and ideas and approaches and another actively and emotionally engaged, running separate threads for separate purposes. So long as they never bleed into each other (though if this were done in an interesting way, I suppose I might like that), I am quite pleased. When the part that is looking for technique has to work hard to see what's at work, but finds it easily with a firmer hand, I am impressed. This is what Fincher does: it's so easy and smooth in approach--even when wildly stylized--that you don't see it coming unless you stick a hand right in it and feel around. I don't doubt that, based on his reputation and what I've seen of his work, he spends a lot of time and effort on this, but the results are worth it regardless.

What he manages to succeed at here is to make the film exactly what it is supposed to be for the viewer who comes in unaided by desires or preconceptions about what the film is or "could" or "should" be. Those expecting complete honesty from the film are going to be sorely disappointed. Those looking for outright realism will as well. It's not really about either of those things: it's about a man being faced with his greatest fear, and what that does to him and the people around him, and how it can be used against him, or how he can use it. It's not something everyone will be interested in, or that will work for everyone, but Fincher does it exactly right for what it is. I didn't feel betrayed when it chose the path it did; nor should any viewer, but we are all saddled with preconceptions that are the fault of endless reading and viewing, or with too-strict desires from the same. It's difficult to discuss in detail without revealing it, but I don't really even want to discuss it enough to give it away for anyone. Suffice it to say, the film does pull a good sucker punch on you, or maybe two or three, toward the end. You might see part of it coming, or even all of it (my mother never ceases to amaze me on this front--I wonder how she enjoys anything always predicting the ending just as she wonders how I can enjoy things while analyzing them), but it's unlikely you'd have all of the back alley turns in mind, and they're all important to the film and its concept as a whole.

I'm not sure what I expected of this--disappointment, surprise or shrugging, but I think it was a slow-burning surprise that I got out of it. A good one.