10/1/14 (Part One): Meat Is Murder

Tags

1970's cinema, 31 Days of Halloween, Allen Danziger, auteur theory, cannibals, cinema, classic movies, co-writers, cult classic, dysfunctional family, Edwin Neal, favorite films, feature-film debut, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Gunnar Hansen, horror, horror films, horror franchises, iconic villains, isolated estates, Jim Siedow, John Dugan, John Larroquette, Kim Henkel, Leatherface, Marilyn Burns, Movies, Paul A. Partain, Sally Hardesty, Sawyer family, Teri McMinn, Texas, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Tobe Hooper, William Vail, writer-director

A text-crawl and voice-over narrator informs us that the story we’re about to see is true. As we stare at the black screen, the high-pitched, eerie whine of a camera flashbulb, followed by a split-second flash of light, illuminates extreme close-ups of what appear to be rotted body parts. We can hear muffled talking but there’s no way to pinpoint what’s going. As we gradually come to make sense of an overheard radio broadcast that mentions grave-robbing, the image fades into a shot of a recently disinterred body, posed jovially on a tombstone like a Halloween decoration ready to greet trick or treaters. We then smash cut into the opening credits sequence which consists of blown-out, blood-red images of body parts and out-of-focus solar flares, as crashing cymbals and insane percussive elements provide the score. Welcome to a perfect vision of Hell: writer/director Tobe Hooper’s landmark feature debut, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974).

40 years to the day that it was first unleashed upon unsuspecting audiences, TCM has lost absolutely none of its horrific, spellbinding power. Although filmmaking technology has grown by leaps and bounds in the four decades since its creation, modern films would be hard-pressed to approximate even one-tenth of the raw, visceral, feral power that this ultimate “meat” movie still possesses. Hooper’s TCM is a film that would not only come to define and revolutionize its era but would leave a lasting mark on the entirety of the cinematic horror genre. Like Romero’s legendary Night of the Living Dead (1968) would do six years before, TCM took traditional notions of fright cinema into the woods and shot them in the head, leaving the bodies to be reclaimed by the soil. It’s no hyperbole to say that traces and threads of Hooper’s modest little cannibal film can be found running through nearly all of the horror films that followed it, in one way or the other: if nothing else, any horror film that came after was constantly trying to one-up and out-do the sheer intensity of TCM, whether through a heightened reliance on gore effects or by trying to imitate the relentless drive of the film. Despite its endless army of imitators, however, one thing remains abundantly clear: there is no other film quite like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

By this point in time, the basic plot of the film should be just about as familiar as a Grimm fairy tale: five friends, led by Sally Hardesty (the recently deceased Marilyn Burns) and her wheelchair-bound brother, Franklin (Paul A. Partain), head to their grandfather’s old homestead, deep in the isolated heart of rural Texas. Their grandfather was buried in the defiled cemetery that we’re introduced to in the opening and Sally and Franklin want to make sure his body is still lying where it’s supposed to be. Along the way, the happy group stops to pick up a strange hitchhiker (Edwin Neal), a cackling, bat-shit crazy piece-of-work who manages to cut both himself and Franklin before getting bodily ejected from the van. The group are shaken but determined to laugh it off: after all, Saturn is in retrograde and this is just the kind of crazy shit you expect to happen.

After stopping to get directions from an odd but friendly gas station owner (Jim Siedow) who sees them off with the classic horror movie warning to be careful since “old houses are dangerous and you might get hurt,” the group heads over to the dilapidated farmhouse. As Franklin, Sally and her boyfriend, Jerry (Allen Danziger) poke around the old place, Pam (Teri McMinn) and Kirk (William Vail) head out to find the local swimming hole. Turns out that the swimming hole is all dried up but the couple hear the sounds of a gas-powered generator and see a windmill poking above the nearby trees: a quick peek reveals another farmhouse, albeit in a seemingly worse state of repair than the old Hardesty place. After curiosity gets the best of them, Pam and Kirk decide to do a little trespassing and check out the hidden homestead. They need gas for the van, after all, and there’s obviously someone living there since the generator is running. As Pam pokes around outside, Kirk lets himself into the dark, stuffy farmhouse, slowly roaming down the long, central hallway. As he looks around, Kirk steps straight from reality into a living nightmare…and horror movie history.

While the set-up for TCM is pure simplicity, the film is such a powerhouse because there’s so much stuff happening in the margins and within the shadows, little elements that not only enrich the overall viewing experience but help to establish the film as something much more than a low-budget attempt to break into the splatter market. In a nutshell, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is about a world gone mad, a world in which a hundred little oddities add up to a pretty terrifying picture. The Sawyer family may be the easiest example of this but Sally and her friends don’t seem to meet many “normal” folks during their fateful trip: the rednecks at the graveyard are leering and vaguely threatening, the drunk speaks a bunch of mystical mumbo jumbo and the cook’s gas station attendant doesn’t appear to be playing with a full deck. Solar flares…Watergate…grave robbing…genuinely bizarre people…this is certainly not the promised utopia of the ’60s but more akin to time-lapse photography of rotting meat: the promise of blissful unity decomposing into violence, hate and indifference.

While rewatching TCM for what must be at least the 100th time, I challenged myself to imagine what it would be like to see this film all the way back in 1974, perhaps at some out-of-the-way drive-in theater or a grindhouse in Times Square. It’s not easy to forget 40 years of genre static and unnecessary fluff but the reward ended up being particularly rewarding: when I tried to view the film in as cold and clinical a light as possible (attempting to gloss over the fact that I’ve loved it unconditionally for the entirety of my adult life), I found that it still retained every measure of its initial power. I knew the story by heart…every jump scare, every shot, every bizarre and wonderful image…but I still found myself on the edge of my seat, feeling nervous and fidgety. The infamous dinner scene is just as awful today as it was back in the ’70s (or the ’80s, when I originally saw the film). The opening is just as striking, the climax just as awe-inspiring. Unlike other beloved films from my childhood, TCM has lost not an inch of its initial power and allure: if anything, my appreciation for the film grows with every screening.

Why does TCM manage to have so much lasting power when other films of the era feel dated or slight? Chalk it up to a perfect storm of filmmaking: Hooper and his inexperienced crew stumbled their way into perfection, using each and every obstacle and problem as a springboard to something truly unique. This, in essence, is the furthest thing from “by-the-book” filmmaking. As was ably detailed in the excellent documentary, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: A Family Portrait (1988), working conditions on the set were less than ideal: the bones and rotting food were all real, leading to on-set odors that would rival abattoirs, particularly in the scorching Texas sun; Gunnar Hansen was kept separated from the rest of the cast, so as to further the isolation of his soon-to-be-iconic Leatherface character; Marilyn Burns was actually psychologically tortured during the dinner setpiece, placing her terrified reactions in a queasy middle-ground between reality and art; the cast wore the same clothes for the entire shoot, lending everything a grimy, dirty feel. Reminding one of the stories from Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979) shoot, albeit minus the drugged-out insanity, actually filming Hooper’s classic seemed to be as much of a physical struggle as surviving the fictional Sawyers.

As a filmmaker, Hooper constantly surprises and impresses with TCM: the set design of the Sawyer farmhouse, on its own, would be enough to secure the film a place in cinematic history but there’s plenty else to extol. Despite the amateur nature of the cast, none of the acting feels awkward or out-of-place. The three villains (Edwin Neal, Gunnar Hansen and Jim Siedow) are pitch-perfect and nuanced: they’re obviously a severely deranged group of sickos but they actors never feel the oversell anything, even when the script is at its most teeth-gnashing. Similarly, the five young friends may not be exceptionally developed characters but they manage to avoid the “Nerd/Jock/Stoner/Cheerleader/Good Girl” stereotypes that have plagued “dead teenager” films pretty much from the get-go.

The cinematography is suitably grainy and immediate but there are a surprising number of effective flourishes: a propensity for extreme long shots that helps to make the characters seem tiny against the landscape…twitchy, insane extreme close-ups of Sally’s terrified eyes and that aforementioned opening…the constant smash cuts to the moon and sun (circular imagery is actually pretty prevalent in the film, which also includes plenty of circular flashlight beams, round windows, eyeglasses, etc…). The score (courtesy of Hooper and Wayne Bell) is subtle and unobtrusive but endlessly effective: much of the film takes place with only diegetic sounds and sound effects (crashing cymbals are a popular one) but the creepy score occasionally sneaks in to shake things up. The editing, appropriately frenetic and quick-cut during the action sequences, is still able to allow for more leisurely reveals and creeping atmosphere, when necessary.

As a film, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre contains many of my all-time favorite scenes: Leatherface’s first appearance…Pam discovering the bone room…the dinner scene…Sally’s initial escape…Franklin and Sally trudging through the pitch-black woods, with only a meager flashlight for a guide…Grandpa (John Dugan) constantly dropping the mallet and obscenely waggling his arms and legs like a happy infant…the opening…that amazing finale. Truth be told, the conclusion to TCM may just be my favorite ending to any film, ever (with the possible exception of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (1966), depending on my mood): as Sally escapes into the promise of a new day and whatever remains of her shattered life, Leatherface stands in the middle of the road and spins and pirouettes, swinging his snarling chainsaw around in a perfect fit of what very well might be teenage peevishness. It’s horrifying precisely because it hints at the idea that these human monsters might have as much notion of their evil as kids who burn ants with magnifying glasses do.

Unlike modern films which take every possible opportunity to spin out an “origin” story, Hooper is more than happy to just give us the basics: terrible stuff has been happening for a while, the Sawyer family has “always worked in meat” and the modernization of the local slaughterhouse has left the former employees (Grandpa was always the best cattle killer at the place) disenfranchised and dangerously marginalized. If all you want is a high-octane film about a murderous, cannibal clan, look no further. If you want a sly commentary on how the inevitable march of progress chews us all up and spits us out, look no further: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre delivers on any level.

I’ve seen The Texas Chainsaw Massacre enough, at this point, to know that my love for the film is genuine: as I said earlier, I love it more each year, not less. As someone who watches between 300 (in a bad year) and 700 (in a good year) movies a year, there have been plenty of opportunities for films to vault over TCM. I won’t lie: each year, I invariably see a batch of new films that have “classic” written all over them and several of them have become new “go-tos” for me. In the 20+ years since I first saw the movie, however, I don’t think there’s ever been a horror film that has affected me quite as much as this did. It seems rather impossible to call any film “perfect” but Hooper’s classic is as close to perfect as they come, imperfections included.

While I’ve actually really enjoyed Hooper’s post-TCM career (if nothing else, you really have to admire the breadth of his catalog), nothing, with the possible exception of the much maligned sequel or his sophomore film, Eaten Alive (1977), have approached this magnum opus. While I tend to detest remakes, on principle, I really protested the 2003 remake of TCM for one very simple reason: the film was perfect as it was. With the possible exception of ramping up the gore (despite its reputation, Hooper’s TCM is almost completely bloodless, save for a few choice shots) and introducing “hot young actors,” a remake seemed a complete exercise in futility. After all, how could a sterile money-grab ever compete with the legitimate insanity of the original film? The answer: it can’t.

40 years after its release, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre still stands as a legendary piece of cinematic history. I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that 40 years from now, discerning audiences will still find something to appreciate about the film. I’m assuming that all horror fans have already seen the film but, if you haven’t, there are simply no excuses: this should be as much a part of any cinephile’s DNA as any of the classics, genre or otherwise. In a time when CGI rules the horror roost and films are so self-aware as to be numbing, the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre is that rarest of things: a breath of fresh air. This is a film with a soul and a beating, blood-red heart, crafted by a cast and crew that could have had no idea that their humble little project would be immortal. I’ve loved The Texas Chainsaw Massacre from the first time I saw it: come talk to me on my death-bed and I’m pretty sure I’ll tell you the same thing.

 

6/14/14 (Part Two): When Legend Becomes Fact, Print the Legend

Tags

1960's films, American Old West, Andy Devine, auteur theory, cinema, classic films, classic movies, Denver Pyle, Edmund O'Brien, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, flashback narrative, gunslingers vs lawyers, James Stewart, James Warner Bellah, John Carradine, John Ford, John Wayne, Ken Murray, lawyers, Lee Marvin, Lee Van Cleef, legend vs reality, Liberty Valance, Movies, Ransom Stoddard, senator, Shinbone, statehood, Strother Martin, the law vs the gun, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, the myth of the Old West, the Old West, the taming of the Wild West, the Wild West, Tom Doniphon, Vera Miles, Westerns, Wild West, William H. Clothier, Willis Goldbeck, Woody Strode

In many ways, the American “Old West” is just as mythical a location as Tolkien’s Middle Earth or Lewis’ Narnia: composed of equal parts real history, tall tales, folk legends, personal myth-building, self-rationalization and flat-out malarkey, the Wild West has become so absorbed into the fabric of pop culture, by this point, that is hard to say where the stories end and the truth begins. Much of this mythologizing is thanks to the work of American filmmakers like John Ford, Howard Hawks, Sam Peckinpah and Fred Zinnemann, directors who helped shape the public’s opinion of the American Old West as a rough-and-tumble, lawless land where the six-gun was the only jury and where a strong-willed man could carve out an empire with his bare hands. Classic Hollywood Westerns such as Stagecoach (1939), My Darling Clementine (1946), Fort Apache (1948), Broken Arrow (1950), High Noon (1952), Shane (1953), The Searchers (1956),  Rio Bravo (1959), The Magnificent Seven (1960) and The Wild Bunch (1969) have long posited the West as just such a brutal, beautiful and untamed wilderness, America’s last refuge against the relentless march of progress and industrialization that swallowed the rest of the nation part and parcel.

Nothing, of course, can withstand the march of time for long and the “Wild West” was no exception. Once the railroad began to unite far-flung settlements into something that resembled a larger community, as well as linking the West with the much much-maligned, industrialized East, it was only a matter of time before the formerly untamed frontier would fall to the natural progress of the modern world. As someone who became one of the mythologized West’s biggest proponents, it likewise fell to auteur John Ford to write its eulogy, once the time had passed. To that end, Ford tolled the funeral bell with The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962), a film that purported to bring together two of the Westerns biggest stars, John Wayne and James Stewart, even as it brought the curtain down on traditional notions of the Old West.

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is structured as a flashback narrative, beginning in the “present-day” and moving backwards in time to show us the events that led us to where we are. In the present, Senator Ransom Stoddard (James Stewart) and his wife, Hallie (Vera Miles), have returned to the tiny frontier town of Shinbone in order to attend the funeral of one Tom Doniphon (John Wayne). Once there, Ransom and Hallie reconnect with old friends, including Shinbone’s former marshal, Link Appleyard (Andy Devine) and Doniphon’s faithful manservant Pompey (Woody Strode). When the local newspaper editor pressures Stoddard for a story concerning his return to the dusty hole-in-the-wall that is Shinbone, Stoddard deigns to give him the full scoop, telling the story of how he first came to Shinbone as an idealistic lawyer fresh out of law school and met Tom, his future wife, Hallie, and the miserable human being that would end up helping Stoddard secure his reputation: the outlaw Liberty Valance (Lee Marvin).

Stoddard describes how he came to Shinbone after being waylaid, beaten and robbed by Liberty Valance during a stagecoach holdup. Despite the continued advise of the cowardly Marshall Appleyard and all-around good-guy Tom, Stoddard is determined to bring Valance to justice with the letter of the law, rather than the vengeance of a six-gun. Easier said than done, however, as Valance and his minions, Floyd (Strother Martin) and Reese (Lee Van Cleef), pretty much run the town, keeping everyone scared (including the Marshall) and under the thumbs of the local land barons. When the topic of statehood comes up, Valance and Stoddard end up on opposite sides of the issue: Stoddard knows that statehood will lead to modernization, industrialization and law and order, whereas Valance’s employers know that statehood will spell the end of their unchecked land rights. Neither man will back down, sending everyone in Shinbone, including Tom and his then-girlfriend Hallie, hurtling towards a violent confrontation that will signal the end for some while heralding a bold, new beginning for others. Liberty Valance is the second fastest gun in the territory, however, and Stoddard is the epitome of the “citified dude” – he’ll need more than justice on his side to take on Valance…he’s going to need a guardian angel.

As with any elegy, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is an exceptionally sad film, not only for the events which take place on-screen but for the greater significance that these events held for our society. Although Ford’s film is full of rousing action set-pieces, lots of sharp humor and some nice, broad characterizations (Andy Devine is particularly goofy as the whiny, constantly eating sheriff), there’s a muted, toned-down feel to the proceedings that mark this as the furthest thing from one of Ford’s more “traditional” Westerns, such as Fort Apache or Rio Grande (1950). There’s very little in the way of celebration here, even in those moments where the “good guys” are succeeding (the saloon scene where Tom kicks Valance’s guy right in the face, the statehood representative meeting), since the film seems to be all too aware that these successes will, ultimately, spell doom for the old-fashioned Old West. If Tom Doniphon stands for the traditionally rugged Western settler/survivor, he also stands for the mythologized Western director, as well: whereas artists like Hawks, Ford and Zinnemann plied their trades for a particular mindset in the ’30s, ’40s and ’50s, auteurs like Peckinpah, Sergio Leone and Clint Eastwood were dealing with not only the “death” of the traditional American Old West but also changing audience expectations and perspectives.

Your particular stance on progress and industrialization will probably color your particular view of The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance as being more or less a tragedy. On the one hand, Ransom Stoddard’s relentless quest to bring law and order, along with the niceties of “polite” society, to the untamed West is a noble (if slightly naive) pursuit. Industrialization in the American West led to a number of irrefutable benefits, such as the proliferation of better medical practices, educational institutions, the creation of a justice system that was wholly dependent on mob justice, etc… but it also led to the marginalization of hard-scrabble folks like Tom Doniphon (and Liberty Valance, if we want to split hairs), folks who would be completely out-of-step in a newly “Easternized” West. After all, this was their land, too, and there’s something inherently sad about the notion that a fundamentally good person like Tom (at least as portrayed in the film) will be allowed to lose everything, including the love of his life, in order to uphold Stoddard’s “new order.”

This notion of “the good of the many vs the good of the few” seems to be foremost on Ford’s mind, as the film makes no bones about the fact that Hallie and Tom were the “truer” couple, whereas Hallie and Ransom are the more “proper” couple. Hallie and Tom’s love is portrayed as passionate, romantic and messy, whereas Hallie and Ransom’s marriage seems to be more convenient, albeit more clinical. This, in micro, is the argument between the messier, more wild and more “authentic” Old West versus the more restrained, civilized and law-abiding “New” West. It’s the cactus rose versus the actual rose…Tom Doniphon’s antiquated notions of right and wrong versus Ransom’s Stoddard’s stubborn reliance on the rules of law and order…the emotion versus the intellect.

While The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is full of great performances, particularly John Wayne’s out-of-place cowboy Jimmy Stewart’s pompous, blowhard but well-meaning lawyer, the film really belongs to Lee Marvin’s dastardly villain: Liberty Valance is easily one of the greatest cinematic monsters to ever slime across the big screen and Marvin brings him to terrifying, shuddering life. He’s able to spit out “dude” with the same venom that others might reserve for “motherfucker” and the scene where he horsewhips Stoddard is as horrifying as something from a fright film. Marvin, ably backed up by Peckinpah mainstay Strother Martin and the one and only Lee Van Cleef, is a true force of nature in the film but he’s anything but a one-dimensional villain. In many ways, he functions as the flip-side to Doniphon’s “noble cowboy” character, showcasing the dark side of the Wild West that made Stoddard’s brand of law and order such a necessary, if game-changing, development in the building of the West.

Elsewhere, on the acting front, Edmund O’Brien provides some welcome comic relief as the besotted local newspaper editor/newly-elected statehood rep Dutton Peabody, while Vera Miles is an expressive, eternally sad presence as Tom Doniphon’s beloved Hallie, who ends up embracing both Ransom Stoddard and the change that he embodies. Truth be told, the only performances that grate a bit are Andy Devine’s ever-foolish Link Appleyard and Woody Strode’s ever loyal Pompey. Devine’s whiny schtick gets old quick, although he has some really nice, emotional beats in the “present-day” part of the film, particularly his quietly lovely scenes with Hallie, whereas Pompey is pretty much a non-entity, serving only to follow around and support Tom without much characterization of his own (the most we get is the rather on-the-nose bit where Pompey is able to remember everything about the Declaration of Independence except for the “All men are created equal” part).

As with all of Ford’s films, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance looks great, a truly panoramic vision of the Old West that still manages to convey a sense of muted sadness. The black and white cinematography, courtesy of William H. Clothier (who shot several dozen other John Wayne Westerns), is always crisp and clear and there’s a typically expert use of directional lighting and shadows, particularly in the climatic scene where Stoddard and Valance face-off in the streets of Shinbone. Fittingly, the film often feels slightly oppressive, as if there’s a hanging sense of doom over everything: it’s the sense of tension befitting something like High Noon but with none of that film’s sense of release. Even after Valance is dead, Doniphon isn’t (personally) victorious and Ford’s film doesn’t seem particularly interested in celebrating his failure to preserve the old way of life.

Despite it’s status as a classic Western, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is just as much a character drama or tragedy (Doniphon’s fatal flaw is his inability to change with the times, which ends up being Stoddard’s biggest strength) as it is a traditional oater. While John Ford was responsible for some of the most iconic visions of the Old West put to film, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is just a little bit different. Rather than a celebration of a by-gone era and the people who forged a nation, Ford’s opus is a quiet, serious meditation on the unflinching nature of progress, industrialization and the “taming” of the Old West. In any other film, the moment where Ransom and Hallie end up together would be the culmination of their struggles and a source of joy for the audience. In The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, Ford asks viewers not to focus on the “winners” in the foreground, but the “losers” in the background, those men and women, including Tom Doniphon, who triumphed over a harsh landscape but ended up being shot straight in the heart by that most unavoidable of all enemies: the modern age.

3/15/14: Just a Couple Good Old Boys

Tags

actor-director, Altamont, America, American Dream, Best Original Screenplay nominee, Best Supporting Actor nominee, bikers, Billy, Bob Dylan, Born to Be Wild, buddy films, Captain America, Charles Manson, cinema, classic movies, counter-culture films, counterculture, Dennis Hopper, directorial debut, Easy Rider, end of an era, film reviews, films, friendship, hippies, Hoyt Axton, Jack Nicholson, Luke Askew, Mardi Gras, motorcycles, Movies, Oscar nominee, Palme d'Or nominee, Peter Fonda, Phil Spector, rednecks, road movie, road trips, Sharon Tate, Steppenwolf, the American Dream, the Manson Family, The Pusher, Wyatt

When, exactly, did the Summer of Love go up in flames? Conventional wisdom usually points to Altamont, in December 1969, as the point where the promise of free love and hippy Utopianism soured. For my money, though, I always pinpointed Sharon Tate’s murder, on August 9th of the same year, as the real tipping point. Even though the Woodstock festival (usually seen as the pinnacle of “hippyism”) would follow Tate’s murder by less than a week, I always viewed that as sneaking one last one in before Manson and his followers nailed down the coffin lid. By the time the Mason family had cemented their terrible legacy, it was pretty apparent that the shiny red apple of peace, love and harmony contained more than its fair share of rot. While Altamont may have slammed the door shut, it had begun to close long before then. In fact, some folks could see the end way before then: when Dennis Hopper’s now-iconic Easy Rider was first released, in May 1969, who could know that the man would seem like Nostradamus a mere seven months later?

Easy Rider is many things: a buddy film…a road movie…a counter-culture landmark…a return to the sensibilities of On the Road at a time when that attitude seemed not only passe but quaint…a drug movie…a critique of the fractured America of the ’60s…More than anything, however, Easy Rider serves as a death knell, a dire warning from one of the original “freak-flag-flyers” that times were changing and that the peace-and-love hippies were about to be swept from the Earth in the same way that the dinosaurs once were. You could stay the same, he posited, but you would die: that was a given. You could, of course, leave behind your ideals and survive by evolving into something else entirely, something colder, more calculating, less romantic. But isn’t this, in the end, the same sort of death as offered in the first option? Above all else, however, Hopper was making concrete the words of Bob Dylan, albeit casting them in a much darker light than Dylan originally intended: the times, indeed, were a changin’.

As a film, Easy Rider has a pretty simple structure: it’s essentially a series of vignettes featuring Billy (Dennis Hopper) and Wyatt (Peter Fonda), usually addressed as “Captain America.” As the two men travel around the back-roads of America, they meet with an odd assortment of characters, including a hitchhiker (Luke Askew) and his hippy commune, a drunken lawyer (Jack Nicholson), lots of rednecks and some good, old-fashioned, middle-American squares. They sell cocaine to Phil Spector (not the “person” of Phil Spector but the actual man: he’s billed as “The Connection” and wears one seriously yellow suit, complete with matching gloves and glasses), visit a whorehouse in New Orleans and leave a diner one step ahead of an angry mob of rednecks and small-town cops.

For the most parts, events in the film fall into a pretty basic formula: the duo rides to a new place, Billy acts like a square, the Captain tells him to chill out, there’s a musical interlude and the whole thing repeats. Each interlude, however, serves as a way for Hopper (who also wrote the screenplay, with Fonda) to dig a little deeper into the whole notion of the “American Dream.” The opening pre-credits drug-dealing sequence begins with Steppenwolf’s version of “The Pusher,” before their iconic “Born to Be Wild” slams us right into the credits. It’s a subtle way to establish Billy and the Captain’s manifesto (they do whatever they want, man), while also commenting on changes in the pop culture zeitgeist: “The Pusher” was written by Hoyt Axton, a popular folk singer in the early ’60s but it was Steppenwolf’s cover, not the original, that Hopper used. As one of the “heavier” new bands to emerge in the late ’60s, Steppenwolf was a good representation of the direction music was taking, at the time, away from the folk and early rock of the ’60s and into the hard rock and metal of the ’70s. Steppenwolf was pushing Axton out, just as the darker mid-late ’60s was crowding out the peace and optimism of the earlier part of the decade.

They end up on the hitchhiker’s commune but don’t get to stay long: the hippies end up picking on and ostracizing Billy, leading us to the notion that maybe these “peaceniks” aren’t quite as nice as they first seem. Although he couldn’t have known it at the time, Hopper was prophesying what would happen with the Manson family: the hippy exterior concealed a dangerous, deranged interior. Lest it be thought that Hopper is unduly picking on the counterculture (which is rather absurd, since he’s been a genuine, card-carrying member of the counterculture for his entire life/career), we also get scenes like the ones where Billy and the Captain get arrested for “parading without a permit” in a small town and are, essentially, chased out of a diner by a group of locals (including the sheriff) that are a few pitchforks away from the mob in Frankenstein. If the counterculture isn’t necessarily who they say they are, then the average middle-American “square” is exactly what they seem to be: small-minded, suspicious, frightened and utterly resentful of the “freedom” that Billy and the Captain represent. That these small-town folk and rednecks will, ultimately, end up being the undoing of Billy, the Captain and George (Nicholson) is certainly telling: although the counterculture has begun to collapse from the inside, its greatest threat still comes from the outside – the world at large.

All of these events eventually culminate in a truly apocalyptic ending for Billy and the Captain (and poor George, of course), although it’s a finale that would probably only provoke a shrug from the kinds of people who helped perpetrate it: those long-haired, weird bastards got what was coming to them. While the finale few moments of Easy Rider holds the answer to Billy and the Captain’s fates, it’s a moment just before that actually spells everything out for an entire generation. After finally achieving their “goal” of visiting New Orleans for Mardi Gras and surviving everything that came before, Billy is absolutely triumphant: they’re both “rich” now, thanks to the opening drug deal and have finally “made it.” “That’s what you do, man,” he tells the Captain, “you go for the big money.” The Captain’s response, however, takes the wind out of not only Billy’s sails but our own, as well: “We blew it, man.” By compromising their principles and losing sight of the “big picture” (changing the world for the better), Billy and the Captain (along with the entire “Free Love” movement) have truly “blown it.” The true extent wouldn’t be felt for some time, of course, but the writing was on the wall: whatever moment might have existed was now past and the movement would continue to spin out into irrelevance.

As a pivotal moment in the history of the counterculture, Easy Rider, much like Kerouac’s On the Road, cannot be easily discounted. Although certain elements have, by necessity, become dated, the overall themes and angles of the film hold up surprisingly well. As a film, Easy Rider is quite good, with sterling performances from Hopper, Fonda and Nicholson, along with some excellent cinematography that is reminiscent of the same year’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It’s always a hoot to see Hopper play the “straight” guy, particularly with the decades of crazy characters that would come after this. Nicholson, in particular, is excellent, providing yet another example of why he became one of the most beloved actors of all time. There’s a sense of playfulness that easily recalls Depp’s work in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, although Nicholson owned this type of role for some time before Depp wandered down Jump Street.

If there can be any complaints, it would have to be that the film definitely becomes formulaic well before the ending, although the final 15 minutes are still some of the most powerful film moments ever. Even though the film seems a bit dated now (the commune scene, in particular, is of its era, complete with a truly bizarre mime performance and some really hippy-dippy philosophizing), it’s held up much better than similar films of the era, such as Fonda’s ultra-silly The Trip from a few years earlier. In the end, Easy Rider exists as both a fascinating curio of a forgotten era and a timely reminder that we must be ever vigilant, if we hope to truly change the world. As Sisyphus knew, the moment you quit pushing forward and forging new ground is the moment where the boulder begins to slide back down the hill. In the ’60s, the hippies managed to push the rock quite a ways up the hill. The tragedy, of course, is that it crushed them all on the way back down.

2/20/14: Love Among the Leeches

Tags

1950's films, Academy Award Nominee, Academy Award Winner, Africa, auteur theory, based on a book, battleship, Charlie Allnut, cinema, classic movies, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, gin, home-made torpedo, Humphrey Bogart, Jack Cardiff, James Agee, John Huston, Katherine Hepburn, leeches, missionaries, Movies, Rev. Samuel Sayer, riverboats, Robert Morley, romance, romantic films, Rosie Sayer, steamboat, The African Queen, the Louisa, war films, World War I

Any discussion of the greatest cinematic romances of all time must, invariably, include John Huston’s classic 1951 adventure The African Queen. In fact, short of classic film couples like Katherine Hepburn/Spencer Tracy or Clark Gable/Vivien Leigh, Humphrey Bogart and Hepburn’s romantic turn may be the first couple that film buffs normally think about in this regard. That being said, it’s interesting to note how far Huston tends to tilt the film in the direction of white-knuckle adventure vs “falling in love.”

By this point in film history, the plot of The African Queen (adapted for the screen by Pulitzer Prize-winning author James Agee, who also wrote the screenplay for Night of the Hunter) should be familiar to just about anyone. Rose Sayer (Hepburn) and her brother Samuel (the always excellent Robert Morley) are missionaries stationed in East Africa during the onset of World War I. Local riverboat captain Charlie Allnut (Bogart) drops by to inform that the Germans are on the move and that they should (probably) abandon their posts. Determined to stay, the Sayers soon realize that even good intentions and God can’t stand in the way of the rampaging Germans, particularly once they burn the village (and church) to the ground and beat poor Rev. Sayer.

After her brother dies, Rose goes with Charlie, ostensibly to relocate to safer territory. Instead, the headstrong Rose has determined that she and Charlie should single-handedly take on a nearly impenetrable German fortress and one completely badass German battleship named the Louisa. The Louisa, you see, is the key to the German control of East Africa and would be quite the fight for another battleship. Attacking a battleship with a rickety riverboat? Why, that’s just crazy talk! Rose, however, knows two things like the back of her hand: she’s too damn stubborn to ever admit defeat, regardless the odds, and she’s fallen head-over-heels in love with the slovenly, equally pig-headed Charlie. Will love and a boat full of explosives be enough to thwart the German troops? Will Charlie and Rosie ever stop arguing long enough to kiss?

As a youngster, The African Queen was (easily) one of my parents’ favorite films and something that they seemed to watch about as frequently as I watch my favorite films…which is to say, quite often enough to make neophytes sick and tired of the whole thing. I was never a big fan of The African Queen but I’ll freely admit that this had as much to do with me as the film: as an avowed Clint Eastwood/Charles Bronson fanatic, Huston’s modest little war pic was always going to have an uphill battle in the “Make Phillip’s blood boil” sweepstakes. Nonetheless, even though I wasn’t a huge fan of the film, there was still always one scene that got my complete and undivided attention: if you guessed anything besides the leech scene, you probably didn’t know pre-teen/teen me very well. As a kid into ooky, gooky and icky things of all sorts and sizes, particularly those that paraded across the big/small screen, things didn’t get much ickier than the bit where Charlie emerges from the river only to find himself covered in those slimy little bastards. I still get a chill every time I think about that scene, which certainly must say something as to the film’s staying power.

Re-watching The African Queen as an adult certainly reinforced one thing that my adolescent self managed to miss entirely: despite what I initially thought, there’s plenty of action to be found in Huston’s jungle journey. This isn’t to say that the film’s reputation as a romance is undeserving: there’s still plenty of lovin’ to go around. My initial memories, however, ended up being pretty unfairly weighted: between the numerous “over the rapids” scenes and the incredibly tense moment where the German fortress first catches sight of The African Queen and proceeds to bomb the living crap out of Rosie and Charlie, there isn’t much fat (if any) on the film.

In fact, if anything, I actually found the romantic angle to be a bit too comfortable and rather cliché: the scruffy bad-boy falls in love with the prim-and-proper good girl and changes his life for the better. Hepburn and Bogart spend so much time feinting and verbally sparring around each other that their inevitable falling in love seems more a fact of sheer exhaustion than any kind of aligning of the stars: they’re too tired to keep fighting, so they may as well smooch. Perhaps I’ve become numb to this type of character development since I’ve seen it so many times over the years but this aspect of the film definitely struck me as routine and “by-the-book.”

If I have trouble affording The African Queen the same amount of esteem that other critics do, however, I have absolutely no problem in extolling the films many (many) virtues. Bogart is pretty great, even though my favorite role of his will forever be Angels with Dirty Faces: he won the Best Actor Oscar for the performance, which ended up being his only win. Hepburn is absolutely perfect as the starched-stiff Rosie, although her transformation into a moony-eyed, swooning schoolgirl seems rather an odd fit.

The cinematography, by DP Jack Cardiff, is astounding and immediately impressive: some of the shots here are pretty enough to frame. There’s a real sense of grandeur to some scenes, such as the first glimpses of the mighty German fortress and the massive Louisa, which makes Charlies African Queen look like a wooden rowboat. Cardiff really makes the African locations pop and the various shots of local wildlife (such as the eye-popping scene where dozens of sunning crocodiles slide into the river) really set the scene and help blur the line between what was filmed in-studio and what was shot on location. Production-wise, my one complaint would be with the musical score, which often struck me as both too whimsical and too intrusive. It reminded me a bit too much of the overly leading scores in modern films, scores which seem to want to control ever audience reaction/emotion.

More than anything, I’m glad that my re-evaluation of a classic film has led to new appreciation for said film. While The African Queen will never be my favorite John Huston or Humphrey Bogart film (or Katherine Hepburn movie, for that matter), I still found myself thoroughly entertained and swept up in the action. If you’ve never seen The African Queen before, do yourself a favor and get acquainted: if your heartbeat doesn’t race at least a few times, you may already be dead.

2/17/14: These are Mean Times

Tags

action films, Assault on Precinct 13, Austin Stoker, auteur theory, B-movies, child killing, cinema, classic movies, claustrophic, Darwin Joston, Douglas Knapp, favorite films, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, gang members, Halloween, iconic film scores, John Carpenter, Lalo Schifrin, low-budget films, Movies, Napoleon Wilson, police station, score, siege, synth scores, working together

Anyone who knows me well knows that pinning me down on my favorite anything can be an exercise in frustration: my specific lists of favorite films, music, TV shows, food, etc…tend to change not so much on a regular basis but on a moment-to-moment basis. Stick around long enough and, chances are, you’ll hear me call at least two separate things “the greatest ______ ever,” if not five separate things. This isn’t to say that I’m necessarily fickle with my entertainment loves: rather, I try to constantly expose myself to new films, music, etc, which often has the effect of displacing some of my previous loves.

That being said, however, there are still a few films that never quite leave the “Best of…” list, even if their ultimate position in said list tends to be constantly changing. The Good, The Bad and the Ugly is one of those films, as is The Godfather and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Goodfellas and Taxi Driver are both on there, of course, because I can’t have a  favorites list without some Scorcese. It goes without saying that John Carpenter’s seminal Halloween is on the list but there’s another Carpenter film that, for me, is even more of a no-brainer for inclusion. This is a film so perfect that I ceased looking for flaws at least a decade ago and have simply accepted its place in the ultimate list of my life: somewhere right around the top, maybe bumping shoulders with Faith No More, Travis Bickle and Leatherface. It’s a movie that, if I’m being honest with myself, I actually like more than Halloween. The film? Assault on Precinct 13. Why do I love it so much? Let me count the ways.

Carpenter’s Assault on Precinct 13 is one of those cases where the individual parts of a movie, while mighty on their own, come together to form something akin to the Voltron of exploitation cinema. We start with Carpenter’s iconic synth score, including that mammoth theme song. For me, this provokes a near Pavlovian response, similar to the one I get from Morricone’s essential score for The Good, The Bad and The Ugly: every time I hear that series of terse, clipped notes, followed by that simmering synth stab, I get a little adrenaline rush, a little tickle in the back of my reptile brain. This is the “ass-kicking” cortex getting stimulated and the Assault on Precinct 13 theme is its cellphone ringer. Pair this theme with the stark red letters on black screen opening credits and the film seems classic before it even properly begins.

Carpenter’s score is a whole lot more than just that jagged, robotic call-to-arms, however. There’s a moody piece in the score that plays during Bishop’s arrival at Precinct 13 (as well as the aftermath of the “shoot-in”) that ranks as one of my favorite pieces of film music ever, including such luminous peers as the sweeping Godfather score and Morricone’s aforementioned Good, Bad, Ugly score. It’s a melancholy, nearly bluesy bit that reminds me of Lalo Schifrin’s score for Dirty Harry (another of my all-time favorite film/score combos) and is so perfectly evocative that it almost tells a story on its own. It’s a pensive piece that neatly serves as a theme for Bishop’s thoughtful, quiet leadership style.

The score, by turns ominous and melancholy, perfectly underscores the film’s themes and walks hand-in-hand with the stark, gritty visuals. Shot by Carpenter’s Dark Star cinematographer Douglas Knapp (on what would end up being his last feature film work, to date), Assault on Precinct 13 has a washed-out, sun-bleached look that recalls Dirty Harry, yet manages to incorporate the deep-focus elements that would become so familiar when Halloween rampaged across movie screens two years later. As in Halloween, there’s a lot in Assault on Precinct 13 that occurs on the edges of the frame: figures skulking about, the sudden appearance (or disappearance) of a character. The tight framing handily evokes a constant, sustained feeling of claustrophobia throughout the film, while the washed-out color palette gives everything a subtly doomed feel.

As with everything else in the film, Assault on Precinct 13th’s plot is lean, mean and fat-free: on the eve that a small, isolated police station in one of the worst parts of the city is about to be shuttered, a tiny skeleton crew of officers and prisoners must make a desperate stand against a seemingly endless army of blood-thirsty, armed-to-the-teeth gang members. With no hope of rescue or reinforcements until the wee hours of the morning, Lt. Bishop (Austin Stoker), Leigh (Laurie Zimmer) and notorious convict Napoleon Wilson (Darwin Joston) must use their wits, resolve and whatever weapons they can scrounge together to keep from becoming more casualties of the mean streets.

And that’s it, folks: no meandering B and C stories…no unnecessary romantic subplots…no drifting off into tangents that dilute the overall impact…just 90 minutes of pure survival. This isn’t to say that there isn’t any character development or that everyone is flat: far from it. Rather, Carpenter has written an excellent, tight script that allows characters to develop organically, rather than exist merely as convenient genre stereotypes. Bishop and Wilson, on their own, are two of the most fascinating genre creations to ever grace the silver screen: neither one comes across as clichéd and I’ve always found myself wondering what happened to the characters after the film ended. Hell, I often find myself wondering what happened to the characters before the movie started and I’m a guy that pretty much abhors prequels. In this case, however, I’ve always been dying to know what Napoleon did that was so terrible and what happened to Lt. Bishop as a young man. It’s a testament to Carpenter’s writing that he’s left me wanting more, just like a good book.

All of these elements add up to a lot but they wouldn’t add up to a righteously kick-ass action film without some righteously kick-ass action sequences, now would they? Fear not, friends and neighbors: Assault on Precinct 13th has this covered. From the Western-esque scene where about one million gang members shoot approximately 4 billion bullets into the station house to the edge-of-the-seat finale where Bishop and Wilson hold off a snarling, feral mob in a narrow corridor from behind the world’s tiniest barricade, Assault on Precinct 13 very rarely comes up for air. In fact, the film is so tense that the pressure kicks on in the first frames (thanks to that epic theme) and is ratcheted up before we even get to the police station: by that point, the film is ready to explode…and does.

The acting, like everything else in Assault on Precinct 13, is impeccable. Although the cast is filled with unfamiliar faces and lacks the recognizable appeal of a Donald Pleasence, they work together quite beautifully. In particular, special recognition must be given to the two leads: Austin Stoker and Darwin Joston.

Stoker brings a real sense of quiet dignity and resolve to Lt. Bishop, qualities that almost bring him more in line with traditional Western heroes than with law enforcement ones. Joston, on the other hand, plays Napoleon Wilson with just the right amount of Southern charm, self-deprecation and quiet menace. Stoker and Joston have real chemistry together and I’ve always wished that the two could have gone on to do other “buddy”-type films. Missed opportunities notwithstanding, the friendship between the black police officer and the white, Southern convict brings some emotional heft to the story and makes the ending genuinely powerful: as Bishop and Wilson stand in the debris, a “rescuing” officer attempts to grab the prisoner, only to be violently shoved away by Lt. Bishop. After staring down the over-eager officer, Bishop walks Wilson out with the dignity and respect that he’s earned over the course of the siege. It’s a big, powerful moment and it never fails to get me in the gut every time: follow that with a quick cut back to the red text/black background with the theme playing and I stand and salute every single damn time.

At the end of the day, I have a lot of concrete reasons for loving Assault on Precinct 13: the acting is fantastic, the cinematography is moody and claustrophobic, the script is smart, the dialogue cracks, the relationship between Bishop and Wilson feels completely genuine and the score is absolutely superb. For me, these all seem like ingredients in a sure-fire formula for a perfect film. More than anything, however, there’s a feeling I get from watching this film that’s hard to quite explain. I’ll never stop watching Halloween or The Thing but there’s just something about Assault on Precinct 13 that really gets to me on a primal level. Perhaps it’s because we live in such a hard world and it seems like the streets of the Anderson Precinct could become a reality at any time. Perhaps it’s because the film so gloriously upholds that most human and beautiful of beliefs: as long as you can breathe, you can keep fighting.

1/16/14: Hidden in Plain Sight

Tags

action-comedies, Akira Kurosawa, character dramas, cinema, classic movies, epic films, Film, Film auteurs, George Lucas, historical dramas, Japanese cinema, John Ford, Movies, samurai films, Star Wars, The Hidden Fortress, Toshiro Mifune

As a rule, I like to watch as many films as possible, wherever possible. If there’s even a possibility of shoehorning yet another film into the day’s viewing, then in it goes. Sometimes, however, I like to take the time to slow down and really savor a film. It doesn’t mean that I watch it in slo-mo (although I have done this, from time to time): rather, it means that I like to allow for plenty of time before and after my screening, a buffer zone that allows me to really think about a film, if I’m so inclined. Last Thursday, I decided to devote the entire evening to a film that surely deserves no less: Akira Kurosawa’s The Hidden Fortress. While this isn’t my favorite Kurosawa film, I’d gladly watch it every day for a week, if the mood struck.

There are few directors, from any era of film, that I respect and admire as much as Kurosawa. Like many cinephiles (although you may be different), my first exposure to Kurosawa came with the peerless Seven Samurai, followed very closely by Rashomon, Yojimbo, Sanjuro, Throne of Blood and Kagemusha. Over the years, I’ve managed to see just about every film the master ever made, many multiple times. As a film fan, I like to keep moving forward yet must always have one foot firmly in the past. Kurosawa has been just such a bridge for the majority of my adult life.

What’s so special about Kurosawa? There’s a beauty and elegance to his films that’s virtually unmatched by anyone else in the business. He managed to bridge Japan’s past with its future, all the way up to his final film in 1993. He was the very definition of an auteur, a filmmaker whose vision was so powerful and singular as to practically define an entire generation of filmmaking. Any discussion of the greatest filmmakers in history would be worthless without featuring Kurosawa front and center. After all, what other foreign filmmaker has become so ensconced in the mind of the American viewer that he inspired not only The Magnificent Seven but Star Wars, as well?

Like most of Kurosawa’s samurai films, The Hidden Fortress is epic in scope but intimate in execution. In a nutshell, the film concerns the adventures/misadventures of Tahei and Matashichi, a pair of bickering, greedy, co-dependent peasants in feudal Japan. Due to a combination of bad luck, bad timing and bad attitudes, the two have found themselves on the run and penniless. They end up falling in with a mysterious, stoic swordsman and his young female charge, a couple that sound suspiciously similar to the princess and general that are currently on the run from the ruling Yamana clan. Despite their suspicions as to their true identities, the peasants agree to lead the two out of Yamana and into the (relative) safety of neighboring Hayakawa. They’ve been promised gold but they also have their eye on the reward being offered for the return of the princess. Will the princess and general make it to safety? Will the Akizuki clan ever be restored to their former glory? Will anything ever go right for Tahei and Matashichi?

As mentioned earlier, The Hidden Fortress is epic in scope (a huge, rollicking samurai adventure full of big fights, lush locations and glorious wide-shots), yet manages to hone in on a pretty specific, microscopic view of the action. At the beginning, we focus on the two peasants, despite the hustle and bustle around them. Shortly after, the swordsman (played by the always amazing Toshiro Mifune) is added and our duo becomes a trio. After that, we add Princess Yuki and our intimate trio has now become a quartet. Kurosawa paces his film in such a way that these additions are subtle: by the time we’ve become used to Tahei and Matashichi, Kurosawa has already introduced General Makabe, a pattern which will be repeated with Princess Yuki later on. This gradual introduction of characters is much more organic and natural than the usual “Ocean’s 11” approach to character building (introduce twelve characters at once and let ’em fight it out for supremacy, cage-match-style), an approach which necessitates a shotgun rather than a sniper rifle.

There’s also a truly wonderful and subversive sense of humor underlying the proceedings. Whether it’s the hang-dog bickering of the peasants or Makabe’s gleefully wry observations on life, The Hidden Fortress is no glum exercise in history-book actualization. Rather, this is a vibrant, alive and kinetic film, one that sees no danger in following up a spectacular sword-fight with a silly pratfall. In any other hands, this blending of styles would come across as a little ham-fisted (if you think you can name several good action-comedies, try naming all of the bad ones that come to mind: I bet I can tell which hand filled up faster.) Not only does Kurosawa make this work, however, he makes it work so invisibly as to be almost subliminal.

Like all Kurosawa films, there are lots of big themes running around in here: loyalty; honor; service vs personal gain; classism; the death knell of the feudal era; state vs self. More so than many of his films, The Hidden Fortress is very much indebted to the John Ford-era of the classic Hollywood Western: look at all of those wide-open vistas, check out how the hidden fortress of the title could almost be an abandoned cliff-dwelling and dig how Toshiro Mifune is just one upturned sneer away from being the perfect synthesis of Eastwood and van Cleef. Seven Samurai may be the one that always gets compared to the classic oaters but The Hidden Fortress definitely deserves to be part of that conversation.

As far as big, memorable set-pieces go, The Hidden Fortress has them and then some: General Makabe’s thrilling pursuit of Yamana soldiers right into the Yamana garrison; his spear fight with the enemy general; the prisoner revolt from the Yamana castle (one of my favorite scenes ever); Princess Yuki rebuffing the two peasants with every branch and tree limb in the forest; Tahei and Matashichi pantomiming bringing the horses to drink; Makabe’s wonderful ruse involving the Yamana and the Akizuki gold…they’re all here, along with another bakers’ dozen of equally memorable moments.

There are also some quieter, more evocative moments that are equally powerful. My two personal favorites would be the part where Princess Yuki decides to buy the Akizuki refugee and the conflict between Makabe and the enemy general. This conflict, in general, illustrates a very important aspect of Kurosawa’s filmmaking: the disparity between doing the honorable thing and doing what it is ordered. Despite being on opposite sides of the battle, the generals have nothing but respect for each other and their abilities: this marks a nice change of pace from the usual good guy/bad guy dynamic. I would also be remiss if I didn’t mention the Fire Festival segment, featuring one of the single most haunting songs I’ve ever heard. This part is beautiful, a bracing reminder that very few filmmakers could compose a shot and set the atmosphere in quite the way that Kurosawa could.

As an added bonus, the Criterion Edition of The Hidden Fortress features a short but worthwhile interview with George Lucas, wherein he explains the importance of Kurosawa, in general, and The Hidden Fortress, in specific, on his career. I’ve never been the biggest Lucas fan, to be honest, finding the gentleman to be somewhat of a pretentious twit. The interview is quite down-to-earth and informative, however, and I found myself warming to Lucas by the end. I still don’t really care for the guy but it’s hard to dislike someone who appears to enjoy Kurosawa films as much as I do.

And, yes, it’s true: when I squint my eyes, Tahei and Matashichi do kind of look like C-3PO and R2-D2.