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12/26/14 (Part Three): Red Wanda and the Novice Nun

13 Tuesday Jan 2015

Posted by phillipkaragas in Uncategorized

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Agata Kulesza, Agata Trzebuchoska, ancestry, aunt-niece relationships, black-and-white cinematography, cinema, co-writers, coming of age, crisis of faith, Dawid Ogrodnik, debut acting role, family secrets, film reviews, films, foreign films, Ida, Ida Lebenstein, Lukasz Zal, Movies, multiple cinematographers, Nazi occupation, Nazis, nun-initiate, nuns, Pawel Pawlikowski, Polish film, post-World War 2, Rebecca Lenkiewicz, Red Wanda, Ryszard Lenczewski, secular vs non-secular, set in 1960s, writer-director

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There’s something austere and almost impossibly brittle about Polish writer-director Pawel Pawlikowski’s Ida (2013), a low-key, old-fashioned and quietly powerful story about a young nun’s search for her true identity amid the ever-present shadows of post-Occupation Poland in the ’60s. Perhaps due to the film’s gorgeous black-and-white cinematography (courtesy of dual cinematographers Ryszard Lenczewski and Lukasz Zal), leisurely pace or the relative lack of dialogue in many sections, Ida often seems more like a product of the era it portrays than it does of the modern one, as if Pawlikowski’s modest film were some forgotten gem recently unearthed in an obsessive collector’s estate sale.

Beginning with a dialogue-free scene that’s almost verite in its execution, we’re introduced to our young protagonist, Anna (newcomer Agata Trzebuchoska), a nun-initiate, as she goes about a typical day in the convent with her fellow nuns. Anna’s well-ordered world is thrown into disarray, however, when the Mother Superior tells her know that her heretofore-unknown aunt, Wanda Gruz (Agata Kulesza), has surfaced: Anna is to spend time with her and get to know her before taking her vows and sequestering herself away from the outside world.

Wanda, a hard-drinking, take-no-nonsense former state prosecutor (she was known as Red Wanda and used to be both extremely powerful and very feared) is probably the last person that Anna expects to spend time with and her aunt seems to view the whole thing as some sort of cosmic joke. There’s a deeper method to the madness, however, and Wanda shortly drops a bombshell on Anna: her real name is Ida Lebenstein and her family (including Wanda’s sister) disappeared during the Nazi Occupation. Stunned by this sudden revelation about her lineage but determined to uncover the truth about her family’s fate, Anna/Ida and Wanda set out through the frigid Polish countryside. As Wanda questions first one source and then another (although “interrogates” might be the better word), the aunt and niece get ever closer to the truth. Along the way, however, something even more unexpected happens: Wanda and Anna begin to bond, as each woman finds, in the other, something that’s been missing in their own lives. As Anna learns more and more about the world around her, her lifelong convictions are tested at every point: once her eyes are fully open, will she be able to return to the convent or does life now hold other mysteries for her?

There’s a sad, poetic lyricism to Ida that instantly reminded me of both the Italian New Wave and the early films of Jim Jarmusch, particularly Stranger Than Paradise (1984): the fish-out-of-water quality of Anna’s character, especially when jammed up against Wanda’s jaded, cynical worldview, definitely reminded me of the Willie/Eva relationship in Jarmusch’s film, although Wanda ends up much more likable, thanks to generally kick-ass demeanor. In certain ways, Kulesza’s Wanda is an indie-film version of Wendie Malick’s Nina van Horn character from Just Shoot Me: she’s a former big-shot who’s now a boozy shadow of her previous glory, yet retains just enough steel grit and determination to be formidable, when necessary. She’s also effortlessly funny, sassy and a real force-of-nature.

Trzebuchoska, in her big-screen debut, is quite affecting as Anna: although she’s wide-eyed and seems to be as innocent as the omnipresent snow, there’s an underlying curiosity and inquisitiveness that constantly bubbles to the surface, informing her performance in some truly subtle, striking ways. There’s something quite genuine about her journey of self-discovery: Anna never comes across as a forceful or strong personality, in any way, but the ghost-image of her aunt’s square-jawed determination still hangs about her like a fog, informing some of her acts of “rebellion” in the final act. Although she never fully “comes out” of her shell, Trzebuchoska gives us enough hints and peeks beneath Anna’s seemingly serene facade to keep us constantly reminded that a real, live, flesh-and-blood woman resides beneath the habit.

Although I mentioned it earlier, it certainly bears repeating: Ryszard Lenczewski and Lukasz Zal’s cinematography is absolutely gorgeous. Full of crisp, boundless fields of white snow and deep, rich black tones, the film looks flawless and is an instant throwback (in the best possible way) to those aforementioned “golden-age” independent films. There’s a sense of quiet grandeur to the many exterior wide-shots that not only shows off the Polish countryside to great effect but also helps establish how “small” the characters are, in the grand scheme of things. Above all, Ida is an intensely visual film, something that marks a nice break from the usual overly verbal indie fare.

In every way, Ida is a subtle, quiet film: there is a mystery, of sorts, at its heart but that’s not really where Pawlikowski’s interest seems to lie. There are some fascinating tidbits that we get involving Wanda’s past, crumbs of information that hint at a truly terrifying, amazing backstory but none of this ever comes front-and-center, at least in any significant way. More than anything, Ida is a meditative film about the search for identity and how this is both an internal and external struggle: Anna’s quest to uncover the truth about her family may help her to learn “who” she is but it’s not until she turns her search inward and begins to examine her own heart and motivations that she learns the most important thing: “why.”

6/9/14 (Part One): Young’uns and Dragons

16 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by phillipkaragas in Uncategorized

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'80s fantasy films, 1980's, baby dragons, Caitlin Clarke, cinema, Conan the Barbarian, debut acting role, Disney films, dragons, Dragonslayer, fantasy, film reviews, films, Galen, Industrial Light and Magic, John Hallam, John Milius, King Casiodorus, Matthew Robbins, Movies, Oscar nominee, Peter MacNicol, Ralph Richardson, romance, special-effects extravaganza, sword and sorcery, the Dark Ages, the Middle Ages, Touchstone Pictures, Tyrian, unlikely hero, Valerian, virgin sacrifice, wizard's apprentice, wizards, writer-director

dragonslayer-movie-poster-1981-1020206204

When I was a wee young’un, I was a bit of a fantasy/sword and sorcery buff. Okay: I was actually more of a fanatic but let’s not split hairs. During those all important formative years, I watched (and re-watched) dozens of knight/wizard/dragon/mysterious land epics, although there were two that I found myself returning to more often than the others: Conan the Barbarian (1982) and Dragonslayer (1981). To this day, Conan the Barbarian still stands as one of my favorite films: I re-watch it on a regular basis and will defend its merits to my dying day. In fact, if you haven’t seen John Milius’ awe-inspiring classic, drop what you’re doing and fix that error, post haste…you’ll thank me later.

Although my lifelong love of Conan the Barbarian has never waned, I must admit that I haven’t actually sat down to watch Dragonslayer in at least a decade, although it may be closer to 15 years. When I was putting together my recent viewings, I had the bright idea to revisit the film and see how it holds up today. Despite my former obsession with the film, I honestly couldn’t recall much more than the hero’s frizzy hair and a scene involving baby dragons. Would this be a case like Clerks (1994), where a formerly beloved movie has turned into vinegar, or had Dragonslayer become a “fine wine” over the years?

It would appear that the people of Urland have a bit of a problem: an ancient, spiteful, fire-breathing dragon has been terrorizing the kingdom for years and the people are held in the icy grip of fear. In order to convince the dragon to quit setting everything on fire, King Casiodorus (Peter Eyre) has been holding a lottery twice a year, a lottery which all female virgins in the kingdom are required to participate in (with the exception of his own daughter, Princess Elspeth (Chloe Salaman), of course). The “winners” of the lottery get to become dragon snacks, while the “losers” get to look forward to the next lottery. As is noted later, the rich denizens of Urland tend to buy their way out of the lottery, so it’s only ever the poor daughters who get sacrificed to the giant lizard.

Seeking some way out of their present situation, a small group of Urlanders, led by the scrappy Valerian (Caitlin Clarke), go to see the all-powerful wizard Ulrich (Ralph Richardson), paying a visit to his creepy, isolated castle. Ulrich may be cantankerous, forgetful and given to rather vague proclamations but he’s also the only wizard left in the land and someone has to be able to take on the dragon. Upon examining one of the dragon’s recovered scales, Ulrich notes that the beast is ancient: it must be decrepit, miserable, in constant pain and spiteful. In other words, Ulrich recognizes a kindred spirit and offers his services, along with those of his loyal apprentice, Galen (Peter MacNicol, of Ally McBeal fame): he’ll take out the dragon, as requested, although his reasons seem to involve ending its pain as much as saving Urland.

As the group is about to set out for Urland, disaster strikes in the form of Tyrian (John Hallam), King Casiodorus’ blood-thirsty man-at-arms. Tyrian and his men have been sent by the King to prevent the citizens from “stirring the pot,” as it were: the King quite likes the delicate balance in the kingdom, particularly since it doesn’t really impact his family and is worried that a pissed-off dragon might mistake unacceptable rich folks as snacks versus the court-approved poor slobs. In the guise of testing Ulrich’s powers, Tyrian ends up killing him, seeming to put an end to the quest before it even leaves the castle’s front yard. Luckily for the Urlanders, Galen is a plucky young lad and, with the assistance of Ulrich’s faithful manservant, Hodge (Sydney Bromley), he eagerly offers to take up the quest himself. He might not be an all-powerful wizard, like Ulrich, or a steel-nerved swordsman like Tyrian but he has something that neither of them had: really frizzy hair. He also has a magic amulet, which will probably prove useful, and a sack full of Ulrich’s ashes but the hair, presumably, is what makes the difference.

Along the way, Galen comes to the shocking realization that Valerian is actually a young lady, after a skinny-dipping incident in which he notices that her hidden parts look different from his. In a rather awesome parallel, this actually seems to tie Dragonslayer in with Just One of the Guys (1985), a stereotypical ’80s comedy in which a young lady impersonates a young man in order to get the scoop on a high school football team: how’s that for synergy? Galen and Valerian banter back and forth and, despite an ever so brief moment where it appears that Elspeth and Galen might hook up, it should be pretty clear that this couple is “meant to be.”

Back at Urland, Galen comes across as a bit of a jackass: in a bid to impress everyone and bring a hasty conclusion to the nasty business, he causes a landslide to bury the dragon’s cave opening. After the dust clears, Galen wipes off his hands, beams and waits for the applause to roll in. The King isn’t quite as overjoyed with this development, however, for reasons already mentioned, and has Galen thrown right into the dungeon. If the young whelp is right and the dragon is dead, the King will release him and throw him a party. If, however, Galen just ended up pissing off the dragon, as the King suspected, Galen will be choosing the prize behind Door Number 2: a swift execution. When the dragon makes an appearance, opting for a real scorched-earth policy, all signs point to Galen being kinda screwed. Fear not, faithful readers: this is a Disney movie, after all, and good must eventually succeed over evil. Freed from his prison, Galen must use all of his training and courage, along with some able support from Valerian and his magic amulet, to finally destroy the dragon and free the kingdom. Sometimes, however, young pluck is not enough to overcome ancient evil. Sometimes, you really do need a hero…or a wizard.

For a time, in the early-mid ’80s, Disney seemed to be trying to break from their squeaky-clean image with a group of films that were decidedly darker, more “mature” and violent than previous films. This trend seemed to begin with the ultra-dark, sci-fi epic The Black Hole (1979) and would continue with The Watcher in the Woods (1980), Dragonslayer, Something Wicked This Way Comes (1983), The Journey of Natty Gann (1985), The Black Cauldron (1985) and Return to Oz (1985). Eventually, Disney would create Touchstone Pictures to handle these “more adult” films, scrubbing a bit of the mire off Disney’s tarnished “innocence.” In certain ways, then, Dragonslayer is a bit of a watershed moment in that it reflected a fundamental change in the Disney ideal, during the early ’80s. It’s also notable for its consistently impressive special effects, effects which earned it an Oscar nomination for Visual Effects, which it lost to some forgotten film named Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981).

Without a doubt, the effects in Dragonslayer are pretty amazing, especially for the time, even if they might seem a bit dated by modern standard. In at least one instance, however, the effects in Dragonslayer seem to be at least the equal of modern films: as the dragon rears up and blasts Galen with a huge stream of fire, we get a truly awe-inspiring wide shot of the action. With the dragon occupying one side of the frame and Galen and his enormous shield occupying the other side, the shot looks just as beautiful and immaculately composed as any illustration or painting, with the added benefit of the cinematic sense of motion and space. Tt’s a heady moment that absolutely thrilled me and was, I’m pretty sure, at least 70% responsible for my previous love of the film. Bottom line: it’s a fantastic shot that could easily compete with the best of Jackson, Cameron, et al.

In general, the effects work (by Industrial Light and Magic) is strictly top-notch, featuring a great use of puppetry (the aforementioned dragon pups), a really neat flaming lake location and the dragon, itself, which ends up looking just as realistic, in close-up, as many of the dinosaurs in Spielberg’s groundbreaking Jurassic Park (1993). While the effects are never less than stupendous, the image, itself, can be a little dark, at times, or given to a “bleary-smeary” filter effect that makes it seem as if the viewer is mildly intoxicated. I didn’t mind the occasionally too dark image, since it really complimented the film’s atmosphere, but the bleary lens got a little tiresome: at times, this felt like one of those old Liz Taylor perfume ads with a Vaseline-smeared camera lens.

As with other films in Disney’s “dark era,” Dragonslayer doesn’t shy away from more graphic material. The bit where Ulrich is killed is a little disturbing, as is the scene where Tyrian murders Hodge, but neither of them really compare to the later scene where the baby dragons end up eating one of the main characters alive. As this was one of the very few aspects of the film that I could (kinda/sorta) recall from my childhood, I’m pretty sure that it made a big impression on me. Whether it’s responsible for any of my current morbidity is an issue up for debate, of course, but I’m sure it at least contributed. The film also features some brief, full nudity, thanks to Valerian’s skinny-dipping scene, which was probably a bit of a concern for parents who took their children to, presumably, the newest Disney family film. By comparison, try to remember the last time you saw full female nudity in a Disney film: I’m betting you can’t come up with anything. While this element adds nothing whatsoever to the story (although it does provide for a nifty visual reveal of Valerian’s true identity), it certainly gives the proceedings a more “mature” quality.

The acting in Dragonslayer is decent, if more than a little hammy, at times (which is perfectly in line with almost every sword and sorcery film of the ’80s, to be honest). Peter Eyre is kind of a fidgety mess as the king (he is one severely weird lookin’ dude, let me tell ya) but John Hallam is pretty great as Tyrian, playing his character as such an unrepentant son of a bitch that his final battle with Galen has some real emotional potency to it: we really, really want to see Galen kick his ass in a most righteous manner. Ralph Richardson is a more than suitable Ulrich and there may even be hints of the Ian McKellen version of Gandalf in his quirky idiosyncrasies. Finally, Peter MacNicol and Caitlin Clarke make a pretty cute couple as Galen and Valerian but I never quite bought MacNicol as a hero: he was always too goofy and self-deprecating, less like someone thrust into a dangerous situation and more like someone goofing around to kill time. Clarke, for her part, makes a suitably spunky heroine but her mid-film transformation into an “actual” young woman is one of those eye-rolling “Ugly Duckling” moments where removing someone’s glasses and letting her hair down transforms said person into Helen of Troy. It’s silly and clichéd but, at the very least, the filmmakers skewer the convention a little by having Galen pull her onto the “dance-floor” as a medieval band strikes up a “tune.” While Valerian’s “transformation” is old hat, this parallel with more conventional teenage romances seemed to be rather subversively clever. At the very least, I got a good chuckle out of it.

While the action occasionally gets a bit silly, writer-director Matthew Robbins tends to keep things fairly straight-faced and a little less bombastic than the competition. Robbins would go on to direct The Legend of Billie Jean (1985) and *batteries not included (1987), although he’ll probably be best known as a writer: he had a hand in the scripts for The Sugarland Express (1974), Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), MacArthur (1977) and Mimic (1997) and is currently attached to Guillermo del Toro’s upcoming Crimson Peak horror project. Robbins’ script for Dragonslayer isn’t amazing but it is rather tightly plotted and features several genuinely thrilling beats, moments which are replicated pretty exceptionally in the film, itself. Again, while nothing exceptional, Robbins brings a sure and steady hands to the proceedings which certainly gives the film a little added weight.

To return to my original question, however: did the film hold up for me after all these years? Absolutely. While it wasn’t amazing (with the exception of that wonderful dragon/Galen shot and the mean scene where the dragon pups chow down), Dragonslayer is consistently good, easily the better of other films in that particular subgenre like The Sword and the Sorcerer (1982), The Beastmaster (1982), Krull (1983) and Deathstalker (1983). I was particularly taken by the film’s dark, mysterious look (those damned Vasoline shots notwithstanding) and must admit that the superb final fight did make me feel like a kid again: it’s the best kind of ass-kicking, fantasy-badassery and ends the film on an enthusiastically high note. Throw in some last-minute, but no less timely, observations about the ways in which both religions and governments tend to take credit for the work of others and you have a film that sets a pretty high bar and manages, for the most part, to hit its marks.

Dragonslayer isn’t the best ’80s sword and sorcery film by a long-shot (that is, was and always will be Conan the Barbarian, with honorable mention going to John Boorman’s batshit-nuts Excalibur (1981), a film so insane that it belongs in its own category altogether) but that doesn’t prevent it from being superbly entertaining in its own right. Matthew Robbin’s film is a reminder of the days when fantastical worlds weren’t necessarily a given in the world of film and viewers had to work a little harder to get that suspension of disbelief. It’s a little more work, to be sure, but I think the rewards are a little bigger, too.

 

6/2/14 (Part One): Taking Back the Cities

01 Tuesday Jul 2014

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'70s films, '70s-era, 1970's cinema, actor's debut, based on a book, Charles Bronson, cinema, crime film, cult classic, Death Wish, debut acting role, drama, electronic score, film franchise, film reviews, film series, films, gang rape, Herbie Hancock, Hope Lange, iconic film scores, Jeff Goldblum, Kathleen Tolan, liberals vs conservatives, Michael Winner, Movies, muggers, New York City, Paul Kersey, rape, Robert Kya-Hill, Steven Keats, Stuart Margolin, vigilante, Vincent Gardenia, violence against women, William Redfield

death-wish

A middle-aged husband and wife frolic on a tropical beach, very much in love and having a blast. As they fall into each others’ arms, the wife asks her husband if he’d like to go back to their hotel room. “What about right here?”, he slyly asks. She rebuffs hims gently, reminding him that they’re “civilized now.” With a small sigh, the husband responds: “I remember when we weren’t.” Far from being just a wistful rumination on the trials of aging and the permanence of love, however, this reminder of our civilization has a far different meaning: we are civilized now…but at what price? For, you see, this isn’t just any tale of love (whether found, lost or unrequited). This, after all, is Michael Winner’s incendiary, though-provoking Death Wish (1974), one of the most popular, bracing meditations on vigilantism ever brought to the big screen. While it may have eventually turned into a rather silly action franchise, the original film is powerful, painful and asks the kind of questions that we, as a society, don’t usually like to ask: How far would you go to protect your loved ones? How many would you kill to avenge them?

The husband in the opening, Paul Kersey (Charles Bronson), is a loving family man, architect and “bleeding heart liberal,” at least as far as his co-workers are concerned. He shares a modest little home with his wife, Joanna (Hope Lange), and has a grown daughter, Carol (Kathleen Tolan), who’s happily married to Jack (Steven Keats). In most ways, Paul is living the American dream. He’s also living in New York City in the mid-’70s, however, several decades before Times Square morphed into a family-friendly playground. As his co-worker, Sam (William Redfield), is only too happy to point out, there were 15 murders in the city while Paul was on vacation: if it were up to Sam, he’d “put all of the underprivileged into concentration camps.” It’s a war-zone and they need more cops…but no one will pay for them. Paul brushes it all off, knowing in his heart that punishment and confinement won’t do anything to stem the tide: you need to attack the core problems, deal with the crushing poverty, disenfranchisement and isolation that lead desperate people to commit crimes. For Paul, there are no lost causes, just people who have given up the fight.

Paul receives the ultimate test of his convictions, however, when his wife and daughter become the victims of terrible crimes within the “safety” of his own home: after a vicious gang of punks (led by a very young Jeff Goldblum, in his first acting role, wearing a ridiculous Jughead hat) follow her and Carol back their place, the monsters beat Joanna and brutally gang-rape Carol. When Joanna ends up dying from her injuries and Carol is reduced to a catatonic state, Paul sees his entire world (and everything he believes in) come crashing to the ground. When the police tell him that there’s “always a chance” that they’ll catch the animals responsible for the crimes but “just a chance,” the message is loud and clear: in this world, you really are on your own. Paul decides to head out into the night, wielding a roll of quarters in a sock. After a would-be mugger receives a sockful of quarters to the face and flees (his expression is priceless), Paul suddenly feels like a million bucks: he’s been reborn, reconnected with his “primitive roots” and rampages about his home like a frat boy on a bender. Taking charge of your life, as we see, is a helluva drug.

After Paul’s company sends him to Tucson, Arizona, to work on a project, the next step in his “evolution” begins. Paul meets Aimes Jainchill (Stuart Margolin), a well-spoken, folksy and intelligent local land developer who’s a study in contrasts. He’s an uber-wealthy individual who wants to keep as much of the desert intact as possible, even if it means cutting into his profit margin. He’s a plain-spoken, quiet man who becomes a friend (and father-figure) to Paul. He’s also, perhaps most importantly, an outspoken supporter of the NRA and a gun enthusiast. After taking his “citified” friend to a shooting range, Aimes is surprised and delighted to discover that Paul is actually a crack-shot: he did grow up a hunter, after all, even if he hasn’t touched a gun since his father was killed in a hunting accident. “Somebody once said he never looked back, because something was gaining on him. What’s gaining on you, Paul?,” Aimes asks, although we already know: Paul’s primal self is gaining on him…and looks set to take the lead.

Upon returning home, Paul opens a mysterious wrapped package from Aimes and discovers that his friend has given him a gun: time to hit the streets and take back the city. As Paul walks his own nightly beat of the city, baiting and gunning down the muggers, creeps and thugs who rule the night, the NYPD finds themselves with a bit of a problem: they seem to have a vigilante on their hands…and the locals love it. Soon, Lt. Frank Ochoa (Vincent Gardenia) is in a bit of a bind: the crime rate is plummeting, civilians have become emboldened to take matters into their own hands (whether a hat-pin wielding granny or a mob of irate construction workers) and the unknown vigilante is becoming a bit of a folk hero. As the Police Commissioner (Stephen Elliot) and District Attorney (Fred Scollay) pressure Lt. Ochoa to “deal with” the issue, Paul goes deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole, putting his own life (and freedom) in jeopardy, all in his desperate quest to clean up his city and bring some meaning to the pointless death of his wife and abuse of his daughter.

In a way, Death Wish and Don Siegel’s Dirty Harry (1971) are a matched-set: both came around early in the ’70s, when the crime rate in metropolitan cities was on the rise; both films spawned franchises that became, over time, increasingly silly and action-oriented; both films take extremely black-and-white views on criminals (spoiler: they all suck); and both films see pacifism and anything short of Draconian law enforcement techniques as wins for the “bad guys.” In many ways, however, Death Wish is the much more subtle and intriguing of the two (although I’ll go to the grave calling Dirty Harry one of the single best films in the convoluted history of cinema), mostly because Bronson’s Paul Kersey is much more sympathetic and “relatable” than Eastwood’s “Dirty” Harry Callahan. While Dirty Harry is, for all intents and purposes, an “action hero,” Paul Kersey is a broken, sad man who’s attempting to regain control of his life. Whereas Dirty Harry comes into everything with a cynical attitude (when we first meet him, he’s got a sneer on his lips and an implied eye-roll that most teens would kill for), Paul actually begins in a place of love and acceptance, before being hardened and made “feral” by the evils of the world. At the beginning, there is no joy for Paul in killing the muggers: he celebrates clocking the first guy with his “club” but pukes his guts out when he actually shoots his first bad-guy.

Despite Paul’s initial reluctance to kill, however, it’s important to note one thing: at no point in time do the filmmakers ever hedge their bets or waffle on their initial premise. Death Wish is very much about what happens when “civilization” fails and “good people” are forced to resort to brutal tactics. Although the police are usually depicted as being fairly benevolent in the film (especially the character of Lt. Ochoa), they’re never portrayed as particularly effective. In this case, the message is pretty clear: buy into the fantasy about “law and order/punishment/rehabilitation” and get wasted or take matters into your own hands and survive. At the beginning, Sam’s hardcore conservative bent seems to be played for laughs (this is the guy who advocates putting the “less fortunate” into concentration camps, after all, which seems kinda…well…bat-shit crazy) but we’re later given a much more reasonable, well-spoken advocate for a similarly hard-line approach: Aimes Jainchill. Not only is Aimes one of the most well-spoken, charismatic characters in the film, he’s also an avowed gun enthusiast and avid supporter of the NRA. In one of the film’s least subtle scenes, Aimes takes Paul to an Old West gunfight re-enactment, where we get the necessary reinforcement about law and order back in the “good ol’ days.” As Aimes explains to Paul, the West is much safer than New York City: out here, you can just carry a gun and blow away the bad guys, before they get a chance to harm you.

This, then, becomes the true focus for the film: when society has degraded to the point where the traditional mechanisms of law and order no longer work, men and women must take the law into their own hands. At one point, Paul argues with his incredibly ineffectual son-in-law about the ramifications of self-defense versus “cutting and running.” “If we’re not pioneers, what have we become? What do you call people who, when faced with a condition of fear, run and hide?” “Civilized?,” Jack responds. Paul snorts, derisively, shaking his head: “No.” The point is clear: you can only back away for so long before you get pushed into a corner. Paul has decided to be pro-active and shoot his way out of the corner.

While the film does nothing to obscure its ultimate premise, it actually functions as a more thought-provoking than didactic. For one, the film is quite clear to spell out the inherent limitations of revenge/vigilantism: namely, people are humans and humans make lots and lots of mistakes. It’s not difficult to cheer on the old lady who wards off a would-be mugger with a hat-pin but it becomes a little fuzzier when we get to the construction crew that chases down and enthusiastically “subdues” a would-be purse-snatcher. This, of course, is the gray line between legitimate “policing” and “retribution.” It’s quite interesting to note, in addition, that Paul never actually gets to kill the punks who destroyed his family: he shoots several people in the course of the film but we never get to see him take revenge on those particular individuals. In a way, perhaps this is the film’s most subtle critique against vigilantism: ultimately, it can do nothing to bring back the dead.

Craftwise, Death Wish is gritty, tightly paced and well-acted. Bronson, obviously, is one of the chief draws here and he manages to blend just the right amount of “average, everyday Joe” with “steel-eyed, flinty killer.” There’s a reason why Bronson has always been considered one of the “old guard” of classic cinematic tough guys, along with Clint Eastwood: there’s a vulnerability to him that’s never completely subsumed by the fire inside. He’s the epitome of the retired gunslinger, called back into battle for “one last fight,” and his world-weariness marks a potent contrast to wise-cracking action heroes like Bruce Willis or Ahnald. The rest of the cast provides able support, with Vincent Gardenia being nearly a match for Bronson, as the equally world-weary but much more cynical Lt. Ochoa. His police-station address to his officers as the vigilante story blows up across the city is great (“We want to tell the American public that we’re looking for this vigilante and have definite clues…we just don’t want to tell them that we have about a thousand definite clues.”) and Gardenia goes a long way towards putting a human face on the issue of law enforcement.

Unlike many popular “action” films, there’s a dark, disagreeable heart that beats deep within Death Wish. The film is not simply one visceral thwarted mugging after another and, on occasion, can be downright difficult to watch. In particular, the scene where the punks bust into the apartment and attack Joanna and Carol is almost impossible to sit through: the rape scene is just as terrible, violent and graphic as any that came before or after (in particular, I was reminded of the rape in Irreversible (2002) and the pain and fear is almost too “real” for a fictional film. Similarly, many of the scenes where Paul “defends” himself are skewed to be more about chaotic activity than cinematic “badassery” – Paul is no trained killer, after all, but just your average dude.

For all of its lasting power, there are still several issues that I have with Death Wish. While the film is always careful to take a more even-handed approach, there really aren’t any viable viewpoints on display, save the call for vigilantism. The police are never portrayed as effective (at one point, they seem to send a whole squad-room to tail Paul, which seems a little stupid since, you know, there’s all that other increased crime to deal with) and any arguments for pacifism pretty much begin and end with the cowardly Jack, one of the most simpering creations in modern cinema. There’s also no blurring of the line regarding Paul’s actions: even if he baits his victims, each and every one of them obviously has it coming. At one point, Paul even steps in to prevent a group of men from assaulting another: his vigilantism is always more effective than law-and-order, mostly because the argument in the film is so one-sided.

From a filmmaking perspective, I found the film’s score (composed, conducted and performed by Herbie Hancock) to be rather underwhelming and, occasionally, completely baffling. Whereas something moody and bluesy, like the score for Dirty Harry, would have helped to pull out the emotion, Hancock’s score is too often experimental and propulsive, sort of like discordant cocktail jazz. While I have nothing but respect for Hancock, I can’t help but feeling this wasn’t his finest hour. There were also a number of scenes (in particular the repellent rape scene and the Old West shootout) that seemed to go on forever: whereas there’s probably a spurious claim to be made regarding the overall impact of the rape scene, the shootout scene makes its point early and then beats it into the ground for what seems like an hour. It went on for so long, in fact, that my mind wandered from the actual film and began to consider the intense irony of veteran Western actor Bronson appearing in a film where he played a modern man watching an Old West gunfight. As a rule, the scene’s not working if you have the opportunity to ponder the metaphysics of the actor involved, rather than the actual scene, itself.

Ultimately, Death Wish is one of those rare films that’s managed to lose very little of its original power as the passage of time puts it more and more in the rear-view mirror of life. Unlike the increasingly insipid (if much more action-packed) sequels, the original Death Wish is a film that asks some very serious questions (In an increasingly “civilized” world, what happens when you need to become “uncivilized”? When does “retribution” become murder? If the police can’t protect you, does that mean you get to do whatever it takes to protect yourself? Can criminals be rehabilitated or is a bullet to the brain the best we can hope for?). If the movie already has its answers lined up (the film makes no bones about the fact that it is, in some ways, a love letter to the NRA), it at least has the courage to ask them in the first place. If you’re one of the people who grew up thinking that Death Wish was simply a one-dimensional, gunpowder-scented, revenge fantasy, you owe it to the film to give it another look. Regardless of which side of the law-and-order debate you land on, Death Wish has been fostering conversations and discussions for the past 40 years: as our “civilized” society keeps evolving, I can only imagine that it will continue to be relevant for the next 40 years, as well.

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