7/30/15: Easy Riders and the Wild Side

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'70s films, adults only, Any Mathieu, auteur theory, best friends, Blue Summer, Bo White, Chris Jordan, Chuck Vincent, cinema, coming of age, Davey Jones, dramas, Easy Rider, Eric Edwards, erotica, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, grindhouse, Harding Harrison, high school grads, hippies, hitchhikers, horny teenagers, Jacqueline Carol, Jeff Allen, Joann Sterling, Larry Lima, Lilly Bi Peep, Mark Ubell, Melissa Evers, Mike Ledis, Movies, non-professional actors, porn, random adventures, Richard Billay, road movie, Robert McLane, set in 1970s, sex comedies, Shana McGran, soft-core, Stephen Colwell, summer vacation, Sylvia Bernstein, vans, writer-director-editor

Chances are, whether you’ve actually seen the film or not, you’re at least familiar with Dennis Hopper’s iconic, counter-culture ode to the death of the idealistic ’60s, Easy Rider (1969). Crisscrossing the U.S. on their choppers, trying to make some sense of the whole mess, Hopper and Peter Fonda rode right off the screen into our collective consciences via their unforgettable (and, oftentimes, extremely random) encounters with various flower children, rednecks, authority figures, hip cats and square losers. Nearly 50 years after its release, Easy Rider still manages to capture the imagination of anyone who realizes that America’s best stories are still the ones collected on her back-roads: the ways in which we all act and interact, on a personal-level, will always say more about us than any casual examination of current politics and social mores ever could.

While I’m willing to wager that most folks have heard of Easy Rider, I’m just as willing to wager that almost no one recalls adult film auteur Chuck Vincent’s Blue Summer (1973). What does one have to do with the other? Well, to put it bluntly, Blue Summer is the soft-core, sex comedy “reimagining” of Easy Rider. Okay, okay: maybe not the “official” reimagining…there are no coy taglines connecting these spiritual cousins, nor is there even an undue focus on motorcycles (although one does figure prominently in the narrative). The film’s don’t share plot points, per se, and there are no clever, specific allusions to Wyatt, Billy or any of the various people they run into.

Despite the aforementioned, however, Blue Summer actually owes quite a debt to Easy Rider: like the “original,” Blue Summer is all about the assorted adventures that a pair of young men have on the road, adventures that lead them towards not only a greater understanding of the world at large, but also the worlds that exist within them. Throughout the course of the film, our young heroes will deal with “May-December romances,” free-loving hippies, Bible-thumpin’ traveling evangelists, casual sex, genuine love, small-town lunkheads, mysterious bikers and a quirky cult who freely believes “what’s yours is theirs.” Indeed, with more emphasis on the narrative elements and less focus on the simulated intercourse, Blue Summer would actually be a pretty decent bit of coming-of-age fluff. Ah, the ’70s…you crazy, gonzo, amazing little decade, you!

Our intrepid teenage heroes, Tracy (Davey Jones but not THAT Davey Jones) and Gene (Bo White) have decided to have one, last summer adventure before their lifelong friendship is tested when they both go off to far-flung universities. Loading their trusty van (the Meat Wagon) with enough cases of beer to get good, ol’ Bluto Blutarsky blasted, the duo decides to head out for scenic Stony Lake. The only things on the agenda? Why, drinking, driving, having fun, seeing the sights, keeping their minds off college and getting laid, obviously!

As Tracy and Gene travel the back-ways of America, they have a series of encounters that include a couple of thieving hitchhikers (Lilly Bi Peep, Joann Sterling), a stone-faced biker (Jeff Allen), a begging evangelist (Robert McLane), a hippy cultist and his free-loving acolytes (Larry Lima, Any Mathieu, Shana McGran), a middle-aged, married woman (Jacqueline Carol), a town-lush/nympho (Melissa Evers) and her group of redneck admirers and a mysterious no-named diver who seems to be the epitome of the ’70s “manic pixie girl” (Chris Jordan). Along the way, they go from silly, constantly giggling knuckleheads to…well, slightly less giggly, decidedly more grounded knuckleheads. The final shot/sentiment is a real corker: no much how much fun they’ve had, no matter how many different women they’ve “bedded,” the end of the trip signifies, for better or worse, the ends of their adolescent lives: from this point, they’re grownups…and nothing will ever be that awesome again.

Lest any gentle reader think I’m attempting to give writer/director/editor Vincent (who alternated between his real name and pseudonym Mark Ubell) more credit than even he probably felt he deserved, let’s be clear: Blue Summer is very much a soft-core, ’70s sex comedy, with all of the pluses and minuses that the descriptor carries. There’s plenty of nudity (although, as with most films like this, by and large of the female variety), simulated sex and non-professional acting (the rednecks, in particular, could only be called “actors” by an extremely loose application of the term), along with some appropriately ludicrous dialogue, line-delivery and general production issues (the lighting, in particular, is never great).

Now, however, to paraphrase the late, great Roger Ebert: let me get my other notebook. While Blue Summer is easily recognizable for what it is, it also has more heart, imagination and restraint than most of its peers. While there’s never much empty space between the assorted sex scenes, these “in-between” scenes are really where the film sets itself apart from the usual rabble. The subplot with the “mystical” biker never makes sense but does payoff in a nicely kickass (if pathetically sloppy) fight sequence, while the vignette involving the preacher features a really nice, subtle dig at the concept of passing the collection plate, especially where holy-rollers are involved.

The bit with the hitchhikers has a genuinely funny payoff, as does the one involving the cultists (the image of the snoozing hippies laying in the middle of the open field is a great punchline): there’s also some really nice points being made about the concept of sharing your earthly possessions with others (those who have the possessions do the “sharing,” while those without merely do the “suggesting”), as well as the concept of anonymous sex with strangers (“Miss No-Name” doesn’t feel obliged to introduce herself to Gene since “he won’t remember her name, anyway”…he doesn’t disagree, indicating that she’s probably right).

One of the film’s most surprising moments, however, comes after Tracy’s “nooner” with Margaret, the middle-aged, married woman. After having sex, she fixes him lunch in a manner that might best be described as ‘maternal.’ As Tracy eats, he goes on and on about how much he likes Margaret, rebuffing any and all attempts by her to trivialize their encounter. Just as Tracy seems to have convinced Margaret to overcome her reservations and meet with him again, however, her teenage son comes in from swimming, oblivious to what has just transpired between his mom and her young visitor. As Tracy watches the young man, who just so happens to be his age, the eagerness and intensity goes out of his face: both Margaret and Tracy look ashamed and he quickly takes his leave, never looking back.

It’s an intensely sad, mature moment in a film that certainly didn’t require it but benefits immensely from its inclusion, none the less. During moments like this, it’s easy to see Vincent as fighting a two-front war: on the one hand, he needs to deliver a soft-core porn flick, with all of the requisite trappings. On the other hand, he also wants to deliver something a little more substantial, something with enough blood flow to use more than one organ at a time. It’s a constant battle and one that’s not always won: the fact that Vincent fights it at all, however, gives him a leg up, in my book.

Ultimately, despite how fun and “innocent” Blue Summer actually is (all of the sex in the film is extremely positive: no one is ever forced, at any point, and both men and women seem to be having an equally good time), there’s no skirting the issue of its genetic makeup: this is a silly, ’70s sex comedy, full of simulated intercourse, full frontal female nudity and wacky antics, through and through. Deep down, however, it’s impossible to miss the film’s bigger, underlying themes: it might be a “dirty” movie but it’s not a stupid one. If you’re a fan of the sub-genre or just want to see what a “porn-lite” version of Easy Rider might look like, jump in the van, pop the top on a cold one and let Blue Summer take the wheel.

You know that old chestnut, “they just don’t make ’em like this anymore?” Well, they really don’t make ’em like this anymore. But they used to. If you think about it, that’s kind of amazing all by itself.

6/27/15 (Part Two): Two is the Loneliest Number

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Adam Cronheim, Alana O'Brien, baseball players, buddy films, Christian Stella, cinema, directorial debut, dramas, end of the world, film reviews, films, friendship, horror films, independent films, Jamie Pantanella, Jeremy Gardner, Larry Fessenden, low-budget films, low-key, Movies, Niels Bolle, post-Apocalyptic, road movie, Ryan Winford, slow-moving films, stranded, The Battery, undead, Walkman, writer-director-producer-actor, zombie apocalypse, zombie movies, zombies

How rad would it be to run wild in a post-apocalyptic world with your best friend? Hunting, fishing, killing zombies, taking whatever you need, never answering to “The Man,” never working another day in your life, just kicking back and taking it all in…if you squint just right, it looks like a damn good life, doesn’t it? Now…imagine the exact same scenario but substitute “a co-worker you don’t know very well” for “your best friend” in the above equation. Not quite as fun, eh?

First-time director Jeremy Gardner (working from his own script) takes a close look at the second scenario, the one that sees you getting stuck with a relative stranger during the fallout from an unnamed zombie epidemic, in the low-key, immensely effective horror-drama The Battery (2012). Utilizing a slow, measured pace and a startling degree of real-world verisimilitude, Gardner has created the equivalent of a mumblecore zombie film, a movie not so much about the ravenous hordes of undead that stagger and groan across empty swatches of abandoned humanity but about the few remaining humans who’ve been left holding the bag. When the end-times come, Gardner seems to say, we’ll all find ourselves doing the exact same things we did during “better times”: arguing, swearing, fighting, listening to music on our headphones, masturbating, hoping, goofing around, wondering and wishing for a better tomorrow.

In as economical a way as possible, we meet our two leads and get the lay of the land right off the bat: Ben (writer-director Gardner) and Mickey (Adam Cronheim) are a couple of baseball players who find their lot tied together once the U.S. (and, presumably, the rest of the world) becomes overrun by zombies. We don’t get big explanations, no sense of a larger scheme at play here, just the facts, ma’am. Although the two were never great friends when things were “normal,” they now find themselves needing to rely on each other for their very survival: you might think that making a new friend is difficult…try doing it when mobs of zombies are trying to eat your face!

Personality-wise, the two former teammates couldn’t be more different. Ben is the brash, act-first member of the team, a guy who sees killing zombies as his duty and relishes the opportunity to live “off the grid” and make his own way through life. Mickey, on the other hand, is much more reserved, quiet and withdrawn. With his ever-present headphones and lingering memories of his lost life with his pre-apocalypse girlfriend, Mickey is like an open, throbbing wound, slinking from one place to the next without ever really living. Hell, he even resists Ben’s constant attempts to teach him how to fish: he’s got plenty of canned goods, after all, so why bother with the “real stuff” until he has to? Grizzly Adams, he ain’t.

Change comes to the guys’ daily fight for survival when they happen to pick up a mundane conversation on their walkie talkies. The discussion might not be earth-shattering (picking out the movie choice for that night) but Ben and Mickey are rocked to their very cores: here, at long last, is proof that they’re not alone. For Ben, it means more potential problems but for Mickey, the existence of others allows him the faintest glimmer of hope: for the first time, he can begin to see the path that leads out of their personal wilderness and back into regimented society.

The problem, of course, is that folks in post-apocalyptic societies don’t tend to be the friendliest, most trusting, sorts. One of the voices, Frank (Larry Fessenden), pointedly tells our heroes that there’s no more room at this particular inn, while the other voice, Annie (Alana O’Brien) does much the same thing, albeit in a nicer way. Too late, however: poor Mickey has already locked on to the newly discovered survivors as his own source of salvation and he won’t take no for an answer. Despite Ben’s constant protests, Mickey wants to track down Frank, Annie and the others at all costs: not only does he get a whiff of the civilization he so desperately misses but, with Annie, he gets a hint of that other thing he desperately misses…female contact.

As Ben and Mickey continue to move through the destroyed landscape of what used to be a familiar country, constantly on the watch for ambushing zombies, they find their own burgeoning friendship tested and strained at every twist and turn in the path. Will the two ever be able to set aside their differences and become united in their goals? Will Mickey be able to rejoin the civilized society that he always carries so close to his heart, via his ever-present Discman, or will he spend the rest of his days in the wild, gradually giving his own humanity over to survival instincts? And what, exactly, are Frank and Annie trying to hide from them? What is the truth behind “The Orchard” and will it spell salvation or doom for our hardy protagonists?

Low-key, understated and pitched at a glacial pace, Gardner’s film isn’t what one might call a “thrill-a-minute” ride. What it lacks in visceral action, however, it more than makes up for with intelligent, character-driven drama. The focus here is squarely on the humans, not the monsters: for almost the entirety of the film, give or take a few choice setpieces, the zombies remain in the background of the action, serving as omnipresent threat but allowing Ben and Mickey to take the reins. In some ways, it’s a similar tactic to Gareth Edwards’ Monsters (2010), in which the massive beasts became secondary to the human drama at the film’s core. The Battery is, first and foremost, about the ways in which Ben and Mickey navigate around their world. which is an important distinction from most low-budget zombie films.

Despite this focus on the dramatic aspect, however, Gardner and crew don’t shortchange the horrific aspect. The zombies are all well-realized, with effective makeup, and the violence, although infrequent, is always gritty and physical. When the film wants to pull out the stops, it has no problem doing so: the setpiece involving Ben and Mickey trapped in a car by a veritable army of the undead is as tense as they come, culminating in a truly brave six-minute shot that handily recalls the tent scene in Bobcat Goldtwait’s recent Willow Creek (2013). By not making the zombie action the center of the film’s universe, it makes the scattered horror moments that much more effective: I can’t stress enough how radically different this is from most low-budget zombie fare.

In many ways, The Battery is a two-man show: although we meet a couple other characters, including the aforementioned Annie and a carjacker (played by Niels Bolle), the vast majority of our screentime is devoted to either Ben or Mickey. As with many low-budget films (particularly horror films), this could have been the kiss of death: as a lifelong horror fan, “outstanding acting” isn’t usually something I usually associate with these types of movies, at least not at this level.

Rather than being a deficit, however, the performances in The Battery end up being one of the film’s greatest benefits. Quite simply, Gardner and Cronheim have fantastic chemistry: not only do we buy these guys as real people but we also buy into their developing friendship, warts and all. There are certain moments, such as the minutes-long scene consisting of nothing more than Ben and Mickey brushing their teeth, that feel like nothing less than getting a front-row seat to real-life, albeit one where the occasional zombie pops into view. Both actors give unique life and characterization to their respective roles (Ben is the “asshole,” Mickey is the “nice guy”) that extends beyond easy stereotyping and feels a whole lot more like real acting. In this aspect, The Battery reminded me of another exemplary indie horror film about a friendship, Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead’s extraordinary Resolution (2012). Like Resolution, the characters in The Battery feel 100% authentic, which works wonders on selling the inherent “unreality” of the zombie apocalypse.

While the cinematography in the film is never much more than decent (aside from a few scattered standouts), the sound design is actually pretty brilliant and flawlessly integrated into the fabric of the film. The big conceit here, that Mickey’s Discman provides the score in “real-time,” is pretty damn awesome: that the musical selections are so varied and exceptional (incorporating everything from traditional blues to Neutral Milk Hotel-ish sonic collages) really kicks the whole film up a notch, resulting in scenes and moments that could best be described as “thoroughly kickass.” The montage of Ben and Mickey bumming around the countryside, set to an old blues stomper, is beautifully evocative, as is the wild, chaotic abandon that fuels the scene where Ben gets wasted and dances in front of a mural. Gardner and crew understand that sound design is as integral a part of a film as the visuals and The Battery provides a great crash course in just how to accomplish that.

All in all, I was massively impressed by The Battery: for a low-budget, independent zombie flick, this is just about as artistic and exceptional as it gets. While the film doesn’t always break new ground (Mickey’s obsession with Annie is particularly tiresome and “old hat”), it strikes out on its own path often enough to prove how much Gardner has to say. For some viewers, the slow pace and relative lack of action might be slightly off-putting but more patient audiences will realize one important fact: you have to learn to crawl before you walk. By taking its time and easing into the horror, Gardner’s film demonstrates that it has the stamina to go the distance. Here’s to hoping that Jeremy Gardner and his team continue to pump out effective, well-made little films like this: for a genre that can often be more smoke than fire, there will always be a need for movies that are actually about something.

The Battery may a road movie set during a zombie plague but, in the bigger scheme of things, it’s really about human interaction and the ways in which we’re all intertwined, whether we like it or not. I’ll take that over another bloody disembowelment any ol’ day of the week.

4/12/15 (Part One): The Good Time Boys

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action films, action-comedies, Australian films, BMX Bandits, Brian Trenchard-Smith, Brigitte Jean Allen, car chases, Chad Law, Christopher Morris, Christopher Sommers, cinema, Damien Garvey, Dead End Drive-In, Drive Hard, driving films, Evan Law, film reviews, films, get-away driver, heist, hostage situation, hot pursuit, husband-wife relationship, Jason Wilder, John Cusack, mobsters, Movies, multiple writers, odd couple, road movie, set in Australia, stolen money, Thomas Jane, Tony O'Loughlan, unlikely allies, unlikely hero, writer-director, Yesse Spence, Zoe Ventoura

Among old and reliable action movie tropes, there are few that are older and more reliable than mismatched “odd couple” duos. From 48 Hrs. (1982) to Midnight Run (1988)…from Turner & Hooch (1989) to Tango & Cash (1989)…from Rush Hour (1998) to the Lethal Weapon franchise, you know the drill: put a straight-laced, by-the-book square with a lone-wolf, loose-cannon hothead and let the sparks fly! When the formula works, it’s an almost bullet-proof set-up: there’s a good reason why films like Lethal Weapon and Die Hard (1988) are still influencing modern action films almost 30 years after they left the multiplexes.

The success of said formula, however, winds up being pretty dependent on a very important part of the equation: if the mismatched partners don’t gel, if their chemistry lies somewhere between “uncomfortably awkward” and “dead on arrival,” well…let’s just say that your odds of getting a decent film aren’t great. In the case of classic “Ozsploitation” filmmaker Brian Trenchard-Smith’s newest film, Drive Hard (2014), we get enough of the elements in their proper places to insure a fun, fast and fairly breezy good time: would we expect anything less from the twisted genius behind Dead End Drive-In (1986)?

The “square” in this particular equation is Peter Roberts (Thomas Jane, sporting a ridiculously fluffy hair-do that would make a ’70s-era catalog model jealous), a former American race car driver who now toils in obscurity as an Australian driving instructor. He’s got a wife and young daughter, dreams of opening his own racing school and just enough spare cash to insure that he’ll probably be teaching yahoos what a stick-shift is for the next 90 years. Peter’s the kind of guy who would give you the shirt off his back and spend the rest of the day complaining about being cold.

The “wild one” in this equation is Simon Keller (John Cusack), another American ex-pat. Simon (who pronounces his name in a way that sounded suspiciously like “Killer” to me) hires Peter to teach him to drive, even though he seems to be surprisingly adept around said vehicle for a complete novice. Keller’s a sophisticated smartass with a propensity for droll observations and a rather unsettling interest in Peter’s former occupation.

As luck would have it, Keller doesn’t want a driving instructor: he wants a get-away driver. Things get more complicated when Keller reveals that they’ve just ripped off Mario Rossi (Christopher Morris), a hot-headed mob boss who previously stiffed Simon on a job: this is payback and poor Peter is just the schmuck who’s found himself stuck in the middle. Except, of course, that good ol’ Peter eventually starts to, you know…kinda dig all this action. After all, he gets to race again: what’s that thing they say about the gift horse? He also gets out of the house at a time when things are particularly rough between him and his wife, Tessa (Yesse Spence), thereby avoiding any and all difficult conversations about sticky subjects like “responsibility” and the “future.”

While the fugitives burn rubber, their own relationship begins to thaw, allowing for the kind of uneasy détente that’s necessary for this sort of film: Keller is revealed to be more than just a criminal mastermind, while Peter gets to finally assert himself and start to loosen up. It’s not all Summer vacation in the Hamptons, however, as our intrepid travelers are pursued by a pair of extremely earnest Special Agents (Zoe Ventoura and Jason Wilder), along with Rossi and Chief Inspector Smith (Damien Garvey), a lawman so used to sitting in the mobster’s pocket that he may as well be a young kangaroo. As the forces continue to mass and the odds get slimmer, Peter and Simon will learn one important thing: if you want to have a fighting chance, you have to drive…and you better drive hard.

Like the vast majority of Trenchard-Smith’s extensive output, Drive Hard is massively entertaining: a silly, lightning-paced buddy film, Drive Hard never takes itself seriously, although it also manages to avoid (albeit just barely) slipping into full-blown parody territory. The Australian action auteur is a deft hand with this type of material, however, melding purely goofy comedy beats with genuinely thrilling action and racing sequences. While the film is the furthest thing from a “dark” crime saga, the stakes feel real enough to plant it squarely in the area code of films like Snatch (2000) and In Bruges (2008).

Key to the film’s success, of course, is that aforementioned chemistry between our odd couple, Peter and Simon.  The two leads play off each other with a playful sense of camaraderie that makes the film an easy, breezy experience from first to last. While Jane does an admirable job playing against type as the nerdy, clueless and slightly whiny Peter, Cusack handily steals the show as the riveting, obnoxious and thoroughly badass Simon Keller. Keller is the kind of antihero that practically demands his own franchise (I was constantly put in mind of Tim Dorsey’s amazing creation, Serge Storms) and it’s endlessly fun watching him work his machinations against the mob, corrupt cops, a biker gang and pretty much anyone who has the misfortune of crossing his path. Of late, Cusack seems to be gravitating towards these kind of “antihero” roles (see his similarly stellar turn as the villain in the thoroughly spectacular Grand Piano (2014) for another good example) and they really do fit him like a glove: he appears to be morphing into James Spader before our very eyes and I, for one, applaud this wholeheartedly.

While the supporting cast does fine work, the only one who really stands out is Zoe Ventoura’s ridiculously driven Agent Walker: there’s an intensity to her performance that ends up being much more magnetic than Christopher Morris’ mob boss, despite the constant fever pitch of his performance. Ventoura’s Agent Walker is also the only female character who gets much to do, with Francesca Bianchi’s Stacy being stuck in perpetual man-eater mode and Yesse Spence’s Tessa spending the majority of the film stuck somewhere in the background off-camera. For better or worse, this is the kind of action film that seems to strictly revolve around the male characters and their various relationships with one another. Call it a “bromance” if you like, but there’s certainly no shortage of testosterone to go around, here.

Despite being less than taken with Drive Hard’s look (the film is constantly blown-out and, to be honest, rather ugly), it’s hard to find fault with any of its key components. The driving scenes are thrilling and kinetic, while the various fights are well-staged and find a decent balance between chaos and order. The underlying sense of dark humor also works in the film’s favor, leading to suitably outrageous gags like the shop clerk accidentally blowing his own head off or Peter’s ludicrous brawl with an elderly lady that’s one slim pratfall away from a Happy Gilmore (1996) outtake. Holding everything together is that all-important central odd couple relationship between Jane and Cusack, the kind of partnership that actually makes sequels seem like good ideas.

Ultimately, Drive Hard is just what it should be: a goofy, fun, silly and effortless throwback to the days when everything blew up, any argument could be solved with a fistfight and a cutting quip could be just as deadly as a cutting blade. While Trenchard-Smith’s latest isn’t quite the modest masterpiece that Dead End Drive-In was (tonally, it’s just a little too all-over-the-map), there’s more than enough good stuff here to keep fans of ’80s and ’90s action films happy. Drive Hard tries hard and, at the end of the day, that’s a lot more than most.

 

1/30/15: Toecutter’s Last Jam

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'70s action films, '70s films, A Clockwork Orange, action films, Australia, Australian films, auteur theory, Brian May, children in peril, cinema, co-writers, cops, cult classic, David Bracks, David Cameron, David Eggby, Death Wish, dramas, dystopian future, feature-film debut, Film auteurs, film franchise, film reviews, films, gang rape, gangs of punks, Geoff Parry, George Miller, highway patrol, Hugh Keays-Byrne, iconic villains, James McCausland, Joanne Samuel, law and order, Mad Max, Max Fairchild, Max Rockatansky, Mel Gibson, motorcycle gangs, Movies, Paul Johnstone, post-Apocalyptic, revenge, road movie, Roger Ward, set in Australia, Sheila Florence, Steve Bisley, The Warriors, thrillers, Tim Burns, Toecutter, vendetta, vengeance, vigilante, Vince Gil, writer-director

When George Miller first introduced the world to Max Rockatansky in 1979, I wonder if he could have predicted that the character would be popular enough to warrant reexamination almost 40 years later. With three films in the Mad Max canon and a fourth coming this year, however, it’s pretty clear that Miller’s Australian “Road Angel of Death” has had some serious staying power. While the upcoming Fury Road (2015) appears to follow the template set by latter-day high velocity outings like Road Warrior (1981) and Beyond Thunderdome (1985), the original film, Mad Max (1979), was a much leaner and meaner affair, albeit no less over-the-top and prone to some particular comic-book affectations. Drawing inspiration from sources as diverse as Death Wish (1974) and A Clockwork Orange (1971) while bearing more than a passing resemblance to The Warriors (1979), Miller’s initial outing is a real doozy and one that would go on to influence generations of action and post-apocalyptic films to come.

Kicking off with an epic, 10-minute smash-and-bash car chase between the howling mad Nightrider (Vince Gil) and a group of unfortunate highway patrol officers, we’re thrust into the middle of the action with no info-dump or warning. As things gradually settle down, a bit, we come to discover that this appears to be a rather lawless, possibly post-apocalyptic, society, where cops and criminals duke it out on the dusty highways that stretch across Australia. At first, Nightrider seems unstoppable, a Tazmanian Devil behind the wheel who handily out-runs, out-drives and out-bravados every cop he comes across. Cue our hero, Max Rockatansky (Mel Gibson), the coolest, toughest and most badass patrol officer of the bunch. Max shows up, mirrored shades reflecting back the blistering sun, and proceeds to drive Nightrider straight into an early grave. This, ladies and gentlemen, is his business…and business is very, very good.

Max’s partner, Jim Goose (Steve Bisley), is a good egg and loyal as the day is long, while his superior officer, Fifi (Roger Ward), treats Max like royalty and holds him up as shining example for the rest of the officers. At home, we get to see the softer side of Max: his loving wife, Jessie (Joanne Samuel) blows a mean sax and he’s got a cute baby named Sprog. Life seems pretty darn groovy for this Down Under Dirty Harry but there’s big trouble brewin.’

This big trouble arrives in the form of the dastardly Toecutter (Hugh Keays-Byrne) and his marauding biker gang. Seems that the gang has a bone to pick with Max for snuffing out their beloved Nightrider and Toecutter has sworn vengeance, the bloodier the better. When the gang blows into town to retrieve Nightrider’s coffin, they end up trashing the place, ala an old-fashioned Western, and chase a couple out onto the open road where they destroy their car, chase the guy away and gang-rape the young woman. Max and Goose arrive in time to pick up the pieces, finding the chained, traumatized woman and one of the gang members, Johnny (Tim Burns), so drugged-out that he forgot to run away when the others did.

Faster than you can say Dirty Harry (1971), however, the case gets tossed out and Johnny is released because none of the victims, including the young woman, will come forward to testify. Johnny walks, after taunting the cops, and Goose is furious. When the gang ambushes and attacks Goose in a particularly terrible way, however, Max will have to decide which path to follow, the one that leads to his family or the one that leads to revenge. As Toecutter, his cold-blooded lieutenant, Bubba (Geoff Parry), and the rest of the gang get closer and closer to Max, they will learn one very important lesson: you can do a lot of things to Max Rockatansky but the last thing you wanna do is get the guy mad.

Despite the often grim subject matter (children in peril, rape, collapsing society) and the often intense violence (immolations, dismemberments, semi driving over people), there’s a sense of buoyancy and energy to Mad Max that makes the whole thing a lot closer to a comic-book movie like RoboCop (1987) than to something more serious like, say, The Road (2009) or The Rover (2014). In addition, Miller uses several techniques, such as the wipe transitions between scenes and the jaunty score (courtesy of Australian composer Brian May) that help to elevate this sense of action-adventureism. To be honest, Mad Max often feels like a synthesis of Lethal Weapon (1987) (not specifically because of Gibson’s involvement but more for the depictions of Max’s home-life and the way in which the film’s action constantly toes the “silly/awesome” dividing line) and A Clockwork Orange (the gang’s affectations, slang and Toecutter’s casual brutality all reminded me explicitly of Kubrick’s adaptation), as odd as that may sound.

While never completely serious, aside from the film’s handful of heartstring-pullers, Mad Max never tips all the way over into campy or silly. This isn’t quite the novelty of The Warriors: Toecutter’s gang has an actual air of menace to them, an air that’s not helped by their propensity for rape and assault on innocent civilians. Keays-Byrne is marvelous as the insane gang leader, easily going down as one of the most memorable villains in these type of films: his polite, slightly foppish mannerisms are completely off-set by his hair-trigger barbarity, making for a bracing combination. Nearly as memorable is Geoff Parry’s turn as Bubba Zanetti: his laconic delivery perfectly contrasts with his hot-headed personality making for a character who would’ve been perfect going up against Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti Western.

In fact, more than anything, Mad Max is like a spaghetti Western, albeit one filtered through all of the influences listed above. The interplay between the gang members, between Max and his superiors, between the law and the lawless…the setpieces that could have easily been chases on horseback or wagon…the lonesome, wide-open devastation of the Australian landscape…Sergio Leone might have been proud to call any of them his own.

As one of his first roles, Mad Max set a course for Mel Gibson’s career that would serve him quite well, right up to the point in time where he self-detonated it. Here, however, we get Mel before the headlines, stupidity and career suicide: he’s rock-solid as Rockatansky, bringing just enough vulnerability and indecision to the role to prevent him from ever seeming as completely callous as someone like Eastwood’s Harry Callahan. He also brings a physicality to the role that helps make the whole enterprise seem that much more authentic: Gibson’s performance is so “all-in” that the scene where he limps and drags himself down the pavement genuinely looks like it hurts like hell. It would be the easiest thing in the world to play Max like a video game character but it’s to Gibson’s immense credit that he makes him both so human and so completely badass: it’s easy to see why this became a franchise so quickly, as the magnetism is undeniable.

In some ways, the differences between Mad Max and its predecessors is the same as the difference between the first two Alien or Terminator films: Mad Max is more of a small-scale revenge drama (very similar to Death Wish, particularly in the final reel) whereas the films that followed it are more wide-screen, adventure epics. Despite this, however, I was genuinely surprised to note how honestly cartoonish the film is. Perhaps I picked up on this when I watched the film in the past but it was more apparent now than ever before that the first film fits in perfectly well with the more OTT vibe of the other films. While it may be smaller scale, it’s definitely of a piece with The Road Warrior and Beyond Thunderdome: Toecutter would have fit in nicely in either of those.

With Fury Road on the horizon, I thought it might be useful to go back and revisit the film that started it all. As always, Mad Max doesn’t disappoint: from the rousing action setpieces, astounding car chases, cool-as-a-cucumber lead character, colorful villains and genuine sense of danger and tension, Mad Max is an absolute blast from start to finish. Here’s to hoping that Miller manages to maintain this classic feel with his newest: the world has been without a Rockatansky for way too long now…we need our Mad Max now more than ever.

10/18/14 (Part Two): From Hell They Came

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31 Days of Halloween, Bill Moseley, Bonnie and Clyde, Brian Posehn, cinema, Dallas Page, Danny Trejo, Dave Sheridan, dysfunctional family, Elizabeth Daily, film reviews, films, Free Bird, Geoffrey Lewis, gritty, horror films, horror movies, House of 1000 Corpses, Kate Norby, Ken Foree, Leslie Easterbrook, Lew Temple, Mary Woronov, Matthew McGrory, Michael Berryman, Movies, Natural Born Killers, P.J. Soles, Priscilla Barnes, rape, road movie, Rob Zombie, Robert Trebor, sequel, set in the 1970s, sexual violence, Sheri Moon Zombie, Sid Haig, Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, The Devil's Rejects, the Firefly family, the Unholy Two, Tom Towles, torture, William Forsythe, writer-director

What does it actually mean to “like” a film? On the basest level, of course, it’s a pretty self-explanatory sentiment: if you “like” something, that means you derived some measure of pleasure from it, either on an aesthetic level (“My, what a pretty film!”) or a more primal one (“What a badass movie!”). Maybe it got to you on an intellectual level (“Now THAT was a smart film!”) or because it was completely successful at its goal (“That was the funniest comedy I’ve seen in years!”). For most of us, liking a film comes with the implicit notion that we’d be more than happy to revisit the film at a moment’s notice: maybe we don’t want to see it four times in the same day (or even the same month) but we certainly shouldn’t balk at wanting to rewatch it at some point in time.

There’s a parallel to “liking” a film, however, sort of a shadowy doppelgänger that stands just outside our field of vision, creeping into our comfort zone inch by relentless inch until it’s managed to assume the pole position: “respecting” a film. From my perspective, “liking” and “respecting” films are two very different things: I might “respect” what Pier Palo Pasolini was trying to do with Salo (1975) but saying that I “like” the film would certainly put me in the same great company as Ted Bundy and Ed Gein. Ditto Deodato’s unforgettable Cannibal Holocaust (1980): I “respect” the ever-loving shit out of what Deodato accomplished but “like” it? Not on your life, buddy.

This notion of “respecting” versus “liking” a film brings us round to our current subject, The Devil’s Rejects (2005), Rob Zombie’s sequel to his feature debut, House of 1000 Corpses (2003). When House of 1000 Corpses first came out, I was a huge fan, a sentiment which only recently waned once I’d had a chance to critically examine the film after not seeing it for several years: this time around, I found the movie to be visually interesting, if a little trite and too-indebted to Hooper’s original pair of Chainsaw Massacres. The Devil’s Rejects, however, was always a different story: more realistic, visceral and, ultimately, disturbing than Zombie’s cotton-candy-colored original, The Devil’s Rejects never really sat right with me after my first theatrical viewing. I found myself reacting to it in some pretty definitive ways, don’t get me wrong, but it was always a little hard to figure out whether I actually, you know…”liked” the film. After re-screening the film recently, it’s become a lot easier to categorize my feelings: I still don’t “like” Zombie’s sophomore film but I’ve gotta respect it, nonetheless, as being a pretty streamlined statement of purpose, an adrenalized, if ultimately unpleasant, examination of how the love of one’s family can produce some pretty terrible outcomes.

Beginning several months after the events of the first film, The Devil’s Rejects kicks off with a massive police assault on the Firefly’s homestead that makes the Waco raid look like duck-duck-goose. Sheriff John Wydell (William Forsythe), brother of the first film’s slain George Wydell (Tom Towles), has come down on the Fireflys with as much righteous fury as an army of angels with flaming swords: in the ensuing chaos, Otis (Bill Moseley) and Baby (Sheri Moon Zombie) manage to shot their way out, while Mama Firefly (Leslie Easterbrook, taking over for the first film’s Karen Black) is captured by Wydell and his lawmen. Meeting up with Captain Spaulding (Sid Haig), who’s revealed to be Baby’s biological father, the trio decide to hit the open road and head for the (supposed) safety of the Old West-themed whorehouse/town run by Spaulding’s larcenous brother, Charlie Altamont (Ken Foree).

Sheriff Wydell, however, isn’t quite your average lawman. Rather, he’s a bloodthirsty sociopath who resembles the Fireflys in deeds, if not necessarily philosophy. He’s determined to capture the Fireflys, not because he wants to bring them to justice for all of their crimes but because he wants to personally torture them to death for killing his brother. As Wydell gets closer to Otis, Baby and the others, whatever humanity he once had continues to slip away like water through a sieve. In time, it will be all but impossible to tell the two sides apart and woe to any poor, unsuspecting “civilian” who happens to come between them.

From the jump, The Devil’s Rejects is a noticeably grittier, grimmier affair, both in look and content. Whereas House of 1000 Corpses operated along the lines of a particularly demented fever dream (or, quite possibly, a feature-length metal video), The Devil’s Rejects is much more reality-based: there’s nary a Dr. Satan, zombie or fish-boy to be found in the entire film. The more supernatural-based horror of the first film has been entirely replaced by physical assaults which tend to emphasis sexual violence and rape, elements which were certainly hinted at in the first film but rarely executed with as much zeal as found here. In particular, the scene where Otis and Baby torment the family of traveling musicians at an isolated motel is just about as unpleasant and revolting as similar scenes found in films like Death Wish (1974) or I Spit On Your Grave (1978), albeit markedly less explicit (visually, at least).

For the most part, Zombie’s modus operandi here seems to be fashioning his own version of Oliver Stone’s polarizing Natural Born Killers (1994), the ’90s-era phenomena that sought to make serial killers sexy, fashionable and chic. To that end, we get lots (and lots and lots) of scenes and shots that seek to mythologize the Fireflys to nearly ridiculous proportions, not the least of which is the entire opening sequence. After fashioning makeshift armor, Otis and Baby emerge from their home, guns blazing, to the tune of the Allman Brothers’ classic outside anthem “Midnight Rider.” Via a series of shuddering freeze frames, the Fireflys make quite the dramatic escape, hitting the road like a brother/sister version of Bonnie and Clyde. The problem, of course, only comes in once you really think about the difference between the Fireflys (and Micky and Mallory, for that matter) and Bonnie and Clyde. Bonnie and Clyde were a pair of folk-hero bank robbers who captured the imagination of the era thanks to their propensity for telling the “man” to shove it up his backdoor. The Fireflys, by contrast, are nearly subhuman monsters who kidnap, torture, mutilate and murder scads of innocent victims. While it’s certainly possible to associate oneself with the meaning behind Bonnie and Clyde’s actions, if not necessarily the actions, themselves, how, then, does one go about associating with the Fireflys? Is the family supposed to appeal to the (hopefully) minuscule audience of spree killers in the world who fancy carving things into cheerleaders? People who enjoy wearing others’ faces like masks?

To stack the deck even further, Zombie turns the character of Sheriff Wydell into such a rampaging sociopath that it becomes even murkier as to who we’re supposed to throw our support behind. Sure, the Fireflys like to rape and murder but they’re the bad guys: when Wydell gets down with a little good, ol’ fashioned nail-gun torture, he’s supposed to be wearing the white hat. A case can, of course, be made that Wydell’s retribution is only fitting, considering how horrible the Fireflys are: how, then, are we to react when Zombie takes every opportunity to frame the Fireflys as romantic heroes? I mean, fer Pete’s sake, they get riddled full of more holes than Sonny Corleone at the film’s climax, in slo-mo, to the tune of Skynyrd’s “Freebird”…if that doesn’t say “romantic hero,” I don’t know what does.

And here, of course, is where the other shoe thuds to the floor: despite my intense misgivings over the actual content/message of The Devil’s Rejects, the film is head and shoulders over Zombie’s debut in almost every way. For one thing, it looks great: grainy, gritty and sun-bleached like an old grindhouse curio. The cast is impeccable, although Forsythe consumes so much scenery that he becomes a veritable black hole by the conclusion: along with the ever-reliable Moseley and Haig (the best we can say about Sheri Zombie is that she’s much less shrill here than in House of 1000 Corpses), we also get great performances from genre vets like Ken Foree (Romero’s Dawn of the Dead), Geoffrey Lewis, Michael Berryman (The Hills Have Eyes 1 and 2), P.J. Soles (Carpenter’s Halloween)  and Mary Woronov.

The late-’70s period-setting of The Devil’s Rejects is actually much stronger than in the original film: this looks like the ’70s, through and through. The soundtrack is also much more effective, consisting exclusively of ’70s-era soft-rock classic, unlike the metal tunes which cropped up in House of 1000 Corpses. At times, the film has a brittle, desolate feel that manages to seem completely authentic, unlike the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink approach of the debut. Oftentimes, the film feels more akin to a particularly mean-spirited spaghetti Western than to a horror film, although there’s always another graphic murder waiting just around the corner.

Ultimately, all of this adds up to a film that I end up “respecting” more than actually “liking.” Truth be told, there’s not much about The Devil’s Rejects that actually gives me pleasure, although I will admit some sick kicks every time Brian Posehn’s Jimmy gets his head shot off (nothing against Posehn, mind you, but it’s a pretty bravura moment, nonetheless). That being said, I’d be completely remiss if I didn’t point how well-made the film is: despite its unpleasant subject matter, this is absolutely one lean, mean, sonofabitch. As a fan of film craft, I can’t deny the power of Zombie’s images or the measurable improvement from his first to second film. That being said, I also can’t get behind the wholesale mythologizing of a pretty reprehensible group of people, which also ended up being my big complaint about Stone’s film. In the end, The Devil’s Rejects is proof of the old adage that “here’s something you’re really gonna love, if this is the kind of thing you like.” I didn’t like it but I respected it and that’s gotta count for something.

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

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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.

2/26/14: When You’re Here, You’re Home (Oscar Bait, Part 10)

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2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, alcoholism, Alexander Payne, auteur theory, Best Actor nominee, Best Cinematography nominee, Best Director nominee, Best of 2013, Best Original Screenplay nominee, Best Picture nominee, Best Supporting Actress nominee, Bob Odenkirk, Boogie Nights, Bruce Dern, cinema, Citizen Ruth, dementia, Election, estranged family, Film, Film auteurs, film reviews, growing old, grown children, Heartland, indie comedies, indie dramas, June Squibb, Midwestern, Movies, Nebraska, old age, road movie, road trips, small town life, snubbed at the Oscars, Stacy Keach, sweepstakes, The Descendants, Will Forte, Woody Grant

Realistically, there’s no such thing as a “perfect” anything, much less a perfect film. After all: one person’s concept of “amazing” is always someone else’s notion of “played-out.” That perfect hamburger? How do you know? If it were truly perfect, would it ever actually end? Wouldn’t that perfect sunset just continue on into infinity? Can humans, inherently faulty as we are, ever actually make something perfect? Could robots? What does “perfect” even mean? Is it as meaningless as “awesome” and “epic” in the Aught Tens? I bring up these points for one simple reason: I consider Alexander Payne’s Nebraska to be, essentially, a perfect film. I believe this through and through, even though all of the evidence points to how impossible it is. There is nothing perfect, although Nebraska is as perfect as it comes. This makes absolutely no sense…and I’m totally okay with that.

Some films hit me on a more pure, elemental level then other films. One of the best examples of this I can think of is PT Anderson’s Boogie Nights. I’ll never forget seeing that for the first time, in the theater, and just sitting there in stunned silence. I felt like I couldn’t even process the film on the first viewing: I could only sit back and absorb it. Immediately afterward, I bought another ticket and stayed for the next showing. To this day, I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve seen Boogie Nights but it never fails to impress me and lift my spirits: the film is a complete masterpiece and was from opening night. My first experience with seeing Nebraska was nearly identical to my experience seeing Boogie Nights. I was immediately, completely and totally in love with the film from the jump and this impression gradually broadened and deepened into something approaching blind faith: I not only loved what I was currently seeing but I was positive I would love everything still to come. And I did.

Payne, one of modern filmmaking’s brightest talents, is no stranger to the prickly ways in which humans, particularly relatives, interact. His filmography may not be huge but it is ridiculously deep: Citizen Ruth, Election (another of my favorite films), About Schmidt, Sideways, the Descendants (another Oscar favorite) and Nebraska. Any of these would be a bright star in most writer/director careers but Payne’s CV is quite the embarrassment of riches. With Nebraska, however, he’s managed to hone the “Heartland shiv” of Election and Citizen Ruth into a merciless edge while adding in the richly textured familial issues of The Descendants. In the process, he’s crafted his best, most enduring film (thus far).

In a cinematic universe of “difficult” people, Woody Grant (Bruce Dern) might be their supreme leader. Hard-drinking, stubborn, suffering from the first pangs of dementia and brutally honest, Woody is the kind of person who seems to exist solely to vex his loved ones. And vex them, he does. His long-suffering wife, Kate (June Squibb), and grown sons David (Will Forte) and Ross (Bob Odenkirk) have had just about as much of them as they can take: Kate, in particular, has taken to treating Woody like a flop-eared hound that won’t quit piddling on the rug. The thing is: Woody is one genuinely difficult dude. Not just prickly, mind you: genuinely difficult. When he receives one of those ubiquitous “You may already be a winner!” sweepstakes notices, he decides to walk from his home in Montana all the way to Lincoln, Nebraska, to claim his “winnings.” Rather than have his father drop dead on the side of the road (and unable to convince him of the truth behind the sweepstakes), David decides to go with his dad and make it a father-son bonding trip. The stage is set for a sweet, nostalgic, heart-warming tale of reconciliation and family…except Woody couldn’t give two shits about his family and certainly doesn’t look forward to being stuck with his square son David. Tempers flare, hard truths are learned and David learns the most important lesson of all: You can’t always pick your fights and you can never pick your family. But, sometimes, that’s okay.

Picking out one individual aspect of Nebraska to laud is not only nearly impossible but unnecessarily reductive. The individual aspects of the film truly shine but it’s the sum of these parts that makes Nebraska an unmitigated classic. Right from the get-go, with the gorgeous black-and-white cinematography and the hauntingly simple but beautiful bluegrassy theme, the film felt timeless. Indeed, the film was so stunningly filmed that I was certain it would be a lock for cinematography, Gravity be damned. The camera-work in Gravity was flawless and head-scratching (how the hell DID they do that?) but the cinematography in Nebraska is beautifully evocative and so cinematic that it hurts. This was a film that looked as good as it “felt,” a perfect synthesis of form and function.

As is standard in Payne’s films, the acting is absolutely superb. In fact…here comes that word again…it’s pretty much perfect. Will Forte, so good as a comic, is a complete revelation as David. At once sympathetic, sweet and slightly pathetic, David is a fully realized, complex character, someone who all of us know (if we aren’t actually him, that is). Bob Odenkirk is marvelous as brother Ross, likewise reigning in his comedic tendencies to portray a character who’s equal parts fatigued snark and genuine compassion. It’s as far from Saul Goodman as possible and never less than 100% authentic. Stacy Keach has a terrific part as Woody’s former friend, Ed, a loutish civic leader who browbeats Woody mercilessly yet manages one of the most heartbreaking displays of emotion I’ve ever seen in a film: the part where he mockingly reads Woody’s letter to the bar is powerful stuff but the changing expression in his eyes as he realizes what he’s done to Woody is the stuff of legend. Keach has been far too scarce in films these days (I actually thought he was dead!) and it’s a tremendous shame: someone get this guy some more roles STAT!

In a cast this excellent, this perfect, however, there are still two standouts, two performers that brought completely indelible characters to life. June Squibb, as Kate, is a complete revelation, an actress so watchable, so absolutely compelling, that I find myself wondering why I never noticed her before. Kate is a real person: an honest-to-God flesh and blood creation. I know several people like Kate: many of them are also my family members. You know many people like Kate: some of them are likely your family, as well. As a character, she’s flawed, sometimes reveling in a level of nasty “honesty” that’s breathtaking in its cruelty. The scene where she visits the family cemetery with Woody and David is amazing, one of those scenes that film fans should remember in the same way that they do the “Hold it between your knees” scene from 5  Easy Pieces. As she walks about the graveyard, Kate keeps a constant running commentary about their interred relatives: this one was a slut, that one was an idiot, this other one always wanted to “get in her pants.” In the piece de resistance, however, Kate stops before the grave of a former beau, hikes up her skirt and stands before the tombstone: “See what you could have had if you didn’t talk about weed all the time?!” It’s a vulgar, hilarious, awesome moment, one of those bits that deserves to go down in cinematic history. While I was happy to see Nyong’o win Best Supporting Actress at the Oscars, Squibb was, hands-down, the best of the four performances I saw (sorry Julia: Osage was a bit hard to get ahold of).

And then, of course, there’s Bruce Dern. To be honest, I’m not sure how much acting Dern did for the film: perhaps that’s why he ended up losing to McConaughey (who also completely deserved the award, ironically). Perhaps this is how Dern really is. Perhaps he’s nothing like this. At the end of the day, there’s only one thing I knew: this was the single most perfect acting performance of the entire year. The whole thing. Better than McConaughey (who was astounding), better than Ejiofor. Better than anyone, actually. At no point in the film did it ever feel like Dern was acting. Nothing felt inauthentic, every beat and facial expression was well-earned and it was that rarest of modern acting performances: a stellar turn that did not revolve around flawless mimicry (sorry, Meryl). Perhaps it’s because of my own experiences with an elderly father but I completely identified with everything about both Woody and David: I experienced the same measure of heartwarming/breaking that I did in real life. If you have no experience with elderly parents, perhaps you won’t be affected as deeply. With acting this masterful, however, I’m betting you will.

So we have a great looking/sounding film and amazing performances. What else is there? Well, how about the funniest, freshest, funkiest script in ages? While Nebraska is anything but a joke-a-minute laughathon, it is shockingly funny, more so than any indie “dramedy” I’ve yet seen. Much of the humor definitely comes from the verisimilitude of the absurd situations (I laughed like an idiot during the scene where David’s yokel cousins mock him for taking so long to drive there, since I’ve had that exact same conversation with similar idiots in the past) but there’s just as many great one-liners and exchanges flying around. One of my favorite scenes has to be the one where Woody, Kate and David eat lunch in a small diner. Woody spends an inordinate amount of time studying the menu. When Kate asks him, “What are you having, old man?” he resolutely replies “Meatloaf.” Her exasperated comeback could have come straight from my childhood: “You’ve been staring at that menu for ten minutes…where does it say meatloaf?”At another point, David tells Woody that “All of your brothers are coming over.” “Some of them are dead.” David looks at Woody, for a beat, before replying: “The dead ones won’t be coming over.” Classic.

All of these various elements would be impressive enough but the one thing uniting them all is the most important: heart. Nebraska has a big heart, much bigger than the gently mean sarcasm would have you believe. You can see the genuine emotion creeping at the edge of every frame, sneaking into each scene like an insistent boom mic. The emotion isn’t always on the forefront but, when it is, the film burns with an almost palpable sense of pain. If you don’t feel something when Kate sits as Woody’s bedside, you probably don’t have much to feel. If you don’t tear up at the end, as David lets him father drive triumphantly through town, you’re probably already dead.

In the end, Nebraska is that most impossible of films: a scruffy, mean, hilarious, heartfelt celebration of the Heartland and all of the people who inhabit it. There are no characters here, only real people reacting with the same pain, humor, bias, hatred and love that we all do. Whereas every other film that I saw for Oscar season (including the otherwise incredible Dallas Buyers Club) struggled with notions of authenticity, Nebraska was the only one that I bought part and parcel. Like I said before: I know these people. I grew up with them. I probably love and hate them with equal fervor. If there were major flaws with the film, I couldn’t find them. If you can, I’m guessing we’ll probably never see completely eye to eye. That’s okay, though: there are no perfect films, so you, but Nebraska is just perfect enough for me.

2/15/14: Jocks Gone Wild

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1980's, Beavis and Butthead, Boner the Barbarian, celebrities, Charlie Harper, Charlie Sheen, Christopher McDonald, cinema, Film, film reviews, Gregg Araki, high school grads, killing spree, Los Angeles, Martin Sheen, Maxwell Caulfield, mental illness, Movies, Penelope Spheeris, road movie, road trips, serial killers, spree killers, The Boys Next Door, The Decline of Western Civilization, Wayne's World, William Friedkin

To paraphrase the late, great Rick James: celebrity is a helluva drug. The whirlwind of celebrity crash-and-burn has claimed many formerly good actors (Anyone remember the time when Gary Busey wasn’t the punchline to a joke? As hard as it may be to believe, there once was such a time.) and will probably continue to grind up performers until the sun finally winks out of existence. One of the biggest casualties? The current wild-man/former actor known as Charlie Sheen.

Once upon a time, way before “winning,” “warlocks” and “Denise Richards,” Sheen was a promising young actor who seemed poised to follow in his father’s footsteps. Young Sheen appeared in a string of successful films, including Platoon (1986), Wall Street (1987), Young Guns (1988), Eight Men Out (1988), Major League (1989), The Rookie (1990), Hot Shots! (1991) and Hot Shots! Part Deux (1993). David Twohy’s above-average alien-encounter flick The Arrival (1996) would be Sheen’s last “big” role before he made the move to TV, doing two years as Michael J. Fox’s replacement in Spin City before playing the part of Charlie Harper on Two and a Half Men for the next eight years.

Somewhere in that timeline, Sheen made the decision to put his acting on the back burner and focus, instead, on partying, drug use and general debauchery aka “The Robert Downey Jr. Plan.” As such, Sheen had already become something of a public joke before his very public meltdown and removal from his hit TV series made him a complete joke. Since that time, Charlie Sheen has existed as a sort-of meta-celebrity, an actor who only plays himself (A Glimpse Inside the Mind of Charles Swan III) and who seems to only be famous for being famous and saying outrageous (although increasingly less so) things.

Back at the beginning of his career, however, absolutely anything seemed possible. As the son of similarly hard-charging Martin Sheen, Charlie seemed to be a natural fit to follow in his dad’s footsteps (he even had a walk-on in Martin’s Apocalypse Now). The Boys Next Door, only Charlie’s second starring role, isn’t a great film but it is an interesting one and a pretty quaint look back into a time when Sheen was known more for his acting then his antics.

The film opens with sobering talking-head footage about serial killers, the consensus being that they usually end up being people who know and interact with on a regular basis, seemingly normal people who end up being less than human. We then cut to Roy (Maxwell Caulfield) and Bo (Sheen), a couple of knuckle-headed, prank-loving, high-school graduates acting like complete pains in the asses. They irritate their peers, giggle like flesh-and-blood versions of Beavis and Butthead, draw dirty pictures in class and crash pool parties that they’re not invited to. Once they appear to have exhausted their supply of home-town fun, the meat-heads steal a classmate’s dog, re-name it “Boner the Barbarian,” and hit the road for L.A. At this point, the film seems like any number of schlocky, ’80s teen road-movies, albeit with that aforementioned Beavis and Butthead vibe. Soon, however, the film will attempt to pull the rug from underneath our feet and will (to varying degrees) succeed.

As the two friends (and Boner the Barbarian) drive to Los Angeles, Roy quickly reveals himself to be a complete psychopath, a severely damaged individual who wants to join the army just so that he can kill something. As they travel about, Roy’s rage continues to bubble to the surface and, before long, he’s begun to violently lash out at everyone they come across: a gas-station attendant is beaten senseless…an old lady is hit in the head with a bottle. Before you know it, Roy is killing people and Bo (distinctly non-homicidal but so ineffectual as to become an unwitting accomplish) is “helplessly” along for the ride. Once the police get involved, the film becomes a headlong rush to a pretty inevitable fate: if you’ve seen one “fugitives on the run” film, you’ve probably seen at least 50% of them.

In certain ways, The Boys Next Door is an extremely strange film and at least some of the credit for this must be due to director Penelope Spheeris. Fans of transgressive ’80s cinema will recognize Spheeris from both 1981’s The Decline of Western Civilization (still one of the very best documentaries/looks into the burgeoning 1980’s U.S. hardcore scene) and Suburbia (1983), a look into disaffected youth that would seem to directly presage Gregg Araki’s nihilistic ’90s films. On the flip side, more modern sensibilities may recall that Spheeris also directed the original Wayne’s World (1992) before disappearing down the rabbit-hole of increasingly crass comedies and remakes: The Beverly Hillbillies (1993), The Little Rascals (1994), Black Sheep (1996), and Senseless (1998) all seemed to put the fork into a career that started out fairly interesting before sputtering out.

It’s definitely the “pre-PG13” Spheeris that we get in The Boys Next Door, however, which certainly accounts for much of the film’s psuedo-Repo Man look and vibe. At times, especially once Roy goes batshit, the film also reminded me of William Friedkin’s strange spree-killer/courtroom-drama Rampage (1988). Since Spheeris’ film preceded Friedkin’s by several years, it’s rather tempting for me to think that she might have had a little influence on his (decidedly) better film but I’m not sure if he would have been paying attention: Friedkin would have been working on To Live and Die in L.A. (1985) by that time.

One influence that can be seen in The Boys Next Door, however, is a bit of future influence: you can actually see shades of Wayne’s World, as bizarre as that may sound, in much of the film. Whether it’s in scenes like the goofy ones where our two “protagonists” drive around the city and gawk at “punk-rockers” or the real head-scratcher where Roy and Bo are chased by an angry mob of bikini-clad women after pelting an old lady in the head with a bottle, the film definitely recalls (at least in feel, if not tone) the antics of Wayne and Garth…minus all of the killing, of course.

Despite its frantic pace and Looney Tunes-sense of energy, The Boys Next Door still manages to run out of gas before its (inevitable) conclusion. After several scenes that managed to surprise, if not exactly shock, the conclusion is just about as lazy as it gets: a cheesy butt-rock guitar solo wails as Roy and Bo flee, first by car, then on foot, with the police in hot pursuit. The whole footchase essentially consists of anonymous shots of Roy and Bo running down generic hallways inter-cut with other anonymous shots of cops running down equally generic hallways. Between the frenetic noodling and the endlessly repetitive hallways, the finale feels like being stuck in purgatory, which may have been Spheeris’ intent all along.

As far as craft goes, The Boys Next Door holds together fairly well but certainly is nothing to write home about. Sheen is very good, if constantly bemused, as the “saner” of the two friends, while Caulfield pours his all into a role that frequently feels like a bone-headed update of that other Caulfield, the one who sulked through Catcher in the Rye. There’s a pretty hilarious (albeit unintentionally so) performance by a very young Christopher McDonald as a square, weepy cop. Older viewers will probably remember McDonald from any number of character turns over the past 30+ years but younger viewers will almost certainly remember him as Shooter McGavin, Happy Gilmour’s arch-enemy in the eponymous film. It’s a real hoot to see McDonald playing such a simpering, “nice guy” character, even if he doesn’t get much to actually do in the film. While the acting is decent, much of the film’s look and sound is strictly of the era, including a ridiculously clichéd and rather annoying score. As mentioned, the film frequently seems to be trying to mimic the look and feel of Repo Man (1984) but without a tenth of writer/director Alex Cox’s invention or gritty eye for absurdity.

As it stands, The Boys Next Door is a pretty-decent example of the “serial killer road trip” sub-genre but is, ultimately, pretty light-weight and forgettable, bar a few disturbing scenes (the one where Roy kills the girl that Bo is having sex with is a real corker). One big plus? The film has the temerity to introduce a dog but then never bothers to kill it: what were the filmmakers thinking? Any film that lets Boner the Barbarian live to rampage anew is just okay enough to deserve a look, in my book. Plus, you know, that whole Charlie Sheen thing. Winning, indeed!

2/13/14: Just a Couple of Easy Riders

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A Martinez, Amanda Wyss, based on a book, Bonnie Red Bow, buddy films, Buddy Red Bow, cinema, David Seals, Dead Man, discrimination, film reviews, films, Gary Farmer, Graham Greene, independent films, jail-break, Jonathan Wacks, magical-realism, Movies, Native Americans, Northern Cheyenne, Philbert Bono, Powwow Highway, racism, reservations, road movie, road trips, self-discovery, vision quests, Wayne Waterman, Wes Studi

Finding one’s own identity and sense of self can be a daunting task under the best of circumstances. Some people may spend their entire lives “discovering” themselves, while others seem to know just who they are from a relatively young age. To make matters even more complicated, notions of self and personal identity also come not only from our internal communities but from the larger global communities around them. It can be hard enough to know who you are without the media and entertainment organizations constantly tossing in their own ten cents.

If finding one’s own place in the world can be difficult enough under the best scenarios, how much more difficult must it be when one has been marginalized, made to be an outsider in one’s own home? What if the surrounding culture, the “dominant culture,” as it were, was not only radically different from yours but, in some cases, diametrically opposite? In the case of the United States’ Native American population, this has often been the case. Jonathan Wack’s buddy pic, Powwow Highway, examines this concept of the search for personal identity while wrapping it within an easy-going, often meandering but ultimately entertaining road-trip framework. Powwow Highway isn’t a perfect film but it is an incredibly likable one and a surprisingly wry one, at that.

Philbert (Gary Farmer), a sweet-natured but naive member of the Northern Cheyenne, lives on a reservation in Montana. One day, he sees a blatantly racist TV commercial for a local car dealership and decides to head over and “pick out his pony.” When he gets there, the dealership is a bit less impressive than the commercial made it seem (read: filthier than the repo-shop in Repo Man) but Philbert is still able to trade some weed, a little whiskey and five bucks for his very own “pony”: a beat-to-shit, rusted-out junker that looks like a contemporary to the Edsel. Despite looking like it will require foot-power, ala the Flintstones, Philbert is ecstatic and sets out on his very own vision quest, in pursuit of becoming a warrior. As luck would have it, he finds a road-partner in Buddy Red Bow (A Martinez), a hot-headed local activist who’s involved in a bitter dispute with a local mining company. They want in, Red Bow wants them out and he’s just passionate and fiery enough to rally the residents.

The mining company, however, plays dirty pool and they’ve figured out a pretty sure-fire way to get rid of the pesky activist: plant drugs on his estranged sister, Bonnie (Joanelle Nadine Romero), get her arrested in New Mexico and wait for Red Bow to go bail her out. In the meantime, they’ll be free to work their magic minus his less-than-passive resistance.  Red Bow meets up with Philbert and, together, the two set off on their respective missions. Red Bow doesn’t have a lot of respect (or patience) for the patently old-fashioned Philbert, finding his stories about the old days and desire to be a warrior to be pretty silly delusions. Philbert, for his part, thinks that Red Bow has lost his way and needs to be reminded of his ancestry. Together, the two meet a collection of colorful characters on the road, including Bonnie’s kooky best friend, Rabbit (Amanda Wyss), another Native American activist named Wolf Tooth (Wayne Waterman), a stoic but frightening Vietnam vet (Graham Greene, in a very early role) and a hunky, girl-crazy stud named Buff (Wes Studi, in one of his first roles, before his breakout in the following year’s Dances With Wolves). Together, this motley crew helps get Red Bow closer to freeing his sister and Philbert closer to becoming a warrior.

At its heart, Powwow highway is anchored by Gary Farmer’s massively impressive performance as Philbert. Without a doubt, Farmer is the true heart and soul of the film, imbuing Philbert with a completely intoxicating mix of childlike enthusiasm, righteous indignation, pride, fear and anger. There are a million ways that a character like Philbert could be portrayed: wounded, silly, self-righteous, a martyr, a savior, an idiot savant. It’s to Farmer’s great credit that he plays Philbert as, quite simply, a complex and completely real human being. At no point does Philbert ever come across as merely a symbol or a stand-in for the film’s message. Even when the magical-realist element of the film is at its highest, such as when Philbert repeatedly sees the Native American warrior in traditional tribal garb, Farmer always makes sure that Philbert’s feet remain firmly on the ground. Despite his constant sunny nature and optimism, Philbert is no Pollyanna: the scene where he grabs and shakes Red Bow is sobering because it’s exactly what we want to do, in that situation.

A Martinez’s Red Bow, while hitting a few more stereotypical character notes then Farmer does, also turns in a great performance. With any other co-star, Martinez’s gruff, passionate activist would be the one that the audience can’t take their eyes off of. Despite his central status in the storyline, however, this is definitely Philbert’s story: Red Bow is, effectively, riding shotgun throughout the film. The rest of the performances are equally assured: Studi is a hoot as the perpetually horny Buff and Greene is quietly powerful as the shattered Vietnam vet. If anything, his scant screen time is the film’s biggest disappointment, since it leaves you wanting more: he says more with a look and a downcast stare than most actors do with a monologue. Wyss (Judge Reinhold’s girlfriend in the seminal Fast Times at Ridgemont High) is fun as Bonnie’s nutty friend but the character ends up being pretty superfluous to the action and doesn’t seem to serve much point.

Idea-wise, Powwow Highway gives plenty to think about. From a filmmaking standpoint, however, things are a bit murkier. For one thing, the film’s soundtrack is pretty awful: it may be 1989 but the synthy keyboard dreck on display reminds of the cheesiest excesses on the beginning of that historically cheesy era. Even the U2 song that runs over the closing credits is schlocky and under-whelming, continuing the unfortunate musical trend.

The film also seems to be fairly low-stakes: despite any of the situations that the characters find themselves in, there never seems to be a genuine sense of danger to anything. The effect is similar to watching weekly episodes of MacGyver: regardless of the size of the bomb, you know Mac’ll be there next week. Similarly, it’s hard to get too invested in situations like Philbert busting Bonnie out of jail (ropes tied to the window-bars, just like in an old Western) or the group being pursued by the entire Sante Fe police department, since everything seems so low-key. Even a potentially tear-jerking finale is ultimately rendered into a happy ending: despite its refusal to pull punches, Powwow Highway seems inordinately determined to please its audience, at all costs.

Ultimately, Powwow Highway ends up being a fun, energetic but slightly weightless film. While there’s an awful lot to like here (Farmer’s performance, the quirky situations, the authentic setting) and only a few real missteps (the awful score. the occasionally dingy cinematography), the film doesn’t seem to have a ton of substance. Perhaps less reliance on Red Bow’s story and more emphasis on Philbert’s quest to become a warrior would have helped: even the film doesn’t seem particularly interested in the resolution of the stale mining subplot, since it never even bothers to actually resolve it within the framework of the film. The real drawing point here is Farmer’s fearless performance. He may have played Nobody in Dead Man, but Farmer proves that he’s the big somebody at the heart of this little world.