Jean Stapleton, R.I.P.

This one hurts, especially for any of us who came of age (or were alive, period) in the ’70s.

If you were alive in the ’70s, you knew about Jean Stapleton, and you watched All in the Family. (If you didn’t it, you were dead, even if you happened to be living.)

Other than to send my best thoughts, I’ll say that her warbling on the epic show intro (below) is an indelible part of my personal soundtrack. I know I’m not alone.

I could offer some additional thoughts, but there’s no chance I could do Jean –and the immortal role she owned as Edith Bunker– justice better than Neil Genzlinger does in his New York Times tribute, HERE.

Here’s a tasty excerpt:

Unlike some television actors who need time to grow into their roles (time that, in these days of the quick hook, networks often don’t give them), Ms. Stapleton delivered a well-defined Edith right from the start. Is there a more classic Edith laugh line than the one she casually flung in original pilot (there were two abortive pilots before the one that sold the series), in which Archie and Edith are celebrating their anniversary, and Archie schools his son-in-law about the good-old abstinence days?       

“When me and your mother-in-law was going around together keeping company, two whole years it was, there was nothing,” Archie says. “I mean nothing. Not till the wedding night.”       

And Edith interjects, “And even then.”       

But what set Ms. Stapleton’s work in the show apart was her ability to create a character who was not imprisoned by her own daffiness. There have been plenty of female airheads on television: bikinied bimbos, empty-headed housewives, batty old broads. But only a few have been able to make the kinds of transitions from the comic to the dramatic that were asked of Ms. Stapleton in “All in the Family.”       

Another nice tribute HERE.

Let there be no question: for so many of us innocent and impressionable TV-watchers, our worlds were different, and better, for having had Edith Bunker show us that a big heart and a kind soul were the keys to a life well lived.

Share

The Ballad of Bonnie & Clyde or, Art Improving Upon Life (Revisited)

ON THIS DAY

On May 23, 1934, bank robbers Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow were shot to death in a police ambush as they were driving a stolen Ford Deluxe along a road in Bienville Parish, La.

Great story. Great movie.

From a personal point of view, both Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty turn in the best work they ever did. And an added bonus, for my money Dunaway is as beautiful, here, as any leading lady ever was in any film. And of course there is “the scene”: that bloody ballet death sequence, which was groundbreaking and violent and innovative, et cetera. (Hard to imagine the Sonny Corleone execution scene from the first Godfather without this having happened.) But before the bullets fly, the look Bonnie gives Clyde at the moment of realization (1.29 in clip, below) is one of the great moments (good direction, better acting) in all of cinema.

And then, of course, there is Serge and Brigitte. Déférence!

Share

3.14 and Interfacing with the Infinite

If you’ve never seen Pi, Darren Aronofsky’s first (and best) movie, I strongly encourage you to check it out.

(Hint: it’s not just a number; it’s a concept of existence. Or something. Even a math illiterate like myself can appreciate how numbers and pure calculations describe and define multiple aspects of what we call reality. That doesn’t mean I endorse being force-fed Algebra as a teenager.)

Also: the soundtrack is incredible. And it has aged well not just as music, or audio accompaniment to some very striking scenes, but as a historical document. Coincidentally or not, trip-hop was breaking big just as our Internet adventure was getting real. As a result, the industrial, technical (technological) noises of the music mirrored what was happening inside our machines. Remember days when you had to dial-up to get online? Or when you needed bigger discs to store more data, and the subsequent clicks of memory being saved? Remember when the art of computing was a more tactile experience? This soundtrack –and film– functions as an already somewhat time-capsuled window into the ways we used to do the impossible: making the world smaller (via the freely available information and the relative ease with which we could access it) and larger (via all that information bringing us data that we didn’t know we needed or wanted in ways that expanded not unlike the actual universe).

It’s also a bit of a mind-fuck that analyzes the idea of going crazy trying to interface with the infinite (something all of us approximate every time we log on). If the infinite is unreachable and ultimately unknowable, it’s a combination of arrogance and insanity to think we can grasp it. Of course, as social commentary, Pi delineates –and deconstructs– the two primary ways we attempt to infiltrate and/or organize our Gods: organized religion and money. Both are avenues and endpoints. We take it as gospel from what we hear and all we’re taught that the most efficient pursuit of a higher power and/or wealth is to bend down before a deity or a dollar sign. If, as is typically the case with the most organized of religions, epitomized by the one led by a pope who lives in a palace (inside a city), it’s the intersection of faith and fealty that leads to bigger numbers (of followers and currency). In the states we made (make?) Wall Street our Mecca and, as recent history has revealed, the charlatans rigging the charade are quite literally outside the law, no matter how much carnage they cause. They are, after all, merely in search of the same thing so many who would not hold them accountable strive for: immortality via the illusion of affluence.

 

Share

Coal Mines, Unions, Big Business and (of course) George Orwell (Revisited)

Watching coal-miners at work, you realize momentarily what different universes people inhabit. –George Orwell

Quite by chance (no, really), I saw an old classic that had been languishing in my Netflix queue: like St. Peter allowing a purgatoried soul into heaven, I finally brought it to metaphorical salvation via my DVD player. I remember reading about it last year when I was devouring Hellraisers, the almost literally unbelievable account of Richard Burton, Peter O’Toole, Oliver Reed and Richard Harris and their myriad escapades which can only be described as epic. The idea of Harris sharing screen space with Sean Connery was, suffice it to say, enticing. The movie in question, The Molly Maguires, did not do well upon its release and has become something of a cult classic –with an emphasis on the cult.

The story, in a nutshell, involves the gruesome exploitation suffered by Irish immigrants (and workers in general including, of course, young children because this was before Teddy Roosevelt, horrified by the depictions in books like Sinclair’s The Jungle, got inspired to seize some manner of control from Big Business and introduce those quaint concepts of regulation and workers’ rights: in other words, this story takes place precisely in the era that today’s GOP is aggressively working behind the scenes to bring us back to) toiling for paltry pay in the coal mines. If you are imagining an environment where safety was tenuous and the conditions were barbaric, at best, you are not incorrect. It is also a workplace where the owners controlled everything, including the breaks not given and the payment not rendered. In one illuminating scene the new employee (Harris) stands in line to get his weekly wages: the boss adds up the coal collected and announces the amount; Harris smiles. Then the boss subtracts the damaged tools, the wear-and-tear (a 19th C. version of “adminstrative fees”) and the final amount is reduced from nine bucks and change to just change. As Harris stands in disbelief the boss, flanked on either side by police officers, glowers at him and says “Next!” If that sounds too much like a bad out-take from It’s A Wonderful Life, check yourself: these are the conditions that absolutely existed, as men like Sinclair (and later, George Orwell –just to name two of the more famous and important examples) observed and reported.

The reason the movie was probably unsuccessful, and the reason the timing of my first viewing is serendipitous, is because of the subject matter: way before unions existed, circumstances were sufficiently dire that the use of drastic measures were required, and understandable. As a result, a group of protestors (or terrorists, depending on what century you live in and what newspapers you read) took to undermining the mine’s profitability by using incendiary tactics, literally. Harris, the “good guy” is a paid detective assigned to infiltrate this mob and help the honchos crush the uprising by killing the culprits. If this sounds a bit familiar, the story is based in large part on true events inspired by the reprehensible actions of the Pinkertons, who operated kind of like union busters before unions existed.

The movie is clever: by making Connery grim and uncharismatic (no mean feat considering this is Mr. Shaken, Not Stirred we are talking about) and playing up Harris’s roguish charm (yes–that is a cliche but if anyone could ever be said to possess roguish charm it’s the ever-ebullient but burly Harris), the viewer is almost conned into empathizing with, and rooting for the putative protagonist. Only after the film concludes does it finally –and fully– occur to the viewer: if the movie had been shot, or written differently we would be pulling for the “bad guys” all along. And that is the point. If the movie was told from the alternate point of view, it would have been preachy, unconvincing and free of emotional conflict. Which is exactly why it’s a good movie and most likely why it did not set the box office on fire. It also might make one recall the other chestnut (speaking of cliches) about history being written by the victors, the power of language to shape story and the mechanisms always at work to manufacture how reality is perceived.

 

I’m not certain if it has anything to do with what you study in college, or the type of person you already are (of course the two are not mutually exclusive by any means) but speaking for myself, I suspect that if you are a certain age and not already convinced that God is White and the GOP is Right (and anyone under the age of twenty-one who is certain of either of those things is already a lost cause, intellectually and morally), reading a book like The Road To Wigan Pier changes you. Reading a book like The Jungle changes you. Books like Madame Bovary change you. Books like The Second Sex change you. Books like Notes From Underground change you. Books like Invisible Man change you. Then you might start reading poetry and come to appreciate what William Carlos Williams meant when he wrote “It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.” These works alter your perception of the big picture: cause and effect, agency vs. incapacity and history vs. ideology.

Put another way, even if you are open-minded and receptive to various sources of information, if your studies focus on economics, business or political science you are already being inculcated into an established way of thinking. Liberal arts education, if it has anything going for it (and it has plenty, thank you very little), reinforces and insists upon what Milan Kundera called a “furious nonidentification”. This does not mean to imply that all, or most, or even some of the students who embrace (or ascomb from) the ivory tower remain inquisitive and objective. It does mean that reading works from different cultures and different times inevitably denotes truths and facts (even if couched in fictional narratives) that are outside of time and agenda.

It is, therefore, easier then to make connections between Irish immigrants who worked the coal mines in Pennsylvania and Lithuanian immigrants who worked in the meatpacking plants in Chicago (Jurgis Rudkus, anyone?) and Mexican immigrants –especially the illegal ones– who labor in sweltering kitchens and frigid fields all across our country. It is impossible not to put human faces and real feelings alongside this suffering and start connecting the dots that define how exploitation works. All of a sudden, it’s less easy to espouse the impartial axioms of the Free Market and the immutable forces of commerce or especially the notion that (in America anyway) everyone starts out at the same place and those that work hard enough and say their prayers and drink their milk will attain vast fortunes without breaking laws, stepping on innocent faces and engaging in the oppressive pas de deux with Power (and the puny but influential people who possess it). Then, presumably, it goes from being merely disconcerting to outrageous that the weasels of Wall Street are back in business with billion dollar bonuses (thanks tax-payers!) and unionized public school teacher pensions are being blamed for America’s current deficits.

Which, in turn, brings us to Wisconsin and what is really at stake right now. First, before any discussion of current events can occur, one feels obliged to give serious props to Republicans: over the last few decades while they have dabbled in the vicarious thrill of foreign occupations and the odious gutter-dwelling of racial and sexual identity politicking, the cretins behind the curtain have focused on a handful of tactical battles in which they have more or less achieved their ends. For one, propagating the repeatedly disproven mantra –to the extent that it is literally taken as gospel– that any taxes at any time are always a deplorable idea.

The second is that the mainstream media has a liberal bias (they succeeded so thoroughly in this that once first-rate newspapers like The Washington Post now police their content so obsessively as to render them supine: their Op-Ed page is now dominated by whacked-out True Believers who would have been laughed out of conservative circles twenty years ago, back in the days when Bob Dole and his minions were devising health care reform that is now considered socialism).

The third is that government does not work: this is a neat trick in which, when they take power, they spend their time ensuring that this assertion is true, all while consistently expanding the size of government along with the size of the debt. Then, like clockwork, once the people have finally seen enough, a Democrat comes in to clean up the mess and they immediately become small-government deficit hawks. If I was a Democrat operative I would have Cheney’s infamous “deficits don’t matter” comment in multiple TV ads and viral videos. And I would definitely ensure that the first talking point would involve inquiring the suddenly chaste and sober program slashers like Boehner and Cantor (and all of the Tea Party fanatics, for that matter) where exactly they were during the years 2000-2008.

Finally (for now), with much assistance from an increasingly reckless, ambitious and soulless Democratic party, the demonization of unions has been a long work-in-progress. It’s funny, because as much ink has been spilled this week, it’s a perfect representation of all that has gone wrong for the so-called progressive cause that any of this hand-wringing and negotiation was necessary at all. An outstanding –and exhaustive– overview of how this came to be is available, courtesy of Kevin Drum @ Mother Jones: the piece is (perfectly) entitled “Plutocracy Now” and I can’t recommend it highly enough. The gist of his argument is that, during the last half-century (but with a vengeance beginning in the ’70s), as unions lost influence the Democrats simultaneously abandoned them as they courted wealthy financiers to fund their increasingly lavish campaign expenses.

What has long befuddled me is that, even if you can cynically concede that even Dems tred lightly before their corporate masters these days, it makes political sense to maintain a healthy relationship with unions. During the Tea Party shenanigans in ’09, I kept asking myself: when is our aloof and clueless commander-in-chief going to start reminding people that this big bad government has historically been the bulwark between the people and an Industrial Revolution lifestyle? Does it need to actually get to the point where the Republican Party literally says “let them eat cake” before people start to realize wages are stagnating, prices are rising and the only people getting fat are the wealthiest .01% (and Mama Cass)? Apparently it does. But even if the seemingly easy battle to prove the relative benevolence of government (or compassionate conservatism–ha!) is a non-starter in 2011, it should not require too much PowerPoint proficiency to compile a quick commentary about what unions have wrought: minimum wage, forty-hour work week, health insurance, pensions, vacations, sick-leave, etc. All of the things people assume exist in a vacuum, or were always just sort of there; or best of all, were the inevitable rewards of laissez-faire philosophy until big government came along and screwed everything up.

In any event, we could –and in different circumstances, should– spend a considerable amount of time bemoaning the myopia and apathy that led to what transpired in November (and the still-egregious and unacceptable capitulation of the tax increase in December), but the time may at long last be ripe for some sort of reckoning. If there was any doubt about what that imbecile Scott Walker is up to, and what naked partisan interests he wholly represents, yesterday’s embarrassing, enlightening prank call should sufficiently remove any uncertainty. People are finally waking up and seeing what is at stake (today collective bargaining; tomorrow social security!). Hopefully there is sufficient momentum to at least enable the marble-mouthed Democrats to cobble together some cohesive messaging. One would think the mere act of pointing out the truth would not require heavy-lifting and soul-searching (but those without souls, admittedly, can have difficulty here). Again, I do not count on any of these center-left pols to suddenly find religion, so to speak, but presumably they can grasp that there is a purely political advantage to being on the right side of the middle class, not to mention history.

Share

Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and Me (Revisited)

And the Oscar goes to…

Who cares?

Okay, okay: I’ll resist the urge to be a sourpuss and let it suffice that I express my indifference to the pompous and circumstance of the Academy Awards the old fashioned way –by not watching.

I watch the movies, of course; I even write about some of them. I just can’t help but be appalled anew, each year, the way we elevate these preening peacocks, and clamor like serfs before royalty at what outfits they are wearing, who is sleeping with whom, and what they will say if their peers determine their act of make believe rose above the rest.

I think George C. Scott said it best when, after returning his gold statue for his work in Patton, he remarked “the whole thing is a goddamn meat parade. I don’t want any part of it.” (Also: while his performance as Patton is considered one of the best, ever, I always feel obliged to loudly celebrate his scene-devouring turn as another General, “Buck” Turgidson in Dr. Strangelove, a movie that, pound for pound, may have some of the finest performances in any movie. Even more so than The Godfather.)

Speaking of The Godfather, Marlon Brando’s performance as Don Corleone is generally considered, along with Scott’s Patton, one of the handful of all-time greats. This time each year it is inevitable that The Godfather (and The Godfather Part II) is invoked. Also inevitable are the snarky, sorority-girl assessments of the best and worst Oscar speeches, etc. The sweaty and self-loving (yet still courageous) Michael Moore’s beatdown of Bush’s “fiction” in 2003 will, of course, live in infamy. Of course, as tends to happen with the truth, the same idiots in the audience who hooted and booed would likely be more willing to speak out, now that’s safe (and now that the then-controversial, yet indisputable reality that Bush and his boys got us involved in our Iraq imbroglio on false pretenses is the official story line). Cheers to Moore for using his few seconds on stage to talk about something more meaningful than his love of Hollywood, praise to God for letting him win, or serving up the obligatory obsequiousness that the occassion generally demands.

 

At least Moore showed up; there is lingering –and understandable, considering the frail feelings of those involved– disdain for Brando, who not only refused his Oscar (the horror!), but sent an Apache named Sacheen Littlefeather to speak out on behalf of Native Americans. The backstory of Brando’s involvement in, and then-novel advocacy for awareness regarding the historical treatment of Native Americans is summarized here. The full speech Brando never delivered is here. Of course, to contemporary eyes, the sentiment –and the manner in which it is expressed– seems naive and too hectoring by half. However, we have come quite a long way in the last few decades in terms of our acknowledgment of the very issues Brando was calling attention to, and as with Moore, time has only enhanced the legitimacy of his scorn.

But…what about the fact that Littlefeather was an actress herself? Does this undermine the authenticity of Brando’s message? Of course not. Indeed, the more scripted it might have been, the better: what could be more appropriate at this orgy of onanistic self-approval than an actress punking a few hundred of the most famous and well-paid insiders?

A few years later, in a delicious instance of art imitating life imitating artistic life (et cetera), Neil Young paid homage to this occasion (either earnestly, tongue-in-cheek or, knowing Neil, a bit of both) in one of his best songs, “Pocahontas”.

Native Americans, Iraq and Oscar: someone should make a movie.

Share

Dr. Strangelove, A Half-Century (Almost) Later

Stanley Kubrick’s Dr.  Strangelove was released 49 years ago, today.

In a longer piece entitled “Making the Case for Kubrick”, I assessed his remarkable career (find that HERE).

Here is some of what I had to say about what might ultimately be his most perfect (if not best or most important) movie:

Is it possible to get tired of a tour de force like Dr. Strangelove? Understanding that Kubrick intentionally asked George C. Scott to add one “over the top” take for each scene (knowing full well that those were the takes he planned to use) causes one to further appreciate the perfection.

What other director could oversee a scene like this (albeit with the considerable assistance of the brilliant cast he assembled)?

This truly is one of those exceedingly rare movies that can be enjoyed, over and over, for the simple joy it provides. It’s hilarious, and the intelligent viewer innately understands –and appreciates– the grim alternative reality simmering constantly below the surface. It is one of the out-and-out funniest films ever made, and it boasts what has to be one of the all-time great casts. For much of this, Kubrick deserves credit and kudos. His ultimate achievement, aside from the steady craftsmanship and originality, might be the realization that Dr. Strangelove had to be a comedy. The novel he adapted, Red Alert was a dead-serious potboiler; Kubrick instinctively understood how poorly that would play on screen (at least in most director’s hands) but also how crucial it was to satirize. The results, equally a tribute to that crackerjack cast, are a testament to Kubrick’s intelligence and vision.

Where so many of our most renowned directors cultivate a particular style, Kubrick—perhaps because of his fixations—made movies about so many different people and places it seems impossible (in a good way) that the same man was responsible for them all. Of course, there are the familiar nuances and compulsive touches that connect certain moments as Kubrickian. There is the long, disconnected stare (think Alex from A Clockwork Orange, Jack from The Shining or Leonard from Full Metal Jacket). There is the soundtrack music: aside from Scorsese, has any other director made more songs indelibly associated with specific scenes? There is, above all, the irony. Some see pessimism, but attentive viewers understand that Kubrick, for all his precision, always removed himself from the acting and the action. If his films have moments that are more aesthetically perfect than emotionally convincing, Kubrick could never be accused of being cynical. Like our very best directors, he consistently conjures up other times and places while offering profound comment on the here and now.

Share

Human Connections, Missed Connections, Chance Connections: ‘Three Colors: Blue, White, Red’ (Revisited)*

Words need not be minced here: the Criterion Collection treatment of Krzysztof Kieslowski’s trilogy is an essential, if overdue cultural event. The high-definition digital restorations are reason enough to rejoice; the bounty of extra material is a genuine feast for ravenous film fanatics. Along with the now-obligatory commentaries and making-of features (always worthwhile, here revelatory), we get video essays, documentaries, interviews, short works by the director and an accompanying booklet that is both informative and lustrously packaged. This is, without question, the DVD reissue of 2011.

For those uninitiated, the colors, taken from the French flag, and the number three figure prominently throughout the films on the literal levels, obviously, but they resonate on subtle levels, as well. Three films, three locations (Paris, Warsaw, Geneva), three exquisite actresses (Juliette Binoche, Julie Delpy, Irene Jacob), three concepts taken from the French Revolution: liberty, equality, fraternity.

Taken individually, each film succeeds spectacularly—and in spectacularly separate ways—as a standalone work. Being a trilogy, filmed at a superhuman clip between 1992 and 1994, the thematic concerns and not-so-random coincidences add up and interact in ways that still exhilarate even—or especially—after multiple viewings.

The single theme threading these three works is the act of connecting. Human connections, missed connections, chance connections and the types of inscrutable flukes that invoke both fate and faith. The colors that give the films their titles are utilized in myriad ways to comment on the connections and coincidences these characters experience.

In Blue (1993) events unfold in sudden and shocking fashion: there is a car accident and Julie (Binoche) awakens in a hospital to receive the news that her husband and young daughter have both died. This level of grief is almost incomprehensible; in Julie’s case, it’s even worse. Her husband was a famous, beloved composer, so there will be reporters—and their questions—to contend with. Worse still, a question she declines to answer: Is it true you wrote your husband’s music?

Suffice it to say, a script or an actress not up to the challenge would make a farce out of such forceful material. Thankfully, this is the role Binoche was born to play: her fragile beauty and approach (she manages to be minimalistic and naturalistic) are uncannily affecting; she does not disappear into her character so much as she succumbs to it and the demands it places on her.

Over the months that follow she discards her possessions, refuses to see friends and drops a musical score (in progress) into the mechanical jaws of a garbage truck. As much as she tries, she cannot obliterate the world; she cannot obliterate herself. Gradually, the music and its meaning returns to her: initially she resists but it is there, unavoidable, when she closes her eyes. During these moments time stops and the screen goes black as an unseen orchestra shrieks, reminding her who she is. In what might be the definitive scene she pulls herself out of a swimming pool at night, embalmed in a dark blue glow. She hears the sudden burst of notes and slowly sinks back into the water, covering her ears and curling into a fetal position. The camera frames her from above, suspended in her sorrow. The rest of the film becomes the story of her life: finding freedom from the things she can’t (and shouldn’t) remove from her world.

White (1994), an anti-romance of sorts, is the lightest—and slightest—entry in the trilogy. The use of color, so easily conveyed in the frozen Warsaw winter, is perhaps the least subtle as well, but the simplicity itself provides its own commentary. In fact, there is considerable nuance within the ostensibly straightforward story. If Blue deals with a curious kind of liberty, White grapples with the notion of equality. In both cases, the concepts focus on the personal rather than the political, although the troubled relationship depicted in White functions as a clever social and political commentary. The failed marriage between Karol (Zbigniew Zamachowski) and Dominique (Julie Delpy) is, in some regards, merely the delivery device for what is in actuality a tribute to Kieslowski’s Poland; the real love story—in the script and on the screen—is between the director and his country.

Red (1994), as many who have seen it multiple times would agree, is not simply the ultimate triumph of Kieslowski’s career, but one of the supreme cinematic achievements of the last quarter-century. As a technician, Kieslowski is awe-inspiring; as a deeply compassionate artist, he manages to instigate in the viewer feelings ranging from discomfort, amusement, empathy to, ultimately, catharsis. As the film—and trilogy—concludes, certain scenes and situations come full circle granting a closure that satisfies on aesthetic levels, as well as profoundly personal ones.

For example, one does not know exactly how to interpret the ending of White (which, on its own, works: the lack of explicit closure provides an enigmatic sort of grace); by the time the final seconds of Red unfurl we understand fully what happened and what is going to happen. At the end of each story, we see a close-up of the protagonist: on each face there is a tear and a smile. How is this possible? Or, how is it possible that this is neither forced nor affected? Any viewer is presented with ample justification for how such an audacious and potentially cloying strategy is executed.

Certain films don’t require a plot summary; you’ve either seen them or you should see them. With a film like Red we should dispense with matters of whether it’s worthwhile and assess the rarefied air into which it elevates itself. How many movies have you seen, or even heard about, that you could say are perfect? Every shot, each character (both the construction and casting), the soundtrack, the story, what makes it to the screen and what is intentionally left off? Red richly embodies the special potential that cinema can attain: incorporating music, literature (the script), image and action, the endeavor is at once an approximation of life and something more. It is artifice, but like the best creation, it functions as a reflection on existence and a sort of paradigm to which we might aspire.

Kieslowski, in other words, succeeds entirely on mere artistic levels, but his recurrent themes of compassion, connection and reconciliation achieve a synthesis so fully realized as to seem transcendent. Transcending what, exactly? The limitations of the medium and the limitations of our imaginations and ability to conceive liberty, equality and fraternity in ways not reliant on superstition or dogma. Ultimately Kieslowski, who eschewed explicit political and religious tautology, is making a case for faith that is wholly human—and humane.

“I feel something important is happening around me,” Valentine (Irene Jacob) confesses to her new confidante and friend, the retired judge (Jean-Louis Trintignant). “And it scares me.” The judge says nothing at first, but takes her hand softly in his. “Is that better?” Her response, a smile, confirms the positive connection that has restored both of them. It’s also the crucial moment missing in each of the films up until now: finally, after disappointment and disillusionment, we see two very different people who are able to support and encourage one other. Although something miraculous does indeed seem to be afoot, it is this very simple, human gesture that suggests a more profound solidarity.

The events that follow, set in motion by a violent storm—making earlier, subtle allusions to Shakespeare’s The Tempest more explicit—represent an epiphany within an epiphany regarding the nature of the judge, God and the director, all of whom may be the same entity within this film and the entire trilogy. It practically goes without saying that each film also functions as an ongoing commentary on the act and process of creation—and the relationship between art and artist.

After completing this project, Kieslowski was understandably exhausted. He announced his retirement from filmmaking, but within a year was already contemplating a new trilogy (based on Heaven, Hell and Purgatory—proof that Kieslowski was incapable of thinking small). Sadly, he died before he had the chance to see that project, and subsequent ones, through. Although he died entirely too young (at 55) and it’s alluring to contemplate how much more profundity he might have offered us, there isn’t quite the sense of sorrow we feel with other premature losses. What more, in the final analysis, could Kieslowski have done? What more did he need to do?

*While I travel for the next week I’ll review some of my personal favorite posts from 2012, picking one (or two) from each month.

Share

Snow Miser vs. Heat Miser

So it’s that time of year.

I don’t remember the last time I watched the entire 60 minutes of The Year Without a Santa Claus, but I did the other night, and I can confirm it was just as bad as I remember it being.

First off, the whole stop-animation thing has not aged well (although it works wonderfully in Rudolph…and speaking of which, it’s interesting, as an adult, to consider how Santa is portrayed in these specials: in Rudolph he is a bullying jerk; in Year Without he is a big sissy, whining about a head-cold keeping him from doing his job, which only requires his attention ONE night per year! Plus, the reindeer and elves do all the heavy lifting, literally and figuratively).

But aside from production values and aesthetics, the story itself is just kind of…lame.

Indeed, the only thing that endures is the epic one-two punch of the feuding brothers, Snow Miser and Heat Miser.

Their songs…so campy, so goofy, so…awesome!

Out of nowhere (sort of) last year I remembered these characters (having not seen the special since I was a kid) and sure enough, You Tube hooked a brother up. My friends and I got much enjoyment over repeated viewings.

Which begs the question: if you had to pick one (as a friend, as a character, as a work of art) who are you down with?

Snow Miser is obviously more of a ham (“That’s right!”) but Heat Miser is such a bad-ass, turning balls of flame into little cotton balls and eating them. Plus, his little sidekicks with the top hats? That just seals the deal for me.

At the end of the day I’m quite pleased to enjoy both of them in equal measure, and you can thank me in advance for distilling the only redeeming moments of the entire special in one video, below.

Share

Serpico and Turning Black Friday into Good Friday

Look at that dude.

Pacino, clean-shaven and short-haired as the movie begins, sports the best ‘stache of the decade, then goes goatee, then gets full facial (hair and head), all of which accomplishes several purposes, concurrently: it denotes time passing, it indicates the all-in embrace of counterculture and defiance this ostracized cop is both acting out and reacting to, and finally it reveals how indelibly –and painfully– the process ages him. Mostly, on simple aesthetic levels, Pacino on screen here is as badass as any icon could ever be. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Some people shop on Black Friday. I watch Serpico.

I want –and need– to revisit this movie on an annual basis, because it satisfies many needs. One, it’s a masterpiece, so there’s that. Two, it reminds me many things I need to know, about the world and myself. And most of all, it is a rallying cry against conformity and cowardice; it is a stark reminder of how much we are capable of and how little we typically do. I watch it and think: I want to be that guy. I know I can’t be that guy, so it’s the least I can do to watch, learn and emulate.

I wrote about Serpico while introducing a piece commemorating the ten-year anniversary (in 2009) of what I consider the best film of the last twenty years, The Insider:

(Toward the end of Sydney Lumet’s ’70s classic Serpico there is an unnerving scene that encapsulates the conundrum faced by the eponymous cop: already persona non grata within the law enforcement fraternity for his refusal to take bribes, Serpico is transferred to the narcotics division, where the beat is the exceedingly dangerous streets way off-Broadway. His new partner grimly explains that, compared to the types of kickbacks Serpico was accustomed to seeing, the haul in narcotics is serious business. “That is big money, that you do not fuck around with.” In this moment Serpico finally understands that his life is now in greater danger, amongst police officers than at the hands of criminals, because of his insistence on obeying the law.)

I think this one scene, perhaps even more than anything in the embarrassment of riches that is Network, tells us all we need to know about how the world really works. Going back to the Watergate story, the reporters were advised to “follow the money”. That might be the most disturbingly succinct epitaph of our last century. Every act of violence and venality is prompted by the pursuit of money or the lack thereof, and most of all, the things money can’t buy (which, come to think of it, is the central theme of Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead).

When I ask myself: how is it possible that, despite the will of the people and the painfully obvious cookie crumbs leading to the criminals, Obama has let Wall Street off without so much as a harsh word, or how the Republicans can hold the country hostage for indefinite tax cuts on the wealthiest one percent, or (worse) how so many feckless and supine Democrats can tolerate –and in some cases, abet– this mendacity, or how our military budget is sacrosanct, or how we can continue to fight ill-advised and unwinnable wars (killing countless Americans and “foreigners” in the bargain), when I look at some of my well-educated and otherwise enlightened friends and wonder how they can possibly be immune to this cognitive dissonance, I think of these words: “That is big money, that you do not fuck around with.”

I’d like to revisit a piece I wrote many moons ago (earnestness trumping ability), celebrating Serpico. I could never (and would never) pick favorites but if I had to, I would probably suggest that this movie represented the best work that Pacino and Lumet ever did.

Serpico (1973)

An illuminating moment occurs near the beginning of the film Saturday Night Fever—the project that officially launched the trajectory of John Travolta’s career, where, with a haircut and white suit, the young hot shot evolved from Vinny Barbarino, Sweat Hog, to Tony Manero, disco icon—a film which, like any formidable piece of art, is as much a reflection of its times as it is the vision of its creator: A lean, mean, and bikini brief-clad Travolta halts in mid-strut and gazes lovingly up at his wall, upon which is a poster of the man—a bearded, long-haired, gold hoop earring-wearing undercover cop—and he haughtily, if speciously assures himself “I look like Al Pacino!” The symbolic import of this simple scene is substantial. The act of conferring coolness through establishing, by any means necessary, solidarity with Pacino—particularly a young cat who knows he’s bad, especially a movie character depicting a young cat who knows he’s bad—is about as ringing an endorsement of unequivocal hipness as anyone could reasonably hope to attain. This moment then, signified a passing-of-the-torch of sorts, and an informal promulgation of what most folks already knew: that Al Pacino, in short, is the ‘70’s, and along with Nicholson and DeNiro, formed the divine triumvirate of American motion-picture ascendency in that decade.

Coming less than a year after the searing intensity of his performance as Michael Corleone—in the role and movie, The Godfather, Pacino could not have chosen a more diametric project than the true story of Frank Serpico, the undercover cop who pits himself in a lonely—and costly—war against an entire police force. This film serves as a radical (and realistic) rewriting of the classic—and antiquated—American Dream myth, wherein the best man always wins, and good always prevails over evil. With an escalating irony that could only be culled from real life (otherwise it would be offensively implausible), the more he attempts to distance himself from the wrongdoing around him—which has casually corroded the department like a malignant infirmity—the more scorn he is subjected to. In a word, it doesn’t get any more American than this: Serpico, the man, and Serpico, the movie, are potent amalgams of, and commentaries upon, the country that made them. The idealizing, even naïve young man confronting corruption is arguably an invariable rite of passage for just about every individual who leaves the comforts—and conformity—of home for the bigger, badder realities of the world. When the individual is a police officer, and the subject of his disillusionment is the laissez-faire depravity of his precinct—and, to a larger extent, the backbiting, political system as a whole—the stakes are raised rather considerably.

It is sufficient testament of a job well done that it is impossible to imagine any other actor taking on the role of Frank Serpico and delivering such a capable, compelling performance. The tribulations of this alienated underdog provide the opportunity for Pacino to utilize a concentrated fervor in ways he never would (or could) again. It is a tailor-made vehicle for his expressive gifts: this is his superlative performance, his greatest role. He is, in turns, quiet, assertive, tranquil, indignant and incensed. He is a man of intelligence and integrity surrounded by the numbed and indifferent denizens of New York City’s police departments, amongst whom he wears out his welcome quickly—and irretrievably.

The crux of his dilemma is an unflinching nonconformity, which obliges the battle-wearied veterans of his precinct to examine not only their own detached compliance, but why he won’t go along with it. In a development that is perverse as it is ironic, he becomes increasingly regarded with suspicion because he refuses to break the very laws he’s sworn (and is paid) to uphold. Because he is honest, he cannot be trusted. If the story, or the actor, wasn’t up to the task, this rather unremarkable—indeed scarcely believable—story would seem trite, redundant, or nauseatingly bathetic. Thankfully, this true tale—which, like any worthwhile biography about an extraordinary individual, serves equally as a commentary on society and that evasive and evanescent perception dubbed the human condition—is abundantly provocative, discomforting, and ultimately redeeming.

Serpico is one of the rare and wondrous works of art that truly satisfies on all levels: it is, first and foremost, an intriguing and indelible movie experience. It is also an inspirational story that serves to remind us that crime often operates in an unremarkable, but eviscerating fashion. It reminds us that heroes don’t wear capes, and seldom wear badges. Often, they wear a look of defiance, and a battered, but not beaten pride—a weary, but unwavering integrity.

Serpico was—and will remain—one of the great things that came out of the much-maligned “me-decade”. The bell-bottoms, platform shoes, white suits, pompadours and carefully cultivated obtuseness faded, like the fads that they were. Disco faded; Travolta faded. Just because the cyclical engine of fashion has made some of these things unconscionably, and inconceivably cool again, doesn’t mean that they won’t once again drift back into the droll depths whence they sprang. The stuff of substance, soulful as it is scarce, will nevertheless continue to stick around—as it always does—especially on the fleet and unfashionable frequencies. And, despite The Godfather, despite Dog Day Afternoon, despite Scarface, despite Glengary Glen Ross and Heat—Pacino would never be this cool again. Just ask Tony Manero.

Share

‘They Live’: The Most Blunt Critique of Unfettered Capitalism Ever Committed to Celluloid

They Live was a postmodern pastiche of old-school science fiction that, for a variety of reasons, was too ahead of its time to be properly appreciated. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. It was too of its time, in 1988, and it’s even more of its time, in 2012, and it will not reach its expiration date in 2022, or 3022, if They are still amongst us—or vice versa.

They Live is actually very similar, in many regards, to John Carpenter’s other misunderstood and inadequately touted masterpiece, The Thing (More on that film HERE.). The Thing, released in 1982, did not fare as well as it could—and should—have and like They Live, it endures as a cult classic. Where The Thing offered an indelible examination of paranoia it was also an eerily prescient, if quite direct and unintentional commentary on the AIDS crisis. They Live was an explicit condemnation of the Reagan years, and the fact that its release virtually coincided with the country’s decision to effectively give him four more years, with George Bush as the delivery device for an extended “morning in America”, suggests some reasons it did not fully connect.

There are other reasons the movie struggled to find a wider audience. It’s too dark and truthful to be taken as satire; it’s too (intentionally) outrageous, in parts, to satisfy the mainstream critics who take themselves more seriously than the work they do, and it doesn’t seek cheap or easy scapegoats. The bad guys, and what incents them, could not be more unmistakable, but the real scorn is reserved for those citizens who will say or do anything to earn admittance into their club. This ethos, of course, was alive and unwell long before and after The Gipper flew Air Force One. As such, They Live offers as blunt a critique of unfettered capitalism, taken to its (il)logical extreme, as has ever been committed to celluloid.

For those who don’t know or can’t remember, the movie’s plot is quite simple, but the levels of psychological and sociocultural observation are nuanced and rich. The great reveal (literally) is when the blind suddenly can see (figuratively), a black and white breakdown of epidemic consumerism. The garish billboards decoded to offer simple commands such as “Obey” and “Reproduce” are now legendary, and the use of aliens in our midst is employed as a whacky twist that hits disconcertingly close to home.

Of course it takes place in Los Angeles. The city where fantasy is manufactured, for money, every day. The cityscape that we see as the movie begins is the same one shown throughout and the one we ignore, avoid or rationalize: alleys, graffiti-laden bridges, piles of smoldering trash, swarming tenements, a makeshift tent community of anonymous faces, all in various states of distress. There are not enough jobs, there is not enough money, there is less than sufficient trust and next to no expectation except for the worst. Sound familiar? They Live was of its time, to be sure, in 1988. It was of its time in 2008, and it will never not be of its time, not in America.

For the most part, Carpenter lets this material play out the only way it can be played: surreal, scary and with no shortage of very black humor. In an early scene that might have seemed either throwaway or over the top, we see a young woman on TV baring the soul she’d love to sell: “I stop being myself and I’m the star of a series or I have my own talk show… all I ever have to do is be famous.” Ridiculous, clichéd, and a pretty perfect depiction of the sordid spectacle of contemporary reality TV (and, to varying if increasing extents, “regular” TV, including the news). Some people look at alien skull masks and see farce; other people see Donald Trump, Ryan Seacrest or Mitt Romney.

A few words about Roddy Piper, the man required to carry the movie on his beefy shoulders. I saw this in the theater and remember thinking at the time: If only they had just cast Kurt Russell (who was, at that time, kind of like John Carpenter’s DeNiro), what artistic and aesthetic import it might have had. I was mistaken, and a quarter-century has served to reaffirm Carpenter’s judgment. The first 30 minutes, perhaps, would be different, even better, with Russell (or another established A-list actor). But once the glasses go on, the film needs the levity and authenticity Piper conveys. Of course, as a famous wrestler, “Rowdy” Roddy Piper was quite accustomed to acting, showmanship and spectacle—all of which are called for throughout.

What results is satire, only supersized. Hence, “the scene”: that nine minute fight sequence is the movie, the entertainment industry and America itself, in miniature: incredible, hilarious, exaggerated. That we have a wrestler, using wrestling moves in a movie is almost too meta. This is probably why it didn’t quite play in 1988 and why it could never really work, anytime. It’s at once too ludicrous and too real (a couple of blue collar guys, beating each other’s brains out, as the world rots around them and a cabal of super-rich, well-insulated freaks goes about the business of doing business).

In the final analysis, They Live is like The Matrix without the billion dollar ballet routines. And it only needs about 90 minutes to strip the glossy carcass off consumerism, infotainment, political power structures (hint: our elected officials take their orders from corporations, not the other way around), serving it all up in a visionary smart bomb that touches on McLuhan, Chomsky, Goebbels, P.T. Barnum. Carpenter’s triumph is the way he somehow distilled the best of George Orwell and Edgar Allan Poe, disguising it as farce turned bloodbath. In the end the good guy wins. Then he dies.

The bonus footage is almost too good to be true, and fans of the film will need this without hesitation. There is an interview with the sagacious, self-deprecating John Carpenter, brief conversations with the perfectly cast co-stars Keith David and Meg Foster, and a brief “making of” feature. The real treat is the audio commentary provided by Carpenter and Piper, which is predictably enlightening and amusing. There is a clear and abiding bond the two men share, Carpenter glad he went out on a limb and Piper eternally grateful he was given the shot.

Two final nuggets. At one point Carpenter is asked if he ever considered shortening the infamous fight scene. “Fuck no!” he replies, defiant as ever. “The ‘80s never ended,” he opines. “They are still here, making more money than ever, they are still among us.” Meg Foster recounts walking to her car, years after the film was made, and hearing someone shout down to her from a fifth floor window: They Live!. “Yes, they do,” she says, smiling sadly. That exchange sums up everything that could be said then, and now.

Share