Murphy's Law

In the late summer of 1982, two distinct entities from outer space infiltrated planet earth. One was a prehistoric creature with the ability to kill, then imitate its prey: it could attack its victims while remaining disguised amongst them by, in effect, becoming them. The other was an unusual looking but friendly creature, a voyager from another place with god-like powers of healing, an odd voice, and an affinity for Reese’s Pieces.

Guess which one fared better?

Of course, Steven Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial was the hit of ’82, and John Carpenter’s remake of The Thing had the famously unfortunate timing of opening two weeks later. That many people did not see it is a shame; that many critics dismissed it is typical. To be certain, it didn’t help matters that the assembled brain trust agonized over the relatively brief, but exceptionally gory special effects. Inevitably, they aged quickly—and rather poorly. While one can appreciate the attention paid to these ostensibly “scary” scenes, they are (ironically? inexorably?) the weaker moments in the film. It being a Carpenter production, cohesion and plot are occasionally undermined in ways that seem half-assed or ham-fisted. Still, after repeated viewings it manages to work on multiple levels, and despite any nitpicking it seems impossible to improve upon. The definition of a classic, perhaps, but it is something more, something more complicated than that. It is a unique and enigmatic movie; in hindsight it is easy to understand how it evolved, over time, from a cult classic to its current status as must-own DVD material (alas, no 25th anniversary deluxe edition arrived in 2007, but the existing Collector’s Edition—from 1998—is quite satisfactory): it needed time to truly find its audience.

So, aside from bad timing and a final product that feels, at times, oddly forced despite the obvious (and well documented) care and consideration that went into it, what is it that remains so right about this movie? For starters, it is to Carpenter’s credit that he assembled such a spectacular cast: virtually all of the actors make the absolute most of their relatively limited screen time, but Keith David, Richard Dysart, Donald Moffat and Richard Masur are in particularly fine form. As for Kurt Russell, it is amazing to recall that his role as R.J. MacReady came only a year after his testosterone-athon as Snake Plissken in Escape from New York (also directed by Carpenter), making this quite the one-two punch for both men. Considerable credit must also be given to Bill Lancaster’s excellent screenplay (to read John W. Campbell’s novella Who Goes There? is both to appreciate where the spirit of this film comes from—more so than the sci-fi classic The Thing from Outer Space that it was ostensibly updating—and appreciate how much Lancaster did with relatively little, in terms of actual plot, character development and drama).

It is, as intended, Kurt Russell’s film, but special mention must be made for the near miraculous performance of Wilford Brimley—a man who is perhaps best known as the wise-cracking senior citizen from Cocoon or as the Quaker Oats guy, or recently (and, thanks to the brilliant monkeys working around the clock on youtube, amusingly), the spokesperson with a tendency to mispronounce the most unamusing word in the English language, diabetes. As Dr. Blair, Brimley’s presence provides an austere integrity and the necessarily brainy moral grounding for events that would otherwise be in constant jeopardy of degenerating into parody. His dead-serious assessment of what is going on—before anyone else has figured things out—invests the growing unease inside the camp with a gravitas that makes it painfully clear, to the viewer, what is at stake. Later, after being secluded in a storage shed, the men visit him in a scene that manages to be sad, disturbing and comical.

One scene in particular offers perhaps the best illustration of why this movie continues to resonate, and why it was not fully successful as either a slam-bam action flick or a serious drama: Blair sits alone, at his desk, running a computer simulation of the diabolically efficient way the alien is infecting his team. In less than thirty seconds, the look on his face turns from world-weary stoicism to resigned acknowledgment of the likely consequences—for the men, and the rest of the world. Interestingly (and again, ironically?) it is probable that the impetus for this particular sequence, in addition to the obvious and necessary advancement of the plot in as succinct and clear a manner as possible, was to show-off the high-tech computer programming, circa 1982. Like the over-the-top transformation scenes, it is more hilarious than harrowing to look at the extraordinarily primitive technology, today. And yet, it worked, then, and works now, because of its stark imagery: in its way, it’s ten times more terrifying to watch the simulated organism at work, one blob on a screen capturing and assimilating its prey, than it is to watch the scattered “money shots” when the creature reveals itself.

Perfection is a word that should never be used lightly, but no other word will suffice for the wonders Ennio Morricone works, scoring this film. The name Morricone is—and should be—associated with brilliance, variety and superhuman productivity, just to pick a few obvious choices. While the list of only his very best efforts is not short, his work here must be considered amongst the top tier: The Thing would be unimaginable without it. Rather than overwhelming, or distracting the action on the screen—as film scores do with distressing regularity these days—Morricone’s music exists mostly on the periphery, in the corners and inside the shadows. Its effectiveness serves an almost opposite purpose to the handful of over-the-top alien transformations: the real horror of the story lies in the tension of not knowing, the dread of isolation and the fear of being assailed by an inexplicable enemy. Morricone subtly embellishes the otherwise silent scenes, where the only sounds are the Antarctic winds, the silence and the darkness. As the paranoia increases, strings are plucked like raw nerves, while stark, almost soulless keyboard drones mirror the growing desperation: the music exists as a wind chill factor, making everything colder and more forlorn than it already is.

And last but certainly not least: The Thing provides one of the best endings of any movie, ever. To use the word perfect, again, would seem silly, but there is no getting around it: the ending is perfect. Indeed, it’s even better than perfect, considering the pressure Carpenter must have felt to inject the type of horseshit heroic conclusion American audiences usually require. Carpenter’s decision to go with the ambivalent ending (which, actually, is truly heroic as opposed to some manufactured deus ex machina sequel-ready sendoff) very likely killed his chance at commercial viability. Carpenter knew this and did it anyway, saving both the movie’s integrity and his soul in the process. The fact that The Thing has attracted video sales ever since is wonderfully poetic justice, and confirms that you can occasionally scoff at the big studio machine and come out okay. Bottom line: Spielberg’s alien may have won the box office battle, but everyone knows that his maudlin Peter Pan wouldn’t have stood a chance at Outpost 31.

Harry Caul is a man less concerned with the answers to uneasy questions than the questions themselves. He is a well-regarded surveillance specialist; a self-employed spy who builds his own equipment and attracts high profile clients who will pay top dollar for his services. He claims not to care about the inner feelings of others, yet goes to great lengths to keep anyone from gleaning his personal thoughts. As such, he is a human coil of simmering tension, all nervous energy and restraint. It seems as though an urgent dialogue is endlessly unspooling in his mind. Or, he has several urgent dialogues simultaneously distracting him. Or, he is ceaselessly trying to suppress these urgent, distracting dialogues. That he is unsuccessful is obvious: his discomfort around others reveals the obsessions and idealizations simmering deeply beneath his austere facade. Ultimately, Hackman exposes a man who struggles so fervently to avoid telling anyone anything he inexorably shows everyone everything.

“I don’t have anything personal, nothing of value,” Caul insists at one point, and we know he means it. Or, we understand he thinks he means it. Or we realize, by the end, that he very much wants to mean it. The comprehension that he is involved in an event that might have appalling consequences unnerves him; the realization that he abetted people he would not knowingly have worked for devastates him. He trusts no one and thinks the worst of people, which is his personal tragedy. The larger tragedy is that on the few occasions he lets his guard down, or trusted his own instincts, he is proven spectacularly wrong for having done so.

In the closing scene, Caul plays his saxophone amidst the wreckage of his apartment, which he has ransacked to find a hidden microphone. Hackman, that most expressive and gregarious of actors, might achieve his finest moment portraying a lonely man’s quiet disintegration. All of his (apparently dispensable) possessions destroyed, he must finally face the music—while the sound of an unaccompanied horn cries out his sad song.

*Taken from the (highly recommended) PopMatters feature Essential Film Performances, Part  Two, running all this week. (A full assessment/appreciation of The Conversation is forthcoming.)

Chinatown does not usually make the short list of best American films. In fairness, it probably shouldn’t. It will have to settle for merely being the only perfect American film ever made. Perfect? Well, perfection is in the eye of the beholder, and the definition of perfect might include the notion that there is no such thing as perfection in art. Nevertheless, by any number of criteria, Chinatown continues to satisfy more than thirty years on. In the final analysis it’s the magnificent sum of its considerable parts: it’s tragic, it’s hilarious, it’s (at times) scary, it’s challenging, it’s complicated, it is unnerving. It is, in short, America. Or at least it does the near impossible: it articulates the symbiotic relationship between greed and power that props up capitalism, a narrative that played an ever-increasing role in 20th century America. Much could—and should—be said along these lines, and how Robert Towne’s meticulous screenplay was ideal fodder for Roman Polanski’s dark and utterly authentic vision (Polanski also deserves extensive praise for resisting the happier ending Towne wanted).

That is all well and good, but why does Chinatown remain compelling, and worthy of repeated viewings? Speaking personally, I’ve seen the film at least 15 times in the last 20 years, and each viewing has revealed new layers or nuance, and has only confirmed that initial impression: it’s perfect. The screenplay, the soundtrack, the casting: all unassailable. Memorable scenes? Really, the entire movie is just a series of memorable scenes. Or, more accurately, a continuous stream of indelible moments: Gittes (Jack Nicholson) in the barber shop, covered in shaving cream, angrily inviting the wiseass banker to step outside and “discuss things”; Gittes sardonically lamenting the loss of his shoe (“Son of a bitch! Goddamn Florsheim shoe!”); Gittes telling the dirty joke unaware of his soon-to-be-client and lover standing behind him; Gittes driving frantically through an orange grove to escape some pissed off farmers whose land he is trespassing upon; Noah Cross (John Huston as the flawlessly named incarnation of evil) persistently, and quite intentionally, mispronouncing Gittes name (Mr. Gits); Gittes calling the officious jerk in the public library a weasel; Gittes imploring Evelyn Mulwray (Faye Dunaway) to let the police intervene against Cross (her father) and her unsettling response: “He owns the police!”… the list could go on.

Perhaps most importantly, this is, quite simply a beautifully crafted work, the type of movie that can be savored without the sound on. One example: Gittes sits patiently at the top of a sloping cliff, overlooking the Los Angeles coastline as day slides into evening. He waits, lighting cigarette after cigarette, totally unaware that he has already stumbled into a hornet’s nest of corruption. The beauty of what he sees (and we see) perfectly masks the brutal ugliness of what is really going on: unwittingly, Gittes is about to lift up the rock and behold the guts and machinery of what gets sold as the American dream.

Naturally, Chinatown passes the ultimate test: is it still meaningful, today? Does it still tell us something about ourselves? Sadly, it does. Impossible as it may have been for Towne and Polanski to imagine, there would come a time where public trust of those in power deteriorated beyond even the Watergate era nadir of Nixonland. Today, as the fabricated sheen of Wall Street crumbles around us, we might ask the wizards who wrought this mess the same question Gittes asks Cross—and expect the same answer:

“Why are you doing it? How much better can you eat? What could you buy that you can’t already afford?”
“The future, Mr. Gits! The future!”

There it is: the most accurate and succinct depiction of unfettered greed you’re likely to hear. And to see John Huston convey it is to appreciate, and be appalled by, the allure and immorality of depraved power. Jake hears it, and sees it, and for him—and the country—it’s too little, too late. As always. “Forget it, Jake, it’s Chinatown,” his partner admonishes him. But Jake can’t forget it, and we know he won’t forget it. Neither will we.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/feature/64305/cinema-qua-non-indispensable-dvds-part-1b

On July 30, 1945, the USS Indianapolis, which had just delivered key components of the Hiroshima atomic bomb to the Pacific island of Tinian, was torpedoed by a Japanese submarine. Only 316 out of 1,196 men survived the sinking and shark-infested waters.

Sincere kudos to those brave soldiers who did (and did not) make it out of the water.

I’ve already celebrated the great Robert Shaw’s effort to immortalize this moment in American history, which became one of the scenes in American cinema. It seems worth revisiting, below.

I don’t have much to add to that picture, above. Except that I saw it, at a bar at Martha’s Vineyard (quite appropriate, since as most folks know, Amity Island, where Jaws terrorized beach-goers in 1975, was of course filmed at and around the Vineyard), and I snapped a shot. It kind of makes you want to tip back a Narragansett. Almost. Naturally, you’d have to down it in one prodigious swig, as Quint did in the immortal moment captured, above. The bartender appreciated my appreciation and remarked that the vintage ad was so popular, the bar actually carried the beer for a while. Ultimately, it was considered so iredeemably awful that they stopped tormenting the customers. And by torment, they meant: when people (like me) saw that ad, and saw that they actually had Narragansett in the house, they had to try it. I know I would have.

More could (and should) be said about the great Robert Shaw, who is best known for being Quint, but had other high profile roles, like Doyle Lonnegan in The Sting, Mr. Blue in The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (quite appropriate with the remake just about to hit unsuspecting summer filmgoers radar) and the overlooked and woefully unappreciated Sheriff of Nottingham in Robin and Marian (along with Sean Connery; you think you can handle the truth?). It can suffice to say that he had a ton of great work in him when he collapsed at 51, the victim of a heart attack.

There are any number of scenes that one could single out to celebrate Shaw’s genius but we all know which one rises above the rest. The scene. It not only is the best scene in Jaws, it also manages to be the most horrifying one, and the infamous shark never appears. One of the best scenes ever? It’s on the short list. And it’s all Robert Shaw (who actually rewrote the original dialogue and came up with what we now celebrate).

You follah?

This weekend PopMatters is revisiting an outstanding feature from a couple of years ago: The Best of TV on DVD. Definitely worth checking out. My entry, below, was on the gone but far-from-forgotten Kids In The Hall series.

The Kids in the Hall existed in a sort of parallel universe to the much more popular, much less brilliant Saturday Night Live. Though comparisons between the two are inevitable, perhaps because of the Lorne Michaels connection, Kids in the Hall should be appraised—and appreciated—as part of the crooked line connecting Monty Python, which preceded it, and Mr. Show, which followed. While attracting an intense cult fan base, the Kids faced at least three major obstacles that made crossover success pretty much an impossibility. They were Canadian and had a pronounced—and, for fans, most welcome—quirkiness. They were disarmingly intelligent, yet always willing and eager to embrace the oddness of life. Their one-two punch of ingenuity and eccentricity could be like Gary Larson’s Far Side cartoons—you either got them, immediately, or you did not. Lastly, they dressed in drag. Often, and convincingly. Too convincingly, perhaps, for the average American sensibility circa 1990-something.

Although only one member of the ensemble is gay, queer culture was featured prominently—or, at least unabashedly—waaaaay before it was as widely accepted, or commonplace as it would thankfully be less than two decades later. Perhaps the primary reason it was easier for some to describe, or dismiss the show as a bunch of dudes in dresses is because it was, and remains, pretty difficult to pinpoint what they were up to. Precious few impersonations, less than a little political pot-shotting, The Kids in the Hall managed to consistently skewer piety and send up our ever-uptight social mores through the creation of insanely indelible characters: they understood that to effectively ridicule the world they had to make themselves ridiculous. In one skit, fur trappers cruise office buildings, killing yuppies in order to sell their “pelts” to a high-end haberdashery. In another a harried corporate big shot, in the midst of a stress-driven cardiac arrest, rips his heart out of his chest, pouring coffee on it and yelling “Get back to work!” (more on that particular sketch, directly below, here). And how inadequate would our world be without the Head Crusher, the Chicken Lady, Buddy Cole or Cabbage Head?

The definitive sketch? Every fan will claim one, but it’s difficult to deny the exceptional “Retelling of a Complicated Italian Movie”, which features everything that made The Kids in the Hall so inimitable: as two guys in a bar discuss a foreign film, the happy hour crowd slowly assumes the roles being described. All of a sudden the storyteller is holding a pistol and melodramatic shots ring out. “Wow, what a complicated plot!” his friend says, still holding his buffalo wing as he collapses, clutching his bleeding stomach. You have to see it to disbelieve it, but it manages to be clever, surreal and, as always, hysterical. Naturally, one character is dressed in drag.

Bonus clip: this one, for me, illuminates everything that made Kids In The Hall so unconventially genius (and cliche-smashing) and, of course, exactly why it never had a chance to break big in the States (and it goes without saying that Scott Thompson is God).

MacMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; Jake Gittes in Chinatown; Jack “Here’s Johnny!” Torrence in The Shining—these aren’t characters from famous movies, they are permanent fixtures of American culture. Robert Dupea from Five Easy Pieces seldom registers on the short list of all-time great acting performances, at least in part because the character—like the movie—is not easy to admire or understand. The type of role tailor-made for an artist who insists upon working without a net, Bobby Dupea is at once emotional, withdrawn, silent, boisterous, ambitious and lethargic to the point of apathy. Five Easy Pieces is a study of the restless soul of a gifted individual (who could have been, and still could be, an artist) who is too smart for his own good, and has thus far squandered his youth, talent and energy in an ennui-ridden funk where he drifts from job to meaningless job, woman to faceless woman, sensation to numbing sensation.

All of us can discern something of ourselves in the unsatisfied, insatiable drifter; the citizen who is not content to live in a banal, preordained existence even as his every action (and lack of action) further ensnares him in a perpetuation of the life he abhors. In this regard, Five Easy Pieces is not only a commentary on the itinerant American rebel, it also examines the suffocating dynamics of a dysfunctional family, and the paralyzing dilemma of an individual blessed with extraordinary faculties he feels compelled to suppress. Dupea leads a life of not-so-quiet desperation, equally out of place amongst the working class and the class-conscious, condescending academics. And then there is the scene, which is one of the most amusing—and satisfying—in cinema history, when he clashes with the truck-stop waitress and the system she represents. In the disquieting climax, when he unsuccessfully attempts to persuade the first woman who seems perfect for him, she poses a rhetorical question that underscores the tragic paradox his muted antipathy:  “How can a man who has no love of himself ask for love in return?”  His inability to answer her, and his unwillingness to change himself, creates the taciturn resolution which leaves the viewer both saddened, and exasperated.

This DVD is an essential addition for any collection, and can be returned to over time: the nuances of the story and the subtle mastery of Rafelson’s direction are to be savored. All the performances are stellar, yet special kudos are warranted for Karen Black, the patient yet pathetic girlfriend and Helena Kallianiotes, the furious yet refreshing hitchhiker. The currently available DVD offers no extra material, but if any movie warrants the critical reissue with commentary, interviews and (if available) deleted scenes, Five Easy Pieces begs for the bonus treatment. This could be Nicholson’s penultimate performance and the reverberations from this urgent yet honest portrayal still linger on the lower frequencies of our collective consciousness. 

PopMatters is in the process of revisiting some particularly successful features. The one remembered this weekend, “The 50 DVDs Every Film Should Own” is highly recommended and can be read in its entirety, here: http://www.popmatters.com/pm/feature/part-3-the-stellar-70s/

Well…we’re waiting!

Actually, you already read this review.

You already wrote this review.

You can easily recall, now, when it occurred to you, sometime between the fifth or fifteenth (or fiftieth) viewing that everything possible to say about Caddyshack has already been said.

So you initially thought it might be advisable, if ironic, to discuss Caddyshack without invoking a single line from the movie. Eventually you realized that what we talk about when we talk about Caddyshack is…Caddyshack. Not quoting lines from Caddyshack to discuss Caddyshack, therefore, is only slightly less conceivable than going a single day without quoting (to others; to yourself) a line or three from Caddyshack. You are, of course, congenitally incapable of not quoting from Caddyshack. You are, after all, a male member of the genus Homo Sapiens (American species: Dude).

You’re no gentleman!

But you are also not a woman, so you can quote Caddyshack and you will defend Caddyshack.

Don’t worry about this one; if you miss it, we lose.

You arrived at the age, sometime between junior high and yesterday, where the lines you love so much from Caddyshack frequently sound funnier when your friends say them. Or when you say them to yourself. (It looks like a miraculous…it’s in the hole!). You may not know much, but you are fairly certain this is one unquestionable ingredient of a classic.

You’ve never stopped and thought about this, but if you ever stopped and thought about it you might think “Wait, the script is silly, the storyline is sophomoric, the acting of at least half the cast is execrable, the soundtrack features Journey and Kenny Loggins and above all, a donut with no holes is not a Danish!” Still, you would eventually come around and acknowledge that Caddyshack is not unlike the theory of relativity: you cannot understand it and you could never hope to explain it, but you are perceptive enough to concede it. Just like every other self-respecting doctor, judge or clergyman—and the loopers who rely upon their honor (your honor).

You’ll get nothing and like it!

You know: chinch bugs; manganese…a lot of people don’t even know what that is. You do, however, and even though these words are not particularly funny on the page, they are almost miraculous on the screen. Needless to say, we know they represent imperative components of any assistant greenskeeper’s knowledge base.

Nobody says those things about you as far as you know…

(Cannonball coming: how to adequately appraise the climactic encounter between Carl and Ty? You appreciate that the entirety of this deranged pas de deux was improvised on the set. You appreciate even more that in real life Chevy Chase and Bill Murray could barely stand the sight of one another (the pond would be good for you…). You especially appreciate that during this scene, and pretty much all the others in the movie, most of the characters were as drunk and drugged as they (weren’t) pretending to be.)

You wonder how Harold Ramis, here in his directorial debut, measures himself against other filmmakers. A: By height.

You never forget to be grateful that Caddyshack served as the successful vehicle that made Rodney Dangerfield – at that point a known but not well-known comedian—into one of the best-loved rascals in Hollywood. First there were the epic Miller Lite commercials (remember those? Of course you do) and then the solid, if second-tier treasure Back To School. (Rest in peace, Al, and remember: country clubs and cemeteries are the biggest wastes of prime real estate.)

You still get choked up (tears in his eyes, I guess) remembering what a genius Ted Knight was, and the unbelievably good sport he proved to be for taking part in this insanity. (Rest in peace, Elihu; let’s hope you are loofering stretch marks in Heaven.)

You’re a tremendous slouch!

You still regret not winning that scholarship to St. Copious of Northern…and you make it a point to pour tributes to poor Carl Lipbaum—who died in summer school from that severe anxiety attack and you still can’t believe that your roommate, Mitch Cumstein, was night-putting with the fifteen year old daughter of the dean.

How about a Fresca?

You are not so sure about that, (who drinks Fresca now; who drank Fresca then?) but you’re damn certain that you ain’t payin’ 50 cents for no Coke.

Is this Russia?

No, so you can count on some bonus material with this 30th Anniversary Special Edition. Along with the theatrical trailer (it’s no big deal) you get Caddyshack: The 19th Hole (that’s a peach, hon), a documentary with interviews, outtakes and some candid recollections from Ty Webb himself. You don’t get a free bowl of soup, but if you buy the Blu-Ray version you also receive Caddyshack: The Inside Story (more interviews, etc.).

Go for it: you might not otherwise learn that the original screenplay revolved around the caddies, and only once big-time (non-golf playing) players came on board (Spaulding, get your foot off the boat!) did the movie…evolve. It may not seem like much, but the fortuitous embellishment provided by these…adults served to ensure that Caddyshack did not degenerate into Meatballs II (Madonna with meatballs!).

To summarize, you hope that Caddyshack has prepared you for the possibility that one day you might get tired of having fun all the time. When you die, on your death bed, you will receive total consciousness (so you got that going for you, which is nice).

You already knew that.

Gunga-Galunga.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/review/127138-caddyshack

There are those special movies that change your life after you’ve seen them. Then there are the almost miraculous movies that stay inside you and then change your life again every time you return to them. Critically acclaimed upon its initial release in 1971, but long considered the ultimate cult classic, Nicolas Roeg’s Walkabout is receiving the well-warranted Criterion Collection treatment.

That it comes unreservedly recommended is certain; the new special edition DVD obliges the inevitable question: what makes this one of the landmark films of the last half-century? Answer: as a near perfect amalgamation of image, story and sound, Walkabout remains vital — and provocative — for its ability to present complicated questions that cannot (and need not) readily be answered. Like any memorable work of art, this movie manages to convey certain elusive insights that, upon reflection, are so obvious they seem revelatory.

Considered on its most basic terms as a deeply moving and occasionally disturbing drama that features consistently astonishing cinematography, Walkabout is entirely successful. As a subtly, almost casually polemic work, it is certain to compel just about any viewer to consider the world, and their preconceptions, in a slightly (or radically) different way. On deeper levels, the film’s refreshing lack of calculated profundity allows the arresting vistas of the Australian Outback — at once gorgeous and grim — to serve as both setting and a wordless commentary that speaks volumes.

Roeg, in his directorial debut, was the ideal champion for this material, taken from a novel by James Vance Marshall. Already an accomplished cinematographer, Roeg creates a continuous loop of scenes that pulsates with uncontrived symbolism, capturing some of the most audacious images ever to appear in a motion picture. Roeg, by trusting his eye and his environment, captures what Werner Herzog has described based on his experiences filming in the jungle: the so-called natural world is teeming with colors and humming with life, but the closer you look the more dangerous it appears.

Where Herzog uses long tracking shots (particularly the famous opening scene of Aguirre: The Wrath of God or multiple sequences in Fitzcarraldo) as an almost disarming strategy to illustrate the grandeur, Roeg pans in on the battles being waged in the wide open spaces of the desert. In either case, one quickly understands that the resplendent birds are actually shrieking in warning, not song, and that those colorful lizards are running toward prey or away from a predator. Despite our tendency to romanticize (or our historical obsession to tame) the wilderness, an unblinking assessment reveals an arena where every inch of space is occupied by an unending struggle for the inhabitants — no matter how large or small — to stay alive.

The plot of Walkabout, allegedly requiring the most succinct of screenplays (by British playwright Edward Bond, who provided what Roeg described as “a fourteen-page prose poem”), is more or less a variation on the classic coming of age parable. The action — and conflict — gets underway quickly when a teenager and her younger brother are stranded in the desert after their father abandons them in a most unsettling fashion. This scene is as surprising as it is appalling, but Roeg deftly orchestrates the turn of events so that they occur almost matter-of-factly. This would be impossible if not for the capable and perfectly cast actors, as well as an obvious comfort with and confidence in the material.

Standing in the overwhelming nowhere of the Australian Outback, the sister (Jenny Agutter) quickly comprehends that she somehow must protect her little brother (Roeg’s son Luc, credited as Lucien John) and find a way back to civilization. The camera languidly tracks their uncertain march, with scorching brightness succumbing to the moonlit chill of night. The slow panning shots of the endless landscape emphasize how helpless these children are, with neither dialogue nor sentiment. The sister encourages and cajoles her brother, careful not to acknowledge their lack of food and whether they are moving closer to safety or further into the desert.

An unexpected salvation arrives when the children encounter a native (David Gulpilil) who is undertaking his walkabout, a solitary excursion Aborigine males embark upon as the symbolic entrance into adulthood. The young man, roughly the same age as the sister, is unable to speak their language but eventually comprehends their distress. In a matter of moments we see him find water and hunt his food, an almost offhand commentary on the way he thrives in an environment that would have killed the children.

In the days that follow the children are taught — and begin imitating — techniques for survival, and a gentle, mutual bond is established. Stripped of her cultural ascendancy, the girl is at once grateful for and humbled by the Aborigine’s presence. The younger brother, less guarded and more innocent, is able to communicate without speaking, using gestures and sounds. The sister becomes increasingly cognizant of her surroundings, and a connection to the land that is much less tenuous than she could ever have imagined while ensconced in the secure routine of an urban existence.

During the course of what is presented as a typical day we see kangaroo skulls bashed in, large lizards impaled with sticks, sun-blistered skin, and amphibians devouring each other. Yet, the most disturbing sight by far — not surprisingly — is the short, sickening scene of a white man exploiting cheap labor from some natives. This ostensibly unconnected fragment functions like several similar moments where Roeg crosscuts images and action. In another, the Aborigine prepares his kill before a fire while (simultaneously) the scene is cut with a white-aproned butcher cleaving meat in a kitchen. These skillfully presented touches convey all that needs to be said without pretense or bathos.

Eventually the group finds an abandoned farmhouse, positive indication that they are in proximity to civilization. The tables subtly shift and now it is the Aborigine who seems slightly confused and out of place. In a poignant, quietly devastating scene, he observes a couple of hunters casually tracking their quarry from the safe distance of an off-road vehicle, then pumping it full of shotgun shells. The absurd juxtaposition of these camouflage-clad sportsmen and the almost-naked native is an entire commentary delivered in a sequence that lasts seconds. The lack of comprehension and the look of disenchantment etched on his face as the men drive off is an image that will stay with the viewer for a very long time.

The film’s most surreal, and strangely wonderful sequence occurs when the Aborigine, misconstruing the girl’s gratitude for love, performs a ritualistic courting dance for her. It is a scene that ends almost as quickly — and silently — as it begins, but the subsequent events will forever change both people’s lives. As the film concludes, everything is brought full circle, with a twist.

Years later, reintegrated into the city routine, the girl’s husband, back from another day at the corporate grind, enters their apartment. As he relays the office politics du jour, she is distracted by what appears to be a recurring daydream. In an alternate vision of how her life may have played out, she recalls the Aborigine who saved her life and offered his love, and envisions herself back in that world — a world that suddenly seems tranquil and inviting. It is a vision signifying the serenity — and soul — that her high-rise ocean view, and the life her choices have brought her is very obviously bereft of.

Walkabout, then, is sufficiently convincing, and satisfying, the first time one sees it, but it demands repeated viewings. The first experience offers enough twists to rivet and disorient; subsequent screenings will enable greater scrutiny (and appreciation) of the visuals, the colors and the sublime soundtrack. It requires more than one viewing to process — and register — the innumerable moments that illuminate Roeg’s genius for detail, whether it’s that awkward look the father and daughter exchange in their car, or the brother licking salt out of his sister’s hand, or a lizard scurrying out of a soda can. These moments add up to an experience that only accrues significance and resonance the more one engages with the world. Mostly, it remains an enriching example of the opportunities great art affords us in our collective quest to understand who we are and why we’re here.

As you should expect from a Criterion reissue, this latest incarnation looks and sounds spectacular: if you have never owned Walkabout on DVD, this is the type of film that justifies the expense and epitomizes the positive aspects of newer and better technology. To be certain, one does not need a big flat panel with surround-sound to fully enjoy the many charms of this particular film, but let’s face it, it’s the next best thing to seeing it in a theater.

The bonus disc contains brief and fascinating interviews with two of the stars. Agutter reminisces about her experience on the set and has nothing but positive things to say about the cast and crew. The other interview, with Luc Roeg — an industry veteran who produces films — is equally worthwhile. He discusses the unique opportunity of working with his father, and how his role was presented as an adventure in order to acquaint him with the process of acting (particularly for such a challenging on-location set).

Finally, and most intriguing, is the hour-long feature on David Gulpilil, who has enjoyed a long acting career while (literally) remaining true to his roots, balancing a life between movie sets and his family home in the bush. This documentary could easily be sold and marketed as an immensely worthwhile addition to any movie fan’s collection; that it comes packaged with the movie that introduced him to the world should elevate this edition of Walkabout to the top of your must-have list for 2010.

My vices protect me but they would assassinate you!

That is from Mark Twain, a man who talked the talk, walked the walk, drank the drank and, for good measure, smoked the smoke. This was the famous quote that kept running through my mind like a mantra, or a rallying cry, as I read the trashy, sensationalistic, poorly written masterpiece by Robert Sellers entitled Hellraisers. The full title is Hellraisers: The Life and Inebriated Times of Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O’Toole and Oliver Reed. To be frank, and anyone who knows even a little about any of these icons, the book could have focused on just one of them and had more than enough material to fill a volume. That it is crammed with (outrageous) stories involving all four of them is almost too much of a bad thing (bad meaning good but also meaning awful). What follows is not a review so much as a celebration.

I read this book in short, ecstatic snippets over the course of the past month. If you are the type of person who buys toilet books (does anyone buy toilet books?), this one is an automatic addition to your potty arsenal. Me, I was reading it before bedtime and while the laugh-out-louds were frequent, I invariably got drunk enough from the contact buzz to pass out after a few pages.

I think this book can be properly appreciated as a document of (cliche alert!) a truly different era. These types of artists simply don’t exist anymore and, to be honest, they could not possibly exist. I’m not necessarily implying that contemporary cinema will suffer for it, but these days (as Richard Harris points out) Tom Cruise shows up at a screening with a bottle of Evian while Harris and his compatriots would turn up, with neither irony nor a compulsion to impress, sporting a bottle of scotch. Is our society, or our silver screen, unduly affected by this passing of the gourd? Who knows. And who cares.

One thing that is certain: celebrities today are unhealthily obsessed with their status. Their capacity for sensation is a business decision, often engineered by PR hacks, or else enacted electronically: a tweet here and an interview there, all safely behind the glass. Could you imagine having a pint with just about any Hollywood A-lister? Of course you couldn’t. The fact of the matter was, these four rapscallions were (cliche alert!) men of the people, and by word –and more significantly, by deed– they were both entirely at ease and happiest when they were surrounded by the so-called common folk. Even though each of them was extraordinary in his own way(s), all of them came from difficult or at least potentially unpromising origins: they knew how little separated them from the coalminers they came up with, and how fortunate they were getting paid to pretend as opposed to breaking their backs in a factory.

And, (cliche alert!) talk about keeping it real. These chaps threw back pints and threw around their fists because they wanted to and, to a certain extent, they had to. Here’s an instructive anecdote: On a visit to Rome Harris persuaded one of the film executives to join him in order to witness first hand that it wasn’t always the actor who started all the brawling. On their first night they went to a bar and listened as a drunken American tourist spelt out in a loud voice how he was going to do in Harris. The executive advised his client to take no notice. “Do you want me to wait until I get a bottle across the face,” reasoned Harris, “or go in and get it over with.” The executive could see only logic in this statement and Harris took the insulting Yank outside and flattened him.

Here’s the thing. That’s not old school; that is one room and no electricity school. And while I’m not endorsing or advocating a top tier artist (or any average citizen) employing violence to settle their disputes, there is something almost refreshing (not quite quaint, but close) in this mano a mano arithmetic. Consider that, and compare it to our contemporary film, rock, and especially rap superstars with their posses, guns and melodramatic beefs. Drive-bys and group beatings? How about this: Got a problem? Let’s squash it right here, right now, without weapons or a crew of thugs jumping in.

At the same time, I’m not suggesting that these paleolithic antics didn’t have deleterious effects on their lives, as well as their art. Did we get the best they had to give? The verdict on all four (particularly Burton) is quite clearly nay. But would we otherwise have gotten This Sporting Life? Could we ever conceive Lawrence of Arabia? (It’s commonly agreed that O’Toole’s work here is among the best in movie history, but it may not be as well known that the almost impossibly elegant actor was hearty enough to endure an excruciating desert shoot that would have crippled many other thespians.)

Did each of them forfeit the best years of their artistic (not to mention actual) lives to drinking and skylarking? Perhaps, although it depends upon one’s definition of what entails a life best lived, and that is fodder for another discussion altogether. Based on the anecdotes and testimonials contained within these pages, not a single one of them regretted leading such unabashed existences (even if none of them could recall large chunks of those lives due to the state they were often in).

Let’s look at The Tale of the Tape (taken directly from the book).

Exhibit A, Richard Harris:

- One night Harris was thrown out of a pub at closing time, but still in need of a drink boarded a train just to make use of its open bar. With no idea where the train was headed he arrived in Leeds completely (inebriated) at one in the morning. With nowhere to go he walked down a nearby street and seeing a light on in a house chucked a stone at the window. The owner came storming out but upon recognizing Harris invited the star inside. Harris stayed there for four whole days and wasn’t sober once. Eventually the man’s wife phoned (Harris’s wife): “I’ve got your husband.” She was shocked when (Harris’s wife) replied, “Good, keep him.”

- In his favorite New York bar the bartender would see Harris walking in and immediately line up six double vodkas.

- At home in the Bahamas neighbors took to dropping by uninvited. To deter them Harris conceived an impish plot. One afternoon a family living close by turned up. Walking inside they found Harris with two mates sitting naked watching porno movies and masturbating. “Oh, hello there,” said Harris. “Come on in.” The incident went round the island like all good gossip does and afterwards Harris was left pretty much in peace; the way he wanted it.

- “When they took him away to hospital (shortly before his death)”, recalls director Peter Medak, “the lobby just completely stopped, and Richard sat up on the stretcher and turned back to the whole foyer and shouted, ‘It was the food! Don’t touch the food!’ That was typical Richard.”

(Personal note: just looking at the various interviews and clips on YouTube reveal without any doubt that Harris was a master storyteller and what we used to without irony call a bon vivant. He is a pub legend and if he did little else in his long life than bring amusement and joy to the thousands of people fortunate enough to have their eyes, ears and beers in his vicinity, it was a great deal more than most human beings are capable of imparting. Of course he did much more than that and he will endure as one of the genuine characters of the 20th Century.)

Exhibit B, Richard Burton:

(Personal note: this book will be a required purchase for anyone who has ever been fascinated by Burton’s relationship with Elizabeth Taylor. I must confess, I’ve never cared much about it, or her, but could not help but be amused, and startled, to discover that in her prime she could drink just about any other human being under the table. “I had a hollow leg (in those days)…my capacity was terrifying,” she recalls. So they had that little hobby in common, but it was definitely Liz’s looks that put the hook in Burton. “Burton referred to Taylor’s tits as ‘Apocalyptic. They would topple empires before they withered.’” Let’s stop and savor that for a second: there are novelists whose collected works don’t contain a line that perfect. Inevitably, both Burton and Taylor withered, and it was from the inside out. Anyone who was born between 1970 and 1980 can recall seeing these two on TV (or in a movie) and thinking “What’s all the fuss about?” and having their parents quickly set them straight. In their primes they were arguably the brightest and most beautiful stars in the Hollywood galaxy. But wither they did, and it was an expensive, languid, and hard-earned degeneration. With Burton, it wasn’t a matter of how much he consumed, but how he managed to find time to eat or sleep or breathe. On a given day he might plow through three full fifths of vodka. I’m not certain I’ve had that many martinis in my life. All of which is to say, of the four, Burton is generally considered the one who had the most to give and gave the most away as a result of his addictions –which either prompted or exacerbated a lethargy and greediness that devoured entirely too much of his energy and ability. More than a few notable folks offered the opinion that had Burton exerted a bit more control over his vices he may have ultimately become the most revered stage actor of all time, surpassing even Olivier.)

- During one particular scene (in 1966′s The Spy Who Came in From the Cold) Burton was required to down a whiskey. The props department brought in flat ginger ale, the movies’ usual substitute for scotch, but Burton waved it away. “It’s only a short scene, won’t need more than a couple of takes. Bring me some real whiskey.” In fact the scene needed 47 takes. “Imagine it, luv,” Burton bragged to a journalist later, “47 whiskies!”

- Burton had arrived to work on The Klansmen drunk and stayed drunk throughout filming, consuming three bottles of vodka a day, a routine he’d been following for the past six months…when (the director) was filming Burton’s death scene he complimented the make-up man. “You’ve done a great job.” The make-up man replied, “I haven’t touched him.”

- Staggering home at three in the morning, O’Toole tried to carry (Burton)…and both men stumbled into the gutter. Somebody stopped beside them on the pavement. It was Alan Bates, O’Toole’s ex RADA colleague. “Peter,” he said, “today I’ve just signed up for my first commercial picture.” “We both looked up,” recalled O’Toole, and said “You coming down to join us, then?”

Exhibit C, Oliver Reed:

(Personal note: I have a special place in my heart for Ollie. I couldn’t have been more than ten the first time I saw the musical Oliver! and Reed, as Bill Sikes, scared the living shit out of me. He was the real deal: the kind of face you could smash a torch into, break a bottle on and pour hot oil over and he’d smile…before he killed you. I then enjoyed him as the perfectly cast father in the movie version of Tommy. He was (cliche alert!!) absolutely one of those rare actors who, for me, I’d watch in virtually anything he did just because he had that presence: he loved the camera and the camera bloody loved him. That he ended up dying, in a bar, after drunkenly arm wrestling with a group of sailors four decades younger was…pathetic, predictable, perfect.)

- In an early role (as a werewolf, in a wretched B-movie), Reed enjoyed keeping his make-up on at the end of the day and terrifying fellow motorists at traffic lights.

- After Tommy Reed and The Who’s Keith Moon continued their rabble-rousing friendship. Reed enjoyed a game that he christened “head butting”. Each player was required to smash his head against his opponent until one collapsed or surrendered. A regular victim was (The Who’s bass player) John Entwistle, who, after being knocked out three times, pleaded with the nightclub owner to either ban the game or ban Ollie.

- Filming The Great Question (1983) Reed was stuck in Iraq…in what was essentially a war zone. One night Reed joined the crew for numerous drinks in the hotel bar and, looking in the nearby restaurant, saw a Texas oil billionaire whom he knew. Jumping up, obviously drunk as a skunk, he rushed upstairs to his room. “When he came back down he was wearing a western shirt and cowboy boots and walked John Wayne style into the restaurant to see his buddy,” recalls stunt man Vic Armstrong. “Inside he gave this guy a Texas handshake, as he called it, which basically means lifting your leg up and smashing your cowboy boot down on the table. So Ollie walked up to this guy’s table, surrounded by women and other dignitaries, and smash, all the cutlery and glass went flying in the air. Suddenly Ollie looked at the guy and it wasn’t his mate at all, it was some Arab with his harem, deeply offended that this westerner had come stamping on his table and upsetting everything.

- Reed had his private parts (which he was fond of calling his “mighty mallet”) emblazoned with the images of two eagle’s claws. Not long after, he had an eagle’s head tattooed on his shoulder, so when people asked why he had an eagle’s head on his shoulder he could reply, “Would you like to see where it’s perched?”

Exhibit D, Peter O’Toole:

(Personal note: after reading this book I’m more convinced than ever that if I could come back as another person and experience their life, Peter O’Toole would be on the very short list.)

- Interviewer: “Are you afraid of dying?” O’Toole: “Petrified.” Interviewer: “Why?” O’Toole: “Because there’s no future in it.” Interviewer: “When did you last think you were about to die?” O’Toole: “About four o’clock this morning.”

- O’Toole once arrived late for a ferry back to Ireland, the gangplank having just been raised. When the captain refused him entry O’Toole seized the ship’s papers, without which it couldn’t sail. He was only persuaded to hand them over by the arrival of a policeman. O’Toole then chartered a plane to Dublin, hired a taxi upon landing and raced from the airport to the harbour. When the ferry arrived there was O’Toole waiting on the dock to challenge the officer to a fistfight.

- O’Toole had never been the most subtle of people and old age hardly dented his un-PC ways. He had little time for the current crop of British stars like Hugh Grant. “Ugh, that twitching idiot! Ooh, I musn’t say that, must I, but he’s just a floppy young stammerer in all his films.” (Personal note: HaHaHaHa!)

- At the 2002 Oscars, O’Toole was to receive a lifetime achievement award. However, on discovering the bar served no alcohol, he threatened to walk out. Panicked producers had some vodka smuggled in.

In the final analysis, these men were geniuses on the screen, and depending upon how one judges such things, geniuses off it as well. One could maintain that, like Oscar Wilde, they were equally geniuses at life: they lived life fully on their own terms, and after all the broken glass, bludgeoned livers, wrecked relationships, wounded feelings and untapped potential, the sum shined brighter than the bits and pieces. Were they running away from their demons even as they rushed, face first, into a mirror or bar brawl or oncoming vehicle? Perhaps. But there was a courageousness to their conviction and intolerance for half-measures that, for better or worse, we’ll seldom if ever see again. They lived the lives they led because they had no choice, and more to the point, because nobody else could.

First off, full disclosure.

I don’t exactly have a love/hate relationship with the Coen Brothers, because there is too much gray area. Some of their movies I love without reservation (Raising Arizona, Fargo, The Big Lebowski) and some I really find inspid (Miller’s Crossing, O Brother Where Art Thou and especially The Hudsucker Proxy). But, I guess, to their credit, they also have plenty of films I am largely indifferent about, or find simply okay (this includes near misses like Barton Fink and Blood Simple). I was underwhelmed with No Country For Old Men the first time I saw it, but liked it better the next time –always a good sign. Burn After Reading was what it was: a lark; a lightweight effort with a heavyweight cast, mostly salvaged by the never unimpressive George Clooney. And then there are the rest of them, of which the less said the better.

Which brings us to A Serious Man. Their latest film garnered some, well, serious praise (including two perfect-10 ratings from colleagues from PopMatters whose taste and opinions I admire). If you have not seen it yet, be prepared for some spoilers: this is not a review; it’s a postmortem. The plot, presented as a pitch, sounds irresistible: college physics professor (and Jew) who seems a nice enough fellow is, without warning, suddenly made to suffer a series of unfortunate events; he is a present-day Job for our postmodern times. Add the Coen brethren’s patented black humor alongside their perverse sensibility, and hilarity shall ensue. Pretty good premise, right? (My first thought was, we’ve already seen this one, and it was called The Man Who Wasn’t There, which was less a movie and more a 90 minute exercise to see how many cigarettes Billy Bob Thornton could smoke.)

The leitmotif of the movie is provided (in a typical instance of when the Coen brothers’ goofy irreverance goes wrong) by the Jefferson Airplane chestnut “Somebody To Love”: When the truth is found to be lies/And all the joy within you dies. This is its first problem. Setting up the framework of this anti-morality play, however cheekily, with such a literal (and cornily shoehorned) statement of purpose begs two big questions which had better be answered in some fashion. One, what is the truth? Two, is there any evidence that there was ever any joy inside our hero?

Let’s look at the tale of the tape: decent man with annoyingly needy brother who has moved in. And a vulgar wife who asks for a divorce to facilitate the affair she is having. And two bratty kids. And a racist neighbor. And a health scare. In lesser artists’ hands, a protagonist with this sort of curriculum vitae is a guy we like and can relate to who has horrible things happen and just when it can’t get any worse, it gets better. You know, the types of movies usually starring Will Smith or Tom Hanks. The problem with A Serious Man is that Larry Gopnik, despite all the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune, never seems to lose much that he’d be better off without. And I’m quite certain that is not what the Coen Brothers are after, which is not the fault of the actor, but of the writing and direction.

O Brothers, Where Art Thou?

The film’s internal engine stalls on this irreconcilable conflict: if we can’t help thinking Larry has never been happy, or might be in a better place away from all of these miserable creatures all around him, it sort of sucks the air out of the movie’s momentum. And because the viewer (or, this viewer) became distracted by this…distraction, it…distracted from what must be the primary objective of any film, which is providing unfettered engagement without distraction. All of which is to say the Coens violate the operating principle of the storytelling process, and it isn’t “give us a character we care about” (that is something only unimaginative critics and untalented writing professors blather about); rather, it is: give us a character who does not strain credulity to an insulting degree. When minor characters, especially ones in Coen Brothers movies, are somewhat less than believable, it can be and often is in the service of delightful nuance. In other words, it does not grab attention or focus from the thrust of the proper narrative. On the other hand, if that character is the prime mover of the action (even in a movie where the prime mover is Fate with a capital Cliche and the protagonist is the dust this Mighty Wind blows about with biblical imperiousness), we are stuck in neutral, which in Coen Brothers projects is often (and generously) assumed to be black humor.

At this point one can sense the more defensive fans sighing in exasperation and patiently explaining how the monstrous math equation in the classroom illustrates everything, or the (very Coens-esque, or is that Coensian?) Asian student personifies the enigmatic fulcrum upon which action (or, in this case, inaction) prompts reaction, or the even simpler fact that it’s black humor, dummy; Gopnik is the pawn of an uncaring universe and the better he tries to be, the harder the universe bends him over. Well, okay. But then we’re failing on simple human as well as artistic levels: one need only look to the slums of Bombay or the killing fields of any third world country to see innocent people suffering terribly for crimes they never committed. Maybe the Coens should have named this one Slumdog Hundredaire.

Or try this: even though Gopnik’s suffering is over the top, even by Job’s standards (Job, mercifully, never had to deal with the petty foibles of a professor sweating tenure), one doesn’t feel pity for him in regards to his contemptible progeny. At what point is he himself at least partly culpable for the churlish punks he has reared?

Put yet another way: if this is tragedy, it calls to mind why contemporary audiences aren’t particularly fond of or familiar with the ancient-school shtick of some recondite curse invoked to explain how and why everything goes wrong. There’s a very good reason the Deux et machina act doesn’t resonate with folks these days. Or, the abiding genius of Shakespeare involves his ability to delineate the human element informing the big unraveling.

And if all this makes me sound like a prudish traditionalist, I would suggest that the film’s entire structure is slickly super-glued to resist critique: the person offering the criticism is simply not in on the joke; they don’t get it. And I’ll eagerly stand up and be counted as being all for any endeavor mocking the platitudes and sadism masquerading as morality that organized religion so often makes a killing (often literally) from. Pointing out, as the film does, the obtusity of the clerics and their incompetence in dealing with virtually any sort of human dilemma is something to be celebrated. Ditto the Coen brothers’ obvious disdain for lawyers: don’t hope for comfort or expertise from these dissembling shmucks. On these points, I’m picking up what they’re putting down.

Listen: I ain’t offended by misanthropy; I can handle the truth. And if The Truth is that the Coens loathe humanity, or the world, whatever. More power to them, but I felt the same way I do when I watch virtually every Woody Allen movie: please, for your sake, I hope you are in actuality a very happy person and merely a miserable artist. In the final analysis, it’s not the filmmakers’ view of the world I find offensive (or facile); it’s their hostility toward artistic engagement. What they successfully create in almost every film (except the great ones) is a bleak cinemascape that leaves a certain demographic (likely the same ones who worship Woody Allen movies) feeling smug and superior, and a clique of not-quite-as-intelligent-as-they-think-they-are critics rolling over and panting for more stale scraps.

The big punch line is more like a punch in the nuts. When the inscrutable rabbi finally speaks, his quote (bringing it all full circle!) of Jefferson Airplane is…can I get an Oy, man? And from an editorial standpoint, simply quoting the lyrics would have been tolerable, barely. But the too-cute-by-two-thirds naming of each individual band member is both unbelievable and profoundly unamusing. It is an archetypal bad Coen Brothers moment: one feels the intrustion of their arrogance, their self-love surpassing their other people-hate. At long last, one grows tired of the types of movies made by grown men who ultimately love nothing quite so much as the smell of their own farts.