I may have to go purchase a five gallon (ten gallon?) hat just so I can properly tip it to the good folks at Sabotage Times for unearthing this gem.

Wow. As my boy Shieldsy (tip to him as well for sending it to me) and I agreed: we can’t say anything about this because what can you say?

Whether or not Kubrick’s take on The Shining (combining elements of pretense, fussiness, precision, detachment bordering on aloofness and a host of other things, some distinctly Kubrickian, others less so) did Stephen King’s novel justice, greatly outpaced it, brilliantly reimagined it or…whatever, there can be no arguments –and none will be tolerated– that Jack Nicholson was not perfectly cast. He had fun with it and he let us have a lot of fun with it. But he also took it very seriously, and there are moments (many of them) that are quite serious indeed.

I don’t want to talk about it; I want to celebrate it (more on Kubrick here):

Still reeling from the sad news about Don Cornelius, it’s painful to acknowledge the loss of another irreplaceable master, Ben Gazarra. Some good tributes out there. (Here’s one.)

What can you say about Gazzara? He was relevant in every decade going back to the ’50s. And it wasn’t just his longevity or his unique, idiosyncratic style(s); he was old school in the sense that he radiated that aura: above all, he was a man. That might not sound like much, or it may even sound silly (who cares? these are actors playing roles and they can be transformed into heroes or villains depending on the script and the director), but back in the days when special effects did not do as much to determine what an actor could –and could not– do, it mattered when a man could bring that certain gravitas to a role. As such, he was never typecast (because he was too talented) but he did inexorably bring that aura to each role. These were days when directors counted on that aura, because it conveyed legitimacy that was understood before a single line was spoken.

My impression of Gazzara is not unlike my impression of Gene Hackman: I have not seen all his films, and some of them are very bad indeed, but there is no doubt that each man makes the particular movie, no matter how messy, a lot better than it would otherwise have been. Even in movies where the results are difficult to adequately describe or defend (in many regards, the essence of a good film, no?), you always have to account for the Gazzara factor.

To take just one example, consider The Killing of a Chinese Bookie. Nobody but Gazzara could have played that role. More, no one but Gazzara should have played that role. As much a period piece as a work of art, it epitomizes the extreme edge of the ’70s DIY ethos (which was the calling card of John Cassavetes). Equal parts improvisation and the channeling of an older world that was quickly changing (in less than a decade it would be gone for good), Bookie is, in an unironic twist, too convincing to be a first rate thriller. It’s too quirky to be a definitive character sketch. It is, ultimately, a window into that disappearing world that was leaving men like Cosmo Vitelli (they don’t have names like that anymore; they don’t have people like that anymore) abruptly in the rear view. More, it is a window of sorts into the darker angels of Gazzara’s nature: a man who struggled with drink and depression, some of that frustration, confusion and despair is uncomfortably palpable on the screen. Indeed, a portion of it was present in every role he played.

And, despite the sketchiness and grim reality of some of the characters he portrayed, it must be said that Gazzara was always enjoyable. There is a tri-fecta of roles that the younger generation will be familiar with, and all of them showcase not only why Gazzara was one of a kind, but also how oddly addicting he is –as an actor, as a person. The voice, the face, the mannerisms. There was nobody else remotely like him.

He obviously enjoyed himself slumming in the totally over the top, almost painfully perfect junk food matinee Road House. (One thing about this movie that saved it from being a total debacle: the casting was pitch perfect across the board).

In 1998 he had a year that, if he weren’t already a legend, could practically constitute a career. The one-two punch as Jackie Treehorn in The Big Lebowski (dig it here) and the inscrutable father in Buffalo 66 are roles that will correctly be watched, quoted and celebrated as long as people are watching, quoting and celebrating movies. His slightly surreal, borderline whimsical, vaguely unsettling, thoroughly genius “performance” of “Fools Rush In” is as perfect as a movie scene can be. Treat yourself to it, here.

In an interview from 2006, Gazzara had this to say when asked about his legacy:

“Nobody ever knew what to do with me because I wasn’t easily pigeonholed.” But he was never bitter when a coveted role went to someone else, he once told the San Francisco Chronicle. “I don’t know why,” he said. “Maybe my ego, my Sicilian pride. And I was never jealous of another actor, ’cause … I knew I had the goods.”

Damn right he had the goods. It is to our considerable fortune that he found a way to share them with the world.

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?

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 clips: this two, for me, (and for very different reasons) illuminate 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).

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.

This scenario, magnified many times over (in terms of the cash, and the stakes) is what Jeffrey Wigand went up against when he made the excruciating decision to defy his former employer, Brown and Williamson, and expose their big, dirty secrets on 60 Minutes. His reluctance to quietly play ball helped get him fired; his refusal to remain silent made him a target of a very committed company with ridiculously deep pockets. Like Serpico, Wigand was obliged to work from within to affect change. He is, in the words of Lowell Bergman (serendipitously portrayed by Al Pacino), the “ultimate insider”. So why is this story important? Trying to remember the world when it was still in Big Tobacco’s unthreatened sway is sort of like trying to imagine the same world before it was wide and webbed. Yet both of those eras are not impossible to recall: they are still quite clearly in the rear-view mirror; one just needs to see through the smoke.

From today’s segment (Part Four of Five) in PopMatters’ feature Decade-Dense: The 60 Most Memorable Films of 1999, my review of The Insider appears (it is also posted, directly below, with some additional clips from the film).

Even before they started taking down the Marlboro Man billboards, just about everyone agreed cigarettes were bad for you. Macho associations aside, it was more a matter of freewill; not unlike drinking alcohol, certain risks are associated with legal, if unhealthy behavior. That’s America. Of course, more than a few people would have been outraged to learn how much chemical manipulation was taking place in order to make those cancer sticks even more habit- forming.

So: some dirty secrets were kept strictly under wraps, as a matter of policy. Big Tobacco counted the money and its executives testified that, to their knowledge, nicotine was not addictive. Considering the money involved, the perjury committed, and the industry’s unfettered success with litigation, only the most recalcitrant underling would dare defy its wrath.

Enter Jeffery Wigand, VP of Research and Development at Brown & Williamson in Louisville Kentucky. He is well paid if unfulfilled, but reaches the end of his moral rope once he discovers the company is systematically using toxic chemicals (like ammonia) to enhance the addictive properties of its cigarettes. His refusal to play ball gets him fired; his refusal to remain silent about it invokes the god-like wrath of his former employer. Enter Lowell Bergman, producer for the CBS show 60 Minutes, who could accurately be called a crusader (as a compliment from his fans and an epithet from his enemies).

Bergman meets Wigand by chance, but quickly realizes the powerful information the scientist is struggling to conceal. The tipping point—for both men—is when they each understand how badly Wigand actually wants to speak out, and it’s only the threat of a lawsuit (and loss of severance) that is keeping him quiet. To ensure they have made their position clear, B & W initiates some subtle and not-so-subtle harassment of Wigand’s family. Once the death threats begin, he decides to tell his story to Mike Wallace. The rest is history.

The Insider is an unqualified artistic success, and one of the most important movies of the last ten years. It is remarkable drama, compellingly portrayed. It is also director Michael Mann’s finest film. It features a gorgeous soundtrack (courtesy of Lisa Gerrard). It boasts some of the finest acting in Al Pacino’s legendary career. And Russell Crowe not only delivers his personal best work, he turns in what is possibly the best performance since De Niro in Raging Bull. With all respect to Mann’s considerable abilities, he wisely manages to stay out of the way and let the scope of this story supply its own abundant energy. His restraint has the opposite effect of the overwrought (and overrated) Heat, which attempted to parlay an armed robbery into an opera.

With The Insider, he takes grand theater and mostly scales it down to its human elements: the people making the decisions and the people devastated by them. Forget the forever discussed showdown between Pacino and De Niro in Heat. The ongoing confrontations (initially contentious, ultimately loving) between Pacino and Crowe are effulgent. Their entire time on the screen is a two-and-a-half hour acting clinic.

Jeffrey Wigand, as a character (and a role) is practically too good to be true: his life is derailed in part by his own hubris and mostly by the ugliest kinds of corporate machinations. Ultimately he recognizes his fate is to accept the circumstances and consequences that are bigger than his privacy or security. Crowe is equal to the task. Beyond the superb script and expert direction, he instinctively grasps that in order to convey the depths of Wigand’s turmoil (and, equally important, avoid an easy, almost inevitable descent into bathos—one shudders to think of what the majority of A-List actors would have done to this part, if given the opportunity), he has to present a brilliantly flawed man always at risk of imploding. Wigand is not a saint and neither Crowe nor Mann attempt to portray him as one. There is so much anger, frustration and fear coiled within his super-sized frame, Crowe consistently seems obliged to expel words from his mouth as much as speak them. As Wigand, he is almost unrecognizable with his added weight, bleached hair, glasses and disheveled defensiveness.

As Lowell Bergmann, the irrepressible producer who has the pleasure (and burden) of working with the megalomaniacal Mike Wallace, Pacino conveys the passion and purposeful edge that made Wigand’s ultimate triumph possible. Bergmann’s quandary is less dangerous but arguably more unwieldy: after gaining Wigand’s trust and convincing him to break his confidentiality agreement, he is directed by the brass at CBS to censor the segment. “The greater the truth, the greater the damage,” he is told in a sickening sequence that illustrates the ways in which corporate media’s cowardice might be even more profound than Big Tobacco’s rapacity.

The Insider is a rare artistic achievement that is compelling as it is important. It is a document that recalls the world as it used to be, while depicting the decisions and events that changed it for the better.

With the 25th anniversary edition of the seminal/infamous/underwhelming Blue Velvet being released this week, it seems like an opportune time to revisit a topic certain to cause some consternation: David Lynch and whether or not he is God.

There are some movies that require a certain commitment of time to figure out what is going on. David Lynch’s movies, I’ve become convinced, are about trying to figure out what’s going on. And that’s fine, as far as it goes. In its art-for-art’s sake, uber-pretentious, anti-commercial, anti-audience sensibility, Lynch hoists a freak flag that is, upon closer inspection, a fuck you flag. The question, as it is with all challenging art, ultimately must be: is it worth it? His films are odd and unsettling, and they are often unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. And yet: is that enough?

Well…take any of his films, then take away the attractive female characters, their inexorable (contractual?) nudity, and the handful of very brief—but very brilliant—scenes, and Lynch’s work seems to be a series of somethings that seek to defy being identified for what they look and smell like. You are left with an oeuvre that seems to separate viewers into three camps: the good (those who claim to “get it”), the bad (those who don’t, or can’t), and the ugly (or, the angry; those who tried to get it, failed, and then, upon repeat viewings, determine that they are unworthy and, most importantly, uninterested).

Consider me ugly. Not angry, but certainly perplexed at the consistent, and reflexive, critical accolades. And let’s acknowledge the fact that Lynch does not merely have fans, he has advocates. Defenders of the faith. Crusaders. As a proponent of acquired taste anomalies running the gamut of high and low culture and all points in between (especially the points in between), I appreciate the allure, and I don’t begrudge it. What I am curious about is, who are these people, and what is it they actually see in these films?

First—and this may well elucidate my dilemma—the only Lynch film that has spoken to me, post Elephant Man, is Wild at Heart, which generally seems to be ranked amongst his weaker efforts. For my money, this one could practically be validated by Willem Dafoe alone: Bobby Peru is not only indelibly sinister, sick and hilariously oleaginous, he represents what is best about David Lynch: extreme weirdness in adept (and mercifully brief) quantities. But the movie abounds with minor tour de force performances by all involved, with Nicolas Cage and Laura Dern doing some career-best work, even when their clothes are on. Wonderful supporting work is delivered by a wickedly over-the-top Diane Ladd and a typically sullen (here bordering on docile) Harry Dean Stanton.

But, of course, Blue Velvet is the one that, in order to assert one’s pointy-headed credibility, you have to sanction. I call bullshit. To be sure, I don’t fall in with the camp who loves it, but I also don’t loathe it; I just think it’s…okay. More bad than good, but containing enough intriguing scenes (“Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!”; “Candy Colored Clown!”) to make it memorable. But still. I saw it in the ‘80s, saw it in the ‘90s and have seen it during this decade, and it’s simply impossible to look past the (typically) improbable—bordering on intelligence-insulting—story line, the (typically) maudlin, fifth-rate dialogue, and the ostensibly bold assessment of American sadomasochism that quickly unravels like so much stylized soft porn. Granted, an authentic sense of surreal tension is nailed—then hammered into submission, and Dennis Hopper’s (overboard, over-praised) Frank Booth is scary enough, kind of the like the boogeyman is frightening, despite being fake. In terms of peeling back the layers of plastic conformity of an older (or even contemporary) America, captured in the notable but not revelatory opening scene, it works. That it is considered one of the seminal films of the ‘80s strikes me as disconcerting, akin to the way I’d concede that New Kids on the Block were one of the most successful bands of that decade. Mobs are mobs, even when they are different sizes.

But the mystery train truly goes off the tracks with Lost Highway, the ultimate “you’re with us or against us” entry in the Lynch catalog. For me, it really boils down to two pretty straightforward questions. One, can anyone claim to know what the movie is about? Two, can anyone claim to have actually enjoyed it? Hearing ten different people offer ten different interpretations of a movie is, in one regard, evidence of a successfully engaging work of art. But that sure seems to be setting the bar embarrassingly low for a director with Lynch’s obvious talent. (My personal favorite bent-over-backwards attempt to put lipstick on this pig is the claim that Lost Highway is a highly illusory homage of Ambrose Bierce’s masterful short story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”. Even making the exceedingly generous indulgence that this is the case, an adaptation of any classic work of literature should actually be good,shouldn’t it?)

Listen: weirdness for the sake of weirdness is fine, and in shrewdly doled out doses, it can be instructive and enjoyable—like eating fish eyes, for instance. And I don’t begrudge Lynch one bit for being that one-in-a-billion artist whom remarkable numbers of critics and fans have designated as their go-to guy. My issue lies with the same fans and critics who lazily defend his work by asserting that anyone who doesn’t like it simply doesn’t get it. Remember Gary Larson’s The Far Sidecartoons? It was true that if you had to explain one to someone, it was hopeless. However, if you had to explain it, you could; it would lose most of its humor and punch, but virtually every one of them was explicable. In other words, it’s a much more impressive—and worthwhile—piece of entertainment if it provokes or even befuddles, but is still, on some level, intelligible.

Granted, all willfully difficult artists will attract ardent (I won’t say fanatical) proponents—to a certain extent, that’s the point of their excessively abstruse vision. Too often, a self-indulgent, or unpersuasive (I won’t say incapable) effort is credited for being authentic because it is impenetrable, and that is where the fans and critics come into play with Lynch. Analysis is unnecessary, it’s already understood that the work is brilliant, and it’s a given that, with Lynch, you are about to see something that confronts your puny, preconceived notions of reality. The less sense it makes, the more adeptly he is revealing how ensnared you are in the linear charade of conventional storytelling. Or the system. Or something. Where this becomes insufferable is when esoteric artistes inherit a priori acquiescence in a fashion too similar to the ideological blank slate politicians count on from their compliant bases. We know how this works: an already-accepted conclusion is invoked, or promoted, and the appraisal (of the product, of the candidate) is liberated from subjective analysis, it’s already understood. Discourse is discarded for absolution in ways that say more about how the viewers view themselves than the film. And perhaps that is, if unconsciously, the entire point?

In the final analysis, I’ll admit that David Lynch is very much like God. I watch his movies the way I look at the creation of the world: most of the time I can’t claim to discern what’s going on, but someone seems to have gone to a great deal of trouble. Beauty, not to mention intelligent design, is always in the brain of the beholder. The question remains: is that enough?

Wait, I was the only one clamoring for more?

Okay.

“Batman, let’s throw caution to the wind!”

It is an inexorable, if lamentable rite of passage to revisit cultural mementos from one’s childhood and discover that, to an adult’s eyes, they are lacking.

But then, “putting away childish things” is one of the ways we avoid arrested development, a condition that impairs critical faculties, stymies meaningful relationships and makes one susceptible to things like libertarianism. (If, for instance, you re-read Ayn Rand and her porcine-fisted prose and sophomoric metaphysics still seem eloquent, you’ve got some growing up to do; if you encounter her pulp for the first time as an adult and are inexplicably smitten, you are, unfortunately, a lost cause, both morally and intellectually.)

When I was a child, you would have had to pry my bowl of Boo Berry from my cold, dead hand; now I understand my teeth would rot on contact, even if I were able to score a box online (apparently this is possible; this is America). I used to think a Big Mac (washed down with that non-carbonated orange drink, obviously) was the height of culinary bliss, a sort of pre-adolescent ambrosia. I thought scary movies were, well, scary. In other words, I thought a lot of things. I was even correct about one or two of them.

I thought, for instance, that the Batman TV series was amazing. It turns out I was wrong. It’s not amazing; it’s better.

Bear with me. When’s the last time you saw (when’s the last time you thought about) Batman and imagined Adam West instead of, say, Christian Bale or Heath Ledger or Jack Nicholson, etc.?

It probably has been a while because, apparently, the old episodes are currently unavailable via Netflix or even to purchase. (Wow, this has been a controversial dilemma for some time apparently; there is a whole section of the Wikipedia page dedicated to it…one shudders to think of all the hardcore comic book collectors who are –and have been– incensed about this.) The show does still get airplay on certain TV channels. I know this because I have friends who have kids. Quite serendipitously, I was babysitting one of these little cherubs and per her request (!) we caught a couple of old school episodes. I am here to tell you, without shame and with inexplicable enthusiasm, it was something of a revelation.

There are several angles I could take here, but my rekindled interest (bordering on infatuation?) can be reduced to two words: Cesar Romero. The “O.J.” (as in, Original Joker).

Folks, anyone born after 1980-ish probably can’t appreciate this, but for people of my generation, Cesar Romero was The Joker. I sort of recall reading the occasional comic book but don’t have any lingering memories of how he translated on the page. I do have memories of the laugh, the green hair, the purple suit and the maniacal, unhinged hilarity that managed to be hilarious and horrifying. What I did not recall, since I was a kid at the time, was how iredeemably, magnificently campy the show was. I certainly recall that the original Superman never resonated with me, in part because that show was not old school, it was antediluvian school. Plus, the George Reeves incarnation was always a tad too fascistic for my delicate sensibilities (holy shit, did anyone know George Reeves died by a bullet wound that may have been suicide? Holy irony, Batman.) Then again, I’ve never been much of a Superman guy; in my formative years it was always Batman and Spiderman, both of whom were (by turns) funnier, darker and more human.

Anyway, back to The Joker. Obviously Jack Nicholson was tapping into that campy vibe, but his role, however amusing, was over-the-top in ways that don’t age particularly well (kind of like the first movie). Not many people would argue that Heath Ledger’s pitch-black (though still sardonic) take was not a huge improvement. Nevertheless, before we crown Ledger’s uncanny performance the final word on the subject, we are obliged to return to the beginning. Have you forgotten how unbelievably perfect Cesar Romero was? Check it out, courtesy of YouTube:

Any questions?

Maybe it’s the fact that he was a bit older, and of Cuban/Italian descent that gave him that subtly exotic, almost indescribably outre edge. This is The Joker I grew up with, and it’s the only arch villain I can imagine actually rooting for –as a child or an adult. Just reading about Romero makes me happy. Check this out. The fact that he refused to shave his mustache (his decades-old trademark) is so genius I can scarcely convey my joy and admiration. How perfect is that? The most incorrigible fiend played by an incorrigible, image-conscious movie star with prima donna tendencies? Bliss. (And extra marks: if you look at photos or, if you’re smart, find some clips online, you can totally see the impossible-to-conceal ‘stache in each episode.) Truth is always odder and better than even the best fiction.

And let’s do a quick sidebar for how great the other bad guys were. Burgess Meredith as The Penguin, anyone? Yes, please. And don’t sleep on Frank Gorshin as The Riddler. That is an untouchable criminal triptych that could not possibly be improved upon. (For irrefutable evidence of this claim, please appreciate this clip from the movie, wherein we have Penguin fencing with Batman (making appropriate Penguin noises), Romero’s brown hair obvious under the wig and The Riddler doing some bad ballet on board a boat –skip to the three minute mark for the most epic fight scene that ever includes the words “Bon voyage Pussy”):

And lest we forget (how could we forget?) there is Catwoman. Can I get an Amen? I’m a rather huge fan of Lee Meriwether (in clip above, from film) and everyone has to appreciate the incomparable Eartha Kitt (from Season Three). But let’s not kid ourselves here: it’s all about Julie Newmar.

While I offer serious props to the benevolent citizen who put the Joker clips together, I’m incredibly disappointed that some turbo nerd has not compiled a Catwoman montage: get on that Internets!

And don’t think I’m sleeping on Adam West. I won’t (can’t?) compare him to the subsequent Batmen played in the various movies, but kind of like with The Joker, he did it first and he did it best. He is Batman. A gentleman, a humanitarian, a…dork. His (West’s) goofiness can’t be overstated, and that humanity gives the character a distinct vulnerability. How can you not love this guy?

So in addition to everything else, it’s possible that Batman was the first series to jump the shark (or at least repel the shark). Consider the clip, below: obviously the series was straining to keep its edge (or appeal, or whatever) and by season three the producers/writers seemed to understand that what may have worked in 1965 was not registering in 1967. The world, of course, was changing. Hence, we have the most campy (and sublime) few moments of TV I can ever recall watching: Batman and Joker surfing. In shark-infested waters, obviously. With real surfers cheering from shore. With bathing suits over their costumes. This is a line in the sand: you are either with me or against me. I defy you to watch this clip and not join the party.

Wow, one never knows what is available on the Internet. Check this out! (Yes, he raises his hand and says “Peace” at the end. Thank you Mr. West.)

Summer may be winding down and all of us are getting older every second, but retaining a child-like joy for certain things is still the best way to keep age and cynicism at bay.

Peace.

Three Key Films: Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love The Bomb (1964), 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), A Clockwork Orange (1971)

Underrated: Full Metal Jacket (1987). A naturalistic tour into the dark heart of modern war, preceded by a disquieting tour into the darkness of the hearts that prepare our soldiers to survive there. The second section, on the front lines, a surreal sort of cinéma vérité, is more plodding than cathartic, which is probably the point. The first part of the film, devoted entirely to a group of Marine recruits at Parris Island, is a quicksilver tour de force—at turns riotous and harrowing. It is some of the most assured, affecting work of the decade: not too many movies can take you from hysterical laughter (the initial scenes where drill instructor R. Lee Ermey lambastes the boys is piss-your-pants funny) to disgust and, inevitably, despair. The blanket party scene, where the incompetent “Gomer Pyle” (Vincent D’Onofrio) is savaged by his fellow cadets lingers in the mind as one of the most disturbing scenes in movie history. It manages to illustrate a great deal about conformity, the military, the perceived necessity of truly breaking someone before they can function and what we must kill inside ourselves in order to survive. Most directors would inexorably play this scene for pathos; Kubrick films it matter-of-factly and his shrewd use of subtlety makes it many times more disturbing.

Unforgettable: Kubrick’s films are celebrated precisely for their myriad iconic moments, but if obliged to pick the single scene we could call “Kubrickian”, it would have to be the unforgettable sequence where “our humble narrator” Alex is given the Ludovico Technique. Presented as a revolutionary—and quite controversial—form of behavior modification, the subject is given a daily dose of medicine and obliged to endure scene after scene of depravity and violence. During one of the more intense treatments Alex—eyes forced upon with metal prongs—must watch Nazis marching while Beethoven, his favorite composer, plays on the accompanying soundtrack. He cringes and then screams as he realizes not only is he being “cured”, but listening to Ludwig Van (the one civilizing influence from his former life) will henceforth be verboten. The image is at once ironic, amusing and appalling, and speaks volumes about science, sadism and the ill-effects of cynical sociology. From A Clockwork Orange.

The Legend: Has any director covered more ground, stylistically and historically, than Stanley Kubrick? From Lolita (1962) to The Shining (1980) to Eyes Wide Shut (1999) he made movies from books few directors could—or would—even consider adapting for the big screen. Incredibly, he made movies thatarguably transcended the source material; however much viewers (or the original authors) loved or loathed them, they most definitely were not deferential reproductions of the text.

Kubrick is famous—or infamous—for his meticulous, some might claim obsessive quest for “the perfect shot”; anecdotes abound of actors being forced to produce take after take to the point of exhaustion or distraction. His control freak tendencies may have had a great deal to do with the fact that he “only” made thirteen films over the course of a career that spanned five decades. On the other hand, it’s difficult to name many directors who made as many works that are today considered masterpieces, or a director who is cited more frequently for his innovation and influence. Detractors have claimed that his perfectionism resulted in films that were too cold or clinical; some find his work pretentious. Interestingly, if not revealingly, his work has aged well and seems to attract more converts (inside and out of critical circles) than detractors.

Is it even necessary to review the films? There are none that are not worth seeing at least one time; there are several that can be watched anytime, and there are a handful that must be revisited often, for all the right reasons. 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. Speaking of irony, how about the use of Rossini during a rape scene, or Purcell post-modernized as early—and eerie—electronica in A Clockwork Orange?

Special mention, of course, must be made for 2001: A Space Odyssey. As time passes and computers make special effects ever easier to produce (and less satisfying to watch), the scope of what Kubrick achieved remains hard to fathom. It’s one thing to reasses an older film and marvel at how impressive it was for its time; we can—and should—watch 2001 and still be astonished, today. It’s probably not possible, nor is it important to isolate Kubrick’s best film. 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 the considerable skills of that remarkable 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.

PopMatters currently is running a huge feature discussing and celebrating 100 of the most important directors. I signed up to tackle Werner Herzog and Stanely Kubrick. As eager as I was to express the joy and wonder these two men have brought into my world, it was exceedingly difficult to try and summarize their accomplishments and impact in a few hundred words. There will be more to say about both of these artists and I’ll look forward to it. Here is my take on Herzog (I recommend checking out the entire series @ PopMatters).

Three Key Films: Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1974), Fitzcarraldo (1982), My Best Fiend (1999)

Underrated: Stroszek (1977). A stark, disconcerting and unforgettable experience, Stroszekis not a film one returns to for fun. It remains one of the most efficient and ruthless appraisals of the American Dream myth while managing to be amusing, touching and ultimately demoralizing. Using his infallible instincts, Herzog has non-actor Bruno S. embody the unlucky, exploited Stroszek. Fleeing Berlin for what they assume will be the warmer and more prosperous U.S.A., Stroszek and his companions end up in the frigid, desolate landscape of Wisconsin. The final scene, after things have gone predictably off the track, features Stroszek on a ski lift holding a frozen turkey. Beneath him, in coin-operated cages, a duck plays a drum with his beak, a rabbit “rides” a wailing fire truck and a chicken dances while the soundtrack features the ebullient harmonica woops of Sonny Terry. Arguably the most surreal, and satisfying, commentary on the human condition ever filmed: once you’ve seen it, it stays seen.

Unforgettable: After enabling an entire crew, including his daughter, to die during a doomed expedition to the legendary El Dorado, Aguirre is alone. Having watched his group slowly succumb to disease, drowning and Indian arrows, Aguirre is nonchalant when dozens of monkeys swim aboard his raft. As the creatures scramble and scurry, he snatches one and holds it in front of his face. “I am the Wrath of God,” he declares, and the sweeping Amazon suddenly turns claustrophobic. We know Aguirre is near death, and his final disintegration offers an austere commentary on ambition and conquest. The close-up camera angle swirls backward and circles the raft from above, like a silent and definitive judgment from Nature itself. From Aguirre, The Wrath of God.

The Legend: Few artists in any genre are as closely associated with the work they do. All of Werner Herzog’s films are to a certain extent autobiographical. It’s not merely a matter of how much of himself he invests into each project; it’s the nature of the projects themselves. Herzog has long combined creative restlessness with spiritual obsession and the results are often compelling, occasionally awe-inspiring and never less than interesting. He was the quintessential critical darling for entirely too long: he made movies that people admired, but he was anything but a household name. Never seeming to care—and certainly not one to covet notoriety—he quietly plugged along, keeping busy and remaining relevant. During the last decade his genius, and superhuman work ethic, have finally been recognized and rewarded.

It was not always thus. Herzog is possibly the ultimate underdog who inevitably got the acclaim and approbation he deserved. Herzog is undeniably a legend based solely on the stunning body of work he has produced. The real legend, of course, is his life and the excitement, misadventure and barely believable anecdotes it has inspired. There are too many to list, but a handful should suffice in order to convey what a unique force of nature Herzog has always been.

He stole his first camera, an act he considered less a matter of theft than necessity. On the set of his 1970 film Even Dwarfs Started Small (a wonderfully Herzogian title, and concept), after a few near calamities he promised the crew he would jump into a cactus patch if the rest of the filming was completed without incident (it was and he did). During the filming of his first masterpiece Aguirre, The Wrath of God he dealt with the mercurial Klaus Kinski in a fashion that would set the tone for their subsequent collaborations: after Kinski, during one of his typical tantrums, threatened to leave the set, Herzog pulled out a gun and swore he would first shoot Kinski, then himself unless the actor got back to work (it worked). In the mid-‘70s, in an attempt to inspire his friend Errol Morris to complete a project, he agreed to eat his shoe (the project was completed, the shoe was cooked and eaten, and the occasion was filmed for posterity). The filming of his film Fitzcarraldo (inspired by a true story) involved moving a 320 ton steamship over a mountain—without utilizing a single special effect. During the filming, one of the Peruvian natives on the shoot, exasperated by Kinski’s histrionics, offered to kill him; Herzog was tempted but declined because he needed the actor to finish the movie. In 2006, while being interviewed for the BBC, Herzog was (inadvertently?) shot by an unknown assailant with an air rifle. Naturally, he continued the interview and, after showing the stunned reporter and film crew the wound, calmly remarked “It is not a significant bullet.” (This footage, thankfully, survives for posterity.)

It is, of course, the work that endures and it seems likely that Herzog has amassed a filmography that will inspire and be studied so long as people are making moving pictures. It is difficult to isolate, or even describe what aspect(s) of Herzog’s style makes him so original and indelible. Certainly his penchant for improvisation can be attributed to a desire for emotion over refinement. His brave, if unorthodox decision to utilize unknown actors (or non-acting natives) speaks to his compulsion for authenticity. His challenging, occasionally unfeasible choice of projects and locations illustrates a recalcitrance that has always translated into integrity. Equal parts Joseph Conrad and Percy Fawcett, Herzog obliterates all clichés and encomiums: he is the Sisyphus who refused to fail, embracing tribulations to prove—to the medium, to himself—that they can be overcome. If Herzog did not exist, he would need to be invented, and then filmed by a director like Herzog.