Strange Impersonation

The Joker Scores

I'm still trying to take in all of Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight -- a movie I watched just a few days ago in IMAX-- and this is a good thing. A very good thing. The movie sticks with you, gets under your skin in ways that surprise you hours later and, even better (or worse, depending on your mood) makes you ponder everything from the hypocritical nature of mankind to current politics to...ah yes, the tragic loss of Heath Ledger -- something that's even more potentely poigant while watching this wonderfully dark picture.

As I had mourned earlier in an essay on Ledger, we've lost one of the greats. (So be warned, this isn't exactly a strict movie review, but a celebration of Ledger's performance. I keep recalling James Dean's brilliance in his last movie, Giant, a picture in which he too revealed his transformative powers by going from gorgeous young man to bitter, old drunk....my god...the loss.)

The usual suspects are present of course: a fantastic Christian Bale -- one of the greatest actors working -- as Bruce Wayne, the legendary, sweet Michael Caine, the wonderfully understated Gary Oldman (playing a nice guy -- I love it) and the always perfect Morgan Freeman (can that man possibly achieve a bad performance?). Also appearing is Maggie Gyllenhaal, who replaces Katie Holmes as Rachel Dawes (Gyllenhaal is a vast improvement -- intelligent and slinky -- you totally understand why a guy who can get whatever he wants, wants her). There's also Aaron Eckhart as District Attorney Harvey Dent -- primed to become Two Face and again, a brilliant, crazed and yet, oddly soulful Ledger.

Which brings me to the heart of the, at times, sublime The Dark Knight -- as Ledger's Joker shows us (and forces upon Harvey Dent), the world is a place of two faces, of darkness and light, of organization and chaos. Gotham City's criminal underbelly is a reflection of a world we sometimes walk through with willfull ignorance, not realizing we are part of such chaos and destruction. Or, at the very least, we allow it to happen around us -- as long as we're warned.

The Joker doesn't want us to be warned -- he thrives on chaos, cannot be bought and has no glorious plan. He's the Tyler Durden of Super-villains and, as such, will become something of a cult figure with this character. His philosophy isn't exactly a new one (watch some film noir for prime examples) but Nolan and Ledger make it fresh and inspired. And since these ideas are universal, it's hard to not understand where The Joker is coming from. At times (and this might be a stretch for some, but not for me) it's even hard to dislike him. At times I fought the urge of punching my fist in the air in anarcharic solidarity -- Ledger's Joker is my new evil hero. He's a psycho sexy beast of destruction. Believe the hype -- he's that great.

Bale is terrific in The Dark Knight, but this is Ledger's movie all the way. Watching him watch the world burn, I couldn't help but think... damn if he couldn't have returned to burn it down a little more.

'Zodiac' Special Edition

Based on his fiendishly artistic, misanthropic and influential necro-fetish classic Se7en, we already knew David Fincher could craft the perfect serial killer movie. And yet Fincher, a subversive, substance-soaked stylist, chartered new territory with the stunningly ambitious Zodiac, a movie that goes above and beyond the perceived limitations of the serial killer genre by becoming not only an intricate study of obsession, but a moody explication of one of our darkest eras - the 1970's. 

Taken from the real life case of The Zodiac Killer  -- a mysterious, black hooded assassin who terrified the San Francisco Bay area just as the '60s were coming to a close  --  the picture boasts horrifying, unnervingly tense sequences of random yet bizarrely ritualistic acts of violence. But the picture's not simply content with its startling death throttles,  and instead narrows its focus on three men (Jake Gyllenhaal, Mark Ruffalo and an extraordinary Robert Downey Jr.) so consumed by capturing the elusive killer, that their fervency borders on madness -- a madness they (and consequently the viewer) cannot shake. 

Part police procedural, part journalistic drama, a la All The Presidents Men, Zodiac deftly and densely splits narrative, making for a multifaceted  and unexpectedly mordant examination of the era's pessimism and unease, particularly since the crime may never be solved. Like a true '70s movie, one leaves the picture haunted; riddled with unanswered questions and an enveloping sense of dread that just clings to you. And seriously, if the song wasn't creepy enough, you'll never hear Donovan's "Hurdy Gurdy Man" without visions of a faceless fiend stalking you in a black car on a dark night.

One of the best movies of 2007, Paramount recently released a special edition "Director's Cut" of "Zodiac" with two fascinating documentaries, commentary tracks that include (among others) director David Fincher and crime novelist James Ellroy (also a droll Robert Downey Jr. and Jake Gyllenhaal ), and nearly ten minutes added to the picture. The documentaries are especially intriguing and include interviews with those involved in the real-life case. The account by the living victims are, in a grand understatement, haunting, and a story told by the 911 dispatcher who took the killer's call chilled me to the bone.

If you missed this masterpiece in the theater (shame on you!) then get thee to your Netflix and rent this edition. Or even better, buy the thing.

'Gun Crazy'

Here’s something film lovers need to be reminded of in our Kill Bill, Resident Evil, The Brave One and dear lord..Charlie’s Angels movie-watching times: Tough babes have been gracing the big screen for a long time. Though fewer furious femmes (or rather, more obvious furious femmes) saw the light of celluloid in the earlier days of film than they do now, they were indeed around -- some with more grit, gusto and attitude than their modern kick-ass sisters.

Examples? Try curvy hand-to-hand combat killer Tura Satana in Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! or karate-chopping Pam Grier in Coffy or beautiful crazy Tuesday Weld in Pretty Poison or tuff Babs Stanwyck in Forty Guns or Faye Dunaway’s iconic tommy-gun–wielding Bonnie Parker in Bonnie and Clyde. Even Bette Davis is something of a bad-ass in the spectacularly underrated Beyond the Forest in which she's an ace shot, knocking down an innocent little porcupine because, as she says: "porkies irritate me." But one of my favorites, a womanly wonder of big screen sexiness, came back in 1950 when the unforgettable Peggy Cummins shot her way through the classic film noir Gun Crazy.

With the more explanatory alternative title of Deadly Is the Female (Gun Crazy is a lot more hard edged and evocative, I think), Joseph H. Lewis’ seminal noir features a mild-mannered but gun-obsessed John Dall falling for ultimate bad girl Cummins after watching her sharpshooting skills at a local carnival. When you see this scene (which could also rank as one of the sexiest in cinema), you can’t blame his immediate infatuation. Clad in a cowgirl outfit, the mysterious blonde hits her targets, even, in the film’s most obviously erotic moment, between her legs. An ace shot himself, the lanky Dall challenges Cummins, and the two gun nuts fall swiftly in love, marry, and to their demise, go astray after the hotheaded babe convinces Dall to couple up on some robberies.

Though it certainly helps that the movie is so brilliantly filmed (that gritty back seat shot in the car after the robbery is stellar), is violently romantic, features nonstop action and, of course, loads of shooting, it's the presence of a female who, though toxic, asserts such authority, that's especially intriguing here. Beautiful femme fatale Cummins, whose affair with guns equals anger, sex and power, is a potent symbol of female frustration and eventual rage: you might not be able to beat a guy with your bare hands, but you sure as hell can fire off a round -- no muscles, no therapy, no self defense classes necessary. In this way, it makes more sense for a woman, and not a man, to feel enpowered by a gun. And at the risk of sounding like a typical turned-on man (which might sound strange coming from a woman -- but I often feel like a man or perhaps, want to be one), Gun Crazy oozes sex appeal. But not just from the kiss kiss, bang bang of guns, but guns in the hands of a troubled, possibly deranged woman. Cummins' character is complex and ultimately tragic but, oh...the crazy ones. I love a girl who goes out in a blaze of glory.

'In A Lonely Place'

With the Writer's Strike marching on, I'm revisiting one of my favorite pictures about a Hollywood screenwriter -- Nicholas Ray's masterpiece, In a Lonely Place.

Nicholas Ray's In a Lonely Place is one of the most heartbreaking love stories ever committed to film. It's certainly one of the most poignant pictures (violently poignant at times) within the canon of filmn noir, a genre haunted by doomed love.

Noir love -- the kind that causes characters to throw that "Baby I don't care" caution to the wind -- is frequently a cynical fancy that won't survive the angst and ugliness inside the man or outside the world. Its happiness is typically intense, but brief. Love or lust often motivates action in noir, particularly via a femme fatale (as in Double Indemnity or Out of the Past). But it also holds up a mirror to myriad themes, largely existential, that hang over characters with profound malaise.

Ray approaches the torments of Camus and Sartre with In a Lonely Place (1950) showing, not only the delicacy of true love, but the delicacy of creativity, violence, trust, and a person's own position in an often ugly, alienating world and the nausea it creates. Here, that shabby world is Hollywood, where screenwriter Dixon Steele (Humphrey Bogart) lives a lonely, stressed-out life while struggling to create a bankable screenplay. He's talented, but troubled and disdainful. As he eats at his haunt, Paul's Restaurant, Dixon sneers at a colleague working for the "popcorn business," but in turn punches a hotshot for cruelly taunting a sad, alcoholic, washed-up screen actor. Immediately, we recognize Dixon as a humanist -- sympathetic, but deeply cynical. Given the job to adapt a novel, he invites a hatcheck girl (Martha Stewart) who's read the popular book to his Spanish-style apartment for help (an apartment modeled on Ray's own past residence). She's attractive, and he's probably interested in something more than mere adaptation, but she rattles on insufferably and Dixon sends her away in a taxi.

That same night she's found on the side of a road, murdered. With Dixon's reputation for abuse, he becomes a prime suspect. But struggling actress Laurel Gray (the perfectly cast Gloria Grahame), a new neighbor in his complex, witnessed the young woman leaving Dixon's place. She becomes his alibi, and soon his lover. Dixon and Laurel's chemistry in the police station is subtly thrilling and sexy, but distinct from the usual noir fireworks -- it almost looks healthy. When police ask Laurel why she noticed her neighbor's actions, she answers bluntly "Because he looked interesting. I liked his face." And when Dixon catches up to her at the complex, he admits that when meeting her "I said to myself, there she is. The one who's different. She's not coy or cute or corny." Its easy to see these two are perfect for each other, the sharp, world-weary but sunny actress, and the brooding intellect who's probably surprised he actually likes a woman in this town. Wounded, but nourishing each other with their very adult, no-nonsense love, Dixon begins writing again with Laurel feeding him, fluffing his pillows, and typing — "for love," as she says.

But their bliss can't last, even with this seemingly sturdy pair of survivors. Dixon can't control his inherent rage, which becomes so bad that Laurel (understandably, especially considering the film's original ending, which Ray didn't like and removed) begins to suspect her lover. And the more she distrusts him, the worse his anger fumes. No one, not even a detective who defends Dixon as "superior" and "an exciting guy," wants to believe the writer is a sociopath.

But is he a sociopath? Certainly his rage and frequently selfish behavour are troublesome but Dixon's flashes of tenderness betray a clear definition. And yet Ray's film leads everyone (including the viewer) to wonder if he really did kill that hatcheck girl. We don't want him to be guilty, we want the romance to work out, and we believe (perhaps, delusionally) there's hope for Dixon -- hence, the tragedy that concludes the film. Ray, whose pictures like Rebel Without a Cause, Bigger Than Life, and On Dangerous Ground all contemplate a man's lonely, often horrifying position in his world, is in archetypal mode with In a Lonely Place. Much like the protagonists in Ray's other films, Dixon is not a loser (like so many characters in noir), but rather a talent who would be productive if not for the obstacles in his way, including his own neurotic, repressed, enraged self.

Ray wisely worked with Bogart, who plays Dixon with a genuine rawness, mixing toughness and vulnerability, self-loathing and romanticism, contempt and warmth in one compelling stew of a man. When he recites a line from his script to Laurel ("I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me.") we recognize it as not only the film's motif, but also exactly what we find attractive about Bogart. And yet the line, though true, is as laden with irony as the iconic image of Bogart himself, who exposes a rabid underbelly that's both frightening and unbearably sad. One of Ray's finest pictures, In a Lonely Place is also Bogart's greatest performance on film.

I Stand Alone, Dix Ans Après

This may sound a bit odd, and perhaps to dissenters out there, a little sick, but I miss Gaspar Noé.

The French enfant terrible who helmed one of the greatest pictures of the 1990’s, I Stand Alone, and who placed Monica Bellucci in a situation that angered even those OK with Susan George’s episode in Straw Dogs, has been absent from the screen far too long. Yes, he’s made a short for the sexually explicit Destricted project, and yes there are the condom commercials from years back, but Mr. Noé needs another full length feature under his (whipping) belt.

The director, heavily influenced by '70s cinema, William Castle shock-a-tude, pornography, Godard, Céline, Nietzsche and (as I have argued, whether he knows this or not), even Thomas Hardy, was the great Gallic hope for a new generation of savage filmmaking. Unlike some current filmmakers who traffic in mere shock, or art house directors striking a transgressive pose, Noé is a genuine artist, but unpretentious -- a man who loves nothing more than upsetting his audience (or, in the case of Irreversible, making some faint), while injecting his screaming compositions with substantive thought, intelligence and philosophy.

So hearing that Noé will be directing a new picture (Enter the Void) got me all excited, and in the mood to re-visit his debut blast of brilliance, ten years later, 1998’s I Stand Alone.  This is the movie that caused a daily critic to walk out during the screening I attended, this is the movie that bonded me with my sister (long story), and this is the film that I told a colleague to see on a date. That advice didn’t work out so well.

When first reviewing the blisteringly brilliant picture, I quoted an anecdote by director Paul Schrader. Schrader said:

“I had an interesting lunch recently with a French director named Gaspar Noé who wanted to do a film with me, something with violence and pornography and all that. And I said to him, 'I don't think anyone's shockable anymore.'"

Now I admire, sometimes revere Paul Schrader, and I would probably agree with him at that moment, but with I Stand Alone (and the latter Irreversible) he was positively wrong.  For Noé had not only made one of the most shocking pictures in decades, but also one of the most stylistically impressive, emotionally challenging, thematically intimidating, astoundingly touching and, in its own warped way, weirdly funny. I Stand Alone, or Seul Contre Tous (Alone Against All) is a hair grabber that drags you around the muck and pushes your face into its world so far that -- and this is rare with such hard cinema -- you’ll experience moments of such bizarre, hideous beauty that you’re left significantly moved. It attacks one's senses with such transgressive power that by its end, one feels flustered, simultaneously full and empty. I Stand Alone rattles in your brain long after the movie's disquieting end. 

As I mentioned before, with nods to Céline, Dostoevsky, Schrader, Godard and even William Castle, I Stand Alone chronicles, as the film's titles claim, the "tragedy of a jobless butcher struggling to survive in the bowels of his nation." As the picture opens, the nameless butcher's entire life is inventively, humorously revealed via a slideshow. It describes how a French World War II orphan became a butcher, and is sent to prison after stabbing a guy he thought raped his daughter. The movie jettisons us to 1980 and into the head of said butcher (embodied magnificently by Philippe Nahon), who, now released from prison, is living an emasculated life with his pregnant girlfriend and her obtrusive mother in a depressing housing tract in France. His current domestic predicament only escalates his alienation and rage, feelings made clear in angry interior monologues that grow more bile-ridden as the film continues (the man, like the film, isn't subtle). When his refusal (or inability) to smile causes him to lose a job at a supermarket deli (have we felt this? I sure have), the butcher becomes a night watchman at a home for the elderly, where in one stirring moment, he assists a woman's euthanization. Afterwards, he visits a porn theater and, during a hardcore penetration close-up, he muses inwardly, "If you're a cock, you gotta stay hard to be respected; [otherwise] your only role and purpose is to be reamed." (Oh Gaspar, you're such a romantic! Sigh).

Soon after, he argues bitterly with his mistress and, in one of the film's most brutal moments, beats her, kicking her pregnant stomach (this is when the aforementioned female critic left the theater). This sick underbelly we have witnessed with amusement and detachment has, now, in fact been literally reamed. And it is at this point, that the film's existential loathing gives us our first challenge: The man we felt immediate sympathy for, the cantankerous oldster who has made us laugh with his stark philosophical observations, has finally committed a sickening act of violence. And he doesn't regret it. Confronting his modern audience, hardened from years of on-screen violence, Noé essentially asks: How do you like your underground hero now? Are you still cheering him on?

Somehow, in many ways, we are -- which points to the film's mind spinning, confusing power. With dwindling money, no job prospects and a gun, the butcher grows increasingly disgruntled over everything -- class, race, love, sexuality -- and his thoughts become both clear-headed and garbled. In the hands of a more simplistic filmmaker, this could be tedious or predictable. Noé , however, is not here just to shock. Like Taxi Driver, I Stand Alone represents a national reflection, here it’s France entering the 1980’s, personifying such unease with an unrelenting, furious protagonist. And Noé crafts a film that is so aesthetically violent--sharp gunshot sounds are used as jarring, disarming tangents, illustrating a shift in scenery or thought--that it’s surprising to realize just how little blood is actually shed onscreen. The movie deals almost entirely in thoughts of violence, rather than acts. The butcher rattles on about this or that problem, but mostly remains stuck in states of fantasy or inertia.  But he is so potently angry and the filmmaking so unyieldingly ferocious, it simply feels violent.

And Noé never slips once in this assault, even testing the viewer’s typical film sensibilities. In the picture's most infamous moment, a title card flashes on screen and cautions: “You Have 30 Seconds to Leave the Cinema.” It's a bold move, one filled with humor and horror (one part Godard, one part Castle), and despite the shocking images and words that come before it, Noé manages to back up that warning with a sequence that sent my emotions into a tailspin of sadness, distress and an unsettling amount of confusing compassion (you just have to see the ending).  I Stand Alone is true savage cinema -- a grim, exciting, nerve-wracking work of art that doesn’t just stick in your brain, but finds a way to get all five fingers up there too. Seul Contre Tous? Sous le soleil exactement, Mr. Noé.

'Two Lane Blacktop'

Two-Lane Blacktop. Criterion Edition. Greatest Car Movie Ever Made.  My year is complete. Yes.

"If I'm not grounded pretty soon, I'm gonna go into orbit."

--Warren Oates A.K.A. GTO

It feels almost too easy applying the term “existential” to Monte Hellman’s mysterious Two-Lane Blacktop, (and Mr. Hellman has always insisted that the picture is not “existential”) but I think the alienated, ambiguous, weirdly funny and, at times, desultory cult car classic deserves the appellation.  A work of stark Sisyphean power, the picture brilliantly combines automobile allure and the expectations of the race with a sparer saga of the road – a road that seems free but really isn’t.

Now this may sound rather joyless for a car movie, and indeed for the greatest car movie ever made, but the picture is so inventive, so austerely beautiful, so unexpected and, yes, so auto-centric, that it’s a singular wonder. With a then much discussed script by Rudy Wurlitzer, the movie came with an interesting amount of hype. The screenplay managed the honor of being featured on the cover of Esquire Magazine before the film was made, something that was unheard of at the time, and something that made the movie’s lack of box office more of a disappointment. Naturally, it’s been a cult favorite ever since.

Leading this gear-head mediation through its long stretches of lonesome highway are characters stripped down to their basic handles -- James Taylor is known only as the “Driver,” Dennis Wilson the “Mechanic,” Laurie Bird the “Girl” and the late great Warren Oates, in one of his most unforgettable roles, is “GTO.” The stoic Taylor and Wilson work a seriously souped-up '55 Chevy that's all muscle and speed, no frills, while a garrulous Oates rolls a yellow 1970 Pontiac GTO -- something Taylor scorns as right off the lot. All players endlessly drive, seemingly to challenge other cars and race cross country, but who knows what they’re really seeking. When somewhat challenged on the matter – that all the speed will burn him up– the Driver replies “You can never go fast enough.”  And the picture doesn’t spare this feeling on the viewer as the continual purr and hum of the engine places you at one with the car – a oneness that has become the character’s very identities.

Two-Lane Blacktop was probably supposed to be a youth movie, but there’s nothing young about it. Taylor, Wilson and Bird, though certainly not adults (in the conventional sense of the word) nevertheless carry a heavy amount of resigned cynicism within their cipher, stoic, underfed, frames. Had the movie been made in the 1960s, we might have gotten that kind of  hip swiveling, gone daddy, Psych Out energy (think Mimsy Farmer tripping on drugs in Riot on Sunset Strip ) but Two-Lane isn’t working on that tip – these people, whether they know it or not, are representative of their era -- their specifically ‘70s era.  The rather glamorized late ‘60s -- the so-called free, hippie-flower-child-dancing, politically motivated and finally tragic decade crashes directly into this Lane, where inspiration comes not from changing the world but from…cars. Which makes perfect sense to me -- if you can control one thing during such chaotic times (and if you desire anything to represent freedom) – it’s your automobile.

As such, these gear-heads aren’t driving for show, they’re not trying to pick up chicks (though Bird casually crawls into their car, which they barely acknowledge) -- they’re simply driving, with serious almost monk-like intent. Interestingly, it’s overly energetic Warren Oates who represents the “youth movement” an ultimately lonely and dissipated man who thinks that maybe he can understand the kids but is frustrated by their abilities (He doesn't appreciate being crowed through two states by a couple of two bit "road hogs" he complains to the boys). He’s full of half truths, or flat-out- fantasies, and we wonder about his life – did he dump a middle class existence  and family to head out for the open road, like those all those hippie’s he’s seen cruising the streets or traipsing around those acid-soaked youth movies? What's with this guy? As such, he’s something of a freak -- not some older road tripping cool guy, but in the end, a mournful man (though looking at his bad-ass GTO now only makes me pine for the days when cars like that really did roll off the lot, instead of these modern, gas friendly, vehicles that look like suppositories). And we come to pity him, even care about him –- moreso than the other characters. After all, they have youth on their side, but then…does that really matter?  Though conformity may become the soul sucking void, it’s possible that getting lost isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be either.

This isn’t to say that the picture’s one long drag, it’s also quite funny and in its subtle moments, charming (Oates, whom I revere in every movie he’s ever made, displays a fantastic amount of mysterious weirdness and pitch perfect comic timing). Two-Lane Blacktop is, no question, a work of enigmatic significance and auto-erotic gorgeousness (full confession, the movie turns me on – and not just because of Oates – the cars, oh those cars are so erotic).

Unlike any other car picture (and I love a lot of them) Two-Lane Blacktop sits or, more appropriately, drives in a class by itself.  It goes well past those three yards a drawling James Taylor spits out before a racing challenge, but his assuredness matches the perfection of the movie: “Make it three yards motherfucker and we’ll have ourselves an auto-mo-beel race.” A race that never ends. Which, car or no car, just might be the ultimate challenge.

Slap Happy: 'Slap Shot'

I’m not entirely sure about this, but since I was recently in the position of talking sports movies (and I'm not exactly a sports fan), I’m going to wager that because Slap Shot is a sports picture, and sports pictures (excluding filmdom’s few exceptions, like Raging Bull, Rocky and Pride of the Yankees) are often underappreciated, George Roy Hill's hockey classic isn’t given its full due. And I’m not talking as simply a great sports picture (it is beloved, after all, with a rabid cult following,), but as the greatest sports film ever made. Period.

I’m not being hyperbolic; it’s just that perfect. A pure sports film, Slap Shot encompasses all aspects of the game: It’s about the team, it's about the coaches, it's about the towns, it's about the politics and, with almost transcendent gusto, it's about the dirt. Hilariously vicious dirt that boasts some of cinema’s most toxic lines -- lines I can’t repeat here but...oh what the hell, yes I can repeat. Or, rather show. And it boasts the greatest use of that Maxine Nightingale song -- a tune that shouldn't be allowed in any other motion picture ever again. I can only picture cold busses, booze, rust brown flairs and Strother Martin while hearing this song -- and that's how it should be.

And then there’s star Paul Newman who, in his older, ruggedly handsome visage, carries the picture with an odd sort of foul-mouthed dignity we simply don't see in movies these days (and so naturally -- if an actor is doing blue, it's always so damn obvious). Playing a middle-aged minor league hockey player/coach, he’s a tough, quick-witted guy, but in quieter moments, touchingly doubtful about his future. He’s attempting to save his washed-up team, and that requires, not surprisingly for hockey, a need to amp up the brutality.

Enter the picture’s greatest addition, the Hanson brothers, a trio of Ramones-resembling prodigies who absolutely annihilate on the ice, but end their days playing with toys in their hotel room (they also, quite memorably, speak in bizarre twin talk that no one can understand). No matter if fellow player Michael Ontkean (whose bitter wife, played by Lindsay Crouse, is so sick of the hockey life, she's become a drunk) isn’t taking to the newer method, the boys get the job done and make the crowds happy.

But their triumphs aren’t simply played for audience gratification, since there’s a lot more to Slap Shot than carving, backstabbing and high, hard ones — there’s complicated adult drama (particularly regarding Newman and his ex-wife, Jennifer Warren) and an extra amount of thought mixed with the humor regarding violence, and just where the hell some of these men’s lives are going. And every single character is quirky, lovable and authentic, with Paul Newman's performance ranking as one of the most fascinating in his career (and those leather outfits! Sweet Jesus, Newman could pull off the slinky brown ensemble).

Also interesting is that, while it's hands-down the most profane sports movie ever made, all of this tough talk was scripted by Nancy Dowd, a woman -- and it received much heat for her salty language and creative uses of the "f" bomb. And it pulls no punches in the mean department. Especially when a frustrated Newman informs a woman that her elementary school son "looks like a [expletive] to me... You better get married again soon 'cause he's gonna wind up with somebody's [expletive] in his mouth before you can say 'Jack Robinson'."

Can you imagine the hero of a movie saying this today? And without every member of the PC police on the actor or picture's case? Or worse, shallow "shock" loving viewers watching the film simply because he utters such nasty dialouge? He's pissed. He just says it. It's not a stupid Dane Cook routine, it's hockey. Oh how I love the '70s.

Big Bad Patty: 'The Bad Seed'

After re-watching "The Bad Seed," I thought a rewind of my review was in order. God how I love this movie...

Ah…the baby blonde. That symbol of purity, beauty and goodness. In 1950’s America who wouldn’t want to have a lovely, flaxen haired child to adore and spoil? Damn near everyone of course, but by 1956, two important films emerged, showing the underbelly of these perfect specimens. The more esteemed, and notorious (it was condemned by the Legion of Decency after all) was Elia Kazan’s Baby Doll, in which the gorgeous child bride Carroll Baker destroys Karl Malden’s masculinity whilst sleeping in a crib and sucking her thumb. Never mind she’s 19 going on 20. While other relevant issues pervade Kazan’s masterful take on Tennessee Williams, the lingering image is of Ms. Baker in that crib…an iconic vision of arrested sexuality.

But just as viewers took a gander at Baby Doll, they had another blonde to contend with -- a much younger, smarter and deadlier one -- The Bad Seed. Pretty 10-year-old Patty McCormack playing an 8- year-old in pig tails and pinafore skirts as Rhoda Penmark, a curtsying, cutie-pie brat who’ll manipulate, terrorize and kill anyone who gets in her way. Both actresses’ were deservedly Oscar nominated for their performances but it's Mervyn LeRoy’s picture, though much loved by cultists, that remains highly underrated.

Part of the problem may lie in the transfer from play to film. LeRoy rightfully transported nearly all of the actors from the successful stage play (most likely to the annoyance of Warner Brothers who probably desired a bigger star for Rhoda’s mother) but was forced to change the ending. In the play, an unstoppable Rhoda continues her evil while after her killings, she chillingly plays her continual practice piece, "Claire de Lune" on the piano. Perfect. In the picture however, she is socked with a lightning bolt. O.K, also perfect. But, (and I'm not endorsing the harm of children here, even evil children), Warner Brothers made LeRoy further punish Rhoda, or in this case Patty, by having cast members spank little McCormack --assuring the audience this was all a bunch of fun. You know, burning, drowning, murdering kids with tap shoes -- fun!

And yet, in an early bit of camp -- The Bad Seed is fun. Gleefully, unapologetically and relevantly fun. In its own way, the end changes just make the picture even more inadvertently subversive. How we love to hate little Rhoda. And for some of us (myself included), how we love to love her…she’s just too damn full of vicious personality. I even go so far as to nearly (I say nearly) champion her actions and wish she would invoke more harm (film wise) before her inevitable demise.

But enough of my sick adoration and to the movie itself. Living with her mother Christine (an understandably neurotic Nancy Kelly) and mostly absent father (William Hopper -- Hedda Hopper's son) Rhoda's life is one of privilege and attention. When kissing her father goodbye he asks “What would you give me for a basket of kisses?” Rhoda coos back: “A basket of hugs!” Landlady and supposed expert in psychology, Monica Breedlove (Evelyn Varden) dotes on Rhoda, applauding her out-moded manners and showering her with presents -- one being rhinestone movie star glasses that Rhoda, of course, loves. As she prattles on about Freud and abnormal psychology, the rather ridiculous Breedlove cannot see the freakish behavior in front of her. She's blinded by all that bright, beauteous blonde.

But Leroy (a scene stealing Henry Jones), the disturbed, somewhat perverse handyman disrespected by the household can see right through Rhoda (you even get a sense he's got a thing for her), leading to some of the picture's most inspired moments. Man does Leroy dig into snotty Rhoda after a fateful class outing leaves one child dead; not coincidentally, the class-mate who won the penmanship medal over the all perfecting Rhoda (“Everyone knew I wrote the best hand!” she hollers in sour grapes dramatics). The little boy is drowned and Rhoda returns home as if nothing happened. "Why should I feel bad? It was Claude Daigle got drowned, not me" she insists. And then she goes roller skating. Meanwhile, her mother becomes increasingly rattled.

Though some have a tough time with The Bad Seed’s talkier sequences (especially when Rhoda’s not around), to me they are an intriguing look into ideas that would later be seriously considered, scientific even. They also point out how psychology can’t explain everything (hence, a bad seed) as the one woman (Breedlove) who brags of her knowledge, fails to sense anything wrong with a child who is, at the very least, self obsessed to the point of vapid narcissism. Never mind she’s a murderer.

And, the golden moments come, again, between Leroy and Rhoda who argue like two prison inmates waiting for lockdown. Though Rhoda finds him revolting, he’s the only adult who can actually frighten the child with his taunts of “stick blood hounds” or the dreaded electric chair, a fate he swears she'll meet. “They don’t send little girls to the electric chair!” Rhoda protests. “Oh they don’t?” He answers. “The got a blue one for little boys and a pink one for little gals!”

Though films like The Omen or The Good Son have tried, nothing compares to The Bad Seed -- and no child actor has out-seeded McCormack. Calm and cool, she can also rip into fits of rage that are both terrifying and hilarious. Perfectly balancing a disarmingly adult demeanor with the tantrums of a little girl, her performance is even more impressive in that it’s the blueprint. Where did McCormack learn this wonderful balance of over-theatrical camp with an icy, realistic serenity? And before John Waters became obsessed with her?

A classic and first of its kind, the then shocking Bad Seed holds up, albeit with a tad more camp, but with just as much psychotic gusto (I'm not sure what to think about the talked about re-make). Revel in McCormack’s Rhoda, a character even the obnoxiously talented Dakota Fanning couldn’t play. Agree with Leroy who spits out: “I thought I saw some mean little gals in my time, but you're the meanest!” And, what the hell, worship little Rhoda -- the itty bitty ultimate queen bitch goddess.

For a little more Patty, check her out in this rare deleted scene from Orson Welles's Don Quixote. With an introduction by Jonathan Rosenbaum.

Love Death And Sex: 'Eyes Wide Shut'

In Stanley Kubrick's cinematic universe reality, dreams, order and insanity progress on distinct, intersecting planes. Whether he was depicting an absurd, chillingly real war room in Dr. Strangelove, the disturbing but oddly sexy ultra violence of an Orwellian future in A Clockwork Orange, the siren call of insanity in The Shining, or the hyper fantastical yet authentic Vietnam War in Full Metal Jacket, life was a surreal work in progress – nearly an ambiguous joke that veered from hilarious to sexy to terrifying, sometimes within seconds. Attempting to understand order, or how any system designed to make our universe more rational or safe seemed fruitless. With this in mind, I love how Sterling Hayden approaches such a predicament at the end of Kubrick's The Killing. He watches his life literally fly away on an airport tarmac and bitterly spits one of cinema’s greatest last lines: “Eh, what’s the difference?”

Which brings me to the final line of Kubrick’s frequently misunderstood Eyes Wide Shut in which Nicole Kidman states rather flatly, “Fuck”—as in, that’s the answer, that’s what we need to do. A movie I’ve defended since its release, I’m pleased that within Kubrick’s newest box set, the unrated version of Eyes is now easily available (with more appreciation to follow, I think...). It’s a picture that deserves closer inspection and a worthy finale for the enigmatic auteur.

The controversial movie (some thought it silly, some, un-erotic) Eyes Wide Shut found the director once again studying the perplexing nature of dreams and reality, this time exploring them in a more personal and private arena: sexuality. As he did with Lolita, Kubrick created more than a film about sexual desire; he created a film about bitter romance, troublesome marital bonds, societal contradictions and, significantly, the fear of death.

An updating of the 1927 Traumnovelle (Dream Novel) by Arthur Schnitzler, an Austrian writer whose deeply psychological work resembled Freud's, the picture remains an unsettling blend of antiquated garishness and modern transgression—an alternate sexual universe haunted by ghouls of the past, present and future.

In this universe “live” the healthy, handsome walking dead— Dr. Bill Harford (an impressive Tom Cruise) and his wife, Alice (a slinky, wonderfully creepy Nicole Kidman), a glamorous, rich couple who appear the picture of storybook perfection. But like most supposed perfection, there are cracks in that portrait, and in their case, it’s the usual: they want to screw other people (or at least they think they do). At a sumptuous party given by Bill's obscenely wealthy friend Victor (Sydney Pollack), Bill almost strays upstairs with two models and Alice flirts with a bizarre Hungarian man who looks like one of the cadaverous partygoers from The Shining. The next evening, in a fit of jealousy over Bill's near indiscretion (he ended up contending with a naked drug overdose), Alice confesses that she’s had thoughts of cheating and, even worse, reveals that if things had been different, she would have thrown her entire life away for one flight of sexual fancy.

Unmasking something that usually remains one of those deep, dark secrets you don’t tell your significant other, Alice deftly rattles Bill's perception of her fidelity and the strength of their marriage in a speech that makes his mind spin out of control (Kidman's performance here is superb.) After this confession, Bill is abruptly called away to confirm the death of a patient during which the daughter of the deceased makes a pass at him. The grief stricken but, considering the circumstances, kinky gesture helps Bill’s decision to not immediately return home. Instead, he wanders the streets of New York and embarks on a sequence of actions that, though not as outwardly comic, somewhat resemble those in the Scorsese movie After Hours: He discovers a surreal sexual underworld that he’s both attracted to and repelled by.

A prostitute, a piano player, a bizarre costume-store owner and his slutty Lolita-esque 14-year-old daughter lead Bill to the film's infamous ritualistic orgy sequence, during which participants are cloaked and masked, and naked women are used as sacrificial sex lambs. The gothic, terrifying yet titillating feel of this sequence walks a fine line between horror and parody and true to Kubrick’s genius, manages to cross into both camps. The magnificent, exacting camera work and unrelenting music compel us to look, no matter what happens, and though I was actually a little scared the first time I saw this moment, I found myself highly amused—laughing even. If ever a person was out of place in a Bohemian Grove-like orgy, it is Tom Cruise’s Dr. Bill. And yet, I was absolutely hypnotized, watching these moments like a waking dream and investing it with multiple meanings. What the hell is going on here besides a bunch of silly old rich men getting their jollies with beautifully breasted, long legged Helmut Newton models? And further, what do all of Bill’s adventures mean? Are Bill's encounters simply nightmares that will damage his marriage beyond repair, or are they mere titillating fantasy—fodder for a closer relationship and better sex with his spouse?

Well, I can’t answer that. Given the picture's ominous tone, however, there is something definitely rotten within its slinky, Christmas-lit loveliness. Like the impeccable environment of The Shining, the aura of Eyes Wide Shut is one of beauty ready to be defiled, sexuality ready to be slaughtered, lovely exteriors that reek of formaldehyde. The pall that hangs over this picture is fear: fear of the unknown; fear of yourself or of others; and fear that if sex can lead to freedom, it can just as easily lead to death.

In fact, the picture can be viewed as a commentary on sexual attitudes in the last few decades –a time when meaningless indiscretions can lead to horrifying blood-test results. It is no surprise, then, that Bill is a doctor and that throughout the film, he flashes his physician's ID as a police detective would his badge. "I'm a doctor," he constantly says, for both reassurance and intimidation. In a profession that requires intimate investigation of flesh that may well be on its way to the morgue, sex is serious. These unsettling references to AIDS, necrophilia and forbidden sex (not to mention Kubrick's own death upon bringing the film to completion, une petite mort of sorts) permeate the picture like one giant prick tease. In today's world, sex is still there for the taking, but at what cost and for what gain? Kubrick's frustrating, brilliant coda neither answers nor ignores its own questions. Rather it leaves us in a mysterious, contradictory mishmash of dream and reality, where not only are our eyes wide shut, but our legs are too.

The Super Mother Bug

When William Friedkin's Bug hit theaters, the movie left many viewers confused, even angry. Based on the picture's previews and poster art, audience's unfamiliar with the Tracy Letts play it was adapted from, thought they were going to see another Saw or Hostel or whatever Lions Gate horror film was currently released. But, nope. They saw something far superior. Too bad so many didn't appreciate it. As I sat in the theater (I saw the movie alone, on my birthday, which was an oddly perfect personal present) I heard jeers, witnessed walk-outs and when the credits rolled, grumblings of "wanting my money back." I however, couldn't wait for the fascinating freak-out to come out on DVD. Happily, since yesterday, it has done just that, and after watching the picture for the second time, I’m re-running my review. If you missed it on the big screen, now’s your chance to catch up on one of this year's best movies. Or rather, catch this Bug.

“Guess I’d rather talk with you about bugs than nothing with nobody.”

There’s a moment in Bug during which I was so significantly moved, I almost crumbled in my theater seat. It comes when Agnes (Ashley Judd), the worn out, drug abusing, but still beautiful (in that way only certain kinds of damaged women can be) realizes she might be a alone again. As her newfound future partner in psychosis, Peter (Michael Shannon) leaves her; she closes herself in her seedy motel bathroom and sobs. In spite of presenting herself as a tough cookie -- she needs this guy. He’s a lot smarter and sensitive than her ex-husband (a bullying, abusive Harry Connick Jr.) and in spite of some of his crazy rants, she likes the way he talks.

And then…he returns and reveals his distinctly special problem. The reunion of these lovers is so weirdly romantic and such a relief, that you almost forget it will be poor Agnes’ undoing. If love is mad, if love is crazy, then Agnes and Peter are, as Laura Dern stated, “wild at heart and weird on top.”

So begins their folie à deux but one that moves beyond these lost soul’s tortured union and into modern ideas of conspiracies, post war insanity, disease, infected blood and the kind of paranoia that can spread like wildfire once the flame is (quite literally) ignited. And of course, it’s also about bugs, aphids to be specific, though they’re not swooping down on the pair a la Mimic -- they’re horrifyingly in their blood, brain, skin, teeth and, even more terrifying, we can’t see them. We simply have to believe. Or rather, we have to want to believe. I certainly wanted to believe, just so these people’s lives would make the labyrinthian sense they so desire.

Directed by William Friedkin and adapted from Tracy Letts’ revered play, Bug is a movie that will baffle, excite, horrify and anger those who can’t stay with its unwavering intensity. It will even in moments provoke titters, purposefully so, which should be honored rather than mocked -- obsession can be very, very funny. Bug is a rare picture that balances realistic, literal psychological horror with metaphorical meaning with small punches of satirical wit. It’s nothing like you’ve ever seen and so skillfully, artfully executed and so brilliantly acted (especially by Judd ) that the result is less movie and more wide awake fever dream. If you can relate to paranoia and desperate love in any way, you will meld into this movie -- and that only lends to its horror. It is (I’m not going to mince words here), a masterpiece.

The drama starts via the way most people hook up -- through a friend. Judd’s Agnes meets Shannon’s Peter after her lesbian friend R.C. (Lynn Collins) introduces the two and drops him at Agnes’s depressing hovel. She’s immediately intrigued but aware he’s a bit strange (after overhearing the women argue about his weirdness, he repeats “I’m not an axe murderer” -- his timing with this line is like his simultaneously subtle and wacked out performance: perfect). He admits that he makes others uncomfortable (“I pick up things unapparent”) but Agnes is refreshed by his shy, though straightforward sweetness. She’s also, eventually open to his unending beliefs about bugs, egg-sacks, insects implanted in his body via the military or whatever else. And though she argues at first, she will more than believe, becoming necessary and complicit -- partly out of love for her man, partly out of her own burgeoning psychosis (which we question is brought on by speedy drugs and her own past trauma) and partly because, well, maybe there’s something to this bug thing. She is hearing crickets in her room, she’s being bitten and helicopters are flying overhead. Or maybe not.

The fact that Friedkin leaves a small crack open for interpretation (and I really think he does -- especially when the weird-o drug taking doctor comes for a visit) gives the film an extra power and poignancy. Friedkin is a master with sound (you hear those damn bugs so much they burrow into your brain too) and, when in top form, showcases a kind of visceral suspense that, like The Exorcist, feeds from possession. These lovers are quite obviously, afflicted, and so the tension doesn’t come in simply their journey to the other side of sanity, it comes in how far they will go. And where will they go? And will they figure it out? And what are they going to carve out of their body next?

He also bleeds powerhouse performances from his actors, notably Judd, who might possibly be the greatest, bravest and most electrifying actress working. In Bug, she is sheer genius. Moving from a quiet, seen-it-all cynicism to a deranged, focused conspiratorial rambling, her transformation is without question. In her earlier moments, you can see that spark of insanity so when it blooms to full flower, you truly believe she’s exiting the smothering cocoon of her life. She’s found her purpose. She's also attempting to reconcile her damaged past and neglect in one of the most destructive, insane ways possible. But in Judd's hands, she’s so good, so real, so with her character (my God, just the way Judd sits on a couch is remarkably natural) she becomes, in a tragic, twisted way, inspirational.

Some critics believe her character not too bright -- easily led by a sick manipulator who feeds off her to justify and complete his mental illness -- but I don’t see her in such simplistic terms. The real tragedy is she’s stuck in a dead end, trashy life and like a lot of smart “crazy” people, able to make that leap, able to embrace the bizarre, able to question the very nature of things, be it love or the government or some other vast conspiracy, to the point of no return. Like the movie, Agnes knows that nothing, even bugs, can be that easy -- nothing. And, depending on how you express it, understanding such complications is both comforting and crazy.