Strange Impersonation

Buddy Bobbies

There's a scene in Hot Fuzz that made me laugh so hard, I had to check my reaction after the picture had ended. For Pete's sake, it was, of all things, a swan, sitting in the back seat of a car, rearing its angry head towards an evil Timothy Dalton. Why on earth is this so damn hilarious?

I can't entirely explain except that the movie's set up to the swan incident is near brilliant: an innocent, lovely animal that was simply a cute nuisance surprisingly saves the day. But it's more than that-mirroring the movie as a whole, somehow the swan gag, as easy as it is, feels smart, fresh, as if the filmmakers thought, if a swan's going to attack Timothy Dalton, it's going to be unlike any other crazy animal attack you've ever seen.

Which puts director Edgar Wright and co-writer/star Simon Pegg in line with the pictures Hot Fuzz is parodying-over the top, high adrenaline, bullet and explosion strewn American action movies. Unlike the Brits' more endearing zombie comedy Shaun of the Dead (a zom-rom-com as some have called it-I can't bring myself to use that term) in which Romero was lovingly revered, Hot Fuzz knows the Bruckheimer/Bay action extravaganzas they're referencing are silly. But that doesn't mean they don't like the movies explicitly addressed (like Point Break or the endlessly, impressively bizarre Bad Boys II). On the contrary, Wright and Pegg are fans of the genre, partially because the pictures are so absurd, so distinctly American.

So by placing the action in a quiet little British village in which the big news of the day is that (yes) swan wandering out of the garden, the high octane style, rapid editing and ultra seriousness of the film's kick-ass vision is made even more hilarious. Pegg plays square, by-the-book super cop Nicholas Angel, whose sanctimoniousness perfection has earned him the dump out of the mean streets of London (he's making all the other cops look bad). In his new assignment, he's got nothing to do but watch everyone on his new police force eat. To make matters worse, his slobby partner (Nick Frost-his mate from Shaun), son of the chief inspector (Jim Broadbent), only understands police work through his vast collection of Hollywood action pictures.

The sweet little town does have some weird edges to its perpetually smiling front. Though the murder rate is zero, there are an exorbitant number of fatal accidents killing off various residents and Angel is determined to find out why. The answer turns out to be much more sinister than even he expected and the picture moves into its third and even fourth acts with frenetic insanity, a hilarious nod to the typical third and sometimes fourth acts of overlong action pictures. The length and ending of the picture bothered some critics and viewers, but I thought that was entirely the point--the wait, here's another twist angle, let's ladle one crazy incident on top of the other. If you've seen Bad Boys II, you'll get it entirely.

Pegg and Frost do ten times better than most current American parodies (like the latest Scary Movie sequel or the abysmal Date Movie), feeling more like Jonze/Kaufman's Adaptation (which also pokes fun at ridiculous Hollywood movies in its over the top last act) than Epic Movie. Its cleverness and ability to weave a story around its ideas and humor makes the viewer actually care about this crazy pair even amidst the absolute ridiculousness along the way-much like in Shaun of the Dead. Or really, much like in Bad Boys II.

The Movie That Got Away: 'The Woman Chaser'

You can’t quite get your hands around The Woman Chaser, and that’s all for the good.

It’s a heap of contradictions that absolutely refuses to be compartmentalized. You’ll either love this slice of humorous sociopathic angst (and yes, in The Woman Chaser, there is such a thing as sociopathic angst) or (as some critics did) attempt to corner it as something it’s not. What it is, is vintage Charles Willeford (who was also adapted in two other underrated classics— Monte Hellman’s Cockfigher and George Armitages’s Miami Blues) and so true to the author that his widow approved every frame of this underseen treasure.

Directed by Robinson Devor, whose only credit up to this point was a wonderfully weird 30 minute documentary about Hollywood billboard phenomena Angelyne (he has since directed the infamous horse sex documentary, Zoo. You can’t say Devor isn’t multi-faceted) The Woman Chaser is something of a lost film. Released in 1999, the picture is still only available on VHS (no DVD was ever released) and even that’s out of print.  For whatever reason the picture hasn’t been released, regrettable for all those viewers who missed the picture in theaters. It’s an unnerving, hilarious slice Los Angeles life and wildly unique on top.

Adapted from pulp novelist Willeford’s 1960 novel of the same name and filmed (gorgeously) in a black and white transfer (from a color print), The Woman Chaser is faithful to its beautifully seedy genre. It’s serious, to a point, but never plays it straight, always aiming for a cockeyed joke that’s both reflexive and perfectly in tune with the picture. And yet, somehow it manages to refrain from something that’s especially annoying when it comes to film noir (probably my favorite genre of film) — tired ironic send-up. I can only imagine how tough it was to craft such an arch, subversive film that remains, to the very last frame, weirdly understated, but Devor is intelligent and talented enough to handle the task.

The story begins circa 1960 with grifter Richard Hudson (a brilliant Patrick Warburton, best known from Seinfeld and The Tick) fresh from San Francisco, purchasing a used car dealership in his hometown of Los Angeles. He’s a gifted, unscrupulous salesman (“anyone and everyone can be bought” he believes) who makes his dealers wear Santa Claus suits in the middle of summer. Richard preys on people’s vulnerabilities with a twisted logic that’s too complex to classify as mere evil—it's some personality quirk that’s all his own (for instance, he seduces an old woman collecting pennies for the church and also beds a near girl with churlish indifference). With obvious Oedipal fixation, he moves back home with Mother (Lynette Bennett), an aging beauty living in a Sunset Blvd. style mansion with her washed up Hollywood director of a husband, the gentle milquetoast Leo Steinberg (a great Paul Malevitz).

After a delicate, then frenzied (and hilarious) session of ballet dancing with Mother (one of the picture’s highlights), Richard comes to the conclusion that his life is meaningless unless he creates something ("Isn't making money the reason for existence?"). More specifically if he creates a work of art. Since other arts take too much time and skill to learn, Richard reckons that writing and directing a movie is just the thing. Convincing Leo to back him, he concocts the very Detour-esque B-noir The Man Who Got Away, a grim, existential tale about a truck driver who flees his life, then accidentally kills a little girl and is chased down by a vigilante mob. You never get to see the entire picture, but what you witness looks to be either overwrought crap or soulful, gritty brilliance. I choose to think the latter.

Releasing the picture proves difficult as it clocks in at 63 minutes (too short for theater s and too long for television), but Richard will not compromise—he will not cut or lengthen the thing and so, well, I won’t reveal what happens. The actions, philosophizing and points of Richard moving from conception to actual filmmaking are too intriguing to spoil, but one thing is for certain: Richard is a born auteur. He’s also a cold blooded narcissist (“To me!” he toasts while dipping in a pool) but a sensitive lug in moments of stress—somehow the son of a bitch cries, endearingly believably.

But then that could be an act—you have no idea with this character. Thanks to the refreshingly barrel-chested Warburton and his bombastic,  staccato yet wry and enigmatic performance, the picture delivers an off-kilter world where absurd, scummy and sublime intermingle right on the edge. His performance lives in a movie that reveals a fascinating, yet strangely familiar insanity true to the spirit of Los Angeles where you can feel violated, entertained and inspired in the same twenty minutes.

Sophisticated and kookily innovative, Devor’s direction isn’t simply retro-nostalgia showing off its lovely mid century modern architecture and kitsch (though that is lovingly filmed).  No, the City of Angels is a slick, rotting kingdom of scrubbed up close-ups, skewed angles—a twisted, cocky and wormy land that will fight your creativity and vision at any chance. With that, violently defending your work (which Richard does—and that’s all I will say) is the wicked solution but in the end, oddly inspirational.