Sunset Gun

Sunset Gun's Ten Best Movies Of 2007

Here's my top ten movies of 2007 in no particular order. Read, agree, disagree, call me crazy, whatever. But make sure to watch them all and...watch them twice. Oh yes, and Happy New Year.

Zodiac

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 truly, 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.

Bug

Directed by William Friedkin and adapted from Tracy Letts' excellent stage play, Bug is a movie that will baffle, excite, horrify and anger those who can't stay with its unwavering intensity. It even provoked titters, and in some points, purposefully so, which should have been honored rather than mocked. Bug is a rare film 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 Ashley Judd and Michael Shannon) that the result is less movie and more 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. Why in hell the movie was so underrated, so under-seen and so ridiculously written off I will never know.

No Country For Old Men

Where to start with the Coens' bloody, poetic adaptation of Cormac McCarthy? First off, Josh Brolin, rocking all of his Bronson, young Nolte, '70s looking real man appeal was a refreshing change of pace. And Javier Bardem, a killing machine, was a glorious cipher -- no Hannibal Lecter code, no silly speeches, no moment where we were supposed to kind of like him -- he's one cool looking movie killer, but truly horrifying. And Tommy Lee Jones' final speech is potently soulful and mysterious. That audiences stumbled out of the theater annoyed by the unresolved ending isn't surprising, but I'm willing to bet they didn't stop talking or thinking about the movie for days, or even weeks afterward. I couldn't. I still can't.

There Will Be Blood

Though loosely based on Oil by Upton Sinclair, Paul Thomas Anderson's epic picture is a beautiful merging of Upton Sinclair and Sinclair Lewis (who wrote Elmer Gantry). It's a faultless examination of capitalism, politics and religion --€something that will be blended and corrupted and completely fucked by, well, now (Sinclair Lewis: "When fascism comes to this country, it will be wrapped in the flag, carrying a cross.") The picture is absolutely gorgeous, beautifully scored (the use of Estonian composer Arvo Part is a powerful touch) and then there's Daniel Day Lewis, one of the greatest living actors working who (and I hate to use this word but it applies) is drop dead amazing. Honestly, there were moments where I was shaking in my seat. Pure genius. 

Black Snake Moan

Did you read my review of this movie? Did you think I might have been just a little obsessed with it? I was. But for good reason. Here's what I wrote: If I'm ever invited to stand up in a room and discuss what makes me tick as a human being, here's two things I can now say about myself: Watching Christina Ricci strut down the road in teeny weeny cut offs, cowboy boots and a navel bearing confederate flag tee-shirt while flipping off a tractor is a vision that gives me all kinds of goosebumps. Watching a dirty blonde, white panty wearing nympho-maniacal Christina Ricci chained to the bible quoting, black Southern bluesman Samuel L. Jackson's radiator unleashes, from my fingers to my toes, an inner and more complicated howl of--Hot Damn! And we should all have that more complicated inner howl--but not merely through the obvious and innate sexuality of the scenario, but through a feeling we have as Americans. Yes, as Americans. Now that may read as an especially strong statement but everyone, (and I'm also talking every single writer who's been against this movie) has to understand the mythic power that is Black Snake Moan. There's just certain archetypes in life that we want to see and experience on a deeper level. Director Craig Brewer gets it, unearthing that depth with a beautiful blending of exploitation and genuine love. He cares about his characters, he cares about their situation, he cares about the South and he cares about the blues. The whole thing, right down to an open and close with legendary bluesman Son House telling us what's what is, by picture end, strangely inspirational.

The Darjeeling Limited

I know a lot of critics turned on Wes Anderson based on this movie. The usual criticisms were bandied about -- too precious, style over substance, too richly-rich and in some cases, even racist. But I found the movie not only aesthetically beautiful (Anderson has a distinct style and impeccable taste and God bless for him for it) but incredibly moving. When Adrien Brody loses his Indian boy ("I couldn't save mine"), his response is astoundingly sad, layered (these are a set of brothers) and yet, wonderfully subtle. And I love how the movie just ambles along, almost aimlessly, giving it a much more 1970's feel (I've always felt a strong Hal Ashby influence in Anderson's work). Anderson creates an alternate, near fantasy world for sure (who could ever have such a train car? And such perfect luggage?) but there's genuine emotion within his compositions -- all those beautifully pinned butterflies really do fly.

I'm Not There

With the inventive Superstar and Velvet Goldmine to his credit, it wasn't entirely surprising that the musically inclined filmmaker Todd Haynes would approach his latest subject, Bob Dylan, with such shape-shifting invention (and re-invention). The very fact that he was given permission to dig into Dylanology and use the man's music in his film seems something close to radical, but watching I'm Not There (titled after a track from "The Basement Tapes"), one can understand Dylan's approval. Using six actors to represent Dylan's varied personas (Marcus Carl Franklin for his Woody Guthrie worship, Ben Whishaw represents young poet Dylan as Arthur Rimbaud, Cate Blanchett as slinky, skinny, drugged out, D.A. Pennebaker '60s Dylan, Heath Ledger as James Dean inspired heartthrob, Christian Bale as folky turned born again Christian and Richard Gere as Billy the Kid) Haynes films with varied cinematic styles to weave truth, myth, music, fame into not just a vision of Dylan, but an ambitious vision of American iconography as well. It borders on pretentious but...I like that about it. It still surprises me that I didn't dislike it but...I loved it instead.

Margot at the Wedding

Do you have a sister? I do. Two. Have you ever looked in a window and seen something so confusing and bizarre and weirdly sexual that you can't quite figure out what the hell it is? I have. Does your family fill you with unresolved feelings of...oh God...so many things. Again, mine have. Noah Baumbach gets all these little details and films a story like a novel, making it an impactful, beguiling experience even if you've never experienced such things. A lived-in, harsh, but very, very real look at dysfunction, it's a tough movie to shake. Especially if you went home for the holidays after a long absence...

Superbad

Funniest comedy of the year -- far above Knocked Up. And that damn Orson Welles joke in the convenience store gets me every time.  This is the movie that the obnoxious, overrated, trying-way-too-hard Juno should have been. Smart teenagers not straining to be quirky and clever --“Jonah Hill and the great Michael Cera simply are clever. And smart. And not pulling quips out of some screen-written arsenal -- they're natural ("honest to blog" they are!). And the soul and funk soundtrack is an absolutely perfect celebration of teenage energy, sexuality and hope.  I want to tongue kiss whoever decided to keep the movie devoid of any twee music. Seriously, I do. Preferably with a Curtis Mayfield song blasting.

The Host

A real monster movie but one filled with offbeat humor, sadness, political commentary and genuine horror -- Joon-ho Bong's picture also features one of my favorite moments of the year --€when Song Kang-ho realizes that, of all things, a monster has been unleashed and while he's attempting to piece together the unbelievable scenario, he begins running among all the other frantic citizens, who flee past him in slow motion.  So surreal and insane, the sequence just feels so incredibly real. And of all the pretentious pictures (Lions for Lambs in particular) so critical or "thoughtful" concerning American politics, the pulpier, entertaining The Host, offered a significantly darker and more complicated message toward America than most this year. And I'll still argue with Richard Roeper on that one. Though we both agree that severed heads are aesthetically pleasing.  But that's an entirely different movie...

Auld Lang Scene: Seven Cinematic New Year's Eve Moments

It’s that screwy, depressing time of year again. The big holidays are over, we’ve probably spent too much money, we’ve visited countless relatives (or not enough, or thankfully, not enough) and we’re ready to (deep breath) start anew (I’ll be far away in the desert). And yet, I’m all set for the New Year – 2008 – with plans and hopes and dreams and…oh who am I kidding? Will I really stick to those resolutions? And am I actually going to find a decent party to attend? And for the love of Dick Clark, another night sitting alone, in front of the TV watching New Year’s Rockin’ Eve?

So I’m suggesting movies, and in particular, New Year’s movies, to ring in our supposed future clean slate. Those celluloid dreamscapes that offer fantasy, reality or a potent mixture of the two are just the, uh, ticket (or depressing party hat). And with these seven pictures (seven for 2007 and one more for 2008), all that include memorable New Year’s moments, we can relate, become inspired, feel disturbed, dream of love or…give our brother a big kiss, particularly if he’s named Fredo.

Bitter Moon (1992)

Roman Polanski’s boozy, bitter, sexually manic ode to demented dysfunction remains one of the most underrated, misunderstood pictures in his brilliant career, a movie that makes one laugh as much as it horrifies, titillates and illuminates. It’s also a movie one can identify with (either literally or one hopes, allegorically) which might be part of the reason so many viewer’s were turned off by it. Which couple do you relate to? The “nice” couple is Hugh Grant and Kirsten Scott Thomas, a handsome, respectable British pair, enjoying a cheesy cruise, making the most of whatever excitement is left in their marriage. The twisted duo is a failed and rather hacky novelist (an inspired Peter Coyote) and his French, mysterious, sex-bomb of a wife (Emmanuelle Seigner, Polanski’s real life wife) whose story becomes Grant’s main obsession as he listens to Coyote describe every detail of his relationship. And I mean every detail (barnyard sex stuff, urination, etc.). As a result, Grant falls for Coyote’s wife, and so makes his somewhat pathetic play on (yes) New Year’s Eve. During the boat’s party, Seigner dances with almost obnoxiously seductive abandon ensnaring not Grant (whom she rejects as he ridiculously prances towards her) but in the picture’s twist, Grant’s wife. It’s a wonderfully exciting moment of Sapphic sensuality, but one that’ll lead to shocking tragedy. I don’t want to ruin the entire surprise, so I’ll just say --  the New Year comes in with a big, double bang.

Il Posto (1961)

Italian Neo-Realist filmmaker Ermanno Olmi displays those little heartbreaks that lead people to inspiration or desperation with a beguiling combination of warmth and melancholia. An auteur whose attention to the small details of everyday life created quiet character studies of tedium, irony, hilarity, and sadness, he had a marked quality of making the hum-drum almost fantastical. Reality depends on how you look at it, and his aggressively common depictions also contained an element of Kafkaesque torture. So what better day than New Year’s Eve will we see the most touching blend of the director’s strengths in his masterful Il Posto, a film that observed a job (“Il Posto" means "The Job") through the eyes of a teenager (the saucer-eyed and languid non-professional actor Sandro Panseri) entering the work-force. After conforming at his job, it’s at a New Year’s Eve party that the teen will let loose, surrounded by the dreary commonality of his future. Though he hopes to meet the pretty woman he’s smitten with, he instead enters this rather flavorless party, and shares a table with an older couple. As the evening opens up and revelers have downed some liquids, the shy young man lets himself go while dancing, smiling, resigned to his sure night of single-dom. The fact that he's momentarily happy, widening his usual placid face with toothy grins and jumping in a circle with other party-goers, makes the sequence all the more heartbreaking. Especially since the New Year brings a new position, as well as a potentially endless life of staring at a co-worker's head in front of him.

Rosemary’s Baby (1968)

Though the New Year’s Eve moment in Roman Polanski’s classic horror movie is brief, it provides an important transition for lead character Rosemary and her attempts towards personal freedom. Those attempts will be in vain of course, but at least she tries which, again, makes her situation incredibly sad (again, “demonized” Polanski makes one of the most touching stories about a woman). You know the story – young mother-to-be Rosemary (Mia Farrow) has been impregnated with the child of Satan after her husband, Guy (John Cassavetes) strikes a deal with their eccentric, Devil worshiping neighbor’s The Castavets  (Sydney Blackmer and Ruth Gordon). Rosemary’s been on board with all of the Castavet’s pregnancy tips, even agreeing to switch to Dr. Sapirstein (played by a condescendingly evil Ralph Bellamy), resulting in an unusual painful pregnancy. At the Castavet’s New Year’s Eve party, Rosemary informs Sapirstein of both her intense pain, and unknowingly, the horrible situation she’s innocently stumbled into:  “It’s like a wire inside me getting tighter and tighter.” After assuring her she’ll be fine, Roman Castavet rings in the New Year with this frightening exclamation: “To 1966! To Year One!” Cut to Rosemary catching herself eating a piece of raw meat in the kitchen and thinking, something is very, very wrong here. But as I always say (when making any decision) what will Dr. Saperstein think? Poor Rosemary, her year will only get worse.

The Apartment (1960)

Billy Wilder's Oscar-winning dark comedy laid the groundwork for the running-to-your-beloved scene copied in later films like When Harry Met Sally and later, Cameron Crowe’s Jerry Maguire. Here, it’s lovable, squirrely Jack Lemmon receiving the run-to-you treatment, and he deserves it. As the too-nice office worker attempting to climb the corporate ladder, while being used by his sleazy bosses for his apartment (they cheat on their wives in his cozy bachelor pad), nice guy Lemmon falls for one of the “other women” (Shirley MacLaine) --  a flawed but ultimately warm human being who deserves to be treated with much more respect than cad Fred MacMurray is giving her. It’s during an especially depressing New Year’s when she comes to terms with how much of a heel MacMurray is and (duh) how sweet Lemmon is.  Running out of her New Year’s celebration, she pulls the iconic movie moment of rushing to Lemmon’s apartment (where he sits alone) with smiles and tears in her eyes – she’s done the right thing. And it’s blissfully powerful -- especially when MacLaine's response to Lemmon's affirmation of amour is simply “Shut up and deal.”

Sunset Boulevard (1950)

There are certain critics (no, not all, but there are some...) who believe Billy Wilder was cruel towards his characters, even blithely contemptuous of them, but I say he was merely a realist about the human condition. And as such, he was sympathetic towards his creations – warts, scars, cigarette burns and all. Nowhere is this more apparent than in his masterpiece, Sunset Boulevard, and especially during its important New Year’s Eve sequence. It’s here where we manage to feel sorry for both of the potentially despicable protagonists.  Washed up silent screen star Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) with her deranged, desperate attempts to re-enter pictures (for all "those wonderful people out there in the dark") has brought forth a younger, struggling screenwriter-turned hustler Joe (William Holden) and he’s become her kept boy -- living in her rambling, ultra bizarre mansion (but gorgeous) off Sunset Boulevard. He kids himself that he’s something of a writing partner, but he realizes the depth of his situation on New Year’s Eve, when his grand party turns out to be a waxed dance floor consisting of…Norma Desmond.  This “sad, embarrassing revelation” -- that he’s the lone guest causes him to flee from a night in which he feels “caught like the cigarette in that contraption on her finger.”  He runs to a “regular” party, with people his own age and excitedly makes the decision to leave Norma but… he learns that she’s attempted suicide. With pangs of guilt, he returns, telling her, “You've been good to me. You're the only person in this stinking town that has been good to me,” which is unspeakably sad. When we hear “Auld Lang Syne” and she says “Happy New Year, darling”…oh he really made the wrong decision. 

The Godfather Part II (1974)

Francis Ford Coppola’s legendary sequel to The Godfather finds favorite son Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) expanding the family business, spreading it into Las Vegas, Hollywood and Cuba. But expansion comes at a cost – particularly to one’s conscience – and Michael’s New Year will reveal his new ideas concerning family and business. At this point Michael’s already alienated wife Kay (Diane Keaton), but Kay isn’t blood and one would think (at least deceased Godfather Vito Corleone would think) that blood is thicker than….knowing Hyam Roth or Johnny Ola. Not so for Michael, who after learning troubled brother Fredo (a superb John Cazale) has lied to him, makes his deadly decision. In the midst of a New Year’s Eve party, Michael faces Fredo at the stroke of midnight, grasps his head tightly and plants the kind of kiss no one wants to ring the New Year in with – the kiss of death. In one of cinema’s most famous moments, Michael says: “I know it was you Fredo; you broke my heart.”  Though Fredo’s days are numbered after this coldly threatening, though weirdly touching exchange, it is Michael who’ll suffer the most; the decision will linger in his soul until his last breath.

The Poseidon Advenure (1972)

In terms of big budget, bloated, all-star movies in which boats meet disaster ridden, screaming-passenger consequences, The Poseidon Adventure is the Mac-Daddy of them all. And the deed goes down on New Year's Eve. So how in the hell did I miss this one? (Thanks for the tip from my friend Marc Weingarten). I must have been so transfixed by re-watching Roman Polanski's wife's ripe body in that blue dress, writhing on the dance floor, that I managed to blank out my other enormous object of lust, Gene Hackman, TCB'ing on the U.S.S. Poseidon. So... The Poseidon Adventure...cheesy? Sure it is. Kind of ridiculous? You bet. Filled with stereotypical characters? Yep (and in the case of Ernest Borgnine, double yep). But, then, so is Titanic, which some might consider the more serious cinematic boat catastrophe. Fine. But, hey The Poseidon Adventure was nominated for eight Oscars -- and it won for best song, the infinitely less-annoying-than-Celine-Dion ballad “The Morning After.” The story sets sail when, quite suddenly, an underground earthquake flips over the luxury liner that should be enjoying its New Year’s cruise. The last group standing is an interesting bunch of disparate types who’ll have to work together in order to climb their way upward through the ship. Not easy. Especially with Shelley Winters involved. Leading the crew is not the ship’s captain (a pre-Airplane!/Naked Gun Leslie Nielsen  whom you can’t watch with a straight face) but a preacher played by, oh yes, Gene Hackman. Hollering at people has always been one of Hackman’s fortes, and his talent is utilized to great, hilarious effect as he corrals the rest of the bunch and screams at them to get their butts in gear to…live! Dammit!  Like most Irwin Allen produced extravaganzas the cast is filled with stars -- old and new -- including Borgnine as a cranky cop, Stella Stevens as a former prostitute (who continually riles her hubby Borgnine), Carol Lynley as a freaked-out singer, Roddy McDowall as a waiter (one wonders who talked him into the role of waiter), Eric Shea and Pamela Sue Martin as the requisite kids, Red Buttons as the requisite oldster and Winters and Jack Albertson as an old married couple. With deaths galore (and a few pretty mean ones at that), some impressive visual effects and a general feeling of chaos, The Poseidon Adventure, surprisingly holds up well through time. And I love it when Stella Stevens quips, “I'm going next. So if ole' fat ass gets stuck, I won't get stuck behind her.” Ah, Happy New Year!

Holiday (1938)

George Cukor’s blissfully exultant movie is also curiously sad – sad because you get the feeling that all of the explorative dreams its lead character, Johnny Case (a joyous Cary Grant) has, well, they might not work out in the real world. With that, it’s the perfect New Year’s movie, filled with fresh starts, all night parties, dreams and happy revelations – those things we make lists about before the clock strikes midnight and usually ditch a few weeks into the month. And a large portion of the movie does indeed take place on New Year’s Eve, during a society family’s party where Johnny is set to announce his engagement to wealthy Julia (Doris Nolan). But he’s falling in love with her luminous, down to earth sister Linda (a rapturous Katharine Hepburn) who digs his rather counterculture desires. The movie works subtly and elegantly, infused with an almost startling blend of comedy and pathos. As Johnny and Linda clearly fall for each other, even literally tumble for one another (in a jubilant scene, the two stars perform a beautiful bit of acrobatic talent) they leave us buzzed and charged up for something ourselves. But what? Is it possible to ever feel elation like that? Is it? I guess I can always hope for next year but…doubtful. We can always do as Cary Grant does and try a little blind faith.   

Happy New Year!

Read my entire list at MSN Movies.

You Can Never Go Fast Enough: '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.

Ike Turner: 1931-2007

"Well, if you believe movies, man, then you'll believe anything."
--Ike Turner

Ike Turner has just died at the age of 76. The much maligned, deservedly acclaimed, much argued father of rock and roll; the Tina Turner discovering and abusing, sometimes drug addicted, frequently incarcerated damaged Daddy-O who, for his music alone, I absolutely revere, has left the building.

When did I fall for Ike? Many times in my live music movie watching -- particularly those impossibly hot Ike and Tina (and the Ikette's) Musikladen performances, the almost shockingly erotic moment of Gimme Shelter and, with special awe-inspiring potency, their concert in Ghana, immortalized in the music documentary Soul to Soul.  It’s 1971 and these two, along with Ike’s band and the slinky Ikettes, are in their prime. Beyonce? Sure, she’s all self styled booty-licious…but compared to Tina and The Ikettes? She’s melting vanilla ice cream. Dear God, when Tina and Ikette’s bust out Ike’s version (not Phil Spector’s --which I also like) of “River Deep Mountain High” in which the climax explodes into the women kicking their healthy legs, maracas shaking over-head, all wigged hair, mini-dresses and legs…it’s pure sex on stage.

In a once deleted scene Ike, clad in a spiffy, belted white suit accompanies Tina, styling her sexy see-through tops, as she plaintively sings Otis Redding’s “I’ve been Loving You Too Long” first soulfully then, when Ike joins in, with a raunchy glee (or as Tina says in “Proud Mary” “Nice and rough”) that's just so crazy/sexy/fucked-up amazing, I get all tingly inside. Dirtier than the Maysles’ Gimme Shelter moment (wherein Tina’s stroking that mike like…we’re all adults here), this is just, well, not something you’d see on Shindig or even on MTV where so called sexy performances are so canned and planned and usually awful. In Soul to Soul, Ike sleazes out his sexed up comments and punctuates moments with “shit!” and slurping cunnilingus sounds before the buildup of Tina belting out “Sock it to Me” as only Ms. Turner can. Oh God! It just makes you want to force today's young, tedious pop tarts into an isolation cell and make them watch what really gorgeous, gifted, down-and-dirty people do. Make them behold Ike Turner in all his black power, brown turtleneck, medallion wearing glory (Ike looked sublime in the early ‘70s) and yes, frighten them with all that raw power.

Which leads me to this: Why must people, who say they like old Ike and Tina Turner (and I’m not talking real music lovers and writers who know better) continually bring up Ike as the beater? Of course it’s wrong that he hit Tina. Of course the Ike and Tina story has become rightfully iconic -- the woman, this genius singer, leaves the SOB and not only survives but knocks the guy out of the stadium (though as much as I love her, Tina’s music post-Ike is a bit flavorless). And of course Ike has been arrested something like ten times. But did that define Ike Turner as a musician? This is the brilliant talent who pretty much invented rock and roll with the song “Rocket 88” in 1951. And hey, Tarantino, 5,6,7,8’s fans, this is the guy who wrote the blissfully catchy “I’m Blue.” This is the guy who produced and choreographed and played guitar and piano with yes, obsessive power control freakishness but made his band and singers frequently all the better for it.

And I'm sorry (or not), the dark side to Ike makes the combination of Ike and Tina even more powerful -- dysfunction is a potent brew -- why would so much art, music, cinema and literature heavily notate this fact? You think George Jones and Tammy Wynette didn’t throw beer bottles at each other? And the late, great Tammy Wynette is as significant as our beloved Tina. And are people frightened of Chuck Berry? The guy who secretly videotaped women using the toilet? Don’t get me wrong, I love Chuck Berry but…that’s a whole-helluva-lot-more bizarre than anything Ike may have done.

But who knows. There’s a mystery and rawness to Ike that hung on him like the dust of a criminal out on parole. People ponder all sorts of scenarios when watching Ike. They even hated him. Take the talented Salon columnist Cintra Wilson’s review of an Ike Turner show from 1999 in which she goes one step further by erroneously calling Ike a “purported musician.” “Purported musician?” Calling Ike Turner a purported musician is like calling Henry Ford a purported car maker. Ike Turner was a pioneer, a legend and there’s no questioning of his chops, right to the very end, no matter how many vicious beatings occurred in his lifetime.

One of my most memorable moments was meeting Ike Turner several years back when he performed at one of those terrible Waterfront Blues Festivals. Lots of white people with fanny packs and bottled water boogying to Curtis Salgado or someone of the like while shoving their faces with yakisoba. But the eating stopped when Ike took the stage -- partially because people were leaving (I witnessed some disgusted, Birkenstock sporting ladies ushering their husbands or, partners away as if they were about to witness The Burning Bed II) and partially because people and/or fans were fascinated. And who could blame them? Ike was sporting that trashy blonde singer and no, no, no…it was not the same as Ike and Tina circa ’71 Soul to Soul. The spectacle was a bit sad. But Ike? Ike still had it.

After the show I found myself standing amidst a group of record collectors (all male) when Ike came out to do a signing. When one of your idols is that close, you can’t help but edge closer -- I wasn’t intending on saying anything, I just wanted to look at him. But a small coterie of men yelling “Ike!” shoved me back further. Understanding their rude behavior, it was Ike, Ike Turner who gallantly, but rather aggressively, reached his hand out, grabbed my arm and pulled me to the front. I'll never forget the look of amusement the then 70-year-old gave me as he said smiling: “Get over here girl!” Oozing decades of musical legend and a substantive amount of charm and wickedness I was speechless. What the hell can I say to Ike Turner? I worship your LP “Blues Roots?” But after handing me a signed glossy and a CD free of charge, he paid me a compliment and offered some revealing and sincere words of jail-house advice directed at me and a male friend: “Stay straight,” Ike warned us. And we listened.

Rest in peace Ike. Too bad and perhaps, too perfectly things didn't always, as Tina sang, "work out fine."

On DVD, James, Harry, Bing and Fred

I’m so behind on this obsessive column that too many DVD’s have passed by to recommend. You know which ones to buy. So I’ll just get right into, as Liz Taylor would say, the meat of things.

I'll try to stay on top by next week but in the meantime, check out my Film and DVD reviews at Strange Impersonation and anything else I'm thinking, or rather my relationship with stuffed animal claw machines at Pretty Poison.

As for now, three obsessions:

1. Bigger Than Life   Why oh why is this Nicholas Ray classic not on DVD? It never even found its way to VHS either, sad since Bigger than Life is one Ray’s most interesting, sociologically damning pictures. It also boasts one of cinema’s most horrifying fathers, James Mason’s Ed Avery. A picture perfect 1950’s schoolteacher at first, his personality changes drastically after discovering he’s suffering from a potentially fatal illness. He becomes a guinea pig to the new drug cortisone and essentially, loses his marbles. Like many drugs, it’s wonderful at first -- he feels better -- but the side effects are worse than anything you’ll hear listed during a Lipitor, Zoloft or Wellbutrin commercial. It’s not that he loses his sex drive (though that’s not addressed in the picture) no, he turns into a megalomaniacal psychopath with murder on his mind -- chiefly the murder of his little son. Shot in bold, brilliant color and beautifully composed (the shots of Mason lording over his son in shadow are especially powerful), the father-as-God story is horrifying but in the end, incredibly sad.  A terrifically dark explication of the cookie cutter 1950’s family (was anyone really that perfect cookie? No.) and an interesting early indictment on prescription drugs, the picture was of course, a massive flop upon release. The whole daddy’s gonna kill you aspect was more than likely tough going for audiences taking in those glorious Technicolor frames.

And... is it me, or is it strangely refreshing to watch repression unleashed in such a psychopathic way? It may be related to recently watching Interiors and secretly wishing someone like Mason would just smash all of those clay pots Geraldine Page is so fucking obsessed with. Or drug that drippy Sam Waterson with some cortisone. Anything.

2. With A Friend Like Harry (A.K.A. Harry He’s Here to Help)  Dominik Moll directed this superb thriller that turns a family’s summer vacation into not only a dance with death but an existential breakdown. The story finds married man Michel (Laurent Lucas) meeting a strange guy in a roadside men’s room (which is already off – meeting a man while washing your hands). That guy is the well to do Harry (a brilliantly beguiling Sergi Lopez) who claims to have been high school friends with Michel – or perhaps not. Though Michel doesn’t remember Harry, he half heartedly, though curiously allows the man and his girlfriend to visit their in-progress summer house. Harry will then uncomfortably insinuate himself on the family leading to all sorts of behavior that reveals not only how off Harry is, but Michel’s beleaguered family man existence. Harry’s obsessed with Michel, and with that, unleashes contempt for anything in Michel’s way – especially the wife and kids – something Harry views as soul suckers, taking away Michel’s artistic power. But is it really Harry, or is he some manifestation of Michel’s stunted creativity and familial bitterness? And that is all I’ll reveal about this splendid, darkly humorous yet almost blissfully horrifying picture – a movie that earns bonus points for making a sociopath “friend” almost as hellish as working on home repairs. And there’s a screaming moment in a car (I love automotive mental breakdowns on film) that is so fiendishly satisfying that, many of us, even us non-sociopathic mystery men intent on offing another man’s family, will understand. Some of my most homicidal moments have occurred in an automobile.

3. Crosby and Astaire in Holiday Inn   Everyone loves White Christmas but I prefer the messier, dysfunctional Holiday Inn, the movie in which that famous tune is first heard (though Bing Crosby only hums “White Christmas”). Sexy crooner Crosby (Yes, Bing Crosby is cool-eyed hot. Just don’t read Donald Shepherd’s The Hollow Man in which Bing comes off an alcoholic sadist, but... that just makes him even hotter..) plays a retired singer whose idyllic existence managing a Connecticut Inn becomes tangled up in drama (very light drama, mind you) when his ex-partner (Fred Astaire) comes to visit. The movie is thin but with Bing and Fred overflowing, it manages to become that annoying word your Aunt might use: delightful. (Wait, I’ve used that word. Give me a viral slap me next time I do that). Peppered with festive songs like “Happy Holidays” and “Let’s Start the New Year Right,” it’s a blast, but it’s Astaire’s dancing-- chiefly (and quite literally) his “don’t try this at home” “Say It With Firecrackers” number, during which the graceful hoofer throws lit firecrackers on stage and tap dances to their sparkly pops, that is absolutely sublime. And yeah, hot.

Slap Happy

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.