Sunset Gun

Mad Love: Baby They Were Born to Kill

What happens when two fiendish, ferocious creatures, two deadly, demented sadists, two roughly beautiful master manipulators become lovers? Equality. Between man, woman and movies, you can find fair practice, of course, but with such hard-boiled honesty? Not often enough. So leave it to Lawrence Tierney and Claire Trevor in Robert Wise's uncompromising, savage noir  Born to Kill to present such a romantically rotten pair with such strangely satisfying equitability. The femme fatale meets her match -- the L'homme fatal. Were they acting? Yes, but then, as you fall into the movie, you begin to think, no. No way. As I rewatched the picture today, I had to repost my adoration for such crazy, mad, demented, deadly, not stupid, scary love.

As Wise wryly noted within the commentary track for his one of his greatest, most beautifully brutal pictures, indeed, Lawrence Tierney was not always acting. Particularly when a scene required a hot-blooded rage so intense that the bad mood bruiser resorts to beating a man and woman to death. It scared the director with its realness. And it scares the viewer.  No Adler, no Stanislavsky, no recounting memories of a woman who did him wrong, it was there without the asking -- Tierney was that frighteningly, fantastically natural. And in Born to Kill, he’s something of a thuggish genius.

One of the toughest actors on and off the screen (Ever.), the hard-boiled legend was a notorious character (with a record) who lived on the edge of danger and menace with such tremendous gusto, that you can’t get through Hollywood without hearing a classic, train-wreck Tierney story (my first week in LA and I met a man who  told me how, while renting movies with Tierney, he witnessed the legend throw a young man through a display case after Tierney overheard the stranger calling the very much passed away Errol Flynn a homosexual slur).  But the man was more than his drunken myth, more than the bald, gravel voiced geezer bad-ass Joe Cabot in Reservoir Dogs, more than the guy who scared Jerry Seinfeld with a knife (look it up), he was a young, strikingly handsome actor with such a powerfully dangerous screen presence and such a messy personal life that he was just too much -- too much of a good/bad thing.  

Born to Kill (along with The Devil Thumbs a Ride) showcases Tierney at the peak of his punching powers. Nasty, mean, mysterious and disturbingly, intriguingly erotic -- his brutality offers the viewer a confusingly attractive blend of sadism and sex. Part of the picture’s kinkiness lies in his pairing with the fantastic  Trevor -- again -- the femme fatale to his L'homme fatal. He may beat and kill whoever inspires his ire, but Trevor easily, coolly discusses how painful it is for a victim to die: “A piece of metal sliding into your body, finding its way into your heart. Or a bullet tearing through your skin, crashing into a bone.” she purrs. Naturally, the black-hearted climber falls for the like-minded Lawrence -- nothing’s sexier than finding the one man or woman who’ll understand you, while swirling each other like sharks.

Dysfunction this inspired can only lead to the bedroom. And Trevor was dysfunction on and with legs. As one of the queens of film noir in movies like William Wyler's Dead End, Anatole Litvak's The Amazing Dr. Clitterhouse, Edward Dmytryk's Murder My Sweet, Anthony Mann's Raw Deal, John Huston's Key Largo, Irving Reis's Crack-Up and more, she knew her way around a Bogart, a Powell and a Robinson. So in Born to Kill,  with those crafty eyes that could bore right through your soul -- or lack thereof -- she's potent stuff. And she's so strong up against Tierney,  that somehow, her black heart gave the man a soul. How could he resist her?

And Wise (working from the novel by James Gunn) understands all this beautiful, hopped up hyper-erotic horror.  Utilizing everything he learned from Val Lewton to stunning effect, from his gorgeous noir lighting (with cinematographer Robert De Grasse) to genuinely nightmarish, violent attack sequences, the movie sucks you into its toxic universe with such gritty gorgeousness, you can’t help but be mesmerized by such awful people. You, and especially in the case of Tierney and Trevor, grow to admire them. 

This fatalistic fondness is doubly troubling when you again recall the moment Tierney kills his ex-girlfriend and her lover -- it’s still so shocking, you can’t believe your modern eyes haven’t become accustomed to such violence. But this is Tierney after all, a man who he keeps you thrillingly off kilter. Working alongside a stellar supporting cast (Walter Slezak, an inspired Esther Howard and a perfect, noir fixture Elisha Cook Jr.) Tierney is… good god… so wonderfully evil. Young Tierney is a man with immense sex appeal, the ultimate alpha male, the ultimate tough guy just dripping with ticking time bomb rushes of testosterone. When anger flashes across those eyes, he’s potently scary, mad-dog real.

A unique, unsettling cross between smoothness (in Born to Kill his voice is more noir punctuated and level over gravely) and harsh moodiness ready to explode, we immediately recognize he’s no fake. But we are talking about a guy who, in real life was reportedly arrested more times than one of his more famous characters: John Dillinger. Though he grew grumpy of such typecasting, he had to know just how good he was at the level ten tough guy. No other actor tops this kind of specific anger -- an anger we can only wonder about. Where’s this fury coming from? He was troubled, certainly, but perhaps, as Bukowski would say, Tierney was truly born into this. But in Born to Kill, Trevor played him like a fiddle -- Devil and Daniel Webster style. Who knows if she could handle him off screen? The movie sure makes it seem like she could. Anything he can do she can do badder. Or not. And then the struggle continues. And yet, Born to Kill never presumes this woman could tame the beast. Or should.

Here's one of the most brutal moments of Tierney and Wise's film career. Remember: Don't two time Lawrence Tierney.

Sunset GunShots: Dolls, Doubles, Dozing

I'm currently in Toronto, coming off a few of what Ms. Tate's Jennifer North is most likely popping in this picture (though less pure, and strong). Don't judge. Though I've flown all over the world this year, I can't make it within four feet of an airport without mother's little helper. I'm not afraid of flying, or the plane or even crashing (that just means I'm closer to the ground). It's claustrophobia. And panic attacks. And people staring at me while in the midst of that fight or flight (!) battle duking it out in my brain. I think, these strangers -- they notice -- which builds into a kind of Dostoyevskian The Double-like awkwardness -- the Yakov Petrovich Golyadkin variety. Yes, I really get that nervous on planes. The fear of my own self starts spreading to other areas of worry. As Dostoevsky wrote of tortured Golyadkin: "Anxiety and uneasiness in regard to anything near him that was annoying always worried him far more than the annoyance itself." Yes. He gets it. Though, no one ever does notice -- but I notice -- and I take care of it. And once that door closes, well, please don't make my "double" become Neely O'Hara dosed out on dexies and booze. I need to be calm, thank you.

I'm not trying to make light of these things. Neither the fears, rational or otherwise, nor the necessary pharmaceuticals. The latter are addictive and bad and destroy lives. Sure. But as they, or rather, I say morbid, pit-in-the-stomach terror inspired laughter spiked with a few extra benzodiazepines is the best... you know the rest. And once in a while (or often), and on an airplane especially, they transform you into the most delightful traveler a stewardess has ever had the joy to... ignore.  With that, I'm tired, I'm talking to much, and I'm taking a break -- for now.

But all of this sleeplessness, dolls and Dostoevsky has made me think in double. So I present, a new page of Sunset GunShots -- doubles. Please take a look here while I return to... sleep.

P.S. I know this has nothing to do with TIFF. But you've read enough coverage of that, haven't you?

Insecticide: Revisiting the Genius of Bug

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.

But there's more to the story.

First, I'll return to sitting in the theater --  back in 2007, when William Friedkin's Bug left many viewers confused, even angry. Based on the picture's previews and poster art, audience's unfamiliar with the acclaimed Tracy Letts play thought they were going to see another Saw or Hostel -- any kind of Lions Gate horror film would do. But they saw something far superior, and in the small audience I experienced the movie with --  they didn't appreciate it. In the dark (I watched the picture 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." Wow, I thought. This is one of the best movies I've seen all year and certainly, one of Friedkin's finest. What in the world? Could it really boil down to -- not enough bugs?

Happily this response didn't affect Friedkin's relationship with Letts. The French Connection, Exorcist, Sorcerer, Cruising director's newest film, Killer Joe (playing Venice and Toronto), was written by Letts (from his 1991 play), who after Bug (the long running play and short release movie), became both a Tony and Pulitzer Award-winning playwright (for his brilliant August: Osage County). Letts, the actor has also earned raves as George in the Steppenwolf Theatre's production of Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? It's no surprise (clearly) that the man and artist understands the complexities, the often insane, yet wholly human complexities of relationships, and how this extends further-- into our nightmares and reality -- and the blurring of the two. As Martha states in Woolf: "Truth or illusion George, you don't know the difference."

Which leads me back to the under-valued Bug and Judd's Agnes, so fearful of the void. Though Agnes presents herself as a tough cookie, she realize she needs Shannon's Peter. 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.

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 (Judd and Shannon especially) 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 whacked 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 (and Letts) 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. Shannon is alarming, attractive, mysterious, vulnerable, oddly charming -- easy to fall in love with even when all signs say "run away." And, Judd who, when given the chance, can be one of the bravest and most electrifying actresses working. 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. As she says, “Guess I’d rather talk with you about bugs than nothing with nobody.” Yes, indeed.