That's a terrible question to ask, I suppose. I'm not making light of addiction. But let's not kid ourselves. There's a reason drugs seduce. It's because they feel so damn good. And eventually so damn bad. In Otto Preminger's The Man with the Golden Arm, McGavin's Louie looks good. And even better, he looks like he feels good. But as we know, just at first glance, he's a bad man with bad things. A bad man to know but a bad man we want to know.
McGavin's drug pushing Louie in Preminger’s seminal junkie picture, (adapted from Nelson Algren's novel, which I haven't read and may delve into Louie deeper) is one of my favorite roles by "The Night Stalker" star and one of his finest performances. And yet, it's one he’s probably least known for. Though Sinatra is the sparkling, strung-out star as drummer Frankie Machine, jonesing and shaking and horrifically withdrawing to the hilt (and he's good), it's McGavin who fascinates me.
Like the Big Bad Wolf dressed in dandy clothing, McGavin is sexy and predatory, charismatic and creepy, mysterious and so unabashedly blatant -- dangling all that sensuous smack in Frankie's face like a tormenting ex-lover. He promises just like an abusive manipulator when you're vulnerable and ready to feel something, anything. He knows you need him: "Oh, kicked it, wanna bet?" he taunts. "I mean it," says Frankie. Louie almost coos: "Sure, I'll be around."
Pushermen are always seducers and heroin orgasmic, I'm not discussing anything new, but I love that you see this best in a movie made in 1955. And that relationship is one between lovers. Heroin is the sex and Louie is all that hot and bothered foreplay. It's not a surprise Sinatra and McGavin look at each other with more than a hint of homoeroticism. They've got this sick, sexy chemistry going on. Everyone in the movie seems desirous of Frankie (including Arnold Stang's hero-worshipping style-cramper, Sparrow), but Sinatra and McGavin are the biggest turn-on. Frankie wants him. And when Frankie crosses the street to Louie's, relapsing to the determined jazzy score of Elmer Bernstein, Louie is waiting. He pulls down the shades. Frankie's ready to blast off. "The monkey is never dead, Dealer. The monkey never dies. When you kick him off, he just hides in a corner, waiting his turn." Indeed. He cannot miss a vein.
There are some movies that are so perfect, so exquisitely beautiful, so effortlessly elegant, they're almost painful. Like watching an overwhelmingly enchanting dancer — their beauty cracks something inside of you, inspiring/torturing you to tears or even a brief spurt of madness. Nothing is that lovely. And indeed, nothing is. The pain of manipulating those graceful muscles, and in the case of Max Ophüls' The Earrings of Madame de..., the pain of that shambolic muscle called the heart, reveals what threatens to stain one's resplendently spotless satin and silk — blood-red, human deception and guilt.
Glittering surfaces are the thing in the world of Ophüls' late 19th century France in which Comtesse Louise de... (Danielle Darrieux), the stunning, spoiled wife of the similarly stunning and wealthy Général André de... (Charles Boyer), who makes a decision with dire and even morbidly comical consequences: She secretly sells a pair of earrings, a wedding present from her husband, to pay off debts.
What proceeds is the Ophüls' intended carousal of uncertainties, the earrings moving from one wooden-cheval climber to the other, notably the wife's Italian lover, Baron Donati (Vittorio De Sica), cursing these elegant creatures with looming heartbreak. Ophüls fills every frame with such opulence — mirrored reflections, dizzyingly perfected montages and those famously inspired tracking shots that are so graceful, so seamless that, again, they feel as if they could cut you open. It hurts. But oh how I love the pain.
From MSN Movies 100 Favorite Films in which MSN writers pick their favorites. This is on my list with more to come. So far, we've ranked 100-81. Read them here. More soon.
Oh, Oscar. You always do this!
The Oscars In Memoriam Reel always leaves out important, deserving people and this year was one of the worst. I watched those we're to remember, shocked the entire presentation was over so quickly. Here's Marvin Hamlisch, may he rest in peace, and here's Barbra Streisand singing, beautifully, but rather ironically, "Memories."
Thank goodness the Academy had the memory to honor Ernest Borgnine as well as Chris Marker, but they, in oversight or without care, missed (among many others), Andy Griffith (so brilliant in Elia Kazan's A Face in the Crowd), Levon Helm (wonderful in Coal Miner's Daughter), Larry Hagman (who, in addition to other movies, appeared in Sidney Lumet's The Group and Fail Safe), Harry Carey, Jr. (who worked in over 90 motion pictures for heaven's sake, many with John Ford), Phyllis Diller, Lupe Ontiveros, Susan Tyrrell and again, many more.
And then they missed Ann Rutherford. Oh, another for shame Oscar! Rutherford (who passed away June 11, 2012 at the age of 94) played Polly Benedict from 1937-1942 in thirteen of the Andy Hardy movies with Mickey Rooney. She also worked with Danny Kaye (The Secret Life of Walter Mitty), Jimmy Stewart (Of Human Hearts), Red Skelton (Whistling in the Dark, Whistling in Dixie, Whistling in Brooklyn), Errol Flynn (Adventures of Don Juan) and appeared in movies like Pride and Prejudice, A Christmas Carol and that one movie. Oh, what was that movie? Ah, yes, Gone with the Wind. Remember that one, Oscars?
I had the honor to interview Ms. Rutherford in 2009 at the Palm Springs Film Noir Festival. What a wonderful woman. She talked about her long and interesting career (take a look at herextensive work in pictures here), from her famous co-stars (and Errol Flynn's "naughty" monkey) and of course, making Gone with the Wind. She was delightful -- quick-witted, full of funny, heartfelt anecdotes and so lovely. She reflected on her years and adventures in movies, and specifically, the stars she worked with as "wonderful, enduring people." "Enduring people," Oscars. Take note. Rest in Peace, Ann. You'll always be remembered.
Do you remember the song "You'll Be In My Heart" by Phil Collins? It was from Tarzan and it won the Oscar for Best Original Song in 1999 (beating out Aimee Mann's "Save Me" from Magnolia for Christ's sake). Anyway, do you remember that "Tarzan" song over, say, The Who's "A Quick One While He's Away" from Wes Anderson's Rushmore the year before? That Phil Collins song was a hit, I know, but I'm going to say at this point, you, cinema lover, might not remember that tune. Phil Collins probably doesn't even remember "You'll Be In My Heart" over The Who. Or The Creation. Or The Faces. Or Cat Stevens. Or The Rolling Stones. Or the entire Rushmore soundtrack.
My point? Why not an Oscar category for Best Soundtrack? Or, rather, the best use of pre-existing music?
Though obviously Best Original Song should remain, and there's plenty of now iconic Best Originals, like "The Way You Look Tonight" (from Swing Time, 1936) or "Over the Rainbow" (from The Wizard of Oz, 1939), often the Best Original Song is NOT the song we remember. Why did Iggy Pop's "Lust for Life" show up on an ad for a cruise line? (They better have good drugs on that cruise.)
The ability to create a meaningful, visceral, powerfully edited soundtrack (and working with songs so damn perfectly and often songs not usually heard in movies, like the not one, but two songs by the band Love in Bottle Rocket, or Dignan running from the cops, tuned perfectly to The Stones' "2000 Man") is a specific talent that, thanks to Music Supervisors and the editors and directors who work with them (*note: a good question a commenter raised is, based on the collaborative nature of the process, who would win the award?) has created moments in movies so iconic, that we often can't imagine the song without the scene.
I can't even listen to "Born to Be Wild" unless I'm watching Easy Rider (as much as I love Steppenwolf), and The Byrds' "Wasn't Born to Follow" remains one of my favorite moments in that picture. And then there's the opening credits of Mean Streets scored to The Ronettes' "Be My Baby," the Stealers Wheel "Stuck in the Middle With You" ear severing in Reservoir Dogs, Margot Tennenbaum walking off the Green Line bus to Nico's "These Days," Billy Batts meeting his demise to Donovan's "Atlantis," and more and more and more.
From American Graffiti to Casino to Dazed and Confused to Crooklyn to Boogie Nights to 2001 to Dead Presidents to Pulp Fiction to Velvet Goldmine to Over the Edge (Cheap fucking Trick) to Trainspotting to Candy to Harold and Maude (even as some of the songs were written for the movie, other were on Stevens' "Mona Bone Jakon" and "Tea for the Tillerman") to Floyd Mutrux's Dusty and Sweets McGee to every freaking Wes Anderson movie (this year's Moonrise Kingdom gives us Françoise Hardy, Hank Willams and Benjamin Britten) -- I don't even know why I'm listing them. You know these movies. And their songs.
There should be an award. If this category existed, we might have be allowed the pleasure of watching Rodriguez sing one of his beautiful, soul wrenching songs tonight, from the Oscar-nominated documentary Searching For Sugarman.
Musical supervisors deserve some Oscars, Martin Scorsese deserves a lifetime achievement award for the Goodfellas helicopter sequence alone and The Coen Brothers should win some kind of trophy for making us remember how cool Kenny Rogers used to be via Lebowski's dream scored to "Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)." Think about it Oscar. And listen.
From my Criticwire Survery answer to: What new category should the Academy add to the Oscars?
The Academy Awards -- one of cinema's most supreme accolades (or so they tell us). So prestigious that, as many filmmakers and actors claim, it's an "honor" just to be nominated. A gift from your peers, a historic milestone, a career changer, an ... oh ... where's Sacheen Littlefeather?
I like Oscars that go a little crazy. And not in those golly-gee speeches where someone, say, Anne Hathaway (the inevitable winner Sunday) reacts with such feigned shock that she giddily exhibits an actorly, cute-as-a-button manic depressive episode, stuttering out names that reveal how kooky, sweet, humbled and... enough, Ms. Hathaway. You're an actress so I do respect you for using your craft on the podium. I expect it. You're an actress so I do respect you for using your craft on the podium. I expect it. And I like you, Anne, (I really like you!). Actually, come to think of it, I hope you pull a Greer Garson five and a half minute gusher. That would be entertaining. That won't happen so... bring me Joan Crawford! Bring me Joan Crawford in bed, accpeting her golden boy (for Mildred Pierce). That's the speech I want to hear.
So with the Academy Awards telecast approaching, here are three (among many) of my favorite Oscar moments -- moments that simply make me happy. There are others of legendary lore: Rod Steiger thanking the Maharishi, George C. Scott not showing up, Brando's Littlefeather showing up, and again, Joan in bed, but I'm sticking to these three stars who, a la Lina Lamont, proved themselves shimmering, glowing stars in the Oscar firmament.
1. The Unshockable David Niven (1974)
This one is so famous that if you don't know it, I don't know you. Now, I adore David Niven. How can one not adore David Niven? It seems a part of one's biolgical makeup to adore David Niven. But David Niven plus Oscars plus streaker? In that case, I worship David Niven. Shaking up the normally demure affair in 1974 was one naked Robert Opel, a guy who'd managed to sneak onstage and streak past Niven while flashing the peace sign. Debonair Niven craftily upstaged the nude marauder, however, by handling the potentially embarrassing situation with amused aplomb. Not missing a comedic beat, the quick-witted Brit quipped, "The only laugh that man will ever get in his life is by stripping and showing off his shortcomings." Wonderful.
Should we be surprised Niven handled this so beautifully? No. He was once close pal Errol Flynn's roommate in a house nicknamed "Cirrhosis-by-the-Sea." I'm thinking a naked hippie meant nothing to a seen-it-all-and-everything David Niven. One of the greatest Oscar moments and a sterling example of how to manage a sticky situation -- something many presenters should learn from. In case of emergency, break glass and resurrect David Niven.
2. Jack Palance Don't Need No Stinkin' Geritol (1992)
An old school, star-studded brand of my-grandpa-can-kick-your-grandpa's-ass moment happened when City Slickers star Jack Palance picked up his Best Supporting Actor Oscar. Not content with the requisite "thank you's" delivered by scroll (and Palance had been around -- he'd have a lot of shout-outs, instead he brought up a producer 42 years ago who thought he'd win an Oscar), the actor dropped to the floor and performed an impressive set of one-handed push-ups. Not bad for a 72-year-old. His City Slickers co-star and Oscar host Billy Crystal was so amused, Jack bettered his material for the rest of the evening with quips like: "Jack Palance has just bungee-jumped off the Hollywood sign." Or after a musical number performed by a host of kids, Crystal announced that all of the children had, in fact, been seeded by the virile tough guy.
No matter how much Palance deserved his award for earlier, superior films like Shane or Sudden Fear (in which he's brilliant), there's no doubt that he made a special kind of history that night. Also, he made co-nominee Tommy Lee Jones smile. That's something.
3. Dear Joan, Damned Bette (1963)
I respect the talents of Bette Davis and Joan Crawford so much, that I sometimes tire of their images looked upon (especially Joan), with only camped up, "Mommie Dearest" delight. But there's no denying it -- that's one part of their appeal. And so yes, I do love a good Bette vs. Joan throw-down and this is a great one. Furious when her What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? co-star Davis was nominated for Best Actress and she wasn't, Crawford got supremely crafty in the ongoing grudge match with Miss Bette (their feud went as far back as an affair with Franchot Tone). Joan exhibited some serious Harriet Craig-level manipulation when she wrote each of the other nominees (oh, how I would love to see those letters) and offered her services to accept on their behalf should one of them be unable to attend the ceremony. And wouldn't you know it? Anne Bancroft, who could not be present, won for The Miracle Worker.
Sweeping on stage and pawing that golden boy like a jungle cat, Joan basked in the limelight, starting with "Miss Bancroft said, 'Here's my little speech, Dear Joan.'" Dear Joan continued while Ms. Davis steamed in her seat, feeling more like Crawford's Blanche, never being able to leave that chair. Bette, I love you, and I'm not taking sides here, but in this case... Bravo and bitchily well played Joan. A diva to the death. And she looks fantastic, of course.
I have a real soft spot for a movie in which a drunken Richard Burton makes out with a mannequin while a wind machine blows through his hair but perhaps I’m easy. In any case, the critically maligned Candy (a huge flop in its day) fascinates me -- from its never-ending joke that the dirty old man is the establishment (or something), to its groovy soundtrack (Steppenwolf, The Byrds, David Grusin's fan-fucking-tastic "Ascension to Virginity"), to its parade of famous men groping beautiful, wide eyed Ewa Aulin (Burton, Marlon Brando, John Astin in two roles, Walter Matthau, James Coburn, Ringo Starr and John Huston -- not to mention a wickedly hot Anita Pallenberg), to its comic pretensions -- I find value and humor in this, for lack of a better term, chaos-ter-piece.
Written by Terry Southern (adapted from his novel) and Buck Henry and directed by French swinger Christian Marquand, the psychedelic sex mess is both an intriguing time capsule and a sexy, pervy comment on what the filmmakers really seem to be after -- presenting a "message" while feeling up the girl. You know, having your candy and eating it too.
I'm currently working on a Fredric March piece to be posted soon, this year (get on it, Kim). Five favorite or fifteen favorite -- there's so many to list. Nothing Sacred, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Road to Glory, Merrily We Go to Hell, Death Takes a Holiday, The Best Year of Our Lives, The Sign of the Cross, A Star is Born, Design for Living and more. More, more March! I'm watching Elia Kazan's Man on a Tightrope tonight. Fredric March and Gloria Grahame -- this will be interesting.
He's one of my favorite actors -- such expansive range filled with charm, intelligence, strength, sexiness, vulnerability and a wicked wit. March had it all. As I've been watching and re-watching his long career, flooding my mind in all things Fredric, I came across his 1954 appearance on the show "What's My Line?" Wow. The mystery guest was always an interesting feature, revealing which celebrity could or could not think on their feet and disguise their voice with panache. Proving, not surprisingly, his unique comedic talent and unpredictability, Fredric March kills. This is one of the greatest episodes I've ever seen. Watch him positively stump the panel.
Valentine’s Day. If you at all care about the day (though
many of us pretend not to) it can be a sweet time to remind your partner how
much you love them. That's very nice. It can also, well, sicken. Yes, yes, people can be wonderful on that day but they can also exhibit an icky display of
public affection (those horrifying balloon bouquets, those stilted dinner dates riddled with awkward pauses) and reveal passive agressive manipulations, aggressive aggressive manipulations and gift giving gluttony. It’s also a
day when many realize their partners don’t give a toss about them or,
vice-versa. Let’s face it: It is, with some exception, awful. That is, if you care. My advice. Don't.
I think, lonely people, that sometimes it’s better to be
alone on the 14th of February. And I say this with a significant other whom I plan on giving the day off to save both our sanity. Stay in, order take-out and be grateful an overly taxing significant other isn't bullying you into dinner plans in a restaurant filled with excessive PDA and eye-rolling waiters. Now, I don't loathe Valentine's Day -- I just loathe the pressure placed on people. Buy a single rose, if you must. Buy an Otis Redding album (always do that). Buy a car. Go ahead. That's nice. Heck buy it for yourself. And watch a movie, preferably a movie in which romance goes terribly awry - like Vertigo. And then drive out to Mission San Juan Bautista.
With
that, I bring you six of my favorite worst dates in movie history (there are many, but I was fond of these six from classic movies we've all seen). Some of them are so
spectacularly bad that I'd like to go on one of these dates -- preferably if directed by
Martin Scorsese. A break from work for some pie sounds nice. And a Plaster of Paris bagel and cream cheese paperweight does last a lot longer than a heart shaped box of chocolates.
Carrie (1976)
Poor Carrie White. There’s her crazy, Jesus freak mother,
her school full of merciless bullies, her creepy old house, her terrible
hormonal timing in the locker room,
her way with the knife drawer (actually that turns out to be a blessing and a curse), her… Satan’s pillows (which
really are spectacular -- see Prime Cut).
Carrie’s a beautiful, special young woman made to feel like the ultimate
outsider -- her life is an absolute nightmare. But when she’s invited to the prom
by a sweet natured fellow (William Katt, and his blonde afro), things are
looking up. A date, momma, a date! Damn momma if she doesn’t approve!
Carrie intends to look stunning at the dance, and she does! The topper, she’s
anointed prom queen.
But… back to all those mean girls (and guys). Do I need to
continue? You’ve seen Carrie -- I can distill this bad date in two terrible words:
Pig’s Blood. At least, in a telekinetic teenage rage, Carrie wreaks murderous revenge on her classmates (even the nice gym teacher!) but well, so much for that dream date. Beating out Ben Stiller’s stuck zipper
prom trauma in There’s Something About Mary for sheer high school hell, there really is something more about Carrie. She’s otherwordly awesome. We should all be so lucky to take her to prom.
Sunset Blvd. (1950)
Billy Wilder's cynical look at Hollywood was so scabrous
that, as the story goes; famed studio head Louis B. Mayer left a preview
hollering, "We should horsewhip this Wilder! We should throw him out of
this town that's feeding him!" Yes, the movie was that disturbing to its
own, and for an understandable reason -- Mayer and company didn't like their
dream factory revealed for what it often was: a nuthouse. The story of washed
up silent screen star Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) and her deranged,
desperate attempts to re-enter pictures (for all "those wonderful people
out there in the dark") via a down-on-his luck screenwriter Joe Gillis (William
Holden) is indeed a powerful movie about Hollywood, but it also features on of
the most uncomfortable dates ever.
As Norma preps Joes for the big New Year’s
Eve party she’s throwing for presumably, a grand assortment of guests, he
realizes that it’s all for him. No guests. Just Norma Desmond, that marble
dance floor and the kept boy Joe in a penguin suit bought by his suitor. And
now he really does feels kept (no more lying to himself). And trapped. And how
the hell is he going to get out of this? I won’t ruin the ending with this since
it begins the movie, but he never will get out. Unless you count face down in a
pool a great way to end a relationship. Never cross Norma. And why should you?
She’s fantastically deranged. And she's fond of pet monkeyes. He should have just stayed there.
Taxi Driver (1976)
Travis Bickle -- he was off to such a good start. Even
though he’s severely anti-social, he’s not a bad looking fellow (he’s young
Robert De Niro after all) and in a spontaneous moment of romantic charm, he
actually convinces the woman he’s in love with/casing (“They. Cannot. Touch.
Her”) to take a break and eat some pie with him. That’s not the bad date – even
when he misunderstands her compliment -- likening him to the Kris Kristofferson
song "The Pilgrim" ("I'm no pusher," he asserts). It’s the
real date where he makes his colossal screw up, probably (consciously or
unconsciously), on purpose. He takes Betsy to a porn movie. She looks a little
game at first over the “dirty movie,” but is so repulsed, runs out of the
sleazy theater, never wanting to see Travis again. “Taking me to a place like
this is about as exciting as saying to me ‘Let's fuck,’” she says.
The scene reveals
that Bickle is so closed off and so drenched in the scum of the street, that he
has no idea how to date a woman or, he wanted to shock her goodness. In any
case, he should probably listen to more Kris Kristofferson. And get more
organizezed. But then, sticking with Jodie Foster worked out well for him …
Betsy comes back. At least in his rear view mirror.
After Hours (1985)
Griffin Dunne is a lonely New York word processor, living in
his boring beige world, 1980’s world filled with existential ennui. While
reading “Tropic of Cancer” in a diner a beautiful woman (Rosanna Arquette)
states “I love that book” and proves it by quoting the novel. A woman quoting Henry Miller? Yes. Intrigued, he asks her out. So far so good. Until he arrives
at her Soho loft where her roommate (who makes bagel and cream cheese
paperweights, something that will become even more hilarious in a scene with
Terri Garr) greets him, tells him to wait (she’s at the all night pharmacy) and
he puts up (if that’s the right term) with the sexy roommate’s mixed advances. When
Arquette finally shows up, she veers from loopy to downright bizarre. There’s
her story about her husband who yells “Surrender Dorothy!” whenever he climaxes,
there’s some kind of burn ointment she’s applying for whatever reason, there’s
shit pot and a lot of sobbing. An exasperated Dunne ditches the date with this
wonderful exit: “Where are those Plaster of Paris paperweights, anyway? I mean,
that's what I came down here to see in the first place. Well, that's not
entirely true, I came to see you, but where are the paperweights? That's what I
wanna see now!” As everything snowballs after this date, he pays for his exit dearly, eventually fleeing for his life in the subterranean
world of Soho, with a Mr. Softy Ice Cream truck in pursuit (explaining the
entire film would take too much room).
And poor
Rosanna Arquette... she kills herself. Some date. Dear Lord, with Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy (remember De
Niro’s Rupert Pupkin taking his date out on a stalking session to Jerry Lewis’
house?), Scorsese has directed some of the greatest worst dates in all of
cinema. He also directed one of the greatest – in Goodfellas – but he excels
at the bad ones. So much that he makes me want to buy one of those bagel
and cream cheese paperweights. Watching After Hours, you entirely understand when Dunne asserts: “I said I wanna see a Plaster of Paris bagel and cream cheese
paperweights, now cough it up… ‘get em, cause as we sit here chatting there are
important papers flying rampant around my apartment cause I don’t have ANYTHING
to hold them down with!”
The Graduate (1967)
Dustin Hoffman’s Benjamin Braddock has an affair with the married
and older (and smoking hot) Mrs. Robinson (Anne Bancroft) but winds up falling
for her beautiful daughter Elaine (Katharine Ross). That’s
awful sweet except that whole “dating the mom” part puts a little crimp in
their future. On their first date, which Mrs. Robinson forbids, poor, sad Benjamin
decides he’ll make the daughter hate him with one of the worst dates in
history. What does he do?
In a very Travis Bickle move (pre-Bickle) he takes
Elaine to a strip club and watches, with feigned glee (or a burst of sadism), a stripper rotating her tasseled
breasts over the young woman’s head. Elaine quiely cries, he feels terrible and they end
up wolfing down hamburgers, talking the night away. So, the horrible date ends
well, but what of the future? The picture concludes with the both liberating
and funny wedding scene, Benjamin gets his girl, but then there’s that last
shot on the bus – the couple collapse into their “now what?” faces. The future?
Who knows. Hopefully no dates.
The Birds (1963)
Oh, to be spontaneous. It’s a romantic, sexy and wonderful
thing for most people save for (and this is important here) a weirdly caustic Jessica Tandy,
jealous hysterical women and… millions of bloodthirsty birds. In Alfred
Hitchcock’s masterpiece, Tippi Hedren's Melanie Daniels is an independent rich
girl who dashes off to Bodega Bay in pursuit of the handsome Mitch Brenner (Rod
Taylor), lovebirds in tow. Oh… how sweet. Sweet until she comes across all
sorts of havoc destined to destroy any weekend getaway, chiefly mother, resentment
from every other female character (though there's a strong homoerotic
undercurrent in her dealings with Suzanne Pleshette -- she should have dated her)
and again, those damn birds.
The rapacious beasts are bad enough,
surely signaling some kind of end time for not just the town but perhaps, the
word, but then, adding to the terror another kind of bird, the women of Bodega
hating Melanie Daniels so much they could tear her apart before those crazy birds will. In one of the
film’s most telling scenes, a frightened mother blames the bird invasion on
Melanie, screaming at her “I think you’re evil! Evil!” Poor Tippi. She just
wanted to present some love birds to her crush and this is what she gets? Rod
Taylor is one charming fellow, I adore him, but Dear Lord, was he worth all of this?
I've been reading and watching more than blogging. That's a good thing. I think. No, it's not. There are too many movies I've seen, and seen in the last few years, that I haven't written about (like Cry of the Hunted, Wicked Woman and The Road to Glory, to name a few). I've been watching so many movies and talking about them (to friends) but not writing about them. Nevertheless, before January comes to a close, I will say my number one movie was The Master and I will post a top ten... sometime this year. Apologies. Now, back to reading. And watching. And more writing to come. The year is finally starting.
"As
far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster." So recalls
Ray Liotta's Henry Hill in one of the greatest movies about gangsters, Martin
Scorsese's Goodfellas. There's something more to that line. For Hill, it's real
life, but for those of us watching, it's a kind of fantasy we find strangely relatable (the American dream and all), or alien (if we've never been
involved in organized crime) and packed with a lot of crooked romance, even as Hill's downfall is not so romantic. Nevertheless, the charismatic outlaw has been a major subject
of cinema ever since movies were invented, and especially since they started to
talk. A character we're drawn to even if we're often repelled by such a
character's activity.
They intrigue and sometimes, perhaps scarily so, inspire
us. With that in mind, I’m looking at 10 terrific performances by actors (and
one actress) who played real-life gangsters on-screen. And, again, these are real life
gangsters, not the greatest gangster movies (that list would go on forever and include Scarface, The Roaring Twenties, The Public Enemy and more...), but with exception to Sam "Ace" Rothstein from Casino (so please excuse omissions like The Godfather and the brilliant
Scarface: The Shame of a Nation). Be them Mafia-oriented, bank robbers or drug lords, these stars came in
with a bang and, more than likely, went out with one, too.
Charles Bronson as Machine Gun Kelly in Machine Gun
Kelly (1958)
Directed by Roger Corman, this low-budget look at
the criminal misadventures of George "Machine Gun" Kelly is
surprisingly effective. And there's a good reason: A notable and
unforgettable mug is playing his first leading role, the young Charles Bronson.
Like Bonnie and Clyde, a considerably more famous and well-regarded
movie (though Machine Gun Kelly received nice praise as well),
Bronson's Kelly teams up with a woman, Flo Becker (Susan Cabot), who is a lot
bossier than Bonnie Parker.
As usual with these pictures (and real-life
characters) things go haywire: Kelly becomes public enemy No. 1, he pulls
an ill-fated robbery, Morey Amsterdam (his character, rather) loses an arm, and
Kelly holds the daughter of a wealthy businessman for ransom (according to this
movie, overbearing Flo made him do it). And then there's some double-crossing
and ... I won't say anymore. It's a punchy, nervy movie, and Bronson is
something to behold, as usual. More than the real life Kelly himself.
Paolo Seganti as
Johnny Stompanato in L.A. Confidential (1997)
He's got a small part in L.A.
Confidential, but it's such a memorable moment that it sits at the heart
of James Ellroy's corrupt movie star/mobster/cop connection of 1950s Los
Angeles. The right-hand man to Mickey Cohen and starlet seducer of
impressive proportions (Lana Turner? Good catch for one of Cohen's goons), the
moment involves straight-arrow cops Ed Exley (Guy Pearce) and flashy Jack Vincennes (Kevin Spacey) approaching Lana Turner and her date, Johnny Stompanato (Paolo
Seganti), at the Formosa.
Exley accuses Turner of being a Turner look-alike
(alluding to a prostitution ring in which women were made to look like movie
stars), but after Vincennes says, "She is Lana Turner," the real Lana
rightfully throws her drink in his face. Good thing it didn't lead to more. The
real-life Stompanato was not exactly a nice guy. Turner's own daughter
stabbed him to death after an exceptionally distressing fight broke out between
the mobster and her mother.
But mother and daughter turned out OK. Lana made the greatest film of her career, Douglas Sirk's Imitation of Life and Cheryl Crane eventually wrote the riveting Detour about growing up with Lana. Now, where's their movie?
Robert De Niro as Al Capone in The Untouchables (1987)
Brian De Palma's picture features one of the most
powerful, volatile performances of Robert De Niro as the infamous
Al Capone. Though Paul Muni played an inspired, brilliant version of Capone in
Howard Hawks' masterpiece Scarface: The Shame of a Nation (which De
Palma remade with his legendary, endlessly quoted Scarface starring Al Pacino),
De Niro really dug his fingernails into this one -- and scratched -- hard. Or,
rather, pummeled a poor man with a baseball bat.
It's based on the real-life
agents Eliot Ness (Kevin Costner) and Jim Malone (Sean Connery) and
follows them as they pursue gang leader Capone during the Prohibition era.
The fascinating picture, with its gorgeous set pieces, smashing shootouts
and superb acting, was highly praised, though some thought De Niro was
over-the-top. Come on, he's playing Al Capone! He was right ... though no one can touch Paul Muni. I'm sure both De Niro and Capone would agree.
Ray Liotta as
Henry Hill in Goodfellas (1990)
Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas remains one of the director's most innovative, inspired, oft-imitated and
brilliantly crafted movies with one hell of a cast -- and Ray Liotta in the
performance of his life. Liotta's Henry Hill is powerful, scary, funny, sad,
sexy, ridiculous, understandable and inimitable. Hill's an interesting guy:
He's not as violent as his cronies (Robert De Niro and Joe Pesci), and he's
even the quiet one (as Pesci's mother, played by Scorsese's own mother, points
out), but he's so deeply entrenched in the life and lifestyle that he
starts losing control, brilliantly shown in the picture's third act.
Though the picture's
dirty deeds end up quite sad for many in the film (you don't want to mess with
Paulie), it's Hill's marriage with Karen, played by a spectacular Lorraine
Bracco, that feels just as heated and, finally, heartbreaking -- both saved and
doomed. They will have to enter the witness protection program. It's terrible
for Hill as he says by the end, "I'm an average nobody ... get to
live the rest of my life like a schnook." The real Henry Hill had a more colorful fate -- more arrests, guest spots on Howard Stern and even opening a restaurant in West Haven, Connecticut called, yes, Wiseguys. He passed away last year.
Warren Beatty as
Bugsy Siegel in Bugsy (1991)
Bugsy. That good-looking, charming, dapper and violent (that's an
understatement) gangster who built our dreamland/crazy town called Las Vegas.
The nattily dressed Siegel transformed a patch of Nevada land into what was
once a mobbed-up city of casinos (now a lot of theme parks, but I'm sure
those gangsters are still floating around). It paid off for a while, but not
so well in the end for Bugsy. So who better to play the good-looking so-and-so
than Warren Beatty, a walking icon of the American dream? And with Barry Levinson at the helm?
The movie, though very romantic, works:
The acting is superb, the direction is gorgeous -- Levinson crafts something historically and culturally significant in telling the glamour and horror
of Siegel's dream. The movie also features Beatty's future wife, Annette Bening, as Bugsy's true love Virginia Hill whom he called Flamingo, naming the famed casino after her. And it's still standing. My God, if those
walls could talk. Maybe it'd be best to not listen. Nah... of course we'd want to listen.
Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty as
Bonnie and Clyde in Bonnie and Clyde (1967)
Arthur Penn and Warren Beatty shocked the hell out of '60s
cinema with Bonnie and Clyde. This ingenious, modern and violent picture , though a period piece, was relevant to the times and still is. The 1967 picture, though heavily mythical in its beautiful look at
a pair of hoodlums even John Dillinger had little respect for, was based (obviously) on the
romanticized, real-life outlaw duo, a couple of in-love criminals (though
sexually frustrated -- guns come euphemistically in handy here) who proclaim,
"We rob banks." Indeed they do -- and they look good doing it in the absolutely gorgeous visages of
Warren Beatty (Clyde) and a ravishing, fashion inspiring Faye Dunaway (Bonnie).
Though the real duo wasn't as glamorous (they slept in their cars a lot) they're the epitome of romantic mad love, living by their own moral code. Never mind how scummy their life could really be. Or that Clyde may have liked men (though he clearly cared deeply for Bonnie). There's been talks of a re-make, and this is a story that could be told again, but could it top Penn's version? I don't think so. So far, only Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte
Bardot did Bonnie and Clyde proud.
Denzel Washington as Frank Lucas in American Gangster (2007)
Ridley Scott directed this epic, entertaining and splendidly
acted (especially by Denzel Washington in the lead role) account of drug lord
Frank Lucas, a notorious and major importer of heroin in 1960s and 1970s
Manhattan. Born in North Carolina, Lucas moved up the ranks in the Harlem crime
world after mentorshipby gangster Bumpy Johnson (which some real-life
accounts having taken into question). After Bumpy dies, Lucas become the fur coat-wearing and
seriously smart (though, obviously, morally dubious) drug king who nabbed his
product directly from the source, Thailand. Lucas managed to get soldiers
returning from the Vietnam War to smuggle the heroin via military planes.
It was all very successful, especially with his lower prices for the dope,
until he was busted (one of the reasons Washington reportedly agreed to take on
this role was the arc of the complicated character. Washington even met
the still-alive Lucas for research). Lucas is appealing, but Washington (and Scott working with a
smart script by Steven Zaillian) makes you think twice about glorifying Lucas. Lucas has been out of the slammer since 1991 and leads his life now in a wheelchair.
Robert De Niro as Sam "Ace" Rothstein (real life Frank Rosenthal) in Casino (1995)
As Sam "Ace" Rothstein, Robert De Niro gives one of his most poignant
performances in Martin Scorsese's ultra-violent, epic and underrated Casino, a movie that feels richer, more nuanced more masterful
each time you watch it. That, and it features Don Rickles.
My God, what's not to love? De Niro, based on real-life casino
runner Frank Rosenthal, says this: "Running a casino is like robbing
a bank with no cops around. For guys like me, Las Vegas washes away your sins.
It's like a morality car wash." Indeed. Gangsters, love, hate,
gambling and some terribly heartbreaking and, in the end, dysfunctional
interpersonal relationships worm their way into this slot machine of life. De
Niro is one of the "bad" guys, but you feel for him here as the
former bookmaker who once ran a tightly wound casino for the mob. And then he
makes some mistakes. Chiefly, he gets his friend and wife involved.
That's not
always a bad idea. Everything appears to be going OK until Joe Pesci, his
hair-trigger-tempered pal (maybe psychotic is a better word) rambles into the
dusty town. And then, in a spectacular love-at-first-sight moment, De Niro
falls hard for and marries gorgeous hustler Sharon Stone, a woman who can't
shake her pimp (a great James Woods).
Well, that's going to cause
problems. And it literally blows up in poor Frank's face. Scorsese managed
to make Casino even sadder by showing that even this, this dirty
world, exhibited Vegas' last gasp of glamour and decadence. Casino spirals so out of control and goes to such dark places (Pesci's death is
especially brutal), it's almost bizarre to see the end shot of all those
families now traveling to that vice-filled city and feeling bittersweet about
it. Ah, yes, the good old dirty days
Al Pacino as
Benjamin "Lefty" Ruggiero in Donnie Brasco (1997)
In Mike Newell's Donnie
Brasco, actors Johnny Depp and Al Pacino could qualify as guys
playing real-life gangsters, chiefly because Depp's character -- real name
Joseph Pistone, aka Donnie Brasco -- the FBI agent who goes undercover to
investigate the Bonanno crime family, really DOES become Donnie
Brasco. He's so accepted in the mob family on which he's spying that he's
left torn and confused. Al Pacino plays Benjamin "Lefty"
Ruggiero, a hit man who's seen better days and is now a
broken-down older soul. Some might say pathetic.
Why you feel sorry for this guy is the power (or
manipulation) of director Newell and the poignant performance by Pacino, who
you, against your own better judgment, begin rooting for. You like him, you
want him to make some more money and you're touched by his friendship with
Brasco. But that's the power of the movie: Depp makes us all feel a little bit
like Donnie Brasco.
Lawrence Tierney, Warren Oates and Johnny Depp as John Dillinger in Dillinger (1945), Dillinger (1973) and Public Enemies (2009)
Ol' Jackrabbit himself, John Dillinger, the infamous
Depression-era bank robber/Robin Hood, whose personal story is as interesting
as his crimes.
That great lug and real-life tough guy Lawrence Tierney seems
the perfect Dillinger, and he was a terrific one, but the role (so far) goes to
Warren Oates in John Milius' version of one of the most famous (and beloved)
gangsters in history.
Oates looks a lot like Dillinger, which is important, and
he possessed toughness and charm -- you understand his violent side. And, you know, it's Warren fucking Oates. It's hard for that man to do wrong, especially as John Dillinger. He's the best. Michael Mann's 2009
version, about which I was initially excited for, shot the period piece on digital,
and I'm still mixed as to how that worked.
Dillinger, the coolest of the
gangsters, the intelligent, good-looking, sharp-suited ladies' man who was
taken down in Chicago after the "lady in red" narced him out (and
after a movie!) may have needed the cracks and shadows and depth of good
old-fashioned celluloid. Still, Johnny Depp (as Dillinger) pulled off a
romantic, impressive performance and worked nicely as the more soulful counterpoint
to Christian Bale's intrepid FBI agent Melvin Purvis (the man who watched
Dillinger die).
But again, Warren Oates is the top dog in the Dillinger Department. And it's tough to play Dillinger. As Woody Allen said, John
Dillinger was "a genius ... in his chosen profession."
