Sunset Gun

Six Stanwyck Noir (And One Sirk For Measure)

I've been neck-deep in noir (a good thing). And I’ll get to all of it later (interviewing Marsha Hunt and Eddie Muller at the Egyptian, watching the amazing Wicked Woman and Cry of the Hunted, Peter Lorre, Steve Cochran, Jack Elam…there’s so much to process) but for now, I’m turning to Barbara. Before I dive into Beverly Michaels (and I will -- that woman was a revelation), here are six Stanwyck noir and one Sirk for measure. You can’t deny yourself the Sirk. 

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946)

Barbara Stanwyck's tormented, dominating performance in Lewis Milestone's noir The Strange Love of Martha Ivers is one of my favorites. Stanwyck plays the title role opposite a studly Van Heflin and a wimpy Kirk Douglas, and she's almost alarmingly powerful. As the domineering Martha, a wealthy woman married to a recently elected district attorney (Douglas), Stanwyck seethes with a sick viciousness that, as ugly as it becomes, never appears entirely inhuman. Her marriage is loveless, resulting in extensive cheating and a rage she takes out on a milquetoast drunkard Douglas. She also harbors a secret that Heflin, whom she's still in love with, is privy to, and both she and Douglas spend the picture scheming, fighting and experiencing a series of stinging nervous breakdowns. Stanwyck has a field day displaying neurotic bitterness with a deep sadness that's so intense it becomes fascinatingly sick.

Sorry, Wrong Number (1948)

As proven by this enthralling picture, Stanwyck could be physical and fascinating even while lying in a bed and simply talking on the telephone. Of course it helps that she's desperately attempting to save her life in a dangerous telecommunications scenario involving both a nefarious husband and the unending bureaucracy of the telephone company, but I'm certain Stanwyck would be gripping even if she was merely chatting with a girlfriend. As Leona Stevenson, an invalid heiress, Stanwyck gives us a masterfully complex vision of fear and dread without being shrill or one-note about her situation. And that situation is terrifically frightening. After picking up a phone call with crossed wires, Leona overhears two men discussing a murder plot. She's frightened, obviously, but becomes absolutely terrified when she realizes the mark is (gulp) her. Via elaborate flashbacks we learn more about her situation, chiefly Leona's estranged, shady husband (played by Burt Lancaster), who's gotten in so deep with gangsters that he has resorted to this murderous plan. And Stanwyck's performance is complicated, vulnerable and endlessly fascinating.

Double Indemnity (1944)

Already proving her mettle in screwball comedy, Stanwyck took on the dark art of film noir with nasty brilliance. Creating one of noir's most inspired, iconic femmes fatales, Stanwyck's double-crossing, bitch-seductress Phyllis Dietrichson in Billy Wilder's seminal Double Indemnity remains unparalleled. Donning the now famous blond wig, a sexy, cynical smirk and (dear God!) that anklet, she oozes a snaky sex appeal that manages to be evil and, in flashes, vulnerable. After eyeing her mark in Fred MacMurray's insurance salesman, Stanwyck convinces the lovesick lug to help plot and execute the murder of her husband in the hopes of cashing in on the dead man's insurance policy and supposedly living happily ever after. But, as usual in these situations, nothing ever comes off without a hitch -- numerous hitches, in this case. All dolled up in pom-pom heels, creamy sweaters and dramatically lined lips, Stanwyck's Phyllis, who's not as young as she used to be and not quite as lush, can't hide the poison within her. And her chemistry with MacMurray sizzles as they swap barbs and coos (co-written by Raymond Chandler from a James M. Cain crime novella) with sleazy ease. They yearn for more, but Stanwyck, the prototypical noir siren, seems perfectly aware of how fatalistic this kind of dream really is. Sometimes murder really does smell like honeysuckle.

Clash by Night (1952)

What makes Stanwyck tick? That's a continual question regarding the actress who played, among other characters, tramps and heiresses, wives and writers, scammers and showgirls. So it's especially electric to watch Robert Ryan attempt to figure her out in the Fritz Lang melodrama/noir Clash by Night (written by Clifford Odets). As a woman returning to her hometown of Monterey, Calif., we learn that her life hasn't worked out the way she hoped for. She yearns for a more substantial life and, as she admits to a young Marilyn Monroe, a man to help build her confidence. The man she chooses is a worshipful Paul Douglas, but he's not the one she wants, and she struggles with feelings for her husband's best friend, the probing hothead Ryan. Stanwyck gives one of her tour de force performances -- brittle, poignant, tragic and strong while being simultaneously down to earth and superior. You absolutely get why she would think better for herself, and then, in her wounded moments, why she couldn't quite succeed. But, true to her mystery, you never really understand why. Though Ryan spits, "Don't kid me, baby. I know a bottle by the label," he and the viewer never can put their finger on what that label reads. Barbara was never that easy.

The File on Thelma Jordon (1950) / There's Always Tomorrow (1956)

As the saying goes, the woman could tempt a saint. In the case of these two different performances, Stanwyck tempts two married men: one quite aggressively and with criminality (The File on Thelma Jordon); the other without premeditation but as a consequence of confining 1950s matrimony (There's Always Tomorrow). As the title siren of Robert Siodmak's noir The File on Thelma Jordon, Stanwyck lures nice, married Wendell Corey into an affair to further her criminal plans and, though committing many misdeeds, comes out sympathetic (albeit not off the hook) in the end. Showing her range within the archetype of femme fatale, Stanwyck's Thelma is a woman consumed by guilt. So much that even had she not sacrificed herself after ruining Corey's life, you'd sense her doomed conflict regardless.

Similarly moody, guilt ridden (though a positive influence) and ultimately sacrificial, Stanwyck's accidental temptress in Douglas Sirk's There's Always Tomorrow shakes up bored Fred MacMurray's claustrophobic life with a "perfect" wife and three selfish kids. In his indictment of middle-class complacency, Sirk rightly cast previous collaborator Stanwyck as the woman who inspires MacMurray's desires -- not only because she's alluring, but also because, among the cookie cutter fakes, she's real. This realness was an intriguing element to Stanwyck -- it was something that would cause many of her characters deception, pain and suffering. Stanwyck may have aged to play mother roles, but damned if she was going to tie on an apron and call it a day.

Jeopardy (1953)

The John Sturges directed daylight noir thriller is not only a tense, daring ride, but a deliciously good time. Here's the predicament: While vacationing in Mexico with hubby Barry Sullivan and their young son, Stanywck is put to the test after Sullivan is trapped in the surf and she must find anyone (anyone) to help her. Aid arrives in smarmy Ralph Meeker (ohhhh...Ralph Meeker) a fugitive who has a few other things on his mind. And off it goes. The repartee between Stanwyck and Meeker is absolutely priceless with standouts involving the triple slap Meeker lays on tough Babs, or Meeker’s proud preference for cheap perfume: “it doesn’t last as long,” or my favorite moment  --  when Stanwyck realizes she must make the ultimate sacrifice. She faces Meeker all hard and seductive to say, “I’ll do anything for my husband. ANYTHING.” And she does. Hard-core Babs.

"Big ideas, small results."

You Can Never Write Fast Enough...

My newest writing gig, (in my humble, auto-centric opinion) might be one of the coolest opportunities I've ever had -- Garage Magazine. The eternally bitchin' hot rod mag asked me to pen a column that combines two of my favorite things -- cars and movies -- so there was no way in hell I could say no. I struggled with just what to cover in my debut column -- my head spinning like my Torino doing cookies in the desert. And yet, the same movie continued to surface -- Two-Lane Blacktop. It was so obvious, too obvious, I wondered, but on final ponder, I put my brain in park and told myself: It's my favorite car movie, I've written about it numerous times, and I love it enough to expand, explicate and worship further. Why not christen my column with the best of the best?

An added bonus was my magazine photo session with the incredibly talented artist/badass LA photographer Estevan Oriol. He's snapped everyone from Ice Cube to Forest Whitaker to Dennis Hopper to Rob Zombie and more and created some gritty, gorgeous work concerning street life as well. I was in more than able hands (also, he loved my car, so naturally he's one of my favorite people). The issue is on newsstands now, so make sure to pick it up. Dita Von Teese graces the cover and centerfold, while other stories include a look at the great Hollywood/cheesecake photographer Bernard of Hollywood, a prison interview with famed skater Jay Adams and a look at DC based punk rock motorcycle couriers from the 1980's. You will not be disappointed. And stay tuned for my next Garage column which will cover famous cinematic mental breakdown car moments. (If you scroll down to my Bette Davis homage, you'll see one of the greatest).

So with that, I've dipped into my archives to feature again, my favorite car movies -- something that wouldn't have fit in the magazine and something Garage readers can enjoy, disagree or challenge me over (as long as those challenges don't involve a chicken race). On second thought...

Anyway, here's my look at the 10 greatest examples of car cinema (not entirely in order, not the greatest cars, or greatest car chase sequences, though many of these pictures feature both), proving that autos can make not only a genre, but compelling characters as well. For these films, it's not star but car power. The Torino is calling...

10. Dirty Mary Crazy Larry (1974)

OK, so the film itself leaves something to be desired in the deep-meaning department. And the director dips into the cheap-thrills cookie jar one too many times. But Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry is lots of messy fun -- especially when involving automobiles. Peter Fonda is (crazy) Larry, a would-be NASCAR driver who, with his mechanic Deke (Adam Roarke), pulls off a heist and runs for a new country. But they also take Mary (Susan George), a nutjob wild child (who's really the "crazy" one here, anyway?), who makes the getaway a little more, well, interesting. Filled with all kinds of terrific chase sequences starring lust-worthy hotrod "characters" such as a Dodge Charger, a Chevrolet Impala and a Dodge Polara. This one's muscle-ri-fic.

9. Duel (1971)

Before he struck fear in the heart of every beach-loving, ocean-swimming New Englander, Steven Spielberg crafted one of his supreme films with Duel, a movie that struck fear in the heart of every traveling salesman just trying to get down a California highway. Dennis Weaver is the nebbish, Joe-Blow salesman whose life becomes a vehicular nightmare when a mysterious, ominous truck will not stop following him. But why? Well, we assume the truck wants to kill him (or just completely mess with his head) in some kind of sanity test the poor schlub did not need that morning. Or maybe the truck really hates his car -- a Plymouth Valiant. Whatever the case, the deranged semi vs. Plymouth makes for a superbly tense 90-minute chase film that's a lot more disturbing and so-called "bad to the bone" than Christine.

8. Vanishing Point (1971)

Can you get from Denver to San Francisco in one night? Check out Vanishing Point, in which Barry Newman's mysterious speedster, Kowalski attempts just that. Hired to deliver the white Dodge 440 1970 Challenger in less than 15 hours, he's in the exceptional predicament of being pursued by cops, while a blind DJ named "Super Soul" (Cleavon Little) helps him along his way. Informing the driver of his progress via radio show, Super Soul also makes Kowalski something of a folk hero ("the last American to whom speed means freedom of the soul"). Taut, enigmatic and chock full of pursuits (a memorable one involves a Jaguar), the film skids and scoots and speeds to a kind of infinity. Who really wants to get out of their car?

7. Gone in 60 Seconds (1974)

You gotta love a movie in which the car is such a major character, she's given a name ("Eleanor"). You also gotta love a movie in which the writer, director and stunt driver also stars (H.B. Halicki), mostly because he's such a die-hard gear-head that he surely couldn't imagine anyone else leading the proceedings. Car thieves must steal 48 cars in a short period of time, including a 1973 Mustang Mach 1 code-named Eleanor. When Halicki (as the amusingly named Maindrian Pace) gets his hands on Eleanor, the film kicks into epic high gear, with a 40-minute chase scene that passes through five California cities and leaves nearly 100 cars totaled. The movie was re-made (badly) in 2000, proving you don't need big stars (Nicolas Cage and Angelina Jolie) or extra extreme effects when you already had the real deal in the first place. And Halicki was the real deal; he died in a stunt accident while making this film's sequel

6. The Driver (1978) 

Walter Hill proved that he knew his way around a car by writing the screenplay for Sam Peckinpah's supreme The Getaway (another great car movie) and directing the auto-centric The Driver. An unyielding, enigmatic thriller, the film stars Ryan O'Neal, known simply as The Driver, a man constantly chased by, yep, The Detective (a fantastically creepy Bruce Dern) in a seemingly endless game of cat and mouse. The entire film involves obsessed pursuit; the viewer's point of view is often inside the car as the Driver maneuvers without any discernible emotion. O'Neal is almost literally a driving machine, as he shifts, swerves and speeds his Trans Am through parking structures, alleys and oncoming traffic. This is no giggling Smokey and the Bandit; this is Le Samourai on high octane.

5. Le Mans (1971)

Le Mans is about exactly that: the famed French auto race that runs for 24 hours. And not much else. In true car-noir fashion, it takes a good half-hour before we hear the film's protagonist utter a line of dialogue. That protagonist, Delaney, is played by Steve McQueen in a film so stripped of plot that it often feels like a documentary. We simply watch the auto race on the world's hardest endurance course as our hero goes more than 24 hours on 14.5 kilometers of cordoned country road. There's a duel between Delaney, in his Gulf Team Porsche 917, and a Ferrari 512LM that tests not only the driver's technical abilities, but also his personal will. Filled with terrific racing sequences galore and impressive wrecks, the spectacle is thrilling even if the narrative, not so much. But who cares...

4. Bullitt (1968)

What -- you thought I'd get through this list with only one McQueen film? Not likely, especially since this film is so firmly implanted in car cinema, it's tough not to combine the car and driver as one super being. Bullitt, Peter Yates' too-cool-for-school-actioner, boasts the greatest cinematic drive through the streets of San Francisco. But there's more than that legendary pursuit. There's the car -- a sweet 1968 Mustang GT 390 (the best-looking Mustang ever) -- and the driver -- McQueen (the best-looking guy ever to drive a Mustang). McQueen, who helped re-vamp the bitchin' green Ford, is the James Dean of car culture, indelibly linked with the lure and lore of the automobile. Bullitt actually makes me think Mustangs are not the most obvious "muscle" car you can own. Still (sorry Steve), the villain's car, the 1968 Dodge Charger was much, much cooler.

3. Smokey and the Bandit (1977) 

Many remember 1977 as the year Star Wars became a national obsession. But while some of you played with plastic light sabers and (now priceless) action figures, there were others who busted out their Dad's CB radio ("Sheriff ... do the letters F.O. mean anything to you?") and prayed he'd buy a black 1977 Pontiac Trans AM just like the one Burt Reynolds (a.k.a., The Bandit) drives in Hal Needham's classic Smokey and the Bandit. And yes, I did just say classic. A charming, laughing Reynolds teams with trucker pal Jerry Reed to transport 400 cases of Coors beer across state lines, with an apoplectic, hilarious Jackie Gleason (as Sheriff Buford T. Justice) in pursuit. Loads of light fun filled with clever, excellently edited and just plain stellar car-chase sequences, Smokey and the Bandit is, as the infectious Jerry Reed song proclaimed, "loaded up and truckin.'

2. Mad Max (1979)

Mad Max gives new meaning to the term "playing chicken." After super-studly, leather-clad cop 'Mad' Max Rockatansky (played by Mel Gibson in a star-making performance) explosively wins this game with an escaped criminal named The Nightrider, thug-in-arms biker-gang leader The Toecutter (oh, how I love these names) seeks vengeance, killing not only Max's partner but Max's family as well. So now Max is, as the title states, mad. Very, very mad. As directed by George Miller, this dystopian vision of violent recklessness and ultimate revenge is wonderfully paced, beautifully textured and even quite emotional at times. It also, in terms of ingenious car chase, crash, smash and explode sequences, is incredibly, punk-rock badass. And it features one of cinema's coolest cars: The Interceptor, a 1973 Ford Falcon XB GT, the auto-erotic fixation of the petrol set. Where can I get one?

1. Two-Lane Blacktop (1971)

If Jean Paul Sartre had directed a drive-in movie, he might have crafted Monte Hellman's existential, car noir Two-Lane Blacktop. The stoic central characters are 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. All players drive and drive and drive, seemingly to challenge other cars and race cross country, but is that really what they're seeking? The characters don't even know themselves. But they do love their cars. Taylor and Wilson drive a seriously souped-up '55 Chevy that's all muscle and speed, no frills, while Oates rolls a yellow 1970 Pontiac GTO -- something Taylor scorns as right off the lot. What makes this film unique is its absolute auto-centric vision (the continual purr and hum of the engine makes even the viewer feel at one with the car) mingled with art-house beauty. And it's one of the few movies in which the Driver can state with extra, ambiguous meaning, "You can never go fast enough." A masterpiece.

And here's some Johnny Cash singing an ode to stealing/assembling his "Psychobilly Cadillac"...

Six On The Clock: Cinema's Working Women

I've always enjoyed this especially sexist, but hilarious quote uttered by Spencer's Tracy's drinking buddy in Woman of the Year: "Women should be kept illiterate and clean, like canaries."  Funny, but...au contraire you jerk. What kind of movies would be made about them?

Whether sleeping one's way to the top, kidnapping a boss for progressive office improvements or embezzling wads of cash, women in the workplace have always made for intriguing cinematic fodder. They also reflect changing, evolving or, sometimes, de-evolving attitudes and actions concerning career gals in society, something that's been relevant since the beginning of film. And Hollywood never tires of the topic. With March's Women's History Month in mind, I'm returning to memorable cinematic depictions of working girls. Some might be considered role models, some quite questionable at their jobs and some just plain mentally disturbed. But all of them are fascinating --  here's my pick of six.

Network (1976)

Name: Diana Christensen (Faye Dunaway)
Job Title: TV executive
Strengths: Ambitious, brassy, ballsy, idea-driven, helps create modern television as we know it.
Weaknesses: A power-hungry bitch, bad in bed, encourages Howard Beale (Peter Finch) to continue his nervous breakdown on TV, helps create modern television as we know it.
Final Analysis: Is this what the modern-day working woman would become? For some work-a-holic ladies, yes. Dunaway's blistering, brilliant performance as Diana shows how climbing the ladder and allowing career to take precedence over every other aspect of one's life could be, well, a tad limiting in terms of leading any kind of nourishing personal existence. Though some view this character as misogynistic, Dunaway's power-hungry future media mogul is just like any human, man or woman, who's entirely caught up in personal ambition -- she's just given some additional symbolic layers as a woman. Deservedly, Dunaway won a Best Actress Oscar for her role.

His Girl Friday (1940)

Name: Hildegaard 'Hildy' Johnson (Rosalind Russell)
Job Title: Newspaper reporter
Strengths: Crackerjack newswoman, super clever, ultra quick with the quip, has ex-husband/editor Walter Burns' (Cary Grant) heart.
Weaknesses: Insensitivity to her fiancée (played by Ralph Bellamy) whom she certainly won't marry. She'll never have any kind of typical family life, but then, when you're with Cary Grant, who cares?
Final Analysis: Working in the boys' club of the newsroom, Russell's character isn't an overly ambitious shrew full of swaggering show; she's completely on the same level as every guy tapping out his copy. And the men not only know it, but wholly embrace it. What makes her interesting as an example of working women is that she feels it necessary to begin a "normal life" and attempts an ill-fated second marriage to pushover Bellamy. But ex-editor Grant can smell the play-acting a mile away, getting under her skin as only an ex-husband you're still in love with can (or really, Cary Grant, who has to be the greatest ex-husband a woman could ever put up with). His Girl Friday says, with positive grit, that we need Hildy, not in the kitchen, but in the newsroom, full of rat-a-tat banter and, sometimes, heartless scoops. And you've got to love a movie in which an ex-husband teases, "Why, Hildy! You've got the old-fashioned idea that divorce is something that lasts forever, 'til death do us part.' Why, divorce doesn't mean anything nowadays, Hildy, just a few words muttered over you by a judge." This was made in 1940? Right on.

Woman of the Year (1942)

Name: Tess Harding (Katharine Hepburn)
Job Title: Political columnist
Strengths: Savvy, worldly, multi-lingual, exceptionally intelligent, has immensely sexy chemistry with Spencer Tracy.
Weaknesses: Questionable mother with her short-term adopted child, neglects husband, can't make a proper breakfast.
Final Analysis: Can women really have it all? According to Woman of the Year -- no. But then men don't necessarily get everything they want either, especially if married to Hepburn's Tess Harding. She's a revered columnist who's not just a working woman but a national icon. And the film reveals realistic chinks in one celebrated feminist's armor. Sure, she can engage in a whirlwind romance and marry sports writer Tracy, maintain all of her jobs, travel the world, entertain illustrious friends and adopt a Greek orphan, but, like any mere mortal, there's not a chance in hell she can give all these areas equal attention. Especially the orphan, whom Tracy returns (can you imagine this happening in a movie today?) due to his wife's poor mothering skills. Still, neither the film nor Miss Hepburn ever demonizes Tess. She's frustrating to her husband and imperfect, but no one's telling her to change -- just slow down a bit -- and learn how to use a toaster properly. It's something everyone should do.

The Apartment (1960)

Name: Fran Kubelik (Shirley MacLaine)
Job Description: Elevator operator
Strengths: Personable, a lovely button pusher.
Weaknesses: In an office affair with a married man. Clearly a bad idea.
Final Analysis: Though Billy Wilder's Oscar-winning picture is really more about the male office world, with Jack Lemmon's amiable, struggling nice guy C.C. Baxter sleeping his way to the top (bi-proxy), its vision of women in the workplace is too intriguing to ignore. Especially those women who aren't necessarily climbing the corporate ladder, but are instead attempting to find a husband -- or break up a marriage. In the process of allowing his bosses the use of his apartment for various amorous dalliances with young ladies, Lemmon stumbles on one affair that rubs both him and the audience the wrong way. The company's cute, clever elevator operator, Fran Kubelik (MacLaine), is having a major fling with personnel big-wig Sheldrake (Fred MacMurray), a married man and certifiable cad who's never going to leave his wife. What's intriguing about this depiction is how darkly but ultimately non-judgmentally Fran's character is drawn. She makes some bad choices (as do many ladies working for him), but clearly it's tough for the lower-rung working girl, especially if she actually finds herself in love. And, other than staying away from lecherous superiors, the movie really supplies no answers aside from this: Try falling in love with the right guy. In this case, Jack Lemmon, which ain't half bad. And yet...I always wonder if they're really going to work out in the end.

Baby Face (1933)

Name: Lily Powers (Barbara Stanwyck)
Job Title: File clerk and...
Strengths: Strong enough to pull herself out of a speakeasy life, terrific powers of, uh, persuasion, hangs out with her maid.
Weaknesses: Problems with ethics. Big problems with ethics. But who can blame her?
Final Analysis:  Among Stanwyck's other sizzling pre-code pictures, including Night Nurse and Ladies They Talk About, Alfred E. Green's Baby Face was so brazen that censors snipped five minutes out of the picture (some having to do with Nietzsche -- so glad those are back in), hoping viewers would leave a little less shocked by the experience. The trick didn't work, as the movie (thankfully now restored with extra minutes intact) is still considered one of the raciest pictures of the '30s and remains controversial even today. Stanwyck is Lily Powers, a young woman who leaves an abusive father and a small-town speakeasy for a job in a New York bank. In a very obvious depiction of sleeping her way to the top, Stanwyck ascends the stories of the office building, leaving scores of used men behind her. She ultimately becomes a kept woman -- happily so -- until a tragedy gums up the works. But she's still hard-hearted and out for herself, something that's surprisingly sympathetic, almost glorified in the film. Commenting on the Depression -- how desperation can crumble one's morality (if morality really matters) -- she's both a victim of her time and nobody's fool. Stanwyck, always game, dived right into the scintillating material with her special brand of plucky, hard-boiled sex appeal; she's likable, awful and totally understandable all at once.

Marnie (1964)

Names: Marnie Edgar/Margaret Edgar/Peggy Nicholson/Mary Taylor (Tippi Hedren)
Job Title: Secretary
Strengths: Attempts to stay away from any kind of romantic entanglements with men in the office. Clearly efficient. Smart dresser.
Weaknesses: I'll have to go with the massive theft from various employers. Also, her nutty problem with red ink.
Final Analysis: You might wonder why Alfred Hitchcock's psycho-sexual thriller Marnie has graced this list, but I think it's not only a fascinating study of repressed childhood memories, Freudian psychology and odd sexual hang-ups (and turn-ons), but a remarkable depiction of a troubled, perhaps insane working woman as well. Hedren is Marnie, a cool blonde goddess and compulsive liar and thief so traumatized by her past that her only arena for both escape and personal gain is work. Moving from city to city, she nabs jobs with her expert demeanor and skills (she is an efficient secretary) only to embezzle from employers along the way. She meets her match at the Rutland Company, where Mark Rutland (Sean Connery) recognizes her for the crook she is. And like so many men facing the siren call of the crazy chick, he wants her -- bad. Though the film covers a lot of ground concerning Marnie's fractured psyche, it's nevertheless a telling representation of just how bitter a woman can turn from men: enough to rob. And I love Hitchcock's fetishistic detail of Marnie scheming and stealing. I could watch Tippi open an close her handbag for hours.

From my MSN story "Work It Ladies"

Loathe, Actually

Valentine's Day.  A holiday that reminds couples of their romantic feelings for one another, a day that inspires wooers to turn up the volume on their courting, and a troubling time that brings out the most desperate, obnoxious, guilt-ridden, dysfunctional sentiments in those forced to partake. Because, let's face it, many feel pressured by a day filled with conspicuous bouquets, ridiculous balloon arrangements and couples engaging in too many public displays of affection. 

And then there are “romantic” movies ... perhaps some of the worst Valentine's Day offenders of all. Though mostly harmless diversions, entertainments we watch knowing full well how unrealistic they are, they also work as a reminder of how your life isn't anything like the movies (which, is often a good thing) or, worse, how delusional some viewers are. And no, I’m not saying you must stay in and watch Ernest Borgnine suffer  through that painful phone call in Marty (not that’s there’s anything wrong with that, poor Marty: “Ma…I’m just a fat ugly man…I’m ugly! I’m ugly! I’m ugly!”) and, obviously, I venerate great romantic movies like Casablanca, The Philadelphia Story, Notorious, Harold and Maude, Annie Hall, Bringing Up Baby, The Apartment, The Shop Around the Corner, Holiday, The Big Sleep and more. I'm talking movies that are either overrated or, in some cases, just plain creepy (which, to be fair is the only thing that makes some of them interesting). Here are 10 beloved modern love “classics” (originally published at MSN Movies) I find most egregious. Read, disagree, call me a cynical jerk, whatever. Just know I'll never sit through Ghost again.

Pretty Woman (1990)

Here's my problem with Pretty Woman -- it's not that Julia Roberts is a prostitute; rather, it's why is she a prostitute? Aside from discussing how her mother used to "lock her in an attic" (who wrote this? V.C. Andrews? Actually, that would have been awesome if she had...), the picture rarely delves into that troublesome area called backstory or motivation, and we can only assume Roberts' incredibly healthy, sweet-hearted, model-beautiful Vivian is a streetwalker because she was abused or super depressed or hated her job at the Sizzler. Maybe she's just clinically perky. But who cares, right? We don't need to know why she has taken to the streets -- over becoming, say, one of Heidi's girls, a much more realistic Hollywood option for a woman who looks like Roberts. As long as we know it's not really what she wants to do with her life, it's fine. She wants, as she says, the "fairy tale," which she does indeed receive via Richard Gere's wealthy businessman, a guy who gives her the full Henry Higgins treatment while paying her to sleep with him (that part is realistic, sorry Eliza Doolittle). There's so much about this movie that's not romantic -- from the first embarrassing seduction scene, to the breakthrough moment when the couple fornicate and kiss on the lips, to the whole "you and I are both whores" reflection, to anything involving utensils. I've simply never understood why it became so instantly beloved. And the final scene is such BS lip service. When Gere plays the white knight, wooing and rescuing his princess from the clutches of a dumpy hotel room, she says, supposedly all plucky feminist, that, "She rescues him right back." Rescues him from what? The piles of money she's going to spend on Rodeo Drive? "Big mistake. Big. Huge. I have to go shopping now." You tell those beotches Julia!

The Way We Were (1973)

This is a tough one. For the most part, I revere Sydney Pollack. Not only did he direct one of my favorite downer movies of all time (the masterful They Shoot Horses, Don't They?) but also the political-romantic gem Three Days of the Condor. He also directed Tootsie and contributed a memorable performance as Dustin Hoffman's frustrated manager ("A tomato doesn't have logic!"). He also offered some of the most scathing moments in Woody Allen's brilliant anti-romance movie Husbands and Wives. He's pretty much golden in my book. Except for his ridiculously overrated The Way We Were, a movie that paired the mismatched Robert Redford with Barbra Streisand in a forced, syrupy period piece filled with cloying Marvin Hamlisch music and bland political tension. It hasn't aged well. Stick to the aforementioned Pollack, watch Redford in just about anything else, and check out Barbra in the infinitely superior and underrated The Owl and the Pussycat, in which she plays a lovably obnoxious prostitute. Huh. Streisand plays a better hooker than Julia Roberts. Go figure.

Sleepless in Seattle (1993)

Oh, the early '90s ... such innocence. No personal e-mails for every household, no endless scrolls of confessional blogging, no chat room flame wars, no abysmal reality TV dating shows. Paris was still a place for lovers, New York had nothing to do with Tiffany Pollard, and Seattle was ... sleepless. It actually makes me a bit misty thinking how little we knew back then -- that we were on the precipice of a communication explosion. This watercolored memory steered me back to 1993's Sleepless in Seattle, a movie where Meg Ryan falls in love with Tom Hanks the old-timey nontraditional way: from a call-in radio talk show. For some reason I thought the film's period quaintness might make me reassess what I disliked about it the first time around (boring, unlikable leads, silly side characters including Bill Pullman and Rosie O'Donnell, and an all-around hollow feeling). But, alas, it continues to disappoint. Maybe I'm a little paranoid, but there's something a tad stalkerish about Ryan's character as she falls for Hanks' architect widower, traveling from Baltimore to Seattle to track him down. There's a lonely feeling to this movie that's actually quite interesting, but rather than creating intriguing characters from such a predicament (and both Hanks and Ryan would be up to the task), the movie relies on lame clichés regarding men and women (did you know all women love An Affair to Remember?) and stock romantic scenarios. Interesting that Tom and Meg would fall in love through technology, yet again, in the equally sappy You've Got Mail. Which brings me to ...

You've Got Mail (1999)

Through that magical innovation called e-mail, a woman corresponds with a man she's never met. They fall for each other and decide to meet not knowing that the woman, who runs a small, children's book store, and the man, a big-business, chain-store retailer, are archenemies. But, gosh darn it, they're both lovable moppets with crinkly smiles and that means everything when faced with this kind of narrative opposition. Remake (terribly) a brilliant romantic classic (The Shop Around the Corner, directed by the surely still grave rolling Ernst Lubitsch). Reunite Sleepless in Seattle stars Ryan and Hanks, add some wacky sidekicks, slate Nora Ephron (When Harry Met Sally ... and Sleepless) as screenwriter and director. Add a dash of modern pontificating, but not enough to make it too foreign-tasting, and whip to a light, fluffy froth. Serve lukewarm. Voilà! Modern Romantic Movie Soufflé! Blech! Delete! In the immortal words of Bruno Kirby, “Baby fish mouth!” I want Billy Crystal back! And, on a side note, thank God for Parker Posey appearing in this movie – her small presence made part of the experience pleasurable. But then, Posey, a gorgeous, hilarious throwback to our shimmering, anarchic screwball queens of yore should be leading modern romantic comedies. I demand to know why she’s not! Ms. Ephron?

Ghost (1990)

Do I need to discuss the plot of this picture? You already know it's about Demi Moore's poltergeist paramour Patrick Swayze as he attempts to both move on to the heaven world and solve the mystery of his murder. Trouble is, he can't properly communicate with his beloved, requiring the assistance of sassy psychic Whoopi Goldberg. Goldberg won an Oscar for her performance, and though she may not have deserved that, she is the only entertaining aspect to this endlessly cornball movie. And I know the scene is famous, but please -- pottery isn't sexy. It may look hot handling all that clay, smoothing its creamy consistency into a flower pot, or vase, or bong, or whatever you're crafting, but it requires some attention and skill and strong hands. (OK, now it's starting to sound kind of sexy.) But really, it's not something you want to attempt while Swayze is hovering behind you, turned on because your potential planter looks, oohhhh, phallic. Demi Moore should be annoyed when he touches her clay, laughing over wrecking her possible "masterpiece." Thanks a lot, buddy. No “Ditto” for you.

Dirty Dancing (1987)

Remember when people loved this movie unironically? I sure do. I recall sitting on the school bus with girls gushing over Baby and corners and the Catskills and "Wipeout" and wondering what the hell was wrong with them. To be fair, we're talking girls, not adults, but even certified grown-ups were gaga over this and still are, making the picture some kind of '80s classic. While I do get that viewers found non-knockout Jennifer Grey refreshing as the privileged girl enjoying summer vacation with stud muffin dance instructor Swayze circa 1963 (though I'm pretty sure girls back then didn't wear denim cutoffs the way she did), that doesn't excuse the picture's endless procession of cheesy, cringe-inducing moments of romance and ridiculously "dirty" dancing. Yes, Swayze (whom I like) is a talented dancer. Yes, it's nice to hear an Otis Redding song in a movie. Yes, yes, Jerry Orbach is a class act, but ... oh god ... that crawling "Love Is Strange" moment? No amount of post-'80s irony can make that moment not embarrassing. And can someone please explain to me what, "She's like the wind, through my tree" means? Ugh. Stay in the corner, Baby.

While You Were Sleeping (1995)

Love sure makes you do crazy things. Especially unrequited love. Ask Sandra Bullock, who is so besotted with Peter Gallagher that she pretends to be his fiancée after he’s nearly hit by a commuter train. See, he's in a coma, so what does he know? And who is she hurting anyway? And besides, Jack Warden tells her she's a positive influence and shouldn't feel badly about her behavior. This gives her a pass to look through his personal belongings, spend Christmas with his family, fall in love with his brother (played by Bill Pullman) and ... well, it's all really complicated, OK? Um ... no? Not OK? Alright, I know this is a movie and one wonderful aspect to cinema is removing us from the reality of day-to-day existence, but come on! Bullock's high quotient of cute (full confession: I love Sandy Bullock) can't save this picture from being flat-out creepy. Even the title, While You Were Sleeping, is scary. Give Bullock a blond perm, a rabbit and some psycho Madame Butterfly moments and the innocent sleeping swiftly becomes ... While You Were Sleeping with Michael Douglas.   

My Big Fat Greek Wedding (2002)

Moonstruck, a genuinely romantic, inspiring slice of romanticized Italian-American life, this was not. And yet, this picture, adapted from star/writer Nia Vardalos' one-woman stage show, was a big, fat, independent hit, striking a chord with viewers seeking mindless fluff or a big-screen version of every stupid ethnic sitcom they'd ever seen. The story finds 30-year-old frumpy Greek waitress Toula (Vardalos) transformed by computer college, a makeover, a job at a travel agency and, yes, the love of her life -- the tall, WASPY drink of water Ian (played by John Corbett). But how can she reconcile her colorful Greek family -- one that finds the Greek root to all words or thinks vegetarians only eat lamb or believes Windex a miracle cure -- with her fiancé? And what will her proud Greek father have to say? Too much, unfortunately, and in a coarse, pandering way. Not surprisingly, this movie was turned into a TV show. Not surprisingly, it was soon canceled.

Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994)

Oh dear ... I know there are some of you out there who absolutely adore this movie, and I will concede there's lots to admire here. Hugh Grant is self-deprecating and charming (though I prefer the nastier About a Boy cad Grant over this); Kristin Scott Thomas is immensely likable; and John Hannah reads a mean W.H. Auden. But ... Andie MacDowell (or, as one of my friends calls her, “the woman who almost ruined Groundhog Day”) ... why did director Mike Newell agree to cast her? Not only is she uninspired, but she's incredibly unlikable as the object of Grant's longstanding affection. Aside from her beauty, it's unclear why timid Charles (Grant) falls instantly in love with Carrie (MacDowell), whom he meets at a wedding and then meets again, at another wedding where she brings her fiancé. She has no idea he's devastated (yeah, right), he tries to make sense of it all while, sadly, not understanding that Fiona (Thomas), who pines for him, is the real catch. Worse, we're rooting for Fiona, not Carrie, making the picture's ending “happiness” so entirely irritating. I suppose that's how it works in the real world: The nice guy prefers the annoying, brittle, trophy girl. But I don't think that's how the movie intended us to feel. I mean, he actually says to her, "In the words of David Cassidy, 'I think I love you.'" She doesn't deserve such soaring romantic sentiments.

Love Story (1970)

Here's one thing I do know, love means having to say you're sorry -- a lot. Like all the time. Don't listen to the clichés of Arthur Hiller's Love Story, a picture that seems frozen in a time that never was, and one that remains eternally baffling for popularity alone. Released in 1970, the same year as cinematic classics like M*A*S*H, Five Easy Pieces and Little Big Man, you have to wonder who was buying this load of malarkey ... especially with the performances of Ryan O'Neal as Harvard hottie Oliver and Ali MacGraw as sassy, working-class, Radcliffe-attending Jenny. They may photograph well (MacGraw is soooo pretty, which actually makes the movie worth a view), but the famous leads didn't and still don't have any chemistry -- just a lot of magazine layout emotions and zombielike banter. Unless you're filling the movie with your own memories of love and loss (and really, you have to), getting teary by the film's famous ending (yes, Jenny dies ... sorry!) is near impossible. For truly sexy MacGraw chemistry and loads more romance (even with the slap), watch Peckinpah’s The Getaway with Steve McQueen, AKA the movie and man MacGraw left Robert Evans for: "She was looking at me and thinking of Steve McQueen's cock." Why didn't that become the romantic catchphrase of the '70s?

*Check out the over 560 comments in which angry readers call me "bitter," "an unhappy person," "dateless/divorced," "an unromantic clod," in need of therapy and "I...feel sorry for you, did your mother lock you in the attic?" For the record, my mother locked me in the basement.

From my story at MSN Movies.

Five For The Ages: Tough Old Guys

Another Rambo? Yes indeed. And, in spite of the franchise's ridiculous sequels, I’ve got some hope. Sylvester Stallone proved last year with his surprisingly effective Rocky Balboa that revisiting a famous screen character needn't be one big fat paycheck (but perhaps I hope too much). Nevertheless, I’m anticipating that Stallone (who wrote and directed this new Rambo) will again think about what that character represents now as, more specifically, an older person. Because, let's face it, 61-year-old Sly is ripe enough for his AARP card and just a few years from official senior citizenship.

But that's not to say John J. Rambo is too old to kick some ass (or any 61-year-old for that matter). In this day and age, 60 is the new ... 50, especially on-screen (for men, few women are afforded that luxury). With an elder Indiana Jones in production, and actors like Bruce Willis, Samuel L. Jackson and Gene Hackman showing that age only keeps one interesting, Rambo is working in the grand, grizzled tradition of rough and tumble oldsters. With that in mind, here are five of some of my favorite elder-statesman tough guys.

William Holden, The Wild Bunch (1969)

"If they move, kill ‘em."

Renowned for its shocking, innovative violence, Sam Peckinpah's bloody, brilliant Western is the ultimate aged-outlaw movie, featuring stellar performances by a bevy of wonderful, older actors and a turn by William Holden that remains one of his greatest. Now past the age of Norma Desmond, handsome Holden plays Pike Bishop, a grizzled outlaw suffering the consequences of his last big score. After an ambush by bounty hunters (notably a former Pike gang buddy -- an excellent Robert Ryan) causes Pike's robbery to go terribly awry, Pike and his Wild Bunch (perfectly embodied by Ernest Borgnine, Jaime Sanchez, Ben Johnson, Warren Oates and, later, an impressive Edmond O'Brien) head for Mexico, only to get entangled with a vicious Mexican general who'll cause them to enact their ultimate valiant vengeance. Living amidst the unrest of not only the dawning 1911 Mexican Revolution but also, importantly, the Industrial Revolution (the automobile is a perfect symbol for what will be many cultural transformations), the bunch's way of life is quickly fading -- and they know it. An unrelenting and complicated vision of a shifting West as well as a fresh, shocking picture far ahead of its time, The Wild Bunch is a strangely beautiful ode to the oldster, a movie filled with wrinkled faces marked by experience in both life and movies. All these guys are terrific, but it's Holden's touching Pike who gets the gang riled up for a last gasp of glorious loyalty that overrides safety or profit. Believe it or not, it's tough to not get choked up when noir stalwarts Ryan and O'Brien close the picture, riding off together, toward their unpredictable future.

Henry Fonda, Once Upon a Time in the West (1968)

"People scare better when they're dying."

It was a stroke of brilliance when Sergio Leone cast the hard-edged though All-American actor Henry Fonda as one of cinema's meanest villains in his Western masterpiece, Once Upon a Time in the West, which had to have created a palpable shock for audiences used to the legend in pictures like The Lady Eve or Mister Roberts. And Leone didn't waste any time easing audiences into the idea -- Fonda's on-screen introduction plays shocking to this day: A young child is shot and killed; the camera pans up to gunman's face, right into the cold blue eyes of a remorseless Fonda, an actor who made us cry in The Grapes of Wrath. The entire epic picture is one elegiac, gorgeously composed scene after another with standout performances by Jason Robards, Charles Bronson and Claudia Cardinale, but Fonda's sadistic Frank (no last name needed) showed not only how versatile the Young Mr. Lincoln legend was, but also how much inner rage and turmoil he carried in other pictures (go back to his tortured performance in The Long Night for a gripping example). And the fact that the actor was in his 60s only made him more powerful -- those baby blue eyes staring back at us with an almost universal unease. Maybe our fathers don't really love us, they seem to say.

Charles Bronson, Death Wish (1974)

"Nothing to do but cut and run, huh? What else? What about the old American social custom of self-defense? If the police don't defense us, maybe we ought to do it ourselves."

Though known to many as an overly simplistic portrait of pro-vigilantism, there's more to this incredibly brutal Michael Winner picture, chiefly a disturbed look at a man who has absolutely flipped his lid. A weirdly yet perfectly cast Charles Bronson plays a mild-mannered architect who turns vigilante after his wife is killed and his daughter is raped. Taking to the streets of New York, he seeks out violent offenders, and makes a huge impression on the police and public after continually blowing away thugs (or positional thugs) in a sadness turned to fury. Death Wish was an important step for the fascinating Bronson, an actor who hadn't found huge success in America until this movie (he was a big star in Europe and known as “Il Bruto”). Showing that fame wasn't just a young man's game, Bronson became an unusual leading man, both in his offbeat looks (which were fantastic -- I love Bronson's face) and his ascending age. He would make five Death Wish movies of varied quality, but none was as powerful and controversial as the original. Watch it again -- it’s a lot more complex than say, The Brave One. And Bronson is (and this makes sense to me) violently touching.

Lawrence Tierney, Reservoir Dogs (1992)

"Dead as Dillinger."

One of the toughest actors on and off the screen, hard-boiled legend Lawrence Tierney was a notorious character with an edge of danger and menace (the man had a real record) that was tremendously powerful on-screen. Though the good-looking mad dog hit it big with Dillinger in 1945 and created some of noir's most intense villains via The Devil Thumbs a Ride and the splendid Born to Kill (where his rage is so strong and real, he doesn't appear to be acting) he is perhaps best known to more mainstream audiences from Quentin Tarantino's debut Reservoir Dogs. In all his bald-headed, gravel-voiced geezer glory, Tierney tore up the screen as gangster Joe Cabot, the man who was not only in charge of the various Misters' actions (“Let’s go to work”) but also the guy who assigned them their colors (to Mr. Pink Steve Buscemi's vocal disapproval). Tierney's Cabot was as bad-ass as they come, but still, like every good, tough old man, believed in tipping. I wish he had made more pictures, while young and old -- he was one truly frightening force of nature.

Lee Marvin, The Big Red One (1980)

"You’re going to live, even if I have to blow your brains out!"

Like the crusty Robert Shaw, ultra-cool cat Lee Marvin always seemed older than he really was. From his coffee hurling psycho in The Big Heat (where he was 29) to his drunken gunfighter in Cat Ballou (41) to his laconic gunman in Point Blank (43), the actor's deep voice, whitening hair and almost overwhelming one-of-a-kind masculinity belied an experience that was more than likely forged from his own, eventful life. It was perfect casting then when Samuel Fuller placed Marvin (who fought in World War II and received a Purple Heart) in his tremendous, semi-autobiographical WWII epic The Big Red One, which followed the U.S. Army's First Infantry Division thick in the tour of duty. Marvin plays the squad leader, the Sergeant (he's never given a name) a no-nonsense, tough-as-nails badass who kicks his young squad members into shape. Marvin gives one of his greatest performances as the paternal Sarge, adding to the picture's reality and tough honor. Never for one second would you question Marvin's authority in playing such a role, in part because he was so talented and subtle but also because he knew the real-life material so well. It almost makes you sad watching the great man in one of his last screen roles -- there will never be another Marvin.

Read my other five oldsters at MSN Movies.

Truth Or Illusion? Seven Different Biopics

There's a line in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? in which the alcoholic, game-playing Martha spits this doozy at her barb-swapping, history professor husband: "Truth or illusion, George; you don't know the difference." According to Martha, such ineptitude is his weakness (a shared weakness, but also a buffer), but, since part of their lives is built on a questionable history (the baby? George's story with his parents?), I think she's on to something pertaining to the general human condition, especially the human condition on-screen: What is the difference exactly? And how should we process or perceive such truths or illusions? And maybe the blending makes one even more honest about their lives.

This is where the biopic, a genre that tells stories of real people, can be messy. Always a problematic genre, pressured by running times, whitewashing or the tedium of by-the-book generalities, biopics frequently become stale exercises in a series of facts. Or half-truths. Which is why any tweaking of the biopic is exciting. The most recent example, Todd Haynes' ambitious Bob Dylan study I'm Not There, in which six different actors took on the Dylan persona, was thrillingly unique. And Jake Kasdan's goofy hit-and-miss Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, a comedy poking fun at all those Oscar bait, "real" musical stories (Ray, Walk the Line) should have made for a nice satirical diversion from so-called truth.

So with that in mind, I'm looking at seven refreshingly off-kilter biopics, movies that approached their real-life subjects without the usual "and then this happened" turning of the page. For these movies, sometimes not knowing truth or illusion is part of the point -- and more true to life than anything else.

Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)

There are moments in Michael Curtiz's Yankee Doodle Dandy that are so shamelessly patriotic, the chipper biopic lauding Broadway legend George M. Cohan becomes almost freakishly surreal. Indeed, so all-American was the picture that, released not long after the attack on Pearl Harbor, it reportedly served as a great morale booster as the United States entered World War II. And how could it not? "You're a Grand Old Flag," "Over There," and its signature tune, "Yankee Doodle Dandy," were such wartime classics that some forget that the lovable "Give My Regards to Broadway" was one of the picture's most famous songs. The musical biopic (an interesting subgenre that includes movies ranging from Mervyn LeRoy's entertaining Gypsy to Ken Russell's gloriously insane Lisztomania) starred an inspired James Cagney as song and dance man Cohan, who begins his story as an oldster, ready for his comeback Broadway hit and gaining acceptance from none other than President Roosevelt himself. Using flashbacks to tell the story (some of it true, some not), we watch Cohan's rise to fame and prominence all the way to receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor. Yes, Cohan achieved a lot. And, yes, he was quite cocky, which in Cagney's able hands (and feet) is played to glorious, almost dizzying perfection. It also plays as a terrific double feature with another bizarre, all-American story, Patton.

Napoleon (1927)

So visionary, so experimental, so richly complex, so long is Abel Gance's silent epic Napoleon that attempting to write briefly about one of cinema's first biopics feels like an undertaking in itself. There's so much to tell with both its dazzling, innovative cinematic techniques -- from handheld camerawork, sometimes strapped to horses, to superimposed images, to the use of split screen, to the inspiration for CinemaScope, to its editing style and its revision-heavy production history (the picture has gone through a series of restorations since its initial release supervised by film historian Kevin Brownlow) -- that the picture remains radical, even today. Though the story itself is somewhat straightforward (the fascinating life and times of Napoleon Bonaparte from childhood to French Revolution and on), Gance's ambitious, almost raving embrace of the medium is so incredibly stunning that many believe the filmmaker aligned himself with the grandiloquence and determinism of his subject -- a "Man of Destiny." Though Gance has been accused of falsities regarding the French emperor and taken to task by some for showing Napoleon, gleefully, as something of a fascist, the picture remains one of cinema's most exceptionally unique and breathtaking biopics.

The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser (1975)

Werner Herzog's approach to "the truth" has always been a fascinating one and I love his grand yet entirely down-to-earth theories about "reality." A firm believer in what he calls "ecstatic truth," Herzog claims that his approach toward filmmaking, whether in his documentaries (like Little Dieter Needs to Fly or Grizzly Man) or biographical pictures (like Aguirre: The Wrath of God or Fitzcarraldo) reveals "something deeply inherent, where you recognize yourself as a human being again, where you find images that have been dormant inside of you for so many years and all of a sudden it becomes visible and understandable for you -- you read the world differently, your perceptions change." For Herzog, truth is not something relegated to one genre of film, as the filmmaker freely admits to even writing dialogue for some of his documentary figures, while famously undertaking mammoth real-life tasks in making fiction or biographical features (like really dragging a boat over a mountain for Fitzcarraldo -- no CGI necessary, thank you). One of Herzog's most fascinating examples of "ecstatic truth" is The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser, a picture that won the German director the Grand Jury Award at the 1975 Cannes Film Festival and helped establish his reputation as a cinematic innovator. It stars non-actor Bruno S. as the real-life Kaspar Hauser, a boy/man who is forced to contend with civilization after living 17 years of his life in a cellar, isolated from humans, his only contact being a mysterious "Man in Black." Watching Kaspar adapt and grow is an intriguing, moving process, but Herzog's haunting, non-simplistic approach to a person's identity marks the picture uniquely like its title -- enigmatic.

American Splendor (2003)

The life of underground artist Harvey Pekar could not have been told, well, normally. Not that the man is weird, he's actually quite sane -- he's just a lot more honest than most people about the injustices and indignities of day-to-day life. Or how annoying food allergies can be. Mixing fiction with documentary and, in some more inspired moments, the real-life Pekar with actor Paul Giamatti (who's so perfect you can't think of anyone else aping Pekar -- even if he looks nothing like the man), directors Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini allow American Splendor an honest, complex kind of messiness that reflects the tumultuous life Pekar more than likely continues to lead. An acolyte of Robert Crumb, the jazz-loving, lonely Pekar, a file clerk in Cleveland's VA hospital, discusses his neo-Dostoyevskian underground man existence in comic-book form via the ironically titled American Splendor. This brings him to fellow neurotic Joyce Brabner (Hope Davis), with whom he is married and raises a child. And then there's the cancer. Steering clear of disease-of-the-week, triumph-over-adversity pabulum, American Splendor manages to tell the story of an American eccentric without making him cutely quirky or everyone's favorite curmudgeon, but rather as a truly interesting person. Imagine that.

The Elephant Man (1980)

How often does a movie like Eraserhead (you know the story...about a mutant baby ... and a lot more) lead to a filmmaker's first shot at mainstream success? And a mainstream success that respects the director's unique, evocative style? Not often. But then there's no other filmmaker like David Lynch, whose work remains (as they say) in a class by itself, even within the usually standard genre of the biopic. The Elephant Man might be one of Lynch's most accessible films, but it's still a challenging work that's so artistically interesting that it manages to meld its aesthetic vision with the inner complexities of its protagonist's moving, almost unbearably sad story. Telling the true story of John Merrick (John Hurt), a man suffering from a disease that left him so physically deformed he was sold to the circus and paraded as a sideshow freak for most of his life, Lynch crafts a picture of heartbreaking sympathy. But he never panders to the man, giving him the dignity he deserved while, importantly, making viewers face their own feelings about the character's supposed grotesqueries. In one of the most gorgeously photographed (by cinematographer Freddie Francis) biopics ever made, Lynch allows viewers to understand the real beauty of Merrick, both on the inside and, yes, the outside. The famed line "I am not an animal" might be quoted ad nauseam, but Merrick's desire to feel like a "human being," a "man," never loses its power.

All That Jazz (1979)

So nakedly honest and gloriously ballsy was, my favoritie, Bob Fosse's ambitious, over-the-top, ingeniously meta auto-biopic All That Jazz, one actually wonders if the man really summoned his own death by crafting such a creation. Imagining his slip into the sweet hereafter as an elaborate musical number set to the tricked out tune of the Everly Brothers' "Bye Bye Love" (for Fosse it's "Bye Bye Life"), Fosse's alter ego, Joe Gideon (a brilliant Roy Scheider), has not only talked to death (in the beautifully creepy angelic form of Jessica Lange) but also overtly flirted with her -- and even she's not immune to his charms. Famed choreographer, writer and director Fosse mused on his relationship with show -- from his past days as a young hoofer, to his tumultuous marriages and affairs, to his work on stage and in the movies (the film has Gideon laboring over a picture he's made about a stand-up comic, clearly referencing his biopic Lenny) to his drug use, Fosse's direction is brave, vain and morbid all at once, and so brilliant you won't know whether to smile or cry at that famously insane end number. I'm sure Fosse wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Oh Mr. Fosse, why did you have to go so early?

Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould (1993)

Part documentary, part biopic, part music lesson, part enigmatic character study, Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould remains one of the most fascinating portraits of a musical genius ever created. Directed by François Girard (and scripted by Girard and Don McKellar), the picture eschews typical biopic trappings by, quite literally, telling the musical prodigy story of Gould (played brilliantly by Colm Feore) in 32 short films -- fascinating vignettes that wander through the eccentric Canadian pianist's life with reverence, mystery, amusement and a touch of sadness that (like real life) is never resolved. You're only charmed and intrigued by the man even more. Some of the pieces run less than 60 seconds, others several minutes, but each is subtly told, allowing an inside look into Gould's background, process, intellectualism and his unique relationship with music -- something he quit performing live at age 32 because, "I just don't like the sound of piano music very much."

Every film is a standout, with highlights including Gould enjoying the unexpected (for him anyway, though he loved her) musical pleasure of pop songstress Petula Clark, a beautiful trip through the wires and hammers of his Steinway during the moment of his last concert, and discussions with those who chatted up the reclusive man on the telephone (Gould loved the phone). Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould is a triumph in that not only do you learn a few things about the man himself but you also truly feel his deep alliance (and combativeness) with music. And you'll never want to hear Bach's "Goldberg Variations" played by anyone else. As you shouldn't.

From my Twisted Biopics story at MSN Movies.

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.

Eat Drink Watch Movie

For many of us, especially those of us who love movies, there are four great pleasures in life: Food, sex, books and cinema ... though not necessarily in that order.

Of the four, cinema is the pleasure which can consistently roll food, sex and countless other feelings, themes and experiences into one interesting batch of tiramisu -- and, more importantly, you can look at it (I always crave steak when Glenn Ford bites into that slab of meat in The Big Heat; Lee Marvin's special serving of steaming hot coffee, not so much). Food on film elicits all kinds of reactions and yearnings that underscore just how much emotion we sometimes invest in day-to-day eating or... binging or whatever sensible eaters do. I wouldn't know, especially around Thanksgiving because I just want to eat something. And watch something too. So with that, I've thought of some of my favorite food on film moments -- moments that make me hungry, sick, amused and ready to try new, exotic things (see Ravenous). Dig in.

Food Fight: The Miracle Worker (1962)

Though Arthur Penn’s The Miracle Worker received acclaim in its day, it now seems relatively underappreciated – especially in terms of how strikingly visceral and in many ways, avant-garde it is. The story of Helen Keller, a woman who found herself in the unfortunate position of being blind, deaf and mute is directed by Penn with a refreshing lack of hokey sentimentality and a lot of in-your-face realism.  Penn (who also helmed Bonnie and Clyde) prefers to showcase the real life account in a shockingly straight forward manner mixed with a lyrical sadness and beauty. It’s an unsettling combination that’s surprising even today, especially when we get to the infamous dinner table scene. A game Anne Bancroft plays Helen's teacher Annie Sullivan, who tries valiantly to teach stubborn Helen (a remarkable Patty Duke) how to sit down and eat at the table like a regular little girl. The lesson results in not only a food fight, but a smack-down that would make Vince McMahon envious. I mean, just watch…it’s actually amazing how much these women wrestle, slap and fork food in their mouths without missing a beat. It's sad but also (and I think this is intentional) a little hilarious. Jesus, how many times did they shoot this scene?

Sugar High: Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (1971)

Though the much loved and romantic Chocolat will pop into many a sweet tooth's head, I find that film much too corny and not really all that scrumptious when it comes to whetting my appetite for candy. And yes, yes, I know the chocolate in said film is of a finer quality and, I presume, magically enhanced by the charm of Juliette Binoche, but please. When it comes to wishing Halloween came twice a week, it's all about Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. The story of five lucky kids winning a visit to the famous and magical candy factory run by the wild and weird Willy Wonka (a tremendous Gene Wilder) is a confectionary dream that turns nightmarish once the kids (sans Charlie) reveal their varied and insufferable personalities. But no matter how many of the children endure dire consequences for their gluttonous temptations, we still want, as the song goes, candy. Which is why I cut some of these spoiled brats a break. One of Wonka's rooms is entirely edible. Would you be acting normal after shoving your face in a river of chocolate?

Best Restaurant Order: Five Easy Pieces (1970)

Sorry. I'm not going with the obvious -- When Harry Met Sally. First off, contrary to popular opinion, Meg Ryan's fake orgasm, "I'll have what she's having" -- diner display is the least funny moment in the otherwise charming romantic comedy. And secondly, no one beats Jack Nicholson in terms of inappropriate, though completely understandable restaurant behavior (think of other great Nicholson at-the-restaurant-moments: making Randy Quaid order his food the way he wants in The Last Detail and his endless, OCD eating specifications in As Good As It Gets). And though the masterful Five Easy Pieces (directed by Bob Rafelson) really has little to do with food, but it makes my list simply for Jack's iconic way of ordering a side of toast. Nicholson plays a slumming oil rigger/talented pianist who embarks on a trek to visit his dying father with a saucy girlfriend (Karen Black) and, at one point, two memorably surly female hitchhikers in tow. The four make quite a tall order when a seen-it-all waitress won't bend the rules ("no substitutions") on a breakfast order of a "plain omelette, no potatoes, tomatoes instead, a cup of coffee, and wheat toast." When the waitress insists she can only bring Nicholson a roll or an English muffin, he asks the perfectly reasonable question, "You make sandwiches don't you?" and proceeds to order a chicken salad sandwich, hold the butter, mayonnaise and lettuce. But where to hold the chicken? "Between your knees," Jack famously and disdainfully coos. I never tire of this moment. And right now I'd really enjoy some wheat toast.

French Kiss: Babette's Feast (1987)

Babette (Stéphane Audran) is some family cook. The French woman, who originally fled Paris after her son and husband were killed, has worked for a family in Denmark for 14 years, preparing food with little zest. But when she wins a lottery, she decides to use her winnings on crafting an elaborate "real French dinner" for her employers in honor of their deceased father's 100th birthday. What transpires is an overwhelmingly tasty, exotic and even, at one point, scary French meal (the sisters suspect Babette might be a witch in one scene). As a result of her luscious meal, filled with French delicacies that'll make even food philistines wish to sample the country's cuisine, all kinds of emotions are revealed, prejudices are broken and the family is bonded.

Prison Food: Goodfellas (1990)

From stirring the Sunday sauce just right (no matter if helicopters and cops are on your tail), to dinner with Joe Pesci's ma (actually Scorsese's), to shoving the mailman's head in a pizza oven, to Ray Liotta's telling diner meeting with Robert DeNiro, there's no shortage of delicious and murderous food sequences in Martin Scorsese's perfect Goodfellas. But the primo moment has to be when the bosses go to a prison so cushy, not even Martha Stewart could have conceived it. As Ray Liotta genially narrates, we watch the delivery of a ridiculously plentiful assortment of food -- delicious, hearty Italian food -- to the delight of the drooling but discerning jailbirds. The topper is when Paul Sorvino slices strips of garlic with a razor blade to such thin, such translucent perfection that when you see it gently combine with the olive oil and sizzle in the pan, you can practically smell the delectability. Makes you want to go to jail for one second...as a gangster. And, to enter the club in the most romantic way possible, through the kitchen.

Revenge is A Dish Best Served ... : The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover (1989)

Working like the anti-Babette's Feast, Peter Greenaway's brilliant though at times deeply repulsive film will make many never want to eat French food ever again. The story concerns the deviant (and, symbolically, political) happenings at a fine French restaurant in which the gastronomically gifted chef, Richard (Richard Bohringer), crafts elaborately artistic meals while the restaurant's boorish owner (Michael Gambon) holds obnoxious court wit