Only now does it occur to me... GRAVITY

Only now does it occur to me...  that the glory of 3-D has brought us a giant ape flinging boulders right at me and Jason Voorhees squeezing a man's head until the eyeball shoots out.  It's shown us Freddy Krueger, Michael Ironside, and even Charles Bronson in three-dimensions.  I've even seen blue cat people have strongly-implied weirdo hair sex.  But never did I ever expect to be...   
SPLOOSHED IN THE FACE WITH SANDRA BULLOCK'S CGI SPACE-TEARS!!!

 

Let me make this brief and relatively spoiler-free:  while GRAVITY indeed boasts some incredible visuals, its manipulative attempts at emotional depth are in general clumsy, unearned, and give off the overwhelming impression that they've been scraped together from the afterglow of superior movies (DON'T LOOK NOW?  APOLLO 13?).  Sadly, this cannot be remedied by an Ed Harris vocal cameo (he gets about 10 minutes of screentime, tops) or any number of George HaClooncinations, even when he does his best Doug Ross impersonation.

[It's also worth mentioning that Sandra Bullock's numerous wardrobe changes– from spacesuit into hot pants/tank top and back again– flavor the film with a "peekaboo– gym bod!" salaciousness that distracts from the narrative drive and nearly suggests a sexploitation movie, which gave rise to the idea that I'd much rather have seen a GRAVITY that was made in the 1970s, starring Pam Grier and Sid Haig!]

Perhaps I made a mistake in watching it nearly back-to-back with one of my all-time favorite 'survival journey' movies, THE WAGES OF FEAR, a film that that firmly balances character development and white knuckle thrills with virtuosic integrity; conversely, GRAVITY's mushier than a melty banana split (and I don't mean one made with astronaut ice cream!). 

Hell, I don't mean to shit on this thing; it seems that many have derived genuine emotional responses from it, including some teary-eyed patrons at my local theater.  Perhaps ours is a fragmented era of ramshackle profundities, where the existential hum can be quieted with a pat on the shoulder and a few empty platitudes.  Perhaps the legacy of cosmic wonder and moral wisdom forged by writers like Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, and Arthur C. Clarke has merely become... CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE ASTRONAUT SOUL.  Now that makes me sad.  I s'pose you succeeded after all, GRAVITY!

In closing, for its unsubtle attempts at emotional button-pushing and a visual vocabulary that consists of objects hovering slowly across the frame, I think perhaps a better title may have been:

Only now does it occur to me... POLLOCK

Only now does it occur to me...  that Ed Harris ought to have his own, instructional drum video based around this gem of a scene from POLLOCK:


And now that we're on the topic of Ed Harris and rhythmic convulsions, I guess I can't resist making you watch this all over again (from CREEPSHOW):

Hopefully, I have now cured everyone's case of the Mondays!

GIANT OSCAR MESS: Best Dance of Seduction

In my continuing coverage of GIANT OSCAR MESS (best described HERE), I present to you the nominees for BEST DANCE OF SEDUCTION IN A MOTION PICTURE.

And the winners were...

....Deborah Reed and David McConnell in TROLL 2, for obvious reasons.

(to be continued...)

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #65-61

65. MR. JEALOUSY (1997, Noah Baumbach)

"What would you do if I bit your face now... suddenly?" Gotta love MR. JEALOUSY. It offers astute, biting commentary on romantic relationships, daring to go to places of jealousy, resentment, and self-hatred where even dramatic films (much less comedies!) fear to tread. It offers bold 1930's-style screwball, mistaken identities, a ludicrous bit part by Peter Bogdanovich as Dr. Poke, the finest ever use of Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle," and tackles OCD, substitute teaching, Gustav Flaubert, and the eternal question of "Do people really spit in the communal coffee creamer?" It's well-populated by genius performances from the likes of Baumbach standbys like Eric Stoltz, Chris Eigeman, Annabella Sciorra, Carlos Jacott, and John Lehr, (and a great one from Baumbach newcomer Marianne Jean-Baptiste, fresh off of Mike Leigh's SECRETS AND LIES). Noah Baumbach himself even gets to prove that he was born to do voice-over narrations. And, of course, the excess budget brought us little-known gem that is HIGHBALL. In all, one of the best-written movies of the 90's, and a film so good that naturally Armond White's response was to call for Baumbach's retroactive abortion. If that doesn't prove you've made a great film, I don't know what does.

64. KNIGHTRIDERS (1982, George A. Romero)

"I'M FIGHTING THE DRAGON!" Yes, you certainly are, Ed Harris. You are, too, Mr. Romero. You have to fight the dragon, gentlemen, for you feel the moral imperative to do so. You live in a world of insanity, your options limited to being crushed beneath it's bootheel, lashing out madly, or retreating into oneself. In a way, this is the definitive counter-culture film. It unfolds with an ensemble-based subtlety that recalls the best Renoir and Altman. It reveals an ensemble of fully-developed, REAL characters trying to deal with existential confusion and a world gone mad, NOT, as the cover art might suggest, a group of medieval-themed bikers pillaging the countryside. Romero has taken timeless messages on brotherhood and sisterhood from the tales of King Arthur and languidly, thoughtfully, applied them to the modern era. George Romero is not merely a horror filmmaker, nor is he, in fact, merely a filmmaker. He is a philosopher, a poet, a sociologist and a true citizen of the world. I salute you, Mr. Romero, a man who unfailingly depicts the true heights and depths of humanity, whether it be in the midst of a zombie holocaust or while good friends bond over a quiet campfire. May you continue to grace us with such compassionate, thoughtful works. Also: Stephen King's cameo as a local yokel and Tom Savini's amazing "80's sell-out" costume receive my highest commendations.

63. THE CHANGELING (1980, Peter Medak)

I wrote previously that:
For the uninitiated, it must be said that the less you know about THE CHANGELING, the better, so I'll avoid revealing anything about the plot. Somehow the median point between Nicolas Roeg's DON'T LOOK NOW and the turn-of-the-century ghost stories of M.R. James, THE CHANGELING is a sheer force of atmospheric dread. Director Peter Medak is a master of effectively using space, foreboding architecture, and ornate interior design– as well as the roaming camera which captures them. In THE RULING CLASS (1972), he nearly turned the expansive Gurney estate into a character- an object of desire for some, and a turgid reminder of a centuries-old oligarchy to others. While it was not a 'horror' film in the purest sense, I feel as if Medak learned much back then, and merely had to subtly tweak his techniques in order to create a seriously sinister mood. The score, by Rick Wilkins, is hauntingly evocative, consisting of ever-flowing, swirling piano, surging and eddying like sudden rushes of air or a gentle, ghostly breaths. The cast is phenomenal: George C. Scott's stoic melancholy, Melvyn Douglas' tortured countenance, and Trish Van Devere's harried energy go a long way toward establishing the atmosphere. THE CHANGELING belongs to the genre which I call 'melancholy horror,' consisting of films like CASTLE FREAK or DEAD & BURIED. It's almost as if a shroud lies draped upon the film- a defeated sigh, a pensive look, a sense of loss. But make no mistake, this film is SCARY. Medak portrays the supernatural in a manner that, for me, is unmatched: to feel the otherworldly as an ominous presence that lingers just outside the frame- Kubrick does it in THE SHINING, Alan Parker does it in ANGEL HEART, Lynch does it in TWIN PEAKS, and Medak does it here. He doesn't have to rely on cheap 'sudden loud noise' scares, he builds a genuine sense of foreboding from the ground up, and takes the material very seriously. Without this film, there would be no RINGU (or, consequently, THE RING), THE OTHERS, or even THE DEVIL'S BACKBONE. It's one of the great ghost stories, unsullied by time, and as long as we fear the unknown, this film will continue to resonate.

62. KOYAANISQATSI (1983, Godfrey Reggio)

The hypnotically transcendent imagery of Godfrey Reggio (and DP Ron Fricke) and the transcendentally hypnotic music of Philip Glass are perhaps the perfect fusion of sound and image in film. Eschewing mere 'words' in favor of a view of the world from perhaps the omniscient vantage point of the "angel of history," Reggio brilliantly illustrates the process by which we are subverting– no, perverting the concept of a genuine, harmonious existence through almost every aspect of our modern society. It's a humbling film, one that places one's own insignificance into an even wider context; it makes our personal time and our personal space seem so very, very painfully small. When the bulldozers first appear after a series of idyllic landscapes, you want to cry "INTRUDER!," you want to destroy them and their faceless mechanical obscenity! It says more by saying less than FERNGULLY, AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH, AVATAR, CAPTAIN PLANET, and every other well-meaning environmental film combined, because it's intent is not to "recycle more" or "save the whales" or "prevent oil spills," its intent is to show us, quite graphically, how, for most of us, our entire lifestyles, from when we wake in the morning till when we go to sleep at night, from cradle to the grave, are (to use some of Hemingway's favorite terminology) inauthentic. It's not a problem that'll be solved through sorting the glass bottles from the plastic ones, nor from turning the A/C unit from high to low; it's a call to reinvent ourselves, to recreate what it means to be a human being in a society that has only been in existence for as long as a blink of the cosmic eye. It's a powerful film, and one of only a chosen few that dares show how irrevocably fucked and how painfully trivial we really are.

61. THE RED SHOES (1948, Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger)

Astonishing spectacle and tempestuous melodrama in a ferocious blaze of wondrous Technicolor. I've sung the praises of Powell & Pressburger earlier in this countdown, but words cannot do this film justice. It's a true pleasure to the point of pain, and if you haven't seen it– goddammit, just see it. Here's a taste for the uninitiated.

Coming up next: Gutter poetry, drug addiction, and James Woods... And no– not all three at the same time!

Previously on the countdown:
#70-66
#75-71
#80-76
#85-81
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

Film Review: CREEPSHOW (1982, George A. Romero)

Stars: 5 of 5. Running Time: 120 minutes. Notable Cast or Crew: Hal Holbrook (THE FOG, MAGNUM FORCE), Adrienne Barbeau (SWAMP THING, ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK), Leslie Nielsen (FORBIDDEN PLANET, AIRPLANE!), Ted Danson (THREE MEN AND A BABY, SAVING PRIVATE RYAN), Stephen King (director of MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE), Ed Harris (KNIGHTRIDERS, THE RIGHT STUFF), E.G. Marshall (12 ANGRY MEN, TANNER '88), Fritz Weaver (MARATHON MAN, the Savini-directed TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE episode "Inside the Closet"), Carrie Nye (THE GROUP), Gaylen Ross (DAWN OF THE DEAD, MADMAN), Warner Shook (DAWN OF THE DEAD, KNIGHTRIDERS), Tom Savini, Tom Atkins (NIGHT OF THE CREEPS, THE FOG), Christine Forrest (KNIGHTRIDERS, MONKEY SHINES, wife of George Romero). Written by George A. Romero and Stephen King. Music by John Harrison (director of TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE: THE MOVIE and the DUNE miniseries). Special makeup effects by Tom Savini. Cinematography by Michael Gornick (KNIGHTRIDERS, MARTIN). Tag-line: "The Most Fun You'll Ever Have... BEING SCARED!" Best one-liner: "I took care of it. That's why God made fathers, babe. That's why God made fathers." It's George Romero's TALES OF HOFFMANN. The man combines his two favorite macabre and colorful youthful pursuits: the films of Powell & Pressburger and EC Comics. It's his ode to the morbid entertainments and blood-curdling fantasias that every kid deserves. It's also an ode to Ed Harris freak-dancing, peculiar booze consumption, and the Tom Atkins school of parenting, but more on that stuff in a minute. CREEPSHOW is great. The tag-line says it all- "The Most Fun You'll Ever Have Being Scared." And I truly defy you not to have a hell of a time while watching this. Just talking about CREEPSHOW makes me want to watch it again. Perhaps I'll invest in a bumper sticker that says "I'd rather be...watching CREEPSHOW."

  

This is my kind of comic book adaptation: bright colors, Argento lighting, a lurid n' gritty feel: you can see the half-tone newsprint ink splashed on the screen; you can feel the brittle, scratchy pages of the cheap paper stock beneath your fingers.

   

It recreates that magical page-turning sensation, not knowing what might lay on the next sheet, pretending, in a childish mania, that the ludicrous, mystical mail-in might actually be a working voo-doo doll or X-ray glasses or a ghost-trapped-in-a-can.

  

And while the visuals are exquisite, the effect is compounded by John Harrison's soundtrack, which is masterful, in a sort of virtuosic, DIY way. Balancing simplistic, atmospheric synth tones; suspenseful, momentum-building piano; purposefully off-key renditions of Americana folk songs (a warped 'Camptown Races' gets some play during "Something to Tide You Over"); and the occasional Satanic chanting, Harrison builds an eerie soundscape that fits EC Comics to a T. His music tells a story- and, interestingly enough, Harrison would end up a storyteller himself, directing many episodes of TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE (and the movie!), some TALES FROM THE CRYPT episodes, and co-writing that CGI Disney film, DINOSAUR. There are five segments total, and each segment builds to that perfect moment of ecstatic fear; an immaculate horror whereupon the rest of the world falls away and you're left with a pure, sensory experience of absolute, comic book terror.  

Some deserve the fate so badly you've been rooting for it to happen for the duration. Others are unfortunate bystanders to the atrocities of a cruel, indifferent universe. Life's one big creepshow, alright. I'd like to get into the segments without giving too much away, so I'll take a quick look at each, individually: We begin with a frame story, featuring a young boy, Billy (played by Stephen King's son, Joe), who loves all things creepy. His room is adorned with Godzilla dolls, Dracula posters, plastic monsters, the works. His beer-swilling abusive dad (played by the incomparable Tom Atkins!), decides to ruin the kiddie's evening by trashing his Creepshow comic book and smacking him around a little bit, 

 

which is apparently why God made fathers, babe.

  

Appearing at Billy's window like a freaky guardian angel is the 'Creep' himself, and our young laddie is not frightened, but comforted.

 

This is our segue into the film proper, but we do receive some resolution later on- and said resolution may or may not involve a peripheral performance by Tom Savini as the 'garbage man.'  

The frame story delivers exactly what is expected of it, and as an added bonus, throws in that extremely enjoyable Atkins performance. And that's what CREEPSHOW's all about. Even a diehard Atkins fan might rattle off their ten favorite things about CREEPSHOW, and then when they're finished, they'll say 'Oh shit- and Tom Atkins!' In other words, there's a lot going on- and when you can forget about Tom Atkins in the shuffle, that shuffle must be pretty damned good. •FATHER'S DAY The plot in a nutshell: a hateful douche of a dad comes back from the grave (FINNEGAN'S WAKE-style, from some spilt booze!) with a yen for some cake.

   

It also has Ed Harris. You know, I learned a lot about Ed Harris in CREEPSHOW.  

I learned that he applies the same, patented, crazy-eye intensity to disco-dancing as he does to any other activity. 

 

It must also be noted that Elizabeth Regan really holds her own as well, but Jesus- look at Harris! The steely eye contact, the psychotic head bob, the clapping, the boogying, the pure suavitude with which he turns down the volume! Highest marks, Ed. You never disappoint. Even in a minor role like this. There's not too many people I can say that about. •THE LONESOME DEATH OF JORDY VERRILL The plot in a nutshell: King's retread of H.P. Lovecraft's "The Colour Out of Space," starring King himself as a meteor-discovering local yokel who ends up with a little more verdure in his life than he bargained for. A lot of people complain about this segment and like to trash King's acting, but it's kind of got a boneheaded genius to it. [He says at one point, "Spell that kinda luck B-A-D" which recalls the "M-O-O-N, that spells moon" motif in THE STAND, a line oft-repeated by the mentally disabled Tom Cullen. So that's probably where King is taking his inspiration from.]

  

Plus, he drinks Ripple, and you know how I feel about celebrities and low-end fortified wines.  

An other special mention must go to Bingo O'Malley, who plays the fiendish, amputation-luvin' doctor in Jordy's nightmare fantasy about what might happen if he 'got that checked out by a professional.' 

 

In the end, King actually brings a tangible pathos to the role, and it's the one segment of the six that sort of leaves you feeling depressed. So in a way, the cartoonish (parodic?) quality of acting that precedes the somber conclusion is necessary to keep us from wanting to kill ourselves. 

 

•SOMETHING TO TIDE YOU OVER The plot in a nutshell: a cuckolded hubby (Leslie Nielsen) gets his kicks via aquatic torture of Ted Danson. Look at that velvet track suit. The rocks glass resting on his belly. The yuppie home decor. The smug, self-satisfied attitude.

 

  

Leslie Nielsen (R.I.P.) is a great villain, and I wish he'd not been exclusively shackled to third-rate comedies in the latter days of his career. So Nielsen finds out that his old lady (Gaylen Ross, from DAWN OF THE DEAD in a brief appearance) is stepping out with Ted Danson. He devises a heinous form of punishment that combines fear of drowning, fear of being buried alive, and fear of crabs. 

 

Romero ratchets up the claustrophobia (and some nice class commentary), Nielsen ratchets up the villainy, and the gurgly, seaweed-encrusted payoff is damned satisfying. •THE CRATE The plot in a nutshell: A sad sack husband and his harpy wife's lives are irrevocably changed by the discovery of a mysterious crate. This seems to be the consensus' favorite segment, and I call it the "John Carpenter Special." Sure, Carpy didn't actually have anything to do with it, but it A. stars his then-wife and frequent collaborator Adrienne Barbeau, B. stars THE FOG's Hal Holbrook, C. the crate in question (from an Artic expedition) is emblazoned with the name 'Carpenter.'

   

As our professorial, hen-pecked hubby, Hal Holbrook is terrific. He's got that forlorn little half-smile and the ruffled, unruly eyebrows. He lives much of his life in fantasy sequences, mainly because– 

 

Adrienne Barbeau is his fire-breathing, drunken, cartoonishly loud-mouthed wife.

  

Before you can say "I'll be wearing your balls for earrings," Barbeau is feasting on the scenery and having perhaps the most fun I've ever seen her have in a role. 

She adds bourbon to her milk, for chrissakes! She spouts insults like "You're a regular barnyard exhibit- sheep's eyes, chicken guts, piggy friends... and SHIT for BRAINS!" and generally embarasses poor Hal Holbrook all over the place. Oh, and that small matter of the thing in the crate... let's just say that when it's finally unveiled, it doesn't disappoint...

  

•THEY'RE CREEPING UP ON YOU The plot in a nutshell: a Howard Hughes-ish germophobe billionaire is beseiged by an army of cockroaches. Starring the irascible E.G. Marshall, this one's a classic "tenant vs. monster(s) in a confined space" tale, but since the tenant in question is a malevolent tycoon, we're- for the first time ever- actively rooting for an army of cockroaches. 

 

Now, I've had enough up-close-and-personal encounters with these hateful creatures to accurately say that at one time I was living a Cronenberg movie, so this one definitely got under my skin a little bit, so to speak. I mean, stuff like this and PHASE IV hits a little close to home. The practical effect (thousands upon thousands of actual roaches, often emerging from small spaces in unison) is staggering, and David A. Brody's roach wrangling abilities deserve our endless respect. (He also wrangled the roaches for the anthology series MONSTERS, John Schlesinger's THE BELIEVERS, and JOE'S APARTMENT). It enrages me to no end that these days they'd just do some lazy CGI and lay to waste the singularly sickening talents of the roach wranglers! Also of note, the segment's sterile, retro-futuristic imagery (intruded upon by the creeping roaches), full of magnifying lenses and peculiar devices, almost feels like a partial inspiration for Terry Gilliam's BRAZIL (1985)? 

 

The finale's extremely solid as well– it goes exactly where you think it will...and then about ten steps further! In closing, five stars. Bravo, George. Bravo, Stephen. But as for me, I'd rather be...watching CREEPSHOW. -Sean Gill

Film Review: ALAMO BAY (1985, Louis Malle)

Stars: 3.9 of 5. Running Time: 98 minutes. Notable Cast or Crew: Ed Harris, Amy Madigan (NOWHERE TO HIDE, THE PRINCE OF PENNSYLVANIA), Ho Nguyen (FINAL VERDICT), Donald Moffat (THE THING, TALES OF THE CITY), Caroline Williams (TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE 2, THE STEPFATHER 2), Music by Ry Cooder. Written by Alice Arlen (SILKWOOD, THE WEIGHT OF WATER). Tag-line: "Alamo Bay. A place where everyone risked everything for a piece of the American Dream." Best one-liner: "Communist cunt!" Wow. Said by Harris to Madigan. 

 

More in the vein of his working-class documentaries than his arthouse fare, Louis Malle's ALAMO BAY was unjustly maligned by critics at the time of its release and has basically languished in obscurity ever since. I'm not suggesting that Malle is one of the most perceptive commentators on race in America, or that this film isn't at times a little ham-fisted in its approach (i.e., climactic shootouts), but there's a lot to like here. Ed Harris plays a racist Nam vet who wears confederate flag hats, works on a boat named the "American Dream Girl," and has the beard of a sub commander.

  

Ed is one of my favorite actors, and I was fully expecting to see glimpses of his now-classic 'Ed Harris as a crazed madman' role. Instead, Ed delves deeply and delivers a performance where he doesn't quite seem like himself at all- he genuinely transforms into a terrifying, real-McCoy redneck.  

He and a bunch of other white guys are fairly rankled that a bunch of Vietnamese immigrants are shrimping in their waters. At first, they have valid concerns- the newcomers engage in overfishing and ignore just about every rule and regulation. Of course, the native Texans haven't got a moral leg to stand on as soon as they make it 100% racial, enlist the aid of the KKK (via right-wing grassroots organizing), and start wavin' the guns around.  

Donald Moffat plays a grizzled, well-meaning, cigar-chomping entrepreneur who runs the only fishery that'll employ (or is that exploit?) the Vietnamese.

   

Moffat weighs some shrimp. 

Amy Madigan plays Moffat's resolute daughter and Ed's old flame (by the way, Ed and Amy are real-life husband and wife, and there's genuine, scary chemistry),  

a delicate predicament which could explode into violence at any moment, given the community's volatility.

   

Ed dances for the first time since CREEPSHOW. 

Ho Nguyen plays a newly-arrived immigrant whose callow enthusiasm belies his unwavering resolve; he's not about to let a bunch of douches with guns rule his life- he's already lived that nightmare before.

   

Ho, like the rest of us, is transfixed by the natural electromagnetic energy that flows between Madigan and Harris. 

Malle imparts his tale with quotidian realism: failing to obtain a loan at the bank, striking nets and sorting shrimp at sea, knockin' back a few Lone Stars at the bar... it's extremely vivid, and you can almost feel the briny sting of the seawater or smell that miasma of oily, piscine, sweaty deck odors mixed with the remnants of stale cigarettes.  

And in the world of ALAMO BAY, everyone has a got a beer in their hand at all times. Driving? Have a beer. Working? Have two. Going to church? You're gonna need a bunch of beers. You'd almost think this was a dive bar-topia if it wasn't for all the hate crimes. Ry Cooder's score is decent, but phoned in to the max– it's nearly an exact retread of his work on PARIS, TEXAS. He was generally making a much greater effort on the Walter Hill films of the day. Although, who knows? Maybe Malle told him to senselessly plagiarize himself. Also of note is a bit part by native Texan Caroline Williams (Stretch from TEXAS CHAINSAW 2, Lady in Truck from THE LEGEND OF BILLIE JEAN, etc.) as a xenophobic bar waitress.

   

Caroline Williams serves some ice cold Lone Stars to some grassroots KKKers. Yeesh. Note the light-up Schlitz sign. 

In all, an atmospheric social drama which certainly deserves to be seen. Nearly four stars.