Junta Juleil's Top 100: #90-86

90. THE USUAL SUSPECTS (1995, Bryan Singer)

A heist film that's at once fun and fatalistic, it's cleverly written and incredibly well-constructed. However, its fanboyish following and unfortunate susceptibility to pea-brained parody certainly threaten to undermine any prospective "Greatness." But after a handful of viewings across the past decade and a half, I've come to the conclusion that it really holds up– John Ottman's flowing, occasionally beautiful, occasionally malevolent score; Christopher McQuarrie's razor-edged but never self-congratulatory dialogue; Kevin Spacey's furtive, crippled sad sack; Gabriel Byrne's classy Euro-gangster; Kevin Pollak's smartassed grease monkey; Benicio Del Toro's fashionable, generally incomprehensible sidekick; Pete Postlethwaite's ominous litigator; Chazz Palminteri's loud-mouthed, thick-necked cop; even Stephen Baldwin makes for a believably rugged gunman. And even beyond the intricacies of the now-notorious plot, there's plenty of layers to uncover here: blue collar (criminal) heroes overwhelmed by shadowy, international corporations; homosexual undertones fused with themes of criminality and counterculture that run far deeper than the surface gag of "going straight"; strange mirrorings of THE WIZARD OF OZ; and, hell, bit parts by Paul "EATING RAOUL" Bartel and Dan "COMMANDO" Hedaya. Yep, I still stand by this movie.

89. GREY GARDENS (1975, Albert & David Maysles)

Perhaps the ultimate experience in "cinéma vérité," GREY GARDENS observes the goings-on at the eponymous, ramshackle mansion which is home to a pair of reclusive, ex-high society Bouviers who go by the sobriquets "Big" and "Little" Edie. In turns funny, tragic, horrifying, heart-warming, and simply hard to watch, the Maysles brothers cross that sterile, journalistic boundary, going beyond simple exploitation and into a deeper truth; perhaps they even form a makeshift family along the way. It's a film about decay and aristocracy, sure, but its aims are chiefly humanistic– beneath each mould'ring shutter and crumbling wall we find alternations of genuine vibrancy and misplaced dreams. One of the great documentaries.

88. A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971, Stanley Kubrick)

The sort of film that was my all-time favorite when I was seventeen, but now, apparently, it's somewhere closer to #88. Regardless, it's a work of operatic beauty and hideous ultra-violence, one of quasi-futuristic daydreams and elaborate linguistic fascinations, of oppressive institutionalization and unhinged criminality. Based on Anthony Burgess' novel of moral choice (a novel which I highly recommend, along with other Burgess classics like ONE HAND CLAPPING, ENDERBY, and THE LONG DAY WANES), Kubrick's film really feels like an event; a larger than life, more than occasionally grotesque extravaganza of free will and urban decay. Wendy Carlos' electronic reimaginings of Purcell, Beethoven, and Rossini lend the film an evocative, dystopian soundscape, punctuating the drama, in turns, with black comedy and Stygian dread. And how can I neglect to mention Malcolm McDowell, whose volatile, darkly enthusiastic portrayal has come to define the film and its place in history. Also, Patrick Magee's completely over-the-top, eyebrow-indicating appearance as a revenge-seeking writer is well worth the price of admission.

87. TALES OF HOFFMANN (1951, Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger)

Hot damn– TALES OF HOFFMANN! The (Techni)colors, the sets, the choreography– pure, radiant, cinematic spectacle that has irrevocably and personally shaped filmmakers from George A. Romero to Martin Scorsese to Francis Ford Coppola. Powell and Pressburger's definitive adaptation of Jacques Offenbach's renowned opera is a smorgasboard of eye candy, enchanting harmonies, and morbid reverie. It's absolutely absorbing; I defy anyone to watch the first twenty minutes and not find themselves enthralled by the movement, by the dancers, by the overwhelming waves of joie de vivre and frenzied emotion... Eh, I'll shut up for now and let the damn thing speak for itself:

86. RIO BRAVO (1958, Howard Hawks)

John Carpenter's favorite movie and my most-beloved Hawks. One might accuse Carpy of overindulging in imitation (ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13, GHOSTS OF MARS), but the set-up is too damned fun for even Hawks to resist– he remade it twice himself! (EL DORADO and RIO LOBO). What we got here is a stalwart sheriff (John Wayne) determined to make a solitary stand against a horde of voracious outlaws. Of course, there's a drunk (Dean Martin), a cripple (the adorably hilarious Walter Brennan), an up-and-comer-guitar-slingin'-show-off (Ricky Nelson), and a inscrutable, hard-drinkin' lady (Angie Dickinson) waiting in the wings, not yet sure what parts they'll play. The eventual shoot-outs and the gut-mashin' pay-offs are thrilling indeed, but the movie's not about them; it's about character development, it's about waiting, it's about the forging of regular dudes into men of action. It's got comic relief, silly romance, nail-biting suspense, but, most of all, a genuine depth of story, of character, of locale. It's the sort of movie that people mean when they say "Boy-o, they don't make 'em like that anymore."



Coming up next: Harry Dean Stanton, crumpled metal perversions, and eyeball-popping insanity!

Previously on the countdown:
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #95-#91

95. ONLY ANGELS HAVE WINGS (1938, Howard Hawks)

I'm not sure anyone has ever matched the skill with which Hawks integrated exposition, character development, and sheer entertainment. He makes it look so damned easy, too. He often sets up a situation where men are doing a serious job, a dangerous job, and then events simply unfold. As they unfold, we learn everything we need to know about the characters because we've been there with them, in the trenches, seeing how far they can be pushed, and how hard they can push back. You don't feel as if you're watching something contrived by sheltered Hollywood-types, because it's not– he's incorporating details, the way his men act under pressure, the way he directs a picture, even, from his real-life experiences as an aviator, a race-car driver, an army man, and a factory worker. This is the sort of film to which I give my highest recommendation; I don't even think I have to tell you about the plot. Just another one of his immaculately constructed tales of men's men and ladies who pull no punches. Did I mention that Hawks' middle name was WINCHESTER?

94. MAKE WAY FOR TOMORROW (1937, Leo McCarey)

"It would make a stone cry."

–Orson Welles.

Sweet God in heaven, I'm not sure that any movie has ever jerked as many tears from its audiences, per capita, as MAKE WAY FOR TOMORROW. Leo McCarey, who won a Best Director Oscar the same year for the well-made, but far lesser film THE AWFUL TRUTH, said in his acceptance speech: "Thanks, but you gave it to me for the wrong picture." It'd be a difficult movie for audiences to 'enjoy' in any time or place because it asks difficult questions about the relationship between parents and their children; how we care for them, how they cared for us, and what fate is to be earned for all "as the long day wanes." Victor Moore and Beulah Bondi play the elderly couple at hand, delivering a couple of the most purely, emotionally reactive performances in the history of the medium. The clock ticks, the children wait, and the old couple relive youthful memories, a moment of respite before moving on. Dr. Samuel Johnson said it better than I ever could: "We never do anything consciously for the last time without sadness of heart..." And so I join the ranks of viewers who find themselves grasping for the telephone as the final reel ends, calling up loved ones, contemplating these fleeting moments, and hoping for the chance to have more of them.

93. ROSEMARY'S BABY (1968, Roman Polanski)

From producer William Castle– yeah, you heard me right!– comes one of the finest horror films of the 1960's, or of any other era. Castle recognized his dramatic limitations (handing the reins ultimately to master of claustrophobic/metropolitan/conspiracy-horror, Roman Polanski), but he does show up for a brief, wordless, yet somehow amazingly hammy cameo during the phone booth scene. Regardless, this is really Polanski's film, and he spins the tale with paranoid gusto and eye-popping imagery; swirling, hallucinogenic dream sequences and off-kilter quotidian happenings. It's a hotbed of primal fears and existential dread: Polanski has got his finger on just the right nerve, and he plucks and twangs it unceasingly– rape, domestic terrors, body horror, the things we try to hide, the things we don't understand, our fear of doctors and the elderly and babies and enclosed spaces and antiquarian objects and of failure and of seeming crazy and of going crazy; and it all begins to collapse upon you like a black hole and a cry unto the pit– SWEET GOD, WHAT A MOVIE!!!

Also, Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer are just about the most adorably frightening and frighteningly adorable elderly actors I've ever seen (not to be confused with the elderly actors from #94!). And I have to say that John Cassavetes' "I didn't want to miss baby night" has got to rank as the most hilariously inappropriate excuse ever uttered, on or off a camera. (You'll know what I mean if you've seen the film– yikes!)

92. FAIL-SAFE (1964, Sidney Lumet)

It's difficult to incorporate methodical, systematically structured storytelling with genuine emotional stakes, but goddamn, does Lumet pull it together, and with the fate of the human race in the balance, no less! Most prefer DR. STRANGELOVE, which is sort of a loose, parodic retelling, but for my money, FAIL-SAFE's the stronger film. Some have said that STRANGELOVE's satire cuts to the bone, but I say FAIL-SAFE cuts to the bone, then fractures the bone, and then looks down at the bone, somberly, as tears well up in FAIL-SAFE's eyes. FAIL-SAFE then clenches its jaw; anguished, but with an abundance of dignity. As a side note, by and large, though your average fictional president is more appealing than your average actual president, I have to say that Henry Fonda's portrayal in this film goes beyond that– he is so sincere, so thoughtful, so determined, so damned invested, that you wish he really was the president. Also: Dom DeLuise in a serious role– chew on that for a little while.

91. BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA (1986, John Carpenter)

"Have you paid your dues, Jack– yessir, the check is in the mail." I've written a few observations about BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA before, saying "it's about the exhilaration of being ALIVE in a world of unfathomable mystery," and, of Kurt Russell's performance, "he's a runaway train of swagger, guts, and bluster...I never tire of his maniacally youthful cackle, or his proclivity toward moaning 'Awwwwww, CHRIST!'" In short, it's one hell of a time, written, directed, and performed by artists and craftsmen who are having one hell of a time. But it's no mindless shoot-em-up: it's a Hawksian ode to the bonds of friendship, the measure of character, and those ecstatic moments of temerarious action, where, against all better judgment, you feel damn near invulnerable. (Also, you just drank from the six-demon bag.) And, while we're at it, how 'bout that kickin' song over the end credits?


Coming up next...
George Romero's favorite movie, a legendary documentary, and... a movie with a lesser Baldwin!

John Carpenter Fanfiction: CARPY & THE CAP'N– PART 1 (2010, Sean Gill)

CARPY & THE CAP'N:

A NEW WORK OF JOHN CARPENTER FAN-FICTION
BY SEAN GILL

Author's Note- if you require background information on the Coupe de Villes phenomenon, educate yourself HERE.

~~~

In perhaps an alternate universe, not so unlike our own...

PART I.
LOS ANGELES PRELUDE.

1.
11:36 P.M. February 21, 1992. Hollywood, California.

In the cool night air, the silhouettes of three men descended an otherwise deserted staircase. The red carpet which lined the steps was sullied by discarded ticket stubs and little flecks of popcorn. The steps led away from a walkway which in turn led away from a picturesque movie house, decorated in a grand style rarely seen since the heyday of the nickelodeons. Lights were systematically shut down by unseen hands, and finally even the lamps which illuminated the marquee were switched off. Before the neon dimmed, the chipped red plastic lettering on the marquee could be seen to report "MEMOIRS OF AN INVISIBLE MAN."


"It was good, John, I liked it." Tommy Lee Wallace pursed his lips as if he was going to say something more, but no words emerged.
"It's just that it was..." Nick Castle trailed off.
"'It's just that it was' what?" snapped John Carpenter, stopping in his tracks. He immediately regretted the timbre of his remark, but it was merely a gut reaction.
"Well, it was no THEY LIVE," said Nick.
"It just didn't have that Carpenter oomph," added Tommy.
"So now you didn't like it either, Tommy?"
"...The special effects were great. How'd you do that invisibility business?"
"Well, now I'm not going to tell you."
"No, I liked it, John. But that's the problem. I usually walk out of one of your films with my mind popping and reeling and aflame- filled with, I guess... pleasantly nightmarish fireworks or something. But anybody could've directed this. A talented anybody, but an anybody nonetheless."
"I think you need Kurt back," proclaimed Nick.
"Yeah, definitely give Kurt a call. It's been too long." added Tommy.
"Alright, alright." John submitted. "But when do you guys wanna get together for Coupe de Villes rehearsal?"
"How 'bout right now!" blurted out Tommy.
"I got my keyboards in the car," said Nick.
"And you know I always keep the bass in my trunk," John proclaimed.
Silently, Tommy slid his guitar out from underneath his roomy velvet jacket. John nodded slowly in approval. The three men formed a circle, placed their hands atop one another in the center, and let out a whoop– "COOOOOOOOP DE VILLES!!!"
Their jubilant cheer resonated into the oncoming desert wind.

2.

2:49 P.M. May 17, 1992. John Carpenter's home. Hollywood Hills, California.

John Carpenter's hand hesitated just above the dial on his plastic yellow telephone. It had been a long time.
Sure, he'd seen Kurt and Goldie last year, socially, but they hadn't worked together in six. And Kurt'd had all sorts of successes. Successes like BACKDRAFT. TANGO & CASH. OVERBOARD. Artistically, John pondered that he would defend THEY LIVE to the death. But it only grossed 13 mil in a world where BACKDRAFT was pulling in 77. God-damn the studio system in its present state, Carpenter thought. Hawks would have never stood for this. He quickly dialed the final digit and the rotor spun back with a click.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Kurt. It's John."


"HA-HAAA! JOHNNY-BOY! SHIT THE BED, IT'S FINE TO HEAR YOUR VOICE!"
"It's good to hear yours, too, Kurt."
"You get a haircut yet, you sonofabitch? You're startin' to look like Rip van Winkle last time I saw you!"
"Alright, alright."
"Aw, shit, Johnny, I'm just fuckin' with ya. How have ya been?"
"Oh, you know... Coupe de Villes practice. MEMOIRS OF AN INVISIBLE MAN."
"That was you, Johnny?"
"Yeah, actually."
"I SAW it and had no idea. Saw you in the helicopter at the end, but I figured Nick or Tommy directed it and you were just doin' a cameo."
"Come on, now. It's not a bad movie."
"Yeah, but it's not a 'CARPY' movie."
"Sure it is. It's just a little more like STARMAN than THE THING."
"Yeah, yeah. Not so hot on STARMAN either. So whaddya got for me, Johnny?"
"Well, nothing...as of yet. I'm sort of between projects, so to speak. What are you doing?"
"I just got back from the Caribbean. Puerto Rico. Hot little flick called CAPTAIN RON. Comes out this September."
"I read about it in Variety. 'He just wanted a nice, quiet family vacation. Instead, he got.. CAPTAIN RON,' something or other along those lines. You're Captain Ron, I imagine."
"You bet your raggedy ass I am!"
"I'm sure it's one of your finest performances."
"HA-HAAAAAA! Aw, Johnny-boy, you crack me up. Drank so much Malibu down there I STILL can't see straight. HAAAAA! Doesn't matter though, this flick is gonna be HUGE."
"I'll bet."
"Such a snob, this guy. HAWWWWWW-HAW HAW!... So. Anyway. I have this great idea, Johnny."
"What's that, Kurt?"
"Well, of all things, last night, Goldie and I were watchin' THE FOG. It was on cable. A damn fine flick, considering it didn't star yours truly."
"I can do alright without you on occasion, Kurt." John smiled.
"HAA-HAAAA!! You do alright at that, eh, Johnnyboy? Anyway, I was watchin' THE FOG. Goldie says, 'Hey sweetie- it's like CAPTAIN RON...with ghosts!"'
"Uh-huh." John was concerned.
"So then I says, GOD-DAMN WE'LL DO IT UP! I can see it up in lights: CAPTAIN RON 2: CAPTAIN RON VERSUS THE FOG. And we'll get Johnny to direct!"
"Uh-huh..." John was stunned but not altogether unreceptive. Kurt had caught him in a generous mood. He quickly collected himself: "So what's it about?"
"Alright, peel your ears around this one– 'All they wanted was to terrify Antonio Bay one last time. Instead, they got....CAPTAIN RON.'"
A moment passed.
"Against all better judgments, Kurt, I kinda like where you're going with this. You'd be writing it?"
"We'd collaborate. HAAAAA-HAWW! Just the two of us, Johnnyboy!"
"Alright, I'll come over tomorrow."
"Terrific, buddy! And bring Sandy!"
"Well, let's not involve wives in the first step of the creative process... I mean girlfriends. Wives and girlfriends."
"Way to rub it in Johnnyboy! HOOOO-HOO HOOOO! Hey, Goldie! You hear that?! Even Carpy thinks we're married! HAR-HAR-HAR!... Eh...I guess she's busy or something."
"Alright, I'll see you at 8 A.M."
"Whoa-whoa hold the fuckin' phone, Johnny- I'm still on CAPTAIN RON time! How 'bout noon?"
"Alright, I'll see you at noon."

3.

11:36 A.M. June 7, 1992. The office of Debra Hill, producer.

Debra Hill leafed through the stack of papers that sat on her her desk- they happened to be the completed first draft of CAPTAIN RON 2: CAPTAIN RON VERSUS THE FOG. "I'm sorry, John, but I really don't see how I can sign off on this."
John Carpenter and Kurt Russell, wearing matching Hawaiian shirts and baby blue lei, sat uncomfortably on the other side of the room.
"AWWW COME ON!" exclaimed Kurt, slapping his hands against the armrests of his chair.
"Let her finish," retorted John, reasonably. He shifted in his seat, and the chair creaked loudly. "Debra co-wrote THE FOG. It's her piece, too."
Debra shook her head. "So the finale involves this Captain Ron character riding a wave on a special buzzsaw-equipped boogie board, slicing Blake in the head, and declaring 'Surf's up?' "
"It reads a little dry on the page," John admitted.
"I could do a reading for you right now," offered Kurt.
"No, no... that'll be alright. I mean, Blake is kind of built up in the first film, to have him defeated in such an ignominious fashion just doesn't quite ring true to the original. It sorta makes me sick."
"But, uh... other than that, what do you think...?" fished John, hopefully.
"Oh, other than that..." Debra paused, to collect her thoughts. "...I absolutely love it!"
John and Kurt exhaled simultaneously– relieved, and more than a little surprised.
"But yeah, we gotta lose the surfing bit," Debra continued.
"I refuse to artistically compromise on the matter," announced Kurt.
"Then I refuse to sign off on CAPTAIN RON VERSUS THE FOG."
"Well, eh, Kurt, what if we did a surfing bit in an... eventual project?" gingerly asked John, hoping to diffuse the situation as painlessly as possible.
"I don't see how it'll ever come up again," said Kurt, deflated.


"I promise you, Kurt, we will film a surfing bit. Just on a later project."
"Thanks, Johnny!"
"Well, I hate to break up the love-fest," interjected Debra, "but when do we start?"
"As soon as possible," pledged John. "...As soon as possible."

4.

10:58 P.M. June 13, 1992. The basement of Nick Castle.

"I know she works at night/ She doesn't drive/ I know she'll see the light/ Keep our love alive/ keep our love alive/ keep our love alive..." The Coupe de Villes harmonized together, and quietly faded it out. The song was over- the song, of course, being "She Has Friends in L.A.," by the Coupe de Villes.

"I think that's a good place to end things for tonight. As you both know, it's gonna be a while before our next rehearsal," John solemnly recited. He had dreaded making this speech the entire night.
Nick Castle popped the top on an ice-cold Schlitz. "So this is really happening, huh."
"Yeah," John said. "We leave on the 15th."
"But there's no room on that schooner for the rest of us Coupe de Villes, though, huh?" Tommy Lee Wallace asked, with the vaguest hint of annoyance.
"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you all about," John countered.
"What, so I can direct CAPTAIN RON VERSUS THE FOG III: SEASON OF THE BAD PRESS?," blurted out Tommy.
John Carpenter was taken off guard. He stood, startled, with eyebrows raised.
"I didn't mean that," apologized Tommy. "I don't know why I said that."
"I still think HALLOWEEN III is a solid flick," Nick offered up as encouragement.
"I'm sorry if you two think I'm leaving you behind, but I wanted to talk about the Coupe de Villes maybe working on CAPTAIN RON 2. And not just a closing credits ditty like on BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA. I'm talkin' a full-blown soundtrack packed with hot new tunes."
"You for serious?" asked Tommy.
"Hot damn!," said Nick.
"So, in a way, you're not being left behind at all. You're just holding down the fort. And I expect to hear some sizzling new songs- or shall we say 'sea chanties'- on my return."
"You better believe it!," exclaimed Tommy.
The trio piled up their hands and let out that familiar cheer: "COOOOOOOOP DE VILLES!!!"

5.

3:04 A.M. June 15, 1992. The home of John Carpenter.

John Carpenter packed his suitcase; the flight left in three hours. His bag felt light, as if he were forgetting something. He wondered to himself- is this a mistake? What would Hawks do? Hey- Hawks basically remade RIO BRAVO again and again. EL DORADO. RIO LOBO. Nobody thought less of him. Then again, CAPTAIN RON hadn't even come out yet, and wouldn't for three months. John hadn't even watched it, to boot. What if it were terrible? What if he placed too much trust in Kurt's enthusiasm? These are the things that plague us, John decided. Best not to think too much on it. He remembered back to how edgy he'd been right before THE THING. All that Hollywood money riding on his success, when all he'd wanted to do was stay home and play Parcheesi with Adrienne. Well, that's not true, he thought- THE THING was a film that he needed to make. But that was so long ago. How can ten years feel so long? A lifetime ago. Several lifetimes. It's best not to dwell on the past, or on the passage of time, John resolved. Kurt lives primarily in the moment, he surmised. Perhaps they could discuss it one night during the shoot. Preferably not when Kurt was on one of those "Cap'n Ron Malibu Benders" he'd been bragging about. As to the so-called "incredible lucidity" of said benders, John supposed he'd just as soon take Kurt's word for it. No need to bring Malibu into this. John swiftly zipped up his bag. "You ready, Sandy?" he asked.
"Yup. Ready to supervise some scripts."
"You got your work cut out for you on this one." He smooched his wife. "Let's go."

TO BE CONTINUED IN "CARPY & THE CAP'N PART II: RETURN TO POINT REYES"...

Film review: PICKUP ON SOUTH STREET (1953, Sam Fuller)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Running Time: 80 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Richard Widmark (KISS OF DEATH, THE ALAMO, NIGHT AND THE CITY, PANIC IN THE STREETS), Jean Peters (VIVA ZAPATA!, NIAGARA), Thelma Ritter (THE MISFITS, REAR WINDOW, ALL ABOUT EVE), and Richard Kiley (NIGHT GALLERY, PATCH ADAMS?!). Directed by pulp cinema legend Sam Fuller (SHOCK CORRIDOR, WHITE DOG, THE NAKED KISS, THE STEEL HELMET, VERBOTEN).

Tag-lines: " How the law took a chance on a B-girl... and won!"
Best one-liner(s): "You'll always be a two-bit cannon. And when they pick you up in the gutter dead, you're hand'll be in a drunk's pocket." AND "I have to go on making a living so I can die. But even a fancy funeral ain't worth waiting for if I've gotta do business with crumbs like you."

PICKUP ON SOUTH STREET is almost handled like a science experiment. Sam Fuller delights in putting large doses of humanity's lower depths and a splash of Red paranoia into that Petri dish that is Manhattan, then sloshing it around and watching the ensuing verbal barbs, squealing, slapping, unexpected romance, and outright mayhem. However, like another great scientist of cinema, Werner Herzog, Mr. Fuller was also a connoisseur and devotee of humankind's idiosyncrasies. The love he puts into his characters makes them real: Skip's East River shack and unconventional method of keeping his beers cold, the tiny gestures and costume elements, Lightning Louie's use of chopsticks- its the kind of swift attention to detail that perfectly illustrates Fuller's background as a newspaperman. Fuller also had a background as a military man, which can be seen in how he treats film as a battleground of clashing characters, emotions, dialogue, and action (a sentiment which he famously intoned in PIERROT LE FOU). And Fuller also had a background as a sonofabitch, which can clearly be seen in scenes like when Richard Widmark finds Jean Peters in his shack, punches her out, revives her by pouring cold beer on her head, and then makes out with her thirty seconds later.


Fuller was another in the pantheon (that included Hawks, Huston, Peckinpah, and others) who knew how to weave a fantastic fast-paced narrative, how to build an ensemble of well-developed characters, when to use violence and when not to, when to cave in on studio demands and when not to, and overall, plainly, how to DIRECT.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: HANG 'EM HIGH (1968, Ted Post)

Stars: 3 of 5.
Running Time: 114 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Clint Eastwood, Inger Stevens, Ed Begley, L.Q. Jones (BULLETPROOF, Peckinpah movies, LONE WOLF MCQUADE), Dennis Hopper.
Tag-lines: " The hanging was the best show in town. But they made two mistakes. They hung the wrong man and they didn't finish the job."
Best one-liner(s): "When you hang a man, you better look at him."

There are three types of Clint Eastwood Westerns that spell quality. Those directed by Sergio Leone, those directed by Don Siegel, and those directed by Clint Eastwood. Nowhere on that list is there any room for a gentleman by the name of Ted Post. This is not a bad movie, but it was an attempt to cash in on Eastwood's success as Sergio Leone's "Man with No Name." The Leone westerns are gritty, grimy, and dusty. They're loud and violent. The soundtracks are punctuated by primal shrieks and grunts, courtesy of Ennio Morricone. This is a Hollywood film. A Hollywood still clinging to an old type of Western, now tainted by years of televised Westerns and the decline of Hawksian filmmaking. Not until the next year, 1969, with THE WILD BUNCH, would Hollywood get with the program. To illustrate my point, HANG 'EM HIGH depicts The Man With No Name taking a ladyfriend on a picnic.


The prosecution rests.