Only now does it occur to me... THE LAST OF SHEILA

Only now does it occur to me... that I can't decide what the most bizarre moment is in THE LAST OF SHEILA––is it super young Ian McShane ("Al Swearingen" on DEADWOOD) playing around with freaky hand puppets:

is it James Mason surrounded by Shirley Temple-wannabes on set of a dog meat commercial (hopefully they mean dog food):

or is it James Coburn in full hag-drag, looking like Bette Davis in WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE?:


The less you know going in the better, though I must say this movie is a wonderfully mean-spirited whodunit; dark, labyrinthine, and hilarious. It seems almost too strange to really exist: with a screenplay by Broadway's Stephen Sondheim and PSYCHO's Anthony Perkins, based on the real-life scavenger hunt/murder mystery parties they would host across Manhattan in the 60s; flamboyant, evocative direction by Herbert Ross (FOOTLOOSE, STEEL MAGNOLIAS); and starring an absurdly eclectic cast (the aforementioned James Coburn, James Mason, and Ian McShane as well as Raquel Welch, Richard Benjamin, Dyan Cannon, Joan Hackett and a closing credits song by Bette Midler?!).  If any of this appeals to you, then, hoo-boy––you gotta check this out.

Only now does it occur to me... MAVERICK

Only now does it occur to me... that MAVERICK is a real "Donner Party."  By that, I don't mean that it involves cannibalism, torture, or Mel Gibson Jesus-poses,

Though if this isn't in his contract, I'll eat my hat.

instead I mean that its director, Richard Donner, has packed the film with actors and references from other "Donner" films.

Obviously, it stars Mel Gibson (of 4 Donner LETHAL WEAPONS and a CONSPIRACY THEORY), but there's plenty more where that came from.

Margot Kidder (Donner's SUPERMAN 1 & 2, he also produced her appearances in TALES FROM THE CRYPT and DELIRIOUS) shows up as a grouchy spinster obsessed with a stolen wedding dress:

Alfred Molina (Donner's LADYHAWKE) appears as a recurring villain and instrument of Gibson-torture:

Stephen Kahan ("Captain Murphy" from all 4 LETHAL WEAPONS, but also appeared in Donner's SUPERMAN, INSIDE MOVES, THE TOY, SCROOGED, CONSPIRACY THEORY, 16 BLOCKS, RADIO FLYER, TIMELINE and a few TALES FROM THE CRYPTs) plays a riverboat card dealer, who shares an unusual interaction with Mel Gibson, whereupon he congratulates him on his win (with familiarity), and takes the chair with him as he stands, prompting Mel to nearly crack up.

Then, for the piéce de résistance:  Mel Gibson and Geoffrey Lewis are shootin' the shit inside a bank when three robbers bust in to relieve them of their wallets and blow the safe.  The lead robber piques Mel Gibson's interest and there is a note of recognition.

 

He pulls down the robber's bandana to reveal Murtaugh himself, Danny Glover:

And to the strains of the LETHAL WEAPON theme, they share a moment, then decide––nahh, this ridiculous.  Glover goes on his way, revealing the rest of his gang:

Corey Feldman (of Donner's THE GOONIES, and the Donner-produced THE LOST BOYS and BORDELLO OF BLOOD), country musician Hal Ketchum, and apparently transportation coordinator John M. Woodward, who coordinated such on LETHAL WEAPONS 2-4, CONSPIRACY THEORY, and TIMELINE.  I think that qualifies as a Donner Party!

Oh yeah, and even in the Wild West, Danny Glover is getting...

...too old for this shit.

BONUS QUIZ:  Can you identify which of the following pictures are screen captures from MAVERICK (featuring the lush cinematography of Vilmos Zsigmond), and which are Western Americana picture postcards?

A.

B.

C.

D.

E.

It's a cheap trick question––they're all screen captures from MAVERICK!

PS––and apparently, the brilliant Linda Hunt (THE YEAR OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY, THE BOSTONIANS, KINDERGARTEN COP) and my fave glam rocker Alice Cooper had their scenes deleted (damn!) as "The Magician" and "The Town Drunk," respectively.

Only now does it occur to me... CIRCLE OF IRON

Only now does it occur to me...  um... where to begin?  At the beginning, the middle, or the end?  Truly they are all the same, because the beginning is the middle as well as the end, and of course there never was a beginning, middle, or end.  Like a circle.  Of Iron.

So... CIRCLE OF IRON is a quasi-mystical martial arts action epic (based on a story by Bruce Lee and James Coburn!) that harvests that fertile ground where "Kung Fu-Samuel Beckett" and "Bible-themed community theater" intersect.  Don't believe me?  Here's Eli Wallach soaking in a tub in the middle of the desert, trying to dissolve himself in oil to prove a metaphysical point:

Samuel Beckett's lesser known martial arts play, WAITING FOR G'DEATH-BLOW.

Here's Christopher Lee, offering us a flower, donning a resewn pillowcase headpiece, and instructing us about the nature of existence:

They easily could have gone with this instead of the "modified 90s Cher" look for Saruman.

Here's a wacky-wigged David Carradine (who plays–count 'em– four roles!), ready to rumble and tearing off his robe to reveal a man-bra/S&M harness made out of Treasure Trolls' jewels:

Also– he's kind of pulling it off!

Here's Roddy McDowall, possibly wearing a woman's spandex leggings as a hat, and overseeing some sort of wizard kumite:

I think now we should call him "Rowdy Roddy" McDowall.

What a day for a kumite.

And, in a possible nod to Roddy's role in the PLANET OF THE APES films, this universe also has kung fu monkey men:

Budget was an issue.

And we mustn't forget the glorious Jeff Cooper as "Cord," the seeker of knowledge, whom you would never guess was on THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS and DALLAS:

In the end, it's BLOODSPORT at a monastery, equal parts drive-in trash and Zen metaphysics, the no man's land between watching EL TOPO and being trapped in conversation with your crazy uncle.  And for that, CIRCLE OF IRON, I salute you.

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #50-46

50. DUCK, YOU SUCKER (1971, Sergio Leone)  

One of Leone's finest achievements, and one which only grows in impact with each subsequent viewing. Beginning with the depiction of a man pissing on an anthill and ending with the mournful cry "What about me?," DUCK, YOU SUCKER is sort of the ultimate statement on revolution– its winners, its losers, its agitators, its perpetuators, and the seemingly endless supply of moneyed, oppressive motherfuckers who always manage to reappear after a revolution, like the regenerative heads of the Hydra. Leone pulls no punches here: even though it's peppered with action and humor, it's brutal, passionate, and operatic. It's James Coburn's Sean and Rod Steiger's Juan, two sides of the same coin, who criss-cross paths with one another– one in decline, and one unknowingly on the rise. So many emotions are captured to the point of perfection: the exhilaration of bank-robbing or riding out in open country, the disgust at watching blue-bloods stuffing their anus-mouths, the sting of betrayal and the deeper sting of the betrayed, the unequivocal horror of mass graves. Leone is writing his history of the Twentieth Century, the Era of Extermination, the epoch of man perfecting his ability to stamp himself out. Orwell saw the future as a boot stomping on a human face forever– Leone sees men pissing on ants, pissing on each other, clawing at one another in a bloodied trench of corpses as our overlords above prepare to administer the coup de grace, just as perhaps the overlords' overlords prepare to administer their own. It's monstrous, it's soaring, it's Goya, it's John Ford, it's Mozart, it's Pagliacci. Ennio Morricone is in top form, and he creates a score full of perhaps a dozen individualized themes, any of which could carry a movie on their own. Coburn and Steiger are grand, Antoine Saint-John is frightening, Romolo Valli exudes the proper complexity. It speaks to the sheer quality of Leone's body of work that even this is still his third-best film. (Side note: it's unclear if Leone thought that "Duck, you sucker" was a common English expression, or if he believed he'd be creating a new catchphrase with it, but either way, you've got to love those Italians.) 

 

49. THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK (1980, Irvin Kershner)  

My favorite film in the STAR WARS trilogy, THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK saw Lucas kept in check via formidable craftsman-ly direction by Irvin Kershner, and an occasionally tragic, occasionally quotable, often mystical, and always two-fisted screenplay by old-Hollywood worshipper Lawrence Kasdan (RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK, SILVERADO, BODY HEAT) and old-Hollywood player Leigh Brackett (RIO BRAVO, THE BIG SLEEP, THE LONG GOODBYE). Even chubby, post-fugue state, CGI-humpin' George Lucas couldn't find too much to mess with in the various iterations of EMPIRE we've seen since 1997. I don't know what to say that hasn't been said ad nauseum by STAR WARS acolytes already, but we've got Frank Oz taking the art of filmic puppetry to new and astounding heights, Boba Fett exuding Western-baddie cool without actually doing anything, Harrison Ford in his first appearance as a capital-A Actor, Carrie Fisher fueled by mountains of cocaine, towering and frightening stop-motion vehicles, elegant matte paintings, loads of C-3PO/Lando Calrissian homoeroticism, a hand-puppet that eats spaceships, an exhilaratingly complex John Williams score, more strangulation per capita than any comparable PG-rated space opera (even Chewie gets in on the action), abominable snowmen, Cliff Clavin, and a really awkward breakfast with Darth Vader. It's better than HOWARD THE DUCK is what I'm saying. 

 

 48. BRAZIL (1985, Terry Gilliam)  

An eye-popping dystopian cauldron of Kafka and Orwell brazenly stirred by visual mastermind Terry Gilliam, BRAZIL (originally conceived as "1984 AND 1/2") piles on the grandeur, cheekiness, and dread that one would expect from such an endeavor. It's filled with genius performances and memorable moments– Jim Broadbent freakishly contorting the rubbery face of socialite Katherine Helmond; the breathtaking clashes between Icarus-armor clad Jonathan Pryce and a gargantuan samurai; mustachioed Robert De Niro bursting forth from here, there, and everywhere, a postmodern anti-bureaucratic Robin Hood; Ian Richardson leading a phalanx of pencil-pushers, striding purposefully through an office which bears more resemblance to a parking garage; Michael Palin leading awkward, flustering torture sessions while donning a grotesque baby mask; the paralyzing paramilitary-style assaults on average Joes by the minions of the Ministry of Information– it's nearly two-and-a-half hours of nonstop hilarity, wonderment, and torment, and I'm fairly certain that Kafka (who was rumored to chuckle his way through readings of his manuscripts) would be proud.  

 

47. DOCKS OF NEW YORK (1928, Josef von Sternberg)  

Probably my favorite silent film of all time, DOCKS OF NEW YORK is a mist-enshrouded and shadow-entrenched look at life and love between grime-coated, seafaring brutes and suicidal, proto-Dietrich barflies. The entire first half of the film takes place in near-darkness– unforgiving furnace rooms, tenebrous alleways, murky canals, and a rough n' tumble tavern full of cheap drinks, cheaper drunks, and a rogue's gallery of other salty characters. But then the plot develops and this endless night ends– daylight hits, and it's stark and painful and shocking because we've adjusted ourselves to the darkness; it's the same effect as waking after too little sleep on the morning after a night of debauchery, and it's astonishing to really feel that intruding dawn in the context of watching a film. DOCKS OF NEW YORK is a treatise on impulse, the worth of human beings, and what it's like to spend a lifetime scraping the bottom of the (sardine?) barrel while catching only fleeting glimpses of happiness from between the wooden slats. Also see: THE SCARLET EMPRESS, MOROCCO, BLONDE VENUS, THE LAST COMMAND, et al. Sternberg's one of the greats, and I'd recommend any of his films that I've seen without reservation.  

 

46. SUNSET BLVD. (1950, Billy Wilder) 

What to say? That the funeral for an ape sequence is more subtly terrifying than any horror flick released in the last fifteen years? That Gloria Swanson is the scariest woman not named Joan Crawford to ever draw breath? That Erich von Stroheim is so damned classy they should give him an extra "von" or two? I mean, just look at this stuff:

  

  

  

  

 

  

If you haven't already, I mean... Just go see the damn thing. Coming up next... Even more Eigeman, sandwich-making with Crispin Glover, and more Argento! 

-Sean Gill