Only now does it occur to me... HARPER (1966)

Only now does it occur to me... that I'd like to take (yet another) moment to celebrate Shelley Winters, whose latter-day career was often defined by playing "women unaware they are in a sham romance with the protagonist" (LOLITA, NIGHT OF THE HUNTER) and yet she rose above this by making exuberant and affirming and actualizing choices on screen. 

 Here, in HARPER––William Goldman's attempt at a mid-60s BIG SLEEP–– Winters plays a "wilted starlet" whom Paul Newman's private eye Lew Harper seduces (while pretending to be a superfan with a Texas accent). In relation to the other characters she is meant to be kooky and astrology-crazed. The film does its best to present her as comically undesirable, going as far as to show Paul Newman suffering fatigue while attempting to be nice to her. Shelley's revenge, however, has to be this dance montage where she tries out everything she learned from Debbie Reynolds (don't get me started on Shelley's legendary appearance in the Reynolds workout VHS called "DO IT DEBBIE'S WAY" where she does her best to sabotage the whole affair) and does a frantic Frug which culminates in her spilling her drink on Paul Newman.Well, just watch it:

A+!

Film Review: MR. NORTH (1988, Danny Huston)

Stars: 2.8 of 5.
Running Time: 93 minutes.
Tag-line: "Some say he's a miracle man. Some say he's a fraud. You are about to meet a most unusual young man."
Notable Cast or Crew: Anthony Edwards, Robert Mitchum, Harry Dean Stanton, Lauren Bacall, Virginia Madsen, Mary Stuart Masterson, Anjelica Huston, David Warner, Tammy Grimes, Christopher Durang. Based on the novel by Thorton Wilder. Screenplay by John Huston, Janet Roach (PRIZZI'S HONOR), and James Costigan (THE HUNGER).
Best one-liner: "Madam, I suggest that you encourage your children to play with matches!"

Those looking for some lost, latter-day John Huston masterpiece in MR. NORTH will likely be disappointed. Co-written and co-produced by Huston, essentially from his (characteristically active) deathbed, it is based on the 1973 novel THEOPHILUS NORTH by Thorton Wilder and directed by John's then-twenty-six year old son, Danny (who had cut his teeth already directing a few projects for television, a 'making-of' piece on SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE, and the main title sequence for UNDER THE VOLCANO). Equal parts Gatsby, Walter Mitty, and classic picaresque, the film is pleasant, evocative, atmospheric, and has a jaw-droppingly impressive ensemble cast, but ultimately, it's a hollow lark, good for a few gentle thrills on a summer's day, but little else.

As our young Ivy-League grad, odd-job seeking wayfarer with a propensity toward a heightened electrical charge, Anthony Edwards is very likable as Mr. North, and he imbues the role with genuine innocence (and the occasional mischievous flair). He is currently seeking employment as a 'reader,' having just "shockingly" extricated himself from a position as a reciter of ALICE IN WONDERLAND for some positively demonic blue-blooded kiddies.


Anthony Edwards zaps the shit out of this little rich kid.

Soon afterward, he finds himself in Newport, Rhode Island (of 1926), a community of such starchy affluence, that phrases like "This does not concern you, Persis Bosworth Tennyson!" are being bandied about with little context and no restraint. A crooked doctor (the omnipresent David Warner) has deals with slippery little heirs and heiresses to keep loved ones near death, so that the inheritances reach their sweaty palms with greater expedience. The women have problems with love, chronic headaches, and other such vexations. What do you suppose the odds are that Mr. North is about to turn this down upside-down? And what are the odds that said turning of said town upside-down will result in a whacky but not altogether unpleasant courtroom scene, replete with the murmur of shocked onlookers who whisper "rhubarb rhubarb, rhubarb?" Well the odds are very high, because it does happen.

David Warner makes some outrageous, villainous accusations which draw the ire of the crowd because they're directed at that lovable wanderer, Mr. North, the man who dared to turn this town upside-down.

Despite any directorial or cliché-based shortcomings, however, MR. NORTH remains infinitely watchable because of the insane, legendary, eclectic ensemble cast. As a terminally ill pillar of the community whose life is turned upside-down by Mr. North, we have BOB MITCHUM. Originally, John Huston himself was set to play the role, but his declining health prohibited him from seeing it through. Bob Mitchum, a friend and colleague (HEAVEN KNOWS, MR. ALLISON) of whom Huston always spoke quite highly, stepped in. Now of all the things that could make Mitchum give a shit, I'd say that filling in for a moribund John Huston would certainly be one of them. Look at him:

It's not a flashy role, or a badass one. It's an old man receiving a new lease on life. It requires sincerity. And Mitchum delivers. Although at one point, I think I caught him peering up at a chandelier, imagining that the swaying crystal adornments were, in fact, tiny bottles of gin calling his name.

"Robbbbbbert. Robbbbbbbertttttt. Drinnnnnnk us."

We've also got Anjelica Huston in a brief, nearly wordless role as Mitchum's daughter. She hovers around the edges of the frame- on horseback or from a balcony, silently signaling her approval of Mr. North's upside-down-turning ways. Could a romance be in the works? I don't want to give anything away.

Horseback riding is a Huston family tradition.

Then, Harry Dean Stanton plays a Cockney pool shark who manages a servants' boarding house for its owner, Lauren Bacall. He quickly becomes buddies with Mr. North and reveals his secret- he's actually from Chicago and the British accent is a carefully chosen affectation. He uses this as a springboard for a universal truth: if you dress something up just right, the wealthy will pay outrageous prices for it and clamour for more. I.e., Sally's chowder goes for 10 cents a bowl at the soup cart, but dress it with a "frog name" (bouillabaisse) and you can peddle it for 5 bucks a cup at the country club.

Stanton's solid, as always, and he's got a great dynamic with his boss (Bacall), who's a sternly likable, good-hearted spitfire who plays cards with the guys– a fact which is of particular note, because John Huston himself (an accomplished gambler) was vocal about his history of forbidding women to play cards with him. His reasoning was that, psychologically, he couldn't be an all-out, cold-blooded contender if he went up against a lady. Something tells me that he wouldn't have had to pull his punches around Bacall...

Bacall doesn't even know what it means to 'pull your punches.' She probably thinks it means PUNCH HARDER.

There's also solid supporting roles by the likes of Virginia Madsen (to whom Danny Huston was married from 1989-1992), Mary Stewart Masterson, Tammy Grimes, and Christopher Durang.


I would like to mention that while MR. NORTH is short on originality, satisfying dramatic payoffs, and narrative momentum, it's very rich in tone. 1926 Newport is well developed, the costumes (Rita Riggs) and production design (Eugene Lee) are spot-on, and the visuals well-conjure, say, the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald. (I'm sure they conjure Thorton Wilder, too, but I've never read THEOPHILUS NORTH.)




In the end, I enjoyed MR. NORTH- with reservations. With a cast this talented, and visuals this evocative, one could certainly do worse, but it lacks the actual touch of the master- a touch that was still as sharp in the 80's films which he directed (UNDER THE VOLCANO, PRIZZI'S HONOR, THE DEAD, et al.) as it had ever been. Danny Huston does not duplicate this touch, although, as I said before, he's made a fine enough movie for a lazy summer day. Allllmost three stars.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: DARK PASSAGE (1947, Delmer Daves)

Stars: 4.2 of 5.
Running Time: 106 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Agnes Moorehead (CITIZEN KANE, CAGED), Houseley Stevenson (ALL THE KING'S MEN, THE GUNFIGHTER). Music by Franz Waxman (REAR WINDOW, SUNSET BLVD., REBECCA). Cinematography by Sidney Hickox (THE BIG SLEEP, TO HAVE AND HAVE NOT).
Tag-line: "Two Of A Kind ! Tough . . . Torrid . . . Terrific!"
Best one-liner: "The artist in me wishes he could see what a nice job I've done, but I never will. Goodbye, and good luck."

I guess 1947 was the year for 'POV Noir' (with the first half of DARK PASSAGE and the entirety of LADY IN THE LAKE unfolding from a direct, first person perspective). DARK PASSAGE, however, uses this gimmick with purpose, intelligence, and visual flair... and knows when to abandon it. Still, the POV portion of this film (you ARE Bogart on the lam until he finds himself at a plastic surgeon's) is an unsettling tour de force, and kind of feels like a 'Choose Your Own Adventure' Film Noir- which is, of course, a real good thing. An oddly dreamlike tone pervades the film, from the mind-blowing plot to the Fritz Lang-style surgery sequence, full of rotating, expressionistic overlays and distorted sounds. Lauren Bacall's smoldering intensity and unknown, possibly dangerous motivations;

Houseley Stevenson as the lopsided, eerily helpful doctor ("I could make you look like a BULLDOG or a MONKEY!");

and Agnes Moorehead's inquisitive, fiendish acuity... no wonder Bogart's bewildered eyes are able to speak such volumes. It's an uncertain world where everyone wants to play 20 questions, and the slightest misstep could spell a 100 year steel-and-concrete vacation at San Quentin.

It's a black and white film that overtly references specific colors- and that's very deliberate: writer/director Delmer Daves realizes quite profoundly that speaking of "orange" in a world of black and white is like speaking of the "individual" in a world where that word doesn't quite hold the water it used to. A new face, a new name, a new lie, a new line- it's now all par for the course for the innocent man. Dream-like, but not a dream; this is the world now- you're laid out and sliced up on the table, and everybody wants a piece.

Confusing, confounding, claustrophobic, Kafkaesque. (And a tremendous influence on David Lynch- particularly MULHOLLAND DR. and LOST HIGHWAY.) Four stars.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: THE SHOOTIST (1976, Don Siegel)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 100 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: John Wayne, Ron Howard, Jimmy Stewart, Lauren Bacall, John Carradine, Scatman Crothers, Richard Boone (HAVE GUN, WILL TRAVEL).
Tag-lines: "He's got to face a gunfight once more to live up to his legend once more. To win just one more time.
Best one-liner: "Put it in a nutshell? You couldn't put it in a barrel without a bottom. You're the longest winded bastard I've ever known."

Art imitates death. Portrait of an aging gunfighter: J.B. Books. A shootist. A legend. Diagnosed with a cancer, eating him alive from within. The laundanum offers less and less respite each day. Yet, not content to let him die on his own terms, everyone wants to carve out one final piece before he's in the grave. And we're not simply talking about vengeful outlaws who want one last shot at his hide- we're talking an undertaker who wants to sell tickets to the funeral (with a cameo by John Carradine), an old flame who wants a book deal, a crooked newspaperman with an agenda, an endless parade of yahoos who want the last 'fill-in-the-blank' J.B. Books ever used/owned/had. It's the same pack of scavengers who one hundred years later operates tabloids, Lifetime movies, and the like. And, hell, John Waters has always said that the final indignity suffered by the famous is the mortician having sex with your corpse...

Well, regardless, Mr. Books is played by Marion Robert Morrison, better known to the public as one 'John Wayne.' A man similarly diagnosed with cancer, and undoubtedly no stranger to the hordes of ragpickers primed to take away one last piece of the legend for themselves. But it's not an entirely morbid universe that Don Siegel (DIRTY HARRY, THE BEGUILED, THE KILLERS) creates here.

As a kindly widow and her naive son (Lauren Bacall and Ron Howard) have excellent chemistry with Wayne and greatly aid the film in building a real emotional framework. Jimmy Stewart appears in a near-cameo role (which provides a great A MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE reference), and is, as always, sweetly captivating, but here he appears so feeble and hard-of-hearing that it's vaguely distressing to watch (which I suppose helps the film's aims).

Like so many Westerns, it all ends on a gunfight, but the stakes are so high and the reality so heightened, that the final scenes (and shots) truly resonate long after the film has ended.
A great last act and a fitting swansong for The Duke. Five stars.

-Sean Gill