Film Review: THE OUTSIDE MAN (1972, Jacques Doray)

Stars: 4 of 5.

Running Time: 105 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew: Jean Louis Trintignant (THE CONFORMIST, AMOUR, Z, MY NIGHT AT MAUD'S, THE GREAT SILENCE), Ann-Margret (TOMMY, BYE BYE BIRDIE, GRUMPY OLD MEN), Roy Scheider (JAWS, ALL THAT JAZZ), Angie Dickinson (BIG BAD MAMA, THE KILLERS, DRESSED TO KILL), Georgia Engel ("Georgette" on THE MARY TYLER MOORE SHOW, THE CARE BEARS MOVIE), Umberto Orsini (THE DAMNED, LUDWIG), Ted de Corsia (THE KILLING, THE NAKED CITY), Jackie Earle Haley (THE BAD NEWS BEARS, LITTLE CHILDREN, WATCHMEN), Michel Constantin (LE TROU, LE DEUXIEME SOUFFLE), Alex Rocco ("Moe Green" in THE GODFATHER, DETROIT 9000, THE FRIENDS OF EDDIE COYLE), Talia Shire (THE GODFATHER, ROCKY). Music by Michael Legrand (SUMMER OF '42,   Co-written by Jean Claude Carrière (THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE BOURGEOISIE, BELLE DE JOUR). Cinematography by Silvano Ippoliti (CALIGULA, NAVAJO JOE, SUPER FUZZ) and Terry K. Meade (a camera operator on RIO BRAVO and THE LAST PICTURE SHOW).

Tag-line: "If you kill the most powerful man in organized crime, they've got the rest of your life to get you."

Memorable Quote:  "Paris?! You mean, Paris, France?"

Only now, on the Fourth of July, did it occur to me that I needed THE OUTSIDE MAN in my life. Picture it: a down n' dirty '70s Los Angeles crime flick directed by a Frenchman (Jacques Doray), with a screenplay co-written by surrealist master Jean Claude Carrière, and with the alienating, fatalistic atmosphere of LE SAMOURAI, THE MECHANIC, or DETOUR. You could even compare it to Camus' THE STRANGER or THE PLAGUE.

Our antihero is an "Outside Man," a French hitman (Jean-Louis Trintignant) who arrives in L.A. to kill a mobster. After performing the hit, he finds his passport has been stolen and he is relentlessly pursued by another hitman––the great Roy Scheider in a role that is essentially a jockish, dickish enigma.

(Obviously, Scheider nails it.)

Jean-Louis may be a hitman, but he's a Continental. He's an aesthete. He's on an existential journey. In the States, he's an Outside Man. He's awash, adrift in a consumerist wasteland of highway cloverleafs and frozen food and prefabricated homes and hot pavement and hazy skies. If Jean-Paul Sartre says, "hell is other people," then THE OUTSIDE MAN has a bolder, more nuanced thesis. It says hell is the Sunset Strip on a Wednesday night. Hell is kidnapping a mother-son duo played by Georgia Engel

and Jackie Earle Haley,

and, even though the Outside Man has the power and the gun, he's the true prisoner, eating TV dinners with them and watching STAR TREK reruns.  Hell is Jackie Earle Haley pouring ketchup all over the TV dinner's mockery of boeuf bourguignon.

Hell is dive bar wine.

Is that Ripple?

Hell is hippie hitchhikers who wind up being closet Jesus-freaks. Hell is itchy wigs. Hell is denim jackets in the summer.

Hell is bus stations.

Hell is smoggy sunshine criss-crossed by power lines and palm trees. Hell is storm drains. Hell is living in a storm drain.

Hell is abandoned lots and crispy, brown, dead grass. Hell is diet Coca-Cola. Hell is this apartment building.

Hell is a gum-chewing Roy Scheider hiding in your shower with a gun. Hell is faux-wood paneling. Hell is that bedspread.

Hell is sun-tanning. Hell is shaving in a public restroom. Hell is using a communal razor in a public restroom. Hell is paying to use a communal razor in a public restroom.

Hell is drive-in theaters in the daytime.

Hell is that shade of orange. Hell is diner coffee that's been left in the pot overnight.

Hell is having nothing to do but watch TV in a shitty motel room. Hell is kidnap victims being saved by the police but first asking, "where are the television cameras?"

Hell is palm trees covered in garbage. Hell is abandoned boardwalks. Hell is getting a splinter from an abandoned boardwalk.

I guess we could just cut to the chase. We could say: "Hell is L.A." We could even say: "More like 'Hell-A,' amirite?" Hey, guys, I didn't say it, THE OUTSIDE MAN did.

The dual cinematographers––Silvano Ippoliti and Terry K. Meade––definitely present an L.A. that's of a piece with the L.A.s of Don Siegel's THE KILLERS or John Carpenter's THEY LIVE. There is a lot of nice, surreal imagery with a workmanlike finish, even if it's ugly as sin. After watching this film for an hour and forty-five minutes you feel like you've lived your entire life out of anonymous motel rooms with ceilings yellowed by cigarette smoke. You can't remember what air smells like without a soupçon of exhaust fume. You feel like you're in a parked car on a hundred-degree day without A/C: it's suffocating, and smacks of melted plastic.

On this existential journey, we meet a rogue's gallery of 1970s supporting players, including Umberto Orsini as the late mobster's sleazy son and Angie Dickinson as the mobster's wife (who's possibly making a move from père to fils, if you know what I mean).

They have a pool.

There's Alex Rocco (who seemed to have an entire career based on the fact he played "Moe Green" in THE GODFATHER) doing his mobster schtick

and Talia Shire (!)

This is before she moved to Philly to work at a pet store.

as a winsome mortuary attendant who's on screen for about twenty-five seconds. We have the aforementioned wholesome mother-son team of Georgia Engel and Jackie Earle Haley who seem to have stumbled in from a network sitcom (to great effect).

Finally, there's Ann-Margret as an exotic dancer who, through a series of unimportant events, essentially becomes the Outside Man's sidekick.

Here, Ann-Margret's never quite let "off the chain," so to speak, and thus we are denied an orgy of the amazing, over-the-top acting we know she's capable of (because we saw TOMMY). I'd say that, by and large, the performances (with the exception of Roy Scheider, who is permitted a streak of douchey élan)

are, by design, very static and stilted, almost Bressonian, indicative of the director's vision of America as a colorless, prefabricated consumerist wasteland. However, since we never see Europe in the film and are not afforded the contrast, it's sometimes hard to tell if it's "anti-American," or merely "anti-human."

Also, did I forget to mention that this is––in near-entirety––accompanied by whacka-whacka guitar licks throughout, worthy of a basement porno?

Anyhow, it all ends with a shootout at a church funeral, which definitely gives the whole production that nice post-Melville, pre-John Woo vibe.

I liked this quite a bit, even though I can understand the criticism I've heard, detailing it as a kind of dreary, lifeless slog. Which is kind of the point. Hey, it's all part of the Existentialist experience, man!  Four stars. (And happy existential Fourth of July!)

Only now does it occur to me... PROPHECY (1979)

Only now does it occur to me...  that PROPHECY constructs a perfect visual metaphor for itself in its opening scene.

To first put this in perspective, PROPHECY is a clumsy (but lovably nutty) 1970s eco-horror mutant-monster movie directed by A-list Hollywood legend John Frankenheimer (THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE, BIRDMAN OF ALCATRAZ, SEVEN DAYS IN MAY, 52 PICK-UP, RONIN). The kicker: Frankenheimer supposedly directed the film while suffering through a lengthy blackout drunk.

Back to our opening metaphor: points of light tremble in the darkness, disoriented.

They are flashlights, frantically waved by a group of men sprinting through the forest. The men are led by a hound who's caught the scent (of what, we do not yet know). They blindly careen down a forest path:

suddenly (and with unintentional comic flourish), the dog plummets off of a cliff to its death:

Yep, that about sums up PROPHECY, all right.

PROPHECY is a film about the dangers of pollution. It is a film with its heart in the right place. At one point, Native American rights, abortion rights, and urban blight are addressed within the span of fifteen seconds. This is handled with all the finesse of a master director who happens to have chugged a couple fifths of Thunderbird and forgotten to hydrate.

Talia Shire (ROCKY, THE GODFATHER) and Robert Foxworth (AIRPORT '77, DAMIEN: THE OMEN II) play an urbane couple who find themselves deep in the forests of Maine. In ordinary life, Shire's character is a concert cellist.

 

She's had more time to practice after she stopped working at the pet store.

Foxworth works for the EPA, and he's in Maine investigating a creepy paper mill that may be accidentally be creating mutated monsters.

 

Representing the creepy paper mill is Richard Dysart (on the left), who you may recognize as "Dr. Copper" from THE THING.

Also present is a group of Native Americans protesting the paper mill. The bow-and-arrow toting leader of the Natives is played by Italian-Irish-American actor Armand Assante. At one point he fights off a chainsaw-wielding logger with an axe, which, to be fair, is a pretty good use of his screentime.

Eventually, we meet the mutant monster.

The Natives call it a "Katahdin" and Dysart describes it as "sort of a bigfoot, I guess, only uglier." Neither of these assessments are accurate. It is in fact a Grizzly bear cosplaying as Freddy Krueger.

Along the way, there is a baby Krueger Bear, who is cared for in a similar fashion as the mutant infant in ERASERHEAD, which I appreciate.

There's some pretty solid cinematography by Harry Stradling, Jr., who also shot LITTLE BIG MAN, THE WAY WE WERE, and DIRTY DINGUS MAGEE.

Also solid is this scene depicting a surprise raccoon attack, whereupon Robert Foxworth scoops up said adorable raccoon with a rowboat paddle

and flings it directly into a blazing fireplace. God damn! 

As you can see from the above photo, the front door was already open. He easily could have flung it outside. He's just a dick!

The ultimate showdown with the Krueger Bear plays out exactly like the end of a FRIDAY THE 13TH movie, which is all the more impressive because FRIDAY THE 13TH wouldn't come out for another year (PROPHECY was made in '79, the first FRIDAY in '80).


It hits every FRIDAY beat, from the Crystal Lake-lookin' exteriors to the moment where they think the monster drowns, to the successive moment when it jumps out of the water, the moment when they think they've finally killed it, the moment when it pops back up when-they-least-expect-it, and the moment when it dies for real this time (or does it?).

All of this booze-addled nonsense is really just prelude and postscript to a random scene that appears halfway through the film. A nameless camper is snoozing in a fetish-y sleeping bag when he is awakened by the Krueger Bear.

He musters all of his strength and pulls himself upright. He attempts, ungracefully, to hop away.

The Krueger Bear takes a wild swing and connects his claw with the sleeping bag, launching the unfortunate man across the screen:

 

where he collides with a rock and explodes in an orgasmic eruption of feathers.

That's worth the price of admission right there, ladies and gentlemen. In the end, I'll say this: it's better than THE PROPHECY (1995), which I'll be reviewing shortly.

Film Review: ROCKY V (1990, John G. Alvidsen)

Stars: 3 of 5.
Running Time: 104 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Sylvester Stallone (who also wrote it), Talia Shire (THE GODFATHER, OLD BOYFRIENDS), Burt Young (CHINATOWN, CONVOY), Sage Stallone (DAYLIGHT, director of VIC with Clu Gulager), Burgess Meredith (THE MANITOU, THE TWILIGHT ZONE), Kevin Connolly (ENTOURAGE, THE NOTEBOOK), Richard Gant (THE BIG LEBOWSKI, Hostetler on DEADWOOD), Tommy Morrison (real life boxer and great nephew of John Wayne), and Tony Burton (THE SHINING, ROCKY).
Tag-line: "GO FOR IT"
Best one-liner:  "Get up, you son of a bitch!  'Cause Mickey loves you!"


How ya like your ROCKY movies?  Ya like 'em slowly-paced and watered down?  Peppered with robot references and sequences of laughable Lynchian terror?  Sprinkled with occasional amateur chalk artwork?

Portrait of Rocky Balboa Fishing.  1990.  Crayon and colored chalk on construction paper.  20 X 12 inches.  Artist, Rocky Balboa, Jr.

Well, then ROCKY V is just what the doctor ordered for this most patriotic of days. 

ROCKY V is commonly derided by the masses; those time-tested sheep, those locusts who rarely can recognize a fine film, even when its paraded beneath their noses, nude, in an extended and wholly unnecessary shower sequence.

Oh!  Like this one, for instance.  Thanks, ROCKY V!

There's a lot going on here, though: we got sweaters worthy of early-90s Sam Malone,

a return to the Philly's most scenic and sleazy streets, for the first time since ROCKY I,

a return to 70s fashion for the first time since ROCKY I (which really is a welcome addition, because Stallone's platform boots and Talia Shire in those ridiculous, pet-store employee spectacles were two of my favorite elements from the first film),

newly shot footage, via flashback, of Burgess Meredith in all of his irascible glory,

and a new boxer– Rocky's new protégé, Tommy Gunn– wearing Apollo Creed's shorts and clasping Stallone within the grasp of his sweaty arms.


Tommy Gunn and Rocky make a great team.  Until the media begins using backhanded compliments like:  "Rocky's Robot."

Rocky's Robot.  I wonder.  I wonder...  As I wrote in my ROCKY IV review just a few days ago, Stallone seems to have an obsession with robots, an obsession which can even be seen in COBRA, as Stallone has his then-wife, Brigitte Nielsen, pose and cavort amongst an army of robots.
Now, what could have caused such a fascination?  Reflecting upon the issue with a friend of mine, he suggested that it was rooted entirely in TERMINATOR-envy.  Think about it.  The man even created his own "nude man awakening in a time that is not his own" film with DEMOLITION MAN.  If we're to give any stock to the Schwarzenegger vs. Stallone "rivalry," evidence of which can be found in TWINS, DEMOLITION MAN, THE LAST ACTION HERO, and most recently, facetiously, in THE EXPENDABLES and THE EXPENDABLES II, Stallone must have seen THE TERMINATOR as the impetus behind Schwarzenegger's meteoric rise, a franchise which in 1990 was soon expecting its high-octane, much-anticipated second installment (with Schwarzenegger set to receive the highest acting salary in history up to that point), even as the ROCKY and RAMBO series were fizzling out.  Even THE LAST ACTION HERO imagines an alternate universe where Stallone was THE TERMINATOR instead of Schwarzenegger.  Is it any wonder the man had robots on the mind?

Anyway, back to ROCKY V:  all is well and good until Tommy Gunn stabs Rocky in the back by joining up with Don King-stand-in "George Washington Duke" (played by DEADWOOD's "Hostetler," Richard Gant), a man who frequently utters such profundities as:

"GOD DAMN!"

This all leads up to a final back alley fight (notably not in a boxing ring) which includes the following, freaky sequence which I'm about to describe.

Rocky is being beaten into a pulp when he receives a dream-vision which affords him the fortitude to "Go for it" as alluded to in the film's tag-line.  Punctuated by grainy, high-contrast black and white film, it includes:

Burgess Meredith screaming to the camera that "Mickey loves you,"

complete with brilliant, terrifying, eye-popping closeups worthy of Sergio Leone,

horror-movie style flashes back to the fight with Dolph Lundgren in part IV,

Rocky imagining himself with blood pouring over his eyes,

and a casket (Rocky's? Apollo's?) being shoved into a vault for all time.

The sequence is bizarre, vaguely out-of-place, and quite possibly the highlight of the film.  Until I receive definitive evidence to the contrary, I'm going to pretend that it was guest-directed by either Roman Polanski or David Lynch.

In honor of America, "going for it," Burgess Meredith, and the robot references, I'm going to give you three stars, ROCKY V.   Enjoy 'em!


-Sean Gill