The Screengrab : pulp fiction

Quentin Tarantino: The Emperor's New Pumps

Phil Nugent — Thu, 07 May 2009 15:00:00 GMT

The media buildup to the arrival of the new Tarantino movie with the silly fucking goddamn title is well under way, and in your more fashionable quarters, it's taking the form of a buildup to see if the story of how QT Lost His Way gets extended by another chapter. "When Quentin Tarantino climbs the steps of the Grand Palais for the world premiere of his new movie at this month's Cannes Film Festival," Ryan Gilbey writes, "he may feel like he's coming home. It was in Cannes 15 years ago that he received the Palme d'Or for Pulp Fiction. Even those among us who believe it to be a film of moments, as opposed to a momentous film, will concede that it had a seismic effect on what followed... This year, Tarantino is back in Cannes with Inglourious Basterds, not merely a title destined to have "sic" printed after it wherever it is mentioned, but a spaghetti western draped in a Second World War greatcoat...A lot has changed since Pulp Fiction. The former enfant terrible has just turned 46; the films on which his reputation is founded are some distance behind him. Those who marvelled at the assurance and aplomb of Tarantino's 1992 debut, the slippery heist thriller Reservoir Dogs or the unexpected warmth and wisdom of the 1997 Jackie Brown may then be wary of Inglourious Basterds, with its early signs that the director is wading even further into the B-movie hinterlands of his most recent work."

News flash: Tarantino is never going to be able to follow up Pulp Fiction. That isn't meant as a harsh judgement on his gifts or a dismissal of the movies he's made since--I happen to like Kill Bill and Death Proof more than Gilbey, and more than most of my Screengrab brethren. And a lot of people love Jackie Brown more than Tarantino will publicly admit to; arguably his best film, it was also the one that made it clear that every time he cranks out another movie, it will be judged to have fallen short by the only standard the media has for judging a new Tarantino movie: is it Pulp Fiction all over again? Does it rewrite the rule book for "indie" cinema, in terms of how much fun it can be and how far its appeal can extend? At the time, Pulp Fiction was both a surprise and, because of Reservoir Dogs (a festival circuit legend that didn't actually set box offices on fire in its commercial release) and the stories about the director that were kept circulating as other filmmakers made movies based on his early scripts (True Romance, Natural Born Killers), a premature career summing-up. in the fifteen years since, I think that Tarantino has proven that he can make other good movies. What he hasn't managed to do, and what nobody should have expected from him, has been to rewrite the rule book twice.

"The weight of expectation resting on Pulp Fiction was immense," writes Gilbey, "and even the ease with which it surpassed hopes - raking in $250m worldwide and cleaning up at awards ceremonies - hardly indicated what was in store for Tarantino. It is no exaggeration to say that, for the first time since Scorsese, a director was enjoying something like rock star status." He also quotes a line from Tarantino about his early career--"I would have died for Reservoir Dogs. I would have died getting a shot for Pulp Fiction. I don't know if I would have died, would have thrown myself into that kind of harm's way, for Jackie Brown, and that scared me a little bit."--and adds, "How peculiar that of all his films he feels so divorced from Jackie Brown, with its emotional plausibility and understated melancholy." Is it really, though, consider the way the media built Jackie Brown up as Pulp Fiction II and then walked away from it yawning, muttering that it didn't have quite the same adrenaline rush? It's easy to say that Tarantino should have been savvy enough to have known that, after everyone has written the story "New Whiz Kid Hits Town", the obvious next step is to write, "Whiz Kid Loses It", but you turn a high school dropout and video store clerk into a rock star and then jeer at him at your own peril. When the Cannes premiere arrives, will the little bastard bring to your knees with awe and admiration, or by making you feel that he's beaned you with a rock? Stay tuned.

Tim Roth's Good Old Days

Phil Nugent — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 16:00:00 GMT

"I can't believe I even did shit like this back then." That's Tim Roth, talking to John Patterson of The Guardian about how he got his breaktrhough role as Trevor the skinhead in Alan Clarke's Made in Britain. "For the final audition - which I think was in front of the producer, the writer David Leland, and Alan - I turned up early on purpose. I came in and I told 'em, 'When you need me I'll be in the park across the way,' knowing full well they'd be watching me through the window. And I did some, you know, character work in the park. And luckily a friend of mine turned up who was in a band called King Kurt. And he has this fucking huge mohawk and I'm bald and we started mock-fighting and he's making a peacock noise - and then the police turned up and got involved - and Alan and his lot are all watching me out the window. And then I went in and did a reading; but by then it was more of a formality than anything else."

Having made his bones with Clarke, and gone on to do memorable work with such directors as Mike Leigh (Meantime), Stephen Frears (The Hit), Chris Menges (A World Apart), Peter Greenaway (The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover), Robert Altman (Vincent & Theo, where his performance as Van Gogh inspired Pauline Kael to describe his acting, admiringly, as "a form of kinetic discharge"), Quentin Tarantino (Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction), James Gray (Little Odessa), and Woody Allen (Everyone Says I Love You), Roth is currently starring in the Fox TV series Lie to Me, a transparent attempt by the network to find another overqualified, sardonic Brit to build a hit around before Hugh Laurie plows his motorcycle under a truck. Under these circumstances, it may be no surprise that Roth seems to have latched onto this interview as an excuse to tell all his best stories to someone who might have trouble comprehending his accent. Roth has actually done a lot of work in American movies: "Gary Oldman came to the States to do State Of Grace and he built the bridge for a lot of us who came after. Then I came out and I thought at the time it would be better to keep playing Americans because the casting directors mostly didn't know who the fuck I was; they thought I was American!"

However, his image here is that of indie guy, thanks to his having done so much of his best work in films like Tarantino's or the sadly neglected black comedy Gridlock'd, which may perhaps have suffered from audience's reluctance to laugh at a film about a couple of junkies when one of them was played by Tupac Shakur, who did not survive to see the premiere. On Reservoir Dogs, Roth recalls, ""My agent had me look at Mr Blonde or Mr Pink. I said, 'No, I like Orange.' Because I liked the idea of an Englishman playing an American, playing a cop, pretending to be a bad guy. Complete deception through and through! And I remember walking back to the trailer with Harvey Keitel one day, us both covered in blood, and saying, 'I think this might be pretty good.'" As for Tupac, "He was a natural. A really good actor. I didn't even know who he was then, which is fucking typical of me, but I didn't. [He was] charismatic, funny, and incredibly articulate. We became very good mates. In fact, somewhere in the vaults of Death Row Records, there's a tape of me and Tupac rapping, which is hilarious." We'll see how funny he thinks it is when someone does the right thing and puts them on eBay.

Roth himself made an impressive directing debut ten years ago with the harrowing family drama The War Zone. He still hasn't had the chance to follow it up, but if Lie to Me hangs around for awhile, the chance to store up his TV money might make for a way back to that. "I learned most about directing from the bad directors I've worked with," he says, "because you're better off knowing what not to do"

SXSW Review: American Prince

Hayden Childs — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 15:00:00 GMT

In 1977, Martin Scorsese made a short film about his friend Steven Prince. American Boy is a remarkably simple movie. There’s a scene of Scorsese and Prince goofing around in a hot tub at the very beginning of the film. There’s a few home movies of Prince as a little boy that are interspersed throughout the film. There’s a sudden and inexplicable brawl between the diminutive Prince and portly character actor George Memmoli because Scorsese loves nothing better than pandering to the ladies. But for most of the film’s 55 minutes, Prince just hangs out in a living room full of friends (including Scorsese) and tells his wildly entertaining stories. American Boy was not easy to find in the days before the Internet, but now, of course, the whole thing is available on YouTube.

American Prince is a sequel of sorts. Most of this movie consists of Prince sitting in someone’s living room, telling stories about his life. At one point near the end of the movie, Prince establishes that they’ve been filming for about five hours, and it’s clear that the bulk of the movie was taken from that same interview. In American Prince, Steven Prince reveals why he walked away from the movie business (a close call with a famous Hollywood murder), what he’s doing now (contractor and co-owner of a medical marijuana clinic in California), and how much he enjoyed sharing a house with Scorsese and Robbie Robertson of The Band in the late 70s (that would be lots and lots and lots). He talks about how two of the stories from American Boy have cropped up in other films. He himself retold one story in Richard Linklater’s Waking Life (and American Prince’s director Tommy Pallotta was a producer of that movie). Another story, in which he had to resuscitate a woman who had overdosed by sticking a needle full of adrenalin straight into her heart, appeared mostly untouched in Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction. You remember it, I’m sure. It’s hard to forget the image of Uma Thurman with a needle sticking out of her chest.

Steven Prince is a fun guy to spend time with. His stories, and the way he tells them, are fascinating and funny and full of truth. It’s easy to see why both Scorsese and Pallotta thought that a feature film could be made of what is essentially one man’s monologue. The downside of Pallotta’s movie, though, is the camerawork. Scorsese is smart enough to keep his camera at a steady middle distance from Prince so that the viewer can get the full experience of his expressive body language. For some unknown reason, Pallotta frames his picture in close to Prince, way too close, and then he can’t stay still for a second. The camera is jittery, jumping around Prince face, in tight on his mouth, leaping over to a shoulder, sometimes partially obscured by someone in front of it. For a short, couple-minute interview, it would be okay, a little intimate and woozy maybe, but leaving the viewer with the feeling of being there. For nearly an hour, however (the film runs 52 minutes), it’s a dizzingly bad choice. I like Prince, but being that close to him gave me vertigo. In the hot tub scene at the beginning of American Boy, Scorsese sends Prince back over to his own side when he encroaches too much on Marty’s space. Pallotta should have taken note; it’s easier to feel close to someone if you aren't smothered.

The camerawork aside (actually, one more comment, just to make sure that I’m being clear: it’s not bad camerawork, but it’s not right for this picture), American Prince has a lot going for it. It’s entertaining, smart material, and by all rights, it should bring Steven Prince to a new audience.

Trailer Review: Inglourious Basterds

Paul Clark — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 17:00:00 GMT

There’s always something a bit disappointing about the trailers for Quentin Tarantino’s work- to me, anyway. Perhaps it’s because Tarantino was such a major figure in my education as a moviegoer- Pulp Fiction being the gateway drug to a whole world of classic foreign films both past and present. But while the news that a new Tarantino project is really, truly happening sends a wave of glee coursing up my spine, the trailers tend to lean a little too hard on the elements of his work that his detractors singled out back in the day- the violence, the stylized dialogue and performance style, and the inside-sports film references. In other words, the geeky stuff. But while this trailer doesn’t really seem like anything special to me, I’m nonetheless heartened by its existence, and with that the knowledge that this movie is finally happening. Besides, if there’s one lesson I’ve learned as a moviegoer, it’s that (as a director anyway) Tarantino should never be underestimated- not even when he gets the urge to misspell his title. Come August 21, I’m there, front and center.

Screengrab Presents: Cinema's Greatest Comebacks (Part One)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 21:00:00 GMT

“Don’t call it a comeback, I been here for years,” implored L.L. Cool J (shortly before his mother told him to knock us unconscious), raising an interesting point in the endless Hollywood parlor game of career perception: after all, the recent Golden Globe nominations for Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem would seem to mark Vicky Cristina Barcelona as a return to form for Woody Allen...but what then to make of the fact that Match Point, Sweet & Lowdown, Manhattan Murder Mystery, Crimes & Misdemeanors, etc. etc. were all considered phoenix-like returns to form in the Woodman’s prolific (and sometimes crappy) oeuvre? How many times can a person come back if they never really go away?

Sometimes, though (as in the case of pugilist/thespian Mickey Rourke), the weepy entertainment magazine profiles and welcome home parties seem entirely appropriate. After all, the one-time heartthrob used to be a bona fide movie star (and light bondage icon) thanks to hits like Diner and 9 ½ Weeks, and though he’s done interesting work since then in films like Buffalo '66 and Spun, among others, there’s a big difference between co-starring with Eric Roberts and generating Oscar buzz.

Sure, Rourke essentially torpedoed his own career by stomping around like the Pope of Douchebag Village for years and years...but as the auto and financial industries have shown, everybody gets a second chance in America, no matter how bad you fuck up (unless, of course, you’re poor).

So, in honor of this week’s release of The Wrestler, we here at The Screengrab hereby salute...THE GREATEST COMEBACKS OF ALL TIME!

(And stay tuned next week as we ask Santa for THE COMEBACKS WE’D MOST LIKE TO SEE!)

JACK NICHOLSON in TERMS OF ENDEARMENT (1983)

Though you could be forgiven for not believing it, there was a stretch there where it looked touch and go for the continued health of Jack Nicholson's continued career and reputation. After winning the Academy Award for Best Actor for One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975), Nicholson jumped head first into a series of high-profile ventures -- The Missouri Breaks, Goin' South (which he also directed), The Postman Always Rings Twice, and, yes, friends, The Shining, which did disappointing box office and was badly mauled by most reviewers. However many fans it's racked up in the years since, the reaction to his performance in The Shining was typical: the conventional wisdom was quickly turning towards the direction that a man once capable of sensitive work had turned into an eyeball-rolling self-parodist, and in a Playboy interview published a year before his 1982 death, the gentle-spirited Henry Fonda criticized Nicholson for having thrown away his career and disgracing his profession. The actor's critical reputation began to recover around the time the magazine hit the stands, starting with his supporting performance in Reds and then with his starring role in the little-seen The Border, but it was Terms of Endearment that set the tone for Nicholson's successful reinvention of himself as a post-counterculture elder statesman who styled himself as a broad but soulful entertainer, someone who was still prone to go over the top but could usually make you love him for it. It could be argued that Nicholson lost something beautiful in the process -- as Anthony Lane later wrote, Nicholson rose to stardom as a man who seemed deeply pained by the state of the world, and sustained his stardom into old age by turning into someone who seemed very pleased with himself -- but it was still an audacious pull back from the career abyss. The role of the pear-shaped horndog Garrett Breedlove won him a second Academy Award, this time for Best Supporting Actor, neatly bookending his time of trouble. It also established that he was smarter than Burt Reynolds, who famously turned the role down to honor his commitment to Hal Needham to do Stroker Ace, which in career terms was like honoring his commitment to show up in front of the firing squad at dawn with a cigarette in his mouth and the blindfold in place.

AL PACINO in SEA OF LOVE (1989)

This entertaining, twisty little thriller made the leap to event status on the strength of its announcement that Pacino had returned to functionability. Pacino had entered into a nightmarishly sustained slump after The Godfather, Part II and Dog Day Afternoon, starring in a series of movies that rank among the very worst of their time (Bobby Deerfield, Revolution), films so thoroughly mediocre and tinny that it was impossible to imagine what appeal they'd ever had for him (...And Justice for All, Author! Author!), as well as Cruising and Scarface, which, for whatever cult status they would come to enjoy, earned him more in bad press at the time than they did in good reviews or box office. Compared to some of those misfires, the relative modesty of Sea of Love was part of its appeal at the time: it was a relief to see Pacino, returning to the screen, after a four-year absence, in a clever little cop opera that gave him a chance to look worn-down and middle-aged but not romantically implausible, enjoying the Richard Price-scripted byplay with such solid pros as John Goodman and Richard Jenkins, and -- an eternal Pacino specialty -- demonstrating that he wasn't afraid to pitch on-screen woo with an actress (Ellen Barkin) who looked as if she could fold him up and stick him in her purse. His spirit refreshed, Pacino was back a year later as Big Boy Caprice in Dick Tracy, happily gnawing the last traces of meat from the hambone.

CHRISTOPHER LEE in THE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING (2001) & STAR WARS EPISODE II: ATTACK OF THE CLONES (2002)

Lee has scarcely stopped working since entering movies in the late 1940s, but his ghettoized stardom in horror movies failed to translate into mainstream screen prominence, and as the decades went by, he seemed most likely to appear in high-profile pictures when the director was someone like Joe Dante or Tim Burton, who'd cut his teeth on Hammer films and felt an affectionate debt of gratitude to the old gent. Which is nice, but self-paroding cameos in Gremlins 2 and Sleepy Hollow do not a comeback make. The first real sign in years that the then-78-year-old Lee still had strapping reserves of energy going to waste came when he turned up in the 2000 BBC version of Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast, where he was dashingly costumed and looked and moved like a man twenty years younger. But the cherries on top of his career came with his villainous performances as Rings' malignant sorcerer Saruman and the abuser of the Force Lord Dooku -- subtle, George -- which, by drawing on memories of his screen past even as they threaded him into the texture of the two biggest multi-part fantasy series of the turn of the century, honored his career while tying it up with a handsome bow. After which, Lee being Lee, he called his agent and went back to work.

DENNIS HOPPER & DEAN STOCKWELL in BLUE VELVET (1986)

For most of his career, Hopper had led the league in blackballings, being driven out of the acting profession by the director Henry Hathaway, then remaking himself as a director and returning in glory with the 1969 Easy Rider. The box office success of that movie was so bewildering to the studios that Hopper was given a big bag with a dollar sign on it and absolute creative freedom to do whatever he wanted for his next movie as director, which resulted in 1971's The Last Movie...and cue blackballing number two. Hopper would spend most of the next fifteen years reeling from his intake of drugs and drink while working on a string of offbeat projects for European and American maverick directors, ranging from Apocalypse Now and Rumble Fish for Coppola and Wim Wenders' The American Friend to Neil Young's Human Highway, Henry Jaglom's Tracks and Orson Welles' unfinished The Other Side of the Wind. His performances in most of them were pretty unsteady; Hopper seemed to have his notion of artistry boiled down to the actor's willingness to do anything, but nobody ever hesitated to hire Dennis Hopper because they were concerned that he might not be crazy enough. He's said that Blue Velvet, one of a string of films he appeared in around 1986 which also includes River's Edge, Hoosiers, and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre Part II, was the first job he'd gotten after getting clean and sober, though he apparently almost talked himself out of it by telling David Lynch that he had to play Frank Booth because he was Frank Booth, after which Lynch considered hiding under the table. It's a measure of how impressed Hollywood was with both Hopper's performance and the sheer feat of rendering himself employable that Entertainment Tonight had a camera installed in Hopper's home when the Academy Award nominees were announced on television so that they could record his reaction, it being a forgone conclusion that his name would be among those read aloud. (It's a measure of just how freaked out Hollywood was by Blue Velvet that the E.T. cameras got to record Hopper's momentary confusion when it turned out that he'd been nominated instead for his work in Hoosiers.) Hopper's long shadow also obscured some of the triumph of his Blue Velvet co-star, one-scene wonder Dean Stockwell, who had also appeared with him in The Last Movie, Tracks, and Human Highway. A child actor back in the 1940s, Stockwell had kept his career going into adulthood, winning the Best Actor award at Cannes for 1959's Compulsion and co-starring with Katharine Hepburn, Ralph Richardson, and Jason Robards in 1962's Long Day's Journey into Night. He went counterculture and turned his back on Hollywood in the late '60s and '70s, then slowly began creeping back with parts in Paris, Texas and To Live and Die in L.A., as well as Lynch's Dune, which he later told an interviewer was the only role he wanted badly enough to screen test for. (The interviewer next asked if he'd care to explain why he'd wanted it so badly. Stockwell replied that he'd rather not.) But it was his performance in Blue Velvet that made him hot enough that he could quit his second job hustling real estate.

JOHN TRAVOLTA in PULP FICTION (1994)

Travolta may have mixed feelings about having had his career resurrected by Quentin Tarantino, given that he's been known to insist to interviewers that he wasn't that far down the ladder when Pulp Fiction broke -- those Look Who's Talking movies made a lot of darn money, thank you very much! -- but most people who cared knew that Tarantino's dialogue and taste in hair extensions restored cachet and hipness to a star brand that had gotten badly devalued since 1981. Travolta cemented his comeback with Get Shorty, a project that he, yes, turned down before Tarantino called him up and advised him to snap to attention. His filmography since then has more than its fair share of stinkers, but it's better remembered now than it was in 1993 that he really is a terrific actor, and he retains the special dignity of a star who came back after being depicted as having been reduced to tending bar in a '70s nostalgia club on an episode of The Simpsons, an episode on which -- the ultimate indignity! -- he didn't even get to provide his own self-mocking voice. And, lest we forget, he did get to name Harry Knowles's site.

Click Here For Part Two, Three, Four & Five

Contributors: Andrew Osborne, Phil Nugent

The Screengrab Holiday Special: Movies We're Thankful For (Part One)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 15:15:00 GMT

I grew up right next door to Thanksgiving Town, USA: Plymouth, Massachusetts, former home of the Pilgrims and Wampanoag Indians and future home of Plymouth Rock Studios and a nice big casino.

My next door neighbors used to work at Plimoth Plantation, where docent actors dress up in 17th century drag and mosey up and down the streets of a life-size replica Pilgrim settlement, discussing crops and Calvinism, while modern Native Americans in traditional buckskin attire give their side of the story in a nearby encampment.

So I like to think I know a thing or two about Thanksgiving. And let me tell you: it’s not all about the yams.

In fact, before the Macy’s Day Parade and the advent of that delicious Brundlefly monstrosity known as Turducken, the fourth Thursday of November was all about chowing down eel and corn and celebrating a bountiful harvest. In fact, as I learned on a recent visit to Plimoth Plantation, the name for the annual kick-off to the Christmas shopping season is actually a compound word that literally means “giving thanks”!

And so, as we here at the Screengrab prepare our traditional Turkey Day feast of pretzel sticks, jelly beans, two slices of toast and a handful of popcorn, we’d like to just take a few moments to express our gratitude for the people, places and movies that made us the full-on film geeks we are today.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING FROM THE SCREENGRAB!

ANDREW OSBORNE IS THANKFUL FOR:

WHAT’S UP, DOC? (1950 & 1972)

Forget Mickey Mouse: Bugs Bunny was there from the start, teaching me the importance of carrots, proper directions to Albuquerque and a wised-up appreciation of life (for all its feathered frenemies, megalomaniacal Martians and gun-toting Fudds). So I was a bit disappointed when I realized What’s Up, Doc? (the first movie I can remember seeing in a theater) wasn’t a cartoon...but Peter Bogdanovich’s madcap screwball homage soon won me over with its igneous rocks and silly accents and, especially, that endless, blissful car chase through the streets, alleys and staircases of San Francisco (and, eventually, San Francisco Bay). All that (plus a gratifying act three cameo by Mr. Bunny himself!) made this goofy-smart romantic comedy my first favorite movie, and it only got better with time as I grew up and came to appreciate the chemistry of Ryan O’Neal and Barbara Streisand (both at their cinematic finest) and the comedic brilliance of the irreplaceable Madeline Kahn, Austin Pendleton and Kenneth Mars. But the real reason this movie’s on the list is so I can say thank you to my film geek parents for always bringing me to whatever movie they went to go see on a Saturday night (even when it scared the bejesus out of me), thus instilling a life-long love of pop culture that’s guided my cinematic view of the world ever since. (Thanks, Mom & Dad!)

STAR WARS (1977)

I’ve already written an embarrassing number of posts about the life-changing religious experience of seeing this movie as an excitable, impressionable ten year old nerd, but looking back on it now, I can only say...George Lucas, all is forgiven. (And besides, what’s Thanksgiving without the Star Wars Holiday Special?)

THE BIG CHILL (1983)

Given the embarrassing Baby Boomer reverence for Lawrence Kasdan’s self-congratulatory, navel-gazing Love Generation touchstone of growing up and selling out (not to mention the way the film pretty much ruined all the songs on its mega-hit Motown soundtrack by making them go-to clichés for every subsequent entry in the “Diane Keaton dancing around a living room” genre), this one almost wound up on last week’s Guilty Pleasures list. But despite all the people who deride the film as just a shallow rip-off of John Sayles’ Return of the Secaucus Seven, I have no guilt and nothing but love for The Big Chill. I first saw it after a particularly painful orthodontist’s appointment in my junior year of high school, and though I may not have been the intended target audience, I took the movie instantly to heart, partly for its evocation of the sixties (an era I romanticized desperately in the Just Say No Reagan eighties), but mostly for its celebration of the enduring power of friendship.

JOHN WATERS & DIVINE

Then, after high school, I stopped Saying No and dove headfirst into the psychedelic wonderland of college, that freaky, institutionalized Rumspringa when America’s sons and daughters move away from home and go batshit crazy for a year or three. After spending the first eighteen years of my life as an upright goody two-shoes, I was itching to break bad and take a walk on the trashy side...and when it comes to desperate living, I quickly discovered there was no better tour guide than John Waters and his large and lovely muse, Divine. From Mondo Trasho to Hairspray, Baltimore’s favorite son and fake daughter warped my young adult mind with their glorious bad taste, healthy disrespect for convention and pre-punk aesthetic, while also serving as self-made role models of DIY ingenuity for those determined to live a life less ordinary.

DAZED AND CONFUSED (1993)

In 1993, my then-girlfriend and I attended an L.A. cast and crew screening of Dazed and Confused (with, if memory serves, my future Screengrab colleague Scott Von Doviak). We didn’t know any of the soon-to-be-famous actors in the stellar ensemble cast (including Matthew McConaughey, Adam Goldberg, Parker Posey and Ben Affleck) when the lights went down, but when the lights came up, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by characters we’d only just met but felt like we’d known forever: hey, look! It’s O’Bannion and Darla! And over there! It’s Wooderson! (All right, all right, all right!) A few months later, I got dumped by the aforementioned girlfriend, but numerous subsequent screenings of Dazed and Confused helped to ease the pain, and today I remember Richard Linklater’s last day of school and first night of summer vacation at least as fondly as my actual high school experience.

PULP FICTION (1994)

Some movies you see and forget just as soon as the lights come up. Pulp Fiction was not one of those movies. In 1994, I spent every last dime I had (and a lot of dimes that I didn’t have) attempting to surf the Spike, Mike, Slackers & Dykes indie renaissance with my own no-budget 16mm production, Apocalypse Bop (starring the indomitable Mr. Von Doviak), which I’d spent the summer directing back in my home town near Thanksgiving Town, USA. At the time, I was living in Los Angeles, and so when the movie wrapped, I decided to road trip back to the West Coast with a couple of friends from the Bop shoot. Stopping for breakfast in Austin, Texas, one of those friends met a girl and couldn’t stop thinking about her, so when we finally reached California, he called her up and asked if she wanted to go see Pulp Fiction with him on opening night. She said yes, and so he turned around and flew right back to Austin. Meanwhile, my return to L.A. woke me up from my filmmaking fandango to the cold, hard reality that I was unemployed, with no prospects and no money to pay my rent. I had exactly twenty dollars to my name. And I’m happy to say I spent that twenty dollars on popcorn and a ticket to go see the opening night of Pulp Fiction with my pals in the San Fernando Valley, while my other friend was watching the same movie on the same night on his cross-country date in The Lone Star State. He wound up staying in Austin for the next several years, and days after watching Jules and Vincent Vega strut across the screen to the strains of “Misirlou,” my own bacon got snatched from the brink of disaster by an out-of-the-blue offer to go work on a war movie in the Philippines. And so I’m eternally grateful to have once been young and foolish enough to have those kinds of adventures, living in extremis at exactly the right time and with exactly the right people the night Quentin Tarantino got medieval on our ass.

SXSW, THE PROVINCETOWN FILM FESTIVAL & THE MEAT CITY BEATNIKS (2009)

And speaking of Austin, the city of Slacker has been, at different times, my literal and spiritual home away from home for years now, and never is it more glamorous (or crowded) than the middle of March, when the capitol of Texas plays host to the South-By-Southwest music and film festival, a fantastic collision of pop culture, booze and barbecue that makes Thanksgiving look like Arbor Day. Every spring, it renews my faith in the vaunted “indie film” spirit (even though I’m old enough to know better), and then every summer, I take another, mellower sip of the indie Kool-Aid (not to mention the world’s best Bloody Marys) at the Provincetown Film Festival, with John Waters presiding as patron saint in the same way Richard Linklater is the Mayor of South-By...and with all that friggin’ indie spirit washing over me, it was only a matter of time before I succumbed once again to its siren song, so I’ll just wrap up this list with thanks to my collaborators on The Meat City Beatniks, an indie film musical (co-written by me, Scott Von Doviak, Eric Jacobson and Jim Dryden) and starring Elliot Dort, Ben Gallant, Sheree Bass, Matthew Woodward, Rob McKim, Ms. Amar, Joe Gallo, Michael Sesling, Kellianne MacFarlane, Bill Christensen and Amy Jeglinski-Osborne...a production which (thankfully) I mostly managed to wrap in 2008 and which will (hopefully) premiere in 2009...so stay tuned! (And have a Happy Thanksgiving!)

Click Here For More Thanks From Scott Von Doviak, Phil Nugent, Paul Clark, Leonard Pierce & Sarah Clyne Sundberg

Contributor: Andrew Osborne

The Screengrab Highlight Reel: Oct. 18-24, 2008

Scott Von Doviak — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 21:00:00 GMT

Greetings, Screenbag fans. William Shatner here to take you where no man has gone before. That is, no man besides that Steve Don Vodiak who usually does the Highlight Reel on Fridays. I thought it was important to step in today because I’m deeply troubled by the 21 Stars We Hate (Parts One, Two, Three and Four). Not because I wasn’t included – it would take a sick mind, a truly disturbed psychosis to even think of such a thing – but because I don’t see such names as George Takei, Adrian Zmed and James Spader on the list. God love them all, but they are truly unspeakable screen presences, whose lines and close-ups I was forced to cut – for their own good!

And speaking of Takei, this Star Trek Showdown post is greatly offensive to me, excepting, of course, the parts of it that confirm the dreadful mental illness that Sulu fellow has labored under lo these many years. I prefer to focus on the positive, such as these reviews of Six Man, Texas, Fear(s) of the Dark and Synecdoche, New York, rather than dwell in the sick cesspool of negativity where posts about The Big Fix, Turkey Shoot, Pride and Glory and Meet the Browns drown in their own repulsive bile.

While the Screenbaggers trash Bill Maher and Roger Ebert, while they wallow in the past glories of Duel in the Sun and the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, while they pretend to mourn Levi Stubbs, Rudy Ray Moore and Mr. Blackwell, I alone will testify to their deteriorating mental states. For I am Shatner.

OST: "Pulp Fiction"

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 20:15:00 GMT

We knew this day would come. We knew that eventually, we were going to have to address the man who is arguably almost as famous for his game-changing approach to soundtracks as for the actual movies he directs. Quentin Tarantino, like a lot of smart-ass culture vultures of his generation, is a pop-cult omnivore, as well-versed in music as he is in literature, film, television, and fashion, and it should come as no surprise that in his greatest accomplishement as a director, 1994's Pulp Fiction, he brought his encyclopedic knowledge of pop music to bear on the soundtrack with a geek's precision and an auteur's passion. Tarantino's instincts as a music director proved as profitable to Sony Music as his instincts as a filmmaker did to Miramax: the movie was a huge success, and the soundtrack went platinum almost immediately after its release. Selling over a million and a half units in its first year, it was one of the most popular soundtracks of the decade, and not only launched one career (that of Urge Overkill, the Chicago band who covered "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon" on the album) but revived two more (those of Kool & the Gang and Dick Dale, who enjoyed a popular resurgence after two of their best-known songs were featured in the film).

The curious alchemy that took place when Tarantino put the soundtrack together -- and it is no exaggeration to call him the creator of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, as he personally selected every single track, often building entire scenes around a piece of music he felt would be appropriate -- has become characteristic of his films, and has led to his reputation as a director who has an uncanny ability to match up visual and musical elements in his films. And yet, many of his detractors -- and, for that matter, a number of his supporters -- are quick to point out that the story of music in Tarantino's films is one of missed opportunities, and a triumph of metareference over originality. After all, in his soundtracks no less than in his movies themselves, Quentin Tarantino is a pastiche artist. A filmmaker of his caliber is perfectly capable of doing what Jim Jarmusch, another director with a reputation for crafting stellar soundtracks, does: use a few existing pieces of music as ringers, and then commission an original score that conjures its own mood and moment, rather than relying on the emotions generated by preexisting songs to create impact. Just as his films constantly serve as a sort of postmodernist irritant, a nagging little voice saying, hey, do you remember this? Do you get what I'm referencing here?, his film music can be viewed as little more than a catalog of referents, a mixtape to the last half-century of junk culture that's designed not so much the create a thrilling film experience so much as remind you of a thrilling film experience you've already had.

And yet, as reluctant as we are to engage in such dismissive approaches, who cares? When the alchemy works so wonderfully, why pick nits? As long as Tarantino isn't being dismayingly obvious in his lifts -- a crime of which Reservoir Dogs was occasionally guilty -- they come in such rapid bursts (as in Kill Bill) or with such a dazzling degree of clever storytelling techniques (as in Pulp Fiction), the gentlemanly thing is not to notice. Sure, Quentin Tarantino is just a gifted rip-off artist. But he's so gifted, and his rip-offs are so amazingly successful, so exquisitely framed in new viewpoints and new contexts, and delivered in such a supremely confident and technically competent way, that he earns our indulgence the way a lesser filmmaker wouldn't. A Pulp Fiction with an original score might have had more integrity and originality, but it probably wouldn't have been as good. The key to Tarantino's genius, musically and as a filmmaker, isn't that he's showing us something we've never seen before; it's that he's showing it to us in a way we've never thought of, and making it seem new and exciting again. The greatness of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack isn't that he gathers together a bunch of songs we've never heard before, but that he's presenting them in such a way that we now inextricably associate them with the images he chose them to accompany. If this is a rip-off, let us make the most of it.

BEST TRACKS: The most memorable use of an extant song on the Pulp Fiction soundtrack is one of the most memorable in movie history: John Travolta's hitman and Uma Thurman's moll dance wildly and seductively to Chuck Berry's "You Never Can Tell." It's the purest distillation of Tarantino's genius for matching music to visual, surpassing even the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs, and it's so smashingly effective that it's entered our cultural vocabulary in half a dozen ways. But there's plenty of other treats to be had here, including Dusty Springfield's "Son of a Preacher Man", Al Green's "Let's Stay Together", a devastating use of "Jungle Boogie", and the weird, creepy ode to isolation, "Flowers on the Wall" by the otherwise sunshiney Statler Brothers. I've always found dialogue snippets on a soundtrack to be gimmicky and distracting, but there's plenty of them here for those that disagree. Worth seeking out is the collector's edition to the soundtrack, issued in 2002, which features a brief but generally enjoyable interview with Tarantino, and a handful of dynamite bonus tracks, including "Rumble" by proto-Dalean Link Wray & HIs Ray-Men, and "Out of Limits" by the Marketts, another surf classic.

Related Posts:

OST: Run Lola Run

OST: Fight Club

Mickey Rourke Gets Up Off the Canvas

Phil Nugent — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 15:00:00 GMT

As the opening of the New York Film Festival draws near and with it, the American premiere of Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler, Scott Foundas checks in with the movie's star, Mickey Rourke. Given the reception to Aronofsky's last movie, The Fountain, his new one (which won the Best Film prize at the recent Venice Film Festival) would qualify as a back-from-the-dead comeback even if it starred Michael Phelps, but the fact that it's a Mickey Rourke movie--the first time that Rourke has claimed the starring role in a full-length, non-multiple-story movie in many a moon--makes it even bigger news. Looking back to his early days, when he moved from Miami to New York with an itch to act, Rourke recalls, ""I wanted to be like Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, Chris Walken, and Harvey Keitel. I wanted to be a really great actor. And if I worked really, really fucking hard, maybe one day I could do that. And I worked really, really hard. I had no social life. I lived like a monk. For weeks on end, I slept on the couch at the Actors Studio, working on scenes nonstop." And when he followed up his scene-stealing small role as an arsonist named Teddy in Body Heat with his performance as the overgrown tomcat Boogie in the ensemble picture Diner, a lot of people were very impressed with his charisma, his seductiveness, his "look into my eyes" audience rapport, and his ability to overcome playing characters with really dopey names. Thinking back on what happened next, Rourke says, "I look at these guys like Matt Damon, George Clooney, Sean Penn—they're all very bright, educated guys who understand that it's a business and there's politics involved. I wasn't educated or aware enough. I thought I was so good I didn't have to play the game. And I was terribly wrong."

Here, as in his other post-crash interviews, Rourke is admirable in his insistence on blaming himself for screwing up his career. Still, talk of office politics can scarcely convey how weirdly Rourke began to handle himself, and to style himself, as soon as he began to get a little control over his movie roles. In such horndog entertainments as 9 1/2 Weeks and Wild Orchid, he seemed to be trying to prove that, given the right wardrobe, leading ladies, and exotic locales, even a Miami boy could qualify as Eurotrash. In Angel Heart and Barfly, he continued to bang away at his female co-stars like a screen door during a typhoon, while also demonstrating his "authenticity" as a manly Method actor by reporting to work looking as if he'd been tied to the back bumper of a jeep and dragged through a swamp. All this time, he was living far beyond his means and turning down roles in movies that might have made his status in Hollywood a lot sturdier. Meanwhile, stories about his unmanageable behavior on the set and the storm surrounding his on-again, off-again marriage to his Wild Orchid co-star Carre' Otis (who accused, and then non-accused him, of spousal abuse) were helping to turn him into a joke. Rourke dates the point of no return to his decision to co-star with Don Johnson in the 1991 Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man. The movie was a critically derided bomb, and for once Rourke, who had done it because he desperately needed the money, couldn't claim to have had any grand artistic hopes for the finished product. "They paid me a lot of money, and I went fuckin' bonkers because I sold out and I hated myself for it. Some kind of anger kicked off, about the fact that I'd put myself in a position to have to do that movie. The demons took over." Rourke's sense of shame over having done the kind of movie that most stars routinely laugh off drove him to abandon acting for several years and take up professional boxing, a sport he had practiced as an amateur back in the early seventies. (Although Rourke remains vague about his age, he must have been around forty when he climbed back into the ring.) Eventually he started shopping around for movie roles again, having concluded a physical testing that one hopes did more good for his soul than it did for his face. He was very funny as a self-pampering, sleazeball lawyer in Francis Ford Coppola's adaptation of the John Grisham thriller The Rainmaker. He worked a long time filming a good-sized role in Terrence Malick's The Thin Red Line, but sadly, his whole performance was edited out of the movie. He played the villain in the Tsui Hark film Double Team, which co-starred Jean Claude Van Damme and Dennis Rodman, but sadly, his performance stayed in the movie.

Rourke's real salvation came from fellow actors who, when they took their own turns directing movies, reached out to him as a worthy brother in need. In small roles as a bookie in Vincent Gallo's Buffalo 66, as a prison drag queen in Steve Buscemi's Animal Factory, and as a man who can't get past his daughter's murder in Sean Penn's The Pledge, Rourke was given the chance to demonstrate both his range and, especially in the Penn film, his daring willingness to go very deep emotionally while remaining handsomely in control of his effects as an actor. In 1994, Rourke had been too occupied with boxing to say yes when Quentin Tarantino invited him to play the Bruce Willis part in Pulp Fiction. Now, Tarntino's sidekick Robert Rodriguez cast him in a small role in Once Upon a Time in Mexico and then in a biggerm, showier (and CGI-augmented) one in Sin City, a movie whose most awesome special effect was Rourke's ability to make his presence felt through all that latex and computer trickery. But in the eyes of the suits, he was still unbankable and probably insurable.

But Aronofsky and his screenwriter, Robert D. Siegel, had planned The Wrestler with Rourke in mind, and when Rourke agreed to meet the director, Aronofsky gave him what sounds like one hell of a pep talk. As Rourke describes it, "He sits down, and for the first five minutes, he tells me how I fucked up my whole career for 15 years behaving like this, and I'm agreeing with everything. Yes, I did. That's why I haven't worked for 15 years, and I've been working real hard not to make those mistakes... He goes: 'You have to listen to everything I say. You have to do everything I tell you. You can never disrespect me. And you can't be hanging out at the clubs all night long. And I can't pay you.' And I'm thinking: 'This fucker must be talented, because he's got a lot of nerve to say that.' " But Aronofsky discovered that he couldn't get the movie funded without a big star, and when Rourke was told that he was going to be out of the picture, part of him was relieved, ""because I knew that Darren wanted me to revisit these dark places, these painful places." Then suddenly, he was back in again. If Rourke had any complaints about the resulting collaboration, he's keeping them to himself. "He knew how to push my buttons," he says of Aronofsky. "I do a take, and I nail it. I look over at Darren and I think: 'OK, we're moving on.' And he walks over to me and says: 'Do it better.' And you know what surprised me? I did it again, and I did it better. He knew that if he challenged me, that's what I wanted. A lot of people don't like that; me, I need it."

In Other Blogs: The Top 25 L.A. Movies

Scott Von Doviak — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 17:00:00 GMT

The L.A. Times recently published their list of the 25 Best L.A. Films of the Past 25 Years. Naturally, some of the choices proved controversial (a lot of folks have trouble with the selection of Jackie Brown over Pulp Fiction, for instance), but Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule thinks it’s a decent list. “There were only eight, perhaps nine instances where I felt like the choices could have been replaced, by another film in the director’s filmography, or by another similarly themed film, or just by another movie to replace one that just shouldn't be there at all. For example, I can certainly understand why Boogie Nights is on the list, but it’s ultimately too diffuse and far more conventional than its electric style would suggest. I much prefer P.T. Anderson’s Magnolia (1999), a high-wire act in which Anderson gets more directly in touch with his inner Altman and dashes all concerns over whether anyone’s having a good time or not, planting Old Testament visual clues that subliminally lay the groundwork for that shocking rain of frogs. (And speaking of Altman, while I'm not the biggest fan of The Player, I was far happier to see it representing the great director here rather than the dour and sour Short Cuts.)”

The Toronto International Film Festival kicked off yesterday, and Spoutblog has the scoop on the film Paris Hilton doesn’t want you to see. “Paris Hilton and her team have successfully pressured the Toronto International Film Festival into canceling all but one screening of Adria Petty’s Paris, Not France, a documentary about the celebrity heiress which ‘attempts to explore the Paris phenomenon and how it defines this moment in culture’ and is also ‘modeled after the 1960s it-girl film Darling.’ Though the film’s TIFF info page still lists three public screenings, TIFF documentary programmer Thom Powers confirmed to me that Paris will screen only once at the festival. ‘From my standpoint, of course, I wish we could do additional screenings,’ Powers told me in an email. ‘But this is certainly a better option than not showing the film at all.’… As Steven Zeitchik joked when he first blogged about this, ‘the mind dances at what kind of footage can be seen so newly shameful to Paris Hilton, the enfant teribles whose entire reputation is based on shamelesness.’”

Cinematical is also on the scene in Toronto, and they’ve had a look at The Brothers Bloom. “Long awaited in the wake of his 2005 debut Brick, Rian Johnson's The Brothers Bloom is a magic trick of a film; the second it's over, you want to see it again so you can try to catch how you were tricked, but you also want to see it again so you can return to the joy and wonder of being wrapped up in the nimble, deck-shuffling hands of a born showman. Watching it at first, some of The Brothers Bloom's creative and thematic elements seem like they're on loan from Paul Thomas Anderson (opening narration by Ricky Jay, pop-whiz-bang camera work, the troubled-but-tender relationship between the two brothers) while others feel as if they've been cribbed from Wes Anderson (deadpan confessions, whimsical set design, a parallel-universe setting where people still travel to Europe by steamship). The truth is, as much as The Brothers Bloom may feel like it's cribbing from other films at first, this is Rian Johnson's movie, and even if my more dreary and discerning critical faculties told me the final act goes on, perhaps, a beat too long, my inner moviegoer was sitting bolt upright, smiling, bright-eyed and carried away.”

At Some Came Running, Glenn Kenny makes an interesting connection between Road House and a David Lynch movie. No, not that Road House. “The terrifying physical contrast between the behemoth and a very delicate woman brought to mind a scene from David Lynch's under-appreciated (to my mind, at least) 1992 Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me. This scene, too, is set in a roadhouse of sorts—the back room of the Bang Bang Bar, which actually, if one line of dialogue is to be believed, is located on the Canadian side of the Canada/U.S. border the structure sits on. As it happens, the road house of Negulsco's film is located near the Canadian border; this turns into a significant plot point once Lily and Pete are trying to escape from the psychotic Jefty, played by Richard Widmark with his then-trademark tetchy intensity… I wonder if Lynch had ever seen Negulsco's film. Some shards of it, it seems, lodged their way into the world of Twin Peaks. The road house as portrayed in the '48 picture is a piece of bygone mid-century Americana that I've always found fascinating—it looks way fun. It's got a bar, a restaurant, a sporting-goods store, and a bowling alley!”

And in List-o-Mania this week, Geekdad weighs in with 10 Movies Needing a Muppet Remake. This guy has put way too much thought into this. “Casablanca - The initial temptation is to cast Kermit as Rick, but I think Kermit is better as the utterly noble Victor Laszlo, with Miss Piggy as Ilsa by his side. Gonzo is much better as Rick, with his internal, and external, conflict between love, revenge, and the right thing to do. Rowlf is Sam, for who else could be? Captain Renault is a tough part to play, but I think Fozzie has the right cavalier attitude for the role.”

Tom Cruise Still Creepy, Still Not Funny

Scott Von Doviak — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 00:00:00 GMT

Aside from the controversies over Robert Downey, Jr. in blackface and the use of the word "retard," the big pre-release buzz about Tropic Thunder had Tom Cruise revitalizing both his career and his public image with his hilarious turn as foul-mouthed studio mogul Les Grossman. That said buzz originated with Team Cruise has never been doubted by me, but the entertainment media has been only too happy to nudge it along. It's good for business, after all; everyone loves a redemption story, particularly one that humanizes what has been a cold, calculating persona for some time. Tom Cruise with a paunch and bald wig? He has no vanity! He's ready to let loose and have some fun! He really doesn't take himself so seriously after all. That's the narrative we've had rammed down our throats, but is there any truth to it? Let's find out after the jump, but be warned, minor Tropic Thunder spoilers may ensue.

So here's the deal: Cruise has maybe ten minutes of screen time as bald, bearded, bespectacled blowhard Grossman. Despite the prosthetics, which include huge hairy forearms as well as the chrome dome and pronounced (but not too pronounced) belly, Cruise does not exactly disappear into the role - he's recognizably Cruise all the way. The nose knows, and besides, he doesn't even do a voice. Conveniently, for him as well as the movie's marketing team, he gets to have it both ways. He's having fun and doing an "outrageous" character, but there's never a moment we feel like we're watching an outrageous character - it's clearly Tom Cruise Industries up there on the screen.

In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd think director, co-writer and co-star Ben Stiller was having a little fun at Cruise's expense. After all, right here in the same movie we have Robert Downey, Jr. as a pompous, self-absorbed genius actor who undergoes an experimental process to appear African-American in the movie-within-the-movie. (Of course, since Downey actually is a talented actor, he disappears into both the role of Australian thespian Kirk Lazarus and that of platoon sergeant Osirus.) And we also have Jack Black as a desperate comic actor who dons a variety of fakey prosthetics for his multiple roles in The Fatties, Fart 2.

The joke is on somebody here, but I don't think it's Cruise, since he's buddies with Stiller, who actually thinks Cruise is funny - or at least that's what he told Entertainment Weekly. Unless I'm forgetting something, the last time Cruise made me laugh since Risky Business was his Scientology recruitment video leaked onto YouTube earlier this year - and that was the sort of nervous laughter I usually reserve for Charles Manson interviews. By my count, Cruise is the 12th funniest person in the movie, behind Downey, Stiller, Black, Danny McBride, Steve Coogan, Brandon T. Jackson, Bill Hader, Jay Baruchel, Matthew McConaughey, a kid playing a Vietnamese heroin mule, and even Nick Nolte, not generally regarded as one of our foremost humorists.

Cruise dances in character over the end credits, and we are reminded of Hollywood's second most famous Scientologist, John Travolta, and how his career revival in Pulp Fiction included a dance scene that echoed fond memories of Grease and Saturday Night Fever. Here I guess we're supposed to flash back to Cruise dancing in his underwear in Risky Business and remember why we used to love him. Honestly, I was more creeped out than amused. How hard would it have been for Stiller to find an actual bald, hairy fat fuck for this role? Jon Polito would have killed, or James Gandolfini. I mean, wasn't that the point of the Downey character - that it's probably a good idea to hire an actual black actor than an Australian in blackface? Instead it's just the latest chapter in the Tom Cruise psychodrama - the extended version of jumping on Oprah's couch.

Related:
Tom Cruise Parodies Someone Else for a Change
Citizen Cruise

Forgotten Films: "Mad Dog Time" (1996)

Phil Nugent — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 17:00:00 GMT

Having had a versatile, many-sided career does have its down side: when Isaac Hayes died last Sunday, it quickly became a hipster punch line that mainstream obituaries often referred to him as "perhaps best known" for his role as Chef on South Park. Hayes was well-known for a great many very different things, and Chef happened to have been the most recent of these. Then there are people like Larry Bishop, who are not especially well-known at all for anything, but have a number of things for which they may be sort of semi-recognizable: add them all up, and it kind of equals minor celebrity. For example, you might trigger a faint recognition in people who are well-versed in Rat Pack mythology by noting that Bishop is the son of the late comedian Joey Bishop. Experts in Hollywood dynasties may care for all of two seconds that he once performed comedy with Rob Reiner at a time when the director of Misery was himself best known as Carl's kid. And bad-movie junkies of a certain stripe may find it in themselves to think it worth knowing that, in the late '60s and early '70s, he appeared in such pictures as The Savage Seven, The Devil's 8, Angel Unchained, and Chrome and Hot Leather. It was these credits that helped convince Quentin Tarantino (who cast Bishop as Michael Madsen's grouchy boss at the strip club in Kill Bill, Vol. 2) that, as a writer-director-star, he had a great motorcycle movie in him. Tarantino served as executive producer on the years-in-the-making Hell Ride, which reunites Bishop with Madsen, and which Tarantino believes it was Bishop's "destiny" to make. Anyone who's seen Tarantino's performance in Destiny Turns on the Radio, which established that our boy QT should be prevented, by federal law if necessary, from throwing around the "D" word, can guess at how well that's turned out.

If Bishop and Tarantino are soul mates of a sort, it's because they share a knack for throwing together ready made slogans and catch phrases and parts of old movies and kinky twists on the same, and getting an incredible number of cool people to come together to act out their fantasies. In his best work, QT has been able to shape these raw materials in such a way that the kick he gets out of them is transferred directly to the audience. In Bishop's only work as a director--Hell Ride and its predecessor, the 1996 gangster fantasia Mad Dog Time--the results tend to be an inert mess, interesting chiefly for the challenging aesthetic questions it raises, such as What was he thinking? and How hid he get this cast? The best answer to the second question probably has something to do with how many favors a man can get owed in the course of a thirty-year career in which he's done everything from episodes of I Dream of Jeannie and Love, American Style to such oddities as the William Castle-Marcel Marceau collaboration Shanks.

Mad Dog Time is set in some weird gangland society where everybody is a mobster or a moll and all the characters spend their time entertaining each other with weird acting exercises and showy turns--it's as they were trapped at an improv comedy club in Hell--while plotting their next bloody move up the ladder. (There's a palpable '50s-Vegas vibe to the decor, which may be an in-joke on Bishop's lineage.) Richard Dreyfuss, whose 1978 starring vehicle and pet project The Big Fix featured Bishop in a supporting role, is the nominal head of the mob, Vic, who, making his entrance wearing a bathrobe over his PJs, has just returned from a stint in the nut house, where it was probably quieter. The other people who appear here doing things that they probably would have thought twice about if they'd known that Larry was going to be able to get the film developed include Jeff Goldblum, Kyle MacLachlan, Ellen Barkin, Gabriel Byrne, Diane Lane, Burt Reynolds, Billy Idol, Michael J. Pollard, Henry Silva, Gregory Hines, Billy Drago, Angie Everhart, Paul Anka, and a sick, callously exploited Richard Pryor. For hardcore devotees of movie character actors, the prize catch was Christopher Jones, whose work in such movies as the 1968 Wild in the Streets (in which Bishop played a bassist with a hook for a hand) and Three in the Attic earned him a reputation as a James Dean a the new age. But Jones, high-strung and drug-damaged, quit acting after finishing his work as the romantic lead in the troubled David Lean production Ryan's Daughter (1970). Tarantino, who offered him a role in Pulp Fiction, was unable to lure him out of the shadows, but Bishop was able to get him to drop by the set just long enough to play a sneering supposedly fearsome assassin whose bite turns out to be worse than his bark. As Tarantino himself pointed out, Jones "really doesn't have a character to play", but he still had the old charisma to go with his creepy, walking-death's-head look, and in this, his only movie appearance in the past twenty-eight years, he makes enough of an impression to make you wish that Bishop had used whatever line it took to get him to come out and play to persuade him to work for someone who might have been able to construct a real movie around him. Larry Bishop isn't the most obnoxious hustler who's ever rolled down Santa Monica Boulevard with show business in his DNA and a pile of I.O.U.s in his glove compartment, but I suspect that if it were his really his destiny to make the kinds of movies he's been trying to make--if he really knew how and it were in his blood--he'd have tried making them before Tarantino showed up and took out a patent on them. It may be that Tarantino's patronage of Bishop is really based on Tarantino feeling touched that one of the people he grew up watching in all kinds of trash is actually now trying to imitate him.

Thursday Morning Poll for July 31, 2008

Paul Clark — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 14:00:00 GMT

On the heels of Quentin Tarantino’s recently announced Inglorious Bastards, we polled Screengrab readers about their favorite QT project to date. As expected, the favorite among our readers was his much feted 1994 Palme d’Or winner and Oscar nominee, Pulp Fiction. With 45% of the vote, Pulp bested all comers, with the second-place finisher, the Kill Bill saga, pulling in 27%, followed by a tie between Reservoir Dogs and Jackie Brown. Alas, no one went to the mat for Death Proof, which came across as second-tier QT to most fans and a summation of everything that rankled his detractors. Here’s hoping Bastards finds him at the top of his game again.

This week, we take on the Dark Knight hype, which has become more or less inescapable. As with many a pop culture phenomenon nowadays, Dark Knight fever caught on like wildfire, emerging atop the IMDb Top 250 Movies list by the end of its opening weekend. Then, just as quickly, the backlash began. Not even two weeks into its release, it seems like everyone around the blogosphere has an opinion on the movie, not to mention the hype. So, where do you stand?

Which most accurately describes your opinion of THE DARK KNIGHT? | BuzzDash

As always, the comments section is open. See you next week!

Yesterday's Hits: Forrest Gump (1994, Robert Zemeckis)

Paul Clark — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 19:00:00 GMT

What made Forrest Gump a hit?: A number of factors that played a significant role in making Forrest Gump a success. To begin with, there was the storyline, which placed a Pilgrim’s Progress-style narrative in the context of the second half of the twentieth century. Forrest (played by Tom Hanks) meets many of the most significant people of the fifties, sixties, and seventies, while bearing witness to or even playing a part in a number of important events from the same period, all the while acting like it’s no big deal. And not only does he survive the journey, but he becomes an unlikely success, armed with only the sage words of his Mama (Sally Field), his undying love for Jenny (Robin Wright), and his own good nature.

In his re-creation of recent historical events, director Robert Zemeckis combined cutting-edge effects with good old-fashioned nostalgia, giving the audience a chance to see a fictional character interact onscreen with such key figures as John F. Kennedy, Richard Nixon, and John Lennon, instead of having actors portray them. In addition, the storyline combined a sincere celebration of hearth-and-home values with the ironic touch of making its uncannily lucky protagonist a simpleton with an IQ of 75. Forrest Gump became a monster word-of-mouth hit due to these factors as well as the iconic performance of Hanks, a well-liked (and Oscar-winning) actor who cemented his status as Hollywood’s favorite Everyman with this film. It was the #1 hit of 1994 and took home six Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Director, plus a second consecutive Best Actor statue for Hanks.

What happened?: As is often the case when a movie becomes a surprise smash, Hollywood took the Gump brand and rammed it down the throats of America. Soon after the film became a hit, Paramount commissioned a volume entitled Gumpisms: The Wit and Wisdom of Forrest Gump, which basically consisted of folksy quotations from the film. Other tie-ins soon followed- posters, cookbooks, even a chain of Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. restaurants. Eventually, the majority of people were more or less Gump-ed out.

In addition, the fall of 1994 brought the year’s other big word-of-mouth hit, Pulp Fiction. Tarantino’s film was as cool and edgy as Gump was warm and fuzzy, and the two were quickly positioned as pop-culture polar opposites. While this assessment is somewhat unfair to both films- even Tarantino acknowledged as much- Pulp quickly came to symbolize the future of movies, while Gump was the establishment. Even today, Pulp’s critical rep remains intact, while Gump’s has fallen quite a bit- witness the former’s #1 status atop EW’s recent “New Classics” list, while the latter failed to crack the top 100.

Does Forrest Gump still work?: Sort of, although it’s not without its problems. The combination of sentiment and irony that Zemeckis tries to pull off here is a tricky one, and I don’t quite think he succeeds. There’s no small irony in Forrest’s situation- in a tricky time, he becomes a success largely because he doesn’t know any better than to live according to his nature. He doesn’t know better than to do as he’s told and be loyal to those closest to him, which helps him to become a star football player, a war hero, a table tennis champion, a successful shrimp boat captain, and a philanthropist, all with an intelligence level that wouldn’t have allowed him to enroll in public school without the (ahem) intervention of his Mama.

The trouble is that the irony of the situation only really works if we believe Forrest is slow-witted, and I never quite did. The trouble has less to do with Hanks’ performance as it does with the literal nature of film. On the page, Winston Groom sketched out the character of Forrest using only language, and despite the book’s numerous other flaws, we believed its hero was an idiot. Not so in the film. Hanks does a fine job with the role as written, but too much intelligence flickers behind his eyes for us to believe he’s as simple as the film says he is. In addition, screenwriter Eric Roth often falls back on impeccably written monologues to allow Forrest to express his deeper feelings, a tendency which runs contrary to the character’s nature. Such soliloquies would require no small amount of thought, and if there’s one thing Forrest Gump isn’t, it’s a thinker.

When viewing the film again recently, I also found the film’s treatment of Jenny to be fairly ugly. Forrest Gump uses Jenny as a counterpoint to Forrest, a woman whose background is considerably more unfortunate than Forrest’s. Unlike Forrest, Jenny is intelligent enough to think for herself, but the choices she makes for herself- posing for Playboy, shacking up with the leader of the SDS at Berkeley, getting into drugs- invariably get her into trouble, and time and again Forrest has to bail her out. This just doesn’t sit well with me- Forrest coasts on the tide of fate and is rewarded by meeting three presidents, seeing the world, and becoming independently wealthy, while Jenny uses her free will to get kicked out of college, abused by her revolutionary boyfriend, and turn into a junkie, before rebounding in time to die of a mysterious “virus”? I’m not sure whether this counts as misogynistic or simply anti-thought, but either way, I don’t like it much.

There are a few other elements that didn’t work for me. That extended sequence of Forrest running back and forth across the country serves little discernible purpose besides giving us picture-postcard shots of the American landscape, throwing a couple of nostalgia jokes into the story, and filling up a few years of Forrest’s life before Jenny calls again. And I became annoyed with the film’s tendency to use the most obvious soundtrack choices, especially during the scenes set in the late sixties. “Fortunate Son”? “San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers In Your Hair)”? “Let’s Get Together”? Check, check, and check.

In spite of these flaws, much of Forrest Gump remains quite effective, beginning with Zemeckis’ use of special effects. Much was made at the time of the way the film placed Forrest into old newsreel footage, but while those effects have grown dated, other instances of CGI in the film are far more impressive. The most obvious example of this is the still-convincing removal of Lt. Dan’s legs, aided in no small part by Gary Sinise’s performance. But even in less obvious special effects scenes- the football games, the demonstration in Washington, D.C.- Forrest Gump remains a standard-bearer for photo-realistic CGI, which is a testament to Zemeckis and his effects teams’ attention to detail.

But in the end, it’s the human element that’s the heart of Forrest Gump. I’ve always been a fan of the way the film handles the complex dynamic between Forrest and Lt. Dan, as well as how their relationship between the two men evolves over time. I also found the simplicity of the friendship between Forrest and Bubba (Mykelti Williamson) to be surprisingly touching. And on the occasions when the screenplay gives Forrest dialogue that actually sounds like it might come out of the mouth of a man with a 75 IQ (rather than a screenwriter who’s trying to “write dumb”), Hanks’ performance is deserving of the love that was bestowed on it at the time. I especially liked the following exchange between Jenny and Forrest, which does a better job of getting to the heart of Forrest’s character than any Oscar-friendly monologue ever could:

Jenny: Why are you always so good to me, Forrest?
Forrest: You’re my girl!

America The Dissonant: Seven Movies That Send Mixed Messages About U.S.

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 20:15:00 GMT

Last week, because it was the 4th of July and because we’re such red-blooded, flag-lapel-pin-wearing patriots, we here at the Screengrab celebrated some of our all-time favorite Pro-America movies. And the week before that, because we’re also dirty rotten elitist commie pinkos, we focused on movies that dared to criticize the American Empire. And now, to complete our nationalist trifecta, we examine a third type of film: movies that are designed to make the U.S. look kick-ass, but actually wind up making us look kinda lame-ass.

THE PATRIOT (2000)

That great American Roland Emmerich first treated us to his overblown brand of Fourth of July fireworks in Independence Day, but that little-seen arthouse curiosity is covered later in the list. In The Patriot, Emmerich jumps back in time a couple hundred years to show us the true meaning of Independence Day. Which is, of course, the kicking of major British ass. Mel Gibson plays a wealthy southern landowner with no slaves who goes all Mad Max 1776 when the redcoats burn down his house and kill various members of his family. Arming his two youngest boys with rifles and himself with as many guns, knives and hatchets as he can carry, Gibson sets out to liberate his oldest son from the Brits who have seized him. The ensuing slaughter is shockingly savage for a summer popcorn flick, and for a moment you think the movie might actually be interested in exploring some areas of moral ambiguity. The moment passes. Emmerich isn't interested in any of the actual root causes of the Revolution; this world-changing event serves as mere window-dressing for a routine revenge thriller – an excuse for some flag-waving rah-rah to jack up the stakes and make The Patriot seem like it's about something.

COBRA (1986)

A perennial plank in every political campaign is law & order; no matter how low the statistics actually get, voters rank crime as one of their top concerns in every public opinion poll. Unfortunately, the law & order platform usually has an ugly side, and this movie couldn’t have been a more jaw-dropping cautionary tale about the dangers of a brutally empowered police force if it was actually trying to be. In 1986, post-Rambo and at the peak of his popularity, Sylvester Stallone starred in and wrote the screenplay to Cobra, in which he played the black-clad, submachinegun-toting police officer Marion Cobretti, opposing a shadowy outfit called the New Order, who you might think wanted to play gloomy, depressing post-punk songs at everyone in America, but in fact were even worse: they wanted to overthrow democracy and institute the rule of the strong over the weak. Deciding to beat them at their own game, Cobretti simply cruises around Los Angeles, dressed like a gay Nazi biker and, dispensing with democratic fripperies like due process and prohibitions against cruelty, simply massacres every criminal unlucky enough to wander into his sights. Torturing, burning, gutting, and gunning down dozens of people throughout the course of the movie, Stallone managed to alienate even some of his die-hard fans: while the movie made decent money and temporarily knocked Top Gun out of the #1 slot, a decent number of filmgoers as well as critics found its vision of law & order America as a place where the cops acted as little more than roving death squads pretty repugnant.

APOCALYPSE NOW (1979)

Francis Ford Coppola, debuting Apocalypse Now at the Cannes Film Festival, famously said, “My film is not about Vietnam; it is Vietnam.” And like Vietnam, it is something too sprawling, too massive, too chaotic and complicated to be assessed in a few simple sentences. At turns it seems heartily pro-war and virulently anti-war; it conveys the insanity of the entire interventionist approach while still seeming to lay the blame on soft, coddled grunts and incompetent civilians. This inherent contradiction isn’t just circumstantial: it arises from the fundamental clash of worldviews between the director and the screenwriter. John Milius, the writer of the original script, meant it to be simultaneously a rebuke to what he perceived as the weakness and unrealistic expectations of anti-war protestors and a celebration of the virtues of the warrior spirit. Much of this approach survives in the finished film, especially in the diffident portrayal of Colonel Kurtz, who at times seems more heroic than insane. Meanwhile, director Francis Ford Coppola meant for Apocalypse Now to be a straightforward adaptation of Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness”, with American anti-Communism taking the place of Belgian colonialism and Kurtz portrayed as a murderous madman. In the end, the movie, meant by one of its creators to be a celebration of the American intervention in Vietnam and another to be a condemnation of same, attains a terrifyingly uneasy balance between the two. After the torturous production of the movie had finished, Coppola said, “We had access to too much money, too much equipment, and little by little we went insane.” Much the same could be said about America in Vietnam.

RED DAWN (1984)

And speaking of John Milius...the aforementioned screenwriter directed this Reagan-era blood-wet dream (based on a story co-written with Kevin Reynolds) about a Russian invasion of Middle America (or, as many conservatives prefer to think of it, America), complete with terrifying imagery of the Golden Arches obscured by Soviet paratroopers...oh, the humanity! How evil are Milius’ commies? So evil that, shortly after landing in a field outside a high school in Calumet, Colorado, their very first order of business is to machine-gun an unarmed black teacher (nice touch, John) who wanders outside to see what’s going on. Because, y’know, that’s how commies roll: no algebra for you, capitalist pig-dogs! Forget attacking military bases or other strategic targets: this U.S.S.R. knows the best way to cripple Yankee morale is to cut off our access to fast food and varsity sports! Fortunately, the popular jocks of Calumet High know where to find guns and ammo in bulk, and before you can say “Second Amendment,” their one-time football team, the Wolverines, has transformed into a crack guerilla group of...um...insurgents, willing to engage in extreme acts of ultra-violence to drive the foreign superpower from their land. Probably best not to think too deeply about how the story would be different if the town under siege were, say, Tikrit, or if the Colorado teenagers with easy access to automatic weapons were nerds instead of jocks and the high school was in neighboring Columbine. In Milius’ world, the good guys are joyless, soulless killing machines, the bad guys are joyless, soulless killing machines in different uniforms (and, thus, bad) and violence is the only answer. WOLVERINES!!!!!!

THE CAINE MUTINY (1954)

The film adaptation of Herman Wouk’s wildly popular 1951 novel The Caine Mutiny was a mess. Wouk had been contracted to write the screenplay himself, but was fired after turning in a script that was over four hours long; difficulties in casting plagued the production, which also went highly overbudget; and director Edward Dmytryk felt that Columbia Pictures kept too tight a rein on him and didn’t let him make the movie he wanted to make. In addition, there was a great deal of political pressure on the production; in order to secure the Navy’s cooperation in making the picture, the studio had given all sorts of assurances that no one would be made to look bad, and with anti-Communist fever sweeping Hollywood and the American public much less certain about the Korean War than it had been about WWII, everyone was walking on glass to make sure the story, about a mutiny aboard a minesweeping ship commanded by the unstable, paranoid Captain Queeg, didn’t come across as too anti-military. All of these factors and more contributed to the uncomfortable ending of the film: after the mutineers are acquitted by a court-martial tribunal following a dramatic meltdown on the stand by Queeg himself, their defense attorney turns on them, calling them goldbrickers, cowards and gutless wonders. He saves most of his rancor for the cynical intellectual Lt. Keefer, who he accuses of having masterminded the entire situation just because he thought he was smarter than everyone else. The whole thing ends up ringing rather hollow, both dramatically and philosophically, and defuses the rest of the movie’s far more interesting conflict (one’s duty in wartime balanced against the malfeasance of one’s commanding officer) for a simple-minded pasty, sneaky egghead vs. upstanding macho man one. For a movie that sets itself the task of questioning the meaning of honor and duty to end up claiming it’s better to follow a deranged lunatic into battle than listen to some smart-ass college boy does no service to the military tradition it goes to such lengths to protect.

INDEPENDENCE DAY (1996)

Appropriately enough, I first saw this movie on July 4th weekend, in Atlanta, Georgia, where I was killing time waiting for the Olympic Village to be finished. There wasn't much to do, so to get out of the heat until the Braves game started, I ducked into a theater that was screening this Roland Emmerich atrocity. What stuck with me over the years isn't so much its incompetence or its bombast – it's really no worse than any number of other alien-invasion flicks, and it's been outdone dozens of times since then in sheer alienating volume – but its coldhearted determination to ruthlessly exploit every noxious Hollywood stereotype in existence. In a movie which purports to be patriotic, from its name right down to its 'fightin' president' character, it instead turns out to be jingoistic, as the nations of the world are helpless to do a thing against marauding extraterrestrials until the good-hearted Yanks do what they've done since the Great War: pull their foreign fat out of the fire. Aside from the horrendous stereotypes embodied in the main cast (including Will Smith as a wisecracking fighter pilot, Randy Quaid as a crazy kook no one believes, Vivica Fox as a hooker with a heart of gold, Margaret Colin as a bitchy career woman, Brent Spiner as a misguided intellectual, Harvey Fierstein as a mincing queen, and Judd Hirsch as a Jewish caricature so odiferous its only competition comes from Julius Streicher cartoons), there's also the astonishing montages that occur when the alien motherships are disabled: African tribesmen hoot and holler, waving spears (!) around and looking as if they accidentally left home without the bones in their noses, and gibberish-spouting, kaffiyeh-clad Arabs ululating mindlessly, unable to even make themselves understood until a helpful white man gets on the blower to explain the situation to his American brethren. What purports to be a feel-good action blockbuster, more than ten years later, now plays like a cartoon of the invincible ignorance of American foreign policy.

FORREST GUMP (1994)

In the Year of Our Lord 1994, there was no middle ground in America: you were either Pro-Gump or Pulp-ist. You either looked at life as a box of chocolates or as an overpriced Martin & Lewis milkshake. And if you were the kind of gal who dressed as Mrs. Mia Wallace with a hypo full of adrenalin sticking out of your breastplate or the kind of guy who dressed like Jules or Vincent in a skinny tie and black suit jacket that year for Halloween, then you probably weren’t all that surprised when the groundbreaking instant classic Pulp Fiction lost the Best Picture Oscar to the revisionist history of the sixties and seventies where all the peace-loving hippies were fools and dupes who never accomplished anything but their own self-destruction and the good-natured dimwit who accepts the status quo at face value is rewarded with happiness and, of course, obscene wealth. Unlike Being There, which used Peter Sellers’ blank-slate gardener, Chance, to satirize the willful, self-reflexive gullibility of the American people, Robert Zemeckis’ insidiously reactionary comedy pretends to celebrate simple American values while actually championing the type of anti-intellectual, head-in-the-sand, cross-your-fingers-and-hope-you-win-the-lottery malaise that led to eight years of the recent Voldemort administration and (egad) the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company.

Contributors: Andrew Osborne, Scott Von Doviak, Leonard Pierce

Related Stories: America The Critical: 15 Movies That Show What's Wrong With U.S., America the Beautiful: 15 Movies That Show What's Right With U.S.

Thursday Morning Poll for July 3, 2008

Paul Clark — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 14:00:00 GMT

It took almost three months, but it’s finally happened- it’s a tie! When polled about their favorite of Entertainment Weekly’s Top 5 Movies of the last 25 years, Screengrab voters overwhelmingly chose the critics’ favorites over the crowd-pleasers. After a tight race, it was Blue Velvet (my pick) and Pulp Fiction in a dead heat, garnering between them all but two of the votes, which were claimed by the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Even with the release of WALL*E, it appears that Pixar’s inaugural feature Toy Story couldn’t get any love, and the Titanic reassessment is just going to have to wait until next year’s release of Jim Cameron’s Avatar.

Just in time for the holiday weekend, we’re getting’ jiggy with Mr. July 4th himself, Will Smith. After years of non-Independence Day releases, Smith returns to the weekend that made him a superstar to reclaim his throne. To commemorate the occasion, we’re polling you- our loyal readers- for your favorite of his movies released on the weekend of or preceding July 4, which rules out such later-July releases as I, Robot and Bad Boys II. Sorry, Nick Frost.

As always, the comments section is open for you to sound off on your thoughts. I’m especially curious to hear from anyone who would defend Wild Wild West because, I mean, come on.

In Other Blogs: Defending the New Classics

Scott Von Doviak — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 15:00:00 GMT

Earlier this week, our own Paul Clark took a few well-deserved shots at Entertainment Weekly’s list of 100 New Classics. At Some Came Running, Glenn Kenny offers up a (weak) defense. “Let's begin with a fundamental fact: lists are bullshit. Lists are such blatant bullshit that any magazine person will admit to you that they're bullshit. Some might need to have had a couple of drinks first, others might be more effectively cajoled by having you complain for the millionth time in the course of a conversation about how your own favorite cultural artifact was left off some list or another, but they'll admit it… ‘Glenn,’ I hear you asking, ‘if lists are such bullshit, why do magazines and websites do them almost all the frickin' time?’ Well, because lists are putatively ‘fun.’ People notice them, argue about them. They take them fairly seriously, pretty much regardless of what their sources are...oddly enough. For a magazine in particular, a list is a potential goldmine of publicity. It gets your product noticed. TV news, radio outlets, they LOVE lists.” As list-lovers ourselves, we can’t argue with this – our weekly top 10 (or 15 or 20) offerings are inevitably our most popular posts, and just as inevitably attract the most “Hey bozos, you forgot Ernest Scared Stupid!” type comments. Heck, that’s why we do ’em! Try as we might, though, we can’t actually find the part where Kenny defends the EW list. Maybe it’s in code.

At Scanners, Jim Emerson offers his own take on the list. “From the last quarter century, EW chose Pulp Fiction as its #1 classic, calling it ‘a time-warping, mind-bending work of movie-mad genius.... Its revolutionary structure (John Travolta dies... then lives!) opened a new universe of mainstream storytelling, but the eternal joy of Pulp Fiction is that it recast the future of movies by living, so thrillingly, in the moment." I can't really argue with that, though it doesn't take into consideration what I see as the movie's flaws (I hate all the chewy, self-consciously pop-aware dialog), its negative influences (we're still suffering the ‘Tarantinian’ fallout from wannabes far less talented than QT), and its overemphasized novelty (the structure wasn't really revolutionary -- it just didn't tell you the order in which its chapters were arranged, so you could be surprised to recounter characters in an unforseen context). But I'm not going to begrudge Pulp Fiction the top slot…No, the bizarre choices on the list for me (in addition to several of the ones cited in the third paragraph above) include Moulin Rouge (#10), Pretty Woman (#37), Gladiator (#43), Rain Man (#45), Dirty Dancing (#65), All About My Mother (#69), Thelma & Louise (#72)... but I detect my own gender bias in the selection. Some of these were hits, some of them won Oscars, some had star-making performances (Julia Roberts, Patrick Swayze, Brad Pitt)... but, even if you liked 'em at the time, do you feel like watching them anymore?”

At Beyond the Multiplex, Andrew O’Hehir warns that the indie film is dying – unless it isn’t. “Even as the potential moviegoing public has become distracted by an explosion of electronic options and devices unimagined a generation ago, the marketplace has been swamped by a poisonous glut of new movies. As Gill explains, in 1993, the Sundance Film Festival received roughly 500 submissions. For 2008, that number had swollen to more than 5,000. The reasons for that are various: The cost of producing a small-budget motion picture has fallen sharply in the digital age, and the success of a handful of indies in the late '90s and early 2000s drew investors large and small to pour countless billions of dollars into filmmaking. It hasn't turned out to be a sensible investment. Gill calculates the odds of losing all your money on an independent film at 99.95 percent. Most of those 5,000 movies, in his words, are ‘pre-ordained flops,’ made by people ‘who forgot that their odds would have been better if they'd converted their money into quarters and taken the all-night party bus to Vegas’… Then there's the fact that while enthusiasm, access to technology and an eagerness to become famous may be widespread, talent and craftsmanship are not. As anybody who's ever served on a film-festival selection committee learns the hard way, most of those movies should never have been made in the first place and definitely should not be inflicted upon the public. There has indeed been an explosion of ultra-low-budget filmmaking -- just try to wade through the self-produced movies available on YouTube -- but so far it has not revealed a nation full of unheralded Orson Welleses in embryo.”

And finally, speaking of “lists are bullshit,” this week’s List-o-Mania entry comes from the MuchMusic blog: it’s allegedly the Top 10 Music Moments in Movies. I know it’s hard to argue with a list containing both Adventures in Babysitting and Napoleon Dynamite, but really – the Wayne’s World "Bohemian Rhapsody" sing-along is the greatest music moment in movie history? Not.

Related:
EW Makes Great Movies List, Screengrab Points, Laughs
EW Makes List of Vile Villains, Isn't as Cool as Screengrab Lists

EW Makes Great-Movies List; Screengrab Points, Laughs

Paul Clark — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 19:00:00 GMT

With last week blessedly free of celebrities getting knocked up and/or being caught without underwear, Entertainment Weekly has seized upon this fallow period in entertainment news to unveil yet another list for your perusal. In this week’s double issue, EW’s writing staff unveiled their lists of “The New Classics” in a number of media, including their top 100 movies of the last quarter century. There were a few pleasant surprises- like #4 pick Blue Velvet making its second prominent appearance on a high-profile list in less than a week (after the latest AFI special)- and you can't really argue with Pulp Fiction at #1, but many of the choices left something to be desired. Put it another way- if you know both jack and shit about cinema, EW’s list is bound to feel pretty unsatisfactory, with a whopping six foreign-language films and two documentaries out of 100.

Of course, the makers of such lists are always prone to stating that their goal is to “stir up debate.” So in the proud Screengrab tradition of speaking truth (or at least strongly-worded fibs) to power, I’d like to go on record to state that a number of masterpieces of the past 25 years were ignominiously robbed in order to make way for the likes of Pretty Woman. On top of that, a few of the movies that made the list were so unceremoniously- and undeservingly- buried near the bottom that their inclusion is arguably even more of a disgrace when you consider the titles that outrank them. In keeping with EW’s format, I’ve kept the artsy-fartsy to a minimum- no shorts, no avant-garde, no mentions of Peter Watkins. Instead I’ve selected five pretty accessible movies (including a foreign-language pick) and one classic that deserved far better than EW wanted to give it.

But first, a note to EW’s webmaster: your online feature on the 26 greatest movie posters doesn’t want to scroll over to the poster for The Limey. Please fix this immediately. Thank you.

Now, my alternate selections, in no particular order:

The New World- to my eyes, the finest American film of the last 25 years. Should have qualified just by being one of the most beautiful films ever made, but there’s more to Terence Malick’s masterpiece than gorgeous cinematography and panoramic shots of nature. Malick’s re-creation of the founding of Virginia and the resulting “settlement” of the land is always completely convincing, transporting the viewer into the lifestyle (and mindsets) of the time in a way few period pieces can manage. But it’s also a heartrending love story of a particularly mature kind, as Pocahontas (the glowing Q’Orianka Kilcher) must learn to let go of her childish love in order to find sustainable happiness with another. The New World is a marvel, and I expect that we’ll be seeing it on plenty of lists in the decades to come.

Naked- Now, I can kind of understand leaving Malick off your list, since the guy’s only made two movies during the eligible period. But what’s your excuse when it comes to Mike Leigh? Even the Academy has caught on to Leigh’s greatness- witness the bevy of nominations for Secrets and Lies, Topsy-Turvy and Vera Drake- but for my money his best work to date is still Naked. Of course, it’s something of a bitter pill to swallow, with an almost painfully bleak view of human nature. And in the middle of it all is David Thewlis, giving one of the all-time great performances, as the compulsively verbal misanthrope Johnny, the kind of bastard whose sole redeeming virtue is that he knows exactly how much of a bastard he is. Thewlis owns the film, creating from the ground up a character so fascinating that we can’t help but watch him, mouth often agape, up through the film’s magnificent final shot.

Heavenly Creatures- Hey EW, you know that Peter Jackson guy? The one whose most famous films you’ve placed prominently at #2? Well, he did make movies before Lord of the Rings, and in its way Heavenly Creatures is just as good if not better. Beginning with a true-crime story that would in other hands have lent itself to sensationalism- teenage lesbian murderers!- Jackson instead crafted in alternately invigorating and harrowing movies about the seductiveness, and the dangers, of fantasy. As Pauline and Juliet (Melanie Lynskey and Kate Winslet, in their breakthrough roles) grow ever more attached to their King-Arthur-meets-Ayn-Rand fairy tale land, they increasingly feel compelled to defend it against the encroachment of the everyday world, until the story commences in a sudden, shocking act of violence that sends these killer angels crashing back to Earth forever.

Once Upon a Time in America- Once again, Sergio Leone’s final masterwork is the odd man out among gangster dramas, with the EW writers forwarding the unfortunate notion that the genre began with The Godfather and ended with GoodFellas, with a brief stopover in Scarface Land. Leone’s film may not have the iconic status of Coppola, the seductiveness of Scorsese, or the gangsta cachet of DePalma, but as a cinematic achievement, it deserves respect, at least in its 227-minute long version. As a minor-key elegy for a crime culture that has long since passed, Once Upon a Time in America mops the floor with The Godfather, Part III, with as many classic moments as any film in Leone’s oeuvre. You’ll never look at a garbage truck the same way again.

Three Colors Trilogy- I debated including Decalogue on this list but decided against it because it premiered on television. But I had no such problem with Kieslowski’s trilogy, a wholly unique- yet entirely approachable- grand work in three parts. In telling three intimate stories, Kieslowski manages to capture a specific end-of-the-millennium worldview, as well as some surprising insights into human nature in general. But the film’s true power comes from their simplicity- Kieslowski tells us everything we need to know about these people and their lives, if only we know where (and how) to look. Beyond that, they’re just ravishing cinema, with the scores of Zbigniew Preisner ranking among the greatest ever written for the screen.

And finally…

Back to the Future- #91? Really? Working from perhaps the tightest and cleverest screenplay ever made into a Hollywood blockbuster, Robert Zemeckis and company turned what was essentially a comedic take on Americana into a genuine piece of Americana itself. How many movies of the past quarter century are this widely seen, or so beloved by all sectors of the moviegoing audience? Back to the Future is a textbook case of all the pieces lining up just so, as well as a testament to how wonderful a big-budget movie when the filmmakers trust their assembled elements enough to stay out of their own damn way. But hey, if you guys really think Shrek, Gladiator, Speed, Fatal Attraction, Scream, Beverly Hills Cop, Dirty Dancing (?!?!?), Out of Africa, and Napoleon Dynamite are all better than Back to the Future, I guess I don’t have anything left to say to you.

Video of the Day: Everybody's All-American

Leonard Pierce — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 14:45:00 GMT

Kit Kittredge: An American Girl opens this Friday. Based on the disturbingly popular American Girl line of dolls, it tells the story of an adorable, plucky, scrappy young girl (played by the adorable, plucky, scrappy Abigail Breslin) who has amazing adventures and triumphs over adversity depsite living during the Great Depression. It's being pitched as part of a new wave of films that hope to make the metroplex a safe place for preadolescent girls; we can only applaud the effort, seeing as for the last 30 years, the joint has been corrupted by the likes of this guy.

That's Steven Prince, the subject of a little-seen Martin Scorsese documentary called American Boy: A Profile of Steven Prince. During the filming of Taxi Driver, Scorsese and Mardik Martin ran across the repulsively charismatic Prince -- a hustler, gunrunner, and drug dealer with a talent for spinning wild stories -- and were so taken by him that they not only made the documentary, but cast him in the film as the gun dealer who sells Travis Bickle his pieces. If the story sounds familiar, it's because a young Quentin Tarantino saw him tell it in American Boy and, er, appropriated it for a memorable scene in Pulp Fiction.

Scorsese Passes the Baton to Demme on Bob Marley Documentary

Video of the Day: PTA vs. Mike Figgis

Unwatchable #85: "Battlefield Earth"

Scott Von Doviak — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 18:00:00 GMT

Our fearless – and quite possibly senseless – movie janitor is watching every movie on the IMDb Bottom 100 list. Join us now for another installment of Unwatchable.

Welcome to a very special edition of Unwatchable! What’s so special about yet another crappy movie, you ask? Well, for the first time since I started this project, the movie in question is one that I have already seen! This may not make it special for you, but Hubbard knows it couldn’t have come at a better time for me. It’s also special because, unlike all of these unworthy Mystery Science Theater subjects, Battlefield Earth has truly earned its position on the Bottom 100 list. Here are the top three reasons why:

Monstrous Ego Trip/Vanity Project. Hollywood’s second-most famous Scientologist had long dreamed of bringing L. Ron Hubbard’s epic sci-fi vision to the screen. With his career reduced to a series of talking baby movies, he didn’t exactly have the clout to pull it off, but then Quentin Tarantino and Pulp Fiction came along, and soon Travolta was back on the A-list. For a while, we were all so happy for Travolta and his big screen comeback. By the time Battlefield Earth rolled out, there probably wasn’t a person left on the planet who was still happy for him besides his agent. It had taken so long to bring the so-called “Saga of the Year 3000” to fruition, Travolta was too old for the lead role of Johnnie ‘Goodboy’ Tyler (played here by Barry Pepper), so instead he appears as a 10-foot-tall dreadlocked Psychlo named Terl. It’s a terrible performance – Travolta’s girlish giggle and reedy, sing-song reading of lines like “You are out of your skullbone!” are far from fearsome – but at least Travolta is better off than co-star Forest Whitaker, now an Academy Award winner, then a cross between George Clinton and the Cowardly Lion.

Misbegotten Sci-Fi Extravaganza. Sure, it’s possible that Battlefield Earth was intended as a piece of Scientology propaganda, but I have no idea how anyone could tell from the finished product. So muddled and mindless it makes David Lynch’s Dune look like a model of crisp, coherent storytelling, the movie is a chaotic blur of poorly edited action and bottom-of-the-barrel special effects. Set in a post-apocalyptic future where the alien Psychos (who sound like they’re gargling with their own vomit every time they speak) have enslaved the remaining “man-animals,” the story concerns the inevitable rebellion led by Pepper. It’s the kind of movie where our heroes, who have been living a barbarian-level existence, teach themselves to fly Harrier jets in a matter of days. The thrift-store look of this dark dystopic future is epitomized by the cruddy CGI backgrounds that make one yearn for the artistry of the matte paintings from Beneath the Planet of the Apes.

Massive Box Office Failure. Taking in a mere $21 million in the U.S., less than a third of its budget, the movie laid a big egg at the box office. Obviously, not every bomb is necessarily a bad movie, but the people have definitely spoken in the case of Battlefield Earth. Of all the Bottom 100 entries we’ve covered so far, none have received more than 4000 votes on the IMDb (a minimum of 650 is required for inclusion on the list of infamy). Battlefield Earth has received more than 29,000 votes – truly a dud for the ages.

Previously on Unwatchable:
86. Hobgoblins
87. The Sidehackers
88. College Road Trip (pending)
89. Bloodlust!
90. The Bat People

Vanishing Act: Allison Anders & Alexandre Rockwell

Scott Von Doviak — Thu, 01 May 2008 19:30:00 GMT

It was a four-car pile-up with only two survivors. It was Four Rooms, an omnibus film by the hottest Sundance kids in town, the self-proclaimed “Class of ‘92” consisting of Quentin Tarantino, Robert Rodriguez, Allison Anders and Alexandre Rockwell. The directors of Reservoir Dogs, El Mariachi, Gas, Food, Lodging and In the Soup decided to join forces before Pulp Fiction went through the stratosphere, but the project didn’t materialize until afterwards. The premise was simplicity itself: each segment of the film took place in a different room in the same hotel, with Tim Roth’s befuddled bellhop as the only common link.

Tarantino’s runaway ego was on full display in his room, “The Man from Hollywood,” yet he would emerge from the wreckage virtually unscathed, along with Rodriguez, whose slapstick contribution “The Misbehavers” was generally regarded as the movie’s highlight. Despite revolving around a coven of topless witches played by Alicia Witt, Ione Skye, Valeria Golino and Madonna, Anders’ “The Missing Ingredient” managed to be both silly and dull – a description that equally applies to Rockwell’s “The Wrong Man,” featuring his then-wife Jennifer Beals gagged and tied to a chair.

Despite its critical and commercial failure, it’s probably unfair to blame Four Rooms for derailing the careers of Anders and Rockwell; both continued to work, at least for a while. Anders made a pair of rock and roll movies, Grace of My Heart and Sugar Town, both of which have their defenders but neither of which made much impact. Most of her work over the past decade has been in episodic TV, from Sex and the City to Cold Case. The exception is Things Behind the Sun, a dark drama about rape that played the 2001 Sundance Film Festival and earned some of the best reviews of Anders’ career, but never secured a theatrical release, premiering instead on Showtime. “I absolutely loved the experience with the distribution on this movie,” Anders said in a recent interview with Moviemaker. “It was a very tough decision to make to go to cable instead of going theatrical. I had a theatrical offer from some great people who really loved the movie, but I tell you I had such a much better experience. I loved that millions of people saw my movie! There's no downside, as far as I can tell.”

Rockwell made a quasi-sequel to In the Soup, spinning off two characters for 1998’s Louis and Frank, a movie that has left very little evidence of its existence. It played a few festivals and apparently had a run in France, but that’s about it. The offbeat 13 Moons, starring Steve Buscemi as Bananas the Clown, fared little better in 2002, securing a limited release but not much critical support.

These careers can be revived, however, and another anthology movie may be the answer. We suggest Anders and Rockwell team up to make an old-fashioned drive-in double feature, complete with fake trailers and plenty of gratuitous sex and violence. How could it miss?

Tribeca Film Festival Review: "War, Inc."

Phil Nugent — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 14:00:00 GMT

John Cusack gets his smug on in War, Inc., a satiricial action comedy with a touch every bit as light and precise as its sledgehammer title. Cusack, who co-produced the movie with Grace Loh for his New Crime Productions, and splits the screenplay credit between himself, novelist Mark Leyner, and Bulworth scripter and Huffington Post blogger Jeremy Pikser, plays a hit man who is hired by Tamerlane, a Halliburton-like corporaton that is staffing America's first war that has been fully outsourced to the private sector. The movie intends an attack on how big business profits from, and may even influence, American foreign policy, but its ideas about how that's reshaping the world seem to have only gotten as far as slapping company logos on the sides of tanks and in smoking urban war zones, a device that mainly results in some really questionable product placement deals. (The Get Smart-style entrance to the lair of the American intelligence officers is through a Popeyes chicken joint, arguably the most prominent space that franchise has been awarded in a major Hollywood production since the Adam Sandler vehicle Little Nicky established that the denizens of Hell thought quite highly of their product.) The movie hits its targets only once in a great while, particularly when it goes after the gullibility and culpability of the media. There's a choice sequence about an imbedded group of reporters who get a taste of what it's like in a war-ravaged country by being treated to a Sensurround-style simulated ride through rough terrain. (They cheer with excitement, just like Geraldo every time he sees his name in the paper spelled right.)

War, Inc. positions itself as a sort-of-sequel to the 1997 New Crime Production Grosse Pointe Blank; it doesn't continue that movie's story or revive its characters, but it does reunite some if its key personnel while aiming for something similar in tone and approach. Cusack's emotionally confused master assassin with a streak of white in his dark hair is Martin Blank with ten years on him in all but name; Joan Cusack is once again his personal assistant (but this time, infuriatingly, is subjected to unflattering lighting and funhouse lenses and camera angles), and Dan Aykroyd turns up to do his Dick Cheney impression as the self-satisfied master of the universe dealing Cusack his orders. (They are joined by Marisa Tomei, who, as usual, pumps an incredible amount of sexiness and vitality into her corner of the vaccuum, and Ben Kingsley, who attempts what I think is meant to be a Texas accent, though it could just as easily have labeled his character as an Australian, a Venusian, or just a raving nut.) This is actually a clever approach--just as it was when the cast of A Fish Called Wanda did it in Fierce Creatures, a movie that didn't work either--but it mainly serves to highlight how opportunistic the difference between the two pictures feels. Grosse Pointe Blank, which came riding in on the last fumes of the Pulp Fiction bandwagon, treated murder as a hip slapstick joke. War, Inc. has the same kind of what-me-worry approach to violent chaos and the same admiring attitude towards its hero's murderous prowess, but it expects to be taken as being on a deeper, more meaningful level of smirking cynicism because Cusack has sunk to working for Republican CEOs. (In both films, Cusack is paired with a heroine--Minnie Driver in Grosse Pointe Blank, Marisa Tomei here--who expresses horror at his violent side until she needs rescuing.) War, Inc. is set to go straight to DVD after a non-victory lap of the festivals and a token New York/Los Angeles theatrical release, and Cusack and company are welcome to console themselves with the thought that their movie was punished for the sharpness of its bite. But its "satire" is the kind of thing that The Daily Show regularly makes fun of.

The Ten Best Murderous Duos in Movies, Part 2

Phil Nugent — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 21:30:00 GMT

Jules Winnfield (Samuel L. Jackson) & Vincent Vega (John Travolta), PULP FICTION (1994)

For all the talk about the brilliance of Quentin Tarantino’s filmmaking, his resurrection and reanimation of ‘70s pop culture, and the way he redefined the crime drama for a postmodern generation, there’s a profound misunderstanding of why his two most famous creations – the black-suited hitmen Jules Winnfield and Vincent Vega – are so enjoyable to watch. It’s not the hip pseudo-philosophical dialogue; it’s not the bad-ass speechifying; it’s not even the rapport between Samuel L. Jackson and born-again-hard John Travolta that makes Jules & Vincent so downright charming. No, what really makes them work is that Tarantino manages to do what no one else had ever done: he transformed the story of two murderous assassins into an engaging workplace comedy. When you get right down to it, Jules & Vincent are just two working stiffs whose job happens to be a tad idiosyncratic. When they’re not filling some rip-off artist full of hot lead, they’re just like any two likeable jerks at the office or factory of your choice: they swap vacation stories, they get annoyed at each other’s long-established social tics, they blame each other for workplace fuckups, they laugh at each others’ jokes, they eat junk food together at break time, and they drive around aimlessly between jobs trying to think of something to do, whether it’s fall in love with the wrong girl or have a profound religious awakening. For all the goofy trappings, from the automatic weapons to the mysteriously glowing box to the wallet that says BAD MOTHERFUCKER, we relate so strongly to Jules & Vincent because, despite their bloody way of making a living, we recognize in them the comfortable familiarity of workplace ritual. If anyone tells me that their scenes with Harvey Keitel’s Mr. Wolfe are anything but extremely well-done sitcom detritus, we'll call them a liar to their face.

Ray (Billy Bob Thornton) & Pluto (Michael Beach), ONE FALSE MOVE (1992)

One of the scariest of the many scary moments in Carl Franklin's modern backwoods noir (which Thornton co-wrote) comes when the intelligent and more calculating member of the duo, Pluto, instructs the more volatile Ray not to flip out when they're stopped by a highway cop: "We don't want to kill him if we don't have to." Ray takes Pluto's advice on this one because he understands that Pluto is smarter than he is; it's not as if the idea that there might be reasons not to simply kill someone who poses an inconvenience to him is something he understands on any deeper emotional level. Both men are prepared to do whatever it takes to keep them free and on the move, and to pick up a little scratch on the side as they go, and both are useful to the other, though it's Pluto's genius for sizing up a situation and deciding that it's time to wipe somebody out that keeps them free and on the move for as long as they are. The fact that they're a biracial team adds sauce to the mix, even as the redneck live wire (with the black girlfriend from the South) and his cucumber-cool partner resist the urge to ever acknowledge it.

Sappensly (Robert Webber) & Quill (Gig Young), BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA (1974)

If Fante and Mingo had lived to middle age, smartened up their wardrobes, and gone freelance, they might have ended up like these guys. Alfredo Garcia, a bizarre modern Western with white men in suits, equipped with planes, cars, and machine guns, tearing around Mexico in search of a guy's rotting melon that has a million dollar bounty on it, is the director Sam Peckinpah's scurviest film, a response to Hollywood's refusal to let him make the kind of movies he wanted to make, and Sappensly and Quill are probably meant as his fuck-you note to the studio executives he regarded as no better than manicured hyenas, gutless wonders, amoral killers. Peckinpah always had conflicted feelings about his characters and everything else he put on screen, and there's an unexpected, and unexpectedly affecting moment, when Quill is killed; Sappinsly looks at his body, utters his name in a voice cracking with grief, and then turns his gun on the movie's hero (Warren Oates) in what may be a desperate need to lash out at a world in which he's suddenly found himself alone or what may be a gunman's (successful) bid for suicide, forcing Oates to put him out of his misery. It's the closest thing to a moment of warm feeling in the movie.

Mr. Wint (Bruce Glover) & Mr. Kidd (Putter Smith), DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER (1971)

Neither of these guys looks like much of a threat; in fact one of them looks like the love child of David Crosby and Gallagher. (Putter Smith, who made his film debut as Mr. Kidd, made only a couple of other films and is actually best known as a jazz bassist. Bruce Glover played one of Jack Nicholson's "associates" in Chinatown but may now be best known as Crispin Glover's father.) Yet they manage to achieve memorability just on the basis of their archness, and for serving as the James Bond series' concession to the value of teamwork. Oddjob or Jaws would probably beat the shit out of either of them if one tried to sit at next to him in the villains' commissary, but so long as they stick together, respect must be paid: you never know what one of them might be up to behind your back while you're throttling the other. As for the homoerotic element alluded to elsewhere in this feature, it's there for sure, but it's best to not dwell on it, and not just because nobody wants to picture these guys kissing. (And make no mistake about it, we don't just mean that nobody wants to picture them kissing each other.) For all its charms, the Bond series has seldom been out front in terms of images of social progress, and the close-up of Mr. Wint appearing to leer pleasurably as Sean Connery literally shoves a bomb up his ass is not 007's proudest moment.

Eric (Eric Deulen) & Alex (Alex Frost), ELEPHANT (2003)

Standing in marked contrast to most of the murderous duos on this list are the teenage killers in Gus Van Sant’s impenetrable, elegiac evocation of the Columbine massacre, Elephant. Though one of them shares a name with the real-life Colorado school shooters, it’s not by design; like most of the characters in the film, actor Eric Deulen lends his name to his creation. Alex (played by the revoltingly compelling Alex Frost) is the dominant member of the twosome, plotting the massacre during class and delivering its terrifying final lines, but unlike most big-screen killer combos, there’s nothing flashy, clever or even wickedly likable about Eric & Alex. Though their actions are, in the end, far more costly in human lives than other big-screen killers, they are meant to be neither nightmarish horror-film bad-asses or appealing anti-heroes. In keeping with the tone of this wonderful, frightening film, they are ciphers: we know little more about them when the movie ends than we did when it began, and it’s easy to see that Van Sant made the movie not to explicate Columbine, but to mock our pretense that Columbine was explicable. A number of viewers detected an element of homophobia in the scene where the two kiss in a shared shower, but Van Sant no more suggests that repressed homosexuality is to blame for the boys’ rampage than video games, social isolation, or any one of a dozen red herrings he throws out. We greedily devour every one, so hungry are we for some hint, any hint that such a horrid, pointless waste of human life must have an explanation, any explanation. But in the end, we are left only with a lot of bodies and a pair of enigmas. That’s murder for you.

— Paul Clark; Phil Nugent; Leonard Pierce

Click here for Part 1.

Trailer Review: Son of Rambow

Paul Clark — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 17:00:00 GMT

A few weeks ago, Screengrab's own Phil Nugent wrote a column on the phenomenon of "fan remakes." But the truth is that fan remakes have been around for years. The most famous example of the genre, Raiders of the Lost Ark: The Adaptation, dates to the late 1980s, and indeed my friends and I got into the act with a short remake of Pulp Fiction, with the twist of turning all the characters into morons. But with such high-profile films as Be Kind Rewind and this film, fan remakes — or, as Gondry calls it, "Sweding" — are more ubiquitous than ever. While Gondry's film appears to be one of his trademark lo-fi flights of fancy, Son of Rambow looks to be taking another path, that of the twee Brit-com. Personally, my patience for films like this ran out in roughly 1999, but it should at least be interesting to see how a cute film in which children mount a remake of First Blood plays in the wake of Stallone's latest ultra-violent installment in his other signature series.

In addition, here's a link to Mike D'Angelo's review of the film from last year's Sundance.

That Guy!: Ving Rhames

Leonard Pierce — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 23:00:00 GMT

That Guy!'s salute to Black History Month continues with a look at one of our favorite contemporary African-American character actors, Ving Rhames. A powerfully built six-footer with an intimidating mein and a penchant for playing bruisers and bad-asses, Rhames is in fact one of Hollywood's most notorious nice guys, a deeply spiritual and profoundly humanitarian person with a reputation in America's most backstabbing town for always being the touch for someone in need. Born with the substantially less intimidating Christian name of "Irving" in 1959, Rhames picked up his stage name not from the mean streets of his native Harlem, but from the decidedly non-superfly Stanley Tucci, a classmate of his at SUNY-Purchase. After formative experiences at the High School of Performing Arts and on Broadway, he launched a successful film career in the mid-1990s and has gone on to become something of a go-to guy for casting directors looking for a deft blend of intimidation and intelligence. (Which is not to say that his film career is nothing but bluster: he not only played a drag queen in a TV movie entitled Holiday Heart, but recently appeared in the excrable I Now Pronounce You Chuck And Larry, singing "I'm Every Woman" while naked in a locker room full of men.)

In addition to his cinematic accomplishments, Rhames was the subject of a bizarre coincidence that itself could form the basis of a too-strange-to-be-true docudrama: while filming The Saint of Fort Washington, he encountered a homeless veteran on the streets of New York who, it would later become clear, was his own older brother, estranged from the family since his return from Vietnam almost twenty years before. Ving's basso profundo voice, distinctive look, fearsome demeanor and and muscular frame have made him a natural for portraying boxers, and his next major project, due to release later this year, is Phantom Punch, in which he plays the inimitable Sonny Liston. But his most memorable boxing role to date was when he brilliantly assayed Don King in the HBO movie Only in America. He won a Golden Globe for the performance, which he immediately turned over to his acting idol, Jack Lemmon — a lovely gesture that nonetheless inspired a few wags (notably The Boondocks' Aaron McGruder) to note that blacks so rarely win major acting awards that they can scarcely afford to give them away so cavalierly.

Where to see Ving Rhames at his best:

PATTY HEARST (1988)

Made before he hit it big in Hollywood, Patty Hearst is nonetheless one of Ving Rhames' most electrifying performances. Working from an underappreciated Paul Schrader script, Rhames takes on the thorny role of Symbionese Liberation Army leader Donald "Cinque" DeFreeze, and plays it so close to over-the-top that it almost slides into hysteria — but at critical moments, he pulls back and controls his performance into a convincing portrayal of self-involved madness. The movie itself is also a quite worthwhile project that too few people have bothered to see, but Rhames' acting is a particular standout, and a sign of things to come.

PULP FICTION (1994)

Quentin Tarantino's stylized, pop-obsessive, achronological masterpiece seemed to come out of nowhere and nearly singlehandedly invent a whole new language of filmmaking. It created a directorial legend, rescued a handful of careers and started a few more — among them, that of Ving Rhames, who plays the role of the enigmatic gang boss Marsellus Wallace. It's a terrific performance, and best of all, it's in service of a character that develops in unexpected ways and shows surprising depths. It didn't make Rhames a household name, but it did make him an instantly recognizable property in ever-fickle Hollywood, and he made the most of it.

OUT OF SIGHT (1998)

His appearances in the Mission: Impossible movies got him more money and more attention, but Ving Rhames' best role at the tail end of the 1990s was in Steven Soderbergh's Out of Sight. One of the director's best (and least-appreciated) films, its Elmore Leonard script relies on moments of character and telling dialogue to carry it rather than big plot twists, and Rhames understands that perfectly in the understated role of Buddy Bragg. Cast against type (most people would have predicted him to get the role that eventually went to Don Cheadle), Rhames handles his quiet, solid role to near-perfection, surrounded by a top-notch cast of outstanding actors.

Take Five: Belgium!

Leonard Pierce — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 21:30:00 GMT

Opening wide this weekend, Martin McDonagh's In Bruges stars Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson as a pair of exiled hitmen stuck in the Belgian city until it's safe for them to return home, and their sojourn is meant to be hellish in every sense of the word. Belgium has long been Europe's punchline — yes, even more so than Poland; its stolidly middle-class character and reputation as "where culture goes to nap" makes it the butt of many a joke. David Rees of Get Your War On calls the sixteenth-century seer Nostradamus "the last interesting Belgian", which insult is all the more cutting considering he was actually French; and in a memorable Monty Python sketch, game show contestants are challenged to come up with a derogatory term for Belgium, and one noteworthy entrant claims that he can't think of anything more derogatory than just "Belgian". But all kidding aside, if you actually were trapped in Bruges for a prolonged period of time, you could do a lot worse as a way to pass the time than to head for the local cinema. Belgium has, er, sprouted one of the more interesting independent film scenes in Europe recently, and as this short list of some of our favorite Belgian movies of recent years should illustrate, there's a lot more to Belgian filmmaking than just Jean-Claude Van Damme.

MAN BITES DOG (1992)

One of the first Belgian films to create a great deal of buzz outside of Europe, Man Bites Dog (the French title translates, creepily, to "It Happened in Your Neighborhood" or "He is Coming to Your House") is a postmodern twist on the serial killer narrative a good five to ten years before such things became trendy. Anticipating the self-aware American horror films of the 2000s, it follows a small documentary camera crew as they tag along with Ben (played with sinister charm by co-writer/director Benoit Poelvoorde), a disconcertingly media-savvy mass murderer. Crammed with supremely disturbing moments, shocking violence, and genuinely clever moments of humor, Man Bites Dog has held up quite well and is still better than most of the films it undoubtedly helped to inspire.

D'EST [FROM THE EAST] (1993)

One of the best things about Belgian cinema is the experimental filmmaker Chantal Akerman. Her complex, meditative, sometimes almost motionless films lull you into a nearly placid state so that you barely realize it when a moment of epiphany arises. D'Est, a far too little-seen documentary from 1993, is perhaps her greatest film: a deceptively simple series of images of people in Eastern Europe, many of them only a few years removed from the burdens of Soviet rule, are shown. The people take vacations, engage in sport and play, have long moments of leisure, and Akerman's brilliantly photographic sensibilities capture long stretches of beautiful simplicity over a period of almost two hours. The effect is not unlike watching a well-crafted painting slowly mutate into something entirely new and different.

LUMUMBA (2000)

Director Raoul Peck is a Haitian; the film takes place in Africa, and the production itself was a joint effort of Belgium, France, Germany, and Haiti. But almost all of the filming was done in Belgium, the majority of the financing came from there, and in a greater sense, the entire film is a legacy of Belgium's blood-soaked imperial past. The radical reformer Patrice Lumumba (brilliantly portrayed here by Eriq Ebouaney), prior to his assassination, was the ruler of the Congo, a huge country in central Africa that suffered more than most during its colonial period thanks to an incredibly brutal occupation and exploitation by Belgium's King Leopold. The film was an independent success, and a testament to the fact that some countries are more willing to examine their colonial legacies than others.

ANY WAY THE WIND BLOWS (2002)

If Tom Barman's sprawling 2002 film, based in and around the port city of Antwerp, isn't one of the best Belgian movies in recent history, it's at least one of the most ambitious, and definitely one of the oddest. Part travelogue, part documentary, part music video (and showcase for the director, who's also a well-known local pop star), and part bizarre remake/interpretation/'homage' to movies like Short Cuts, Magnolia and Pulp Fiction, Any Way the Wind Blows features a diverse group of French and Flemish citizens, all from different backgrounds and with widely different characters, who all wind up, through a rambunctious and chronoligically confusing narrative, at the same party on the same night. It functions almost like a collage of several more convincingly made films, but it's not without its charm.

THE ALZHEIMER CASE(2003)

When you first hear De Zaak Alzheimer described, you think it can't possibly be anything but a tasteless, awful disaster: it's about a pair of detectives attempting to track down and capture a mob hitman on his final assignment — final because he has an advanced case of Alzheimer's Disease. Amazingly enough, though, director Erik Van Looy manages to pull the thing off without recourse to depressingly tasteless jokes or maudlin sentimentality. Instead, he presents us with a surprisingly plausible plot, a tight, chilling narrative with plenty of suspense, and a nicely presented noir sensibility. An American remake of this movie (which played at festivals under the name The Memory of a Killer) is in the works, but if you can hunt down a DVD copy of the original, it's well worth checking out on its own merits.

Halloween Costume Contest: We Have a Weiner!

Peter Smith — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 18:00:00 GMT

Congratulations to Jon Parsons, of Sackville, NB, who correctly ID'd Mandalee and John as Pris from Blade Runner and Lance from Pulp Fiction at 1:43 PM yesterday. Apologies to Kevin Macauley, who got the same correct answer in at 1:45. For the many entrants who thought John was the Dude — well, an understandable guess, but note the un-Dudely Speed Racer t-shirt worn by John and Eric Stoltz's unforgettable character from Pulp. Don't worry, there are more contests to come — you will still have your chance at a free copy of Delta Farce. — Peter Smith