tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34284969990670682172024-03-27T16:54:59.710-07:00Lamplight Drivelredeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.comBlogger1785125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-20787643986694599032024-03-26T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-26T00:00:00.258-07:00Divine Madness<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQOT1CGrSxcZJAfY5BeOA5DwBHfv1TUL7PKtNsoo3AceJFILpelvP8XukPOGgjg1U09P_boKMxQ9W11pblm6FqStTYd9UJEIc27_JtL_taNkUdP6MklmzRUu6vEHYD-H6TYUc5vSgUwBD77iRtPBFIfCKKt-eV9R9zzwyNgohAiMTzB01G6zzQIe1ma0/s512/Delores-DeLago.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="512" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQOT1CGrSxcZJAfY5BeOA5DwBHfv1TUL7PKtNsoo3AceJFILpelvP8XukPOGgjg1U09P_boKMxQ9W11pblm6FqStTYd9UJEIc27_JtL_taNkUdP6MklmzRUu6vEHYD-H6TYUc5vSgUwBD77iRtPBFIfCKKt-eV9R9zzwyNgohAiMTzB01G6zzQIe1ma0/w640-h488/Delores-DeLago.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>I watched 1980's DIVINE MADNESS simply because it meets one part of my movie watching criteria: late '70s/early '80s release, and all the better that it is a concert film from that era. When concert films were fairly common. That Bette Midler is the artist certainly doesn't hurt, but I'm not the biggest fan of her singing, especially when she covers rock songs. I first noted <i>that</i> when I watched her video of "Beast of Burden" in the early '80s on MTV. "I sing this song better than anybody!" she says to Mick Jagger. He dryly replies, "Well, almost anybody."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Midler covers "You Can't Always Get What You Want" near the close of DIVINE MADNESS. Eh. She also drives through versions of "Fire Down Below" and "The E Street Shuffle." If I have to tell you who the original artists are of any of the above you should be reading someone else's blog. Midler brings ferocity and passion to every tune, but it is far better suited to "Stay With Me" and "The Rose", the latter of course the title song from her movie debut in 1979. She is a very talented singer, make no mistake, and she literally throws herself into her craft. Sometimes while wearing mermaid or bag lady costumes, or dressed as a bride and groom simultaneously. The movie is comprised of several shows recorded in Pasadena by director Michael Ritchie and cinematographer William Fraker. And they make what is a wildly theatrical show quite cinematic.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">In between songs, Midler gets bawdy with material that would make your grandma blush. And it's damned funny. She introduces her back up trio, the Harlettes, as "not knowing shit about Euripdes, but plenty about Trojans." Her stand up mode is quite at odds with how serious she is while singing, and I've always found that intriguing about her. You'd expect some raunch in her songs, but no. Very different personas emerge. No overlap. The Divine Miss M is either telling dick jokes or weeping through "I Shall Be Released." I responded to the unabashed vulgarity and sentiment equally well. This gear switching always keeps her show interesting, as does the very vocal audience - one guy asks Bette to show more of her ample bosom, and she complies by pulling her brassiere open a little more. Calm down, invisible audience, she doesn't go topless.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMYosJM06aQnYTHRhpgzNwhReqbWwwyhrbzaaE8UoBYo5KGdVRNYqqDUiOTwAo6-ZVdsgZEPSnpPnhY1Yi4x5daeTER5oq8WAG4x8LzNxLVEzjhxwb9f3fDAYifBbZKP8jy290yBSogXM/s1600/bette.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="1000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMYosJM06aQnYTHRhpgzNwhReqbWwwyhrbzaaE8UoBYo5KGdVRNYqqDUiOTwAo6-ZVdsgZEPSnpPnhY1Yi4x5daeTER5oq8WAG4x8LzNxLVEzjhxwb9f3fDAYifBbZKP8jy290yBSogXM/w640-h426/bette.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-78571548725850101832024-03-24T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-24T00:00:00.243-07:00For Rob<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHST7jqCWi7GSdE3L2_bKN79gjSCK3Z1AivwLffVoMn91CsPT7DIXCChnwhZdjidHnqavsrfZp7EO9qwQyHPVq7BgDmROhBBGRod_hUz8SW2A4lqKyX1csV29uftKkxu6hi-xl6ZwrBkSFljg8Oyid-lMPIOzTI00zsgO6rVze1zodzJzQh4dLF2NzAH4/s953/thumbnail_IMG_5732.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="545" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHST7jqCWi7GSdE3L2_bKN79gjSCK3Z1AivwLffVoMn91CsPT7DIXCChnwhZdjidHnqavsrfZp7EO9qwQyHPVq7BgDmROhBBGRod_hUz8SW2A4lqKyX1csV29uftKkxu6hi-xl6ZwrBkSFljg8Oyid-lMPIOzTI00zsgO6rVze1zodzJzQh4dLF2NzAH4/w366-h640/thumbnail_IMG_5732.jpg" width="366" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Robert Glass was the sort of friend you could call at all hours and he'd be there, perhaps even if he had to hop a plane or cross an icy gorge. If we're lucky, we may meet a half dozen of these type of folks in a lifetime. Making and keeping solid friendships is so damned hard anymore. Even some of those golden souls we shared so many quality moments with back in the day turn into strangers later in life. Just the way it is. But not Rob. He was also the sort you could lose contact with for a year or two or five and then reunite and pick right back up where you left off. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">I met Rob(bie) sometime during late high school in my church youth group. We had an immediate rapport, and I was struck by his maturity. Then and for the rest of his days he was always ready for a deep conversation. Even a quick exchange with him was weightier than the usual "How ya doin'?". He possessed a wisdom that was rare, one that he always shared but never in a pretentious way. He riveted attention toward you and made you feel important, even if a stream of others were shuffling by. The pastor at his funeral a few weeks back described his "Hollywood smile that made you feel like a million bucks."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the '90s we were part of a group that regularly hung out at Respectables, a downtown club, and several restaurants. Went to lots of concerts and movies, including <a href="https://redeyespy.blogspot.com/2015/09/star-wars-episode-ii-attack-of-clones.html">STAR WARS EPISODE II</a>, which we trekked to Orlando for as it was one of the first theaters to present a movie in digital. Rob and I on our own also met for countless breakfasts and lunches over the years. He was usually the one to reach out and ask how I was doing, always concerned about my well being. A few years back he picked my brain for audiology knowledge and I think my info. was helpful.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Rob passed away on February 28th at the far too young age of fifty-three. I learned of it on the Facebook page of a mutual friend, one I haven't seen in over twenty years. She moved to Jacksonville some time ago. I had also sung with her in the choir and she and another friend once pranked me by building a bird nest on the hood of my car. When I read her tribute I felt my breath escape. Thick sense of denial that I still harbor somewhat. It just doesn't seem possible. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am especially troubled that a man who was such a positive force in the world, a social worker with a wife and two young daughters, was taken away so soon. Someone who gave so much. Yet a smorgasbord of scumbags remain here on Earth, healthy and even thriving. Doesn't make sense. I had had these feelings when my dear friends <a href="https://redeyespy.blogspot.com/2022/12/adieu-22.html">Amy and Chris departed in 2022.</a> We've all had such experiences with those who've passed but this one seems like a huge celestial mistake, if you will. But as Rob's wife Becky remarked (before she and her daughters broke down in tears) at the service, "God's timing is not ours." Agreed, but that doesn't make it any easier or even comforting in the moment. Rob was a man of unwavering Christian faith and there is some assurance in that for those of us left behind.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, Robert Glass was never afraid to share that faith. He was not some obnoxious Bible thumper who cleared rooms. His love for God was genuine and his words reflected a peace. His life a picture of true Christianity. He would not judge or argue with non-believers. His spirit was gentle and his intellect keen. The funeral service unsurprisingly played before a full sanctuary. A very diverse crowd that was a testament to his openness to those in all strata. The service was in my old church, one in which I worshipped for about thirty years. Being there after so long (we left in 2004, revisiting maybe twice since) was a strange experience, but it still felt like home. In part because of countless memories of Rob sitting with us in its pews or singing with us up in the choir loft. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Catch you later, old friend.</div><p></p></div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-69086468999357458782024-03-21T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-21T00:00:00.285-07:00The Big Sleep<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMfqAxTCrnZWEPRZCuKXzGPuKnTf3yu3y8Pkp21R929fkAM6GC9Xzr8XJ_mtyOzcg0089RBxrdq0q9Drag0cZa5fn8h2zuADJp-WJfvyK58kN8sHUHnffFDmMxkavf_48nFN-18evVcaY/s1600/the-big-sleep-1978-1338-thumbnail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMfqAxTCrnZWEPRZCuKXzGPuKnTf3yu3y8Pkp21R929fkAM6GC9Xzr8XJ_mtyOzcg0089RBxrdq0q9Drag0cZa5fn8h2zuADJp-WJfvyK58kN8sHUHnffFDmMxkavf_48nFN-18evVcaY/w424-h640/the-big-sleep-1978-1338-thumbnail.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">How does Philip Marlowe translate to the 1970s? In London? 1978's THE BIG SLEEP, another adaptation of Raymond Chandler's novel, makes such changes with what one might not call the greatest of ease, but for me it worked well enough. It's funny what handsome production design and nice location shooting can do to make you forget the whole affair is just tepid. There were numerous neo-noirs in the '70s and for every <a href="https://redeyespy.blogspot.com/2017/04/chinatown.html">CHINATOWN</a> there were also a few <a href="https://redeyespy.blogspot.com/2019/08/peeper.html">PEEPER</a>s. Robert Mitchum scored with his stab at Marlowe in '75 with FAREWELL, MY LOVELY enough for an invitation to reprise the role. By now, he was in his sixties and looking worn. That's not a damning criticism as that's how I always pictured Marlowe - worn down by the ugliness of human nature.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And in his voiceover, Philip Marlowe reaches the end of this twisty story with such words of resignation. Writer/director Michael Winner was apparently more faithful to the novel than Howard Hawks was with his 1946 classic. Certainly for the seamier elements. Relaxed censorship allows more adult content here but this does not make or break the picture, nor should it. The trenchcoat crowd has/had plenty else with which to busy themselves.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's complicated. Marlowe is hired by General Sternwood (a beaten looking James Stewart) to discover who's blackmailing him. Soon a disparate group emerges, all in some way connected to the old man and his two daughters, Charlotte (Sarah Miles) and Camilla (Candy Clark). The girls are somewhat frisky and duplicitous, but aren't they always. We'll learn also of their connection to pornography and gambling. The cast includes the likes of Oliver Reed, Edward Fox, and Joan Collins. Richard Boone plays a crusty hit man with a broken foot; the actor had actually suffered this injury in real life and it was worked into the script.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Through a series of sardonic and sometimes dangerous exchanges with this bunch, Marlowe always maintains a sense of control and decorum. He rebuffs sexual advances with charm, but also a bit of strong arming. This noir hits all the usual notes, but nothing really plays as if a maestro was at the keys. Yes, Winner includes a few nude scenes and some brief bloody violence, which didn't sell the thing, or make the convoluted plot any more interesting. The cast tries. Mitchum is fine, as are most everyone else. I found Clark cute (even when clothed), but shrill and often embarrassing. Miles isn't sexy or particularly intriguing.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">THE BIG SLEEP is an agreeable middle brow remake, a pleasing ITC production that played well enough on a Corona virus quarantined Sunday afternoon.</div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-56166064199139350782024-03-18T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-18T00:00:00.136-07:00Pennies From Heaven<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlueTt5NghDfpk5PPR2zsZkXy03hVdjuU4Bl7pvvusro7Hxp8n36ktziGyIkC_W_vz_A_y8ub6GKV-gaeSdxIVTI8r7YIMed2U7y_Ro1gdGz6Y1Jm1vAMrNnSWopsx6yUekdQAKtb7bpo/s1600/pennies2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="720" height="419" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlueTt5NghDfpk5PPR2zsZkXy03hVdjuU4Bl7pvvusro7Hxp8n36ktziGyIkC_W_vz_A_y8ub6GKV-gaeSdxIVTI8r7YIMed2U7y_Ro1gdGz6Y1Jm1vAMrNnSWopsx6yUekdQAKtb7bpo/w640-h419/pennies2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">1981's PENNIES FROM HEAVEN surely must be one of the oddest, most schizophrenic films to come out of Hollywood. That was entirely the idea. I imagine Dennis Potter, who adapted his teleplay from the BBC series, must've have been pleased with the results. This movie seems to reflect his creative m.o., and I have to raise a glass to director Herbert Ross and company for going full tilt with the concept. Having the conviction to brazenly produce such an unpleasant, off putting drama, one that examines how fantasy informs our reality and vice versa. Is there salvation to be found in the make believe? Or does it simply warp our view and seal our doom?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In Depression era Chicago, Arthur Parker (Steve Martin) barely ekes a living selling sheet music. His dream is to open a record store, and while his wife Joan (Jessica Harper) has some inheritance money in reserve, she insists it should be saved for a "rainy day." Arthur believes it is raining, cats and dogs at that. And Joan is the very definition of frigid, perhaps even terrified of intimacy. Is it some deep seated issue, or just that Arthur is a strange dude with weird fetishes? Like asking his wife to apply lipstick to her nipples.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One day, Arthur happens upon Eileen (Bernadette Peters), a shy schoolteacher. He is instantly smitten. After a bit of stalking, the lovers end up on her couch. But Arthur decides to go back to Joan, who relents and gives him the money for his shop. Meanwhile, Eileen loses her job when it is discovered she is pregnant. Will she find Arthur? Will she transform into something more worldly in the meanwhile? It is a good bet when she meets Tom (Christopher Walken), a stylish pimp. Beyond that, you're on your own, invisible audience.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I haven't mentioned that PENNIES FROM HEAVEN is a musical, with numbers as lavish as anything produced in the real 1930s. Ken Adam designed the sets. Bob Mackie designed the costumes. Ross stages truly astonishing set pieces, each more stunning than the previous. My favorite - the elaborate number with Eileen and her students, whose desks turn into mini grand pianos. The film's conceit is that each character, when life is especially dour, imagines the brown landscape gives way to MGM glitter. They will lip sync period tunes, though Martin uses his own voice at the film's close. Some of the transitions from reality to fantasy are initially awkward, but waste little time as they ignite the screen. Gordon Willis' cinematography perfectly realizes it all.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The film created a palpable discomfort in me as I re-watched it after many years. It is hardly enjoyable, and at times I have to agree with Fred Astaire's assessment that it was "miserable" and "vulgar." No '30s era musical was quite like this. Potter's scathing and heartbreaking points are unmistakable.</div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-87279003134401137902024-03-16T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-16T00:00:00.132-07:00Night Mail<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4yRk6rQ3L6rvoPdkFw-smZMZCLUVmvr9k6GBXY4adK4VRhXaL1Mh-ogOZWC9ijxFyyjFU7izuGqjBg9MSnM9EAWjLYE6q9i5sndKZQITBPjnFS7HMgy8F5y4pVXR1ms_RywWHoUSu7k/s1600/the-night-mail-1383404823-view-0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="620" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4yRk6rQ3L6rvoPdkFw-smZMZCLUVmvr9k6GBXY4adK4VRhXaL1Mh-ogOZWC9ijxFyyjFU7izuGqjBg9MSnM9EAWjLYE6q9i5sndKZQITBPjnFS7HMgy8F5y4pVXR1ms_RywWHoUSu7k/w640-h474/the-night-mail-1383404823-view-0.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I really expected to devour 1936's short film NIGHT MAIL, from directors Harry Watt and Basil Wright. I've long been fascinated by the postal service and even took the civil service exam in my twenties, ready to assume (after other pursuits did not pan out) what I considered a stable occupation. That did not come to pass, but I still often thought on the precise methods used to sort and deliver parcel. A dance of organization I could envy, as I've never been the most organized or administrative type myself. I learned about this English documentary on Letterboxd, which I have credited with vastly expanding my film knowledge, especially of much older titles.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The narration explains the nightly postal train that runs from London to Glasgow. An initially quite profitable enterprise. This train carries no paying passengers but rather dedicated workers who trade small talk as they carefully route letters and retrieve mailbags that are snatched from a metal arm at stations along the route. Most of the film was shot on locations along the tracks, though train interiors were recreated in a studio, with the actors (many real workers) directed to simulate train movement by swaying. Some highly dramatic shots were achieved aerially. The camera work is stunning.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But the film was curiously tedious to me. Lacking somehow. Maybe I wanted a <i>bit</i> more detail about the process, and more narration to that end. There are plenty of night shots of the train pressing on, but as impressive as they are, didn't achieve the sort of railway poetry I expected. Strangely enough, this is despite the use of W.H. Auden's "verse commentary" (scored by Benjamin Britten!), a sort of rap if you will, about the London, Midland, and Scottish Railway. Once you hear it, you won't be able to get it out of your head. Aphex Twin later sampled it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I guess I'll create my own mental postal run. NIGHT MAIL is highly acclaimed and was featured on TCM, but remains after a few viewings a somewhat blah curio for me.</div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-91304625246736942052024-03-13T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-13T00:00:00.147-07:00Fail Safe<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtHwR3NThvCt6ZuL88WPLv-11DPQrBLurBECQWsFuz-0Z4-mfln6L2UxhHdcDN61wlK0MAWxLsXZnKj-U2iJChdDFnDITBroTHIOD6FzXGAUWlvy1NbJ3_Pg7obA5jZqYH5aHv5VlUNCU/s573/failsafe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="573" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtHwR3NThvCt6ZuL88WPLv-11DPQrBLurBECQWsFuz-0Z4-mfln6L2UxhHdcDN61wlK0MAWxLsXZnKj-U2iJChdDFnDITBroTHIOD6FzXGAUWlvy1NbJ3_Pg7obA5jZqYH5aHv5VlUNCU/w640-h386/failsafe.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">1964's FAIL SAFE has always somewhat unfairly lived in the shadow of another doomsday thriller of its year, DR. STRANGELOVE. Stanley Kubrick had in fact persuaded Columbia, who produced both films, to release his first. Hopefully you are aware, dear reader of the invisible audience, that Kubrick's film was a satire, a very funny take down of Cold War politics and military protocol. As it turns out, also a more effective treatment of a nightmare scenario, one in which an American bomber heads to the Soviet Union to carry out an erroneous order for a nuclear attack. Interesting how that happened. I had seen and absorbed STRANGELOVE many years before I saw FAIL SAFE, and as effective and important as director Sidney Lumet's film is, it seems that dark humor was the better approach. Or at least the one that resonated harder.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's a scenario that a disclaimer at film's end assures us could never occur. FAIL SAFE has a computer glitch go off during routine maintenance, sending the pilots what appears to be a genuine order to drop nukes on Moscow. As the Soviets utilize jamming of radio communications, Strategic Air Command is unable to reach the bomber to explain the error. Thus sets off a tense course of action to try anything and everything to prevent the unthinkable. Shoot the bomber down? Sacrifice our boys? The gallery of players includes Air Force brass at the base in Omaha, advisers in D.C., and the President (Henry Fonda), sequestered in a room with an interpreter (Larry Hagman) as he negotiates over the phone with the Soviet Premier. The situation grows more dire as, even after the Soviets agree to disable the jamming, the bomber pilots forge ahead, believing that the pleas from back home are phony. Altered voices to sound like the President, even the pilot's wife. Our boys are just following the Penatgon playbook.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">FAIL SAFE is perfectly designed. Stark B & W photography by Gerald Hirschfeld. Ominous use of light and shadow. Lumet pushes the camera into the actors' faces, all the better for claustrophobia. His ensemble includes Dan O'Herlihy, Fritz Weaver, Edward Binns, even Sorrell Booke and Dom DeLuise. Walter Matthau plays Professor Groeteschele, a University egghead who discusses acceptable loss of life in nuclear scenarios at a dinner party, then a few hours later finds himself in one. His character is drawn as reactionary and cold, a considerable contrast to the President, whose final decision is chilling yet fair. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don't rank FAIL SAFE as highly as I would've expected as there are a few melodramatic elements that hurt the picture. The opening scene with O'Herlihy's character and his wife, where he awakens from a recurring nightmare, is far from auspicious. Not long after Matthau's character slaps a woman he is driving home. Another misstep. Perhaps the worst was the moment when Weaver loses his nut and temporarily takes over command in Omaha. The movie did not need this kind of silliness. Especially with such a compelling, noose tightening narrative. Even DR. STRANGELOVE, guilty of some slapstick, did not have such absurdity.</div><div><p></p></div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-15009338873002273222024-03-09T23:00:00.000-08:002024-03-09T23:00:00.128-08:00The Hospital<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9h5lTFdYRpLbrRD4sRhRgf6c3GRRYTEIhikFxHvlQyQt9kU6ctOmoLhzCmZItxkG_yCoO00bXFq2Xu6CYEC8yt_eq35XgYjmrgr7hkkfgVu_8I_G5VDvm9h1d99NYGvr9XRlSM33t1PUKEyuCcMp1yulnJJ0dcUa_Vj3LnbnDM8LG1qd2qbHVcPn/s1517/MV5BY2I5M2QzNDctYTc0OS00ZDRmLWJiN2YtNGZlYTdhMzI5ZTU3XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjUzOTY1NTc@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1517" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9h5lTFdYRpLbrRD4sRhRgf6c3GRRYTEIhikFxHvlQyQt9kU6ctOmoLhzCmZItxkG_yCoO00bXFq2Xu6CYEC8yt_eq35XgYjmrgr7hkkfgVu_8I_G5VDvm9h1d99NYGvr9XRlSM33t1PUKEyuCcMp1yulnJJ0dcUa_Vj3LnbnDM8LG1qd2qbHVcPn/w422-h640/MV5BY2I5M2QzNDctYTc0OS00ZDRmLWJiN2YtNGZlYTdhMzI5ZTU3XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjUzOTY1NTc@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg" width="422" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">1971's THE HOSPITAL announces its trenchant self from the opening moments, complete with screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky's narration of how an elderly man is misdiagnosed <i>twice</i> within a few hours at a NYC Hospital. The patient died soon after. But so did one of the doctors who misdiagnosed him, after he used the patient's now vacant bed to have a romp with one of the lab tech girls. Later, another doctor dies in the ER when he is forgotten in a corner after some cardiac issues. The incompetence is rampant. Is this in part because the Chief of Medicine is distracted my a multitude or crises in his life? Or concern about the growing crowd of protesters, some of whom work for the hospital?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arthur Hiller directed the movie, but Chayefsky, who co-produced and had casting say, owns it. It's his creation from the word go, and God bless the fact that a <i>writer</i> had this much control. The early '70s were truly a golden age in Hollywood. His film is a seething indictment of the medical profession, with issues that are still all too common for physicians and their staffs. And their patients, of course. I was surprised at how little has changed in the twenty first century. And Chayefsky really did his homework. The medical discussions are seemingly accurate, as are the back and forths about insurance, and accordingly the administrators who are (often legitimately) demonized. Frances Sternhagen plays such a woman and her fruitless efforts to get anyone to do their damn paperwork in the emergency room is a small masterpiece.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUqHc1n8Tz-JMA7Me_NcWKjVV0fh4DG85wyrDK8SGeGE1etGtGPSReKNRZdbV_tNAZnzEOxLUvEnv24qLefl51Ul1cD0y9n-xRivLCOBvbKpBcuWWEgd1-GbEyPKu81WZAzhEr29VM5bhKhC01Ljnl4TrTtqlea_-QNQJaWTvWpy6HCzjQvxneq5ZXMg/s415/ti101515%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="415" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUqHc1n8Tz-JMA7Me_NcWKjVV0fh4DG85wyrDK8SGeGE1etGtGPSReKNRZdbV_tNAZnzEOxLUvEnv24qLefl51Ul1cD0y9n-xRivLCOBvbKpBcuWWEgd1-GbEyPKu81WZAzhEr29VM5bhKhC01Ljnl4TrTtqlea_-QNQJaWTvWpy6HCzjQvxneq5ZXMg/w640-h340/ti101515%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The film is filled with small masterpieces. Chayefsky's speeches and soliloquies are at times quite astonishing. Delivering several of them are George C. Scott as Dr. Bock, who vainly tries to guide his staff and residents amidst chaos. I'm thinking of his soul baring to the hospital shrink, where we learn about his fractured family life. And later, his drunken, suicidal rant to a beautiful young woman named Barbara (Diana Rigg) whose father is a patient. Hearing the words is a reminder of how integral great writing was to old Hollywood. Here, Chayefsky approaches the mastery he achieved some years later with NETWORK.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">THE HOSPITAL is that rare bird to weave pathos and humor seamlessly, and the cast really brings it. Especially Mr. Scott, in what may arguably be his finest hour. </div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-36515210221116740172024-03-07T00:00:00.000-08:002024-03-07T00:00:00.309-08:00For Which He Stands: The True Tale of the CIA, Castro and a Catholic<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCOJ4MCJAJwDJq-5KRL7TrasplFWRt7Y5FkOgEYiLU6O0ZKtb9h60td-aeY-3P2N1JSvjXrj649Lp-Bvpa2cNcUXzO9M8MFmyLDuK9wxzcFZAhQiosaibmkiBoh_WXNuOICAgy5PrKwb8XcT06q6xjqYSDZXlPlQQXtipxy2nYQE9PGf4hX-Mt_VROT0/s500/512sV4f7UUL._SL500_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCOJ4MCJAJwDJq-5KRL7TrasplFWRt7Y5FkOgEYiLU6O0ZKtb9h60td-aeY-3P2N1JSvjXrj649Lp-Bvpa2cNcUXzO9M8MFmyLDuK9wxzcFZAhQiosaibmkiBoh_WXNuOICAgy5PrKwb8XcT06q6xjqYSDZXlPlQQXtipxy2nYQE9PGf4hX-Mt_VROT0/w640-h640/512sV4f7UUL._SL500_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Brigade 2506, the armed wing of the Cuban Democratic Revolutionary Front, consisted of over 1,400 paramilitary personnel who attempted to overthrow Fidel Castro in Cuba in 1961, shortly after his promises to bring democracy to the island were quickly revealed to be a ruse. The Bay of Pigs invasion, spearheaded by U.S. President Dwight D. Eisenhower, was funded by the Central Intelligence Agency. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The soldiers (mostly businessmen and students) were Cuban exiles who included a physician named Jose "Pepin" Almeida, and found themselves overwhelmed by a surprise counterattack by Castro's militia. The landing on the beach at Playa Giron was not the expected coup, but rather a bloody massacre, abetted by President John F. Kennedy's withdrawal of air support. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Pepin and some comrades survived the attack and wandered a swamp for over one week, weary and starving and perhaps praying for death. The Brigade was eventually captured, given an unfair trial, and imprisoned by the militia. First in Habana then Modelo, on the Isla de Pinos.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>For Which He Stands: The True Tale of the CIA, Castro and a Catholic, </i>published in 2001<i> </i>is told from Pepin's perspective, mainly during the agonizing stretches in prison (at times in solitary confinement), where his spirit wilted but never folded. Where he shared filthy cells with said comrades, all of whom tried to organize routines for their sanity and resolve. Interspersed are recollections of growing up in Habana in the 30s, 40s, and 50s. As author Karen Alea writes, "Catholicism was something you were born into in Cuba." Pepin's faith is tested beyond what most of the devout would ever face, and is an integral part of this story.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Alea's style is vivid from opening until closing. The events of the counterrevolution, as the men scurry and take cover from hailstorms of bullets as the coup goes south, are thrillingly rendered, but the weight of the mounting tragedy mitigates any traditional action narrative excitement. A monumental betrayal handed to Cuban patriots, who were unaware that the second and third bombing campaigns targeting Castro's planes were canceled. And that CIA intel was faulty. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then the account of prison life, leavened with loving passages devoted to Pepin's wife Toty, who would not be sure if she would see her husband again. The unspeakable fear and tedium of incarceration. The psychological horror, all too willingly encouraged by prison guards. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've known Karen Alea (now Ford) for about fifty years. One of the few truly consistently genuine (and genuinely friendly) folks I've encountered. I first met her on the school bus that took us to a small private school affiliated with our Baptist church. We both grew up there, singing in the choir and hanging in the youth group. We also attended the same public high school. Her own life has taken some interesting turns regarding religious faith that can be discussed elsewhere. I reconnected with her on Facebook about fifteen years ago and in 2018 my wife and I met up with she and her husband outside of Nashville, where they've lived for some time. It was during that visit that she gave me a copy of her book, one I consider a taut, meditative, and compulsively readable document not only of a really dark chapter in Cuban and American history, but also of an indominable spirit in the face of it. </div><p></p>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-58656792585102339172024-03-04T00:00:00.000-08:002024-03-04T04:20:51.465-08:00Road to Perdition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLczKhXrlPiWbrlxAOM8iqZ2XUjiHILV_MWhplzzdq92TnLHMXM9E3c9FA9JA2ANrkUkPimVRXJTrgjU4pi7ANLWqxPdwbM5WWvyNntSurW5pRDWeYZlqD_BB0uoxn4sOGbwpAaIa_5ds/s1600/perdition.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="1500" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLczKhXrlPiWbrlxAOM8iqZ2XUjiHILV_MWhplzzdq92TnLHMXM9E3c9FA9JA2ANrkUkPimVRXJTrgjU4pi7ANLWqxPdwbM5WWvyNntSurW5pRDWeYZlqD_BB0uoxn4sOGbwpAaIa_5ds/w640-h362/perdition.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">2002's ROAD TO PERDITION was one of my Corona Virus Pandemic of 2020 re-watches. It was only my second viewing, to my recollection. What I remembered was a somber, beautifully shot mob drama with Tom Hanks and Paul Newman. Accurate. What I did not remember was a film that was very "Hollywood", with a healthy dose of sentiment, the dreaded framing device, and occasionally manipulative scoring. Occasionally: I mostly liked Thomas Newman's music, though less of it would've made a film so intent on being "dark" resonate even more.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A young man opens and closes the tale with his narration. His name is Michael Sullivan Jr. (Tyler Hoechlin), elder son of Michael Sr. (Hanks) a hit man for the Irish mafia in Illinois. He speaks about the six weeks on the road with his stoic dad, necessitated by the murder of his mother and other brother by Sr.'s associate. Junior is the catalyst of all this, as he was discovered as a stowaway in Sr.'s car one night during a hit. Sr.'s psychotic associate of aforemention is Connor (Daniel Craig), who perhaps isn't so convinced that Jr., who saw the hit, can keep a secret. Connor is the son of mob boss John Rooney (Paul Newman), but the old cuss treats Michael Sr. more as one of his own. Note that piano scene.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Beware a guy named Harlen Maguire (Jude Law), a crime scene photographer who is also a gun for hire, with the Sullivans in his sights. Who hired him?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">ROAD TO PERDITION, adapted by David Self from a graphic novel, is nominally about retribution, but its themes of paternalism are almost immediately recognizable. As you mull over the picture later you see some interesting small moments, as when Connor sneers at Jr's younger sibling Peter, really connect with the overall themes. The story is of the "sins of the father" variety, but with more hope. Jr.'s trajectory is really the heart of it all, and I found it quite effective. But Sam Mendes, for all his skillful and beautiful direction, somehow doesn't give the film the emotional weight it should've had. I also blame the somewhat thin characterizations, though no one's performances (and this is a fine cast) can be faulted. Everyone is just right, I just wish we had more to work with. More dialogue among these folks. It's heavy drama, but it feels unfinished. Pieces missing. When the inevitable befalls, I wasn't completely involved.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But this is a film that conveys so much in its visuals, and Conrad Hall, in his second collaboration with Mendes and whose last film this was, again does astonishing work. The final confrontation between Hanks and Newman (and Newman's men) is one of the most stunning series of shots I've seen in a movie. The look and feel of Depression era America through Hall's lens throughout all of ROAD TO PERDITION is perfectly evoked. </div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-79361335738517179782024-03-01T00:00:00.000-08:002024-03-01T00:00:00.143-08:00The Whale<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxGP0gJodet5IQ_LYPQn7wGFJyO2O32km6TQtu3YCBX-BRMtdQKBrzb2Fb5C4OtnteoV_b35Iwe9OuRXkx3aERNALmnr-gCkhTMjNJ4s5vej4Skv6eD7qa9Y3fI_lds2UCICBbiuAt4BXSRWhlAPs2TaIp7Sm6LT5YEGRGRa4ZQCSAZxPEQENabqDULI/s1920/MV5BN2ExM2NlZjMtYWYwZi00NTNkLThkOWYtNGJlOThlNmE5YzVlXkEyXkFqcGdeQVRoaXJkUGFydHlJbmdlc3Rpb25Xb3JrZmxvdw@@._V1_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxGP0gJodet5IQ_LYPQn7wGFJyO2O32km6TQtu3YCBX-BRMtdQKBrzb2Fb5C4OtnteoV_b35Iwe9OuRXkx3aERNALmnr-gCkhTMjNJ4s5vej4Skv6eD7qa9Y3fI_lds2UCICBbiuAt4BXSRWhlAPs2TaIp7Sm6LT5YEGRGRa4ZQCSAZxPEQENabqDULI/w640-h360/MV5BN2ExM2NlZjMtYWYwZi00NTNkLThkOWYtNGJlOThlNmE5YzVlXkEyXkFqcGdeQVRoaXJkUGFydHlJbmdlc3Rpb25Xb3JrZmxvdw@@._V1_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Spoilers</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">2022's THE WHALE is one of the most shameless panders to the Academy I've seen in some time. Folks these days would call it "Oscar bait", and while I'm not fond of such phrases, being another of what I call lazy film criticism (see also: "white savior", "spiritual sequel", "needle drop"), it really fits. My issues with this film are almost entirely with Stephen D. Hunter's screenplay, an adaptation of his play. The clunky, obvious symbolism he employs is symbiotic with the usual method of director Darren Aronofsky, not exactly known for subtlety. A more low key,suggestive approach would've suited this material far better.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">How does one make a sensitive, non-exploitive movie about a grossly obese man who never leaves his apartment? I would imagine it is possible. If I had made this, I would not be so ready to show his deformity. Glimpses only. I would've also left out the inevitable binge eating scene, common to stories about "fat" people both comedic (THE NUTTY PROFESSOR, the Eddie Murphy remake) and seriocomic (the all but forgotten FATSO, with Dom DeLuise). Hunter nails all the cliches, and Aronofsky, while doing an excellent job at setting the drab and defeated scene, is all too willing to realize them, set to Rob Simonsen's manipulative score.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So there actually <i>was</i> a dry eye in the house, invisible audience. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Charlie (Brendan Fraser) had given up on life after his boyfriend was murdered, by members of a local church congregation, no less. He would subsequently gain hundreds of pounds, teaching English classes remotely, with the webcam turned off. Years earlier, he had left his wife Mary (Samantha Morton) and daughter Ellie (Sadie Sink) for said lover. Charlie's only friend is Liz (Hong Chau), a nurse who repeatedly urges him to get medical attention, especially when his systolic spikes over two hundred. He refuses, and she continues tough love, though also brings him meatball subs, knowing the inevitable will come down at any moment.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ellie, long estranged, pops in one day, insults him, and announces she may not graduate high school. Charlie offers to give her his life savings if she will regularly visit him. She agrees on the condition that he also does her homework. She seems to be a smart kid, just unmotivated and pissed. Mom is an apparent alcoholic.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A young man named Thomas (Ty Simpkins), a missionary from the aforementioned church, also makes regular visits, trying to bring Charlie to Christ. This plot thread is the most intriguing, but felt incomplete, and did not have a satisfactory resolution.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Neither does the entirety of THE WHALE, its title inspired by <i>Moby Dick</i>, which was reviewed by eight year old Ellie in a book report Charlie still clutches to his breast closer than any old Bible. While the characters are interesting to watch and Aronofsky's direction is involving, the script and dialogue defeat everything. Leading to one of the most absurd final scenes in recent memory. It's so over the top it plays like parody, and got quite a laugh out of me. Not at all intentional, I would guess.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The performances, lead by Fraser's heartfelt (and justifiably praised) portrayal, are very good. That they transcend their unlikeability is quite remarkable.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><p></p></div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-25021779337366619732024-02-27T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-27T00:00:00.139-08:00Thunder Road<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb8CJcREyrAv3I_UIFTRp8NdE456LAVhlMMiHZvLK45cIF0NUuneNZhbwoHawBeCiGnmy6VYAmOLRQGdUoFPEq0ghg0ZiAMei2lmtkI56aDb3gkpQKIzxPJbmUkj8H4ayVl_rUhwREvlw/s1200/Thunderroad.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1200" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb8CJcREyrAv3I_UIFTRp8NdE456LAVhlMMiHZvLK45cIF0NUuneNZhbwoHawBeCiGnmy6VYAmOLRQGdUoFPEq0ghg0ZiAMei2lmtkI56aDb3gkpQKIzxPJbmUkj8H4ayVl_rUhwREvlw/w640-h384/Thunderroad.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">THUNDER ROAD is certainly one of the strongest debuts I've seen for an actor/writer/director. I was not familiar with Jim Cummings prior, but will certainly seek out his other work now. And look forward to what he does in the future. His 2018 film was an expansion of a short from two years earlier, featuring a policeman eulogizing his mother by singing and dancing to her favorite Bruce Springsteen tune, which shares the film's title. That scene opens THUNDER ROAD, and announces immediately that a new talent has emerged. It establishes the successful stride between the tragic and the comic that the entire film manages. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Officer Jim Arnaud in fact can't get the CD player to work, and is unable to perform the tribute for his mom as planned. Maybe this was true his entire life. He stammers and stumbles at her funeral in a scene of great embarrassment. It is our first glimpse at a highly troubled soul. A decorated, dedicated cop, but also a volatile, prone to ferocious anger young man who loves his young daughter to pieces, but stumbles as a father. He's estranged from his wife, and usually on the bad side of his police Captain. It is clear that he needs professional help. But as someone offers, "we all get emotional under these circumstances."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">They are dire. Jim's wife serves him divorce papers. He has to sell his mother's old dance studio to pay for an attorney. Then he pisses off the judge. Gets into a fist fight with his best friend/co-worker. His daughter's teacher informs him of her classroom disruptions, serious enough for him to recommend she be placed in a different homeroom.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It sounds grim, and it is, but Cummings (who did fleetingly remind me of Jim Carrey from ME, MYSELF, & IRENE) has somehow managed to make this story ring with both heart thumping emotion and hilarity. Even some of the darkest moments are leavened skillfully with comedy. The most notable is Jim's uber meltdown in a parking lot in front of his fellow officers. A masterpiece of a scene, there. But so is the parent/teacher conference, with indie favorite Macon Blair quite funny as the latter. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">THUNDER ROAD is quite the tour-de-force for Cummings. He really swung for the fences with such a personal film, scoring in every department. I was fascinated by the film's specific view of male angst. Specific, but relatable to many, I would think. The film's low budget is obvious, and the digital photography slightly hurts things cinematically, but Cummings' direction is just right for the material. This is one of the best stories of familial love and discord I've seen lately. Never once does the film step wrong, even during the finale, which will doubtless be controversial for some viewers, but is perfectly in line with how Jim Arnaud would handle things.</div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-19877293904139544582024-02-24T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-24T00:00:00.184-08:00Sherlock, Jr.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-yFehaGc0KiE9O_6TyzmCDSlKx4BspsTdd36ghOQ-PP9ZUB_OtmEyymcY447CKIVB2qKfUSmvoM-JajoJXOtlvfN-ZvqzKFKx9axYctUeyBHxExhV5LkCVQImdLaHJqTTWXcU0WEIbg/s1600/sherlock-jr.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="970" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-yFehaGc0KiE9O_6TyzmCDSlKx4BspsTdd36ghOQ-PP9ZUB_OtmEyymcY447CKIVB2qKfUSmvoM-JajoJXOtlvfN-ZvqzKFKx9axYctUeyBHxExhV5LkCVQImdLaHJqTTWXcU0WEIbg/w640-h357/sherlock-jr.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">How funny that during 1924's SHERLOCK JR.'s mere forty five minute running time I was reminded of Woody Allen, Luis Bunuel, and James Bond films. Among many others. Each frame of Buster Keaton's masterwork has been imitated, stolen, co-opted, you name it. But you know what they say about great artists. And the astonishingly limber Keaton was one of the originals of comedy cinema. He never really gets too silly, unlike many of his descendants. There are near breathtaking chases across bridges with gaps filled by two passing trucks at just the right moment. A man who shadows another down to the millimeter. Deft billiard tricks. I could go on and on. Oh, there is a banana peel.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Keaton plays a hapless film projectionist/janitor who dreams of being a detective, and is smitten with a certain young woman. He tries to woo the object of his affection with a box of chocolates, but his rival (looking suspiciously like Charlie Chaplin) buys a more expensive one. The other guy's a thief, having lifted the girl's father's pocket watch and pawning it for enough to buy the chocolate. He frames our hero for the crime, who then finds himself banished from the girl's home. He sets out to solve this dilemma. The girl does her own detecting.....</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Most of the rest of SHERLOCK JR. features a film within a film, a mystery about a stolen necklace that our guy dreams he is the star of while asleep by the projector. At first, the actors in the film try to boot him out! But eventually our Sherlock goes on a wild mission to foil the criminal and his gang. The projectionist wakes up and finds his real life happy ending.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">SHERLOCK JR. is regarding as Keaton's finest hour and it's hard to argue. There isn't a wasted second. This is a brilliant and creative piece of silent history. The gags (and stunts) grow increasingly complex as the film progresses, but never overwhelming the film's heart. It can be called surreal, and much of it may be some sort of commentary on cinematic escapism. THE PURPLE ROSE OF CAIRO certainly owes a debt, but so does THE SPY WHO LOVED ME and THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS. </div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-46182918449733049892024-02-22T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-22T00:00:00.146-08:00True Detective: Night Country<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlIEDwBZmB0vZAoWKggrWfehXlsdW4EQQ40O4lPY24Jdqd6hUPfw0OfNX5jMJ0iQY0Z-uZnxacTEV0FukvTFQg_F-sbX0vpAC-ihz-4fScttd8OPDcb9fRicY8l8Dr5gfU4K09atfFxsD-QA3pXGLi5hpai5XFcFf_h7BLMNNv3Q61YIfx64-Jfi3OGNo/s1480/240111131948-02-true-detective-night-country-hbo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="833" data-original-width="1480" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlIEDwBZmB0vZAoWKggrWfehXlsdW4EQQ40O4lPY24Jdqd6hUPfw0OfNX5jMJ0iQY0Z-uZnxacTEV0FukvTFQg_F-sbX0vpAC-ihz-4fScttd8OPDcb9fRicY8l8Dr5gfU4K09atfFxsD-QA3pXGLi5hpai5XFcFf_h7BLMNNv3Q61YIfx64-Jfi3OGNo/w640-h360/240111131948-02-true-detective-night-country-hbo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am one of the many fans of the HBO series <i>True Detective</i>. Season one, anyway. I haven't checked out Seasons Two and Three, the former not especially well received. Season Four, which concluded earlier this week, has a fresh perspective and location. Writer Issa Lopez would serve as showrunner and direct all six episodes, lending a feminist bent to what had thus far been a testosterone fueled series. It would be the first season to have a subtitle: "Night Country". This refers to the twenty-four hour darkness that envelops the fictional town of Ennis, Alaska during a more bleak than usual wintertime. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It also refers to something more existential, but you'll have to discover that for yourself. The season begins with the mysterious deaths of several research scientists, found naked and frozen in a lake. Chief Liz Danvers (Jodie Foster) investigates, eventually teaming with estranged former partner Trooper Evangeline Navarro (Kali Reis). Flashbacks gradually reveal why things turned sour between them. Danvers is not highly regarded around Ennis, partially due to her promiscuity with some local husbands. Foster plays this rather unlikable character - who suffers some crippling past trauma - with enough dimension for us to empathize, at least some of the time. She has several strong moments. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's clear by episode two that "Night Country", which will remind some viewers of John Carpenter's version of <a href="https://redeyespy.blogspot.com/2019/10/the-thing.html">THE THING</a>, <a href="https://redeyespy.blogspot.com/2018/10/the-shining.html">THE SHINING</a>, and maybe even <i>Twin Peaks,</i> is far more interested in character study than procedural, maybe a bit too much. More time than necessary is spent on subplots. While protests of the Inupiat people (indigenous Alaskans) will be integral to the overall storyline, Lopez's attempts to mythologize them is mostly heavy handed. A separate series or film could explore their culture exclusively, without the thriller elements. Here, I just wanted more thriller, more nuts and bolts detecting, which often feels neglected.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe I just wasn't asking the right questions?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There are several connections and allusions to season one, including a key line of dialogue and a relentlessly downbeat tone. These are miserable people who make each other profoundly unhappy, feelings compounded by the harsh cold and absent sunlight. We also meet Officer Peter Prior (Finn Bennett) and his father, Captain Hank Prior (John Hawkes), who harbors plenty of secrets. How their relationship plays out is another grim study of familial dysfunction, though I wasn't as moved by it as I should've been.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bonus points for the use of Mazzy Star's "Into Dust" in episode four. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The main reason to stick it out through episode six is Reis. She's just right. Her background as a professional boxer lends cred to her tough portrayal. Her work here is extremely heartfelt and genuine. She really gels with Jodie.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Much of "Night Country" was shot in Iceland, and Lopez achieves the icy gloom and vivid atmosphere she sought. She favors the ambiguous, which is fine, but her writing so often comes off as second rate and obvious. And unclear, which isn't favorable for a detective story, But by the final image you'll realize this never really was one. </div><div><p></p></div></div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-24416187841939486432024-02-19T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-19T00:00:00.145-08:00The Greatest Night in Pop<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPSYwkwDs-CabAI8W-GzhUPV7e-_LmAV00th4wZpzF6E32gDJ4Ch6qV1H4-vDvc-Sq3fKxA-7oyTLL1VXfN5QozggaZP8KsxJQ5HLAlr-26X8aJ_A0_cAplBBQv5zzgmYFad2x4QDYGSpo0uEIxOojWlR5crSLtsvSqJ3Y581JGRfuFDmGWQZecNMSc0/s1296/The-Greatest-Night-in-Pop-Still3-H-2024.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1296" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPSYwkwDs-CabAI8W-GzhUPV7e-_LmAV00th4wZpzF6E32gDJ4Ch6qV1H4-vDvc-Sq3fKxA-7oyTLL1VXfN5QozggaZP8KsxJQ5HLAlr-26X8aJ_A0_cAplBBQv5zzgmYFad2x4QDYGSpo0uEIxOojWlR5crSLtsvSqJ3Y581JGRfuFDmGWQZecNMSc0/w640-h360/The-Greatest-Night-in-Pop-Still3-H-2024.webp" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I feel like this year's documentary THE GREATEST NIGHT IN POP was made just for me. Of course, many folks my age and some older may feel exactly the same. Has there been a stronger dose of '80s nostalgia than this? When "We are the World", recorded mostly during one long night by a group of superstars called USA for Africa debuted in March of 1985, I was fifteen, fully immersed in pop music and excited that such a lineup could've come together. It was the era of the music industry's consciousness of widespread famine abroad. This multimillion selling single was preceded by "Do They Know It's Christmas" by the UK collective Band Aid and followed by other such supergroups and numerous concert festivals benefiting various charities. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">How did organizers Henry Belafonte, Quincy Jones, Lionel Richie, and entertainment manager Ken Kragen get all these artists - who included Michael Jackson, Cyndi Lauper, Willie Nelson, Dionne Warwick, Bruce Springsteen, Huey Lewis, Paul Simon, and Bob Dylan - in one place? Many of the participants attended the American Music Awards that evening and went straight to A & M Recording Studios afterward. Recording began around 10 P.M. and concluded well after sunrise the next day. Historic. We knew it then. There was that ubiquitous iconic video. MTV played the heck out of it. We saw Billy Joel swaying with Kim Carnes and Lindsay Buckingham. Much of the Jackson family (minus Janet) were there. To say it was a cultural phenom is really understating things. I recall when every radio station played the tune at the same time. How amazing and somewhat bewildering it was to twist the dial and hear the song on both country and rock stations. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">THE GREATEST NIGHT OF POP soars once we get to the footage of the musicians. Curious to observe the interactions and dynamics. How someone like Bette Midler, who would normally be the center of attention is almost a wallflower among so many other big personalities. Or at least that's what the editing suggests. We also get glimpses of Dan Aykroyd, presumably there due to his participation in the Blues Brothers act. Bob Dylan looks extremely uncomfortable, though how Stevie Wonder eventually inspired his solo is pretty damned awesome. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The candid admissions. Diana Ross getting all fan girl and asking for Darryl Hall's autograph. Lauper's gaggle of jewelry emitting noise on the mic. The controversies: Al Jarreau enjoying too much pre-celebratory wine during recording and Waylon Jennings walking out 'cause Stevie Wonder wanted to sing a verse in Swahili (which is not spoken in Ethiopia, by the way). The film overdubs Waylon's "Dukes of Hazzard" theme song as he exits. And you thought Ross was a diva? Surprised the filmmakers didn't continue the cheekiness and include Richie's "All Night Long" as a certain commentary on the event. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Director Bao Nguyen does some of the usual talking head interviews, current ones with Richie, Lewis, Springsteen, Kenny Loggins, etc. Sheila E. recalls feeling used, as the organizers were trying to get Prince in the studio. You may know how I feel about this style of filmmaking. But how poignant to have Lionel sitting today in the same studio where history was made. Remembering where Cyndi stood. Maybe we've all done that kind of thing somewhere at sometime. The recollections were for an event that raised millions for the hungry, but also for a time gone by, the likes of which are unlikely to be seen again. For me, that was the main takeaway. Can you imagine such an event with today's pop brats? Me neither. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyy0-iPp5Tcbo228Irr9RE39qp00VvDRIae9eyM8fcBxNzsWtWo-eCbxYLbH0MolCNfL3svXr_W_jyORZagRcV8Aw0JSjBMmL5bp5zxQB3jpear_ubItlkSL5Nw1oDjr0i4DO3OZSYVnYQlG3Rima_D38coFE86Pqx8LlkyCAlQGr6RkuyTokDjN5tYw/s1581/The_Greatest_Night_In_Pop_A2021_2_4_462.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1054" data-original-width="1581" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyy0-iPp5Tcbo228Irr9RE39qp00VvDRIae9eyM8fcBxNzsWtWo-eCbxYLbH0MolCNfL3svXr_W_jyORZagRcV8Aw0JSjBMmL5bp5zxQB3jpear_ubItlkSL5Nw1oDjr0i4DO3OZSYVnYQlG3Rima_D38coFE86Pqx8LlkyCAlQGr6RkuyTokDjN5tYw/w640-h426/The_Greatest_Night_In_Pop_A2021_2_4_462.webp" width="640" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p></p>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-49842460927084099162024-02-17T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-17T00:00:00.140-08:00Harry's<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYTx1MuxGwpvhZlZb5zIU2I2I8k7nImZ-pT4XAydziHQsmjl7QEeqlk2aL5gbnCtc2k8fcR0lxLcoAQSdxXJXouZQ3_ZPyLIu2fsv5GOcz9ujLL_aPbFeDFFOQ5I81WaxKRg72XyBMYLQXk7D-40HTYDiiee6UXwDSjHGUfOkpB3R_HNRY84j5iU6ZQw/s640/thumbnail_IMG_5666.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="481" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYTx1MuxGwpvhZlZb5zIU2I2I8k7nImZ-pT4XAydziHQsmjl7QEeqlk2aL5gbnCtc2k8fcR0lxLcoAQSdxXJXouZQ3_ZPyLIu2fsv5GOcz9ujLL_aPbFeDFFOQ5I81WaxKRg72XyBMYLQXk7D-40HTYDiiee6UXwDSjHGUfOkpB3R_HNRY84j5iU6ZQw/w482-h640/thumbnail_IMG_5666.jpg" width="482" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Long had our friends - husband and wife dining buddies who mostly go high end - raved to us about Harry's, an upscale eatery known for its steaks and martinis. The original (and only other) location is at 1 Hanover Square in NYC. A Wall Street mainstay since 1972. Funny to think I was still living there when it opened. 'Course, I was only three that year....</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Andrew and I shared a porterhouse, dry aged for twenty-eight days and broiled. We requested they do not brush the meat with butter. Didn't need it. It practically did melt in my mouth. Andrew also brought a bottle of French red wine (sorry I forget the name) that paired beautifully. We compared the steak to a porterhouse we shared back in December at Gallagher's, another longtime Manhattan steakhouse (since 1927!) with a location in South Florida (Boca Raton). Sorry again, as I didn't get around to a review. It was nice but filled with some loud, obnoxious people. In Boca? Oh, you kid... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, Harry's porterhouse just slightly edged out Gallaher's (which was cooked on open charcoal) for the top spot. I recommend both.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My wife had the filet mignon which got high marks. Andrew's wife got the pan roasted chicken, similarly lauded. My wife and I split the New York style cheesecake, which was among the best of its type I can remember.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wait staff was very attentive, attractive, and friendly. Most of the patrons that night looked affluent and influential, yet the air was generally casual.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Harry's is located in the The Square, in the same building as Goldman Sachs. You may feel like you're in New York. Maybe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: red;">Harry's</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: red;">384 Rosemary Avenue</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: red;">West Palm Beach, FL 33401</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: red;">(561) 834-5010</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: red;">https://www.harrysbarrestaurant.com/harrys-west-palm-beach</span><p></p></div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-91453719120355985462024-02-14T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-14T00:00:00.230-08:00Love Jones<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZjp0JCnA2ph6m3iXrt_8C4mVkFrtEk5ZfWSZrb0ceqUnRtdzNzZRaECea_1r8AU6VtgYRVuoyuyg696HOJAJQ8Qw6_tILnkXjQlnh_7zRymZKqd_CereRxu-szAnuCB74CIMwLlMZXXNx4Mnw6DM5g-aBZfcjQ-hvzV_ySS20LAclvYTbOQTKFht/s1280/3VF6NAExZQEMiJiuUtWUjuLEy4kAgm_medium.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZjp0JCnA2ph6m3iXrt_8C4mVkFrtEk5ZfWSZrb0ceqUnRtdzNzZRaECea_1r8AU6VtgYRVuoyuyg696HOJAJQ8Qw6_tILnkXjQlnh_7zRymZKqd_CereRxu-szAnuCB74CIMwLlMZXXNx4Mnw6DM5g-aBZfcjQ-hvzV_ySS20LAclvYTbOQTKFht/w640-h360/3VF6NAExZQEMiJiuUtWUjuLEy4kAgm_medium.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There was always something about 1997's LOVE JONES that caught my attention. The advertisements did not suggest anything beyond a standard romantic drama, though for its time it was fairly progressive. Actually depicting black characters as something besides gangbangers or heavies. A film that considered the lives and loves of African-Americans without resorting to leering comedy or raunch. Literate, middle to upper class folks with artistic leanings. Writer/director Theodore Witcher generally succeeded here, though his screenplay hits many of the cliches you would expect in a story about young coupling in the big city. But again, it's <i>how</i> it is all presented, and a certain intelligence pervades. Also a certain aura, one that confirmed my interest in this movie.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Darius (Lorenz Tate) is an aspiring writer who hangs with his pals at this cool Chicago nightclub that sports jazz and poetry. One night he meets a striking young woman named Nina (Nia Long), who a few scenes earlier we learned is a gifted photographer suffering a recent breakup. There are immediate sparks, enough for Darius to dedicate a poem to her at the mic that very night. Awkward, perhaps too bold of a move. His subsequent efforts to get a date are rebuffed, but the guy is persistent and Nina will eventually relent. Their date goes very well, enough so that Darius is cooking her an omelette after their night together. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">How will they play this? Are they truly just "kicking it"? Friends with benefits, as they used to say? Or is there something deeper? Thus begins the on again/off again dance, with Nina testing Darius' intentions by getting back with her ex, and Darius hooking up with his "friend" Lisa. And Nina dating one of Darius' buds, the self-absorbed Hollywood (Bill Bellamy). Our lovers run very hot or very cold. You might find yourself face palming at some of their (especially Darius') actions. People act funny when they're (not entirely sure they're) in love. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The scenarios are realistic. The characters are very believably drawn, appealing, and natural. The friendships depicted feel as if torn from someone's life, not a screenwriter's guide. The point of view is almost sage-like. But the plotting is familiar and time worn. The beats are recognizable. The Big Scenes are there, including the one where Darius runs to a train station just in time to miss Nina as she moves to NYC. The wise married friend giving advice. The reconciliation in the rain. Rain plays a significant role in LOVE JONES, always accompanying positive moments. Often in these type of films rain is symbolic of loneliness. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Witcher, who to date has not directed another feature, achieves this subtle relaxed vibe from opening to closing, even when the drama is high. Almost a mystical feel, quite intoxicating. This is aided by sublime tunes, including some by Charlie Parker and Dionne Farris' lovely "Hopeless", heard over the opening credits.</div><div><p></p></div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-41924328094926759422024-02-11T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-11T00:00:00.145-08:00Semi-Tough<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGjYexM6ECQ1BdsWzin8GGHnQCuaemwQvkoROX_0lCFHUpOa23WHwHX_IUKkaUcIOgxQbn85lHbs4J9ckDUMhXjGI9g8fmr81Wcj2T8bcWCLR6vfOanDmFx0lDEWiP7lOMl0dh6bNvUA/s1600/Semi-Tough-e1580678183627.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="728" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGjYexM6ECQ1BdsWzin8GGHnQCuaemwQvkoROX_0lCFHUpOa23WHwHX_IUKkaUcIOgxQbn85lHbs4J9ckDUMhXjGI9g8fmr81Wcj2T8bcWCLR6vfOanDmFx0lDEWiP7lOMl0dh6bNvUA/w640-h354/Semi-Tough-e1580678183627.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">1977's SEMI-TOUGH is more ambitious than its lascivious posters would suggest. You know, the ones with bare chested stars Burt Reynolds and Kris Kristofferson behind some scantily clad young women about to hike a football. It's amusing to wonder about those movie goers expecting a leering sex comedy, and instead getting an insightful, intelligent examination of friendship and love. Set in the world of pro football, but with only a few scenes on the field and in the locker room. This is unsurprising given the participation of director Michael Ritchie, known for his personal, eccentric films, sometimes set in the realm of sports.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was probably wise of the studio to focus on the elements that got asses into theater seats. But once the rather low-key SEMI-TOUGH unspooled, did anyone stalk the concession for a refund? Maybe not. Fans of Burt get one of his most relaxed, natural performances here. Even if Walter Bernstein's script (based on Dan Jenkins' novel of the name name) had nothing else to recommend it, Reynold's megawatt charm really carries this movie, which in some ways is an updated screwball comedy.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Marvin, aka "Shake" (Kris Kristofferson) and Billy Clyde (Reynolds) play for a fictional Miami team owned by Big Ed (Robert Preston), father of the guys' lifelong friend and current roommate Barbara Jane (Jill Clayburgh). You'd expect some <i>menage a trois</i>, but they're all just platonic friends. Until Barbara Jane begins to have feelings for Shake, and soon they are engaged. Billy Clyde, whose life has been all about "fucking and football", realizes that he really does love his platonic friend, and subtly sets out to derail the marriage.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">SEMI-TOUGH is about these well drawn and likable folks. The star trio has unforced and believable chemistry. It's nominally about football, though this ain't NORTH DALLAS FORTY or THE LONGEST YARD. There is also a significant thread that rather savagely parodies 1970s trends like Est, a self-help program of sorts where people paid to spend a weekend locked in a hotel ballroom with a guru who breaks them down in an effort to help them find themselves. In this movie the religion is called B.E.A.T., which is fully embraced by Shake, who claims it changed his life and helped him to not drop any more passes. Barbara Jane tries it out, but her session leaves her discouraged, unable to "get it." B.E.A.T leader Friedrick Bismark (Bert Convy, in far and away his best movie role) tells warns Shake that he will be unequally yolked in a "mixed marriage".</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wouldn't call this Ritchie's finest hour, but SEMI-TOUGH is interesting, amusing, and mostly easy to take. I wasn't too impressed with Brian Dennehy's role as the guys' lunkhead teammate T.J., who gets mad at his girlfriend and holds her upside down by her ankle, threatening to drop her off a roof. The scene is played lightly, an opportunity for Shake to work his B.E.A.T. magic on the meathead (and woo Barbara Jane even more). I <i>was</i> impressed with the comic invention and genius of one scene, where Bid Ed demonstrates "creep therapy" to Billy Clyde. The satire is strong with this one.</div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-59699038758070075062024-02-08T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-08T00:00:00.255-08:00Back to School<p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwXaBqYBhFwn94aJx1HzUrcvP7EoKk9Udv1OX8BhgFIatN8YoItuA1vD63DH2J5MWIbKVMBD0QGVl-fiQGTAlkdU3wAckEK1E5C8XUGdZeMvKbTqBIC__2Vag5zE0GIGghK7oYsOfUj9G-DICJrMaUgCC8tYhfvFrUn1JkFc6IEX_uaWuXowJ7h9Y99Xk/s1500/BackToSchool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwXaBqYBhFwn94aJx1HzUrcvP7EoKk9Udv1OX8BhgFIatN8YoItuA1vD63DH2J5MWIbKVMBD0QGVl-fiQGTAlkdU3wAckEK1E5C8XUGdZeMvKbTqBIC__2Vag5zE0GIGghK7oYsOfUj9G-DICJrMaUgCC8tYhfvFrUn1JkFc6IEX_uaWuXowJ7h9Y99Xk/w640-h426/BackToSchool.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>1986's BACK TO SCHOOL is easily Rodney Dangerfield's finest hour on film, another Star Vehicle that exists simply to showcase its lead. But what else would you want? Even though this film has an A-Z plot (a bit more than say, <a href="https://redeyespy.blogspot.com/2011/10/caddyshack.html">CADDYSHACK</a>) most of what he says is stolen directly from his stand-up act. I grew up listening to the albums and watching the cable specials, so I knew 'em all. Such as, "I like having two girls, so if I fall asleep they have each other to talk to." Rodney gets a story credit along with Greg Fields and Dennis Snee, and the screenplay was written/concocted by Steven Kampmann, Will Porter, Peter Torokvei, and Harold Ramis. But you just know there was plenty of ad libbing and comedic overdubbing of the script, as it were.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Said plot seems like something out of the 1930s, as did Rodney's EASY MONEY from a few years earlier. Here he plays Thornton Melon, who never got very far in school but nonetheless became a self made millionaire as the owner of a chain of clothing stores for men whose sizes have at least two Xs. His son Jason (Keith Gordon) is in college but hasn't quite adjusted and contemplates dropping out. As Thornton's marriage to Jason's stepmother, the younger, cheating Vanessa (Adrienne Barbeau) is a wash anyway, he decides to visit Jason and eventually enroll himself as a student at his university. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio3EVMcfGFPyk61eMFFs3hzaGeJDIlCw5Y3RXG36_GZQZ7Atu7yHR3buP2EyHO8mJPRovjzOh9tewvvYOG0gMP6xw0hGXoGP5GRDL7eDZfWFSWwWtpePBAkhTT_vp4MKv94ur0I2OuQpd2ScEtkXV8wRs0X0qJIhRemPSBTh_9gzx5PeBc3W4hpgmA=s440" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="247" data-original-width="440" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio3EVMcfGFPyk61eMFFs3hzaGeJDIlCw5Y3RXG36_GZQZ7Atu7yHR3buP2EyHO8mJPRovjzOh9tewvvYOG0gMP6xw0hGXoGP5GRDL7eDZfWFSWwWtpePBAkhTT_vp4MKv94ur0I2OuQpd2ScEtkXV8wRs0X0qJIhRemPSBTh_9gzx5PeBc3W4hpgmA=w640-h360" width="640" /></a></div>Can this crude but good hearted old guy from Brooklyn cut it collegiately? Can he even pass his courses? Will he inspire or merely embarrass his kid? Will he be able to pull off the triple Lindy? A good set-up, and director Alan Metter moves the traffic along efficiently. Eh, maybe he contributes a bit to the comic timing but I suspect most of it was manufactured by the cast, which is quite good.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In addition to the aforementioned, we have Burt Young as Melon's bodyguard Lou, M. Emmett Walsh as a swim coach, Robert Downey Jr. as Jason's eccentric friend Derek, Sally Kellerman as the English professor Thornton falls for, and Ned Beatty as uh, "Dean Martin." There is also a memorable cameo by Sam Kinison as a fiery history teacher and yes, Kurt Vonnegut Jr. as himself, who can't even write a paper about his own work to the English prof's satisfaction. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">BACK TO SCHOOL treads the line skillfully between the vulgar and the heartwarming. It is slightly more family friendly than Rodney's earlier films, and the comedian really comes into his own here - cocky, confident, yet warm. Is he just playing himself? Yeah, but for the more dramatic moments the screenplay contrives he holds his own nicely. The sentiment works surprisingly well, but in the end what keeps this buzzing are Rodney's endless one-liners, one of my favorite being "I need to straighten out my Longfellow". <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhy0HJIFuiLm7zFPxKvPUdPObEff_PuVZZEgCAu8AbkX5pQrO16qQn_1pUSp1R3evoAF6rPwR0Fe90UqMaEw2CyEnPjI060chPuEbP-4JR9ChulFS16s-1XsWwJ1zzRiSoOi6JilD7D0/s400/homepage_EB19860613REVIEWS606130301AR.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhy0HJIFuiLm7zFPxKvPUdPObEff_PuVZZEgCAu8AbkX5pQrO16qQn_1pUSp1R3evoAF6rPwR0Fe90UqMaEw2CyEnPjI060chPuEbP-4JR9ChulFS16s-1XsWwJ1zzRiSoOi6JilD7D0/w640-h360/homepage_EB19860613REVIEWS606130301AR.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-20094357758817322732024-02-04T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-04T00:00:00.176-08:00Cleo From 5 to 7<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngLlt6qOwoxH30AQtc1BDdFMn0Jma1x2HpyEWCe_eHYhDu34J33RutXTULliDUqvmbe24cvZLMAtaq72aAXHzL4aC0zr1UBYsRJ38MyFOAhZbadGSHYm5_EoRb-GRCN7B-E3YympjAFw/s1600/Cleo_from_5_to_7-446780134-large.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1049" data-original-width="1500" height="445" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngLlt6qOwoxH30AQtc1BDdFMn0Jma1x2HpyEWCe_eHYhDu34J33RutXTULliDUqvmbe24cvZLMAtaq72aAXHzL4aC0zr1UBYsRJ38MyFOAhZbadGSHYm5_EoRb-GRCN7B-E3YympjAFw/w640-h445/Cleo_from_5_to_7-446780134-large.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Cleo Victoire is prone to high drama. With good reason. She <i>is</i> a pop singer, known for a few hits she hates to hear while out in public (but is distraught when no one around her pays attention to them). She is also awaiting test results which will reveal whether or not she has cancer. Writer/director Agnes Varda's 1962 CLEO FROM 5 TO 7 follows the young woman for about an hour and a half (in a more or less real time narrative) as she wanders around Paris. By 6:30, she will know her diagnosis. But the agony before! Interminable. Thankfully, Varda does not make her film feel that way.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We first see Cleo (Corinne Marchand) with a fortune teller, each tarot card pointing to death. This will be the only sequence in Varda's film to be in color, an interesting choice. Despondent, Cleo will take comfort in superficial things like her physical beauty and the black fur hat she buys. At least she isn't superstitious like her assistant, Angele (Dominique Davray), who thinks it's bad luck to buy something new on a Tuesday. Angele patiently listens to her boss' laments, but her thoughts tell us something different.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Cleo will spend a few minutes with a lover who is rarely around. Her pianist and songwriter who vainly try to cheer her up. A friend who poses nude for a sculpture class. The friend's boyfriend, a film projectionist. A soldier on leave from the war in Algeria. Curiously, as the film progresses, Cleo's relationships become healthier, more positive. Do we need to watch the fortune teller scene again to review?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">With her second full length feature, Varda takes a bid from many existential works, filmic and otherwise, to create her own. Through Cleo's spoken words of the recognizance of her mortality and impending doom, Varda creates a brief essay on that most universal of concerns. The singer might accurately be deemed as shallow, with her self-reassurance that "as long as I'm beautiful, I'm alive". Her definition of validation. She certainly does not get this from her intermittent lover, or probably any other man in her life. So went the role of the woman in early '60s French society. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The director also uses the environment around Cleo to make perhaps subtler statements. All the mirrors. The constant news reports about the Algerian war. Antoine, said soldier, describing senseless death on the battlefield. The city of Paris itself, so beautifully captured by a trio of cinematographers: Jean Rabier, Alain Levent, and Paul Bonis. Varda's cinematic confidence, never tainted by faux sentiment, makes CLEO FROM 5 TO 7 both a breezy and urgent experience. This is the ancestor of so many feminist stories in the cinema. Surely Greta Gerwig took notice.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The existentialism never gets too pretentious. The pre-New Wave style never too showy. Ms. Marchand <i>is</i> very beautiful and convincing. There are amusing cameos by Anna Karina and Jean Luc-Godard. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My emotional connection to this film was not as strong as I expected/hoped, but this is a lovely film.</div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-8840455358675994922024-02-01T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-01T00:00:00.247-08:00Master Gardener<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaV1RHJ992Ki0IYVKg0MYcRxE35TKVqpqCT1AQfmdytkyaqPyLKeUueOBEBM8qFhKz8jw-borjW4yBag6TI-oOT8AAgQkODaJg4f6BjH8xrGVb1C0855RUssLhOl_tVQZPRSaTGSxZZMllginFj8tlneb5lbKHOY1jITbWgvb_gfa9tNRC_z_xVMYHg_s/s1600/Master-Gardener-still.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaV1RHJ992Ki0IYVKg0MYcRxE35TKVqpqCT1AQfmdytkyaqPyLKeUueOBEBM8qFhKz8jw-borjW4yBag6TI-oOT8AAgQkODaJg4f6BjH8xrGVb1C0855RUssLhOl_tVQZPRSaTGSxZZMllginFj8tlneb5lbKHOY1jITbWgvb_gfa9tNRC_z_xVMYHg_s/w640-h360/Master-Gardener-still.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #fcff01;">Spoilers</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was surprised at how shallow and thin Paul Schrader's writing is in 2022's MASTER GARDENER. <i>Relatively.</i> By now I've come to expect near scholarly examinations of redemption (his favorite theme) in his movies. Often, the protagonist's definition of such may differ than everyone else's. Consider Travis Bickle in TAXI DRIVER. Or John LeTour in LIGHT SLEEPER. More recently, Schrader has created what folks have been calling "The Man in the Room Trilogy" - further stories of troubled, isolated men scribbling journal entries under lamplight, voiceovers allowing us a glimpse into their psyches. Men with questionable histories who find an opportunity for some sort of absolution. A late career resurgence for the writer/director that began with FIRST REFORMED and continued with THE CARD COUNTER.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span>Narvel Roth (Joel Edgerton) is the titular horticulturist whose team precisely manicures the estate of Mrs. Norma Haverhill (Sigourney Weaver), a wealthy, refined, but acerbic widow. One day she tells Narvel - who she often calls "Sweet Pea" for reasons that will be confirmed later - to guide her orphaned grandniece Maya (Quintessa Swindell) as an apprentice. Estranged grandniece, one she hasn't seen in over a decade. The reasons are easy to surmise as we get a brief but comprehensive enough sketch of Norma. Beginning with Maya's mixed race. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The early twentyish woman is a quick study, and she bonds easily with Narvel and his staff. The opening scenes of MASTER GADENER are pleasant and almost soothing, with lovely cinematography by Alexander Dynan and lush production design. Yet every moment is infused with portent, punctuated by flashes of Narvel's past, his years as a white supremacist. When Norma and Maya finally sit down for a chat, the film reveals its thorns, so to speak. You may call that an easy metaphor, and Schrader never misses an opportunity to present his own, often through Narvel's journal entries.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The storyline follows a familiar arc, though the darkness may not hang as heavily this time out. Perhaps Schrader wanted to end this trilogy on an up note. This does come at the cost of plausibility. And before, the dramatic peaking in the second hour wasn't entirely convincing or strong. Severances and resolutions were too abrupt. The worst sin is the lack of proper development of Narvel. I do agree that this is not a story about his terrible past, but in order for the penance he seeks to have weight we needed a better backstory. Schrader only gives us morsels. I'm not asking for spelled out "meaning" but more narrative would've allowed the present more impact.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Having two of the wimpiest antagonists in recent memory also didn't help.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The cast is very good. Edgerton plays enigma well. Weaver relishes a showy role. Swindell is believably tough and vulnerable. </div><div><p></p></div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-67197829365137294112024-01-29T00:00:00.000-08:002024-01-29T00:00:00.279-08:00Computer Chess<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQC4UPPn2w9_-BlatPWpT8_gBHS8pwalOSDtZR-xcy7QXSta07fnKsCxEeNDwS0SNBCLudSYol52dLpO9tm2QKyBHloC006RAGRQ99NKfEL3RDkgBcI43yKOBMafdS8Zw5PWwAbdMZMk/s1600/computerchess1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="680" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQC4UPPn2w9_-BlatPWpT8_gBHS8pwalOSDtZR-xcy7QXSta07fnKsCxEeNDwS0SNBCLudSYol52dLpO9tm2QKyBHloC006RAGRQ99NKfEL3RDkgBcI43yKOBMafdS8Zw5PWwAbdMZMk/w640-h448/computerchess1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Director Andrew Bujalski carries off the conceit longer and better than I would've expected. What appears to be a 1970s surveillance camera captures a group of what are politely called nerds attending a chess tournament in a bland California hotel. Computer chess, complete with those giant PCs used back in the day. Students from CalTech, MIT, and other universities pit their programs in a race for a $7500 prize. One team has the first ever female competitor. There's a videographer capturing the event. Also, two suspicious guys who supply drugs. Their wares enhance late night discussions about the effects of Artificial Intelligence on mankind.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bujalski, who also wrote the script for 2013's COMPUTER CHESS, apparently nailed the particulars. I've read that real life programmers slapped their knees in hilarity. Yes, this movie is a comedy. Some of it in the style of shows like <i>The Office. </i>Much of the time it feels like one of Christopher Guest's "mockumentaries." These are good things. The eccentric humor develops quite naturally out of this group of socially awkward geniuses, which includes the brash Michael Papageorge (Myles Paige), who blatantly tells the master of ceremonies that his panel discussions are boring and through some mix-up finds himself without a room, forever stealing a place to sleep. Because of this he ends up a participant in the <i>other</i> weekend convention, an encounter group.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Much of the focus is on Peter (Patrick Riester), shy and seemingly the youngest of the group, trying to figure out why the program TSAR is malfunctioning. He finds himself in a hotel room with a swinging middle aged couple, in a scene of great comedic discomfort. COMPUTER CHESS finds its laughs mainly in how the crasser elements of society fail to understand those geeks who eventually designed well, everything we're obsessed with today. As the film progresses, more serious themes emerge (though still in a humorous vein). This may or may not occur before scene where Martin Beuscher (Wiley Wiggins) discovers (in a flashback) that the computer is asking <i>him</i> questions. Machine learning, indeed?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bujalski employs use of split screen, out of sync dubbing, image as if a photographic negative, and even one sequence in color. These choices can be explained, and I'd love to hear Bujalski's explanations. His film has more substance than I would've guessed. This low-fi mumblecore exercise does in fact amount to more than just easy satire.</div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-4086699111471784722024-01-27T00:00:00.000-08:002024-01-27T00:00:00.306-08:00After Holiday Party II<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJiovC9-1X-Ygx6or8HzAHWCP70PdnM83bnc8vFU5vmPfbVX2NTP2lbMz0NEmOvok7MZ0uEF1RW1hwp-oG0X4NLnq0cJ_JWXVWpecQBCyTrXOvPAOEjcdkwyAMVw7H8k0aGTAwVUN0P_fUtFw4olCOO-7ord1HlrelW0NZr3JlwT5OC88lxQZqo4m3MDc/s640/thumbnail_IMG_5618.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="481" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJiovC9-1X-Ygx6or8HzAHWCP70PdnM83bnc8vFU5vmPfbVX2NTP2lbMz0NEmOvok7MZ0uEF1RW1hwp-oG0X4NLnq0cJ_JWXVWpecQBCyTrXOvPAOEjcdkwyAMVw7H8k0aGTAwVUN0P_fUtFw4olCOO-7ord1HlrelW0NZr3JlwT5OC88lxQZqo4m3MDc/w482-h640/thumbnail_IMG_5618.jpg" width="482" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As you may have read, for the second year in a row my practice decided to throw our holiday bash after the holidays. It does break up January nicely, and this has been a rather bleak one, namely the weather, which has been overcast and wet nearly every day. Sometimes chilly, which I like, but minus the horizontal rain, thank you. Bet the snowbirds are pissed.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">We gathered on the patio at Yardhouse, a restaurant/brewery chain known for its wide selection of beers and classic rock pumping overhead. I've been to this Palm Beach Gardens location a half dozen or so times. Always good grub, and this night it seemed even better. Wait staff kept bringing out plates of sliders, spicy chicken wings, fried calamari, sliced blackened ahi sashimi, and jumbo "firecracker" shrimp. There were several types of pizza and nachos. Parm truffle fries, mmmmm. Everything was so good, the kind of good as if you haven't eaten in a week or have a serious case of the munchies after a few hours of weed. I made several trips to the table, justified in my head as a reward for having such a healthy diet of late. I have to agree with the wisdom I found in an article I read in, I think, <i>Men's Health </i>years ago. Something along the lines of if you don't allow yourself a cheat meal once in awhile you'll fail spectacularly and find yourself face down in a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The tunes overhead occasionally embraced pop as well as rock, but one of the monitors continuously played clips of Led Zeppelin and Van Halen. I was reminded of my many trips to Jersey Mike's, where years earlier you always heard the likes of Thin Lizzy and Blue Oyster Cult but these days you may also hear Jay-Z. I'm fascinated by such things, particularly at the supermarket. I recall the dusty aisle wanderings at Winn-Dixie, where in the same visit you'd hear Steely Dan and No Doubt.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">All but a few co-workers showed. To see them out of their usual work scrubs is always amusing. Free of corporate uniformity. A few ladies donned previously unseen wigs. Everyone looked great and mingled liberally, even the ordinarly shy ones. I'm always conscious of "making the rounds", trying to catch up with everyone, while their game faces are down. Our new ENT told me about that afternoon's surgery - cochlear implantation. I told him I had observed one of these about twenty years ago while in grad school. "It must be quite different now?" I asked. He shook his head. Surprising. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Three of the five ENTs came out, the usual ratio. One of the absent was attending his daughter's soccer match but he probably would've bowed out anyway. The other audiologist I work with was also at that game; her daughter plays for the opposing team (they lost 7-0). She came to the party two hours in. We saved her a plate.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">As usual, we were allotted two free drinks. I had a pint of Allagash White, one of my faves. Later I downed a Midnight sangria, a smooth combination of pinot, Remy, and orange liqueur. Only one of us imbibed too much, but I have so sordid tales to tell. She slurred and rambled like happy drunks tend to. She told me later that she stumbled over her own knee boot and hit the asphalt in the parking lot, leading to a sizable bump on her foot. No, she wasn't driving that night. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">One of the docs reminisced about previous outings. The ones from twenty, twenty-five plus years ago, before my time with this practice, were apparently quite wild. He also fondly recalled <a href="https://redeyespy.blogspot.com/2010/12/opa.html">this one</a> from 2010. I shared his warm memories. The Yardhouse party was nowhere nearly as raucous, but still one of the best in recent times. Cheers to another great year, ever busier.</p>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-41401920491368555302024-01-24T00:00:00.000-08:002024-01-24T00:00:00.123-08:00Perfect Blue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBaUjM-2w2DIG3TtMKJKexMWRJADJTVHE3JCVOcWS8hf2i7Nf1ZLkakhlaFRt7ZWNevJK7p4nPaaLa7vkn4Cq0tz9yPntqeEc8j769iQdWXyQBKa99AblEeCDIh-yAGhOdh64eOrv_uA/s1600/perfectblue.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1162" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBaUjM-2w2DIG3TtMKJKexMWRJADJTVHE3JCVOcWS8hf2i7Nf1ZLkakhlaFRt7ZWNevJK7p4nPaaLa7vkn4Cq0tz9yPntqeEc8j769iQdWXyQBKa99AblEeCDIh-yAGhOdh64eOrv_uA/w464-h640/perfectblue.jpg" width="464" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite my admiration for 1997's PERFECT BLUE, I still do not consider myself an anime buff. The reasons have been documented here before so I'll spare you the rant. I also won't bore you again with my seeming inability to be 100% satisfied with animation that has been produced in the last few decades. To wit, I've gone back and re-watched others and had similar results. I can't even draw, so my ability to produce something better - or to my satisfaction - is not possible. Yet, in my mind's eye I can create moving artwork that might stun and amaze, if I only I could translate it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That out of the way, let's discuss director Satoshi Kon's striking, often disturbing film, one that can easily be seen as a live feature. As I absorbed its psychosis and dream logic, I thought on the works of Brian De Palma and David Lynch. Someone even mentioned Michael Haneke. PERFECT BLUE, which was also quite influential on Darren Aronofsky, plays like a lurid thriller and an insightful treatise on the cult of celebrity. It is also quite significant in its examination of identity, especially in the online age.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As this film was made in the late '90s, its characters use Netscape. The ability to disappear into a cyber persona, or to assume one based on a real person (or pretending to be that person), is one of the intriguing story threads. Mima has just retired from a pop music trio called "CHAM!", hoping to become a television actress. The public is slow to accept, prompting some to even send letter bombs. A mysterious stalker emerges, one who has created a website which purports to be created by Mima herself, filled with personal anecdotes which are accurate. How can this be?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mimi, whose acting career slowly progresses but does involve her having to film a horrific rape scene, begins losing her sanity, even seeing an evil twin of sorts. Members of the crew of her TV show are gruesomely murdered. And Mimi finds bloody clothes in her closet. Have there been blackouts? Can she trust her own memories?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">PERFECT BLUE's screenplay, penned by Sadayuki Murai, is its strongest asset. Layered with rabbit holes of considerations of mental health and identity, it straddles a line between B-movie exploitation and A-movie character study, all realized in often beautiful animation. The backdrops are quite distracting. But the foregrounds are rich in color and composition. The graphic art is undeniably commanding, and Kon's use of the camera makes it feel very cinematic. But those anime faces - the eyes and chins are just bothersome to me for some reason.</div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-37620328001653704442024-01-21T00:00:00.000-08:002024-01-21T00:00:00.133-08:00Morvern Callar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQjvLiwsLTcOzW_wF8mg7N8LJdOMaRMWtqgrQy1KXCaIJpeMTFPuwZQE37CoSvhuRdEQQSKgWMNE44iQd4n6aymGrhY2OhdPcWaCJJE2qL0MMX84LI1EC5TTmZ-8xgyq3KxMd78nmo7S0/s1600/morvern.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="588" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQjvLiwsLTcOzW_wF8mg7N8LJdOMaRMWtqgrQy1KXCaIJpeMTFPuwZQE37CoSvhuRdEQQSKgWMNE44iQd4n6aymGrhY2OhdPcWaCJJE2qL0MMX84LI1EC5TTmZ-8xgyq3KxMd78nmo7S0/w640-h424/morvern.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">2002's MORVERN CALLAR was a rather discomforting experience for this viewer. The sting of recognizance. As if director Lynne Ramsay had stolen certain moments from my 20s. But the titular character is maybe not so much lost in the confusion of youth as driven by the urgency to escape. To escape a bleakness that she fears will seal her fate. A life of working to survive, returning to a drab flat, maybe going out for a pint at the same pub. Over and over. For some, like her best pal Lanna, it's enough:</div>
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<i><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>There's nothing wrong with here. It's the same crapness everywhere, so stop dreaming.</i></div></i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">Morvern can't reconcile such thoughts. Maybe her wanderlust, if that's what it is, will allow her many life defining experiences. We see the genesis of it here. The film opens with Morvern (Samantha Morton) stroking her boyfriend's hair. They're on the floor. He'd committed suicide, right next the Christmas tree. He left a brief note on his computer, stating he felt it was the right thing to do. He tells her to be brave.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There are instructions to use the money in the bank to pay for his funeral. And, his completed novel is on the hard drive. For Morvern, these two things promise the ticket to a brighter life. Her actions will strike many viewers as selfish, disrespectful, and maybe even evil. Would she justify them, by telling us of the difficult upbringing she had, or maybe how her dead boyfriend treated her? We only have inference, and Morton has a great face to tell us everything and nothing. Hers is a performance of inertia and introspection. While she doesn't seem like the most educated individual in Glasgow, we deduce that her emotional IQ is undergoing a serious metamorphasis.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ramsay's film has a lot of dialogue free long shots of Morvern, and what Morvern is looking at. She is fascinated by nature, insects, the organic. Her human connections seem to frustrate her, be it a guy with whom she has a random hook-up at a hotel in Spain or even Lanna (Kathleen McDermott), who understands her friend less and less and time passes. We may feel the same way, frustrated with Morvern's odd and unpredictable behavior. She's enigmatic, but also relatable. This is a troubling, poignant, and poetic movie that will likely stay with you for some time. Great soundtrack, too.</div>redeyespyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201752862128156503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3428496999067068217.post-69264934742838576792024-01-18T00:00:00.000-08:002024-01-18T00:00:00.286-08:00Death Race 2000<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhhxI2MP2yJMot8Tb5rhFo3vF1VD2uBq_daZwRQjfPAby6tlrkTy4j-hpj4VS6W38BW8TdhZgJtUN3pUhm9EI-mcMHn9xr9ubhB9UKGA9r7QuBgi-qEx4HRaX9pkpUVYzpba63sq7bYnbsj5LXqYkwAou5k7rit8DuDKjjz2rvzG8qUFhylQXoHO9/s1920/MV5BNmMzZWNmMzMtNzgzNC00YmZkLTgxMmEtMDhiMTJhMGFlZWI0XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTIwODk1NTQ@._V1_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhhxI2MP2yJMot8Tb5rhFo3vF1VD2uBq_daZwRQjfPAby6tlrkTy4j-hpj4VS6W38BW8TdhZgJtUN3pUhm9EI-mcMHn9xr9ubhB9UKGA9r7QuBgi-qEx4HRaX9pkpUVYzpba63sq7bYnbsj5LXqYkwAou5k7rit8DuDKjjz2rvzG8qUFhylQXoHO9/w640-h360/MV5BNmMzZWNmMzMtNzgzNC00YmZkLTgxMmEtMDhiMTJhMGFlZWI0XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTIwODk1NTQ@._V1_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">1975's DEATH RACE 2000 is a prototype of sorts for 1970s drive-in movies. It is one of producer Roger Corman's best known features, and reminded me how savvy B-movies were back in the day. You may have heard about Corman's formula - it didn't matter what the film was about, or what the director wanted to do, as long as the requisite elements of nudity and violence were packaged within. The violence tended to make sense in the storylines of films like BIG BAD MAMA and <a href="https://redeyespy.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-lady-in-red.html">THE LADY IN RED</a> while the nude scenes felt random and gratuitous. But of course. </span></div>
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So goes DEATH RACE 2000, a sci-fi actioner that takes places in the titular year, long after the United States fell victim to a "world crash", leaving it in social and economic dire straits and ruled by martial law. The annual Transcontinental Road Race is embraced by citizens as perhaps a vicarious outlet for their pent up barbarism, fueled by a totalitarian government. The racers sport colorful personas and have long knives and teeth replicas mounted on their vehicle's grills. They score points by running down pedestrians. Infants and the elderly yield the highest. </div>
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Sounds sick, but director Paul Bartel and screenwriters Robert Thom and Charlkes B. Griffith are more interested in satire than cheap, sadistic grindhouse. The knowing, prescient script imagines a future in which the population is brain dead and obsessed with violence. Rebels who cite eighteenth century war hero Thomas Paine as they seek to sabotage the race. To wit, the resistance is led by his descendent, Thomasina Paine. To call the writing "clever" is fair. "Brilliant" would be wildly overstating it. </div>
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<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">But exploitation films from this era were much smarter than the later schlock. Many also had a refreshing sense of humor. Some of the comedy in DEATH RACE 2000 is fairly dark - my favorite was the nursing home scene, which takes a welcome left, er right, turn. But there's also plenty of broad yuks, mainly from none other than a pre-ROCKY Sylvester Stallone as Machine Gun Joe Viterbo, an obnoxious, sexist boar who is the second best racer. Right behind Frankenstein (David Carradine), whose entire body has been wrecked and rebuilt in his racing career.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Much of the cast will be familiar to Corman fans, and all the women lose their tops at least once. This includes the ubiquitous Mary Woronov, for whom I've always had this odd fascination. A young John Landis appears as an unfortunate pit crew mechanic and Fred Grandy, later "Gopher" on <i>The Love Boat</i> plays Nazi navigator Herman the German alongside his boss, Matilda "The Hun" (Roberta Collins). Famous Los Angeles disc jockey "The Real Don Steele" plays Junior Bruce, the too enthusiastic race announcer. </div>
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No one would ever mistake Bartel for a skilled director but he frames this all fairly well. He gets the tone just right. The stunt work is acceptable and those cars are amusing. The moments of gore are very brief and sufficiently fake looking. Too bad he couldn't stage a fistfight to save his life. Maybe he should've asked his DP, the great Tak Fujimoto for some assistance. </div>
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