Michelangelo Antonioni "was revered by [Dennis] Hopper and [Jack] Nicholson," and "he was one of the first outsiders invited to see" Easy Rider (30). It was during this time that Nicholson agreed to be in a film for Antonioni, and Nicholson "owed" a film to the Italian director "on a handshake." (245). Likewise, Antonioni owed MGM the final picture of a three-picture deal with the previous two being Blowup (1966) and Zabriskie Point (1970). (245) Producer Carlo Ponti backed out of the original feature that was to star Nicholson and Maria Schneider to be helmed by Antonioni entitled Technically Sweet. (246) Instead, Antonioni took some ideas from the failed project and from a story sketch by Mark Peploe, and The Passenger (1975) was born. (246) Author Patrick McGilligan astutely relates the following facts, prominently evinced in the finished film: 
"MGM gave Peploe's treatment the green light. Cast and crew arrived on location in Algeria, however, without a finished script. This was preferable to Antonioni and only one of the unorthodox aspects of his working method...¶The director prided himself on being 'the outside pole of filmic idiosyncrasy,' in Nicholson's words. MGM was under the impression that Peploe's treatment augured a suspenseful thriller. But in Antonioni's hands The Passenger would become antidrama, a pseudo-thriller, 'a very long and elaborate and elusive chase,' according to Nicholson." (Jack's Life: A Biography of Jack Nicholson, W.W. Norton and Company, New York, 1995. p. 246. This is also the source for all previous parenthetical notations and all future ones.)Michelangelo Antonioni is indisputably one of cinema's masters. Despite the wealth of intellectual ideas and accompanying artistic creativity with those ideas, I have always valued Antonioni first and foremost as a divinely gifted creator of images and one of the most sensual filmmakers that history has ever seen. Some of the most affecting and beautiful and powerful compositions that I have ever seen have come from Antonioni. From L'Avventura (1960), for example, my mind always hearkens to the image of the young woman's legs, tickling the paper bills at her feet with her toes. His cinema is seductive and emotionally infectious. I could care less that the following sounds pretentious, but I cannot say that I haven't been changed and affected in a monumental way by seeing Antonioni's cinema.
The Passenger is dialectical. Most of the substance and the overwhelming themes of the film are in a tape-recorded conversation between Locke and Robertson that Locke plays while he sits in front of two passports about to make the symbolic gesture of swapping the two photos. (Not surprisingly, critic and theorist Peter Wollen, author of the Signs and Meaning in the Cinema, contributed to the script of The Passenger. (246)) In addition to its dialogue the Locke-Robertson recording affords Antonioni the opportunity to deliver one of the film's most heartfelt sequences. The Algerian imagery, which begins the film almost in silence, as Locke attempts to make contact with the rebels, informs the loneliness that brings Robertson and Locke together. Robertson, during that fateful evening, offers Locke a drink and from all appearances, Robertson only wanted some temporary and intimate company for the evening. The two did achieve an intimacy and a strong bond, but not quite what Robertson wanted. Both are "globe-trotters," and each remarks upon their mode of travel: Robertson believes that everywhere is essentially the same with the same formalities despite the outsider; whereas Locke believes the opposite--the individual traveler is the one who is the same and is constant, and his worldview is what clouds his surroundings. Hidden in this dialogue is Locke's impetus, and Antonioni's whole rendition of the sequence is masterful. A spiritual connection is forged between the two, and the viewer can actually feel it while watching.
When Nicholson has a "chance" meeting with Maria Schneider, who is known only as "Girl" in the credits, about halfway into The Passenger, Antonioni quietly invigorates like Locke's character. By far my favorite portion of the film, beautiful Schneider steals the remainder of The Passenger. Gorgeous Antoni Gaudí architecture introduces the two, and the rooftop meeting where Locke enlists the help of Schneider's character is memorable. One of the most famous sequences from the film comes when Schneider asks Locke, now as Robertson, "one question": What is he running away from? He responds to her by asking her to turn around in their convertible where she sees the road behind them speeding past. In less adept hands, it wouldn't seem as affecting and beautiful. 
The Passenger is an Antonioni mystery, and anyone familiar with the filmmaker's work knows how Antonioni treats mystery and what he values. The Passenger was lensed by Luciano Tovoli, and it is a triumphant achievement in his acclaimed career. Like most of his cinema, there are more questions at the end of The Passenger than there are answers, but like most of his cinema, The Passenger is always worth revisiting, as Antonioni is always revealed as a true and affecting artist. Essential.
A wealthy businessman, El Jefe, has an unmarried, pregnant daughter on the threshold of delivering. He demands that she reveal the father of her unborn child. Under duress, she reveals the name--Alfredo Garcia. Incensed, El Jefe makes a supreme command to his henchmen--"Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia!" A ridiculous amount of money serves as the reward. Like sharks in a frenzy, his henchmen hit the street, looking for Garcia. Some of El Jefe's gringo henchmen create a local network, and two associates, portrayed by Gig Young and Robert Webber, find American piano player, Benny (Warren Oates) working at a tourist trap in a small village. In exchange for information on the whereabouts of Alfredo Garcia, they will pay Benny. Benny learns the location of Garcia from Elita (Isela Vega). Elita is the woman who Benny loves and she reveals that Garcia has died in a drunken auto accident. He is buried in a cemetery in a small town. Armed with this information, Benny confronts the local gringo network and makes his own demand: ten-thousand dollars in exchange for the head of Alfredo Garcia. It's a deal. 
The plot of Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia could be found within the leaves of any American pulp fiction novel. By its plot synopsis alone, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia seemingly sits comfortably between Peckinpah's previous pulp adaptation, The Getaway (1972), from the novel by Jim Thompson, and Cockfighter (1974), starring Warren Oates, from the novel by Charles Willeford. Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is composed of the same type of criminal scheme that intuitively every reader (or viewer) knows is too easy to pull off without a hitch. As the events of the story grow from bad to worse, intuitively also the viewer (or reader) knows that the greatest toll is taken upon the characters' psyche. A quick death is welcomed but not forthcoming. It is within this latter sentiment where Peckinpah's film stands out from his contemporaries. In my opinion, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is easily Peckinpah's most tragic and heartfelt film. 
There is no character more tragic than Elita, portrayed by Isela Vega. Her character is the thematic sister to Karen Black's Rayette from Five Easy Pieces (1970). Their characters and their portrayals are notable, because most often, they are seen with Post-Modern eyes: often cited as ironic characters, because both adhere to an ideal of love. So in the end, they appear tragic, because they're naive (instead of wholly genuine). Like Rafelson with Five Easy Pieces, Peckinpah's characterization is much more complex than its surface implies. One of the interesting questions within Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia which is never directly confronted is Elita knowing the exact whereabouts of Alfredo Garcia. Benny is surprisingly forgiving at Elita's answer: the last "three days and three nights" of Alfredo Garcia's life were spent with Elita. The time that the two shared were as lovers. Peckinpah's answer comes in the depiction of Elita's character and relates to ancient ideas of Fate or more modern, philosophical ideas of Determinism. Peckinpah's depiction of the world's treatment towards Elita is that of a prostitute. The famous scene of Kris Kristofferson and his buddy, as biker bandits, who raid a peaceful campfire scene of Benny and Elita, is made more powerful juxtaposed with its following sequence: at the desk of a local motel, the innkeeper attempts to refuse service to Benny and Elita, because he thinks Elita is Benny's prostitute and the two have come to use his hotel for business. The biker-bandit rape/revenge sequence and the innkeeper sequence follow from the same sentiment into wholly different and polarized scenarios: one, violent and primal, and the other, civilized and corporate. The message is the same--Elita has one identity according to the world and it's completely unfair. Unsurprisingly, Benny treats her the same way: if Elita had never spent three days with her lover, then Benny would have never known his whereabouts. If Elita never had Garcia as a lover, then Benny couldn't collect on his ten-thousand dollars. Benny's more immediately forgiving when the woman he loves is access to money. The irony, of course, is Benny not recognizing what is certain with Elita: her love for him. This theme by Peckinpah is amazingly resonant. One would never question that Peckinpah is intimately familiar with the depiction of traditional male virility and its flaws and attributes. Likewise, it is difficult to question his depiction of traditional male attitudes and their impetuses and results.
Hence, it is easy to see why Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is essentially unique in Peckinpah's filmography and how influential it would become to subsequent pulp adaptations for the screen, such as James Foley's excellent After Dark, My Sweet (1990) and George Armitage's equally excellent, Miami Blues (1990), for example. Instead of typical pulp melodrama, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia delivers genuine emotion, and no tragedy would be complete without it. Understandably, it is a little too real to fit into today's ultra-hip, wink-wink cinema. Although I have to admit during the final sequence, no matter how many times that I see it, I still give a big smile when El Jefe's unmarried daughter, now a new mother, gives Benny a supreme command as he is pointing his pistol at her father. Seen in context of the whole film, it is the quintessential and ultimate sequence. Despite Warren Oates giving one of the best performances of his career, Isela Vega steals the film. While Peckinpah's slow-motion and meticulous action sequences often attract attention from his cinematography, these scenes do not over shadow Álex Phillips Jr.'s work in Garcia. Some of Peckinpah's most affecting and beautiful compositions come from this film. If Sam Peckinpah had made only one film or had made only one good film and that film was Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, then he would still be a patron saint here at Quiet Cool. Essential.
According to Rudolph Grey, author of 
A writer (William Bates) and his girlfriend (Pat Barringer) are driving at night in a secluded countryside. They are looking for an old cemetery where the writer wants to go for inspiration for a horror novel. They crash and awaken in a cemetery where the "Emperor of the Dead" (Criswell) presides with his consort, the Black Ghoul (Fawn Silver). The Mummy (Louis Ojena) and the Wolfman (John Andrews) are there, too. The Emperor wants to be entertained this evening, and the entertainment will be several female dancers. Okay, this plot synopsis sucks, I know. I hate writing plot synopses. 
Here is Ed Wood's synopsis:
Had Apostolof's film had just a little of Wood's enthusiasm, sensationalism, and innuendo, so evident in his writing, then Orgy of the Dead might have been a 60s kitsch classic. Unfortunately, it is not. As a finished film, it appears almost wholly devoid of energy. Yes, I understand that exploitation pictures are a market; their primary attraction is female nudity; and the window to draw a successful dollar from such a picture is limited. However, like most artistic endeavors, when the artist is lacking enthusiasm in the creation of his/her work, then his/her audience is going to recognize that. Most of the film is the dance sequences, punctuated by Criswell giving an over-the-top monologue or engaged in ridiculous dialogue with Silver's Black Ghoul. Nearly every dance sequence is shot in the same manner: typically, an overhead shot panning from side to side to cover all the action with medium close-ups edited in to break the monotony. The filming style has a more documentary feel, despite the theatrical set-up. At times, I felt as if I could talk to Apostolof while he was filming Orgy, then I would have said, "You know, it's okay if you find these women attractive. You could probably loosen up a bit and indulge your erotic artistic sensibility. Try to capture what you find attractive about each dancer." 
The final dance sequence really stands out, as it's quite different from the ones that preceded it. Like all of the dancers, she's quite attractive, and Apostolof changes his filming up a bit, like when she shakes her hips Apostolof goes for an interesting close-up. Texas Starr, who performed the kitty-cat dance sequence, is super cute. She has a fluffy feline outfit on that looks like loose pajamas, complete with cat ears. The outfit is cut open at her chest and at her bottom, making her a surefire Halloween Costume Party winner. She has such a pretty face, and like most of the dancers, it is evident that she put a lot of time and detail into her routine. Unfortunately, Apostolof shoots Starr's dance sequence in that boring overhead static shot. Her facial expressions, the little nuances in her dance, maybe a pretty smile--all of that is hidden.
Jill (Stacey Travis) is a real artist, living alone and working on Christmas Eve. Her sometimes boyfriend, Mo (Dylan McDermott), comes into town and wants to stay. He brings her a gift. He showers. The two fuck and go to sleep. Jill wakes up, works on her art piece, smokes some dope, and goes back to sleep. Mo gets a phone call and leaves the apartment. Jill wakes up to find Mo gone, and the gift that Mo brought Jill tries to kill her. Yes, this is a skeletal plot description, but I believe that it adequately describes the dramatic action. The flesh of Hardware is all the good stuff: sex, politics, art, religion, love, and violence. 
I always wondered what relationships in a post-apocalyptic society would be like and I suppose Hardware serves as a primer. [Incidental joke, Hardware is set in a post-apocalyptic society.] Post-apocalyp-tia would more than likely equal shitty living for most. In a harrowing image, as Mo and his friend, Shades (John Lynch) trek to Jill's apartment, Stanley shows in the foreground a baby tied to its parent who is either sleeping, incapacitated, or dead in the street: it's a perverse rendering of the concept of the latchkey kid. Radio DJ, Angry Bob (Iggy Pop), provides commentary over the proceedings and delivers one of the film's most memorable lines: "There is no fucking good news! So let's rock!" Shades is trying to convince Mo to go and scavenge in New York City to strike it rich, the dream of any American prospector; but Mo prefers his job in the "corps." It's steady work and steady pay for Mo with its only downside being away from Jill for long periods of time. Humorously, the combat isn't an issue for Mo, as Angry Bob relays over the radio that minor skirmishes and battles have very high death tolls. Jill lives isolated in her apartment, secured like a bunker, and does contract work with welfare support as her income. She doesn't necessarily like being alone all the time, but it's so fucked up outside there is really nowhere to go. Motorhead frontman, Lemmy, plays a cabbie, and he reminisces to Mo and Shades about the good ole days: at one point, you could go downtown with just some brass knuckles, a piece of pipe or a piece of wood or something--now, you need a gun. Fucking savages. Stanley's visual style throughout Hardware is amazing, but his introductory footage during the first third of Hardware is masterful: Stanley's images don't need his literate script as they are powerful enough on their own. 
Stanley does not falter on his characterization. Jill is one of the best female characters to emerge from a genre film in a very long time. She is a real artist, and by that, I am not referring to the quality of her art but to her personality. Anyone that has ever lived with or intimately known a real artist knows that they are intolerable people. More often than not, they are described as "egomaniacal" or "egocentric," as they are more self-centered than the normal self-centered person. Often consumed and obsessed by the creative process, their way of life revolves around it, shutting off the entire world around them, including the ones who love them. Jill is in this class and she deeply loves Mo. She is understandably angry that he is gone a lot, but ironically, her loneliness fuels her art. In a very adept touch, Stanley has Jill create a large web-like metal collage that is missing its center piece. Jill is taking inspiration for her work from a spider who is building a web in a nook in her apartment. She is feeding and caring for the arachnid, and the sensitivity that Jill is showing to the creature can only mean that natural life is rare in this society. In a very subtle yet powerful scene later in Hardware, the spider meets its fate. Its killer is a very satisfying and playful joke on Jill's art and this society. Poor Mo tells Jill that he's going to be around a lot more, and she doesn't believe him. However, the viewer gets the idea that it's true: he stops at the top of a flight of stairs and starts coughing like a sixty-year-old smoker. The discrepancy between Mo's life and Jill's is powerfully rendered in their shower sequence: Mo is so filthy that it looks as if he has dirt permanently ingrained into his skin. Jill has pale, pearl-white, and unblemished skin. You have to love the shot of Mo's metallic, prosthetic hand caressing Jill's bottom: a wonderful composition of metal and flesh: Stanley's main motif. 
Looming over Christmas Eve and hovering over the entire story in Hardware is the background story about the government on the verge of passing the "Population Control" Bill. The film's dialogue never gives any real depth into the Bill, yet Stanley weaves it into his dramatic action adeptly. Jill's collage and her relationship with Mo center around this historic bill, as having a child would change the dynamics of their relationship. One wonders how it would affect sexual relationships. Jill's neighbor, Lincoln (William Hootkins), is a lecherous pervert who takes to spying on Jill with his camera. He's a wholly repulsive person. When he and Jill have an encounter later in the film, I loved it when Jill said to him, "Okay, you can stop talking now." I think she was speaking for the whole audience. Still, Lincoln's character is a product of this society. His inclusion is eerily reminiscent of Rinse Dream's seminal (pun intended) Cafe Flesh (1982) about a post-apocalyptic society where is sex is reduced to voyeurism. Lincoln also becomes a de facto poster child for the advocates of the "Population Control" Bill. Travis shines in her scene with Lincoln. 
The second act of Hardware dominates most discussion of the film. The gift that Mo brought Jill for Christmas tries to kill in her in her small apartment, and plenty of praise has been heaped upon Stanley for creating some excellent claustrophobic horror. I need not repeat it. I've said so much at this point in the review and I haven't even remarked upon Stanley's effective use of religious iconography, Mo's psychedelic sequence in the third act, or the dreamy desert imagery with the "Zone Tripper." I could easily bang out another twelve-hundred words on these three, but I won't. The most important thing to mention is that Hardware is beyond an excellent, low-budget film; and the Severin disc set is well worth seeking out for those who like alternative cinema. Repeat viewings only strengthen the film, and Severin's package presents the film in a beautiful print with a wealth of supplements. Essential.
For two films with nearly an identical plotline, the discrepancy between the two films' run times is notable: The Ring runs closer to two hours in length while Ring runs closer to ninety minutes. The discrepancy results from the rendition of the investigation. From a script from Ehren Kruger, Verbinski's film presents a much more traditional investigative narrative. The images from the VHS cassette within The Ring are much more accessible to both Watts's and Henderson's characters. Each is capable of dissecting an image and creating a lead out of it to further the investigation. Watts's Rachel can pinpoint a location of interest from an image whereupon she can learn the identity of a person of interest, etc. The video cassette in The Ring is really a puzzle and the subsequent film plays out like a mystery. Watt's Rachel is more than quite capable of making logical associations and identifying relevant clues. Assuming, also, that the seven-day time limit is also motivating her, she is truly diligent. A first viewing of The Ring is compelling, and Kruger and Verbinski deserve praise for their well-structured, meticulous story: it's an engrossing mystery. During subsequent viewings, however, the story reveals itself as tired: lots of characters populate this mystery, and the actors giving the performances range the spectrum: Brian Cox is a fine actor and shines. Most of the other actors, save the leads, range from competent and effective to holy-shit bad. For those in the latter of this spectrum, to their credit, their dialogue is often clichéd and comes off as grating.
In The Ring's best visual sequence, Rachel is riding upon a ferry from the mainland to an island (to investigate a clue.) The following scene initially seems nonsensical, although a shot of a newspaper clipping before the sequence and one line from actor Brian Cox both tie this sequence into the narrative. Rachel walks towards the cars and sees a horse carrier, hitched to a vehicle. She chooses to touch the horse within, and it becomes agitated. She attempts to touch it a second time, and the horse becomes animated. With a third and final attempt to touch the horse in an effort to now soothe it, the horse breaks free on the ferry and races between the cars. Rachel backs up to the ledge of the ferry and the horse darts towards her. She ducks, and the horse attempts to hurdle over the ferry's ledge. It violently knocks its legs mid-jump and tumbles into the water. Rachel looks over the ledge, and from her p.o.v., the horse is shown drowning amongst the white-capped waves. It's a horrible image but a beautiful composition, like a Salvador Dalí painting.
Nakata's composition is simple and is pure visual storytelling. Notice the symmetry between the two males, each holding an umbrella, with the only difference being their height. It's a peaceful meeting but a confrontational one. No words are spoken and none are necessary--this entire relationship is defined by this frame. It's a powerful sequence, and it's obvious why Verbinski wanted to reproduce it for his film. In The Ring, emotion comes from the characters and the actors' performances and the dialogue. Within Ring, emotion comes from the composition. How close or how far apart Reiko and Ryuji are from each other in the frame reveals their feelings. Undeniably, these characters grow closer towards the end of Ring, and it's just as effective as Verbinski's rendition. 
Static shots and natural lighting dominate Ring, and ghosts and curses are real within this world. It's the opposite effect of Verbinski's world: the idea of day-to-day living, loudly disrupted by an idea, a VHS cassette that kills after seven days, which becomes a frightening reality. How would you take care of your child? This is what Reiko has to face. Sanada's Ryuji dispenses with any regret over his former relationship to Reiko, and whole-heartedly attempts to help her. The ending in Ring is a lot more powerful than in The Ring, because it's more tragic. Also, Ring shows its viewer how short seven days truly are. 
I first fell in love with Naomi Watts in John Duigan's wonderful Flirting (1991). (I also fell in love with Thandie Newton and Nicole Kidman from the same film. This trio was a little too much for fifteen-year-old me.) With roles in Mulholland Dr. (2001), 21 Grams (2003), and Eastern Promises (2007), for example, Watts has become one of the finest English-language actresses currently working. Her talent is immediately visible during her first sequence in The Ring, and even when bad dialogue is served to her, she still shines in her performance. I anticipate, despite what I've written today, that The Ring will be memorable far into the future, because of her performance. As for Ring, it has certainly earned its memory with film buffs, as it not only kicked off a brief film movement but also became influential for that movement. Ring is not Hideo Nakata's best film, as Chaos (2001) currently holds that title. Ring is also not the best film to come out of this period of Asian cinema, as Kairo (2001), directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa, holds that title. Both The Ring and Ring aren't perfect, but they are perfect for each other: The Ring shows how remakes should be done (with some creativity), and Ring shows a willingness to be creative, innovative, and risk-taking, despite the result.
Santo vs. la hija de Frankestein (1971)
Santo y Blue Demon contra el doctor Frankenstein (1973) 
I could probably ramble on more about cinema's greatest superhero, El Enmascardo de Plata, El Santo, but I will not. I will certainly revisit this cinema, again, and hopefully, I will not be in such poor shape to begin with. Viva El Santo!