Sucker Punch (2011)

The younger brother and I had a steak dinner via the stove top, as it was a hundred degrees outside, far too hot to do the holiday-grilling routine. After dinner, he had an espresso, and I settled in with a mug of coffee. I asked him if he wanted to watch a movie, maybe something off of Video on Demand, and he did. I perused the selection and narrowed my picks. I asked him to finalize my pick by choosing one to watch. Here is how I presented them:

1. Did he want to watch a Norwegian movie about trolls?

2. How about a German zombie flick? Or, it could be a viral-outbreak flick?

3. Did he want to see a Quarantine sequel sans Ms. Jennifer Carpenter? Maybe set on an airplane?

4. Sucker Punch. I heard it sucked and I've only seen one Zack Snyder film.

"Let's watch Sucker Punch," he said. So we did.

Within the first few minutes of Sucker Punch, I quickly realized that at thirty-six years old, I am three times older than its target audience. I had heard the Eurythmics song during its original incarnation as a child in the eighties, heard the Manson redux, and am certain that at least once more I will hear it again redone before I die. When I heard "Army of Me," I thought Tank Girl? And again later, was that the song from The Craft that played over its credits? From time to time, my brother paused the film, appropriately via the XBOX controller, and we bullshitted about movies.

Above all else, I value imagery in cinema. One striking composition can become memorable while a string of them can create lasting memories. At some point, those images become affecting, and the story that they tell can touch strong emotions and evoke deep thought. Likewise, cinema can just be beautiful scenes flickering along--that's cool, too.

Sucker Punch has narration, has emotion, and has a story. In order for me to grasp any of the mentioned three, I am going to have to watch Sucker Punch, again. Sucker Punch is a "theatre" movie. You're definitely looking at it.

During Dave Chappelle's brilliant run on Comedy Central on his sketch show, he had a skit where he presented a scene of himself entering into a laundry mat with a sack of dirty clothes over his shoulder. He sat down his laundry and said hello to an elderly woman folding her clothes. That was it, the whole scene, mundane and boring. Chappelle then presented the same scene again to his audience. This time Chappelle strolled into the laundry mat in slow-motion with an accompanying beat as the soundtrack. A wind machine blew his attire around, and the elderly woman folding her clothes appeared as a young woman, dancing to the soundtrack. Persuasively, Chappelle proved slow motion made everything look very cool.

Who doesn't love the scene of a snowy Japanese temple with a courtyard, imposing mountains looming over its walls while soothing soft light emits from candles within?
Whether it's Meiko Kaji, Lucy Liu, or Emily Browning in the frame, this imagery is a cinematic battle arena. It's live-action anime and gatling-gun crazy. Around the time dragons appeared within Sucker Punch, however, I was ready to watch something else or nothing at all. I flippantly told my brother that I would have loved this film when I was twelve.

"What movies did you love when you were twelve?" asked my brother. That espresso must have been jet fuel, because he was really alert.

Die Hard. Rambo. Robocop. The Lost Boys. As we bullshitted further, with the explosions in the background, we talked about how the best escapist movies were about escaping. The underlying trauma and situation from where the young women from Sucker Punch are escaping, when you stop to think about it, is quite horrible. If their situation was presented in any other way, then I wouldn't be writing like this. Who wants to travel across country to see his wife to whom he is separated and decide whether or not to stay together? Killing a bunch of terrorists in a high rise fills the void. Who wants to revisit a country on whose soil a major conflict took place with a highly unfavorable outcome? Well, just one man, who fucking kicks everyone's ass by himself. Who wants to go to a quickie mart at eleven o'clock at night only to encounter an armed robbery? Anyone, because there's a badass cyborg roaming the city as law enforcement. Who wants to move to a new town and make new friends? How about meeting vampires?

Sucker Punch is in the same vein of the cinema of my youth. Somewhere, I'm certain, there is someone echoing my original sentiments about The Lost Boys: "Man, that was so fucking cool." Lost Boys has some serious subtext, too. When I got older that Rob Lowe poster made a lot more sense to me. Sucker Punch is cinema which belongs to someone else, just as The Lost Boys belongs to me.

Beyond any criticism of the film, already espoused by professional critics, Snyder's film is a little too serious for me. Sucker Punch could have taken at least a minute or two of its nearly two-hour runtime to loosen up and do something unexpected. I actually love the fact that Snyder made Sucker Punch so unabashedly. It's like a primer for a whole generation of filmmakers with new cinematic tools.

Anyway, this blog entry on Sucker Punch turned out to be more musing than substantive review or criticism. I enjoyed hanging out with my brother, having dinner on a holiday weekend, and bullshitting about movies. Quiet Cool needed to loosen up anyway. I also watched the Norwegian film about trolls. It was quite funny. Happy Fourth.

Kamikaze '89 (1982)

Kamikaze '89 (1982) is one of Rainer Werner Fassbinder's last artistic endeavors. Subsequent to the release of his Lili Marteen (1981), Fassbinder was offered the lead role by producer Regina Ziegler who was developing the project for her husband, director Wolf Gremm. (175) Robert Katz, co-screenwriter of Kamikaze and author of Love is Colder Than Death: The Life and Times of Rainer Werner Fassbinder, describes Gremm as the director who held the record for winning the German film critics' Sour Lemon award more than any other director. (175) The Sour Lemon is awarded to the director who made the "worst film of the year." (175) Fassbinder was not deterred by Gremm's reputation and accepted the part but would back out of the role when he read Gremm's script. (175, 176) Katz was subsequently hired as a screenwriter to rewrite Gremm's script "in order to broaden the film's appeal and tap the English-language market." (176) Katz suggested that the source material, from the novel Murder on the Thirty-first Floor by Swedish author, Per Wahloo, set in the 1960s, be "projected into the near future of the 80s." (175, 176) Juliane Lorenz suggested the title Kamikaze while Gremm added the "'89" to "connote the future." (176) (All parenthetical notations previous to this statement are citations to pages from of Love is Colder Than Death: The Life and Times of Rainer Werner Fassbinder, by Robert Katz and Peter Berling, Jonathan Cape, London: 1987.)

Kamikaze '89, today, is little-seen and little-discussed. When the film is discussed, Fassbinder attracts the majority of the attention. Although it should be noted that Kamikaze's soundtrack by Edgar Froese and Tangerine Dream has developed quite a cult following. Cinematographer, Xaver Schwarzenberger, who shot Berlin Alexanderplatz and Fassbinder's subsequent directorial efforts until his death, lensed Kamikaze; and Fassbinder regulars, such as Brigitte Mira, who appears in a small role, and Günther Kaufmann, who appears in a fairly substantial role, for example, fill the scenery. Above all, however, Kamikaze '89 is perhaps notable or notorious, even in its obscurity, for Fassbinder's attire. Director Wolf Gremm explains:

"When I plan a film, I often think in terms of animal images for the characters. In conceiving Kamikaze '89, I always had Fassbinder in mind as a leopard, but I never told him this. At the first costume fitting I showed him fifteen possible futuristic detective and police costumes of very different styles. It happened like this: He came in. I was smoking a cigar. I offered him a Camel cigarette. He looked over the costumes. I smiled. Then he looked at me and smiled too. He said, 'You like this leopard one.' And I said, 'Don't you?' And he said, 'Let me try it on.' He looked at himself in the mirror and said, 'I love me. Now I'm Lieutenant Jansen.' From this point on, we never had to discuss the style of the film." (Love is Colder Than Death, p.177)

I wish that I could grab screenshots of Fassbinder in his leopard suit, but unfortunately Kamikaze '89 is only available on VHS in the U.S. (There is, however, a DVD released in Germany.) The leopard suit that Fassbinder wears throughout Kamikaze forms a part of an ensemble: his dashboard of his police vehicle is covered in the material; his exercise outfit with matching headband that he wears at the police club is also leopard skin; and even the handle of Jansen's revolver is covered with the soft material. According to Katz, Fassbinder liked the "phony leopard-skin" suit so much that he kept it and wore it from time to time in the remaining months of his life. (Love is Colder Than Death, p.178)

Germany. 1989. Society has solved all of its problems. For example, there is no unemployment and no pollution. Society runs like a machine with everything having its essential place. Mass-media is controlled by one powerful group, the Combine, who are located in a high-rise tower (which from the film appears that it can be seen from anywhere in the city.) One day, the group receives a bomb threat, and Police Lieutenant Jansen (Fassbinder) is dispatched to the Combine building to investigate. A note was sent to the Combine on particularly unique paper revealing the bomb's presence in the building. Jansen evacuates the building, and the bomb threat turns out to be false. Jansen's superior commands him to find the suspect behind the would-be bombing within four days.

In my view, knowing that Fassbinder would die soon after the completion of Kamikaze '89 (and prior to its release) gives the film a more tragic air. It is difficult to take any character seriously donning a leopard-skin suit, surrounded by neon motifs of the 1980s with accompanying colors such as hot pink and turquoise. The future, at least in cinema, is more palatable and hence believable when the color scheme is somber or dark, such as in Minority Report (2002). The costumes and set design of Kamikaze '89 are stimulating and are supposed to evoke feelings (echoing Ms. Lauper) of fun, but Fassbinder plays Jansen as a police officer floating through a completely mechanical and predictable society. Jansen holds a streak of forty-plus cases where he has successfully solved a crime. The successful completion of a case is the only thing that he has to look forward to. Jansen often tells the other characters "avoid asking unnecessary questions" or "avoid saying unnecessary statements": in his view, any attempts to be anything other than predictable is futile. The most popular show on television, pushed upon the masses by the Combine, is the Laughing Contest: twenty-four hours a day, a contest is shown where its participants laugh. The one standing last and still laughing wins. Demoralizing imagery just about everywhere in the city.

The traditional investigation with Kamikaze '89 isn't particularly viewer-friendly. Often my cinematically-trained mind passively watches the story, waiting for specific lines of dialogue or cues of dramatic music in order to recognize that a clue has been found or a breakthrough in the mystery has been had. For example, the paper upon which the note detailing the bomb threat is the second half of an award, handed out by the Combine to specific individuals. Hence, the paper is rare, since the award has only been given to about twenty-five people (a manageable list of suspects). Of importance is that the half of the letter was hand-torn and not cut with scissors. During a later scene, when Jansen is questioning the head of the Combine's nephew, who is now confessing to sending the letter, Jansen asks him where are the scissors that he used to cut the award in half. The nephew responds by saying that they are in his desk and that he has many pairs. Jansen, by this admission by the nephew, knows that his confession is false. No revelatory, contradicting dialogue comes from Jansen to impeach him; no dramatic music plays over this damning admission; and no cross-cut to an earlier scene as reminder come at all. I watched Kamikaze '89 several times over the past week, and it took me a while to identify this change in the investigation. Yes, I am that vegetative when I watch films. When Franco Nero appears near the end of Kamikaze '89, his character provides the most important information towards the plot and the investigation. However, despite Nero and Fassbinder giving very good performances, the impact and weight of Nero's dialogue are only really felt (and the viewer subsequently made aware) with subsequent viewings. I suppose Gremm wasn't that adept as a director.

One of the saddest scenes in Kamikaze '89 is Fassbinder alone in his apartment. He pulls a whitebread sandwich from the microwave and takes a bite. Its flavor must be quite disappointing according to his reaction. He leans against a table and eats the sandwich anyway. He arms himself with his camera (a futuristic police tool) and his gun and stares into space. Fassbinder looks like a bloated and fat drunk, dejected about what the future holds for him. The ending of the investigation is all that he has to look forward to, and his prospects are somewhat grim. There has to be something of value to carry him along. At the end of Kamikaze '89, Jansen stands alone, looking at the camera and laughing as the credits roll.

Môjû tai Issunbôshi (2001)

Môjû tai Issunbôshi (2001) is Teruo Ishii's final film. Monzô Kobayashi (Lily Franky) writes detective stories and one evening, he attends the performance of cabaret singer and star, Ranko Mizuki (Mutsumi Fujita). The audience is quite taken with her performance, but Monzô notices one patron who cannot look at her at all. Later that evening, Monzô takes a stroll in the park and among the prostitutes and peddlers, he sees a diminutive man hurry from the park. Monzô decides to give chase to the man and follow him. Surreptitiously, Monzô sees the diminutive man enter into a temple and he decides to uncover the small man’s identity. The following day Monzô has an encounter with an acquaintance from his small village, Ms. Yurie Yamano (Reika Hashimoto) who asks him to introduce her to famous detective, Kogorô Akechi (Shinya Tsukamoto). Yurie’s step-daughter has gone missing and she would like Akechi’s help. Monzô approaches his friend Akechi and pleads with him to help Yurie. Akechi reluctantly agrees, because he is more interested in the disappearance of cabaret singer, Ranko Mizuki for whose final performance Monzô was in attendance. I have quite a fondness for the cinema of Teruo Ishii. I’m a huge fan of his later work, specifically, for example, Neji-shiki (1998) and Jigoku (1999) and I also enjoy his earlier cinema, such as Kyôfu kikei ningen: Edogawa Rampo zenshû (1969) and Kaidan nobori ryu (1970). Of his cinema that I have seen, his stories are grounded in “reality” (or at least, one of his characters is grounded in “reality.” I have put reality in quotation marks, because at the time of this writing, the word is too fluid as a concept for me to adequately define.). Môjû tai Issunbôshi (2001) is based upon the stories of Japanese author, Edogawa Rampo, whose mysteries and horror tales have made him a legend in his home country. Having never read the man’s work and having only seen film adaptations of them, his work appears to put him in the same league as other brilliant and pioneering pulp writers, such as Gaston Leroux and Bram Stoker, for example. Ishii’s adaptation of Rampo through Môjû tai Issunbôshi is a traditionally-styled mystery with traditional results (e.g. investigators gather clues, make their case, and solve their cases). Ishii’s visual style, as in his previous works that I have seen, is completely untraditional and unique. His characters and scenarios, as in Môjû tai Issunbôshi, are credible and believable and approach the world in like fashion. However, Ishii punctuates his films loudly with trips “through the looking glass”: the mise en scène becomes overtly theatrical and wild. These scenes are not everyday occurrences, to put it mildly. In any case, a description of a scene would do better justice than a description of his style, but a viewing of the scenes would trump both verbal descriptions. The English title of Môjû tai Issunbôshi is Blind Beast vs. Killer Dwarf who are the two antagonists of the two mysteries within the film. In the film’s opening sequence, hands are seen feeling an art sculpture while Mutsumi Fujita, as Ranko Mizuki, screams at the person touching the sculpture. She is the model for the sculpture and believes that anyone fondling the sculpture is like fondling her. The person touching the sculpture is a blind man, and the only way for him to appreciate and understand the sculpture is to feel it. When he learns that the flesh-and-blood model is standing in front of him, he becomes animated. When Ranko is kidnapped, the film reveals that the blind man is her kidnapper. In his home, the “Blind Beast” has a lair where he houses Ranko. His lair is comprised of constructed body parts made seemingly from poor plaster casings. Arms, legs, torsos, and faces protrude from the walls. At nearly every bit of space, one could reach out and touch and feel one of the objects. The blind man sees Ranko as living art and with his perverted sensibilities, he wants to capture her essence and make her his. Ishii’s style compliments this wildly and literally theatrical scene. He shoots actress Fujita in a completely sensational fashion. She’s very attractive, and Ishii cannot resist more than one audacious composition while she scrambles around the lair solely in her panties. Ranko and her captive’s relationship becomes closer as the film progresses, and Ishii pushes both his visual content and style. There are a few sequences which are jaw-dropping-ly amazing occurring in the “Blind Beast’s” lair, and it would be a disservice to describe them here. They are moments where instant rewind is necessary, because believing they were seen has to be confirmed. The lair sequences are just an example, as Môjû tai Issunbôshi has many of them. Despite the fact that Môjû tai Issunbôshi has a very creative visual style and a traditional narrative, there is sensitivity. However, this sensitivity comes at the cost of contradiction. Môjû tai Issunbôshi (and the other Ishii cinema that I’ve seen) can be comfortably labeled as sensational or exploitation cinema. If the viewer believes there is nothing behind the sensational veneer, then he/she will find nothing. However, really interesting cinema, like Môjû tai Issunbôshi, will challenge that belief. For example, the two antagonists, the “Blind Beast” and the “Killer Dwarf” can be understood in two ways: one can look at these two characters’ rendition and see them as freakish, grotesque, and other. Ishii does not deter this mode of viewing: they are perverts, kidnappers, and deviants with their criminal behavior. However, Ishii also affords the opportunity to see his antagonists as physically-disabled people who have been, as a result of their disabilities, treated poorly by others. Ishii shows two scenes, one a flashback and one in the present, involving the diminutive man and the blind man, respectively. They are both scenes of degradation and ridicule at the expense of the antagonists, and each scene ends with revenge. Each scene of course is visually-creative, sensational, and ridiculous, but the emotions within each scene are genuine. A viewer can continue to laugh at these characters or see them in another perspective...take your pick. I can find no fault with any of the performances within Môjû tai Issunbôshi. In addition to the titular characters, writer Lily Franky deserves mention as Monzô; drop-dead gorgeous Reika Hashimoto is very good as Yukie; and filmmaker Shinya Tsukamoto, as the detective Akechi, is always fun to watch. Môjû tai Issunbôshi shows a veteran filmmaker still being progressive (the film was shot on DV) yet still retaining his visual obsessions which have made his work so unique and interesting. As I have said numerous times here at Quiet Cool, those seeking the offbeat and different will certainly find Môjû tai Issunbôshi of interest. It’s a perfect introduction to Teruo Ishii or a wonderful capping to an amazing career.

Night Moves (1975)

"Take a swing, Harry, the way Sam Spade would."

Harry Moseby (Gene Hackman) confronts Marty Heller (Harris Yulin), the man who is sleeping with Moseby's wife, Ellen (Susan Clark). Moseby is understandably hurt at his wife's infidelity yet he has not confronted her. If this were a traditional cinematic confrontation, then Heller would be getting a beating at the hands of Moseby, as Heller's line of dialogue (above) relates. Moseby, the ex-pro-football player turned private eye, would probably have little trouble with Heller in a squabble, as Heller needs the help of a cane in order to walk. The confrontation does not end in the traditional sense. Harry Moseby is a traditional private eye about to become embroiled in a classic noir case. However, Harry Moseby and his performance by Gene Hackman are not going to be given a traditional rendition.

Night Moves (1975) is directed by Arthur Penn, who previously directed Hackman in his excellent Bonnie and Clyde (1967), and is written by Alan Sharp. It's a clever script and in some ways, its spiritual kin is Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye (1973). Here's a quick plot synopsis:

Harry Moseby is an ex-football player now a private investigator. He is referred a case by a colleague, and the case involves a former actress of mild success, Arlene Iverson (Janet Ward), whose sixteen-year-old, wayward daughter, Delly (Melanie Griffith), has taken a flit. From Los Angeles, Moseby tracks Delly from a movie set in New Mexico to the southern tip of Florida in the Keys where she has holed up with her stepfather, Tom (John Crawford), and pretty Paula (Jennifer Warren). After a short stay in the Keys, during which a corpse is found in the bottom of the ocean by Delly, Moseby brings Delly back to Los Angeles to reunite with her mother. This reunion turns out pretty bad for all involved.

Alan Sharp's script and Arthur Penn's direction admirably strive for an engaging plot-driven thriller buttressed by strong character drama. My chief complaint about Night Moves results from this attempted balance between the plot drive and the character drama. At the film's conclusion (which is quite exciting), inexorably I was left with the feeling that I've watched a familiar noir story. Its strengths were clearly in its characters and their performances. There were nuances to each character that were so adept and intriguing that I almost wished that these characters would have stepped out of their conservative story and just roamed free to make their own decisions.

Moseby engages in three intimate relationships within Night Moves: one with wife Ellen, the second with Paula, and the third with young Delly. Hackman's relationship with Clark's Ellen is clearly a depiction of 1975 sociology: Moseby is the "new male": sensitive and ready to be vulnerable with his feelings. Moseby's silent brooding hides childhood fears and insecurities, instead of the traditional male depiction: stoic, a man of few words and almost completely of action. As Heller remarked to him during their confrontation, "Take a swing, Harry, the way Sam Spade would." Moseby and Ellen's relationship is defined by this conflict: Ellen really only wants Moseby to open up to her, and through his vulnerability, they'll achieve a real emotional intimacy. Despite the fact that Ellen and Moseby have an affecting and endearing scene later, where Moseby opens up to Ellen about his insecurities, the entire depiction of their relationship feels so transparent. In other words, there is this overwhelming sense that their relationship is defined by their "new" roles and confined to them. Save their endearing scene later, each never able to step out of their sociological models. Too much textbook, I guess.

Jennifer Warren gives quite a performance as Paula. At the end of the film, she is the character about whom I wished I knew more. Moseby and Paula have an instant attraction at their first meeting, and as Night Moves progresses, from all appearances, Paula is the character most like Moseby. It's fairly evident that she's reticent to share anything with Moseby about her life, and it's easy to tell she wants to open up to him but is scared. Every time that Moseby queries her, Paula immediately puts up her defenses: she wants to know if Moseby is asking about her as an investigator or asking about her as someone who might actually care to know about her. The relationship had such a charged potential and had it been developed further (to accompany Hackman and Warren's strong performances) undoubtedly the film would have elevated monumentally. Unfortunately, a lot of the mystery behind Paula's character doesn't hide anything of substance: Paula's mystery yields to the plot and by the final act, the character of Paula has more importance as a plot device. This is a shame, and it shouldn't take away from Warren's excellent performance. She's so sexy and so charismatic that she arguably commands every scene that she's in. In small but representative scene of how good Warren's performance is, Moseby is peeking through the blinds of Tom's shack down by the shore line on the Coast. He is clearly staring at Paula. Paula is wearing a sock cap and after noticing Moseby's gaze, she removes her cap and allows her golden blonde hair to fall out. It's a "stand at attention" moment. Melanie Griffith's young performance as the nymphet, Delly, attracts a lot of attention in conversation about Night Moves. I am only speculating, because in addition to her very provocative scenes, her character seems eerily similar to Griffith in her own personal life. Penn puts some real care into her depiction: clearly, he is attempting to show Delly's seductive charm yet he also adeptly balances showing that she's really just a child. Of all the characters, Delly has the most similar life to Moseby. Later when Moseby's past is revealed, one can see why he felt such sympathy for the wayward young woman. When Moseby completes his case and sends her home, the regret that Hackman shows on his face is felt immediately. Griffith has always been an interesting actress and has given some truly memorable roles, such as in Something Wild (1986). Griffith's emotion is always genuine and her charisma and beauty are undeniable. I would recommend Night Moves very highly as a character drama and would recommend it modestly as a thriller. Gene Hackman, one of the best actors of his generation, is at his peak of his abilities. He is absolutely brilliant as Harry Moseby. Night Moves has undeniable creativity in its character development but unfortunately has way too much conservatism in its plot rendition. There's too strong a desire to connect the dots to create a meticulous and organized picture where a looser more organic structure is needed. The plot hampers its rich and memorable characters and their accompanying performances.

The Passenger (1975)

Jack Nicholson is David Locke, a British-born, American-raised journalist, working in Africa, covering a bourgeoning rebellion. Despite the fact that Locke was respected and successful in his profession, his heart was never into it. Unsuccessful in his attempts to make contact with the rebels on his current assignment, upon return to his hotel, he finds the corpse of fellow Briton, David Robertson (Chuck Mulvehill). Locke had a brief but affecting conversation with Robertson a few nights before and Locke has decided to literally trade places with the dead man. Locke will assume the identity of Robertson, and as far as the world is concerned, the corpse of Robertson will become the corpse of David Locke. With his new identity, Locke, now Robertson, locates to Europe where he casually pursues the future appointments of the dead man. Hoping to create a new life for himself, Locke, now Robertson, becomes embroiled in the drama of the dead man's life; and the past which he desired to escape is now becoming impossible. 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.

Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974)

In 2011, I'm surprised that Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia has not enjoyed a renaissance of sorts, with the least being a remake. With some very notable exceptions, Sam Peckinpah's 1974 film is remarkably modern: outlandish, over-the-top, offensive, and hyper-violent. I can imagine sitting in an audience today and hearing the chuckles of its members while Benny, portrayed by Warren Oates, drives his beat-up convertible on a Mexican highway taking intermittent swigs of tequila. "Have a drink, Al," he says as he pours some alcohol on the rotting head of Alfredo Garcia, covered in flies and resting on the passenger seat. Benny's a lovable loser, isn't he? Don't you want to cheer when he empties a clip into a bad guy (who falls down dying in a signature, slow-motion Peckinpah shot)? Like any modern action hero or any modern anti-hero, Benny has the witty one-liner--as he shoots a corpse on the ground, he quips, "Why? Because it feels so damn good." Here is a plot synopsis: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.

Orgy of the Dead (1965)

In 1965, if someone really had a hankering to see a burlesque show and didn't want anyone to know about it but really had no way of seeing an actual live one, then seeing Orgy of the Dead might punch his ticket. I don't know how one will fill this void, today, alas. According to Rudolph Grey, author of Nightmare of Ecstasy: The Life and Art of Edward D. Wood Jr., "Orgy of the Dead began life as an eighteen page script called Nudie Ghoulies. It was to have been composed of ten dances (approx. 42 min.), with twenty minutes reserved for the story." (Feral House, Portland, OR: 1992, p.209) The script of Orgy of the Dead is, of course, by Edward D. Wood Jr., based on his own novel. Grey continues, "The novel of Orgy of the Dead was issued after the movies release [1966]. According to director Steve Apostolof, Wood was paid $600." (176) The film's director, Stephen Apostolof, according to his interview included as a supplement on the Rhino DVD of Orgy, says he met Wood at legendary Los Angeles landmark, The Brown Derby (a meeting set-up by a mutual friend). The two had hopes of working together, although Apostolof was slightly reticent when he saw Wood's appearance: mini-skirt, wig, angora sweater, a moustache, and three-day beard stubble. Apostolof was ready to move into exploitation pictures (Rhino supplement) and hired Wood as production manager and had him help with casting. (Nightmares, 129) Criswell was cast as the "Emperor of the Dead," and "[t]he cape that Criswell wore was Bela' Lugosi's cape from Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein." (Nightmares, 209) Ted V. Mikels worked as a gaffer on the production. (Nightmares, 128) 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:

The night is dark, a deep darkness only produced by a threatening storm--a blackness cut at brief intervals by the crisscross of violent lightning flashes. The torrents of rain hit with resounding force.
Into this pressure of blackness and the foreboding mountain roads cuts another shaft of light--that of a set of automobile headlights.
A young writer and his fiancé drive the perilous dirt road in search of an ancient cemetery, necessary in his research for a new novel...They have been lost for some hours, unable to find their quest, or to find their way out of the mountains...When the storm hit, it gave them little chance of turning back...They could only continue on...
Then...the accident...a lightning-felled tree across the road--the squeal of brakes--the scream of injured tires--the crash!!!
A full moon flooded the ancient cemetery with light, even though a heavy fog lay over the entire area--the Master of the Dead and his equally infamous Princess of Darkness left their tomb to seat themselves on marble thrones, once again ready to judge those, the newly dead, brought before them...THE JUDGEMENT DAY...
The young writer and his fiancé, gaining consciousness after the crash, stumble, accidentally, upon these fantastic happenings...these horrifying rites...and are soon captured by the "Things" of the Night who take them before the Master, which orders them tied to ceremonial posts so they may watch the proceedings before they too join the others.
The Emperor hears, through interpretive dancing, the pleas of the many newly dead...The Main Street Prowler who lured men to her apartment and then fleeced and killed them...The Slave Girl who once was a princess and is now beaten by those who had been the slaves she had beaten...The Bride who murdered her husband and now must reside with his skeleton...The Indian Girl who tossed her lovers into the fires...But for an eternity now must toss herself into the fires continually...The Island Girl who loved snakes--used them to dispose of her lovers, and who now forever will live with snakes...The Girl who loved cats, and will remain a cat...and the One who worshipped Gold above all else--thus she is turned into solid gold.
The Princess of Darkness is about to take the young girl as her own slave when the first rays of the morning sun glisten upon the shiny blade of the knife. The Princess of Darkness, as all the others, are turned back into the skeletons and dust that they really are...
The young writer and his fiancé are then rescued from their wrecked car. Was it a dream?
Only the Night People know.
(Nightmares, p. 209)

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.

Anyway, it doesn't matter. Like most of the cinema involving Edward D. Wood Jr., the most interesting facets involve Wood, himself. A larger picture of the artistic career of Edward D. Wood Jr. is beyond the scope of this blog entry, but for purposes here, it is suffice to say that Wood was one of cinema's truest outsiders. Apostolof notes that during the production of Orgy that Wood's drinking had gotten bad, and once he had to send Wood home to sober up. (Nightmares, p. 129) Wood had not directed a film since The Sinister Urge in 1960 and he would not direct again until the seventies. One of his later films is the infamous Necromania (1971), where most would experience their heart skipping a beat at the sight of Rene Bond. Save Criswell, I'm certain that the other performers in the film, like Fawn Silver and Pat Barringer, became part of Los Angeles' eight million stories and got lost in the shuffle. I highly recommend Grey's Nightmares for further reading on Wood and for those still curious about Orgy of the Dead. As it stands, Orgy of the Dead could have been a time-capsule gem but in the end, it is just tedious and cold.