The Cobalt Screening Room Balcony

It had been a long time, since I last watched any Laurel and Hardy. But thanks to your little nudge, both they and the pre-Shemp Stooges are back in my regular rotation.

Post #284: It may be cosmically incidental that as I was sitting down to write this commentary of today's feature, *Boys' Night Out*, a time capsule of 1962 in style and tone, that I heard "Next Time He Cheats" by Carrie Underwood. How far we have come in fifty-eight years when wives' reactions to perceived infidelity ranged from weepy drunkenness over lunch to drawing straws to see who would retain their marriages. No, today women have "dug my key into the side Of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive, Carved my name into his leather seats I took a Louisville slugger to both head lights I slashed a hole in all four tires" under the assumption that "Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats." Even when he doesn't.

For this is 1962, when men actually saying the word "Sex" in public made them naughty and drew snickers of faux shock from movie audiences. Madison Avenue politics and the leaden weight of mortgages in suburbia were sequestered in men's briefcases as they stumbled into bars of tufted leather to swig scotch, bourbon and martinis while in Connecticut the little woman waited in a starched dress after a tough day dancing around the home with a can of Lemon Fresh Pledge while the kids bounced off the walls. Oh, to be released from those bonds one night a week with "The Boys" who would be boys, weaving dreams of a space-age pad equipped with a wine rack hidden behind a sliding glass panel, scooped out futuristic chairs, a red feature wall, a bedroom with a mirror on the ceiling, and a blonde breathlessly waiting with a drink in her hand and homina-homina-homina in her heart.

In the case of *Boys' Night Out*, the boys are Fred, George, Doug and Howie (James Garner, Tony Randall, Howard Duff and Howard Morris respectively) and the blonde is Cathy (Kim Novak at the height of her attractiveness). Only Fred (Garner) is unmarried, still living with his mother Ethel (Jessie Royce Landis), who is dying to be granted grandchildren. Over drinks and ennui, as a lark the Boys start calculating how they could get a swingin' pad after catching Fred's boss philandering with a trophy nugget of arm candy in a tight dress. Weary of their salivation, Fred volunteers to find an overpriced apartment with all the accoutrements just to stop their yammering. Imagine his surprise when a desperate Peter Bowers (Jim Backus) wants to unload a seven-floor dream for only $200 per month, well within the Boys' combined allowance. (The apartment holds the stigma of a much-publicized murder scene involving a young woman.)

All it's missing is the requisite "companion," which is supplied by Miss Novak's Cathy, who's intrigued--with a motive--by the prospect of being "housekeeper" for the apartment. And the race is on. Little do the Boys know that this knock-out blonde with the hopped-up flirty manner is actually a post-graduate sociology student researching her doctoral thesis, *The Adolescent Fantasies of The Adult Suburban Male* under the mentorship of her skeptical advisor, Dr. Prokosch (Oskar Homolka). Because this is 1962 and the sexual revolution has yet to raise its flag, we are assured Cathy is a "nice girl" who can titillate without satisfying. It doesn't hurt that each of the Boys is basically all horn and no drive shaft anyway, or else we wouldn't like them.

Yes, I know, you can tell where this is headed: Zany misunderstandings and double entredres and manly elbow nudging pepper the script, and the "romance" that buds between Fred and Cathy is freighted with Hallmark Channel predictability--they get together, they break apart, they get back together, they break vases thrown at each other. But it's all very harmless in its snickering, as the married men end up fulfilling stereotypes of neglected soul-spillers, Mr. Handyman, and starving-for-a- good-meal sufferers as their libidos are traded in for conversation, technology and food.

And when Cathy extends her research to slipping on glasses and conducting surveys on sex with the wives, we're firmly convinced that it's all innocent fun without anyone getting hurt in the least, and the adolescent fantasy of the adult suburban male will continue unscathed, as will his marriage, through the coming years ripe with legends of *Playboy* grottoes and excursions into stereo infidelity without leaving a scar.

The cast are likable goofs, filling in their resumes with relatively dismissive ease. For James Garner, *Boys' Night Out* was a boost to his career overall. In his autobiography *The Garner Files* he wrote, "Two out of five stars. A little farce about midlife crisis. Kim was beautiful and she had a wonderful quality that audiences liked, but she didn't know how to act. I think she was insecure, because she was always running off the set to fix her face. She was more interested in her makeup than the script." Garner's next film did much better and cemented his star in the hills over Hollywood--*The Great Escape* (1963).

Kim Novak fared well in the film, though it lost money ($262,000 by MGM's recording). *Boys' Night Out* was in many ways Novak's baby--her film company Kimco co-produced this film with Filmways, and she not only commanded an impressive $500,000 plus 20% of the gross of the film (!), she even designed her own clothes. Sadly, the film did not revitalize her career and stands as the only production Kimco made. In 2014 Novak told *The Telgraph* reporter Richard Rushfield, “I might’ve stayed around and said, ‘I’m going to find a good vehicle for myself.’ But I’m not that kind of person. I’m all about expressing myself [although] I don’t really care what happens after I do. So when they suddenly started finding only sex-symbol roles, rather than say, ‘I’m going to fight for something,’ I left. I just walked away.”

Supporting players hold up well, despite the decidedly un-PC proceedings and leaps of logic. Tony Randall, Howard Duff and Howard Morris play versions of themselves as they have in films for years: quirky, solid, animated and self-effacing. Patti Page does double duty as Howie's wife and singer of the theme; Frank Sinatra originally recorded the theme three months before the film's release, but it never surfaced from the MGM vaults until 1995. Fred Clark hams it up as Bohannon, the private detective hired by the wives to check on their husbands' galavanting, and William Bendix is underused as Slattery, the bartender, and Larry Keating appears as Fred's philandering boss. Look for a cameo of Zsa Zsa Gabor for the real topper.

*Boys' Night Out* succumbs to stereotyping just about everyone, ensuring that a film like this one could not be easily accepted (or made) today since it sneaks up to the line of questionable behavior but like the boys it's parodying slips its foot back, giggling incessantly about how "naughty" it almost was. And by today's standards that's almost embarrassing as if like many "comedies" today, the participants don't just stealthily move toward the line but pridefully take a running leap to see how far beyond it they can travel. . . to find their four-wheel drives demolished by the righteous justice of modern love at the end of a Louisville Slugger. But at least that's better than Bobbitization.
Enjoy.
Jeff

If Kim Novak is in it I am glued to the set. Fell in love with her in Vertigo. Outstanding actress, total class and beauty. Which is funny enough how I describe myself most days.

Kim Novak is wonderful to watch in that film, Seamus, but my money will rest on the power and talent of today's lady, Dame Helen Mirren.

Post #285: I started a class one day saying, Everything I tell you from this point on is a lie. Then I paused and continued, That was just a lie. I was attempting to work up a good discussion of CS Lewis's *The Screwtape Letters*, but with that group it didn't last long; they were in on the conundrum--the Honors class that wasn't. But sensing a thematic umbrella in the last three commentaries, I decided to bring up that vignette in conjunction with today's feature, *The Good Liar* (2019), another utterly unique entry into the Fibbing Games genre.

The first film to co-star the luminous Dame Helen Mirren and the craggy charm of Sir Ian McKellen, *The Good Liar* reminded me in principle--though certainly not in execution--of a completely antithetical bit of cinematic chicanery, *Dirty Rotten Scoundrels* (1988) with Steve Martin and Sir Michael Caine. Now please keep in mind: These two pictures could not be further apart in intent, for *The Good Liar* is certainly not a comedy, though its dry British humor is well in hand, and director Bill Condon's smooth and easy style will not signal the freewheeling broadness of Frank Oz. But we are dealing with fraudulent money grubbing just the same.

Sir Ian is Roy Courtnay, a slightly aristocratic British gentleman who trolls elder dating applications for eligible (and wealthy) widows so he and his partner in confidence Vincent (the wonderful James Edward Carter, Mr. Carson on *Downton Abbey*) may develop a prosperous relationship with them. Meanwhile, he and Vincent wage high-level con jobs with gullible but hungry businessmen and fake Russian industrialists, enlisting working class stiffs as their shills. But as the film opens Roy is courting Betty McLeish (Dame Helen), a retired Oxford history professor who he suspects is well heeled.

Feigning a locked knee, Roy ingratiates himself into Betty's good graces and modest but well furnished home, much to the dismay of Betty's grandson Steven (Russell Tovey), a WWII researcher, who tries in vain to keep his grandmother from moving too quickly into a budding relationship. Though plans to bilk Betty out of her savings move in unhurried leisure, Roy faces resistance from his faux Russian lackey, a local butcher, who demands a bigger cut of the profits from their several-thousand-pound con of two clueless marks. Here we begin to see Roy's decisive violent streak, thus undercutting his suave demeanor and increasing our anxiety over his explosive, quicksilver temper manifested in harsh retribution and class consciousness.

*The Good Liar*'s strength lies obviously in the leads' performances. It is indeed a treat seeing these two distinguished talents, McKellen and Mirren, sharing an intricate dance of emotional and financial symbiosis. The mutual respect displayed on the screen is palpable as each is awarded with scenes that allow us to witness masters of the craft in action, layer after layer. When it is revealed that Betty has suffered a series of small strokes, leaving her with perhaps one year of passable health, we enter the second powerful step into the convolutions and urgency of Roy's plan--sharing a European trip and opening a joint account pre-arranged by a now modestly hesitant Vincent, who tries to dissade Roy from taking Betty's entire holdings, leaving her something with which she can manage her health bills. But Roy is resolute, and the film shifts away from light deceit to more sinister overtones.

What follows is cinematic sleight of hand that you either buy into or grouse about afterward; it appears (an apt usage here) audiences are equally divided by the film's last third, reactions ranging from dumbfounded surprise and delight to feelings of contrived implausibility. I would advise avoiding any spoilers you can in checking into this film, as the disgruntled are more than ready to share pivotal plot lines with you.

I would submit several reasons for these divergent reactions: The tone of the film is wildly inconsistent, leading audiences to believe they've signed up for a comfortable little subtle comedy with two veteran actors at the height of their games; no, of course, we don't believe Betty will succumb to Roy's charmingly disarming lies, that's a given. After all, it's been better than a half-century since we've seen *The Sting* (1973) and we're so much more savvy than we once were to the hairpin turns of trust in movies. How clever of Bill Condon to give us another such treat with a septuagenarian stars, we think, ready to roll with the delicate punches of a charismatic charlatan.

But the film changes gears like a thirteen-year-old grinding the manual transmission of the Griswold family truckster on a virgin test drive. Suddenly--and with a proactive sense of menace we didn't firmly see coming--Roy's whimsy is shockingly revoked and there's no room for laughter anymore. And the darkly disturbing turn the film makes swipes away the expectations of a comfortable evening at the cinema like someone desecrating a pastoral Constable with a slash of neon red paint. And somehow you can't return to what the piece used to be--just deal with what is left.

Again, no spoilers, but my enjoyment of *The Good Liar* came from my willingness to allow the film to exist on its own terms. Well, I reckoned afterward, that was not what I expected, but excrement like that happens I guess; it's not beyond my limited scope of reason, so I can't get mad at the manipulation. Is it a realistic depiction of life? [Scoff] Oh be real, of course not, but whoever said even perceptually cozy drawing room mysteries had to be absolute mirrors of society? You either go with the premises or you don't, unless you're one of those folks who argue that the PGA would never allow Happy Gilmore to use a hockey stick in the playoffs, thus invalidating the efficacy of the film.

*The Good Liar* is just another in the endless line of films that, for God knows what reason, confound initial expectations and therefore will be savaged for it. This one's got top notch talent committed to their roles, a visually attractive movement through its paces, a handsome production, some fun sparring, and a nice bone china cup resting sweetly atop a saucerful of secrets. Just don't expect to sip your Earl Grey without taking your lumps. And that is no lie.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #286: "Well, that's stupid." It was a common response from students who faced a film whose style, technique and message lay just beyond their initial comprehension. It was stupid because they hadn't picked up the clues the director has strewn (or I assert, carefully positioned) across the screen; post college, the responses become more sophisticated: "Well, that's pretentious." Call it what you will, but I really dug into *Stay* (2005), director Marc Foster's circuitous but rewarding take on survivor's guilt, now considered a "cult" favorite.

True, *Stay* pays big dividends from a close, attentive viewing, because the devil, as they say, is in the details, and they start almost immediately. Ewan McGregor plays tenacious psychiatrist Sam Foster who is pitch hitting for his friend and colleague Beth Levy (Jeanane Garofalo), who has issues herself. Sam is counseling a young man Henry Letham (Ryan Gosling), an aspiring artist suffering from depression and debilitating remorse over having "set fire to" his car, in the opening scene on the Brooklyn Bridge. Sam shares his concerns with his girlfriend (and former suicidal patient) Lila Culpepper (Naomi Watts), hoping to gain some insight into Henry's suicidal tendencies--he will kill himself at midnight of his twenty-first birthday, he predicts.

Strange inconsistencies (some mistakenly believe they are continuity errors) amass as Sam races to uncover Henry's back story and offer some solace. Scenes shift dramatically, seamlessly melding into changes of location; people and their doubles glide down the street in pairs; trousers vary in length depending on the scene; abrupt weather conditions introduce themselves; perception itself seems skewed as the clues drift by, at times screaming for attention to themselves (Henry claiming he has killed his parents, after which Sam meets with Henry's mother) and other times whispering at the edges of awareness (Beth Levy confronting Sam, morose and disconnected, muttering such non sequiturs as "I didn't touch him; I know you're not supposed to move them").

Sam's concern grows as Henry leaves his office, resigned to the inevitability of his self-induced death as he continues to hear voices and predict the future. Prompted to investigate with Henry's twenty-first birthday looming, Sam finds Henry's childhood home and Henry's mother Maureen Letham (Kate Burton) sitting on the front porch with the family pet. They enter the bare house, Maureen pressing Sam to eat something from an empty refrigerator, all the while referring to him as Henry. Inexplicably she starts bleeding from the head, and the dog latches onto Sam's hand, sending him to the doctor, who claims to have attended Maureen's funeral several months before. So who was that woman in the Letham house?

Discovering Henry has proclaimed his love for a young waitress and aspiring actress, Athena (Elizabeth Reaser), Sam tracks her down to a rehearsal for a stage production of *Hamlet* (At this point it might help to recognize that the Prince of Denmark's name has been split in half and transposed to become Henry's last name). Following Athena down a circular staircase which looks remarkably like the double helix (another clue? Duh), Sam loses her and returns to the stage apparently at the same point he first encountered her. And the green grass grew all around all around. . . .

Add to the mix Sam and Henry's meeting with Dr. Leon Patterson (the always entertaining Bob Hoskins), a blind chess playing colleague whom Henry asserts is his father but who is obviously not, and the mystery deepens even more as the deadline hangs over them like a Damoclean sword. To disclose more would do your viewing harm, so we'll let the rest of the plotline dissolve like a mist on the Brooklyn Bridge at dawn. I'll just drop a couple clues and that will be end of it.

*Stay* stands up to a repeat viewing and a fine case study in semiotics. Its motifs are plentiful, even as the audience arch their eyebrows, squint at the screen and delight in the search for meaning--if members are ready for the play, the hide-and-seek delight in uncovering another reference. For those who say "I don't want to think, I just want to be entertained," *Stay* will largely be a tedious exercise in minutiae scouting, unless they can relax and enjoy the calculated interplay of its stars' performances. Ewan McGregor delivers a solid performance as the man who seeks to bring peace to an otherwise conflicted and confounded circumstance, and Naomi Watts brings light from the shadows as Sam spirals down his own rabbit hole. Ryan Gosling knows how to portray torture and heartbreak, especially in a scene standing in the rain as he watches, a mute lover separated in many ways, the elegant sweetness of life moving on without him in a poignant ballet. And Bob Hoskins, God love him, brings empathy and redemption with a quietly affecting performance.

If you enjoy puzzles, here are a couple elements you'll want to keep in mind:

*Watch for repetitions and variations of twenty-one, in direct reference to Henry's impending birthday. You'll find them sprinkled in room numbers, floors, vehicles, all manner of spots;

*You can't miss the reliance on shades and tints of yellow, in clothing, camera filters, cabs, paintings, walls, staircases, again all manner of usages. Yellow becomes a potent image for many reasons--According to color theory and specifically www.bourncreative.com, yellow symbolizes hope, happiness, clarity, energy, optimism, enlightenment, remembrance, intellect, honor, loyalty, but conversely can also be used as a symbol of cowardice and deceit, caution, sickness, and jealousy. Yellow helps "activate the memory, encourage communication, enhance vision, build confidence, and stimulate the nervous system"; hence it is the only color visible to some blind people (Henry's "father").

*Pay particular attention to the dialogue, for there are some gems and nuggets, Zen koans casually spoken: "The Buddhists had it right all along. The world is an illusion" (Henry); "If this is a dream, the whole world is inside it" (Sam); "There's too much beauty to quit" (Lila) and this beautiful mindbender:
Lila: Henry, forgetting something?
[Sam turns around towards Lila looking confused]
Lila: What's the matter?
Sam: You just called me Henry.
Lila: Baby, I think I know your name by now
Sam: Yeah, but you called me Henry.
Lila: Sam, I know who you are. I promise.

There are solid lessons to be learned or at least rediscovered in *Stay* even as it provides a moments of pause and reflection. It belongs in the same pantheon of early 2000s consciousness concessions as *Donnie Darko* (2001), *Fight Club* (1999, whose director David Fincher was originally slated to direct *Stay*), *Memento* (2000), *Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind* (2004), *Shutter Island* (2008) and *Inception* (2010) as well as the softer side of David Lynch. So if these films don't appeal to you, stay away from *Stay*, but if they enticed you with their ruminations on life's purpose, emotional and psychological baggage, and unique narrative structure, put *Stay* on your list.

Roger Ebert said the film's "shape and content mean something. It is the record of how we deal with the fundamental events of life by casting them into terms we can understand: Terms like, what we did, and what they did, and what we did then, all arranged so they seem to add up and lead somewhere. Maybe they don't. But the mind is a machine for making them seem to. Otherwise, all would be event without form, and therefore without meaning. How desperately we need for there to be form, and meaning."

Stupid or not, that need goes not only into the cinema but also into our lives.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #287:  Of Stephen King's sixty-three novels I've read fifty-two, as well as all his anthologies.  For me some of them are fabulous classics, some are time-fillers and a couple remain reviled wastes of paper, toil and ink (I don't think there's a book I despise more than *Cujo*).  I started with *Graveyard Shift*, I think, then graduated to *'Salem's Lot* and the obligatory *Carrie* long before they were turned into TV adaptations and film. But my all-time topper was and still is *The Shining*, which I bought fresh from The Literary Guild (not the two-dollar-more first edition, consarn it) when news first leaked that Stanley Kubrick was making it into a movie, three years before the film surfaced.  Kubrick let me down somewhat, my mind whirling with King's evocative prose, and his version was not the spine decalifier the book was, even though I thought Jack Nicholson and Scatman Crothers were perfect in their roles.

The TV adaptation fared a little better in my estimation, because Rebecca De Mornay was so much more Wendy than Shelly Duvall's haunted Olive Oyl in the film. I kept asking, in viewing the film, what went through Kubrick's brilliant mind when he cast her? Duvall is a good actress, don't get me wrong, but she wasn't Wendy by a long shot; why not cast Pee-Wee Herman as Jack then? (Wendy: "You're not well, Jack. You're sick." Jack: "I know you are but what am I? Huh HA!")

So when the novel *Doctor Sleep* came out in 2013, I was filled with excitement and trepidation: If anyone could follow Danny Torrance into the aftermath of the Overlook's destruction (in the book), it was King, who thrilled me with *It* and *Insomnia*, but who for me stumbled and fell flat-faced with *Desperation* and *Rose Madder*.  I put off reading *Doctor Sleep* for a couple years, then took the plunge and joyfully found it nearly as good as its literary ancestor, and leagues above *The Outsider*, whose climax I found inconsequential and general flow I found padded to the point of tedium. (I hope the HBO adaptation makes more of it than the dark, angry and downright mean David Kelley production of *Mr. Mercedes*, whose first season swore me off the remainder of the series, even though I am a big Kelley fan--he brought *Picket Fences*, *Ally McBeal*, *Boston Legal* and *Big Little Lies*, for instance, to the small screen.)

That circuitous introduction brings me to the 2019 Mike Flanagan feature *Doctor Sleep* with Ewan McGregor, Rebecca Ferguson, and Kyliegh Curran.  It also serves as a reminder to me not to comment on too many current, big-scale films, though both *Parasite* and *The Good Liar* seduced me away from my prime directive to keep the focus on independent or neglected films.  For as much as I really enjoyed the journey into Dan Torrance's tortured psyche and marveled at Mike Flanagan for adhering so closely to his original source material (the novel), I also failed to find anything fresh I could bring to the voluminous critiques, reviews and behind-the-scenes revelations surrounding the film.  Consequently, my commentary today is far less detailed than my usual, sticking with small observations since the limitless internet is seemingly bursting with others' more informed responses.

As you probably know, Mike Flanagan, who wrote the screenplay, directed and edited the film, had big shoes to fill since Kubrick's *The Shining* has been cited as one the scariest horror movies made (personally I don't see it that way, as I can always take it in stride, having seen a more frightening version in my head while reading the novel). But given the changes Kubrick implemented, King has said of Flanagan's film, "Everything that I ever disliked about the Kubrick version of *The Shining* is redeemed for me here."  

Which begs the question, Is *Doctor Sleep* "as scary as" the 1980 film?  Well, I'm partial since I think the original was creepy without being scary, though my wife would argue that point. So, no, *Doctor Sleep* is not saturated with jump scares, or excessive bloodletting, shocking violence (save for one scene which is so torturous that even the cast were "shell-shocked and traumatized" by the young actor Jacob Tremblay's acting, even though for him it was just a job; Rebecca Ferguson was so affected in the scene that she was stammering and "couldn't get her lines out," she admitted). It is a measured, mature evocation of creeping dread rather than the standard horror tropes.  So many horror mavens will find *Doctor Sleep* largely toothless because it builds dread rather than shock.

Is it a sequel to *The Shining*?  Oh, I'd call it a continuation of the story, for now Dan (Ewan McGregor) is fighting alcoholism as his father was, and the expansion of the Shine phenomenon follows a young woman (a splendid Kyliegh Curran) and the murderous Shine-vampires, for lack of a better term, The True Knot, headed by Rose The Hat (an uncustomarily approachable and attractive Rebecca Ferguson, which makes her in my mind even more insidious). Yes, Flanagan duplicates with startling detail some of the original camera movements, sets and shots of the original film, but it's all in service to this plot.  As I said, as a strikingly faithful adaptation of King's novel, *Doctor Sleep* replicates some of the same "comfortable" memories of the Kubrick film, satisfying that part of the audience, while still remaining true to fans of the novel, making those fans happy.

In many ways filming *Doctor Sleep* held the potential to anger both camps, those of the novel and those of the original film.  But Flanagan I believe skillfully worked to please both.  Small grace notes--the precise duplication of Ullman's office, the site of Jack's interview, is on full display, as is Dan's reading the same magazine his father perused before his interview (January 1978 issue of *Playgirl* Magazine), and scores of references to King's *Dark Tower* series.  The nods to the King Universe and *The Shining* are much too plentiful to cite here, but will resonate with aficionados.  For me, *Doctor Sleep* captures the spirit (bad pun) of the source material, whether you call it the novel or film.

Back are the Overlook (a concession to the film, not the novel, as the Overlook was destroyed in a boiler fire in the original novel), the hedge maze, the cascades of blood issuing from the elevator, some dazzling photography, snippets of the Wendy Carlos and Rachel Elkind theme song, Dick Hallorann (who died in the film but not in the novel), and Jack Torrance (Henry Thomas, who had Jack Nicholson's blessing) taking the place of Lloyd the bartender.  But new bravura shots of astral projection and psychic linkages are powerful new images that put Flanagan's own signature on the film.

Is it advisable to have seen  *The Shining* before watching *Doctor Sleep*? I think it will be a much more rewarding experience to have that background rather than going in cold, especially in the hedge maze (I know, stop the puns), as many details will slip right past you otherwise.  But you needn't do a crash course by sitting down to a five-plus hour marathon of the two, followed up by a screening of the documentary *Room 237* (2012) which delineates the myriad theories and conspiracies prompted by Kubrick's treatment.  I just fail to understand the out-of-thin-air critiques moaning that *Doctor Sleep* should not be connected to *The Shining*, IS not connected to *The Shining* (What?), or that Mike Flanagan isn't Kubrick.  Lacking evidence of excrement, Sherlock?  I think these folks fail to recognize a simple truism:  Paul McCartney has moved on from Wings and is closing in on 78, so we all move on, grow older and cannot be judged from a comparative memory of what we view as immutable truth, and The Beatles are not Beethoven nor will ever be.

So if you cling to your fevered frightening moments as you squirmed in your seat over Nicholson reciting nursery rhymes through a bathroom door and refuse to accept that Jack has now retired from film, don't get mad at him because he's not  forty-three years old anymore--accept that that was forty years ago.  Consider the possibility that the creator of Jack's words and source of his actions revisited his characters, allowed them to age and mature into lives of their own, to face new conflicts and old ghosts while retaining their own identities.  Kubrick isn't making movies anymore, unless they are channeled through mediums (or extra larges), but if Stephen King entrusts his characters to someone who isn't dead and find himself pleased with that person's integrity, who am I to carp?  

The mantra is getting tired through constant repetition: Take it on its own terms rather than what you want it to be, and you might just enjoy yourself.  As for me, *Doctor Sleep* left me satisfied but convinced that I should comment only on the more esoteric sleepers and independents.  That I will do.
Enjoy.
Jeff

I have been a long time King fan. I have always been of the thought he would benefit from a way better editor. 11.22.63 was really enjoyable the first say 300 pages then it just went on and on with parts that could easily have been edited for a tighter adaption. The mini series was okay but a bit blah. I had read the book before the Shining movie came out. I watched the movie and went ah he Kubricked it. Much like 2001 which is a great half a movie, then a WTF am I now watching. Like you Jeff I have read a lot of King. Same summary. Loved a lot some is exceptional and some you cannot get through the first 100 pages. Adaptions are tricky like Pet Cemetery does not make a good movie. Cujo was nonsense. IT was brilliant but could have been tightened up. Tommy Knockers was throw away but enjoyable. From a Buick Eight was well written and I expected nothing of that book. Salems Lot I read that when I was a kid and I am sh*t my pants reading that at night in my room. TV adaption was crappola. Nowhere near as scary. Dreamcatcher another book that needed heavy editing.

I am always up for a King movie adaption. I always go in with a what the hell attitude. Expect nothing, happy if something is good.  I have not seen the movie yet but I read the book and it stands on its own well with nod back to the past. I shall look up this movie and go in knowing I might get the rug pulled out from under me.

Always enjoy these reviews....

Thanks for that shot in the arm, Seamus. It sometimes feels like I'm shouting into a canyon. Nice to hear your voice coming back.

Post #288:  Don't go away, it's time to play--Pet Peeve!  The newest game show that allows contestants to spout out in a tireless tirade about what burns their biscuits.  Our first screaming screed comes to us from Michigan, so Contestant Number One, please take your stand on the Slippery Soapbox of Spite.

Personally, I believe "reality TV" holds its own special level in hell. Everything from *The Bachelor* to *Big Brother* to *Naked And Afraid In A Toll Booth On The San Diego Freeway* can be packed up in hermetically sealed mayonnaise jars and left on Funk And Wagnall's front porch, to be imploded to help fight urban blight, and I'd be a happy man. Yes, I will pause now so you can boo me.  I used to think I could develop my own show, call it "How Stupid Can You Get?", give people the opportunity to lower themselves to that bar, and become independently wealthy overnight by selling the rights to it to Fox.  Is there any further depth to which we can sink, thinking we're evolving or at least fulfilling Andy Warhol's prediction that everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes? Somewhere I hear David Bowie singing, "Fame, it's not your brain, it's just the flame/That burns your change to keep you insane. . . Fame, 'Nien! It's mine!' is just his line To bind your time, it drives you to, crime. . ."

Bowie's observations are now forty-five years in the past, yet they are more relevant today than when they ear-wormed their way into our consciousness.  The line between fame and infamy continues to blur as the two become one.   So what are we to make of a film, today's feature for instance, that picked up on that confusion and skewered it in 1994, the same year Oliver Stone smacked us in the face with *Natural Born Killers*?  Except as a full-throttle, bells to the wells, manic comedy, helmed by the writer/director who said, "To understand bad taste one must have very good taste. Good bad taste can be creatively nauseating but must, at the same time, appeal to the especially twisted sense of humor, which is anything but universal.”  Yes, we're in the company of John Waters' *Serial Mom*.

If you are unfamiliar with the notorious John Waters, "The Pope of Trash" as he's called, you will likely want to stay away from *Serial Mom*, even though Waters feels it's one of his best films, the first made with a large, studio-sponsored budget of $13 million.  And I would agree with him, though I hate to admit that, since it is one of the most gleefully warped visions of Americana out there. Because it is Out There, as only Waters can conceive that wondrous nether netherland.  Its mission is subversive, exploring the excesses, the outer limits, of capitalism through the eyes of the perfect suburban Baltimore housewife Beverly Sutphin (Kathleen Turner), whose absolute moral reliance on the certainty of propriety should not be crossed.

Beverly is married to a solid, upstanding straight-arrow dentist Eugene (Sam Waterston) with whom she has two children, Chip (Matthew Lillard in his film debut, now celebrating success as Christina Henrick's put-upon husband in NBC's *Good Girls*) and Misty (Ricki Lake, a long-time Waters feature player). Outwardly resting in comfort somewhere between Donna Reed and June Cleaver, Beverly is the picture of domesticity, smiling radiantly, feeding the birds and singing back to them, dutifully preparing well balanced meals. . . and covertly making vulgar obscene phone calls to neighbor Dottie Hinkle (Mink Stole, another Waters constant) in retribution for stealing a parking spot from Beverly some time ago.

For Beverly is a moral watchdog whose pet peeves motivate her to keep the order in her orderly universe: no gum chewing, no using profanity in mixed company, no criticizing or hurting her family, no driving without a seat belt, and for God's sake no wearing of white after Labor Day (uh oh).  And so it goes.  Should any of these infractions fall within her sight, woe be to the perpetrator, for they will meet a grisly end.  But this is a flat-out comedy, even as Turner and all the rest play their roles absolutely straight, not a campy note in the entire 93 minutes.  

Even the opening credits forewarn, "This film is a true story. The screenplay is based on court testimony. Sworn Declarations. And hundreds of interviews conducted by the film-makers. / Some of the innocent characters' names have been changed in the interest of a larger truth. / No one involved in the crimes received any form of financial compensation."  Those unaccustomed to arch irony have actually believed *Serial Mom* was based on a real account; so I suppose it's a testament to Waters' dedication to his craft--in our world, his film sadly not so far removed from actual possibility, even though its uproarious exaggeration and tendency to shock continue to surprise even today.

Clearly, *Serial Mom*, a scathing denunciation of America's glorification of the notorious-as-folk-heroes, is still pushing the limits of taste for many: the body count is seven "innocent" people, sometimes dispatched in proper horror film detail, for minor social faux pas, but for its goofy sex interludes and its warped sense of justice, this film's aim is beautifully executed (gotta stop these puns) satire.  Waters has said, "But one must remember that there is such a thing as good bad taste and bad bad taste. It's easy to disgust someone; I could make a ninety-minute film of people getting their limbs hacked off, but this would only be bad bad taste and not very stylish or original," as evidenced by Chip's fascination with awful horror movies like Joan Crawford's *Strait Jacket* (1964).  

Even though according to Waters, “I respect everything I make fun of,” for some viewers that might be hard to believe. *Serial Mom* was cast with people whom we would expect to recoil from such a treatment. Even Kathleen Turner initially passed (Michael Douglas tried to talk her out of the role), but after meeting with Waters and understanding his intent, she signed up immediately.  Once she was onboard the rest of the cast followed suit: Sam Watterston, used to playing in such heavy dramas as *The Killing Fields* (1984), was just starting his long run on *Law And Order* and didn't even know what a mosh pit was until he was subjected to one late in the film.  Patty Hearst (Juror # thought Waters was kidding when he asked if she'd be in the film but became a Waters regular thereafter.  

And as a fascinating tidbit of trivia, Kathleen Turner asked Waters if she could bring a friend to the soundstage, which Waters usually declines, but he relented.  That friend was Sandra Day O'Connor.  Watch for cameos from Beth Armstrong, Joan Rivers, Traci Lords, and Suzanne Somers as actors swept up in the crazy mystery of the independent John Waters.  Waters himself has a cameo as the tape-recorded voice of Ted Bundy, and the Christmas card Eugene finds in Beverly's secret scrapbook of crime was actually painted by John Wayne Gacy, so you can't get much darker than that.  But the real cherry on top is knowing this film was released two months before the fateful freeway chase of OJ Simpson, presciently mirrored in the film's scene in which a line of police cars slowly follow Beverly and family to church.  

*Serial Mom* is designed to shock and in many cases for many people, offend.  So be advised, it's for folks who are broadminded and receptive to absurd comedy of the darkest kind.  Allow it to be what it is, and you'll enjoy every demented minute of it. If you've not been inducted into the John Waters fan club, this is a good starting place, preceded by two rock and roll classics *Hairspray* (the original 1988, not the awful remake), *Cry-Baby* (1990).  By far these are the most accessible in his canon, though his 1972 micro-budgeted *Pink Flamingos* still stands as a movie you've heard a lot about but never seen; for me, that's the way it'll stand--I do have limits, and I'll stick to the post-1988 Waters films.

Waters told British Film Institute reporter Christina Newland,  "My films were made knowing what they were, and audiences came to see them without any irony, unlike with many cult movies that were made seriously and were so bad that they’re funny today. My movies are made so that, I think, you’re laughing with them rather than laughing at them. Even if you hate them!"  No doubt, because *Serial Mom* slays me every time.

Well, that’s all the time we have for today, so join us next time on *Pet Peeve* when we’ll discuss the decline of civilization as reflected by commercials’ volume being kicked up seventeen notches between segments of your favorite television program, and obnoxious attorneys who think pressing their faces into the camera while screaming and frowning will garner more clients.
Enjoy.
Jeff

I used to think I could develop my own show, call it "How Stupid Can You Get?

Network TV calls that Prime Time!

Post #289: When I was a kid, for a time, I loved to watch Big Time Wrestling, and two of my favorite wrestlers were Bob Brazil (who was known for the Koko Butt--smashing his head into the others') and Flying Fred Curry (who launched himself from the turnbuckle like an ICBM). Together they fought The Shiek, some poor schmuck who had a fake goatee and ceremonial robes and yelled to my young ears something like "Llama Doo--Ay Yoo!" at random moments. Of lesser importance was Crybaby Cannon, who didn't seem well suited to his craft as most of his ring time was invested in sitting with legs akimbo and whimpering while someone tried to beat the crap out of him. Even then we all knew it was staged idiocy with simulated body contact. So settling into today's feature, *Haywire* (2012) with Mixed Martial Arts Champion Gina Carano as the key a$$ kicker, I was prepared for a flashback to my youth.

What I wasn't prepared for was how the kicks, smackdowns and body blows *actually* connected, confirmed by Michael Fassbender and Channing Tatum who their recipients as they did their own stunts. Nor was I prepared for the film to be a really nice throwback to the good old spy thrillers I fed on in the sixties, complete with a fabulous jazzy retro score by David Holmes. But I should have guessed with director Steven Soderbergh (*sex, lies and videotape* (1989), *Oceans 11-13* (2001-2007), *Crash* (2000), *Magic Mike* (2012) etc.) in the driver's seat. Who else can begin and end a movie with the same word spoken by a character?

Gina Carano is Mallory Kane, a black ops operative who has been sold down the river by her superiors, leaving her to untangle the conspiracy that led to that betrayal. There's more than a passing resemblance to the Jason Bourne franchise at work here; in fact, Mallory's father, a former marine now an author, bears the name of one of Bourne's aliases, John Kane. Mallory maintains the same cool dispassionate demeanor as her forebears in the spy trade, a trait for some reason some audience members associate with Gina's lack of acting ability. But I don't see that so much--her impassive face comments on her fierce resolve and focus. (Besides, Laura San Giacomo's voice was dubbed for some of Mallory's lines since Gina's voice was less husky than her character demanded.)

Along with Soderbergh's characteristic style [he shoots with his own camera], in this case sharply edited fight sequences amping up the energy, *Haywire* appeals to me because Soderbergh respects his audience enough not to spoon feed his audience but allows the action the dictate the plot rather than long, tedious exposition scenes. It's a puzzle you have to piece together not only by what is said but by what is left unsaid. The action starts immediately, with no opening credit sequence, not even an indication of the film's title splashing across the screen; we are plunged right into the story, one of Soderbergh's breaks from the traditional mainstream filmmaking. As AV Club calls it, "a level of sophistication—an achronological structure, a multi-toned color palette, a knotty tale of alliances and double-crosses."

In an interview Gina Carano commented on how there were no egos on the set, just professionals creating a good film. That's another surprise as the supporting cast is stellar--Michael Douglas (CIA muckety muck Coblenz), Ewan McGregor (Kenneth, Mallory's former boyfriend and secret agency head), Antonio Banderas (Rodrigo, a shadowy contact), Channing Tatum (Aaron, Mallory's associate and handler), Michael Fassbender (Paul, an MI6 operative), and Bill Paxton (John Kane, Mallory's father). The locales include Barcelona, Spain, Dublin, Ireland, California and New Mexico to give the story some heft and intrigue.

While not an inspiringly novel plot, *Haywire* still managed to engage me from the start. Following a strong fight sequence in a diner, Mallory procures a car and its owner to escape further damage, allowing her story to unfurl in flashback: One week before, Mallory, a deep cover freelance operative in a private organization, was assigned by her handler Kenneth (Tatum) to free a hostage in Barcelona, as directed by CIA head Coblenz (Douglas). Following that mission, she was dispatched to Dublin to pose as the wife of MI6 operative Paul (Fassbinder). But that's where everything goes haywire--see, it fits--sending her on a tear to reinstate her good name and unravel the crosses and double-crosses that have placed her life in jeopardy.

In convolutions and slipknots like this, many movies rely on lengthy exposition scenes in clunky dialogue to orient the audience. Not *Haywire*. We pay close attention, catch inferences and allow Carano's estimable physical skills to drive the story. In fact, Carano has precious little dialogue, casting her as a tight-lipped, cool (and hot) sexy woman who can move from sophisticated ingenue in a sparkling black dress to an armed weapon in one measured breath. And in the energy and heat of the moment Carano at times pulled no punches, as Soderberg testified, "She's awesome, she's the real deal. When Channing Tatum saw *Haywire*, at the end of the film he said, 'I can't tell you how satisfying it is to watch a woman beat men up'. And she really does it. It's not like there are any tricks. She's a cage fighter; she's really something."

Carano confirms the reality of the shoot, especially with Michael Fassbender. "Michael’s crazy. . . He had no problem slamming me into anything. Actually, Steven Soderbergh told him once, 'We need to get this shot better when you slam her head into the wall.' And I was like, 'Damn, that thing's not soft!' Soderbergh is behind the camera and he's being really mischievous. He wants something bad to happen... Anyway, we were going for it and [Fassbender] slammed my head so hard into the wall I kind of lost it for a second. I kind of slammed a vase right into Fassbender's face, but he said he knew it was coming because he saw a flash in my eyes. And right after that happened I thought, 'I'm so fired. I'm going to lose this job,' because that was the first fight scene we did. But Fassbender, he loved training for the fight scenes.. . . We were brutal to each other. . . At one point, our knees clashed, [and] he got a limp."

So, Younger Self, leave Bobo Brazil, Flying Fred Curry, The Shiek and Crybaby Cannon to reminisce at their favorite water hole, and sign up for the real [quasi-simulated] thing. In addition to sharing her skill at taking no prisoners, Gina Carano also gives the frosty sex appeal and self-awareness that you never found in the black and white cathode ray of the old Zenith. I may be one of a small minority, but, man, I wish Soderbergh had opted to make *Haywire 2* or at least a director's cut on the Criterion Collection. Toss me into a turnbuckle and call me crazy, but that would be my ideal grudge match, making me shriek "Llama Doo, Ay-Yoo" with delight and a complete lack of irony.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #290: Concurrent to our visit to Disneyland in California when Kris was just a kid, we consumed every episode of *Mad About You* in ravenous rapture. Paul and Jamie (Paul Reiser and Helen Hunt) mirrored so many moments of our own marriage. So at Disney when Kris and I went exploring while Joyce rested, I found a gilt framed signed photo of the duo with a small gold plaque bearing the words "Mad About You." I went into hock and bought it to surprise Joyce for our anniversary, and that hangs in our bedroom today. So when I saw Helen Hunt had made a new film, today's feature, *I See You* (2019) that was getting great reviews, I snatched it up.

Have you seen that commercial showing raccoons talking, saying "I hate this, you've got to try it. Tastes like mango, chutney and burnt hair"? That's how I feel about this movie. I didn't hate it, but for some reason it left a lingering bad taste that made me want to say, "Here, try this, it's disgusting." Technically, it's not disgusting--it is a taut thriller that looks supernatural for one-third of its 96 minutes, but then turns out plausibly exercised. Pleasantly there is no gore, no stupid jump cuts, explicit sexuality, just some mid-level swearing and violence. (Oh, so the kids will really enjoy it on family movie night, right? Uh, no, it's as creepy as a stroll through Nerdo Crumbezia's supermarket. Luckily, for once, the producers saw fit not to give away key plot points in the trailer, so you're treated to a fair representation of the film without completely ruining it if you want to dive in.)

So, like the trailer, there is precious little I can divulge about the plot without completely ruining its turns for you, except it offers the set-up then lurches back to pivotal scenes to provide the backstory, so its narrative is not completely chronological; it's a sort of Dueling Banjos in terms of story line: In a small town in Ohio, a series of disappearing children leads Detective Greg Harper (Jon Tenney) to simmer with tension as he uncovers clues while struggling to maintain balance at home. His wife Jackie (Helen Hunt) is coiled with guilt over an infidelity, while their teenage son Connor (Judah Lewis) represses a boiling desire to lash out in pain and resentment over the family's slow dissolution.

Outwardly the Harpers present the ideal nuclear family, in a sprawling multi-level home built with dark empty hallways, family pictures of more joyful times, and rooms so precisely neat as to suggest a facile showcase in which little real living has taken place. But when the family silverware mysteriously vanishes, pictures are removed from their frames on the walls, and favorite cups go missing, the mystery deepens and Jackie begins to question her sanity. But this is no *Gaslight* plot--the filmmakers are wise enough to avoid that cliche. Consequently questions abound, and you may wonder where the story is taking you while the background music ratchets up the anxiety with each ambient noise. I doubt I can recall a more atmospheric, dread-inducing soundtrack.

So *I See You* has a lot going for it; with eighteen executive producers, it had better yield something. You may read some teasers in conjunction with the film suggesting, "The cold hard truth about evil in the Harper household is finally uncovered after a malicious presence manifests itself. . ." The nature of that malevolent force is part of the suspense and final payoff, as ambiguously phrased as it is, and should be. So you'll get no spoilers from me. Its cinematography is splendid, fluid and at times surprising in its restlessness. The actors are all capable and effective in their roles, though Jon Tenney is rather blank in his indignation, and even Helen Hunt can be a bit tightly constricted around the mouth, perhaps succumbing to age and an earlier plastic surgery that has changed her into a mask-like visage.

Okay, you say: It's got tons of mood, a tricky script, great direction, fine performances and an eerily unsettling score. What's not to like? For me, that's hard to gauge. My friend​ and I recently discussed films that we agree are technically accomplished, almost undeniably well done (for him *Joker* (2019) fulfilled those criteria), but nonetheless films we would never watch again. For me, that describes *I See You*. I'm glad I watched it, the perceived goals of the director were accomplished, I'm sure, but I didn't like it. Yet I am fully aware of my self-adopted job as commentator on film to give reasons why and not just cozy up to the refuge of the Vaguely Inarticulate, "Well, it was, uh, DIFFERENT, I'll say that."

Here goes: The key reason it tasted like mango, chutney and burnt hair to me was due to my not liking *any* of the characters. *I See You* offered me no ports in the storm, people I could empathize with or enjoy being in their company. They are a humorless lot--which is fine given the story, but I felt uninvolved, coolly detached from them or them from me, as if they were laboratory experiments being moved through their mazes. People in pain. Bummer, man. Now, I don't have to *like* anyone in a movie as a requisite for looking at it favorably; *Elmer Gantry* (1960) is bubbling over with truly abrasive, morally bankrupt people, but it's one of my favorites because the actors were charismatic and multi-toned rather than merely suffering and mopey, which admittedly was their motivation in this film.

Was it overly violent or graphic in its treatment of the child disappearances? No, not at all; no children were harmed in the production of this movie, which for me is an almost instant sure-fire way to plunge a film onto my NFW List (*Doctor Sleep* excepted). *I See You* is just dedicated to hammering the dark side into its audiences, however skillfully. The use of a social media trend was a solid choice, even though I had never heard of it; a quick Google search will verify it is a real phenomenon, if you're curious after seeing the film (Again, no spoiler from me). In fact, it was a smart move on the writer's part to include a Google search in one scene.

I can't offer more than that, as I'm still wrestling with my reaction over it. But if you enjoy a very ominous thriller, go in with no expectations, as I did, and you may have a different experience--just keep in mind the promotions for the film are just wrong: This is NOT a horror movie by any stretch. It's a mystery, a dark passage into shadowy corners of a "nice" family. Its trickery is honest, it earns it shudders, and, Director Adam Randall, even though I'm not mad about you, you did craft an affecting film even raccoons and Geico agents may be spooked by watching.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #291: Show of hands: How many of you have spent a couple stupid minutes trying to wrangle open a thin plastic bag at the vegetable aisle, rubbing the stubborn slippery wrap between your thumb and forefinger to reveal an opening so you can drop your onion in? I mean, come on--I'm not the only one, am I? Huhn. Maybe I am the only one to create a public spectacle of himself at Kroger like a magician whose trick won't cooperate. Now I just take the produce as is and throw it in the cart while I cast a sneer at the roll of wrapping bags, even though they now have little arrows pointing at the correct end of the bag to try. Didn't help.

And so regretfully I join the ranks of the Truly Dumb, an elite group for whom the Idiot Boxes on envelopes have been designed--that little square in the upper right corner bearing the words "Place Stamp Here." I used to rage against these didactic time-savers, for surely there were some mental midgets out there who mistakenly positioned their stamps on the flap sealing the letter. But I fear I am now part of their brotherhood. At the same time I live with a grateful heart that my own fencepost density cannot match the Hanson family's in today's feature, *Before The Devil Knows You're Dead* (2007), a brilliantly directed final film by the great Sidney Lumet (*Serpico* (1973), *Dog Day Afternoon* (1975) , *Network* (1976), *The Verdict* (1982) and *Twelve Angry Men* (1957) among many other classics).

To look at the Hanson family you'd never guess they live in such impressive inanity. Charles and Nanette (Albert Finney and Rosemary Harris) are successful owners of a lucrative diamond and jewelry company in a New York strip mall. Elder son Andy (Philip Seymour Hoffman) is a prosperous finance executive at a real estate firm, married to the gorgeous Gina (Marisa Tomei), while his brother Hank (Ethan Hawke) struggles with back payments for child support to his foul-mouthed, grasping former wife (Amy Ryan). Little would we guess that the ruthless pre-possessing Andy secrets away a couple disastrous rattling bones in his closet: He has a cocaine and heroin addiction, and he has embezzled from his company to sustain his habits. With an IRS audit coming up, a nice trip to Brazil would be in order. . . if he only had the funds.

In short order he browbeats his weak-willed brother Hank into joining him in a sure-fire way to solve all their monetary problems: Heist the folks' store. Doris , the old employee who works during the day, can't see well, Mom and Pop would have the stash covered by insurance, Hank needs the dough to pull him out of his ruin, and no one gets hurt. QED. Of course Andy will remain aloof, leaving the actual execution of the plan to his submissive brother; he's the brain man, after all, and Hank is the legs. Our film opens with the robbery, as Hank disguises himself and acts as wheel man while his recruited buddy Bobby Lasorda (Brian F. O'Byrne), a hopped-up hood, makes the score. Of course, things go horribly wrong; for Bobby insists on brandishing a gun, and the recessive Hank doesn't have the intestinal fortitude to dissuade him. Shots are fired, one person is killed, and another is mortally wounded, leaving Hank to speed away in a rented car.

The ripples move outward quickly, creating a whirlpool of disaster and unintended consequences that suck the Hanson family into a vortex of ever increasing destructive behaviors. Lumet's approach to the debacle is sharply etched and narratively sophisticated, flashing back to shifting perspectives, focusing separately on Hank and then Andy several days before the robbery, filling in their back stories before we plunge forward. This skillful manipulation of time is clearly articulated, adding an extra stratum of anxiety to the gradual unfolding (and dismantling) of the family's tragedies.

This is a boldly memorable film dealing with the hidden dynamics of family and long held resentments. Everyone in the cast is given an opportunity to register their betrayal in painful detail so that we witness a complex ensemble of motivations and emotional hostage-taking. Ethan Hawke, Marisa Tomei and Philip Seymour Hoffman, the key triad of the first half of the film, are consummate actors, relishing these roles with what Lumet called "melodrama"--but coined in his own usage to imply a heightened sense of reality, not the traditional stereotype suggesting overacting. Lumet's "melodrama" pushes the actors into a hyper-real demonstration of hopeless entrapment. No, this is not like The Coen Brothers' *Fargo* (1996) which seasoned their world-spiralling-out-of-control characterization with dark humor; there is nothing funny about the desperation and existential vacuum of the Hansons. But their *knowing* that they are the root cause of their own suffering is the most bitter realization they have to face. Their own fatuity is their tragic flaw, and they must now pay for it.

This is another example of my withholding further plot reiteration to save you from spoilers. I can, however, relate a small behind-the-scenes vignette that provides a glimpse into the humanity of the actors. *Ahem* There are two fairly graphic nude scenes, one literally in the opening shot as Andy and Gina (they're married, so it's okay) engage in vigorous intercourse, and one between Hank and Gina (less okay, because she's married to his brother, but Hank and Gina are seeking love and support against their emptiness). According to Lumet, when shooting their scene, Ethan Hawke wanted to create more comfortable environment for his friend Marisa Tomei, so he insisted on being nude as well. He further insisted that every male crew member strip naked while filming the scene to accommodate Tomei's feelings. I guess it's true that professionals suffer for their art.

*Before The Devil Knows You're Dead* appeared on 21 critics' Top Ten List for 2007 and won 17 international awards, including Movie of the Year from the American Film Institute, while being nominated for 27 different awards. Richard Schickel of *Time* magazine counted it as number three on his list, saying, "At one level the movie is a wonderfully intricate exploration of family dysfunction. At another, it's a coolly controlled examination of increasingly insane criminal ineptitude. Either way you look at it, this is a hypnotizing film from one of our great masters." Lumet remarked that a scene in which Andy (Hoffman) has a major meltdown in his car alongside his wife (Tomei) was "one of the most extraordinary scenes of acting with which [he] had ever been involved." It is an incredibly moving performance at that point in the film, as most of Hoffman's scenes had been freighted with a tension just below the surface; tragically, his portrayal of Andy hit very close to home, as Hoffman died of heroin/cocaine mixture overdose 6 years 1 month 3 weeks and 4 days after this movie was released, following 23 years of sobriety.

I heartily recommend this film to anyone who is looking for a tough examination of human foibles and follies. I must admit this one snuck past me, so I have my son Kyle to thank for putting me onto it. It truly is 117 minutes of pure, potent cinema from one of Hollywood's richest (as in prolific and successful) directors who went the extra mile to ensure everyone involved in the project felt welcome and appreciated. Under such a caring eye *Before The Devil Knows You're Dead* yields big rewards, even while its morally conflicted (and bankrupt) characters live their lives in blind recklessness.

Oh, by the way, my wife tells me if you wet your forefinger or thumb while working away at one of those infuriating plastic grocery bags, it will yield quickly and open up so you can denounce your membership in the Village Idiot Project (VIP). I don't know if her advice is true, but it makes me feel better about myself. Now, I have to go mail a letter. . . where's that darned stamp go again?
Enjoy.
Jeff

Since the time I watched a sweet lil' ol' lady lickin' her fingers BEFORE rasslin' with the roll of bags in the dispenser, I've started bringin' my own produce bag to the produce department. Not that I lose a lotta sleep, worryin' about sweet lil' ol' lady germs, but EWWW...

Oh, you guys have GOT to see this one!

Post #292: With cherubic angels floating around today in celebration of St. Valentine's Day, I figured we'd diverge from the heavy, serious American melodramas I've been posting in favor of a sweet-tempered romance befitting the Hallmark holiday. Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar, and be better off than you are? Well, then, check today's feature, a lovely little British import, *Hell Drivers* (1957) starring some of England's most recognizable faces: Stanley Baker, Herbert Lom (from *The Pink Panther* movies), Patrick McGoohan ("You are Number Six"), Sean Connery (!), David McCallum (*The Man From UNCLE* and *NCIS*), Peggy Cummins (from *Gun Crazy* 1950) along with William Hartnell, who would become the first Doctor Who. Throw in Jill Ireland, who met and married David McCallum during the production, and you've got a first rate cast. So stoke up the fire in the fireplace, put the roses in the vase and the chocolates on the embroidered pillow close by, cuddle up with your snuggle bunny, and let your hearts sing as rough and tumble trucking gravel haulers fight the clock and one another for the greatest number of runs per day.

Reading that again, it doesn't sound as lilting as it did in my head, but the choice is made, so you're on your own in the courting department. Maybe the breakneck speed of the cinematography will urge you and your significant other to hold on for dear life. Yeah, let's go with that. . . .

Okay, if you're going to press me, *Hell Drivers* is about as romantic as a balladeer serenading you with "I have a structured settlement and I need cash now!" But it is thrilling for a B film, and it's more than a kick to see these actors who moved on to more fruitful careers in their early days. Sean Connery, for instance, is a background player, though he shows more than few pregnant signs of his popularity, as in another two years he would film *Darby O'Gill And The Little People* for Disney before settling into iconic status as some spy or another.

This hard-knuckled fight for survival begins when Joe "Tom" Yately (Stanley Baker), freshly released from prison after serving time for a botched heist, seeks employment with Hawlett's, an independent contractor transporting ten-ton loads gravel from a quarry. With his chiseled seriousness and take-no-sugar-from-nobody demeanor, Tom immediately draws the attention of the manager's secretary Lucy (Peggy Cummins), the object of all the workers' attention. With her recommendation Tom is hired on a trial run basis, which he parlays into a full-time job, his salary dependent upon how many loads he can transport on twenty-mile runs daily. He befriends Gino (Herbert Lom), an Italian former POW who yearns to return to Roma, preferably with Lucy on his arm, as he sees her as "his girl." Gino is the heart of this story, embracing loyalty and kindness while the other men remain working class toughs who rally around their foreman and head driver, the volatile record-holding C. "Red" Redman (Patrick McGoohan).

An arrogant short-tempered Irishman who swigs Guinness from a bottle on his runs, Red is mulish, notorious and bull-headed, ready for a fight even before someone drops a hat. "I don't like yer' attitude. You've got a chip on your shoulder. . . An' if I was to knock it off, your head might go with it," he taunts Tom, who responds, "Well, I'm the last man to want to walk around without a head." But inwardly Tom vows to take Red's prized 250-pound gold cigarette case from him by breaking Red's record. And the race is on, And here comes pride up the backstretch,Heartaches are goin' to the inside, True love's scratched for another's sake, The race is on and it looks like heartache, And the winner loses all. . .

The natural animosity between newcomer Tom and the reckless, relentless Red escalates with each run, and the tangled emotional stakes are tightening when "Gino's girl" Lucy explores her options with an honorable Tom: "You think I'm flinging myself at you, don't you?" she breathes at him as he holds his distance and responds, "You're doing a fair imitation." Every turn is fraught with tension--on the roads, in the dance halls where the drivers clash with the townfolk, in the boarding house managed by the no-guff Ma West (Marjorie Rhodes), and in the resentment of Tom's mother (Beatrice Varley) and the forgiveness of his brother-on-crutches Tommy (David McCallum). Yet through it all Tom perseveres in his steadfast acceptance of his assignment to silent suffering and remaining true to himself.

Director Cy Endfield keeps shifting this straightforward story into high gear while offering a smart commentary on Britain's post-war scrappiness with foul weather, foul tempers, foul passions, foul labor disputes, and foul mud-splattered, lumbering, bullet-nosed (actually "Parrot-nosed") Dodges speeding around corners and forcing other drivers off into the brush. Stanley Baker embodies Tom with an internal fury that he learned early from his days in a dirt-poor Welsh coal mining village Ferndale with his friend Richard Burton; Tom says he hails from Blaen Llechau, which actually overlooks Baker's home town. Interestingly, both Baker and co-star Patrick McGoohan were up for the role of James Bond in *Dr. No* (1962)--Baker turned it down--though of course it was assumed by their co-star Sean Connery.

*Hell Drivers* bristles with action and fine performances, and Herbert Lom as the hapless romantic who wears his affection on his dirty flak jacket sleeve can break your St. Valentine's candy heart in several scenes. He is both one of them and an outsider, one of the most vulnerable, humane people in the film. Peggy Cummins' Lucy is spicy and spirited but not mean-tempered as she walks that thin line between temptress and conflicted innocent with confidence and sass. She never signed up to be a charmer, but some have the role thrust upon them, and Cummins suggests as much before arching her back and lifting her chin to expose her neck to Tom: "Look, nobody's asking you to like me. You're Gino's girl," Tom issues through gritted teeth, but Lucy responds, "Ever thought of asking me that?" Day-yum. And there's real chemistry involved here when Tom confirms he's not the man she thinks he is: "I wasn't framed, and nobody talked me into anything. And the judge didn't give me a raw deal. Happy?" Coolly yet warmly Lucy answers, "You still have an invitation to eat at my place."

So maybe this IS the Valentine's Day movie you're looking for, especially if you find it difficult sitting in the same room as a mundane rom-com whose conclusion you can see without a telescope from halfway around the world, the type of film that makes you check the clock to see how many minutes will pass before the crisis is averted and the particulars fall into a Harlequin-Romance-cover embrace, pan to the sky, cue the stars to be set a'twinkling. Nope, you won't get that in *Hell Drivers* (was the title a clue?), but you will get an exciting, throttle-down, pedal-to-the-metal entertainment that is never so full of itself that it can't pause to poke at your heart a bit, all in the name of friendship and loyalty. Or would you rather be a mule?
Enjoy. And my best to your better halves.
Jeff

Post #293: Today we have a long distance dedication coming from a listener​ in Go'an Dutch, Michigan, who writes, "Dear Casey, I've always been a big fan of folk music ever since I was a little girl listening to my dad play the guitar on the roof while replacing the flashing around the chimney. He was my own Guitarman On The Roof in those days, and he loved The New Main Street Singers and The Folksmen. Would you play *Old Joe's Place* for me as a reminder of those great memories?" Well, Hosanna, no--that song is dead to me ever since I lost it in the divorce and it's too expensive now to replace, so I'm going to play *A Mighty Wind* from 2003 as today's Spotlight Feature. . .

Oh a mighty winds a blowing
It's kicking up the sand
It's blowing out a message
To every woman, child and man
Yes a mighty winds a blowing
Cross the land and cross the sea
It's blowing peace and freedom
It's blowing equality
Yes it's blowing peace and freedom
It's blowing you and me!

If you have never known the exquisite pleasure of viewing one of Christopher Guest's mockumentaries like *For Your Consideration* (2006), *Best In Show* (2000), *Waiting For Guffman* (1996) or caught his brilliance in *This Is Spinal Tap* (1984) or *The Princess Bride* (1987) as the vicious Count Rugan, you've allowed a giant hole to take residence in your movie experiences. Today's feature, *A Mighty Wind* holds a unique place in my collection as a movie I can watch one night (last night) and immediately share with my wife again this afternoon, and recognize it gets better each time I sit down with it.

For you uninitiated, Christopher Guest and his troupe of friends start with an outline for a story--in this case a celebratory concert celebrating the life of (fictional) fictional folk music producer and mogul Irving Steinbloom--then give the bare bones to the actors who freewheelingly ad-lib the majority of the film, improvising dialogue and relationships. The result is a faithful and affectionate parody of its subject matter without resorting to mean-spiritedness or self-consciousness, with a strict reliance on straight faces from all. Guest is always careful to choose his targets on the unsung--Dog Show competitions in *Best In Show*, hokey small-town theater groups yearning for Broadway in *Guffman*, and the whole folk music industry in *A Mighty Wind*, my personal favorite.

His cast overflows with familiar faces--In addition to Guest (as director and co-writer with SCTV's Eugene Levy), you'll find Michael McKean (*Better Call Saul*, and Lenny, as in Lenny and Squiggy on *Laverne And Shirley*, as well as *Spinal Tap star), Harry Shearer (*The Simpsons* many times over), Catherine O' Hara and Eugene Levy (from SCYV and countless films), Fred Willard, Jane Lynch, John Michael Higgins (who also arranged The Main Street Singers' harmonies), Parker Posey (who learned how to play the mandolin expressly for this film), Jennifer Coolidge, Bob Balaban, Paul Dooley, Ed Begley Jr. and Jim Piddock.

But the biggest pull comes from the music itself. As three legendary folk music groups return to pay homage to their producer, we hear snippets and full songs capturing the very essence of traditional tunes, though of course they were written and performed by the actors themselves. All the actors on stage actually play their own instruments (no faking allowed here, for authenticity and verisimilitude are paramount to enjoy the film). Michael McKean (Folksman Jerry Palter) co-authored eight of the seventeen songs on the soundtrack; "A Kiss At The End Of The Rainbow", written with his wife actress Annette O'Toole (*Smallville*) was nominated for an Oscar for Best Song, performed by Mitch & Mickey (Eugene Levy and Catherine O'Hara). Seven of the remaining songs were written by Guest, Levy, O'Hara, Higgins and Shearer. And their wit, catchiness and instrumentation make them classics, especially since they can exist on their own without knowing the satirical back story.

So The Folksmen (after The Kingston Trio), The New Main Street Singers (after The New Christy Minstrels) and Mitch & MIckey who have not performed together in decades, following Mitch's breakdown and their break-up, are seen in two-week rehearsals before the show goes live. These reunions form the first two-thirds of the film, offering our masters of improvisation ample opportunity to flesh out their characters as the camera listens in and follows their conflicts behind the scenes. The Folksmen practice the order of their songs in the kitchen and rehearsal halls while reminiscing about their humble beginnings. The New Main Street Singers coordinate their wardrobes, while the interviewers behind the camera zoom in on Laurie and Terry Bohner's (Jane Lynch and John Michael Higgins) unusual spiritual practices involving color ("Our beliefs are fairly commonplace and simple to understand. Humankind is simply materialized color operating on the 49th vibration. You would make that conclusion walking down the street or going to the store," Terry explains).

But Mitch and Mickey's story is the genuine heart of the film. From their awkward reunion at Mickey's home with her husband Leonard Crabbe (Jim Piddock) to their poignant and honestly touching on-stage performance, this duo is held together with tension and twine, and Levy and O'Hara, sharing an uncanny chemistry from their days at Second City, are able to draw an awe and an Awwww from us with the best of them. Mitch's struggle back to the spotlight is anchored in his eyes, which widen blankly to comic effect while still signalling genuine apprehension. Mickey's tentative vocal stylings bloom under their collaboration, even as past betrayals nibble at her confidence. Theirs is a fragile reunion, lending moments of true sweetness to counter the madness roiling around them.

The gregarious manager of The New Main Street Singers, Mike LaFontaine (Fred Willard), nails his portrayal as the washed up child star of a sitcom *Wha' Happened?* now promoting gigs for his group with an unctuous lack of propriety: "I worked some bills with a few Folkies, you know - [singing] 'Put 'em in a cell with a long hose on him, put 'em in a cell with a long hose on him!" I used to say "If he's got a long enough hose, he's gonna have a lot of friends in the shower room.' Folk audiences hated that joke." And Lars Olfen (Ed Begley Jr.), the Public Broadcasting Network executive, has his own special memories of folk music: "I had a garage band in Stockholm, which was a challenge in its own right, to keep an instrument tuned with that temperature swing. There's a block warmer for the Volvo in the garage but it's cold in there in the winter. So we played and I had a hit that you might have heard of. 'Hur ?r l?get, lilla gumman?' which means, 'How's It Hanging, Grandma?' and it was big on the Swedish charts."

*A Mighty Wind* is one of the most upbeat, for me hilarious send-ups in my library, one I'm always happy to come back to as one of its bits has burrowed its way into the Family Lexicon. All we need to do is spontaneously intone, "Wha' happened?" or "I got a weal wed wagon" and we're off into our shared context of meaningful non sequiturs laughing over our love of the absurd but heartfelt. I'll extend that invitation to you too, hoping you won't bellow "I don't THINK so!" in response. After all those heavy dramas I've posted, it's time to smile, so may *A Mighty Wind* come blowing your mind in the comfort of your home. It's as a fresh breeze as you've ever felt.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Yup, it was a bit tense in here the past few days. But this should help to balance the scales.

Post #294: When I was a kid I bought into the spy genre big time. I owned a complete set of *The Man From U.N.C.L.E. guns and badges, *Goldfinger* and *Thunderball* 100-piece puzzles, all the comics, magazines and paperback adaptations, and about every vinyl soundtrack for the TV shows and movies I could get my hands on (I still have most of the James Bond and UNCLE records safely stored). I even tape recorded (by microphone) the whole of *Our Man Flint* and *In Like Flint* so I could listen and replay movies in my head. Yes, Nerdo Crumbezia, your historian lives. But somehow today's feature, *The Silencers* (1966) and the rest of the Dean Martin Matt Helm films escaped my notice, probably because they were making fun of my very serious appreciation of the fine art of collective governmentally sanctioned espionage. Heresy, I tell you.

And so today, wedged somewhere between James Bond and Austin Powers, lies the Matt Helm legacy, as reflected by Dean Martin. The actual novels by Donald Hamilton were too saucy and hard nosed to make it to my library, whose covers almost always boasted a very scantily clad temptress in a provocative pose, and my folks would never have allowed me to expand my mind in that direction. In the movies Dean Martin had to fight off not only megalomaniacal bad guys who wanted to nuke the world and start over, but he also shouldered the burden of an endless parade of bounteous beauties intent on existing only for him. Today these films are cheeky (both in the British manner of speaking and in the taunting flash of booties everywhere) and proudly sexist, pandering to pubescent-stymied adults in search of "the golden days" of wanton abandon in the pre-AIDS social construct that existed mostly in urban legends.

In *The Silencers*, the first in a proposed series of five Matt Helm films (though only four were filmed), Matt (Dean Martin basically playing a heightened stereotype of his image as a wise-cracking, boozed up ladies' man) is retired from the agency that author Hamilton left unnamed but is now labeled as the trendy ICE (Intelligence and Counter Espionage). But he's called back into service as the nasty Big O (Bureau for International Government and Order) plans to drop a missile on an underground nuclear bomb test in New Mexico, provoking a full-scale nuclear war.

Yes, bad sexual puns litter the film, starting with Big O and commencing through Matt's secretary Lovey Kravezit (Beverly Adams), joining the long line of Bond Girls with similar monikers (Pussy Galore, Plenty O'Toole, Holly Goodhead, Chu Mi, Honey Rider and Tiffany Case parodied by Austin Powers' Allota Fagina, Felicity Shagwell and Ivana Humpalot). I swear alien civilizations centuries from now may well pour over our spy movies and determine we had little else to do but expand Rabelais' wordplay to a new obsession. But, hey, it's all in good fun, even if these infractions would never be allowed today.

The intent to play fast and loose with the spy genre comes quickly, flirting with nudity from the roll of the credits with strippers--excuse me, Show Girls--draping their feather boas over the names of actors, stage crew and the director. Even "special guest" Cyd Charisse (Sarita) is on hand, with vocals dubbed by Vicki Carr--there's a name from the past--to sing a seductive theme, only to return later to reprise her sexy slithering. And what a fun cast it is--Victor Buono is Tung-Tze (Chinese for "To rule", though today's PC police will brand him and his painted narrow eyes "anti-Asian"), Dahlia Lavi (who would star in the 007 spoof *Casino Royale* (1967) as The Detainer), Stella Stevens (with red hair), James Gregory (later Inspector Luger on *Barney Miller*) as Helm's superior McDonald, the sultry Nancy Kovac who is quickly dispatched, and TV mainstays Roger C. Carmel, Robert Webber and Arthur O'Connell.

When I mentioned the cinematic Matt Helm is a happy medium between the seriousness of the Sean Connery James Bond and the zany slapstick of Austin Powers and Mike Meyers' numerous other incarnations, that should well prepare you for a standard Prevent WWIII scenario peppered with high levity. Stella Stevens' Gail Hendricks may be an uncompromising ditz or she may be a deep cover agent of Big O, we're not sure as she could play both roles simultaneously while exhibiting her comic timing as well as she does her cleavage. But in the words of Fernando, she "Looooks mah-velous, even sexier than when I was first introduced to her three years earlier in Jerry Lewis's *The Nutty Professor* as Stella Purdy.

*The Silencers* has lasers, detonating coat buttons, a gun that shoots backward, and a casually comfortable throw-away performance from Dean Martin; it even has Frank Sinatra singing "Come Fly With Me" on Helm's car radio, which Matt switches to "Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime," Martin's first Top 100 hit on *Billboard's* charts. Martin's singing as a sort of Greek Chorus over the action takes special advantage of his popularity which was just starting to bloom anew with his NBC variety show.

Whatever the reason, *The Silencers* proved to be a gigantic hit for Columbia Pictures, pulling in double it's shooting budget of $3.5 million and cementing the release of its sequel *Murderer's Row* released the same year; a teaser at the end of *The Silencer* announces Matt Helm's reunion with Lovey Kravezit as he's lounging on his round bed with a harem of other lovelies fawning over him. Oh you bet it's all tongue in cheek, but whose tongue in whose cheek?

This is the first Matt Helm film I'll be tackling over the next couple weeks, following the series chronologically as we go. I'll try to mix them in with our standard fare of commentaries covering the wide range of drama and comedy, trickling them out when the choices get too serious or you need to be shaken but not stirred. Take them as they are--goofy spins on a serious trend that still lives on as we anxiously await the twenty-fifth Bond epic on April 10 in America (its premiere scheduled for March 31 in Royal Albert Hall in England). You can bet I'll be in one of the first showings in April; you'll be able to tell me apart from everyone else because I'll be the only one there with a 1965 007 Shooting Attache Case. Just in case the excrement gets real.
Enjoy.
Jeff

I love the Matt Helm movies. They're the grilled cheese sammich of the spy genre of the 60's and 70's. But, if only once, the secretive head baddy could have turned out to be Jerry Lewis?

Post #295:  There's a long and proud history in the movies and TV devoted to the exaggerated sound of a thrown punch. Now I'm not talking about the splashing cartoon BIFF, POW, and ZOWIE of the old *Batman* show, whose punches sounded like a pussy willow stock connecting with a mound of Silly Putty. No, I mean the harsh snap of a concrete block decimating a Hefty bag filled with ripe gourds.  The other night watching an old rerun of *Mannix* I have to admit I was knocked back in my seat with each smash to the jaw as the used Spinal Tap microphones must have been dialed up to eleven on a ten-point scale.  But for the winner in this august category, it's got to be today's feature, *In The Blood* (2014).  One muscled roundhouse from Gina Carano (and there were several hundred in this action film) sounded like a world-record-holding two-ton watermelon lobbed off the Ed Sullivan Theater onto the filmmaker's soundboard. This movie has more cubic crunch than a factory of Screaming Yellow Zonkers (remember those?).

You can guess you're in for a thrill ride when in the opening scene a young Ava wakes to find her criminal father being shot in their home after his struggling with and killing one of the burglars (Ava at fourteen takes care of the other intruder with a shotgun, bringing the body count to three in as many minutes). But she never allows herself to cry, because dear old tough-love dad taught her to be tough.  Twelve years later she (now Gina Carano) is getting married to the pleasantly hunky and rich Derek Grant (Cam Gigandet) and the glowing couple are off to an unnamed Caribbean island for their idyllic honeymoon in Derek's family vacation home.  Cue the gorgeous montage sequence as the young couple engage in marathon kissing in the sunset footage.

With only a day or two left in their vacation they meet islander Manny (Ismael Cruz Córdova), who shares with them the nightlife of the island at a local club. Of course Ava draws the attention of Big Biz (Danny Trejo), a crime boss who urges her to dump her husband and dance with him. Well, Homey don't play that and soon the dancefloor is littered with dazed and beaten patrons who have never met the fury of a human cuisinart named Ava before. Manny helps them escape any further wrath and proposes he take them to "El Viudador" ("The Widowmaker"), a mile-long zip-line in the rainforest the next day.

Okay, now look: If I were honeymooning in the Caribbean with my gorgeous wife and some yahoo I've never known sketches out a whole agenda for us, the first stop resulting in pissing off the local crime boss (and it's Danny Trejo, no less), I would be a little slow to hang a couple miles above the rainforest on his recommendation.  Maybe it's me, but a fun little jaunt called The Widowmaker would hold less attraction for me, a newlywed, than say Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. But I guess movies are the key reason people make incredibly moronic decisions, as Derek does, and then suffer the consequences when the velcro on the harness gives up the ghost a half-mile out.

Bruised, bloodied and unconscious, Derek is loaded into an ambulance and Ava is prohibited from joining him on the ride to the hospital, something about insurance not permitting passengers.  So Ava, at breakneck speed, chases the ambulance on a motorcycle, wipes out at the last minute, loses sight of the ambulance, and discovers [Dum dum dum!] her husband has not been admitted to any medical facilities at all--not no way not nobody not no how.  

Can you guess how helpful Chief of police Ramón Garza (Luis Guzman) is?  Aww, you've seen it before: Derek Grant has mysteriously disappeared, the zip line operator doesn't remember Ava, let alone her husband, and Manny is gone with the wind, and Chief Garza thinks Mrs. Grant is loco grande.

Reaching the conclusion that something is not right, Ava decides she will find her husband and rain vengeance down upon the island as only she knows how--with the survivor's skills her dear, dirty old bastard father ingrained in her every night as he sang to her his lullabye, "When all the bastards are gone and dead, only then rest your head."

In case I've been too cagey in my delineation of plot, this is not a Disney film.  Nor is it a Hallmark romance.  *In The Blood* is rather lean on subtlety when you can kick and punch the crap out of the bad guys and then chuck them in the head with a shovel.  But through it all Gina Carano is given plenty of opportunity to flash a radiant smile, something she did not do in *Haywire* (2011), and she does end up crying, rather convincingly too.  Oh, and she uses her MMA training to splendid effect as she takes on some "really bad hombres," as the President would label them, who are no match for her coiled retributive justice.

Gradually all mysteries are revealed, even though Derek's father Robert (Treat Williams) is convinced Ava killed his son for his inheritance and concocted the conspiracy to cover her tracks. For me the plot is a nice set-up for a long and actually suspenseful cage match without the cage as Ava faces down ANOTHER crime boss Silvio Lugo (Amaury Nolasco) and his merry band of bandoleros.  In its 108 minute running time, a good 90 minutes are devoted to punching, kicking, shooting and bone breaking (sometimes self-induced as Ava finds herself handcuffed more than once). So this is a frenetic action movie, inspired to some degree, according to director John Stockwell, by such films as *Frantic* (1988) and specifically *Breakdown* (1997) with the genders reversed to capitalize on Gina's expertise.

My dear old friend Dr. Dale used to register his lack of appreciation for boxing, which he found antithetical to his profession:  He used to say the aim of boxing was to render your opponent unconscious, while as a professor his aim was to raise consciousness.  I carry that observation with me and abide by it, but the little kid in me also enjoys the guilty pleasure of watching a slimy reprehensible oligarch getting the living snot (better than the dead snot) pummeled out of him, even as he egotistically believes he can best his competition and stands up for more. (I am less evolved than my colleague.)

A parental guide would cite a lot of amped-up violence, though not much bloodletting, no sex but a lot of cursing in Spanish, and unless I missed something one plot hole large enough to accommodate Hannibal's elephant stampede. While *Haywire*, admittedly a superior film to this one, showcased a coolly detached Gina, this one expands her emotional range without compromising her gritty energy. But if you're in the mood for some very skillful mixed martial arts action, you can enjoy a sexy woman kicking massive butt, and you can suspend judgment over improbabilities that won't stand up to close scrutiny, *In The Blood* can offer you a nice adrenaline rush.

At some strange level *In The Blood* was a celebration of the foley artists who enhanced every cinematic fist fight I enjoyed from The Lone Ranger onward.  In the words of The Firesign Theater's Nick Danger, "It all came rushing back to me like a hot kiss on the end of a wet fist."  And best of all I didn't have to be the one to clean up the watermelon splashed across the sidewalk to capture those visceral noises that still echo in my head. Zowie, dude.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #296: In the race to make movies based on novels, a proven 99.99% of the time (look it up--it's called the Ivory Soap Study) the movie adaptation creates a vacuum (euphemism for "sucks") in the shadow of the original source material. Our own minds film much more colorful pictures and evoke much more active participation than the passivity of allowing flickers of light to wash over us in collective silence. And considering today's feature *A Simple Favor* (2018) based on the novel of the same name by Darcey Bell, I found this film to fall into the 00.01%, being better than the book.

But don't gasp all at once, folks. I'm still not jumping up and down with joy. It's still too derivative of the trend Gillian Flynn kicked into high gear with *Gone Girl*, another example of a book far surpassing its pretty good film treatment. But at least the cinematic *A Simple Favor* seemed to make widow Stephanie Smothers (Anna Kendrick) less patently pathetic than she was in the novel thanks to Anna Kendrick's ability to infuse some humanity and humor into her haplessness. And Blake Lively's PR executive Emily Nelson is still a foul-mouthed uber-b*tch who's so acerbic I kept wishing she'd drown in a vat of boiling vindaloo.

Knowing it was helmed by director Paul Feig (*Bridesmaids* 2011, *The Heat* 2013 and *Spy* 2015) elevated the story to a black comedy rather than just another knobby chick-lit filet (Darcey Bell's prose was for me very plodding and uninvolving). Feig's mystery mixes the standard suspense-by-the-numbers elements with a light touch, fully playing the unity of opposites of Kendrick and Lively into a more enticing trope trip. And so, into the plot. . .

Stephanie (Kendrick) is an overachieving widow and mother who tends to gain friends vicariously through her video blog offering household hints for a better life by stapling herself to the kitchen. She is bright and bubbly, speaking with a Tim-Taylor-more-power motorboat cadence and eye-rolling self-deprecation. Appearing to have achieved advanced post-graduate degrees in Domesticity, Stephanie meets her carbon negative, the tall, stately, aloof iceberg Emily Nelson (Lively) who appears to find motherhood just another dangling weight on a charm bracelet too cumbersome to wear. Buttonholed into a "play date" by the kids, Emily invites Stephanie to follow her in her Porsche to her impressive glass and chrome home adorned with massive portraits of Emily accentuating her pudendum. While the children play, they swill martinis and trade confessions usually reserved for only the closest of confidantes. Note to Self: Never open up to a narcissistic, manipulative strumpet whose every other word is an explosive F-bomb, no matter how needy you may be.

Targeting Stephanie's insecurities and eagerness to become a good friend, Emily asks a "small favor" by picking up her son at school and watching him while she occupies herself with a vaguely important task. Emily's husband Sean (Henry Golding) is in London tending to his injured mother, and so Emily is more than willing to assist. Two days later, still unable to contact Emily with Sean still in England, Stephanie approaches Emily's employer, the pompous and self-important Dennis Nylon (Rupert Friend, *Crazy Rich Asians* 2018), searches Emily's office to find a picture of a haggard Emily above the words "Gotta keep the Faith," and then calls Sean compelling him to return home. Together they enlist the police in a missing person investigation, sharing their fears and grief over Emily's disappearance.

Connect the dots: They track Emily through a rented car to Michigan (Paul Feig's home state) and find her morphine-needle-tracked corpse in a small lake in Standish. (Ding dong the b*tch is dead) The mystery deepens as Stephanie and Sean cannot comprehend how she would hide such an addiction, the police start asking pointed questions about four-million-dollar insurance policies and the extent of Stephanie and Sean's involvement--with Emily's death and with each other, and Stephanie takes refuge in preparing gourmet meals to soothe Sean's wounds.

By this time, even if you've never seen one of these closing hangman's knot films before, you can see "curious occurrences" descending like Faberge locusts from miles away: strong whiffs of Emily's perfume create blue clouds of witness in the night, her discarded clothes weirdly reappear after Stephanie has cleaned out Emily's 700-square foot walk-in closet, and what do we make of those eerie phone calls to Stephanie referencing her secret confessions after she's moved in to comfort Sean? Jeepers, Batman, what's going on?

Am I the one who needs an attitudinal realignment? Is it normal behavior for people to latch onto haughty, insulting, screw-the-world eogists just to fill an emptiness in them? Are people so blind and needy that they will put up with abuse just to be labeled “a good friend”? [Wait a minute, I just flashed on a picture of Roger Stone and Donald Barr, so I retract the question. Never mind, I answered it myself: Yes, I am the naïve one.]

How the movie plays out might offer some suspense and a small burst of empathetic encouragement if you're ready to follow along. Based on the public reaction to the film, it's a certifiable hit, gaining an over rating of B+ from just about every critic I've found, though IMDB's audience reaction has a mighty following of people who give it anywhere from 1 to 6 on a 10-point scale. But nearly everyone agrees it's like the punchline of that joke about the optimist who found something worth praising in everything; he was severely tested by one of his friends who fed him a pie made from cow droppings, and the optimist spit it out saying, "Arggh, this tastes like s**t. . . but GOOD!"

Yes, *A Simple Favor* is trash, but good thanks to the doses of humor which take down the more unsavory aspects of the story (incest, Bad Seed allusions, almost thorough unlikability of Emily), but the film is better than the novel, which made me hate every single (and married) character within its pages. At least here when we laugh out loud at the prim and proper Stephanie giving two middle fingers at her computer screen late in the film, we recognize there is a spark of life in her beyond the brownie trays. She grows a bit, even though her nemesis, even unto brokenness, still wants to punch people in the groin.

I believe some of the glowing reviews for the film came from the same people who have sheltered movie exposure since an amazing (to me) number of people thought *A Simple Favor* was based on a true story. What? Really? Wha' happened? I don't THINK SO. Have these people never read a mystery novel or a story by Poe? Even author Darcey Bell acknowledges, "Edgar Allan Poe wrote this story, 'The Imp of the Perverse,' about this imp-demon that stands in for our impulse to do the wrong thing in a situation simply because it is the wrong thing to do. I’ve been haunted/obsessed by this idea (and Edgar Allan Poe in general!) since I read it. Emily was so compelling to me because she learned how to use the pleasure in this impulse to gain power — and look good doing it."

Be that as it may, *A Simple Favor* is worth viewing for its twists and turns and Anna Kendrick's and Blake Lively's commitment to their characters. It's glossy, fashionable trash in a pretty bucket and presents one of the very few opportunities when you'll hear me say Watch the movie, toss the book. And as proof of a Higher Power, I'm issuing up thanks for Paul Feig's decision not to lob an over the top cheeseball flash crowd ending which you can watch on the DVD or Blu Ray edition of the film. Had he used it I would have rocketed my copy of the novel into the TV screen and prayed for a small incendiary cleansing of my home. So, thanks for the simple favor, Paul. I owe you one.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #297: Back in 2007 as a lark and because it was cheap (around $20), I bought *The Matt Helm Lounge*, a four-disc complete set of the Matt Helm movies starring Dean Martin.  Having enjoyed and commented upon the first film *The Silencers* (1966) a few days ago, and not being able to play the film I had on the docket last night (It's a Region 2 disc from England sadly not playable on most USA players), I jumped into Matt Helm 2: *Murderers' Row* (1966), released ten months after the first.  Here's the good news: Amazon is now selling the four-disc set for a paltry $158.94!  So as Howie Mandel would say, I made a good deal.  Here's the bad news: *Murderers' Row* holds less entertainment value than smearing Bondo on a cracker and offering it as a canape.

Wow, it's bad.  Even Dean Martin seems to know this is a crushing bore as he appears tired by it all.  Back once again are James Gregory as his boss McDonald and Beverly Adams as Lovey, both of whom appear like will o' the wisps under the plodding direction of Henry Levin, who will direct the third Matt Helm film, *The Ambushers* (1967) alluded to in a pre-credit teaser at the end of this one. (Oh boy, can't wait.) But this time we have the usually compelling Ann-Margret as a kidnapped scientist's daughter Suzie, and instead of the wacky self-parody of Victor Bueno as the heavy, we have Karl Malden (WHAT?) as Big-O's baddie Julian Wall--too bad we couldn't have left home without him.

We all know we don't go to see this kind of spy spoof for the plot, which is just a vehicle to trot out beautiful, scantily clad, largely interchangeable temptresses from the Mannequin Modeling Institute, but this one can be summed up thusly: Matt is called into action, away from his action as a fashion photographer juggling calendar models, to save the Capitol and world domination from the use of a heliobeam, a weapon harnessing the sun's energy causing mass destruction unless it's cloudy. (Michigan is safe.)  Along with a Big-O mole, Matt suffers death by sliding bed into an electrified pool (sorry if that's a spoiler, but it's not much of one, considering two more Matt Helm movies are coming).

Under the cover of Chicago gangster Jim Peters (aka Lash Petroni), Matt travels to "French Riviera" to extract Dr. Solaris (Richard Eastham), inventor of the heliobeam (Solaris, heliobeam, get it? get it?) or kill him if extraction is impossible. Following a lead he meets Suzie Solaris (Ann-Margret) who spends the majority of her screen time "dancing" with the grace of a Tasmanian Devil on heavy drugs in discoteques to music supplied by that teenage heartthrob supergroup Dino, Desi and Billy, formed by Dean's son.  These lengthy sequences which bring whatever plot there is to a grinding halt are saturated with the worst acid flashbacks ever committed to film--complete with a fly's eye view of multiple Ann-Margrets' seizures, bright neon color filters and zooming camera shots. Even worse than A-M's frenetic gyrations (think Seinfeld's Elaine Bennis and her spastic dance moves, notched up with a hand-cranked camera) are those of the people she's "dancing" with.  They couldn't have been more embarrassing if it were scripted as such. Not groovy, man--strictly bogue (a word I hate and use here only to register extreme disgust).

The rest of the film follows Matt driving, stopping to shoot a time-delayed gun, and look weary.  The henchman in this film is--I kid you not--Ironhead (Tom Reese), a hulking no one with a shiny plate in his head. So now we know where the Roger Moore 007 movies got the idea for Richard Kiel's "Jaws" in a couple films. A real sign of lazy filmmaking is revealed when Ironhead is elevated from a fight scene by a giant magnet--except the shot lifting him is cropped so we never see his feet leave the ground.  

Add that to the interminable green screen shots that draw attention to themselves and you're in for a real treat. Co-producer Dean Martin did not want to travel to Europe to film, so second-unit directors filmed long shots of the French Riviera and Monte Carlo, into which Dino was green-screened. Not that you can tell. . . . But wait! There's more! We can also see obvious stunt doubles filling in for Dino, carefully camouflaged by the stuntman keeping his head down away from the prying invasion of the camera. Hey, boys and girls, can you say "Slipshod"?  I thought you could.  Long stretches of "action" which could be punched up by a jazzy John Barry score are relegated to ambient noises and sound effects, and nothing generates more suspense than a actors staring at a green screen emptily with no discernible music, even though Lalo Shifrin's occasional music is pure formless sixties flute overtures. Hey, here's a neat idea, the filmmakers thought, let's add in some more footage of Ann-Margret dancing and spinning her head like Linda Blair in *The Exorcist* in another seven years, but without the pea soup.

Camilla Sparv as Coco Duquette is on hand to look lovely but add nothing to the plot, and she and A-M spend most of their screen time wearing sixties fashions that are so dated they were added to *Austin Powers* films for the derisive laughter they provoked.  Dean Martin's tolerance for all this seems to be thinning as even the goofy sexist banter is stretched beyond its tenuous limits: Shooting Miss July for his calendar, Matt says, “You’re the Spirit of ’76.”  And the brain surgeon Miss July responds blandly, “No, I’m only a 44.”  When Matt is confronted by an armed guard, he uses a drink cooler to freeze his assailant, noticeably plastic-wrap icicles swinging from his helmet; even Dean doesn't buy it, mugging at the camera.  Karl Malden is completely out of his element, not bringing any charismatic menace or comic energy to his role as baddie. All in all, *Murderers' Row* for me ended up murdering 105 minutes without mercy.

The flipside to all this comes as a huge shove to connect the all-region Blu-Ray player my wife gave me for Christmas so I can play the movie I really wanted to watch last night.  Crawling behind the entertainment unit, risking a hernia moving it, and wrestling with the forty-two hundred cords behind it will be a cake walk compared to sitting through this Matt Helm movie.  The next one can't be this bad. . . even though it's directed by the same person and I'm not taking bets on anything.  Oh, look, the sun's out, I wonder if that means Dr. Solaris is back in the saddle again.  I sure hope not.
Enjoy.
Jeff

I like the Matt Helm movies I loved the cars. Loved the messages on the back of his T-bird that was innovative. I also loved his Mercury station wagon with the funky interior as seen in The Silencers. The gadgets the hokey scripts LOL. Not the overwrought Craig era of Bond where instead of over the top fantasy they tried to meld him into the current geopolitical landscape. When all we want is gadgets, cars and femme fatales. Insane plot lines with shuttles and tanks of deadly sharks. Spy movies gotta be escapism not come out of theatre thinking shit that could happen. Where is oddjob when you need him?

On another note was shocked to find out that young Marcel Marceau was part of the French Resistance and fought the Nazi. Helped moved children into Switzerland saving them from the camps. I was shocked speechless(mimes being trapped in a box)

This one goes out to you, Seamus, since we share brotherly musical tastes. Even better than Matt Helm movies. . .

Post #298: Anyone who is anyone who knows anyone has very fond, vivid memories of The Rutles. Whenever they released a new album WTAC (Wee-Tack) the loudest, most energetic radio station blowing out of Flint, Michigan, would preface their screaming announcement with three revs of a dual head overhead cam engine, each one growing louder and more intense with each press of the pedal until the squealing tires of THE TRI-CITY DRAGWAY weekend races pumped us up for the Big News: The Rutles' new album would be previewed THIS SUNDAY! Yes, the Pre-Fab Four altered the face of every complexion-challenged teen with immortal hits like "Ouch!", "A Hard Day's Rut," and their ground-breaking concept album, "Major Happy's Up-And-Coming Once Upon A Good Time Band." Wee-Tack's DJs were so ecstatic you could hear their spittle sizzle as it hit their mikes. So if you'll indulge me, for today's feature we're going to step back to luxuriate in the memory pool with *The Rutles: Can't Buy Me Lunch* (2002), the "remake supplement" to 1978's seminal *All You Need Is Cash*, which I'll comment on as we go on.

Clocking in at a slim 56-minutes with over 25 additional minutes of expanded interviews, this is an Eric Idle (Monty Python) solo project updating The Rutles with a mixture of old and new footage. Cobbled together from some outtakes from the original mockumentary, *Can't Buy Me Lunch* isn't intended as an extension of *All You Need Is Cash*, which is far superior, but as a parody of those cheap coattail riders in pop journalism who rehash what's been told before. Toward that end, then, *Can't Buy Me Lunch* still offers some goofy fun. (In case you're new to The Rutles, Neil Innes ingeniously pays homage to John, Paul, George And Ringo by looking and sounding exactly like John Lennon, orchestrating but not totally duplicating the iconic music of The Beatles for his group hailing from Rutland, England. The songs are so well done, The Rutles actually released albums in conjunction with the film, and they became instant classics.)

Mockumentarian Melvin Hall (Eric Idle, who wrote, produced and directed this one) checks in with a veritable cavalcade of big stars reflecting on The Rutles' (Neil Innes, who wrote all the music with spot-on brilliance, Eric Idle, Ricky Fataar and John Halsey) influence. Among the interviewees are Mick Jagger, David Bowie, Steve Martin, Gary Shandling, Robin WIlliams, Salman Rushdie, Billy Connelly, Carrie Fisher, Jewel, Mike Nichols, Tom Hanks, Conan O'Brien, Bonnie Raitt, Clint Black, Graham Nash, James Taylor, Bill Murray (DJ Bill Murray The K), Catherine O'Hara, Jim Piddock, Dave Stewart of The Eurythmics, and *Rolling Stone* magazine founder Jann Wenner. Jimmy Fallon is also on hand in a running gag.

The bits run from laugh-out-loud funny to modestly humorous, but the music, of course, heard in snippets is the key reason you watch this show. Naturally the more you know about The Beatles, the most inviting it becomes, and for the fan it's a great introduction to The Rutles catalog if it's tough going finding a clean copy of the original film, which for some reason is available only on Region-2 Pal formatted DVDs from England. It is, however, available on YouTube and worth hunting down if for no other reason than getting a more in-depth study of the group's comic potential, eye and ear for detail, and more celebrity interviews, including Paul Simon and George Harrison himself.

Both shows "recreate" "archival" footage in grainy grandeur, replicating the feel and sound of *The Ed Sullivan Show* as Dirk, Ron, Stig and Barry shake their mop tops and grin knowingly at the camera. Idle follows the chronological ascent of The Rutles from early Berlin footings through the American tour into their study with "Transcendental Medication" as they were introduced to tea (making one of the best homages of *I Am The Walrus* reclaimed as *Piggy In The Middle*) and into their break-up with a rooftop performance including *Get Up And Go*, a perfect send-up of "Get Back."

But Idle's solo project *Can't Buy Me Lunch* lacks the propulsive energy of *All You Need Is Cash* though the addition of new talking heads yields some good moments. Gary Shandling, Conan O'Brien and Billy Connelly are particularly adept at the improvisational flow, with Steve Martin offering some good quips as well. Tom Hanks and Carrie Fisher seem the most relaxed with the style, but Bonnie Raitt, David Bowie and surprisingly Robin Williams faltered for me, even though I am big fans of them all. There's a stark reliance on some really sophomoric humor here, hence its PG-13 direct-to-video approach but nothing demonstrably offensive. Some of Idle's running gags lose steam, but the economical less-than-one-hour format suits the "updating" capably. As a stand-alone project *Can't Buy Me Lunch* wrestles with the shadow of its predecessor but doesn't sink to the level of a "Tragical Mystery Tour."

By all means track down *All You Need Is Cash*--it's sprightly, joyful, reverent and irreverent simultaneously. The Rutles are a high concept, well executed homage/parody/love song to one of the finest, most loved groups ever to grace the Wee-Tack airwaves. Since those golden days, WTAC has moved away fabulously staticky AM to smooth FM, far from hot rockin' classic rock-n-roll to country and finally Christian programming, relegating the vrooom-Vrooom-VROOOM of the Tric-City dragway to the echoing ether. But some nights in summer when the sky is really clear, I swear I can hear just out of pure audible range a frothing DJ unable to contain his fervor for the new song or album coming in just a few minutes, exclusively from W. T. A. C!--the only station in Michigan to be granted such an honor. Now THAT was groovy.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #299: Holy Crow And The Board Of Health! Pardon the outburst, but I just sat through one of the most acidic, claustrophobic studies of classical narcissism I've ever seen. Even its trailer calls it "the film that will not be forgiven," and that is truth in advertising. So pure in its vitriol was it that I immediately started it again with the Criterion commentary by film historian James Naremore, who notes that in the title *Sweet Smell Of Success* (1957), the word "Smell" ironically refers to an accumulation of manure. Ernest Lehman's short story on which his screenplay is based was refused publication in *Cosmopolitan* magazine expressly for the use of the word "Smell" until Lehman changed the title to "Tell Me About It Tomorrow." In short, this portrait of power shimmies and shakes and crawls on its belly like a living reptile, so hurry hurry hurry, step right up because this classic makes Gordon Gekko look like the Geico spokeslizard.

As Talking Heads said, "This ain't no party, this ain't no disco, This ain't no fooling around; No time for dancing, or lovey dovey, I ain't got time for that now." And those words couldn't fit more perfectly as we tune into life during wartime, but it's a purely domestic disturbance we're chronicling, specifically the battleground for souls, exercise of ego and power, and control over anyone who floats within your sphere of influence, which is massive and far reaching. For it's a veiled treatise on corruption based on the life and influence of Walter Winchell, inspiring Burt Lancaster to play the misogynistic New York columnist JJ Hunsecker.

Our story starts with the morally and financially bankrupt press agent Sidney Falco (Tony Curtis, who takes second billing even though he has more screen time than Burt Lancaster (Lancaster's production company Hecht-Hill-Lancaster was at the helm). Sidney is a scrappy but tenacious hanger-on who can't get one of his clients mentioned in the column of sinister, manipulative Hunsecker (Lancaster). "I'd hate to take a bite outta you," Hunsecker drills into Falco. "You're a cookie full of arsenic." Falco's been charged with Hunsecker's dirty work--breaking up the budding romance between a jazz guitarist Steve Dallas (Martin Milner) and JJ's sister Susan (Susan Harrison, an eighteen-year old newbie who was chosen for her close resemblance to Walter Winchell's daughter)--but Sidney's failed so far and thus can't catch a break from the columnist. "A press agent eats a columnist's dirt and is expected to call it manna," Sidney explains without irony.

But Sidney isn't finished scheming; he'll break up the clueless couple if it's the last thing he does. Consider this terse exchange between JJ and Sidney, who nearly salivates at the chance to do Hunsecker's bidding:
Hunsecker: What's this boy got that Susie likes?
Falco: Integrity - acute, like indigestion.
Hunsecker: What does that mean - integrity?
Falco: A pocket fulla firecrackers - looking for a match! [grinning] It's a new wrinkle, to tell the truth... I never thought I'd make a killing on some guy's "integrity."

The crackling dialogue from Lehman (who also wrote the screenplay for Hitchcock's *North By Northwest* 1959) and famed playwright Clifford Odets will make wallpaper curl in disgust, but it's some of the most whipsmart strafing you'll hear in the cinema. As Hunsecker's imposing stature sucks the very wind out of every person he meets, Sidney scuttles about in constant desperation motion, a hungry piranha deprived of water and prey, or more accurately a pilot fish circling the great white in a mutualist relationship. On Sidney swims, chowing down on his fellow parasites who seek Hunsecker's approval or audience while maneuvering circumstances to get to the top. "Way up high, Sam, where it's always balmy," Sidney says. "Where no one snaps his fingers and says, 'Hey, Shrimp, rack the balls!' Or, 'Hey, mouse, mouse, go out and buy me a pack of butts.' I don't want tips from the kitty. I'm in the big game with the big players. My experience I can give you in a nutshell, and I didn't dream it in a dream, either - dog eat dog. In brief, from now on, the best of everything is good enough for me."

The animal motif is particularly incisive throughout the film, as the morality is strictly atavistic. Sidney thinks nothing of pimping out people like Rita (Barbara Nichols) the Elysian Room's cigarette girl who loves Sidney, to plant a disreputable falsehood in another smarmy columnist's (David White, Larry Tate in *Bewitched* in his film debut) column. "What am I, a bowl of fruit? A tangerine that peels in a minute?" she asks Sidney. Smearing Dallas the young guitarist's reputation with accusations of being a marijuana-addicted communist, Sidney plants drugs on Dallas and enlists the help of an unscrupulous cop Lt. Harry Kello (Emile Meyer), beats the musician severely. With Dallas discredited, Hunsecker can now browbeat the submissive Susan into dumping him so she can remain wrapped securely in the fur coat of Hunsecker's incestuous infatuation. No, these are not particularly nice people we're dealing with.

After the producers' reluctance to let Lehman direct, *Sweet Smell of Success* was placed in the hands of director Alexander Mackendrick, who had enjoyed a long successful career in England, writing and directing such Ealing Studio classics as *The Ladykillers* (1955) and *The Man In The White Suit* (1951). *Sweet Smell Of Success* was his first American film, whose budget of $600,000 ballooned to over $2,600,000 due to rewrites after Lehman's stomach problems forced him off the set, yielding to Clifford Odetts' rewrites, which took an additional four months. "We started shooting with no final script at all, while Clifford reconstructed the thing from stem to stern," Mackendrick said. The plot was largely intact, but "What Clifford did, in effect, was dismantle the structure of every single sequence in order to rebuild situations and relationships that were much more complex, had much greater tension and more dramatic energy."

Undeniably powerful, the film has been included on just about every Great Movies list available. As if the physicality of Burt Lancaster were not towering enough, his malice and foreboding are heightened as Lancaster frequently refused eye contact with other characters, his dialogue therefore ambiguously "ricocheting" from one recipient to another. Cinematographer James Wong Howe also cloaked much of the film in harsh contrasts of black and white, coating Lancaster's eyeglasses with vaseline to make the lenses shine, investing more menace in his cold impassive glare. In cinematographic terms the film is a delight, capturing the night life of Manhattan's brooding shadows by filming between midnight and four in the morning in deadly cold.

Elmer Bernstein's cynical big band jazz score aggressively underlines the actors' intensity. Blair Anderson of *The Guardian* noted that Bernstein's "richly dissonant big band sonorities and nocturnal urban blues in his score, and much of his music has the hard-edged, gritty sound that was associated with big city life in the 1950s. Hamilton's exploratory improvisations and Bernstein's studio orchestrations make this a highly sophisticated film score." Coupled with The Chico Hamilton Quintet's original songs, improvisations and be-bop counterpoints, the soundtrack is an instant time capsule of 1950s cool.

*Sweet Smell Of Success* is based in hard ground, a moral wasteland on which nothing sustainable will grow but deceit, corruption and an almost total loss of redemptive spirit. The acting, direction and lasting impression may leave you a little shell shocked, so it's akin to watching any news report currently coming out of Washington, except it's accompanied by a propulsive score. What's most troubling, perhaps, is not being able to shrug it off as "just a movie" because too much of it will mirror reality. That said, it remains a startlingly rich commentary on passions that all too often today are not learned from but amplified. In the words of JJ Hunsecker, " Well, son, it looks like we have to call this game on account of darkness." Yup, he may have a point there, but I wonder what he would think of this thought from David Foster Wallace: “Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it." I think I'll go with that.
Enjoy.
Jeff