The Cobalt Screening Room Balcony

Space, that is one of the most succinct, effective metaphors I've ever heard. You, Sir, are a master.
Jeff

Film Post #103: And if this one doesn't scream Rock'em Sock'em Robots, I don't know what movie can. Directed by the master of noir and German Expressionism Fritz Lang (*M* (1931), *Metropolis* (1927)), any movie that opens with the close-up of a pistol promises it'll start with a bang--and this one does.

*The Big Heat* (1952), premiering the same year I did, still stands as one of the hottest properties to date, selected for inclusion in the National Film Registry of the Library of Congress in 2011 and The Academy Film Archive preserved it in 1997.

With cynicism in plentitude, Glenn Ford stars as Sgt. David Bannion, a straight arrow cop hell bent on bringing mob boss Mike Lagana (Alexander Scourby) to justice though the entire city is resting comfortably in his hip pocket. Jocelyn Brando is right there beside Bannion as his moral and marital equal, perpetually asserting her equality by drinking from his scotch, smoking from his cigarette and maintaining a Norman Rockwell home life. At this post-war suburbia, as I indicated in an earlier post, powerful women are up front partners to men, and *The Big Heat* presses that point: It's all about refusing passive acceptance when conformity was the preferred easy way out of life but signaled of moral decay.  

As Michael Mann (*Miami Vice*, *Heat*) suggests, Lang's women and Bannion himself fight to live richly, as living inauthentically means accepting the status quo.  Just look at Lucy Chapman (Dorothy Green) the socially deemed "barfly" who wakes up dead, strangled with torture marks on her body because she fought the system. Or Debby Marsh (the perfect Gloria Grahame) whose perfume "attracts mosquitoes and repels men," and who stands up to her boyfriend Vince Stone (Lee Marvin), whose burning temper makes him a purveyor of whip-crack violence.  For her trouble Debby takes a lot of lumps with her coffee as she shares a pot with Vince, Lagana's right hand loogan. And the estimable Katie Bannion (Jocelyn Brando) who pushes David into an indefatigable machine of vengeance.

Oh, this is very gritty material for film, shocking audiences of the time with scenes that just weren't explored "that way." *The Big Heat* is one of the most existential offerings in the genre, filled to rim with brimming hot coffee served black in the shadows and deep focus.  In such a world you don't sip the wine-dark joe--you swig and swill it with a sneer and laugh as it excoriates your esophagus. Because this is a world where fate plays itself out in a steaming mug that will melt the porcelain if you wait too long to act.

But I'd be really remiss if I didn't single out Gloria Grahame for her Oscar-worthy portrayal of Debby.  Originally slated for Marilyn Monroe, her role provides the percolator for a heady brew.  A little ditzy, sexy in a tousled and tossed way, Grahame dances through a penthouse minefield of impending violence; her boyfriend Lee Marvin abuses her but, in her words, ". . . most times, it's a lot of fun. Expensive fun."  Her allegiances are flexible, as she attempts to seduce Bannion with words straight out of a pulp novel: "You're about as romantic as a pair of handcuffs. Didn't you ever tell a girl pretty things? You know, she's got hair like the west wind, eyes like limpid pools, and skin like velvet?"  Grahame said her style with her quarry was calculated: "It wasn't the way I looked at a man," she said, "it was the thought behind it."  Clearly she's the strongest woman in *The Big Heat*'s long line of collateral damage in Bannion's wake.

As Katie Bannion says of her husband, Glenn Ford leads with his chin, knocking back the mocha java with no sugar and no cream and no nonsense. The beer may be thirty-five cents, but the brew is bubbling with a richness that will leave a mark.  So steel your nerves and serve yourself a cup of bitter beans that will stay with you long after the credits roll. The more I watch this film, the more I love it.

Tomorrow, a happy dance with Rita Hayworth. Keep the coffee hot, Hugo.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Let's lighten up the celemashinfreighter happiness of the day and dip into the old terpsidancerated glee spot with this fun filled romp starring every man's mash entrembulator Rita Hayworth in her dancing debut, *You'll Never Get Rich* (1941) co-starring Fred Astaire. Released two months before Pearl Harbor, this one holds the distinction of being one of the first musicals to be set during the War, as Fred taps his way through boot camp.


But before he's sent away in positively grand style in a huge set piece "Shootin' The Works For Uncle Sam," we are treated to two fabulous numbers with Rita Hayworth ("Rehearsal Duet" in which she shows how gracefully she can keep up with Fred's tapping, and "Boogie Bacarolle" which adds a Broadway cast to our duo). All this is set to the music of Cole Porter, who won an Academy Award for one of his standards, the slower "Since I Kissed My Baby Goodbye" sung by The Four Tones, an African-American quartet (lead singer Lucius "Dusty" Brooks, Leon Buck, Rudolph Hunter, and John Porter) in an unsegregated guard house.

Okay, so if you're looking for historical accuracy, you're in the wrong theater, but who cares--we get to see Rita Hayworth glide ethereally through Fred Astaire's first Latin American and ballroom performance, "So Near And Yet So Far," which was--holy mackeral--done in just two takes. This lengthy, lilting and lyrical dance perfectly compliments Rita's Latin-dance expertise and showcases her svelte lines and obvious chemistry with her partner. At the time Astaire was concerned about finding another partner after such a glorious career with Ginger Rogers, but he needn't have worried: all eyes are on Rita any time she's on the screen.

Which brings up my only small criticism with the film: The opening third of the film is witty, sharp, and as funny as any musical has a right to be, with a hilarious turn by Robert Benchley as a wannabe philanderer who hasn't the panache to follow through without tipping off his street smart wife (Frieda Inescort). Rita, the new girl in his dance ensemble, is the object of his obsession, and his manager, Fred, is his beard. This silly plotline we've seen countless times cracks and sparkles and moves things along at a quick clip, allowing Rita to toss her auburn mane with easy grace, in anticipation of her turn as *Gilda* five years into the future. Throw in Cliff Navarro's Swiv, a double-gabbing gubblymumber who easily slamps the desterizer out of everyone he meets, and you're in for a great deal of flabberstain.

But once Fred is in the army, and we see less of Rita, for me the film slows down and resorts to a sort of *Buck Privates* (also 1941) set of routines. It's all well and good, but sans Benchley and Rita, it's another rah-rah ha-ha wacky recruits show. The net result for me was just another par-for-the-course middle section before we resolve the complications of misunderstanding, visits to the guardhouse, and a Hey Kids, Let's Put On A Show For The Guys third act. (I probably just spent too much time watching *Little Rascals* shorts doing the same thing to appreciate this.)

A nice closing number, "Wedding Cake March," has Rita and Fred and a whole chorus dancing atop a gigantic tank-fashioned wedding cake (anything for our boys at war) and the requisite happy ending. So even though its second and third acts are by-the-book, *You'll Never Get Rich* is a fanciful introduction to Rita and Fred's undeniable watchability. Sadly they did only two musicals together--the other, *You Were Never Lovelier* (1942), surpasses this one--though their magnetism called for more and they loved working together. Rita said in an interview, "I guess the only jewels in my life were the pictures I made with Fred Astaire. You know, in his book, Fred said I was his best partner. I can tell you one thing – they’re the only pictures of mine I can watch today without laughing hysterically…"

Oh, Rita, I can attest that no one laughs hysterically when you're on the screen. And coincidentally, in conjunction with *You'll Never Get Rich* photographer Bob Landry did a photo shoot with Rita for *Life* magazine, and in the August 1941 issue, created one of the most iconic of all wartime layouts--Rita kneeling on satin sheets in a sheer black-lace bodiced negligee. For two years, Hayworth's photograph was the most requested pin-up photograph in circulation, and in 2002, the satin nightgown Hayworth wore for the photo sold for $26,888. It was also inspiration for Stephen King's short story "Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption," later made into the classic film.

Just call this my birthday present to myself and join the party watching Rita glide and sweep like a celestial being on loan to us, for which we will be eternally grateful. And that's no wizzengoober. You may quote me.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Oh, do I feel old. My dear friend Tom Nehil used to rail at the Lunch Bunch Table over the state of today's films, which ruled by the adage, "If we can make it bigger, louder, more obnoxious and nuclear in its pretensions--and then OVERDO it, it's a hit." A genteel man, Tom despised most of the films of the day for lacking subtlety. He always made me laugh. And now I miss him, because last night's movie fulfilled all his grousing criteria.


Today's feature, *Freebie And The Bean* (1974), was a film my wife-to-be-in-a-couple-years Joyce and I saw in college, in our dating days, and absolutely loved. I remember laughing until we stopped at this VERY '70s spoof of *Dirty Harry* (1971) and *Bullitt* (1968). It also holds the distinction of being well ahead of its time since it antedates *The Blues Brothers* (1981) and *The A-Team* (1983-87) and the smashing, crashing and dashing of cars flying over one another that became a staple in the 1980s.

For the record, *Freebie and the Bean* held the record for most destruction of motor vehicles for six years at 100 cars in four chase scenes (one of which is still a classic) before *The Blues Brothers* took away that mantle with 103, *The Blues Brothers 2000* with 104, and finally that intellectual tweezer *GI Joe: The Rise Of Cobra* (2009) with 112.

And now for the reason I feel old: This college favorite, which I remember so fondly, turns out to be one of the most bigoted, racist, sexist, homophobic, and amazingly UN-PC movies I've ever seen. There is no way under God's bright sun this could be made today. Freebie is James Caan, who spouts an unending torrent to defamatory anti-Mexican epithets toward his partner on the police force, "Bean" (Alan Arkin, who is not Hispanic at all, but plays one on film) and his wife Consuelo (Valerie Harper--Mary Tyler Moore's Rhoda?--adopting a stereotypical accent). And all the bigotry is just tossed off as "reality of the streets" talk, the old bromance kidding that friends do.

Now around the same year Mel Brooks made a point of lampooning overt prejudice with *Blazing Saddles*, and that was the point--its bigotry was played for shock; for Heaven's sake, Richard Pryor was one of the writers, who supplies some of the zingers that still make the film a classic of pinheaded white men behaving like future President supporters. But Caan's slick protagonist just comes off as a jerk dunked in sheep dip. And one of the reasons I feel so old is because I had completely forgotten that text of the film; it didn't even register on my radar when I plopped it in the Blu Ray player. Have you ever returned to your high school and marveled at how tiny the students are, and how insipid they seem, and think "Boy, I was never that bad." But of course you were--that's the tunnelvision of age or maturity or cell deterioration taking place. Oh God, in my case, I hope it's a case of Evolution. . . .

In any event, all that bigotry aside, *Freebie and The Bean* does have some saving graces. For one, it shows the "Good Old Days" when cops could spontaneously cuff a citizen in the mouth for their own reasons, open fire in crowds of hysterical people to clip a perp without worrying about civil rights or mounds of paperwork waiting just because officers drew a gun, offer good-natured blackmail to offenders without blinking, emptying their pistols into bathroom doors behind which sat bad guys with their pants at their ankles, and find an endless supply of cars or commandeer a civilian's motorcycle and hump a string of cars in a traffic jam then run over a handful of pedestrians in the pursuit of justice. John Grether​, this Bud's for you.

All this is played for laughs over an old vaudevillian music hall soundtrack, complete with tack piano and a totally non-ironic sense of whimsy. In fact, according to an article in *Rolling Stone*, producer/director Richard Bush (*The Stunt Man* with Peter O'Toole and *Air America* with Nicholas Cage) alleged Stanley Kubrick called *Freebie and The Bean* the best film of 1974. (!)(?)

But if you can get past the bigotry, sexism, racism, homophobia and spontaneous bursts of basically bloodless violence, you can enjoy Lazslo Kovac's beautiful cinematography and Valerie Harper's Golden Globe-nominated role, as well as a couple cameo shots of Loretta Swit (pre-*M*A*S*H*) as a gangster's wife. And the chase scenes ARE artfully shot, with one ending on an elevated Embarcadero freeway ramp in a genuinely funny post-crash scene as Freebie calls for a tow truck. All in all, it's a frenetic film predating the buddy-cop films of the 1980s and the fast, furious flashing car chases that have become a staple in summer movies ever since.

Watching *Freebie And The Bean* again after all these years, I was immediately struck by a passage from Don DeLillo's fabulous novel *White Noise*(1985) in which a professor of popular culture explains the allure of such films:

"I tell [my students] it's not decay they are seeing but innocence. The movie breaks away from complicated human passions to show us something elemental, something fiery and loud and head-on. We want to be artless again. We want to reverse the flow of experience, or worldliness and its responsibilities. . . . I tell them they can't think of a car crash in a movie as a violent act. It's a celebration. A reaffirmation of traditional values and beliefs. I connect car crashes to holidays like Thanksgiving and the Fourth. . . . Watch any car crash in any American movie. It is a high-spirited moment like old-fashioned stunt flying, walking on wings. The people who stage these crashes are able to capture a lightheartedness, a carefree enjoyment that car crashes in foreign movies can never approach. . . . Look past the violence, Jack. There is a wonderful brimming spirit of innocence and fun." (pp. 218-219)

Wow. I didn't realize in 1974 how progressive I really was.
Enjoy.
Jeff

I saw Freebie and the Bean as a kid. I knew no better I just enjoyed the car chases the crashes the crazy of Alan Arkin I like Caan from all his action movies plus I knew he was a martial artist so I would read about him in those mags. Later I understood all the undercurrents and tones in this movie. Still laughed my ass off.

This movie is the perfect lead-in to an idiosyncrasy of mine. I love to look up the original reviews to classic movies I enjoy. For instance, yesterday I enjoyed what I call a "Zoink Fest." You'll get it in a minute... I watched a sci-fi double feature, which consisted of The Ice Pirates and Spaced Invaders. These movies weren't created as an attempt at art. But apparently, reviewers weren't made aware of this fact. For instance, Roger Ebert said this about Spaced Invaders:

"I have no use for critics who accompany children to the movies and then file reports on how the children reacted. Let the kids write their own reviews. But I do know that the kids I saw "Spaced Invaders" with found it funny when I found it moronic, and interesting when I found it dead in the water."

For The Ice Pirates, I found this one:

"What’s Good: It’s definitely not lacking excitement, there are some genuinely funny moments, and the ending is actually pretty good.
   What’s Bad: The film has no pacing whatsoever, no plot whatsoever, no acting whatsoever, the special effects are pretty sub-par, as is the direction.

Summary: Cheesy sci-fi B-movie, 80’s style!"

Oddly enough, both of these reviews pointed out exactly why I occasionally love this kind of movies.

ZOINK!!!

"Who directed it?" is one of my favorite opening lines in studying film, hence my inability to develop any meaningful dating technique when I was younger. I became a conscientious objector during the sexual revolution of the '60s, largely against my will. Anyway, when I hear the name Ridley Scott my mind rockets to *Alien* (1979), *Blade Runner* (1982), a lesser film (a Tom Cruise epic that bombed) *Legend* (1985) all leading to today's offering, *Someone To Watch Over Me* (1986).


Scott would go on to create such memorable films as *Black Rain* (1989 ), *Thelma and Louise* (1991), *Gladiator* (2000) and *The Martian* (2014) along with executive producing CBS's *The Good Wife* and a slew of *Alien* and *Blade Runner* sequels. So he's a name I instantly recognize and find consistently interesting. *Someone To Watch Over Me* stands as his fourth film, and while it was well received by critics with a budget of $12.8 million, it didn't register above $10,278,549 in its limited run. That's too bad, because it's basically a good film with performances by Tom Berenger (fresh from *Platoon*), Mimi Rogers, and a terrific Lorraine Bracco who would later go into psychiatry with Tony Soprano.

Basically, there is very little in this film that you haven't seen before--NYPD blue collar detective protecting a Hitchcock blonde socialite who's witnessed a murder by a scowling loogan mob boss who has trouble keeping his upper lip from curling up over his nasty predatory teeth. Detective Mike Keegan hangs by his fingernails in a more than modest home in Queens with his carburetor-fixing wife and snappy little son while Claire Gregory lives in a high-security Manhattan apartment with gold-plated bathrooms roughly the size of the Loons Stadium. If her digs were any smaller she'd still need Burma Shave signs to tell her what district she was in to find the kitchen. But for all her wealth, she's just a nice girl with a bug-eyed hyperactive rich boyfriend whose nose is stapled to the ceiling (John Rubenstein), as she quietly yearns for that good looking family man cop who's protecting her from certain doom. . . .

Now I surely don't want to give away too much, but. . . do you think they'll surrender to one another in the engraved platinum pressure cooker of overt destruction? Mmmyeeaahh, it's a possibility. Along the way, we are treated to a lush Gershwin score that for me more than makes up for the relative predictability of the plot. Night scenes are lighted from beneath to create a lovely ambiance, and the whole feel of the film is that of an updated '40s drama.

And I know I've harped about this before, about films not fulfilling potential I wished they had, but I really hoped the chemistry between Mike and Claire were more smokey and simmering in that old Hayes Code Can't Show It But Edge Up To It With All The Atomic Radiation We Can Spare scenarios. Let them get within three-eighths of an inch from one another and then exchange the same breaths for a good seventeen seconds of screen time. And then say some innocuous line of dialogue like, "I. . . guess I should. . . go . . . clean my gun. . ." to which Claire would breathe, "A man's got to do. . . what a man's. . . got to do" while Gene Ammons' sax would tiptoe underneath the $42,000 Persian rug that really ties the room together.

But, not tonight, not when buying a guy a tie is invitation enough to end up in bed. Now, if you look around you'll see this film touted as "an erotic thriller" and those charged words might immediately trigger some imagery in your head. After all, 1986 was the time frame for some fairly lurid sexual-tension potboilers like *Jagged Edge*, *Fatal Attraction*, *Jade*, *Basic Instinct*, *No Way Out* and *Body Double*. The lust--er, list--goes on. But *Someone To Watch Over Me* doesn't really fall into that trench. Yes, Mimi Rogers is attractive, and she does a capable job here, but to me the hitching between Mike and Claire seems by the book. I would much rather have seen a tussle between Mike and his wife, as Lorraine Bracco seems to hold buckets of spit and vinegar, not to mention fiery spirit, over Mimi. But then that would change the film's dynamic as Lorraine is the wife, and heaven knows you can't show too much passion for the person who has labored over your moods for ten years in film--it's just not natural.

Lest I give you the wrong impression, let me assure you I call *Someone To Watch Over Me* a very stylish guilty pleasure that is a real departure from Ridley Scott's other works, which teem with gritty, sometimes fantastical flights of suspense that can make a Milk Dud last two hours as you're afraid to breathe. This one's not like that: It's a beautifully framed atmosphere with shades of Rembrandt's chiaroscuro warm palette. It's fun to see Jerry Orbach back in the law enforcement saddle in a bit part, and super bad guy Joey Venza (Andreas Katsulas) provides some good moments of fierce, caged savagery. As I mentioned, it's an tune-up of the old '40s vehicles that basically purrs along and looks good even though it's just a serviceable Studebaker plotwise. It's a comfortable film for a rainy night when the only other requirement calling to you is trying to decide whether that De Kooning you just bought would look better in the east wing powder room or the wine nook in the conservatory.

Enjoy.
Jeff

God help me, something is seriously wrong with me: As I watched an outstanding dance number "Trinidad Lady" which set off fire alarms and a flood of perspiration and drool in the cafe where it took place, my mind was dragged kicking and screaming back to 1994 with green visions of Jim Carrey's *The Mask* singing "Cuban Pete"!  I think it was the "Chick chicka boom chick" refrain that dredged it up--but for God's sake, how could the sizzling presence of Rita Hayworth in *Affair In Trinidad* (1952) so jarringly, even for a second, take me away from her?


Well, both movies are noir-tinged, that's a start. And maybe it's Rita's movements which seemed so otherworldly that struck me so: People, unless they're augmented by computer manipulation, just can't twist and swirl like that.  But Rita can and did. In this pleasant diversion co-starring Glenn Ford who's bound up so badly he could use an entire family-sized bottle of Miralax, Rita has two dance numbers, the aforementioned "Trinidad Lady" and the explosive "I've Been Kissed Before." Now, I'm leading with these two highlights because they are the most interesting sequences in the film that director Vincent Sherman openly admitted "I sent for a copy of [Hitchcock's] *Notorious*…. I stole a little from that film, a little from this, a little from that, and I put together a melodrama that took place in Trinidad."

And it shows.  *Affair In Trinidad* was Rita's first film (advertised as her "Comeback" after a three-year hiatus, during which time she became a literal Princess in her marriage to Iraqi prince Aly Khan and violated her Columbia contract by moving to Europe. Columbia chief Harry Cohn was livid, but knew Rita's box office command and eagerly hashed together a fifteen-page script that sought to re-create the synergy and sizzle of 1946's classic *Gilda*.  Reportedly frustrated by the unfinished script and delays in shooting, she refused to appear at the studio, causing Columbia to suspend her for two months while the forces of Hollywood scrambled to cobble together something resembling a cogent storyline. . . .

The final result almost works. It's a moderately capable story, thanks to the *Notorious* skeleton, and some of the performances are fun in a somewhat stifling way: Glenn Ford arrives on the scene spitting nickles and carrying not just a chip but a lumberyard on his broad shoulders, Alexander Scourby slinks through the picture as an international spy master with an unnamed A-Bomb in his hip pocket (ten years before the Cuban Missile Crisis, which is impressive), and Juanita Moore appears as the only voice of reason as Rita's domestic (she's a stand-out for such a small part).  And then there's Rita, choreographed by Valerie Bettis, who has a juicy, b*tchy role as the too-mouthy-for-her-own-good wife of one of the foreign agents in Scourby's inner circle.

This is not the angelic helium filled goddess we've seen in her two Fred Astaire films--here she's provocative, sensual, earthy and in-your-face. She's got the Gilda swing to her glowing curls, coquettishly--no, seductively falling over one eye only to be flipped back over her forehead in defiance. She dances barefoot in "Trinidad Lady" in direct contradiction to Harry Cohn's complaint it wouldn't make her seem attractive.  WHAT? Valerie Bettis said, "Every day there was a major crisis, but Rita and I won all our battles and and of course that gave us great satisfaction, no matter what the studio officials felt.”  And following the confrontational, jealousy invoking "I've Been Kissed Before" (which I swear Rita was singing as a taunt to every man in the audience), Bettis's character provides a great in-joke, "I wish I could dance like that").

Walter Terry of *The New York Herald Tribune* wrote of Rita's powerful numbers: "Here, there is no sense that a dance seems sensual simply because Miss Hayworth is decorating its measures with her sensual presence. Rather do these dances exploit and disclose new aspects of a very vibrant personality. …if you look closely you will see that the legs are but infrequently used to make steps for carrying the body from one geographical location to another but that the legs move because violent actions of the torso propel them forwards and backward and sideways."  [Insert Keanu Reeves' "Whoa" here]

But for me her final number, sweeping, diving, sharpening at every spin to such lyrics as "With heart and soul I kiss them/And file the memory under M/Tomorrow if I miss them/That may be the only time/I think about them/I've been kissed before/Only fools tell when/I was born to be kissed/To kiss and be kissed/And I'll be kissed again"--it's more dimensional than a severely sexual admonition: There is a desperation in it.

Keep in mind at this point in the film she has lost her estranged husband and incurred the wrath of his brother (Glenn Ford) after she's not been touched or genuinely loved for some time.  And she's been asked to covertly work for the government to infiltrate her host's nefarious inner circle.  She has been branded for her brazenly sexy night club persona, but remains off stage a fragile woman who mirrors Rita Hayworth's personal struggles with imposing men.  Her oft-quoted lament, "Every man I knew went to bed with Gilda. . . and woke up with me" is bubbling under the surface of her bold dance here.  And for me, that throws a real tinge of sadness into her performance.  After having read Barbara Leaming's fine biography of Rita, *If This Was Happiness*, I feel the weight she was carrying internally and wish she might have lived more happily than she did, finally succumbing to Alzheimer's at age 68 after a glorious 61 film legacy.

*Affair In Trinidad*, though a pale reflection of *Gilda*, actually grossed $2.7 million, a full million more than *Gilda*. It may not have the same tight construction, marvelous chemistry and blistering dialogue as the 1946 classic, but for what it's worth, *Affair In Trinidad* offers up The Love Goddess in 98 minutes of fire and flair.  And if you want a shot of green skinned mayhem, you've got Glenn Ford and Alexander Scourby trading jealous knuckles over Rita's affections.
Enjoy.
Jeff

I'm quickly coming to the conclusion that Denzel Washington is one of the most reliable actors around today. His work is consistently solid, interesting and understated, to me at least. Even under rather wonky premises--*The Equalizer* and its sequel come to mind--he redeems the movie.

So when I watched *Out Of Time* (2003) last night, I happily fulfilled director Carl Franklin's (*Devil In A Blue Dress* I posted some weeks ago) hope that I'd be leaning forward in my chair.

As a long-time fan of the fiction of Floridian Tim Dorsey, I found Franklin's setting of Banyan Key, a fictional Florida Keys town, absolutely sparkling. Its clean lines, sun drenched exposure and lush tropical skies just pop off the screen, while the dark passages teem with atmosphere, becoming much more than a backdrop for the action. There's a freshness and clarity here that amplifies the smooth movement of the plot, and when you're dealing with the cool aplomb of Denzel's character pushed to the brink of panic in nearly every scene, you've got yourself quite the enjoyable ride.

Now how can I convey the dynamics of Denzel's Chief of Police Matt Whittlock; Alex, his wife on the brink of divorce, the striking and whipcrack smart Eva Mendes, who is investigating a key crime alongside Matt; Anne, secretive partner in Matt's affair (Sanaa Lathan), and her abusive husband Dean Cain, who can stand toe-to-toe with the Chief in mutual hatred. Add spices as needed, place in a pressure cooker with a defective seal, add John Billingsley as a goofy, lazy medical examiner for comedy and color, then stand back and wait for the explosion. It'll come pretty quickly, implicating the good Chief in a labyrinthine recipe for tension in a slow boil.

*Out Of Time* scored well at the 2004 Black Reel Awards, winning for Best Theatrical Film and Best Actress (Sanaa Latham), while nominating Denzel for Best Actor and Carl Franklin for Best Director. It was also nominated for two awards (Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor) at the 2004 Image Awards. At the box office, with a budget of $50 million, the film scraped back $55 million but gains a 74% rating from Amazon with 4 to 5 stars.

One of the technical elements that makes this film work for me in the jazzy score by Graeme Revell, arguably best known in rock circles for producing Yes's *Owner Of A Lonely Heart*. Between Revell's '40s-tracking noir jazz and Franklin's camera angles--with an occasional Spielberg-like zoom up from under close-up--I was plopped right back down in the land of morally conflicted "good" men and femme fatales I enjoy so much with Dick Powell and Bogart. But it's the 2000s, and Denzel is not sporting porkpie hats, and his trenchcoat has been turned in, in favor of Hawaiian shirts. But at its heart *Out Of Time* is in the vein of the old thrillers--implausibilities? Yes. Knuckle busting? You'll get your share. Narrow escapes? Check. Even the plot is vaguely reminiscent of *The Big Clock* (1948). But that's okay with me.

But from a coldly rational perspective, would I have cared as much if an actor other than Denzel Washington was in the lead? His character, a charming, well liked police chief, IS cheating on his wife. . . with the wife of another man. . . and he DOES (no big spoiler) "borrow" $480,000 of impounded drug money to help her escape . . . he impedes prosecution of a trial of the DEA . . . and he fudges evidence in his wife's investigation. But, hey, he's only human, wrapped in the thrall of his deep infatuation for this poor beaten woman he's been. . . uh, entertaining in sequences edited to get the film down from an *R* rating to a *PG-13. And besides, he's Denzel. What if we substituted Ben Affleck in the role? Nope, he dumped Jessica Garner, and worse, he played a boneheaded Batman in two egregious films--I'd end up hating him and hoping he gets shot. Leonardo Di Caprio? Nah, not girth-y enough. One of the Colins--Firth, Farrell, Hanks, Powell or Kaepernick? No, mostly can't tell them apart. How about Hugh Jackman? Maybe, but. . . .

No, it's got to be Denzel. He can sell the slips of moral judgment as existential no-win propositions done in the name of noble intentions.

So I'll stick with my gut feeling here--between the pastel scenery, the moody soundtrack, the compelling and highly photogenic actors, and the I Don't Care lapses in logic, and the Oh I Love That Shot framing of sequences and its crisp, sprightly direction, *Out Of Time* never once had me checking the clock to see how much longer this was going on.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Just gonna say Denzel is one of those actors who is good in anything. Good script, bad script, script written by a drunk cat. He transcends all material.

Now I don't know if you do requests but i was racking my brains about a Tyrone Power movie where he is a scientist that travels through time after a lightning strike. Have you heard of that movie. I refuse to google it until we have done a meatware search here. Checking the old noodle for this movie. Remember before the Internet where we had to earn knowledge. Why it reminds me of something Socrates said to me once ... And I told him once I told him twice I examined that life and it is worth living.... Also I told him not to take drinks off strangers ...do you think he took that advice ??

Alas, my friend, Tyrone Power's film does not rest in my library, though I'm looking for it. I did find a nice write-up for you, though: I'll Never Forget You

The search continues.
Jeff

Thanks I will peruse this and see what shakes out

There's something comforting, reassuring, nostalgic and warm hearted in watching people fight over a box of Shredded Wheat as panicked shoppers clear the laminated shelves of anything edible in a blind survival instinct.  Personally, in 1962, when this scene takes place in today's movie, I hated Shredded Wheat. It tasted like my folk's garage after a heavy rain and the blistering sun drenched heat wave that followed. But in *Matinee* (1993) in Key West, Florida during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the scene is infused with giddy joy for me.  Welcome back to a time when Duck And Cover was not a waterfowl casserole recipe and movies were filled with Awe.


And that general sense of fun saturates today's offering. *Matinee* focuses some of its estimable energy on John Goodman as Lawrence Woolsey, a P.T. Barnum of Grade-B movies whose showmanship is dwarfed only by his childlike exuberance over doing something he loves. Loosely patterned after William Castle, who on occasion (*The House On Haunted Hill*(1959) filmed in Emergo, *The Tingler*(1959) filmed in Percepto, and *13 Ghosts*(1960) filmed in Illusion-O) employed gimmicks to entrance and spook the audience, Goodman's Woolsey pushes the well worn envelope by capitalizing on several effects at once.  Sporting his jauntily jutting ten-inch cigar, he is a force in himself.

But don't let the trailer fool you: Woolsey and his newest production *MANT!*--half man, half ant--is just the backdrop to *Matinee*'s greatest feat--showcasing the glorious first blush of young love and all the quiet panic that underscores growing up during the Red Scare when them Commies ain't just ninety miles away, you know they're here now.  For Gene Loomis (Simon Fenton) and his kid brother Dennis, living on a military base with their father called away to an "undisclosed location* on a Navy sub is freighted with fear--the perfect condition for Woolsey's horror movie to act as a catharsis.  Gene and his buddy Stan (Omri Katz, best remembered for his stint on director Joe Dante's classic 1991-92 TV series *Eerie, Indiana*) navigate awkward encounters with (gulp) girls, a beat poet greaser who's trying hard to be tough, and grown ups whose own paranoia reduces them to near hysteria with sweat-tempered handkerchiefs.

Director Joe Dante (*The Howling* (1981),*Gremlins* (1984), and two of my favorites *Explorers* (1985) and *InnerSpace* (1987)) invests a great deal of himself in this film, drawing on his own experiences (and impressive movie monster magazine collection) to hit every tone just right.  But it's the cast who make this slice-of-life look back such a joy to behold: John Goodman, to me, has never been more fun; Cathy Moriarty plays world weariness as Woolsey's chief actress and love interest to perfection; the kids ring true at every turn, and two young actresses--Kellie Martin (from TV's *Life Goes On* 1989-93, and Lisa Jakub (from *Mrs. Doubtfire* (also 1993)--shine in their own orbits as the boys' objects of attraction.

On hand are wonderfully familiar faces in bit parts, culled from Dante's roster of friends whom he's promised would appear in every one of his movies : Richard Picardo (*China Beach*) as a totally wired theater owner, Jesse White (probably every 1950s TV show and film) as a major movie producer salivating over Woolsey's spectacle, Dick Miller and director John Sayles as heads of "Citizens For Decent Entertainment" and *Matinee* co-writer Charlie Haas as Mr. Elroy, the school teacher who has one nerve left and everyone's getting on it.

And as for Woolsey's film *MANT!* itself, this black-and-white masterpiece, a faithful '50s creature feature with actual dialogue lifted from several classic B-films, you can find riches of trivia taking you back to those days when one screen was enough for an entire town. For me it was the State Theater in Bay City, a near carbon presented in this film, with its stately red "velvet" seats, conical sconces and balcony where only the fast crowd congregated. And up on the screen, which was huge to my ten year old eyes in 1962, were people I saw in *Matinee* in *MANT!*--William Schallert (Patty Duke's father in her sitcom), Kevin McCarthy (*Invasion of the Body Snatchers* and so many *Twilight Zone* episodes), and Robert O. Cornthwaite (most notably *The Thing From Another World* (1951) and *War of the Worlds* (1953) as well as scores of--or many--other classic B's).  For the eagle-eyed, you can even find a young Naomi Watts as a beleaguered Disneyesque heroine in another film within *Matinee*, *The Shook-Up Shopping Cart*.

*Matinee* has earned a 90% 4- or 5-star rating on Amazon, and though it had a budget of $13 million and took in only $9,532,895 in its theatrical run, despite critical success,  on the Blu-Ray release Joe Dante discusses how it was a hard picture to make financially: "Matinee got made through a fluke. The company that was paying for us went out of business and didn't have any money. Universal, which was the distributor, had put in a little money, and we went to them and begged them to buy into the whole movie, and to their everlasting sorrow they went ahead and did it. [Laughs.]" But Roger Ebert hailed it: "There are a lot of big laughs in *Matinee*, and not many moments when I didn't have a wide smile on my face. . . .The Hollywood game today is often played as high-finance sweepstakes, but in a gentler time there was still room for a guy with a few bucks and a big imagination to make a little movie and sell it with showmanship and flim-flam.  At the end of *Matinee,* we sense that time is coming to a close, along with a lot of the other elements of American innocence."

Ah, American innocence. It was alive and breathing in 1962, and by watching *Matinee* you can catch a glimpse of that lost horizon when a first kiss was spectacularly awkward and exciting and breathtaking and heroic, and shredded wheat was something you fought over. . . even if you hated its taste.
Enjoy. . . with popcorn.
Jeff

I loved this movie. John Goodman was a highlight bigger than life and a warm hearted shyster. The movie playing on the screen is hilarious in of itself. Its spoof of the genre is perfect. Omri is a fave of mine. I also love Eerie that show was brills. The people sleeping in tupperware, Elvis and bigfoot living in town. Loved him in Hocus Pocus. Great actor. This movie as you say was a huge slice of apple pie nostalgia and of course the cars..... always love the cars.....

In the background as I type ... John implores Dear Prudence won't you come out to play.....

Your taste continues to amaze, O Turban'd One. A couple Christmases ago I bought the complete series of *Eerie, Indiana* for my both of my sons--and a copy for myself. You have no idea how hard it was finding three copies of the series. . . but I was looking through a glass onion at the time.
Jeff

Seamus wrote:Just gonna say Denzel is one of those actors who is good in anything. Good script, bad script, script written by a drunk cat. He transcends all material.

Now I don't know if you do requests but i was racking my brains about a Tyrone Power movie where he is a scientist that travels through time after a lightning strike. Have you heard of that movie. I refuse to google it until we have done a meatware search here. Checking the old noodle for this movie. Remember before the Internet where we had to earn knowledge. Why it reminds me of something Socrates said to me once ... And I told him once I told him twice I examined that life and it is worth living.... Also I told him not to take drinks off strangers ...do you think he took that advice ??

Here Ya go Boss:

I'll Never Forget You (1951)

Starring Tyrone Power, Ann Blyth and Michael Rennie. (Gort may have a cameo. Watch closely)

Sweet mama jama Space you done it. And thanks to Jeff for link. Tyrone Power as a Atomic physicist is the absolute gas.

I actually have a whole box of Eerie Indiana promotional toys from Wendy's no idea why they did them. I have them all. To say they are rare now is an understatement. We could have a whole thread on how much we love that show. And how many shows after it are inspired by it. The Dash X character with his white hair. And in that era you always expected Michael J. Pollard to show up in anything off the wall and he did. Even Stephen Root shows up and he is brilliant in Barry. Since its only 19 shows lets whip up another thread and discuss each one.

One trope I always love from the era is kids on bikes solving things adults never see. Spielberg always had kids on bikes. Stranger Things got the kids on bikes. Eerie with Marshall and Simon on their bikes.

Another show I liked from later was Freaky Links with Ethan Embry. Spooky and offbeat Internet was new and it was my kind of show. Hence cancelled immediately.

It started as just another pleasant evening of pipe smoking and watching the submarine races in the Arizona desert when John Putnam and his girlfriend Ellen felt the earth move--and not because of anything they were doing.  As an amateur astronomer John should have known crawling down into the smoking meteor hole was ill advised, as two clues should have told him:  A theremin was howling in the background, and Ellen looked unusually hot when infested with an alien intelligence.  But as he slid down the scrub and sand into the maw left by God's Own Golfball, he knew one thing was certain--he should not have worn his heavy tweed coat in this heat. Above him Ellen emitted a series of ever escalating screams: first at the sight of a Joshua tree, then an iguana, then an igneous rock and finally, most frighteningly at John's armpit stains. . . . It was gearing up to be a very long evening indeed. . . .

So begins director Jack Arnold's classic Matinee monster movie, *It Came From Outer Space* (1953). You may recall Jack Arnold's other fantastic films--*Creature From The Black Lagoon* (also 1953), *Tarantula* (1955), *The Incredible Shrinking Man* (1957), *Monster On A Campus* (1958) and *High School Confidential* (1958) as well as Clint Eastwood's first film, *Revenge Of The Creature*(1957), all made for Universal.

Infused with social conscience (even if you have to look for it), Jack Arnold's film defined the way we treat alien life, and today's offering is the perfect compliment to yesterday's *Matinee*, as it stands as a huge influence on *Mant!* Yes, it is quasi-goofy by today's standards, but it's also important for a number of "firsts":
*It was the first 3-D movie released by Universal, in some theaters literally shown from two projectors simutaneously;
*It was the first sci-fi film to show scenes from the aliens' perspective;
*Some of Ray Bradbury's short story dialogue is actually incorporated into the screenplay on which his short story was based; Bradbury did two treatments for the script, and much of his work remains in the finished film;
*It's the first sci-fi movie to be filmed in the desert, a staple in later Atomic Bug movies;
*The staff was required to sign an oath of secrecy to ensure the plot and effects would remain under wraps;
*The original aliens (Xenomorphs), not used in the film, were later requisitioned for *The Island Earth*(1955), which Jack Arnold co-directed in an uncredited capacity;
*Steven Spielberg points to this film as being a key inspiration for his *Close Encounters Of The Third Kind* (1977);
*Henry Mancini wrote some of the soundtrack music, along with Herbert Stein and Irving Girtz;
*It's one of the few 1950s movies to run all its credits at the end of the film instead of after the title card at the opening;
*It has been nominated for inclusion in the Top Ten Sci-Fi Films by the American Film Institute;
*Barbara Rush won a Golden Globe as Most Promising Newcomer (she deserves it).

And, oh, is it so much fun.  Richard Carlson is wonderfully reactive as he grows closer to the aliens and more distanced by his friends and townfolk who typically want to squish the unknown on sight. His slowly inching panic at averting "almost certain doom" perpetuated by the frantic Arizonans foretells Kevin McCarthy's rising terror in *Invasion of the Body-Snatchers* down the road.  Barbara Rush is given ample opportunity to stare directly into the camera and shriek her lungs out at even the most mundane things.  But she looks great doing it as she falls just this side of shaking her head theatrically while we watch her uvula vibrate violently (that is not as dirty as it sounds).

The musical score wreaks out every scintilla of fear, leading up to an unfortunately hilarious crescendo as the frightening musical stinger signals a suspenseful, terrifying shot of. . . . empty wooden coat hangers!  And the seldom-seen aliens themselves are not as grotesque as they believe themselves to be to human eyes; I'd put them somewhere between a bad Jell-O mold and a three-bean salad that leaves a trail of disco glitter in their wake. (Cue the theremin which is working overtime here)

Keep a weathered eye open for Russell Johnson (George in the film), who years later will be stranded on a remote island with The Skipper, Ginger and Maryanne.  Here he is allowed to house the alien intelligence and foreshadow the U2 song "Staring At The Sun" without blinking in that modulated vocal intonation aliens use when they're trying to tip their hand that "George" or "Frank" aren't really George or Frank who came over last week for burgers and beer.

Of course, it's all metaphorical and aptly so.  In 1952 Bradbury--who was later targeted by the FBI as a communist sympathizer--wrote “I have seen too much fear in a country that has no right to be afraid. I have seen too many campaigns in California, as well as in other states won on the issue of fear itself, and not on the facts[…] I do not want any more lies, any more prejudice…”  And so his "It" creatures who came from outer space served as integers for anything or anyone unknown, and their ability to take the form of the guys next door carried echoes of the omnipresent Do You Know Who Your Neighbors Are fear mongering.  After watching this classic today, one can almost hear an angry crowd shouting, "Send them back."  But the aliens here have told John Putnam explicitly--“We cannot, we would not, take your souls, your minds, or your bodies. Don’t be afraid.”  Talk of souls?  How mature of them.  

Today, so many years after the Cold War has thawed, one would hope all the earnestness of anti-McCarthyism would have left us smarter, that we quaint townspeople would be less willing to exercise our homemade nuclear options with baseball bats and vicious disinformed banter, that we would use 3-D technology to make more movies and fewer 3-D printed automatic assault rifles.  But xenophobia, if not Xenomorphs, still holds on with a passion, while people like John Putnam still cling to the optimism that this too shall pass.  Because if it doesn't, I think we'll be seeing a many more Barbara Rushes shrinking back at what they see, screaming with all their might at what we've mutated into. . . with huge sweat rings under our arms.  It's shaping up to be a very long evening indeed.
Enjoy.
Jeff

"How Much Do You Love Me?", to any man--either in the bloom of a relationship or after an argument, is an innocent question attached to roughly 42 pounds of C-4 on a rapidly ticking countdown fuse.  Your aim is to disarm the explosive without showing one drop of perspiration or hesitation. A hackneyed response like "More than I can say" is tantamount to clipping the red wire when the yellow one would have done the job.  Such an inquiry is one of a veritable bunker full of high-level Questions of Mass Destruction, including but not limited to "Does this make me look too fat?" and "Do think [fill in the blank with a name of a vivacious friend] is pretty?" and "If your mother and I were drowning, who would you save?"
 

In the context of today's post, however, the answer is weighted with even higher stakes, as it is also the title of our film, *How Much Do You Love Me?* (2003) for me is a very fleet footed high stakes comedy that frequently finds the legendary Top and then goes over it. This is my first film by noted French director Bertrand Blier who won the Best Foreign Language Film Academy Award in 1998 for *Get Out Your Handkerchiefs*, and as such I cannot compare it to his catalog.
https://mubi.com/films/how-much-do-you-love-me/trailer

But I certainly can say this is an "adult" film.  Now wait before you get out your Official *Office Space* Jump To Conclusions mat--by "adult" I don't mean rampant sexuality and nudity. . . even though this film has all that.  Starring the gorgeous--insert an expansive litany of synonyms here--Monica Bellucci, who poses a variation of the titular question, this film deals with serious issues beneath its playfully enticing premise that sounds like a lead-in for a joke you'd tell your friends when you're sure no one else is within earshot: This guy casually tells a prostitute he's won 4.42 million euros in a lottery and will pay her 100,000 euros a month to live with him.  See? That's an "adult" proposition, and what follows is an intriguing follow-through.

The frail, shleppy Francois (wonderfully played by Bernard Campan) could enlist the estimable charms of Daniela (Monica Bellucci) for merely 150 euros and the cost of an expensive bottle of champagne, saving all sorts of money, but his aim transcends that modest time spent. And thus entering into a longer-term relationship, the two retire to his economical flat, but not before Francois suffers a severe bout of hypertension and possible heart failure at the excitement which lies before him.

The comedy then careens like a dynamic pinball from near slapstick to oddly tender vignettes that reveal a heart beneath the sexual tension. A particularly poignant scene is awarded to Francois' doctor and perhaps only friend, who after a pragmatic warning of the hazards of investing too much in Daniela emotionally, unearths a sweet yearning for such affection in his own life.  

All this is played out with blasts of unexpected operatic counterpoints, which at first unsettle then shock into gales of laughter, constant reminders that this is a fanciful tale of passions gone wild.  Adding to the mix master of mayhem is Daniela's connection to a possessive gangster, Gerard Depardieu, who stands as a brick of a man and a stone wall of an influence to Daniela.  If he does not stir in enough conflict, let's measure out a pinch of jealousy from Francois' next door neighbor, Farida Rahouadj, who interrupts an evening's tryst by complaining about the noise and suggesting such volume is not a natural function of women, which then leads to a spontaneous debate between her and Daniela on the nature of intimacies.  See, this is not for the Mister Rogers crowd.

So "How Much Do You Love Me?" becomes more than a casual provocation to confirm or deny intimate security.  The question underlies an examination of "mercenary seduction vs. true romance, and cash as a motivating factor in sexual desire," at one point prompting the enigmatic Daniela to shout at Francois, "Do you think I care about money? You want it back? How much--a thousand, two thousand?"  When Francois is given an ultimatum which alludes to the cost of freedom in the face of grave uncertainty, we find ourselves right back in a parachute softly descending into a mine field peppered with life-changing choices of landing.

Personally, I enjoyed every farcical minute of *How Much Do You Love Me?* and would recommend it with the caveat that, because it can fulfill the American stereotype of a French film, it is comfortable with the human form and all the intricacies of love, physical, mental, spiritual, emotional, personal, and--yes, for some--financial. But for those folks who swoon over Julia Roberts in *Pretty Woman*, this one just might offer another fun perspective . . . all while the operatic fat lady sings her breast plates off.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Something SNAFU'd yesterday, and so here is that posting. . . .

Ever changing up the line-up to reduce the chances of boring anyone who routinely reads these postings, last night's viewing was Federico Fellini's *Ginger And Fred* (1986). So, you see, it still falls within the guidelines of "Movies You May Not Have Seen" and still maintains some of the glow of nostalgia so many of my choices offer.


But this one is its own grand brand of Special: It stars two dreams of Italian Cinema, the ever waif-ish Giulietta Masina and and the ever dashing Marcello Mastroianni. Now their characters are in their sixties, 65 and 62 respectively, though neither will openly admit age has slowed them in the film, and they are reunited after forty years to re-create their classic look-alike routines of Rogers and Astaire that shot them to the pinnacle of success so long ago. They will join an endless parade of classic Fellini oddities for the Christmas edition of a horribly over-the-top variety TV series, *We Are Proud To Present*.

Since this is a Fellini satire of crass consumerism dictated by the tube, you can imagine the lengths the great director travels to ensure (or endure) a colorful cascade of visual vitriol: Our classy couple must share the stage with dwarves who tango (a Fellini trademark), celebrity look-alikes who look nothing like their counterparts in our world, the marriage of a defrocked priest, a compelling and polite Mafia boss in handcuffs, a paper-thin old admiral of the Navy accepting an honor onstage, transvestites, and the inventor of a vitamin enriched edible pair of panties offered for consumption on stage by a well rounded chorus girl. All in glorious swirling color.

Interestingly, Ginger Rogers herself brought a lawsuit that the film violated her Lanham Act trademark rights, right of publicity, and was a "false light" defamation. Her suit was dismissed under the the ruling that "suppressing an artistically relevant though ambiguous[ly] title[d] film" on trademark grounds would "unduly restrict expression." And truly, this is one of the key themes of Fellini's film--"Ginger and Fred" are not claiming to be anything but a tribute, a faded shadow of actual people, merely faithfully replicating their original dance steps. That they are famous for such talents is part of the strange sadness of the film--simulacra have become a money-making industry. Again I turn to Don DeLillo's novel *White Noise* in which people take photographs of the Most Photographed Barn In America. Why? Because it's the most photographed barn in America! One character opines, "They taking pictures of taking pictures."

Yet, for me, this is one of the more accessible Fellini films, with *8 1/2* (1963) topping my personal list of favorites, though *La Dolce Vita* (1960) comes close. As you can imagine it's a visual feast of color and spectacle, with Guilietta Masina (star of several other Fellini features, including her award-winning role in *La Strada* (1954), as well as being Mrs. Fellini for over fifty years) standing as Amelia, the symbol of humanity, grace and balance in the swirling hurricane of chicanery. Her first meeting with her partner Pippo, the still debonair Mastoianni, after hours of seeking him out is one of many sweet and lovely scenes that will stay with you after the film's final curtain. The time these two spend together on screen is magical, as the organized and disciplined Amelia takes her appearance on television very seriously, wishing to rehearse, while the womanizing, frequently tipsy Pippo trades on his charms of the past as the present seems freighted with aches, labored breathing and fortunes lost.

Fellini's script is its own world of narrative whirling, as his *Juliet Of The Spirits* (1965) and *Amarcord* (1973) also testify. For the uninitiated, to me Fellini films are experiences of moments that drift in and out in their own dreamlike symmetry. And *Ginger And Fred* is a sweet tempered journey as Amelia and Pippo prepare for their reunion before the greedy masses. It's a different, foreign world for them, a land populated everywhere by screens and advertisements bearing extreme close-ups of pandering product placement and gaudy displays of garishness. Oh, there is great humor throughout the film, with Pippo delivering his personal assessment of the cannibalistic crowds during a blackout that ends at the most inopportune time.

*Ginger and Fred*'s final minutes may haunt you, as it has me, but the ghosts are so very welcome, reminding us of the reasons memories can be cherished. Today, immortality has been reduced to a three-minute stint on a seat next to the host, soon to be relegated down the couch to resume a spot in the ether. Thomas Carlyle once said,“If Jesus Christ were to come today, people would not even crucify him. They would ask him to dinner, and hear what he had to say, and make fun of it.” I would go further to suggest we'd have Him on a talk show, subject Him to a game of Celebrity Bingo, and interrupt his thoughts with commercials hawking skin treatments and condoms. ''We are phantoms,'' says Pippo. ''We arise from the darkness and disappear again.''

Though *Ginger And Fred* is a scathing view of television, its moments of sweet remembrance of What Was will dance lightly above it all, just the way it should be.
Enjoy.
Jeff

I am perplexed.  Now that admission in and of itself is nothing new, as I have spent a good deal of time living in a small suburb in Michigan known as A Quandary.  It's a pleasant enough burg in the burbs, though it promotes episodes of confusion and residents like me often find themselves turning their heads to one side as a dog does when you ask him to calculate the square root of minus-one.

So today's film is perfect for the place: *Malena* (2000) starring the striking object of affection Monica Bellucci. Under the direction of Giuseppe Tornatore (*The Legend of 1900* and *Cinema Paradiso*), this reminiscence of our protagonist Renaldo, chafing at the bit of puberty and young manhood, joins everyone in his town in an obsession over the object of longing, a war bride Malena.  Italy has just entered the war, and Malena's husband has left for Africa to fight the British, leaving the strikingly beautiful but lonely woman to pine in solitude.  

Now since this story is told through the impressionable Renaldo's eyes, I believe much of the film is exaggerated by youthful hormones, which can allow for some of the shifting tones of the film.  Renaldo and every man in the Sicilian town literally rivet themselves to the road when Malena walks by,  as she exercises as much control and dignity so as not to acknowledge her appeal while men openly salivate and comment on the perfection of her derriere.  And for that reason the womenfolk openly revile her simply for her beauty.

For the record Monica Bellucci IS a finely sculpted woman, and since the crux of the film follows Renaldo's growing obsession with her, the audience becomes complicit in the uncomfortable voyeurism of the boy, his eye literally plastered to a crack in the wall of her abode.  From this vantage point we learn of her solitary sadness, her devotion to her husband, the deep despair of learning her husband has been killed in war, and her desperation when her funds go to ground and she learns the complete and utter lack of charity in her town. . . . because she is an object of every man's affection, married or not.

Make no mistake about it: This is a woman's journey into tragedy, as she is forced into a survival mode as she recognizes no one will help her in her time of need.  If you've checked my word choice carefully, you'll note I have used the word "Object" often in this posting--and herein lies my strong ambivalence toward this film.  I realize the hormonal pull of a boy lusting after an idealized beauty, I acknowledge that Monica Bellucci is a walking dream--especially compared to the hard-living women who populate the small Sicilian town--and I understand that the stereotypical Italian man is more overt in his appreciation of the fairer sex.  But I am also embarrassed by my gender at times.  Tornatore's characters are almost without exception grotesques, mincing horndogs without a shred of decency.  Even Renaldo, reflecting years later, never seems to rise above the level of a base connoiseur of the female form.

So when Ms. Bellucci appears nude in the film, no matter how artfully she's posed and poised, I still feel the filmmaker is objectifying her--and not merely for the sake of the film, but for box office profit as well.  Somehow amidst all the adoration, she never becomes whole.  When she is subjected to the brutality of the town women's wrath, not one admirer steps in to protect, to transcend the base display of animal cruelty--even Renaldo meekly watches in horror as she is beaten within an inch of her life.  For onlookers her indignity is reduced to comeuppance for being beautiful.

And that is a toxic attitude, a damning indictment of human desire and vacuity.  When years later Malena returns to the town on the arm of a husband who never was killed in action, as if struck by a sudden flash of decency, the same towns people vainly try to make amends by seeking her business.  So it all ends happily ever after, right?  Not for me. As the women fall over one another to exhibit their "graciousness," they also whisper how she now has crows feet around her eyes and she's put on weight.  And even Renaldo now older and married, in what is supposed to be a sweet nostalgia coda, remarks he still remembers what she looked like years ago when he was young. . . .

So NO! These boneheads have not learned a thing. They are still bound by their myopic attachment to physical attributes to determine a person's worth.  Give her a few loaves of bread, and she'll forget we destroyed her, as all good and decent people do when faced with a compelling object d'art they cannot possess entirely.  We go to elaborate ends to depersonalize our enemy, because, as Huxley observed, objects have no rights.  So if Tornatore meant *Malena* to be an examination of injustice, I would suggest he is only partially successful.  By objectifying Monica Bellucci through copious lingering shots of her gait, replete with close-ups of her rippling skirt, and ample opportunity to view her au natural, Tornatore is just as guilty as the Tex Avery-inspired wolves lining the streets whenever she passes.  Because we are limited by Renaldo's depth of vision (through his eyes and inhibited intellectual development) we never fully embrace Malena's inner being. And that omission left me deeply saddened. . . for the woman who had the bad fortune to be born attractive and to be judged for it, and for all who never see to the heart of her genuine beauty.  
Enjoy.
Jeff

I just broke the tape on two triathlons: After an eternity composed of house cleaning and scrubbing and polishing in preparation for today, I am celebrating the homecoming of my girl (Yes, Joyce is now home from ICU, hospitals and rehabs)--and now she can see I didn't blow up the house or let it dissolve into such state of disrepair that she wanted to return to rehab just for the nicer environment. Secondly, today with Post #114 we conclude the Monica Bellucci Triathlon with *L'appartement* (or *The Apartment*) (1996) co-starring Vincent Cassel and Romane Bohringer.


Today's choice of film might require a bit of clarification, especially since the trailer below is in French. 1.) So is the film, but subtitles help; 2.) It is not acquainted in any way with the Billy Wilder classic of the same name, made in 1960; 3.) It is the basis for an American remake with an altered ending in 2004; 4.) It stars--worth repeating--Monica Bellucci, but she's fully clothed throughout the film; 5.) It's one of a select few films that made me shout at the screen at least three times in the last ten minutes, "What! Are you freaking kidding me?" 6.) It twists and turns and gave me mental pretzels but at the same time totally made sense and was fairly easy to follow through flashbacks and parallel lines of logic if you pay attention, which is mandatory; 7.) My wife will probably hate it.

Directed by French architect Gilles Mimouni, this is no standard love triangle. It's a complex psychological Rubic's Cube whose squares DO line up and connect, but certainly not in way I thought it would. At the time of its release, the film won a BAFTA Award for Best Film Not in the English Language and the first British Independent Film Award for the Best Film in a Foreign Language. So it's earned a nice reputation for its architecture and the roominess of its direction. Now personally I hate trailers and critics who give away major plotlines or telegraph the conclusion before we even have a chance to sit down and watch it all transpire before us. So I am loathe to give away anything significant about this film--but I also feel you should know a couple things before deciding to take out a lease on *The Apartment*. So here goes, all in sketchy outlines of broad strokes.

Max is negotiating a lucrative business deal with Japanese brokers, and he's engaged to a lovely young woman Muriel (Sadrine Kiberlaine) who has accompanied him to a lunch with the businessmen. When he excuses himself to use the rest room, he overhears a voice two years in his past: the dulcet tones of Lisa, a young woman he desperately loved and who disappeared without a word, leaving him a hollow, desiccated mopey baby. But her voice enlivens him again, and as he stumbles from the stall to catch a literal fleeting glimpse of her as she lurches from the restaurant, his reality is shifted on its axis. He leaves Muriel and the Japanese deal and all chances at success behind--just to see Lisa again.

What ensues is another obsession examination for a couple hours; now, it appears to me that Monica Bellucci excels in stimulating such high tempered pursuits--look at the last three movies I've posted. But all three are completely separate enterprises by different directors with individuated aims. She is merely the catalyst, in ever changing tones. Her Lisa here is part mystery, but not a manipulative seductress or a lust inducing innocent. She is more grounded here, in the final analysis, and her story is worth relating--but not before the last ten minutes of the film.

Vincent Cassel is not a heart-throbbing, carved pectoral wonder whose purring accent causes audiences to chew their knuckles instead of their Jujubes, but his portrayal as a hapless, hopeless dream chaser is, for me, completely believable. Of course I can't say that I would emulate his actions, but I can almost understand them because I believe the quote from Vladimir Nabokov is true: “I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes.” His actions are not those of a sane man, from a coldly rational perspective: leave your job, leave your fiancee, devote yourself fully to what may or may not be an illusion, and do all this with every fiber of your being. After all, the doctors keep telling us we need more fiber in our diets, just to stay regular, so. . . .

While you're digesting all this, watch carefully for beautifully nuanced nods to Alfred Hitchcock. When you look carefully you'll be rewarded with echoes of *Rear Window*, *Vertigo*, and an almost shot for shot reenactment of a scene from *Strangers On A Train*. But these are just wonderful grace notes in a much larger picture--Vincent Cassel is a French stand-in for James Stewart, the Everyman who's accessible and likable even though his focus is completely skewed. His friends recognize it, peripherals can see it and shake their heads at it, but somehow while shaking my head I knew he was following through on a Blues Brothers Mission From God.

WARNING: Naturally, when America finds a hot property in the foreign market, it feels compelled to remake it, and *L-appartement* falls into that trap. America took this film, bowlderized it, changed to ending to appease American audiences who were deemed too shallow to enjoy a provocative conclusion, and released *Wicker Park* in 2004. PLEASE, if you plan to see *L'appartement" DO NOT READ anything about *Wicker Park* as even the simplest one-line synopsis gives away a powerful plot twist. See the original French film. Even Youtube respondents to the American version complain about its derivative nature and its alignment to a 1992 Bridget Fonda film [I will not name it here, for fear it could hint at a Spoiler of some sort].

Usually I don't like to go hog wild over recommendations, since my dear friend Dale Haywood made it a habit not to impose his view on others' tastes when it came to cinema. I think that's a good rule of thumb; I struggle daily by just recording my own reactions to films--I don't want to waste your time climbing into your head by prescribing what you SHOULD see. That is an invasion. . . .

So let's just say I was blown away by this film and its narrative structure. It's one of those films that slipped past me all these years, and I'm sorry it did, but I'm glad I found it. And by the way, I'll let you know if Joyce watches it. . . and hates it or says, "Well, that was something," which to her is a glowing testimony. Whatever she says is fine by me--I can now sit back and stop cleaning and scrubbing and polishing, and I'm glad she's home.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Glad to see that your lovely lady is back home with you
Enjoy
Best regards
Art

Many thanks to you, Art. How did you know she was so lovely? You are an amazingly perceptive person. And so, now to our main feature . . . .


Four years before *Airplane*, eighteen years before *Speed*, a full twenty-nine years before *Mad Max: Fury Road*, and fifty-one years after *Ben Hur*--there was. . . *The Big Bus* (1976), a trend-setting disaster movie that is now a cult classic spawning an entire genre of spoof films, including *Top Secret* (1984) Weird Al Yankovic's favorite movie, *The Naked Gun* series spun from the cotton candy of *Police Squad* (1982) from the Zucker Brothers, and then the avalanche of cheap knock-offs like *Scary Movie* (2000) Numbers 1-5 and *The Starving Games* (2013).

Now that was a long sentence. Well, the vehicle in question is a long bus. The "Cyclops" is a nuclear powered behemoth which seats 110, and is fully equipped with a bowling alley, Oriental-style cocktail lounge with a piano bar, a swimming pool, a posh captain's dining room, private marble-and-gold bathroom with sunken tub, and chef's kitchen, all rolling along on 32 wheels and an articulated body. On its maiden journey direct from New York to Denver it is populated with a veritable Who's Who of 1970s celebrities (perhaps I should place that in quotes) and Oh I Know That Guy What's His Name? television bit players, many of whom made their mark on *The Love Boat*.

A partial passenger manifest includes [deep breath before commencing] Joseph Bologna, Stockard Channing, René Auberjonois (*Benson* and voice of the chef in *The Little Mermaid*), John Beck, Ned Beatty (*Network*), Bob Dishy,
Murphy Dunne (*The Blues Brothers*), José Ferrer (*Cyrano de Bergerac*), Ruth Gordon (*Harold and Maude*),
Harold Gould (*The Sting* and *Golden Girls*), Larry Hagman (*Dallas*'s JR), Howard Hesseman (WKRP In Cincinnati*), Sally Kellerman (the original Hot Lips Houlihan on *M*A*S*H* the film), Stuart Margolin (*The Rockford Files*), Richard Mulligan (Soap*), Lynn Redgrave, Richard B. Shull (Does anyone remember *Holmes And Yoyo*?),
Vic Tayback (Mel on *Alice*), and others. See? The cast alone tests your trivia knowledge.

As you can surmise, it's all very goofy, and as I learned in college when I lauded *Monty Python And The Holy Grail* as one of the most inventive, nutty and wonderful films I'd seen in years, comedy is very subjective. (I was publicly lambasted by letters to the editor by several moviegoers who found nary a chuckle in the classic King Arthur parody; I recall them fondly now, mentally noting that Dave Eggers summed it up best in *A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius*: "Kill the humorless.") So, since *The Big Bus* is not to be taken seriously for one second of its 88 minutes, I'll leave to you the determination that it fulfills its status as a wacky comedy. I laughed out loud a couple times, felt some of the jokes were a bit labored, but it struck me as inventive since *Airplane*--in my mind, the litmus test for Throw It All On The Screen And Some Will Stick Like Oatmeal and Some Like Jell-O comedies--would be two years out on the horizon.

It's like the bus itself: big and dumb, taking the corners with relative ease, despite fighting time and the ticking bomb housed in its undercarriage. Parents will delight for the most part as there is very little, if anything, offensive on this trip--not a lot of cursing, no nudity, no disturbing violence, just a silly homage to Road Runner cartoons' reductio ad absurdum formula. The dialogue is not so much filled with wordplay as its ancestors, but it offers some good lines:
Dan: "You're looking great, kid."
Kitty: "Me too."
Dan: "So am I."
Kitty: "That goes for both of us."

And the company is mostly pleasant, garnering a solid 85% of 4-5 star ratings on Amazon. So bottom line: Any movie that ends a bar fight one man holding a broken milk carton and his antagonist brandishing a broken candle is nuts enough for me, even if it is unsafe at any speed.
Enjoy.
Jeff

I loved this movie when I first saw it. The huge bus the you have to go fast enough for the aerodynamics to cut in LOL. Joseph Bologna as the driver the rumours he ate passengers on a stranded bus. I only ate a foot. Shear lunacy.

I remember this was the first time I saw Stockard Channing in a movie and I was hooked. She was hilarious. This was total spoof movie.

Great memory Jeff finding this again.

And welcome home Mrs. ghemrats....