THE LAST TEN MOVIES I WATCHED….AND WHY I WATCHED THEM (April, 2018)

April 15-Chinatown (1974, Roman Polanski, Umpteenth Viewing)

To see how I felt about this chilly masterpiece in the first age when Hollywood, at least, would have to be circumspect about celebrating its statutory rapist director. I feel pretty much the same. It’s chilly and it’s a masterpiece. One thing I noticed, though, is that Faye Dunaway brought a human quality it’s hard to imagine coming from any other actress of the age–just like she did in Bonnie and Clyde. Two Egg strikes again.

April 16-Patriot Games (1992, Phillip Noyce, 4th Viewing)

To see if Harrison Ford–even Harrison Ford–could improve how I feel about the CIA. He couldn’t. Not even in this helluva entertainment (the thing moves) where he has at least one brilliant moment that transcends craft or star power. His response when he finally kills the rogue IRA terrorist (a menacing Sean Bean) who has been after his family is worthy of a Golden Age western. Too bad nobody thought to remake High Noon with him.

April 16-Robin Hood (1991, John Irvin, Umpteenth Viewing)

To be reminded of how superior this nearly forgotten take is to the contemporaneous box office smash with Kevin Costner. To revel in Patrick Bergin’s definitive Robin Hood. To marvel at the strong cast and excellent direction and script overcoming poor Uma Thurman (is she the only actress to have been both Weinsteined and Tarantinoed?) being so badly miscast as Marian. And, of course, to hear Friar Tuck greet the worst of the villains with a hale and hearty “Welcome….to Hell.”

April 17-No Name on the Bullet (1959, Jack Arnold, 5th Viewing)

To see Audie Murphy play, without a wasted word or gesture, a man who killed more men than Audie Murphy.

April 18-Midnight Run (1988, Martin Brest, Umpteenth Viewing)

To see a modern comic masterpiece (and perhaps be reminded that making a comedy is the only way to make a masterpiece in a fallen culture–absent absurdity, the old tropes required for any kind of drama or heroism or mythos simply don’t hold). And, however great DeNiro and Grodin are (neither was ever better), the whole cast is operating at the same level. Dennis Farina you’ll have remembered, even if you only saw it once…but don’t sleep on Yapphet Kotto’s FBI agent. He’s like a slow-burning cigarette that can’t quite be extinguished. Only if that were funny.

April 19-The Searchers (1956, John Ford, Umpteenth Viewing)

Well, I don’t need a reason to watch The Searchers for the fiftieth time. But here’s a challenge: Try picking one image, just from what’s available online. Is is even fair that every frame of the greatest narrative film looks like a classical painting? Or that you can take a frame like this one and spin a hundred stories out of it that have nothing to do with what actually happens in The Searchers? Or that, in this one frame, the doll, the dog, the rocking chair and the child’s dress will all play a vital part in the story that does get told? Or that you might have to watch it fifty times to notice this?

Just asking.

April 22-Life of Crime (2013,  Daniel Schechter, 4th Viewing)

For what I’m starting to think might be the best adaptation of one of Elmore Leonard’s crime stories (not prepared to go all the way there yet–the competition is tough). This is the first time I really understood it as an absurdist comedy first and foremost. I gave myself permission to laugh out loud five minutes in and then I couldn’t stop. Every performance is a comic gem. On the commentary track the director says he asked Jennifer Aniston on the set why she didn’t do more movies like this. He didn’t record her answer so I’ll give it for her: Because it’s not the seventies anymore. I don’t know whether recognizing how far out of her time she is should make her accomplishments as the last true persona actress more impressive, or just make us all sad.

April 23-Rob Roy: Highland Rogue (1953, Harold French, 3rd Viewing)

Mostly to see if this entry was worthy of inclusion in a potential “Handy Ten” of Disney Adventure films. I was lukewarm on past viewings. This time, I started to think it just might make the cut. The action scenes aren’t all they might be–French was clearly no Ken Anakin. But there’s a scene of a Highlands wedding that would be grand even if the bride and groom were less fetching than Richard Todd and Glynis Johns. And there’s another of a Highlands funeral that might have been just as striking if Sir Walter Scott hadn’t insisted on it being broken up by the bloody English. Also, I hadn’t quite caught how much better the backbiting politics were played than the battle scenes.

Worthier than I thought then.

And it’s always refreshing to recall that, from the beginning of Hollywood to the toadying present, Disney was the only studio that wasn’t afraid to kill Redcoats–or pretend to forget that the British Empire was the first in history upon which–as the proverb and the wag had it, respectively–the sun never set and the blood never dried.

April 23-Heat (1995, Michael Mann, Umpteenth Viewing)

For the action scenes. For the way two of the three main “family/personal” angles work, mostly because of sensitive, convincing performances from a pre-Weinsteined Ashley Judd (Appalachian girl playing an L.A. street tough) and Amy Brenneman (New Englander playing an Appalachian transplant, so far adrift in the L.A. wilderness it’s really not that unlikely DeNiro’s brooding sociopath could win her over with simple acts of kindness–or that she could transform him with kindness in return). For the way Judd’s street tough refuses to give up her powder keg of a husband (Val Kilmer) because she knows he would never give her up.

For all of that, I’ll put up with a lot of Al Pacino chewing scenery in between not insignificant stretches where he reminds you he can also act.

…Til next time!

DON’T WORRY FOLKS, IF YOU WANT THE SCOOP…(Segue of the Day: 10/16/17)

….Just check in here first.

Last week (10/11/17) I wrote about the psychic damage Harvey Weinstein, as the man who, for two decades plus, controlled access to more plum “prestige” parts than any other ten producers combined, had likely done to a generation of first-rank Hollywood actresses.

For those who understandably don’t want to plow through the whole thing again, here’s the salient passage (The Round Place in the Middle: 11/11/17):

So read the names: Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Ashley Judd, Mira Sorvino, Rosanna Arquette, Rose McGowan. That’s just from those we know about.

And just from those who were attacked by Harvey Weinstein, who exactly no one thinks was a lone wolf.

Even by itself, that’s a gaping hole blown in a generation’s worth of top tier talent.

This week, the idea has taken hold across the big-name spectrum.

Here’s Dana Stevens, checking in from the left (Slate: 10/13/17):

THE SEX FIEND AND THE DAMAGE DONE…

(Warning: Spoilers for the Lee Daniel’s movie The Paperboy included.)

One of the questions that’s been swirling around the Harvey Weinstein revelations is why, after all these years, his enablers at places like the New York Times suddenly turned on him. (The notion that they were scared of being scooped by The New Yorker, the weekly which had decided to run with Ronan Farrow’s piece here seems a little thin on the ground, as does the notion that he had become too “pro-Israel.” But I confess I haven’t heard anything better, at least not anywhere but my own head.)

My best guess is that Weinstein is a sacrificial lamb, something Hollywood has been good at since the Fatty Arbuckle days,** and modern day Wall Street has turned into an art form (see Michael Milken, Jordan Beltran, Bernie Madoff). He’ll now be the poster boy for all the things a corrupt system surely doesn’t do anymore because it has learned the profit-margin-eating error of its ways (“Look what happened to that guy! We wouldn’t dare do such a thing again!”), while said system rolls merrily along.

We’ll see.

My bigger interest right now is in looking into what Weinstein and his ilk have cost the culture.

This is not to diminish the personal damage done to the lives and careers of the many women–most of them not famous–he molested in one form or other, likely up to and including rape. Of course, for them, any damage to the rest of us is secondary and rightly so.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t all have a stake.

I confess my take was sharpened by just having watched The Paperboy, a southern potboiler (I ordered it because I’m trying to work up a post about Florida movies…might be a month or two as I have some holes to fill), which features Nicole Kidman in a Nympho Southern Belle role that’s very similar to Rosanna Arquette’s brilliant turn in The Wrong Man.

Kidman’s a fine actress, of course, and she catches the outre aspect of the character expertly. But she misses the barely disguised vulnerability. The script allows her to reach for it and she does…she just doesn’t quite grasp it. So it’s sad what happens to her (she dies) but not as sad as what happens to Arquette in The Wrong Man (where she has to watch her meal ticket die while his possible replacement is riding down the track on a train that’s already going too fast for him to jump off).

So, the only time these two played on the same turf, Arquette won and it wasn’t even close.

But Kidman is the much bigger star and the far more “respected” actress. I don’t say she didn’t earn those things. Oh no, far from it. You can’t fake talent. But what the Weinstein revelations have called into question is just how tilted a never-very-level playing field was to begin with.

Arquette is one of the prominent actresses who is now telling her story. She’s one of those who said no (like Mary Weiss, she is who we thought she was…let us not hold our collective breath waiting for the mostly male critics who impugned her “choices”–hardly without interest in any case and now cast in an entirely different light–to apologize). And she clearly paid a price.

Not as much of a price as Rose McGowan, who has basically quit acting. But more of a price than Gwyneth Paltrow or Angelina Jolie (and I’m not saying the price they paid was small, just that they didn’t have their careers entirely derailed).

I note here the pecking order, of which Harvey Weinstein and all similar minded Hollywood big shots were keenly aware. Paltrow is the daughter of a famous producer/director and an even more famous award-winning actress. Jolie is the daughter of Oscar winner Jon Voight. Arquette is the daughter of two moderately successful actors who are more famous for their children than themselves but nonetheless, like Mira Sorvino, who has also come forward, “of the community.”

McGowan is a kid who showed up from Nowheresville.

Many others have come forward. But studying just these five–plus the even harsher fates of those lesser known, many of whom were driven out of the business–one can detect a pattern.

The more connected you were, the more likelihood Weinstein would forget and forgive if you turned him down.

The way you were defined as “connected” was if a) you were born into the club; or b) you were already a big star (which, for instance, Nicole Kidman was by the time she started working with him on a regular basis). In the case of the latter, it was likely you would be spared Weinstein’s bathrobe and potted plant routine, as Kidman, Meryl Streep and others of similar stature evidently were.

Again, what happened to them is between them and Weinstein and I don’t care if they choose to put it all behind them with a PR statement or send someone to put a horse head in his bed. They’re all quite capable of managing their own affairs without advice from me.

But I can’t help wondering how much all this cost–and, if I’m right about the transient nature of the outrage, will continue to cost–the world at large.

Any given generation only produces so much talent. We have trouble accepting this in our current State of Industrialized Egalitarianism, but it’s as true now as ever, and as true for actresses as any other group of artists.

The element that binds every single one of those who have accused Weinstein of harassing them and, either by threat or implication, making them fear for their careers, is that none of them ever reached their full potential. (Streep and Kidman have…but they were never threatened. And, to be clear, I have no respect for Streep or anyone else who stood up for the self-confessed-and-proud-of-it statutory rapist Roman Polanski over the years. Hollywood has earned its reputation for shameless hypocrisy, but that’s not the topic of this post.)

So read the names: Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Ashley Judd, Mira Sorvino, Rosanna Arquette, Rose McGowan. That’s just from those we know about.

And just from those who were attacked by Harvey Weinstein, who exactly no one thinks was a lone wolf.

Even by itself, that’s a gaping hole blown in a generation’s worth of top tier talent.

You can multiply it exponentially by adding the “chill” effect.

To all the jobs they were never considered for because Harvey Weinstein–the principal taste-maker of the age–either wouldn’t hire them, or would only accept them in minor parts (like Arquette’s scene-stealing cameo in Weinstein favorite Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction, a movie that, IMHO would have earned its rep if Arquette and Uma Thurman had merely switched places–and if Tarantino never let this occur to him because he knew how Harvey felt, then he’s even more of what I’ve always said he is: a coward), add all the roles they were never considered for by like-minded thugs because of the, Hey,isn’t she the one who turned Harvey down? factor. (In case Harvey wasn’t prone to talking about the ones who turned him down–some thugs do, some thugs don’e–all they had to do was look at who he wasn’t hiring.)

And then add in how many times they weren’t even considered for the next good part because they didn’t get the last one.

And then keep on adding all the factors we can’t even see. Maybe, for instance, the psychological damage done even to a reasonably secure Child of Hollywood like Gwyneth Paltrow, who has–for whatever reason–devoted much of her adult life to things she probably never dreamed of doing when she was putting in the hard, humbling yards required to be a go-to actress, the kind of trial-by-fire you could be forgiven believing one would only go through if coming out the other side was as important as breathing.

How many good or great movies did she–or any of the others–simply decide not to do because they didn’t want to deal with the Harvey Weinsteins of the world, knowing that, even if his sins ever did come to light, the first question asked would be why they didn’t out him sooner?

If, that is, they were among the few who decided it was worth coming forward at last, even if they knew that question was coming.

I’ll buy that Weinstein’s carefully chosen political beliefs bought him decades of cover. I’ll even suggest that he chose those “beliefs” for that very reason, or, at very least, chose to quell any doubts he might have had about those beliefs in order to get on with the pursuit of thuggery which is bound to be the only aspect of life that really excites a thug.

But you can bet there are others–perhaps many others–who are out there right now, lying low for the moment, holding their breath, cozying up to those very same Editors and Publishers, winking and nodding, waiting for the heat to die down.

So they can start on the next generation.

**Silent star Arbuckle was accused of murder in Hollywood’s first really earthshaking scandal. It was probably a pure scapegoating job. He was tried three times. The first two were hung juries. The third jury acquitted him and offered him a written apology for his ordeal. His career was ruined, however, and his reputation sufficiently blackened that, nearly a century later, one has to provide explanatory footnotes. His actual case is not comparable to Weinstein’s. The means to which the respective cases were/are put to use, likely will be.

PICK THE PUNK (Segue of the Day: 1/30/17)

Heard on the radio yesterday, in this order…pick the punk. Don’t worry, there’s a right answer, but it’s easy (hint: it’s not the one who was an actual punk):

“Borderline” came out in 1984, a couple of years before the others, the last really great year for American radio singles. It was the fifth single off her first album and wasn’t her first big hit (“Holiday,” fantastic, had gone Top 20, and “Lucky Star,” desultory, had gone Top 5). But, accompanied by her first striking video, it was her first cultural “moment.”**

It was only hearing it in this context that I realized how clean a break it was. I always thought of Madonna as an assimilator, a natural hit machine, gathering up previous strands into something fresh-but-still-recognizable in the manner of  Tom Petty or Prince.

And in most respects–the cheesy, airless dance track, the hummable melody, the Supremes’ style beg in the storyline–“Borderline” is just that.

But the vocal has an off-hand quality that, in 1984, qualified it as a new direction. People had put that flat, affectless tone on the charts before, but usually as a novelty, not as an expression of passion. And nobody had made both an American hit (that thing that was always evading punks, which was why Belinda Carlisle stopped being one, hooked up with an ace rhythm section–that other thing punks kept not getting–and left her five thousand imitators, including the hundred or so who have been “critically acclaimed” somewhere along the way, writhing in the dust) and a great record out of it.

The affectlessness was affected, of course. If “Holiday” didn’t prove Madonna could sing, then her version of “Love Don’t Live Here Anymore” from her second album offered proof in spades. (I kept waiting for something that proved she could dance–that never happened.) “Borderline” now sounds like an attempt to capture the spirit Diana Ross breathed into “You Keep Me Hangin’ On,” which meant it was Madonna’s first successful attempt at bringing the girl group ethos up to date.

But without the old power the Motown/Red Bird/Philles machinery provided for Ross or Ronnie Spector or Mary Weiss–with just an early eighties’ standard issue dance track carrying the bottom and the middle–even Madonna’s “Love Don’t Live Here” voice would have sounded fake by comparison. Too professional, too not-a-teenager-anymore, too Reagan-era ready, too much of what the rest of her second album would sound like. Not so much a grab for the charts (she already had hits) as for cultural power.

Too much of that too soon, and the record might have still ridden high by the numbers–sort of like “Heaven Is a Place on Earth,” which made Number One and signaled that Belinda Carlisle was about to disappear. Madonna’s real power was that she could sit in the middle of the slickest piece of crap on earth and still be true to her dual selves.

That was why she she was able to redirect John Lydon’s nihilistic “No future for me/No future for you” into the hyper-nihilistic, truly revolutionary, “Future? Who cares about the future?” even as her lyrics were mostly clever updates of pop platitudes. Affected or not, that voice was the first pure expression of a vision a pop star could live up to without either killing or exposing herself.

For a while anyway.

Long enough to become iconic.

Hearing “Borderline” in the middle of a standard Jack-style eighties’ run on the radio in this new environment made me realize that was the record where she set the edge she was still trying to stay on when she talked about blowing up the White House last week in the slickest possible “of course we all know I both mean and don’t mean every word I say….who cares about the future?” way, only to be outdone by Ashley Judd going all Weatherman on her and sticking both Madonna and “Madonna” safely and securely in the consumable past.

That’s the problem with even fake nihilism. Sooner or later, somebody–some sad Sid Vicious type–takes it seriously and pushes you to a place neither of your dual selves really wants to go.

The only way Madonna can ever get back in the game now–ever be more than a celebrity or a cash register again–is to start making great records again.

I’d love to hear it.

I won’t hold my breath.

**(I still recall a quote by Belinda Carlisle’s Go-Go’s’ drummer, Gina Schock, from a magazine I stupidly threw out somewhere along the way because I thought the quote was in another magazine I saved. Asked about Madonna, she said: “Well, she’s probably undermining everything we’re trying to do. But every time ‘Borderline’ comes on the radio, I turn up the volume.”)