The Last of the Mohicans was a landmark movie for me. The circumstances under which I saw
this film will remain forever in the annals of Ethan lore. This was the first R-rated movie I ever
had the pleasure of seeing at the tender age of 8. Here’s what I remember: it was a Monday and we went to the
Christiana Mall specifically to see it.
This raises many intriguing questions. Why wasn’t I in school on a Monday? It’s possible that it
was a holiday weekend, I was sick, or I faked an illness. That last one doesn’t sound like me so
I’m going to go with holiday. The
odd part is that I specifically remember being aware of the fact that I should
have been in school on that day.
If that’s the case, it’s most likely that I was sick. But if I was sick, why was I going on a
field trip to a mall to see a two-hour long epic romance about the French and
Indian war? There are so many
tantalizing possibilities about which, I’m sure none of you give even the
faintest possibility of a shit.
Regardless of what actually happened, I remember the experience of
watching the movie so vividly. I
remember that this theater was the first time I saw a woman with a shaved
head. I remember the feeling of
being let into an exclusive club and the unbearable anticipation of seeing the
film and subsequently reporting back to my friends about it. I don’t think I had quite grasped the
notion of how much I loved movies at age eight. This film kick started the entire process if that was the
case. It doesn’t matter that I
barely retained any of the actual film, does it? Being an eight-year-old boy, the most memorable images of
the film were of a man being scalped, a man having his still-beating heart
ripped out, and a man being burned alive at the stake. It was frightening, it was exhilarating,
but most of all, it was new! I got
to be the toast of my third grade class for about five minutes. At which point they got bored of my
temporary visit to the adult world and moved on to something far more
interesting, a kickball game maybe.
I, on the other hand, was not ready to move on and like a hungry, hungry
hippo I only wanted more. I
suppose I was quite lucky to get Mohicans to pop my R-rated cherry. The movie has remained a perennial
favorite in our household due to my Mom’s open obsession with it. Later in life, I grew into a Michael
Mann obsession that began with Heat (the project after Mohicans) and has
continued with each subsequent film.
The fact that Daniel Day Lewis has grown in stature to an actor of
unfathomable talents and gifts probably doesn’t hurt either. So while the film itself may not have
set my particular world on fire, every time I get the chance to revisit (Mann
practically puts out a new cut every month) I am reminded of why it has
remained so firmly etched in my subconscious all these years. Mann’s thematic fascination with loners
hacking a life out of the frontier (be it a city or the actual wilderness), the
exhilarating and visceral action sequences, and the fact that the final thirty
minutes of this movie may be the best final thirty minutes of any movie in the
history of filmmaking make this a pretty fantastic introduction into the world
of Restricted Cinema.
Let’s see how I can pull
this one out of my ass. I haven’t
seen Death Becomes Her in well over a decade. I have some thoughts about it, but they are based mostly on
vague recollections and quasi-remembered ramblings. I had to do a quick wikipedia recap to even remember what
the fuck happens in this movie.
That reminds me, is wikipedia interested in being a sponsor of this
blog? I feel like I plug them
enough to be worthy of a few kick-backs.
I’m not actually sure how they’d pay me, but that doesn’t matter, we’ll
figure something out. Death
Becomes Her is about a past-her-prime actress and her life rival ingesting some
sort of vitality potion that makes them immortal. The main object of their rivalry is a nebbish-y plastic
surgeon who ultimately chooses a life that ends over spending an eternity with
these two nattering nabobs. If
that description sounds horribly misogynistic, I’d have to plead the fifth on
that one, but if anybody wishes to chime in with a comment feel free. The reason I am including this film on
my 365 list is because it was the first time a casual film-going experience
filled me with a verifiable amount of dread. I feel like if I ever get the chance to meet Mr. Zemeckis, my
line to him would be identical to that of Homer’s when he met Mel Brooks. I love that movie "Young Frankenstein"... scared the hell
out of me. I have an incredibly specific memory,
not of the movie, but of the ride home through the dark back roads of
Wilmington, Delaware. The radio
was blasting Haddaway’s What is Love and
all I could think about was, “one day, I am going to die.” Even the lyrics to the song itself
sounded like the ghostly echo of a spirit from the other side. The idea haunted me, and the fact that
the movie treated the concept of death with such blithe cynicism was even more
distressing. On second thought, maybe
it wasn’t What is Love? it could have
been CeCe Peniston’s Finally. Does it really make a difference? I have no idea how Death Becomes Her has
aged in the past twenty-one years; according to the wikipedia page it was not a
financial windfall for all concerned parties. I can’t imagine introspective thoughts of one’s own
mortality were the desired reaction by the filmmakers. Wow, that’s kind of a bummer, let me
see if I can wrap this up on a lighter note. If this helps, just imagine eight-year-old Ethan sitting in
the theater watching Death Becomes Her.
Instead of laughing at the cgi-enhanced-black-comedy-mayhem like
everybody else, he is cowering in his seat, hiding his eyes with his hands from
the images. If that doesn’t
inspire guffaws, I don’t know what will.
My first encounter with Bebe’s
Kids came from copious amounts of HBO watching that occupied the majority
of my youthful idle. The situation
in my household growing up was one of extreme liberalism regarding the content
to which I subject my young, impressionable eyes. I saw Last of the Mohicans and Schindler’s List, and Pulp
Fiction when I was nine and subsequently ten years old. Ratings didn’t mean a whole lot to my
parents and I am incredibly grateful to them for that. As a result, the ascendance of HBO meant
plentiful access to all kinds of scandalous material. I’ll let you make your skinemax joke on your own time…have
you made it yet? Good. Let’s move on. As far as I can remember, I’ve always had a fascination with
“subversive” animation. Who Framed
Roger Rabbit (Entry #1), The Simpsons, Cool World (1992, NOT on this blog),
Beavis and Butthead, Ren and Stimpy, the list goes on and on. And I don’t mean subversive in the
literal sense (none of these things were that offensive, for fuck’s sake), just
in the idea that they broke from the conventions of children’s animation in very
explicit and gleeful ways.
Ten-year-old Ethan felt like he was getting away with something watching
Bebe’s Kids (felt like being the key operative phrase there). I haven’t seen the film in god knows
how many years and I’m sure it is incredibly tame compared to an equivocal
episode of South Park. Thinking
back on it, what’s most shocking is the fact that an animated film, which was
based on the stand-up routine of a successful (but not earth-shatteringly so)
black comedian eventually got made at all, let alone into a theatrical release
by Paramount Pictures. Did I
mention it was also the first animated film to have an all-black cast? Bebe’s Kids remains, to this day, a
fascinating oddity. The
grotesqueries of the more extreme moments clash with the blandness of the
overall design of the animation.
This is by no means intended to be a slight, for I think it represents
what is unique about the entire film in and of itself. It’s an anecdote stretched out to
feature length, but infused with the radiant life of Mr. Harris’ wit and the
collective aspiration to finally get away with something bold, innovative, and
new.
PS: My two favorite sentences from the wikipedia plot
summary of Bebe’s Kids
“…Meanwhile,
Dorthea and her food-loving friend, Vivian, attempt to sabotage the growing
relationship between Robin and Jamika, but are thwarted by Robin's mother insults…”
And
…”The kids win their freedom through the power
of rap, then celebrate their victory by stealing a pirate ship and crashing it
into an ocean liner…”
Believe it or not loyal reader(s?), there was a time when
the prospect of a Mike Myers comedy didn’t fill audiences with a collective
sense of dread. There was a time
when we used to sit on the edges of our seats, chewing our nails down to the
nub with eager anticipation for whatever comedic capering Mr. Myers was cooking
up his sleeve. Wayne’s World is a perfect example of
such a project. Endlessly
quotable, not afraid to take a dip into the warm springs of absurdity, and
featuring a game ensemble that possesses the rare of gift of seeming to be
making up the comedy as they go along, Wayne’s World stands alone. That this also came from a recurring
SNL sketch makes the accomplishment all the more remarkable. Perhaps time has been kind to Wayne’s
World in more than one way. The
most obvious being that it is genuinely funny and aside from the occasional
dated reference here and there (they actually are few and far between), the
humor is essentially timeless. The
second being that compared to the toxic-trash-burning-wasteland that is every
other SNL sketch-to-film adaptations, it is hard to disagree with Wayne’s World
being the “Citizen Kane” of SNL movies. Sure, Coneheads had its moments (on second thought, maybe it
didn’t), but Wayne’s World easily claims supremacy for its perfect distillation
of the cultural moment. At a time
when the carpet bagging of the alternative/”grunge” scene had reached its
saturation level in terms of mainstream domination, here comes Wayne’s World
warning of the dangers of corporate usurpation of public access television. I don’t think I’m grasping at straws
here because looking at the film’s box office gross; clearly it connected with
the general public. The fact that
it accomplished all this along with a throw-away reference to the movie
Scanners, a generous amount of screen time devoted to Ed O’Neil’s intensely personal
confessions of creepy and potentially threatening sentiments, and a police
officer obsessed with full body cavity searches makes this film a treasure to
be passed on from generation to generation.
Here we come to a tricky proposition. I’d be lying if I said I was the number
one Aladdin super fan. Hell, I’d be lying if I said I’ve even
seen Aladdin within the last seven years. I think I caught it on TV one random night a few years ago,
actually. The reason I am
including it in this blog is because it is the first movie I can remember that
produced tears of laughter from me. In another of my “someone needs to write a dissertation about
this incredibly useless subject” ideas, I propose that the ebb and flow of
Robin Williams’ career from Aladdin to Patch Adams would make for a fascinating
subject. If you were of a certain
age range when Aladdin came out, everything Robin Williams did was catnip for
your funny bone. Even a truly
wretched, cloying, and manipulative piece of garbage like Mrs. Doubtfire became
incredibly popular thanks to Mr. Williams’ antics (just ask Nate Carota). Upon writing that last sentence, it
occurred to me that a dissertation is not needed to trace the trajectory of Mr.
Williams’ career. He is only following in a long line of promising stand-up comedians
who eventually tumble down the “family film” rabbit hole, never to be seen
again. The reason I seem to be
stuck on an infinite loop of analysis and then dis-crediting the analysis of
Mr. Williams’ career is because his performance in Aladdin was revelatory to my
young eyes. All of it has kind of
become standard boilerplate for Mr. Williams and animation voice-overs in
general But! (Warning: I’m about to pull a fact straight out of my ass) I
believe this was one of the first “celebrity” voice-over performances in the
history of animation. The first
time that an actor in animation was asked to bring his previously established
cinematic personality into the life of a character. The Genie is what would happen if Robin Williams suddenly
morphed into an animated version of himself. From that point of view, it’s a fascinating and groundbreaking
performance. The argument can be
made that this was not necessarily a good thing. Animation was long the safe-haven for hard working,
relatively anonymous voice-over artists, who bust their ass for an art form
very few took seriously. Robin
Williams ushered in the era of lazy, paycheck cashing dub-work from a laundry
list of actors whose names I won’t bother to mention here. This is all a roundabout
way of saying that while I’ve retained little of Aladdin, (which I’m sure is
blasphemy to some of my Disneyphiile friends, sorry!). Robin Williams still makes me laugh my
ass of when I watch it. In
hindsight, maybe this is a poor excuse for a 365 entry. Then again, if I’m flipping around one
day in the near future and Aladdin pops on, you can bet your magic carpet I’ll
stick with it.
If you’re beginning to notice a pattern regarding my lack of
ability to catch first entries in movie trilogies, trust me, you’re not
alone. There isn’t any kind of
“sexy” reason behind this, save for the fact that I was probably far too young
to see the first Batman upon its original theatrical release. I do not regret this turn of events in
any way, shape, or form because Batman
Returns was, and remains my favorite Batman movie to date. Batman Returns contains one of the most
disturbing opening sequences ever for a child to see in a comic book movie. It begins innocently enough with a well-off
Gothamite family living out a fairy tale existence in their snow-covered mansion
of cavernous proportions. From
that point on, everything proceeds to fall completely the fuck apart with
tragic consequences. A baby is
born, it makes horrible squawking sounds from its crib, and it possesses a pair
of flippers instead of digits on its hand. So far, so fucked up.
It gets worse. The family reasons
that it can’t bear the thought of a mutant-flipper baby and proceeds to drop it
in the river as it sets sail for a new life in the comforting filth and waste
of the sewer. In what is perhaps
Mr. Burton’s most diabolical twist of all; he casts Pee-Wee Herman as the patriarch
of this cursed family. Allow me to
pepper a little context here into these next few sentences. Batman Returns was released in June of
1992. In July of 1991, Paul Reubens
was arrested for public masturbation in a movie theater in Florida. The point of all of this is to convey
the sheer mind-blowing power of seeing Pee-Wee-Herman in a movie at all, let
alone one where he plays a guy who drops his baby into the river. Granted, he
wasn’t paying Pee-Wee, but I can still remember the reveal of his characters
face as vividly as anything else in the movie. So if I may step out of that bit of contextual table setting
for a moment, the reason I have elaborated so specifically on the opening five
minutes of Batman Returns is because this is one miserable super-hero movie. If memory serves, Roger Ebert’s review
of the film finds tremendous fault in this attribute. I’ll have to respectfully disagree with Mr. Ebert because it
is for this fact that I find Batman Returns to be the most satisfying of the
entire series. Batman Returns is
the equivalent of a party populated by all of the weird, lonely, and
off-putting characters from Mr. Burton’s entire career. Only, the party sucks because the sense
of community just makes everybody feel worse. The characters in Batman Returns need to be in therapy
followed by heavy doses of medication.
The word downer doesn’t even come close to adequately describing the
grim specter of loss that cloaks this film. Desires are suppressed until they not only rot the insides of
the doomed individuals, but also destroy any chance of a genuine connection when
they are finally released. It’s
grim, but in Burton’s hands also genuinely thrilling and alive.
This one is a doozy.
I have literally no idea where to begin with it. If memory serves, the impetus for me to
rent Malcolm X (I definitely did not see this in a theater) was based on
research for a school biography paper of Malcolm X. If that is any indication of what kind of student I was,
then so be it. From a young age I
consistently maintained a strong predilection for the civil rights
movement. It’s kind of difficult
to go to a Quaker school and not be somewhat enraptured by the speeches of
King. It’s only natural to assume
that reading about the life of King and the actions of the SCLC would
eventually lead me to the fascinating life story of Malcolm X. In my movie-obsessed adolescent mind, I
figured I could kill two birds with one stone by watching a movie and
simultaneously absorb an incredible amount of research. I got way more than I bargained for. I have no idea what kind of paper I
wrote based on that film (I’m sure it was terrible). I have a very specific memory of my Mom and Brother
purposefully keeping me from working on this paper because they wanted to go
see some Brad Pitt snooze-fest called “Legends of the Fall.” I have never
forgiven them for obstructing my studies. Spike Lee has said in subsequent interviews that Malcolm X
was a dream project for himself and cinematographer Ernest Dickerson when they
met as graduate students in film school.
It is obvious from frame one that this film was made with fire in the
belly. It hits the ground running
with an astonishingly vivid opening shot of “Boston: The War Years” and never looks back. Influenced by the opulent epics of
Lean, Coppola, and Selznick, Spike Lee made what would become (and eventually
bastardized) the new standard for the epic biographical film. It’s well over three hours in length,
spanning nearly the entirety of the first half of the twentieth century. It features an incredibly deep bench of
amazing performers in wonderfully nuanced roles, an unbelievable performance by
Denzel Washington, and perhaps most memorably, an actual trip to Mecca. Malcolm X is as captivating a piece of
cinema that Hollywood has ever produced.
The film, of course, has its detractors who slam Mr. Lee with the usual pejoratives
that he is sloppy, one-sided, and merely pushing a race-baiting agenda. Malcolm
X is the perfect example of the kind of filmmaker Mr. Lee actually is as
opposed to the angry ideologue he is most often painted as. Malcolm X is a fascinating and complex
portrait of a flawed, heroic human being that never forgets to be a gripping
and dazzlingly cinematic story of America.
You might wonder why I have selected the second Naked Gun
film for inclusion on my 365 blog as opposed to the first. In fact, I am wondering the exact same
thing myself. If my memory serves,
the introduction I received to the Naked Gun films was through the second
installment. If I am mixing up the
chronology here then this entire blog is essentially useless and for that, I
apologize. This film and the
entirety of the Naked Gun series symbolize a bygone era of studio comedy. If you’ll allow me to wax nostalgic for
a moment, this was a sub-genre combining elements of screwball, slapstick,
satire, silliness, and spoofing.
It was comedy as a perpetual joke machine with no larger purpose or
genuine interest in telling a coherent story. This kind of comedy obviously had it precedents (I hope
nobody wants to tar and feather me for mentioning the Marx Brothers and Naked
Gun in the same sentence), but something happened to it in the late 90’s/early 00’s. It’s easy to pinpoint the exact film
that made the entire genre collapse in on itself like a dying star (Scary
Movie, cough). Nowadays I can’t
think of a more detested type of movie than the “spoof-everything-that-breathes”
mutant bastard child of the Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker offspring. Epic Movie, Date
Movie, Meet the Spartans, Vampires Suck, ugh, I’m pissing myself off just
thinking about these ungodly pieces of shit. In any event, Naked Gun is the apex of the genre and I am
forever grateful to it for introducing me to the likes of Leslie Nielsen,
George Kennedy, Robert Goulet, Priscilla Presley, Richard Griffits, and
Orenthal the Murderin’ Bus Driver.
If I may also proceed with some dime-store psychoanalysis twenty-one
years after the fact, Naked Gun 2 also contains some pretty strong progressive observations
on the environment, the military-industrial complex, capitalism, and the
American political system in general.
In fact, Naked Gun 2 began my long-running hatred of then Chief of Staff
John Sununu. That guy sucks. I think it’s safe to say that the Naked
Gun 2 ½ made me the man I am today. (Note to future DVD releases of the Naked
Gun 2 1/2: please put that pull-quote on your DVD. Thank you.) Cut to: 15 years later and the Zucker
brothers have become 9/11-converted conservatives. Go watch their coming-out party: “An American Carol”, or if
you have eyeballs and a brain, don’t.
“This is Frank Drebin, Police Squad. Throw down your guns, and
come on out with your hands up. Or come on out, then throw down your guns,
whichever way you wanna do it. Just remember the two key elements here: one,
guns to be thrown down; two, come on out!”
Holy mother of god is this movie fantastic and I have no
shame in making such a statement. Nor do I have any problem admitting that movie
is perhaps 99.9% bullshit, or that it might as well be the ravings of an
ill-informed tea party-truther standing on a street corner. I simply do not give a shit about any
of that. This is one of the most ambitious, massively scaled, and flat out
enthralling studio films ever made. I have heard the film referred to as a big
budget experimental avant-garde art project and I would not disagree. The
arsenal of cinematic tricks that Oliver Stone has at his disposal has never
been put to better use (by him or maybe any director attempting something
similar). What Stone has done here, with a merciless skill for presentation, is
put you in the mindset of a conspiracy theorist. It’s a maddening place full of
swirling, contradictory ideas and often-hallucinatory conclusions as the end
result. It’s intoxicating and no
matter what you believe, by the end of JFK, Stone has convinced you of
something. You might call that propaganda, but since the film pushes no clear
solution, I find that to be a dubious charge. I think what Stone is getting at
here is a generational disillusionment that kicked in after the most turbulent
events of the 1960’s. The kind of disillusionment that produces far-flung,
wacked-out theories about 11 dimensional chess moves being operated by all
sectors of the government that act as a protective blanket for most rational
explanations for real world horrors.
If you read about any man made or natural disaster in the last 30 years,
you will also read about a guy who knows “the truth.” JFK documents the
beginning of that collective agreement to live in denial. But it's also about the noble pursuit of truth and justice in the face of incredible bureaucratic obstruction. Where do you draw the line between obsession and what's really there in front of you? Much to the contrary of the film's detractors, I believe Stone is asking a question, not making any kind of black and white case. If this all sounds like a big dose of downer,
fear not, for Stone had made an absolutely entertaining movie. One could argue that beneath all the
rage and rants, Stone has actually made a Frank Capra movie. Watch Costner do his best Jimmy Stewart impression
in the closing arguments as the prosecution for the trial. As a result, the film never tastes like bitter medicine, just look at the parade of amazing
character actors popping in and out of the film. Try not to watch the Mr. X
monologue without your jaw dropping to the floor. The amount of visual material with which the film arms
itself is head spinning. This is the kind of film where one sits back and marvels at a group of incredibly talented craftsmen working in
harmonious synchronicity, as they produce with effortless grace what can only
be described as a masterpiece.
The raison d’être, as it were, for my formative cinephile
years could be broken down to an oft-quoted prognosis of the inner workings of
my mind. “Ethan will only see things with explosions in them.” “You wouldn’t
have like it Ethan, there weren’t any explosions in it.” Such small-minded
criteria haunted me for years, well into my teens as a matter of fact. It would
be dishonest to deny these charges so I will use this as an entry to point to
perhaps the most explosion-y of all action movies: Terminator 2. Being that I
was only 7 when this came out, I can’t speak with 100% accuracy to the pure
cultural phenomenon of the film. It’s safe to argue that this was perhaps my
gateway drug to the idea of a “summer movie.” This shit was everywhere and
astonishingly enough, incredibly accessible to mature young boys and girls of
all ages even though it was a R-rated movie. Why? I have absolutely no idea. I
chalk this up to writer/director James Cameron’s astonishingly innate ability
to create pure pop culture events out of his cinematic ass. The idea of a new
film by James Cameron now fills me with dread for that very reason. Every film since T2 just irritates me
more and more upon initial viewing and subsequent reflection (about which I’m
sure he’s heartbroken, sleeping on a pile of money with many beautiful ladies).
There’s no denying that he’s a
scarily talented craftsmen, I just feel like the entire success of the second
Terminator film is due to the fact that it played incredibly well to a group of
people who just wanted to see shit blow up (i.e. me). I watch T2 and I cringe
at his awkward, horribly on-the-nose dialogue (something George Lucas is
regularly raked over the coals for yet Cameron remains relatively
unscathed). The T2 screenplay is
like an automaton trying to approximate human speech. Which, in all fairness,
doesn’t really detract too much from the quality of the film. More to the point,
it’s his simplistic view of human relationships and human nature that
ultimately make the film a hollow experience. With all that being said, shit
blows up real good in this movie and that car chase in the beginning is
spectacular. The shoot out at sky-net is a terrific set piece. Linda Hamilton
busts her ass to make Sarah Connor a compelling human being. And dammit, it is
impossible not to be moved by the John and the Terminator’s goodbye scene. Ah
fuck it, Cameron; you’ve done it again.
Unfortunately, these days one has to adopt an apologist
stance when discussing the works of Tim Burton. 2012 was particularly rough on
him when Dark Shadows and Frankenweenie were unfairly maligned by the fickle
tastes of popular consensus. And that’s failing to mention the fact that his
previous film was Alice in Wonderland. Enough said. This wasn’t always the case
though, for throughout the late 80’s and into the 90’s he was the goth golden
boy. And for my money, there aren’t many other films I can think of that
demonstrate his wide array of talents as much as Edward Scissorhands. You’ll
have to forgive me because my memory is failing me at the moment. I can’t
remember if this was the first Burton I saw in theaters or if it was Batman. Nor
can I remember if I had seen the immortal Pee Wee’s Big Adventure of
Beetlejuice prior to this. Point being, this entry is of dubious origins,
however, Edward Scissorhands is so good it doesn’t matter if I can’t come up
with an interesting story behind it.
Scissorhands is perhaps Burton’s most successful modern day fairy tale
in that it showcases an astonishing array of iconic moments that are steeped in
genuine emotion. It’s a very rare thing for a film to achieve such a
combination but Scissorhands makes it look effortless. As an introduction to
the world of Burton, it is invaluable.
It’s also important to remember that this was a major career
stepping-stone for the relatively new filmmaker. Up to this point his resume
only included the previously mentioned films (and yes, yes the shorts and all
those years he spent as a Disney animator. What am I, his biographer?) What
those titles indicated was someone closer in spirit to a cinematic prankster
than a genuine storyteller. In the
case of Batman, he was a spirited protector and tour guide of the public’s
collective imagination. It was with Edward Scissorhands that all the pieces
came together with the utmost eloquence. The production design, Danny Elfman’s
score, the oddball comedic bits, and the immaculate performances under Burton’s
visionary direction tell a story that is simply put: beautiful.
This entry might be on the tricky side considering I can’t
even remember the last time I watched The Witches. The reason I’m including it
in this blog compilation is because it marks two firsts for my blossoming
cinephilia and me. The first being that it marks one of the earliest occasions
of being aware that a book had been adapted to film. Not only was I aware that
this title existed as a book, but that it was a book written by Roald Dahl (who
was my Woodstock at the time). Secondly, as far as I can remember, my initial
contact with The Witches came through home video. To this date, I don’t think
I’ve ever seen the film in its entirety in a theater. That’s a shame.
Massive VHS consumption was a large part of my movie watching diet. I
can vividly remember the weekly trips we made to the video store as holding as
much promise as recess in School. Somebody much smarter and much more
thoughtful than I will have to write the definitive account of how
VHS/Laserdisc/DVD ushered in all of these newfangled viewing habits we’re
always obsessing over and how significantly it changed film. Come to think of
it, I’m sure that piece has been written, probably thousands of times over
too. Whew. In any event, The Witches
is remarkably frightening and purposefully off-putting for a children’s
film. The Jim Henson creature
design certainly doesn’t skimp on the nasty. The fact that they let the guy who
made Walkabout direct a mainstream family film certainly suggests a bygone era
of courage in studio filmmaking. The Witches may not have defibrillated my
nerve endings the way Willy Wonka did (more on that later). But it is certainly
a worthy addition to the Roald Dahl film adaptation pantheon.
Update: I happened to catch the Witches on television a couple
weekends ago and let me assure you, the grotesqueries in this film know no
bounds. It is every bit as
horrifying as I remember, and aside from an unnecessary sub-plot involving the
hot naked affairs of Rowan Atkinson with the hotel staff, it remains a
satisfying experience. Aside from
the creature effects, Anjelica Huston is the MVP of the whole enterprise. The emphatic visual choices also carry
a lot of the weight in brining Dahl’s world to the screen, made all the more
remarkable by a seemingly limited budget.
Ah yes, my beloved turtles. In thinking about the best angle
from which to approach this particular entry, I came up with a very simple
observation: the teenage mutant ninja turtles owned all of my mental real
estate for several years. If I wasn’t watching the animated series, I was watching
the movies. If I wasn’t playing the video games, I was playing with the laundry
bin full of action figures in my possession. Yet, with all that immersion into Turtle paraphernalia, I
don’t have the slightest idea what initiated my obsession. It must have been
the cartoon, which premiered in 1987, and maybe the fact that they were green?
(another one of my favorite colors). I remember an incredibly brief flirtation
with karate around that time in my life (I think we’re talking about a lesson
and a half, maybe less). And of course, like most children and adults, I
gobbled up pizza without batting an eye. In that regard, The Teenage Mutant
Ninja Turtles could not have been MORE up my alley. I remember an incredibly
fervent sense of excitement the day before the release of TMNT: The Movie. I
was aware of what this movie was, I was aware of what I would mentally acquire
by seeing it, and I was super pumped for it. Which, in hindsight, is
interesting because it speaks more to the marketing power of the TMNT brand
than the actual quality of the film. An adult at the time would have to confirm
this for me but something tells me that if you were a boy between the ages of 6
and 12 around 1990, you couldn’t get away from the TMNT marketing bonanza being
shoved down your throat. Anyway, what does this have to do with the movie? I
guess it’s a rather round about way of saying that I remember the hype more
than the movie. Or rather, I’m not sure if my fondness for the film stems from
its quality or the excitement that surrounded it. I remember responding to Raphael and his bad attitude
constantly getting him into physical and emotional trouble (I had a bit of a
temper problem myself, plus he had the red head band so he was instantly my favorite).
I’m glad the movie introduced me to Elias Koteas at such a young age, one of
those actors who brighten up any movie in which he appears. And the movie
delivers exactly what it promises: wisecracking mutant turtles karate chopping
a gang of masked, pajama-wearing runaway youth. What more could a six-year-old
ask for?
I consider this phase in my cinematic upbringing to be the Looney Tunes period. Gremlins 2 and Who
Framed Roger Rabbit both revel in the anarchic spirit of that wonderful
animated enterprise. Gremlins 2: The New Batch is basically a live action
series of Looney Tunes shorts wrapped around a barely-there wisp of a plot.
That’s not meant to be a put-down, in fact, one of Gremlins 2’s most successful
feats is the coup it stages at the palace of mainstream commercial cinema. The
movie is so devoid of purpose and so full of mindless self-indulgence that it
could really stand in as a “fuck you” to almost any sequel ever made. What sets
Gremlins 2 apart is that it is deliriously funny. Again, it probably goes
without saying, that none of this made any sense to me at the time of my initial
viewing. I missed maybe 80% of the jokes, I didn’t get the satire at work
(particularly the take down of Donald Trump’s New York), and in all honesty, I
only went to see it because the lobby display had a cardboard animatronic
gremlin popping in an out of a desk. That shit was cool. So while my abilities
to absorb and understand the cultural critique were limited, the sense of fun
the movie possesses was undeniably contagious. The movie breaks the fourth wall
at the drop of a hat, and instead of feeling distanced; you feel like you are
in on the joke. Perhaps that is because the movie itself can’t believe it’s
getting away with half of the shit it does. I have to be totally honest here
and admit my preference for Gremlins 2 as opposed to the original. I’m pretty
sure I had seen Gremlins before seeing the sequel but my memory could be mixed
up about that. It’s not that Gremlins is entirely inferior to its follow-up,
but it’s certainly a lot grimmer and with a shockingly high body count for a
movie of its type. All of these attributes could describe the far more
impressive film. But for me being the age that I was and my then state of mind
(Looney Tunes), I guess I wasn’t in the mood for mean and nasty. And this was my cinematic introduction
to New York City (more on that later), I’m sure that didn’t hurt.
We kick off my “knock-off” 365 blog with the granddaddy of
them all, Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to imply
that WFRR is the granddaddy of all
cinema, just my perspective of it. This was the first film I remember seeing in
theaters that actually registered with me on an image to eyeball producing
pleasurable neurological connections level. This was also the film during which
the infamous “skittle vomit” incident occurred. I feel that I can best sum up
that story with a simple math equation: (Large bag of skittles+full dinner+2
Chocolate Milkshakes=Rainbow colored vomit all over the floor of the ladies
room). I can’t quite remember what compelled me to want to see WFRR, I have a
vague notion of liking the name Roger when I was four-years-old. It’s possible
that an animated talking rabbit that dressed in red over-alls (one of my
favorite colors) just really tickled my fancy. I don’t remember being aware of
the fact that this was the first time that two titans of animation: Bugs Bunny
and Mickey Mouse, had dropped their corporate entanglements and appeared on
screen together. Nor do I remember being aware of the fact that basically every
major character from the history of animation has at least a cameo in the film. I especially don’t remember being aware
of the fact that the film itself is a groundbreaking work in the history of
cinema, seamlessly melding state of the art animation with live-action filmmaking.
I think it was the rabbit in red-overalls that really did it for me. That being
said, WFRR is an irreverent, eye-popping, whacked-out, screwball take on the
Los Angeles noir genre. To my eyes at the time, I just liked watching that damn
rabbit bumble around and fuck things up only to miraculously save the day at
the end. It’s been a while since
I’ve re-visited WFRR. I remember my most recent viewing of it to be a little
dis-heartening in that certain moments came off unnecessarily lecherous and
creepy. So as to not end the first entry on a downer note, I will say that I
look forward to introducing future generations to the exciting, pervy fun of
Who Framed Roger Rabbit. And to
scare the living shit out of them with the concept of “dip.”
I know I've asked to go on many adventures with me here at anti-fanboy industries. I hope you'll agree to join me for one more. This time the adventure you seek will not be fraught with quoted song lyrics or frothing anticipation over a new Star Wars movie (again). This time I wish to take you on a journey through 365 films that have defined the very man whose words you are reading at this very moment as we speak. That's right, each day, you'll get a new blog entry of monumental importance about a movie I watched this one time. There are some you might agree with, some you might disagree with, or the most likely option: you won't even have read the entry at all. So sit back, read for a few minutes (seriously, each entry is just a paragraph long. what could you possibly have better to do), and then dive into the list of your own 365 films.
In closing, gentle reader, I'd like to thank you.`What's that?' you say? Me thanking you? No, it's not a misprint, for you see, I enjoyed writing this blog as much as you enjoyed reading it. The End.
Cameron Crowe’s 2001
sci-fi-remake-romantic-psychological-Tom Cruise-phantasmagoric-drama was an
incredibly divisive release in the waning days of that year. Okay, I added
phantasmagoric for effect, and while I’m not entirely certain what genre that is;
I know it’s definitely NOT Vanilla Sky. There were a handful of notable critics
who found the heady mixture of pop-obsessed science fiction and vain white man
redeems himself allegory to a be a complete disaster. Others, including myself,
found it to be an ambitious, yet flawed, but ultimately moving work of one
director purposefully impregnating another’s vision with his own directorial
DNA. It’s a film where homage gives way to assimilation, and eventually
domination. It might be a remake of a Spanish-language film, but Cameron Crowe
is the only filmmaker who could have made this particular film.
Upon exiting the theater that cold
December day, (it might not have been cold, but this was back when weather used
to match up with it’s seasonal alignment on a somewhat more consistent basis),
the first thought that popped into my head was: “I think I liked nearly every
single song on that soundtrack.” My brother Nate commented that he in fact
“owned nearly every single song on that soundtrack.” The fact that music played
such an integral part of the film should have come to no surprise. As this was
the same director who gave us the In Your Eyes/Say Anything boom box moment,
the Tiny Dancer/Almost Famous bus sing-a-long, and most certainly influenced my
life long love of Pearl Jam with the inclusion of two of their tracks on the
Singles soundtrack. A soundtrack, I should add, I bought when it came out when I
had little to no interest in seeing the actual movie. I felt something
different about Vanilla Sky, perhaps because it was a more modern collection of
bands, and I was at the perfect age to discover that kind of music. Here is
just an idea of the bands I eventually became enamored with because of Mr.
Crowe’s track selection skills. Red House Painters, Mark Kozelek, Sun Kil Moon,
Sigur Ros, Jonsi, Beth Orton, Chemical Brothers, Looper, Josh Rouse. Not to
mention the acts I was previously acquainted with such as Bob Dylan, R.E.M.,
Radiohead, and Jeff Buckley. Spiritualized’s title track from their landmark
album, “Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space” was also used in the
film, although not included in the soundtrack. In all fairness, Nate had
previously introduced me to Spiritualized that fall with the use of a track in
one of his student projects.
There was one band and one track
that particularly stood out for me. Sadly, it was also not included on the
actual soundtrack. It is the last piece of music used in the film (aside from
the Paul McCartney end credits original), and it’s there to score the incredibly
powerful ending. During the film’s release, it was only available as a live
bootleg and it wouldn’t be until November of the next year, 2002, that it would
gain a proper release. It is the song of many names. It is Sigur Ros’
Njósnavélin, aka, The Nothing Song, aka Untitled Track Number Four.
This song and sequence immediately
grabbed my attention as soon as it began. One reason for this might be that the
preceding 10-15 minutes are nothing but wall-to-wall necessary exposition. And
in these moments, we are meant to challenge nearly every single piece of
information we had been given by the film up to this point. Then again, maybe
we aren’t. If the explanation were the end of the film, it would rob the story
of the shot of adrenaline it had acquired wherein David Aames’ life starts to
fall to absolute shit and chaos.After
this barrage of information, something interesting happens when Aames gets to
the top floor of the literally sky-scraping building located in the middle of
Manhattan. It gets quiet. Now, that’s not to say that the dialogue becomes non-existent
and the film becomes nothing more than a selection of free-association abstract
images. The dialogue that remains becomes a little sparser and a little more
oblique. The lasting auditory effect we are left with is the music of Sigur Ros.
What I love about how this particular piece is used, is that it is all at once:
frightening, soothing, loud, quiet, distant, uncomfortably close, strange, and
then ultimately as natural to the soundscape of the scene as the wind. With
Jonsi’s otherworldly vocals, the wail of the lead guitar as it is played with a
bow, and the steady pounding of the percussion, the song comes to reflect the
ultimate fate of the world of David Aames. It’s important to make
that distinction because this final scene is not just about the obliteration of
one man, but of his entire world. Given that one of the titles of the track is
Nothing Song, it makes sense that the scene attempts to capture both the
creation and destruction of a way of life.
Once Aames makes his leap, this is
when I feel the film becomes its most eloquently expressive self, and it does
this entirely free of dialogue. After some potentially (too) cutesy exchanges
between David and Sofia, and a meta-audience-as-spectator-and-character-in-the-film-line
from Noah Taylor, the dialogue is finished. Nothing Song takes over and David
takes the plunge. There are many ways to
look at this and perhaps the most obvious is that the seed planted in the
beginning of the film about David’s fear of heights had to be addressed
eventually. Another is that taking a leap of faith was a common science fiction
trope at the time, if you’ll recall the many sequences of people jumping in the
original Matrix (a film without which, Vanilla Sky probably would never have
been made). The interpretation that makes the most sense to me is that this is
a suicide.It is a suicide because he’s
killing the life he has now and the world he’s always known. At the same time,
he’s most certainly taking something with him. He is told he will wake up 150
years later in an all too real world with little more than the clothes on his
back (or not, depending on what kind of future it is). His fate is yet to be
determined and nothing will be in his control. The song ultimately succeeds in this sequence
because it conveys a tone that is at once hopeful and fatalistic. By selecting
a song with such depth of emotion, Crowe seems to imply that within this death,
there will be a life. Within the mad rush to the ground, there will be an
epiphany. And finally that within the fabulous life of David Aames, a life
over-flowing with consumption and excess, all it amounts to is nothing more
than a series of fleeting memories.Memories filled with life, but memories nonetheless. As past, present,
future, family, pop-culture, friends, lovers, glances, shrugs, hugs, kisses,
experiences, regrets, and the rest of the over-whelming nature of existence collide
on impact, David truly opens his eye for the first time in his life.The Nothing Song embraces the acceptance that
we may never understand the ingredients that make up a life.Imagine you are watching a home movie of
yourself as a baby. Clearly, the events on screen transpired exactly as filmed.
You were most certainly present during the filmed activities. Yet, it’s almost
as if you’re looking at someone else’s life. You are watching someone else’s
story.What happened to the experiences
and sensations you had to have felt? Will they all come rushing back to us the
moment before it all ends?The music of
Sigur Ros and the films of Cameron Crowe do not pretend to come anywhere close
to answering this question.By
presenting this moment with a flush of images, song lyrics written in an
indecipherable made-up language, and a melody flushed with eloquent eeriness,
they simply ask: when the time comes, what will you see? What do you want to
see?
