Psycho

(1998.  Dir.  Gus Van Sant.  Vince Vaughn.  Julianne Moore.  Vigo Mortensen.  William H. Macy.  Anne Heche.  104 min.)  A mixed bag based on Robert Bloch’s smartly written 1959 thriller, the granddaddy of modern horror novels even before there was such a marketing category.  (All right, you can give me an argument over Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend.  But that was as much science fiction as horror and didn’t spawn the legions of imitations.)  

Bloch’s Psycho was very much an Oedipal tale of madness, mostly from Norman’s Bate’s claustrophobicily twisted point of view.  Tame by today’s standards, one of the surprises reading the book was how much Hitchcock pushed the envelope of the time, 1960 film exploding the violence and carnality way beyond what Bloch described.  And with the heavy lifting already done, it’s understandable if purists would avoid Gus Van Sant’s remake which not only uses Joe Sefano’s screenplay but tosses in an almost shot-by-shot recreation to boot.  I’m a big fan of Gus Van Sant – in the business he’s got what they call a ‘rich eye’ and the composition of his shots are usually surprising in subtle ways.  I really enjoyed Drug Store Cowboy; Good Will Hunting is the only movie I can think of that I’d call Emersonian.  If other actors have played Hamlet then there’s nothing particularly wrong with reviving a classic.  

So is the new Psycho worth the effort?  From black and white to color is intriguing, promising a hothouse flavor to Marion’s Crane's theft of 400 thousand dollars (adjusted for inflation), from a real estate office where a loudmouth millionaire (Chad Everett of all people) paid in cash.  But the first twelve minutes feels like they’re still in mothballs – the acting lacks the urgency of the original, and only when James Remar’s State Trooper knocks on Marion’s car window to see why she’s parked and asleep on a berm does the movie click into it’s rhythm, the rhythm of Sefano reworking Bloch’s novel to fit Hitchcock’s vision of guilt and fear.  

Anne Heche is furtive with a fizz; Vince Vaughn looks like his shoes are too tight; and I can almost make out what Vigo Mortensen is saying in his vague South Western accent.  Julianne Moore shows up and simply takes over, Robert Forster is Simon Oakland’s evil twin, and Bernard Herrmann’s musical score reverentially in place doesn’t hurt.  The best I can say is there’s still a hypnotic story in there somewhere.  

The Manchurian Candidate.

(1962.  Dir. John Frankenheimer.  Frank Sinatra.  Laurence Harvey.  Janet Leigh.  Angela Landsbury.  Henry Silva.  James Gregory.  Khigh Dheigh.  127 min.)  If the word gripping is ever used, here's the benchmark.  Truly superb movie based on Richard Condon’s 1959 bestseller.  Condon’s style was lurid, hard-boiled and kind of breathless, the writing akin to that of a press agent which Condon was in Hollywood until he quit the bizz to write fiction.  Though the book was more political satire with elements of a thriller, Frankenheimer’s distillation flips the equation around; judicious rearranging of some scenes and a grabbing of all the books best lines puts the 'sleuth for the truth' story front and center.  Sergeant Raymond Shaw (Laurence Harvey) returns from The Korean War a Congressional Medal of Honor winner, having saved his patrol from a platoon of Chinese infantry.  Or did he?  His superior officer Captain Marco (Sinatra), who was also on the patrol that disappeared for days is having recurring nightmares and second thoughts about what was said happened and what really happened.  Whether by accident or design Frankenheimer’s black and white photography and expressionist style give good Twilight Zone.  And in some scenes, like where programmed-killer Shaw shoots his father-in-law and wife and has no memory of it, there is a sublime horror.  The last fourth of the movie the best thirty minutes in American cinema.  That and a marvelous cast with James Gregory as an idiot right wing Senator and Shaw’s step father; Angela Landsbury pre Jessica Fletcher as Shaw’s conniving, power hungry mommy; and the great Khigh Dheigh (Wo Fat from Hawaii 5-0) the Chinese brainwashing expert.  How can I get you to see this movie?  I know … why don’t you pass the time playing a game of solitaire …

Unthinkable.

(2010.  Dir.  Gregor Jordan.  Samuel L. Jackon.  Carrie-Ann Moss.  Michael Sheen.  97 min.)  The controversy and speculation concerning director Kathryn Bigelow not getting an Academy Award nomination for Zero Dark Thirty, since some see the film as condoning enhanced interrogation techniques, is a big pile of merde, pardon my French.  Even though I'm an enthused admirer of Ms. Bigelow's work (The Hurt Locker was mind blowing; really loved Near Dark) her defense of the film in an Op Ed piece in the L.A. Times where she said that the administration that made such techniques permissible should be investigated, is a small pile. People in Hollywood don't live in the world of life or death consequences. They live in a world of creature comforts where they can wax self-righteous from their corner offices, the decisions they make not deciding who lives and who dies. At least they shouldn't.  And it's not like this subject hasn't been treated in American films before - quite recently as a matter of fact in Gregor Jordan's startling indie thriller Unthinkable with Samuel L. Jackson. Where were the loudmouths then? (Not that I'd wish that on the makers of Unthinkable.) 

Unthinkable builds a dramatic narrative around the thought experiment tossed about by Harvard Law professor Alan Dershowitz post 9/11 where he wondered how far America would be willing to bend its Civil Liberties if you had an impending terrorist attack, say a hidden nuclear device set to go off in a couple of hours, and a terrorist in our custody with knowledge of the device's location. What would we do? How far would we go? If I remember the professor’s argument correctly he, said in a special case like that extraordinary steps are permissible.

Let's just stop right here and point out how patently ridiculous Mr. Dershowitz's 'thought experiment' really is - okay we've got a dirty bomb hidden somewhere in the city.  It's set to go off in a half hour, killing ten of millions of people.  We have the terrorist mastermind in our custody but he won't talk.  What would we do? How far would we go? What are the odds of something like that happening in the real world?  Pretty slim if you ask me.  What are the chances we'd find this idea many times over in a slush pile of screenplays in some movie producer's office?  Probably pretty good.  It's a plot ready made for a movie poster.

Dershowitz has given us 'the ticking time bomb' plot, something I sure all writers of suspence fiction have toyed with, plus a philosophical sidecar of 'does the end's justify the means?'  Fine.  But I'll give you the real world step-by-step. The Government would bring in an investigator like Samuel L.'s 'H' and one way or the other he'll pull the information out of the bad guy. (Unthinkable ups the ante by making the terrorist with knowledge of the bomb's location an American.) Spoiler alert: If you haven't seen the film read no further … but the Unthinkable involves bringing in the terrorist's kids and threatening to blow their brains out in front of Dad if he doesn't come across with the bomb location. 

Now at this point the movie gives us a convoluted twist. It will not end with the terrorist caving and 'H' saving the day since the terrorist realized ‘H’ was quite capable of doing what he says he’d do. Instead 'H' ges tpretty disgusted with the ever dwindling set of military personnel surrounding him (to leave him holding the bag as it were) and actually sets the terrorist free who then grabs a gun and shoots himself. 'H' takes the children, presumable to safety, and what happens next is left unresolved. 

There is also an alternative ending to the movie where the issue of whether the bomb goes off or not is resolved. 

But let's say instead 'H' takes the viewer up to the Unthinkable in a more incremental fashion. "Do you see these tin-snips? Do you see those ten little fingers, ten little toes?" 'H', or anybody like him, risks his reputation as a human being the farther down the slope he goes, betting that the terrorist will give up the location of the bomb because the thought of such brutality leveled against his child is more than he'll be able to bear. Does this shock you? Would you prefer the bomb going off and taking out the American City where your family lives? That's the real question.

Of course if the story ever gets out, even with a good result such as in Zero Dark Thirty, the politicians and leftwing media morons would hang ‘H’ out to dry, the type of doofs running around saying 'The US Government goes too far in protecting our citizens', that is until the next terrorist attack where the exact same doofs would then be saying, 'The US Government doesn't go far enough.' The problem with most American is they are unwilling or unable to face the contradictions inside themselves, or in human nature for that matter.

My friend Popeye turned me on to Unthinkable. I watched it and the next day I saw him in The Dragon Weir and we talked about it. Popeye said, "I don't think the American people would accept something like that."

But I said to him do you know what's funny? The American people have already accepted something along these lines. You’ll find a very similar situation in the movie Dirty Harry. For those of you unfamiliar with the story, a psychotic calling himself Scorpio is terrorizing San Francisco. ( Loosely based on The Zodiac Killings. See David Fincher's excellent film Zodiac for that version of events.) Anyway in Dirty Harry, Scorpio kidnaps a teenage girl and buries her underground with only a limited amount of air. He sends a message to City Hall saying that if he doesn't get a ransom of say ten K he's going to let the girl die. So naturally Inspector Callahan gets the assignment of delivering the ransom and that entails him hoofing it all over San Francisco from payphone to payphone as Scorpio gives him new locations. Harry is smart enough to know the girl is probably dead already, but since there's that slim chance she might still be alive, Harry goes down the slope.

To make this long story longer, Harry gets a lead sending him to Scorpio's hideout – a football stadium where this freak has been living in some small room. Harry gets inside the stadium, switches on the lights, and a foot chase ensues with Scorpio making a break for it across the field. Harry in hot pursuit fires his gun and hits Scorpio in the leg and Scorpio goes down. Harry then runs up to the now wounded Scorpio, sticks his Magnum in the madman's face and says, "Where's the girl?" Scorpio starts screaming please don't hurt me Mr. Big Bad Policeman. I'm wounded. I need medical attention. Harry repeats: "Where is the girl?" Scorpio is still wailing away that he's the victim in all this and Harry has had enough. He tromps on Scorpio's wounded leg (uh, torture) and forces the information out of him. Of course as it turns out the girl is dead, and the politicians hang Harry out to dry which is the reason behind tossing his badge away at the end of the movie. Can't say I blamed him.

"But Alex you're asking us to descend to the terrorist's level." So what makes you think we haven't been down there all along? Threaten to shoot a man's child in order to save the lives of thousands, maybe tens of thousands? You've been Dershowitzed.  

Don't listen to him.  See the movie instead.

God Told Me To

(1976.  Dir. Larry Cohen.  Tony LoBianco, Sandy Dennis, Sylvia Sidney, Sam Levine, Deborah Raffin.  92 min.)  Larry Cohen is America’s greatest indie/exploitation filmmaker, the most visually interesting and he doesn’t get the credit he deserves.  His rival in these sweepstakes is the much better known Roger Corman.  Whereas Corman in the hundreds of movies he’s either produced and/or directed gives us middle of the road shocks with a California hipster’s humor stashed right around the corner, Cohen is New York City before Times Square was tourist friendly.  He goes right for the jugular.  

He’s also a master of wingding storytelling.  God Told Me To, quintessential Cohen with a mélange of film styles, is a tale of space alien abduction and impregnation that beats the X-File to the punch by seventeen years.  Nowadays mass shootings are part of America’s modern collective memory, but there’s nothing new about them and God Told Me To’s terrifying opening has a sniper on a water tower dropping over a dozen NYC pedestrians.  When confronted on the tower by Detective Peter Nicholas (Lo Bianco) and asked why he shot all those people, the sniper simply says, “God told me to,” and does a header.  It’s enough to give practicing Catholic Nicholas nightmares and you too - it’s only the beginning of a series of murders where the killer mutters, “God told me to” before expiring, a refrain that sweeps Nichols and the viewer along in a tidal wave of religious paranoia.  Well written, acted, and directed, surprisingly gripping, at times darkly funny and oh so New Yawk, this is one sci-fi horror flick that delivers the goods – it builds and builds and builds and just when you think it can’t get any crazier, it does.  Why do I feel compelled to sing the praises of Larry Cohen?  God told me to.

For A Few Dollars More.

(1965.  Dir.  Sergio Leone.  Clint Eastwood.  Lee Van Cleef.  131 min.)  The redheaded stepchild of the three westerns Sergio Leone made with Clint Eastwood.  A Fistful of Dollars, the film that created the Italian western sub-genre, had built-in suspense being a re-do of Arkia Kkurosawa’s Yojimbo; while this was topped by The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly which spreads a three hour plus Civil War epic across the screen in a way that bested anything Hollywood ever attempted on the subject.  So unfortunately because of these book-ends For A Few Dollars gets over looked or even dismissed and that’s a shame.  A Fistful of Dollars got the ball rolling, but For A Few Dollars More introduces themes that went on to set wise the non Leone Italian westerns like Django and Blindman.  Starting from scratch this time it’s a great character study between The Man With No Name and Colonel Mortimer.  Second it presents groundbreaking contributions to the Western in general, with the sadism of the villains having us believe that these are truly lawless territories, or a Poe-like sense of the macabre that makes the death in the air amazingly tangible.  Bad guy Indio’s secret and relived memory is the rape of a woman who reaches under a pillow and shoots herself during the act, a necrophilia that deepens his corruption.  So this degenerate leads a gang of bank robbers with varying prices on their heads, making them all a bounty hunter’s dream with both TMWNN and Mortimer after any cash to be had, causing a rivalry.  Later an almost mentor / student relationship forms as they become partners.  Finally then, when all the secrets are revealed, dare I say a sense of sympathy when we find out why Mortimer was after Indio in the first place, letting TMWNN collect the lion’s share of the bounty.  A unique film?  Show me another movie where a wagon load of dead bodies makes for a happy ending and buy you a train ticket to El Paso.

Superman II

(1980.  Dir. Richard Lester.  Christopher Reeve, Margot Kidder, Gene Hackman, Terence Stamp.  127 min.)  Second outing with Christopher Reeve as the ultimate boyscout and the most memorable of the series, putting Superman in the position where he’ll give his powers away so he can be with Lois.  Now that’s a Warner Bros. movie.  In a before the titles prequel of sorts, Kyrpton’s three most dangerous criminals are jailed in a flashing triangle by Jor-el and tossed into space.  After that logical absurdities abound, like how in a universe this big does General Zod, Ursa, and Non manage to land in Superman’s neighborhood?  (And don't ask how Clark sans his powers gets back to The North Pole on foot.)  But director Richard Lester (Hard Day’s Night, Help, The Three Musketeers) keeps it all bouncing along rather nicely, with Terence Stamp’s wonderfully menacing Zod as the main reason to watch and the pre-CGI special effects giving off an old school charm.  All hail General Zod or he'll put a real hurtin' on you.

The Messenger - The Story of Joan of Arc.

(Dir. Luc Besson.  Milla Jovovich, John Makokvich, Faye Dunaway, Dustin Hoffman, Vincent Cassel.  158 min. International version).  Director Luc Besson (The Professional, The Fifth Element) does have a seriously perverse streak, and in that respect he reminds me of Roman Polanski.  But where Polanski is a meticulous filmmaker aiming for art (at least most of the time) Besson is a splashy filmmaker aiming for entertainment and in that respect his bloody, revisionist retelling of the story of Joan of Arc succeeds mostly by going big.  Milla Jovovich, a fine actress, has her work cut out for her bringing one of history’s great enigmas back to life, and with her athleticism and beauty she really sells the role.  When Joan rides around an army of 13^th Century French soldiers flat on their backs after just having their butts kicked by the British and rallies them to attack one more time, you do get the feeling that she must have been a phenom. Yet that’s where the movie seems to slip out from under you and becomes less about Joan per se and more about the mystery of charisma.  Joan as proto-rock star?  Fashion icon?  I did say perverse?  Fortunately Besson loves the subject and is really down with the soldiers, the best scenes being when the French army officers are shaking their heads in disbelief as Joan leads one more attack without asking.  Other plusses are the fine ‘guest star’ spots: John Malkovich as Charles Vll, self-absorbed boy-man.  Faye Dunaway as Charles’s mother-in-law Yolande, her stories high forehead disappearing into a double-sided headdress, floating around the court like a space alien queen with cold-blooded instincts to match.  Dustin Hoffman, somewhat less successful as a bearded hooded figure in one of Joan’s visions, is ambiguous as a fortune cookie and only moves around when being pulled on wheels.  That’s the problem with trying to tell the story of someone as ineffable as Joan.  We really don’t get any deeper insight into her other than wow, she sure did yell a lot.

                    

The Quiet Man

(1952.  Dir. John Ford.  John Wayne.  Maureen O’Hara, Victor McLaglen, Barry Fitzgerald, Ward Bond.  129 min.)  Of all the films by legendary director John Ford, this is definitely my fave.  A smooth piece of movie making in glorious Technicolor with major stars from Ford’s decades old stock company.  

Now much as I love old man Ford’s westerns and war movies, he drives me crazy slipping in the Irish sanctimony and schmaltz every chance he gets.  Well this time the entire movie is Irish sanctimony, and the schmaltz is the jumping-off point for some great comic effect.  And probably the greatest screen romance this side of Gone With The Wind.  Wayne is Sean Thornton, a retired boxer from Pittsburgh (Yah!) who returns to the Irish town of his in birth to buy back the family home from the wealthy widow Tillane.  He just wants to live a quiet life (while nursing a dark secret) but ah, the biggest loudmouth in town, Squire Will Danagher (McLaglen) has been trying to get the widda Tillane to sell him the property for years, and he takes none to kindly to losing out, declaring cold war on Thornton as a result.  To further complicate matters, Thornton and fiery redhead Mary Kate (O’Hara), Danagher’s sister, make the googly eyes at each other and fall hopelessly in love.  Except this is rural Ireland, pre WW 2 boy-o, and per local custom only the head of a household can give any consent for marriage.  Fat chance persuading big brother Will of that.  So the sympathetic townsfolk cook up a scheme to trick Will into giving his consent which of course blows up in their faces and simply make matters worse.  From that point on the movie picks up a great head of steam and barrels towards a hilarious knock-down drag out third act.  This is a John Wayne movie, right?  The moral of the story: you can get along with your in-laws just fine as long as they know you can beat the crap out of them.

Rocketship X-M

(1950.  Lloyd Bridges, Osa Massen, John Emery, Noah Beery Jr., Morris Ankrum, Hugh O’Brian.  Dir. Kurt Neuman.  77 min.).  So bad it’s good.  From our jaded perspective of 2017 this early 50’s sci-fi adventure - first of its kind post WW 2 - does seem rather silly.  But before America’s Mercury program made space flight reality, imaginations ran wild and in this scenario four men and one woman are to be the first humans into space.  And they’re going straight to the moon.  Orbiting the earth first?  That’s for sissies.  

Bridges is the Colonel in charge, Berry is a Major who plays the harmonica, and Hugh O’Brian in his first screen role runs around making himself useful.  However once underway there’s a problem with the rocket engines.  And after they’ve restarted the ship runs into a meteor storm which knocks them off course and heading straight for … Mars.  It could happen.  Then on Mars things go from bad to worse.  Our intrepid space explorers encounter cave Martians wearing furs, fang necklaces and carrying spears.  Even though the crew is armed with pistols and thunder sticks, the cave Martians throw rocks and send everybody running back to the rocket where they blast off as fast as they can – a sad day for the US Space Program.  Then on the way back to Earth … well you get the picture.  NASA may have studied this movie to learn what not to do.

The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll

(1960.  Paul Massie.  Dawn Davis.  Christopher Lee.  Dir. Terence Fisher.  88 min.)  Clever rethink of the old Robert Louis Stevenson tale done with the panache of Hammer Films in it’s hey-day.  A chump Dr. Jekyll, sexy wife Kitty, and mooch friend Paul (a very amusing Christopher Lee) form an uneasy love triangle until Jekyll shoots his dope and turns into lady-killer Hyde.  Of all the Hammer Horror films maybe the best written, with weird twists like Hyde going to Jekyll’s house to seduce his own wife, or Jekyll sucking his beard back into his face. Victorian era whorehouses, more beaver shots than you can count, and Oliver Reed getting hit over the head with a bottle.  Where else are you going to see Christopher Lee puffing on an opium pipe?  Ah they don’t make them like that anymore.