The Fisher King

(1991.  Robin Williams, Jeff Bridges, Mercedes Ruehl who won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress.  Amanda Plummer, very funny as an extreme social incompetent.  Dir. Terry Gilliam) I didn't like The Fisher Kind as much as I did when I first saw it in the theater, first because I thought its message of ‘acceptance’ was oversold rather than organic to the story, but mainly because at its core it’s a schmaltzy, sentimental love story made at least interesting because the schmaltz goes through the Monty Pythonesque wringer of Terry Gilliam, a meticulous filmmaker who's just-this-side-of surreal production design is a wonder to look at.

What I really liked about the movie, and why I’m recommending it, is it’s amazing first act where we see Bridges as a New York City radio shock-jock Jack Lucas, a man typical of his type, who will say anything to get a rise in the ratings and a boost to his career.  His spew, primarily ‘Die yuppie scum’ ‘America the banal’ and ‘the homeless can Fuck themselves’ is so hilariously generic that you can’t even be sure if he’s a Right Wing spewer or Left Wing spewer – he just plain old spews.  He puts a fine point upon all this by twitting an Average Frustrated Chump named Edwin, a frequent caller to his show. 

Ambitious arrogant Lucas, about to make the jump to a TV sitcom, then sees on the news that Edwin has taken the ‘die yuppie scum’ trip literally and totes a shogun down to some fashionable NYC bistro where he blows away a bunch of patrons, including the wife of Perry played by Robin Williams.  Lucas gets New York Posted by the scandal and his life falls apart.  For my money, the first third of the film is an original and very comic vision of getting sent, if not straight to hell, at least to the weird purgatory of a job at a video store run by his sexy girlfriend Anne (Ruehl), all cleavage all the time, her lovely breasts in a great bra doing just as much acting as the principles in the film, probably deserving of two little statuettes in their own right.

So I’m watching this movie and immediately I’m reminded of Jared Loughner (and the attempted murder of Rep. Gabby Giffords) and Oscar Ramiro Ortega – Hernandez (alleged to have taken pot-shots at the White House) and I’m horrified.  The movie The Fisher King is older then some kids with fake IDs and I thought, “Haven’t we learned anything?”  Apparently not, which finds an interesting parallel to the film.  Bridges’s Lucas, even after taking repeated plates of karma to the face during adventures with sweet-souled but delusional Perry, gets a chance to get back into radio after five years in the wilderness.  Immediately he reverts back to his old scumbag ways by telling girl friend Anne “Maybe we should take it slow.” He’s ready to burn all his bridges (no pun intended) and go back to right where he started.  That was shocking.

This takes me to The Birther Argument (how’s that for a segue?) and after watching The Fisher King I can’t help but draw a line straight from it to crazy Oscar Hernandez.  Guys like Loughner and Hernandez, (believing he’s Jesus with a semi-automatic rifle), don’t need to be of one political persuasion or another; both are just as delusional and as dangerous as AFC Edwin who feeds off the spew from hate-media to the point where they think they have to act.  This is why I wanted to stick The Scarlet ‘B’ on everybody in the public eye who indulged in this Birther nonsense, and I'm talking mostly about guys from Jim Quinn who went whole hog over it to Limbaugh who'd chortle over the idea, just to let them all know they’re playing with fire as much as clueless Jack Lucas.  

P.S.  I can still get sore about this because I have it on good authority that during The Obama administration there were the assassination attempts you heard about, and the one’s you didn’t.  And yes the Birther rumors started during Hillary Clinton’s 2008 primary campaign before either side picked its nominees, but that’s no excuse for picking up such crap - it's fruit from a poison tree.  Hey, consider the source people.

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.