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RvB's After Images: It is Better to Travel Hopefully...



... than to arrive. The image this time around is the title card from the 1961 movie Bloodlust, taken from that first-rate site Stephen Hills's Shill Pages. Imagine trying to follow this bloodcurdling image coming at you from a big screen with a movie worthy of the exclamation point! Not much chance, especially since Bloodlust! turns out to actually just be the 8,000th version of The Most Dangerous Game. I'd suggest that in many cases in the movie-going world the sense of anticipation beats the actual arrival of the movie, and maybe this is especially true during the end-of-year, prestige-pic Oscar season.

Since this is the time of year that critics end up dog-piling into one press-screening after another, I oddly find myself really enjoying their company; no one else but a film critic knows how bad it can get when they mudslide one half-baked 3-hour-long opus after another after another atop you, each one heavy with seasonal earnestness and watered-down political merit.

I'd say the best feature film of the year that had anything to do with the USA's political ordeal was Thank You For Smoking, precisely because it was about the hopelessness of using sentiment to win political arguments. Every professional arguer, whether they're a politician or a critic, ought to look into it. As this is a time of year when we put aside our petty differences and get together to make up Critics Circle lists, I thought I'd travel back in time to remember five particularly fun press screenings from my career:

Continue reading RvB's After Images: It is Better to Travel Hopefully...

RvB's After Images: Robert Altman's Thieves Like Us



Nothing like a weird double-bill on Turkey-Picking Friday (this holiday needs a proper name, doesn't it?) and my double bill was as weird as they come: Scorsese's The Departed with the late Robert Altman's 1974 Thieves Like Us. It would have been smarter to have hooked up Thieves Like Us with a movie it resembles, O Brother Where Art Thou? As in Altman's earlier film, the Coens start their story with the a break from a Mississippi chain gang. The Coens seem to have also based Michael Badalucco's Baby Face Nelson on John Schuck's Chickamaw from the Altman: Chickamaw being the most dangerous component of a trio of dashing, successful and generally non-violent bankrobber. Schuck has the same unstable exuberance that George Clooney's Everett diagnoses, in his cornpone way, as Nelson's bi-polar syndrome. (The line, from imdb.com: "Well ya know Delmar, they say that with a thrill-seekin' personality, what goes up must come down. Top of the world one minute, haunted by megrims the next.") Schuck's hearty killer is just as moody, because he's a hard drinker. Worse, at one point Chickamaw is drinking bootleg "jake" -- a patent medicine adulterated with neurotoxins, and here's a link to that bizarre piece of toxic Americana.

Continue reading RvB's After Images: Robert Altman's Thieves Like Us

RvB's After Images: Aw, why did they have to remake Casino Royale?






Tomorrow, when James Bond finally comes back, the critics will give a SPECTRE-quality drubbing for one of my favorite cult films. To paraphrase a famous line of Deborah Kerr's, one of the stars of the film in question, when they speak of Casino Royale '67 -- and they will speak of it -- they won't be kind. But having just sat through a double bill of true excess yesterday -- Dreamgirls and Curse of the Golden Flower, I'd have to reevaluate what's meant by extreme, everything-but-the-kitchen sink filmmaking. Casino Royale 1967 may have burned through 5 credited directors, but at least it spared our eyes the sight of a color-coordinated Gong Li going slowly, slowly nuts from poisoned tea, and spared our ears the sound of Jennifer Hudson's American Idol-winning song stylings, which is too say a sort of gospel-meets-Alpine-yodeling.

I love music that's a little understated, and Dusty Springfield's quiet, almost whispered "The Look of Love" is one of the many moments that makes Casino Royale '67the spy musical, even if the characters in Our Man Flint seem ready to burst into song at any minute. (If Casino Royale '67 was Bollywood instead of Hollywood, everyone would praise it for its craziness, instead of deploring it for its weirdness.)

Continue reading RvB's After Images: Aw, why did they have to remake Casino Royale?

Roeper and Ramis: Conflict of Interest?

Harold Ramis was filling Roger Ebert's still-vacant chair yesterday night on TV's Ebert and Roeper. Ramis is a seasoned film director and writer, and apparently a very nice guy. But he had to make a disclaimer before reviewing For Your Consideration that the cast were good friends of his. Well, they're more than friends; they were co-workers back in the memorable days of SCTV. There, Ramis was working with For Your Consideration's co-writer Eugene Levy, and Ramis also co-starred with For Your Consideration's lead Catherine O'Hara. In Dave Thomas's published history of the show, Ramis also mentions having had O'Hara and Levy as housemates in Los Angeles in 1977.

As befits a writer and actor on one of the best satire shows in the history of television, Ramis was a good critic; he had the taste to give the thumbs-down to A Good Year, which is more than Roeper did. And no matter how well connected he is with the co-writer and stars of For Your Consideration, it remains an extremely funny movie. Still: Am I overreacting, or is it a conflict of interest to have a person reviewing the movies of old friends and colleagues as a guest critic on the most important film review show on American television? If there's a fault here, it has to be laid at the feet of Roeper and his producers: They ought to have known better. Do you think Ramis should be ineligible to guest in the Ebert and Roeper chairs?

Cinematical (Double-0) Seven: Homage to Wodger





Seven times did Roger Moore wrap himself in the mantle of James Bond ... do I have to look up the titles? Hell, no, not a wretched Bondgeek such as I -- I could do it blindfolded: Live and Let Die, The Man With The Golden Gun, The Spy Who Loved Me, Moonraker, For Your Eyes Only, Octopussy, and, the absolute all-time nadir of the series, A View to A Kill. Let's see, 1973-85, a 12-year-long fashion violation, a veritable limbo game in which the image of Our Hero was pitched lower, ever lower. And finally Bond literally turns up in clown makeup in Octopussy.

One dozen years of vacant bimbos, horrendous puns, and obsolete gadgets ... remember the pretitle sequence of Live and Let Die? Behold, o mortals! The futuristic wonder of ... the digital watch! Oh, how the God of Bond Movies tested our faith during those years. Sometimes, it's hard to remember how good Bond films can be when they're at their best, following a Moore marathon (or, if you will, a Mooreathon). All those twtichings of what Anthony Lane described as "Roger Moore's stunt-eyebrows ... " Now that these terrible films have been dredged up for DVD, they're worsened by commentary tracks by public-school accented second unit directors, reminiscing about "Dear Wodger's" sense of humor, like the time he hid Bernard Lee's Metamucil, or something ...

But today, let us praise seven moments during Moore's tenure. It wasn't all bad, was it?

Continue reading Cinematical (Double-0) Seven: Homage to Wodger

RvB's After Images: Mad Love





"Mr [Peter] Lorre, with every physical handicap, can convince you of the goodness, the starved tenderness, of his vice-entangled souls. Those marbly pupils in the pasty spherical face are like the eye-pieces of a microscope, through which you can see laid flat on the slide the entangled mind of a man: love and lust, nobility and perversity, hatred of itself and despair, jumping out of the jelly." That's how novelist Graham Greene put it; Charlie Chaplin made it easier: "Lorre is the best actor alive." This was in 1935, and Lorre had just made his first American film. Karl Freund's Mad Love, less than 70 minute long, is now out on the recently released six-film Hollywood Legends of Horror pack; some other Halloween goodies bundled in include Tod Browning's Mark of the Vampire, and the quite unsettling Devil Doll, starring Lionel Barrymore.

Mad Love is the prize in the collection. It's a bewildering story, beginning at Paris's "Le Theatre du Horreurs": Obviously Le Theatre du Grand Guignol of Montmarte. (Since the namesake Guignol is a puppet, Jigsaw's merry adventures in Saw III are all the more in this Parisian theater's tradition of staging torture, mutilation and grisly death.) The genius surgeon Gogol (Lorre) is also the worst kind of fanboy, lurking at every show. With his huge bald head, framed with a rich fur collar, he looks like a lecherous wingless vulture. Roosting with the rest of the gorehounds at Le Theatre, he waits for the performance of the woman he loves.

Continue reading RvB's After Images: Mad Love

RvB's After Images: He May Be Dead, But He's Still Olivier




While the stores are still jammed with shoppers preparing for their "50th Anniversary of the Suez Crisis" parties, there's still time to get your hands on DVDs of The Entertainer before the big day this Friday. Maybe I'm in more of a mood than ever for the annual holiday, because I've been reading Simon Winder 's The Man Who Saved Britain, an invigorating screed about James Bond. Winder claims the Suez crisis was "based on anti-democratic lying to the entire world," followed with Great Britain's foreign policy "becoming synonymous with reckless militarism but also with pathetic weakness." This political fiasco was but one part of a failure of national self-esteem, salvaged by the rise and fame of our fictional hero 007. Who needs to go over the points of the 1956 crisis? After all, parents like to retell their children the story, during the traditional falafel and dolmas suppers. Who hasn't watched dewey-eyed kids saying, "Daddy, make that face again, like the one Prime Minister Anthony Eden made when he realized the U.S. wasn't going to back him up in invading Egypt." Not only is this holiday so much fun for the little ones, but this bit of 50 year-old historical trauma has certain relevance for those watching the political scene today. Maybe Egypt's leader Nasser was no Saddam, but they both used to be compared to Hitler, once upon a time.

Continue reading RvB's After Images: He May Be Dead, But He's Still Olivier

Bat Boy Begins


Having had a success with wolfmen, moving to the field of batmen was a natural for John Landis. The Guardian notes that Landis has been signed to direct Bat Boy; though Landis has been directing shorts for jibjab.com, he has otherwise been cinematically idle since Blues Brothers 2000. Bat Boy is the film version of the tabloid-inspired hit West End musical. Devin May will star as the big-eared, blood-thirsty fugitive, running for his life; May's previous credit is starring in the rock musical film Temptation. (While I never heard of it, I had to laugh at the comments on the IMBd; there, a correspondent was crowing about the extreme novelty of a rock musical based on Faust. How soon they forget. ...)

This gross parody of Andrew Lloyd Weber is loaded with those matinee crowd-pleasers: Incest and bestiality. Bat Boy the musical debuted at Tim Robbins' Actors Gang Theater on Halloween 1997, and has since become a hot potato when high school theater arts students wanted to perform Bat Boy instead of Grease; Wikipedia chronicles the various free-speech squabbles over the musical's performances in the SF Bay Area. Despite this age of rogue franchising, it's a matter of personal happiness to have Bat Boy be the first film based on articles from the Weekly World News, the only newspaper in America that has any guts. Since Borat paved the way, what about an Ed Anger movie? A foaming, pig-biting mad patriot with a steel plate in his head could really get furious Americans to speak up on the issues of the day -- much more so than some misguided foreigner. ...

Whatever Happened to Patriotic Films?


The San Francisco Chronicle's Mick LaSalle published an interesting thumbsucker this morning: "I suppose that to depict patriotism, as to depict romance, filmmakers feel the need to go back to an era in which people actually believed in such a thing." LaSalle's jumping off point was the upcoming opening of Flags Of Our Fathers, a film that is not as unquestionably patriotic as it sounds. Promoting his movie, Eastwood told the Daily News that even though he doesn't mean his film to be a metaphor for the Iraq war, "I wasn't necessarily one of those people who were excited about going into Iraq."

While Clint Eastwood and his scriptwriters honor the Marines and sailors who fought so bravely in the Pacific War, there's an undertone of wrath at politicians, officers and spin-meisters. Those who feel that the Iraq invasion was heavy on the photo-ops, and light on the advance planning, might come out of Flags Of Our Fathers feeling that the flag-planting-on-Iwo-Jima photo was but the 1940s version of George W. Bush's "Mission Accomplished" speech.

LaSalle argues correctly that Oliver Stone's World Trade Center was less about the American spirit than the personal heroism of its two trapped characters. But I can't follow him hrough his quick march through American film history. Take his description of 1942's Yankee Doodle Dandy as showing off "emotional, reflexive patriotism." It has a different approach than Eastwood's film, but Michael Curtiz's bio-pic musical of George M. Cohan is another demonstration of how patriotism can be used as the grounds for a smash-hit show. James Cagney's canny showman Cohan is clearly a song and dance man first and a patriot second. Cagney's Cohan is so exuberantly cocky and light on his feet that he can overcome many people's distaste at the simplistic idea of "my country, right or wrong" ... a motto another George -- George Orwell -- likened to "My mother, drunk or sober."

When we elected an actor as president, America showed how it prefers movies to history. Think of The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance's concluding line: "This is the west, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend" -- a summing up of Ronald Reagan's career. But the patriotic movies LaSalle mentions approvingly are from a far more unsophisticated era. How could they be reproduced now? Jarhead, Three Kings and innumerable political documentaries sum up the current war. On the whole, the public is too wise to fall for the old illusions of soldiers laying down their lives with a smile on their faces (LaSalle's example of the inspirational death scene of Tom Hanks in Saving Private Ryan, is the exception that proves the rule).

Instead of the old-time war movies LaSalle lists, or the Capra comedies which were the product of a man who grew increasingly reactionary as the years went by, I'd submit my favorite patriotic movie -- The Devil and Daniel Webster aka All That Money Can Buy. William Dieterle's 1941 pre-noir film uses fantasy, wit, and feel-good populism by associating the devil with domestic greed and selfishness, rather than with a foreign threat. In the courtroom, Mr. Scratch (Walter Huston) reminds us that he's been in America ever since the first colonist killed the first Indian. The real-life Senator Daniel Webster (the hearty Edward Arnold, usually a villain type) is a politician with human temptations for ambition and booze -- a much less saintly figure than Henry Fonda's Young Mr. Lincoln, whom LaSalle loves. But Webster comes through for his damned constituent, knowing the truth will set him free. Arnold's Webster knows that the persuasive argument is every bit as effective as a weapon as a gun. That the politically-aware Alec Baldwin starred in (and supposedly directed) a semi-released remake shows just how lively the patriotic ideals still are in The Devil and Daniel Webster.

Regal Heats Up Debate with The Great Warming

If Al Gore and Davis Guggenheim's recent documentary didn't give you enough about stranded polar bears and frogs in gradually heating pots of water (with scorpions on their backs, stinging them because they can't help it, it's their nature) rejoice; on November 3, the 6,383 screen Regal Cinemas chain will be unrolling the global warming documentary The Great Warming in 50 cities. Narrators include such futurists as Alanis "God" Morissette and Keanu Reeves. It's based on Lydia Dotto's Storm Warning: Gambling With the Climate of Our Planet. Exec producer Karen Coshof notes that Regal--the most geographically diverse chain in the USA -- doesn't usually screen indie docs. If this film sounds familiar, you must be living in the Great White North. The Great Warming was shown in three parts on TV in Canada's version of Discovery Channel three years ago. Apparently such such heresy about melting ice caps and super storms was more socially acceptable up there; Canada, once considered three years behind the United States, must be now counted as three years ahead. Environmental & Energy Publishing's E&E TV notes that this wide opening of The Great Warming is a few days before the all-important congressional elections in the US. But the film intends to be non-partisan. As a contrast to Gore's expert one-man MCing, director Judith Dwan Hallet brings in a few religious sources too; these include a new breed of evangelicals, including Reverend Richard Cizik, who urges his flock to take up the idea of "creation care": God entrusts us to take care of the planet. Wasn't Alanis's word good enough?

Richard von Busack's After Images: The All-Booze Film Festival




The Ivy Room in Albany, California is closing this weekend for good, he said in a voice that he hoped was something like the choked snarl of Howard Beale, mad prophet of the airwaves, It's closing, and how does that effect you? If you're a Bay Area musician, you'll know; it's one less stage for the San Francisco area roots rockers and folkies. Nationally speaking, it's just one more ancient, jolly, smelly neighborhood tavern going down, no doubt to be replaced by something more realtor-friendly: a blood freezing lounge with expensive vodka bottles, glittering coldly under fluorescent lights. I can see it now: It'll have a name taken from the Periodical Table of Elements or an algebra textbook and it'll have all of the warmth of Superman's Fortress of Solitude. A place where, in Steve Martin's words, rich men go to meet rich women so they can have rich babies.

At least we can still see what a proper bar looks like in the movies. While taking in the Ivy Room's irreplaceable decor -- farewell, smoke-stained wallpaper, adieu coin-operated shuffleboard machine -- I was struck with the idea that a film festival would be a great tribute. I imagine the line up looking something like the following (though of course, I'm hoping that guest programmers out there would have ideas of neglected films that need to be added to the schedule):

Continue reading Richard von Busack's After Images: The All-Booze Film Festival

Cinematical's Fall Preview: RvB's Picks


There's nothing like the moment of anticipation before you've seen the half-baked, crucially compromised or mortally flawed film in question. Still, when given the choice between summer's poorly animated CGI beasts and fall's Oscar-pimping cat-tearing* among our sweatier over-actors and over-actresses, you don't know which season to worry about more.

Despite the Venice Film Festival's chilly response to The Fountain, I'm going to be waiting for it. The film festival audiences were right about The DaVinci Code, but they're not right about everything. I'm curious why The Black Dahlia (Brian De Palma's new film) didn't get booed, despite its rep as a chestnut-stuffed Joss Harnett-basted turkey. Is it because of a lingering tolerance in Italy for badly-written giallos?

Pan's Labryinth is a film to look forward to this fall -- Guillermo del Toro's odd sensibility blends the weirdest of Mexican horror with an intelligent use of graphics, and I still remember what a startling film Cronos was. It also looks more on the fantasy spectrum like In the Company of Wolves than The Brothers Grimm. Plus, James thought it was good.

Continue reading Cinematical's Fall Preview: RvB's Picks

Who Killed Superman? Reeves Conspiracy Sites

Before Hollywoodland's release, it may be time to study up a little on the mysterious death of George Reeves. Reeves, played by the one and only Ben Affleck, played Superman on television in the 1950s. In 1959, he was found dead of a gunshot wound -- which may have been self-inflicted, or otherwise. Personally, I think it's obvious: Orson Welles did it. All we have to do is establish motive and opportunity, and the proof will be right there.

As Kate Winslet says in Heavenly Creatures, Orson Welles is the most evil man who ever lived. We've seen him kill inumerable people on screen, and he was also skilled at faking deaths and planting evidence. One beyond-the-grave act of malice Welles carried out recently was pinning the Thomas Ince hit on William Randolph Hearst: The Cat's Meow's director Peter Bogdanovich claims he heard the story from Orson himself. (Well, that makes it unimpeachable. Remember when he told us the Martians were coming?) My guess: Ince is another body we can chalk up to Welles. Swimming out to the yacht Oneida in a frogman suit would be a prodigious feat for a nine year-old, but this is the Blofeld-like Orson Welles we're talking about.

Continue reading Who Killed Superman? Reeves Conspiracy Sites

Richard von Busack's After Images: Jacques Tati's Playtime


"I struck it rich in real estate, making Paris ugly." That's Michel Serrault as the wealthy protagonist in Claude Sautet's Nelly and M. Arnaud, hinting at the problem beyond the Peripherique. We've got a lot of Paris as hell city of the future in the upcoming Renaissance, as well as La Haine, District B13 and whatever else emerges culturally from last year's open-air car barbecue and brick-tossing competition. A look at Jacques Tati's 1967 Playtime offers a milder view of the city's centuries-old troubles.Tati takes a little getting used to for the modern audience. As director and actor, he's sort of the last of the silent comedians (if you don't count Charles Lane's anomalous Sidewalk Stories). There is a soundtrack, though, of English lines amid a bubble of half-heard, irrelevant talk credited to Art Buchwald, newspaper columnist and the man who successfully sued Paramount for plagiarism. We catch stray lines; "I feel at home wherever I go," murmurs a tourist stepping from a bus into a steel and glass hotel; "I can't tell if I'm on the Right Bank or the Left Bank," frets a passerby. Electronic security systems, new at the time, bleat and blat and fart, sealing up victims in glass booths or elevators. PA systems squawk semi-understandable commands at the populace, or drench them in syrupy, organ-heavy Muzak. (It was fun catching this at the 70mm fest at the Castro Theater in San Francisco, because the theater was as full of as much chirping as an aviary when people were turned off their cell phones, right before the show started. What gags Tati would have wreaked out of cell phones!)

Continue reading Richard von Busack's After Images: Jacques Tati's Playtime

Richard von Busack's After Images: Requiem for a Video Clerk






When I was a tad, the popular superstition was that truck drivers knew all the best restaurants. Then I ate in a genuine truck stop in Indiana--they even had segregated seating for truckers-- and found out that the food was apparently pre-chewed. Not even at the gnarliest buffets in Vegas, have I seen such a range of gravy-soaked slurries, slopped down for the dentally challenged. Time has already buried the myth of truckers being gourmets. Let me be the last to spit on its grave.


Now for another myth: video clerks know the best movies. I'm still in shock about this one, but I was at Sargent Video the other afternoon to catch up on back episodes of Six Feet Under. The Sarge, as I've written before, is a no-nonsense character running a one-man vid store in our gunfire-prone post-industrial town. (Hint: Samuel Jackson once played a coach at our local high school, and you best believe that Samuel L. doesn't waste his time with suburban brats.) One time, Sarge rented me a copy of Jules and Jim for free, and he's given me breaks on late fees. I know there's some warmth underneath the crustiness. Still, knowing that the Sarge is not a man to be provoked, I hated to get between him and the TV he was watching, desperate as I was to find out how David Fisher bounced back from nearly being murdered by a raving crack addict. Looking up at his monitor, it took me about 60 seconds to Name That Movie ... longer than usual, because I refused to believe the sensory input.
Sarge was watching the grand finale of Waterworld. For pleasure.

Continue reading Richard von Busack's After Images: Requiem for a Video Clerk

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