BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION
In 1971 a group of film students wrote, directed, produced and acted in a movie called Billy Jack. The film, which starred Tom Laughlin and Dolores Taylor, was dependent for approval first upon the pre-existing politics of the viewer and second upon that viewer's decision about the acceptable means of achieving political change. Naive and simplistic, Billy Jack was also brash, daring, and quite accurate in its message that pacifists exist at the mercy of emotional heathens. And emotional heathens have a history of being unmerciful.
Billy: You worked with King. Where is he?
Jean: Dead.
Billy: And where are Jack and Bobby Kennedy?
Jean: Dead.
Billy: Not dead. They had their brains blown out.
The significance of this movie should not be underestimated. Not many films released in the USA have suggested that the Allies lost World War II or that the government's government is none too benignly fascist or that it is not only appropriate but even urgent to defend the country against that government. The film makes the choices simple. The man v. man conflicts are (a) oppressed native Americans versus reactionary WASPs, (b) communal dwellers versus urban despot, (c) youth versus aged, (d) poor versus rich, (e) free versus neurotic, and (f) good versus evil. At the time, those who enjoyed the film saw it as an inspirational work that gave hope to those opposed to the status quo. Today, such a film would be considered inspired propaganda, even by those who agree with its central themes, just as today such once revolutionary philosophies have been co-opte and perverted by right wing separatists who find safe havens in Idaho and Montana.
The key element in any act of manipulation or coercion is the perceived authority of those in a presumed position of power over those potentially being controlled. In 1962 and 1963, psychologist Stanley Milgram conducted a series of experiments at Yale University devised to test obedience. Forty participants were told they were engaging in an exercise to measure the effects of aversion on memory. The participants were told to read a series of questions and answers via intercom to subjects behind a separating wall. After this, the participants were to ask the questions again, and this time the learners would attempt to give the correct answer. If the learner gave the wrong answer or failed to reply, the teachers were to administer increasingly higher levels of punitive electric shock. Aversion treatment apparently played no role in memory retention because the learners begged and pleaded for the horribly painful shocks to stop. Despite the fact that the learners argued and shouted that they had heart conditions, and despite the fact that ominous silence eventually became the learners' response, sixty-five percent of the teachers followed Milgram's orders to administer the highest voltage possible, a level several steps beyond which the learners pounded on the wall and begged for release. Several teachers became emotionally disturbed as a result of what they realized about themselves in this and subsequent experiments, even after it turned out that the learners were simply acting and were not actually being shocked. As Dr. Milgram described it: "With numbing regularity, good people were seen to knuckle under to the demands of authority and perform actions that were callous and severe. Men who are in everyday life responsible and decent were seduced by the trappings of authority, by the control of their perceptions, and by the uncritical acceptance of the experimenter's definition of the situation, into performing harsh acts. A substantial proportion of people do what they are told to do, irrespective of the content of the act and without limitations of conscience, so long as they perceive that the command comes from a legitimate authority."
Milgram came under substantial criticism for his experiments, mainly because they tended to reveal unsettling things about how people are so easily able to exert power over willing "victims." After all, if we knew that the power came from us, we might choose to withhold it. Fed up with distracting questions about his ethics, Milgram replied:
I started with the belief that every person who came to the laboratory was free to accept or to reject the dictates of authority. This view sustains a conception of human dignity insofar as it sees in each man a capacity for choosing his own behavior. And as it turned out, many subjects did, indeed, choose to reject the experimenter's commands, providing a powerful affirmation of human ideals.
Milgram was pleased that not everyone went to the final level. He describes one such encounter.
The subject, Gretchen Brandt, is an attractive thirty-one-year-old medical technician who works at the Yale Medical School. She had emigrated from Germany five years before. On several occasions when the learner complains, she turns to the experimenter cooly and inquires, "Shall I continue?" She promptly returns to her task when the experimenter asks her to do so. At the administration of 210 volts she turns to the experimenter, remarking firmly, "Well, I'm sorry. I don't think we should continue."
Experimenter: The experiment requires that you go on until he has learned all the word pairs correctly.
Brandt: He has a heart condition. I'm sorry. He told you that before.
Experimenter: The shocks may be painful but they're not dangerous.
Brandt: Well, I'm sorry. I think when shocks continue like this they are dangerous. You ask him if he wants to get out. It's his free will.
Experimenter: It is absolutely essential that we continue.
Brandt: I'd like you to ask him. We came here of our free will. If he wants to continue I'll go ahead. He told you he had a heart condition. I'm sorry. I don't want to be responsible for anything happening to him. I wouldn't like it for me either.
Experimenter: You have no other choice.
Brandt: I think we are here on our own free will. I don't want to be responsible if anything happens to him. Please understand that.
She refuses to go further. And the experiment is terminated. The woman's straightforward, courteous behavior in the experiment, lack of tension, and total control of her own action seem to make disobedience a simple and rational deed. Her behavior is the very embodiment of what I envisioned would be true for almost all subjects.
Unfortunately, most of the time, what Milgram encountered was the horrifying scenario recounted below.
Fred Prozi's reaction, if more dramatic than most, illuminate the conflicts experienced by others in less visible form. About fifty years old and unemployed at the time of the experiment, he had a good-natured, if slightly dissolute, appearance, and he strikes people as a rather ordinary fellow. He begins the session calmly but becomes tense as it proceeds. After delivering the 180-volt shock, he pivots around in the chair and, shaking his head, addresses the experimenter in agitated tones:
Prozi: I can't stand it. I'm not going to kill that man in there. You hear him hollering?
Experimenter: As I told you before, the shocks may be painful, but. . .
Prozi: But he's hollering. He can't stand it. What's going to happen to him?
Experimenter: The experiment requires that you continue, Teacher.
Prozi: Aah, but, unh, I'm not going to get that man sick in there. Know what I mean?
Experimenter: Whether the learner likes it or not, we must go on, through all the word pairs.
Prozi: I refuse to take the responsibility. He's in there hollering.
Experimenter: It's absolutely essential that you continue, Prozi.
Prozi: There's too many left here. I mean, Jeez, if he gets them wrong, there's too many of them left. mean, who's going to take the responsibility if anything happens to that gentleman?
Experimenter: I'm responsible for anything that happens to him. Continue, please.
Prozi: All right. The next one's "Slow--walk, truck, dance, music." Answer please. Wrong. A hundred and ninety-five volts. "Dance."
Learner: Let me out of here! My heart's bothering me!
Experimenter: We must continue. Go on, please.
Prozi: You mean keep giving him that? Four hundred fifty volts, what's he got now?
Experimenter: That's correct. Continue. The next word is "white."
Prozi: "White--cloud, horse, rock, house." Answer, please. The answer is "horse." Four hundred and fifty volts. Next words, "Bag--paint, music, clown, girl." The next answer is "paint." Four hundred and fifty volts. Next word--
Experimenter: Excuse me, Teacher. We'll have to discontinue the experiment.
If filmmaker Stanley Kubrick was unaware of Milgram's test on obedience, he apparently drew the same conclusions. People can be controlled in a democracy as long as they bestow authority or responsibility upon the person directing their behavior. For a film director such as Kubrick, his repudiation alone is nearly enough to persuade an audience to obey. Add to that the celebrity of his actors, the magnificence of his craft, along with the dark black confines of a movie theatre, and one has sufficient conspiring elements to twist the moviegoer's ear in favor of endowing the director with unconditional power.
Such cinematic exercises have been trivialized since the 1980s. Now audience manipulation is unsubtle and direct in ways that would have embarrassed the makers of Billy Jack. In a film such as Speed, for example, the good guys and bad guys are grossly two-dimensional, the plot is action, the conflict is mechanical, character development is inherent in the good or bad looks of the character, and whatever minimal audience manipulation does exist can only be measured in a reduction of alpha waves.
A few noteworthy and refreshing exceptions to this trivialization do exist. In 1991, Oliver Stone released JFK. Stone is possibly the only big money filmmaker working in America today who can approximate the Kubrick-style conditioning, and JFK proves the point. Predictably, the movie was bludgeoned by much of the media and was attacked by American intellectuals and nincompoops alike for the agreed-upon charge of distorting history.
Stone argued that some of his attackers had a vested interest in maintaining the myth of the Warren eport. That may well be true, but no one would have cared at all what the film was saying had it not been said with such authority. In the context of the film, the theory that forces within the U.S. Government conspired to kill John Kennedy because he supposedly deserted the cause of anti-Castro Cubans and was signaling an end to U.S. involvement in Vietnam is a sharply convincing one. JFK is a motion picture that leads the viewer to consider his or her own programming while being programmed to do so. Or, as Stone himself said, "It is a counter myth." Or, as Kevin Costner, in the role of prosecutor Jim Garrison, says in his closing remarks to the jury:
I believe we have reached a time in our country, similar to what life must've been like under Hitler in the 1930s, except we don't realize it because fascism in our country takes the benign disguise of liberal democracy. There won't be such familiar signs as swastikas. We won't build Dachaus and Auschwitzes. We're not going to wake up one morning and suddenly find ourselves in gray uniforms goose-stepping off to work. "Fascism will come," Huey Long once said, "in the name of anti-fascism." It will come with the mass media manipulating a clever concentration camp of the mind. The super state will make you believe you are living in the best of all possible worlds, and in order to do so will rewrite history as it sees fit.
It is not always a simple matter to determine what constitutes a political film. Is it more political to challenge authority than to support it? Is a political film one that strives to unearth some secreted fundamental facts about the nature of society, or is it one that champions the individual psychology as true political enlightenment? Or is a political film only one that is about politics or politicians?
The problem with such questions lies in assuming that a movie can only be political, as opposed to being romantic, thrilling, action-packed, or comedic. The fact is that hundreds of major motion pictures have been made that had very strong political messages, or that at least were weighted with political connotations.
Hundreds of major motion pictures have been made that have had strong political messages, or that were weighted with political connotations. Some of the more familiar ones are On the Waterfront, Patton, Silkwood, The China Syndrome, The Candidate, All the President's Men, American Beauty, Natural Born Killers, Nixon, Salvador, Platoon, Wall Street, Born on the Fourth of July, Network, An American President, Primary Colors, Red Dawn, Rambo, and Top Gun. Lots of other films could have been on this list. These, however, will do well to explicate the different visions filmmakers can convey when creating movies whose meanings go beyond psychotic car chases and unconventional love stories.
On the Waterfront wastes no time announcing that it is not merely a love story, unconventional or otherwise.
A political film does not require a mono-dimensional story-line and can in fact have multiple subtexts occurring simultaneously. To that end, On the Waterfront becomes even more political in the fact that it addresses moral choices of genuine consequence that may have something incidental to do with boy-girl love, but more importantly have to do with social responsibility. It is also a political movie in that it not so much suggests as insists that there is propriety in selling out friends for the greater good. Naturally, the movie does not even hint that people who have sold out their friends tend to heavily amplify just what that greater good is. Elia Kazan, the director whose name is synonymous with this film, did sell out his friends when he testified to the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) about his associates in the motion picture industry who might have been communists. Such allegations resulted in those writers, actors and directors being blacklisted by the movie studios, meaning that because of alleged or real political affiliation, Americans in the entertainment industry could not get work. And so the film takes on an interesting irony not lost on Victor Navasky, in Naming Names:
A story is told that in 1955, after Arthur Miller had finished A View From the Bridge, his one-act play about a Silcilian waterfront worker who in a jealous rage informs on his illegal immigrant nephew, Miller sent a copy to Elia Kazan, who had broken with him over the issue of naming names before HUAC. "I have read your play and would be honored to direct it," Kazan is supposed to have wired back. "You don't understand," Miller replied. "I didn't send it to you because I wanted you to direct it. I sent it to you because I wanted you to know what I think of stool pigeons." They had planned to collaborate on a movie about the waterfront called "the Hook," but now Kazan went on to do his own waterfront picture, On the Waterfront, in which Terry Malloy comes to maturity when he realizes his obligation to fink on his fellow hoods. And Miller wrote View, which tried simultaneously to understand and condemn the informer. Kazan emerged in the folklore of the Left as the quintessential informer, and Miller was hailed as the risk-taking conscience of the times.
In its annual celebration of itself, in 1999 the Motion Picture Academy chose to honor Kazan with a lifetime achievement award, albeit, a posthumous one. The movement to honor Kazan was led by National Rifle Association chairman Charleton Heston. Many of those in attendance sat on their hands rather than applaud Heston's attempt to commemorate Kazan.
In 1970, the reactionary icon at the box office was a dead man. The movie of his life, Patton, was brilliant. Aside from its masterfully artistic pseudo-docudrama stylings, the film was hugely popular among critics and general public alike in large part because actor George C. Scott, as the title character, General George S. Patton, dwarfed the flag in front of which he paraded. The film was an artistic success in even larger part because Scott's portrayal was so extreme that the Left could misinterpret the film as a potently wicked satire while the Right could consider it a validation of their own deepest desires.
The character of general Patton and the makers of the two nuclear power films on our list looked at the world in different ways. The motion picture about Karen Silkwood, an actual worker at an actual nuclear reactor plant who herself was contaminated by radiation, was important, if not altogether timely. Brave in many respects, the title character of Silkwood, played by Meryl Streep, was a warts-and-all performance that involved drinking, swearing and smoking, as well as a hint at a lesbian relationship and an aversion to unstable reactor maintenance. The verisimilitude of Silkwood's persona was well handled. The difficulty some critical viewers had with the film was in the destruction of the real life protagonist. In the film, Karen Silkwood is murdered by as-yet unnamed assailants. (The film, however well-acted, was directed by the estimable Mike Nichols, whose fondness for the touch of the hand that feeds him is so strong he doesn't bite it; he gums it. There really isn't much indication of foul play in the film, at least not not indication to rock the system Nichols only pretends to distrust. As a postscript to the story, I quote here from the remarkably pro-system PBS Online: "The saga of Karen Silkwood continued for years after her death. Her estate filed a civil suit against Kerr-McGee for alleged inadequate health and safety programs that led to Silkwood's exposure. The first trial ended in 1979, with the jury awarding the estate of Silkwood $10.5 million for personal injury and punitive damages. This was reversed later by the Federal Court of Appeals, Denver, Colorado, which awarded $5,000 for the personal property she lost during the clean-up of her apartment. In 1986, twelve years after Silkwood's death, the suit was headed for retrial when it was finally settled out of court for $1.3 million. The Kerr-McGee nuclear fuel plants closed in 1975.") The movie quite logically leads the viewer to suspect that forces within the nuclear industry arranged for this to happen. What was not suggested by the filmmaker was a far more sinister shadow over the tragic business, one which Mark Lane intimates in Plausible Denial:
David Burnham had covered nuclear energy stories for the New York Times. Karen Silkwood, knowing of his specialty, had arranged a secret meeting with him to deliver documents to the Times. almost no one knew of the planned trip save Silkwood and Burnham. She never met him; she was apparently murdered on the way to see him and her documents disappeared.
Somewhat less interesting was The China Syndrome, a film that had going for it only Jane Fonda and Jack Lemmon, along with a release that coincided with the accident at Three Mile Island in which poisonous gases were released into the skies of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. (The John Birch Society found this to be more than coincidence, strongly implying that Fonda had arranged for the accident to happen in order to boost ticket sales, quite a feat for a Hollywood starlet.) Lemmon was the real star, playing a man caught between the desire to be a loyal employee and an urge to prevent a reactor core to melt through to the water table, thereby creating a toxic geyser. The facts are painted clearly and the science is made disturbingly understandable, all the actors are comfortable in their roles, and the story works. There are realistic bits where plant workers wonder how Jane will get the power to operate her blow dryer and the reporters run into the normal diabolic resistance from PR flacks, as well as from freaks within the news organization. But somehow one simply does not quite get the idea that this could be the end of the world, at least when taken out of the historic context of President Carter inspecting Three Mile Island in ridiculously bright yellow boots.
However uneasy Carter may have appeared throughout most of his Presidency, it paled to Robert Redford's character in The Candidate. Redford joined with director Michael Ritchie to form a production team. In 1972 they released one of the most intricately fascinating motion pictures of all time. Redford stars as a Jerry Brown-style man of the beautiful people, one who is pro ecology, pro choice, and pro small labor. He even has a father who held the political power in the state of California (a la Pat Brown). The screenplay was written by Jeremy Larner, a talented writer who had created speeches for Eugene McCarthy four years earlier, witnessing first hand how the business of getting elected is a real business. But this is not just another take on the selling of the president. Where Larner's screenplay earned the Academy Award that it won and where Redford's talents as an actor truly sparkle are in the depiction of the candidate Bill McKay, struggling to be one with the people. On the one hand he cares so much about social justice that he rebels against his staff for coaching him on an up-and-coming press conference. On the other hand, when he initially mingles with workers, students, and urban dwellers, he appears vastly uncomfortable shaking hands, making eye contact and even commanding attention. Like Carter, like Brown, and like McCarthy, what Bill McKay does best is in expressing himself on issues about which he cares. It is easy to consider The Candidate as a product of the times, what with all the major progressive politicians in America neutralized either by murder or by condescension. In fact the film remains highly instructive and is in many ways a much better "Clinton movie" than any of those more closely related to the 42nd commander in chief's presidency.
Far more vulnerable and equally strong was All the President's Men. Can a movie that relies as much as this one does on public knowledge of the web-like complexities of Watergate, and of Watergate's role in sculpting the political future of the United States--can such a movie be successful decades later?
It can. Just as Casablanca, Key Largo, and Notorious--to site three easy examples--maintain their integrity despite blurred memories or historic ignorance or indifference, so does All the President's Men rise above the fascination of its subject matter to tell a great story well.
The movie is tightly based on the book of the same name by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, two Washington Post reporters who investigated the break-in at the Democratic National Committee headquarters with a tenacity that would exhaust and mystify any mainstream journalist working today--journalism today often involving the decision-making process regarding which press releases to run. As presented in All the President's Men, the investigation is a detective story of unfathomable consequence. If anything, director Alan Pakula and screenwriter William Goldman go farther than the book in asserting that Watergate was just one action in the overall operation to keep Richard Nixon in the White House. What the film does not and could not address was the interesting question of why the Post and Woodward in particular were so interested in following the story even beyond Nixon's resignation when almost no other paper in the country thought the matter all that important. What was ignored--what had to be ignored--was the question of whether the Post was being used as a CIA media asset to destroy Nixon as part of a limited hang out whereby the Agency admits to a certain amount of illegal activities to divert attention from larger issues, or, more likely, to rid the Agency of Nixon, who was taking serious action to control the CIA. Even though the film pulls back from these questions, it still manages to be one of the most enlightening and entertaining political films of all time.
Another magnificent political motion picture is American Beauty, a film discussed months ago in this blog but one which deserves our attention here for other reasons. The recurring message of this splendid film is to "look closer," and indeed--politics aside--looking closer is what this movie is all about. American Beauty at first seems to be a story of Lester and Carolyn Burnham and the power shift to destruction their marriage becomes. If that were all there were to this movie, cinematographer Conrad Hall would still have mined a gem. But upon renewed viewings, Annette Benning as Carolyn shows that she is passionately determined to castrate men over who she has gained sexual control, which is why she gets along so well with the homosexuals next door; that Kevin Spacey as Lester achieves some measure of triumph by regressing to the attitude of a teenager who is rebelling against his mother rather than against his wife. Looking closer we see that the political symbol underneath a neighbor's dinner plate represents the underside of culture, so perfect and so corrupt; that much of the self-help merchandise available is a way for people to quite literally program themselves to do stupid things; and that roses are often use to disguise monumental ugliness. There are so many layers to this film that it may indeed be impossible to perceive them all. But where this Sam Mendes picture bears its political stripes is in tying all the scenes together into a statement of purpose: as long as we can remain clear-headed about right and wrong and act accordingly in terms of ourselves and of others, then we have found what we thought we were seeking.
A film such as American Beauty would have been difficult to conceive during the Reagan-Bush administrations. Those twelve years of artistic repression lent themselves to high tech machismo and militarism in movies such as Red Dawn, where an attack by the Russians is defended by a rough and ready high school, or Rambo, where Sylvester Stallone grunts his way back into Vietnam to even up the score. Even so-called comedies such as Private Benjamin and Stripes were essentially recruiting films, suggesting there was still room for individual expression in the armed forces.
But the leader of all movies in the glorification of peacetime warring was Top Gun. More an extended music video than an actual motion picture, Top Gun starred Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer, two prime poster boys for 1980's reckless ambition. Pepsi, fast cars, faster planes, and two people in love with each other for no discernible reason: all this was sprinkled amidst high technology aerial shots and power pop music about as exciting as dry ice. Admittedly a lot of good films have been based on thinner premises than this one. But the cross-marketing of soda products along with the unceasing media chatter about how thrilling the film was gave blessings to a pro-military regime.
We've got new idols for the screen today
Although they make a lot of noises
They've got nothing to say.
I try to look amazed but it's an act.
The movie might be new
But it's the same soundtrack.
--Graham Parker, "Passion is No Ordinary Word"
Primary Colors and An American President were moderately pleasant and inoffensive pictures to varying degrees based upon or inspired by the Clinton presidency. The former focuses on the election process as seen through the eyes of a James Carville type character. The latter is a more sensitive approach to the presumed scandal that would occur should a single president have a girlfriend opt to spend the night in the White House, particularly is she happened to be the head of a large environmental concern lobbying for issues over which the President had some authority. Neither film offered any new insight into the political process or into the way power works in the United States or anywhere else. It would, nevertheless, have been hilarious if, in the latter film, President Michael Douglas had gone on TV and announced that financial contributions would no longer be an acceptable way of wielding influence in Washington. From this point forward, Douglas should have said, the bedroom is where these decisions are being made.
Paddy Chayefsky's screenplay of Sidney Lumet's Network, however, is all about power. And while certain references (Angela Davis, the SLA, Archie Bunker) may be unfamiliar to younger viewers, the fact remains that every major and minor ideological assertion offered by this film has not only come to pass, they have become business as usual.
The nightly news anchor of a national network, Howard Beale, learns that he is being dismissed from his twenty-odd year job because of low ratings. He responds by announcing on the next telecast that since his job is his life, he will blow his brains out on the air in one week. The network, which is in the early throes of being bought by a multinational corporation, decides Howard is onto something and they decide to keep him on the air. But instead of killing himself, Howard becomes the mad prophet of the air waves, encouraging his viewers to throw open their windows and shout, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!" The purity and humanity of Beale's pronouncements (a personal favorite: "I haven't got any bullshit left. I ran out, you see."), as well as his clarity in expressing mass angst, are the popular elements of Beale's nightly pontifications. Meanwhile, Robert Duvall and Faye Dunaway have turned the news department into a for-profit enterprise, a situation relatively unheard of in the late 1970s but commonplace ten years later and universal today. In any event, Duvall and Dunaway add all sorts of hokey malarkey to the news line-up and develop "real life" shows which they manipulate. Just as the thrill wears off, Howard Beale learns of the takeover of the network and warns the audience that bad times are coming, as is inevitable when for-profit organizations control the news.
The head of the multinational, a brief role played to brilliance by Ned Beatty, has Howard in for a little chat. During those few minutes, Beatty verbalizes the organic nature or world domination, pointing out that the real countries of the world are ATT, ITT, IBM, Banl of America, and so on. This revelation inspires Howard to go back to his audience and assure them that everything will be alright after all. Once the viewers are reassured, they stop tuning in. So Dunaway and Duvall terminate, as it were, Beale's contract.
The total control of public airwaves by a formidable group of administrators is frightening indeed. But of course the merging of news and entertainment has already been completed and the result is strict control even over the palest slop heaped upon the viewing public, from MTV to Nick at Nite, both of which are owned by the same corporation.
It is this level of control over public information that brings us--at last!--back to 1963 and to the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald.
Because John Kennedy was assassinated while still in his first term as President, it is only possible to speculate on most elements of how the future would have differed had he lived. His National Security Action memo directives 55 and 263, as well as remarks he made to confidants, strongly suggest a reversal in Southeast Asian policy concomitant with a firmer grip on U.S. intelligence operations. Two key points, however, are quite clear. First, with Kennedy alive, Lyndon Johnson would not have appeared before Congress as he did in August 1964, demanding the enactment of the Gulf on Tonkin Resolution. Johnson, it may be recalled, made his appearance following the allegedly unprovoked attacks by North Vietnamese torpedo boats on two U.S. destroyers in the Gulf of Tonkin, attacks which thirty years later the State Department admitted never actually happened. The Resolution, unconstitutional as it was, gave the President--rather than Congress, as the Constitution requires--the authority to take all necessary measures to repel any armed attack against the forces of the United States and to prevent further aggression, and it declared the maintenance of international peace and security in Southeast Asia to be vital to American interests as well as to world peace. This law, which explicitly gave the President unlimited authority to wage total war, was not repealed until 1970. And even its reversal has not stopped certain Presidents from pretending it is still in place--Presidents such as Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush Jr., and Obama.
Second, had Kennedy been allowed to live, J. Edgar Hoover would have been removed as Director of the FBI, allowing the Bureau to devote more work hours pursuing criminal behavior and less to persecuting supposed subverters and seditionists such as Martin Luther King. The civil rights leader was himself assassinated April 4, 1968, suffering the same fate as Medgar Evers, Emmett Till and Malcolm X, leaving the civil rights movement with no central leadership or example. And so instead of being dead, today Reverend King might be bouncing his great grandchildren on his knees, looking back upon happier times.
But these two things did not happen. And as interesting as such speculation may be, the televised execution of Lee Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby, two days after Kennedy's murder, had an everlasting impact upon the collective psychology of the people of the United States, certainly no less of an impact than the killing of the President. If one can imagine the public response today if the current President were to be shot and killed by a purported lone gunman who himself was executed while in police custody by a lone vigilante right on international television a mere two days later, then one begins to gain a glimpse of the suspicious cover story that was perpetrated.
Initially, Jack Ruby explained that he had murdered Lee Oswald so as to spare the widow Kennedy the ordeal of testifying at the trial of the man accused of committing her husband's murder. Months later, Ruby told Warren Commission Chairman and Supreme Court Chief Justice Earl Warren that he had information that would clear up many mysteries of the assassination. Ruby begged to be taken to Washington so that he could testify. Warren declined the invitation. Ruby died in prison a short time later. Yet even without Ruby's revelations, the very fact of his murdering Oswald shocked the nation in ways the death of the President did not. Oswald's assassination made people wonder if he had been silenced to prevent details of a conspiracy from being loosed upon the land. With Oswald alive, the odds of a lone nut versus a conspiracy were even money. But with Oswald murdered, the perceived likelihood of conspiracy soared and loomed.
The murder of Lee Oswald was real in ways the murder of President Kennedy was not. Kennedy's murder had been filmed by several different people, but it would be years before the American public would see it. Oswald's execution was televised live. And that made it real.
Even before he was executed, stories about Oswald had emerged. The simplest of these was that he was an ex-Marine who had defected to the Soviet Union, returned disillusioned to America, drifted to a job at the Texas School Book Depository, looked out a window, saw a President going by, and shot him dead.
Decades later, piece by piece, the "reality" has changed. It is more widely understood today, thanks to the efforts of researchers such as Mark Lane, Sylvia Meager, Penn Jones, Jim Garrison, William Turner and many others, that Oswald's trip to the Soviet Union was part of an ongoing intelligence operation concocted by the Special Operations division of the Central Intelligence Agency. From the day Oswald departed for the USSR until the day he was killed in Dallas, Oswald was and remained an agent and had quite probably tried to prevent the assassination of the President of the United States.
A crisis in confidence began the moment Oswald was gunned down. The new President, Lyndon Johnson, understood that his ability to hold authority lay in his skill in restoring public faith in pluralistic democracy. His response was to form and appoint the Warren Commission.
Few documents have been the object of such scrutiny, derision and ridicule. Assassination researchers and Commission critics have spoken with varying degrees of eloquence against the validity of the Commission's conclusions. Pathologist Cyril Wecht summed up the mood of the critics when he suggested that the 26-volume report be moved to the fiction section of the world's libraries.
Had Oswald lived to testify (or even confess, or name names), much of the cynicism and apathy regarding American institutions might not exist today. Jack Ruby's act of violence pushed the American public closer to an emotional and intellectual numbing that it was all too ready to embrace.
One shining example of this comfortably numb state of affairs was the initial national reaction to Oliver Stone's film Natural Born Killers. Everyone in the movie is feeding like vampires on cheap thrills. No one is safe from the stupefaction of the media: kids, parents, cops, bystanders, and the two killers themselves, Mickey and Mallory Knox, played by Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis. By the end of the film, as the celebrated killers prepare to destroy the Australian version of Geraldo Rivera (played by Morton Downey Jr), the audience becomes unpleasantly aware of being manipulated by the media and accepts the on-screen murder as right and appropriate, as does the Wayne Gale character himself. A lot of people walked out on this movie. Some people went to see the movie for the expressed purpose of walking out on it, certainly a new twist on conspicuous consumption. Having been conditioned to reject any kind of media stimulation that involves no gratuitous violence (meaning any kind that offers horror and revulsion on a scale that screams that anyone is presently capable of such atrocities), many audience members rebelled at being lured into consciously examining the ways in which they are being conditioned. A horse will only nudge an electric fence once or twice before accepting that there are boundaries to its freedom. It is doubtful that anyone who did stay for the duration of Natural Born Killers has forgotten the experience, just as the Zapruder film of the Kennedy slaying has staying power, as does Oswald's execution. It is disturbing to consider that anyone might find these things entertaining, although Stone's film suggests that this is just so. The movie might make one wonder about the passions of others in the audience.
Since the end of World War II, and especially since November 1963, when Kennedy and Oswald were murdered, Americans have been deluged with cases of misconduct, law-breaking, and pure evil on the part of people upon whom they have bestowed authority. Complaints to one another are merely public icebreakers and jokes have become cynical sarcasm. Without the summit of salvation (or truth) in sight, faith in one's own people to overcome the barriers becomes a soft platitude. With the murder of Lee Oswald, the mountains began stacking one upon another, and the summit became a long way from home. Aspiring politicos who bray about the need for leadership keenly appreciate this condition. Genuine leadership means battling the armies of cynicism and destroying the weapons of faithlessness. Anyone elected to national public office who behaved as such a leader would inspire his or her own probably demise. Mobilizing people to believe in real democracy endangers the infant orality so painstakingly instilled and installed by those who benefit the most from the cynicism.
Having, I presume, established the killing of Oswald as an event of considerable significance, it may be useful now to examine how such a thing could happen. That examination will involve looking into the life of Oswald's assailant.
Jacob Rubenstein was born in Chicago in 1911. As the fifth of eight children in a tumultuous home, young Jack was extracted from his domicile and placed in various foster homes by the Jewish Home Finding Society. By the time puberty came surging along, Jack was scalping tickets, pushing posies, and selling illegal music sheets to survive. Rubenstein gravitated toward street gangs and by his late twenties was warring against the German-American Bund, an American Nazi organization. Leaving the Army Air Force in 1946, he went into sales with his three brothers. The boys thought their moniker might be holding back their success, so they shortened the last name to Ruby. The following year Jack moved to Texas to operate a nightclub.
Between the time he moved to Dallas and the day he was arrested for killing Oswald, Ruby had developed some curious friendships with local and national mobsters and with some people who would come to be known as anti-Castro Cubans. Students of organized crime and Cuban affairs may recognize the names Bernard Barker, Joseph Campisi, Frank Caracci, Frank Chavez, Josepg Civello, Mickey Cohen, Russell matthews, Chilly McWillie, Nofio Pecora, and Frank Sturgis. During those sixteen years, Ruby was arrested nine times and only convicted once, the single blot on his otherwise pristine record being for ignoring a traffic summons.
Meanwhile, Fidel Castro was winning a revolution against Fulgencio Batista. Miami crime lord Santos Trafficante and his associates were supplying guns to both sides, knowing for certain they would have backed a winner.
The United States, in the early days of the revolution, was eagerly awaiting castro's victory. Batista had become unmanagble and both the FBI and CIA supported his overthrow. One of Ruby's friends, Frank Sturgis, was acting as a close adviser to Castro while running guns and serving as a contract agent for the CIA under the name of Frank Fiorini. Sturgis later plotted to murder Castro, was involved in the bay of Pigs, is alleged by Martina Lorenz to have taken part in JFK's assassination, and was arrested as a Watergate burglar. In any event, it was through relationships with men such as Sturgis that Ruby helped the Mafia help Castro while also helping the FBI keep tabs on the mob. According to a 1964 memo FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover sent to the Warren Commission, his G-men contacted Ruby eight times in 1959, "but he furnished no information. . . and was never an informant of the Bureau." Chief Council of the House Select Committee on Assassinations (the 1970s version of the Warren Commission), Robert Blakey, later suggested that Ruby was ingratiating himself with the FBI so he could buy leverage if picked up for gunrunning. If true, some of the leverage he hoped to gain may have been related to his financial woes. Although his strip club was quite lucrative, Ruby was in trouble for not paying his taxes. By the time he shot Oswald, he owed the IRS nearly $40,000. This was at a time when a family earning $7,500 a year was doing well.
The most likely scenario is that Jack Ruby was under orders to kill lee Oswald. His Cuban and crime contacts prior to 1963, along with eyewitness reports connecting him with conspirators David Ferrie and Frank Sturgis certainly put Ruby in the right company for being so involved. And his behavior during and after the homicide of John Kennedy lends credence to the idea that Jack Ruby eliminated Lee Oswald to prevent Oswald from betraying the plot to kill the President. Indeed, once the Dallas police had apprehended Oswald, Jack Ruby took a manifest interest in the accused assassin. Bearing in mind that Kennedy was shot at 12:30pm, consider Ruby's movements during the forty-eight hours following that murder.
Oswald was arrested in the Texas Theatre after a man one officer said "looked one hell of a lot" like Jack Ruby told the police what row the man they were looking for was sitting in. This occurred at 1:27pm. At 2:00pm, Ruby was seen leaving Parkland Hospital where the President had been pronounced dead. From 4:00pm until just past 7:00pm, he was at the Dallas Police Headquarters. By 9:00pm that evening he was at his own apartment where he made several telephone calls. He left in time to visit a local synagogue by 10:00pm. Ruby returned to the Dallas PD by 11:00pm, where he brought sandwiches to the officers and killed time awaiting the press conference just after midnight, November 23. the stars of the conference were District Attorney Henry Wade (of the future Supreme Court decision Roe v Wade) and Lee Harvey Oswald. Wade made a reference to a political organization to which Oswald had belonged and from a table in the back of the room, Ruby corrected the error. "Henry, that's the Fair play for Cuba Committee!" At the time no one thought to ask how a local strip club owner would be aware of the correct name of a political group that had as its one and only local member the recently accused murderer of the President.
Less than one hour later, Ruby was buying food and drink for the news staff of KLIF Radio. By 2:00am he was back downtown talking about the previous day's big story with an employee and a friend on the police force. Wrapping up discussions quickly, he delivered a racing form to a local newspaper, picked up his roommate, George Senator, and went back to the Carousel Club. A few minutes after 4:00am, Ruby took a camera and another employee out to the expressway and in an act of future irony, photographed a billboard that demanded the impeachment of Supreme Court Chief Justice Earl Warren. At 8:00am, Ruby returned to police headquarters and a few minutes later called a local radio station to ask what time Oswald would be transferred to the county jail.
Shortly after 2:30am, November 24, Ruby called Lieutenant Billy Grammer and told him to change the transfer plans for Oswald or "We're going to kill him right there in the basement." The pronoun choice demonstrates the actions of two or more people. The fact of the warning itself suggests that Ruby did not want to kill Oswald but could only get out of it due to circumstances beyond his control, such as a change of transfer plans.
At 11:17am, Ruby sent an employee named Karen Carlin $25 by Western Union from an office just down the street from the police department.
At 11:20am a car horn tooted and the jail elevator doors opened. Oswald, handcuffed to detective Jim Leavelle, was led out to be slaughtered. One reporter shouted, "Here he comes!" Another newsman moved in close and hollered "Do you have anything to say in your defense?" Oswald glanced at Ruby with a look of familiarity. Seconds later, Ruby bounded forward, shouted the last name of his victim, and rammed his .38 into Oswald's stomach, firing one shot. The bullet punctured the abdomen, pierced two arteries and ripped his spleen, pancreas, liver and right kidney. All this occurred as millions watched on television. Oswald was pronounced dead at 1:07pm.
The days later, Jack Ruby was indicted for first degree murder. On March 14, 1964, he was convicted and sentenced to death. The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals reversed the conviction in October 1966 and ordered a new trial. On December 9 Ruby was moved to parkland Hospital due to a persistent cough and nausea. he died of cancer January 3, 1967.
Researchers have been fascinated by Ruby's testimony to the Warren Commission. Oswald's killer begged for three hours to be taken out of jail and to go to Washington with the Chief Justice so he could testify safely and tell the Commission what he knew about the assassination. earl Warren refused. Exasperated, Ruby declared, "Well, you won't ever see me again. A whole new form of government is going to take over the country and I know I won't live to see you another time." When the Warren report was issued, it asserted that John Kennedy had been killed by Oswald, who had acted alone. According to polls, the majority of Americans have never believed this.
The literal visualization of Oswald's murder--within the context of subsequent events--has had the serendipitous effect of desensitizing Americans to the motivations and consequences of just such violent acts. When reports surfaced in September 1997 that photographers who may have contributed to the fatal car accident that killed Princess Diana and two others crawled onto the car's windshield to photograph the death in process, the public may have been horrified but certainly was not surprised. Cynicism about such monstrous acts is subtle, real and widespread in our culture. The filmed slaying of Lee Harvey Oswald served to condition the public against a need for resolution. A "we'll never know what really happened" attitude became pervasive and was applied to such societal cataclysms as the Vietnam War, Watergate, The October Surprise, Iran-Contra, the Impeachment of Bill Clinton, and the Presidential Election of 2,000. The accused assassin did not stand trial. Ruby died before his retrial. And by 1970, most of the people who could have illuminated crucial details had ceased to exist. And there were very few Howard Beale types urging people to shout.
AKA CASSIUS CLAY
The name of the game is be hit and hit back.
--Warren Zevon
To make the claim that one certain song is better than all the other songs feels absurd. A given tune can hold tremendous importance at a given time, yet be forgotten entirely during a different moment. To argue that The Kite Runner or The Great Gatsby or even Ocean's Apart reigns over all other literature flirts with folly. Within the world of the written word, what can a concept such as "the best" even indicate? Would it be remotely possible to select one painting by Picasso and declare that to be the supreme creation of our age? For that matter, by what standards could be taken for granted that Picasso was the ultimate master?
Even in the world of sports, winning a Super Bowl, or an NBA Championship, or a World Series says (almost) nothing about the long-term survival of that team's status.
One thing, however, stands firm and tall against any dispute: The greatest boxer in all of history was Muhammad Ali. He would tell you so himself. Indeed, he has done so many, many times. And he told the truth.
Two out of three men who beat Ali have found their names dissolved from the public memory. Who today remembers Larry Holmes, much less Leon Spinks? And the only reason people still recall Joe Frazier (who defeated Ali in 1971) is because our champ--The People's Champ--came back and beat the man--twice. The same holds true for Ken Norton, a fighter more celebrated for having lost to Muhammad than for having beaten him. Yes, the people Ali defeated linger in the memory better than those few who defeated him. Sonny Liston, Floyd Patterson, Cleveland Williams, Jerry Quarry, Oscar Bonavena--these men went down hard, their legends in place because they had the honor of being destroyed by Muhammad Ali.
Several good movies have trotted out attempts at replicating this man's glory. For my money, two of the better one's are A.K.A. Cassius Clay (1970) and The Trials of Muhammad Ali (2013). Both films draw upon inspiring footage to tell most of the visual tale. Both are sure to emphasize the champ's ability to self-promote. Both utilize the social context of the Nation of Islam, civil rights and the Vietnam War for societal context. Yet of the two, it is the more recent that you should see, assuming you can only make time for one of them. A.K.A., though completed and released prior to the United States Supreme Court decision which overturned his conviction for draft evasion, nevertheless feels somewhat light and airy compared to the more hard-hitting Trials presentation. A.K.A., directed by Jim Jacobs and narrated by Richard Kiley, tries to avoid offending its audience by overstepping its ground on the issue of the issues that led to Clay/Ali being stripped of his championship title. Those issues, of course, were black nationalism and declaring himself a conscientious objector.
Trials pulls no punches in this regard. Director Bill Siegel begins the movie with a speech by the amazingly pretentious talk show host David Susskind calling Ali out as a coward and a fraud. Ali was no such thing and by the end of the movie, even the skeptics will know it.
--Warren Zevon
To make the claim that one certain song is better than all the other songs feels absurd. A given tune can hold tremendous importance at a given time, yet be forgotten entirely during a different moment. To argue that The Kite Runner or The Great Gatsby or even Ocean's Apart reigns over all other literature flirts with folly. Within the world of the written word, what can a concept such as "the best" even indicate? Would it be remotely possible to select one painting by Picasso and declare that to be the supreme creation of our age? For that matter, by what standards could be taken for granted that Picasso was the ultimate master?
Even in the world of sports, winning a Super Bowl, or an NBA Championship, or a World Series says (almost) nothing about the long-term survival of that team's status.
One thing, however, stands firm and tall against any dispute: The greatest boxer in all of history was Muhammad Ali. He would tell you so himself. Indeed, he has done so many, many times. And he told the truth.
Two out of three men who beat Ali have found their names dissolved from the public memory. Who today remembers Larry Holmes, much less Leon Spinks? And the only reason people still recall Joe Frazier (who defeated Ali in 1971) is because our champ--The People's Champ--came back and beat the man--twice. The same holds true for Ken Norton, a fighter more celebrated for having lost to Muhammad than for having beaten him. Yes, the people Ali defeated linger in the memory better than those few who defeated him. Sonny Liston, Floyd Patterson, Cleveland Williams, Jerry Quarry, Oscar Bonavena--these men went down hard, their legends in place because they had the honor of being destroyed by Muhammad Ali.
Several good movies have trotted out attempts at replicating this man's glory. For my money, two of the better one's are A.K.A. Cassius Clay (1970) and The Trials of Muhammad Ali (2013). Both films draw upon inspiring footage to tell most of the visual tale. Both are sure to emphasize the champ's ability to self-promote. Both utilize the social context of the Nation of Islam, civil rights and the Vietnam War for societal context. Yet of the two, it is the more recent that you should see, assuming you can only make time for one of them. A.K.A., though completed and released prior to the United States Supreme Court decision which overturned his conviction for draft evasion, nevertheless feels somewhat light and airy compared to the more hard-hitting Trials presentation. A.K.A., directed by Jim Jacobs and narrated by Richard Kiley, tries to avoid offending its audience by overstepping its ground on the issue of the issues that led to Clay/Ali being stripped of his championship title. Those issues, of course, were black nationalism and declaring himself a conscientious objector.
Trials pulls no punches in this regard. Director Bill Siegel begins the movie with a speech by the amazingly pretentious talk show host David Susskind calling Ali out as a coward and a fraud. Ali was no such thing and by the end of the movie, even the skeptics will know it.
THIS MUST BE THE PLACE
Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me round
I feel numb - burn with a weak heart
(So I) guess I must be having fun
The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It's ok I know nothing's wrong . . nothing
Hi yo I got plenty of time
Hi yo you got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up say goodnight . . . say goodnight
--David Byrne
Not everyone will be ready for This Must Be the Place (2011). But if you are, other people's lack of ease may be among the reasons you will like it.
That and the fact of Sean Penn will turn the movie for you. You will like it because you like Sean and because you will know some other people will be incredibly annoyed with this movie, as well as because you will have a kind of sensitivity that not everyone else possesses. Or else you'll simply rock back on your heels from the majesty of director Paolo Sorrentino's vision of America and Ireland. Then again, you might thrill to the sight and feel of Frances McDormand, Judd Hirsch, Joyce Van Patten and Eve Hewson cast in roles that freed them up in ways no one else ever dared provide them. You might even be happy to watch David Byrne singing.
Mostly, though, I believe you'll stand up and cheer with the way Sean Penn explores the pores and molecules of his Cheyenne character, a retired rocker who lives off his musical proceeds and suffers the agony of having inadvertently inspired two young fans to commit suicide while he lives in a mansion he does not understand. His wife, played by McDormand, is a firefighter. He has a gothic groupie he tries to fix up with a young man from the mall. And when Cheyenne's father takes sick, he returns to New York just in time for the old man to die.
His father is a Holocaust survivor who spent the last years of his life trying to find the Nazi guard who humiliated him. Cheyenne picks up the search, in the process encountering a waitress with a curious son, a pair of ping pong wannabes, the man who invented rollers for luggage, a Nazi hunter, an aging tattoo artist, and that legion of fans he cannot quite let down.
To tell more of the plot would be stupid. I will reveal that the hook of this movie--aside from the acting, which is among the best I've ever seen anywhere--is the grandest twist of the "coming of age" theme ever made. Penn gets every last nuance of this transformation exactly right, mostly because he invents his character from the inside out. Just to give you a touch, imagine a former rocker worn so fragile that we actually ache when he encounters people who stand a chance of hurting him, only to find that he is more than capable of taking care of himself. When a skinhead in a bar asks Cheyenne if he likes his tattoos, Penn's character replies, "I was asking myself that same exact question."
The temptation here is to quote you a hundred lines from this movie. But I won't. I'll just ask you to consider taking a trip with some fascinating people, none of whom will hurt you, at least not as bad as you have hurt yourself.
Pick me up and turn me round
I feel numb - burn with a weak heart
(So I) guess I must be having fun
The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It's ok I know nothing's wrong . . nothing
Hi yo I got plenty of time
Hi yo you got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up say goodnight . . . say goodnight
--David Byrne
Not everyone will be ready for This Must Be the Place (2011). But if you are, other people's lack of ease may be among the reasons you will like it.
That and the fact of Sean Penn will turn the movie for you. You will like it because you like Sean and because you will know some other people will be incredibly annoyed with this movie, as well as because you will have a kind of sensitivity that not everyone else possesses. Or else you'll simply rock back on your heels from the majesty of director Paolo Sorrentino's vision of America and Ireland. Then again, you might thrill to the sight and feel of Frances McDormand, Judd Hirsch, Joyce Van Patten and Eve Hewson cast in roles that freed them up in ways no one else ever dared provide them. You might even be happy to watch David Byrne singing.
Mostly, though, I believe you'll stand up and cheer with the way Sean Penn explores the pores and molecules of his Cheyenne character, a retired rocker who lives off his musical proceeds and suffers the agony of having inadvertently inspired two young fans to commit suicide while he lives in a mansion he does not understand. His wife, played by McDormand, is a firefighter. He has a gothic groupie he tries to fix up with a young man from the mall. And when Cheyenne's father takes sick, he returns to New York just in time for the old man to die.
His father is a Holocaust survivor who spent the last years of his life trying to find the Nazi guard who humiliated him. Cheyenne picks up the search, in the process encountering a waitress with a curious son, a pair of ping pong wannabes, the man who invented rollers for luggage, a Nazi hunter, an aging tattoo artist, and that legion of fans he cannot quite let down.
To tell more of the plot would be stupid. I will reveal that the hook of this movie--aside from the acting, which is among the best I've ever seen anywhere--is the grandest twist of the "coming of age" theme ever made. Penn gets every last nuance of this transformation exactly right, mostly because he invents his character from the inside out. Just to give you a touch, imagine a former rocker worn so fragile that we actually ache when he encounters people who stand a chance of hurting him, only to find that he is more than capable of taking care of himself. When a skinhead in a bar asks Cheyenne if he likes his tattoos, Penn's character replies, "I was asking myself that same exact question."
The temptation here is to quote you a hundred lines from this movie. But I won't. I'll just ask you to consider taking a trip with some fascinating people, none of whom will hurt you, at least not as bad as you have hurt yourself.
HANNAH ARENDT
Not too many well-written books have earned such a disturbing a reputation that even fifty years after their publication one may still encounter people who will say, "Oh, that? No. I refuse to consider reading that vile stack of rubbish!" Yet there are people, even to this very day, for whom the suggestion that there might actually be some value in Eichmann in Jerusalem is not merely anathema; it is the exemplification of nausea.
That reaction to the compiled articles Hannah Arendt wrote for the New Yorker (along with her substantial and grisly historical narrative of the Holocaust) has been linked to the writer's purposeful flippancy, to her suggestion that certain Jewish leaders were passively complicit in the Shoah, and even to her earlier schooling by and relationship with Martin Heidegger. The real reason, I suspect, is that some people were distressed by the subtitle: A Report on the Banality of Evil.
After all the psychoanalysis and superlatives, what Arendt actually gets across in her beautiful book is that Adolf Eichmann could not think. His responses to the orders he was given at the time contained value only insofar as they pertained to his being employed so that he could receive additional orders and thereby go on being employed. Eichmann was responsible for the deportation of one-and-a-half million Jews to killing centers in Poland and the Soviet Union. His emotional attachment to this fact--during his trial--was bogged down in specificities. Was he here or there or a given day or at another time, rather than addressing the core issue. But even on that core issue--extermination--Eichmann clearly felt exasperated at the Israeli court's unwillingness or inability to see things from his point of view.
They hanged the bastard.
But before that, before the trial, Israel's Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, or Mossad, captured (or kidnapped) him from the safety of post-war Buenos Aires, Argentina and smuggled him into Jerusalem. Because of the inconceivable horror of the Holocaust and of Eichmann's indisputable role in it, the world was supposed to understand and accept this action on the part of Mossad.
Again, though, the implication that the nation of Israel may have had a few flies in the ointment is not what some in the intellectual community rejected. What they disliked was the implication that the nature of Eichmann's fascism was mundane. For if that were true, could not even the best and brightest of us--if not checked and rechecked by other thinking and feeling people--be every bit as vile as Eichmann and his alleged superiors?
Well, sure. There is more to fascism than Henry Ford, Prescott Bush and Charles Lindbergh doling out money and lending their faces to the flashbulbs. Any time we decide that one group of people are better than another, a kind of Nazi-like thinking has slipped in. Some people might argue that we even need a bit of that hierarchy stuff in the name of order. After all, they say, the policeman is presumed better than the suspect, just as the prisoner is thought to be non-entitled to freedom while his jailers walk among the rest of us. I use the criminal justice system as a working example here because one time period's administrators of law and order (Eichmann) may wind up another time period's criminal underclass (dead Eichmann).
The alleged ambiguity and its ultimate resolution is the subject matter of a very good film called Hannah Arendt (2012). Written and directed by Margarethe von Trotta, this movie sugarcoats nothing, giving us the self-satisfied Arendt, the humorous Arendt, the smoking, wisecracking, professorial and impassioned Arendt, played with a perfect balance of intensities by Barbara Sukowa. (Sukowa has worked with Trotta before, first as one of the leads in Marianne and Juliane and later in the title role of Rosa Luxemburg.) Everyone in this beautiful movie trembles with the magnitude of Hannah's recognition of this everyday evil. I especially liked Janet McTeer as writer, journalist and friend Mary McCarthy.
Good as both the film and Arendt's book are, I suspect that modern audiences may not necessarily gain from the material the full sense of "Good is the new Bad" (or vice versa) that seems to have come across in Eichmann's trial. If I am correct, that speaks not so much bad for the movie and book but rather very ill for current times.
Many years ago, while teaching an employee a moderately complex series of procedures based on a few contingencies, I remarked, more or less in a joking way, that rules were invented because people do not like to think. The employee roared with laughter, finally suggesting that that would be a good "rule" for the place where we worked. I had inadvertently stumbled upon the closest thing I've ever said that I would like engraved. When you strip away all the larceny, dehumanization, brutality, avarice and sadism of the Third Reich, what you find are people of moderate intelligence who were extraordinary in (a) the breadth of their ability to plan and carry out cruelty, and (b) their unwillingness to put themselves in the other person's shoes. The efficiency of any bureaucracy requires some degree of the latter. Yet without a sufficient number of people to step outside the social situations and peer in at themselves in those situations, the humanitarian aims of the bureaucracy--if any--can become quickly lost. If someone working intake at the local Department of Economic Security office stops to contemplate the monumental horror of the lives of each person she interviews, she will be unable to help any of them. And yet if that person is unable to think beyond the constrictions of forms and computer logins and neither mentally nor emotionally connects with her clientele, she will quickly become useless to the goals of her organization. In the Third Reich, of course, those aims were the complete and total elimination of a race of people from the Earth. Any deviationist thinking was considered a spanner in the works and in Germany between 1933 and 1945, such thinking could get a person shot.
The leadership of the Party were not idiots. They had been spoon-fed on Martin Luther and breastfed by Heidegger, Herbert Spencer and Thomas Malthus. This philosophy of Social Darwinism (which the real Charles Darwin would have despised) celebrated the victory of presumed strength over presumed weakness, manipulating a Europe already predisposed towards anti-Semitism onto its own "noble cause." But even moderately bright people can turn themselves into machines when they find it in their own interests to do so. Just as the end of the world felt very near from 1933 through 1945, today many people in positions of authority choose to ignore the facts of human control on the effects of global heating, yet convince themselves in the veracity of the twisted fairy tale that the Amazon rainforest creates air pollution.
The story of Hannah Arendt, then, remains vital, not only as a point of historical information or dramatic catharsis, but more importantly because, as thinking continues to be hard work, we may persevere and elect to draw some parallels between her time and our own.
That reaction to the compiled articles Hannah Arendt wrote for the New Yorker (along with her substantial and grisly historical narrative of the Holocaust) has been linked to the writer's purposeful flippancy, to her suggestion that certain Jewish leaders were passively complicit in the Shoah, and even to her earlier schooling by and relationship with Martin Heidegger. The real reason, I suspect, is that some people were distressed by the subtitle: A Report on the Banality of Evil.
After all the psychoanalysis and superlatives, what Arendt actually gets across in her beautiful book is that Adolf Eichmann could not think. His responses to the orders he was given at the time contained value only insofar as they pertained to his being employed so that he could receive additional orders and thereby go on being employed. Eichmann was responsible for the deportation of one-and-a-half million Jews to killing centers in Poland and the Soviet Union. His emotional attachment to this fact--during his trial--was bogged down in specificities. Was he here or there or a given day or at another time, rather than addressing the core issue. But even on that core issue--extermination--Eichmann clearly felt exasperated at the Israeli court's unwillingness or inability to see things from his point of view.
They hanged the bastard.
But before that, before the trial, Israel's Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, or Mossad, captured (or kidnapped) him from the safety of post-war Buenos Aires, Argentina and smuggled him into Jerusalem. Because of the inconceivable horror of the Holocaust and of Eichmann's indisputable role in it, the world was supposed to understand and accept this action on the part of Mossad.
Again, though, the implication that the nation of Israel may have had a few flies in the ointment is not what some in the intellectual community rejected. What they disliked was the implication that the nature of Eichmann's fascism was mundane. For if that were true, could not even the best and brightest of us--if not checked and rechecked by other thinking and feeling people--be every bit as vile as Eichmann and his alleged superiors?
Well, sure. There is more to fascism than Henry Ford, Prescott Bush and Charles Lindbergh doling out money and lending their faces to the flashbulbs. Any time we decide that one group of people are better than another, a kind of Nazi-like thinking has slipped in. Some people might argue that we even need a bit of that hierarchy stuff in the name of order. After all, they say, the policeman is presumed better than the suspect, just as the prisoner is thought to be non-entitled to freedom while his jailers walk among the rest of us. I use the criminal justice system as a working example here because one time period's administrators of law and order (Eichmann) may wind up another time period's criminal underclass (dead Eichmann).
The alleged ambiguity and its ultimate resolution is the subject matter of a very good film called Hannah Arendt (2012). Written and directed by Margarethe von Trotta, this movie sugarcoats nothing, giving us the self-satisfied Arendt, the humorous Arendt, the smoking, wisecracking, professorial and impassioned Arendt, played with a perfect balance of intensities by Barbara Sukowa. (Sukowa has worked with Trotta before, first as one of the leads in Marianne and Juliane and later in the title role of Rosa Luxemburg.) Everyone in this beautiful movie trembles with the magnitude of Hannah's recognition of this everyday evil. I especially liked Janet McTeer as writer, journalist and friend Mary McCarthy.
Good as both the film and Arendt's book are, I suspect that modern audiences may not necessarily gain from the material the full sense of "Good is the new Bad" (or vice versa) that seems to have come across in Eichmann's trial. If I am correct, that speaks not so much bad for the movie and book but rather very ill for current times.
Many years ago, while teaching an employee a moderately complex series of procedures based on a few contingencies, I remarked, more or less in a joking way, that rules were invented because people do not like to think. The employee roared with laughter, finally suggesting that that would be a good "rule" for the place where we worked. I had inadvertently stumbled upon the closest thing I've ever said that I would like engraved. When you strip away all the larceny, dehumanization, brutality, avarice and sadism of the Third Reich, what you find are people of moderate intelligence who were extraordinary in (a) the breadth of their ability to plan and carry out cruelty, and (b) their unwillingness to put themselves in the other person's shoes. The efficiency of any bureaucracy requires some degree of the latter. Yet without a sufficient number of people to step outside the social situations and peer in at themselves in those situations, the humanitarian aims of the bureaucracy--if any--can become quickly lost. If someone working intake at the local Department of Economic Security office stops to contemplate the monumental horror of the lives of each person she interviews, she will be unable to help any of them. And yet if that person is unable to think beyond the constrictions of forms and computer logins and neither mentally nor emotionally connects with her clientele, she will quickly become useless to the goals of her organization. In the Third Reich, of course, those aims were the complete and total elimination of a race of people from the Earth. Any deviationist thinking was considered a spanner in the works and in Germany between 1933 and 1945, such thinking could get a person shot.
The leadership of the Party were not idiots. They had been spoon-fed on Martin Luther and breastfed by Heidegger, Herbert Spencer and Thomas Malthus. This philosophy of Social Darwinism (which the real Charles Darwin would have despised) celebrated the victory of presumed strength over presumed weakness, manipulating a Europe already predisposed towards anti-Semitism onto its own "noble cause." But even moderately bright people can turn themselves into machines when they find it in their own interests to do so. Just as the end of the world felt very near from 1933 through 1945, today many people in positions of authority choose to ignore the facts of human control on the effects of global heating, yet convince themselves in the veracity of the twisted fairy tale that the Amazon rainforest creates air pollution.
The story of Hannah Arendt, then, remains vital, not only as a point of historical information or dramatic catharsis, but more importantly because, as thinking continues to be hard work, we may persevere and elect to draw some parallels between her time and our own.
NETWORK
Turner Classic Movies ran a trio of screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky films the other night. The three movies (Marty, Middle of the Night and The Bachelor Party) were fine. Betsy Blair was the fine star of Marty. Indeed, as my long-suffering roommate pointed out, they were all of a type, sort of an analysis of domesticity in the late 1950s. Delbert Mann directed all three and you can certainly make the point that the scenes from each film would have fit well within one another. From one perspective, that makes them formulaic. From another it betrays certain topical obsessions. I think the biggest disappointment a budding film aficionado would have with these three is that compared to the wild changes in film-making going on at the same time in Europe, these feel rather tame. It's lousy being alone. It's no fun getting old. Hanging out with your wife beats getting drunk with your friends. Or, respectively, Ernest Borgnine as a sensitive spouse is more fun than being alone. Watching Kim Novak acting crazy beats getting old. Don Murray was a better actor than Tom Hanks, even if you are getting drunk with your friends. The most memorable aspect of any of these pictures was at the end of Bachelor Party when Caroline Jones gets billed as "The Existentialist."
None of this should be taken as to diminish the talent of Paddy Chayefsky. This is, after all, the man who scripted Paint Your Wagon, The Hospital and Altered States--the latter a great script either enhanced or butchered by director Ken Russell (it just depends on who you ask). What these three movies share with their three earlier brethren is (1) they were, at the time of their release, considered quite edgy, (2) they have not aged especially well, and (3) the fact that they have not aged well is not overcome by their artistic merit.
The exception in Mr. Chayefsky's pantheon is Network (1976). Oh, I will grant you that many of the details of the film--directed by Sidney Lumet--have faded into the ahistoric past, but it's my past so who cares? The sentiment, the thrust, the anticipation of doom is still fresh as the smell of a Brillo pad in the morning. Here's a bit from early in the movie.
10. INT. 4TH FLOOR CORRIDOR - UBS BUILDING - 6:28 P.14. - TUESDAY LOOKING INTO the small network-news make-up room where HOWARD BEALE is standing, Kleenex tucked into his shirt collar, getting a few last whisks from the MAKE-UP LADY. Finished, HOWARD pulls the Kleenex from his collar, takes a last sip from a glass of booze on the make-up shelf, gathers his papers and exits, turns and enters --
11. INT. NETWORK NEWS STUDIO - 4TH FLOOR. Typical Newsroom studio -- cameras, cables, wall maps, flats and propping, etc. HOWARD nods, smiles to various PERSONNEL -- CAMERAMEN, ASSISTANT DIRECTORS, ASSOCIATE PRODUCERS -- as he makes his way to his desk facing Camera One. He sits, prepares his papers, looks up to the control room, nods -- MUSIC ABRUPTLY OUT: END OF CREDITS:
12. INT. CONTROL ROOM - 4th FLOOR The clock wall reads: 6:30. Typical control room. A room-length double bank of television monitors including two color monitor screens, the show monitor and the pre-set monitor. Before this array of TV screens sits the DIRECTOR, flanked on his left by the PRODUCTION ASSISTANT (GIRL) who stop-watches the show, and on his right by the TECHNICAL DIRECTOR who operates a special board of buttons and knobs. (On the TECHNICAL DIRECTOR's right sits the LIGHTING DIRECTOR). At the moment, the show monitor has the network's Washington correspondent, JACK SNOWDEN, doing a follow-up on the attempted assassination of President Ford in San Francisco --
SNOWDEN (ON MONITOR)
-- the first attempt on President Ford's life was eighteen days ago -- and again yesterday in San Francisco --
DIRECTOR (murmuring into his mike)
-- Lou, kick that little thing shut on ground level --
SNOWDEN (ON MONITOR) -- In spite of two attempts --
The show monitor screen has switched over to show film of President Ford arriving at the San Francisco airport --
SNOWDEN (V.O. ON MONITOR) --
Mr. Ford says he will not become --
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT (murmurs) -- forty seconds --
DIRECTOR (murmurs into mike) --
twenty seconds to one --
DIRECTOR -- one --
HOWARD BEALE'S image suddenly flips on-screen --
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
-- thirty seconds to commercial freeze --
DIRECTOR -- head roll --
TECHNICAL DIRECTOR -- rolling--
The DIRECTOR and TECHNICAL DIRECTOR turn in their seats to join HARRY HUNTER and his SECRETARY in a brief gossip --
HOWARD (ON MONITOR)
Ladies and gentlemen, I would like at this moment to announce that I will be retiring from this program in two weeks' time because of poor ratings --
The DIRECTOR has whispered something to HARRY HUNTER'S SECRETARY which occasions sniggers from the SECRETARY and from HARRY HUNTER. The TECHNICAL DIRECTOR stands to get in on the joke --
ASSISTANT DIRECTOR (to DIRECTOR)
-- what'd you say? --
HOWARD (ON MONITOR)
-- and since this show was the only thing I had going for me in my life, I have decided to kill myself --
HARRY HUNTER'S SECRETARY murmurs something which causes HARRY HUNTER to burst into laughter --
ASSISTANT DIRECTOR (to the DIRECTOR)
-- so what'd she say? --
HOWARD (ON MONITOR) --
I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to blow my brains out right on this program a week from today --
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
(frowning and very puzzled indeed by this diversion from the script) -- ten seconds to commercial --
HOWARD (ON MONITOR) --
so tune in next Tuesday. That'll give the public relations people a week to promote the show, and we ought to get a hell of a rating with that, a fifty share easy --
A bewildered PRODUCTION ASSISTANT nudges the DIRECTOR, who wheels back to his mike --
DIRECTOR (into mike)
-- and --
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT (to the DIRECTOR)
Listen, did you hear that? --
DIRECTOR
Take VTA.
The monitor screen erupts into a commercial for cat food.
AUDIO MAN
(leaning in from his glassed-in cubicle) What was that about?
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT (to the DIRECTOR)
Howard just said he was going to blow his brains out next Tuesday.
DIRECTOR
What're you talking about?
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
Didn't you hear him? He just said --
HARRY HUNTER
What's wrong now?
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
Howard just said he was going to kill himself next Tuesday.
HARRY HUNTER
What do you mean Howard just said he was going to kill himself next Tuesday?
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
(nervously riffling through her script) He was supposed to do a tag on Ron Nesson and into commercial --
AUDIO MAN
(from his doorway) He said tune in next Tuesday, I'm going to shoot myself --
Everybody's attention is now on the double bank of black-and-white monitor screens showing various parts of the studio, all of which show agitated behavior. Several of the screens show HOWARD at his desk in vehement discussion with a clearly startled FLOOR MANAGER with headset and no less startled ASSOCIATE PRODUCER --
DIRECTOR
(on mike to FLOOR MANAGER) What the hell's going on?
On the pre-set monitor screen, the FLOOR MANAGER with headset looks up --
FLOOR MANAGER (ON SCREEN)
(voice booming into the control room) I don't know. He just said he was going to blow his brains out --
DIRECTOR
(into mike) What the hell's this all about, Howard?
HOWARD (ON MONITOR)
(shouting at the floor PERSONNEL gathering around him) Will you get the hell out of here? We'll be back on air in a couple of seconds!
DIRECTOR (roaring into the mike)
What the fuck's going on, Howard?
HOWARD (ON MONITOR) I can't hear you --
DIRECTOR (bawling at the AUDIO MAN)
Put the studio mike on!
AUDIO MAN
We're back on in eleven seconds --
SLOCUM (on floor)
They want to know what the fuck is going on, Howard.
HOWARD (on monitor)
I can't hear you.
DIRECTOR (bawling at the Audio man)
Put the studio mike on!
AUDIO MAN
We're back on in eleven seconds.
ASSOCIATE PRODUCER
Harry, I think we better get him off --
HARRY HUNTER (roaring at the Audio Man)
Turn his mike off!
AUDIO MAN (now back in the control room)
What the hell's going on?
HARRY HUNTER (raging)
Turn the fucking sound off, you stupid son of a bitch! This is going out live!
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT (stop-watching)
Three -- two -- one --
DIRECTOR
Take 2 --
At which point, the TECHNICAL DIRECTOR pushes a button; the jangling cat food commercial flips off the show monitor to be instantly replaced by a scene of gathering bedlam around HOWARD'S desk. The AUDIO MAN flees in panic back to the cubicle to turn off the audio but not before HARRY HUNTER and the DIRECTOR going out live to 67 affiliates can be heard booming:
HARRY HUNTER
Chrissakes! Black it out! This is going out live to sixty-seven fucking affiliates ! Shit!
DIRECTOR
This is the dumbest thing I ever saw! --
13. INT. MAX SCHUMACHER'S OFFICE - FIFTH FLOOR - ROOM 509
MAX SCHUMACHER, behind his desk staring petrified at his office console on which pandemonium ha broken out.
The FLOOR MANAGER and the ASSOCIATE PRODUCER and now an ELECTRICIAN are trying to pull HOWARD away from his desk and HOWARD is trying to hit anybody he can with an ineffective right hand haymaker --
HOWARD (ON MONITOR)
Get the fuck away from me!
OTHER VOICES (ON MONITOR)
(coming from all directions) -- cut the show! -- -- get him out of there! -- -- go to standby! -- -- for Chrissakes, you stupid --
MAX'S PHONE RINGS --
MAX (grabs the phone)
How the hell do I know? --
(he hangs up, seizes another phone, barks:)
Give me the network news control room!
On the MONITOR SCREEN, hysteria is clearly dominating. The SCREEN has suddenly leaped into a fragment of the just-done cat food COMMERCIAL, then a jarring shot of the bedlam of the studio floor. This particular camera seems unattended as it begins to PAN dementedly back and forth showing the confusion on the studio floor. Then abruptly the SCREEN is filled with Vice President designate Nelson Rockefeller testifying before the Senate Rules Committee --
MAX (shouting into phone)
Black it out!
The SCREEN abruptly goes into BLACK as MAX slashes his phone back into its cradle. His PHONE promptly RINGS again, but MAX is already headed for the door. The SCREEN goes into STANDBY. His SQUAWK BOX suddenly blares --
SQUAWK BOX
What the hell happened, Max? --
MAX (shouting as he exits) How the hell do I know? I'm going down now!
In July 1974, news personality Christine Chubbuck stared into the camera at the local Florida television station where she worked and said, "In keeping with Channel 40's policy of bringing you the latest in blood and guts and in living color, you are going to see another first--attempted suicide." Whereupon she put a gun behind her ear and fired.
Paddy took elements then current and fired them into the near future. A multinational conglomerate owned by Arabs buys up the fourth news network. News becomes entertainment. Opinion replaces content. Blood and guts dominates. A local left wing terrorist organization gets its own prime time show. Faye Dunaway becomes a man. William Holden becomes a woman. And when Howard Beale's ratings drop, the Network has him assassinated on the air. Ned Beatty tells the world that ATT and IBM are countries. Robert Duvall becomes a Republican.
It doesn't matter whether you know Angela Davis, Patty Hearst, Squeaky Fromme, Sara Jane Moore or even Gerald Ford. What matters is that you are perceptive enough to realize that what this movie says to the ages is that this movie shows how things are now and at the time it was made things were not yet quite that way. Think of it as watching "Star Trek" in the twenty-fifth century, except the show is well done.
None of this should be taken as to diminish the talent of Paddy Chayefsky. This is, after all, the man who scripted Paint Your Wagon, The Hospital and Altered States--the latter a great script either enhanced or butchered by director Ken Russell (it just depends on who you ask). What these three movies share with their three earlier brethren is (1) they were, at the time of their release, considered quite edgy, (2) they have not aged especially well, and (3) the fact that they have not aged well is not overcome by their artistic merit.
The exception in Mr. Chayefsky's pantheon is Network (1976). Oh, I will grant you that many of the details of the film--directed by Sidney Lumet--have faded into the ahistoric past, but it's my past so who cares? The sentiment, the thrust, the anticipation of doom is still fresh as the smell of a Brillo pad in the morning. Here's a bit from early in the movie.
10. INT. 4TH FLOOR CORRIDOR - UBS BUILDING - 6:28 P.14. - TUESDAY LOOKING INTO the small network-news make-up room where HOWARD BEALE is standing, Kleenex tucked into his shirt collar, getting a few last whisks from the MAKE-UP LADY. Finished, HOWARD pulls the Kleenex from his collar, takes a last sip from a glass of booze on the make-up shelf, gathers his papers and exits, turns and enters --
11. INT. NETWORK NEWS STUDIO - 4TH FLOOR. Typical Newsroom studio -- cameras, cables, wall maps, flats and propping, etc. HOWARD nods, smiles to various PERSONNEL -- CAMERAMEN, ASSISTANT DIRECTORS, ASSOCIATE PRODUCERS -- as he makes his way to his desk facing Camera One. He sits, prepares his papers, looks up to the control room, nods -- MUSIC ABRUPTLY OUT: END OF CREDITS:
12. INT. CONTROL ROOM - 4th FLOOR The clock wall reads: 6:30. Typical control room. A room-length double bank of television monitors including two color monitor screens, the show monitor and the pre-set monitor. Before this array of TV screens sits the DIRECTOR, flanked on his left by the PRODUCTION ASSISTANT (GIRL) who stop-watches the show, and on his right by the TECHNICAL DIRECTOR who operates a special board of buttons and knobs. (On the TECHNICAL DIRECTOR's right sits the LIGHTING DIRECTOR). At the moment, the show monitor has the network's Washington correspondent, JACK SNOWDEN, doing a follow-up on the attempted assassination of President Ford in San Francisco --
SNOWDEN (ON MONITOR)
-- the first attempt on President Ford's life was eighteen days ago -- and again yesterday in San Francisco --
DIRECTOR (murmuring into his mike)
-- Lou, kick that little thing shut on ground level --
SNOWDEN (ON MONITOR) -- In spite of two attempts --
The show monitor screen has switched over to show film of President Ford arriving at the San Francisco airport --
SNOWDEN (V.O. ON MONITOR) --
Mr. Ford says he will not become --
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT (murmurs) -- forty seconds --
DIRECTOR (murmurs into mike) --
twenty seconds to one --
DIRECTOR -- one --
HOWARD BEALE'S image suddenly flips on-screen --
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
-- thirty seconds to commercial freeze --
DIRECTOR -- head roll --
TECHNICAL DIRECTOR -- rolling--
The DIRECTOR and TECHNICAL DIRECTOR turn in their seats to join HARRY HUNTER and his SECRETARY in a brief gossip --
HOWARD (ON MONITOR)
Ladies and gentlemen, I would like at this moment to announce that I will be retiring from this program in two weeks' time because of poor ratings --
The DIRECTOR has whispered something to HARRY HUNTER'S SECRETARY which occasions sniggers from the SECRETARY and from HARRY HUNTER. The TECHNICAL DIRECTOR stands to get in on the joke --
ASSISTANT DIRECTOR (to DIRECTOR)
-- what'd you say? --
HOWARD (ON MONITOR)
-- and since this show was the only thing I had going for me in my life, I have decided to kill myself --
HARRY HUNTER'S SECRETARY murmurs something which causes HARRY HUNTER to burst into laughter --
ASSISTANT DIRECTOR (to the DIRECTOR)
-- so what'd she say? --
HOWARD (ON MONITOR) --
I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to blow my brains out right on this program a week from today --
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
(frowning and very puzzled indeed by this diversion from the script) -- ten seconds to commercial --
HOWARD (ON MONITOR) --
so tune in next Tuesday. That'll give the public relations people a week to promote the show, and we ought to get a hell of a rating with that, a fifty share easy --
A bewildered PRODUCTION ASSISTANT nudges the DIRECTOR, who wheels back to his mike --
DIRECTOR (into mike)
-- and --
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT (to the DIRECTOR)
Listen, did you hear that? --
DIRECTOR
Take VTA.
The monitor screen erupts into a commercial for cat food.
AUDIO MAN
(leaning in from his glassed-in cubicle) What was that about?
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT (to the DIRECTOR)
Howard just said he was going to blow his brains out next Tuesday.
DIRECTOR
What're you talking about?
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
Didn't you hear him? He just said --
HARRY HUNTER
What's wrong now?
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
Howard just said he was going to kill himself next Tuesday.
HARRY HUNTER
What do you mean Howard just said he was going to kill himself next Tuesday?
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
(nervously riffling through her script) He was supposed to do a tag on Ron Nesson and into commercial --
AUDIO MAN
(from his doorway) He said tune in next Tuesday, I'm going to shoot myself --
Everybody's attention is now on the double bank of black-and-white monitor screens showing various parts of the studio, all of which show agitated behavior. Several of the screens show HOWARD at his desk in vehement discussion with a clearly startled FLOOR MANAGER with headset and no less startled ASSOCIATE PRODUCER --
DIRECTOR
(on mike to FLOOR MANAGER) What the hell's going on?
On the pre-set monitor screen, the FLOOR MANAGER with headset looks up --
FLOOR MANAGER (ON SCREEN)
(voice booming into the control room) I don't know. He just said he was going to blow his brains out --
DIRECTOR
(into mike) What the hell's this all about, Howard?
HOWARD (ON MONITOR)
(shouting at the floor PERSONNEL gathering around him) Will you get the hell out of here? We'll be back on air in a couple of seconds!
DIRECTOR (roaring into the mike)
What the fuck's going on, Howard?
HOWARD (ON MONITOR) I can't hear you --
DIRECTOR (bawling at the AUDIO MAN)
Put the studio mike on!
AUDIO MAN
We're back on in eleven seconds --
SLOCUM (on floor)
They want to know what the fuck is going on, Howard.
HOWARD (on monitor)
I can't hear you.
DIRECTOR (bawling at the Audio man)
Put the studio mike on!
AUDIO MAN
We're back on in eleven seconds.
ASSOCIATE PRODUCER
Harry, I think we better get him off --
HARRY HUNTER (roaring at the Audio Man)
Turn his mike off!
AUDIO MAN (now back in the control room)
What the hell's going on?
HARRY HUNTER (raging)
Turn the fucking sound off, you stupid son of a bitch! This is going out live!
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT (stop-watching)
Three -- two -- one --
DIRECTOR
Take 2 --
At which point, the TECHNICAL DIRECTOR pushes a button; the jangling cat food commercial flips off the show monitor to be instantly replaced by a scene of gathering bedlam around HOWARD'S desk. The AUDIO MAN flees in panic back to the cubicle to turn off the audio but not before HARRY HUNTER and the DIRECTOR going out live to 67 affiliates can be heard booming:
HARRY HUNTER
Chrissakes! Black it out! This is going out live to sixty-seven fucking affiliates ! Shit!
DIRECTOR
This is the dumbest thing I ever saw! --
13. INT. MAX SCHUMACHER'S OFFICE - FIFTH FLOOR - ROOM 509
MAX SCHUMACHER, behind his desk staring petrified at his office console on which pandemonium ha broken out.
The FLOOR MANAGER and the ASSOCIATE PRODUCER and now an ELECTRICIAN are trying to pull HOWARD away from his desk and HOWARD is trying to hit anybody he can with an ineffective right hand haymaker --
HOWARD (ON MONITOR)
Get the fuck away from me!
OTHER VOICES (ON MONITOR)
(coming from all directions) -- cut the show! -- -- get him out of there! -- -- go to standby! -- -- for Chrissakes, you stupid --
MAX'S PHONE RINGS --
MAX (grabs the phone)
How the hell do I know? --
(he hangs up, seizes another phone, barks:)
Give me the network news control room!
On the MONITOR SCREEN, hysteria is clearly dominating. The SCREEN has suddenly leaped into a fragment of the just-done cat food COMMERCIAL, then a jarring shot of the bedlam of the studio floor. This particular camera seems unattended as it begins to PAN dementedly back and forth showing the confusion on the studio floor. Then abruptly the SCREEN is filled with Vice President designate Nelson Rockefeller testifying before the Senate Rules Committee --
MAX (shouting into phone)
Black it out!
The SCREEN abruptly goes into BLACK as MAX slashes his phone back into its cradle. His PHONE promptly RINGS again, but MAX is already headed for the door. The SCREEN goes into STANDBY. His SQUAWK BOX suddenly blares --
SQUAWK BOX
What the hell happened, Max? --
MAX (shouting as he exits) How the hell do I know? I'm going down now!
In July 1974, news personality Christine Chubbuck stared into the camera at the local Florida television station where she worked and said, "In keeping with Channel 40's policy of bringing you the latest in blood and guts and in living color, you are going to see another first--attempted suicide." Whereupon she put a gun behind her ear and fired.
Paddy took elements then current and fired them into the near future. A multinational conglomerate owned by Arabs buys up the fourth news network. News becomes entertainment. Opinion replaces content. Blood and guts dominates. A local left wing terrorist organization gets its own prime time show. Faye Dunaway becomes a man. William Holden becomes a woman. And when Howard Beale's ratings drop, the Network has him assassinated on the air. Ned Beatty tells the world that ATT and IBM are countries. Robert Duvall becomes a Republican.
It doesn't matter whether you know Angela Davis, Patty Hearst, Squeaky Fromme, Sara Jane Moore or even Gerald Ford. What matters is that you are perceptive enough to realize that what this movie says to the ages is that this movie shows how things are now and at the time it was made things were not yet quite that way. Think of it as watching "Star Trek" in the twenty-fifth century, except the show is well done.
AMERICAN HUSTLE
I am almost always predisposed against new movies, which is why I am particularly elated to tell you that American Hustle (2013) has affected me more than any movie I have seen in several years. To offer an example: when we first meet Irving Rosenfeld (Christian Bale), he is piecing together with quantities of stick-um what another character in the film refers to as an elaborate comb-over. He carries a paunch that would encourage most men to cover themselves up. And he affects a look of cool with ridiculous shaded indoor glasses. He is, in short, the last person in the world that a man would emulate. Yet I guarantee you that by the mid point in this wonderful movie, any man watching this will want to look exactly like this guy, at least for the duration of the film.
And that will work out fine because before the movie closes, half the women in the audience will want to be either Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams), Irving's cohort, or wife Rosalyn Rosenfeld (Jennifer Lawrence).
What that amazing sense of identification means is that the writing is tight, the improvisation works, the acting takes the art to new improved levels, the ensemble work among Bale, Lawrence, Adams and Bradley Cooper (the latter playing a Studio 54 version of an FBI agent) is more comfortable than compatible, which is the way it should be, and the cinematography actually implies emotions without beating us over the head with them.
American Hustle is everything that The Wolf of Wall Street yearned to be.
Based just loosely enough on the ABSCAM entrapment of the late 1970s, American Hustle tells a story of survival--and the cost of that survival. Irving and Sydney (inspired by Melvin Weinberg and Evelyn Knight, respectively), are two world class confidence players who take advantage of gamblers, cheaters and six-time losers hanging 'round the theatre (girl by the whirlpool's looking for a new fool). They are also constantly busy reinventing themselves as anything other than what they really are. Yet what they are isn't half bad. They are both into Duke Ellington while their contemporaries are into Chicago. They both love art while their contemporaries enjoy politics. And they love one another while everyone else apparently loves them.
I don't want to give away much more of the plot. However, I will say that the plot is amazing in the way that the tension builds and builds around first, genuine physical danger, and second, the possible loss of friendship. It is this latter point on which everything else in the movie spins. When Irving becomes a genuine friend of the mayor of Camden, New Jersey (played with perfect understatement by Jeremy Renner), we genuinely ache at the prospects of the former's behavior injuring the latter.
As marvelous as every component of this movie is, we might expect that with a running time of 138 minutes there would be some over-indulgences. That is not the case at all. Every second of this powerful movie is necessary for its resolution. Every grimace, every slight of hand, every weird look from an uncredited Robert DeNiro (he plays the hitman gangster) is necessary. This is very much a movie you will hate to see end.
And that will work out fine because before the movie closes, half the women in the audience will want to be either Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams), Irving's cohort, or wife Rosalyn Rosenfeld (Jennifer Lawrence).
What that amazing sense of identification means is that the writing is tight, the improvisation works, the acting takes the art to new improved levels, the ensemble work among Bale, Lawrence, Adams and Bradley Cooper (the latter playing a Studio 54 version of an FBI agent) is more comfortable than compatible, which is the way it should be, and the cinematography actually implies emotions without beating us over the head with them.
American Hustle is everything that The Wolf of Wall Street yearned to be.
Based just loosely enough on the ABSCAM entrapment of the late 1970s, American Hustle tells a story of survival--and the cost of that survival. Irving and Sydney (inspired by Melvin Weinberg and Evelyn Knight, respectively), are two world class confidence players who take advantage of gamblers, cheaters and six-time losers hanging 'round the theatre (girl by the whirlpool's looking for a new fool). They are also constantly busy reinventing themselves as anything other than what they really are. Yet what they are isn't half bad. They are both into Duke Ellington while their contemporaries are into Chicago. They both love art while their contemporaries enjoy politics. And they love one another while everyone else apparently loves them.
I don't want to give away much more of the plot. However, I will say that the plot is amazing in the way that the tension builds and builds around first, genuine physical danger, and second, the possible loss of friendship. It is this latter point on which everything else in the movie spins. When Irving becomes a genuine friend of the mayor of Camden, New Jersey (played with perfect understatement by Jeremy Renner), we genuinely ache at the prospects of the former's behavior injuring the latter.
As marvelous as every component of this movie is, we might expect that with a running time of 138 minutes there would be some over-indulgences. That is not the case at all. Every second of this powerful movie is necessary for its resolution. Every grimace, every slight of hand, every weird look from an uncredited Robert DeNiro (he plays the hitman gangster) is necessary. This is very much a movie you will hate to see end.
THE GAMBLER
Winston Smith, also known as Eric Blair, also known as George Orwell, insisted that freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two equals four. The son of Maria and Mikhail, also known as Alexei Ivanovich, also known as Fyodor Dostoyevsky, insisted that freedom is the freedom to believe that two plus two equals five. In Orwell's world, Spanish bombs dropping all around him turned him into what he considered to be a realist and what some others have classified as a bitter pessimist. In truth, he was an anti-utopian, ever fearful that the only way wide-opened dreams are actualized is with the heavy drop of a jackboot. In Dostoyevsky's world, exiled Siberian winters screamed that things could only improve, a belief system reinforced by his cohorts in the Petrashevsky Circle.
It's an interesting mental challenge with which you can play along. A man holds up two fingers on each hand. He tells you the correct answer is five. Because that's what he wants you to not only say but also believe, you rationalize and give him the answer he wants, even though you know it's wrong. Invisible electric walls of pain sear through your joints like the agony of a million arthritics. The misery holds, grips, strangles, cuts off your breath, your mind turns white with the heat and at last it disappears with all the deliberate suddenness with which it originally greeted you. After months of this, the man returns. He holds up two fingers on each hand and repeats the question. The mere sight of the man's fingers causes your muscles to tighten, yet when you look at those fingers, you know without question what the true answer is. There really are five fingers there! You say it. He smiles.
If anything of the sort ever locks me in Room 101, I am certain I too would perceive five fingers, just as Winston Smith did. Yet there is a part of me that always pulls for Fyodor's lucid lunatic in Notes From Underground. Two plus two might not equal five today, I reason. But maybe tomorrow, with enough faith and especially willpower, I might just see five fingers and still be correct.
But then again, I'm no gambler. I loathe any element of risk in which I perceive that I play no part in the outcome. Dostoyevsky, a man made of different and probably better stuff, gambled consistently from 1863 until 1871. Hooked on the roulette wheel, he became so destitute that he agreed to a powerful wager with a publisher named Stellovsky that he would deliver a novella for publication within a short time or else that publisher could print the writer's works for the next nine years without paying him a cent. Fyodor finished the book. He called it The Gambler. The title character is Alexei Ivanovich.
The 1974 movie of the same name stars James Caan as Axel Freed. Axel teaches literature at a local college. One of his favorite authors is Dostoyevski. Axel plans to write a book some day.
Probably he would have had the book written already except he's been very busy gambling.
So we have a charismatic, brutally handsome, erudite professor spending his off hours with gangsters, petty thieves, drunkards, loan sharks and their debt collectors (Burt Young comes at this role with sociopathic tranquility), that is, when he isn't putting the arm on his girlfriend, played by Lauren Hutton, or his mother Naomi (Jacqueline Brooks), the bank officer (James Woods), his buddy Hips (Paul Sorvino), and an assortment of pimps and hookers. During some extended moments, Axel does quite well at his different gambling ventures. But ultimately, as he himself readily admits, he isn't chasing the next big win so much as the next big loss.
The movie not only posits parallels with one of the greatest Russian novelists. It also connects with the screenwriter, James Toback. The writer himself taught creative writing at City College of New York while indulging a serious gambling problem of his own. Unlike his protagonist, Toback couldn't quite seem to lose, at least at the box office, and The Gambler, the first of nine features under his name, was a huge success. With the tagline they used, the picture could hardly miss: "For $10,000 they break your arms. For $20,000 they break your legs. Alex Freed owes $44,000."
The script was just amazing, catching every nuance of the gambling addict between the highs and lows. Most of what's between the two is looking over your shoulder, wondering if that sound you hear is a massive boulder seconds from rolling you under or the swish of a baseball bat turning just upwards as it collides with the vertex of your skull.
James Caan trembles with restrained excitement at every win and every loss. In one remarkable scene, he finds himself in Las Vegas at a blackjack table. He's been winning steadily at several different games of chance. He has a lot of chips pushed out toward the dealer. The dealer has a face card showing and a hole card. Axel shows eighteen with two cards. He can read the dealer. He knows the dealer has a face card in the hole. So he not only calls for another card, he doubles the bet! The dealer makes sure he heard the gambler right. Yep. "Show me the three." And out from the dealer's deck tumbles that very lovely trey, floating through the air and settling right where it belongs.
Caan's reactions to his own lifestyle trapped in a crippled environment of his own making are nothing short of mesmerizing. Enticing us to experience the psychological complexities of an everyday character is what good, hard acting is all about. No one in this film disappoints (except, unfortunately, Hutton). And Caan is the leader of the pack.
For those looking to continue the conscious irony, Jimmy Caan went on to star in a TV drama called "Las Vegas."
It's an interesting mental challenge with which you can play along. A man holds up two fingers on each hand. He tells you the correct answer is five. Because that's what he wants you to not only say but also believe, you rationalize and give him the answer he wants, even though you know it's wrong. Invisible electric walls of pain sear through your joints like the agony of a million arthritics. The misery holds, grips, strangles, cuts off your breath, your mind turns white with the heat and at last it disappears with all the deliberate suddenness with which it originally greeted you. After months of this, the man returns. He holds up two fingers on each hand and repeats the question. The mere sight of the man's fingers causes your muscles to tighten, yet when you look at those fingers, you know without question what the true answer is. There really are five fingers there! You say it. He smiles.
If anything of the sort ever locks me in Room 101, I am certain I too would perceive five fingers, just as Winston Smith did. Yet there is a part of me that always pulls for Fyodor's lucid lunatic in Notes From Underground. Two plus two might not equal five today, I reason. But maybe tomorrow, with enough faith and especially willpower, I might just see five fingers and still be correct.
But then again, I'm no gambler. I loathe any element of risk in which I perceive that I play no part in the outcome. Dostoyevsky, a man made of different and probably better stuff, gambled consistently from 1863 until 1871. Hooked on the roulette wheel, he became so destitute that he agreed to a powerful wager with a publisher named Stellovsky that he would deliver a novella for publication within a short time or else that publisher could print the writer's works for the next nine years without paying him a cent. Fyodor finished the book. He called it The Gambler. The title character is Alexei Ivanovich.
The 1974 movie of the same name stars James Caan as Axel Freed. Axel teaches literature at a local college. One of his favorite authors is Dostoyevski. Axel plans to write a book some day.
Probably he would have had the book written already except he's been very busy gambling.
So we have a charismatic, brutally handsome, erudite professor spending his off hours with gangsters, petty thieves, drunkards, loan sharks and their debt collectors (Burt Young comes at this role with sociopathic tranquility), that is, when he isn't putting the arm on his girlfriend, played by Lauren Hutton, or his mother Naomi (Jacqueline Brooks), the bank officer (James Woods), his buddy Hips (Paul Sorvino), and an assortment of pimps and hookers. During some extended moments, Axel does quite well at his different gambling ventures. But ultimately, as he himself readily admits, he isn't chasing the next big win so much as the next big loss.
The movie not only posits parallels with one of the greatest Russian novelists. It also connects with the screenwriter, James Toback. The writer himself taught creative writing at City College of New York while indulging a serious gambling problem of his own. Unlike his protagonist, Toback couldn't quite seem to lose, at least at the box office, and The Gambler, the first of nine features under his name, was a huge success. With the tagline they used, the picture could hardly miss: "For $10,000 they break your arms. For $20,000 they break your legs. Alex Freed owes $44,000."
The script was just amazing, catching every nuance of the gambling addict between the highs and lows. Most of what's between the two is looking over your shoulder, wondering if that sound you hear is a massive boulder seconds from rolling you under or the swish of a baseball bat turning just upwards as it collides with the vertex of your skull.
James Caan trembles with restrained excitement at every win and every loss. In one remarkable scene, he finds himself in Las Vegas at a blackjack table. He's been winning steadily at several different games of chance. He has a lot of chips pushed out toward the dealer. The dealer has a face card showing and a hole card. Axel shows eighteen with two cards. He can read the dealer. He knows the dealer has a face card in the hole. So he not only calls for another card, he doubles the bet! The dealer makes sure he heard the gambler right. Yep. "Show me the three." And out from the dealer's deck tumbles that very lovely trey, floating through the air and settling right where it belongs.
Caan's reactions to his own lifestyle trapped in a crippled environment of his own making are nothing short of mesmerizing. Enticing us to experience the psychological complexities of an everyday character is what good, hard acting is all about. No one in this film disappoints (except, unfortunately, Hutton). And Caan is the leader of the pack.
For those looking to continue the conscious irony, Jimmy Caan went on to star in a TV drama called "Las Vegas."
MELVIN PURVIS: G-MAN
While I'm fairly certain that Special Agent Melvin Purvis was never involved in the investigation, much less the capture, of the Machine Gun Kelly Gang, that does not prevent the American International Pictures film, Melvin Purvis: G-Man (1974), from being a hell of a good time for one and all. In fact, writer John Milius and director Dan Curtis place all sorts of historical clues throughout the movie, most of which are correct in detail and wrong in general, something that comes off as remarkably effective, even to Prohibition-era gangster buffs.
George Kelly's wife Kate really did work at developing the mythology around her husband. Kelly and associates really did kidnap a rich guy--actually two of them--and held them for ransom. There actually was a loose five hundred dollars from the paid ransom. The collected pay-off was $200,000, rather than $500,000, but the movie makes more reference to the former amount than the latter, so somebody at AIP evidently knew the difference. And Kelly actually did beg those who apprehended him not to shoot, while calling them out as "G-Men." But verisimilitude rather than factual accuracy is what makes this film such a delightful success. Well, that and Dale Robertson's dead pan performance in the title role. Here was the long-term host of a Wells Fargo TV Western series playing an egomaniacal, self-indulgent, humorous and occasionally sentimental and always well-tailored agent of J. Edgar Hoover. He walks onto the scene of a kidnapping from the night before at some oblivious industrialist's party and, after surveying the crime scene, snatches a fine cigar from the humidor and requests an assistant to pour them both some of the victim's champagne.
In a lot of gangster movies of the era--the subjects of which Purvis narrates in the opening scene--the emphasis was on the folklore components of the outlaws. Here we have nothing at all to cling to regarding the criminals, primarily because the way Kelly is presented here (again, historically accurate) reveals him to be a bully, a coward, a cheat, and not especially attractive. Not so with Kate, his wife. Kate (played by Margaret Blye) is an outlaw, not a criminal. When Dick Sargent, as the kidnap victim, tries to understand her, she makes it clear to him that he is responsible for their lifestyle, a political thought infinitely beyond the awareness of her colleagues.
On the down side, the notion that a Jew's harp and banjo make a soundtrack plays a pathetic homage to Bonnie and Clyde, a substantially more affecting motion picture. The film exploits the legend of that and a slew of Cagney and Robinson movies. That too is inoffensive because of the ambitious amateurism of the filmmakers. Again and again, while strolling through the AIP resume, we find glorious examples of small-d divine inspiration. This is no exception.
George Kelly's wife Kate really did work at developing the mythology around her husband. Kelly and associates really did kidnap a rich guy--actually two of them--and held them for ransom. There actually was a loose five hundred dollars from the paid ransom. The collected pay-off was $200,000, rather than $500,000, but the movie makes more reference to the former amount than the latter, so somebody at AIP evidently knew the difference. And Kelly actually did beg those who apprehended him not to shoot, while calling them out as "G-Men." But verisimilitude rather than factual accuracy is what makes this film such a delightful success. Well, that and Dale Robertson's dead pan performance in the title role. Here was the long-term host of a Wells Fargo TV Western series playing an egomaniacal, self-indulgent, humorous and occasionally sentimental and always well-tailored agent of J. Edgar Hoover. He walks onto the scene of a kidnapping from the night before at some oblivious industrialist's party and, after surveying the crime scene, snatches a fine cigar from the humidor and requests an assistant to pour them both some of the victim's champagne.
In a lot of gangster movies of the era--the subjects of which Purvis narrates in the opening scene--the emphasis was on the folklore components of the outlaws. Here we have nothing at all to cling to regarding the criminals, primarily because the way Kelly is presented here (again, historically accurate) reveals him to be a bully, a coward, a cheat, and not especially attractive. Not so with Kate, his wife. Kate (played by Margaret Blye) is an outlaw, not a criminal. When Dick Sargent, as the kidnap victim, tries to understand her, she makes it clear to him that he is responsible for their lifestyle, a political thought infinitely beyond the awareness of her colleagues.
On the down side, the notion that a Jew's harp and banjo make a soundtrack plays a pathetic homage to Bonnie and Clyde, a substantially more affecting motion picture. The film exploits the legend of that and a slew of Cagney and Robinson movies. That too is inoffensive because of the ambitious amateurism of the filmmakers. Again and again, while strolling through the AIP resume, we find glorious examples of small-d divine inspiration. This is no exception.
THE PARALLAX VIEW
If you even partially resemble the average sentient earthling-type humanoid, you have two functioning eyeballs. If so, you give one of those two vision receptacles some degree of preference or domination over the other. There's no meaningful connection between one's right-or-left-handedness and the domination of one eye over the other. Yet two-thirds of us are right-eye dominant, while the rest of us (especially those with Williams-Beuren Syndrome) favor the majestic left eye. Neither eye tends to be completely ignored when we are looking at things, a fact that accounts for our evident ability to perceive objects in three-dimensions. Yet you may have observed that when someone is learning to, say, parallel park, or perhaps has not done so recently, he or she will involuntarily close the recessive eye so as to "more precisely" evaluate the scene and thereby not crash into the vehicle behind the rear bumper. A good test for ocular dominance is to extend an arm and point your thumb skyward while covering one eye completely. When you uncover the eye, if the thumb appears to move, the dominant orb is the other eye. This "coming together" of perceptions is a very simple example of the parallax view, a phenomenon which can be defined as the apparent displacement in the apparent position of an object (in this case, the thumb) viewed along two different lines of sight (in this case, the two eyeballs). In this definition, I have chosen to italicize the word apparent because, from an epistemological perspective, we might be forgiven for wondering if the object in question really exists at all, or whether the object has been placed where it is to fool us, or perhaps whether we ourselves are being looked back at by the object. Even from a somewhat less philosophical vantage, anyone who has ever begun walking toward a mountain which appears to be only a mile or two off in the distance and which, as it turns out, gets imperceptibly larger even as we walk more than fifty miles in its direction will know what this apparent displacement feels like to aching feet.
(Philosopher and cultural critic Slavoj Zizek--sort of the Theodor Adorno of our time--wrote a book a few years back in which he discusses the "parallax gap" separating two points between which no synthesis or mediation is possible, linked by an "impossible short circuit" of levels that can never meet. Anyone who enjoys rethinking dialectical materialism, Marx Brothers movies, or dirty jokes would be well-advised to order a copy from MIT Press.)
In 1974, movie director Alan J. Pakula released the second installment of his so-called Paranoid Political Trilogy. Starring Warren Beatty, Paula Prentiss and William Daniels, The Parallax View, despite a marked absence of character development, makes a worthy attempt at recreating the essence of how the processes of our perceptions are manipulated in the furtherance of economic gain. Joseph Frady is a sharp and tricky reporter for a third-rate newspaper who was among those nearby a political assassination at the Seattle Space Needle. His ex-girlfriend (wife?) comes to him three years later because she is convinced that she will be murdered because of something she witnessed that terrible day. She does not know what it is that she witnessed that would make her a threat to the conspirators. All she knows is that six of the eighteen people present have died under suspicious circumstances, any one of which could be explained away, but which, taken together, suggest something nefarious at work. Frady rebuffs her. She dies. Frady is now convinced something wicked this way comes. He heads out to a small town called Salmontail, where he encounters a redneck deputy whose ass he duly kicks, a wily sheriff who tries to kill him, and a secret box containing paper applications for a Los Angeles-based company called Parallax. We get a quick look at the questionnaire and observe disquieting statements that the applicant is expected to react to, such as:
The images come at us--and Frady--in such a way that a kind of psychological manipulation takes place, compelling us to respond honestly, despite any attempts at concealment. This is relevant because later on, when the reporter is framed and killed as an assassin, we may decide to suspect that the Parallax people knew right away that he was faking it.
Indeed, the levels of obfuscation that The Parallax View employs whispers to us that the distance between what we think we know and the truth is a far piece of space. As with physics and astronomy, one can use this displacement to quantify reality, such as the distance between stars or the orbits of planets. In this instance, the reality is political assassination and how it has been trivialized into the misguided actions of the omnipresent "lone nut." John and Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Alberta Williams King, Malcolm X, Harvey Milk, George Moscone, Leo Ryan, Judge John H. Wood, Bill Gwatney, Medgar Evers, Lee Oswald, George Lincoln Rockwell, Fred Hampton, Marcus Foster, Anna Mae Aquash, Don Bolles, Orlando Letelier, Alan Berg, Alex Odeh, Huey Newton, David Gunn, John Britton, George Tiller--it is comforting to share the media-controlled illusion that these men and women were slain by unaffiliated and singular individuals who were acting alone. That way our obsession with proving our national character to be supreme is unimpeded by any type of rational thinking. The mere fact that it is conceivable that even one of these people was murdered as the result of a for-profit operation at the behest of the highest-bidding secret agency means that our national character is a sham we have bought and sold to ourselves, a fact the rest of the world has known about us for decades. If forces within our system are willing to overthrow foreign governments and pay for the extermination of foreign leaders, why would those same forces hesitate to assassinate their domestic enemies? Patriotism? Good God, there is no patriotism in economics. Read any macro or micro economics textbook you can find and I defy you to locate a chapter that encourages the reader to forego that house in Southampton because of loyalty to country or government. The real force, of course, is within the nature of power itself. The name of the economic system is completely irrelevant today. What matters is the fact of those who are able to coerce, mandate, persuade or impel others to do something outside their own interests and the willingness of the few to exercise that power. Because good assassins tend to be expensive and are not especially trustworthy if and when they are apprehended, the forces that actually run things have chosen to buy and control the six (five, four, three?) media conglomerates and to use those outlets to "politically" assassinate their opponents in ways far more egregious than with a train of bullets from a high-powered rifle.
The movie itself troubles us even today. The acting is unremarkable and might as well have been telegraphed in. The pacing is occasionally without purpose. And Pakula should have known better than to have contrived some of the ways his characters moved in and out of scenes. But there is an underlying sinister metabolism boiling this pot, one which keeps the viewer believing he or she knows what's happening, only to realize three seconds later that the "truth" of this movie is as elusive as in the real world. The extended and visually sophisticated scene of the Senator near the end of the movie is worthy of a blend of Andy Warhol and Jean-Luc Godard, with images of Washington turning into Jefferson, into Lincoln into Teddy Roosevelt into the Senator, fronted in an auditorium with tables clothed in red, white and blue, tables into which the shot-and-killed Senator slams as his cart mindlessly deposits him among the sterility of his own demise. So forget character development. That's for kids. This is a grown-up movie for world travelers. A beautiful adventure in a world made ugly.
(Philosopher and cultural critic Slavoj Zizek--sort of the Theodor Adorno of our time--wrote a book a few years back in which he discusses the "parallax gap" separating two points between which no synthesis or mediation is possible, linked by an "impossible short circuit" of levels that can never meet. Anyone who enjoys rethinking dialectical materialism, Marx Brothers movies, or dirty jokes would be well-advised to order a copy from MIT Press.)
In 1974, movie director Alan J. Pakula released the second installment of his so-called Paranoid Political Trilogy. Starring Warren Beatty, Paula Prentiss and William Daniels, The Parallax View, despite a marked absence of character development, makes a worthy attempt at recreating the essence of how the processes of our perceptions are manipulated in the furtherance of economic gain. Joseph Frady is a sharp and tricky reporter for a third-rate newspaper who was among those nearby a political assassination at the Seattle Space Needle. His ex-girlfriend (wife?) comes to him three years later because she is convinced that she will be murdered because of something she witnessed that terrible day. She does not know what it is that she witnessed that would make her a threat to the conspirators. All she knows is that six of the eighteen people present have died under suspicious circumstances, any one of which could be explained away, but which, taken together, suggest something nefarious at work. Frady rebuffs her. She dies. Frady is now convinced something wicked this way comes. He heads out to a small town called Salmontail, where he encounters a redneck deputy whose ass he duly kicks, a wily sheriff who tries to kill him, and a secret box containing paper applications for a Los Angeles-based company called Parallax. We get a quick look at the questionnaire and observe disquieting statements that the applicant is expected to react to, such as:
- I am a healthy person.
- I like high places.
- I am often frightened when I wake up in the middle of the night.
- The person who [sic] I most admired as a child was a woman.
- Sometimes strange men follow me.
- I am never embarrassed.
- I have never vomited blood.
- I know who is responsible for my problems.
- Sometimes a little thing will run through my mind for days and days.
- I would like to be an actor.
The images come at us--and Frady--in such a way that a kind of psychological manipulation takes place, compelling us to respond honestly, despite any attempts at concealment. This is relevant because later on, when the reporter is framed and killed as an assassin, we may decide to suspect that the Parallax people knew right away that he was faking it.
Indeed, the levels of obfuscation that The Parallax View employs whispers to us that the distance between what we think we know and the truth is a far piece of space. As with physics and astronomy, one can use this displacement to quantify reality, such as the distance between stars or the orbits of planets. In this instance, the reality is political assassination and how it has been trivialized into the misguided actions of the omnipresent "lone nut." John and Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Alberta Williams King, Malcolm X, Harvey Milk, George Moscone, Leo Ryan, Judge John H. Wood, Bill Gwatney, Medgar Evers, Lee Oswald, George Lincoln Rockwell, Fred Hampton, Marcus Foster, Anna Mae Aquash, Don Bolles, Orlando Letelier, Alan Berg, Alex Odeh, Huey Newton, David Gunn, John Britton, George Tiller--it is comforting to share the media-controlled illusion that these men and women were slain by unaffiliated and singular individuals who were acting alone. That way our obsession with proving our national character to be supreme is unimpeded by any type of rational thinking. The mere fact that it is conceivable that even one of these people was murdered as the result of a for-profit operation at the behest of the highest-bidding secret agency means that our national character is a sham we have bought and sold to ourselves, a fact the rest of the world has known about us for decades. If forces within our system are willing to overthrow foreign governments and pay for the extermination of foreign leaders, why would those same forces hesitate to assassinate their domestic enemies? Patriotism? Good God, there is no patriotism in economics. Read any macro or micro economics textbook you can find and I defy you to locate a chapter that encourages the reader to forego that house in Southampton because of loyalty to country or government. The real force, of course, is within the nature of power itself. The name of the economic system is completely irrelevant today. What matters is the fact of those who are able to coerce, mandate, persuade or impel others to do something outside their own interests and the willingness of the few to exercise that power. Because good assassins tend to be expensive and are not especially trustworthy if and when they are apprehended, the forces that actually run things have chosen to buy and control the six (five, four, three?) media conglomerates and to use those outlets to "politically" assassinate their opponents in ways far more egregious than with a train of bullets from a high-powered rifle.
The movie itself troubles us even today. The acting is unremarkable and might as well have been telegraphed in. The pacing is occasionally without purpose. And Pakula should have known better than to have contrived some of the ways his characters moved in and out of scenes. But there is an underlying sinister metabolism boiling this pot, one which keeps the viewer believing he or she knows what's happening, only to realize three seconds later that the "truth" of this movie is as elusive as in the real world. The extended and visually sophisticated scene of the Senator near the end of the movie is worthy of a blend of Andy Warhol and Jean-Luc Godard, with images of Washington turning into Jefferson, into Lincoln into Teddy Roosevelt into the Senator, fronted in an auditorium with tables clothed in red, white and blue, tables into which the shot-and-killed Senator slams as his cart mindlessly deposits him among the sterility of his own demise. So forget character development. That's for kids. This is a grown-up movie for world travelers. A beautiful adventure in a world made ugly.
THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS
For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect. Behold, I have told you before. Wherefore, if they shall say unto you, Behold, he is in the desert, go not forth: behold, he is in the secret chambers, believe it not.
Matthew 24, verses 24-26, KJV
Positioning your mind to believe in other person's delusions can sometimes lead to tremendous joy. It can also get you into a lot of trouble, depending on whose paranoid symptoms you adopt as your own. From Simon Magus in the first century, a Samaritan who called himself the Standing One and who hinted of his messianic powers, to David Koresh, leader of the Branch Davidians; from Ann Lee who, in the eighteenth century, became a fixture of the Shakers and who believed herself to be the female incarnation of Christ, to Lazlo Toth who, in the twentieth century, believing himself to be the male incarnation of Christ, took a geologist's hammer and smashed away at Michelangelo's Pieta; from the recently late Sun Myung Moon of the Unification Church, to David Shayler, a former British military intelligence employee and journalist who declared himself the messiah, capable of affecting the weather, preventing terrorist attacks, and predicting football scores--from the first to the last, from the alpha to the omega, these would all have been people from which the wise parent would advise the children to stay as far away from as possible. Yet they each had their believers. Well, if they can have their followers and their faithful flock, then why--tell me--why cannot a very nice man named Justin Playfair be left alone to have his own anointed followers to believe him to be the one and only Sherlock Holmes?
Most of us have read the stories of Arthur Canon Doyle and perhaps secretly permitted ourselves to project our own tepid personalities into the character of Holmes. So after a traumatic loss, might it not be understandable to others that one of us might find comfort in adopting the personality traits and deductive reasoning faculties of the master detective? Who among us as children has not pretended to be someone from a book, a television show, a movie? Who has not taken refuge from the barbarisms of daily life by flying into the persona of someone far more capable than our miserable selves?
In the movie, They Might Be Giants (1971), Justin Playfair (George C. Scott) meets his personal Doctor Watson. Of course, this Watson's first name is Mildred and Playfair's nasty brother wants her to sign papers committing him to a contemporary insane asylum. Holmes has lost his wife a few years earlier and has no memory of anything happening before her death. Mildred Watson (Joanne Woodward) doesn't think much of her own life. She cannot cook, she had acne until her early twenties, hasn't been on a date in years and relates quite effortlessly to patients with debilitating illnesses. Holmes charms her (and us) immediately, in part with his phenomenal reasoning powers, and almost as quickly with his durability. People know him everywhere--from the bums hanging out in the movie theatre to the bookworm in the deserted subterranean library. The more shunned and abused the stranger who meets him, the more susceptible he or she is to the wiles and charms of Sherlock Holmes.
Just as in the short stories, Watson herself is fairly complex. When we meet her, for instance, she is lying on the patient's bed, looking up at the ceiling, talking about a huge spider from a dream. We are not certain whether this woman is the patient or the doctor, a quirk of her personality that makes her entirely believable to us, especially as she more and more buys into the supposed delusion that Playfair is Holmes.
But there must be a Professor Moriarty, mustn't there? As Justin Playfair himself asks, "If there is no Moriarty, then can there be a Sherlock Holmes?"
So everyone from telephone operators to nurses in the asylum buy into Holmes apparent delusion. They band together around Holmes and Watson. His delusion becomes theirs and once this occurs, we have to wonder if there really is a delusion happening here at all.
To tell you very much more about this wondrous film might endanger the delight you will likely experience. I will say that the humor in this movie occasionally borders on the brilliant, as when Holmes and Watson encounter an old couple who have been living in their abandoned school and who have stayed there for thirty years because they found the outside world confusing. "Criticize our garden, won't you?" they ask. Holmes and Watson are happy to oblige.
The humor here is gentle, never mocking. The amazing faith the friends of the master detective have in the power and safety of the delusion is never ridiculed. Even a mute whom Holmes determines to be Rudolph Valentino is sympathetic and not without charm. Any corporate bathroom toilet licking scribbler could write and direct the type of brutalizing mockery that passes itself off for comedy these days. They Might Be Giants is a movie that wards off those truly psychotic demons. You can believe it.
It's also nice to see Times Square before it got all beautified.
Matthew 24, verses 24-26, KJV
Positioning your mind to believe in other person's delusions can sometimes lead to tremendous joy. It can also get you into a lot of trouble, depending on whose paranoid symptoms you adopt as your own. From Simon Magus in the first century, a Samaritan who called himself the Standing One and who hinted of his messianic powers, to David Koresh, leader of the Branch Davidians; from Ann Lee who, in the eighteenth century, became a fixture of the Shakers and who believed herself to be the female incarnation of Christ, to Lazlo Toth who, in the twentieth century, believing himself to be the male incarnation of Christ, took a geologist's hammer and smashed away at Michelangelo's Pieta; from the recently late Sun Myung Moon of the Unification Church, to David Shayler, a former British military intelligence employee and journalist who declared himself the messiah, capable of affecting the weather, preventing terrorist attacks, and predicting football scores--from the first to the last, from the alpha to the omega, these would all have been people from which the wise parent would advise the children to stay as far away from as possible. Yet they each had their believers. Well, if they can have their followers and their faithful flock, then why--tell me--why cannot a very nice man named Justin Playfair be left alone to have his own anointed followers to believe him to be the one and only Sherlock Holmes?
Most of us have read the stories of Arthur Canon Doyle and perhaps secretly permitted ourselves to project our own tepid personalities into the character of Holmes. So after a traumatic loss, might it not be understandable to others that one of us might find comfort in adopting the personality traits and deductive reasoning faculties of the master detective? Who among us as children has not pretended to be someone from a book, a television show, a movie? Who has not taken refuge from the barbarisms of daily life by flying into the persona of someone far more capable than our miserable selves?
In the movie, They Might Be Giants (1971), Justin Playfair (George C. Scott) meets his personal Doctor Watson. Of course, this Watson's first name is Mildred and Playfair's nasty brother wants her to sign papers committing him to a contemporary insane asylum. Holmes has lost his wife a few years earlier and has no memory of anything happening before her death. Mildred Watson (Joanne Woodward) doesn't think much of her own life. She cannot cook, she had acne until her early twenties, hasn't been on a date in years and relates quite effortlessly to patients with debilitating illnesses. Holmes charms her (and us) immediately, in part with his phenomenal reasoning powers, and almost as quickly with his durability. People know him everywhere--from the bums hanging out in the movie theatre to the bookworm in the deserted subterranean library. The more shunned and abused the stranger who meets him, the more susceptible he or she is to the wiles and charms of Sherlock Holmes.
Just as in the short stories, Watson herself is fairly complex. When we meet her, for instance, she is lying on the patient's bed, looking up at the ceiling, talking about a huge spider from a dream. We are not certain whether this woman is the patient or the doctor, a quirk of her personality that makes her entirely believable to us, especially as she more and more buys into the supposed delusion that Playfair is Holmes.
But there must be a Professor Moriarty, mustn't there? As Justin Playfair himself asks, "If there is no Moriarty, then can there be a Sherlock Holmes?"
So everyone from telephone operators to nurses in the asylum buy into Holmes apparent delusion. They band together around Holmes and Watson. His delusion becomes theirs and once this occurs, we have to wonder if there really is a delusion happening here at all.
To tell you very much more about this wondrous film might endanger the delight you will likely experience. I will say that the humor in this movie occasionally borders on the brilliant, as when Holmes and Watson encounter an old couple who have been living in their abandoned school and who have stayed there for thirty years because they found the outside world confusing. "Criticize our garden, won't you?" they ask. Holmes and Watson are happy to oblige.
The humor here is gentle, never mocking. The amazing faith the friends of the master detective have in the power and safety of the delusion is never ridiculed. Even a mute whom Holmes determines to be Rudolph Valentino is sympathetic and not without charm. Any corporate bathroom toilet licking scribbler could write and direct the type of brutalizing mockery that passes itself off for comedy these days. They Might Be Giants is a movie that wards off those truly psychotic demons. You can believe it.
It's also nice to see Times Square before it got all beautified.
THE AMERICAN RULING CLASS
After a brief period of reprieve from thinking about movies, I no more than return to the task I love than word explodes that a fine actor named Karen Black today succumbed to cancer. If the name of this remarkable talent fails to connect, then I commend to your attention several motion pictures with which you may be more familiar. After a decade doing character roles on TV cop shows, Karen Black caught a break playing a hooker in the movie Easy Rider, her brief performance there impressing both co-star Jack Nicholson as well as a young director named Bob Rafelson. Duly captivated, the star and director offered her the role of Rayette Dipesto in one of the greatest movies of the 1970s, Five Easy Pieces. From there she appeared in the Nicholson-directed Drive, He Said. After more than a dozen excellent performances in mediocre movies, she was cast in Robert Altman's Nashville, the movie that really is the greatest movie of the 1970s. After that, her best role was in Family Plot, the final Alfred Hitchcock film. After another dozen or so failed long shots at stardom, she reemerged in Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean. From there it was mostly downhill, back to guest spots on TV police shows, as well as a slew of cheap horror flicks (although a couple of these actually transcended the genre, specifically Dead Girls Don't Tango and House of 1000 Corpses).
The last time I watched Karen Black in something, it was in a replay of an early "Saturday Night Live" broadcast, back when the show was worth watching. She was the host that week. She brought her young son out on the stage with her. He appeared very nervous. Karen herself gave every indication of feeling something between bewildered by her fame and oblivious to it. Her son's name is Hunter. His mother was one of those rare people about whom it is infinitely fair to say "Her work helped make life worth living."
On an equally sobering note, last night I was delighted to view Lewis Lapham's The American Ruling Class (2005), a documentary-drama-musical and a movie so far advanced from much of the drivel that gets put out there with the direct intent of making people stupid that this will either physically affix you to your chair or else send you flying from the room. Lapham--former editor of Harper's and all-around smart and well-connected guy--employed two young male actors to pose as recent Ivy League graduates turned loose upon the world. Jack has an offer at Goldman-Sachs. Mike thinks it might be nice to work as a waiter until that novel or screenplay he has in his closet materializes into something. Both men assure their friends that they want to make the world a better place. Jack figures the best way to accomplish this is to join the ruling class--if it exists--and work within the system while getting very rich. Mike fears that joining such a group may corrupt him, yet the tips at the restaurant fail to keep him afloat.
Throughout the movie, the two young men get advice from several of Lapham's knowledgeable friends and colleagues, including Kurt Vonnegut, Walter Cronkite, Barbara Ehrenreich, Howard Zinn, Pete Seeger, former Defense Secretary Harold Brown, James Baker III, Hodding Carter (perhaps the most revelatory speaker in the film), Bill Bradley (easily the most rationalizing and despicable), and Robert Altman. Nothing will be served by revealing more of the plot, other than to celebrate its occasional deliberate absurdity. However, the freshness and vigor of the IHOP employees breaking into "Nickled and Dimed" is enough to make even a sour old vinegar sucking demon such as James Baker appear nearly human.
Nearly each member of the American ruling class presented in the film acknowledges the existence of the elite group, as well as his or her role within it. The individual analyses of and by each elite is more interesting than chilling, the latter being what I think director John Kirby was going for. Aside from a pair of inspired and hilarious songs (and this is not really a musical; the songs were just a way of breaking up the plot to keep it fresh), the most searing moments in the movie occur when Lapham interjects his own nearly self-deprecating observations, most pointedly:
Americans are an inventive people, Mike. Manufacture our ruling elites, we like to call the meritocracy, in the same way that we build SUVs or 747s. The members come and go, and power for a season or generation, then replaced by new technology, fresh money. What never must change, Mike, is the belief that by doing well one is also doing good.
To be fair, much as I enjoyed having the things I already know and believe validated, there's little in The American Ruling Class that is going to alter your life once the film ends. The acting quality of the two young men simply falls short far too often and, much as I like Lewis Lapham, there are times when his own delight in ambiguity wears thinner than a retread through a pot hole. Will you enjoy watching the movie? Absolutely. Will it changed your life? Anyone whose life could be significantly altered by this movie would be far too preoccupied serving the ruling class. As Howard Zinn says, "All that is necessary for the system to collapse is for people to disobey."
The last time I watched Karen Black in something, it was in a replay of an early "Saturday Night Live" broadcast, back when the show was worth watching. She was the host that week. She brought her young son out on the stage with her. He appeared very nervous. Karen herself gave every indication of feeling something between bewildered by her fame and oblivious to it. Her son's name is Hunter. His mother was one of those rare people about whom it is infinitely fair to say "Her work helped make life worth living."
On an equally sobering note, last night I was delighted to view Lewis Lapham's The American Ruling Class (2005), a documentary-drama-musical and a movie so far advanced from much of the drivel that gets put out there with the direct intent of making people stupid that this will either physically affix you to your chair or else send you flying from the room. Lapham--former editor of Harper's and all-around smart and well-connected guy--employed two young male actors to pose as recent Ivy League graduates turned loose upon the world. Jack has an offer at Goldman-Sachs. Mike thinks it might be nice to work as a waiter until that novel or screenplay he has in his closet materializes into something. Both men assure their friends that they want to make the world a better place. Jack figures the best way to accomplish this is to join the ruling class--if it exists--and work within the system while getting very rich. Mike fears that joining such a group may corrupt him, yet the tips at the restaurant fail to keep him afloat.
Throughout the movie, the two young men get advice from several of Lapham's knowledgeable friends and colleagues, including Kurt Vonnegut, Walter Cronkite, Barbara Ehrenreich, Howard Zinn, Pete Seeger, former Defense Secretary Harold Brown, James Baker III, Hodding Carter (perhaps the most revelatory speaker in the film), Bill Bradley (easily the most rationalizing and despicable), and Robert Altman. Nothing will be served by revealing more of the plot, other than to celebrate its occasional deliberate absurdity. However, the freshness and vigor of the IHOP employees breaking into "Nickled and Dimed" is enough to make even a sour old vinegar sucking demon such as James Baker appear nearly human.
Nearly each member of the American ruling class presented in the film acknowledges the existence of the elite group, as well as his or her role within it. The individual analyses of and by each elite is more interesting than chilling, the latter being what I think director John Kirby was going for. Aside from a pair of inspired and hilarious songs (and this is not really a musical; the songs were just a way of breaking up the plot to keep it fresh), the most searing moments in the movie occur when Lapham interjects his own nearly self-deprecating observations, most pointedly:
Americans are an inventive people, Mike. Manufacture our ruling elites, we like to call the meritocracy, in the same way that we build SUVs or 747s. The members come and go, and power for a season or generation, then replaced by new technology, fresh money. What never must change, Mike, is the belief that by doing well one is also doing good.
To be fair, much as I enjoyed having the things I already know and believe validated, there's little in The American Ruling Class that is going to alter your life once the film ends. The acting quality of the two young men simply falls short far too often and, much as I like Lewis Lapham, there are times when his own delight in ambiguity wears thinner than a retread through a pot hole. Will you enjoy watching the movie? Absolutely. Will it changed your life? Anyone whose life could be significantly altered by this movie would be far too preoccupied serving the ruling class. As Howard Zinn says, "All that is necessary for the system to collapse is for people to disobey."
ABOUT SCHMIDT
About Schmidt (2002), I at first thought, is satire of a subtle order. Upon reflection I have realized it is more of an indictment. Against what? Well you might ask.
Near where I live, the city government spends money to improve the quality of the street pavement so that the drug dealers who live nearby will not be unduly inconvenienced by flat tires, rusty nails and pot holes. The local government then spends other money to have that improved street smashed to smithereens in order to improve the quality of the water lines, the gas lines, and the electric lines. This improvement requires that the recently improved paving job on the street be undone in as severe a manner as possible. The ultimate--though not final--irony jumps up and taps us on the shoulder when it happens that the construction workers who come back around to re-repair the re-destroyed street are using their trucks for multiple purposes, including home construction. Since the construction of homes occasionally mandates the placement of nails, those nails bounce off the flat beds and end up in the tires of the drug dealers, the latter at least having the consolation of knowing that the guys who work at the local tire replacement store are very good customers.
The guys who install and maintain the sprinkler heads at our complex make sure that the spray hits the sidewalk, especially when it's raining.
If you need credit to survive, you will be devoured. If you need credit to do the devouring, you will get all you need.
Someone working at CNN gets a Tweet from an occasionally reliable source saying that a suspect in the Boston Marathon bombing has been arrested. She mentions this information to her boss, adding that this data has not been confirmed. The boss is under tremendous pressure to get out in front of the story, so he tells his crew to go ahead with the unconfirmed story. Three anchors on that news network dutifully recite the story, leading hundreds of Bostonians to charge the police department, the site of which encourages other networks to repeat the false story. NBC decides to check out the reports, cannot confirm them, and makes a big point of denying the accuracy of the non-event. Another channel decides that the president of the United States is somehow linked to the crime. They lead with that fiction. No one watching at home has the slightest idea what's going on. The young lady at CNN is discharged with extreme prejudice. The whole thing smacks of what happened to poor Richard Jewel back in 1996 in Atlanta.
Life, in other words, is often a big fat Greek butt fucking.
Meanwhile, Warren Schmidt goes to a dinner to celebrate his retirement. Everyone there who speaks on his behalf lies. The whelp who takes Warren's place lies when he encourages Schmidt to stop by the office any time. Warren's longest and oldest friend lies when he talks about how loyal he feels toward Schmidt. The wives all sit and smile. No one brings any lubrication.
This amazingly understated film was written and directed by Alexander Payne. The movie did well at Cannes. According to the Festival de Cannes website, Alexander Payne was raised in Omaha, Nebraska, where much of our story takes place. "[He] earned his MFA in Film at The University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). He made his feature film debut with Citizen Ruth (1996) and followed up with Election (1999), which won Best Screenplay from the Writers' Guild of America and the New York Film Critics Circle, as well as an Oscar nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay. About Schmidt (2002), premiered in competition at the Cannes Film Festival and opened the New York Film Festival. Both Sideways (2004) and his latest film, The Descendants (2011), won Oscars for Best Adapted Screenplay and were nominated for four others, including Best Picture and Best Director."
If you want the world to stop resembling the mess that it is, I suggest you make your own version of events and submit it to Cannes. This year the Festival will be happening from May 15 through the 26, so you'd better get a move on, especially considering that the deadline has already passed. The process isn't quite as taxing as you might think.
To submit a film, you need to:
1. Comply with the Preselection Conditions.
2. Fill out the online Entry Form.
3. Send in your film to the address indicated at the bottom of the Entry Form.
4. If your film is selected, you'll have to comply with the Rules and Regulations. Films can be selected for the The Official Selection: Competition (features and shorts), Out-of-Competition or Un Certain Regard. However, the Selection Committee decides which section a film can participate in.
As I mentioned, submissions to this year's festival have already closed. But there's always next year, unless you happen to pass away in the meantime.
Warren Schmidt hasn't any interest in making a film. What he does want is to find meaning in his life, something that all the lies and recriminations do nothing to manifest. He's been married to the same woman forty-two years and has gained little more from it than a Winnebago that he doesn't especially want. Schmidt would sort of like to disentangle his relationship with his daughter, but since she's planning on marrying a schmuck, that doesn't appear too promising.
Most reviewers have quite properly written about the magnificence of Jack Nicholson's work in the title role. That's almost a disservice to the other actors in this extraordinary motion picture. Hope Davis plays Warren's daughter Jeannie, for instance. It's one thing to play a likable character. It's another to play a sympathetic villain. Jeannie is neither of these. She is simply unlikable altogether. Unlikable, stupid, and programmed to be precisely the way she is. Yet Davis brings this person to life to the extent that we are not at all surprised to find that we can anticipate her reactions, at least approximately. The same is true of Warren's future son-in-law, Randall Hertzel, played to understated perfection by Dermot Mulroney. Randall's a flake and the son of flakes, yet he is not without a certain underlying charm, mostly as a consequence of his cynical naivete. The parents in this case are played by Kathy Bates and Howard Hesseman, two folks who play opposite ends of the self-absorbed spectrum--yet remain endearing throughout their screen time.
As a director working with such phenomenal talent, Payne should feel honored to have successfully evoked such terrific performances from these actors, any one of whom being more than capable of slipping over the edge into absurdity or mayhem.
About Schmidt is a marvelous film, right on a par with the best work of Orson Welles. See this movie.
Near where I live, the city government spends money to improve the quality of the street pavement so that the drug dealers who live nearby will not be unduly inconvenienced by flat tires, rusty nails and pot holes. The local government then spends other money to have that improved street smashed to smithereens in order to improve the quality of the water lines, the gas lines, and the electric lines. This improvement requires that the recently improved paving job on the street be undone in as severe a manner as possible. The ultimate--though not final--irony jumps up and taps us on the shoulder when it happens that the construction workers who come back around to re-repair the re-destroyed street are using their trucks for multiple purposes, including home construction. Since the construction of homes occasionally mandates the placement of nails, those nails bounce off the flat beds and end up in the tires of the drug dealers, the latter at least having the consolation of knowing that the guys who work at the local tire replacement store are very good customers.
The guys who install and maintain the sprinkler heads at our complex make sure that the spray hits the sidewalk, especially when it's raining.
If you need credit to survive, you will be devoured. If you need credit to do the devouring, you will get all you need.
Someone working at CNN gets a Tweet from an occasionally reliable source saying that a suspect in the Boston Marathon bombing has been arrested. She mentions this information to her boss, adding that this data has not been confirmed. The boss is under tremendous pressure to get out in front of the story, so he tells his crew to go ahead with the unconfirmed story. Three anchors on that news network dutifully recite the story, leading hundreds of Bostonians to charge the police department, the site of which encourages other networks to repeat the false story. NBC decides to check out the reports, cannot confirm them, and makes a big point of denying the accuracy of the non-event. Another channel decides that the president of the United States is somehow linked to the crime. They lead with that fiction. No one watching at home has the slightest idea what's going on. The young lady at CNN is discharged with extreme prejudice. The whole thing smacks of what happened to poor Richard Jewel back in 1996 in Atlanta.
Life, in other words, is often a big fat Greek butt fucking.
Meanwhile, Warren Schmidt goes to a dinner to celebrate his retirement. Everyone there who speaks on his behalf lies. The whelp who takes Warren's place lies when he encourages Schmidt to stop by the office any time. Warren's longest and oldest friend lies when he talks about how loyal he feels toward Schmidt. The wives all sit and smile. No one brings any lubrication.
This amazingly understated film was written and directed by Alexander Payne. The movie did well at Cannes. According to the Festival de Cannes website, Alexander Payne was raised in Omaha, Nebraska, where much of our story takes place. "[He] earned his MFA in Film at The University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). He made his feature film debut with Citizen Ruth (1996) and followed up with Election (1999), which won Best Screenplay from the Writers' Guild of America and the New York Film Critics Circle, as well as an Oscar nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay. About Schmidt (2002), premiered in competition at the Cannes Film Festival and opened the New York Film Festival. Both Sideways (2004) and his latest film, The Descendants (2011), won Oscars for Best Adapted Screenplay and were nominated for four others, including Best Picture and Best Director."
If you want the world to stop resembling the mess that it is, I suggest you make your own version of events and submit it to Cannes. This year the Festival will be happening from May 15 through the 26, so you'd better get a move on, especially considering that the deadline has already passed. The process isn't quite as taxing as you might think.
To submit a film, you need to:
1. Comply with the Preselection Conditions.
2. Fill out the online Entry Form.
3. Send in your film to the address indicated at the bottom of the Entry Form.
4. If your film is selected, you'll have to comply with the Rules and Regulations. Films can be selected for the The Official Selection: Competition (features and shorts), Out-of-Competition or Un Certain Regard. However, the Selection Committee decides which section a film can participate in.
As I mentioned, submissions to this year's festival have already closed. But there's always next year, unless you happen to pass away in the meantime.
Warren Schmidt hasn't any interest in making a film. What he does want is to find meaning in his life, something that all the lies and recriminations do nothing to manifest. He's been married to the same woman forty-two years and has gained little more from it than a Winnebago that he doesn't especially want. Schmidt would sort of like to disentangle his relationship with his daughter, but since she's planning on marrying a schmuck, that doesn't appear too promising.
Most reviewers have quite properly written about the magnificence of Jack Nicholson's work in the title role. That's almost a disservice to the other actors in this extraordinary motion picture. Hope Davis plays Warren's daughter Jeannie, for instance. It's one thing to play a likable character. It's another to play a sympathetic villain. Jeannie is neither of these. She is simply unlikable altogether. Unlikable, stupid, and programmed to be precisely the way she is. Yet Davis brings this person to life to the extent that we are not at all surprised to find that we can anticipate her reactions, at least approximately. The same is true of Warren's future son-in-law, Randall Hertzel, played to understated perfection by Dermot Mulroney. Randall's a flake and the son of flakes, yet he is not without a certain underlying charm, mostly as a consequence of his cynical naivete. The parents in this case are played by Kathy Bates and Howard Hesseman, two folks who play opposite ends of the self-absorbed spectrum--yet remain endearing throughout their screen time.
As a director working with such phenomenal talent, Payne should feel honored to have successfully evoked such terrific performances from these actors, any one of whom being more than capable of slipping over the edge into absurdity or mayhem.
About Schmidt is a marvelous film, right on a par with the best work of Orson Welles. See this movie.
LITTLE BIG MAN
Many of the names used to identify one or another American Indian tribes refer to those Indians as "People" or "Human Beings," just like in the Arthur Penn movie Little Big Man (1970). Alnombak means "The People." Anishinaabe means, more specifically, "Original People." Degexit'an means "People of This Land" while Dena'ina and Dunne-Za both translate as "True People." Hopi means "Civilized People," while Hinonoeino is another word for "Our People." Innu means "The People" and Lenape means the same. Dakota and Myaamie each mean "The Allies." I imagine most of you already knew this. You may not have know that Tom Jefferson favored the expression "We The People" to begin the preamble to the United States Constitution because he knew perfectly well already that the words bestowed a certain holiness synonymous with the Native Americans.
The word Cheyenne never actually meant specifically "Human Beings," but that's all right. Novelist Thomas Berger may be forgiven for this slip. He got the spirit right. And the movie version of his book is all about spirit.
Jack Crabb (Dustin Hoffman) is a 121-year-old retiree living in an old folks home. He is also the last surviving member of the battle of Little Big Horn. Indirectly, he is the man who, throughout his recollections, destroyed General George Armstrong Custer. Again, this is not technically accurate, in the sense that the real Little Big Man had little to do with the Battle of Little Big Horn, aka the Battle of Greasy Grass, aka Custer's Last Stand, although he is reported to have participated in the murder of Crazy Horse. That too matters very little because in this version of events, Jack Crabb (Little Big Man) is a white man who was orphaned as a result of a massacre at the hands of the Pawnee, then rescued and adopted by the Cheyenne, and in particular by the chief, known as Old Lodge Skins (Chief Dan George). Jack has a lot of fascinating experiences which he tells for our enlightenment, such as being taken in by a mean-spirited parson and his lecherous wife, Mrs Pendrake (Faye Dunaway), hooking up with a medicine show man (Martin Balsam) who keeps losing body parts to the people in the towns where he plies his trade, joining forces as a gunfighter with Wild Bill Hickok (Jeff Corey), and working as a muleskinner (and later as a scout) for General Custer himself (Richard Mulligan). These stretched and winding tales allow us to have some good laughs, laughs which are quickly snuffed by their real purpose, which is to show us the other side of the bullshit traditional western movie. In this brilliant recreation of the wild west, it's the Indians who are slaughtered by the white folks, in many cases for the sheer sport of doing so and in other cases because gold had been discovered on land that Congress had declared was the Indians' as long as the grass grew, the water flowed and the sky was blue.
The parallel between the genocide of the American Indian and the Vietnamese was far from coincidental. Penn quite deliberately placed women of Asian decent in the roles of Little Big Man's four wives.
If all this movie did was to inject a bit of old fashioned belly laughs to set us off guard for the horrible atrocities, it would be important to watch. If all it did was provide an alternate emphasis on the plight of the Americas, it would remain an essential artifact. What makes this one of the best movies of the 1970s is that Arthur Penn did a John Ford number on the marvelous Calder Willingham script, giving us luscious scenery that is so powerful it actually comments on the actors' thoughts and reactions. He also assembled a remarkable cast, with Hoffman doing one of his big three roles (the other two being Ratso Rizzo and Mr. Kramer). This cast just keeps on giving and although each person is given every opportunity to burlesque their characters--which happens on occasion and forty odd years later still makes us cringe--the ultimate result is a masterpiece that we come to see for laughs and end up being changed by through the abject horror that is a white man's reflection on the destruction of half his people by the other half of his people.
The word Cheyenne never actually meant specifically "Human Beings," but that's all right. Novelist Thomas Berger may be forgiven for this slip. He got the spirit right. And the movie version of his book is all about spirit.
Jack Crabb (Dustin Hoffman) is a 121-year-old retiree living in an old folks home. He is also the last surviving member of the battle of Little Big Horn. Indirectly, he is the man who, throughout his recollections, destroyed General George Armstrong Custer. Again, this is not technically accurate, in the sense that the real Little Big Man had little to do with the Battle of Little Big Horn, aka the Battle of Greasy Grass, aka Custer's Last Stand, although he is reported to have participated in the murder of Crazy Horse. That too matters very little because in this version of events, Jack Crabb (Little Big Man) is a white man who was orphaned as a result of a massacre at the hands of the Pawnee, then rescued and adopted by the Cheyenne, and in particular by the chief, known as Old Lodge Skins (Chief Dan George). Jack has a lot of fascinating experiences which he tells for our enlightenment, such as being taken in by a mean-spirited parson and his lecherous wife, Mrs Pendrake (Faye Dunaway), hooking up with a medicine show man (Martin Balsam) who keeps losing body parts to the people in the towns where he plies his trade, joining forces as a gunfighter with Wild Bill Hickok (Jeff Corey), and working as a muleskinner (and later as a scout) for General Custer himself (Richard Mulligan). These stretched and winding tales allow us to have some good laughs, laughs which are quickly snuffed by their real purpose, which is to show us the other side of the bullshit traditional western movie. In this brilliant recreation of the wild west, it's the Indians who are slaughtered by the white folks, in many cases for the sheer sport of doing so and in other cases because gold had been discovered on land that Congress had declared was the Indians' as long as the grass grew, the water flowed and the sky was blue.
The parallel between the genocide of the American Indian and the Vietnamese was far from coincidental. Penn quite deliberately placed women of Asian decent in the roles of Little Big Man's four wives.
If all this movie did was to inject a bit of old fashioned belly laughs to set us off guard for the horrible atrocities, it would be important to watch. If all it did was provide an alternate emphasis on the plight of the Americas, it would remain an essential artifact. What makes this one of the best movies of the 1970s is that Arthur Penn did a John Ford number on the marvelous Calder Willingham script, giving us luscious scenery that is so powerful it actually comments on the actors' thoughts and reactions. He also assembled a remarkable cast, with Hoffman doing one of his big three roles (the other two being Ratso Rizzo and Mr. Kramer). This cast just keeps on giving and although each person is given every opportunity to burlesque their characters--which happens on occasion and forty odd years later still makes us cringe--the ultimate result is a masterpiece that we come to see for laughs and end up being changed by through the abject horror that is a white man's reflection on the destruction of half his people by the other half of his people.
THE WORLD'S FASTEST INDIAN
Let's go into this with our eyes open. I liked Anthony Hopkins in Nixon and in a TV movie about the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby. I never liked--not even a little bit--the Hannibal Lector movies, except for the one with Ed Norton in it and then it was Ed whom I liked. It has seemed to me that often enough Hopkins overdoes the intensity with that look of supreme intellect in the same way that, say, Jack Nicholoson often overdoes the mugging for the camera.
I lay this out up front because I hope that you will take from this that my love of Hopkins in The World's Fastest Indian (2005) perhaps is all the more significant in that Anthony, if anything, underacts here, something which in turn emphasizes the genuine humility of the real life character of Burt Munro. Even though the real life Hopkins has claimed that playing Munro was one of the easiest gigs of his professional life, I don't buy that for a minute. Why? Imagine the difference between playing a wild-eyed, sinister type of smartass cannibal and that of playing a humble man of modest means who combines being blunt with being charming while struggling to place the emphasis on his motorcycle rather than on himself. That emphasis, in turn, quite naturally inverts the emphasis onto the Munro character. And what a character he is. Strolling into a desert bar, he mentions to a middle-aged woman barfly that smoking isn't necessarily healthy, or explaining to a state trooper who has awakened him parked by the side of the road that he is sorry for having broken the law--it's just that he was recovering from a heart attack, or that he doesn't see the need for a parachute on the back of his cycle because, after all, he's more concerned with going fast than with stopping, which is one reason his 1920 Indian motorcycle doesn't have much in the way of brakes.
Ever since the horrors of September, 2001, the media--and filmmakers, in particular--have obsessed over the idea of the hero, especially how everyday people rise up and save the day in some sensational manner. That's fine and it really is fantastic that fire fighters selflessly run into blazing buildings and that cops jump off the tops of buildings to apprehend the ne'erdowell. However, the term hero reaches a point where it comes to signify everything and hence loses meaning altogether. Hopkins' version of Munro (and I suspect Munro's version of himself) is of a self-effacing gentleman who likes the people he encounters throughout his journey to the Bonneville Salt Flats, whether it's the woman who runs an auto-repair shop or the Vietnam aircraft pilot who defoliates the Vietnamese jungles. Because Hopkins steals the scenes through understatement, we have a chance to love these support actors too, whether it's Diane Ladd as the lovelorn widow or any of the tertiary characters who so far haven't quite paved a star on Hollywood's walk of fame. Hopkins has his. With this movie, there can be no argument as to why.
I lay this out up front because I hope that you will take from this that my love of Hopkins in The World's Fastest Indian (2005) perhaps is all the more significant in that Anthony, if anything, underacts here, something which in turn emphasizes the genuine humility of the real life character of Burt Munro. Even though the real life Hopkins has claimed that playing Munro was one of the easiest gigs of his professional life, I don't buy that for a minute. Why? Imagine the difference between playing a wild-eyed, sinister type of smartass cannibal and that of playing a humble man of modest means who combines being blunt with being charming while struggling to place the emphasis on his motorcycle rather than on himself. That emphasis, in turn, quite naturally inverts the emphasis onto the Munro character. And what a character he is. Strolling into a desert bar, he mentions to a middle-aged woman barfly that smoking isn't necessarily healthy, or explaining to a state trooper who has awakened him parked by the side of the road that he is sorry for having broken the law--it's just that he was recovering from a heart attack, or that he doesn't see the need for a parachute on the back of his cycle because, after all, he's more concerned with going fast than with stopping, which is one reason his 1920 Indian motorcycle doesn't have much in the way of brakes.
Ever since the horrors of September, 2001, the media--and filmmakers, in particular--have obsessed over the idea of the hero, especially how everyday people rise up and save the day in some sensational manner. That's fine and it really is fantastic that fire fighters selflessly run into blazing buildings and that cops jump off the tops of buildings to apprehend the ne'erdowell. However, the term hero reaches a point where it comes to signify everything and hence loses meaning altogether. Hopkins' version of Munro (and I suspect Munro's version of himself) is of a self-effacing gentleman who likes the people he encounters throughout his journey to the Bonneville Salt Flats, whether it's the woman who runs an auto-repair shop or the Vietnam aircraft pilot who defoliates the Vietnamese jungles. Because Hopkins steals the scenes through understatement, we have a chance to love these support actors too, whether it's Diane Ladd as the lovelorn widow or any of the tertiary characters who so far haven't quite paved a star on Hollywood's walk of fame. Hopkins has his. With this movie, there can be no argument as to why.
BLUE COLLAR
Does the sound ring familiar? Is that the Bo Diddley rip-off by George Thorogood, "Bad to the Bone"? Is it an update take on "I'm a Man" by Diddley himself? Or did you and I crank it out one morning after being up all night playing hide the snake with Mary Jane Cocopuffs?
Naw, man, that ain't no Diddley and that ain't no Destroyers, dude. That's Captain Beefheart cussing and blowing up a storm of working class rage, probably right out of that little trailer he lived in most of his life, out in the real boondocks, the kind Billy Joe Royal never saw, that's for sure, Mister Who Dat Be.
Okay, but that little black cat. That sure look like Richard Pryor, 'cept he ain't exactly funny in this here movie, is he? I mean, you keep expecting him to crack you up, getting all animated as he does, yet he don't do that kind of thing at all. I mean, it's like he turned into an actor or something, huh?
That's right, Jive Man. The dude was an actor. Anybody doubt that fact can be said to kiss my sweet tuchis and that anybody in question sure to hell ain't spied his likes in this here movie we talking about.
Well, what is this movie, Splits? And why we watching it anyhow for?
You dumb cracker. Maybe if you stop talking like some Afro-wearing street slicker and go back to talking like the pony white wonder bread you really is, then maybe people'd start to get the idea. You think?
Alright, alright. You win. Here's your damned review. But I think we were having more fun when I was being in character.
Blue Collar (1978) is such a fantastic mix of ugly reality and beautiful friendship undone that writing a straight review almost breaks me down. But such is my task and it's the least I can do to repay director Paul Schrader for this tense and brilliant movie about three guys who work together in Detroit on the automobile line.
Richard Pryor, Harvey Keitel and Yaphet Kotto play, respectively, Zeke, Jerry and Smoke, three guys working for Checker in Detroit. Schrader and his brother Leonard get all the details exactly right, from the heavy metal of the machines to the foiled camaraderie that comes from sweating out the foreman, the paint, the grease and the hard lifting right on down to the beer at Little Joe's across the street. Smoke's an ex-con, a two-time loser who likes the ladies and who knows the bitter taste of being rammed down every pipe in the labor shack. Jerry's wife worries a lot and his daughter needs braces that work better than the paper clips she strung together to straighten her teeth. As for Zeke, he just finished paying off the color television and now the IRS man is tapping on his door. These men live in an all too familiar state of being jammed up, a condition that most working people know well enough.
We're talking about real work here too. Real work is where you can get fired any time the foreman and union shop boss decide you aren't worth the trouble any more. Real work is when you are so beat down by the end of a shift that all you can do is anesthetize yourself with stupid sex, cheap drinks and powerful drugs. Real work is when you're locked in an internal battle between wanting to help your fellow worker and just wanting to get the hell out of here, wherever here may happen to be. Real work is when there's just no way out, legitimate or otherwise.
Zeke wants his locker fixed. He's had to pry the thing open with a pen every day for six months and it's embarrassing. He brings up his complaint at the local union meeting. The shop steward doesn't care. He tries to paint Zeke as a trifling trouble-maker. Zeke goes to the steward's boss. The boss says, "Oh my. That's just terrible. Let me make a phone call, Zeke." Nothing ever changes.
Early one morning after a drug and sex party, the three men get the idea to rob the union hall safe. There's got to be money there. After all, those union dues are just piling up.
They rob the place, only to find there's about six hundred dollars in total. Thinking themselves idiots, they divide up the loot. But Zeke keeps a ledger from the robbery. The ledger has records of illegal financial dealings between the Detroit union and certain Las Vegas individuals. Zeke wants to use the ledger to force the union to make important changes in its operations. Jerry says there must be another angle. Smoke, being an ex-con, thinks of blackmail.
Meanwhile, the union officials claim that more than $20,000 was stolen, a lie they use to rob the insurance company. When they figure out who committed the robbery, they send some bully boys to Jerry's house to rough up his wife. Smoke is waiting for them with a baseball bat.
Schrader doesn't let anybody play cheap laughs here for an instant. Neither does he allow phony sentiment to get in the way of the bloodship among these three men. For their part, the three principals reach deep inside themselves--and inside one another--to pull out an understanding of Real Work that virtually no one else has captured so well. When that friendship bond--bowling, dinners, meetings, all the modern day festivities--breaks apart like a shattered vase, we feel a genuine pain because we get a sense that bad things are going to happen once the three men are manipulated into being something other than friends.
That our prediction comes true does nothing to undermine the brilliance of this movie.
Blue Collar is not interested in liberal reform. That type of thing, the movie declares, either gets you to be a sell-out (if you're fortunate) or murdered (if you're not). It isn't asking us to rethink brotherhood or racial relations. This movie asks us to declare emotional war on the very nature of the working class experience. Every significant thing that happens in the work place is wrong. One man is told to do the work of three. The union is supposed to have your back, but having your back is often a front. When the union itself becomes big business, then there is no union. Welcome to your world, pilgrim. The whip has arrived and the scourge cuts deeply.
There's a lot to be said for the dissolution of working class friendship. As a teenager, I worked at a steakhouse restaurant, the kind of work that either prepares you for the line in an auto plant or other manufacturing hell or else scares you so bad you do whatever you have to to get into college to either beat out the military or the police. The second summer of college, my dad got me a job at Ashland Oil, the refinery where he worked. The job was straight labor. Those of us who were brought in that summer were overpaid charity cases, getting our noses dirty for premium wages the union men and women had actually earned. When I watched Blue Collar this evening, I remembered the looks on the faces of the Real Workers at that refinery. A lot of those men were lifers on their way to retirement. Some of them were twice our age with half a lifetime to go. None of them were ever going to go to college, although a lot of them hoped their kids would. These men--and a few women--cursed and drank and smoked and occasionally knocked around in friendly fights, but most of all they worked whatever shifts they could get because they had loans to pay off, taxes to file, and kids to raise. These folks were not what you'd call pretty. But they sure were beautiful.
Pryor, Keitel and Kotto, they too are beautiful. So is this movie. Watch it.
Naw, man, that ain't no Diddley and that ain't no Destroyers, dude. That's Captain Beefheart cussing and blowing up a storm of working class rage, probably right out of that little trailer he lived in most of his life, out in the real boondocks, the kind Billy Joe Royal never saw, that's for sure, Mister Who Dat Be.
Okay, but that little black cat. That sure look like Richard Pryor, 'cept he ain't exactly funny in this here movie, is he? I mean, you keep expecting him to crack you up, getting all animated as he does, yet he don't do that kind of thing at all. I mean, it's like he turned into an actor or something, huh?
That's right, Jive Man. The dude was an actor. Anybody doubt that fact can be said to kiss my sweet tuchis and that anybody in question sure to hell ain't spied his likes in this here movie we talking about.
Well, what is this movie, Splits? And why we watching it anyhow for?
You dumb cracker. Maybe if you stop talking like some Afro-wearing street slicker and go back to talking like the pony white wonder bread you really is, then maybe people'd start to get the idea. You think?
Alright, alright. You win. Here's your damned review. But I think we were having more fun when I was being in character.
Blue Collar (1978) is such a fantastic mix of ugly reality and beautiful friendship undone that writing a straight review almost breaks me down. But such is my task and it's the least I can do to repay director Paul Schrader for this tense and brilliant movie about three guys who work together in Detroit on the automobile line.
Richard Pryor, Harvey Keitel and Yaphet Kotto play, respectively, Zeke, Jerry and Smoke, three guys working for Checker in Detroit. Schrader and his brother Leonard get all the details exactly right, from the heavy metal of the machines to the foiled camaraderie that comes from sweating out the foreman, the paint, the grease and the hard lifting right on down to the beer at Little Joe's across the street. Smoke's an ex-con, a two-time loser who likes the ladies and who knows the bitter taste of being rammed down every pipe in the labor shack. Jerry's wife worries a lot and his daughter needs braces that work better than the paper clips she strung together to straighten her teeth. As for Zeke, he just finished paying off the color television and now the IRS man is tapping on his door. These men live in an all too familiar state of being jammed up, a condition that most working people know well enough.
We're talking about real work here too. Real work is where you can get fired any time the foreman and union shop boss decide you aren't worth the trouble any more. Real work is when you are so beat down by the end of a shift that all you can do is anesthetize yourself with stupid sex, cheap drinks and powerful drugs. Real work is when you're locked in an internal battle between wanting to help your fellow worker and just wanting to get the hell out of here, wherever here may happen to be. Real work is when there's just no way out, legitimate or otherwise.
Zeke wants his locker fixed. He's had to pry the thing open with a pen every day for six months and it's embarrassing. He brings up his complaint at the local union meeting. The shop steward doesn't care. He tries to paint Zeke as a trifling trouble-maker. Zeke goes to the steward's boss. The boss says, "Oh my. That's just terrible. Let me make a phone call, Zeke." Nothing ever changes.
Early one morning after a drug and sex party, the three men get the idea to rob the union hall safe. There's got to be money there. After all, those union dues are just piling up.
They rob the place, only to find there's about six hundred dollars in total. Thinking themselves idiots, they divide up the loot. But Zeke keeps a ledger from the robbery. The ledger has records of illegal financial dealings between the Detroit union and certain Las Vegas individuals. Zeke wants to use the ledger to force the union to make important changes in its operations. Jerry says there must be another angle. Smoke, being an ex-con, thinks of blackmail.
Meanwhile, the union officials claim that more than $20,000 was stolen, a lie they use to rob the insurance company. When they figure out who committed the robbery, they send some bully boys to Jerry's house to rough up his wife. Smoke is waiting for them with a baseball bat.
Schrader doesn't let anybody play cheap laughs here for an instant. Neither does he allow phony sentiment to get in the way of the bloodship among these three men. For their part, the three principals reach deep inside themselves--and inside one another--to pull out an understanding of Real Work that virtually no one else has captured so well. When that friendship bond--bowling, dinners, meetings, all the modern day festivities--breaks apart like a shattered vase, we feel a genuine pain because we get a sense that bad things are going to happen once the three men are manipulated into being something other than friends.
That our prediction comes true does nothing to undermine the brilliance of this movie.
Blue Collar is not interested in liberal reform. That type of thing, the movie declares, either gets you to be a sell-out (if you're fortunate) or murdered (if you're not). It isn't asking us to rethink brotherhood or racial relations. This movie asks us to declare emotional war on the very nature of the working class experience. Every significant thing that happens in the work place is wrong. One man is told to do the work of three. The union is supposed to have your back, but having your back is often a front. When the union itself becomes big business, then there is no union. Welcome to your world, pilgrim. The whip has arrived and the scourge cuts deeply.
There's a lot to be said for the dissolution of working class friendship. As a teenager, I worked at a steakhouse restaurant, the kind of work that either prepares you for the line in an auto plant or other manufacturing hell or else scares you so bad you do whatever you have to to get into college to either beat out the military or the police. The second summer of college, my dad got me a job at Ashland Oil, the refinery where he worked. The job was straight labor. Those of us who were brought in that summer were overpaid charity cases, getting our noses dirty for premium wages the union men and women had actually earned. When I watched Blue Collar this evening, I remembered the looks on the faces of the Real Workers at that refinery. A lot of those men were lifers on their way to retirement. Some of them were twice our age with half a lifetime to go. None of them were ever going to go to college, although a lot of them hoped their kids would. These men--and a few women--cursed and drank and smoked and occasionally knocked around in friendly fights, but most of all they worked whatever shifts they could get because they had loans to pay off, taxes to file, and kids to raise. These folks were not what you'd call pretty. But they sure were beautiful.
Pryor, Keitel and Kotto, they too are beautiful. So is this movie. Watch it.
PANORAMA
Here's my pitch for a movie I'd love someone to make: A corrupt international religious organization is exposed by a corrupt investigative news organization and vice versa. In other words, while the news program people attempt to reveal the underside of the Church, an investigative arm of the Church reveals the unscrupulous behavior of the activists at the news program. In the end of this proposed film, the two formerly opposing sides join forces, although, as in Orwell's Animal Farm, there arises an inevitable conflict: "There were shoutings, bangings on the table, sharp suspicious glances, furious denials. The source of the trouble appeared to be that Napoleon and Mr. Pilkington had each played an ace of spades simultaneously." As the final credits roll, the Church is using the news program as an arm of its propaganda division to dumb down society into becoming prospects for plucking while the news program garners fantastic ratings under the guise of exposing the "final truth."
Perhaps someday such a project will be undertaken. As we await this occasion, we are free to enjoy the next best thing: a war between the Church of Scientology and a program by the BBC called Panorama. In 2007 the investigative news programme (their spelling) sent out a reporter named John Sweeney to gather information about L. Ron Hubbard's greatest achievement. They called the special programme "Scientology and Me." Sweeney narrates the half hour show with a tone not unlike that of Robin Leach of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" monotony. Indeed, the way Sweeney lingers over the word "stars" allows him to extend the word into no less than five syllables. It has been my observation that anyone using more than three syllables with the word is fawning. But that's a subjective assessment.
In his expose, Sweeney uses for narrative consistency the plot that Scientology officials are spying on him as he performs his due diligence. One official of the Church, a man named Tommy Davis, does show up quite often, usually in a snit over the BBC showman referring to his community as a cult. It turns out the religious organization is a mite testy about the use of that word and Davis reacts by stating that if Sweeney is looking to stage a conflict, he has succeeded. Davis says something to the effect that if Sweeney uses that word one more time, he, Davis, cannot be held responsible for his actions. This is quite juicy meat for the Panorama people, as they spend considerable time filming employees of the Church filming them.
When Sweeney isn't suggesting that the Church has been referred to as a cult by disaffected members, he is tossing around the word "brainwashing." (At this point it seems only sporting to mention that certain words in the English language have, through imprecise usage over long periods of time, lost specificity and gained both ambiguity and a vagueness that renders those words meaningless. On a list of such terms or phrases I would include "church," "cult" and "brainwashing." A new euphemism has gained ground with social scientists and others regarding the word "cult," one which is abbreviated NRM, standing for New Religious Movements. Even that expression has potential to be offensive, especially if one is speaking of a religion that thinks of itself as being very old. Sweeney and his producer surely were aware their language was offensive. Ah, but that makes better television.) While bandying about these terms at Celebrity Centre, a couple of the rich and famous blow a fuse, among them Anne Archer and Kirstie Alley, the latter turning the question around by asking if Sweeney would put the same question to a Jew.
While Panorama was filming the Scientologists, employees of the Church were indeed filming them back. As was made quite clear (pardon the expression) both by a Scientology movie called "Panorama Exposed" and by a follow-up of Sweeney's called "The Secrets of Scientology," Tommy Davis, Mike Rinder and others with the Church were employing what the Church at one time referred to as Fair Game tactics, in this case attempting to discredit the people who were trying to discredit them. In the follow-up to the Panorama broadcast, Rinder and a chap named Marty Rathbun explain that Davis had set up Sweeney and even provoked him into exploding on camera. One of the interesting tactics they used was to call out Mr. Sweeney as a "bigot," an emotionally charged word and one which they could be sure would antagonize the reporter. Another tactic was to constantly interrupt the reporter and to simply never let him get a word in without being interrupted, the goal being that Sweeney's emotions would bottle up and eventually come bursting out, as they in fact did.
Scientology's response film, "Panorama Exposed," in many ways comes off as vastly more professional than the programme it sought to discredit. They bring in all sorts of presumed experts in objective journalism to mention that it is standard procedure to get all sides of an issue rather than to begin with a preconceived notion and seek to only use video that supports that notion, or to stage events while presenting them as fact. The implication is that Sweeney routinely deviated from these standards of excellence. Speaking only for myself (and as someone who has little good to say about Scientology), it appears as if Sweeney was employing the shabbiest form of journalism, one formerly popularized by Mike Wallace and others.
There are several good reasons why the merging of these attempts at wrecking one another's careers would make a fascinating motion picture. First, I believe there is an impulse among the public at large to be disposed unfavorably about the Church of Scientology and its offshoots. Much of that distrust and suspicion may be well-earned. However, that does not negate the fact that many members of the organization have been involved in humanitarian projects across the planet. The Church's professed opposition to the field of psychiatry--famously espoused by actor Tom Cruise to a stunned Matt Lauer on "The Today Show"--may at least bear some consideration rather than being dismissed out of hand.
Second, the suspicion among many people that the news media as a whole is comprised of maggots who benefit the global power structure by anesthetizing the brains of the public has some basis in fact, as even a casual conversation with regular viewers of reality television quickly reveals.
Third, the thought that someday these two enemy groups--each accusing the other of brainwashing their followers--will join forces to deplete the souls of humanity may at first blush feel ridiculous, although I doubt it's more ridiculous than the idea that Lord Xenu hurled Thetans into volcanoes millions of years ago. As a matter of fact, one could call the premise of this proposed film "speculative religious fiction," or sort of a "divine what if" scenario that becomes more probable as in our day-to-day lives more and more insidious behavior of those in power is unearthed by those others in power.
Perhaps someday such a project will be undertaken. As we await this occasion, we are free to enjoy the next best thing: a war between the Church of Scientology and a program by the BBC called Panorama. In 2007 the investigative news programme (their spelling) sent out a reporter named John Sweeney to gather information about L. Ron Hubbard's greatest achievement. They called the special programme "Scientology and Me." Sweeney narrates the half hour show with a tone not unlike that of Robin Leach of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" monotony. Indeed, the way Sweeney lingers over the word "stars" allows him to extend the word into no less than five syllables. It has been my observation that anyone using more than three syllables with the word is fawning. But that's a subjective assessment.
In his expose, Sweeney uses for narrative consistency the plot that Scientology officials are spying on him as he performs his due diligence. One official of the Church, a man named Tommy Davis, does show up quite often, usually in a snit over the BBC showman referring to his community as a cult. It turns out the religious organization is a mite testy about the use of that word and Davis reacts by stating that if Sweeney is looking to stage a conflict, he has succeeded. Davis says something to the effect that if Sweeney uses that word one more time, he, Davis, cannot be held responsible for his actions. This is quite juicy meat for the Panorama people, as they spend considerable time filming employees of the Church filming them.
When Sweeney isn't suggesting that the Church has been referred to as a cult by disaffected members, he is tossing around the word "brainwashing." (At this point it seems only sporting to mention that certain words in the English language have, through imprecise usage over long periods of time, lost specificity and gained both ambiguity and a vagueness that renders those words meaningless. On a list of such terms or phrases I would include "church," "cult" and "brainwashing." A new euphemism has gained ground with social scientists and others regarding the word "cult," one which is abbreviated NRM, standing for New Religious Movements. Even that expression has potential to be offensive, especially if one is speaking of a religion that thinks of itself as being very old. Sweeney and his producer surely were aware their language was offensive. Ah, but that makes better television.) While bandying about these terms at Celebrity Centre, a couple of the rich and famous blow a fuse, among them Anne Archer and Kirstie Alley, the latter turning the question around by asking if Sweeney would put the same question to a Jew.
While Panorama was filming the Scientologists, employees of the Church were indeed filming them back. As was made quite clear (pardon the expression) both by a Scientology movie called "Panorama Exposed" and by a follow-up of Sweeney's called "The Secrets of Scientology," Tommy Davis, Mike Rinder and others with the Church were employing what the Church at one time referred to as Fair Game tactics, in this case attempting to discredit the people who were trying to discredit them. In the follow-up to the Panorama broadcast, Rinder and a chap named Marty Rathbun explain that Davis had set up Sweeney and even provoked him into exploding on camera. One of the interesting tactics they used was to call out Mr. Sweeney as a "bigot," an emotionally charged word and one which they could be sure would antagonize the reporter. Another tactic was to constantly interrupt the reporter and to simply never let him get a word in without being interrupted, the goal being that Sweeney's emotions would bottle up and eventually come bursting out, as they in fact did.
Scientology's response film, "Panorama Exposed," in many ways comes off as vastly more professional than the programme it sought to discredit. They bring in all sorts of presumed experts in objective journalism to mention that it is standard procedure to get all sides of an issue rather than to begin with a preconceived notion and seek to only use video that supports that notion, or to stage events while presenting them as fact. The implication is that Sweeney routinely deviated from these standards of excellence. Speaking only for myself (and as someone who has little good to say about Scientology), it appears as if Sweeney was employing the shabbiest form of journalism, one formerly popularized by Mike Wallace and others.
There are several good reasons why the merging of these attempts at wrecking one another's careers would make a fascinating motion picture. First, I believe there is an impulse among the public at large to be disposed unfavorably about the Church of Scientology and its offshoots. Much of that distrust and suspicion may be well-earned. However, that does not negate the fact that many members of the organization have been involved in humanitarian projects across the planet. The Church's professed opposition to the field of psychiatry--famously espoused by actor Tom Cruise to a stunned Matt Lauer on "The Today Show"--may at least bear some consideration rather than being dismissed out of hand.
Second, the suspicion among many people that the news media as a whole is comprised of maggots who benefit the global power structure by anesthetizing the brains of the public has some basis in fact, as even a casual conversation with regular viewers of reality television quickly reveals.
Third, the thought that someday these two enemy groups--each accusing the other of brainwashing their followers--will join forces to deplete the souls of humanity may at first blush feel ridiculous, although I doubt it's more ridiculous than the idea that Lord Xenu hurled Thetans into volcanoes millions of years ago. As a matter of fact, one could call the premise of this proposed film "speculative religious fiction," or sort of a "divine what if" scenario that becomes more probable as in our day-to-day lives more and more insidious behavior of those in power is unearthed by those others in power.
SLAP SHOT
Sports movies can be great or they can be total bombs. Virtually anything qualifies as a sport nowadays so there's all kinds of opportunities. Disgusting as they were, I can think of two cockfighting movies, the first one being done by the Thomas Edison company (The Cock Fight--1894). In a more socially acceptable orientation, baseball has been well represented by the original The Bad News Bears and the first half of Bull Durham. Basketball has brought us Hoop Dreams, White Men Can't Jump and Hoosiers, the latter film's charms being lost on this writer, what with its only virtue being that you keep expecting the plot to take a surprising turn and--surprise!--it never does. Football has given us Heaven Can Wait and (again) the original The Longest Yard. Even boxing has managed to cough up the excellent Raging Bull and a string of Rocky movies. Pool/billiards brings us a new movie every twenty years or so, the last halfway decent one being The Color of Money. Track and field did Chariots of Fire. But how many great hockey movies do you know?
You might be startled. There've been at least three of the Mighty Ducks films, each one half as compelling as its predecessor. You can go back as far as 1937 and dig a young John Wayne in Idol of the Crowds. There was the genuinely horrible Youngblood with Rob Lowe and Patrick Swayze. Mystery Alaska was nice. But you have not truly had a fun time at a sports movie unless you have watched the 1977 George Roy Hill puck-gem Slap Shot.
Paul Newman stars as Reggie Dunlop, the player-coach of the Charlestown Chiefs, a third rate team in a fourth rate town that is on the brink of losing ten thousand factory jobs due to a plant closure. Coming up behind Dunlop is Ned Braden (Michael Ontkean), a young pretty boy who doesn't mind scamming his fellow players but doesn't want to scam himself. Braden and his wife Lily (Lindsay Crouse) see themselves as the only class acts in the town, but they're young so we forgive them. Reggie learns that the Chiefs are probably going to fold at the end of this season, so he fools a local media hack into fabricating a story that the team is being bought by a bunch of farts in Florida. To drum up more enthusiasm for the team, Reggie goads his team into turning goon. The three newest members of the squad, the Hanson Brothers, are happy to oblige.
The movie is profane, vulgar, violent, occasionally obvious and definitely obscene. It is also inspired, hilarious, and brutally pure. Newman handles the comedy here better than anywhere in his life, his situation actually does draw us in, and the devotion and commitment of the Hanson Brothers (David Hanson plus Jeff and Steve Carlson, who really looked like that) is genuinely moving.
For a sports movie to work, it has to transcend its genre, just as a great western must do, or a great war movie, or even a great comedy. Slap Shot is sports, western, war, and comedic. If you've never been to a hockey match, this movie will get you as close as possible.
You might be startled. There've been at least three of the Mighty Ducks films, each one half as compelling as its predecessor. You can go back as far as 1937 and dig a young John Wayne in Idol of the Crowds. There was the genuinely horrible Youngblood with Rob Lowe and Patrick Swayze. Mystery Alaska was nice. But you have not truly had a fun time at a sports movie unless you have watched the 1977 George Roy Hill puck-gem Slap Shot.
Paul Newman stars as Reggie Dunlop, the player-coach of the Charlestown Chiefs, a third rate team in a fourth rate town that is on the brink of losing ten thousand factory jobs due to a plant closure. Coming up behind Dunlop is Ned Braden (Michael Ontkean), a young pretty boy who doesn't mind scamming his fellow players but doesn't want to scam himself. Braden and his wife Lily (Lindsay Crouse) see themselves as the only class acts in the town, but they're young so we forgive them. Reggie learns that the Chiefs are probably going to fold at the end of this season, so he fools a local media hack into fabricating a story that the team is being bought by a bunch of farts in Florida. To drum up more enthusiasm for the team, Reggie goads his team into turning goon. The three newest members of the squad, the Hanson Brothers, are happy to oblige.
The movie is profane, vulgar, violent, occasionally obvious and definitely obscene. It is also inspired, hilarious, and brutally pure. Newman handles the comedy here better than anywhere in his life, his situation actually does draw us in, and the devotion and commitment of the Hanson Brothers (David Hanson plus Jeff and Steve Carlson, who really looked like that) is genuinely moving.
For a sports movie to work, it has to transcend its genre, just as a great western must do, or a great war movie, or even a great comedy. Slap Shot is sports, western, war, and comedic. If you've never been to a hockey match, this movie will get you as close as possible.
BAADER-MEINHOF
I believe it was in 1981 that I first met some people who identified themselves as members of the Red Brigade. This small group of people were not directly connected with the Italian paramilitary organization that had kidnapped Aldo Moro. They were, however, sympathetic to the militant left wing internationalist cause and one fine afternoon at Marshall University these fifteen folks decided to call attention to themselves by holding up a long banner outside the student union. I was quite friendly with a couple of these young people and even though their approach to revolution was far too accepting of violent means of actions than my own, I nevertheless felt bad for them when the far larger crowd of students responded to the brief speech by one young protester by chatting "Bullshit!" and then by singing "America the Beautiful." The looks on the faces of those kids who were shouted down still haunts me because that look said that they knew they were not in their element, that they had no hope of converting anyone, and that their dreams of amounting to something useful in the war against oppression had been dashed to bits, at least for the afternoon.
Early this week, in the ugly month of January 2013, a young woman, probably a member of Code Pink (although I don't know that for certain), interrupted the confirmation hearings of nominee for Secretary of State, John Kerry. She shouted that she was tired of her friends in the Middle East being killed. Authorities carted her away with haste.
The following evening on "The Rachel Maddow Show," the host of the program mentioned in passing that in Washington DC, nobody pays much attention to protesters. She then went on to imply that Kerry was a good guy because he did make mention of protesters.
Ms. Maddow appeared to affect a glib tone in her remarks, a glibness that very much unsettles me. I am disturbed, not so much by her opinion but by my own hunch that she is unfortunately correct.
When we do not listen to protesters--even those with whom we have fundamental disagreements--we contribute to terrorism against ourselves. People in positions of power tend to use that power to promote bad things, such as the war against the Vietnamese people, the control over the Iranian people through the use of a Shah, the mining of Latin American harbors, the financing of the Taliban as a hedge against Soviet aggression. When people voice their objections to these and other things, we have a social responsibility to work out our own cognitive biases and get down to whether or not the angry whelps might just have a point, however clumsily that point might be offered, particularly when that point acts against the powerful and in favor of the weak.
When we reject peaceful protest out of hand, we are pissing off certain people. There are, rest assured, lots and lots of power freaks on the left as well as the right, and when we demonstrate that peaceful assembly is ineffectual and automoatically ignore it, we are fanning the flames of hatred of people who are quite happy to use violence as a justification for their own "greater" causes.
The RAF, or Red Army Faction, is the topic of tonight's movie, The Baader-Meinhof Complex (2008). The phenomenon referenced in the film's title refers to a tendency to discover some new thing and to suddenly perceive that new thing everywhere while also assuming that it is not only new to you but new to everyone else as well. This happens a lot in politics. Some kid finds a copy of Das Kapital, somehow manages to read it, and decides that he's the first person to recognize the truth in his own lifetime. Simultaneously, he observes for the first time that capitalism does indeed victimize vast segments of society and that since its demise is a logical position in future history, it only stands to reason that an elite group (such as one which contains himself) must fight to bring about that revolution. It's also an effective way to push other people around.
The Baader-Meinhof Complex takes place in Germany from roughly 1967 through the late 1980s. Ulrike Meinof was a journalist disillusioned by the misogyny in her lover's political behavior. As she sympathetically reported on the German RAF, she met up with Andreas Baader and his girlfriend Gudrun Ensslin. The film portrays Meinof as a well-intentioned dupe and Baader as something of a thrill-seeking sociopath. I have no idea what these folks were personally. I will tell you that most of the actions conveyed in this remarkable movie really happened and the explanation the film offers (to the extent that it offers one; there's nothing overt in commentary) is that ego-maniacal, self-aggrandizing leaders often adapt the mask of urban guerrilla for no other purpose than to emulate the little tin gods they claim to despise.
The Baader-Meinhof Complex is a film with more genuine excitement, more historical relevance than any documentary you'll ever watch, probably because it is not a documentary, although it has more specificity than any movie I've ever seen. This near epic shows the connections between the European left and the various Arab causes, anti-antisemitism being one suggested villain here. While the intellects of the participants portrayed here are often limited, there is nothing stunted in the recent history this fast action movie conveys. More to the point, it shows the dangers in failing to pay attention to the criticisms offered by young people against a staid social system. We ignore the arguments of the Occupy Movement at our own risk. When the G-8 conferences are met with traditional public defiance, we better start thinking about what those kids are saying. Today's protester can inadvertently launch tomorrow's terrorist attack. Or are we all so certain of the propriety of our our national (and international) actions that we can only wither or vomit at the suggestion that just maybe our perfections contain rust?
Early this week, in the ugly month of January 2013, a young woman, probably a member of Code Pink (although I don't know that for certain), interrupted the confirmation hearings of nominee for Secretary of State, John Kerry. She shouted that she was tired of her friends in the Middle East being killed. Authorities carted her away with haste.
The following evening on "The Rachel Maddow Show," the host of the program mentioned in passing that in Washington DC, nobody pays much attention to protesters. She then went on to imply that Kerry was a good guy because he did make mention of protesters.
Ms. Maddow appeared to affect a glib tone in her remarks, a glibness that very much unsettles me. I am disturbed, not so much by her opinion but by my own hunch that she is unfortunately correct.
When we do not listen to protesters--even those with whom we have fundamental disagreements--we contribute to terrorism against ourselves. People in positions of power tend to use that power to promote bad things, such as the war against the Vietnamese people, the control over the Iranian people through the use of a Shah, the mining of Latin American harbors, the financing of the Taliban as a hedge against Soviet aggression. When people voice their objections to these and other things, we have a social responsibility to work out our own cognitive biases and get down to whether or not the angry whelps might just have a point, however clumsily that point might be offered, particularly when that point acts against the powerful and in favor of the weak.
When we reject peaceful protest out of hand, we are pissing off certain people. There are, rest assured, lots and lots of power freaks on the left as well as the right, and when we demonstrate that peaceful assembly is ineffectual and automoatically ignore it, we are fanning the flames of hatred of people who are quite happy to use violence as a justification for their own "greater" causes.
The RAF, or Red Army Faction, is the topic of tonight's movie, The Baader-Meinhof Complex (2008). The phenomenon referenced in the film's title refers to a tendency to discover some new thing and to suddenly perceive that new thing everywhere while also assuming that it is not only new to you but new to everyone else as well. This happens a lot in politics. Some kid finds a copy of Das Kapital, somehow manages to read it, and decides that he's the first person to recognize the truth in his own lifetime. Simultaneously, he observes for the first time that capitalism does indeed victimize vast segments of society and that since its demise is a logical position in future history, it only stands to reason that an elite group (such as one which contains himself) must fight to bring about that revolution. It's also an effective way to push other people around.
The Baader-Meinhof Complex takes place in Germany from roughly 1967 through the late 1980s. Ulrike Meinof was a journalist disillusioned by the misogyny in her lover's political behavior. As she sympathetically reported on the German RAF, she met up with Andreas Baader and his girlfriend Gudrun Ensslin. The film portrays Meinof as a well-intentioned dupe and Baader as something of a thrill-seeking sociopath. I have no idea what these folks were personally. I will tell you that most of the actions conveyed in this remarkable movie really happened and the explanation the film offers (to the extent that it offers one; there's nothing overt in commentary) is that ego-maniacal, self-aggrandizing leaders often adapt the mask of urban guerrilla for no other purpose than to emulate the little tin gods they claim to despise.
The Baader-Meinhof Complex is a film with more genuine excitement, more historical relevance than any documentary you'll ever watch, probably because it is not a documentary, although it has more specificity than any movie I've ever seen. This near epic shows the connections between the European left and the various Arab causes, anti-antisemitism being one suggested villain here. While the intellects of the participants portrayed here are often limited, there is nothing stunted in the recent history this fast action movie conveys. More to the point, it shows the dangers in failing to pay attention to the criticisms offered by young people against a staid social system. We ignore the arguments of the Occupy Movement at our own risk. When the G-8 conferences are met with traditional public defiance, we better start thinking about what those kids are saying. Today's protester can inadvertently launch tomorrow's terrorist attack. Or are we all so certain of the propriety of our our national (and international) actions that we can only wither or vomit at the suggestion that just maybe our perfections contain rust?
ILLUSTRIOUS CORPSES
Cadaveri Eccellenti refers to a surrealist game allegedly created by Andre Breton wherein several players contribute their own imaginative twists to a portion of a drawing without seeing what the other players are up to. Illustrious Corpses (1976), which is the literal translation from the Italian (or, as the movie posters proclaimed, Cadavres Exquis), is a fascinating thriller that hangs together through the understated glue of its protagonist, Inspector Amerigo Rogas (Lino Ventura), as well as the wild plot, those two forces joining to give us one of the most exciting slow-boilers in a very long time.
Directed by Francesco Rosi, Illustrious Corpses begins with an Italian judge named Vargas walking toward us through a long corridor, on all sides of which appear human cadavers. Since when we first meet Vargas we have no way of knowing that he is a judge, we haven't any way of explaining or understanding the significance of these corpses. Is this man a horrible mass murderer who has retained the bodies of his many victims? Or is he a retired law enforcement official who is revisiting the scene of a ghastly crime? Once we learn that Vargas is not only a judge but a former prosecutor, we wonder if these bodies are some sort of symbolic reference to the men he has sentenced. Then again, maybe the scene is there merely to jolt us.
Inspector Rogas is an instantly likable sort of pragmatist who wants to figure out where the judge's assassination fits into a larger pattern of murders. His bosses, on the other hand, say that they want him to hang the crime on the communist party. When more judges are murdered, Rogas digs a bit and learns that there are three cases these judges collaborated that suggest certain suspects. One of these suspects, a Mr. Cres, appears to have been innocent. The bosses are outraged that Rogas can't follow a simple directive to figure out a way to blame the opposition party. Trudging forward as a good cop will, Rogas finally gets a meeting with the Supreme Court President (Max von Sydow) to warn him that this innocent Mr. Cres may plan to kill him. The Judge intuits that Rogas is implying judicial error. "There is no such thing as judicial error," he asserts in total seriousness. His argument is that seeing as how the justices uphold, affirm and dictate the law, they are as incapable of error as the Pope.
There are all sorts of additional directions taken and misdirections given, including one misdirection that turns out to be the farthest thing from erroneous. Rogas becomes convinced that the killer or killers is out to snuff him for getting too close to the truth. Since we are certain that Rogas does not know the truth, we suspect his suspicions are just paranoia. Indeed they are, but it is his own paranoia that leads his superiors to kill him.
I see that the way I've described the plot makes it sound as if this film were a comedy. It is not. As a matter of fact, this is a brilliantly serious movie that has informed the work of a lot of modern day directors whom you will likely recognize (is that Oliver Stone in the front row?)
The only thing to watch out for is something apparently unavoidable at present. This fine Italian film is dubbed into English rather than provided English subtitles. The dubs are occasionally entirely inappropriate and the "vocal overacting" really detracts from the otherwise brilliant twists and turns of this movie.
Oh, and Fernando Rey is in this movie! That should make you want to see it on that basis alone. I will tell you that he plays the Security Minister. I must also tell you that I have no idea whether he is a good guy or bad guy. I have simply decided he is a villain, with no real proof. Maybe I can get a job with the Italian police. After all, the truth may not set you free but it sure does pay well.
Directed by Francesco Rosi, Illustrious Corpses begins with an Italian judge named Vargas walking toward us through a long corridor, on all sides of which appear human cadavers. Since when we first meet Vargas we have no way of knowing that he is a judge, we haven't any way of explaining or understanding the significance of these corpses. Is this man a horrible mass murderer who has retained the bodies of his many victims? Or is he a retired law enforcement official who is revisiting the scene of a ghastly crime? Once we learn that Vargas is not only a judge but a former prosecutor, we wonder if these bodies are some sort of symbolic reference to the men he has sentenced. Then again, maybe the scene is there merely to jolt us.
Inspector Rogas is an instantly likable sort of pragmatist who wants to figure out where the judge's assassination fits into a larger pattern of murders. His bosses, on the other hand, say that they want him to hang the crime on the communist party. When more judges are murdered, Rogas digs a bit and learns that there are three cases these judges collaborated that suggest certain suspects. One of these suspects, a Mr. Cres, appears to have been innocent. The bosses are outraged that Rogas can't follow a simple directive to figure out a way to blame the opposition party. Trudging forward as a good cop will, Rogas finally gets a meeting with the Supreme Court President (Max von Sydow) to warn him that this innocent Mr. Cres may plan to kill him. The Judge intuits that Rogas is implying judicial error. "There is no such thing as judicial error," he asserts in total seriousness. His argument is that seeing as how the justices uphold, affirm and dictate the law, they are as incapable of error as the Pope.
There are all sorts of additional directions taken and misdirections given, including one misdirection that turns out to be the farthest thing from erroneous. Rogas becomes convinced that the killer or killers is out to snuff him for getting too close to the truth. Since we are certain that Rogas does not know the truth, we suspect his suspicions are just paranoia. Indeed they are, but it is his own paranoia that leads his superiors to kill him.
I see that the way I've described the plot makes it sound as if this film were a comedy. It is not. As a matter of fact, this is a brilliantly serious movie that has informed the work of a lot of modern day directors whom you will likely recognize (is that Oliver Stone in the front row?)
The only thing to watch out for is something apparently unavoidable at present. This fine Italian film is dubbed into English rather than provided English subtitles. The dubs are occasionally entirely inappropriate and the "vocal overacting" really detracts from the otherwise brilliant twists and turns of this movie.
Oh, and Fernando Rey is in this movie! That should make you want to see it on that basis alone. I will tell you that he plays the Security Minister. I must also tell you that I have no idea whether he is a good guy or bad guy. I have simply decided he is a villain, with no real proof. Maybe I can get a job with the Italian police. After all, the truth may not set you free but it sure does pay well.
THE BAD NEWS BEARS
Quick, what two things do all of the following movies have in common? A League of Their Own, Field of Dreams, Eight Men Out, Pride of the Yankees, Bull Durham, Bang the Drum Slowly and The Natural. Answer? They are all excellent baseball movies and none of them are half as good as The Bad News Bears (1976).
Bill Lancaster wrote the screenplay. He was Burt Lancaster's kid. He claimed he based the Walter Matthau character of Morris Buttermaker on his father. He also claimed he based the Tatum O'Neal character of Amanda on himself.
Directed by Michael Ritchie (The Candidate), this movie uses the theme of the American pastime as a way of saying something about sportsmanship, about the cost of winning, about the amazing fun of the game, and about affirmative action.
Beg pardon? Did I say affirmative action? Why, if that were true, then elements of this would be political. Dear. How unseemly.
Unseemly it is. In The Bad News Bears, we get caught up with a bunch of Southern California misfits of the mid-seventies, meaning an African American, a couple Hispanics, a pair of runts, at least three nerds, a Jew or two, a fat kid, a delinquent, and a girl. Oh, and there's the manager, a grumpy old man with a bit of a problem with his drinking. These kids have nothing in common with one another other than their outsider status in middle class SoCal and their adoration of the game and of one another, although the latter matter gets strained some of the time as Buttermaker yearns to win and forgets what the game is really all about. Meanwhile the local power structure grumbles about a lawsuit that forced the league to form a seventeenth team when sixteen teams were presumably good enough. The problem? The good L.A. suburbanites didn't want to let blacks, Latinos, Jews, girls or delinquents play the game in their league. Presumably the nerds and fatties would exclude themselves. Anyway, a class action suit ensued, the defendants lost, and the team was formed. Director Ritchie doesn't club us over the head with any of these details but neither does he shy away from them.
By now most of you know the story. The team struggles in the early stages of the season until Buttermaker brings in his old friend, the eleven-year-old Amanda, as well as Kelly the motorcycle rider who smokes and has the reputation as the best athlete in town. The team recovers, makes it all the way from last place to the championship game, and during the last inning, the manager puts in his worst players, all of whom know they aren't very good, but Buttermaker has by this point regained his perspective and knows the game is about everybody having a chance. If this had been some stupid movie, the Bears would have won the championship. They do not. But they celebrate as if they did win. And that's fantastic. Imagine a World Series between the Yankees and The Mets. Let's say the Yankees win the seventh game by two runs. The Mets figure, to hell with that. Let's crack the champagne! Can you imagine the uproar in the "winning" team's clubhouse? Can you imagine how much fun it would be to hang with the "losers"?
Matthau is amazing, far more complex than his typical replay of Oscar Madison. This was only Tatum's second movie and already she moved with the confidence of a veteran. And Vic Morrow as the overwrought manager of the opposing team plays the bad guy with more sensitivity than any "bad guy" I can remember. Oh, and we even get Brandon Cruz of "Courtship of Eddie's Father" fame as Morrow' kid, doing a maneuver in the final game that makes you want to stand and cheer. Then again, the whole movie will have you pounding the table, throwing your hot dogs in the air and laughing like a monkey. This is bliss.
Bill Lancaster wrote the screenplay. He was Burt Lancaster's kid. He claimed he based the Walter Matthau character of Morris Buttermaker on his father. He also claimed he based the Tatum O'Neal character of Amanda on himself.
Directed by Michael Ritchie (The Candidate), this movie uses the theme of the American pastime as a way of saying something about sportsmanship, about the cost of winning, about the amazing fun of the game, and about affirmative action.
Beg pardon? Did I say affirmative action? Why, if that were true, then elements of this would be political. Dear. How unseemly.
Unseemly it is. In The Bad News Bears, we get caught up with a bunch of Southern California misfits of the mid-seventies, meaning an African American, a couple Hispanics, a pair of runts, at least three nerds, a Jew or two, a fat kid, a delinquent, and a girl. Oh, and there's the manager, a grumpy old man with a bit of a problem with his drinking. These kids have nothing in common with one another other than their outsider status in middle class SoCal and their adoration of the game and of one another, although the latter matter gets strained some of the time as Buttermaker yearns to win and forgets what the game is really all about. Meanwhile the local power structure grumbles about a lawsuit that forced the league to form a seventeenth team when sixteen teams were presumably good enough. The problem? The good L.A. suburbanites didn't want to let blacks, Latinos, Jews, girls or delinquents play the game in their league. Presumably the nerds and fatties would exclude themselves. Anyway, a class action suit ensued, the defendants lost, and the team was formed. Director Ritchie doesn't club us over the head with any of these details but neither does he shy away from them.
By now most of you know the story. The team struggles in the early stages of the season until Buttermaker brings in his old friend, the eleven-year-old Amanda, as well as Kelly the motorcycle rider who smokes and has the reputation as the best athlete in town. The team recovers, makes it all the way from last place to the championship game, and during the last inning, the manager puts in his worst players, all of whom know they aren't very good, but Buttermaker has by this point regained his perspective and knows the game is about everybody having a chance. If this had been some stupid movie, the Bears would have won the championship. They do not. But they celebrate as if they did win. And that's fantastic. Imagine a World Series between the Yankees and The Mets. Let's say the Yankees win the seventh game by two runs. The Mets figure, to hell with that. Let's crack the champagne! Can you imagine the uproar in the "winning" team's clubhouse? Can you imagine how much fun it would be to hang with the "losers"?
Matthau is amazing, far more complex than his typical replay of Oscar Madison. This was only Tatum's second movie and already she moved with the confidence of a veteran. And Vic Morrow as the overwrought manager of the opposing team plays the bad guy with more sensitivity than any "bad guy" I can remember. Oh, and we even get Brandon Cruz of "Courtship of Eddie's Father" fame as Morrow' kid, doing a maneuver in the final game that makes you want to stand and cheer. Then again, the whole movie will have you pounding the table, throwing your hot dogs in the air and laughing like a monkey. This is bliss.
SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION
My immediate knee-jerk reaction was that this was somehow a right wing response to the progressive actions of the latter half of the preceding decade because the major male characters in the film stood against the lumber workers union. That I was wrong just goes to show you where reactive thinking will get you. It wasn't far into Sometimes a Great Notion (1971) that I realized that something else was happening here. Yes, Henry, Hank and Joe Ben Stamper run an independent lumber company that has "contracts to fill, eggs to hatch, cats to kill." They also stand every bit as opposed to the large corporations that are swallowing up the bulk of the industry that has been very good to the Stamper family. But the focus of this Paul Newman-directed gem of a film is not what the Stampers are against but rather what they are for. As Henry (Fonda) Stampers says it, going on is all there is.
What he means by that amazing statement is that we do what we do. There is a value in getting up in the morning, wolfing down a breakfast that isn't there for taste but for sustenance, booting on your footwear, taking the pick-up out to the forest and swinging that ax. The first step is creation, the second step is confiscation, and the third step is making something that momma can use to wipe the baby's butt. The Stampers play a crucial role in this peculiar triumvirate and just as we are trying to figure out what that role is, along comes the Prodigal Son, Leland (Michael Sarrazin), fresh out of college and with a head full of ideas that are driving him insane, not to mention a head full of hair. "It grows," he explains.
For my money, the most fascinating character in the movie is Joe Ben (Richard Jaeckel), far and away the most good-natured human being ever to stroll across this mortal coil. He may not recognize his half-brother Leland when the latter returns home, but he loves him all the same and treats him with none of the routine family criticism that half-brother Hank and father Henry do. Even when the world's largest log pins Joe Ben under water and it looks as if he's doomed, the brother just keeps on laughing, saying how daddy Henry would freak out if he saw Hank giving him mouth to mouth resuscitation.
The scenes with the men on the job are among the most amazing and disturbing you're likely to witness. I say amazing because the majesty of the trees the Stampers cut down dwarf the independence of the hard-working family. I say disturbing because we kind of hate it that these glorious staffs reaching up to God get knocked down by mere human beings. As director, Newman doesn't beat us over the head with this dichotomy. He presents it and allows it to take our breaths away without cheap commentary.
Speaking of Newman, his acting here is a match for his directorial skills and vice versa. Indeed, beneath both hats he gives new meaning to the notion of "understated." And that's appropriate because the wild roughness of the daily lives of this family would have been tarnished with melodramatic editorializing.
None of this should indicate that Sometimes a Great Notion is a perfect movie. It is not. The women exist largely as tabula rasa. Viv Stamper (Lee Remick) is there only to make us wonder what the hell she might be thinking. The other women characters are even less defined and while I suspect that novelist Ken Kesey and director Newman might have argued that the women's transparency was a reflection of the reality of this story, I don't buy it. Women in a working family contribute a lot more than just scenery and dreams of what might have been. "Don't go out," Viv says to Hank. "Let's get going," counters daddy Henry. There's never a doubt as to who will win that argument.
The biggest problem with the movie, however, is one of counter-motivation. We never get much of an idea as to why the union men are striking--only that doing so has crippled the town's economy. If we'd had a sense as to their reason for holding back--other than to make payments on a Chevrolet--the sense of tragedy that subtly erupts as a result of the Stampers refusal would have been more emotionally powerful. What we get instead is Willard, the town movie theater owner, telling Hank that if the Stampers don't join the strike that he will kill himself. "Good luck," replies Hank. Horrified, Willard demands an explanation. Hank, confused by this, replies that he couldn't think of anything more appropriate to say. It's better than bon voyage, he reckons.
What he means by that amazing statement is that we do what we do. There is a value in getting up in the morning, wolfing down a breakfast that isn't there for taste but for sustenance, booting on your footwear, taking the pick-up out to the forest and swinging that ax. The first step is creation, the second step is confiscation, and the third step is making something that momma can use to wipe the baby's butt. The Stampers play a crucial role in this peculiar triumvirate and just as we are trying to figure out what that role is, along comes the Prodigal Son, Leland (Michael Sarrazin), fresh out of college and with a head full of ideas that are driving him insane, not to mention a head full of hair. "It grows," he explains.
For my money, the most fascinating character in the movie is Joe Ben (Richard Jaeckel), far and away the most good-natured human being ever to stroll across this mortal coil. He may not recognize his half-brother Leland when the latter returns home, but he loves him all the same and treats him with none of the routine family criticism that half-brother Hank and father Henry do. Even when the world's largest log pins Joe Ben under water and it looks as if he's doomed, the brother just keeps on laughing, saying how daddy Henry would freak out if he saw Hank giving him mouth to mouth resuscitation.
The scenes with the men on the job are among the most amazing and disturbing you're likely to witness. I say amazing because the majesty of the trees the Stampers cut down dwarf the independence of the hard-working family. I say disturbing because we kind of hate it that these glorious staffs reaching up to God get knocked down by mere human beings. As director, Newman doesn't beat us over the head with this dichotomy. He presents it and allows it to take our breaths away without cheap commentary.
Speaking of Newman, his acting here is a match for his directorial skills and vice versa. Indeed, beneath both hats he gives new meaning to the notion of "understated." And that's appropriate because the wild roughness of the daily lives of this family would have been tarnished with melodramatic editorializing.
None of this should indicate that Sometimes a Great Notion is a perfect movie. It is not. The women exist largely as tabula rasa. Viv Stamper (Lee Remick) is there only to make us wonder what the hell she might be thinking. The other women characters are even less defined and while I suspect that novelist Ken Kesey and director Newman might have argued that the women's transparency was a reflection of the reality of this story, I don't buy it. Women in a working family contribute a lot more than just scenery and dreams of what might have been. "Don't go out," Viv says to Hank. "Let's get going," counters daddy Henry. There's never a doubt as to who will win that argument.
The biggest problem with the movie, however, is one of counter-motivation. We never get much of an idea as to why the union men are striking--only that doing so has crippled the town's economy. If we'd had a sense as to their reason for holding back--other than to make payments on a Chevrolet--the sense of tragedy that subtly erupts as a result of the Stampers refusal would have been more emotionally powerful. What we get instead is Willard, the town movie theater owner, telling Hank that if the Stampers don't join the strike that he will kill himself. "Good luck," replies Hank. Horrified, Willard demands an explanation. Hank, confused by this, replies that he couldn't think of anything more appropriate to say. It's better than bon voyage, he reckons.
PAPER MOON
All kinds of things should drive me crazy and don't. I should be freaking out over the debt ceiling, turning blue about global warming, doing the spazz dance in dread of political redistricting, driving spikes into my ear holes amid broadcasts of impending asteroid attacks (What's that? You haven't heard of the attacking asteroids? Where've you been, friend?), covering my crotch in anticipation of kicks from the angry midgets, leaping from the teeth of disaster (and the jaws of death, while I'm at it) at news of a new Nora Roberts novel, flailing myself on the rocks of doom at the sound of people laughing at anything Adam Sandler and/or Seth Rogan have ever said or done--I should just pack it in and give it up for good. But what really frosts my flakes, tightens my cinch belt, curls my lips and bites my tin foil is having to admit that I thoroughly love a movie made by a director for whom the word "director" has always felt misapplied and for whom, to take it one step farther and yet one step more distant, I have heretofore been unable to muster so much as a kind word. That man, of course, is Peter Bogdonavich and the movie can only be Paper Moon (1973).
Bogdonavich shot the movie in black and white through a red filter. That's why the images have such excellent contrast. You need that if you're going to make a movie about a time and place where everything sort of faded together, this particular time being 1936 and the place being Kansas and Missouri. Yeah, the camera work was nice. Whee.
The real beauty of the movie, however, has almost nothing to do with the director (which figures) and everything to do with Tatum O'Neal, who was nine years old when she appeared in this movie. Folks, I'm here to tell you she steals the show and everything else that's not nailed down, including daddy Ryan's best lines, although to be fair, Mr. O'Neal does a fair job not hogging the screen and instead sharing it with his daughter, just the way professionals are alleged to want to do. But who cares about him? Wasn't he the hockey player in Love Story or something? Four years later he decides to redeem himself? Bah. Tatum is enough redemption for anybody.
That too is really saying something because the director drives this cast (which also features Madeline Kahn and John Hillerman) through a frenetic pace that does not slow down for sentiment, at least not until the last five minutes of the film, which is exactly the point at which the audience really needs a breather. Despite the speed of the dialogue--and at times that speed comes across like a movie from the thirties or forties, rather than more contemporary "reflective" talk--Tatum (Addie) and Ryan (Moses) keep going with the jabs like two boxers who secretly care about one another but don't want to show it. It would have been cheap and easy to have Tatum come across like come little cutie pie girl in a dress. Bogdonavich uses his head by putting her in denim overalls rolled up at the cuff. The only time she looks uncomfortable is when someone forces her to wear a dress.
Paper Moon was released seven months before another good movie about con artists: The Sting. Good as The Sting was, it ultimately holds up less well than Paper Moon precisely because the latter movie gives us reasons to care about these characters and the movie with Newman, Redford and Shaw never got around to showing us why we should give a damn. The Sting was set in the Depression of Chicago. Paper Moon in the Depression of rural America. From the instant we set eyes on Addie, we recognize that she is the embodiment of the Depression itself. Farm country at that time was a motherless bastard child who didn't know for sure who its daddy was. Tatum O'Neal wears that attitude of emotional bruising right alongside her co-occurring attitude of eternal optimism. She's also somewhat better than her "father" at sizing up a mark, imposing her own ideas on the way Moses runs his Bible-selling business.
You may want to judge Peter Bogdonavich by the movies The Last Picture Show or What's Up, Doc? and I would never stop you. Those are two of several movies that he directed that I wouldn't walk across the street to spit on. You may believe that PB is the finest progeny Orson Welles ever inspired. I would beg you to reconsider. But if you say that Paper Moon is anything less than an unsentimental heart-breaker, then I must assume you have no soul.
In light of certain recent Golden Globe confessions, it may interest the reader to recall or discover that this movie inspired a decent though short-lived TV series of the same name, one which starred Christopher Connelly (a Ryan O'Neal lookalike, and a good one) and a young Jodie Foster as Addie.
Bogdonavich shot the movie in black and white through a red filter. That's why the images have such excellent contrast. You need that if you're going to make a movie about a time and place where everything sort of faded together, this particular time being 1936 and the place being Kansas and Missouri. Yeah, the camera work was nice. Whee.
The real beauty of the movie, however, has almost nothing to do with the director (which figures) and everything to do with Tatum O'Neal, who was nine years old when she appeared in this movie. Folks, I'm here to tell you she steals the show and everything else that's not nailed down, including daddy Ryan's best lines, although to be fair, Mr. O'Neal does a fair job not hogging the screen and instead sharing it with his daughter, just the way professionals are alleged to want to do. But who cares about him? Wasn't he the hockey player in Love Story or something? Four years later he decides to redeem himself? Bah. Tatum is enough redemption for anybody.
That too is really saying something because the director drives this cast (which also features Madeline Kahn and John Hillerman) through a frenetic pace that does not slow down for sentiment, at least not until the last five minutes of the film, which is exactly the point at which the audience really needs a breather. Despite the speed of the dialogue--and at times that speed comes across like a movie from the thirties or forties, rather than more contemporary "reflective" talk--Tatum (Addie) and Ryan (Moses) keep going with the jabs like two boxers who secretly care about one another but don't want to show it. It would have been cheap and easy to have Tatum come across like come little cutie pie girl in a dress. Bogdonavich uses his head by putting her in denim overalls rolled up at the cuff. The only time she looks uncomfortable is when someone forces her to wear a dress.
Paper Moon was released seven months before another good movie about con artists: The Sting. Good as The Sting was, it ultimately holds up less well than Paper Moon precisely because the latter movie gives us reasons to care about these characters and the movie with Newman, Redford and Shaw never got around to showing us why we should give a damn. The Sting was set in the Depression of Chicago. Paper Moon in the Depression of rural America. From the instant we set eyes on Addie, we recognize that she is the embodiment of the Depression itself. Farm country at that time was a motherless bastard child who didn't know for sure who its daddy was. Tatum O'Neal wears that attitude of emotional bruising right alongside her co-occurring attitude of eternal optimism. She's also somewhat better than her "father" at sizing up a mark, imposing her own ideas on the way Moses runs his Bible-selling business.
You may want to judge Peter Bogdonavich by the movies The Last Picture Show or What's Up, Doc? and I would never stop you. Those are two of several movies that he directed that I wouldn't walk across the street to spit on. You may believe that PB is the finest progeny Orson Welles ever inspired. I would beg you to reconsider. But if you say that Paper Moon is anything less than an unsentimental heart-breaker, then I must assume you have no soul.
In light of certain recent Golden Globe confessions, it may interest the reader to recall or discover that this movie inspired a decent though short-lived TV series of the same name, one which starred Christopher Connelly (a Ryan O'Neal lookalike, and a good one) and a young Jodie Foster as Addie.
CAR WASH
The movie Car Wash (1976) is the greatest vehicle director Michael Schultz has ever helmed. It is also the greatest thing screenwriter Joel Schumacher ever wrote. Prior to the creation of this film, both men worked in television and that's a tradition in which they continued. But if it's true that each person has at least one mighty work inside him, then this surely was their picture.
Is the movie derivative of Robert Altman? Sure! Is it great all the same? Absolutely! Why? Because something can be derivative without being a copy, especially when the talent in front of the camera is as strong as it is here. The strongest talent in front of the camera here is yet another man who primarily distinguished himself in the television medium. I'm talking about the late great Ivan Dixon. If the only thing you know Ivan for is "Hogan's Heroes," then you are depriving yourself because he directed some of the best episodes of "The Rockford Files," "In the Heat of the Night," and even "The Waltons"! His all-time best directorial work was with the movie The Spook Who Sat by the Door, one of the most brilliant black power movies ever made. As the lead man in the gang at the Dee-Luxe car wash, he plays Lonnie, a stoic man who did some time, who gets hassled by his probation officer, and who cannot quite get by on the salary the white boss is paying him. His character is the solid foundation of this film and without Dixon in that role, this would have been an entirely different film. It would not have been as good.
That foundation work is crucial in a movie lacking a traditional plot. The storyline involves one long shift at the car wash, where we meet men and women, each of whom is one good day away from emotional, psychological or physical destruction. We meet Franklin Ajaye as the equally under-appreciated combination Lothario and superhero known as The Fly. We meet George Carlin, doing the best impression of an L.A. taxi driver in the history of the profession. We meet Bill Duke, a Black Muslim who is damned tired of trying to explain to the others about their real place in the system. We meet Garrett Morris, a sort of good-natured Shylock character who forgets to pay his traffic fines. We meet Melanie Mayron, who gets fed up with being the owner's mistress and finally gets a date with someone else who will take advantage of her in some other ways. We meet Professor Irwin Corey, who only wants to get his car washed while providing a urine specimen for the doctors. We meet Richard Pryor and the Pointer Sisters, who as Daddy Rich and his flock, assure the multitudes that the way to happiness is paved with money. These people and all the others live over the edge. They know their future probably lies in washing other people's cars. Yet some of them do have their dreams. Some want to meet the right young woman. Some want to break out with their musical act. Some plan a political revolution. And some just want a raise so they can pay rent.
Car Wash is also a very funny movie. To deny that is to deny yourself some well-earned pleasure. The humor is real in a way that escapes most movies. There's nothing evil in the shots. When the hooker skips out on the cab fare, she's not trying to hurt the driver. She just doesn't have the money. When one employee puts hot peppers inside another guy's burrito, he's not trying to kill him. He's just evening the score from an earlier prank. Even when the workers smart off to the owner's son for reading to them from Mao's Red Book, they don't hate the kid. They just want him to wake up. There is, in other words, a friendliness to this movie that links with Lonnie and holds together for repeated viewings. (Danny DeVito and Brooke Adams are also in the film but you need a magnifying glass to spot them in the food stand across the street.)
The Norman Whitfield soundtrack that plays throughout the day's work is punctuated by raving disc jockeys with a sense of the absurd, just as it should be. The three hit songs from the movie were the title track, "I Wanna Get Next to You" (which sounds very much like the Stylistics) and "I'm Going Down," as well as The Pointer Sisters tune "You Gotta Believe."
When this movie first came out, some people called it the black M*A*S*H, which was just silly. There's multiple ethnicities represented here and besides this is funnier than M*A*S*H and the acting is every bit as spontaneous and authentic. But the label stuck, so most of these excellent actors went back to their day jobs with the television studios.
The humor in Car Wash will break your heart every bit as much as the cathartic ending. It'll also give you something to think about the next time you take your sedan in for a cleaning.
Is the movie derivative of Robert Altman? Sure! Is it great all the same? Absolutely! Why? Because something can be derivative without being a copy, especially when the talent in front of the camera is as strong as it is here. The strongest talent in front of the camera here is yet another man who primarily distinguished himself in the television medium. I'm talking about the late great Ivan Dixon. If the only thing you know Ivan for is "Hogan's Heroes," then you are depriving yourself because he directed some of the best episodes of "The Rockford Files," "In the Heat of the Night," and even "The Waltons"! His all-time best directorial work was with the movie The Spook Who Sat by the Door, one of the most brilliant black power movies ever made. As the lead man in the gang at the Dee-Luxe car wash, he plays Lonnie, a stoic man who did some time, who gets hassled by his probation officer, and who cannot quite get by on the salary the white boss is paying him. His character is the solid foundation of this film and without Dixon in that role, this would have been an entirely different film. It would not have been as good.
That foundation work is crucial in a movie lacking a traditional plot. The storyline involves one long shift at the car wash, where we meet men and women, each of whom is one good day away from emotional, psychological or physical destruction. We meet Franklin Ajaye as the equally under-appreciated combination Lothario and superhero known as The Fly. We meet George Carlin, doing the best impression of an L.A. taxi driver in the history of the profession. We meet Bill Duke, a Black Muslim who is damned tired of trying to explain to the others about their real place in the system. We meet Garrett Morris, a sort of good-natured Shylock character who forgets to pay his traffic fines. We meet Melanie Mayron, who gets fed up with being the owner's mistress and finally gets a date with someone else who will take advantage of her in some other ways. We meet Professor Irwin Corey, who only wants to get his car washed while providing a urine specimen for the doctors. We meet Richard Pryor and the Pointer Sisters, who as Daddy Rich and his flock, assure the multitudes that the way to happiness is paved with money. These people and all the others live over the edge. They know their future probably lies in washing other people's cars. Yet some of them do have their dreams. Some want to meet the right young woman. Some want to break out with their musical act. Some plan a political revolution. And some just want a raise so they can pay rent.
Car Wash is also a very funny movie. To deny that is to deny yourself some well-earned pleasure. The humor is real in a way that escapes most movies. There's nothing evil in the shots. When the hooker skips out on the cab fare, she's not trying to hurt the driver. She just doesn't have the money. When one employee puts hot peppers inside another guy's burrito, he's not trying to kill him. He's just evening the score from an earlier prank. Even when the workers smart off to the owner's son for reading to them from Mao's Red Book, they don't hate the kid. They just want him to wake up. There is, in other words, a friendliness to this movie that links with Lonnie and holds together for repeated viewings. (Danny DeVito and Brooke Adams are also in the film but you need a magnifying glass to spot them in the food stand across the street.)
The Norman Whitfield soundtrack that plays throughout the day's work is punctuated by raving disc jockeys with a sense of the absurd, just as it should be. The three hit songs from the movie were the title track, "I Wanna Get Next to You" (which sounds very much like the Stylistics) and "I'm Going Down," as well as The Pointer Sisters tune "You Gotta Believe."
When this movie first came out, some people called it the black M*A*S*H, which was just silly. There's multiple ethnicities represented here and besides this is funnier than M*A*S*H and the acting is every bit as spontaneous and authentic. But the label stuck, so most of these excellent actors went back to their day jobs with the television studios.
The humor in Car Wash will break your heart every bit as much as the cathartic ending. It'll also give you something to think about the next time you take your sedan in for a cleaning.
ROCK N ROLL HIGH SCHOOL
The letter began and ended by saying, "Hey! There's a lot of movies from the 1970s you haven't said anything about."
That is true, I replied, even if you did conclude your sentence with a preposition.
Many of the movies I have seen from the period I most enjoy--1967 through 1975--are fairly obvious choices. I have to assume a few things and one of the things I take for granted is that anyone nice or even twisted enough to read this website with regularity has probably seen most of the easy great movies, such as The Godfather, Godfather II, The French Connection, The Sting, Badlands, Sleeper, Klute, 2001, Midnight Cowboy, Cool Hand Luke, and The Jungle Book. What I try to do here, with varying degrees of success, is to focus on movies around and about that period that people may have forgotten or may have not seen or may have not seen reviewed in the way we do it here.
It also feels right to jump outside the 67-75 time warp when a particularly enjoyable movie treads down the pike and tonight we have one of those often under-appreciated movies that some wide-eyed bozo decided to call "cult films." This one came out in 1979 and had the heavy backing of Roger Corman himself. We can only be talking about Rock 'n' Roll High School.
The story itself is mostly just a bunch of leggy silliness: Fascist high school administration wants to stamp out hormonally-charged youth music. The curious thing about Rock 'n' Roll High School is that the movie actually gets damned near everything dead on. High School really is what the fascinating P. J. Soles (as Riff Randell--P.J. played Norma in the original Carrie) claims it to be. It's just a walled-off place grown-ups send you for four years because they don't know what else to do with you. Of course, it's also a concentration camp for the programming that's supposed to make you devote all kinds of time digging sports teams for no particular good reason, a place where you learn to play marching band instruments (I was delighted to recently learn that a friend of mine never once played her instrument; she just pretended to all four years!), and sublimate your sexual tensions until you get lucky enough to find somebody who can tolerate your awkwardness long enough to take care of that little problem.
I don't want to give the impression that anybody associated with this movie necessarily wanted to change the world, although I have to admit that when we watch The Ramones play it really is possible to believe that music can mow down the Philistines better than all the automatic weapons imaginable. So I also don't want to claim that these kids don't want to change the world. If you remember your HS years with anything like the fogged-out clarity that I do, you may recall that what it felt like was going on in between the church meetings, the physical abuse, the lectures, the waiting in line for some idiot principal to pick the lint out of his ass before taking the microphone--it was all really too much to take on and I suspect we knew we were bound to lose so the only appropriate action was to blast all the bad shit out of our collective brains with whatever we could find that was annoying as hell to the men and women in suits.
I remember our school's chemistry teacher. Her name was Jean Mills. She and I did not get along well. You see, just like in your school, there were the kids who toed the line and those who did not. Jean really liked her line-toers. That meant she was never going to like me so I didn't even bother to pretend to understand what was going on. To get away from as much of this woman's insolent neglect as possible, one day I was hanging outside the classroom, waiting for Mills to come by and unlock the door so we could collapse inside. Then inspiration struck me. I pulled a sharpened pencil from my pocket and rammed the point into the lock hole, breaking off the lead. When the teacher finally deigned to arrive, she jammed her key into the lock and the graphite point froze into place, requiring her to summon the janitor to pick out the pencil tip so she could get us inside the room. Well, that blew about half an hour that we would have been wasting balancing unstable equations.
My little prank worked so well that I did the same thing the very next day and was rewarded with the same results. It didn't dawn on me that anyone would rat me out.
Not wanting to push my luck, the next day I decided against a three-pete. When the bell rang, the door unlocked from the inside. I turned the nob and we all entered. Inside waiting for us was Jean Mills and the fat-assed principal, Dow West. He didn't know me from Adam, but Mills poked him in the ribs as she nodded at me and said, "That's him."
While everyone else in the class took their seats, West pulled me out into the hall and informed me that he knew I had been the one who had "sabotaged" the classroom door. I suggested he might be in error. He smiled and said, "You're right. I can't prove you did it. If I could, I would give you the hardest beating I've ever given a student here."
I told him to use his threats on a student who was afraid of him.
He never did get around to giving me that beating, although my senior year I was suspended for three days for some minor infraction because West had been patiently waiting for any opportunity. I didn't care then and I still don't.
What Riff tells her friends at Vince Lombardi High School is that nothing that happens there will matter to them in a few years. She's exactly right.
Except: One thing that sometimes happens is that you get to meet some people who will stay in your head for years into the future. Usually those are the people you imagine are a lot like yourself, people who maybe experience the world the way you do, people who like your music, or like the way you dress or talk, or who enjoy the jokes you tell. It's a narcissistic time, but in this case narcissism is about all a kid has to keep himself sane against precisely the type of cartoon administration this movie creates.
Plus the music's great. You get all the big Ramones hits like "Sheena is a Punk Rocker," "Teenage Lobotomy," "Blitzkrieg Bop," and the title tune. You also get to see a high school blown to smithereens.
The acting is no big shakes, but who cares? This isn't a movie for the ages. This is a movie for the moment. That moment has lasted, though. After all, as the tagline warned, "Will your school be next?"
That is true, I replied, even if you did conclude your sentence with a preposition.
Many of the movies I have seen from the period I most enjoy--1967 through 1975--are fairly obvious choices. I have to assume a few things and one of the things I take for granted is that anyone nice or even twisted enough to read this website with regularity has probably seen most of the easy great movies, such as The Godfather, Godfather II, The French Connection, The Sting, Badlands, Sleeper, Klute, 2001, Midnight Cowboy, Cool Hand Luke, and The Jungle Book. What I try to do here, with varying degrees of success, is to focus on movies around and about that period that people may have forgotten or may have not seen or may have not seen reviewed in the way we do it here.
It also feels right to jump outside the 67-75 time warp when a particularly enjoyable movie treads down the pike and tonight we have one of those often under-appreciated movies that some wide-eyed bozo decided to call "cult films." This one came out in 1979 and had the heavy backing of Roger Corman himself. We can only be talking about Rock 'n' Roll High School.
The story itself is mostly just a bunch of leggy silliness: Fascist high school administration wants to stamp out hormonally-charged youth music. The curious thing about Rock 'n' Roll High School is that the movie actually gets damned near everything dead on. High School really is what the fascinating P. J. Soles (as Riff Randell--P.J. played Norma in the original Carrie) claims it to be. It's just a walled-off place grown-ups send you for four years because they don't know what else to do with you. Of course, it's also a concentration camp for the programming that's supposed to make you devote all kinds of time digging sports teams for no particular good reason, a place where you learn to play marching band instruments (I was delighted to recently learn that a friend of mine never once played her instrument; she just pretended to all four years!), and sublimate your sexual tensions until you get lucky enough to find somebody who can tolerate your awkwardness long enough to take care of that little problem.
I don't want to give the impression that anybody associated with this movie necessarily wanted to change the world, although I have to admit that when we watch The Ramones play it really is possible to believe that music can mow down the Philistines better than all the automatic weapons imaginable. So I also don't want to claim that these kids don't want to change the world. If you remember your HS years with anything like the fogged-out clarity that I do, you may recall that what it felt like was going on in between the church meetings, the physical abuse, the lectures, the waiting in line for some idiot principal to pick the lint out of his ass before taking the microphone--it was all really too much to take on and I suspect we knew we were bound to lose so the only appropriate action was to blast all the bad shit out of our collective brains with whatever we could find that was annoying as hell to the men and women in suits.
I remember our school's chemistry teacher. Her name was Jean Mills. She and I did not get along well. You see, just like in your school, there were the kids who toed the line and those who did not. Jean really liked her line-toers. That meant she was never going to like me so I didn't even bother to pretend to understand what was going on. To get away from as much of this woman's insolent neglect as possible, one day I was hanging outside the classroom, waiting for Mills to come by and unlock the door so we could collapse inside. Then inspiration struck me. I pulled a sharpened pencil from my pocket and rammed the point into the lock hole, breaking off the lead. When the teacher finally deigned to arrive, she jammed her key into the lock and the graphite point froze into place, requiring her to summon the janitor to pick out the pencil tip so she could get us inside the room. Well, that blew about half an hour that we would have been wasting balancing unstable equations.
My little prank worked so well that I did the same thing the very next day and was rewarded with the same results. It didn't dawn on me that anyone would rat me out.
Not wanting to push my luck, the next day I decided against a three-pete. When the bell rang, the door unlocked from the inside. I turned the nob and we all entered. Inside waiting for us was Jean Mills and the fat-assed principal, Dow West. He didn't know me from Adam, but Mills poked him in the ribs as she nodded at me and said, "That's him."
While everyone else in the class took their seats, West pulled me out into the hall and informed me that he knew I had been the one who had "sabotaged" the classroom door. I suggested he might be in error. He smiled and said, "You're right. I can't prove you did it. If I could, I would give you the hardest beating I've ever given a student here."
I told him to use his threats on a student who was afraid of him.
He never did get around to giving me that beating, although my senior year I was suspended for three days for some minor infraction because West had been patiently waiting for any opportunity. I didn't care then and I still don't.
What Riff tells her friends at Vince Lombardi High School is that nothing that happens there will matter to them in a few years. She's exactly right.
Except: One thing that sometimes happens is that you get to meet some people who will stay in your head for years into the future. Usually those are the people you imagine are a lot like yourself, people who maybe experience the world the way you do, people who like your music, or like the way you dress or talk, or who enjoy the jokes you tell. It's a narcissistic time, but in this case narcissism is about all a kid has to keep himself sane against precisely the type of cartoon administration this movie creates.
Plus the music's great. You get all the big Ramones hits like "Sheena is a Punk Rocker," "Teenage Lobotomy," "Blitzkrieg Bop," and the title tune. You also get to see a high school blown to smithereens.
The acting is no big shakes, but who cares? This isn't a movie for the ages. This is a movie for the moment. That moment has lasted, though. After all, as the tagline warned, "Will your school be next?"
THERE BUT FOR FORTUNE
There is a movie out that I hope you will see. It's called Phil Ochs: There But for Fortune. Written, directed, and co-produced by Kenneth Bowser, the film is a documentary of the life of more than a folksinger. It is the story of much of America.
By the time Phil Ochs was recording Pleasures of the Harbor with producer Larry Marks in 1967, the singer had transformed from a gentle writer of fierce topical songs into a poet whose mind reinvented what his senses passionately explored. It was his first time working with Marks. The producer was determined to desert the barren and stark non-production Paul Rothchild had provided Ochs' first three albums, which had been recorded for Elektra. The new label, A&M, as well as the singer himself, sought to make the music relevant to the lyrics. With only a few exceptions, this resulted in an unfortunate swash of strings and waves of swirling orchestration that buried the singer in a typhoon of cacaphony. Some of his best songs were rendered unlistenable. And yet the album did have its strong moments. Phil had heard the story of Kitty Genovese, the New York woman who had screamed and pleaded for life while her neighbors watched in the shadows as she was brutally raped and murdered. Some of the more than two dozen people who witnessed her destruction even admitted to turning up their televisions to drown out the disturbing sounds. Ochs responded with "Outside of a Small Circle of Friends." Lyrically, the song's verses set up opportunities to exercise social responsibilities and provided one-line rationalizations for ignoring them. Musically, happy ragtime piano mocked those excuses while giving the song commercial hooks. Lacking heavy guitar riffs, it was ignored by the rock audience just as folkies found it too musical for their standards. "Outside of a Small Circle of Friends," released as a single, still managed to chart in Los Angeles, Sacramento and especially New York, where Phil's fan base had always been its strongest.
His second home, though, was Los Angeles. His brother Michael had already moved there to work on photography and music promotion, and Phil hired him to be his manager. Just east of Beverly Hills on Santa Monica Boulevard was a club called The Troubadour. It was owned and operated by a tall, skinny longhair named Doug Weston. Phil played The Troubadour regularly and became friends with the lanky owner. Weston wanted to produce a Phil Ochs concert in Los Angeles. The singer was ecstatic. Back in New York he'd played everywhere from Gerde's in the Village right up through Carnegie Hall. But doing a concert in L.A.? That was a new level. Having already toured in support of the album, Phil was sure he could fill the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. Michael and Weston weren't so sure. Wouldn't it be better to play a smaller venue? they asked. Better to turn away a few people, they reasoned, than stare at rows of empty seats.
Phil got his way. His manager and producer had been right. The auditorium was less than twenty-five percent capacity.
In those days, before the Chicago riots, defeats could still leave him optimistic about both his career and about America. To that end, he behaved and reacted as if the success of his career and the health of his country were inexorably connected, perfectly correlated.
The former Ohio State University journalism student dropped out and moved to New York City in 1960 with designs on becoming a guitar-playing singing sensation. If Bob Gibson, Faron Young, Johnny Cash and Buddy Holly could become stars, there was no reason why the young Ohioan couldn't do the same. Mike Porco, who ran Gerde's Folk City, gave him his first paying job opening for John Hammond. To make the best use of the opportunity, Phil wrote and performed a song specific for the occasion. "The Power and the Glory" could have been written by Woody Guthrie, except that the set up of the final verse was more strategic, the delivery more impassioned and the pace more compelling than was accepted in Guthrie's day. After describing all the Whitman-like details of his beautiful country, a shadow of stern caution warned, "Yet she's only as rich as the poorest of the poor/Only as free as a padlocked prison door/Only as strong as our love for this land/Only as tall as we stand!"
Having developed by now a bit of a reputation, Phil managed to get other work in the city, primarily at The Third Side and at Sam Hood's The Gaslight. But where he fell under the gaze of the larger audience for folk music was in the pages of a mimeographed magazine called Broadside. In addition to articles, editorials and profiles, the magazine, published by Sis Cunningham and Gordon Friesen, printed the words and music of folk and topical songs written by Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, and--suddenly--Phil Ochs. This recognition landed him an invitation to perform at Newport '63. Newport was far and away the premier showcase for folk singers. Phil would be in the company of Dylan and Seeger, as well as Tom Paxton, Joan Baez, The Freedom Singers and lesser luminaries. Phil's performance--throughout which he was battling terror and nausea--included the aforementioned "The Power and the Glory," as well as "The Ballad of Medgar Evers" and "Talking Birmingham Jam." An album of the festival was released the following year and featured two of Phil's songs. Mainstream newspapers announced a new sound in folk music.
The two major record labels that handled folk acts at the time were Vanguard and Elektra. Vanguard had a good roster that included Baez, Eric Andersen, The Weavers and Pat Sky. But Jac Holzman's Elektra offered Phil a zero dollar signing bonus. And if that wasn't flattering enough, he would be label mates with Judy Collins, Tim Hardin, and Tom Rush.
The first album, All the News That's Fit to Sing, was evocative of its title, a virtual What's What of headline stories and young smiling radical analysis. Topics included U.S. involvement in Vietnam after the death of President Diem, a social worker named Lou Marsh, the separation of a Hazard, Kentucky coal miner from his wife, a reporter named William Worthy who ran into trouble with the State Department for visiting Cuba, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the assassination of civil rights leader Medgar Evers. There was even a lovely musical adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Bells." Future Blues Project member Danny Kalb filled out the sound on second guitar. In between promotional appearances and concerts in support of the album, Phil began what would become a life-long involvement in social activism.
It began with a number of benefit concerts for striking miners in Hazard. From there he was on to the Mississippi Caravan of Music, a consortium that staged concerts to encourage blacks to register to vote, which just happened to coincide with the discovery of the bodies of three civil rights workers slain by the Ku Klux Klan. Soon after his second album, I Ain't Marching Anymore, was released, he hooked up with Jerry Rubin and participated in the Berkeley teach-ins by singing between speeches. This was Ochs' first association with the anti-war movement that was by that time eclipsing civil rights as a national issue.
His greatest force for social change, however, remained his music. With a few exceptions, the liner notes to the second album were more insightful and entertaining than the songs themselves. Not so with the follow-up, Phil Ochs in Concert, recorded at Carnegie Hall. It was and remains among the greatest acoustic live albums of all time (despite the fact that much of the music was re-recorded elsewhere to make up for the taping defects). In addition to songs about book burnings and invasions of Latin American countries, there was the self-described "cinematic" "Ringing of Revolution." Ochs even named the actors. "John Wayne plays Lyndon Johnson. And Lyndon Johnson plays God. I play Bobby Dylan. A young Bobby Dylan." There was even one hysterical satire called "Love Me, I'm a Liberal," wherein Ochs exploded every cliché the near Left ever used. "In every political community there are varying shades of political opinion. One of the shadiest of these is the liberals. An outspoken group on many subjects. Ten degrees to the left of center in good times. Ten degrees to the right of center if it effects them personally. Here then is a lesson in safe logic." The album even contained a first: a Phil Ochs love song--"Changes." Amid a context of philosophy, politics and movies, that song lifted the performance to the level of Art.
It was a level he would either approximate, maintain or excel for the next few years. Despite the nearly grotesque overproduction of Pleasures of the Harbor, beneath all the noise was a song called "Crucifixion," which the sailor from the sea described as his greatest achievement. Indeed, it was high art, easily on a par with the best of Dylan's work. It was also ambitious, abstractly symbolizing political assassinations from Jesus Christ to John Kennedy. Alliterative, imagistic, accurate and terrified in tone, it is heard to better effect on the retrospective Chords of Fame in a crisp acoustic version.
And the night comes again to the circle-studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in loneliness they lie
Till the universe explodes as a falling star is raised
The planets are paralyzed, the mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the brilliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity--then he dies!
The combined total sales of the first three albums had been less than 50,000 units. Phil Ochs and his new label--A&M--were optimistic that a change was needed. Pleasures' orchestration was chosen. A&M publicist Derek Taylor sent a copy of the album to President Johnson. Time, Billboard and Variety all conceded that the recording had its positive moments. Broadside, naturally, gutted the recording as a sellout, which was silly. The only thing the singer was selling out was concert tickets. The publicity worked. Phil's first A&M album outsold all three of his Elektra recordings combined.
While on a promotional tour for the album, Ochs became even more active in his opposition to the Vietnam War. One such manifestation was his organization of a "War is Over" celebration in New York's Washington Square Park. The idea behind the rally was that if enough people could come to believe the war was over, it actually would be so. It was also an opportunity to mobilize people through tactics of street theatre, tactics that were also being used to some effect by his friends in the newly formed Yippie community. By now Jerry Rubin and occasional collaborator Abbie Hoffman had learned how to use the media against itself. Aware that photographers had a tendency to focus on anyone with long hair and bare feet, the Yippies used humor and charm on reporters to ensure their media contacts wouldn't find the parades and marches altogether unacceptable. And so the "War is Over" celebration attracted thousands and allowed the Yippies to promote their upcoming gathering in Chicago. Phil did the same at all his public performances, while at the same time campaigning and playing benefits for the candidacy of Eugene McCarthy.
In between charity benefits and political obligations, Phil found a free week in which to make the album Tape From California. Again Larry Marks produced. But this time the lush orchestration was harnessed, when it was used at all. The title track actually had electric instruments and sounded suspiciously like rock and roll, albeit old time rock and roll. Unquestionably the best thing on the album, though, was "When in Rome," a song inspired by film director Elia Kazan's Viva Zapata. Calling the song brilliant, critic Bart Testa wrote "The song does nothing less than symbolically rewrite the entire history of the United States as a chaotic and apocalyptic epic, with Ochs playing all the lead parts in the first person."
Back through the ashes and back through the embers
Back through the roads and ruins I remembered
My hands at my side I sadly surrendered
Do as you please.
The setting for the disaster that Chicago would become seemed nearly preordained. On March 12, 1968, Eugene McCarthy announced his candidacy for President. His platform was "Get Out Now." Four days later, Robert Kennedy announced his own candidacy on an anti-war ticket. Together the two men captured sixty-nine percent of the popular vote in the Democratic primaries. Lyndon Johnson's heir apparent, Hubert Humphrey, achieved a mere two percent. Before the primaries were over, Kennedy was assassinated. Abbie Hoffman suggested the Celebration of Life form a counter-convention where their attendees would all wear VOTE FOR ME buttons and each person would nominate himself. The aims of the Celebration were a blending of the philosophies of the Old and New Left, a gathering of radical organizations, a model of an alternative society, the politics of ecstacy. As Phil Ochs put it, the Yippies "wanted to be able to set out fantasies in the street to communicate their feelings to the public." A number of memorable slogans were coined, mainly as a way of publicizing the upcoming event. Sure that the more outrageous the phrase, the more likely the media would be to repeat it--and hence bestow the gift of free publicity--the Yippies declared they would "Burn Chicago to the ground! Acid for all! Abandon the creeping meatball!"
A few days before the Democratic Convention began, Phil Ochs, Stew Albert and Jerry Rubin found an Illinois farmer willing to sell a large sow for twenty dollars. Since Phil was the only one with any money, the honor of the purchase went to him. The Yippies had found their own candidate. On August 23, 1968, they held a press conference outside Chicago's Civic Center and announced their "Pigasus for President" campaign. The press was duly amused and the police hauled the group in, charging them with disturbing the peace and bringing livestock into the city.
What Phil witnessed over the next few days would forever alter the attitude he brought to the creations of his songs. It would in fact alter the very thought processes that went into writing altogether. His hope and optimism were shot full of holes. His faith in his childhood visions of America were destroyed, leaving him with the gut pains of introspection.
The night of August 24 brought 7,500 demonstrators to town, all of whom needed some place to stay. Many had plans to sleep in Lincoln Park. The police had other ideas. They attacked the Park with tear gas and beat the revelers as they left. The following night, the cops removed their badges to avoid easy detection, following Mayor Richard Daley's admonition: "The policeman isn't there to create disorder. He is there to preserve disorder." The message was understood. The police force attacked the press, local residents, paramedics and protestors with equal fervor. Plenty of network TV cameras filmed the massacre, but the rest of the nation wouldn't see it until days later because of sabotaged transmissions.
Humphrey accepted his party's nomination on August 28, as the day ended and the scent of tear gas wafted up Michigan Avenue to the nominee's suite at the Conrad Hilton. The worst violence was about to begin. And the New York folk singer would be right in the thick of things. The protestors had gathered in Grant Park to hear a series of speeches before marching to the Convention Center. The Chicago Police attempted to contain the group by surrounding the Park. One after another speaker addressed the crowd. In between speeches of men like activist Dave Dellinger, poet Allen Ginsberg, and comedian Dick Gregory, Phil would stand in the back of a pick-up truck and sing for the crowd. Shortly after he sang a rousing version of "I Ain't Marching Anymore," he saw a young boy climb the Park's flag pole and pull down Old Glory. The was all the provocation the police required. They grabbed the kid, beat him with their nightsticks, and tossed him into the back of a squad car while the more agitated onlookers threw rocks at the arresting officers. Press cameras filmed all this for posterity and even broadcast one cop commanding "Make sure you show them throwing rocks!" While Dave Dellinger attempted to lead a nonviolent march to the Convention Center (and was blocked from doing so), others took advantage of an opening in the quarantine and thousands of young people marched toward the Hilton. Enraged at being distracted, the police charged up Michigan Avenue, firing tear gas canisters and clubbing everything in sight. When clubs failed to subdue, they stomped. And when that proved ineffective, they kicked, shoved, punched and beat. The crowd shouted "The whole world is watching!" As Phil Ochs and the others would soon come to realize, most of the whole world didn't care and among those who did, many felt the cops hadn't gone far enough.
Back in Los Angeles, Phil began to question his own approach to politics in America. While the Yippies and other radicals had been creating and recreating their own counterculture, they had alienated the American working class along with Middle America. People who were already involved, Ochs reasoned, didn't need to be converted. Nixon--who would ride to victory above the shattered remains of a splintered Democratic Party--called these frightened Americans 'the Silent Majority.' Ochs knew that if this majority rejected the members of the New Left, they would in turn embrace the solutions of men like Nixon and George Wallace. Frightened by those prospects, the songwriter began to detach himself by degrees from the journalistic approach to his craft. The resulting music spoke with broader, more universal tones. As he's done in "Crucifixion," two or three lines could speak entire chapters while a whole song could fill libraries. One last time, Larry Marks would produce. This time they both got it exactly right.
Rehearsals for Retirement is among the most beautiful and powerful recordings in any musical genre. Backed by a real band, featuring Lincoln Mayorga (whose piano had been the stand out feature of the Pleasures album), Bob Rafkin on bass and guitar, and (probably) Kevin Kelly on drums, Ochs delivered the performance of a lifetime. The cover itself was a photograph of a tombstone Phil had had made for the occasion. The headstone bore an oval picture of Phil standing in front of the flag with a Revolutionary War rifle slung over his shoulder. Beneath the image were the words: Phil Ochs (American). Born: El Paso, Texas 1940; Died: Chicago, Illinois 1968.
The album led off with "Pretty Smart on my Part" which in four crisp verses not only gave an hysterically funny analysis of the reactive behavior of the machismo mentality, it tied the vignettes together with a pair of lines--twenty-four years before Oliver Stone would do the same--asserting that John Kennedy had been assassinated to allow the U.S. military the pleasure of frying the people of Vietnam. Before the impact of that assertion could sink in, Mayorga's piano introduces "The Doll House" with a sound of someone lost and wandering in a surreal environment of someone else's making. The singer himself is lost amid this ambience, a world of soft confusion and amazing pressure. It all unspins with the plateau: "The ballet master/Was beckoning ‘faster'/The ballerina was posed/In the fragile beauty she froze/Let go! Let go! Let go! Let go! Let go!" After that uncommercial interruption, Ochs is back in a narrative that begins and ends in the third person and yet clearly is also the first person narrator in between, a police officer, defensive about his responsibility to "keep the country safe from long hair," hateful of the students and minorities he brutalizes, yet unable to understand what it is that his enemies don't understand about him. Ultimately he can only utter a variation on Descartes: "I kill, therefore I am." The song "William Butler Yeats Visits Lincoln Park and Escapes Unscathed" is possibly more worthy of praise for its inventive title than its descriptions of Convention Week. The same cannot be said for the album's centerpiece.
Smack dab in the middle of Rehearsals for Retirement is "My Life." In the same way The Beatles permanently altered the way they would be understood by their audience with Rubber Soul, Phil Ochs made his breakthrough with this song. The Beatles' album took the public perception of their product from dance music and love songs into a perception of themselves as a highly complex group involved in the process of creating some mighty fine artwork. Ochs' album, and this song in particular, revealed the artist as a culmination of all the characters he'd created, each the victim of its own vulnerabilities but not necessarily hugable and endearing.
The intensity does not lessen with "The Scorpion Departs but Never Returns," explicitly a song about the missing nuclear submarine but implicitly a strong metaphor for the performer's view of his own position in society.
Sounding bell is diving down the water green
Not a trace, not a toothbrush, not a cigarette was seen
Bubble ball is rising from a whisper or a scream
But I'm not screaming, no I'm not screaming
Tell me I'm not screaming.
Perhaps sensing he'd revealed enough for the moment, Ochs took his audience on a brief road trip from Eden to Los Angeles--"city of tomorrow." Then soon enough, we're back, engulfed in the personal drama of "Doesn't Lenny Live Here Anymore," a song that was not only obviously inspired by Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone," but could easily be the long awaited response from the unseen character Dylan had been lecturing. Peppered with spicy lines like "You love your love so much that you'd strangle her gladly" and "You search the books in vain for a better word for lonely," the song climaxes with the narrator coming upon an ex-lover's emotional suicide in process. The galloping horseback rhythms of "Another Age" unite Tom Paine, Jesse James and Robin Hood in search of a stolen election. Then suddenly the horse can run no more and the title track walks the final lap of the course. The end is near. Though still tinged with vibrato, his voice struggles to contain the moan beneath it. With a fade of piano and bass, he is gone.
He lies on his back on the couch in the Canyon house. Awake, he closes his eyes and imagines he is dreaming. He sees his paternal grandfather lip-locked beside the radio, listening to FDR speak reassuringly, while his grandmother fries eggs in the kitchen. His father comes in, wide-eyed and despondent from days without sleep. He sees himself hiding beneath a desk in Miss Jocelyn's classroom during an air raid drill, teasing his younger brother, being softly scolded by his older sister.
A chill comes in through the living room window, so he pulls the remembered images over himself like a patchwork quilt. A match flame of exploration in the dark; a faint smell that never leaves the walls; the taste of buttered popcorn at the movies; mastering scales on the clarinet; his father staring at the newspaper without reading it; shooting himself in the leg while showing off for a friend; a green sign welcoming the world to Columbus, Ohio; James Dean's red jacket; Fidel Castro marching into Havana; a pencil snapping between tight fingers; the strum of a guitar he'd won in a bet; a belt tied in a loop with a buckle supporting his own weight.
The idea of the gold suit came to him after seeing Elvis Presley perform in Las Vegas. The only hope for America, Phil decided, was a revolution, and the only hope for a revolution in America was for Elvis to become Che Guevara. Since the young man from Tupelo was unlikely to make such a conversion, Phil Ochs would have to become Elvis as Che himself. The first step was having Nudie the tailor make him a gold suit. That was the first mistake.
The second mistake was his next album. The songs themselves were fine, but if Larry Marks had buried Ochs' tunes under a sea of swash, new producer Van Dyke Parks placed some very good tunes behind a Spectorian Wall of Sound, with timpani drums and backing choruses that would have been more at home on a Ronettes album than on Phil Ochs' Greatest Hits. That title was his third mistake. Intended sarcastically, the title (and the reverse legend declaring "50 Phil Ochs' fans can't be wrong!") was easily misunderstood as being what it purported to be.
His last mistake was in the way he chose to promote the album. He was scheduled to play Carnegie Hall again. He showed up, but this time he was wearing the gold suit and had his band with him. He might reasonably have expected to be about as welcome as Dylan had been when the latter had gone electric at Newport. As if to guarantee a hostile reaction, his set was weighted with other people's songs. After beginning with a up version of Conway Twitty's "Mona Lisa" and his own obligatory "I Ain't Marching Anymore," he introduced his rendition of Merle Haggard's "Okie From Meskogee." Everyone assumed that gesture was intended as irony, but how could anyone tell for sure? The real trouble, though, came when he performed medleys of hits first by Buddy Holly and later by Elvis. The first set received such a hostile response that the singer gently lectured the crowd. "Let's not be narrow-minded Americans- You can be a bigot against blacks, you can be a bigot against music." After another pair of his own songs--neither from the new album that needed promoting--he did the Elvis medley. Although his voice was heavy with reverb, he still sounded magnificent and just as the crowd was won over, Carnegie Hall cut the power. The audience shouted "We want power! We want power!" Electricity was restored and the concert was completed.
Phil begged A&M's Jerry Moss to release the tapes of the concert as an album. Moss politely declined. Eventually A&M did issue the album--in Canada. It would be more than twenty years before it was available in the United States.
Over the next few years, Phil became more isolated from his friends and spent most of his time drinking, watching TV and traveling to other countries. In South Africa, he was robbed by three men. In the process, his vocal cords were ruptured and he lost his upper register. Convinced he would never sing professionally again, he fell deeper into bouts of manic depression and paranoia.
Does anybody know my name or recognize my face?
I must have come from somewhere but I can't recall the place
They left me at the matinee and left without a trace.
Ticket home--I want a ticket home!
His nephew David found him hanging from his own belt in his sister's bathroom. He was thirty-five years old. I can make no case for martyrdom here. There is nothing noble about suicide, regardless of how that suicide may have been the result of social forces or diminished expectations. Had he lived, I doubt Phil would have made any new songs, and if he had, they probably would not have compared favorably with his best work. But it remains a fact that whenever I read about some ludicrous injustice or monumental hypocrisy, I wonder what Ochs would have said about it, how he would have summed up the situation with an acerbic line or two. And I wonder who the next dead hero will be.
By the time Phil Ochs was recording Pleasures of the Harbor with producer Larry Marks in 1967, the singer had transformed from a gentle writer of fierce topical songs into a poet whose mind reinvented what his senses passionately explored. It was his first time working with Marks. The producer was determined to desert the barren and stark non-production Paul Rothchild had provided Ochs' first three albums, which had been recorded for Elektra. The new label, A&M, as well as the singer himself, sought to make the music relevant to the lyrics. With only a few exceptions, this resulted in an unfortunate swash of strings and waves of swirling orchestration that buried the singer in a typhoon of cacaphony. Some of his best songs were rendered unlistenable. And yet the album did have its strong moments. Phil had heard the story of Kitty Genovese, the New York woman who had screamed and pleaded for life while her neighbors watched in the shadows as she was brutally raped and murdered. Some of the more than two dozen people who witnessed her destruction even admitted to turning up their televisions to drown out the disturbing sounds. Ochs responded with "Outside of a Small Circle of Friends." Lyrically, the song's verses set up opportunities to exercise social responsibilities and provided one-line rationalizations for ignoring them. Musically, happy ragtime piano mocked those excuses while giving the song commercial hooks. Lacking heavy guitar riffs, it was ignored by the rock audience just as folkies found it too musical for their standards. "Outside of a Small Circle of Friends," released as a single, still managed to chart in Los Angeles, Sacramento and especially New York, where Phil's fan base had always been its strongest.
His second home, though, was Los Angeles. His brother Michael had already moved there to work on photography and music promotion, and Phil hired him to be his manager. Just east of Beverly Hills on Santa Monica Boulevard was a club called The Troubadour. It was owned and operated by a tall, skinny longhair named Doug Weston. Phil played The Troubadour regularly and became friends with the lanky owner. Weston wanted to produce a Phil Ochs concert in Los Angeles. The singer was ecstatic. Back in New York he'd played everywhere from Gerde's in the Village right up through Carnegie Hall. But doing a concert in L.A.? That was a new level. Having already toured in support of the album, Phil was sure he could fill the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. Michael and Weston weren't so sure. Wouldn't it be better to play a smaller venue? they asked. Better to turn away a few people, they reasoned, than stare at rows of empty seats.
Phil got his way. His manager and producer had been right. The auditorium was less than twenty-five percent capacity.
In those days, before the Chicago riots, defeats could still leave him optimistic about both his career and about America. To that end, he behaved and reacted as if the success of his career and the health of his country were inexorably connected, perfectly correlated.
The former Ohio State University journalism student dropped out and moved to New York City in 1960 with designs on becoming a guitar-playing singing sensation. If Bob Gibson, Faron Young, Johnny Cash and Buddy Holly could become stars, there was no reason why the young Ohioan couldn't do the same. Mike Porco, who ran Gerde's Folk City, gave him his first paying job opening for John Hammond. To make the best use of the opportunity, Phil wrote and performed a song specific for the occasion. "The Power and the Glory" could have been written by Woody Guthrie, except that the set up of the final verse was more strategic, the delivery more impassioned and the pace more compelling than was accepted in Guthrie's day. After describing all the Whitman-like details of his beautiful country, a shadow of stern caution warned, "Yet she's only as rich as the poorest of the poor/Only as free as a padlocked prison door/Only as strong as our love for this land/Only as tall as we stand!"
Having developed by now a bit of a reputation, Phil managed to get other work in the city, primarily at The Third Side and at Sam Hood's The Gaslight. But where he fell under the gaze of the larger audience for folk music was in the pages of a mimeographed magazine called Broadside. In addition to articles, editorials and profiles, the magazine, published by Sis Cunningham and Gordon Friesen, printed the words and music of folk and topical songs written by Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, and--suddenly--Phil Ochs. This recognition landed him an invitation to perform at Newport '63. Newport was far and away the premier showcase for folk singers. Phil would be in the company of Dylan and Seeger, as well as Tom Paxton, Joan Baez, The Freedom Singers and lesser luminaries. Phil's performance--throughout which he was battling terror and nausea--included the aforementioned "The Power and the Glory," as well as "The Ballad of Medgar Evers" and "Talking Birmingham Jam." An album of the festival was released the following year and featured two of Phil's songs. Mainstream newspapers announced a new sound in folk music.
The two major record labels that handled folk acts at the time were Vanguard and Elektra. Vanguard had a good roster that included Baez, Eric Andersen, The Weavers and Pat Sky. But Jac Holzman's Elektra offered Phil a zero dollar signing bonus. And if that wasn't flattering enough, he would be label mates with Judy Collins, Tim Hardin, and Tom Rush.
The first album, All the News That's Fit to Sing, was evocative of its title, a virtual What's What of headline stories and young smiling radical analysis. Topics included U.S. involvement in Vietnam after the death of President Diem, a social worker named Lou Marsh, the separation of a Hazard, Kentucky coal miner from his wife, a reporter named William Worthy who ran into trouble with the State Department for visiting Cuba, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the assassination of civil rights leader Medgar Evers. There was even a lovely musical adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Bells." Future Blues Project member Danny Kalb filled out the sound on second guitar. In between promotional appearances and concerts in support of the album, Phil began what would become a life-long involvement in social activism.
It began with a number of benefit concerts for striking miners in Hazard. From there he was on to the Mississippi Caravan of Music, a consortium that staged concerts to encourage blacks to register to vote, which just happened to coincide with the discovery of the bodies of three civil rights workers slain by the Ku Klux Klan. Soon after his second album, I Ain't Marching Anymore, was released, he hooked up with Jerry Rubin and participated in the Berkeley teach-ins by singing between speeches. This was Ochs' first association with the anti-war movement that was by that time eclipsing civil rights as a national issue.
His greatest force for social change, however, remained his music. With a few exceptions, the liner notes to the second album were more insightful and entertaining than the songs themselves. Not so with the follow-up, Phil Ochs in Concert, recorded at Carnegie Hall. It was and remains among the greatest acoustic live albums of all time (despite the fact that much of the music was re-recorded elsewhere to make up for the taping defects). In addition to songs about book burnings and invasions of Latin American countries, there was the self-described "cinematic" "Ringing of Revolution." Ochs even named the actors. "John Wayne plays Lyndon Johnson. And Lyndon Johnson plays God. I play Bobby Dylan. A young Bobby Dylan." There was even one hysterical satire called "Love Me, I'm a Liberal," wherein Ochs exploded every cliché the near Left ever used. "In every political community there are varying shades of political opinion. One of the shadiest of these is the liberals. An outspoken group on many subjects. Ten degrees to the left of center in good times. Ten degrees to the right of center if it effects them personally. Here then is a lesson in safe logic." The album even contained a first: a Phil Ochs love song--"Changes." Amid a context of philosophy, politics and movies, that song lifted the performance to the level of Art.
It was a level he would either approximate, maintain or excel for the next few years. Despite the nearly grotesque overproduction of Pleasures of the Harbor, beneath all the noise was a song called "Crucifixion," which the sailor from the sea described as his greatest achievement. Indeed, it was high art, easily on a par with the best of Dylan's work. It was also ambitious, abstractly symbolizing political assassinations from Jesus Christ to John Kennedy. Alliterative, imagistic, accurate and terrified in tone, it is heard to better effect on the retrospective Chords of Fame in a crisp acoustic version.
And the night comes again to the circle-studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in loneliness they lie
Till the universe explodes as a falling star is raised
The planets are paralyzed, the mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the brilliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity--then he dies!
The combined total sales of the first three albums had been less than 50,000 units. Phil Ochs and his new label--A&M--were optimistic that a change was needed. Pleasures' orchestration was chosen. A&M publicist Derek Taylor sent a copy of the album to President Johnson. Time, Billboard and Variety all conceded that the recording had its positive moments. Broadside, naturally, gutted the recording as a sellout, which was silly. The only thing the singer was selling out was concert tickets. The publicity worked. Phil's first A&M album outsold all three of his Elektra recordings combined.
While on a promotional tour for the album, Ochs became even more active in his opposition to the Vietnam War. One such manifestation was his organization of a "War is Over" celebration in New York's Washington Square Park. The idea behind the rally was that if enough people could come to believe the war was over, it actually would be so. It was also an opportunity to mobilize people through tactics of street theatre, tactics that were also being used to some effect by his friends in the newly formed Yippie community. By now Jerry Rubin and occasional collaborator Abbie Hoffman had learned how to use the media against itself. Aware that photographers had a tendency to focus on anyone with long hair and bare feet, the Yippies used humor and charm on reporters to ensure their media contacts wouldn't find the parades and marches altogether unacceptable. And so the "War is Over" celebration attracted thousands and allowed the Yippies to promote their upcoming gathering in Chicago. Phil did the same at all his public performances, while at the same time campaigning and playing benefits for the candidacy of Eugene McCarthy.
In between charity benefits and political obligations, Phil found a free week in which to make the album Tape From California. Again Larry Marks produced. But this time the lush orchestration was harnessed, when it was used at all. The title track actually had electric instruments and sounded suspiciously like rock and roll, albeit old time rock and roll. Unquestionably the best thing on the album, though, was "When in Rome," a song inspired by film director Elia Kazan's Viva Zapata. Calling the song brilliant, critic Bart Testa wrote "The song does nothing less than symbolically rewrite the entire history of the United States as a chaotic and apocalyptic epic, with Ochs playing all the lead parts in the first person."
Back through the ashes and back through the embers
Back through the roads and ruins I remembered
My hands at my side I sadly surrendered
Do as you please.
The setting for the disaster that Chicago would become seemed nearly preordained. On March 12, 1968, Eugene McCarthy announced his candidacy for President. His platform was "Get Out Now." Four days later, Robert Kennedy announced his own candidacy on an anti-war ticket. Together the two men captured sixty-nine percent of the popular vote in the Democratic primaries. Lyndon Johnson's heir apparent, Hubert Humphrey, achieved a mere two percent. Before the primaries were over, Kennedy was assassinated. Abbie Hoffman suggested the Celebration of Life form a counter-convention where their attendees would all wear VOTE FOR ME buttons and each person would nominate himself. The aims of the Celebration were a blending of the philosophies of the Old and New Left, a gathering of radical organizations, a model of an alternative society, the politics of ecstacy. As Phil Ochs put it, the Yippies "wanted to be able to set out fantasies in the street to communicate their feelings to the public." A number of memorable slogans were coined, mainly as a way of publicizing the upcoming event. Sure that the more outrageous the phrase, the more likely the media would be to repeat it--and hence bestow the gift of free publicity--the Yippies declared they would "Burn Chicago to the ground! Acid for all! Abandon the creeping meatball!"
A few days before the Democratic Convention began, Phil Ochs, Stew Albert and Jerry Rubin found an Illinois farmer willing to sell a large sow for twenty dollars. Since Phil was the only one with any money, the honor of the purchase went to him. The Yippies had found their own candidate. On August 23, 1968, they held a press conference outside Chicago's Civic Center and announced their "Pigasus for President" campaign. The press was duly amused and the police hauled the group in, charging them with disturbing the peace and bringing livestock into the city.
What Phil witnessed over the next few days would forever alter the attitude he brought to the creations of his songs. It would in fact alter the very thought processes that went into writing altogether. His hope and optimism were shot full of holes. His faith in his childhood visions of America were destroyed, leaving him with the gut pains of introspection.
The night of August 24 brought 7,500 demonstrators to town, all of whom needed some place to stay. Many had plans to sleep in Lincoln Park. The police had other ideas. They attacked the Park with tear gas and beat the revelers as they left. The following night, the cops removed their badges to avoid easy detection, following Mayor Richard Daley's admonition: "The policeman isn't there to create disorder. He is there to preserve disorder." The message was understood. The police force attacked the press, local residents, paramedics and protestors with equal fervor. Plenty of network TV cameras filmed the massacre, but the rest of the nation wouldn't see it until days later because of sabotaged transmissions.
Humphrey accepted his party's nomination on August 28, as the day ended and the scent of tear gas wafted up Michigan Avenue to the nominee's suite at the Conrad Hilton. The worst violence was about to begin. And the New York folk singer would be right in the thick of things. The protestors had gathered in Grant Park to hear a series of speeches before marching to the Convention Center. The Chicago Police attempted to contain the group by surrounding the Park. One after another speaker addressed the crowd. In between speeches of men like activist Dave Dellinger, poet Allen Ginsberg, and comedian Dick Gregory, Phil would stand in the back of a pick-up truck and sing for the crowd. Shortly after he sang a rousing version of "I Ain't Marching Anymore," he saw a young boy climb the Park's flag pole and pull down Old Glory. The was all the provocation the police required. They grabbed the kid, beat him with their nightsticks, and tossed him into the back of a squad car while the more agitated onlookers threw rocks at the arresting officers. Press cameras filmed all this for posterity and even broadcast one cop commanding "Make sure you show them throwing rocks!" While Dave Dellinger attempted to lead a nonviolent march to the Convention Center (and was blocked from doing so), others took advantage of an opening in the quarantine and thousands of young people marched toward the Hilton. Enraged at being distracted, the police charged up Michigan Avenue, firing tear gas canisters and clubbing everything in sight. When clubs failed to subdue, they stomped. And when that proved ineffective, they kicked, shoved, punched and beat. The crowd shouted "The whole world is watching!" As Phil Ochs and the others would soon come to realize, most of the whole world didn't care and among those who did, many felt the cops hadn't gone far enough.
Back in Los Angeles, Phil began to question his own approach to politics in America. While the Yippies and other radicals had been creating and recreating their own counterculture, they had alienated the American working class along with Middle America. People who were already involved, Ochs reasoned, didn't need to be converted. Nixon--who would ride to victory above the shattered remains of a splintered Democratic Party--called these frightened Americans 'the Silent Majority.' Ochs knew that if this majority rejected the members of the New Left, they would in turn embrace the solutions of men like Nixon and George Wallace. Frightened by those prospects, the songwriter began to detach himself by degrees from the journalistic approach to his craft. The resulting music spoke with broader, more universal tones. As he's done in "Crucifixion," two or three lines could speak entire chapters while a whole song could fill libraries. One last time, Larry Marks would produce. This time they both got it exactly right.
Rehearsals for Retirement is among the most beautiful and powerful recordings in any musical genre. Backed by a real band, featuring Lincoln Mayorga (whose piano had been the stand out feature of the Pleasures album), Bob Rafkin on bass and guitar, and (probably) Kevin Kelly on drums, Ochs delivered the performance of a lifetime. The cover itself was a photograph of a tombstone Phil had had made for the occasion. The headstone bore an oval picture of Phil standing in front of the flag with a Revolutionary War rifle slung over his shoulder. Beneath the image were the words: Phil Ochs (American). Born: El Paso, Texas 1940; Died: Chicago, Illinois 1968.
The album led off with "Pretty Smart on my Part" which in four crisp verses not only gave an hysterically funny analysis of the reactive behavior of the machismo mentality, it tied the vignettes together with a pair of lines--twenty-four years before Oliver Stone would do the same--asserting that John Kennedy had been assassinated to allow the U.S. military the pleasure of frying the people of Vietnam. Before the impact of that assertion could sink in, Mayorga's piano introduces "The Doll House" with a sound of someone lost and wandering in a surreal environment of someone else's making. The singer himself is lost amid this ambience, a world of soft confusion and amazing pressure. It all unspins with the plateau: "The ballet master/Was beckoning ‘faster'/The ballerina was posed/In the fragile beauty she froze/Let go! Let go! Let go! Let go! Let go!" After that uncommercial interruption, Ochs is back in a narrative that begins and ends in the third person and yet clearly is also the first person narrator in between, a police officer, defensive about his responsibility to "keep the country safe from long hair," hateful of the students and minorities he brutalizes, yet unable to understand what it is that his enemies don't understand about him. Ultimately he can only utter a variation on Descartes: "I kill, therefore I am." The song "William Butler Yeats Visits Lincoln Park and Escapes Unscathed" is possibly more worthy of praise for its inventive title than its descriptions of Convention Week. The same cannot be said for the album's centerpiece.
Smack dab in the middle of Rehearsals for Retirement is "My Life." In the same way The Beatles permanently altered the way they would be understood by their audience with Rubber Soul, Phil Ochs made his breakthrough with this song. The Beatles' album took the public perception of their product from dance music and love songs into a perception of themselves as a highly complex group involved in the process of creating some mighty fine artwork. Ochs' album, and this song in particular, revealed the artist as a culmination of all the characters he'd created, each the victim of its own vulnerabilities but not necessarily hugable and endearing.
The intensity does not lessen with "The Scorpion Departs but Never Returns," explicitly a song about the missing nuclear submarine but implicitly a strong metaphor for the performer's view of his own position in society.
Sounding bell is diving down the water green
Not a trace, not a toothbrush, not a cigarette was seen
Bubble ball is rising from a whisper or a scream
But I'm not screaming, no I'm not screaming
Tell me I'm not screaming.
Perhaps sensing he'd revealed enough for the moment, Ochs took his audience on a brief road trip from Eden to Los Angeles--"city of tomorrow." Then soon enough, we're back, engulfed in the personal drama of "Doesn't Lenny Live Here Anymore," a song that was not only obviously inspired by Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone," but could easily be the long awaited response from the unseen character Dylan had been lecturing. Peppered with spicy lines like "You love your love so much that you'd strangle her gladly" and "You search the books in vain for a better word for lonely," the song climaxes with the narrator coming upon an ex-lover's emotional suicide in process. The galloping horseback rhythms of "Another Age" unite Tom Paine, Jesse James and Robin Hood in search of a stolen election. Then suddenly the horse can run no more and the title track walks the final lap of the course. The end is near. Though still tinged with vibrato, his voice struggles to contain the moan beneath it. With a fade of piano and bass, he is gone.
He lies on his back on the couch in the Canyon house. Awake, he closes his eyes and imagines he is dreaming. He sees his paternal grandfather lip-locked beside the radio, listening to FDR speak reassuringly, while his grandmother fries eggs in the kitchen. His father comes in, wide-eyed and despondent from days without sleep. He sees himself hiding beneath a desk in Miss Jocelyn's classroom during an air raid drill, teasing his younger brother, being softly scolded by his older sister.
A chill comes in through the living room window, so he pulls the remembered images over himself like a patchwork quilt. A match flame of exploration in the dark; a faint smell that never leaves the walls; the taste of buttered popcorn at the movies; mastering scales on the clarinet; his father staring at the newspaper without reading it; shooting himself in the leg while showing off for a friend; a green sign welcoming the world to Columbus, Ohio; James Dean's red jacket; Fidel Castro marching into Havana; a pencil snapping between tight fingers; the strum of a guitar he'd won in a bet; a belt tied in a loop with a buckle supporting his own weight.
The idea of the gold suit came to him after seeing Elvis Presley perform in Las Vegas. The only hope for America, Phil decided, was a revolution, and the only hope for a revolution in America was for Elvis to become Che Guevara. Since the young man from Tupelo was unlikely to make such a conversion, Phil Ochs would have to become Elvis as Che himself. The first step was having Nudie the tailor make him a gold suit. That was the first mistake.
The second mistake was his next album. The songs themselves were fine, but if Larry Marks had buried Ochs' tunes under a sea of swash, new producer Van Dyke Parks placed some very good tunes behind a Spectorian Wall of Sound, with timpani drums and backing choruses that would have been more at home on a Ronettes album than on Phil Ochs' Greatest Hits. That title was his third mistake. Intended sarcastically, the title (and the reverse legend declaring "50 Phil Ochs' fans can't be wrong!") was easily misunderstood as being what it purported to be.
His last mistake was in the way he chose to promote the album. He was scheduled to play Carnegie Hall again. He showed up, but this time he was wearing the gold suit and had his band with him. He might reasonably have expected to be about as welcome as Dylan had been when the latter had gone electric at Newport. As if to guarantee a hostile reaction, his set was weighted with other people's songs. After beginning with a up version of Conway Twitty's "Mona Lisa" and his own obligatory "I Ain't Marching Anymore," he introduced his rendition of Merle Haggard's "Okie From Meskogee." Everyone assumed that gesture was intended as irony, but how could anyone tell for sure? The real trouble, though, came when he performed medleys of hits first by Buddy Holly and later by Elvis. The first set received such a hostile response that the singer gently lectured the crowd. "Let's not be narrow-minded Americans- You can be a bigot against blacks, you can be a bigot against music." After another pair of his own songs--neither from the new album that needed promoting--he did the Elvis medley. Although his voice was heavy with reverb, he still sounded magnificent and just as the crowd was won over, Carnegie Hall cut the power. The audience shouted "We want power! We want power!" Electricity was restored and the concert was completed.
Phil begged A&M's Jerry Moss to release the tapes of the concert as an album. Moss politely declined. Eventually A&M did issue the album--in Canada. It would be more than twenty years before it was available in the United States.
Over the next few years, Phil became more isolated from his friends and spent most of his time drinking, watching TV and traveling to other countries. In South Africa, he was robbed by three men. In the process, his vocal cords were ruptured and he lost his upper register. Convinced he would never sing professionally again, he fell deeper into bouts of manic depression and paranoia.
Does anybody know my name or recognize my face?
I must have come from somewhere but I can't recall the place
They left me at the matinee and left without a trace.
Ticket home--I want a ticket home!
His nephew David found him hanging from his own belt in his sister's bathroom. He was thirty-five years old. I can make no case for martyrdom here. There is nothing noble about suicide, regardless of how that suicide may have been the result of social forces or diminished expectations. Had he lived, I doubt Phil would have made any new songs, and if he had, they probably would not have compared favorably with his best work. But it remains a fact that whenever I read about some ludicrous injustice or monumental hypocrisy, I wonder what Ochs would have said about it, how he would have summed up the situation with an acerbic line or two. And I wonder who the next dead hero will be.
THE BALLAD OF CABLE HOGUE
One seldom associates director Sam Peckinpah with the notion of subtlety, much less subtlety of the light variety, and yet that is precisely what we get in this occasionally beautiful film about the inevitable demise of Luddites and the damnation of invention.
It is not overstating the matter when discussing the attributes of The Ballad of Cable Hogue to argue that with the understated talents of lead Jason Robards and visual stunner Stella Stevens, this film, while something of an artistic failure, is among the most ambitious and heartwarming failures in the western genre. In fact, I like to think that the best aspects of this charming film are Robards/Hogue's internal struggle between revenge and the more Christian aspects of his personality; the cosmic beauty of Stevens as Hildy, a woman whose body itself is every bit as fascinating as the western skies; the blowing away of the lizard in the opening moments (which is the only truly violent scene in the film); and the introduction of the horseless carriages near the end of the film, cars which look so strange when rolling across the cheap and eager landscape. All of those elements are important to the fun of the film, but Peckinpah refused to have his movie be just another period piece that made subtle commentary of the transformation from horses to automobiles. He insured the longevity of his film with cinematic techniques rarely if ever seen in the western film: super-imposing of close-ups over wide screen shots, double split screen images, the use of the human body as landscape, fast motion sequences. These and other techniques were becoming virtually de riguer in motion pictures by 1970. But no one had applied them to the horse opera and certainly not to the morality tale horse opera.
The songs that bookend and punctuate the movie weren't much to begin with and they have aged like spoiled eggs. But that's the worst thing one can say about this film. It may not have inspired anyone--except possibly Sergio Leone, who by this point had already recognized what a terrific talent Jason Robards was from Once Upon a Time in the West. Those it did inspire sat in the movie houses with their mouths agape at the success of the bum prospector and the fetching prostitute with a heart of gold.
If my sniveling retelling of the plot reeks of cliche, these elements weren't cliche at the time of the film's release in 1970. The sexism in the movie is real, be forewarned. It is also puerile, stupid and didn't reinforce bad behavior in anyone, except possibly in the retelling of the only line I will ruin by repeating it here. Cable Hogue demands payment to a preacher who keeps popping up in the movie. The payment is for dinner. Protesting, Hildy the hooker tells Hogue that he never charged her for dinner. Hogue agrees, saying, "That's because you never charged me."
You would have to go back to middle period John Ford work to find a western this appealing to the senses. Art, desert and horses didn't come together in the same movies all that often (Stagecoach, My Darling Clementine, The Searchers, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, and possibly Once Upon a Time in the West, depending on who you ask). Unlike Leone and very much like Ford, Peckinpah made his touches of art--at least in this gem of a failure--light as morning desert air. And that's appropriate. After all, if you can taste the air, it ceases to be refreshing.
It is not overstating the matter when discussing the attributes of The Ballad of Cable Hogue to argue that with the understated talents of lead Jason Robards and visual stunner Stella Stevens, this film, while something of an artistic failure, is among the most ambitious and heartwarming failures in the western genre. In fact, I like to think that the best aspects of this charming film are Robards/Hogue's internal struggle between revenge and the more Christian aspects of his personality; the cosmic beauty of Stevens as Hildy, a woman whose body itself is every bit as fascinating as the western skies; the blowing away of the lizard in the opening moments (which is the only truly violent scene in the film); and the introduction of the horseless carriages near the end of the film, cars which look so strange when rolling across the cheap and eager landscape. All of those elements are important to the fun of the film, but Peckinpah refused to have his movie be just another period piece that made subtle commentary of the transformation from horses to automobiles. He insured the longevity of his film with cinematic techniques rarely if ever seen in the western film: super-imposing of close-ups over wide screen shots, double split screen images, the use of the human body as landscape, fast motion sequences. These and other techniques were becoming virtually de riguer in motion pictures by 1970. But no one had applied them to the horse opera and certainly not to the morality tale horse opera.
The songs that bookend and punctuate the movie weren't much to begin with and they have aged like spoiled eggs. But that's the worst thing one can say about this film. It may not have inspired anyone--except possibly Sergio Leone, who by this point had already recognized what a terrific talent Jason Robards was from Once Upon a Time in the West. Those it did inspire sat in the movie houses with their mouths agape at the success of the bum prospector and the fetching prostitute with a heart of gold.
If my sniveling retelling of the plot reeks of cliche, these elements weren't cliche at the time of the film's release in 1970. The sexism in the movie is real, be forewarned. It is also puerile, stupid and didn't reinforce bad behavior in anyone, except possibly in the retelling of the only line I will ruin by repeating it here. Cable Hogue demands payment to a preacher who keeps popping up in the movie. The payment is for dinner. Protesting, Hildy the hooker tells Hogue that he never charged her for dinner. Hogue agrees, saying, "That's because you never charged me."
You would have to go back to middle period John Ford work to find a western this appealing to the senses. Art, desert and horses didn't come together in the same movies all that often (Stagecoach, My Darling Clementine, The Searchers, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, and possibly Once Upon a Time in the West, depending on who you ask). Unlike Leone and very much like Ford, Peckinpah made his touches of art--at least in this gem of a failure--light as morning desert air. And that's appropriate. After all, if you can taste the air, it ceases to be refreshing.
GIMME SHELTER
The Rolling Stones energized an otherwise druggy and dragging San Francisco night, turning the smell of beer and vomit into a rapturous excuse to forget about the cans of hops that rained down from the sky, courtesy of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club, and instead to ponder the exploding cascade of fuzz guitar machines gunning the bass player's layers of flaming jelly as "Street Fighting Man" closed out the show at the Altamont Raceway in early December 1969.
David and Albert Maysles brought about a dozen cameras (and a young George Lucas) to film the tail end of the Rolling Stones U.S. tour, an event which captured the group shortly after the death of original member Brian Jones as well as at a time when their collective reputations were being plastered as cosmic-demonic.
In a study reported in the February 26, 1998 issue of Nature (Vol. 391, pp. 871-874), researchers at the Weizmann Institute of Science conducted a highly controlled experiment demonstrating how a beam of electrons is affected by the act of being observed. The experiment revealed that the greater the amount of "watching," the greater the observer's influence on what actually takes place.
This effect may have played a role in the Maysles Brothers' film Gimme Shelter. Heaven knows we wouldn't still be talking about the movie after all these years if Meredith Hunter hadn't had a gun and if the "security" of bikers hadn't stabbed him to death right on camera. Sure, Paul Kantner of the Jefferson Airplane got off a great line at the Angels' expense ("I'd like to mention that the Hells Angels just punched our lead singer and knocked him out for a little while. I'd like to thank them for that."), just as did some well-intentioned woman who was collecting money for the defense of the Black Panther Party when she quipped in all seriousness, "After all, they're just Negroes."
Ultimately, the fact of the film being made added to the horror of Hunter being killed, even though his intentions may have been to snuff Jagger right on camera. I'm suggesting, without intentional humor, that the presence of the cameras on the electrons in attendance may have contributed to the events that the cameras captured. To quote from Nature: "Strange as it may sound, interference can only occur when no one is watching. Once an observer begins to watch the particles going through the openings, the picture changes dramatically: if a particle can be seen going through one opening, then it's clear it didn't go through another. In other words, when under observation, electrons are being 'forced' to behave like particles and not like waves. Thus the mere act of observation affects the experimental findings." Werner Heisenberg formalized the notion that observation affects outcome way back in 1927. Who were the Maysles to prove him wrong?
I can't imagine any of this being an issue upon the film's release in 1970. At that time the group was the most exciting thing going, even if the presence of Tina Turner was simply to masturbate the microphone or if the Flying Burrito Brothers were not captured to decent effect or if Grace Slick proved herself to be an emotional fascist once and for all by becoming an apologist for the bikers.
It's still a great film, despite all the baggage it's been forced to carry over the decades (end of the sixties, end of the innocence, end of "American Pie" song, etc). Jagger looks good critiquing himself as he and the band review the early cuts of the film. The whole process prompted me to ask myself if I would have still enjoyed the movie if I didn't know anything about the group or Melvin Belli or any of that. It's sort of a bullshit proposition, I guess, but I'd like to think I would still love it if for no other reason than the importance of the idea of needing a security force to protect the band from the public that they themselves had energized into becoming a threat.
Oh yeah. The music was nice.
David and Albert Maysles brought about a dozen cameras (and a young George Lucas) to film the tail end of the Rolling Stones U.S. tour, an event which captured the group shortly after the death of original member Brian Jones as well as at a time when their collective reputations were being plastered as cosmic-demonic.
In a study reported in the February 26, 1998 issue of Nature (Vol. 391, pp. 871-874), researchers at the Weizmann Institute of Science conducted a highly controlled experiment demonstrating how a beam of electrons is affected by the act of being observed. The experiment revealed that the greater the amount of "watching," the greater the observer's influence on what actually takes place.
This effect may have played a role in the Maysles Brothers' film Gimme Shelter. Heaven knows we wouldn't still be talking about the movie after all these years if Meredith Hunter hadn't had a gun and if the "security" of bikers hadn't stabbed him to death right on camera. Sure, Paul Kantner of the Jefferson Airplane got off a great line at the Angels' expense ("I'd like to mention that the Hells Angels just punched our lead singer and knocked him out for a little while. I'd like to thank them for that."), just as did some well-intentioned woman who was collecting money for the defense of the Black Panther Party when she quipped in all seriousness, "After all, they're just Negroes."
Ultimately, the fact of the film being made added to the horror of Hunter being killed, even though his intentions may have been to snuff Jagger right on camera. I'm suggesting, without intentional humor, that the presence of the cameras on the electrons in attendance may have contributed to the events that the cameras captured. To quote from Nature: "Strange as it may sound, interference can only occur when no one is watching. Once an observer begins to watch the particles going through the openings, the picture changes dramatically: if a particle can be seen going through one opening, then it's clear it didn't go through another. In other words, when under observation, electrons are being 'forced' to behave like particles and not like waves. Thus the mere act of observation affects the experimental findings." Werner Heisenberg formalized the notion that observation affects outcome way back in 1927. Who were the Maysles to prove him wrong?
I can't imagine any of this being an issue upon the film's release in 1970. At that time the group was the most exciting thing going, even if the presence of Tina Turner was simply to masturbate the microphone or if the Flying Burrito Brothers were not captured to decent effect or if Grace Slick proved herself to be an emotional fascist once and for all by becoming an apologist for the bikers.
It's still a great film, despite all the baggage it's been forced to carry over the decades (end of the sixties, end of the innocence, end of "American Pie" song, etc). Jagger looks good critiquing himself as he and the band review the early cuts of the film. The whole process prompted me to ask myself if I would have still enjoyed the movie if I didn't know anything about the group or Melvin Belli or any of that. It's sort of a bullshit proposition, I guess, but I'd like to think I would still love it if for no other reason than the importance of the idea of needing a security force to protect the band from the public that they themselves had energized into becoming a threat.
Oh yeah. The music was nice.
GET CARTER
There are those who will tell you that Get Carter ranks as one of the worst films ever made, by which they mean the 1971 Mike Hodges original rather than the 2000 Sylvester Stallone remake, in which case, if those folks who say it were talking about the latter they might actually have a point. The original, however, is very much something else again and should not be missed, even if the story-line does leave the novice wondering what the bleeding hell is going on.
What is going on is that Michael Caine proves himself to be one of the world's finest actors. If one of the reasons you go to movies is to witness great acting, then you've been disappointed of late. But if that is one of the reasons, Get Carter will win you over immediately. Notice how Caine casts his glance at the telephone when the other party has hung up. Notice how he stares at one woman while seducing another over the phone. Notice the title of the book he's reading on the train reinforces our misperception of his character's real occupation.
It's a brilliant film that several folks thought was immoral and they thought this primarily because of the convincing performance Caine delivers. If Caine had sucked in it the way Stallone did in the remake, no one would have cared that a bad guy appeared to be getting glorified. In other words, forget Alfie and even forget Dressed to Kill. Get Carter instead. You won't like it, but you will love it.
Why will you love it and how can I know? Aside from exploiting the audience's preconceived notions that Jack Carter is a P.I.--which he isn't--the film makes great use of low angle shots from what feels like beneath the floor and even gives a sense of the English town of Newcastle grit that I'm willing to bet didn't make it into the Chamber of Commerce brochures. Oh, yes, and Britt Ekland appears in the film as Anna, Carter's neice. She's quite young and either vulnerable or tough as nails--it's hard to say which.
There's a part of me that hopes this film is your first exposure to Mr. Caine, unlikely as that may be. If it is, everything else you see him in will be measured against this performance, one of his very best, which is to say, one of the best of anyone.
What is going on is that Michael Caine proves himself to be one of the world's finest actors. If one of the reasons you go to movies is to witness great acting, then you've been disappointed of late. But if that is one of the reasons, Get Carter will win you over immediately. Notice how Caine casts his glance at the telephone when the other party has hung up. Notice how he stares at one woman while seducing another over the phone. Notice the title of the book he's reading on the train reinforces our misperception of his character's real occupation.
It's a brilliant film that several folks thought was immoral and they thought this primarily because of the convincing performance Caine delivers. If Caine had sucked in it the way Stallone did in the remake, no one would have cared that a bad guy appeared to be getting glorified. In other words, forget Alfie and even forget Dressed to Kill. Get Carter instead. You won't like it, but you will love it.
Why will you love it and how can I know? Aside from exploiting the audience's preconceived notions that Jack Carter is a P.I.--which he isn't--the film makes great use of low angle shots from what feels like beneath the floor and even gives a sense of the English town of Newcastle grit that I'm willing to bet didn't make it into the Chamber of Commerce brochures. Oh, yes, and Britt Ekland appears in the film as Anna, Carter's neice. She's quite young and either vulnerable or tough as nails--it's hard to say which.
There's a part of me that hopes this film is your first exposure to Mr. Caine, unlikely as that may be. If it is, everything else you see him in will be measured against this performance, one of his very best, which is to say, one of the best of anyone.
LITTLE MURDERS
You may know the name Jules Feiffer from his comics, his books, or his script for the film Carnal Knowledge. It would be appropriate that you know him for these things and so I hope you do, although it is for a play he wrote and the movie it later became that I wish to draw your attention, the name of that being none other than Little Murders, a title you may not find all that captivating but one which I trust you will recall because it refers to one of the great motion pictures of the early 1970s and it is unquestionably one of the prime reasons this blog has been dedicated of late to making mention of this wonderful period of film making.
You can take your Eugene Ionesco, Jean Genet, and even your Samuel Beckett and I will still stand by Jules Feiffer as the preeminent absurdist playwright of our era based on the power of Little Murders, a power which the passage of time has only served to intensify. Released in 1971 and based on the 1967 play of the same name, this movie knocks you down from the first frame and never lets up. From a recurring obscene phone caller to the eloquent brutality of lines delivered by Elliott Gould, Marcia Rudd and Vincent Gardena, from the silent commentary direction of Alan Arkin to the stammering soliloquy of the same Arkin, as well as a thoroughly brain-busting performance by Donald Sutherland as a minister, this movie is absurd for reasons other than for the sake of absurdity, which is usually good enough. The insanity of our own existences has left us unable to perceive their ridiculous essences and so this motion picture would have had to create Jules Feiffer if he hadn't created it first.
Elliott Gould was the only actor from the original Broadway play to make the transition to the film and watching him here shows the wisdom of that decision. He enriches every line--even the ones that seem to be throwaways, like "I'm not a good debater," with amazing strength that draws in the audience's empathetic tendencies, especially when Marcia Rudd tells him she married him so she could change him and mold him.
I realize that certain schizophrenics out there more married to exactness than creativity will take issue with me calling this film absurdist. I don't care. Those who do take such issue are probably accustomed to being wrong. Little Murders is absurdist specifically because it takes the internal logic of human beings and exposes that for the emotionally-based cowardice that it usually is fronting for. I guarantee you this: After watching this movie, you will experience the world in which you most likely vegetate in an entirely different way. About how many of today's films can you say that? Imagine getting changed--or even excited--by Avatar or Sherlock fucking Holmes! That is why all blockbusters and/or star-infested films are de facto bullshit scum slime, including several that I actually enjoy. They do not try to change you, they do not want to change you, and they indeed do not change you. I want to emerge from the cinema a screaming psychopath, a raving beast who for the first time in his stinking miserable pot-piss of a life actually sees things for the way they are. Fuck movies! Any imbecile can make a fucking film. When you make something that alters the way we look at everything else, then, my sons and daughters, you have genuinely accomplished something worth talking about. Jules Feiffer did that with Carnal Knowledge (and despite Mike Nichols). He did it with Little Murders with the help of Alan Arkin. Buy it, download it, steal it. I don't care how you acquire it. Just do it. You can thank me later.
You can take your Eugene Ionesco, Jean Genet, and even your Samuel Beckett and I will still stand by Jules Feiffer as the preeminent absurdist playwright of our era based on the power of Little Murders, a power which the passage of time has only served to intensify. Released in 1971 and based on the 1967 play of the same name, this movie knocks you down from the first frame and never lets up. From a recurring obscene phone caller to the eloquent brutality of lines delivered by Elliott Gould, Marcia Rudd and Vincent Gardena, from the silent commentary direction of Alan Arkin to the stammering soliloquy of the same Arkin, as well as a thoroughly brain-busting performance by Donald Sutherland as a minister, this movie is absurd for reasons other than for the sake of absurdity, which is usually good enough. The insanity of our own existences has left us unable to perceive their ridiculous essences and so this motion picture would have had to create Jules Feiffer if he hadn't created it first.
Elliott Gould was the only actor from the original Broadway play to make the transition to the film and watching him here shows the wisdom of that decision. He enriches every line--even the ones that seem to be throwaways, like "I'm not a good debater," with amazing strength that draws in the audience's empathetic tendencies, especially when Marcia Rudd tells him she married him so she could change him and mold him.
I realize that certain schizophrenics out there more married to exactness than creativity will take issue with me calling this film absurdist. I don't care. Those who do take such issue are probably accustomed to being wrong. Little Murders is absurdist specifically because it takes the internal logic of human beings and exposes that for the emotionally-based cowardice that it usually is fronting for. I guarantee you this: After watching this movie, you will experience the world in which you most likely vegetate in an entirely different way. About how many of today's films can you say that? Imagine getting changed--or even excited--by Avatar or Sherlock fucking Holmes! That is why all blockbusters and/or star-infested films are de facto bullshit scum slime, including several that I actually enjoy. They do not try to change you, they do not want to change you, and they indeed do not change you. I want to emerge from the cinema a screaming psychopath, a raving beast who for the first time in his stinking miserable pot-piss of a life actually sees things for the way they are. Fuck movies! Any imbecile can make a fucking film. When you make something that alters the way we look at everything else, then, my sons and daughters, you have genuinely accomplished something worth talking about. Jules Feiffer did that with Carnal Knowledge (and despite Mike Nichols). He did it with Little Murders with the help of Alan Arkin. Buy it, download it, steal it. I don't care how you acquire it. Just do it. You can thank me later.
BAD COMPANY
When I first saw Robert Benton's Bad Company way back in 1972, I was simultaneously mesmerized and offended. I was mesmerized by the story of a group of young males on the lam from Civil War-era conscription and by the sawed-off shimmer of Jeff Bridges' character Jake. What offended me then was the casual aspect of the barbarism as, for instance, when the group of young men and boys shoots a wild rabbit for food or when they slaver for a taste of poontang. Of course, I was quite young at the time and I suppose I was easily abused. These days the fight scenes and casual criminality wouldn't startle a five-year-old and I'm actually a little embarrassed by the prudish aspects of my own earlier response.
What has not changed is the open-eyed wonder of Bridges' acting, especially as it plays off against his foil, Drew, played by the underrated Barry Brown. One of the things that can draw in an audience to choose to identify with a less-than-heroic screen character is for the actor to reveal the rapid transition of the character's thoughts and feelings. Bridges own youthfulness in this regard is an asset. He doesn't mug for the camera and makes no effort to sweeten the performance or the role. His influence over the character of Drew, our narrator, builds with a clumsy determination until it explodes with the last three words of the film, words that stayed in my memory since that evening forty years earlier.
I have read that some people think Bad Company is a western. This fallacious conclusion is no doubt reached because the story takes place in 1863, because the characters are heading west, and because some of the young actors in the film are familiar from actual westerns of the period. But this motion picture is almost disparaged by that label. It's more of an old-style morality play, with the Civil War as metaphor for Vietnam and the deluge of racism and profanity nothing more than simple victors in a fight for survival.
The movie merits a cultural footnote for serving as the inspiration for the name of the rock group lead by Paul Rodgers.
What has not changed is the open-eyed wonder of Bridges' acting, especially as it plays off against his foil, Drew, played by the underrated Barry Brown. One of the things that can draw in an audience to choose to identify with a less-than-heroic screen character is for the actor to reveal the rapid transition of the character's thoughts and feelings. Bridges own youthfulness in this regard is an asset. He doesn't mug for the camera and makes no effort to sweeten the performance or the role. His influence over the character of Drew, our narrator, builds with a clumsy determination until it explodes with the last three words of the film, words that stayed in my memory since that evening forty years earlier.
I have read that some people think Bad Company is a western. This fallacious conclusion is no doubt reached because the story takes place in 1863, because the characters are heading west, and because some of the young actors in the film are familiar from actual westerns of the period. But this motion picture is almost disparaged by that label. It's more of an old-style morality play, with the Civil War as metaphor for Vietnam and the deluge of racism and profanity nothing more than simple victors in a fight for survival.
The movie merits a cultural footnote for serving as the inspiration for the name of the rock group lead by Paul Rodgers.
THE HARDER THEY COME
Some artistic accomplishments maintain their social relevance long after their moment of recognition fades into the brown mist. Placing a young man from a simple world in the midst of the corrupt urban civilization with which he aspires to achieve parity signals that a filmmaker knows how to apply history to social awareness. Such is the case with the film The Harder They Come.
Here is an excerpt from the Jamaican Observer, October 21, 2007:
"During the 1940s, when black Jamaicans were, for the most part, living in abject poverty and squalid conditions, and the colonial master ruled with an iron fist, gunmen were a rarity. But out of those social conditions rose the first and perhaps the most infamous of the long list of fugitives who have wreaked havoc on the country. His name was Vincent 'Ivanhoe' Martin, popularly known as 'Rhygin', dubbed by the press as 'The Two-Gun Killer'."
The character played and sung by Jimmy Cliff is the 1972 contemporary Ivan Martin, a violent rudeboy who sure can sing and write some great reggae. That term? Nice, isn't it? A rudeboy was a guy or gal in Jamaica, inspired by the furtive thrill of delinquency, influenced by the stylistic accouterments of juke joints, soul music and gangster movies, and seriously hooked on primarily ska or even rock steady, or if it makes it easier for you to grok, reggae music, which evolved from the one and gave birth to the other.
In any event!
So Ivan is now in what we presume to be Kingston, a town where he just can't catch a break. All his possessions are swiped minutes after he gets off the bus, he tries to connect with the preacher's concubine only to have a run-in with the man of God and one of his stooges, and to make matters worse, the Leslie Kong-style record company owner dude records his title-track song and tells him he'll give him twenty dollars for the rights, suggesting that the DJs only play what he tells them to play and without his good word the record will go nowhere, baby. (Actually, this statement is unfair to Kong, who may not have exactly been a sweetheart of a guy but who to this day remains the most recognizable name in the 1970s reggae business and for good reason. The association this film has with Kong, a Chinese Jamaican, is one linked to Jimmy Cliff having been recorded by Kong in the early 1960s and to the fact that the producer in the film is also Chinese Jamaican, although in the film the producer is not Kong but most likely one of his sound men.) After he chops up the stooge and settles with the music man, Ivan turns to dealing grass to get what's his, choosing not to wait for that pie up in the sky.
One of the tragic aspects of The Harder They Come is that Jimmy Cliff as Ivan sings the hell out of the title song, ironic components intact, as well as "Many Rivers to Cross" and "You Can Get It If You Really Want," a fact not lost upon we viewers as we sympathize with his awareness that he is entitled to the fame and fortune he so furiously desires. (The rest of the film soundtrack is also excellent, especially the songs by Toots and the Maytals. They do "Pressure Drop" off and on throughout the film.) But we know he is doomed, as does he, until he turns to violent crime. Frustrated by getting ratted out by his drug buddy Jose, he offs the dude's woman and some cops, starts stealing cars for his getaways, and generally throws around his weight, even taking the step of having some excellent gangster photographs snapped and sent to the editor of a newspaper. Everyone he meets, except his girlfriend and his grandmother, are completely corrupt: the preacher, the newspaper editor, the photographer, the policemen, the entertainment people. In such a world, only an honest man can be an outlaw.
The real Ivanhoe Martin of the 1030s and 40s came to a bloody end, but before he did, he wrote a letter to the Jamaican Times newspaper: "I have an arsenal of 29 shots and I am satisfied that I have made history for the criminal element in Jamaica. Don't think that I am going to kill myself because this will only serve to spoil my great record. But I hope that Detective Scott will train his men some more. I am going to show the police force what is lacking and what I can do."
So many things could have derailed the artistic achievement of this film, but the primary potential for disaster would have been for writer-director Perry Henzell to attempt commentary. On the morality of Ivan's behavior Henzell is thankfully silent. There is an almost documentary quality to the film, although the scenes of Cliff riding his bicycle against the backdrop of the water are too poignant for that style of photography. The only scene where Henzell slips into glorification is one where that tone is inevitable, and that is where Ivan decides to have the photos made of himself posing like John Dillinger, something the original Ivanhoe did and far too tempting an idea for a fine filmmaker to resist. But, yes, otherwise Henzell lets the camera and mics do the talking and we find ourselves horrified at some of Ivan's cruelty, despite sympathizing with his hardships and desires. This type of emotional involvement is exactly what great 1970s film-making was about, or at least it was a big part of what it was about, as people the world over raised their voices to demand answers to the serious questions about the value of morality in a world where legitimate governments murdered their own people, where police forces stood behind broken badges, where mothers and fathers celebrated the destruction of their own children. "When policemen break the law," Billy Jack said, "Then there isn't any law." Tom Laughlin's character was no rudie and he certainly would not have condoned Ivan's behavior. But he would have understood it. By the ending credits of The Harder They Come, we do as well.
Here is an excerpt from the Jamaican Observer, October 21, 2007:
"During the 1940s, when black Jamaicans were, for the most part, living in abject poverty and squalid conditions, and the colonial master ruled with an iron fist, gunmen were a rarity. But out of those social conditions rose the first and perhaps the most infamous of the long list of fugitives who have wreaked havoc on the country. His name was Vincent 'Ivanhoe' Martin, popularly known as 'Rhygin', dubbed by the press as 'The Two-Gun Killer'."
The character played and sung by Jimmy Cliff is the 1972 contemporary Ivan Martin, a violent rudeboy who sure can sing and write some great reggae. That term? Nice, isn't it? A rudeboy was a guy or gal in Jamaica, inspired by the furtive thrill of delinquency, influenced by the stylistic accouterments of juke joints, soul music and gangster movies, and seriously hooked on primarily ska or even rock steady, or if it makes it easier for you to grok, reggae music, which evolved from the one and gave birth to the other.
In any event!
So Ivan is now in what we presume to be Kingston, a town where he just can't catch a break. All his possessions are swiped minutes after he gets off the bus, he tries to connect with the preacher's concubine only to have a run-in with the man of God and one of his stooges, and to make matters worse, the Leslie Kong-style record company owner dude records his title-track song and tells him he'll give him twenty dollars for the rights, suggesting that the DJs only play what he tells them to play and without his good word the record will go nowhere, baby. (Actually, this statement is unfair to Kong, who may not have exactly been a sweetheart of a guy but who to this day remains the most recognizable name in the 1970s reggae business and for good reason. The association this film has with Kong, a Chinese Jamaican, is one linked to Jimmy Cliff having been recorded by Kong in the early 1960s and to the fact that the producer in the film is also Chinese Jamaican, although in the film the producer is not Kong but most likely one of his sound men.) After he chops up the stooge and settles with the music man, Ivan turns to dealing grass to get what's his, choosing not to wait for that pie up in the sky.
One of the tragic aspects of The Harder They Come is that Jimmy Cliff as Ivan sings the hell out of the title song, ironic components intact, as well as "Many Rivers to Cross" and "You Can Get It If You Really Want," a fact not lost upon we viewers as we sympathize with his awareness that he is entitled to the fame and fortune he so furiously desires. (The rest of the film soundtrack is also excellent, especially the songs by Toots and the Maytals. They do "Pressure Drop" off and on throughout the film.) But we know he is doomed, as does he, until he turns to violent crime. Frustrated by getting ratted out by his drug buddy Jose, he offs the dude's woman and some cops, starts stealing cars for his getaways, and generally throws around his weight, even taking the step of having some excellent gangster photographs snapped and sent to the editor of a newspaper. Everyone he meets, except his girlfriend and his grandmother, are completely corrupt: the preacher, the newspaper editor, the photographer, the policemen, the entertainment people. In such a world, only an honest man can be an outlaw.
The real Ivanhoe Martin of the 1030s and 40s came to a bloody end, but before he did, he wrote a letter to the Jamaican Times newspaper: "I have an arsenal of 29 shots and I am satisfied that I have made history for the criminal element in Jamaica. Don't think that I am going to kill myself because this will only serve to spoil my great record. But I hope that Detective Scott will train his men some more. I am going to show the police force what is lacking and what I can do."
So many things could have derailed the artistic achievement of this film, but the primary potential for disaster would have been for writer-director Perry Henzell to attempt commentary. On the morality of Ivan's behavior Henzell is thankfully silent. There is an almost documentary quality to the film, although the scenes of Cliff riding his bicycle against the backdrop of the water are too poignant for that style of photography. The only scene where Henzell slips into glorification is one where that tone is inevitable, and that is where Ivan decides to have the photos made of himself posing like John Dillinger, something the original Ivanhoe did and far too tempting an idea for a fine filmmaker to resist. But, yes, otherwise Henzell lets the camera and mics do the talking and we find ourselves horrified at some of Ivan's cruelty, despite sympathizing with his hardships and desires. This type of emotional involvement is exactly what great 1970s film-making was about, or at least it was a big part of what it was about, as people the world over raised their voices to demand answers to the serious questions about the value of morality in a world where legitimate governments murdered their own people, where police forces stood behind broken badges, where mothers and fathers celebrated the destruction of their own children. "When policemen break the law," Billy Jack said, "Then there isn't any law." Tom Laughlin's character was no rudie and he certainly would not have condoned Ivan's behavior. But he would have understood it. By the ending credits of The Harder They Come, we do as well.
THE FRIENDS OF EDDIE COYLE
From an article by Dr. Alan F. Philips, from the Project of the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation:
On October 24, 1973, when the U.N. sponsored cease fire intended to end the Arab-Israeli war was in force, further fighting stared between Egyptian and Israeli troops in the Sinai desert. U.S. intelligence reports and other sources suggested that the U.S.S.R. was planning to intervene to protect the Egyptians. President Nixon was in the throes of Watergate episode and not available for a conference, so Kissinger and other U.S. officials ordered DEFCON 3 [Defense Readiness Condition (DEFCON 5 is the peacetime state; DEFCON 1 is a maximum war readiness).] . The consequent movements of aircraft and troops were of course observed by Soviet intelligence. The purpose of the alert was not to prepare for war, but to warn the U.S.S.R. not to intervene in the Sinai. However, if the following accident had not been promptly corrected then the Soviet command might have had a more dangerous interpretation. On October 25, while DEFCON 3 was in force, mechanics were repairing one of the Klaxons at Kinchole Air Force Base, Michigan, and accidentally activated the whole base alarm system. B-52 crews rushed to their aircraft and started the engines. The duty officer recognized the alarm was false and recalled the crews before any took off.
That paragraph neatly sums up the feeling of what things were like in 1973 far better than the Andrea Killen book 1973 Nervous Breakdown: Watergate, Warhol, and the Birth of Post-Sixties America, although the latter does have its value, despite the hyperbolic title. The United States, the Soviet Union, Israel, Egypt and Syria were all about to blow one another away, each for different reasons, while just a few months earlier, in June of that year, audiences across America were treated to a Bostonian version of the same thing, albeit, on a microcosmic scale.
Peter Yates directed The Friends of Eddie Coyle, a film in which Robert Mitchum as the title character could have represented, say Israel, while the gun dealing Jackie Brown might have been Syria, with Egypt played with masterful skill by the always dependable and disturbed Peter Boyle, and the role of the ATF cop, naturally, filled by the USA. The way the characters in this movie move Coyle around the table is excessively heartless, calculated and ultimately without purpose, just as in real life. Now I am not suggesting that Yates gave any thought whatsoever to the geopolitical symbolism I'm assigning to his film. After all, the novel upon which the movie was based was published in 1970 and the events described in the opening block quote had not happened at the time of this motion picture's release. What I am suggesting is that events do sometimes breathe together to create what I'll reluctantly call a zeitgeist, one which in both the instance of the film and the Middle East found everyone making deals with their enemies and using one another in the final analysis for no other practical purpose than to assure his destruction.
Eddie Coyle got popped for heisting a delivery truck for Dillon, the Boyle character. Facing the offer of a long prison term for which he has no use, Coyle decides to rat out a gun dealer--and easily the coolest guy in the film--in exchange for a complimentary phone call from the ATF guy. The deal goes down and so does the gun dealer, but the court wants Eddie to turn professional, full-time snitch. Eddie recognizes this is a death sentence, but he gives in anyway, turning over some friends who have been pulling some very clever bank robberies in the area (so clever that they were stolen for use in a subsequent film called Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry). It turns out the ATF guys don't need Eddie for this after all, but the robbers assume Eddie is the snitch and order Dillon to snuff him. Dillon, of course, is already working for the ATF guy and the mob, so we aren't sure what he'll do until he actually does it.
The truth is that the geopolitical implications, the personal betrayals and the long hard drop of the highly sympathetic Coyle would not merit holding this film in the public consciousness were it not for the acting skills of the participants, particularly Mitchum. Lesser talents, such as John Wayne and Sylvester Stallone owe most of their "trademark" moves from Mitchum and the latter in particular should admit the debt. I would even go so far as to say that I'd be willing to bet that the other actors in this movie learned something about understating their deliveries from Bob. In any other context, a line like, "April fool, motherfuckers," would sound ridiculous. Here, it makes you want to cry as you see how each layer of development is just one more layer of Eddie Coyle going down.
Eddie has played the cards he's been dealt. He hasn't played them as well as they could have been played, true, but he has played them as well as he knew how. We learned his story right away when he explains to the gun dealer that some bad guys smashed his hand in a drawer. "The worst part is you know he's gonna kick that drawer shut. You know it's gonna hurt and it hurts you before it even happens." And God damn Sam, the gun dealer actually thinks about this. He reacts with sudden sympathy. The feeling is quick and gets replaced with other emotions, but it's there and we see it.
These people are fascinating, the story holds your attention throughout, somebody even brought Mo Greene in from Vegas to rob the banks, and even the car wrecks are understated so that there isn't one gratuitous instant in the entire film. When you watch The Friends of Eddie Coyle, you may think of one nation or another, you may think of your old neighborhood, or you may simply imagine the tired horror of Eddie's life. The point is that you will be thinking and feeling at the same time. How many movies lately have had that going for them?
On October 24, 1973, when the U.N. sponsored cease fire intended to end the Arab-Israeli war was in force, further fighting stared between Egyptian and Israeli troops in the Sinai desert. U.S. intelligence reports and other sources suggested that the U.S.S.R. was planning to intervene to protect the Egyptians. President Nixon was in the throes of Watergate episode and not available for a conference, so Kissinger and other U.S. officials ordered DEFCON 3 [Defense Readiness Condition (DEFCON 5 is the peacetime state; DEFCON 1 is a maximum war readiness).] . The consequent movements of aircraft and troops were of course observed by Soviet intelligence. The purpose of the alert was not to prepare for war, but to warn the U.S.S.R. not to intervene in the Sinai. However, if the following accident had not been promptly corrected then the Soviet command might have had a more dangerous interpretation. On October 25, while DEFCON 3 was in force, mechanics were repairing one of the Klaxons at Kinchole Air Force Base, Michigan, and accidentally activated the whole base alarm system. B-52 crews rushed to their aircraft and started the engines. The duty officer recognized the alarm was false and recalled the crews before any took off.
That paragraph neatly sums up the feeling of what things were like in 1973 far better than the Andrea Killen book 1973 Nervous Breakdown: Watergate, Warhol, and the Birth of Post-Sixties America, although the latter does have its value, despite the hyperbolic title. The United States, the Soviet Union, Israel, Egypt and Syria were all about to blow one another away, each for different reasons, while just a few months earlier, in June of that year, audiences across America were treated to a Bostonian version of the same thing, albeit, on a microcosmic scale.
Peter Yates directed The Friends of Eddie Coyle, a film in which Robert Mitchum as the title character could have represented, say Israel, while the gun dealing Jackie Brown might have been Syria, with Egypt played with masterful skill by the always dependable and disturbed Peter Boyle, and the role of the ATF cop, naturally, filled by the USA. The way the characters in this movie move Coyle around the table is excessively heartless, calculated and ultimately without purpose, just as in real life. Now I am not suggesting that Yates gave any thought whatsoever to the geopolitical symbolism I'm assigning to his film. After all, the novel upon which the movie was based was published in 1970 and the events described in the opening block quote had not happened at the time of this motion picture's release. What I am suggesting is that events do sometimes breathe together to create what I'll reluctantly call a zeitgeist, one which in both the instance of the film and the Middle East found everyone making deals with their enemies and using one another in the final analysis for no other practical purpose than to assure his destruction.
Eddie Coyle got popped for heisting a delivery truck for Dillon, the Boyle character. Facing the offer of a long prison term for which he has no use, Coyle decides to rat out a gun dealer--and easily the coolest guy in the film--in exchange for a complimentary phone call from the ATF guy. The deal goes down and so does the gun dealer, but the court wants Eddie to turn professional, full-time snitch. Eddie recognizes this is a death sentence, but he gives in anyway, turning over some friends who have been pulling some very clever bank robberies in the area (so clever that they were stolen for use in a subsequent film called Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry). It turns out the ATF guys don't need Eddie for this after all, but the robbers assume Eddie is the snitch and order Dillon to snuff him. Dillon, of course, is already working for the ATF guy and the mob, so we aren't sure what he'll do until he actually does it.
The truth is that the geopolitical implications, the personal betrayals and the long hard drop of the highly sympathetic Coyle would not merit holding this film in the public consciousness were it not for the acting skills of the participants, particularly Mitchum. Lesser talents, such as John Wayne and Sylvester Stallone owe most of their "trademark" moves from Mitchum and the latter in particular should admit the debt. I would even go so far as to say that I'd be willing to bet that the other actors in this movie learned something about understating their deliveries from Bob. In any other context, a line like, "April fool, motherfuckers," would sound ridiculous. Here, it makes you want to cry as you see how each layer of development is just one more layer of Eddie Coyle going down.
Eddie has played the cards he's been dealt. He hasn't played them as well as they could have been played, true, but he has played them as well as he knew how. We learned his story right away when he explains to the gun dealer that some bad guys smashed his hand in a drawer. "The worst part is you know he's gonna kick that drawer shut. You know it's gonna hurt and it hurts you before it even happens." And God damn Sam, the gun dealer actually thinks about this. He reacts with sudden sympathy. The feeling is quick and gets replaced with other emotions, but it's there and we see it.
These people are fascinating, the story holds your attention throughout, somebody even brought Mo Greene in from Vegas to rob the banks, and even the car wrecks are understated so that there isn't one gratuitous instant in the entire film. When you watch The Friends of Eddie Coyle, you may think of one nation or another, you may think of your old neighborhood, or you may simply imagine the tired horror of Eddie's life. The point is that you will be thinking and feeling at the same time. How many movies lately have had that going for them?
