The Bank Dick (1940) / I'm No Angel (1933)

W.C. Fields and Mae West - both might as well live in the Looney Tunes stable. For while they may seem at first pass like one-note performers, walking (in West's case, sauntering) from situation to situation and movie to movie without any change of pitch, they are in fact perfect comic creations, as engineered and perfected as any Foghorn Leghorn or Wile E. Coyote. In this example, the characters don't change; it's the circumstances around them that are forced to catch up.

Watching W.C. Fields in The Bank Dick and Mae West in I'm No Angel, virtually back-to-back, is a lesson in the star-driven aesthetics of 1930's Hollywood. It's tough to cry foul when a movie like Adam Sandler's Chuck and Larry opens up to big box office; the idea of the franchise comedy that exists entirely on the shoulders of an unchanging star-performance is after all the cornerstone of the movie business. Both W.C. Fields and Mae West delivered very little in the way of innovative storytelling or edgy filmmaking; these stars came fully packaged and audiences came to the theatre knowing what to expect. Much of their films are bits from the stage re-invented for the movie camera. Everything seems free and loose on film, but has been rehearsed and perfected through years of stage performance.

Both actors represent hopeless and incorrigible vice: Fields is the perpetual drunk, at his best on the bar stool and literally looking for any opportunity to catch up with a snoot of liquor; West, on the other hand, is sex personified. Every line out of her mouth (even if the words are harmless) is a come-on, dripping double-entendre and practically daring the men on-screen to meet the challenge. In fact, West's lusty dialogue seems so cougar-ish that I had to check IMDB to be sure - yes indeed, Mae West was already 40-years-old when she made I'm No Angel, only her third Hollywood film. No young, vamp-ish starlet West exists on celluloid. She hit Hollywood fully-cougared up.

The Bank Dick and I'm No Angel both coast on a remarkable amount of charm, light on their feet at every turn. Plots are secondary; I was reminded of the free-form narrative of The Simpsons by the manner in which the movies drift from plot point to plot point, the only real propellant being the comedy that ties everything together. In The Bank Dick, W.C. Fields plays Egbert Sousé ("accent grave" on the "e" as he reminds everyone), a man always in search of the easiest route to the bar stool. Pushed by his wife and mother-in-law into finding a job, he stumbles through a bank robbery, foils the would-be thieves and lucks his way into the position of Bank Watchman. Any W.C. Fields synopsis could be completed with hijinks ensue.


I'm No Angel might be the more plot-driven of the two (if such a distinction is possible): Mae West's Tira finds herself in a tough situation after her would-be fiancee assaults a new suitor. Desperate for money and eager to distance herself from the crime, she agrees to be a lion tamer in a circus where she finds fame and more willing rich suitors than she's seen before in her life. In West's case, the film is almost solely about flirting and sexually-charged banter. She approaches the men in the film like W.C. Fields approaches his drinks: the more the better and who has time to take count.

Both films are at their best when their stars are given the room to do what they do best. In the case of The Bank Dick, there is a clear shift of gears whenever W.C. Fields finds himself back at The Black Pussy, his bar of choice. On the bar-stool, any degree of performance is invisible. What you see is what you get and the dialogue from Fields over an open bottle is the best the movie has to offer: "Take off your hat in the presence of a gentleman!" For West, her charms and mannerisms work best when there's a man in the room falling over himself to impress her. While I have to confess that it's difficult to see her appeal now (she is so campy in her come-ons as to be ridiculous), the movie settles into a very comfortable groove whenever she is given the runway she needs to flirt mercilessly.


While it may be enough to recommend either The Bank Dick or I'm No Angel just for the chance to watch Fields and West in top form, it's the dialogue of the films that makes them pure candy. The sharp and delicious dialogue of a 1930's movie is an art unto itself (something lovingly kept alive by the Coen Brothers in the 21st Century).

To make the case, a few gems from W.C. Fields:

"Don't be a luddy-duddy! Don't be a mooncalf! Don't be a jabbernowl! You're not those, are you?"

"The jockey was a very insulting fellow. He referred to my proboscis as an adscititious excrescence. I had to tweak his nose."

"My uncle, a balloon ascensionist, Effingham Hoofnagle, took a chance. He was three miles and a half up in the air. He jumped out of the basket of the balloon and took a chance of alighting on a load of hay...Had he been a younger man, he probably would have made it. That's the point. Don't wait too long in life."

In Mae West's case, it's the rich and easy talk of the period: lots of "dames" and "honeys" are thrown about, all delivered with the dry, corner-of-the-mouth manner for which West is famous. [Someone in the film even goes so far as to reference getting the "high-hat", an expression for a screw-job that I naively believed to be an invention of the Coen Brothers' Miller's Crossing.]

In the manner of all great cartoon creations, I can't imagine that there is a ton of difference from one W.C. Fields or Mae West film to another, though I am happy to see that there are still a handful more movies from each to come in this Monday Project. Nevertheless, it's clear why they were both such monumental stars in their respective periods: there's something to be said about watching stars of this type doing what they do best. The trick is that it doesn't look like they are working at all.

[Special Note: I can't tell you how happy I am that Blogger's Spellcheck functionality highlighted both luddy-duddy and jabbernowl as possible spelling mistakes.]

Stop Making Sense (1984)

It starts in complete silence, which is already an unusual beginning for a concert movie. The silence lasts as long as the main titles, until a pair of white canvas sneakers walks across a stage. The sneakers set down a portable radio (which I suppose, by 1984 terminology, would be a ghetto blaster); the camera pans up and we see that the man in the shoes is also carrying an acoustic guitar which he begins to attack madly. And then David Byrne begins to sing.

I am not a music writer, so I won't pretend to offer anything new writing about the Talking Heads. But as a long time fan of the band, and someone who has never seen the band live (or in even in performance, outside of a handful of music videos), it's a very unique and special experience to watch David Byrne open Stop Making Sense with Psycho Killer. Fitful, spastic, aggravated, on the virge of painful, here is a man who performs less like a rock star and more like the puppet on the end of a string. His movements are like a computer's idea of a rock and roll performance except the instructions are misunderstood. He doesn't blink. His head darts and twists like a bird. He hardly seems like a human being.

I debated whether a concert film like Stop Making Sense had any place on the Monday list and ultimately included it (as I will Scorsese's The Last Waltz and the Maysles Brothers' Gimme Shelter). This is, one might argue, a film more than a rock concert. At the very least, it's a documentary more than a music video. While there is no narrative in the film, it is constructed with as much precision. Byrne's solo performance leads to a second song (the transcendant Heaven) where he is joined by the bass player; the drummer is wheeled onto the stage for the third song and in the tunes that follow, the entire band comes together as the stage comes to life. By the time Burning Down the House explodes from the speakers, the experience has blossomed and what began as a short, caustic performance now fills the screen and (more importantly) the speakers.

What makes Stop Making Sense so exciting is this: Talking Heads the band has long ago disbanded, and it is unlikely that anyone will ever see them play live again. If some kind of Police-esque reunion happens, it is certain that they will never appear quite like this again. Stop Making Sense is one of those most special kinds of documents, one that captures on film the sensation of a pop band at the height of its powers. Time can never take the shine off David Byrne's epileptic seizures during Once In a Lifetime; they are forever preserved on celluloid and now, on DVD. One wishes that all the great super-groups could have this kind of document to capture evidence of their magic when they were at the top of the heap. Where is Gowan's 1985 concert film?

Stop Making Sense is quite honestly a beautiful thing. Freakin' DVD should come with a concert t-shirt...

The Fountain (2006)

I wouldn't call it an complete turn-around, but in the 10 months since my first viewing of Darren Aronofsky's The Fountain, the movie has climbed heartily from a 3-star to a 5-star experience. Nothing about the movie has changed, but I might as well have seen two different films.

The first experience was at the Toronto Film Festival last September where my expectations for the film were realistic, yet still I found myself a little disappointed that I couldn't break through the surface of the movie. Let's face it. It's an obtuse piece of business and even with the most open and willing viewer, it's a hard nut to crack. At first. I left the theatre with the firm understanding that this was one movie that was certainly not a failure; but instead was a movie I would have to visit again. I knew there was a lot to love if I could get my head into the structure.

Second experience, last night, was revelatory. This time I got past the thick skin and saw the warm, beating heart underneath. And as you can imagine, I'm left scratching my head as to how I could have missed the core of this emotional, naked film the first time around. Beneath the empyrean visuals and the heart-ripping performances, this is a very small movie about two people, one doing everything he can to hold onto the other. In fact, the great irony of The Fountain is that it is the most intimate and direct story imaginable surrounded by such complexity and majesty, that it's tough to see it simply for what it is. Very much the same as the Xibalba nebula at the centre of the film.

I find myself in a strange position with this movie that I completely flipped for. It's a rarity, but I can't honestly bring myself to write much about it. While I might love to fill the blog with 5,000 words on The Fountain, it's the sort of movie that resists deep analysis because everything that needs to be said about it is right there on the screen. Like the best kind of song or poem, it entirely describes itself better than any appreciative fan could. I don't want to try and put some lame explanation to that.

I'd like to make mention of two things though, which I believe are as important as any piece of the film: the first is the absolutely remarkable performance of Hugh Jackman who finds, in this movie, as perfect a performance as I believe is possible. The complexity of the role and the tone changes throughout the film must have seemed a substantial challenge, but Jackman hits the notes like a virtuoso. It's really breathtaking stuff and proves that he is not an actor to be underestimated.

The other element I want to call out is Clint Mansell's unapproachable score. This soundtrack quickly became a favourite after the Toronto screening last year, but in time and now with the benefit of seeing the movie again, I think it's an unbelievably formidable piece of work: easily the best score of 2006 and certainly one of the highlights in my music library. I could watch this movie again and again just for the music; the fact that the visuals make my head explode is just the gravy.

If it weren't for the fact that it was a weeknight, I would have watched The Fountain twice last night, back to back. As it is, I am making time to watch it again this weekend, something I rarely do (the Monday Project is all about moving forward.) I expect it will be one that I see many, many times in the years to come and I would predict that history is going to be very kind to this movie. 30 years from now, The Fountain will be the sort of movie worth finding and revisiting, one of only a handful of 2006 movies that will be up to the challenge. (Children of Men and Pan's Labyrinth will also be on that list.)

This is the best kind of movie experience imaginable.

Far From Heaven (2002)

I'm genuinely disappointed that Todd Haynes' Far From Heaven left me underwhelmed. For a picture bursting with with this much colour, texture, performance and some truly breathtaking music, it's a bit of disconnect that I simply couldn't get involved with the story. Sort of an arthouse dilemna, I suppose.

To be honest, I'm not entirely surprised by my reaction. I initially avoided Far From Heaven in theatres even when critics were falling over themselves to call it one of the best films of the year. A sensation at the Toronto Festival. Multiple Academy Award nominations. All of this failed to light me up, in part because I saw only a Julianne Moore housewife arthouse film and couldn't see any spark to the equation. Alas, the time finally came to see it this week and as ever, I threw my expectations out the window and looked for the promise of an original, great, engaging little number.

From the opening minutes of the film, I was very optimistic. The rich autumn colours and vivid scenery were one thing, but that Elmer Bernstein score? Sweet Jesus, that's another. There aren't a lot of film soundtracks that fill the frame quite as completely as this one and the late Elmer Bernstein is a legend. Everything in those opening minutes reminded me of Scorsese's Age of Innocence, an underappreciated masterpiece in its own right: Bernstein's palatial score, the florid photography, sumptuous period detail. Nothing would have please me more if the movie could have delivered this promise.

Julianne Moore is, of course, completely excellent in the film, as are Dennis Quaid and Dennis Haysbert in their respective roles. Moore in particular hits all of the right notes as the 1950's archetypal wife never overplaying the sing-song breathiness and selling lines like "Jeepers!" with real dexterity (not easy to do). She looks the part and seems to float through the rituals of the suburban lifestyle like a Tupperware Queen.

Though the plot mostly failed to light me up, the scenes shared by Moore and Haysbert were an exception. These sequences were warm and convincing as two people who might as well be from different planets share conversation and discover the things they have in common. It's at this point in the movie that Far From Heaven feels more like a humanistic drama about two people finding connection than an arthouse exercise.

Really? I should have loved this movie. On paper, it's tough to argue that there is anything missing from the movie. But yet, there is. Cool. Empty. Precious. This is the sort of film that looks and feels absolutely great but which provides empty arthouse calories. I could see the tension on-screen, feel the repression and anxiety in the story, see the anguish throughout the melodrama...yet somehow I failed to really care.

Heathers (1989)

"I loved my dead gay son."

Ah, here's a movie that isn't on the Monday Project movie list, but which surprised me enough to warrant a mention. I've seen Heathers a whole handful of times but probably haven't sat down to watch it in close to 15 years. Funny. In the early-90's, it was regarded as something of an it movie in large part because of Winona Ryder's rising star but just as much because of the derisive subject matter. Now it's relegated to a Wal-Mart dump bin for just $5. (Which is where I picked it up, value shoppers!)

Now I'm going to embarrass myself by labelling it a sort of near-classic. Time has been very, very good to Heathers. Sweet Jesus, the high hair and glam fashions are still shocking and the black subject matter feels like it was past its exiry date by 1991; however the movie as a piece of pulp entertainment has held up remarkably well. There's something special built into the movie that makes a time-trip backwards worth the 103 minutes and $5.

Here's one reason why.

No surprise to anyone who grew up in the 80's that one of premier teen genres in theatres was the high school comedy. John Hughes mastered the art of geek chic and elevated it to the upper stratosphere with his comedies, all of which were sharp and sweet-hearted things revolving around the underdog class (who couldn't identify?) High school sucked, but you were in it for your friends and the girls and the parties. The key was to stick together. Not such a bad thing really. Heathers, on the other hand, represents the dark side to this kind of teen comedy: it is in every way the anti-Hughes flick. With its black, black heart and its contempt for virtually everyone in the high school universe, Heathers is the cartoon satire that forever loathes high school. There is nothing here worth sentimentalizing. As much as the John Hughes films may be comfort food to the 80's class, Heathers is the high school experience you don't want to remember; there's no friends worth counting on, there's no loyalty; there's only sarcasm and ugliness. I simply didn't remember how cynical and mean-spirited this movie was.

More shocking now is to watch Heathers in a post-Columbine world and to consider that this is a movie that would never, and could never get made today. With teen violence forever dominating newspaper headlines, it seems almost blissfully inflammatory to watch Christian Slater's JD character draw a gun and fire blank rounds at classmates in a high school cafeteria. Or to watch the character hatch a bomb plot that will kill everyone in the school: um...whoa. A movie with this subject matter today would be regarded as irresponsible and certainly disrespectful; however it's easy to forget that just 20 years ago, violence like this could still be taken lightly and people could be entertained by cartoon high school psycho-killers. Ah, the good ol' days.

Still, it's a shame that the movie doesn't hold it together long enough to be a geniune classic. It's true that the movie falls apart in the last half as the emphasis shifts from snarky high school games to murder-mayhem and suicide politics. In particular, that final plot by JD to blow up the school seems like the climax of a script that got out of hand; after all, this isn't really what makes Heathers work. The violence and murder is an intriguing artifact, but what makes Heathers worth the revisit is the spiteful attitude and corrosive banter. It's a shame; I still lose interest in the movie at about the 2/3 mark.

Footnote: I was surprised and shocked to read on IMDB that the lead Heather, Kim Walker, died in 2001 of a brain tumour. Ironic given one of her more famous lines in the movie ("Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?") and very sad indeed.

Key Largo (1948)

It is recommended that you watch Key Largo late at night, with the lights turned off and a violent thunderstorm raging outside. This was my experience. When real rain mixes with the hurricane raging outside of John Huston's Key Largo hotel, the effect is a sort of movie magic that even Dolby Digital can't improve. In fact, there is no need for surround-sound when the house rumbles with real thunder and the characters on-screen shutter.

Key Largo is one of those 1940's pot-boilers that twists so tightly around its characters that you can practically see the sweat squeezed from them. Humphrey Bogart plays a military hero visiting a Key Largo hotel to make a connection with the family of a buddy lost in the war; already waiting at the hotel is Edward G. Robinson and a trio of goons who have taken the hotel hostage as they wait for transport to Cuba. The goons have great screen-goon names like Toots and Curly, with the colourful noir personalitites to match. When a hurricane rolls in, the key players are trapped in the hotel, each waiting for the opportunity to take the power position, exchanging rich 40's dialogue as the spotlight shifts from person to person. Staggering to think that this movie was whipped off by John Huston in the same year as Treasure of the Sierra Madre (an unapproachable classic); what did he do in his downtime?

The highlight of Key Largo is unquestionably the pairing of Bogart and Robinson, each providing the other with a worthy adversary to connive and grind against. In fact, if you consider this to be a Bogart vehicle, the role of Johnny Rocco, the "heavy", was a crucial casting decision: who has enough presence to control the hotel at times by sheer will of personality and also has enough star power to match Bogart on the marquee? Edward G. Robinson, with a face built sour and incomplete without a cigar, is ideal. This is the first Robinson film I've seen, so surely it must say something about his screen magnitude that I was delighted when he showed up, late in the first act, as the infamous Rocco.

This is the last of the Bogart-Bacall movies on my list and I've devoured them all equally. However, Bacall takes a background role in this film, playing the female lead on paper, but often spending a lot of time downscreen from Claire Trevor, Robinson's broken-down moll-girlfriend. It's Trevor who steals a lot of the picture, as the faded starlet who has hitched herself, disastrously, to Johnny Rocco's corrupt inner circle. There is a scene late in the picture when Rocco forces her to sing for what she wants most and then ridicules her for doing so. In many ways, Bogart's response to this humiliation is the heart of the picture.

Key Largo is one of the great hidden gems on the Monday Project list. It was on the list from the very beginning, stemming from a bit of a man-crush on Bogart and Huston, but it doesn't seem to carry the "Hollywood classic" pedigree of its contemporaries (Maltese Falcon, Sierra Madre, Casablanca, To Have and Have Not). As a result, it was no great priority, but instead was a surprising late-night discovery on a cable TV station. Even with commercial interruptions (a rarity in the Monday Project), it's the sort of perfect movie-movie that seems to be transmitted from a Hollywood long gone: immediately engrossing and ultimately unforgettable.

Nashville (1975)

To say that Nashville sprawls is like observing that Run Lola Run moves fast. With two dozen principle roles and a story that stretches 160 minutes without ever landing on anything you might consider a "plot", Nashville is a bit like people-watching at the mall if orchestrated by a real master. Never boring, never repetitive, never better.

It's a big, big, big movie.

Nashville was recently awarded the #59 position on the AFI's list of 100 American Films. Even so, I think it's safe to say that Nashville is likely one of the most misunderstood and least celebrated films on the list outside of hard-core cinephiles. In fact, I have no problem confessing that I didn't like the movie at all when I first saw it. It was a messy film; I lost track of what was going on. I couldn't get my head around why any of the characters were important or why this experience was one worth having. I felt like this was one of those film-school snob-pieces that I was supposed to nod and acknowledge as a masterpiece, all the while without mentioning that I'd never ever put it on just to watch it. Precious arthouse crap.

Ah! How things change. Here then is what I get out of the film now, 15 years after my first viewing:

The soundtrack. I lost my mind for Once in a blog post below, and in that post, I mentioned how special it was that the songs were given the space necessary to play out in their entirety. Nashville is built with the same sort of high ceilings: stage performances play out in real time with plenty of attention paid to the singers working their craft. And the music is 100% wonderful. But even as I get excited about the soundtrack here, I'm not talking about just the songs. Altman is a master of mixing dialogue, smashing conversations together and pulling out precisely the information that he wants to share. Nashville is his masterwork in this regard; I mentioned the run-time and character-count above. What follows from this is a giant stew of dialogue, much of which seems random and inconsequential but which together drafts a landscape that no single line of narrative could describe. In short, you get washed in what's happening, surrounded by the mess and the information...well, it sort of soaks in. And all of this great effect is done with the mixing board.

The cast. Sweet Jesus, what is astonishing about the cast of Nashville is how many of them have disappeared now into movie trivia. For example, it's a crime that Henry Gibson isn't one of the more name-recognized charactor-actors of the 80's and 90's. He should have had a career like William Macy following this performance, providing support and colour in all manner of big pictures. (He was granted a cameo in Magnolia, as a nod to Nashville.) Ditto for Ronee Blakley who puts every single contestant of American Idol to shame with her virtuous stage performances, demonstrating deep talent even while going through the motions of an on-stage break-down. Other more-famous actors hit career highlights in the film: Ned Beatty and Lily Tomlin in particular. The film also saw the introduction of Scott Glenn (a virtually silent role) and Jeff Goldblum (already a fully-formed eccentric!)

The all-important Arthouse Crap. This film took up a great deal of time in film school so please forgive me if I don't want to delve too deeply into Altman's themes and techniques: writing about this stuff still feels a bit like homework. Nevertheless, in the 15 years since I first watched Nashville, I've grown to appreciate it enormously in part because my taste in movies has thickened, but also because it is the sort of film that rewards multiples viewings. There's a rich amount of information to be found in Nashville, and there are a lot of well-thought term papers to be handed in about Altman's method of delivering the details. Produced when it was (post-Watergate, pre-America's Bicentennial), Nashville is a content-rich film, overflowing with philosophy and messaging. The controlled-chaotic structure supports this richness by providing a wide and large canvas where plenty of compelling details can nest in the corners of the frame.

The Big Picture. What is most fascinating about Nashville and the one element that makes it truly unique is how intricately it is woven together. It is very difficult to isolate a single strand (like a character or plot point) and call it the reason that the movie works. Like a big piece of music, it works because of the interlaced construction of its parts. And like a big piece of music, once you've heard it a couple of times and understand where it's heading and where the beats lie, it's tough not to kick back and enjoy the hell out of the experience flooding past.

I should point out that I watched A Prairie Home Companion a few months ago and was a little surprised by how much I loved it. It shares an awful lot in common with Nashville, with its diverse cast of performers, playful roster of songs and it's structure-less sense of structure. It's in A Prairie Home Companion that Altman is putting a lot of his tricks and signatures to bed. To be honest, I don't think I would have thought much of the film without Nashville under my belt. There are a lot of other movies for which I could say the same. I now consider Nashville a crucial part of my movie-going and it's a classic I'll be revisiting often (more often than some on this list).

(Now then...I probably need to watch Short Cuts again too...)

The Last Temptation of Christ (1988)

Not much to say on this one except to note that it completely blew my lid. No great love letter here, or hyperbole to follow. Scorsese's Last Temptation of Christ is simply much bigger, more textured, more artful and much more devastating than I ever imagined it would be.

I can't explain why, but I expected the film to be a bit of work to watch. Perhaps it was the epic length or religious subject matter or the sense that it was never entirely mainstream; I steeled myself for a hard-go. The film is nothing of the sort. Temptation took off almost immediately and absolutely overwhelmed me. At present, it's stuck like a broken record in my mind, the way only the best films can get stuck.

Everyone involved in this film has gone up a notch or two in my estimation. Scorsese was already strong (this is my seventh Scorsese film in the last year and isn't even regarded as his best work), but Willem Dafoe and Harvey Keitel were astonishing (to be clear, I didn't think either of these actors could surprise me anymore; I've seen both in dozens of films, but their performances here showed some new things. Dafoe in particular seemed to be a different man than virtually every other role I've seen.)

However, the true knock-out is how emotional the film is. To be frank, I know the Christ story inside out and expected a sort of pantomime narrative that hit the bases and delivered the important play-by-play. The great surprise is that Temptation accomplishes so much more! Moments that I know from "The Big Story" and have seen performed in other contexts suddenly seemed much more real and consequential and...well, human. In particular, the scenes in Gethsemane and especially the interaction between Jesus and Judas - if the object of Temptation was to humanize Christ and demonstrate his fallibility - drove the point home better than imagined. In any other context and without the significant Biblical baggage, these sequences would have been great, great drama, real movie meat. But wrapped in the wider story, they have become something even more astonishing.

Being There (1979)

The irony is this: Chance the Gardener is the least flashy and most interesting character in Peter Sellers' filmography. Unlike his various roles in Strangelove, Pink Panther or The Party for which he is more famous, the performance of Chance in Being There is extraordinary for everything that is held in reserve. The character is played so deeply on the inside and with such particular control that this is surely the actorly role that all of the Williams, Carreys and Ferrells of the comedy world are chasing.

I understand that this role is largely regarded as Peter Sellers' swan song, not necessarily his actual final movie, but the last one of any mention. The film was a passion-project for Sellers, one that he pursued for years, before finally landing the part and for anyone expecting a traditional Sellers' comedy, the final product is surprising. After all, here is a comedy that hinges on very, very dry satire. Laughs are to be found, definitely, but Being There never reaches for the easy joke.

I know that I can't be the first one to notice the many similarities between Being There and Forrest Gump; both movies follow the unlikely ascension of a simple-minded character who succeeds and navigates an unlikely (and often preposterous) course through coincidence and misunderstanding. In the case of Gump, the story is driven by Forrest's eccentricities: his sometimes irrational instinct to "run", his "mama"-isms and his naive loyalties to Lieutenant Dan and Jenny. To be honest, I've always been a little put off by Tom Hanks' performance in Gump which, while sophisticated, also seemed to me to be a fully graduated SNL-type performance. By that, I mean it's a satirical character who turns on a few simple repetitive expressions and mannerisms; something only a few polishes away from The Church Lady or even Sandler's Waterboy. Now that I've seen it, I'm prepared to hold up Seller's Chance as the real deal. There is not an easy trait or trick to be found in this performance.

What sets Being There even further from Forrest Gump, and in my mind creates a more satisfying story, is that Chance is completely oblivious to how he is perceived by other people. He does not understand that he is different, anymore than he understands that people are seeing him for something he is not. In fact, what's remarkable is that he becomes a different character to everyone he meets. Like a mirror, he reflects exactly what is expected of him through simple, rehearsed expressions like "I understand" and "I know just what you mean." In this way, he convincingly becomes a financial expert, a presidential aide and an exciting talk-show guest, all without altering a single beat of his performance. If I can simplify further, Sellers' plays much of the film entirely blank and as a result, blank becomes thoughtful, mysterious, wise, considered and modest. [Playing blank might not sound like much of a stretch for a performer, but there are also moments when Chance sincerely comes to life - a light goes on when he truly understands what is being asked, such as when the topic turns to gardening or television.]

Being There is a strange, strange little film. Hal Ashby's direction is slow and considered, as though walking with the same pace as Chance's deliberate dialogue; however I should caution that it is never the least bit boring. It's a small movie, but one worth visiting to see a master working with unbelievable dexterity and experience through one of the final (and most intricate) performances of his career.

Diner (1982)

Barry Levinson's Diner is perhaps best described as the twenty-something reflection of Stand By Me, a film that sentimentalizes the close friendships we have in early-adulthood and that moment of change when real life (responsibility) begins to encroach. Think St. Elmo's Fire without the mullets and the David Foster.

Much like Stand By Me, the building blocks of the film are the casual conversations and the daily bullshitting that can only really happen within a tight circle of buddies. The group congregates at the diner for coffee but it's the chit-chat that keep them coming back, whether laying wagers on how far a date will go or debating the merits of Sinatra vs Johnny Mathis (Mickey Rourke settles the conversation simply: "Presley."), it's the chatter and the constant one-upping that makes the group seem so much like any clique of friends you knew in high school.

The cast is timeless; all went on to greater success in the 80's and early-90's in both movies and sitcoms, but most are now forgotten or sidelined to supporting roles: Rourke, Paul Reiser, Steve Guttenberg (who is a completely different actor in this movie; easy now to see why he was the "Golden Boy" of the 80's comedies for a brief spell), Daniel Stern, the guy from Wings. In fact, only Kevin Bacon stands apart as the still A-listing movie star of the group. [Bacon, in particular, is worth highlighting, playing the most dangerous and childish element in the group - when we first meet him, he's smashing window for "fun". i should point out that he's an adult at this point.] Watching this group of actors, seeing each of them own their piece of this movie so clearly that movie-stars were made out of each and every one of them, is a fascinating piece of movie history. (The Outsiders, with a baby-faced ensemble that included Tom Cruise, Patrick Swayze, Matt Dillon, Rob Lowe, Emilio Estevez and Ralph Macchio, is the same sort of artifact.)

The film is autobiographical, which in part explains the sweet serving of nostalgia that colours everything; however, it also informs the movie's attention to detail. Here is a film that takes place at a very particular time (New Year's, 1959) and place (Baltimore) in such a way that the storyteller must certainly have been there. Watching Levinson's film, there is no question that this is not a Hollywood picture pitched and calculated to conform to a particular genre; this is one writer/director working out some very personal recollections and paying homage to a group of friends that were tight. It's curious to consider what facts of the film are created for the film and which might have actually happened.

I should also be clear: the movie is a lot of fun. Like a great nostalgia picture, the viewer doesn't need to share the particular memories (or even have been alive in 1959!) to share the warmth that these sorts of memories provide. Watching Diner now, it's easy to imagine that these might have been your friends or your local "hang-out". The details have been changed, but the fundamentals are the same. This is why the movie endures.

[Special mention: one moment that stands out in particular because it seemed so sincere and affectionate: Tim Daly returns home as a surprise for Steve Guttenberg's character. In doing so, he arrives at Guttenberg's house and wakes him from a nap by plugging his nose - it's the look on Guttenberg's face as he wakes up and recognizes his old friend that is touching: such delight to see his old buddy. It informs everything else that happens in the film.]

Once (2007)

Here's a word that I don't get to throw out very often to describe a movie: perfect. Because Once is as about as close to perfect as a movie gets; perfectly cast, perfectly performed, perfectly written and punctuated with the perfect soundtrack. A marvel.

The Monday Project is primarily about hunting through time-proven, classic movies, all in an effort to find those elusive new favourites. That's why there aren't a lot of rotten egg reviews to be found below. The good thing about the project is that I'm not spending a lot of time on movies that don't endure. Once is one of those rarest of modern films that already stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the classic movies on my list. It's unlikely to ever be big enough or popular enough or famous enough to show up on a Classic Movie list, but it's the kind of movie that endures. I have no doubt it will be a favourite 10 years from now. It's already a favourite and it's been about 8 hours.

Ironically enough, the thing that gives Once this degree of power is that it's so very slight. So very un-powerful in its construction. Unlike a Hollywood blockbuster which must pass by committee through rewrites and production meetings, Once seems to be a film that simply is. Everything flows naturally from the characters and the music; an effortless character study that fills the heart even while it devastates you with its music. At times, it's like an overheard conversation or a private moment between two people. These are the sorts of intangibles that virtually never show up on celluloid, except in the absolute finest of movies.

There is a moment early in the film when you can feel it happening, that sense that you are setting yourself up to have your heart ripped out: the Guy in the picture (who goes unnamed) and the Girl sit down together in a music store and begin to learn a song together at a piano. He walks her through the chords, explaining the verses and chorus as she nods, fingers the piano and learns the changes. It's a magical connection, and piece by piece, as she learns the song, one gets the sense that there is more going on than just two people learning to play a song together. I can guarantee that there is no one in the theatre who doesn't feel it. And when they play? The movie lifts off the ground.

The performances in the picture are extremely rare. The two leads (it's almost a two-person movie) seem less like actors and more like a couple of real strangers who have wandered in front of the camera. In fact, as I understand it, the female lead had never been in a movie before Once and is not a professional actress. In some ways, that's not surprising as her performance is so bare and honest that it seems unrehearsed. She is a remarkable character: direct, blunt, charming and curious. What's most surprising is how quickly this information comes across. There is very little dialogue to explain who she is and where she comes from (in the first minutes of the film at least), yet it's remarkable how quickly a complete picture forms. This is a person with a history, with responsibilities, with a sense of humour and with a life that is currently happening outside of the film. And like everything else in Once, her life is a little ragged around the edges, after all she's been living in it for years.

The Guy gives much the same kind of unpolished performance, but comes to the movie with a breathtaking amount of musical talent. I don't know if Glen Hansard wrote the songs in the film (it's likely as I see on-line that he's in a band called The Frames) but he sings them with the conviction of someone who has laid himself bare. These songs are frighteningly personal, and he exposes himself so honestly, that's it's tough not feel a bit like a voyeur. In fact, I would argue that there are moments in this film that are so direct and heartfelt that some audiences will be uncomfortable with the naked emotion. (I'm thinking specifically of a scene when one character sings a song so intimately that it ends in tears. The moment is so private and so personal that it seems like an intrusion just to be watching it.)

Which brings me to the music. Once would be a masterpiece without the songs; a stunning little character drama about two strangers finding a meaningful connection. But it's the songs that elevate the movie into a different stratosphere altogether. In fact, movie theatres should simply charge an extra $15 for admission and provide audiences with a CD copy of the soundtrack because it's an awful aggravation to hunt down an HMV after the movie is over. Each song is unique and intimate, capturing a moment in the story in a unique and organic way. In one such sequence, the Guy reflects on the breakdown of an earlier relationship, watching old videos on a lap-top as he strums his way through an improvised song: the song becomes a montage of the fleeting moments of a relationship, a sort of flashback to what was, and a clever way of imparting a great deal of information about where the Guy is coming from. In another scene, the Girl makes up a song as she walks home, the camera following her the entire way. It's a very real moment (easy to imagine that this is the actual genesis of much of the soundtrack), but it also serves a very musical purpose - giving the character a way of sorting her thoughts, but without the artifice of a rehearsed solo.

In every way, Once is a musical constructed without the conceit of characters breaking into song and dance in an artificial way. But like the best musicals, the songs become a way of the heart singing something that can't easily be spoken, some bit of introspection, memory or feeling. There is a lot of music in the movie. And most impressively, the songs play in full, often for 4 or 5 minutes. This isn't the sort of film that's content to give a few beats of a song and then fade to the next scene. The music is at the center of everything.

Funny enough, the only thing I can't get my head around is where the title of the film comes from. Unless one of the songs is called Once (which is possible; I haven't seen a track listing), the name of the movie seems a little random and even ironic. Ironic because it's going to be next to impossible for most people to see Once only once. Included in the theatre's gift bag with the admissions and CD soundtrack might as well be a coupon to also pick up the future DVD. This one is a keeper.

Princess Mononoke (1997)

The Monday Project blog is intended to capture first impressions of the movies I watch, but in the case of Princess Mononoke, my first viewing (in theatres in Oct 1999) is relevent background to a recent second viewing:

I've come a very long way since I first experienced Princess Mononoke. At the time, I was completely new to the world of Miyazaki and knew very little of what to expect; I wasn't a big anime guy, but figured that an action film was an action film. The poster looked great, and I was in the market for an animated film that would have an adult-edge, unlike the typical Disney product. Big bonus seemed to be that critics were losing their minds, and Miyazaki's rep hung over Mononoke like a rainbow. I was primed to have a religious experience. This was reputed to be the real deal.


What I ultimately got left me cold. The spiritual and environmental messages of the film struck me as a little creaky, and I was shocked to find myself uncomfortable with the animated "gore" in the film. I'm not opposed to a certain degree of violence, but the level of realism and decay in this film (in particular those dying boars with all of their mucus, guts and blood) turned me off; in fact, it sort of disgusted me. Nor did I need all this talk of "forest spirits". This wasn't at all what I was expecting from the "Walt Disney" of the east. I was looking for beautiful line animation and some fresh storytelling. Princess Mononoke seemed to me to be a heavy-handed message movie with limited action (???) and some weird creepy-looking human-faced creatures...I couldn't get my head around it and therefore dismissed it.

Eight years later, I am a monstrous Miyazaki fan; my 4-year-old daughter devours any Ghibli films I let her watch (My Neighbor Totoro, Howl's Moving Castle, Cat Returns and most recently Kiki's Delivery Service are staples in the library.) Miyazaki's films are movies we enjoy watching together. And I love that she loves them. The films are consistently brilliant, magnificently told and jammed with the sort of lean and sophisticated storytelling that only Pixar seems capable of providing in North America. Most importantly, I've come to appreciate what now seems impossible for me to have missed: the stunning world-view and masterful animation of Miyazaki. The level of detail, the meticulous attention to design and the uncanny way of capturing real-world gestures and behaviour are distinctly Miyazaki.

Revisiting Princess Mononoke now, it's clear that this is the most epic, grand-scale film in Miyazaki's catalogue and to a newbie in 1999, it must have been a lot to absorb. It's essentially Miyazaki's Lord of the Rings. Loaded to the lid with exotic spirits, demons and with the fate of the entire forest world hanging in the balance, I think it might now be one of my favourite Miyazaki films. This is how things can change.

The violence is still there. Unlike everything else that I've seen in Miyazaki's library, this is a film that is certainly not intended for children. Beheadings, dismemberment, lepers, blood, death - all are part of the gigantic story and in striking contrast to the beautiful, natural imagery of the film. Miyazaki's world-view here seems clear: the natural world is a wonderful place, but it can be terrible too. Nature doesn't discriminate. Death is as much a part of the cycle as birth. Unlike the sanitized Circle of Life celebrated by Elton John in Disney's The Lion King, the natural world in Miyazaki's film has its share of predators and prey. There is real danger to be had.

Something else that is distinctly Miyazaki. The villain of the picture is decidely un-villainlike. As the leader of the human tribe that is pillaging the forest for resources (in service of her iron mills), the person causing the most destruction is remarkably sympathetic, humanistic and caring. It is not just that she is willfully wiping out the forest, but rather that she is putting the needs of her village ahead of the animal kingdom. In turn, she cares greatfully for a cluster of lepers, and is surrounded by the young prostitutes that she saves from slavery. This is not some hand-wringing monster seeking world-domination. Nevertheless, she is keenly aware of the damage she is causing and feels no remorse for the cost of her iron mills. She actively seeks to kill the Spirit of the Forest and she is very, very dangerous. She might very well be seen as the remorseless face of Industry (albeit with a very, very excellent HR department.)

And that animation, ho! All of Miyazaki's films are flawless, crafted with the same precision and style as the absolute best (!) Disney films, however unlike the Disney house-style (which seems to be as much a product as the plush dolls and plastic dish-sets), Miyazaki's characters are soulful. The world breaths and surprises. Look no further than Miyazaki's treatment of the Tree Spirits, tiny silent creatures that follow the main characters through the trees, mimicking their actions and occasionally twisting their pale heads sideways with a chattering click-click sound. (In large numbers, they sound remarkably like rain falling through the leaves.)

Or consider the dynamic (and many) action sequences of the film, spectacular and fast-moving, drafted with an eye for geography and character first. The heart races. [It is astonishing to me now that my first impression of Mononoke was that it was light on action...?] All of this is breathtaking filmmaking - the absolute best that the medium has to offer a fan like me.

And there it is plain, something I couldn't have said 8 years ago: Princess Mononoke is a masterpiece. Here is a movie experience that should be sought out by anyone who professes to love film.

Repo Man (1984)

Watching Repo Man for the first time in 2007 is a kind of awkward experience. As a child of the 80's who gobbled up delicious pop culture (and in particular movies) like a hungry man at a Griddle buffet, it's a little embarrassing to confess that I never saw the movie before today. I knew a little about it and certainly recall the box art at the local Video Store, but I know that I never ever considered taking it home.

Flash forward to 2007, and Repo Man is regarded as something of a cult classic. It's clear to see why. This is the sort of movie that I would have adored 20 years ago (I sort of love it now) complete with cheeseball glowing car effects, an eccentric (but rich) supporting cast and a lead performance by Emilio Estevez that almost (almost) makes Mighty Ducks acceptable. [Estevez in particular is much, much cooler in this film than anything else I've ever seen, urging me to wonder, is there an alternate cool-version of Emilio somewhere else in the movie-world?]

There's no question that the thing that make Repo Man work is its attitude. Kind of like the punk characters in the film (one personal favorite scene: skinhead Duke telling mohawk Debbi that he wants to settle down and have kids with her because it seems like the thing that people do), the movie punches and kicks at the traditional structure of movies. Every character has an edge, or a hang-up, or a particular neurosis. No one seems to get along. Together, the cast forms a motley sort of circle that, while enormously entertaining, seems as dangerous and unfriendly as the industrial neighborhoods they cruise. And funny. Underneath it all, blasts a really spectacular soundtrack filled with the likes of Iggy Pop, The Circle Jerks, Suicidal Tendancies and Black Flag. Mix these elements with the right dose of disrespect and you wind up with something approaching an anti-movie. Alex Cox is a master.

In my experience, there are a lot (a lot) of 80's flicks that coast by on a strong wave of nostalgia; and if you don't share the nostalgia, the experience can sometimes come up empty (I'm talking to you, Buckaroo Banzai!!) Let's be honest: a lot of these 80's movies are crap. Great pop culture and miles of fun...but still basically crap. I'm pleased to discover that Repo Man doesn't fit into this bucket. For someone with no '84-tinged memories of the film at all, it still rolls pretty great in 2007.

I won't wait 23 years before I watch it again.

Citizen Kane? Again?

A few words regarding the newly published and updated AFI Top 100.

First, my great disappointment that Citizen Kane has once again come out on top of another film-classics list. Don't misunderstand. I have nothing but respect and admiration for Orson Welles' masterpiece, but it doesn't and probably never will fit comfortably in my Top 10. A film-school classic and a wonderful bit of movie-movie, it's becoming a bit like the the world champ who won't relinquish belt: after a while it's boring and people want to see a changing of the guard. The story becomes less about the winning and more about when will he lose?

Because I'm me, I had to crunch the new list a little. In doing so, I scored each movie on the basis of its rank in the list (#1 was given 100 points, #2 - 99 points and so on until #100 was given with 1 point). Looking at a weighted ranking, here's some of the highlights that struck me as interesting:

- Biggest gainers are two films very near and dear to my heart that ironically enough, leapt onto my own list of favourites within the last year. John Ford's The Searchers has jumped from #96 to #12 (!) while Buster Keaton's note-perfect The General has appeared on the list for the first time at #18. Vertigo also made a pretty shocking climb from #62 all the way to the top 10 (#9).

- Almost two dozen movies fell off the AFI list, but the biggest drops came from Doctor Zhivago (was #39), Birth of a Nation (#44) and From Here to Eternity (#52). It's already been pointed out elsewhere that the revolutionary but racist Birth of a Nation was conveniently replaced by D.W. Griffith's 1916 follow-up Intolerance as though the AFI conscience could no longer bear to celebrate the earlier film. Hmmm.

- Notable new additions to the 2007 list include Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (which I assume to be an informal proxy for the entire trilogy?) at #51, Robert Altman's Nashville at #59 and Preston Sturges' Sullivan's Travels (#61). Shawshank Redemption and Titanic have also - finally - cracked the list, appearing at #72 and #83 respectively.

- The AFI list continues to love the 1970's, which is perhaps a symptom of the dominant generation of critics and filmmakers voting on this list. While there haven't been any seismic changes in this regard, the 70's still lead the list with 20 movies, followed by the 60's (17 movies) and 50's (16 movies). In fact, only 20 movies appear on the list after 1979 (8 in the 80's, 11 in the 90's and 1 in the 00's).

- Most celebrated years are 1969 (Midnight Cowboy, Butch Cassidy, Wild Bunch, Easy Rider), 1976 (Taxi Driver, Rocky, Network, All the President's Men) and 1982 (E.T., Tootsie, Sophie's Choice, Blade Runner) with four movies apiece. However in terms of actual point scores, the winners are 1939 (Gone With the Wind, Wizard of Oz, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington) and 1941 (Citizen Kane, Maltese Falcon, Sullivan's Travels) which have long been reputed to be the most golden years of Hollywood's Golden Age.

- As much as he is still oft-maligned by critics and arthouse snoots, Spielberg is unquestionably on top of the survey (for the second time). The only director with 5 movies on the list (280 points), he is clearly the AFI's MVP and as a dedicated fan of his golden run in the late-70's/early-80's, this warms my heart. I don't think Saving Private Ryan (#71) belongs on the list (time will tell) but I'm equally certain that Munich should someday replace it. Director #2 is Hitchcock (4 movies and 278 points) and #3 is Billy Wilder (4 movies and 257 points) - particularly interesting given that outside of movie-enthusiasts and the film community, your average joe probably couldn't identify 2 or 3 Wilder films.

- While it may be universally acknowledged among fans, filmmakers and even critics that The Empire Strikes Back is the superior Star Wars film and the high-point of Lucas' space-saga, it is still plain-old Star Wars that holds the premium spot in the top 20. No one, and least of all me, will ever argue against Star Wars' impact and importance on a list like this, but can we all just agree that it's the dorky, moppy-haired younger brother of the vastly more effective Empire?

- I won't quibble over titles not included on the list as I think that overall, it's quite solid but for the record, just allow me this: Still no Howard the Duck. Still no Pee Wee's Big Adventure. Still no Weird Science.

- Personally, as someone always working to "finish the list" with respect to my own viewing, the updated list has put me just over the 2/3 mark - I've seen 69 films on the updated list, 66 on the previous incarnation. But there's still some shockers on my to-do list...not the least of which are those errant titles in the top 10...?

Here's the complete list with asterixes next to the movies I've seen:

1. Citizen Kane (1941)*
2. The Godfather (1972)*
3. Casablanca (1942)*
4. Raging Bull (1980)*
5. Singin' in the Rain (1952)*
6. Gone With the Wind (1939)
7. Lawrence of Arabia (1962)*
8. Schindler's List (1993)*
9. Vertigo (1958)
10. The Wizard of Oz (1939)*
11. City Lights (1931)
12. The Searchers (1956)*
13. Star Wars (1977)*
14. Psycho (1960)*
15. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)*
16. Sunset Boulevard (1950)
17. The Graduate (1967)*
18. The General (1927)*
19. On the Waterfront (1954)*
20. It's a Wonderful Life (1946)
21. Chinatown (1974)*
22. Some Like It Hot (1959)*
23. The Grapes of Wrath (1940)*
24. E.T. - The Extra-Terrestrial (1982)*
25. To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)*
26. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939)
27. High Noon (1952)*
28. All About Eve (1950)*
29. Double Indemnity (1944)
30. Apocalypse Now (1979)*
31. The Maltese Falcon (1941)*
32. The Godfather, Part II (1974)*
33. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)*
34. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)*
35. Annie Hall (1977)*
36. The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)
37. The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)
38. The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948)*
39. Dr. Strangelove (1964)*
40. The Sound of Music (1965)*
41. King Kong (1933)*
42. Bonnie and Clyde (1967)*
43. Midnight Cowboy (1969)*
44. The Philadelphia Story (1940)
45. Shane (1953)
46. It Happened One Night (1934)
47. A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)*
48. Rear Window (1954)
49. Intolerance (1916)
50. Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001)*
51. West Side Story (1961)*
52. Taxi Driver (1976)*
53. The Deer Hunter (1978)*
54. MASH (1970)
55. North by Northwest (1959)*
56. Jaws (1975)*
57. Rocky (1976)*
58. The Gold Rush (1925)
59. Nashville (1975)*
60. Duck Soup (1933)*
61. Sullivan's Travels (1941)*
62. American Graffiti (1973)*
63. Cabaret (1972)*
64. Network (1976)*
65. The African Queen (1951)
66. Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)*
67. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966)
68. Unforgiven (1992)*
69. Tootsie (1982)*
70. A Clockwork Orange (1971)*
71. Saving Private Ryan (1998)*
72. The Shawshank Redemption (1994)*
73. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)*
74. The Silence of the Lambs (1991)*
75. In the Heat of the Night (1967)
76. Forrest Gump (1994)*
77. All the President's Men (1976)
78. Modern Times (1936)*
79. The Wild Bunch (1969)
80. The Apartment (1960)
81. Spartacus (1960)*
82. Sunrise (1927)
83. Titanic (1997)*
84. Easy Rider (1969)
85. A Night at the Opera (1935)
86. Platoon (1986)*
87. 12 Angry Men (1957)
88. Bringing Up Baby (1938)*
89. The Sixth Sense (1999)*
90. Swing Time (1936)
91. Sophie's Choice (1982)
92. Goodfellas (1990)*
93. The French Connection (1971)*
94. Pulp Fiction (1994)*
95. The Last Picture Show (1971)*
96. Do the Right Thing (1989)*
97. Blade Runner (1982)*
98. Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)
99. Toy Story (1995)*
100. Ben-Hur (1959)

To Live and Die in LA (1985)

If The French Connection embodies the aesthetic of a cop procedural built in 1971, then William Friedkin's To Live and Die in LA embodies those same hard-nosed qualities as passed through the pop filter of the mid-80's. Sharing more than a number of passing similarities (including a shockingly bleak conclusion), To Live and Die is essentially an 80's update to Friedkin's landmark classic, with a whack of Wang Chung thrown in for good measure.

Here again is the breathtaking car chase, punctuating the drama in the last act of the film without feeling like an unnecessary action served for action's sake (and it's a doozy, especially when things get onto the freeway!) Here again is the plot that concentrates on a couple of hard-working detectives chasing false leads, reluctant informants and trying with their most sober faces to penetrate crime's inner circle. Like Friedkin's earlier film, the movie begins as a formulaic cops-and-robbers thriller, but quickly jumps the rails into fresh and unpredictable territory (the third act in particular delights with twists and surprises: one final scene in particular shocked me by circumventing expections and completely rewriting the final minutes of the movie...I won't spoil, but people familiar with the movie will know the scene of which I write. I had to rewatch the scene just to make sure I hadn't confused myself.)

First impression watching the movie was similar to my first impression of Michael Mann's Manhunter: William Peterson seemed to be playing a younger model of CSI's Gil Grishom, sniffing out a case with rigid determination and professionalism. (In fact, both Manhunter and To Live and Die share a great deal in common, dressed though they may be in very different 80's stylings; there's very little neon to be found in Friedkin's film.) However, unlike those other characters, Peterson's professionalism deteriorates into obsession as his CIA agent character throws aside the rules to catch an uncatchable counterfeiter (Willem Dafoe). By the time the chase escalates to a sprint, there is no resemblance to be found between Peterson's other, more famous, cop roles. Corruption builds and while the viewer shares Peterson's passion to catch the crook (his partner was killed after all), an awkward disconnect begins to happen with his methods of bending the rules to do so. Especially as he ropes in his new and less flexible partner.

[Special mention: Willem Dafoe plays an especially smarmy villain not afraid to wear a turtleneck to a dangerous money-exchange. Dare I say he's almost preppy?]

If there is any fault to be found with To Live and Die (and frankly, there isn't really), one could fault the trappings of the 80's cop formula made popular in Miami Vice, including the faceless henchmen with the automatic weapons and the fashion model girlfriends wandering nakedly like so much set-dressing. But then, these are precisely the things that mark To Live and Die as a relic of the mid-80's and sometimes when carbon-dating points to 1985, it can be a good thing. Especially when the package is assured and lean as this film.

Did I mention that soundtrack? Wang Chung-alicious!

Repulsion (1965)

I play a lot of my movies in the hours and minutes immediately before I go to bed. In fact, I literally drop movies onto the iPod and crawl into bed, watching bits of movies in the darkness as T. sleeps next to me (this is preferable to a book because I don't have to have a light on). For the most part, this routine works great. Because the entire exercise is done with the lights off and via headphones, I generally enjoy these bedtime movies with a heightened level of engagement. I unwind from the day and find release. The movies, in turn, get past the usual daylight filters and download directly to the deep section of my brain that absorbs and digests movies. It's all-round good times. And then alone comes a movie like Roman Polanski's Repulsion.

Repulsion is an ugly and dangerous little movie to download right before knocking off to sleep. The movie hums at one of those Lynch-ian dream frequencies, that can potentially make sleep very, very uncomfortable. I hesitate to say the movie gave me nightmares, but I have to confess that the degree of chill provided by the movie (and occasionally escalated by bursts of quick violence), left me startled and confused enough when it was over that I was uncertain whether to try to sleep or simply head downstairs for a sandwich. Instead I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, unsure what damage had been done to my fragile brain.

[Note: I should clarify that this is all very good. A movie that can change your body temperature and get under your skin like this is something to be recommended and treasured.]

Repulsion is Roman Polanski's first English-language film and sets down the thriller template that he would visit again 4 years later in Rosemary's Baby (of which I was most reminded). The principle difference between the two films is that Rosemary's Baby is essentially a horror film that circles around the occult; the threats are supernatural, extraordinary and ultimately, unknowable. Repulsion, on the other hand, is a film about human madness, as a young woman becomes so sexually repressed that it drives her (violently) insane. The latter seems a little more chilling in context.

The young woman in the film is played Catherine Deneuve, in an intriguing counterpoint to the role she would later play in Belle De Jour (1967). Deneuve plays the part very much on the inside; for the first act of the film, she seems almost autistic, slow to speak and act, staring off into space as people address her. The term bimbo might come to mind. However, gradually it becomes clear that there is a lot going on behind those eyes and that her inability to express emotion isn't a symptom of disengagement. To be blunt, she is simply losing her shit. In the same manner as Pvt. Pyle in Full Metal Jacket, it's the eyes that tell the story. Psychology students everywhere could write papers on the degrees of mental disintegration as she progresses from paranoia to a full meltdown.

Still, while the plot may be compelling, it's Polanski's assured direction which elevates Repulsion from a 60's B-picture to a classic worth revisiting 40 years on. The story unfolds at a glacial pace and with a decidely European eye, with most of the movie holed in a small London flat. Within this apartment, Polanski finds unique ways of ringing the madness from his main character, as plaster cracks and church bells chime off-screen. In fact, it is the soundtrack of the picture that best promotes Deneuve's dread and turns the film into a waking nightmare. Small touches like scales running on a piano or flies buzzing around spoiling food form a menacing audio soundscape that demands the treacherous chill of the film (especially via headphones at night!) In contrast, there are massive sections of the movie with little or no dialogue or sound, creating a vacuum that sucks the viewer in and forces them share in Deneuve's immense discomfort. The sick pay-off comes when the silence is abruptly split by sudden and drastic interruptions like walls cracking or someone knocking at a door (which may sound like cheap thrills but in this context, are quite effective.)

Then there's violence. For a movie that triggers on a couple of explosive murders, the savagery in the film is shockingly brief, and still more outrageous than most modern films. Clearly, it is more devastating to know that a person has been killed with multiple strikes from a straight razor than it is to see that razor make contact with the victim. The mind fills in the darkness with terrible things and it is a wise choice to keep the murders in shadow. I would estimate that on-screen violence commands less than a couple of minutes of screentime, but the damage and terror hangs over everything that follows.

And that's what you take with you to sleep, when the movie is finally over. Thanks for the bad dreams, Polanski.

Black Christmas (1974)

It would seem that horror is going to dominate the list today. And that's a good thing when the movies are geniunely scary.

Upon watching Black Christmas, I probably did what most serious horror fans have done when discovering this film for the first time: I checked my timelines. Black Christmas came out in 1974, 12 weeks after the premiere of Texas Chain Saw Massacre and 4-years earlier than Halloween. So where does that put it in the slasher chronology? Pretty much at the front.

What's clear seeing this film now is how much of Bob Clark's 1974 horror prototype was co-opted, borrowed and (please forgive me for this) sliced up in the decades to follow as Dead Teenager Movies (Roger Ebert's classic definition, not mine) became the reigning sub-genre in multiplexes. It is John Carpenter who probably has the most to account for. I'm not about to proclaim that any element of Halloween was directly stolen from Black Christmas, and will continue to maintain that it is the much superior horror film, however the similarities are pretty clear. Likewise When a Stranger Calls (original and remake alike!) The calls are coming from inside the house, indeed!

But history lesson aside, how is it?

Black Christmas has held up extremely well and is as strong now as any of its late-70's and early-80's slasher counterparts. As timeless as Halloween (Jamie Lee Curtis fashions aside) and certainly less creaky and dated than any of the Friday the 13th or Nightmare on Elm Street films, Black Christmas plays like a solid slasher film without the franchise appeal. While it can certainly be argued that having an unidentified predator victimize the girls in Black Christmas maximizes the terror and creates a more imaginative monster than other slasher films (since it is the viewer who must imagine who or what the killer is!), there's something to be said about the iconic status of Michael Myers, Jason Vorhees and Freddy Krueger (all names which are synonymous with their given franchises.) In fact, perhaps the most surprising thing about this early pioneer of the slasher genre is that it didn't spawn any sequels at all...something which clearly makes it unique or un-slasher-like?

Most importantly, the movie is still pretty scary. I have a relatively thick skin for these sorts of films now, having grown up on this formula, but I can report that for much of Black Christmas's runtime, I was geniunely "nervous". Most effective are the phone calls from the killer, relaying crypic messages about "Billy" in those terrible parrot-like voices. Something about the inhumane banter elevates the film and creates geniune apprehension about who or what is stalking the house. The murders themselves are pretty pedestrian by modern standards (propping up and posing your bloody victims is so 1978!) but the iconic image of Clare Harrison under her plastic bag is still pretty snappy.

Still, given the saturation of Dead Teenager Movies in the last three decades, it's tough to imagine the impact this film must have had on movie-goers that grew up on 50's and 60's horror films, particularly given the relentlessly anti-social slasher formula. As a kid who grew up on the Michael Myers and Freddy Kruegers of the movie world, I'm just glad to see that Black Christmas hasn't become a stiff museum piece. I'd like to revisit some of its offspring in the weeks to come.

Modern Times (1936)

This is more like it. But I should explain.

For the last week or so, there's been a back-and-forth happening in my Monday Project list between Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton films and to this point, Keaton has been dominating Chaplin to an embarrassing degree. I'm going to save my thoughts on Buster Keaton for a special posting in the next week or two, but suffice to say that The General is one of very few movies that I'm prepared to label virtually perfect! Few movies of any era have so completely impressed me with their craft and artistry so immediately as this classic Keaton film and to follow it with Chaplin's The Kid (a classic in its own right) was not quite fair. I then followed this up with Keaton's The Cameraman (spectacular!!) and the match score quickly became 2-0. I thought I was on my way to a major blow-out...

But Modern Times, ah! This is more like it.

It's in this movie that I can see most clearly the appeal and permanence of Charlie Chaplin. The film is fun, sophisticated, intricate and exciting to the maximum degree, loaded with the sorts of classic sequences that determine a legendary movie. Proof lies no further than the opening of the film as Chaplin works on a factory line, his sole job to tighten two bolts on every piece of industrial steel that runs past him. It's in this section of the film that we see the iconic image of the Tramp being consumed by the factory machine, winding his way through the gears until he is spit back out the top. An effective image for anyone looking for a message, and a remarkably entertaining stunt to boot! However, the grace-note comes when Chaplin finishes his shift and steps away from the conveyor, his entire body still shaking and twitching to the rhythm of the assembly line; physical comedy that Chaplin makes look easy but creates a surprising level of sympathy as he approaches a nervous breakdown.

Other sections of the film are equally exciting and there is no shortage of original ideas. At the top of this list is the disturbing machine introduced by management at the factory as a way of feeding its employees their lunch as they work (maximum productivity!) Chaplin becomes the guinea pig to demonstrate the device and his interaction with the machine (which appears to be a sort of industrial torture device) is the thing of nightmares as food is literally forced into his mouth. In another scene, Chaplin also traps a mechanical co-worker in the massive gears of an industrial machine so only his head remains. All of this makes the movie (and industrial workplace) sound sort of horrific and I guess that's the point; however all of the situations are delivered with Chaplin's light touch, mining the real comedy in each.

Most affecting is the way Chaplin finds something positive in the bleak situation of the Gamin (the matchless Paulette Goddard) who is orphaned and homeless. Chaplin's Tramp provides hope and friendship, breaking her from prison and sharing in her dream of a "normal" life.

It's easy now to forget that Modern Times was created at the height of the Depression and that poverty was a very immediate problem, not an abstract history lesson. While it has been argued that Chaplin's film rests much of the blame for this social problem on the automation of industry, the film deliberately counters the horrific industrial imagery with a very humanistic story. In fact, I think it's the relationship of these two outcasts, finding companionship and support together that is the beating heart of Modern Times and elevates the film from a kinetic comedy to a real masterpiece.

One last treat I want to mention: I consider Smile to be one of the great songs of the 20th Century and to see it played here in context, through the quiet scenes shared between Chaplin and the Gamin, is wonderful. The final scene of the film is astonishing, one of those special movie moments when one can feel the scene transcending the movie and lifting itself into those film-history reels that grace every Academy Award show. The parting shot of Chaplin and the Gamin walking away down the road is a wonderful image for The Tramp's final screen appearance (it's my understanding that Chaplin never used the character in a movie again).

Perhaps the only misstep in the film is the decision to have Chaplin's Tramp character sing a short song (even if it was sung for laughs in a mock-German accent). As I understand it, Chaplin was under tremendous pressure to create a "talkie" (Modern Times was released 9 years after the innovation of sound-cinema) but he maintained enough control over his films to allow the Tramp character to remain silent. Nevertheless, to hear Chaplin's actual voice coming from this traditionally silent character, even for just a brief moment, actually removed a little of the mythos. Thankfully, the effect is short-lived but it's a damaging note in an otherwise amazing film.

The Keaton-Chaplin fest will continue in the weeks to come as I have already begun sourcing copies of other films that need to be considered. I hope soon to watch films like City Lights, The Gold Rush and The Great Dictator in addition to Our Hospitality, Sherlock Jr and Steamboat Bill, Jr. I'm still finding myself to be a monstrous Buster Keaton fan but am also finding lots to appreciate and enjoy in the work of Charlie Chaplin. (Harold Lloyd will also have his turn in the fray in the coming weeks...)