Peter Boyle, All the President's Men 2, and Clara Bow talks! - Reviews #164

Joe (John G. Avildsen, 1970) - A bristling, unpredictable drama from Rocky director John G. Avildsen about the relationship between an advertising executive (Dennis Patrick) who's just beaten his daughter's drug dealer boyfriend to death, and the racist rent-a-gob (Peter Boyle) who admires him for it. In some ways it's a prototype Dirty Harry or Taxi Driver, though it's less bloodthirsty and more intriguing: a complex character piece, laced with pitch black comedy, that doubles as a state-of-the-nation treatise - as Falling Down would in the 1990s. I'm not sure if the film's politics are confused or just purposefully veiled, as it appears to oscillate between liberalism and fascism, but that moral muckiness rather plays in its favour, drawing us into an ugly, complex world with few easy answers; even if the ones Joe suggests are almost certainly wrong. Boyle disagreed: after hearing that audiences cheered the revenge sequences, he vowed never to make another film that glorified violence - if indeed this one does.

There are elements that seem cartoonish to a modern viewer - whether they were ever realistic, I'm not sure - but it is a fascinating film, a gripping evocation of a time in American life when the generation gap was at its greatest, a breeding ground for suspicion, outrage and contempt. America always seems to be at war with itself: in 1970 the enemies of the right were hippies, permissiveness and black benefit claimants, and it's all three that are making Joe mad. As the damaged furnace worker rising to boiling point, Boyle is absolutely sensational, even if, like Ron Burgundy, he has never heard of the phrase "When in Rome..." Incidentally, this was Susan Sarandon's first film. She's Patrick's daughter, a speed freak who ODs in a chemist after drawing all over her own face. (3.5)

***



Dick (Andrew Fleming, 1999) - From the title, I was expecting a biopic of Kelvin MacKenzie. Instead I got a passable teen comedy with a Watergate backdrop. Wouldn't it be funny if Richard Nixon ate cookies laced with weed? Not really, no. But that joke does have a clever pay-off, and the film comes equipped with some sharply satirical barbs, albeit 27 years too late. "Papier-mache is a hobby of mine," claims Nixon when his aides are caught shredding documents - actually one of his more credible lies of the period. Michelle Williams and Kirsten Dunst are ditzy 15-year-old friends who unwittingly stumble across the Watergate scandal, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Tricky Dicky, Henry Kissinger and those "radical, muckraking bastards", Woodward and Bernstein (Will Ferrell and Bruce McCulloch), who are easily the funniest thing about the film.

At its worst, it's shallow and silly - the sing-along with the Russians is a dreadfully weak concept, Devon Gummersall is wasted as a pothead, and the jokes about "loving Dick" get very tiresome very quickly - but it has an agreeably original premise, carried through with enough enthusiasm to sustain it for 90 minutes, and possesses a narrative that amusingly accounts for memorable details and enduring mysteries surrounding the scandal - including the blank 18-and-a-half-minutes on the Watergate tapes, which leads to a big laugh near the movie's close. Williams is very good as a naive, nervously-giggling nerd, and though Dunst sometimes fails to convince as her more confident friend - playing too broad, and too young for 15 - a supporting cast that includes Dan Hedaya, Saul Rubinek and Harry Shearer has fun bringing to life various infamous political figures of the early 1970s. The best thing about it, though, are those sequences riffing on All the President's Men: the sets are lovingly recreated, from the newspaper office to the garage where the investigative reporters meet Deep Throat, but now Woodward is an irritable, arrogant headline-hogger, and Bernstein is a needy, childish incompetent who keeps trying to steal his stories, and his notepad. It would be another 16 years after the film's release before Mark Felt, the FBI's former associate director, revealed that he was the pair's mysterious source, rather than two teenage girls, somewhat trashing the film's gimmick.

It's a bit too trivial and superficial, typified by a heap of annoying song choices (You're So Vain is a notably wonderful exception) and a bizarre disco coda - completely at odds with the rest of the film - in which Dunst and Williams lick lollies emblazoned with the legend "Dick" and stroke themselves, but it's still worth a look as a sporadically sharp fusion of teen comedy and political satire: two genres that are usually kept rather further apart. (The only other one that springs to mind is the exceptional Election, released four months earlier.) Just call it Romy and Michelle's All the President's Men.

***

CLARA BOW STUFF:

Films:



Call Her Savage (John Francis Dillon, 1932) - So... much... plot. Clara Bow's comeback, after her nervous breakdown in 1931, kicked off a two-picture deal with Fox. Depending on who you believe, her intention was to restore her battered reputation following a series of scandals and dud pictures, or to make as much money as possible before retiring for good. It may have been both.

After years of being shoved around by Paramount, who increasingly put her in inferior vehicles with nothing co-stars, her new contract at her new home gave her the final say on material, cast and director. What she chose first was this absurd Pre-Code melodrama - as Pre-Code as Pre-Code gets - which introduces her braless and furious, bullwhipping the hell out of "half-breed" Gilbert Roland in a sexually-charged frenzy. While the film can't maintain the breathless momentum of that classic, bizarre sequence, it does take in adultery, venereal disease, prostitution, paedophilia and attempted rape, as well as the first gay bar in cinematic history and more melodrama than you can crack a whip at.

And for anyone familiar with Bow's tragic life, the film is even odder than it may look at first glance. Her heroine makes a glib reference in a party scene to "a nervous breakdown", bursts into tears at the mention of mental illness - Bow's mother and two aunts were all institutionalised, as she had just been - and falls into destitution, the life of grinding poverty that would have been the actress's lot had she not won a magazine contest in 1921. She talks about mending her promiscuous ways and settling down - precisely the life that she had mapped out for herself at this juncture of her life - and is begged by her best friend (Bow's former fiancee, Roland) to try to sleep, recalling the insomnia that plagued the actress's life, after her mother attacked her in her sleep, aged 16.

As with so many of the star's films, this one also tried to head off or cash-in on scandals in her colourful private life, resulting in a perverse scene where her character frolics on the floor with a Great Dane. For those who need to brush up on their tabloid smears of the 1920s, it's a reference to an allegation that Bow frequently copulated with her dog - also a Great Dane - a claim that ultimately cost its author eight years in prison.

As a stand-alone film, rather than a historical curio, Call Her Savage is rather less compelling. Though it has superb moments, including a thrillingly-directed opening that sees a bunch of marauding Native Americans attack a wagon train, Bow's unforgettable entrance, and a slew of short sequences in which arguably cinema's finest silent actress gets to emote without those troublesome words, it's a haphazard movie that jumps from one rather unconvincing development to the next, buoyed only by its censor-hurdling tawdriness and Bow's charismatic performance. I'm not sure that, taken as a whole, her combustible character makes for a convincing human being: her fiery temper, fiery hair and plunging neckline seem to be the only constants across her various contrasting personas. But she does command the attention most of the time, and if she's hardly the force of nature that she was in silent films like It and Mantrap, she's still a fascinating performer.

Sadly, she isn't helped in her noble bid to defeat the dodgy material by a flat, uninteresting supporting cast. I bow to no man in my admiration for Willard Robertson, the lawyer-turned-actor who graces my favourite movie, Remember the Night, as a flamboyant defence attorney, and gave one of the coolest characterisations of all time in the comic Western, Along Came Jones. Here, asked to play an authoritarian father, he's just completely dull, an affliction that he shares with every one of his fellow cast members, aside from Bow. Even the smouldering Roland and the usually reliable Thelma Todd fail to spark much interest, perhaps because of the company they're keeping, but almost certainly because the script and story - while loaded with adult themes and moments of unspeakable tragedy - are so terrifically pedestrian in execution.

So, if you're after a '30s movie that still stands up well today, look elsewhere. But if you're a film historian, a Pre-Code buff or a Clara Bow fan, then this incredibly miserable movie - endlessly preoccupied with "the sins of the father" - is worth 85 sordid minutes of your valuable time. (2)



Hoop-La (Frank Lloyd, 1933) - Clara Bow gives one of the greatest performances I have ever seen in this, her final film, an otherwise standard carnival romance. Movies set around this seedy, colourful world were ten-a-penny in the '30s, from Borzage's dreadful Liliom (based on the same play as Carousel), to Tod Browning's Freaks and The Mind Reader, Ruth Chatterton in Lilly Turner, and a couple of films starring the extraordinary Lee Tracy: Carnival and Fixer Dugan. This adaptation of a popular Kenyon Nicholson play, filmed before in 1928 as The Barker and twice later by Tokyo Story director Yasujiro Ozu, tells the story of a sexually-savvy dancer (Bow) who agrees to seduce the carnival manager's callow son (Richard Cromwell) for a hundred bucks. Naturally, she falls in love with him, putting her at loggerheads with her boss - and the broad who stumped up the dough.

Bow, despite frequently sporting a risible hairdo that makes her look plump and 50, is absolute dynamite, shifting between playful sensuality, heartfelt emotion and coarse threats in the blink of an eye, taking what's little more than flax, and spinning it into pure gold. As usual, she's hilarious and sexy (despite the hairdo), but there's also that wonderful sincerity and vulnerability in this performance that lights up her very best work. In sound films like The Wild Party and Call Her Savage, she seemed to be succeeding in spite of the new-fangled need to vocalise her feelings. Here, she's finally at ease with the medium, producing a stunning, startling characterisation that leaps off the screen and proves that the talkies were hers for the taking, if only she'd had the temperament to go with her talent. Instead, she bowed out at the top of her game, leaving us with this: a dynamic starring role that dominates the movie to the point of parody and recalls the very best of her silent work, but, y'know, with talking too.

The rest of the cast is thrown into shadow by the brilliant Bow and her sparkly bikinis, but Cromwell - equally adept as a pure-hearted juvenile (Emma) or an appalling coward (The Lives of a Bengal Lancer) - makes for a likeable leading man, and I was extremely surprised by how good the often bland Preston Foster was as his father, navigating the rather overwrought material with considerable skill. Minna Gombell, who essentially played the same role throughout the '30s, is also well-cast as Bow's pal, a spoilt, selfish fellow dancer who wants her to win Cromwell, so she can get back to boffing his dad. When Clara's off-screen, Hoop-La looks like a conventional carnival flick, with a decent, nicely-detailed backdrop, but a slightly pat, cliched story. But when she's centre-stage, and she usually is, it's something else entirely: a mesmerising, affecting, often exhilarating ride, and a staggering swansong for one of the greatest actresses ever to grace the silver screen. (3.5)

Book:



Clara Bow: Runnin' Wild by David Stenn (1988/2000) - The definitive Bow book is a brilliantly-researched account of her desperately sad life, written with a fair amount of style, and only detracted from by a slight sensationalism and some excessive armchair psychology. The enduring impression is of a sad, haunted soul with a miraculous gift whose career - and life - were destroyed by rampaging inner demons fuelled by her heartbreaking upbringing. The manipulative, selfish Paramount executive B. P. Schulberg comes out of the book terribly, though not as badly as Bow's hateful father. Ironically, when MGM made a fun film loosely based on her life in 1933, Bombshell starring Jean Harlow and Lee Tracy, he was portrayed by popular character comic Frank Morgan as an affable bumbler. (3.5)

***



Louie Bluie (Terry Zwigoff, 1985) - This was the first film from Ghost World director - and blues buff - Terry Zwigoff, an odd little documentary about the leader of America's last black string band, Howard "Louie Bluie" Armstrong, a painter, pornography afficionado and tall-tale teller whose suspect anecdotes (usually directed at someone who has heard them before, such are the necessities of the medium) are alternated with exhilarating jamming sessions featuring many of his wizened, laid-back contemporaries. In striving for intimacy, the film suffers from a distinct lack of context - despite a nice effect which sees his stories accompanied by his evocative artworks - and though we hang out with Louie, playing cards, shooting the breeze and buying a poster of a dragon, we never really get a sense of the man beneath the bullshit. Still, while the audience is kept at arm's length, and Armstrong can unquestionably be a bit irritating, he remains an interesting character, and it's hard not to admire a man with such a cool signature, such a colourful lexicon, and acquaintances called things like Bumblebee Slim. The music, which is stunning throughout, climaxes with a beautiful version of Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams, performed on a Chicago street in front of 20 people and a sign about lampshades. (3)

***

Another from the Treasures V: The West box-set:



Womanhandled (Gregory La Cava, 1925) - A sporadically entertaining comedy about pampered New Yorker Richard Dix pretending he's a Western he-man to impress a woman he met in the park (Esther Ralston). He heads out to his uncle's lamentably modern ranch and then, when she decides to follow, tries to make it all seem a bit more "Western". The version on the Treasures V box-set is only 55 minutes long, as it's missing both the lost "cattle stampede" climax and a scene that the compilers cut out because they thought it wasn't very interesting (what the hell?!), but it has a few laughs - including a fun bit in which the ranch hands try to ride horses for the first time - and a couple of nice meta gags ("All the real cowboys have gone into the movies," laments Dix's uncle). It's all very reminiscent of Doug Fairbanks' 1917 film, Wild and Woolly - an embryonic version of those trick-the-visitor outings like Seducing Dr Lewis or Local Hero - but not as good. Dix's clean-cut appearance and sprightly manner may surprise those who only know him as a tired-looking '40s B-actor in films like the Whistler series and Val Lewton's The Ghost Ship, and he does a fair job with what he's given. Sadly the script, co-written by director Gregory La Cava, is rather hit and miss, with too much time given over to a destructive little kid who isn't very funny. Still, there was enough about Womanhandled for Variety to say of its director: "It is safe to predict he is going a long way in making the pictures of the future", and they weren't wrong. Within 12 years, La Cava would have made both My Man Godfrey and Stage Door, two of the defining achievements of '30s American cinema. (2)

***

Thanks for reading.

Pre-Coders, policemen and the real Paris - Reviews #120

It's been hard fitting in too many films these past eight days, what with the feast of football, but I've seen a few. This round-up features my first Eric Rohmer, my second viewing of The Other Guys and Jimmy Cagney at his considerable best.



Rendezvous in Paris (Eric Rohmer, 1995) – I try to see a fair mix of movies, but somehow I’d never gotten around to an Eric Rohmer. This was my first, and I thought it was wonderful: an epic outdoor walk-and-talkathon that resembles Before Sunrise and (more obviously) Before Sunset, as various youngish people stroll around the city's less celebrated landmarks and boulevards, espousing their views on love. Each of its three chapters seems low-key, almost incidental at first, before revealing hidden depths. And each is special in its own way. The first (and probably best) sees the excellent Clara Bellar negotiating relationships with a possible cheater, a possible thief and a sizeable coincidence; though as the screenplay insists, “coincidences do happen”. The second concerns an offbeat, adulterous affair played out across various day-long dates, as Serge Renko pleads repeatedly with Aurore Rauscher to leave her boyfriend, while the final chapter is a neat spin on the “live every moment” cliché, with artist Michael Kraft deciding to follow Bénédicte Loyen into and out of a gallery, only to not get quite what he bargained for. The film’s thoughts on life, liberty and the pursuit of women are genuinely original, clever and insightful, and there’s a lovely lightness to the director’s handling. I’m not a Parisian (sorry if this comes as a shock to any of you), but the film seems largely unique in appearing to capture something of the genuine nature and flavour of the city. Old Hollywood idealised it – that old-school presentation still informing films like Ratatouille, A Monster in Paris and Hugo – while later American films rendered it banal and flavourless. The French have had a fair crack, with Malle (Zazie dans le métro) and Delpy (Two Days in Paris) offering vivid, distinctive takes, while a gaggle of notable names provided vastly differing portraits in the occasionally successful portmanteau picture, Paris, je t’aime. But this film – with its endlessly tramping camera pulling you around Paris – brings a painter’s eye, a capricious, coquettish woman’s fancies and a hardened girl’s perspective to bear on the City of Light, creating something indelible and unforgettable from the everyday. (4)

***



*SPOILERS AND A RUDE WORD*
The Other Guys (Adam McKay, 2010) - When L.A.'s iconic cop duo Danson and Highsmith (The Rock and Samuel L. Jackson) perish in a "head for the trees" 10-storey-jump calamity, it's up to Hoitz (Mark Wahlberg) and Gamble (Will Ferrell) to fill the void. Unfortunately, Hoitz is an office-trashing hothead haunted by his shooting of a sporting celebrity, and Gamble refuses to leave his desk, as he has some very important paperwork to do. The leads have superb chemistry, and Wahlberg is very funny playing it largely straight, but the film is dominated by Ferrell's brilliant performance. When people talk about his best work, they tend to plump for the dramatic roles, in Stranger Than Fiction - a Charlie Kaufman-esque slice of post-modern invention that begins panting a few miles from the finish - Everything Must Go and Woody Allen's Melinda and Melinda. But this is the one: a deft, dialled-down characterisation that creates some incredible comic moments (tuna vs lion, "To give me back my real gun?", the "desk pop") while giving him somewhere to go. Ferrell has generally spent too much of his career yelling, which is why making him a staid, sheltered, officious and easily offended administrator is such a masterstroke - and why his periodic explosions are so much funnier than usual ("I am going to make you eat a plate of human shit!"). The plot, in which an underused Steve Coogan engages in dodgy deals, honestly isn't developed enough to be described as "not very good" and the film flags a little in places before running out of steam at the end (stick around for the post-credits sequence, though, as it's amazing), but at its best it makes me laugh louder and harder than any film I've seen since Team America: "They found your red Prius trying to vote for Ralph Nader", "If you were with me, you wouldn't be here in this strip club, shaking it for dollar bills", "I saw how aggressive you were being, and I thought: 'Wow, I gotta go even bigger than that since we're doing 'bad cop, bad cop'" and - this incapacitated me for an entire minute last night - "We will have sex in your car - it will happen again". Amazing. (4)

***



Jimmy the Gent (Michael Curtiz, 1934) – Bloody hell, this is good fun, a lightning-paced comedy about a no-good, scruple-free inheritance fraudster (Jimmy Cagney – who else?) trying to land a 200G case through a series of phony weddings, big fat lies, and furious rants at his sidekick Allen Jenkins – all the while pretending to reform for the benefit of his former flame, the understandably suspicious Bette Davis. It’s reminiscent in its best moments of the legendary Blessed Event (which was originally set to star Cagney), as well as Satan Met a Lady – a screwball comedy riff on The Maltese Falcon also featuring Davis – and powered by a simply explosive central performance. With his unruly eyebrows threatening to escape his face each time he engages in another morally-indefensible tirade, and sporting the harshest haircut I have ever seen (he’s seen from behind in the opening scene, with two big scars across the back of his head), Cagney is almost illegally funny. (3.5)

***



Beauty and the Boss (Roy Del Ruth, 1932) – Banker Warren William has two eyes for the ladies – but only after office hours, which might be why he hasn’t noticed secretary Marian Marsh. Either that or because she’s a machine in a bad hat. This very entertaining, dirty comedy from the master of Pre-Coders (Del Ruth also did Blessed Event and the weird Cagney vehicle Blonde Crazy) is occasionally affected by its leading lady’s woodenness, but has a genuinely sweet centre and an incredible scene – shot from above – in which William chases Marsh around his office, trying to kiss her. After a slightly sluggish opening five, this short, sharp, censorship-free shock becomes a fast-paced mix of romantic drama, makeover show and rude jokes that provides top escapism, an interesting portrait of early-‘30s sexual politics and a perfect example of Hollywood product before the Hays Code stopped everyone’s fun. It also has an amazing trailer, light on footage but heavy on kaleidoscopic images, exciting fonts and hyperbole, which promises things the film could never possibly deliver. (3)

***



*A FEW SPOILERS*
Black Dynamite (Scott Sanders, 2009) - "Dy-na-mite! Dy-na-mite!" This spoof of blaxploitation movies gets everything right in its send-up of the genre, but is maddeningly inconsistent in terms of laughs. Black Dynamite (Michael Jai White) is a Vietnam vet, ex-CIA agent and all round bad-ass who "use Kung Fu when we want to, has sex when he please". After his brother is killed by The Man and he finds a corrupt politician selling smack to orphans, he cracks open an entire crate of whuppery, only to uncover a plot more dastardly than anything he could have possibly imagined. White is excellent in the lead, doing not-very-good acting brilliantly, and the film looks and particularly sounds just right, with an arsenal of low-rent '70s visual tricks and a heap of apposite funk songs that drip with clumsy exposition. But while there are some hilarious moments - the "puddle of blood" line, a convoluted uncovering of the central mystery that takes in rock 'n' roll, spelling and Roman mythology, the young, orphaned Black Dynamite throwing some bullies through a window, and, especially, the hero's hysterically uncomfortable attempts to frolic gaily in a park - there are entire scenes that pass without a smile, especially towards the end. Part of the problem is that spoofing kung fu isn't funny. It wasn't funny in The Jerk, it wasn't funny in Wayne's World 2 and it isn't funny now. You could argue that at least Black Dynamite plays its martial arts scenes straight, but watching people doing reasonably good kung fu in an apparent pastiche of Black Belt Jones isn't really entertainment - and too much of the short running time consists of precisely that. Sorry to come across all Judge Joyless but, given all the hype around this one, I had high hopes, and it didn't quite deliver. (2.5)

***


Quick, someone push them in the water.

Failure to Launch (Tom Dey, 2006) – I thought this might be mindless fun. Well, I was half right. Matthew McConaughey’s parents hire professional “interventionist” Sarah Jessica Parker to get him out of their house. Her trick? To make him fall in love with her. It’s a shame they’re both idiots. This is a shallow, ridiculous romantic comedy that moves from one contrived comic situation to another (most of which seem to involve people being bitten by animals), with horrible swings in tone and characters that make no sense, even within the film’s unbelievable parameters. Its only saving grace is a funny supporting performance from Zooey Deschanel, who works wonders with her part as Parker’s moody roommate. (1.5)

***



Moonrise Kingdom animation (Various, 2012) - You know those books that Suzy takes with her when she runs away? Well Wes Anderson and a group of illustrators and animators have brought little snippets of those fictional creations to life, in this droll, inventive and attractive short, which packs more humour and heart into its four minutes than many modern American films manage in 90. As someone who watched Failure to Launch out of choice yesterday, I realise this may come across as a little rich. If you liked the feature, it's a wonderful little bonus, with narration by Kara Hayward and links by Bob Balaban. (3.5) You can see it here.

Little Fugitive, Superman II, and the birth of the gangster movie - Reviews #112

Coney Island, lipstick and beautiful boredom in this week's reviews round-up.

Little Fugitive (Ray Ashley and Morris Engel, 1953) - Spellbinding, utterly original indie, shot on location in NYC, about a seven-year-old boy (Richie Andrusco) who believes he's killed his brother (Richard Brewster), and so flees to Coney Island. Wracked with guilt and fear, he finds temporary solace in carousels, sea-front games and all things equine, even getting a job as a bottle-collector to fund his pony-ride habit. It's a quiet, lyrical, funny and affecting film about childhood and the bonds between brothers that attains a simple truth about growing up and finds the visual poetry in everyday life. In doing so, it influenced everything from Les quatre cents coups to Killer of Sheep. A little masterpiece. (4)

***

*SPOILERS*
Underworld (Josef von Sternberg, 1927) - The first modern gangster film, and still one of the best, with its engrossing love triangle immersed in a vividly-realised underworld. Overbearing bank robber Buck Weed (George Bancroft) helps alcoholic attorney "Rolls Royce" (Clive Brook) back on his feet, only to see his moll - the excellently named "Feathers" McCoy (Evelyn Brent) - fall for the articulate, sad-faced college man. The first 50 is merely good, but the climactic half-hour is spectacular, with von Sternberg's exciting, imaginative visual sense going into overdrive as the story reaches its crescendo. The crime film formula may have been refined with Warner's Little Caesar four years later, which introduced the familiar rise-and-fall narrative (here, Bancroft is already at the top of his game when we come in), but this box-office sensation established the template with its tough-but-honourable hero, flavourful Jules Furthman dialogue and Tommy-gun-toting climax. Its influence can be seen on Scarface and its dreadful remake ("The City Is Yours," screams a flashing billboard) and Miller's Crossing, while its central dynamic of an unrefined bruiser with a big personality and a heap of dough losing the girl he loves to a quiet guy who practises law was also recycled for the saga with the last word on '30s crime pictures, The Roaring Twenties. Underworld, which made that decade's whole run possible, is gripping, amusing (though not when it's leaning on some dubious comic interludes) and even sexy, with superb performances from the central trio (especially Brook, who stank the place out in von Sternberg's snail-like Shanghai Express) and a bravura ending: a frantic, sweaty, emotionally draining reunion amongst a hail of bullets. (3.5)

***

Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? (Frank Tashlin, 1957) - Advertising ideas man Tony Randall hits the jackpot with his latest ruse - now he just needs to convince pouty, bleached-blonde movie megastar Jayne Mansfield to use Stay Put lipstick on those "oh so kissable lips". She, meanwhile, is in the mood to make her cheating muscle-man jealous. Director Tashlin - a former animator who brought a uniquely cartoonish sensibility to films like Son of Paleface and The Girl Can't Help It and was a major influence on Joe Dante - chucked out almost all of George Axelrod's source play (a satire on the movie business) and replaced it with an exhilarating script that speaks its own language and takes aim at anything he fancies, starting with celebrity, corporations, conformity, marketing, materialism, Hollywood producers, TV and radio. Randall is excellent as the overnight success story wrestling variously with a tabloid nickname ("lover doll"), an oversized suit and the attentions of dozens of teenage girls, and there are two exceptional performances in support: a deliciously mannered turn from Henry Jones as a superficial executive with his own theory on success, and Joan Blondell giving a masterclass in old-style movie acting as Mansfield's world-weary secretary. Her monologue about the love of her life - a milkman-turned-movie-producer - is absolutely heart-stopping, a perfect marriage of tender sentiment and off-kilter humour. It's a definite, sorethumb-of-a-highpoint in a bright, funny film that doesn't strive for dramatic resonance too often, preferring instead to bombard the viewer with in-jokes, satiric barbs, absolute filth and moments of post-modern inspiration, as Tashlin hammers down the fourth wall like his old chum Wile E Coyote. (3.5)

***

Superman II (Richard Lester, 1980) – “You’ll believe three men and a woman can fly!” This extended advert for Marlboro cigarettes and camp villainy turns Lois into a smoker, hurls Supes (Christopher Reeve) through a branded lorry and pits our hero against a trio of baddies with the same powers as him: greasy, bearded General Zod (Terence Stamp) - who seems to have walked off the set of Carry On Superman - his missus and his henchman. The film has serious problems, lacking a consistency of tone, as original director Richard Donner’s promotion of the character’s mythos clashes with Lester’s annoying, tongue-in-cheek approach, while a vapid Lois (Margot Kidder) fails to bring anything to the movie except a nicotine addiction. But it remains a watchable – if disposable – superhero flick, thanks to good work from Reeve and Gene Hackman (as returning megalomaniac Lex Luthor), a fast-moving, pulpy storyline and a tour of some of the world’s top tourist attractions, including the Eiffel Tower – which is wired to explode by French terrorist... Richard Griffiths – and Niagara Falls. (2.5)

Twitter things: I asked whether original director Richard Donner's cut of the film was any better. Simon Underwood (@SiFoulaReel) said it was "less stupid" but "still not great", while Matt Zoller Seitz (@mattzollerseitz), TV columnist at New York Magazine, called it "a modest improvement", while acknowledging the series was "always problematic", despite being lifted by Reeve's work. Happily, we're in agreement over the majesty of Bryan Singer's bafflingly underrated Superman Returns. His superlative video essay on that oft-overlooked classic is here.

***

The Last Laugh (F. W. Murnau, 1924) – Hotel doorman Emil Jannings loses his job due to old age, and falls to pieces. This legendary silent film – which dispenses with dialogue cards altogether – is visually astounding but actually quite boring: everything happens very s-l-o-w-l-y and the performances are all completely over-the-top. There are some effective dramatic moments – enhanced by cameraman Karl Freund’s technical wizardry – but it’s not enough; particularly in a film that has an epilogue this silly. I like Murnau and admire Jannings as an actor (it's tough to feel too affectionate towards him as a man, what with him being such a MASSIVE NAZI), but this is no Sunrise or Last Command. (2)

***

*SPOILERS*
Buffalo Bill (William A. Wellman, 1944) – Mediocre biopic of the famed Indian fighter and showman (Joel McCrea), who battles eastern idiocy and romances flame-haired Maureen O’Hara, as a Native American with pigtails (Linda Darnell) looks at him through various windows. McCrea and O’Hara give it their best, but the film is poorly-paced and badly-scripted – the death of a child is mishandled dreadfully and whoever decided that a boy on crutches should stand up and yell: “God bless you, Buffalo Bill!” after the final show was frankly taking the piss. Still, Wellman does create some memorable tableaux by drawing on classic Western paintings, and the battle sequence with hundreds of horses thundering through water is very arresting. I presume Darnell was only crowbarred into this one because she was boffing producer Daryll F. Zanuck. (2)

See also: I've got a bit of a thing for Joel McCrea Westerns. Well, usually. Here are a handful of reviews: Four Faces West, The Tall Stranger and South of St Louis.

***

Kicking & Screaming (Jesse Dylan, 2005) – Abysmal Will Ferrell sports comedy that sees his put-upon vitamin salesman take over a youth football team and go head-to-head with his own dad (a braying Robert Duvall). The film has no understanding of football, narrative or characterisation, swinging randomly between mawkishness, supposed realism and desperately unfunny ‘comic’ set-pieces. There are about three jokes in the whole film, with modern comedy hero Martin Starr turning up briefly to provide one of them, sarcastically muttering “Yay!” in a coffeehouse. Bowie's son made Moon and Source Code; Dylan's did American Pie: The Wedding and this - the worst things to come out of that household since Saved. Duvall essentially reprised his performance in the similarly dreadful Four Christmases. (1)

Twitter things: I shared a bugbear, lamenting: "I wish there was a way to tell which Will Ferrell films are going to be rubbish." Damo (@Damo_24) hit back with this devastating one-two. If the reference escaped you, you've either forgotten or avoided Anchorman. Roger Armstrong (@StudioLAX) made reference to the magic of The Other Guys, my favourite Ferrell flick, but Peter Hughes (@peelyjhughes) said a very hurtful thing. Still, he is in the majority there.

See also: There is a great film called Kicking and Screaming. It's reviewed here.

Senna, Anna Friel's accent, and the dude going West - Reviews #106

Cars going vroom-vroom, Brendan Gleeson swearing and Rainn Wilson wielding a wrench, in our latest round-up of reviews. I say "our", I mean "my".



The Guard (John Michael McDonagh, 2011) – Fun comedy about a sweary, pill-popping, apparently racist provincial Irish cop (Brendan Gleeson) with his own code of ethics, and what happens when he’s asked to help an FBI agent (Don Cheadle) bust a drug-smuggling ring. The film has an irreverent if sometimes predictably contrary sense of humour – I particularly liked the taunts in the briefing and Gleeson’s “milkshake headache” – an excellent performance from its star and the odd, oddly-moving moment, even if those concessions to sentiment seem somewhat shoehorned in. It also treats its crime plot lightly, not allowing it to unbalance the film, and – having seen the various scenes that ended up on the cutting room floor – knows when to quit. It isn’t in the same league as the dazzling In Bruges, to which it’s constantly compared, but it’s a charming and amusing film, and an enjoyable way to spend an hour-and-a-half. (3)

***



The Dude Goes West (Kurt Neumann, 1948) – Thoroughly likeable Western spoof, similar in tone to the Gary Cooper classic Along Came Jones, about a bookish gunsmith (Eddie Albert) who tangles with Indians, gunmen and an endlessly-suspicious hottie (Gale Storm) after swapping Brooklyn for Arsenic City. Albert, best remembered today for his part as Gregory Peck’s mate Irving in Roman Holiday, is good value in the lead, the script is full of sly, affectionate digs at the genre – the audience discovering this alternate West alongside its hero – and there’s a superb supporting cast, including Binnie Barnes as a nefarious saloon-keeper, Gilbert Roland playing her fast-drawing henchman and, best of all, Barton MacLane – spectacular as Albert’s guardian angel, a heavy-set murderer with a price on his head. The only shortcoming is the heavy-handed score, which flags up every big gag or ominous development with unnecessary bombast. (3)

***



*SPOILERS*
Super (James Gunn, 2010) – A massive loser (Rainn Wilson) loses his wife (Liv Tyler) to a badass drug dealer (Kevin Bacon, obviously), then loses the plot, reinventing himself as a wrench-wielding superhero called The Crimson Bolt. This DIY spin on comic book mythos is truer, darker and more subversive than Kick-Ass, boosted by Wilson’s surprisingly deep, complex characterisation as a man at the end of his tether. It’s also very funny for the most part, though harmed somewhat by a troubling scene in which the excellent Ellen Page, as Wilson’s slightly unhinged kid sidekick, effectively rapes him. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be funny or sexy, but it’s neither, it’s just illegal. A shame, as the murals with tiny hands, Wilson’s hilarious catchphrases (“Shut up, crime”) and Page’s acerbic, excitable jabbering (“Unless you’re laughing at how gay it is...”) show a sharp and silly wit at work. That mystifying misstep aside, it’s a good film, with a genuine heart beating beneath all of its hilariously excessive violence. Great credits sequence too. (3)

***



*SPOILERS*
Senna (Asif Kapadia, 2010) – I was a big Senna fan as a kid and I was devastated when he died. I actually had two Senna matchbox cars in his McLaren days, because I didn’t realise that they all had his name on one side and Alain Prost’s on the other – and I thought I’d bought the Prost one by mistake, so my mum got me another (thanks Mum). Anyway, that meant they could race each other on the window-sill, so that was cool. This hagiography is exciting, engrossing and affecting, if slightly slim in scope and painting the somewhat controversial Senna as little less than a saint. I particularly liked the sequence set around his first Brazilian Grand Prix win, an extraordinary feat of endurance that sent much of his upper body into impotent spasm. We learn little of Senna’s childhood or private life and the spoken contributions are largely from journalists (the rare insights from insiders like Sid Watkins are generally far more interesting), but there’s a wealth of classic racing footage and some revealing behind-the-scenes film of the hero sticking it to that prize-one-dick-of-an-FIA-boss, Jean-Marie Balestre. Alain Prost, portrayed here as a snooty, boring and calculating hypocrite, also makes for a great villain. The final 20 minutes, dealing with Senna’s untimely death on the track at Imola, are virtually unwatchable, taking me back to that awful Sunday and walking onto the field behind our house to tell my dad that Senna was dead. (3)

***



The MatchMaker (Mark Joffe, 1997) – This much-maligned comedy is actually quite appealing in its brainless way. It’s another in the seemingly endless line of “uptight city slicker decamps to the country, is won over by its quirky charms and falls in love” movies. That classic set-up has given us I Know Where I’m Going, Local Hero and Seducing Dr. Lewis, but its increasingly formulaic sub-genre also houses all manner of mediocre and slapdash efforts. Here, filling in the blanks, it’s Boston political assistant Janeane Garofalo (in her short career as a mainstream romantic lead) who decamps to Ireland and falls in love with bartender and former journalist David O’Hara. Conflict is presented in the shape of pouty Saffron Burrows, Garofalo’s thankless task of digging up Irish roots to help win her senator an election, and her colleague Denis Leary, who looks and acts like Alastair Campbell. The title figure is Milo O’Shea, who hosts an annual match-making festival, and bets £100 that he can get Garofalo and O’Hara together.

The plotting is muddled, with contrivances so clumsily foreshadowed it's like all the characters have Donnie Darko-style tubes coming out of them, and so many threads left untied it’s difficult to keep count, while the jokes range from the genuinely offbeat and amusing to the grindingly obvious. In terms of atmosphere, there really is a crane shot of Garofalo running along by the coast, whooping and waving her arms about as the strings soar. And the film’s knowledge of traditional Celtic song is based almost entirely on Van Morrison’s album Irish Heartbeat. But I thought The MatchMaker was nice: easy to take in its meandering, sloppy way, that hoary old set-up still as winning as it ever was, the lovely scenery, gentle pace and constant, pleasant diversions compensating for a script that’s essentially a bit of a mess – perhaps because it was comprehensively re-tooled by a second writer before shooting. Garofalo is alright – I usually really enjoy her schtick, but I think she’s slightly miscast here, or else struggling with inconsistent characterisation – though it's O’Hara, O’Shea and David Kelly (who only turns up for a minute or two) who lift the spotty material. It's... cosy. (2.5)

***



Land of the Lost (Brad Silberling, 2009) – Binge-eating scientific genius Will Ferrell, leggy assistant Anna Friel and vest-wearing fireworks salesman Danny McBride find a porthole to a parallel world filled with dinosaurs, monkey men and lizard people in this resounding box-office flop. Another comic reboot of a straight ‘70s TV show, it features bizarrely amateurish special effects for a film that cost $100m, but it’s fairly funny – especially Ferrell’s delivery of dialogue – and lacks the mean-spiritedness present in too many of his collaborations with Adam McKay. I also like Friel’s voice – it’s nice to hear a Rochdale accent in a Hollywood film, even if there’s no such thing as Manchester Zoo. Rounding out the trio, McBride is less irritating than usual: I still think he’s completely talentless, but at least he tones it down a bit. It’s quite a lazy film, and there’s not much story to speak of, but as a Sunday afternoon watch it’s kind of fun. (2.5)

***



30 Rock (Season 2, 2007-8) - Mediocre second season of the somewhat overrated hit sitcom. It's not a bad show, but it isn't in the same league as Parks and Rec, Community or Party Down - perhaps because it's constantly eyeing those big ratings. The main problem is a complete lack of character development, at least until they try to cram loads of the stuff into the last episode. These are just cartoons who learn nothing. Season 2 offers nothing more than further adventures from the lives of TV show writer Tina Fey, corporate slickster Alec Baldwin, troublesome stars Tracy Morgan and Jane Krakowski, page Jack McBrayer - a toothy, deferential yes-man from the sticks - and arch nerd Judah Friedlander. There are a couple of big laughs in most episodes, and a handful of smaller ones, but there's little heart or depth, and a surprisingly amount of pointless nastiness begins to creep in by the close. The worst episode is still the first one, which Jerry Seinfeld clearly agreed to do in exchange for them letting him relentlessly promote Bee Movie. It's pretty embarrassing and I didn't come back to 30 Rock for about three weeks afterwards. Ultimately, there are no genuinely classic half-hours here, though the best moments belong to guest star Will Arnett (G.O.B. from Arrested Development), as Baldwin's gay, conniving nemesis. Matthew Broderick also has a hilarious part in the season finale, while Friedlander and Morgan are always good value - the latter consistently breathing comic life into his vain, preening, ludicrous megastar. All in all, a bit disappointing, really. (2.5)

Love, Heathers and big blue heads - Reviews #79

I've spent much of the past few weeks with my eyes glued to wonderful, wonderful Veronica Mars. 'Seen a few films though, so here they are, beginning with a couple of my favourites back from when I was feckless and 15:



Il Postino (Michael Radford, 1994) is a sweet, low-key comedy-drama detailing the improbable friendship between famed Chilean poet Pablo Naruda (Philippe Noiret) and the simple Italian postman (Massimo Troisi) who wants his help romancing a girl. The pacing is a bit off and the film borrows too liberally from Cinema Paradiso, but the performances from Noiret and Troisi simply sparkle and the collision of genuinely funny character comedy and bleak, even tragic subject matter is wonderfully realised. (3.5)

***



*MINOR SPOILERS*
Heathers (Michael Lehmann, 1988) - A couple of high school rebels dress up a series of murders as cultish suicides in this dark comedy. Perhaps you have to be sufficiently youthful to buy into it (I'm a carefree 27), perhaps I've been spoiled by Ghost World and Veronica Mars, or perhaps Daniel Waters' last word on teen flicks is just paling with age. Because Heathers isn't as sharp, spiky or amusing as I've thought on a half-dozen previous viewings. The gallery of extreme characters is there, there are some brilliant jokes ("Let's kick his ass!") and one-liners ("My teen angst bullshit has a body count"), and the soot-black premise is inherently snicker-some, but those virtues and a couple of strong lead performances from Winona Ryder and Christian Slater can't fully compensate for a confused viewpoint and a cop-out ending. Someone better go and tell the teenage me to shut up about it. (3)

***



Megamind (Tom McGrath, 2010) - A supervillain with a big blue head (voiced by Will Ferrell) accidentally kills his superhero arch-enemy (Brad Pitt) and finds that he's now massively bored. So he decides to create a new nemesis, turning immature news cameraman Hal (Jonah Hill) into the formidable Titan. DreamWorks' spin on the Despicable Me template is unexceptional but very diverting, with decent animation, good jokes and notably effective voicework from Ferrell and Hill. A very pleasant surprise. (3)

***



*I'VE QUOTED A RUDE WORD - PLEASE SKIP IF IT'S LIKELY TO OFFEND*
Separate Lies (Julian Fellowes, 2005) - A middle-class couple's picture-perfect marriage is torn apart by a mysterious death, in Fellowes' directorial debut. The story is too familiar (adapted from a 1951 novel), the dialogue is positively riddled with cliche (odd for Fellowes) and as the other man Rupert Everett gives what may be the most nondescript performance I've ever seen, but Tom Wilkinson and the incomparable Emily Watson are both extremely good, producing moments of emotional clarity and intimidating rawness amidst much tritely-scripted tedium. The moment in which Watson smashes a plate, screams and then bursts into tears is deeply affecting on an instinctive level and a scene where Wilkinson's stiff upper lip evaporates on account of some booze and he repeatedly barks "Fuck off" at his wife feels unexpectedly insightful. Terry Gilliam's Baron Munchausen, John Neville, also shines in a small part as Everett's father. The scripting of his second and final scene is so universal as to be almost banal, but his barnstorming sense of conviction lights it up. The subject matter of crime and guilt, the way in which the film abandons its thriller-ish concerns in deference to human drama and the presence of Wilkinson unfortunately recall Woody Allen's later Cassandra's Dream, though this is nothing like the career apocalypse that was. It's just a frustrating little film, loaded with overbearing symbolism (get a load of the Fellowes-does-Blue-Velvet opening), but partially rescued by a trio of impressive turns. (2)