Every so often I’ll be posting a short, catch-as-catch-can video on HE plus instead of the usual 350-word post. The first one is after the jump. Today I had nothing to share except for (a) a slight feeling of trepidation about Captain Marvel, which will screen at the Arclight an hour from now, and (b) a concern about how to honestly review Triple Frontier (which I saw Sunday night but can’t post about until early Wednesday morning) without getting into spoiler territory.
I also have to figure a way to light myself without my glasses giving off that intense reflective glare. Video essays of this type are all about lighting — having something to say helps also.
A Kino Lorber Bluray of John McNaughton and Richard Price‘s Mad Dog and Glory pops this week. Beautifully written, superbly acted, and 27 years old. Shot by Robby Muller and cut to perfection — one of my all-time favorite ’90s films. And perfectly scored. The kind of film that big studios abandoned ages ago — the intelligent, adult-angled, middle-budget dramedy. Smooth and deft and finessed just so, and with a theme that adds up and makes sense.
Everybody looks so young in this thing. Robert De Niro, 49 during filming but looking more like 41 or 42, is Wayne, a.k.a. “Mad Dog” — a timid, lonely Chicago cop who specializes in forensics and crime-scene photographs. Bill Murray, 42 at the time, is Frank “the money store” Milo, a Chicago mob guy who becomes a big brother and “friend” of Wayne’s after the latter saves his life.
David Caruso, 36, was never better as Mike, a fellow cop and Wayne’s best friend. And Uma Thurman, 22, delivered one of her best early-phase performances as Glory, a cocktail waitress who falls in love with Wayne (and vice versa) after Frank (“the expediter of your dreams, pal”) brings them together.
Murray is a tough loan shark who’s a lot like Murray in many ways, just not internally. He’s angry and doesn’t really like himself or his friends or his life. He wants to be somewhere else. He’s seeing a therapist to try and deal with the hostility, and he performs a stand-up comedy routine at a place called the Comic-Kaze Club, which he owns. But he doesn’t want to lose the gangster life either.
Frank and Wayne’s connection begins when Wayne — joshingly called “Mad Dog” by his cop pals — saves Frank’s life during a grocery store holdup by calming down a jittery holdup man and sending him away without bloodshed.
Frank is initially appalled (“You’re a cop?”), but the next evening, realizing what Wayne actually did and starved for a friend, Frank tries to reciprocate by getting friendly over drinks. The next day he sends Glory, who works at the Kamikaze Club, over to Wayne’s place, the idea being for her to stay with him and take care of whatever for seven days.
The wrinkle comes when Wayne and Glory fall in love, and Wayne decides he doesn’t want her being Frank’s “favor girl” any longer. But Frank won’t let her go (Glory has offered her services in order to save her brother from being killed over a debt) unless Wayne coughs up $40K…fat chance.
The theme of the film is, basically, “no guts, no glory.” That sounds like macho crap, but it’s well sold.
I don’t know where Price’s script ends and Murray’s improvs begin, but Mad Dog and Glory is full of little Murray doo-dads. There’s his lounge-lizard rendition of “Knock Three Times,” crooned at the beginning of a tense scene. His addressing De Niro as “ossifer” (a term I hadn’t heard since I was a kid in New Jersey). The way he holds an air bugle to his lips and does a cavalry-charge bugle sound when De Niro’s cop friends come to his rescue at the finale.
There’s a scene in a diner in which Frank’s intellectually challenged top goon, Harold (Mike Starr), who’s sitting nearby with a supermarket tabloid, points at a middle-aged man sitting at the counter and whispers to Milo, “Hey, Frank? Isn’t that Phil Donahue?” A shot of the guy in question proves otherwise. Murray half turns in his seat and says, “Put the magazine down, Harold, before you hurt yourself.”
Consider the melancholy in Murray’s eyes after his fight scene with De Niro at the finish. This is a bright, sometimes funny guy who wants out and knows he won’t get there. He pulls a loose tooth out of his mouth, gestures at the gaudy Cadillac he’s sitting in and the gorillas he’s riding with, and says with a look of pure disgust, “This is my life .”
And Caruso’s Mike is his best feature-film riff ever. Mike is a sarcastic hardass, but a good man and loyal to the end. He has a bravura scene in which he faces down a bigger guy in a bar over a domestic abuse issue (the basher is another cop) and makes him back off. It’s a total classic. You can see why he had a lot of heat coming off this.
The film also has a couple of great Louis Prima tracks (“Just a Gigolo,” “That Old Black Magic”) that turned me into a fan.
Wayne: It’s the first time I pulled out my gun in 15 years. I pissed on myself. Mike: You know why? Because you’re a sensitive, intelligent indivdual. Wayne: You ever piss yourself? Mike: Look, I woulda walked in there and drilled the rat-eyed little bastard, and that’s just the way I am. On the other hand, if I ever had an intelligent thought it would die of loneliness so it all evens out, you know what I mean? (pause) Look, if it ever happens again…? The best thing is sex. You’re all adrenalized? You go off like a rocket. If it was me, I’d be on the phone with every girl I knew [that] wasn’t related by blood. Listen, don’t kid yourself — that was balls-up what you last night.
I’ve added John Crowley‘s The Goldfinch and Dee Rees‘ The Last Thing He Wanted. A follow-up to a 3.2 HE riff. 11 films so far. Again, what am I missing? Don’t mention Todd Haynes‘ Dry Run — began shooting five or six weeks ago, might not be ready, who knows?
The question now is where are the downmarket Joe Popcorn genre films that might be nominated — i.e., 2020 versions of Bohemian Rhapsody, Black Panther, etc.
1. Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman (Netflix, sometime in October) — A mob hitman recalls his possible involvement with the slaying of Jimmy Hoffa. (Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, Joe Pesci, Jesse Plemons).
2. Quentin Tarantino‘s Once Upon A Time in Hollywood (Sony, 7.26) — A faded TV actor and his stunt double embark on an odyssey to make a name for themselves in the film industry during the Helter Skelter reign of terror in 1969 Los Angeles. (Leonardo DiCaprio, Brad Pitt, Margot Robbie, Al Pacino).
3. Marielle Heller‘s A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood — The story of Fred Rogers, the honored host and creator of the popular children’s television program, Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. (Tom Hanks, Matthew Rhys, Susan Kelechi Watson, Tammy Blanchard)
4. Greta Gerwig‘s Little Women (Sony, 12.25) — Four sisters come of age in America in the aftermath of the Civil War. (Florence Pugh, Timothée Chalamet, Emma Watson, Saoirse Ronan)
5. Jay Roach‘s Fair and Balanced (Lionsgate) — Fox honcho Roger Ailes and sexual harassment allegations that resulted in his resignation. (Charlize Theron, Nicole Kidman, Margot Robbie, John Lithgow, Allison Janney, Kate McKinnon, Malcolm McDowell, Mark Duplass)
6. Kasi Lemmons‘ Harriet (Focus Features) — A feminist 12 Years A Slave, based on the story of freedom fighter Harriet Tubman (Cynthia Erivo), her escape from slavery and subsequent missions to free dozens of slaves through the Underground Railroad in the face of growing pre-Civil War adversity. Cynthia Erivo, Janelle Monae, Joe Alwyn, Deborah Ayorinde, Clarke Peters, Leslie Odom Jr., Tory Kittles, Vondie Curtis-Hall.
In the summer of ’85 I served as unit publicist on Stephen Herek‘s Critters (4.11.86), a New Line sci-fi horror-comedy. It was a reasonably decent effort as far as tongue-in-check horror spoofs went, but nothing to actually write home about. My credit is at the very, very bottom of the cast and crew list — the very last guy.
I managed to persuade two or three journalists to come out and write stories. And I wrote the press kit, of course.
Critters was primarily filmed in a hilly, grassy area of Valencia, two or three miles southwest of Magic Mountain. A movie-set farmhouse and a barn had been built there.
Every couple of days I would drive out to the set and shoot the shit with the crew and buddy up with the cast. I was especially friendly with costars M. Emmet Walsh and Billy Greenbush. Greenbush reminded me of my paternal grandfather — the vibe between us was settled and relaxed. Weeks later Walsh hired me to engineer his campaign for Best Supporting Actor for Blood Simple. He wound up winning a Best Supporting Actor trophy from the Spirit Awards.
I remember the night that the main farmhouse was blown to smithereens. It was supposed to happen around 10 or 11 pm, but technical issues intruded. Then it was supposed to be midnight. And then 1 am. It finally happened just before dawn. Everyone who wanted to see it stayed up the whole damn night. I drove home with the morning rush-hour traffic.
Critters cost $3 million to make and earned $13,167,232 — a hit. There were four Critters films in all. 16 year-old Leonardo DiCaprio made his film debut in Critters 3 (’91), directed by Kristine Peterson.
Not everyone lives to be 80 or 85 or 90. Poor Luke Perry only made it to the two-thirds mark, or his early 50s. The shocked reaction is over a feeling that Perry was, in a sense, a perennial 20something, as 90% of those who knew him are referencing Dylan KcKay in Beverly Hills 90201. The rest are thinking about Fred Andrews on Riverdale.
Perry never made his mark in films, never costarred with Tom Cruise or Meryl Streep or Clint Eastwood or Sigourney Weaver, never appeared in a success d’estime or Oscar contender. But he was “Luke Perry”.
What does everyone think when somebody famous dies? What caused it, were drugs or booze a factor, what was he doing that was wrong or reckless?…maybe I can avoid the same fate. But sometimes it’s just bad cards.
I’m thinking of Richard Conte‘s Tony Bergdorf in the original Ocean’s11, keeling over from a heart attack on the Las Vegas strip. A World War II vet, only 38 or 39 years old. Tomorrow is promised to no one.
As far as nausea and revulsion are concerned, I didn’t think anything could top the descriptions of Michael Jackson‘s predatory sexual behavior in the first half of Leaving Neverland, which premiered tonight on HBO. Then I read the Twitter reactions, at least half of which are rank with denial in Jackson’s favor. An awful lot of sick puppies out there. New Orleans filmmaker: “Horrifying, sickening, disturbing. What a fucking monster.”
I happened to notice a Larry Karaszewski tweet about cartoonists Drew Friedman and R. Crumb. I’ll always feel indebted to Friedman for that Last Action Hero/Arnold Schwarzenegger drawing which appeared in Spy sometime in the fall of ’93. It’s been hanging, framed, on my living room wall for over two decades. [I last posted about Friedman in March ’14.]
A friend reminded me earlier today about Stewart Raffil‘s High Risk, a low-budget action thriller about “four naive Americans, in need of easy cash, deciding to fly to Colombia and raid the safe of a notorious drug lord with connections to the corrupt military regime.” I’ve never seen this 1981 film, but it’s playing for free right now on YouTube. My friend’s point was that J.C. Chandor‘s Triple Frontier, which I’ll be seeing around 7 pm this evening, is an upmarket version of High Risk. Give Raffill credit for at least assembling a fairly decent cast — James Brolin, Anthony Quinn, Lindsay Wagner, James Coburn, Ernest Borgnine, Bruce Davison and Cleavon Little.
Almost exactly two years ago the SRO and I visited Chez Jay, the legendary dive-bar eatery on Ocean Avenue. It was still noisy as hell and the service faintly sucked, but the entrees were still delicious. The faintly grubby aura, reddish lighting, checked tablecloths, peanut shells on the floor, banners on the wall, thunky-sounding music system — walk through the front door and you’re Marty McFly in 1971.
Chez Jay has been one of those lowdown, cool-cat, special-vibe places since ’59, and of course will be celebrating its 60th year in business sometime later this year. Very few Los Angeles establishments feel this time-machiney. The name of the place is “I like it like that.”
[Originally posted on 3.12.17.] “I somehow managed to afford dinner there two or three times during my Los Angeles lost-weekend period in the mid ’70s, or right before I drove back east to work at becoming a film writer. This was when Chez Jay was a serious celeb haunt. Jack Nicholson (sporting the tight curly hair perm that he wore for The Fortune) and Lou Adler and a couple of women had the back-booth table one night; I spotted a flannel-shirt-wearing Jeff Bridges during another visit.
“I knew Jay Fiondella, the owner-founder and sometime actor, very slightly back then; every time I ran into him I’d mention how much I liked John Flynn‘s The Outfit (’73), in which he played a poker player who gets held up by Robert Duvall and Joe Don Baker.
I read Paul Theroux‘s “The Mosquito Coast” two or three years before Peter Weir‘s 1986 screen adaptation, which has a reputation today (among the few who even remember it) of being a grimly fascinating tale of obsession and neuroses, and particularly one that failed at the box office.
But I’ve never forgotten “four o’clock in the morning courage,” an Allie Fox phrase (actually stolen from something Napoleon Bonaparte once said) that Theroux used once or twice during the novel’s first half.
Ever since that phrase sunk in, I’ve been telling myself that the realmoversandshakers in life are those who can hop out of bed at 4 am (or any hour when it’s still dark) and man up and drill into the task at hand. Losers stay in bed and huddle until the break of dawn — winners wash their faces, put their boots on and face whatever adversity may be waiting. The world is forthefew.
All my life I’ve been waking up at 6:30 or 7 am at the latest, going back to junior high school. But since falling and bruising my back a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been snoozing until 8 or even 9 am. Partly because my body needs the rest and rehab, and partly because I always wake up around 3 or 4 am, surf Twitter for a couple of hours, and then go back to sleep at 6 am or so.
The only thing I really liked about Barry Levinson‘s The Natural was the handsome face, sandy blonde hair and trim, athletic bod of Robert Redford, who was 46 during filming. (His mythical character, Roy Hobbs, was around 34 in Bernard Malamud’s 1952 source novel.) And….all right, in some ways Levinson generated hints of that good old yesteryear baseball vibe, that “time of simplicity and innocence” feeling that guys of a certain age feel a special rapport with or longing for.
Other than these two elements I didn’t believe (or even want to believe) a single frame in this damn film, and in fact came to hate the way Levinson constantly underlined, flaunted, mythologized. If he had only had the discipline to play it straight and real and low-key, but no.
And I’m speaking as a lover of baseball games. I adore sitting alongside the first or third-base lines and smellingthegrassandthesoil. And as a worshipper of certain baseball films — Moneyball, Bull Durham, Field of Dreams, For The Love of the Game, The Rookie, The Battered Bastards of Baseball, etc.
Seriously — fuck The Natural. That awful triumphant-hero music, the way Glenn Close is lighted in the bleachers, Darren McGavin‘s grotesque villain with the glass eye, etc.
I was driving west on Sunset and singing “Honky Cat” with all the skill and deep-down feeling I could muster. Well, I wasn’t actually “singing” as much as singing along with Elton John, but I was holding my end up. I can sing pretty well when I’m in the right mood, and the notes were all within my range and my phrasing and voice control were pretty good if I do say so myself.
So there I was as I approached the Bel Air gate, cruising in Elton heaven. It was sometime in the mid-summer of ’83, a week or two after I’d moved to Los Angeles to work at The Hollywood Reporter, and all seemed right with the world.
