I knew Tommy Lee Jones would be a star of some magnitude after watching him play Coley Blake, a hard-luck loser and accused murderer, in Michael Miller‘s Jackson County Jail.
An above-average exploitation flick, Jail was produced by Roger Corman and released by New World into subruns and drive-ins in the spring of ’76.
Donald E. Stewart‘s script is about a Los Angeles ad exec named Dinah Hunter (Yvette Mimieux) who’s wrongfully arrested in shitkicker country and then raped in a small-town jail cell. She and Blake break out of the slam and go on the run. It gradually becomes apparent that Blake, who wears the shell of an outlaw nihilist, carries shreds of decency and compassion.
Blake’s bitter signature line, spoken to a surly cop, is “I’ll play what’s dealt.”
Jones’ big climactic scene happens at the end of the clip (starting around 8:30). Blake is running from the law during a small-town 4th of July celebration. The cops shoot him two or three times in the back. He staggers and falls to the pavement alongside an American flag. Blake dies with a long exhalation of breath, just like Stephen Boyd‘s Messala in Ben-Hur.
When the film ended I knew right away that Jones, 29 when the film was shot, was X-factor and waiting to happen.
You can streamJackson County Jail on Amazon, but only in standard def.
If you want a fast-and-hard assessment of Quentin Tarantino‘s Once Upon A Time in Hollywood, which I attempted to convey two or three hours ago, it goes like this: Four-fifths of this half-century-old Hollywood fantasy is lightly amusing, in and out, yes and no, decent and diverting as far as it goes. But the final fifth is payoff time — a taut, time-clocky, here-we-go, edge-of-the-seat finale that is absolutely insane, exuberant, take-charge and fucking-ass nuts.
I could boil it all down and simply call the last half-hour a “happy” ending, except the craziness is so balls-out unhinged…I’m obviously having trouble describing it. I have my tastes and standards and you all have yours, but by the measuring stick of Hollywood Elsewhere the finale is really, really great. As in laugh-out-loud, hard-thigh-slap, whoo-whoo satisfying. Do I dare use the term good-vibey? And the very end (as in the last two minutes) is…naahh, that’ll do.
But most of the film (the aforementioned 80%) is what most of us would call an okay, good-enough, sometimes sluggish, oddly digressive, highly restrictive wallow in the world of B-level Hollywood at the dawn of the Nixon administration.
By which I mean OUATIH is pretty much tension-free and not all that juicy except for two brawny-fisticuff scenes involving Brad Pitt‘s Cliff Booth, a laid-back, muscle-bound, serenely cool stunt man. Take no notice of any critic who claims Pitt isn’t the star of this baby and then some. Leonardo DiCaprio‘s Rick Dalton, a late-30ish actor stuck in a career slide and freaking badly, is all nerves and anxiety, a smoker of too many cigarettes and a slurper of way too much alcohol.
Who are these guys? And how will Dalton, a fading TV actor with a backpack full of fear and trepidation, find a way out of the thicket? And what role, if any, will Booth, Rick’s sidekick, stunt man and best bruh, play in turning things around, if in fact that is in the cards?
And what about those motley, zombie-like hippie weirdos encamped at the dusty Spahn Movie Ranch out in Chatsworth, whom Cliff immediately recognizes as bad ones? And how, if at all, will Rick ever break into A-level movies and thereby rub shoulders with the likes of Roman Polanski, aka Mr. Rosemary’s Baby, and his dishy wife Sharon Tate?
I wasn’t irritated or put off by the first four-fifths but I was waiting, waiting, waiting. I was fine with it being a relatively decent, often wise-assed, sometimes hugely enjoyable attitude and atmosphere smorgasbord of period aroma, jokes, flip humor, character-building, asides and “those were the days.”
But with the exception of those two hugely enjoyable stand-up-and-kick-ass scenes (Cliff vs. Bruce Lee on a movie set, Cliff vs. the mostly-female Manson family at the Spahn ranch), all I was feeling was a kind of second-gear sensation…an “okay, okay, okay but where’s the tension, what’s with all the digressions and when the hell is this movie going to step up and kick into third if not fourth gear?”
It’s not really Once Upon A Time in Hollywood, of course, but Once Upon A Time in Quentin’s Non-Historical Hollywood Memory Kit Bag.
Elle Fanning is very animated, very Carole Lombard-ish in this just-up trailer for Woody Allen‘s A Rainy Day in New York. A complex demimonde suffused with a fizzy, peppy vibe. The games that eccentric New Yorkers or witty weekend visitors play. Sniffing around for angles and opportunity, sometimes betraying each other romantically, etc. Allen’s famously delayed romantic comedy will almost certainly debut at the Venice Film Festival, after which it’ll open commercially in Italy and other European territories.
Several top-tier critics attended Thursday night’s gala premiere of Dexter Fletcher‘s Rocketman, the Elton John musical biopic, and their reviews began to pop just before 2 am Cannes time. I’ve read four or five so far, and the general verdict seems to be that it’s less interested in rock biopic realism (i.e., who John actually was and how he found his voice) and more interested in selling the flamboyant glam aspects of John’s early career.
In short, Rocketman sounds (and please stop me if you think I’m overdoing it here) like an Elton John flick for simpletons — for superficial minds, the easily impressed and your none-too-hip iTunes purchasers of one of John’s greatest hits albums.
Before I post a couple of review excerpts, I want HE regular Bobby Peru to consider the following line from Peter Debruge’s Variety review, to wit: “It’s Taron Egerton’s voice doing most of the singing here. He’s solid, but he’s no match for Elton’s pipes.”
TheWrap‘s Steve Pond: “Bohemian Rhapsody acted like a standard biopic with concert and recording scenes thrown in, [but] Rocketman takes a wilder, bolder approach: It’s a full-fledged musical, using dozens of Elton John songs to tell his life story in a way that freely mixes reality and fantasy.
“This is a jukebox musical for the big screen, Mamma Mia! forced into a vaguely biographical form or one of the Broadway shows that use an artist’s music to tell their story, among them Jersey Boys and Beautiful: The Carole King Musical.”
“But it’s about Elton John, so that means it’s bigger, wilder, more extravagant and more excessive than those works. Sometimes that means it’s more fun, too, but it can also be a melodramatic slog when it’s not embracing the craziness of its musical numbers. And some of those numbers, to be honest, are far more diverting than others.
“As someone who hated Bohemian Rhapsody‘s factual errors, I can respect a biopic that announces from the start that it’s not to be taken seriously as an account of what actually happened. So while I struggled with a narrative that uses songs years before they were written, I know the rules of this particular game == and if what we see onscreen has a little crazy poetry in it, and it captures a bit of how things might have felt to Elton way back when, that’s all that matters.”
“Since Vietnam, every time a Democrat has won the presidency, it’s because Democrats voted with their hearts in a primary and closed ranks around the candidate who inspired them, promising an obvious break from the past and an inspiring vision that blossomed in the general election. Jimmy Carter. Bill Clinton. Barack Obama. All were young outsiders who tethered their message to the culture of the time.
“When Democrats have picked nominees cautiously and strategically falling in line, the results have been devastating, as Michael Dukakis, Al Gore, John Kerry and Hillary Clinton made plain.
“It’s not a perfect rule: While Gore and Clinton didn’t quite electrify the country, they still won the popular vote. And George McGovern was a heart candidate who got slaughtered by Richard Nixon in 1972. But the McGovern wipeout is kind of what Biden and his loyalists are clinging to: the idea that this Trump moment, like the wrenching 60s, is so existential and high stakes that Democrats will overlook their usual instincts and do the sensible thing.
“Theatrical and Irish, Biden surely is hoping that he can be a vehicle for both passion and pragmatism. But if he wins the nomination next year, it will be because Democrats went with their heads, not their bleeding hearts.
George Miller‘s Mad Max: Fury Road — a high-grade, brilliantly choreographed apocalyptic action flick — has emerged with the highest tally. Terrence Malick‘s The Tree of Life came in second, Barry Jenkins‘ overpraised Moonlight ranks third, Richard Linklater‘s Boyhood is fourth and David Fincher‘s The Social Network emerged as #5.
Of the top 20 favorites, a little less than half — Fury Road, Moonlight, Jordan Peele‘s Get Out (#10), Todd Haynes‘ Carol (#12), Spike Jonze‘s Her (#18) and Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name (#19) — could be called Joe Popcorn-friendly.
The others are studied, formidable, sophisticated, in some cases ultra-dweeby, New York Film Festival-y, non-popcorny “critics movies” such as Jonathan Glazer‘s Under the Skin (#12), Kenneth Lonergan‘s Margaret (14), Maren Ade‘s overpraised Toni Erdmann (#15), Apichatpong Weerasethakul‘s Uncle Bonmee (#16), Joshua Oppenheimer‘s The Act of Killing and Leos Carax‘s brilliant Holy Motors.
#6 through #10 are The Master (Paul Thomas Anderson), Roma (Alfonso Cuaron), Phantom Thread (Paul Thomas Anderson…get outta town!), A Separation (Asghar Farhadi…yes!) and the perfectly composed Inside Llewyn Davis (Joel Coen).
HE opinion (reposted): Moonlight is a very good film, but it was over-showered with praise by way of virtue-signalling and p.c. kowtowing. Now that the post-Twilight Zone truth about Jordan Peele has begun to settle in, Get Out‘s rep is almost certainly undergoing a reassessment.
HE’s TOP ELEVEN OF THE LAST NINE YEARS: Manchester By The Sea, A Separation, The Social Network, Zero Dark Thirty, Call Me By Your Name, Son of Saul, The Wolf of Wall Street, Leviathan, The Square, Moneyball, Diane.
From Cannes press office: On Tuesday, 5.14, Jim Jarmusch‘s The Dead Don’t Die will be screened at the opening of the 2019 Cannes Film Festival (5.14 to 5.25), and in competition — a world premiere. HE passed along a rumor about Jarmsuch’s film going to Cannes ten days ago.
It certainly matters to me if Iggy Pop is playing a zombie, but will it matter to average low-rent horror fans (i.e., the less-than-discerning types who loved It)? You have to ask this stuff.
Tell me how this official synopsis differs from George Romero‘s Night of the Living Dead (’68), except for the name of the town: “In the sleepy small town of Centerville, something is not quite right. The moon hangs large and low in the sky, the hours of daylight are becoming unpredictable and animals are beginning to exhibit unusual behaviors. No one quite knows why. News reports are scary and scientists are concerned. But no one foresees the strangest and most dangerous repercussion that will soon plague Centerville: The Dead Don’t Die — they rise from their graves and savagely attack and feast on the living — and the citizens of the town must battle for their survival.”
When Romero made his groundbreaking indie zombie film in 1968, there was an actual metaphor in play. An idea about debased or corroded human behavior somehow causing a rupture in the natural life-death cycle. Now the zombie thing is just another brand — a horror concept that became a movie and TV genre. Jarmusch being Jarmusch, I’m presuming that some kind of attempt has been made to refresh the metaphor.
World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy has been polling critics for their favorite films of the twenty-teens. So far he’s heard back from 134 critics, but is looking to poll 200 or better before posting the results next week. This morning I sent him my nine–yearrundown [after the jump] and asked how many of my picks have landed near the top of Ruimy’s best-of-the-decade list.
Ruimy’s response: “There are two films on your best-of-the-teens list that are currently in the top 10: The Social Network and A Separation. Twomoreofyourfavorites, Manchester By the Sea and Call Me By Your Name, are in the top 20. The Wolf of Wall Street is slowly climbing up. Moonlight is among the top ten, and Get Out isn’t far behind.
HE opinion: Moonlight is a good film, but was over-showered with praise by way of virtue-signalling and p.c. kowtowing. Now that the post-Twilight Zone truth about Jordan Peele has begun to settle in (i.e., that he got lucky by way of overpraise from guys like L.A. Daily News critic Bob Strauss), Get Out‘s rep is almost certainly undergoing a reassessment.
BacktoRuimy: “Out of the 134 critics that have submitted their lists thus far NONE have mentioned Zero Dark Thirty, Leviathan or The Square. Only three lists have Son of Saul, including my own. Surprisingly Moneyball is getting some decent love — it’s on five lists.
“‘It was much more acute than Barr suggested,’ said one person, who, like others, spoke on the condition of anonymity because of the subject’s sensitivity.
The New York Times‘ Nicholas Fandos, Michael S. Schmidt and Mark Mazzettifirst reported “that some special counsel investigators feel that Barr did not adequately portray their findings.
“Some members of the office were particularly disappointed that Barr did not release summary information the special counsel team had prepared, according to two people familiar with their reactions. ‘There was immediate displeasure from the team when they saw how the attorney general had characterized their work instead,’ according to one U.S. official briefed on the matter.”
When it comes to bad-boy auteur Bertrand Blier, I’ve always been slightly more enamored of Going Places (’74) than Get Out Your Handkerchiefs (’78). If someone was dumb enough to remake Handkerchiefs in the Blier style, it goes without saying that the Robespierres would give them a fairly hard time.
It actually ran into some feminist criticism 40 years ago, primarily over Blier and the sexist-klutz characters played by Gerard Depardieu (so thin!) and Patrick Dewaere relentlessly objectifying or eroticizing Carole Laure.
Wiki borrow: After four ballots, the National Society of Film Critics named it the Best Film of 1978. A disapproving People critic called this decision “downright incomprehensible.” In early ’79 Handkerchiefswon the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film.
Cohen Media Group will open a 40th anniversary 2K restoration at West L.A.’s Laemmle Royal on 4.19.19.
The Dead Don’t Die (Focus Features, 6.14) will obviously be fun, but it’s a departure and a half for Jim Jarmusch, the Godfather of east-coast, cool-cat, laid-back hipster autuerism. All I can figure is that Jarmusch decided that in the wake of Only Lovers Left Alive (which I loved) and Paterson (admired) that he wanted to make an actual hit movie for a change. The obvious template was Ruben Fleischer‘s Zombieland (’09). The cast is top-to-bottom Jarmusch types — Bill Murray, Adam Driver, Tilda Swinton, Chloë Sevigny, Steve Buscemi, Danny Glover, Caleb Landry Jones, Rosie Perez, Iggy Pop, Sara Driver, RZA, Carol Kane, Tom Waits. Allegedly locked for next month’s Cannes Film Festival.
“Captain Marvel might be the first blockbuster movie whose animating idea is fear. Every page of the script betrays terror of what people might say about the film on social media. Give Carol Danvers a love interest? Eek! No, women can’t be defined by the men in their lives! Make her vulnerable? OMG, no, that’s crazy. Feminine? What century are you from if you think females should be feminine?
“Toward the end of the movie, when a villain preparing for an epic confrontation with Carol, the fighter-pilot-turned-Superwoman, chides her that she will fail because she can’t control her emotions, there is no tension whatsoever. We’ve just spent two hours watching her be utterly unfazed by anything. Giving Carol actual emotions would, of course, lead to at least 27 people calling the film misogynist on Twitter, and the directors Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck are petrified of that.
“Just to be completely, unerringly, let’s-bubble-wrap-the-universe safe, Boden and Fleck decided to make Danvers stronger than strong, fiercer than fierce, braver than brave. Larson spends the entire movie being insouciant, kicking butt, delivering her lines in an I-got-this monotone and staring down everything with a Blue Steel gaze of supreme confidence.
“Superheroes are defined by their limitations — Superman’s Kryptonite, Batman’s mortality — but Captain Marvel is just an invincible bore. The screenplay by Boden, Fleck, and Geneva Robertson-Dworet, with a story by the three of them plus Nicole Perlman and Meg LeFauve, presents us with Brie Larson’s Carol being amazingly strong and resilient at the beginning, middle, and end. This isn’t an arc, it’s a straight line.” — from “Captain Mary Sue,” by Kyle Smith.