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Who is the real Adam Sandler? Is he the bitter, angry superstar that’s depicted in the recent Judd Apatow “dramedy” Funny People? Or is he “The Stud Boy”, the inherently goofy sidekick that stole almost every episode of MTV’s ‘80s trivia game show Remote Control? Somewhere in between Little Nicky and Punch-drunk Love, Spanglish and Happy Gilmore lies the answer, apparently. Unfortunately, the general public only seems to respond to him when he’s infantile, cartoonish, and borderline brain dead. Take The Waterboy for example. It represents one of the former SNL and stand-up’s biggest hits. It also contains one of his most insane performances ever. Yet when one looks closely at the film itself, it’s obvious why it succeeded…and it has much more to do with sports than with scatological humor.
Sandler plays Bobby Boucher, a local Louisiana bayou dimwit whose meddling mother believes that everything is “from the devil”. As a result, her aging son has led a very sheltered life. Bobby has become the ‘waterboy’ for his small town’s college football team and he thoroughly loves what he does. Even though he’s constantly mocked by the players, he vows to deliver nothing but “high quality H2O” to the guys. One day, Bobby shows off some prodigious tackling skills, and the team’s coach, desperate for something to jumpstart his squad’s fortunes, puts him on the roster. Soon, our liquid loving loser is the talk of the NCAA. He even recaptures the eye of resident bad girl Vicki Vallencourt. Still, Bobby’s momma doesn’t believe in organized sports and she’s ready to put the kibosh on his career - right before the big championship game against an arch rival, naturally.
The Waterboy is about as mainstream as Adam Sandler gets. If you discount his recent forays into family film (Bedtime Stories) and semi-serious drama (Reign Over Me), the king of goofball juvenilia is actually working rather crackpot free here. Sure, Bobby Boucher is all vocal mannerism and silent comedy composure, but the truth is that, for once, Sandler is letting the story and the situation drive the funny business. This is a standard sports movie, the last act game giving rise to all the character’s hopes, dreams, and dimensions. Without the national title on the line, Bobby’s rise in the football ranks wouldn’t matter, his coach’s vendetta with the opposing team wouldn’t count, and Mama Boucher’s ridiculous superstitions would be invalid as a plot point. But with the filmic formula in place, everything about The Waterboy takes on a far more meaningful bent.
Of course, all comedies are judged on laughs, and this movie has some good ones. Sandler really does milk Bobby’s bumbling persona, to the point where we actually think we are witnessing a real performance instead of some superstar stunt party trick. As with most of his slightly surreal creations however, our hero lapses once in a while. Good thing costars like Oscar winner Kathy Bates, ex-Fonz Henry Winkler, and the blazing Fairuza Balk are along for the ride. They remedy some of the situations where Sandler seems lost and directionless. They never drop their given guard, taking their broadly drawn caricatures to their own silly cinematic ends. As usual, they are accented by Sandler’s standard array of comic compatriot oddballs, everyone from the omnipresent Rob Schneider to Clint Howard, Blake Clark, and Allen Covert.
But the real unsung hero here is director Frank Coraci. Having worked with Sandler before on the equally efficient Wedding Singer, this is one comedy filmmaker who realizes that a real work of wit is more than just a string of clever skits stitched together with exposition. Borrowing heavily from the Rudy/Hoosiers archetype, Coraci actually gets us to care about the outcome of the game, whether Bobby will end up playing, and if his romance with Vicki Vallencourt will ever be anything more than mere “friends”. Sure, he frequently undermines his sequences with editorial and structural miscues, and he manages to wick away much of the cleverness about three-quarters of the way through, but as an example of the successful merging of athleticism and anarchy, The Waterboy works.
What doesn’t however, is the way this movie has been treated on Blu-ray. Oh sure, it looks fine. It’s not going to win any high definition awards, but it does provide a more polished, theater like transfer of the title. Similarly, the sound elements make for a more full bodied and sonically substantial experience. But where are the bonus features? Blu-ray is not just about the tech specs - it’s about utilizing all that extra disc space to plump up the product with lots of interactive trivia and tidbits. Like the recent Watchmen release, the format can function as a how-to, an exercise in insight, even a chance to clear up some long held misconceptions. But The Waterboy gets something that few thought the new fangled conceit would cotton to - a basic, barebones release. It’s a shame, really. The appreciation for the film has only grown with time. Certainly something could have been made to celebrate its staying power.
As with most Sandler movies, however, The Waterboy appears destined to be discounted as nothing more than a simple star vehicle for a once popular cultural icon, a funny man who’s since felt the need to spread his thespian wings. For some reason, amusing people are compelled to explore their darker side, and it’s not without its drawbacks. Those who liked you before hope you return to the ridiculous, while those who found your forays into drama mildly amusing slam you for going backwards. Had he continued to combine types, to take certain cinematic categories like the thriller and meld it into his particular style of satire, Sandler would still be on top. He wouldn’t have to dive between current filmmaking fads to earn his considerable keep. The Waterboy once argued for where this comedian’s career could flourish. It’s all been downhill and sideways since then.
In the most controversial scene in the equally scandalous Tropic Thunder, Australian actor turned black man Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey Jr.) tries to explain to hack action star Tugg Speedman (Ben Stiller) why his performance as the mentally handicapped character Simple Jack failed to earn him any serious professional credence. “Everybody knows you never go full retard,” says the saucy Aussie, arguing that performers who cross the border from artificial into far too real become awards season liabilities. Truth, according to Lazarus, must always be tempered with a wink of and nod to the audience.
Billy Bob Thornton would probably have a bone to pick with said sentiment. For his Oscar nominated (and eventually winning) work in Sling Blade, he was 100% committed to making his slow-witted manchild Karl Childers a real, if rather bizarre, representation of a handicap gone horrifically wrong. It’s not just that this memorable man is a murderer. It’s that Karl contains so many facets of innocence and naiveté that we wonder how he ever came to kill. The answer is part of this movie’s masterful narrative drive and personality detail.
Having been locked up in the State Institution for almost two decades, Karl is deemed to no longer represent a danger to himself or others. While facility director Jerry Woolridge would like nothing more than to let him stay, the government deems otherwise. Returning to his hometown, Karl meets up with a young boy named Frank Wheatley. He lives with his mother Linda and her abusive boyfriend, Doyle. After initially taking up residence in the back of the machine shop where he works fixing appliances and motors, Karl is invited to stay with the Wheatleys. There, he learns of Doyle hard-drinking destruction of the family. Fighting the urge to remedy the situation the same way he did several years before, Karl contains himself. But all it takes is one insensitive spark to set him off, and Doyle is, if anything, predicable with said fireworks.
Arriving out of nowhere to become the buzz of 1996, Sling Blade brought then mostly unknown actor/writer/director Billy Bob Thornton to mainstream prominence. His feature length treatment of a formerly short film project propelled him to the A-list of hyphenated talents, trumping almost all the work he had done for the decade before. From 1986’s Hunter’s Blood through Chopper Chicks in Zombie Town, Thornton struggled. But his co-starring and co-scripting duties on Carl Franklin’s cult phenomenon One False Move proved that there was more to this musician turned thespian than genre schlock. By the time Some Folks Call it a Sling Blade was turned into a major motion picture, Thornton had Childers down pat. Allowing the rest of his cast to be as natural and organic as possible gave the unlikely hero of this post-modern Southern Gothic a chance to be as arc and allegorical as possible.
Indeed, one has to remember that Karl represents more than evil returning to the town of its source. He’s not just some brain damaged delinquent who’s unsure of his own sinister edge. As Thornton writes him, Karl is in complete control of his faculties. He’s just slow and insular, lost in the wounded, wicked world he creates inside himself. He knows right from wrong, but he also understands that, sometimes, morality plays no part in one’s personal duty. From the killing of his momma when he was a kid to the constant threat he appears to represent, Karl is karma, humanized and humbled.
We can see the how the horrid Doyle Hargraves becomes the latest target of his internal ethical dilemma. Karl just wants to protect new found friends Frank and Linda Wheatley. But this is one simpleton who sees beyond the basics. He realizes what someone like Doyle does to people. It’s not just that he brings out the worst - this is one angry, antisocial monster. It’s a revelatory move to make the former murderer the good guy in your faraway fairytale. Frank and Linda should be afraid of Karl, but his implied cruelty is nothing compared to the nastiness they already know. Thornton never turns his creation into something horrific. Instead, Karl becomes honor, the voice of violent reason in a situation otherwise structured on clichéd concepts of loyalty and flawed gender politics.
As an actor, Thornton is terrific. He never once falsifies who Karl is. From the voice pattern to the physicality of the man, this is someone we believe can and does exist - even within the surreal dynamic he seems to inhabit. Still, as the commentary track on the recently released Blu-ray version of the title reveals, Thornton was working on the character for years. It was kind of a catharsis for him, a way to totally get lost in a personality and then running with the foreign feeling identity. Lots of actors have done it before, with or without going “full retard”, but the truth is that Thornton’s turn remains more than great. It’s iconic, that celluloid rarity destined to live on long after he’s been forgotten as a part of film.
And his eye for supporting casts is equally clever. The late great John Ritter shines as a gay man quietly maintaining his dignity in a known den of bigotry, and Natalie Canerday is equally good as the mother who must balance the needs of her kid with the kind of support someone like Doyle can represent. Robert Duval’s devastating cameo as Karl’s impoverished dad and Lucas Black’s beautiful turn as Frank finds Thornton leading an undeniably talented group of performers. But it’s Dwight Yoakum who’s the real visceral epiphany here. The honky-tonk hero, a country icon indebted to the good time vibe of Buck Owens and the streets of Bakersfield, he’s the dictionary definition of a villain. Doyle is not just a man who answers issues with the back of his hand. He’s someone who doesn’t care that this is all he’s capable of. Call it a power play or a coward’s way out, but he’s that undeniable force of fear that everyone has to contend with - everyone except Karl, that is.
With Thornton’s keen eye and Daniel Lanois’ laconic musical score, Sling Blade provides a level of dread and anticipatory suspense into what is already a classic character study. Indeed, this is one of the few multi-genre successes, working well within the categories of drama, comedy, thriller, and mystery. It’s an ensemble where one man is clearly the main focus, a tour de force where everyone gets to share in the critical praise. Thornton would go on to a rollercoaster career in Hollywood, courting success and scandal as only the truly gifted and incorrigible can. No one can take away what he did with Sling Blade. In fact, he can make a million Armageddons and a bunch of Bad News Bears and still not tarnish this terrific film. Whether or not it takes mental deficiencies too far, one thing’s for certain - Thornton triumphs in an arena where few of his colleagues have excelled. Sling Blade is the exception that defies the rule.
They lived on opposite sides of the planet, at roughly the same time, and never met. In their lifetimes (one is now dead) each became an acknowledged and influential master in his chosen form of storytelling, and even though their media, social contexts and biographies were worlds apart, the early work of each artist bears striking similarities: they shared a melancholy, darkly humorous, and peculiarly bleak vision of character, story, and life.
After a lifetime in manga—from being a precocious, published artist before he was 15, to becoming known as the “godfather” of an entire style of storytelling—Yohihiro Tatsumi finally gained a significant profile in the West with the publication of four books over the past few years.
Starting in 2005, Canada’s Drawn and Quarterly published three collections of Tatsumi’s short stories, representing work from 1969 to 1972, and a massive memoir that covers his life and work in manga up to 1960.
Represent a fraction of his output, the four books shed light on a fascinating genre of manga, and reveal an avenue of storytelling with connections to the greatest modern short fiction.
The rap against remakes is simple - it’s been done before…and usually better. So there’s no need to do it again, right? Sure, Hollywood currently tries to sidestep such suggestions by using words like “reimagining”, but the truth is, the original source material for most revamps is better, more arresting, and more interesting than their updated counterpart. This is especially true of Nature’s Grave. A virtual shot for shot redo of the amazing 1978 Australian thriller Long Weekend, this story of man vs. nature was one of the most disturbing, unsettling fright films of the last three decades. In its new, “improved” version, also scripted by Weekend scribe Everett De Roche, we have the same themes of environmentalism, ecology, and the eventual retaliation of a pissed-off animal populace. Sadly, the casting choices and name behind the lens all but sinks this redux’s potential success. After all, it was already done before…and much, much better.
Peter and Carla are a married couple who’ve been through a rather rough patch, relationship-wise. He’s apparently just broken off an ongoing affair, while she’s had an abortion, the result of her own secret sexual indiscretions. Hoping a long weekend by the sea will rekindle their love, they pack up the Range Rover and head out to parts of Australia unknown. Hoping to eventually meet some friends at a remote campsite, the pair gets lost almost immediately. After spending a night in the car, they eventually reach their destination. Right off the bat, things do not go well for our duo. She hates the wilderness and he’s too busy playing macho outdoorsman to care. Then odd things start happening. Animals start attacking. A strange shape in the water eerily floats by. Nights are filled with peculiar noises. Days are filled with confrontations and fear. Before long, both want to leave this long weekend away from the city. But nature has other ideas about what to do with these two.
Nature’s Grave violates one of the first rules of remakes - if you’re not going to be as good, or try to improve on, what came before, you really shouldn’t bother. In the 1978 original, a menacing John Hargreaves drove a dowdy Briony Behets to the point of hysterics with his flailing false bravado and cruel carelessness. While neither actor was Shakespearean in quality, the appeared real and authentic, looking like typical Australians about to have the worst extended holiday ever. In this unnecessary update, James Caviezel proves conclusively that playing Jesus Christ convincingly is his sole cinematic quality. He is bad here - slipping in and out of accents, either inert or frenzied in how he approaches a particular scene. Perhaps Urban Legend director Jamie Blanks thought that making Peter as unstable as the surrounding wilderness was a wise idea. Or maybe, Caviezel is just that limited of a performer. He sure does love walking around shirtless, however.
Whatever the case, we never take Peter’s side here. We never feel he’s been slighted or hurt. When he is attacked by an eagle, or threatened by an unknown object in the water, we don’t hope for his safety. Instead, we pray for his death. In the original film, both characters were seen as victims first, possible provocateurs second. But with Blanks desire to tweak everything about Long Weekend for his own motives, our hero goes from complicated to criminal to just plain crazy, while Claudia Karvan’s Carla is part scream queen, part shrew. It’s a one note turn - constantly looking at her husband as a threat, this clearly troubled woman wants very little to do with anything except herself. We never really connect with her inner pain, fail to see why she would stay with this man after the history (and personal horrors) she’s encountered. And yet unlike Long Weekend, which seemed to suggest something significant between the couple, Blanks contains them within a recognizable horror/thriller mold.
As for the director himself, he fails a few of the fright flick basics. He drains all the tension out of the set-up by steering his cast into nearly comic areas of aggression. He telegraphs his dread, offering one too many POV shots of the couple setting up camp. His location is lovely, almost breathtaking in its beauty, and yet there are few extended shots which allow us to feel the scope of Peter and Carla’s isolation. We always feel like our couple is sitting somewhere in an Australian National Park, not some vast unholy wilderness. Granted, toward the end, when bodies begin to pop up and death has to be dealt with, Blanks shows why he was brought onto the project. The ending specifically amplifies the nastiness of the original. But Blanks stumbles more than he succeeds. It’s as if he was so determined to be reverential that he forgot about the reinvention.
Indeed, that’s Nature’s Grave‘s biggest problem - if you seen Long Weekend, you’ve seen this film. Nothing Blanks or Caviezel or Karvan bring to the update expands on our appreciation or enjoyment of the first film, and since writer Everett De Roche has kept each and every original plot point intact, there are no new surprises or twists. There will be those that argue that the real intention of this remake is to give fans that may have missed the movie the first time around another opportunity to see it, only this time in a “new and improved” setting. And it has been 31 years since the late Colin Eggleston unleashed his vision on a mostly uncaring world. But again, mere repetition is not going to earn you an entertainment excuses. You will live - and die - by how faithful you are to the source, or how fresh you approach is. Sadly, Nature’s Grave is neither. It wants to update the whole man vs. nature dynamic for a post-millennial age. Instead, it further fuels the always dicey original vs. remake debate.