Two hours and 35 minutes of dour, dark neo-cannibalism and hopelessness along a long “road” leading to nowhere, or 155 entertaining as Hell minutes of CG shit blowing up.
2012
Cast: John Cusack, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Amanda Peet, Thandie Newton, Oliver Platt, Danny Glover
(Columbia Pictures; US theatrical: 13 Nov 2009 (General release); UK theatrical: 13 Nov 2009 (General release); 2009)
Get ready people! In less than 24 hours, Roland Emmerich is going to offer up his latest version of the end of the world as we know it - and you should feel mighty fine about seeing it (especially on a big ole movie screen). Sure, it’s silly, stupid, schlocky, clichéd, formulaic, flawed, unintentionally hilarious, and lacking any real artistic merit, but at the end of the day, what do you really want - two hours and thirty-five minutes of dour, dark neo-cannibalism and hopelessness along a long “road” leading to nowhere, or 155 entertaining as Hell minutes of CG shit blowing up! Thought so.
Anyway, before you ramble into your local Cineplex and plop down this month’s mortgage payment on amusement and concessions, there are a few preemptive things you need to know about this latest take on the genre. According to the Mayan Calendar, everything ends on 12/21/2012. They foresaw it and forewarned us. For our part, early explorers wiped out their advanced culture. Indeed, perhaps the first thing you need to know is that, once name checked, the ancient civilization responsible for the title is tossed aside like so much stale bread to make room for more and more scenes of LA getting obliterated. In fact, like that equally unapologetically ‘so bad, it’s brilliant’ example of disaster porn - The Core - once we get the premise in place, it’s time to start screwing with the planet.
While there may be some minor Spoilers ahead, don’t fret - nothing said here will ruin your fanatical desire to see huge tsunamis break over mountains or aircraft carriers slam into the White House (you have seen the trailers…right?). In fact, the purpose of this little piece is to give you a few insights into what makes Emmerich tick - and why his movie are so mind-bogglingly satisfying…in a wholly guilty kind of way. After all, this is the man who once tried to verify ancient astronauts with Stargate, and who strove to outdo Al Gore in the environmentalist department with The Day After Tomorrow. Clearly, he’s not sane, but this is one director who knows how to deliver the ample Armageddon goods. Let’s start with the little sun spot rascals who get us into this ‘three years and counting’ mess:
Neutrinos SUCK!
That’s right - according to the film, our galaxy’s oversized ball of luminous gas will belch out a massive blast of these radioactive particles, sending them down into the Earth’s crust where they will act as microwaves - and for anyone who’s tried to bite into a post-nuked Hot Pocket before it’s cooled down, the hyper-sizzling results spell doom and gloom for the planet.
Little Kids SUCK!
John Cusack plays a disinterested dad who has two of the most generic children in the history of Central Casting. Not to be outdone, a rich Russian billionaire has two twin terrors who look like transvestite members of the former East German Women’s Olympic Team (sans the athletic prowess). Naturally, these bratlings spend inordinate amounts of time whining, crying, and demanding help. Typical. Can’t they see that the Earth’s crust is cracking and shifting? Always “ME, ME, ME, ME…”
Washington Bureaucrats SUCK!
Oliver Platt plays someone associated with the President who can apparently make any Executive Branch decision imaginable with little or no consultation with his boss, the Congress, or members of Fox News’ management. Naturally, he decides to turn the Earth’s survival plan into an auction among the Who’s Who of international uber-rich riff-raff. And we wonder why nothing ever gets done in D. C.
Conspiracy Theorist Radio Talk Show Hosts are a Wealth of Expositional Information!
Thank god for Woody Harrelson’s extended cameo as a wacked out broadcaster who knows just about everything regarding the 2012 apocalypse - who predicted it, why it is happening, how he will deal with it, how Cusack should deal with it, and where the world’s government is hiding its secret surplus of rescue “ships”. Passengers have to pay $1 billion Euros to gain such informational access. All John Cusack has to do is listen to the wingnut rant for about ten minutes. Who got the better deal?
Vesuvius and Pompeii Ain’t Got Nothing on Yellowstone!
About 45 minutes in, we learn that one of our most famous National Parks is actually a dormant volcano waiting to blow - and when it finally does, the unbridled amount of carnage and damage is stunning. Ancient Rome had nothing on the good old U.S. or A. Of course, it figures that when it comes to all out desolation of the world’s population, America would be the one to excel.
Even God Has a Sense of Humor!
While he chose to spare Mecca (yep - Emmerich actually thought about leveling Allah’s favorite hot spot - and then living Salam Rushdie style - before cooler heads prevailed), St. Peter’s Basilica gets demolished - right in the middle of a prayer vigil for the planet. The best moment? Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling depiction of the Creator and his creation gets split down the middle - right in between the two outreached fingers. Talk about portents of hopelessness. Even the Big Guy is baling on mankind!
Nobody Cares About India - But They Do Care About Art!
Who cares if you make up one-sixth of the world’s population (and about 78% of corporate community’s IT and customer service and tech support)? If you live anywhere between Kashmir and Tamil Nadu, you’re screwed. No one is coming to rescue you, not even if you are instrumental in warning everyone about the impending apocalypse. So just suck it up and drown. Of course, if you are the Mona Lisa or any number of famous canvases and sculptures, you get a one-way first class ticket to rescue ark redemption.
How to Be the World’s Best Selling Author? Be the Last One Alive!
John Cusack moonlights as a limo driver because his last novel sold a whopping 400 copies. Yet chief US scientist Chiwetel Ejiofor loves the tome, and brings it along with the rest of his effects once Armageddon comes knocking. The result - Cusack becomes an instant literary hero, and the book’s physical presence among the last artifacts of human civilization guarantees him a “bigger than Oprah” push come eventual republication.
Get that Low Cost African Real Estate NOW!
Don’t ask, since the remaining continents get swamped by a tidal wave that almost completely covers Mt. Everest. We do eventually learn that this new waterworld’s mythic “dry land” is actually the world’s second-largest and second most-populous soon to be gated subdivision. While dealing with the less than 400K survivors looking for affordable housing might not be a problem, the indigenous peoples might not be putting out the Welcome Wagon quite so quickly. Something about several hundred years of colonialization and exploitation…
The Apocalypse Cures Bed Wetting!
“No more Pull-ups…”, perhaps the greatest last line in an overblown disaster movie…ever! (Oh, and if it is indeed not the last line, it should be.)
The best horror films become iconic for several reasons. They offer up monsters or murderers who are insidiously memorable. They provide violence and visions of death that chill the very marrow in your bones. They provide a sense of dread that lingers long under your skin. And they provide nightmare (and daydream) fodder for days to come. They also thrive on the aural aspect of the genre, given over to thunderclaps and banshee shrieks, guttural growls and creaky wooden doors. There’s also the music - eerie, unnerving sounds that shiver the soul while suggesting the creepshow content within. Now Silva Screen Music has put together a four CD, 60 track set of some of the greatest horror (and sci-fi) movie themes of all time. While the title considers this compilation “definitive”, there are definitely some gaps (and gasps…and gaffs) along the way.
Setting itself up to work backwards chronologically, we begin with the rather uninspired selection of 2009 - 2001. There we see such unusual choices as the gorgeous “Eli’s Theme” from the Swedish masterpiece Let the Right One In and the equally sublime “The Labyrinth” from Guillermo Del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth. There’s Sunshine‘s ambient “Adagio in D Minor” and another Danny Boyle selection, “In the House - In a Heartbeat” from the edgy 28 Days Later. But then we have to put up with the syrupy tripe known as Twilight (“Edward at Her Bed (Bella’s Lullaby)”) as well as the oddly out of place cinematic cheerleading of the “Main Theme” for The Mummy Returns. Again, when put up against Drag Me to Hell (“End Titles (Original Version)”) or “This is Going to Hurt” from The Ring, something like “Roar” (From Cloverfield) or “King Kong Suite” (from Peter Jackson’s remake) seems odd.
It’s a sticky situation that remains throughout most of the remaining discs. 1999-1984 will provide glimpses of genius like “Suite” from Hellraiser or “Dance of the Witches” from The Witches of Eastwick alongside more Mummy nonsense (“The Sand Volcano/Love Theme”), a dose of disco-fied drek (the main theme for They Live, not one of John Carpenter’s best), and the thoroughly action-oriented “Prelude/Ripley’s Rescue” from Aliens. Of course, many of the same melodic cues were used when Hellraiser II: Hellbound was conceived, so including that here seems redundant, and both the main theme from Predator and “The Carousel/End Titles” from The Haunting are less than memorable indeed. In fact, when one thinks about the 15 years represented on this CD, of the myriad of horror movies made during this time, the exclusions make the inclusions all the more questionable.
At least the next disc, 1983 - 1977 gets its mostly right. The first eight tracks alone - “Main Theme”: Nightmare on Elm Street; “Bad to the Bone”: Christine, “Main Theme"s from Poltergeist, The Thing, Halloween II and The Fog, “The Gallery”: Dressed to Kill, and “Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta” from The Shining all live up to the collection title hype. Even later on, the original Halloween theme, as well as selections from Phantasm, Suspiria, and The Fury, fill out the musical mandates of what makes for memorable horror movie scoring. It almost makes up for the languid elusiveness of “Main Theme/The Storm” from the Frank Langella version of Dracula, or the shockingly silly material used in the sequel to one of the greatest films of all time, The Exorcist (Exorcist II: The Heretic‘s “Regan’s Theme.)
Naturally, the biggest leap comes with the fourth CD. There, instead of traveling back six, fifteen, or eight years, we go from 1976 to 1922 - five and a half decades! There’s just no way any anthology, no matter how smartly put together, can cover over half a century of horror. Indeed, the missing material from some of the best ‘50s schlock is all but absent, as is a great deal of what some would call “classic” fright night selections. Sure, we get Nosferatu (“Overture”), Bride of Frankenstein (“Creation of the Female Monster”), and Dracula (“Main Title/Finale”), and Horrors of the Black Museum is a nice treat. But suddenly we jump to the original Haunting (“The History of Hill House”), Rosemary’s Baby (“Lullaby”) and Taste the Blood of Dracula (“The Young Lovers/ Ride to the Ruined Church”). Granted, you can’t deny the evil majesty of “Tubular Bells”, or “Ave Satan” from The Omen, but instead of expanding the set another couple of discs, covering so much content in such a small dose is disrespectful to the genre and the art of film composition.
Still, for its many misgivings and missteps, The Definitive Horror Music Collection is a heady hit or miss treat. There’s no getting around the fact that many of these movie moments have become part of the social fabric, that when we hear the discordant notes of the Halloween theme, or the demonic menace of the Hellraiser scores, we can’t help but be whisked back to the seminal scary sequences from each film. Even better, there are some forgotten gems among the more recognizable turns, including the wicked ways of Phantasm and Carpenter’s Village of the Damned update. Still, it would have been nice to hear more Goblin, especially their work for George Romero in Dawn of the Dead, and would it have hurt to include more foreign films. Of the 60 titles presented, we get more TV themes and sci-fi/action film findings than macabre outside the US mainstream (and don’t even mention that lack of B-movie fare from the likes of AIP, Roger Corman, and during the direct to video days, Charles Band).
As a primer for how powerful movie music can be, for a lesson in how certain themes and melodies can instantly bring back memories of a specific filmmaker or film, The Definitive Horror Music Collection is a wonderful if incomplete overview. Sure, we don’t need reminders of Dexter or TV’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the lack of historical context (and Hitchcock, for that matter) could be seen as criminal. Still, for the novice fright fan, new to the genre and desperate for a look at where sound stands in the creation of fear, this is a fascinating compendium. While not quite as authoritative as the label suggests, this is still an excellent scary movie souvenir.
Nepotism is nothing new in Hollywood. For decades, the major studios were run by one of several members of an extended family, another waiting in the wings to take over should the first group of relatives fail or fall out. They didn’t call it Warner “Brothers” for nothing. So it should come as no surprise that actors and directors often employ their own siblings and offspring in the movies they make.
Most of the times, it’s behind the scenes - part of the craftsmen or crew helping make the movie work. But in those rare instances when the individual steps before the lens it provides an interesting dilemma. For the sharp eyed viewer, aware of the connection, it provides fodder for determining whether talent, or plain favoritism, spawned said casting.
Luckily, no such concerns come with the choice of having Ray Romano and John Leguizamo’s young children play voice roles in the latest Ice Age installment, Dawn of the Dinosaurs (coming to DVD and Blu-ray on 27 October). Along with a scene stealing performance by Shaun of the Dead‘s Simon Pegg as a one-eyed weasel stoked for adventure, the vocal performances in this series are one of its better qualities.
So allowing the stars the luxury, and considered comfort, of working with their kids is clearly a perk of continued cartoon series success. Indeed, the entire franchise often feels like a labor of maternal/paternal love by the people working the various technical and creative ends. In this specific case, however, Joe Romano and his underage costars Lucas and Allegra Leguizamo do little of the heavy lifting. There are ancillary characters, small fry members of the prehistoric pack, not major parts of the film’s narrative concern. This stands in mark contrast with some of today’s biggest cinematic names.
Indeed, producer/director Judd Apatow has used his own daughters Maude and Iris for very important parts in two of his recent “hits”. In Knocked Up, they played the curious cutie pies of onscreen marrieds Leslie Mann (Apatow’s real wife) and Paul Rudd. Similarly, they were the sounding board sweeties who challenge Adam Sandler in the less successful Funny People (again, with Mann as mom).
Aside from the aforementioned ease of interaction, family members also bring a level of authenticity that’s hard to deny. When Mann interacts with Maude and Iris, when she watches the former sing a stirring rendition of Cats’ “Memory”, we see the literal love on her tear-streaked face. Apatow is also aware of how far to push these inadvertent child stars. He can control the content, what comes out of their mouth, and how they are used in the storyline itself.
While it may seem like the most extreme example of stage parenting possible, it’s really the opposite. Maude and Iris aren’t being pimped out to any project that will have them. The Apatows’ clearly feel like including the girls in their creative circle and so far they’ve more than held up their end of the bargain.
It’s a similar stance taken by Will Smith. When The Pursuit of Happyness needed a young boy to play the son of the superstar’s struggling stockbroker to be, his cherubic son Jaden (with current wife Jada Pinkett) was picked for the part. The filmmakers understood that the bond between father and child had to be strong in this often heartbreaking drama, and by giving the Smiths an established personal foundation to start from, the performances would benefit (and they were right).
Oddly enough, Jaden has gone on to be cast in a few films outside of Dad’s domain, indicating a perception that he can hold the screen sans his celebrity costar. Something similar happened during I Am Legend. In that film, daughter Willow played the daughter of Smith’s Dr. Robert Neville, the military scientist facing off against a world populated by light hating horrors. She too has gone on to work without her famous father.
Now don’t get the impression that this is something new within the Tinseltown talent pool. Alfred Hitchcock gave his daughter Pat roles in such classics as Strangers on a Train and Psycho, while Francis Ford Coppola overloaded all three of his Godfather films with as many family members as possible (including the incredible misstep of having daughter Sophia play one of the leads in Part 3).
During his rise to elder statesman status in the ‘80s, Clint Eastwood used both son Kyle (Honkytonk Man) and daughter Allison (Bronco Billy, Tightrope, Absolute Power) as obvious, effective costars, while King of the Blockbuster, Steven Spielberg, has given step-daughter Jessica Capshaw (Minority Report) and biological progeny Sasha (The Terminal, Munich, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull) bit parts in his efforts. Even iconic outsider Terry Gilliam showcased his incorrigible child Holly in the “let’s see your willy” scene from his landmark Brazil.
While it’s fare more routine for a Rumer Willis to show up in a movie without her famous Ma (Demi Moore) and Pa (Die Hard‘s Bruce), most Hollywood heavy-hitters are more than happy to have their children off to the side away from the glare of the limelight (Ms. Willis has indeed appeared with her parents in Then and Now, Striptease, and The Whole Nine Yards). Still, for someone like Ray Romano and John Leguizamo, the inclusion of their kids in the Ice Age trequel is win/win. They get to work with the ones they love and yet guarantee the children a sense of anonymity should they decide that acting is not their true future calling.
It’s a situation that neither the Smiths nor Apatows currently enjoy, and under the wrong circumstances, an adolescent’s reputation and self-esteem can take quite a beating (right Sophia?). Still, in an industry that’s seen more than its fair share of said re-purposed partiality, this kind of nepotism in nothing new. And as long as it works as well as it does in Dawn of the Dinosaurs, it won’t be ending any time soon.
If two wrongs don’t make a right, a few dozen more can’t hurt, correct? After all, the recent arrest of Roman Polanski while on a trip to Switzerland is only the latest lamebrained stunt in a series of mangled human miscarriages that run the gamut from statutory rape to judicial star f*cking. In her brilliant documentary, Wanted and Desired, Marina Zenovich argued that there were no winners in the original criminal case that found one of film’s greatest auteurs coping to a horrific act of sexual battery. Indeed Polanski may have argued consent, but it was clear that his victim, Samantha (Gailey) Geimer, was incapable of giving same - not legally or morally. Still, after decades of decisions in the court of public opinion, does this case really need to be dragged through the media mud once again? Somewhere in LA, a prosecutor is laughing into his potential political cache.
A few months back, Polanski tried to get a new hearing on this sticky situation, a legal conundrum that saw him cop to a plea, prepare for his sentence, and then get stabbed in the back by a judge who didn’t want some Hollywood hot shot making him look like a weakling. A few unprecedented backpedals and time served turned into the Mason County Line. So Polanski fled, finding solace and sovereign smugness in France. He maintained his creative arc, eventually earning praise - and a long delayed Oscar - for his Holocaust drama The Pianist. But with a warrant hanging over his head and the knowledge that any trip back to the States (or a country with a favorable extradition treaty with Uncle Sam) would mean instant access to a California prison, Polanski has kept his distance.
So it seems odd that a nation that had long since provided him with unfettered access would suddenly turn tale and play along with a still questionable judicial mandate. Make no mistake about it - Polanski is as guilty as original sin. Suggesting otherwise puts you in the same boat as the star struck judge who believed in dishing out his own brand of old West, old school tie justice. But at 76, the director of Rosemary’s Baby and Chinatown is no longer a threat. Instead, he’s more valuable today as a pawn, a piece in a belated back and forth that sees lawyers battling each other to write the final chapter of this indecent display. One can readily imagine an episode of Dog the Bounty Hunter, the Born-Again bad ass and his hefty wife Beth spinning around Europe in a black SUV calling everyone “bra” as they hunt down the diminutive Polish pariah.
In many ways, Polanski made this particular botched bed. When Zenovich found original Prosecutor Roger Gunson and Defense Attorney Douglas Dalton and spoke with them on film about the decade’s old debacle, they were very clear in their consensus: the director got a raw deal. Not that he didn’t deserve punishment, but that the late Laurence J. Rittenband screwed him out of same. The now dead magistrate is painted as a series of concerning contradictions, a man obsessed with high profile celebrity crimes who himself aspired to similar notoriety as the arbiter of same. He purposely asked to be on the Polanski case, and used it as the basis for his own surreal courtroom drama. Seeing an out - what highly paid mouthpieces do best - his new legal team demanded a Mulligan. What it got instead was a series of defeats and a decision by a formerly friendly neutral nation to put one of their most infamous visitors in the stocks.
All of which begs the question - where do we go from here? If sent to the US, Polanski will find himself lost in a TMZ maelstrom the likes of which he could only dream of back in the ‘70s - and this was the man whose wife (Sharon Tate) and unborn child was killed by the Manson Family. His victim has been gracious in her desire to forgive, making the prerelease publicity rounds before Zenovich’s film premiered on HBO. And there are facts people always forget in the instant condemnation of this man who, supposedly, “beat” the system. As part of his plea, Polanski was promised probation. The judge felt such a stance would get him in hot water with the media. As a compromise, all decided on a 90 day stay at the State Prison at Chino. While it would technically be up for further discretionary review, it was farcical formality. Once released, Polanski would be more or less free. And the director actually did go to jail. He served 42 days in isolation, administrators afraid of what the prison population would do to a convicted child molester.
Oh course, what many in the mythology don’t acknowledge - and in turn, avoid today as being far outside the current social stigma - is that Polanski’s case was always going to be probation. He was a foreigner, easily deportable, and rich enough to fight any attempt at long term incarceration. The victim’s reluctance to testify also factored in to the supposed resolution. The reason Polanski serves any time whatsoever is that Rittenband wanted to look tough on crimes of this nature. He wasn’t going to let stardom alter his perceived course of punishment. Naturally, this has all led to a shortcut buzzword conclusion in the press - Polanski ran to France (and continues to curry the country’s favor) to avoid his guilt. No discussion of the facts. No disclosure about what the filmmaker really went through during his trials.
Instead, the standard bravado and bullshit applies. Sides are taken and ‘get tough’ stances are worn like medals of honor. As the situation continues to be played out in the California Court of Appeals, many in the artistic and political community are rallying around Polanski and condemning the actions of an overeager US. In many ways, it’s a no win situation. If he is dragged back to American soil, thrown in a cell and adjudicated all over again, he turns into a martyr, a victim of a vindictive and spiteful society that doesn’t like to leave legal messes mucking up their supposed superpowers. Of course, the fact that he will more than likely revolving door his way out of any jail sentence (his age, time served, victim support) won’t stop the Red White and Blue from setting up the Big Top for one more mandatory media circus.
And if he doesn’t return, if he’s successful in fighting the extradition, he will be viewed as a hero everywhere else except the land of the free and the home of the brave. He will be seen, as he is today, as the unlucky recipient of US Puritanism and piling on. Again, no one is excusing his forcible act. He raped a young woman - even pled to such a status - and in a world were we defiantly demonize his retreat, Polanski has rightfully earned his own unique Scarlet Letter. Time has not necessarily lessened the import of his actions, but it has allowed for clarity when it comes to putting it into perspective. It seems awfully late in the game to pull this kind of stunt-like switcheroo. Here’s hoping the individuals behind these events get what they need. One thing’s for certain - if it’s justice, there is none to be found anymore. Not for Ms. Geimer. Not for what happened to her all those years ago. And definitely not for Polanski. In fact, there never was any to begin with.
Swayze was, for a while there, our contemporary sacred clown. But more than that, he was real.
That’s our man.
And by our, I mean men.
The rest of you can have this guy.
And by you, I mean women.
The wonderful thing is, it’s the same dude. That is the unprecedented, impossibly perfect Tao of Patrick Swayze. He had something for everyone, and while there are a handful of superstars who have straddled the line between man’s man and preening peacock for the ladies, usually the actor in question becomes tougher, or gentler, as he ages. Swayze could incorporate both extremes at the same time, starring in two of the penultimate chick flicks and, quite possibly, the mother of all male bonding films, all in a three year window. Guys watch — and cherish — trash like Point Break and Road House because they are hilarious, and Swayze is both alpha male and court jester, rolled into one.
In the rumble, on the ice or during the cold war apocalypse, this was the bro you wanted to have your back.
Remember The Outsiders? (For the full effect, you had to be target audience age when it first came out, which means you were over ten and under twenty). Nobody knew who Patrick Swayze was, then, so that experience is alien to a younger person watching a younger Swayze, now. You could not have shoehorned more pretty young things onto that screen: Dillon, Cruise, Estevez, Lowe, Macchio and C. Thomas Howell (the only one requiring a full name since no one heard from him again, unless you are one of the five people who saw Soul Man) and –for the boys– Diane Lane. That was a lot of Gen X eye candy. And then there was this brawny, unknown badass. He was, obviously, the leader of the brat pack; indeed, he was the only one in that group who looked like he actually could (and did) throw down if the situation required it. He was, in short, intimidating. He was perfectly cast, although he did seem old enough (even as the “older” brother) to strain credulity. He was also, arguably, the only star on that crowded billing not set to explode into immediate stardom. In fact, it would take Swayze, already 30 years old, another four years to become the man.
Everyone remembers how that happened. In the film that shall remain nameless, Swayze made his sweetheart swoon and took half of America with him. He had arrived, and from then on out nobody could put Swayze in the corner. Maybe it’s a guy thing, but the movies he starred in alongside Jennifer Grey and Demi Moore are unspeakable. They are sentimental, melodramatic schlock from the fetid heart of Hollywood. In other words, these commercial grand slams were just what the evil doctor ordered. Two things few men will ever understand (or profit from arguing about): Oprah, and those two movies. But Swayze was easily forgiven. After all, he had saved us from the Russians (or at least softened them up for Rocky IV), and helped the Greasers stomp the rich kids. He also dropped the gloves alongside Rob Lowe in what turned out, unbelievably, to be only the third most homoerotic flick in his oeuvre. With little left to prove, he dedicated himself to the dangerous task of making wonderfully awful films.
He would redeem himself, not only in the subsequent Point Break (clocking in at number two on the homoerichter scale), but in the masterwork that men are genetically incapable of turning off while channel surfing. I am referring, quite obviously, to Road House.
Every man has seen this movie and any man who hasn’t is not a man, so that about covers it. I won’t insult its integrity by trying to analyze anything, I’ll just savor some of the moments that make it so…seminal:
Doc: Do you always carry your medical records around with you?
Dalton: Saves time.
Dalton: I want you to be nice until it’s time to not be nice.
Doc: How’s a guy like you end up a bouncer?
Dalton: Just lucky I guess.
(Everyone): I thought you’d be bigger!
Dalton: Pain don’t hurt.
Jimmy: I used to fuck guys like you in prison.
(Repeat: I. Used. To. Fuck. Guys. Like. You. In. Prison.)
He was, for a while there, our contemporary sacred clown. But more than that, he was real. As in: it only bolstered his appeal (and considerable street cred) when you realized he did his own stunts, married (and remained married) to his childhood sweetheart and, by any account, was a genuinely good person. One must remain wary about separating art from the artist for all the obvious reasons, but there are the occasional exceptions where the illusion is an extension of the actual.
It was refreshing to hear his family report that he passed away peacefully. Of course he did. It’s the least the world could do for him. Besides, death don’t hurt.
At last count, there are close to 80 movies slated for release in the next four months, not including the off studio independents, heralded foreign imports, and frequent film festival surprises. As the transition from summer’s popcorn pleasantries to fall’s forced import begins, it’s often hard to get a handle on what, exactly, deserves your dollars - and more significantly, your precious entertainment attention span. The push towards Awards season consequence is always complicated. Release dates shuffle, perspectives shift, and what seemed like a sure thing only a few weeks ago can fade into oblivion faster than a Will Farrell take on a classic Saturday morning kid’s show from the ‘70s.
With that in mind, SE&L has been sizing up the offerings on tap for the next 17 weeks, and we’ve complied our very own Top 10 Must-See titles. Now, this is not an attempt to gauge the best films of the year, or what we think will end up being the most recognized/rewarded/revered come January 1. But if we were plunking down our own cash money on a movie, if you were to ask us what films have tweaked are often lagging critical/creative attention span, this cross section will give you a fairly decent idea. Naturally, it’s based on the information we’re aware of presently, those publicity and press materials making their way to our already overflowing inbox. Outside of the unknown quantities then, here’s what’s got us interested, in alphabetical order, starting with:
Anti-Christ
Somewhere around the middle of Manderlay, the second part of his proposed “USA - Land of Opportunities” trilogy, Lars Von Trier lost us. Up until then, we were with the unique Danish talent, enjoying his brash approach to cinema and his Dogme ‘95 designs. But with the heavy handed take on American history, indulgent beyond all narrative necessity, a re-evaluation was in order. Now Von Trier is doing genre, delivering a controversial psychological thriller that scandalized Cannes. Suddenly, all is forgiven…at least for now.
Avatar
The teaser trailer? Meh. Not very impressive, considering the amount of mind-blowing hype it that was heaped upon this project ever since James Cameron announced he was returning to the fiction film (his first since Titanic). In fact, it looked like a Final Fantasy game gone gonzo. But after spending 15 minutes in the 3D IMAX glow of the Avatar Day preview, we’re convinced. The CG is brilliant and Cameron’s flawless approach to action and adventure is evident in every frame. December can’t come soon enough.
Black Dynamite
As full blown card carrying members of the Dolemite fan club (bless his scatological soul - comic Rudy Ray Moore could absolutely do no wrong), this spoof of ‘70s blaxploitation is right up our alley. The look and feel of the film - or at this point, the various green/red band trailers - are just right, and the jokes appear obvious without being insulting. Indeed, as long as filmmaker Scott Sanders remembers to be as reverent as irreverent, this should satisfy any devotee’s Human Tornado tendencies.
Gentleman Broncos
Napoleon Dynamite? Masterful! Nacho Libre? A big fat luchadore love letter! Now, Jared Hess is taking on a subject that seems perfect for his hyper-quirk sensibilities - sci-fi/fantasy fandom. The trailer alone is enough to have one free associating on the storyline set-ups for days. And then there is Flight of the Conchords’ Jermaine Clement channeling James Mason. AWESOME!
The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus
No one has the potential to move and/or madden us more than Terry Gilliam. Even when he’s going overboard with the cloying kid con tragedy (2005’s Tideland), his visionary eye is dead on. Fate keeps f*cking with him, however, and it looked like we were never going to see this epic effort, even with the supposition of it being Heath Ledger’s last performance on film. Thankfully, a US distributor was found. Now begins the waiting.
The Lovely Bones
This is, without a doubt, Peter Jackson’s biggest challenge to date. Bigger than bringing Tolkien’s treasured trilogy to the big screen. Bigger than taking on the cinematic “Eighth Wonder of the World”. Much bigger. His objective here? Convince a fanbase that’s waited four years for his next, proposed “smaller” film that the delay was worth it. Blockbuster geek cred aside, it’s a tall order indeed. Here’s praying he pulls it off.
The Road
There is something inherently interesting about the post-apocalyptic film, especially for anyone who grew up during the chilliest days of the Cold War. So we have been waiting for this adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s Pulitzer prize winning novel since the project was announced. Granted, we’re not overjoyed by the choice of filmmaker (imagine what someone like Steven Spielberg could have done with this), but with Viggo Mortenson in the lead, hope still springs eternal.
A Serious Man
Okay Coen Brothers, let’s keep it up. We’ve forgiven Ladykillers (well, sort of) and the less said about Intolerable Cruelty, the better. Since those two missteps, however, you’ve been on quite the creative jag - and you’ve got the Oscars to prove it. The trailer here is absolutely terrific, a sly combination of the boys’ deadpan dynamic and pinpoint period production value. Even when you’re bad, you’re interesting (see the opening of this paragraph). This time around, however, you’re looking very, very good.
2012
Man does not live by filet mignon and crème brûlée alone. Sometimes, you got to have a little stinky, slimy cinematic Nacho cheese to go with your arthouse gourmet fare. After the trailer for this Roland Emmerich disaster spectacular was released, we knew exactly where our next massive helping of motion picture kitsch was coming from. Sure, Mr. Day After Tomorrow has a hard time with things like characterization and drama, but any movie celebrating the complete destruction of the planet has our full and unflinching support.
Where the Wild Things Are
Whoever handled the hype turnaround on this title needs a raise, pronto. Originally, this was the biggest bomb ever, a film so un-releasable in its then almost finished state that Warner Brothers was willing to scrap it - or worse, fire director Spike Jonze and literally start over. Now, many are considering it for major Oscar consideration. Doubting Mr. Being John Malkovich is one thing. Turning a disaster into a possible end of the year gemstone is a critical resurrection we can’t wait to experience.
DVD Honorable Mention:
Rob Zombie Presents the Haunted World of El Superbeasto
The man responsible for the resplendent, repugnant Devil’s Rejects does Ralph Bakshi - and succeeds beyond one’s wildest wanton imagination.
Oddly enough, Jaden has gone on to be cast in a few films outside of Dad’s domain, indicating a perception that he can hold the screen sans his celebrity costar. Something similar happened during I Am Legend. In that film, daughter Willow played the daughter of Smith’s Dr. Robert Neville, the military scientist facing off against a world populated by light hating horrors. She too has gone on to work without her famous father. 
During his rise to elder statesman status in the ‘80s, Clint Eastwood used both son Kyle (Honkytonk Man) and daughter Allison (Bronco Billy, Tightrope, Absolute Power) as obvious, effective costars, while King of the Blockbuster, Steven Spielberg, has given step-daughter Jessica Capshaw (Minority Report) and biological progeny Sasha (The Terminal, Munich, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull) bit parts in his efforts. Even iconic outsider Terry Gilliam showcased his incorrigible child Holly in the “let’s see your willy” scene from his landmark Brazil.
Somewhere around the middle of Manderlay, the second part of his proposed “USA - Land of Opportunities” trilogy, Lars Von Trier lost us. Up until then, we were with the unique Danish talent, enjoying his brash approach to cinema and his Dogme ‘95 designs. But with the heavy handed take on American history, indulgent beyond all narrative necessity, a re-evaluation was in order. Now Von Trier is doing genre, delivering a controversial psychological thriller that scandalized Cannes. Suddenly, all is forgiven…at least for now.
The teaser trailer? Meh. Not very impressive, considering the amount of mind-blowing hype it that was heaped upon this project ever since James Cameron announced he was returning to the fiction film (his first since Titanic). In fact, it looked like a Final Fantasy game gone gonzo. But after spending 15 minutes in the 3D IMAX glow of the Avatar Day preview, we’re convinced. The CG is brilliant and Cameron’s flawless approach to action and adventure is evident in every frame. December can’t come soon enough.
As full blown card carrying members of the Dolemite fan club (bless his scatological soul - comic Rudy Ray Moore could absolutely do no wrong), this spoof of ‘70s blaxploitation is right up our alley. The look and feel of the film - or at this point, the various green/red band trailers - are just right, and the jokes appear obvious without being insulting. Indeed, as long as filmmaker Scott Sanders remembers to be as reverent as irreverent, this should satisfy any devotee’s Human Tornado tendencies.
Napoleon Dynamite? Masterful! Nacho Libre? A big fat luchadore love letter! Now, Jared Hess is taking on a subject that seems perfect for his hyper-quirk sensibilities - sci-fi/fantasy fandom. The trailer alone is enough to have one free associating on the storyline set-ups for days. And then there is Flight of the Conchords’ Jermaine Clement channeling James Mason. AWESOME! 
No one has the potential to move and/or madden us more than Terry Gilliam. Even when he’s going overboard with the cloying kid con tragedy (2005’s Tideland), his visionary eye is dead on. Fate keeps f*cking with him, however, and it looked like we were never going to see this epic effort, even with the supposition of it being Heath Ledger’s last performance on film. Thankfully, a US distributor was found. Now begins the waiting.
This is, without a doubt, Peter Jackson’s biggest challenge to date. Bigger than bringing Tolkien’s treasured trilogy to the big screen. Bigger than taking on the cinematic “Eighth Wonder of the World”. Much bigger. His objective here? Convince a fanbase that’s waited four years for his next, proposed “smaller” film that the delay was worth it. Blockbuster geek cred aside, it’s a tall order indeed. Here’s praying he pulls it off.
There is something inherently interesting about the post-apocalyptic film, especially for anyone who grew up during the chilliest days of the Cold War. So we have been waiting for this adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s Pulitzer prize winning novel since the project was announced. Granted, we’re not overjoyed by the choice of filmmaker (imagine what someone like Steven Spielberg could have done with this), but with Viggo Mortenson in the lead, hope still springs eternal.
Okay Coen Brothers, let’s keep it up. We’ve forgiven Ladykillers (well, sort of) and the less said about Intolerable Cruelty, the better. Since those two missteps, however, you’ve been on quite the creative jag - and you’ve got the Oscars to prove it. The trailer here is absolutely terrific, a sly combination of the boys’ deadpan dynamic and pinpoint period production value. Even when you’re bad, you’re interesting (see the opening of this paragraph). This time around, however, you’re looking very, very good.
Man does not live by filet mignon and crème brûlée alone. Sometimes, you got to have a little stinky, slimy cinematic Nacho cheese to go with your arthouse gourmet fare. After the trailer for this Roland Emmerich disaster spectacular was released, we knew exactly where our next massive helping of motion picture kitsch was coming from. Sure, Mr. Day After Tomorrow has a hard time with things like characterization and drama, but any movie celebrating the complete destruction of the planet has our full and unflinching support.
Whoever handled the hype turnaround on this title needs a raise, pronto. Originally, this was the biggest bomb ever, a film so un-releasable in its then almost finished state that Warner Brothers was willing to scrap it - or worse, fire director Spike Jonze and literally start over. Now, many are considering it for major Oscar consideration. Doubting Mr. Being John Malkovich is one thing. Turning a disaster into a possible end of the year gemstone is a critical resurrection we can’t wait to experience.
The man responsible for the resplendent, repugnant Devil’s Rejects does Ralph Bakshi - and succeeds beyond one’s wildest wanton imagination.
