Joe (1970)

Before Death Wish and Straw Dogs there was Joe (1970). John G. Avildsen's vigilante flick aspires to satirize the Generation Gap, pitting the "Silent Majority" against debauched counterculture. Viewed 43 years later, it's more exploitative than thought-provoking.

Ad executive Bill Compton (Dennis Patrick) finds his daughter Melissa (Susan Sarandon) overdosing on drugs. He tracks down Melissa's dope-dealing boyfriend (Patrick McDermott) and kills him in a fit of rage. Shortly afterwards he encounters Joe (Peter Boyle), a working class bigot who openly fantasizes about murdering hippies. Bill lets slip his secret, and Joe ingratiates himself into Bill's life. When Melissa runs away, Joe leads Bill on a bizarre odyssey to find her, leading to a violent confrontation at a hippie commune.

In one sense, Joe perfectly embodies its time period. Joe's introduced ranting in a bar, citing George Wallace in proclaiming that "42 percent of liberals are faggots." He's the American Everyman, frustrated by the Great Society and civil upheavals, dismayed by youth, falling back on self-pity and prejudice. He finds a kindred spirit in the more "respectable" Bill, well-heeled, educated and rich, yet possessing similar prejudices. Just the idea of Melissa consorting with pushers drives him to homicidal rage; what's he done to deserve this? When he and Joe descend into the hippie underworld, their prejudices seem vindicated; two girls seduce them while their boyfriends steal their wallets. Why reason with kids when you can just blow them away?

What's problematic about Joe isn't the message but its presentation. Joe's meant to be a monstrous embodiment of Middle American prejudices rather than a reactionary hero. Yet reports claim that contemporary viewers cheered his actions at film's end. Intentionally or not, it served as a release for '70s Orthogonians, disgusted with the long-haired creeps dragging society into the gutter. Any irony's lost in the final reels; the climactic killing spree is as ill-judged as The Trial of Billy Jack's National Guard massacre, playing less as horrific set piece than cathartic climax.

Joe's certainly provocative but lacks any dramatic credibility. Wexford's story provides little motivation for its characters. That Bill could murder Melissa's creep boyfriend is one thing; that he'd blather about it to a stranger in a bar is merest contrivance. Long scenes of Joe ingratiating himself with Bill and his wife (K Callan) provide some low comedy but really deaden the narrative. Joe and Bill's quest into hippie-dom mainly results in a predictable juxtaposition of sex and violence; the ending's too obviously telegraphed to shock.

Peter Boyle dominates the show. Blunt, violent and vulgar, he embodies the working class stiff disgusted by Boomer excesses and eager to put his bigotry into action. It's quite different from his comic turns in Young Frankenstein and TV's Everybody Loves Raymond. Dennis Patrick can't help seeming colorless in comparison. Doe-eyed Susan Sarandon makes her film debut, but it's not much of a part - Melissa's always frazzled, naked or both.

Joe has its moments, but is mainly a confused mess. A big hit in its day, it's now a curious time capsule, celebrating attitudes it purports to deconstruct.

Dallas Buyers Club

Dallas Buyers Club (2013) is a good film with a problematic message. Jean-Marc Vallee's film pits Everyman Matthew McConaughey against a heartless drug-manufacturing consortium. If the content clanks occasionally, it's still anchored by solid drama.

Ron Woodroof (Matthew McConaughey) is a hard-living electrician and rodeo cowboy in 1980s Dallas. After an accident, he's diagnosed with AIDS and given just 30 days to live. Woodroof undergoes a regimen of experimental AZT drug which only makes him sicker. He travels to Mexico, discovering that disgraced Dr. Vass (Griffin Dunne) a combination of drugs that works better than AZT. Woodroof teams with another AIDS patient, transsexual Rayon (Jared Leto), to distribute these drugs through a buyers' club. His activities catch the eye of FDA Agent (Michael O'Neill), who acts to shut down Woodruff's operation.

Dallas Buyers Club makes for a perfect libertarian fable. The FDA and pharmaceutical companies fast track AZT in dangerous doses - either addressing a desperate need over-eagerly or a callow conspiracy to make a buck. Of course it's Dr. Vass, disgraced, de-licensed and living in Mexican exile, who harnesses the miracle cures! Vallee and writers Craig Borten and Melissa Wallack try to soft pedal this, for instance by showing Ron overdose on one of his medications. But Dallas sees no problem with Ron running drugs from Japan or shipping black market meds to his policeman friend (Steve Zahn).

The criticism, that government regulations slow or curtail availability of medications, is fair enough. Especially in the context of the AIDS epidemic, where public panic and need for a useful cure outpacing the speed of bureaucracy. But this reviewer finds it dangerous to generalize with such matters. Enough cases of doctor shopping and drug abuse, let alone quack pills and tainted drugs, show that FDA regulations make sense. Dallasreally only needs a push towards destructive nonsense like anti-vaccine paranoia, which does more than theoretical damage.

Even those who don't buy Dallas's conceit should appreciate its human element. Woodroof's transformation to hotshot black marketer seems improbable, but becomes an extension of his wild lifestyle. If he develops a friendship for Rayon he never fully sheds his prejudices: his first instinct when meeting a straight woman patient is to take her to bed. Even his pseudo-romance with Dr. Saks has its poignant moments. Rayon is sensitively rendered, avoiding the pitfalls of the "gay best friend" stereotype: he gets nice moments away from Woodroof, like meeting his disapproving father.

Matthew McConaughey's impressive performance helps too. Continuing his recent transition from pretty boy to serious actor, McConaughey sheds weight and otherwise commits. Ron softens without losing his essential character, the hardest kind of character arcs. His natural brashness re-channels boozing and whoring into criminal enterprise, thumbing his nose at arrogant doctors and pesky G-Men. It's a nice turn, sparkling with a nuance I'd never have expected from the star of U-571 and Failure to Launch.

Jared Leto avoids playing up stereotype, giving Rayon humor and warmth, making him suitably tragic when necessary. The other cast members aren't so impressive. Jennifer Garner is fairly colorless, while Denis O'Hare and Michael O'Neill play as too obvious of villains.

Dallas Buyers Club is good despite being rough around its thematic edges. Perhaps Groggy's being a statist scrooge, but the movie's message is too case-dependent for me to jump on board. That said, it's still an enjoyable show, with a message that engages you even if you're in disagreement.

The Singer Not the Song

The Singer Not the Song (1961) is a definite oddity. Roy Ward Baker's quasi-Western frequently gets tagged with homoeroticism - and with Dirk Bogarde swaggering about in shiny leather pants, it's hard to ignore. Mainly though it's portentous, talky and dull.

Father Michael Keogh (John Mills) travels to Quantana, a remote Mexican village. He clashes with Anacleto (Dirk Bogarde), a sadistic, God-hating bandit who effectively runs the town. Anacleto starts killing locals to hasten Keogh's departure, foiling the Police Captain's (John Bentley) efforts to arrest him. Anacleto grows fascinated by Keogh, saves his life and even contemplates converting. But their mutual affection for troublemaker Locha (Mylene Demongoet), and Anacleto's evil nature, make renewed conflict inevitable.

Based on Audrey Erskine-Lindop's novel, The Singer Not the Song is a pretentious mess. It vaguely resembles John Ford's The Fugitive (1947), another South of the Border religious allegory. But Baker's boring direction lacks Ford's artistry, shooting Spanish locations in pretty but flat Technicolor. Too much overripe dialogue slows things to a deadening crawl. Even the climactic action scene is a yawner, closing with painfully explicit Christ imagery. Of course, Christ didn't die groping a leather-clad gaucho in the dust, so the analogy isn't perfect.

What's Baker on about, exactly? He and writer Nigel Balchin don't bother making sense. Singer takes place in the modern day yet characters dress like Old West extras, some even toting Winchester rifles. We're told that Anacleto controls the town, yet with three scabby henchmen he doesn't seem much of a threat. All his evil actions occur off-screen; the meanest thing we witness is sabotaging Keogh's breaks. Bush league pranks, surely, for a man representing Evil Incarnate.

Singer gets so wrapped up in allegory it lacks even internal logic. We can almost understand why Keogh wants to convert Anacleto, but what does the latter see in the priest? Anacleto reforms, or pretends to, until affection for Locha drives him back to the dark side. Keogh's briefly tempted by Locha, but is so upright he's not even a good foil. The last act attempts to juxtapose Christian forgiveness with temporal righteousness - as if denouncing a mass murderer is hypocritical! Singer manages the neat trick of being hamfisted and incomprehensible.

John Mills's role plays to his weaknesses, namely woodenness masked as rectitude. Instead of seeming steadfast, Mills comes off constipated. Dirk Bogarde relishes his camp villain, a character the script doesn't even try to make credible. (One wonders if Giulio Questi saw this before making Django Kill.) Laurence Naismith (A Night to Remember) outdoes them both with laughable scenery chewing. Mylene Demongoet just sits there looking pretty, while John Bentley is a stiff stooge. 

I'd call The Singer Not the Song a camp classic, but that implies there's fun to be had. Despite the weird premise and good cast, Singer is garbled and unbelievably boring.

Lee Daniels' The Butler

Between his outrageous Precious (2009) and bad-taste The Paperboy (2012), Lee Daniels has never been a subtle filmmaker. This continues with The Butler (2013), though its excesses come packaged in the more tasteful trappings of an old-fashioned "message picture." Part biopic, part Cliff Notes history of the Civil Rights Movement, it's an uneven but mostly enjoyable movie.

Escaping life on a Georgia plantation, Cecil Gaines (Forest Whittaker) flees north and becomes a domestic servant. In 1957 he's hired by the White House maitre'd (Colman Domingo) as a Presidential butler. Cecil gets an inside view of Presidential hand-ringing over Civil Rights: Dwight Eisenhower's (Robin Williams) reluctant desegregation, John F. Kennedy (James Marsden) and Lyndon Johnson's (Liev Schreiber) idealism, Richard Nixon's (John Cusack) war on black subversives and Ronald Reagan's (Alan Rickman) incomprehension. Through it all he's expected to remain impassive and resolutely professional.

Cecil's high position conflicts with his home life. His marriage with Gloria (Oprah Winfrey) suffers, to the point that she has a fling with neighbor Howard (Terrence Howard). Son Lewis (David Oyelowo) goes to Fisk University, where he joins an underground Black Power movement that leads him to sit-ins, Freedom Rides and ultimately the Black Panthers. Younger son Charlie (Elijah Kelley) follows Cecil's commitment to service by enlisting in the Army. Cecil and Lewis go years without speaking to each other, reconciling only when Cecil's ready to call it quits.

First off, The Butler is (by its leads, anyway) exceedingly well-acted. Forest Whittaker gives a performance of masterful subtlety. He shows Cecil wrestling with contempt and bafflement at Presidential indecision, his  subservient attitude an anguished necessity. Oprah Winfrey's deservedly generated Oscar buzz: she impresses by not trying to dominate the film, matching Whittaker with low-key anguish. David Oyelowo navigates Lewis's difficult character arc: young idealist, punk radical, disillusioned adult. Cuba Gooding Jr., Lenny Kravitz, Terrence Howard and Colman Domingo offer graceful supporting turns. The personal scenes border on melodrama but work well-enough with these capable actors.

Butler mixes the worm's-eye perspective of Backstairs at the White House with Forrest Gump's historic sightseeing. Daniels stages moments of frightful Jim Crow bigotry: Lewis and girlfriend Carol (Yaya DaCosta) get beaten at a lunch counter sit-in, and later survive a KKK firebombing. The movie also works in less obvious moments, as when an argument over Sidney Poitier shows a deep generational divide. Daniels plays to both sides of the racial argument: Lewis's principled (if extreme) in his beliefs, but he'd be nowhere with Cecil's hard work. It's a conciliatory treatment of a difficult topic.

Yet Butler falls victim to a common malady of historical dramas. By covering so much ground, it reduces history to a greatest hits collection of cliches and buzzwords. Of course we meet Lyndon Johnson taking a dump while yanking on his beagle's ear! Vietnam's relegated to montages of well-worn archival footage. Even the conflict between Black Panther Lewis and Vietnam-bound Charlie seems forced. Daniels' simplistic rendering of these issues culminates with Cecil waiting to meet Barack Obama, whose worshipful treatment seems at least three years out of date.

Butler's stunt casting proves its most egregious blunder. Aside from James Marsden's respectable Jack Kennedy, none of the Presidents transcend caricature. Robin Williams more strongly recalls Truman than Ike. Liev Scheiber's LBJ emphasizes Johnson's boorishness over his Civil Rights achievements. John Cusack resembles Tricky Dick even less than Anthony Hopkins. Alan Rickman plays a mumbling, scatterbrained Reagan, while Jane Fonda's Nancy seems unaccountably pleasant. Nelsan Ellis plays Martin Luther King as wax dummy. Walk-ons by Minka Kelly, Vanessa Redgrave, Alex Pettyfer and Mariah Carey add to the fun.

Maybe The Butler is a sign that Hollywood's more willing to tackle history from a black perspective. With 12 Years a Slave and a Nelson Mandela biopic coming soon, we'll have opportunity to test this thesis. On its own terms though, The Butler is well-intentioned, but a qualified success.

Inchon

"I can almost hear the ticking of the second hand of destiny."

Terence Young's Inchon (1981) has a notoriety stemming from its scarcity as much as quality. A vanity project for Sun Myung Moon, leader of the Unification Church, the movie earned abysmal reviews, tanked financially and never saw video release. Most available bootlegs originate from a screening on the GoodLife TV Network (now Youtoo TV). Never an optimal viewing choice, streaming it on Youtube is the only way to view this turkey.

Every bad movie writer from the Medveds through Michael Sauter trashes Inchon. It's a lousy film all right, mixing incoherent action, risible melodrama and right wing agitprop. Throw in Laurence Olivier's ghoulish portrayal of Douglas MacArthur and you've got a monumental mess.

June 1950. North Korean forces invade South Korea, overrunning most of that country. United Nations forces led by American General Douglas MacArthur (Laurence Olivier) struggle to fight back, being pushed to the Pusan perimeter. Major Frank Hallsworth (Ben Gazzara) and Sergeant Henderson (Richard Roundtree) get caught up in the retreat. Hallsworth's estranged wife Barbara (Jacqueline Bissett) rescues several Korean children while fleeing south. MacArthur conceives a bold counter-stroke - an amphibious landing at Inchon, well behind enemy lines.

Inchon's turbulent production is more interesting than the film. Moon conceived of MacArthur's landing at Inchon as God's handiwork, presumably elevating Dugout Doug to sainthood. Along with Japanese tycoon Mitsu Haru Ishii, Moon invested a staggering $46,000,000 in the movie, $1.25 million on Laurence Olivier alone. Yet filming was sabotaged by typhoons, earthquakes, uncooperative stars and equipment difficulties. At least one extra died filming a battle scene. All this before opening to universal scorn. Not until Battlefield Earth would Hollywood again witness such messianic hubris.

Inchon mixes the worst qualities of '60s epics like The Longest Day and Reagan-era action flicks. The opening hour presents endless scenes of North Koreans machine gunning civilians. Artfully handled this could be powerful; with Young's hamfisted direction it's execrable. Moon himself was South Korean, yet Inchon makes his countrymen faceless supplicants awaiting rescue by the American ubermensch. Along with MacArthur's constant invocation of God Almighty (ending with the Lord's Prayer) and the presence of young Alexander Haig (John Pochna) it's a conservative wet dream.

Inchon's main sin though is complete incoherence. Robin Moore and Laird Koenig's script never forms into a cogent narrative. The first half intercuts atrocities with treacly vignettes, providing no idea of the military situation, or even basic geography. Soldiers march, civilians flee, and we've no clue where they're going or why. Even when the plot starts to settle, things are dulled by windbag speechmaking and continued digressions. We're over halfway through before MacArthur starts planning the Inchon operation; the landing itself takes up less than 15 minutes.

Like a bad disaster movie, Inchon insists on cramming facile "human elements" between explosions. Major Hallsworth carries on with a feisty Korean girl (Karen Khan) when not providing exposition. Sergeant Henderson does little besides drive a jeep and, in one scene, a motorcycle. These bozos are tight with MacArthur, who dragoons them into an 11th hour commando mission. Meanwhile, Barbara's out shopping when the invasion begins. Later she drives five orphans through an air raid, all while whining about traffic. Damn those Reds for inconveniencing her antiquing!

Finally, Inchon fails the most important test: action. Terence Young directed several James Bond flicks, but you wouldn't know it watching Inchon. The big battles mix stock footage with phony special effects and laughable staging. In several scenes, extras go flying from explosions that haven't detonated yet! Some set pieces feature thousands of extras, yet still manage to look cheap. The Medveds report that psychic Jeanne Dixon advised Moon to hire Young, after consultation with MacArthur's ghost. Begging the question: what God was Moon invoking, exactly?

Laurence Olivier invites the easiest criticism. He's not helped by a script that conceives MacArthur as a humble soldier rather than history's charismatic warmonger. But Olivier deserves much of the blame. Physically, his makeup less recalls MacArthur than Boris Karloff's Mummy. Then there's his accent, sounding like W.C. Fields and Gary Cooper's bastard son. When all else fails, Olivier shouts to God, bugs out his eyes and even shares a double-take with a bust of Caesar. Rarely has an actor put so much effort into being terrible.

Larry's co-stars fare little better. Ben Gazara and Richard Roundtree putter aimlessly around Korea, conveniently remaining at the center of events. Jacqueline Bissett's anachronistic low-cut dress provides one of Inchon's few pleasures. Playing a Korean fisherman, Toshiro Mifune is just plain embarrassing. David Janssen plays a grouchy reporter, film critic Rex Reed (!) his whiny sidekick. Gabriele Ferzetti cameos as a Turkish general. One hopes they too were paid well.

Ultimately, Inchon fascinates in the way only a truly bad movie can. Reverend Moon clearly intended this movie to sell his unique religion to the masses. Given the litany of disasters during and after production, it's safe to assume God (or Doug MacArthur's ghost) was laughing at him.

Cracker: White Ghost and A New Terror

For completeness's sake I'll briefly recap Cracker's post mortem specials. Cracker fans tend to ignore them, and with good reason: neither is very good. Years-after specials rarely work, relying more on nostalgia and perverse curiosity than solid storytelling. That's true of our first entry, White Ghost, but A New Terror has much deeper flaws.  

White Ghost
Air date: 10/28/1996
Written: Paul Abbott
Directed: Richard Standeven

Less than a year after True Romance, Fitz returns for White Ghost. Everyone's favorite porcine psychologist visits Hong Kong to solve a routine mystery. This special fits Paul Abbott's evident view of Cracker: an uncomplicated, self-contained police drama unfettered by ties to previous episodes. There's nothing really wrong with it except a distinct lack of effort.

Fitz ends up in Hong Kong on a lecture tour. He's tapped by DCI Cheung (Freda Foh Shen) to help investigate the murder of a wealth businessman. The killer is Dennis Philby (Barnaby Kay), an English entrepreneur bankrupted by bad investments - and enraged that his pregnant Chinese girlfriend Su Lin Tang (Rene Liu) wants an abortion. Philby kidnaps Su and kills others. Cheung finds Fitz useful, even if her stuffy boss (Michael Pennington) harbors doubts.

White Ghost seems content to be a field trip episode, with Fitz taking in the sights of exotic Hong Kong. There's talk about the impending handover from Britain to China and the contrast between Fitz's off-beat style and the Hong Kong police's methodical approach. The show moves quickly enough, but the setting isn't utilized to any particular effect. Robbie Coltrane's as snappy as ever and the show has some fun moments, but there's an air of why bother about it.

Conspicuously absent is Fitz's family, who've apparently grown tired of the old sod. Penhaligon's studying for a promotion, so she's out. Only Ricky Tomlinson's Wise returns, mostly as the butt of jokes (he spends the show's first hour jet lagged). Luckily there's Freda Foh Shen as the coolly professional DCI Cheung. Her interaction with Fitz follows a familiar arc, from bemused tolerance to grudging respect, but Shen's smart performance makes it work.

What doesn't work is the story. Neither Abbott nor actor Barnaby Kay make Philby credible in his actions or motives; he kills because the plot requires him too. The show works up a serviceable manhunt tension but little more, the hallmark of Paul Abbott's Cracker. White Ghost is passable entertainment, even if there's no reason for it to exist.

A New Terror (aka Nine-Eleven)
Air date: 10/30/2006 
Written: Jimmy McGovern 
Directed: Antonia Bird

After White Ghost, Cracker fans waited a decade for new adventures. Jimmy McGovern earned more laurels with The Lakes and The Streets, couching his preoccupations in more mundane formats. Robbie Coltrane became an international star through the James Bond and Harry Potter franchises. In 2006 they reunited for A New Terror, which garnered heavy anticipation (even American media hyped it a bit) but met with a tepid response.

It would be one thing if A New Terror were simply a lark like White Ghost. But it's actively, infuriatingly bad. Evidently, this show was crafted by a Bizarro Jimmy McGovern: the eloquent anguish that make his original Cracker scripts unforgettable, channeled differently, ruins Terror.

After ten years abroad in Australia, Fitz and family return to Manchester. Much to Judith's chagrin, Fitz finds himself drawn into a new case. An American comedian (Matt Rippy) turns up dead, evidently killed by an ex-soldier. It turns out the murderer is Kenny Archer (Anthony Flannagan), a veteran of Northern Ireland suffering from PTSD. Conveniently, he's also a policeman himself. Despite the reluctance of the Manchester police to bring him on board, Fitz inevitably assumes a central role in the investigation.

A New Terror works for about 15 minutes. All these years and Fitz proves the same old sod, ruining daughter Katy's wedding with a crude toast. Having Fitz revisit the New Manchester, no longer a post-industrial wasteland but a thriving metropolis, provides a tinge of amusement. It's nice to probe his relationships with Judith, who seems more tolerant towards Fitz's vices, and Mark, now a surprisingly well-adjusted adult. McGovern successfully whets our appetite with this early character development. Then the plot starts.

A New Terror isn't a Cracker episode so much as a violent diatribe against George Bush, Tony Blair and the Iraq War. This topicality proves immediately off-putting. Cracker explored relatively universal themes: male insecurity, sexism, class tension and racial disquiet. Only To Be a Somebody, with its evocation of Hillsborough, tied itself to real-world events. That episode's deft treatment of an authentic tragedy stands in stark contrast to A New Terror's crass ranting. Just seven years on, Terror feels incredibly dated.

McGovern channels his outrage into overwrought America bashing. Kenny kills exclusively boorish stereotypes: his second victim especially (Demetri Goritsas), a racist, wealthy businessman screwing a married Englishwoman, is less subtle than The Simpsons' Rich Texan. This taps into British anti-Americanism of Second World War vintage ("overpaid, oversexed, over here"), if not much older. Then we get Chomsky-lite diatribes about 9/11 as foreign policy blow back and American support of Sinn Fein. Even Fitz's interrogations degenerate to ranting about Bush. Isn't this a crime drama?

Friends traveling abroad during the Bush years assure me such resentment was commonplace. And on one level, associating a nation with its government is an easy judgment. Americans certainly don't distinguish between, say, Mahmoud Ahmedinijad and the average Iranian. But it takes a special kind of nerve for McGovern to call killing Americans solely for being American "understandable, but not excusable." Forgive this Yank for taking offense.

McGovern's so firmly planted on his soapbox that he barely bothers with a story. Wise and Penhaligon go unmentioned; Judith and Mark get hustled off at earliest convenience. Fitz deals with three cops (Richard Coyle, Nisha Nayar and Rafe Spall) who register zero personality between them. Kenny being a detective himself doesn't amount to much; he spends much of the show browbeating a petty crook who witnessed his first murder. That's not to mention Antonia Bird's obnoxious direction, splicing in news footage and jerky flashbacks like a distaff Oliver Stone.

Any redeeming features? Anthony Flanagan deserves praise for making Kenny sympathetic in his anguish if not his actions. With a little sharper writing, he could have made a genuinely tragic villain. Better still, Robbie Coltrane is in top form, a little grayer and paunchier but as vulgar, sly and brilliant as ever. At least we know if there are future Cracker revivals, Fitz remains up for the task. The same may not be true for Jimmy McGovern, however.

* * *

Rather than dwell on these unsatisfactory postscripts, let's wrap things up with a brief, personal retrospective on writing these articles.

I've shied away from writing about television shows, for the problems evident here: lots of surface and subtextual content, ongoing plot lines, many characters and diffuse subplots. Most movies, even installments in franchises, can be reviewed as an individual work. But you have to consider a TV episode both as a self-contained entity and part of a larger whole. Also, you can't include every little detail from an episode, however significant. It took me twice as long to write even the most perfunctory Cracker review than my average film review.

This was a burden for Cracker, a series with just 11 episodes. I can't imagine doing a long-running show like The Sopranos or The Wire, or even King of the Hill, without going insane. While I'm satisfied with most of these reviews, and glad I at least tried something different, Groggy's not likely to revisit television any time soon. Hopefully my readers feel I did Fitz and Co. justice.

The Alamo (1960)

John Wayne treated The Alamo (1960) as his dream project. The Duke spent over 15 years trying to get money and industry clout to retell Texas's War for Independence. The project was so long in gestation that an early script became The Last Command (1955) with Sterling Hayden. Wayne accrued a $12,000,000 budget mixing personal funds with backing from Texas donors, building a massive set in Brackettville, Texas, and directing the film himself. Critics excoriated the movie, not the least for an obnoxious campaign that claimed real Americans would nominate it for Oscars. Despite disappointing box office, it's become a perennial John Wayne favorite.

The Alamo is watchable despite its sprawling excesses. One doesn't begrudge Wayne's conservative politics: if Kirk Douglas injected progressive content into Spartacus, why can't the Duke make an ode to Americanism? The problem isn't Wayne's worldview but his slapdash presentation; such a massive production would be taxing for a veteran director, let alone a freshman like Wayne.

In 1836, Texas rebels against General Antonio de Santa Anna's repressive Mexican government. As Santa Anna's armies invade Texas, Sam Houston (Richard Boone) assigns Colonel William Travis (Laurence Harvey) to fight a holding action at the Alamo, a small mission in San Antonio. Travis gathers militia headed by Jim Bowie (Richard Widmark) and Tennessean Davy Crockett (John Wayne), but it's still fewer than 200 men against 7,000 crack Mexican troops. The leaders clash as they determine how to fight Santa Anna, but ultimately decide their cause supersedes personal disagreements.

The Alamo functions as Texas's creation myth. Texans still hold it as sacred, with any questioning blasphemy: remember Hank Hill freaking out over a twig boy playwright's reworking of the story? Historians know the Texans rebelled for various reasons, from Mexican high-handedness to their abolition of slavery. It's undeniable that Santa Anna was an unscrupulous dictator whose power plays (eleven non-consecutive terms as President!) and despotism ravaged Mexico and Texas alike. Certainly the compelling siege format and larger-than-life heroes with undeniable courage make for an epic saga.

Historical accuracy isn't the point. Wayne intended The Alamo as his definitive statement on America. Hence the endless harangues about truth, justice and the American Way. Crockett monologues about the beauty of republics, a very Reaganite homily. Bowie crudely espouses rugged individualism, reinforced by minor characters like blind Mrs. Robinson (Veda Ann Borg). Crockett even reframes the Domino Theory for the 1830s: if we don't stop Santa Anna at San Antonio, he'll soon be in Nashville! Travis's "line in the sand" boils history down to reactionary myth: America is under siege, and you're with us or them.

The human side gets lost amidst the speech-making. Writer James Lee Grant frames character conflicts in crude, one-note fashion. Tough guy Bowie locks horns with the dapper Travis, with Crockett mediating between them, a dynamic unchanging throughout. Crockett's romance with a Mexican widow (Linda Cristal) peters out before it begins. Worse, Crockett's accompanied by an insufferable gaggle of hicks, whose drunken antics bog down the early scenes. The Mexicans get no characterization, though Wayne praises them as "fighting men."

The Alamo pays off 90 minutes of throat-clearing with impressive action scenes. This is what audiences want! Working with William H. Clothier and second unit veteran Cliff Lyons, Wayne provides stirring battles of massed volleying, crashing horse falls and thundering, body-hurling explosions. He smartly builds the action from brawls and sorties to the cast-of-thousands finale, providing stylish deaths for the three protagonists. Finally, Dimitri Tiomkin complements the action with a beautiful score. The Alamo succeeds as spectacle even if its drama proves uneven.

Actor Wayne plays Crockett as both a font of "homespun wisdom" and two-fisted hero. Hearing his verbose speeches, one imagines Wayne relishing the chance to hit back at condescending liberals who dismissed him as an inarticulate fossil. That said, in crunch time the Duke is an action star: he unhorses Mexican cavalry barehanded and keeps fighting even after being lanced in the chest. With the weight of a country on his shoulders, Wayne becomes a mythic superhero.

Richard Widmark makes a fine tough guy, his six-barreled scattergun toppling Mexicans like bowling pins. But Laurence Harvey's presence is near-inexplicable: why's the pretty boy Brit from Expresso Bongo playing a Texan? More inexplicable is how the obnoxious Chill Wills wangled an Oscar nod, or why singer Frankie Avalon plays a prominent supporting role. Wayne drags along the Ford Stock Company: Denver Pyle, Ken Curtis, Hank Worden, Olive Carey and Jack Pennick all appear. Richard Boone "guest stars" as Sam Houston; the appealing Linda Cristal (Two Rode Together) disappears just as the plot kicks off.

The Alamo remains a flawed but enjoyable historical epic. Viewers who don't cotton to Wayne's right-wing bloviating can still enjoy the rousing battles. For all its crudeness, it's undeniably entertaining.

Cast a Giant Shadow

Cast a Giant Shadow (1966) was a labor of love for Melville Shavelson. A former joke writer for Bob Hope, Shaverson spent years trying to get the film made, finding no interest until John Wayne read his script. Agreeing to co-produce, Wayne encouraged Kirk Douglas to play David "Mickey" Marcus, the American soldier-turned-Israeli fighter, and Shadow opened to good box office but indifferent reviews. Seen today, it's a stilted epic that fails to do its subject justice.

David Marcus (Kirk Douglas) is an American JAG officer who, during World War II, gains a reputation for insubordinate, reckless behavior. After the war ends he's contacted by Major Shamir (James Donald) to help the Haganah, a Zionist group agitating for Israeli independence. Marcus is appalled by the pitiable state of Palestine's Jews, agreeing to serve as a military adviser. Israel gains independence from Britain but is immediately set upon by its Arab neighbors. Outnumbered and outgunned, the Israelis rely on Marcus's expertise to secure their freedom.

Cast a Giant Shadow places a poor second to Exodus, Otto Preminger's flawed but engrossing paean to Israeli freedom. Shavelson's literal-minded script lurches from set piece to set piece, only stopping for exposition. Shadow spells out back stories, hammers home plot points and explains everything in a deadeningly declarative fashion. We never doubt Mickey's motivations, thanks to the stilted dialogue and clunky flashbacks. The human moments fall even flatter, with Marcus's wife (Angie Dickinson) miscarrying a baby and Haganah agent Magda (Senta Berger) conveniently losing her husband just as Marcus's marriage dissolves. Very little of Shadow feels authentic, except its sincere advocacy for Israel.

Shadow has some interest for war movie fans. For a comedy director, Shavelson has a good feel for action scenes (though surely second unit directors were involved), drawing interest from the IDF's ramshackle tactics. In one battle an Israeli pilot (Frank Sinatra) bombs Arab tanks with seltzer bottles! Other scenes don't work so well; the World War II scenes feel cheap, making heavy use of stock footage. Marcus's visit to Dachau especially grates in its (understandable) tell-don't-show presentation. On top of everything else  the movie plods. Its seemingly endless battles and lectures (with occasional melodramatic interludes) ultimately make for a deadening experience.

Kirk Douglas gets a role tailor-made to his star image. Douglas plays the cheeky wild card, parachuting into France against orders, butting heads with John Wayne's General and later Israeli officials. He gets plenty of earnest drama scenes contrasted with rugged action, a Spartacus for the '40s. He's obviously more virile than Magda's impotent husband; is it a sign of star ego that Douglas gets to bed Angie Dickinson and Senta Berger? Douglas handles himself well, even if Marcus seems too perfect to be credible.

The star cameos simply don't work. John Wayne's scenes clunk, while Frank Sinatra's pilot barely makes an impression. Yul Brynner has more screen time, but his grumpy soldier isn't much more substantial. Senta Berger (Major Dundee) makes an appealing love interest/freedom fighter but Angie Dickinson's scenes play as cheap melodrama. Character actors James Donald (Bridge on the River Kwai), Michael Hordern (Royal Flash), Luther Adler (The Desert Fox) and Gordon Jackson fare better. Topol (Galileo), the cast's one authentic Israeli, plays a crude Arab sheik. 

Like many message movies, Cast a Giant Shadow features good intentions blotted out by indifferent execution. Mickey Marcus's story is worth telling; too bad it's rendered so stiffly.

None But the Brave

None But the Brave (1965) was among my most-watched childhood movies: AMC ran it almost weekly, and it made passable filler between Rio Bravo and Patton. However cool it seemed at the time, Frank Sinatra's only directorial effort is an embarrassing pacifist whine, pitched at the tritest level imaginable. Think John Boorman's Hell in Pacific re-envisioned by Stanley Kramer and you're there.

During the height of World War II, a squad of American Marines is shot down over a remote Pacific Island. Captain Bourke (Clint Walker) takes command over the objections of Lieutenant Blair (Tommy Sands). Bourke discovers they're not alone: an isolated Japanese garrison remains on the island, commanded by sensitive Lieutenant Kuroki (Tatsuya Mihashi). The two sides skirmish repeatedly until Kuroki enlists the American's doctor (Frank Sinatra) to operate on an injured soldier. Bourke and Kuroki initiate a truce which lasts until Bourke's men contact the US Navy.

The basic problem is None But the Brave simply isn't credible. WWII's Pacific Theater was a nasty race war, both sides viewing the other as subhuman. Japanese soldiers habitually massacred Allied civilians, bayoneted or beheaded captured troops and worked survivors to death in slave labor camps. Allied troops weren't shy about killing Japanese wholesale either, not helped by the latter's tendency towards banzai charges. Neither side took many prisoners; why house and feed enemy "vermin" when you can exterminate them?

Mind you, this isn't to imply moral equivalence between the Allies and Imperial Japan. But the fact remains, neither GIs nor Japanese had much interest in peaceful co-existence. Some conflicts can't be resolved by cigarettes and painting smiley faces on a leg stump (yes, that happens). Maybe an Eastern Front epic with the Waffen SS befriending NKVD Commissars would strain credulity further, but not much. Even as an allegory, Brave's set up feels unacceptably phony.

As a Japanese-American co-production when "Yellow Peril" resentment still lingered, Brave's intent is admirable. But Sinatra ruins our good will by ramming the theme down our throats. Early on, a scene of Kuroki chewing out his fanatical Sergeant (Takeshi Kato) is intercut with Bourke and Blair arguing. Kuroki's pedantic narration further underlines the message. Worst of all are two flashbacks that amuse rather than enlighten. Things end in a bloodbath followed by the most on-the-nose "message" ever committed to celluloid. Like many war movies, Brave has its cake and eats it too, presenting thrilling action while whining about the pointlessness of it all.

The best that can be said of Sinatra as director is that he doesn't hog the camera. Harold Lepstein captures beautiful Hawaiian scenery but the photography is rote, mechanical hackwork. Every scene seems to run a beat too long. Even the action feels sloppy: Sinatra films the skirmishes in close-up and medium shot, establishing no spatial geography between the Americans and Japanese. We never figure out where one side is in relation to the other, which would matter if we cared.

In front of the camera, Sinatra reverts to lazy Rat Pack mode, swilling booze, grinning incessantly and occasionally slapping somebody. Aside from his operation centerpiece, Old Blue Eyes might be comic relief. Clint Walker handles his He-Man leader competently, while Tasuya Mihashi gives a respectable turn as his Japanese counterpart. Stealing the show, in the worst possible way, is Tommy Sands. His bellowing Sergeant Rock caricature plays like a drunken hick R. Lee Ermey, generating gales of laughter with each slurred scream. You'll either find Sands hilarious or want to punch him in the throat.

None But the Brave is a sad mess. The innovative idea of an evenhanded war movie disappears amidst reams of cliches, position speeches and bad photography. All that remains are Sinatra's good intentions - and lousy direction.

Black Jesus

Valerio Zulini's Black Jesus (1968) is a fairly routine Italian drama. Full of grisly violence, religious metaphors and anti-colonialist posturing, it retains power through Woody Strode's excellent performance.

Congo in the early '60s. Maurice Lalubi (Woody Strode), a black nationalist leader, organizes passive resistance against the Belgian-backed regime. Lalubi is captured and subjected to horrendous torture, but refuses to recant his anti-government stance. While jailed he befriends two prisoners, Italian thief Oreste (Franco Citti of The Godfather) and a violent offender (Stephen Forsyth), impressing them with his compassion and understanding. Eventually the Belgian general (Jean Servais) decides to eliminate Lalubi, delegating responsibility to the new Congolese government.

Black Jesus is very much of its time. The movie received release during France's May 1968 unrest, while the violent brush fighting inevitably recalls Vietnam. Lalubi is a bowdlerized Patrice Lumumba, the Congolese leader whose anti-western stance landed him in hot water; he even mouths Lumumba's famous "We are no longer your monkeys" declaration. Its topicality underscores the death throes of European colonialism. Aside from Portugal's vestigal empire in Mozambique and Angola, Tom Mboya's "scram from Africa" was in 1968 a fait accompli. If European civilization only left Africa chaos and despotism, Lalubi asks, then what did it achieve?

Black Jesus tackles its subject in a hamfisted manner. Franco Brusati's script alternates stale position speeches with graphic violence: an early massacre of African rebels prefigures Pontecorvo's Burn!, released the following year, while Lalubi and Oreste are both graphically tortured. More obnoxious are the blatant Christ parallels: Lalubi unseen a la Ben-Hur in his opening oration; the lay criminals "crucified" alongside him; the Pontius Pilate attitude of the Belgian commander, passing responsibility to an African strongman. Zurlini makes these points loudly and without particular skill.

The main appeal is Woody Strode, playing drastically against type. In his best-known Westerns (The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, The Professionals) he's often more rugged presence than actor, yet this slights his excellent turn in Ford's Sergeant Rutledge. Strode proves ideally cast, physically strong but sensitive, conveying anguish and compassion in a very moving, layered performance. He manages to sell Lalubi as Christ-figure, impassive even in the face of crushing brutality.

Black Jesus has little to say that other movies its period didn't handle better: colonialism is bad, Third Worlders good, violence begets violence. Without the style of a Pontecorvo or Rosi it's rather forgettable.

A Bullet for the General

In past reviews I've referred to A Bullet for the General (1967) as atrocious. Re-watching it, I'm not sure what caused this vituperative reaction. Damiano Damiani's Mexican Revolution epic is certainly flawed, but as Spaghetti Westerns go it's a fairly high-end product.

Mexican bandit El Chuncho (Gian Maria Volonte) ambushes a troop train. Among the passengers is Tate (Lou Castel), an enigmatic American who joins the bandits. Chuncho works for Revolutionary General Elias (Jaime Fernandez), raiding government arsenals and slaughtering soldiers. While Chuncho wants to settle in the town of San Miguel, Tate urges him to press on with his campaign. It turns out that Tate has an ulterior motive in helping Chuncho.

A Bullet for the General singlehandedly launched the Zapata Western. This subset of the Spaghetti phenomenon explored the Mexican Revolution of 1910-23, grafting leftist politics onto Villa and Zapata's Mexico. Some Zapatas referenced Italy's fascist past: Sergio Leone explicitly modeled a scene in Duck, You Sucker! on the 1944 Fosse Ardeatine massacre. Others paralleled contemporary events, from CIA meddling in Latin America to the Vietnam War. As a result, gringo gunslingers in Zapatas more closely resemble the cutthroat mercenaries of Vera Cruz than The Magnificent Seven.

Working with leftist scribe Franco Solinas (The Battle of Algiers), Damiani adds a Marxist wrinkle to the Western buddy dynamic. Tate represents America as greedy, callous and self-interested: "not much heart but lots of pesos," one character observes. Chuncho is an illiterate criminal but an idealist at heart, creating an ironic mismatch. Chuncho's dream is to defend a small village, yet abandons them to secure an arms shipment. Tate's interest is purely mercenary, yet he risks his life to save Chuncho. Their differing worldviews make them amusing partners, but sets up a downbeat ending.

A Bullet for the General succeeds in delivering violent action. Damiani provides a handsomely shot film, using familiar Almeria locations to good effect. Solinas recycles set pieces from Battle of Algiers: a woman planting bombs, the police station ambush. Damiani provides more original action: a train ambush with a gruesome finish; Chuncho's brother El Santo (Klaus Kinski) raining blessed grenades onto a Federale column; Tate massacring a company of soldiers with a machine-gun. Coupled with Luis Bacalov's excellent score it's a thrilling movie.

Unfortunately, Bullet's raison d'etre is its politics. Between shootouts, Damiani stops the action for heavy-handed lectures on the wonders of Communism. One painfully condescending scene has a revolutionary give bread to wide-eyed starving children, instructing them to "divide it equally." Gee, thanks. Scenes with Chuncho's gang shooting priests and gang-raping prostitutes may be attempts at moral ambiguity, but come off in bad taste. Such is the peril of genre film messages: to reach mass audiences, politics are distilled to their silliest form.

Gian Maria Volonte gives a typically outsized performance, making Chuncho a colorful proletarian hero. One imagines Volonte, a committed leftist, relishing this part more than similar roles in Leone's Dollars trilogy. Lou Castel provides fine counterpoint as the cold-blooded Tate. Martine Beswick (Thunderball) makes an appealing sidekick to Chuncho, while Klaus Kinski steals his scenes taking the "Holy Hand Grenade" concept seriously.

While problematic, A Bullet for the General is certainly better than I remembered. If it focused more on the action and less on its Little Red Book primer material I'd probably like it even more.

Something of Value

Richard Brooks' Something of Value (1957) makes odd viewing. Outwardly a racially-tinged melodrama, this adaptation of Robert Ruark's novel is full of unique artistic inflection. The off-kilter style proves more interesting than its hokey message.

Post-WWII Kenya. Peter McKenzie (Rock Hudson) and Kimani (Sidney Poitier) are childhood friends rent apart by racial tension. The arrest and death of Kimani's father (Ken Renard) drives Kimani into the arms of Mau Mau, a secret society agitating for independence. Kimani grows torn between his "civilized" teachings and Mau Mau's indiscriminate violence. Peter struggles with his fiance (Dana Wynter), joins a militia unit and restrains racists like Matson (Michael Pate), who hopes to spark an all-out race war.

Something of Value displays curious artistry. There's lots of African scenery but by shooting in black-and-white, Brooks and photographer Russell Harlan eschew the travelogue feel of The African Queen and Mogambo. Indeed, Value has an experimental feel, from the ragged editing to the expressionistic photography and eerie score of African songs and chants. Scenes dissolve into the next before they get going, creating a jarringly stilted effect. Brooks employs odd symbolism, from a Kikuyu prayer rock used to extract Mau Mau confessions to recurring use of pregnancy and children, juxtaposed with brutal violence.

If Something of Value retains the trappings of a message movie, it's a fairly good one. Unlike the British Simba, which preaches racial tolerance while demonizing Mau Mau, Brooks at least humanizes the Kenyan rebels. Matson's striking Kimani makes a simple but stark reminder of ingrained racism that no amount of good will can erase. Yet neither does the movie idealize Mau Mau's brutal terror campaign, which kick-starts a brutal wave of settler reprisals. The movie scores here, in Peter and Kimani's tragic friendship and the striking violence.

All the same, Value falls back on the anodyne message that extremists on both sides cause misunderstanding. This hand-wringing seems especially dubious couched in a colonial setting; imperial racism is more pernicious and far-reaching than Jim Crow segregation. More facile still is Brooks' unusually tin-eared dialogue, with Peter musing "we're not so far from savages ourselves" watching an "enhanced" interrogation. Characters like Matson and the demagogic Mau Mau leader (William Marshall) make too easy of villains. Brooks conveyed liberal messages more effectively in Elmer Gantry and In Cold Blood.

Rock Hudson, as usual, proves as emotive as his namesake. The guy's likeable enough but I've yet to find evidence he can act. Dana Wynter makes a one-note love interest, limited to cuddling Rock and photogenically cradling a Sten gun. Sidney Poitier compensates with a passionate performance. There are effective supporting roles by Juano Hernandez (Sergeant Rutledge) and William Marshall (The Boston Strangler) as Mau Mau leaders, Michael Pate (Major Dundee) as a murderous racist and the incomparable Wendy Hiller as Peter's haughty sister.

Something of Value is enjoyable provided you don't mind the lectures and artistic ostentation. If you ever wanted to see Sidney Poitier fighting with a machine gun in one hand and a baby in the other, this is the film for you.

Meet John Doe

Frank Capra crafts a confused message movie with Meet John Doe (1941). Ostensibly another Capra film extolling political activism, its commentary winds up garbled and nonsensical. Fortunately, it works okay as a straightforward comedy.

Angry reporter Ann Mitchell (Barbara Stanwyck) publishes a letter by a fictional "John Doe" threatening to kill himself protesting social iniquity. The letter proves a popular smash, and publisher D.B. Norton (Edward Arnold) insists on propagating the story to further his political ambitions. Ann selects vagabond John Willoughby (Gary Cooper) to fill the role, and John's plainspoken demeanor proves just the ticket. John's speeches inspire a genuine mass movement, rising Norton to a presidential contender. When John discovers the charade, the whole movement threatens to unravel. 

Capra's earlier populist epics Mr. Deeds Goes to Town and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington play it safe by being apolitical. The movies are cynical about the political establishment but maintain a certain idealism and belief that the common man can change it. By avoiding political designations, Capra won't alienate his audience while pushing home the truism that the system is corrupt: one imagines both Glenn Beck and Michael Moore watching Mr. Smith and envisioning themselves in the lead. 

Meet John Doe is a different kettle of fish. Capra provides the ostensible message is that grassroots movements are swell until co-opted by the establishment. John is sincere enough to believe his message of goodwill and cooperation, but we see Norton's crew organizing John Doe clubs across America. The movement has obvious appeal but it's obvious the System's twisting it for its own benefit. Downplayed, of course, is that the System itself created the movement, or that their actual platform has no substance beyond the brotherhood of man.

It's an observation shrewd in some ways, but also obvious and problematic. Genuine populism in America is virtually non-existent, save extraordinary exceptions like the Civil Rights Movement. Today's Tea Party movement is funded by billionaires like the Koch Brothers, while George Soros bankrolls leftist groups like Code Pink and MoveOn.org. In a country generally apathetic or hostile to activism, joining "the System" is the only way for most movements to get ahead.

For a movie made in 1941, its commentary on mass politics are remarkably tin-eared. Waiting for a rabble-rousing savior, explicitly compared to Christ (!), to deliver us from "the System" invites all sorts of unsavory implications in the era of Fascism in Europe and Father Coughlin in America. Capra tries to fudge this by focusing on John's message, but it scarcely registers when this is vague quasi-socialist gush about "the people." How can it be valid anyway when the message is, to begin with, a fraud? There's a thin line between idealism and demagoguery which Meet John Doe, in all its warm mushiness, is too unsophisticated to delineate.

As a light dramedy, Meet John Doe works fine. Capra and writer Robert Riskin keep a brisk pace, with creative montage work and direction. The movie gets some big laughs, especially John's cynical partner (Walter Brennan) ranting about capitalist "helots" corrupted by creature comforts. The lead romance is appealing, with Cooper and Stanwyck recapturing their chemistry from Ball of Fire. With its appealing stars and clever humor, it will certainly appeal to moviegoers looking for a pleasant evening in.

Gary Cooper turns on his gruff Everyman amiable to full effect here. Barbara Stanwyck is nothing less than charming, mixing sweetness with tough-minded ambition. Walter Brennan steals the show in inimitable fashion, proving an improbable oracle. Edward Arnold, James Gleason and Gene Lockhart occupy colorful supporting roles.

Meet John Doe is entertaining but problematic. Don't give its message overmuch thought and you'll have fun. Groggy isn't the sort of viewer to take films on face value, however.

I Confess

I Confess (1953) is middling Alfred Hitchcock. Another variant on Hitchcock's "wrong man" plot, its religious trappings don't compensate for sloppy plotting. Montgomery Clift helps with a strong performance.

Father Michael Logan (Montgomery Clift) hears the confession of church gardener Otto Keller (O.E. Hasse), who's murdered a lawyer named Vilette. Logan cannot break the seal of the confessional, even when police suspect him of the murder. Inspector Larrue (Karl Malden) finds Logan has a perfect motive: his past relationship with Ruth Grandfort (Ann Baxter), now unhappily married to a businessman (Roger Dann). Can Logan prove his innocence?

I Confess leans heavily on its priest plot to avoid familiarity. Hitchcock, a devout Catholic, no doubt felt its religious angle sincerely, and this aspect works well-enough. This doesn't stop I Confess from being contrived and profoundly muddled.

I Confess succeeds showing Logan's conflict. He fears not only breaking his clerical vows but exposing his shameful past, a credible characterization. His ambiguous relationship with Ruth torments him, while he scuffles with superiors afraid of the image problem generated by police suspicions. Hitchcock and writers George Tabori and William Archibald handle Logan's dilemma with sensitivity, saving I Confess from being gimmicky glop.

Move beyond Logan's characterization though and you've got a trifling, illogical plot. Is Larrue really so dense he can't guess why a Catholic priest might not cooperate? Ruth proves a selfish ninny who only makes things worse. Good thing that Keller blows his secret by publicly shooting someone. Hitchcock sets up Logan as a martyr with Calvary imagery - yet it's not Logan who's sacrificed. I Confess proves confused in its story and muddled in its message.

Hitchcock's direction is a mixed bag. He provides lots of moody photography, contrasting bright, scenic Quebec with cavernous church interiors and cramped police quarters. Ruth's romantic flashback, with glowing costumes and sunny scenery, provides an idyllic interlude. Hitchcock's a master of set pieces and the climactic chase works dramatically for all its illogic.

But the religious iconography proves insultingly obvious. As Logan walks to the police station, he passes a Calvary statue. Later, he testifies at his trial with a crucifix highlighted in the background. Presumably Hitchcock thought Logan healing lepers and turning water into wine was too on the nose.

Montgomery Clift provides a solid turn. His brooding intensity, repressed romanticism and religious devotion make him a compelling hero. His supporting cast is less commendable. Ann Baxter (All About Eve) suffers playing a ninny, while Karl Malden (On the Waterfront) is required to be snide and obtuse. O.E. Hasse (Decision Before Dawn) provides cartoon villainy and Dolly Haas's killer's wife is underutilized.

I Confess unfortunately proves mediocre. Its production values and Clift's acting salvage what would otherwise be forgettable.

Harry Brown

We've recently been saturated with a glut of violent revenge pix: The Brave One, Edge of Darkness, Gran Torino, Taken, even a Straw Dogs remake. These films generally work best as straight genre pieces. Inject them with sociological content, and you're skating on thin moral ice. Vigilantism is fine as a cinematic fantasy. As a serious statement, it's somewhere between stupid and dangerous.

Harry Brown (2009) is both pretentious and exceedingly derivative. A cross between Death Wish and Unforgiven, it might pass as middle-brow escapism if it stuck to revenge mechanics. But director Daniel Barber insists on infusing his story with ostentatious "significance" and quarter-baked social commentary. Only Michael Caine's commendable performance makes it worthwhile.

Harry Brown (Michael Caine) is a retired ex-Royal Marine who's recently lost his wife to terminal illness. When a street gang murders his friend Len (David Brown), Harry grows frustrated with the police inability to track his killers. Inevitably, Harry acquires a firearm and goes on a rampage, while the cops pursuing him (Emily Mortimer and Charlie Creed Miles) wonder if they oughtn't let him be.

Harry Brown works best as a character study. It has an intriguing protagonist, a geriatric man of action reluctantly drawn into crime fighting. But Gary Young's script sticks mostly to familiar elements, cribbing not only the plot but entire scenes from earlier revenge opuses. When Harry brutally tortures a thug, we can't help but think of Taken. If one character's big reveal is shocking, it's only because we haven't seen them enough to care.

Harry Brown has bigger fish to fry though, echoing Death Wish's sentiments that the greatest cure to societal ills is a handgun. Barber fleetingly explores London's social disquiet, most notably when a police raid triggers a violent riot. Mostly though, it's accepted that small-time thugs are best exterminated, by private citizens if the police aren't up to the task. Again I commend Zodiac for its dressing-down of these attitudes.

Barber's pretentious direction doesn't help. The movie revels in surface gloss, artsy camera work and digital splatter, but it all feels pointless show rather than organic. The biggest set piece, where Harry buys a gun from two crooks, is so drawn out and obsessed with grimy detail it becomes absurd. It's telling that the two most effective scenes - the cell phone-shot opening detailing a gang member's initiation, the riot - are detached from the main narrative.

Michael Caine singlehandedly carries the film. Watching the star of Get Carter and The Italian Job deal death to chavs is satisfying, but his character goes deeper than that. Caine never forgets to balance his heroics with humanization: one outing ends with Harry's hospitalization for emphysema. In early scenes especially, he registers more with a wounded look or tastefully-placed tears than most. Bravo Mr. Caine.

Caine's co-stars make zero impression. The lovely Emily Mortimer (Elizabeth) barely amounts to a "caring cop" cipher. Where's Helen Mirren or Geraldine Somerville when you need them? Liam Cunningham's (The Wind That Shakes the Barley) pivotal role is similarly underdeveloped. The criminals are interchangeable scum, depriving the story of any tension.

Harry Brown is effective neither as a revenge picture nor as a statement on law and order. However, it does earn a few points for Michael Caine's sterling performance.

Prophecy (1979)

John Frankenheimer's Prophecy (1979) is a curious misfire. This potentially decent creature feature sinks under the weight of outsized pretensions, plus one of the dumbest-looking monsters ever.

Fed up with a soul-crushing city job, Dr. Robert Verne (Robert Foxworth) accepts a job with the EPA. Along with his pregnant wife Maggie (Talia Shire), he travels to Maine, where a land dispute between a paper company and local Indians rages. Plant owner Isley (Richard Dysart) blames Indian leader John Hawks (Armand Assante) for the disappearance of several loggers. The Indians blame Kahtadin, a mythical beast protecting their land. Verne discovers that pollution has mutated local wildlife, and that the loggers were killed by a particularly nasty byproduct.

Ken Begg of Jabootu's Bad Movie Dimension pegs Prophecy's primary failing: it's too damn serious. Frankenheimer and writer David Seltzer cram their monster movie with every conceivable issue. Environmentalism is a given, but Indian rights, urban squalor and even abortion get a work-out in the overbaked script. Our hero is introduced treating a rat-bitten black baby in a DC apartment, to give you an idea. Frankenheimer approaches this with utmost solemnity, but when an Indian and lumberjack hold a chainsaw-axe duel, it's hard to buy in.

For all its pretentions, Prophecy doesn't mind employing black-and-white morality. The Natives are Noble Savages out of a Billy Jack movie, and no points for guessing how Frankenheimer portrays the lumbermen. The paper mill's intro is hilarious: we get a two-minute establishing shot while Leonard Rosenman's score blares portentiously on the soundtrack. On the other hand, since Maggie's dumb enough to carry a Kathadin cub around, it's hard to root for the heroes either. 

Unfortunately the horror angle is equally botched. Mercury creating murderous mutants might pass muster in a Roger Corman flick but Seltzer's long, pseudoscientific explanations are laughable. Characters describe the Kathadin as a chimera, but in practice it's a dessicated bear. Frankenheimer can't even stage decent attacks, preferring faux-artistic details (shots of mutilated corpses set to Brahms) to frights. The scariest scene involves a racoon, a good indicator of the film's quality.

Talia Shire is mostly somnolent, though she goes into Connie Corleone screaming mode towards the end. She's nicely balanced by Robert Foxworth, who bites off dialogue like a hippie Charlton Heston. Armand Assante, Victoria Racimo and Richard Dysart come off as well as the script allows. George Cluetsi's deluded elder makes a tragic figure, at least until his ludicrous death scene.

Prophecy is laughably misguided schlock. Everyone involved treats this story of murderous bear jerky like an Ingmar Bergman flick. Viewers are more likely to treat it like crap.

Your Classic Movie SUCKS #6: American Beauty

The word pretentious has a bad rap. Overused by web dwellers and faux-cineastes, it's certainly apropos for movies that profess significance while delivering nothing. Rarely is such approbation more deserved than with American Beauty (1999), an irredeemably hollow piece of garbage.

Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey) is going through a midlife crisis. His menial job is in jeopardy, his marriage with status-obsessed Carolyn (Annette Bening) is on the rocks, his daughter Jane (Thora Birch) will barely speak to him. But when he meets Jane's friend Angela (Mena Suvari) he suddenly becomes rejuvenated. Lester gets in shape, quits his job and befriends videographer/pot dealer Ricky (Wes Bentley), son of an oppressive Marine Colonel (Chris Cooper). Lester finds contentment, even as Carolyn cheats on him and Jane falls for Ricky. Of course, his transformation won't be complete unless he seduces Angela.

Critics and audiences love American Beauty: it won Best Picture, and currently has an 88 percent on Rotten Tomatoes. Loaded with obvious symbolism and pointed "themes," it's an easy film to dissect and defend. This viewer found it thoroughly facile, a live-action cartoon loaded with self-indulgence.

Let's start with Lester. Presented as a repressed Everyman, he's a seriously warped character. His myriad neuroses could, in better hands, make for a fascinating story, if recognized for what it is. Instead, the movie celebrates his descent into puerility as righteous rebellion against "the System." Watch Lester tell off his wife while jerking off! See him blackmail his stuffy boss! Marvel as he contemplates statutory rape! What a guy. Maybe next he can beat up Brad Pitt and fashion bombs out of soap.

Director Sam Mendes and writer Alan Ball don't help by surrounding Lester with contrived caricatures. Ricky is the worst, a voyeuristic creep presented as a pop philosopher. Angela is equally ill-conceived, a faux-nympho with a laughable "revelation." The homophobic Colonel and materialistic Carolyn are convenient strawmen to kick around. None are remotely believable except as tools to elevate Lester's moral status.

Beauty's phoniness extends beyond its characters. Ball presents stilted sitcom dialogue as barbed wit. All of the character arcs and story threads come together with deadening predictability. Will a homophobe be outed? Will Lester get to publicly shame his philandering wife? Will the "bad girl" turn out to be all talk? Where did Beauty come up with such fresh, original ideas? No wonder it won five Oscars.

Mendes and legendary photographer Conrad Hall craft a slick-looking product, beautifully shot and visually crafted. But too often the visuals are either contrived or skull-crushingly ostentatious. The rose petal motif becomes tiresome through overuse. Then there's the plastic bag, an empty symbol apropos of nothing.

Here lies the crux of the problem. If Beauty were a broad satire, or had a scintilla of self-awareness, it would be easier to swallow. Instead, it postures as a deep, penetrating drama when it's really vacuous nonsense. Its targets are easy, its "symbolism" subtle as an H-Bomb, its message celebrating irresponsible narcissism.

Kevin Spacey tackles an impossible role with aplomb. His performance is certainly daring and I'd be apt to praise it, if I could buy Lester for a second. Other good actors fare even worse: Annette Bening plays a one-note shrew, Chris Cooper's (The Town) character is thoroughly fake, Allison Janney catatonic, Thora Birch somnambulistic, Wes Bentley (The Hunger Games) an eyebrow-slanting pervert. Then there's poor Mena Suvari, mixing smut talk with an unbelievable last-minute transformation.

American Beauty sucks. That this won Best Picture over The Insider is a crime worthy of prosecution by the Hague. Heck, I enjoyed Orca more than this overstuffed compost heap.

In the Heat of the Night

Norman Jewison's In the Heat of the Night (1967) is a flawed but enjoyable drama. Not subtle or especially inventive, it earns points for its strong lead performances and powerful characterization. It certainly holds up much better than Sidney Poitier's other big 1967 film.

Sparta, Mississippi witnesses the murder of a Northern land developer. Police Chief Bill Gillespie (Rod Steiger) has no clue where to start, but fortunately Philadelphia detective Virgil Tibbs (Sidney Poitier) is in town. Tibbs initially chafes at Gillespie's racism, but wins the Chief's respect with his investigative skills. Tibbs thinks the evidence points towards cotton boss Eric Endicott (Larry Gates), but the townspeople band together to protect him. Only the victim's widow (Lee Grant) keeps Gillespie from running Tibbs out of town.

Plotwise, In the Heat of the Night is a rote police procedural. The murder mystery isn't all that compelling, with a climax that resolves things too easily, and Tibbs is a supercop who can tell a man's guilt at a quick glance. The Southern seediness (including some nudity) is overwrought and the supporting cast goofy ciphers. Jewison and writer Sterling Silliphant hammer home their racial tolerance theme, using Colbert's widow to pointedly comment on local racism. This is definitely a liberal "message film," the lesson placed front and center.

What makes Heat special is its characters. Tibbs is a landmark movie hero. Not only a smart cop, Tibbs also stands up for himself: black audiences loved Tibbs telling off Gillespie and slapping Endicott around. After seeing Sidney Poitier turn the other cheek in film after film, it's liberating to watch him (literally) strike back. Still compromised, he's nonetheless the precursor of tough blaxploitation heroes like Lieutenant Pope (Across 110th Street) and John Shaft. Certainly modern stars like Will Smith and Denzel Washington owe a lot to Poitier's characterization.

Similarly, Gillespie transcends the redneck stereotype perpetrated by contemporary films like The Chase. He's an unpopular man pushed around by the shifty Mayor (William Schallert) and hectoring townspeople. Prejudiced at first, Gillespie quickly comes to respect Tibbs and empathizes with his outsider status, allowing them to believably bond. Silliphant's writing makes their relationship arc credible, and it's a treat just to watch the protagonists spar.

Jewison's direction is fine; he overdoes the seedy, sweaty atmosphere but delivers the dramatic high points just fine. Haskell Wexler's moody photography adds a good deal to the film, giving Sparta a wonderfully rustic look. Ray Charles contributes an excellent title song, though Quincy Jones's score sounds like a bad TV show.

Sidney Poitier gives one of his best performances. Tibbs is a big step up from the emasculated hero of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?, and Poitier gives a great performance with strength, quiet grace and rare humor. Rod Steiger won an Oscar, and he's equally fine. His character starts off as a stereotype but Steiger plays Gillespie just right, hammy but down-to-earth. The two have great chemistry and put subsequent buddy pairings to shame.

The supporting cast is mixed. Warren Oates (The Wild Bunch) is uncharacteristically lame playing a white trash Barney Fife. Scott Wilson (In Cold Blood) steals his scenes as a jittery murder suspect. Larry Gates (The Sand Pebbles) is appropriately hateful but the assorted cracker scum are cornpone ciphers. Lee Grant overplays her part, making sure we get the message in no uncertain terms.

In the Heat of the Night isn't a perfect film, using a routine plot and hamfisted preachments as a crutch. Whenever it's focused on Poitier and Steiger, however, it's golden.

The Ides of March

In George Clooney's The Ides of March (2011), we learn a valuable lesson about how politics is a dirty game that sullies everyone involved. This will come as a revelation to everyone who lives under a rock. While the subterranean may be shocked - shocked! - by its message, surface-dwellers will detest this dull, dramatically inert film.

Stephen Meyers (Ryan Gosling) is a campaign staffer for Governor Mike Morris (George Clooney), a charismatic, idealistic Presidential contender. Morris is naive enough to believe Morris is a savior, but soon finds out that Mr. Dooley's epigram - "Politics ain't beanbag" - is as valid as ever. Campaign manager Paul Zara (Philip Seymour Hoffman) will do anything to get the endorsement of a popular Senator (Jeffrey Wright), rival campaign boss Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti) tries to bring Stephen over to his side, and intern Molly (Evan Rachel Wood) has a secret that could destroy Morris's campaign. Stephen must get down in the gutter with them to come out on top.

The Ides of March's biggest miscalculation is passing off common wisdom as profound insight. A satire like The Best Man seems quaint today, but has the excuse of coming from a more innocent time. In the era of 24 hour news media and the blogosphere, when Barack Obama and John Boehner couldn't schedule breakfast without a fillibuster, Ides comes off as insightful as a dime-store psychic. A satire would be one thing, but Ides plays this absolutely straight.

Ides might get away with this if it weren't completely devoid of drama. The script is packed with stilted dialogue: the scenes of political players scheming and lecturing one another grow old really fast, while the "human" moments (Stephen and Molly's flirtations) seem written by cyborgs who learned human behavior from Google searches. Non-stop profanity only highlights the lousiness of the non-cuss words. Worse, the characters are interchangably obnoxious, preventing any investment in or engagement by them. The central melodrama plays as a desperate ploy for audience involvement, but it undermines the movie's docudrama posturing.

Ryan Gosling is an expressionless plank of wood. Not only is he given the most obvious arc imaginable, he scarcely changes his facial expression or raises his voice over the course of the film. It's the same performance as Drive without the face-stomping, which is completely wrong. It requires more than a droopy eyelid to pull off this sort of character.

The supporting cast isn't much better. George Clooney is such a cipher that the revelation of his evildoing comes as no suprirse. Evan Rachel Wood (Across the Universe) isn't so much a character as a trite plot pawn. Good actors like Paul Giamatti (John Adams), Philip Seymour Hoffman (Charlie Wilson's War) and Jeffrey Wright (Quantum of Solace) struggle with underwritten characters. Marisa Tomei plays a conniving journalist, as if the film didn't have enough cliches.

The Ides of March is a sub-Stanley Kramer message film for the incurably obtuse. Is there anyone alive still so naive about our political process that this "expose" will shock? All you need to do to dispell this is turn on CNN.