Iceman, written by John Drimmer and Chip Proser, directed by Fred Schepisi, hit theaters in the spring of 1984. It’s a quiet, contemplative sci-fi drama about a perfectly preserved prehistoric human discovered in the arctic and it made a little over $7M at the box office, garnering modest praise before fading from memory. Even now, its pages on Wikipedia and Rotten Tomatoes are curiously barren.

Trapped in a block of ice, the 40,000-year-old specimen is miraculously resuscitated as the film opens—a science-fiction setup that’s almost purely logistical. For that reason I’m not really interested in dwelling on the genre question. The film is technically science-fiction, and it’s often the case that the best examples of that genre defy conventions. But the reality is that the sci-fi aspect here serves as a springboard for a story about the past, and so it’s the past I’d rather focus on.

Less than a decade after the film’s release, the remains of what’s come to be known as “Ötzi”—Europe’s oldest natural mummy—were discovered by a hiker in the Alps (a stretch of them, in particular, located on the historically-contested border between Italy and Austria). Mummy being the operative word. The specimen in this case was not frozen, unchanged, but his body, his clothing, and the possessions he carried at the time of his death were all nevertheless remarkably preserved. His death was first assumed to be the result of exposure until his injuries and toolkit were examined, basically presenting a picture of a violent life that met an equally violent end. But like the genre question earlier, I’m not really interested in how he ended up there.

Iceman, a German-Italian-Austrian co-production, written and directed by Felix Randau and released in 2017, offers a decidedly cinematic interpretation of that man’s life, whoever he was, and the tragic course of events that led him to die there in the snow.

People wonder why there are so many movies and shows to come out in recent years set in the 1980s, and I think, aside from pure, shameless nostalgia, a major reason for that particular trend is that the 80s roughly marks the tail-end of a kind of romantic, pre-internet sense of loneliness that’s especially useful to storytelling. Stories about missed connections and great distances took on a graver, more poetic dimension than is even possible in a contemporary setting.

My 10-year high school reunion came and went a few years back, and, as far as I know, almost nobody showed up. Maybe a couple dozen people out of a graduating class of over seven hundred. If asked to explain it, I’d feel pretty confident in saying it’s largely a function of social media having simply obliterated any sense of mystery concerning the people you used to know. They’re almost always accessible to you now. What’s the point of a reunion in the face of that? It’s a little demoralizing to consider, but our lives have become less dramatically compelling in a lot of ways because the kind of loneliness that we experience is, more often than not, simpler to solve in practical terms and decidedly vista-free.

A sea voyage is more fraught than an international flight. Miles of distance between family and friends and years between points of contact is inherently more dramatic than a missed call. And a phone ringing in an empty house without caller ID to make sure you know it happened has greater stakes than a log of missed calls and follow-up messages, the device receiving them with you at all times. I’m not making a judgment about it one way or the other. I yearn for the dreamy solitude of my 90s childhood and am simultaneously grateful for easier access to the shit I consume. It is what it is.

In Iceman (1984), John Lone gives a powerful, committed performance as “Charlie” (an approximation of his stated name, Char-oo), a man separated from the people he knew and loved by tens of thousands of years. The plot machinations driving the film forward concern Timothy Hutton’s anthropologist’s attempts to shield Charlie from inhumane experimentation (some version of euthanasia and dissection, possibly something worse), his conviction that the world’s loneliest man deserves dignity and autonomy. The film raises its share of ethical questions concerning the “civilized” world’s intrusion into the cultures outside of it, the morality of constantly seeking to extend the human lifespan, religious liberty. Aside from a brief discussion of the (bullshit, non-) issue of overpopulation, all of this stuff remains relevant. The rest of the cast, including Lindsay Crouse, David Straitharn and Danny Glover, are all good, the arctic base coming across as thoroughly lived-in and authentic. But it’s Lone’s performance that makes it work, and his relationship with Hutton.

In 2017’s Iceman, the central character known to us as “Ötzi” (“Kelab,” Wikipedia tells me, in the film) is the chieftain of a small clan who, after returning home to find his people slaughtered, the mysterious religious artifact at the heart of their community stolen, sets out for revenge. His journey, imperiled and violent and full of scenes of basic survival, calls to mind something like The Revenant, and meets the challenge with smooth, assured camerawork and stunning locations. Early in the film we see the painful birth of a clan member and the immediate natural death of its mother, a set of somber funerary rites in a nearby cave. I can’t claim to be anything more than a layman on the subject, but all of this comes across as thoroughly researched and highly plausible. All it can ever be is speculation, after all. But at the very least, in terms of costume and hair and makeup, Kelab is a near-picture-perfect realization of what’s knowable about the real person, and Jürgen Vogel in an almost wordless performance conveys a wide range of emotion at every turn: the burden of responsibility, fatherly pride, dogged, single-minded vengeance, self-doubt.

There’s technical stuff in both cases worth mentioning: the characters in the 2017 film speak sparse dialogue in a dead language and it all goes by untranslated. Text in the beginning explains this choice, correctly indicating that it’s not at all necessary to understand the story. Each film has gorgeous visuals: ice and snow and winter skies, atmospheric forests. The moments of action in the later film are incredibly well-executed and shaky cam-free, brutal hand-to-hand engagements with crude implements playing out with real flourish and longer range encounters with arrows flying back and forth filled with genuine tension, the results in each instance being genuinely surprising and inventive.

These are both simple stories, emotionally heightened, slow-burning. And while not technically a part of this proposed double feature, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Herzog’s Cave of Forgotten Dreams, his 2010 documentary about the unbelievably beautiful Paleolithic paintings discovered in the Chauvet Cave in France in 1994 that scratches the very same itch. Throw that in between viewings and let yourself soak in the exquisite loneliness.

December 1989.

I’m 12 years old and hate reading. Hate it. But I LOVE movies. Like any child of the late 1970’s, I was likely exposed to all manner of media that should have been withheld as “age-inappropriate.” Thankfully, my parents weren’t concerned by such things and were happy to let their pre-teen stay up late and watch films like The Exorcist, Halloween, Stand by Me and about anything else playing on Home Box Office (on repeat) that particular week. 

Quick side note: For those of you from the same era, let this take you back.

Anyway, it’s December and I’m traveling with my father to Minneapolis to see myAnyway, it’s December, and I’m traveling with my father to Minneapolis to see my grandparents. Bored, my dad suggests I read a book he’d just finished — The Shining. That book changed my life — I didn’t know reading could make you feel things. And wow, that book scared the living shit out of me — especially being in the snow-covered north of Minnesota. Sleeping in my grandparents’ finished basement as I usually did was out of the question, and in the middle of the night I had to move upstairs to the “girl’s bedroom,” lights on, surrounded by a horde of Madame Alexander dolls, which may have been more terrifying.

Regardless, that book started me down a path where I devoured every Stephen King novel in existence. Once I’d worked through his catalog, I eventually found my way to more serious, challenging reading material. But I’ve always remained a fan. Stephen King may never win a Nobel Prize and you can critique his style all you want, but the man can certainly conjure some incredibly scary and entertaining tales. If you don’t believe me, pick up his book Different Seasons, which features two short stories you may have heard of: The Body (Stand by Me) and (Rita Hayworth and) The Shawshank Redemption. Great stories, fun books and fantastic escapism. Obviously, they became great films.

Despite reading many of his works multiple times, I never dreamed of picking The Shining back up — it scared me that much. But being from a home that valued film, I had zero issue watching the movie, and while it’s a masterwork, it would never scare me as badly as that book. Truthfully, no book or movie ever has since.

With the recent excitement over Stephen King adaptations, including IT, Pet Semetary, etc., I was extremely excited to hear the news that Mike Flanagan (Oculus, Haunting of Hill House, Gerald’s Game) was adapting the recent sequel to King’s The Shining — Doctor Sleep. No spoilers here, but if you aren’t aware, the novel follows an adult Dan(ny) Torrance who has followed in his father’s footsteps and become a violent alcoholic himself. It’s a fascinating tale of addiction that picks up immediately following the events of The Shining (novel version) and carries Dan’s story 25 years. The book was fantastic, and with the capable Flanagan at the helm and the ageless Ewan McGregor starring as the adult Danny, my excitement can’t be contained.

That inevitably led me to a decision that would change my opinion about Stanley Kubrick’s film — specifically Jack Nicholson’s portrayal as Jack Torrance.

After the adaptation was announced, it happened to be early fall, and I decided to finally, after nearly 30 years, reread The Shining and immediately reread Doctor Sleep. It turned out to be a fantastic literary experience. Despite the books being written nearly 35 years apart, there is amazing continuity — I can’t recommend the experience enough.

Inevitably, I had to rewatch the film. And like any fan who regularly is devouring all sources of information and research regarding films, books, shows, etc., I spent some time reading reviews of the film — specifically King’s distaste for Kubrick’s adaptation.

Most of the time we discount King’s criticism of his television/film adaptations, because those he has personally been involved with (and many he hasn’t) have been utter garbage. If you haven’t witnessed his personal adaptation of The Shining starring the dynamic duo of Steven Weber (Wings) and Rebecca De Mornay (The Hand that Rocks the Cradle), you’re missing out on one major train wreck. It’s beyond terrible. But King loved it, and helped produce it. He was striving, and failing, to bring to life the version of Jack Torrance from his novel. One that wasn’t “batshit crazy” from the first frame like Jack Nicholson. He strongly wanted to portray Jack as a good but troubled man who is slowly seduced and corrupted by the Overlook Hotel. This is a man who is capable of redemption like Anakin Skywalker, Jules Vincent or Phil Connors. That’s what King felt was missing from Nicholson’s performance.

After rereading the books and immediately viewing the film, I actually agree with King. Truthfully, I sat on the couch late one night stunned by how much I disliked Nicholson’s performance in the Kubrick classic. Don’t get me wrong — it’s an amazing performance, but there’s never a single doubt that you’re watching a Jack Nicholson performance. It’s all about Jack Nicholson, and rarely about Jack Torrance. Shelley Duvall suffered mightily on the set at the hands of Kubrick, and her performance feels so much more genuine after a rewatch.

With Nicholson, there’s no warmth, no arc, no redemption — just insanity from the opening shot, just as King exclaimed.

At one point, Kubrick reportedly wanted to cast Peter Fonda as Jack Torrance, and I have to wonder how differently the character would have been shaped with his portrayal. Something more subtle, more nuanced, and possibly one that adheres more to the vision of the book. It makes me excited to see what McGregor can do with the sequel.

Kubrick’s The Shining will always be a classic film. It will always be a masterwork from one of the world’s most interesting and accomplished directors. But moving forward, I feel myself leaning toward support of King’s unpopular and misunderstood critique — that Kubrick set out to make an angry film — especially toward women — without redemption or remorse. Yes, he tapped the right actor to make it happen, but now I’ll always wonder what could have been with a different decision. Could Kubrick have made a film about a haunted hotel that corrupted a good man, rather than a film about a haunted, troubled man who happened to go crazy inside a haunted hotel?

Call me a heretic to question this masterpiece, but I challenge you to read the source material and see if you agree with Kubrick’s decisions.

It’s really hard to say something new about a divisive film like Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, especially when you’re writing about it ten years after its release.

The fact is, that there are very few films of its ilk.  Boasting some of the best visuals of the past decade and a visual style all its own, Sky Captain is one of those films that you either love or hate.

Though critics seemed to mostly give it positive reviews (72% on Rotten Tomatoes), most users disliked the film (46%).  Most of my friends have never heard of Sky Captain, and after explaining a bit about the film, they seem uninterested.

I’m pretty sure they’re wrong, and here’s why.

Joseph “Sky Captain” Sullivan really loves his airplane, a modified P-40 Warhawk.  He stresses over its condition constantly, grimacing every time it takes the smallest hint of damage.  It’s a safe and familiar environment in which he can accomplish fantastic things.  In much the same way, director Kerry Conran feels safe and familiar within the realm of classic science fiction, and uses the genre to its fullest potential in a number of innovating ways to create one of my favorite films.

Shot entirely on a soundstage using mostly bluescreen to fill in the environments, Sky Captain is a study in making a film almost entirely digital with the exception of live actors.  Written and directed by Conran, Sky Captain is an homage to science fiction, comic books, and the radio broadcasts of the 1930’s and ‘40’s.

One of the really great things with this film is its stylization and the usage of technology to create the world of the film.  As mentioned previously, the entire film was shot on a soundstage, mostly with bluescreen. While some may see this as the beginning of the death of practical special effects and set building, it’s amazing to see how, even in 2004, such a feat was possible.  The only parts of the film that weren’t digitally created were some sets, and the actors themselves.  In crowds, extras were shot on the soundstage, and added in as needed in a number of places.  This gives the film a very comic book-y feel in comparison to other films.

The film is based on a six-minute short by Conran, titled The World of Tomorrow in which some flying robots attack New York City.  When director Jon Avnet saw the film, he agreed to produce the film, and when the short was shown to Gwyneth Paltrow, she immediately volunteered for the film at a lower rate than usual.  Centering around Sullivan and reporter Polly Perkins (Paltrow), the duo uncover and attempt to stop a secret plot by the director of the mysterious Unit 11, Dr. Totenkopf (represented by deceased film star Sir Laurence Olivier, brought to life through the usage of archival footage) or risk the end of the world and all life as we know it.

Speaking of the feel and style of the film, comic books are the perfect analogy here.  There’s a few scenes towards the beginning, especially that give a feel of comic books brought to life, for example the crowd pointing towards the sky at the invading robots, or policemen raising their Tommy guns to defend New York, both in a group of three, one after the other.  It’s noticeable enough to be iconic, and becomes a sort of repeated visual motif throughout the film in different ways.  Additionally, the film is in color, however, it’s colorized and filtered in such a way that it looks like an old photograph, with lots of fade, and each object in the frame has a “glow” about it.  It looks like a classic science fiction film from the 1950’s and I love every minute of it.  Everything from the costumes, to the dialog, to the design of the gadgets and robots in the film screams classic science fiction from this film.  It’s an homage.  A labor of love.

Finally, one of the great things about Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow is the sheer number of nods to other works within the film.  A few of the bigger ones are Polly’s line “They’re crossing Sixth Avenue… Fifth Avenue… they’re a hundred yards away…” which is a direct quote from Orson Welles’ “War of the Worlds” radio broadcast hoax, the oversize radio tower when a distress message is sent to Sky Captain is a direct reference to now-defunct RKO studios, a picture of Godzilla in a brief glimpse of a Japanese newspaper, and the numbers “1138” in homage to George Lucas (whose first film was called THX 1138, and who later used the number in a variety of other ways in his other films).  The list goes on, but for the sake of brevity, I won’t.  The laundry list of classic references by the filmmakers shows the true amount of fan service present in Sky Captain, and makes the film that much more enjoyable for the style espoused in this film.

It’s not the greatest film of all time, but despite having such a poor popular response, and a mixed critical response, as a genre piece, I believe that Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow is worthy of the title “guilty pleasure” for many.

Except in my case, there’s nothing guilty about it at all.

Today’s Overlooked Movie comes from Will Dawson, a longtime Scene-Stealers pal and author of the blog View From Across the Pond. It’s a tribute to the late Bob Hoskins, and the only film that earned him an Academy Award nomination. Here’s Will:

Directed by Neil Jordan and released in 1986, Mona Lisa tells the story of George (Hoskins), a small time hood who has just been released from prison.  As a reward for keeping his mouth shut about his boss Denny (Michael Caine), George is given the job of being the chauffeur for high-class prostitute Simone (Cathy Tyson).

Throughout the course of the movie, George becomes memorized by Simone and attempts to help find a girl that Simone used to look after.  As George is pulled more into Simone’s world, the lines between perception and reality become blurred, and the truth is nothing what George thinks it is.

The title of the film Mona Lisa makes completely perfect sense due to the audience’s perception.  Like George, the audience does not know whether or not Simone is working with George because she loves him, or using him to satisfy her own ends.  While the truth of Simone’s intentions becomes known in the climax, the fact that George (and by extension the audience) are putting their own interpretations on what Simone’s personality should be is an excellent choice of screenwriting by Neil Jordan.  The song “Mona Lisa” by Nat King Cole also reinforces this idea with the lines “Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa? Or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art?”: Is Simone this real person who George thinks she is? Or is she a distant person who is using George to her own ends?

Of course, this theme of the film would be remiss without mentioning the incredible performances of all the leads.  Michael Caine is great as the villainous Denny, and Cathy Tyson is incredible as Simone, but the person who stands out is Hoskins as George.  Hoskins infuses George with the right level of pathos and grit.

You can see in Hoskins’ performance that he is a good man trying to find his place in the world, but is constantly used and abused by the person he lives and trusts.  In the hands of a lesser actor, the role could easily have been one-note, but Hoskins takes this role and makes it a tour-de-force performance.  It is not a surprise that Hoskins was nominated for Best Actor for this role, but it is a surprise that he did not win (losing to Paul Newman and his sympathy Oscar for The Color of Money).  But just ignore that fact and look at the Hoskins’ performance for what it is: About a man who is trying to get back on the straight and narrow, but is constantly betrayed by the person he loves.

Featuring an interesting theme, great performances, and incredible directing, Mona Lisa is a great film to not only view great acting, but also what a great film should be.  Be prepared to listen to the Nat King Cole song “Mona Lisa” and look at the painting by Da Vinci to further appreciate the film.

Fun Fact: This movie has Robbie Coltrane as George’s friend who loves mystery novels and plastic spaghetti.  In this reviewer’s opinion, any Robbie Coltrane is always a good thing in any movie.

The trajectory of the Godzilla filmography is ongoing, shifting between nuclear metaphor and more standard daikaiju material–once defiled by an American studio and currently in the process of being rebooted with next year’s film from Legendary.

But 20 years after the release of the original version–a bleak and serious horror incarnation, ironically the progenitor of a genre that mostly skirted its roots in years to come (not unlike the Godzilla series itself)–Toho released Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla, perhaps the ultimate iteration (and logical culmination) of the character after two decades of material.

As beloved as the American side of the monster movie genre had been, with Ray Harryhausen following in the footsteps of Willis O’Brien, crafting decades of iconic stop-motion creatures (beginning in 1925 with The Lost World and by extension King Kong in 1933, and ending roughly 50 years later with Clash of the Titans in 1981), the sheer scale and scope of the Japanese movement from Gojira (1954) on set it apart in a number of ways.

Where stop-motion animation approximated movement more fluidly and with a broader range of detail, speed and weight were always more convincing with the suit-mation employed in the kaiju era. The restrictiveness of the costumes, particularly in the case of Godzilla, enhanced the plodding, methodical posture and movements of the creatures that were actually more in line with the reality of the physics of something that size.

In the case of Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla, it afforded Toho an opportunity for some of the best costume work of the entire series. Godzilla appears better than ever, with two separate costumes used in the film, and endures an astronomical amount of blood loss in both encounters with the title villain. The mammalian daikaiju King Caesar (see-saw) is another sound creation,  a kind of demonic Sphinx with an unmistakable Cowardly Lion-vibe hatched from a mountain by a protracted musical number. Nothing’s perfect.

But Mechagodzilla is of course the central creation–my vote for the best of the first run, and a candidate for best of the entire series. A massive robot built to mirror Godzilla’s appearance, set loose by alien invaders hellbent on colonizing the planet, its metal plating and ubiquitous gadgetry are incredibly well realized, and the FX for lasers and force fields on display are some of the best of all tokusatsu of that period.

The followup in 1975 pitted an additional enemy against Godzilla, lost King Caesar as an ally, and toned down some of the more outlandish elements of the Space Ape alien invaders–still sheathed in chrome jumpsuits though no longer reverting to gorilla form when injured or killed, for example. After that film, Godzilla would go on hiatus until the mid-80s, spawning an additional set of separate series, punctuated by an American abortion in 1998.

At the end of the day, the evolution from Hiroshima parable to science fiction anti-hero was mostly successful, and struck a kind of sublime balance with Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla. The B-movie sci-fi angle of the back story integrated into the basic dynamic of Godzilla fighting other monsters (itself a B-movie sci-fi angle) pays off in a way almost no other entry does on either side. Ironically, the ultimate example of that cartoon flexibility being Mechagodzilla itself.

A reasonable person can make a case for humanoid mechas presented in the likes of Pacific Rim or its predecessors, but the fact of the matter is the construction of a robot made to look like Godzilla is insane. I understand they wanted to frame him for property damage, and I appreciate the Terminator-style reveal with the iconic score more than most, but let’s be serious: The later appearances still work because of built-in, genre-specific reasons, and because the technology had stagnated in many ways. This is a creation preserved for its era, and that’s not a bad thing.

Anniversaries are hit and miss in the Godzilla universe, but this overlooked entry (obscured by remakes and awkward chronological positioning) is one of the best. It crystallizes an era and bygone approach to film making, with a technical sophistication and entertainment value outclassed by few of its contemporaries.

Note: A mutual friend of Eric’s and mine asked us on Twitter to convince a buddy of hers to watch Freaks and Geeks. As Eric noted, 140 characters doesn’t do the series justice, so I sent said Freaks and Geeks holdout this e-mail. It has been edited because of my tendency to make embarrassing typos.

Dear Angela:

As the proud owner of a box set of the entire series (1999-2000), Freaks and Geeks delights me in ways that few television shows have ever managed to do. It’s a smart look at youngsters who often make stupid choices. In one season, the show’s creator Paul Feig takes viewers through a remarkably complicated story that grows and changes with each episode. Thankfully, with a lone season, you won’t have to watch years of installments to see it all.

As with Mad Men or Downton Abbey, there is something to pulls viewers back from episode to episode. Lindsay Weir (Linda Cardellini) and her little brother Sam (John Francis Daley) aren’t your typical sitcom high school misfits.

They and the other kids in their Detroit high school develop as the series does. Characters we liked in the beginning shock us by acting badly, and characters we underestimated prove themselves far more worthy that we initially imagined them to be. Feig feels a kinship with these young characters, and even the bullies occasionally seem human.

For example, Sam Weir actually has a few dates with the beautiful girl he’s only seen from afar. Most storylines would end there. With Freaks and Geeks, however, the two gradually discover that being in an actual relationship can be just as stressful and heartbreaking as rejection and that attraction and compatibility are two separate entities.

There are plenty of laughs in the series, but they come from different places than they do in most TV comedies. The laugh track has been eliminated, and you won’t miss it because you’ll be giggling just fine on your own.

The characters have the sort of fragmented conversations people have in real life, although there aren’t the grunts and groans and “ums” you’ll hear in a Twilight movie.

I once had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Feig, and he said that some of the best laugh lines can be an “um” or a simply glance of disbelief. Freaks and Geeks consistently proves his point. Many of the disposable sitcoms with their telegraphed punchlines aren’t half as funny as what Feig and his partner in crime Judd Apatow (who produced and wrote and directed some episodes) deliver here.

As someone who felt sentenced to high school, the series reminds me of why I hated it and how my decision making wasn’t that great back then. I won’t say that you’ll see yourself in Freaks and Geeks because everyone’s high school experience is different. Instead, I’ll say the world in the series is consistently dynamic and believable as 1980 Detroit.

While the series itself is both finely crafted art and rousing entertainment, it’s also a fascinating glimpse at some budding talent who later hit the big time, proving that network suits are as shortsighted as they are free of the ravages of taste or intelligence.

Not convinced? Here’s Episode 1 in its entirety:

One of the most underrated and overlooked movies of last year is now out on Blu-ray.

Irish playwright-turned-filmmaker Martin McDonagh’s strange and clever dark comedy Seven Psychopaths sank like a stone at the box office, just like his last effort, In Bruges. But that one turned into a cult hit on home video, so I’m expecting the same thing for the similarly twisted Seven Psychopaths.

Sam Rockwell and Christopher Walken are laugh-out-loud funny as dog-nappers who become intertwined with fledgling screenwriter Colin Farrell, but a plot synopsis beyond that doesn’t do the film justice.

Seven Psychopaths tests the boundaries of narrative coherency, flying gloriously off the rails as it plays gleefully with genre expectations. There’s no way to predict what’s going to happen next, and it’s absolutely thrilling.

In my original review, I praised Rockwell and Walken, both overlooked for acting awards this year, by saying: “Rockwell and Walken are the standouts here, both riotously funny but in completely different ways. Rockwell is a manic mess, constantly running at the mouth and serving as some sort of stand-in for the tastes of the mainstream action crowd. Walken is his calm, reasoned counterpoint. He delivers deadpan line after deadpan line with the world-weariness of a man who’s lived a life that would make most crime movie fans blush.”

Now here’s where I start to get angry.

A movie this complicated, this layered, and this far-out absolutely deserves a full-on DVD/Blu-ray package chock full of informative extras that illuminate the themes from the film.

Unfortunately, what Sony Pictures gives us is a bunch of tossed-off interview snippets and EPK material, most of which you can probably find on YouTube. ACTUALLY, YOU CAN. SO … just to prove how lame they are, I’ve embedded them all below. It’s all marketing materials. There’s a two-minute featurette, an interview with Colin Farrell, one with Woody Harrelson, a 2-minute bit on the film’s locations, a silly attempt to market the movie (which I’ll agree is unmarketable, and gloriously so) using the Internet “cat craze,” and something called “Layers,” a one-minute clip package under a Rockwell beatbox beat that has no clear point other than to be annoying.

Seven Psychopaths deserved better.

Martin McDonagh’s Seven Psychopaths

Colin Farrell is Marty

Woody Harrelson is Charlie

Crazy Locations

Seven Psychocats

Layers 

For 1 Year, 100 Movies, contributor/filmmaker Trey Hock is watching all of AFI’s 100 Years, 100 Movies list (compiled in 2007) in one year. His reactions to each film are recorded here twice a week until the year (and list) is up!

Sometimes as a young filmmaker develops his style and hones his craft, there comes a time when all of the pieces fit perfectly. The script stretches, tight as a drum, with expertly constructed characters and no unnecessary diversions. The actors, from the lead to each supporting role, turn in stellar performances, every gesture or line revealing more about their characters. Finally the direction manages to not only capture the action, but to accentuate it. Everything the director does, from framing to lighting, pushes the film nearer and nearer to perfection, until the viewer wonders, “Could this be this filmmaker’s greatest, most perfect work possible?”

These moments push the popular medium of motion pictures into the realm of art.

One could look at each of the top four films on AFI’s list and see how this sentiment applies, but for #4 Raging Bull, Martin Scorsese’s most uncompromising film of his career, it has particular resonance.

Four years after Taxi Driver, which, though incredible, often has a distant and sometimes inhuman tone to it, Scorsese is able to craft a film that is just as relentless and visually stunning, but also deeply human.

From its slow motion opening shot of Jake La Motta (Robert De Niro) alone in the ring, we understand exactly what Raging Bull is about. This one man bobs and weaves, fighting not with any physical opponent, but with the shadows that live within his head.

That is not to say that La Motta won’t have to face any actual opponents in the ring, but they are ancillary to La Motta’s struggle against himself. When Jake does fight other boxers, the violence is brutal.

Scorsese is unafraid to show the vicious consequences of life in the ring, and yet bathed in black and white these images have both a richness that makes them deeply emotional and a starkness that makes them palatable.

With all of the undeniable strengths of Raging Bull, it is remarkable to consider that that Scorsese was not this project’s champion from the beginning. That job fell to Robert De Niro.

De Niro read La Motta’s biography earlier and saw something in it that he could grab on to. Maybe it was the deep self-inflicted hurt that La Motta had such skill in dispensing upon himself, perhaps it was the arrogance paired with the insecurity that is such a common and violent mix, or it could have been the passion of an explosive young boxer who, against all odds and in spite of his own corrosive limitations, punched his way to his sport’s biggest stage.

Life is not always punctuated by the concussive blasts of the flash bulbs, as you stand victorious over your fallen foe. Most of our lives take place outside of the ring, in preparation, relaxation, or retreat.

As La Motta scraps his way into recognition through his repeated collisions with Sugar Ray Robinson (Johnny Barnes), his marriage to Irma (Lori Anne Flax) falls into disrepair. This is due in no small part to Jake’s obsession with the 15-year-old Vickie (Cathy Moriarty), a local beauty. Vickie is both naïve and experienced, and fits felicitously with Jake’s view of women.

Jake’s marriage to Irma ends, and in 1947, Jake and Vickie are married.

The entire film is shot in beautiful black and white by Michael Chapman. The only exception is the grainy, textured 8mm home movies of Jake, Vicki, and Jake’s brother, Joey (Joe Pesci).

This visual juxtaposition accentuates what has been documented and what is remembered. The documentation has degraded, but we can see the colors of the clothing, the cars, and the people.

The black and white feels almost dream-like in comparison. It sanitizes certain aspects, but heightens other.

There were practical considerations too. In a historical biopic, getting the color of the gloves or trunks right is not a concern in black and white. Nor is the gruesomeness of the bouts.

The black and white allows Scorsese to be uncompromising with Raging Bull. In Taxi Driver, Scorsese famously color corrected the film so that the blood was more orange than red to avoid an X rating. With Raging Bull, Scorsese has made a choice that serves the story and removes the power that the MPAA censors would otherwise have.

The sport of boxing in the 1940s was, to some extent, controlled by the mob, whose handlers kept the best bouts for complicit boxers. La Motta had gone as far as he could on his own. To get a title shot, he had to make a deal with the local boss, Tommy Como (Nicholas Colasanto).

Jake will get a title shot, but first he has to make good on his deal. First, he has to take a dive.

La Motta is a brute in the ring, and an ill-mannered pig outside of it. The only thing he loves is boxing. The only thing that drives him is the chance at a title, and now he has betrayed his own passions and stained the ugly, yet pure pursuit of boxing greatness.

He has sold himself, and taken a dive for the benefit of an inferior boxer. The grief is too much for someone who knows how to take a punch.

When Jake gets the title, it is no longer on his terms. The passion of pursuit subsides, and with the belt in his hands, Jake begins to lose his focus.

As La Motta’s drive to stay in shape and remain competitive wanes, so too does his libido. This only serves to accentuate his insecurity, and suspicions of Vickie’s infidelity.

A man who only understands achievement through violence, La Motta’s verbal accusations quickly escalate beyond that, and to disturbing levels.

Scorsese uses his camera to add to the aggression. He forces us to move with La Motta as he attacks Vickie. The camera pans in synchronized motion as Jake grabs and hits his wife. The effect is dramatic and upsetting.

De Niro’s intensity makes the moment all the more real.

De Niro famously put on weight to play the aging La Motta. 60 pounds over two months is no easy feat, but what I find just as impressive is De Niro’s commitment to his boxing training.

The actor was so focused that he competed in a number of local boxing matches and won a couple of them. La Motta, who helped train De Niro, said that the actor even had the makings of a great boxer.

De Niro definitely looks the part.

When Robinson returns from his military service, he wants a shot at La Motta’s title.

Out of shape and unprepared for Robinson, La Motta cannot hold off his attacks. Scorsese makes the crushing psychological reality of this moment visual through the use of the best zolly shot of all time.

Jake does not go down for Robinson, but is otherwise obliterated. Scorsese just needs one insert to tell us what has become of La Motta’s career.

Rocky showed us what was possible. It made us believe that with hard work and perseverance we could get a shot, and really a shot, regardless of the outcome, was all we needed.

In Raging Bull, four years after Sylvester Stallone’s boxing epic, Scorsese shows us the fractures and pain of our humanity and the results of our slow decay.

After his boxing days are through, Jake indulges himself. He eats, spends his way through all of his money, and philanders. Eventually Vickie leaves him. At the point that this happens, it is an afterthought. There is no fan fare, no pomp. It’s just a car speeding out of a gravel parking lot, leaving Jake in a cloud of dust.

La Motta’s exploits go too far when he gets involved with an under aged girl at his club. Without the money to post bail, Jake is put in prison.

Here in the darkness of his cell, a man who lived like an animal in and out of the boxing ring, a man who was capable of incredible brutality, stands up and punches the wall until he can no longer take the pain. Jake sits on the cot and has the closest thing to a moment of clarity that he is capable of.

Cast in total darkness, Jake yells “Why are you so stupid?” looking briefly at himself. What he finds must be too devastating, because in the next breath he mutters, “Why do you treat me this way? I’m not an animal.”

Again he forces the blame outside, and away from himself. He simply could not bear it if he allowed for the possibility that everything, all the hurt, all of the loss, all of the bruised relationships, even his current incarceration, was his fault.

Once released, La Motta becomes a mockery of a comedian, working dive bars with other has-beens.

The film ends with a fat Robert De Niro playing a fat Jake La Motta reciting Marlon Brando’s speech from On the Waterfront to himself in a mirror.

The irony and cinematic language does not get any thicker or more delicious than this moment. Terry Malloy in On the Waterfront never got his shot because his brother sold him out, but Jake won it all and lost everything because of himself.

So now this obtuse grotesque individual stands in preparation for one of his shows, and shadow boxes. He once again prepares for a bout, and we are back where it all began. Only this time there is no ring, no flashing lights, and no dreamlike slow motion. Now it is a dingy backroom, stark flat lighting, and the camera won’t even move to reframe when La Motta stands and throws fat wheezing punches at no one.

Raging Bull is one of the most beautiful films about ugly people you’ll ever see. Its stark emotional landscape gives it the air of honesty and the appeal of a cautionary tale.

It is funny to think that this film, when it came out in 1980, barely made its money back and almost ended Scorsese’s career. By the end of the 80s it had won almost universal critical praise, and Scorsese finally had a critical and box-office hit with The Color of Money.

Now Raging Bull tops most critics’ lists of the greatest films of all time, including AFI’s list from 1998 and 2007 and Sight and Sound’s 2012 Directors’ Poll.

A stunning achievement that could only come from a passionate artist with little left to lose, and with collaborators that were hell bent on making something remarkable.

Raging Bull will stand the test of time because it speaks to the worst of what is in all of us, and warns us of what any one of us could become.

Up next, #3 Casablanca (1942)

1 Year, 100 Movies #5 Singin’ in the Rain (1952)

1 Year, 100 Movies #6 Gone with the Wind (1939)

1 Year, 100 Movies #7 Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

1 Year, 100 Movies #8 Schindler’s List (1993)

1 Year, 100 Movies #9 Vertigo (1958)

For links to #10-19, click on 1 Year, 100 Movies #10 The Wizard of Oz (1939)

For links to #20-29, click on 1 Year, 100 Movies #20 It’s a Wonderful Life (1946)

For links to #30-39, click on 1 Year, 100 Movies #30 Apocalypse Now (1979)

For links to #40-49, click on 1 Year, 100 Movies #40 The Sound of Music (1965)

For links to #50-59, click on 1 Year, 100 Movies #50 The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (2001)

For links to #60 – 69, click on 1 Year, 100 Movies #60 Duck Soup (1933)

For links to #70 – 79, click on 1 Year, 100 Movies #70 A Clockwork Orange (1971)

For links to #80 – 89, click on 1 Year, 100 Movies #80 The Apartment (1960)

For links to #90 – 100, click on 1 Year, 100 Movies #90 Swing Time (1936)

With director Kathryn Bigelow‘s Zero Dark Thirty release date approaching and Halloween right on our heels, today’s Overlooked Movie takes a look at an early movie in Bigelow’s career, the underrated vampire flick Near Dark.

The 1980s seemed to exist in a vast ocean of cheesy vampire flicks. Movies like Once Bitten, Vamp, and Fright Night were popping up left and right, and the quality of each varied dramatically.

The best known in this quasi-category is probably The Lost Boys, the only Joel Schumacher film to date that I have any affection for, and it arrived in theaters the same year as today’s overlooked movie, Near Dark. The basic premise of each was remarkably similar: attractive young man (Caleb in Near Dark and Michael in The Lost Boys) gets lured into a group of fringe-dwelling vampires by an attractive young woman (Mae in Near Dark and Star in The Lost Boys) and his life is thrown into upheaval as a result. However, the similarities end there. There’s a stark difference between the two in terms of style, setting, tone, and overall execution that makes them worthy companion pieces and not vacuous competitors. (I’m looking at you, Armageddon and Deep Impact.)

The Lost Boys had a lighter touch, relied more on comedy, and played pretty much by the basic rules of movie vampirism. Also, it happily and freely used the word “vampire,” going so far as to have local slayers recommend vampire comic books as makeshift survival guides.

Conversely, Near Dark was darker and slightly more existential, with black humor and considerably greater violence, and no interest in adhering to the traditional rules of vampire cinema laid out by countless predecessors. No stakes through the heart or defensive crucifixes, here, and apart from their blood thirst and aversion to sunlight, the vampires in this film are undefined. They’re never identified as vampires and have more in common with the marauding sociopaths of The Devil’s Rejects than they do with Nosferatu.

Another important distinction between the two is a detail that actually becomes paradoxical within Near Dark. As Caleb (Adrian Pasdar) and Mae (Jenny Wright) stare up at the sky and hone in on the stillness of the night, the pathos and majesty of eternal life manifest as Mae tells Caleb she’ll still be around when the light from a distant star finally reaches the planet. It’s a haunting moment elevated to transcendent by the score from Tangerine Dream. With sparse, mournful airs bellowing on a synthesizer seemingly adjusted for deep space, the never ending future seems cold and lonely and inexplicable.

When I first saw the film, I wasn’t sure what to think of it, but I knew that I was moved in some capacity by that sequence. And so it stands to reason that my only real complaint about it is that it lets its vampires off the hook of their doom much, much too easily and undercuts some of the power that sequence conveyed. A fairly simple medical procedure is all it takes to return a vampire to his or her human form, and that fact has consequences for the philosophical implications and efficacy of the film.

The first thing it does is tell us that there’s nothing supernatural about vampirism. It doesn’t specify what it is, but we can assume that it’s a biochemical aberration caused by an infection and not a spiritual one with demonic origins. The second thing it does is take something away from the haunting beauty of the immortality associated with vampirism that the film established so well in its opening scenes.

On the one hand, I appreciate that with this detail they’re able to sidestep the “kill the head vampire” trope because it’s ubiquitous in films of this sort (Lost Boys comes to mind) and so slightly less dramatically compelling. On the other, I find it disenchanting that something so frightening and sacrosanct can be embraced and rejected through such relatively simple means.

It’s an odd situation. The film does a better job crystallizing eternity than just about any other vampire film I’ve seen, and yet, before all’s said and done, it chips away at that crystallization by solving its biggest problem far too easily. I guess the sacrifice of resonance for originality is an essential compromise.

The vampires in the film are played by James Cameron regulars Bill Paxton, Lance Henriksen, and Jenette Goldstein, in addition to Joshua Miller, the son of Jason Miller (The Exorcist) and brother of Jason Patric, who, coincidentally, starred in The Lost Boys, this film’s aforementioned timely and topical counterpart. As Severen, Bill Paxton is particularly engaging and his antics add a completely different dimension to the film. By “antics,” I mean slaughter. And by “slaughter,” I mean widespread gory demises of minor characters delivered with the personal touch of the 1980s Bill Paxton prototype.

The film’s director, Kathryn Bigelow, would go on to become the first female recipient of the Academy Award for Best Director in motion picture history for The Hurt Locker. While this film was certainly no harbinger of things to come, it showed in the young filmmaker an effortless command of elaborate action sequences and a palpable inventiveness that permeated them. Take a look at the motel shoot out in broad daylight and you can see notes of technique that would be employed later on.

And in addition to those technicalities, the burnt-out western landscapes and the dodgy bars and motels visited throughout create an exacting sense of time and place. It’s murky and dusty and exhausting, but ultimately rewarding.

Our movie-reference-happy comic strip here on Scene-Stealers is back. Each week his characters recreate a famous scene from a familiar film. Can you guess which one this is?

Here’s strip number 33 of the original comic The Chicken and the Egg. The artist is Ben Townsend and he lives in the Southampton, U.K.

Click on the strip for a larger image!

Contact the cartoonist: thechickenandtheegg@hotmail.com

Click here for all of the Chicken and the Egg strips so far.

Our bi-weekly movie-reference-happy comic strip here on Scene-Stealers is back. Each week his characters recreate a famous scene from a familiar film. Can you guess which one this is?

Here’s strip number 32 of the original comic The Chicken and the Egg. The artist is Ben Townsend and he lives in the Southampton, U.K.

Click on the strip for a larger image!

Contact the cartoonist: thechickenandtheegg@hotmail.com

Click here for all of the Chicken and the Egg strips so far.

Our bi-weekly movie-reference-happy comic strip here on Scene-Stealers is back. Each week his characters recreate a famous scene from a familiar film, but this week the chicken and the egg parody some iconic movie posters. It’s the second movie poster tribute of the series. Part One is here.

Here’s strip number 31 of the original comic The Chicken and the Egg. The artist is Ben Townsend and he lives in the Southampton, U.K.

Click on the strip for a larger image!

Contact the cartoonist: thechickenandtheegg@hotmail.com

Click here for all of the Chicken and the Egg strips so far.

Rarely does a movie come along that that tackles a polarizing issue in a seemingly unobtrusive way.

What is so surprising about Robert M. Young‘s 1977 film ¡Alambrista! (The Illegal) is that it follows the journey of a Mexican illegal immigrant with as little sentimentalization as possible, and proves as potent and relevant today as it was 35 years ago.

Now that The Criterion Collection has given a full restoration to this overlooked movie, more people can appreciate ¡Alambrista! and understand a little-seen side of a hot-button political issue with more depth and clarity — and a focus on the experience itself, not the talking points.

After making the 1973 short documentary Children of the Fields about a family of migrant farmworkers (which is included on the newly issued Criterion DVD and Blu-ray), writer/director/cinematographer Young decided to pursue a similar subject matter for his first foray into feature filmmaking. His documentary background gave Young the experience needed to lend a sense of realism to ¡Alambrista!, which he wrote in six weeks.

Roberto Ramírez (Domingo Ambriz in a performance that resonates with authenticity) plays a husband who leaves Mexico after the birth of his child in hopes of making money in America to bring back home and support his family. Young employs a hand-held camera and low angles, getting up close to Roberto so that the audience feels as though his experience is their own.

Inherently, this takes a certain amount of objectivity away, but Young’s film is clearly a humanistic treatment of the issue. The film must be considered a grandchild of the Italian neorealism movement, even if much if its 16mm cinematography is strikingly beautiful in color.

The story soon becomes one of survival, as he endures and escapes one random set of dire circumstances after another without feeling contrived or stopping for cheap sentimental tricks. Roberto even makes a certain selfish choice, but at the time, after what he’s been through, who could blame him?

Roberto speaks no English and there are big stretches of the movie where he doesn’t speak at all. This causes us to further identify with him and it makes the moments of chaos and confusion come alive. ¡Alambrista! is an intimate film, mixing in non-actors in actors in situations that rarely feel scripted.

The most invasive scenes come when Young uses rock music to punctuate montages or transitions, as well as a restored moment where one of Roberto’s traveling companions (Trinidad Silva) puts both their lives in danger in an act of stupid desperation.

Linda Gillin is particularly low-key and effective as a diner waitress that helps Roberto out, and Edward James Olmos and Ned Beatty each make cameo appearances that are mildly distracting now, due mostly to them being recognizable actors.

The movie was broadcast by PBS in 1977, and in 1978, ¡Alambrista! won the inaugural Camera d’Or Award (for Best First Feature Film) at the Cannes Film Festival, but it never received a theatrical release in the U.S.  In 2004, Young re-edited the film for a multimedia educational project, and that is the version presented on this Criterion edition.

Besides the Children of the Fields short, the Criterion Blu-ray contains an interview with Olmos, and introduction from Young, and feature-length commentary from Young and coproducer Michael Hausman.

Our bi-weekly movie-reference-happy comic strip here on Scene-Stealers is back. Each week his characters recreate a famous scene from a familiar film. Can you guess which one this is?

Here’s strip number 30 of the original comic The Chicken and the Egg. The artist is Ben Townsend and he lives in the Southampton, U.K.

Click on the strip for a larger image!

Contact the cartoonist: thechickenandtheegg@hotmail.com

Click here for all of the Chicken and the Egg strips so far.

Our bi-weekly movie-reference-happy comic strip here on Scene-Stealers is back. Each week his characters recreate a famous scene from a familiar film. Can you guess which one this is?

Here’s strip number 29 of the original comic The Chicken and the Egg. The artist is Ben Townsend and he lives in the Southampton, U.K.

Click on the strip for a larger image!

Contact the cartoonist: thechickenandtheegg@hotmail.com

Click here for all of the Chicken and the Egg strips so far.