waking into a dream journal 12.30.07

the graveyard
director: michael feifer // 2006
cinema 4 rating: 3

not that i was really looking forward to watching the ed gein video starring kane hodder, but nothing is better at lessening that apparent lack of optimism even more than having to endure this earlier attempt by that film's director -- since he was the producer on this thing too, perhaps michael feifer spent most of his time rounding up funds to make it, and didn't worry about spending one second on making the damn thing make sense -- the reason he didn't worry was because he had the writer of mansquito scripting it -- whew! what a relief, knowing your project is in the right hands -- there are an infinite amount of ways that a plot could come back around to make some small amount of sense, and this film misses them all -- there has to be some sort of award for that... or a guinness book entry -- despite the obvious deathgrip on the standard cliches of this sort of slasher nonsense, it seems there has been a small attempt on shaking that formula up a tad, even if it doesn't come off one bit -- it's one thing to have ambition (however lowbrow), it's another thing to back it up with actual talent or skill -- of course, i could be accused of that same crime... if i had ambition -- don't have to worry about the talent or skill columns -- there are five main female characters in this film: a blonde, a slutty ho-bird with a somewhat pointy beak who gets naked (thankfully and nicely) quite a bit before getting blanked... and three other girls so alike in basic appearance, even hearing their character's names now and then didn't ease up the confusion -- who just got killed? don't know, all these white brunettes look alike -- if i were fiefer, i would have had the same actress play all of the women, just to save money -- would have been funnier too -- same guy produced many of those nearly-softcore, truly abhorrent witchcraft films from the '90s -- clearly, we are in the hands of someone who is merely out to corral every dollar he can from those who like to rent crappy movies and then spend endless days on the internet whining about how crappy these films were, knowing full well what they were probably getting into when they rented the films in the first place -- here, i will come to the defense of those shabby folks, and state that, for me at least, even tuning into a film you are pretty sure is going to be crappy, holds a certain small anticipation that you might discover a hidden gem -- if we didn't do this, how would we have found our way to things like re-animator or the evil dead -- yes, the payoff quotient is rather minute, but... every once in a while -- scoff if you wish, but i hold a certain admiration for guys like feifer who have figured out the game in this way -- corman, arkoff, even the dude who throws shark hunter after shark attack after shark whatever after us -- it's not about the quality, it's about the quantity... and it's america, damn it! it's all about making money, not art -- as abbott and costello said: if you find a niche, you scratch it...

waking into a dream journal 12.27.07

Haïti: la fin des chimères?... [Haiti: The Last of the Chimeres]
Director: Charles Najman // French-Haitian, 2004
Cinema 4 Rating: 7

honestly, i hardly ever think about haiti except in terms of zombies... or anytime i run across news items pertaining to its history and tragedy -- then i perk up, almost as if its history were a pocket (you know that second little pocket inside the right-hand pocket of men's pants that i assume is for change, but have never understood why it would be on the right side, since i am a leftie?) hobby of mine, and i listen intently in the manner in which i should have listened in school -- let's not mince words, this film is definitely, despite the occasional "no, no, no, you've got it all wrong" voice from his side of the government, not a pro-aristide piece -- and it shouldn't, given that all who emerge with that sort of power, even a priest... especially a priest... are doomed to do great evil -- "power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely" may be the truest words ever written or spoken -- this film was apparently made just before aristide's second ousting in 2004, and is largely composed of interviews with those scholars and historians discussing haiti's inherent lockstep into the kind of political quicksand that has left the bulk of its population in a state of perpetual poverty since 1804 -- some point out proudly how it was the first and only country with a successful slave rebellion (which it was); others point out, that despite that initial success, haiti is still composed of a slave population, but that they just aren't considered to be slaves -- much is said of the richer class that supposedly props up creeps like aristide, but as near as i can tell, none really get interviewed (not counting former government yes-men) -- most moving part is the trip to one of haiti's numerous slum areas, with homes that seem somewhat reminiscent of having gone through an atom bombing -- a sharp young man describes his displeasure with the current regime, but there is the sense that he is teetering on the edge of violence that could possibly doom him to become one of those that he despises -- as he listens and speaks in a round-robin discussion with others of his set, another young man squats in the doorway of a ramshackle cottage, like a dog nervously protecting his bone, and cleans a pistol -- the film cuts off just before aristide's departure, but we are given glimpses of the man at various rallies, especially a strange christmas party where he comes off distant but very controlling in his behavior; his eyes seem like a man who is scheming through his pain even as he hands out soccer balls to the children -- it's hard to understand his charisma, but then, i never seems to understand that aspect of politicians -- if you take them all immediately as being something other than they portray, and discount their charisma from the beginning, then you can start to determine their true worth as leaders...

Cinema 4 Cel Bloc: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
Director: Max Fleischer // Jam Handy Organization, 1948
Cinema 4 Rating: 5

It's not Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer's fault that he isn't Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

Well, what I mean is it's not this innocent Max Fleischer-directed animated short from 1948's fault that it isn't the stop-motion television special created by Rankin-Bass in 1964. Barring the occasional heckling from someone who is just sooo post-post-post-post-everything they have to take such universally beloved things to the wall, that special is justifiably considered to be a Christmas classic. I include myself amongst that group, and I would be lying if I said that simple and ridiculous special wasn't one of the most formative ingredients in the way that I have approached all art and entertainment since I first laid eyes upon it.

And yet, fun as the stop-motion version is, it's really a dramatic expansion (and often outright reconfiguration) of the original story written by Robert May for Montgomery Ward in 1939. For a closer look at the real story, look no further than the 1948 version, where Rudolph is just some punk kid reindeer abused by the neighbor kids who gets accidentally discovered by Santa one exceedingly foggy Christmas Eve night. Since headlights aren't in Santa's magical bag of tricks (and yet, he and his elven slaves can create electric train sets, racing cars and robotic toys), it's lucky he wanders into Rudolph's home to fill the little whippersnapper's stocking and gets blinded by the glow from Rudolph's abnormal -- nay! -- mutated schnozz.

Since Jam Handy released oodles of promotional films for Chevrolet and other big companies (click here and here for my reviews of their pair of Cinderella car commercials), I half expected Santa's sleigh to actually start shifting about and have panels slide out and wheels manuever into place, and then suddenly the right jolly old elf would be riding about in some sort of coach car. Instead, the film is merely there to entertain... and to promote the newly written -- but not famous yet -- song version of Rudolph by Johnny Marks, May's brother-in-law. The next year, Gene Autry would reluctantly record it, and as these things go, the rest is history: one of the biggest-selling singles of all time. (The Autry version would later be edited into the credits of this already released cartoon; the version I am reviewing does not include Autry's voice, but rather a choral arrangement of the tune.)

The animation is decent enough -- comparable to what was passing for quality at Famous Studios or Terrytoons at that time -- but the sound quality for the voices is abysmal, with the taunting reindeer sounding like they were recorded down the hall from Rudolph, their voices echoing harsher than their empty threats. I doubt the effect is stylistic, because such things just were not done. I should state here and now that the sight of reindeer walking about on their hind legs is just a tad creepy in my mind, and furthermore, even the male deer seems feminine within this aspect. In fact, they almost seem nude, like they lost their pants. Rudolph's mother, on the other hand, seems to be the only deer that dresses in actual human clothes, greeting her downtrodden son at the door in a smart housedress. Unlike the cave in the Rankin-Bass version, Rudolph actually lives in a home with furniture, and he hangs a stocking on the end of his bed, imaging a boatload of toys and goodies that will be left overnight by Santa, the way in which all human children dream too. But then his conflict over the teasing he receives from his constantly shining nose gets the better of him, and he cries himself to sleep.

The next section introduces Santa, and he is a magnificent rotund figure indeed (if not a bit flouncy in his gestures). Sadly, whoever is doing the voice for the great man seems to not be aware of just how jolly Santa is supposed to be, and comes off sounding completely blasé about the whole project. Any exclamation points in his lines seem to have been replaced by stifled yawns. (He does a much better job with his speech at the end, but it's no excuse for an overall lackluster performance, especially for someone who should as loud and boisterous as Santa.) Claus encounters endless interruptions of his route -- crashing into trees and roofs, and almost getting done away with by a plane, which he and his reindeer negotiate by prancing across the wings. Santa finds Rudolph just in time, and the little schnozzed one leaves a note behind, beginning it "Deer Mommy and Daddy..."

Rudolph, naturally, saves the day, taking Santa all the way to Bunnyville (who knew they all lived in one town?) and then the film concludes with Rudolph being honored before the entire population of his reindeer hometown with an elaborate ceremony in the town's stadium. His former taunters have been turned to admirers (though I like to believe that most of them are actually evil deer bullies who are jealous of his newfound fame and are plotting to bespoil his reputation). Rudolph is named "Commander-in-Chief" of all the reindeer, and he blushes, causing his fur to equal his nose in intensity. He wishes us "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night", as the final lines of the song run out, and the film closes.

It's so hard to imagine a time when this wasn't an already established part of the culture. We accept holiday folklore as having always been around, and it is surprising to learn that these traditions, in the form we know them, aren't really all that ancient. We just assume Santa's antiquity as an unspoken thing as a child, and as far as we can surmise, Rudolph has always been there with him. I saw this film long after the Rankin-Bass, and I was offended by how boring it seemed against a film filled with misfit toys, a flying lion king and an abominable snowman. Even though it was first aired just after my birth, I accepted the '64 film as gospel. That was, and still is, tradition to me (in fact, I am watching it right after I conclude writing this).

But I then think of those that preceded the arrival of both myself and that film, and how perhaps they looked to this simple animation as its own sort of tradition, and even perhaps as new and hip as the later one must have seemed at first glance. It bore a popular song of that day (by the same songwriter as the later film), and animated to the standard of its time. If I had grown up seeing this one instead every year of my childhood, perhaps I would hold far more nostalgia for it.

But, I don't. This Rudolph simply doesn't shine bright enough for me...

The Shark Film Office: The Adventures of Ford Fairlane (1990)

The Adventures of Ford Fairlane
Director: Renny Harlin
Cinema 4 Rating: 4
Appearance: Dialogue & cameo (deceased and BBQed)

What smells worse than the scent of overly charred shark meat, roasted to disgusting effect on a spit? Possibly only the script to this flop attempt to launch Andrew Dice Clay as a major motion picture leading man. Truthfully, I kind of like Clay on film, even if I have never been even the slightest fan of his stand-up act. I thought he was the funniest thing in the Lea Thompson-Victoria Jackson misfire Casual Sex?, which isn't the boldest statement given its general shoddiness, but it's the truth. Looking back on the supposed shock of his Saturday Night Live appearance the year this film came out, it's hard to see what all the hubbub was about, Bub.

Given a legitimately R-rated platform to sell his largely misogynistic and sophomoric material, Clay ends up slapping out a truer approximation of his cartoonish, buffoonish character (which, being a guy, does have its charms, admittedly), but ultimately soft-pedals that image in the interest of making himself acceptable to a wider audience. It's almost Pee Wee"s Playhouse for the beer-swilling crowd; full of fratboy-type humor, but basically defanged and harmless. Clay is even given a koala bear as a sidekick. If the film actually had the balls its leading figure is assumed to possess via his self-proclaimed attitude, it might have proven to be at least a far more interesting enterprise, if not also verging over into NC-17 territory, which wouldn't serve producer Joel Silver's money-making purposes at all. In the end, numerous quickly flung, filthy jokes pay off here and there, the stunt casting is fun for awhile, and there is also Kari Wuhrer, who always makes things easy on the eyes for me. However, the leaden direction of Renny Harlin absolutely sinks this thing almost before it begins. It's a Michael Bay comedy years before the word knew who Michael Bay was, and at least most of the humor here is intentional, something Michael Bay is completely unable to pull off.

And then there's that surprise shark scene at a party for the film's ultra-slick villain (Oops! Did I give anything away? Shucks...), played quite well actually by Wayne "Danke Shoen" Newton. As he tries to mislead Ford (yes, Clay's P.I. character is named after his signature vehicle) with a tidbit of erroneous information, Newton's record mogul picks up on an announcement from the party's chef: "Shark is served!" We are given a close-up of the toothy grimace of a shark, roasted on a spit to such a greasy black pallor as to be unappetizing to even the most ravenous carnivore, the sharp pole jutting out through the creature's nose to hold it in place above the fire. The chef cuts into the flesh near the dorsal fin as Newton uses the call to dinner as an excuse to get away from the false small talk, finally declaring "I'm such a fan of shark meat!" Cigar in mouth, Newton holds out a plate as the chef pulls out a generous slice of flesh and slides it off his skewer. "Your shark steak, sir!"

Ugh... I think I am off food altogether now. No, it's not the shark. It's the sappiness of the film's ending. At least the shark, in death, still has his teeth. Clay lost his before this film even got made.

Psychotronic Ketchup: You've Gotta Start Somewhere

Five Guns West
Director: Roger Corman // 1955
Cinema 4 Rating: 5

Warning: following the definition, there is nothing remotely "psychotronic" about Five Guns West, in what can be charitably described as a rote Western genre offering from 1955. There aren't any monsters or bikers or vampires or strippers or drug fiends or men in gorilla suits or superspies engaging in martial arts about the sets. The only real genre twist to the film is in having the middle-aged leader of a group of villainous rebel soldiers (John Lund) emerge as the reluctant hero though eager love interest, while the actor who would normally fulfill the hero's role (Mike "Touch" "Mannix" Connors) is a creepy and caddish horndog throughout the film.

But in Psychotronic Guide author Michael Weldon's view, certain actors and directors (Vincent Price, Christopher Lee, Boris Karloff) are considered thoroughly "psychotronic" throughout their resumes. This short list of the all-inclusive also contains the name of Roger Corman, who cut his directorial teeth on Five Guns West in typically budget-conscious fashion. The film shows up in between Five Legends of the Dragon (itself psychotronic only by the presence of the aforementioned and seemingly ubiquitous Mr. Lee) and the Hammer Quatermass classic Five Million Years to Earth, a film so thoroughly psychotronic and wonderful, it is an absolutely crime that it is now out of print on DVD (as are all of the Quatermass line).

Corman gets derided a lot these days, even by those I love like the MST3K gang, who delighted in dragging him through the muck even in movies with which he had no apparent connection. Of course, they never tackled what are considered his higher achievements: his long series of generally incredible Poe epics, Little Shop of Horrors, A Bucket of Blood; they usually reserved their mocking for his less personal films. What they don't mention is how, even in his schlockiest of moments, like Teenage Caveman for example, he was still fairly bold and innovative when working with the most minuscule of budgets, even offering Twilight Zone-style twists amongst the horrible monster suits and often stiff acting.

Corman says this in his autobiography, How I Made A Hundred Movies in Hollywood and Never Lost a Dime (Random House, 1990): "Five Guns West was a breakthrough for me. With almost no training or preparation whatsoever, I was literally learning how to direct motion pictures on the job. It took me four or five of these "training films" to learn what a film school student knows when he graduates. But while the mistakes they make in student films are lost forever, mine were immortalized." So, what is the worse crime? Making harmless little 70-minute programmers which invariably make back their budget for only $60,000 a picture, or creating a stultifying and soulless 2-1/2 hour gutcruncher for $150 million (plus another $50 million in advertising, don't forget) that stands very little real chance of making that money back even with video sales? Corman saw his opportunity and took it. He parlayed his break as a studio messenger into scriptwork, that into producer's credits, and that eventually into the director's chair. His fortitude and canniness should be celebrated in this country that generally cheers the shrewd and business-savvy.

Yes, all the seams are there to be observed in this film, and the dialogue gets a bit creaky. It's much like watching the best episode on a slightly below-average western television show: it seems much better than you expected it to be, but it's still not art. Corman, though, shows skills he would use throughout his career: he gets remarkable mileage (as he does in many films) out of stock footage, but he employs it sensibly (unlike, say, Mr. Wood). Knowing his range is going to be limited, he keeps the plot fixed to two basic scenarios and minimalist sets: the opening twenty minutes with the quintet of freed rebel soldiers riding the trail after being sent on their mission (which smartly eats up about a quarter of the screen time straight off) and the abandoned town where the girl and her father live alone (which eats up the rest). As brief as it is, a good ten minutes could have been shorn away and it would not have hurt the story, perhaps cutting some of the tiresome squabbling amongst the testosterone-fueled outlaws. But I ring this up, true to Corman's words above, to filmmakers learning the ropes, making rookie mistakes.

It's the sort of slack I allow to people who otherwise proved themselves to me with their later projects. When looking back and passing judgment on a film from the past, it sometimes can help to know the creator's history, and placing that project in correlation with the work surrounding, following or preceding it. When MST3K took their shots at Mr. Corman, it was with the mistaken impression that he generally stands as a watermark for ineptitude. Of course, I laughed along with the joke, because it was funny in context with the shows in which it appeared. But it was so very, very mistaken. Yes, he could make a bad movie here and there, but he could also make some pretty decent ones.

And always successful, no matter the outcome onscreen. Ain't that America?

waking into a dream journal 12.22.07

this morning's reason to roundhouse-kick chuck norris in the face
silent rage
director: seriously, do i have to give someone credit? // 1982
cinema 4 rating: 3

the year this came out, i was a full-fledged chuck norris addict -- good guys wear black, the octagon, a force of one and an eye for an eye: watched 'em all over and over in my life's initial bout with video madness -- let's not forget return of the dragon against bruce lee, where i first saw him fight, and the multiple showings of breaker, breaker i willingly chose to endure on cable -- this one, though, was the first chuckie film i saw in a theater -- even in those less critical days, i wanted my money back -- the producers apparently wished to splice together a regular norris flying fists epic with halloween, basically pitting the mustachioed one against a michael myers-type serial killer, then in vogue in movie theaters -- they try to achieve this by having two ambitious cretins at a small-town hospital frankenstein an already mentally unstable murderer so that he becomes, literally, an unstoppable killing machine, as it mentions on the movie's release poster -- the doctors alter his physiology in such a manner that his body can heal even the most severe wounds in mere seconds -- hmmm, maybe he could get a role on heroes, where it seems half the characters now have this ability -- look, i will buy any plot device as long the filmmakers jump through the proper hoops in order to sell me on it, and as long as it fits their own twisted logic, even in a perverse fashion -- if these doctors are sooooo ambitious, how did they end up performing surgeries in the sort of small town that would hire chuck norris as sheriff? -- sure, if you are going to perform radical experiments on people, go to a small, out-of-the-way country where human life is cheap and the misfires may be disposed of far easier -- in the original story for lovecraft's reanimator (and in the second film), herbert west and pal refined their techniques in a war, where nobody would notice what they were up to -- but small-town america, where everyone knows everyone else, and nothing doesn't get noticed? i don't think so -- there might be small-town doctors with ambitions as large as these guys have, but there is a big difference between dreaming large and being able to pull off those huge dreams -- guys with this sort of talent are going to be somewhere a tad more prestigious -- besides, in case an experiment does succeed but then the subject goes apeshit, it seems to me that the better place to be, to avoid suspicion, would be a big city, where everyone is bugfuck crazy anyway, and any truly aberrant behavior on the part of the subject could be chalked up to just another wiggy hobo -- you'd think the hitch in these guys' plan would be trying this crap in a town lorded over by chuckie baby -- but he's too busy pitching his icky woo at über-cutie toni kalem to find one seven-foot tall killing machine in a town of about 400 people -- that's right, another movie where a hot girl has to feign enjoyment over kissing chuck on his densely carpeted tittie -- one big fight scene near the end, where chuck and the franken-killer grapple a lot, squeeze each others necks, roll around on the grass, and chuck only gets off a couple of his patented roundhouses -- hardly what a karate champion should be doing in a film until he is too infirm to pull off those moves -- chuck was in his prime then, thus, there is no excuse -- couldn't the doctors at least have downloaded a complete knowledge of martial arts into the monster before they sent him out? then we might have had a good scrap -- a couple of decent kill scenes; to show the killer's strength, they speed the film up, which is a tad too gimmicky, but the one where he slams ron silver's wife's cranium against the wall is pretty good -- oh, yes, ron silver is in this one, which is a decision only slightly smarter than the one where he decided to switch from democrat to republican, and became a presidential butt-smoocher and supporter of criminals like scooter libby -- back then, i was sad he got killed in this movie -- not anymore...

waking into a dream journal 12.21.07

this morning's deborah foreman resurgence?
zombie honeymoon
director: david gebroe // 2004
cinema 4 rating: 6

ach! i've fallen for another man's wife! -- i was dreading watching this romantic horror flick just from its none-too-inventive title alone, but then i saw tracy coogan -- ah! i watched her rush down the church steps to speed off with her newly acquired human baggage, and i knew immediately i would be seeing this one through, no matter the consequences, no matter the quality -- maybe it was the dress, maybe it was the joy and innocence in her face as she bends across the car to mischievously play at fellating her new husband on their way to their honeymoon destination -- whatever it was, there was something in her manner that has been sorely lacking in b-movies since deborah foreman got all adult on us -- so much is made about video vixens and queens of the "b" movies, all over-sized breasts and bottoms and whorish attitude (and i have absolutely no problem with any of that, thank you, in my movies), that i must stress how important it is that even the most fleeting impression of innocent naiveté grace itself on our horror leading ladies (and even lads) -- sure, coogan bares a breast here and there, and even when she isn't, she is often scantily or sexily clad in bikinis or evening dresses (she is on her honeymoon after all), but the very point here isn't the overtness of her manner, but rather how subtle it actually is -- the other point is that this irish-born lass actually has some acting chops...

i should take the cable company to task for having an improper description on its info page: it says her husband gets bitten by a zombie, when in fact he merely ingests a lot of noxious fluids that emanate from the mouth of a zombie that staggers out of the surf on a nearby beach -- no explanation is given, and none is really needed, for the film really is distilled down to its basic (and perhaps, necessary, given the minute budget) elements -- the concentration is solely on the (un)happy loving couple, and how they deal with the fact that her husband is slowly devolving into one of the living dead -- pick any scenario where one partner suddenly realizes that the person they have given themselves to life and limb is no longer what they thought they were (or any spousal abuse plot for that matter), and you pretty much have the metaphor at work here -- much has been made over the years of how pliable the zombie/living dead genre, more so than any other horror subgenre, is when it comes to social issues, fears and satire, and zombie honeymoon, in its small romantic comedy way, continues that trend -- i say "romantic comedy," though it is a misnomer, as that implies the standards of that also well-established genre, and there are only traces of it here -- the film is exceedingly romantic though, as these two stick to each other faithfully and lovingly (and, on coogan's character's part, insanely -- which may be the point, too) until the body parts are piled all around them -- the film is also dryly amusing in places, though the characters that are supposed to be humorous (the best friends who join them eventually) roundly fail in that regard -- the real humor comes out of the situation, and i liked the casual manner that the camera would just pick up on its edges a random limb laying about on the bed, even if coogan doesn't even notice it -- in fact, it's a relief that it isn't the light comedy that i thought it would be; the blackness and dryness of the humor is what actually kept me around, long after my instant, moony-eyed schoolboy crush on tracy coogan wore off -- alright, it hasn't worn off...

waking into a dream journal 12.18.07

this morning's urge to ask "who the fuck yelled 'encore!'?"
jolson sings again
director: henry levin // 1949
cinema 4 rating: 5

is this an early example of metafilm? -- basically, we see jolson lingering for the first half of this film in almost self-imposed obscurity, to the point where audiences (for the most part) have forgotten him -- he toils through the war performing to young american troops that no longer recognize his name, and he starts a new marriage that seems likely as doomed as the first, thanks to his depressive state -- where is all this heading? well, it's hollywood, and they love a winner -- since this film comes just three years after the jolson story, which was a monstrous hit, and since that film came just after the war, naturally, we are heading to a huge section of the second film about the making of the first film -- larry parks plays both jolson in the present day and himself playing jolson in the film production -- at first, i just figured they had extra footage from the first movie and decided to break it into two films, until i started watching it and realized that would have been impossible, given that there would have been no point to all of this if the jolson story had turned out like the buster keaton story -- besides, the makeup job on ludwig donath as cantor yoelson is a dead giveaway from scene one that this was filmed separately -- he actually looks younger than he did in the first film -- barbara hale is in fine form here as the new mrs. jolson, but william demarest, following up his oscar-nominated role, seems fairly wasted and also bored by the proceedings -- alaska gets it in the ass once more as the worst sort of place to begin entertaining the troops -- the only place that gets derided more in this manner is detroit (haven't been there... can't really say) -- that this hooey was nominated for an oscar for story and screenplay gives rise to the notion that there must have been a lot of crap released in 1949 -- still, the music is great, and if my behavior after watching the first film is any indication, i'm going to drive the gang at work crazy with my horrid jolson impersonation -- i can't wait...

waking into a dream journal 12.15.07

this morning's reason for noxzema
the jolson story
director: alfred e. green // 1946
cinema 4 rating: 6

sanitized for your approval: another celebrity biography scrubbed and speciously detailed for mass consumption; bland, predictable and yet strangely compelling and immensely watchable -- well, watchable if you can get past the blackface -- all about the music -- song after memorable song; who knew jolson was responsible for putting so many tunes into the hearts of millions of americans? -- larry parks was nominated for an oscar for his portrayal of "the great entertainer"; he didn't sing, though (jolson did and parks lip-synched) -- first karaoke oscar nomination? -- hmmm... makes me wonder how his life story would be filmed nowadays (and i don't mean neil diamond-style) -- could get spike lee to direct -- make it a sequel to bamboozled -- choices, choices... retired life with the gorgeous evelyn keyes as "julie benson (not ruby keeler)" vs. singing to a bunch of noxious fatheads night after night in a smoky nightclub? -- sorry, asa yoelson, i think i would've rested the pipes for a bit longer than just a couple of years -- i am struck by the notion that jolson in blackface is even more grotesque a makeup creation as karloff's monster -- rising on film in the same era, as he mugs at the camera in some of those oldies like wonder bar, there is a horrific effect at work, even as sings songs of great joy and love -- as if he is underlining the pain in the minstrel appearance, even if not doing so purposefully and almost thoughtlessly -- parks, who is generally great in the role, renders this same feeling in the jolson story -- can one be nominated for an oscar for creating an emotion by accident?

waking into a dream journal 12.13.07

this morning's not so much a continuation of my nightmares through the week
dexter // episode 2.11 "Left Turn Ahead"
cinema 4 rating: 7

been having a series of nightmares through the week, none of which have anything to do with this show -- one involved a very good friend of mine taking an ax to somebody on a city bus, gore flying all about and covering everybody, while several of my other friends and myself sit around ignoring what is going on -- do i secretly suspect this friend may have killed someone, or is that too direct an interpretation? -- certainly has to be -- it couldn't be otherwise, but where would i get this image into my head? -- as a result, reluctant to watch this penultimate episode of one of my current favorite series -- at least, reluctant to watch it at night for fear of having it influence me too much come bedtime -- figured i should work this out on my own -- been watching dexter on monday mornings before work anyway since i dvr it late sunday night anyway -- then the nightmares began -- fact is, upon watching this, it's one of the least violence-laden episodes of the show, concentrating instead on a lot of character development which all goes toward setting up the finale this sunday -- jennifer carpenter, who bothered me tremendously in the first season as both she and her character, dexter's sister, found their way, has grown into the role, and even in her whinier moments, i find her entertaining -- keith carradine has been a terrific add to this season, and i am hoping he sticks around in some capacity, which will be tough since he is there on an fbi gig to find dexter -- last saw him on deadwood, where he also didn't stick around long enough, but then he was playing wild bill hickok -- is that jonathan banks? -- entertainment weekly took apart the show for making dexter far too nervy this season, but i totally disagreed, believing that in order to show him at his best, you have to get him back on his heels for a while -- which they have done up until now -- still, absolutely nothing ever goes as planned on this show, and i hope that carries through into the finale -- oops! watched too much of next week's trailer -- all season long, they have not shown next week attractions until two weeks ago; haven't watched one for fear of knowing too much going in and having my senses twisted in the process -- and now i have done exactly that -- must forget what i have seen, must forget, must... what was i going on about? as long as it doesn't come out in my rem sleep, i probably won't remember until it pops up in the finale...

waking into a dream journal 12.12.07

this morning's call to arms
let's rock again!
director: dick rude // 2004
cinema 4 rating: 7

when did i stop listening to what joe strummer had to say? -- i never did stop listening to him (the clash have been regular visitors to my eardrums since the '70s), but i did stop seeking out new music from him -- not even his latter day albums with the mescaleros, which is the focus of this quick (barely over an hour) and unique concert tour documentary -- hard to believe the director is the repellent and socially tortured punk criminal duke from repo man (and an alex cox regular) -- i know the point of the piece is a posthumous tribute to strummer's later years, but i can't help but feel i wanted to know a little bit more about his newer bandmates than i got from just watching them goof around backstage at gigs -- strummer is amazingly humble throughout, downplaying his influence tremendously, and ripping apart notions of his social and political importance -- we know the truth, though -- favorite scene is when joe tries to gain entrance into a radio station; left waiting for the longest time, he finally manages to get inside, and is told by the suckhole dj that, coincidentally enough, he just happened to be two songs away from playing the clash! -- i don't buy it, the director doesn't buy it, and i am sure joe didn't either; the dj shows joe a picture of the clash in a rock encyclopedia, which is pretty much proof the guy had to look up strummer's name to know who he was before letting him in, and reels off a couple of facts you are pretty sure he just ran into -- cool scene with joe handing out hastily handwritten fliers on the boardwalk, pressing the flesh and meeting the public, practically begging people to come to the show -- wish this were twice the length -- far too short, and far too little of the music, which really is the reason i wanted to watch it -- but what music is there is incredible, with joe in fine form on a variety of original mescalero songs and some clash cover bits -- tymon dogg on violin... nice -- interesting to reflect on strummer almost moving into the folk arena at times -- i simply wish there were more full songs -- seeing this on ifc, so perhaps if i checked out the dvd, there would be extra musical material -- as much as joe may protest his importance, he was vital to the end... and beyond...

waking into a dream journal 12.09.07

this morning's dose of mild chuckling
the mesmerist
director: // 2001
cinema 4 rating: 5

someday, the world will stop making doogie howser, m.d. jokes, and admit as a group that neil patrick harris is, in the words of another how i met your mother character (though never used to actually describe harris' character) awesome -- awesome in everything except this -- he's still good here, and delivers the farcical material well, but seems strangely miscast -- i've seen some odd poe adaptations, but why someone didn't think of this before is beyond me -- the facts in the case of m. valdemar rewritten (and transfigured slightly) almost as a stage farce -- makes me wonder if this indeed had been produced on the stage originally, though the credits (as near as I can tell) do not betray this -- so, at least jessica capshaw is a better actress than her mother, which isn't saying much, but as daisy she looks the part of a virginal daddy's girl, and she has a good way with the pseudo-fifties semi-snobby dialogue -- interesting that harris almost seems to flinch when he has to kiss her, as if mentally crossing his fingers -- nice to see howard hesseman again, though since i have been watching wkrp lately, it's hard for me to see anybody but the good doctor -- the musical sequence sets up nicely, though the payoff is not what it should have been -- a quite clever idea, but done too small, should have gone for gloriously over-the-top in that bit, where the instrumentation gets ridiculously grand -- am i in love with jo champa as the italian housekeeper with the spanish name, consuela? -- maybe it's all of the giallo i have been watching lately -- consuela: we could have an orgy! dr. hoffler: oh, no, no, no. i was thinking more along the lines of a board game. consuela: we could have an orgy on a board! -- she can take me into her bosom anytime --

this morning's earworm: we stand a chance/baby we stand a chance / i could be wrong / but you never know / we could stand the chance of a real love (t. petty)

waking into a dream journal 12.08.07

this morning's reason to hit the snooze alarm:
dead mary
director: robert wilson // 2006
cinema 4 rating (final): 4

perhaps I left off with this film the other morning at exactly the moment when any admiration I may have had for its few good points had reached their apex -- i did think that perhaps some reflection upon what I saw initially might open me up to what the film was offering -- turns out, reflection only reminding that the film had nothing to offer -- i care even less for these people this morning, though i will say that the acting is still pretty far beyond what is normally required in these features -- the bridget fonda-lookalike though, who is actually a paris hilton-act-alike, is not part of that group -- strange how i am watching a film where dominique swain is getting drenched in the rain and i don't give a rat's ass -- how the mighty fine have fallen -- should i give kudos to a film about college reunion kids in a remote cabin for not going the t-and-a route, or should i give it demerits? -- as far as i can tell, if you don't really establish any rules for the supernatural element in your story, then you don't have to worry about following them -- the lines seems to be crossing themselves here, and the plot doesn't make a lick of sense to me by this point -- and finally, this film ends about 20 minutes past the interest mark -- all more of a shame since it is a decently shot film, with some imaginative bits -- it almost feels like a classic that should have been -- nice try, but too dull by half, and ultimately unfulfilling...

My Lucky 13: The Perils of Pauline (1967)

Oh, how I have hated Prince Benji since I was roughly the same age as his character in The Perils of Pauline, a patched-together theatrical film released in 1967 from the discarded remains of a failed television pilot. Ostensibly a remake or reworking of the then-thrilling 1914 girl-in-constant-peril silent serial featuring the amazing stuntwork of Pearl White, this version slams together four episodes of the never-aired series, and pairs off a stunning blank-eyed Barbie doll named Pamela Austin with the bland-as-sand theatrical stumblings of Pat Boone as her moonstruck millionaire suitor. If this casting alone makes you long for the use of the guillotine on the necks of asinine Hollywood producers, well, even though I am against capital punishment, I can't say I do not agree with you.

But, here's the skinny: I loved this film as a child, mostly because I had never seen the source material on which it was extremely loosely (and mockingly) patterned, and at that age, anything stupidly silly won an instant place in my heart. (I has since shed most of the lesser material by this point in time; most, but certainly not all...) It was fast-paced, loaded with slapstick bits, featured Terry-Thomas as one of the sort-of villains, and slammed full with ridiculous one-liners. It also featured a cryogenic machine, an outer-space walk, gorilla-suit action, sharks, Arab sheiks, wild car chases and evil, conniving Soviets. Except for the icky lovey-dovey woo-pitching, what was not to love by a ten-year-old in 1974?

Well, Prince Benji, most assuredly -- even a tremendous pain-in-the-ass kid his age such as moi knew he was an even bigger pain-in-the-ass. In our school, we wouldn't have bothered feeding him to the sharks; his would have been the slow, pants-wetting death of societal displacement, a sort of group silent treatment that would grant him permanent castaway status and which could serve to drive the subject mad in a relatively short time. That, and an occasional toilet dunking now and then. (Making someone lick a jockstrap was always good, too.) Sure, this sort of behavior possibly led to Columbine, etc., etc., but in its day -- before children became far too coddled -- it worked magnificently on somebody like Prince Benji (i.e., it shut him up and kept him away). Plus, even in the time before metal detectors, a brat marching around with a scimitar would have landed him in lockdown pretty much straight away. Especially when combined with Benji's need to point the thing at people and threaten them with bodily harm unless he got his whiny, bratty way.

And this leads me to Prince Benji's voice. Apparently, the child actor in question, one Rick Natoli, whose short career (at least, according to IMDB) seemed to consist almost entirely of a set of single episode gigs on several series, must have had a terrible way with words. It wouldn't be out of bounds for this to be the case, as just his every facial contortion and gesture is evidence of his lack of even the most modest form of talent; clearly his parents must have had something on somebody in Hollywood for him to get the dozen or so parts that he did. I figure he was cast in Pauline for the sole purpose of making it seem as if Pamela Austin were actually a halfway decent actress. If so, the producers' gambit almost works, but only because they are usually in the same scenes together. But only his body makes it onto film; his undoubtedly stilted child's voice does not. To make up for Natoli's clear lack of ability, the producers dubbed Benji's voice with that of animation goddess June Foray, famed for portraying, amongst others, Rocket J. Squirrel, Natasha Fatale, Nell Fenwick, Witch Hazel and Granny, Tweety's stern but often befuddled mistress. (If I have to explain any of these characters to you, and their importance within our popular culture, please leave now...)

As much as I absolutely adore Ms. Foray, the effect here is one of utter annoyance, as she fills Benji's mouth with an unceasingly grating edge of pouting obstinance. This may be completely on purpose, and possibly called for by the producers after Natoli couldn't produce the desired result, and let's say for argument's sake that if this is so, it is the one point in this film where they succeeded in fulfilling their intentions. But let's not mistake this success for entertainment. When bringing a character like this to life, especially one that is basically a living cartoon character -- there is only so much that an audience can take. Sure, kids are notorious for enjoying things that would drive adults mad, but there is no enjoyment to be had in the character of Prince Benji, even by the least discerning of children. It has nothing to do with Benji's actions -- many of them are the type which any child would literally kill to get away with -- no, it has everything to do with his very existence as a character.

There is even a point in The Perils of Pauline where one gets the feeling that this might turn out to be OK... until Benji shows up. Even Terry-Thomas' semi-villainous turn can't right this ship, nor can the legitimately humorous appearance of Hamilton Camp as Boone's valet, who gets several key lines and appears aware of just how to deliver them. Sadly, this is not the modus operandi of the remainder of the cast, though the chief error made in Pauline is the volatile use of slapstick by those clearly not trained in its proper deployment. Two years before this movie was spit out, Blake Edwards, a man well-trained in the use of such methods, put out a film somewhat based on the same style of material as Pauline, The Great Race. You can argue against it if you wish -- in my home, your judgment would fall on the deafest of ears, as I consider Race to be an admittedly elephantine but underrated source of tremendous personal joy -- but even those who dislike it would be remiss in not accepting that Edwards knows what he is doing when it comes to the proper use of slapstick. His early Sellers films prove this even further. I don't really know what reasoning the producers of Pauline followed in deciding to do a film with elements on which they certainly did little research. Pratfall after pratfall occur without the threat of imminent chuckling; as a result, more than one scene falls flat because of the loss of a payoff which depended on a sight gag or physical shtick.

The Brady Bunch did a desperate-for-material episode where they all dressed up as Keystone Kops and threw pies at one another. Memorable? Certainly. Maureen McCormick was covered in white stuff; what's not to love for the prurient amongst us? But truly funny? Try watching it without the laugh track influencing your reflexes. Two problems: one, it's not really funny, and two, the lack of sound makes the scene seem twice as long. Likewise, in addition to being something that did not make the leap with me from childhood, much like The Brady Bunch, Pauline is not really funny, but is absolutely sold on the fact that is. If earnestness were an Oscar category, surely this would be a contender. But in trying to sell the audience on what it believes itself to be, it reveals its naivete in the style in which it is touting itself to be an expert.

The one thing they do get right (and therefore wrong, technically) is producing the film in sound. If they had done their version of slapstick atrocities as a silent film, this Pauline would seem twice as long, too. And that's a peril even the most resilient of us do not want to face. And Prince Benji, even less so...

waking into a dream journal 12.06.07

this morning's chukka...
the smart set
director: jack conway // 1928
cinema 4 rating for 2nd 1/2: 5 // overall: 6

left this film yesterday at the tail end of a riotous, slapstick-laden dinner party; start this morning inside a melodrama -- did someone switch films on me? -- tommy van buren (played by haines) gets what his drunken, conceited brat is due: his father sells his polo ponies after he is kicked off the u.s. national polo team -- the fifteen minutes at the beginning of this half are full of weeping and worrying on the part of several characters, and if you have seen even one other haines silent, you know this sets up his rise back to the top by film's end -- though i like haines, his character is more haves -- really, they could end the film here and i would feel fulfilled by it -- this half really seems like another film -- the pathos cast by the stable boy and haines over the sale of pronto the polo pony is just a little too over the edge for my taste, though i have seen a lot of silents and realize this is standard for the day -- see, alice day is adorable! she has saved the day! (for now) -- the stable fire sequence is exceedingly well done and exciting for its brevity -- i don't think haines has a stunt double; color me impressed -- interesting how the film uses haines as his own comedy relief through the first half, but then once he has been established as a character on the mend, they switch to a black couple attending the final polo match -- though they are as well-dressed and posh-looking as the rest of the polo crowd, their dialogue and mannerisms are sadly set in the established norm of the day -- (spying two Indian gentlemen crossing the field) wife: "Why am dem extinguished lookin' gentlemen wearin' towels around dere heads?" husband: "Can dey help it if dey all is got headaches?" -- (when Tommy gets to join the U.S. vs. England match) husband: "Wid dat Van Buren playin' de band bettah start playin' ...Gawd Save de King!!" -- final match has some thrilling moments; standard horse moves in the movies, though grabbing the mallet off the ground is pretty sweet -- still want to see a live match... interesting that the USMPA website goes the distance to show the demographics of polo attendees or participants -- at no point does my lowly yearly income even come close to appearing on the page -- six figures only for that lot -- I'd be given the high hat...

waking into a dream journal 12.05.07

this morning's breeze...
the smart set
director: jack conway // 1928
cinema 4 rating for 1st 1/2: 6

have told myself over and over again since i moved here to check into seeing a polo match -- must be mickey's polo team (with animated marx bros.!) influencing me the most, though i have seen the game played in numerous films and shows over the years -- just want to see one live on the grass; want to see the speed, want to see the glorious horses up close, want to know how it looks without a tight camera shot influencing my eye -- "you can't part in front of a fire-plug, lady." "i didn't know you were expecting a fire today" -- i know those days were that of the "whoopsie!" jokes about gays, but were audiences of that time that blind to william haines' quite apparent homosexuality? they must have been, since he was highly popular, and i can't imagine that the crowds would be the same (in 1928) were his secret out in the open. and yet, every third motion he makes in this film is just too, too, too out there -- tales of ribaldry: "what a beautiful figure!" "yes, a neck like a swan." "i don't know... I never necked a swan!" -- oh, yes... and quite funny most of the time -- this is only the second film of his i have seen, and his appeal is very understandable -- "the english call it "sausage," the french call it "pâté de foie gras," but no matter how you slice it, it's still baloney" -- alice day is adorable in the film; a little too resigned at times, perhaps in keeping with societal expectations, but she shows enough fire when faced with haines' shenanigans to not be a mere wallflower -- lovely legs in the store scene, too -- haines' devotion in trying to win her character over is completely necessary, as she warrants such devotion -- this day and age, though, it's called stalking, molestation and assault...

waking into a dream journal 12.04.07

this morning's jolt:
dead mary
director: robert wilson // 2006
cinema 4 rating for 1st hour: 5

isn't there already a movie called candyman? -- never had a game like this when i was a kid -- childhood was already stuffed too full of monsters; no room for a dead witch in a mirror -- and why only 3 times for the name-chanting? this seems like a game made up by the least inventive childwhy not make it 27 times or something more inventive, like, you have to stand on one foot and hop and burn 7 eyelashes in the candle (you are holding a candle apparently) and cross your toes on the hopping foot -- truthfully, there is more of an evil dead feel to this one (living dead action, cabin in the woods, body possession, evil witch) than candyman -- haven't seen one damn bee in this film (and since I got stung in the neck on sunday, this is a good thing -- little fucker...) -- dominique swain? not still getting it done (in tony kornheiser terms); 27 but looking a trashed-out 40 -- starting to get those leonine lines on either side of her mouth that trailer moms get when they start mainlining mickey d's and popping out humanoid waste capsules -- body is still nice enough, but when I watch a film and she is the least attractive of the four actresses in it, something must be up... for her -- film is far more subtle than i expected, and while the ol' "college pals reuniting in the woods and something terrible happens" plotline is employed, the acting is far more subdued and realistic than i could have ever imagined -- problem is i don't care about any of their drama issues, and they are supplementing it with massive amounts of weed -- disconnect disconnect disconnect -- i think its funny that they are mocking the youngest, newest girl for looking like a dirty catholic schoolgirl, when it is exactly the sort of role swain has made her living off up until this point (which she now can't, apparently...) -- didn't expect the body possession bit; thought a witch was just going to jump out and start killing people -- should have known from the mood setting that the filmmakers were going for a different feel, but with the run of horror films over the last 15 years or so, have stopped hoping for subtlety... nice gore on victim #1, and i like how they only show his hand moving in the air in the forced angle foreframe as they attack the body to stop it for good -- trams of old london, taking my baby into the past...

Spout Mavens Disc #6: The Rocket (2005)

The Rocket [Maurice Richard]
Director: Charles Binamé // Canadian, 2005
Cinema 4 Rating: 7

Of course we generally go to movies in which we either have an interest in a personality involved in the film, whether it be a star or director or even the author of the source material, or we love a particular genre and wish to see new examples of such, or we have heard or deduced that there is an element within the plot which forms that interest. In most cases, those that love dinosaurs are more apt to see a film if it involves dinosaurs than a film that doesn't, and more so than those that don't appreciate large, lumbering prehistoric beasts.

The wall into which I have slammed my nose time and again through the brief period I have been part of the Spout Mavens group is constructed firmly by layers of DVDs containing films and subjects which I have absolutely zero interest in confronting in real life. And I have mentioned this time and again as well, though I have managed thus far to spew out some sort of nonsense resembling what is commonly called a review, if only to fulfill my obligations to the group. Were I an actual reviewer for a paper or television, I would regularly face off against such films, and most likely the bulk of them would be the sort of Hollywood pap that I usually am lucky to avoid. The beauty of simply blogging about films is that I can pick and choose my victims, and if I end up seeing a film that I hate unreservedly, most assuredly it is within a genre or regarding a subject which I normally find attractive, if indeed it isn't merely a starlet or a favorite actor that hasn't waltzed across my scope. And I found myself hoping that someday a disc might arrive from Spout which fell more into my comfort zone.

One finally did. Or so it would seem. Five years ago, The Rocket, a most intriguing biographical profile of Montreal hockey god Maurice Richard, would have plopped into a recliner in that comfort zone and propped its skates up on the ottoman for a pleasant but tough evening's entertainment. But not now. Five years ago, that was when I still mostly cared about sports, and the last time I gave two shits for hockey. Now, I'm living in a city proudly boasting the current Stanley Cup champions, and I have yet to even consider getting a ticket to a game since I moved here. The closest I have come is shaking a fist at the Honda Center ("The Pond-a") because of all the traffic gumming up the surrounding streets following a Cup victory, while we were trying to get home from the movies. I have never seen a live NHL game, so you'd think this would be on my list of worthwhile pursuits. And yet, I am still quite well-versed on most of the major sports to this day. But here's the rub (and you might be surprised to find that it has nothing to do grumbling about striking millionaires): while I talk a good game at work, the truth is that I have grown increasingly tired of sports. I now find the devotion required to follow such events to be an ever emptier pursuit.

Yes, I follow the Packers as much as I have throughout my life, but only to keep a conversational touchstone with my father. Outside of this team, I do not watch the NFL at all. Once the Pack is out of the playoff picture, the picture on my TV switches to a movie. I barely have a favorite team in any other sport anymore, outside of baseball. And while I can still work up a lather of concern over a Mariners or Reds game even in late May, my stock in baseball overall has dipped to an all-time low on the index. I've never believed ever that baseball was the Great Game of Innocence that its most ardent defenders constantly assure us was the historical case -- pro baseball has always been graced by a certain level of playful corruption -- but it is going to be hard to go to Angel Stadium next spring and pretend that the efforts on the field aren't the work of nefarious outside chemistry. The harshest part for me when watching sports now, and especially the fans, is remembering Seinfeld's statement that, due to the yearly turnover of players on any given team, that all we are really doing is "rooting for laundry." Since I do not generally subscribe to landmass allegiances, why would I do this for a sports uniform? It's hard to continue the rah-rah-sis-boombah once that gets earwormed into your brain. (The funniest part? My bread is buttered by my 9-to-5 work for a sports organization. Ironic, no?)

One other fear I had to quell before diving into The Rocket was the problem that most sports movies have: that certain lack of inertia that comes when these films hew too closely to the tried-and-true formula. I'm not going to repeat the formula; we have all faced it time and again, nearly every time a sports movie comes out. Certainly more than just sports movies can give a viewer the feeling that they know exactly how a film is going to end; following the generic sports movie formula, a viewer can know exactly how every reel will end. Double this feeling when the film is also supposed to serve as biography. Certainly, there are many great sports movies, and the best of them (Raging Bull, Eight Men Out, The Pride of the Yankees) generally concentrate more on the tortured psyches or fractured bodies of the athletes who did or didn't win, rather than on what they won and who they beat to do it. Not all winners are necessarily heroes, (nor losers, villains, as it turns out), but the sports formula, with its comeback training montages, its inspirational speeches or the right person taking a seat in the stands just when it seems all is lost, generally doesn't recognize that fact. The formula films, when fused with biography, also confuse surface facts with viewer interest. Look, we all know who won the game and who lost -- we saw it on TV or read it in the paper; nothing would be more boring to me than watching a film about a team that wins the World Series by actually showing them winning the World Series. Give us a look at what it takes to even face off in such a competition, let alone the mettle it takes to actually persevere in it. Even Rocky, which sets out initially to be one of these types of formula flicks, was slightly more concerned about getting Rocky laid, and since people remember every element of his rise to the near top (especially the montages), they often forget that he loses the closing fight.

The Rocket couldn't be less concerned structurally with who won the games; it just wants to show us what drove Richard to play the way he did. Far beyond my expectations, The Rocket not only show us Maurice Richard's mettle, but how he built it punch by punch over several years through battles both on the ice and in the NHL league offices. The film opens in chaos in 1955, a dozen years and three Stanley Cups into his pro career, as we hear radio reports of thousands of Montreal fans hitting the streets in an infamous riot protesting NHL president Clarence Campbell's presence at a game after Richard was given a huge suspension (rest of the season and through the playoffs) for decking a linesman. How did it get to this point? And how did Richard inspire such devotion? The reasons were possibly far more politically and socially driven than it might seem at first, seeing how it stemmed from a mere hockey game.

The film then jumps backward to 1937 to bring us Richard's hardscrabble formative years in Junior Hockey and his struggles to land a spot on Quebec's Montreal Canadiens of the NHL, all the while supporting his young wife as a low-paid machinist. Through his battles on the ice, constant bickering with the league's front office, and constantly striving to prove himself both to his coach and himself, Richard surges stubbornly forward over every obstacle, taking revenge on his on-ice oppressors and firing back at his critics via the press. To a complete outsider to Québécois culture (and largely one to what it takes to succeed in hockey), such as myself, this appears to be mere bullheadedness, but then we begin to see a fuller portrait of a man who simply refuses to let anyone push him around or tell him how he should behave, be it a father-in-law, a coach, an entire league, or anyone believing him to be an idiot because of his Francophone heritage.

But one needs a remarkable actor to not only make us believe in this man, but also that he is embodying one of the greatest stars in the history of sports, especially in a time when helmets didn't cover up a player's head (and would thus make it harder to employ a stunt double in key action shots). That remarkable actor is Roy Dupuis, probably best known in American as Michael on the TV series version of La Femme Nikita, who previously played Richard in both a short film and a television movie. It is a brutal, bloody role, and Dupuis impresses greatly by showing both Richard's toughness and tortured soul, while still selling fully the notion of Richard as one of the fastest and most prolific scorers in the game of that era.

The film itself is solidly produced, and I derived my greatest pleasure from the film's generous glimpses into both a time period (war-time Canada) and occupation (pro hockey in the '40s & '50s) not often seen on American screens. While I had some quibbles over the need for some The rest of the cast performs admirably, and I especially enjoyed veteran Stephen McHattie, whom I don't often enjoy, as gruff (what else?) and demanding Montreal coach Dick Irvin. Julie LeBreton does a solid, quiet turn as Richard's loyal, long-suffering wife, Lucille, though my one major gripe is that she never seems to be quite as young as she is portraying, at least, in the early years. A smaller gripe is that many of the dramatic scenes involving side characters have a TV movie quality to them, and I could do without what are supposed to be "grounding" scenes with Richard's barber, who seems to be a font of folk wisdom that rings false to me.

Overall, five years away from giving two shits about hockey, this one was a surprise. I'm now buying some skates so I can kick them up on the ottoman and watch the thing again.