A Retrospective Review
By Cesare Augusto Directed by: Bruce Malmuth Starring: Sgt. Deke DaSilva – SYLVESTER STALLONE Wulfgar – RUTGER HAUER Sgt Matthew Fox – BILLY DEE WILLIAMS Peter Hartman – NIGEL DAVENPORT Shakka Holland – PERSIS KHAMBATTA Irene – LINDSEY WAGNER Lt. Munafo – JOE SPINELL For some, Nighthawks may feel like a cinematic anomaly. This thriller from 1981 combines so many similar genres together, that it’s almost as if its filmmakers couldn’t decide what type of category their product belonged to. Part buddy-cop action flick, part vintage terrorism thriller a la Day of the Jackal, and part gritty detective procedural from the Philip D’Antoni catalogue (i.e. Bullitt, The French Connection and The Seven-Ups), Nighthawks looks like an overwhelming cluster-fuck of ideas. But before you get discombobulated, don’t. Because Nighthawks offers a roller coaster of a thriller so entertaining, it’ll help you forgive and forget any possible discombobulation, thanks to some great performances and copious amounts of pulse-pounding suspense. The film stars Sylvester Stallone as streetwise veteran New York street cop Deke DaSilva. Up-and-coming international superstar Rutger Hauer costars as Wulfgar, the world’s deadliest terrorist. Judging from its poster, where the faces of both leads are tightly super-imposed adjacent to each other with the barrel of a pistol in between them, Nighthawks promotes the classic cat-and-mouse style thriller, and boy, do Stallone and Hauer help contribute to that! But more on that later, I promise. Providing equally effective supporting performances are Billy Dee Williams (as Deke’s fearless partner Matt Fox), Persis Khambatta, Joe Spinell, Lindsey Wagner, and Nigel Davenport. The presence of such fine late 70s/early 80s-eras character actors helps give the film’s sense of gritty, old-school urban appeal, ultimately telling audiences, “Hey, this is how we filmed action movies in our day, with familiar faces you recognize but names you probably can’t remember off-hand.” Sly and Billy Dee’s characters are undercover members of the NYPD’s “Decoy Squad,” specializing in catching crooks in the act of committing robberies while in disguise (action fans are sure to chuckle at Stallone dressed in full drag while dispatching with a thug in typical violent Stallone style). Meanwhile in London, we see Wulfgar, all charming and chic in his neat beard, nonchalantly plants a bomb in a posh department store and subsequently blows the place to smithereens. Wulfgar arrogantly reports his latest attack to the press via payphone, adding the chilling warning of “there is no security.” These introductory scenes brilliantly intertwines the breakneck cop scenes with Wulfgar’s dirty work. DaSilva and Fox are the strong arms of New York’s law, with high arrest records and longevity with the Decoy Squad, while Wulfgar is a walking instrument of death who leaves trails of blood all over Europe. The individual reputations of the cops and their terrorist prey are slowly and expertly laid out before us, and we son become more than convinced of what these men are truly made of. With a new surgically-reconstructed face, Wulfgar discreetly penetrates the United States by way of the Big Apple. Dogging his trail is tenacious British counter-terrorism expert Hartman (Davenport), who correctly surmises that Wulfgar chose New York as his new hunting grounds due to the city’s major news media outlets. To strengthen efforts to capture or kill Wulfgar, Hartman creates a counter-terrorism task force called ATAC (Anti-Terrorist Action Command), with Deke and Fox as its newest recruits. Another great intertwining juxtaposition of scenes between the film’s heroes and its villain commences. Wulfgar navigates all over Manhattan with very little apparent effort. He slyly cases the UN building and Roosevelt Island Tram system. He even finds the time for a little female companionship while exploring the glitzy New York nightlife. Wulfgar appears be enjoy his work, a total polar opposite to what our cops are forced to endure. As part of their new criminal profiling “training,” Deke and Fox are to be “indoctrinated in counter-terrorist tactics and techniques.” Their new instructor, Hartman, insists that the most effective way to nail Wulfgar is to get inside his head. Hartman also demands his counter-terrorism trainees to open fire upon sighting their prey. The pragmatic Deke balks at the idea of accidentally causing civilian casualties if he misses. The training sequences mesh incredibly well with Wulfgar’s surveillance of new targets, giving us new clashing views in our combatants’ professional lives as well as their morals. While Wulfgar is having a grand old time, Deke and Fox are sweating out Hartman’s tedious counter-terrorism classes before hitting the streets. I couldn’t help but compare Nighthawks’ with another great vintage cop thriller, The French Connection. There, we observe how its chief criminal, crafty drug lord Chaunier, alias “Frog One”, effortlessly invades New York City for his newest dealings while being tailed by NYPD detectives “Popeye” Doyle and “Cloudy” Russo. Frog One is enjoying the finer things of life like dining at fine Manhattan restaurants, whereas Popeye and Cloudy, the two blue-collar cops, are suffering through their freezing their butts off during their winter stakeouts and eating cardboard-textured pizza slices. Director William Friedkin painstakingly captures the juxtaposition in his heroes and villains in their lives. Now, Nighthawks’ director Bruce Malmuth is nowhere near as legendary compared to Friedkin. But at least he manages to capture the same kind of flip-flopping technique of showing the villain’s casual approach to terrorism, opposite his cop pursuers’ tedium on the job. The cops’ surveillance bears fruit when they finally lay eyes on their suspect. DaSilva and Fox corner Wulfgar in a flashy Manhattan discotheque, and what follows is one of the best cinematic stare-downs ever filmed. With the pulsing disco back-beat of Keith Emerson’s cover of the 1960s pop tune “I’m a Man” blaring in the background, the camera cuts back and forth from Stallone and Hauer’s POVs. Wulfgar knows his cover is blown. The tension is further amplified by the club’s music and the strobing lights. It’s a fabulous foreboding sense of dread that leads to a frenetic foot chase deep within New York’s subway tunnels. The chase is fast and incredibly riveting that concludes with a violent and bloody aftermath. I won’t give away details, but let’s just say Wulfgar has officially incurred Deke’s wrath. The cat and mouse chase aspect only gets more intense from here. In a superbly claustrophobic scene, Wulfgar hijacks the Roosevelt Island Tram and holds a group of UN delegates hostage where he forces Deke to a face-to-face confrontation high above the East River. I love the way Wulfgar tries to justifies his actions much to Deke’s disbelief and disgust. Like many movie terrorists, Wulfgar believes himself a hero, a freedom fighter, a liberator of the oppressed. And Hauer relishes every word of his character’s cause. From Wulfgar to his legendary performance as sinister “replicant” Roy Batty in Blade Runner, down to his delightfully sadistic murderer in The Hitcher, Rutger Hauer (1944 – 2019) oozed charismatic evil, like it was nothing. Nighthawks was Hauer’s stepping stone to mainstream stardom, and it was an explosive one at that, literally and figuratively! And Stallone? Well, he’s strong and commanding as always, but with a considerable difference this time around. Nighthawks was Sly’s first big-screen lawman role, and, unlike his more macho cop characters, his Deke DaSilva is his most realistic, and vulnerable. Sporting eye glasses and long hair with matching beard, Sly could almost pass himself off as big brother to Al Pacino’s Frank Serpico. It’s easy to make the comparison, as both characters are tough, yet sensitive cops who wear their badges and hearts on their sleeves. As we movie buffs all know, Sylvester Stallone is the king of the underdog heroes. Rocky Balboa and John Rambo are the underdog archetypes, and to certain degrees, so is Deke DaSilva. You know Deke always gets the job done, and he’s refreshingly human when he does. Nighthawks is a first-rate thriller that does beg the question, “Could acts of terrorism happen in the United States?” Released at least 20 years before the tragedies of 9/11, the movie gives a vivid look of what living under the grip of terror-based fear in the US may look like. Lesser movies may depict terrorists as cartoonish, faceless foreign drones who blindly and violently pursue a cause with any means necessary. This plot formula was prominently used in mindless popcorn flicks churned out by the Cannon Group, like Invasion USA or The Delta Force. But Nighthawks provides a grittier, more procedural look at the dirty work of a professional terrorist, and the law enforcement efforts to take the criminal menace down. Make no mistake: while the film may resembles a counter-terrorism training course, but it’s a damn suspenseful training course worth taking! See the original trailer here! https://youtu.be/cnvbtAoucPU
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A Retrospective Review
By Cesare Augusto Directed by: Lino Brocka Starring: Insiang: HILDA KORONEL Tonya: MONA LISA Dado: RUEL VERNAL Bedot: REZ CORTEZ Thank Heaven for the Criterion Collection and its streaming service, the Critieron Channel. For they are the gateway to some of the most unique, quirky, and magnificent films ever created, that you’ve probably never seen. Criterion’s gloriously vast assortment of films come from different eras and all kinds of countries. They include great classics like Chaplin’s The Gold Rush and Nicholas Ray’s In a Lonely Place, abstract “New Wave” Arthouse films like Fellini’s 8 ½ and Louise Malle’s Elevator to the Gallows (a personal significant favorite of mine in this category), and outrageous cult oddities like Herschell Gordon Lewis’ Horror splatter-fest Blood Feast. The Criterion Channel is more than worth the $10.99 monthly subscription cost, that is if you’re an obsessed connoisseur of cinema who wouldn’t mind the expense, like me! The Criterion Channel is also home to a special select series of international cinema dubbed “The World Cinema Project.” Established by none other than Martin Scorsese, the World Cinema Project dedicates itself to the preservation, restoration, and re-distribution of both classic and newer films from countries worldwide. Cinephiles disinterested in run-of-the-mill Hollywood popcorn flicks will be intrigued by the Project’s selection of films rich with high intensity and melodrama, many of which are fueled by their countries’ political or social turmoils. Among the ones I’ve had the great pleasure of viewing include the depressing Senegalese-French drama Black Girl, the taut Turkish crime thriller Law of the Border, and from my ancestral land the Philippines, Insiang. Prior to Insiang, the only Filipino-made pictures I saw were mostly 1960s to 70s low-budget exploitation schlock-fests which meet the criteria of the trashy yet energetically fun “Grindhouse” mold. Cheaply made Horror and Action flicks like The Big Bird Cage, The Blood Drinkers, and The Muthers were all filmed in the Philippines and made use of the country’s tropical jungle locales just so attractive, scantily-dressed women can run around topless while wielding machine guns and killing their evil, sex-starved male captors. Sure, these pictures are utter garbage with very little genuine artistic merit to speak of. But if you’re an unabashed fan of Grindhouse movies, lack of such merit makes very little difference as long as they entertained you from a “so-bad-it’s good” rationale! (For more on these, check out the insane 2010 documentary Machete Maidens Unleashed immediately) Then there’s Lino Brocka, the internationally-renowned Filipino director and master storyteller. Scorsese himself is an avid admirer of Brocka, crediting the Filipino filmmaker’s “key role in remaking the cinema of his country.” Brocka’s approach was to show the Philippines’ darker, seamier sides, often using the poverty-stricken streets of the country’s capital Manila during the notorious Marcos Regime as a backdrop to the hard-edged dramas he specialized in. Two of his most prolific pictures, Manila in the Claws of Night and Insiang, brutally depict the harsh lives of poor, downtrodden Filipinos who often teeter on the edges of sanity and insanity, civilized and criminal, life and death. Brocka’s films may not paint the most flattering pictures of the Philippines, but they certainly make for brutally realistic cinema. Insiang also holds the distinction of being the very first Filipino feature film to be presented at the 1978 Cannes Film Festival, a highly impressive feat indeed. Vintage Filipina actress Hilda Koronel portrays the titular character, a young Manila woman trapped in her own private hell. Insiang lives deep within the shanty town of the run-down Tondo district, where she shares a cramped house with her estranged father’s relatives, and her bitter and overbearing mother Tonya (classic Filipina cinema legend Mona Lisa). Tonya barely tolerates or feels even the slightest smidge of love for her only daughter. Instead, she bludgeons Insiang with barrages of insults, humiliation, and physical abuse. Tonya’s cruelty stems from her husband’s abandonment of their family to run off with another woman, prompting Tonya to take her frustrations out on everything with a pulse. When Tonya evicts her husband’s relatives from her house, she viciously vents her life’s failings on her daughter. Insiang’s troubles don’t end there. Both mother and daughter barely make enough money to afford rice and even decent clothes. Her boyfriend Bedot (Rez Cortez) is an irresponsible deadbeat who never takes their relationship beyond just making out in darkened movie theaters. And because of her mother’s infamous volatile nature, Insiang and her family have become the butt of negative gossip among the shanty town’s denizens. Yet all these unpleasantness pale terribly in comparison to that of Dado (Ruel Vernal), the neighborhood’s biggest scumbag who also happens to be Tonya’s latest squeeze. If you were to Google Image the word “Sleaze”, you’re sure to find the swaggering Dado smiling repulsively back at you. The man is a liar, degenerate, and a bully who moves in with Tonya after she chucked her in-laws out. The awkwardness behind the entire setup is magnified when we learn how much younger Dado is compared to Tonya (trust me: their relationship is quite gross and unsettling). Soon enough, Dado sets his disgusting sights on Insiang, eyeing the young girl with less-than-honorable intentions. He seeks to lay claim on both mother and daughter of the household he moves into. Late one night, he sneaks up on the unsuspecting Insiang, and rapes her. You would think Tonya would subsequently kick this perverted piece of trash to the curb, but no. She actually takes Dado’s side and accuses of Insiang of instigating the whole incident and seducing her rapist. What kind of a mother would victim-blame her own daughter, as if Insiang herself would willingly facilitate her own sexual assault? The jealous kind, as Tonya would wrongly suspect Insiang of stealing Dado away from her wrinkled, envious clutches. While pondering these profoundly disturbing notions, I couldn’t resist comparing Insiang to another grim urban drama, 2009’s Precious directed by Lee Daniels. Both films dramatically depict the plights of two young women caught in troubled households who find themselves victimized by sexually-violent men and monstrously-abusive mothers. Both films would also deeply explore its female protagonists as they struggle with the post-traumatic shock of their assaults. Still, they are contrast as their stories progress. Precious projects more optimism, as its hero defeats her demons with the help of positive people in her life and coming out a winner. Insiang, on other hand, is rife with bleakness and despair. Insiang spirals in depression and hopelessness from not only her rape at Dado’s hands, but betrayals from both her mother and a cowardly boyfriend like Bedot, who unceremoniously dumps her after a night of shared passion. Now left with no other options, Insiang embarks on a stormy campaign of revenge against her tormentors, with each act of vengeance more impactful and bloodier than before. If that sounds dark, bear in mind that this is not a Hollywood movie, but a Filipino one, set in very true times of social turmoil. Insiang was my springboard to films from my native land for two things: the stark grimness of human tragedy which director Lino Brocka excelled in, and the crushing realistic view of poverty and the poor in the Philippines. What Brocka created was more than mere melodrama; he took one character’s immense tragedy and made it soul-shattering not for Insiang herself, but for the audience. We can’t help but shed tears along with poor Insiang, and thusly shamelessly (at first) begin hoping that her revenge schemes succeed. Hilda Koronel is dynamite in the drama department as she steadily switches from helpless victim to perpetrator of her own personal justice. Her costars also deserve some major acting kudos. The venom that Mona Lisa spews against her cinematic daughter is nothing short of toxic, which I mean in a flattering way. She tackles the Tonya role with such unforgettable, cold-blooded ferocity that while Tonya wouldn’t win any awards for being Mother-of-the-Year, Lisa herself deserves a bunch thanks to her truly great powerhouse acting. Another lasting impact created by Insiang was Brocka’s depiction of his country’s poverty. The way he captured the dirt poor conditions of the Tondo district streets was shocking in my eyes. For those unaware of my personal past, I was born in the Philippines, within the Quezon City area of Manila to be exact. As a baby, I left the country with my parents with zero memory of my time spent there. So it wouldn’t be until I saw Brocka’s work that I caught a glimpse of my countrymen’s way of life from this vantage point. We observe Insiang walking aimlessly through the shanty town’s litter-filled streets, past neighborhood kids who appear otherwise happily skipping rope almost adjacent to young Filipino men drunkenly drinking beer outside local bodegas. This reality may appear horrible to some, but it’s nonetheless reality for those who lived it and accepted it as their way of life. It’s this reviewer’s theory that was Brocka’s intention, to introduce film-goers beyond Philippine shores of how rough life is in this world, and to presumably show audiences in places like America of just how good their lives truly are, despite any hardships they perceive to have. If that was indeed Brocka’s intention, he succeeded, at least in my eyes. Insiang is a soul-crushing wake-up call of a film, and it packs one hell of a powerful bitch slap. See the original trailer here! https://youtu.be/9ssGbkBNPUg A Retrospective Review
By Cesare Augusto Directed by: Walter Hill Starring: Prentice “Print” Ritter – ROBERT DUVALL Tom Harte – THOMAS HADEN CHURCH Nola Johns – GRETA SCACCHI “Number 3”/Sun Fu – GWENDOLINE YEO Hec Gilpin – SCOTT COOPER “Number 4”/Ye Fung – OLIVIA CHENG Ed “Big Ears” Bywater – CHRIS MULKEY Captain Billy Fender – JAMES RUSSO Apart from the likes of Sam Peckinpah, John Woo, and even Shane Black, there’s no other filmmaker as adept at creating classic macho male camaraderie than Walter Hill. A genre director whose specialties include cop thrillers and westerns, Hill is also renowned for his strong contribution to the “Buddy film”, the sub-genre with the time-honored convention of characters bonding and standing loyal to each other when trouble arises. However, unlike other movies where cute friendships are forged almost immediately, Hill’s characters start out as anything but buddies. They borderline hate each other first. In the Depression-era crime story Hard Times, bare-knuckle brawler Charles Bronson barely trusts shifty conman James Coburn, who sneakily appoints himself as Bronson’s “manager.” The Warriors may stick like glue as Coney Island’s baddest street gang, yet two of its toughest members size each other up to vie for their leadership. Nick Nolte’s boozy cop has no choice but to rely on the assistance of Eddie Murphy’s slick convict to nail a vicious pair of killers in 48 Hrs. And in a similar scenario, steely Soviet detective Arnold Schwarzenegger begrudgingly tolerates wise-ass Chicago flatfoot Jim Belushi as they pursue an evil Russian drug lord in Red Heat. Notice a pattern yet? Walter Hill first builds scathing antagonism between his heroes before even a glimmer of trust develops before they eventually work together to meet their goals, often under showers of smoking-hot lead. Hill also extended his Buddy film formula to two of his Westerns, The Long Riders and Broken Trail, albeit with a different approach: the heroes aren’t strangers-turned burgeoning friends, but strained family members whose relationships deepen while embarking on cross-country journeys. The Long Riders is based on the real-life notorious 1800s outlaws the James-Younger Gang, made up of disorganized and highly dysfunctional brothers who hit banks and trains across America. The film itself contains the novelty of having real-life actor siblings cast as the gang, like the Carradines, the Keaches, the Quaids, and a mess of others. While a visually-stunning and action-packed picture, The Long Riders is a standard noisy Western shoot-em-up that glorifies the outlaw brothers as folk heroes despite their sibling rivalries. It’s a movie that’s sure to thrill the genre’s fans, but offers others very little room to breathe in between shootouts and bouts of mayhem. Broken Trail takes a subtler, more unique spin on Walter Hill’s Buddy Western. The film, which was originally released as a made-for-TV miniseries in AMC, is split into two tales: one about a massive horse drive undertaken by veteran cowboy Print Ritter (Robert Duvall) and his estranged buckaroo nephew, Tom Harte (Thomas Haden Church). The other focuses on the plight of five innocent young Chinese women about to be sold to doomed lives of slavery and prostitution. Theirs is a grim but true throwback to a dark period of American history, as thousands of real female Chinese immigrants were forced into this horrific way of life in the Old West. The five Chinese women’s story soon intertwines with Print and Tom’s horse drive excursion. The two parties, while initially wary and distrusting of each other, learn to depend and ultimately trust one another as their bonds dramatically changes their lives. Robert Duvall is certainly no stranger to the Western. He seems at home portraying rugged, rawboned cowpokes who’ve seen plenty of action and mayhem over the years, and live to tell about them at ripe years of age. In Trail, Duvall’s Print Ritter doesn’t fit the bill of a stereotypical grumpy Old West codger. Print is wise, observant, hardworking, and unafraid to use his Winchester rifle to protect those he deeply cares about. He reunites with his estranged nephew Tom Harte (Thomas Haden Church) as Print bears good and bad news. The bad news is Tom’s mother (Print’s sister), who Tom has not seen in years, has died and left Print the executor to her will (consisting of her land and a small fortune), leaving Tom with nothing. The younger cowboy glumly surmises that since he left home to work as a professional buckaroo, Tom was written out of his mother’s will. The good news is that with the fortune he inherited from his deceased sister, Print decides to buy 500 mustangs and drive them from Oregon to Wyoming where the horses will be sold to the British army. Print asks Tom to join on the drive and, after being coaxed out of branding cattle for the rest of his life, Tom agrees. Having mostly played contemporary comedic or dramatic performances (especially with his Oscar-nominated turn in the critically-acclaimed 2004 independent comedy Sideways), Trail marks Church’s only second authentic Western foray. Fans should also remember his small but memorable turn as Billy Clanton, member of the notorious Cowboys gang in the classic 1993 hit Tombstone. Despite his limited experience in the genre, Church makes a very convincing weather-beaten buckaroo, and hardened gunslinger. Though we learn very little of Tom’s past, his laconic manner and lethal proficiency with six-shooters tell us of the man’s varied experiences surviving in the American frontier, all of which Church delivers superbly well. During their horse drive, Print and Tom encounter numerous folks of differing backgrounds and intentions. They meet and recruit Hec Gilpin (Scott Cooper), a noble fiddler from back East to join their ranks. Later, they come across Captain Billy Fender (James Russo), a drunk, uncouth fella dragging a carriage carrying the five Chinese women. Print, Tom, and Hec sense something is very off-kilter about this Captain Fender, and correctly so. They discover Fender’s job of selling the five women as sex slaves to mining camps. Tom kills Fender, and our horse drivers reluctantly become the ladies’ protectors, their knights in rawhide leather, if you will, from further dangers on their trail. As their journey presses eastward, we learn more about the personal lives of our motley crew of travelers. Print, Tom, and Hec gather by the campfire the way old-time cowboys would and discuss the mysteries of life, including about the fairer sex. Print, being the oldest, longingly examines the frailties of the male psyche. He is more than aware of the crushing feeling of loneliness, and that only the touch of that right woman can cure it. It is with these quieter scenes that give Duvall some of his finest performances. The poignancy of his reaching out to Church’s Tom leads to both characters to shed their rougher exteriors and creates pure male bonding, thankfully without falling into the trap of cheesy, over-sentimental sappiness. Western fans might also recognize the relationship of Print and Tom as comparable to that from another pair of fictional frontier drivers, Thomas Dunson and Matt Garth, played respectively by John Wayne and Montgomery Clift in the Howard Hawks’ Red River. Both groups are made up of cowboys of different age ranges and personal beliefs that butt heads over their drives should be done. And yet, Print and Tom, like Dunson and Matt, are determined to fulfilling the jobs at hand, and devoted to watching each other’s backs like true men should. If Walter Hill and Broken Trail’s screenwriter Alan Geoffrion made this as an intentional reference to the Hawks film, remains to be clarified, but I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if its true. But the film’s hardest-hitting dramatic punches come from the five young Chinese ladies. Because of the language barrier, the women are unable to tell their names, so Print nicknames them accordingly by numbers, from “Number 1” to “Number 5.” Understandably, the women are at first terrified of the horse drivers. They know very little of the American culture and fear for their futures in such a dangerous land. Yet as the trip continues, the five ladies slowly develop a rapport with their cowboy rescuers, especially with Print as they affectionately refer him as “Honkle Pren.” This rapport alone takes the old Walter Hill “Buddy Film” to deeper lengths than previously seen in the director’s vast list of directorial efforts, and it works incredibly, touchingly well. The leader of the ladies, Sun Fu, or “Number 3” (Gwendoline Yeo), even builds an attraction to Tom, to which the hardened buckaroo mutually obliges. The growing spark between Sun Fu and Tom is undeniably strong, despite their culture clashes. Despite the cowboys’ best efforts to protect them, problems still befall on the Chinese women, as Ye Fung (“Number 4”, played by Olivia Cheng) suffers from insurmountable trauma from being previously sexually-assaulted. Cheng’s performance teeters between hopelessness and despair, giving the film its saddest, most tragic performance. Adding another deep dimension to the film’s cast of characters is Nola Johns (Greta Scacchi), the aging prostitute who seeks refuge with the horse drivers. Nola had a bad run of luck with some truly awful men, including one vicious desperado named Ed “Big Ears” Bywater (Chris Mulkey, a regular in Walter Hill’s acting repertoire). Big Ears is hired by sleazy lady bordello proprietor “Big Rump” Kate to retreive the five Chinese women she intended to purchase from Captain Billy Fender. Intially Big Ears is uninterested in the job, only to sign on when Nola, the object of his past disgusting desires, flees with Print’s party. Nola and Print would soon carry on a romance of their own, lighting the fuse of a deadly rivalry between the veteran cowboy and dastardly killer Big Ears. In classic Walter Hill Western tradition, the heroic horse drivers head to their guns-blazing showdown against Big Ears and his crew of killers to further protect their adopted family from a bullet-ridden death. Broken Trail was AMC’s first original film, and what a great one to make it as the network’s debut. It received four Emmy Awards: for Outstanding Miniseries; Outstanding Casting for a Miniseries, Movie, or a Special; Outstanding Lead Actor in a Miniseries or Movie (for Duvall), and Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Miniseries or a Movie (for Church). All four wins were well-deserved, especially for the two acting leads. Unfortunately the five Chinese actresses did not receive any acting nominations, but they damn well should have. Their combined acting talents effectively conveyed strength and courage at the face of certain danger, invoking that right amount of audience empathy to their dreaded plight. The film’s highest selling point is its fantastic, heart-warming character development, coupled with some thrilling frontier action sequences. Broken Trail takes Walter Hill’s vintage Buddy Film formula to deeper, more profound lengths, and it may just be his best film by a country mile. See the original trailer here! https://youtu.be/prJVjnlZRRQ A Retrospective Review
By Cesare Augusto Directed by: Bruce Lee Starring: Tang Lung – BRUCE LEE Miss Chen – NORA MIAO Colt – CHUCK NORRIS The Boss – JON T. BENN Ah Quen – TI CHIN “Empty your mind. Be formless, shapeless, like water. Put water into a cup, becomes the cup put water into a teapot, becomes the teapot water can flow or creep or dip or crash. Be like water, my friend…” Bruce Lee, the Chinese-American god of martial arts and pop culture who’s transcended generations of fans for more than 50 years, was heavily renowned not only for his incredible fighting prowess, but also for his countless pearls of inspirational wisdom. The “Little Dragon” (as Lee is so affectionately referred to the world over) sprouted as many axioms of positivity, courage, and self-motivation as he did with his deadly flurry of devastating one-inch-punches. Fans also ought to know Lee’s heavy list of accolades and accomplishments: his tournament victories; how he analyzed and transformed traditional Kung Fu into the hybrid martial arts philosophy he called Jeet Kune Do; his meteoric rise to fame in American television; and finally his unparalleled successes in the Hong Kong and Hollywood big screens before his sudden death at age 32 in 1972. Put simply, Bruce Lee was the proverbial game changer, in many respects of the term. As do many Asian-Americans, I have more than my share of respect and admiration to Bruce Lee. The man was a multi-faceted hero of my childhood, and who I continue to hero-worship to this day. With his unexpected passing, he left behind a mere snapshot of his legacy. We may never know what Lee could have brought to the table further. The varied film lover in me, however, could actually envision Bruce Lee actually breaking free mold of the martial arts flick. The man oozed charisma, had a humorously sharp wit, and a lady-killing smile, which tells me that Lee could have stood a chance at being an actor and not just an action star. Could the Little Dragon have been adept at, perhaps, Romantic Comedies? Science Fiction? Westerns? He nearly won the role of “Kwai Chang Caine” in the 1970s Western drama Kung Fu, if only the incredibly racially-biased Hollywood studio system hadn’t rejected him and given it to Caucasian actor David Carradine instead. In any case, I know, deep in my heart, that had Bruce Lee not pass away so prematurely, there were many other media-based endeavors that he could have had the potential in excelling in. Such as directing pictures himself? In his short but exemplary film career, Lee did have one directorial credit: the top-of-the-heap 1972 urban thriller The Way of the Dragon (released as Return of the Dragon in the US a year later, just to cash in on the success of Lee’s final movie, Enter the Dragon.) The film is highly regarded for Lee’s sole directorial debut, along with his signature frenetic Kung Fu maneuvers, and as the dynamic first onscreen appearance of fellow martial arts action god Chuck Norris. But before I proceed with my analysis on Way, here is a brief history of the 20th century martial arts movie craze. Once upon a time, in China, came “Wuxia,” the film genre depicting martial arts warriors in more historical and fantastical period pieces. Notable examples of Wuxia include such cult classics as Come Drink With Me, Last Hurrah for Chivalry, and Golden Swallow, and were produced by famous Hong Kong-based studios like The Shaw Brothers or Golden Harvest. A vast majority of these movies put major stock on colorful Chinese history or mythology, and the high-flying heroics of ancient heroes and villains of their classic culture. When the late 1960s transitioned into the 1970s, Bruce Lee had since burst into the scene. Lee first became a television household name as masked vigilante Kato in his phenomenal TV series The Green Hornet. As Lee’s fame grew, so did the appeal of martial arts in America. Even though the Hornet would last just one season, Lee’s popularity would only climb among mainstream Western audiences. Since the Wuxia pictures were mainly released within the Asian market, they unfortunately were allowed little exposure for Western audiences to see, save for drive-in theaters. But Lee’s later pictures to come would eschew the over-the-top fantasy of Wuxia, focusing instead for grittier, more modern, and more violent takes on the martial arts film genre. After The Green Hornet’s cancellation and losing the Kung Fu role no thanks to gutless Hollywood execs, Lee opted to leave the US for stronger opportunities in Hong Kong. And from there, did Lee deliver the goods when it came to grittier, more modern, and more violent martial arts flicks! From 1971 to 1972, he made two feature films, The Big Boss (released internationally as Fists of Fury) and Fists of Fury (or The Chinese Connection overseas). Both are remarkable and action-packed statements to Lee’s martial arts talents and larger-than-life cinematic presence. Yet, they were directed by other filmmakers, and he wanted to strut more than just his on-screen stuff. So Lee struck a deal with legendary Golden Harvest founder Raymond Chow for a chance at writing, producing, directing, and starring in his film, entitled The Way of the Dragon. Story-wise, Way is quite simple: it tells the tale of Tang Lung (Lee), a stranger in a strange land who uses deadly fighting skills to protect a friend’s restaurant business in Rome from vicious criminals. Tang Lung is a naïve and seemingly innocent young man from Hong Kong venturing outside his original environment for the first time. Lee had portrayed a character not unlike Tang Lung before, as a Kung Fu-fighting country bumpkin in The Big Boss. And like in Boss, Lee’s Tang Lung would keep his fierce talents at bay until the occasion called for their use. Until then, Lee displays more acting kicks than literal ones first when he meets Miss Chen (the lovely Nora Miao). Chen explains that her uncle’s restaurant is under siege by a local crime boss (Jon T. Benn), who wants his dirty fingers around the business. Tang Lung assures Chen that he will do everything he can to help protect her restaurant. She is hesitant to believe him. Tang Lung appears goofy, unaware, and clearly out of his league. Her restaurant employs feel the same way. How will this clueless-looking stranger be of any help to their situation? Naturally, that all changes soon when the crime boss’ goons arrives to stir trouble at the restaurant. Tang Lung goes from playing the seemingly-innocent fella from Hong Kong, to highly-experienced Kung Fu master, as he unleashes a barrage of lightning-fast roundhouse kicks upon the cocky invaders, much to the restaurant employees’, and the audience’s astounding surprise. This was undeniable proof of Lee’s potential dynamic as an actor and a movie star. His transition from ordinary Joe to near-invincible warrior was initially smooth before turning lethal within a fraction of a second. And speaking of fractions and seconds, many of Lee’s Kung Fu skills (or as the film’s comic relief, Ah Quen, humorously yet enthusiastically calls it, “Chinese boxing!”) were so blindingly speedy, they were shot in slow motion as to not disorient audiences, at least not badly. Lee’s speed and power, combined by his charisma, made him nothing short of hypnotic. There is even a night training scene where, Lee, naked from the waist up and illuminated with light, flexes his sculpted upper body muscles and boasting a near-perfect physique. The man had a freakishly great build, with absolutely ZERO flab. I can recall many years ago, during a viewing of Way of the Dragon, when an old college buddy of mine declared: “I am OFFICIALLY FAT!” Who else within during this era of film where one star had that ability to simulataneously charm and thrill audiences all at the same time, than Bruce Lee? Despite the film’s amazing action aesthetics, Lee’s first and only attempt at directing was still at novice level, and it showed. Way suffers from a low budget, unremarkable script, hammy acting, and, painfully-obvious post-sync dubbing. In other words, you can still see the actors’ mouths still moving even as their voice stops; it was a technical snafu evident in many English-dubbed foreign films, not just in Asian martial arts pictures. No matter, because we the audience would be too caught up with the exciting fight scenes, all of which choreographed by Lee himself. Besides, nobody expects Sir Laurence Olivier-level acting in these movies anyway! Lee took heavy concentration on each fight scene, from minor to major. Two of these scenes in particular were so beautifully shot that they should go down as among the greatest fight sequences ever caught on camera. First would be the back alley weapons combat, where Tang Lung, armed with two spinning nunchucks, would dispatch the evil gang members one by one. Nunchucks were a weapons specialty of Lee’s, and the way he twirled them from back to front was spell-binding right before their handles would crack some poor sucker’s head. The second significant fight scene would pit Tang Lung against the film’s other major martial artist, Chuck Norris, in one of only two villainous roles in his entire acting resume. Norris plays Colt, a drastic last resort who, as the crime boss’ effeminate right-hand-man Ho decrees, is “America’s best.” Judging by his laconic , stone cold demeanor, Colt is a martial arts mercenary who means business. Colt is such a badass that a sampled dark guitar portion of the Once Upon a Time in the West soundtrack is used as his theme song! The film’s final showdown between Colt and Tang Lung takes place, fittingly, in the Roman Coliseum, the ultimate battleground for warriors ancient and modern alike. Their duel is one for the ages, as both men perform in a deadly combat ballet. The fight swings in favor between the two fighters as they seemingly are equally-matched, with Lee coming close to defeat in several instances. But when he switches to his rapid Jeet Kune Do shuffle, Lee quickly and powerfully switches the momentum back to his favor. Conversely, Norris is in true brutal form and almost like a martial arts grim reaper. Unlike his later, more heroically one-dimensional roles, Norris made a strikingly memorable villain and should have considered portraying evil more often down the line. The almost 10-minute showdown is an examination of two action icons shaking the earth with their fists and kicks of doom. And the martial arts movie would never, ever be the same again. Yes, this film has its flaws. But Way of the Dragon is proof in my mind that Lee had what it takes to not only effectively prove his worth as an action star, but as a filmmaker in his own right. We will never know how well he could have done as a director. But clearly, Brucee Lee had an eye for storytelling, and how he could have utilized that eye is left to our imaginations. I’m reminded of another inspirational quote by the Little Dragon, which went like this: “Absorb what is useful. Discard what is not. Add what is uniquely your own…” In terms of his directorial debut, Bruce Lee certainly lived up to this quote’s message, wouldn’t you also say? See the original trailer here! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ttOZyaEwmQM A Retrospective Review
By Cesare Augusto Directed by: Giulio Petroni Starring: Ryan – LEE VAN CLEEF Bill Meceita – JOHN PHILIP LAW Walcott – LUIGI PISTILLI Burt Cavanaugh – ANTHONY DAWSON When Brit rocker Pete Townshend released his third solo album sans The Who in 1982, he christened it All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes. A highly peculiar-sounding title, for sure, not to mention somewhat racist. To his credit, Townshend did try to explain the suggestive-sounding title in an interview with Rolling Stone Magazine, citing it as a reference to the “average American hero – somebody like a Clint Eastwood or a John Wayne. Someone with eyes like slits.” Since this is not a music analysis, I’ll refrain from making any other further commentary upon the album for now. But offensive innuendo aside, Townshend did make an interesting observation. All the best cowboys did, figuratively speaking, have Chinese eyes… at least in the movies! The Western heroes of yesterday like Clint and the Duke were known for their frequent squinting, caused by either dimming the sun from their vision, or steely intimidating desperadoes before the gun duel. And how can I forget stone-faced legend Charles Bronson, whose squinty glare helped made him the stuff of cinematic Old West legend, too? But among all caucasian movie gunslingers out there, there was no other actor with a more menacing pair of “slitted eyes” than the late great Lee Van Cleef (1925–1989). A veteran tough guy actor since the early 1950s, Van Cleef made his cowboy bones appearing in small parts in classic American western films such as High Noon, How the West Was Won, and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, and TV guest appearances on programs like The Rifleman, Wagon Train, and Wanted, Dead or Alive. But it wouldn’t be until 1965, when Van Cleef would help slam the cowboy genre on its ten gallon hat-wearing head when he went to Italy to costar in Sergio Leone’s Spaghetti Western thriller For a Few Dollars More, alongside fellow Hollywood Yank Eastwood. From there, Van Cleef would solidify his brand-new movie star career appearing in eleven Spaghetti Westerns, many of which are designated as among the greatest of the genre, along with some no-so-great cult classics. His Italian fame would mostly be attributed to his gravelly voice, cold-as-ice demeanor (even when playing heroes), and that sinister-looking squint. While commenting on his own career, Van Cleef himself said it best: “Being born with a pair of beady eyes was the best thing that ever happened to me…” This film review focuses not on Lee Van Cleef’s more famous Italo-West features like For a Few Dollars More or The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, but one of his lesser-known, yet stylish and explosive pictures. After all, my blog dedicates itself to analyzing underrated and obscure cult cinema, not popular flicks that everybody and their Aunt Tilly talks about to near mutilation. The movie is 1967’s Death Rides a Horse, directed by Giulio Petroni, and costarring tall and strapping American actor John Philip Law. The movie’s plot is sadly overdone and rudimentary, with young gunslinger Bill Meceita (Law) seeking revenge on the murderous outlaws who murder his family when he was just a boy. Dogging Bill’s trail is Ryan (Van Cleef), an aging gunfighter with his own special reasons to destroy the murderers. Despite its generic-sounding premise, Death Rides a Horse provides a colorful trigger-fast shoot-em-up guaranteed to shake Spaghetti Western fans to their core. Death begins on the proverbial dark and stormy night, as a gang of masked gunmen invades an innocent family’s ranch house and proceeds to shoot the father dead, and rape the mother and eldest daughter before gunning them down, too. Describing the scene as unpleasant would be a huge understatement, especially as the family’s youngest son witnesses their murders right before his eyes, right before being whisked away to safety by another masked stranger. Fast forward 15 years later, as young Bill Meceita trains himself in deadly sharpshooting skills and a trauma-induced photographic memory to avenge his family’s brutal demise. Meanwhile, ex-con Ryan is leaving prison after serving a 15-year stretch. Ryan retrieves his belongings from the prison warden, including his pistol and gun-belt containing 27 fresh cartridges. Ryan’s memory is razor-sharp as he coolly remembers his gun’s exact hiding place inside the warden’s office, along with how much ammunition was left in the gun belt’s cartridge loops. Bill and Ryan would soon meet and engage in a cagey battle of wits to see who will lay claim to the bloodthirsty cutthroats responsible for ruining the two men’s lives. Despite their initial adversity, Ryan would take a bit of a liking to Bill, and vice versa, as a begrudging respect forms between both veteran and rookie gunslingers. There was an interesting recurring character dynamic occurring in this movie and some of Van Cleef’s other Spaghetti Westerns, as his character acted as a kind of mentor to a younger, rougher-around-the-edges pupil. For a Few Dollars More saw Van Cleef’s world-weary Civil War colonel providing mentorship assistance to Eastwood’s wily bounty killer. In Day of Anger, an edgier Van Cleef portrayed a sort of Old West Obi-Wan Kenobi as he trains inexperienced greenhorn Giuliano Gemma in frontier combat. In Death, the early hostility between Van Cleef’s Ryan and Law’s Bill is highly evident, as both men compete to satisfy their own personal retributions first. Eventually, the two would recognize the other’s need for justice, and reluctantly agree to join forces and defeat their common enemy. Their relationship, like Van Cleef’s aforementioned previous efforts, adds to the film’s strength. After taking a closer look into these three movies, I couldn’t help but remind myself of some of Sean Connery’s late-1980s era films where he, like Van Cleef, would lay out wonderful veteran character mentorship relationships with younger movie stars, including Christopher Lambert in Highlander, Kevin Costner in The Untouchables, and Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Like Connery, Van Cleef’s chemistries with his young western charges were warm and fatherly up to the climactic, gun-blazing showdowns. Adding a much-needed dimension to the film’s otherwise standard premise is its cast of villains. The gang of outlaws thankfully aren’t book ends where they all think and look alike. On the contrary; the film’s evildoers consist of fellas with different intentions and personal pursuits that they seek to fulfill years after the heinous act they committed that fateful stormy night. One killer, played by noted British actor Anthony Dawson, would run a run-down, grungy saloon/casino. Another former outlaw, portrayed with sweaty grime by Spaghetti Western favorite Luigi Pistilli, has big political aspirations, only to have them derailed by Bill’s vendetta run. While yet another outlaw has a secret I wouldn’t dare spoil for you here. But it packs one helluva punch near the movie’s climax, just so you’re aware! Due to its heavier emphases on gun-play and macho posturing, Death Rides a Horse lacks the artistic depth of Van Cleef’s two previous works within Leone’s Dollars Trilogy. Not that it was Lee’s fault, of course; a bland plot and a conventional script add to the movie’s weaknesses. Also, John Philip Law, while an otherwise fine movie star, was no Eastwood. His Ken Doll-esque good looks and exaggeratedly-deep baritone voice all felt badly out of place in a gritty revenge Western. While Law’s matinee idol handsomeness was certainly more fitting for fantasy pictures like Barberella and The Golden Voyage of Sinbad, it did him very little good in this picture. It comes to very little surprise to me that this would be John Philip Law’s only foray into the Spaghetti Western. That said, Death is a wonderfully grimy and entertaining piece of the Italian cinematic west. Lee Van Cleef strikes this one out of the park with his badass, commanding performance. And I cannot conclude this review without referencing the film’s darkly yet rousing score, composed by the ever-brilliant Ennio Morricone. It’s ominous medley and memorable, almost warlike chanting chorus helps to earn Death its deserving place in Spaghetti Western history. It’s no wonder film fanatic Quentin Tarantino would recycle the main theme to Death Rides a Horse to surge the tension within the upcoming climactic sword battle in his ode to the exploitation flilck, Kill Bill, Vol. 1! See the original trailer here! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMNBMTLYeGs A Retrospective Review By Cesare Augusto Directed by: John Farrow Starring: Dan Milner – ROBERT MITCHUM Lenore Brent – JANE RUSSELL Nick Ferraro – RAYMOND BURR Mark Cardigan – VINCENT PRICE Thompson – CHARLES MCGRAW Martin Krafft – JOHN MYLONG Lusk – TIM HOLT Myron Winton - JIM BACKUS If you’re like me, a youngish millennial born smack-dab in the early to mid 1980s, chances are, your youth was spent immersed in 1990s pop culture. Don’t ask me how, but I still retain vividly childhood memories from that decade. Vividly fond memories of plopping down in front of the TV on Saturday mornings, chugging gallons of Hershey’s Quik-flavored milk, and endlessly watching popular comic book-based cartoons of its day like SWAT Kats, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Batman: The Animated Series, and countless others. It’s funny how memorable past tidbits from my kid days would return from the deep recesses of my mind and eventually shape my adult pop culture passions. For instance, in 1992 there was a series of food-based TV ads designed to whet America’s appetite for beef. Some of you might be old enough to remember them, too. They were part of the “Beef: It’s What’s For Dinner” advertising campaign, created by the Beef Council and presented many unique ways to cook red meat. Not only did this ad campaign make TV watchers hungry (provided, of course, they weren’t vegetarians), it also roused our spirits by using the catchy American Classical tune “Hoedown” by Aaron Copeland as its trademark theme, and the richly deep voice of actor Robert Mitchum (1917-1997) for narration. These TV ads would be forever embedded in my mind as a marvelously-memorable marketing gimmick from my youth, and thereby commence a lifelong personal affinity for Robert Mitchum, my all-time favorite actor. Mitchum was the epitome of classic thespian versatility. He dipped his toe into a wide variety of roles, from conflicted but capable Old West lawmen in El Dorado, hunky sensitive romantic types in Holiday Affair, charming yet monstrous predators in Night of the Hunter and Cape Fear (for which he is arguably most famous for, at least among mainstream audiences), and even occasional goofy comedy acts like the ludicrously-premised early 90s sitcom A Family For Joe. Mitch would prove himself adept with commercial voiceovers as he did with “Beef: It’s What’s For Dinner.” But to us cinephiles, Robert Mitchum will always be a major icon of the Film Noir genre. With his dark broodiness, acidic cynicism, sleepy yet piercing eyes, and that trademark gruff voice, Mitch was born to play hard-boiled Noir types, movie star handsomeness be damned. Whether they be private eye, police officer, or aimless drifter, Mitch played them all to near perfection, and with little apparent effort. Many (if not all) Film Noir enthusiasts would quickly acknowledge his great performance in Out of the Past as the honorable yet doomed P.I. Jeff Markham, who accepts a seemingly routine wandering wife case which slowly-but surely descends into a maelstrom of violence and death. Mitch, wrapped in a beat-up trench coat and matching fedora, embodied the tortured Noir hero archetype and would continue to do in many other Noir pictures in the 40s and 50s. Film noir would fade in popularity by the 60s but return in the early 70s via a gritty throwback movement known as neo-noir. Mitchum himself made several great contributions to the Neo-noir movement with such epic crime pictures as The Friends of Eddie Coyle, and The Yakuza, both hearkening to his ill-fated heroic parts decades before. Let’s flash back to 1951. There is one Robert Mitchum noir that, compared to his other films of that genre, stood out to me rather radically in terms of casting types, unusual film backdrop, and a wild and uneven plot. The film is His Kind of Woman, costarring a slew of fellow Noir stars like Jane Russell, Charles McGraw, and Raymond Burr. A few actors not known for Film Noir being their forte also appear in significant parts, including horror legend Vincent Price, Hollywood cowboy Tim Holt, and future TV comedy star Jim Backus. His Kind of Woman´was an RKO production supervised under the watchful eye of Howard Hughes, an indication in itself of potential troubles. Hollywood lore has it that the film was beset with problems such as constant re-shoots, director changes, and battles between Mitch the star and Hughes the producer. Fortunately, the film’s internal turmoil does little to diminish its zany premise and unique entertainment value. Celebrated TCM personality Eddie Muller described His Kind of Woman best as a “parody” of the Film Noir genre, and I reckon he’s right. Mitchum plays down-on-his-luck professional gambler Dan Milner. Compared to his other hard-boiled roles, Mitchum’s Milner is a more laid-back, freewheeling type. He’d rather spend his waking hours at the poker table and win small fortunes rather than solving crimes or voluntarily getting in trouble. Naturally, trouble finds Milner first when he forgoes paying off a debt he owes to a gangster, and promptly gets the hell beaten out of him as penalty. He finds a way out of his misadventures when he’s offered a mysterious job: to leave the country for about a year, in which he will be paid 50 large ones. The job will take him to a remote tropical vacation resort deep in Baja California called Morro’s Lodge, where he is to await further instructions. With nothing left to lose (except perhaps his physical well-being), Milner accepts the job. No sooner than he climbs aboard the plane when he meets lovely singer Lenore Brent, portrayed with vintage elegance by Jane Russell. Lenore has unusual reasons of her own to travel to the resort. Before long, their peculiar personalities intrigue each other, and a spark inevitably lights between them. One of the film’s biggest drawbacks happens once Milner and Lenore arrive at the lodge. From here the story becomes a disparate disarray of clashing subplots, due largely to the wide cast of characters that also converge at the resort. These distractions seemingly come out of nowhere and inadvertently sidetrack us from the true premise behind the film. There’s well-meaning but conceited actor/hunting enthusiast Mark Cardigan (Vincent Price doing his best Errol Flynn impression), suffering from a rocky marriage; depressed newlywed Jennie Stone, who worries about her gambling-addicted husband; and Myron Winton (Jim Backus), a wealthy vacationer who pesters Milner with gin rummy challenges. Even lovely Lenore has backstory baggage of her own. Upon my first viewing, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had somehow unconsciously began watching two different movies. Was this a Film Noir thriller I popped into my DVD player, or a 1930s Screwball Comedy satirizing Noir? Was Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn supposed to be cast here, but the producers mistakenly got Mitch and Russell instead? Thankfully, the story does return to its general premise before it spirals completely out of control. We are introduced to the shadier members of the cast. While investigating his strange island excursion, Milner meets sunglasses-sporting writer Martin Krafft (John Mylong) and tight-lipped mystery man Thompson (McGraw). Both men exhibit the chilling vibe of unknown villainy. Later, an ostensibly drunk airplane pilot named Lusk (Holt) flies to the resort and encounters Milner. But Lusk snaps out of his intoxicated facade and reveals himself to be an undercover federal agent. He then unveils a bigger bombshell: Milner is the patsy of a elaborate scheme involving vicious deported crime boss Nick Ferraro (Burr), who seeks to physically usurp Milner’s identity and return back to the States. What follows is a turn of events that must be seen to be believed. Milner gets wise to his unwilling participation to the conspiracy and embarks on a risky crusade to bring Ferraro to justice. But what begins as a crusade turns into near slapstick, as Milner is captured by his enemies, and Cardigan launches a rescue attempt. Cardigan, apparently bored from playing fictional swashbuckling types on the big screen, gleefully jumps at the chance of playing a real hero and comically sprouts Shakespearean passages as he gears up for actual war. Here again rears the uneven nature of His Kind of Woman. While Milner desperately fights for his life against Ferraro on the gangster’s boat, Cardigan engages in gimmicky combat with the crime boss’ army of henchmen. Film Noir thriller once again ping-pongs into farce, and back again, much to the possible frustration of its viewers. Was this flip-flopping of cinematic perspectives an intentional use of juxtaposition by the filmmakers, perhaps? If so, it was disorienting, and frankly, badly done. Frustrating convoluted setbacks aside, His Kind of Woman still entertains once you’re reserved to accepting the unbalanced switches of perspective. The climatic boat battle, choppy and chaotic as it looks, is actually quite an exciting and action-packed sequence, as long as you suspend all disbelief. The film’s performances also pack incredible punches, with Burr chewing the scenery delightfully as the brutal crime boss going through some truly crazy lengths just to head back stateside. Vincent Price is a hoot, not by depicting Gothic-stye evil as usual, but comically quoting Hamlet when facing evil off-camera, and memorably breaking typecast while doing so! Of course, a Film Noir piece (even in a near-satire as this), isn’t complete without steamy romantic chemistry between its two leads. Before you can say “Bogart an’ Bacall,” Mitchum and Russell execute that classic chemistry expected of this film realm. Flirting, teasing, acting coy; you name the lovey-dovey activity, Mitch and Russell sparked it. The two stars ignite their passions on the Baja beach with the obligatory kiss under the dark moonlight. The passionate lovers’ kiss is the emotional payoff all Noir fans wait for, along with the violent impact of the film’s climax. Sure, His Kind of Woman doesn’t come close to the signficant legendary status of The Maltese Falcon or Out of the Past. But if anything, it’s pure vintage entertainment for veteran Film Noir fans and newcomers alike. See the original trailer here! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smdt0wGkrfg A Retrospective Review By Cesare Augusto Director: ROBERT HILTZIK Starring: Angela – FELISSA ROSE Ricky – JONATHAN TIERSTEN Judy – KAREN FIELDS Paul – CHRISTOPHER COLLET Mel – MIKE KELLIN Meg – KATHERINE KAMHI Most folks close to me should know about my vast love for cinema. I love, or at the very least try to appreciate all genres of film. Westerns, Action, Comedy, Drama, you name it, I dig it, often with great, unbridled enthusiasm. There are, however, certain genres to which I exhibit certain feelings of pickiness or fussiness, mainly towards Horror and Romantic Comedies. This isn’t because if I scare easily at frightening scenes, or if I turn my nose at sugary sweet romantic scenes played for laughs. In fact, I do enjoy the occasional jolting phantom-induced jump scare, and the pivotal true love’s kiss between boy and girl after many hilariously failed attempts at winning her heart. I’m usually hip to those scenes. But what I am not hip to are the lack of believable, compelling characters, and sharp, memorable writing which plague many horror and Rom-Com flicks. Too often I’ve viewed too many within the Horror and Rom-Coms genres that thrust boring, unlikable, or just plain lifeless characters on my face, resulting in a pretty damn lousy movie. For this review, I will forgo Romantic Comedies at the moment and save them for a future analysis. Instead, I will weigh heavily upon Horror, a film category that’s comparatively hit or miss with me. I tend to prefer particular sub-genres within Horror more so than others. For instance, I utterly LOVE Jack Clayton’s The Innocents, which screenwriter Truman Capote brilliantly adapted from the classic horror story “The Turn of the Screw” into one of the most devastatingly beautiful ghost stories ever created. Another terrific picture is John Carpenter’s The Thing. We can’t help but feel trapped along with the ice research team as they face a rampaging alien shape-shifter, and even each other. Both of these films are among my top favorites of the genre, all mainly due to the strengths of their characters. Pity I can’t say the same for some of their genre counterparts. Take, say, the gloriously schlocky and hokey Slasher flick. Of course, nobody goes to see Slashers for their artistic merit. Fans flock to these movies because they enjoy watching hulking, chainsaw-wielding freaks kill scores of attractive, yet horny and air headed teenagers, usually in explicitly graphic ways. The hot naked young people and their subsequent horrible demises are what sell Slashers, I get it. But let’s face facts: they ain’t scary, and have godawful dialogue. They just plain don’t appeal to the film snob in me. Happily, though, there is one Slasher flick that did strike me as unique and damn awesome compared to the rest. It is 1983’s Sleepaway Camp. At first glance, this may appear as a Friday the 13th ripoff. Both movies take place in a summer camp inhibited by teens looking to score with the opposite sex, and one by one the kids are butchered in gory fashion. Sound familiar? Yes, but only in terms of style, and not of contextual message. Friday the 13th proved to be so successful, it saw the inevitable return of series killer Jason Voorhees in countless sequels and even a crossover duel with fellow Slasher icon Freddy Kruger. Box office profits aside, the Friday the 13th saga doesn’t hold a candle to the twisty and inventive uniqueness of Sleepaway Camp. The movie comes well-equipped with strong characters that are realistically consistent with the teenage mindset. We the audience also witness firsthand the cruelty of young bullies and the warped sense of amusement they achieve when inflicting harm on smaller, weaker kids. Now, if you’ve never seen this movie and start to assume that this is nothing more than an afternoon special on steroids, stop right there. Sleepaway Camp is nothing of the sort, neither is it a conventional Slasher flick. In my eyes, it’s an anti-bullying revenge picture with a horror flavored body count and a doozy of a twist! The movie begins innocently enough, with a family vacation on the lake between a father and his son and daughter. The vacation goes horribly wrong after a boat accident kills the father and one of the kids. Flash forward eight years later as two young cousins, Ricky (Jonathan Tierstan) and Angela (Felissa Rose), head to a summer camp excursion, much to their shared dismay. Honestly, who in their right minds actually enjoys going to summer camp? Apparently Angela was the only survivor of the boating accident from years before, and continues to suffer terminal awkwardness to the present day. When they arrive at camp, they barely see any friendly faces. Almost immediately, Angela is besieged a wide array of bullies, from devilish uber-bitch Judy, authoritarian alpha-girl Meg, to a sweaty gang of sexist male pigs. Because of her overwhelming shyness and past trauma, Angela is an easy target for every scumbag imaginable. She even becomes the object of nasty obsession by a perverted fat older cook. The only folks decent enough to sympathize with Angela are Ricky, two well-meaning camp counselors, and Ricky's best friend Paul, who develops a crush on Angela. Before long, a rash of brutal killings descends upon the camp. An unseen figure is stalking Angela’s tormentors, and unleashing hell upon them. And boy, do they have it coming. Now personally, I don’t condone retributive violence, but the amount of abuse they inflect Angela is enough to drive many impressionable folks into homicide. This movie contains probably the most SAVAGE teenage bullying that I’ve witnessed since Brian DePalma’s Carrie. Apropos of nothing, this is still a Slasher flick, with enough camp-themed carnage to tickle any fan’s fancy. One victim is boiled alive in a vat of heated corn-on-the-cob water. Another is stung to death by a swarm of angry bees while sitting on the commode. One “unfortunate” victim (and I use the term “unfortunate” very loosely) meets her end by having a hair-curling iron shoved up her you-know-what. And as a bonus, we’re treated to a Psycho homage by death through shower stabbing! Being a modestly-budgeted B-flick, Sleepaway Camp’s special effects does pale in comparison to its genre fore-bearers, at least by measures of gore. Technically-speaking, the cheap-looking death scenes lack the graphic kick that makes Friday the 13th so notoriously fun. It could be because famous Horror effects wizard Tom Savini wasn’t employed in the crew. But all the killings act as a genuine buildup to the film’s climax, a true shock twist for anyone exploring the film for the first time. (SPOILERS) The movie reveals that Angela is NOT the DAUGHTER of the boating accident from eight years prior, but the surviving SON. The aunt who adopted her (Ricky’s mother) always wanted a daughter of her own, and in her infinite, albeit twisted wisdom, decided to transform her adopted son into the daughter she never had. Enter Angela at her current age as she cradles Paul’s severed head, butcher’s knife in her hand, eyes deranged and mouth wide open, and naked as a jaybird with his/her MALE junk in plain view. If you didn’t suspect Angela of the killings, (and Ricky, as fan theories abound he was in cahoots in the whole affair with his cousin), you’re either naïve as hell or you weren’t paying attention. Sure, it was Angela who did the dirty deeds, but did anyone suspect his/her TRUE deep dark secret? I never saw it coming, and neither did 1983’s audiences, or of any era for that matter! Yes, Sleepaway Camp borrows the template for many previous camping trip of doom Slasher movies. Yes, the acting is horrendous with predictable writing. But that shock ending was anything but predictable. It’s the stuff grimy nightmares are made of. See the original trailer here! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9K2ARikYzE A Retrospective Review By Cesare Augusto Director: Jack Cardiff Starring: Captain Bruce Curry – ROD TAYLOR Sgt Ruffo – JIM BROWN Claire – YVETTE MIMEUX Captain Henline – PETER CARSTEN Dr. Wreid – KENNETH MORE Kataki – BLOKE MODISANE President Ubi – CALVIN LOCKHART “Put the Swastika back on,” growls Captain Bruce Curry (Rod Taylor) to one of the more cruel and sadistic members of his mercenary army. “You’ve earned it!” Color me cautious. But isn’t enlisting the services of an ex-Nazi, well, not a particularly wise choice for a military mission? Such a risky professional oversight is a brick within the multi-layered foundation of the bold and hyper-violent 1968 war thriller Dark of the Sun. On the surface, the film may look like just another big, dumb testosterone-laden action extravaganza. Its original poster alone illustrates a wild kaleidoscope of violent sequences, shirtless male muscular machismo, and other frenetic depictions of action cinema. Even its tagline barks a ferocity fitting for a soldier of fortune recruitment poster: “You don’t kill for women. You don’t kill for diamonds. You kill because you’re paid for it!” Rest, assured, though, that Dark of the Sun is anything but a run-of-the-mill tough guy flick. Director Jack Cardiff takes the audience on a blood-soaked, yet character-enriched roller coaster ride set within the unique and oft-unused backdrop of central Africa. While the film does inevitably ramp up the heroics, gunfights, and explosive sequences, a great chunk of its running time is actually spent exploring its diverse cast of misfit characters. How often does an action movie actually emphasize the inner morality of the professional mercenary, or lack thereof? That’s the beauty of the so-called “guys on a mission” sub-genre of the Action film, which DotS proves to be a prime example. Rather than focusing on one or two heroes on the spotlight, the spotlight is on an entire team, allowing for a multiple study of diverse characters and personalities, which may or may not add an edge to the plot. Other, more popular examples of the “guys on a mission” flick include Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai and its Western remake, John Sturges’ The Magnificent Seven; Aldrich’s The Dirty Dozen; and many decades later, The Expendables trilogy. DotS was adapted from the novel of the same name originally written by British novelist Wilbur Smith, who specializes in manly tales of derring do set in exotic locales. I have yet to read the film’s original source novel, but after many enthusiastic repeated viewings, I wholly intend to purchase a copy! The novel itself was loosely inspired by actual violent rebel uprisings that plagued the Congo during the early 1960s. Headlining the film’s cast is Australian tough guy actor Rod Taylor as Captain Curry, the seasoned leader of the private mercenary battalion code-named “Striker Blue Force.” Taylor seemed right at home with this type of character: steely, two-fisted, and brutal when necessary, yet dashing and charming. Money was always Curry’s driving force, and judging by his hardened veteran demeanor, he always delivers the goods. Taylor was the quintessential vintage cinematic rogue with a disarming smile in one second, and a murderous snarl while gripping a combat knife in the other. NFL legend (and soon-to-be Blaxpoitation icon) Jim Brown is Ruffo, Curry’s trusty second-in-command. Brown was both hot from the success of his breakout performance in The Dirty Dozen (released a year prior to this film), and recently retired from his professional football career. You can see the hunger in the young Brown’s eyes that he was eager to be a movie star. He nearly loses himself in the role of Ruffo, the Congolese-American soldier with the special vested interest in their newest mission. Just what exactly is their mission, you ask? It’s a complicated one: both Curry and Ruffo are ostensibly hired to lead Striker Blue Force by train deep into the Congo jungle to liberate a village of mostly European immigrants before the marauding Simba rebels destroys them all. It sounds like a standard rescue operation, until their client, Congolese President Ubi (Calvin Lockhart) reveals another, more ulterior motive: they must recover a hidden fortune in diamonds - meant to help stabilize the country’s economy - locked in the village’s time-locked vault. The Force must accomplish this two-fold mission in three days - as President Ubi declares - “To keep the Congo alive!” Rounding out the rest of Striker Blue Force is nervous rookie soldier Surier; alcoholic British doctor Wreid (Kenneth More); loyal officer Kataki (noted South African writer and actor Bloke Modisane); and, most dangerous and volatile of all, former Nazi-turned mercenary Henlein (Peter Carsten). Most “guys on a mission” pictures will include that obligatory wild card character as a key team member. They give the story a much-needed edge if the primary villains aren’t enough to maintain the suspense (Telly Savalas’ unhinged convict “Maggot” from The Dirty Dozen also comes to mind). But Carsten’s Henlein is on a league all his own. The man belts out orders to the team’s African soldiers with a obvious air of “master race” superiority. He also has a gold Swastika proudly pinned to his lapel. Curry can barely contain his naked disgust for Henlein, yet grudgingly accepts the ex-Nazi’s leadership qualities which Ruffo suggests. Sure enough, Henlein succumbs to the temptation of escaping with the team’s objective of retrieving the diamonds, and will take every drastic measure to get his evil hands on them. Speaking of temptations, another object of insatiable desire that further complicates matters is Claire (the ever-wonderful Yvette Mimeux), the beautiful young innocent bystander rescued by the Force. Claire adds a delicate touch of humanity and grace amidst the chaos which surrounds them. Inevitably, she and Curry would fall for each other, adding another spark to Curry’s rivalry with Henlein. Only eight years before, Mimeux and Taylor worked together previously in the 1960 science fiction classic The Time Machine, and here they are, reunited to bring smiles of joy to cult film audiences the world over! The team’s journey becomes nothing short of nightmarish, as expected. They encounter deadly obstacles such as enemy air strikes, Henlein’s increasingly violent tendencies, and the terrifying invading Simbas. Curry and Ruffo struggle to maintain the Force’s morale and to obtain their objectives. But success in achieving their mission becomes more and more uncertain especially when the Simbas come rolling from the jungle. The Simbas’ threatening presence is compounded by their swarming numbers and explosive proclivities to carnage. One particularly nasty sequence involves the Simbas gleefully torturing and murdering innocent hostages, and even implying off-screen rape to women and men alike. There’s no doubt in my mind that such outrageous scenes is what gives DotS its cinematic ahead-of-its-time notoriety among fans and critics alike. All controversy aside, Dark of the Sun packs a considerable artistic wallop that is seldom seen in other similar, more conventional movies. It provides healthy doses of exciting heroics to stir up the action-loving crowd, and shines considerable focus on the characters. Taylor and Brown’s chemistry is surprisingly warm and infectious. Their characters share a strong, almost-brotherly camaraderie as both men dwell on their personal attitudes towards the mission. Curry admits that his laser focus is on their paycheck, whereas Ruffo feels compelled to help his native countrymen remedy their ongoing economic strife. Pride in his roots burns within Ruffo, making him more than just the stereotypical black sidekick. Tension also erupts when distrust over who gets to hold the diamonds on the journey back home begins to brew. The audience may begin to dread if both Curry and Ruffo would come to blows over the precious minerals they were hired to appropriate. There are very little so-called Action movies that bother to create strong, three-dimensional characters at least after the 1960s. Since the advent of the Herculean macho man of the late 70s to early 90s (e.g. of the Schwarzenegger, Stallone, and Willis stripe), a majority of Action flicks are mere spectacle and eye candy. Explosions, gunfights, hand-to-hand combat, cocky one-liners, and even the occasional scantily-clad sexy female were these movies’ selling points to get the butts of audiences from those bygone eras in seats. Don’t get me wrong; I too admittedly enjoy mindless action movies whenever I don’t have the inclination to think. Eventually, I grow bored with those by-the-numbers pictures and wind up yearning for a little more brain stimulation. And then I discovered Dark of the Sun, which offers more, much more. It contains elements of the “guys-on-a-mission”, war, character study, and heist thriller all roled into one damn near perfect movie. It’s solid proof that a thought-provoking manly film can actually exist. See the original trailer here! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Rf_vulEuSw “Film lovers are sick people…” –
Do you know who made that striking, outrageous observation? François Truffaut. He directed some of the world’s greatest, most viviedly brilliant films ever conceived. The 400 Blows. Breathless. Fahrenheit451. All prolific pictures that stand the test of time as among the Cinema’s best and will forever be discussed among film scholars and pure lovers of this art form. So what in the HELL did he mean by referring film lovers as “sick people”? In a 2014 article on the 30th anniversary of Truffaut’s death in Arts&Culture – The National, it surmises that the French filmmaker classified film lovers as “neurotic” escapists. In his eyes, film enthusiasts are so enthralled by the cinema, that they must so bored or tired of reality, that they find that right kind of release from the drudgery of life through this medium. The article goes on to quote Traffaut as saying, “When you don’t love life, or when life doesn’t give you satisfaction, you go to the movies.” In a way, he’s right. For true cinephiles, what better temporary solution is there to life’s problems than to fly away with the fantasies of the movies? I’ve always been a cinephile. In fact, I’ve loved film so much that I can readily remember significant firsts in my life which involve the cinema. In late 1987, I was four years old when I had my very first movie theater experience. At that age, I was a HUGE fan of the Masters of the Universe television show and collected the entire official action figure set. So my father Len took me to see the Masters of the Universe big-screen adaption. You can imagine just how cool it was for a preschooler to watch the young muscular, mullet-sporting Dolph Lundgren destroy futristic evildoers as He-Man. At age six, I first saw Raiders of the Lost Ark in all its Spielbergian high-adventure glory. I’ll never forget just how epically badass Harrison Ford looked as legendary daredevil archaeologist Indiana Jones. This was THE experience that would forever seal my passion for film. A few years later, I caught the tail end of Dirty Harry with my father beside me once again. My mother Susan forbade me to see the movie in its entirety due to its hyper-violent content. Surely, it was not for a ten-year-old’s young, delicate eyes. Yes, I know; Raiders has some equally graphic violence as well, and I saw that one in kindergarten, for God’s sake! But I digress. I recall the few pivotal seconds leading to the the powerful climactic showdown between two-fisted cop Inspector “Dirty” Harry Callahan and his nemesis, the psychopathic murderer Scorpio. The killer had hijacked a school bus full of innocent kids, and as he stares out the bus’ windows, he sees the dark image of a sunglass-sporting man watching back to the bus. It’s none other than that crazy San Francisco cop Callahan. Minutes later, their gunfight comes to an abrupt crash. Harry has Scorpio in his gun-sights.The way Clint Eastwood scrunched his face with his signature scowl and gave that fearsome growl, “You have to ask yerself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well do ya…PUNK?!” Seconds later, Scorpio tries in vain to kill his police pursuer, only to get his chest caved in by a massive .44 magnum-caliber round fired by Harry and “the most powerful handgun in the world.” At the time, it was the most shocking movie climax I had ever laid eyes on, and will forever lead to my personal love for intense, gritty guy films. As you can plainly see, I have an especially deep admiration for classic manly films. Specifically, my preferred favorite film eras lie between the years 1957 to 1982, from the time of the vintage Film Noir movement to the heyday of the testosterone-heavy guns and brawn time of Arnold and Stallone. If the movies are filmed in non-digital 35MM film, and nothing overly computerized and glossy (like a majority of today’s popcorn flicks), I’m sure as hell there to watch them with popcorn and alcoholic libation in both hands! Why do I appreciate these older flicks, you ask? My parents, Len and Susan, certainly helped feed my cinematic passions, simply because they are cinephiles as well. They introduced me to great movies as a child as we all sat around the living room TV and watched a variety of classics ranging from the great musical comedy Singing in the Rain to the gory late-period Akira Kurosawa classic Ran (the blood geysers from that film surprisingly did not react badly to my then seven year old psyche). My dad, in particular, got me started in my vintage tough guy flick passions since he loves those as well. A chip off the old block, I suppose. Now at 37 years of age, I’ve finally started a blog where I can share with the world the great curious intricacies of classic cinema. And it wouldn’t strictly so-called “popular cinema” I’ll be writing about, no sir. Everyone knows how impactful great films are. Most millennials way younger than me should at least know of Casablanca, Gone with the Wind, or at least Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, let alone seen them. They are called great films due to their artistic landmark achievements that are ingrained in modern pop culture history. These films are talked about and talked about until the point comes where we are all jaded by their status as “great.” But what about forgotten movies? Those films that only a handful of film buffs would know of, and enthusiastically chat about at the drop of a hat during a party, no matter how geeky they appear? There are some awesome, little-known movies that, for some reason, have faded into obscurity due to a number of reasons: they suffered from low-budgets, or poor early reviews, or little fanfare upon their original releases. Many have been reduced to direct-to-video distribution and never saw the light of box office day. Hence this blog you are reading before you today. This blog is predominately dedicated to forgotten, obscure, and criminally underrated films. You’re probably wondering why would I care about these flicks that, for all intents and purposes, nobody truly gives a shit about. I’ll tell you why: because many of these movies are just DAMN AWESOME. They just have the quirkiest, most insane stories, cast with coolest, hippest old-school character actors and movie stars of bygone eras, filmed with cheap yet neatly-practical special effects that may seem laughable to current audiences used to this CGI-encrusted era of big budget movies. These flicks might not appear to be great to the average mainstream moviegoer, but that’s simply because they’re not used to these vintage films. What I hope to accomplish with my Retrospectives page is to re-introduce these forgotten but not gone film treasures to unsuspecting movie audiences. I highly encourage the younger sets of movie-watching eyes to experience the black magic of vintage, underrated movies. They haven’t lived until they witness the Tojo Studio-produced rubber-suit Godzilla destroy scale models of Tokyo, or Italian Spaghetti Western icon Franco Nero unleash his gatling gun that he keeps hidden in a coffin he drags about in the desert. Non-discriminating viewers should walk away from watching these with great giddiness and joy of watching something out of the ordinary, and out of the box, unlike a vast majority of movies today that the Hollywood studio system insists on dolling out just for bucks. My blog will also dedicate the same homage throwbacks to underrated television programs, musical acts, and other forms of pop culture that have unfairly gone the way of the dodo. But not for long. Not while I’m at the helm of this blog! On a final note: if you’re wondering about the significance of my blog’s name, “Rane’s Hook Retrospectives,” it is an homage to my second favorite film all time, the 1977 Grindhouse crime classic, Rolling Thunder. The film is a grimy revenge piece about shell-shocked Vietnam Veteran Major Charles Rane (William Devane) as he embarks on a vendetta ride against the murderous killers of his ex-wife and child. Major Rane’s bloodlust gets a major boost through the use of a prosthetic hook which replaced his right hand after the aforementioned killers shove his limb through a garbage compactor. Crazy-sounding stuff, huh? Well, if you saw Rolling Thunder and can recognize its old-school action badassery, you will hopefully comprehend its namesake to my throwback blog! Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for some awesome retrospective analyses to great lost pop culture treasures! |
About Yours Truly
Unearthing great forgotten and criminally underrated pop culture mediums is my specialty! Whether the topic be about cinema, television, music, or other fun bits of obscure minutiae, I love analyzing and unleashing these lost treasures to the unwitting public! Archives
October 2020
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