Year: 2017

‘Animal Crackers’ (1930) dir. Victor Heerman

I love the Marx Brothers. Huge fan going way back. When I was in middle school I was OBSESSED with these guys. I used to dress up like Harpo Marx with the over sized trench coat, wig – all of it. I’m not lying. I must have looked like an idiot and while that phase of my life came to an end by the 9^th grade, I still adore them and believe they are absolute masters of the form.

I chose this film of theirs because for many years it was my personal favorite. Even had the poster hung up in my dorm room in college. Objectively I believe ‘A Night At The Opera’ is their best work but this is certainly a classic as well and one that really shows off their range and intelligence. For those that don’t know, the Marx Brothers have a phenomenal track record. They appear in FIVE universally recognized classics: ‘Animal Crackers’ (1930),  ‘Horse Feathers’ (1932) , Duck Soup (1933)  ‘A Night At The Opera’ (1935) and ‘ Day At The Races (1936). Nothing to snort at.

‘Animal Crackers’ is their second feature and follows the formula of their other early films in that the Marx Brothers themselves are more or less the protagonists. They are harmless grifters in some way, shape or form. Groucho plays one of his most legendary characters, the rakish and wise cracking Captain Spaulding and performs the classic ‘Hello, I Must Be Going’ number as well as other famous routines in this picture. The humor bounces frenetically from surreal visual gags to word play, Eugene O’ Neil references and musical bits. A Broadway hit for them before becoming a movie, the gags were well worn before filming began and they deliver them with an effortless confidence. One must give credit to the writers that backed them up on this – Morrie Ryskind, George S. Kaufman, Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby. This film also contains some of the finest work between Groucho and his best sparring partner, Margaret Dumont. Her and Groucho are magic on the screen together while Harpo and Chico define themselves as the bumbling co-conspirators they would remain in subsequent films. Oh. And Zeppo is Zeppo.

In my opinion, ‘Animal Crackers’ is the best application of the early Marx Brothers format. One that lead to them breaking the boundaries of comedy, which is what they did successfully in films like this, ‘Horse Feathers’ and the imaginatively chaotic ‘Duck Soup’. However, as they are not fully developed characters but rather walking and talking gimmicks, this formula does not always lend itself to full bodied narratives and it can sometimes grow tiresome as in their films ‘The Cocoanuts’ (1929) and ‘Monkey Business’ (1931).

In 1935 under the mentorship of Iriving Thalberg at MGM the brothers became supporting characters in storylines involving young love sick couples in some sort of distress. This was a shrewd move as it provided central straight characters (made purposefully lame) for The Marx Brothers to bounce jokes off of and a linear narrative that could inspire even more jokes. This proved to be a very effective anchor for them. Gone was the anarchy but also the peril of Marx Brothers burn out. Aesthetic advantages aside – this was also a more commercial turn and it produced two bona fide classics with super box office smashes ‘A Night at The Opera’ and a ‘A Day At The Races’. After Thalberg’s passing and an unsuccessful attempt at adapting a stage play (1938’s ‘Room Service’) they returned to this formula for the very good ‘At The Circus’ in 1939 before getting bogged down by it in lesser efforts like ‘Go West’ (1940) and ‘The Big Store’ (1941). They would balance things out with their final film (I don’t count 1949’s ‘Love Happy’) the good but not great ‘A Night In Casablanca’ in 1946.

‘Animal Crackers’ is 87 years old and does not need to be watched as a historical reference piece. It is a truly hilarious kick ass comedy as it stands right now and is a testament to the legendary talents of the Marx Brothers. Watch it and laugh…

David Fincher’s apocalyptic, hysterical, and blood-soaked satire of male (wish)fulfillment Fight Club escaped into theaters in 1999, and yet its message still rings loud and clear: FUCK THE MAN. And make no mistake – this film literally escaped. How did they ACTUALLY get away with all of the stuff in this movie? I’m not going to delve into all of the various ideas and storytelling levels that the wild narrative operates on; that’s been done hundreds of times by very intellectual writers and I don’t feel I can really offer anything new. But what I can state is how this movie made me feel as a 19 year old film student and obsessive movie fan when I saw it opening night with my college buddies – it made us feel alive and explosive in a way that few films ever have. And now that I’m a 37 year old father and looking to the next chapter of my life, the film’s themes of societal placement, advancement, and the construct of family and its importance (or lack thereof) seem more relevant and thought provoking than ever. This film is an anarchist’s dream come true; look no further than the beyond ballsy final moments with the collapse of the American credit system.

I love how this movie doesn’t give a fuck about anything, it could care less if you like it, and at times, seems to be openly mocking the viewer for enjoying any portion of it. Fincher’s subversive streak was in full swing here, and because the material was so fertile with ideas, his lightning-quick visual style had tons to leap off of. Fincher, Brad Pitt, Edward Norton, Helena Bonham Carter, screenwriter Jim Uhls, original novelist Chuck Palahniuk, cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth, and editor James Haygood were all in perfect synch with regards to the aesthetic construction of this film and how it tied into the dense and mordantly funny narrative. Everything is up for analysis, critique, deconstruction, and destruction in this berserk and ferocious piece of work, and when it came out, I remember the critical community proudly taking sides over the merit (or lack thereof) of the film’s message, and asking if it was a dangerous piece of propaganda or a masterfully satirical comment about the male psyche and how it’s influenced by various forms of emotional and visceral stimuli, in an effort to smother, suppress, or fully control. This is a ballsy movie, a film with something to say, and the live-wire nerve to say it.

The extra-slick visual tricks that Fincher and his creative team employed still feel fresh in that hopped-up manner that was desired, while the film’s hysterical sense of its own self has become more and more apparent and downright incendiary over the years and countless viewings. Thank you, Bill Mechanic. Thank you, David Fincher, Chuck Palahniuk, Jim Uhls, and all of the hugely talented people that made this form-busting piece of cinema come to life. There’s absolutely ZERO CHANCE this film gets made today, even with Fincher’s clout that he’s attained. I got some flack the other day for “demanding” that Fincher get back to challenging and risk-taking films such as this. And while I understand that the marketplace is VERY different now than it was in 1999 (hell, the entire industry changed yet again, for the worse, in 2008), the fact that Fincher is capable of films such as Seven and Fight Club and Zodiac, well, it just makes me yearn for something truly exceptional again. Something that literally bursts through the screen and chokes me at the neck saying LOOK HOW OUT OF BOUNDS BRILLIANT I AM. I’m greedy, and I love David Fincher’s unique view of the world. And for me, Fight Club is endless in its cinematic glories.

I was 12 years old when my father took me to see David Fincher’s Alien 3 on opening night, totally unaware of the behind the scenes fiasco that had occurred during production, and that’s probably why I’ve always enjoyed it more than most. I still think that, for all the documented issues that befell this film during the creative, shooting, and post stages, it’s pretty damn good. And really grim and bleak, which of course would become Fincher’s cinematic stock in trade – delivering subversive and sinister thrills (the corridor chases are fantastic), upending expectations (a bald Ripley!), and delivering a climactic deathblow (with chest-burster!) that should have ended the series. Sure, thanks to the amazing Alien Quadrilogy Blu/DVD set you’re now able to see various cuts of the film, including the much-loved but not Fincher-sanctioned “assembly edit” that everyone seems to point to as the best possible version. But I’ve always found the theatrical release cut to be a very effective piece of cinema, and after multiple viewings, I still sort of scratch my head as to what the big fuss was about with the final product. Sure, it’s not a masterpiece like Ridley Scott’s original and it’s not the full-on rousing action-adventure like the James Cameron sequel. But rather, this is a ruminative, somber, and cerebral entry in the franchise, which has employed new directors throughout the lifespan of the series, continuing with Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s derided-by-many-but-loved-by-me Alien: Resurrection (swimming Xenomorphs!) before Scott returned for his rather striking 2012 prequel Prometheus; the less said about this summer’s waste-of-time Alien: Covenant the better.

But Alien 3 has a distinct personality and tone all to itself, and I’ve always loved this rather poetic bit of dialogue that Ripley so thoughtfully states during a key moment in regards to her relationship to the Xenomorph: “You’ve been in my life so long, I can’t remember anything else.” There’s a severity to Alien 3; it’s not anything like the previous two pictures that had come before it, and I’m glad no attempt was ever made to replicate any of the beats from Alien or Aliens. Even after replacing director Vincent Ward and scrapping much of what was to be used from a narrative and visual standpoint, the idea that a FIRST TIME director was put in this PARTICULAR hot-seat and STILL delivered something of merit says a lot, and speaks to the start of Fincher’s quest through Hollywood. I know he doesn’t like the film; he doesn’t have to, and if I were him, I might feel the same way. But it’s good stuff. And those shocking final moments with Ripley taking her furnace bath are poignant and oh-so-Fincher-esque. I always loved that after all the violent insanity that went down during the story, that it was good old-fashioned WATER that serves as the ultimate defense. Alex Thomson’s gritty cinematography perfectly matched the dank, decrepit production design by Norman Reynolds and his team. Much maligned and certainly not perfect, Alien 3 is still better than its reputation, and will always carry a certain level of notoriety given that it’s Fincher’s directorial debut.

I expect more from David Fincher than remakes of airport novels, but even when he’s “slumming,” the end-result can be fascinating and visually striking. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo had of course become a smash-hit in both book and film form in its home country of Sweden, but that meant nothing to the Hollywood bean-counters, who felt the need to adapt this exceptionally dark and nasty piece of work for the big screen. Fincher and big-money screenwriter Steven Zaillian (Schindler’s List, Moneyball, Searching for Bobby Fischer) were drafted, and a needless yet entertaining remake was born, one that softened some of the grimier elements of the original in favor of more digestible thematic ingredients and yet still explored the depths of human depravity. Which is, often times, what Fincher has enjoyed doing as a dark-arts craftsman. He is, of course, the filmmaker who has been famously quoted as saying that “movies should leave scars” and that he and the audience are nothing more than “perverts,” so I guess it doesn’t surprise me that he would be attracted to this inherently sadistic material. But this is a film where it felt like Fincher could have directed it from a remote location, with one hand tied behind his back.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo remains watchable, for me as a viewer, because of the exceedingly sophisticated aesthetic package and the juicy, full-bodied performances. The film looks and sounds like a feverish nightmare, with frosty cinematography and an unnerving musical score that could cut glass. Rooney Mara was fabulous in the leading role, physically disappearing into a character that has some seriously prickly emotional currents, and Daniel Craig wasn’t afraid of taking on a morally questionable character that rarely emerges as the victorious alpha male we’ve seen in narratives such as this and previous films he’s appeared in. The supporting cast is peppered with familiar faces and some rather creepy unknowns, and even if the material ultimately took Fincher nowhere new as a storyteller, there’s a bracing dynamism to his imagery that cannot be denied and often times has you coming back for seconds. The opening credits sequence is also completely stunning, a small tour de force in and of itself. But I need more from Fincher as an artist, and a sequel to WWZ is not what I’m interested in seeing. Give us another Fight Club. Break the mold again, and take us somewhere we’ve never been. That’s what I demand as a viewer.