Category: Film Review

Classy action-dramas like The Fugitive are a tough breed to find these days on movie screens; it seems nearly insane that this film was nominated for Best Picture in 1993, not because it’s not fully awesome, but rather, this genre would NEVER be paid attention to by members of the Academy in our current cinematic climate. Harrison Ford delivered a quintessential movie star performance, eliciting sympathy right from the outset, and allowing the audience to embark on his journey with him, rather than feeling like a spectator. There’s a great supporting cast including Sela Ward, Joe Pantoliano, Jeroen Krabbe, Julianne Moore, and Andreas Katsulas. The fantastic Tommy Lee Jones of course won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, the film was a massive financial success, and a decent pseudo-sequel following Jones’ character was released in 1998.

The Fugitive is easily the best film that filmmaker Andrew Davis ever directed, as it was extremely well-crafted on a technical level with ace cinematography by Michael Chapman and a terrific score by James Newton Howard, while Jeb Stuart and David Twohy’s smart and logical screenplay never went too far over the top, instead playing it realistic yet exciting, and always making sure we cared deeply about Ford and his paranoid plight. Apparently, when the film was in various stages of development, Michael Douglas, Kevin Costner, Nick Nolte, and Alec Baldwin were all considered for the Dr. Kimble role, while Gene Hackman and Jon Voight were both thought of for US Marshall Gerard. The film is notable for extensive location shooting in and around the city of Chicago and in the state of North Carolina. “I didn’t kill my wife!” “I don’t care!”

Shoot ‘Em Up is a wildly silly R-rated cartoon of a movie, tremendously fun and berserk and made with low-budget zeal and ingenuity. Playing like a Looney Tunes adventure on a few hits of PCP, this is pure comic-book-movie shenanigans, but instead of superheroes from another galaxy, the characters in this oddly eccentric actioner bounce off one another with crazy glee and nasty aplomb.  There’s a lactating hooker (Monica Bellucci, bless her gorgeous soul), an infant mixed up in a barrage of bullet-riddled set—pieces, a mid-coitus shoot-out that’s both sexy and stupid in equal measure, and enough barking-mad scenery chewing from Paul Giamatti, as one of the most incompetent villains in the history of action movies, to choke a horse. Clive Owen basically reprised his role from the BMW Films series, this time with a carrot fetish (you’ll see!), as a take-no-nonsense Driver who shoots first, steps on the gas second, and rarely has time to ask questions. Pseudo-amateur filmmaker Michael Davis famously got this film made by showing New Line execs the entire movie via hand-drawn pre-viz artwork, and it’s a shame that someone with this level of creativity hasn’t been allowed to work since (the movie flopped big time at the box office despite mostly positive reviews).  Peter Pau’s aggressively stylish cinematography is a constant eye-scorcher, making the film feel larger than its modest budget likely allowed. There’s a careening sense of insanity to Shoot ‘Em Up, with the film’s wicked energy level never stopping for a moment.  Make no mistake – this film is complete junk-food-cinema, but it’s so happily absurd about its own existence that it’s tough to not go along with it, as it’s an endeavor that managed to talk the talk and walk the walk when it comes to extreme, outlandish thrills.

Because Going In Style had been out of print on DVD for so long (WB Archives released it last summer), I’m always scanning Turner Classics in the hopes that it will be listed as an upcoming feature presentation, as I’ve still yet to pull the trigger on a disc purchase. Twice in the last year and a half they’ve aired this wonderful, charming and extremely entertaining if melancholy little film, and I really hope that a boutique Blu-ray label will finally release this as a special edition in the near future. Martin Brest’s 1979 dramedy was always one of those “Holy Grail” movies for me growing up as a budding cinemaniac, an early effort from a fabled filmmaker that I had so much interest in seeing that it was almost driving me crazy that I hadn’t. Back in the day, my local Blockbuster didn’t carry it, so it became extra annoying that it remained so out of reach. But after two viewings, I can say that it was worth the wait, and it reconfirms my feelings that Brest’s banishment from Hollywood is one of the most egregious wastes of talent that I can think of.

This is such a funny, endearing movie, made with that special late-70’s tone and style that’s so distinctive and personal feeling. Starring George Burns, Art Carney, and Lee Strasberg as three cranky retirees who decide to rob a bank on a whim (their pension checks suck and they figure that they’ll either get away with it or get free room and board in the slammer until they die) as they assume nobody will ever expect three old geezers wearing Charlie Chaplin nose-and-glasses disguises would be crazy enough to attempt a stick-up. They carry out their plan, but what happens next should be left for you to discover, because this film packed much more in than I ever expected. As always, Brest stressed the human qualities of life, going for simple but extremely effective humor, some terrific moments of introspection, and a quiet, unassuming style that’s in perfect tandem with the graceful nature of the narrative. The three central performances are all perfect, and Michael Small’s bouncy, energetic score amps up the film’s playful, soulful, and earnest qualities at every moment.

This is a tough, unrelentingly nasty film – no wimps allowed. From many accounts that I’ve read, Sam Peckinpah was battling alcohol addiction during production of Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, so as a result, the rough and boozy quality that the film possesses feels all the more authentic and bracing. Warren Oats delivered a staggering performance of ugliness, instability, and wasted melancholy. As usual for Sam the Man, gritty violence is in abundance, with his fascination for rape and sexual violence still very much intact and on sad, brutal display. He was a complicated man who made troubling films, and Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is easily his bleakest, most nihilistic effort, even more so than Straw Dogs, chiefly because there’s ZERO chance for reflection by the time Alfredo Garcia’s narrative has come to a close. I’m a Student of Sam, and having seen nearly all of his films, I can easily state that this one is likely my favorite. I’m not sure what that might say about me, but there’s something so unique about Alfredo Garcia which allows it to stand out from the pack.

And given that Peckinpah’s filmography is peppered with underrated gems and seminal classics, it can be a daunting task to try and single out one as your “favorite.” There’s a tragic sense of desperation that hangs all over this sadistic film, with Oates conveying an inherent disheveled sloppiness that worked in perfect tandem with the raggedy, exploitation-y filmmaking that still reached the typically operatic heights of Peckinpah’s ultra-violent, revisionist Westerns and thrillers. Oates is playing such an un-remorseful character that it becomes easy to notice the seething rage that accompanies much of the narrative, from the open contempt for women, to the shockingly direct use of violent force that everyone seems capable of delivering throughout the course of this sordid story. And when coupled with an ending that is beyond any sense of hope and which plunges straight into a hellish abyss of death, Alfredo Garcia will likely feel too morally, ethically, and spiritually repugnant for many viewers. The action centers on a crime boss who tortures his pregnant teenage daughter in an effort to find out who has knocked her up. Once the boss, known simply as El Jefe, determines that it was his underling and possible successor who has impregnated his daughter, El Jefe offers a $1 million bounty to whoever can “bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia.”

Oates plays a habitually cocked and extra-skeevy piano player and broken-down bar manager in Mexico City named Bennie, and after hearing about the potential reward, he goes looking for Alfredo Garcia. Upon learning that Alfredo has died in a car accident a few weeks prior, he sets off to find the body and remove the head so that he can get paid. Along the way there are double crosses, multiple murders, and all sorts of depraved acts of psychological violence, all carried out with a matter of fact bluntness that really pushes this movie into a very different category. Bring Me The Head of Alfredo Garcia feels like the sort of film that could never get remade, even in the independent landscape (despite repeated attempts), because it feels so singular and so much a product of inner artistic turmoil that came from a clearly personal place. As you might expect, at the time of its release, the film was a critical and commercial failure, but over the years, it has gained a rightful cult reputation as a movie that pushes buttons to the extreme.