Category: Film Review

This is a fantastic movie and an extremely unique entry in the everlasting prison film genre. Rigorously directed by Sidney Lumet and released in 1965, The Hill is one of those “they don’t make ‘em like this anymore” type dramas, a true product of its time, and yet still totally relevant and exciting in this day and age. Starring a phenomenal Sean Connery in a decidedly un-Bond performance as a former tank operator who is sent to the stocks after assaulting his superior officer, The Hill centers on a British army prison stationed in North Africa during WWII, and evokes a sense of stark realism and fatalistic danger all throughout. Featuring a rock-solid supporting cast featuring Harry Andrews (absolutely brilliant), Ossie Davis (very memorable and scene-stealing), Ian Bannen, Ian Hendry, Roy Kinnear, Michael Redgrave and Alfred Lynch, everyone gave ultra-committed performances in what were clearly very hard working conditions; you feel everyone’s pain in this film. The lean and to-the-point screenplay by Ray Rigby, which was based on the play co-written by Rigby and R.S. Allen, never wasted a word, and Lumet’s precision-tooled filmmaking style allowed for a zero-fat narrative with an excellent sense of physical locations and the importance of conveying spatial distance between key portions of the massive, sprawling set.

The title refers to the main form of punishment for the dishonorable soldiers, a massive sand hill that requires constant attention and which more than occasionally leads to someone collapsing from sheer exhaustion. The reality of the situation that these characters face is never lost on them, and the narrative allowed for some interesting interpersonal dynamics to take root. Shot with ultra-clarity in silky black and white by cinematographer Oswald Morris, The Hill looks magnificent on the WB Archives DVD; I can only imagine how it might appear on a restored Blu-Ray. This is a brutal, unflinching film, looking at an extremely grim aspect of war that is sadly unavoidable, and because Lumet’s focus was so sharp, every single moment hits very hard during this exceedingly tough piece of cinema. You feel the excessive heat in every shot, and because the film centers on rather unpleasant material, this might be an endurance test for some viewers. But in general, this is yet another motion picture that confirms Lumet’s master-status in the pantheon of great filmmakers.

Inspiring, triumphant, and extremely well-observed, the 1979 Peter Yates drama Breaking Away features some great early performances from Dennis Christopher, Dennis Quaid, Jackie Earle Haley, and Daniel Stern as a group of friends who have recently graduated high school and are trying to figure out what path to take during the next chapter in their lives. Every moment of this naturalistic film feels unforced and organic, with the Oscar-winning screenplay by Steve Tesich hitting themes that were both universal and personal, all in an effort to evoke a very specific time and place and atmosphere for these young and searching individuals. Set in Indiana, the film has a wonderful sense of Americana without ever feeling cloying or overly sentimental, while Matthew F. Leonetti’s graceful cinematography captured all of the action, both big and small, with a humanistic edge and without a trace of artifice, while the biking scenes are all thrillingly shot without ever going over the top. The final act cuts to the heart of the message of the story — never give up and never underestimate yourself — and after watching it you feel as if anything might be possible. Grossing $20 million off of a $2.3 million budget, the film would become a hit with critics and audiences, and would receive multiple Oscar nominations in addition to Tesich’s win. Former Playboy bunny Robyn Douglass nearly shattered the camera lens with her exceedingly photogenic qualities, and there’s also some early John Ashton and Hart Bochner POWER for good measure. Yates was a unique helmer, capable of big action (Bullit), intimate drama (John and Mary), stoner-weirdo-fantasy (Krull), and seemingly everything else in between. A short lived TV series would follow in 1980-81.

The Landlord was Hal Ashby’s first film, and it was based on the 1966 novel by Kristin Hunter, with an adaptation by Hunter and influential American writer/director Bill Gunn, whose film Stop is something of unreleased cinematic legend. Beau Bridges starred in the leading role as a moneyed landlord of an inner-city tenement, a man totally oblivious to the fact that his renters are low-income residents who value the rule of the street before anything else. He’s got an idea to have all of the residents evicted, thus allowing for the chance to overhaul the crumbling building with the plans of creating a luxury home for himself. Featuring a supporting cast which included Oscar nominee Lee Grant, Louis Gossett, Jr., Diana Sands, and Pearl Bailey, and shot by the legendary cinematographer Gordon Willis, The Landlord served as a clear launching pad for Ashby’s interest in class distinction, social values, and the unique ways that interpersonal relationships shape the world around us. The film was produced by Norman Jewison (Ashby had served as his editor on four previous pictures), and now seems like some sort of lost cinematic relic, overshadowed by bigger, splashier films on Ashby’s incredible resume. But it still packs an emotional and humorous punch, while also serving as a fairly scathing and satirical indictment of a particular type of person at a particular juncture in American history.

It took me a few viewings to totally appreciate Hal Ashby’s barely released 1986 film 8 Million Ways To Die, which was the eclectic helmer’s unique spin on the crime film, and would serve as his final major motion picture. This was the first attempt to cinematically adapt the Matt Scudder detective story series from author Lawrence Block, with a gritty screenplay coming from future auteur Oliver Stone, and uncredited rewrites taking place by Robert Towne and R. Lance Hill (who ended up using the pseudonym David Lee Henry). Starring Jeff Bridges, Rosanna Arquette in one of her best and sexiest performances, and an extra-volatile Andy Garcia in one of his first leading roles and in total scene stealing mode, the movie died a very fast box office death, and was met with savage reviews from critics. It’s still not even available on American DVD or Blu-ray, with only a Region B DVD currently available. The film has a scattershot narrative that’s both pulpy and energetic, and yet still feels compromised in some instances. But there’s still something fascinating going on within the narrative and with certain aesthetic choices made by Ashby. Stephen H. Burum’s sinewy and seedy cinematography stressed an alternatively shadowy and sometimes neon-inflected color palette, while the excellent music from James Newton Howard kept an appropriately shifty and dangerous sonic ambiance. The filmmaker was reportedly fired from the movie before it was finished, which might explain why the film feels so choppy in spots, as he wasn’t allowed to collaborate on the final editorial process. It’s an odd yet entertaining film, with some cool moments, but exists as a curious “What if?” on Ashby’s legendary filmography.

I’ve wanted to screen Michael Cimino’s last theatrical effort, 1996’s Sunchaser, ever since it went straight to video after playing for one week in one theater and grossing $21,508. So with the recent passing of this much discussed filmmaker, I figured it was finally time to experience his swan song as an artist. This is an ambitious film, and while I greatly preferred the first hour to the second, there’s no denying that a sense of pure cinema ran through Cimino’s blood, and that he was born to make movies, even if the extraordinary promise of his first three films didn’t lead to the totally exalted career that he might have otherwise attained. All of his features post Heaven’s Gate were mired in behind the scenes controversy, and yet he leaves behind such an eclectic and overall surprising body of work that it’s hard not to understand why he’s beloved by so many.

Starring Woody Harrelson as a yuppie Los Angeles doctor who is about to hit it big time at his current hospital with a big departmental promotion, the film centers on his kidnapping experience at the hands of a 16 year old juvenile convict (John Seda, who looked more like he was in his early 20’s), a street thug sent to the joint for the brutal murder of his abusive stepfather. The twist – the killer is suffering from terminal cancer, and once overhearing that he has one or two months left to live, decides to kidnap his good doctor with the plans of travelling to Arizona so that he can meet up with a Navajo Medicine Man at a supposedly sacred mountain lake. And even when the screenplay gets heavy-handed, as it frequently does, and strains logical credibility, as it frequently does, there’s something fascinating and hard to pin down about this unique yet frustrating effort.

Biting off more than it could properly chew, Charles Leavitt’s overheated and oddly constructed script was a strange if potent beast, with wild shifts in tone working in tandem with a half-predictable, half-unexpected narrative that certainly sacrifices logical honesty in favor of being outright cinematic, especially during the final act. Harrelson was smartly cast against type as a buttoned up man who slowly beings to unravel (this was a few performances after his seminal work in Natural Born Killers), while Seda, despite looking much older than what the story called for, was absolutely fantastic and beyond intense in his part, totally anguished and dangerous one moment and then strangely sympathetic the next. The bold and extremely dynamic 2.35:1 anamorphic widescreen cinematography by Douglas Milsome (Full Metal Jacket, Breakdown) stressed open spaces and went for the visceral at all times, with certain driving scenes recalling Friedkin and Mann, while the sequences at the Grand Canyon carried an immense sense of geographical splendor. I’d hate to see how this movie looks in the pan and scan format because they shot this film SUPER wide.

The overly bombastic musical score by Maurice Jarre was at times head-scratching in its decision making, but added a further level of creativity to the proceedings. At a price of $30 million, the film became such a financial wipe out that it clearly served as the final nail in the coffin for Cimino as a filmmaker, studio based or independent. And even if Sunchaser isn’t entirely successful (the quick glimpses of social commentary feel strangely tacked on, with lingering shots of second hand action by unimportant characters included here and there), it still contains that hot-blooded sense of inherent filmmaking that all of Cimino’s work possessed, which immediately makes it better and more interesting than a majority of the films that are being released today. Despite the negative domestic response, Sunchaser was nominated for the Palm D’Or at the 1996 Cannes Film Festival. Available on DVD to purchase or rent.