Podcasting Them Softly

Hell or High Water is easily my second favorite movie of the year, not far behind the hard to classify gem Midnight Special. Of course Peter Berg produced (and was at one point attached to direct) this shit-kicking, dusty, Texas-set tale of brotherly love and bank robbing. It’s nothing revolutionary, but rather, underrated filmmaker David Mackenzie does everything just about correct, with a perfect sense of tone, atmosphere, and dramatics. Jeff Bridges brilliantly garbles his way through yet another study of neo-Western machismo, the volatile Ben Foster is literally a loose-cannon all throughout this dangerous little film, and Chris Pine delivers the best, most nuanced performances of his career, while resembling Colin Farrell in both Miami Vice and True Detective Season 2. There’s zero fat on Taylor Sheridan’s terse and authentic screenplay, and after his firecracker of a script for last year’s thoroughly absorbing Sicario, he’s at the top of my list in terms of writers whose name means quality.

Shot with striking clarity in a no nonsense fashion by cinematographer Giles Nuttgens, the film never overreaches, and gets down and dirty with its locations, themes, and overall presentation.  Pacing is kept crisp and clean by ace cutter Jake Roberts. The score from Nick Cave and Warren Ellis is evocative without ever becoming cloying, hitting repeated grace notes to match more menacing chords of sonic edginess. The topical overtones about the greediness of banks and the lunacy of open-carry gun permit laws only sweeten the deal. Honestly, watching this film slightly restored my faith in the theatrical experience, after months of films that have failed to lived up to their various expectations, or just a lack of interesting options in general. I was on board with Mackenzie as a filmmaker after the one-two-punch of Perfect Sense and Starred Up, but this movie really announces the arrival of someone special, and is one instance where the critical acclaim is highly warranted.

What can I really say about the fascinating and beyond entertaining new documentary De Palma? It was two glorious hours of listening to one of my absolute favorite directors discussing his remarkable and ludicrously underrated career. He’s made a roll-call of perverse, transgressive masterpieces, including Femme Fatale, Body Double, Carrie, Blow Out, Dressed to Kill, Casualties of War and bold, operatic crime drams like Scarface, Carlito’s Way, The Untouchables, and Snake Eyes. He’s dabbled in big budget studio popcorn fare with Mission: Impossible and Mission to Mars, while still allowing for more quirky, edgy, and personal projects like Phantom of the Paradise, Redacted and Passion to find their way to the screen. He’ll likely forever be known as one of the great masters of the erotic thriller, a director enamored by the work of Alfred Hitchcock, with films like Sisters and Raising Cain tipping their hat to the original master of suspense. So when I heard that the brilliant filmmaker Noah Baumbach and his co-directing partner Jake Paltrow would be interviewing De Palma, and touching upon every single film on his resume, I nearly fainted with anticipation. Doing nothing more than setting up a camera on a tripod, pressing record, and letting De Palma go full force with the anecdotes and remembrances would have been perfectly enough, but when combined with all of the top-shelf footage from his aggressively awesome filmography, you’re constantly reminded of how distinct and memorable his work has been.

Because even when some of De Palma’s movies have been misfires overall, there are moments and sequences of astounding movie-making that are sometimes better than entire feature films made by other directors. Think of the bravura opening moments of The Bonfire of the Vanities, or the staircase set piece and opening brawl in The Black Dahlia — these films weren’t his best but they have flashes of greatness all throughout. But when all of the ingredients added up and fell into the blender in the proper order, few cinematic voices have offered up this many kinky thrills and long lasting works. If you’re a fan of De Palma’s sensibilities as a filmmaker, then this movie is literally a cinegasm of pure delight. If you’re not a fan of his brand of shock-the-senses cinema, then maybe you’ll gain a new found appreciation or respect for this tremendously smart and gifted filmmaker’s output. It seems so beyond crazy to think that De Palma has NEVER been nominated by the Academy for Best Director, but this is a sad fact of life, and if it’s any consolation to him and his devoted legion of fans, this engrossing documentary is a fitting tribute to a director who relishes in the notion of “pure cinema,” and when you watch the various images from all of his sexy and sinewy and stylish films, it dawns on you how consistently provocative and unique a filmmaker De Palma has become after years of butting heads with studio execs and the MPAA over the enveloping pushing content of his edgy motion pictures.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a film quite like Peter Bogdanovich’s labor of love Saint Jack, and I doubt that anything remotely resembling it will be made any time soon. Released in 1979 and based on the Paul Theroux novel from six years earlier, the narrative pivots on the life of Jack Flowers (the absolutely amazing Ben Gazzara), a nice-guy hustler with pimping aspirations, living in Singapore who feels like he’s stuck in a personal rut. So, he decides to enter into the big time, by opening up his own bordello in conjunction with the CIA as a station for American soldiers who are on leave, which angers local Chinese gangsters who feel that he’s encroaching on their business and territory. Honestly, I think we need a big-screen revival of cathouse movies in general; there’s all sorts of possibilities with this milieu, and in regards to Saint Jack, the way that Bogdanovich subverted expectations and told a generally amiable story with flashes or threats of violence speaks to the unique way in which he approached his material. The film has an appropriately scuzzy visual style, with the great cinematographer Robby Müller calling the shots behind the camera, and bathing the film in a layer of textural grime that fit perfectly with the humid setting and mildly ramshackle production design. The fantastic supporting cast includes Denholm Elliot, James Villiers, George Lazenby, Joss Ackland, Rodney Bewes, Mark Kingston, and Bogdanovich in a quick and sly cameo.

As with the best of Bogdanovich’s work, Saint Jack eschews cheap and easy narrative exposition in favor of the story being motivated solely by character and behavior, with Gazzara’s strangely-warm-for-a-pimp performance giving the film an added layer of moral ambiguity that’s so rare in today’s brand of storytelling. Shot for a reported $1 million and lensed entirely on location in Singapore, and as of 2006 the only Hollywood production to do so (not sure if anyone has done a film there since then…), Saint Jack angered government officials over its portrayal of their society, and the film was banned from local cinemas. The filmmakers even lied about the plot of the film because they apparently figured that they’d be met with hostility from various groups. And despite never receiving the theatrical release it deserved, Bogdanovich has stated in interviews that he feels it’s one of his best works as an artist. This cinematic adaptation of Theroux’s book took root when Cybill Shepherd sued Playboy magazine after they printed photos of her from the set of The Last Picture Show; her settlement included the novel’s film rights. Hugh Hefner and Roger Corman are credited as producers. Available on DVD with audio commentary by Bogdanovich, new and old interviews, and other assorted bits of extra fun.

Rating in Stars: *** (out of ****)
Cast:  Jane Levy, Stephen Lang, Dylan Minnette, Daniel Zovatto
Director: Fede Alvarez
MPAA Rating: R (for terror, violence, disturbing content, and language throughout including sexual references)
Running Time: 1:28
Release Date: 08/26/16

There is a lot to commend in Don’t Breathe, a compact thriller that seeks to perform a volte-face on the home-invasion movie. Here we are asked to sympathize with the intruders, who form a trio of protagonists, specifically with regard to their victim, here positioned as the antagonist. For the first hour, the screenplay by Rodo Ayagues and director Fede Alvarez essentially splits the difference. We understand the motivations of the intruders, for whom the burglary represents the only method by which they might escape their current living situation. We empathize with the victim, who is blind, presumably divorced or widowed, grieving father to a girl who died in a car accident, and a veteran of the Gulf War, the well-documented effects of which are more than likely at the center of this man’s sad existence.

The film, then, seeks to apply all of this emotional baggage to a horror exercise, and it’s an effective one, not least because of how Alvarez and cinematographer Pedro Luque navigate the geography of the centerpiece house. It rests in a deserted suburb of Detroit, a canny decision on the parts of screenwriters who understand that much of this story’s impact will come from the fact that there is no one for miles around. The house is in shabby condition but kept well-maintained by its owner. The number of rooms in the house suggests a once-happier life, poisoned, perhaps, by years of grief and neglect. The basement, though, is another matter entirely.

What (or who) might reside in that basement is a question answered almost the moment the halfway mark of the film is reached, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The set-up is terrific, especially as we are introduced to the three anti-protagonists. In descending order of moral clarity, there is Alex (Dylan Minnette), the son of the man who runs the security company that provides the locks to houses he burgles with two others; he spends the majority of the film questioning the escalating legal circumstances of this particular burglary. Rocky (Jane Levy) has survived a terrible childhood with a disengaged, oft-abusive mother, only to see her younger sister faced with the same possible childhood; her wish is to escape to California. Money (Daniel Zovatto) is Rocky’s boyfriend, who proposes they hit this particular home, believing it to hold $300,000 from a legal settlement.

We never learn the name of the blind man whom they target, but it’s really of no enormous consequence to the director and his co-writer, nor does it seem to be of great importance to Stephen Lang, an actor whose performance here is heavily focused on the man’s physicality. Lang is convincing enough that the man’s blindness never doesn’t seem like a lack of sight (Think of the many actors who treat physical handicaps as having a built-in toggle switch and know that this is not one of those instances), and his swift gait as he moves inexorably forward is downright unsettling. A lot of the film rests on believing this man poses a threat, and on that front, it is very effective.

What (or who) resides in the basement is also important, though it would be criminal to reveal anything further. What I can reveal is that the cloudy morality of the final act is troubling, particularly in a scene that hinges upon a threat of sexual domination seemingly for the thrill of it and muddies whatever might follow it. Alvarez also interrupts his solid method with some narrative silliness (An extended sequence involving the man’s foaming, growling dog is marred by obvious fakery), but it matters little in the long run. Don’t Breathe is a crafty thriller for so long that a recommendation in spite of such hiccups is easy to make.