2008. Starring Sean Penn, James Franco, Josh Brolin. Directed by Gus Van Sant.
While watching Milk, I felt that I was seeing three stories told by using the same events. There is the biopic story of Harvey Milk, driven by an amazing performance by Sean Penn, telling the story of a 40-year-old New Yorker who realizes that who he is requires a drastic life change. Milk moves with his partner to San Francisco in order to be himself and, once fully becoming himself, finds his calling in city politics, representing the Castro District and, by extension, the gay community.
There’s also the story of the national fight for gay rights, confronting the national bigotry of Anita Bryant and the local bigotry of California politicians. That story dovetails with Milk’s rapid rise as a San Francisco city supervisor. The scenes of organizing the local gay community into a political force are some of the best in this film — really the beginning of a movement that turned victim and scapegoat into citizens and voters. The archival film (including news reports) is an eerie reminder of how very little times have changed. Gays may have defeated Proposition 6 — an accomplishment this film re-creates — but years later are faced with a Proposition 8 that makes the same stale arguments about families, the supposed sanctity of marriage, and even darker slanders some fear equality would bring.
Lastly, there’s the awareness that Harvey Milk and San Francisco Mayor George Moscone would eventually be murdered by a colleague. I didn’t remember that the killing wasn’t about Proposition 6 and the gay rights movement, but the actions of a bitter and delusional man who felt marginalized as a politician. The threat of violence can be sensed as soon as the film introduces Dan White (thanks to an understated but strong performance by Josh Brolin), even though Milk faced death threats from other, more anonymous sources.
The script blends these stories well, as Harvey Milk drops out, turns on, gets mad and gets involved. His fight for civil rights seems natural for the character that Penn plays here, impulsive but politically savvy, a leader who can inspire but who is not without his faults. (At one point, he demands that his staff come out to their families and friends, on the spot, to gain support for the legislation.) The Best-Actor Award for Penn was earned — at some points, the well-known actor disappears into his portrayal, and doesn’t hit a false note in two hours.
James Franco, as Milk’s partner, and Emile Hirsch as a street hustler turned political operative are great as well. In an early scene, Milk is trying to register voters on the street as Hirsch’s character walks by, expressing his disinterest. As they banter, Milk keeps drawing his adversary back, to reconsider, to see how he’s already involved and what the stakes are, to plant a seed that will one day produce an activist. It’s such a strong scene, and played with some humor, and made this failed activist feel good about the attempts he made to change the stubborn minds of others.
1964. Directed by Jean-Luc Godard. Starring Anna Karina, Sami Frey, Claude Brasseur.
I don’t pretend to fully understand what Godard was trying to say with this enthusiastic exercise in film, but I love watching the results. I think I like this film more than Breathless, his earlier and better-known film also portraying a criminal who seems more-than-usually inspired by American gangsters.
Franz (Sami Frey) and Arthur (Claude Brasseur) are small-time crooks on the trail of a big score, with the help of their English-language classmate Odile (Anna Karina, who happens to be Godard’s wife). They case the house where Odile lives and where a huge stash of cash stolen from the government has been hidden. The plan seems to be secondary to their less-than-passionate fight for the affection of Odile. They talk her into skipping class, hang out in bars, stage fake gunfights in the street, and simply mug for the camera.
Godard seems patient in getting to the action, too, and this is my favorite part of the film. In fact, he seems more interested in playing with numerous rules of filmmaking: at one point, Odile suggests that the trio acknowledge a moment of silence, and the film actually goes silent for a few beats, just long enough to make you wonder how long he’ll dare to perform the trick. This leads directly into the film’s most-loved scene, the three characters dancing the Madison. If this is improvised — and even if it’s not — it’s fantastic to watch. In fact, every little trick and joke is fun to watch: Odile suddenly addressing the camera, sticking her tongue out (as in “French kissing”) at Arthur’s request, the trio racing through the Louvre in an attempt to beat a world record set by an American.
Eventually, Godard gets back to the crime caper and, as they always do, it goes wrong and gives everyone a chance at a shootout with exaggerated, dramatic death scenes, just like those in the B-movies these characters seem to draw from in their exaggerated lives.
I may have said this a dozen times or more in the short history of this blog, but didn’t everything look better in the recent past? Paris, even as cold looking as it appears in Band of Outsiders, seems real and comfortable and exciting. Everything, from the convertible the trio cruise around in to the bar in which they keep switching seats before jumping up and racing to the dance floor, seems so cool although coolly normal. And with the exception of Marika Green in the equally terrific Pickpocket, Anna Karina must be the most beautiful French woman on film, with those huge eyes and worried frown and “old-fashioned” pigtails. I’ll never tire of seeing her throw on a Fedora and stroll between her two lovers, snapping her fingers.
2008. Directed by Tomas Alfredson. Starring Kare Hedebrant and Lina Leandersson.
Oskar is a sad little kid. Living with his mother, separated from his father, taunted and tortured by classmates, a little too smart and too weird to fit in anywhere. Wintertime in Sweden is a bit on the bleak side too — snow drifting across a black sky, sterile apartment buildings, a quietly unsympathetic school. Then, one night, neighbors move in next door.
He doesn’t really see the neighbors, only the cardboard and posters that now cover their window. He sits outside, watching his breath in the air, sitting on frozen playground equipment, alone. Or so he thinks.
It’s not safe anymore to sit outside. A nearby resident has been found hanging by his feet, his blood drained into a plastic container. There’s a bit of panic in his strained relationship with his mother, but life goes on. The bullies pick on him, whipping him across the face with a stick, soaking his clothes in a urinal. He looks for something positive to hold onto. That’s when he notices the little girl sitting with him in the playground, jacketless, with no shoes.
Let The Right One In is a leisurely but deliberately paced horror film that probably breaks every rule of modern horror filmmaking. And it’s better for it. Oskar (Kare Hedebrant) isn’t happy, at least until he befriends Eli (Lina Leandersson), the sad-looking little girl who “smells funny.” The next time he sees her, after another neighbor goes missing, she looks healthy and asks, “Do I smell better?” They continue their pathetic friendship, learning Morse code in order to tap to each other through their walls. I’m going to hold back on some of the details, because I am jaded when it comes to horror, and it was great to see this movie’s plot unfold, especially the touching and violent ending.
It is also tantalizing what the film leaves unanswered: who is the man living with Eli, and what stake (sorry) is there for him in her survival? What does Eli want from Oskar, if not friendship? And what should we learn from a few transformative views of Eli that Oskar also sees? And, finally, what follows the nice little coda before the credits roll? Because I’d like to watch that movie too.
It would be hard to dream up a new and interesting vampire tale. I thought 30 Days of Night had a lot of promise, with its graphic novel roots and its untraditional villains, but it was about 28 of those nights that ruined it for me. (Four weeks of hiding in an attic? Yawn. And everyone lost their cell phone? OK, enough about that movie.) Let The Right One In has at its heart a sweet tale of empathy and sadness and, despite the body count, is just a sick little love story. Plus, if there was an acting award for cats, this would sweep the category.
When I reviewed Near Dark, I wrote about the sympathy for the vampires who would remain children for the rest of their awful twilight lives. For the children drawn to each other in Let The Right One In, it’s their childish acceptance of the horror in front of them that allows them to escape their awful daytime lives.
1974. Written, directed and starring H.B. Halicki.
I’m almost done with my drive-in movie phase. I’m building up to Vanishing Point.
Gone in 60 Seconds is essentially two movies. The first half involves an insurance scam/car theft ring that requires the stealing and delivery of 48 cars in two days. H.B. Halicki portrays the lead of a team who steal some of the most beautiful cars (they refer to the different makes and models by women’s names) by deception or opportunism. They complete the theft of all the cars on their list, but one — a yellow Mustang they call Eleanor — isn’t insured, so they have to get another.
This leads to the second half of the movie, which is a chase through Los Angeles and surrounding area. The chase goes on and on, and actually drains the movie of any suspense. It’s hard enough to cheer for car thieves in the first place, but when people are being removed from their wrecked cars as a result of the desperate chase, I started hoping ol’ Halicki would get caught so the carnage — and the movie — would end. The ultimate escape is a little hard to believe, but it did bring the movie to a close.
There are a number of reasons to watch this movie — specifically, the hair, the clothes and the cars. The hair is ridiculous (watch for a cameo by Parnelli Jones’ combover), the clothes are bad, and the cars are fantastic! A scene near the end of the first half of the movie has Halicki walking through a parking ramp of the hot cars, and one after another, they are amazing — Rolls Royces, muscle cars, big-as-a-boat Cadillacs. I am not a car freak, but I could name most of them. Which made me think.
The collapse of the American auto industry is as tragic as it is infuriating, especially when you look at that lineup of wheels. There was a time when you could tell a Mustang from a Challenger, and you cared about the difference between them. (The crushing of a Challenger is the most emotional scene in this movie.) Cars had personality, and costs weren’t lowered by making parts between models interchangeable.
Since gas was cheap back then (but not for long), cars were made powerful, because that’s what the consumer wanted. Since then, consumers have wanted more efficient cars, but the industry didn’t respond, continuing a one-size-fits-all philosophy that has doomed the Big Three. What personality do you get from driving a Stratus or a Festiva? What would the industry give to have another car as loved as the Mustang?
Anyway, don’t get sentimental for classic cars before watching Gone in 60 Seconds (the original of course — there’s apparently been a remake), because most of the beautiful cars you’ll drool over end up as scrap metal at the end of the chase. Come to think of it, I bet this was great at a drive-in!
I made a bad joke to friends a few years ago when Hank Cochran died that he was the fifth best-known Hank, and we were down to just a few contenders left. Well, I consider Hank Locklin the third best-known Hank, and the highest-ranked “living Hank” before his death yesterday.
Hank Locklin’s greatest moment may have been “Send Me The Pillow That You Dream On,” a really sweet song, so earnest that it could never be recorded today, when the sentiment would be considered creepy. I believe that “Please Help Me, I’m Falling” was an even-bigger hit, although both songs became hits for several other artists. But I’ll always remember him for a song called “While the Band Plays the Blues,” a song my Dad requested that I find for him. When the only copy I could find was my own copy of Hank’s 1960 LP, I happily gave it to my Dad. I got the LP back a few months later, and put it back into my collection. Dad’s probably bugging him tonight to play it live.
And officially, I consider the order to be Williams, Snow, Locklin, Thompson, Cochran and Penny.
RIP Mr. Locklin.
A few years ago, I drove through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee. Besides being one of the most beautiful places in America — the trip took place while the leaves were changing through an incalculable range of colors, and the damp cold could be felt on the mountaintops and in the shadier areas — there was an oppressive feeling of isolation, not only because the park is large and the visitors few that week, but because if there had been others in the park, you likely wouldn’t have seen them through the trees and around the endlessly curving angles of the earth.
We stopped at a wayside on the downside of the mountain, at the site of an old mill, bubbling and creaking on as a small stream trickled by. To get a closer look, you followed a walking trail across a narrow bridge, winding around to the side of the building. I left my Dad in the vehicle and walked out there alone. I couldn’t have been more than 300 feet away, but that trail wound slightly, and the tree branches and wet leaves blocked the view of the parking lot and, save the bubbling of the creek, blocked out all other sound. It was easy to imagine being very alone, and far from anything familiar. Walking back out of that isolation and seeing my trusty old Jeep parked at the end of the lot was a big relief.
Although that feeling of isolation was real, I felt silly about it, and still do, a little bit. But there was something unnerving in those thick woods and that uneven terrain, with enough murmuring noise to overwhelm your thoughts. You could imagine walking out of the woods and finding a different world than you’d left, with nothing but unfamiliar faces.
Rank Stranger (performed by the Stanley Brothers)
Written by Alfred E. Brumley Sr.
I wandered again to my home in the mountains
Where in youth’s early dawn I was happy and free
I looked for my friends but I never could find them
I found they were all rank strangers to me
Everybody I met seemed to be a rank stranger
No mother or dad, not a friend could I see
They knew not my name and I knew not their faces
I found they were all rank strangers to me.
Now they’ve all moved away said the voice of a stranger
To a beautiful home by a bright crystal sea
And some sweet day I’ll meet them in Heaven
Where no one will be a stranger to me.
The people who lived in those mountains and sang songs passed down through generations to explain how the world works, those people knew what it meant to be alone, left behind and without the familiar faces you could count on. And there wasn’t a more comforting idea than that they’re on the road ahead, waiting for you. And the faces that surround you today, the faces of strangers, are only temporary, until you can rejoin those to whom you belong.
It’s a really simple image — “a beautiful home by a bright crystal sea” — but I can’t come up with anything better or more reassuring, so I’m going to dream about that. And prepare for the walk one eventually has to take alone, and what I might find at the end of that winding trail.