The Kentucky Fried Movie: John Landis

The sheer kinetic genius of David Zucker, Jim Abrahams, and Jerry Zucker, the comedic savants that would one day be responsible for Airplane! (1980), one of the greatest comedies of all time, got their cinematic start here in John Landis' The Kentucky Fried Movie. Drawing from their days performing in an improv group known as the Kentucky Fried Theater, they made The Kentucky Fried Movie a kind of revue of short skits, farcical fake trailers, and parodic tributes to different film genres. Shocking, anarchic, and frequently downright offensive, the film delivers nearly nonstop laughs. While most of the sketches range from a few seconds to a few minutes, the middle of the film is occupied by a 31-minute "feature presentation" titled A Fistful of Yen, a delightful spoof of kung fu films. A Fistful of Yen threatens to break the flow of the film, but Landis manages to keep the audience's attention through the use of bizarre non sequiturs ("And who are they?" "Refuse, found in waterfront bars."), elaborate fight scenes, and call-backs to previous sketches (BIG JIM SLADE TO THE RESCUE!!). Zucker, Abrahams, and Zucker would refine their comedic talents in future endeavors. But it is still clear and present here in all of its tasteless glory.

7/10

Muddy River: Kōhei Oguri

There are films about children and there are films about childhood. The former merely contain child actors. But the latter are about the world that children inhabit, the emotions and experiences that accompany growing up; the mysteries borne of misunderstandings, unanswered curiosities, and the temporarily inexplicable. Films about childhood ask questions but scarcely provide answers. For the life of a child is one of censorship and confinement. They have yet to figure out the world because the world hides things from them. But they see. They listen. And they think.

The great films about childhood consistently rank amongst the best ever made: René Clément’s Forbidden Games (1952), François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (1959) and Small Change (1976), Víctor Erice’s The Spirit of the Beehive (1973), and Hector Babenco’s Pixote (1981) to name a few. Perhaps this is because it takes a true master filmmaker to penetrate that realm without seeming exploitative or needlessly sentimental. So when films like Kōhei Oguri’s Muddy River appear, it is our duty and privilege to acknowledge them.

Quite simply, Muddy River is one of the best Japanese films about childhood. As Oguri’s directorial debut, he demonstrates the kind of wisdom and restraint that eludes most veteran filmmakers. The film was praised upon release by international critics, earning him several awards and a nomination for the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film (inevitably losing, perhaps justifiably so, to István Szabó’s Mephisto). But now the film languishes in obscurity, being almost impossible to find on VHS or DVD. But Muddy River surges with a timeless vitality. If and when it finally receives a proper release, audiences will be amazed by its enduring artistry and wonder why it hasn’t been canonized as one of the great Japanese classics.

Almost a decade after the end of World War Two, 9-year-old Nobuo Itakura lives next to the mouth of the Kyū-Yodo River in Osaka. The first blossoms of what would become known as the “Japanese post-war economic miracle” have begun to bloom: the city has been largely reconstructed, new families are springing up, and Nobuo’s parents are able to run a small yet respectable noodle shop. But the scars of war live on in those, like Nobuo’s father Shinpei, unfortunate enough to have survived the fighting. “There must be lots of people out there who wish now that they’d died in the war,” he wearily comments one night. This statement, overheard by a sleepless Nobuo, seems prophetic. For the next day three such unfortunates drift their way in Nobuo’s life.

Nobuo meets the first, a young boy his age named Kiichi, on a bridge one rainy day. They swiftly become friends and Kiichi invites him to his houseboat, a ramshackle piece of junk that miraculously stays afloat. Nobuo is shocked by what he sees: desperate poverty the likes of which he never imagined. Kiichi’s shoes are full of holes, they have to ration clean drinking water, and they have almost no food. Kiichi’s widowed mother, Shoko, has been forced into prostitution, bringing clients to her private room at night while her children sleep just a few walls away. Kiichi’s older sister, Ginko, seems spiritually crushed, perhaps aware that she is doomed to follow in her mother’s footsteps.

And yet Nobuo and Kiichi become inseparable. Though initially apprehensive about their mother’s reputation, Shinpei and his wife Sadako welcome Kiichi and Ginko into their home with open arms. There are many quiet moments of soft comedy during this sequence wherein Ginko tries to get Kiichi to behave properly in spite of their “uncivilized” upbringing. Shinpei throws out a couple of friends who come to their shop for noodles only to mock Kiichi and Ginko’s mother for being a whore. Sadako quickly comes to treat Ginko as the daughter she never had, giving her a pretty (and expensive) dress and taking her to a bathhouse.

Time passes and little moments come and go: Nobuo witnesses what may or may not have been a man drowning himself in the river, a barge captain throws Nobuo and Kiichi a melon as they pass by their houses, and the two of them go to a local festival only to accidentally lose their spending money. In one scene, Shinpei takes Nobuo to visit his dying ex-wife in her final moments. These scenes may seem superfluous to those accustomed to more traditional cinematic narrative techniques. But they are just as essential to the film as any other. After all, is childhood ever a straight, streamlined chain of events? More often than not childhood is composed of distractions, daydreams, and seemingly innocuous vignettes that for whatever reason become burned into our memories.

And then there is the hardest emotion for children to swallow: sadness. One night Kiichi invites Nobuo onboard his house and lights a series of crabs on fire. Such an act of cruelty seems out of place and repellent. But as Nobuo tries to save one, he accidentally spies Shoko with a client. They make eye contact for a brief moment. And then we realize, in the pit of our stomach, that with the boon of a customer Kiichi and his family will have to move on. And the next day, to Nobuo’s confusion, the boat, and his friend, are gone. Why did Kiichi incinerate the crabs? Was it to repulse Nobuo and make their separation easier? That is one explanation. But the true answer remains elusive. All that remains is the pain, the loss, the loneliness.

Throughout the film Nobuo and Kiichi catch glimpses of a legendary giant carp that inhabits the murky bottom of the Kyū-Yodo River. Declaring it their secret, it becomes one of the impetuses for their friendship. In Japanese culture, the carp, or “koi,” is a symbol of strength and masculinity that is frequently associated with young children. It is believed that this tradition stems from an ancient Chinese legend wherein carp transform into dragons if they manage to swim upstream and jump over a waterfall located at the Dragon’s Gate. Many try, but most fail. In post-war Osaka, some boys were blessed with enough prosperity to escape poverty and become mighty dragons. But many, like Kiichi, were swept away downstream until all that was left of them were memories. Muddy River is one such memory, resplendent in its beauty, agonizing in its honesty.

8/10

Bonjour Tristesse: Otto Preminger

Otto Preminger's Bonjour Tristesse is a cinematic paradox. It is a film constructed of the purest of Hollywood opulence: handsome actors, beautiful actresses, an exotic seaside setting, and lush late 50's studio cinematography, the kind that combated the rise of television by cramming the screen full of as many bold colors and dazzling images as possible. And yet, it is a viciously damning indictment of unfettered wealth and that special kind of laziness that infests those free from the burden of work. The film concerns a young teenager named Cécile (Jean Seberg) who lives with her father Raymond (David Niven) on the French Riviera. However, when Raymond announces his marriage to an old friend named Anne Larsen (Deborah Kerr), she begins to scheme of ways to break them apart. Brushing aside any suggestions of incestuous undertones (although Preminger certainly seems eager to show them acting oddly affectionate towards each other), there is only one possible explanation for Cécile's desire to break up his father's marriage: Anne has the unmitigated audacity to make her stop lazing around, study for school, and try and make something of herself. But Cécile's machinations turn unexpectedly violent, leading to a horrific accident that lays bare the true extent of her family's apathy. Preminger's cynicism melds together with the film's extravagance a little too naturally for comfort. Even as Cécile throws tantrums about Anne, Preminger takes great care to position Seberg within the frame so that her youthful body and endless supply of bright, tightly-fitted outfits is best displayed. He utilizes an almost Sirkian color palette, ignoring shadows except for brief black-and-white segments scattered throughout the film that show Cécile's guilt in the aftermath of the accident. Even a night-time sequence where a massive crowd dances in the streets seems blindingly illuminated. Preminger hides nothing in Bonjour Tristesse. It is a film about guilt and greed; of anagnorisis borne of lethargy.

7/10

The Strawberry Blonde: Raoul Walsh

Raoul Walsh's The Strawberry Blonde is a warm romance seeped in honeyed nostalgia. Set in the "Naughty Nineties," the film charts the romances of Biff Grimes (James Cagney), a hot-headed yet well-meaning young man who longs for local society girl Virginia Brush (Rita Hayworth) who dazzles potential suitors with her refined elegance and gorgeous strawberry-blonde hair. His attempts to woo Virginia eventually fail and he grudgingly marries her best friend Amy Lind (Olivia de Havilland), a free-thinking suffragette. After being betrayed by his friend Hugo Barnstead (Jack Carson) into taking the fall for shady business dealings, Biff spends several years in prison. While incarcerated, he comes to the realization that maybe Amy is his "strawberry-blonde" after all. The Strawberry Blonde floats with an endearing lightness of tone that transforms late 19th-century America into a fantasy world. Here is a film that exists in a realm of cozy park benches, lavish parlors, and manicured street corners. Cagney, frustrated with being typecast in tough guy roles throughout the 30's and early 40's, positively glows as the perpetually black-eyed Biff. It's easy to forget how disarming Cagney's charm could be. Yet his scenes with de Havilland and Hayworth demonstrate that he could "aw shucks" with the best of Hollywood's romantic leading men. The Strawberry Blonde is, once again, just a fond fantasy. But then again, aren't all movies?

7/10

A Star is Born: William A. Wellman

Perhaps best known for its 1954 remake by George Cukor starring Judy Garland and James Mason, William A. Wellman's A Star is Born tells the story of a young actress named Esther Victoria Blodgett from North Dakota who travels to Hollywood with big dreams. At first, she encounters nothing but set-backs. But after a chance meeting and romance with Norman Maine, a once-famous actor whose career is in the toilet, she is rocketed to stardom. Esther, re-named Vicki Lester, soon marries Norman. However, Norman cannot deal with Esther's new-found fame in the face of his own wrecked career. Alcoholism takes it toll and he finally ruins everything by drunkenly interrupting Esther's Academy Award acceptance speech and hitting her. Though Esther is determined to help Norman recover, even choosing to abandon her acting career to care for him full-time, he cannot cope with his actions and commits suicide. On its own, A Star is Born is a decent film. Janet Gaynor is fantastic as Esther and Fredric March manages to depict Norman as a self-destructive man who is so undeniably charismatic that we can believe in Esther's affections for him. Lionel Stander has never been more vicious as Matt Libby, their venomous press agent. And yet, we leave the film wondering why Esther would be willing to stay with such an abusive husband. Is it because he helped her in the first place? Perhaps. But does that make up for everything he does to her? No. I can't figure Esther Victoria Blodgett out. Is she simply a good-hearted character? Or is she just some screenwriter's fantasy of an ideal woman who accepts abuse without flinching? Is she the product of melodramatic traditions or misogynist whimsy? I'm not sure. Perhaps this is a question best left to someone smarter than me.

7/10

King Solomon’s Mines: Robert Stevenson, Geoffrey Barkas

Robert Stevenson and Geoffrey Barkas' King Solomon's Mines is as splendid an adventure picture as anything produced by Hollywood during the 1930s. Based on H. Rider Haggard's novel of the same name, the film follows a group of Europeans led by the "great white hunter" Allan Quatermain as they search for the fabled mines of Solomon in the depths of darkest Africa. As with any film by Westerners set in Africa made during this stretch of the 20th century, the film is ripe with racist stereotypes concerning deformed witch doctors, power-mad tribal chiefs, and ignorant "savages." But there is one big difference between this film and its compatriots: Paul Robeson. As Umbopa, the native guide who eventually reveals himself to be the true heir to the throne of the tribe that owns the mines, Robeson steals the show from his white co-stars. He manages to bring sincere dignity to what could have otherwise been a very offensive role. When Umbopa reveals himself as the true king, we truly believe it. It's worth pointing out that King Solomon's Mines side-tracks the white characters for much of its second half. Once Quatermain and his party reach the mines, it becomes Umbopa's story. His efforts to reclaim his throne become the narrative's main focus. The white characters certainly help. After all, they help trick the tribesmen into believing that Umbopa has great magical powers. And they valiantly fight in the battle when the usurper king attacks Umbopa with an army. But Umbopa is the hero. Notice how the film ends with Robeson giving a kind of benediction as the white characters are escorted from his kingdom by a company of 100 troops. So King Solomon's Mines is both a wonderful entertainment and a surprisingly progressive piece of filmmaking.

8/10

Sylvia Scarlett: George Cukor

The esteemed critic and scholar Jonathan Rosenbaum once declared Sylvia Scarlett to be "the most interesting and audacious movie George Cukor ever made." He even went so far as to add it to his Alternative List of the 100 Greatest American Films. But after viewing the film, I have to sorely disagree. While Sylvia Scarlett may be fascinating from the point of view of scholars (for reasons that I will soon reveal), the film ultimately falls flat and collapses in on itself. The film centers around the eponymous Sylvia Scarlett (Katharine Hepburn), a French woman who escapes to England with her unlucky father Henry. Once there, they team up with smooth-talking con man Jimmy Monkley (Cary Grant) and shrill-voiced Cockney housemaid Maudie Tilt to seek their fortune in show business...or in other people's pockets. Making matters more fascinating is that Sylvia disguises herself as a boy for most of the film. Cukor takes delight in throwing Sylvia into a myriad of gender-bent misunderstandings. And, indeed, if Cukor had kept Sylvia Scarlett a fast-paced screwball-esque comedy, it could have been one of the most significant Hollywood films of the 1930s. But once she falls in love with a bland artist, she trades in her long pants for a long skirt and the film devolves into a confused clump of romantic fluff, confusing plot developments, and jarring tonal shifts (including one criminally miscalculated scene where Henry commits suicide only for Sylvia and Jimmy to react almost nonchalantly to the discovery of his body). I can appreciate why Sylvia Scarlett would be of interest for those studying Hollywood gender roles, cinematic homosexuality, and the careers of Hepburn and Grant. Even I was taken aback by a female-on-female kiss, a scene which somehow miraculously made it past the Hays Code. But scholarly import does not a good movie make.

6/10

A Day at the Races: Sam Wood

Sam Wood's A Day at the Races may be my favorite Marx Brothers film that doesn't include the words "duck" or "soup" in its title. Madcap routines, sizzling one-liners, and general lunacy make A Day at the Races a beacon of blessed chaos. The plot sees Groucho, Chico, and Harpo mixed up in a preposterous scheme involving a wealthy hypochondriac, a financially devastated clinic, mistaken identities, a stolen horse, and a climactic horse race that devolves into Looney Tunes-esque anarchy. But we don't watch Marx Brothers films for the plot. We come for the laughs. And A Day at the Races delivers. While the "Tutsi Fruitsy Ice Cream" routine is justifiably revered, my favorite routine involved Groucho, a frustrated business manager, a telephone, and a very loud buzzer. Chico and Harpo's musical routines are perhaps the best they ever made. Harpo's self-destructing piano scene is among his career's finest moments. The film is also blessed with four-time Oscar winner Joseph Ruttenberg's fine cinematography. While respectfully keeping his camera objective during the Brother's various routines, he manages to sneak in some wonderful shots that are captivating in their beauty. One sequence during the racetrack climax where the crowd's hats fly onto the track is nothing less than pure cinema. He even manages to make the obnoxious musical interludes revolving around the bland side characters and their romance a feast for the eyes. Of course, the numbers taking place in the black ghetto were an unexpected treat that managed to steal the show from the Brothers themselves! A Day at the Races is simply a joyful experience that ranks among the best comedies of the 1930s.

9/10

Evilspeak: Eric Weston

Here's a great piece of advertising for Eric Weston's Evilspeak: Anton LaVey, the founder of the Church of Satan, was a fan of the film. Considering the fact that the film is about a bullied military academy student named Stanley Coopersmith (Clint Howard) who invokes Satan to exact his revenge on his wicked classmates and teachers, I don't think that a higher recommendation exists. I've heard the film described as being a male version of Stephen King's "Carrie." And I think to an extent that comparison is logical. The classmates and teachers are practically cartoonish in their sadistic enthusiasm in torturing Stanley. The film builds and builds and builds until an explosive climax there Stanley gains powers and slays his tormentors. Indeed, these last 20 minutes of the film are so captivating that they redeem the film's various technical flaws. These include things like characters who randomly drop in and out of the movie, frequently incompetent audio editing, and occasional plot holes (is there an explanation for why Stanley's computer seemingly becomes sentient?). But again, when viewed as a whole, Evilspeak is an incredible experience. It's a shame that Howard has remained under the shadow of his brother Ron. His performance as Stanley is nothing short of inspired and demonstrates that he has substantial acting talent.

7/10

Dishonored: Josef von Sternberg

Josef von Sternberg's Dishonored is as much a spy film as The Scarlet Empress (1934) is a historically accurate re-telling of Catherine the Great's life. All of the trappings of the genre are present: duplicitous secret agents, exotic disguises, clandestine gadgets and weapons, and a plot rife with double-crosses and betrayals. But these are merely distractions. Dishonored is a showcase for its lead actress Marlene Dietrich. Spy-craft is utilized only to the extent that it propels the film's central romantic melodrama concerning Austrian secret agent X27 (Dietrich) and her Russian enemy-slash-lover Colonel Kranau (Victor McLaglen). For instance, during a dangerous mission behind enemy lines X27 brings a pet cat with her that tips Kranau off to her presence. The idea that a secret agent would bring a pet along on a mission is so preposterous that it defies belief. But for Sternberg, the presence of the cat is simply an impetus for throwing X27 back into the arms of Kranau. The character is X27 is a puzzle: she enters the Austrian secret service to help her country during World War One after her husband is killed, yet she sabotages her usefulness in the name of an impossible love affair. One could hand-wave this away with the explanation that X27 is supposed to have indecipherable intentions, much like the enigmatic Mata Hari. But one suspects if the true explanation has more to do with Sternberg's inability to make his movies starring Marlene Dietrich about anything other than Marlene Dietrich. But regardless of these confusions, Dishonored is a wonderful film. Lee Garmes's crisp cinematography is stunning. One early sequence at a costume party has camera acrobatics the likes of which seem to predict Orson Welles and Max Ophüls. And, of course, there is Marlene. Cryptically seductive and slyly erotic as ever, her perpetual smirk reminds us why she was one of the queens of the Weimar Republic and the Hollywood studio systems.

7/10

Frances Ha: Noah Baumbach

Noah Baumbach's Frances Ha was exactly the kind of film that I needed to see at this point in my life. At first, I feared it was going to be another blasé indie drama about rich white twentysomethings living in New York City. And having watched Lena Dunham's Tiny Furniture (2010), I was in no mood for it. But Frances Ha took me completely by surprise. It follows a habitually-unemployed dancer named Frances Halladay who jostles from one apartment and roommate to another. Her best friend Sophie leaves her to move to Tokyo with her boyfriend. Alone, her life slowly crumbles into a mess of depression and loneliness. But after a trip home to see her parents in Sacramento, she starts to rebuild everything that had fallen apart. And, astonishingly, she discovers that everybody else's "perfect lives" may not have been so perfect after all. If I sound like I'm being vague, that's intentional. Frances Ha is a film of impossibly intimate snippets snatched from the most painfully awkward, unbearably uncomfortable, searingly honest, and emotionally naked moments in the life of one young woman. To recount them here would do them no justice. Part of that has to do with Baumbach's expert directing. His use of montage to depict both the passage of time and the inner struggles of his characters is stunning. The aforementioned scene in Sacramento hit so close to home that I felt like I was an undergrad college student taking refuge at my parents' house for the holidays again. To not mention Greta Gerwig's performance as Frances would be criminal. Her portrayal was nothing short of a revelation, managing to keep us feeling sympathetic with a character even as she was sabotaging her own life and relationships. Let me be honest for a moment: I only heard about Frances Ha because many of my close friends declared it the best movie of the year. After seeing it, I have to agree. It may not capture the complete zeitgeist of my generation. But it definitely captures a sizable chunk of it.

9/10

Hatchet for the Honeymoon: Mario Bava

Mario Bava's Hatchet for the Honeymoon is a stylish thriller about a psychotic named John Harrington who murders recently married women in an attempt to recover his childhood memories surrounding the night his mother was killed. It's a seductively captivating film that is more Hitchcock than giallo. For even though we watch John kill several victims, the film is primarily concerned with his exploration of his own tattered psyche and his struggles with a nosy police inspector who is convinced he has something to do with a string of local disappearances. My favorite part of the film involves a sub-plot concerning his domineering wife. After psychologically torturing him for years, he snaps and brutally murders her. But John's wife returns as a ghost...that everyone but him can see. Here is an intriguing concept which puts a marvelous twist on a standard horror trope. Watching the film, one can't help but draw comparisons between John and Bret Easton Ellis' Patrick Bateman. This is particularly obvious during an opening scene where John internally monologues to himself: "My name is John Harrington. I'm 30 years old. I'm a paranoiac. Paranoiac. An enchanting word, so civilized, full of possibilities. The truth is, I am completely mad. The realization which annoys me at first, but is now amusing to me. Quite amusing." But Bateman was more a sociopath, in my opinion. John Harrington is irrevocably insane. And does Bava ever know it!

7/10

Frogs: George McCowan

George McCowan's Frogs could have been a terrific piece of camp if it didn't take itself so seriously. The story of a photographer trapped on an island plantation owned by the Crockett family, Frogs one-ups other "eco-horror" films of the 1970s by featuring a multitude of murderous animal species instead of just one. The scenes where poisonous snakes and alligators dispatch members of the Crockett family are understandable, but many of the earliest death scenes are purely preposterous. My favorite was when a group of tarantulas "dropped" a ton of Spanish moss on one victim and then bit him to death. Another scene where a group of lizards "knock over" a bunch of poison containers in a greenhouse in order to asphyxiate another victim is unintentionally hysterical, too. It doesn't help that the family basically has no motivation to stay on the island after the bodies start to pile up. The reason why is because Jason, the grouchy Crockett family patriarch, doesn't want anything to interfere with his birthday festivities. So in late scenes when Jason practically disowns his surviving family members because they'd rather leave and live instead of staying with him on his birthday are downright enraging. If there was a proper explanation for why Jason doesn't want anything to spoil his birthday, that would be one thing. But the film doesn't really give one. He's just a grouchy old man. It spits in the face of competent character development! But regardless, there is still some enjoyment to be gained from watching Frogs. With the exception of their performances during the ludicrous death scenes, the actors all do wonderful jobs. The cinematography is surprisingly excellent. And there is a basic visceral pleasure in watching all kinds of swamp life scurry about. I shudder at the thought of Frogs being remade. You just know that the producers would insist on CGI amphibians.

6/10

Yearning: Mikio Naruse

Was there ever another Japanese director who could so perfectly capture the feelings of quiet desperation and subtle cruelty as Mikio Naruse? Akira Kurosawa once said that his style was "like a great river with a calm surface and a raging current in its depths." His film Yearning was one of his last true triumphs, a heartbreaking melodrama about a widow named Reiko Morita who single-handily kept her husband's grocery operating 18 years after his death in World War II. However, when a local supermarket opens that threatens to put them out of business, her in-laws plot to get rid of her, tear down the grocery, and re-build it as a competing supermarket. In true classical Japanese tradition, Reiko learns of their plans and agrees to leave to the countryside. Why is she so willing to be practically disowned by an ungrateful family? Out of loyalty to her dead husband? Some misplaced sense of duty? Who can tell. But things are exacerbated when her 25 year-old brother-in-law Koji confesses his love for her. When she leaves for the countryside, he follows her. At first she seems happy, but her crippling fear of intimacy may spell their doom. There are many ways to read Yearning. You can view it as a traditional Japanese melodrama about long-suffering women in a rapidly changing post-war environment. You can read it as a condemnation of the encroachment of capitalism and Western influences. Or you can see it as a simple tragic romance. But regardless of interpretation, Yearning is a wonderful film by one of Japan's early cinematic masters.

7/10

Get to Know Your Rabbit: Brian De Palma

Brian De Palma's Get to Know Your Rabbit is one of those bizarre films that don't quite work yet nonetheless are fascinating in their audacity. Perhaps this is due to the fact that De Palma struggled with his producers so vehemently that he was eventually fired. Whatever the case, Get to Know Your Rabbit is an odd curio. Exhausted and fed up with the world of corporate upper management, Donald Beeman unceremoniously quits his job one day to become a tap dancing magician. His old boss Mr. Turnbull desperately tries to get him back. But when Beeman's show business career eventually takes off, Turnbull has another idea: create a Tap Dancing Magician course for other businessmen. So Beeman returns from a tour to find that he has become an advertising mascot. The very lifestyle that he fled to has become just another corporate prison. This kind of cynicism is brilliantly subversive and a true treat. However, the film is weighed down and eventually capsized by De Palma's unusual use of humor. Heavily inspired by British absurdist humor (think Monty Python's Flying Circus), the film contains bizarre characters, seemingly random events, and performances that irritate and confuse. One sequence where Beeman seduces a woman who delivers a monologue about how she prostituted herself for newspapers when she was younger is especially vexing. Of course, the film does have its charms. Orson Welles turns in a rare self-deprecating performance as Mr. Delasandro, Beeman's tap dancing magician teacher. In true Welles fashion, he steals the show with several of the best lines and jokes. My two favorites:

Mr. Delasandro [While he trains Beeman to tap dance]: "I'm the heckler, right? I've been needling you for the last ten minutes, right? Time now for you to strike back with all the style and wit at your command!"
Beeman: "Up your's, fella!"
Mr. Delasandro [Pensively]: "Not bad...not bad..."

Mr. Delasandro [After Beeman has graduated from his program] : "Donald, before you go, would you like me to look upon you as the son I never had?"
Beeman [Smiling cheerfully]: "No, I don't think so."

That last one made me laugh so hard that I woke up my dad. So Get to Know Your Rabbit doesn't work. But it does something right. I'm just not sure what that something is...

5/10

Tokyo Fist: Shinya Tsukamoto

Shinya Tsukamoto's Tokyo Fist is so good that it may have made the boxing genre obsolete. I cannot for the life of me think of where the boxing genre could possibly go after sitting through this 90 minute masterpiece. Extraordinarily kinetic, breathtakingly brutal, and expertly edited, I'm not sure if there is any possible way to film a punch, a block, or a fight scene without accidentally or deliberately plagiarizing Tsukamoto's visual language. Everything after Tokyo Fist is superfluous. Envisioning a Tokyo that has been drained of energy and color (both figuratively and literally), the film begins when a tepid insurance salesman named Tsuda Yoshiharu is humiliated in front of his fiance by an old high school friend named Kojima Yakuji. After his disgusted fiance leaves him for Kojima, Tsuda throws himself into the sport of boxing as a means to reclaim his manhood and establish a sense of purpose and self in a world absent of meaning. The idea of men seeking purpose through ritualized violence would be touched on a few years later in David Fincher's Fight Club (1999). But that film falters and deflates when compared to Tsukamoto's punishing manifesto: the creation of self via the destruction of self. Tokyo Fist can be compared to Tsukamoto's earlier triumph Tetsuo: The Iron Man (1989), a film wherein a Japanese businessman is transformed into a metal monstrosity. In both films the protagonists evolve into monsters by the end, thereby providing them with a means of escape from the 9-to-5 hell of modern Japan. But if the transformation in Tetsuo: The Iron Man was involuntary, Tsuda's transformation was his own decision. Here is a film just as dangerous as its main character. It desires nothing more than revolution and destruction by way of a man's fists.

10/10

Kill, Baby, Kill: Mario Bava

Mario Bava's Kill, Baby, Kill may be the director's supreme masterpiece. A film more concerned with imagery, pacing, and atmosphere than plot, Kill, Baby, Kill is a stylistic crystallization unrivaled in the annals of European horror. The film concerns an investigation of a string of murders in a small Carpathian village. Villagers have been found drained of blood with silver coins pierced through their hearts. As the investigators delve deeper into the mystery, it becomes clear that they are dealing with forces the likes of which their science cannot comprehend. Although the struggle between science and superstition is a central one, Bava leaves almost no room for ambiguity concerning the mystical origins of the murders. But to focus too much on the film's story is to miss the point. Bava's eternally inventive camera transforms country ruins into monasteries of the monstrous. Foggy graveyards become macabre tableaux haunted by unseen suspicions and sinister whispers. Here is a film both stoically restrained and wildly extravagant. Consider one scene in a graveyard where Bava's camera replicates the movements of a swing, swaying forward and backward, up and down, close-up and far away. The cliché of a ghostly little girl is used to such perfect effect here that it shames other films that contain them. Though the film may not contain scenes that make you cry out in fright, it operates on a deeper, subconscious level. Kill, Baby, Kill will infect your dreams and nourish your nightmares.

9/10

Dressed to Kill: Brian De Palma

After finishing Brian De Palma's Dressed to Kill, I asked a few friends whether or not it was odd that I liked it more than Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960), the film that obviously served as its primary inspiration. My query was met with a resounding "YES!" But then again, I'm the putz that liked La Grande Illusion (1937) more than The Rules of the Game (1939). So I clearly cannot be trusted when it comes to matters of cinematic taste. But I stand by my judgement: I like Dressed to Kill more. The first third of the film follows a domestically-suffocated NYC housewife named Kate Miller who goes to the Metropolitan Museum, meets a dashing beau, and has an affair with him. However, once she leaves his apartment she is brutally murdered in an elevator by a strange-looking blonde woman. At this point, the film switches protagonists to Miller's son, Peter, and high-priced call girl Liz Blake (who witnessed the murder) as they try and discover the identity of her killer. I guess if I had to pick one reason why I like Dressed to Kill more than Psycho is its use of purely visual storytelling. The ten minute sequence where Kate Miller is seduced at the Metropolitan Museum should be taught in universities. De Palma displays a rapturous joy in the act of looking, forcing the audience to become voyeurs, participants, and eyewitnesses. This is cinema distilled down to its very essence: beautiful, breath-taking, captivating, and hypnotic.

9/10

Oasis of the Zombies: Jesús Franco

It's never professional for a film critic to dismiss a bad film simply on the grounds of "being boring." But I can't think of a better adjective with which to describe Jesús Franco's Oasis of the Zombies. Everything about this film is an assault on the viewer: the zombie make-up is pathetic, the pace is slow and dreary, the characters forgettable, and the death scenes uninspired and phoned in. The soundtrack is one of the worst that I have ever heard. There are multiple moments when it sounds like the composer literally fell asleep on the keyboard, resulting in shrill, sustained synthesizer chords that pierce the eardrums. The story involves a lost caché of Nazi gold in the African desert. When a group of young treasure hunters go out looking for it, they discover that the Afrika Korps troops that had been killed while transporting it had been transformed into zombies. Of course, we're never really given a satisfactory answer as the why they became zombies. But I suspect that it hardly matters. Oasis of the Zombies isn't a film. It's an endurance test.

3/10

Slugs: Juan Piquer Simón

I love horror films set in America that are written and/or directed by European creators who clearly learned English as a second language. They never seem to fully grasp how Americans actually talk and behave. So the films end up containing bizarre dialogue, ridiculous line-readings, and truly unusual characters. Juan Piquer Simón's Slugs is one such film. Based on the novel by the same name by Shaun Hutson, Slugs concerns a small town overrun by giant, carnivorous black slugs. Mutated by exposure to dumped toxic waste, the slugs multiply by the millions in the town's sewer system until they begin to attack the townsfolk. The plot is rather standard: a health inspector figures out what is happening yet finds himself incapable of getting the police and town authorities to do anything. Where Slugs shines is in its truly exceptional special effects. Some of the gore scenes are truly astonishing. One scene where a businessman literally erupts at a fancy restaurant after unknowingly eating a salad full of the slugs is particularly stomach-churning. Of course, there are also death scenes that are so insane that they become immediately endearing. My favorite involved an elderly couple who are attacked by the slugs in their garden. Somehow the scene ends with their garden erupting into a giant fireball. Does it make sense? No. Is it entertaining? Certainly!

6/10

Two Rode Together: John Ford

If you were to approach an average cinephile and ask them about that one John Ford movie where two cowboys go searching for children kidnapped by Native Americans, they would probably think of The Searchers (1956). But as it turns out, Ford made another film with this central plot device in 1961 entitled Two Rode Together. And though they were made by the same director and were only released about 5 years apart, the two films are almost completely different. Whereas The Searchers plays like a more traditional Western that just happens to sport incredibly cynical and tragic undertones, Two Rode Together is perhaps the most overtly nihilistic film Ford ever made. When Marshal Guthrie McCabe (James Stewart) is shanghaied by the US Military into negotiating the release of several kidnapped white settlers from a local group of Comanche Indians, he leaves for their camp along with his old friend Lieutenant Jim Gary (Richard Widmark). What they find in the Comanche camp is that the white settlers, many of which have been living with the Indians for almost a decade, have acclimated to their new lifestyle and are unwilling to return. However, McCabe and Gary force their return into a world which receives them with hostility, racial hatred, and contempt. One young boy who had been with the Comanche since he was a toddler kills his "mother" when she tries to cut his hair and is swiftly lynched (an especially shocking turn of events considering the fact that several of Ford's previous films had revolved around the prevention of a lynching). A young Mexican woman who had been forced to marry a Comanche man is treated with revulsion by the settlers because she didn't have the decency to kill herself when she was first captured. And then there is McCabe: a cynical, mean-spirited drunk who is repeatedly taken advantage of and abused by members of the US military and the settlers he was supposed to be helping. Not even several injections of warm-hearted Fordian humor can mask the film's undercurrent of resigned misanthropy.

8/10

The Blood Beast Terror: Vernon Sewell

It's easy to forget that Hammer Film Productions wasn't the only British film studio making horror films in the 50's and 60's. Another was Tigon British Film Productions, a company founded in 1966 that would go on to produce many low-budget horror and sexploitation films. Perhaps their greatest triumph was Michael Reeves' Witchfinder General (1968), a fictionalized account of the life of infamous 17th-century witch-hunter Matthew Hopkins. Released the same year as Witchfinder General was Vernon Sewell's The Blood Beast Terror, a film of admittedly lesser quality which mimics the Hammer Horror aesthetic so successfully that it could be easily mistaken for one of their productions. The film follows Scotland Yard Detective Inspector Quennell (played by Hammer standby Peter Cushing) as he investigates a string of grisly murders involving young men found mutilated and drained of blood. At first he suspects a giant bird of prey, but Quennell soon comes to the conclusion that his friend Dr. Carl Mallinger, a prominent entomology professor, may have something to do with it. And, indeed, he does. For Dr. Mallinger's daughter Clare is a "were-moth," a human that turns into a giant, blood-sucking moth at night. This premise is preposterous, but no more so than a scientist giving life to an amalgam of random body parts or a Transylvania count that can turn into a bat. What matters is the execution. And The Blood Beast Terror is satisfyingly competent.

6/10

Invisible Invaders: Edward L. Cahn

I...I love this movie. Edward L. Cahn's Invisible Invaders is like if Roger Corman directed a cross between Day of the Dead (1985) and Plan 9 from Outer Space (1959). It is a film so laughable in concept and execution that it is impossible to not find endearing. So, here's the set-up: invisible aliens want to conquer earth. They decide to do so by re-animating the body of John Carradine and having him inform a prominent scientist named Dr. Adam Penner that he has 24 hours to convince the entire population of earth to surrender. Of course, when he fails, they begin a terrible invasion which involves the re-animation of dead bodies "to kill the living" and the destruction of large portions of the planet. And by "large portions of the planet" I mean "places that aren't America." So Dr. Penner and some colleagues lock themselves into an underground bunker as they try and figure out a way to defeat these aliens. Their solution is more hilariously absurd than the one in M. Night Shyamalan's Signs (2002). Apparently these invisible, interstellar conquerors can be defeated by...SOUND WAVES!! Invisible Invaders is simply a joy to watch. Don't get me wrong: it's a terrible piece of filmmaking. But it's one of the most enjoyable pieces of terrible filmmaking that I've seen in a long time. I can't recommend it enough!

4/10

Mister Roberts: John Ford

Mister Roberts is as clear an encapsulation of director John Ford's views on the American military as was ever made. On the one hand is his ideal soldier: Lieutenant Junior Grade Douglas A. "Doug" Roberts, played by Henry Fonda, Ford's old stand-by actor for populist heroes. On the other is the tyrannical captain of the United States Navy cargo ship Reluctant: Lieutenant Commander Morton, played by James Cagney. Morton represents everything that Ford hated about military types: he is an iron-fisted glory-hound more concerned with his reputation and chances for promotion than the welfare of his men. He forces them to work in awful conditions despite reports that they are getting violently ill, he denies them shore leave, and he fetishizes an absurd palm tree awarded to the ship for its stellar performance record. In his quest for promotion, Morton refuses to let Roberts transfer to another ship, fearing that he will spread gossip about the "disharmony" under his command. Roberts, on the other hand, wants nothing more than to leave the Reluctant and join the crew of a ship that sees active combat. But he wants to fight not out of some thirst for adventure, glory, or recognition, but because he feels like it is his duty. He treats the men under his command with respect and takes the blame whenever they do something wrong. Quiet, composed, eager to serve his country, Roberts is everything Morton isn't. As an examination of the ethics that guided John Ford's direction (both morally and cinematically) for decades, Mister Roberts is invaluable. But as a piece of entertainment, it stumbles and comes up short. The central story detailing the struggle between Roberts and Morton is effective enough and the ending packs an emotional wallop. But the film is stymied by poor performances by many of the extras and Cagney, the latter of which over-acted with such abandon that one can't help but wonder if Ford used his worst takes deliberately. Of course, it would be amiss to not mention Jack Lemmon's Academy-Award-winning role as Ensign Frank Thurlowe Pulver, a lazy officer who spends almost the entire film avoiding Morton. He brings much needed levity in a rather sad and serious story. But in the end Mister Roberts is a film better suited for film scholars and historians than casual viewers.

6/10

Violent Streets: Hideo Gosha

Peter Bogdanovich once told Orson Welles that he had watched his film Touch of Evil (1958) four or five times before he "noticed the story." Why? Because he was mesmerized with the film's direction. I had a similar experience with Hideo Gosha's Violent Streets, a film burdened with a tired, generic Yakuza storyline yet blessed with a truly sensational and captivating visual aesthetic that elevates it into greatness. All you need to know about the plot is this: a retired gangster named Egawa is pulled into a war between two rival gangs, the Tokyo Yakuza and the Western Japan Association. The impetus for the war was the kidnapping, blackmailing, and accidental murder of a pop star under the employ of the Tokyo Yakuza. The crimes, which were quickly blamed on the Western Japan Association, were committed by Egawa's men without his knowledge or permission. And so Egawa must head back into the criminal underworld that he had abandoned so long ago. As I mentioned, anyone familiar with the Yakuza genre would immediately recognize these story beats. But Gosha transforms this cookie-cutter story into a mediation on violence worthy of Martin Scorsese and Sam Peckinpah (indeed, several shoot-outs mimic his slow-motion gun-play sequences). Gosha's widescreen compositions are nearly geometric in their obsession with balance and blocking. He frequently squeezes his characters to one corner or side of the frame and fills the negative space with brash colors and multiple fields of movement. Though he doesn't shoot in deep focus, his shots repeatedly reveal prominent objects in the fore-, middle-, and background that give his images extra texture and weight. Even a simple shot of Egawa lying in bed with a lover is amplified by colored lights which flash and modulate in the background. The action set pieces are remarkable, as well. Gosha manages to keep the violence fresh by framing it in bizarre environments: a junkyard strewn with mannequins, a giant chicken coop, the offices of a "talent" agency, the skeleton of a new building complex. Perhaps I have been too harsh in dismissing Violent Streets' plot. After all, to those not accustomed to the genre, its tried-and-true story of honor, responsibility, and violent destiny would seem enthralling. But the true star of the film is Hideo Gosha and his dazzling direction.

8/10

Attack of the Puppet People: Bert I. Gordon, Jack R. Berne

I can almost see the scene in my head: upon hearing the news that Jack Arnold's The Incredible Shrinking Man (1957) had been a hit, the higher-ups over at American International Pictures immediately reached for their phones, called their secretaries, and barked, "Get me Bert I. Gordon!" And so, a year after The Incredible Shrinking Man was released we have Bert I. Gordon's Attack of the Puppet People, a straight-forward sci-fi flick about an insane doll-maker who shrinks people down to the size of dolls. His mania is fueled by a fear of being alone and abandoned, a phobia sparked when his wife left him. John Hoyt's performance as the doll-maker is one of the film's highlights. He manages to hit that perfect combination of innocence and malevolence, of being a victim himself even while he victimizes others. There's a great subtle scene where he angrily twists a plastic doll head in his hands while discussing his ex-wife. This scene drives home the extent of his suffering more successfully than any overblown villain monologue could. Much like in Gordon's other films, the effects in Attack of the Puppet People are the main attractions. Some of them rank among the best he ever created. His use of miniaturized sets and props is fantastic. But the film also contains some of the worst effects he ever worked on. One particular shot where a "shrunken" kitten is projected onto the doll-maker's hands is particularly awful. But the film is competent and, for the most part, well-acted. In short: it's exactly what theater-goers in 1958 paid for.

5/10

The Last Hurrah: John Ford

The Last Hurrah is a quaint, quietly charming film by John Ford about a New England politician named Frank Skeffington (Spencer Tracy) who may be corrupt, may be virtuous, may be a power-hog, and may have nothing but the best of intentions. Whatever the case, he is getting on in years and knows that he only has one election left in him: his "last hurrah." Ford's film watches as he campaigns, makes promises, and issues threats to keep said promises. He is quite an enigma. On the one hand, he is obviously involved in questionable enterprises in order to maintain voting blocs. In one scene, he turns the wake of a local buffoon into one of the year's biggest social events simply by showing up. But his motives are more complex: he didn't attend to get attention, but to give the widow, a dear friend of his, some money to tide her over. And if the wake becomes an impromptu rally? Well, at least the widow will have "proof" that the entire town "cared about her husband." But despite the intimate nature of Ford's director and Tracy's natural magnetism, The Last Hurrah pales when compared to other films. As a political thriller that examines the true nature of campaigning, it lacks the urgency of All the King's Men (1949). And while it's nearly impossible to not see Ford projecting himself into the character of Skeffington, the film lacks the subtlety and emotional weight of other Fordian self-portraits like The Sun Shines Bright (1953) and The Long Gray Line (1955). There are two moments where Ford's genius shines through. The first is a sequence where Skeffington takes his nephew Adam Caulfield on a tour of the slum where he was born and raised. The second involves Skeffington's carefree, playboy son. In one scene he rushes off to spend another day drenched in jazz music and beautiful women. Right before he leaves, he assures his dad that he would definitely vote for him...at least he would have if he had remembered to register. This scene hits like a bullet to the gut. But despite these moments of greatness, The Last Hurrah exists solely as a minor work by the legendary director.

6/10

The Counselor: Ridley Scott

Ridley Scott's The Counselor is a pile of sun-faded puzzle pieces. At one time they may have formed a vivid, clearly defined picture. But now they lay bleached and jumbled; a chaotic mass with no rhyme and even less reason. The script, penned by legendary writer Cormac McCarthy, flirts with greatness. But it stumbles over its own feet and collapses in a mess of meaningless nihilism, bizarre non sequiturs, and philosophical navel-gazing. At its center is the eponymous Counselor, a successful lawyer who decides to make some extra money through the Mexican drug trade. However, his plans quickly collapse when his drugs are stolen. Though blameless, his professional connection as a lawyer with a client whose son was involved in the crime brings the full wrath of the Mexican cartels down upon his head. Everyone around him is either assassinated or brutalized. These events are, at first, vaguely suggested. They only become pronounced about an hour into the film. For the first half, we are submitted to scene after scene of strange characters waxing poetic about life while discussing murky "business" plans. In a proper thriller, this gradual revelation of motives would have been effective. But in The Counselor they are so poorly executed that they serve to frustrate and confuse the audience. McCarthy's rich prose is apparent in the flowery dialogue. But whereas in a book it would come across as mystic and intriguing, here it seems odd and out of place. Why? Because McCarthy's dialogue is unnatural. It exists for the benefit of an audience and not for effective communication between two characters. Do Mexican gangsters really love to wax poetic when they are destroying a man's life? Are lofty debates about human nature common when ruthless criminals sit down to discuss bank transactions? Do diamond merchants usually go on prolonged diatribes about the nature of the diamond industry with every client they service? Maybe The Counselor would have succeeded as a short story. But as a film it falters and weakly retreads ground already covered by other films based on McCarthy's work like No Country for Old Men (2007).

6/10