Un Prophet
A Prophet is an epic prison movie that tells the story of a young French Arab named Malik who does one crime too many and gets thrown into the clink with the big dogs. There are two gangs: one Muslim, one Corsican, and Malik must find a way to live for a six year sentence in the midst of their violent tendencies. Like Midnight Express made you not want to be a drug smuggler in Turkey, Un Prophet will make you not want to be a young French Arab thrust into the French penal system.
Upon entering the prison Malik is little more than a boy, a youth in over his head. He soon becomes the prey of the leader of the Corsican’s – Ceasar – who runs the prison and picks him to do the brutal job of murdering another inmate, something Malik is nowhere near prepared to do. As he readies himself to do the deed the tension in the film becomes brutal, when he does it it’s borderline unwatchable. When the blood comes the violence is not glorified and director Jacques Audiard leaves the music out; it would only get in the way. The hit is the turning point for Malik; it teaches him the savage lesson he needs to not only survive in this hell hole, but to thrive.
Un Prophet strikes the perfect balance between propulsive plot and character development. The events of the story – the extraordinary events – are what force Malik to change from innocent to guilty, from rube to tactician, from defender to offender. The changes within his character subsequently drive the story forward as his needs, desires and abilities change. It sounds so simple, but to do it as well as Un Prophet does is damn near impossible.
The third act of the film involves Malik’s effort to play a chess game in which he pits one gang agains the other. It’s the Dashiell Hammet Red Havest game, used to great effect in Miller’s Crossing and Fist Full Of Dollars. The Muslins on one side, the Corsicans on the other, and Malik in the middle with the gold. That’s his plan anyway, and it’s damn well worth watching to see how he fares. Watch it a few times.
Terribly Happy
This terrific film ended up in our queue on Netflix thanks to a cross referencing index that recommended it because it noticed we have an affinity for Scandinavian arthouse thrillers. It’s true, we do. And if you do as well, this one’s for you. If you don’t, or if you don’t know what to think of a film with this classification, we recommend giving it a shot. It’s a blend of classic noir and western elements. But characters in Scandinavian films are frequently deranged, suffering from some kind of psychosis thanks to the curse of endless winters and severe depression. Add a few guns, some booze and a tricky lady and you’ve got something to watch.
Terribly Happy tells the story of a cop (Robert) who’s been forced to take leave from his city job on the force in Copenhagen. Something, we don’t know what, went wrong and left him shaken. Now he’s been sent to a small town in the middle of nowhere to regroup and be marshall until whatever it is that happened blows over. Then he can go back to Copenhagen. One important factoid about this little town is that there’s a bog in which cows and the occasional person tend to go missing.
It quickly becomes apparent that our man Robert is not the only unsettled person in town. Everyone is a bit off kilter. He is also greeted with news that the bicycle shop is empty and the owner has gone missing and that there’s a brute who’s terrorizing his wife. Robert’s job to keep the peace quickly puts him between the wife, who needs protection, and the brute. No one in town wants to help him – the only communication extended his way is laughter behind his back – and the further things go the more difficult his position becomes.
The film withholds its secrets very nicely, doling them out in nuggets so we want to know more; and they get more powerful as the film progresses. What happened to our man in Copenhagen? Is this brute really as bad as everyone says or is his wife a looney? Why is there a little girl walking a stroller with squeaky wheels every evening?
It’s a beautiful film to look at with a great moody score that helps you slip into its world. Camera moves and compositions are elegant, well chosen, but don’t beg to be noticed. The setting is full of personality. The sky hanging over the town is always low and grey, puddles and mud line the roads, rooms are dark and dank. But somehow you are made to feel that this wouldn’t be such a terrible place to ride out one’s life.
Actors love to play parts in which their character holds some kind of secret. It gives them something to work with, to energize their scenes. As everyone in this town carries a bundle of secrets, all the actors are supplied with juicy motivations and complexities. It should be noted that the female lead is sexy but not a knockout, the protagonist is no Gary Cooper, the brute no James Mason. No one dominates the picture. But they all belong in it unconditionally. They inhabit the world as if it were their own. Is that not the definition of a great performance? They must have had as much fun making it as we did watching it.
We hope you have fun too and after you’ve watched it let us know if you share our love of Scandinavian arthouse thrillers.
Restrepo
America finds itself in the middle of a passionate debate concerning what to do about Afghanistan. Leaked documents declare it’s not going as well as we are led to believe. President Obama has declared we’re going to begin pulling out in 2011 and handing over control to the Afghan security forces. The military brass counter that we need to stay the course until victory is secured. “Restrepo” takes no open stance one way or the other, it only shows events as they happen in the war and the reaction of the soldiers. The goal of the filmmakers is that we ask ourselves whether or not this war is a fair thing to ask of the people we’re placing in the middle of the fight.
To give us the material we need to make such a judgement, Sebastian Junger and Tim Hetherington inserted themselves into Battle Company in the Korangal Valley, the deadliest valley in all of Afghanistan, for most of a 15 month tour. The title of the film refers to Juan Restrepo, a medic who is killed in action. On the way to Afghanistan we see him clowning around and drinking with his mates; it’s clear he is the spirit of the unit. Its heart and soul. He is wounded in action early in the tour and bleeds to death. Ironically, Restrepo’s mother took him to America to escape war ravaged Columbia when Juan was 6 only to have him die in battle in Afghanistan. When he grew up he decided to forgo college because the discipline of the Army appealed to him. He wrote back to his mother that many Afghans we got well because he handed out pills to them. He thought he was making a difference. Battle Company never recovers from losing him.
The leader of Battle Company, Capt. Kearney, is a man determined to honor the dead by accomplishing their mission. Under his guidance the unit launches a campaign to push the Taliban further into the valley. Their goal is to take over the land from which the Taliban launch their attacks to prevent them from taking offensive action. When they succeed they build a new outpost and name it after Restrepo. The bulk of the film consists of their efforts to hold their new position and win hearts and minds in the valley. They offer to build roads and follow up on infrastructure projects. They sit across from the table from stone faced elders with long red beards. It’s pretty clear that all the old men want is for the soldiers to leave so they can have their valley back and that this is a story they’ve seen played out before. They don’t want to talk about roads or water filtration projects or schools for girls, but they will negotiate about their dead cow. It seems the boys in Battle Company ate it after it got caught in a fence. The elders want a new one but are turned down and offered rice and beans. The deal making effort over the cow goes nowhere, let alone the effort to build a road through the valley.
Near the end of the tour it is decided to abandon Outpost Restrepo. The soldiers of Battle Company race to the chopper to get out of Afghanistan, thrilled to be getting out alive and to be coming home. Many admit they have no idea how they are going to adjust to society after war. Now we must decide if it was worth it. We should all watch Restrepo a few times before making up our minds then speaking up. Alas it’s only playing in a narrow release, but here’s hoping award season will help get it out there for all to see. It is a must.
Heat Wave
The mercury has been sighted north of 100. A scorcher. Hot. Africa hot. It never got this hot in Brooklyn. It’s almost too hot for you-know-what. Unless you believe Sweet Dick Willy, for whom it ain’t never too hot – or too cold – for you know what. Such meteorological conditions lead one to think of the southern latitudes where dealing with the heat is a way of life. The heat suffuses any story brought to the screen, where it is not only part o
f the physical world but often a character unto itself, making otherwise up-standing citizens do crazy things in crazy ways; it makes them impulsive, slippery, moist, anxious and dangerous. Here is a quick posting of four hot southern movies and one yankee version that boldly declares that, yes, it does get that hot in Brooklyn. Watch them in the heat with a cold beer against your forehead.
1. BODY HEAT- Florida, summer, hot, Kathleen Turner at her slinky, devious best. William Hurt as a hunky but less-than-brilliant attorney who is perfect fodder for her nefarious schemes. Ted Danson dances a graceful jig on a pier looking out to sea. And no matter how hot it is, everyone can’t help but light up a smoke just in case you missed the point. A neo-classic in the noir genre. Pop the top of an ice cold brew, kick back and press ‘play’.
2. COOL HAND LUKE – Cool Hand Luke was declared ‘The sweatiest movie ever’ by the regulars at Cheers as they famously debated the topic. It needs no further endorsement. Just a bunch of men, led by Paul Newman, doing manly things on the chain gang and in the barracks in a Louisiana prison. You’ve seen it before, many times perhaps. Keep it new by conducting a drinking game where everyone has to sip from a cold beer every time any overt Christ imagery is spotted on the screen. You’ll be schnockered by the end.
3. ANGEL HEART – Harry Angel, played by Mickey Rourke, is a Brooklyn private dick who catches a bizarre case from a diabolical client played by Robert DeNiro. This film deftly combines elements of pulp noire with the supernatural and the occult. It proved controversial up its release thanks to Bill Cosby’s negative reaction to his on-screen daughter, Lisa Bonet’s, nudity and overt sexuality. Remember when she was the famous half of her relationship with Lenny Kravitz? Harry’s investigation takes him from the chilly winter climes of Upstate New York to the sweltering streets of New Orleans to the sticky backwoods of the bayou as he gets closer and closer to his quarry. His clean, nicely-pressed suit becomes a soggy, wrinkly, ripped up bag as the sitch gets hotter and stickier.
4. BILOXI BLUES – Matthew Broderick stands in for writer Neil Simon as a Brooklyn native shipped to Biloxi, Mississippi for basic training in the waning days of WWII. Christopher Walken is the drill sergeant who torments him. Funny, touching, hot: ”Wow, it’s hot. It never got this hot in Brooklyn.” Boys become men as the specter of unparalleled violence and its promise of early, tragic death across the ocean hangs over them like the suffocating Southern heat.
5. HEAT OF THE NIGHT - In sticking with the theme of Northerners venturing into territories and weather conditions unknown and unfamiliar, here’s another one. Sidney Poitier playing a cop from Philly – “They c
all me Mr. Tibbs!” – finds himself in, yes, Mississippi, in the middle of a murder case that makes little sense on the surface. Carroll O’Conner is the racist cop with whom he must work to ensure that justices is done. Few scenes capture the idle torpor of a hot southern night, when it’s too hot to even sleep, like the one with a counter attendant swatting at flies at midnight in a all-night coffee shop. It’s so hot you can taste it.
6.DO THE RIGHT THING – Here’s to show that we know hot up here, too. It’s the hottest day of the year in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. That’s right, Brooklyn again, but this time the locals need not venture south to get their dose of heat. Samual L. Jackson, as the DJ at WE-LOVE radio, pronounces at the opening: “The word of the day is ‘HOT’!”. Every thing is hot: the sidewalk is hot, the pizza is hot, the tempers are hot, and, of course, the relations between races,black/white/latin/asian reach the boiling point with tragic consequences. Why does Mookie throw the garbage can through the window of Sal’s Famous at the end? To strike a blow at Sal? To divert the riotous crowd toward the restaurant and away from Sal and his boys, thereby saving their lives? Debate this after viewing over steaming hot pizza and ice-cold cokes, or, like Da Mayor, with some Miller High Life.
Exit Strategy
It’s taken some time to fully process what transpired. Such a mixture of emotions: pride, exhilaration, disappointment, depression. The whole experience was so exhausting that we still find ourselves still making mental errors: losing keys, mailing things to the wrong people, arriving at the beach with no towel. Global news like Afghanistan and Financial Reform seem meaningless and trivial. In the end all that remains on our minds is a sense of unfulfillment, the loss of a great chance to make the semi-finals without having to face a world power. No Germany, no Argentina, no Brasil. Only Ghana and Uruguay. Frankly, it’s still agonizing. The phrase that sticks is:‘it could have been done’.
But after watching the true heavyweights methodically destroy weaker opposition (Germany over England, Argentina over Mexico, Brasil over Chile, Netherlands over Slovakia) we are feeling a little better. We have come to realize that all irrational exuberance aside, the USA’s exit was inevitable due to poor management of energy (mostly due to a lack of talent) that left us in a state of exhaustion after group play.
As tennis players, the analogy we think of is that of the qualifier who drives to the US Open in a ratty station wagon and battles through qualifying to make the main draw. In the first two rounds he comes back from two sets to love to win thrilling five setters. He becomes the fan favorite, a spirited player who wins with spunk and boundless energy, who is not afraid of showing emotion. A Cinderella story.
In the third round he runs into Roger Federer. It’s a thrashing and could never be anything less. The newbie is not only without the weapons to compete with such a master, but is also utterly spent and playing on dead legs due to his Hurculean effort to reach the third round. Meanwhile Federer has made swift work of his opening two matches, barely breaking a sweat and losing only a handful of games. He is fresh, confident, ready to kill. He knows not only how to win matches, but tournaments.
The closest thing to Fed in the World Cup is Brasil, the five time champs who won three games in group without breaking out of a slow jog, then dismantled Chile. They still look fresh as daisies, they still conserve vital energy for the later stages of the tournament when it’s needed most. There were no last minute heroics required. Even without Kaka, they didn’t miss a beat. They’ve been kicking the ball around to each other with the joy that defines their culture, while opponents have been frantically scurrying about exhausting themselves. When Brasil is finished mesmerizing the opponent and sees the opening, they strike. When they strike, they don’t miss. It’s brutal, clinical, and done with supreme talent and organization and with the expressive and fluid style of their nation.
The US, on the other hand, seems in desperate need to get rid of the ball one way or the other after three passes. Call it a lack of talent, organization, confidence, whatever. But it means we then have to chase, where we look more comfortable. We will never give up, sure, but we will wither. If the US somehow kept up our golden run and got through Ghana and Uruguay, it is most likely Brasil would have been waiting in the semis. We would have been a spent force, unable to chase any longer, and we would have been slaughtered. So there’s no use crying over Ghana.
As Americans we are not interested only in ‘good results’. We want to win the whole enchilada or what’s the point. To win the World Cup we must, therefore, use this tournament to get better, to analyze our weaknesses and turn them into strengths. To learn from the best teams and emulate them, but with our own spirit and tenacity that defines out nation and got us past Slovenia.
First we need to get our best athletes on the pitch, not our second or third best. We need Reggie Bush playing left back, Derek Jeter playing defensive midfield, Carlos Boozer playing full back. Then with that in place we need to learn how to possess the ball for longer stretches to conserve energy. Having Feilhaber, Bradley and Edu on the pitch all at the same time was a calming influence and a good start. More of that, please, but without waiting for the second half to implement it. If we employ men like this early on, surely we won’t give up so many early goals.
It’s become clear both to us and to the American public that NOT winning this tournament is unacceptable. It would be nice if President Obama would say this straight up and make it a part of America’s mission for recovery. Soccer is a pick up game that requires only a ball and a few shirts or sticks for goals. Considering how fat and broke we are, this could be a great cure for what ails us.
The culture is growing but it must grow faster. We must have better athletes with the ability to not only win games, but to control them. We need leagues with relegation and promotion that are in synch with the world’s, we need youth academies, and we need all of it in four years so we can go down to Brasil and break their hearts the way Ghana has broken ours the last two years. As an American I see that as no problem. It’s what we do rather than sit around moping about the last loss. We can leave that to our poor friends in England. So we are done moping and ready to get cracking.
To Win
There are no fans we feel closer to during this World Cup than the English. They are family. Their nation gave birth to ours. We remain indebted to them for a large portion of our culture, from our language to how to get bogged down in Afghanistan and wreck an otherwise nicely functioning empire. Ever since we drew England in our group, our teams have been joined at the hip. Americans have been learning to call a ‘field’ a ‘pitch’, a ‘uniform’ a ‘kit’, and a ‘tie’ a ‘result’. We proceeded to show on the pitch that we’ve also learned a great deal about how to compete in the game England is credited with inventing, or at least codifying. But after suffering a scoreless draw against Algeria and facing early elimination, it’s high time for the English to learn something vital from us Yanks: how to win.
We have heard all sorts of reasons for the lack luster performance of the English side: their big-name players aren’t as good as their salaries would indicate and the lesser teams have closed the gap in talent; Fabio Capello is too tactical and is, therefore, sucking the life from the team; Rooney and others are exhausted from the endless European competitions; poor training to adapt to the high altitude of SA has left the team weak. None of this is as important as the behavior of the fans of England, who seem committed to the utter destruction of their team.
The English fans and media exhibit a relentless display of negativity, and it has clearly infected the team. It feels as if the supporters of the English side are actually pleased to witness the collapse of their team so they can commence shitting on the players, the coaches and themselves. This is not, needless to say, a winning attitude. The English need to make a choice: either continue using their national soccer team as a means to vent their deep national psychosis – or to focus their energies on the positive support the team needs to actually win games.
Take the case of the American fans. We fall behind in every game as a result of stupid blunders. We cannot control the ball for more than three passes without turning it over for no apparent reason. The fans have every opportunity to hurl insults on the porous back line, on Manager Bob Bradley for starting a one legged Onyewu. And all of this goes on in a nation facing too many crises to mention, that is probably in the midst of losing its own empire, whose water is on fire in the gulf, whose infrastructure is crumbling, where unemployment is high and everyone is fat and weak. What is our national response? We take the ‘can do’ approach, pull up our socks, and go about the business of mounting a comeback. We never lose belief even if it’s delusional. This character trait was displayed against both England and the Slovenians and will be there no matter what happens against Algeria. As the great American Bluto Blutarski famously declared, “Nothing is over until we decide it is.”
Coaches have learned to break sports down into layers and components: tactics, technique, fitness, and the mental game, both emotional and psychological. These things can be learned, analyzed and then taught. Losers can become winners. But they need support, encouragement, an understanding that fighting to the end is more important than the result. The team must know that their fans love them for this effort. This affection instills confidence. From confidence comes performance. Performance breeds victory. If the English fans can harness their collective positive emotion, if it still exists, if they can sing God Save The Queen and You’ll Never Walk Alone for 90 minutes, their team will have a much greater chance of beating Slovenia. America may not win but we’ll give ‘em hell to the last whistle, moan for a little while, then look for another fight. If the English don’t learn this lesson from American, they will never be a serious force again, either on or off the pitch.
A Football Conversion
There once was a time we thought like you: we had no place for the world’s game of “football” in our life. There was only one football, it was uniquely American, and it was played by big men in tights who used their hands to throw or carry a pigskin, not their feet. We were American exceptionalists who cared not a shit about what the world sport community declared ‘worldly’. Then we experienced the summer of 1994. After that awakening we were converted and like all converts we now want to preach to you to join the cult. But there is nothing we can say to make you feel the way we do. In order for that to happen you must take advantage of the coming opportunity to find your own personal experience that shows you the light. The World Cup is here again and you need to know what it means.
In the summer of ’94 we were living in LA when the World Cup descended upon a mostly oblivious American populous. Pockets of immigrant communities got organized, but the base population regarded it as a sideshow. A sideshow that happened to be the highest attended single sporting event in American history. And the total attendance of 3.6 million people remains the highest in World Cup history. But none of us cared. Us transplanted New Yorkers were too busy with Mark Messier leading the Rangers to the Stanley Cup, Patrick Ewing coming agonizingly close to leading the Knicks the Championship until Starks missed a game winner and OJ Simpson went bananas and interrupted Game 6 with a car chase. We were desperately trying to find meaning in the hopeless Dave Brown era of the New York Giants. But ask the rest of the world what they remember about 1994 and they will recall only Roberto Baggio’s penalty kick sailing over the bar, making Brasil the first team to win 4 titles.
As focused sports fans we dutifully watched the USA games. We got a taste of victory
by taking out Columbia. Irrational optimism was squashed soon after in an admirable 1-0 loss to Brasil. Despite the loss, we got a sense that Brasil was up to something. Not only did their team play a beautiful style that was easy on the eyes, but their fans brought a love of the game, a joy, that was infectious. And their women were beyond belief; they swiveled their hips relentlessly to the samba while adorned in skimpy canary yellow shirts with wide and inviting smiles on their faces. When Brasil made the final against Italy we decided to scalp tickets.
We stuffed a few hundred dollars in our pockets – our life savings – and hit the road. We were met with immediate disappointment as the Rose Bowl was a zoo. We had underestimated the meaning of this contest. Tickets were $400 a pop and no one was budging. But someone was kind enough to inform us that the nearby bars of old town Pasadina were rocking.
We were the only white boy Americans in the bar full of Brasillians. They made us their mascots, bought us drinks and rubbed out heads for luck. The game was a defensive grind, not suited to the lovers of the beautiful game. All the same the drums never stopped, the hips kept swivelling and there was no doubt in their minds who would prevail. Then Roberto Baggio lined up his kick with Italy down 4-3 in penalty kicks. If he missed it was over, but if he made it one could sense Brasil would become afraid. He did not make it. The bar erupted in a chaos that makes a New York Yankee parade look like an old ladies’ knitting club. We were immediately tackled, eye glasses went flying across the room to be smashed and never found, a man with tears flowing down his cheeks showered us with kisses. The emotion was insane, as if three world wars had been won in an instant. We danced, we drank, we kissed. Everyone poured out of the bar into the street to meet the crowd from the Rose Bowl: in the street a sea of Brasillians were sweeping past. Singing. Jumping. Crying. Pounding drums.
We exited the bar and were swept up by the current like twigs on the shoulder of a mighty stream. We lost each other and there would be no connecting until the sun was long down and an absurd number of beers were consumed with the happiest people on the planet.
We finally met at our car. Both of us curled up and went to sleep until we were capable of navigating. We didn’t know how we would make it home. But we knew one thing: we would never miss another World Cup again.
This year we will host USA – England at our house. If you are invited, say ‘yes’. Then you too may learn what this all means. And it will be good.
Ole, ole, ole, oleeeee, USAaaaaa, USAaaaaaa!
Animal House
The inevitable question: what’s your favorite film? It’s the kind of question that can make a filmmaker squirm. There are many moods and hundreds of favorites, all important for different reasons. The pressure is overwhelming to veer off onto a long diatribe on the recognized master works: Citizen Kane, Rashoman, 8 1/2… Our love for these movies and their influence cannot be denied. But what more is there to say that hasn’t already been said? And how does a filmmaker talk about these pictures without sounding like a pretentious swine who should be wearing a black mock turtleneck, matching beret and chain smoking hand rolled cigarettes? So on this day we choose a film that provokes the declaration that is not a serious film and, therefore, has no place in this discussion. But we are deadly serious when we declare Animal House to be one of the greatest films ever made. Not only is it relentless in its hilarity (and isn’t making a human laugh the most difficult and important thing to do in life?) but the story also happens to be a retelling of one of the most serious works of all time: Milton’s Paradise Lost.
You probably responded with a guffaw and a quick dismissal of our hypothesis as absurd. By the end of this argument we hope you will agree that Animal House should take it’s place on any-and-all Best Of lists. Let’s start by considering the log lines for both Milton’s work and Landis’s:
Paradise Lost: the story of how Adam and Eve are corrupted by Satan and cast out of the Garden of Eden. The act of Satan is one of vengeance, for he and his minions are at war with God over their refusal to bow down to his authority. Upon losing this battle they are cast out of heaven into the pits of hell.
Animal House: the story of how Pinto and Flounder are corrupted by the Delta House and ultimately thrown out of college. The Deltas are in the midst of a knock ‘em out drag it out war of insurrection with the brutal regime of Dean Wormer, to whom they will not kneel. Wormer ultimately casts them all out of the bucolic college to be drafted into the hell of Vietnam.
Not only are the stories the same, but they both share the same thesis: that the logical choice on this earth is to align oneself with the devil. It’s much more fun and God is vindictive, vengeful and, well, kind of an asshole.
Garden of Eden = Faber
The opening shot of Animal House is of the statue of Emil Faber. On the base of the stature is the maxim, “Knowledge is Good”, a reference to the tree of knowledge, the fruit of which spelled doom for Adam and Eve. We then find Larry Kroger and Kent Dorfman, a wimp and a blimp, strolling across the utopian quadrangle of Faber on a fine evening, oblivious to what evils lurk before them. Like Adam & Eve they are total innocents, yet to be seduced by Satan. The forbidden fruit, however, will soon be laid before them in the form of a keg of beer hurled through a window of the Delta House. The door swings open and, after urinating on Dorfman, the inviting nectar is proffered by Bluto Blutarski (Beezlebub) (“Grab a brew! Don’t cost nothin’!”). Kroger and Dorfman make their irrevocable choice and drink from the cup: their fate is sealed: they are transformed into Pinto and Flounder. By the time the Deltas are through with these two one will steal meats from the local market and have sex with a 13 year old girl, the other will break his brother’s sacred trust by destroying his car, practice insurance fraud, murder a horse and throw up on Dean Wormer. They will be both be thrown out of school for their misdeeds, cast out of the garden, their original system of values trashed; but we root for them all the way. For the alternative is Neidermeyer, Marmalard and the heavenly assholes of Omega House.
Heaven = Omega. Hell=Delta. Choose Hell.
Consider the scenes of initiation: the Delta pledges are rounded up in the night, taken down to the basement of the dank, filthy Delta House, illuminated by a faint red light of moral decay, where they are read mocking, paganistic vows of obedience by Hoover, a man literally wearing horns on his head. Their silly names are bestowed upon them by Bluto then they get drunk and sing a song whose words cannot be understood due to hard core inebriation (Louie, Louie). In other words, they have a hell of a good time as they pledge sympathy for the devil, debase themselves, laugh and squeal with delight, and learn how to have fun.
Then we pan over and glide upward to the upper floors of their neighbors: the Omega House. At Omega we find Kevin Bacon and his mates in their tighty whiteys in the process of “consecrat(ing) the bonds of obedience”. They are paddled on the ass in a homo-erotic ceremony run by Greg Marmalard and Douglas C. Neidermeyer, both attired in hooded, monk-like robes . After each spank the pledges bark, “Thank you Sir, may I have another!” WHACK! The Omega insignia hangs behind them. It is… yes, a cross.
Wormer = God
The Lord of the AH world is Dean Wormer. He demands order in his universe like the God of PL. But unfortunately for him his every moment is disturbed by the chaos of the Deltas: a golf ball struck by Otter smashes a glass on his desk, a meeting with the Mayor is disturbed by a chain saw ripping apart the legs of a dead horse, his wife falls out of bed after getting taken advantage of by Otter at a toga party, his toilets explode, toilet paper litters his trees, medical cadavers are delivered to his senior honors dinner, fizzies are dumped in the pool before the big swim meet.
Worner (yup, ‘worm’) vows to crush this rebellion and, frankly, he has just cause. The world of liberal arts institutions has been set back decades by college students imitating the behavior of the Deltas, and much harm has been done. Wormer must stop it. But we hate him for trying.
Wormer’s foot soldiers in this war are the Omegas, who willingly serve: Marmalard his JC (or perhaps Gabriel) and Neidermeyer his Michael. They gather intelligence for him, carry out his schemes. But often they prove incompetent. [Recall how Satan slips past Michael and into the Garden, even though Michael knows Satan is coming. WTF?]
Paladium = ΔΤΧ House
In PL when Satan and his minions find themselves on the losing end of the long battle, stuck in hell with no way out, a rousing speech is made by Beezlebub in Paladium. His words rally the troops for a desperate, futile gesture, one more fight against the Lord that has no chance to succeed. In Beezlebub’s place Mr. Landis gives us Bluto Blutarski (John Belushi), one of the finest comedic characters ever devised in the history of cinema. After Otter has been beaten to a pulp and the Deltas are placed on double secret probation, only Bluto stands tall. He gives such a rousing speech that it’s played in sports arenas to this day, proof of its literary pedigree.
Satan
Lest there is any doubt remaining concerning the fact that AH is a retelling of PL, consider the role of Dave Jennings (Donald Sutherland) who teaches a class on Milton and Paradise Lost. While Flounder sketches a fighter plane destroying civilian targets, Jennings stands before the class and lectures on Satan, “the most compelling character” in PL. As he kicks back and bites into an APPLE, he asks the class, “was Milton trying to tell us that being bad is more fun than being good? [chomp]” Yes, he was, and so is Landis.
And of course Professor Jennings gives his students drugs and sleeps with them.
All of this aside, Animal House is the all time great movie with respect to the Piss Test. Try and walk out of this film at any moment to use the loo. When you are in there you will hear howls emanating from the TV room telling you that you missed something hilarious: A devil and an angel both trying to convince Pinto do their bidding w/r/t a passed-out-drunk 13 year old girl. (Devil: “you’ll never get a better chance!”), Bluto in the cafeteria, the killing of the horse. The fact is that there are so many hilarious scenes “so disgusting and profane that decorum prohibits listing them here.”There is no greater test in our book, and with that we hope you will agree that this is an all time great film, the best ever if you’re in the mood for a serious film that concerns itself with the single most serious story ever told but is also guaranteed to make you laugh your ass off.
Faithfully submitted on this day by Playa516, film critics at large.
Predator
1987 – Directed by John McTiernan
We at Playa516 live in awe of Citizen Cane, are mesmerized by Rashoman, and are intimidated by The Thin Red Line. But there is no picture we have viewed more times than Predator.
Written by the Thomas Brothers, directed by John McTiernan (Die Hard) and starring not one, but two future State Governors (Schwarzenegger & Ventura), Predator is a deeply satisfying film. We say this without irony, without winking. This film was made when action pictures were respected as works of art, directed by real craftsmen. Every shot in Predator is composed with great care, the camera moves are fluid and precise, they are made only to elicit emotion or to reveal information. The film is the creative genesis of the modern creature POV shot. And it is an action picture of unparalleled action.
Predator tells the story of Dutch (Arnold Schwarzenegger), the leader of an elite rescue team of special forces men, who is called into action by his old chum Dillon (Carl Weathers) to attempt a rescue mission of hostages. The hostages are held in the steamy tropical jungle of an unnamed Central American nation. But something is rotten in Denmark. Dillon seems untrustworthy and Dutch fears his plan may compromise the ethics of Dutch’s team, who somehow are allowed to refuse hired assassin jobs. Conflict ensues. But pretty soon none of this matters because the group is descended upon by a ferocious and indomitable alien out on a hunting vacation. Said alien collects human skulls as trophies and also happens to be invisible. The plan is out the window.
The reason this film has been watched so many time was that as a senior in boarding school one of us managed to lodge a copy of it in his VHS and got it stuck there for the entire year. For a while packs of friends would join nightly viewings; soon they grew bored of the repetition and stopped coming. We never stopped. We were soon capable of recounting lines to every scene as if reciting Shakespeare, but rather than Old English we employed the Austrian accent of Arnold:
“My men are not expendable… and I don’t do this kind of work.”
-Dutch, Act II, Scene III
“What’s the matter Dillon, CIA got you pushing too many pencils?”
-Dutch, Act 1, Scene II
“He’s using the trees.”
-Dutch, Act III, Scene IV
Then something interesting happened. In a classics class one of us recognized a reference in Predator to The Illiad Book XVI (Achilles mo
urns Petroclus) when Mac (Bill Duke) mourns his lost friend, Blain (Jesse Ventura). In Homeric tradition this mourning is followed by the proper ritual of burial under night sky whilst vowing revenge.
Another scene that stood out to us was Billy (Sonny Landham) explaining to the rest of the crew that:
“There’s something out there, and it ain’t no man… We’re all gonna die.”
-Billy, Act IV, Scene III
The debate that ensues concerning the existence of this mysterious presence in the jungle was not dissimilar to one from a religious theory class concerning The Grand Themes. The men in the jungle are questioning not only the existence of the Predator, but of God. And those who believe he does exist are made brutally aware of his malevolence and capriciousness.
Lastly there is the scene in which the Predator cleans the skull of one of his victims and thoughtfully runs his fingernail along its forehead. One almost expects him to take a deep breath then begin:
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a
thousand times, and now how abhorr’d in my imagination it is!
My gorge rises at it.
The Thomas Brothers did their homework, which is why the film gains more and more meaning with subsequent viewings. And that is the true measure for films if they are to be classified as works of art.
Rest assured you will not be hit in the head with any of this. It’s an action picture that moves relentlessly. The death count is high, there is no character development, there is no love interest to worry about, which you will find a surprising relief. The only character who changes is Dillon, who must seek redemption for his misdeeds. And in the end the clash between Predator and Dutch is a lengthy sequence that delivers the goods.
A few more things to mention: the score, which you probably won’t notice, will stay with you. You will hum it in the shower and while walking down the street. Dum Dutta Duta. Dum Dutta Duta, Dit, Dit, Dit. The cast is the all-star team of action heros. Worth a mention is Kevin Peter Hall as The Predator, a masterful creation that is not made of ones and zeros. The scene in which he repairs a damaged leg makes you certain the Predator is a living, breathing being that feels pain, that suffers, that is surprised and extremely irritated to find his vacation completely spoiled. This is a fate we all can pity; and to pity a villain is one more master stroke.
Owning Mahowny
2003 – Directed by Richard Kwietniowsky
The biggest problem with Owning Mahowny is that it was released seven years prior to the bank implosions of the Great Recession. The timing is unfortunate because the picture offers a wonderful explanation of how bankers could behave so recklessly and immorally with other people’s money. It explains how they could act with no regard for ethics, no love for their neighbors, no appreciation for anyone or anything other than themselves and their relationship with money. After viewing Owning Mahoney you will understand what drives these people. And in a strange way you may envy them.
The picture tells the true story of a Canadian bank manager named Dan Mahowny (Philip Seymour Hoffman) who syphoned off $10.2 million from a Toronto bank in order to fuel his ferocious gambling habit. His behavior went about unnoticed as he signed forms to withdraw tens of thousands of dollars here, hundreds of thousands there, and flew off to Atlantic City to blow it all in the casino. The whole thing got completely out of hand and eventually he was doomed to be caught.
Fair warning: there are many dangerous choices made by director Richard Kwietniowski (Love and Death on Long Island) that could make you dislike this picture, not the least of which is that the protagonist is completely detestable. And he doesn’t make up for it by being funny or ironic or drop dead gorgeous. He’s chubby, shlubby, cruel and pathetic. He treats his fiance (Minnie Driver) abominably, he steals from everyone in sight, he lies pathologically, and he has such bad taste that when any meal he could ever desire is offered to him by the pit boss (John Hurt) of his favorite casino all he can request is ribs with no sauce and a coke. How is it possible to stick with someone like that for 107 agonizing minutes? Because of Philip Seymour Hoffman, one of the great actors of our day. I don’t know how many times Mr. Hoffman can perform in such a manner that it seems he has cracked some secret code of acting. Where others rant, rave, scream and cry, he holds things in, offers nothing except a slight tick or gentle massaging of the temple that indicates he is, in fact, ready to burst. Therein lies the secret to the tension in his performances. He will help you to understand Mahowny’s suffering and in the end even if you don’t sympathize with him, you will probably empathize with him. In film that can be enough.
Here’s the bizarre thing about Owning Mahoney: in a way you may applaud this deviant criminal. You see, there is only one thing he is passionate about in life – gambling – and he devotes himself utterly to his pursuit of it. He is willing to sacrifice his woman, his freedom (for surely he must be caught), his friends, and all the rest of humanity if he can only be left alone with the dice or the cards. How many of us have passions we let simmer on back burners, dreams we do not pursue? Mr. Mahoney refuses to be one of these do nothings, who in most of minds are far lesser men than those who at least give it a go. “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” And Mahowny lost, for unlike Lloyd Blankfein, he did not get a bailout.