Only now does it occur to me... THE GODFATHER!

Only now does it occur to me... that Sterling Hayden's Captain McClusky is the most lovable character in THE GODFATHER.

At first glance, it might not seem like it's the case, but hear me out. When I first saw the film sometime in the early 90s, I had no idea who Sterling Hayden was. Subsequent viewings upgraded him to "the guy from DR. STRANGELOVE" and later to "the guy in all those films noir" and finally, ultimately, to "Sterling mutherfucken Hayden." Yes, I became a full-fledged fanatic. You can read what I've written about him (and some of his fantastic life story) HERE.

Anyway, who is Captain McClusky? At best, a supporting role; at worst, a throwaway henchman. But to me, he's simply the bee's knees.

He first appears as a big lug police captain who's on the take from the nefarious narcotics man, Sollozzo (played by Al Lettieri, of MR. MAJESTYK and THE GETAWAY), punching devoted son Michael (Al Pacino) outside his father's hospital, and, okay, I'll admit that that's not very nice.

But look how happy he is!

Hey, though– he even apologizes later!

He's like a lovable gym teacher, or a kid's soccer coach. "Sorry I had to ride you so hard before the last game, Mikey, but you have to admit, doing those extra laps gave you back the eye of the tiger." Look at his back-slappin', "good job, son" face:

He probably just got back from Grandparents' Day at the local elementary.
Conversely, look at Pacino: planning to kill him. Plotting to bump off sweet old McClusky. What a mean guy. Yet there's a little satisfaction hidden beneath there, too. He's probably already contemplating the horrors of THE GODFATHER PART III.

Then they go to dinner. McClusky's just interested in some veal. Best in the city. Just a sweet old man eatin' some veal. Sollozzo reveals that he'd like to speak privately with Michael in Italian, and look at McClusky:

He's a "go-with-the-flow" kind of a guy. Speak your Italian, make your gangland deals, just leave me to my meal. He's simple, meat-and-potatoes. Well, mostly potatoes, if ya know what I mean, but hey, aren't we all.

Then Michael leaves to retrieve the murder weapon from the bathroom. McClusky's not worried. He frisked him already. He's frisked a thousand punks.

He's so matter-of-fact about it, too. He's not bragging. He's a humble, blue-collar hero who happens to be in the volatile business of punk-frisking. Is that any reason why he should have to die? You tell me.

Then, when Michael's been gone for an inordinate amount of time, he glances toward the bathroom.

It's not an evil glance, nor a scheming one. I think, and correct me if I'm wrong here, that it's a fatherly look. He's genuinely concerned that Michael's having some sort of an issue in the bathroom. Grandpa McClusky is here, ready and willing: need me to fix the toilet, Mikey?, having some trouble with the paper towel dispenser, Mikey?, I have a fine stool softener you can borrow if you'd like, Mikey. What a gent.

Then Michael comes out, and, after a tense moment where you're unsure if he's going to go through with it, actually going to shoot the beloved Gramps McClusky– he does.

I won't even show it here. I'm tearing up, just thinking about it. Doesn't even let him finish his bite of veal. Pretty rough stuff. Here's to you, Captain McClusky; only now does it occur to me that you're THE GODFATHER's emotional core. Or at least the core of veal-luvin', vaguely brutish grandfatherliness. Pass the Werther's.

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Film Review: BARFLY (1987, Barbet Schroeder)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 100 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Mickey Rourke, Faye Dunaway, Alice Krige (CHARIOTS OF FIRE, SLEEPWALKERS), Jack Nance (ERASERHEAD, TWIN PEAKS), J.C. Quinn (THE ABYSS, DAYS OF THUNDER), Joe Unger (TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE 3, ROAD HOUSE), Gloria LeRoy (THE DAY OF THE LOCUST, THE NIGHT THEY RAIDED MINSKY'S), Sandy Martin (BIG LOVE, REAL GENIUS), Frank Stallone (Sylvester's brother), Pruitt Taylor Vince (WILD AT HEART, DEADWOOD). Cinematography by Robby Müller (PARIS, TEXAS; DEAD MAN, DANCER IN THE DARK, BODY ROCK, TO LIVE AND DIE IN L.A.). Music by Jack Baran, John Lurie, Produced by Francis Ford Coppola, Menahem Golan, Yoram Globus, Tom Luddy, & Fred Roos. Written by Charles Bukowski (FACTOTUM, HOLLYWOOD, POST OFFICE, HAM ON RYE).
Tag-line: " Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."
Best one-liner: "And as my hands drop the last desperate pen, in some cheap room, they will find me there and never know my name, my meaning, nor the treasure of my escape."

BARFLY is not a pitiful, kitchen sink drama about down-on-their-luck losers. It's not sappy award-season fodder, manipulatively constructed for tugging upon heartstrings and emptying tear-wells. And it's not some slacker ode, designed as a pat on the back for white-bred goof-offs who occasionally daydream about what it'd be like to take a week off work to go on a bender. BARFLY is sincerely dangerous and dangerously sincere, and it is because BARFLY is a philosophy. BARFLY is about winnin' one for the bums, even if that means yankin' the pillars of civilization down on all our heads. It's about taking one's intellect- a genius that could surely have moved mountains– and applying it instead to more expedient techniques for fucking with the night bartender at the local saloon (played with knuckleheaded élan by Frank Stallone).

Its dipsomaniacal protagonist, Henry Chinaski (a recurring Bukowski alter-ego– well, let's just be honest and say 'a Bukowski with a different name'), is played by Mickey Rourke with lunatic gusto which ever threatens to escape the mere confines of the cinema-frame.

He lurches about like a movie-monster, dragging his feet like Frankenstein, teetering on his haunches like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, leering like Dwight Frye. He is a gutter-poet, an amateur street-fighter, and a professional drunk.

Ostensibly, he stands for nothing, but, in a way, he stands for everything. He is that rare negative man, he who defines himself by what he is not. Is he a simple misanthrope? Does he just hate people? "No, but I seem to feel better when they're not around," he mumbles. Does he simply hate 'the powers that be,' the cops? "I don't know, but I seem to feel better when they're not around."

His entire life is a war waged against the status quo, the skirmishes and campaigns of which take place in stagnant, lonely flophouses; noxious, grotty gin-joints; and desolate street corners at 3:00 in the morning. His many victories against society are private ones- they are not sung from the rooftops or celebrated annually by giggling schoolchildren– they're for himself, and for himself only. A wry, split-lip smile reflected back by cracked, dirty mirror.

It takes a certain breed of self-assured filmmaker (Mike Leigh and his 1993 film NAKED also come to mind) to construct a film whereupon the protagonist begins the film as a (self-described) "asshole," spends the entire film being an asshole, and finishes the film as an asshole. Then, as you leave the theater, you realize that you're an asshole. I guess it's kinda counter-intuitive to the Hollywood formula.

Well, Golan & Globus were willing to take a chance, and it was on French filmmaker Barbet Schroeder (KOKO, A TALKING GORILLA; MORE!; REVERSAL OF FORTUNE; TRICHEURS), for whom BARFLY was a seven-year labor of love. It was also quite nearly a labor of flesh: upon learning of Cannon's financial difficulties, Schroeder was told that BARFLY may have to be pushed back on the schedule. Seizing the moment (and a Black & Decker saw), Schroeder burst into Cannon's offices, threatening to cut off his own finger if the film were delayed yet again– the reasoning being that the film was a part of him, just as real and as tangible and as vital as a finger. Needless to say, Golan and Globus found a way to massage the numbers and the film was made.

"I remember ordering a draught, barkeep. What, are you out of brew, or has that lobotomy finally taken hold?" In case it was not already evident, I love BARFLY. It's Mickey Rourke distracting Frank Stallone and chugging purloined Schlitz, straight from the tap:

YAHGHGHLUG-GLUG-GLUG

It's Jack Nance shuffling and skulking around in a moth-eaten, flea-bitten suit, rumpling his jowls in that odd, furtive way that he does:

It's the fact that every time a pile of cash is shown (which is actually several times), you can plainly see that it's a pile of one-dollar bills (Golan & Globus weren't kidding about being underfunded!).

It's Faye Dunaway, without makeup, restraint, or a sense of balance...and somehow looking more beautiful than ever.

And she's stealing unripened corn from the stalk ("I love corn. I wanna pick some corn."), and given the trigger-happy cops that are around, she's risking her life for it, to boot! It's the paramedics arriving and berating you for your dirty undies, even though they look as if they haven't bathed in weeks. It's Stallone and his short fuse, beating (and sometimes getting beaten) to a pulp and screaming un-ironic rejoinders such as "I'll have this fag licking my balls in five minutes!" or "I'd hate to be you if I were me."

Stallone: possibly unaware they were making a movie.

It's the tone of John Lurie's sleazy sax dripping out of a ramshackle jukebox. It's a crestfallen old man on the street who feels like a useful member of society for the first time in years when he's asked for a light. It's Roberta Bassin's evil eye bearing down on you from the other end of the bar. It's the old-timer with the DTs, who must fashion a sling from his scarf in order to drink a shot without spillage. It's Rourke's road rage against a couple of yuppie assholes. It's the barfly (Dunaway) versus erudite (Alice Krige) catfight, with clumps of hair, slashing nails, and cultural superiority hanging in the balance! It's another round, for all my friends! It's Robby Müller's gorgeous cinematography which must be seen to be believed- the glimmer of neon through beer suds, the stale air of the dive bar, the sunlight streaming into a flophouse. As was the case with Dunaway's appearance, the sleaze and sludge of the world of the barfly has never looked quite so appetizing, (yet, nor has it ever looked quite so dismal!).

Now, I had the opportunity to see BARFLY as part of the recent Lincoln Center "Cannon Films Canon" retrospective, so I'd like to make a few observations about the event itself. Barbet Schroeder introduced the film, sharing the classic Black & Decker tale of it's conception and expressing his admiration for Bukowski. After these few words, he walked over and sat down next to me for the screening. He slouched down in his seat, folded his hands, and watched the film with a stern, thoughtful intensity. Now, there are many moments in BARFLY at which one cannot help but laugh. It ain't exactly mainstream slapstick, but I think we can all appreciate the subtle hilarity of Mickey Rourke telling Frank Stallone that his "momma's cunt stinks like carpet cleaner!", the way he blows a double-handed kiss to an adversary:

the sheer volume of spurting blood after he's beaten by Faye Dunaway's purse, or when he lurches into the wrong apartment, and, after confronting the existential terror of his inexplicably altered surroundings, immediately commences raiding the 'fridge. But there's also a great humanity here, and by no means is this a laugh-a-minute yuckfest. Schroeder's observational style shows us everything, but passes no judgment. Regardless, I began to feel self-conscious, chuckling at the wreckage with the director's severe countenance sitting beside me. (Thankfully, at the Q&A after the film, Schroeder spoke of how American audiences 'got' the film and its sense of humor, whereas the European crowd saw it as dark social tragedy, á la THE GRAPES OF WRATH or something.)
After the film, there was a brief conversation between Schroeder, Golan, Globus, & producer Tom Luddy. I must make a note here of how Golan and Globus come across– Globus is no-nonsense, the numbers man. Dressed in a well-tailored suit, but completely unpretentious, he stands in stark contrast to his cousin Golan. Even at 81, Golan comes across as the smooth operator, the storyteller, the scarf-wearing artiste with all the sophistication of a European auteur, yet with the same 'aw, shucks' sincerity that must've successfully pitched BREAKIN' 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO to distributors. I'm planning on writing more about seeing them speak in a later post, but for now I'll limit the comments to what happened after the BARFLY screening:

When asked if BARFLY received any Oscar nominations (it didn't, but Schroeder is an Oscar-nominee, and his films have certainly been well-nominated), Schroeder shrugged his shoulders and said he had no idea. He could care less about accolades at this point- he feels as strongly about the film now as he did in the days that he made it. Who cares if it was nominated for Oscars? It's especially refreshing given that he's actually been nominated, thus having earned the right to give a shit about the Oscars if he so chooses.

Schroeder spoke a little about the real Bukowski- the careful, coaxing process of making the film, given his harsh "anti-any-sort-of-authority" stance. He spoke about Godard's theft of Bukowski's intellectual property (as Godard was wont to do) in EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF, and how he was able to wrangle 'subtitle' credit for Bukowski. He talked for a bit about the Golden Horn, the bar at which the bulk of BARFLY was shot, and how it used to be a 'luxury' bar that Cary Grant once drank at, and how the clientele were recycled as extras in BARFLY! Everything was shot on location- the flophouse was really next door, and the back alley (and site of Rourke vs. Stallone brawling) was really the alley behind the bar.

Tom Luddy described how difficult it was to convince Dunaway to go without makeup, as she was extremely averse to the idea, despite all sorts of buttering up about her 'natural beauty' and so on. Finally, he convinced her to shoot screen tests- both with and without makeup- and told her she could choose. They screened both tests for Faye, and she wisely (but unexpectedly!) picked the one without makeup.

Menahem Golan bragged about how well BARFLY did on VHS, and how much money they ended up making on the "ill-fated" endeavor. (Of course, they immediately invested it in a pile of other projects, many of which bombed and soon sealed Cannon's fate- but they went out in a blaze of glory, dammit!) He also spoke of how difficult it was to drag Mickey Rourke to the Cannes film festival- he finally had to buy him a Rolls-Royce to convince him! "But that's Mickey..." Golan trailed off, smiling. Then everyone railed for a bit about how it's out-of-print on DVD and should be released by Criterion, but that it's up in the air now with MGM's purchase of the Cannon catalogue and subsequent bankruptcy.

This was the extent of the Q&A, but in all, it was a fantastic evening– BARFLY and Robby Müller's squalidly elegant cinematography on the big screen, and with Schroeder, Luddy, Golan & Globus there to share their insights and enthusiasm. Quite possibly an all-time top 100 movie.
In a similar vein, I also recommend such all-time favorites as: FAT CITY, STREET TRASH, BASKET CASE, UNDER THE VOLCANO, THE MISFITS, and THE FRIENDS OF EDDIE COYLE.

-Sean Gill

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Film Review: SLEEPY HOLLOW (1999, Tim Burton)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Running Time: 105 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Johnny Depp, Christina Ricci, Miranda Richardson (THE CRYING GAME, THE HOURS), Michael Gambon (THE LIFE AQUATIC, THE COOK, THE THIEF, HIS WIFE, AND HER LOVER), Christopher Walken (MCBAIN), Casper Van Dien (STARSHIP TROOPERS), Richard Griffiths (WITHNAIL & I, THE HISTORY BOYS), Ian McDiarmid (RETURN OF THE JEDI, DRAGONSLAYER), Michael Gough (TROG, Alfred in Burton's BATMAN), Christopher Lee, Lisa Marie (ED WOOD, MARS ATTACKS!), and Martin Landau (NORTH BY NORTHWEST, ED WOOD). Music by Danny Elfman. Executive produced by Francis Ford Coppola and Larry J. Franco! Based on the short story by Washington Irving. Written by Kevin Yagher (makeup designer on NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREETs 2-4, Chucky creator for CHILD'S PLAY, and TALES FROM THE CRYPT collaborator) and Andrew Kevin Walker (SE7EN, BRAINSCAN).
Tag-line: "Heads Will Roll."
Best one-liner: "YAHHH!" (said by Christopher Walken).

With ten years of hindsight steering the way, I believe I now possess the proper distance to proclaim that SLEEPY HOLLOW was Tim Burton's last great film. At the time, it felt like something of a letdown- coupled with MARS ATTACKS! and his burgeoning, reckless use of CGI, it seemed as if the man was on a downward spiral. But in (PLANET OF THE APES & CHOCOLATE FACTORY) retrospect, the CGI comes across as nearly prudent; the morbid sense of humor, quite clever; and the thrills and chills strike the perfect notes of an R-rated, 90's retread of THE ADVENTURES OF ICHABOD AND MR. TOAD.

Johnny Depp haplessly prances about this film: exuding inherent worthlessness, babbling reassurances to no one in particular, and fainting at the drop of a hat.


At times it feels like a more wimpish MURDER, SHE WROTE episode- albeit one with buckets of gore- and indeed, one of Johnny's inspirations for the role was none other than Angela Lansbury. The other was Basil Rathbone, and he constructs a hero that is the ANTI-Sherlock Holmes, one who'll pour chemicals on the ground and yabber scientific nonsense to himself, not to- *voila* -solve the crime, but to buy himself a little time as he contemplates his awkward exit strategy. Some have complained that Burton, writer (and makeup legend) Kevin Yagher, and script doctor Tom Stoppard stray too far from the original Irving story, but instead we have a work that does its damndest to integrate every bit of macabre Americana mythology from The Headless Horseman to iron-fisted (or is that Iron Maiden'd?) Puritans to witches and witchcraft, and I, for one, think it works. Hell, the windmill from FRANKENSTEIN even makes an appearance!

The atmosphere is exquisite, too-

Elfman's dark and rumbling score; the misty, overcast New England forest trails; flickering silhouettes cast by a ramshackle oil lamps...
And it's great to see bit parts from legends like Christoper Lee, Martin Landau (who gets his chance to run through the cornfield á la NORTH BY NORTHWEST), a dunderheaded Jeffrey Jones,

a fossilized Michael Gough, and Christopher Walken (a convincing force of sheer, Hessian malevolence, straight from the pit- his sharpened teeth and unruly hair nearly steal the show!).

On the women's side, we have a venomous she-devil played by Miranda Richardson, a waifish Christina Ricci as the love interest,

and an ethereal Lisa Marie as a motherly force (and consider the theory that Burton's decline perfectly coincides with the deterioration oft his relationship with Lisa Marie!- compare to Godard/Karina, George & Marcia Lucas, et al.). Anyway, you sort of get the idea that Burton pitched the entire project as an excuse to put ladies in cleavage-intensifying corsets, but I guess that's okay, too.

Four stars.

-Sean Gill

Side note: Watch for 'Large Marge' from PEE WEE making a (completely theoretical) cameo appearance!

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Film Review: THE COTTON CLUB (1984, Francis Ford Coppola)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Running Time: 127 minutes.
Tag-line: "It was the jazz age. It was an era of elegance and violence. The action was gambling. The stakes were life and death."
Notable Cast or Crew: Richard Gere, Gregory Hines, Diane Lane, Bob Hoskins, John P. Ryan, James Remar, Nicolas Cage, Gwen Verdon, Laurence Fishburne, Julian Beck, Tom Waits, Jennifer Grey, Joe Dallesandro, Diane Venora, Woody Strode, James Russo, Giancarlo Esposito, Sofia Coppola, Mario van Peebles! Not to mention Kirk Taylor- The Giggler in DEATH WISH 3! Music by John Barry. Cinematography by Stephen Goldblatt (THE HUNGER, STRIPTEASE). Produced by Robert Evans.
Best one-liner: "Blow that bughouse bastard to kingdom come!"

A lot of the knee-jerk negative reactions to Coppola's 80's output either center on the films being too avant-garde (RUMBLE FISH) or too obsessed with duplicating the celluloid past (ONE FROM THE HEART), but those are two key reasons why his 80's films, however flawed, are some of my favorites. Coppola, along with producer Robert Evans (CHINATOWN, POPEYE)- who was at one point banned from his own set due to heightening tensions between the men- crafts a dreamy, extravagant, maudlin, and occasionally brutal atmosphere that lies somewhere between THE PUBLIC ENEMY, 42ND STREET, and THE GODFATHER.


James Remar demands your attention.

Richard Gere and Diane Lane are our stars, but they are essentially muted: instead, it’s the rogue's gallery of supporting players that lends THE COTTON CLUB power: James Remar as 'Dutch Schultz,' at once exuding charm and childishness- and prone to Pesci-style bursts of violence:

Nic Cage undergoing a journey from stilted milquetoast to raving 'Mad Dog Mick' gangster:

Bob Hoskins as a horse-obsessed (!) impresario who lets you know he's not fucking around, even as he calmly arranges some flowers; Gregory Hines as undisputed king of the tap-dance; Woody Strode as a stoic doorman; Mario van Peebles as a hoofer (the same year as EXTERMINATOR 2!); John P. Ryan as a racist, seething Schultz rival:

Larry Fishburne as a no-nonsense Harlem racketeer who's been pushed around by the whites long enough:

Tom Waits as a nettlesome club employee; Joe Dallesandro as 'Lucky' Luciano, the new Mafioso on the block; and bit parts by everyone from Giancarlo Esposito to Jennifer Grey to avant-garde theater pioneer Julian Beck. It's an exquisite, exhilarating world seen through an amber-colored lens:

A classic 30's montage reimagined.


Shades of Vittorio Storaro?


If only the real Cab Calloway had employed Mario van Peebles (not pictured).


SCHLERP

garish, ostentatious fashion, waterfalls of spurting champagne, elaborate Art Deco setpieces, and swirling, nostalgic montages- at any moment, this heightened tranquility could be perforated by a stroke of repulsive barbarism or a whirlwind of fame, fortune, and your wildest dreams. This is not a gritty, historical document, per sé- it’s a paean to the endless possibilities and intoxicating escapism of the silver screen, and that’s just the way I like it. Four stars.

-Sean Gill

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