Only now does it occur to me... THE MACKINTOSH MAN

Only now does it occur to me...  that wonderfully pompous acting genius James Mason has admitted said pomposity, on camera.

It occurs during the final five minutes of John Huston's mostly-phoned-in, Paul-Newman-starring spy thriller THE MACKINTOSH MAN (with a screenplay adapted by Walter Hill!?), and I have to admit that the lines would work just as well, if not better, if he had said them immediately upon wrapping the shoot for his infamous Thunderbird commercial. 

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Film Review: CAUGHT (1949, Max Ophüls)

Stars: 3.8 of 5.

Running Time: 88 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew: Barbara Bel Geddes (VERTIGO, PANIC IN THE STREETS), James Mason (LOLITA, THUNDERBIRD ads, SALEM'S LOT), Robert Ryan (THE WILD BUNCH, THE DIRTY DOZEN), Curt Bois (CASABLANCA, WINGS OF DESIRE), Frank Ferguson (HUSH HUSH SWEET CHARLOTTE, ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN)

Tag-line: "The story of a desperate girl."

Best one-liner:  "Look at me!  LOOK AT WHAT YOU BOUGHT!!"

A hard-to-come by 40s melodrama that occasionally masquerades as a film noir, CAUGHT had been on my 'to-see' list for years, so I decided to take the plunge when I saw that it was expiring from Netflix instant at the end of the year.  A thickly-veiled portrait of Howard Hughes' love life (Ophüls was once fired from a Hughes picture, VENDETTA) and one of Martin Scorsese's favorite films (possibly the reason why he made THE AVIATOR?), the film walks that thin line between high art and low camp (or perhaps between low art and high camp?), and we all know that that's the sort of thing I enjoy.

Ophüls was a German arthouse filmmaker best known for making expressive, French romantic melodramas, packed with exquisite tracking shots.  He's at the height of his powers when he's presenting life as a lurid carnival– an endless dance rotating amongst different social milieus, like in LA RONDE or LOLA MONTÉS.  He's at his weakest when his carousel remains stuck in a single stuffy mode (i.e., THE EARRINGS OF MADAME DE..., a much-loved film that I happen to dislike).  In a film like CAUGHT, he's socially responsible, capturing the moments of life that exist between the stations of life.  However, his wings are rather clipped by the studio– he does get some nice tracking shots in there, but visual flair is few and far between.  As James Mason later wrote in a poem, "A shot that does not call for tracks/ is agony for poor old Max,/ who, separated from his dolly,/ is wrapped in deepest melancholy./ Once, when they took away his crane/ I thought he'd never smile again."

Basically, the plot follows Barbara Bel Geddes as she tries to further herself by saving up for an education.  Don't worry, it's 1949– she's not going to college:

I nearly did a spit-take when she pulls out this brochure after going on about educating and furthering herself.  Anyway, after gaining the necessary skill set for obtaining a husband, she marries an oddly named ("Smith Ohlrig") big shot played by noir-standby Robert Ryan, who seems to marry her only to vex his psychiatrist (!?).  He turns out to be a raging psychopath, á la Howard Hughes, who must destroy everyone whom he cannot own outright.

Robert Ryan, on the warpath.

Psychological abuse and boredom and melodramatic slapping take their toll

and Bel Geddes' character decides to reject this abusive life of Riley for a more emotionally fulfilling existence in a tenement house, working as a receptionist for a young doctor played by James Mason.  It's fun to see him as a caring pediatrician when in retrospect, he carries the cultural baggage of famous roles like "nymphet molester" (LOLITA) and "child murderer" (SALEM'S LOT).  At one point he says he'd like to "cut off of the curls" of an irritating, hypochrondriac little girl patient of his.  Stay classy, 1949!

 James Mason, incredulous.

It sort of turns into stock, well-acted melodrama at this point as she falls for dreamy 'doc Mason while still married to crazytown Ryan, but there were a few happenings that really set it apart:

#1.  Robert Ryan's benders that end in bouts of "angry pinball."  It seems like the sort of detail that was probably culled straight from Hughes' life.  I couldn't verify this in cursory Internet research, but I'm still going with it.

 Robert Ryan staves off sexual frustration and sociopathic tendencies with another angry pinball session.

#2.  This close-up from a gossip column montage about Ryan and Bel Geddes' declining love life.

Look at the story at the bottom, the one we're supposed to ignore during the course of the scene, because it's not highlighted and has nothing to do with our plot.  It appears to involve criminals, a radio show, a former circus clown named "Jebbo," and a volley of bullets.  I kind of wanted to be watching this movie!

 #3.  The finale, which involves shouting, the revelation of secrets, the destruction of the aforementioned pinball machine, and a happy ending featuring Dr. James Mason force-feeding liquor to a near-comatose pregnant woman (Bel Geddes).

 

 Though I'm still holding out hope it was Thunderbird!

 Not Ophüls' finest hour, but a pleasant enough and head-shakingly misogynistic melodrama with some noir elements.  Nearly four stars.

-Sean Gill

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Junta Juleil's Top 100: #60-56

60. VIDEODROME (1983, David Cronenberg)

In IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS, John Carpenter nailed the H.P. Lovecraft atmosphere, possibly because he didn't attempt a direct adaptation– he was free to take what the "Lovecraft vibe" meant to him, and apply it in his own way, on his own terms. David Cronenberg does the same thing here, but with Philip K. Dick, and it's goddamned fantastic. James Woods is doin' that skeezy thing that he does, searching for cheap n' vicious cable TV thrills and engaging in a talk show-mance with Debbie Harry, who's pretty busy burning herself with cigarettes and giving herself unsanitary, impromptu body piercings. Meanwhile, cerebral cortexes are becoming infected and tainted with throbbing tele-tumors; abdomens are sprouting unexpected, vaginal VHS players; hands and guns are reshaping themselves, resculpting flesh and blood and steel; and Howard Shore's soundtrack is thrumming along in the background, threatening to drag us back into the pit, or possibly inviting us to evolve. Thankfully, it's got a (mean) streak of pitch-black hilarity, too– for otherwise we might go insane with sheer dread!– it ranges from visual puns to S&M wackiness to spit-take inducing gore to James Woods turning that Sleaze-O-Meter up to eleven and beyond. The first time I saw this was at college, alone, after hours, on a VHS player, deep in the bowels of the Audio Visual Department. Afterward, I half-expected the television to explode into a confetti of viscera; expected the tape itself to begin pulsating wetly in my hands. A powerful film; and, along with Rob Bottin's work on THE THING, Rick Baker's practical special and makeup effects here may very well be the pinnacle of "movie magic," period.

59. ALL THAT JAZZ (1979, Bob Fosse)

Bob Fosse's ALL THAT JAZZ is equal parts auto-biopic, Hollywood musical, and self-chastisement, at once both a swansong and a death rattle. Fosse didn't pass away until 1987, but eight years prior, with ALL THAT JAZZ, he submits, for our consideration, his greatest passions, achievements, nostalgias and lamentations. Roy Scheider, as Fosse's stand-in, warrants every superlative from tour-de-force to powerhouse, his performance as multi-faceted, in-the-moment, and self-reflective as Fosse's unique vision demands. The use of quotidian repetition (visually and aurally indicated in this film by contact lenses, Dexedrine, showering, and Vivaldi's "Concerto Alla Rustica") has never been more effective. Darren Aronofsky's similar stagings in PI and REQUIEM FOR A DREAM feel particularly empty . In Fosse's world, the wreckage of one's life piles on top of itself endlessly- the womanizing, the drug use, regret over familial relationships- and it can all be wiped clean by the promise of a new day ("It's showtime, folks!), everything a rehearsal for a rehearsal, a neverending series of highs and lows which one isn't forced to consider until the end of the line. Thus, Fosse sits in a cobbled-together dressing room limbo netherworld, confronted by Angelique (Jessica Lange), his interviewer, companion, and confessor, contemplating his demise and the life that led up to it. And it's all concurrent: his deathbed, his rehearsals, his family life, childhood embarrassments, in the editing room for LENNY- the comedic monologue on death alternating meanings with each iteration, budget meetings, business brunches, the final act of the last show of one's life and the ultimate send-off with one foot in the grave and one foot on the stage.
An unrivaled rumination on the life of a man who was as susceptible to flattery as he was to self-loathing, who was as much a scoundrel as he was an artist. Five stars.

58. METROPOLITAN (1990, Whit Stillman)

"Is our language so impoverished that we have to use acronyms of French phrases to make ourselves understood?" "-Yes." Like some fragile, carefully festooned porcelain ornament long misplaced, METROPOLITAN emerged in 1990, not with a roar, but rather with an eloquent whisper and an arched eyebrow. Whit Stillman's talent, initially misdiagnosed as Woody Allen-esque, was truly, autobiographically, anachronistically (think F. Scott Fitzgerald unstuck in time with a light dose of John Hughes) original, and it paved the way for such wordy American indie auteurs as Noah Baumbach and Wes Anderson. METROPOLITAN also heralded the arrival of one of the great underappreciated actors of our time, Christopher Eigeman (BARCELONA, KICKING AND SCREAMING). The craftsmanship and hilarity of this script cannot be exaggerated. Endlessly quotable, I find myself held rapt by the exquisite dialogue as one might marvel over a ship-in-a-bottle. Needless to say, it's not for everyone, and if a line like "Girls that have been degraded by you don't need the further humiliation of having their names bandied about non-exclusive Park Avenue after-parties!" doesn't appeal to you, then you probably shouldn't be watching this. The plot is simple, and it unfolds with subtlety and grace: one Christmas vacation, not so long ago, proletarian Fourierist Tom (Edward Clements) is immersed by chance in Manhattan's upper-crust deb world. Gentle, nuanced comedy ensues as he meets the snarky Nick (Eigeman), the tragically naive Charlie (Taylor Nichols), the titled aristocratic tool Von Sloneker (Will Kempe), the melancholy Molly Ringwald-type Audrey (Carolyn Farina), and many others. The film finds true, wry emotive power, however, in its last act, which finds Tom and Charlie cast adrift without their 'id,' Nick, and caught amid a sea of varying premature ideas of failure. An excellent film, and a true silver-tongued jewel in the crown of American independent cinema.

57. BARFLY (1987, Barbet Schroeder)

"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. 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.
I did a lengthy write-up on this flick (and the accompanying Q&A) last fall, and after nearly a year of reflection, I must say that BARFLY is King of the Cannon Canon– one of those rare adaptations of a writer's body of work which really captures the spirit of the artist, and in Bukowski's case, it's like white-hot lightning in a 40 oz. bottle.

56. BIGGER THAN LIFE (1956, Nicholas Ray)

"Childhood is a congenital disease - and the purpose of education is to cure it. We're breeding a race of moral midgets." Ostensibly a tale about addiction to prescription drugs, BIGGER THAN LIFE is really about an addiction to values; even going so far as to prove the collective insanity which is our society's bedrock, simply by upholding its more respected tenets... TO THE DEATH! James Mason takes the moral code of the LEAVE IT TO BEAVER-generation and amplifies it, distorts it, makes it 'bigger than life,' makes it a grotesque. His performance is terrifying and absolutely inspired, it's one of the most impressive acting achievements of the 50s. All of this is draped across an expressionistic CinemaScope frame, bursting with bold shadows and Technicolor insanity courtesy of ex-noir standby Joe MacDonald (PICKUP ON SOUTH STREET, PANIC IN THE STREETS, CALL NORTHSIDE 777). I don't wish to give too much more away along with my whole-hearted recommendation, but it's certainly one of the bleakest, blackest films of the 50s, and, if I'm not mistaken, is surely the inspiration for All-American dad Leland Palmer in David Lynch's TWIN PEAKS. (Also, a whirlwind shopping trip whereupon James Mason forces his wife to try on fancy frock after frock after frock ad nauseum is well worth the price of admission alone.) It's astounding that this was even allowed to be made. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll cower in fear. What more do you want?

Coming up next... Clint Eastwood times two, the rockin' tunes of Goblin, and some Frenchie neo-noir!

Previously on the countdown:
#65-61
#70-66
#75-71
#80-76
#85-81
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

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Television Review: SALEM'S LOT (1979, Tobe Hooper)

Stars: 3.4 of 5.
Running Time: 183 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: David Soul (Hutch on STARSKY & HUTCH), James Mason (NORTH BY NORTHWEST, BIGGER THAN LIFE, THUNDERBIRD Commercials), Lance Kerwin (OUTBREAK, ENEMY MINE), Bonnie Bedelia (DIE HARD, THE BOY WHO COULD FLY), Elisha Cook, Jr. (THE MALTESE FALCON, ROSEMARY'S BABY, THE KILLING), George Dzundza (THE DEER HUNTER, BASIC INSTINCT), Geoffrey Lewis (BRONCO BILLY, MAVERICK), Kenneth McMillan (DUNE, RUNAWAY TRAIN, CAT'S EYE), Fred Willard (BEST IN SHOW, D.C. FOLLIES), and a very special appearance by Reggie Nalder (THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH, THE BIRD WITH THE CRYSTAL PLUMAGE, THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE). Co-produced by Sterling Silliphant (THE POSEIDON ADVENTURE, OVER THE TOP, TELEFON). Music by Harry Sukman (Sam Fuller's FORTY GUNS, John Carpenter's SOMEONE'S WATCHING ME!). Based on the novel by Stephen King.
Tag-line: "The ultimate in terror!"
Best one-liner: "You'll enjoy Mr. Barlow. And he'll enjoy you."

The mixture of Stephen King and prime time TV has often been a volatile, unstable compound, burdened by sloppy storytelling, questionable acting, and low production value (IT, THE SHINING '97, THE STAND). Thankfully, SALEM'S LOT is one of the better adaptations, and while it never quite achieves the height of pulpy excitement or depth of existential dread from the novel, it's still a fine entry into the pantheon of well-made 70's TV horror movies. That being said, if King's concept intrigues you, read the novel first– many shocking elements lose their impact upon 'TV-safe' translation, and the piss is taken out of several key and supporting characters (particularly in the case of 'Father Callahan,' a character so close to King's heart that he revisited his story in the DARK TOWER series).

Father Callahan, sans piss.


SALEM'S LOT dares to ask the fateful question: "Are all small towns evil?" and answers it with a resounding... YES! Even before the onset of vampirism, the little hamlet is a hotbed of hatred, perversity, abuse, and that particularly human shortcoming of 'choosing to look the other way.' But then, two visitors: the first is the mysterious Mr. Straker (James Mason)- an antique dealer whose partner Mr. Barlow has yet to make an appearance, though strange, coffin-sized shipments have recently come in to town. The second is Ben Mears (David Soul),

a native son turned successful, metropolitan author who returns home to write a novel about a primordial evil he sensed in the town as a child. And then the peculiar happenings begin...

Tobe Hooper, having wowed viewers and churned their stomachs with THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE and EATEN ALIVE, secured the directorial reins, though at different points of development, George A. Romero and Larry Cohen were attached (and Cohen later directed a late 80's sequel!). Though the 'bigger budget/TV movie' feel seems like it could subvert Hooper's gritty, no-budget, cannibalistic terrors, he's still able to maintain his aesthetic and weave a few genuinely creepy moments throughout. One of his centerpieces is the "Marsten House," the vampire HQ and home to some sort of ancient, evil presence, the exact nature of which remains enigmatic even in the novel. In the movie, it was a $100,000 façade constructed over an existing house, and the result is effective, with shades of PSYCHO.

The interior is spot-on as well, with nice Hooper touches like taxidermy installations, walls of damp and dessicated wood, and a floor covered in- I don't know... rodent bones?

Some have said that Hooper was distancing himself from THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE by making this film, but, at least while we're in the Marsten house, at any moment I half-expect Leatherface to burst through one of the walls with his chainsaw, voice raised to the heavens in that unnerving, childish squeal!

Also, the infamous "window" scene, whose content or context I shall not reveal here, lives up quite wonderfully to its reputation of scarring teevee-watching kiddies for life!

–and it does it all with a fog machine and some wires: a far cry from today's overproduced, CGI-drenched terror tales.

There are some really nice character actor roles in here, too–
We've got noir legend Elisha Cook, Jr. as a hobo wine-swigging (wait, did he buy that from James Mason?), wide-eyed vagrant, who, in a piece of gag-casting, has an old flame played by Marie Windsor, his evil harpy wife from THE KILLING!,

Elisha Cook + Thunderbird ≥ Elisha Cook + Humphrey Bogart.

George Dzundza makes a psychotic appearance as a shotgun-toting, beer-swilling, cuckolded hubby who exudes Menace with a capital 'M,'

Eastwood fave Geoffrey Lewis plays a severe, deadpan grave digger who undergoes some...unnerving (and particularly well-acted) transformations throughout,

an extremely young Bonnie Bedelia brings more to the table than expected as the Female Romantic Lead,

a fast-talkin' Fred Willard plays a delightfully skeezy real estate-man (any connection with Renfield ends there) who wears some rockin' 70's plaid suits (and he's not just "zany Willard" here, either, he delivers a powerful performance in a scene with Dzundza where he plays to the barrel of a gun),


and finally, as the piéce de résistance, Reggie Nadler (the assassin from THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH '56) is reimagined as Nosferatu for his role as the demonic Mr. Barlow. He doesn't get a lot of screen time, but, as you can see, he certainly makes up for it in makeup and intensity.

(It must also be noted that this depiction of Barlow is completely different than in the novel, but frankly, I don't care.)

Alright, I guess that's it. I don't think I forgot anyone–

HMMMMMM?

Oh, sweet God- James Mason!

Hmmph...

Don't look at me with those judgmental eyebrows- it's too much to bear!

I'm not gonna lie. James Mason is my favorite part about this movie. Nobody does "SMUG CONDESCENSION" like James Mason. He floats in and out of the film, bending the citizenry to his will, killing children, and selling antiques at exorbitant prices.

You believe wholeheartedly that he views Salem's Lot simply as a village of trifling insects to be exploited for his nefarious purposes. And it's James Mason. I mean, if you're not kind of rooting for him, then maybe you shouldn't be watching this movie anyway.

JAMES MASON WILL SHUT YOU DOWN

Nothing holds a candle to the scene where he manhandles the Neanderthal police chief while being questioned about a murder that he did in fact commit. The police have confiscated one of his suits because it resembles a piece of fabric that was left behind at the murder scene. Smug condescension carries the day as Mason demands that the police not only return his suit in a timely fashion, but that they have it professionally cleaned before they do so. Then the following exchange takes place:

JAMES MASON: Ciao, Constable.
POLICE CHIEF: Chow?
JAMES MASON: Ciao. It's a familiar Italian expression meaning goodbye.
POLICE CHIEF: I didn't know you were Italian.
JAMES MASON: I'm not. The word is.

Then he winks, not once– not twice– but three times, in a coup de grâce of Herculean snobbery.


Bravo, Mr. Mason. Your senseless, bloodthirsty war on small town America will be long remembered- you've given patronizing elitists everywhere something to strive for, and truly you've won SALEM'S LOT: THE MINI-SERIES a special place in my heart. Keep on winkin'!

About three and a half stars.

-Sean Gill

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Commercial Review: THUNDERBIRD WINE AD (196?, James Mason)

Stars 5 of 5.
Running Time: 22 seconds.
Notable Cast or Crew: James Mason.

Submitted, for your consideration: Thunderbird. The American Classic. What's the word? Thunderbird. How's it sold? Good and cold. What's the jive? Bird's alive. What's the price? Thirty twice. That's just sixty cents, ladies and gentlemen. Now for those of you still asking, 'What the hell is Thunderbird?,' let me lay it out for ya. It's a low-end, fortified wine. Also known as a blockparty breakup, a poverty punch, or a gutter punk champagne. A cheap n' grubby beverage, which, despite possessing a translucent 'white wine' hue, is known to turn the mouth a tenebrous, inky black. Existing somewhere on the chemical spectrum between Clorox, gasoline, and rubbing alcohol, it's like something out of STREET TRASH.

Over here we have James Mason. Veteran actor of stage and screen and a memorable collaborator of Alfred Hitchcock, Carol Reed, Stanley Kubrick, Michael Powell, Nicholas Ray, Tobe Hooper, Sam Peckinpah, and George Cukor, among others. Nominated for three Oscars, he's played General Rommel, Brutus, Captain Nemo, Joseph of Arimathea, and Humbert Humbert. He even had his own TV show for a little while: THE JAMES MASON SHOW. His deep, velvety voice has delivered exquistely-worded put-downs to co-stars as disparate as Charles Bronson, Cary Grant, and Marlon Brando. A class act if there ever was one. So, you're probably wondering why I even brought him up in the context of Thunderb–

Now that may be the finest celebrity endorsement I have ever witnessed, this side of Bronson/Mandom.

James Mason begins with a moment of hesitation...

You can see it in his nervous eyes and his stiff demeanor. He knows exactly what he's about to endorse. In fact, he may have grown that seedy moustache expressly for the occasion. He's come to grips with the sacrifices that must be made in the name of earning a living, yet still he finds it difficult to maintain eye contact with the viewer. He looks downward, using the excuse of a steadier pour.

"I like the unusual flavor of Thunderbird wine. It's an exceptionally good drink for every occasion."

He slowly pours himself a glass. He hasn't lied to us yet. Not directly. Perhaps he does like that unusual chemical taste in the same way that some of us enjoy the occasional whiff of gasoline from a passing automobile. And note that he doesn't say it's an exceptionally good drink per se, he simply finds it well-suited for every occasion, just as I find Drain-O well-suited for every occasion I have to unclog a pipe.

"Thunderbird has an unusual flavor, all it's own. Not quite like anything I've ever tasted."

Still he looks away. He even uses the descriptor 'unusual' once more. He's falling apart. Under that silken neck scarf, he is sweating buckets. You can't tell because he's a pro, but he's never lied to his public before. He still manages to avoid coming straight out and saying that 'Thunderbird is worth your time and money because it is delicious,' though, which is admirable. I like that sculpture, too.

"I suggest that you try Thunderbird. It's really delightful."

'Delightful' is stretching it. And James Mason knows it. That's why he toasts us with his tumbler-of-Thunderbird-on-the-rocks-with-lime-garnish as he says it. It's an old magician's trick: sleight of hand, distraction, and visual flourish. I like that he never takes a sip of Thunderbird. Now most will probably cite advertising laws and so forth, but I'll always hold that he can't bring himself to do it. It's also possible that the fumes have generated some kind of temporary paralysis.

Ah, and only now do we see that it's officially described as an aperitif, which might be the most egregious example of false advertising yet. Perhaps it could stimulate an appetite for slow-roasted packing peanuts served with rubber cement sauce, or something of that nature. I have to assume, though, that James Mason has tried Thunderbird at least once, or else he wouldn't realize the necessity of so carefully tiptoeing through his adjectives. But it's all in that first look–


It's only for an instant, but he really does look like a turtle out of its shell. The bird may be alive, but the Mason's mortified. And yet, at the same time, he looks scuzzier than Humbert Humbert at his scuzziest. This is the look of a man who is about to hawk some toxic chemicals in the form of a wine bottle. Then again, it doesn't resemble wine in any way, so let's say it's the look of a man who's about to hawk some toxic chemicals in the form of a bottle of bottom-tier Triple Sec. It's like that Philosophy 101 conundrum whereupon if you grab the carrot to feed yourself, someone across the world who you don't know dies. Except here, it's James Mason's livlihood versus a couple of dozen melting bums and dissolving hobos. It's the cycle of life, and it's all laid out quite beautifully. Thank you, Mr. Mason. Now pass that Thunderbird. Let her gentle wings soar.

-Sean Gill

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