The Runners-Up to Junta Juleil's Top 100, Part 1

Ah, so many films and so few spaces on the Top 100. Naturally, there had to be some spill-over.

IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS (1994, John Carpenter)

"Reality isn't what it used to be." A Lovecraftian ode sung, naturally, toward the abyss, it's Carpy's last (thus far!) unadulterated, undeniably "Great" film with a capital G. IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS prints the fall of man upon celluloid, shows it to our protagonist- shows it to us- and together we cackle in the darkness, senselessly, because there's nothing else we can do. Previously reviewed HERE.

BABY DOLL (1956, Elia Kazan)

Kazan can wring more forbidden sexuality from the subtle rocking of a porch swing than all the R-Rated movies ever made, put together. A Southern Gothic chamber piece like no other, it develops into a tête-à-tête-à-tête between long suffering perv Karl Malden, the creepily childish Carrol Baker, and the inimitable Eli Wallach, and it's no exaggeration to call it a blazing tour de force and perhaps the most vigorous, deranged examination of American repression ever made. It's a bottle of cheap champagne on a hundred-degree day, only someone's been shakin' it up for twenty years, and you have to open it without spilling a drop– good luck!

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE (1965, Sergio Leone)

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE is not, in fact, Leone's greatest achievement, but it's probably his most fun. In fact, perhaps one could go out on a limb and say that it's one of the first "buddy movies;" or at least the first "spaghetti western buddy movie," but even if that's true, it's a more-than-occasionally dark one. From a raging, hunchbacked Klaus Kinski to Lee Van Cleef's flinty, hawk-nosed countenance to Gian Maria Volante's wildly hallucinating madman to Clint's cigarillo-chomping roughneck with no name, one might call this film a meditation upon faces. Faces and guns. And it's all tied together by Morricone's sweeping score, which pendulates between primal grunts from the pit and overpowering Bach organ fugues!

BLACK BOOK (2006, Paul Verhoeven)

After a few explorations of hollow men, CGI bugs, robot cops, showgirls, ice-pick murderers, and the like, Verhoeven returns to where he began– visceral, dark, Dutch art film. Verhoeven usually takes the dim view of mankind, and here he quite effortlessly develops his hypothesis that we exist in a state of neverending war; it's just that big men with small ideas are always submitting these arbitrary labels, like "1914-1918," or "1939-1945," and to tell you the truth, Verhoeven doesn't know quite what those are supposed to mean...

DIRTY HARRY (1971, Don Siegel)

I said before that DIRTY HARRY is "a complex dissection of the 'man of values' in a world that has none, with our hero gradually realizing that his supposed values systems are in fact shadowy and undefined, and aww, who the hell cares anymore, let's shoot some people." Sure, it's sorta fascist. Sure, it stacks the deck, unimaginably. Sure, it has laughable depictions of hippies. But dig that groovy Lalo Schifrin score! Check out that classic a-hole authority figure, John Vernon! Behold the simpering, insane majesty of psycho-killer Andy Robinson! See Clint Eastwood's noon-day hot-dog interrupted by the magnum-blasting of goons! You know, just another Don Siegel masterpiece.

CREEPSHOW (1982, George A. Romero)

As I have written before in these hallowed pages, I would like to invest in a bumper sticker which says "I'd rather be...watching CREEPSHOW." Now I could say that this film flirts with the Top 100 entirely by virtue of "Ed Harris disco dance mania," but it's really because Romero lovingly recreates the morbid fantasias of childhood, the sensation of reading a book beneath the covers with a flashlight; the impressionability of youth, whereupon a dark and stormy night can inspire a sense of unrestrained, gleeful dread... Also: Tom Atkins.

EATING RAOUL (1982, Paul Bartel)

"I'm the host here, goddammit, now get out of your clothes and get into the hot tub, or get out! We don't want any wet blankets or spoilsports at this party...we're here to SWING!" "-Yeah, well, swing on THIS!" EATING RAOUL is probably Paul Bartel's (DEATH RACE 2000, SCENES FROM THE CLASS STRUGGLE IN BEVERLY HILLS) greatest, loopiest trashterpiece, and it's one that pushes the envelope considerably. Comedy this quirky can be a slippery slope, but Bartel and Mary Woronov, who were quite obviously born to work together (as our 80's cult Hepburn and Tracy), soon brush aside our fears with an impossibly perfect combination of slapstick, refinement, and obscenity.

MILDRED PIERCE (1945, Michael Curtiz)

"That Ted Forrester's nice-looking, isn't he? Veda likes him." –"Who wouldn't? He has a million dollars." Film noir, melodrama, woman's weepie, whatever the fuck you want to call it, MILDRED PIERCE (based on the novel by James M. Cain) is goddamned fantastic. Joan Crawford, as a hard-workin' small businesswoman who can't seem to catch a break exudes genuine frustration, pathos, and the weight of life's disappointments...she's at the height of her shoulder-padded powers. I don't wish to reveal much of the plot, but Ann Blyth's spectacular, spiteful portrayal of Mildred's money-hungry daughter, Veda, has got to be one of the most hate-able screen villains of all-time.

STAR WARS (1977, George Lucas)

One of the most enjoyable adventure movies ever made. Continuous revisions, CGI shitstorms, and seemingly endless, doltish pop culture quotings cannot dampen the effect of the Star Destroyer thundering overhead, the menagerie of rubbery buddies at the intergalactic dive bar, Harrison Ford's lopsided grin, Alec Guinness' soothing self-assurance, Carrie Fisher's privileged but gutsy revolutionary, the cathartic roar of the angry Wookiee, the sad bleeps and bloops of a forlorn R2-D2. The attention to detail in the starship models; the sprawling, ramshackle sets and rundown futuristic equipment; the imaginative aliens and innovative special effects; the nods to Kurosawa, Curtiz, and Hawks; the childish wonder and excitement... ah, the heart swells! (But goddamn, what a pity the way things have turned out...)

JFK (1991, Oliver Stone)

Whether or not you agree with Stone's politics, or all, or none, or 10% of the conspiracy theories contained within the hefty treatise that is JFK, you must admit that it is something of a piece de resistance in terms of the fusion of editing, music, narration, and camerawork. At times it feels as if you are situated upon the tail leader of the Zapruder film; it's already been projected, and you're whirling around in the darkness afterward, confused, spooked, disoriented... A monument should be built to Joe Pesci's eyebrows in this film. And Tommy Lee Jones' mysterious, frightening portrayal of Clay Shaw just might be his finest work. Also: Gary Oldman, gay Kevin Bacon, Jack Lemmon, and Donald Sutherland... as "X!"

HOUSE (1977, Nobuhiko Obayashi)

Though it pains me to say that HOUSE does not quite pack the same punch the second time around, nothing can compare to the feelings of sheer shock, confusion, elation, and general bogglement that HOUSE instills in the first-time viewer. As I've written, "To avoid comparing it to other films, I would simply describe the HOUSE experience as akin to being trapped inside a kaleidoscope as a cackling madman rams and twirls and flips and submerges it with reckless abandon as upbeat music and ludicrous sound effects ricochet here and there and everywhere, dueling one another for dominance." Theoretically, I feel as if I've often thought that there were "no rules" in cinema, but only after seeing HOUSE did I realize that such a seemingly meaningless conceit could actually, successfully be put into practice!

TRUST (1990, Hal Hartley)

Hal Hartley's a personal American indie film hero of mine, and it was difficult to decide whether TRUST, SIMPLE MEN, AMATEUR, or HENRY FOOL belonged on this list. I settled on TRUST, a film I've described as "REBEL WITHOUT AN APARTMENT." It's a stirring, contemplative, and frequently deadpan hilarious tract; suburban malaise in a world on the verge of... something.

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Bronson, Obayashi, and "Bananas, Bananas, BANANAS!"

This was sent to me by a Bronson-luvin' friend, and I needed to share it immediately. On a review of DEATH WISH 3, which can be found here (my own review of DW3 can be found here), a reader named Jason Pollock commented that he had just seen the film on the big screen with an Alex Winter Q&A afterward, and I quote:

"[Alex Winter] also told us that the dude who played The Giggler [Kirk Taylor] was in awe of Bronson, and wanted to chat with him – but not be a bother. So he saw that Bronson was sitting alone in a room off of the main set one day, and he calmly approached. As The Giggler reached the doorway and quietly said, “Hello, Mr. Bronson…” Bronson spun around on him and growled:

“HOW MANY BANANAS HAVE YOU EATEN TODAY, KID??!! YOU EAT ENOUGH BANANAS AND YOU’LL NEVER GET SICK!! I EAT ‘EM ALL THE TIME!!!”

The Giggler lost the nerve to ever approach Bronson again."

Now I must say that I immediately scarfed down a few bananas in response to this, but I'd also like to propose the following wild theory: Bronson worked with Japanese director Nobuhiko Obayashi on a series of commercials for Mandom cologne. They apparently were friendly, with Bronson nicknaming Obayashi "Ob" and Obayashi even making vague nods to Bronson movies in his absurdist masterpiece HAUSU. Now, HAUSU contains a notable and notorious scene whereupon a man screams "BANANAS, BANANAS, BANANAS!" and therefore transforms into a tremendous pile of bananas. Is this perhaps a nod to to Bronson and his peculiar banana-luvin' ways? Did Bronson perhaps love bananas even more than he loved...chicken? Inquiring minds must know!

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HAUSU releases in Region 1 this October from Criterion

Thank God. Details are here. The most exciting inclusion is a 1966 Obayashi short (40 min), called EMOTION, which involves schoolgirls and city life and vampires and other such Obayashi batshit craziness. The least exciting is a video appreciation by Ti West, though I suppose I shouldn't speak prematurely. Conspicuously absent are the Obayashi/Bronson Mandom commercials. I don't know if it's because Mandom refuses to license 'em or if Criterion didn't deem them a worthy supplement, but either way, we lose. But I don't know why I'm complaining– I urge everyone to check it out who didn't catch it in its theatrical run or on Region 2 already, as it's one of my all-time favorites.

You can read my original review HERE.

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Commercial Review: CHARLES BRONSON'S MANDOM: 6 (197?, Nobuhiko Obayashi)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 2 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Charles Bronson.

Prepare yourselves- we're nearing the mother lode. Fugue state. Disassociation from reality itself is forthcoming. If you need to catch up, here are Bronson's Mandom ads 1-3, and here are installments 4-5. But let's not beat around the bush- onto #6:



Alright. Let's do the blow by blow and attempt to derive some meaning from this rich document. A man plays the piano in a well-furnished lounge. Is his name 'Sam?' I don't know. It certainly could be. He's twinkling the ivories in a rather swank rendition of the classic 'Mandom' theme.

By this point we should need no prompting, we should already be internally reciting, "All the world/Loves a lover..."

The camera wraps around to reveal: Bronson.


The camera zooms out, tracks a little, then zooms in again once more. Obayashi loved his camera movement. And if ever there was a moment where the camera itself had to be stationary, he'd make sure he was adjusting the shit out of his focal length in a majestic ZOOM.

It's one of those slow nights where Bronson has nothing special planned besides staring at the house piano player at club near his home that he likes to frequent on his evenings off. Now, it bears mentioning that Bronson possibly had no concept of same-sex attraction, as outlined here. So while he may have no idea that he's doin' it, Bronson- in Obayashi's universe- is definitely cruisin'. I wouldn't be surprised if Obayashi had told Bronson to pretend he was looking at Jill Ireland. "All the world loves a lover..." mutters Bronson in his internal monologue. "All the world loves...Mandom." The lens then irises out, inviting us to imagine what sorts of acts were just performed in the hotel's bath-room. We respectfully decline the invitation.

We're back with a snap! Newly invigorated, Bronson heads home, stopping to exchange pleasantries with his favorite, giggling doorman. "Good night, Sam."

"Thank you, Mr. Bronson," replies the sickening doorman. This exchange is important for two reasons: #1. It reveals that Bronson's 'Mandom' character has never been a character at all- it's always been straight-up, unadulterated Bronson. And #2. The name of this establishment becomes visible in the background- "Pandora Club." Perhaps there is some greater, mystical meaning here– "The Pandora Club." A place where forbidden desires can be unleashed upon the world, spun open like the cap on a Mandom bottle. A place where dreams (and nightmares) come true. A place where there's hope at the bottom.

"Good Night, Mr. Bronson. Sleep tight!" "Thank you, Sam," replies Bronson. It's an in-joke. They both know that Bronson's not going to sleep– he's got a hot nightcap lined up with his extensive Mandom collection. Bronson's car speeds home along the slick asphalt that bears the dampness of recent rain.

A silhouette at the door–

The lights pop on with a click–

Thank God– Bronson. He grabs his pipe and whips off his shirt with genuine urgency. He playfully takes a few steps back, then whips the shirt toward the heavens at such a velocity that it breaks free of the Earth's gravity and spirals into the void of space.

But pay no attention to the Herculean acts of strength- it's Mandom time. Like extracting a fine cask of Amantillado from one's wine-cellar, Bronson chooses the right Mandom for the right occasion. No time like the present.

Gin-flavor is a fine choice. But then again, they're all sort of gin-flavored.

He spins the cap and flings it away with élan. Anyone who's ever held a bottle of Mandom realizes that it was designed for this express purpose. Of course you have to go back later, find the cap, and put it back on, but it's totally worth it. Kinda like when you pull the cork out of a bottle with your teeth and *Pfft-too* spit it out and get straight to drinkin'– though you know full well you'll have to find it later, dust it off, and reinsert it. Livin' in the moment. That's what Bronson and Mandom are all about. I guess I also forgot to mention that this is accompanied by a veritable mélange of gunshot and ricochet sound effects.

Bronson starts splashin' the stuff all over his nude upper body and the gunshots intensify to the point where one might call it "a cacophony of gunblasts."

He dashes and splashes– and we see crossfaded imagery of Bronson in mountain man attire- fringe jacket and everything– actually firing the shots that we're hearing.


When Bronson showers his back with Mandom's fragrant elixir, we see Mountain Man-Bronson-id contorting his back to fire accordingly.


It's hard to say if Bronson is remembering via the Mandom (like Proust with his madeleine) back to a time when he wore a fringe jacket and shot a bunch of dudes, or if he's actually having an out-of-body experience. Horses neigh! The Mandom has freed Bronson's id from its primitive, sinewy constraints and released it into a world– a domain- where a man can be a Man. A MAN-DOM, if you will.

Inside the man, there is another man.


Bronson sees himself, riding off into a Southwestern sunset through a rotating, transparent cap on a Mandom bottle. What a strange and wonderful trip!

Bronson touches his face. It's as if he's touching it for the very first time.

And he is. He has been reborn. Baptized by the sweet flowing waters of the Mandom. Like a spiritual bath in the old lilac-gin. The camera tracks straight ahead through Bronson's apartment, zooming out at the end (á la Hitchcock in VERTIGO and later Spielberg in JAWS) to create a disorienting redefinition of depth. A new perspective on life.

And so it ends. It's hard to say if it's merely a commercial or possibly a call to arms? The resounding trumpet-call for a new religion? A new way of living? Would their Lord's Prayer begin with a somber recitation of "All the world loves a lover, all the world loves Mandom?" Is Bronson the deity in this new denomination, or is the little Greek statue guy on the Mandom bottle? Where does Eastwood fit into this? Is he an antagonistic force, á la the Bronson vs. Eastwood rivalry?

There are a lot of unanswered questions here, and perhaps they're best left for another time. Who knew such mystical riches were resting within the golden confines of the Mandom bottle?

Five stars.

To be continued...

-Sean Gill

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