Film Review: HIGH-BALLIN' (1978, Peter Carter)

Stars: 3 of 5.

Running Time: 97 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew: Written by Paul F. Edwards (V, NORTH AND SOUTH), Richard Robinson (PIRANHA, KINGDOM OF THE SPIDERS, and Stephen Schneck (INSIDE OUT, WELCOME TO BLOOD CITY).  Starring Peter Fonda (EASY RIDER, THE LIMEY), Jerry Reed ("Cledus" in the SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT films, GATOR), Helen Shaver (OUTRAGEOUS!, THE AMITYVILLE HORROR, THE PARK IS MINE!), Harvey Atkin (MEATBALLS, ATLANTIC CITY), Leslie Carlson (VIDEODROME, THE DEAD ZONE), and Michael Ironside?

Tag-line:  "Truckin' is one thing, high-ballin' is another, and the way they do it is something else!"
Best one-liner:  "You're a trucker?"  –"Well, I'm not a Go-Go dancer!"

HIGH-BALLIN' is not just a mediocre 70s Canadian trucker movie.  It's also a travelogue, an occasional EASY RIDER pastiche, and a bona fide Junta Juleil mystery.  Allow me to explain.

Netflix Streaming has a whole mess of films expiring tomorrow, many of which never made it to DVD.  One of these films is HIGH-BALLIN', and it has been on my watch-list for a long time, owing mostly to the fact that it supposedly features a role from a young Michael Ironside, as "Butch."  Research on the subject was hazy because apparently not that many people have seen HIGH-BALLIN', but cursory investigation revealed that Ironside's role was "unconfirmed."  I'll come back to this.

Unlike your average escapist truckin' fare, HIGH-BALLIN' has a surprisingly pessimistic tone to it, even in the midst of a twangy opening song by co-star Jerry Reed (country singer and zany trucker movie veteran), the fact that it's low-budgeted American International Picture, and the matter of its release abroad as a faux-sequel to CONVOY.  The bad guys aren't blundering meatheads being hilariously cold-cocked by orangutans like in EVERY WHICH WAY BUT LOOSE– instead they're vicious hijackers murdering honest truckers and leaving their bodies on the side of the road.  Plus, the movie's got that whole Canadian seasonal depression thing going on, as I described in my review of THE DEAD ZONE.  I kinda like the idea of a depressing trucker movie.  

The plot follows our motorcyclist/trucker hero Peter Fonda, his truckin' buddy Jerry Reed, and Fonda's quasi-trucker/wannabe-trucker/trucker groupie girlfriend Helen Shaver as they fight back against a corporate trucking firm who's sending men in pickup trucks to hijack honest trucker's semitrailer trucks, steal them, and store them in an enormous trucking warehouse.  May I also recommend: LOTS AND LOTS OF TRUCKS.

HIGH-BALLIN' = EASY RIDER for the 70s?  

The action highlight of the piece is probably the chase scene whereupon Fonda releases racecars from a double-decker transport truck and flings them into the road at pursuing hijackers,

Peter Fonda, ready for some Canadian action– and appropriately dressed

but this film isn't really about the action.  It's about atmosphere, and the roads and scenic byways of 70s Ontario provide a nice, unusual spin on the genre.

We are treated to a nearly endless parade of scenic truck stop diners and nostalgic, down-home country western bars,


most of which are locales where you'd be happy to grab a Labatt or a Canadian Club on the rocks and spend some time hangin' out with David Cronenberg, Atom Egoyan, Guy Maddin, or whoever your favorite Canadian happens to be.

We also get a bit part from Leslie "Barry Convex in VIDEODROME" Carlson,

a Canadian character actor who really made the rounds with Cronenberg, and with Canadian films in general.

Finally, we come to the mystery of Ironside.  For those of you who don't know, a large, hearty chunk of this website is devoted to Michael Ironside, even to the point of fanfiction.  So I watched the movie– looking for him the whole time– and couldn't quite spot him.  I was expecting him to show up as a henchman, so I kept pausing the hijacker scenes in the hopes of a glimpse of Ironside.  The movie came to a close and I could barely contain my disappointment.  Perhaps the "unconfirmed" status of Ironside's appearance in HIGH-BALLIN' was true...  Then my mind sparked, and I remembered back to a scene where an ambulance arrives on the scene to tend to a freshly murdered trucker.  In the scene, a bearded doctor walks across the screen, pokes his head in the vehicle, and says nothing.  He is never seen or heard from again.  It is my belief that this bearded doctor is Ironside.


He eluded my gaze the first time around because I was looking for a villain shouting threats, not a throwaway doctor without any dialogue.  Now, you can click on the pics for a larger view, but I'm 90% sure this is Ironside.  A waste of the man's talents, I say!  I realize that this is kind of anti-climactic, but hey, it's another Junta Juleil mystery (mostly) solved.

Three high-ballin', high-rollin', truckin' buddy stars.

–Sean Gill

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Film Review: THE DEAD ZONE (1983, David Cronenberg)

Stars: 4 of 5.

Running Time: 103 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew:  Starring Christopher Walken (THE DEER HUNTER, KING OF NEW YORK), Brooke Adams (INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS '78, DAYS OF HEAVEN), Tom Skerritt (ALIEN, CHEERS), Herbert Lom (SPARTACUS, EL CID), Anthony Zerbe (STEEL DAWN, THE OMEGA MAN), Martin Sheen (APOCALYPSE NOW, THE LITTLE GIRL WHO LIVES DOWN THE LANE), Geza Kovacs (MEPHISTO, SCANNERS), Peter Dvorsky (VIDEODROME, THE PARK IS MINE), Les Carlson (VIDEODROME, THE FLY), Jackie Burroughs (MORE TALES OF THE CITY, HEAVY METAL).   Screenplay by Jeffrey Boam (THE LOST BOYS, LETHAL WEAPON 2), based on the novel by Stephen King. Cinematography by Mark Irwin (VIDEODROME, SCREAM).  Music by Michael Kamen (LETHAL WEAPON, DIE HARD).  Produced by Dino de Laurentiis (DUNE, BLUE VELVET) and Debra Hill (HALLOWEEN, THE FOG).

Tag-line: "In his mind, he has the power to see the future.  In his hands, he has the power to change it."

Best one-liner:  "The ICE...  is...gonna... BREAK!!!"

THE DEAD ZONE is not a flashy film.  It possesses a muted quality, it proceeds at its own pace, it relishes its understated, tragic plotting.  As such, it's often a forgotten (or at least marginalized) film, both in the David Cronenberg and Stephen King canons.  Hell, both of them had more elaborate (King's CHRISTINE and CUJO) and ballsier (Cronenberg's VIDEODROME) films come out the very same year (1983)!  THE DEAD ZONE is more of a psychological study: its monsters are not rabid St. Bernards, nor hellish Plymouth Furies, near-immortal Walkin' Dudes, demonic clowns, nor possessed industrial machinery– THE DEAD ZONE's monsters are men, and the perversions of human minds.  It's a strong film, and an artful one.  Here are eight reasons to visit THE DEAD ZONE:

1.  Melancholy Horror.
Readers of the site have heard me pontificate at length on the joys– er, I suppose I mean sorrows– of melancholy horror, which is probably my favorite of all the horror sub-genre classifications that I've pulled out of my ass across the years.  While this is a touch late in the game to qualify as Golden Age Melancholy Horror (1969-1981), it sure fits.  The mood is pensive, our hero unravels in misery.  The soundtrack, by Michael "LETHAL WEAPON & DIE HARD" Kamen even follows suit– it's downcast and quotes Tchaikovsky on occasion.

The imagery is wintry and despondent (as Canadian locations are wont to be).  The color palette is delicate, the spaces vacant, the trees barren.


I might just have Seasonal Affective Disorder, also known as "SAD," or "winter depression." I think I'll mount a one-man campaign to have it colloquially renamed "The Dead Zone Blues."


2.  Kronenberg Kronies.
This one could easily also be called "The Villains of VIDEODROME Reunion Tour."
We got Les Carlson ("Barry Convex" from VIDEODROME) as a man being politically intimidated by Martin Sheen.  (And behind him is Géza Kovács, who played an assassin in SCANNERS.)

And then there's Peter Dvorsky ("Harlan" from VIDEODROME) as a sleazy reporter named Dardis.

An interesting side note is that in the novel, it's a sleazy reporter from fictional rag mag INSIDE VIEW named Richard Dees who comes to harass our hero, and he later shows up as the protagonist in a Stephen King short story called "The Night Flier," hunting down an exclusive about a Cessna-piloting vampire.  This short story was later made into a 1997 film starring Miguel Ferrer as Dees, which I'll review one of these days.  Miguel Ferrer (ROBOCOP, TRAFFIC, "Albert Rosenfield" on TWIN PEAKS) made for a fantastic sleazebag, but I'm going to go ahead and pretend that Dvorksy here is also playing Dees, as I feel like there's a spiritual connection between the unsavory acting choices of Dvorsky and Ferrer.


3.  The Collars.
How ya like your collars?  Popped?  I sure hope so.

We could probably call this thing "THE POPPED COLLAR ZONE."  And I'd be fine with that.


4.  Shit-Eatin' Sheen.
It doesn't happen often these days, but I love Martin Sheen as a villain.  He gives a brilliant, disturbing performance as a child molester in another melancholy horror flick, THE LITTLE GIRL WHO LIVES DOWN THE LANE, and here he taps into the same realm of performance as a sociopath enamored by the power he lords over others.

Kind of prefiguring his far more benevolent politician on THE WEST WING, he imbues the role with an incredible polish.  He probably could have been a real politician.  Gone is the immature, animalistic villainy called for in BADLANDS, this character's a far darker, rational fellow.
He's got a pretty fantastic crazy-eye, as well:


5.  Strong Imagery.
I revisited THE DEAD ZONE this week, but I had seen it once previously, probably around the age of ten or eleven.  I didn't remember a great deal about it, but what stuck in my mind (and vague spoilers follow) was the vivid, haunting imagery of some of Walken's psychic episodes.  I still remembered, as if I had seen it yesterday, the shots of children breaking through the ice and plunging into frigid waters:



and the scenes of Sheen in his presidential bunker, contemplating World War III:



It's understated, but incredibly well done.  Cronenberg can play ya like a piano even without the sensationalism of flesh pods and Brundleflies and VHS vaginas!


6.  Walken's Psychic Episodes.

I already mentioned the strong imagery which accompanies them, but when Walken's in the midst of it, uttering something like "The ICE...  is...gonna... BREAK!!!," you are there with him.  It's nearly "overacting," but Walken is so present, so connected to the material that you simply have no choice but to believe his performance.
Also, though I usually am not the greatest fan of parodies, Walken's lampooning of his DEAD ZONE role re-imagined as "Ed Glosser, Trivial Psychic" on SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE is well worth your time.

7.  George Bannerman.
In the novels of Stephen King, much attention is paid to the details of the fictional community of Castle Rock (among others), and one of the markers for chronology becomes the succession of sheriffs in the town.  Bannerman is only a Constable back in THE BODY (the basis for STAND BY ME), gets promoted to Sheriff, plays large and memorable roles in THE DEAD ZONE and CUJO, and he's mentioned in passing even in novels that take place after his time.  Then he's replaced by Alan Pangborn (who's been depicted on screen by Michael Rooker and Ed Harris) who plays a major role in THE DARK HALF and NEEDFUL THINGS.  Anyway, what I'm saying is that King lends great verisimilitude to his fictional locales, and he does it so well, that you're looking forward to seeing how even minor characters will be depicted.  Bannerman was portrayed the same year in CUJO by Sandy Ward (THE ROCKFORD FILES, POLICE ACADEMY 2, THE PERFECT STORM), and while he does a fine job, Tom Skerritt is sort of exactly who you'd imagine from the page.

It's a fairly minor role here, but he lends it a genuine credibility.  We find Walken's psychic nature far easier to swallow as an audience because it plays so realistically off of Skerritt's skepticism (and eventual belief).


8.  The SLEEPY HOLLOW connection.
Early in the film, when he's still a (relatively) carefree schoolteacher, Walken assigns his class to read Washington Irving's THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.


Little did he know, I'm sure, that some sixteen years later, he'd be playing the Headless Horseman himself.

Note the popped collar, however.  Some things never change, I suppose!  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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Film Review: CRASH (1996, David Cronenberg)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 100 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: James Spader (TUFF TURF, WOLF), Elias Koteas (EXOTICA, SHUTTER ISLAND), Holly Hunter (RAISING ARIZONA, THE PIANO), Deborah Cara Unger (THE GAME, THIRTEEN), Rosanna Arquette (AFTER HOURS, DESPERATELY SEEKING SUSAN), Peter MacNeill (BODY PARTS, SIMON BIRCH). Based on the novel by J.G. Ballard (EMPIRE OF THE SUN). Music by Howard Shore (AFTER HOURS, VIDEODROME, THE LORD OF THE RINGS). Cinematography by Peter Suschitzky (DEAD RINGERS, NAKED LUNCH, MARS ATTACKS!).
Tag-lines: " Love in the dying moments of the twentieth century."
Best one-liner: " They bury the dead so quickly. They should leave them lying around for months."

The next chapter in David Cronenberg's continuing treatise on the cruel metamorphosis of human flesh, CRASH is a bold, virile film that's as hilarious as it is existentially terrifying.





The car itself is a conceptual hotbed of primordial fears and visceral desires: the stifling, claustrophobic space; constrictive belts and cold metal clasps; exhilarating accelerations and jolting stops– it's even the site of many a Baby Boomers' first sexual fumblings... and, oh yeah– the ever-present threat of death and shattered glass and crumpled metal and blood and fluid and bodies penetrated, torn, and ripped by the thundering collision of jagged steel and spongy tissue. We are surrounded by machines: they are part of us, and there is no escape. So we adapt, we integrate, we re-form ourselves like the maladjusted flesh sculptors we are. Howard Shore's dark, entrancing score sends metallic echoes and screeching guitar reverberations up from the pit of our deepest fears– it's as relentless and hypnotic as a highway cloverleaf. It taps into some primal fascination we don't quite have the vocabulary for– from watching bacteria mingle under a slide to pornography to, say, KOYAANISQATSI. Cronenberg’s actors are BEYOND committed. And therein lies the humor– we laugh, not because it’s 'funny,' but because these people are FOR REAL: the way Holly Hunter awkwardly scrabbles around for the remote after the crash test VHS they're watching unexpectedly pauses, the sincerely ecstatic way that Spader and Hunter heartlily applaud a high-impact 'performance,'

or this shot of a young, fanny-packin', ripped-jeans-wearin' crew member wheeling a camera away to reveal...




...smarmy, disaffected Spader.

Rosanna Arquette becomes a work of modern, sexualized art worthy of Giger, framed by chrome braces, gaping scars, and fishnets,

and her bizarre, mortifying interaction with an awkward, high-end car salesman is 100% worth the price of admission:



Deborah Kara Unger is deeply damaged and possesses a fascinating, serpentine detachment:

but, like in EXOTICA, it's Elias Koteas' natural, volatile charisma that becomes the film's centerpiece- his narration and reenactment of the James Dean crash is the kind of triumph that most actors spend an entire lifetime in search of.

I mean, look at him!


Nobody sucks face quite like Elias Koteas.

A great date movie, and best seen at the theater so you can really savor that car ride home. Five stars.

-Sean Gill

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