Film Review: TALES FROM THE CRYPT PRESENTS: BORDELLO OF BLOOD (1996, Gilbert Adler)

Stars: 2.5 of 5.
Running Time: 87 minutes.
Tag-line: I couldn't find one, but I believe the poster image of a martini-quaffing Cryptkeeper staring at a pair of partially-clad female legs is probably tag-line enough.
Notable Cast or Crew:  Starring John Kassir (The Cryptkeeper), William Sadler (DIE HARD 2, MACHETE KILLS), Dennis Miller (comedian, THE NET, DISCLOSURE), Erika Eleniak (E.T., UNDER SIEGE, BAYWATCH), Angie Everhart (model, ex-wife of Joe Pesci, LAST ACTION HERO), Chris Sarandon (FRIGHT NIGHT, THE PRINCESS BRIDE), Corey Feldman (STAND BY ME, THE LOST BOYS), Aubrey Morris (LIFEFORCE, "Deltoid" in A CLOCKWORK ORANGE), Phil Fondacaro (TROLL, WILLOW, GHOULIES II, "Greaser Greg" in THE GARBAGE PAIL KIDS THE MOVIE).  Story by Bob Gale and Robert Zemeckis (BACK TO THE FUTURE Trilogy, USED CARS), and a special appearance by Whoopi Goldberg.  Screenplay by AL Katz (FREDDY'S NIGHTMARES, TALES FROM THE CRYPT) and Gilbert Adler (producer on TALES FROM THE CRYPT and SUPERMAN RETURNS) and directed by Adler.  Produced by Adler, Katz, Zemeckis, Richard Donner, Joel Silver, Walter Hill, and the rest of the TV Crypt gang.
Best One-liner:  "Trust me, quit while you're a 'head.'"  –The Cryptkeeper

The second film of its kind, TALES FROM THE CRYPT PRESENTS: BORDELLO OF BLOOD mostly serves as a feature-length reminder why TALES FROM THE CRYPT episodes should not be feature length– but along the way there is ample guilty pleasure to be enjoyed.  In fact, I think I can identify at least seven things in BORDELLO OF BLOOD that, while perhaps not approaching the mantle of "greatness," approach some effortless mantle of "sublime stupidity."  Oh yeah.  BORDELLO OF BLOOD ain't afraid to get stupid.  Real stupid.


Welcome to Angie Everhart's acting school.  I hope you're taking notes!

Produced, written, and directed by a lot of the usual suspects from the TALES FROM THE CRYPT family, BORDELLO OF BLOOD is especially notable for having an original story by Robert Zemeckis and his longtime writing partner Bob Gale.  While Zemeckis has been a CRYPT producer and director from the very beginning of the series, this marks the first time he officially made a writing contribution of any kind.  A word of advice?  Don't expect BACK TO THE FUTURE!  Instead, expect a dim retread of the previous Gale-scripted and directed episode from 1993 called "House of Horror," whereupon fraternity pledges meet their doom in a haunted house-initiation gone wrong.  In BORDELLO OF BLOOD, however, it's dumb teens who visit a vampiric brothel on the outskirts of town.  After they're reported missing, private eye Dennis Miller (?!) is on the case, which ends up involving archeology and intrigue at a local megachurch.  It's corny, slight, and predictable, but here are those seven bits of sublime stupidity that keep TALES FROM THE CRYPT fans comin' back for more:

#1.  William Sadler as the Cryptkeeper's drinkin' buddy.  Also– he's a mummy.

You get the sense that William Sadler is always having a lot of fun, whether he's doing naked kung fu in DIE HARD 2 or playing Twister against Keanu Reeves and Alex Winter in BILL AND TED'S BOGUS JOURNEY.  Technically the story kicks off as a wager between Sadler's mummy and ole' Crypty– apparently based on the quality of their stories, they sometimes cut each other to pieces for laughs or something?  (I think there's a "Cutting Cards" reference in there, too.)  This seems to exist solely for the payoff which I have catalogued under "Best One-Liner."

#2.  Bad boy Corey Feldman.  Look at him– so badass and ambiguously "90s subculture"

with his turquoise-eyeballed skull stud, his grunge jeans, leather jacket, and Bobby Briggs flannel.  He's got a TALES FROM THE CRYPT: DEMON KNIGHT poster in his bedroom, too!  Regardless, this young ruffian's visit to the eponymous bordello is what kicks the plot into high gear.  Also, his (brief) presence here sorta feels like a nod to THE LOST BOYS.

Furthermore, his DEATH BECOMES HER-style demise and famous last words are poetry worthy of Lord Byron, or at least Beavis and Butthead:

"Oh shit!  This sucks! Uhhh..."


#3.  Crooked mega-pastor Chris Sarandon, wearing the worst tie of the 1990s and rocking out with his guitar like he's Chuck Berry.



This is actually what "makes" the movie, to whatever extent BORDELLO OF BLOOD can be "made."  He at first in league with the vampires (and not an actual vampire, like in the glorious FRIGHT NIGHT), helping lure young sinners to the Bordello of Blood.

Note the portrait of Sarandon on the wall behind Sarandon.

He also runs "The Lord's Shoppin' Network," wields a cross-shaped Jesus laser (which adheres to Chekhov's rule of Jesus lasers!), and pronounces laser like "lazzer."  All of this is pretty stupid, but all of this is also really good.

#4.  A rabid, demented supporting role from British character actor Aubrey Morris as an undertaker/pimp.

He knows exactly what movie he's in, and uses that as license to blaze bold and wondrous new trails in the annals of undertaker/pimpery.


#5.  Whoopi Goldberg?!

What's going on here?  She's around for about six seconds– long enough to pop up out of a hospital bed after a vampire battle and deliver the above rib-tickler.  Interestingly enough, this is not Whoopi's first TALES FROM THE CRYPT association– she also co-starred with James Remar and Vanity in the Tobe Hooper episode "Dead Wait" and even appeared as herself in the wraparound segment:

If I wrote the questions for JEOPARDY, you could bet that this would show up eventually.

#6.  A-movie (RETURN OF THE JEDI, WILLOW, THE DOORS), B-movie (GHOULIES II, TROLL, THE GARBAGE PAIL KIDS) and C-movie (DOLLMAN VS. DEMONIC TOYS, RAGEWAR, MONSTER HIGH) legend Phil Fondacaro...  as Indiana Jones?!

He plays a vampire archeologist (I can't believe I just typed that) who becomes mixed up in a lot of Angie Everhart/Chris Sarandon intrigue.  This doesn't quite fit as sublime stupidity, as I must really tip my hat to their casting a little person in a role that doesn't necessarily call for one- how often does a guy like Phil Fondacaro get to play a straightforward "role," with no (troll/elf/alien/Ewok) qualification?

#7.  Dennis Miller and Chris Sarandon blast legions of vampire hookers into bloody goo-splosions with holy-water-filled Super Soakers to the resounding rock n' roll glory of The Sweet's "Ballroom Blitz."

Amen!

In the end, I'll give this two and a half stars.  I think I'm too close to it and I can't tell if I've inflated the rating or lowballed it.  Perhaps I'll let history be the judge.

–Sean Gill

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Only now does it occur to me... BULLET TO THE HEAD

Only now does it occur to me...  that I would ever witness the following tableau:  A drugged-out, minor henchman played by Christian Slater (in a fox mask), partying at a low-rent version of EYES WIDE SHUT's creepy ball 

is stalked into the bathroom by a sheet-music-mask-wearing, revenge-seeking Stallone

and abducted at knifepoint whilst mid-whiz

as Stallone uses the one-liner:  "Grip it and zip it, party boy!"

As to the film: though it's a mean, semi-lean action picture by the legendary Walter Hill, it's not quite as good as I wanted it to be, despite the meaty acting stylings of Mr. Stallone and the extended-cameo-appearance by The Slater Factor.  Carry on.

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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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Only now does it occur to me... BREWSTER'S MILLIONS

Only now does it occur to me... that despite the trappings of a mainstream, non-Walter Hillish 80s comedy, Walter Hill manages occasionally to put his stamp on BREWSTER'S MILLIONS.

Based on a 1902 novel, BREWSTER'S MILLIONS has been adapted to film on ten occasions, and though it's verily brimming with socio-political ideas for a zany 80s comedy and I did indeed enjoy it, it's far from being a "great" movie.  It doesn't have any buddy cops, Western gunslingers, street gangs, or Carradines; there's no Brion James, no James Remar, and not even a hint of David Patrick Kelly (aka DPK, aka "War-eh-orrs, come out and play-yee-yay!").  Nonetheless, here are four things about the film which are extremely "Walter Hillish":

#1.  Ry Cooder soundtrack.  Though much of his oeuvre sounds exactly the twangy-same, Cooder (probably best known for his work on PARIS, TEXAS and alongside greats like Clapton, Captain Beefheart, Van Morrison, and the Doobie Brothers) generally puts together solid soundtracks for Walter Hill.  Other Hill works include: THE LONG RIDERS, SOUTHERN COMFORT, STREETS OF FIRE, CROSSROADS, JOHNNY HANDSOME, "The Man Who Was Death" episode of TALES FROM THE CRYPT, TRESPASS, GERONIMO, and LAST MAN STANDING.

#2.  Ric Waite cinematography.  I've sung his praises before, but he often lenses evocatively smoggy, neon-soaked city-scapes and crisp daylight shots with a warm color palette and an indescribably "80s" feel.  I'd compare him certainly to Gary Kibbe, the latter-day John Carpenter cinematographer (from PRINCE OF DARKNESS in 1987 to GHOSTS OF MARS in 2001).  Other Hill works include:  48 HRS., THE LONG RIDERS, and the Hill-produced BLUE CITY.

#3.  Peter Jason!  Also a favorite of John Carpenter, Peter Jason's often pompous supporting parts are a staple of the 1980s.  Here he plays a pompous newscaster.  Other Hill works include:  DEADWOOD, the bartender in 48 HRS., UNDISPUTED, RED HEAT, STREETS OF FIRE, WILD BILL, JOHNNY HANDSOME, and the PERVERSIONS OF SCIENCE episode, "Dream of Doom."

 

 #4.  Torchy's.  The spectacular dive bar which recurs in so many Walter Hill movies (THE DRIVER, STREETS OF FIRE, 48 HRS., etc., etc.) is back! 
At this point, it's like seeing an old friend.  We've seen Eddie Murphy cause a ruckus there, Diane Lane perform there, Bruce Dern interrogate Ryan O' Neal there...  ah, you've got to love it.

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The Runners-Up to Junta Juleil's Top 100, Part 2

Ah, more spillover. But next, we'll be cracking the Top 100 for real.

DRACULA (1931, Tod Browning)

I've said before that "DRACULA is a monster classic, full of fleeting, mystical moments and ethereal majesties. Exceedingly atmospheric and possessing one of the most iconic leading performances in film history, DRACULA is a Halloween fixture and a classic of early sound cinema; it's mandatory viewing not only for horror fans, but for cineastes in general." The maniac élan of Dwight Frye; the ineffable, funereal poetry of Lugosi's performance; the weight and the torment of centuries... while it may not be an objectively perfect film, dammit, it's close enough for me.

STROZEK (1978, Werner Herzog)

"No one kicks you here, Bruno." –"Not physically...here they do it spiritually." So Herzog tackles the American Dream, er, let's make that the American Nightmare. How do we get from a point where the emotionally and institutionally damaged German street performer Bruno S. (played by the emotionally and institutionally damaged real-life German street performer, Bruno S.) is escaping thugs in Germany to find a better life in America, to the point where a cop is screaming "WE CAN'T STOP THE DANCING CHICKENS! WE CAN'T STOP THE DANCING CHICKENS, SEND AN ELECTRICIAN!?" Well, I'm not going to tell you how. See the film for yourself. But be prepared for more humanity in non-actor Bruno S.'s little finger than in the entirety of your average, unfortunate member of that species we call Homo sapiens.

THE MECHANIC (1972, Michael Winner)

A Michael Winner movie permitted to even bask in the presence of the top 100?! Yeah, you heard me right. While this might not be the best movie that Bronson was ever in, this is probably the best "Bronson movie." I've written of my love for this flick before: It's a detached, melancholy thriller with crisp, artistic cinematography; a dissonant, unnerving Jerry Fielding score; and perhaps Bronson's most complex, compelling performance. And, boy, has it got a doozy of an ending. Highest marks. (Plus, this might mark the beginning of Bronson's love affair with ice cream– not to be confused with his love affairs with chicken or bananas.)

THE LIMEY (1999, Steven Soderbergh)

The style of swingin' 60's Godard, but without all the pompous, pseudo-revolutionary hogwash and self-congratulatory pretension that've infected his films sometime since 1965 or so, THE LIMEY has what every movie should have: an aged, blood-spattered Terence Stamp screaming at the top of his Cockney lungs, "Tell him I'm fucking comingggg!" The brutality of a POINT BLANK or an OUTFIT combined with the thoughtfulness of a Jean-Pierre Melville or an Antonioni, THE LIMEY is, hands-down, Soderbergh's masterpiece. Cliff Martinez's somber, furtive score; the use of counter-culture icons like Peter Fonda, Barry Newman, and Joe Dallesandro; the lunatic improvisations of a pony-tail'd Nicky Katt; brilliant, deadpan sidekickery by Luis Guzman; and the ethereal cinematography of Edward Lachmann all revolve around the furious, uncompromising, force-of-nature lead portrayal by Terence Stamp. It's THE REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST for the Sons of Lee Marvin.

EXTREME PREJUDICE (1987, Walter Hill)

Because I can't really think of any way to put it better than I already did, I'll say this: "Before you stick this thing in your player, I want you to mark out an 8 foot radius around your TV set. Then I want you to make sure there's nothing in that zone that you wouldn't mind having 40 gallons of testosterone poured over. EXTREME PREJUDICE has been proven to make wombs shrivel and has turned the frilliest of ladies quite husky; it makes men stumble, confused, into the street with a mysterious desire to chomp on cigars and arm wrestle. It's robust, potent, severe, and is completely safe when used as directed." It's the ultimate manly man's 'manly man' movie, and just about the most fun you can have indoors on a hot summer's day. And I'll leave you with two words that you should always remember: "Michael," and "Ironside."

THE SADDEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD (2003, Guy Maddin)

"If you're sad, and like beer, I'm your lady." To that, I answer "why, I'm all of the above, but I thought Isabella Rossellini was already my lady." Guy Maddin, George Toles, and Kazuo Ishiguro put their heads together for a completely deranged, nostalgia-soaked, impeccably-desinged paean to silent and early sound cinema, a film so utterly bizarre and completely sincere that it avoids the typical pitfalls of pastiche. And even though the ending is borrowed from HANGOVER SQUARE, by God, it still takes the guts outta ya. (Also: Isabella Rossellini has prosthetic legs filled with beer, which might be enough to get this near the Top 100 alone.)

DOWN BY LAW (1986, Jim Jarmusch)

Picking a favorite Jarmusch film is a lofty task; I've got major soft spots in my heart for STRANGER THAN PARADISE, DEAD MAN, GHOST DOG, and MYSTERY TRAIN, to name a few. But nothing can match what Tom Waits called "a Russian neo-fugitive episode of THE HONEYMOONERS," the dingy-bayou prison-break (that doesn't actually show the prison-break) classic, DOWN BY LAW. You can almost touch the peeling paint, feel the haze of everpresent New Awlins humidity, smell the stench and stagnancy of the swamps... And that's not the half of it- there's the inscrutable John Lurie, the drunken Tom Waits, and the never-better zany Eye-talian, Roberto Begnini!

LE TROU (1960, Jacques Becker)

Speaking of prison breaks, this one's all about the logistics, the timeframe, and the little details that make it feel real. Jacques Becker's observational style is applied to a group of desperate, jailed men, and the results are astounding. He documented the behavior of criminals before in TOUCHEZ PAS AU GRISBI, but these men are anguished, doomed souls, yearning for freedom– they aren't zoot suit-wearing bon vivant gangsters; they're working-class buddies who had to push the acceptable limits of human behavior to survive in the free world (until they got busted), and now they have to push the limits of their own ingenuity if they want to survive a caged world. Often, in a film of this type, we'll see a man digging with a spoon or a toothbrush or a what-have-you, and then, via montage, we see the completed tunnel. There's an economy of storytelling in that, but it occasionally feels staged, contrived, or worse. In LE TROU, some men in real-time pass around a steel bar, taken from a bed, and smash at the concrete. When one man tires, he passes the bar to the next, and then to the next. Finally, with nary an edit, they break through, creating a hole. We've just seen the process and the effort which went into making the hole, and that is strangely satisfying. No smoke and mirrors here; it's real men doing real things. Strange that a genuine moment as simple as this should stick out to me in a life-time of film watching. Of course, it's not as simple as pointing a camera at someone doing something real and recording it– but I suppose therein lies Becker's genius.

BLOODSPORT (1988, Newt Arnold)

"What?!," I see you saying, way in the back, lurking in the darkness. "Who the hell lets BLOODSPORT within 30 miles of a Top 100 list?!" Well, 'Mr. Too-Fancy-to-Appreciate-Van-Damme's-Mastery-of-Splits-and-Full-Contact-Martial-Arts,' I do. Because there's something to be said for a movie (even if it's a big, dumb, fun movie) that can be watched again and again and again and again, forever. Cannon Films churned out some silly content and some serious content, but it was always audacious– ballsy, even- brimming with a genuine joie-de-vivre that was infectious then, and it's infectious now. Golan and Globus were producers who allowed their directors artistic control, who refused to stomp upon their creativity, and infused their production company with the sense that something new and exciting was happening– yeah, what were they thinking, right?! "Golan and Globus used to be big," says the naysayer in the rear. "No," I say, "they ARE big– it's the pictures that got small! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE!"

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING (1975, John Huston)

A grand adventure film from a time when that didn't mean a CGI fuckfest with a heavily airbrushed poster, a $200 million budget, a cast of brain-dead fluffballs for the younger demographic and "wait, do we have a script yet?– here, let's assign these eight guys to it, each of whom has a notable credit from a high-profile reboot." Rudyard Kipling's tale of fortune and glory and deification has been laid out on the screen here by John Huston, perhaps the best-suited man for the job from Kipling's time to ours. Somehow, all at once, he captures rollicking fun, the absurdities of imperialism, the outrageous hubris of man, and the pathos which often swells beneath it. And rarely have two lead actors (here, Sean Connery and Michael Caine) been so perfectly cast, so full of life, so connected to material that flits to and fro from the light-hearted to the downbeat like the oscillations of a river's current, flowing through a dramatic, uncharted slit of a canyon, somewhere on the other side of the world...

HIGHBALL (1997, Noah Baumbach)

Though this film's cult following outside of my apartment is likely pretty slim; I will say, that inside my apartment, said cult following is rather extensive and rather rabid. I've spoken of my love for this film before, and I have to say "it's the ultimate party movie for people who generally dislike party movies." Rae Dawn Chong as herself, Chris Eigeman, Carlos Jacott, John Lehr, Peter Bogdanovich... it's fantastic. Acerbic wit, low-budge' moxie, and an incredible re-watchability factor.

THE SCARLET EMPRESS (1934, Josef von Sternberg)

Holy shit– let von Sternberg do whatever he wants, and this is the result: a cast of thousands; imposing, grotesque statuary and sets that spiral toward the heavens; intertitles and silent film techniques in the midst of sound film; Sam Jaffe leering with half-witted insanity (he gives Dwight Frye a run for his money); and Marlene Dietrich in opulent period costume pieces and shot with starry-eyed closeups. Some have described it as "kitsch," and maybe it is, but it's really a weighty examination of the nature of power: we only see Dietrich become the "Scarlet Empress" at the film's close, in fact, we spend the majority of our time with her as a frightened young woman spirited away to a foreign land, yanked to and fro by forces beyond her control. Ultimately, she embarks on an inevitable, fascinating journey towards becoming the sort of deadened, manipulating individual capable of wielding absolute power. It's pretty damned spectacular.

THE GARBAGE PAIL KIDS MOVIE (1987, Rod Amateau)

Now I've done it– I've put Josef von Sternberg and John Huston in the same room as the Garbage Pail Kids, and I'll defend that decision to the death. Rarely does a movie achieve such a perfection of badness; not even TROLL 2 can quite compete with this schizophrenic tale of one-dimensional misfits. Take Ali Gator, for example. His dogged, single-minded quest to eat people's toes quickly vaults him onto the shortlist of my favorite characters in all of cinema. Seriously, his only character trait is that he longs, unswervingly, to hasten the union between your toes and his teeth. We've got little people in hideous, quasi-animatronic costumes. We've got "Captain Manzini," a sort of gutter-Shakespeare stock player. We've got bodily functions. Vomit. Farting. Musical numbers. We got a plot that revolves, entirely, around a fashion show. There's underage romance. Genuine rage. Powerlessness. Cries unto the night. Biker gangs. Toxic sewer sludge. Is it burlesque? Is it grotesque? The modern-day GARGANTUA AND PANTAGRUEL? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS THING?! All I do know is that it's truly something special, and if you'd caught me on a different day, hell, this thing could've cracked the Top 100 proper. So consider yourselves lucky. For now.

-Sean Gill

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Film Review: WILD BILL (1995, Walter Hill)

Stars: 2.7 of 5.
Running Time: 98 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Jeff Bridges (STARMAN, THUNDERBOLT AND LIGHTFOOT, CUTTER'S WAY), Ellen Barkin (THE ADVENTURES OF BUCKAROO BANZAI, DOWN BY LAW), John Hurt (I, CLAUDIUS; THE HIT), Diane Lane (THE COTTON CLUB, RUMBLE FISH), Keith Carradine (NASHVILLE, SOUTHERN COMFORT), David Arquette (THE OUTSIDERS TV series, SCREAM), Christina Applegate (DON'T TELL MOM THE BABYSITTER'S DEAD, MARS ATTACKS!), James Remar (48 HRS., QUIET COOL), Bruce Dern (THE GREAT GATSBY, SILENT RUNNING). Based on the book DEADWOOD by Peter Dexter and the play by Thomas Babe.
Tag-line: "Take a walk on the wild side."
Best one-liner: "You ought to know better than to touch another man's hat."

Where to begin, WILD BILL? Let's start with the good. I'm a Walter Hill fan. I'm a fan of most of the talented, eclectic cast whose members include the commanding and mustachioed Jeff Bridges, the eloquent John Hurt, the soothingly intense Keith Carradine, the mysterious and sultry Diane Lane, and the lovably psychotic James Remar. There's fast and furious, well-choreographed gunfights which recall the quick-drawin', squinty-eyed triumphs of Sergio Leone.

There's a scene where Wild Bill shoots a shot glass off the back of a hapless pooch while he aims backwards, through a mirror.

There's Keith Carradine (who later played perhaps filmdom's finest Wild Bill on HBO's DEADWOOD) as Buffalo Bill in a zany scene showcasing Wild Bill's legendarily awful acting in the money-grubbing play 'SCOUTS OF THE PLAINS.'

There's a genius scene depicting a geriactric-style gunfight between a crippled Bruce Dern...

...and a smart-assed Wild Bill, who's had himself tied to a chair to make it a fair fight.

In fact, Dern practically steals the movie playing this wheelchair-bound, irascible, grizzled madman-

and it's a role that he's pretty much (BIG LOVE, MONSTER, THE ASTRONAUT FARMER) been playing ever since. (And to be fair, he was generally playing it before, too.)

We got John Hurt narrating and raising eyebrows and classin' up the joint

and even getting punched out by James Remar.

We got Remar bustin' in and and bellowing the rhetorical question, "A FIVE DOLLAR WHORE'S GONNA TELL ME ABOUT STREET TRASH?!" to a hooker played by...uh, Christina Applegate.

Wait, that must be a typo. Surely I meant to type 'Susan Tyrrell' or 'Candy Clark' or 'Grace Zabriskie'...but no such luck. It's not all peaches and cream, ladies and gentlemen. Christina Applegate is indeed in this movie, and though it pains me to say it, she's far from being the most absolutely, hair-raisingly loco element included in the film.

Now would probably be a good time to mention that WILD BILL is sort of structured like THE DOORS. We flash-forward and flash-back and wash out to events throughout Wild Bill's life, as if trapped in a interminable time warp, an ouroboros of violence and blood and dirt and whiskey. That's fine. It establishes the sense of violence that pervades Wild Bill's very being. But things start to get a little wonky as soon as we got drug trips and opium hallucinations and use of high-contrast black-and-white video art-lookin' sequences full of bizarre, Oliver Stone-style Native American mysticism


which, for all intents and purposes, are unwatchable until Diane Lane shows up, at which point they become only barely watchable.

Diane Lane: a real dish, even in high-contrast video-art-installation-style sequences.

All of this would be excusable if they were going the all-out arthouse route, but then we have pandering- I assume to the studio, but who knows– altering the historical record in a manner which can only be described as "thoroughly cockamamie." 'Colorado' Charlie Utter inexplicably becomes Charlie Prince (the John Hurt character). Jack McCall (Bill's assassin) is no longer a young, poker-luvin' douche who impulsively shot Bill in the back over a card game and a subsequent gesture of (quite possibly mocking) kindness. He's a pretty-boy (...played by David Arquette) avenging the honor of his mother, Susannah (Diane Lane), who has Bill at gunpoint about 3,000 times during the course of the movie but only acts on it during the finale.

Now, the historical McCall, most likely trying to save his own ass, claimed that Wild Bill had killed his brother and he was seeking revenge, but to tie it in with the Susannah Moore/Davis Tutt incident is not only kinda historically irresponsible, but it also works to the detriment of the story Hill is telling, unless he wanted the subject of his film to be a heavily fictionalized version of Jack McCall. Anyway, it doesn't really matter- the combining, editing, and altering of historical figures in cinema occurs with such frequency that it hardly bears ment–

CALAMITY

JANE

HOT

TUB

I like Ellen Barkin. I really like Ellen Barkin. Nobody can say that I don't like Ellen Barkin. I guess what I mean to say is that she doesn't quite look the part.

Then again, I suppose that her depiction is something that Hollywood has always struggled with:

So, forget I said anything. Thank God, though, at least they didn't s–



...

...

...

...Well, let's end things on a positive note, shall we? Here's a clip I uploaded of James Remar, possibly worn down from multiple takes, giving Wild Bill's hat a hearty, dramatic thwack.


-Sean Gill

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