The Screengrab : harold pinter

Remembering Amicus, the Other British Horror Movie Factory

Phil Nugent — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 18:00:00 GMT

Anyone with an interest in horror movies probably knows something about "Hammer horror", the strain of movies put out by the English production house for some twenty years beginning in the 1950s, which produced its own versions of the classic Universal monster films and made cult stars of such actors as Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. Hammer had its own wayward, dark cousin--the films made in the 1960s and 1970s by Amicus Studios, which might easily have been mistaken for Hammer product by twitchy-eyed buffs on a misspent matinee weekend, or later, by kids parked in front of the TV on a Saturday. As Will Hodgkinson recalls, Amicus was the result of a handshake deal between "a socially inept scriptwriter called Milton Subotsky and a fast-talking hustler called Max J Rosenberg". Subotsky was the hands-on, on-set presence during the company's salad days. Everyone who met him seems to remember him as a very sweet man and a bit of a social misfit and oddball--which kind of figures, very sweet men being in short supply in film production circles. Ironically, he is also remembered as a true horror buff, in contrast the the bosses at Hammer, who happened to find a commercial niche and beat it into an assembly line. "Had it dealt in garbage disposal," the director Freddie Francis once said, "it would have been just as successful." And Subotsky, Hodgkinson writes, was "driven by a deep-rooted hatred for Hammer. In 1956, Hammer had rejected a script he wrote called Frankenstein and the Monster, only to go on and have huge success with a similarly themed film called The Curse of Frankenstein. To Rosenberg, this proved there was money in British horror movies. To Subotsky, the gauntlet had been thrown down." It must have pleased him considerably to feel that he was eating into Hammer's market share, making films pitched to Hammer's audience that sometimes featured actors who were identified with Hammer, such as Cushing and Lee, while telling interviewers that his own stuff was better.

While Subotsky wrote scripts and hung out on sets overseeing the filming and driving the directors crazy, Rosenberg stayed in America, cutting distribution deals and shoveling money across the Atlantic. Not that he shoveled in great quantities; Amicus gave their movies a top-grade look while pinching pennies by hiring actors, ranging from horror stalwarts such as Cushing, Lee, and Vincent Price to the likes of Jack Palance, Burgess Meredith, Denholm Elliott, Terry-Thomas, and Joan Collins, by hiring them for only a few days at a time. Their first real production, the 1965 Dr. Terror's House of Horrors (directed by Francis and written by Subotsky), was an anthology film, with five short stories contained in a wraparound framework with Cushing telling the fortunes of a group of men in a train car. (Subotsky claimed the idea was an homage to the 1945 omnibus film Dead of Night, Ealing Studio's classic fling with the horror genre.) Amicus would later turn out a string of horror-anthology movies, including three with scripts that Robert Bloch adapted from his own stories--Torture Garden (1967), The House That Dripped Blood (1970), and Asylum (1972)--as well as one, 1973's From Beyond the Grave (1973), that was derived from the ghost stories of R. Chetwynd-Hayes, and two, Tales from the Crypt (1972), with Ralph Richardson as the Crypt Keeper, and The Vault of Horror (1973), based on classic EC horror comics. (Comics freaks might almost think of Amicus as the movie equivalent of Warren Publishing to Hammer's EC.) The company almost made one or two unsuccessful stabs at penetrating the art house market, hiring William Friedkin to film the Harold Pinter play The Birthday Party. But Subotsky also had his pragmatic, philistine-studio-boss side; he wrote an ambitious version of the Jekyll-and-Hyde story called I, Monster and demanded that the director, Stephen Weeks, make it in 3-D, despite the fact that "the sets had been built the wrong way round. The script called for the action to go from left to right, but the building lines went the other way." But when the money ran out with the picture unfinished, Subotsky "simply told Weeks to cut whatever scenes he had filmed into something resembling a finished movie. The film was released to terrible reviews - but, like most Amicus films, it made a profit."

According to Hodkinson, Subotsky ended up walking away from the company "for reasons that remain unclear", just when it was branching out into adventure fantasies based on the works of Tarzan's creator. "In 1975, the studio released an adaptation of Edgar Rice Burroughs' lost-world adventure The Land That Time Forgot. It had proved a difficult film to shoot: its star, Doug McClure, was drinking heavily after the collapse of his marriage, while Subotsky was rumoured to be spending more time at Hamleys buying toys than running the studio. His only real involvement with the production was to turn up at a screening with his four-year-old-son, announce that the boy could tell there were men inside the dinosaur suits, and leave." Amicus produced a sequel called The People That Time Forgot (1977) as well as At the Earth's Core (1976), which is best remembered by some of us eternal adolescents for the way that the leading lady, Caroline Munro, really filled out her me-Jane costume, but by then Subotsky was long gone. After working as a producer on one more horror omnibus, 1977's The Uncanny (a linked series of story with the common theme that cats secretly run the world--I didn't know it was supposed to be a secret), the 1980 TV miniseries The Martian Chronicles, and a number of Stephen King-based properties (including King's sole directing job, Maximum Overdrive), he died in 1991. Rosenberg died in 2004. Two years ago, the company name was revived by producer Robert Katz; the first movie from the new Amicus Entertainment was last year's Stuck from director Stuart Gordon.

The Screengrab's 12 Days of Christmas Marathon: "A Christmas Story"

Leonard Pierce — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 20:30:00 GMT

A strange concatenation of circumstances hit me today -- it's Christmas Day 2008 at 9:45 AM as I write this. One was obvious, and one was tenuous, but both had a deep impact in my consideration of this, the last film I watched several weeks ago for the Screengrab's 12 Days of Christmas Marathon and the last Christmas film I'll be posting about this year. The first was the discovery that a friend of mine, who hosts an excellent radio show in Chicago on the nexus of politics and popular culture, recently presented a special Christmas episode in which the central question was: has A Christmas Story replaced It's a Wonderful Life as America's most beloved Christmas movie?

On the surface, it's a pretty strange question. As often as it's shown -- and that's pretty damned often -- Bob Clark's endlessly re-watchable, terrifically funny tale of a young boy's Midwestern holiday misadventures in the late 1940s has never had the cultural ubiquity that Frank Capra's classic had during the years it was out of copyright. It can hardly be called contemporary anymore; it was made 25 years ago (as celebrated in a deluxe new DVD release that's highly recommended by this writer) and was set only a few years after It's a Wonderful Life. And the older film is a genuine four-star cinematic acheivment, directed by one of the towering talents of the Golden Age of Hollywood, made for a significant amount of money and starring some of the greatest screen stars of the day.

A Christmas Story, on the other hand, was directed by the guy best known for doing Porky's and who went on to direct tripe like Turk-182 and Super-Babies: Baby Geniuses 2. His previous holiday movie was the notorious Christmas horror flick Black Christmas. His stars were a seasoned TV pro, a veteran character actress, an untested child star, and two other kids who went on to have no career and a career as a porn star, respectively, with not a superstar in the mix. It didn't come close to delivering any message, any social meaning or psychological boosts of the sort that Capra's film was designed to instill. And, unlike the endlessly parodied and riffed-upon It's a Wonderful Life, it seemed to have little impact outside of its own: it was a singular thing, a ding an sich which could only be contemplated as itself.

And yet, if pressed, I'd agree: A Christmas Story really has supplanted It's a Wonderful Life as the go-to Christmas movie, very likely because of its singularity and uniqueness. Because it's been so endlessly parodied, the Capra film is hard to contemplate on its own, while Bob Clark's film is almost spoof-proof by design. For many, Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed will always occuply some other role in their minds, but Peter Billingsley will be little Ralphie Parker for all eternity. Darren McGavin and Melinda Dillon are so completely pitch-perfect in their roles that they will occupy them forever. And A Christmas Story's lack of ambition -- its small-scale determinance to do nothing but tell its simple story, so wonderfully crafted by Jean Shepherd, leaves it no chance to be bloated or hokey, simply funny and warm without cease.

The second, and more distant, event that influenced my writing of this entry was the death of Harold Pinter. What the news of the demise of a cerebral British playwright has to do with my appreciation of A Christmas Story might not be immediately apparent, but it's not as strange as it seems: Pinter not only pioneered the dysfunctional family drama which resonates so in the film, but he also was an early adopter of the comedy of discomfort and humiliation, with his use of the famed "Pinter pause" and the constant black comedy that can be wrought from embarrassment. Shepherd, writing in 1966 -- around the same time Pinter was doing much of his best work -- understood that sort of comedy perfectly: although his end result is heartwarming rather than soul-searing, almost all the laughs in A Christmas Story come from failure, despair, humiliation, defeat, and disappointment. It even culminates with Billingsley learning that most Pinterian of lessons: you can get what you want and still not be happy, whether what you want is a family or a Red Ryder BB gun.

12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS RATING: An unquenchable 12 drummers drumming. There's simply no better holiday viewing to be had. Merry Christmas, readers -- and thanks for your support, as always.

The Screengrab's 12 Days of Christmas Marathon: Bad Santa

Harold Pinter, 1930-2008

Phil Nugent — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 17:30:00 GMT

Harold Pinter, who died at the age of 78 on Christmas Eve, was very likely the only writer ever to win the Nobel Prize, the French Légion d'honneur, and inspire an episode of Seinfeld. He was also a towering enough figure in modern theater to lend his name to a word: "Pinteresque." It was most commonly used in reference to the famous pauses written into his plays, and many a theater lover born during or after Pinter's first period of success knew long before discovering his plays that describing the sight of an actor daring the audience to wonder if he'd just forgotten his lines as Pinteresque was an easy way of seeming smart. More generally, and more and more as Pinter's career went on, it came to stand for the whole mysterious, threatening world he created on stage, a place where everyone seemed to be nursing a secret grudge and perpetually squaring off against and testing each other, and the balance of power kept shifting. Pinter, who attended the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in 1948, entered theater as an actor and spent twelve years struggling to get by as a member of various repertory companies; for about half that time, he performed under the name "David Baron." His time as a starving young actor in London overlapped with that of Michael Caine, and Caine has often enjoyed telling interviewers about the time good old "David" stormed out of the pub, saying that he was bloody sick to death of this bloody business and was going home to try to write something.

Speaking to The New York Times' Mel Gussow many years later, Pinter would recall that, as an actor, "My favourite roles were undoubtedly the sinister ones. They're something to get your teeth into." As an actor, he--like his American counterpart, Sam Shepard--brought to his writing an inside understanding of the charge that actors get out of the kind of menacing game-playing and shape-shifting that would go on in his plays, and how easily they can impart their excitement in those kinds of roles to the audience. He joined that kind of showmanship to a modernist sense that the hostility he put onstage might seem all the more haunting for seeming oblique in its motivating force, and to a poetic sense of spoken language that immediately joined him, in the minds of critics and the public, to his friend Samuel Beckett (who, as it happened, also died shortly before Christmas, nineteen years ago).

Interviewers who flat out asked Pinter about his working methods and the meaning of his plays soon found that they'd have better spent their evening wrestling greased eels. The facts, as they say on Pushing Daisies, are these: born in 1930 in the London borough of Hackney, he was to be a Jewish evacuee from during the Blitz in 1940 and 1941. That terrifying and confusing experience, coupled to the lonely, brainy boy's entry into school, is widely thought to have forever impacted his view of the world. Writing in Esquire in 1968, Wilfrid Sheed observed that the young Pinter had "had to face the problem of assimilation, by himself, in a series of strange settings, at an age when most boys are concentrating on the best way to keep up their pants. English class apprenticeship is brutal enough if you are born to it. To an outsider like Pinter, it has the extra horror of meaninglessness." In the late fifties and early sixties, Pinter's on-stage chess games seemed very different from the other kinds of English plays that were changing the theater at that time, the "Angry Young Men" plays by such writers as John Osbourne, where hyper-articulate but painfully alienated men expressed their fury at the system, but Pinter was anyone's equal when it came to rage. (Years later, an actor a continent away from a very different kind of working class background--John Malkovich--would tell interviewers that he was drawn into the theater by "the suppressed violence" of Pinter's plays.) Yet so great was his reluctance to be pinned down that he adamantly resisted any political reading of his work.

That changed in the 1980s, when, after a prolonged dust-up in his private life. Pinter had married the actress Vivien Merchant, who would appear in many of his plays and in movies derived both from his plays and original screenplays; they would have a son, Daniel, in 1958. Pinter left Merchant for the best-selling popular historian Antonia Fraser, with whom he lived from 1975 until his death, though it would be another five years before his and Lady Antonia's marriages would be legally dissolved and they could be married. The second marriage was a fairly public and apparently happy one, but the wreckage from Pinter's first marriage would linger. Merchant died of alcoholism in 1982, and in 1993 Pinter's son broke off all contact with him; as a well-regarded writer and musician, he works under the name "Daniel Brand", and for the last fifteen years of his father's life, they never spoke again. The time surrounding Merchant's death coincided with a three-year break Pinter took from playwriting, and when he returned in the mid-1980s, with such plays as One for the Road and Mountain Language, he showed a new willingness to make direct political statements in both his work and his interviews, and even allowed that his earlier plays may well have included "metaphorical" statements on the kind of issues he now addressed head-on. At the same time, he maintained a chilly distance from any autobiographical interpretation of his work, declining, for example, to allow that there might be any connection between his characters' obsessions with lost children and family ties and his son's refusal to reconcile with him.

Many of Pinter's best-known, early plays have been filmed, but, perhaps because they depend so much on the heat and dazzle of live performance, getting the transition from stage to screen to take has often proven problematic. Neither Clive Donner's 1963 The Caretaker nor William Friedkin's 1968 The Birthday Party was a success, though the films are very faithful to the texts. Robert Altman filmed the one-acts The Dumb Waiter and The Room for American network TV in the late 1980s without setting the world on fire; the British TV versions of The Collection (1976), with Laurence Olivier, Helen Mirren, Malcolm MacDowell, and Alan Bates, and No Man's Land (1978), starring John Gielgud and Ralph Richardson, record the not inconsiderable spectacle of phenomenal casts having a go at Pinter's dialogue, but in the context of lesser plays. The 1973 American Film Theater production of The Homecoming, which includes performances by many members of the original cast (including Vivien Merchant as Ruth) and the 1983 Betrayal, with Ben Kingsley and Jeremy Irons, are better thought of.

But Pinter's strongest impact in movies came through screenplay adaptations of others' work--and he did a surprisingly large number of them, especially as his standard of living improved. Among the ones that stand out are his adaptation of Penelope Mortimer's novel The Pumpkin Eater for Jack Clayton's 1964 film, and the first of his many collaborations with the director Joseph Losey, The Servant (1963) and Accident (1967), both starring Dirk Bogarde. He also wrote Losey's 1970 The Go-Between and prepared a script for a film based on Marcel Proust's Remembrance of Things Past for which Losey was never able to obtain funding; it was published in book form as The Proust Screenplay, and eventually adapted to the stage. His other screenplay credits include The Quiller Memorandum, The Last Tycoon, The French Lieutenant's Woman, Turtle Diary, Reunion, The Handmaid's Tale, The Comfort of Strangers, the 1993 version of Kafka's The Trial, and his final credit, the 2007 remake of Sleuth. He also directed Alan Bates in the 1973 movie of Simon Gray's play Butley.

In the last several years, Pinter seemed to be returning to his old profession, acting. He had always been in the habit of taking bit parts and cameos in movies he's worked on, sometimes taking slightly larger roles under his old alias, "David Baron." Then, in 1996, he took on the substantial role of Goldberg in a TV production of The Birthday Party, and he followed that up with such roles as Emma Thompson's father in the HBO film Wit and the spectral "Uncle Bennie" in John Boorman's The Tailor of Panama, sagely advising his nephew, Geoffrey Rush, to be sincere rather than tell the truth: "Sincerity's a virtue! The truth's an affliction!" In 2005, the same year that he won the Nobel Prize for Literature, Pinter announced that he was effectively "retired" from playwriting. The next year, he capped his life in the theater with a triumphantly received run of nine performances, playing Beckett's one-man play Krapp's Last Tape at London's Royal Court Theatre. The performance, which was subsequently released on DVD, was given from a motorized wheelchair; Pinter, who was already ill with the cancer that would kill him, was forced to dispense with Beckett's stage direction that his character should stuff himself with bananas during the play.

Screengrab Presents: The Best Stage-To-Screen Adaptations Of All Time (Part Two)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 21:00:00 GMT

THE GOOD FAIRY (1935)

Ferenc Molnar's prolific output (around 40 plays) was plundered (often in radically altered and/or watered-down form) by everyone: Rogers & Hammerstein got Carousel out of his Liliom, and Billy Wilder's fleetest farce, One, Two, Three updated (apparently unrecognizably) another play. Often forgotten is 1935's The Good Fairy, a triumph of clever dialogue and expert performances over William Wyler's typically ponderous, absurdly slow direction. In keeping with the good "production values" Wyler stolidly brought along for his whole career, things move way too slow. For no good reason, Preston Sturges' adaptation retains cumbersome faux-Hungarian street-name signs, presumably in the name of reminding audiences what cultivated terrain they've stumbled upon whenever an actor gets slowed down by a word. But Sturges keeps throwing away funny lines and faux-ponderous diction in every direction, and the movie's a blast despite all that. "Unhand me, varlet, lest I cleave thee to the brisket!" yells a drunk aristocrat. "I will scale yonder precipice alone!" And he's never heard from again.

HOBSON'S CHOICE (1954)

Harold Brighouse's 1916 comedy was a staple of Northern English comedy, which made everyone nervous when David Lean — "in every fibre a Southerner," notes Kevin Brownlow's biography — took it on. Fortunately, his cast — scenery-chewing Charles Laughton, John Mills (saving his career from impending disaster) and bitchy Brenda de Banzie — carry things nicely. Lean was never much good at comedy, but Hobson's Choice isn't much of a knee-slapper in the first place, so — unlike his awful, rhythmless Blithe Spirit, a mean-spirited, clunky travesty of Noel Coward's play (who responded "You've just fucked up the best thing I ever wrote") — it works. Lean's main contribution comes between dialogue, as in the clip above — continually grounding the mild, leisurely jokes in Manchester's real industrial sprawl. Co-writer Norman Spencer recalls Brighouse never really cared: "He was an old man who was a bit deaf and rather stunned by the whole thing. He said, 'I hope it'll be a nice film,' lost interest and went back up North again."

WILL SUCCESS SPOIL ROCK HUNTER? (1957)

It's nearly impossible to imagine Rock Hunter as a play — Frank Tashlin's movie is so aggressively cinematic, and its satirical points on celebrity's corrosive effects and so on kind of uninteresting. But it pops with Looney Tunes energy, mostly courtesy of Tony Randall: he's occasionally overrun with unexplained evil spirits that take over his body, lower his voice, and make him act as rudely as possible, an effect closer to the cartoons Tashlin started out in than any play. In the clip above (0:53 in), Randall interrupts the movie's action to address the audience directly while the screen loses its Cinemascope boundaries for all manner of TV-simulation; it's the cinematic equivalent of Todd Rundgren's sarcastic diatribe of in-house problems, "Sounds From The Studio," which showcased clipping, weird pitch-shifting and every other '70s analog problem in great detail. Here we get static, snow, and V-hold problems. It's the film's most exhilarating moment, and utterly irrelevant to theater.

THE HOMECOMING (1973)

"Didn't you hear what I said, dad?" sneers Ian Holm in the clip above. Pinter's clipped menace has translated to the screen better and more often than most, but The Homecoming is probably the best attempt to translate a play to screen with as little flash or changing as possible (including, at a mere 111 minutes, an intermission). Aside from one memorable handheld POV shot for the first act's climax — a nervous charge attempted by both character and camera — Peter Hall finds angles that sometimes find visual equivalents for what's being said, but mostly do the one thing that can't be accomplished in theater: have everything happen in a realistically crappy suburban house, without otherwise changing the tempo or performances one bit.

HAMLET ('96 Branagh/'00 Almereyda)

Five years apart, Kenneth Branagh and Michael Almereyda offered near-definitive, completely opposed takes on Hamlet. Branagh has the whole text uncut; to get through everything in a relatively speedy four hours, whole monologues are delivered in breathless rushes. Out of either necessity or bravado (or both), Branagh overplays wildly at times, rendering his every intonation explicitly theatrical; it's a big help for the novice viewer though: arguably the most instantly comprehensible on-screen Hamlet, making everything clear. Updated to the 19th century, it seems, purely to enable lusher visual overkill, Hamlet is both intelligent Shakesperean interpretation and grand Hollywood entertainment. That Branagh stocks all the main parts with theatrically trained actors with basically no marquee value and all the minor parts with way out-of-their-depth Hollywood players (Billy Crystal! Jack Lemmon!) creates an inadvertant but fascinating form of tension and comic relief. Almereyda's version, on the other hand, goes fin de siecle, slashes the text remorselessly and spends a lot of time amusing itself with its updates (the ghost first appears in front of a vending machine on a security camera) and punnish ways to change things by implication without changing the words (Denmark is no longer a country but a corporation avoiding takeover). Within all the jokes, Ethan Hawke's slacker prince is convincingly callow, moody and self-absorbed, but Almereyda knows the text is strong enough to make even this young idiot's plight finally empathetically comprehensible.

Click Here For Part One, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven & Eight

Contributor: Vadim Rizov

Paul Benedict, 1938-2008

Phil Nugent — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 15:00:00 GMT

Paul Benjamin, who died this week at the age of 70, was a character actor in the all but lost tradition of classic Hollywood comedies, the missing link between the likes of Mischa Auer and Franklin Pangborn and the counterculture improv theater of the 1950s and '60s. With his lanky frame and elongated jaw--the result of a childhood illness--he seemed to have been built for a career in the Sunday Funnies, and when he spoke, he had a special gift for seeming both professorial and slightly insane. In one of his earliest film roles, in Milos Forman's Taking Off (1971), he counseled a meeting of middle-class parents trying to figure out how to better understand their teenage kids on how to smoke marijuana. He followed that up by playing sidekick to Alan Arkin in the little seen Deadhead Miles (1972), which was written by Terrence Malick; gave Christianity a bad name as a frontier clergyman with the sniffles in Jeremiah Johnson (1972); lectured partygoers on the tribal mating rituals in Up the Sandbox (1972); helped Bruce Dern pass for normal as one of the California rotary club types in Smile (1975); helped David Warner pass for almost sort of normal as his Teutonic butler in The Man with Two Brains (1983); and tried to school Matthew Broderick in the art of film as the immortal Professor Arthur Fleeber in The Freshman (1980). He was also a recurring figure in the Christopher Guest mockumentary industry, with small roles in This Is Spinal Tap, Waiting for Guffman, and A Mighty Wind (2003). For all that, he was probably best known to most people as the giddily unsocialized Mr. Bentley on The Jeffersons, a job that he held down for ten years from 1975 to 1985, and one that left most of the country stubbornly convinced that Benedict, who was born in Silver City, New Mexico, was English. He also had a recurring role as the Number Painter on Sesame Street.

A theater veteran, Benedict also directed the original off-Broadway production of Terrence McNally's Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune, starring Kathy Bates and Kenneth Welsh, in 1987, and co-starred with Al Pacino in a 1996 Circle in the Square production of the Eugene O'Neill two-hander Hughie. Last year, Benedict, who made his home at Martha's Vineyard, appeared in the American Repertory Theatre production of Harold Pinter's No Man's Land in Cambridge. His last film appearance was in the 2004 Pierce Brosnan movie After the Sunset.

The Rep Report: September 5--10

Phil Nugent — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 20:30:00 GMT

NEW YORK: Anthology Film Archives commences its salute to Jerry Schatzberg tonight with screenings of the director's firat features, the 1970 alienation-fest Puzzle of a Downfall Child (starring Faye Dunway) and the 1971 The Panic in Needle Park, costarring Al Pacino, in his first starring role, and Kitty Winn as a young couple of heroin addicts. Schatzberg, who seems to be more or less retired, had an erratic career, and to his other problems, he'll probably have at least one chance during his personal appearance at this retrospective to patiently explain that, no, he isn't Joel Schumacher. But as a filmmaker he had a broad curiosity about different milieus and kinds of characters, and his pictures have generally had texture and weight. Needle Park retains interest as a deep quaff of '70s New York at its most confoundingly ungovernable, and Schatzberg can boast of having directed Pacino in both his last performance before The Godfather made him a star and the first picture he made afterwards, the 1973 road movie Scarecrow co-starring Gene Hackman. When Schatzberg made the New York-set Street Smart fifteen years after Needle Park, he had to shoot it in Toronto, but once again he helped launch the movie career of a major star, this time someone who'd been working for decades and would turn fifty the year the picture was released: just a couple of years earlier, Morgan Freeman had been reduced to holding down a job on Another World, but his terrifying performance as a pimp who emerges like a monster from the id to turn pampered reporter Christopher Reeve's life into a pretzel earned him his first Academy Award nomination and a long-belated measure of the industry stature he'd long deserved. Also showing: Honeysuckle Rose, a 1980 country music remake of Intermezzo starring Willie Nelson and Dyan Cannon, which introduced Willie's theme song "On the Road Again," and "Reunion," a sadly overlooked 1989 film starring Jason Robards, with a screenplay by Harold Pinter.

Raindance, the British company responsible for the Raindance Film Festival (which opens October 7, by the way), is bringing its educational program to the New York Film Academy. Aspiring filmmakers looking to drop a few bucks towards their futures might want to check out Elliot Grove's "99 MInute Film School" on Tuesday, September 9 and the "Lo to No Budget Filmmaking" seminar on the weekend of September 13 and 14, which bears a recommendation blurb from director Christopher Nolan, whose most recent film, The Dark Knight, has been well-received. This marks the first time the Raindance people's first venture into America, and it might be nice if it wasn't their last, so for God's sake, behave yourselves.

LOS ANGELES: Every Thursday in September, the Silent Movie Theater hosts "Word Is Born: Hip Hop at the Movies, 1979-1984". Included are Hollywood exploitation jobs such as Breakin' and Beat Street, the solid period documentary Style Wars, and on September 25, Beat This! Hip Hop Rarities, winner of this month's Rep Report Award for Promotional Copy That We Have No Intention of Trying to Re-Word: " We've dug even deeper for our closeout night, and we're bringing you some of the rarest cuts in a fantastic mix of rarities from the old-school hip-hop era. Watch them one after the other, obscure odds and ends from the Golden Age, ending with Beat This! A Hip-Hop History! Yup! It’s the history of hip-hop! And it was made in 1984! And it’s all in rhyme! And it’s vocoderized by Afrika Bambaataa! And it’s sci-fi! And it stars BS-ing punk-impresario-turned-double-dutch-promoter Malcolm McLaren in all his patronizing glory! And it was made for Granada TV! And they forced director Dick Fontaine to slip in McLaren against his will, but he couldn’t do anything about it!"

SAN FRANCISCO: Sean McCourt of the Bay Guardian has the dirt on this weekend's Lebowski Fest.

NORTH CAROLINA: The tenth Hi Mom! Film Festival, festuring an international, family-friendly selection of fifty-one animated and live-action shorts, runs this weekend starting tonight, at the Art Center in Carborro. Please note that the outdoor screenings planned for Chapel Hill have been moved indoors due to a "strong threat of rain."

Famous Last Words: Round 1, Week 4

Paul Clark — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 20:00:00 GMT

With Kenneth Branagh's disastrous re-imagining still fresh (if that's the word) in the minds of the few who bothered to see it, I suppose now is as good a time as any to remember when the title Sleuth wasn't synonymous with suckitude. Branagh's film shares with Joseph L. Mankiewicz's awesome 1972 original — the source of last week's quote — little more than a star (Michael Caine) and the basic plot as laid down by author Anthony Shaffer. The surrounding junk is all Branagh's and screenwriter Harold Pinter's. At least we can comfort ourselves with the idea that, ten years from now, if movie-watchers want to check out Caine in Sleuth, they'll mostly likely be seeing him opposite Sir Lawrence Olivier, in perhaps his most entertaining performance. Congrats to those who guessed correctly.

This week's quote contains multiple lines of dialogue, but don't let that throw you:

"What’s your name?"
"Davis."
"Mine’s McCardle. . . well, so long."
"So long."

Submit your guesses to famouslastwords@nerve.com. For a list of rules, click right here. And remember, all guesses for this week's quiz are due in by next Wednesday at 11:59 PM Eastern. Good luck!