The Screengrab : jaws

Th-Th-That's All Folks! The Best & Worst Endings Of All Time! (Part Eight)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 28 May 2009 23:30:00 GMT

JAWS (1975)

Steven Spielberg comes in for his knocks on the "worst endings" part of this list: given all the resources in the film world, the poor guy just has trouble knowing when to stop. That makes it especially worth mentioning that, when he was young and desperate and trying to piece his first blockbuster together with spit and Scotch tape, he had the instincts and confidence and chops to tee up a daring high shot and make a hole in one. Peter Benchley, the author of the novel on which the movie was based, liked to recall the conversation he had in which he explained to Spielberg that the scene was physically impossible, and Spielberg replied that it didn't matter, saying that if he had the audience with him for the first couple of hours, he could sell them anything he wanted in the last five minutes, and as Benchley would admit, the kid was right. (PN)

MELVIN AND HOWARD (1976)

Jonathan Demme's version of the meeting of Howard Hughes (Jason Robards) and Melvin Dummar (Paul Le Mat) begins with a beauty of a long opening sequence, with Melvin giving the broken-down derelict Hughes a ride in his truck after picking him up in the desert in the middle of the night and gradually melting away his surly, defensive paranoia with the warmth of his cornball, middle American sincerity. The movie ends with a lovely little dream that finds the two of them back in the truck, with Howard taking the wheel from the exhausted, put-upon Melvin. Dennis Potter must have seen it and liked it, because he wrote a variation of it into the ending of his own 1985 film Dreamchild, with Lewis Carroll and the old woman who'd once served as the basis for his Alice standing in for Howard and Melvin, and it killed there, too. (PN)

APOCALYPSE NOW (1979)

When I first saw Apocalypse Now on VHS in the late '80s, the finale left me breathless. Willard terminated Kurtz with extreme prejudice, took Lance down to the boat, and then, after they crept away down the river, the promised airstrike fulfilled Kurtz's final instruction and exterminated them all. In the above clip, over the footage that floored the teenaged me, Francis Ford Coppola himself explains why this was not his intended interpretation. But what does he know? Coppola, who would later go on to direct such gems as The Godfather Part III and the Robin Williams vehicle Jack, thought that what the film really needed was another hour dealing with French imperialism in Southeast Asia. Although Saturday Night Live cut to the quick in their satire of the ending (Martin Sheen played a man hired by the studios to travel up river and shut down the production, and Coppola, out of ideas, blew everything up), the explosion of the set and murder of the people who worshipped Kurtz like a god is a better fit for the themes: the destructive clash of Western imperialism and other cultures, Willard becoming as hollow as Kurtz, and the fucking horror, the horror. The Coppola-approved ending is below (some of it has been translated to another language, but the visuals are what's important at the end), and while the juxtaposition of Willard's face and the statue is beautiful, luster is lacking compared to the deep reds, yellows, and whites of the airstrike. (HC)

THE BIRDS(1963)

End of the world. You expect it to come from someplace obvious, like a nuclear blast or a plague or a monster from the deep. But instead nature has turned on us, and nothing's ever going to be the same. The clip above discusses the ending that Evan Hunter intended in the script. His version had more gore, but the visual implication in the actual ending of the movie is much more unsettling, the birds covering every surface, the horrible sound of their cooing and calls, the sky dark and ominous as the car slowly starts to twist along the road. End of the world. (HC)

And, of course, we certainly couldn't forget...

GONE WITH THE WIND (1939)

CASABLANCA (1942)

SUNSET BOULEVARD (1950)

...but if we DID forget any of your favorites, then hopefully these two guys can pick up the slack...

Click Here For Part One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Nine, Ten, Eleven & Twelve

Contributors: Phil Nugent, Hayden Childs

Phil's Film Faves, Part One

Phil Nugent — Tue, 26 May 2009 18:00:00 GMT

A while back, we here at the Screengrab made our best stab at listing our picks for the greatest movies of all time. This is a classification that is distinctly different from naming our favorite movies, movies that, in many cases, happened to come into our lives at just the right moment, packing a style or a mindset that happened to hit us right in the soft spot, and that entered our bloodstream, affecting our judgements from that point on--though it not unheard of for favorite movies and greatest movies to overlap. A list of one's nominations for greatest movies tells one a lot about a person's ideas about art and history, about which breakthroughs matter to him in a way that, if they were not a part of what movies have come to be, he would care a lot less about them all. Our favorite movies tell us a lot about ourselves. Permit me to bore you with a little about me.

IT'S TOUGH TO BE A BIRD (1969)

DAD, CAN I BORROW THE CAR? (1970)

Both these short films were made by Ward Kimball, one of the "Nine Old Men" remembered as having been key to the development of the animation department at Walt Disney Studios. They were eventually shown on the TV anthology series The Wonderful World of Disney in the 1970s, which is were my barely formed retinas took them in. Bird is mostly animated, with some live action mixed in; Car is mostly live action, but with lots of animation effects. These range from quick gags to sequences that suggest the surreal, politically charged animation being done in Eastern Europe at the time, as well as Terry Gilliam's brand of animated cut-outs. Kimball, whose reputation is that of the wild man among the Disney old guard, had a simple, direct approach: pick a subject and garland it with as many visual gags as he could come up with. The wildness was all in how far afield his comic imagination could go, and how happy he seemed when he was slapping things together as fast as he could. I saw these films when I was so young that I subsequently forgot having seen them at all, but a few years ago I saw Bird again, and just a few months ago I found Car on a bootleg DVD, and as soon as I recognized what they were, I realized how much I'd loved them as an infant, so much so that I wanted more stuff like that to cram into my head. In a strange way, I think this desire planted the seeds for a lot of things I like, ranging from Svankmajer to Godard at his most discursive to Monty Python to Requiem for a Dream to the rambling monologues of This American Life. Discovering something that had a major impact on shaping your tastes when they were still at the developmental stages can weird you out a little.

JAWS (1975)

This was the first feature film that I loved unreasonably, and I think it's a good pick for a first love. The story is simple and uncomplicated and involving, and Spielberg brought it to life by lavishing upon it an amazing level of inventiveness at telling it visually, so much so that, in scenes such as the famous moment when the shark unexpectedly appears in the background of the shot while Roy Scheider has his head turned and is in the middle of spitting out a line in the other, he was able to give the viewer a jolt at the same time he got you laughing at his mastery of the conventions he was turning inside out and the audience expectations with which he was playing. It also has a subversive, satirical edge that connects it to the best of '70s pop culture: even someone who'd seen as few horror movies as I had by that time knew that it was unusual for the director to implicitly side with the hippie know-it-all scientist with the unsightly beard against the blustering macho man who thinks he's scored a goal in their ongoing war of personalities by glowering and flattening an empty beer can with his paw. (For years afterwards, I was trying to impress people by imitating Richard Dreyfuss's aplomb at squeezing a paper cup in response, not recognizing that it lost a lot of context.) Not long after I saw Jaws for the first of I hate to think how many times--not very long after at all, in fact, because I was too young to see it when it first came out but was allowed, after two years of screaming and crying over my cruel deprivation, to see it when it was re-released in 1977, thanks in no smart to my parents' very well-timed and much-enjoyed divorce, Star Wars came out. I used to try to reason with people who were raving about it at the playground. "Guys," I'd say in my reasoning-with-idiots voice, "there is no shark in this movie."

MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL (1975) & YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN (1974)

I know that she has many suitors, but for my part, let me just say, in all selfishness, that I will always be grateful for having seen Holy Grail at precisely the moment in my life when a movie that begins with the opening credits malfunctioning and ends with a police raid on the set would strike me as the greatest thing in the world. Frankenstein's appeal was less avant-garde. Let's just say that, for all of my childhood and well into my adolescence, I got most of my information about what was going on the movie theaters of our great land from the movie satires in Mad magazine, and it was a great thrill to see what was basically the greatest Mad magazine movie satire ever projected on a thirty-foot screen.

THE LONG GOODBYE (1973) & CALIFORNIA SPLIT (1974)

Elliot Gould's acting in these two Robert Altman's movies is the kind of thing that cults are meant for. It's as if he were living some kind of improvised coffeehouse monologue--too sweet to be by Lenny Bruce, but not requiring the kind of hepcat skeleton key that you might need to make sense of Lord Buckley. He's funny and seemingly detached but not above showing how much he really cares when he realizes that he's made a terrible mistake--a mistake that he invariably makes for the best of reasons, for refusing to sense the worst about a friend. And if he strikes a lot of people as flaky, that may be because he's his own man in a way that, even then, set him completely against the times, which more and more looks like the most genuinely heroic position for an American to take. I tried like hell to achieve this degree of loosness for a few years in my twenties, and I even thought I had it for a while, but in retrospect, I'm afraid that I was just unemployed.

DOG DAY AFTERNOON (1975)

My other big acting man-crush from that period is Al Pacino's performance here, and it couldn't be more different in its appeal, because I'd never seen anybody channel that much controlled energy before. The whole movie is a wonder of the New York actor's art, with people like John Cazale and Charles Durning and Sully Boyer and Chris Sarandon delicately matching their styles to Pacino's and providing the quiet contrast that makes his sustained liftoff possible. I once had a new roommate who had never seen this movie, and I was very eager to show it to her. I still remember the moment, about fifteen minutes into it, when she asked, "Umm...how much longer before they get out of the bank?" It's funny, those moments when you immediately know that it's not going to work.

TWO-LANE BLACKTOP (1971)

Excuse the appearance of cross-promotion, but I've already written about this one.

Final Farewells: The Best & Worst Death Scenes In Cinema (Part One)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 21 May 2009 20:00:00 GMT

A lot of my friends have been going through break-ups and divorces lately, which means they’ve probably also been hearing that old familiar friends/family/Facebook folk wisdom about how the end of a relationship is like a death, which must be properly mourned.

And, given that we're down to our next-to-last Thursday list before getting dumped for some younger, sexier blogs by Nerve, your pals here at the Screengrab, having moved beyond denial, anger and bargaining, figured we oughta tackle grief -- well, grief and “holy shit, did you see that guy’s head explode? How frickin' cool was that?” -- with THE SCREENGRAB’S FAVORITE DEATH SCENES OF ALL TIME, including...

The Guy With The Exploding Head, SCANNERS (1981)

Holy shit! How frickin' cool was that? I remember first seeing the aforementioned Exploding Head Guy during one of the montage sequences of the 1984 theatrical clip show Terror in the Aisles (a horror film comprised entirely of classic moments from other horror films, kind of like the Scary Movie franchise without the dick jokes). Later, I saw David Cronenberg’s Scanners in its entirety, although the only thing I really remember about it now is the scene above, where renegade telepath Darryl Revok (B-Movie Hall of Fame villain extraordinaire Michael Ironside) totally blows that bald dude’s skull apart -- with his mind! -- in one of the most memorable death scenes in cinematic history...second only, I suppose, to John Hurt’s demise in Alien (below) for its shock value imagery. In a way, then, it’s sad to realize that, in the wake of Saving Private Ryan and the recent wave of torture porn cinema, the image of a bloody cranium bursting like a ripe watermelon is now considered tame enough to show as a sight gag on The Daily Show. (AO)

John Hurt in ALIEN (1979)

Executive Officer Kane (John Hurt) goes to investigate an abandoned spaceship. He finds a chamber full of eggs. One of the eggs hatches, releasing a creature that latches onto his face, knocking him unconscious. His fellow crew members take him back to their ship, where they watch over him until the creature lets go and he awakens, seemingly okay. Then, during a meal, Kane gets violently ill, and a screeching, phallic monster bursts out of his chest cavity...in the process terrifying a generation, immediately elevating Alien above the majority of its contemporary peers, and providing one of the most horrific birth-rape images in the annals of cinema. (NS)

John Cassavettes in THE FURY (1978)

Some men just make you want to get to the point, big-time. Cassavettes is of course legendary as the man who, some say, created the independent American film movement -- but he earned his rent as an actor in other people's movies, and as an actor, he made his strongest impact in man-you-love-to-hate roles. The one that everyone probably remembers best is Guy, the hungry New York actor who pimped his wife out to Satan, a gesture that his character here -- Childress, a top-secret government operative with a dead arm and deader eyes -- would sniff at as the move of a rank amateur. Childress lays waste to most of the cast of Brian De Palma's visually lush horror thriller, only to meet his match in a telekinetic teenager who must share her director's movie-geek interests and black sense of humor, since what she has planned for him is actually a choice parody of the ending of Michelangelo Antonioni's Zabriskie Point. (PN)

Robert Shaw in JAWS (1975) & Samuel L. Jackson in DEEP BLUE SEA (1999)

Hitchcock used to talk about the difference between suspense and surprise in terms of a bomb under the kitchen table. If it suddenly goes off in the midst of a breakfast conversation, you have a moment of surprise. But if you keep cutting to the bomb ticking away while your characters sip their coffee and chomp their bacon…well, now you have suspense. Hitchcock’s thesis can also be applied to movies in which characters are eaten by sharks. (Hitch didn’t mention farce, although that’s a third option.) In Jaws, we have Quint, the old man of the sea, a man seemingly destined to be eaten by sharks ever since he escaped that fate after the sinking of the USS Indianapolis at the end of World War II. He goes kicking and screaming, sliding down the deck, reaching for a hand that can pull him to safety…suspense! In Deep Blue Sea, we have Samuel L. Jackson giving one of those action movie “rouse the troops” speeches. Just at the moment we’re sure he’s going to lead his team to victory over the shark menace…surprise! (SVD)

JAMES CAGNEY IN WHITE HEAT (1949)

From the first time you get a look at Jimmy Cagney’s unhinged, short-tempered gangster Cody Jarrett, you know he’s not going to end well. Cody is ruthless, bloodthirsty and marginally sane, and like Hamlet, he likes his mother…a lot. When Ma Jarrett (who’s just as crooked and crazy as her boy Cody) finally catches a bullet in the back, he goes completely off the rails and turns from a colorful, hot-headed gangster to one of the most murderous psychotics in the history of crime dramas. Finally betrayed by an undercover cop posing as a trusted member of his gang, Cody’s end comes when he desperately scrambles up the side of a gas storage tank. Fighting it out through a hail of bullets and a cloud of tear gas, he spits death at the cops below, refusing to go out without a fight, but the end seems near when the police snitch catches him with a couple of sniper shots. Even then, he’s got a bloody-minded determination to go out on his own terms: he recklessly fires his pistol into the gas tank, and just before it goes up in a huge, fiery explosion, he screams a defiant echo of the toast he used to raise to his late mother: “Top of the world!” (LP)

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

Contributors: Andrew Osborne, Nick Schager, Phil Nugent, Scott Von Doviak, Leonard Pierce

Screengrab Presents THE TOP TEN BEST MOVIES EVER!!!! (Part Ten)

Andrew Osborne — Fri, 15 May 2009 01:00:00 GMT

Scott Von Doviak's Top Ten Best Movies Ever!

1. THE GODFATHER PART II (1974)
2. SUNSET BLVD. (1950)
3. THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE (1948)
4. MCCABE AND MRS. MILLER (1971)
5. 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY (1968)
6. TAXI DRIVER (1976)
7. JAWS (1975)

If mechanical shark effects and John Williams' relentless theme music were all it had going for it, Jaws still might have become the highest grossing movie in history at the time of its release. And it likely would still be lumped in with Star Wars as a progenitor of the modern summer blockbuster phenomenon. In truth, Jaws has always been much more than a mere creature feature or special effects extravaganza. From the moment the Universal Pictures logo appears onscreen, accompanied by otherworldly sonar pinging noises signaling unfathomable depths of mystery, to the mournful dinosaur roar that accompanies the shark's final descent back to the murky deep, we are firmly in the grip of a master filmmaker. And while Steven Spielberg's gifts would eventually sour, with sure-handed storytelling giving way to transparent manipulation, here his every instinct is sound and his attention to detail astonishing. His tonal control is absolute; the darkest of horrors coexist with lusty seafaring adventure and character-based comedy, and it is all of a piece. The biggest laughs lead into the most frightening shocks, and vice-versa. It's a balancing act enhanced by the finest score of John Williams' career. His dum-dum-dum-dum shark theme is instantly recognizable to anyone on the planet - hell, sharks probably swim around humming it - but it's a remarkably resilient piece of music, speeding up into bursts of nautical derring-do, slowing down to an ominous, guttural portent of doom. The shark itself, when it is finally seen, remains an impressive movie monster. Even if its artificiality is more apparent to today's effects-jaded movie audience, its appearances are still fleeting enough to startle and delight. Set Jaws beside any of the contemporary summer cash leviathans and the hollowness of modern-day Hollywood's vision of action-adventure entertainment is laid bare.

8. PSYCHO (1960)
9. ANNIE HALL (1977)
10. THE WILD BUNCH (1969)

Andrew Osborne's Top Ten Best Movies Ever!

1. STAR WARS (1977)
2. THE GODFATHER (1972)
3. THE GRADUATE (1967)

There are various movies that speak to me very personally -- and this one certainly qualifies, having spent most of my existence as an alienated, overeducated white dude -- but Mike Nichols’ tight, elemental collaboration with the dream team of Buck Henry, Dustin Hoffman, Anne Bancroft, Paul Simon & Art Garfunkle makes my list of Best Movies Ever because, like all the other movies in my Top Ten, it’s both an elemental, near-perfect example of -- and also rises above -- its genre to become a once-in-a-lifetime cinematic milestone. Plus, as a friend of my parents once said, it features the best use of a crucifix ever.

4. THE WIZARD OF OZ (1939)

When a movie penetrates as deeply into the culture and the collective unconscious as this adaptation of Frank L. Baum’s first Oz novel, the filmmakers must have done something right. The fact that it was considered a commercial disappointment upon its initial release but nevertheless went on to become a beloved American classic also says something. But the main reason I include it here is because it’s a fully realized work of art that fully utilizes all the possibilities of cinema, from the grim black and white cinematography that suddenly explodes into color and the infectious soundtrack to the special effects that brought flying monkeys to a grateful world. It’s easy to take The Wizard of Oz for granted in this cynical, ironic, post-modern world, but honestly: who in cinema history kicks more freakin’ ass than Margaret Hamilton as Miss Elmira Gulch and the mean green you-know-who? Answer: nobody.

5. APOCALYPSE NOW (1979)

As crazy-ass Dennis Hopper’s unhinged Kurtz acolyte would say, “I wish I had words...” Here are three -- epic, unsettling, iconic -- but they don’t even begin to capture the essence of the surrealistic war opera Francis Ford Coppola dragged into existence at the (temporary) cost of his own sanity four years after the Fall of Saigon. It’s difficult to separate the finished product from the legend of its infamously agonizing production history (see: Hearts of Darkness), and the generally terrible footage unearthed for the Redux version released in 2001 clearly demonstrates the razor thin line between genius and drek (and, seriously, what kind of zap did U.S.C. put on the heads of Coppola, Spielberg and Lucas that none of them can ever just leave friggin’ well enough alone)? Still, whenever people refer to the original 1979 theatrical version of Apocalypse Now as a flawed masterpiece, I always get confused, since the flaws (fat Brando, crazy Hopper, the slow descent into anarchy) are part of what makes it a masterpiece.

6. ANNIE HALL (1977)

7. SUNSET BOULEVARD (1950)

8. SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN (1952)

9. YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN (1974)

Many of the movies in our consensus and individual Top Tens are beautiful downers, primarily concerned with death, violence, heartbreak and/or the inescapable ennui of existence -- and, while it’s true that depressing themes and great films often go together, it’s important to remember that celluloid is also a great delivery system for adrenalin shots of pure joy like Young Frankenstein, a nearly perfect movie with a hilarious script and a dream ensemble that ranks 9th on my list instead of 8th because (“Puttin’ On The Ritz” notwithstanding) the even more nearly perfect Singin’ In The Rain has slightly better song and dance numbers.

10. THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS (2001)

You may have noticed by now that the vast majority of the Best Movies picked for these lists by the Screengrab brain trust were released prior to 1980, which does a great disservice to the Sundance generation of filmmakers like Jim Jarmusch, P.T. Anderson, the Coen Brothers, Spike Lee, Richard Linklater, Quentin Tarantino, etc. Maybe it’s just that films like Down By Law, Boogie Nights, Fargo, Do The Right Thing, Dazed and Confused or Pulp Fiction need to marinate for another decade before we’re ready to start comparing them head-to-head with the likes of Sunset Boulevard and Citizen Kane...but as far as I’m concerned, The Royal Tenenbaums already qualifies as one for the ages. By turns wistful, cynical, romantic, suicidally gloomy and insanely optimistic, Wes Anderson’s richly imagined masterpiece (about a burned-out family of geniuses in a dream-world New York) is everything I could possibly ask for in a movie: career-topping performances from everyone involved, whip-smart writing, gorgeous visuals, fearlessly eccentric style and Gwyneth Paltrow French-kissing a naked chick...top that, Orson!

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

Contributors: Scott Von Doviak, Andrew Osborne

Great Beginnings: Screengrab's Favorite Opening Scenes Of All Time! (Part Five)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 23:00:00 GMT

THE WILD BUNCH (1969)

Let's say the opening sequence in The Wild Bunch runs through the moment when they escape their first gun battle of the movie. During the credits, the Bunch rides into town in stolen uniforms, passing teetotalers and children who have tossed scorpions in among angry ants. The enormous and lethal scorpions being brought down by millions of ants? That's less a metaphor than foreshadowing. The Bunch heads into a bank, where they quickly begin to execute their plan to rob it. And the first line from The Bunch's leader, Pike, is "if they move, kill 'em."

Soon the Bunch becomes aware that they're trapped, with gunmen hired by the railroad lining the rooftops across the street. They decide to use the passing parade of teetotalers to create confusion while they make their getaway. In the ensuing shootout, lots of innocent people die. And that's how we meet our anti-heroes, crooks lined up against the even-more-crooked railroad, bad men in bad times. The shootout is both exciting and horrific, both meant to titillate and disgust the viewer, much like the film as a whole. Sam Peckinpah knew that audiences have bloodlust, because having bloodlust is just part of being human. And he reveled in that bloodlust because he also knew that it never leads anywhere good. You want violence?, he seems to ask, well, what do you think of the leading man's horse trampling a woman? How about a man being shot full of holes in front of a couple of kids? Violence only begets violence in Peckinpah's eye. And there's no escape from it. In this movie, released at the height of the Vietnam War, Peckinpah is asking: is this the world that you want? Is your only choice whether to be a scorpion or an ant? (HC)

BLOW OUT (1981)

Throughout the 1970s, Brian DePalma positioned himself as Hollywood’s latest “Master of the Macabre”, a self-appointed heir to the mantle of Hitchcock. And in this vein, the first few minutes of Blow Out feel like a logical progression of his career -- a DePalma-esque pastiche of a fly-by-night coed slasher picture, complete with a subjective camera straight out of Halloween. What’s sort of surprising is how right DePalma gets the feel of these movies, from the clumsy camera movements (no confident Steadicam in this scene) to the oppressive cut-rate synth score and sound effects, to the nameless actresses cast entirely for their taut physiques. Gradually it dawns on the audience that this scene is a joke, and a damn good one too. But DePalma saves his best joke for last, as the killer infiltrates the shower room, draws his knife and pulls back the curtain to reveal a blonde who turns to the camera and… well, “screams” isn’t quite the word for it. “What cat did you have to strangle to get that?” asks the mixer to the sound guy, played by John Travolta. DePalma has always been fascinated with the nuts and bolts of making cinema, and he’s never been shy about sharing them with the audience, with Blow Out being perhaps the best example of this tendency. But even more important is the way DePalma uses the opening scene to set up the film’s finale, in which Travolta finally gets the right scream, albeit in the worst way imaginable. The way DePalma sets up this goal for his protagonist and then lets him back into accomplishing it would be clever and funny if it wasn’t so unbearably sad. (PC)

GOODFELLAS (1990)

Like most great directors, Martin Scorsese knows the value of starting a movie off right, in order to reel the audience into the story he’s telling. But while most of his films have pretty killer openings, nothing he’s done before or since has topped the first few minutes of GoodFellas. Instead of starting at the beginning of the story -- the early years of his protagonist Henry Hill (played by Ray Liotta) -- he begins in media res, with Henry and his crew, Jimmy (Robert DeNiro) and Tommy (Joe Pesci), driving down the highway in the middle of the night. Suddenly, there’s a knocking sound coming from behind them, and they eventually discover that it’s the bloodied body in the trunk, not quite as dead as they’d thought it was. As hooks go, this one’s a doozy -- who are these guys, and who’s the ill-fated man in the trunk? But look also at how Scorsese uses the situation to efficiently establish the three men’s personalities -- Jimmy the cool customer, Tommy the violent hothead, and Henry the follower, standing back and taking it all in. A more conventional film might have begun with the glamorous trappings of the gangster lifestyle, but Scorsese begins with the violence and doubles back to the fun stuff, so that while we watch Henry and pals living the high life, we’ve already seen them doing the dirty deeds it took to get them there. And it’s telling that when Henry’s voiceover starts up, stating that “as far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to be a gangster” before Tony Bennett’s “Rags to Riches” kicks in, the image we see onscreen is Henry’s weary face, numbed to the brutal spectacle taking place before his eyes. (PC)

DEAD MAN (1995)

In less than 8 minutes, Jim Jarmusch has Johnny Depp's William Blake leave the relative comfort of late-19th century civilization and travel by train backwards into savagery. The landscape outside grows more and more brutal, as do his fellow passengers. When Crispin Glover's train fireman comes to undercut his assumptions (i.e., spout weirdness at him, this being Crispin Glover), Blake gets his first glimpse of just how far outside of his world he has traveled. Glover says that he "wouldn't trust no words on no paper" and Blake should realize right there how fucked he is. He doesn't, though. He really has no choice but to follow through, even if that mean staring down Robert Mitchum and his gun. Even as he speaks to Glover, his fellow passengers, hunters and trappers by their garb, leap up and start firing out of the train at buffalo, denying their meat to the Native Americans, and dealing death without meaning to the majestic animals. Life and death don't carry the same weight out here, a lesson Blake will not learn until too late. (HC)

JACKIE BROWN (1997)

Was it Oscar Wilde who said "talent borrows, genius steals"? No one knows this better than Quentin Tarantino. In The Graduate, Dustin Hoffman stands motionless on an LAX conveyor belt while "Sound of Silence" plays in the background. In Jackie Brown, Pam Grier starts out on a conveyor belt at the more low rent Long Beach airport. Queue Bobby Womack's "110th Street." We see her in her bright blue airhostess uniform, nicely matching the mosaic background. Cut to x-ray images showing the insides of a few — is that a gun, or am I imagining things? A security guard's metal detector floats over some woman's white-pantsed crotch. Meanwhile Jackie glides through security with her bag and uniform, walks then picks up and runs, making it to her job at the gate just in time to greet passengers with a friendly airhostess smile. What more do you need to let you know you're in for sex, drugs, and desperation to get out of a dead-end job, just barely under the surface in sunny California? (SCS)

And finally...

JAWS (1975) & STAR WARS (1977)

A naked woman disappears in the water at night, devoured by a terrifying unseen monster, effectively terrifying generations of beach enthusiasts within minutes...a massive starship soars over my pubescent head, which very nearly explodes in sheer, geeky excitement...I don't really have much new to say about either film or their iconic, totally kick-ass opening sequences...but, damn, we couldn't really end our list of all-time great beginnings without them, now could we? (AO)

Click Here For Part One, Two, Three & Four

Contributors: Hayden Childs, Paul Clark, Sarah Clyne Sundberg, Andrew Osborne

Five 3-D-tastic Films

Nick Schager — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 16:30:00 GMT

What’s better than a night out at the movies? A night spent having the movies come right out at you! In honor of today’s release of Henry Selick’s dark, enchanting stop-motion 3-D fantasy Coraline, here are five films that take thrilling and/or unintentionally hilarious advantage of the gimmicky special effects process.

Creature From the Black Lagoon

As a child, Creature From the Black Lagoon’s 3-D effects (viewed on TV) just about blew my mind. While that likely wouldn’t happen today, Jack Arnold’s 1954 three-dimensional horror show remains a classic of its time, thanks largely to its iconic fiend. His likeness imitated many times (I’m looking at you, Monster Squad) but never quite surpassed for pure aquatic creepiness, the Black Lagoon’s gilled villain is one of Universal’s finest (and most unheralded) movie monsters, and the cheesy terror he spreads in this memorable scare-fest – and, to a far lesser extent, in 1955’s sequel Revenge of the Creature (which featured Clint Eastwood’s big-screen debut) – is definitely amplified by the illusion that he’s coming. Right. Off. The. Screen.

Amityville 3-D and Friday the 13th Part 3

In the ‘80s, quite a few horror films attempted to augment their scares via 3-D, and failed miserably. Two of the most amusing examples of the genre’s use of the technology for cheap, corny chills were the third installments of the Amityville and Friday the 13th franchises – and, a few years later, the sixth Nightmare on Elm St. as well – which both figured that a few shots of spears, eyeballs and candles jutting out at the viewer were enough to electrify audiences, as well as overshadow embarrassingly tossed-off threequel stories. In fairness, though, at least Friday the 13th’s 3-D installment has something else going for it, as it stands as the series’ first to feature Jason in his signature hockey mask.

Jaws 3-D

“The third dimension…is terror” proclaims the trailer for 1983’s Jaws 3-D. Really? I seem to remember it being pretty silly in this case, but then, I was only seven at the time of the film’s theatrical release, and probably didn’t understand why the sight of a young Dennis Quaid trying to flush his career down the toilet with this watery dreck was so frightening. Despite the needlessness of a Jaws without Roy Scheider, much less one that required red-and-blue glasses, Joe Alves’ film does use its 3-D for one great climactic shot, in which the great white shark bursts through a control room’s plate glass barrier and directly into your lap.

House of Wax

A 3-D pioneer, André De Toth’s 1953 gem was the film that solidified Vincent Price’s status as the master of the macabre, as well as featured a young Charles Bronson as the evil Professor Jarrod’s (Price) deaf-mute man-servant, Igor. In an ironic twist, despite expertly helming the project, De Toth was blind in one eye and thus couldn’t properly experience the project's special effects. His handicap, however, didn’t hinder his ability to create a handful of memorable three-dimensional moments, from the superlative final sequence inside Jarrod’s melting museum of horrors, to the long, kicking legs of a can-canning dance troupe.

Video of the Day: "Jaws" in 30 Seconds

Scott Von Doviak — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 20:00:00 GMT

Earlier today I reviewed the fan documentary The Shark Is Still Working: The Impact and Legacy of Jaws. Overstuffed as the film is, it's hard to believe some material ended up on the cutting room floor. However, in scouring the YouTubes I happened upon this outtake featuring original Jaws cast members reenacting the classic film in 30 seconds. Enjoy!

Screengrab Review: “The Shark Is Still Working”

Scott Von Doviak — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 18:00:00 GMT

As I’ve mentioned here before, Jaws is a movie that’s always been near and dear to my heart. I realize I am not alone in this, especially now that I’ve seen the fan-made documentary The Shark Is Still Working: The Impact and Legacy of Jaws. A true labor of love – maybe even a labor of obsession – the nearly three-hour film has been in the works for four years, which is a good thing since several of the principal participants are no longer with us. (Peter Benchley, author of the novel Jaws, died in 2006, and February 10th will mark the one-year anniversary of the death of Roy Scheider, who played Chief Brody and narrates this documentary.) The Shark Is Still Working is required viewing for any Jaws fanatic, but for the moment, at least, that’s a problem: the documentary has yet to secure distribution, although it seems a no-brainer that Universal should pick it up for DVD release at least.

Wisely, director Erik Hollander and his crew have not made another behind-the-scenes “Making of Jaws” doc, instead confining the familiar production tales to the first fifteen minutes or so. (The film’s title comes from a story Richard Dreyfuss could tell in his sleep by now, about walking around Martha’s Vineyard during production and hearing the constant squawk of two-way radios: “The shark is not working! Repeat! The shark is not working!”) Instead, Still Working is an exhaustive – and occasionally exhausting – scrapbook of Jaws minutiae: along with the expected interviews with Benchley, Scheider, Dreyfuss, director Steven Spielberg and producers Richard Zanuck and David Brown, the documentary goes in-depth with artist Roger Kastel (who painted the famous one-sheet image of shark closing in on nude swimmer), late voice-over talent Percy Rodrigues (who lent his low-key menacing tones to the Jaws trailer) and Carl Gottlieb (the co-screenwriter who penned the influential making-of book The Jaws Log).

But there’s more – much more. Still Working also features some solid gold video footage of Spielberg on the morning the Academy Award nominations for 1975 were announced. (“I got beaten out by Fellini!” a crestfallen Spielberg announces, with indignant character actor Joe Spinell at his side for some reason.) Collectors of Jaws props and memorabilia, attendees at a Jaws fan convention and builders of a replica of the original mechanical shark “Bruce” are also interviewed, as are filmmakers Kevin Smith, M. Night Shyamalan, Bryan Singer, Eli Roth and Robert Rodriguez, all citing Jaws as a huge influence. (I’ll leave it to you to decide whether more good than harm has been done.)

At times, The Shark Is Still Working can be a bit repetitive. I lost track of the number of testimonials to the oft-cited accidental brilliance that led to the shark going unseen for the first half of the film (although it’s nice to hear Spielberg admit that Jaws would be a much worse movie if he made it today, given the ready access to CGI effects). But while a few trims here and there wouldn’t hurt, it’s really the ramshackle enthusiasm for tangential matters that makes the documentary such a joy for Jaws fans. My absolute favorite section of the film centers on the residents of Martha’s Vineyard, many of whom participated in the making of Jaws, either behind the scenes or as local color onscreen. I’m not much of a fan convention guy, but I’m very sorry I missed JawsFest 2005 and its screening of the original movie right on shark beach – and I’m especially sorry I didn’t get there before the rotting hull of the Orca was completely dismantled by overzealous fans. Watching The Shark Is Still Working is the next best thing to being there, however, and here’s hoping everyone gets the chance to see it soon.

Sundance Roundup: Day Two

Scott Von Doviak — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 18:00:00 GMT

Tonight it's your big chance to have dinner with Mike Tyson. A Q&A and dinner with the former champ will follow tonight's screening of James Toback's documentary Tyson. (Please don't ask if ears are on the menu.) The movie itself had its first screening bright and early yesterday at 8:30 am ("You people did more than I would have done, coming out at 8:30 in the morning for a movie!" Toback told the crowd.) According to the L.A. Times, "Toback filmed Tyson during a time when the former heavyweight fighter was in rehab for drug addiction and feeling contemplative about his life. Intercut with the interview are clips from Tyson's highlights and lowlights, including footage from his 1997 fight against Evander Holyfield that ended with Iron Mike chomping off part of Holyfield's ear. Yet despite this unflattering footage, the film is largely sympathetic to Tyson." Slashfilm has a problem with that: "Situations dealing with abuse and rape charges deserve to show the other side of the story (especially when Tyson claims they never happened). But the documentary never strays from the one on one interview with Tyson himself." The film has already been picked up for distribution by Sony Pictures Classics.

If you've been waiting for the mumblecore bromance version of Zack and Miri Make a Porno, it sounds like Humpday is the movie for you. Two college buds dare each other to make a gay porno together in a movie Salon's Andrew O'Hehir describes as "a subtle and intelligent picture that blends dudely comedy and adult relationship drama." Or as Spoutblog puts it, it's "like Bang the Drum Slowly meets Jaws. Only no one dies." Intriguing!

The New York Times notes a number of eco-friendly films on the schedule, including Robert Stone's documentary Earth Days, but wonders if the festival itself is as green as it should be. "Still, a stroll here this week down Main Street — where a dozen idling trucks were unloading supplies and equipment, while an oversize band bus, with trailer in tow, spewed fumes outside a soon-to-be-busy party site — framed the obvious quandary: how can you cram some 46,000 people, roughly equivalent to a fifth of Hollywood’s total work force, into a pretty little mountain town without contributing mightily to the problems your films hope to solve?"

The Screengrab Holiday Special: Movies We're Thankful For (Part Three)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 16:00:00 GMT

PHIL NUGENT GIVES THANKS FOR:

BLUE VELVET (1986)

I'm not sure that it's possible to fully appreciate how thankful some of us are for Blue Velvet, the greatest American movie of the 1980s, without having suffered the indignity of being a movie freak in the 1980s, when this picture arrived like cool water to a man stranded in the desert. The biggest surprise may not have been that David Lynch, who by that time had Eraserhead and The Elephant Man to his credit, had this inside him, but that he was allowed to get it out of his system with the financial assistance of Dino De Laurentiis, who bought the property out of development hell and gave Lynch carte blanche to express his vision, asking only that the sucker come in at no longer than two hours. This was apparently De Laurentiis' way of thanking Lynch for all the unhappy work the director had put in cranking out Dune, another De Laurentiis production. Given that Dune failed to result in the intended franchise hit, nobody in Hollywood would have been surprised, let alone appalled, if Dino had told the boy from Missoula to take a hike, and take his leading man (Kyle MacLachlan, who made his film debut in Dune, and who had signed to appear in a string of sequels that were never going to happen) with him. Instead, De Laurentiis succumbed to an unusually well-timed bout of honor, and given the results, only the churlish would whisper that it's too bad that it didn't last long enough for Lynch to cut a deal with him to make Ronnie Rocket. Because of this, anyone who's thinking of talking some shit about Dino De Laurentiis -- the man whose other credits in 1986 alone included Tai-Pan, King Kong Lives, and Maximum Overdrive -- had better check with me first to make sure you've got the right. Unless you've paid for a movie masterpiece and been married to Silvano Magnano, you probably haven't.

MOUSEHOLES (1999)

Helen Hill, who died in 2007, and who earlier this week was awarded a Leo Award by the Robert Flaherty Film Seminar, was a friend of mine. Helen was an independent filmmaker, though given the way that term is bandied about these days, it doesn't begin to capture just how independent she was; she never had an agent or a distributor, but finished her short animated films when she could and trucked them around to festivals with a reel tucked under her arm. Her masterpiece, Mouseholes, is a tribute to her dead grandfather that draws on home movies, Helen's own childlike animation, and tape-recorded conversations to make something sublime out of one of the most remarkable things about movies, and one of the key ways in which they have forever changed our world: their ability to enable us to hold onto a few invaluable pieces of the people we've lost, like ghosts trapped in bottles. For Helen, the film was about hanging onto part of her grandfather; now, for those of us left behind, the film has become about holding onto part of the woman who made it.

HIS GIRL FRIDAY (1940)

Let's be clear about this: the reason that one of the best, funniest comedies in the history of movies exists is that its producer-director, Howard Hawks, had the balls and the taste to be corrupt in just the right way. A lot of people with as much talent as Hawks would never have thought of taking The Front Page, which then had a pretty good claim to being the greatest American play yet written and is nothing to sneeze at now, and turning it into a romantic comedy by giving the lead role a sex change and turning the other male lead into her ex-husband, who's waiting to make his next move. And while Hollywood was, and always will be, full of crass jackals who'd think nothing of trying something like that, hardly any of them would have been able to pull it off. (A 1988 remake of Hawks' rip-off, set in the world of TV news and starring Burt Reynolds and Kathleen Turner called Switching Channels was apparently made just to demonstrate this very point.) By now, His Girl Friday is so solidly (and deservedly) entrenched in its super-plus classic status that most people are barely aware of what a cold-blooded commercial calculation it's based on, or even that it has a title that ought to make you barf. I bring all this up now not because it takes anything away from the wonderfulness of the movie, because it doesn't: if I'm ever exiled to a desert island, this son of a bitch is coming with me. But it's worth keeping in mind, so that in a movie culture increasingly open to conventional wisdom and partisan warfare, everyone keeps in mind the final word on how greatness is achieved: you just never know.

TOKYO OLYMPIAD (1065)

Kon Ichikawa's 170-minute documentary record of the 1964 Olympic Games was commissioned by the Japanese government as part of their effort to use the games as their announcement that the country had transformed itself since World War II and was eager to be regarded as a smoothly functioning, hospitable member of the world of nations. Originally, the Japanese telegraphed both the ambition of the project, and their willingness to meet the rest of the world halfway, by hiring Akira Kurosawa, who at that time had no serious challengers for the title of the Japanese director who was best-known and most revered outside Japan. Luckily, somebody had a reality check and realized that Ichikawa, who was known for his ability to improvise in the face of changing conditions, was better suited temperamentally to this mission that the proud old samurai and control freak Kurosawa. Besides, the world already had one great Olympics documentary showing what the games looked like through the eyes of a director accustomed to bending reality to her will: Leni Riefenstahl's Olympiad, legendary for the way it transforms the musclular bodies on display into black-and-white film poetry. Ichikawa's brightly colored film captures the atmosphere, the flavor, the summer fun aspect of the whole spectacle, as well as the awesome mixture of the personalities involved. And though it's a measure of Ichikawa's mastery that it all looks effortless -- a few thousand people got together and had some contests, and all he did was point a camera at it and boil the results down to the good stuff -- the sense it gives you of the scale of the enterprise is explanation enough as to why there weren't more Olympics movies like this prior to the mid-1960s. Of course, there'll never be anything like it ever again; none of the people who might put up the money would see the point, because now we get to watch it all while it's happening, on TV. Whoopy-dink.

THE FILMS OF W.C. FIELDS

Pauline Kael: "From their titles, it's hard to tell the W.C. Fields movies apart; as John Mosher observed, 'Fields is Fields, a rose is a rose.' " Wilfrid Sheed:"...we demand more of Fields than even comic genius. We have to believe he meant it. We want certification that such a one existed: a mean, child-hating con man who was so funny about it that he made these things all right." Although there were other great screen comedians who were funnier in a greater number of ways, such as the Marx Brothers, and others who were more gifted visually as moviemakers, such as Buster Keaton, Fields' scraggly, underfunded, rattily uneven body of work retains the special fascination of representing one mean-spirited bastard's judgement on, and self-defense strategy against, the world. Fields has turned out to be one of those movie figures, like Bogart, who never goes out of style or fully loses connection with the modern world, yet it doesn't get any easier, as the years go by, to believe that the movies themselves got made on the level. The Fatal Glass of Beer, Million Dollar Legs, Mississippi, It's a Gift, The Man on the Flying Trapeze, My Little Chickadee, The Bank Dick, Never Give a Sucker an Even Break -- they all look as if they made late at night when the studio bosses had gone home and the security guards had passed out drunk, using money that whimsically crooked bookkeepers had skimmed from the budgets of Rin Tin Tin pictures. Although there are people working today who are probably as talented as Fields, and maybe even as idiosyncratic, there are no parallels for his career; as soon as Bill Murray, probably the closest living point of comparison, showed that he could make people laugh in a thrown-together movie like Stripes, he was thrown into big-budget special effects exravaganzas like Ghostbusters and eventually forced to turn character actor, which might have been his strategy for self-defense. To find anything close to Fields' vehicles today, you'd probably be best off searching the schedule of the Animal Planet channel.

RICHARD PRYOR LIVE IN CONCERT (1979)

Hard to believe now, but there was a time in our culture when stand-up comedians didn't get to leave behind every inflection of their act, cusswords included, perfectly preserved on cable TV specials. Lenny Bruce, who more or less invented the modern conception of the nightclub comic as satirical firebrand and verbal cartoonist, left behind only a posthumously released film record of one of his last performances, caught after his legal and drug problems had snuffed out his energy and wit and reduced him to a wry, paranoid figure snuffling in front of a bare brick wall. (Earlier clips of Bruce doing a TV-friendly version of his act on the Steve Allen show give you some idea of how much of his act was physical, and so is missing from the performances that were released on records.) Bruce's greatest disciple, Richard Pryor, was much luckier: this full-feature performance film caught him in full flight at the height of his powers, at a time when he was using everything he'd learned about working a crowd and applying it to a young lifetime's worth of experiences and observations. The film was released a year before Pryor, in a guilt-stricken, coke-baser's frenzy of despair, lit himself on fire; its sequels, starting with the 1982 Richard Pryor Live on the Sunset Strip, record his partially successful attempt to relaunch himself after that traumatic meltdown, and his subsequent discovery that both his health and his inspiration were all but shot. But at least future generations won't be in any danger of thinking that this man was just the guy in The Toy.

McCABE & MRS. MILLER; THE LONG GOODBYE; THIEVES LIKE US; CALIFORNIA SPLIT; NASHVILLE (1970s)

In 1970, Robert Altman, then 45, directed the first hit film of his career, M*A*S*H. Ten years later, on a wavering leash from producer Robert Evans and a fluctuating budget, he directed Popeye, which was to be his second hit, even though it turned out to be the kind of commercial success whose star, Robin Williams, would still be apologizing for it twenty years later. In between those two hits, Altman would be able to make thirteen feature films, make them his way, for good or ill, and get them distributed by major studios whose bosses were still reeling in confusion from the collapse of the old system and cowed by Altman's many prizes and adulatory reviews. The five listed above are my favorites from that amazing body of work, which is as alive and unconventional as any large-scale attempt to understand America that any artist has ever embarked on. You might prefer five others; I'm generally up to taking another look at any of them, except maybe for Quintet and A Perfect Couple, because I find that revisiting even the ones that I think stink on ice feels less like looking at dead, bad old movies than like revisiting distant, weird members of the family who I haven't seen since the last time they got out of rehab. The fact that any of them exist at all is conclusive proof that desperate bewilderment at the top is not the worst thing you could have in the movie business. You might think that the same guys who were prepared to sponsor Altman to such a degree on the basis of one hit would have handed him the keys to the kingdom after he'd had a second one, but by 1980, the corporate heads had decided they knew what they were doing again, and the next year, Altman gave up on Hollywood and spent the rest of the decade working in theater and cable TV and making filmed plays on shoestring budgets, with only one small return to actual feature filmmaking, the barely released O. C. and Stiggs. He restarted his movie career right on schedule, in 1990, beginning with Vincent and Theo, a Van Gogh biopic that is as great as anything he ever made, and as unprofitable.

THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE (1962)

The greatest fusion of commercial thriller and political satire ever to come out of Hollywood -- and, as directed by John Frankenheimer, a still-stunning mixture of old-studio technique and new-style TV-age hipness -- is fairly high on the list of movies that nobody should have been able to get made at all. The novel, by Richard Condon, was a great success but also widely taken for being unadaptable. In fact, George Axelrod, who did the masterful screenplay, has said that he was stymied with a concrete case of writer's block until the film's star, Frank Sinatra, cured him by calling up and saying that it had been a while and he would like to see some pages. (Axelrod was the film's co-producer, alongside Frankenheimer, so technically, he was Sinatra's boss, but let's get real: having Frank Sinatra call you up and tell you that he sure would like to see you flap your arms and fly over the Chrysler Building might turn out to be the cure for gravity.) It wouldn't be until the late 1970s that the mercurial Sinatra would gain control of the picture himself and pull it from theatrical distribution or TV broadcast until 1988. The reasons for this, mostly financial in nature, aren't altogether clear, but contrary to popular urban myth, it doesn't seem to have anything to do with guilty feelings related to the possibility that the movie anticipated the Kennedy assasination. (By then, Richard Condon had written a novel, Winter Kills, that was directly based on JFK assassination conspiracy lore, and that book was made into a movie, written and directed by William Richart and starring Jeff Bridges, the blighted production and distribution history of which would spur rumors and allegations related to the organized-crime connections of some of its financiers and the disinclination of Embassy Pictures to alienate its own connections in the defense industry.) But I can say that I remember finally seeing The Manchurian Candidate for the first time -- actually, the first three times -- in the spring of 1988 at the Prytania Theater in New Orleans, and that of all my experiences with movies that have been re-introduced to the public after a spell in the vault, none has been as far from disappointing as my experience with this one.

CHILDREN OF PARADISE (1945)

Marcel Carne's three-hour-plus romantic celebration of the life of the theater, as rich and satisfying as any epic-scale film entertainment in history, was made during the Nazi occupation of France, a time when the Vichy government imposed rationing and other restrictions on materials and did not permit the production of any movie intended to be longer than 90 minutes. (Carne got approval to proceed with his script only by pretending that the finished product would be released in two parts.) The production provided employment, and gave cover, to many Resistance members, who worked as extras alongside Nazi loyalists who had been assigned to the project by Vichy, smiling and nodding in polite conversation with those scumbags while memorizing their faces and imagining how they were going to look with nooses draped around their necks. (Legend has it that Carne dragged out the production towards the end in anticipation of the arrival of the Allies so that the movie could wrap in a free France.) This kind of big moviemaking is commonly associated with decadence now, but Carne's commitment to his elegant conception and vast canvas was strong enough that he plowed ahead, creating the illusion that he had much greater material resources than he had. Some contemporary "independent" filmmakers who think they're demonstrating their own artistic integrity when they can't bother to focus the camera properly ought to be made to sit through this movie and then handed ritual seppeku blades, in trust that they'll do the right thing.

JAWS (1975)

I was eight years old. She was two: this was 1977, the first year she was "officially" re-released after her debut in 1975, to compete with this slutty new number on the block named Star Wars. A lot of the kids I knew were all excited about the new girl, and couldn't understand why I was so excited about the chance that I might get to see some old hag who everybody had been talking about for a couple of years, but I had done some asking around, and everything I discovered seemed to confirm that the new girl didn't have a shark. And I had been fascinated by the thought of Jaws for, it seemed, my whole life; it seemed that, for as long as I could remember, I'd heard people talking about her in vague, soft whispers. I knew that I was supposed to be too young for her, because I'd spent so many hours -- yes, hours -- lying on my belly looking at the newspaper ads, and gazing at that special box that read, "May Be Too Intense for Younger Children." (As the Mad magazine parody pointed out, putting that line in the ads as a means of keeping kids out of the theaters was like trying to keep ants away from a picnic by pouring sugar on the ground.) Ultimately, I got to see it because the Disney cartoon The Rescuers was also playing at McComb, Mississipp's only two-screen theater -- McComb, Mississippi's only movie theater -- and because my mom decided that she'd rather be getting her hair done and shooting shit with the girls for those two hours than sitting next to me watching Bob Newhart and Eva Gabor lend their voices to the characters of a couple of mice. After I got home -- following a very awkward car ride during which I, still in a state of shock, deflected my mom's questions about the movie she thought I'd seen with a series of "Hah?"s -- I would go through many stacks of white typing paper trying to adapt the movie to comic-strip form, in much the way that Hunter Thompson, I would read later, had spent his youth copying pages of Hemingway and Fitzgerald longhand, so that he could feel their prose rhythms coursing through his fingers. It was the closest I had come at that time to writing a movie a love letter. In retrospect, she probably thought I was kind of goofy, if she thought of me at all. I was just one of millions of boys staring at her with my eyes and mouth wide open, I know that. And in the years since -- Christ, in the decades since -- I've known a lot of movies that were smarter, sweeter, more generous, more mature, more beautiful, and had more to teach me about the world. But you never forget the first one. This year she turned thirty-three, and it would be an understatement to say that she still looks good for her age. I expect that, if I'm still around when she's sixty-six, I'll still want to drink her bath water.

Click Here For More Thanks From Andrew Osborne, Scott Von Doviak, Paul Clark, Leonard Pierce & Sarah Clyne Sundberg

Contributor: Phil Nugent

The Screengrab Holiday Special: Movies We're Thankful For (Part Two)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 15:30:00 GMT

SCOTT VON DOVIAK IS THANKFUL FOR:

JAWS (1975)

It's the summer of 1975 and I have successfully completed the second grade. I am living on a Navy base in Puerto Rico, and I've got the run of the place: swimming pool, ball field, bowling alley, snack bar all within easy biking distance…and of course, the movie theater. We're a few months behind the states, which means every time a kid comes back from a week's vacation stateside, I hear about it all over again: Jaws. By summer's end, I have entire scenes memorized and I haven't even seen the damn thing yet. Every week I check the base newsletter (El Tiburon – meaning, of course, "the shark," and did I mention that our little league team was also called the Sharks?) for the upcoming movie listings. Finally it appears on the schedule. When the big night arrives, I pedal to the theater, ditch my bike and get in line. While trying to catch my breath, I overhear bits of conversation. They're not talking about sharks – they're talking about pinball wizards and deaf, dumb and blind kids. I get to the ticket window. "Sorry, there was a misprint. The movie tonight is Tommy." I pedal home in tears. I rage to my parents about the unfairness of it all. My dad gets on the horn and raises a stink. Apparently he's not the only one. The next night, I finally get my shark movie. I close my eyes when the head pops out from under the boat – I knew it was coming – but other than that, I'm good. I've seen it a few times since then.

A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971)

A few years later I'm in high school in Maine. My friends Nick and Rodney and I are the A/V department, which somehow entitles us – again – to the run of the place. We've got keys to everything, including the teacher's lounge, where we sometimes hang out long after hours, watching the rough footage of our day's production. (Our primary function is shooting the basketball games and school plays, but we often commandeer the equipment to make our own sketch comedy show, a sublime blend of the Monty Python and Bert and I sensibilities, God willing now lost to the ages.) One day someone brings in a rented copy of A Clockwork Orange, a movie I'd tried to watch once before. I wasn't ready for it then; I was ready for it now. There can't possibly be a more awesome, mind-blowing movie when you're sixteen years old – especially if you're watching it in the teacher's lounge. Up until now I'd always been baffled and a little perturbed that the director got so much more credit than the screenwriter. So the director decides where to put the camera and maybe works with the actors a little? So what? A Clockwork Orange clarified the matter for me, more so than any Filmmaking 101 course ever could. When I got to college and caught up on Pauline Kael and company, I learned that not everyone was quite so enamored with it. I even grudgingly conceded they might have a point or two, but the impact of that long-ago viewing still lingers.

APOCALYPSE BOP (1996)

Every cineaste should get a chance to play movie star once in their lives, and I got that opportunity when fellow Screengrabber Andrew Osborne cast me in the lead role of Zeke in his indie feature Apocalypse Bop. (What can I say, my price was right.) I was working as an office drone at Warner Bros. in Los Angeles when word came through that the financing was in place (i.e., Andrew had maxed out his credit cards – where is his government bailout, I ask you?) and shooting was scheduled to commence in Boston and Middleboro, Mass. Although fully prepared to quit my job, I was given a leave of absence by an understanding boss and jetted east for the month-long shoot. As the perpetually harried writer-director-producer, I'm sure Andrew has a very different perspective (and maybe he'll tell you all about it someday), but we cast members had an absolute blast – that is, until the final days when my immune system finally shut down under the strain of 12-hour shooting days and late-night partying. The movie itself – a surreal Gen-X comedy about a party at the end of the world – didn't become the next Clerks, but it had a respectable festival run and I happen to think it's pretty groovy – and you can order your own copy for cheap in the fancy new VHS format if you're curious! Later I would go on to co-write and co-star in the Austin-shot indie What I Like About You, but it wasn't quite the same experience as my summer vacation as a movie star.

DELIVERANCE (1972)

On a whim during the summer of 2001, I decided to partake in a combination canoe trip, BBQ and outdoor screening of Deliverance sponsored by the Alamo Drafthouse (see below). I thought it might make for a fun Film Threat article, but I ended up getting a lot more out of it than that. The complete tale of my harrowing voyage is told in the preface to my book Hick Flicks – which was inspired by this very same event. Before the feature presentation began, trailers from '70s drive-in pictures like Gator, Grizzly and Smokey and the Bandit were shown, and I had a flash of inspiration that led to nearly three years worth of research, writing and – most time-consuming of all – watching hundreds of (mostly terrible) movies about moonshine, fast cars, redneck sheriffs and killer hillbillies. Eventually, however, I got a book out of it, and that will live on into eternity – or at least until all the copies decompose.

ALAMO DRAFTHOUSE

I've been a working film critic for nearly a decade now, and I must confess that the thrill of going to the movies is…I won't say gone, but somewhat diminished. Very often I'm assigned to review movies I wouldn't see on a dare otherwise. The screenings are free, but not always convenient, and many of them are promo events sponsored by radio stations with loudmouth hosts shooting t-shirts into the audience…the whole production has very little resemblance to what I used to love about going to the movies. (Has my pity party started yet?) So it is that on this day of turkey, stuffing, football and giant floating Underdogs, I give thanks to the Alamo Drafthouse, which has made moviegoing fun again. How have they done this? Well, they've added beer to the proceedings, which is always a plus in my book. But they also have tasty food, unusual programming and a keen sense of showmanship. You always want to get there early for the custom-tailored pre-show. And, of course, for the beer.

And thank you, Screengrab reader, for putting up with my little walk down memory lane. My list may have seemed somewhat random, but I'm very thankful for all of the above and I'm glad it's all on the record. Now go get you some more pie.

Click Here For More Thanks From Andrew Osborne, Phil Nugent, Paul Clark, Leonard Pierce & Sarah Clyne Sundberg

Contributor: Scott Von Doviak

Yesterday's Hits: The Exorcist (1973, William Friedkin)

Paul Clark — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 19:00:00 GMT

The weeks leading up to Halloween are the most popular time of the year for horror movies, so it was only natural that I would choose one for this week’s Yesterday’s Hits column. But which one? Horror is a popular and relatively profitable genre, in large part because horror movies are generally not too expensive to produce, making it easy for them to turn a profit. Yet there are surprisingly few flat-out blockbusters in the genre. Since 1939, only four movies that might be labeled “horror” have placed among the top five box office hits of their respective years. Two of these were Psycho and Jaws, both of which remain classics not merely of the genre, but of cinema in general. And I wrote about the most recent of the bunch, The Sixth Sense, back in June.

This leaves only The Exorcist. But while William Friedkin’s film has been endlessly parodied over the years, it remains one of the most-watched horror movies of all time, a perennial Halloween favorite. In other words, it’s not what I normally look for in my Yesterday’s Hits selections. So, for the obvious reasons, I’ll be skipping over my usual question of what happened to The Exorcist’s popularity because, well, it never really went away.

What made The Exorcist a hit?: Prior to writing The Exorcist, William Peter Blatty had published several novels without achieving much commercial success, and eventually began writing for movies and television. But The Exorcist changed his fortunes immeasurably. Based partly on an actual exorcism that took place in 1949, Blatty’s novel became a publishing sensation with its no-holds-barred portrait of a young girl’s possession by the devil, and the efforts of her mother and a pair of priests to make her better. Given its critical and popular acclaim, it quickly became clear that The Exorcist would become a major motion picture.

With the newfound power afforded him by his bestselling-author status, Blatty was able to sign on as producer of the Exorcist adaptation. Despite a number of alternative choices on Warner Brothers’ part, Blatty insisted on William Friedkin, a recent Oscar winner for The French Connection, in the hope that he would turn the novel into a serious prestige picture rather than a run-of-the-mill horror movie. In turn, Friedkin jumped in with both feet, bringing the book’s most chilling set pieces to life using state-of-the-art makeup and special effects, which sometimes even endangered the safety of his actors. In addition, the relaxed rating standards of the day allowed Friedkin to make the film more visceral than any big-budget Hollywood production to date. Once word got around that the filmed version of The Exorcist was every bit as horrifying as the novel, audiences turned out in droves, making it the biggest hit of 1973 and one of the top-grossing horror movies of all time.

Does The Exorcist still work?: Yes, although not always in the obvious ways. For one thing, despite its reputation as a classic horror movie, The Exorcist really isn’t all that frightening. There are a handful of eerie moments and memorably macabre images, such as the desecration of a church altar. But by and large, the scares to be found in The Exorcist are of a crude and obvious kind, like Regan (Linda Blair) being tossed around by an unseen presence while lying in bed. Scenes like this are shocking to see once, to be certain, and the level of pre-CGI cinematic trickery is certainly impressive, but they don’t really burrow under your skin in the way the best horror movies do.

However, the movie is successful in a number of other ways, like the way it becomes a story about the limits of science. In the early 1970s, science was making progress to exploring every nook and cranny of the human body, both physically in the case of medicine, and psychologically as well. But in The Exorcist, all of the medical and psychological experiments that are performed on Regan prove futile, and in the end, the only recourse for Regan’s mother Chris (Ellen Burstyn), is religion. In our enlightened age, there’s something undeniably unsettling about the idea that there are still things that lay outside the realm of science, and while Friedkin and Blatty don’t come out explicitly in favor of religion, there’s no denying that it works in the film in ways the medicine does not.

But most compelling of all is Chris’ character arc, which the movie actually takes seriously rather than simply using it to mark time until the next big shock. Chris is a successful actress and a divorcee, and the only thing that’s really permanent in her life is her little girl. So when Regan begins to exhibit her alarming symptoms, Chris finds herself grasping at any possible solution to make her better, usually to no avail. Despite the fact that she’s not religious, she ends up turning to Father Karras (Jason Miller) for help. In perhaps the most affecting moment in the film, Chris pleads to him, “I want you to tell me that you know for a fact that there's nothing wrong with my daughter, except in her mind. You tell me for a fact you know an exorcism wouldn’t do any good.” Due in no small part to Burstyn’s performance, Chris’ storyline and her relationship with Regan make for such a fascinating chamber drama that it’s almost disappointing that the movie ends up resolving itself with visual trickery and mystical gobbledygook.

At the end of the day, The Exorcist isn’t remotely the scariest movie ever made. However, it still works as the prestige picture that Blatty and Friedkin wanted it to be. Sure, Friedkin might have been a pain in the ass while making the film (literally, in Burstyn’s case), but the story and performances work well enough that the end result was worth the effort. If only the film’s sequels had kept this same balance of drama and supernatural horror, The Exorcist might have been the first installment in a classic series, instead of a hugely popular original that spawned three inferior knockoffs. But no matter- it stands on its own just fine.

Honorable Mention: The Greatest Horror Films of All Time (Part Six)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 22:30:00 GMT

JAWS (1975)

There was some back-and-forth among the writers here at The Screengrab over whether Steven Spielberg’s first blockbuster should be included on a list of classic horror movies. But ultimately, it made the cut because, whether or not it qualifies as a horror movie, the truth is that it’s seriously scary. A far cry from the long-standing King of Hollywood Filmmakers who has become semi-notorious for his inability to satisfactorily end his movies, the Spielberg who made Jaws did so with one thing on his mind -- to scare the ever-loving shit out of the audience. And oh man, did he ever succeed. Much has been made of the technical issues with the animatronic shark “Bruce” forcing Spielberg to find clever ways to make the shark’s presence felt onscreen (who can forget that moment when the dock slowly turns around?). However, the withholding of actual shots of the shark actually makes him more frightening, given all the buildup he’s had up to that point. Along with being Spielberg’s most frightening movie, it’s also his most perfectly structured, divided almost evenly between the attacks on the townspeople and the mission by Brody, Quint, and Hooper to bring down the toothy killer. The first half has plenty of good scares to be sure -- the head popping out of the boat, for one -- but it’s the second hour that makes Jaws a classic. The setup is little more than three men on an old boat, and as the makeshift crew hunts down, then fends off, the shark, Spielberg never once cuts back to the mainland. The claustrophobia that results causes the tension to skyrocket, so that every time the shark returns to take another shot at bringing down the boat, the film becomes ever more nerve-wracking. But for all the brutal attacks we see, nothing in Jaws burrows under your skin quite like Quint’s immortal monologue about his experiences aboard the Indianapolis, in which he shares his first-hand knowledge of just how much damage sharks can do.

BLACK SUNDAY (1960)

The Italian director Mario Bava, whose other credits include the 1971 Bay of Blood (AKA Twitch of the Death Nerve), regarded by some as the first slasher/splatter movie, is that rare horror specialist who has earned a reputation as a major filmmaker on the basis of his stylish and atmospheric approach to such genre eternals as cobweb-strewn dungeons and gore-stained torture instruments. He made his name largely on the basis of this Saturday-matinee classic, in which a beautiful young woman visiting her ancestral home is menaced by her long-dead but now-back ancestor, a Moldavian witch who was burned at the stake in 1630. The English actress Barbara Steele played both parts, popping her eyes ever so slightly to indicate when she was supposed to be the murderous, unearthly one. Neither Steele's youthful amateurishness as an actress nor the fact that, by her own account, she was never too clear on what the funny man with whom she shared no common language and who kept waving and jabbering at her from behind the camera was going on about, were enough to get in the way of the fact that, with her stunning features set off by her long black hair, she was both a striking image of virginal innocence imperiled and rampaging evil at its sexiest; the movie turned her into one of the best-loved scream queens of the '60s and '70s.

BRAIN DAMAGE (1988)

This deeply unwholesome film is perhaps the best work by boundary-pushing splatter director Frank Henenlotter (Basket Case, Frankenhooker), who can be heard on the DVD director commentary reminiscing that he always managed to include one scene in each of his films that he enjoyed the pleasure of staging and shooting by himself, because at that point the crew invariably walked out shaking their heads and muttering, "Oh, you sick bastard..." This one, Henenlotter's version of an anti-drug addiction film, is about a fool (Rick Herbst) who strikes up a partnership with a parasitic creature called Aylmer (pronounced "Elmer") who injects him with an addictive, hallucinogenic substance in exchange for the man's help in keeping the monster well fed on his preferred diet of human brains. Elmer also talks, in a voice provided by John Zacherle, beloved in cult circles as New York's most celebrated TV horror show host.

FIDO (2006)

It's a measure of how influential George Romero's conception of zombiedom has been that people who adopt his ideas of shambling, flesh-eating corpses that can only be finished off with a crushing blow to their brains aren't seen as rip-off artists, but rather as traditionalists working with what, since 1969, have been the established rules. Another measure is the way that Romero's imagery has been spoofed in comedies whose makers are confident that the audience will immediately recognize what it is they're making fun of. The British comedian Simon Pegg and his collaborators had a major success making fun of zombies in Shaun of the Dead, but this Canadian film, directed and co-written by Andrew Currie, honors Romero's attempts to use his undead hordes to satirize American society, only with a steadier and subtler hand than the master has sometimes maintained himself. Set in a Blue Velvet-style suburbia where it'll always be the 1950s, Fido features perhaps the best ever performance by an actor as a zombie by Scottish comic Billy Connolly, in the title role of the hungry but strangely winning pet of little Timmy (K'Sun Ray), who soon realizes that his grunting, growling pal is trying to tell him something.

GINGER SNAPS (2000)

This Canadian film does for werewolves what Carrie and the Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series did for high school misfits in their respective supernatural target groups. The word "snaps" in the title is a verb: Ginger (Katharine Isabelle) and her little sister Brigitte (Emily Perkins) have a close knit "you and me against the world" relationship, which manifests itself in the form of a deep (and, to the minds of their school instructors, inappropriate) fascination with death, but after Ginger experience her first period and begins to have confusing feelings about boys, Brigitte senses the beginning of a wedge coming between them that presages the conflict to come when Ginger is bloodied by a werewolf-like creature and begins to literally transform into a different, and dangerous, species. The movie almost didn't happen because of real life adults' concern about teenagers' "inappropriate" obsessions with death and violence: the project's funding was threatened by adverse publicity after the Columbine high school shooting took place during pre-production.

Click Here For Part One, Two, Three, Four, Five & Seven

Contributors: Paul Clark of the Living Dead, Phil Nugent Is People!!!!

Ozsploitation! “Razorback” (1984)

Scott Von Doviak — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 19:00:00 GMT

Inspired by the terrific new documentary Not Quite Hollywood, the Screengrab is proud to present Ozsploitation!, our own survey of the golden age of Australian drive-in movies. Pop a tube, throw another shrimp on the barbie and try not to chunder.

Last time we looked at Dark Age, about a giant crocodile on the loose Down Under. This week we’re looking at Razorback, which is about a giant wild boar on the loose Down Under. Totally different thing! I almost felt sorry for the big croc – he just wanted to be left alone. The razorback, on the other hand, just seems like kind of an asshole.

Plotwise, the movie is your basic Jaws in the Outback. It opens with grizzled Jake Cullen (Bill Kerr) watching in dismay as his house is ripped apart and his grandson dragged away by a big ol’ slobbery pig-thing. Shortly thereafter, American activist Beth Winters (Judy Morris) arrives in the tiny town of Granulla to fight for the rights of cute kangaroos. The locals don’t take kindly to her, particularly brothers Dicko and Benny, a near-feral pair who live in an industrial hellhole of a food cannery. When Beth disappears, her husband Carl (Gregory Harrison) sets out to find her, and crosses paths with not only Dicko and Benny, but the hideous hairy bundle of grunts and snorts known as the razorback.

Plot is a secondary consideration at best, however, when it comes to the supremely stylish Razorback, part of the first wave of MTV-influenced movies. I don’t mean “MTV-influenced” in the sense we use the term today, which is generally to disparage the incoherent slice-and-dice editing so many action movies use to simulate actual excitement. Razorback was directed by Russell Mulcahy, who was in on the ground floor of the music video age – indeed, he helmed the Buggles’ “Video Killed the Radio Star,” the first video ever aired on MTV, as well as a number of the early Duran Duran videos that put the network on the map.

Mulcahy brings those early ‘80s visuals to the big screen in Razorback, which is something of a candy store for the eyes. A brew of punk/new wave styles, Western motifs and post-Road Warrior junkyard aesthetics filtered through plenty of smoke machines, colored light gels and fisheye lenses, it’s certainly more stylistically adventurous than practically any contemporary American action/horror flick. In the Razorback world, it’s as if a Mad Max-like society exists in present-day Australia (which may have been a little insulting to those who actually lived in the remote Outback, but hell, they probably didn’t have movie theaters anyway). It all looks great (well, the pig may not be top-of-the-line), but it’s a classic case of style-over-substance; in other words, I really didn’t care who got eaten by the big, hairy boar. The lead actor contributes to this problem – it was common in those days for the Aussies to import an American star or two, but who ever went to see a movie because Gregory Harrison was in it? The revenge storyline is overplayed as well. Why is it that Jaws rip-offs never seem to remember that Jaws was not a revenge movie? Those guys in the boat were just doing their jobs, it was nothing personal. Make Jaws a revenge movie and what do you have? Jaws: The Revenge! So how is that a good idea?

Razorback is more fun to look at than it is to watch, if that makes any sense. And it’s even more fun to look at with four Foster’s.

Previously on Ozsploitation!: Dark Age

Frank Mundus, 1925--2008

Phil Nugent — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 19:00:00 GMT

Frank Mundus has bit the big one. Mundus, a high school dropout who began running his own boat, the Cricket, out of Long Island's Montauk Harbor in 1951, achieved pop-culture immortality when word got out that he was the real-life inspiration for the character of Quint, the low-rent Ahab created by Peter Benchley in his novel Jaws and played by Robert Shaw in the 1975 Steven Spielberg movie that invented the modern concept of the summer blockbuster. Mundus, who had heard the call of the sea while still a teenager, said that his reputation as a shark hunter began as "a joke": he happened to snare a shark while out fishing one day and decided to post a sign advertising "Monster Fishing." His legend grew after he harpooned a shark estimated at seventeen feet in length and a weight of 4500 pounds. This was back in the days when Peter Benchley was among the customers who chartered his boat, though Benchley always denied having had Mundus or any one person in mind when he created Quint. Mundus, a lovably salty self-promoter, was just as quick to insist on the resemblance, saying of Benchley, "If he just would have thanked me, my business would have increased. Everything he wrote was true, except I didn’t get eaten by the big shark. I dragged him in.” Those knowledgeable in the arcane ways of the deep will tell you that not getting eaten by the fish you're trying to kill is the true test of a master seaman, one that the fictional Quint, for all his sea-chanty airs, flunked spectacularly.

In 1986, more than ten years after the movie came out, Mundus and another fisherman managed to bag a seventeen-foot great white, setting a record for the biggest fish ever caught by rod and reel. More recently, last year the 81-year-old Mundus got into a disagreement with a nine-foot thresher shark while sailing his boat Cricket II and hauled the misguided creature aboard with a gaff. Rumors that the fish's last words were, "Oh shit, you're that guy who they turned into the guy in Jaws, aren't you? Can I get a do-over here?" remain unconfirmed. By that time, Mundus and his second wife, Jeanette, had relocated to Hawaii, though he often returned to Long Island in the summer, when the tourists and other suckers were out in force. Mundus did all this with one arm that had been left withered since a childhood illness, as well as "his safari hat, a diamond-studded gold earring, a jewel-handled dagger with a shark-tooth blade, and the big toe of one foot painted green and the other red, for port and starboard. If Mundus thought that his "Monster Fishing" sign was pretty funny, that was nothing compared to what he saw when he caught up with the movie Jaws: "It was the funniest and the stupidest movie I've ever seen because too many stupid things happened in it. For instance, no shark can pull a boat backwards at a fast speed with a light line and stern cleats that are only held in there by two bolts. And I've never boiled shark jaws. If you do, you'll only end up with a bunch of teeth at the bottom of your bucket because the jaw cartilage melts." Mundus, who died of a heart attack, recently co-wrote, with his wife Jeannette, his own version of his life story, titled Fifty Years a Hooker.

Oliver Stone Finds His Dick

Scott Von Doviak — Thu, 22 May 2008 19:30:00 GMT

When last we checked in with Oliver Stone’s Bush biopic, W., most of the major players were in place. Josh Brolin was busy practicing his chimplike smirk and hunched shrug of defeat for the title role, with Elizabeth Banks as the missus, and the cabinet filled out by Thandie Newton (Condi Rice), Rob Corddry (Ari Fleischer) and Jeffrey Wright (Colin Powell).

One major hole remained: the man behind the throne, Dick Cheney. Speculation pointed to Robert Duvall (who reportedly turned down the role) and Paul Giamatti (who may have had his fill of White House machinations with John Adams). Now it appears the role has been filled.

The Hollywood Reporter sez: “Richard Dreyfuss could soon make the trip to Oliver Stone's White House, entering final negotiations to play Dick Cheney in the provocateur director's upcoming W.” The Reporter also passes on the following helpful tidbit: “The 60-year-old Dreyfuss has never played a U.S. leader, but has had a few related roles. He starred as an opposition senator to Michael Douglas' commander in chief in 1995's The American President, as Alexander Haig in a television movie about Ronald Reagan and played the president of a banana republic in the 1980s comedy Moon Over Parador.”

How appropriate that it took the addition of a Jaws star for the casting of W. to jump the shark.

Yesterday's Hits: The Towering Inferno (1974, John Guillermin)

Paul Clark — Tue, 06 May 2008 19:00:00 GMT

For most movie lovers today, the idea of 1970s Hollywood conjures up an image of maverick filmmakers being given the keys to the castle. It was the era memorialized in histories like Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, when young turks like Scorsese, Coppola, and Spielberg did some of their greatest and most famous work. But the truth was more complicated than that. Certainly, movies like The Godfather and Jaws were huge hits, but films of that caliber striking gold at the box office were the exception rather than the rule. Then as now, Hollywood has always been first and foremost in the business of churning out big, mindless spectacles, and the blockbuster of choice for many studios in the early 1970s was the disaster film. The biggest of them all was the highest-grossing film of 1974, The Towering Inferno.

What made The Towering Inferno a hit?: In the 1950s, a journalist named Irwin Allen decided to turn his lifelong love for movies into a career. After producing several documentaries and modest features, he turned his attentions to television throughout most of the 1960s, producing hit series like Lost in Space and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. Following the success of 1970’s Airport, Allen jumped on the disaster movie bandwagon by making the 1972 smash The Poseidon Adventure. Poseidon Adventure didn’t invent its genre, but it stood in contrast to other films of its kind by moving its central disaster closer to the beginning of the story and focusing instead on how its characters reacted to the disaster.

Allen rarely directed movies himself- The Towering Inferno was credited to John Guillermin, with Allen credited as the director of action sequences- but there was little doubt who was running the show. With The Towering Inferno, Allen more or less perfected the disaster movie formula- impressive effects, gigantic sets, and a sappy romantic ballad often performed by cheeseball chanteuse Maureen McGovern. Likewise, as with all of the most successful disaster movies, Allen gave The Towering Inferno the most stellar cast he could manage, top-lined by three of the era’s biggest stars: Steve McQueen, Paul Newman, and Faye Dunaway. In addition, he cast the key older characters in the film with old-guard Hollywood stars like William Holden, Fred Astaire and Jennifer Jones. And what would a big-budget film of the period without such quintessentially seventies names as Richard Chamberlain, Robert Wagner, Susan Blakely, and Robert Vaughn? The formula worked- The Towering Inferno was produced for a then-outrageous sum of $14 million dollars, but it ended up grossing more than eight times that amount in America alone, and much more than that overseas.

What happened?: If history teaches us anything about genre moviemaking, it’s that moviegoers are a fickle bunch. The disaster movie was at its peak at the time of The Towering Inferno’s release, but that was about to change. Within the next few years, movies like Jaws and Star Wars gave audiences a new kind of thrill ride at the movies. In light of the lean, efficient nature of these movies, suddenly old-school disaster movies were a thing of the past, and The Towering Inferno, with its galaxy of stars and nearly three-hour run time, seemed stately by comparison. Allen himself couldn’t even resurrect the genre, closing out the decade with three consecutive flops (The Swarm, Beyond the Poseidon Adventure, and When Time Ran Out) that pretty much closed the book on disaster movies for years.

Does The Towering Inferno still work?: Not really. If the movie was quaint in comparison to blockbusters made only a few years later, it’s practically a fossil by today’s standards. One of the most distracting elements of the movie is Allen’s tendency to focus on small and fairly cliché bits of character business. At the time, the sight of one or two big-name stars dying onscreen was something of a shock, but from the beginning it’s pretty clear which ones are destined not to survive until the end. Allen pretty clearly divides his principal cast into three groups- the good, the bad, and the doomed. While some people are resourceful enough to survive the tragedy, others clearly exist to be victims or to get their comeuppance in the end. So not only does the story feel safe and comfortable, but it also takes on an element of kitsch as we wait to see how certain characters will meet their ends.

Another problem with the film was its bloated 165-minute running time. You’d think that a movie about people escaping from a fire would be fairly simple narratively-speaking, but there’s so much incident in The Towering Inferno that it overwhelms everything else. The film had its origins in two similar skyscraper-on-fire novels, The Tower and The Glass Inferno, and rather than judiciously cherry-picking elements from both books, Allen had Sterling Silliphant combine the stories of the two books and take the seven principal characters from each. As a result, the movie feels needlessly busy, forever cross-cutting between groups of characters as they attempt to escape the blaze. Some of the actors make an impression- Newman has an effortless authority in his scenes, and Fred Astaire gets a few nice moments- but most of them are lost in the shuffle.

And then there’s Steve McQueen. Arguably the biggest action star of the day, McQueen was cast early in the production and then proceeded to throw his weight around. After being cast as the heroic architect Doug, he decided that he preferred to play fire chief O’Hallorhan. Then, after Newman was cast as Doug, McQueen insisted his role be given equal weight as Newman’s. McQueen was to have exactly the same number of lines as Newman, and their roughly equal star stature necessitated the pioneering use of what was called “diagonal billing.” All of these headaches might have been worth it if McQueen was on top of his game, but he’s mostly on autopilot throughout the film, giving one of his laziest performances. The point of casting a star of McQueen’s caliber is for the audience to care about his character, but whenever he’s onscreen, I was mostly just anxious for Newman and Dunaway (then at the peak of her gorgeousness) to show up again.

Ever since Allen’s reign as the “Master of Disaster”, Hollywood has made several attempts to resurrect the disaster genre. But despite the best efforts of filmmakers like Roland Emmerich, the genre hasn’t caught on. CGI has made effects cheaper and easier to create than ever before, but just as key to The Towering Inferno’s popularity was its all-star cast, and the cost of such a cast today would be astronomical, and a huge gamble at a time when the importance of movie stars seems particularly questionable. The heyday for movies like The Towering Inferno has long since passed, and it looks like audiences will never love a movie like this again.

Unwatchable #100: “Devil Fish”

Scott Von Doviak — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 20:00:00 GMT

A few weeks ago, you may recall, Sam Richards of The Guardian subjected himself to a handful of entries on the IMDb’s Bottom 100 list – the absolute worst of the worst-ranked movies of all time. At first I thought he was crazy. Then I realized he hadn’t gone nearly far enough. Any moron can sit through a few of these godawful pictures; it takes a special kind of idiot to watch all 100 of them. And I’m here to tell you, loyal Screengrab readers, I am that idiot.

For your entertainment and my own detriment, I am going to watch and review them all, starting with #100 and working my way to the top. Of course, the IMDb list is constantly changing based on the whims of the voting public, but I will be sticking with the Bottom 100 I downloaded on the day I decided to tackle this most awe-inspiring task. And on whatever day that was, the #100 ranked movie was Shark: Rosso nell'oceano, or as you may know it: Devil Fish.

There’s a reason you might know it: in what I fear may become a recurring problem with this project, Devil Fish is on the list because it was skewered by those pranksters at Mystery Science Theater 3000. This makes its inclusion somewhat illegitimate to my way of thinking, since nobody would have heard of it otherwise and it would have had no chance of making the Bottom 100. And I know this won’t make me any friends amongst the bad movie cognoscenti, but I’ve never really been a fan of MST3K; heck, I don’t even like the abbreviation MST3K. If I want to be trapped in a room with a bunch of dorks making lame jokes about a movie I’m trying to watch, it’s easy enough to accomplish that goal. I don’t need them actually pasted there in front of the movie I’m trying to watch, with no way of drowning out their commentary, but in this case, I had no choice. I did my best to pretend they weren’t there and come to the film with only the purest intentions, but it wasn’t easy.

Directed by Lamberto “son of Mario” Bava, Devil Fish (or Monster Shark or Red Ocean or even Devouring Waves) is a belated Jaws knockoff from 1986 set in the Florida Everglades. A bony dolphin trainer, a beer-swilling scientist and the local sheriff join forces to battle a waterlogged monster that doesn’t actually appear to be much of a shark at all, given that it has tentacles. In a classic case of the cure being worse than the disease, the solution they arrive at is to douse the Everglades with gasoline and set it ablaze with flamethrowers. I guess this qualifies as eco-horror, though perhaps not in the way Bava intended.

With its wooden performances, cheesy effects and slack approach to editing, Devil Fish is certainly ripe for mockery, but I don’t know that it’s any worse than a hundred other low-budget monster movies that could easily have taken its place on the list. Which brings me to my “Unwatchable” rating system, inspired by my loyal co-watcher, Maury the Wonder Chibeagle. On a scale of one to four Maurys – one being a movie that actually has redeeming qualities, four being an atrocity against mankind – I hereby award Devil Fish two Maurys:

Forgotten Films: "Caveman" (1981)

Phil Nugent — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 21:00:00 GMT

The new release 10,000 B.C. revives a genre that some of us thought was long past reviving, the dawn-of-man cave people melodrama. The new movie's director, Roland Emmerich, is a technophile size freak who probably thinks that the latest developments in computer animation and other special effects make it a great time to visualize a chaotic, untamed planet overrun with strange forms of wildlife threatening actors who are modeling proposed hair styles for Rob Zombie — though my recollection is that, in the past, the whole point of these movies was to showcase a rising performer (such as Victor Mature, star of the 1940 One Million B.C., or Raquel Welch, star of its 1966 remake) who seems made to be photographed wearing a loincloth. Anyway, this genre received its knockout blow more than twenty-five years ago, in Caveman, filmed in Mexico by the director Carl Gottlieb, who also co-wrote the script with Rudy DeLuca. Gottlieb is a well-travelled show business jack-of-all-trades whose career includes a stint with the '60s improv-comedy troupe the Committee, various acting gigs, and partial authorship of the script of Jaws (as well as full authorship of its making-of book). Gottlieb made his film directing debut with the 1977 Steve Martin short The Absent-Minded Waiter, but Caveman was his first time behind the camera on a feature film. It remains his only feature, maybe because he's yet to find a project that might count as a worthy follow-up to directing a cast, all speaking "prehistoric" gibberish, that included Ringo Starr, John Matuszak, and a stoned Tyrannosaurus rex.

Ringo plays Atouk, the sad-sack misfit of a tribe of cave folk led by — or, rather, bullied and pushed around by — Tonda, played by the towering, fiercely bearded Matuszak. Atouk graduates from loser to outcast when he enrages Tonda by lusting after the big guy's lady, Barbara Bach. (This was the movie where Ringo and Bach met. They were married before it was released to theaters, and in a month they'll be celebrating their twenty-seventh anniversary. Tip your hats, people.) The resourceful Ringo takes advantage of his new freedom to assemble his own rival tribe, which includes Dennis Quaid, Carl Lumbly, the great Jack Gilford and, as Gilford's daughter and Ringo's eventual love interest, a very charming, pre-Cheers Shelley Long. He also discovers fire, music, advanced weaponry, and the pleasures of standing upright. (He proceeds to convert his friends, grabbing them from behind as if administering the Heimlich maneuver and yanking their spines straight to the accompaniment of a terrific cracking noise.) The whole thing has a playful, friendly quality, and the good guys are pretty close to irresistable. The bad guys are no slouches themselves; the late Matuszak gets to demonstrate an all-out slapstick aplomb that Hollywood seldom bothered to tap during his acting career, and Bach, strutting about in her fur bikini, was accurately described by one reviewer, Michael Sragow, as looking like a Frank Frazetta illustration come to life. Mixed in among the people are a quartet of stop-motion dinosaurs, including the aforementioned T-rex, who are very ready for their close-ups. Will 10,000 B.C. reveal that its makers have learned anything from Ringo and company? It remains to be seen, but I have a feeling that if Roland Emmerich understood anything about the appeal of stop-motion dinosaurs, he never would have made Godzilla.

Roy Scheider, 1932-2008

Phil Nugent — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 15:30:00 GMT

Roy Scheider has died in Little Rock, Arkansas, at the age of 75. He had battled cancer in recent years; the cause of death has been reported as complications from a staph infection. Scheider made his film debut in a 1962 horror movie called The Curse of the Living Corpse and throughout the 1960s worked on the stage and on such TV soaps as The Edge of Night, Love of Life, and The Secret Storm. He began to get small movie roles in the late '60s, and had a breakout year in 1971, when, as a thirty-nine-year-old juvenile, he played Jane Fonda's pimp in Klute and Gene Hackman's police partner in The French Connection. (In interviews, and ultimately in a commentary track on The French Connection DVD, Scheider liked to tell a story about how he won the part after someone saw him blow a stage audition and was impressed with the brio with which off the director.) Scheider got an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor for the role, which would ultimately lead to his getting his first leading role in The Seven-Ups, a 1973 cop thriller directed by the French Connection producer Philip D'Antoni. But it was of course the 1975 Jaws that was Scheider's biggest hit and the movie that made him a familiar face to the public at large, and beloved to a generation of pop-eyed movie freaks. As the land-locked seaside Sheriff Brody, Scheider was the tentpole of a central triumverate that also included Richard Dreyfuss (wisecracking, brainy, Method) and Robert Shaw (macho, demented, classically theatrical). It was Scheider's job to anchor what would become the most successful movie ever made by serving as the likable audience identification figure, he pulled it off with a smooth, pro's grace.

Scheider starred in a number of other movies (including William Friedkin's Sorcerer, Last Embrace, Still of the Night, and Blue Thunder) but never again found himself at the center of anything near as big a blockbuster. He was also forced, by contractual committment, to appear in Jaws 2, which cost him the chance to star in Michael Cimino's The Deer Hunter. He did get an Academy Award nomination for Best Actor for serving as the director Bob Fosse's alter ego in the 1979 All That Jazz; he didn't want, but his work in that picture will be remembered as among the best performances of his career. However, by the mid-1980s he was only getting big parts in smaller-budgeted pictures (such as 52 Pick-Up, made for Cannon Films) and indie productions (such as 1997's The Myth of Fingerprints) and appearing in smaller parts in such films as Fred Schepisi's The Russia House, David Cronenberg's Naked Lunch, and Francis Ford Coppola's The Rainmaker. He also starred in the first season of the TV series SeaQuest DSV and played studio chief George Schaefer in RKO 281, an HBO film about the making of Citizen Kane. He kept working at a furious rate, and in one of his last appearances, as a serial killer on Death Row last year in an episode of Law & Order: Criminal Intent, he showed that he was still capable of doing memorable work when the material he was given managed to meet him halfway.