The Screengrab : lon chaney

Strangers In A Strange Land: Screengrab's Favorite Fish-Out-Of-Water Stories (Part One)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 21:00:00 GMT

As part of Screengrab’s year-end List-a-palooza, we asked you, our imaginary internet friends, what topics you’d like to see featured in our weekly Top Twenty.

Janet immediately stepped up to the plate with the following suggestion: “Last week, Walker finally made it to the top of my Netflix queue, in my current reconsideration of all things Alex Cox. As I watched it, I kept thinking about My Best Fiend, which I had watched about a month ago. I realized that there were at least three films I could name that revolved around a White man traveling to Latin America and going crazy, and I started wondering if there were more. I'm not even sure if there are enough for a Take Five, but I count on your broader knowledge on the subject. So, if you would be so kind, I would love a list of White Man Goes to Latin America and Goes Insane movies.”

And so, in honor of Janet, this week’s list features plenty o’ white dudes livin’ la vida loca south of the border...but we also broadened our mandate to include all manner of fish-out-of-water stories -- from aliens in New York to city slickers in the Great Beyond -- as Screengrab travels the world (and the time/space continuum) to celebrate our favorite cinematic tales of STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND!

WALKER (1987)

And speaking of strange, it’s hard to get stranger than the 19th century American soldier of fortune William Walker or the eponymous cinematic tale of his misadventures conjured by the determinedly peculiar British cult director Alex Cox a century or so later. The real-life Walker invaded Mexico and Nicaragua more or less on his own and was eventually executed by officials in Honduras for being such a colossal pain in the ass. Cox was inspired to make his film (starring Ed Harris in full, spooky glower) “in the middle of the US-sponsored terrorist war against the Nicaraguan people...with the intention of spending as many American dollars as possible in Nicaragua, in solidarity with the Nicaraguans against the yanks' outrageous aggression against a sovereign nation.” Although ostensibly a period piece, Cox filled his film with anachronistic elements like tanks and helicopters to show how “nothing had changed in the 140 odd years between Walker's genocidal campaign and that of Oliver North and his goons.” Reaction, as they say, was mixed. Liberals were offended by Cox’s bizarre, slapstick take on the material (prompting Robert Redford to consider making his own preachy, ponderous version...a project that mercifully never materialized). Most everyone else was merely baffled by the quasi-biopic, and Universal essentially buried the six million dollar production, which barely grossed a quarter million dollars domestically...although, according to Cox, the movie was “extremely popular in certain places. It was the second biggest film hit ever in Nicaragua, after The Sound of Music,” thus making Cox's Latin American adventure about a zillion times more worthwhile than those of either Walker or North.

LOCAL HERO (1983)

Fish-out-of-water stories basically come in two variants: nightmares about characters who fall down a rabbit hole and land in Hell, or happier fantasies about some lucky bastard who happens upon Shangri-La. Bill Forsyth's beautiful little comedy, one of the few movies that might be called achingly charming, falls into the latter camp, but with a cruelly bittersweet twist. The setting is a seaside village on the coast of Scotland; the hero, Mac (Peter Reigert), is a young Houston oil company executive who is sent there to buy up the residents' homes so that the area can be despoiled. The residents are eager to get their checks so that the company can get on with the despoiling, but Mac, who in his native environment is so robotically detached that he has no trouble conducting a phone conversation with a co-worker who he can see to wave to through the other side of his glass office wall, falls so deeply in love with the place that when his boss, Happer (Burt Lancaster), flies out to connect with him, Happer doesn't recognize him. Happer himself is an amateur astronomer who looks deeply miserable sitting behind his desk in his lair atop his own personal skyscaper; he's outgrown his identity as a staid CEO, just as Lancaster had finally, fully outgrown his movie star identity as a grinning action hunk. Even in his suit and with his private helicopter, it's clear that he belongs in this magical landscape with its wide-open possibilities, just as it's clear that Mac, even with his new casual style and unshaven face, doesn't; much as he wants to, he still has his face pressed against the glass. The last scene, after Happer has blithely ordered Mac back to Houston so that the party can continue without him hovering at its edges, cuts deep.

THE MAN WHO FELL TO EARTH (1976)

The British cinematographer-turned-director Nicolas Roeg, who for a while made a specialty of eroticizing alienation, made his solo directing debut with Walkabout, a ghostly 1971 strangers/strange-land story about a proper white teeenage girl and her little brother who are stranded in the Australian outback. In this science-fiction film, Roeg extended his vision to cast the whole planet Earth -- or at least America, which to an Englishman trying to make a career in moviemaking in the 1970s must have seemed like pretty much the same thing --- as the strange land into which he drops his hero, an alien visitor (David Bowie) on a mission to save his dying planet from drought. On one level, the movie is a straight-faced joke on the idea that some of our most celebrated world-shakers, such as Howard Hughes, have scarcely seemed human at times. (Bowie's mission requires him to become titanically rich by bringing, and copyrighting, his civilization's advanced technologies.) But it's also a Christ story that happens to be set in a time so debased, and with such a short attention span, that the martyred hero, though he's able to have his purity corrupted through a developing lust for drink and television, can't manage to hold the villains' interest long enough for them to bother completing his crucifixion.

WEST OF ZANZIBAR (1926)

Lon Chaney and his favorite director, Tod Browning, made this silent version of the 1926 play Kongo, which is mostly set in what used to be called "darkest Africa." Chaney plays a married stage magician who loses the use of his legs after brawling with his wife's lover, played by Lionel Barrymore. Chaney, now known affectionately as "Dead-Legs," to his associates, relocates to Africa and sets himself up as the leader of a tribe of natives, who take his magic tricks for the mark of a peerless and dangerous witch doctor. When Chaney learns that his wife died in childbirth, he assumes that Barrymore was the father and sends for the now orphaned girl. He then proceeds to mistreat and debase her as cruelly as possible, with the intention of turning her into a broken animal; his plan is to present this ruined creature to Barrymore and then treat himself to the sight of Barrymore being treated to the sight of the natives burning the girl alive. You get one guess what the big surprise twist turns out to be. Kongo itself was later filmed as a talkie with Walter Huston; it, like Zanzibar and other films such as the weirdly stagebound White Cargo, belonged to a long-dead genre of films about white men in the jungle lording their superiority over the natives, unless they (like the juvenile character in White Cargo) are driven mad by the sultry, seductive powers of the helplessly sexy natives. Zanzibar is powered by the sheer, chugging hatefulness of which both Browning and Chaney were macabre masters, which is probably why it feels fresher now than those other films. The racial component, while never front and center, is more palatable today when it's presented as part of a horror fantasy, with the white antihero as twisted as anyone he's going to meet out there in the Congo.

IN THE CITY OF SYLVIA (2007)

There's been a lot of ink spilled on Sylvia in the list-making blur we've all just emerged out of. Suffice it to say Sylvia is the rare movie not to capture the experience of traveling in a specific city or country, but just the essence of what it means to stay in one part of an urban European city for a few days and slowly begin to see the same strangers and places over and over again, acclimating slowly to the local rhythms. The fact that it's seen through the eyes of a young, self-consciously arty idiot doesn't matter one whit; with him out of the frame for maybe 1/3 of the film, it's as much a film about the weird pan-European charms of Strasbourg as anything.

Click Here For Part Two, Three, Four, Five & Six

Contributors: Andrew Osborne, Phil Nugent, Vadim Rizov

Anita Page, 1910-2008

Leonard Pierce — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 17:45:00 GMT

One of the last living links to the silent film era, and one of that period's brightest stars, passed away in her Los Angeles home earlier this week at the age of 98. In addition to being one of the silent era's most beautiful and popular stars, Anita Page was also one of its most fascinating stories, both for her meteoric rise to the top and her abrupt -- and self-driven -- decision to quit the business.

Born in Flushing in 1910, she left Queens to make it big in pictures when she was still a high school student, landing her first role (as an extra) at age 15. Her big break came in 1928, when she co-starred with Joan Crawford in Our Dancing Daughters. Although her character died at the end of the picture, audiences immediately took to her saucy grin, easy blonde good looks, and petite frame, and the movie -- as well as two sequel-cum-remakes, Our Modern Maidens and Our Blushing Brides (also starring Crawford) -- made her a huge star. She became one of the biggest stars of the era, daily receiving hundreds of fan letters, including multiple proposals of marriage -- at least according to Page herself -- from Benito Mussolini.

Her fame only increased, and she got the chance to appear with some of the era's hugest stars (including Lon Chaney, Buster Keaton, Clark Gable, and Ramon Navarro). While many silent film stars faced a difficult transition to the sound era, Anita Page thrived; her first speaking (and singing) role was in 1929's The Broadway Melody, which became the first talkie to win an Oscar and gave her a signature hit song in "You Were Meant for Me". (The song's composer, Nacio Herb Brown, later became Page's husband.) In 1933, her contract with MGM expired, and, at the peak of her success, she became embroiled with the studio over a pay raise. When MGM wouldn't budge, Page simply walked away from show business; with the exception of a few joke appearances in low-budget horror movies in the late 1990s, she would never appear in another film, by her own choice. She was twenty-three years old.

The Hands Of Jack P. Pierce

Leonard Pierce — Wed, 14 May 2008 17:45:00 GMT

You may not know who Jack P. Pierce was, but if you've seen or even heard about the Famous Monsters of Filmland that made millions of dollars for Universal Studios in the 1930s, you know his work. Pierce, a Greek immigrant who ended up in Hollywood more or less by accident, was the head of the makeup department at Universal Studios from 1928 until 1947, and crafted, on conjunction with stars like Lon Chaney, Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff, some of the most memorable creatures in cinema history. In the days before CGI or even most photographic effects as we know them today, Pierce worked with theatrical equipment, padding, chemicals toxic by today's standards, and inventive use of costumes to create the visual hook of characters like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, the Phantom of the Opera, Dracula, Ygor, Frankenstein, the Wolf Man, and the Mummy.

When Universal merged with International after WWII, Pierce fell on ill fortune, and, after several decades working on television and for low-budget big-screen productions, he died in 1968, little-remembered outside of the people who had the good fortune to work with him. Still, anyone who played such an integral part in defining one of Hollywood's most famous and fertile periods wasn't going to stay forgotten for long. A DVD documentary about him was recently released focusing on his horror work; the motion picture industry's Makeup Artists and Hairstylists Union has named their lifetime acheivement award for him; and his hands, which crafted so many terrifyingly familiar faces, are featured on an American postage stamp, transforming Boris Karloff into Frankenstein's monster.

Curiously, though -- possibly due to a less than amicable parting with Universal and a combination of sloth and intransigence on the part of their current corporate partner NBC -- he doesn't have a star on Hollywood Boulevard. Considering that both Phil Collins and Jaime Farr have been thus honored, we don't think it's particularly outrageous to ask NBC/Universal to pony up the cash to sponsor a star for one of the men who made the studio what it is today, and while we generally doubt the efficacy of online petitions, we fully support the sponsorship of this one. (Oh, and before you ask -- nope, there's no relation.)

Benicio del Toro is “The Wolfman”

Scott Von Doviak — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 21:15:00 GMT

Entertainment Weekly has your first look at Benicio del Toro in full makeup for his starring role as The Wolfman. We know what you’re thinking: Doesn’t del Toro already look like a wolfman? Why would he need any makeup? Just look at this still of Jack Nicholson in 1994’s Wolf; he looks like he just rolled out of bed and stumbled straight to the set. But apparently Rick Baker still needs to make a living, so despite the fact that he’s already been down this road with American Werewolf in London, the legendary makeup man is back at it. Hit the jump to see del Toro in all his furry glory.

Despite all the newfangled advances in special effects, Baker has put his werewolf together the old-fashioned way: “The part that covers his nose and his brow is what we call an appliance. It's made up of a foam, latex piece with tissue-thin edges that covers part of Benicio's face and blends into his own skin. Then we have a wig and dentures that change his teeth into the giant Wolfman teeth. Most of the hair on his face is what we call 'laid.' It's actually loose hair that we apply little bits at a time with glue to his face. It's very much the way the Wolfman was done in the [1941] original [starring Lon Chaney].”

The movie, directed by Jurassic Park III’s Joe Johnston, is due next year. Check out more pictures and the rest of the Baker interview here.

Ben Chapman, 1928--2008

Phil Nugent — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 16:00:00 GMT

Ben Chapman has died, at the age of 79. The name probably means nothing to you, unless you were a member of his family or keep all your back issues of Famous Monsters of Filmland carefully sealed in protective Mylar bags. But for some of us, it's like hearing that the Blob died. Chapman played the title role in The Creature from the Black Lagoon back in 1954; more accurately, he played half the role, the half that took place above water. (The rest of the part was played, or rather swum, by Ricou Browning, who would later direct the underwater action sequences in the James Bond movie Thunderball and other aquatic potboilers.) The movie, which was directed by Jack Arnold (The Incredible Shrinking Man, The Mouse That Roared) and originally issued in 3-D, dealt with a team of scientists who are exploring what is supposed to be the Amazon and who encounter the titular creature, who mistakenly thinks that the heroine, played by Julia Adams, has been lured to his lagoon after seeing his picture at Match.com. It is sometimes called a classic, which is stretching things, but there's no question that a generation that was beginning to discover the classic Universal horror movie monsters on television and that was eager to have ghouls that it could call it own really took the frog-faced boy to their bosom. With his rubber-eggplant head and fixed expression, which gave it a passing resemblance to Lon Chaney, Sr.'s Phantom of the Opera, but with gills, he was an instant camp icon, one of the most endearingly pitiful monsters of his day.

Mr. Chapman, who was awarded the role on the basis of his strapping six- foot, five-inch frame, was a contract player at Universal at the time. Both he and Mr. Browning were uncredited in the film, and its box-office success doesn't seem to have opened any doors for him. He didn't even reprise the role in the sequels that followed. Instead, after playing the Creature, Chapman had bite-sized roles in two 1955 productions, Jungle Moon Men (with Johnny Weissmuller) and Ma and Pa Kettle at Waikiki (with Ma and Pa Kettle) before retiring from movies after his option with the studio expired. But he remained appreciative to fans who helped him secure his place in pop culture history; he maintained a website, The Reel Gillman, and was a much-loved fixture on the autograph/convention circuit. A longtime resident of Hawaii, Chapman left instructions that his ashes be scattered along the waters of Waikiki Beach.