The Screengrab : peter boyle

That Guy! Special "The Friends of Eddie Coyle" Edition

Phil Nugent — Tue, 19 May 2009 17:30:00 GMT

What is special about today, hardcore fans of '70s cinema? It is that today marks the long-awaited DVD release of The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973), as part of the illustrious Criterion Collection. Directed by Peter Yates (Bullitt, The Hot Rock, Breaking Away), who supplies audio commentary on the disc, Coyle was faithfully adapted from the 1972 debut novel by George V. Higgins, a journalist and lawyer who was working as a United States Attorney in Boston when the book was published. Higgins was a master of dialogue, and Paul Monash, who did the screenplay, had the good sense to transfer most of it to the movie unaltered. It was picked up by the cast members, who ran with it. It's the inhabitants of this grungy, lived-in Boston Irish milieu--the movie looks as if it were shot while the city was enduring a shampoo embargo-- and the firecrackers that they set off whenever they open their mouths, who make Coyle a cult classic.

Robert Mitchum still had a few more leading roles in him after this one, but never again would he would so fully remain both a movie star and an actor living in this moment as he did here, morose but game, sunk deep in the character of Eddie Coyle, a small-time gangster facing the prospect of heavy time he's too old to do, summed up by the cop who wants to turn him into a stoolie as a career runt "about this high up in the bunch" but who knows everybody and everything. Mitchum had been offered the role of the bartender-hit man Dillon but decided he would prefer to die a loser's death after delivering a drunken tribute to the glittering future of Bobby Orr. Peter Boyle wound up playing Dillon instead; he and Mitchum wound up surrounded by a rogue's gallery of the strongest character types of their time, including Alex Rocco, who some of you will remember from our "That Guy!" tribute to the cast of The Godfather. Let no one say that just because the Eddie Coyle mob will always live in the shadow of the Corleones is no reason they shouldn't be paid tribute of their own:

RICHARD JORDAN: As Dave Foley, the puppy-eyed, honey-tongued, utterly unempathic detective who wants Coyle to "turn permanent snitch", Jordan walks off with the movie if anybody does. The fascinating disconnect between the show of thoughtful sensitivity in his face and his brutal indifference to what happens to people after he's used them holds the viewer's attention like a vise. Born in New York in 1937, to the daughter of Judge Learned Hand, Jordan graduated from Harvard in 1958 and spent the 1960s working in New York theater, on Broadway and with Joe Papp's Public Theatre. He made his movie debut in 1971 with the Western Lawman. He also appeared in the 1972 filmed play The Trial of the Catonsville Nine and the Canadian film Kamouraska, directed by Claude Jutra and co-starring Genevieve Bujold, before landing the role of Foley. Two years later, he re-teamed with Mitchum when he played the older actor's sidekick in the Sydney Pollack action film The Yakuza

Jordan's film career turned out to be erratic; he never became a star, and he gave some of his least distinguished performances when he was cast as a leading man in cardboard roles, such as in the 1976 TV miniseries Captains and the Kings and the 1978 TV version of Les Miserables, and the infamous 1980 Lou Grade production Raise the Titanic! He did better when allowed to break out the ham in such flashy supporting roles as his serial killer in the 1985 The Mean Season. He died of a heart attack in 1993, just a month before his 55th birthday, and months before the release of his final film, the Civil War restaging Gettysburg.

STEVEN KEATS: A Vietnam vet and son of the Bronx, Keats made his movie debut as Jackie Brown, the shifty young up-and-comer who has figured out that illegal guns sales are a growth industry. With his jagged-looking front teeth and eyes that take in the scene like a laser scan, he's like a bird of prey who's so intent on checking out the potential targets in front of him that he never notices the bigger bird that's above him with its claws extended. Keats later played Charles Bronson's son-in-law in Death Wish (1974), an immigrant to turn-of-the-century New York in Hester Street (1975), and Robert Shaw's sidekick in Black Sunday (1977), before turning mostly to TV for the balance of his career. He appeared in Kojack, The Rockford Files, The A-Team, Moonlighting, Hill Street Blues, Miami Vice, Law & Order, and, well, basically everything else; he also played a fictionalized version of the packager Lawrence Schiller in the 1982 TV film version of The Executioner's Song. He died in 1994.

JOE SANTOS: Slight-looking and toothy, with a Brooklyn-bred nasal lilt to his speech, Santos became a familiar figure in early '70s crime movies (The Panic in Needle Park, The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight, Shamus, The Don Is Dead, Shaft's Big Score), where his mere presence seemed to confer a dash of authenticity to the least convincing low-life atmosphere. His career breakthrough came when he was cast as Dennis Becker, James Garner's irritable buddy on the force, on The Rockford Files. He had played many a goon before that; he would play many a cop afterwards. The most memorable of many roles since then saw him backslide into criminality, notably his guest arcs on Hill Street Blues, as a perp who confused the undercover Belker (Bruce Weitz) by asking him if he'd ever kissed a man before, and more recently on The Sopranos.

JACK KEHOE: Kehoe has one brief scene here, sitting in a car and waiting for Steven Keats to arrive and denounce him for his unprofessional attitude. Though it was only his second movie appearance--his first was in The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight--he had already found his niche. Kehoe has two basic looks--clean-shaven on his usual days, and with a mustache when his character is putting on airs and trying to pass for respectable. In movie after movie--The Sting, Car Wash, Melvin and Howard, The Pope of Greenwich Village, The Untouchables--he's masterful as the guy who barely wants to make a strong enough impression that anyone will notice he's in the movie, but who, finally flushed out into the open, stoically sets his jaw and waits for the no good that he knows will come of having his existence recognized. He has a little more fun than usual in the 1988 remake of D.O.A., where he and Brion James, playing a couple of mouthy police detectives, perform the kind of duet that only a couple of first-rate character actors of wildly contrasting types can make of a pile of exposition. Though he hasn't appeared on screen in more than ten years, he is said to still be out there somewhere, as he always should be.

Howard Zieff, 1927 - 2009

Phil Nugent — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 15:30:00 GMT

The director Howard Zieff died this past weekend of complications of Parkinson's disease, at the age of 81. Odds are that the name doesn't mean as much to you as it might. Zieff made his best pictures in the 1970s, but his name simply wasn't one of those that people associated with the glories of that movie era. And he had a special problem, so far as his lingering reputation goes, in that his biggest hits tended to be less distinctive than some of his flops, so that to the degree that he had an image as a director, it may have been as something of a hack. But Zieff, like Michael Ritchie (Smile) and the screenwriter W. D. Richter (who wrote Zieff's first movie, the 1973 Slither), other eccentric talents who left their mark on that period without winning much acclaim for it, he was a smart, funny entertainer with his own peculiar comic sense and a feel for everyday American insanity. He first made his presence felt in the culture with his work in advertising, both as a director of TV commercials and his work in print ads. Zieff was one of the first directors to develop a name for himself as a promising talent based on his ad work: in 1967, when he was 40 years old and still half a dozen years away from his first movie job, he was the subject of a profile in Time magazine, which noted that he had made 200 commercials in six years and called him "the leading practitioner of what the trade calls the indirect sell." (Translation: his ads inspired public affection for the products they touted not because they made such a great case for the products themselves but because the ads were so entertaining.) More recently, Zieff's ad photography was the subject of a 2002 show at a West Coast gallery. Talking about his penchant for using faces, some of which were attached to people he'd spotted on the streets of New York, that were different than the usual blond hair/Colegate smile models that dominated advertising in the Mad Men era, Zieff said of his models, "They all had great faces, interesting faces, expressive faces." When he became a movie director, this lust for great faces--faces that could inspire both laughter and warmth--manifested itself as a love for character actors that sometimes gives his best work an almost Preston Sturges quality. He was devoted to the late Richard B. Schull, a character man with a strangled-sounding yet mellow whine of a voice and a friendly, baggy kisser, who helped get Slither off to a sweet start, celebrating his liberation from prison by singing "Happy Days Are Here Again."

Slither--the recent horror comedy of the same title is not a remake--was a very Watergate-year kind of comedy, a paranoid road movie about a paroled robber and former high school football hero (James Caan) who is wandering around the country trying to find some loot that the Schull character has tried to direct him towards. The key the the movie's charm may be that Caan--who came to the picture after playing Sonny Corleone in The Godfather, and who gives the performance of someone who's rather enjoying the novelty of finally getting to play the sanest and least assertive person in a movie--seems to just be along for the ride, carrying out this quest because he has absolutely nothing better to do. The cast also includes Peter Boyle and Louise Lasser, who play a married couple and come across as unexpectedly, almost supernaturally right for each other, and Sally Kellerman as an oddly fetching trigger-happy speed freak. The movie's paranoid vibe is established through such devices as a massive black van--it looks like Darth Vader's weekend getaway vehicle-- that follows the heroes everywhere at the pace of a sinister gold cart, accompanied by its own theme song. Yet it has a genuine grunginess to it, a faint scent of summer days spent in cars and motels in the middle of nowhere. (It's the only movie I've ever seen where a character who is involved in violent chicanery gets stopped by a cop and threatened with a citation for driving while barefoot.) The combination of everyday frustrations and baroque dark fantasy (which, in the end, turns out to have some very ordinary roots) makes Slither a very funny excursion into screwball-surreal Americana.

Zieff's second picture, 1975's Hearts of the West, has a more raggedy script (by Rob Thompson) but a richly felt milieu--it's set in Hollywood in the early 1930s, which looks like a factory set-up on Dress Like a Cowboy Day--and a great deal of charm. It stars Jeff Bridges, all of 25 and as convincingly ingenuous as a freshly hatched chick, as Lewis Tater, who goes West in hopes of becoming a Western dime novelist and gets roped into a job acting in cowboy pictures. Besides Bridges, Hearts features especially fine work by Blythe Danner as a script girl named Trout, Alan Arkin as a touchy director, and Andy Griffith as a veteran cowboy type with a handsome, rugged exterior. (He looks exactly like the guy who Central Casting would have sent to play his part, which in a Zieff project is the surest sign that you shouldn't trust him any farther than you could throw him.) The movie also features a collection of Western stuntmen, played by such modern-cowpoke types as Matt Clark and Burton Gilliam, and when Zieff had an excuse to spend time with actors like these playing characters like these, his work had the happy hum of a man being paid for being totally in his element, as much as Michael Bay on a day when all he has to do is blow something up. Neither of these pictures is currently available on DVD, which is something that I, for one, would really like to hear President Obama address in his speech before Congress tonight.

Zieff finally had a couple of hits: the 1978 House Calls, which starred Walter Matthau and Glenda Jackson and which was later made into a TV sitcom even though the movie was sort of one already, and the 1980 Goldie Hawn vehicle Private Benjamin, a film that I like to think he made just because, as an old man, he could picture what a terrific poster it would make: Goldie, in her Gomer Pyle drag, pouting. In 1984 he helmed a remake of Preston Sturges's great Unfaithfully Yours, with Dudley Moore in the role originated by Rex Harrison. I have no evidence to support this theory, but nonetheless, I'm pretty sure that he only agreed to do it after studio goons kidnapped his grandchildren. The movie is bad, but not really that bad considering that the whole idea behind it is blasphemous, and does boast a performance by Albert Brooks that true devotees of comic genius will want to savor with one finger on the fast=forward button. Zieff's last films were the 1991 My Girl and its sequel, the 1994 My Girl 2, after which he was forced to retire in the face of the onset of Parkinson's. My own favorite of his later films is 1989's The Dream Team, which is formulaic but likable, and which reunited the director with Peter Boyle, to great effect: he plays an institutionalized dude who thinks he's Jesus, and he would get no argument from me. The movie also boasts excellent performances by Michael Keaton, Lorraine Bracco, and Christopher Lloyd, and also has a few bits, such as a scene in an army-surplus clothing store run by a hard-to-faze dude played by Jack Duffy, that showed that, when he could fit it in, Zieff's genius for faces was still firing on all cylinders.

Screengrab Pub Crawl: The Top 15 Bars of Cinema (Part Three)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 29 May 2008 21:00:00 GMT

“PETER BOYLE’S BAR,” THE FRIENDS OF EDDIE COYLE (1973)

Peter Boyle's Boston Irish bar in The Friends of Eddie Coyle is a low-key, specialized place, a dimly lit oasis where the community's down-and-out, aging petty criminals, such as Eddie Coyle (Robert Mitchum), can seek refuge, wet their whistles, and bitch and moan a little about the cruel hand dealt to them by the fates. Mind you, we don't mean to imply anything by referring to it as "Peter Boyle's bar." Boyle, who definitely works there managing the counter, does slip once in conversation with the federal agent (Richard Jordan) he deals information to and calls it his bar, and Jordan has to correct him: "You mean you work for a man who has a liquor license, right? You're a convicted felon." "Like I said," replies Boyle without missing a beat, "I work for a man who has a liquor license. I forget sometimes." Boyle must have some wicked student loans to pay off, because even with the gig at the bar and whatever he gets from Jordan, he still has to hold down a second job as a hit man. When Boyle sells out Alex Rocco and his crew of bank robbers to Jordan and the big boys think that Mitchum might have been the rat, Boyle ties everything up neat as a pin by agreeing to whack Mitchum for his treachery, and even makes sure the job will be easy to perform by plying Mitchum with free booze until he's practically ready to be poured into his coffin. Somehow we feel certain that the man who has the liquor license will understand.

And what goes together better than booze and violence, you may ask? Why, milk and ultra-violence, as we jet overseas for a little in-out, in-out with the gang at the...

KOROVA MILK BAR, A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971)

It's no accident that Stanley Kubrick's still-controversial odyssey into a violent near-future begins in its most stylized locale. We know we've entered a strange new world from the moment Kubrick's camera pulls back from Alex the droog's demonic stare to reveal the Korova milk bar. It's a quintessentially Kubrickian venue: symmetrical, heavenly lit and made up of a few bold strokes of décor. There's the lettering on the walls, words unknown to us until our humble narrator explains that "moloko plus vellocet or synthamesc or drencrom" means milk spiked with drugs, the drink of choice at the Korova, served straight from the nipple spigots of ceramic nudies. (Talk about objectifying the female form – the tables in the place are also made up of these gleaming white statuettes.) The ambient music tends toward droning synths, but during the breaks you may hear a snatch of Beethoven, as if some great bird has flown into the bar. It's a setting so iconic it has served as the model for several real-life cocktail lounges, including this one in White Plains, New York. It's sure to be a stop on the Screengrab staff's next cross-country pub crawl.

But, in the meantime, we’ll continue our cinematic bar golf with some tasty blue goo at the wretched hive of scum and villainy that got us all hooked in the first place...

THE MOS EISLEY CANTINA, STAR WARS (1977)

We ask you, what else is there to say about the Star Wars cantina sequence? So much ink has already been spilled over its daring expose of discriminatory serving practices towards droids, the startling revelation that Werner Herzog has a death sentence in twelve system, humorous and amusing observations on the many similarities between the bar's clientele and one's graduating class or family reunion, Luke Skywalker's hands-on method of getting the bartender's attention (we'd love to see him try that sometime at Coyote Ugly) and the unnerving news that things have gotten so bad that Satan has nothing to do all afternoon but hang out at a corner table, softly chuckling to himself. Suffice to say this scene was experienced by enough people not yet old enough to drink that it may have had a strong impact on a generation's expectations of what a night out would be like, and that it turned out to be a lot closer to reality for some of us than for others.

RICK'S CAFÉ AMÉRICAIN, CASABLANCA (1942)

And finally, what cinematic pub crawl would be complete without (arguably) the most famous movie bar of them all? After a long night of drinking, there’s no better place to unwind: no garish colors to contend with, indoor smoking(!), and if you’re lucky, Rick himself may keep the place open late, sharing a bottle and stories of the good ol’ days in Paris. There’s no loud rock and roll on the jukebox, just Sam on piano, a talented jazz band and occasional national anthem sing-offs between visiting groups of tourists. The dress code is casual but stylish, and you can even get a bite to eat or some coffee if you need a little something to settle your stomach. Just remember to keep your passport handy, be sure you tip the waitstaff (and the local constabulary), pay attention to the local curfews, don’t drive drunk and use protection if you begin any beautiful friendships before last call...

...speaking of which, that pretty much wraps it up for The First Annual Screengrab Pub Crawl, so gather up your jackets and move it to the exits, ‘cuz you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here (although you’re more than welcome to go back and enjoy Part One of this list!

Here’s lookin’ at you, kids.

Contributors: Phil Nugent, Scott Von Doviak, Andrew Osborne

Take Five: Crime and Pyunishment

Leonard Pierce — Fri, 23 May 2008 21:00:00 GMT

Okay, so there's a new Uwe Boll movie coming out. Big deal, says we. Sure, we're curious about how the Teutonic uber-hack managed to get Dave Foley to star in his new film (Postal, opening in limited release today). And sure, we're even more curious about how he got Dave Foley to do a nude scene. And yes, we must admit that there is something oddly compelling about a filmmaker so universally reviled that a chewing gum manufacturer has helped sponsor a petition to get him to stop directing movies, and who is himself so adamant that he is a cinematical genius that he has challenged his critics to meet him in the boxing ring. But however rotten this German-come-lately may be -- and he's plenty rotten -- for us here at the Screengrab, there is only one true heir to the crappy moviemaking throne vacated by Ed Wood, and that man's name is Albert Pyun. The Hack From Hawaii -- who directed his first film in 1982, only four years after Ed Wood's death -- has been responsible for over forty films and direct-to-video releases, at least one of which has already turned up on movie janitor Scott Von Doviak's "Unwatchable" list. Both in his ridiculously prolific output and his utter lack of talent and shame, Albert Pyun leaves Uwe Boll in the dust. So instead of trying to find a theater willing to screen Postal this weekend, why not settle down for a film festival with our man Big Al? To help you in this terrifying endeavor, we've assembled a list of five of Pyun's best works -- and we use the word "best" in the loosest possible application to which the word has ever been put.

THE SWORD AND THE SORCERER (1982)

Albert Pyun's first screen credit -- as both director and writer -- is a real doozy that sets the tone for his innumerable too-cheap-to-be-camp movies to come. A standard-issue steel-and-spells epic ripped straight out of Albert's Friday night dorm room Dungeons & Dragons games, The Sword and the Sorcerer cost about nine dollars to make, with a script too dull for TV and special effects that would have seemed hokey in 1972. The real treat here is the cavalcade of has-beens populating the cast: there's well-past-his-prime teen idol George Maharis, his suntan decaying before our very eyes; future Murphy Brown fixture Joe Regalbuto; hulking, self-serious Night Court golem Richard Moll; coked-out Nina Van Pallandt, a million miles from The Long Goodbye; unreconstructed manimal Simon McCorkindale; and, in the lead, none other than Matt Houston star Lee Horsley! Sadly, this collection of fourth-stringers would be the hottest cast Pyun would ever work with. It would be all downhill from here.

CAPTAIN AMERICA (1990)

Oh, sure, everyone wants to see superhero movies now. But we can remember a time when the mere whiff of a mask or cowl was the kiss of death at the box office, largely because of grade-Z capesploitation movies like this. Never before have the adventures of America's living legend, super-soldier Steve Rogers, seemed so completely perfunctory; even Matt Salinger, whose career wouldn't exactly reach to the stratosphere after this dud, doesn't seem to be any happier about being Captain America than we are about having to watch him be Captain America. Still, he's at least better than nonentity Scott Paulin, hamming it up beyond belief as the supervillainous Nazi the Red Skull, while industry vets like Ronny Cox and Darren McGavin stand around sheepishly trying not to look embarrassed. Captain America rides his tricked-out motorbike around a lot, says "shucks" and "gee whiz", and the audience hits pause on the remote control to see if there are any uppers left in the medicine cabinet to get them through the longest 97 minutes of their lives.

KICKBOXER 2: THE ROAD BACK (1991)

Our own movie janitor Scott Von Doviak has already been forced to contend with one of Albert Pyun's cinematic abortions in the form of Kickboxer 4: The Aggressor. But not only is that not one of Albert Pyun's worst movies, it's arguably not even Albert Pyun's worst movie with the word "kickboxer" in the title. That dubious honor may just belong to Kickboxer 2: The Road Back, featuring hand-carved dingaling Sasha Mitchell as a man hoping to follow in his brother's footsteps in the highly lucrative career of kicking people in the face. Featuring some of the worst dialogue in the history of kickboxing films, Kickboxer 2 manages the astonishing trick of not only featuring both Peter Boyle and Brian Austin Green, but making you feel sorry for both of them. It's an agonizing wait between kickboxing scenes, but the bits of plot and dialogue are so abysmal you'll begin praying for another kickfight to break out. The movie's tagline was "Put up, shut up, or die!", but sadly, Pyun did none of those things.

BRAIN SMASHER...A LOVE STORY (1994)

By the time this movie rolled around, Albert Pyun had truly found his metier: cheap, exploitative direct-to-video releases timed to take the slightest possible advantage of the flavor of the moment. Or, in this case, the flavor of many, many moments ago. It's a testament to Pyun's impenetrable thickness as an auteur that he decided the moment was right to write and direct an action movie built around the antics of faux-goombah Andrew Dice Clay some three years after the Dice-Man's star had already begun quite seriously to wane. Plodding along in a nebulous phantom zone between sincerity and irony, this half-joking action flick was clearly made by someone who understood neither sincerity nor irony, and the result is an enervating mess that isn't even gleefully offensive, the one quality Dice Clay's standup had going for it; it's just dull. Still, you have to give it up: as much as you might hate this movie -- and you'll hate it, a lot -- you gotta love that title.

URBAN MENACE (1999)

The staggeringly bad Urban Menace was not the first abysmal hip-hop action/horror flick that Albert Pyun would make. It was also not the last. But it was, without question, the absolute worst. The closest thing in Pyun's bloated catalog, in both technique and spirit, to the godawful films of Ed Wood, Urban Menace stars Snoop Doggy Dogg's highly unconvincing stunt double in a movie that knows how bad it sucks and simply doesn't give a shit. The majority of its running time features the stars running around aimlessly in an abandonded warehouse; the script probably took less time to write than the movie takes to watch; and the best thing you can say about the acting is that, in the case of rapper Fat Joe, at least his lines are delivered with such mush-mouthed incompetence that it spares you from having to hear any more of the terrible dialogue. (The film, amazingly, claims four different scriptwriters. Which one of the four will own up to "We got a whole army of motherfuckers and we can still get punished by this skinny guy psycho?")

That Guy! Classic: Peter Boyle

Leonard Pierce — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 20:30:00 GMT

In all of our occasional looks back at great character actors of the past, we've never written about anyone as universally beloved as Peter Boyle. The husky Irish-American with the wry smile worked, during his forty-year career, in everything from quiet, thoughtful little independent films to blockbuster sitcoms, but despite a number of controversial positions in his private life and the friendship of some of the entertainment industry's most despised liberals (he was a close friend to both John Lennon and Jane Fonda), the American public always took him to heart, and it's impossible to find anyone he worked with that doesn't remember him fondly after his death in 2006.

Originally intending to enter the priesthood, Boyle was bitten by the acting bug early on (his father hosted a children's show in his native Pennsylvania) and after a few minor roles on film and television, hit it big with his lead performance in 1970's Joe. Although he did a tremendous job as a racist factory worker and the breakthrough role opened doors for him, Boyle was deeply shaken by the role: attending his first screening of the film, he was disturbed to hear people cheering the character's reactionary lines, and was extremely selective about choosing his parts from then on. In fact, it's ironic that some of Boyle's most memorable roles have been those of violent, brutal men; the actor himself was, by all accounts, an extremely gentle man, a liberal, and a lifelong pacifist who opposed the war in Vietnam, championed civil rights, and worried constantly about the impact of his performances as brutes, thugs and killers. But his career was also peppered with some extremely adept comic performances, and his greatest success came as a cast member of the highly successful situation comedy Everybody Loves Raymond. He also did some top-flight work in other television dramas, including a swell turn as Fatso Judson in the TV movie adaptation of From Here to Eternity and a lead role in the short-lived but extremely well-made cop show Joe Bash. But it was on the big screen that he had the greatest impact; his odd features and quirky approach ensured that he'd never be a leading man, but he absolutely barnstormed every character role he was given. Although we'll list our favorites below, everyone remembers Boyle fondly from a different performance, and he's sure to go down in history as not just one of the best, but one of the best-loved, character actors in Hollywood.

Where to see Peter Boyle at his best:

YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN (1974)

After a half a decade of playing moody dramatic roles, Boyle shocked and charmed movie audiences when he turned up as the monster in Mel Brooks' brilliant homage/parody of the classic Univeral horror franchise. Showing an aptitude for comedy that would sustain him for the rest of his career, Boyle managed to bring down the house in every scene he was in, often without saying a word; his clumsy, bellowing song-and-dance with Gene Wilder is a paralyzingly funny classic, and the scene he shares with Gene Hackman proves that while the silent era is long dead, the best comic actors can still kill an audience with nothing more than an exasperated look.

TAXI DRIVER (1976)

Amazingly, the very next film that Boyle made after wrapping Young Frankenstein was Martin Scorsese's devastating Taxi Driver, a movie as emotionally intense and dark as Brooks' film was light and breezy. Boyle took on the role of Wizard, the pontificating, droning hack guru who passes for a font of wisdom amongst the cab drivers of New York. It's an important role, especially insofar as it helps establish Travis Bickle's inability to relate to anyone, even the friendly (though completely full of shit) Wizard. Boyle handles it deftly, getting some comic mileage out of Wizard's stories but also giving him the gravitas to act as a sounding board for Robert De Niro's deep alienation.

MONSTER'S BALL (2001)

Just as Boyle's first major success as an actor came from playing a misguided racist in Joe, his last major role on the screen came from playing the unreconstructed bigot of a father to Billy Bob Thornton in Monster's Ball. The lead performances of Thornton and Halle Berry got all the attention, but Boyle was just as riveting as Buck Grotowski, the unapologetically racist father of Thornton's prison guard and the patriarch of his highly dysfunctional family. It's also yet another irony in Peter Boyle's career: though Boyle was a crusader for civil rights, two of his most memorable and powerful roles are as virulently prejudiced men.

Forgotten Films: "Bulletproof Heart" (1994)

Phil Nugent — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 18:00:00 GMT

The doomy, passion-drenched noir Bulletproof Heart (directed by Mark Malone, written by Gordon Melbourne) is the perfect movie for a Valentine's Day hangover. This small-scale but intense movie is set mostly during a single night; it begins with Mick, a top-professional hit man (Anthony LaPaglia), recuperating from his latest successful mission, a job cleaning up the mess left by some wanker, and sneering at the pretty hooker who his contact (Peter Boyle) has routinely sent over as part of their regular arrangement, as if she were a mint on his pillow. Whether he's burned out his soul through too much killing or is just so good at killing because he has no soul, Mick makes a big show of not caring about anything — too big a show to convince you that he's as deep or wounded as he seems to think. (Me thinks the scumbag doth protest too much.) In any case, he's about to reconnect to the world in a big way, at the cost of finding out how much feeling anything can hurt, because he's about to meet Fiona (Mimi Rogers). She's beautiful, sexy, and suffering. She can't walk around the block without causing some poor guy to fall in love with her. She's given up on the world to a degree that Mick can hardly imagine. She is, inevitably, Mick's next target.

Bulletproof Heart (sometimes known under the generic alternate title Killer) was released at the same time as a lot of other indie films with killer protagonists and gangland milieus and was promptly buried, lost in the shuffle. But give or take a little movie-geek affectation, it couldn't be less like the Tarantino knockoffs that, in the mid-'90s, seemed to coat video-rental shelves in a layer of second-hand crud. Proudly gaudy in its emotional impact, it has a grown-up erotic texture that comes from the interaction of characters whose lives have grown stale and who are surprised to find that, with the right person, they can get strike youthful romantic sparks. (It turns out that the killer is the more innocent of the two; he can't believe that what he feels for Fiona doesn't mean anything, or at least, that love isn't enough to save her life.) Like James Tolkin's The Rapture, the movie stands as a tribute to the star powers of Mimi Rogers, an amazingly charismatic actress who has spent too much time brightening up whatever's on Cinemax at two in the morning. And LaPaglia comes through with an touching mixture of confusion and ardor, especially in the very last scene, which you get as a reward for sitting through the final credits. It'll break your heart so it stays that way.

Take Five: Smut

Peter Smith — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 21:00:00 GMT

The Amateurs opens in limited release this Friday. We have absolutely no intention whatsoever of seeing it, because there is the possibility, however remote, that it will contain a nude scene featuring Joe Pantoliano. But it does give us a chance to talk about pornography. Not actual pornography, mind you — as open-minded as this site is, we're pretty sure the bosses aren't going to let us post stills of our favorite scenes from the oeuvre of the Dark Brothers. No, what we're talking about here is movies about pornography. There's been smut on film since there was film, but while Hollywood has always been officially disdainful of its little brother in the Valley, it's also been a bit fascinated as well. Recently, European filmmakers have actually included real sex in their movies and made it work as part of a respectable narrative, but in the U.S., the NC-17 rating is still the kiss of death and violence will likely always be more palatable to the censors than sex. But even in those arty Euro-flicks, the sex is in service of the story and not the other way around; will a genuine porn movie ever be made with a great script, top-notch direction and production, and big Hollywood stars? Probably not. But there will still be movies about pornography; here are five of the best.

BLUE MOVIE (1970)

Okay, technically, this isn't a real movie. It is, instead, a novel about the making of a movie. The novel is by Terry Southern, and the movie (Faces of Love) is one that Southern and his good friend, the director Stanley Kubrick, had sometimes talked of making together. It would be a big-budget Hollywood picture, with as many of the big stars of the day as they could afford and a multi-million-dollar budget — and it would contain hardcore pornography. Kubrick knew the movie could never be made in his lifetime and never pursued it, but the subversive Southern couldn't let go of the idea and fictionalized the making of the film in a hilariously filthy novel. Now, thirty-seven years later, Southern and Kubrick are both dead — and their movie has still never been made.

HARDCORE (1979)

Paul Schrader's sometimes hokey and sometimes harrowing follow-up to Blue Collar dealt with every father's recurring nightmare: seeing his missing daughter in a porno flick. Inspired partly by Schrader's own obsession with pornography (which he referenced in Taxi Driver as well), the film doesn't always manage to carry off its mix of religious fury and sleazy L.A. grit, and its central conceit (the father goes undercover as a porn producer to find his daughter) is pretty flimsy, but Hardcore is carried on the strength of a furious, consuming lead performance by George C. Scott and some terrific cameo roles by Peter Boyle, Hal Williams and Dick "Darrin" Sargent.

BODY DOUBLE (1984)

Somehow, Alfred Hitchcock never got around to making a movie set in the rented houses and storefront offices of the San Fernando Valley pornography industry. So Brian De Palma did it for him. Best described as an bizarre combination of Vertigo and Rear Window with smut and power drills thrown in for an extra bit of a kick, Body Double is, like many of De Palma's Hitchcock-homage films, a movie that's a lot smarter and better than it appears on the surface, and it rewards multiple viewings. It also features one of the filthiest — and funniest — line readings ever from a big Hollywood star: Melanie Griffith, as porn star Holly Body, explaining painstakingly to Craig Wasson's hapless character exactly what she will and will not do.

BOOGIE NIGHTS (1997)

Like most of his films, Paul Thomas Anderson's porn-industry epic Boogie Nights has its problems. It's sprawling in the worst way, its script badly needed a ruthless application of the blue pencil, and Anderson often mistakes putting people through the wringer for character development. But it's not for nothing that he's considered a major American director, and even leaving aside the tremendous cast he assembled here, he achieves many moments of genuine emotional power and perfectly captures a certain southern California milieu from the late 1970s and early 1980s.

WONDERLAND (2003)

The story of Johnny "Wadd" Holmes — one of the biggest stars in the history of porn, as well as one of its most pathetic figures — is a fascinating one, combining as it does so many juicy elements. Money, sex, death, degradation, disease and murder all played a part in Holmes' life, and every element came together in the notorious Wonderland Murders. The story of the murders was told in an abstracted way in Boogie Nights and literally in the little-seen documentary Wadd: The Life & Time of John C. Holmes, but they receive a much more direct screen treatment in Wonderland. While Val Kilmer turns in a surprisingly strong performance as Holmes, but the movie itself it chaotic, confused and shambolic — but then, as the life story of Johnny Wadd, how could it be anything but?

— Leonard Pierce

The Rep Report (November 16 - December 2)

Peter Smith — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 19:00:00 GMT

NEW YORK: Early in his foreshortened career as a film director, Albert Lamorisse made two of the most enduringly beautiful "children's movies" in the pantheon: the 1956 Oscar-winning, thirty-two-minute The Red Balloon, co-starring the title character and the director's six-year-old son Pascal, and the 1952, forty-minute White Mane. Film Forum is showing both as a single program for ten days from November 16-25. Lamorisse, who was born in Paris in 1922 and who was killed in a 1970 helicopter crash while shooting footage for a documentary, had developed a fine eye working as a photographer before making his first moving pictures. (He is fondly remembered in another department of geekdom as the creator of the board game "La Conquette Du Monde", which Parker Brothers would eventually market in the United States under the name "Risk".) His eye for beauty and fanciful poetic imagination proved to be perfectly scaled to these short works, which in their bittersweet way are basically perfect. Seen back-to-back, they're almost as ideal a start to the holiday season as getting crushed to death by a stampede of customers when the mall doors open the day after Thanksgiving.

There may also be an eye-popping children-of-all-ages feel to some of the pictures stocked in the Museum of the Moving Image program, Glorious Technicolor! (November 17 - December 2). The schedule includes a restored print of the gob-smackingly great-looking outdoor melodrama Trail of the Lonesome Pine, as well as The Adventues of Robin Hood with Errol Flynn strutting his stuff in leafy-green tights and classic musicals as Singin' in the Rain, The Wizard of Oz, The Band Wagon, and one of Busby Berkeley's all-time "can you get me some of what the choreographer's been smoking?" eye-poppers, The Gang's All Here. Plus a little something called Gone with the Wind and, on December 2, that yuletide perennial Apocalypse Now Redux.

Before there was such a thing as "independent film", there was the mildly condescendingly named "regional-film movement," a system by which people who lacked the wherewithal or the desire to relocate to New York or Los Angeles made movies wherever they were whenever they could scrape the money together, tried to get them shown at festivals, sometimes succeeded, and then, as often as not, were never heard from again. The Texas-based writer-director Eagle Pennell had his moment right on the cusp of the new dawn of independent-film distribution. In fact, he's partly, if indirectly responsible for it, since it's been reported that it was Pennell's first feature, the 1978 The Whole Shootin' Match, that inspired Robert Redford to found the Sundance Film Festival, just to see if maybe there was anything else like that being made in the wide open spaces between the two coasts. Pennell's second feature, Last Night at the Alamo attracted even more attention in 1984, but by the time Sundance was turning "independent" directors into cult superstars on their way to being industry players, Pennell was yesterday's news, as well as an increasingly hopeless alcoholic on his way to being homeless. (He died in 2002, eight days before what would have been his fiftieth birthday.) From November 16-21, the Film Society of Lincoln Center is bringing back The Whole Shootin' Match in a restored print. It's a chance to pay tribute to a lost pioneer and also to see what the part of America that's outside Hollywood — specifically, the highly distinctive part that was Austin, Texas — looked like thirty years ago.

CHICAGO: From November 17 through December 4, the Gene Siskel Film Center pays tribute to the neo-Bresson stylings of Portuguese director Pedro Costa, an avant-garde narrative minimalist renowned for the painterly beauty of his compositional sense. The program begins with his early 1989 feature The Blood (O Sangue) and includes his recent, highly acclaimed Colossal Youth.

BOSTON: Now that Ben Affleck, of all people, seems to have gotten Boston better than half-right in the firmly rooted thriller Gone Baby Gone, it's as good a time as any to look back on how Hollywood has done by Beantown. Boston Filmed (November 16-22) at the Brattle devotes a week to such diverse on-location entertainments as the original The Thomas Crown Affair and Love Story, up to the more recent Mystic River and The Departed, as well as two indies from director Brad Anderson, the romantic comedy and ode-to-postponed-gratification Next Stop, Wonderland and the minimalist mind-fuck horror story Session 9. Buried deep in the mix, towards the middle of next week, are some obscure, modest, not-available-on-DVD gems: the 1977 Between the Lines, Joyce Micklin Silver's likable little comedy about the death of the counterculture as seen from the offices of an underground newspaper, and the 1973 crime drama The Friends of Eddie Coyle ,with a cast that includes Robert Mitchum, Peter Boyle, Richard Jordan, Alex Rocco and Steven Keats all having the time of their lives rolling George V. Higgins's dialogue around on their tongues.

SAN FRANCISCO: This weekend, the Castro proudly presents a bunch of movies I've never heard of as part of the Fifth Annual Third I Film Festival, promoting South Asian cinema "art-house classics to experimental visions to next-level Bollywood." I'm going to be honest here. With everything else that's going on in the world, even just the world of film, it's not going to be possible for even an authority so utterly devoid of a life as The Rep Report to be up on all of it until my cloning experiments bear fruit, and though I never made anything like a conscious decision about it, it seems that experimental South Asian movies and next-level Bollywood are my major field of personal ignorance. If you're in the San Francisco area and don't have a wedding to attend, I encourage you to sneer at my boring provincialism and check this program out.

— Phil Nugent