The Screengrab : philip baker hall

Thursday Poll for December 18, 2008

Paul Clark — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 15:00:00 GMT

Last week, to coincide with the release of Ron Howard’s big-screen take on Frost/Nixon, we asked you to choose your favorite big-screen version of our 37th President. According to you, the Trickiest Dick of all was the future Lt. Bookman and Jimmy Gator himself, Philip Baker Hall, in Robert Altman’s Secret Honor. Hall brought in 45% of the vote, all the more impressive when you consider that his competition was somewhat stiffer than Nixon’s was in 1972. Coming in second place was Anthony Hopkins in Oliver Stone’s Nixon, followed by the ever-popular “Other” (although readers neglected to specify precisely which Other they meant) and Frank Langella in Frost/Nixon, whose poor showing might be attributable to the fact that his film hasn’t yet been widely released. Sadly, Dan Hedaya’s comedic take on the disgraced Commander in Chief couldn’t manage a single vote, although for my part I would’ve ranked him second behind Hall.

This week, we look at the career of perennial Oscar favorite (and eternal Screengrab crush) Kate Winslet. With two new films on the verge of release, Winslet once again finds herself in the awards hunt for one or possibly even both of these performances. But before she can add yet another nomination to her already impressive five (at the age of 33, no less), let’s compare the relative merits of her already-nominated performances. Which is your favorite?

Which of Kate Winslet's nominated performances is your favorite? | BuzzDash polls

I predict this will be a landslide, although lord knows I’ve been wrong before. As always, the comments section is open. See you next week!

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

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 22:00:00 GMT

COUNSELLOR AT LAW (1933)

If you're curious to see what an A-list straight Broadway play looked like circa the 1930s, preserved faithfully but with enough cinematic flair that it's not quite as if they'd just propped a camera in front of the stage (which is what a lot of filmed stage plays from that era look like now), you could scarcely do better than William Wellman's film of Elmer Rice's top-class, socially conscious potboiler, from a script adapted by Rice himself. The cherry on top is John Barrymore, starring as the heroically high-strung lawyer, in a role that he never played on the stage, for the very good reason that it might have seemed the height of insanity to hire him to play a guy who'd fought his way up from a ghetto-born background; in the movie, this has the virtue of letting him show how thoroughly he could power a star vehicle from the starting gun to the finish line even when he seemed miscast, not that you were likely to be troubled by that while you were watching him.

THE BEGGAR'S OPERA (1953)

Peter Brook's movie of John Gay's satirical ballad opera (first peformed in 1728) is a high-spirited anomaly: a production of what ought to be a dead form that is powered by the director's delight at exploring the possibilities offered to him by a new medium. Laurence Olivier was cast as the dashing brigand Macheath and, after it had been confirmed that the sound of his voice, when raised in song, would not panic the horses or stop viewers' hearts, was permitted to do his own singing. Among its other distinctions, the movie would be Olivier's only musical, and the only evidence ever recorded on film that Peter Brook was once in a good mood.

HENRY V (1944)

When Kenneth Branagh's 1989 version opened, one New York critic referred to director-star Laurence Olivier's earlier version as "quaint." As if, as Elizabeth I once told the King of Spain. The play -- celebrating the English monarch's ability to rally his countrymen and fill them with the spirit needed to whup enemies who have them outnumbered and outarmored (or so it seems, until the shiny bastards discover that, once knocked down, they can't get up out of the mud) -- was a jingoistic work of propaganda, and Olivier's movie, unlike Branagh's "antiwar" edition, is a jingoistic propaganda movie, designed to give comfort and warmth to British audiences looking forward to seeing Hitler's head disconnected from his body. The wonder of the play is that it raises jingo propaganda to the level of art, and the wonder of the movie is that, from its candy-colored photography, Book of Days production design, and the star's triumphant, roaring performance, it does full justice to the text. It's a sophisticated, literate entertainment that makes you feel about twelve years old, in a good way.

KING LEAR (1971)

This final film by the Russian director Grigori Kozintsev (who died two years later, and whose 1964 Hamlet is nothing to sneeze at either) was released the same year as the film version of Peter Brook's freeze-dried Lear, which tried to make the material seem modern and relevant by flattening out its emotional peaks, and that approach could scarcely seem like more of a folly than when laid alongside this picture. It builds to an awesome concluding section of transcendent apocalyptic imagery; the battles and burning buildings and senseless carnage do full, horrifically beautiful justice to Shakespeare's conception of a world turned upside down. Kurosawa aimed to touch the hem of its garment with the most flamboyant imagery in his own take on Lear (the 1985 Ran)...and he came this close.

LONG DAY'S JOURNEY INTO NIGHT (1962)

One of the great things about filmed theater is that it may provide the opportunity to see a classic work performed by a dream cast that would be unlikely to gather for a theatrical run, and this may be the ultimate fulfillment of that possibility made good on: Ralph Richardson, Katharine Hepburn, Jason Robards, and Dean Stockwell making magic out of Eugene O'Neill's long, grinding, mesmerizing masterpiece of an American family play. Sidney Lumet, who made his name directing plays for TV (including the famous 1960 production of O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh starring Robards as Hickey), made this five years into his still-ongoing movie career, and he hasn't topped it yet.

SECRET HONOR (1984)

Working with a text that amounts to a monologue performed by one man -- Richard Nixon, played by Philip Baker Hall -- in one room, the director, Robert Altman, uses the handsomely designed set (which features banks of computer monitors) and Hall's sweating, cursing whirlwind of a performance to create such a stream of fireworks that the movie seems amazingly alive visually. As political mind trips go, it covers more ground with more smarts and to greater effect than any of Oliver Stone's presidential portraits, at half the length and God knows what fraction of the cost.

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

Contributor: Phil Nugent

Screengrab Review: "Frost/Nixon"

Scott Von Doviak — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 20:30:00 GMT

I’ve been spending the waning days of the George W. Bush era immersed in Nixonland. Rick Perlstein’s massive, compulsively readable tome makes a convincing case that Richard Nixon capitalized on the divisions in ‘60s America so successfully that he defined the political landscape for decades to come. I’m only halfway through the book – early 1969, to be specific – so please don’t ruin the ending for me. My guess is that Nixon is elected to three more terms and his face is carved on Mt. Rushmore.

But I kid. I’m actually aware that Mr. Nixon had something of an ignominious downfall, and that some years later he sat down to discuss the matter with British chat show host David Frost. I never would have guessed that the backstage finagling behind this momentous meeting would serve as the basis for a critically-acclaimed Broadway play, let alone a Ron Howard movie. Politics does indeed make strange bedfellows. But while I have my doubts that this is a story that needed to be told, Frost/Nixon tells it in such a brisk, engaging way, it’s easy to forgive a few notable missteps.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I’m convinced what has ended up on the screen here bears much resemblance to the actual behind-the-scenes intrigue of the Frost/Nixon interviews. The play by Peter Morgan (who has adapted it for the screen) is probably at least 50% speculative nonsense, but you could say the same for Robert Altman’s 1984 foray into Nixonia, Secret Honor, and that film would be no less riveting for it. Howard isn’t on Altman’s level (please, don’t stop the presses), but for the most part he stays out of the way and lets the two lead actors do their thing.

They’ve been doing that thing for a while now. Michael Sheen and Frank Langella originated the roles of Frost and Nixon on London’s West End, and Langella won a Tony for his presidential portrayal when the production moved to Broadway. As the movie opens, Frost is hosting an Australian variety show, having lost his high-profile gig on American television, and he’s itching to get back to the big time. He sees his opening when President Nixon resigns in disgrace in 1974. Working on his memoirs, the ex-Prez wants a big payday for his first exclusive TV interview, and the U.S. networks are unwilling to pony up.

Enter the unlikely Frost, a man best known for chit-chatting with lightweights. (The real Frost disputes this, insisting he had interviewed many political giants before landing the big fish.) He gets Nixon to agree to four 90-minute specials, the last of which will focus exclusively on Watergate, then sets about cobbling together a syndicated network and sponsorship agreements with the likes of Weed-Wacker in order to meet Nixon’s seven-figure price. Frost brings aboard a team of Nixon experts to help him sharpen the knives for the grand inquisition, but as filming gets underway it is Nixon who has the upper hand, gassing on at length about his accomplishments and leaving Frost gasping for air.

Can Frost pull it together in time to nail Nixon to the wall once and for all in the climactic Watergate interview? As I recall, the general reaction to the actual Nixon/Frost interview has always been…eh, not really. (The real thing is now out on DVD, although I haven’t had a chance to check it out yet.) Still, Howard and Morgan do a capable job of milking the drama out of this question, only occasionally overreaching, as in an imagined late-night drunken phone call from Nixon to Frost.

The supporting cast, including Oliver Platt, Sam Rockwell, Kevin Bacon and Toby Jones, is excellent, but I need to single out Rebecca Hall, mainly because I didn’t recognize her at all from Vicky Cristina Barcelona and so every time she appeared on screen I made a mental note to check IMDb as soon as I got home to find out where this wondrous being had been all my life. The ’70s style definitely works for her.

More importantly, Sheen and Langella expertly tango their way through the steps of this adversarial alliance between interviewer and subject. Sheen is equal parts showman and con man, revealing just enough vulnerability to earn our affections. Like Philip Baker Hall and to some extent Anthony Hopkins before him, Langella is a mythic, larger-than-life Nixon, but he leaves you with at least a smidgen of sympathy for the devil.

Related:
Screengrab Review: "W."
That Guy! Philip Baker Hall

Screengrab Salutes: The Top Biopics of All Time! (Part Five)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 23:00:00 GMT

BLAISE PASCAL (1972)

Part of Rossellini's massive trove of biopics done for Italian TV in the last part of his career (and considered the best by J. Hoberman), Blaise Pascal respects the form but not spirit of biopics. Rossellini dutifully covers the 17th-century philosopher's life from infancy to death. There's no hint of a personal life though: it's 130 straight minutes of argumentation and disputation, with Pascal's greatest philosophical hits recited — conversationally, but barely — almost non-stop. Tension comes from an ominous, decidedly anachronistic synth score, whose constant hum reminds the viewer that death is coming for Pascal, and it does. Like Zodiac (albeit at a much lower intensity), Blaise Pascal gains power from tunneling deep into work and pointedly ignoring the outside world. Rossellini only stops to observe the uninflected past in non-dramatic moments: a silent sequence of a nobleman waking up, soaking his feet in water and being dressed by his servants tells us more about 17th-century class behavior than any dialogue could. No stories of how Pascal fell in love with a girl or had problems with his parents; the man's legacy, the film makes it quite clear, is solely an intellectual one, and that's all anyone should care about. It's oddly exhilarating: you're asked to simply step up and think hard for a while, without gratifying your emotions. In this (unsubtitled) clip, Pascal schools Descartes. Coming to DVD in January.

PATTON (1970)

The rare movie equally beloved by hardcore cineastes and testosterone-addled football-loving guys who could care less about movies, Patton is best remembered for the surreal opening monologue (above), a real Patton speech delivered straight to the audience in front of a giant American flag. (Vincent Canby called the effect "almost Rauschenberg.") But Patton is the rare movie whose central ambivalence never seemed to bother the public. He's presented straight-up in the middle of combat scenes presented with elaborately gorgeous clarity; it's a question of perspective whether he's a loon or whether he has a point. It's also frequently hilarious, as in the scene where Patton arrives to take charge of a camp that's in a total state of disarray. He finds a man slumped over in a hallway. "What are you doing?" he barks. "Sleeping, sir" the man answers. "Well keep sleeping! You're the only one who knows what he's doing around here!"

LAST DAYS (2005)

In my experience, people who are die-hard Kurt Cobain/Nirvana fans tend to hate Gus Van Sant's impressionistic take on Cobain's mentally deranged final hours. On the one hand, Van Sant gets some major iconographic images right (Cobain's body in the gardener's shed); on the other hand, there's no Nirvana music and zero attempt to convey anything about Nirvana. If you find Van Sant's long-tracking-shots-and-lighting-experiments aesthetic annoying (and you love Cobain), it looks like total disrespect. It's just Michael Pitt (in a career playing largely the psychotic and the damaged, a stand-out still) stumbling around, mumbling, ineptly preparing Kraft Mac 'n Cheese and — only twice — making music. I love it because it's a gorgeous formal exercise, but there's also plenty of comic scenes in the opening (see above, where a real Yellow Pages salesman steadfastly attempts to sell "Blake" a spot in the book and Blake's too out of it to figure out what he's talking about or tell him he's got the wrong guy). As a biography, the most intriguing bits are hypothetical glosses on impossible but intriguing music geeks what-ifs: what if Rivers Cuomo (Lukas Haas, writing his own dialogue just like everyone else) whined about touring in Japan to Cobain and inadvertently began working out Pinkerton that way? (Does this make Weezer the heir apparent to Nirvana? Discuss.) What if Kim Gordon came to give him a stern talking to? In its own odd way, Last Days finally gets around to nailing some of the most frustrating aspects of how '90s indie-rock spiraled into a mini-parody of mainstream rock, with its very own drugged-out casualties and insular, petty rivalries.

SECRET HONOR (1984)

Some people think this is the best movie about Nixon ever made; pending further evidence, I'll concur. It's mostly a master class in direction: given an impossible source (a one-man stage play), Robert Altman somehow makes the whole thing non-stagy. Finding as many different angles and set-ups as Lumet did for 12 Angry Men, Secret Honor is as much a pleasure for its resourcefulness as for Philip Baker Hall's career high: short on impersonation, long on paranoia. Filmed before Nixon's '80s rehabilitation as an acceptable and even valued foreign policy commenter, Secret Honor is a fuck you to the man (just as the clip above is a fuck you from Nixon to everyone else; be warned, the multiple monitors do not mean this was directed by Altman in De Palma mode). As such, even though its climax is kind of disappointing — Nixon was paranoid, but not enough for the nightmarish caricature the film has him explaining himself through — it's as much a great performance as an index to early-'80s feelings about Nixon.

LAURENCE OF ARABIA (1962)

My most conventional pic for great biopic doesn't follow the rules as we've come to know them. The title's quite literal: this is everything to do with T.E. Lawrence in and around Arabia, and nothing more. No childhood, no steady decline (though Ralph Fiennes gave filling it out a shot with a TV movie, A Dangerous Man: Lawrence After Arabia). David Lean comes closer to making a '00s art film than anyone (including he, probably) would like to admit: with its long, contemplative shots of desert and tiny human specks against the sky, Lawrence unsubtly but effectively makes the exterior landscape a reflection of Lawrence's internal turmoil at all times.

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

Contributor: Vadim Rizov

Trailer Review: Frost/Nixon

Paul Clark — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 16:00:00 GMT

Fans of Peter Morgan’s stage production of Frost/Nixon have extended this big-screen adaptation of the play a good amount of goodwill due to the Broadway stars (Frank Langella and Michael Sheen) being kept for the movie. But while I’m always in favor of character actors (especially talented veterans like Langella) getting their moments in the spotlight, judging by the trailer I’m not sure that retaining them for the movie was the right move. Part of the problem is Nixon himself, who was not merely one of the most recognizable political figures of the past half-century but also one of the most widely-imitated, making portraying the role on the big screen a challenge for any actor. And frankly, I’m not sure I like how Langella is approaching the role here- his vocal mannerisms and gestures might work onstage, but they become overbearing in the trailer, like a straight-up impersonation rather than an attempt to get under his skin. Of course, much of this no doubt has to do with the director, as “Academy Award Winning Director Ron Howard” (ugh) probably didn’t do much to discourage Langella from using the same approach to the character that he did onstage. But in a less-is-more medium like film, maybe Langella needed to ease up on the Tricky Dick stuff and just play the character, like Philip Baker Hall in Secret Honor.

No, But I've Read the Movie: THE TALENTED MR. RIPLEY

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 19:30:00 GMT

Like a handful of the better noir and pulp writers, Patricia Highsmith has undergone a bit of a positive critical reappraisal of late, although one has to wonder if critics and casual fans are more interested in her actual writing than her bisexuality, alcoholism and often-controversial personal life. Whatever the case, the rediscovery of Highsmith's books in recent years was followed by a spate of interest in adapting her works for film. Naturally, the most attention was focused on the so-called "Ripliad", her series of novels featuring the amoral, cynical trickster and killer Tom Ripley; while 2002's Ripley's Game, bouyed by a tremendous performance in the lead role by John Malkovich, was the better film, 1999's The Talented Mr. Ripley got far more attention and made far more money. This was thanks largely to a successful marketing campaign, a coincidental tapping of the zeitgeist, and the fact that several of its stars were at their peak of popularity. There have been other Ripleys (Highsmith herself loved Alain Delon in Rene Clement's Purple Noon) and other filmed versions of Ripliad novels (Wim Wenders made a memorable, if confused, version of Ripley's Game as The American Friend in 1977), but none has stayed in the public consciousness as the one that teamed the recently deceased Anthony Minghella with Matt Damon.

In most ways, The Talented Mr. Ripley is the best of the Ripley novels, and one of Patricia Highsmith's best novels overall. It was the purest expression of her fascination with anti-heroic figures who carried around a silent delight in their defiance of law and propriety; it also featured some of her most coolly murderous prose, the quality of her writing that critics most admire. Her deliberate, incisive writing seemed almost subversive at times, so plainly and nastily could she capture those who circumvented decent society. But it was not without its flaws, most noticably her writing of female characters: Highsmith seemed either incapable of writing female characters as deep and dark as her male characters, or uninterested in doing so. Anthony Minghella's filmed version, with a solid cast and a big budget, had a chance to to capture all the strengths of the book while addressing its weaknesses.

WHAT IT HAD: Minghella was riding a peak of success at the time The Talented Mr. Ripley was filmed, having won widespread popular and critical acclaim with his previous movie, The English Patient. His lead actors were equally hot: Matt Damon was as popular as he'd ever be, as was co-star Gwyneth Paltrow, and Jude Law was enjoying some level of success in the U.S. for the first time. Cate Blanchett scored a key role that helped launch her big-screen career, and Minghella staffed the picture with solid character actors like Philip Seymour Hoffman and Philip Baker Hall in supporting roles. It's also a gorgeous film, with breathtaking locations, beautiful cinematography (by John Seale) and stellar set design and period costumes. Whatever its flaws, Ripley takes no shorts with its look and feel.

WHAT IT LACKED: The script, also by Anthony Minghella, is an absolute mess. Even leaving aside how completely wrong Minghella gets the whole point of Ripley's character (about which see below), he doesn't even seem to know what he wants to do with the story. He has no feel whatsoever for the tone of it -- it seems to veer moodily from character study to thriller to romantic idyll -- and he puts so much effort into how it looks he doesn't have much time for how it reads or sounds. There's almost none of Highsmith's vicious, precise dialogue, and the characters are clearly more creations of Minghella's sensibilities than they are Highsmith's, which wouldn't be a problem if this was an entirely different movie. As it is, it comes across as a total mismatch of source and adapter.

DID IT SUCCEED?: If all you're looking for is beautiful people in beautiful surroundings, sure -- but if you want the deadly playfulness and black-hearted gamesmanship of Patricia Highsmith's books, you won't find them here. At heart, Anthony Minghella was a steadfast romantic, while Highsmith -- and Tom Ripley -- were bloody-minded cynics. Minghella wants to turn Tom Ripley into a tragic and heartbreaking figure, which is a complete misreading of the character and a tin-eared understanding of why he's so appealing to begin with. He also takes Ripley's subtly implied homosexuality -- the least interesting thing about him, in the book -- and makes it explicit and paramount, to the point of absurdity: the movie ends with Ripley murdering his lover with tears in his eyes, something that the grinning sociopath of the book would never think of doing. There are plenty of tragic romantics in the annals of crime fiction; to turn the almost joyfully manipulative, supremely cunning Tom Ripley into one of them is such a disastrous choice that it sinks the whole movie.

The Ten Best Cussing Scenes in Movies, Part 2

Phil Nugent — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 15:00:00 GMT

SCARFACE (1983)

Here’s something funny about Oliver Stone: he seems to have a lot more fun when he’s writing movies than when he’s directing them. While the movies where he’s behind the camera have become self-important bores, the movies where he’s behind the typewriter are highly enjoyable, if completely demented. Conan the Barbarian may have been the purest distillation of his bloodthirstily goofy aesthetic, but it was the screenplay for Brian DePalma’s Scarface a year later where he really let his freak flag fly. A perfect example of a movie that’s compulsively watchable without actually being very good, Scarface also proves that the one thing more enjoyable than a movie with non-stop vulgarity is a movie with non-stop vulgarity in an incredibly over-the-top quasi-Cuban accent. (A chainsaw execution can’t hurt, either.) Al Pacino’s Tony Montana isn’t an obscenity artist; he is but a humble craftsman, a busy businessman who relies on the word "fuck" because he hasn’t got the time to learn any other ones. For every cleverly crafted "Why don’t you try sticking your head up your ass? See if it fits," there’s a workmanlike get-over like "You know what? Fuck you! How about that?" How about that, indeed. It’s hard to know if Scarface would have been the deranged, hyperactive masterpiece that it is without Pacino’s constant Hispanic-causing-panic vulgarisms, but it surely wouldn’t have been as much fun. If you don’t believe us, try to imagine Paul Muni saying "This town is like a great big pussy just waiting to get fucked." Now that’s comedy!

GLENGARRY GLEN ROSS (1992)

David Mamet's ode to testosterone-soaked salesmen is a veritable symphony of profanity, with even legendary milquetoast Jack Lemmon attempting to wrap his mouth around words like "cocksucker." (Not to speak ill of the dead, but he's no Ian McShane.) Alec Baldwin is the soloist who takes home top honors, though his inspirational speech to the troops does not rely solely on foul language for its power. With his reptilian delivery, lines like "coffee is for closers" and "third prize is you're fired" sound nearly as venomous as the blunt rejoinder "Fuck you – that's my name!" Though he doesn't say it in so many words, Baldwin makes the point that the sales game is a dick-measuring contest and everybody but him is coming up short. Like all the best motivational speakers, he uses props. "It takes brass balls to sell real estate," he announces, brandishing a pair for effect. Don't try this in your own boardroom unless you have good lawyers.

SECRET HONOR (1984)

When the transcripts of the Nixon White House tapes started to come out, what shocked a lot of people wasn't the president's amorality so much as the language with which he expressed it. His obscene ramblings suggested a potty-mouthed genie bubbling and rumbling and thrashing beneath the surface of his carefully fostered image as the last defender of Middle America, subsisting on a diet of cottage cheese and Norman Rockwell illustrations. In Robert Altman's one-man show, Nixon (Philip Baker Hall), sealed in the wood-paneled tranquility of his study like William Hurt set to de-evolve in his isolation tank in Altered States, runs through his whole life and political career in a spastic monologue punctuated by sputtered out "shit!"s and "fuck!"s. It all builds to the moment when Nixon, having considered blowing his brains out as penance for his sins, decides that this would give too much satisfaction to the real monsters, the ones who "elected me, not once, not twice, but all my goddamn life," and signs off with an endless, Tourette's-like chant of "Fuck em! Fuck 'em!!" As he bellows out the same two words, again and again, Altman frames his wild face in the screens of the TV monitors that line the room. The genie has been isolated.

POETIC JUSTICE (1993)

John Singleton's Poetic Justice actually played against Tupac's ever-growing reputation as an out-of-control thug and notorious player. His character Lucky is a postman who gets dissed in the very first scene and then has to endure a road trip with the same girl that made him the butt of the joke. This is every guy's worst nightmare – confined space with a girl who shot you down. Unless you're counting her role on Good Times or Rhythm Nation 1814, this was essentially Janet Jackson's film debut, and even though she may have told us she was nasty, most people still assumed, looking at that angelic face, that she was probably very nice. This scene is so memorable because all of that is blown to pieces as she trades fuck yous with Mr. Thug Life himself. Although the scene can certainly stand on its own in terms of pure firepower, you might want to brush up on the back story – outlined in our previous Top 10 Offscreen Feuds list – to help you understand the uncanny authenticity of the venom being spit here.

NIL BY MOUTH (1997)

When it comes to vulgar language in movies, there is quality, and then there is quantity. Whether or not Gary Oldman’s directorial debut, Nil By Mouth, counts as a lodestone of quality obscenity, it is the all-time grand champion in terms of quantity. It’s actually a fine little film, and Oldman’s script about growing up in a dysfunctional working-class family in South London is quite compelling at times, but where it truly excels is in its non-stop barrage of obscenity. No less than the Guinness Book of World Records has certified it as the film containing the most iterations of "fuck": the word appears an astonishing 470 times, or almost four times a minute. It’s that sort of dedication that separates the pretenders from the true masters, and Oldman doesn’t stop there: he also favors us with the word "cunt" a whopping eighty-two times, or once every minute and a half. Most of the fucks and cunts issue from the lager-stained mouth of Ray Winstone, playing a character based on Oldman’s own father. (Oldman dedicates the film to his old man, which must have made him feel pretty good about himself.) Some films don’t even have as much punctuation as Nil By Mouth has "fuck"s; if its director grew up in an environment anything like the one portrayed here, it’s a wonder he can communicate at all. Other films may be more artful in their use of the f-word, and other films may save it for when it counts more instead of going for total sensory overload, but until someone manages to make a movie in which someone uses the word "fuck" in every frame, then Nil By Mouth will be the reigning king.

– Phil Nugent, Leonard Pierce, Scott Von Doviak, Bryan Whitefield

Check out Part 1 here.

That Guy!: Philip Baker Hall

Peter Smith — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 19:00:00 GMT

It's no secret that the selection of a That Guy! is a highly personal thing. I play favorites in this space, and make no apologies. There's nothing objective about why I'll pick a Tom Atkins but eschew a Burt Young — it's as simple as one appealing to me on a certain level and the other leaving me as cold as a glass of raw eggs. Everyone has their preferences when it comes to character actors, and finding agreement on the subject is harder than getting a group of a dozen movie critics to agree on a Coen Brothers film. Of course, every rule has its exceptions, and if there's ever been anyone with a bad word to say about Philip Baker Hall, I've never met them (and they better hope I don't, particularly in a dark alley, and with a couple of boxes of Sno-Caps in me). It's astonishing to consider that Hall is seventy-six years old — not because he doesn't look it, with his worn, lined face, perpetually plastered-down hair and eyes that droop with a combination of sadness and intelligence — but because he's looked that way for at least twenty years. The common perception that he sprung into the world fully formed, like Athena, from the imagination of Paul Thomas Anderson, ignores a film career that goes back almost five decades — not that it wasn't largely worth ignoring before he crossed paths with Robert Altman, who gave him a role that would forever grant him one of the all-time great film performances in history even if he'd never made another movie. But until Anderson made him the patriarch of his own personal stock company of actors, the bleary, wise Ohioan's bread and butter was in television. Putting in competent, bill-paying performances in everything from M*A*S*H and The Jeffersons to Family Ties to L.A. Law, he reached his greatest heights on the small screen as the absurdly overblown Lt. Bookman on Seinfeld, a library cop ripped from the pages of Mike Hammer and put to work in service of chasing down delinquent fines. It showed off Hall's considerable comic — indeed, self-parodic — skills, but he's still at his best as a tragic figure who has seen just a little too much of the world and is always waiting for a final moment of grace that may never come.

Where to see Philip Baker Hall at his best:

SECRET HONOR (1984)

One of the towering performances not just in his career but in all of American cinema, Hall's turn as a fictionalized Richard Milhaus Nixon is gripping enough to carry the entire film — and it does: he's the only person on screen during the entire hour-and-a-half runtime. Director Robert Altman, who knew Hall from television work, had seen him perform as Nixon in the stage version of Secret Honor, and trusted that he was enough of an actor to carry it over to film; the gamble paid off in spades, as the audience is held spellbound during the entire stunning performance.

HARD EIGHT (1996)

Sixty-five is the age at which you're supposed to retire, not the age at which you have your first real breakout performance. But Paul Thomas Anderson, who'd selected Hall based largely on the strength of his work in Secret Honor, chose him to play the tormented professional gambler Sydney in his full-length directorial debut. Watching the aging Hall play off of promising young character actor (and friend of this program) John C. Reilly is like watching an aging gunslinger trade shots with an up-and-comer, a dynamic which perfectly plays into their respective characters.

DOGVILLE (2003)

Philip Baker Hall's performance as Tom Edison Sr. in Lars Von Trier's controversial and daring story of degradation and evil served not only to record another terrific performance in his portfolio, but to put the critical establishment on notice that he wasn't a wholly owned subsidiary of Paul Thomas Anderson, Inc. Hall brings entirely new dimensions and depths to his performance as Dogville's patriarch, while never sacrificing his greatest asset: the ability to convey the weight of a man whose eyes have seen more than they should.

— Leonard Pierce

Top Thirteen Greatest Fictional Movie Presidents, Part 3

Peter Smith — Fri, 26 Oct 2007 17:00:00 GMT

Christopher Jones as President Max Frost, WILD IN THE STREETS (1968)

This A.I.P. exploitation classic from the hippie era predates the lowering of the voting age from twenty-one to eighteen. Here, a presidential candidate played by Hal Holbrook courts the youth vote by promising to lower the mandatory voting age and turns to rock star Max Frost (née Max Jacob Flatow, Jr.), the voice of his generation, to help him with his campaign. Max startles everyone by publicly demanding that fourteen-year-olds be given the right to vote, then, after Holbrook is elected, starting a national drive to lower the minimum age for election to public office to fourteen as well. Inevitably, Max runs for president himself, and after his youthful hordes propel him into the White House, he decrees that thirty is now the mandatory retirement age and has everyone over thirty-five bused to "re-education camps" to spend the rest of their days forcibly blitzed on LSD. But Max's reign may not last long; the movie ends with ominous shots of children giving the fish-eye to their teen-aged overlords and murmuring that they, too, will soon get theirs.

Biff McGuire as The President, THE WEREWOLF OF WASHINGTON (1973)

This extremely low-budget film — long on under-lit sets and expository narration — stars Dean Stockwell as a presidential cabinet official who comes down with a bad case of lycanthropy and spends his full-moon nights rampaging around the nation's capitol in a furry Halloween mask. The Nixonian president and his advisers (including Michael Dunn as a dwarf named "Dr. Kiss") conspire to blame the werewolf's bloody killings on left-wing radicals. In the end, Stockwell is killed, but not before mauling the president, who, having thus been contaminated, is heard turning into a howling monster during a broadcast address to the nation.

John Ritter as President Chet Roosevelt, AMERICATHON (1979)

This busy, wilted satire, based on a play by Peter Bergman and Philip Proctor of the Firesign Theater but co-written and directed by Neil Israel, of Bachelor Party and the Police Academy movies, is set in a "future" 1998 when the United States has exhausted its energy reserves and is near bankruptcy, with a running-shoe cartel headed by Chief Dan George threatening to foreclose on the country. President Roosevelt, who operates out of a Marina Del Ray condo known as "the Western White House" and who permits his live-in girlfriend to sit in on cabinet meetings, decides to try to raise enough money to pay off the national debt by sponsoring a thirty-day telethon organized by Peter Riegert and hosted by Harvey Korman. Things get complicated when the president is kidnapped by terrorists while enjoying a tryst with a Vietnamese rock singer (Zane Busby), but in the end everything turns out all right: the telethon is a success, Riegert wins the faithless president's girlfriend, and the presidential hulking, dim-witted bodyguard, Jerry (Richard Schaal) is sworn in as chief executive.

HONORABLE MENTION: Two Real-Life Presidents Who Might As Well Have Been Fictional

Philip Baker Hall as Richard Nixon, SECRET HONOR (1984)

Playing an iconic figure like Dick Nixon is hard enough, particularly when the script calls upon you to portray him both as a sympathetic figure and a self-deceiving monster. And when you're the only guy in the movie, it becomes next to impossible. But if anyone is up to the challenge, it's the always-outstanding Philip Baker Hall. In this little-seen but compellingly watchable Robert Altman film, Hall portrays a fictionalized, almost mythological Nixon, recording what are putatively notes for his next book but which, with the aid of alcohol and encroaching paranoia, become a confession to the American people and a titanic, defensive apologia, a referendum on a man's entire life. As an impression of Nixon, it's only partially successful, but as an evocation of him, it's perfect — truly a titanic performance, alternating between enraged ranting, deceptive resentment, touching memories of childhood, and total re-invention; as Hall's Nixon raves, spews, laughs, bellows and accuses for an hour and a half, we get a sense of both his mammoth ego and his homely humanity, often in the same speech. The final scene, where a defiant Nixon screams "Fuck ‘em!" to everyone who ever crossed him — his enemies, his allies, the American people — seems both outrageous and inevitable.

Brian Keith as Teddy Roosevelt, THE WIND AND THE LION (1975)

John Milius has always has a soft spot in his heart for Teddy Roosevelt, who in his eyes was the ultimate hard-living American man's man. Milius re-created Teddy's famous charge up San Juan Hill in his 1997 made-for-TV movie The Rough Riders, and in 1975's The Wind and the Lion he shows us Roosevelt (played by Brian Keith) after his rough ridin' days were over. President Roosevelt, more than a little weary of politics and diplomacy, suddenly springs into action after the abduction of American heiress Eden Pedicaris (Candice Bergen) by the Berber prince Raisuli (Sean Connery). Proclaiming the need for "respect for human life and respect for American property," he mobilizes the Army to find Eden, questionable ethics be damned. In Teddy's words, "Why spoil the beauty of the thing with legality?" Sure, the fact that it's an election year may partly explain his motivation, but it's more likely that Roosevelt relishes another chance to embark on a ballsy mission in an exotic, especially one against a worthy opponent like Raisuli. But Roosevelt's finest moment in the film comes when he states: "The American grizzly is a symbol of the American character: strength, intelligence, ferocity. Maybe a little blind and reckless at times. . . but courageous beyond all doubt. And one other trait that goes with all previous — loneliness. The American grizzly lives out his life alone. Indomitable, unconquered — but always alone. He has no real allies, only enemies, but none of them as great as he." It's a rousing and eloquent tribute by Milius, both to the man he so idolizes and to the country they both love.

— Paul Clark, Bilge Ebiri, Phil Nugent, Leonard Pierce, Vadim Rizov