The Screengrab : summer of sam

Spike Lee's Next "Miracle"

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

In anticipation of the release next week of Miracle at St. Anna, Spike Lee's first movie since his biggest hit, the atypically good Inside Man, John Colapinto profiles the director in The New Yorker. [Not available online] Colapinto notes that Lee has made eighteen feature films, "three of which (Do the Right Thing, Jungle Fever, and Malcolm X) have earned him a reputation as a filmmaker obsessed with race." That count seems a little soft: for instance, it's hard to think of any reason besides an obsession with race for making Bamboozled, and even the movie that Lee clearly intended as a showcase for his warmer, fuzzier side, Crooklyn, included a subplot about the foul odor emitted by the film's token white man, played by David Patrick Kelly in outrageous honky drag. After scoring a great success with an ingenious genre picture that required him to mostly give it a rest, Lee's new movie, "the first by a major American director to treat the experience of black soldiers" in World War II, gives him a chance to climb back on his hobbyhorse and also to issue the public proclamations that have sometimes seemed to be his real art, which his movies are only intended to promote. As Colapinto writes, the film is meant "as redress not only for [Clint] Eastwood's Iwo Jima pictures but for an all-white Hollywood vision of the Second World War which dates to the 1962 John Wayne movie The Longest Day--and before." It will be remembered that Lee instigated a vicious back-and-forth between himself and Eastwood by complaining about the absence of black soldiers in Flags of Our Fathers and Letters from Iwo Jima; after Eastwood invited the younger filmmaker to shut the fuck up, Lee called him "an angry old man" and advised Dirty Harry that "we're not on a plantation either." That stroke was standard operating procedure for Lee, who has a history of shutting down discussions by accusing his attackers of racism, a move that has traditionally left them sputtering defensively. The down side of this tactic that it's left Lee with a public image that he may now regret, if only because it may have overshadowed his reputation as a moviemaker. "People think I'm this angry black man walking around in a constant state of rage," he told Colapinto. This misperception makes Lee very angry, and the article describes a man who, because of that, is walking around in a constant state of rage.

One reason he has for being ticked off--even when he has access to Colapinto, a writer who is so much on his side that he even seems to like Summer of Sam and the godforsaken color dance interlude in Lee's debut feature She's Gotta Have It--is that getting funding isn't as easy for him as it used to be. Lee would probably argue that it's never been easy for him, but a lot of filmmakers before Lee wanted to make a biopic about Malcolm X, and Lee was the one who got to bitch in the press about not being given a big enough budget after the epic production was given the green light. (One of the other filmmakers who wanted to make it was Norman Jewison, who was almost ready to go, with Lee's star Denzel Washington in the lead role, when Lee nudged him aside by making a public stink about how wrong it would be for a white director to be entrusted with Malcolm's story.) Miracle at St. Anna wasn't Lee's first choice for a follow-up to Inside Man; it was what he could get funded after he discovered that the box-office cachet he had picked up from that movie wasn't enough to get studios interested in his other dream projects, a James Brown biopic and a movie about the 1992 Los Angeles riots. (St. Anna didn't make the studios salivate, either; Touchtone Pictures signed on to distribute it only after European companies ponied up the money.) It'll be interesting to see whether an historical drama benefits from some of the gravity that Lee has acquired in recent years, seen best not in Inside Man but in his documentaries 4 Little Girls, whose title refers to the victims of a racially motivated church bombing in Birmingham in 1963, and the Katrina epic When the Levees Broke. Stanley Crouch, who wrote a searing attack on Lee back in 1989, believes that his nonfiction-film work has had a strong, salutary effect on Lee: "There was something about the dignity of those people he encountered when he was making 4 Little Girls that had a very deep impact on him, and in some way they seemed to help him grow up. When you got kids yourself and you're talking to the father of someone whose child was blown up by the kind of people who blew those kids up, and you see that this person is not ranting and raving in some kind of theatrical purported rage of the sort that you see in Do the Right Thing." Miracle at St. Anna opens on September 26.

Related stories: Clint Eastwood Would Like Spike Lee to Shut His Face

Summerfest '08: "The Endless Summer"

Leonard Pierce — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 20:30:00 GMT

We've featured a lot of different types of movies here at the Screengrab during our excting Summerfest '08 feature, in which we endeavour to review a movie a week with the word "summer" in the title that you can watch while you're putting off trying on your new bikini. We've featured Summer School, a movie that has made people inappropriately nostalgic for the 1980s; we've featured Summer of Sam, a movie in which it is revealed that Satan speaks through us in the voice of dogs, and sounds an amazing amount like John Tuturro; and we've featured Suddenly Last Summer, a movie in which a homosexual predator and his pimp sister wreak havoc on a small European town before he is eaten by the townsfolk. No, really. We've featured not one, but two movies starring Freddie Prinze, Jr., which, believe me, was just as painful for me as it was for you. But while many of these films have inspired us to do a wide variety of things -- become nostalgic for the sight of Kirstie Alley in a bathing suit; go back in time and put Tennessee Williams on anti-depressants; avoid watching any future films starring Freddie Prinze, Jr. -- none of them have actually inspired us to get up off our duffs, get out of the house, and do something other than watch movies all summer. But that changes today as we take a look at the greatest surfing documentary ever made.

So grab your board, hop in your woodie, and join us on a search for the perfect wave as we enjoy The Endless Summer!

THE ACTION: Mike Hynson and Robert August are surfers. That's what they do: surf. Bruce Brown, who wrote and directed the movie, is a filmmaker, but he's a surfer too. Surfers are an uncomplicated lot, and they really want nothing more than to bum around all day waiting for the best wave they can possibly get, and then they want to get out there and shoot that son of a bitch for all it's worth. That's essentially all that happens in this movie: Hynson and August trek from one end of Africa to another, then to Australia, the South Pacific, and anywhere else they can possibly get to, just looking for a really good curl. Brown follows them, training his 16mm camera at them for some blurry nature shots and some absolutely gorgeous filmwork out on the water. The two engage in wacky hijinks, doing very little to dispel the notion that surfers are overgrown, doofy man-children, and Brown provides amiable frat-boy narration, often meandering and nonsensical, to cover the silence of the action scenes (most of the shots had no soundman and hence, no sound). Then they trudge off in search of another wave, and when they find one, they ride it until they just can't ride it no more. That's it, in its entirety: 90 minute of three goofy guys bumming around the globe looking for waves to ride. It's exactly that bad -- and that great.

THE PLAYERS: Hynson and August -- both real surfers who play themselves in this engaging mash-up of sports documentary and home movie travelogue -- are nearly indistiguishable: loopy fellas interested in their sport, soaking up some local color, and not much else. There's probably two of them for no better reason than that it takes some of the pressure off of Brown's narration. Brown himself -- a protege of Bud Browne (no relation), the legendary founder of the surf film genre, who died earlier this summer -- comes across as a strong advocate of the kind of pseudo-mystical dudesmanship that would spring up around surfing following the success of this 1966 film and the simultaneous monster success of the Beach Boys. The novelty of the interaction between the three men comes from a sort of primitive jus'-folks exoticism: the coasts of Africa and beaches of Australia where they spend most of their time in the film were, at the time, largely unknown and unvisited by Americans, and held a hint of the mysterious. By today's standards, Brown would offend by saying he wasn't sure if African tribesmen wanted to surf with them or eat them, but the observation is delivered in such a guileless way you can't hold it against him. The movie also features a cameo appearance by a ex-pro wrestler/surfer named Lord "Tally-Ho" Blears, and you know there ain't nothin' wrong with that.

SUMMER FUN: Are you kidding? In case you missed it earlier, this movie is a documentary about three goofball surfers who wander around creation, riding the waves, scoping out the native honeys, and sipping rum-based cocktails with former professional wrestlers. No matter what you're doing this summer, you wish you were doing this instead. There's rarely been a summer movie -- let alone a documentary -- that makes you want to sell your car, quit your job and change your lifestyle as much as The Endless Summer does. Hell, I don't even like surfing, and I was on the internet pricing boards by the time it ended.

HAWAIIAN SHIRTS: Generally speaking, there is more Hawaiian shirtlessness in The Endless Summer than there is Hawaiian shirtiness, but don't despair: there's plenty of luau loungewear in evidence, including a good bit of it on display during an actual stopover in Hawaii. If you've ever wondered exactly what mood the typical fat party guy is trying to conjure when he dons his favorite Hawaiian shirt, this movie is it.

BIKINI PARTY TIME: While there's some bikini action in The Endless Summer, there's not nearly as much as you might expect. Frankly, as loath as I am to admit it, this represents a certain integrity on the part of the filmmakers; Hynson, August and Brown are dedicated to the art and craft of surfing, and the incidental opportunity it offers to take a gander at beach bunnies is strictly an element of chance. You have to respect that sort of demented focus. So, despite a saddening lack of bikini party time in a film set almost entirely on the beach, I highly recommend The Endless Summer as a palliative to however you've been wasting your life since Memorial Day.

Summerfest '08: Summer School

The Screengrab Highlight Reel: May 31-June 6, 2008

Scott Von Doviak — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 21:00:00 GMT

School may be out of the summer, but we’ve still done plenty of learning this week at the Screengrab, on a variety of subjects:

Gender Studies: Heterosexual Males Survive “Sex and the City”

Current Events: When Movies Are Too Timely

Political Science: Harvey Milk and Great Black Presidents

English Literature: No Shit, Sherlock

Seventies Studies: Summer of Sam, The Way We Were and Damien: Omen II

Music Appreciation: OST “Drowning by Numbers”

Statistical Analysis: Screengrab Underestimates Ladies

Social Studies: Taverns on the Screen: Top 10 Barroom Scenes

Comparative Research: Coffy vs. Foxy Brown and Herzog vs. Ferrara

Summerfest '08: "Summer of Sam"

Leonard Pierce — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 19:00:00 GMT

Summerfest '08, as you know, is our feature here at the Screengrab wherein we suggest a way for you to kill two hours while waiting for your grill to heat up. Every movie we profile on Wednesdays from now until Labor Day comes with our personal guarantee: these movies may not be essential hot-weather viewing. They may not even be good. But we can assure you with complete confidence that they will have the word 'summer' in the title. This week, we'll be taking a break from our previous diet of decades-old footage of people wearing skimpy beachwear and turning to a more recent effort by the director whose name is virtually synonymous with good-time party movies: Spike Lee. Responding to the demands of filmgoers, critics, and studio executives who wanted to know when he was going to produce a summer blockbuster, Lee, over the 4th of July weekend in 1999, brought us a bright, cheery feel-good movie about a fat psychotic whose neighbor's demonically possessed dog ordered him to murder couples in cars.

Strap it down and get ready for some hot fun in the summertime with Spike Lee's Summer of Sam!

THE ACTION: Boyhood chums Vinnie (John Leguizamo, in a stunning 1970s-style performance that recalls the glory days when all our favorite actors were zapped out of their craniums on cocaine) and Richie (Adrien Brody, wearing the world's least-convincing liberty spikes) are reunited after a long separation. But things are no longer the same between them; Vinnie has picked up the habit of sodomizing his wife (the much-abused Mira Sorvino) in the kind of discotheques Kurt Anderson once described as "fun that isn't", and Richie has become some kind of crazy bisexual punk rocker or something, of the sort once seen on an episode of Quincy. The suspicious behavior of Richie -- dressing all funny, listening to the Who, dancing with his shirt off, and expressing sympathy for the Boston Red Sox -- immediately triggers in his goombah-heavy neighbors the urge to reenact a pasta dinner theater version of the Salem Witch Trials to determine if he is the infamous Son of Sam murderer.

THE PLAYERS: Spike Lee directed this one, apparently in an attempt to prove that he was physically capable of making a movie about white people, albeit coked-up, rough-tradey, and serial-killerish white people. He even has some laughs with this conceit, appearing in the movie as a TV reporter who gets chastised by black residents of Brooklyn for never paying any attention to them. The screenplay -- co-written by Sopranos fixture Michael Imperioli -- gives some awfully hokey dialogue and characterization to Adrien Brody, who is to punk rockers what Maynard G. Krebs was to beatniks, and the rest of the cast, all of whom are quite accomplished actors, are still saddled with being heavily unlikable. It doesn't say much for the people we're supposed to be empathizing with that at the end of the movie, the person we feel sorriest for is that sick fuck David Berkowitz.

SUMMER FUN: Summer of Sam is heavy on the summer and light on the fun. Vinnie tries to have fun, but blowing coke through his every orifice and forcing his wife into omnisexual threesomes proves to be a lot more taxing than he anticipated. Richie seems to be having fun converting the neighborhood strawberry into a Kmart version of Nancy Spungeon, but his bogus English accent, bizarre hustler scenes, and uncanny ability to evoke a time traveler from 1987 Los Angeles is no fun for the rest of us. Even the witch hunt is really a lot more depressing than it is entertaining, though Lee does get plenty of comic mileage out of a scene where the locals consider the possibility that Reggie Jackson is in fact the Son of Sam, and debate whether or not they should turn him in, given that they're going to need him for the World Series. Once again, Berkowitz seems to have more joie de vivre than anyone else on screen.

HAWAIIAN SHIRTS: A few of the the local Italian-Americans embrace the way of the Hawaiian shirt, and you get the sneaking suspicion that Detective Lou Petrocelli, portrayed with gusto by Anthony La Paglia, has at least a few of these coconutty numbers in his wardrobe for the Fraternal Order of Police barbeques. But mostly, it's hideously overdone polyester suits, second-hand wifebeaters, and whatever Rip Taylor version of punk fashion that Adrien Brody is rocking that stands out here. The lesson of this highly meaningful movie -- other than that Spike Lee's powerful visual sensibilities as a director can overcome any number of deficiencies at the script level -- is that having some nut running around pounding peoples' skulls open with a .44 can really throw cold water on your summer fun.

BIKINI PARTY TIME: Everyone seems to be having sex in this movie -- hell, the robust lustiness with which an uncredited John Turturro imbues the talking dog that tells David Berkowitz to kill people implies that even he's getting some -- but hardly anyone seems to be enjoying it. It's a highly Catholic movie where having too much of a good time gets you stuck with an angry spouse who wants to divorce you, an angry mob who wants to lynch you, or an angry lunatic who wants to shoot you in the face. Although there's lots of pretty women in the movie (including Sorvino, Bebe Neuwirth, and Jennifer Esposito), all of them end up crying, and none of them wear a bikini. All that said, it's a damn good movie despite its reputation as a lesser Spike Lee effort, and it has one of the highest occurences of the word "fuck" of any movie ever made. Which, if you've had some of the same kind of summers that we've had, is perfectly appropriate.

Summer of ’78: “Thank God It’s Friday”

Scott Von Doviak — Thu, 22 May 2008 16:00:00 GMT

Because I have lost my mind, I am launching yet another new Screengrab feature today, this one called – as you may have gathered – “Summer of ’78.” The premise is simple: each week this summer we will jump back in time 30 years to check out a flick that was new and exciting in theaters that week in 1978. This isn’t necessarily about the biggest hits or biggest bombs, or the best or worst movies; it’s more about examining what was considered suitable summer entertainment then and how it compares to today’s blockbuster fare. I’m sure we’ll all learn something, right? Hello? Is this thing on?

What better way to kick off the series than with the most beloved disco comedy ever made, with the possible exceptions of Can’t Stop the Music and Summer of Sam?

Thank God It’s Friday

Release Date: May 19, 1978

Cast: Jeff Goldblum, Terri Nunn, Chick Vennera, Donna Summer, Debra Winger and The Commodores

The Buzz: Saturday Night Fever was a huge hit. Add some laughs, substitute Jeff Goldblum for John Travolta, and what could go wrong?

Keywords: Discotheque, Gorilla Suit, Pinball, Leather, Dance Contest

The Plot: The hard-working stiffs of Los Angeles are living for Friday night, when they can finally cut loose on the dance floor of the Zoo, the hottest disco in town. DJ Bobby Speed has promised a live appearance by the Commodores in time for the big dance contest, but their instruments and equipment are with roadie Floyd, who keeps getting pulled over by the cops. Aspiring singer Nicole (Summer) just wants a chance to show off her pipes. Zoo owner Tony Di Marco (Goldblum) is a horndog trying to lure a married woman into the sack on her fifth anniversary. The rest of the Zoo is filled with lonely people in polyester looking for love or just looking to score.

The Test of Time: The ensemble cast, up-all-night party movie is one of my favorite genres, but Thank God It’s Friday is a pretty weak example. It plays like an extended episode of some 70s sitcom you’d forgotten about, set to a monotonous dance beat. It’s the most whitebread depiction of the disco craze imaginable; the only black people in the joint are the entertainment, and there’s virtually no gay presence at all aside from one mild joke and the recurring sight gag of a cross-dresser shaving his chest. If this movie were the only surviving artifact of the era, you’d have to assume disco was a predominantly Jewish phenomenon. The music is generally lame soundtrack album filler, aside from “Brick House” and the Donna Summer showstopper “Last Dance” (the reason you can accurately call Thank God It’s Friday an Academy Award winner). The cast is forgettable and forgotten, except for Goldblum and one girl who caught my attention by actually resembling a flesh-and-blood human being. Checking the credits later, it turned out she was Debra Winger. I wonder what ever happened to her?

Quotable Quote: “You know what this place reminds me of? Disneyland with tits!”

2008 Equivalent: If we’re talking dance-offs, the recent Step Up 2 The Streets fits the bill. If the question is which summer movie will look the most dated in 30 years, it has to be Speed Racer, right?