The career of William Friedkin is a reminder of how hard it is to make a good film.
He hit two films out of the fuckin park with The French Connection and The Exorcist then kinda floundered from there (he did have a few notable films afterwards, namely Sorcerer and To Live and Die in LA, the latter of which I haven’t seen).
Sure Friedkin won his accolades here and there, but he is truly the maestro of one specific thing: directing car chases.
Everyone remembers Gene Hackman just plowing through cars and walls while Friedkin neglected to obtain permits to film such a thing in the French Connection (and apparently there’s a good chase sequence in To Live and Die in LA), but Friedkin’s crowning achievement, in my view, is in Jade.
Before David Caruso was spitting out one liners while rocking a pair of sunglasses in CSI: Miami, he tried his hand at being a film star. Jade was the absolute highlight of this period.
In the film, after Angie Everhart gets totally destroyed by a Ford Thunderbird, Caruso pursuits the vehicle in his POS Ford during a delightful chase where vehicles fly through the air down the streets of San Francisco (and Caruso does his best Gene Hackman impersonation).
The best part is when the chase goes through some parade and pedestrians attack the vehicles using martial arts. I guess that would make sense if you learn about other cultures while binging on cocaine.
I’m glad that the films of Quentin Tarantino and Christopher Nolan are still considered events. Auteurism is dying in Hollywood but there are still remnants.
I’m not a fan of their films, but it’s still nice.
I know it’s heresy for film buffs to dislike Tarantino, but like Alabama in college football, his movies get evaluated by a different standard for better or worse. Even when it’s obvious that he didn’t put his best foot forward, like every movie he’s made in the last 15 years, Tarantino’s films get praised as if the film industry is about to go under. If you remove his name from most of his movies, you’d probably be wondering what the fuck you just watched.
Mind you, Pulp Fiction will stand the test of time. Jackie Brown should be better appreciated. Kill Bill Vol. I and II are what they are. But go back and watch Reservoir Dogs. It didn’t age well. Could this be the fate for all his retrospective reviews once when Tarantino retires from the biz (after he allegedly makes his “10th film”)?
Probably not, but I can hope.
I admit, Tarantino just isn’t my flavor. A perfect film, for me, transcends the medium. It’s gotta stick with me…reveal something about myself, about the universe, that I never realized. Tarantino the man, as reflected in his films, lacks that insight. He’s a film geek. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but that’s all that he’s capable of being.
I expect more out of films, not constantly getting nudged throughout a viewing, being reminded of some shitty Italian film from 40 years ago. Now I love schlock as much as the next guy, but art and schlock do not…cannot…mix.
Tarantino however wants to have it both ways. And that is a pipe dream.
He made a cool film once 30 years ago, most directors will never achieve that. But that doesn’t mean everything he’s made since has been a home run.
Really the same thing is true for Nolan. I personally think his success rate is greater than Tarantino’s. But Nolan probably thinks of himself as the Stanley Kubrick of mainstream blockbusters. That also screams trying to have it both ways.
But whatever dude, at least Insomnia, The Prestige, and The Dark Knight…the only superhero film I’ve ever liked…were damn good.
We should all be thankful that we still have Clint Eastwood. The man’s been working for close to 70 years. He’s an absolute legend.
The Hollywood GOAT?
Seriously, think about that. He’s an accomplished actor AND director. It’s a career that will never be topped. Ever.
Many have tried, notably Sylvester Stallone, but it’s just not possible. (To be fair to Stallone though, Eastwood was in much more competent hands earlier in his career between Sergio Leone and Don Siegel).
This being said, Eastwood isn’t the most innovative director. In fact, when he does make a great film, it’s as though he accidentally did so. His two universally acclaimed films, Unforgiven and Million Dollar Baby, are mostly great because of their scripts (same with The Outlaw Josey Wales). Gran Torino appears to be a film with a lasting cultural impact, and while I wouldn’t say it had an outstanding script or direction, the movie works because of Eastwood’s personality, not because of anything he did behind the camera. But I’d say that Eastwood is to filmmaking what Steve Kerr is to the NBA…he’s extraordinarily competent.
Of course, when you go through a stretch where you’re making a movie ever 20 minutes, it’s hard to maintain quality.
Sudden Impact is one of the million Eastwood movies that gets lost in the shuffle. With a story from pioneering independent filmmaker and Arkansas legend Chuck B Pierce, this Dirty Harry sequel has our favorite 44 Magnum carrying San Francisco investigator being more dirty than usual. Eastwood’s then-wife Sandra Locke costars as woman exacting revenge against men who raped her 10 years earlier. I’d say that this is the best Dirty Harry sequel. Nay, this sequel is better than Dirty Harry, a film that defined raw 70s cop dramas.
What makes Sudden Impact so memorable is not the plot, I don’t remember if there was one, or character development or any of that bullshit. No, what makes this film great is watching Eastwood stumble from one scene to the next just absolutely beating the shit out of and shooting everyone. EVERYONE. To top it off, he runs around with a farting bulldog. He also kills a guy by just giving him a heart attack for fucks sake. Eastwood is just a straight up asshole, more so than usual for Dirty Harry. It’s probably that greatest Cannon film not produced by Cannon.
The film feels as though Eastwood didn’t want to return to the role and the only way they could convince him is if they allowed him to direct. And it payed off. Some of the best films made from this period were done when no one gave a shit. But Eastwood’s direction gave this entry an added edge, which is probably why Sudden Impact feels so different from the other Dirty Harry films.
While we still have him, I wish Eastwood would do ONE MORE Dirty Harry film. It’s what we need now more than ever: a 90 year old bastard just blasting the fuck out of bad guys with a 44 Magnum.
I was watching Bart Ehrman debate some dude, forgot who, and he mentioned the non-canonical early Christian text, Apocalypse of Peter (never read it). The text describes heaven and hell, with descriptions of hell being far more creative than those of heaven. Point being, as Ehrman explains (paraphrasing): “there are only so many ways to describe eternal bliss”, while the imagination on eternal damnation knows no bounds.
It’s not really a revolutionary observation, I know, but that’s true in all our storytelling: “heaven” is a place of temporary stability before “hell” comes along and propels the plot forward. Therefore much of the creative energy behind a story lies in the “hell” of it all.
In other words, story is conflict.
But I think Ehrman’s statement is also a reflection on the nature of language. I’ve always found that imaginative descriptions of dread, anger, depression, anxiety, etc. to be far more creative and rewarding than depictions of bliss. Heaven, beauty, bliss, etc lie in the realm of the sublime, and therefore transcend the possibilities of language.
However, that might just be a reflection of my own deranged mind.
WhiteCollar inspired me to come up with my own totally non-offensive crime procedural.
So Hollywood, if you’re reading, I present to you Fisher: Miami Cop, starring Rob Gronkowski as the Hawaiian shirt wearing, vaguely racist homicide detective with a penchant for hard drinking and always shooting first.
After coming off his suspension for domestic abuse and vehicular manslaughter, Fisher is given a partner: the saucy Latina Arianda Morales.
“But Chief,” Fisher says, “I don’t work with the Cubans OR the Chinese.”
But he quickly changes his mind when he sees that she’s hot.
Fisher and Morales come to a greater understanding of each other and their cultural differences. Every episode ends in playful banter, culminating in Fisher’s famous catchphrase: “get off my ass, bitch!”
A lot of people don’t know this about me, but between laughing hysterically at shit and cum jokes I obsess over the historicity a man named Jesus of Nazareth, aka our Lord and Savior.
I even read the New Testament in Koine Greek (it’s a lot easier than you think).
For the record, I’m not a “mythicist”-or those that believe Jesus was a myth that the Romans or later believers fabricated. That’s stupid. Modern archeology and scholarship affirm that Jesus almost certainly existed.
Sure, some of my opinions my be a little bit outside the mainstream. I tend to agree with John Dominic Crossan’s assessment that perhaps Jesus’s ministry needs to be viewed in light of Roman authority. The Roman’s notoriously ruled with an iron fist. Jesus, by contrast, appeared more as a pacifist that appealed to neighborly love. His “Kingdom of God”, which Jesus almost certainly believed was going to be on earth rather than in some supernatural realm, directly challenged Roman Rule. So in many ways, Jesus was more than just a religious figure-he was a political one (not that anyone distinguished between the two in those days). Could this be wrong? Sure. But I think this view is worth taking seriously.
When viewed in this light, Jesus’s message remains just as radical today as it was in the first century AD: it was a direct challenge to the violence of the era.
But another interesting perspective on early Christianity is how it provides insight into the nature of radical politics: it starts off as fringe then branches off into rivaling sects before becoming mainstream. Once it becomes mainstream, it becomes orthodox and therefore conservative-if not authoritarian-in nature.
I’ve always thought that this subject, the “real” Jesus, would make an excellent film.
Unfortunately no such film has been made.
So the next best thing is Martin Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ, based on the novel by Nikos Kazantzakis.
Is it a perfect film? No. I can appreciate some of the modern characterizations of Jesus, the Apostles, Judas Iscariot, and so on. But Paul Schrader’s dialogue comes across as academic, which at times undermines the effectiveness of the story.
But Scorsese’s frenzied take on a familiar story is refreshing. Of course Peter Gabriel’s soundtrack might be one of the best in film history (a hill I’m willing to die on).
What I love most about this movie though is it’s influence on my favorite film franchise: the James Bond series.
“The fuck are you talking about?” you might ask.
Think I’m crazy? Well you’re right. But I’m also correct.
Watch the final act of The Last Temptation of Christ. Then go watch the final act of Casino Royale.
I couldn’t hit shit with my six shooter. I missed every target.
J Robert Oppenheimer’s 10 year old son, Malachi, watched and nodded his head. “Did you really know my father from the war?” he asked.
“Sure, why not?” I replied.
“Whose side did you fight for?”
“Uh, Abraham Lincoln’s?”
“Which detachment?”
“963rd, 9th battalion, 4th infantry, uhmmm, at the Battle of Waterloo?”
“Did you get injured?”
“Oh yeah. All over.”
Malachi scratched his head. He knew I was full of shit. “Are you sure that you didn’t know my father from the future?” he asked.
“How do you know about that?”
“He has a time machine in the barn.”
Malachi took me into the barn and lifted a large tarp off a time weapon—a similar looking time weapon that sent Mr. Ree, Oppenheimer, and myself back to 1879.
“Does it work?” I asked Malachi.
“Of course. My father built it. He can make anything work.”
Oppenheimer stood at the entryway of the barn. “That’s enough Malachi,” he said. “You run along now.”
Malachi shook his head. “Yes father,” he said and went back to tending to his chores.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Bob?” I asked Oppenheimer.
“It doesn’t work.”
“Malachi says it does.”
Oppenheimer paced back and forth, rubbing his hand across his face. “Look,” he said, “we can go over this all day. Sure, I can send you to the future, the past, whatever. But it’s almost impossible to get you back to YOUR timeline. I’m sorry James. But we need to look at the present. You’re here. Mr. Ree is here. I need help. This community needs your help. Please help me. I can’t fight Dickleburg on my own.”
I thought through his words. “You love Malachi,” I said. “But did you know that I have a child back in that timeline? If there is a chance, however slim, to get back there, I have to take it. Wouldn’t you do the same if you were me?”
Oppenheimer nodded. “If I’m going to help you,” he said, “then we have to secure these goldmines. There’s a property in gold that makes these time weapons work. To secure the mines, we have to defeat Dickleburg.”
I pulled out my Korth 357.
“I’m no good with those six shooters,” I replied. “But I can shoot a fly’s dick off with this 357. Can you help me make more bullets?”
Then she kicked me in the nuts with her pointed toe stilettos.
As I writhing in pain on the floor, Susan stood over me and said “I’m getting that job you limp dick bastard! Not you, not the board, not anyone can stand in my way!”
Susan stormed off and all my coworkers stood around. “I’m fine,” I said. “She barely knicked my ball sack.”
I crawled back to my office and shut the door. I took the bottle of vodka out of the refrigerator and placed it on my crotch. Bob Dickenburg came in laughing.
“Susan’s a firecracker isn’t she!” he said.
“To put it mildly,” I replied.
“Look, don’t worry about her,” Bob continued. “The board loves your work. You’re definitely getting that job.”
“I better. I’m gonna have to pay for scrotal surgery soon,” I said. I then lifted the bottle of vodka to my mouth.
“Well, we’re gonna announce the promotion on Monday. Go home, enjoy your weekend, and don’t worry yourself over it.”
I nodded to Bob as I swallowed the vodka. I didn’t get much work done that Friday afternoon. I got too drunk.
As I roared my Ferrari back home, almost hitting several motorists, I accidentally plowed my vehicle into a hooded figure. I grabbed my beer and exited the car to check on the person.
The figure laid on the ground, body parts were completely mangled. I kicked his side.
“Hey buddy, are you alright?” I asked.
The figure sat up and snapped his limbs back together. It was disgusting. Finally he stood up and removed the hood.
The man appeared to be blind. I figured that’s why he was standing in the middle of the road. He was ancient, like a warlock.
“You shouldn’t drink and drive,” the man said.
“Oh it’s okay, I’m rich.”
He then lifted his hands to my face and began chanting something in Latin, Greek, or some bullshit I didn’t understand. After standing there for a few moments, he lowered his hands and slowly wondered off.
“You don’t want any money out of my wallet?” I asked.
He didn’t reply.
I finished driving home. I stripped off my clothes, climbed in between the sheets, and fell fast asleep.
When I awoke the next morning, I wasn’t hungover. I also didn’t have rock hard morning wood. Something was amiss.
I sat up in bed and didn’t recognize the room. It was a woman’s room.
A nude man with a rubber mask came crawling in on all fours. He stood up, his partially erect penis inches from my face, and he handed over a cock cage.
“I’ve been a bad boy mommy,” he said.
“Mommy?”
I stood up and looked in the mirror. And there she was: her tall slender frame, small perky breast, and that stern resting bitch face.
I was Susan.
Or, more precisely, I was in Susan’s body. And presumably she was in mine.
“That fucking warlock,” I thought. “I hope Susan doesn’t look at my penis.”
I looked over to the nude man. “Sorry bro, I ain’t gay,” I said. I then threw on some clothes and sped over to my own apartment, expecting to find Susan in my body.
I stormed into my room, and there was me, or rather Susan as me, sitting prim and proper and drinking coffee.
“Look Susan,” I said, “I know that all of this is weird. But we can undo this. There’s a warlock I know that can put us back into our own bodies. Let’s go!”
“Why would I want to do that?” she, as me, asked.
“Well you’re me. I’m you. You know….”
“But I know that you’re the one getting that promotion. Or rather…I’M the one getting that promotion.”
“Susan, we don’t have time for this shit. We need to be looking for this warlock.”
(S)he took a drink of the coffee and slowly put the cup down. “I’ll cut you a deal,” (s)he said. “I’ll help you find this warlock, but first we should take time to appreciate this situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve done fellatio before, sure. But I’ve never had MY dick sucked…” (s)he said.
My heart began to sink.
“Will you suck my dick?” (s)he asked. “Or rather…will you suck YOUR dick?
The Internet Ruined Everything 