tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26813062877216761372024-03-16T22:47:33.110-07:00hardboiled wonderlandNoir Literature, Film and CultureUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger1039125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-46501221442567182512023-02-28T00:59:00.000-08:002023-02-28T00:59:55.552-08:00Hardboiled Wonderland was an active blog for 12 years, but it's inactive now. Lot of stuff I'm proud of in these pages and plenty that makes me cringe now. I've changed my opinion of many things and changed the way I would choose to speak about some of the subjects. I've been tempted to delete the blog many times and may someday, but I'm leaving it be for now. The main reason I never nuked it is that a lot of the books and some of the films covered remain under-valued and under-exposed and they deserve to have some record preserved. <div><br /></div><div>I made a lot of friends and no enemies that I'm aware of on this site and some of them are no longer around. Some of them have gone from amateur status to successful careers that's a cool thing too. Some of them wrote kickass guest pieces for this site too. I'd hate to lose those by deleting the blog.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you were a reader of, or a contributor to the blog, thanks so much. I appreciate it.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-53901268766542063292021-12-24T09:03:00.001-08:002022-03-10T13:56:29.189-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Scott Adlerberg on Eyes Wide Shut<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdGVSVOyu3waZ0Cv_hCRLbn-1qRqzZ-Y2S_7aBf-m95Am2ZWQvxnAXu_O1ddC5wf0uqc45HmvorjwWjQnJpYxRVvgONI7snve2s1BdcKX_zwooC6oRIzvFnuXCKLS8S6b6Kfq5WdbVy4xA-vYTQfnCg8w0iDgoIqrkPqWoS5bat7Bq7Mr2KIXSOlAZ=s1520" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1520" data-original-width="1060" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdGVSVOyu3waZ0Cv_hCRLbn-1qRqzZ-Y2S_7aBf-m95Am2ZWQvxnAXu_O1ddC5wf0uqc45HmvorjwWjQnJpYxRVvgONI7snve2s1BdcKX_zwooC6oRIzvFnuXCKLS8S6b6Kfq5WdbVy4xA-vYTQfnCg8w0iDgoIqrkPqWoS5bat7Bq7Mr2KIXSOlAZ=s320" width="223" /></a></b></div><b>Stanley Kubrick</b> adapted <i>Eyes Wide Shut</i> from the novella <i>Traumnovelle</i> (<i>Dream Story</i>),written in 1926 by the Viennese writer <b>Arthur Schnitzler</b>. A contemporary of <b>Sigmund Freud</b>’s, who read his work and admired it, Schnitzler specialized in stories that depicted sexuality frankly. Stanley Kubrick read <i>Dream Story</i> in 1968 and fell in love with it, obtaining the film rights, though in the way of Kubrick, not one inclined to work fast, he didn’t get an adaptation going until decades later, when he hired <b>Frederic Raphael</b> to write a script. I first saw the film on its opening night in 1999, and I remember going into the theater feeling the utmost excitement it is possible to feel before seeing a film. As had been the case for years, every Kubrick film was a major event because he made so few movies, and for <i>Eyes Wide Shut</i> there was the sadness of knowing that it would be the last time I would have the chance to experience one of his films for the first time. After nearly a year and a half of continual shooting and an extended post-production period, Kubrick screened the film for <b>Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman</b> and the Warner Brothers executives, and then died six days later. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6Pv7CCh3rEnyFdq1oOPCY0LfUzhf_utePI-C90Faq54D8NRke2IxB-aryB0Fozmyopvs3xkgSEzvzBxAVPA4dWv68EJidLvmZsJscdQ-4flOm7osT2i13ScFNYCAU86UGr0fEuEkptyF6uODgZ_jVayvthoQXWiY1Zing79koHKWEu5DTWyXSukAn=s814" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="814" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6Pv7CCh3rEnyFdq1oOPCY0LfUzhf_utePI-C90Faq54D8NRke2IxB-aryB0Fozmyopvs3xkgSEzvzBxAVPA4dWv68EJidLvmZsJscdQ-4flOm7osT2i13ScFNYCAU86UGr0fEuEkptyF6uODgZ_jVayvthoQXWiY1Zing79koHKWEu5DTWyXSukAn=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />I remember finding the film very strange, even by Kubrick standards. From <i>2001</i> on, and especially with <b>Barry Lyndon</b>, he hadn’t done a movie with fast pacing, but unlike with his other films, the deliberateness of <i>Eyes Wide Shut </i>irritated me somewhat. There’s a repetitive nature to the encounters that Cruise’s Dr. Bill Harford keeps having, and these got under my skin. They’re frustrating and off-kilter. They thwart desire. And yet I found these annoying adventures engrossing. The movie runs 159 minutes, and yet, at that viewing, it felt longer. But my attention had not once wandered. I wasn’t sure whether I’d seen a film I liked a lot or judged hard to endure, and at the same time, I felt satisfied with this conflicted reaction. Dream story indeed! The film had enveloped me like a hypnogogic experience cum nightmare, though I kept debating in my mind whether or not Kubrick had fallen prey to the fallacy of imitative form. <i>Remember that from English class?</i> <p></p><p><i>Had Kubrick not only depicted frustration and disgruntlement in his central characters but done so by evoking it in his audience?</i> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMkdqhePqCUXjIgCMugoNOLBqOJBaiW2Dzs8UknDHFk64h5KorGZnaon5VOzTGQ4YAhVsyXQCAzmcwpaVv_8mM2k1ZifxEQFPQK-DRzkLgx-Ffyo0pBspH2mHg_AMvXsR3XZNM2Jtltge0SZsAbyEXr6zSCgbN8ix2yDWyQpClxB7jUT0rIh9xux1u=s630" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="630" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMkdqhePqCUXjIgCMugoNOLBqOJBaiW2Dzs8UknDHFk64h5KorGZnaon5VOzTGQ4YAhVsyXQCAzmcwpaVv_8mM2k1ZifxEQFPQK-DRzkLgx-Ffyo0pBspH2mHg_AMvXsR3XZNM2Jtltge0SZsAbyEXr6zSCgbN8ix2yDWyQpClxB7jUT0rIh9xux1u=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />So twenty two years go by, and other than catching a snippet here and there of <i>Eyes Wide Shut</i> on cable television, I didn’t see the film again. By contrast, every other Kubrick film from <i>Killer’s Kiss</i> on, I’ve seen multiple times. “One day, one day,” I kept telling myself, “I’ll return to <i>Eyes Wide Shut</i>,” but not until Jed invited me to write a CrimeMas piece did I watch it in it entirety again. And right off the bat, I’ll admit it’s not precisely a crime film. But it has enough illicit activity to be close enough to a crime film, and there can be no question whatsoever that it is a Christmas film.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDohxs8ilJ1IGyFp_nJ2JDnKemMfzPp91VgloOsUGnqpLFajeGPTajm6NSvPmqpbO0sMVvujm5Hg1WD6UTLNkbEqeX1m_7P22n9ThdWV3pKaYjreR7gKVnL4TgcOWBY8uxWfioeV7B_E56imleFLkmqzY0FwcQeGZZZNy9rW12D4stghrKl5oF7_ac=s1275" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="1275" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDohxs8ilJ1IGyFp_nJ2JDnKemMfzPp91VgloOsUGnqpLFajeGPTajm6NSvPmqpbO0sMVvujm5Hg1WD6UTLNkbEqeX1m_7P22n9ThdWV3pKaYjreR7gKVnL4TgcOWBY8uxWfioeV7B_E56imleFLkmqzY0FwcQeGZZZNy9rW12D4stghrKl5oF7_ac=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />But getting back to Arthur Schnitzler for a second. It’s worth pointing out that in 1999 when I saw the film, I had not read the novella. I only read what critics wrote of it, the main point being that Kubrick had taken an Austrian work from the 1920s and changed it to one set in New York City in the 1990s. As I told Jed, I intended to read the source novella before revisiting the film, and having done that, I have to say that though the film retains its distinctly Kubrickian oddness, the unmistakable Kubrick tone, the long takes, the eerie intensity, it also functions as a scrupulous adaptation of the original story. Kubrick (and Raphael) did add an important character to the film – Ziegler, the wealthy guy played by<b> Sydney Pollack</b> – and make slight changes here and there, but for the most part, in how its plot unfolds and in the sexual dynamics it explores, <i>Eyes Wide Shut</i> hews closely to Schnitzler. Except that Schnitzler sets his story during the carnival season in Vienna, and Kubrick, as I’ve said, goes all in on Christmas.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnu7kROce1awTszmvGhG8Kdxvtt2XnRDVAzl5PWKILKl_gNfC91USoFCnpkfaCgwrV8IasFbUZ5HvfgxWgSg0r29wdfBM0sTK1xOwyVV0683mTz32WQo0Q4B4eyziN7Bpi3p9BmHo4Wllb-4W7oBuDAFdpmGLlJ6rwHuvrwPyoSOLtX6n6W4P6m_AU=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnu7kROce1awTszmvGhG8Kdxvtt2XnRDVAzl5PWKILKl_gNfC91USoFCnpkfaCgwrV8IasFbUZ5HvfgxWgSg0r29wdfBM0sTK1xOwyVV0683mTz32WQo0Q4B4eyziN7Bpi3p9BmHo4Wllb-4W7oBuDAFdpmGLlJ6rwHuvrwPyoSOLtX6n6W4P6m_AU=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />There’s no carnival in New York City, so that’s one reason Kubrick needed to change the holiday backdrop. <i>But why go specifically with Christmas?</i> For starters, it helps establish a dissonance between the hope and good cheer one associates with the season and the goings on in the film. <i>Has there ever been a more somber and dread-filled Christmas movie than Kubrick’s? </i>At the lavish party that opens the story, a holiday celebration thrown by Ziegler, the guests look stiff and joyless. They could be ghosts dancing in <i>The Shining</i>’s Overlook Hotel ballroom. The party sets the stage for the discussion Bill and Alice later have that sparks their marital crisis, and it’s at this party too where we see the first linkage in the film between sex and death. “Yuletide is the season for an obsession with Eros and Thanatos” could well be this film’s tagline, or it could be “Sex is all about power and money,” since every sexual encounter we see in the movie, including the orgy scene, revolves around both these things. Christmas is a time for family? <i>Eyes Wide Shut</i> shows us the Harford family struggling with its tensions, a piano player at gigs in New York though his wife and kids are back in Seattle, and a father who pimps out his adolescent daughter. We all know how Christmas has become a time of commercialism run rampant, its spiritual basis, for most people, downplayed, and in line with this, Kubrick’s film presents one transactional exchange after another. Time and again, Bill Harford is offering money to someone for a service he receives or wants. He offers the young prostitute money even after backing out of sex with her; he wakes the costume store owner late at night and says he’ll overpay to get the mask and tux and hood he needs; he gets the cabbie to wait for him outside the Long Island mansion’s gates by saying he’ll pay him a hefty sum. Even in the scene when Alice does homework with the Harford’s daughter, money is central, with Alice reading the math problem they’re doing aloud: “<i>Joe has two dollars fifty. Mike has one dollar and seventy-fivecents. Joe has how much more money than Mike?</i>”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyvpThlt-onBuUfFXefNIo_fwdGYQZT2Y_Go8cGXRtlXYtdTy3rWEp-zIak9EYgu_MV58fkDts5mCCBHySWNoFL-YnbPCu8R1Yai1nurlhIBLGqMgM_R1f66zRZNrBYVezd5M017LMrrTTVGk0UJbjAOejRkJFT9kCp6_tNUlu0XCqKZK48WNC_V-I=s620" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="620" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyvpThlt-onBuUfFXefNIo_fwdGYQZT2Y_Go8cGXRtlXYtdTy3rWEp-zIak9EYgu_MV58fkDts5mCCBHySWNoFL-YnbPCu8R1Yai1nurlhIBLGqMgM_R1f66zRZNrBYVezd5M017LMrrTTVGk0UJbjAOejRkJFT9kCp6_tNUlu0XCqKZK48WNC_V-I=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Above all, though, this is a film suffused with Christmas lights. Offhand, I can’t think of any other movie ever made with so many Christmas lights in it. Nearly every location in the movie, besides the house where the orgy takes place, has colored holiday lights. Kubrick uses them to light the scenes, not unlike how he used candles to light <i>Barry Lyndon</i>, and they serve to give the film a dreamy feel, a netherworld quality. And this makes sense since the New York City Kubrick creates, mainly from sets in England where he filmed the movie, is a blend of time periods. It’s part 1990s New York and part 1920s era Vienna and part the 1950s New York (like with the Greenwich Village jazz den Bill visits) that Kubrick lived in when he was young. It’s a New York that’s not quite New York, subtly hallucinatory, a landscape of the mind you could say. But as Christmassy as the film looks – the lit-up tree in the Harford’s apartment gets plenty of attention – virtually no seasonal music is heard. Classical music of varying levels of melancholy and creepiness dominates the soundtrack, and not until the last scene do we hear a single Christmas song or melody, a subdued version of Jingle Bells when Bill and Alice take their little girl Christmas shopping at the toy store. We’re surprised to see a few people smiling, and not just the children checking out the toys. Still, most of the adults passing Bill and Alice as the couple discuss how to move their marriage forward look like they are conducting business. And they are, of a sort; they’re engaging in the ritualistic consumer enterprise that makes up holiday shopping. That’s not to say there is no hope. The best gift Bill and Alice can give themselves for Christmas is the act Alice says she and Bill should do, a four-letter word that is the perfect word to end the scene that ends the career of Stanley K. </p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgf7pECr-39de8nZWwCw7SoEkL3IttMKOb3qQB2jf5Y4hZqm9D9EafhXE-WSXXP6cLRasi9s7iwmnPN0qvmDImhmpUtdjQqMcfALl6U_N-_tw4zVpt8jn2HrYVUtggps_-T6Q3jMh45D4rnTg8TETKjXozw7fpzCy19xo5jU04s_hh8wTJUIfotcaL2=s332" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="152" data-original-width="332" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgf7pECr-39de8nZWwCw7SoEkL3IttMKOb3qQB2jf5Y4hZqm9D9EafhXE-WSXXP6cLRasi9s7iwmnPN0qvmDImhmpUtdjQqMcfALl6U_N-_tw4zVpt8jn2HrYVUtggps_-T6Q3jMh45D4rnTg8TETKjXozw7fpzCy19xo5jU04s_hh8wTJUIfotcaL2=s320" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Merry Christmas from Kubrick?</i> Not exactly. But I consider that I gave myself a present by finally watching <i>Eyes Wide Shut</i> again. Three decades later, I am certain that Kubrick did not fall victim to the fallacy of imitative form. The movie flows much better than it did on first viewing, and I feel I have lots more to explore here. I can see it becoming, in Decembers to come a regular Christmas watch for me.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgnuyQj72sVYmyBJjOXC2FY2fSw86fvYDLoIR6-d4QquZnm_N93EERnNbp99uAlm1e2Xse9urzba16CSTyWseBtK4NhnV_JO5J2ouNtmjJS3zE8Y7I45036nLs3pdhx-7ibrE4P3nwuUO4Swf8dolQUTOXSy-dSBYYmo97K_-CnVJTYrPUEGh3Fvfs=s200" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgnuyQj72sVYmyBJjOXC2FY2fSw86fvYDLoIR6-d4QquZnm_N93EERnNbp99uAlm1e2Xse9urzba16CSTyWseBtK4NhnV_JO5J2ouNtmjJS3zE8Y7I45036nLs3pdhx-7ibrE4P3nwuUO4Swf8dolQUTOXSy-dSBYYmo97K_-CnVJTYrPUEGh3Fvfs" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://spaceythompson.blogspot.com/2021/11/scott-adlerberg-five-noirvember-films.html" target="_blank"><b>Scott Adlerberg</b> is the author of four novels</a>, including the psychological thriller <i>Graveyard Love</i> and the historical revenge tale <i>Jack Waters</i>. Every summer he hosts the Word for Word Reel Talks film series in Bryant Park. He lives in Brooklyn.<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-37075434168038086712021-12-23T08:50:00.002-08:002022-03-10T13:55:52.011-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Paul J. Garth on LA Confidential<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWFU3YJVGqW7hTF24YjZizOJd_zxIs5FnuOT2JFD1ez-yipo0TLpOm3AaVmI-dvfepESRgHZ3lW3DFu7P2XP8Pvc1FPJTW6gNAYgbeYEbuvHCJfiuw3AEnu3OVgMnKrErE5nuUscR2rnLJlciFxELN_NliBNcXWm2e8-RpbxC4QAp_3GtZ5bhjFVL8=s273" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="185" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWFU3YJVGqW7hTF24YjZizOJd_zxIs5FnuOT2JFD1ez-yipo0TLpOm3AaVmI-dvfepESRgHZ3lW3DFu7P2XP8Pvc1FPJTW6gNAYgbeYEbuvHCJfiuw3AEnu3OVgMnKrErE5nuUscR2rnLJlciFxELN_NliBNcXWm2e8-RpbxC4QAp_3GtZ5bhjFVL8" width="185" /></a></div>It’d been years since I last watched <i>LA Confidential</i>. In truth, I don’t really remember a lot about my first viewing. I am certain I was half-drunk, and I know I had not yet read any of Ellroy’s novels. What I do remember is this. I loved the score, and I was stunned when Dudley Smith went all Bang-Bang on <b>Kevin Spacey</b>’s Detective Jack Vincennes (sidenote: who else kind of forgot that Spacey used to underplay some of his roles?).<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghudF7oC6J6Fmb6yacMm7C-3b_zu7mbcBMWQFT0xjWXcnjK8XbYZAH5NqdG2BM4xoXMNFLIfy8ADKOAUfePFnk3kkDgSXAfEpQxsj46R9NG6K8zwnyYCFW-z0NxvXiM0Y_W0gls6cv-6I8mwAH1CUSeIhWYqvVreYlDApUrrmDnmsmXYLQk5L0cqdh=s677" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="677" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghudF7oC6J6Fmb6yacMm7C-3b_zu7mbcBMWQFT0xjWXcnjK8XbYZAH5NqdG2BM4xoXMNFLIfy8ADKOAUfePFnk3kkDgSXAfEpQxsj46R9NG6K8zwnyYCFW-z0NxvXiM0Y_W0gls6cv-6I8mwAH1CUSeIhWYqvVreYlDApUrrmDnmsmXYLQk5L0cqdh=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />This time I was decidedly not drunk, and, having now read all of the LA Quartet a few times, also wasn’t surprised that Dudley Smith turns out to be the bastard we all know him to be (one more sidenote: I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’m convinced Smith is the single most evil character in American Literature, even more so than McCarthy’s The Judge). But I was surprised, probably blinded by my fascination with the books, at how much Confidential is a Christmas movie. But not for the reasons you think. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjg4SD1MhDmElwnOGo9MO0pHzshOSsJuIPFp9mRZrdTxszvUhstCa_TXz-atXXP213to2509aFZaj2Pzt-LctZZd_wxbm1bSG52GFqQ8R30mGQmn5p074JlX-PeV2ls9IMbzlFcAGxkgkFObdGazllTuc7R_KbK_0djX4CrnzvrJ3_b072xZzB9uFvg=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="1000" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjg4SD1MhDmElwnOGo9MO0pHzshOSsJuIPFp9mRZrdTxszvUhstCa_TXz-atXXP213to2509aFZaj2Pzt-LctZZd_wxbm1bSG52GFqQ8R30mGQmn5p074JlX-PeV2ls9IMbzlFcAGxkgkFObdGazllTuc7R_KbK_0djX4CrnzvrJ3_b072xZzB9uFvg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />It starts with a Christmas party - actually, it starts with a wife beater getting fucking clocked with Santa’s Sleigh, pulled from the rooftop by <b>Russell Crowe</b>’s Brooding yet cunning Barbarian of a cop, Bud White), but it’s really a Chrismas movie because Dudley Smith is the Devil… and Edmund Exley is Jesus. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpA9Hk9d8Zq_HQZhmrhFftyJbWM65CoT0UC1nVbC7z3HsQVzBKTFDCHNxyQDSlMOXoH3jeby20Mwmv7Iys4vGUk9FIal7vqkyuU923Coe803AC_6YR1BS5-0OYfc2WEeFPzJmRAVYDzY2W_8lt4jwrWU-ndDCA8NNWVGkL-e6f6XlIcLJarPrkD9jO=s540" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="223" data-original-width="540" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpA9Hk9d8Zq_HQZhmrhFftyJbWM65CoT0UC1nVbC7z3HsQVzBKTFDCHNxyQDSlMOXoH3jeby20Mwmv7Iys4vGUk9FIal7vqkyuU923Coe803AC_6YR1BS5-0OYfc2WEeFPzJmRAVYDzY2W_8lt4jwrWU-ndDCA8NNWVGkL-e6f6XlIcLJarPrkD9jO=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />To anyone who has read the Quartet in full, that part about Smith is undeniably true, and the part about Exley is, well, a little more complicated. But we’re talking about the movie here, and, with all knowledge of the source material thrown out, the parallels, inserted by Director <b>Curtis Hanson</b> and screenwriter <b>Brian Helgeland</b>, are undeniable.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpZS8HPTWmZL1dUc1FXA6CsrXDmAycVXNVdBiP2KyDWLdOLNZ_A--JVBOUAP-NYoE9euGJwbBk-TzVluT3jXlXXjCTqYK35cvSRUyGvp9220IXNv2sQi2zumsGJJJoE3PbR4LlhR0yN93ebaQJTUyWRjGRaoi3Ax74K5ABlu3Dfg3ewq7YQUmlO2ED=s800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="800" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpZS8HPTWmZL1dUc1FXA6CsrXDmAycVXNVdBiP2KyDWLdOLNZ_A--JVBOUAP-NYoE9euGJwbBk-TzVluT3jXlXXjCTqYK35cvSRUyGvp9220IXNv2sQi2zumsGJJJoE3PbR4LlhR0yN93ebaQJTUyWRjGRaoi3Ax74K5ABlu3Dfg3ewq7YQUmlO2ED=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Edmund Exley is a Boy Scout. Not just a boy scout, actually, a <i>do-the-right-thing-no-matter-what</i> dork of a boy scout. That’s established early, when Smith, after learning of Exley’s aspirations to the Detectives Bureau, questions him on whether or not he’d do The Right Thing and beat, kill, or plant evidence on people he knows are guilty. It’s basically Jesus and The Devil in the Desert while wearing police blues. That Exley soon finds himself promoted and under Smith’s tutelage is both a function of plot and theme. He needs to be too close to see the truth, while highlighting his own Personal Truth, his willingness and determination to ensure the right thing is done despite any discomfort it may cause. Exley is a martyr, and when he walks into the Nite Owl Cafe, he finds himself on his own road back to Jerusalem, though he doesn’t know the Devil is already at his shoulder. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggfxdZD2iNgoebjZomq-mLoOrG9dZe1YfRQbJuqI6PRt-2V2Amd3ktrAZTKrV9UNI0IdUrYnFFf1MuDDb-XrUMzlj1xaHOAuADL2fNgRyS8MOkWt8raMaOiVcZQYdHCwc3QewIeLhDKyDjKGf5yOJk05zK2Y3BcRXMRZjtroygD3EyJ8NGvU7TYWjj=s785" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="785" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggfxdZD2iNgoebjZomq-mLoOrG9dZe1YfRQbJuqI6PRt-2V2Amd3ktrAZTKrV9UNI0IdUrYnFFf1MuDDb-XrUMzlj1xaHOAuADL2fNgRyS8MOkWt8raMaOiVcZQYdHCwc3QewIeLhDKyDjKGf5yOJk05zK2Y3BcRXMRZjtroygD3EyJ8NGvU7TYWjj=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>That <b>Guy Pearce</b> plays Exley with the calm, almost stuttering, tone of someone lost in the library only completes the picture. Hanson even draws attention to Exley’s need for glasses - a common malady for those born into imperfect bodies, one which Smith encourages him to discard - but later, at the Victory Hotel (Exley’s Golgotha), the glasses are shattered, impossible to see through, and he still takes motherfuckers out without an issue.</p><p>Throughout the film, he even gathers Disciples. Believers in, if not his way of doing things, than his ultimate message: that no stone can be kept unturned, that Evil, no matter it’s address or how cushy it dresses, must be vanquished. First Vincennes, then White, and, after that ending, more, surely, to follow. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3bEWQNg4fToY5Dnz0UsrS0yyxI_G5rroUh0piRpzuLm3CV6luOMYoQoyOfbUHTiD8SjneQThUJBZo7Sl4GF7jJsyxXAKQhREIXnqUho5w9QzcLojoYFuIzqu-ehZZhqjMU37-dQ2NEbWTdI-8Bn4GnfsQ5pwl7o5YPuT3AHDWAdjf_wEsikpx6hLB=s1296" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1296" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3bEWQNg4fToY5Dnz0UsrS0yyxI_G5rroUh0piRpzuLm3CV6luOMYoQoyOfbUHTiD8SjneQThUJBZo7Sl4GF7jJsyxXAKQhREIXnqUho5w9QzcLojoYFuIzqu-ehZZhqjMU37-dQ2NEbWTdI-8Bn4GnfsQ5pwl7o5YPuT3AHDWAdjf_wEsikpx6hLB=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />It’d all be on the nose and obvious except for the fact that Exley does lose to temptation when he falls in to the arms of Lyn Bracken (Basinger), and while that does diminish Exley’s christlike stature, Bracken, her of the <b>Veronica Lake</b> face and burning heart, joins him and Bud at the end of the film. suddenly lit in something other than postwar housing gloom, she appears Beatific. A Magdalene, almost. Another disciple herself.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzhKdhQpMQgRBTXDQrPi5bjjklGsmiQrz3NWlQ2ZIcmWgATS7CiEogbsjVzuCnG0J7P4RhR8ncQLcXDHybk5hFTAKVcHiEjLIJiE35-2hc0bgQL07Hx1c7ScnbrbJh6Y4tedZ61YxzEGxfS0sp0_R00_HPTRPIsHm1Xmz41O98FCWXvXf_q_0vO0Ek=s540" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="241" data-original-width="540" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzhKdhQpMQgRBTXDQrPi5bjjklGsmiQrz3NWlQ2ZIcmWgATS7CiEogbsjVzuCnG0J7P4RhR8ncQLcXDHybk5hFTAKVcHiEjLIJiE35-2hc0bgQL07Hx1c7ScnbrbJh6Y4tedZ61YxzEGxfS0sp0_R00_HPTRPIsHm1Xmz41O98FCWXvXf_q_0vO0Ek=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Around them, the city (<i>of angels!!! cmon!</i>) celebrates Exley for vanquishing the corruption from within, and the film ends on a hopeful note. Exley is now the “face of the new LA Police Force” and, the chief reassures the media, no longer will “Fat officers steal <i>apples</i> from children” (Come on!). Exley has found his truth, and it has allowed him an ascension, complete with wounds that may as well be stigmata. Bud White, wrath turned to camaraderie and peacefulness, rides off into the sunset with Bracken, and Exley watches them go, the glow of a new day all about them. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwI0_c28jNcbinrOdFj4KBY4AbsfCp5KU2QP1ZqRhDdjS4cMat6bJykjZiaL7yhHZYDmCoJKifKCIDtfe7MkueDHvHARiMHY8_Oz7gJaBpiyBukyRz9CY8BwLg1r-r97smR1x5MQbmMfbPwpjltsBz2BrTg_cTg9DuX9Soh5-NDO4dMFIS_IqrKZDD=s366" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="138" data-original-width="366" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwI0_c28jNcbinrOdFj4KBY4AbsfCp5KU2QP1ZqRhDdjS4cMat6bJykjZiaL7yhHZYDmCoJKifKCIDtfe7MkueDHvHARiMHY8_Oz7gJaBpiyBukyRz9CY8BwLg1r-r97smR1x5MQbmMfbPwpjltsBz2BrTg_cTg9DuX9Soh5-NDO4dMFIS_IqrKZDD=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />When it comes down to it, I prefer the books. The continuation of the story, the battle between Smith and Exley. Both, it turns out, have clay feet, and Exley is ultimately unable to bring down Smith without compromising himself and his morals. There is no savior narrative, no absolution. There’s just a decent man, trying to be better in a city that celebrates, was made by, evil. That’s not to say there’s not a lot to love about <i>LA Confidential</i>, though. It’s hopeful and iconic and great cinema, but also, just a few years after <b>Rodney King</b> and the riots, just a few years after OJ and Furman, just a few years after <b>Daryl Fucking Gates</b>, it’s either offensively chipper and ignorant, or deeply cynical. The savior, we know, didn’t actually change shit. The bad times kept on rolling, even when The Devil was dead.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYrkb6kgaUdAk0xFv9uKrZ9WpMjH0ynQCgqQKV3OovSdN9kiwpe4La4cY6LCxiDNd0al3Gom8cy55eSSm033JYkJBiSuhowozt3PSyXRjrsXlyaoE6mfWAuYDPumgabpYKX6GCgp0jDph2PQG7Xlpj_6S5p9laOYIZf0xG2kp4ZevDcQamhirAcZNU=s1019" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="1019" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYrkb6kgaUdAk0xFv9uKrZ9WpMjH0ynQCgqQKV3OovSdN9kiwpe4La4cY6LCxiDNd0al3Gom8cy55eSSm033JYkJBiSuhowozt3PSyXRjrsXlyaoE6mfWAuYDPumgabpYKX6GCgp0jDph2PQG7Xlpj_6S5p9laOYIZf0xG2kp4ZevDcQamhirAcZNU=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Merry fucking Christmas, indeed.<p></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBo3XYRV7xY_ZxFtviHtz4D2bOrmaQcIulw5S1rRXsHRMPqsCC6tDBln8tvEygWxJHOZ6Z58stkU2paesHoo1jogdx8Ddy0ddYxnv8J1_HYLrknTcxe2vdfXlCBMUkCDxRPzoz0L_CSO3kdA8Z4g0Ey91tyXnJxJMqL0T4azuZuswccck8Gw8n0ZT-=s400" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBo3XYRV7xY_ZxFtviHtz4D2bOrmaQcIulw5S1rRXsHRMPqsCC6tDBln8tvEygWxJHOZ6Z58stkU2paesHoo1jogdx8Ddy0ddYxnv8J1_HYLrknTcxe2vdfXlCBMUkCDxRPzoz0L_CSO3kdA8Z4g0Ey91tyXnJxJMqL0T4azuZuswccck8Gw8n0ZT-=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></div><b>Paul J. Garth</b> writes Nebraska-set crime fiction full of murder, mayhem, madness, sadness., guilt, despair, broken bones, hesitation marks, and self inflicted wounds. <a href="https://twitter.com/PauljGarth" target="_blank">Find him on Twitter <b>@PauljGarth</b></a>.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-27404072008766551102021-12-21T03:02:00.001-08:002022-03-10T14:01:16.524-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Sandra Ruttan on Riders of Justice<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkltyUYKMwOLCa00O6ZAKjnz2W1r2U2V41LqqxomvC0Z9dvAPK1aVQMc9GMmIC9mpG-j20jTUciFL2_-7D1SzXIlBeNxwNqpfcVIfcZlN25BzuMOrc330BfHGFE1YrBgSl7ATDVWl8I7N2smTpJ2gq5YFNK21C4mmogUNGJwOIgB4nmNuWToI_AyEv=s1481" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1481" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkltyUYKMwOLCa00O6ZAKjnz2W1r2U2V41LqqxomvC0Z9dvAPK1aVQMc9GMmIC9mpG-j20jTUciFL2_-7D1SzXIlBeNxwNqpfcVIfcZlN25BzuMOrc330BfHGFE1YrBgSl7ATDVWl8I7N2smTpJ2gq5YFNK21C4mmogUNGJwOIgB4nmNuWToI_AyEv=s320" width="216" /></a></div>Riders of Justice</i> starts with Mathilde telling her grandfather what she wants for Christmas. A bike. A blue bike, because she doesn't favor red. When that blue bike is stolen, that crime's the first domino in a series of falling blocks that upend lives. Gear shift to a couple mathematicians giving a presentation about an algorithm that can, theoretically, predict events. With the right funding, Otto, Lennart, and Emmenthaler can continue their research. Only they aren't getting the funding. They're getting fired. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0xv1F0r4fA7YLq14kf8y6eBit7xn_4rXNGwDJLafmvp58O6wGCPOEe0QstSCR4DfFLD9KY1QpznHPky9zZy2Rw0rnsOng7SQvsDD9dv3Lb8hFW6mzp4ZbNNvzKQgWfSnWNLH8AMXwVle7pBGPZRAT2sIFH97rZ3Uyn4nwFOpA0uFX4RiY4jrBXnro=s1280" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0xv1F0r4fA7YLq14kf8y6eBit7xn_4rXNGwDJLafmvp58O6wGCPOEe0QstSCR4DfFLD9KY1QpznHPky9zZy2Rw0rnsOng7SQvsDD9dv3Lb8hFW6mzp4ZbNNvzKQgWfSnWNLH8AMXwVle7pBGPZRAT2sIFH97rZ3Uyn4nwFOpA0uFX4RiY4jrBXnro=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />When Mathilde and Otto cross paths, a train accident changes their lives forever. Both look for understanding, an explanation. And perhaps nobody needs answers more than Mathilde's father, Marcus. Marcus is a soldier and he returns after the accident, and he isn't coping well.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">On the surface, <i>Riders of Justice</i> turns into a revenge story. Pull back the layers, and you have stories about grieving men struggling with loss and their inability to confront their pain and cope with their loss. This movie's so densely and skillfully layered, to say much at all would spoil the magic. Come for the revenge, stay for the healing. If I could rename this movie anything, I'd call it <i>Miracles for the Broken</i>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1kFsKwGFAV6IBdMn1mh6bRmM97ZkBRxSHI3UJdRwVawNQjORssPBucmr4pi5JhanFQveMsZF6cZAYQJYLH5QFEfHm7-zJbioiQrxmF5vGwR9Ep_nHr3mxXRSBaHcJaVjMjV9MBLwve0svr61HlecdPNIWrQAuanqjVcWqtzoLepWY5dm4fY22PLYi=s310" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="310" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1kFsKwGFAV6IBdMn1mh6bRmM97ZkBRxSHI3UJdRwVawNQjORssPBucmr4pi5JhanFQveMsZF6cZAYQJYLH5QFEfHm7-zJbioiQrxmF5vGwR9Ep_nHr3mxXRSBaHcJaVjMjV9MBLwve0svr61HlecdPNIWrQAuanqjVcWqtzoLepWY5dm4fY22PLYi" width="310" /></a></div><br />At one point, when Mathilde asks her dad if he believed in God when he was young, Marcus tells her, "<i>I also believed in Santa. But when you grow up you have to be able to distinguish between reality and fantasy.</i>"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Turns out, the lines between fantasy and reality might be thinner than Marcus realizes. What I absolutely love about this movie is that you might think the soldier would come home and find out who was responsible for the train crash and get revenge, but Marcus isn't the hero of the story. The hero is a mathematician who has the courage to pursue his beliefs and admit his mistakes. The trio of math geeks add depth to this story and every little thing pays off in spades. And their individual traumas all impact the story in meaningful ways.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwTykc_sNDT1dDmFttiET_yepW4qSz1FGlDadmYvMGbd_3TNexnBvssqWt9JlJRbf7eOWufo9WVqX_9ToUGDAeuno7U7aJjar2y3Dg6lvR_mgrGYVRvRjy2dL_5RPNaCHH0UrVG-QEeTzUS1s-BfmLEGniRzeqfHL7Ek86JhjApg1zU1bZzPGpPlPP=s225" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="224" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwTykc_sNDT1dDmFttiET_yepW4qSz1FGlDadmYvMGbd_3TNexnBvssqWt9JlJRbf7eOWufo9WVqX_9ToUGDAeuno7U7aJjar2y3Dg6lvR_mgrGYVRvRjy2dL_5RPNaCHH0UrVG-QEeTzUS1s-BfmLEGniRzeqfHL7Ek86JhjApg1zU1bZzPGpPlPP" width="224" /></a></div>This is my favorite Christmas movie. And quite possibly my favorite found family ever. And yes, Christmas is a bigger part of the movie than I've mentioned here, but I've skipped the spoilers and stuck to teasers to entice you to head to Hulu and check this movie out yourself. Highly recommended.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiHuSZlf2UMLWKqT5ug_Jzq39QxpDmmF7R6xdOddRoYqYxXbzarGGIzW9mNlNsdmmV9u0FIF26BdpxWus8GcyKzt-WdohQw_GPD9-OB9FFoOznwl5Wuq-XvBPKLhgZalOYQroBb-Hk6hMXo0WC78w4D-nzx8YSdugBzv88ZQoacc6ycj-Ni4AzeAs9=s200" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="153" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiHuSZlf2UMLWKqT5ug_Jzq39QxpDmmF7R6xdOddRoYqYxXbzarGGIzW9mNlNsdmmV9u0FIF26BdpxWus8GcyKzt-WdohQw_GPD9-OB9FFoOznwl5Wuq-XvBPKLhgZalOYQroBb-Hk6hMXo0WC78w4D-nzx8YSdugBzv88ZQoacc6ycj-Ni4AzeAs9" width="153" /></a></div>Sandra Rutta</b>n's currently partnering with <b>Laurel Hightower</b> to release <i>The Dead Inside</i>, an identity horror anthology, in early 2021. Stay tuned for more projects and publication opportunities via <b><a href="https://darkdispatch.com/" target="_blank">Dark Dispatch</a></b></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-30870389723061564522021-12-20T02:39:00.001-08:002022-03-10T14:01:38.768-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Brian Lindenmuth on Dead Bang<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKSBZreAJJHBgH08Uf309oQ6-RQ6tKsVeQt6-B4cUmOByJhX-nH4GAto1hi0bZKAenE9qJ9QGXua-b2o7YTo31jxfrKY0kFKrJjYxJuvhCO7Pee8-q-E6QTLBksfBXRLYakpu-fnNOVScbfve-cKYrbtX6RpvGzfu2MiUyRpV1FqWrWrKrMzt84Fnj=s1500" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="998" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKSBZreAJJHBgH08Uf309oQ6-RQ6tKsVeQt6-B4cUmOByJhX-nH4GAto1hi0bZKAenE9qJ9QGXua-b2o7YTo31jxfrKY0kFKrJjYxJuvhCO7Pee8-q-E6QTLBksfBXRLYakpu-fnNOVScbfve-cKYrbtX6RpvGzfu2MiUyRpV1FqWrWrKrMzt84Fnj=s320" width="213" /></a></div>Recently I put on <i>Dead Bang </i>while I was doing some much needed house cleaning in my office. I posted that I was watching it on social media and soon after Jed offered a CrimesMas spot to me if I wanted it. <p></p><p><i>Why did Jed ask me to write a CrimesMas piece?</i> We'll get to that. </p><p>First, let me share a couple of stray thoughts I had while watching <i>Dead Bang</i>.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLlitE94Mo09S2gBHXzIX8TSwUURbBSysgy17aJnQ0qwG3ia-aVDieZnEszcXlxe2S5Nr6XtcdBehBR0iVyDcC1TQ9RrW3001OY9ri3G3h9AMoY4GZpROnKKu4b0Aaaak1PWy1iyz7w1A5bcM1iN6xJpK-OJfBEJhp0hkB2WcS-olkU4gQ_7vNVMYF=s300" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLlitE94Mo09S2gBHXzIX8TSwUURbBSysgy17aJnQ0qwG3ia-aVDieZnEszcXlxe2S5Nr6XtcdBehBR0iVyDcC1TQ9RrW3001OY9ri3G3h9AMoY4GZpROnKKu4b0Aaaak1PWy1iyz7w1A5bcM1iN6xJpK-OJfBEJhp0hkB2WcS-olkU4gQ_7vNVMYF" width="300" /></a></div><br />My wife and I recently started a re-watch of the HBO show <i>Watchmen</i>. There may be a good compare and contrast piece to be written comparing <i>Dead Bang</i> and <i>Watchmen</i> because of some similarities and to see if they are superficial or not. Both are about police departments, both deal with white supremacy, and both feature <b>Don Johnson</b>. But this piece isn't about that.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9sfJnrP05iCvFPvSpvD3GfP3SzfU2ou6BiclpS0NeIi1EuXKL-W3g7zh1ClpmA21oeigBY__7bFA6qY6aEpDV2TVrmFO6B0T2Ahux5OLf49UUol1wtAPOCpi348KN4VjSdm8wZ-n4WuwF0Yc55sSp5NBW0ADclzXP0U2rc8SrhrNq6L2qsaMOyUBQ=s1064" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="1064" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9sfJnrP05iCvFPvSpvD3GfP3SzfU2ou6BiclpS0NeIi1EuXKL-W3g7zh1ClpmA21oeigBY__7bFA6qY6aEpDV2TVrmFO6B0T2Ahux5OLf49UUol1wtAPOCpi348KN4VjSdm8wZ-n4WuwF0Yc55sSp5NBW0ADclzXP0U2rc8SrhrNq6L2qsaMOyUBQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />It's been years since I last saw <i>Dead Bang</i> but when I was younger, I saw it many times. This got me thinking about what I'll call Basic Cable Standards. If you are of a certain age you probably watched a lot of movies on basic cable channels in the 80's and 90's. Some of those films were in high rotation and became favorites. I may want to write this piece at some time, but this piece isn't about that. <p></p><p>I realized that, at least some times, I like a little bit of toxic masculinity. But only in my fiction and in certain stories. Don Johnson's character is such a bastard. <i>Is it any wonder why he has such a terrible relationship with his ex-wife and kids?</i> But this piece isn't about that.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgH35xV3p3i32lP80aI_0VVg-kYKKHkGX5YhQPYD0kg1GOszGYC__mYmluRb37q9BUnJqddqC-kckI2be8quMIxpDD__9cDgZrNREY_8pzGpnavZteFxerob4W1yO8AfKBQaHdzB5WZccimfgrO875CJqwBuwadU4_eHfUfqCbQtWld7HmRHMMpvHjf=s300" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgH35xV3p3i32lP80aI_0VVg-kYKKHkGX5YhQPYD0kg1GOszGYC__mYmluRb37q9BUnJqddqC-kckI2be8quMIxpDD__9cDgZrNREY_8pzGpnavZteFxerob4W1yO8AfKBQaHdzB5WZccimfgrO875CJqwBuwadU4_eHfUfqCbQtWld7HmRHMMpvHjf" width="300" /></a></div><br />Let's take a moment between these stray thoughts to appreciate Don Johnson's hair. He really is a handsome son of a bitch isn't he. I hate him. Just kidding. Not really.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLdelcsZksNLUJvA3LibYGJS0xcz_Beq3mZRf3LR5uxAoMZ96Fy3y6JXJR0zFlszs5tj8dlSfDOdRSrhhxv6XAKTUNLYi0i_DnErnAbvAoH43z78_H-S7kEBzstyraXQAOEgyCPL3vrs3s2WtKo1VvIg3zapaMDgVd7xRchIQT-pOO-RWbDfsm1qu3=s1000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="1000" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLdelcsZksNLUJvA3LibYGJS0xcz_Beq3mZRf3LR5uxAoMZ96Fy3y6JXJR0zFlszs5tj8dlSfDOdRSrhhxv6XAKTUNLYi0i_DnErnAbvAoH43z78_H-S7kEBzstyraXQAOEgyCPL3vrs3s2WtKo1VvIg3zapaMDgVd7xRchIQT-pOO-RWbDfsm1qu3=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />As regressive as Don Johnson's character can be, there's a moment in the third act that I've always remembered. Don Johnson's character is met by a Black sheriff, Chief Dixon played by <b>Tim Reid</b>. Chief Dixon assures him that no white supremacist has infiltrated his force. Don Johnson protests then we cut to the force which is comprised of all Black officers. In fact, they seem to be the only characters up to this point who believe that white supremacists are out there and a threat. But this piece isn't about that.<p></p><p><i>Well then what the hell is it about?</i> That's probably a fair question at this point. </p><p>Well, you see, toxically masculine but well coiffed Don Johnson forces a parole officer to grab a file for him on his day off. Then he kidnaps the man to question a bad dude biker. When the suspect runs an awesome foot chase takes place. When the hungover Don Johnson finally tackles the guy and has the man splayed out on the ground, Don Johnson pukes all over him. <i>What's so special about this scene?</i> The parole officer's day off is Christmas. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHasWN61lXimSY6LxWWr9DHtI-IaFVcGoUxb8aKd1T7UTyrQf2G-zC69-OGliOSU4clilg5kGpiXwEkj--rz9xffCTQQuT0CUcS8YL6XWZ_wsE_WbpXXTQeFfmbQXdws-4c3C1SArPWxtEv4OJx4NOiTDojCpy0xG8iU3Ta4O-Gj1zTgVhIoDqMJCQ=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="790" data-original-width="1080" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHasWN61lXimSY6LxWWr9DHtI-IaFVcGoUxb8aKd1T7UTyrQf2G-zC69-OGliOSU4clilg5kGpiXwEkj--rz9xffCTQQuT0CUcS8YL6XWZ_wsE_WbpXXTQeFfmbQXdws-4c3C1SArPWxtEv4OJx4NOiTDojCpy0xG8iU3Ta4O-Gj1zTgVhIoDqMJCQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Tldr: Don Johnson kidnaps a colleague to roust a suspect, catches the guy, and pukes all over him. <p></p><p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjY_DD0IZ0qMFAcJZ7WzF7gQQu4Ln6hGgvbQLOMiR3BeOmbxKXElc45-p_AxTdVtRH0KXk9gFzc8ldy1Ib6LbqSvDVYGdnYPf553BnO9raHfZ24j6TP2sIIqSSC0O_eE8qk28Wxe7-qyq24zUCLmuPXtHFuED9Jpzi7CtjpClHL0GjCR-9sSJfiimjK=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="772" data-original-width="1080" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjY_DD0IZ0qMFAcJZ7WzF7gQQu4Ln6hGgvbQLOMiR3BeOmbxKXElc45-p_AxTdVtRH0KXk9gFzc8ldy1Ib6LbqSvDVYGdnYPf553BnO9raHfZ24j6TP2sIIqSSC0O_eE8qk28Wxe7-qyq24zUCLmuPXtHFuED9Jpzi7CtjpClHL0GjCR-9sSJfiimjK=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />On Christmas.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdvZCHPs__pq2thJ38Jul3JDnDmIqxWEnBbVvCfzfoShDpeqtpwHLjpQ9UblWpT3ncbtR7KvFYVv5dW2fieciG1TdS3YlRZ1yqwIfidPaVaqJd1nUwUs5yARBaK0btKwxe9vtWQTd9MlCVPKw1PSQH2KXhztBKaSHHlu4R96NGK_wObkx1EfZhOkOG=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="776" data-original-width="1080" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdvZCHPs__pq2thJ38Jul3JDnDmIqxWEnBbVvCfzfoShDpeqtpwHLjpQ9UblWpT3ncbtR7KvFYVv5dW2fieciG1TdS3YlRZ1yqwIfidPaVaqJd1nUwUs5yARBaK0btKwxe9vtWQTd9MlCVPKw1PSQH2KXhztBKaSHHlu4R96NGK_wObkx1EfZhOkOG=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />It's the Christmas miracle of alcoholic single dad cops in 80's movies everywhere!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgu6mtpmfpev5V-mhkOwqN1LZ2awCJkRUU8PGg03P8Thqq5S5-AnovffE_6UKm7oIekRd89fsIsa1maUO0CqmHiIDNzAjdO_rhZ8DQqEFxcMo9w5_ujsSHcixDas6NZmB1_zBQSoE5Qj_CkKIXpP4tFihRIXyZpKQZ1J_ALDPZ6vo_wVa9RKNVXLC8H=s1480" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1480" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgu6mtpmfpev5V-mhkOwqN1LZ2awCJkRUU8PGg03P8Thqq5S5-AnovffE_6UKm7oIekRd89fsIsa1maUO0CqmHiIDNzAjdO_rhZ8DQqEFxcMo9w5_ujsSHcixDas6NZmB1_zBQSoE5Qj_CkKIXpP4tFihRIXyZpKQZ1J_ALDPZ6vo_wVa9RKNVXLC8H=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Jokes aside, this is a solid B movie crime thriller and is worth checking out if you can find a copy. </p><div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiej7E5wtwMbYnds3TZVDFA8MDBl_y3j_C7Stbi4pqORWC4bdsWH0aw5YtyXC2GGnXF36LmjwCqAgpgytk_Lf_WDaOucgpOLaoUqs0xug4RUHOo39WfFHSm_6W50xt0p6w_9iIYJoeZM5c8y9upFDWzdm3JIEtCtIkc5UrQzIRAO8EdgIVGhg1UFqXe=s200" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiej7E5wtwMbYnds3TZVDFA8MDBl_y3j_C7Stbi4pqORWC4bdsWH0aw5YtyXC2GGnXF36LmjwCqAgpgytk_Lf_WDaOucgpOLaoUqs0xug4RUHOo39WfFHSm_6W50xt0p6w_9iIYJoeZM5c8y9upFDWzdm3JIEtCtIkc5UrQzIRAO8EdgIVGhg1UFqXe" width="200" /></a></div>Brian Lindenmuth</b> writes reviews for Leviathan Libraries (fka SciFi & Scary) and movie reviews over at <a href="https://oneinchtallmovies.wordpress.com/" target="_blank"><b>One Inch Tall Movies</b></a>.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-91604903198728093522021-12-17T10:43:00.002-08:002021-12-17T16:28:40.321-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Deep Cover<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtU-KWdsRKJ3Czy904oHEt22IJlZT29kQasaO_tp2Ug2thSWg5SE0TY7KjH6sgmX46j7z6xmhcKHaoCtKJtehe4ZdMSe863iwSJWDW8d0kQsKU7YPg1PVBUi3dgaofbGyEnK5rU5zkrq84TsgdievPO5OEswCL3F-elRFq6-vGrmSvLDBYlJOLJ4WI=s334" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtU-KWdsRKJ3Czy904oHEt22IJlZT29kQasaO_tp2Ug2thSWg5SE0TY7KjH6sgmX46j7z6xmhcKHaoCtKJtehe4ZdMSe863iwSJWDW8d0kQsKU7YPg1PVBUi3dgaofbGyEnK5rU5zkrq84TsgdievPO5OEswCL3F-elRFq6-vGrmSvLDBYlJOLJ4WI=s320" width="211" /></a></div>Released in the spring of 1992, <b>Bill Duke</b>'s <i>Deep Cover</i> is the concluding chapter to what I consider the foundational 1990s cocaine crime flicks following <b>Abel Ferrara</b>'s <i>King of New York</i> (fall 1990) and <b>Mario Van Peebles</b>' <i>New Jack City</i> (winter 1991). All three films are time capsules packed with style and swagger (and sometimes not much else), but <i>Deep Cover</i> is the most sober and complex in its focus on the hero's dilemma (perhaps worth noting too that while the others are set in NYC, <i>Deep Cover</i> is a Los Angeles story and that it is the institutionally-focused exception that falls in between the other seminal L.A. epidemic dramas - <b>John Singleton</b>'s <i>Boyz N the Hood</i> and <b>The Hughes Brothers</b>' <i>Menace II Society</i> released summer 1991 and spring 1993 respectively; between the 5 films I think the template for 90s crack/cocaine crime fare was set).<p></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQoCEBxH81m9J-12LJ2gN6y936B_X_XZ6lK7ZwqFdzoizNUeAuXXRh2hFUWvfZPSVMjZofdT6FlkKn5Fjo33lXqnXPXc9FkdoctsqOpQGTQUbPItRfF2oijBZ8JKmWNRS46-Bjeq8gXHAL5Sh6yFIYaiCjzG_E3Vbv3-C_N8HxI7aAAHb4opF_21v2=s1108" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="1108" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQoCEBxH81m9J-12LJ2gN6y936B_X_XZ6lK7ZwqFdzoizNUeAuXXRh2hFUWvfZPSVMjZofdT6FlkKn5Fjo33lXqnXPXc9FkdoctsqOpQGTQUbPItRfF2oijBZ8JKmWNRS46-Bjeq8gXHAL5Sh6yFIYaiCjzG_E3Vbv3-C_N8HxI7aAAHb4opF_21v2=s320" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />Laurence Fishburne</b> (billed as 'Larry Fishburne' in this one as well as in <i>King of New York</i> and <i>Boyz N the Hood</i>) stars as John Hull, an undercover narcotics agent for the DEA handled by <b>Charles Martin Smith</b>'s agent Gerald Carver and tasked with bringing down a West Coast cocaine kingpin.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcX8iSJZXWcrUvGLjv6aBZPjADzRBDyQr2BXzc-NC2BjDQJiQYSY1i-9zdjUXj5aoqc1eEc1YzGN613-yj97Nd7825ywRVwhx1ShhfVm6Jdc1xM12b_DECLkjRJedvw6Afp8tdPS-vaOckCJV1l2Wrru1WJGoRpG2zjWz1yjmbq7OKCFuX2H0OAlOo=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1370" data-original-width="2048" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcX8iSJZXWcrUvGLjv6aBZPjADzRBDyQr2BXzc-NC2BjDQJiQYSY1i-9zdjUXj5aoqc1eEc1YzGN613-yj97Nd7825ywRVwhx1ShhfVm6Jdc1xM12b_DECLkjRJedvw6Afp8tdPS-vaOckCJV1l2Wrru1WJGoRpG2zjWz1yjmbq7OKCFuX2H0OAlOo=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />His success as an agent of justice and righteousness will rely on his cruelest reasoning, basest survival instincts and his willingness to stoop to humanity's lowest operating levels. By the end of the film he'll have done many things that trouble his conscience in the name of a supposedly greater good and be unsure of his place in the world, his moral compass pointing in confusing directions.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAtsvN9NhTEfBJPlDDRVK1f_-NhW6YKQSXr80dDo-T6kYUW-LuOqngLxcmxCGOOFLkgVrDVRU6MtDGszNh28SJGMlic0CX7pDwFn-_OYFZrU0HI6mqSHw-3bNmwNyCd10dKsdVDYrlbOUxPUGr_rUHJiN6KPO87AWch2c5ato4oWRAbD-Py0H4QMe3=s1025" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="1025" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAtsvN9NhTEfBJPlDDRVK1f_-NhW6YKQSXr80dDo-T6kYUW-LuOqngLxcmxCGOOFLkgVrDVRU6MtDGszNh28SJGMlic0CX7pDwFn-_OYFZrU0HI6mqSHw-3bNmwNyCd10dKsdVDYrlbOUxPUGr_rUHJiN6KPO87AWch2c5ato4oWRAbD-Py0H4QMe3=s320" width="320" /></a></div>But our story begins at Christmas...<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLe0iu8HSF5g2QbMrsqCAfakZxrzLb93Ohb5c9N5deLMvZDnIN2i1fRGNeeFgzpmLoMJm_kNKsjp8T43n5oT8OgUdDjs6sg8R8cAYbMZe3JTKCOcqlgDw0gpdYVCGXvSwA_EZ3nIXWYVLUu_PXAHKJC-1Kfxoyue_bDi4Cjqpfl0IeRZsAxET05Wec=s943" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="528" data-original-width="943" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLe0iu8HSF5g2QbMrsqCAfakZxrzLb93Ohb5c9N5deLMvZDnIN2i1fRGNeeFgzpmLoMJm_kNKsjp8T43n5oT8OgUdDjs6sg8R8cAYbMZe3JTKCOcqlgDw0gpdYVCGXvSwA_EZ3nIXWYVLUu_PXAHKJC-1Kfxoyue_bDi4Cjqpfl0IeRZsAxET05Wec=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Before he ran the cocaine streets, our narrator John remembers being kid in Cleveland named Russell Stevens Jr. (<b>Cory Curtis</b>). The film opens at Christmas time 1972 as he is out shopping with his father, Russell Stevens Sr. (<b>Glynn Turman</b>) on an entirely different kind of snow-blanketed streets. In the warm car young Russell watches his dad snort white powder and Fishburne's voiceover narration tells us "my father was a junkie." Russell Sr. is disgusted by his own behavior and berates his son "<i>Don't ever do this. Don't you ever be like me</i>" while <i>Silent Night</i> plays on the soundtrack. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqPbB8uS3CCcsPupWf86ZuvSUOPrWe18_i5OLf09VYJYaCv_r8J1uBfUTqK1xlxf73lXAbvEJuFhM-sCVu9YAMD2LNkmyYy69RAWdN0sYDfyr2ZL2CQkvUYevtI6POw3OECxZhTUBje4nCt6J5xW36pR8RJFHCfVXgIOGFjs0RamGyfcrZWr3VuW-3=s1108" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="455" data-original-width="1108" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqPbB8uS3CCcsPupWf86ZuvSUOPrWe18_i5OLf09VYJYaCv_r8J1uBfUTqK1xlxf73lXAbvEJuFhM-sCVu9YAMD2LNkmyYy69RAWdN0sYDfyr2ZL2CQkvUYevtI6POw3OECxZhTUBje4nCt6J5xW36pR8RJFHCfVXgIOGFjs0RamGyfcrZWr3VuW-3=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Russell Sr. asks his son what he wants for Christmas and when Jr. says he doesn't know, his father asks him, "<i>How do you expect to get what you want if you don't even know what you want?</i>" Russell Sr. poses the question while loading a gun and his son portends an ill fate. </p><p>Dad exits the car and enters a liquor store.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqvFFGasqxq6nmM3Hayh5zo7-2vVeEvXeKrr292MEZ2G3pnevDLg390K6se3IR5Kqcbxbd8S3sVvp0di5jNxF9LsfZ3qOdCwjocsjhRYXkEqJ6ZiVEcPAOirLn07j31DeF9NVJTclT6nG5CBmfjEAR1R23ANHkW9ubCElfb83iQAE76sT-mMc-0mqZ=s812" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="812" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqvFFGasqxq6nmM3Hayh5zo7-2vVeEvXeKrr292MEZ2G3pnevDLg390K6se3IR5Kqcbxbd8S3sVvp0di5jNxF9LsfZ3qOdCwjocsjhRYXkEqJ6ZiVEcPAOirLn07j31DeF9NVJTclT6nG5CBmfjEAR1R23ANHkW9ubCElfb83iQAE76sT-mMc-0mqZ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiW1urP4RFCc7ZcTMq7zGCVyosJ9NlvXITIc12FAbBlRy755f1m-EkUz2B5cUrN33VeP1YI22MLsIfKX2LcfCyTSU69W7lCASngssjlsHblWkRp4qDYt3Lp9E8MadOVR1wskVF24d9BC4XAFc7WHxSi5uZuJLJtw_uBXhEBugrYkgzXBuNmTdQ7eZhZ=s932" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="932" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiW1urP4RFCc7ZcTMq7zGCVyosJ9NlvXITIc12FAbBlRy755f1m-EkUz2B5cUrN33VeP1YI22MLsIfKX2LcfCyTSU69W7lCASngssjlsHblWkRp4qDYt3Lp9E8MadOVR1wskVF24d9BC4XAFc7WHxSi5uZuJLJtw_uBXhEBugrYkgzXBuNmTdQ7eZhZ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />While Dad's inside Russell Jr. is startled by an intoxicated Santa Claus outside his window "<i>Merry Goddamn Christmas</i>" he snarls, "<i>Have you been a good boy?</i>" Russell Jr. is frightened by this menacing, intimidating incarnation of the mythical jolly fat man who loves children and keeps track of them, rewarding all the good ones with gifts. Russell Jr. looks for his father to protect him and finds him just in time to watch Russell Sr. shoot the liquor store proprietor and exit the store casually, seemingly unruffled by the cold blooded violence he's perpetrated to get what he wants. <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiejMHl27Rpkh--ByzKaqktJjsGMHd8eff-D-M2w6BSEhnpDO_YePMJWsj1NoI1gpgq_V4-CRFe5hUOuwmxLHl32YrLxwJUI0ctbNgsTjGTCwy6STAzC1WKWyPo5d2wuyEl04A3jEuWZrZEoxDubyliG0v4-xjVvuQ40TiERE99pie6-uUw9YsXLSYA=s860" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="860" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiejMHl27Rpkh--ByzKaqktJjsGMHd8eff-D-M2w6BSEhnpDO_YePMJWsj1NoI1gpgq_V4-CRFe5hUOuwmxLHl32YrLxwJUI0ctbNgsTjGTCwy6STAzC1WKWyPo5d2wuyEl04A3jEuWZrZEoxDubyliG0v4-xjVvuQ40TiERE99pie6-uUw9YsXLSYA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />But Russell Sr. is considerably less cool when he notices Santa Claus talking to his son, "<i>Don't you be teaching my boy that fairy tale shit</i>" he says while squaring off to fight the against what he perceives to be the real threat to his impressionable young son. This is the enemy he fears - a white savior who doesn't respect the very morality he's selling, openly drunk and profane, but resolute and comfortable in his authority threatening Russell to keep the commandments "<i>have you been a good boy</i>?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Santa scurries away.<div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4fRX-qEaguGyRoDaLdlXYZODtFRydv2Kcb0Px96GK_DeQyxZD_WdFJp8HdG3eRfbLnC4WpW8vuh1NbDVPGpd2-ebxDGqSIyaYA3T_8ZqzaQwq2XusMD0mUAh_QKI6yd2Vzm4Ro1c5FvzXSSyKmC4J2UH8ueRVy9NVgWFHJC7l5HToibGLMNNvkWjC=s824" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="824" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4fRX-qEaguGyRoDaLdlXYZODtFRydv2Kcb0Px96GK_DeQyxZD_WdFJp8HdG3eRfbLnC4WpW8vuh1NbDVPGpd2-ebxDGqSIyaYA3T_8ZqzaQwq2XusMD0mUAh_QKI6yd2Vzm4Ro1c5FvzXSSyKmC4J2UH8ueRVy9NVgWFHJC7l5HToibGLMNNvkWjC=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Momentarily victorious, Russell Sr. teaches his son a final important lesson. Clutching his gun in one hand and the money its earned him in the other, he says "<i>Do you see?</i>" before being shotgunned in the back by the wounded liquor store owner.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirwbyZcTbtBRkTOURyM3cArJsBPiBRQIPLUpE5ok5jG7uHymwlgq1nEnxoU0jt1Ce-4vrCDptAk1-VA4oFoHZDMJ2_uXyT1nTqfdHt52SUWq6Zod1kMlw6fEVne1D_8601sSH5dwYSax5xfHsfiiZP_I6LsXDYOOmwwZ5DBmw3FnANbdAF4E84nWJc=s905" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="905" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirwbyZcTbtBRkTOURyM3cArJsBPiBRQIPLUpE5ok5jG7uHymwlgq1nEnxoU0jt1Ce-4vrCDptAk1-VA4oFoHZDMJ2_uXyT1nTqfdHt52SUWq6Zod1kMlw6fEVne1D_8601sSH5dwYSax5xfHsfiiZP_I6LsXDYOOmwwZ5DBmw3FnANbdAF4E84nWJc=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Russell Jr. jumps out of the car and kneels beside his dying father and takes from him a few bloody dollars, a memento he carries till the end of the film.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjohiQ5nvceJ_U4D2lD3FuA_Ombgt18bwK_9FLEHm2feXusHk_ZoVIoyp6VNN-eVbJUegrFuAaAZYSOojnJIbWdIBuC2CNCfvDGGKUTIbg-li1rlKBvNiNnAHtCFPwt-_1AjiYEvrnYTFssRcwInj5_9wbaQKX4E04ik9CadihXR_mfD_kuRr3bxemJ=s1037" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="577" data-original-width="1037" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjohiQ5nvceJ_U4D2lD3FuA_Ombgt18bwK_9FLEHm2feXusHk_ZoVIoyp6VNN-eVbJUegrFuAaAZYSOojnJIbWdIBuC2CNCfvDGGKUTIbg-li1rlKBvNiNnAHtCFPwt-_1AjiYEvrnYTFssRcwInj5_9wbaQKX4E04ik9CadihXR_mfD_kuRr3bxemJ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />On his journey he is befriended by <b>Jeff Goldblum</b>'s white drug dealer, getting rich easily on the poison he's happy enough to traffic, and he's beset and abused by <b>Clarence Williams III</b>'s cop, a religious black man who considers himself a righteous crusader against crime and who calls John Judas, a traitor to his people, unaware of his undercover status (a casting dynamic Duke used again in his 1997 prohibition crime flick <i>Hoodlum</i> starring Fishburne as the black godfather of Harlem, <b>Bumpy Johnson,</b> and Williams as the black toady to the white power structure represented by <b>Tim Roth</b>'s <b>Dutch Schultz</b>).<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDHVk3iBzH7WaiLPuJH0bJ2V-ebp03DKBGOHYbHDdWkmvarc5F7CiBpgH8hs1YjA2XsIO85lLVfhwxaswRFKIrho2qZ3cGLprwYGyYHvSugyDE1zFfTLcQN2r08speYkaxEuxtY9fYvRHF9017b4iwT0Br6LAqqtpt6QzhsTQDFuyY1cQdjWHopAui=s956" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="956" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDHVk3iBzH7WaiLPuJH0bJ2V-ebp03DKBGOHYbHDdWkmvarc5F7CiBpgH8hs1YjA2XsIO85lLVfhwxaswRFKIrho2qZ3cGLprwYGyYHvSugyDE1zFfTLcQN2r08speYkaxEuxtY9fYvRHF9017b4iwT0Br6LAqqtpt6QzhsTQDFuyY1cQdjWHopAui=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Though by the film's end we're not sure that his badge or even his intentions mattered. Clarence Williams' crusader will have failed and been undone and blinded to the truth by his righteous dogmatic passions while John has succeeded by following orders though they entail horrific behavior and don't end up getting him what he thought he wanted. We're happy to see him free himself from agent Carver's false legal morality (he has <i>not</i> been a good boy), and we're relieved to see him give up the paltry cash his father died for... <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxjxjLG_zXKa2Msc07uKr115QVVGNLPAF1W3WcjoMt82szYcJjAjaqNFRcrZr_vv_pi1O1xV2W9rcHf9hT7kjgaCU0XZz_SU9II1mFeib7KA1B_D3XYtdmuot4jIjyBCbUs_bTB6NoVlxNdB71vqBgLCTZdSZ4mNxiQCL124NtNUCpnAzdRWbqpZcL=s1050" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="1050" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxjxjLG_zXKa2Msc07uKr115QVVGNLPAF1W3WcjoMt82szYcJjAjaqNFRcrZr_vv_pi1O1xV2W9rcHf9hT7kjgaCU0XZz_SU9II1mFeib7KA1B_D3XYtdmuot4jIjyBCbUs_bTB6NoVlxNdB71vqBgLCTZdSZ4mNxiQCL124NtNUCpnAzdRWbqpZcL=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />He takes another orphaned boy to visit the grave of his mother, a character John/Russell couldn't save, and he leaves his father's bloody money on the gravestone and walks away holding the boy's hand presumably to raise and instruct as his own son.<p></p><p><i>What will he teach him?</i> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIjKIVAwj8llD3eToOp9xc5iVXI0_wjiFfLKQmXQAOAeChoI6UH6UFhhXKs0vawp4bqahMWpw7qafWW-QdbxncUAd3pnuvRKjIf4jQ9q-Lymd3uLjWDJhOp8Js6g_5Flmgqto3_ZUOl8oODxrISXqYaadxNJQ0xkDdyADHfpM_OLEzSsg-wHBPkCnE=s500" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="500" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIjKIVAwj8llD3eToOp9xc5iVXI0_wjiFfLKQmXQAOAeChoI6UH6UFhhXKs0vawp4bqahMWpw7qafWW-QdbxncUAd3pnuvRKjIf4jQ9q-Lymd3uLjWDJhOp8Js6g_5Flmgqto3_ZUOl8oODxrISXqYaadxNJQ0xkDdyADHfpM_OLEzSsg-wHBPkCnE=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />He may not have been a junkie, but he's dispatched dispassionate violence like his father and in the end he's still not sure what he wants and he's certainly not sure where to go from here, but he's roundly rejected the fairy tale shit pushed on him by many moral authorities...starting with Santa Claus.<p></p></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-61815449675017559542021-12-15T06:15:00.002-08:002022-03-10T14:01:56.624-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Kent Gowran on Jackpot<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMvuW6VT2lpcJk3vQ4bd22aURjiC303MHwW3hmABzbwmTbAwlEtg9BYAN_VwLvZx8VxEtY5sIFhBhgyF_PYcY6GMpkj8jqmZZC5w3SAzDcoGiQqwlmNNMpUDMbt4cibL1H7r_6fBWxPj-yea_3bRH0AqiBTFSvCGLswfUufi0ZLdPrXM5kr-bfsqWE=s3543" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3543" data-original-width="2480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMvuW6VT2lpcJk3vQ4bd22aURjiC303MHwW3hmABzbwmTbAwlEtg9BYAN_VwLvZx8VxEtY5sIFhBhgyF_PYcY6GMpkj8jqmZZC5w3SAzDcoGiQqwlmNNMpUDMbt4cibL1H7r_6fBWxPj-yea_3bRH0AqiBTFSvCGLswfUufi0ZLdPrXM5kr-bfsqWE=s320" width="224" /></a></i></div><i>Arme Riddere</i> is Norwegian for French Toast. The 2011 movie from director <b>Magnus Martens</b> is called <i>Jackpot</i> for the English subtitle reading audience, and is a film I’d put in the running for one of the best splatstick outings since <b>Sam Raimi</b>’s<i> Evil Dead II</i> (1987). In the first few minutes of the film, we see Oscar Svendsen crawl out from under a dead body in a sex shop/strip club full of carnage and cops, followed by a quick but clumsy chase and he’s taken into custody by cops Gina and Solor. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgB7OVnT-EWSs_-H705ZyOv9afxBuNAAL0CJEhpFlsA0Zmmh93HE374Clh9sF4Htdl0C-XcO-v45LJk7sKKdZR-o5cZXalCtD1XhKcXUuX818nTsFre1ngj7ylcTBvTlCJzgvLng2-gKs6OlyeHjDmxuPflu2AdFpbeTC_SNCuyDVLbl18FV06LCGE1=s900" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="900" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgB7OVnT-EWSs_-H705ZyOv9afxBuNAAL0CJEhpFlsA0Zmmh93HE374Clh9sF4Htdl0C-XcO-v45LJk7sKKdZR-o5cZXalCtD1XhKcXUuX818nTsFre1ngj7ylcTBvTlCJzgvLng2-gKs6OlyeHjDmxuPflu2AdFpbeTC_SNCuyDVLbl18FV06LCGE1=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />At this point we get into a bit of setup reminiscent of <i>The Usual Suspects</i>, with Oscar being questioned about how he came to be under the body of a dead stripper with a shotgun in his hands. We jump into flashback time as a newly released con named Billy is brought to Evergreen, a plastic Christmas tree factory, where Oscar will be his supervisor, and he’ll work with fellow ex-cons Thor and Tresko. By lunchtime, they’ve hatched a plan to put their money into a can’t miss plan for betting on upcoming soccer matches. Oscar is pressed into joining, and soon enough, with a little help from Trine, a friend of Oscar’s, the four guys are watching the last of the matches and they win more than enough for all of them to have a very merry Christmas indeed. Of course, things almost immediately derail, and from there we’re treated to Oscar’s tale of woe and betrayal which builds and winds it way back to where we first come in.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6WTTMEJz4oL1HDup0GzvdQKWREP2dU1F_lWGTMs6dTOHRb8OVgq6btfVz4FPcDq-O2gKthDEQvyezQQV0ZhiIowrLBROl12ypYZGZH2fmTOMgqaizpNsDnaPOm3fyZdIOVxqGWiGIKK43ac_4vNcbViUjBM5GMZ-AkFh1v4sh0qYKRvEzUqMHFV-v=s1280" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6WTTMEJz4oL1HDup0GzvdQKWREP2dU1F_lWGTMs6dTOHRb8OVgq6btfVz4FPcDq-O2gKthDEQvyezQQV0ZhiIowrLBROl12ypYZGZH2fmTOMgqaizpNsDnaPOm3fyZdIOVxqGWiGIKK43ac_4vNcbViUjBM5GMZ-AkFh1v4sh0qYKRvEzUqMHFV-v=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Throughout the movie, the movie, in true splatstick fashion, delivers unapologetic violence and gore gags galore. For example, if you’ve ever wondered how hilariously bad attempting to dismember a body on a dinner table in an apartment might go, <i>Jackpot </i>is the winning ticket. I might offer a word of warning to the squeamish, but it’s all good fun as multiple lives come to an end… Devoured by their greed, you might say.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgB_lXAer0E0Osa_qHbnq7kbX0T6ryNZRJNtNarKYnq3IrnQ5W25ni9MyFoO6c28m40gXBsvMUoVwJPBocjJYY37Qmp-Gx4TGSIq8bfj3xCe0qBEOkahkWHNWZ2vgWo3m8VZNzSdama5GxnMPiVC_8NwobT-r53jfB1DRGy01b2pTUzEtHG4xK4x11Y=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="858" data-original-width="2048" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgB_lXAer0E0Osa_qHbnq7kbX0T6ryNZRJNtNarKYnq3IrnQ5W25ni9MyFoO6c28m40gXBsvMUoVwJPBocjJYY37Qmp-Gx4TGSIq8bfj3xCe0qBEOkahkWHNWZ2vgWo3m8VZNzSdama5GxnMPiVC_8NwobT-r53jfB1DRGy01b2pTUzEtHG4xK4x11Y=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Director Martens also wrote the screenplay, based on a story by <b>Jo Nesbo</b>. The humor definitely feels akin to what we get in other Scandinavian crime comedies like <i>Terribly Happy</i> (2008) and <i>In Order of Disappearance</i> (2014), though considerably bloodier here. I can’t help but feel, not speaking Norwegian, there might be a joke or meaning in the title <i>Arme Riddere</i>… In Norway, this is most commonly a dessert, rather than a breakfast item. The name also translates as, and the delicacy known as Poor Knights. Without a doubt, some bread is lost.<p></p><p>Yes, my jokes are bad, and I have a lot of ‘em.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6B3g8ITpppiRMt6cm0cUT6WxUon4hPssaFH1IM4RcVsmaDTmyNcuSNIypUQEKf5OuFBIxHAh8eZNrqcgX4WgILnZMKrgmz_T_3W_aB52qJoplOIuvQcyZTlIDdmWvGNxpZeKAyiU5tW66DtuSm_wDpPXaey6mIixQKTVu92P4S8FUuUkUZ6uQrIGo=s620" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="620" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6B3g8ITpppiRMt6cm0cUT6WxUon4hPssaFH1IM4RcVsmaDTmyNcuSNIypUQEKf5OuFBIxHAh8eZNrqcgX4WgILnZMKrgmz_T_3W_aB52qJoplOIuvQcyZTlIDdmWvGNxpZeKAyiU5tW66DtuSm_wDpPXaey6mIixQKTVu92P4S8FUuUkUZ6uQrIGo=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />If you’ve never seen it, or maybe it’s been a minute, this a sweet choice for CrimesMas viewing.<p></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrECGmCwNcQ4fwaMpnfMwxFEf26YQOjFU5IB5bZiUoR8Cj19TdtnWvAo9bDfTMK5ketfinrEWfX5y2eyCEVA-Qpd6Mlshd-eMbP-6ZVNIw1uuznsPXk7wezQt8w9yxBmukNwD-ssxEnxlQdOfHHUkFDgqk-P2YP8BqvKcG_L7BzaeUpIYkChgJeEjl=s200" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrECGmCwNcQ4fwaMpnfMwxFEf26YQOjFU5IB5bZiUoR8Cj19TdtnWvAo9bDfTMK5ketfinrEWfX5y2eyCEVA-Qpd6Mlshd-eMbP-6ZVNIw1uuznsPXk7wezQt8w9yxBmukNwD-ssxEnxlQdOfHHUkFDgqk-P2YP8BqvKcG_L7BzaeUpIYkChgJeEjl" width="200" /></a></b></div><b>Kent Gowran</b> lives in Chicago.<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-12850331923523363872021-12-14T08:35:00.000-08:002021-12-14T08:35:05.045-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Dominic Nolan on Red Riding 1980<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitjKe5gj7ykCROa40wt_qngjylzsVlWod5baIPh4NIs4vxU3uI3abvmI19IL9pfYfUjZyO6TY7bdCsqmpbH-PzCsJvtHG-9ba9TW6_dZr-SS2rEkqEQsId9XTlgFJKwiAv_tOZtjmDvj16ea0ldhX8Znkow9O7PrvzPjJ_O6CTF7HeZp3Gkrkmeexn=s1200" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitjKe5gj7ykCROa40wt_qngjylzsVlWod5baIPh4NIs4vxU3uI3abvmI19IL9pfYfUjZyO6TY7bdCsqmpbH-PzCsJvtHG-9ba9TW6_dZr-SS2rEkqEQsId9XTlgFJKwiAv_tOZtjmDvj16ea0ldhX8Znkow9O7PrvzPjJ_O6CTF7HeZp3Gkrkmeexn=s320" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Occult dreams psychic themes war crimes to map out the demon spheres with webs and wires that bind the days together man in amongst the golems dwells and scars them with his thoughts lost and thoughts found such terror can his hammer do</i>.</div><p></p><p>The Year of Our Lord Nineteen Eighty, a damp winter, not long until the celebration of His birth, our saviour. But this is Yorkshire—as old as Christendom and twice as bloody. Some men can’t be saved.</p><p>Ripper still at large, women of the North facing a sixth Christmas in fear of being out alone at night, relying on husband or son or brother to ferry them about. Needing to be seen to be doing something, the Home Office send their man, a commander from the Manchester force, to conduct a review of West Yorkshire’s flailing investigation.</p><p>Peter Hunter. Our tragic hero. “A good man, a steady man. Squeaky clean.” Assistant Chief Constable of Greater Manchester Police. Best man for the job. Saint Cunt, coming back over from the other side to fuck them again, six years after he conducted a review into an unsolved armed robbery at the Strafford Public House. Masked gunmen. Four dead, two coppers injured. Absolute bloody mayhem. But even Saint Cunt couldn’t make head nor tail of that one. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqjsdMYy97uuE_G4ExgqCmGtFX28oG3spdY1zvTUrSQk42LB2ByZ8HjeHyHsj-mG830vRB8bE8LO_Mr07SvTXr2uUFimjYw5VUCMIaO6I4_9AmA3aGx9mN2WvLC6GTNqQ_5xqFMnfKJcMjdmRPcCoadzcZ5Mbu2zZ_zPrkcdqWiuP1FKjHch_z0cFE=s720" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="720" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqjsdMYy97uuE_G4ExgqCmGtFX28oG3spdY1zvTUrSQk42LB2ByZ8HjeHyHsj-mG830vRB8bE8LO_Mr07SvTXr2uUFimjYw5VUCMIaO6I4_9AmA3aGx9mN2WvLC6GTNqQ_5xqFMnfKJcMjdmRPcCoadzcZ5Mbu2zZ_zPrkcdqWiuP1FKjHch_z0cFE=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Hunter <b>(Paddy Considine</b>) isn’t as squeaky clean as his superiors believe. Along with his friend, Detective Chief Superintendent John Nolan (<b>Tony Pitts</b>), his other choice for the team is Detective Helen Marshall (<b>Maxine Peake</b>), who he has been carrying on with behind his wife’s back. His wife, Joan's miscarriage brought an end to his review of the Strafford Shootings, and her subsequent health is something the Yorkshire coppers use to needle him. Women are always the target. When their liaison from West Yorkshire, the corrupt and violent Detective Superintendent Bob Craven (<b>Sean Harris</b>), claps eyes on Marshall, he laughs out loud, and takes every opportunity to remind her this is a world built by men and for men.<p></p><p>This tone is established from the outset. Although shot in widescreen on pristine 35mm, the film opens with a montage of news footage and scenes from around Leeds, some archival and some fictional. The grainy 8mm and video sources roll beneath a track of soundbites concerning the Yorkshire Ripper, who at that point the police thought had murdered twelve women. A horrifying number that Leeds wasn’t going to allow them to forget for one second, as the chant went up from the terraces of Elland Road on matchday, “Ripper 12, Police 0,” and the score was kept on the city’s streets too.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtnUglyDRVdRymToC1JhOboL4SrUP8ehLbmx1dwuDXFeiB4s-yJcjrzOObVo5_ODK0yO7wWbmE1jr-4JRIgaBRZS0FQbPtKXJNhFR9QU8aKkSxGhplhDw9TqpMPRnNCoZphxe3VGNVNtQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtnUglyDRVdRymToC1JhOboL4SrUP8ehLbmx1dwuDXFeiB4s-yJcjrzOObVo5_ODK0yO7wWbmE1jr-4JRIgaBRZS0FQbPtKXJNhFR9QU8aKkSxGhplhDw9TqpMPRnNCoZphxe3VGNVNtQ/" width="320" /></a></div><br />Battle lines were drawn along gender lines, and further graffiti popped up across Leeds, added to and counter-corrected ad nauseum. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mnVb4lSDTDI6Q7U5KTX4QPFJVuChiVZ64TTdzXtj4r9MxOa21v5Xur-kXVi4m7O4VE_ckukxQMHV9KEVS1k53G1pfPTykeSoNzV9GlvM40dZhMMT4MV5T3XEu0t4MknJIj_gzLD4ETs/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mnVb4lSDTDI6Q7U5KTX4QPFJVuChiVZ64TTdzXtj4r9MxOa21v5Xur-kXVi4m7O4VE_ckukxQMHV9KEVS1k53G1pfPTykeSoNzV9GlvM40dZhMMT4MV5T3XEu0t4MknJIj_gzLD4ETs/" width="320" /></a></div><br />At the end of the montage, the head of the investigation, Assistant Chief Constable of West Yorkshire Police, “Badger” Bill Molloy (<b>Warren Clarke</b>), delivers an unnerving direct-to-camera message to the Ripper, his shocking words proof of just how much of the killer’s own murderous misogyny has been internalized by the police supposed to be catching him: “<i>To me, you’re like a bad angel on a mistaken journey. And while I would never condone your methods, I can sympathize with your feelings.</i>”<p></p><p>Even with Molloy forced into retirement, Hunter never stands a chance. Thwarted from the off by forces within West Yorkshire Police, he soon suspects that the investigation is not merely incompetent, but at least one murder not committed by the Ripper is being attributed to him in order to cover up graver, monstrous crimes involving serving officers and the great and good of society. Craven openly tells him that this is a Yorkshire crime that will be solved by Yorkshire police, laughing at Hunter’s theory that the Ripper isn’t some hunchbacked carnival freak, but a married man with the same troubles most people suffer through.</p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjawXo3_CQHsnz1aYacCLLHoeFvyyXxZcp2PVqOnUPnsNzAU6lyz-OQgVYOq8l0SdkXBhXHQxC6oYnKZ5sdiyjG0h8yOS91o9K3bSlsFJbub1hAUqfzZcyYEi9Pvb45yRml0a0doYo1F98mJfJS1WShlF4CvEL8b7UmiuZ9_9xku9wPDxPN8PVwPLS-=s475" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="299" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjawXo3_CQHsnz1aYacCLLHoeFvyyXxZcp2PVqOnUPnsNzAU6lyz-OQgVYOq8l0SdkXBhXHQxC6oYnKZ5sdiyjG0h8yOS91o9K3bSlsFJbub1hAUqfzZcyYEi9Pvb45yRml0a0doYo1F98mJfJS1WShlF4CvEL8b7UmiuZ9_9xku9wPDxPN8PVwPLS-=s320" width="201" /></a></b></div><b>David Peace</b>’s Red Riding Quartet is a complex occult history of seventies and eighties Yorkshire across four volumes of blank verse prose that’ll leave you word drunk and reeling—adapting it into any form for the screen seemed a big ask. To pick three of the books and turn them each into a hundred-minute movie for television seemed downright foolhardy. But screenwriter <b>Tony Grisoni</b> knew that his task was more one of disproportioning than adaptation; to be loyal in spirit rather than minute detail. Characters are conflated or altered or erased entirely. Threads are pulled from Peace’s labyrinthine weave of plots, but even more are discarded. Yet the final films are still grimly dense.<p></p><p><i><br />1980</i>, the middle entry in the trilogy, picks up six years after the first, which culminated with the Strafford Shootings, the consequences of which reverberate through the other two films. Make no mistake—<i>Red Riding</i> is very much a holistic work, intended to be watched through in order with a sense of powerful dramatic accumulation. But I’m concentrating on <i>1980</i> as it is the one film set at Christmas, and that uses expectations of the holiday to contrast with its darker, more pagan concerns (Note—in Peace’s quartet, both <i>Nineteen Seventy Four</i> and <i>Nineteen Eighty</i> take place during Christmas, but the filmmakers chose to shift 1974 back to the autumn, possibly fearing Yuletide overload for films that premiered on network television in springtime).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6I1xv13QBoqkWVtAp9ivqcxe8cv9BLVMEhJf-aMGBmzmgMLTBfxfPg8Yqy0i3Y8yTAad13hV0vY75574cciFXiDZXwb-aMIKx5davOqZ6IJ8GW-rcB2RF-DHC5ybP_10J44-TQtMK3nD5-EU4zyQc0B5lrRYF5Q2fDcIphXDXIyl5_ZKnGGzAht7Y=s512" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="512" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6I1xv13QBoqkWVtAp9ivqcxe8cv9BLVMEhJf-aMGBmzmgMLTBfxfPg8Yqy0i3Y8yTAad13hV0vY75574cciFXiDZXwb-aMIKx5davOqZ6IJ8GW-rcB2RF-DHC5ybP_10J44-TQtMK3nD5-EU4zyQc0B5lrRYF5Q2fDcIphXDXIyl5_ZKnGGzAht7Y=s320" width="320" /></a></div>This is a murder mystery filtered through cosmic terror, stemming as much from British folk horror like <i>The Wicker Man</i> and <i>Witchfinder General</i> as it does crime fiction. A recurring character throughout the trilogy is Martin Laws (<b>Peter Mullan</b>), a man who claims to be some kind of private social worker (“I work with the sick, the lonely, dispossessed.”) and who possibly once wore his collar turned round. But if he ever had Christian faith, his allegiance now lies not with any established church, but a blacker religion whose deeds are of a distinctly mortal nature. <p></p><p>The film’s photography, especially in the Leeds sequences, apes classical film noir: high contrast chiaroscuro; all but a handful of scenes occurring at night; relentless rain. Leeds is a hellscape, the hunting ground of the Ripper and violent cops alike. The room Hunter is given to run his review from is in the bowels of the police station there, a windowless chamber near the interrogation rooms, the dog cages, the hidden spaces where people can be disappeared for days. The hotel Hunter and his team stay in is a looming Victorian pile, dark and Gothic. Yet, in contrast, home in Manchester is no heaven, but a purgatory. A limbo of desperate emptiness, a place haunted by his wife, childless after a series of miscarriages. He tracks the stench of hopelessness with him wherever he goes.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNbjiDzcyTbDuMM87ALv3iu9i0-35E5Nh2eui-oN_h-ECKNXGGF7Q1wdeQsVtQiitGq1Sr3U3sn_YNo43517QiubIPT92jR7Mn1YQVEmD3-udCWBz6pO0GJ8TWtCqIN8axnWYIm6NL4mM0ORn7W_-YyqwSXw8lUGc5CKLG2ey9WvjwlU3NfiGBmIw0=s465" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="310" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNbjiDzcyTbDuMM87ALv3iu9i0-35E5Nh2eui-oN_h-ECKNXGGF7Q1wdeQsVtQiitGq1Sr3U3sn_YNo43517QiubIPT92jR7Mn1YQVEmD3-udCWBz6pO0GJ8TWtCqIN8axnWYIm6NL4mM0ORn7W_-YyqwSXw8lUGc5CKLG2ey9WvjwlU3NfiGBmIw0=s320" width="213" /></a></div>The striking exceptions are when Hunter makes the drive from one city to the other. Characters refer to “the other side” and “crossing over” whenever they make the trip. The space between them is moorland, covering foothills of the Pennines, a spine of hills and low mountains bisecting the North. The same moors where <b>Ian Brady</b> and <b>Myra Hindley</b> buried four of their five victims. <p></p><p>In the psychogeography of 1980’s Yorkshire, the moors are bathed in the vanilla light of early morning sun, where for just a few moments Hunter’s head can break above the surface. Where the evil that lurks either side cannot touch him. These are the only scenes that feature sunlit skies in the whole film.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzpbEFEM2_0IaNlGLYJi_VGXAsEeyn7uzVbKGSRXpG_CfT-xcbwN43oaBIE9OD_dnzAJqDyussTyhAtVnpCifLuhW8l1vJUiGU0KeXnH4FHHbQC8eMISbtk4LDVTXly0rhiGevNimzoc/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzpbEFEM2_0IaNlGLYJi_VGXAsEeyn7uzVbKGSRXpG_CfT-xcbwN43oaBIE9OD_dnzAJqDyussTyhAtVnpCifLuhW8l1vJUiGU0KeXnH4FHHbQC8eMISbtk4LDVTXly0rhiGevNimzoc/" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX7VvvauGtSDkt7uLEPTdb7DUZzWxBxuB5mYJbE74K6hYfNSvacUX_20rPfpdRE96PTMZJaXIephR4kP_T_0jC593Dtcmpy3VZiL1Yo-JiBaW3hOTXnJYk0C0mF9_L1q0hfUJa_cuJXOk/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX7VvvauGtSDkt7uLEPTdb7DUZzWxBxuB5mYJbE74K6hYfNSvacUX_20rPfpdRE96PTMZJaXIephR4kP_T_0jC593Dtcmpy3VZiL1Yo-JiBaW3hOTXnJYk0C0mF9_L1q0hfUJa_cuJXOk/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />Increasingly, hunter realises that not only is he not capable of solving these terrifying crimes, he cannot even understand the places from which they originate. He visits Fitzwilliam, a small mining village at the centre of much of the trilogy’s horror, sitting in the lee of a power station’s colling towers that stand over it like some giant ancient henge. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TWHkWRXZ8t0FimHq5fHjIHtt9AFzexW73BcQ_ol2DAibywmcOyViOOlxTmOzv6RURRQnWNwZ4l61BQSVen9wnPeVjuaVjYj9A6MIqiTi2sFvAgTJG7hL_9A554UfHiIlLBAYiBglV-I/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TWHkWRXZ8t0FimHq5fHjIHtt9AFzexW73BcQ_ol2DAibywmcOyViOOlxTmOzv6RURRQnWNwZ4l61BQSVen9wnPeVjuaVjYj9A6MIqiTi2sFvAgTJG7hL_9A554UfHiIlLBAYiBglV-I/" width="320" /></a></div><br />Braziers burn at the sides of deserted streets. A lone horse wanders freely. Hunter stays just long enough to be startled by a group of children springing from the long grass in grotesque masks, brandishing toy guns. It is as though he has mistakenly wandered into a foreign land, governed by rules and customs completely alien to him. This ambush both echoes the massacre at the Strafford years earlier, and foreshadows terrible events yet to come. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWfgzC_WLq5FjANJySlR9zzEC4VO5GM-lfQlsgbpigSVqX9Ua_DARmfSOEhYUzAj5FJ5w71uzZVvCsRzcjKqexGRTqj_Zg8IO6k7eMyPP8v7gHtGEdyGdJGZFlWKARkS466qE2UEObSzs/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWfgzC_WLq5FjANJySlR9zzEC4VO5GM-lfQlsgbpigSVqX9Ua_DARmfSOEhYUzAj5FJ5w71uzZVvCsRzcjKqexGRTqj_Zg8IO6k7eMyPP8v7gHtGEdyGdJGZFlWKARkS466qE2UEObSzs/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTml4W_ZqjKxgB8M8F3wTrzAajetB0qq_cJyW2ONuhA2bto33IE8gF3X0k2RA16av9i0cPI1IMtebNNlqU-8JGue85-8Xjo5hQfmY0xg6ZXzqFtYaESJiecZFjCAXV_SAIzCjYp5Ejko/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTml4W_ZqjKxgB8M8F3wTrzAajetB0qq_cJyW2ONuhA2bto33IE8gF3X0k2RA16av9i0cPI1IMtebNNlqU-8JGue85-8Xjo5hQfmY0xg6ZXzqFtYaESJiecZFjCAXV_SAIzCjYp5Ejko/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOyTgYM_Ue5GZYSwMTovbegEtXLxOuo4HitHQsrlDliQ_rMEMZqj6pbhboF0Z3UN09worloQRYROJcfB9x1hRW4wZw0dMrWjfefrJ9yK9LbsX9Fjn32vBuLX2WmZZ-A1FiMMhdHqEKXM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOyTgYM_Ue5GZYSwMTovbegEtXLxOuo4HitHQsrlDliQ_rMEMZqj6pbhboF0Z3UN09worloQRYROJcfB9x1hRW4wZw0dMrWjfefrJ9yK9LbsX9Fjn32vBuLX2WmZZ-A1FiMMhdHqEKXM/" width="320" /></a></div><br />The pap of traditional Christmas is continually contrasted with the horrors of reality. Rushing to meet an informer in trouble, Hunter spies the man’s decorated Christmas tree through his front window. A picture-perfect image, but one Hunter remains separated from by the glass. Instead, he is lured by the light glowing from a partially opened garage door and all the horrors that lie behind it (suffice to say, this is a film that comfortably qualifies for <b>Christa Faust</b>’s <a href="http://spaceythompson.blogspot.com/2021/12/merry-crimesmas-krampusnoir-edition.html" target="_blank">Krampusnoir list of 10 Flicks Where the Kid Gets It</a>). <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMx0Y6r43w2AeFWZFIRHdRRKPska5w7jBirUJtN7pOYv-GF5BFQYQT5I5xYCFDeT0yiNvSdaGQGHOEQXQFubTvtBxxcGMFI5m8XdMw1sVe2yiNiEcoVcRquu_Kn_YFhYD_kU5uqDfxCcI/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMx0Y6r43w2AeFWZFIRHdRRKPska5w7jBirUJtN7pOYv-GF5BFQYQT5I5xYCFDeT0yiNvSdaGQGHOEQXQFubTvtBxxcGMFI5m8XdMw1sVe2yiNiEcoVcRquu_Kn_YFhYD_kU5uqDfxCcI/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjPSIqLnFUA1WAME3uufAUHP8n1n2OEu35xPmfhopdPT30mD_KLIg4WNijx-h4wFSxiPMSHD4x_u0g_JnGDv6ZVwtv1cpa3eXWON5L_yYlSaIO3X3ZzMRXaIEqkTsK8C23KUp5tTp6bQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjPSIqLnFUA1WAME3uufAUHP8n1n2OEu35xPmfhopdPT30mD_KLIg4WNijx-h4wFSxiPMSHD4x_u0g_JnGDv6ZVwtv1cpa3eXWON5L_yYlSaIO3X3ZzMRXaIEqkTsK8C23KUp5tTp6bQ/" width="320" /></a></div><br />For Hunter’s own Christmas Day, director <b>James Marsh</b> again abandons 35mm and presents the gathering with his wife’s extended family in 8mm, like a home movie, recognizing the bland celebration of paper hats and party poppers is conducted with artifice as if happening only to create expected and preconceived memories. Hunter receives a digital watch as a present, a big hit with his wife’s nephew. The old gives way to the new. Analogue estimation for split-second precision. But any happiness gives way to the maudlin realization that they are surrounded by what they have lost. By what they will never have. This is further underlined when they return home to find their house on fire. Merry fucking Christmas, lots of love from “Over There.” <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuCaSH0PkXnsawROVxiyx1GCvx2ga4BCFCN2VqifZddlp9_xP7SXTyJE47zocQINmMVnnu31YoKOA1YImLG6h7ffQ_TVsD4BYlbxxBLs8Keh0Ra_ha6ujMLA8IRYrtqsmcTlyW6KlJ-MGP_I4R64jsWesZV-vkIAcWF6_BbrLQRYWo4tbRdsSvlF7y=s300" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="131" data-original-width="300" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuCaSH0PkXnsawROVxiyx1GCvx2ga4BCFCN2VqifZddlp9_xP7SXTyJE47zocQINmMVnnu31YoKOA1YImLG6h7ffQ_TVsD4BYlbxxBLs8Keh0Ra_ha6ujMLA8IRYrtqsmcTlyW6KlJ-MGP_I4R64jsWesZV-vkIAcWF6_BbrLQRYWo4tbRdsSvlF7y" width="300" /></a></div><br />As Hunter begins to uncover potential police involvement in historic crimes, he loses his grip on the investigation, and on his job. Nebulous allegations are made against him, resulting in his suspension and disciplinary hearings. By sheer luck, a sergeant of West Yorkshire police stumbles upon <b>Peter Sutcliffe</b> dumping a hammer and bloody knife, and as if by divine intervention the Yorkshire Ripper is caught by a Yorkshire policeman. <p></p><p>Under interrogation, Sutcliffe confesses to all but one of the murders they put to him. “They’re all in my brain, reminding me of the beast I am.” (Beast – Hunter – Red Riding…you can make your own connections there). He also reveals exactly what Hunter already knew—that he isn’t a monster, but is a married man. The police who’d been looking for him for years can’t believe it. The same police who themselves have tortured and raped and murdered, and also have wives. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyrVeK-QXC4K70zRE4_oG0pmedHkOKCH_M69UESuMKKe744rPmjLHlyFY2E9o6Xl77flF2B4lwgPHbQm7nU6-iFKBgj8DHo_0-aoKLTxD92Y5s4VAGrvUe_mCrUMB7o4GEu5pQ1MSh5VqQCA8WvfKz4roXMv-2TAdI95aUPzrnBRfagUOLmerCd1Fm=s465" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="316" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyrVeK-QXC4K70zRE4_oG0pmedHkOKCH_M69UESuMKKe744rPmjLHlyFY2E9o6Xl77flF2B4lwgPHbQm7nU6-iFKBgj8DHo_0-aoKLTxD92Y5s4VAGrvUe_mCrUMB7o4GEu5pQ1MSh5VqQCA8WvfKz4roXMv-2TAdI95aUPzrnBRfagUOLmerCd1Fm=w136-h200" width="136" /></a></div>Like <b>Blake Morrison</b> said in “The Ballad of the Yorkshire Ripper”:<p></p><p><i>“…Ripper’s not a psychopath</i></p><p><i>But every man in pants.</i></p><p><i>All you blokes would kill like him</i></p><p><i>Given half a chance</i>.”</p><p>No pretty bow is tied from the remaining loose ends, which by now hang from every frayed thread. No pretense is made at offering any exegesis or even any kind traditional conclusion, for Hunter’s story is just an interlude in a larger, darker picture. One last drive is taken across the moors, for a hearing at the police station in Leeds, with Hunter pulling over for a moment’s peace in the dawn-lit moors. The only respite we see him get.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8wWgYJB18BRCNiwCP-aa8ww_ehzrEm_8nMfEeI0JgwkO_AmkvKQWBPttmUGooA5aCGQ2R-whKNXspUjsgSrWywoaJ1dkxaPJTnYnhJHW7otMO3PNFf3xOGUTFE_8yZPlYHgUXsavpYDE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8wWgYJB18BRCNiwCP-aa8ww_ehzrEm_8nMfEeI0JgwkO_AmkvKQWBPttmUGooA5aCGQ2R-whKNXspUjsgSrWywoaJ1dkxaPJTnYnhJHW7otMO3PNFf3xOGUTFE_8yZPlYHgUXsavpYDE/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFP9qYZSs3c_YvP0xloM0JoV8OprSU1SAbxLrIiVVIRlcHCRjGJJDjcTQN3F3XoMMYiV1OclyWNcpMwRGkbRNKBNtBh9VZFA_A_vyJlhY4UfiA4Wd5gTn-D4K_Rg5UlkyV4kZD68Ql1Sc/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="940" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFP9qYZSs3c_YvP0xloM0JoV8OprSU1SAbxLrIiVVIRlcHCRjGJJDjcTQN3F3XoMMYiV1OclyWNcpMwRGkbRNKBNtBh9VZFA_A_vyJlhY4UfiA4Wd5gTn-D4K_Rg5UlkyV4kZD68Ql1Sc/" width="320" /></a></div><br />He needn’t have bothered. His return to Leeds sees him led down into the bowels of the police station again, into the belly of the beast. And this time he is swallowed. This time there is nothing but peace awaiting him.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopKUpR8frYB8XmCUjPhLSY1B2XwPzrHp1eZbRed27Ep1pEeRvPIFVMMgDLedCGvCTsWvLHbIc3B8V5R6vF7W6RBNaWEWLuFsr4phd6RChSR2fnu9XoJn8XZ7LdBijpioKOZM98d0nlyQ/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="313" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopKUpR8frYB8XmCUjPhLSY1B2XwPzrHp1eZbRed27Ep1pEeRvPIFVMMgDLedCGvCTsWvLHbIc3B8V5R6vF7W6RBNaWEWLuFsr4phd6RChSR2fnu9XoJn8XZ7LdBijpioKOZM98d0nlyQ/" width="160" /></a></div><b>Dominic Nolan</b> is from somewhere that passes for London. He has published three novels, the latest of which is <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Vine-Street-Crime-month-TIMES/dp/1472288858" target="_blank">Vine Street</a></i>, but you can usually find him avoiding writing <b><a href="https://twitter.com/NolanDom" target="_blank">@NolanDom</a></b>. <p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-72426294282319906642021-12-13T06:36:00.000-08:002021-12-13T06:36:15.503-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Jim Thomsen on Home For the Holidays<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlTOctRwPL9vOqdaOMToEZC8uBXmQKNg84-tBtYA6yNlpSQPtRLJgABd7oHVbuiG7S1emR41ZF9ajWM09vxCUKUMgETE-LdpPB_trPCSnKEBSrgzpaJTgYE2PjxgGhLmms1nqSaxphiwBO8JVX8c1fgFAogSyjZacfyFRR_MGvPDNYWd99hNmTcC-s=s388" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlTOctRwPL9vOqdaOMToEZC8uBXmQKNg84-tBtYA6yNlpSQPtRLJgABd7oHVbuiG7S1emR41ZF9ajWM09vxCUKUMgETE-LdpPB_trPCSnKEBSrgzpaJTgYE2PjxgGhLmms1nqSaxphiwBO8JVX8c1fgFAogSyjZacfyFRR_MGvPDNYWd99hNmTcC-s=s320" width="206" /></a></div>As a fan of realism in art, I’m not an appreciator of camp. That is, the kind of camp that winks and nudges at the audience as it sails cheerfully over the top, ala <i>The Rocky Horror Picture Show.</i> <p></p><p>But I kind of like the sort of melodrama that was popular in the 1960s and 1970s, the stylized storytelling that took itself too seriously to see the silliness beneath. I’m thinking of any number of big-screen movies, like <i>Valley of The Dolls</i>, but particularly television, where this sudsy subgenre found a home in the series of <b>Quinn Martin</b> productions like <i>The Fugitive</i>, and producers like <b>Aaron Spelling</b> who were starting to build their own stylistic industrial complexes in Hollywood.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEir546d0InXeeXpYiaH92_nlbaSGzEbaywrnrPzEQl77U4zpKj_SIrsnSxQVclsBJ5HaXROCw7NVNi9kfNn3J027BgH_SxrvEkuDcbiwLCDWYmQgjBaNQFsMgMPsFXSvH9MGKa43CcY3RDsaW97QxdhmAo0eyFKcayxd8CPWDAmGv0kyRzOY1UtNYQJ=s659" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="659" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEir546d0InXeeXpYiaH92_nlbaSGzEbaywrnrPzEQl77U4zpKj_SIrsnSxQVclsBJ5HaXROCw7NVNi9kfNn3J027BgH_SxrvEkuDcbiwLCDWYmQgjBaNQFsMgMPsFXSvH9MGKa43CcY3RDsaW97QxdhmAo0eyFKcayxd8CPWDAmGv0kyRzOY1UtNYQJ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Both men were up to their chauvinistic elbows in the burgeoning new platform of made-for-television movies, and one of Spelling’s first 90-minute productions was <i>Home for the Holidays</i>, filmed in 1971 and released in early ’72 (available now only on YouTube). It has one of those casts that looked good then and great in retrospect: <p></p><p><b>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sally “You Really Like Me!” Field</b></p><p><b>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jessica “Lucille Bluth” Walter</b></p><p><b>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eleanor “The Baroness” Parker</b></p><p><b>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Walter “Everybody’s Favorite Grouchy Old Bastard” Brennan</b></p><p><br />And the one actress whose name you may not recognize — <b>Jill Haworth</b> — has the campiest story of the bunch: In 1965, when she was nineteen, the 42-year-old Spelling wooed her, without success. It’s not clear what happened in the intervening years, but Spelling cast Haworth in this movie — and then made her character the first victim of the killer. (Not really a spoiler alert, trust me.) Read into that what you will. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh821sHyG2Asyro2wg2-IH9-3_MYYvXDnpE5ET3PdOC4jSHJRbeqiHu0HeDFFypVwvxUVdHTegbAGS9w8ystMBxeu38H3gtmlBRTulI7IHkiZ9zBEk0kxx2WEMW4PTq-P1_1fN79dlytTqhOOf6iEg88qOaUudJo9y_CZKfr9Q2FlDd_9NSewTN4VDF=s660" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="455" data-original-width="660" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh821sHyG2Asyro2wg2-IH9-3_MYYvXDnpE5ET3PdOC4jSHJRbeqiHu0HeDFFypVwvxUVdHTegbAGS9w8ystMBxeu38H3gtmlBRTulI7IHkiZ9zBEk0kxx2WEMW4PTq-P1_1fN79dlytTqhOOf6iEg88qOaUudJo9y_CZKfr9Q2FlDd_9NSewTN4VDF=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><br />The story: Four sisters, long estranged from their father after their mother’s suicide, reluctantly return to the family’s country estate just before Christmas to see the now-infirm old man. He makes a couple of startling announcements: 1) I forgive you for deserting me (which is greeted with eye-rolls and protestations); and 2) I need to you to kill my current wife, who not only poisoned her late husband, but is now trying to poison me to death. </p><p><br />The daughters don’t know what’s true and what isn’t, but the current wife (the spidery <b>Julie Harris</b>) doesn’t make things easier with her arch pronouncements, withering judgments and narrowed eyes. Fortunately for her, the daughters are too busy spinning themselves dizzy on their own dysfunctional wheels: Alex (Parker) is the controlling older sister who feels she’s sacrificed her own happiness to come to the rescue of everyone else’s; Jo (Haworth) is a slutty socialite who can’t stand the isolation of her childhood home; Freddie (Walter, in an unknowing wink at Lucille Bluth, her iconic character decades later on <i>Arrested Development</i>) is an alcoholic wreck who can’t face up to so much as a cup of coffee; and Chris (Field) is a college-age naif infantilized by one and all.</p><p>Then one sister dies. Then another. Then Daddy! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9FEl5Sr9i12UW1qWQNcg_FfAqC0pUqDRyVdnhmUhpUmi0X0pHJb5gpeW3kcDEjScZ5J3rmUCdCFpRv4Wr3YKi35-0P2bkNwXh0QKz3TfZ1uPYcyoZSmA2b_YaOyHQjYIzgNmA3dkvDF7Ym-L9wiJ-J7dfdzLJxA6DxOlnnQYyVSc8Su2MD54GGG51=s660" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="660" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9FEl5Sr9i12UW1qWQNcg_FfAqC0pUqDRyVdnhmUhpUmi0X0pHJb5gpeW3kcDEjScZ5J3rmUCdCFpRv4Wr3YKi35-0P2bkNwXh0QKz3TfZ1uPYcyoZSmA2b_YaOyHQjYIzgNmA3dkvDF7Ym-L9wiJ-J7dfdzLJxA6DxOlnnQYyVSc8Su2MD54GGG51=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Then, by the time it’s clear that the killer is one of the survivors, the roads are washed out by a storm, and then the phones and power go dead. Then the real fun begins. Dashes through the hilly woods in the rain, accompanied by that great horror-movie cliché that dictates that a walking killer will always be able to catch up to a sprinting victim. Then the reveal of the killer, along with the motive, and you realize then how skillfully you’ve been manipulated into looking at someone else. </p><p>Which is not to say that <i>Home for the Holidays</i> is a great movie, even graded on a generous curve by the standards of its diminished genre. But it passes its hour and fourteen minutes pleasantly and painlessly enough, serves as an intriguing snapshot of the confused feminine politics of its transitional time, presents dark and stormy atmosphere to spare, and offers some world-class overacting. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgE74SddFAsrEnCf4AwJyVJb_I6wwCDryCzP1CTY6vplF_2HH2OlSndrLk-zoGaQ_bH3otsSpGi9YuQmN_ztVQlHlCyfswVO2xrmOrWz_nkPAdA0M8QRa0MuqhDYzle6OH7428wcVgj6qh9CxiTp6pVey04tyiUwCqZM_O2MEeXnKAM3S8Lb7OFauyb=s657" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="657" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgE74SddFAsrEnCf4AwJyVJb_I6wwCDryCzP1CTY6vplF_2HH2OlSndrLk-zoGaQ_bH3otsSpGi9YuQmN_ztVQlHlCyfswVO2xrmOrWz_nkPAdA0M8QRa0MuqhDYzle6OH7428wcVgj6qh9CxiTp6pVey04tyiUwCqZM_O2MEeXnKAM3S8Lb7OFauyb=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />In short, it has camp appeal. As <b>Michael Karol</b>, author of <i>The ABC Movie of the Week Companion</i>, put it: “It’s a real treat to watch the actresses sink their teeth into this tasty whodunnit. There’s sibling rivalry, madness, drugs, sex, and murder; what more could one ask for in a gothic thriller?”<p></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2FOpsMlXpVCelhrW0Di2bQnJZKhrAzlp3JmCsEnCm2nTU9chXYtcpMwiXqMa64xQgJUe4DdkGLZ3IIpH2coe7zPs5NDeiBO1Y5qiZHVBMOdNxWGqEEijg1NN4vV_K1-9E3JlwpyphTThOoSUp2-ZbUAxzin0FRnkKJ2kOGopeAkY6YNCRtZs0G98v=s400" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2FOpsMlXpVCelhrW0Di2bQnJZKhrAzlp3JmCsEnCm2nTU9chXYtcpMwiXqMa64xQgJUe4DdkGLZ3IIpH2coe7zPs5NDeiBO1Y5qiZHVBMOdNxWGqEEijg1NN4vV_K1-9E3JlwpyphTThOoSUp2-ZbUAxzin0FRnkKJ2kOGopeAkY6YNCRtZs0G98v=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></b></div><b>Jim Thomsen</b> is a <a href="https://www.jimthomsencreative.com/" target="_blank">writer, editor and book reviewer,</a> and also a serious Seventiesologist (see more on great TV movies of the 1970s in his essay, <a href="http://therapsheet.blogspot.com/2021/07/scream-for-deadly-terror-11-great-ok.html" target="_blank">Scream for Deadly Terror!</a>, in The Rap Sheet). He lives in Kingston, Washington.<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-10739492694873374912021-12-10T06:53:00.003-08:002021-12-10T06:53:57.987-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Andy Wolverton on The Ardennes<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj44X7uee5rQ_VMBTFHOCd3IIV1GB4afCUCVZKZ82HwVsCAoY_vMFiTexwye9WQJBzFsKCYCV9L8nCxNGlF7ca5gnNQABTi-aEtujkiNibKiiwkSqzxbgrrt2glDfoqbOYFR3RNg9Tu0eWqmQJ_w73jZ3f9_shY1AGtIjlIKObdmVgbxfTJxBx5VwO6=s400" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj44X7uee5rQ_VMBTFHOCd3IIV1GB4afCUCVZKZ82HwVsCAoY_vMFiTexwye9WQJBzFsKCYCV9L8nCxNGlF7ca5gnNQABTi-aEtujkiNibKiiwkSqzxbgrrt2glDfoqbOYFR3RNg9Tu0eWqmQJ_w73jZ3f9_shY1AGtIjlIKObdmVgbxfTJxBx5VwO6=s320" width="240" /></a></div>Christmastime: Good tidings of great joy, peace on earth, good will toward men. <p></p><p>Not with these guys. Belgian brothers Dave and Kenny come from a different part of the Bible, more like the Jacob and Esau section, or maybe even Cain and Abel.</p><p><i>The Ardennes</i> begins with a flashback showing Dave (<b>Jeroen Perceval</b>) falling into a pool fully clothed, wearing a stocking over his face. Emerging from the pool and gasping for air, Dave runs to a waiting car driven by Kenny’s girlfriend Sylvie (<b>Veerle Baetens</b>). Getting in and yanking off the stocking, he yells at her to drive. As Sylvie speeds off, Dave tells her he had no choice: He had to leave Kenny behind. </p><p>Sylvie and Dave have just made a clean getaway from a home invasion gone wrong, leaving the third member of their trio, Kenny (<b>Kevin Janssens</b>), to take the rap. Refusing to rat out his girlfriend or his brother, Kenny gets sentenced to seven years in the joint. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMxHFzSjm_WCrJOXhHUMUTsfXJhszWyP4gqtffs-qP3D9morNE-S1FzZqoi8Xe5z5lyVlaAT_6P5S5AJKf2CNiNVq6fB7JPdnzMCWpsSnXmE2vQwvTAMn9NfZy310ftrGyRE6_rf12lFUCkYsL4KDhj9DMadWygxrHXVhmL4JVnA3rdSEosKqqvs1e=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="2048" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMxHFzSjm_WCrJOXhHUMUTsfXJhszWyP4gqtffs-qP3D9morNE-S1FzZqoi8Xe5z5lyVlaAT_6P5S5AJKf2CNiNVq6fB7JPdnzMCWpsSnXmE2vQwvTAMn9NfZy310ftrGyRE6_rf12lFUCkYsL4KDhj9DMadWygxrHXVhmL4JVnA3rdSEosKqqvs1e=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Fast forward to the present. Dave is there to pick up Kenny from prison after serving four years of his seven-year sentence. <i>A happy reunion?</i> Hardly. Dave’s too quiet, and Kenny knows something’s wrong, but he doesn’t know what. <p></p><p>We do. Dave’s been making time with Sylvie. Oh, and Sylvie’s going to have Dave’s baby. Stealing your brother’s girl while he’s in lockup isn’t quite up there with Jacob cheating Esau out of his birthright, but it’s pretty close. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9rIdcgzLYeKH3Zqu7M-O7ujR0dKwPU68iBal4HqAAnFMiZhr-_y-uth91Qp8Vw-hD64Hh6U9UaJLtH8ZJoy_6sA85SN9BrY1Qq2_pN0R2fC7xDutEMffpdgOyOxchHBe1Om7-q7NM7Fr7gL2XqZo3sHkR0JLrhuCB5JMe5unOa0TyJ9AAIH463PRW=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1200" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9rIdcgzLYeKH3Zqu7M-O7ujR0dKwPU68iBal4HqAAnFMiZhr-_y-uth91Qp8Vw-hD64Hh6U9UaJLtH8ZJoy_6sA85SN9BrY1Qq2_pN0R2fC7xDutEMffpdgOyOxchHBe1Om7-q7NM7Fr7gL2XqZo3sHkR0JLrhuCB5JMe5unOa0TyJ9AAIH463PRW=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Post-prison Kenny might as well walk around with a sign above his head with '<i>Thug'</i> flashing in neon letters. (I think that would be 'misdadiger' in Dutch, but maybe 'thug' is a somewhat universal word.) The sides of Kenny’s head are close-cropped, and his face looks like he was on the wrong end of at least a few prison scrapes. But it’s the ever-present red jacket - not quite as obvious as the one <b>James Dean</b> wore in <i>Rebel Without a Cause</i> - that screams “badass.” <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuDFQILB4ii6pMIEcZP17RCUgtWRiVB28GCuEdF1mCzBwZeLXS5CvrbDCF5jhUXn2Gi-drxd_xqNqlQdfACAGf0dKF6AS-xY6GFkrdTJCxfEEKbQH5aiQSsLmu6WjrijoTEaDtP9ptaOQpdafLvH7LDmSy5UQGaUvn8LxbRWoqbKsQ4zwrcyGfaEgB=s347" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="145" data-original-width="347" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuDFQILB4ii6pMIEcZP17RCUgtWRiVB28GCuEdF1mCzBwZeLXS5CvrbDCF5jhUXn2Gi-drxd_xqNqlQdfACAGf0dKF6AS-xY6GFkrdTJCxfEEKbQH5aiQSsLmu6WjrijoTEaDtP9ptaOQpdafLvH7LDmSy5UQGaUvn8LxbRWoqbKsQ4zwrcyGfaEgB=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />At their mom’s house with the holidays approaching, Kenny remembers the times when he and Dave were young. “<i>Don’t you wish you were a kid again?</i>” Kenny asks. “<i>Weekends in the Ardennes were nice. Was it the mountains? The good air? We were so good there</i>.” We sense that maybe Kenny really wants to start over. Dave has a steady but crappy job at a car wash, and Sylvie has been drug-free for two years. Maybe Kenny can also turn things around. Dave goes to bat for his brother, getting him a job at the same car wash where he works. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3B37ibzWejTE0pf8yR9cl7pwmsKIcO2QD3Ksf0GlwSCbgW_7vPQs7gRAxLVaRagODP4ujqqsYuUGO-aEKobipQxXl7KP68DDjWCu9nX_9bfP0ux7xBe30GMpRMl_5TkkfxQ8NlZpte-LrELjhg1lSlMTtchC6skFGHxS7YyadLWkq11Qfz2zA5Caq=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3B37ibzWejTE0pf8yR9cl7pwmsKIcO2QD3Ksf0GlwSCbgW_7vPQs7gRAxLVaRagODP4ujqqsYuUGO-aEKobipQxXl7KP68DDjWCu9nX_9bfP0ux7xBe30GMpRMl_5TkkfxQ8NlZpte-LrELjhg1lSlMTtchC6skFGHxS7YyadLWkq11Qfz2zA5Caq=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />But we soon see hints that Kenny’s reformation might not be so easy. He’s still got a temper, which he demonstrates in two fights in a club that go down so fast you might miss them if you’re reaching for a beer. But Dave knows he eventually has to tell Kenny the truth about him and Sylvie. <p></p><p><i>Or does he?</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5-_cQvzG08APxgiYY-uJ-vpJXglmiKLTSl43k8ai8sNJ-LWOWdJSMEUaKI-FWRezc9-1AvidmSx3RGscwig0SDLa2o-uGD93vrOfr3bBZq4VxOnDvj8nXcu9Ilcd1_04tKITiIMfMRIP1rduX_kAHIp8C_1NL3fDj76JpA7nHaw3Nbf4kDObRB2ZG=s605" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="605" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5-_cQvzG08APxgiYY-uJ-vpJXglmiKLTSl43k8ai8sNJ-LWOWdJSMEUaKI-FWRezc9-1AvidmSx3RGscwig0SDLa2o-uGD93vrOfr3bBZq4VxOnDvj8nXcu9Ilcd1_04tKITiIMfMRIP1rduX_kAHIp8C_1NL3fDj76JpA7nHaw3Nbf4kDObRB2ZG=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Kenny’s anger gets the best of him, and soon he and Dave are trying to get rid of a dead body. (I won’t tell you whose.) Kenny remembers his former cellmate Stef (<b>Jan Bijvoet</b>), now living with a drag queen in the Ardennes. Stef’s a guy who can help them dispose of the evidence of Kenny’s anger. (Let’s just say that Stef’s had plenty of practice.) Maybe Kenny’s thinking that the Ardennes, a place of innocence and warm memories from his past, can cleanse him, help him start over. Or maybe Kenny’s thinking about what Dave still hasn’t told him. But then the presence of one of the locals and an inquisitive dog changes everything…<p></p><p>It’s at this point that some audiences give up on the believability of the film, but maybe those viewers are too hasty. Sure, there’s mayhem, murder, and wildly escalating violence, some of which is over the top, but all of it makes sense if you’ve ever heard <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Scorpion_and_the_Frog">the fable of the scorpion and the frog</a>. In fact, it makes perfect sense. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZm_jk00x3Tkjat9yej_HPB4WNThqiKIYidYaic5ZRkL5g7DhYhl8-2Z7-iB7Z6zyqHIDn96RIa3pEJLJM_CeQr-auSQlObMccVsXv-bnRThI_9GaQS0TRxJQVB__myIuliHVNSZ6udU-lbUOegMmIPgo-NVuraumNGCp7ayh8iSnGHsL2hlZlbsQJ=s1916" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="790" data-original-width="1916" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZm_jk00x3Tkjat9yej_HPB4WNThqiKIYidYaic5ZRkL5g7DhYhl8-2Z7-iB7Z6zyqHIDn96RIa3pEJLJM_CeQr-auSQlObMccVsXv-bnRThI_9GaQS0TRxJQVB__myIuliHVNSZ6udU-lbUOegMmIPgo-NVuraumNGCp7ayh8iSnGHsL2hlZlbsQJ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />It also makes perfect sense that the film’s finale is set in the Ardennes, the location of the Battle of the Bulge in World War II as well as the site of a shorter battle in World War I. This war between two brothers may be smaller in its scale of devastation, but despite some of the film’s weaknesses, it’s a compelling watch. <p></p><p>And if you want a break from good tidings of great joy, peace on earth, and good will toward men, look no further than <i>The Ardennes</i>. </p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicb5LHtcQXdWku1WbNOZ5iq-GNPbcs01R7mV2Z-U3c2Fx8Y1LaT3RHsjYVtM6P8xEnKppltW5_6DM6T_Q6k2Ax7WPRyi5hzfR73LuNevIHPABIGLL16XkU-0clQda98xJGykVT5GRnNcoDrmM9bAVkY3RUAg7diSxkmk0eIG6r_gVgPQM8zy901ker=s512" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicb5LHtcQXdWku1WbNOZ5iq-GNPbcs01R7mV2Z-U3c2Fx8Y1LaT3RHsjYVtM6P8xEnKppltW5_6DM6T_Q6k2Ax7WPRyi5hzfR73LuNevIHPABIGLL16XkU-0clQda98xJGykVT5GRnNcoDrmM9bAVkY3RUAg7diSxkmk0eIG6r_gVgPQM8zy901ker=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></b></div><b>Andy Wolverton</b> is a librarian in Severna Park, Maryland where he leads the Guys Book Club and hosts a virtual movie discussion program. <a href="http://www.andywolverton.com" target="_blank"><b>You can visit his website</b></a>, watch his <a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC-VjJ3KlUHXR-JU7DX5rcgA" target="_blank"><b>YouTube channel</b></a>, follow him on Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/awolverton77" target="_blank"><b>@awolverton77</b></a>, or ignore him completely. <p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-18355111504055912192021-12-09T06:25:00.001-08:002022-03-10T14:02:49.410-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Pete Dragovich on Age Out<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlOFDdzezKIcygiD133RoyUYuSWZ59pC3etGYp8AAUwnyvlVO0-MuimoiigsJtnd9l1eVZrEmURzU3WmVpxRi5X4GgjmNVco_DGnuE0lK7m2Xf1OWFdKE49zxGgAO5nFkyARNPe8eiSwozVgDGs1PWgJGreKSZYmO-sFdchfOXrsCoSo1IFCRUO0VR=s273" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="184" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlOFDdzezKIcygiD133RoyUYuSWZ59pC3etGYp8AAUwnyvlVO0-MuimoiigsJtnd9l1eVZrEmURzU3WmVpxRi5X4GgjmNVco_DGnuE0lK7m2Xf1OWFdKE49zxGgAO5nFkyARNPe8eiSwozVgDGs1PWgJGreKSZYmO-sFdchfOXrsCoSo1IFCRUO0VR" width="184" /></a></div><i>Age Out</i> (w/d <b>A.J. Edwards</b>) is the story of two very different but deeply lonely people connecting over the holidays for a brief, beautiful moment only to have a horrendous revelation tear them apart. Richie (<b>Tye Sheridan</b>) has been emancipated from the foster care system and is finding it hard just to make the 225 dollar rent on his lousy room in Waco without any friends or family to lean on. Joan (<b>Imogen Poots</b>) has suffered a great loss and drinks heavily to cope in her ranch-style home when she’s not working at the bank. <p></p><p>Richie’s apartment gets broken into and he replaces the door himself, his landlady reimbursing him for the costs though not without chiding him first for going over-budget even though he doesn’t even have access to a car. He can’t help but notice which drawer she takes the cash from in her office. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh25QubrfRR1geoR_Bhd87R8t6IPpUVa0fEmTvjp6uhziNl1_zcKBOTooNtC6fJJBDN5EuJwo620ER_w41Vd_NKYiQcg578sWuVKNt9vhlFFNV5ynMqKqYrwnjI6JzGx3igc0s_syQ2iCwJdkY5d2ps8WMebAeX1H0vicLBzpFNaEmGvjzS2S7vLyF_=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1080" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh25QubrfRR1geoR_Bhd87R8t6IPpUVa0fEmTvjp6uhziNl1_zcKBOTooNtC6fJJBDN5EuJwo620ER_w41Vd_NKYiQcg578sWuVKNt9vhlFFNV5ynMqKqYrwnjI6JzGx3igc0s_syQ2iCwJdkY5d2ps8WMebAeX1H0vicLBzpFNaEmGvjzS2S7vLyF_=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />With next month’s rent hanging heavy over his head after being robbed, he calls a payday loan company to spot him three hundred bucks. When the woman on the line asks him for his banking information he says he doesn’t have an account and she says she can’t help him. Richie’s lack of resources comes heartbreakingly into focus when he then flat-out asks the payday loan lady what else he can do. She ever so helpfully suggests a pawn shop.<p></p><p>When Richie breaks into the landlady’s office after hours to steal money from her to later pay her, she shows up unexpectedly and he panics and kills her. Since we never even see any scenes of the landlady sweating him for past due rent before the murder, we are left wondering if he thought she could evict him immediately following missed rent.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgo2l07E3ZM_jtbYpUuOehGPhSVB1499-0l1wDn9RMAKDLFe7gqHOKh4OB6Q9A1MKujzz86HS6xPY8GPoyW53mO_qX-ENS5nahPFhPOiWkaB7ccCpGCmnLvkc0rkTlwYMR6h6f03qYOHSlZIOVvuG6qnyyvg3zs8_UKsCo3cIkGeUAcGtK4cpWg1XZL=s279" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="279" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgo2l07E3ZM_jtbYpUuOehGPhSVB1499-0l1wDn9RMAKDLFe7gqHOKh4OB6Q9A1MKujzz86HS6xPY8GPoyW53mO_qX-ENS5nahPFhPOiWkaB7ccCpGCmnLvkc0rkTlwYMR6h6f03qYOHSlZIOVvuG6qnyyvg3zs8_UKsCo3cIkGeUAcGtK4cpWg1XZL" width="279" /></a></div><br />Speaking of needing parental guidance, Richie comes across Joan trying to figure out a stick shift on a car she’s inherited while he is waiting for the next bus to New Orleans. He offers to drive her home and she offers him some leftover funeral food. It is in Joan’s house that we see the first of two artificial Christmas trees in the movie, this a tasteful white one with low-key colored (and sparingly placed) bulbs, the type of tree you’d expect to see behind the Lennon Sisters on an LP sleeve at your grandma’s house. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEeBJx4qr91GWowheB2ZYilIEqw8GSVa0iRXCaJbwHZbtICdspf87CK0DgV3bB0GyHk4HZ6sXc-EYN3zZDefD7iI6ihfYi4F3byuy3_P20INRVYN6EP06bT7RB37Oe8UQvkhb5wB79tGgsNAEvAliZPusR6dQEOS7Y6-mZhC2D5PgmJdCVEwfZQzQc=s600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEeBJx4qr91GWowheB2ZYilIEqw8GSVa0iRXCaJbwHZbtICdspf87CK0DgV3bB0GyHk4HZ6sXc-EYN3zZDefD7iI6ihfYi4F3byuy3_P20INRVYN6EP06bT7RB37Oe8UQvkhb5wB79tGgsNAEvAliZPusR6dQEOS7Y6-mZhC2D5PgmJdCVEwfZQzQc=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Richie misses his bus and ends up stuck in town and hanging out with essentially the Devil, a greasy crook named Swim played by the always great <b>Caleb Landry Jones</b>. Swim shows him a good time, takes him to all kinds of very cool looking squats to drink and party, but throws cold water on Richie after awhile by not-so-subtly hinting that he knows about the landlady. <p></p><p>Richie comes to Joan’s rescue again when he comes across her having accidentally locked her keys in her car. He breaks an arm off her sunglasses and picks the lock, giving himself some bad boy credentials in her eyes. They go for a walk and connect over their loneliness, then later go to a New Year’s Party together where Richie really sticks out amongst her middle class friends. She asks him to stay the night, if only on the couch in front of the Christmas tree, saying she hasn’t been sleeping well since her mom died. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhixPJI2r1Lm5ASXpMllHXHAHeuBUlTJ0QAE6mnx_jwwm9iv3hQ1dxaK7XEzDVjcjWtYByh4AyWAefJZy-fpC7sr7fgPze9Og67s2uscKsV6wiCMCQ59n71s4hkx3REyuULM9RiigZvEdvt01axidx_aYaLrj7ljNKJekaTSX7xlkvQbTkVHu67E5wO=s282" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="179" data-original-width="282" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhixPJI2r1Lm5ASXpMllHXHAHeuBUlTJ0QAE6mnx_jwwm9iv3hQ1dxaK7XEzDVjcjWtYByh4AyWAefJZy-fpC7sr7fgPze9Og67s2uscKsV6wiCMCQ59n71s4hkx3REyuULM9RiigZvEdvt01axidx_aYaLrj7ljNKJekaTSX7xlkvQbTkVHu67E5wO" width="282" /></a></div><br />Swim rides up on Richie on his way to work the next day and says he needs him for some nefarious shit. Richie doesn’t want to do it but then Swim says, “<i>All it takes is one little word, Richie, for me to knock things down</i>.” Richie attacks Swim, who taunts Richie, telling him to go ahead and kill him as Richie has his hands on his throat. Richie thinks better of it and gets up, Swim asking for a hand up off the ground with a smirking, fey flourish. On the ride over, Swim tells Richie how it is: <p></p><p>“<i>Everybody always tries to tie you down. Tell you what to do. I’ve got nothing to confess, you understand? No money- no real money, no jobs, no folks. But we’re alright, right? I do what I can. It’s all I’ve got…We’re born alone, we live alone, and we die alone. And that’s it. It’s nothing. And that’s freedom, Richie. People talk about having it all the time. What if it’s a really little room? Really dark with little cobwebs up in the corner?</i>”</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN_8Sb5yxdm7v0WwEm3V1RIcdV_h6va9YAGAiU_mD3jFI1HD16dzErTX3KwLMY65PPjVQKnpJxeFopEo6zlGCJdX23BBEuPEJC31xi4BsvU1ewN3sGsHaH3FXD2rpepPIc93WaC-qkcuRi63qKq8AROq_rPe0jtkB2ppk2HSKL9G4PMTrRki5TQYIO=s374" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="374" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN_8Sb5yxdm7v0WwEm3V1RIcdV_h6va9YAGAiU_mD3jFI1HD16dzErTX3KwLMY65PPjVQKnpJxeFopEo6zlGCJdX23BBEuPEJC31xi4BsvU1ewN3sGsHaH3FXD2rpepPIc93WaC-qkcuRi63qKq8AROq_rPe0jtkB2ppk2HSKL9G4PMTrRki5TQYIO=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />The two go to a sad sack extended stay motor lodge where Swim has obtained the master key. Swim sets a crappy car in the lot on fire and the two of them ransack all the unoccupied rooms they come across in the confusion. In one room they rummage through, Swim pointlessly knocks over a table-top size fake tree, underlining just how shitty their act is. Someone whose stay in such a place is so long that they put up a Christmas tree and still haven’t taken it down post-New Year’s doesn’t need more shit on their plate than they already have. Catching sight of himself in a window while catching his breath mid-spree, Richie abandons his meager spoils and evil friend and runs all the way to Joan’s house. Or, to bring it back to the Christmas of it all, he abandons the shabby tree that Swim’s way of life offers him for the <b>Lawrence Welk</b> tree of Joan’s nice house.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhGXP_-1w64t7Klp4CP8gs5pIzjiC6GVI_umbhHgMRZxI3PgLY7pRip7szJRPq8mKPG8PQZBDCUSTrL_zaZ4gYGhUfaDO7pSB-y7pLVyJG7EZNSBE6NVijMqGejcyFkr2DqNTdrk_PKfNv8EHQgd-LC_vFG-yYMcIk7Oi_a_Brtc1hf4B3K4R65mG65=s633" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="633" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhGXP_-1w64t7Klp4CP8gs5pIzjiC6GVI_umbhHgMRZxI3PgLY7pRip7szJRPq8mKPG8PQZBDCUSTrL_zaZ4gYGhUfaDO7pSB-y7pLVyJG7EZNSBE6NVijMqGejcyFkr2DqNTdrk_PKfNv8EHQgd-LC_vFG-yYMcIk7Oi_a_Brtc1hf4B3K4R65mG65=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Joan is drunk and agrees to hit the road with him. As they leave Waco the for the wide open spaces of West Texas, the film switches from boxy wider-than-Academy-ratio to full-on letterboxed for the first time, like thick black bars on the top and bottom of your TV like we’re in nineties home video land. We get the full Malick-style treatment (director Edwards was an editor for Malick and Sheridan starred in Malick’s Waco-set <i>The Tree of Life</i>), beautiful magic hour shots of two pretty people in nature, all <i>Badlands</i>-ing it up. For a minute it looks like Richie has defied what Swim laid down, managed to find freedom with another person and without confinement. <p></p><p>Then the shoe drops hard as Joan lets loose that her mother isn’t just dead but actually murdered at her office where she manages apartments. The truth dawning on Richie at last is shattering, so much so that he leaves their motel before Joan has woken up and takes the bus back to Waco, the screen changing back into the rectangular box once again as Richie confesses to the crime and goes to jail. To hammer the boxed-in thing home even more, turns out being responsible and attached also can include a “really little room.”</p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxgsvrbORPHkfoNus6LP-6yZTorSBjEb0oCdcJEXGn6gU0vQwnP1F7fgJsFN_JtKbXx0BxRFA49kPHx17yOLdN2rJ7VNHWKHtEoCQHGS74lLMmOmFz-biuQL6vcs2hghpwPUVzocO8i4ZRNI7tgjFXbY_lP9-Xb-x_jkTz_TAE6EminwJiKmF4xL2U=s398" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="262" data-original-width="398" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxgsvrbORPHkfoNus6LP-6yZTorSBjEb0oCdcJEXGn6gU0vQwnP1F7fgJsFN_JtKbXx0BxRFA49kPHx17yOLdN2rJ7VNHWKHtEoCQHGS74lLMmOmFz-biuQL6vcs2hghpwPUVzocO8i4ZRNI7tgjFXbY_lP9-Xb-x_jkTz_TAE6EminwJiKmF4xL2U=s320" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Age Out</i> is obviously not a subtle character study or a badass crime film but it strives for a certain (mostly) sentiment-free, beautiful humanity and earns how affecting its final moments are. Sure, there’s only two Christmas trees here to count it as part of the CrimesMas Canon, but there are few crime movies that have such a hard-won earnestness, that are so defiantly un-noir in attitude (well, few that I genuinely like, anyway). You thankfully don’t hear any church bells or something sappy like that when Joan visits Richie in prison, but try telling your heart that. She hates what he’s done, but she’s there and she wants to talk. CrimesMas season could stand for a little grace, measured as it may be.<p></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpl3lDmgdLz3PJJHL1ACE_8fYkEcm9NEBXc8Ti30p4QR9l4H0xTafWLh6MjiA6pJVuH6BNb-TFaR6D85TgajSvBoQ7GndGQgZCF1Hk52JHY8jezWx0Rh3KI-8JOqoiqhpwCOcZpIIiICnIfBO4E8HKnPIbMT9vUzWeknSVQDZJqzLUdnx_d56QHo7B=s650" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="650" height="77" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpl3lDmgdLz3PJJHL1ACE_8fYkEcm9NEBXc8Ti30p4QR9l4H0xTafWLh6MjiA6pJVuH6BNb-TFaR6D85TgajSvBoQ7GndGQgZCF1Hk52JHY8jezWx0Rh3KI-8JOqoiqhpwCOcZpIIiICnIfBO4E8HKnPIbMT9vUzWeknSVQDZJqzLUdnx_d56QHo7B=w200-h77" width="200" /></a></b></div><b><div><b>Pete Dragovich</b><span style="font-weight: 400;"> has written for Crimespree, Crime Factory and Spinetingler Magazines. He still has the Nerd of Noir blog but doesn't post shit up there anymore and a bunch of the links don't lead anywhere now so maybe just skip it. He's </span><a href="https://twitter.com/nerdofnoir" style="font-weight: 400;" target="_blank">@nerdofnoir</a><span style="font-weight: 400;"> on twitter (which he kinda sucks at) and </span><a href="https://letterboxd.com/nerd_of_noir/" style="font-weight: 400;" target="_blank">NERD_OF_NOIR</a><span style="font-weight: 400;"> on letterboxd (where his opinions are the correct ones). He lives in Minneapolis.</span></div></b><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-65116826584165110072021-12-08T04:37:00.001-08:002022-03-10T14:03:09.326-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Johnny Shaw on Invasion U.S.A.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvLWOIxjkijH2QjimMBPTvgoxAgOCyLuUTiZ9KhW1MeiKKKnQmAaUGXqtQta1inA5eodZmMStFkN9PckWMFHW9DOxRz1ptwWA-a1meTp_pgQwd_tjYodcT94-L3PobddFFUCozya7ZzKMuVFWcmRAAVVS5u4g_oxIkvUQoWSklKN46aGug0r18e6dX=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1338" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvLWOIxjkijH2QjimMBPTvgoxAgOCyLuUTiZ9KhW1MeiKKKnQmAaUGXqtQta1inA5eodZmMStFkN9PckWMFHW9DOxRz1ptwWA-a1meTp_pgQwd_tjYodcT94-L3PobddFFUCozya7ZzKMuVFWcmRAAVVS5u4g_oxIkvUQoWSklKN46aGug0r18e6dX=s320" width="209" /></a></div>Chuck Norris has a vision of America. And it is fucked.<p></p><p>But before I explore <i>Invasion USA</i> in relation to Apparatus Theory, Marxism, and basic semiotics, I want to shut down the seemingly ongoing debate about whether or not <i>Invasion USA</i> is a Christmas movie. I have been on the internet. I know people have been arguing about this for years. A lot of people have opinions. However it has been scientifically proven that ninety percent of opinions are wrong. So I will lay down the facts that I made up. <i>Invasion USA</i> isn’t just a Christmas movie, it is Christmas. It embodies Christmas. Many people consider <i>Invasion USA</i> to be the <i>Die Hard </i>of 1980s action movies.</p><p>In Latvia on Christmas morning, fathers and sons watch <i>Invasion USA </i>just after they decorate their Christmas cabbages. In Suriname, the twelve stations of Matt Hunter are observed every Sunday of Advent and in celebration, everyone wears a ceremonial mustache and beard. I could go on.</p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhB_X-XDslqrqct6C6U3zAaVqUWIn7_vQY2qF-55lWJg2kDW8bzhh_rrYtsvPpDpfL0YMBetADNFd7f50czTJ4dFN5fU3hZn1vZzY7O4OsOnT2ljeelaNvNviVoqoIAQ6BS0U1eTtsZQgjCJ9sRy_l4yUgqXLPiUy3qGBgTN7PF5XIaFo04tY4SDaZm=s853" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="853" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhB_X-XDslqrqct6C6U3zAaVqUWIn7_vQY2qF-55lWJg2kDW8bzhh_rrYtsvPpDpfL0YMBetADNFd7f50czTJ4dFN5fU3hZn1vZzY7O4OsOnT2ljeelaNvNviVoqoIAQ6BS0U1eTtsZQgjCJ9sRy_l4yUgqXLPiUy3qGBgTN7PF5XIaFo04tY4SDaZm=s320" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Invasion USA</i> has all the classic elements of a Christmas movie. A guy with a beard. Christmas carols. A mall. Denim. A girl putting a star on the top of a Christmas tree right before her family is slaughtered with a bazooka. <b>Billy Drago</b> getting shot in the junk. The classic Christmas tropes.<p></p><p>But like many Christmas traditions, that doesn’t mean that they are welcome or wanted or enjoyed. It’s grandma’s fruitcake, but without the sweetness. It’s a bowl of steaming Brussels sprouts, but without the nutrition. It’s that nagging obligation of having to mail out cards, but without...no, there’s nothing good about that one.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_RptY94OrmPzOEfvcB-whIHB-L-DI1JvfGv4Ki7vlTl1LwEPRFUJoGACXnpfjqlKAG0B9MWrafBtridaWaocEH9Y6_9TDILTATVloD9H9BjAxLRhldGsHaXIS4khMsCxJ-MOhvXFAgegwNF9OMu3DaeyxSQwf90yzyFH0Ahy02fQOfu1j1cloo7xq=s960" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="960" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_RptY94OrmPzOEfvcB-whIHB-L-DI1JvfGv4Ki7vlTl1LwEPRFUJoGACXnpfjqlKAG0B9MWrafBtridaWaocEH9Y6_9TDILTATVloD9H9BjAxLRhldGsHaXIS4khMsCxJ-MOhvXFAgegwNF9OMu3DaeyxSQwf90yzyFH0Ahy02fQOfu1j1cloo7xq=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />If you haven’t seen the movie, I’ll do my best to immerse you in the <i>Invasion USA</i> experience. Imagine if <b>Ronald Reagan</b> was talking in his sleep during a fever dream and one of the Secret Service agents outside the door overheard some of it and then told his cousin who owned a company that made camouflage pants and then that guy got really drunk and told the last few people at the bar--his only real friends--about Reagan’s dream, but couldn’t quite get the details right, so he filled in the gaps with barely-remembered snippets of a conversation he either heard or imagined between <b>John Milius</b> and <b>William F. Buckley</b> on late-night TV, and then one of those barflies--a veteran celebrating V.G. Day (Victory over Grenada)--who heard that slurred cacophony, later attended a John Birch Society meeting and told guest speaker <b>Aaron Norris</b>, Chuck Norris’s brother, who immediately got on the phone and shouted the story at his typist until she cried, and then the last thing she did before an unfortunate incident exploring self-trepanation as a treatment for the stress of working for Aaron Norris was hand-deliver the “story” to Chuck Norris who wrote the screenplay in eagle blood on the white stripes of an American flag.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidmWgYPSYaWkYcmNrV4OKoEw0GR9Vi9YcofQKOd_veJIQdk3Unqwk5drBrpRvb-glyr2rnn29IRkePUE07SvZL9BNuNIiD4rOpywSdYeyDO0fG9kpnW1tB4y3KL0KbVu9fn1UBRyVL4ayjjx5QLWbzTCzT1sF4Q-DsgeLTcE3KRUcva0P3g7pW2Jin=s853" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="853" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidmWgYPSYaWkYcmNrV4OKoEw0GR9Vi9YcofQKOd_veJIQdk3Unqwk5drBrpRvb-glyr2rnn29IRkePUE07SvZL9BNuNIiD4rOpywSdYeyDO0fG9kpnW1tB4y3KL0KbVu9fn1UBRyVL4ayjjx5QLWbzTCzT1sF4Q-DsgeLTcE3KRUcva0P3g7pW2Jin=s320" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Invasion USA</i> is a wake-up call to America. A Christmas card from your racist uncle. And the message is clear. America has gone soft and left itself open for attack. And when that attack happens, we will end up fighting not just the Commies, but amongst ourselves. (Imagine the ridiculousness of an outside threat attacking the United States and instead of banding together to defeat the enemy, Americans turn on each other, food shortages divide the public, and the government is unable to stop what seems like a relatively straightforward problem with a clear-cut solution. It’s ludicrous that would happen in our country.)<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsZW_hxdiR5Cef-FMX3MtinuYxedsOsv3BVHc8GsrEdk2rrJavqU3anycTWmug0S6Si1N9P5D8B0YSCYjWKChYvaXB9bSmuEkWIGwvRA4JK24NjlbKdefwmWITl9m8-372Wl_w6iRjLs6x8mVmH_YOX6Ph7d4k7PShNr_XkTqECJv6LDc76QHsEvnv=s425" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="229" data-original-width="425" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsZW_hxdiR5Cef-FMX3MtinuYxedsOsv3BVHc8GsrEdk2rrJavqU3anycTWmug0S6Si1N9P5D8B0YSCYjWKChYvaXB9bSmuEkWIGwvRA4JK24NjlbKdefwmWITl9m8-372Wl_w6iRjLs6x8mVmH_YOX6Ph7d4k7PShNr_XkTqECJv6LDc76QHsEvnv=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />An evil Russian (played by America’s answer to <b>Klaus Kinski, Richard Lynch</b>) teams with a group of generic Cubans, extras in military surplus sale items, and an Asian (who in a surprise twist is not played by <b>Al Leong</b>) to invade the USA on Christmas Day. They attack everything that’s important to Americans: suburban homes, Christmas trees, rural homes, a mall, a church, couples making out, office cubicles, and dancing Cubans (to be fair, the last one threw me a little).<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQZvBASoD9NDx33nB6qaPAj97KgxsZHRxiDWPX_50BcxrfpcvO9dtC6M6a_ENKCnXcfFzqy9u9CTiWHvI0G448gv5s3M6uwn1RuLQQKlR8WDE2D9AMMtroAoQUv52eGVgFQyiqlKr1ydR37GAUv1WUawDQf-f-n0TVLZSzpMSf3ROE-OVISpGFsesW=s1920" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQZvBASoD9NDx33nB6qaPAj97KgxsZHRxiDWPX_50BcxrfpcvO9dtC6M6a_ENKCnXcfFzqy9u9CTiWHvI0G448gv5s3M6uwn1RuLQQKlR8WDE2D9AMMtroAoQUv52eGVgFQyiqlKr1ydR37GAUv1WUawDQf-f-n0TVLZSzpMSf3ROE-OVISpGFsesW=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />It takes Matt Hunter (Chuck Norris at his most characterless) a full hour before he makes a decision to join the story. When he does, his first stop is Miami. He drives down Everything That Is Wrong With America Street. There are prostitutes and their pimps. There are people staying warm in front of a flaming oil drum. There are black people. There is a busking saxophone player who picked a terrible location. And there are bikers. No motorcycles. Just bikers on foot. They all yell expletives in his direction. I’m assuming it’s because of the unseen provocative bumper stickers on his pickup truck. It’s almost like they don’t like America itself.<p></p><p>There’s a female reporter in the story who complains and takes pictures. Her character serves absolutely no function in the story. She’s not integral to the plot in any way. She’s not Norris’s love interest. She never actually writes a story or publishes her photos. I get the sense that Norris realized that the only other women in the movie were moms or prostitutes (who all end up dead), but he had recently read an article in <i>Cosmopolitan </i>while waiting at Supercuts where he learned that women can hold jobs that aren’t mothering and hookering. A last minute save.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3LsmtcJAt0hlFVEzoLYdzJXkSjy8lWXPUF1ZSZ6RIFyuQdFYRfUAb4O0RLpOy10UFsncAIq1iPiq_f0dDYnI6q6KwwOgTFS0E4lnju11QgipUHBC2FCwSOeRv1baTWMTivfD_F9CV433UF9CbxTf26udqbcJ7QRNpUIxy4h6FujvdizYRrwa25a5C=s1920" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3LsmtcJAt0hlFVEzoLYdzJXkSjy8lWXPUF1ZSZ6RIFyuQdFYRfUAb4O0RLpOy10UFsncAIq1iPiq_f0dDYnI6q6KwwOgTFS0E4lnju11QgipUHBC2FCwSOeRv1baTWMTivfD_F9CV433UF9CbxTf26udqbcJ7QRNpUIxy4h6FujvdizYRrwa25a5C=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Even the total destruction of a mall is joyless. My only joy was the mental reminder to rewatch <i>The Blues Brothers</i> and <i>Dawn of the Dead</i>. <p></p><p>There is one good car chase with excellent stunt work if one good scene is all you need, but mostly it’s not that the movie is dumb--it is, but I like dumb. It’s that it’s dull. Which is why I disliked it so much when I saw it at the theater in my youth and the rewatch obviously didn’t change that view. How can you mess up this premise?</p><p><i>Invasion USA</i> is a bad movie, but it’s also the movie I would make someone watch if I wanted them to understand what America can be like. Not what America thinks it’s like, but what America actually is like most of the time. A big, dumb, loud, violent jumblefuck of stupidity and exploitation driven by fear and anger.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirm-YjpW0SWTvia-9h7y01fS-YTK1FVuDLd0WWH6RiwnB85GYV7Uk6skjvWE9UsZUm5XQDcHe9iQ07jFB1TIq3RUJw1eD3kqB5yBVFAkx1ssG2ylhldRkWF6V8lwQtXqD_qNHcdp3QbecE_6-seQVcmSYt5eC7zjHt6D8YkuB7goSrHnyfOmwIkSkO=s1080" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="1080" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirm-YjpW0SWTvia-9h7y01fS-YTK1FVuDLd0WWH6RiwnB85GYV7Uk6skjvWE9UsZUm5XQDcHe9iQ07jFB1TIq3RUJw1eD3kqB5yBVFAkx1ssG2ylhldRkWF6V8lwQtXqD_qNHcdp3QbecE_6-seQVcmSYt5eC7zjHt6D8YkuB7goSrHnyfOmwIkSkO=w200-h147" width="200" /></a></div><b>Johnny Shaw</b> is the <a href="https://www.johnnyshawauthor.com/" target="_blank">author of seven novels</a>, including <i>Dove Season, Big Maria</i>, and most recently <i>The Southland</i>.<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-21120683256636180112021-12-07T06:18:00.002-08:002022-03-10T14:03:25.789-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Kieran Shea on Casting JonBenet<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSom6e28_Bad9Obv3HrTb4DZ4h-_CroVUpRWNpDZu5IADpV7vW1aXQg4xYuUjTm7qQcj6dnT1POeXKkBBTf1OOyx_Jf3i89skP0NZBsZX5AkSfqHgcfPjBFrx2zV5hqHLTymic3YgPlqw/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1013" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSom6e28_Bad9Obv3HrTb4DZ4h-_CroVUpRWNpDZu5IADpV7vW1aXQg4xYuUjTm7qQcj6dnT1POeXKkBBTf1OOyx_Jf3i89skP0NZBsZX5AkSfqHgcfPjBFrx2zV5hqHLTymic3YgPlqw/w216-h320/thumbnail.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>No matter how much I read or trust my vocabulary, inevitably I come across something that prompts me to reach for my dictionary. Yeah, you read that right: my dictionary. It's not an OED or anything, but it does have some serious chops. Of course I can only imagine what you're thinking... "Wow, an actual dictionary? Like, dude, there's this thing called the internet?"<p></p><p>Right, of course. The internet...that exponentially-growing spawn of ARPANET, the jolly juggernaut of the last thirty years that has seen the rise and fall of fortunes, with all its endless promulgations, overlapping data, conspicuous consumption temptations, and collective bellows into the void. Gosh, thanks for pointing that out for me. But no offense, go fuck yourself. I happen to like looking up words. The physical act helps my recall. Anyway, not so long ago I came across two words, a phrase really, I hadn't seen before namely idée fixe, to wit, "...coined by composer <b>Hector Berlioz</b> to describe his Symphonie Fantastique...French novelist <b>Honore de Balzac</b> used "idée fixe" to describe an obsessive notion...this expression then carried over into modern day English and is usually employed now to describe a preoccupation that possesses one's mind."</p><p>I don't know about you, but idée fixe seems a fine descriptor for our present pop-culture media preoccupations. As denizens of the 21st Century weaned on relentless broadcasting, boy oh boy, do we obsess over the things that pour into our eyes and ears, most of which have nothing to do with our own waking lives. Often, we don't even need to actively delve any deeper than a passing glance, a flick of a channel, an accidental click-through, and by some miracle of osmosis we helplessly absorb it all, often triggering idée fixes both private as well as those we feel strangely compelled to share. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpHFXrjTkC_19Rz0C7_JP3d4ATXbZ_cyDLI2b0OQzDU8PxojgYflu7cw2Rvcobt_ytPCeBX_Ns9Y7Dk76PfkSosPPxbKbClA2PityUpfwP_2dXXP8xyImTiKG3AYawo53Z_00_F7qMeA0/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="740" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpHFXrjTkC_19Rz0C7_JP3d4ATXbZ_cyDLI2b0OQzDU8PxojgYflu7cw2Rvcobt_ytPCeBX_Ns9Y7Dk76PfkSosPPxbKbClA2PityUpfwP_2dXXP8xyImTiKG3AYawo53Z_00_F7qMeA0/" width="320" /></a></div><br />Which, in a roundabout way, brings me to the subject of this holiday film recommendation, a documentary I caught on Netflix <i>Casting JonBenet</i> (2017). Wow, is this an odd little honey of a film, a doc both chilling and brimming with exploitive pith. As a writ large commentary on the public's ghoulish fixations, it might be a refreshing change from your usual Christmastime crime film fare as the murder of <b>JonBenet Ramsey</b>, if it hasn't been hammered into your skull already, took place on Christmas Eve.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggleeF-Rld6GTNaM-p2BS_zsoX1XtCt13W7y8cA87G1kauHJqSzeHBTV8Pp7b_J1g7UkPdTcbXxAHBqJHpUTTBri4fJzpegnbp0t9aV0RG90HJEyMiol8KINOij1enGaY0T8IV_4mKKts/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="164" data-original-width="307" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggleeF-Rld6GTNaM-p2BS_zsoX1XtCt13W7y8cA87G1kauHJqSzeHBTV8Pp7b_J1g7UkPdTcbXxAHBqJHpUTTBri4fJzpegnbp0t9aV0RG90HJEyMiol8KINOij1enGaY0T8IV_4mKKts/" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Assembled as a series of vignettes from a casting process for supposed re-enactments of the events surrounding then bludgeoning and strangulation, various actors from Boulder, Colorado where the murder took place are interviewed and screen tested for the roles of the actual people involved. <b>John </b>and<b> Patsy Ramsey, Burke Ramsey, John Mark Karr</b>, various Boulder police officials, Santa Claus freelancers. During the process the would-be actors, dressed as the persons they're auditioning for, expose their own theories on the crime. No FBI spokespersons. No grisly autopsy photographs. No nosy neighbor commentary. No reenactments. Just local actors from Boulder sticking their creative necks out. Take it from someone who once worked professionally as an understudy, the desperation (some) and the talent (a lot) of these locals will haunt you, especially one of the gentlemen auditioning for John Mark Karr (suspect) and the small boys auditioning for the role of JonBonet's brother, Burke. Overall it’s a snowy, Rocky Mountain tragedy that leaves more questions than answers and a stylish indictment of both the viewer and society, drooling freely over not to mention profiting off of a terrifying and heinous act. </p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK5CrhrLXcfrRgzYDGEpeZCa7dQSaKSYQMlFZBV2bJBMIYWNgZcR62uZFdAuMSz1kZKswUwcdrsfUi2oKftkQDXzwyw-9oyfHXWWBgKXezKc-X6k2CFgkF-pw4BkNqjA5q9rSv0dD8wshRhqRNHxsRjtj3CLrzmbEDAPZBvQpjFaXXkcdj4RYQNHGN=s172" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="162" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK5CrhrLXcfrRgzYDGEpeZCa7dQSaKSYQMlFZBV2bJBMIYWNgZcR62uZFdAuMSz1kZKswUwcdrsfUi2oKftkQDXzwyw-9oyfHXWWBgKXezKc-X6k2CFgkF-pw4BkNqjA5q9rSv0dD8wshRhqRNHxsRjtj3CLrzmbEDAPZBvQpjFaXXkcdj4RYQNHGN" width="162" /></a></b></div><b>Kieran Shea</b> is the author of <i>Off Rock</i>, the Koko P. Marsteller cyberpunk series, and the recent short story collection, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Americana-Psychorama-Collected-Stories/dp/1643962280/ref=sr_1_1?qid=1638886661&refinements=p_27%3AKieran+Shea&s=books&sr=1-1" target="_blank">The Americana Psychorama</a></i>. For some reason he also considers <b>Jed Ayres</b> an "<i>amigo inteligente</i>" but don't hold that against him.<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-39016941303300113282021-12-06T03:16:00.000-08:002021-12-06T03:16:21.001-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Wallace Stroby on City on Fire<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFXgfxtPLPwvf25rP6BvAYSbwXFI088im_B01t4JC0M1eIp1tQZSQhnPfofGaPd3R5FmoNaTi2EfjBEDiWvnLlVw_tUpOEeGxwO0WKjaa47m8DELXoALzuEdDghNFf7jG1JCbyXGQ8fERdqkJD7TDgN31XGjnwrUZl-0F3qfYzU7oeOQp5zsJMkvXW=s838" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="838" data-original-width="596" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFXgfxtPLPwvf25rP6BvAYSbwXFI088im_B01t4JC0M1eIp1tQZSQhnPfofGaPd3R5FmoNaTi2EfjBEDiWvnLlVw_tUpOEeGxwO0WKjaa47m8DELXoALzuEdDghNFf7jG1JCbyXGQ8fERdqkJD7TDgN31XGjnwrUZl-0F3qfYzU7oeOQp5zsJMkvXW=s320" width="228" /></a></b></div><b>Ringo Lam</b>’s 1987 crime drama <i>City on Fire</i> is probably best known now as being a visual and narrative inspiration for <b>Quentin Tarantino</b>’s <i>Reservoir Dogs</i>, released five years later. I won’t go into that, but suffice it to say the “homages” are many. (<b>Mike White</b> of the Projection Booth Podcast did an entire <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7HgbSAL8OKY&t=522s" target="_blank">short film about the similarities</a>.)<p></p><p>Lam, who died in 2018 at age 63, never got the attention his contemporaries <b>John Woo</b> and <b>Tsui Hark</b> received, but he was a key creative force in the late-’80s, early-‘90s golden era of Hong Kong cinema. <i>City</i> was his fifth film, and the first of five features that teamed him with HK superstar <b>Chow Yun-Fat</b>.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjgFu-ixqBvZeZXXwa8VGrhILjYjyi2ETyir-zgTvgjaQvC6qmA3DXCjgqsGjazPT92aiATbpT36c1EDCiF-v1jAOJ_K1nQM2o0OTiMOPypneAeAHhcDbnH44FakLoSYUCFLoIBvp1ugLnKeVsef532dNereoSYhPVft7911yIArMj4zp-97pd0TTU=s1280" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="1280" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjgFu-ixqBvZeZXXwa8VGrhILjYjyi2ETyir-zgTvgjaQvC6qmA3DXCjgqsGjazPT92aiATbpT36c1EDCiF-v1jAOJ_K1nQM2o0OTiMOPypneAeAHhcDbnH44FakLoSYUCFLoIBvp1ugLnKeVsef532dNereoSYhPVft7911yIArMj4zp-97pd0TTU=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Though Lam made some stylish – and highly stylized – action films in his 33-year career (notably 1992’s <i>Full Contact</i>, also starring Chow, and the 1994 kung fu epic <i>Burning Paradise</i>), <i>City</i> is primarily a gritty downbeat police drama. Chow, charismatic as always, plays an undercover cop who infiltrates a gang of jewelry store robbers, and bonds with a fellow thief (played by <b>Danny Lee</b>), whom he knows he must eventually betray.<p></p><p>Things go wrong when a botched robbery turns into a bloody shootout. It all ends up at an abandoned factory where the surviving thieves meet and argue about who was the informant in their midst, leading to a three-way Mexican standoff. (Sound familiar?).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGQ7HNrMpAN-pp7He7ujn9V2zFGlwVEez9NtJ1laBCmH-ShA9sLOooRmhYRNHGybEcDoCyqehfOPPVTJQ_uWOLX1BDdgaNrOKXAAli2TULYsU_K7L2LHx1vUlHclIsYSrfgCqXrNGcNBjpJLjuBQt59wzTFyx8nc7TbZNwndJFI8K5ByslmNy60TxD=s1280" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="1280" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGQ7HNrMpAN-pp7He7ujn9V2zFGlwVEez9NtJ1laBCmH-ShA9sLOooRmhYRNHGybEcDoCyqehfOPPVTJQ_uWOLX1BDdgaNrOKXAAli2TULYsU_K7L2LHx1vUlHclIsYSrfgCqXrNGcNBjpJLjuBQt59wzTFyx8nc7TbZNwndJFI8K5ByslmNy60TxD=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Set during the Christmas season in an extravagantly neon-lit Hong Kong nightscape, <i>City </i>is a full-on film noir, right down to the bluesy jazz score. Chow’s cop, Ko Chow, is torn between his loyalties, and cracking under pressure. His personal life is falling apart, with his fiancee threatening to leave HK for San Francisco with another man. Ko Chow also finds himself increasingly in danger as some of the gang members start to suspect he’s not who he says he is. (The film opens with his undercover predecessor being brutally stabbed to death in a crowded market.)<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZ3B1L4VNMrcY9Y4Qy2wsp0a4b2G4-HEbCEfa8uW2OmfHnmsofK5okDSommqqCUnYtCdmbqGDfl4IeMQIED4Vx9bHpg5YC10UjOjvFyRD001JImUkEXC_zPrplNWhPq0_ymQdWKg6j6Dobc1j6oeBa5geS_-3Y4rns3p51IoFULh146KABRsNUnO7F=s1087" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="579" data-original-width="1087" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZ3B1L4VNMrcY9Y4Qy2wsp0a4b2G4-HEbCEfa8uW2OmfHnmsofK5okDSommqqCUnYtCdmbqGDfl4IeMQIED4Vx9bHpg5YC10UjOjvFyRD001JImUkEXC_zPrplNWhPq0_ymQdWKg6j6Dobc1j6oeBa5geS_-3Y4rns3p51IoFULh146KABRsNUnO7F=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Though it’s essentially a tense, tightly knit drama, the film also contains action scenes that are both vivid and realistically messy, including a chaotic getaway in a speeding car, set to the Christmas carol “Joy to the World.”<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiNFpSQhtrzyHSS6E4Wp-gOZ2ZdVMU8NuM2IM777Ppc31SEfGynTC2gRVFLxKmet68rd-GMQrp2KM0aflNx83J8omjjkAySqYPpabDffDxfJ4JzS8kg_iNari_IYQBW_D5dN_vI4MOuMXb6LxLqNsVFMeJT2j4RQJDtkrpIOKRTQ6sl9nN7vBDlxkR=s672" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="672" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiNFpSQhtrzyHSS6E4Wp-gOZ2ZdVMU8NuM2IM777Ppc31SEfGynTC2gRVFLxKmet68rd-GMQrp2KM0aflNx83J8omjjkAySqYPpabDffDxfJ4JzS8kg_iNari_IYQBW_D5dN_vI4MOuMXb6LxLqNsVFMeJT2j4RQJDtkrpIOKRTQ6sl9nN7vBDlxkR=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Chow and Danny Lee reunited two years later in John Woo’s <i>The Killer</i>, this time reversing roles, with Lee a dogged cop and Chow the hired assassin he pursues. Lam would go on to make <i>Prison on Fire, Prison on Fire II, Wild Search</i> and <i>Full Contact</i> with Chow, all classics of HK cinema. But Lam wasn’t above doing a little borrowing himself. <i>Wild Search</i>, from 1989, is clearly patterned on <b>Peter Weir</b>’s 1985 film <i>Witness</i>, with rural mainland China subbing for Pennsylvania’s Amish country. Some key scenes in the <i>Prison</i> films also echo similar ones in <b>Alan Parker</b>’s <i>Midnight Express</i>, from 1978.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxnRo-Iek20Dvyb_AAd3kdOheavo6XSVOBuqHUxA-3wD3Ym6009iKA_q06mWcFOHCcgBYGK7ywsE8ZjNbFbWZ2jkPgSiHuaz9xknNSlTh9446DxUEklIWxt5bHC9aQ1e9y0P3DqTd-uqQyJ80qy1eb1Clwb1yAEjk0YvJO9B6MMrtLS5AoAieC2s7o=s600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="600" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxnRo-Iek20Dvyb_AAd3kdOheavo6XSVOBuqHUxA-3wD3Ym6009iKA_q06mWcFOHCcgBYGK7ywsE8ZjNbFbWZ2jkPgSiHuaz9xknNSlTh9446DxUEklIWxt5bHC9aQ1e9y0P3DqTd-uqQyJ80qy1eb1Clwb1yAEjk0YvJO9B6MMrtLS5AoAieC2s7o=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Like Woo and Hark before him, Lam eventually went to America, where he made his English-language debut with the <b>Jean-Claude Van Damme</b> actioner <i>Maximum Risk</i> in 1996. He went on to helm two Direct-to-DVD features starring Van Damme, alternating them with more ambitious films back in his native HK. But <i>City on Fire</i> remains his masterpiece, and a landmark of Hong Kong cinema.<p></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXGR6XzUo31pAKPfGs44NVtdCK128l0eqn0RyPYVoFXY-ZqC6FjY9M_O_z453tSgOJm4ye103YtJTUvsoUkmVjx5KyyzIiJoa6dJSqqbUs-o2mSOuAGvYCYJktX6Ft-Y5iMIK6DGXDFlu-w2Fj9AH1LJ_civl0n7HBI3BfbrBylI6fZkXrmqZ7BuZN=s374" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="374" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXGR6XzUo31pAKPfGs44NVtdCK128l0eqn0RyPYVoFXY-ZqC6FjY9M_O_z453tSgOJm4ye103YtJTUvsoUkmVjx5KyyzIiJoa6dJSqqbUs-o2mSOuAGvYCYJktX6Ft-Y5iMIK6DGXDFlu-w2Fj9AH1LJ_civl0n7HBI3BfbrBylI6fZkXrmqZ7BuZN=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></b></div><b>Wallace Stroby </b>is the <a href="http://www.wallacestroby.com/" target="_blank">author of nine novels</a>, the most recent of which, H<i>eaven's a Lie</i>, was published by Mulholland Books/Little, Brown in April.<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-47772339208596220222021-12-05T07:44:00.002-08:002022-03-10T14:03:55.569-08:00Merry CrimesMas - Krampusnoir edition: Christa Faust on 10 Flicks Where the Kid Gets It<p>Trigger/content warning! In case you somehow managed to skip over the title of this post, it’s about scenes in movies where children get killed. Some are deadly serious and some are pulpy and gratuitous. If you’ve lost a child, or if you just can’t tolerate seeing any kind of harm to a child for any reason, you should definitely avoid these flicks. And probably this post too.</p><p>Also, because this is the jolly hellscape we live in now, there has been a recent school shooting at the time of this posting. More than one in fact. Because we have so many now that they all blend together into a blur of never ending outrage and sadness and hopelessness. The truth is that it doesn’t matter when I post this, there will probably have been a recent school shooting. I want to believe that there could be a future that doesn’t include regular school shootings, but it feels impossible. Because America.</p><p>That being said, <a href="http://protectourschools.com" target="_blank">there are people trying to change things anyway</a> You can too. Don’t like that particular plan? Don’t bother trying to debate me about it, go run for office and promote your own!</p><p>Now, on to your regularly scheduled irreverent and outrageous holiday post.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwrFWns9KH9oaWn4yzKbpgWMxlvt1xnW6wEGl44SQ_0CKUgEvdc854vLrZJiqt9_LsiO3DogcMx6TIEi17K3tc-vt8daaXyhGquP_ti8fviSXCtyWM_dQrSaZaWUbwBZ0KEVabHJXbGs/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="692" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwrFWns9KH9oaWn4yzKbpgWMxlvt1xnW6wEGl44SQ_0CKUgEvdc854vLrZJiqt9_LsiO3DogcMx6TIEi17K3tc-vt8daaXyhGquP_ti8fviSXCtyWM_dQrSaZaWUbwBZ0KEVabHJXbGs/w208-h320/image.png" width="208" /></a></div><i>Happy Krampusnacht, kids!</i> For those who don’t already know, <b>Krampus</b> is a devilish fellow who may or may not be an enforcer for better-known holiday racketeer Ol <b>St. Nick</b>. He rampages around town on the night of December 5th beating bad children with birch sticks and threatening to eat them or drag them down to hell. Fun for the whole family!<br /><p></p><p>So, in honor of that storied holiday tradition, Mistress Christa-mas is here to remind you what happens when you’ve been naughty. Or nice. Because let’s face it, there is no justice in this cold cruel universe and death ain’t fucking Santa Claus.</p><p>Before I get to the flicks, the usual disclaimer. The words “top” or “best” are just as subjective and ultimately meaningless as naughty and nice. These are just ten kid-killing scenes that stuck with me for a variety of reasons, good or bad. </p><p>I excluded teens and tried to avoid stacking the deck with too many full-on horror movies, which tend to be the natural habitat for this kind of thing. For the most part, I focused on scenes where the death in question is on camera or nearly so and skipped lingering deaths by disease or famine. I also excluded zombies, ghosts and other spooky living dead kids. And I wanted to include as many pre-2000 examples as possible, because I’m old and that’s just what I like. Get off my lawn and go make your own damn list. </p><p>As always, your milage may vary.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Qw3CrFZ8ru_2Mug4oebHLlgtclTJpj8mm24hfepB-MvlH2FdhlzgtU7nnvQEBtwqw_fiun05QsbBCD6oqyCF4Y65EW90KoQaQ8OZOwjUwjbXkz434ZUY_vbMrPawpAlNj-2T94n4uPo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="533" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Qw3CrFZ8ru_2Mug4oebHLlgtclTJpj8mm24hfepB-MvlH2FdhlzgtU7nnvQEBtwqw_fiun05QsbBCD6oqyCF4Y65EW90KoQaQ8OZOwjUwjbXkz434ZUY_vbMrPawpAlNj-2T94n4uPo/" width="320" /></a></div><br />1. <i>Frankenstein </i>(1931)<p></p><p>The OG of kid-killing scenes. What’s amazing about this scene is that we still somehow keep on feeling sorry for the Monster, even after he tosses his little playmate in the drink. To be fair, he didn’t seem to understand how fragile she is and doesn’t know his own strength. But, still…</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZkWKh-Q56r25B0TCHJGaajFJIQCrxvsC6uYK_F3BTJhgsJU8oU9_s0Tnw85RJS6zjJ_bkydPLx-zrNQKn_CArnOGxr64z-EbbjwNodaPQTSTAMJg0jeYf2n99sRx6Wp4-om5sqjoo0M/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="955" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZkWKh-Q56r25B0TCHJGaajFJIQCrxvsC6uYK_F3BTJhgsJU8oU9_s0Tnw85RJS6zjJ_bkydPLx-zrNQKn_CArnOGxr64z-EbbjwNodaPQTSTAMJg0jeYf2n99sRx6Wp4-om5sqjoo0M/" width="320" /></a></div><br />2. <i>City of God</i> (2002)<p></p><p>I mean fuck, take your pick. There’s all kinds of underaged violence, crime and mayhem, and kids dish it out as often as they receive it. That being said, the scene that really stuck with me is the one where the two boys are forced to choose between being shot in the hand or foot before one of them is summarily executed. If you haven’t seen this yet and you’re reading this list without flinching, then trust me, you need to go watch it now. I’ll wait.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFEUbdOuP7CZoKB3-md-fjOCnxQRWXkyWEx_QxSEQzJ-zrxnQ9uYojXobTYFYzz6JEG4jtbc5pEVykBK4gEF2gtNNfTFpMaG77Lyebijlb3FhSuDFxKej7Q76MHOpZtA9wRscVcuoy2o/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="975" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFEUbdOuP7CZoKB3-md-fjOCnxQRWXkyWEx_QxSEQzJ-zrxnQ9uYojXobTYFYzz6JEG4jtbc5pEVykBK4gEF2gtNNfTFpMaG77Lyebijlb3FhSuDFxKej7Q76MHOpZtA9wRscVcuoy2o/" width="320" /></a></div><br />3. <i>Heroic Trio</i> (1993)<p></p><p>This movie is full metal batshit from the first frame, and if you like onscreen baby menace (sure, we all do!) this is the film for you. The story hinges on a kidnapping ring and babies get tossed around like hacky sacks. <b>Maggie Chung</b> eventually drops one on a nail (!!!) putting her right under Frankenstein’s Monster on the list of characters who accidentally kill kids but somehow still remain sympathetic.</p><p>Bonus: There’s also an astoundingly fucked up scene in the uncut version where a whole room full of toddlers are gunned down by one of the heroes, but we are told that they are already evil and can’t be saved. Not undead, per se, but technically in the spooky/supernatural category. It’s still pretty hard to stomach since they just look like (and die like) normal kids. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmyNtVsAMscmDIQKtdb6g0zUPfubhbPEmB-2oynw8mBu7A2h-6zumJBlGBiED5VWCL7LkDrP29VfUE8Eq7RLVYtcSzBKqnsTp2tbgmFriX5ZxiIK_OOV6_4poEVFTT_MjhQKu03uB2nZk/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="729" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmyNtVsAMscmDIQKtdb6g0zUPfubhbPEmB-2oynw8mBu7A2h-6zumJBlGBiED5VWCL7LkDrP29VfUE8Eq7RLVYtcSzBKqnsTp2tbgmFriX5ZxiIK_OOV6_4poEVFTT_MjhQKu03uB2nZk/" width="320" /></a></div><br />4. <i>The Nightengale </i>(2018)<p></p><p>Holy fucking shit is this grim. It was hard to get through even for me and look who’s talking here. Brutal racism, misogyny, colonial violence, rape, torture both physical and psychological and I haven’t even gotten to the baby murder yet. I’m still trying to process how I felt about it. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjWArDlR0QL_NJ25gTOoe8h5CzwBpKtKQHTmTMhAgMQ8SJBkHBPRozQAVNJUkB16yivDC7Zo_jxtoQjALKNPvGbRcnc-EohKoYKBZxAzyc-bU10SyrJmebcW7E0pJPGbeKEnDIsb1DuM4/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="1046" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjWArDlR0QL_NJ25gTOoe8h5CzwBpKtKQHTmTMhAgMQ8SJBkHBPRozQAVNJUkB16yivDC7Zo_jxtoQjALKNPvGbRcnc-EohKoYKBZxAzyc-bU10SyrJmebcW7E0pJPGbeKEnDIsb1DuM4/" width="320" /></a></div><br />5. <i>Once Upon a Time in the West </i>(1968)<p></p><p>Possibly the most dramatically drawn out kid killing in cinema history. The villain gives the last surviving member of the McBain family plenty of time to contemplate his impending doom before flashing a chilly little half-smile and blowing him away. We don’t actually see the kid go down, but we don’t need to in order to get the point that Frank is one bad hombre.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65z5xmw0ajn_Q2QP7vXCnTR-GoC7vKR9bdhIyMp9lzj2-A2IyZxyG0b2Y5SO_KXi-AYBLaUbnsZP1jWQBJgJRWFyaoMBi20d0YXwcIPrlZ4bk62muGQ2jyjHgXAK7zGogS_blkRfGA5s/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="975" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65z5xmw0ajn_Q2QP7vXCnTR-GoC7vKR9bdhIyMp9lzj2-A2IyZxyG0b2Y5SO_KXi-AYBLaUbnsZP1jWQBJgJRWFyaoMBi20d0YXwcIPrlZ4bk62muGQ2jyjHgXAK7zGogS_blkRfGA5s/" width="320" /></a></div><br />6. <i>Don't Look Now</i> (1973)<p></p><p>This is a deeply strange film that doesn’t seem to know what it wants to be. All mood and no plot in that 70s kinda way but I’m not mad at it. I was totally willing to go along for the ride. The scene in question is riveting, visually arresting and emotionally grueling. The whole flick is a melancholy and enigmatic meditation on the shapeshifting nature of grief. You’re almost better off skipping the jarring Left-Turn-at-Albuquerque ending and letting it remain an unsolved mystery.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuAWRFjOHAd0vyFw3-XTmyQ1-iQcEu_m-fLhrrbYjY_-TPI22K75Cpucdw7BgQ5-OkK7tKPO8Fh6esPZwnmuc79fXqnuiMtjHPddTVrORJpk3tzTztRPnkjrdxeKfOJn9LwvmCdRsbaYg/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="975" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuAWRFjOHAd0vyFw3-XTmyQ1-iQcEu_m-fLhrrbYjY_-TPI22K75Cpucdw7BgQ5-OkK7tKPO8Fh6esPZwnmuc79fXqnuiMtjHPddTVrORJpk3tzTztRPnkjrdxeKfOJn9LwvmCdRsbaYg/" width="320" /></a></div><br />7. <i>Deep Crimson</i> (1996)<p></p><p><a href="https://spaceythompson.blogspot.com/2020/02/my-felonious-valentine-christa-faust-on.html" target="_blank">I already wrote up this deliciously twisted Mexican film, along with all its <b>Lonely Hearts Killers</b> siblings</a>. The murdered toddler from the real life case is referenced in most versions, but <i>Deep Crimson</i> didn’t pull any punches with this brutal scene. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8W5gSdxT1uWS3Ufsx9fjVOPy2NJUG2wSPBOstKq5Bf4y0KxeZfPDdTFmdsVD1Um-ID2RznT7BKJ0g18H3OUZ0eddnk9BPHwZpqqApurkTxzYJVW18hXUn0UVu3cX2rPG0Qpta1pLa10Q/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="975" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8W5gSdxT1uWS3Ufsx9fjVOPy2NJUG2wSPBOstKq5Bf4y0KxeZfPDdTFmdsVD1Um-ID2RznT7BKJ0g18H3OUZ0eddnk9BPHwZpqqApurkTxzYJVW18hXUn0UVu3cX2rPG0Qpta1pLa10Q/" width="320" /></a></div><br />8. <i>Mimic </i>(1997)<p></p><p>I hate most child actors. They usually come off like Baby Jane, all saccharine and over-the-top, but I love these two streetwise entrepreneurs. Especially Ricky, who reminds me of a kid version of Moe from <i>Pickup on South Street</i>. His death scene is more abrupt and not nearly as emotional as Moe’s, but I was still sorry to see him get it.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie03PGiYZtbcyND0lvbbg-MbjODGtV4IRWDNGKiBxPp7eTkdwNZ8U_SeznWomqs1kU3bGhKfk43keb_q5Pq99XSaMywZhvW6KYGGjPLECHaK4FgemGWD-t9Eg1aq5gqLQenFOX7RPX3V4/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="727" data-original-width="725" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie03PGiYZtbcyND0lvbbg-MbjODGtV4IRWDNGKiBxPp7eTkdwNZ8U_SeznWomqs1kU3bGhKfk43keb_q5Pq99XSaMywZhvW6KYGGjPLECHaK4FgemGWD-t9Eg1aq5gqLQenFOX7RPX3V4/" width="239" /></a></div><br />9. <i>Jaws</i> (1975)<p></p><p>Like the shower scene in <i>Psycho</i>, the scene where the kid on the raft gets eaten by the shark looms large in my imagination. I swore I saw way more than was actually on film back when I first watched it as a child myself. Not to take away from the bloody, visceral impact of that scene, but I was 100% sure that I actually saw the shark bite that kid on screen. As an adult I realized it was just clever editing, but it’s kind of cool to find out that they actually shot a more explicit version that didn’t get used. Which, incidentally, is the source of the image above.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkQLazWji-PZ3vE37euLCFAQGq6No521gbl1oRYtHk5ybVkN5J01bDOaIM15Iu4ze5nyEBJ_s0rjbRwCtiv9PX9u7DGA4bsagkSV3BVj96dNxb6giWkigZNyoTqIGwLfoGfVYMQ2WAUw/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="975" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkQLazWji-PZ3vE37euLCFAQGq6No521gbl1oRYtHk5ybVkN5J01bDOaIM15Iu4ze5nyEBJ_s0rjbRwCtiv9PX9u7DGA4bsagkSV3BVj96dNxb6giWkigZNyoTqIGwLfoGfVYMQ2WAUw/" width="320" /></a></div><br />10. <i>The Beast Must Die</i> (1952)<p></p><p>A tormented writer plots revenge on the hit and run driver who killed his son in this atmospheric Argentine Noir. The scene in question is surprisingly brutal and explicit for the time period. And hey, there’s a brand spanking new Blu Ray available thanks to the Film Noir Foundation, so you have no excuse not to check it out.</p><p><b><i>Also Rans:</i></b></p><p>A quickfire list of flicks that didn’t quite make the cut for a variety of reasons, but you should watch them anyway.</p><p><i>His House -</i> The daughter who dies is a teen, but this movie is aces and not enough people have seen it.</p><p>Border - Fucking Fridge Baby. Don’t ask questions, just watch it ok? </p><p><i>Aniara</i> - (Stares into the distance…)</p><p><i>Trainspotting</i> - Baby Dawn doesn’t die on camera, but she is unforgettable.</p><p><i>God Bless America</i> - Technically he only shoots the baby in his imagination, but still.</p><p><i>Beloved</i> - I mean…</p><p><i>M</i> (1931) / <i>M</i> (1951) / <i>The Black Vampire</i> - All three versions of this film are amazing in their own way, especially the Argentine version, but none of the kids actually get it on screen.</p><p><i>Séance on a Wet Afternoon </i>- The kid lives, but barely. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIU8VfHtIxcg1sGalhlnWQIHGStwFY4bmsALBToCD7W2U7O03GAZE7c3Lj0m7A-LGtFUkdaU_C8yYGGi0BIu8FN5d9rhTp72dcdvr_suCWQX2Xwrm7iQaT2npK9uz8wLMI1Pcjqu1dj7E/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="802" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIU8VfHtIxcg1sGalhlnWQIHGStwFY4bmsALBToCD7W2U7O03GAZE7c3Lj0m7A-LGtFUkdaU_C8yYGGi0BIu8FN5d9rhTp72dcdvr_suCWQX2Xwrm7iQaT2npK9uz8wLMI1Pcjqu1dj7E/" width="320" /></a></div><br />And, yeah yeah I know, <i>Assault on Precinct 13</i> blah blah blah. But you know what? I fucking hate a Sad Daddy trope, so I didn’t include it. Although now I guess I kinda did. Also, what exactly is “vanilla twist” anyway? Guess we’ll never find out.<div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_iGHgKN4--pDJW2WIMU9jhy7N7uISyOg9buua6Ou-6ZXKPDmTd9AYjvOWQD_MfOzPE1GAGVR4BzdsMWmikpVBcjCm8zcZPTpeU6FRhhFKlYSlRUzxZVKXcAWzW0Y5JBVI1aQ_FrTYHjcfYTD2lyEEeaUOEUl4HzPe9s1ht2Kx9wAxYmVQDTEK-20G=s680" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="598" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_iGHgKN4--pDJW2WIMU9jhy7N7uISyOg9buua6Ou-6ZXKPDmTd9AYjvOWQD_MfOzPE1GAGVR4BzdsMWmikpVBcjCm8zcZPTpeU6FRhhFKlYSlRUzxZVKXcAWzW0Y5JBVI1aQ_FrTYHjcfYTD2lyEEeaUOEUl4HzPe9s1ht2Kx9wAxYmVQDTEK-20G=w176-h200" width="176" /></a></div>Christa Faust</b>. <a href="http://christafaust.com/" target="_blank">Writer. Pervert. Pulp Enthusiast. She/her.</a><p></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-7339363827775714552021-12-03T05:19:00.000-08:002021-12-03T05:19:48.465-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Jack Pendarvis on Fitzwilly<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisAnfN5q9lsUvcF4gyRc58XAUEIK8f2Ctw8ZuHiHR5nJJPmOgqzt3Up-ZqIDF1scXUerWrGgi4nAzNkAIvyPakTitvmt5sXYbLRM-3wDT17ynr0kdJR5M_5PSbwfw8wMcVkjivS96dQxPHMcbLp4-TjoehH286zJsqMKN9_vfNBgGtaw4LKTpFxLqk=s345" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="230" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisAnfN5q9lsUvcF4gyRc58XAUEIK8f2Ctw8ZuHiHR5nJJPmOgqzt3Up-ZqIDF1scXUerWrGgi4nAzNkAIvyPakTitvmt5sXYbLRM-3wDT17ynr0kdJR5M_5PSbwfw8wMcVkjivS96dQxPHMcbLp4-TjoehH286zJsqMKN9_vfNBgGtaw4LKTpFxLqk=s320" width="213" /></a></div>When I was 12-15, I had a spiral notebook in which I wrote down certain movie-related things. For example, I cast movies based on books I was reading. The only one I remember now is Vonnegut’s <i>Player Piano</i>, starring <b>Peter Sellers</b> and <b>Alec Guinness</b>. At the time, I could not have imagined VHS tapes, DVDs, or streaming services, so I also kept a list of movies I intended to one day buy on film, to show in my private screening room when I got rich. Some of these I had never seen, such as <i>Operation Mad Ball</i>, which I had read about in the <b>Jack Lemmon</b> section of a book called <i>The Great International Movie Stars</i>. (At that time, we read about a lot of movies we had no hope of ever seeing.) Others on the list were my favorites, such as the Christmas crime classic <i>Fitzwilly</i>. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPPR5mnp2ebiGPzGu18AgOyEPGV-EwCFBujEAtuoRUvCupntREyCyCZ7EARUrYCY1IhREENlAbKhIrFnvuBLrOMLdDsK7slXZhsAQfwn03xc1D8DKrOLDA2AI_7VT8il38nkS1bqU2ptodPc56wKMN_6qSIOnnzGoAPbl4mHvH96JirT5DeNscAfgO=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPPR5mnp2ebiGPzGu18AgOyEPGV-EwCFBujEAtuoRUvCupntREyCyCZ7EARUrYCY1IhREENlAbKhIrFnvuBLrOMLdDsK7slXZhsAQfwn03xc1D8DKrOLDA2AI_7VT8il38nkS1bqU2ptodPc56wKMN_6qSIOnnzGoAPbl4mHvH96JirT5DeNscAfgO=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Here is what I liked: light comedies about jewel thieves, conmen, safecrackers, and pickpockets. I thought any of those would have made a good profession. I fantasized about it. Favorite movies included <i>The Great Train Robbery</i> (1978 version), for which I was the only spectator in an otherwise empty theater, <i>The Hot Rock, Paper Moon, Harry and Walter Go to New York, Pocketful of Miracles</i>, and many others. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjr-rTBPxKnlzoowPpXwBLiuNzt43LdGD0h7DBi1ViBME3d010K3oqMZGZzYH3oJLaqCM889pRHwZPjWid--NdIQ9tHMt2Vr1U95mfwNkyPwYZ1HTp84vph1id16A_Jp6mwqyWMzF2wRH46wlgahU-hbG9uB2-edof7ZCdrzpQux9hA6esw5XCdxifq=s702" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="702" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjr-rTBPxKnlzoowPpXwBLiuNzt43LdGD0h7DBi1ViBME3d010K3oqMZGZzYH3oJLaqCM889pRHwZPjWid--NdIQ9tHMt2Vr1U95mfwNkyPwYZ1HTp84vph1id16A_Jp6mwqyWMzF2wRH46wlgahU-hbG9uB2-edof7ZCdrzpQux9hA6esw5XCdxifq=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />The one that started it all was <i>Fitzwilly</i>. Like many that followed, <i>Fitzwilly</i>—in addition to its holiday theme, which insured the cloying sentiment I craved—was about goodhearted crooks, a thrilling conceit that contradicted my Southern Baptist training in the most intoxicating way. <i>Fitzwilly</i> (<b>Dick van Dyke</b>) and his friends were merely trying, through their larcenous misbehavior, to help an eccentric old lady. She was writing her own dictionary, the sort of outsized ambition that would come to mark my own fictional characters when I became a writer. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhS8Cm8ieftayCewJ-ICSnEw00sC9FqQfgEc9NLqAuGfpILWryjjGkSUEkSpH3vD7PIY0WvAaTwEzkenSdKMlTlzTbI5-dL4fBTiIADiBpas_IWwg5lmbDg300TKSXBwK8SKAIfWX4hOXI70XOMtiXcsMbbj5ngrf2NHuQ_lEoaNFRorqKfFfOGNvWR=s512" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="216" data-original-width="512" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhS8Cm8ieftayCewJ-ICSnEw00sC9FqQfgEc9NLqAuGfpILWryjjGkSUEkSpH3vD7PIY0WvAaTwEzkenSdKMlTlzTbI5-dL4fBTiIADiBpas_IWwg5lmbDg300TKSXBwK8SKAIfWX4hOXI70XOMtiXcsMbbj5ngrf2NHuQ_lEoaNFRorqKfFfOGNvWR=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Perhaps most significant of all, <b>Barbara Feldon</b> played an intellectual innocent bystander in a turtleneck and glasses, forever fixing my romantic ideal. When I rewatched the movie tonight, to make sure I hadn’t misremembered anything, I ran into the bedroom, to which my wife had retired, and shouted, “<i>It’s you!</i>”It is difficult to think of a movie that more perfectly encapsulates the parts of my pubescent idiocy which gladly inform the tatters of my so-called adulthood.<p></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuivOQ0cBeEWF8g1Er95UO6iMjpPDRj8QBgwXxCPs0Z0VFfs5rdE5gx7SczfBzKYW9jgci0nm800zhC2rkCg4W_zSlA_2UCMUL-7SgqWbFdT_n5wthnjD9hEvVfZRZq25BNF0C2ZmNbzHBVnfag-XLP9flfk8BvWpQ37JXKp2pIISMwgpWjY3zSiWA=s680" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="510" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuivOQ0cBeEWF8g1Er95UO6iMjpPDRj8QBgwXxCPs0Z0VFfs5rdE5gx7SczfBzKYW9jgci0nm800zhC2rkCg4W_zSlA_2UCMUL-7SgqWbFdT_n5wthnjD9hEvVfZRZq25BNF0C2ZmNbzHBVnfag-XLP9flfk8BvWpQ37JXKp2pIISMwgpWjY3zSiWA=w150-h200" width="150" /></a></b></div><b>Jack Pendarvis</b>’s new novel <a href="https://www.hingstonandolsen.com/sweet-bananas" target="_blank"><i>Sweet Bananas</i> is available</a> in a limited edition from Hingston and Olsen.<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-90934408200301652442021-12-02T07:39:00.003-08:002021-12-02T07:39:41.810-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Maria Lewis on Prisoners<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgG1Z7bOmObCQ4vpQnPK351vB7FU1QDTo5D2oLCvZY-be78RW6_aWLzPIMUPAVCKZcYrf3lU09C8tEPqtNvbjGwF-AUnAMDDZRV0OrBgQzmc0qolTLiRQMNj5-QAS9fCxNY9xr40Q7uq5Gh-ZQwjOfy5sIeuDFfyvbAT3jn-k3kS-YkvjHKGCs0PtU2=s273" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="184" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgG1Z7bOmObCQ4vpQnPK351vB7FU1QDTo5D2oLCvZY-be78RW6_aWLzPIMUPAVCKZcYrf3lU09C8tEPqtNvbjGwF-AUnAMDDZRV0OrBgQzmc0qolTLiRQMNj5-QAS9fCxNY9xr40Q7uq5Gh-ZQwjOfy5sIeuDFfyvbAT3jn-k3kS-YkvjHKGCs0PtU2" width="184" /></a></i></div><i>What makes a Christmas movie?</i> This is the question at the core of the issue because I know what you’re thinking: what kind of sick fuck cites <b>Denis Villeneuve</b>’s criminally underrated <i>Prisoners </i>(2013) as a Christmas movie? <b><i>*raises hand*</i></b> Here’s the deal, a Christmas movie is defined as being a film set at Christmas either entirely or at least a scene/s. That’s it. Period. Oh but it doesn’t embody the spirit of – shush, don’t care. <i>Is it set at or around Christmas?</i> Criteria met. <i>Batman Returns</i> (1992)? Christmas movie. <i>Eyes Wide Shut</i> (1999)? Christmas movie. <i>Carol</i> (2015)? Christmas movie. All of <b>Shane Black</b>’s filmography? Christmas movies and yes, that includes <i>Iron Man 3</i> (2013) (and for bonus points <i>The Predator</i> (2018) is a Halloween movie). If the house in <i>Sicario</i> (2015) that had all the bodies stored in the walls had a Christmas tree up, that too would be a Christmas movie. After all, <b>Benicio Del Toro</b> had a list and he was checking it twice.<i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgagFqriUwTje2bvCwJGoqTbOhqeiVyG5HpwOW_iLK6155Bdppj1xqQEJsw9C_W2h70h9DuD4Dei9d5O57T0a8PvhKF_CpnicdJ80xsI-SKa5lF8wY41441lVg-B6M_dJXjpgGYJYvk0w9qf-X2lkK8auhtGRdP7WaRIFXQzCW9yB7pxmupkyjy7ZLu=s1042" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="726" data-original-width="1042" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgagFqriUwTje2bvCwJGoqTbOhqeiVyG5HpwOW_iLK6155Bdppj1xqQEJsw9C_W2h70h9DuD4Dei9d5O57T0a8PvhKF_CpnicdJ80xsI-SKa5lF8wY41441lVg-B6M_dJXjpgGYJYvk0w9qf-X2lkK8auhtGRdP7WaRIFXQzCW9yB7pxmupkyjy7ZLu=w320-h222" width="320" /></a></div>Prisoners</i> is Villeneuve’s first English-language film and heralds the arrival of a new type of Hollywood director. To quote <b>Chris Ryan</b> on <i>The Watch</i>: “here’s the thing, Villeneuve’s a sicko”. Not in, like, a Tarantino way (far as we know), but in the kind of way where he makes fucked choices that shouldn’t work on paper and yet, inexplicably, do. Because it’s Villeneuve. Example: all two hours and thirty-six minutes of <i>Dune</i> (2021). Speaking of <i>Dune, Prisoners</i> is just like<i> Dune</i> if you think of the sand as sadness. It’s a sprawling labyrinth of a crime drama that follows the abduction of two young girls and the very different types of men in pursuit of answers. There’s <b>Jake Gyllenhaal</b>’s Detective Loki chasing his own glorious purpose, <b>Hugh Jackman</b> doing his best iz that moi doughter in theeeere, and, as per the Villeneuve brief, a stacked supporting cast in <b><i>*takes deep breath*</i></b> <b>Viola Davis, Maria Bello, Melissa Leo, Paul Dano, Terrence Howard, David Dastmalchian, Dylan Minnette</b> and on.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWLTbDPTzggpm4EWkRFDHO_6r9uOyx-84Sk7mQ-Qkl-LfsQZbYeoHAQkl3CtCP3zG8y0iQDU0pTKMXFmsgIZXxytDuT_gZHXZ-7DHRfcTeQEHQDCnZvy6A4K3baG74hL2LzMp0PCTi_9wTdqOuM4VJT1rfj_TV4YU8rH2oNPeYmPgo0fyikuO0sB0X=s1500" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="998" data-original-width="1500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWLTbDPTzggpm4EWkRFDHO_6r9uOyx-84Sk7mQ-Qkl-LfsQZbYeoHAQkl3CtCP3zG8y0iQDU0pTKMXFmsgIZXxytDuT_gZHXZ-7DHRfcTeQEHQDCnZvy6A4K3baG74hL2LzMp0PCTi_9wTdqOuM4VJT1rfj_TV4YU8rH2oNPeYmPgo0fyikuO0sB0X=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />It’s all about the internal prisons we find ourselves trapped within, some more terrifying than others, all bleak in their own ways. And what is the ‘holiday season’ if not a prison we’re desperately trying to escape, one uncomfortable family lunch at a time. The story begins on Thanksgiving, so it’s actually doubly festive, and there’s even a bit where Paul Dano sings “jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg” which is Christmas canon for any 12-year-old boy. Also, nothing says ‘festive spirit’ like the presence of Melissa Leo who has made a career of playing various manifestations of Krampus (watch <i>The Fighter</i> (2010) and tell me I’m wrong). Familial tensions are high – authentic to the season – there’s Chinese food – critical over the holidays for all those who don’t celebrate – and without giving anything away, the film concludes on not one but two Christmas miracles. Oh, and there’s snow. Prisoners, it’s a Christmas movie for the sick fucks among us. Tis the season.<p></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg816OjGq7Ns0Zh3DqwmPO1upcqBgx6jRm73xAFc_dI56nkKK1nWx2jttfsFsSjHMN_MbXOGj98K2pxNE-R386C7ixDyzu_yCrWtVJd0cWImGBrblYlW7q4ZW89fLcALl4QiiSkpyP2MB4ImioHD2YCPBAEHOJjJ76uHLwCk-Qy8ayILm5rVmR6_HtZ=s1080" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="1080" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg816OjGq7Ns0Zh3DqwmPO1upcqBgx6jRm73xAFc_dI56nkKK1nWx2jttfsFsSjHMN_MbXOGj98K2pxNE-R386C7ixDyzu_yCrWtVJd0cWImGBrblYlW7q4ZW89fLcALl4QiiSkpyP2MB4ImioHD2YCPBAEHOJjJ76uHLwCk-Qy8ayILm5rVmR6_HtZ=w200-h133" width="200" /></a></b></div><b>Maria Lewis</b> is a <a href="https://www.marialewis.com.au/" target="_blank">best-selling author, screenwriter and film curator</a> based in Australia. She’s the author of the internationally published Supernatural Sisters series, which includes the Aurealis Award-winning <i>The Witch Who Courted Death</i> and <i>Who’s Afraid?</i>, which is currently being adapted for television. As a screenwriter across film and television, she was worked on fiction and non-fiction projects for Stan, ABC, Ubisoft, Nickelodeon, DC Comics, Channel 10 and more. She is the host, producer and writer of audio documentaries <i>Josie and the Podcats</i> with <b>Blake Howard</b> – about the 2001 cult film - and <i>The Phantom Never Dies</i> about the world’s first superhero. <p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-31586991927495513552021-12-01T07:03:00.000-08:002021-12-01T07:03:07.281-08:00Merry CrimesMas: Josh Guffey on Un Flic<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdwlaF9CDEk5FOOY_OOaVY5gbsSpH4fu1Sap43uKgwbkYbG8vnQoX6wqOe67-kowAC3m34H5-FiDbqMHma_vyhtpq7rukSZ9AMfYTzKKNcaATDivxkzTqZ-pBz5p9sGTbCwygHag6vEOrG-FQ-hyT0RZ1WCuzw1NZI8VG6_JaXdkwnwZDCrI7m_F14=s295" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="295" data-original-width="220" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdwlaF9CDEk5FOOY_OOaVY5gbsSpH4fu1Sap43uKgwbkYbG8vnQoX6wqOe67-kowAC3m34H5-FiDbqMHma_vyhtpq7rukSZ9AMfYTzKKNcaATDivxkzTqZ-pBz5p9sGTbCwygHag6vEOrG-FQ-hyT0RZ1WCuzw1NZI8VG6_JaXdkwnwZDCrI7m_F14" width="220" /></a></div>If you’re a fan of French crime films and prefer your Christmas movies to have the least amount of Christmas in them as possible, then <b>Jean-Pierre Melville</b>’s <i>Un Flic</i> might be your jam.<p></p><p>Personally, I love Christmas movies, but when I scrolled through lists of Christmas crime films and saw this title, I knew I had to take this opportunity to write about Melville (Christmas quotient be damned).</p><p>Released in 1972 starring Melville favorite <b>Alain Delon</b>, this movie became Melville’s last, but was never intended to be. While it doesn’t feel like the swan song that great directors seek, it does contain a long list of Melville tics and tricks that made him such a signature crime filmmaker throughout the 1950’s and ‘60’s.</p><p>From the get go, we get a title card to open the movie - a Melville trademark:</p><p>"<i>The only feelings mankind inspires in policemen are indifference and scorn.</i>.." - Francois-Eugene Vidocq </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkmeF8-FVV4WyujIDzGAgJWW0f4AL0IhsQMrO4A5qzyLGkLRTf_ASq6xf6-qHKQ20Cx0XQPyent1sPx3MBXYO5Q4RCmYlA5skBX-0GRQSK9WRX8mIBmV7H6zLs4Wbs10Dej4sc_ubG3xJ11AMEevTRQMAn2DbdjMgTRb8VWwYQAf_jYMeLcG8POkZt=s736" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="736" height="115" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkmeF8-FVV4WyujIDzGAgJWW0f4AL0IhsQMrO4A5qzyLGkLRTf_ASq6xf6-qHKQ20Cx0XQPyent1sPx3MBXYO5Q4RCmYlA5skBX-0GRQSK9WRX8mIBmV7H6zLs4Wbs10Dej4sc_ubG3xJ11AMEevTRQMAn2DbdjMgTRb8VWwYQAf_jYMeLcG8POkZt=s320" width="320" /></a></div>This quote sets the tone, but his choices of opening title cards aren’t always sourced from a real person or passage. In his most celebrated movie, <i>Le Samourai</i>, the opening quote is from <i>Bushido (Book of Samurai)</i> which Melville made up.<p></p><p>But this <i>Un Flic</i> opener is, in fact, from a real person - <b>Francois-Eugene Vidocq</b>, founder of the famed French undercover detective unit Surete staffed by former criminals like himself. I’m sure Melville, the maker of emotionally flat but icy cool riffs on American film noirs, liked to imagine himself as a Samurai or Detective straight from one of his own stories. He famously wore a cowboy hat and glasses if his affinity to American films wasn’t clear enough from his work.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6HRyIoL2Sh083exdj2hmMsHrMKKxLA2e5wVFmpsopEg6rBpWoh71qECaXC_LbugLiQoQtYrcuS77j2BZJwwNqv6BPF1Mjpf-cQ2ymRyd1AltKY4ax-lcxuOPS4l7Y0BjyDSY2kfYOuxEsF0sek8jRHWJysLibsz7iEYXquTJrViiwbpoamclAd88B=s1600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="686" data-original-width="1600" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6HRyIoL2Sh083exdj2hmMsHrMKKxLA2e5wVFmpsopEg6rBpWoh71qECaXC_LbugLiQoQtYrcuS77j2BZJwwNqv6BPF1Mjpf-cQ2ymRyd1AltKY4ax-lcxuOPS4l7Y0BjyDSY2kfYOuxEsF0sek8jRHWJysLibsz7iEYXquTJrViiwbpoamclAd88B=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />It’s this blend of genre style and policier authenticity that gives this final Melville installment its identity, appearing eerily similar to another stylish yet rigorously “real” crime film from the 1990’s - <i>Heat</i>.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgERF76ctR_TEgo8DTbMo2oFXCJFWFdJcsoKEiOoZl_hZPYIgmNNhnx9ktgyU3Jo3AlQCgRVMRm_ee3fw6_4KKX_Q5laTxtm1I9SdEtKBsQXnnVBzT60ArSNBL8GuDO3VeEMD66xZd3CaRoY_Q-h3rNho4HEb2GGY339gbVpWIRgpUbZJSuWNOxET3W=s303" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="303" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgERF76ctR_TEgo8DTbMo2oFXCJFWFdJcsoKEiOoZl_hZPYIgmNNhnx9ktgyU3Jo3AlQCgRVMRm_ee3fw6_4KKX_Q5laTxtm1I9SdEtKBsQXnnVBzT60ArSNBL8GuDO3VeEMD66xZd3CaRoY_Q-h3rNho4HEb2GGY339gbVpWIRgpUbZJSuWNOxET3W" width="303" /></a></div><br />That seminal DeNiro and Pacino starrer finds a detective and a criminal discovering themselves in each other, even as they are on opposite sides of the cops and robbers game. In <i>Un Flic</i>, Delon’s detective Coleman is buddies with <b>Richard Crenna</b>’s nightclub owner (slash) master thief Simon. Process, stoicism, indifference, and scorn ensue. This duality of The Chaser and The Chased is central to both movies, and in each one, it can only end when one side prevails, leaving a longing or vacuum in the loser’s place.<p></p><p>Like Melville, <i>Heat</i>’s creator <b>Michael Mann</b> covets design, fashion, and architecture straight out of an artist’s mood board while also requiring absolute perfection in the details of the trades dramatized. You can imagine if Mann or Melville were to screen their films for real life detectives or thieves, (the kind they clearly wish they were themselves), they would want those people to be proud of the depictions they see.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFHLoqQPPsxAmk1AUiUtGUYC69MSGd4kze9tnBFIIiPi84Qdrgz9I1yhTUuzYnUdBQmFr3GuDfvb4OoihS8umEUlaGmEPOsj4SJbEE2mTYRXI19z7f2Y1E6Z5LFFgUCvthZoyWGkQLQvx7mkhLznICwnxxqsvWMyyh6XggqjXVMdMJtXQSjwgclr6G=s804" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="804" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFHLoqQPPsxAmk1AUiUtGUYC69MSGd4kze9tnBFIIiPi84Qdrgz9I1yhTUuzYnUdBQmFr3GuDfvb4OoihS8umEUlaGmEPOsj4SJbEE2mTYRXI19z7f2Y1E6Z5LFFgUCvthZoyWGkQLQvx7mkhLznICwnxxqsvWMyyh6XggqjXVMdMJtXQSjwgclr6G=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />The real difference between the films ultimately lies in the level of craft on display, which could probably be chalked up to where each filmmaker was in their careers when the films were made. The most stark example of this difference is in the mid-film heist sequences. Melville, near the very end of his career and maybe more willing to skim over a sequence or two, makes one of the worst mid-film heist sequences ever in <i>Un Flic</i>, complete with miniature models that look like a kid’s train set and toy helicopter, effectively yanking you right out of the movie. As for Mann’s mid-film heist in <i>Heat</i>, well, everyone knows that’s probably the best that’s ever been made. It’s a celebrated collision of ambition, preparation, location, and destruction.<p></p><p>(Fun loosely connected facts: <i>Un Flic</i> takes place during Christmas while <i>Heat</i> was released during Christmas).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0aVSzevkHpzgWK-OKDCDfHASnXyH9IDvpWyiP6nFI_ft3_hYyN7fk1fELcYPrFma0w1u0rAQzBKJv_R5Opk81J0T79cKl6zyDZ9IHCRWwZwC6NsaLg40SaBkxuxkf6E2ePFKJt4yWw1vBFW_S1EW2NokXZ-40iAOSo4MU8FFy9zjeUFP5iI_KzqDr=s1100" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="1100" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0aVSzevkHpzgWK-OKDCDfHASnXyH9IDvpWyiP6nFI_ft3_hYyN7fk1fELcYPrFma0w1u0rAQzBKJv_R5Opk81J0T79cKl6zyDZ9IHCRWwZwC6NsaLg40SaBkxuxkf6E2ePFKJt4yWw1vBFW_S1EW2NokXZ-40iAOSo4MU8FFy9zjeUFP5iI_KzqDr=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />On the stylist side of things, Melville adheres to an almost comical commitment to the colors blue and gray in <i>Un Flic</i>. From the color grading to the sets to the melancholy - it’s all blue (even the opening title card is full blue with black text). Not even the gunshot wounds show any blood red, keeping the blue palette intact. Melville was famously a thrifty filmmaker who opened his own production studio to make his films for a better price than most French films of his time. It is this fact that made me wonder if the lack of blood or squibs was a simple financial decisi\on meant to keep wardrobe costs and shooting time down. But Melville was a world class filmmaker and seeing how blue-on-blue he crafted this film, I’m leaning towards “no blood” being a strictly aesthetic decision.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRy1L8X4d_A4uBiOHqQXkYoW59qlju3YIVoSmHUyd1K_NGdFrMRtkBha0bqJxL-Y2lva5oU8Ulx8RMv88pBVgCg0z3HU6OXv9zQZ8i1xsGIHunkqugD5f3f_gOKed6CmbnjMJA_PX-OhBNUdmX_fLj2J7h81xh5rqh1_LSqmKMK8S0TDfmtL3TvZXH=s720" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRy1L8X4d_A4uBiOHqQXkYoW59qlju3YIVoSmHUyd1K_NGdFrMRtkBha0bqJxL-Y2lva5oU8Ulx8RMv88pBVgCg0z3HU6OXv9zQZ8i1xsGIHunkqugD5f3f_gOKed6CmbnjMJA_PX-OhBNUdmX_fLj2J7h81xh5rqh1_LSqmKMK8S0TDfmtL3TvZXH=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />In the end, this movie is flawed, but 100% Jean-Pierre Melville. Frames are easy to recall long after the movie is over and you remember the gulf between the hopes of the characters and the disappointing reality they experience. It’s amazing how someone as striking as Delon can exhibit the numbing pain of living, of chasing, of trying to feel something. This is clearly the work of an old man - there’s no wild, youthful nihilist violence. But that’s not to say there’s no pleasure in seeing this maestro at work again with his muse (Delon plays the piano for <b>Catherine Denueve </b>for chrissakes). Melancholy and crime in the movies is my favorite dish on the movie menu, like they probably are for fans of this blog.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5jp0zbw8abYAlom_xO5vW7pNrY0AUaZfzYJEQYV_75rNzbTG2ufMNB_dtw8hIoPsLlsQX6p5HRZf4GSXg_r8NNpO1UErdKVLmQnc3Fu9jQJEqwB_K3vDGSh0o3V8cjDKUqdPHOWDcLyJPV4jsdM-qhMgjO9yM9eUWcUVwFfEvXgbJXlW5eyl6m4xm=s640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="349" data-original-width="640" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5jp0zbw8abYAlom_xO5vW7pNrY0AUaZfzYJEQYV_75rNzbTG2ufMNB_dtw8hIoPsLlsQX6p5HRZf4GSXg_r8NNpO1UErdKVLmQnc3Fu9jQJEqwB_K3vDGSh0o3V8cjDKUqdPHOWDcLyJPV4jsdM-qhMgjO9yM9eUWcUVwFfEvXgbJXlW5eyl6m4xm=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Early in the movie, when we meet Delon’s character, we see the green and red of Christmas lights running down the Champs-Elysees. That is about as festive as this movie is willing to be. There's no joyous celebration or big bombastic shootout ending. It ends with 2 men, standing in silence on an empty street with nearly no color. As in <i>Heat</i>, death has been waiting patiently, and when its moment comes, it strikes quickly. Feelings are buried. The suffering is there, but hidden in the gray. Melville planned to make more films in his life after this one, but his last statement as a filmmaker is simply said and clearly understood, even if it’s hard to take.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvEBkMjC3LplopQQpt0mF2T2cA2rqcMCOR9ADrfYz2qoq17wvPqou9Hf-IcN8kmU9iRRmjnS1XcUco5yI2w4z6O4yJS6Y8KN1FOk5b7rVvKeCma8vEN1C3gJrYx8wNxe9twuau301EvJHcV9LhtqtLQhS59kcmEk2fyDeU9REOBqL14xMM1D1oa3D9=s960" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvEBkMjC3LplopQQpt0mF2T2cA2rqcMCOR9ADrfYz2qoq17wvPqou9Hf-IcN8kmU9iRRmjnS1XcUco5yI2w4z6O4yJS6Y8KN1FOk5b7rVvKeCma8vEN1C3gJrYx8wNxe9twuau301EvJHcV9LhtqtLQhS59kcmEk2fyDeU9REOBqL14xMM1D1oa3D9=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></div><b>Josh Guffey</b> is from Iowa. Started working in Film and TV in Chicago. Got better at it in LA. Now he knows how to direct and produce do a few things in St. Louis. Currently a Producer and Director at Vidzu Media in St. Louis where he's created stuff for Edward Jones, Panera Bread, Centene, Build-A-Bear, Exotico Tequila, and others. Commercials are cool, but movies are really what he's about. His first feature film <i>All Gone Wrong</i>, starring "Candyman" <b>Tony Todd</b> and <b>Jake Kaufman</b> is coming soon in 2022. Catch his stuff at <a href="http://joshguffeyjoshguffey.com">joshguffeyjoshguffey.com</a><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-75677702275626968232021-11-29T16:31:00.004-08:002021-11-29T16:36:29.668-08:00Noirvember 29: Zach Vasquez on Lynchian Noirs<p>Film noir and <b>David Lynch</b> go together like coffee and cigarettes (or coffee and donuts, if you prefer). The connection is obvious even to neophytes of both: the man’s films are soaked in the style, mood, and tropes of the genre, often so much so—as in the case of <i>Lost Highway </i>(1997) and <i>Mulholland Drive</i> (2001)—that they can border on parodic, although ultimately, the terror and wonder at the heart of them are too strong to ever dip over into irony.</p><p>Like true-blue noir, Lynch’s films operate on the emotional logic of nightmares, although, unlike noir, they don’t necessarily adhere to a sense of fatalism, as that would follow too linear a narrative for his liking. </p><p>Lynch himself has talked about his love of certain noir films—in particular, <b>Billy Wilder</b>’s <i>Sunset Boulevard</i> (1950), which along with <i>The Wizard of Oz</i> (1939) is probably the most notably influential Hollywood movie on his own work—but there are many examples, including films that predated his career as well as those that followed in his wake, that give off that ‘Lynchian’ feel.</p><p>Here are five such films:</p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXICnT9izXf1v9YFCabjaC4TCj1lzZIvv2dt3wyZd0EKl9kaKz2rxT_5V9bKDj-hetiPokdOj-yKCFKNy3scqzDu3ADxZcnBh9lt_6km3P_tPpM8V9POfRHKQ46jf-B7wmUwQCR_hfb0qmV48W6xKpse5B8lTgIRkI7iU7bDLS4ZUFpAThBDO9KsXb=s800" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="556" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXICnT9izXf1v9YFCabjaC4TCj1lzZIvv2dt3wyZd0EKl9kaKz2rxT_5V9bKDj-hetiPokdOj-yKCFKNy3scqzDu3ADxZcnBh9lt_6km3P_tPpM8V9POfRHKQ46jf-B7wmUwQCR_hfb0qmV48W6xKpse5B8lTgIRkI7iU7bDLS4ZUFpAThBDO9KsXb=s320" width="222" /></a></i></div><i>Dementia, </i>aka<i> Daughter of Horror</i> (1955)<p></p><p>This experimental, near-silent, black-and-white oddity from <b>John Parker</b> (his sole feature) mixes elements of German expressionism, classic film noir, Bunuel-esque surrealism, Freudian psychology and outright horror tropes to portray the troubled dream journey of a young woman haunted by sexual trauma. As our nameless heroine moves through a shadowy urban hellscape stalked by ghouls and guilt—it becomes more and more apparent as the film progresses that she has murdered a man—as what little grip on reality we and she had to begin with rapidly unspools.</p><p>As much a precursor to proto-American new wave cult classics like <i>Night Tide</i> (1961) and <i>Carnival of Souls</i> (1962) as it is to Lynch’s ‘women in trouble’ films (particularly 2006’s <i>Inland Empire</i>), those who haven’t seen this dark gem will likely find it a revelation. Be sure to see the film in its original form, and not the butchered version put out schlockmeister<b> Jack H. Harris</b>, which was retitled <i>Daughter of Horror</i> and had voice-over narration—from <b>Ed McMahon</b> of all people!—added to it. </p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiN-HUoyJUKqFO44z1uTgaF4DzOrY1wvjOp8l1mVX3tdJsY3UZFB77bgwTxsK_JrXsrseSNwvowU01m3Im1gtvO5FJFRNg84eHSeCjQONEcp43bE4wmjKsCjmPyqKl8vgQGeeUTkZVCBu7LjDbDhKr5zVZZMX6Bs-fTQOZ2Gl63plK2daMyXd1yL9LD=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1329" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiN-HUoyJUKqFO44z1uTgaF4DzOrY1wvjOp8l1mVX3tdJsY3UZFB77bgwTxsK_JrXsrseSNwvowU01m3Im1gtvO5FJFRNg84eHSeCjQONEcp43bE4wmjKsCjmPyqKl8vgQGeeUTkZVCBu7LjDbDhKr5zVZZMX6Bs-fTQOZ2Gl63plK2daMyXd1yL9LD=s320" width="208" /></a></i></div><i>What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? </i>(1962)<p></p><p>The only movie on this list that’s not a deep cut, and one of only two that I feel like Lynch <i>had</i> to have seen (the other being #3), <b>Robert Aldrich</b>’s iconic horror melodrama sees screen legends and bitter personal rivals <b>Joan Crawford</b> and <b>Bette Davis</b> playing sisters and former child stars living in a secluded old mansion. Confined to a wheelchair after a mysterious car accident that took place years earlier, Crawford’s Blanche Hudson wants out of the suffocating relationship, but Davis’s dangerously infantile Jane is dead set against letting her sister leave, as it threatens her deranged and hopeless plans for a comeback. </p><p>Between the stark black and white cinematography, pitch-black comic grotesquerie, and dream-like musical sequences on display, <i>What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?</i> seems as obvious an influence on Lynch’s first feature, the experimental <i>Eraserhead </i>(1977), as its mix of faded Hollywood glamour, sordid showbiz secrets and desperate battle of feminine attrition are on <i>Mulholland Drive</i> and <i>Inland Empire</i>.</p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAexHQBbu2yehDqSoVF5cMgz0ZD_gicAwlJb9Q_PWV7CiGeqYbkKaU1qdxbWVUdtbNEaOzpfxbvewkDChoNkuzyEWdx5wr1moCxL1RI6yzKUWrEudQ1gE6ybjQH5kROzfFYKx7_WABQOMTLa2ccYyowM3NoJA6A7fSRwxiTF0QeNX2A2d2Wfdj7dPP=s434" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAexHQBbu2yehDqSoVF5cMgz0ZD_gicAwlJb9Q_PWV7CiGeqYbkKaU1qdxbWVUdtbNEaOzpfxbvewkDChoNkuzyEWdx5wr1moCxL1RI6yzKUWrEudQ1gE6ybjQH5kROzfFYKx7_WABQOMTLa2ccYyowM3NoJA6A7fSRwxiTF0QeNX2A2d2Wfdj7dPP=s320" width="221" /></a></i></div><i>Experiment in Terror</i> (1962)<p></p><p>An opening title sequence punctuated by a landmark sign that reads: Twin Peaks. A terrifying sexual predator who has already “killed twice” and promises to “kill again.” A string of murdered women and stalwart G-man hot on the case.</p><p>From that basic description, you’d assume I was describing Lynch’s seminal series, <i>Twin Peaks</i>, but in fact, I’m writing about the black-and-white <b>Blake Edward</b>’s thriller <i>Experiment in Terror</i>.</p><p>The year between his two most famous movies—1961’s <i>Breakfast at Tiffany</i>’s and 1963’s <i>The Pink Panther</i>—Edwards helmed this moody, usettling noir (arguably a neo-noir), about an asthmatic criminal named—wait for it—Garland ‘Red’ Lynch (<b>Ross Martin</b>), who threatens a San Francisco* bank teller (<b>Lee Remick</b>) into helping him rob her place of work, all while <b>Glenn Ford</b>’s FBI agent tries to stop him.</p><p>It’s not only the aforementioned individual references that make it seem like David Lynch <i>had</i> to have seen this film at some point (although it’s also possible his <i>Twin Peaks</i> co-creator <b>Mark Frost</b> could have been the one influenced by it), there’s an air of sexually charged, at times hypnagogic dread overhanging Edward’s film that feels entirely of a piece with Lynch’s work, (particularly <i>Blue Velvet</i> [1986] and <i>Lost Highway</i>). Indeed, the character of Red Lynch has much in common with the villains of those films, a progenitor of <b>Dennis Hopper</b>’s psychosexual brute Frank Booth and <b>Robert Blake</b>’s seemingly omnipotent Mystery Man.</p><p>(<i>Experiment in Terror</i> also feels like a huge influence on <i>Dirty Harry</i>, what with its criminal/cop cat-and-mouse game plotting, San Francisco setting, and a major set price taking place inside a sports stadium.)</p><p>*The Twin Peaks sign at the beginning belongs to that city’s real-life neighborhood.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGlGeRnwmMqKBVuU5QjJrXNPoaFpUOUFPFqcrqpHOrzkOYDzr1K4dPrMx9dG93TthvNzxEsTHGEcxwzQH7ClImgvfqiXaZWkRyzKvbgRA0vHGOdllqkO8RPiij9WNG4rowiwksh3GWcbEwrTugwV6kHu5pL-iJ9alwlmYa82IorF1KQmuzVENNLGRy=s500" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGlGeRnwmMqKBVuU5QjJrXNPoaFpUOUFPFqcrqpHOrzkOYDzr1K4dPrMx9dG93TthvNzxEsTHGEcxwzQH7ClImgvfqiXaZWkRyzKvbgRA0vHGOdllqkO8RPiij9WNG4rowiwksh3GWcbEwrTugwV6kHu5pL-iJ9alwlmYa82IorF1KQmuzVENNLGRy=s320" width="213" /></a></div><i>Tough Guys Don’t Dance</i> (1987)<p></p><p><a href="https://jonathanrosenbaum.net/2021/04/why-i-like-tough-guys-dont-dance-a-conversation-with-justin-bozung-illustrations-tk/" target="_blank">According to <b>Jonathan Rosenbaum</b></a>, <i>Tough Guy’s Don’t Dance</i> writer/director <b>Norman Mailer</b> admitted to being a little inspired by David Lynch’s film from the year prior, <i>Blue Velvet</i>. However, watching <i>Tough Guys</i>, you’d likely assume the entire thing was a conscious attempt to ape Lynch’s controversial, but acclaimed breakout hit: both star <b>Isabella Rossellini</b> as a not-quite femme fatale and the kept woman of a psychopath (in this case, the great <b>Wings Hauser</b>, whose turn at the beginning of the decade as killer pimp Ramrod in <i>Vice Squad</i> is probably the only psychosexual lunatic of that decade’s cinema more loathsome/fearsome that Frank Booth) and both are scored by <b>Angelo Badalamenti</b>. Yet, the publication of Mailer’s novel of <i>Tough Guys Don’t Dance</i> predates <i>Blue Velvet</i> by two years, so any credit owed to Lynch must be limited. </p><p>Those earlier surface details certainly make <i>Tough Guys</i> the perfect pairing for a double feature with <i>Blue Velvet</i>, although make no mistake, it’s the second movie on that bill. An exercise in pure excess—emotional, stylistic, and especially performative (just see the film’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u5k_arVcqR8" target="_blank">most infamous scene</a>)—<i>Tough Guys</i> is perhaps the quintessential Canon Films-produced, auteurist-driven movie (other examples include <b>Jean-Luc Godard</b>’s <i>King Lear</i> and <b>John Cassavetes</b>’ <i>Love Streams</i>): so singular and weird that it could only have come from Mailer, but sleazy and exploitative enough that it fits neatly into the <a href="https://crookedmarquee.com/a-celebration-of-the-arthouse-cannon/" target="_blank">Canon cannon</a>. </p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEis9fpPK7_BEIlglS3nHaAHeLqV0Nmo7CFUpWbJPyg6UISi9c3oNH33SL_wqrYFf28jIAM4Rr0TmS2qZ83ty4ylb7tnpi6ICAwMBhKU9t1jFm6VsQOX66m4jx4vrkai2ipS7LR80ynDDQCYYHMKrwyFJ-vegI1kfSdK8qa5FxDr_h7DQBTVqXfZeBXZ=s750" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEis9fpPK7_BEIlglS3nHaAHeLqV0Nmo7CFUpWbJPyg6UISi9c3oNH33SL_wqrYFf28jIAM4Rr0TmS2qZ83ty4ylb7tnpi6ICAwMBhKU9t1jFm6VsQOX66m4jx4vrkai2ipS7LR80ynDDQCYYHMKrwyFJ-vegI1kfSdK8qa5FxDr_h7DQBTVqXfZeBXZ=s320" width="213" /></a></i></div><i>The Kill-Off</i> (1990)<p></p><p>Released in only a handful of theaters the same year that <i>Twin Peaks</i> briefly took America by storm, <b>Maggie Greenwald Mansfield</b>’s loose adaptation of hard-boiled master <b>Jim Thompson</b>’s 1957 novel shares a number of similarities with Lynch’s series, including a murdered woman at its center (not, in this case, the beloved young prom queen, but rather the despised and aged town gossip), a roadside bar that works as a front for a drug-dealing operation, a working-class town filled with hidden affairs and secret rivalries, and a disturbing theme of incest and familial abuse.</p><p>There is also a heavy sheen of grimy surrealism that runs through the film (as well as Thompson’s work, although it’s less prevalent in this novel than others) that connects it to Lynch’s oeuvre (in particular, a bizarre dance sequence that would feel right at home in just about any of his films). </p><p>If anything, Mansfield’s film feels <i>more </i>grimy than most of Lynch’s work, absent of any of the sublime beauty or quirky humor he layers throughout his art. Come to think of it, the town at the heart of <i>The Kill-Off</i> doesn’t resemble the original Twin Peaks, but rather the darker, meaner, more desperate version of it that we find in <i>Twin Peaks: The Return</i>.</p><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIx6ZAIcWT70VE4wU0wV_u8hzZ6jHFvZV7xM-zqDqPv7SlUnrZhGtSG71PM6Ae5Wy-PWxszEe9pnvYFBaVdvLraTlGYxWAnQiAY-L_enPg-QvaCemzZ6bntqbfolz4Auhy3SrJDUKYebBlwCNx_zvTipAR6xHoY5lZWNLCrgZgKuFT-9XJinlwKIzD=s680" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="510" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIx6ZAIcWT70VE4wU0wV_u8hzZ6jHFvZV7xM-zqDqPv7SlUnrZhGtSG71PM6Ae5Wy-PWxszEe9pnvYFBaVdvLraTlGYxWAnQiAY-L_enPg-QvaCemzZ6bntqbfolz4Auhy3SrJDUKYebBlwCNx_zvTipAR6xHoY5lZWNLCrgZgKuFT-9XJinlwKIzD=w150-h200" width="150" /></a></div>Zach Vasquez</b> is a writer of film and literary criticism and fiction. <a href="https://www.zachvasquez.com/" target="_blank">His work</a> has been published in The Guardian, Crime Reads, SF Public Press, Full Stop, Bright Wall/Dark Room and more. He is from Los Angeles.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-30707384828031451332021-11-28T07:01:00.006-08:002021-11-28T07:01:59.950-08:00Noirvember Pods Part 3: Brokebrain Noir<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYMBI633U8SodK2J7IbppcKW8dHWXlT_QKPSmXIndwdD8KjIg3FL0a7ZcRdVsuOTch1EzvsK1eiFxERT5H3YcSp1GYdmZkBgVU312jZ2-4yQSwVUnT2Dou7rQO4mrurt3G4NPWyO_m-sOjjV2ASvkdJ1_lOcvlO14fD-wvtHZj7aArxOnRV8yUq3AY=s1024" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="429" data-original-width="1024" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYMBI633U8SodK2J7IbppcKW8dHWXlT_QKPSmXIndwdD8KjIg3FL0a7ZcRdVsuOTch1EzvsK1eiFxERT5H3YcSp1GYdmZkBgVU312jZ2-4yQSwVUnT2Dou7rQO4mrurt3G4NPWyO_m-sOjjV2ASvkdJ1_lOcvlO14fD-wvtHZj7aArxOnRV8yUq3AY=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />This week on <a href="https://www.projectionboothpodcast.com/2021/11/special-report-lost-highway-1997.html" target="_blank"><b>The Projection Booth</b> podcast</a> I joined <b>Mike White</b> and <b>Bill Ackerman</b> to discuss <b>David Lynch</b>'s 1997 freakout noir <i>Lost Highway</i>, a movie I've been preparing to discuss for nearly 25 years. This is my 17th guest host appearance on The Projection Booth and a pattern of unreliable narrator/open to interpretation narratives has emerged as a theme in the films I've covered there. Those episodes are...<p></p><p><b><a href="https://www.projectionboothpodcast.com/2021/11/special-report-lost-highway-1997.html" target="_blank"><i></i></a></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2QwMWOPDAb46aSOydYq54BH95_lPHSumRTlK2vxiiYyr3-hKks9FEGnJlDnCKsRB9I5VsqKSw1JkDItfh_hLbcOUkSafUIxkJcV0QbMIHHzuV4dLVNA1HpjWNDEaKo6sQ8UQkSPQf6XBMaxBADhf2feGHUTNWz97ImpwbOsf5ivIwR6Q9P0AjMgG3=s580" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2QwMWOPDAb46aSOydYq54BH95_lPHSumRTlK2vxiiYyr3-hKks9FEGnJlDnCKsRB9I5VsqKSw1JkDItfh_hLbcOUkSafUIxkJcV0QbMIHHzuV4dLVNA1HpjWNDEaKo6sQ8UQkSPQf6XBMaxBADhf2feGHUTNWz97ImpwbOsf5ivIwR6Q9P0AjMgG3=s320" width="221" /></a></i></b></div><b><i>Lost Highway </i></b>- One of my favorite movies ever, man. This meeting of minds between Lynch and co-writer <b>Barry Gifford</b> is a runaway train to hell that takes you right back home to start over again. The plot is a gordian knot that never entirely unkinks. There's always a stubborn 'fact' or two that comes along to fuck up all your hard work, but don't let it drive you crazy. Groove on its trippy rhythms, marvel at its audacious confidence, just try to blush away its sexual confusion or avoid its consuming dread. Brokebrain noir don't get no gnarlier. Be sure to check out this episode for an interview with Barry Gifford!<p></p><p><b><i><a href="https://www.projectionboothpodcast.com/2016/11/episode-296-mulholland-dr-2001.html" target="_blank"></a></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlPcTDyiRQb2QrQkVewDqzG-CrR6lcf0rbgERHRoBXq0ZJMPY6Ux1NZkAKOsde8DJaxYSHLijah_0kadPiQeH3DuKnovkeWRMw6X5-KovLARmhjbna4I4Tds4bQiq2As-M0pSxFgRFyqzXHWxObOl3hdtvrDytyp6kVRNzONoSX-Saw0Y2PFZsYUyK=s1483" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1483" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlPcTDyiRQb2QrQkVewDqzG-CrR6lcf0rbgERHRoBXq0ZJMPY6Ux1NZkAKOsde8DJaxYSHLijah_0kadPiQeH3DuKnovkeWRMw6X5-KovLARmhjbna4I4Tds4bQiq2As-M0pSxFgRFyqzXHWxObOl3hdtvrDytyp6kVRNzONoSX-Saw0Y2PFZsYUyK=s320" width="216" /></a></i></b></div><b><i>Mulholland Drive</i></b> - Before <i>Lost Highway</i>, I had the opportunity to discuss part 2 of David Lynch's Hollywood Trilogy (concluded? by <i>Inland Empire</i>) and it's such a fuckin beautiful piece of heartbreak I get why it seems to overshadow LH for most folks. While I personally prefer <i>Lost Highway</i>'s jagged edges and harsh tone I'll confess that I never get too emotionally attached to any of the leads. Not so here. <b>Naomi Watts</b>' descent into hell hurts me bad.<b> Laura Harring</b> leaves me weepy. I love this movie too. I have ideas about it and you can hear me go on about them to Mike and <b>Erik Marshal</b>. The episode also features interviews with Laura Harring and <b>Patrick Fischler</b>.<p></p><p><b><a href="https://www.projectionboothpodcast.com/2018/10/episode-388-session-9-2001.html" target="_blank"><i></i></a></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9F9g1vGbZUMdgowZM51HHR6zYqp4wcx3wW5IxX1aHKgW-hmlH5jJL0QBv_9diIhxrTrViCfTgcdDT9J_eHbYVeLpTnjg0Y99GTyJ0PqjhA_5crH9rCl5rQPyfQtsMje_ub3fwHQq61J4RrTdzBNyfOQp236r5nlzvQwu3AVql5TpAVLNQHBgd9Oif=s362" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="253" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9F9g1vGbZUMdgowZM51HHR6zYqp4wcx3wW5IxX1aHKgW-hmlH5jJL0QBv_9diIhxrTrViCfTgcdDT9J_eHbYVeLpTnjg0Y99GTyJ0PqjhA_5crH9rCl5rQPyfQtsMje_ub3fwHQq61J4RrTdzBNyfOQp236r5nlzvQwu3AVql5TpAVLNQHBgd9Oif=s320" width="224" /></a></i></b></div><b><i>Session 9</i></b> - Nothing about his earliest films could prepare you for <b>Brad Anderson</b>'s hard left turn from romantic comedy indy darling to modern psychological horror master. This film about a buncha blue collar boys busting their butts to de-asbestos a broke down ol' looney bin begets bugs in the brains of all who brave its bedeviled borders and begs a billion returns. Can you catch insanity like a virus? Are we dealing with demonic possession? Is this a ghost story or a tale of ordinary homicidal madness? All the answers are questioned. Mike and I are joined on the episode by <b>Axel Kohagen</b>, plus there interviews with Anderson and co-writer/star <b>Stephen Gevedon</b>. (And look for me and Mike providing a commentary track for the UK <a href="https://secondsightfilms.co.uk/collections/latest-releases/products/session-9-limited-edition-blu-ray-pre-order-available" target="_blank">special edition from <b>Second Sight Films</b> in December - available to pre-order now</a>).<p></p><p><i><b><a href="https://www.projectionboothpodcast.com/2018/06/episode-368-twelve-monkeys-1995.html" target="_blank"></a></b></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgS0lZT2VbFhUTURIgJ71SGkFGO2eMzkYrsHowanrNwTJYicMLDXA8DPEju0jbOcVpWcdj5_OkvYRqX0CABDZ-D0ZR0gOCxhwaxZI7pZtDEPaFGARVgub2XwlyKG8SXXaNpwo_tQIIDqLIUEvin1DCIqMe5y0z028wTt5j5MlqQAKN6PiLw6Ux98vrt=s1500" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1007" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgS0lZT2VbFhUTURIgJ71SGkFGO2eMzkYrsHowanrNwTJYicMLDXA8DPEju0jbOcVpWcdj5_OkvYRqX0CABDZ-D0ZR0gOCxhwaxZI7pZtDEPaFGARVgub2XwlyKG8SXXaNpwo_tQIIDqLIUEvin1DCIqMe5y0z028wTt5j5MlqQAKN6PiLw6Ux98vrt=s320" width="215" /></a></b></i></div><i><b>12 Monkeys</b></i> - <b>Terry Gilliam</b>'s apocalyptic prophesy is more terrifying than ever in the never-ending reality of Covid-19, but just because the killer virus that wipes out civilization seems real to Bruce Willis don't necessarily make it so. On my most recent watches I was awfully impressed by the lengths Gilliam and screenwriter <b>David Webb Peoples </b>(inspired by <b>Chris Marker</b>'s film<i> La Jetée</i><b>) </b>go to support multiple readings of the film (he's a time traveller! he's mentally divergent!). Considering Gilliam goes to this fantasy-relieves-reality theme again and again (<i>Brazil, The Fisher King, The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, Tideland, Don Quixote</i>) especially supports a reading of mental divergence, but hey, maybe you're happier thinking he's not crazy. But that means everybody's dead. Listen to me and Mike and <b>Tony Black</b> hash it out. The episode also features an interview with <b>Dahlia Schweitzer</b>, the author of <i>Going Viral: Zombies, Viruses, and the End of the World</i>.<p></p><p><i><b><a href="https://www.projectionboothpodcast.com/2019/06/episode-418-total-recall-1990.html" target="_blank"></a></b></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1yTbJyePolFFHQ_j-P9XP0wX4jELozHz-xnAKWUUIJAoxG2mcwFrFQTnj88vDKzaPbcDrbwgBKZYdi1SnELQ-Tiv8zdxhxSTN4iZC-xTE7_xS7S9Ca9n9VctZhA29qSYn1NJs9pFK6FYijhPse44YvXfy0S0UJweGLAlgKgLSVBt71lkpwluAwLFo=s1500" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1010" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1yTbJyePolFFHQ_j-P9XP0wX4jELozHz-xnAKWUUIJAoxG2mcwFrFQTnj88vDKzaPbcDrbwgBKZYdi1SnELQ-Tiv8zdxhxSTN4iZC-xTE7_xS7S9Ca9n9VctZhA29qSYn1NJs9pFK6FYijhPse44YvXfy0S0UJweGLAlgKgLSVBt71lkpwluAwLFo=s320" width="215" /></a></b></i></div><i><b>Total Recall </b></i>- <b>Paul Verhoeven</b>'s second ultraviolent hit Hollywood subversion is a candy-colored/coated/coded story about an average Joe who'd like to get the hell out of his life and see the red planet, but his virtual vacation don't go as he planned it...or did it? By the film's end we're not sure what to believe about our hero's journey. Who the hell is he? What even happened? Join me and Mike and <b>Rob St. Mary</b> for a conversation about a film that's all at once distinctly a Verhoeven joint, a perfect <b>Arnold Schwarzenegger</b> vehicle and an entirely recognizable <b>Philip K. Dick</b> premise. Quite a feat. The episode also features an interview with screenwriter <b>Gary Goldman</b>. Bit of a stretch to include it in a Noirvember post, but life's short, get limber.<p></p><p><b><a href="http://spaceythompson.blogspot.com/2021/11/noirvember-discussions-with-mike-white.html">Noirvember podcasts part 1</a></b></p><p><b><a href="http://spaceythompson.blogspot.com/2021/11/noirvember-pods-part-2.html">Noirvember podcasts part 2</a></b></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-85154915441002065622021-11-26T09:40:00.001-08:002021-11-26T09:40:16.908-08:00Noir Friday<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZqRc72oHcE-4Qe9GpVmCRp6ZYF72fviQ6yGHuJB94rLmYWOsuT2G1E0x5Ul9-7G4EMEWTOpveYgaUkcUjyb0rcadnQcxD3L0bptK9uXQSbcvGe-KjjzXdJIunm5161yjgqx6E7h_sAApylM4KHK1lEN3gXGYskQM1P8LvNRSabCVAiPwvud7ZU_tb=s1600" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZqRc72oHcE-4Qe9GpVmCRp6ZYF72fviQ6yGHuJB94rLmYWOsuT2G1E0x5Ul9-7G4EMEWTOpveYgaUkcUjyb0rcadnQcxD3L0bptK9uXQSbcvGe-KjjzXdJIunm5161yjgqx6E7h_sAApylM4KHK1lEN3gXGYskQM1P8LvNRSabCVAiPwvud7ZU_tb=s320" width="240" /></a></i></div><i>Black Coal, Thin Ice</i> - <b>Diao Yi’nan</b> - Parts of a dismembered body are discovered inside a coal shipment and the investigation ends in a sudden, horrific bloodbath that leads <b>Liao Fan</b>'s detective to retire. Five years into a new career as a half-assed private dick and full time drunk another killing with the same weirdly-specific M.O. has him looking into the murders with new ideas. The hoops this one jumps through plot-wise are maybe a twist too-far, but it's an effectively moody mystery with at least three memorable scenes. The aforementioned bloodbath is a wonderful set-piece that comes out of nowhere - a routine investigation scene jumps sideways - it's messy, brutal and shockingly funny, a character has his motorcycle stolen in another vignette of inverted expectations and the use of ice skates as a murder weapon is surprisingly effective. The filmmakers know their genre tropes and have fun playing with expectations all the way through while sticking to them faithfully, it's exactly the kind of measured, skillfully executed mystery film that I can enjoy without feeling like an asshole afterward.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhz5bnCEBi48cfFtEEa3wB57OWrnyJi8UhbS25cbAee1qVFI0QgiQeuyhBZWOIujbjLkhMNOnHyfKFRz-9uLgxJfstcynnzwoq18c1QPInHp8QUEsQoYsVFj5po2U9eiHPkyi5xHU5urr4uE2RXstTBLvSsWPDKm0Zks86scGdlkiZZbuT4JcHt_C5y=s400" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="274" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhz5bnCEBi48cfFtEEa3wB57OWrnyJi8UhbS25cbAee1qVFI0QgiQeuyhBZWOIujbjLkhMNOnHyfKFRz-9uLgxJfstcynnzwoq18c1QPInHp8QUEsQoYsVFj5po2U9eiHPkyi5xHU5urr4uE2RXstTBLvSsWPDKm0Zks86scGdlkiZZbuT4JcHt_C5y=s320" width="219" /></a></i></div><i>Black Dahlia</i> - <b>Brian De Palma</b> - This film was understandably a big disappointment for fans of the superior source novel by <b>James Ellroy</b> about two cops embroiled in a lot more muck than the murder of <b>Elizabeth Short</b>, but for fans of De Palma and stylish style and handsome style and stylized violence and set pieces I still think it's underrated. Your favorite De Palma shit is represented: voyeurism, leering cameras, secret sexual obsessions, doubles, handsomely lit staircases, bright splashes of blood, slo-motion tumble over a precipice... Look, but don't touch and don't be caught looking and don't always listen - it's a look party and you're a looker.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5FC9pZ0zZHRjtmHhnkj_Bh_Kh1dAF6mvyZSaPv6utmptldeQ-beoSEoYjLClRTPC2mdXcLwSkEJBXNSgOPSZ9o85N2LhEqeiKPlzjNHZ7Tg6ZPAwYqPRMGoIhclHdA3H_l8nS1CJ-5HjBV3kkjgzNRtzRNRAS8Z08uxsgeWZYI6Sigy9pVPqj4af3=s273" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="184" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5FC9pZ0zZHRjtmHhnkj_Bh_Kh1dAF6mvyZSaPv6utmptldeQ-beoSEoYjLClRTPC2mdXcLwSkEJBXNSgOPSZ9o85N2LhEqeiKPlzjNHZ7Tg6ZPAwYqPRMGoIhclHdA3H_l8nS1CJ-5HjBV3kkjgzNRtzRNRAS8Z08uxsgeWZYI6Sigy9pVPqj4af3=w216-h320" width="216" /></a></i></div><i>Black '47 </i>- <b>Lance Daly</b> - In this fucking grim famine drama <b>James Frecheville</b> plays an Irish ranger returned home from fighting the empire's wars to find his kith and kin facing eviction on top of starvation - their homes systematically destroyed rather than shelter them as soon as they can no longer afford to pay live in them and the meager crops being shipped away to their land lords and sovereigns. An entirely legal all-out war on the poor is being waged and with approximately zero hesitation the former soldier turns his formidable murderous skills to the private sector turning his weaponry against the same oppressors that taught them to him and taught him it was his duty to use them for their purpose. Sent after the rogue ranger is <b>Hugo Weaving</b>'s conflicted, disgraced and condemned detective who once fought alongside his quarry. Strains of <i>First Blood, The Proposition</i> and <i>Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid</i> run through, the violence is up close and personal and the supporting cast is top notch to boot (<b>Jim Broadbent, Stephen Rea, Freddie Fox, Barry Keoghan, Moe Dunford, Sarah Greene</b>). <p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZrS96K6lUUCm7rhdIkZ55loVNFyiEq8h6LQFVzL5_RS-PQyYEWB6OR3IQX_ES7zg95qjAzJne8Fwdcf6HKM7o9UWwKLtKGTw4mmb7bdr6gYzl9h4Jdm7xFzPrVz8arEfXWo6Q8ZAxbFD5KZGAL-_sS7Okfi9nWeKXk5O1EgHOQL0gGOjXKRyZVf-e=s383" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="259" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZrS96K6lUUCm7rhdIkZ55loVNFyiEq8h6LQFVzL5_RS-PQyYEWB6OR3IQX_ES7zg95qjAzJne8Fwdcf6HKM7o9UWwKLtKGTw4mmb7bdr6gYzl9h4Jdm7xFzPrVz8arEfXWo6Q8ZAxbFD5KZGAL-_sS7Okfi9nWeKXk5O1EgHOQL0gGOjXKRyZVf-e=s320" width="216" /></a></i></div><i>Black Rain</i> - <b>Ridley Scott</b> - Two American cops (<b>Michael Douglas</b> and <b>Andy Garcia</b>) burdened with the task of delivering an extradited Japanese prisoner home, promptly lose their charge upon arrival and take it personally and insist upon sticking around and making big, ugly American pains in the asses of themselves until they have the satisfaction that the baddy is visited by justice. Douglas as a cop really should be its own movie genre - always surly, always named Nick, or Vic or Rick, ridiculously coiffed and aftershave so strong you can smell it from the screen. Visually amazing, babe.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1MD2Zxh0OB3U2fjEIYaE9GEyNopyx6INyxS4KgztUnOIzZU0vE0xqI52ZBtx8OWucJEs6g5Co4bGykig3MdtBZvzwv4wFeJ4mfyT2XTduYJPjUxOyb23V6wgklUduK-LAA9lZ8ZppH217OfzqBTzGFKOTQiuUZnuTEosoZAe7HR9ZjsRF7w_vGrAg=s273" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="184" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1MD2Zxh0OB3U2fjEIYaE9GEyNopyx6INyxS4KgztUnOIzZU0vE0xqI52ZBtx8OWucJEs6g5Co4bGykig3MdtBZvzwv4wFeJ4mfyT2XTduYJPjUxOyb23V6wgklUduK-LAA9lZ8ZppH217OfzqBTzGFKOTQiuUZnuTEosoZAe7HR9ZjsRF7w_vGrAg=w216-h320" width="216" /></a></i></div><i>Black Sea</i> - <b>Kevin McDonald</b> - A dirty dozen of out of work sailors put together a crew in a hurry to recover Nazi gold from the bottom of the ocean under the nose of various world governments. It's a dangerous, dirty job, but the recovery is the least of their problems - once recovered, can they survive each other? Great cast -<b> Jude Law, Ben Mendelsohn, Scoot McNairy</b> and <b>Michael Smiley</b> and a crew of 'that guy' faces. Great premise. Great looking small-scale, large-scale adventure/thriller. I want more. <p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-28450682810701045282021-11-25T05:43:00.006-08:002021-11-28T07:06:41.935-08:00Noirvember Pods Part 2Here's another round of Noirvember specific podcasts you can listen to me prattle on if that's your thing...<div><br /></div><div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfEt_dTAYQQJv_c4yqwqfD9VeKuH6rl4zBDNFOUGhJR5s-LhZoSZDcM9hZVGMc5Elvq80DRT7PnsZyyQlv6vecVhHl4ruN75If0TdD-wa_4LU_pYTm7pwue3yhifUS3oOwKhwgTXeLp--Scnth2yyElw2aE2QSI6KCl1GWrXnEHKUWSlqirhiDlF5m=s279" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfEt_dTAYQQJv_c4yqwqfD9VeKuH6rl4zBDNFOUGhJR5s-LhZoSZDcM9hZVGMc5Elvq80DRT7PnsZyyQlv6vecVhHl4ruN75If0TdD-wa_4LU_pYTm7pwue3yhifUS3oOwKhwgTXeLp--Scnth2yyElw2aE2QSI6KCl1GWrXnEHKUWSlqirhiDlF5m" width="181" /></a></div>The Big Combo</i> - On this <a href="https://www.projectionboothpodcast.com/2019/11/episode-440-big-combo-1955.html?fbclid=IwAR1D7z-VJ9ynge9_K0uVoFe02UIm3TeWDDM24VPUxZA4sHAFEthDUWRY1EQ" target="_blank">episode of <b>The Projection Booth</b></a> I join <b>Mike White</b> and <b>Brian Hoyle</b> to discuss <b>Joseph H. Lewis</b>' 1955 classic starring <b>Cornel Wilde, Richard Conte</b> and <b>Jean Wallace</b>. We get into the topics like the peculiarities of writer <b>Philip Yordan</b>, the noir majesty of <b>John Alton</b>'s cinematography, <b>Lee Van Cleef</b> and <b>Earl Holliman</b>'s gay button men, Lewis' elegant long takes and the many wild stylistic touches that make it so memorable.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUxge4wf45-mQr7O-Um8UMaiYL-tKarFSnnwjBXvRvQFAN0jXBKxjClev4XvRVAxyd6idWEC8lgMfA8axZhjj3ykWW3Ms_3aI0xEtuL7UjlKn4OCaKsKf9VQDDfiLOlSRbnU8x2Z2Kv5Esug3K8jLTHGlkOmVgefvw7tGqCW2qAa47M5TMQC5e2Wo5=s273" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="184" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUxge4wf45-mQr7O-Um8UMaiYL-tKarFSnnwjBXvRvQFAN0jXBKxjClev4XvRVAxyd6idWEC8lgMfA8axZhjj3ykWW3Ms_3aI0xEtuL7UjlKn4OCaKsKf9VQDDfiLOlSRbnU8x2Z2Kv5Esug3K8jLTHGlkOmVgefvw7tGqCW2qAa47M5TMQC5e2Wo5" width="184" /></a></div>Elevator to the Gallows</i> - <b>Louis Malle</b>'s directorial debut was the subject on my very first <a href="https://www.projectionboothpodcast.com/2015/11/episode-245-elevator-to-gallows.html" target="_blank">episode of <b>The Projection Booth</b></a>. Co-hosts Mike White and <b>Rob St. Mary</b> let me join in the conversation and the episode features interviews with Malle scholar <b>Nathan Southern</b> and <b>Miles Davis</b> expert <b>Jack Chambers</b>. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="https://incrementvice.com/episode-7" target="_blank"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://incrementvice.com/episode-7" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjFK_zEkFTLVRqq_dWRK_XWezHzXmtwG0WjXRCreuTXqYbUNZTtOeuByQn8HRSwCM_W9jJNcI5mpZgtknjnSNOq6aBRadxlwkHjeNeOE6VSjUzJWZbW0T4Ls-U3cl14hQ-65TdZ0AMJEWw67l6zWIFKzxD5MTJ-XS0eSJdK-u8UTNZ1X3ZuZ7w1Pos=s1318" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="1318" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjFK_zEkFTLVRqq_dWRK_XWezHzXmtwG0WjXRCreuTXqYbUNZTtOeuByQn8HRSwCM_W9jJNcI5mpZgtknjnSNOq6aBRadxlwkHjeNeOE6VSjUzJWZbW0T4Ls-U3cl14hQ-65TdZ0AMJEWw67l6zWIFKzxD5MTJ-XS0eSJdK-u8UTNZ1X3ZuZ7w1Pos=w200-h141" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://incrementvice.com/episode-7" target="_blank">Increment Vice</a></b> - I had a ton of fun talking with obsessive host <b>Travis Woods</b> on his long-form dissection of <b>Paul Thomas Anderson</b>'s adaptation of <b>Thomas Pynchon</b>'s <i>Inherent Vice</i> starring <b>Joaquin Phoenix</b> as an ever-addled hippie detective out of time and place beset by a bevvy of baddies and embroiled in a byzantine conspiracy of sticky, icky spider-silk tendrils with broad implications and blunt machinations from batty billionaire philanthropists, a cabal of cocaine enthusiast dentists, new age white supremacists and the always encroaching fascist police state (personified by <b>Josh Brolin</b>'s one for the ages performance as Bigfoot Bjornsson).</div><div><br /></div><div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-NKKeWVmzONOWu0re_vk0mOm9kGNJt1FH2irE7UnlZAoSuJYLtt1Cul9Xav3iG1awtwasO9J75cMmfZ6sRVMNcOM17slH4mRETUyLBz-zqGJIznI0bDQ75GYhv9D7xwHiG1wn20S7MvRGhPauCAtppL0Mj7SzRQdR2g152gUlM3G4mK-_69WinZRS=s754" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="754" data-original-width="501" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-NKKeWVmzONOWu0re_vk0mOm9kGNJt1FH2irE7UnlZAoSuJYLtt1Cul9Xav3iG1awtwasO9J75cMmfZ6sRVMNcOM17slH4mRETUyLBz-zqGJIznI0bDQ75GYhv9D7xwHiG1wn20S7MvRGhPauCAtppL0Mj7SzRQdR2g152gUlM3G4mK-_69WinZRS=s320" width="213" /></a></div>Ride the Pink Horse</i> - For this <a href="https://www.projectionboothpodcast.com/2020/11/episode-493-ride-pink-horse-1947.html" target="_blank">episode of <b>The Projection Booth</b></a> I jumped at the chance to talk about<b> Robert Montgomery</b>'s treatment of <b>Dorothy B. Hughes</b>' novel about an opportunist out for... a shakedown? Revenge? General criminal misanthropy? (Something sinister regardless) in the New Mexican desert town of San Pablo (standing in for Santa Fe). To prepare I read Hughes' source material and also watched <b>Don Siegel</b>'s adaptation (<i>The Hanged Man</i>), but I bow to guest <b>Carol Borden</b>'s and interview subject <b>Sarah Weinman</b>'s insights and Hughes expertise on this episode.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.patreon.com/posts/45254657" target="_blank"><b></b></a><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.patreon.com/posts/45254657" target="_blank"></a><a href="http://spaceythompson.blogspot.com/2021/11/noirvember-pods-part-3-brokebrain-noir.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="820" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuS-7CgSAhL71T9K0RXSGHtTibdJ21A5mb1IvMEjNFkqgGp8_QTJfs8FTUdA72fbcRkDiYNvO_6JXpP31siikw2xNKpa6g4EwVNGcX93Jo1ELKVh_JPKGShIA2XBItA9kOCd2jyosZ8ztq_Xk6In_KAuFCuTJOLBogC1p1CRwfPNxCyT58SXyzcwUJ=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://www.patreon.com/posts/45254657" target="_blank">Watch With Jen</a></b> - On this episode of<b> Jen Johans</b>' expansive, wide-ranging film podcast I chose to chat about classic crime flick remakes from the 1990s. A favorite focal point for my film fixation, the 90s were full of oft overlooked mainstream giants and indie gems which I'll go to bat for and destroy all credibility long the way to champion against the wiser bet classics and status quo opinions of my betters. No, they're not all better, and no, they're not all good, but I'm here for the fuck-it-ness, shamelessness and audacity. We barely scratch the surface of the decade's remakes, but Jen and I discuss the originals from <b>Alfred Hitchcock, Sam Peckinpah, Akira Kurosawa, Robert Siodomak</b> and <b>Henri-Georges Clouzot</b> as well as their remixes by <b>Steven Soderbergh, Walter Hill, Roger Donaldson, Andrew Davis</b> and <b>Jeremiah S. Chechik</b>. It's a fucking lot.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://spaceythompson.blogspot.com/2021/11/noirvember-discussions-with-mike-white.html">Noirvember podcasts part 1</a></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><a href="http://spaceythompson.blogspot.com/2021/11/noirvember-pods-part-3-brokebrain-noir.html"><b>Noirvember podcasts part 3</b></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-72894578515985545632021-11-24T05:45:00.001-08:002022-03-10T14:04:27.319-08:00Noirvember: Pete Dragovich's French Excess Film Noir Festival<p>If you like your Noirvember to be a time of tight, twisty plots and snappy dialogue with maybe some shadows and trenchcoats thrown in, then this ain't your list, dear reader. This little marathon (you can knock it out in a night- I believe in you!) is all about grooving out, about being down with the vibe and going wherever each fucked up film wants to take you. It is my French Excess Film Noir Festival, a series of noir-ish films from, you know, France (okay so <i>Corpses</i> is Belgian but they strictly speak French in it- don't "well, actually" me) that are all recent, gnarly, stylish, and in their own distinctive ways completely fucking over-the-top.</p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFXYaIsaTkjsvNaSwuxlM0gOacDfY4rFXSh03J0QGhYUZR9rxZyY2uK2TCr26USrjFayx5TJuOkTc-8ByNHTZItuLp79H7Yj-BMFT3X-qsdq73VTCLq5FtClFb3kAcmNSdff07RKzSzglKdSoPgRMGxa_JAjjdD5jR29_eUDLC6Sr8aIHal7eydyRq=s1455" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1455" data-original-width="970" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFXYaIsaTkjsvNaSwuxlM0gOacDfY4rFXSh03J0QGhYUZR9rxZyY2uK2TCr26USrjFayx5TJuOkTc-8ByNHTZItuLp79H7Yj-BMFT3X-qsdq73VTCLq5FtClFb3kAcmNSdff07RKzSzglKdSoPgRMGxa_JAjjdD5jR29_eUDLC6Sr8aIHal7eydyRq=s320" width="213" /></a></i></div><i>Revenge </i>(2017) written and directed by <b>Coralie Fargeat</b><p></p><p>Fargeat's rape-revenge thriller starts with a gorgeous young woman going on vacation deep in the desert with her married rich dick boyfriend at his glass palace of a getaway. When two of his scummy buddies show up to go hunting, the rape part of the story happens. After she's killed by the boyfriend she then, um, self-resurrects herself (you read that right) and you have the glorious revenge shit. Everything in this film is at eleven: the relentless soundtrack, the sun-scorched and sweat-drenched cinematography, and the onscreen nudity and violence. If once you get to the dizzying climactic showdown, which features the very wounded and very naked rich dick running around his house getting all the blood on all the surfaces, and you're somehow not fucking totally blissing out from gnarly-overload? Well, then, I dunno. We have differing tastes in movies, I guess. It happens.</p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyf53-MySZGku-qyKal4xJuf9UG5NeOhDAAPIkJEJbq3Eoa4nPIfbdrtOOOx2M97s0PQq_wtuJmgLBG546oDq8OesTYPRRSlIY2TyyKQtMhW8MBf2yx0zrGWkHt6pObHWpkudtbfThF1KgQSkRgYqaF2kMLArZsMZQR7rtI_dkfSYB9o31GiXQZesH=s305" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="206" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyf53-MySZGku-qyKal4xJuf9UG5NeOhDAAPIkJEJbq3Eoa4nPIfbdrtOOOx2M97s0PQq_wtuJmgLBG546oDq8OesTYPRRSlIY2TyyKQtMhW8MBf2yx0zrGWkHt6pObHWpkudtbfThF1KgQSkRgYqaF2kMLArZsMZQR7rtI_dkfSYB9o31GiXQZesH" width="206" /></a></i></div><i>Stranger by the Lake </i>(2013) written and directed by <b>Alain Guiraudie</b><p></p><p>If you want far less blood and way more dude-wiener than in <i>Revenge</i>, might I offer you a seat next to a certain <i>Stranger by the Lake</i>? The film's about a guy who witnesses a murder at a gay cruising beach, but instead of going to the police our hero opts to keep coming back to the beach to have sex with the murderer. A lot. With its graphic gay sex, lack of a score, distancing shooting style, and dare-you-to-hit-fast-forward slow pace, <i>Stranger by the Lake</i> is a real fuck-you to most viewers and, well, that only makes me want to rewatch it more. If you can get on this film's very particular wave-length, you too will be tantalized and tortured by its many mysteries and shocked by its bewildering finale. And if you happen to be as entranced by it as myself, might I also recommend Guiraudie's less-heralded but even crazier <i>Staying Vertical</i>, which features a graphic anal sex/euthanasia scene.</p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibBZ3pPP2wHxrkq8CPoiSYdL0yrF1AKe_BhlD4ycmcrMFp3kp7ORMUS_VewuBPq0vkzrcQQv_fKaebIRq1Ilz40s7waLHSWzJBjiQT3t8rSHhwOSHxSz5ha43VXwapFJY6NkFHFv8Yn-ddSmwiwstfjfnhl1D9cTCRfE4h1q1R1UCS1FoGrDxSKaMV=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1382" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibBZ3pPP2wHxrkq8CPoiSYdL0yrF1AKe_BhlD4ycmcrMFp3kp7ORMUS_VewuBPq0vkzrcQQv_fKaebIRq1Ilz40s7waLHSWzJBjiQT3t8rSHhwOSHxSz5ha43VXwapFJY6NkFHFv8Yn-ddSmwiwstfjfnhl1D9cTCRfE4h1q1R1UCS1FoGrDxSKaMV=s320" width="216" /></a></i></div><i>Let the Corpses Tan</i> (2017) directed by <b>Helene Cattet</b> and <b>Bruno Forzani,</b> written by Cattet, Forzani and <b>Jean-Pierre Bastid</b>, from a novel by <b>Jean-Patrick Manchette</b><p></p><p>Much as I dig Guiraudie's work, I would much rather be buttfucked to death by a Cattet/Forzani movie (they call me the king of transitions). The giallo obsessives/leather fetishists behind the similarly excellent movies <i>Amer</i> and <i>The Strange Colour of Your Body's Tears</i> bring their bugfuck talents to their adaptation of a novel by noir legend Jean-Patrick Manchette. This nearly dialogue-free gold brick of madness is about a heist crew laying low after violently stealing a bunch of gold who then get their world blown apart when two motorcycle cops track down their hideout. This thing is basically a ninety minute shootout with every single bullet accounted for, thanks to the film doubling back over and over again to see the same moment from different characters' perspectives. It's breathless, overwhelmingly pervy genius stuff, with the only moments you're able to slow down your overworked brain being a certain character's fantasies of a beautiful woman being covered in gold paint and pissing what looks like molten gold into the dirt.</p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbvyNGuAyeMdTFMWAX2LWWtv27tvQli08Y4WeIGNzGBSJbpErLRDJ7Yj-fCCuZMXSrrONOP308DQn2dScrhKTKihDuT1g_DV3pJQIdYtYj-q9dvYrRMibEXwZbeOPfdP4ovCuehcTKSUfYYusWekliVN8tPZwSz95asZU_sChl-u36h8XiyNtPqTOA=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1452" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbvyNGuAyeMdTFMWAX2LWWtv27tvQli08Y4WeIGNzGBSJbpErLRDJ7Yj-fCCuZMXSrrONOP308DQn2dScrhKTKihDuT1g_DV3pJQIdYtYj-q9dvYrRMibEXwZbeOPfdP4ovCuehcTKSUfYYusWekliVN8tPZwSz95asZU_sChl-u36h8XiyNtPqTOA=s320" width="227" /></a></i></div><i>Nocturama</i> (2016) written and directed by <b>Bertrand Bonello</b><p></p><p>Whether <i>Corpses</i> knocked your dick in the dirt or pissed you off (transitional peerlessness is as much curse as it is gift), maybe Bonello's <i>Nocturama </i>is more your (s)peed (okay, okay, I'll stop). We follow a bunch of kids as they commit a series of terror attacks on Paris then cool out in a department store after hours. As with <i>Corpses</i>, we get lots of doubling back to different viewpoints to see another side of certain events but the style is more fluid and dread-filled instead of frenetic and intense. After the initial rush of racing along with them as they blow shit up and shoot folks, we wait for the hammer to fall as they hang out and reveal their youth and innocence in their weird consumerist playground/Eden. Then the hyper-melodrama of the ending is such a feat of filmmaking that I'm not sure if I am getting chills from the sad fates of certain characters or just the jaw-dropping directorial brilliance on display. Thankfully, the movie is so fucking rad I know I'll happily give it another spin to try and figure out my feelings all over again in a year or two. Here's hoping at least one of these fucked-up French groove-outs I've presented makes your rewatch rotation as well, dear reader.</p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6zRCAYXbErY5rwOgx3KF60qFemqP_Z-in2_0xdFYHq4Pux_avFc-lijqGN2V_Q0saHrEoD6vyZVsjMYZSanknk9ET7ht7QYJJ6XhS3E8gYpTHtNjt7mhnIpeC9KCZd44nno3PdIB3tJpjdgGM5ssjflhKyc6ZDE2taj48ltTHV2IIjE33rGF4W8l8=s650" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="650" height="77" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6zRCAYXbErY5rwOgx3KF60qFemqP_Z-in2_0xdFYHq4Pux_avFc-lijqGN2V_Q0saHrEoD6vyZVsjMYZSanknk9ET7ht7QYJJ6XhS3E8gYpTHtNjt7mhnIpeC9KCZd44nno3PdIB3tJpjdgGM5ssjflhKyc6ZDE2taj48ltTHV2IIjE33rGF4W8l8=w200-h77" width="200" /></a></b></div><b>Pete Dragovich</b> has written for Crimespree, Crime Factory and Spinetingler Magazines. He still has the Nerd of Noir blog but doesn't post shit up there anymore and a bunch of the links don't lead anywhere now so maybe just skip it. He's <a href="https://twitter.com/nerdofnoir" target="_blank">@nerdofnoir</a> on twitter (which he kinda sucks at) and <a href="https://letterboxd.com/nerd_of_noir/" target="_blank">NERD_OF_NOIR</a> on letterboxd (where his opinions are the correct ones). He lives in Minneapolis.<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-69541158191032249232021-11-23T04:10:00.000-08:002021-11-23T04:10:16.011-08:00Noirvember: Adam Frost<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLy7k2nYQqr3sPywhqE6hl2ZTXPXZN-LpInmBeXV0F5AQUKEBzXyFM43PhBBj-Mr34p0FQcyn_6Amf5WzSPz3grLAB2Z4ibWDmGpav88OU_oLEONLzUX3DTFjVGVZtKQvjmPNDw6scjzjDgpqlqSYl4BNKgL2P1A1CSXbx-mh0Xl5yQwuoUBZwzlMp=s385" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="290" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLy7k2nYQqr3sPywhqE6hl2ZTXPXZN-LpInmBeXV0F5AQUKEBzXyFM43PhBBj-Mr34p0FQcyn_6Amf5WzSPz3grLAB2Z4ibWDmGpav88OU_oLEONLzUX3DTFjVGVZtKQvjmPNDw6scjzjDgpqlqSYl4BNKgL2P1A1CSXbx-mh0Xl5yQwuoUBZwzlMp=s320" width="241" /></a></i></div><i>The Fury of a Patient Man</i> - <b>Raul Arévalo</b> - I stumbled across this gem on a flight which admittedly is not the ideal screening environment but damn she left a mark. Going off the title alone, my expectations were extremely low but the film delivered all the right noir punches. I’m a sucker for long takes and the opening kicks off with a tight one-two punch. Then the filmmakers ambitiously chop up the classic go-to structure, breaking the film into four sections that all build, as advertised, with a simmering measured intensity and a most satisfying finish. <p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMlvglSKQd0OLvy0_SBZ17sYBRQtbgdhGQSrgMddfvL0CKB3aS2qbH49aHbexxZGav8yjfhopUdx-PZmhhOWBs1hJq9Ap_sO0f-9fdIAgzYuE9bNCpqJnYDCZfumNFOEuatj4rz0u3pZF19xbyy-HjTNIggxGXuTOQXNkgJ2wALnDSdCL5mT8AoIGS=s260" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="260" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMlvglSKQd0OLvy0_SBZ17sYBRQtbgdhGQSrgMddfvL0CKB3aS2qbH49aHbexxZGav8yjfhopUdx-PZmhhOWBs1hJq9Ap_sO0f-9fdIAgzYuE9bNCpqJnYDCZfumNFOEuatj4rz0u3pZF19xbyy-HjTNIggxGXuTOQXNkgJ2wALnDSdCL5mT8AoIGS=w320-h239" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Tell No One</i> - <b>Guillame Canet</b> - I debated whether this film warranted the Noirvember nod but at the end of the day felt it housed enough core ingredients – A doctor receives a strange message claiming to be from his dead wife so he sets out to find the truth about her murder… Sits more on the thriller noir scale but it’s a ripper of a mystery that churns with engaging plot twists and the filmmakers manage to stick a tricky landing in the third act. <p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2eHtB-X4vC3bzuTlM3oUtgr3cNVrVqTmC1vHwvx6QJ13Gw79gEhWo6bxmKjst2vBqk7Z-u6rpievGwTeD5bS7TkbxrWkV-LuKHaSHTxZgUNgFUDwp2zNUa7OBWmBxw5dyG3QI5YCzWbWtMciZdTgB7MP4aq06xhuEJjEsldRLAMXbqfw013_jwyEO=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="705" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2eHtB-X4vC3bzuTlM3oUtgr3cNVrVqTmC1vHwvx6QJ13Gw79gEhWo6bxmKjst2vBqk7Z-u6rpievGwTeD5bS7TkbxrWkV-LuKHaSHTxZgUNgFUDwp2zNUa7OBWmBxw5dyG3QI5YCzWbWtMciZdTgB7MP4aq06xhuEJjEsldRLAMXbqfw013_jwyEO=s320" width="226" /></a></i></div><i>One False Move</i> - <b>Carl Franklin</b> - A classic from Team 90’s Noir, this imperfect gem boasts a wicked performance from <b>Bill Paxton</b> as an in-over-his-head small town Arkansas cop looking to head off some nasty criminals fleeing LA. The filmmakers do <i>not</i> shy away from some grizzly crimes in the opening but it feeds the story well, driving up the stakes as the big city demons inevitably roll into town. Complete with some perfectly dated and arguably borderline abrasive bluesy guitar riffs, stiff 90s detective acting and a wicked slimy young <b>Billy Bob Thornton</b> (who co-wrote the script) it’s a fun underrated ride. <p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYxyiUYWF7QtvUax54cA3-jwOn_gAhm_-PaDzHpuXNsUFALdU7mVG4LwKgd__mrLwpe9lf5IJxt3VUGN8L4xrDnLCvgX62OF5lF4mW1ag2HwXaKzuvlgfba94r1XKM5URaIm1b6woyrNo7Goe2jPMmKgaJRVTitz7BSuufWRBZdF8OAFsRVTtphiun=s356" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="271" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYxyiUYWF7QtvUax54cA3-jwOn_gAhm_-PaDzHpuXNsUFALdU7mVG4LwKgd__mrLwpe9lf5IJxt3VUGN8L4xrDnLCvgX62OF5lF4mW1ag2HwXaKzuvlgfba94r1XKM5URaIm1b6woyrNo7Goe2jPMmKgaJRVTitz7BSuufWRBZdF8OAFsRVTtphiun=s320" width="244" /></a></i></div><i>Elevator to the Gallows</i> - <b>Louis Malle </b>- I love nothing more than stumbling upon a film that for whatever reason has managed to evade me over the years and <i>Elevator</i> is one of those gems. Shot in stylish black and white, the French film crackles with a classic noir set up: Florence and Julien are having an affair and Julien plans to kill her husband at his office. He breaks in after hours and stages the killing but gets stuck in the elevator of the building before he can escape. Meanwhile, Florence thinks her lover has abandoned the plan and given up on her. In classic noir style, the plan goes to hell and the players are left scrambling to pick up the pieces when the getaway car is stolen. It's Malle's first film and considered to be<b> Jeanne Moreau</b>'s breakthrough performance. Shot on location in parts of the city, the verité of 50s Paris absolutely dazzles. Added to that the film boasts a jazzy score by <b>Miles Davis</b> said to be recorded all in one night. It's a wicked noir romp that begs to be included in Noirvember! <p></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOjkU9Hsykoh32JG3ftSLTebRMpzpme6bymPh1AxJ2zfKO-PUECO2y9O0dtppDSChnSnqFY-atVFri40CFXYGDpnNSOTRSDV8QX89_ny2VKnbP-99QA1uJMsD1RdxMVYV-0he4DnlY--SO42IGOYawzSUSbQr-aw5_yYKLMg4ihS4_byPX4uni8C57=s400" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOjkU9Hsykoh32JG3ftSLTebRMpzpme6bymPh1AxJ2zfKO-PUECO2y9O0dtppDSChnSnqFY-atVFri40CFXYGDpnNSOTRSDV8QX89_ny2VKnbP-99QA1uJMsD1RdxMVYV-0he4DnlY--SO42IGOYawzSUSbQr-aw5_yYKLMg4ihS4_byPX4uni8C57=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></b></div><b>Adam Frost</b> <a href="https://twitter.com/Afrostbite23" target="_blank">is a screenwriter</a> primarily known for <i>Tribal</i> and <i>Castle</i>. His debut crime novel, <i>The Damned Lovely</i> is set to be published in May 2022. He lives in east LA, and watches way too much baseball.<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2681306287721676137.post-70109704916468397972021-11-22T04:54:00.000-08:002021-11-22T04:54:47.992-08:00Noirvember: Kate Malmon's Firsts<p>Being this is the first time I’ve officially celebrated Noirvember, I decided to spotlight my Noir Firsts.</p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgK77TSDsQTrjv_IG_YaJq-k5eXmKlLaSt8xG36IIhFTwb9eQRVTQ_eiQe2VZc0X49qkRwenLwws7s6qIkjakFEK4krOjersS3YwSzyguNEi6ZGL0pXbAvzLTYnPqPD_Oh6CJUEdBVrl809FX6d_zucewz6geNjDda61P7-DIlplx7OtMptMMIB8Jnf=s499" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgK77TSDsQTrjv_IG_YaJq-k5eXmKlLaSt8xG36IIhFTwb9eQRVTQ_eiQe2VZc0X49qkRwenLwws7s6qIkjakFEK4krOjersS3YwSzyguNEi6ZGL0pXbAvzLTYnPqPD_Oh6CJUEdBVrl809FX6d_zucewz6geNjDda61P7-DIlplx7OtMptMMIB8Jnf=s320" width="201" /></a></i></div><i>Frank Sinatra in a Blender</i> - <b>Matthew McBride</b> - I first heard a portion of this book at my first ever Noir at the Bar at my first Bouchercon in 2011. (I think I may have met Jed for the first time at this event, but I was overwhelmed by everything so I’m not certain.) This book was also my first introduction to rural noir. Bad dudes, stolen money, drugs, and a sketchy ex-cop turned PI – <i>what’s not to enjoy?</i><p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnazjlX1ixnAUbACHB0pXrvi4gbWuWiwkHMTU6MiSZlNMQKNrrdYj_NBhlUJC4M3CyEuBHVbcJmL3q7RPEyHg4rtMrLVkdsoYDguQ9YTzDGvKcWfckrHszMw-QL6ToaC9G2KuxDUmvUf8SMbl43KJIpI_wBO_WvpTqVPY4fjpEAdj5mRiul8Z9N-w6=s499" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnazjlX1ixnAUbACHB0pXrvi4gbWuWiwkHMTU6MiSZlNMQKNrrdYj_NBhlUJC4M3CyEuBHVbcJmL3q7RPEyHg4rtMrLVkdsoYDguQ9YTzDGvKcWfckrHszMw-QL6ToaC9G2KuxDUmvUf8SMbl43KJIpI_wBO_WvpTqVPY4fjpEAdj5mRiul8Z9N-w6=s320" width="208" /></a></i></div><i>Queenpin</i> - <b>Megan Abbott</b> - My first exposure to noir was the traditional novels and, let’s be honest, women were never portrayed in the best light. The one that ends with a naked woman being shoved off a roof while she’s engulfed in flames was not a favorite. Then I read <i>Queenpin</i> and found that women could be just as powerful and dastardly as the men. A former mob lady takes a young woman under her wing and shows her how to run with the guys and get the big money. These women are not shrinking violets by any means.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtl7T-MMA1ts4NGinRy1bpINrNAOC2fSsFQi9___2g6bm9Em0d2q9qoJ5XdO1IAj5ohcH_rCTlmBlEvTDzRyzRfgzgDbdu2dOQqbRjRS7Hi1NcHf2jN2XsvsVHRf_iexOBQIgwAJRe8s79CnNq5u0devpS198deSG8E9H5h7pbRFYBfaTrsekLj0vX=s273" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="185" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtl7T-MMA1ts4NGinRy1bpINrNAOC2fSsFQi9___2g6bm9Em0d2q9qoJ5XdO1IAj5ohcH_rCTlmBlEvTDzRyzRfgzgDbdu2dOQqbRjRS7Hi1NcHf2jN2XsvsVHRf_iexOBQIgwAJRe8s79CnNq5u0devpS198deSG8E9H5h7pbRFYBfaTrsekLj0vX=w217-h320" width="217" /></a></i></div><i>Fargo</i> - <b>Joel Coen, Ethan Coen</b> - I saw this movie for the first time in college and hated it. I was going to school in Minnesota and no one I met at school spoke like that. The Minnesota’s own Coen brothers show us that even if people are nice to your face, there’s a darkness hiding just under the surface or even in a tan Oldsmobile Sierra.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1MQKsLmofYXiWS2E4i7WdoQbeJQ4Yohek1h69dOuw7rTec0jHhilKN-DbJqR4C4smmarUUhQi-gZ5qZzDGBtGlHurIynW0ft7j4MO3K_XXIkV1TQB8rD9EG7T-1XNPSPCOyIXoyB0tKS-dDp7pfggeXdgFbxrccf_uRl8JJcfqj6aVi3fOeCZimM8=s276" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="183" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1MQKsLmofYXiWS2E4i7WdoQbeJQ4Yohek1h69dOuw7rTec0jHhilKN-DbJqR4C4smmarUUhQi-gZ5qZzDGBtGlHurIynW0ft7j4MO3K_XXIkV1TQB8rD9EG7T-1XNPSPCOyIXoyB0tKS-dDp7pfggeXdgFbxrccf_uRl8JJcfqj6aVi3fOeCZimM8=w212-h320" width="212" /></a></i></div><i>Double Indemnity</i> - <b>Billy Wilder</b> - I’ve been fortunate to see this film multiple times on the big screen. For me, this is the purest example of what noir means to me: desperate people making bad decisions. Sometimes a woman just wants out of her marriage so badly that she’ll do anything to make this desire a reality, even if it means shoving her husband off the back of a moving train.<p></p><p>Stanwyck sure played MacMurray for a sap.</p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg63s0Sw5LJ0oAvlZSEUVelbIc14WURKQ2TLIf53JQWGXBO2kj4uEIbcoa5fKfDJVMRt3LZ9b3mHXr0CGf7JS0rygwkcAle_4DbFhRaosQ3FxuOzIOR5t-VDxilFuZ8HSFQVQRuCyVoaW-bNH_IW0P9c2QJed2VPE8GzIbb3lg1i5m5hl4ZUkD9bXEj=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="971" data-original-width="1080" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg63s0Sw5LJ0oAvlZSEUVelbIc14WURKQ2TLIf53JQWGXBO2kj4uEIbcoa5fKfDJVMRt3LZ9b3mHXr0CGf7JS0rygwkcAle_4DbFhRaosQ3FxuOzIOR5t-VDxilFuZ8HSFQVQRuCyVoaW-bNH_IW0P9c2QJed2VPE8GzIbb3lg1i5m5hl4ZUkD9bXEj=w200-h180" width="200" /></a></b></div><b>Kate Malmon</b> has been a reviewer for <a href="https://crimespreemag.com/" target="_blank">Crimespree Magazine</a> and the Anthony nominated <a href="https://www.writertypespodcast.com/" target="_blank">Writer Types</a> podcast. She and her husband <b>Dan</b> edited the Anthony nominated anthology, <i><a href="https://downandoutbooks.com/bookstore/malmon-killing-malmon/" target="_blank">Killing Malmon</a></i>, and the follow up anthology, <i><a href="https://downandoutbooks.com/bookstore/malmon-revenge-widow/" target="_blank">Revenge of the Widow Malmon</a></i>. All proceeds from both collections go to the Upper Midwest Multiple Sclerosis Society. <p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0