Film Review: THE MEN'S CLUB (1986, Peter Medak)

Stars: 2 of 5.

Running Time: 101 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew: Roy Scheider (JAWS, ALL THAT JAZZ), Frank Langella (FROST/NIXON, BRAINSCAN), Richard Jordan (DUNE '84, THE FRIENDS OF EDDIE COYLE), Craig Wasson (BODY DOUBLE, A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET III: DREAM WARRIORS), Treat Williams (HAIR, DEAD HEAT), David Dukes (RAWHEAD REX, GODS AND MONSTERS), Stockard Channing (GREASE, SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION), Jennifer Jason Leigh (SHORT CUTS, SINGLE WHITE FEMALE).

Tag-line:  "The Breakfast Club.  The Big Chill.  And now The Men's Club."
Best one-liner:  Not really.

What is THE MEN'S CLUB?  I saw the damn thing, and I'm not sure I can tell you.  It feels like a play and reads like a block-headed sleazy macho paperback for yuppie dickheads, and yet is performed like a master's class in acting.  It sure doesn't have much in common with THE BREAKFAST CLUB or THE BIG CHILL, as the tag-line promises, though all three works involve groups of people talking to one another indoors about a variety of topics.

From the talented Peter Medak, director of THE RULING CLASS, THE CHANGELING, BREAKIN' THROUGH, and many other favorites of the Junta Juleil canon, comes the story of a group of professional and semi-professional philandering dudes who deliver monologues about how difficult their lives are.  Said dudes are portrayed by some of the finest actors of their generation, from Roy Scheider to Harvey Keitel to Frank Langella to Richard Jordan.  And they're giving it their all...(especially Scheider)... they just happen to be in THE MEN'S CLUB.

I can't really begin to describe THE MEN'S CLUB, nor do I really want to, but I can tell you about the few spectacular things that happen in it.

#1.  The Lee Holdridge soundtrack, which is spit-take inducingly fabulous.  Full of slap-happy slap bass, muted trumpets, wailing saxes, and smoove, easy listening grooves, I was sort of surprised that my walls didn't spontaneously sprout green felt and transform my apartment into a seedy, smoke-filled lounge where Malibu was consumed by the gallon and impromptu soft-core pornography shoots materialized out of thin air.  In short, I'm a little upset that the soundtrack has never received an official release.

#2.  How 'bout a Madame... with a frightening ventriloquist's dummy...

 
....who's peddling a young Jennifer Jason Leigh who's dolled up to sort of look like young Melanie Griffith?  I don't know what to tell you.


#3. I swear Harvey Keitel's contracts must include nudity in them.  They have to.  It's like how Van Damme's contracts must include splits and Burt Reynolds' must include bar-fights and Bronson's must have involved dummies plummeting from great heights. 

Anyway.

#4.  Frank Langella, reborn via midlife crisis into a suspender-wearing, post-80s New Wave makeup wearing-dude who looks like an extra from the Elton John "I'm Still Standing" music video.  I can't believe my eyes.


So there you have it– all the highlights of THE MEN'S CLUB without having to actually watch it.  Phew.

–Sean Gill

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #75-71

75. HANA-BI (1997, Takeshi Kitano)

 

Takeshi Kitano– one of the great, unsung heroes of contemporary filmmaking. Comedian, actor, novelist, director, painter, poet, singer, tap dancer, game show host– you name it, and he's done it. Do yourself a favor and read about his occasionally bizarre, occasionally incredible life story, which encompasses strip club stand-up comedy, a burgeoning art career, hitting rock bottom, a suicide attempt, rebirth, and a new Kitano renaissance. It's difficult for me to pick a favorite Kitano– amongst the films he's directed, there's SONATINE, VIOLENT COP, ZATOICHI, KIKUJIRO, and BROTHER; amongst the film's he's appeared in there's BATTLE ROYALE, GOHATTO, MERRY CHRISTMAS MR. LAWRENCE, and JOHNNY MNEMON– er, forget I said that last one. Anyway, HANA-BI (FIREWORKS) is presently my favorite. Kitano took up painting in a big way after his suicide attempt, and he often credits it as a factor in his rehabilitation and recovery. As such, painting is a central motif to HANA-BI, and there's a grand stillness in this film; somehow Kitano makes the act of soaking in a painting a kinetic, cinematic act. But it's not all tranquil musings on our own impermanence, it's also cool, calm, collected nihilism punctuated with sporadic, impromptu thunderheads of violence which would make Joe Pesci blush. In short, it's essential cinema.  

 

74. DAZED AND CONFUSED (1993, Richard Linklater)

 

While it might be heresy to rank this film higher than its inspiration, AMERICAN GRAFFITI, it's so much damned fun, I can't help it. Talk about a movie with a high rewatchability factor– I can watch this film anytime, anyplace. But probably the best time is late spring or early summer, so you can duplicate, even vicariously (especially vicariously!), that ecstatic feeling of 'SCHOOL'S OUT FOR MUTHAFUCKING SUMMER!' The feeling of an endless (well, it sorta felt like it at the time), boundless vacation as you're jamming spiral-bound notebooks into the trash and purging the piles of lead-scuffed busywork from your locker– it's the ultimate cleansing, a feng shui of the soul! Linklater unravels his tale with the ensemble-cast storytelling acumen of a Renoir or an Altman, portraying a rogues' gallery of middle and high school types with playful honesty and complete sincerity. Nicky "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!" Katt's raging asshole townie; Parker Posey's shrill, hazing harpy; Wiley Wiggins' newly-minted high schooler with a penchant for nose-touching; the trio of lovable proto-intellectuals (Adam Goldberg, Anthony Rapp, & Marissa Ribisi); Matthew "it'd be a lot cooler if you did" McConaughey; a paint-bedaubed Ben Affleck (which is the proper state for an Affleck)...I could go on. Pass the Lone Star.  

 

73. PHENOMENA (1985, Dario Argento)  

 

There's not too much to say that I haven't said already, so I'll say it again: "Jennifer Connelly plays a girl named Jennifer who can telepathically communicate with insects in this Dario Argento masterpiece. The atmosphere is exquisite- dreamlike, comforting, dangerous. Something about his use of the Swiss Alps, the rustling pine trees, the ominous mountain winds, and the over-the-top gore... it's a throwback to the original R-rated storybooks: brutal folklore like the Brothers Grimm. I love this movie. I love the fact that there is one line of narration in the entire film, spoken about twenty minutes in. I love that in that one line of narration, they mispronounce the name 'Richard Wagner.' I love that there is a chimp with a straight razor (in homage to Poe's "The Murders in the Rue Morgue"). Between this and SUSPIRIA, it is clear that Dario Argento loves maggots, retching, girls' boarding schools, brutal murders, and the volatile combination of all four. I love that he loves that. I love that there's not only ladybug POV, sleepwalking POV, murderer POV, and Great Sarcophagus POV, but there's also MAGGOT POV. I love that the supernatural is represented by fan-blown hair. I love that the ending somehow manages to be as abrupt AND more ridiculous than the screamfest at the end of TENEBRE. I love the inappropriate use of heavy metal, the baroque visuals, the viscerality, the Bee Gees & Richard Gere references, the charming and sympathetic Donald Pleasence (in spite of Argento dialogue), the evocative soundtrack, the bitchy teachers straight out of SUSPIRIA...in fact, there's nothin' NOT to love here. The only way it could be more ridiculously perfect would be if she made out with the chimp." Amen, Dario. Amen.  

 

72. FLESH + BLOOD (1985, Paul Verhoeven)  

 

Another sort of rehash here: "I'll begin with two quotes by Paul Verhoeven which seem apropos to this film: "People love seeing violence and horrible things. The human being is bad and he can't stand more than five minutes of happiness. Put him in a dark theater and ask him to look at two hours of happiness and he'd walk out or fall asleep." and "Remember that Christianity is a religion grounded in one of the most violent acts of murder, the crucifixion. Otherwise, religion wouldn't have had any kind of impact." A lot of people like to pin down Paul Verhoeven as 'the guy who did SHOWGIRLS,' and while he cannot erase the fact that he is indeed guilty of being the guy who did SHOWGIRLS, he's one of the most audacious filmmakers to emerge from post-WWII Europe. FLESH + BLOOD is Machiavellian power games, stillborn children, nun snipers, yellowed teeth, and dogs lapping up pools of diseased gore. This movie is absolutely BRUTAL. Every single character looks out for number one, and here, 'looking out for number one' means ripping an earring (and a chunk of flesh) from a woman as she's being raped or using 'God's word' when it's to your liking (Verhoeven has called organized religion a symptom of societal schizophrenia). Any time there's a moment for levity or genuine romance, it's immediately undercut by something like the rotting genitals or random carrion. It’s not exactly a historically accurate depiction of medieval warfare and the Black Death, and it doesn't quite take place in the 14th Century... sixty years ago it took place on the battlefields of Europe. Verhoeven was just a kid then, but he was there. As we speak, it's being waged by talking heads on TV, by hypocrites behind closed doors, and by vicious opportunists from here to the far corners of the world. Where an exploitation flick would insert a rape scene so the viewer could feel 'morally superior' as they enjoyed some T&A, Verhoeven stages sexual assault as a grotesque vortex of ever-shifting power dynamics between man, woman, and the collective. The performances are outstanding: Susan Tyrrell was born to do the Dark Ages- she enters the scene as a bawdy, pregnant, perpetually wasted camp follower whose life is a series of the highest, barbaric highs and the lowest, 'WHY ME?' lows; Brion James is pure animal, ruthless but bewildered; Ronald Lacey is the sinister Cardinal- malicious, but sincere (not that it matters when he's got his sword in your guts); Jack Thompson is the beleaguered hunter, embodying an almost Peckinpah-style morality (think Robert Ryan in THE WILD BUNCH); and Tom Burlinson is the man of science, but his singlemindedness gives way to a sanctimonious depravity. Rutger Hauer simmers and scowls- a calculating, towheaded, serpentine fiend, rapist, and murderer who might be the closest thing we've got to a 'hero.' Jennifer Jason Leigh- in possibly her finest performance- is a privileged, maid-beating blueblood who attends the condottiere's ‘school of hard knocks’ and emerges as perhaps the most complex and guileful of the bunch." It's nihilistic entertainment at its best, and my favorite Vehoeven (today, anyway).  

 

71. MR. SMITH GOES TO WASHINGTON (1939, Frank Capra)

 

A film which seems to grow in relevance with each passing year. Politicians love to reference this film in attempts to inflate their perceived "inner-patriotism" and vaunted "outsider" status, yet if there was indeed a real life Mr. Smith, soon after the events depicted in this film he'd probably be killed in a Cessna crash that'd be deemed "completely accidental." Oh, and by the way, it was written by a socialist who refused to name names to HUAC and got blacklisted for it (Sidney Buchman). Jimmy Stewart is absolutely brilliant as the callow, unsophisticated vacancy-filler with truthful eyes and hay behind his ears, and his journey perfectly illustrates how the powers that be have hijacked patriotism and hammered it into submission, recreating its twisted form in the new normals of jingoism, belligerence, graft, and corruption. Shouldn't we trust in humanism instead of the oligarchs' smear factory? Ah, well– I guess we're just doomed to repeat history, whether we can remember it or not.

Coming up next... silent film, Gary Busey, and what some have called "the most-hated film in the Criterion Collection besides ARMAGEDDON!" 

 

Previously on the countdown:

#80-76 

#85-81 

#90-86  

#95-91 

#100-96  

Runners-up Part 1 

 Runners-up Part 2

Film Review: THE HITCHER (1986, Robert Harmon)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Running Time: 97 minutes.
Tag-line: "Out on the desert highway, the rule of thumb has a different meaning..."
Notable Cast or Crew: Written by Eric Red (NEAR DARK, BLUE STEEL, BODY PARTS). Starring Rutger Hauer, C. Thomas Howell, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Jeffrey DeMunn (THE BLOB '88, THE MIST). Cinematography by John Seale (WITNESS, THE FIRM, THE TALENTED MR. RIPLEY).
Best one-liner: "How do you like 'Shitsville'?" Well, it's way better when Rutger Hauer says it.

Well, it's Earth Day. And it only seems right- although it certainly was unplanned- for it to coincide with Rutger Hauer week, with Hauer being an outspoken advocate of animal rights and conservationism, amongst other noble aims. [In fact, as of this moment, Rutger's putting forth an effort to secure the release of unduly imprisoned New Zealander whale rights champion Captain Pete Bethune, which you should check out.] Regardless, on this Earth Day, I shall discuss a film where Rutger Hauer's mere presence leads to the wholesale destruction of half the cars and helicopters in the Southwest (maybe he wanted to reduce greenhouse gas emissions?).

THE HITCHER flirts with genius... then it blows up some helicopters. It's as if John Woo remade THE WRONG MAN. But, in a way, that's why I like it. It's a paranoid western, a Hitchcockian road movie, a highway slasher, and a balls-out shoot 'em up. On the one hand, we have slick visuals, a spine-chilling villain, desolate locales, an encroaching aura of suspense; on the other, we've got confusing plot twists, unfathomable character motivations, the stilted offscreen death of a main character, and more car wrecks than USED CARS and THE BLUES BROTHERS put together. It's abundantly clear that Robert Harmon and Eric Red did not set out to make an art film- more likely they wanted the equivalent of an action-packed, feature length TWILIGHT ZONE episode, a pursuit at which they succeed. However, there's one variable that I don't think they could have predicted- the extent to which Rutger Hauer would transform the film into his own personal, claustrophobic, homoerotic hell ride.

Rutger Hauer is in your car. Rutger Hauer is in your face.
In fact, he's not just in your face, he's IN YOUR EYE.

He's relentless. As the enigmatic John "Ryder," he roams and rules the highways with windswept, chilly puissance. He's basically omniscient, invulnerable, and possesses the ability to POP UP RIGHT WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT. Maybe he's Satan? God? It doesn't matter. You believe every second of it. He's Roy Batty, for godssakes.

The poor sap who he's tormenting is played by C. Thomas 'Ponyboy' Howell. (Or, as some like to call him, C. Thomas 'Soul Man' Howell). Howell begins as a fresh-faced goofus who thinks it's a good idea to pick up Rutger Hauer on a dark and stormy night. He slowly transforms (by necessity) into a mucky, dust-covered, single-minded barbarian (I was reminded of Caleb's similar metamorphosis in Red's vampire western, NEAR DARK). Along the way, he meets up with disaffected waitress Jennifer Jason Leigh (fresh off of FLESH + BLOOD with Rutger)

and good-hearted but often confused cop, played by Jeffrey DeMunn. They're both excellent, and insert some much-needed pathos in a film dominated by merciless man versus man action.

This movie is ridiculous. There's more mind-boggling "cat and mouse" reversals and confrontations in the first 20 minutes than in the entirety of your average thriller. I mean, you're about to see a film of this kind and you can pretty much predict that a gas station will erupt into an inferno of blazing detonations and wondrous Hollywood FX. That's a given. Most pictures would save it for the final act. THE HITCHER lays it down at about the 23 minute mark- because that's just the sort of movie that it is.

We're even entreated to the haunting image of a car streaking away from said explosion, its hood swathed in flames. The cinematography, by John Seale, is astounding. Desert storms, deep blue skies, darkness and illumination; flaring headlamps, polarized landscapes, and warm roadside diners.



But the meat and potatoes of this film are clearly the whirling dances of death between Hauer and Howell. Emphasis on 'dances.' "There's something strange going on between the two of you," says the good-spirited Captain DeMunn. Wow, you said it. Now, apparently, C. Thomas became extremely afraid of Rutger Hauer for real during the shooting of this film. It's not hard to see why. Hauer transforms every interaction between himself and Howell into a theoretical hotbed of sadism, savagery, and primal sexual desires. Every time Hauer is near, you can tell that he's intently thinking about kissing C. Thomas, then maybe about snapping his neck afterward.

Hauer is so deeply entrenched in the character, that he knows which buttons to press to make C. Thomas actually uncomfortable. C. Thomas knows that a hateful yet passionate kiss is not is the script, but when somebody as absolutely committed as Rutger is around, da script don't mean shit.



Don't worry, C. Thomas, he was just leaning in to cryptically put pennies on your eyes... this time.

Later, C. Thomas and Rutger inexplicably hold hands.

C. Thomas diffuses the tension by spitting in Rutger's face. Rutger equalizes the power dynamic by LOVING IT.


Then he plays with the spit for a few unnerving moments- lets it roll down his fingers. Cradles it. Like a baby. Conserves it like a precious resource (for Earth Day?).

Now let's see here- who won the Oscar that year? Best Actor was Paul Newman for THE COLOR OF MONEY. I guess I'm not gonna begrudge Paul Newman anything. Best supporting actor was Michael Caine for HANNAH AND HER SISTERS. Also nominated was Dennis Hopper for HOOSIERS, because they didn't have the balls to nominate him for BLUE VELVET. Well, here's what should have happened. Cancel all the other awards, and stick Dennis Hopper and Rutger Hauer up on the stage. Let them try and creep each other out for an hour or two, or a year- however long it takes. Whoever wins gets all the awards. Who's with me?

Anyway, this movie also sets the precedent of Rutger Hauer popping out from behind cutesy things that belong to children– a teddy bear is slowly lowered to reveal....RUTGER HAUER.

More on this in a later review...

In closing... wow. Things you should take away from this: Hauer is a genius. Howell is a goofus. Actually, I just like the word 'goofus.' But always, always, always check your french fries. Four stars.

-Sean Gill

Side note: From what I hear, J.D. over at Radiator Heaven has got a big 'ole appreciation of THE HITCHER in the works, so stay tuned...

EDIT: J.D.'s article can be found here.

Film Review: FLESH + BLOOD (1985, Paul Verhoeven)

Stars: 5 of 5. Running Time: 128 minutes. Notable Cast or Crew: Rutger Hauer (BLADE RUNNER, THE HITCHER), Jennifer Jason Leigh (FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH, MARGOT AT THE WEDDING), Susan Tyrrell (FAT CITY, CRY-BABY), Brion James (BLADE RUNNER, SOUTHERN COMFORT), Ronald Lacey (Toht in RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK), Tom Burlinson (THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER), Bruno Kirby (Young Clemenza in THE GODFATHER PART II), Jack Thompson (BREAKER MORANT, SHORT CIRCUIT). Cinematography by Jan de Bont (who went on to direct TWISTER and SPEED 2: CRUISE CONTROL). Tag-line: "A timeless adventure, a passion for wealth and power. Only the strongest will survive." Best one-liner: "From now on, we'll eat like this. And whoever can't, best stay the stupid asshole he always was!"  

 I'll begin with two quotes by Paul Verhoeven which seem apropos to this film: "People love seeing violence and horrible things. The human being is bad and he can't stand more than five minutes of happiness. Put him in a dark theater and ask him to look at two hours of happiness and he'd walk out or fall asleep." and "Remember that Christianity is a religion grounded in one of the most violent acts of murder, the crucifixion. Otherwise, religion wouldn't have had any kind of impact." A lot of people like to pin down Paul Verhoeven as 'the guy who did SHOWGIRLS,' and while he cannot erase the fact that he is indeed guilty of being the guy who did SHOWGIRLS, he's one of the most audacious filmmakers to emerge from post-WWII Europe. FLESH + BLOOD is Machiavellian power games, stillborn children, nun snipers, yellowed teeth, and dogs lapping up pools of diseased gore. This movie is absolutely brutal. 

 

Every single character looks out for number one, and here, 'looking out for number one' means ripping an earring (and a chunk of flesh) from a woman as she's being raped or using 'God's word' when it's to your liking (Verhoeven has called organized religion a symptom of societal schizophrenia). Any time there's a moment for levity or genuine romance, it's immediately undercut by something like the rotting genitals or random carrion. 

 

Take a gander at this lovely idyll, for instance. 

 

It’s not exactly a historically accurate depiction of medieval warfare and the Black Death, and it doesn't quite take place in the 14th Century... sixty years ago it took place on the battlefields of Europe. Verhoeven was just a kid then, but he was there. As we speak, it's being waged by talking heads on TV, by hypocrites behind closed doors, and by vicious opportunists from here to the far corners of the world. Where an exploitation flick would insert a rape scene so the viewer might feel 'morally superior,' Verhoeven stages sexual assault as a grotesque vortex of ever-shifting power dynamics between man, woman, and the collective.

   

The performances are outstanding: Susan Tyrrell was born to do the Dark Ages––she enters the scene as a bawdy, pregnant, perpetually wasted camp follower whose life is a series of the highest, barbaric highs and the lowest, 'WHY ME?' lows:

  

Brion James is pure animal, ruthless but bewildered:  

But mostly terrifying as all get-out. 

 

   

Brion James makes the evolutionary leap to using forks and knives. 

 

Ronald Lacey is the sinister Cardinal- malicious, but sincere (not that it matters when he's got his sword in your guts):

  

Jack Thompson is the beleaguered hunter, embodying an almost Peckinpah-style morality (think Robert Ryan in THE WILD BUNCH):

   

Clearly the Medieval equivalent of "I'm gettin' too old for this shit!" 

 

and Tom Burlinson is the man of science, but his singlemindedness gives way to a sanctimonious depravity.

  

Rutger Hauer simmers and scowls- a calculating, towheaded, serpentine fiend, rapist, and murderer who might be the closest thing we've got to a traditional 'hero.'  

Though sainthood is more than a stretch. 

   

And ain't this a surreal fucken sight: a BLADE RUNNER reunion! (Not to mention that Brion James is giving Rutger Hauer a goddamned wheelbarrow ride!) 

 

Jennifer Jason Leigh- in possibly her finest performance- is a privileged, maid-beating blueblood who attends the condottiere's ‘school of hard knocks’ and emerges as perhaps the most complex and guileful of the bunch.

  

Nihilistic ‘entertainment’ at its best: five stars, and my highest recommendation.

Film Review: THE MACHINIST (2004, Brad Anderson)

Stars: 3.4 of 5.
Running Time: 101 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Michael Ironside, Christian Bale, Jennifer Jason Leigh.
Tag-line: "How do you wake up from a nightmare, when you're not asleep?"
Best one-liner: "Congratulations, Reznik. You just made my shitlist!"

This is not really an Ironside movie, per sé, but hey- there's two reviews today.

THE MACHINIST is a surreal, existential mood piece in the same vein as David Lynch's ERASERHEAD, Alfred Hitchcock's STRANGERS ON A TRAIN, or Lars von Trier's THE ELEMENT OF CRIME. Unfortunately, that's all it is: the final act is a straightforward, moralizing washout that basically negates the power of what preceded it. (And THAT is what the hangman game spells out?! Are you serious?) Fans have speculated that the American studios passed on the script because it was too 'outre' (the film was ultimately shot in and funded by Spain), but I would submit that they passed because Scott Kosar's script was so damned uninteresting (though Kosar found American funding for his TEXAS CHAINSAW and AMITYVILLE reboot scripts...ugh). But director Brad Anderson and emaciated star Christian Bale delve deeply- past the material, and into themselves- conjuring a twitchy, uncanny atmosphere that is truly haunting.

A ghostly pallor- a shroud- lies upon this film, and I'm not merely talking about the desaturation filters applied in post. It's a disquieting tone, one that befits the world of a man who cannot engage with sweet slumber's embrace, and there are brilliant elements that go beyond Christian Bale's commitment to starving himself: Michael Ironside's factory worker is a weary hardass who infuses his role with incredible pathos,

Roque Baños' imitation Bernard Herrmann score (with theremin!) provides the perfect 'warped 1950's' touch, and the film peaks at about the halfway mark as Bale accompanies a young boy on a carnival ride called 'Route 666,' a distorted, perverse reimagining of the 'Tunnel of Love.'



Full of terrifying animatronics, eerie silhouettes, and a complete loss of control, the sequence is one of the best horror setpieces in years, and reveals Anderson as a director to watch– who knows what he could accomplish given material worthy of, say, Rod Serling?

Plus, it's always great to see Ironside deliver a low blow:



And one which was totally deserved, I might add.

This could have easily been a five star flick with a more complex, innovative ending, but as it stands, I can only give it three. (Plus a little extra for the low blow, why not? This is the web's leading authority on brutal ball-squeezing.)

-Sean Gill

Stay tuned for the Ironside finale, later today.