Only now does it occur to me... BLUE THUNDER (1983)

 Only now does it occur to me...  that I waited way too long to watch BLUE THUNDER.

Directed by John Badham (SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER, WARGAMES), and written by Dan O'Bannon (ALIEN, THE RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD, John Carpenter's DARK STAR) and Don Jakoby (DEATH WISH 3, ARACHNOPHOBIA, John Carpenter's VAMPIRES), it's a thriller about the militarization of our police forces and the obliteration of personal privacy. It's about brave whistleblowers and bitchin', fully rad helicopters; possibly the median point between SNOWDEN and AIRWOLF.


The inimitable Roy Scheider stars as an LAPD helicopter pilot (battling PTSD from Vietnam) who's paired with a nerdy rookie (Daniel Stern),

and bossed around by a crusty but lovable Warren Oates

who is given an ample platform to growl "goddammit" and "you bright-eyed sons of bitches" with impunity, and chide the newbie Stern with monologues like: "You're supposed to be stupid, son, don't abuse the privilege.... for Chrissakes, I had 20 years in this outfit when your idea of a big time was sittin in front of the TV tube, watchin' Bugs Bunny and gnawin' on your Fudgesicle!"

Candy Clark appears in a brilliant supporting role as Roy Scheider's ex-wife; at the beginning, at least, it feels like outtakes from the most depressing domestic scenes in ALL THAT JAZZ.

"Goddamn your Black Irish heart, Frank Murphy!"

Malcolm McDowell plays the villain of the piece, obviously, named Colonel Cochran (and I'm going to continue with my conspiracy theories about HALLOWEEN III: SEASON OF THE WITCH being an inspiration to filmmakers everywhere), a nefarious Brit who was essentially a prep-school bully to Roy Scheider back in 'Nam (there are flashbacks).

He wears turtlenecks and uses "Catch you later!" as his evil catchphrase, which is fine, I guess.  It's okay, I think he's having fun.

"Catch you later!"

In all, it's a genuinely exciting conspiracy thriller with high stakes, despite sorta feeling like a big-budget episode of (the aforementioned) AIRWOLF, or even MACGUYVER. Prefiguring TOP GUN by three years, when its politics begin to show, it presents itself as anto-jingoist, opposing in every way the values of post-TOP GUN, Michael Bay school of filmmaking. In BLUE THUNDER, military technology is to be feared, not fetishized; and it depicts the new generation of Reagan-era jet fighter jockeys and their masters as schlubs propped-up by propaganda, accidentally firing heat-seeking missiles into a BBQ joint (because of misinterpreted thermal imaging) and into an office building (whose windows are reflecting the rays of the sun).


Also: Roy Schneider flies a helicopter upside down while screaming "Come on, you tub of shit!" which is without a doubt the "Smile, you sonofabitch!" moment of this movie.


If that's not enough of an endorsement, I don't know what is.





P.S.––Coming soon: horror films for Halloween.

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #90-86

90. THE USUAL SUSPECTS (1995, Bryan Singer)

A heist film that's at once fun and fatalistic, it's cleverly written and incredibly well-constructed. However, its fanboyish following and unfortunate susceptibility to pea-brained parody certainly threaten to undermine any prospective "Greatness." But after a handful of viewings across the past decade and a half, I've come to the conclusion that it really holds up– John Ottman's flowing, occasionally beautiful, occasionally malevolent score; Christopher McQuarrie's razor-edged but never self-congratulatory dialogue; Kevin Spacey's furtive, crippled sad sack; Gabriel Byrne's classy Euro-gangster; Kevin Pollak's smartassed grease monkey; Benicio Del Toro's fashionable, generally incomprehensible sidekick; Pete Postlethwaite's ominous litigator; Chazz Palminteri's loud-mouthed, thick-necked cop; even Stephen Baldwin makes for a believably rugged gunman. And even beyond the intricacies of the now-notorious plot, there's plenty of layers to uncover here: blue collar (criminal) heroes overwhelmed by shadowy, international corporations; homosexual undertones fused with themes of criminality and counterculture that run far deeper than the surface gag of "going straight"; strange mirrorings of THE WIZARD OF OZ; and, hell, bit parts by Paul "EATING RAOUL" Bartel and Dan "COMMANDO" Hedaya. Yep, I still stand by this movie.

89. GREY GARDENS (1975, Albert & David Maysles)

Perhaps the ultimate experience in "cinéma vérité," GREY GARDENS observes the goings-on at the eponymous, ramshackle mansion which is home to a pair of reclusive, ex-high society Bouviers who go by the sobriquets "Big" and "Little" Edie. In turns funny, tragic, horrifying, heart-warming, and simply hard to watch, the Maysles brothers cross that sterile, journalistic boundary, going beyond simple exploitation and into a deeper truth; perhaps they even form a makeshift family along the way. It's a film about decay and aristocracy, sure, but its aims are chiefly humanistic– beneath each mould'ring shutter and crumbling wall we find alternations of genuine vibrancy and misplaced dreams. One of the great documentaries.

88. A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971, Stanley Kubrick)

The sort of film that was my all-time favorite when I was seventeen, but now, apparently, it's somewhere closer to #88. Regardless, it's a work of operatic beauty and hideous ultra-violence, one of quasi-futuristic daydreams and elaborate linguistic fascinations, of oppressive institutionalization and unhinged criminality. Based on Anthony Burgess' novel of moral choice (a novel which I highly recommend, along with other Burgess classics like ONE HAND CLAPPING, ENDERBY, and THE LONG DAY WANES), Kubrick's film really feels like an event; a larger than life, more than occasionally grotesque extravaganza of free will and urban decay. Wendy Carlos' electronic reimaginings of Purcell, Beethoven, and Rossini lend the film an evocative, dystopian soundscape, punctuating the drama, in turns, with black comedy and Stygian dread. And how can I neglect to mention Malcolm McDowell, whose volatile, darkly enthusiastic portrayal has come to define the film and its place in history. Also, Patrick Magee's completely over-the-top, eyebrow-indicating appearance as a revenge-seeking writer is well worth the price of admission.

87. TALES OF HOFFMANN (1951, Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger)

Hot damn– TALES OF HOFFMANN! The (Techni)colors, the sets, the choreography– pure, radiant, cinematic spectacle that has irrevocably and personally shaped filmmakers from George A. Romero to Martin Scorsese to Francis Ford Coppola. Powell and Pressburger's definitive adaptation of Jacques Offenbach's renowned opera is a smorgasboard of eye candy, enchanting harmonies, and morbid reverie. It's absolutely absorbing; I defy anyone to watch the first twenty minutes and not find themselves enthralled by the movement, by the dancers, by the overwhelming waves of joie de vivre and frenzied emotion... Eh, I'll shut up for now and let the damn thing speak for itself:

86. RIO BRAVO (1958, Howard Hawks)

John Carpenter's favorite movie and my most-beloved Hawks. One might accuse Carpy of overindulging in imitation (ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13, GHOSTS OF MARS), but the set-up is too damned fun for even Hawks to resist– he remade it twice himself! (EL DORADO and RIO LOBO). What we got here is a stalwart sheriff (John Wayne) determined to make a solitary stand against a horde of voracious outlaws. Of course, there's a drunk (Dean Martin), a cripple (the adorably hilarious Walter Brennan), an up-and-comer-guitar-slingin'-show-off (Ricky Nelson), and a inscrutable, hard-drinkin' lady (Angie Dickinson) waiting in the wings, not yet sure what parts they'll play. The eventual shoot-outs and the gut-mashin' pay-offs are thrilling indeed, but the movie's not about them; it's about character development, it's about waiting, it's about the forging of regular dudes into men of action. It's got comic relief, silly romance, nail-biting suspense, but, most of all, a genuine depth of story, of character, of locale. It's the sort of movie that people mean when they say "Boy-o, they don't make 'em like that anymore."



Coming up next: Harry Dean Stanton, crumpled metal perversions, and eyeball-popping insanity!

Previously on the countdown:
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2