Only now does it occur to me... THE INDIAN RUNNER (1991)

Only now does it occur to me... that the probability of the THE INDIAN RUNNER existing is so unlikely that I'm not, in fact, sure that it does exist.

Picture, if you will, a movie directed by Hollywood activist Sean Penn, based on a song ("Highway Patrolman") by blue-collar hero Bruce Springsteen, and produced by infamous former White House Chief Strategist and crypto-fascist Steve Bannon. A motley crew, indeed! (Though I kinda doubt Springsteen ever sat down in a room with the other two, perhaps exhausted enough by Penn's middle-of-the-night phone calls.)

So, THE INDIAN RUNNER stars David Morse as a highway patrolman (okay, that is incredibly likely, I'll give you that)

and young Viggo Mortensen as his wild, lawbreaking brother.

I would posit, as many have, that they represent the dueling aspects of Sean Penn's interior struggle/personal contradictions, with David Morse as the Sean Penn who does volunteer work and saves people from hurricanes, and Viggo as the Sean Penn who (allegedly!) tortured Madonna and dangled paparazzi over balconies.

But now for something truly unlikely: Charles Bronson plays their father, in his only theatrical role post-1984 that didn't involve Cannon Films' Menahem Golan.

And wait––what's this?––it's almost like there's something missing... something that belongs between his nose and upper lip...

Indeed, Bronson is missing his signature mustache. Back when Don Siegel tried to get him to shave it for 1977's TELEFON, Bronson's sole reply on the subject was "No mustache, no Bronson." Apparently it was somehow a different matter when Sean Penn called (!?). Perhaps old age had softened his stance, though he certainly grew it back quickly enough for YES, VIRGINIA THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS and THE SEA WOLF. It's also worth noting that this is a role of considerable pathos: a sweet old man from Nebraska who is not and has never been a pocket bazooka-wielding vigilante. (This is also one of the rare post-DEATH WISH roles in which he does not handle a firearm onscreen.)

Furthermore, legendary Oscar-winning character actress Sandy Dennis (WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF?, THE THREE SISTERS, GOD TOLD ME TO, 976-EVIL) plays Bronson's wife. Frankly, it's bizarre to see the man who so beautifully uttered "Chicken's good... I like chicken" playing scene partner to one of the masters of the American stage.


Bronson: not a master of the American stage, but only because they never made KINJITE: FORBIDDEN SUBJECTS––THE MUSICAL!

Also, I must note that this image of Bronson praying before a pile of Wonder Bread and a gravy boat while sandwiched between a cornfed David Morse and a Gerber Baby might just be the whitest tableau ever committed to film:

I'm beginning to comprehend Steve Bannon's interest in the project. Also of note: Viggo's character has Nazi tattoos and hangs a confederate flag in his bedroom...

Next, we have Patricia Arquette as Viggo's pregnant girlfriend, and apparently she is meant to be the doppelgänger of Mia Farrow in ROSEMARY'S BABY.


"Nothing but a mild sedative to calm you down, Rosemary..."


Finally, we have Dennis Hopper as a terrifyingly intense bartender

Okay, so this is extremely likely, too

who leans in real close and whispers things like, "Did you ever wanna kill someone... just out of rage?"

Wow. I mean, look at that. I can't help but feel this must be the (slightly?) fictionalized version of an actual conversation that went down between Sean Penn and Steve Bannon. 

[In any event, you're probably wondering: is it any good? It is––but with a few caveats. It's very much an early '90s attempt to capture the spirit of '70s indie dramas by guys like Bob Rafelson, John Cassavetes, Peter Bogdanovich, and Hal Ashby. It's amped up by post-BLUE VELVET, expressionistic/Lynchian touches, some of which are visually interesting, and some of which are a little too pretentious for their own good. The first half of the movie outweighs the second (for reasons I can't get into without spoiling it), and it's really at its best when Bronson, Dennis, or Hopper are on screen, though Morse and Viggo are certainly in top form as well.]

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #70-66

70. FAT GIRL (2001, Catherine Breillat)

I'm the first to admit that, like BAD LIEUTENANT, CRASH, and any number of movies on this list, FAT GIRL is not for everyone. But I will also say that it's probably the truest, most important film about adolescence to come out in years, and its final, 400 BLOWS-mirroring freeze frame conveys an intent to shatter the complacency of watered-down "youth in turmoil" movies, just as Truffaut's film did back in '59. Catherine Breillat is a provocateur, to be sure, but she's neither a dime-store shock-peddler nor an obnoxious feminist. Her films attempt to glean meaning from the ever-shifting dynamics of sex and power which govern human interaction, and she doesn't shy away from asking the tough questions or handing out the tough answers. This is her masterpiece.

69. THE DARK CRYSTAL (1982, Jim Henson & Frank Oz)

I've said this before, but here it goes again:
True creativity, for me, is and has always been the ability to build something out of nothing- with your hands. THE DARK CRYSTAL is the apex of Jim Henson and designer Brian Froud's interminable artistry (they also collaborated on LABYRINTH), and here, they've built a timeless universe of breathtaking spectacle, exotic unfamiliarity, fanciful magic, ancient mysticism, exacting detail, and uncompromising depth. They are so confident (and deservedly so!) in their vision, that they've chosen to dispense with humans altogether, relegating them to puppeteering and vocal duties. There's no CGI here, no poorly rendered computer animations fabricated by some lazy skeeze at his PC. Everything's been rigorously fashioned and laboriously crafted from the ground up. While it's been designed for children to grasp, this is by no means merely a children's film. Using the familiar framework of the "quest" mythos, there's still philosophical complexity, palpable trauma, and visceral evil. Certain images possess a real potency, and stand out from the others: the dying Skeksis Emperor literally crumbling away in mid-screech as his vile, potential successors circle like vultures; the charming, faithful, lovable Fizzgig and his impossibly gaping maw; the genius matte paintings and meticulously sculpted forests that spare no detail from the tiniest of insects to the largest of trees to creatures I cannot even begin to describe. There is a certain REALness to the entirety of the proceedings because the screen is full of objects, animals, and characters that ARE real- someone could hold and manipulate them by hand or by string or by lever, and this is what gives them the breath of life. And with that breath, this film exhales upon the viewer the vivacity, exuberance, and sincerity that were poured into it by its creators. So eff you, CGI. You can toss my motherlovin' salad.

68. PULP FICTION (1994, Quentin Tarantino)

It was difficult to pick a favorite Tarantino. In general, he's something of a polarizing figure– in turns he's pompous, restrained, and occasionally misunderstood by slavering fanboys and disapproving critics alike. RESERVOIR DOGS has the tautness and intensity of a capital-G Great stage play, JACKIE BROWN features Tarantino at the height of his powers as an actor's director, KILL BILL is a helluva lot of well-orchestrated kung fu-spaghetti western fun, DEATH PROOF features perhaps the greatest car chase ever filmed and Kurt Russell's sleaziest, most ridiculous performance since BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA, and INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS forces us to question how each of us (consciously or subconsciously) constructs narratives out of history. In fact, I might have even picked BASTERDS for this list, but I think I need to sit on it for about ten years first. Regardless, PULP FICTION is perhaps the most lovingly-constructed paean to American cinema ever to be sung from the rooftops; it's KISS ME DEADLY and PSYCHO and TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE and RIO BRAVO and CHARLEY VARRICK and SHAFT and ZARDOZ and THE PANIC IN NEEDLE PARK rolled into one, razor-sharp, fast-paced indie crime-fest that got Travolta dancing again, Keitel into a tuxedo, Eric Stoltz eating Fruit Brute, Uma looking like Anna Karina, and Amanda Plummer shivering and shuddering with the force of her own insanity! ...I could go on. A damn good movie, and my only complaint is that Dick Miller got left on the cutting room floor!

67. LOST HIGHWAY (1997, David Lynch)

A spider climbs the wall. Gary Busey whimpers. Robert Blake points a camcorder at you. David Bowie croons "Funny how secrets travel..." You careen down a highway into blackness, the only illumination coming from your flickering headlamps... LOST HIGHWAY is truly an experience. And it makes plenty of sense if you think about it long enough, so don't tell me that "it's needlessly confusing"– it just demands a certain, brooding sort of viewer who'll allow themselves to be lured into the veritable labyrinth that Lynch has constructed. Plus, Robert Loggia's livid, red-faced rant about tailgating is surely worth the price of admission alone. And one of my favorite facets of Lynch's oeuvre is the fact that his movies often linger, long after you've finished watching them; hanging dangerously at the periphery as you continue your day. I first saw LOST HIGHWAY on a VHS with my sister during an overcast, Midwestern afternoon in late summer. Afterward, we went out to dinner with the rest of my family, as it was a special occasion. As afternoon turned to evening, the sense of mystery and uncertainty remained. As I walked into the restaurant, I took a fleeting, sidelong glance into a dimly-lit room adjoining the kitchen. I saw an older woman chopping something, quite robotically, and with a hint of menace. She turned toward me, our eyes locked, and in one forceful movement, she shut the door. The entire exchange couldn't have lasted more than four or five seconds, but it carried with it a frighteningly palpable sense of dread. The only reason I repeat this story is to illustrate that Lynch's power is such that his films don't just invade your dreams (as many have already posited), they invade your waking hours! The best ones are potent enough to put you in a genuine state, whereupon you see the hidden menace in everything. Obviously, it's not a state you ought to be in all the time, but it's a darkly magical one that I deeply appreciate. Brace yourselves for more Lynch as this list continues.

66. THE UNKNOWN (1927, Tod Browning)

Almost everything I could say about this film carries with it the potential of sullying your maiden viewing by way of 'knowing too much.' So I'll tell you this: It stars Lon Chaney, whose virtues I have extolled HERE; co-stars Joan Crawford, whose acting talents and frightening eyebrows I have praised HERE; and was directed by Tod Browning, whose penchant for nightmarish silent and early sound cinema has been raved about HERE. All I'll say is that it deals with ill-advised obsessions, the blossoming of twisted love, and the madness that dances around a man's eyes when he discovers the senselessness of it all. Oh yeah, and it takes place at A CIRCUS. It's bold, it's brutal, and Lon Chaney (near the finale) delivers what has to be the finest reaction shot in all of cinema. One of the greatest films from the silent era (or any other, for that matter).

Coming up next... Philip Glass, my second-favorite ghost story, and Ed Harris fights the dragon!

Previously on the countdown:
#75-71
#80-76
#85-81
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2