Junta Juleil's Top 100: #45-41

45. THE CRIMINAL LIFE OF ARCHIBALD DE LA CRUZ (1955, Luis Buñuel)

One of the wildest and weirdest films in Buñuel's entire oeuvre. Often, cineastes delve into Buñuel from one end or the other (either from his early, surrealist works like UN CHIEN ANDALOU and L'AGE D'OR, or from his latter-day international arthouse successes like THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE BOURGEOISIE or BELLE DU JOUR) and neglect the lesser-well-known films of his Mexican catalogue (roughly 1947-1960). There's some real gems in there, films like EL, FEVER MOUNTS IN EL PAO), SUSANA, NAZARIN, and THE CRIMINAL LIFE OF ARCHIBALD DE LA CRUZ. Following a daydreaming milquetoast who believes himself responsible for a series of murders (and maybe he is...), the film delves deeply into thought crimes and 'the murderous urge.' Is it aberrant? Perverse? Can it be healthy if not acted upon? Toss in some insane, uncomfortable imagery and a wicked sense of humor and this is one of Buñuel's finest works.


44. KICKING AND SCREAMING (1995, Noah Baumbach)

I first watched KICKING AND SCREAMING the weekend before I graduated from college. I thought it was funny and quotable, sure, but I can't say it had too much of an impact. Then I watched it again about eight months after graduation, and suddenly it was relevant, it was poignant, it was real and it was true. I can't really think of a better example of a film that improves with real-life context, and perhaps it can all be summed up in one critical line of dialogue: "What I used to be able to pass off as a bad summer could now potentially turn into a bad life." But it's hilarious, too, and the whole pre-SQUID AND THE WHALE Baumbach gang is here, and in top form: the deadpan, crossword puzzling Chris Eigeman who at one point faces off with his trashy teenage girlfriend against a man who "ALREADY would rather be bow-hunting," Carlos Jacott's propensity for pajama tops and hiding from the cookie man, Eric Stoltz as the aging perpetual-college-student-bartender dispensing nuggets of wisdom and overseeing an awkward two-man book club, Baumbach himself accusing you of cow-fucking. We've got Parker Posey as the typical (but always welcome) lovably bitchy character that she plays, Elliot Gould as another cypher for Baumbach's own father, and Josh Hamilton and Olivia d'Abo as a doomed(?) couple that forms the emotive core of the picture. In the end, it seems that either you'll connect with the subject matter in KICKING AND SCREAMING, or, like the cacophony of anti-Baumbach voices that accompanied it when it entered the Criterion Collection, you plainly just won't get it. But it doesn't matter– for its target audience, KICKING AND SCREAMING (like other early Baumbachs like HIGHBALL and MR. JEALOUSY) initiates you into a devoted cult where the members say things like "Ding!" and "Gotta have id" and "There's food in the beer" and then chuckle and remember how damned good this film really is. Alright– two last selling points: it features Dom DeLuise's son as a bouncer and the line "Is that copy of DR. GIGGLES letterboxed?" is uttered. Okay, I'll stop now.

43. SEVEN BEAUTIES (1975, Lina Wertmüller)

I don't know what happened to Lina Wertmüller. In the 1970s, she was a top dog in the art film world, she became the first woman ever nominated for the Oscar for Best Director, and her films were adored by critics. In 2011, when I try to have a discussion about her, invariably I have to mention that she did the original version of a terrible Guy Ritchie/Madonna movie (SWEPT AWAY) before I see a flicker of recognition. It's a goddamn shame, because SEVEN BEAUTIES (her masterpiece, as far as I'm concerned) is one of the finest films ever made about the Second World War. Giancarlo Giannini (who would be Wertmüller's De Niro if she were Scorsese) is Pasqualino "Seven Beauties," a pompous, struttin' two-bit hood with seven ugly sisters who becomes wrapped up in a picaresque plotline which ferries him from vicious murder to an insane asylum to a conscription in the Fascist army to the shivering, cold, hard realities of a concentration camp. Darkly comic throughout, it frequently meanders into the grotesque– a starving man must seduce an obese Nazi Shirley Stoler, whose character is based on the notorious "Bitch of Buchenwald;" Buñuel-crony Fernando Rey gives a partly hilarious, partly terrifying performance as a concentration camp prisoner who may have the greatest exit line in filmdom ("I go into the shit!"); and Tonini Delli Colli (who worked with Leone, Fellini, Malle, Polanski, et al.) films for us grand, operatic, colorful images (which are occasionally intruded upon by bodily fluids). Could make for a good double-feature with THE TIN DRUM if you're interested in hastening your own suicide. Regardless, it's a bold vision of passion and hate and war and survival, and it really deserves an exalted position in the canon of world cinema.

42. TENEBRE (1982, Dario Argento)

Oh, boy. TENEBRE. How is it possible that I haven't reviewed this? Where do I even begin?? The ludicrously long crane shot around a piece of modern architecture which has curled the toes and blown the minds of the likes of Brian De Palma and Quentin Tarantino? The skillfully crafted twists and turns which make it, alongside DEEP RED, the most exquisite and hilariously twisty giallo ever written? The stylized murders, which eschew the typical expressionist Argento colored lighting in favor of pure imagery– dilating pupils, the black glove, spurts of blood, and Antonioni-style locales of urban alienation? The tough cop who says he only drinks on duty? The mind-blowing, arcade-frequenting Italo-lesbians? Goblin's pulsating disco score, which, with a roll of synthesized timpani somehow nullifies and transcends all of their prog rock roots? The mind-blowing, transgendered flashbacks? Tony Franciosa's amateur detective work and gosh-darned likability? John Saxon's sleazitude? Daria Nicolodi's endless, endless, endless screams? The incredibly and outrageously self-reflexive plot, which begs the question: DOES DARIO ARGENTO ACTUALLY KILL PEOPLE? Yessir, TENEBRE is all this and more. A dark, bold statement from a master of horror who pulls no punches in his dogged pursuit of cinematic truth and, uh... artistic murders of beautiful women.

41. WILD AT HEART (1990, David Lynch)

As I have said before: Magnificent, beautiful, and disturbing, Lynch's Palm d'or-winning adaptation of Barry Gifford's novel, filtered through the emerald lens of THE WIZARD OF OZ, is certainly as fiery and unpredictable as the slow-motion flames that are wont to erupt intermittently from the screen.
A masterpiece of style, a frequent complaint is that the whole is less than the sum of the parts. I can concede that this film is not for everyone. It's not. But how can you say 'no' to a Nic Cage that's so intense, he karate chops the air when he dances and wears thong underwear; a Laura Dern so sultry, she's posing with her hand sweeping through her coiffure for most of the film; a Willem Dafoe so creepy his gums cover half of his teeth (and whose first appearance, a slow stroll amid Christmas lights and morbidly obese porno actresses- is one of the most comically terrifying entrances in film history); a Harry Dean Stanton so endearing he tugs at your heartstrings even as he yips and yaps at hyenas on TV; a crippled, lipstick-smeared Grace Zabriskie who is so goddamned freaky that she'll make your hair curl; or a Diane Ladd whose tremendous performance is punctuated by the real-life mother-daughter relationship? There's a cameo by Crispin Glover that packs more material and layers of performance and meaning in a mere two minutes than most actors can aspire to in a feature. There's John Lurie in a Confederate flag hat. There's Jack Nance with an invisible dog. There's Angelo Badalamenti making the most blood-curdling use of a brass section, ever. There's homage to Jacques Tati (involving a giant red pipe in Big Tuna) and Akira Kurosawa (the feed store dog with the severed hand like in YOJIMBO). It's 124 minutes of exhiliration, dread, and magical Americana. And there's as much oddness, terror, love, and joy as there really is in this world that's so "wild at heart and weird on top," and to give any more away would do the film a disservice. One of the greats.


Coming up next: Magic glasses, nosey noses, and my favorite ghost movie!


-Sean Gill

RIP, Ken Russell

I'm depressed to report that the irrepressibly brilliant and brilliantly irrepressible British director Ken Russell died yesterday at the age of 84 after a series of strokes. Russell was and is one of the greatest filmmakers to ever work in the medium, and directed two of my all-time favorites, THE DEVILS and THE MUSIC LOVERS, among many, many others. Probably best known for his absurdist phallic/Catholic imagery and movies like TOMMY, ALTERED STATES, and the Oscar-nominated WOMEN IN LOVE, the Ken Russell catalogue is bursting with hidden treasures (like GOTHIC, THE BOY FRIEND, THE RAINBOW, SALOME'S LAST DANCE), nearly unavailable classics (SAVAGE MESSIAH, THE MUSIC LOVERS, THE DEVILS, MAHLER, DANCE OF THE SEVEN VEILS), and astounding trashterpieces (THE LAIR OF THE WHITE WORM, CRIMES OF PASSION, LISZTOMANIA).

I was lucky enough to see Mr. Russell several times last summer in the midst of a retrospective of his work at Lincoln Center, and he was a charming little old man with a quiet voice and a quick wit. At a screening of THE BOY FRIEND, a film starring the stick-thin fashion model Twiggy and the 6' 7'' beanpole dancer Tommy Tune, he was asked by an audience member, "Why did you cast Twiggy?" He pursed his lips and chirped in his inimitable British inflection, "...because I wanted someone to make Tommy Tune look... small." Later, someone shouted out, "Who's your favorite rock star?," to which he responded, plainly, "Beethoven." I was even able to meet the man himself after a screening of THE MUSIC LOVERS, and, still held rapt by the power of the images I'd just seen, was only able to mumble something brief and complimentary, but it was a powerful moment to come face to face with one of the great image makers of the Twentieth Century. His passing pains me, but his films are a gift– and they pulsate with a colorful imagination, a rich vitality, and a visceral hyper-realness that may never be matched. To encapsulate my love for the man and his films, let me finish with a perfect quote from the man himself: "This is not the age of manners. This is the age of kicking people in the crotch and telling them something and getting a reaction. I want to shock people into awareness. I don't believe there is any virtue in understatement."

So here's to the man who tamed Oliver Reed, who let loose the white worm, who sent Liszt on a spaceship and unmasked Wagner's vampiric tendencies. Here's to a man who could devastate and could entertain, and sometimes, when the light was just right and the wind was up, could do both at once. You will be missed.

Film Review: FRIGHT NIGHT (1985, Tom Holland)

Stars: 4.5 of 5.
Running Time: 106 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Chris Sarandon (CHILD'S PLAY, THE RESURRECTED, DOG DAY AFTERNOON), William Ragsdale (HERMAN'S HEAD, FRIGHT NIGHT 2), Amanda Bearse (MARRIED WITH CHILDREN, THE DOOM GENERATION), Roddy McDowall (PLANET OF THE APES, CLEOPATRA, "The Bookworm" on 60s TV BATMAN), Stephen Geoffreys (976-EVIL, AT CLOSE RANGE), Jonathan Stark (HOUSE II: THE SECOND STORY, PROJECT X). Music by Brad Fiedel (THE TERMINATOR, TERMINATOR 2). Cinematography by Jan Kiesser (SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL, V.I. WARSHAWSKI). Casting by Jackie Burch (DIE HARD, PREDATOR, THE BREAKFAST CLUB).
Tag-line: "If you love being scared, it'll be the night of your life."
Best one-liner: "Welcome to Fright Night! For real."

Good 'ole FRIGHT NIGHT. One of the seminal 80s classicks, it marked the directorial debut of fun-luvin' horror master Todd Holland (CHILD'S PLAY, TALES FROM THE CRYPT, THINNER). Sort of a wonderful cross between 'SALEM'S LOT and REAR WINDOW, FRIGHT NIGHT is a loving paean to Late-Nite-TV monster movie programming and the kids who loved watching it, a proto-'BURBS which unmasks your local neighborhood as a hotbed of bloodshed and other terrifying happenings. Without further adieu, my favorite things about FRIGHT NIGHT:

#1. The Bradbury-esque, small-town-in-Autumn atmosphere.

I'm a sucker for this specific aesthetic every time it crops up, from HALLOWEEN (yes, I know it was actually filmed in the springtime) to SLEEPY HOLLOW to PHANTASM to THE STEPFATHER to THE MONSTER SQUAD to IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS. Hell, even ERNEST SCARED STUPID benefits from its presence. Autumn's always been my favorite time of year, and something about the stiff suburban breezes blowing fall leaves, the bedroom curtains billowing in the crisp, night air... a comforting, small-town milieu with just a whisper of menace. Basically, if a film can make me feel one tenth as immersed as I am while reading SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES then it's pretty damn successful.

#2. Jonathan Stark. We've seen him in HOUSE II: THE SECOND STORY. We've seen him as a bartender who nearly steals Sam's job in the sixth season of CHEERS. But here, as a totally assholish Renfield-type, we have the finest performance of his career.

His dickery knows no bounds ("Well, what do we have here? Vampire-killers?"), and he plays the whole thing like a totally committed 80s high school villain, a perpetual, open-mouthed 'Oh yeaaaaaah?' snarfy grin etched across his face. He's the perfect sidekick for Chris Sarandon, whose legendary performance shall be discussed just a little bit later.

#3. The FX people had a helluva lot of fun.

It's pehaps only rivaled by EVIL DEAD in terms of the love, dedication, and sheer enjoyment that the FX guys clearly poured into every ladle of blood, outpouring of slime, and various creatures and makeup effects.

#4. The music. From the Tangerine Dream-RISKY BUSINESS-style seduction scene rhythms to the guitar and reverb-heavy drum riffs, Brad Fiedel's work firmly entrenches us in the here and now, those glorious, glorious 80s.

#5. Evil Ed.

Played by Stephen Geoffreys, Evil Ed is simultaneously hilarious, tragic, and covered occasionally in varying degrees of latex, fur, and fangs. He brings a great deal to a role which could have easily been a phoned-in "zany friend." Geoffreys has been nominated for a Tony award, starred in Robert Englund's directorial debut (976-EVIL), and inspired the title of a Swedish 90's horror comedy. Also, he apparently retired from traditional acting for nearly twenty-odd-years to star in gay porn, including such evocatively titled fare as LATIN CROTCH ROCKETS and LEATHER BUDDIES. I'll let that all sink in for a minute.

#6. The surprising, nuanced, incredible pathos of Roddy McDowell.

I suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise, per se, but in a horror flick with darkly comedic underpinnings, I guess you're not expecting Roddy to be swinging for the heart-wrenchin' fences. As a washed-up late-nite TV host and former horror legend, he plumbs the depths of being fired from his job (lamenting the new era of hockey-masked killers) and being desperate enough to humor and then take the money of teenagers. But it all somehow culminates in the scene pictured above, whereupon Roddy sees the humanity in a death throes of what ostensibly is a monster. Somehow an entire career of pretending to slay creatures of the night on screens both big and small tumbles down in the welling of tears, in the the harsh, visceral, cruel actuality of it all. Later, Chris Sarandon's vampire dickishly quips, "Welcome to Fright Night! For real," and it's hilarious, but here, we're subjected to the exact same sentiment but sprinkled with this unexpected air of despondency. It's great.

#7.

The little girl (pictured nearly all the way to the left) cutting a mean rug at the late-nite club. Were they not checking ID that night? I don't believe it's meant to be a gag because we only ever see her within the crowd in a long shot. Were they that low on extras? Was she the gaffer's niece or something? These are questions that I fear may never be answered.

#8. Through the window.... THREE TIMES!


At one point, Chris Sarandon leaps through a window. Yes, this is something that happens, and this is something that I applaud. I also applaud the fact that Holland shows it to us three times, and from different angles. I love this movie.

#9. And now for a tribute to Chris Sarandon in FRIGHT NIGHT, one of the most spectacularly douche-ified villains to ever grace the silver screen.

CHRIS SARANDON IS HITTING ON YOUR MOM


CHRIS SARANDON IS OWNING THE DANCE FLOOR IN THIS SWEATSHIRT


CHRIS SARANDON IS STEALING YOUR GIRLFRIEND AND PREVENTING YOU FROM HAVING A GOOD TIME


CHRIS SARANDON IS KILLING ALL THE BOUNCERS


CHRIS SARANDON IS WEARING A TURTLENECK NOW AND HE KNOWS WHERE YOU LIVE


OH YES, HE DOES

The exquisite douchery of Chris Sarandon in this movie ought to be enshrined as a national treasure. If he's importing big-city hookers and cultivating an art collection and preying on the populace, why the hell did he move to the suburbs? More importantly, who cares?!

GOTCHA

Like Jonathan Stark, he too occasionally plays it like a high school bully. After a miniature showdown with his kiddie nemesis he seeks revenge by... destroying his automobile!

He chortles, he snickers, he exudes conceit. A raised eyebrow, a superior pursing of the lips, a disdainful leer. He's got a smoove 80s walk and a way with the ladies. He smugly whistles to himself and somehow makes even the act of eating an apple an exercise in self-congratulation. He makes dancefloor moves to a song which is apparently titled "I Fight the Chemistry," because that's what the singer keeps repeating. He seduces/nearly rapes an underage gal to the schwingin' tones of a sleazy saxophone.

Oh boy. He's droppin' a douchebomb on this town, and there may be no survivors. The effect is only amplified when he's alongside Jonathan Stark.


There shoulda been a prequel chronicling these two buddies' zany, condescending misadventures. I would pay good money for that.

Anyway, my point is– if you haven't seen FRIGHT NIGHT, don't be so sad that Halloween has passed. Autumn's still got a solid month left, and Thanksgiving be damned!

–Sean Gill

Mr. Long Spindly Fingers: Stories of Murder & Madness

To any of our New York readers:
Tonight, at R Bar (218 Bowery between Prince and Spring in Manhattan), a friend, writer, and occasional collaborator– Kristen Lee Tabbutt– is presenting a piece of theater which hearkens back to an earlier era, one of flickering candlelight and the tellers of tales: MR. LONG SPINDLY FINGERS: STORIES OF MURDER & MADNESS.

It's described as "a wickedly perverse rock concert storytelling salon set in a mysterious mansion at the turn of the century. Journey with our storytellers into a web of devilry and death, murder and madness!" It features the talents of Eric Schmalenberger, Elizabeth Fonseca, Julia Hirsch, Michael Moss, Scooter Pie, and Max Kovins.

Doors are at 8:30, the show is at 9:00 p.m., and the cost is $10 at the door.

Sean Gill's "Kolmanskop" to be presented 11/11 at Sticky

As part of Blue Box Productions' legendary Sticky series, a short play of mine called "Kolmanskop" (about the desert sand-engulfed Namibian town of the same name) will be performed on this Friday, November 11th at 7:00 p.m. at Bowery Poetry Club (308 Bowery between Houston and Bleecker). Admission is $10, and my play will be appearing alongside several other plays, each devoted to this fall's Sticky theme of "Deserted Islands/Deserted Cities and the last people who people them."

Additional actors, writers, and directors include: Eric Alba, Brett Aresco, Ali Ayala, Ty Baumann, JuLondre Brown, Christopher Burris, Samantha Cooper, Libby Emmons, Madeline Fendrick, Barrie Gelles, Nicole Judd, Natalya Krimgold, Craig Lenti, Jesse Manocherian, David Marcus, Barbara Matovu, Derek Lee McPhatter, Eric John Meyer, Michael Neiderman, Lori Parquet, Paul Perroni, James Pravasilis, Alyson Leigh Rosenfeld, Imran W. Sheikh, Jason Siegel, Elizabeth Stewart, Heather Velazquez, Perri Yaniv, and a special appearance by musical guest D.B. Rielly.

Theater Review: NEVERMORE, AN EVENING WITH EDGAR ALLAN POE (2011, Stuart Gordon)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 90 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Jeffrey Combs (RE-ANIMATOR, THE FRIGHTENERS, CASTLE FREAK, THE BLACK CAT). Written by Dennis Paoli (BLEACHER BUMS, GHOULIES II, THE DENTIST). Directed by Stuart Gordon (ROBOT JOX, DOLLS, FROM BEYOND).

I was lucky enough this year to spend a portion of my Halloween in the mad, increasingly inebriated company of the Nineteenth Century's greatest poet and weaver of macabre tales, Edgar Allan Poe. Upon a candlelight-flicker'd stage at Lincoln Center, Jeffrey Combs performed a special New York engagement of his one-man show, NEVERMORE.

I'm a longtime fan of Mr. Combs (one of the more committed, versatile actors of modern genre cinema) as well as the rest of the creative team: the director is the great Stuart Gordon (Mamet crony, Lovecraft-adapter extraordinaire, and the man who brought ROBOT JOX into the world) and the playwright is Dennis Paoli (rarely has an accomplished dramatist also penned the best GHOULIES movie, which was 2, by the way). It is difficult to describe the sheer power of this show– its resonance, its poetic value, its sense of history– but I shall try.

A candle journeys from its first lighting to its natural end as a whispery nub of extinguished wick. In between, Edgar Allan Poe exists. Even an intimate familiarity with Combs' body of work cannot prepare you for his transformation. Sure, a prosthetic nose, a wig, and a well-tailored costume are employed, but Combs becomes Poe. Even actively looking for it, you can only see glimpses of Combs beneath his performance, a glint in his eye here, an off-handed remark there. Combs is so profoundly in the moment that a patron's cough, the New York milieu, or Halloween night itself might bring forth an unexpected reaction, a measured improvisation.

Combs imbues Poe with a singsongy drawl and much humorous pomposity, then enshrouds him in madness and submerges him in the haze of drink. He reads aloud "The Tell-Tale Heart" ("The Tell-Tale Heart"....perhaps you've heard of it...?," he smartassedly inquires) with a manic energy which brings alive the story's humor and derangement as never before. He physically stomps upon the carpet in an approximation of the story's terrible, persistent heartbeat, injecting a sense of rhythm to the piece that one usually only associates with Poe's poetry. He reads a line like "ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim" with a wet malevolence that drips morbidly from every syllable.

Claiming the birthright of his actor parents to 'perform,' Combs' Poe lays siege to the stage against the better judgment of unseen handlers, stagehands, and the poetess Sarah Helen Whitman in the audience, whom Poe was courting at the time (in the wake of his wife's death). He rants against Longfellow, pokes at the Transcendentalists, and razzes Washington Irving. He brags at length about his career at West Point and his achievement of swimming the James River. But a bottle of Rye (at first swigged surreptitiously, then guzzled out in the open) causes the evening's events to grow increasingly and exponentially unhinged. "WHOOOOOOOOPS," he blurts as he gulps down the sauce again and again and again, promenading about the stage like an irrepressible beast. His ever-roaming, drunken tongue practically becomes a character in and of itself. He stumbles and staggers and teeters and falls; he earns our applause through the Herculean act of "standing up." He straddles a music stand like a horse, amuses himself by playing with a length of his ruffly shirt caught in a gap through his unbuttoned vest, battles the forces of gravity with great slapstick physicality, and shrugs it all off with a mad, wheezy cackle. There's an insane, boozy recitation of "The Bells," whereupon Combs hurls his arms about and boogies across the stage, flinging himself and suspenders alike with reckless abandon, ultimately whimpering in the aisle, wounded and bitter, but not quite broken. And for all the humor, there is a tremendous emotive core, perhaps best exemplified by the air of melancholy that results when a dried flower falls out from between pressed pages, a sudden and unexpected reminder of his dead wife. And I can't even begin to chronicle the profundity of Combs' reading of "The Raven," a reading which transports you face-to-face with the sullen, saggy-eyed countenance from the famous daguerreotype by which most of us know Poe's face.

NEVERMORE is a masterful work. Stuart Gordon's sure, even-handed direction is capable of handling all of Poe's heights and depths and tonal shifts; Dennis Paoli's script (with much assistance from Poe's prose and poetry) is in turns hilarious and heart-wrenching; and Jeffrey Combs' performance is a staggering portrait of a majestic poet and a gutter philosopher, a man whose mind and body tested themselves against the maelstrom for only forty short years. I'm not sure when this show will be performed again, but if it's ever in your power to see it, you must.

-Sean Gill

Interview with Sean Gill at StageBuzz!

A new interview between yours truly and Byrne Harrison of StageBuzz has been published. Give it a read- I discuss DREAMS OF THE CLOCKMAKER, my upcoming projects, and even work in a mention of Lance Henriksen!