Only now does it occur to me... JAILBREAKERS

Only now does it occur to me... that dual John Carpenter exes Debra Hill and Adrienne Barbeau ever worked together without Carpenter (they had collaborated previously on THE FOG and ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK).


 I'm havin' flashbacks to Antonio Bay.


The project in question was a series of Showtime made-for-TV movies called REBEL HIGHWAY produced by Lou Arkoff (Sam's son), Willie Kutner, and Hill.  They were a throwback to the 50s "greasers/girls gone bad/motorcycle delinquents" genre and featured segments directed by Joe Dante, Allan Arkush, John Milius, Robert Rodriguez, and Ralph Bakshi, among others.  JAILBREAKERS was William Friedkin's installment (with a script by co-written by Debra Hill), and while you should not expect anything resembling typical Friedkin quality, it's a fun enough time with a great "90s trying to do the 50s and failing" vibe.


Pictured: the 1950s.

JAILBREAKERS indeed is the tale of a good girl gone bad; the girl in this instance being Shannen Doherty, who already seems kind of bad at the beginning, or at least bored n' bitchy.

Is the 'H' for HEATHERS?

It turns into a sort of "young couple crime spree" movie when she joins up with no-good greaser Antonio Sabato, Jr. (in the vein of GUN CRAZY, BADLANDS, BONNIE & CLYDE, what have you).

It has supporting roles by young Adrien Brody and Sean Whalen ('Roach' from THE PEOPLE UNDER THE STAIRS), too, and they make the best of their screentime, I suppose.


But back to Adrienne Barbeau– she plays Shannen Doherty's often-mortified mom in a fairly subtle, understated performance.  At one point, she plays the classic 50s housewife, hosting a backyard barbeque.

Or would that be a Barbeau-que?

Stepping outside the film, I must post the question:  upon their reunion, thirteen years after ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK, I wonder what Debra and Adrienne talked about?  Ah, to be a fly on the wall.

In closing– this one's mostly for fans of 90s camp and Friedkin completists, though it's not without its redeeming factors.

Film Review: GIALLO (2010, Dario Argento)

Stars: 2.75 of 5.
Running Time: 92 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Adrien Brody (THE THIN RED LINE, THE PIANIST), Elsa Pataky (Brody's current girlfriend, acted in SNAKES ON A PLANE, BEYOND RE-ANIMATOR), Emmanuelle Seigner (Polanski's wife, acted in THE NINTH GATE, THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY), Robert Miano (FIRESTARTER, CHINA GIRL). Cinematography by Frederic Fasano (SCARLET DIVA, MOTHER OF TEARS).
Tag-line: "Oscar Winner Adrien Brody."
Best one-liner: "You so selfish! Asshole!"

As a Dario Argento fan, it pained me to hear all of the negative buzz about his latest flick, GIALLO. All I want is a return to form– artful murders bathed in colored light and set to thrumpin' beats by Goblin. That's all I want. Instead, it seemed we had another CARD PLAYER on our hands. But now, having seen GIALLO, I am pleased to report that it is slightly better than the ramshackle shitstorm of derivative torture porn which haunted my most pessimistic nightmares. I'm not sure we can call it good, per se, but we sure can't call it 'horrible,' and that, my friends, is a latter-day Argento victory. Pass the Campari!

There's a lot of, shall we say, questionable material in GIALLO, but I think it's fair to say that there's been something a little cockeyed about every Argento film since TRAUMA, and some would argue that things have been a little off for even longer. For the benefit of the readers who would like this article to have a happy ending, I'll tackle the bad before I tackle the good.

Now, for starters, it's not even a giallo. GIALLO is not a giallo. Let that sink in for a minute. In fact, the title refers to the killer's jaundiced skin ('giallo' is the Italian word for 'yellow'). There're no black gloves, no intricate mystery as to the killer's identity, no artfully constructed murder sequences. Instead, the killer drives a white minivan taxi, wears a hoodie, and tortures and kills his victims in a dingy basement without the benefit of a vivid color pallette or Italo disco.

The soundtrack isn't even done by Claudio Simonetti, who's usually happy to disavow his own trademark style and go the poor man's Hollywood route. Instead, it was scored by a man named Marco Werba, and it sounds like the bastard child of Bernard Herrmann and Danny Elfman. That in and of itself is not a bad thing, but in the context of Argento- known for his morbidly thrilling soundscapes- it's weak.
The opening credits are done in that "twentieth generation rip-off of SE7EN" style that I love so much, complete with jittery, out of focus jumps and a wonky exposure.

How gritty, how authentic! Maybe they should have named the movie GI@LLO or something.

And here's something I never needed to see in an Argento movie-

...

...

...

Well, now that that's out of the way- on to the good. Much like DEATH WISH V: THE FACE OF DEATH, Argento boldy chooses to open his film at a fashion show.

While I certainly prefer the Euro-sleaze of the 70's and 80's (NEW YORK RIPPER, et al.), this'll do, Dario. This'll do.

The killer (played by newcomer "Byron Deidra"...), despite being conceptually hackneyed, is fairly creepy in execution. This scene finds him, um, apparently jerkin' the turkey to some torture photographs he's taken. Note the pacifier.

That pacifier is clearly the one extra push that the scene needed. Of course, this all ties into a childhood trauma, a favorite subject of Argento's.

And what have we here?

Asia Argento dropped out of GIALLO back when it was supposed to star Vincent Gallo, but at least she's around in spirit for a pictorial cameo.

Adrien Brody, our lead and co-producer (who's now suing the production), delivers a solid performance. He's taking things very seriously, which is the way things ought to be taken in an Argento movie. If we'd got some annoying American actor in here playing it for laffs, we'd be missing out on the sincerely surreal moments that naturally emanate from an Argento picture. I.e., at one point he earnestly explains that, as a cop, "my methods aren't exactly by the book."

As he is introduced, the camera pans across his desk, past a New York-style pizza, a baseball, a bat, and a carefully draped jacket with visible text which reports, "F.B.I. Special New York City Department."

In walks our heroine (Emmanuelle Seigner), who immediately asks the question which is burning at the forefront of all our minds: "Are you from New York?"

Emmanuelle Seigner is, as always, pretty amusing and possibly drunk.

[Insert catty comment about the quality of THE NINTH GATE here.]

At one point, she gets to scream "You so selfish! Asshole! ASSHOLE!"

That kinda stuff has always been worth the price of admission for me, but keep in mind that rave is from the guy who gave five stars to MURDER ROCK. But if you draw no satisfaction from Adrien Brody somberly announcing "GOTCHA, YOU YELLOW FUCK..." than maybe you shouldn't be watching Argento movies in the first place.

The body count's low, the gore's not entertaining, the music's off, and the aesthetics are ill-advised, but there's an abrupt freeze-frame ending, in true Argento fashion. Thank God for small favors.

In the end, I have to give it a touch under three stars. And though I loathe to use "not as bad as I expected" as a form of praise, I think that it's applicable here. Though it tries for 'generic, overproduced, Hollywood-lite torture porn,' enough of Argento's wonderful eccentricities shine through to make it worth it for his fans. And even non-Argento fans may find themselves pursing their lips, half-nodding, and muttering to themselves, "that was sort of a decent police procedural."

Film Review: NEW YORK STORIES (1989, Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, & Woody Allen)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Running Time: 124 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Nick Nolte, Rosanna Arquette, Steve Buscemi, Peter Gabriel, Woody Allen, Mia Farrow, Ira Wheeler, Larry David, Talia Shire, Giancarlo Giannini, Adrien Brody, Chris Elliot, Debbie Harry, Victor Argo, Illeana Douglas, Kirsten Dunst. Shot by Néstor Almendros, Sven Nykvist, and Vittorio Storaro.
Tag-line: "One City. Three Stories Tall."
Best one-liner: "I just wanted to kiss your foot. Sorry, nothing personal."

Omnibus projects are never quite as good as they ought to be, yet in the midst of a lot of general dislike for NEW YORK STORIES, I found myself enjoying it quite a bit (obviously, some parts more than others). Now we know there's a great lineup of directors: Scorsese, Coppola, and Allen; but the cinematographic talent on display is equally staggering: Néstor Almendros (DAYS OF HEAVEN, CLAIRE'S KNEE, KRAMER VS. KRAMER), Vittorio Storaro (THE CONFORMIST, APOCALYPSE NOW, THE BIRD WITH THE CRYSTAL PLUMAGE), and Sven Nykvist (FANNY AND ALEXANDER, THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY, PRETTY BABY, Tarkovsky's OFFRET). So despite all else, know that this film is visually immaculate. But on to the films:

Scorsese's LIFE LESSONS is a near masterpiece. Written by Bronx novelist Richard Price (THE WANDERERS), it's sort of a 'portrait of the artist as a bitter, middle-aged egoist.'

Nick Nolte is electrifying as a painter who lives his life on the crest of each wild brush stroke. He lumps together his talent, frustration, and self-doubt as one, non-negotiable 'artistic passion,' which, of course, is above the reproach of mere mortals.

Such as his indentured servant/roommate/apprentice/pseudo-girlfriend, Rosanna Arquette-


–or even his 'talk of the town' performance art rival, Steve Buscemi.

A lifelong VERTIGO fanatic, Scorsese builds a world of dangerous obsession (and no I'm not talking about Eszterhas-ian flavors of the month) and ever-shifting artistic/sexual power dynamics that has rarely been equaled.

Nolte plunges into the depths of compulsion and the mania of creativity (the man himself was on a frenzied hot streak which would continue with Milius' FAREWELL TO THE KING and Lumet's Q&A the next year) and Scorsese presents it all as a flurry of exquisite visuals, crisp edits and rockin' tunes, and the denouement hits just the right note of melancholy and cynicism.

The next segment, Coppola's LIFE WITHOUT ZOE, is the most misunderstood of the bunch. Seen by some as a saccharine bore fit for children's TV, they fail to take into account that it is a satire. It clearly shows the naive viewpoint of a trust fund brat who knows no other life; where homelessness and international intrigue can be solved with Hershey's Kisses and precocious scheming.

After spending much of the 80's telling the stories of children (literally) born on the wrong side of the tracks, I don't understand why everyone seems to think Coppola would sell his ideals up the river to glorify a rich little shit.

Allen's OEDIPUS WRECKS closes the film, and, despite a very clever and original premise which I shan't exactly spoil–

begins to lose steam around the halfway point, and never quite recovers. In all, a solid film, but see it for the Scorsese. Four stars.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: THE FANTASTIC MR. FOX (2009, Wes Anderson & Mark Gustafson)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 87 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: George Clooney, Meryl Streep, Willem Dafoe, Bill Murray, Jason Schwartzman, Wallace Wolodarsky, Michael Gambon, Owen Wilson, Eric Chase Anderson, Brian Cox, Mario Batali, Adrien Brody. Music by Alexandre Desplat (BIRTH, THE BEAT THAT MY HEART SKIPPED). Co-written by Noah Baumbach. Animation director Mark Gustafson (did claymation for RETURN TO OZ and THE ADVENTURES OF MARK TWAIN, creator of the California Raisins TV series).
Tag-line: "This year, forget super... ignore incredible... it's all about fantastic."
Best one-liner: "Excuse me? Am I being flirted with by a psychotic rat?"

Utilizing the same stop-motion animation and adorable attention to detail which make Rankin/Bass productions like MAD MONSTER PARTY the cutest shit on the planet, FANTASTIC MR. FOX fuses that aesthetic with the stilted, familial comedy of Baumbach/Anderson and the boyish dream-logic of Roald Dahl in order to create  the sort of children's movie which I can actually stomach. You know, the kind which has Willem Dafoe playing a country-drawlin', switchblade-slingin', wife-slanderin' Rat, somehow the kiddie approximation of his role as Bobby Peru in WILD AT HEART.

It's been a lifelong dream to see Bobby Peru appear in a children's movie.

Much of what I love here is due to what some would call "imperfections"- the manner in which stop-motion lends itself to spontaneous, awkward humor (i.e., the voracious rapidity with which characters eat, or how silly they look dashing across a barnyard)

or the way the animals' fur flutters during shots (because it's an actual, organic object, and not synthetic pixelation). The voice-acting is beyond first rate, not only because of the ridiculous slew of talent, but because Anderson preferred to record outdoors, replacing the sterility of the recording studio with living, breathing, tactile nature. George Clooney's incorrigible, glorious scamp; Meryl Streep's wife, a force at once blazing and soothing; Jason Schwartzman's brattish, sympathetic son (in perhaps his greatest performance to date); Michael Gambon's seething villain:

Wallace Wolodarsky's bewildered chum; or Bill Murray's irascible pushover- the voice actors are the perfect blend of tonality, timing, and role, and the film could not succeed nearly as well as it does without them. I have to wonder, though- now that Anderson has succeeded in perpetuating his vision in a (basically) controlled environment, how will he feel about returning to live action?

What would have happened if Jacques Tati had ever presided over a production using the 'Animagic' process? Well, regardless of where he chooses to go from here- five stars of pure wild animal craziness.

-Sean Gill

Side note: Animation director Mark Gustafson is not actually credited as co-director, but clearly he deserves to be.