Only now does it occur to me... LINK (1986)

Only now does it occur to me... okay, a few things. LINK is a "killer ape" movie (it was pitched as "JAWS with apes") in the vein of MONKEY SHINES and Edgar Allan Poe's "Murders in the Rue Morgue." It is also a Cannon Film––however, they only distributed it: i.e., Menaham Golan and Yoram Globus are not listed in the credits. The director is the accomplished Richard Franklin (PSYCHO II, CLOAK & DAGGER, PATRICK, ROAD GAMES), a suspense-driven Australian auteur who probably ranks second only to Brian De Palma among Hitchcock disciples. The stars are Terence Stamp––who plays a wild-eyed anthropology professor with an eccentric fashion sense and Rod Stewart's hair––

and Elisabeth Shue, who plays his student/housekeeper/ape nanny.

And that's all there is to it. The end.

...

Okay, that's a lie. I didn't tell you the entire truth: LINK is a strange little chamber piece and a "killer ape butler" movie. The Germans had the good sense to call this thing LINK: DER BUTLER, cause that ape butler thing isn't something you want to keep under wraps.

It's kind of like EVERY WHICH WAY BUT LOOSE meets THE REMAINS OF THE DAY. Except it's a horror movie.

I say, after you, old chap


About a chain-smoking orangutan butler who first made his name as "The Master of Fire" in an infamous carnival show.

So allow me to amend that: LINK is a movie about a "pyromaniac killer-ape butler."

There are also some killer dogs thrown in for good measure, but that's not very important.

As to the film itself, it's fair. It starts strong, but loses steam quickly. It's packed with interesting ideas and camera angles and setpieces, but it never quite delivers on its premise. Franklin does acquit himself admirably: there are inventive edits, theatrical sets,

and tour de force sequences of diegetic and non-diegetic sound (the first diegetic sound we hear is The Kinks' "Ape Man" coming from a car radio, soon it bleeds into "Hot Voodoo"––Dietrich's ape musical number from BLONDE VENUS––coming from a television as an ape stalks its feline prey).

There's inspired wide-angle cinematography by Mike Molloy (DP on THE HIT and SHOCK TREATMENT; camera operator on BARRY LYNDON and A CLOCKWORK ORANGE),

 
and overall, Franklin possesses a pure filmmaking joie de vivre that you don't often see outside of Richard Rush, Sam Raimi, or Ken Russell. There's also so much ape POV that at times I thought I was watching a Lucio Fulci film.

This angle does not bode well for the cat

It's extremely atmospheric and makes excellent use of the Scottish countryside, occasionally to great 'melancholy horror' effect, though I would not categorize the entire film as such.

In any event, this movie is about a pyromaniac killer-ape butler, not the Scottish countryside. As it progresses, our friend Link the Butler begins to lose his mind after falling in love (?) with Elizabeth Shue. The most chilling moments in the movie are when he's creepin' on her in the bath and elsewhere.


Look at that face. This pervy performance by "Locke the Orangutan" might be the best in the entire film. In fact, you'd better look outside your own door, right now, just to make sure some indifferent orangutan isn't out there, staring you down. To quote Werner Herzog, "the common denominator of the universe is not harmony, but chaos, hostility, and murder." Damn.

Also, I must make a special note about the soundtrack, by the legendary Jerry Goldsmith (ALIEN, GREMLINS, PLANET OF THE APES, PATTON, FIRST BLOOD, TOTAL RECALL), which is an insane carnival of circus-y madness, a reverb-heavy '80s nutball score that must be heard to be believed. Seriously, listen to the first minute and a half of this amazing nonsense. It's like if Paganini did the soundtrack to GHOULIES II. Or maybe if Kurt Weill did the score to Bertolt Brecht's CONGO. I don't know, man. But I also think I secretly like it?

The Runners-Up to Junta Juleil's Top 100, Part 2

Ah, more spillover. But next, we'll be cracking the Top 100 for real.

DRACULA (1931, Tod Browning)

I've said before that "DRACULA is a monster classic, full of fleeting, mystical moments and ethereal majesties. Exceedingly atmospheric and possessing one of the most iconic leading performances in film history, DRACULA is a Halloween fixture and a classic of early sound cinema; it's mandatory viewing not only for horror fans, but for cineastes in general." The maniac élan of Dwight Frye; the ineffable, funereal poetry of Lugosi's performance; the weight and the torment of centuries... while it may not be an objectively perfect film, dammit, it's close enough for me.

STROZEK (1978, Werner Herzog)

"No one kicks you here, Bruno." –"Not physically...here they do it spiritually." So Herzog tackles the American Dream, er, let's make that the American Nightmare. How do we get from a point where the emotionally and institutionally damaged German street performer Bruno S. (played by the emotionally and institutionally damaged real-life German street performer, Bruno S.) is escaping thugs in Germany to find a better life in America, to the point where a cop is screaming "WE CAN'T STOP THE DANCING CHICKENS! WE CAN'T STOP THE DANCING CHICKENS, SEND AN ELECTRICIAN!?" Well, I'm not going to tell you how. See the film for yourself. But be prepared for more humanity in non-actor Bruno S.'s little finger than in the entirety of your average, unfortunate member of that species we call Homo sapiens.

THE MECHANIC (1972, Michael Winner)

A Michael Winner movie permitted to even bask in the presence of the top 100?! Yeah, you heard me right. While this might not be the best movie that Bronson was ever in, this is probably the best "Bronson movie." I've written of my love for this flick before: It's a detached, melancholy thriller with crisp, artistic cinematography; a dissonant, unnerving Jerry Fielding score; and perhaps Bronson's most complex, compelling performance. And, boy, has it got a doozy of an ending. Highest marks. (Plus, this might mark the beginning of Bronson's love affair with ice cream– not to be confused with his love affairs with chicken or bananas.)

THE LIMEY (1999, Steven Soderbergh)

The style of swingin' 60's Godard, but without all the pompous, pseudo-revolutionary hogwash and self-congratulatory pretension that've infected his films sometime since 1965 or so, THE LIMEY has what every movie should have: an aged, blood-spattered Terence Stamp screaming at the top of his Cockney lungs, "Tell him I'm fucking comingggg!" The brutality of a POINT BLANK or an OUTFIT combined with the thoughtfulness of a Jean-Pierre Melville or an Antonioni, THE LIMEY is, hands-down, Soderbergh's masterpiece. Cliff Martinez's somber, furtive score; the use of counter-culture icons like Peter Fonda, Barry Newman, and Joe Dallesandro; the lunatic improvisations of a pony-tail'd Nicky Katt; brilliant, deadpan sidekickery by Luis Guzman; and the ethereal cinematography of Edward Lachmann all revolve around the furious, uncompromising, force-of-nature lead portrayal by Terence Stamp. It's THE REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST for the Sons of Lee Marvin.

EXTREME PREJUDICE (1987, Walter Hill)

Because I can't really think of any way to put it better than I already did, I'll say this: "Before you stick this thing in your player, I want you to mark out an 8 foot radius around your TV set. Then I want you to make sure there's nothing in that zone that you wouldn't mind having 40 gallons of testosterone poured over. EXTREME PREJUDICE has been proven to make wombs shrivel and has turned the frilliest of ladies quite husky; it makes men stumble, confused, into the street with a mysterious desire to chomp on cigars and arm wrestle. It's robust, potent, severe, and is completely safe when used as directed." It's the ultimate manly man's 'manly man' movie, and just about the most fun you can have indoors on a hot summer's day. And I'll leave you with two words that you should always remember: "Michael," and "Ironside."

THE SADDEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD (2003, Guy Maddin)

"If you're sad, and like beer, I'm your lady." To that, I answer "why, I'm all of the above, but I thought Isabella Rossellini was already my lady." Guy Maddin, George Toles, and Kazuo Ishiguro put their heads together for a completely deranged, nostalgia-soaked, impeccably-desinged paean to silent and early sound cinema, a film so utterly bizarre and completely sincere that it avoids the typical pitfalls of pastiche. And even though the ending is borrowed from HANGOVER SQUARE, by God, it still takes the guts outta ya. (Also: Isabella Rossellini has prosthetic legs filled with beer, which might be enough to get this near the Top 100 alone.)

DOWN BY LAW (1986, Jim Jarmusch)

Picking a favorite Jarmusch film is a lofty task; I've got major soft spots in my heart for STRANGER THAN PARADISE, DEAD MAN, GHOST DOG, and MYSTERY TRAIN, to name a few. But nothing can match what Tom Waits called "a Russian neo-fugitive episode of THE HONEYMOONERS," the dingy-bayou prison-break (that doesn't actually show the prison-break) classic, DOWN BY LAW. You can almost touch the peeling paint, feel the haze of everpresent New Awlins humidity, smell the stench and stagnancy of the swamps... And that's not the half of it- there's the inscrutable John Lurie, the drunken Tom Waits, and the never-better zany Eye-talian, Roberto Begnini!

LE TROU (1960, Jacques Becker)

Speaking of prison breaks, this one's all about the logistics, the timeframe, and the little details that make it feel real. Jacques Becker's observational style is applied to a group of desperate, jailed men, and the results are astounding. He documented the behavior of criminals before in TOUCHEZ PAS AU GRISBI, but these men are anguished, doomed souls, yearning for freedom– they aren't zoot suit-wearing bon vivant gangsters; they're working-class buddies who had to push the acceptable limits of human behavior to survive in the free world (until they got busted), and now they have to push the limits of their own ingenuity if they want to survive a caged world. Often, in a film of this type, we'll see a man digging with a spoon or a toothbrush or a what-have-you, and then, via montage, we see the completed tunnel. There's an economy of storytelling in that, but it occasionally feels staged, contrived, or worse. In LE TROU, some men in real-time pass around a steel bar, taken from a bed, and smash at the concrete. When one man tires, he passes the bar to the next, and then to the next. Finally, with nary an edit, they break through, creating a hole. We've just seen the process and the effort which went into making the hole, and that is strangely satisfying. No smoke and mirrors here; it's real men doing real things. Strange that a genuine moment as simple as this should stick out to me in a life-time of film watching. Of course, it's not as simple as pointing a camera at someone doing something real and recording it– but I suppose therein lies Becker's genius.

BLOODSPORT (1988, Newt Arnold)

"What?!," I see you saying, way in the back, lurking in the darkness. "Who the hell lets BLOODSPORT within 30 miles of a Top 100 list?!" Well, 'Mr. Too-Fancy-to-Appreciate-Van-Damme's-Mastery-of-Splits-and-Full-Contact-Martial-Arts,' I do. Because there's something to be said for a movie (even if it's a big, dumb, fun movie) that can be watched again and again and again and again, forever. Cannon Films churned out some silly content and some serious content, but it was always audacious– ballsy, even- brimming with a genuine joie-de-vivre that was infectious then, and it's infectious now. Golan and Globus were producers who allowed their directors artistic control, who refused to stomp upon their creativity, and infused their production company with the sense that something new and exciting was happening– yeah, what were they thinking, right?! "Golan and Globus used to be big," says the naysayer in the rear. "No," I say, "they ARE big– it's the pictures that got small! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE!"

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING (1975, John Huston)

A grand adventure film from a time when that didn't mean a CGI fuckfest with a heavily airbrushed poster, a $200 million budget, a cast of brain-dead fluffballs for the younger demographic and "wait, do we have a script yet?– here, let's assign these eight guys to it, each of whom has a notable credit from a high-profile reboot." Rudyard Kipling's tale of fortune and glory and deification has been laid out on the screen here by John Huston, perhaps the best-suited man for the job from Kipling's time to ours. Somehow, all at once, he captures rollicking fun, the absurdities of imperialism, the outrageous hubris of man, and the pathos which often swells beneath it. And rarely have two lead actors (here, Sean Connery and Michael Caine) been so perfectly cast, so full of life, so connected to material that flits to and fro from the light-hearted to the downbeat like the oscillations of a river's current, flowing through a dramatic, uncharted slit of a canyon, somewhere on the other side of the world...

HIGHBALL (1997, Noah Baumbach)

Though this film's cult following outside of my apartment is likely pretty slim; I will say, that inside my apartment, said cult following is rather extensive and rather rabid. I've spoken of my love for this film before, and I have to say "it's the ultimate party movie for people who generally dislike party movies." Rae Dawn Chong as herself, Chris Eigeman, Carlos Jacott, John Lehr, Peter Bogdanovich... it's fantastic. Acerbic wit, low-budge' moxie, and an incredible re-watchability factor.

THE SCARLET EMPRESS (1934, Josef von Sternberg)

Holy shit– let von Sternberg do whatever he wants, and this is the result: a cast of thousands; imposing, grotesque statuary and sets that spiral toward the heavens; intertitles and silent film techniques in the midst of sound film; Sam Jaffe leering with half-witted insanity (he gives Dwight Frye a run for his money); and Marlene Dietrich in opulent period costume pieces and shot with starry-eyed closeups. Some have described it as "kitsch," and maybe it is, but it's really a weighty examination of the nature of power: we only see Dietrich become the "Scarlet Empress" at the film's close, in fact, we spend the majority of our time with her as a frightened young woman spirited away to a foreign land, yanked to and fro by forces beyond her control. Ultimately, she embarks on an inevitable, fascinating journey towards becoming the sort of deadened, manipulating individual capable of wielding absolute power. It's pretty damned spectacular.

THE GARBAGE PAIL KIDS MOVIE (1987, Rod Amateau)

Now I've done it– I've put Josef von Sternberg and John Huston in the same room as the Garbage Pail Kids, and I'll defend that decision to the death. Rarely does a movie achieve such a perfection of badness; not even TROLL 2 can quite compete with this schizophrenic tale of one-dimensional misfits. Take Ali Gator, for example. His dogged, single-minded quest to eat people's toes quickly vaults him onto the shortlist of my favorite characters in all of cinema. Seriously, his only character trait is that he longs, unswervingly, to hasten the union between your toes and his teeth. We've got little people in hideous, quasi-animatronic costumes. We've got "Captain Manzini," a sort of gutter-Shakespeare stock player. We've got bodily functions. Vomit. Farting. Musical numbers. We got a plot that revolves, entirely, around a fashion show. There's underage romance. Genuine rage. Powerlessness. Cries unto the night. Biker gangs. Toxic sewer sludge. Is it burlesque? Is it grotesque? The modern-day GARGANTUA AND PANTAGRUEL? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS THING?! All I do know is that it's truly something special, and if you'd caught me on a different day, hell, this thing could've cracked the Top 100 proper. So consider yourselves lucky. For now.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: THE COMPANY OF WOLVES (1984, Neil Jordan)

Stars: 3.6 of 5.
Running Time: 95 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Sarah Patterson (Cannon's SNOW WHITE), Angela Lansbury, David Warner (TWIN PEAKS Season 2, TIME AFTER TIME, TRON), Stephen Rea (STUCK, INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE), Terence Stamp (THE LIMEY, THE HIT). Co-written by Angela Carter. Production design by Anton Furst.
Tag-line: "Where fairy stories meet horror stories!"
Best one-liner: "Never stray from the path, never eat a windfall apple and never trust a man whose eyebrows meet in the middle."

Neil Jordan's THE COMPANY OF WOLVES was designed as a 'Chinese Box' of a film, with flashbacks, fables, and folklore interwoven within a larger, dream/fantasy framework. The end result is kind of a meandering, avant-garde pseudo-narrative that never quite congeals, but I still liked it quite a bit. Cannon Films (who did not produce, but distributed stateside) marketed it as a horror/thriller, a label that is bound to disappoint. In fact, it's more like "Mario Bava's classy English brother does fairy tales on 'ludes"- which is a good thing. The film possesses a sumptuous, Gothic atmosphere, sort of Lewis Carroll by-way-of Edgar Allen Poe, and it owes much of its success to Anton Furst's (BATMAN, FULL METAL JACKET) production design. A grandfather clock sits in the midst of a fog-enshrouded forest, spinning its hands ceaselessly. Giant, hideous teddy bears and sinister dolls come to life, bounding about the underbrush with uncanny mobility:

Satan (Terence Stamp!), dressed to the nines, clutches a real-life pygmy skull and beckons to you from the comfort of his Rolls-Royce:

A long-lost husband (Stephen Rea) rips the fleshy mask from his face, revealing the sinewy, lupine monstrosity beneath. A pack of wolves- hypnotically photographed in slow motion- burst forth from a shorn oil painting, dashing down the furnished hallway to your bedroom...

Yes, this film certainly makes an impression. It's also injected with a dose of mythological protofeminism, channeled by Angela Carter, co-screenwriter and author of the texts on which the film is based. The cast is a talented ensemble: as our substitute Riding Hood, the actual pre-teen Sarah Patterson exhibits a maturity far beyond her years;

Angela Lansbury is exactly as ideal a fit as you'd imagine for 'Grandmother'; and the always-serviceable David Warner gives a stoic, weighty turn as 'Father.'

David Warner unloads the groceries.

In all, it's a solid phantasmagorical mood piece, but it will rankle those looking for a traditional narrative. Nearly four stars.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: ALIEN NATION (1988, Graham Baker)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Running Time: 91 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: James Caan, Mandy Patinkin (THE PRINCESS BRIDE, DEAD LIKE ME), Peter Jason (THEY LIVE, PRINCE OF DARKNESS), Terence Stamp (THE LIMEY, SUPERMAN II, THE HIT), Kevyn Major Howard (FULL METAL JACKET, DEATH WISH II, SUDDEN IMPACT), Leslie Bevis (SPACEBALLS, FALCON CREST). Special makeup effects by Stan Winston studios.
Tag-line: "Los Angeles, 1991. They have come to Earth to live among us. They've learned the language, taken jobs, and tried to fit it. But there's something about them we don't know. Prepare Yourself."
Best one-liner: "Don't take it personally. I'm a bigot."

Combine the slick, one-liner'd potboiler traditions of the buddy-cop flick and the socially-minded sci-fi of THE TWILIGHT ZONE, and whaddya get? ALIEN NATION. Taking place in L.A. of 1991, the set-up (a genetically-engineered alien slave species has landed and partially integrated themselves to human society) lends itself to endless commentary on race, drugs, immigration, and all that jazz. Now some have criticized the film for the superficiality of its analysis, but I say: it ain't Richard Wright, and it doesn't have to be. It's more along the lines of Reagan's 3rd term, RAMBO VI getting released to theaters,

and a linguistic potpourri of euphemisms (i.e., "newcomers" instead of "second-class citizens"). No one's going to write their dissertation on this, but it’s still full of prescient little moments, and you still kinda purse your lips when an alien accuses our society of being incapable of living up to its ideals.

James Caan plays our bigoted hero. He channels the likes of Eastwood and Bronson as he looks upon everything alien-related with complete and utter disdain.


Of course, he's paired on a case with the first alien detective, played by the ever-exceptional Mandy Patinkin.

Oh yes. And basically every payoff that should ensue does, in fact, ensue- right down to the closing credits music of The Four Tops' "Indestructible," a post-racial ballad featuring lyrics like "We are brothers" and "Two hearts can beat as one." So despite the big-budget and Stan Winston makeup, we've got a little Cannon-style moxie goin' on. Regardless, the futuristic world constructed by the film is very logical and intricate (which led to a TV series, novels, and additional films), and a conspiracy is introduced which is not only satisfying, but it actually makes sense (!)- something of an achievement for the genre.

Terence Stamp plays our stately villain to a T,

Carpenter standby Peter Jason is a gleefully racist cop who's just asking for his nose to get busted ("Take a look at your dildo partner!"), David Bowie’s “Scary Monsters” is the house music at an alien dive bar, Mandy works in some impromptu a cappella singing (attaboy!- hey, he even managed to work it in on DEAD LIKE ME), and the aliens' preferred hooch is spoiled milk (which leads to chunky milk/Stoli drunken buddy bonding!).

Yup, this is the sort of thing that I really enjoy. Four stars.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: MODESTY BLAISE (1966, Joseph Losey)

Stars: 1.5 of 5.
Running Time: 119 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Monica Vitti, Terence Stamp, Clive Revill, Dirk Borgarde.
Tag-lines: "Nothing can faze Modesty Blaise, the world's deadliest and most dazzlingly female agent!"
Best one-liner: None.

Joseph Losey, Monica Vitti, Terence Stamp, and Dirk Bogarde collaborating on a candy-colored Bond-ian romp sprinkled with houseboys, outrageous mod fashions, gigantic glasswear, and all manner of vivid campitude- what could possibly go wrong? Well, I'll tell you.

How could you possibly misuse this setting? Watch the movie and find out.

First, Losey. A director known for alienation and paranoia trying his hand at a light-hearted spy escapade. And for a first time action/comedy director, I understand there must be an incredible temptation to conclude your film with a chaotic brawl set to something snazzily approximating 'Yakety Sax.' There must be a tremendous urge to have an unexpected ethnic group show up to "comedic" effect (i.e., the Native Americans in CASINO ROYALE or the "zany bedouin" in THE PIRATE MOVIE). In MODESTY BLAISE, it's a sudden army of Arabs. Isn't it hilarious how they all showed up at once, out of nowhere, to do pratfalls? Not so much.

Next, there's Vitti. The muse of Antonioni (for whom she's perfect), she flawlessly portrays existential angst and modern malaise. Unfortunately, she's unqualified to appear in scenes meant to elicit laughter (intentional or unintentional).

She comes across as awkward, stilted, and embarrassed. She basically lacks the comedic chops or sheer presence of Jane Fonda in BARBARELLA, or even Marisa Mell in DIABOLIK.

Then, there's Stamp. One of the finest actors of all time, and they've put the kid gloves on him.

In a muted, sidekicky role, there's really no reason for him to be here. It'd be like making Joan Crawford a Bond girl.

Finally, there's Bogarde, who deliciously sinks his teeth into the role of a purple parasol-twirling mastermind (with a shock of white hair).

Only he emerges unscathed. I don't even have the time (or desire) to further discuss the insufferable pacing, the excruciating runtime, or the humiliatingly out-of-place musical interludes (with unaltered vocals from non-singers Stamp and Vitti). One and a half stars.

Film Review: THE HIT (1984, Stephen Frears)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 98 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Terence Stamp, John Hurt, Tim Roth, Laura del Sol, Fernando Rey (VIRIDIANA, THE FRENCH CONNECTION) in basically a glorified cameo), bit part by Jim Broadbent as a Barrister, music by Eric Clapton and Paco de Lucia, producer Jeremy Thomas.
Tag-lines: "Willie Parker grassed... ten years later they came for their revenge."
Best one-liner: "She's already eaten."

THE HIT is a quintessential "existential gangster flick," and, hands down, the best work director Stephen Frears (THE QUEEN, DIRTY PRETTY THINGS) has ever done. In fact, I'd go as far to say that it moreso bears the stamp of its legendary, envelope-pushing producer Jeremy Thomas (BAD TIMING, CRASH, NAKED LUNCH, MERRY CHRISTMAS MR. LAWRENCE) than that of Mr. Frears.

With a virtuosic flamenco guitar soundtrack by musical genius Paco de Lucia (and an opening title composed by a Ry Cooder-inspired Eric Clapton) and cool, glossy visuals (which effortlessly accentuate the astounding natural beauty of Spain) lensed by Mike Molloy (HARDCORE, SHOCK TREATMENT), the atmosphere is utterly marvelous and exceptionally immersive. It is at once a world of stark landscapes lit by the torrid Iberian sun and a world of cramped car interiors where airs of impending doom subtly clash with waves of resigned tranquility.

Basically, it all adds up to the best road movie since Bergman's WILD STRAWBERRIES. Or at least since Bava's KIDNAPPED.

The characters in our chamber piece include beleaguered badass John Hurt, an assassin clad in a white suit and Ray-Ban Wayfarers; 22 year-old street tough Tim Roth as an aspiring hitman who really knows how to work a shiv; gleeful smartass Terence Stamp, who possesses all the blazing, at peace confidence of the man condemned; and mysterious beauty (and Carlos Saura regular) Laura del Sol. This crew deserves every accolade they receive, and no hyperbole can really do justice to the sheer, 'in-the-moment' craft on display here.

This is decidedly a film where the less one knows about it, the better, so I shall dispense with my description soon enough, but imagine the entertainment of Siegel's THE KILLERS combined with the depth and aesthetics of Antonioni's BLOW-UP, and you have a pretty good idea of what THE HIT is all about. Five stars.

-Sean Gill