Junta Juleil's Top 100: #50-46

50. DUCK, YOU SUCKER (1971, Sergio Leone)  

One of Leone's finest achievements, and one which only grows in impact with each subsequent viewing. Beginning with the depiction of a man pissing on an anthill and ending with the mournful cry "What about me?," DUCK, YOU SUCKER is sort of the ultimate statement on revolution– its winners, its losers, its agitators, its perpetuators, and the seemingly endless supply of moneyed, oppressive motherfuckers who always manage to reappear after a revolution, like the regenerative heads of the Hydra. Leone pulls no punches here: even though it's peppered with action and humor, it's brutal, passionate, and operatic. It's James Coburn's Sean and Rod Steiger's Juan, two sides of the same coin, who criss-cross paths with one another– one in decline, and one unknowingly on the rise. So many emotions are captured to the point of perfection: the exhilaration of bank-robbing or riding out in open country, the disgust at watching blue-bloods stuffing their anus-mouths, the sting of betrayal and the deeper sting of the betrayed, the unequivocal horror of mass graves. Leone is writing his history of the Twentieth Century, the Era of Extermination, the epoch of man perfecting his ability to stamp himself out. Orwell saw the future as a boot stomping on a human face forever– Leone sees men pissing on ants, pissing on each other, clawing at one another in a bloodied trench of corpses as our overlords above prepare to administer the coup de grace, just as perhaps the overlords' overlords prepare to administer their own. It's monstrous, it's soaring, it's Goya, it's John Ford, it's Mozart, it's Pagliacci. Ennio Morricone is in top form, and he creates a score full of perhaps a dozen individualized themes, any of which could carry a movie on their own. Coburn and Steiger are grand, Antoine Saint-John is frightening, Romolo Valli exudes the proper complexity. It speaks to the sheer quality of Leone's body of work that even this is still his third-best film. (Side note: it's unclear if Leone thought that "Duck, you sucker" was a common English expression, or if he believed he'd be creating a new catchphrase with it, but either way, you've got to love those Italians.) 

 

49. THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK (1980, Irvin Kershner)  

My favorite film in the STAR WARS trilogy, THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK saw Lucas kept in check via formidable craftsman-ly direction by Irvin Kershner, and an occasionally tragic, occasionally quotable, often mystical, and always two-fisted screenplay by old-Hollywood worshipper Lawrence Kasdan (RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK, SILVERADO, BODY HEAT) and old-Hollywood player Leigh Brackett (RIO BRAVO, THE BIG SLEEP, THE LONG GOODBYE). Even chubby, post-fugue state, CGI-humpin' George Lucas couldn't find too much to mess with in the various iterations of EMPIRE we've seen since 1997. I don't know what to say that hasn't been said ad nauseum by STAR WARS acolytes already, but we've got Frank Oz taking the art of filmic puppetry to new and astounding heights, Boba Fett exuding Western-baddie cool without actually doing anything, Harrison Ford in his first appearance as a capital-A Actor, Carrie Fisher fueled by mountains of cocaine, towering and frightening stop-motion vehicles, elegant matte paintings, loads of C-3PO/Lando Calrissian homoeroticism, a hand-puppet that eats spaceships, an exhilaratingly complex John Williams score, more strangulation per capita than any comparable PG-rated space opera (even Chewie gets in on the action), abominable snowmen, Cliff Clavin, and a really awkward breakfast with Darth Vader. It's better than HOWARD THE DUCK is what I'm saying. 

 

 48. BRAZIL (1985, Terry Gilliam)  

An eye-popping dystopian cauldron of Kafka and Orwell brazenly stirred by visual mastermind Terry Gilliam, BRAZIL (originally conceived as "1984 AND 1/2") piles on the grandeur, cheekiness, and dread that one would expect from such an endeavor. It's filled with genius performances and memorable moments– Jim Broadbent freakishly contorting the rubbery face of socialite Katherine Helmond; the breathtaking clashes between Icarus-armor clad Jonathan Pryce and a gargantuan samurai; mustachioed Robert De Niro bursting forth from here, there, and everywhere, a postmodern anti-bureaucratic Robin Hood; Ian Richardson leading a phalanx of pencil-pushers, striding purposefully through an office which bears more resemblance to a parking garage; Michael Palin leading awkward, flustering torture sessions while donning a grotesque baby mask; the paralyzing paramilitary-style assaults on average Joes by the minions of the Ministry of Information– it's nearly two-and-a-half hours of nonstop hilarity, wonderment, and torment, and I'm fairly certain that Kafka (who was rumored to chuckle his way through readings of his manuscripts) would be proud.  

 

47. DOCKS OF NEW YORK (1928, Josef von Sternberg)  

Probably my favorite silent film of all time, DOCKS OF NEW YORK is a mist-enshrouded and shadow-entrenched look at life and love between grime-coated, seafaring brutes and suicidal, proto-Dietrich barflies. The entire first half of the film takes place in near-darkness– unforgiving furnace rooms, tenebrous alleways, murky canals, and a rough n' tumble tavern full of cheap drinks, cheaper drunks, and a rogue's gallery of other salty characters. But then the plot develops and this endless night ends– daylight hits, and it's stark and painful and shocking because we've adjusted ourselves to the darkness; it's the same effect as waking after too little sleep on the morning after a night of debauchery, and it's astonishing to really feel that intruding dawn in the context of watching a film. DOCKS OF NEW YORK is a treatise on impulse, the worth of human beings, and what it's like to spend a lifetime scraping the bottom of the (sardine?) barrel while catching only fleeting glimpses of happiness from between the wooden slats. Also see: THE SCARLET EMPRESS, MOROCCO, BLONDE VENUS, THE LAST COMMAND, et al. Sternberg's one of the greats, and I'd recommend any of his films that I've seen without reservation.  

 

46. SUNSET BLVD. (1950, Billy Wilder) 

What to say? That the funeral for an ape sequence is more subtly terrifying than any horror flick released in the last fifteen years? That Gloria Swanson is the scariest woman not named Joan Crawford to ever draw breath? That Erich von Stroheim is so damned classy they should give him an extra "von" or two? I mean, just look at this stuff:

  

  

  

  

 

  

If you haven't already, I mean... Just go see the damn thing. Coming up next... Even more Eigeman, sandwich-making with Crispin Glover, and more Argento! 

-Sean Gill

Film Review: INFERNO (1953, Roy Ward Baker)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Running Time: 83 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Robert Ryan (BILLY BUDD, THE WILD BUNCH, THE DIRTY DOZEN), Rhonda Fleming (OUT OF THE PAST, SPELLBOUND), William Lundigan (PINKY, THE SEA HAWK), Larry Keating (MR. ED, WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE), Henry Hull (LIFEBOAT, HIGH SIERRA). Directed by Roy Ward Baker (A NIGHT TO REMEMBER, ASYLUM). Written by Francis M. Cockrell (RHUBARB, DARK WATERS).
Tag-line: "The wonder of 3-D STEREOPHONIC SOUND The marvel of 3-D Color by TECHNICOLOR ENHANCED A THOUSANDFOLD! The most breath-taking man hunt that ever criss-crossed out of the screen! YOU are trapped in the great Devil's Canyon of the Mojave Desert!"
Best one-liner: "Bartender, pull me a short deer!"

In a familiar alleyway, two rag-tag cineastes continue their eternal dialogue:

"Holy shit– I've just seen the damndest thing....a Robert Ryan movie in–"
–"So what, I've seen lots of Robert Ryan movies."
"Would you let me finish? A Robert Ryan movie...IN 3-D!!!"

–"3-D? What? Didn't Robert Ryan die prior to AVATAR? What, is it another 2011 Peckinpah reboot?"
"Shut that child's mouth of yours and listen to me for a minute. This is from the golden age of 3-D, and it's got class, dammit! Sure, it's occasionally got something flying straight into the lens, but above all this movie is about class. It stars Robert Ryan, for one."
–"Alright, tell me more."
"So Ryan plays a rich shitheel who's abandoned in the desert– with a broken leg and a less than intact sense of self– by his old lady and her new lover. Ryan must fight the elements to survive, and in the process, may or may not regain his inner worth as the chippy and her beau increasingly and concurrently lose theirs."
–"So it's a morality tale. I can't stand that shit."
"Ye gods! I'll speak and you'll listen! There may be ludicrous moral-dilemmas and rationalizing, backstabbin' shrews, but across the bleak desertscapes and equally barren human dwelling-places, Baker builds a characterscape of distracted modernity, a portrait of humanity whereupon we've forgotten how to humble ourselves, where none of us embrace the simple truth that it is absolutely impossible to feel important when you're stranded in the desert, up shit creek not only sans paddle, but with a broken leg, dust in your eyes, bugs in your teeth, and the infernal feeling that you're about to be created all over again by the indifferent, hazy anguish of an endless, godforsaken desert-god!

Enter Robert Ryan: laid out in the midst of the Mojave; he's outta booze and he's nearly outta bullets. So here begins his odyssey– the solitary man against impossible odds..."
–"So is it a silent movie, or is Ryan talkin' to himself?"

"Even better– Ryan delivers a genius, sardonic internal monologue throughout. His external performance possesses tremendous depth– Ryan really lets play out upon his face and body the realization that he's been abandoned to one of the most hideous deaths (dehydration and exposure followed by the carrion-eaters) in the Grim Reaper's bag-o'-tricks. His internal performance reveals a morbid sense of humor in the midst of it all, a twinkling of Robert Ryan smarminess, that kernel of jocularity that keeps him sane as he embarks on his journey."

–"Like what? Give me an example."
"Well, say, he comes across a cactus and muses 'Course that cactus is full of beer...,' begins munching on the contents, and intones 'It doesn't taste bad either! Like wet sawdust!'

Later, when going through his pockets, he withdraws a wad of currency. Flipping through the bills, he muses 'might start a fire with em.' When trying to set his broken leg between two boulders, he predicts 'This won't be jolly...' When running dangerously low on water, he takes the optimist's route: 'Fine time to be low on cigarettes...' It's all delivered with the sort of deadpan sarcasm that we're used to seeing Ryan lay down on the likes of gun-totin' punks in some film noir, but when it's turned inward, it takes on a different, even grander quality. While hunting deer he half-psychotically considers, 'Bartender– pull me a short deer!' This is just the sort of shit that's worth the price of admission alone."
–"So how does he survive? Is it like that novel HATCHET?"
"Christ, you don't get out much. Your idea of high culture is probably cruising the YA books-on-tape section at the local Goodwill."
–"Hey, I pick up some good stuff at those. BUNNICULA on two cassettes for only $1.50. But what I was asking was how Robert Ryan battles the elements."
"Well, I'm not gonna give anything major away, but two of the highlights include the following: Ryan shooting a rabbit only to have its corpse ferried off by an eager coyote, whereupon Ryan screams to the coyote (and to the heavens) 'That's my rabbit! THAT'S MY RABBIT!' Another is when Ryan chews on pebbles 'cause he seems to remember reading it in some survival guide someplace. A little research after the movie revealed that Ryan was right– apparently it tricks the mouth into thinking there's food in it, which maintains the flow of saliva, preventing the mouth from drying out too quickly, thus warding off thirst. Regardless, the entire incident only confirmed what I had long suspected: that Robert Ryan chomps rocks for breakfast."
–"Wait, though, how does the 3-D figure into this?"

"It's pretty understated, actually. The landscape is given a natural texture, and Baker allows us to sort of experience a genuine sort of vertigo at one point when foreground rock outcroppings are contrasted with the desert valley below. Often Ryan appears in 3-D against the landscape; it's an interesting visual contrast to how ill-at-ease the character is meant to feel. It remains understated, at least into the very end where some amazing late game gimmickry rears its crazed head– a lantern spirals directly into the screen, quite obviously propelled by a slow-moving invisible rope of some kind, and a fairly mind-blowing 3-D shot involving a raging inferno keeps the blood pumping till the end of the last reel.

And, like most 3-D films of the era that I've seen at the theater, there's a ridiculous intermission at the the halfway (40-minute) mark, which prompts spit- and popcorn-takes!) amongst the audience– we're just settling into the film in earnest when *BOOM*: Intermission."
–"Well, this sounds like a pretty good time."
"I knew you'd come around."
–"So how do I see it?"
"You can't."
–"Oh."
"Well, unless you stumble upon a repertory screening or some eclectic late-nite TV programming. I saw it at Film Forum in NYC. But maybe some archive collection or other will deem it fit to release (it was 20th Century Fox property, but that doesn't mean they've retained the rights). It's a good enough film to be seen in 2-D, 3-D, or whatever the hell format it happens to be in. Good luck."

-Sean Gill

DREAMS OF THE CLOCKMAKER Trailer now online!

The October run of my show DREAMS OF THE CLOCKMAKER (described HERE) now has a trailer online for your enjoyment. You can watch it HERE on Vimeo:

Dreams of the Clockmaker Trailer from Sean Gill on Vimeo.

If your computer can't handle the Vimeo player, there's a lower-resolution YouTube version of it here.
DREAMS OF THE CLOCKMAKER will run from October 17-30 at the Wild Project.

Bronson in THE STONE KILLER finally coming to DVD

It's not the greatest Bronson flick there ever was, but for those desiring cheap thrills and 70's Bronson crime-stomping, THE STONE KILLER sure fits the bill. I wrote a semi-lengthy review of it HERE some time ago, and now it's time to retire the VHS, cause you can get it on DVD-R from the Warner Archive HERE.

Coming Soon: DREAMS OF THE CLOCKMAKER

I'm pleased to announce that my play, DREAMS OF THE CLOCKMAKER, will be enjoying an eight-performance run at the Wild Project in Manhattan, NY this October.

Submitted for your perusal, Jillaine Gill, lady on a stage. She requests your company on a mystifying voyage to one of those old, out-of-the-way places; a land of splinters and shadows and the darkest corners of the world...

It's a sweeping narrative which shepherds us from Dust Bowl occultism to a low-rent 80's magic show to troubling mystical visions of a dystopian future. Written & directed by Sean Gill and starring Jillaine Gill. It will appear this October at The Wild Project (195 E. 3rd St. between Avenues A & B) from October 17-30 with 7:00 p.m. shows on Sundays and Mondays, and 9:30 p.m. shows on Fridays and Saturdays. Tickets are available via Smarttix at smarttix.com ((212) 868-4444). PR by Emily Owens PR.

Film Review: THE LAST RUN (1971, Richard Fleischer)

Stars: 4.5 of 5.
Running Time: 95 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: George C. Scott (PATTON, THE CHANGELING), Tony Musante (THE MERCENARY, THE BIRD WITH THE CRYSTAL PLUMAGE), Trish Van Devere (George C. Scott's wife, THE CHANGELING, THE LANDLORD), Colleen Dewhurst (ANNIE HALL, THE DEAD ZONE), Aldo Sambrell (A FISTFUL OF DOLLARS, THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY). Music by Jerry Goldsmith (CHINATOWN, ALIEN, STAR TREK, POLTERGEIST, TOTAL RECALL). Edited by Russell Lloyd (THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING, REFLECTIONS IN A GOLDEN EYE). Cinematography by Sven Nykvist (PERSONA, THE TENANT). Written by Alan Sharp (NIGHT MOVES, THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND).
Tag-line: "In the tradition of Hemingway and Bogart."
Best one-liner: "I don't blow boxes, man, I blow heads. When I say bang, everything gets suddenly dark!"

I was lucky enough to catch this flick on the big screen a few weeks ago during the annual jamboree of two-fisted 70's cinema that is William Lustig Presents. Poorly received by critics upon it's initial release and nearly impossible to get a hold of in the decades hence, THE LAST RUN has nonetheless accumulated something of a cult following, and I was pretty damned excited to see it for myself.
The verdict? It's a hell of a good time, and one of the great pensive n' gritty entries to the driving-movie canon; it easily can join the ranks of THE DRIVER, VANISHING POINT, TWO-LANE BLACKTOP and THUNDER ROAD. The tag-line promises "in the tradition of Hemingway and Bogart," and I think it says a lot when, A. a movie claims to be bringing you the likes of Hemingway and Bogart, B. the movie does not in fact share an actual connection to Hemingway and/or Bogart, and C. said claim does not ultimately piss you off: I suppose it's got a sufficient number of expatriates, fishing villages, hard-asses, face-punchers, and boozers to fit the bill.

Originally set to be directed by John Huston, Richard Fleischer took over when constant brawling between Huston and star George C. Scott (who had both worked together on THE LIST OF ADRIAN MESSENGER and THE BIBLE previously) soared to such heights that Huston stormed off the set and never came back. It's difficult to know precisely what caused the enmity, but Huston makes a point of mentioning his hatred for Scott more than once in this book of interviews. Fleischer picked up the pieces and does the job of a master craftsman– it has the straight-shootin', no-frills feel of a flick by John Flynn or Don Siegel.
George C. Scott plays Harry Garmes, a retired getaway driver living in a Portuguese fishing village, tinkering with cars, living out a pale shadow of a relationship with a local hooker, and, above all, feeling like a man of inaction.

GEORGE C. SCOTT IS MAD AT YOU

He possesses that beleaguered, old-guard toughness, but he feels wrongness, despite his authentic seaside lifestyle– s0 he goes after that storied "one last job," not, as one might assume, for the purposes of a retirement fund, but just to see if he's still got "what it takes," to see if he can still do what he was built to do. His passenger is Tony Musante, playing a cocksure and amazingly douchey assassin who idolizes old gangster movies and has just escaped from prison.

Musante plays the sort of guy who greets acquaintances by cupping his hands over their eyes from behind and shrieking "Guess WHOOOO?"

Completing the circle (or, rather a triangle) is Musante's girlfriend Trish Van Devere, who may or may not be playing a couple of angles. However, the job turns out to be of a larger scope than anticipated, and soon there are police, thugs, and international mobsters jockeying for a piece of the trio– naturally, car chases, shoot-outs, double-crosses, and punches-to-the-gut ensue.
The cinematography by Ingmar Bergman's frequent DP Sven Nykvist is fantastic, only amplifying the existential undertones. He never was one for bright colors, but goddamn, the man knew how to frame a shot. In fact, with all the turtlenecks and brooding, occasionally you'll think you are watching a Bergman film!

The editing by Russell Lloyd (Huston's main editor) is even-tempered and lends the film a subtle sort of rhythm. The lack of editing in the well-staged car chases is a major plus– after seeing so many modern, jerky-cam chase scenes, it was a breath of fresh air; you can tell what the fuck you're looking at! Rounding out the talent, Jerry Goldsmith puts together an occasionally ridiculous, occasionally sumptuous Morricone-style Euro-score which is a great compliment to the action and brooding scenes alike.
In the end, it's a suspenseful, expertly unraveled character study which ends on a note of brutal poetry. And I love seeing flicks like this at the movies– at my screening, during a fairly understated action sequence, an old lady in the audience actually screamed in alarm at some gunplay. I think everyone involved would be proud. Except for Huston, who'd probably be attacking George C. Scott's projected image with a machete. Four and a half stars.


-Sean Gill

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #55-51

55. WHITE HUNTER, BLACK HEART (1990, Clint Eastwood)

Overshadowed by the subsequent acclaim of UNFORGIVEN, WHITE HUNTER, BLACK HEART remains somewhat forgotten, but the film, for me, is cleary Clint's masterpiece. And it's as much "about" Clint (and his iconic tough guy status) as it is about John Huston. Clint is the Huston stand-in here (as "Wilson"), and the film loosely chronicles the making of THE AFRICAN QUEEN, when Huston collaborated with writer Pete Viertel (here, "Verril"), who also wrote WHITE HUNTER, BLACK HEART. It tackles some of the most difficult questions which all filmmakers, writers, and artists have, at one time or another, been forced to confront: How does one come to terms with the desire to live out one's own stories? How does one reconcile the multiple, fractured personae that grow out of this eternal, internal debate of thought vs. action? A lot of the greatest American filmmakers of the era (Huston, Fuller, Peckinpah, etc.) seemed to be chasing (and sometimes successfully, for what it's worth) that elusive macho persona. For 'Wilson,' however, the mouthing-off, the barfights, the drinking, the womanizing- it's never enough. He seeks adventures and experiences that raise the stakes exponentially, until it's putting lives at risk and coming face to tusk with the most powerful, unpredictable creatures on the planet. He becomes something of a pure force of Id, with 'Verril' (played exceptionally by Jeff Fahey) acting as his Ego, his conscience, and the only voice of reason amid the chaos. The film's not entirely a somber rumination, however- it has visceral action, witty exchanges, and thrilling visuals. It's highly enjoyable. But when it all comes down to it, the film's impact is something akin to long night of excess and libation- the exhilaration of endless possibility and unlimited hubris is taken down a notch by the punch in the guts of the morning after. Something lost, something gained.

54. DEEP RED (1975, Dario Argento)

I previously gave four reasons why DEEP RED is an enduring masterpiece, not just as a giallo, but as something that can stand shoulder to shoulder with the other magnum opuses that emerged from the cinema of the 70's. Here they are:
#1. The visuals. DEEP RED pops and astounds in a manner that puts other filmmakers to shame. Whether it be incredible camerawork that was only possible because they were shooting non-synch sound, magnificent closeups with precise tracking, or exquisite architecture framing the scenes, Argento hits every shot out of the ballpark. And even though it lacks the sustained lighting of SUSPIRIA, I still might name this as Argento's most beautiful film. Every lesson he learned from Bava is on display here, and it is visually breathtaking.
#2. GOBLIN. In their first collaboration with Dario, Goblin shines, crashing onto the scene as a combination of ELP, J.S. Bach, and 70's hardcore bass lines. They would later evolve into Italo Disco of similar weight, but here they are perfect. I think anyone would be ecstatic to have this stuff be their theme music.
#3. The banter. Daria Nicolodi and David Hemmings cultivate a genuinely amusing relationship, with arm-wrestling and awkward Italo-British tension. The fact that it's done with Hawksian zest reminds the viewer that all too often, banter is utter crap or detrimental to a story.
#4. The ornately crafted mystery. Argento keeps a flawless balance between the heroes, background characters, and the audience, with each knowing more and less than the others at any given time. Layers of mystery are peeled away visually (writing on a steam-covered mirror, a walled-in room, a buried mural) so that YOU discover the answers firsthand, along with the characters. And the icing on the cake is the fact that a crucial clue divulging the killer's identity is hidden in plain view at the start of the picture, and not unveiled at the end as a deus ex machina letdown. It holds you in its grasp until the final, absurdly abrupt moment... "You have been watching...DEEP RED."

53. THE PIANO TEACHER (2001, Michael Haneke)

Hoo boy, we're gettin' into the rough stuff. A near-minimalist masterwork on the whacky things we want and the whacky things we only think we want. I shouldn't give too much away here, but it's the tale of an extremely, uh, committed masochist-pianist who's about to take things to a new and jaw-dropping level with her latest student. Oh, and she lives with her mom. Anyway, I suppose what I'm saying is that this ain't the movie you bring back over Christmas break to watch with the folks.
Isabelle Huppert, who's kind of the female Harvey Keitel when it comes to sheer, cuckoo devotion to the art of acting, delivers her finest, most subtle performance. (And, while obviously the Oscars are an exercise in senselessness which generally serve to only hasten the sweet union between head and wall, I have to point out that Renée Zellweger was nominated- for BRIDGET JONES' DIARY, no less- over Huppert that year, which infuriates me to such a degree that I may at any moment explode.)
Anyway, the less said, the better, but Michael Haneke's quotidian "horror" films (i.e., FUNNY GAMES, CACHÉ, BENNY'S VIDEO, et al.) are some of the best stuff around, and I highly recommend familiarizing yourself with his output if you haven't already.

52. THE BEGUILED (1971, Don Siegel)

It's difficult to single out one film from Don Siegel's exceptional oeuvre (DIRTY HARRY, THE SHOOTIST, CHARLEY VARRICK) and call it his 'masterwork,' but my gut reaction after viewing THE BEGUILED is to do just that. It's an atypical work, not merely for Action/Western icons Eastwood and Siegel, but for studio-financed American cinema as a whole. It's the sort of film that sticks with you for hours, days, and weeks… Based on a novel by Thomas Cullinan, it invokes the spirit and temperaments of Poe, Bierce, Hawthorne, and Capote, and the resulting film possesses a sort of 'Southern Gothic psychedelic existentialism.' It almost has the feel of SPIDER BABY combined with THE GOOD, THE BAD, & THE UGLY. As the Civil War rages, a small Confederate girls' school carries on with business (nearly) as usual, learning French and proper napkin etiquette even as cannons blast and patrols pass by. Their existence is interrupted by a wounded Union soldier, McB (Clint Eastwood), who isn't quite the saint that he pretends to be...of course, neither are they.
Stifling, hypnotic, even baroque, the film is presented from an omniscient perspective: different characters' thoughts, memories, and hypocrisies bleed into one another, like wreckage upon wreckage. You can blame it on the war or you can blame it on human nature, but no one- not even the sweetest, most innocent of little girls- emerges from this thing unscathed.Clint gets a chance to really ACT this time: it's not chewing on a cigarillo, gunning down dudes, or growling one-liners; the legendary Geraldine Page maintains a calm exterior which brilliantly belies her inner tumult; and Lalo Schifrin delivers his most mature, complex score (full of deep, echoey flutes, mournful oboes, and intricate harpiscords), and it perfectly complements the mood of the film. An eloquent meditation on survival, human folly, psychosexual longing, and race (and bookended by Clint singing, a cappella), THE BEGUILED is truly a masterpiece.

51. LE CERCLE ROUGE (1970, Jean-Pierre Melville)

Jean-Pierre Melville– he's sort of the gold standard for cinematic "cool," and he imbues his films (they're mostly somber gangster flicks) with an elegant detachment which has reverberated across the decades and influenced almost every crime film made in its wake. As far as Melville goes, LE CERCLE ROUGE is one of his absolute best. Beginning with an ersatz Buddha quote and ending in a maelstrom of, uh, melancholy, the red circle brings together a suave, mustachioed Alain Delon; a wild-eyed, badass Gian Maria Volonté (of Sergio Leone fame); and a dapper but glum alcholic Yves Montand, who suffers incredible, creepy-crawly marionette hallucinations during unfortunate bouts with the D.T.'s. Yes, this unlikely trio is brought together for a tremendous heist sequence which rivals the classic in Jules Dassin's RIFIFI, and they are investigated by cat-loving sad sack cop André Bourvil who pursues them across a cool blue, olive drab landscape occasionally punctuated by sharp bursts of red. It's got the bonds of Hawksian friendship tempered by French existential foreboding– and it has shaped the worldviews of filmmakers from John Woo to Quentin Tarantino. One of the greats.

Coming up next... an ape funeral, a silent classic, and a shitload of dynamite!

Previously on the countdown:
#60-56
#65-61
#70-66
#75-71
#80-76
#85-81
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

Film Review: HEIST (2001, David Mamet)

Stars: 4 of 5. Running Time: 109 minutes. Notable Cast or Crew: Gene Hackman, Danny DeVito, Rebecca Pidgeon (THE SPANISH PRISONER, STATE & MAIN), Sam Rockwell (MOON, THE GREEN MILE), Delroy Lindo (CROOKLYN, BROKEN ARROW), Ricky Jay (HOUSE OF GAMES, MAGNOLIA, DEADWOOD), Patti LuPone (Broadway star, WITNESS, DRIVING MISS DAISY). Written and directed by David Mamet (HOUSE OF GAMES, HOMICIDE, THE SPANISH PRISONER). Tag-line: " It isn't love that makes the world go round." Best one-liner: "My motherfucker is so cool, when he goes to bed, sheep count him." or maybe "Never liked the Swiss, they make them little clocks, these two cocksuckers come out of 'em with these little hammers, hit each other on the head. What kind of sick mentality is that?" I thought I'd take a break from the countdown to make a few concise, mathematical observations about David Mamet's film, HEIST. I saw this film on the big screen upon its initial release, which, hard as it may be for me to comprehend, was in fact ten years ago. It's a taut little crime flick, populated with razor-sharp performers and rapid-fire dialogue. It's probably slightly more "fun," than the average Mamet flick as well (I mean, compared to, say, HOMICIDE or OLEANNA...). Ricky Jay gets a lot of deadpan one-liners,


In the Junta Juleil rulebook, Ricky Jay is one of the few people permitted to walk nonchalantly away from an explosion without drawing my ire.

Rebecca Pidgeon dons a lot of redunkulous and flannel-heavy disguises, Gene Hackman punctuates a lot of verbal exchanges with that 'mischievous old man laugh' he's been refining since the beginning of his career,



Delroy Lindo cultivates the idea that he has ice-water in his veins, Danny DeVito hoots and hollers like a mad ape (and punches the 'Pidge in the process– wait a minute, I like that!... I shall therefore refer to Rebecca Pidgeon as "The Pidge" from this day forward),


The Pidge smolders.

and Patti LuPone sneaks booze into her morning coffee. In short, it has a lot of character and is a damn good time. Yet I make those notations having recently re-watched it. With the thousands of movies I'd digested between 2001-2011, until last night I could remember almost nothing about HEIST. I remembered the cast, and that there were double crosses and thieves and fast-paced witticisms, but largely I remembered that most of the film seemed to center around three ideas, or rather, three words: "fuck," "job," and "gold."
The reconstruction of the film in my head went something like this: "Fuck the gold job." –"Fuck the job!? Fuck the gold!" "Gold job fuck!" –"Job fuck gold!" "Gold fuck job!" –"Fuck gold fuck job, gold fuck!" And so on and so on.

FUCKING GOLD JOB FUCK!

So, upon revisiting HEIST, I decided to test these recollections against cold, hard statistics. (Now, as I continue, I would like to say that only Mamet and others of his literary caliber are allowed to get away with this sort of thing; there's a mighty fine line sometimes betwixt poetry and juvenilia.) I discovered this: in 109 minutes, there were thirty-two golds, fifty fucks, and fifty-one jobs. You may be disappointed in the tally, as it certainly doesn't approach the legendary films which go bananas with the f-word, for instance, but there's still more than one of those three words being uttered every minute, an even more impressive feat considering that there are many wordless, multi-minute heist sequences peppered throughout the film. But, in a way, my previous impression goes far in establishing the economy with which Mamet tells a story (and perhaps even Mamet's greater intentions). You see– this is indeed a movie about a job, some gold, and some people fucking each other over. Well-executed as it is, perhaps Mamet is making a comment on heist movies: as Godard said, all you need to make a movie is a girl and a gun; perhaps it follows that all you need to make a post-1990's heist movie is a job, some gold, and some f-bombs? And the Pidge. Mustn't forget the Pidge. Four stars.

-Sean Gill