Tag Archives: Woody Allen

La La Land

La La Land

Damien Chazelle’s La La Land (2016) is in Oscar heaven with fourteen nominations total. This is equally remarkable as it is unremarkable. The Best Picture winners for the past five years can easily be categorized as either serious sociological documents (Spotlight, 12 Years A Slave, Argo) or as technological gimmicks (Birdman, The Artist). La La Land, being a traditional musical of sorts, falls into the latter category. However it possesses traits that set it apart from these other Best Picture winners of recent years. La La Land is a film for the millennial generation in its approach to love, friendship, sexuality, and ambition. The nostalgia of the musical genre and its traditional structure are all subservient to the chemistry of Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling, to their ill fated love affair and their anxieties. Though Spotlight (2016), 12 Years A Slave (2014), Argo (2013), Birdman (2015) and The Artist (2012) may all be films sold to the same generation as La La Land, none of them ring with the honesty of truth that defines the mechanisms of La La Land’s love story or even its most superficial trappings.

In marketing La La Land to the public a great deal of attention has been drawn to the genre of the film and its heritage. Comparisons to Billy Wilder, Jacques Demy and the Arthur Freed unit at MGM have abounded. I don’t mean to say that the works of Freed, Wilder and Demy do not enter the discourse surrounding La La Land, simply that there are a small network of other films that have paved the way for La La Land. The two most obvious being Francis Ford Coppola’s One From The Heart (1982) and Jacques Rivette’s Haut bas fragile (1995).

One From The Heart

One From The Heart is a fantasy or marital strife and redemption set in an imaginary Las Vegas.  La La Land and One From The Heart both stress the correlation between character and environment whilst drawing heavily from a strong (and often similar) lighting design. More striking than the visual similarities is Chazelle’s success in adopting Coppola’s direction of the numbers in One From The Heart. One can see in Coppola’s staging short moments of just “being” where the actors are given a moment to exist with one another in the time between dialogue and number. This approach is not entirely successful in One From The Heart simply because it does not exist as a traditional musical, it’s hampered by its own post-modern tendencies. La La Land makes use of this approach superbly by employing it as a break in narrative thrust for the audience to reinvest in the actors. This break also makes the shift from text (dialogue) to subtext (musical number) far more fluid and believable.

Haut bas fragile, like so many films by Rivette, obsesses over the fundamentals of improvisation in the mundane. Rivette’s musical numbers leap from what feel like spontaneous interactions with a heightened emotionality. Rivette’s realism combined with the improvisatory nature of the performances make the numbers remarkable in how grounded they are in the reality of Haut bas fragile. La La Land attempts this but cannot forgo its dependence on the Freed tradition long enough to sustain it as an aesthetic choice. In fact Chazelle seems to accomplish Rivette’s sense of spontaneity only twice, and even then if feels almost accidental as a directing choice since the strength of these moments is born out of the Stone/Gosling chemistry within the context of more traditional framing and editing (Rivette always privileged a wider shot). Both these moments ground the number within the traditionally diegetic and occur with Stone finding Gosling at the piano, first in a club and then at their apartment, and each builds on the film’s main musical motif.

The Girls From Rochefort

The tendency for nostalgia is inevitable within the musical genre simply because it is largely neglected and rarely attempted.  Most of this nostalgia can be found in the sequences that compose the “inner fantasies” of the Emma Stone character. MGM classics such as Lili (1953), Gigi (1958), An American In Paris (1951), On The Town (1949), and Singing In The Rain (1952) are all referenced. So are The Umbrellas Of Cherbourg (1964), The Young Girls Of Rochefort (1967) and The Red Balloon (1956), diversifying the element of fantasy and signifying an intellectual refinement essential to auteurist theory in cinema.

The potency of these two fantastic reveries in La La Land are not born out of Chazelle’s filmic references, but rather in placing La La Land within a unique Hollywood tradition wherein Paris represents fulfilment. This idea of Paris as a dream world is at the heart of countless films from the aforementioned Lili  to Sabrina (1954) to Midnight In Paris (2011). This distinctly post-war fantasy is indicative of both nostalgia and the potential promise of the future simultaneously. La La Land, much like Woody Allen’s recent films, exploits the millennials’ preoccupation with Paris culture in the twenties, thirties and forties by using visual signifiers within these sequences as cues for a precise emotional response akin to the image of Mickey Mouse.

One of the best moments in La La Land actually subverts this nostalgic impulse. After a screening of Nicolas Ray’s Rebel Without A Cause (1955) goes awry, Stone and Gosling retreat to the planetarium featured in Ray’s film. Gazelle then releases the sexual and romantic frustrations that were the subtext of the planetarium sequence in Rebel Without A Cause by bringing his protagonists together within the same physical space. Stone and Gosling literally transcend the frustrations of Ray’s film by lifting off into the air, then the stars, in a ballet of courtship.

The sequence in the planetarium presents a duality within La La Land. At one turn it prefers the Romantic to the realistic, though inevitably the film’s protagonists do not live happily ever after. This romantic nihilism and the gradual breakdown of communication within the characters’ relationship is part of a contemporary trend within dramatic romances. La La Land sees Ryan Gosling going about the same rise and fall with a partner as he did in Blue Valentine (2010) and The Place Beyond The Pines (2012) more or less. The inevitable division within the relationship also has its roots in the tradition of “jazz dramas” turned out by Hollywood in the fifties and sixties. Michael Curtiz’s Young Man With A Horn (1950) and John Cassavetes’ Too Late Blues (1962) both focus on the male’s inability to love a woman and follow a career as a musician and represent but two of so many films with such a stance.

La La Land

the Paris fantasy

The trajectory of the female protagonist as played by Emma Stone is also born out of a strong Hollywood tradition.  Stone’s character is a contemporary Sabrina Fairchild. Like Audrey Hepburn or Julia Ormond, Stone finds herself in Paris and is able to return to the states and find the love of her life and a purpose. What changes is that the narrative of La La Land focuses on Stone prior to her metamorphosing trip to Paris.
The weakness of La La Land is that, perhaps, it embraces too readily too many of the aesthetic values familiar to us from the Arthur Freed productions. The characters are beautiful idealists and dreamers living in a beautiful world. Haut bas fragile did not gloss over the urbanness of Paris, and John Turturro’s Romance & Cigarettes (2005) is a musical that found an unprecedented amount of beauty in the everyday of an American blue collar existence. La La Land is, however, the most worthy contender for Best Picture that the academy has nominated in a long time.

-Robert Curry

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Filed under Winter 2012


On October 4, 1895, Joseph Francis  “Buster” Keaton was born.  In the one hundred and twenty years since his birth, Buster Keaton has become an iconic clown and one of the most influential filmmakers of all time.  To commemorate this landmark anniversary, I have compiled a three part oral history of Keaton’s life and career, allowing us to read, in his own words, how he made the silent films that have become classics of comedy and world cinema.  [NOTE: This oral history has been compiled from a number of readily available interview sources and biographies.  I and all Keaton fans around the world are heavily indebted to the interviewers and historians who have conducted those interviews.  It is not the intention of this editor or Zimbo Films to take credit for this interview material or to profit from it.  For a full list of citations, please see below.]

Buster Keaton's Hat

Three Ages (1923)

BUSTER KEATON:  [Producer Joseph] Schenck said [moving to features] was the only way to get big rentals.  The exhibitor, anyway, was often featuring our two-reelers over his main film.  So why not make him pay for it?  It would more than double the rentals – would mean twenty-five hundred dollars and more a week from each theatre.  As for me personally feature stories meant something else again…I had begun to want longer stories.  A challenge, yes, but also room to develop the thing.  To really say it.1

…what I did [with Three Ages] was just tell a single story of two fellows calling on a girl…And in fighting over the girl and different situations we could get into, and finally winning her.  But I told the same story in three ages.  I told it in the Stone Age, Roman Age, and Modern.2 I was thinking of Intolerance (1916) when I made it.  I told the three separate stories same as Griffith did; and of course in that film I did take liberties, because it was more of a travesty than a burlesque.  That’s why I used a wristwatch that was a sundial, and why I used my helmet the way I did.  Fords at that time had a safety device to stop people from stealing the cars…which looked just like my Roman helmet.  So I unlocked my Roman helmet off me and locked it on the wheel of my chariot.  At that time the audience all compared it with the safety gadget for a Ford.3

CLYDE BRUCKMAN, co-director, The General:  Bus wanted one of the cavemen to heave a big rock at him; he would take a batter’s stance, swing his war club, bat the rock back, and it would bean the other guy.  Now, you do this easy by the cutting technique.  One shot of the guy throwing.  Next shot, someone out of camera range lobs it up to Buster and he bats it.  Final shot, close-up of the rock beaning the guy.  Put it all together.  Easy as duck soup…the studios do it every day.  It rolls across the screen with a whoosh – but you never saw the thing really happen; it’s a patchwork of half-truths.

Now, Buster accepted the fact that this rock must be papier-mache.  But he wouldn’t accept action trickery.  It had to be continuous action, from the moment the caveman picked it up and heaved it straight through to the moment it homed back and coldcocked him.  “We get it in one shot,” he said, “or we throw out the gag.”

We set up the cameras for a long profile shot – this rock was going to sail for thirty feet – and we worked for hours.  Seventy-six takes, all for one little gag.

“Okay,” said Buster, “now they’ll know it was for real.”4

BUSTER KEATON: [For the film] I went to jump across an alleyway on top of a tall building.  We built the sets over the Third Street tunnel – or the Broadway tunnel – looking right down over Los Angeles.  Now, by getting your cameras up on a high parallel and shooting past our set in the foreground with the street below, it looked like we were up in the air about twelve, fourteen stories high.  And we actually had a net stretched from one wall to the other underneath the camera line so in case you missed any trick that you were doing…you had a net to fall into, although it was about a thirty-five foot drop.  So, my scene was with the cops chasing me, that I came to this thing and I took advantage of the lid of a skylight and laid it over the edge of the roof to use as a springboard.  I backed up, hit it, and tried to make it to the other side which was probably about eighteen feet, something like that.  Well, I misjudged the spring of that board and I didn’t make it.  I hit flat up against that other set and fell to the net, but I hit hard enough that it jammed my knees a little bit, and hips and elbows, ’cause I hit flush, flat – and I had to go home and stay in bed for about three days.

And of course, at the same time, me and the scenario department were a little sick because we can’t make that leap.  That throws the whole chase sequence…right out the window.  So the boys the next day went into the projecting room and saw the scene anyhow, ’cause they had it printed to look at it.  Well, they got a thrill out of it, so they came back and told me about it.  Says, “Well, if it looks that good let’s see if we can pick it up this way.  The best thing to do is put an awning on a window, just a little small awning, just enough to break my fall.”   ‘Cause on the screen, you could see that I fell about, oh I guess about sixteen feet, something like that. So, now you go in and drop into something just to slow me up, to break my fall, and I can swing from that onto a rainspout and when I get ahold of it, it breaks and lets me sway, sways me out away from the building hanging onto it.  And for a finish, it collapses enough that it hinges and throws me down through a window a couple of floors below.

Well, when we got back and checked up on that this chase was about – the chase was this: I was getting away from policemen, and used the old Hollywood Station on Hollywood, which was right next door to the fire department.  Well, when this pipe broke and threw me through the window, we went in there and built the sleeping quarters of the fire department with a sliding pole in the background.  So I came through their window on my back, slid across the floor, and I lit up against the sliding pole and dropped to the bottom on the slide.  I bounced from that to set on the rear of one of the trucks and as I hit the rear the truck pulled out, so I had to grab on for dear life, but I’m on my way to a fire – but the fire was in the police department.  So we went back and shot the scene where I accidentally, not knowing it, had set fire to the police department before the cops started to chase me.  Well, it ended up…it was the biggest laughing sequence in the picture.5

Our Hospitality (1923)

DAVID ROBINSON, film historian/Chaplin biographer:  The leap from The Three Ages to the masterpiece Our Hospitality is one of the most startling revolutions in Keaton’s career.  Our Hospitality shows Keaton in full possession of his mature gifts: as a filmmaker he is as assured as a [Henry] King or a [King] Vidor; and certainly the superior of Chaplin, who at the time that Keaton was making Our Hospitality was preparing The Gold Rush (1925) – a beautiful film, but technically archaic and visually feeble when seen alongside the Keaton film.6

BUSTER KEATON:  On Our Hospitality we had this one idea of an old-fashioned Southern feud…our best period for that was to go back something like eighty years.  “All right,” we say.  “We go back that far.  And now when I go South, am I traveling in a covered wagon, or what?  Let’s look up the records and see when the first railroad train was invented.”  Well, we find out: we’ve got the Stephenson Rocket for England and the DeWitt Clinton for the United States.  And we chose the Rocket engine because it’s funnier looking.  So we build that entire train and that set our period for us: 1825 was the actual year of the invention of the railroad.7…and they weren’t so fussy about laying railroad track [then] – it if was a little unlevel, they just ignored it.  They laid it over fallen trees, over rocks (laughs).  So I got quite a few laughs ridin’ that railroad.

[In the film] when I got down South to claim my father’s estate, I ran into the family who had run us out of the state in the first place.  And the old man of the outfit wouldn’t let his sons or anybody shoot me while I was a guest in the house ’cause the girl had invited me for dinner.  Well, I’d overheard it and found out.  As long as I stayed in the house, I was safe.  But I had a good story to tell and it rounded out swell and it was a big seller for me.8

For that scene in the rapids…we picked the best rapids from a pictorial point of view, a two-hundred-yard stretch where the water moves fast and white.  I’m supposed to grab onto a sixteen-foot log and float out into the bad water.

“Can you hold on to the log?” [Technical Director Fred] Gabouri asked me.  I said, “Yes.”  So he put a holdback wire around the log, ran the wire out about sixty feet, and then anchored it tightly around a baseball bat.  There were three men holding that bat.

The idea was to shoot this close up to establish the action while they keep me from getting swept away.  Then we’d go into a more distant profile for long stretches of milder water, where they can control the log and me.

Fine, we’re shooting, then the wire goes pop, real soft, and – bang! – the log and I are in the rapids, and off to hell we go.  I hear the guys yell and start into the rocks and underbrush along the river.  But I’m thinking about myself – think fast or forget it.  I sure as shooting have to shed that log or it will beat me to death against the boulders.  So I kick loose and spring ahead. The main thing is to keep from whirling.  I’m fighting for breath and trying to remember how long the rapids are and how much of them are left.

It starts to quiet down, and I think, I’ve made it! Then suddenly I’m in foam a foot deep.  You don’t breathe very well in foam, and you sure as hell can’t swim on top of it.  It was a bend in the river that saved me.  I grabbed some overhanging branches, pulled myself out, feet still in the water and just lay on my face fighting for air.

All of that took maybe a minute and a half, two minutes.  It took [the crew] nearly ten minutes to fight through the underbrush.  I don’t suppose they knew what they would find.9

Sherlock Jr.

Sherlock Jr. (1924)

BUSTER KEATON:  I liked Sherlock.  It was a good picture for me.  It was the trickiest of all the pictures I ever made because there were so many camera tricks and illusions.  We spent an awful lot of time getting those scenes.10 That was the reason for making the whole picture.  Just that one situation: that a motion picture projectionist in a theatre goes to sleep and visualizes himself getting mixed up with the characters on the screen.  All right, then my job was to transform those characters on the screen into my (the projectionist’s) characters at home, and then I’ve got my plot.  Now to make it work was another thing: and after that picture was made every cameraman in Hollywood spent more than one night watching it and trying to figure out just how we got some of those scenes.11  I think the reason we started off on that story is because I had one of the best cameramen in the business, Elgin Lessley.  We laid out a few of these tricks; some of these tricks I knew from the stage.  I seldom did camera tricks.  I tried to do the real illusion.  I have done an awful lot of camera tricks too, as far as that goes.  But I laid out some of those gags.  And the technical man that builds the sets, I showed him how I have to get them built for the things I had to do.  When I got that batch of stuff together, he said “You can’t do it and tell a legitimate story, because there are illusions, and some of them are clowns gags, some Houdini…It’s got to come in a dream.”  And all I had to round out was that I was in trouble at the start of the picture with my girl’s father.  He thought I stole his watch.  Well, on the screen I became the world’s greatest detective, to solve this mystery.  Of course, while I’m asleep the girl finds out that I didn’t steal it, and she’s the one who woke me up at the finish.  But on the screen I was a son-of-a-gun, the world’s great detective.  No matter how they tried to surround me and kill me or get me, I got out of it.12

Oh, there were some great shots in that baby!…I got up on the screen and they threw me off back into the audience.  I finally get back up there again and the scenes changed on me.13  [For that] we built what looked like a motion picture screen and actually built a stage into that frame but lit it in such a way that it looked like a motion picture being projected on a screen.  But it was real actors and the lighting effect gave us the illusion, so I could go out of semi-darkness into that well-lit screen right from the front room of the theater right into the picture.  Then when it came to the scene changing on me when I got up there, that was a case of timing and on every one of those things we would measure the distance to the fraction of an inch from the camera to where I was standing, also with a surveying outfit to get the exact height and angle so that there wouldn’t be a fraction of an inch missing on me, and then we changed the setting to what we wanted it to be and I got back into that same spot and it overlapped the action to get the effect of the scene changing.14

…I didn’t use stunt men for me, but I doubled them.  There’s a scene in Sherlock Jr. when I call a motorcycle cop, and I say, “Follow that car.”  And I jump on his handlebars, we hit a bump in the street, and I lose the cop.  Well, the cop that fell off was me.  Because what I did was take Ernie Orsatti, an assistant props man with me, who was my size.  Put my clothes on him.  I put the cop’s clothes on, drove the motorcycle, hit the bump and fell of the motorcycle.15  [For that] I’d just go out and learn to handle a motorcycle on the handlebars16… hell of a job.  Number one.  The control of the gas is here [on the handlebars] for speed, but I’ve got no brakes.  You’ve got to have a strong arm to get your feet back down there, ’cause it was footbrakes, see.  Well, I got some beautiful spills before I could get back.  Some beauties.  I parked right up on top of an automobile once.  I hit it head on, and I ended up with my fanny up against the windshield, my feet straight in the air.  [Laughter]  Parked car!17

They found a fracture – years later – I didn’t even know it.  I was doing a scene in Sherlock.  I was running along the top of a freight train, and I grabbed the rope of a water tower to get on the other train, and of course all my full weight pulls on the rope and of course I pull the spout down and it drenches me with water.  Well, when you’re on top of a freight car you’re up there twelve feet high and that water spout is a ten inch pipe.  I didn’t know how strong that water pressure was.  Well, it just tore my grip loose as if I had no grip at all and dropped me the minute it hit me.  And I lit on my back, with  my head right across the rail – the rail right on my neck.  It was a pretty hard fall, and that water pushed me down.18  I said, “I want a drink.”  So, that numbed me enough that I woke up the following morning, my head was clear, and I never stopped working.  But fourteen years later, I’m in the Soldier’s Home down here in Sawtelle.  The doctor calls me in and says, “When did you break your neck?”  I said I never broke my neck.  He said, “Look at this X-ray.  This callus has grown over the crack, it’s next to the top vertebra.”  I didn’t know it.  I said, “How long ago was this?”  “That looks like it could be somewhere between ten and fifteen years ago.” I started thinking back.  “I know when it happened.  It’s that goddamn fall on the track.  It cracked this vertebra.”  I never stopped working, never knew it.  Well, that’s luck.  No nerve pinched or anything in the healing – and I never knew it.19

CLYDE BRUCKMAN: We had a pool-table shot where he had to pocket a number of balls in one stroke of the cue.  The camera at high level had to show it all happen.  Set up the balls, Whang away and miss.  We worked an hour.

“You know, Buster,” we said, “this thing can’t be done.”

This made him mad.  “It can be done.  Give me fifteen minutes with those stupid goddamn balls.”  He coated each ball with white chalk, then shot it separately into the proper pocket.  Each ball left the line of its path on the green felt.  Then Buster placed each ball exactly where the line indicated, called, “Camera!” and took one shot and pocketed them all.20

The Navigator

The Navigator (1924)

WOODY ALLEN, comedian/filmmaker:  City Lights (1931) and The Gold Rush (1925) and The Navigator and The General (1927) are the four great comedies, aren’t they?21

BUSTER KEATON:  We were workin’ on a story, the scenario department, and we didn’t have a good idea yet …And I had just lent my technical man to Metro, to Frank Lloyd.  He wanted to do The Sea Hawk and that called for about five fourteenth-century sailing vessels.  So he was up and down the Pacific Coast lookin’ for those hulls that they could build up into those pirate ships…But he had just gotten back in town, and he says, “While I was in ‘Frisco, I ran into an ocean liner – five hundred feet long – a passenger ship.  And they’re just about to sell it for junk.”  Says, “You can have it for$25,000 and do anything you want with it.”

Well, we went to work right then and there and says, “Now, what could we do with an ocean liner?”  Says, “Well, we can make a dead ship out of it.  No lights aboard.  No water running.  Just afloat.”  How could we get it afloat?  Well, we set out to figure out how to do that and to write a story around it.  Only to get a boy and a girl alone, and adrift in the Pacific Ocean.  And we plant the characters so that the audience knows that she never saw a kitchen in her life, doesn’t know how to boil a cup of tea.  I am the son of a very wealthy man in San Francisco, so I’ve been waited on all my life with valets, chauffeurs, and private tutors and everything else.  So I don’t know what I’m doin’.  And set those two characters adrift in the Pacific Ocean on a dead ship.  Well, that’s The Navigator.  And it worked out beautifully.

…The opening gag in that picture with me is one of the most stolen gags that was ever done on the screen.  I think I knew at one time of twenty-seven times it had been done by other companies.  With us, the gag was more to establish the fact that I was so helpless, that I went to call on the girl, and I came down and got in my car with a chauffeur and a footman.  The footman wrapped a blanket around my knees … and drove [me] across the street.  That’s all.  I got out to call on the girl.,  I asked the girl if she’d marry me and she said, “No,” and I come back down.  The guy opened the door in the car for me, and I said, “No, I think the walk will do me good.”  So I walked across the street with the car followin’ me, makin’ a U-turn.22

…when we first laid out the story of The Navigator ahead, a few dramatic scenes at the start of it were legitimate and not done in a comedy way…you get a good dramatic director to take care of those sequences in the picture. The only one mistake we made there, and that was Donald Crisp – he was strictly from the D.W. Griffith school, a topnotch dramatic man…But when he joined us, he turned into a gag man.  He wasn’t interested in the dramatic scenes, he was only interested in the comedy scenes with me.  Well, that we didn’t want.23  He was actually annoying as a gag man, see.  Actually, after I let him go, I went back and shot a couple of the dramatic scenes again.24

I’ll show you how seriously they used to take our stories.  In The Navigator…we run aground stern first off a cannibal island, and through the binoculars I can see that they are wild type of cannibals, they are headhunters.  Well, it was just a matter of time that they are going to come out there and get onto this ship.  And we spring a leak in the stuffing box, which means we can see this water pouring in around the driving shaft.  It can’t be plugged from the inside; it’s got to be done from outside.  Well, automatically there’s deep-sea diving equipment right there in the set with us.  So, the girl helps me put it on, and she’s up there to pump air to me.

Well, we laid out this gag in advance and had it built by the Llewellyn Iron Works in Los Angeles.  We got about twelve hundred solid rubber fish about a foot long and hung ’em on cat gut, violin strings that are transparent under water.  And then hung ’em from this rigging so that a school of fish…we could make a school of fish go past, circle around back of the camera and continue, and with one spot to break it when we wanted to.  So my gag was, while I’m down there trying to fix that stuffing box, that a big fish came up and tried to go through the school and couldn’t make it. And I see a starfish clinging to a rock, so I got the starfish off of the rock and let it grab my breastplate.  I stepped into the middle of the school of fish and brought it to a stop, and then turned and brought the big fish through, and then turned – I directed traffic – and then went back to my job.

Well, the gag photographed beautifully.  We preview the picture, and it lays a beautiful egg, not a giggle from the audience.  We can’t figure it out. Well, says, we’ll try it at the next preview and see.  Next preview, the same thing.  It finally dawned on us what it was.  I went down there to stuff that stuffing box to keep the girl and me from falling into the hands of these cannibals, and I had no license in the world to stop to go help a fish go through the traffic.  Simple as that.  Now to prove it, we take it out of the picture and of course our picture travels the way it is supposed to and finished great.  And I took that sequence and put it in with what they call the trailers.  And this scene was in it, and it got an out-and-out belly laugh.25

[We had] terrible problems [with the underwater sequences]… I was one month up [at Lake Tahoe] shooting that sequence.  One of the worst problems in Tahoe was the water so clear you could really see, but so cold that I could only stay down about thirty minutes at a time.26

…we built this camera box for two cameras…with a big iron passage up to the top with a ladder on the inside. That box, of course, was built of planks and sealed good so that there’s no leakage.  But it’s wood and there has to be added weight added to it.  Well, I added about a thousand pounds of weight to it.  Now we find out the inside’s got to be kept at the same temperature as the water outside.  So we hang a thermometer out there so the cameraman can look through the glass and read it – and one on the inside.  And we got cakes of ice out there…to make sure to keep the temperature of the camera box the same as the water on the outside, so it won’t fog up the glass.  Either one side or the other will fog up on you, see.  The difference was that when the two bodies are in there, the body heat…that means add more ice immediately.  So, as you put the cameramen in, you also put more ice in.  [Laughter]  Dressed them warm enough to take it.  So, there’s the whole outfit and me with that deep-sea diving outfit going down there, and the cameraman says, “I’m too close.  I want to be back further.”  I moved that camera box under water – I moved it!  That’s how much you can lift when you’re down around fifteen or twenty feet deep. The box must have weight about fourteen hundred pounds or something like that.  Two cameramen and two cameras and about two to three hundred pounds of ice, another thousand pounds of weight on it, and I picked it up and moved it.27

[The Navigator is] an out-and-out novelty – such a screwy story, starting with using an ocean liner, for the love of Mike.  It lent itself to gags that you’d never think of.28

Seven Chances

Seven Chances (1925)

BUSTER KEATON:  A certain local screwball…sold [Joseph Schenck] a story – a Belasco show called Seven Chances – twenty-five thousand dollars.  The money wasn’t much, but the show!  I had seen it in New York – 1916 for heaven’s sakes – and it was a flop then.  Closed in a week, if I recall.  The type of unbelievable farce I don’t like.  We made it anyway and got a fair picture.29

[For the climax of the film] I am running away from a batch of women who are chasing me.  A friend has put it in the paper that I’ll marry anybody so long as I can be married by five o’clock – it has to do with inheriting an estate or whatever.  So all the women in the world show up to get married.  They chase me out of the church, and so on.  I went down to the dunes just off the Pacific Ocean out at Los Angeles, and I accidentally dislodged a boulder in coming down.  All I had set up for the scene was a camera panning with me as I came over the skyline and was chased down into the valley.  But I dislodged this rock, and it in turn dislodged two others, and they chased me down this hill.

That’s all there was: just three rocks.  But the audience at the preview sat up in their seats and expected more.  So we went right back and ordered fifteen hundred rocks built, from bowling alley size up to boulders eight feet in diameter.  Then we went out to the Ridge Route, which is in the High Sierras, to a burnt mountain steeper than a forty-five degree angle.  A couple of truckloads of men took those rocks up and planted them, and then I went up to the top and came down with the rocks.  That gag gave me the whole final chase, and it was an accident in the first place.30

[There’s a scene where] I had an automobile, like a Stutz-Bearcat roadster.  I was in front of an office building.  Now it’s a full-figure shot of that automobile and me.  I come down, got into the car – there’s a lot of people walking up and down the sidewalks, office building in the background – I release the emergency brake after starting it, sit back to drive – and I didn’t move.  The scene changed, and I was in front of a little cottage out in the country.  I reach forward, pull on the emergency brake, shut my motor off, and went on into the cottage.  I come back and after I visit her, get into the automobile, turn it on, sit back there – and I and the automobile never moved – and the scene changed back to the office building in New York, in the city.  Now that automobile’s got to be exactly the same distance, the same height and everything, to make that work, because the scene overlaps but I don’t…for that baby, we used surveying instruments, so that the front part of the car would be the same distance from [the camera], the whole shooting match.31

PIERRE ETAIX, filmmaker/clown: Buster Keaton, in anything he did – for example, the whole stunt sequence at the end of Seven Chances where he tumbles down a hillside, somersaulting and flipping, with the rocks at his heels, and the women pursuing him – what a magnificent scene!  What a performance!  He wasn’t acting there.  His movements are true acrobatics.  It’s marvelous.  That’s a legacy from the circus and variety shows.33

Go West (1925)

BUSTER KEATON: [We shot that] about sixty miles out of Kingman, Arizona.  We were really out in open country34…I ran into one disappointment on that film.  One of the most famous Western shows ever seen in the United States was called The Heart of Maryland, in which these two guys are playing cards, and one guy calls the other a name, and he takes out his six-shooter and lays it down on the table, pointing right at this fellow’s middle, and says, “When you call me that, smile…”  Well, because I’m known as frozen face, blank pan, we thought that if you did that to me an audience would say, “Oh my God, he can’t smile: he’s gone; he’s dead.”  But it didn’t strike an audience as funny at all: they just felt sorry for me.35

I had [another] bad disappointment in that thing.  I thought I had a funny sequence when I had my cattle…and I actually turned ’em loose in Los Angeles in the Santa Fe depot in the freight yards, and brought ’em up Seventh Street to Broadway (no – up to Spring Street).  And we put cowboys off on every side street to stop people in automobiles from comin’ into it.  And then put our own cars with people in there.  And I brought three hundred head of steers up that street.  I’d hate to ask permission to do that today.  But then I thought that by goin’ in a store, and I saw a costume place, and I saw a devil’s suit… well, bulls and steers don’t like red, they’ll chase it.  ‘Course I was tryin’ to lead ’em towards the slaughter house.  I put that suit on and I thought I’d get a funny chase sequence, and have the cows get a little too close to me, and get scared.  Then really put on the speed tryin’ go get away from ’em.  But I couldn’t do it with steers – steers wouldn’t chase me.  I actually ran and had cowboys pushin’ ’em as fast as they could go, and I fell down in front of ’em and let ’em get within about ten feet of me before I got to my feet.  But as I moved, they stopped, too.  They piled up on each other.  But they wouldn’t come near me.  Well, that kind of hurt when you think that’s going to be your big finish chase sequence.  We had to trick it from all angles…Some parts I like, but as a picture, in general, I didn’t care for it.36

Battling Butler (1926)

BUSTER KEATON: Battling Butler I liked.  It was a good picture.  I told the original story that was taken from the stage show except that I had to add my own finish.  I couldn’t have done the finish that was in the show…[where] he just finds out in the dressing room up at Madison Square Garden that he don’t have to fight the champion and he promises the girl he’ll never fight again.  And of course the girl don’t know but what he did fight.

But we knew better than to do that to a motion-picture audience.  We couldn’t promise ’em for seven reels that I was goin’ to fight in the ring and then not fight.  We knew that we had to fight.  So we staged a fight in the dressing room with the guy who just won the title in the ring – by having bad blood between the fighter and myself.  And it worked out swell.37

CLYDE BRUCKMAN: My God, it was a really dramatic fight, not a comedy fight.  Yet it stood up in a comic picture – one of the best closings of any Keaton film.  You’re all in there rooting for this little guy against the world’s champion.38

edited by Hank Curry

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Five Dream Projects

In late 2009, just before winter break during my junior year of college, a professor asked my class to, while during break, compile a list of fifty ideas that would make good films.  Now, last week my brother and I began editing his film Hassle Magnet and I happened to stumble upon my list while making space on one of my hard drives.  This new list, of only five, represents the best of those ideas from 2009.  These are the projects I would still love to make.

Nixon and Elvis

1-In 1973, Richard Nixon recruited Elvis Presley [Nicolas Cage] to become the first TIME COP. In 1977, Elvis fakes his death, and [after 4 years of training] sets off on his first mission to stop Walt Disney of 2432 (now thawed out and cured) from killing history’s most important Jews. To do this, Elvis recruits Bruce Lee and Fatty Arbuckle to help him.

2-On a rainy night, Dirk and Paolo [Crispin Glover & Cillian Murphy] are called to a homicide. There they take prints and make the strange decision to take the woman’s dead body with them in their car. They take turns driving and having intercourse with the corpse, but their pleasure cruise is halted when the homicidal maniac [Nicolas Cage] goes looking for the body himself. While the three engage in a sadistic slapstick cat and mouse, FBI agent Dick Moses [Danny Glover] is on the verge of catching all three necrophiliacs and charging them as a gang.

3-Eric [Rip Torn] has built 30 two-inch tall women out of scrap metal. He keeps these women under his hat and has them steal from cash registers for him. Another cunning inventor [Ray Liotta] hopes to steal his secret. After several break-ins, the Inventor abducts Eric, and threatens his life for the secret of the little women. Eric refuses and is murdered. But that night, the little robot women creep into the inventor’s mouth and tear him apart from the inside out.

4-In Northern Ireland, circa 1948, Farmer Eric [Pierce Brosnan] has a cow that talks and tells the future. Soon, fame women and too much publicity are all theirs. In the mayhem, Eric’s cow falls in love with him. As the two embark on a strange romance, they usher in a perverse trend of bestiality not based on love at all but lust.

5-A romantic comedy about Phil [Alan Arkin] who runs a homeless persons shelter with his daughter [Winona Ryder]. One day, Phil falls in love with a woman in his soup kitchen line [Elaine May], only to discover another man is competing for her affections, a man only pretending to be homeless because he is cheap [Charles Grodin]. So Phil begins plotting with his friend Abel [Woody Allen], as to how to win the heart of the woman he loves.

-Robert Curry

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Albert Brooks’ Modern Romance

Albert Brooks’ second feature film Modern Romance (1981) is a satire unlike few others in popular cinema. As the title suggests, Brooks’ has honed his comical eye on the conventions of romance, but the film extends into the realm of reflexivity as it parodies the directorial excess that marked the American auteur films of the early eighties. However, the primary concern of Modern Romance is in fact with modern romance. To understand the conventions Brooks’ rails against in his film it is, for better or worse, necessary to determine where contemporary notions of what is romantic derive from.

It is well known that until the First World War the intelligentsia was predominantly of the European aristocracy. The customs and etiquette of this exclusive world have been popularized by the likes of Jane Austen for over a century. In the aristocratic world of privilege education was taken for granted and marriage a means of securing position. In this environment, where women marry men of equal or superior social rank, a fantasy was allowed to evolve. This fantasy existed out of necessity, a coping mechanism to ensure individual emotional sustainability. A woman married to a man for whom she harbors no genuine affection or admiration is likely to fantasize about a suitor driven by his love for her. Likewise another scenario that is equally probable is that of the male suitor who is totally obsessed with his romantic fixation on a particular female. Both fantasies offer what in reality is sorely lacking.

Brooks and Harrold in Modern Romance.

Brooks and Harrold in Modern Romance.

These romantic fantasies have been permitted to permeate our popular culture since their conception, from Bronte’s Wuthering Heights to Walt Disney’s Cinderella. Though it is almost immediately clear that equating true love with obsession is in actual implementation quite unhealthy for all parties involved, relatively few artists have sought to discredit this notion. Surely Jane Austen felt it fit to weave a cautionary tale or two around this dilemma in both Sense & Sensibility and Pride & Prejudice. Theodor Fontane warns of the emotional death of a poorly made match in Effi Briest, in which the title protagonist’s obsession with another man causes irreparable damage to her relationship with her husband. Similarly, Goethe pinpoints the tragedy of romantic obsession with his bitter and tragic The Sorrows Of Young Werther, which ends in suicide. It is Brooks’ scrutiny of romantic conventions and expectations that place his film in the same critical realm as these novels by Austen, Fontane and Goethe.

Yet, Brooks is not particularly concerned with literature. His unique approach to discrediting popular romantic notions is certainly indebted, knowingly or not, to the novelists mentioned above, but his over all concerns are in the filmic tradition of narrative, which is by all means a direct descendant of the novel. Where Jane Austen’s protagonists were bookish and intellectually inquisitive, Robert (Albert Brooks) of Modern Romance is a neurotic film editor. The occupations and hobbies of Austen and Brooks’ protagonists pits them against the conventions of the mediums in which they exist by making them aware of the conventions of these mediums, either the novel or the film. The difference is that the proto-feminism of Austen’s protagonists places them in opposition of convention, Brooks’ Robert seeks to conform to the conventions of romance that exist only in the un-reality of film.

Robert’s obsession with his on-again off-again girlfriend Mary (Kathyrn Harrold) suffocates her identity and independence as much as it flatters her. What Brooks has done was to transpose the obsessiveness that is glorified as romance in films such as Richard Thorpe’s Knights Of The Roundtable (1953) and Robert Siodmak’s The Crimson Pirate (1952) into a contemporary setting. Where Robert Taylor’s pursuit of Ava Gardner was chivalrous in it’s context, now Brooks presents it as the fantasy fulfillment of a highly neurotic editor. Robert’s gestures of affection by no means match those of Taylor as Lancelot, but the parallel does point to the notion that such behavior is masculinely romantic. This parallel is successful in Modern Romance because like Gardner’s Queen, Mary is constantly smitten by such gestures. What Brooks does add to the equation in Modern Romance is the fruition of such behavior through to its logical course in the character of Robert. If a man is so determined and obsessed with possessing his partner as Lancelot is in our “modern” society, it only makes sense that he would stalk her and spy on her; Robert does both.

These romantic attributes of Robert’s character make him completely unlikeable. His behavior constantly jockeys Mary from intimacy to expulsion, break-up through to reunion. This kind of love affair, though exaggerated in Modern Romance, does in fact exist outside of the cinema in our reality. Even people I know conform to such behavior and some even go so far as to measure a lover’s commitment by their obsessive one mindedness as it pertains unto themselves. It is a sickness, and Brooks takes no prisoners in lampooning this sociological infection that began with the aristocracy so long ago.

Modern Romance does not, however, trace this conditioning as far back as that, instead settling on the cinema itself as the propagator of such immoral inclinations. Midway through the film Mary questions if Robert’s love for her is real or just “movie love”. This statement could very well be the thesis of Modern Romance, but Brooks takes his indictment of popular narrative cinema further in his scenes with Bruno Kirby editing a Star Wars (1977) knock off film featuring George Kennedy similar to the Roger Corman produced cult classic Star Crash (1979).

This George Kennedy science fiction epic signifies the uniformity of the Hollywood machine responsible for the sociological conditioning that has informed Robert’s romantic sensibilities. In Modern Romance, James L. Brooks plays the director of this sci-fi blockbuster, and voices all sorts of concerns from the sound of George Kennedy running to the use of the phrase “bowels of the ship” in his own film because the same phrase was used in Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979). Similarly the 87-minute version of Cimino’s Heaven’s Gate (1980) is explicitly referenced at the conclusion of the foley sound sequence. These filmic reference points reflect the concern Hollywood has not only for mass-market accessibility, but intellectual closed mindedness. Both are symptoms of the same sickness that has contaminated Robert’s psyche and has shaped him into the neurotic mess that he is.

from left to right: James L. Brooks, Albert Brooks and Bruno Kirby.

from left to right: James L. Brooks, Albert Brooks and Bruno Kirby.

Albert Brooks manages to skillfully balance these allegations with the comedic scenarios he puts his character Robert in. Often Brooks’ criticism of our media addicted society into the subtext of scenes by allowing the scenes to play out a superficial surface comedy. This balance that keeps Modern Romance cohesive can be largely credited to the film’s co-writer Monica Johnson, a veteran screenwriter of the sitcom.

This is largely the reason why Modern Romance, along with many others of Brooks’ films, has been unable to find a long-term niche audience. Unlike a writer and director such as Woody Allen, Brooks’ films do not cater to one kind of comedic sensibility at a time. Allen’s films range from high brow dramas like Another Woman to a kind of low brow escapist filmmaking like Bananas (1971), with each film concentrating on its supposed stylistic elements. Albert Brooks’ fidelity is not to the elitist auteur notion of comedian, but seeks instead to mask the more pointedly intellectual investigations and satires of his films behind an easily accessible humor akin to that of Nora Ephron or Elaine May.

That the comedic sensibilities of Modern Romance should be so closely linked to the aesthetics of two female filmmakers is also rather telling. Quite like Elaine May’s A New Leaf (1970) and The Heartbreak Kid (1972) as well as Nora Ephron’s You’ve Got Mail (1998), Albert Brooks’ comedy about the sexes does not align any greater degree of audience sympathy with either the male or female sex, opting instead to equalize the two by developing neither the male nor the female characters in a way that presents them to be morally correct nor more virtuous. The history of film shows that the majority of filmmakers who are male, from Woody Allen to Mike Nichols, will construct their relationship comedies to show either the male or the female is the “right” one, thus aligning the audience with either one sex or the other. In Modern Romance the male lead is despicable and needy just as his female counterpart is overly defensive and aloof, effectively negating the polarizing sexual politics of other film directors.

The sum of these various components is what keeps Albert Brooks’ Modern Romance from any kind of popular sustainability. The film, with its loud surface and intellectual subtexts, is just too dense to sit comfortably with most contemporary audiences. In America, audiences like to be told or shown who to root for, and to be instructed as to what intellectual notion is the most politically correct and acceptable at the moment. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why a new codification to romantic narrative seems so unattainable and distant.

-Robert Curry

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Forgotten Films: Harry & Walter Go To New York

Typically I try to balance my writing for Zimbo Films between all kinds of cinema, American, foreign, and avant-garde.  However it occurred to me that there are a number of American films that have drifted into obscurity over the years that I have enjoyed very much.  So I have decided to begin writing a number of pieces on these films.  The first film I am going to write about, as part of this informal series, is Mark Rydell’s film Harry & Walter Go To New York (1976).  The criteria for this series will be films released after 1960 but before 2000.  The idea being to rediscover some of the most unique films modern American cinema has produced.

Rydell’s film follows two performers Harry and Walter, who regularly scam their audience out of their money.  Once apprehended by the police, Harry and Walter are sent to prison where they are made valets to Adam Worth, the world’s greatest bank robber.  Harry and Walter soon escape prison once they have stolen Worth’s plans for a robbery.  On the outside, they are assisted by radical reporter Lissa Chestnut and her colleagues in the heist.

Harry and Walter Go to New York_3

Mark Rydell began his career as an actor in lead roles for television in the late fifties.  Though he would continue to take supporting roles for the remainder of his career, Rydell made the transition to directing in the mid-sixties.  As a director Rydell would not find critical acclaim until the seventies when he directed a number of popular films including The Cowboys (1972), On Golden Pond (1981) and James Dean (2001).  Like Harry & Walter Go To New York, Rydell’s three most successful films listed above each have a definite pre-occupation with classic Hollywood.  The Cowboys subverts John Wayne’s position in the Western genre by having him murdered in the second act by Bruce Dern.  On Golden Pond works the same way, subverting Henry Fonda’s image as a soft-spoken family man by casting him as a grumpy, foul mouthed, and bitter father opposite his daughter Jane Fonda.  The relationship between father and daughter in On Golden Pond mirrors their real life relationship and sparked some minor controversy before Henry Fonda took home the Oscar for the last time.  James Dean is the most overt exercise in subverting a Hollywood propagated image.  James Franco’s turn as Dean won tremendous critical attention and shattered much of the mythos surrounding the twentieth century’s most enduring cult icon.  The tactics that made these films successful are employed more subtly in Harry & Walter Go To New York, though the effect remains as strong.

John Byrum co-wrote the screenplay to Harry & Walter Go To New York with Robert Kaufman.  Before penning the script to Bill Murray’s ill-fated production of The Razor’s Edge (1984), Byrum established himself as a considerable talent with his film Inserts (1976), which has gained quite the cult following over the years.  Though Harry & Walter Go To New York was conceived before Inserts, both reveal Byrum’s interest in the 1920s and his fascination with the narrative tropes of silent comedy features.

Coupling Byrum and Rydell ensured Harry & Walter Go To New York’s indebtedness to silent comedies just as surely as it ensured that the film would be able to exist outside of any pre-established historical narrative, a necessity for the biopic.  If one compares Harry & Walter Go To New York with James Ivory’s 1975 film The Wild Party (a film about silent films that attempts to incorporate their filmmaking style) one is stuck by how much more modern Harry & Walter Go To New York is despite the fact that Ivory’s film has much more character development and visual finesse, two standards of modern cinema.  The difference is in the success of adopting silent film technique.  Rydell’s film has little character development in the dialogue, relying instead on the constant visual gags perpetrated by its stars James Caan and Elliott Gould to ensure the audience’s association with them out of nostalgia.  Rydell also prefers static wide shots and two shots to the bold camera moves of The Wild Party, and is in effect able to create his film in the visual vernacular of a Harold Lloyd film.

The other component to Harry & Walter Go To New York that makes the film work so well is it’s casting.  Michael Caine plays Adam Worth, the world’s greatest bank robber.  At the time Caine was the ideal actor to play a suave scoundrel, who, keeping true to the style of silent comedy, is also completely evil and self-serving.  Casting James Caan as Harry and Elliott Gould as Walter is another story.  Gould and Caan are cast against type as grifter vaudevillians, who are called upon by the script to sing, dance, and perpetrate a variety of physical gags and stunts.  This casting against type draws the audience’s attention to the ludicrous nature of slapstick nature in a believable narrative arc.  Rydell’s subversion here is not meant to dispel the romanticism of Keaton or Chaplin’s films, but to reinforce it.  By revealing slapstick’s impracticality in American films of the seventies by making a slapstick comedy Rydell proposes the necessity for such a comedy in Nixon’s America while at the same time granting that American audiences will only greet such romanticism with bitterness despite the necessity.  To balance the cast, a pre-Annie Hall (1977) Diane Keaton plays the love interest of Harry, Walter and Adam Worth as Lissa Chestnut.  It is from Keaton’s character and the part she plays in the film that Harry & Walter Go To New York derives its modernity.  Though her scenes intentionally lack narrative sophistication, the focus of the comedy is removed from the arena of vaudeville to that of the British sex comedy, where every gesture is an innuendo and every line is delivered tongue in cheek.  What’s truly remarkable is that Rydell’s direction of Keaton creates a kind of proto-Annie Hall before Woody Allen had even begun developing his Oscar winning film.


However, despite the cast, the level of filmic sophistication and self-awareness of Harry & Walter Go To New York prevented the film from ever finding its audience.  The film was not a success for Columbia pictures, and has only enjoyed minor re-evaluation the few times its been issued for home entertainment.  Initially Columbia thought they could cash in on the success of the Robert Redford vehicle The Great Gatsby (1974), just as MGM believed they could with The Wild Party and Paramount with its production of Elia Kazan’s film of The Last Tycoon (1976).  This revived interest in silent cinema would not survive into the eighties, and most of these films are all but forgotten today.

-Robert Curry

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John Milius’ Dillinger: Legacy & Context

John Milius is best known as a screenwriter, having penned the scripts for Dirty Harry, 1941, The Life And Times Of Judge Roy Bean and Apocalypse Now.  As a director Milius is often overshadowed by his contemporaries George Lucas and Francis Ford Coppola, though his first feature, Dillinger (1973) is on par with both The Rain People (1969) and THX:1138 (1971).

Hot on the heels of Arthur Penn’s Bonnie & Clyde (1967), Dillinger follows the formula almost exactly.  The main difference is in the style of Milius’ telling of John Dillinger’s story.  Milius colors his film with devices and techniques established in the early Warner Bros. gangster films like Public Enemy (1931) and Little Caesar (1931).  From the use of montage to the larger than life portrayal of Dillinger, Milius’ film behaves as a unique piece of film revivalism rather than homage.  Most films that employ such techniques cannot escape the homage, clumsily cutting from a modern film vernacular to an older one.  Milius blends the old Warner Bros. tactics with the graphic violence and manly machismo of a Sam Peckinpah film (even casting Wild Bunch (1968)co-stars Warren Oates and Ben Johnson opposite each other as Dillinger and G-Man Purvis).  The result is not just a modern reimagining of an often-told story, but of a genre of filmmaking.

A close examination of the violence in Dillinger is telling of two things.  First, the violence is realistically bloody, and the perpetrators of this violence are depicted as psychologically corrupt.  This places Dillinger firmly within the popular aesthetic dominating American cinema in the early seventies, the outsider anti-hero versus the establishment.  Secondly, like the Cagney films of old, violence is treated not just as tragedy, but also as comedy.  Richard Dreyfuss’ Baby Face Nelson brings a light air to his handgun violence, evoking the antics of a Looney Tunes cartoon.  Milius has played up the comedy of his violence beyond the expectations one has for a Cagney film to balance the amount of gore a film made in the seventies was allowed.

The main reason Dillinger is often overlooked is that it is an American International Pictures release.  Since Bonnie & Clyde, Samuel Z. Arkoff and Roger Corman had been producing a string of B-Movie imitations, of which Dillinger was, supposedly.  Unlike Arkoff’s other efforts, Big Bad Mama (1974), Dillinger has a distinct style.  Revisionist through and through, Milius set out not to reinvent the language of his genre (the gangster film), but to update it.

Dillinger may evoke classic film aesthetic tendencies and contemporary trends, but it also provides the critic with a blueprint with which to analyze John Milius’ later films.  Like all of Milius’ work, as both a writer and a director, Dillinger is a film about a singular man, who has surrounded himself with an entourage of friends, who endeavors to fulfill some other worldly objective, Dillinger and his gang wish to live as bank robbers, caught up in the romanticism of Jesse James and Butch Cassidy during the Great Depression.  The odds are against Dillinger just as they are against Lt. Willard in Apocalypse Now.  Both characters finish their journeys alone; their “gangs” having been killed along the way, reaching their objectives only to find out they have failed on some level (Dillinger literally, Willard spiritually).  This is the vital theme to all of Milius’ work.  In an America tainted by Vietnam and Nixon, Milius embraces the John Huston notion of masculinity with gusto, though Milius’ romanticism is colored by the tragedy of Peckinpah’s archetypal formula of a “man out of time”.  Like Peckinpah, and eventually Huston (Fat City, Under The Volcano), Milius does not believe there is a place for the “larger than life” male in the seventies.

Milius’ distinct perspective of the male image in American cinema reflects a trend in film.  As the seventies progressed, male figures who were once romanticized like John Dillinger and Billy The Kid fell from filmic prominence.  These figures of old were replaced by new and more sensitive models of masculinity, such as Sylvester Stalone’s Rocky, Warren Beatty’s John Reed, and Woody Allen.  It seems logical that feminism and other activist programs paved the way for this shift, causing a decline in pictures made in both the gangster and western genres, a symptom of sociological progress.

-Robert Curry

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