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Drive
Existential antiheroes aren’t dangerous because they don’t believe, but rather because they might start. Scary intensity waiting to be awakened is at the crux of Nicolas Winding Refn’s spectacular drama, full of graphic-comics violence, in which a taciturn stuntman, racer and getaway-driver-for-hire (Ryan Gosling) finds purpose–and trouble. The Driver normally takes long pauses before answering questions, not so much to be sure of his reply but to determine if he can muster the strength to engage the world. But that changes when he meets and instantly falls for Irene (Carey Mulligan), a troubled married woman with a young son and a husband who’s about to be paroled. The husband owes some favors to the wrong kind of people, and unless he pulls off a robbery, his family will die. The Driver volunteers to be behind the wheel for the heist in order to save mother and son, but complications arise during the job, and he soon is the target of hellacious gangsters (Albert Brooks and Ron Perlman, in brilliant turns). Others continually point out to the Driver that it’s bad luck that led him to such a situation, that he would have been fine if only events had worked out differently. This seems to be the world view of the film, but it feels like the misfortune has less to do with external circumstance than with inner nature. An inflexible soul incapable of yielding will eventually crash. Watch trailer.

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The Elephant in the Living Room
Humans encountering wild animals in developed areas across America, an increasing trend in recent years, seemed to be an unintended consequence of the pre-recession construction boom, when sprawl encroached on habitats. But it was something else–we simply invited the dangerous wildlife into our homes. Encouraged by Animal Planet content and any number of zany wranglers making the rounds of talk shows, a booming black market has developed for exotic animals, as witnessed in Michael Webber’s eye-opening doc about people making pets of lions and leopards and such. Webber shows libertarianism run amok, in which local newspaper circulars and underground Amish country dealers supply the subculture with creatures. Once the poisonous snakes and hungry lion cubs are taken home, all hell often breaks loose, as animals escape or are turned out by owners who can no longer manage them.
The movie’s heart is Ohio enforcement officer Tim Harrison who tries to counsel those with dubious judgement and damaged souls into giving up their small-scale zoos, to change minds that are already made up. “It’s not a python problem,” he says, “but a people problem.” Watch trailer.

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More recent films I liked now on home video:

 

Meaning of Robots is a doc about one man’s dream of making a stop-action robot porno. Creepy yet impressive.

Gary Cooper on What’s My Line?, in 1959, seven years after perhaps his greatest career highlight, High Noon. The ending of that filmwith Marshal Will Kane discarding and stomping on his badge, angered John Wayne terribly. Wayne, like a lot of conservative reactionaries and law-and-order stalwarts, didn’t lead quite the simple, pure life he liked to pretend he did. A great star, but complex.

 

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Bellflower
Woodrow and Milly most definitely do not meet cute. They come together as participants in a $50 bar bet to see who can devour the most live crickets at a beer-soaked Los Angeles dive. The couple then embarks on an impromptu road trip to Texas, where they egg each other on to do increasingly dangerous and disgusting things, getting off on a mutual adrenaline rush. Milly seems too aggressive for her new beau, but perhaps soft-spoken Woodrow is the one to watch. He and his slacker pal Aiden, both obsessed with Mad Max films, spend their days building weapons of mass destruction–flamethrowers and indestructible cars–just in case the apocalypse arrives. But when Woodrow and Milly have a bad breakup, the gamesmanship really begins between the two and the WMDs ensure that broken hearts will be joined by broken bones. At first blush debuting writer-director Evan Glodell might seem like Cronenberg divorced from social commentary, smashing together human flesh and metal machines merely for sensationalism. But there’s more here. Glodell may not be concerned with a sick society, but he’s very attuned to heartsickness and its combustible nature. Watch trailer.

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Contagion
In our viral, interconnected age, when we fear the rapid spread of computer worms, toxic financial derivatives and lab-built bio-nightmares, Steven Soderbergh offers a timely blockbuster about a killer flu that is a shockingly straightforward medical procedural, one which makes only scant concessions to the usual standards of character-driven megaplex movies. The film follows a deadly bug that begins in Hong Kong and rapidly winds around the world after finding its patient zero: a traveling American businessperson (Gwyneth Paltrow). As the body count grows, we watch epidemiologists at the World Health Organization do their work, tracking the illness. Interesting that the main villain is a blogger (Jude Law) who is willing to spread disinformation for a profit. While it’s possible for hysteria to drive poor information online (see: immunizations, autism), the world of new media is mostly our ally. Think of the glacial initial response to AIDS, which was caused not only by politics but also by a lack of shared info, computer infrastructure and advanced statistical analysis. The tools Law’s character uses, which can rapidly disseminate information, are more likely to prevent an epidemic than abet one. Not everything that goes viral harms us.
 Watch trailer.

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Tuesday, After Christmas
Radu Muntean’s romantic drama about the dissolution of a marriage during a family’s seemingly happy holiday season is another example from the recent Romanian wave of stark, convincing dramas. Middle-aged banker Cristi (Dragos Bucur) is having an affair with a younger woman (Maria Popistasu), and we only learn subsequently that his mistress is also his daughter’s dentist. His lies mount, but Cristi still believes the duplicity is manageable. Right before Christmas, he suddenly realizes the situation is, in fact, untenable, and sheepishly tells his wife (Mirela Oprisor) that their marriage is over. It’s a shattering and impassioned climax, but the small, mundane moments before and after the fissure are just as impressive. As Muntean follows his principals through their workaday existences–running errands, eating meals–it becomes apparent that life is largely a number of seemingly unimportant details that collect and form and present us with a truth that we only, at most, suspected. 
Watch trailer.

Amazing footage from 1976 of a Mike Douglas talk show episode dedicated to That’s Entertainment, Part II. The host is joined by Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly and seemingly every living legend of MGM fame.

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Higher Ground
Vera Farmiga’s sharp directorial debut, an adaptation of Carolyn S. Briggs’ memoir about her uneasy attempt to find a state of grace in a 1970s spiritual community, is wise enough to realize that life doesn’t always offer closure, but instead sometimes continues tormenting like an open wound. Corinne (played as an adult by Farmiga) comes from a broken home, gets pregnant young, and tries to live within a traditional Christian community that expects subservience from women. Over time, her relationship with her husband and neighbors falter, but it’s Corinne’s skittish relationship with God that founders the most after her best friend becomes desperately ill. A large cast provides uniformly excellent performances, but it’s Farmiga herself who ultimately devastates with an impassioned, confused speech to the flock near film’s end. Watch trailer.

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The Black Power Mixtape 1967-1975
An invaluable document from the militant stage of the American Civil Rights movement, Göran Olsson’s documentary collects footage shot by a group of Swedish journalists who visited America trying to figure out what the hell was going on. And they weren’t the only confused ones. As footage unfolds in chronological order, we see incredibly intelligent and desperate young Americans of color trying to make a place for themselves by (almost) any means necessary. Especially poignant is a passage in which a flummoxed Angela Davis, in prison awaiting trial, explains the obvious: that most violence in America wasn’t perpetrated by people with black skin. No matter how familiar you are with the era, much of the footage startles, often revealing what wasn’t apparent to American eyes at the time, perhaps not even to Swedish eyes–just how innocent, fragile, and, yes, even frightened, these supposedly scary people looked. Watch trailer.

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Senna
From go-karts to Formula One, Brazilian race car driver Ayrton Senna lived for speed, willing to risk his life for the glory of the checkered flag. Senna wasn’t using auto racing to flee a favela, wasn’t leaving behind an illicit past, like Junior Johnson outpacing the bootlegger’s life. He was the son of privilege, a good Christian, who for some reason simply needed to drive faster than anyone in the world. Asif Kapadia, the documentary’s director, wisely doesn’t try to explain why–some things are innate and unknowable–but instead follows the arc of Senna’s dramatic story as his subject becomes a three-time world champion during the ’80s and ’90s and a huge idol in his struggling homeland, as industry politics, countless crashes and technological changes hound him at every turn. If you listen closely as he navigates those unforgiving angles, you soon begin to notice that screeching tires sound a lot like ambulance sirens. Watch trailer.

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More recent films I liked: Certified Copy, Another Earth, The Arbor.

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Elsa Lanchester, most famously Frankenstein’s bride in 1935, chatting up Dick Cavett in 1970. Her longtime husband, Charles Laughton, was famously childish in his recreational tastes, often dragging people, including Ray Bradbury, to Disneyland, one of his favorite places.

Woman notices streak of gray in hair, settles for brain-dead douchebag with bolts in neck:

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Joan Crawford on What’s My Line?, in 1957. She uses the appearance to promote the International Adoption Agency, though, to put it mildly, she wasn’t exactly mother of the year. Peter Ustinov is on the panel.

A decided preference for wooden hangers:

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The future sounds scary.

It’s no slight toward Hugo or The Artist, but those two nostalgic, backwards-looking films being granted the most Oscar nominations this year is the latest sign of Hollywood living in a state of fear. With technology run amok and in the hands of the masses, where can the industry turn for security? Milking the 3-D fad until the diminishing financial returns completely disappear is a temporary salve, but retreating into the past, an earlier more comfortable age when no one had a voice–not the actors on the screen nor the audience–isn’t just a self-absorbed salute, it’s a delusion. For all its liberal politics, Hollywood is a very conservative industry, one that will cannibalize itself until its gums bleed. As we know from the collapse of the studio system, bold ideas will only be allowed to guide the staggering monolith once no other option is left.

Turning back the clock.

Gloria Swanson, on What’s My Line?, in 1950, the year of Norma Desmond.

Swanson with Dick Cavett and Janis Joplin, August 1970, two months before Joplin’s death:

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Genius film comedian Buster Keaton had a sad life, from his vaudevillian parents tossing him around on stage like a rag doll when he was a tyke to the financial problems in his later years. His appearance on What’s My Line?, 1957.

Real house, no trick photography, no stunt man, no special effects:

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"Sony...introduced its Betamax video tape recorder to the U.S. consumer market in early 1976." (Image by Franny Wentzel.)

For more than three decades, Hollywood has been fighting a losing battle with technology, trying to pause time in an era when there was less competition, when making boatloads of cash required little ingenuity. From the movie establishment’s landmark case in futility, in which it fought to make home video recorders illegal:

Universal City Studios, Inc. et al. v. Sony Corporation of America Inc. et al., commonly known as the Betamax case, was the first concerted legal response of the American film industry to the home video revolution. After nearly a decade of announcements and false starts by one American company or another, Sony, the Japanese electronics manufacturing giant, introduced its Betamax video tape recorder to the U.S. consumer market in early 1976 at an affordable price. In its marketing strategy Sony promoted the machine’s ability to ‘time shift’ programming–that is, to record a television program off the air even while watching another show on a different channel.

The plaintiffs, Universal and Walt Disney Productions on behalf of the Hollywood majors, charged that the ability of the Betamax to copy programming off air was an infringement of copyright and sought to halt the sale of the machines. The studios were ostensibly trying to protect film and television producers from the economic consequences of unauthorized mass duplication and distribution. However, Universal might have also wanted to prevent Betamax from capturing a significant segment of the fledgling home video market before its parent company, MCA, could introduce its DiscoVision laserdisc system, which was to scheduled for test marketing in the fall of 1977.”

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Time shifting with Sony Betamax, 1977:

Clint Eastwood interviewed in 1974 in New Orleans for Canadian TV. Eastwood has, of course, usurped much of his own violent, macho image in late-career work, but he remains a staunch conservative politically, recently extolling the virtues of Herman Cain.

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The opening of “Love, Boxing, and Hunter S. Thompson,” screenwriter John Kaye’s raucous Los Angeles Review of Books essay:

HUNTER AND INGA: 1978

The third (and last) time I went to New Orleans was in September of 1978. I was living in Marin County, and I took the red-eye out of San Francisco, flying on a first-class ticket paid for by Universal Pictures, the studio that was financing the movie I was contracted to write. The story was to be loosely based on an article written by Hunter Thompson that had been recently published in Rolling Stone magazine. Titled ‘The Banshee Screams for Buffalo Meat,’ the 30,000-word piece detailed many of the (supposedly) true-life adventures Hunter had experienced with Oscar Zeta Acosta, the radical Chicano lawyer who he’d earlier canonized in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Hunter and I were in New Orleans to attend the hugely anticipated rematch between Muhammad Ali and Leon Spinks, the former Olympic champion who, after only seven fights, had defeated Ali in February. The plan was to meet up at the Fairmont, a once-elegant hotel that was located in the center of the business district and within walking distance of the historic French Quarter. Although Hunter was not in his room when I arrived, he’d instructed the hotel management to watch for me and make sure I was treated with great respect.

‘I was told by Mister Thompson to mark you down as a VIP, that you were on a mission of considerable importance,’ said Inga, the head of guest services, as we rode the elevator up to my floor. ‘Since he was dressed quite eccentrically, in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, I assumed he was pulling my leg. The bellman who fetched his bags said he was a famous writer. Are you a writer also?’ I told her I wrote movies. ‘Are you famous?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have any cocaine?’

I stared at her. Her smile was odd, both reassuring and intensely hopeful. In the cartoon balloon I saw over her head were the words: I’m yours if you do. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘That is good.'”

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The late-career Ali regains the title yet again:

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The sometimes maddening and always provocative film critic Pauline Kael dishing on Cecil B. DeMille and others in 1982. She is still missed.

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Certified Copy
Abbas Kiarostami has trafficked in painful alienation for most of his career, but it still surprises how close to the bone this puzzling movie cuts. An English intellectual (William Shimell) is in Tuscany to read from his new book and is introduced to a French single mother (Juliette Binoche) who drives him around the day he is to leave. The two exchange philosophies on art and life before stopping in a café in which the proprietor mistakes them for a married couple. From that moment the pair begin to speak to one another as if they are husband and wife at odds. Are they playacting or is it something deeper? It’s something deeper. Watch trailer.

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Another Earth
Really fascinating indie that uses a helping of science fiction to ask questions about accidents of life and love. Rhoda Willaims (Brit Marling, also co-writer) is a 17-year-old science whiz headed to MIT until she kills two people in drunken car accident on the very night that a parallel Earth is discovered. The whole world is buzzing about the amazing discovery, but Rhoda’s world has gone silent. She is sent to prison for several years. When released, Rhoda insinuates herself into the life of composer John Burroughs (William Mapother), whose wife and child she killed. John has shrunk into hermitage, and his dim life is buffed and shined by this mysterious cleaning woman who says she’s been sent to his home by a service. The two become friends and lovers, but will the awful truth, which eventually must come out, ruin their relationship? And will this other Earth play a role in determining their futures? Director Mike Cahill keeps the film on track as it hurtles toward a sneaky, perfect ending.
Watch trailer.

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The Arbor
First-time filmmaker Clio Barnard’s devastating and unconventional documentary tells the deeply painful story of British playwright Andrea Dunbar, who became famous at the tender age of 15 but was never able to escape the pernicious influence of the infamous Butterfield Estates in West Yorkshire. Dunbar passed away in a barroom at age 29 in 1990, but not before turning out several scathing plays and damaging her own offspring, especially her mixed-race daughter, Lorraine, whom she regretted having. Barnard spent a couple of years interviewing Lorraine and others and employs “verbatim theater” in which actors lip-synch their words. The director also has performers act out versions of Dunbar’s plays outdoors in the shadows of the housing project. A fascinating creation in which artifice communicates the truth better than a simple reality could.  Watch trailer

 

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The first movie I can remember seeing as a child was a TV showing of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, starring Charles Laughton. Here he is in 1956 on What’s My Line?, when he was appearing on Broadway.

Quasimodo provides sanctuary:

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Peter Lorre on What’s My Line?, 1960, promoting a film which was made in Scent-o-Vision, during the dying days of the Studio System.

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David Frost welcomes the jaw-dropping trio of Duke Ellington, Billy Taylor and Willie “the Lion” Smith, 1969.

Laurel & Hardy deliver a piano, 1932 (colorized, sadly):

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Walt Disney on What’s My Line?, 1956. Jerry Lewis is a panelist.

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Kim Jong-Il, a diminutive despot who refused to go away, much like Mike Bloomberg, just died–too young, too young–but he sadly lived a full life. When he wasn’t busy dictating, Kim always kept his iron hand in the country’s movie industry. From an insane Mental Floss story by Jessica Royer Ocken about how the Dear Leader “recruited” a star director:

“Long before his father’s death in 1994, Kim Jong Il played supervisor to the North Korean movie industry. As such, he made sure each production served double duty as both art form and propaganda-dispersion vehicle. Per his instructions, the nation’s cinematic output consisted of films illuminating themes such as North Korea’s fantastic military strength and what horrible people the Japanese are. It was the perfect job for a cinephile like Kim, whose personal movie collection reportedly features thousands of titles, including favorites Friday the 13thRambo, and anything starring Elizabeth Taylor or Sean Connery.

Despite Kim’s creative influence on the industry during the 1970s (when he served with the country’s Art and Culture Ministries) and the fact that he literally wrote the book on communist filmmaking (1973’s On the Art of the Cinema), North Korean movies continued to stink. Frustrated, Kim sought help by forcing 11 Japanese ‘cultural consultants’ into servitude during the late 1970s and early 1980s, only to have several die inconveniently on the job (some by their own hands). But coerced consulting can only get a film industry so far, and North Korea was still in search of its Orson Welles. Then, in 1978, respected South Korean director Shin Sang Ok suddenly found himself out of work after he angered his own country’s military dictator in a spat over censorship, and Kim Jong Il saw his chance to harness Shin’s artistry.

Kim promptly lured Shin’s ex-wife and close friend, actress Choi Eun Hee, to Hong Kong to ‘discuss a potential role.’ Instead, she was kidnapped.

A distraught Shin searched for Choi, but found himself similarly ambushed by Kim’s minions. After some ‘convincing’—by way of some chloroform and a rag—he was whisked away to North Korea. Choi lived in one of Kim’s palaces, and Shin—having been captured after an attempted escape only months after arriving—lived for four years in a prison for political dissidents, where he subsisted on grass, rice, and communist propaganda.”

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Alice awakens from the languid wonderland that is well-appointed suburbia, in Mike Mills’ 2000 short, “Architecture of Reassurance,” 2000.

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A passage from My Dinner with Andre, about reality, that elusive thing, which has only grown fuzzier since the film’s release in 1981. And despite history being recorded with ever greater devotion, it still is increasingly forgotten.

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Alfred Hitchcock appears on What’s My Line?, 1954, promoting Rear Window.

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A brief excerpt of Ian Fleming discussing 007’s propensity for violence, in a 1964 Playboy Interview:

Playboy: You’ve been criticized for being ‘obsessed’ with violence in your books. Do you feel the charge is justified?

Fleming: The simple fact is that, like all fictional heroes who find a tremendous popular acceptance, Bond must reflect his own time. We live in a violent era, perhaps the most violent man has known. In our last War, 30 million people were killed. Of these, some six million were simply slaughtered, and most brutally. I hear it said that I invent fiendish cruelties and tortures to which Bond is subjected. But no one who knows, as I know, the things that were done to captured secret agents in the last War says this. No one says it who knows what went on in Algeria.”

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“I wanted a really flat, quiet name”:

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