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Michael Crichton’s prophetic 1978 genre picture foresaw an America with a small number of haves and many have-nots, and the ethical problems that could develop in a land of such disparate levels of wealth and so many emergent technologies. Adapted from a novel by Robin Cook, the Queens-born doctor who’s turned out a slew of medical thrillers, the film version of Coma was perhaps most famous in its day for its feminist hero, Dr. Susan Wheeler, played by Geneviève Bujold, but it now makes its mark most prominently in ways that cross gender lines.

Boston Medical is a wealthy and prestigious hospital with a sterling reputation, as it seems no one has yet noticed that a higher-than-average number of young, healthy patients have signed in for mundane operations to remove appendixes or repair knees and have flatlined on the operating table. Dr. Wheeler certainly notices when her best friend is added to the growing list of the comatose, and she starts poking around the hospital for answers even though everyone, even her fellow doctor and boyfriend (Michael Douglas), believes she’s hysterical. As Wheeler follows the trail of corpses from the hospital to the nearby Jefferson Institute, a cutting edge facility where those healthy bodies with dead brains are kept pristine-but for what purpose?–she is sure that the “accidents” in O.R. are no mistake.

As Wheeler tries to sort through the welter of lies, she meets Jeffeson Institute attendant Mrs. Emerson (Elizabeth Ashley), who pointedly tells her, “I have no supervisor.” Emerson isn’t just talking about herself but about the ability of the powerful to prey on the weak in a society that clearly favors the former. There are certainly some hokey plot twists in Coma, as a few scenes were written to increase the action element at the expense of logic, but it’s still a powerful film instead of a dated one.

Bio-printers will be able to create perfect replacement organs in the future, so harvesting flesh, which actually still happens in developing countries, will eventually be a thing of the past. But does that mean our organs will be safe? Not exactly. What is ever more in play isn’t our organs themselves, but the information within one of them in particular–our brains. The nouveau tech corporations are aimed at locating and marking our personal preferences, tracking our interests and even our footsteps, knowing enough about what’s going on inside our heads to predict our next move. In a time of want and desperation and disparity of wealth, how much information will we surrender? It may be far less nefarious to read a mind than pluck a brain, but what we’re seeing now is probably just the beginning, as the profit motive is huge. To not pay attention to a line from Crichton’s film would mean we ourselves our in a collective coma: “We are dealing in an area of uncertainty, an area where there are no rules, contradictory laws and no clear social consensus as to what should be done.”•

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Roger Ebert is one of the all-time great newspaper writers, on par with Royko and Breslin and Hamill. He’s amazingly lucid, prolific and bright. And his ability to continue growing and learning, especially in the face of his health problems, is inspiring. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been hugely wrong about films at times. The first video below, a ridiculous review of Blade Runner, by Ebert and his late TV partner Gene Siskel, was dug up by Open Culture. The second one, a pan of Blue Velvet, is etched into my brain for its wrongheadedness. Luckily for Roger, I can’t find his venomous take of Jim Jarmusch’s 1995 masterpiece, Dead Man. Well, we all have our moments.

Starts at the two-minute mark:

Ebert disses Blue Velvet, 1986:

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Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate discussing shifting mores with Hugh Hefner on Playboy After Dark, July 1968.

13 months later:

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World War II ended in 1945, but the battle waged on for Jean-Luc Godard, who saw the Allied victory affording America with the opportunity for post-war cultural imperialism. That dynamic courses beneath the surface of Godard’s Contempt, a bitter but ingenious CinemaScope drama that ranks as one of the very best films from Godard’s amazing string of masterpieces during the 1960s.

An adaptation of Ghosts at Noon, Alberto Moravia’s novel of matrimonial discord, Contempt takes place on the set of a tortured film production in Italy. Fritz Lang, playing a version of himself, has been hired to make a big-screen adaptation of the Odyssey by Jeremy Prokosch (Jack Palance), a crass, uncultured vulgarian with a god complex. Disatisfied with the art film that Lang has turned in, Prokosch summons playwright Paul Javal (Michel Piccoli) for rewrites to Cinecittà Studios, the once-vibrant center of Italian cinema that is now little more than a soundstage ghost town. Paul brings with him his gorgeous wife Camille (Brigitte Bardot), and it’s immediately clear that the producer has designs on his new employee’s wife.

Despite Prokosch’s wolfish reputation, Paul leaves his wife alone with his boss for an extended spell. And in that period, the marriage is permanently wounded. It’s never clear what’s happened between the producer and Camille during their time together, but she turns cold to Paul afterwards. When her husband repeats the same irresponsible (opportunistic?) act again, there’s no chance for reconciliation. Not knowing Paul’s intentions or what has actually occurred between Prokosch and Camille turns the film into a painful frustration dream. It does more than hurt–it also haunts.

But no matter how painful the marriage coming undone is, it isn’t the greatest loss to the director. He is more concerned with cultural loss, what he sees as the domination of the world film industry by the U.S., which was mirrored by Godard’s own battles with American producer Joseph Levine, who wanted his director to get Bardot to bare as much of her heavenly body as possible to ensure big box office.

When Prokosch is warned in one scene that it will be difficult to bend Lang’s will to his own, since, after all, the director defied Goebbels in 1943, he spits back: “This isn’t 1943. It’s 1963. And he’ll direct what he’s told.” And instantly one troubled film production is transformed into a metaphor for an international power struggle.•

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Mike Wallace interviews Bette Davis. Just listen to that irritating old witch. And Davis was no bargain, either.

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Um, she certainly wasn’t boring.

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William Friedkin interviews Fritz Lang in 1975.

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To mark tomorrow’s release of the Planet of the Apes origin story.

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Early in his career, Peter Watkins made documentary-style narrative films that were so politically charged as to be almost unreleasable. Two of these were particularly great. The War Game, from 1965, shows the horrors that would befall Britain if the nation engaged in a nuclear war. It was so convincing that it was banned from broadcast in its native country and won a Best Documentary Oscar despite not being a documentary. Punishment Park, from 1971, takes things  a step further. Set in America in the wake of Kent State, Watkins exaggerates the truly tumultuous divide between conservatives and radicals, creating a landscape so brutal and bitter that nuclear devastation might seem the lesser evil.

In America, young, anti-establishment activists who oppose the Vietnam War or support Black Power are arrested, interrogated and tried before a jury of peerless right-wingers. The convicted can either do decades in prison, or they can try their luck in Punishment Park. A punitive expanse of cracked earth in the California desert, Punishment Park is an obstacle course of sorts in which prisoners must complete a 53-mile trek with armed officers in pursuit. If they successfully finish the course in sweltering temperatures and reach an American flag at journey’s end, they will supposedly be released. But the sweet release of death seems more likely with the numerous threats to their well-being.

There’s a scene in which a young officer opens fire on a group of the political prisoners, and is almost immediately interviewed by the faux documentary crew, as he cries and pleads in confusion. The passage comes as close to recreating the visceral pain of the tragedy at Kent State as is imaginable. During an era when the news was the scariest show on TV and the pseudo-documentary was the perfect approach, Watkins presented a searing vision intended to jolt those who were sleepwalking through the nightmare.•

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Marlon Brando at a NYC press conference in 1965. Already hating the game but still playing to some extent.

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It’s difficult to fathom what would have become of the career of schlockmeister Roger Corman if The Intruder, his incendiary 1962 melodrama about race baiting during the tense moments of the Civil Rights Movement, hadn’t been such an unreleasable flop. Rather than failing because of incompetence, the movie never made its mark because it was too searing a statement about too raw a subject, its dialogue too frank to easily take.

Adam Cramer (William Shatner) describes himself as a social worker, but he’s really an antisocial one. The Elmer Gantry of racial divisiveness, the white-suited Cramer storms into a small Southern town on the eve of court-ordered school integration and quickly puts his oratory skills to work. The locals spit more racial epithets than they do tobacco juice, but they’ve become resigned to the change in the air even if they don’t like it. But Cramer senses that there’s rabble to be roused, and his passionate pleas soon have the townsfolk in a lather.

Even the most liberal person in the community, the newspaper editor Tom McDaniel (Frank Maxwell), was against the forced integration, but after a black church is burned to the ground, he has a change of heart. But the interloper quickly has the scribe outnumbered and McDaniel and the black students reporting for class at white schools may be in grave danger.

Despite some writerly plot twists, Corman’s feel for the material and Shatner’s scary intensity make this picture one of the finer B-movies you’ll ever see. But it was a one-and-done reach for greatness by the director. When The Intruder proved too tough a sell, Corman resigned to be satisfied as an entertainer who buried anything meaningful very deep in the subtext. The material he worked with was never so rich again, and his sharp eye for composition on display here grew fuzzier as the screenplays grew worse. Of course, if he hadn’t turned to profitable dreck, Corman likely wouldn’t have been in a position to have midwifed filmmaking careers for Scorsese, Coppola and Bogdanovich, among others. But no matter what is and what might have been, The Intruder remains a testament to Corman’s early abilities.• (The Intruder just became available for streaming on Netflix.) 

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The amazing Hiroshi Teshigahara and a band of peers collaborated on this stylized 24-minute documentary, “Tokyo 1958.” No English subtitles, but the visuals and score easily carry it.

Ooh, Talkies! My favorite kind of pictures, apart from Weepies.

Errol Morris’ new film, Tabloid, opens this Friday.

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Official trailer:

Morris discusses Tabloid in 2010 at Toronto:

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Alain Resnais’ 1958 Technicolor paean to plastic is a great find by the Documentarian. No English subtitles, but none needed.

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Ambling clumsily, languorously, emotionlessly from graveyards all over the world, seventy million corpses have suddenly, inexplicably risen from the dead, filled their lungs with oxygen after an extended exhale and shuffled back into their mortal coils. Roughly 13,000 of these taciturn zombies slowly stream back into the small French city which was formerly their home, and the locals have to figure out how to accommodate the return of their dearly departed. “The unthinkable has happened,” says a bureaucrat, stating the obvious, to his colleagues. The newly immortal, disoriented and barely capable of speech, are warehoused in empty government buildings until they can be re-acclimated and reclaimed. But most people aren’t eager to reunite, even the aforementioned official whose wife is returned to his care. “I can’t stand her sweet smiles anymore,” he guiltily admits. “They scare me.”

In his 2004 avant zombie film, Robin Campillo turns out an arch allegory about how relationships can stagnate and love run cold, but he’s also examining the nature of neurology, how the brain adjusts to surprising situations and creates new realities as a means of survival. Scientists (and art critics) have noticed that the first time someone hears atonal music or sees a surrealist painting, the experience can cause emtional turmoil. But after the initial jolt, what’s unthinkable becomes acceptable. First you shock them, and then they put you in a museum. The same goes for shocking emotional episodes. In these cases, the brain is its own electrician, rewiring our ability to view the world.

The movie, while suitably somnambulant, doesn’t fully exploit its fantastic set-up, but it does make some provacative points, most notably that the zombies aren’t the only ones who’ve been altered by death. The survivors have grieved and mourned and moved on. Even if they were stuck in the past, that past isn’t what came home to them. That’s gone forever.

“His reality will never be yours,” says a doctor to a woman who is having trouble adjusting to her returned husband’s cold embrace. But you can’t really blame the zombies. They simply aren’t who they were. None of us are.•

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What if yet another seeming half-mad charlatan announced that the end of days were upon us but that person was actually correct? That’s the premise of writer-director Michael Tolkin’s fearless 1991 drama, The Rapture,  one of the most uncompromising films to ever come out of Hollywood.

Sharon (Mimi Rogers) is a Los Angeles telephone operator who interrupts the mundanity of her life with lascivious outings with Vic (Patrick Bauchau), an operator of a different kind. Vic is a sleazy swinger who looks like he makes his money by selling Amway to pornographers. He trolls airport bars to find couples that want to get down and dirty. The amoral encounters begin to take their toll on Sharon, though, and her suicidal thoughts are only put to rest when she has a religious awakening and is born again. But born into what?

Sharon becomes a part of a quiet but intense Jesus cult that believes the end is near and has members that babble incessantly about “the Boy” and “the Dream” and “the Pearl.” She marries one of her former hook-ups (David Duchovny) and the pair raise a daughter while they wait for the four horseman to ride into town.

Six years pass and the Boy announces to the followers that the end of days is finally arriving. A true believer, Sharon gathers her daughter and heads to the desert to await God. But their wanderings in the desert are disatrous and Sharon’s faith runs dry just as the Rapture truly does arrive.

Tolkin, who also singed Los Angeles life as screenwriter of The Player, understands the pseudo-religious fringe of the city and recreates it with a flesh-crawling verisimilitude. But while the film gets its milieu from L.A., it boldly looks for universal truths. While Sharon is an anti-hero, the villain, audaciously, is a needy, vicious God who demands a faith that has not been earned.•

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The Age of Aquarius faded into memory, and science outpaced ethics. Also: Screenwriters had bottomless bowls of cocaine!

It’s easy to dismiss Sofia Coppola’s work as thin dilettantism, with the plotting generally so spare and the characters so often rich and idle. But it’s unfair and lazy to do so, especially in the case of Somewhere, a gorgeous sliver of a film that almost operates as a poem.

Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff) is your average Hollywood star, turning out diverting formula films in between an endless summer of casinos, strippers and substances. He’s living hard and looking bad, having checked in for a stay of indeterminate length at the Chateau Marmont. The only semblance of normalcy in his life is his relationship with his 11-year-old daughter, Cleo (Elle Fanning), who lives with her mom. Cleo is clearly the child of wealth, indulged with endless classes that make her expert at an impressive number of things, but she’s living an exciting life at a time when a stable one would be preferable.

When mom flakes out, Johnny gets full custody of Cleo until summer camp is to start. He’s only half-prepared for the task, providing for Cleo a mix of sweet underwater tea parties and quality time at craps tables. Cleo gets to see too much of the adult world and Johnny gets to see that he’s still really a child.

Coppola is so unusually observant and has such a unique way of creating milieu and communicating her feelings that all her movies are very personally hers. Her characters are often self-pitying and sometimes pitiable, but Coppola knows a secret: All people are exotic, not for the trappings of their lives but because of the traps they fall into. In Somewhere, she consistently reveals that knowledge with deceptive ease.•

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In addition to the elimination of late fees and a long-tail inventory, Netflix was a category killer for video stores because it offered a flat-fee buffet-style arrangement. Yes, there was “toggling” that delayed the heaviest users from seeing the most desirable movies first, but you got quantity and quality for your money. In a new Wired.com article, Angela Watercutter looks at how theater chains are introducing a similar model to try to increase profits:

“MoviePass, a new $50-per-month service for film fans, will let subscribers watch unlimited movies in theaters using their smartphones as tickets.

Using an HTML5 application (native smartphone apps coming soon), MoviePass will let users search for a film, find a local show time, check in to the theater and go straight to the ticket-taker.

The all-you-can-watch service, announced Monday with a private beta starting in the San Francisco Bay Area just in time for the Fourth of July blockbuster weekend, is looking to shake up the theater business in much the same way Netflix has changed the DVD-rental game.

‘Even with online ticketing, this side of the business is still a 75-year-old business and there’s not a lot of innovation,’ MoviePass co-founder Stacy Spikes said in an interview with Wired.com. ‘Getting your tickets, how you do that, how you interact with the theater, how you interact with the studio, none of that has really changed. We’re giving the viewer a lot more power and also allowing [studios and moviegoers] to speak with each other.'”

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Ruth Sheen and Jim Broadbent are very content.

Judging by his last two films, Happy-Go-Lucky and Another Year, Mike Leigh has quietly become one of the most effective horror film directors in the world, though, of course, not in any typical sense. Always fond of grotesque caricature, Leigh has upped the ante even further recently, finding life at its cruelest, homing in on those deluded by dreams and those who have none, and playing with their wounds.

In Another Year, Tom and Gerri (Jim Broadbent and Ruth Sheen) are a long-married British couple who surround their lives with an assortment of tormented souls. Sure, they can’t get away from their depressing relatives, including Tom’s drunk, taciturn brother Ronnie (David Bradley) and combustible nephew Carl (Martin Savage), but they seem to invite sad-sack friends into their lives not entirely due to kindness but to reassure themselves of their middle-class contentedness. Their son, Joe, who seems similarly to tolerate those who increase his own self-worth, is hit on repeatedly by Gerri’s middle-age alcoholic friend, Mary (Lesley Manville). Neither encouraging nor discouraging, he stoically allows Mary to lavish attention on him, which can bring no good to her.

Introduced into this backdrop is Joe’s new girlfriend, Katie (Karina Fernandez), an ebullient young woman who’s full of life, essentially the polar opposite of Mary’s pathetic hopelessness. Like the character of Poppy in Happy-Go-Lucky, who was described by most critics as “spirited” or “bright” rather than clueless, which is what she is, Katie’s enthusiasm is heightened to the point of insensitivity, almost without regard for others. Despite working as an occupational therapist, which you would assume would giver her a perspective beyond herself, she has none. Late in the film, she and Joe discuss a romantic trip abroad together in front of Mary, who’s more broken than usual. As the depressed woman endures a massacre of dashed hopes, Joe and Katie make it clear that they will become just like his parents. It’s almost sinister.•

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Mailer joined Germaine Greer and other feminist advocates for a raucous panel discussion about women’s liberation at NYC’s Town Hall in 1971. D.A. Pennebaker was on hand to capture all the madness; the footage was edited years later into movie form by his wife, Chris Hegedus.

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Joe Franklin hosted a talk show for 42 years, before he could be apprehended. Here he interviews Dario Argento in 1985 or so about Creepers.

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Not even director Peter Weir and screenwriter Andrew Niccol could have guessed just how prescient their well-calibrated 1996 media satire, The Truman Show, would turn out to be. Just 15 years later who could deny that we live life as a reality show, that we’re all extras and well-placed products are the stars, and that cameras, always more cameras, steadfastly search for something with a semblance of reality? What’s most amusing is that the film’s central point, that we are ignorant to what’s around us rather than complicit, has proven to be almost entirely wrong.

Unbeknownst to him, Truman Burbank (Jim Carrey) was adopted at birth by a corporation and raised in a soundstage town watched over by 5,000 hidden cameras and populated by actors. His parents, his wife, his friends, those strangers on the street–all paid actors in on the ruse, which is pretty much just a cruel soap opera in which advertisers can sell their wares to a gawking world that lives vicariously through the unwitting star’s every move. Christof (Ed Harris), the artsy director who films the show, sums up its allure: “No scripts, no cue cards…it isn’t always Shakespeare but it’s geuine–it’s alive.” But how much longer can it go on living? Despite being programmed from the cradle, Truman, now in his 30s, has started piecing it all together.

While much of the satire is spot-on, what the filmmakers didn’t realize is that no one would have to trick us into this vulgar media landscape. We want it and we want it now. The ego-expanding properties of the Internet have made everyone an insta-star and we will gladly hold your products and smile for the cameras. We want to be watched and are accepting of the consequences if it means we can have the attention we feel we deserve. “Was nothing real?” Truman asks when he becomes aware of the large-scale deception. Well, yes, and no. Who cares? Just take those 5,000 cameras and point them at us. We’re ready, we think, for our close-up.•


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Susan Sontag and Agnès Varda at the Seventh New York Film Festival in 1969. Jack Kroll of Newsweek does the honors. Watch the full 28-minute version here.

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