21st Century Top Tens: 2001

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10. Serendipity – Right about the time it seemed John Cusack’s star was fading, he teamed up with Kate Beckinsale for one more run at an absolute charmer of a romantic comedy. The structure of Serendipity, about a very Cusack-ian ESPN producer who chases his love-at-first-sight across the country, only to miss her time and time again, is creative and it makes for a good time. The sticky part of the story involves Cusack’s current girlfriend/fiancé, Halley (Bridget Moynahan), who is a kindhearted person who really doesn’t deserve all this nonsense; but, hey, not scything can be perfect.

What feels like a relic of a different world now has always been light, breezy fun, with some solid supporting performances by Jeremy Piven, Eugene Levy, Molly Shannon, and John Corbett as Lars, a new age, jazzed up version of Kenny G. He’s the real all star.

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9. Heist – Somehow, David Mamet’s lean caper thriller starring Gene Hackman didn’t steal audience attention back in 2001. To be fair, there had been a glut of similar movies in the wake of Michael Mann’s Heat (which, amazingly enough, didn’t make big bucks itself in 1995), and the generic title didn’t do it any favors. The story of the aging thief who gets pulled back into one last job will forever be cliche, but this was never a film about plot creativity; it’s al about watching great actors act great.

Heist is a blast, thanks in no small part to Mamet’s rapid-fire, clipped dialogue, and a supporting cast of Danny De Vito, a baby Sam Rockwell, the underrated femme fatale Rebecca Pidgeon, and the rock-solid Delroy Lindo. It’s worth seeking out for any fans of smart, slick crime cinema.

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8. A. I. Artificial Intelligence – The idea that Steven Spielberg was going to adapt recently-deceased Stanley Kubrick’s science-fiction Pinocchio fable was one of the strangest and most compelling bits of movie news in 2001. Two wildly different auteurs teaming up, one from beyond the grave, to tell an esoteric, moody sci-fi drama about love and empathy, and what makes us human; it generated great curiosity, anticipation and, ultimately, trepidation.

When the film came out in the summer of ’01, like so many Stanley Kubrick movies, it was met with a side-eyed shrug, or confusion, or disdain. It didn’t work for most people at the time, myself included, but just as every Kubrick story does, it has since evolved into a spellbinding, haunted tale. Haley Joel Osment is incredible as David, the young android boy who is abandoned by his adoptive parents, and must traverse a broken world in search of love, is truly heartbreaking, and Spielberg’s involvement likely rescued the film, preventing it from being too cold and distant to ever get a second chance.

Probably the most impressive thing about the cold reception in 2001 was that Spielberg directed the movie. His films, accessible and crowd-pleasing, were almost always loved right away. The fact that A.I. has taken time to becomes something better than first thought is a testament to Spielberg’s ability to channel the enigmatic Kubrick.

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7. Vanilla Sky – After Tom Cruise became the biggest box-office superstar on the planet in the mid ’90s, he spent the end of the decade and the early years of the 21st century trying to shed that matinee idol stardom and break down his lingering aura of The Perfect Human with heavy, vulnerable turns in Eyes Wide Shut and Magnolia and, perhaps the strangest attempt at self deconstruction, Cameron Crowe’s Vanilla Sky.

Easily the strangest, most idiosyncratic major studio release in 2001, Crowe’s remake of Alejandro Amenábar’s 1997 thriller isn’t necessarily a great film by traditional metrics. But it’s fascinating and infinitely entertaining, a story of a man who had everything until his ego got the better of him and upended his life. Only it’s much weirder than that, and should be celebrated for its willingness to eschew conventional storytelling.

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6. Ocean’s Eleven – Steven Soderbergh’s effervescent caper remake features, above all else, a remarkable collection of actors hitting cool, comedic notes with a breezy likability that’s since become nonexistent (outside of maybe the Avengers movies). This is Clooney, Pitt, and (on a lesser note) Matt Damon at the height of their powers; it’s the early days of Casey Affleck and Scott Caan; it has legends like Elliot Gould and Carl Reiner; every supporting member of the eleven brings something unique to their role.

The heist itself – cleaning out three casinos belonging to Andy Garcia’s Terry Benedict – is a blast to watch unfold, but the hangout nature of the story is also delightful thanks to the cast. Special shout out to Julia Roberts, who brings a much-needed feminine toughness to this boy’s club, and who turns what could have been a rather thankless role into a crucial counterweight to all that machismo.

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5. Sexy Beast – Jonathan Glazer, a music-video director first and foremost, has directed only three films: Under the Skin, Birth, and his first film, Sexy Beast. Each one is brilliant in their own way, and it’s a minor miracle that Glazer not only got Ben Kingsley to appear in his debut feature, but he managed to cultivate the greatest performance of the legendary actor’s career.

Kingsley is Don Logan, a towering psychopath, a man who send chills up the spine of our hero, Gal, a happily retired and sunbaked thief played by Ray Winstone. Don Logan is on his way to talk Gal into one last job, and his presence t the Spanish villa upsets everything and everyone. Sexy Beast is a ferocious thriller, hard charging and buzzing with an electronic, pulsating score, and a performance from Ben Kingsley that is unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

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4. Training Day – Despite the fact Denzel Washington won Best Actor for playing wicked street cop Alonzo Harris, and Ethan Hawke was nominated for playing Jake, his parter (and, ultimately, the scapegoat for a heist), Training Day still felt like a well-made but thin genre exercise. Like so many of the films on this list, however, time and multiple revisits have only enriched Antoine Fuqua’s picture; it’s kind of a masterpiece.

The machinations of the plot are overshadowed by Washington’s volcanic performance the first time you see the film. Once you are familiar with the rhythms of performance, however, the elaborate ruse of the story begins to shine. This film is put together like a Swiss watch, with plenty of genre flourishes and bombastic dialogue to excite an action fans. It’s easy to lose sight of what makes the film so brilliant from top to bottom when seen only through memory flashes of big Washington speeches, King Kong, etc… but there is so much more at play here.

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3. Mulholland Drive – My love/hate relationship with David Lynch is one of the most frustrating mental blocks in my personal cinematic sentience. I try and try again to engage with his more esoteric works, like Lost Highway, Wild at Heart, and with Mulholland Drive. Despite the fact I can’t quite sync up with the auteurs hyper specific style and dream logic in his later films (nobody will ever be able to convince me Inland Empire was made with the intention of ever actually being seen by humans), it’s easy to recognize the brilliance of Mulholland Drive.

It’s the peak of Lynch’s detached, nightmare logic cinema. It makes sense for a while, until it doesn’t, but set against the backdrop of Hollywood, there’s more truth in the disorienting nature of the story than there would be against any other setting. It can be frustrating for anyone who needs resolution, but if you can learn to stop worrying and love the nightmare, Mulholland Drive manages to curate all the beautiful madness of Lynch’s brain into one hypnotic masterpiece.

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2. The Royal Tenenbaums – Much like Lynch, Wes Anderson is someone with whom I cannot engage like it seems everyone else can. Unlike Lynch, however, there is very little guilt associated with this feeling; if you ask me, Wes Anderson has become a slave to his own style, an annoying twee filmmaker whose stories are lost amid the cutesy nature of his productions. But, in 2001, that very twee-ness manages to hit all the right notes at the right time, with the right cast.

Gene Hackman is exceptional as the despicable – but somehow still lovable – patriarch of a family of geniuses who never reached their respective potentials. All of the elements that make Anderson’s film insufferable today are perfectly placed, from the manicured sets, the hyper-specific wardrobes, the soundtrack, and the comedic timing. Hackman deserved an Oscar nomination for his performance, and Anderson should stop trying to recreate the magic he found with this, his best film.

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1. In the Bedroom – Sometimes, great films can also be horribly depressing, so much so that they’re often labeled by many as “a great movie I’ll never watch again.” That’s fair sometimes, but to deny yourself repeat viewings of In the Bedroom is to deny yourself the opportunity to see great actors doing the best work of their careers.

Todd Field’s story of tragedy, grief, and revenge, is a tale of two parents dealing with the murder of their son in different ways. So different, in fact, that it almost tears them apart. Sissy Spacek is simmering rage, Tom Wilkinson is desperate suppression, and when their emotions finally explode in the presence of one another, it is one of the most powerful and honest scenes you will ever see. Marisa Tomei, as the woman caught in the middle of this family tragedy, shows exactly why she is one of the most underrated, compelling actresses of her generation.

It may be a hard watch, too hard for some, but occasionally we might need to see the darkness to find our own light.

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21st Century Top Tens: 2000

Somehow, some way, we are nearing the end of the twentieth year of the 21st century. Two decades, and time marches on. 

Beginning with 2000, a year that seems more culturally distant by the day, I curated my ten favorite movies from each year. Some years were shockingly easy, others almost impossible, and so much of it (especially the earlier years) was a fun, sometimes eye-opening trip down memory lane. 

Here goes nothing…

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10. The Contender – Director Rod Lurie’s compelling political thriller has all but disappeared from public discourse over the last two decades. It deserves a reappraisal, especially in today’s politically-charged cultural war zone, where accusations can damn a person forever and every minuscule misstep is dragged through the court of public opinion. This is an acting showcase and it’s the film that solidified Joan Allen’s status as a powerful screen presence.

Allen is remarkable as Laine Hanson, a candidate for Vice President whose personal life and sexual escapades in college are brought to the surface in congressional hearings by Republican senator Shelly Runyon, played by a perfectly slimy Gary Oldman. If the tension between these two isn’t enough to draw you in, there’s Jeff Bridges, who grabbed a Supporting Actor nomination for his avuncular turn as President Jackson Evans, a man who loves nothing more than to challenge the White House kitchen with off-the-wall food requests.

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9. The Cell – If I were to say “they don’t make them like this anymore” every time it applied, the phrase would get old before the end of this first list. But, honestly, they don’t make anything like Tarsem Singh’s mind-fuck of a serial killer thriller anymore, where Jennifer Lopez uses newfangled technology to travel into the nightmarish mind of a psychopath (Vincent D’Onofrio, who else), to try and find his latest victim before time runs out.

The visuals on display here still feel unlike anything that’s existed before or after Tarsem’s picture, rich and hypnotic and often terrifying. It helps that the story, and Howard Shore’s relentless score, effectively build nerve-jangling momentum behind the trippy imagery.

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8. Gladiator – This year’s Best Picture winner hasn’t aged particularly well, especially in the CGI renditions of ancient Rome. But docking a picture because of aged effects is foolish. Beyond this, though, there’s something antiquated about the rhythms of the film, and it’s something that’s difficult to pinpoint. Just go with me. The emotional impact that resonated in 2000 just isn’t there anymore, not in the same way. It feels more like a series of memorable moments strung together by a thin, retreaded Spartacus storyline.

And yet, there are powerful moments and strong performances, and despite it’s creakiness, Gladiator is still a thrilling revenge tale. Russell Crowe and Joaquin Phoenix are fantastic in their roles of hero and villain, and Ridley Scott handles the scope of the film and its major action set pieces with the expertise he’s often shown in these sweeping period epics. Gladiator reaches for the stars, and his reach lands more often than not.

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7. Meet the Parents – There’s something invigorating about a comedy taking over the cultural conversation. It’s a rarer feat, more difficult to do, and it’s often something that unifies us all in laughter. Ben Stiller has done that more than once, with Something About Mary in 1997, and again with Meet the Parents, which holds up so well it has reached the “timeless” stage of its maturity in recent years.

Stiller is, of course, not the main draw here. It’s Robert De Niro, in arguably his final role where he seems to be awake and aware of what’s happening around him – at least for a dozen more years, before he made an effort in Silver Lining’s Playbook. The mystery behind De Niro’s character and his bone-dry straight man humor pairs perfectly with Stiller’s natural bewilderment and desperation. It’s a shame they felt the need to keep making increasingly terrible sequels; nevertheless, nothing can take away the impact of Jay Roach’s original.

Special shout out to the late, great James Rebhorn, who steals every scene in which he’s involved.

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6. Unbreakable – M. Night Shyamalan’s follow up to The Sixth Sense definitely confused a lot of people in 2000. There’s a twist, sure, but not in the same way, not with the same groundbreaking impact. There also wasn’t much horror or suspense, really, just a mood piece following Bruce Willis’s David Dunn as he tries to deny his destiny as a superhero, and ignore the persistence of Samuel L. Jackson’s brittle, purple-clad Elijah Price.

Looking back on Unbreakable without the context of Split or Glass, this was an era where superhero movies were still a mystery to Hollywood. Bryan Singer’s X-Men had just come out and set a new template for the serious superhero film, but the studio rush to produce these existing IPs hadn’t kicked off just yet. Shyamalan’s film existed, for a long time, in a void where nothing could touch it as far as superhero films were concerned. Now, in the afterglow of Avengers: Endgame, it holds up in an all new way, as a wholly unique experience in a genre that’s taken over the zeitgeist.

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5. Memento – I remember reading about Memento in the newspaper back in 2000. Yeah, the newspaper, crazy huh? The idea that a film somehow played backwards and managed to make sense, and have a twist, consumed me; and clearly I wasn’t alone. So after work, I drove some 20 miles to the nearest independent theater and witnessed Christopher Nolan’s mind-bending neo noir for myself.

Seeing Memento for the first time is something you cannot, ironically, forget and experience over again. At the same time, every revisit still contains a bit of that early mystery, of an unraveling plot that comes to you bit by bit, thanks to some clever structural tricks Nolan employs, and the skittish nature of the story itself. The small scale of this film, which could have been entirely shot in no more than a single city block, is amusing to think about when you consider Nolan’s films today. Guy Pearce is terrific, and Carrie-Anne Moss should have been a bigger star.

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4. Almost Famous – Cameron Crowe’s semi autobiographical journey across the landscape of America rock music in the 1970s is equal parts charming, saccharine, propulsive, emotional, and altogether rewarding as a pure cinematic experience. It’s a film that grows on you from its opening moments, that pulls you into its melodrama, and leaves you emotionally changed, much like our hero, William Miller (Patrick Fugit).

The marketing and the buzz surrounding the film in 2000 revolved around Kate Hudson, who’s never been as good again as she was here, playing Penny Lane, pioneer of the “band aids” for the Bad Company/Allman Brothers-type fictional band, Stillwater. It’s a shame she was upset for Best Supporting Actress the following spring (although Marcia Gay Harden is great in Pollack).

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3. Requiem for A Dream – Much like Memento, I read about this new director named Darren Aronofsky, and his stylistically groundbreaking new addiction film, in something called a newspaper. And, like I did with Nolan’s film, I went after work to see the film at that same independent theater. Then, I brought my friend to see it; then, I brought another friend to see it.

Nowadays, the subject matter and the intensity of Aronofsky’s film is much more difficult to stomach than it was as a 19-year old, when family and age and empathy hadn’t yet softened my edges. It’s too intense, and it’s probably too showy or too “film student cliche” for some, but despite the fact I may never watch this movie again, it was important, undeniable in my development as a cinephile. It was a stepping stone in my personal relationship with cinema, and it will forever live as an important flashpoint in my life. And, besides, there’s no denying the power of the performances. Ellen Burstyn’s physically-demanding, remarkable turn as the lonely widow Sara Goldfarb is heartbreaking. Her longing for a human connection is something I understand more as age creeps up on me, and it’s her stunning, physical work here that will forever endure.

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2. American Psycho – This was the only film on this list I didn’t see theatrically. Not many did. Mary Harron’s adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’s aggressively ’80s satire is a special type of film, one that evolves rapidly from the first time you see it to the third or fourth time. At first, the subject and the execution (no pun intended) can be repulsive, because it’s easy to go into a film like this blind and take everything at face value. Once you sync up to the story’s satirical bite, however, the film opens up as a brilliant black comedy.

Christian Bale is a perfect Patrick Bateman, a plastic, dead-eyed yuppie in a land of lookalikes and a sea of poseurs. Except his internal dialogue is that of a nasty, murderous villain, and the external outpouring of his hatred and disgust for humanity is shown in some hilariously off-putting and gruesome bursts of sex and violence. Sometimes, I buy into the idea that all of Bateman’s murders are in his head, and there is evidence to support this; other times, I believe he did commit these crimes, but in this vapid Manhattan universe, nobody really cares or believes him anyway.

That’s one reason why this movie rules.

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Cast Away (2000) Directed by Robert Zemeckis Shown: Tom Hanks (as Chuck Noland)

1. Cast Away – It seemed like the marketing for Cast Away kicked off shortly after Hanks appeared in Saving Private Ryan, because he began losing an extreme amount of weight and growing out a crazy beard to play Chuck Nolan, a FedEx workaholic who crash lands on a deserted island, where he lives for four years. Sometimes, these extreme physical transformations are for nought, but in this case, Hanks and Robert Zemeckis took that publicity and crafted a masterpiece.

For some reason, “masterpiece” is a word rarely uttered with this film, which feels like an absurd oversight. This is an astounding and iconic performance by Hanks, who pulls us into the film with roughly 45 minutes of wordless physicality. It’s a film that makes us cry over a volleyball, it’s a film that makes us think about how we might handle such a horrific turn of events, and it’s a story about how people have to eventually move on or die. Cast Away will never not be a captivating, timeless classic.

The RAMBO Revisit: FIRST BLOOD (1982)

Sylvester Stallone, upon seeing the rough cut of his new action picture First Blood, wanted to buy the rights to the film from producers Mario Kassar and Andrew G. Vajna, because he wanted to destroy all evidence of its existence.

The first cut was a long-winded, unwieldy behemoth running over three hours, which is almost impossible to comprehend given the propulsive perfection of the final product. It practically sickened Stallone and his agent, but of course Kassar and Vajna were never going to sell the rights. Cooler heads prevailed, and after editor Joan Chapman and director Ted Kotcheff began trimming away the fat, they managed to cut the film in half, more or less. What remained after the heavy edits is, dare I say, a masterpiece. It’s at least a masterwork of action cinema, pure and lean, thrilling early and often.

Stallone was already three films into his Rocky franchise, having just wrapped on Rocky III two months before tackling the story of John Rambo, a Vietnam vet who is forced to square off against a hateful small town sheriff, Teasle, played by Brian Dennehy. It didn’t begin with these two squaring off, however; at one point Kris Kristofferson was up for the Rambo part, with Gene Hackman as Teasle and Lee Marvin as Rambo’s Army mentor, Colonel Trautman, which ultimately went to Richard Crenna. Typically, these early casting choices don’t feel right, but I would be lying if I didn’t say that version could have been killer.

The film had bounced around Hollywood for a decade, ever since David Morrell’s novel was published in 1972. Sydney Pollack was attached early on, then Mike Nichols wanted Dustin Hoffman to play Rambo. After dodging that bullet, prolific journeyman director Bruce Beresford was offered and passed; eventually, the early screenplay made its way to Ted Kotcheff, who’d been directing TV since the 50s and tried his hand, on occasion, with features. His 1979 football drama North Dallas Forty had been a hit, and he agreed to direct the picture for Kassar and Vajna. But he needed some re-writes.

Some twenty-six rewrites later, it was Stallone who eventually finished the final draft (he shares credit with Michael Kozoll and William Sackheim. Shot in British Columbia, First Blood is a film that sinks its teeth in you immediatelyWe side with John Rambo right off the bat, allowing the audience to empathize with the troubled vet as he takes out these unsuspecting, unprepared small-town cops. Our empathy towards Rambo is aided not only by Dennehy, but by his closest deputy, Galt, a monstrously sadistic police officer who meets a most satisfying end, played by Jack Starrett. The cruelty of these men set the plot in motion, and they help build the myth of John Rambo, our pacifist hero who isn’t looking for conflict, just as much as these small-town wannabe tough guys are.

From the outset, Ted Kotcheff had intended Rambo’s revenge on Teasle and the town itself to be a suicide mission. In the film’s original ending, Colonel Trautman kills Rambo, a mercy killing as Rambo is surrounded by hundreds of police and military officers ready to gun him down. Once they finished the scene, Stallone approached Kotcheff:

Sylvester got up and said, “Ted, can I talk to you for a second?” He said, “You know, Ted, we put this character through so much. The police abuse him. He’s pursued endlessly. Dogs are sent after him. He jumps off cliffs. He runs through freezing water. He’s shot in the arm and he has to sew it up himself. All this, and now we’re gonna kill him?”

Kotcheff found himself in lock step with Stallone’s thoughts on the character. He didn’t necessarily want Rambo to die either, so they set up an alternate ending on the spot. Kotcheff and Joan Chapman would cut right before Trautman pulls out his pistol and shoots Rambo, and instead he would surrender and be led out of the police station. A quick insert showed Teasle being loaded into an ambulance, shot but not killed. It was a shrewd move, one that further solidified the sympathetic foundation the audience had built under Rambo throughout the picture.

On its own, First Blood is a brilliant, lean thriller anchored by a tough, physical performance from Stallone; he’s often considered the strong silent type, but it’s easy to forget how meanderingly chatty Rocky Balboa is, because most of it is marble-mouthed and low energy. Here, however, Stallone’s performance is almost entirely silent, save for a few lines at the beginning and an emotionally-charged tirade during the finale that is some of his best work as an actor. His breathy expressions and sad eyes add dimension to a character where exposition wouldn’t fit. Without Stallone’s basset hound gaze and physicality, the film would fall apart.

Since Rocky won Best Picture in the spring of 1977 and spawned a franchise, Sylvester Stallone’s other films – outside of the Norman Jewison 1978 union thriller F.I.S.T., which doubled it’s budget at the box office – had all been flops. His other passion project, a wrestling drama which he also wrote and directed, 1978’s Paradise Alley, failed miserably. Nighthawks, the 1981 police thriller where he and Billy Dee Williams chase the terrorist Rutger Hauer through the streets of New York, had also been a flop (thankfully, this terrific film has found its second life and a devoted following nowadays). Stallone also starred in Victory, a John Huston movie about a World War II P.O.W. soccer team who plan their escape around a soccer match against the Germans in Nazi-occupied Paris. Surprisingly, that rock-solid premise didn’t generate big bucks.

First Blood bucked the trend in Stallone’s career. Against a budget of $15 million, First Blood opened number one at the box office in October of 1982 with $6.4 million; it held the top spot for three weeks before ending its run with nearly $50 million domestically and $125 million worldwide. Adjusted for inflation, the domestic number is over $144 million.

It was a legitimate success, standing on its own outside of the Rocky franchise and opening the door to a new possible franchise, thanks to Stallone and Kotcheff’s smart last-second decision to redo the fatalistic ending. Watching the film now, with the baggage of a franchise on its tail, it’s amazing to consider that a film so naturalistic, so small, and so focused, could spawn such an unwieldy collection of sequels.

JOHN WICK: CHAPTER 3 – PARABELLUM Goes Beyond 11

John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum has everything, and then some. And then some more.

It has mixtures of mythologies, even more world building, balletic violence, humor, stakes, a tactile palette of neon, dedicated performances, swords, knives, guns, horses, dogs, a book with a sturdy spine, hints of horror and fantasy amid the chaotic Hong Kong-inspired action… it may be too much sometimes, sure, but who really cares when this sort of precise vision and energetic, robust filmmaking is on display? Pick it apart if you must, I’ll be over here fist pumping.

Keanu Reeves is, of course, front and center as the unstoppable assassin. It’s remarkable that Reeves has been able to build on his legend with an entirely new generation of filmgoers. He is John Wick to so many, inseparable from the name, just as he was one and the same with Neo in the Matrix trilogy twenty years ago. The third entry in his new sensational franchise only solidifies his status as an icon, and the athleticism and dedication he pours into this role is awe inspiring.

The film picks up right where Chapter 2 (still my personal favorite of the trio) left off, with Wick disavowed by The Continental and fleeing the city before the contract on his life goes live and seemingly hundreds of assassins spring into action all around him to claim the bounty on his head. In no time, we are in a library and we get the first fight, a thrillingly low-tech battle with an adversary whose casting is a stylistic flourish in and of itself, the first of a seemingly endless barrage of action set pieces that are better left secret. From there, the plot swallows up the audience right along with Wick.

Trying to divulge the plot in John Wick: Chapter 3 is a fool’s errand. Wick seeks help, finds it, and layers of the story unfold as we spend time with Laurence Fishburne, Ian McShane, franchise newcomers Angelica Huston playing a vampiric ballet instructor, and Halle Berry, showing off some impressive skills in an epic fight sequence in the middle of the film. But this isn’t as much about the plot – although the continuing world building here only strengthens the trilogy as a whole – as it is about shuffling our hero from one exotic, lavish interior to the next. Dan Lausten’s cinematography, with a major assist from the lighting department, paints an alternate-universe popping with neon beauty, an elegance that helps to counterbalance and further separate the real world from the stunning amount of violence and brutality. It is everything in Chapter 2 turned up beyond eleven.

Chapter 3 pushes everything to the middle of the table, elevating visuals and themes to the loudest possible frequency. Early in the film, Wick has to retreat to old technology as his aides all around the city begin turning their back on him and the assassins close in. Western mythology blends seamlessly into samurai lore, and vice versa. The action reaches for the laughs a little too much on a few occasions, but the further visual enhancements of the hand-to-hand action and gun and knife play is as balletic and jaw dropping as it is vicious and brutal.

The ending will be a topic of discussion for some time, and I’m not sure how I’ll feel about it. The rules of this world are fast and loose in Chapter 3, but the final few moments rely on the viewer, and how far they’re willing to bend the rules of this universe to accept what happens. It isn’t bad, just strange, and it seems the same result could have been done without the flourish.

As messy and overloaded with plot as it might ultimately be, John Wick: Chapter 3 is undeniably watchable eye candy, anchored by the great Keanu Reeves. His all-in nature pulls us into this world, and his reliability as an action superhero keeps us there. I would be hard pressed to try and think of a single other actor who could fill these shoes. It’s a character nobody knew about five years ago, it’s become one of the tentpole action franchises of the modern era. That’s the power of Keanu.

Transcending Tragedy: THE CROW at 25

Before seeing a trailer, a press release, or any proper media buzz for Alex Proyas’s adaptation of The Crow, James O’Barr’s comic-book series, there was the shocking tragedy.

On March 31, 1993, Brandon Lee, son of the legendary martial artist and international movie star Bruce – and a blossoming action star in his own right – was filming a scene as Eric Draven, the slain angel of vengeance at the center of the picture. The scene in question called for Lee’s character to walk in a room and be immediately shot by a member of the gang of hoodlums who murder Eric and his fiancé. Lee hit his mark, the prop gun fired, and the grocery bag he was carrying properly exploded thanks to the squib inside.

Lee fell to the ground on cue, and it took a moment or two for anyone on the set to realize that the prop gun had either a piece of metal lodged in the barrel, or a live round loaded into the gun. Whatever the case, Lee was rushed to the hospital with a gunshot wound to the gut, where he died after hours of surgery and pints of blood.

He was 28, and he was gone.

Controversy still lingers around Lee’s death (a .44 caliber slug was retrieved from Lee’s body), though it was ultimately ruled an accident in 1993. Nevertheless, The Crow was only two weeks from the finish line at the time of the accident, and now a distraught Alex Proyas and crew needed to make a decision in the face of unimaginable tragedy. Ultimately, Proyas and the production team decided to move forward. After a six-week hiatus, script rewrites, and some stand-in work from Lee’s stunt double, future John Wick director Chad Stahelski, The Crow wrapped production in June of ’93. Except now, it needed a distributor after Paramount dumped the film after the delays.

A young upstart studio called Miramax picked up the project, and set it for a May 1994 release. After a year of sadness and controversy in the face of despair, Proyas delivered Brandon Lee’s dark, bloody, grim revenge tale to audiences who, with a mix of morbid curiosity and genuine interest, made the film number one at the box office on its way to a substantial $50 million haul.

The aura of Brandon Lee looms large over The Crow, even 25-years later. Lost amid said aura, however, is a nasty gothic superhero thriller that introduced audiences to the distinct visual language of Alex Proyas. Since 1980, the Egyptian-born, Aussie-raised filmmaker had been directing short films and music videos for the likes of INXS, Fleetwood Mac, and Crowded House. The success of The Crow opened doors for Proyas, who went on to direct two vastly underrated science fiction thrillers in Dark City and Knowing, one of the strangest, most exciting Nicolas Cage studio pictures of the new millennium.

Proyas leans heavily into the stark black-and-white panels of O’Barr’s comics, and adds an industrial tinge to some of the interiors that make everything feel cold and detached. Very little color exists in this hellscape of urban decay, save for the splashes of blood and the harsh lighting of drug dens and grunge-poisoned nightclubs. It is a haunted noir universe where characters are hopelessly lost, and Proyas wisely never allows the story to drift into camp or let his characters stray from the elevated gothic vibe he’s crafting. The Crow is, first and foremost, a style exercise, but it still has a soul thanks to its most soulful hero.

Even though the tragic history of The Crow never fades completely, Lee’s performance manages to still push through and transcend the distraction of his own passing. Lee’s long face makes the white makeup pop off the screen, and his ability to over-articulate his words in a natural way add a layer of menace to his delivery as Draven stalks and executes everyone responsible for his murder and the murder of his love, Shelly (Sofia Shinas). Lee’s performance is also boosted by the presence of some rock solid character actors, all who elevate the pulpy material and give it an identity that would never return in the increasingly terrible sequels.

Ernie Hudson is the hangdog beat cop trying to keep his feet in a reality that is slowly dissolving around him, and keeping an eye on the precocious teenager, Sarah (Rochelle Davis); there is T-Bird, the leader of the murderous gang of thugs, played by the great David Patrick Kelly, who stole our hearts when Arnold Schwarzenegger dropped him off a cliff in Commando. The criminal pulling all the strings is Top Dollar, a reptilian gangster played by Michael Wincott in an eerie, repulsive performance.

The success of The Crow was initially spurred by a morbid curiosity, there is no getting around that. But after it’s $11 million opening weekend and the number one spot at the box office (hard to imagine, isn’t it?), Brandon Lee’s captivating farewell proved to have legs beyond the ghoulish gimmickry involved with seeing a final performance and a film mired in controversy. Proyas captures the very essence of O’Barr’s work, and in Lee the writer and filmmaker found the perfect deliveryman.

It’s difficult to predict the future for Brandon Lee. Had he lived, The Crow may not have gotten that early surge in ticket sales and could have been the type of film that finds its legs on home video. The only thing that was certain with Lee, is that his star was on the rise, and this was destined to be at least his next stepping stone. The low key success of Showdown in Little Tokyo and the stellar Rapid Fire were clear indications that he was just beginning to step out from his father’s ubiquitous shadow and forge his own path as an actor.

Now, however, he is Eric Draven for legions of fans. There is no separation anymore, which makes the endless attempts to get a remake off the ground seem more and more like a bad idea. Fans of the character see Lee in the makeup and goth attire forever, a ghost trapped in a rain-soaked city, etched firmly into this moment in timet. The Crow may not be a perfect film, too melodramatic perhaps, too grim for some, but there is a dedication to the tone that cannot be denied and a propulsive quality to Proyas’s direction that compensates for any perceived shortcomings.

Above all else, there is a young star who became a posthumous pop icon.

UNDER THE SILVER LAKE’s Long, Strange Trip

The first trailer for Under the Silver Lake, director David Robert Mitchell’s L.A. neo-noir follow up to his nifty horror picture It Follows, landed on YouTube in March of 2018. It was headed for a summer release, and it appeared to be at least an interesting, esoteric indie that should find its audience. Then it stumbled at Cannes; that’s when A24, one of the torch bearers of indie cinema the last decade, became uncharacteristically gun shy.

Mitchell’s film was moved to December of 2018, then it was pushed to April 19, but by the time that date rolled around, there was no longer a wide theatrical release. It was unceremoniously dumped into a few theaters, then unloaded on VOD three days later. The whole  boondoggle was out of character for A24, a studio who champions new independent voices in all genres, and Mitchell’s It Follows was a grassroots hit for the studio in their earlier days. Burying his sophomore effort felt like an odd choice, no matter what the conflicts or concerns may have been – added to the fact that it was fairly easy to find defenders of the film without much effort.

Viewing Under the Silver Lake through the prism of delays upon delays, and a surprising lack of confidence, it’s easy to spot where Mitchell’s film could have been a cause for concern. It is far too long for the material in Mitchell’s screenplay; it’s 139 minutes when 110 would cure what ails the film. It wants to capture the meandering listless mood of our “hero,” the well-worn L.A. deadbeat archetype played this time by a squirrelly, squinting Andrew Garfield, and it does to a fault at times.

Garfield plays Sam, who feels like a combination of Elliiot Gould’s Philip Marlowe, The Dude, and “Doc” Sportello, the super-stoned hero at the center of Inherent Vice. Only Sam isn’t stoned as much as he’s drunk, and horny, and Under the Silver Lake drops us into Sam’s vintage L.A. apartment building right away, where he spies on the topless hippie neighbor and invites a young actress friend (Riki Lindhome) over for some casual sex. In no time, Sam’s perfectly curated life of leisure is interrupted by Sarah, the girl in the white bikini played by Riley Keough, who entrances Sam one night before promptly disappearing into thin air the next morning.

This happens in short order, and the rest of the film is Sam trying – albeit with minimal effort – to find Sarah. His investigation takes him into the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles, a place most movie fans know well, a place of weirdos and powerful conspirators pulling invisible strings. It’s best to leave the discoveries, and the sidebars, a secret, because that’s really the best part of these sun-drenched neo noirs. The destination rarely matters; the journey is key.

For the most part, Mitchell’s gorgeous film drifts in an out of scenarios at apartments, motels, and eccentric Hollywood parties. There are echoes of too many pictures to count here, but the film typically manages to balance pastiche with uniqueness and Garfield is surprisingly perfect in the role. He has a great confused scowl. In the end, however, like so many films in this genre, more time at the editing bay would help the picture flow more cleanly. The propulsive nature of the first hour to ninety minutes fizzles out in the end, but it’s not enough to ruin the finished product.

The runtime could have been the major sticking point for A24, and perhaps Mitchell was unbending on his vision. If that’s the case, it’s understood. Mitchell had no obligation to fit his fit into a runtime I would appreciate, but perhaps if the studio was asking for edits, they had more on their mind than fitting enough screenings in each day. Regardless, the willingness to push Under the Silver Lake down the line over and over makes no sense when the studio has made their name on releasing abstruse art, especially since there is plenty to love in David Robert Mitchell’s sophomore feature.

Karyn Kusama’s DESTROYER Starts Weird, Finishes Strong

It seems like those Nicole Kidman set photos from Karyn Kusama’s stark LA crime noir Destroyer had been around for years, before the film itself was granted an uber-limited theatrical release and quickly pushed aside at the end of 2018. Kidman, looking haggard and sallow and baked to a crisp by the unforgiving SoCal sun, plays Erin Bell, a detective in the City of Angels whose troubled past has left her a husk of a human. But Kidman’s look is so off putting, so uncanny, that it’s all there is to the first act of the picture. The story that unfolds is a distant second early on, but fortunately the second half settles in to a rather riveting – if deathly serious – Point Break riff.

Destroyer jumps back and forth in time as we follow Bell from a fresh-faced cop infiltrating a sadistic LA gang with her partner, Chris (Sebastian Stan), to this strange, warped, broken woman in the “present day” thread. Current day Erin drinks, drifts around town, and has quite a problem on her hands with a rebellious teenage daughter (Jade Pettyjohn) whose new boyfriend is up to no good. The setup of all these elements stumble out of the film while we adjust to Kidman’s look.

Comparisons were made to Charlize Theron’s transformation in Monster, but there is something more naturalistic about Theron’s sun-poisoned serial killer; it’s difficult to pin down, what is so distracting about Kidman’s appearance, but there’s no getting around it early on while you try, frustratingly, to put pieces in place. Kusama has a specific vision of this Los Angeles, sharp concrete angles and open spaces, heat, death, not a single shot of ocean water to be seen. She is going for a mood, you can see it, but the story isn’t cooperating through the first hour.

The second half of Destroyer pivots to something altogether more engaging and exciting, once you’re able to adjust to Kidman’s appearance (mileage may vary from viewer to viewer). The flashbacks to Erin’s undercover sting, her relationship with Chris, and the eventual disaster that ruined her life almost two decades prior  are able to punch up the plot, and a tense bank robbery sequence shows Kusama’s abilities to handle action well. There is a minor twist, some reveals along the way, and plenty of terrific camerawork as the film draws to a more satisfying close than what could have ever been predicted in the beginning.

Despite the look, Nicole Kidman is giving everything to her role here. It’s been an incredible few years for the Aussie legend, and Destroyer is another daring move from an actress who seems to be settling into an incredible second act. This is also a film almost entirely about Kidman’s Erin Bell, so much so that the supporting players practically don’t register as characters sometimes. They are all fine, and don’t distract, but in the end they all feel like ciphers put in place to tell Erin’s story.

Destroyer is a half-misstep for Kusama, whose last film, The Invitation, was one of the best of 2015 (and Jennifer’s Body is thankfully getting the cultural reappraisal it deserves). It’s tough to fault her direction, which shines in the second half; the fault is more in the meandering opening act and DOA delivery of these first few scenes than anything Kusama tries. Again, though, it all comes down to Kidman, who is able to fight through a strange makeup decision to turn the film into something worth seeing.

DRAGGED ACROSS CONCRETE is a Cold Rush of Nasty and Subversive Noir

There is no time to spare once the curtain opens on Dragged Across Concrete, S. Craig Zahler’s latest gritty genre opus, his most intentionally provocative yet, slyly, his most subversive. It’s a challenging, prickly, heavy mood piece soaked in shadow and light, and it jumps right into the seedy underworld of these lost souls. Every frame seems pulled from the dog-eared pages of an underground crime comic, written in blood-soaked prose and carefully placed in position by a master craftsman looking to elicit emotion.

It also has Mel Gibson, in one of his best performances this century.

Just the inclusion of Mel Gibson, now with a face carved out of stone, is enough to ruffle some delicate feathers out there. But as Brett Ridgeman, an openly racist and soured detective who has lost sight of what, if anything, ever made him a functioning human being, Gibson embodies what so many in the media and across the country already think he is on a daily basis. Ridgeman is out of touch, jaded by his police work, and is no longer able to tuck away his hatred for the “neighborhood” in which he lives and works. His real opinions are often less subtle than this description. If the consensus is that Gibson is this person (whether that’s true or not), then Zahler casting him in the role should be free of criticism, considering the character he plays here; this is what a certain facet of cultural opinion makers want Mel Gibson to be in their head, and now here he is, being that person on the big screen. How can they be upset?

Ridgeman is paired with Anthony Lurasetti, a younger, more amused detective played by Vince Vaughn, who clearly has fun delivering Zahler’s rope-a-dope noir prose. When a rough arrest is captured on camera (“not that bad,” according to their superior, Calvert, played briefly by Don Johnson), the two men are suspended six weeks without pay, placing them both in a bind for different reasons that should be left unsaid here. Regardless, Ridgeman cooks up a plan to acquire some wealth, and the trajectory of their story eventually brings them to that of Henry Johns.

Played by Tory Kittles, Henry Johns is a man who’s been to prison, been reformed, and is ready to escape the dire situation he lives in with his drug addict prostitute mother and wheelchair-bound nephew. But it requires, yes, the acquisition of wealth. Kittles’ work is on par with the two stars, so much so that he should be the one who most benefits from this hard-nosed performance.

Dragged Across Concrete is, at 159 minutes, essentially two movies with a short film – one involving a loving mother, played by fellow Brawl in Cell Block 99 actor Jennifer Carpenter in a role that would earn her a Supporting Actress nomination in a fair and just world – sandwiched in between. The first half is primarily stakeout scenes with Gibson and Vaughn, which will test the patience of many viewers, but those patient enough will be rewarded with smart dialogue and some humor with teeth. Zahler manages to keep all of the loose scenes and unwieldy dialogue focused, despite the fact that nothing you are seeing should be working. After his previous two films, Brawl and the terrific Western/Horror hybrid Bone Tomahawk, Zahler began getting labeled as a right-wing filmmaker – whatever that means. It was a category he was placed in, so whatever. Dragged Across Concrete will certainly stoke the fires of journalists and film fans who care more about the political ideologies at stake, or the mere existence of these words Zahler’s characters speak and the ideologies they carry with them, and less about what the director is doing within these very obvious conventions.

There is a forest made up of all these trees, and Zahler has pushed the envelope even further here in terms of pacing and plotting and conversation. It may not be as violent as the previous two, but Dragged still has its moments of grindhouse catharsis tucked away in its epic run time to satisfy genre fans. In the end, he subverts everything we’ve thought about the very existence of these characters within the framework of this movie. This is a look at the poisoned rotting core of an apple. To be offended is to show your hand, that you’ve only paid attention to the areas of the film you want to, and not the entire story as a whole. It’s provocative, but with purpose beyond shock value. That’s partly why the movie is so long, or why it’s length is so crucial; it’s a challenge. Zahler is asking you to stick it out with him, and you will be rewarded; bail after a few tough words or a few uncomfortable moments, and you’ll never get the full picture.