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Moments out of Time 1978

[Originally published in Movietone News 60-61, February 1979]

The American Friend: Jonathan Zimmerman (Bruno Ganz) removes a sheet of gold leaf from its packing, lets it fall shivering onto his hand, blows it snug like a second skin, then uses that hand to seize the telephone receiver and make the call that will commit him to Ripley’s game….

• Standing in the middle of the prairie listening to the wheat lean with the breeze, as the call of a blackbird draws near, then passes by—Days of Heaven

• Full shots of the Basin in Comes a Horseman: Ewing (Jason Robards) left alone by his only son’s grave; dynamiting and horsefall; quelling the stampede; the tiny glow of an evening dance, while a light plane drones over the mountains…

The American Friend
The American Friend

The Duellists: D’Hubert (Keith Carradine), having been wounded by his implacable adversary, lies in a steaming tub discussing matters of high import with his mistress (Diana Quick). His voice grows more and more pinched. “Don’t sneeze!” the lady implores; then, desperately, “Describe honor!” “Honor is … indescribable!” d’Hubert all but weeps, and the sneeze comes, rending his wounded side….

• The littlest ship in the world, and a fart lit fondly in farewell—Stroszek

An Unmarried Woman: Erica’s friend (Kelly Bishop) manages to stop weeping and resumes their conversation about favorite actresses; smiling, “I liked Rita Hayworth—she was pretty”…

• For Inspector Dreyfus (Herbert Lom), the impossible, inexplicable, intolerable, inevitable split-second glimpse of Clouseau the Godfather (Peter Sellers) as the doors of a Hong Kong elevator close—The Revenge of the Pink Panther

• Can Roberts Blossom be … that is, would he … is he really eating his dog for supper?—Citizens Band

The Buddy Holly Story: Buddy (Gary Busey), Jesse (Don Stroud), and Ray Bob (Charlie Martin Smith), in a car on their way to Nashville, browsing toward the realization of “Peggy Sue”…

• Pushups in the empyrean—Heaven Can Wait

• And an echo of the real Heaven Can Wait in The Man Who Loved Women: Bertrand Morane (Charles Denner) dies reaching from his bed for the redheaded vision of feminine beauty…

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Moments out of Time 1972

[Originally published in Movietone News 20, January 1973]

Le Boucher: a flock of chickens pecking among the leaves in foreground; beyond, frenzied activity at the police station, and we know another grisly murder has come to punctuate, but curiously not to disturb, life in this small French village…

Albert Finney in Gumshoe
Albert Finney in Gumshoe

• Albert Finney’s exquisite gumshoe patter with the unseen Fat Man at the Plaza Hotel, down to and including a perfectly Bogartian “Sure!”—Gumshoe

• A long, single-take stroll down the main street of S1. Joseph, Mo., 1863: ”It is a sunny day”—Bad Company

• A duel of banjos, Deliverance

• Measuring penis lengths in Murmur of the Heart, and Benoît Ferreux’s breathless appreciation of his older brother’s endowment: “Splendide!”…

• Rusk’s visit to Brenda Blaney’s marriage and friendship bureau, Frenzy: from the moment she greets him as Mr. Robinson, we know; only after a tangled rape, as he sighs and with sublime weariness removes the stick-pin from his tie, does she know…

• Henry’s first joint, in Travels with My Aunt: in a perfectly played single take of several moments’ duration, Alec McCowen turns on completely unawares (“1 say, I’ve never smoked an American cigarette!”) and syllable by syllable sloughs several decades of British bank-clerkhood as he giggles on the Orient Express with an American abroad…

• Moving a cemetery, Deliverance

Le Boucher: a casual walk through town, with a Franco-Prussian War memorial passing between the camera and our protagonists, as Stéphane Audran’s schoolchildren swing on the chains round the monument and a local drives by with a load of freshly pruned boughs on his cart: death as the political and the natural order of things…

• Billie Whitelaw coming home in a raincoat, silhouetted in the dim hall as a late-night piano ruminates over “These Foolish Things Remind Me of You”, Gumshoe: she sizes up Finney poised over the keyboard in a well-placed cloud of cigarette smoke and then shuts off the phonograph….

• AI Lettieri, quintessential crude, bedridden, a black kitten on his bare chest, fondling blond bimbo Sally Struthers while her veterinarian-husband, bound and gagged, looks on The Getaway

Hannie Caulder: the thorough ineptitude of three bandit brothers played by Ernest Borgnine, Strother Martin, and Jack Elam…

• The extraordinary delicacy of Peter Finch, Sunday Bloody Sunday

• The handsome emptiness of Joe Dallesandro’s face as he sexually uses and is used, Heatthe reality of the “nothingness” which Play It As It Lays skirts with such blasé gentility…

• The raid on the Dutchman’s farm; his hysterical gratitude to God for deliverance; the bloody aftermath—Ulzana’s Raid

• In The Last Picture Show, Sonny (Timothy Bottoms) watching Elizabeth Taylor on the Royal screen, in Father of the Bride, and thinking of her while kissing Charlene Duggs…

• Brando’s grotesque bumbling with ursine clumsiness and growling as he plays with his grandson in the garden, The Godfather: his sudden death agony appears to the child as just another variation of the game…

• The rough-and-tumble of an embryonic baseball game—Sennett-like yet convincingly inadvertent—climaxed by Cole Younger’s (Cliff Robertson) shooting the hide off the ball: The Great Northfield, Minnesota Raid

• John Wayne and Slim Pickens sagging over a bar, The Cowboys

• The last three shots of The Other—frustrating as hell if one had been watching the wrong movie, but brilliantly right for the one Mulligan made…

• Jean Yanne peering through the window of the classroom as Stéphane Audran reads to her class about someone who emits “an air of grandeur … and profound feeling, such as to impress the coarsest of minds”: she unknowingly describes herself and her attraction for Popaul (Yanne), so like one of the children, to whom she must remain “Mademoiselle Hélène”—Le Boucher

• Sam the Lion (Ben Johnson) at the tank, The Last Picture Show: “You wouldn’t believe how this country’s changed”…

• Junior and Ace at the railway station—Junior Bonner

• The reconstitution of Casablanca at the end of Play It Again, Sam, especially Bogart’s appreciative “Here’s looking at you, kid!” for ace-nebbish Woody Allen…

• The perfect honesty and discretion with which Ed (Jon Voight) acknowledges, “I have some…” after Lewis (Burt Reynolds) has been mocking the idea of buying insurance—Deliverance

• All of Glenda Jackson’s unbilled cameo as The Star in The Boy Friend, especially her gully-washing tear flow as she simultaneously watches Twiggy displace her from her role and, trouper good and true, indulges in the professional sentimentality that enjoys seeing the kid get a break…

• Adam Wainwright’s (E. Kerrigan Prescott) hilarious striptease in the empty burlesque theatre, Roseland, the bumps and grinds saved from homosexual parody by the “new Adam’s” infectious delight and spontaneity…

• “Say, how’d that Jane Eyre turn out?” “Fine. Just fine.” Bad Company

• Rod Steiger’s fingers dancing an inverted fandango as his Mexican bandit searches for the word “destiny”—Duck, You Sucker

• In Play It Again, Sam, the manic depressiveness of Allen Felix (Woody Allen), who doesn’t bother to cook his TV dinners, just sucks them while they’re still frozen: “Did my wife never have an orgasm during our whole marriage, or was she faking that night?”…

• The moment when Le Boucher, inadvertently opening the schoolteacher’s cupboard and finding the lighter he left at the site of one of his murders, looks at us with fatal resignation…

• The beautifully detailed responses of Ed and Bobby (Jon Voight, Ned Beatty) to the taunting, unsatisfiable mountain men who just materialize out of the wilderness along the Cahulawassee—Deliverance

• A combined country-western dance and saloon brawl in Junior Bonner, in which everyone makes new friends: Sam Peckinpah’s version of the Life Force?…

• The superb ending of Heat: the movie star rushes in Swanson-like frenzy to trap her callous lover by the swimming pool, pulls her Sunset Blvd. rod—and it refuses to fire….

• The gradual disclosure of Nazi identity in “Tomorrow Belongs to Me” in Cabaret: a setup, but a valid one…

• The epilogue to Macbeth: the forgotten brother, Donalbain, comes back and, sheltering along the witches’ wall, is attracted by their smoke; as he disappears into the hovel, a jug swinging from a branch in mid-screen caps a whole motif set in motion by Duncan’s crown rolling wildly on the floor during the murder: a stylistic prophecy beyond film’s end, a circle never to be closed as long as there are junior executives who dream of being Number One…

Le Boucher: being questioned by a police inspector called in from the city, Mlle. Hélène can’t help being distracted by the verbally unremarked blaze of silver in the man’s otherwise black head of hair: an ineffably weird index to the idiosyncrasies of Claude Chabrol’s film-world…

• A giddy gunfight among autumn-stripped trees, between two frightened teenagers and a bandit gang whom their leader has tried to protect from their intended victims (“If it was a blind woman in a wheelchair I’d give her the odds”): in a state of shock, the boys gradually realize they’re winning!—Bad Company

• The exultant sense of the high shot that zooms up and away from Eddie Ginley (Finney) as, having stalled the most intimate and crippling problems of his life in one automobile, he turns away from them, his own man—Gumshoe

• One of many devastating moral rebukes to the audience in Frenzy: after the innocent Richard Blaney (Jon Finch) has brought an auto jack down on the blond head under the bedclothes, with us thinking simultaneously “Don’t do it! You’ve been cleared of the other crimes!” and “Go ahead, give him what he has coming!”, he and we discover that the now-dented skull belongs not to the murderer Rusk but to yet another, already-strangled victim—and again the mind boggles, torn between relief and horror…

-In The King of Marvin Gardens, Ellen Burstyn burying her makeup and lotions in the cold sand of Atlantic City, symbolically celebrating her party’s anticipated departure for a tropic Pacific isle where health and wealth abound: her companions leave her, her giddy gaiety turns to shock and fear, and, retrieving a pair of scissors from the beach, she begins to mutilate her hair, flicking the tufts toward the fire before her—and not noticing they are carried away by the wind as soon as they leave her fingers…

The Last Picture Show: Sam the Lion looking into the boys more deeply than they know before watching them head out for Mexico…

• Huey and Dewey beating the overconfident Bruce Dern at poker with deadpan computer canniness—Silent Running

• Scatman Crothers jiving Diana Ross about what a superstud trick he’s going to be while shucking down to faded pink longjohns—as Ross quietly departs: Lady Sings the Blues

• When mother and son love each other so naturally that one involuntarily accepts this as the finest kind of sexual initiation for a boy coming into manhood, Murmur of the Heart; the beauty of the act momentarily returning one to prelapsarian innocence of any taboo…

• Sonny sitting on the curb watching Anarene’s one traffic light change, after learning of the death of Sam the Lion–The Last Picture Show

• A runaway cart hits a rock, four naked people soar through the air in a sitting position, and the top blows off a mountain: Duck, You Sucker

Bad Company: Big Joe (David Huddleston) shows the posse the gun trick he taught Curly Bill Brocius: “Boys—I’m the oldest whore on the block!”…

• The death of John Wayne, The Cowboys

Junior Bonner: a crazy song about rodeo-riding and getting thrown, with no lyrics, just Sam Peckinpah’s brawny sense of slapstick imagery and infallibly timed cutting, and a buzzer that goes BRRRRRRT!!…

• Attacked while escorting a woman and her son through Indian territory, a veteran Army trooper (Dean Swift) immediately rides away, but turns back at the woman’s frantic screams to shoot her between the eyes as she sighs a prayer of thanks for what she mistakes for rescue; a moment later, his horse shot from under him, he puts the same pistol in his own mouth and fires–death on Robert Aldrich’s frontier, Ulzana’s Raid

• The horses descending the brothel staircase in Romance of a Horsethief: the whores, led by Lainie Kazan, frantically attempt to distract drunken Cossack Yul Brynner’s attention from Eli Wallach’s latest refinement in horse-stealing…

Gumshoe: Finney’s third-person tough-guy recitation of imitation Hammett at Billie Whitelaw as he waits for his train to pull away, he still not fully aware that his favorite fictional fantasies are becoming reality, that the lady herself is suffering the sea-change his imaginative bid for sanity and survival is imposing on his world: “The pitch was, would the lady stick around?” and as the train pulls out, she recedes from him in a palpably Romantic movement…

• A promontory overlooking the river and farmlands of the Trémolat-Périgord region; schoolchildren on an outing; Stéphane Audran’s blonde head in the sun: and on one little girl’s biscuit, a splash of bright red blood appears as from the cloudless sky—Le Boucher

• The final scene in Sunday Bloody Sunday: Dr. David Hirsch (Peter Finch) in unexpected consultation with the audience in a shot that begins very un-subjectively and ends: “I only came about my cough”…

• Two of the Younger gang, naked to the waist to show their bullet-riddled torsos, stood on end in their coffins while townspeople gawk and take photographs—The Great Northfield, Minnesota Raid

• Frames within frames within frames: The Boy Friend: onstage the understudy (Twiggy) who loves the leading man (Christopher Gable) sees him flirting offstage with another girl in the cast; shortly thereafter she breaks down in mid-scene and flees crying, leaving the pros to make repair—Children of Paradise it may not be, but it’ll do very nicely, thanks…

• The old capo‘s fine sense of dignity as he inquires whether Duvall can intervene in his execution, and his quiet acceptance of the inevitably negative reply—The Godfather

• Tuesday Weld cradling Tony Perkins, crooning her mother’s lullaby—”Baby, just remember … you belong to me”—while he suicides with seconal: one of the few scenes to sit still long enough to develop any viewer intensity, in Play It As It Lays

• Sophie Brzeska standing beside a great unsculpted block of stone, Savage Messiah, mute testament to the dead artist Gaudier-Brzeska whom we last see caught in photographed stasis holding a carved rifle butt…

• Woody Allen casually gestures with a hand holding a phonograph album and slings the record across the room—the climax of a veritable crescendo of gaucherie and awkwardness upon meeting his blind date (Jennifer Salt), Play It Again, Sam

• Ali MacGraw and Steve McQueen trapped in an inexorably filling garbage truck; moments later, re-pledging what is left of their troth in the skeleton of a car in the dump: a concentration of Peckinpah’s vision of America and its outlaws, The Getaway

• The dancing duel between Tommy Tune and the black-haired girl in The Boy Friend

• Oliver Tobias’ and Eli Wallach’s literal horseplay as Wallach begs his friend to tell what he did in the fields with that countess—Romance of a Horsethief

• Peter Vaughan’s comic museum guard—a welcome respite from the preciosity of Ken Russell’s Savage Messiah

The Honkers: late-night confidences over a kitchen table: the neglected wife (Lois Nettleton) and the wayward husband’s friend and partner, a tired old rodeo clown who will die tomorrow (Slim Pickens)—a nice scene from a nice directorial debut by the late Steve Ihnat…

• The destruction-by-shotgun of a police car, The Getaway

• Robert Redford’s perfect shit-eating grin as, buttonholed in a rest room by an abusive taxpayer, he has to take it: there’s a political campaign underway in The Candidate

• Skinning a rabbit, Bad Company

• A cowhand (Matt Clark), apparently doomed to draw on a man he knows can kill him and will (Geoffrey Lewis), simply turns his back and says “Shiiiiit… ” with tears in his voice—one of several shrewd variations on convention that take us into the peculiar reality of The Culpepper Cattle Company

• The joy of battle for Alan Breck Stuart in Kidnapped: one more vividly dangerous performance out of Michael Caine…

• Afternoon in a bar, and the light that flared coldly in whenever the door opened: Fat City

• The rape in Frenzy: Brenda’s prayer filled with sexual imagery that subsequently turns up all over London (“I shall not fear the arrow by night…”); this in rhythmic counterpoint to Rusk’s groaning repetition of “Lovely … Lovely … Lovely”…

• In Le Boucher, the butcher appearing in costume as Louis XIV, cigarette in his mouth, to rehearse with the schoolchildren for the village pageant: we are focused on the back of Mlle. Hélène’s neck, and she suddenly turns, aware that Popaul has been worshipping that very part of her with his eyes: one of the tenderest, most intimate moments in the cinema…

• Big Joe’s philosophical tolerance of Jake Rumsey (Jeff Bridges) for pointing a gun at him: while he fills his pipe, he passes Jake some friendly advice on why you shouldn’t hesitate to shoot in circumstances like that, then draws his own piece and shoots Jake’s away—Bad Company

• George C. Scott’s hilarious–and beautifully built and delivered—”Power to the impotent!” speech in Hospital

• The decency of Edgar Derby (Eugene Roche) in SlaughterhouseFive

• Robert Duvall’s unflappable business cool in The Godfather: he receives with equanimity the verbal abuse of a Hollywood producer but momentarily crumbles as he must report the death of Sonny to Don Corleone…

• Some smoky Scandinavian brick standing in for turn-of-the-century New York, and the American prairie as itself—Joe Hill

Bad Company: the sudden death of Boog, whom Jake once warned not to be so quick in reaching for pies…

• Every encounter between the slimly determined self-protectiveness of Stéphane Audran and the beefy vulnerability of Jean Yanne in Le Boucher—but especially when he turns his knife against himself in an exact visual summing-up of the complex dangers and metamorphoses of love in that exquisitely calm and tortured film…

• The lesbian roommate at Andrea Feldman looking on incuriously as the blond manchild from the other apartment surveys her body with doglike appreciation and intently masturbates—Heat

• The moment when Dr. Gene Wilder stops indulging the Armenian shepherd’s tale of his love for Daisy the sheep and begins to share his fascination—Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex but Were Afraid to Ask

• The guerrilla assault on a Paris supermarket, Tout va bien

• For a half moment, all the sounds in an all-night cafe and bowling alley stop: the shape of things to come for breaking-down pug Stacy Keach, Fat City

• The old girlfriend visits Eddie’s apartment at midnight as he prepares for bed: she mounts a fine attack on his habit of calling her every time he needs help, during which he brushes his teeth, then gargles and spits in the bowl—the character’s helpless amusement despite her best intentions of staying mad seems inseparable from Billie Whitelaw’s delight in how Finney has stolen her thunder: yet another moment of multileveled beauty from Gumshoe

• The last picture show in The Last Picture Show: Duane (Jeff Bridges) opining that the movie, Red River, was a pretty good show, and Sonny (Timothy Bottoms) offhandedly replying, “I seen it here before”…

• Jack Elam’s emergence from the barbershop, hair glued to one of the ugliest skulls in cinematic history, his one good eye a-gleam with delight in his grotesque sartorial splendor—Hannie Caulder

• The hour of the wolf. The preternatural blackness of a distant shoreline marked by trees. The lake surface sheening away from our eyes. A dead man’s hand rises from it like a primordial·memory: the great penultimate shot of Deliverance, so full of the spirit lacking in the rest of this adaptation of James Dickey’s novel…

• Diana Ross’ simultaneously jittery and sleepy-eyed rendering of Billie Holiday’s blues in Lady Sings the Blues

• Woody Allen as the court jester frantically trying to get into the royal box: he tells the impassioned but chastity-locked queen, “We have to hurry because soon it’ll be the Renaissance and we’ll all be painting!”—Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex

Gumshoe: Eddie Ginley takes his cup of tea and cigarette, puts a Fifties-style disc on the record player, and starts learning to live without the family….

RTJ & KAM

© 1973 Richard T. Jameson and Kathleen Murphy

Parallax View Presents

An archive of Parallax View “Special Sections”

Orson Welles was born in Kenosha, Wisconsin, on May 6, 1915. This week marks his centenary: the hundredth anniversary of the birth of one of the most influential, ambitious, unique, and complicated filmmakers in the American cinema, or any cinema, for that matter. The occasion has been celebrated with a number of new books and documentaries on Welles, the first significant progress on completing his unfinished feature The Other Side of the Wind, retrospectives of his films, a tribute to Welles at the 2015 Cannes Film Festival, and a symposium at Indiana University featuring many of the top Orson Welles scholars in the world. Here’s what Parallax View contributors have written about Orson Welles.
– Sean Axmaker

‘Citizen Kane’ by Richard T. Jameson
‘The Magnificent Ambersons’ by Richard T. Jameson
‘The Magnificent Ambersons’ by Robert Horton
The Earth is Made of Glass: Orson Welles’ ‘The Stranger’ by Peter Richards
‘The Lady from Shanghai’ by Richard T. Jameson
‘Othello’ by Richard T. Jameson
‘Mr. Arkadin’ by Richard Jameson
‘Touch of Evil’ by Richard T. Jameson
‘Touch of Evil’: Crossing the Line by Robert C. Cumbow
The Making, Unmaking and Reclamation of ‘Touch of Evil’ by Sean Axmaker
“A tremendous piece of filmmaking”: Walter Murch on ‘Touch of Evil’ interview
“Let’s give them something to really work with”: Rick Schmidlin on revising ‘Touch of Evil’ interview by Sean Axmaker
“A once in a lifetime project”: Bob O’Neil on restoring and revising ‘Touch of Evil’ interview by Sean Axmaker
“A rough, jagged, jarring, shaking-you-up kind of movie”: Janet Leigh on ‘Touch of Evil’ interview by Sean Axmaker
“Actors loved him”: Charlton Heston on Orson Welles and ‘Touch of Evil’ interview by Sean Axmaker
Cinematic Archeology: ‘Orson Welles’ Don Quixote’? Not even close by Sean Axmaker

Related features on other sites:
Orson Welles: The Enigmatic Independent (Sean Axmaker, Keyframe)
The Orson Welles Bookshelf (Sean Axmaker, Keyframe)
Rediscovery: Orson Welles’ ‘Too Much Johnson’ (Sean Axmaker, Keyframe)
Schooled by Orson Welles: Roberto Perpignani (Sean Axmaker, Keyframe)
Orson Welles goes ‘Around the World’ (Sean Axmaker, Keyframe)
Orson Welles: ‘The Trial’ (Sean Axmaker, Keyframe)

“What is cinema?” asks New Wave icon Jean-Pierre Belmondo of Sam Fuller in Jean-Luc Godard’s “Pierrot le Fou.” He answers: “Film is like a battleground: love, hate, action, death… In one word, EMOTION.” It doesn’t matter whether Godard or Fuller wrote the line (regardless, Fuller’s gruff, cigar chomping delivery makes it his). It stands as a marvelous summation of a career of uncompromising films. A former journalist, pulp writer and soldier, he made tough guy films with mad passion and driving energy that examined the identity of America. His patriotic passion comes through every jagged, explosive frame. The small screen simply can’t hold that much energy.
—Sean Axmaker

Hey, Mom, Where’s My Suicide Note Collection? by Richard Thompson
Creature Contact by Richard T. Jameson
Sam Fuller: An Introduction by Sean Axmaker
The Samuel Fuller Film Collection by Richard T. Jameson
“When it’s night time …”: Myth and the Geography of the Unconscious in ‘I Shot Jesse James’ by Rick Hermann
The Steel Helmet: “I’ve got a hunch we’re all going around in circles” by Kathleen Murphy
‘Run of the Arrow’: Birth Pangs of the United States by Rick Hermann
The Big Red One by Robert Horton
At last … the really ‘Big Red One’ by Richard T. Jameson
Sam Peckinpah by Sam Fuller

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(April-July 2010) Outlaws all, Peckinpah’s native sons are obsessed by whatever dream of self and destiny they’ve signed on for. When that dream is violated or diminished, as it must always be, these fractured souls convulse in outrage. In the penultimate films, the grand gestures of outrage became crippled and crowded, the skull beneath the skin of Peckinpah’s increasingly entropic style showing through at every turn. In what stands as one of the finest pieces of Peckinpavian criticism—Notes on the Nihilist Poetry of Sam Peckinpah—Pauline Kael wrote that The Killer Elite isn’t about C.I.A.-sponsored assassinations—it’s about the blood of a poet. Few of his movies were about anything else.
—Kathleen Murphy

“A Privilege to Work in Films”: Sam Peckinpah Among Friends moderated by Richard T. Jameson
Sam Peckinpah: No Bleeding Heart by Kathleen Murphy
Introduction to Film Comment Midsection (1981) by Richard T. Jameson
Ride the High Country by Robert Horton
Short Notice: “The Marshal” by Richard T. Jameson
The Beautiful and the Damned: Major Dundee by Richard T. Jameson
Learning to Do It Right: The Wild Bunch – A Personal Reflection by Robert C. Cumbow
The Ballad of Cable Hogue by Robert C. Cumbow
The Ballad of Cable Hogue by Richard T. Jameson
Sam Peckinpah by Sam Fuller
The Ballad of David Sumner: A Peckinpah Psychodrama by Kathleen Murphy
Another Side of Sam Peckinpah: The Ballad of Cable Hogue and Jr. Bonner by Rick Hermann
“Tough ole Hide”: The Getaway by David Willingham
Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid by Richard T. Jameson
Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia by Richard T. Jameson & Kathleen Murphy
Peckinpah Doesn’t Sing Along by David Coursen
Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia by Kathleen Murphy
The Killer Elite by Robert Cumbow
Cross of Iron: On Getting Past the Blood by Richard T. Jameson
Convoy by Richard T. Jameson
Lost “Weekend” by Richard T. Jameson
Sam Peckinpah on DVD: A Guide to Resources by Sean Axmaker

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(February-March, 2010) Kathryn Bigelow has been making tough, rich, evocative movies for decades, too few in our estimation, and too often dismissed for the visceral, aggressive qualities that make them so compelling. Now, after leaving an unfulfilling relationship with Hollywood and going the independent route, she brought her uncompromising vision to the screen to the screen with The Hurt Locker, shopped it around films festivals and distributors, and took home the Oscar for Best Picture and Best Director: the first woman in the history of Oscar to do so. Join us as we celebrate this dark daughter of Hawks and Hitchcock: Kathryn Bigelow, one of the most provocative and visceral cinematic artists spinning stories on screen. Finally getting her recognition.

The Loveless Worlds of Kathryn Bigelow by Robert C. Cumbow
Black Arts by Kathleen Murphy
True Fiction: Kathryn Bigelow on The Hurt Locker – Interview by Sean Axmaker
The Way You Don’t Die: The Hurt Locker by Sean Axmaker

Related articles and reviews on other sites:
Bravo, Bigelow: Why Oscar Should Crown Kathryn Bigelow ‘Queen of Directors’ (Kathleen Murphy, MSN)
Hurt So Good (review of The Hurt Locker by Kathleen Murphy, MSN)
The Work of War, at a Fever Pitch (Manohla Dargis, New York Times)
How Oscar Found Ms. Right (Manohla Dargis, New York Times)
An Interview with Kathryn Bigelow (Robert Horton, Everett Herald)
Interview: Kathryn Bigelow (Scott Tobias, The Onion)
Kathryn Bigelow (Steven Shaviro, The Pinocchio Theory)
Georges Bataille and the Visceral Cinema of Kathryn Bigelow (Jeff Karnicky, Enculturation)
Strange Visions: Kathryn Bigelow’s Metafiction (Laura Rascaroli, Enculturation)
Kathryn Bigelow on Charlie Rose (video via LinkDrop today, Bigelow’s interview is about 30 minutes in)
Links to Scholarly Essays on Kathryn Bigelow (courtesy Catherine Grant at Film Studies for Free)

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(September 2009) With two new films from Werner Herzog, Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans (David Hudson collects the reviews at The Auteurs Daily here) and My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? (again, David Hudson rounds up responses at The Auteurs Daily here), at the 2009 Venice Film Festival and Toronto International Film Festival, Parallax View revisits his earlier films with new and archival essays and reviews.

On Staring Into the Camera: Aguirre and Bears by Robert Horton
Rescue Dawn: The Challenge of the Extraordinary by Robert C. Cumbow
Losing Focus: Three Herzog Shorts by David Coursen
Grizzly Man: The Overwhelming Indifference Of Nature by Sean Axmaker
Fitzcarraldo: The Idea Was a Bold One by Robert C. Cumbow
Stroszek by David Coursen
Heart of Glass by David Coursen
Land of Silence and Darkness: What It Means to be Human by David Coursen
Aguirre, The Wrath Of God: Extraordinary Images, Extraordinary Resonance by Ken Eisler
Aguirre, The Wrath of God: Defying the Natural Order by David Coursen
Signs of Life: Longing for a Rational, Ordered World by David Coursen
Offing the Pig: Even Dwarfs Started Small by Ken Eisler
Even Dwarfs Started Small: Persistence and Futility by David Coursen

Review: Used Cars

[Originally published in Movietone News 66-67, March 1981]

Is there a cure for Southern California? Oh, I don’t mean the smog, the materialism, “the City of the One-Night Stands,” any of that stuff—don’t bother me none. What’s getting to bother me in a big way is the barrenness of cinematic output from those children of Sunny Cal who seem to be running hog wild on the movie scene these days. We could argue about when it started. I couldn’t get too bent out of shape if somebody wanted to insist that Big Wednesday was A Bad Sign a couple of summers ago, even if I found that particular exercise in oafish metaphysics rather endearing; it surely did tend to crawl up its own nether orifice, striking monumental poses (and that’s a difficult position to strike monumental poses in) over a landscape of aspiration and endeavor so specialized as to have nothing but abstract meaning for any non-Californians—and maybe just nonsurfers—in the audience. And now Milius, for whose directorial career I continue to have high hopes, appears to prefer the role of ursine Godfather to all the up-and-coming—or at least oncoming—cinéastes south and Right of Zoetrope. First he exec-produced 1941 for Spielberg, and contributed to its story base along with Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale, whose I Wanna Hold Your Hand Spielberg himself had exec-produced. Now he and Spielberg have exec-produced Zemeckis–Gale’s Used Cars, which by its very title sounds like a godawfully appropriate sequel to last Christmastime’s multimillion-dollar wrecking-derby-masquerading-as-a-hohoho-comedy. And in some important and increasingly distressing ways, it is.

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“I don’t like those hard goodbyes” – Strother Martin

[Originally published in Movietone News 66-67, March 1981]

Introduction by Richard T. Jameson

Strother Martin thought the folks from the Seattle Film Society wanted to meet him just because he had done some jobs of work for Sam Peckinpah and they had had Sam to tea a year or so earlier. Not that that gave him any trouble. Like any other veteran character actor he had long since got used to being the face and voice that people marked immediately without being able to attach a name. Unlike many other character actors, he had been wrong on that point for quite a few years—at the very least, since late 1967, when filmgoers first heard the line “What we have here is failure to communicate” out of the mouth of the pusselgutted chain-gang overseer in Stuart Rosenberg’s Cool Hand Luke. Plenty of people, not just film-society types, could be relied on to look right fond whenever the name Strother Martin was dropped, and say “Oh yeah, I like him, he’s always good.”

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Strother Martin in Seattle in 1979 (photo by Tom Keogh, scanned from Movietone News 66-67)

The Martins were having dinner with two other cast members, Marjorie Bennett and Meg Wylie, who Joined us for the first part of our chat in an improvised semi-private diningroom. Bennett, especially familiar for her work in Robert Aldrich pictures (she and Martin had both appeared in one-scene roles in Kiss Me Deadly; her son from What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, Victor Buono, was out bulking in the lobby a few yards away), held forth in her best sinister-pixie style on everything from Rudolph Valentino to the fireweed-honey-from-the-sky ritual at Snoqualmie Falls Lodge. The rest of the company delightedly deferred to her. Then, after she had retired for the evening, Martin settled down to talk about, well, Sam Peckinpah, he thought, but we insisted we were interested in Strother Martin, too.

The Strother Martin we met was a fellow markedly different from the variously desperate, deranged, and depraved characters he had so often essayed. Mostly he spoke in soft, gracious tones, with a particularity of reference and inflection consistent with the classical tastes and sensibility he frequently evidenced. Every once in a while, though, when an anecdote required the quotation of a line from The Wild Bunch or The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, that familiar backwoodsy twang cut the air. (He was particularly proud of the appreciative reception a Harlem moviehouse audience had given his pronunciation of “pussy” while cussing out the hockey team in Slap Shot.) From time to time he lit a cigarette and got about two puffs out of it before Mrs. Martin quietly reached across and stubbed it out.

That was in March 1979. A year later, Strother Martin appeared at a Filmex program, “Characters,” devoted to the work of people like him; the entirety of his Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid performance was screened. One hoped that Martin and those other colleagues present—Richard Loo was a few seats away—would be called up to take their bows. It didn’t happen. They signed a few autographs. Within months, both men had passed away.

The following remarks were recorded and transcribed by Tom Keogh and Lesley Link. As the tape started to roll, Martin was talking about an unlikely director….

…I would like to own the film on the life of Delius that Ken Russell did for the BBC? Did you see that? It was done on the PBS stations. Max Adrian played Delius. It’s Ken Russell’s best film, and it’s about one of my favorite subjects. It’s a great film; it’s better than Women in Love. I read once that Glenda Jackson said it was his best film. Such a wonderful biography. He’s meddled with a lot of composers and he’s made me very angry. I didn’t go to see “Tchaikovsky” [The Music Lovers] and I was terribly disappointed in the Mahler film, I just hated it. But I admire his images and his imagination.

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Learning to Do It Right: “The Wild Bunch” – A Personal Reflection

Law and order and grace and understanding are things that have to be taught. … People are born to survive. They have instincts that go back millions of years. Unfortunately, some of those instincts are based on violence. There is a great streak of violence in every human being. If it is not channeled and understood, it will break out in war or in madness. … [The children’s torture of ants and scorpions at the beginning of the film is] an ugly game, but it’s a game children play—unless they’re taught different. They would have had to be taught not to play that game. And man was a killer millions of years before he served a God.

—Sam Peckinpah, interviewed by Aljean Harmetz, The New York Times, 1969

The Wild Bunch is certainly Sam Peckinpah’s clearest, most heartfelt and poetic statement of his deeply-held belief that we are born animals, and that if we become human at all, it is by learning—from others and from our own experiences. We are not what nature or God makes us, but what we make of ourselves.

"The Wild Bunch" - the original poster
“The Wild Bunch” – the original poster

Whether you share that view or not, you’re a fool if you don’t confront it, and an orphan if you don’t let Sam Peckinpah take you on this spiritual journey to the darkest and the brightest sides of human capability.

When The Wild Bunch premiered in 1969, most viewers and reviewers reviled its uncompromising and unprecedented depiction of violence. Peckinpah himself became widely regarded as a violent personality who reveled in displays of brutality; and that legend only widened with Straw Dogs (1971) and The Getaway (1972).

Rarely have a director’s vision and career been so willfully misunderstood. Peckinpah was haunted by violence, physical and psychological, in his personal life and his profession, and he dared to confront it as few artists in any era or any medium have ever done. The fact that, after forty intervening years of de-sensitizing reality, movie violence, and gore technology, The Wild Bunch still has the power to shock and disturb is ample evidence that this film is no simple-minded kill-spree.

As those who refuse to classify Peckinpah and put him away in the box marked “violence” can readily tell you, both the man and the artist had a big, loving heart, and it was apparent to anyone who had eyes, not only in the gentle, understanding Ride the High Country (1962), The Ballad of Cable Hogue (1970), and Junior Bonner (1971), but also right alongside the savage violence of his masterpiece The Wild Bunch.

The Wild Bunch addresses violence not only as an individual but as a communal phenomenon, as a way of life and a facet of culture. It’s no accident that this tale of a band of outlaws who “share very few sentiments with our government” and take their last chance as gunrunners to a ruthless generalissimo in the Mexican revolution was written, filmed, and released at the height of our country’s ill-fated adventure in Vietnam. That the American experience has so often been a violent experience is part of the film’s core vision. But The Wild Bunch is neither pro- nor anti-Vietnam. Peckinpah was never as simple as that. And because he wasn’t simple about it, The Wild Bunch remains one of a very few films that capture the complexity of the upheaval in American politics and culture that occurred in the Sixties.

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Budd Boetticher and the Ranown Cycle: “What a director is supposed to do”

My first contact with Budd Boetticher was in 1987. I was a graduate student in film studies at the University of Oregon and I thought I was getting his agent’s phone number from the DGA. I found out very quickly that it was his home number when he answered personally. He was an affable man and very forgiving of the enthusiastic student who tried to lure him north from his home in Ramona, California for a retrospective of his films at the U of O in Eugene. “I don’t want to go to a tribute where no one is interested in my films,” he replied in his matter-of-fact, gruff/friendly manner. “Why don’t you come down and visit me here instead?” I did, numerous times, conducting hours of interviews with him between 1988 and 1992. I stayed in touch with him and his wife, Mary, until his death.

In the following excerpts he talks about his films with Randolph Scott and Burt Kennedy and touches on making Arruza. For more on Boetticher’s love affair with bullfighting and the amazing odyssey in Mexico while making Arruza, try to track down his autobiography When in Disgrace, a very entertaining read (and, sadly, out of print).

Spoiler alert: Be warned that Boetticher discusses key scenes and plot points of the films.

You never directed John Wayne in a film, but he played a major part in your life. He produced your breakthrough film The Bullfighter and the Lady and he was at least partially responsible for Seven Men From Now. How did you connect on Seven Men From Now?

Gail Russell and Randolph Scott in "Seven Men From Now"

I was doing pictures at what used to be Selznick studios, I forget what they called it when I was there, and Duke was doing a picture with Ford and he called me in. He said “Bood, I’ve got a script over here I want you to read,” so I came over and picked it up at lunch and I read thirty-five pages and I walked back on the set and he was sitting with a bunch of people and I said “Duke, I want to do the picture.” He said “Well Jesus Christ, you can’t read the whole damned script in an hour.” I said “I read thirty-five pages. This is brilliant! I’d like to meet the author.” He said “Budd Boetticher, Burt Kennedy,” and Burt stood up. We shook hands and I said “Mr. Kennedy, you are a brilliant, brilliant writer. I don’t have to read anymore. I’m so glad I met you.” He said “Oh, we met a long time ago. I played the rabble rouser in A Man From Texas [working title to Man From the Alamo].” He’d been an actor. And that’s what started us. All you had to do was read one of his scripts. Anybody who didn’t like Burt Kennedy’s writing was crazy. The best scene I’ve ever directed in my life, I directed word for word from his script, and that’s when Lee Marvin and Walter Reed and Gail Russell and Randy are in the covered wagon. Marvin says “You know, a funny thing, I knew a big tall good lookin’ fellow once,” and he starts making love to Gail Russell. That was great writing.

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Mario Bava: Master Choreographer of the Giallo’s Dance of Death

Mario Bava turns 100 this week. In tribute, Parallax View is pulling up this feature from the archives.

[This is a revised and expanded version of an article originally published on Greencine, April 3, 2007]

Italian poster for "Black Sunday"
Italian poster for”Black Sunday”

Mario Bava is a horror original.

A painter and cinematographer turned director, a craftsman turned celluloid dreamer, an industry veteran who created, almost single-handedly, the uniquely Italian genre of baroque horror known as “giallo,” he directed the most graceful and deliriously mad horror films of the 1960s and early 1970s. Always better at imagery than explanation, at set piece than story, Bava’s films are at their best dream worlds and nightmare visions. Check your logic at the door.

Bava was born into the movies in 1914. Italy was at the height of its epic historical spectacles and his father, Eugenio Bava, was one of Italy’s top cameramen; he shot, among others film, the lavish blockbuster Quo Vadis. Mario trained as a painter but soon followed in his father’s footsteps and became one of Italy’s most in-demand cameramen (Bava disdained the term “cinematographer”) and special effects artists, often working uncredited. He’s said to have made unsigned directorial contributions to such productions as Mario Camerini’s Ulysses (1955) with Kirk Douglas, Jacques Tourneur’s The Giant of Marathon (1959) with Steve Reeves, and Raoul Walsh’s Estherand the King (1960) with Joan Collins.

Legend has it that Italian genre veteran Riccardo Freda “pushed” his friend Bava into the director’s chair by abandoning not one but two projects for his frequent cinematographer to finish (it’s hard to verify the real reason that Freda left the projects, but it makes for a good enough story to justify printing the legend). Based on his uncredited direction completing Freda’s I Vampiri and Caltiki, the Immortal Monster, plus his imaginative work as cinematographer, special effects artist, and assistant director on Pietro Francisci’s genre-defining muscleman movies Hercules and Hercules Unchained, Bava was offered a shot a directing a project of his choosing. He chose Nikolai Gogol’s short story “Viy” and made his official directoral debut, at age 46, on The Mask of Satan, renamed Black Sunday for the U.S. release.

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