RIORI Presents Installment #203: Alexander Payne’s “Nebraska” (2013)

The Film…

The Players…

Bruce Dern, Will Forte, Bob Odenkirk, June Squibb and Stacy Keach, with Rance Howard, Devin Ratray, Tom Driscoll and Angela McEwan.

The Plot…

Congratulations Mr Woody Grant, you may already be a winner!

Nope, just a scam. Good son Dave tries to convince his boozy, space case of a dad Woody that his million dollar prize is just some pie in the sky sham. Happens all the time, especially with seniors. But Woody’s not having any of it. In his mind this is the first ever piece of good fortune that has come his way in his long, checkered life. And no one—no one—is going to keep him from claiming his rightful prize, be it friend, foe or family.

Dave kind of sympathizes with his dotty-headed dad’s quest for glory. Woody hasn’t had much going for him for the longest time, and dad seems so alive about the chance of being a winner. Despite all rational thought Dave does the honorable thing by Woody: take a road trip to claim his “prize,” if only to humor his daffy, lushy father.

So it’s off to Lincoln, Nebraska. Land of milk, Mickey’s big mouths and honey.

And probably a million dollar letdown.

The Rant…

Consider this installment a sort of companion piece to the Parental Guidance segment. Nebraska didn’t intend to be one. It kinda just happened, like how you found way more groceries in your shopping cart that you meant to buy come checkout. This time out it’s about my grandfather. My dad’s dad. Mostly. His wife was a yoga addict, if that matters. The following fits into the crevices some way, like that overflowing shopping cart with nary a coupon in sight. Let the journey begin.

In college I took this class at the behest of my girlfriend. It was a course in tai chi. Folks believe the practice is akin to yoga. Like yoga it is an exercise, but not really. Technically a martial art, tai chi was developed centuries ago by Tibetan monks who, after hours of genuflecting needed to stretch their legs. And arms. And everything actually. Nowadays the practice—at least to Westerners—is regarded as exercise. The style is related to the Chinese martial art wushu, but reallly slooowwed dooown. It focuses on stretching the muscles and joints at a very deliberate pace to, well, get the kinks out. If you were a monk and spent hours upon hours squatting lotus-like before the Buddha eventually you’d need a break and “crack your neck” if you follow.

My then g/f had an ample figure and I was a horndog. Yep, outré martial arts may equal smart sex? Show me the way.

By the mid 20th Century, the Chinese established 24 official postures constructing the tai chi set. I learned most of them; I’m clumsy and decidedly not Chinese. I learned the Chen style, the most popular (and simplest) form of the postures. It hurt. At first it was “this is new.” A last it was “this new thing hurts and makes me feel clumsy.” Still went on with it, though. Even in the late 90s some schools required a PE credit. Not kidding, and lunch didn’t count. I’d’ve had straight A’s then.

Our instructor inferred that tai chi with its 24 postures was akin to a journey. Actually this is pretty corny. All the roadsigns were there, but not all of us could complete the task of fording said postures because, hey, we’re all built differently. As a point due to genetic miscalculations I have duck feet like my father. The girlfriend had back problems, and don’t ask why (link to the Young Adult installment for any dirt, you lechers). We both could’ve done worse by the toss of the DNA dice. However we were assured that that wouldn’t have mattered because if you were diligent your body would adjust.

As the days rolled into weeks I started to get it. Not the postures per se; my spine still crackled like dry linguine before the boiling water treatment. That journey thing. Those who got it get it. Sure, tai chi was uncomfortable. That was the point. All exercise is uncomfortable, until you find a center. It’s like how figure skaters never seem to get dizzy. I became all too aware of my feet, and how I’d been misusing them. I discovered my posture sucked, and it was tough to straighten it out (if only for an hour). My joints were popping at such a rate I could’ve been an exotic dancer for the blind.

This was all a test on my body and my mind. And what the hell for? Exercise? Enlightenment? Goodie points in the sack? Perhaps all of that rot. In truth my tai chi lessons really helped much later on as a chef, what with all the hours of standing and reaching for things. I learned how to adjust and stave off fatigue and owies. It can be amazing to feel like Reed Richards for under a minute when the push comes and there is no neuropathy. Sounds heavy, dig? So are my feet.

With all college classes there came homework. Our teacher laid the class out with a PowerPoint demonstrating the postures. What they did. How they worked. Where they came from, etc. I tried at being a good student since I never got the whodiwatiz gold star. I just read the junk about the history of tai chi. Like I said it was the works of crampy monks. But with almost all things Far East there is an underlying principle defining what gets on the Travel Channel or not. Remember this: Andrew Zimmern is not sexy but ignore his husky knowledge that you secretly vie for bulut.

Sorry that. Moving on.

This may sound kinda of corny (prob’ because it is), but it was not my view of tai chi, but my sensei. She was—without surprise—calm, cool and collected as well as a bit of a flake. She would describe the postures as a “journey” right off, and quite the ardent fangirl she was was quite to remind us of the arts’ multiple benefits to our fitness. She even claimed at since practicing the postures for so many years that she had actually gained 2 inches in height. I would’ve been pleased to just lose 2 inches from my waistline.

BTW, who wants another beer?

But seriously, how’s that again? I’m not well-versed in anatomy, but aren’t most humans “fully grown” by, say, eighteen years of age? She was pushing forty. My pituitary gland fell into a coma at seventeen. Not like my grandma. She got her second wind around 70.

My Nana was hip to Eastern ways of thinking regarding life, love and leaving. She was a diabetic, but took no insulin. She was a vegetarian and controlled her blood sugar count the way that the Creator intended: smoothies and yellowjackets. She had a pill habit, and figured Eastern medicine would counteract her sins (that’s for another time, kids). When I saw her constrict her body during her yoga routine, eyes rolled into her sockets, arched spine, feet pointed out in ways that defied genetics made me worried. She looked constipated. I just wanted the spaghetti dinner.

Enter Ed. My dad’s dad who always went by Pop (save his spiritually minded spouse). Everyone called him Pop. Neighbors, friends, us, even my father. He was Pop, and friendly moniker for any age. He was born Edward; he earned Pop. A badge of pride in my worldview. My Nana preferred—demanded—that we called her Joan. Yogi Joan was Pop’s second wife, therefore me and my fam were not related to her. Every time I called her Nana she winced. That title was reserved for her non-goy family. We took it in stride since she insisted on family dinners.

Back to that tai chi thing. Joan planted a seed in my young mind. Maybe Eastern exercise works better than Western. I was, and am no way the picture of athletic health. The only time I ever stretch now is when the wireless PS controller tumbles under the bed. My Nana was the picture of a senior woman trying to keep fit. I’m presently made of beer and sandwiches, but as a youth I was curious. The curious thing about the martial arts—and, yes, yoga is one—as my tai chi instructor insisted is that’s all about a journey. Tai chi has its motions, as does yoga, and karate and judo and even parkour. Assemble them correctly, first slowly until fluid then you’re on your way to…where?

To the quick, Pop’s marriage to Joan has soured long before I was born. Pop was irascible, quick to rile as well to belt out laughter (often over inappropriate things), generous to a fault and a low tolerance for bullish*t. Why this never rubbed off on my father I’ll never understand. Ed was opinionated, defiantly non-PC and humorously prejudiced. What I mean by that is he casually used racial slurs a joke. When I was a pup I was tickled by him calling Chinese take-out as “gook food.” He loved Chinese take-out, if not just thumbing his nose at his earth-crunchy spouse. He tolerated the yoga, what with Joan’s daily rearranging of the living room to accommodate her mat. The woman would go through her motions even as we sat at the dinner table, somewhat patiently wait for her to get on with it. I could hear the pasta getting cold.

This happened only when me, my parents and my sisters came over for the day. Pop’s place was only a spit away so this scenario was common. What wasn’t as common as when the ‘rents plunked me and sibs at Pop’s doorstep to mind us while they raced off to do grown-up things. At these times, I was treated to lunch at the kitchen table with Pop endlessly perfecting his grilled cheese recipe. Haute cuisine to him (and little me) while Joan scoffed and waxed philosophical about man and God and law and her battling arthritis while supping on a smoothie made from what looked like oats and Satan’s vomit. I was grateful for the two grilled cheeses.

Even at that young age—shocker—I figured these two were not destined to be together. As an adult I learned about the nasty stories of drug abuse, infidelity and estrangement. With maturity came knowledge; despite all the yoga sessions and vile smoothies I knew that Pop and Joan’s journey together diverged even when I was a kid salivating over the scorned grilled cheese. A with her yoga, Joan never grew any taller, at least not in stature. She didn’t even grow closer. Quite the contrary. Like me trying to score brownie points with my rapidly eroding relationship with my strained girlfriend taking tai chi when it’s over, it’s over. And no mass of postures could ever reach an end.

I know: where the blue f*ck am I going with all this?

Here. My Pop was dotty as my memory serves. He was caught in a tender trap that happens in wedlock. Each other grows apart, and seeks social solace elsewhere. For Pop it was us, his grandkids. For Joan it was her isolating world and her vast Jewish clan. I always had a sense I really didn’t belong in her world. When we hung out with her daughter and granddaughters and they talked shop I never felt so much like an outsider goy then I did then. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m a folks-mensch, but prejudice is prejudice—unwitting or otherwise—and when Joan proclaimed at one time over dinner there, toasting with wine she should not have been drinking, “May the bird of paradise sh*t in our eyes!” I took succor in my NES I lugged along and plugged into the office TV. I did a speed run through Final Fantasy prime. I was ashamed to be there.

This was one of the more extreme examples of schism between Pop and Joan. On the whole I figured Pop had a raw deal, and dove into grandpa-hood with aplomb. When he came to visit us (often without Joan), he would smother me, my sisters and my dad with attention. It was an outlet you see. Time to cut loose and dance in the rain. He’s always took me to Kmart to buy be a new LEGO set and watch me build it and then play with it. He’s chase my sisters around in a proper “Gonna gotcha” style. He’d debate against and equally approve of what my dad was up to in the food service industry. He would sweat my mom about her real estate ventures (to compare, my mom’s dad never asked about her career). He used to watch Danger Mouse with me on Nick and found it as funny as I did. His rare trips from Maine to Pennsylvania were a raucous event, sans “responsibility.”

He was going through some motions. It wasn’t tai chi. It sure as sh*t wasn’t yoga. It was him trying again trying to keep in contact with his immediate, real family. He didn’t believe in divorce. He worked for the Red Cross all his life, so giving back was his motto. And even as he grew even more balmy as the years wore on, as long as his winnowing relationship with Joan wore on, Pop never gave up on his extended family. He never took a shine to Joan’s demonstrative yoga antics. He liked Milwaukee’s Best, gook food, LEGOs and humoring his grandkids. And laughing at my bad kid jokes.

In sum, all grandfathers are a little light in the luggage, but given the opportunity can  give you a little boost. Without posturing.

Just wait for an impromptu supper of perfect grilled cheeses…

The Story…

It sucks getting old, especially when there’s nothing to get old for.

One day Woody Grant (Dern) the ideal boozer and dreamer gets some hope in the mail. Something to live for. Something to do. A winning certificate claiming he’s the recipient of a million dollars!

Since that post ozone riding Woody found a reason to be, and by wit and/or grit he’s gotta get to Lincoln, Nebraska to claim his stake. This scheme. This trap.

Good son Dave (Forte) kinda gets his dad’s rapture. The old man’s been on the far fringe of reality for years. Lousy marriage. Distant father. Beer and more beer. All of it pining for relevance. “Bad son” Ross (Odenkirk) is too busy and too tired of keeping distant watch on Woody. Thanks to this “windfall” it’s Dave’s turn. Humor the man. Don’t let him kack off on too much beer.

Alright. So now Dave convinces himself that this trip to Nebraska might allow him some long earned time to reconnect with his spaztastic dad. Talk stuff over. Make some connection. And damn well keep his greedy, hick extended family at bay.

What would you do for a million dollars…?

The Review…

Like the Parental Guidance entry Nebraska bathes you in the wisdom of seniors, only with many left turns and a perverse definition of fatherhood. We ain’t saying goodnight to Alice here. More like get bent, kid.

Nebraska is a character piece and Dern is the pawn as well as king and queen. Despite the fact I regard the Oscars as an overblown dog and pony show sometimes those doddering fools in the Academy get a few things right respecting certain actors’ work. Dern won the Best Actor award back in 2013 for his portrayal of Woody. He had aged into an amazing, old coot akin to Dustin Hoffman’s turn as autistic Raymond who also earned an Oscar for Best Actor. Earned, not rewarded for a job well done. There is a difference.

Most roles like Woody’s are usually reserved by types like Morgan Freeman or Robert Duvall or even…well, Hoffman. Cagey characters, often with a bitter wit and a self-effacing countenance. That has been Dern’s stock and trade for decades, only now in the 21st Century his shuck and jive is now appreciated. No surprise I’ve been a fan of Dern’s work, from Freeman Lowell to Jason Staebler to Michael Lander to Mark Rumsfield to voice acting in From Up On Poppy Hill. Dern can be a real chameleon, which is why it took him so long to be honored with a black, faux gold statuette. The kind you could buy as a $20 bowling trophy somewhere. I have three. Dern never needed one.

Whislt watching Nebraska K noted that people never ask the right questions. It’s a keen observation beyond watching movies, and so true an observation. In my palsied worldview most folks aren’t really aware of their surroundings, or what they may contribute. Here’s a very gauche but apt example courtesy of many smartphone shots: the George Floyd tragedy. Did Officer Chauvin even consider his act of police brutality would go unnoticed in our age of social media? The entire f*cking planet sure didn’t think so. Call it hubris, call it awful, call it a spotlight. Hundreds of Officer Chauvins have been suffocating hundreds of George Floyd’s for centuries. In this day and age where practically everyone has a camera on their person, no one is beyond reproach for their actions and the ripple effect.

I’m not being reactionary here, but as for people not asking the right questions (of themselves) the fallout might be disastrous, or with this week’s film go horribly awry. Ostensibly, Nebraska is about Woody Grant’s quixotic quest to earn his wobbly fortune. Considering her observation, she was spot on, but also Woody’s journey was not about some stupid scam, either. Doddering Woody was making an attempt  to relearn who his family was and where he fit into the puzzle. The only member of his immediate family that gave a small sh*t about Woody’s well-being was Dave, although reluctantly. That’s how she gauged it and I could not argue. No one was asking the right questions about Woody’s motives, not even himself. It’s a good way to develop tension without much scrutiny. Like not asking the right questions.

Harkening back to the Rant Dern was uncannily like Pop. He even looked like him, with frazzled hair and ill-fitting glasses. Guess that’s really why I took as shine to Woody. Face it: our grandpas are just like teenagers, but now they have an arsenal of wisdom to both impart and not bother with. I killed Kennedy and I could kill you, too you little sh*t. You follow. Being and old codger grants one a lot of freedom to mouth off, spew half-baked theories about how the government is screwing us and eat your ice cream with a fork. Oh, grandpa. Dern was harmless, yet not to himself. Better him than Dave. Or Ross. Or the rest of his extended rapscallion family. Better share his potential riches with someone worthy, if share it at all.

This is what I mean regarding Dern’s portrayal of crusty Woody: resignation. Reminding me of my Pop, his golden years are nothing more than what non-seniors regard as golden. Bowie’s song said it best: “In walked luck and you looked in time. Never look back, walk tall, act fine.” Put on a brave face. All sh*ts gone to hell with you but don’t let on. Like with my Pop’s explosive sense of humor, Woody’s passive aggressiveness if his only way or gaining a higher ground. He may be an ancient but he ain’t stupid and he still matters. If only for himself. Grant knew what the deal was and just didn’t give a hoot. Whatever stuck to the wall on this trip.

Back to the film in practice. Woody Grant: sideshow philosopher king. The curious thing about Dern’s role is that it’s pretty straightforward, despite his loony old man schtick with the BAC beyond 8.0 and demanding a handout. Like all good character studies the lead doesn’t lead the story. It’s the supporting cast as fuel that drives the engine of insanity. In a character dramas, all the best have engaging and/or vibrant backing actors, which gracefully allow the lead to lead with just the right amount of prodding. To put it this way: you ever notice how the Oscar Best Picture award almost always earns the award for Best Editing also? Films are not shot sequentially; scenes are patched together by the editor to make a cohesive narrative. Same with the supporting cast in a character drama. They can act as a microscope focusing on the lead’s role. Movies don’t use spotlights after all. They use supports.


Why is it that most SNL alumni do so well with dramas? Consider Dan Ackroyd in Driving Miss Daisy, or Bill Murray in Lost In Translation, or even Robert Downey, Jr for his turn in the biopic Chaplin, which earned him a BAFTA award (the thinking person’s Oscar). It’s harder to be funny than serious. As Woody’s oracle Will Forte’s Dave was a very solid anchor which kept the story on an open track, despite how often Dern tried to sabotage it. Barring the blundered scheme of stealing back Ed’s compressor, Forte was “the good son.” He knew this award scheme was a canard, but would rather have his screwy dad entertain some fantasy, with very little irony. In some aspect, Forte slightly stole the show by not giving an inch as the fall guy. To the quick, Forte had this constant, dreamy look of “Why me?” And have this shamefaced “kid” learn to smile even under Woody’s watch? Well, it’s hella funny in spite of the situation. Forte didn’t get much of a nod for his work on Nebraska, and that’s a shame. I’m not for award ceremonies in body quite so in spirit. He did get some respect from the National Board of Review, but let’s face it the NBR is a non-profit and therefore not sexy enough to get any kudos on TMZ. Disregarding the snark a quiet, honest award is a lot better than glitz, and Forte’s portrayal of uncomfortable and beleaguered Dave was a far cry from being “10-1” on SNL. Meaning his stuff there was so bizarre the skits were shunted to the end of the show. That says something about his reserved yet about to burst role in Nebraska. I wish I knew what.

Dern’s permanent bewilderment belied a certain need. Nebraska is a skewed road movie reflected by the ramshackle direction. Nothing is gonna go well. We learn that Woody has always been trying to fill some hole in his life. He isn’t truly spacy, just numb and indifferent so people would just leave him alone asking other questions. After a lifetime of drifting, Woody has quietly understood his life has been wasting away, bottle by bottle, and just doesn’t want his drifting on his clan anymore, especially sons Ross and Dave in particular. As I mentioned about my Pop, he put a brave face on for me and my sibs (and maybe even my dad) telling all to often with maximum volume everything is okay. Dern’s Woody is terribly relatable, since we’ve all encountered someone like this regardless of age. Just behind the jocular nature belies necessary therapy. I mention all this because, well hell, desperation was what Dern expressed with aplomb, either drunk or funny. Both fell with a thud.

I found Nebraska‘s execution to be similar to the opening scenes of Kenneth Logeran’s Manchester By The Sea. The story follows Casey Affleck’s character hang himself with his own mistakes. To the quick the opening is about how handyman Casey has to deal with a tenant’s leaky faucet, both navel-gazing, observing no fix and an ambitious repair (which we know will happen eventually, which ain’t the point. Duh). It was all a heavy meditation on…nothing. It was allegory within the film proper and the outcome didn’t matter. Woody’s ozone trips and exercising his arm meant nothing to the meat of the matter. He like Affleck only wanted recognition beyond their assignments. Hey, I got a story for ya. Wanna hear?

Nope. Not now. Fix the pipe and/or stop drinking and trying to drive.

In the endgame Nebraska was all about self-respect…based against others’ respect, which is of course a sham (not unlike the winning ticket) As metaphor asked me out loud, “Why hasn’t Dave taken care of Woody’s bandage yet?” after several scenes passing from when he hurt himself? A good question. One I didn’t bother asking; it was just…there. I supposed it was just another scar of Woody being drunk, disorderly and disconnected. I soon learned, like the big reward all of it was a sham. The wrong thing for the right reason actually. Many, many unasked, necessary questions.

We’ll get to the soft, white underbelly of the plot in short order. Let’s talk technique first. Director Payne is known for his offbeat style. Better reigned in from Wes Anderson’s terminal quirkiness but also appreciative of the Cohen Brothers’ more accessible hodgepodges. Call his style rated-G Jarmusch. Do I sound snobbish? Sorry, but snobs are what ignorant folks call the informed. Please don’t log off.

Payne’s previous offerings have been offbeat en totoElection, About Schmidt, Sideways. Those of his films highlight the skills of being a director: coaxing characters out of actors who are mostly character actors and get sent on their collective ears. Dern’s muse has always been a bit of a charlatan. Scheming and left of center. An imp of the perverse. Always hinting but cards close to the chest. Ferris Bueller starring in a black comedy? Nicholson underplaying his role, not to mention being awkward and subdued? Giamatti as a raving gourmet drunk? Payne is good at overplaying his hand in equal parts letting his leads shine by letting them just sit still for a while. The same went for Forte and Odenkirk. Remember the SNL thing and Mr Show? Well, now consider the intermediary of the tricky Run And Jump and that spinoff Better Call Saul. Payne can calmly coax his actors to reel it in just enough to make them interesting while still being familiar to the audience. The same goes with the extras. Sure, with Nebraska they are all “characters” (EG: the twins, Woody’s wife, even his old squeeze), but they’re also antagonists. That’s where the intrigue comes from. Frame these norms against the interloper, then exploit him. In sum, it’s all about gimme, gimme, gimme. What Woody got that’s in it for all of us? It was never really the climax of Woody’s journey put a cap on things. From the first act on it was all denouement. The stakes were obvious, as well as crystal clear false. It was all about hiccups on the way down where the “wealth” came to play.

Let me clarify, as well furthering Payne’s technical shrewdness. Let me try and crawl out of mine own arse. Nebraska has really good cinematography. I mean really good. The cameras were aiming in very deliberate focus here. Took me a bit to catch on, but since Nebraska was a demented character study it made sense for every shot be centralized. There was precious little action in the periphery. No panning shots I could detect. Barring the driving scenes, everything was a close up. Why? Because Nebraska was a play, not a film. Despite being an ersatz road movie, Nebraska was nakedly theatrical. How the tragedy played out was akin to plays as films like 12 Angry Men, Sleuth and/or Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? Payne was fully aware of the inevitable tragic overtones of the story and couched them with wit and more than a little hubris and not to mention choosing black-and-white film (subtle as a fart at a funeral, that). Then considering Payne’s shrewdness agaIn the MacGuffin in Nebraska decidedly not the golden ticket to Wonka’s candy factory. No. Pay attention and keep your ears peeled. To Woody the sweepstakes was REDACTED money, and meant for doing right thing. Finally and for once. In the endgame you sympathize with Woody’s circumstance, despite the inevitable outcome. Perhaps as some sort of satori, it might be why Forte’s tight face had caught up to “Why not?” Watch it and you’ll get it. With Nebraska there’s a lot to get.

In sum, Nebraska was a classic take on a small movie with large intentions. You know, if you ask the right questions of yourself while viewing. Sure, not everything was what it seemed, but it didn’t seem like that from the outset. Like tai chi, yoga, the proper way to make a grilled cheese and an “ersatz” road movie it’s all about the journey and not necessarily where you arrive.

Sorry it got a bit long here; I had a lot to say and as to get. As inverse I should fess up that a limited engagement release like Nebraska doesn’t really fit The Standard. Guess this installment was bit of carrot-and-stick. Anyway any movie won’t score much cash if you had to GPS it to the proper theater. If you did then we might figure it was worth the trip.

It’s always about the trip. The trip. Isn’t it?

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. Bruce Dern’s rightfully earned best role as everyone’s DP Pop. ‘Nuff said.

Woody’s Musings…

  • “Where’s my teeth?”
  • “Beer ain’t drinking.”
  • “You got a latrine?”
  • “You’re using the wrong wrench.”
  • “That’s not my carpenter!”
  • “Cuz I like to screw! And yer mother’s a Catholic!”
  • “The barn’s still standing…”
  • “That’s not my compressor!”
  • “I just wanted to leave you something…”
  • “Hah?”
  • “These aren’t my teeth!”

The Next Time…

Okay guys. It’s Easter time. Best we cut a movie about the Big Bunny. C’mon now, Hop to it!


RIORI Presents Installment #194: Jim Jarmusch’s “Paterson” (2016)

The Film…

The Players…

Adam Driver and Golshifteh Farahani, with Barry Shabaka Henley, William Jackson Harper, Chasten Harmon, Cliff “Method Man” Smith,  Rizman Manji, Trevor & Troy Parham and Masatoshi Nagase.

The Plot…

Paterson NJ bus driver Paterson drives by day and lives by night. More like late afternoon when his route is over. It’s then he’s Paterson the poet, poring over his notebook to get just the right words. Like a lot of poets they find their inspirations in the mundane, and often keep their best stuff from the light of day. His wife Laura thinks his stuff is great and should be published, but Paterson is wary.

He feels, well, what if is his work isn’t great? Unlike Paterson’s favorite son and idol William Carlos Williams, our driver friend figures he’s better off being obscure.

Just another fellow traveller, so to speak.

The Rant…

Bad news, folks. Being a Hollywood star isn’t glamorous anymore. Hasn’t been that way for years considering how the Studio System collapsed and died in the early 50s. Back then the Warners, MGM, RKO and a slough of the rest kept a tight grip on their core stars and the projects they were attached to. Simply put, a classic like Casablanca could not be made without Bogie having a contract with the Warners and director in a pinch Michael Curtiz being beholding to the Warners. It doesn’t work that way anymore and for decades. Today it’s just a dog and pony show. Kinda like free agents in baseball. It’s not the laborious quality of the picture that earns millions, it’s the smiling faces and name directors who earn billions. Considering the average cost of a movie ticket is about $12 and streaming services are averaged are $180, the producers in La La Land probably don’t give two sh*ts about creative control and return customers all they want is the dailies to gauge how to leverage a tenth mortgage on they’re third villa in Switzerland. Does this tentpole star this and whomever? Green light! Skiing is fun.

Well…Sometimes it’s just for the better to not follow the double diamond and just keep to the bunny slopes. I never knew if Irwin Allen ever hit fresh powder, and that’s how I wish it.

We’re talking about filmmaker Jim Jarmusch here, the anti-director. He directs his movies by not directing them. That’s what it feels like. That’s a complement. He finds inspiration in the mundanities of life. A lot his movies do. Almost all of them have a low key tenor about them, which is also nice considering most film auteurs utilize wrenching emotion from their delicate toys to make a statement. More like a STATEMENT, whatever that is. And I hate auteur theory. Hey kids, you don’t need to scream to get yourself heard. Anything more is a desperate cry for attention from people you don’t wanna meet. Ever seen an ep of The Bachelorette? Right, me neither.

From what I’ve watched of Jim’s filmography there is always this omnipresent feeling of calm belying the film’s passive/aggresive tension. C’mon, a week in the life of a bus driver sounds very far from engaging. However, once you shroud this picayune plot in dry humor, thoughtful narrative structure and an almost left-of-center sensibility then you got a story. This is how Jarmusch makes his films, with a sense of unease that provides the tension. That and the proto-Monty Python awareness that like Harvey Pekar’s comic American Splendor claimed that ordinary life is complicated stuff. Jarmusch is a whiz with nuance. That and making—demanding—you pay f*cking attention. Blink and you’ll miss a vital plot point, like Bruce Willis looking for a match in The Fifth Element (watch it to get it).

Hey, figure this: Jarmusch’s films ain’t for everyone. They require a degree of patience—a Masters’ degree—as well a keeping a sharp eye. And being patient. It’ll come to you. Just quite literally sit back and relax. Keep your peepers peeled and enjoy the ride. That’s really all their is to it with Jarmusch’s films. That and the tickling, gnawing sensation at the back of your mind continuously prodding you, “What’s going on here?” Usually, it’s a character study shot in a dead pan style. And I ain’t talking about Leslie Nielsen’s comedy roles (see below).

Just…just hold on. Be patient, remember? Thanks.

I may have touched upon this before here at RIORI, but I’ve been adherent to this aesthetic for over twenty-five years so it’s still relevant. Esp’ watching certain kinds of movies directed by Jim Jarmusch. Or Wim Wenders, Richard Linklater or even Woody Allen to name a few. All of those guys have something similar in their execution which is at both times ineffable and relatable. You don’t quite get it, but you get it on some other level, like in the vein of another aesthetic that I’ve been adhering to for the past quarter century. I may have touched upon it before here at RIORI. Again, thanks for your patience. Now check it.

In my salad days I signed up for a college class called “Shakespeare In Film.” Self-explanatory. The prof not only played English speaking films based on the Bard, but also adaptations from other cultures. A BBC take on The Taming Of The Shrew (starring ex-Python John Cleese as would-be playboy Petruchio) was an uproar. There was quite a bit of scenery chewing by Sir Laurence Olivier across several movies. There was this very baroque take on Hamlet by some German troupe which had this whole vibe that wafted, “Sorry about the war and all.” And interpretations in Japanese cinema. Films from esteemed directors like Juzo Itami, Ishiro Honda and of course Akira Kurosawa.

I was hooked. No, not with Shakespeare. I dug his sh*t years prior to the class. Japanese films. No shocker, they sure had a different aesthetic to making movies than us in the West. I found it engaging and refreshing. It was nice to not have exposition rammed down our rifles. Take Kurosawa, for instance. He had this economy to all his movies, from dialogue to action. Say what needs to propel the story only. Engage in action that propels the story. And go bonkers when needed so long as it propels the story. And end the story when it ends. No gag reels. In a sense of artless inspiration, Kurosawa got into filmmaking because it was easier than being a painter.

Noting Kurosawa’s filmmaking ethos, a great deal of his muse stemmed from traditional Japanese art forms and styles. Most Japanese directors do; there’s very little cross-pollination with influences with a culture that were staunch isolationists for centuries. Unlike Western design that one nation culls of from an other (EG: traditional opera is only in German or Italian). What Kurosawa did, like Jarmusch has, was making tropes his own. Something new, something old, something else, pass the salt.

Here, before I get lost in the brambles…

That artistic sensibility I’ve been trolling you with is called mono no aware. It’s Japanese, translates to “moment of transience.” Perhaps you’ve heard of the Cherry Blossom Festival in Tokyo, where in spring the cherry trees bloat with pink petals that fall like snow for a few weeks. Right. Nothing beautiful lasts so appreciate it while you can. Be it cherry blossoms, a month at the beach, or a gourmet meal. Nothing good lasts. Kurosawa was a master of projecting mono no aware. So is Jarmusch, albeit left of center. As for Kurosawa here’s a proper example, all to the right. The final scene of Seven Samurai screams this.

Here. The man’s revisionist take on Shakespeare’s King Lear, Ran follows the basic plot lines, but with a lot of expanse (EG: lots of drawn out scenes). Shakespeare’s dramas are quick and clipped and bouncy (read: all of them). Kurosawa’s adaptations take as much time as they need, be it longer or shorter. Mostly longer. There was this scene in Ran showing a scene of samurai on horseback crossing a river. Pretty standard for a film about a battle. The crossing scene took over ten minutes to film and the creek was barely a yard wide. My prof pointed out to the class to watch this scene. And again. And watch it again. And watch it again. I did, and I got it.

Mindfulness. Listen to the bubbling of the river. Take note of how muscular the horses are, and how they trode to avoid the rocks. The stern, blank expressions of the samurai. Watch this. And watch this again. Again.

It was a moment of satori, which informed the dire matter of why the samurai had to venture into enemy territory. This scene was a grave matter, alluding to future conflicts on a not so distant horizon. Be mindful, watch this.

In Japanese, Ran roughly translates to “chaos.” It’s the opposite of Jarmusch’s muse. Be patient, watch and wait some more. It may be rewarded.

One more thing before I lacerate Paterson this old story. It’s kind of a joke, and you may have already heard it before. If you haven’t, please follow along:

A simple man climbs the mountain to speak with the wise man. Once there he asks, “Wise Man, what is the meaning of life?”

The wise man replies, “Life is a flower.”

The simple man was confused, “What do you mean ‘Life is a flower?'”

The wise man blinks, “You mean it’s not?”

Bestow to Jarmusch’s work and muse, it is.

The Story…

Paterson (Driver) is an average bus driver in Paterson, NJ. Very auspicious, since he’s a part time poet not unlike his hero poet William Carlos Williams, Paterson, New Jersey’s favorite son. Most likely the best thing that came out of the grimy town.

Paterson lives a simple life. Wakes up early without aid of an alarm clock. Enjoys his cereal while pondering his next poem. Taking his moody dog Marvin for a walk after work on the way to tie one on at the local bar. And he’s always especially encouraging—albeit reluctantly—his wife Laura’s (Farahani) creative outlets. Be it an amateur interior designer, guitar student or would be cupcake baker no matter what flighty flight of fancy his bae chases, Paterson’s there for her, with the right complement.

It’s a win-win. Laura is his best fan and critic of Paterson’s poetry. In truth, she’s his only fan. Paterson doesn’t share his passion with the world. Publishing never entered his mind. Just writing poetry and his daily routes—which are one and the same—is all he needs to get by. That and just trying to be Paterson.

No. Not being Paterson the aspirant poet. Being Paterson, Williams’ opus.

Which route to take?

The Review…

It was kind of tricky to wrap up Paterson. I should’ve offered up enough of the story to inform/interest you, but not to blow the wad. It’s hard to do that with films like this. Jarmusch’s style is like reading Thoreau’s Walden. The penultimate “you had to be there to get it” story (the eventual being the Bible. Refute me). You have to watch the films, enjoy them and are incapable to explain to others what you liked about what you saw. Framing and nuance and dialogue are all an actor in themselves. It’s really hard to tell the curious why you loved a certain Jarmusch film. Sure, one has to watch it to get it. Watching Paterson is akin to trying to read James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake: this is inscrutable “the hell’s going on?” There is a story here. The movie attendant is a lot more attainable. Chill.

Running the risk of sounding too academic—again, sorry—Paterson is kind of like that Joycean aesthetic. Really more like an ep of Seinfeld: amusing, but with a cogent understanding of how to twist words to one’s own advantage. That’s akin to Paterson, as well as Paterson. If I’m using too many big words, you louts. Observational comedy is designed to amuse. But what about the day to day sh*t that is decidedly unfunny? Please, help is on the way.

Unlike “deadpan humor,” where jokes are internally impassive and tossed off, “dead pan camera” movies are framed in emotionless imagery. In simpler terms, you figure out what’s going on here and come to your own conclusion. Jarmusch’s films seldom, if ever, using panning and tracking shots. Y’know, to show momentum. No. I repeat, his stuff requires passive attention. If something seems out of place it’s deliberate (sorry to spoil the moment). Everything is fixed camera work. Dead pan. This technique makes good sense with a story like Paterson’s. It’s a slice of life piece about an amateur poet. Chances are thoughtful scenes of satori deny any Arriflex.

Paterson’s bus route is his muse, and Driver’s (kind of a pun there) performance is nothing short of elegant. Always serene, always trying to be positive and his ears always a-twitchin’ the the urban patois that he smiles with on his ride. The guy makes multiple stops, both literally and metaphorically. My experience with Driver as actor is lamentably lax. Yeah, yeah Star Wars blah. Truth be told, I’ve never seen an Adam Driver film ever, save this one. I liked what I saw. In true Jarmusch style, it’s always refreshing to have a lead who is laidback. Driver’s face is perpetual wonder. To me, Paterson was like a well-adjusted Travis Bickle: a genuine guy with a goal, not a mission. Refeshing. Most of Jim’s protags are victims of circumstance (most created en toto by their bad choices). The only bad choice I saw with Driver as thoughtful Paterson was lack of self-confidence when it came time to put pen to paper. That and his haunted need for a fix. I’m not talking about sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll to get his imagination churning. He has to be in every moment, every moment in order to write. The man has a codependency issue with his entire environment. If it doesn’t stimulate him, he can’t—won’t—write. That’s normal for every writer, poet or otherwise. It’s intrinsic to the film after all. However most writers need to kickstart their muse if she ain’t talking with them someday. Inspiration favors the single man, and won’t come easy if you just wait around for it. Kind of what Paterson does for a good chunk of the movie. Waiting for the words to come based solely on outside influence.

This is a good thing, and thanks to Jarmusch’s tasteful deadpan camera work we can see our titular friend occasionally straining to write something. If there’s any message to be found in Paterson is at the end of the day, all you have to rely on is yourself. Don’t wait for your ship to come in. Row out to meet it. This Hallmark card drivel leads me to a story I read about prolific author Stephen King. Now, regardless of what he writes—mostly horror, yeah, but also sci-fi, fantasy, mysteries and journalistic endeavors—the guy does spin solid yarns. Some better than others true, but reliable nonetheless because of a schedules he’s kept for years. Whenever he needs a break, mull over his current project or to battle writer’s block he goes for a long walk in the afternoon to clear his head and resume writing refreshed. He isolates himself to think clearly, get inspired by his own imagination. Paterson’s struggle, on the other hand, is not really a struggle. Driver’s both sweet and frustrated face hints at that. Despite our hero has a well-off enough existence, he doesn’t have a life. I believe what he scratched down in his notebook after his route was a life he wish he could have had, Williams fandom or no. Just a thought.

Speaking of Stephen King, here’s how I assessed Paterson’s arrested inspiration in the mundanity of his bus routes. Back in the 80s there was this anthology series The Ray Bradbury Theatre, hosted by the sci-fi great. It may have been staged, but Bradbury introduced each episode where all of his story ideas came from: his office. From the camera eye Ray’s “studio” was crowded with curios, fetishes, models and an occasional stuffed animal (and we ain’t talkin’ plushies here). This guy wrote Fahrenheit 451, A Sound Of Thunder, The Illustrated Man, and The Martian Chronicles inspired by junk? Yep. So goes Paterson, sans stuffies. His passengers are his stuffies, and het gets kinda empty when there’s no business from the gallery. Poets are genuinely like that: if the muse sends them astray, so goes the art. And Paterson always need his fix. It makes his boring life worth it all. Pretty amazing performance by an actor all flat affect. Even when eating quiche. Moving on.

Once you go along with Paterson’s worldview, the rest of the flick falls into place. Passivity, remember? Finish the popcorn already. This is a Twizzlers kind of movie. Chew chew chew. There’s a slow unravelling here. My implication of codependency carefully creeps into our bittersweet narrative. Anyway, there’s the other side of Paterson’s romantic ideas. His life with Laura, his somewhat overly artistic wife. Brash, outgoing and whimsical—everything Pat is not—she seems grounded yet flighty yet with an agenda. She has no routine, and her days are always different. Unlike Paterson. Driver was very good at being guarded, but not in cross-armed kind of way. Not defensive. You gotta admit, having a free spirit like Laura married to everyman Paterson makes a lot of sense. She’s his life coach. Try this, do that. A new dinner. Publish something. She’s gotta lotta designer cupcakes to bake (remember that weird trend in the mid-teens? I served them at my wedding). The more Driver plays a sort of passive/agressive aw shucks routine, the more Laura tries to shuck her clam. Farahani was not Paterson’s cheerleader, and never drifted in magic pixie territory. She was there to stir the soup (EG: the guitar lesson scene), perhaps be the balm to Paterson’s fragged mind and also a stroll with Stephen King. Maybe. Jarmusch’s films allow a lot of room for interpretation. Also overthinking. Both are good things.

Here I reach a quandary. I must admit—begrudgingly—although Paterson fell under the criteria of The Standard (remember that little thing) we should not fool ourselves. A film like this was never intended to be a tentpole. Anyone who’s worth their salt knows all about Jarmusch’s indie cred, and he doesn’t seem concerned with the box office. Me taking on a film like Paterson is a bit of a lame duck. I did it before a lifetime ago with Broken Flowers. That movie like this one was designed to be under the radar, which I believe is how Jarmusch likes it. It’s akin to Prince when he made records for his own pleasure, and if they sold or didn’t it was no big deal to him. He just followed his muse and didn’t wait up for it. Like Jarmusch. Like Paterson.

Simply said, Paterson was a fine example of Jim’s cool process over three deceptively simple acts.

Go tell your friends.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Duh, rent it. It’s like a vacation for your mind. Tune in, drop out and pay just enough attention. Learn patience.

The (Many) Musings…

  • “Just remember—cupcakes.”
  • Laura’s a pretty clever designer, albeit black and white (rimshot).
  • Note: Marvin’s collar.
  • “I am an actor.”
  • (K) Three sets of turns. For every child you see there’s a twin. I had no clue as to what she meant, but it sounded right.
  • Note: the picture of Williams.
  • “Look out Nashville.”
  • Marvin’s a tough critic.
  • Note: and his photo. Keeps wandering around the house.
  • “I know a lot sh*t about that.”
  • loves me some Sam & Dave.
  • (K) NoteTwenty-three is a lucky number. Route 23 is where Paterson finds inspiration.
  • “I’m gettin’ my ass kicked today.”
  • My aunt used to live in Paterson. It was decidedly not as pristine then as it appears here.
  • (K) Note: the chalkboard. WE ARE ALWAYS CHEAP.
  • “Sometimes an empty page presents more possibilities.”

The Next Time…

Boy, have I a whale of tale for you!

Well, actually it’s more like a Shark Tale. But still!


RIORI Presents Installment #188: Roger Donaldson’s “The World’s Fastest Indian” (2005)


The Players…

Anthony Hopkins, with Jessica Caufiell, Patrick Flueger, Saginaw Grant, Diane Ladd, Christopher Lawford, Aaron Murphy, Paul Rodriguez and Chris Williams.

The Basics…

Kiwi Burt Munro is obsessed with speed. So much so that he can’t stop tweaking his custom Indian motorcycle in order to fulfill a lifelong dream: to test his metal and mettle on the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah and break a land speed record. Burt’s already broken records in Australia and New Zealand. But in the USA? Ah, the jewel in his crown.

He’s got the drive—so to speak—to “‘Ave a go at it!” But his ramshackle ride is a wreck. His health isn’t what it used to be. And Burt’s New Zealand home is half a world away, him an innocent abroad. Amongst his being broke, ailing, out of his element and a victim of his eccentricities however Burt never wavers on his quest for epic speed. His motive is not some throwaway reason why one climbs a mountain: because it’s there. Nope.

Because it’s for then.

The Rant…

I’ve always been a fan of motorcycles. Never ridden one, but am still curious. Anyone can understand the appeal of zooming down the road on a sunny day with the wind bracing your face. One may also understand those dyed-in-wool riders who don’t wear helmets. Must be kinda like flying. The wind in your hair, or—let’s face it—all that POWER beneath your groin. Hell to the yeah. One with road and the journey and seldom the destination. If you’ve ever seen Easy Rider (and I suggest you do, this the ultimate road trip movie), with Wyatt and Billy riding their souped-up choppers heading down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, accompanied by Steppenwolf’s “Born To Be Wild” wailing in the background then you get it. You must, even if you’ve never set your ass on a bike. Looks fun, fancy and free.

Me being a total rube when it comes to bikes I have trace only element understanding how the goddam things work. I’ve ridden a bicycle, but its bully of a big brother like a Dodge Tomahawk that looked like it escaped the set of Tron? As the Brits say, “quite the other thing.” What is all that gimmickry between those wheels? How much gas can that tank hold for long road trips deemed appropriate for a TV commercial? What the hell is a cubic centimeter and how do they relate to gas consumption? And how do Harleys make their pipes sound like God’s Own T Rex with hemorrhoids with an addiction to Monster drinks and free access to a Howitzer in the Grand Canyon? In sum, Hogs are LOUD. And how?

Mystery to me, which is why I’m a curious sort.

In my misspent life I’ve been privy to a few gearheads either boasting their rides’ power or otherwise dicking around in the garage. Although I’m not fond of visiting my mechanic when my ride is acting up—who does?—he and his crew are okay if you’re curious to see what’s being operated on in the garage itself. Just don’t pass the yellow line. Any questions? Just speak up. I gather that they’re not giving up any “secrets” just to prevent wasting in time in the future when can’t explain some weird noise with your car, which ,ore than not turns out to be nothing. Those guys and girls also appreciate a free Starbucks now and then for their troubles.

BTW, speaking of coffee, when I was fresh out of college and needed a quick job I took up an ad at the local cafe for a barista position. In the evenings when the weather was pleasant we had a small motorcycle club that would spin by almost every evening. I’m not talking Hell’s Angels here, just a bunch of old guys and high school kids alike out for a spin and a decent cup of joe. They’d park their bikes in the street, four or five of them, get something to drink and talk biking all evening. Not to mention boasting all their customizing they’ve recently done, to one-up each other as to who now had MORE POWER.

I’d admire their bikes and they suffered my questions well about this and that, like some dopey kid shaking all the presents on Xmas morning. Those guys explaining the mechanics of their bikes in references to a car? Hopeless. They’d rev up their motors to 11 creating deafening booms, or spun their rear wheel to shimmy back and forth creating squeals and a lot of smoke, laughing all the while. I didn’t really get it, but it sure seemed fun and I understood how they worked if you get the drift. There was a lot more going on than an engine at full peel, customized or no. I wanted to get “it”, but all I had was my run-of-the-mill four-wheeled vehicle, which I never customized. Not counting new floor mats and the occasional Little Tree.

Consider this however: If you’ve ever been granted permission to watch the grease monkeys lobotomize your crazy car, be it under the hood or from under the lift, there is a LOT of complicated sh*t inside your ride to make it go. And I ain’t talking like a Ferrari. I drive a ditzy little 2009 VW Rabbit (with a manual tranny; the girls love me), which is a pretty simple ride overall. There’s no GPS, no Bluetooth, no cruise control (it can’t; manual remember) and the A/C hasn’t worked since a month after I bought the thing. Sure, like your car it sometimes it gets whiny and makes requests via the Periodic Table of Elements dashboard lights. I need gas. Buckle your belt. High beams are on. It’s cold out. You missed your turn. I don’t like this music. Why do footprints appear on the windshield when you turn on the defogger? And then there’s that dread feeling you experience when the always scarlet CHECK ENGINE light blinks into life. Oh no. What now? I already topped off the blinker fluid. You know what it’s like.

The first time I opened the hood on my jalopy I was perplexed. The CHECK ENGINE lit up and sure enough I did and the engine was in there. It did not look like and engine but instead a mini fridge with four large cords protruding from it, out and away. The only other things I thought I recognized (actually the only other two things) were the reservoirs for the blinker fluid and water for the radiator. These three things made my car go. It ran. The last ride I had I bought off my sister, a late 90s Volvo that spent more time in her garage than on the highway and ran on mothballs and prayer. Must’ve been the runt of some litter back in Gothenburg. Long story short, you fast learn you know nothing about how temperamental cars can be until you have your own coffee mug at the garage.

There are a lot of things your needy car wants besides fuel and water. There’s a real tricky system under the hood, and all of it working in such to enable you to travel swiftly and safely. I spent time in that garage looking up. No easy task.

A motorcycle? I only see three working parts on a machine naked to the world: two wheels and the handlebars. But there’s a lot, LOT of guts between those wheels. Hell, even the brake discs are exposed. You SIT on the gas tank? You brake and go with your HANDS? Why have you been using CAPITALS so much? Because if you think about it, what makes motorcycles go so fast depend on a microcosm of what makes my bulbous Rabbit putter hither and yon. Compact. Ultra-efficient. Fast as roadrunner with Apple Pay. Stripped of body construction and smashed flies on the visor FAST. At first glance a bike’s compact nature betrays its power I feel. Sure, some bikes like Harleys and those luxury liner, over-the-road models are big, but the principle remains the same: maximum speed for maximum efficiency using the minimum of solid parts. Shrewd design, a knowledge of wind shear, balance and basic physics are all essential, not matter the size. And those crazy custom jobs that look like they were designed on Proxima Centauri? You gotta be one sharp designing cookie to ride the lightning.

Erm, well, Burt Munro with his cobbled together, cannibalized custom Indian racer? Not so much, even if he HIMSELF came from Proxima Centauri so out there he was. Or maybe it was just New Zealand in his veins. As well as Castrol.

The Story…

Down Under, if you have a need for speed don’t come calling on eccentric motorcycle nut Herbert James “Burt” Munro (Hopkins). Old man’s been tinkering with his over-customized 1920 Indian Scout motorcycle as if he were Dr Frankenstein. That “bike” is his wife and his life. Sure, Burt’s harmless, but so obsessed with his bike is he that his genial nature belies a man with a dire mission.

That mission? Break the land speed record with his ride at the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. The United States. The big time. Yeah, Burt’s broken speed records on his homeland and neighboring Oz, but he’s only a local legend. Perhaps only a cottage industry. But to go to America and showoff what his beloved Indian can do? Driven by a duffer like him? Beat that!

There are only two things keeping Burt from his quest. One, his age. Ol’ Burt is pushing 70, and its understood he broke some records with his mutant Indian back in the day when he was as spring as one of his pet chickens, but now he has a heart condition and arthritis. Is Burt still nimble enough to coax his bike to action overseas?

Which leads to two, Burt has known no other world than his hometown of Invercargill, NZ. America is a lot bigger than the Kiwi Realm, and Burt really has no idea what’s in store for him in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Salt Flats. It’s literally a world away, and Burt has some trepidation (naturally) about what to expect naked as a jaybird. Sure gonna be out of his element.

Hey. It’s all no matter, mate. There are rules to be broken, as well as records!

“If the butterflies in my stomach were cows, I’d be able to start a dairy farm!”

Have crazy cycle, will travel with crazy rider.

The Breakdown…

On occasion I frequent AllMovie to get an idea of what I’m getting into regarding the week’s hatchet job. Most of the reviews are kinda vanilla: useful but criticizing a movie without bashing it in hopes you’ll take it upon yourself to come to your own conclusions. Due to advertising, those guys can’t get too rowdy. My curiosity? I call it research and I don’t trust critics. Call it a proto-acid test: I’m gonna watch this? Cross fingers, toes and brows. Let’s see what there is to see from my POV.

I read the rather lackluster review of Indian and upon watching the actual movie I believe the reviewer missed something. Something crucial to the plot. Indian wasn’t Forrest Gump with a motorbike as the fellow alluded. No. It was a meditation on mortality; how fleeting life is. The movie was never about proving speed. It was about challenging time.

Consider Burt’s throwaway tale to how his big brother REDACTED. Up until that point, Burt would wax poetic about how he came to living in a garage and always tooling with his Indian. Next door neighbor kid Tom kind of regards Burt a folk hero, what with his stories about once upon a time and his itchy nature to never give up on his “old girl.” And, yes, Burt’s knowledge of metallurgy and engines can be mesmerizing, but there are many blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments threaded through the film that if you pay attention, this isn’t a movie about fulfilling a dream. It’s more about keeping a promise. To one’s self. To thine own self be true. It’s not just for Sunday School y’know.

Indian is about mortality, or rather staring it down before the inevitable. It’s not made clear that this what the true motivation behind the real Burt’s dream of breaking the record, but his age and illness suggest that time is short. Precious. Live every day like yada yada yada. It’s a familiar story, but as it with playing the blues it’s not the notes but knowing how they should be played. It takes a severe talent to get this kind of skill and Hopkins does it in spades. His Burt is easily the friendliest role he’s ever played. He always has a smile, a quick one-liner and an almost childlike gaze on the world, although he knows time is running out. Every passing scene is passing, and Burt tries to make the most of, ingesting the new world he’s been plopped into. The whole thing is positivity on overdrive—so to speak—but appropriate and never mawkish. Some other actor of lesser caliber couldn’t have pull off the likes of Burt like Hopkins did. It’s most light-hearted I’ve even seen him, if not downright jolly. If you think about that, it’s scarier than Hannibal Lecter.

Oh, pipe down. You knew I had to drop that name here sooner or later.

So yeah, Burt’s obsessed with time, not necessarily speed. It’s not mentioned much in the film how Burt got the itch, but it’s implied. His recollections of moments past with Tom, especially the story of Burt’s older brother’s fate, hints at what Burt’s all about and the Indian his escape. There are quite a few quick shots of Burt looking at his watch. He also gets really irritated with smoking. At first this movie with all its fluffy positivity makes for weak tension. Oh, tragedy begets regret begets redemption. Yawn. I disagree here. All that sweetness and optimism belies the tension that eventually arises when we’re arrested by Burt’s historic ride and all the trickiness that undercurrents doubt and failure.

I can’t deny the healthy doses of silly/fish-out-of-water/innocence that pervaded Indian, and if any other seasoned actor like Hopkins would assume Burt’s fictional mantle the movie would’ve definitely fallen apart. Big shocker, but I suspected major creative liberties taken with the plot. Weak or not, the story was still engaging thanks to Hopkins. Ever since the man aimed to be a thespian he’s carried a lot of “unfilmable” movies through the course. Until his Oscar win, Hopkins more often than not played second fiddle. This is not an an insult; Keef makes Mick look good. Consider the man’s CV in relation to his Burt in Indian. Although John Hurt was the cause celebre in The Elephant Man, Hopkins’ kindly Dr Treaves proved that Merrick was not a freak, just a victim of a rare disease. The endearingly uptight butler Stevens who’s whole duty is not to serve Mr Lewis but never let his reveal his crush on Miss Kenton; that would not be proper. And of course his turn as psychopath Dr Hannibal Lecter, toying with FBI trainee Starling to earn his freedom. BTW, as all cinephiles know, Hopkins was basically played a supporting character but earned Best Actor 1991 for less that 20 minutes on screen. Hopkins is good—great—at being wallpaper pasted up by Picasso.

So what better way to appreciate Hopkins’ Burt in how he deals with being out of his nest in search of his quarry? Right. Go along for the ride, so to speak. It’s impossible to not like Hopkins here, all hale and hearty and chuckling and more than a little bit off. That’s his charm, which is quite the statement considering most of Anthony’s charm stem from his best known roles portraying quite reserved characters (EG: the aforementioned Treaves, Stevens and even Lecter). He’s a unrepentant optimist, never giving a damn about social graces. Almost as if his Burt was living against what Ben Franklin said about mortality (but still very much aware of it): “Some people die at 25 and aren’t buried until 75.” Ol’ Ben lived to be 88 and loved a good dirty joke. I suppose you can’t help but be curious about some duffer chasing a childhood dream even if they’re collecting Social Security. I think the best example of Hopkins’ Burt’s unflappable good humor is best summed up in one line. When his new American friend, a trans named Tina comes out to Burt, his simple response is that Tina’s a sweetheart anyway.

Again and of course director Donaldson took some creative liberties with Indian. Erm, some? Precious little was true in the tale, save the showdown at Bonneville. If you think about it, Burt’s true test of his nerves would’ve been easily encapsulated in a one-hour History Channel doc back with the channel aired History. Sometimes you gotta add a lot of breadcrumbs to that meatloaf otherwise no dinner. How Donaldson and Hopkins jury-rigged the story to make it more…there is akin to (and I’ve used this example before, so muzzle it) one of the best Mandela Effect movies quotes ever: “If the legend is better than the facts, print the legend!” Facts can be boring, and if one wishes to spruce up the story you need some ketchup. And kicked up dust. A spoonful of denial makes the soft script go down.

Indian is by far one of the oddest road trip movies I’ve ever seen, and it is indeed a road trip movie. Once Burt’s in the States what else would you call it? The record breaking takes up a lot of room in the back seat in the third act, but the eclectic encounters with the colorful folks he meets—which are all to kind to help Burt on his harebrained quest—makes the trip worth getting off the beaten path one in a while. And really, what’s wrong with a simple, feel good movie?

Indian isn’t complicated (far more than the mortality undercurrent) in which a story like this—legendary or factual—hasn’t been done before, and will be done again. Still, it was charming, had a little weird Coen Brothers bent, a motley cast, a kooky Hopkins and motorcycles. Like I said, sometimes you just gotta go with it and leave some cynicism at the door.

Now who wants fresh squeezed lemonade? No you don’t.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. It’s fluffy to be sure, but so’s your pillow and you still lay back on it. Quit being a drudge and enjoy some Happy Hopkins.

The Musings…

  • “Time goes by so fast.”
  • I need a tomato-shaped squeezy bottle.
  • “It’s only flat on the bottom!”
  • There is a very fine line between eccentric and crazy.
  • “What?” Tom reveals the Maguffin.
  • I liked that clever reveal.
  • “I’m planning on going, not stopping!”
  • Burt can talk his way out of anything.
  • “If you don’t go when you want to go, when you do go, you’ll find you’re gone.”
  • Fun fact: Burt never pissed his lemon tree. Probably never even had one. Director Donaldson threw that bit in as a tribute to his Dad, who in fact did practice that kind of horticulture. I’d never have a glass of iced tea at the old Donaldson home, no sirree.’
  • “I did it!” Chuckles, naturally.

The Next Time…

“That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind,” claimed the First Man to set foot on the moon, Neil Armstrong…by way of the Mickey Mouse Club.


RIORI Redux: Noah Baumbach’s “The Squid And The Whale” Revisited


The Players…

Jeff Daniels, Laura Linney, Jesse Eisenberg and Owen Klein, with Stephen Baldwin.

The Story…

This is a story with an insightful look at the crumbling marriage between a self-centered novelist (whose career is on the wane) and his up-and-coming writer wife. In the meantime, the warring couple’s two sons get caught in the crossfire, which is where, as always, things get complicated.

The Rant (2014)

Here’s a new one for you. A film that did quite well at the box office (its production budget of a mere $1.5 million yielded over $7 million domestic total gross), received rave reviews, sported an excellent cast…and no one has ever heard of it.

Ooooo. Chills, right?

What is it about indie films that get people’s hackles up? A great deal of the public’s perceptions is that indie films can be artsy-fartsy, pretentious, twee vanity projects aimed a very narrow audience of either highbrow snobs or annoying hipsters that disdain anything considered “mainstream.” Which is rather appropriate considering these are the types of characters that inhabit the world of The Squid And The Whale.

The above claim is not without merit. A great many of indie films earn those epithets. But I don’t think Squid is one of them. I don’t think so. Although this is indeed an indie film, it isn’t in any immediate danger of being considered darling.

This movie is decidedly a character study, and both Daniels and Linney are two of my fave character actors. They tend to pop up in films that often place them in roles against type, whatever that may be. These types happen to be a couple who are so unhealthy for one other you cannot possibly pick a side. Unlike their kids.

Once upon a time in Park Slope, Brooklyn, in the mid-80’s…

There are some movies you can dislike, but not exactly hate. Something tells me that this is often a side-effect of a lot of indie films, especially comedy-dramas like Squid. They get wrapped up in their needs to be left of center in their execution that sometimes it just leaves a bad taste. I’m really diffident about Squid. I mean, it was a fine film. There was a lot more to love than hate. But still, there were these conventions in place that, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, seemed trite and frankly frustrating. Then again, some were plain as day.

The good first, and there is much of it. Daniel steals the show as Bernard, so full of himself, all his intellect just a suit of emotional armor that over the years has developed quite a few chinks. His pontificating on…well, everything is both hilarious and enervating. I think we’ve all known someone like Bernard in our lives (I know I have; it’s me). The kids are amazing actors too. Walt is trying so hard to imitate/please his father he comes across as subtly confused for the first two acts of the film. You don’t know if his whole personality is wrapped up in emulating his father or just placating his ego. And Frank is so oddly steely yet innocent you can’t really pity his young person for how he handles (or doesn’t handle) his family’s breakup. When you can’t pity a wide-eyed, adorable moppet, that’s good acting.

The performances are all cringe worthy, which makes them all the more relatable. This is a good thing. Really, I was wincing with almost every scene of the picture, tantalizingly aware of every nuance and pointed barb. Everything Bernard says made my eyes roll…or cringe. With Bernard, rarely has rationalizing sound so…so reasonable. And yet so cutting you want to smack him in the puss with a dead salmon.

A lot of the acting is done here with the eyes. Every member of the Berkman clan has a signature gaze that conveys their personalities very well. Bernard is remote, Joan is maudlin, Walt is indignant and Frank is…intoxicated. It’s like the four seasons, and this dynamic makes for an engaging series of purchases to hang on to. Walt’s pleading look especially. It’s a defiant front to anything that might put his father in a displeasing light, even if he sees it himself. His self-righteous and fragile fury is frustratingly simple to taste, and he justifies his attitude as a cracked mirrior image of Bernard. Walt takes several social liberties with the cloak of mock maturity. To put it plainly, the Berkman’s are not really Floyd fans.

And now the rougher stuff, and there is much of it. There is next to no chemistry at all between Bernard and Joan. Maybe this makes for an ideal portrait of divorce, but it’s overly antagonistic for cinema. You don’t really root for these two to get back together, but a part of you kind of wishes it. At least that’s the Hollywood conceit. This dynamic may or may not be considered brilliant by most audiences, but I found it a tad confusing. The film, to me, was more about the kids.

Speaking of Joan, I expected Linney to play more of a role here in Squid. Most of the time she seemed relegated to the side in favor of Daniels’ screen time. Again, maybe this was another metaphor; Bernard’s ego so inflated it pushed Joan out of the picture, figuratively and literally. If this were the case, a very clever metaphor. If not, maybe Daniels was counting lines. At any rate, Linney seemed wobbly enough to pitch over at any given moment. I guess she was the allegorical squid here.

The tennis/ping-pong as metaphor for the kids interacting with their quarreling parents is a not so subtle message. In fact it’s rather on the nose, and possibly insulting to less lenient filmgoers. This beat was hit upon time and time again, until the driving force was dried up, as well as a bunch of other bits here and there that were delivered a tad predictably. Also, on another hand (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) quite a few “ewww” moments in this movie I just didn’t expect. I’m not sure if there were done for graphic effect or just to set the audience off-kilter.

I don’t know if all the carps I’ve listed here either amount to great cinema storytelling or a ball of confusion. Maybe that’s what Baumbach was trying to convey, and how fragile relationships can be. Or maybe it’s another indie mindf*ck that one comes to expect with these kinds of films. On the whole, Squid was supremely acted at its core (which matters most in a character study), surrounded by a sticky coating of indie trappings not easily palatable by hipster or mainstream audiences alike.

Damned hipsters. Those cold, evil hipsters…

Rant Redux (2019)…

Nope. Got this one, too. Another lucky shot. Also, it seemed years ago when I got a little more specific in what made a movie mediocre or not according to the Standard it actually made sense. Heard that stuff’s called constructive criticism, and my 11th grade English teacher was right. Dang it.

The Revision…

Rent it or relent it? Sustained: rent it. A very keen character study of divorce in revolt. That’s the best way I can describe Squid, and it’s a compliment.

Next Installment…

It’s the final revision of RIORI‘s first volume of posts, featuring Will Smith as “vampire” slayer in I Am Legend. After this chapters closes, we’ll get on to some new stuff.

You have been warned.


RIORI Redux: Jim Jarmusch’s “Broken Flowers” Revisited


The Players…

Bill Murray, Sharon Stone, Frances Conroy, Jessica Lange and Tilda Swinton, with Jeffery Wright, Julie Delpy, Chloe Sevigny and Christopher McDonald.

The Story…

After being dumped by yet another girlfriend, serial bachelor Don figures simply he’ll be alone forever. It’s probably easier this way. But when an anonymous letter arrives one day and tells him he has a 19-year-old son out there, Don sets out on a cross-country journey to confront his past—and a few old flames in the process. Mom’s out there, too, you know.

The Rant (2013)

First off, I want to apologize for the last installment. It was hastily written under the influence of alcohol and hubris. Mostly alcohol. Also having one of your most fave rock n’ roll icons die of cancer would sour anyone’s day. If I were a professional, I would say that the last installment was very unprofessional. But I’m not, so I’ll simply say sorry for being a dickhead. Okay? Good.

Anyway, on with the show.

Relationships are hard. Believe me, I know. I’m in one. Sometimes I can recommend it. Other times, meh. But here’s a relationship that hopefully none of you will ever have. One with yourself. It’s ugly, and gets stale really fast. That being said, this movie did not clean up at the box office. Blame the director.

Jim Jarmusch has been long derided or complemented (depending on who you ask) as an indie darling. The long tracking shots. The signature fade out. The quirkiness. Jarmusch has never made any big coin from his films. His reputation almost precludes this. And I’m a fan of his work. Flowers is a pseudo art house film, not meant for all audiences despite how charming and unintentionally funny Murray is.

Not to mention that I’m a fan of Bill Murray, especially his “late period” stuff, when he hung up screwball for leading man as average Joe. If Murray here were anymore disconnected, his head would fall off. He is as wry as ever, lugging around that look on his face that screams befuddlement and self-absorption. Carrying that ridiculous bouquet of pink flowers (get it?) as his calling card, going door-to-door to all his exes, each one getting worse and worse than previous? It all but practically shouts “kick me.” And Bill is a delightful stooge with a bullseye taped to his ass. It’s really all an exercise in vanity as well as hopelessness. You never get a feeling of rooting for Don, and you don’t have to. He’s not likeable in any immediate way, but as I said before, it’s Murray, and he’s always charming.

Rounding out the cast is a flighty Sharon Stone, a vacant Frances Conroy, an aloof Jessica Lange and an outright hostile Tilda Swinton (whom I couldn’t even recognize at first glance). It’s as if each woman represents a chapter in Don’s life of bad breakups and past mistakes. In fact, that’s exactly what it is. No hidden subtext there. As a tonic, Jeffery Wright is hilarious as Don’s “life coach” and guide on his journey of self-discovery and madness. I don’t know what accent that is he’s using, but it’s oddly appropriate.

This whole movie has a surrealist Wes Anderson kinda feeling, maybe because of Murray. Little touches here and there painting different flavors of bizarre domesticity play out like a reel of Don’s history of crawling up his own ass. Maybe this film is about self-discovery. Maybe it’s a cautionary tale. Maybe it’s the oddest road trip movie ever filmed. I don’t know. What I’ve learned after watching Flowers is this: don’t chase down your past. What you may find is nothing more than yourself. That can be ugly.

Rant Redux (2019)…

Kinda like but not really the glib rant redux for David Fincher’s underrated Zodiac, I don’t have much to revise regarding Flowers. It helped the above draft was short and direct, as well as on point. Upon re-reading it however, another question about casting popped into my head. A seed was planted in my retread of What Just Happened? not that long ago. The question I had is thus: why do big stars choose smaller roles in even smaller films? Like with Happened, De Niro is a legacy actor and pairing him with Levinson (whose star, admittedly has dulled) felt a tad odd, if not angular. Despite the slow pace and overwrought storyline, De Niro was is fine shape and Levinson still had his subtle, nasty edge cutting a satire. Also despite Happened was released to little fanfare and even littler reception it did (to me) open up an inner dialogue. One between my cinematic sensibilities and what feeds that rot. It was more interesting than the movie, I figured.

Why do big stars opt for small roles with small directors? Wait. That’s not quite accurate. Jim Jarmusch is in the upper echelon of “indie” directors. Wes Anderson would not have a career without Jarmusch. Even though Jim is relegated to left of center, he’s known, revered and always engagingly weird. That’s his signature as much as his snowy pompadour. De Niro teaming with Levinson, in the final analysis, isn’t too far a cry. Bill Murray under the gentle, clutching wing of Jarmusch is a bit more than that.

Flowers is a dark rom-com, to be sure, and Jarmusch is not foreign to the bitter humor that drives his muse. He’s kinda like David Lynch with a sense of humor, except said humor stems from Andy Kaufmann’s “the joke’s on you” kinda humor. Whatever funny Jarmusch puts on the screen it can be as amusing as it is cringey. Flowers was no different, and in Murray Jim found his Bartelby, awash in doubt and blissful ignorance. If one considers it, Murray’s Don is an offshoot of his Bob Harris character in Lost In Translation five years earlier. The themes are similar: Bob is estranged from his wife, alone in a foreign land and desperate to reach out to someone. Scarlett Johannson got her breakout role (and only role worth the time of day if you’d ask me. Please, don’t) which was good, and Murray’s desperate Bob earned him an Oscar nod (which he was visibly profane when he didn’t win. Bill, it just doesn’t matter).

Flowers is a spiritual cousin, but unlike Bob, Don is Don. Murray is Murray, lovable hangdog in all its glory. While Coppola did admirable work coaxing conflicted drama from Murray in Lost, Jarmusch just let Murray wander. It worked quite well, perhaps better than in Lost. And I think that’s it, why big stars tackle small projects. De Niro’s dyed-in-wool style is intense, bleak, loudmouthed and darkly funny. Having aforementioned hangdog is well out of his wheelhouse, which is why I think Method actors take smaller roles. It could be to stretch their range, to try something weird that Big Hollywood would deem “unprofitable,” or just to have a little fun and f*ck around some. Getting off the radar allows a lot of stretching out and dusting off shoulders, Kayne-style.

Yeah, so that’s my hypothesis. Big stars opt for “small” roles in “small” films so to flex their thespian muscles as well as decompress. Toss around the medicine ball before bench pressing again. Both Flowers and Happened are good illustrations of that practice, I feel. Makes for better roles afterwards, I hope.

De Niro’s next role after HappenedRighteous Kill. Well…

Murray’s next role after Flowers: Garfield: A Tale Of Two Kitties. Umm…

It’s just a theory, after all.

The Revision…

Rent it or relent it? Sustained: rent it. Again, Jarmusch’s films are decidedly not for everyone, especially those who have short attention spans. And Murray not being outwardly funny is also an acquired taste. Still, big names doing little things well stand for a lot these days. Consider the midget mathematician: it’s the little things that count.

I regret nothing much.

Next Installment…

We look through A Scanner Darkly once more and consider what the heck Richard Linklater was getting into.


RIORI Redux: David O Russell’s “Silver Linings Playbook” Revisited


The Players…

Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lawrence, Robert DeNiro, Jacki Weaver and Chris Tucker, with Johnny Ortiz, Julia Stiles and Shea Wigham.

The Story…

After a stint in a psychiatric hospital, bipolar Pat has no choice but to move back in with his Philadelphia Eagles-obsessed family. While he tries in vain to reconcile with his estranged wife, Pat meets Tiffany who’s just as unstable as he is. Like attracts like and all that. Tiffany hears Pat’s plight and offers him a deal: she’ll get in touch with his wife of him if he’ll do her a favor. Pat’ll do anything to fix his marriage, but wait…

Swing dancing? Really?

The Rant (2013)

This may be my most personal review to date. Bear with me.

Two things before I get started. The first is practical. For the previous eight installments, I have based these reviews on the principle of “lack of box office mojo either/or of dubious reputation.” From now on, I shall refer to this criterion simply as “The Standard.” It’ll save time, and for those who need an explanation, please read my homepage. Don’t forget to Like it.

The second thing is trying to explain away how an Oscar-winning film like Silver Linings Playbook meets The Standard. I mean, it cleaned up at the box office. It earned several accolades. The star of the freakin’ Hangover films got an Oscar nod, before God. How does this movie meet the criteria?

The subject matter. A lot of folks who saw the film (at least folks I met) claimed that although the movie was good, Cooper’s acting was overreaching. His manic delivery was exactly the stuff of the Method, and I guess current audiences find that old hat. It works, yes, but these days people with a vestigial attention span demand the shiny. It’s still entertaining though, even if wide of the mark. Then again, what do the majority of filmgoers know what it’s like to endure a manic episode? Right.

Mental illness has long been a favorite well for Hollywood to dip from. Whether it’s Ordinary People for survivor’s guilt, The Deer Hunter for PTSD or The Silence Of The Lambs for sociopathy, crazy sells well at the ticket taker. The stuff’s a guilty pleasure for the gentry. It’s like the car wreck on the highway. You just gotta look—be witness to the wreck and ruin—and at the near back of your mind thank your lucky stars that that ain’t you. Being in the presence of an individual suffering from mental illness, be it depression, bipolar disorder, even outright psychosis is akin to the car wreck scenario. Sure, you’ll sneak a peek, but you’ll then recoil and be glad to not get any of it on you. It’s sort of a malign guilty pleasure for most.

Most well-healed folks figure they don’t ever have to worry about the crazy label. Life is normal for them, or for whatever passes for normal. Yet there are thousands of people out there who have to deal with the misfiring spark plugs upstairs every waking moment, yet still have to maintain a life. They don’t necessarily suffer in silence, but feel silenced all the same, especially against all those stares. Unless such sh*t ends up on the cover of People—and Heaven forbid Kim and Kanye’s spawn grow up to suffer from an eating disorder—then it’s in the public interest. Following that lead, how’s that for a dubious reputation?

As I was saying, Playbook made some waves with its depiction of bipolar disorder suffered by the lead Cooper. From personal experience, I say its depiction was straight on. This may get a little too personal, even for a blog, but I don’t really care. Others, I have found, have posted far more intimate and nuttier stuff than I would ever regard as appropriate. You ever truly look deeply at some of these profile and/or cover pictures? I mean, c’mon.

I suffer from bipolar disorder. Don’t laugh; I’m serious. I have a constant, intrusive internal monologue, often puking out into an external one. There’s the racing thoughts. The low-level paranoia. The occasional raging. The often crushing depression. It’s all there everyday for me, America, and for thousands of others, too. Like Pat, only therapy and meds make life work, and only in a wobbly way at that. It’s tough. And surprisingly enough, Cooper earned an Oscar nod for his portrayal. Yeah, best actor and alla dat.

Why should I say surprisingly? C’mon, this guy made a fortune portraying a guy slogged off on roofies and/or booze for three films for f*ck’s sake. What the hell business does he have starring in an Oscar-nominated film?

Because he sold it. Because he earned it. Because he got it right.

Playbook was a smart, humorous and at times intense movie. A hard combo to work with. According to the dailies, it took director Russell 20 rewrites over five years to get the film just right. Good Lord. It worked though.

Playbook is a mass character study, so we’re gonna talk about our cast. A lot. First, Bradley Cooper really surprised me, just as much as most other critics were (who, unlike yours truly, actually get paid to do this sh*t). His depiction of bipolar disorder was spot f*cking on. The raging, the paranoia, the endless hang-ups. The label of being f*cking nuts. All there. As if to accentuate Pat’s struggles, it rather hurt when in the film the local law came to harass and/or bully poor Pat over the head about his restraining order. Sometimes it felt for just him it being out in public was enough for a drubbing. Car wreck culture and all. Ugh. Even if your brain is firing on all cylinders, it’s hard to watch. It’s also a great method employing “show, don’t tell,” and with a character study, you gotta show a lot of face time.

Something else key was apparent that I often bitch about for lack of in these posts: good pacing. Nothing in Playbook felt rushed. The story folded out as easily as a box of Kleenex, minus the lint. Two-plus hours stretched gracefully into a good evening’s entertainment. Face it, when you’re spending your free time on a film heavy on mental illness it better flow smoothly. Hell, that’s all I (or anyone else) should ask for.

In addition to the excellent pacing, of course the acting was great. There were no minor characters in the film. I know that follows the old saw of there being no small parts, but with Playbook each role was crucial in mirroring Pat’s new life post-hospitalization. A lot of films of this nature have roles that drop off the map halfway through the feature. Not here. “Lesser” roles like Ronnie and his patient therapist Dr. Patel offered insight and warmth (not necessarily sympathy) to Pat’s struggles. It’s a contained circle, one you get comfortable with as it creates a real sense of closure as the film winds down.

Other touches work well to reflect Pat’s picking up the pieces. The choice of music for instance (a pet cinematic enhancement of mine) was exceptional. Led Zep makes for the ideal soundtrack for a mental meltdown. And if your heart doesn’t crack a little for the sequence accompanied by Bob Dylan’s and Johnny Cash’s duet of “Girl From the North Country,” you have no soul (it’s from Nashville Skyline by the way. Go buy the damned album).

Considering the rest of the noteworthy cast, Chris Tucker is a stitch, but not in his mouthy Rush Hour style. He’s the lingering vestige of the sh*t Pat had to deal with and suck up to in Baltimore. He keeps popping up in Pat’s life on the outside not as the Magic Negro, but perhaps as a reminder as to what he was trying to leave behind, despite the fact it’s still stuck in his BP rattled head. He also ends up teaching Pat all about groove. This is important. Delightfully so.

DeNiro was also nominated for an Oscar in this one. It’s the first worthwhile role he’s played in along time, and for his limited screen time, Russell brings out the best in him. Although it takes several scenes, it becomes easy to understand why he got the nod. He’s brusque, he’s hammy, he’s f*cking petulant. He may have inadvertently contributed to Pat’s undoing, him being all superstitious and OCD. Always gambling. He took a gamble on Pat and ostensibly lost. Many times. Bob does lot of pure acting with just his scowly yet puppy dog jowls of his. Haven’t seen that since Casino. I could go on, but it would ruin the sub-plot.

Oddly, Weaver got an Oscar nomination too, although at first it’s hard to figure why. She doesn’t have many lines, and her screen time seems limited to only when Pat and/or his dad are roiling in their own psychological juices. However, she also seems to be the only one who is pointedly aware and truly sympathetic to what Pat has gone and still is going through. Pat’s her son after all. Understanding is crucial in the healing process, and you need that kind of presence to make the story have a tonic to the continuous conflict. In that light, Weaver is in the Goldilocks zone.

And lastly, Jennifer Lawrence as Tiffany. Ah, her. She won the Oscar, you know. Her Tiffany is nuts, just stark-raving oozing kooky nuts. But just to watch her…I’ll be crude. No I won’t. You can be crude. But hell, she can act, all fiery without chewing scenery and hold her own as if she wrote the script. She has confidence and a strong presence that permeates every scene she’s in, eclipsing star Cooper at times. Simultaneously, she has a particular vulnerability that, if employed in other films, may come across as mawkish. Here it generates a feeling not exactly of compassion, but one more of relatability despite the extraordinary circumstances handed to her. And she can dance. And run at a good clip, too. And oddly enough, heh-heh, so can Pat, just don’t take her to a diner on a first date. You just gotta see it to get it.

I have next to no carps with this movie. Save a Hollywood ending, Playbook was truly compassionate in its execution and acting. Is it because I’m sympathetic? Well, yeah. But only because here’s a film that depicts a hairy subject 90% correct. The remaining 10% is courtesy of Tinsel Town, cuz sumpin’s gotta sell tickets. The story is the car-wreck scenario, but tempered with just enough sugar with the urine that an audience can feel empathy rather than unease or scorn towards the psychologically challenged. It’s simply a cagey nevertheless excellently staged film

Yeah, excellently staged. Smart dialogue. Solid acting. Hall rented. Orchestra engaged. Now it’s time to see if you can dance.

If only somebody had told Lawrence to mind the step.

Rant Redux (2019)…

Okay, I owe you all an apology—now and future ones also—for trying the pull the wool here over Playbook. I had established The Standard as, well, a standard for all movies skewered here at RIORI as to how and why they got here under my hot little, petulant microscope. To review for the jillionth time, any movie—supposedly “mediocre”—that stumbles onto this blog meets a specific criteria to rush this frat: been made/released between 2000 to now, had disappointing box office returns, received mixed reviews and therefore generated perhaps unwarranted notoriety based on said wobbly criticism, and/or (the biggie); Suffered a general lack of “box office mojo.”

Playbook had none of that. It was well received, a box office success, was nominated for and earned a few awards and in turn had some mojo; Playbook escalated middling character actors Cooper and Lawrence into the upper echelon of Tinsel Town Treatment. Lawrence got her Oscar, and later Cooper got to voice a not-raccoon with a hair trigger and score Lady Gaga. One outta three ain’t bad…I guess (and talk about a bad romance).

*back to the hurling bottles thing*

It was years ago, and I had so many movie opinions I needed to smear, angry-monkey-fecal-like-sling at my adoring non-audience. I feel into a trap that virtually all FaceBook denizens do: regard my opinion as gospel. And by the dictionary, I also felt that my feelings were honrdt and implicitly received as truth.

Yeah. Nope. And as for myopic ego…well, all of you entrenched in social media have one, too. I apologize and I don’t. I apologize for lying and not following my own rules but not since most of us online do just that as gospel. And no, I did not weep at Grumpy Cat’s death. I was too busy being concerned about paying my bills and not regarding non-white people south of Texas as potential ISIS recruits.

*bonk. Kelly Clarkson!*

To conclude, I misused my blog as soapbox to encourage folks to see a film they had already seen, enjoyed and applauded when Lawrence stumbled onto the stage. My bad. It was drunk and I was late. I apologize for the hoodwink, and apologizing as ugly naked as this is in the blogosphere is catch-as-catch-can (BTW; the origin of that term stems from old school wrestling, namely repel your opponents with your hands any way to wear him down. You’re welcome).

Wait. There is one more thing: although the review of this offbeat character study was accurate, one observation was a little off. That whole bit about mental illness being sexy money in Hollywood? True, but like dinner at the local, reliable, cheap-o, red sauce pizza Italian joint it’s all about the presentation, not the dish.

I wasn’t kidding when I explained that I have bipolar disorder, and like other select films that interpret mental illness accurately and in an enlightening way, you gotta go pretty afar from the norm to get my attention about filming stories surrounding such touchy stuff. A lot of on screen mental ills are depicted by ciphers who a destructive to their costars as Snidely Whiplash pestering Penelope Pitstop (how’s that for dating me?); drab tragic figures that are simultaneously fragile and volatile. Or worse, just plain nuts and that’s all. I brought up my condition in the original view because the film got experiencing the disease more or less correct and in a palpable way. Unlike another film frisked here, The Informant!, where our protagonist has bipolar and his unchecked disease leads to irrational behavior and acts that are his undoing. I didn’t care for it much, mostly due to star Matt Damon’s delivery of the character and his issues. I know the flick was supposed to be satirical; I shouldn’t’ve had to watch the thing through the fingers of a terminal facepalm.

I liked the sympathetic eye cast on Pat. Yes, he is ill. Yes, he committed a violent crime. And yes, he’s gonna struggle the rest of his days keeping emotions in check at an arm’s length from his family who doesn’t exactly “get” what Pat’s all about. In other words, he’s not to be pitied, nor never shown that way. He’s just trying to keep his sh*t together. That’s me everyday. Hell, that’s you everyday, trying to keep your cards shuffled and the lumps out of your gravy. That reliability Cooper summoned up made the bipolar less of a plot point and more a of character trait. Not flaw, as most films of this ilk, even good ones (EG: Rain Man, The Best Years Of Our Lives, Good Will Hunting et al) often portray. Pat’s bipolar is now a fact of life due to screwy mixes in his brain cocktail. Yeah, he’s messed up. How he delivers the goods is as if, “Yep. You too?” Of course.

I forced my folks to watch Playbook with me to offer insight into how I feel everyday. They liked it a lot.

They also did not “get it.”

That’s what you get for leading people along, I tell ya.

The Revision…

Rent it or relent it? Sustained: rent it. Silver Linings Playbook is a very good movie that had absolutely no business roaming around RIORI’s turf. I apologize again. I have Standards, after all.

Next Installment…

It’s auspicious to ask What Just Happened? revisiting this DeNiro diamond in the rough. Can one go too far off the map into indie territory and still regard a movie as mediocre?


RIORI Vol 3, Installment 80: Ridley Scott’s “Matchstick Men” (2003)

The Players…

Nicolas Cage, Sam Rockwell, Alison Lohman, Bruce Altman and Bruce McGill, with Sheila Kelley and Beth Grant.

The Story…

Roy’s a professional con man struggling with three distinct issues. One, well being a con man. Two, rampant OCD. And three, meeting the daughter he never knew he had.

Poor Roy inadvertently jeopardizes his tightly organized and artificially controlled life when the very not artificial concept of fatherhood chafes his orderly scamming lifestyle. Beyond it all, man’s got a right to earn a living, whatever that is, be it against a Nabokov book waiting to happen or not.

Wait! What? Huh?

*washes hands with vigor*

The Rant…

My first intro to Ridley Scott was at a precocious and waaaaay too f*cking young age.

It was the early-80s. VCRs were finally affordable to middle class schlubs like my Dad. We got a quality Maganox VHS unit at an 80s steal around $700. Thing was worth more, reliable, durable and even survived well into the DVD age. Sure, we had to clean the soot out of its chimney once every month to maintain picture clarity, but this slab could stop an assassin’s bullet and still be able to set the timer for that week’s SNL installment. We didn’t need an app for that.

Video rentals were like mushrooms back then: sprouting up everywhere in places you were surprised to find them. Sure, there were a few chains like Blockbuster, Hollywood. But also local mom-and-pop movie dealers, the local libraries, even supermarkets before God. My father got a membership with local mom and pop (who also sold bagels if my memory serves, which it doesn’t). Friday evening came and he, me and sometimes my screechy sisters would wander in and scope out a few tapes for the weekend. My father being a shrewd customer—one who had access to a phone—would be one to literally call it in. Do you have this movie? You do? Could you please hold it for me? Be your best friend. Thanks. See you later. Hey, do you have any cinnamon raisins left?

Back to Scott. And the worst night of my pre-pubescent life.

It was of course a Friday night. Late night. Mom and the screechies cacked out hours ago. Even at age 10 I had the nite owl blood in me. Insomniac. Still am; started writing this week’s screed at 12.30 AM. But it’s Friday and I’m off work tomorrow, so yay me.

Didn’t have a store to mind when I was 10, and on those Fridays back in the day my Dad made his prerequisite calls to the Bagelsmith to see what was fresh and ready for pick-up. He would roll out around 6-ish and come back a half-hour later with a pair of tapes. If the kids didn’t come along for the ride-and-pick we were not supposed to. My father’s selections were his and his alone. Wonder where I learned about insomnia and the power of holding the remote.

I got curious, of course.

A few times Dad let me squat down in the wee hours to watch what he was watching. At 10 I was into The Karate Kid, Star Blazers and Chilean snuff films (kidding. Discovered Star Blazers when I was 8). It was mostly aboveboard stuff. Dad was Dad. He was older. He could rent PG-13 movies with impunity. The R-rated stuff was trace element. My father was a pretty liberal guy when it came to me joining him for his late night viewing frenzy. If a movie was rated R he followed the rule to the rote: Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian. Namely, he was over 17, I wasn’t. He was there as the guardian with the membership card and I found my snot-nosed self being “accompanied” by him into the Friday night cinematic chop shop. To his credit he always assured me that if what were watching turned out to be too scary/violent/sexy/redolent of poppy seeds we could turn it off. Sounded like a challenge. My father challenged me to Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid, The Graduate and Gene Hackman in general. Sweep the leg, Johnny.

This was I how I was unravelled by Ridley Scott. When I was 10 I could give the barest rodent scintilla about who directed a movie so long as that movie was cool. The names Scorsese, Kurosawa, Spielberg and Scott were all but pidgin to me. I liked sci-fi, comedies and sci-fi comedies (bless you, Spaceballs). What Dad had cued up on the capstans made me stand at attention that there was an almost monolithic man/woman behind the cameras demanding where the story would go. The director. And the first director’s name I ever learned was Ridley Scott. By now you’re prob’ scratching yer scalp wondering, “Whatever Ridley Scott movie could lobotomize a 10 year old so?” If Dad were present and it was late, then it must have been rated R. And since you were under 17 and required an accompanying parent or adult guardian, Dad understood his responsibility and assessed that I may have been hip to this proviso, his late night rental. You lucky, insomniac scamp, you.

So if this gets too scary, here’s my arm. Squeeze if you have to.


It was Alien. I was 10. He let me watch Alien. Did I mention I was 10? I “slept” post-viewing with my bedroom light burning until morning. My Mom poked her head in the door early the following Saturday morning and asked a “sleeping” me why the light was on all night. Then:

“Have you been up all night?”



“…Dad showed me a scary movie.”

She rolled her eyes. “Better go talk to him.”

“I liked it, but…”

It must’ve been around 10 AM. “Go get some sleep.” And echoing down the hall came: “Oh, honey!”

The image of a freaked out Sigourney Weaver burned in my head. I could relate with that skittish, everything may fall apart at the last minute feeling. Remember the film’s final act? Uh, yeah. I wasn’t well until Sunday night when school was looming anew. Boy, did I have a movie to tell my friends about. And said nothing.

The movie stunned me so with both its claustrophobia as well as grotesquerie—and with me being “man enough” to watch it—I kept Alien to myself. It scared me sh*tless, and I survived it, well below the 17-year old water line. Felt like a right of passage, watching a serious R-rated movie intact. And beyond enduring the visceral viewing, I enjoyed it. To this day Alien is my favorite scary movie (and I don’t even like scary movies, at least not the exhibitionist kind. I demand good acting, decent pacing and an acceptable plot, like the original cuts of The Haunting or Halloween), and I relish any opportunity to punish the Alien-uninitiated for a virgin viewing. My stepkid found it “okay.” She liked Aliens better, and voiced so. Philistine. She was thirteen at the time. I earned my stripes at 10, so there.

Besides Alien scaring the sleep out of me, it injected a need to figure out what the hell did a movie do to make me take notice. Sure, I always got some entertainment from watching movies, mostly the age appropriate, non-arm clinging kind. At the then time I think my fave film was the original Ghostbusters (a sucker for Bill Murray ever since I saw Meatballs. Saw it at summer camp. Where else?). Paranormal comedy grabbed me as a kid, and taught me to not cross the streams. Heard it was bad. I guess that fave flick planted an embryo as to how did this awesome movie happen?

But Ghostbusters didn’t entrance me, not like Scott’s sophomore effort did. I was still 10, remember? A fresh Lego kit held my attention more. I knew how to put those little, plastic bricks together to create a satisfying whole. The instruction manuals helped. Was there an instruction manual out there to instruct how a cool movie tickled my fancies?

Fast forward…

I don’t believe in “auteur theory,” where the director of a movie is claimed to be the “author” of the film. If that were the case there’d be no closing credits. Even the average movie-goer is sharp enough to know the director may get the biggest slice, but there are also other folks billed as actors, writers, producers, caterers, etc that made a major contribution to the final product that you eventually get to hem and haw and keep the light on all night for. In a fair and just cinematic world (with an often exception to Tarantino, Kubrick and Hitchcock), a film’s opening credits would read directed by/written by/produced by in the same frame.


Whoever, right? Didn’t know the why before Alien. After watching it was like tossing those old ELO albums out the window after hearing the first Ramones album. A punch to the gut. Who was behind this awesome/scary/dad arm-clinging movie?

Ridley Scott. The first director after Spielberg that demanded of a young me what a director/”auteur” did to place an indelible stamp on my freaked out, insomniac forehead, watching the lazy ceiling fan slowly swirling above a bare light bulb hoping beyond hope that its glare would keep any slobbering xenomorph from creeping out of the closet and ripping my ribs into jello. Hearing my mother’s scolding meant it worked.

Fast forward a year, maybe two. A buddy of mine who was keen to sci-fi as I was got hip to some cultish movie. Caught a snippet of it on HBO, a free weekend. Remember those? The snippet proper was a caution about the film containing graphic violence. I wasn’t hip to the phrase “graphic violence,” but it sounds devilishly good to me. My friend told me it was on heavy rotation on HBO then. I didn’t have premium cable at my house; his den was the golden gate, decades before parental controls.

At the right time, we nipped the scene where Priss—

“What are you two watching?!?”

We switched the proper Atari toggle.

In harmony, a la Bosom Buddies: “Nothing.”

Blade Runner. Also not healthy for 10-year old boys. Dangerous fun. A mind warp of a movie. Starred Han Solo, so there.

So that’s what it’s all about. A signature, a statement, a reason to deny sleep. Took me decades to decode that whole wad. I wasn’t some amateur film critic at 10; barely one at 40. But across the decades being drawn to certain movies, defying the Kobra Kai, I think I got it: there are no auteurs, just directors with a grip. Like on my dad’s arm.

Ridley Scott taught me about signature, an aesthetic. Us movie watchers are well aware if not forewarned by a certain director’s style, muse, statement, motive. Spielberg has his. So does Scorsese. As do Carpenter. So did Kurosawa, Ford, Hill, Ashby, Hitch, Kubrick. Including the guys on this plane: Weir, Lynch, Nolan, Argento, (sigh) and Bay. Style. Eventually you wait on baited breath for any of the above icons to unbridle their freshest horse. You know what arm to cling on.

But like with The Color Purple, The Last Temptation Of Christ, Dr Strangelove, The Quiet Man, Big Trouble In Little China, Rear Window, High And Low, The Last Detail….and Matchstick Men, a signature director sometimes needs a left turn to remind us that they are human. Directors are not infallible. Sometimes they take on projects that might be left of center, against their grain. Spielberg had his 1941. Carpenter has his Prince Of Darkness. Kurosawa had his Ikiru. And Scott had his Matchstick Men.

All passable movie entertainment, but also strain against the directors’ trademark style. It’s good to challenge yourself as a director, tackling a project that may or may not be their usual flavor. Often it’s a good thing. Spielberg directing The Color Purple, a Jewish director exploring racism and same sex romance. Nolan tackling a comic book icon like Batman and making a psycho-thriller rather than Donner’s Superman sparkle. And Scott helming a goofy crime caper, rather than his usual epic-style Blade Runner. Or even Gladiator.

After viewing Matchstick Men something told me that Scott got to grabbing at our arm. So come, take my hand. Just take off your shoes before you lay foot on the carpet…

Roy Waller (Cage) is a criminal. A con artist, scamming innocents out of their hard earned cash so to better his business acumen. He’s also a neurotic mess. OCD. Anxiety ridden. Maybe a guilty conscious at work? Whatever. There’s always a job to get done. And therein lies a new problem. Good Lord.

Roy’s partner in crime Frank (Rockwell) is tired of the small scams. Cheating old ladies out of their insurance money? Small potatoes. Frank wants a big mark, namely in the form of a high roller (McGill), a treacherous duck to be sure. But Roy is not so sure, especially since that letter dropped out of the mail slot onto his beloved carpet.

The anonymous letter claims that Roy has a child. A teenaged daughter named Angela (Lohman) who wishes to know him. Gulp. A spanner in his nefarious works.

Roy’s therapist (Altman) encourages him to reach out. He suggests it might be a healthy change, engaging with someone who won’t outright contribute to his anxious life of crime.

Roy reluctantly concedes. He meets Angela after school one day and puts on his best new dad face, tics and twitches in full force. He discovers she’s a pleasant, well-adjusted teenaged girl who always wanted to meet her estranged dad. Angela is disarming, and her connecting to Roy’s life of angst mellows him somewhat. Whew.

As way leads on to fatherly way, Roy ‘fesses up and informs Angela of his chosen profession. She’s intrigued. To his surprise, Angela wants in on the action. Roy’s unsure. Frank’s really unsure; Angela’s sticky fingers might muddy the waters, distracting Roy further from his big scam, as well as some forward motion.

No matter. The dice are cast. Roy opts for some responsibility. Angela takes to the con like a duck to water. Frank flails his hands in frustration.

Again, no matter. Roy’s carpet needed a shampoo anyway…

Like I mentioned, Ridley Scott’s style operates on an epic level. Even the simplest of his films (like this one) approach a grand scope. Unlike Alien (still epic, yet deceptively simple), Matchstick Men is a diversion. Here his big idea concept is intact, but married to an overtly simple story. And he keeps it that way, to his delight.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. Not necessarily.

Recall the “left turn” notion about how some directors with their signature often attempt to shed their audience? Men is one of those kind of films. Outright, what business does the director of AlienGladiator and Kingdom Of Heaven have fiddling around with some crime caper? Guess he felt like he needed a cinematic colonic. A directorial equivalent of Dylan’s Self Portrait album. Maybe he just liked the script. Or maybe wry comedy was something he felt like dabbling in. Or maybe for him just cut loose and have some fun.

And Men is fun. Funny, rather. Offbeat. Not the flavor in Columbus. Definite lo-fi aesthetic as far as Scott’s work goes. It’s a nice change, albeit incongruent with the guy’s signature oeuvre. It kinda shows. Again, not really a bad thing. But it sure plays out as odd.

Men is pretty light-hearted for Scott, relatively speaking. One, it’s a comedy. Don’t recall anytime him attempting this. Granted, it’s kind of a black comedy, and Scott is no stranger to being dark. But there’s an uncharacteristic sunny side to this offbeat caper (and “offbeat” is nearly verboten in Scott’s catalogue). And I’m gonna use the term “offbeat” a lot here. Fair warning.

That being said, Men is shot with the exactitude Scott always employs, like the cheap scalpel to the high school fetal pig autopsy. His high concept vision of cinema verité is intact. His characters are mismatched chess pieces. The story is straightforward enough—

*tires screeching to a halt*

Therein lies the trouble. It’s been relayed that Scott is a director of big concepts. Men is anything but. It’s straightforward, almost formulaic. Doesn’t really marry well with the director’s accepted raison d’etre. Simply put, Scott directing a flick like Men don’t make much sense. Still, he did a good job being in the shallow end of the pool.

I think most of the heavy lifting in this featherweight caper rests on the cast. They’re more of a distraction than an asset to moving the story along. And the story—as I noted—is quite simple and straightforward. We’ve seen crime capers like this before. Men swings evenly between Paper Moon and unevenly towards The Professional. But like with those movies, it’s the cast that somewhat strains in rising above The Treasure Of The Sierra Madre, the ur-crime caper. So then, let’s dismantle Men‘s rogues gallery, shall we?

First and foremost Cage’s bread and butter is weird roles. We ain’t talkin’ Raising Arizona or Wild At Heart weird here. His Roy however seems custom made to tickle his muse. Cage is also well-known for his deft physical comedy chops. How’s it look here painted with OCD? Right. Ugly funny. The hook here is Roy’s mania, not the con game that soaks the plot. Roy’s OCD is played as comic, but ultimately is sad and scary. He’s supposed to be the guy we get behind? It’s a key plot device overall, but beneath Scott and no less tragic. We ain’t talking Maximus tragic, but it’s enough to allow us sympathy for our twitchy protag. Roy’s OCD may be played as comic, but ultimately it’s sad and scary. Recall the hook. He’s supposed to be the guy we get behind? Good plot device done well, but beneath Scott’s skills. No less tragic, though.

Now being a sudden dad is a responsibility you can’t con. Trust me, I know. The con makes Roy approach stable, making up sh*t. It’s reality that’s his downfall. That being said, Lohman has an honest taste for her role as Angela (and for the life of me I can’t shake the hand of the casting director enough. How did they make a twentysomething successfully come off as a 16-year old high school skater chick? I credit strategic bandages and hair flairs). Funny without being cute or openly naive. If you pay close attention through Angela Roy isn’t really the “hero.” Lohman carries the second and third acts. Roy’s just eyewash. Very funny eyewash, but the con nonetheless. Makes for a jovial, R-rated Brady Bunch feel. That being said, neurotic Cage and loose cannon Lohman paired against each other have a genuine chemistry. Yep. Thank or blame Scott going out on his demented, xenomorph-less shingle.

Men is Elmore Leonard on Xanax. It’s kinda madcap. Another divergence for Scott, and he’s faring well here. The plot is bone simple. You might’ve seen this movie before. I know I have. Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid. The Fisher King. The original Rush Hour. Mutant buddy movies. Barring Rockwell as Cage’s confidant, Men is a warped buddy movie all the way. But that’s a conceit. Despite the odd mixture of character play, this was relatively straightforward. You can see where this is going a light-year away, with a few twists to keep your attention. I figure this movie floundered because it was too “not Scott” to attract the usual fans. That and the poor press. So much for Ridley stretching himself short.

A coda: it’s in the final act where Scott’s edge finally surfaces. It’s all the better for it, annulling the first two derivative acts of cat, mouse and vacuum. It’s also a shame that Men is merely a curiosity for both Scott and his audience. Again, unsure if Scott needed some diversion from his stock-in-trade epic style. Although uncomfortable, Men has its merits. It’s akin to Bob Dylan’s Street Legal album. Most musicians would kill for this best stuff. But it’s Scott here. Playing it safe? Not really. Entertaining some trifle? Sure, but such a thing is not where Scott should tread. Oh well.

Needless to say, Men didn’t keep me up all night, fan swirling in agony. Scratching my head? Somewhat. It was okay, but for lacking.

What I’m driving at is I opined for tasteful violence paired with chuckles. But this wasn’t a Tarantino flick. It was a Ridley Scott flick with a diluted epic feel.

Screw it. This was hardly epic. Or clever. Or beyond rote.

“Sometimes the cold makes the blade stick.”

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? A mild rent it, if only for another side of Scott you’ve never seen. I hope I never see it again. Twitch.

Stray Observations…

  • “One, two, three.”
  • Ever wonder how crazy people conduct their outwardly “normal” lives? You found this blog, didn’t you?
  • Rockwell is not an actor. He is a voice.
  • “That was a good day!”
  • I feel for poor Roy. I really do. I just didn’t want to be felt. Or burlap either.
  • Cage has been balding for, like, 20 years now.
  • “I’m in antiques.”
  • She turned the key three times.
  • The art of the dry swallow personified.
  • Altman is a passive deus ex machina. That’ll be $125 please.
  • “Your turn.”
  • Like the soundtrack. Very Rat Pack-esque.
  • It’s odd. Cage’s twitchiness never really becomes distracting. It’s like a character unto itself. Think Mr Hyde.
  • For all of his roles has Rockwell ever combed his hair?
  • “Pygmies.”
  • “You’re not a bad guy. You’re just not a very good one.” Ouch.
  • Lohman fake cries really well.
  • “You didn’t take yer pills, didja?”

Next Installment…

Giving sanction to an alien en route to a sci-fi convention? That’s like an ironic spin on robbing Peter to pay Paul.

RIORI Vol 3, Installment 79: John Carney’s “Once” (2007)

The Players…

Glen Hansard, Markéta Irglová, Bill Hodnett, Danuse Ktrestova and Geoff Minogue, with Gerry Hendrick, Alastair Foley and Hugh Welsh.

The Story…

It could’ve only been happenstance.

One day an Irish street musician meets a kind Czech ex-pat girl with an ear for music. She likes his songs, and a  conversation is struck regarding her wish to be a musician herself. To play piano.

Our busker knows a few people and offers his hand as well as his company. She’s delighted by this chance, not to mention him being able to fix her busted vacuum.

Certain opportunities only come around…well, you know.

 The Rant…

As a wordsmith, and maybe not unlike you everyday speakers of English, I have a short list of words I love to speak and hear. C’mon, you all must, too. Think about it. Sometimes you hear a word or a sentence that tickles you, be it a silly joke, a quote from a fave movie or just someone who knows how to turn a phrase. Be honest. George Carlin once said that everything we share but never talk about is funny. In that vein, conversation isn’t much different. This isn’t a thing we often share on an intimate level, but then again it’s kind of like divulging to a stranger the magic of chicken-fried steak.

That’s a phrase I like: chicken-fried steak. First heard of the dish back when I was a pup and got to reading the homespun philosophies of Robert Fulghum. You know, the All I Ever Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten guy. He was the commencement speaker at my college graduation and was very keen in turning a phrase. Maybe more on that later.

Let’s get back to the smithy.

Yeah, so. Favorite words. Betcha you got a few yourselves. My list is kinda short so I won’t bore you. Long. I hope. Mine are merely terms that invite amongst fond memories, ideal ways to express my wants and needs, or just plain fun to say. Such terms or phrases as “lunch,” “under the aegis of,” “ostensibly,” “flash,” “stands to reason,” “libation,” and many more. But I said I’d keep it short. Could go on for days, under the aegis of free expression that blogging permits. Heh.

Here’s another choice word o’mine: busker. Learned what that curious term meant back in my high school salad days (another choice phrase. I’ll quit it soon) when I discovered the Beatles. Not a bad way to get literate, right?. I learned that in England, a “busker” is a street musician, trying to earn their bones as a legit artist. If not in some contract than with earnest singing and playing to a happy crowd. A few coppers in the guitar case doesn’t hurt neither. Heard that’s how John and Paul met George, his teenage self jamming in the street for the occasional schillings flipped into his case. So I’ve heard. I later found out things worked out well for the quiet George.

From the Fab Four I learned about the ur-busker, Lonnie Donegan, the skiffle king. For those out of the know, before the Beatles tackled the UK to the mat, skiffle was the pop music of the times. It was kind of a manic amalgam of punky folk paired with a strident delivery hell bent on speed and maximum volume. Skiffle was almost exclusively acoustic guitar driven and performed—where else?—in the streets. Such an unruly racket would never set foot on the stage at your local Brit dance hall. Down on the corner however? Talk to Sir Paul and the spirit of Lennon. Skiffle is how it started. Passersby tend to be a curious crowd.

However, the first time I heard “skiffle” (of a sort) from a “busker” (of sorts) was in college, well after the Beatles and Fulghum with his chicken-fried whatsit. It’s been mentioned here before I paid for cigarettes and barcrawling by way of playing barista at the local coffee house, a very hip job in the mid-90’s. Hell, I just liked coffee. And smokes. And coffee and smokes and beer in varying levels. I was yet another regular gadfly at the joint alternating between studying, getting wired and getting wired with friends over our studies well onto midnight. My regular status led me to having a job there. Just me getting reimbursed for the gallons of coffee I had consumed over many semesters, which was all right.

The cafe had an almost stereotypical boheme atmosphere. Patrons could not only pound down shots of espresso by the dekaliter, but also pore over Sartre that invited the inevitable philosophical arguments about bad faith and/or de Beauviour was his girlfriend or his rival. Or roll their own cigarettes and suck them down faster that Ginger Lynn on your local high school basketball team. Or again just essentially cram homework, wired out of your mind and maybe end up sitting shoulder to shoulder with the prof of the designated class who was just as wired as you were, dropping hints about key points in their next lecture. All that actually happened. Good times with insomnia.

All this and more, like letting the misfit cast of characters that actually served this circus molest the tape deck (remember, 90s) with all sorts of personal tastes of incongruent music, somewhere approaching acceptable to the wacky clientele’s ears or invite some kind of sonic trepanning. My sophomore year I was welcomed into the fold as a java jockey, and naturally I brought a small clutch of mixtapes to spice up the life into the lateness of the hour like my rogue’s gallery did. Our musical wanderings were seldom an issue (save the time a few of our Middle Eastern residents chafed at the Cure’s “Killing An Arab” came over the speakers. In hindsight, understandable).

The lot of them were mostly too into their cups of joe and Being And Nothingness to care, unless something came over the house speakers that busted up their reverie. Though the Cure’s squeaky meditation on what Camus was getting at with l’Etranger my choice of noise was The Style Council’s Cafe Blue album. The title alone made it seem relevant to our little hidey-hole. Nope. I soon learned that here was a place to cut one’s teeth on experiencing new music reflected by an audience, reactions good and not. Wasn’t exactly busking. More like Jack Black’s histrionics in High Fidelity. No wonder folks could get twitchy at times. Refill?

We were a quiet rowdy lot, us latte slingers. Always jacking tapes in with bands that meant something unique to us (and us only), tweaking the volume to barely above annoying and engaged in an embryonic version of file-sharing. I figured I had questionable tastes, more jagged than eclectic (I was the usually that got told to turn it down. Often). At the time I was big into old school UK punk and a lot of 80s indie rockers (eg: The Replacements, Hüsker Dü, early REM, etc) and the guests knew I was on duty before they came inside thanks to the speaker on the patio. I can almost hear the groans and rolling of the eyes.

So yeah, the cafe was kind of a jukebox. Like when you frequent your local watering hole; you immediately knew who was on the job courtesy of the sound system. An old bartender of recent was a Led Zep freak, so when I had a hankering a cold draft and stepped over the threshold to hear “Going To California” slipping from the speakers I knew I could safely expect a frosty pint waiting at my usual seat. I was often correct.

As correct as it was back in that coffee bar. You knew what you were in for before you were even inside, us buskers by proxy. My law student buddy loved ska and funk, so either The Toasters or Thievery Corporation were on heavy rotation. The very feminist but never admitting to it played a lot of Ani DiFranco (no surprise there). Another guy preferred odd, Eno-esque soundscapes. Threw Style Council to the floor, I tell ya. You almost never knew what you were gonna get, but not really.

Then there was the one girl, Rachel. I think that was her name. Surly, well built, whip-smart and quick with an eye roll. She was diminutive, which would explain the patent leather stack boots she always wore. That gave her presence, which may have been the point. That might’ve also explained why she dragged in her tapes of random eclecticism to punish the customers. Her soundtrack definitely said, “I’m here.”

I dug her sh*t. It was often a revelation. Me being the restless audiophile I took in what I’d take in. Rachel and I would often share shifts, and her being as cuddly as a cobra I let her run riot with the stereo. Didn’t want to f*ck up her chi. My patience was how I got exposed to the then-darling emo band Texas Is The Reason, debated the contributions of trip-hop folkie Beth Orton to some of the Chemical Brothers’ albums, and get razzed by my retro tastes. I never thought the Police were that retro.

Oh, and Rachel turned me onto Billy Bragg, the last busker that made good. Especially him.

I wandered in one night with Rachel womaning the register with her usual oddball selections winding around the capstans, warbling over the nightly, dutiful students, what with their tiny, empty cups of espresso and the pulling of the hair. What was with the pulling? Rachel’s selection. A f*cked up Cockney voice that wobbled like mid-60s Dylan with a shrill righteousness accompanied only by a poorly tuned electric guitar. That was it and that was all. The song that grabbed me was called “A New England.” She was playing it at 11. I looked around and was intrigued. That broken, strident guitar sound pulled me in. The pained, earnest voice grabbed me. Who was this guy?

“Billy Bragg,” Rachel said plaintively. You dolt.

I didn’t really know what a busker was back then. Now it’s a favourite word.

Bragg either created or at least spearheaded the “anti-folk” sub-genre of protest music for the 80s. Based on the UK punk aesthetic translated to the socially ineffectual Thatcher administration, what with its indifference to the plight of the workaday sub-middle class, Bragg picked up his axe and assumed the role to Britain what Dylan did for America 20 years prior. Namely, using finger-pointin’ music to scream the emperor is naked and the empire crumbling. Hell to the yeah.

Rachel’s selection got my ears a-twitching. 20 years on, I have all of Bragg’s albums. Why? Not because of what the man was singing, yearning. That was what he was, earnest. Still earnest, singing loud and proud. What else is a busker? On the streets, screaming what needs to be sung. Rachel’s playlist made me an instant acolyte, so I hit the Web and did my research. Hence George’s history, underage at the time to hook up with the Quarrymen, but they waited. Further down the rabbit hole was Lonnie, rapping in the back alleys of London informing John and Paul where to get. Aeons later to me with Billy and his pointed tones of demanding social change. I was a Dylan fan all along, so it wasn’t much of a leap.

That choice word: busker. A street musician, earning his keep by the kindness of often indifferent strangers. A few coppers to passively shut him up only to let his music get louder, hoping beyond hope that someone will listen.

Sometimes someone does. I mean, I did…

On a nowhere street in Dublin a going nowhere busker (Hansard) plays out his passion on his beater guitar, screaming the popular favourites. That’s during the day (while he shirks his lame job). Later in the evening he drops the popular favorites and barrages the neighbourhood with some intense originals, big enough to heal the lame and the halt.

His sundown singing attracts the attention of a meek florist (Irglová). She likes his singing and playing, and has been listening for a while. He’s flattered, not to mention attracted to this random girl’s attention. Of course it’s not all knits and gnats. Turns out this girl has been suffering the nuisance of a busted vacuum cleaner. Good thing the busker’s day job is working in his dad’s (Hodnett) vacuum repair shop, as well as living in his attic. Suffering for art and all.

Their chance encounter informs our guy that she’s a pianist, amateur not unlike him. Another music enthusiast. With his meager “connections,” our man takes her to his favourite music store, where they get to duet together on the baby grand for her and his beater guitar for him. A friendship is struck and she encourages him to quit the streets and find a studio.

He’s reluctant. It’s one thing to be playing anonymous in a crowd. A single? That precludes recording songs for strangers. No immediate audience to inspire him. She says that’s all rot; he’s talented, and deserves an opportunity to widen his audience, get his music out there.

But that would entail him making the leap over to London, leaving his nest. It’s scary, but if he wants to follow his muse Dublin doesn’t seem the place to be.

Especially not its street corners…

Oh yeah. The chicken-fried steak thing.

Never heard of the dish before Fulghum (and have yet to find place that serves it. Not enough truck stops around where I’m from, I guess). He tells of his wanderings for the ultimate chicken-friend steak experience, bouncing from tiny burg to hidey hole in the Pacific Northwest in search of his quarry. The way the man told it, the dish consists of taking “a piece of stringy beef, pound hell out of it with a kitchen sledge, dip it in egg and flour, and drop it in a frying pan.” The rest is mystery, with something involving peas, mashed potatoes and serious gravy along the way. Sounded good to me, at least how he told it.

I heard wrong. My chicken-fried steak experience imploded in my own kitchen. Stringy was right, like chewing on an inflatable wading pool in your backyard. The flour didn’t help any and I don’t care for peas. For me as a chef, chicken-fried steak was akin to prepping fresh leftovers. It was rather a disappointment based against Fulghum’s epiphany. Sorry, Bob. Can’t believe all you read.

Still, I did take a shine to the dish’s simplicity. Nowadays, with Ramsey and Irvine smearing the overdramatic cooking show feces all over the map, coaxing gourmet from a can of baked beans and much theatrical profanity (not Irvine) is a pipe dream. Lousy beef is lousy beef. But the “simple pleasure” factor cannot be ignored. Not unlike watching Once. Twice rather.

I’ve endured the headache before of giving the week’s slab a second viewing. It was based among “not getting something,” “did I miss something?” or just plain falling asleep. I watched Once twice based on the second precept. The next time around was a chicken-friend steak matter. Once was such a simple (and quite appealing) movie I also viewed it twice under the impression of the first precept. Nope. Not much there, and that’s what made Once so enjoyable.

I recall back in ’07 this movie getting a lot of hype; critical praise of a certain urgency that implored folks to check it out. The box office returns said otherwise. The soundtrack sold well enough, but the ticket taker kinda limped. Granted Once was a more-or-less indie film, but so was Birdman and it won the Oscar. Did Once have limited release? Sure, but so did Birdman and you know. That’s along the lines of why RIORI visited Once.

Once was refreshing. It was so simple. Girl meets guy, both love music, girl encourages guy to pursue his dream and helps her realize hers. That’s it. Simple. Uncomplicated. Besides the prerequisite dramatic tensions (mild here), it was kinda hard to f*ck up the movie’s premise. Director Carney also wrote the script, and went on record saying that Once was basically an extended music video. Easy to see. Once—pardon the pun—played out like an album, punctuated by tracks and illuminated by scenes alluding to music (eg: burnt CDs, our girl longing for a piano, our guy’s collage of concert posters on his bedroom walls, etc). It’s an unconventional musical. It is like a very long and involved music video, down to the piercing camera work and lighting. As far as an execution of dramatic music vid goes the spirit of Jacko would’ve been proud. He-hee.

So yeah, simple. Let me tell ya, after alternating between watching gee-whiz-bucky-gizmo action numbers, questionable comedies and staggering dramas here at RIORI, watching a simple film like Once was a cinematic colonic. I watched it twice not just because I liked it (and I did), but quizzically, as if I missed something. Again, I didn’t. Once was clean, clear and pleasant. Like the ideal cup of coffee. A rare pleasure.

Once gives the outward impression of a romantic comedy a-brewin’, huh? It quickly flicks the plectrum and says no. Sure, it’s a girl-meets-guy premise but it deftly diverts that conceit. Glen and Markéta (and I’m gonna use their real names from now on. Despite their characters have no names barring “guy” and “girl,” saying so gets confusing since there are multiple guys and girls in this movie) play a muted version of footsie, but the idea of romance between them are dashed in the first act. Once is ultimately a buddy movie, not unlike Driving Miss Daisy: two lonely folks meet each other, find common ground and bond. That’s all. Simple.

Once is sweet, but not cloying. It’s derivative, but saved by some uncanny acting as well as its flow, the cruel mistress pacing. It invites all the contrivances of a rom-com and dodges all of them. It’s a music video, right? So the jamming is the sweet spot. The movie is all about how a love of music can both define us as well as well as free us. Glen’s dumpy job may pay for fresh guitar strings, but that’s all it’s about. The film illustrates the aforementioned Billy Bragg experience: exposure to a life, and also akin to grumpy Rachel’s lesson, Once is all about revelation. Slow blooming and awareness of personal expression. Simple, but heavy. I mean, you remember that moment when a song moved you? Right. The Once.

There’s a lot of keen, thoughtful camera work here, also not unlike a music video. It’s all about angles to trap your attention. Admittedly, the movie is low key, but when it’s time to jam the film snaps to life, demanding your attention. It’s a creeping thing, subtle. The movie is framed by the songs, and running the risk of sounding too hoity-toity, not unlike Shakespearean soliloquies. Our characters respond and introduce the musical numbers with a lot of existential chatter about family and future/past potential prospects. It’s as if to codify this conceit the single takes and tracking shots only occur when any singing/playing is involved, like when Markéta accepts Glen’s gift of a beater Discman and burnt CDs of his originals. It’s a long walk home (cut), but she doesn’t seem to mind the cold. Think we’ve all been there once. Let’s hope so.

I betrayed my own sensibilities by watching Once more than, well, once. You really do have to “watch” this movie. That might’ve led to its undoing. I recall back in ’07 a lot of that hype surrounding Once. John Carney coming into his own as a director. Glen as the leader of the beloved Irish folk-rock band the Frames making his big screen debut. I even promoted the film when I was an on-air radio programmer, as well as seeing the TV spots about this delightful movie that should demand your attention. All of which demands examination of our fresh-faced primaries acting. C’mon, I said Once is at its core a buddy movie. Admittedly (and this might be my only solid gripe here) Once‘s plot is still derivative. You can see where it’s going an AU away. Of course it ends well. Or course Glen and Markéta connect. Of course Glen pursues his dream. All of that is saved by some uncanny acting, as well as flow, that anti-muse pacing. Yeah, her again. And always.

It’s a saving grace that our novice thespians hold together so well. Truth be told, neither of the leads are serious actors. Or real actors, for that matter. Glen’s a musician, no film cred. Marketa’s CV consists of three films (including this one), and listed as only “participant,” whatever that means (a few dollars above an “extra” perhaps?). Regardless of their acting experience, the two work very well with awkward chemistry. Their “all thumbs” approach makes the trite premise endearing. As the instance Glen is a shy, dorky guy, but only when not singing and punishing his guitar. Marketa seems meek, offering an impression that a language barrier equals some naiveté. She’s a lot sharper than Glen in life, love and leaving that she leads on. So wrong-o on both counts.

Carney’s script (did I mention he wrote the thing?) allows our leads to just be themselves. Carney was the compass, clunky Glen and Marketa were true north. And it worked. Music enthusiasts them, and of all stripes, know what a good tune can do to smooth out the edges. Consider your fave bar discussion with a stranger: Who’s better? Beatles vs Stones? You’re both right. Good music is good music. Now go and molest the jukebox. Or if you have the time head over to your local music shop and f*ck around. We could all do worse with such drunken fun. Glen and Marketa are us at a bar, talking tunes and eventually decimating our TouchTunes accounts. Like I said, we could do far worse.

Even though I”ve been describing Once as homespun, it did have its cinematic moments of revelation. There is a thin thread of tension—friendly tension—running throughout the movie. Anticipation, rather. Again, Once is not a rom-com; any concept of that—need I remind you—is tossed into the curb by the end of the first act. It’s really all about will Glen become a successful songwriter with a contract, and will Marketa get her very own piano that she had to abandon in her family’s flight from the Czech Republic? That’s what matters here. Those are the stakes. We don’t care if they shack up, nor should we. For me I sat squirming throughout the final act, and my bladder was empty. I checked. I saw canny casting, careful tension and smooth pacing. All from some relative journeyman (and woman) came a fumbling, simply enjoyable flick. We cinephiles all desperately need that time and again.

Alas, in the endgame, nothing worked. Once crashed and burned at the multiplex. As I said, the soundtrack did well enough, but Once was no Birdman. Probably for the better. Once‘s type of earnestness is often lost on Americans’ barely there attention span. I’m guilty of that too, again hence to double watching. Sometimes what you see is supposed to be what you get. No need to jam that cold pizza slice into the microwave. Just chew.

This installment ain’t trying to be some crusade. Take it or leave it is the spiritual guide here at RIORI. That’s kind of a truism. Sometimes, however, there is a bleed. When a quality flick rolls around that flips the bird at The Standard I gotta say something. So what I’m saying is thus: you want a cinema detox? Watch Once. It quietly defies your sensibilities. It’s not a rom-com. It’s not a drama. It ain’t really that funny. It’s a buddy movie, with a cool soundtrack. It’s a series of vignettes broadcasted as an old skool MTV block of pop hits. It defies categorization. It is delightfully troubling chicken-fried steak busking. I’m talking serious gravy overflow.

It’s all cool.

The Verdict..

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. Need a break from it all? Once is the movie for you. For all of us really. Michael Bay can wait. And wait. And wait some more. We’ll still have tiiiiimeee.

Stray Observations…

  • “I bring my Hoover!” That thing a pet or something? If that’s it we should name it “Maguffin.”
  • Holy sh*t. I was once in that music store. No, really, on a trip to Dublin. Lots and lots of guitars.
  • “I’ll pay ya back.”
  • Like the slippers.
  • “That’s the first thing I got sorted out.”
  • And the lesson scene, in that store? All those electric guitars hanging on the wall, and the pair defiantly acoustic. Hmm.
  • “Now play it again.”
  • Okay. So the song didn’t flounder.
  • “Cool, cool…”

Next Installment…

We got a picture about some Matchstick Men scheming against the status quo.

I regret nothing.

RIORI Vol 3, Installment 72: Steven Spielberg’s “The Terminal” (2004)

The Players…

Tom Hanks, Stanley Tucci and Catherine Zeta-Jones, with (quite the supporting cast of) Barry Henley, Eddie Jones, Diego Luna, Chi McBride, Michael Nouri, Kumar Pallana and Zoe Saldana.

The Story…

All Viktor wanted to do was get home. But some stupid coup d’etat explodes in his homeland, and he’s stranded at Kennedy Airport, carrying a passport nobody recognizes.

What to do, what to do now? That answer is pretty basic. Since Viktor has no recourse, quarantined to the transit lounge, he simply goes on living. By his lonesome. Such as it has become.

But Viktor doesn’t have to go it alone. This is JFK International Airport, after all. Someone is bound to lend a hand.

Hands, rather.

The Rant…

Hey. Welcome back.

So you check out Munich yet? For those who did, bravo! For those who didn’t you’re most likely a newb here. Welcome anyway.

Today is a carryover from the last installment, my scrutiny of Steven Spielberg’s polarizing historical fiction Munich about how the Mossad waxed the “terrorists” who waxed the Israeli track team in the 1972 Summer Olympics in the titular city. This is the second part of a two-part study of the esteemed Steven Speilberg’s hiccups in the 21st Century. The first half, my intrepid examination of his Munich bore some fruit. After watching it (and thereby disturbed by it) illustrated the man has not strayed very far from his craft and/or muse.

As with a few earlier installments here, seeing the subject matter of this brief study we’re gonna divvy up some rations. I shall employ one intro pertinent to the matter at hand (Spielberg being the crop of the cream) and a second snarky, bilious intro based on my fevered, judgmental, feverish judgments. Thank you and you’re welcome.

First Intro…

The man’s an easy target.

In the pantheon of esteemed movie directors, Spielberg has earned his bones and has rightfully scrabbled to the top of the heap. In the grand scheme of cinematic things, such is no small feat. After all, “movies” took hold in France (depending on who you’d ask), and from the Francos theatre on the big screen usurped the eventual snobbery dividing the theatre goers against the cinemaphiles. Like all rivalries, you can’t have one without the other. There could be no Coke without Pepsi.

Spielberg’s cinematic dichotomy has been written into clay ever since his Jaws coined the phrase “summer blockbuster.” His CV wanders between fantastical and harrowing. Precious few of his outings cast an audience over the spell of “sentimental,” but that’s there. Sometimes it borders on treacle, but that Brit molasses is sweet and heady, therefore tough to resist. C’mon, you have to be made of stone not to at least sniffle when you see ET REDACTED by a helpless Elliot. But sometimes sentimentality can grow out of hand, curdle and become maudlin. Sorry Steve, but with Always your slip was showing. Same with Hook. Hell, especially with AI (Kubrick should’ve stayed the course, I tell ya).

So there are a few, minor bloops on the man’s resume that might tarnish his rep for when his heart was hiked up too far on both sleeves. Or until BFG 2 gets dropped. Whatever comes first. The matter there is that once you reach the top of the heap is finding a way to stay there, all the while keeping both your rep and cachet intact. Well that’s not possible. Even the most revered directors drop a turd in the punchbowl once in a while, blinded by the power and glory of their vision. It’s necessary though. It’s the Coke vs Pepsi paradigm: you can’t measure the good without having the bad rear its pus-filled head once in a while. Hence Pepsi Crystal.

The great many of Spielberg’s movies are like pizza: when it’s good, it’s good and when it’s not you still have some pizza. Like Lou Reed said, “My week beats your year.” In the final analysis, the man’s work speaks for itself, and in turn speaks to a lot of audiences. That can’t be denied. But sometimes—sometimes—the man overplays his hand as well as keep them cards too close. When it comes to establishing a personal, emotional grip on the audiences’ attention you can’t have it both ways; you can’t mix artsy-fartsy with Kleenex. Get too squishy that way and off the top of the heap you may slither.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’ve got a soft spot an AU wide for sentimental, treacly films. Gotta have those guilty pleasures, right? Forrest Gump, On Golden Pond, One Crazy Summer and so on. I’m not made of stone, either. But I can be pushed towards petrifaction. The envelope can only go so far. On more than one occasion (as I listed earlier), the man’s tried my emotional patience. Sometime for the good, though, but mostly it’s been lemon juice-dipped fingernails on a chalkboard hewn from pumice.

In other words: Steve, know when to rein it in.

Sometimes it’s good, if not fun to let a talented director to run riot with their treacly id. Once in a while. The other times when that goes down, said director better have a damned interesting script to back up their Hallmark moments.

That being said, The Terminal holds up better than Always. And far better than Jurassic Park: The Lost World.

That was a joke, you dolts. Show some emotion already…

Second Intro…

Air travel sucks.

I recently read a story in the New York Times op-ed section from a seasoned and presently retired commercial airline pilot. He spoke as to  debunk the myths surrounding the so-called luxury of the Jet Age. The man flew planes from the late 60s into the late 90s, and according to his experiences in the air and out, trade-offs were few, far between and interchangeable when it came to the “comfort” of flying the friendly skies. His argument was akin to Pete Townshend’s proclamation of, “meet the new boss, same as the old boss.” For the record, the FAA was the boss all along.

The pilot compared traveling business class today with its sardine-like seating and the dinky, ever fluttering screen embedded in the headrest in front of you with yesterday’s roll down trundle beds (that took up three rows of seats and cost as much) and panopticon movie screen scrolled down for one feature for the duration of the three day flight as not very far removed. At least these days passengers aren’t choked into lung cancer via open smoking recycled through the already recycled air. That and non-Whites are now permitted into First Class. With those roll-down beds and blowjobs. Kidding. There are no roll-down beds in First Class, just non-allergenic blankets. So I’ve heard. Now turn your head and spit.

Tee hee.

Anyway. According to the article, the only thing that has never changed in air travel is the being on the ground part. The waiting. In the airport. Being poked and prodded and x-rayed and having your gums inspected and it costs how much to weigh my bags? Now get in this line to get into that line.

Admit it. Sometimes when you have a layover it feels like it lasts longer that your actual flight, if it would ever land on time. You’re stranded in the terminal, what with all its food courts, book stores, communal charging stations and a billion foreign tongues chattering with urgency. It can be surreal. It’s like another planet. It’s disorienting. The only thing that can keep you metaphorically grounded is your aging flight pass and happy hour at the nearest watering hole. It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?

Yeah, at your destination. Five days away. I don’t know about you…wait, that’s not right. I do know you. We’ve all been stuck with a layover if we travel by air. Sometimes it’s a few hours, sometimes it’s many, many, many hours. We’re talking sprawl out on the nearest empty row of chairs hours. You’re in fishbowl. It’s a given that it’s no fun to wait around for a flight, a matter completely out of your control, at the mercy of the aviation gods. It’s a test of patience. So chill. Ride along. Make the best of it. Watch the people scattering hither and yon, for you may be scattering some day also. Pulsing humanity. Big airports are a microcosm of the human condition in action. Seeking sanction and/or seeking escape.

Yeah, yeah. That truck sounds so heady. But (surprise) I got a tale to tell about the oddness of said human condition that happened to me in an airport. Seems relevant. That and it happened in Utah, so that carries some weight.

It was August, and I headed out the summer after graduating college to visit my then girlfriend who took a job as a park ranger in the Black Canyon in Colorado. Never been to the Rocky Mountain range, and was curious as to how she conducted business. She promised the elegance of Colorado’s high desert country, as well as an easy descent into said canyon beckoning one of those Ansel Adams-esque streams flowing at the bottom. Crystal clear water and a keen view of the rising Coloradan cliffs. Sounded good to me.

I departed Philadelphia International for a five hour flight to the Centennial State. The cross country flight was unremarkable. The three hour layover in Utah was something else. Believe it or not, whenever I had flown in the past I was mercifully spared super-long layovers. Maybe an hour at most. Even my high school jaunt to Ireland only trapped me in Heathrow for a bit over sixty minutes. Call me lucky.

Stuck outside Salt Lake City was a different story. Three hours. That’s the first set of a Dead show there. It was the late 90s. Mobile phones just made calls. No Wi-Fi. Michael Crichton still a hot topic at the local newsstand. Boredom set in quick, as well as getting all fidgety for lack of a traveling companion. That and queuing up in the proto-TSA security line made me edgy. Hope the crack team with the wands wouldn’t find that stash of hash crammed in my ears.

Kidding (I wish). I trudged my way along the line to get prodded in the name of safety, chatting up this young woman who was just as bored as I. Never caught her name, but we BS’d as we waited. We came through scott free—ears intact—and decided to kill some of a lot of time at one of the many bars. She recently finished school and welcomed me for a few. Over cocktails we talked about our destinations and where we were from. It was a real “single serving friend” moment, to quote Tyler Durden. She was en route to Colorado also, to start a new life. Something about recovery and living with her sister who had recently given birth to her first kid. Single mom, offered an opportunity for my single serving to get her head together. No judgments from me; I was intrigued.

I spewed my bile and she suffered me pretty well, probably since I offered to pick up the tab. We took in the scenery, the masses moving to and fro. I pulled my recent degree in English and Philosophy out of my ass and got all existential on her, remarking on the surrounding, pulsing humanity. She dug and told me more about her microcosm of addiction and hanging with “the wrong crowd.” She showed me a fresh tat on her arm, something tribal. She called it a milestone, a change in her life and what it might lead to. Sorta like true north. The whole chit-chat seemed to be all about where we were going, reflection—satori—in the busy shadows of hundreds chasing their flights.

We killed enough time for her to finish her layover. I ran with her to her respective gate and bid her good luck. “See ya around” and such. She embarked and that was that. Another nugget of humanity that could only get sifted through one of America’s many airport terminal screenings. Funny how a chance encounter with a stranger makes for some well-killed time in a building full of strangers hell-bent for stranger tides. I waited out my final hour of laying over thumbing through a journal or something, lamenting the batteries in my Discman were dead. Late 90s, remember?

Coda: almost a week into my vay-cay with the park ranger girlfriend, we had to venture out to the Costco for groceries. I wanted to stock up on the necessities of my climb down the Black Canyon. Clif Bars, bottled water, oxygen tank (that would come later, actually and really). I got into my head to kill some time back at her cabin we needed to build some Lego sets. No cable, no Internet, no nothing. Why not? Those esteemed Danes launched their new Ninja sets that summer, and I had a hankering.

While rifling through the boxes, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I figured it belonged to my girl, ready to scold me for considering such a frivolous purchase. I was wrong. It was my single serving friend, smiling, pushing a stroller with a sleeping infant. I was so surprised to see her again I could only grin and say, “Hi!” F*cking backwoods Colorado, a lifetime away from Salt Lake, her new neice snoozing in the stroller. The damned Costco of all places. She smiled back, waved and made her way down the aisle. That was all.

Funny what connections can be made on the road. The passing parade sometimes lends you a chance to jump onto a float. And float is an apt term. Stuck in the melee of travel, you get get alone amongst hundreds of strangers. Not surpring how the desperate lonely there seek out some kind of connection, over drinks or no. Now that I scratch at that memory, I remind myself that my friend had only recently graduated high school. Nineteen years old. Far too young to drink in an airport bar. But I was paying, and vouched for her and the bartender left us alone. Figured she’s seen this setup before.

Funny what sticks, and what didn’t. All I knew about then is that I had a hangover for the record, and met another stranger who helped me out of boredom. With long distance travel, sometimes that’s all you need to make the wait not seem like waiting.

More about the ride back later. The apocryphal trip home…

Viktor Navorski (Hanks) is a man without a country. Literally.

During his stay in NYC political upheaval has torn his homeland asunder. To put it plainly his country of Krakozhia doesn’t exist anymore. Viktor’s citizenship—his very nationality—has been revoked. He can’t go back home, because technically it ain’t there no more. So now he’s stuck JFK airport’s international arrivals terminal for the long haul. A very long haul, until some loophole in customs come to light.

This isn’t that uncommon in the historical annals of international air travel. Sometimes travelers can’t get to their desired destination for myriad reasons. Political matters, yes, but at least there’s a place to go to. Normally Viktor’s plight would be handled with a minimum of fuss, drenched in paperwork, red tape and waiting on a phone call returned from the Krakozhian embassy.

Normally. There is a spanner in the works at JFK regarding Viktor’s exit: customs director Frank Dixon (Tucci) and his impending promotion. See, our castaway is a prime example—albeit of a unique circumstance—of what Customs tries to avoid. Prevent would be a better word. Displaced peoples. Dixon has been zealous in his duties, his reputation impeccable. His responsibilities keeping JFK ship-shape have never floundered, so Dixon’s on the deserved up-and-up.

Now Frank has Viktor. Quite the possible blemish on his sterling record. This will not stand, so to unload his misguided frustrations and ire, Frank makes Viktor’s non-life a bureaucratic hell. Sign this, sign that. Don’t do this and don’t do that. How dare does this backwater Eastern Bloc yahoo screw with his smooth-running airport?

Due to international law and basic protocol, Dixon can’t just toss the waylaid Viktor out onto the street, nor can he send him back “home” either. The guy’s stuck there in the IAB, forced to etch a new life as a refugee with no cash, no English, with just his luggage and the clothes on his back.

Oh, and his can of peanuts. Can’t forget the peanuts…

I had to watch The Terminal in two sessions. It was over two hours long, I got tired and had to get to work the next day at an ungodly early hour. That and my attention started to waver by the start of the second act. When I start watching the timer, such does not bode well for a positive critique of the weekly mangling.

My attention started to fail when I began to silently ask the movie, “Where are we going with this?” (perhaps also to the two or nine beers I had consumed). To put it quick, Terminal had got to be one of the most winding road trip movie I ever saw. And seeing our protag never gets to go anywhere outside the airport also made for a weird viewing experience. Don’t misunderstand that. The Terminal is about going places, but it’s all inward, revolving about our waylaid hero Viktor. The atmosphere is alluding to the guy finishing his journey, by hook, crook or redeemed passport book, but the whole process is akin to that Rush lyric (quit moaning): “The point of a journey is not to arrive.” Whatever that means.

But think about it. Another cliche: getting there is half the fun. Precious few films I’ve just given up on here at RIORI. Most because they were boring, insipid, poorly written or a melange of alla dat. I lose patience. The whole timer watching thing. Darted my eyes up and down between the film and the Blu-Ray readout. Like I said: does not bode well for this duck.

Then I remembered Terminal was a Spielberg flick, and the man often takes his time setting up the story. Beat as I was, I wasn’t so thick to give up so soon. The first act of Terminal was not boring, insipid, or poorly written. But it was rambling. Couldn’t figure where Viktor’s odyssey was headed. Barring the hook/Maguffin of the peanut can, The Terminal felt like rote Spielberg. Still I maintained enough curiosity to keep going. Even if it took two nights. Three, actually. I said I was late and it was tired.

Halfway through my viewing I remembered a short interview with Spielberg courtesy of AMC. It wasn’t a kitchen table thing, just a short-lived gimmick the network employed to promote new movie remakes (in theatrical or soon-to-be theatrical release) against the originals in their library. The example: dateline 2005. Steve was going to unleash his version of HG Wells’ War Of The Worlds that summer, so AMC did their due diligence in broadcasting Byron Haskins’ original 1953 outing about malevolent Martians laying waste to humanity one Saturday evening. Remastered!

I really dug the original, and sorry, forget director Haskins’ vision. This War was special effects guru George Pal’s baby all the way that time out (I believed after eventually watching Spielberg’s version, he paid more homage to Pal’s vision rather than Byron-what’s-his-tits). I learned later that Pal’s take was a thinly veiled allegory about Communist invasion—both mindset and body—seeping into post-war America, what with all it amazing consumer and technological advancements (read: modern conveniences. Who would’ve though self-cleaning ovens could shake the Iron Curtain so?). When I was 12, I just dug the tension, desperation and very cool, ahead of its time F/X. Did I mention that?

During those fateful weekend viewings, Steve shilled his new project between commercials. Naturally he laid much praise on Pal’s movie. More on the F/X, natch. He also shared his muse that drove his version. Perhaps also inspired by the second into third act storyline of the original film, Steve brought up the notion of the “refugee experience.” This left-field musing caught my attention (right before the sponsor Scope tore me out of my reverie). From an alien invasion film? Really?

Then I finally caught Spielberg’s version. Despite the violence, ear-crushing Dolby digital and an out-of-place Tom Cruise, I grokked to where the man was going. Great swathes of Spielberg’s film involved desperate humans bolting for survival, their country in upheaval, fleeing for shelter and REDACTED a crazed Tim Robbins. Folks driven for normalcy via wit, grit and both. Steve’s War in that light was a culmination of sorts regarding literal refugee stories like Empire Of The Sun and The Sugarland Express, if not Jaws and Close Encounters in a metaphorical sense.

The Terminal is a very literal refugee experience. But from the inside out. Within Spielberg’s healthy id and his sentimental superego. Viktor is the uber innocent abroad, but like Rush alluded it’s not Viktor’s destination that really matters, It’s how he manages to survive, a la Empire. On the run the whole time. Not from invading aliens. From time. And a dogged government official. Gotta respect the FAA.

Hanks’ Viktor is indeed a refugee. So when plunked into an environment not of his own making, what to do? Right. Create a suitable (new) life, if only to establish a new normal and keep sane. Once I woke up and carried on after the second act and into the third, my befuddlement leaned into empathy for our hapless hero. It’s made clear at the outset that Viktor is no rube. Sure, there’s a language barrier. But that’s it. I don’t know about you (and the following might be on the cusp of racist), but where I work a great portion of my co-workers serve English as a second language. Half of the time Spanish, Farsi and Arabic spoken there. I only know enough Spanish to know when someone is talking about me (“Se hombre tiene schnozzola grande“), and I’ve never had a three day layover in Riyadh, so there.

That irks me. Not the non-layover. But feeling dumb that I have this lingual deficiency. Constantly being reminded of my insular American-ness makes me feel like, well an American and a casual Trump disciple. So I’ve been accused. In Farsi. Our Viktor isn’t dumb, regardless of how Americans regard non-Americans who don’t savvy the language.

That being said, I harken back to a recent installment (#70, Garry Marshall’s Georgia Rule) where I offered to critic of that film a favor. I owe AllMovie critic Terry Seibert a dinner, too. This time with a glass of wine. Like I said, I was a tad befuddled by where the hell Spielberg was taking me with The Terminal. Seibert sent me on the course. That aforementioned curious tableau The Terminal offered with a two-plus day viewing demanded me to check out AllMovie’s take. Like I said I’m a “believe it when I see it (literally)” kind of guy, but once in a while I get all confuzed and need some insight. Seibert’s take set me straight.

Better put, Seibert gave me some perspective. Tom Hanks is a good, reliable actor. A 21st Century Jimmy Stewart. But Hanks CV has been rather spotty overall compared to his legacy contemporary. Sure, Hanks eventually hit a stride in the early-90s, but only after bumbling through his salt mine 80s. Can’t really think of many good Hanks flicks between being Kip for two measly seasons of Bosom Buddies and the doggie slobber that was Turner And Hooch. Not to say there weren’t some bright spots peeking from behind clouds of pratfalls and goony histrionics. There was Big, of course. A breakthrough. But also minor goodies like Punch LineSplash and to a lesser degree Nothing In Common, his first stab at drama. Why cite these and not the chewy goodness of Dragnet and The Man With One Red Shoe (better not to ask)? Listed above suggested the key to Hanks’ appeal that Seibert plainly said about the actor’s motivation in The Terminal.

Hanks is a good listener. Or rather, his characters on screen are good listeners. When they carefully take in the world around them—or dumped into, like Viktor—they take the necessary time to figure out what’s going on and what to do with it, as well as thoughtfully interact with the other characters. That’s when the Viktor’s of Hanks’ oeuvre take flight. Even when screaming at a volleyball.

Along with Big, Forrest Gump (a no-brainer, so to speak) and even Saving Private RyanThe Terminal gets its proverbial mileage from Hanks observing his environment and weighing the options offered up by people he meets along the way. The aforementioned films have ensemble casts, as does Terminal. The only difference is that our protagonist is not part of the ensemble. Not really.

Here’s how that works. Our setting—the titular terminal—is the real protagonist of the movie. Viktor’s just its avatar. JFK International a federal law teems. May not be Salt Lake City (but then again, where is?), but I’ll bet you a silk pajama that at least a million travelers tear through that airport each week in a running at full clip OJ Simpson fashion. In a good way (I think). And despite Viktor’s claustrophobic cultural exile, we sure can see a lot of space. Said space allows Viktor to “explore America,” get some bearings and permits our Cold War Gump to take us on the trip also. The terminal—a world unto itself—lets us be Hanks’ Link to JFK’s Hyrule.

You’re welcome, Switch users and abusers.

What I’m driving at there (“It’s dangerous to travel alone! Take this” Ha ha and sorry) is how the many lives fold into Viktor’s adventure. What I’m getting at here is the supporting cast. At heart, Terminal is a character study. Sure, Viktor is our avatar against the backdrop of the omnipresent terminal, but how he wends his way towards whatever depends almost solely on (as Blanche’s been over-quoted) “the kindness of strangers.” We have a lot of cool strangers indeed to rely on here. Barring Viktor, but not snubbing the principals, the motley, reluctant crew at his sides really makes Hanks shine. He’s a listener, right? At first glance, Hanks’ language barrier looks like only be used for derivative comic effect. It’s only later that we learn it’s his only defense against being regarded as some patsy or rube. Viktor ain’t dumb. He’s perceptive. Also earnest. To the people around him and later rally around him. Or don’t.

That’s good there. Let’s start with Viktor’s nemesis, Frank. Tucci is always great at being smarmy. It’s his signature, and it works wonders here as the antagonist. Frank’s not a bad guy, just a tad overzealous in his job. We know folks like that, worked for folks like that. Are folks like that. Tucci’s Dixon is a prime example of the old saw: characters don’t have to be likable. Maybe not even relatable (likable’s red-headed stepchild). No. They have to be interesting. What’s Frank’s damage? Beyond the demands of his (potential) new post? Felt kind of a Napoleon complex here, and not just cuz Hanks is 6′ and Tucci is a subaverage 5’7″ (really. Those stats are correct. I Googled it, and I’m a lame-o. That stat is also correct). Dixon’s the classic case of someone who has something to prove to himself by proving it to everyone. A real heavyweight. Against the patient, curious, resourceful and without a network Viktor, his ire and contemptuousness makes for a delicious brew of conflict. Sure, Tucci comes over as a bit over the top in his pursuit, but it feels…well, like natural acting. He’s slimy (for a good example, watch Big Night or The Core, covered here earlier). His slow burn works especially well as Dixon’s underlings begin to regard clever Viktor with more respect than their boss. Like I said, Dixon’s not a bad guy. He’s just a bad listener.

The supporting cast was awesome, and I’m not just talking the actors. Like the terminal, the folks on the fringes add to the world as human fishbowl microcosm (did that make sense?). As Viktor attempts a new life in exile, he bumps into a lot of other displaced persons along the way. Viktor may be alone in a crowd, but that makes him the ideal pinion for the often invisible people that make an airport run, run. Thanks to “local hero” Viktor we get to meet the “real New York.”

I must admit, I really loved the supporting players here. All touchstones of Viktor’s muddled psyche, and all trying to point the way, if only in a low-rent, surreal kinda fashion. Each minor player had their own fleshed-out story. Most ancillary players in an ensemble film are usually just chess pieces shoved around to keep the narrative dutifully chugging onwards. Not here. Chi McBride, of whom I am quite the fan (ever since his turn as cigar-chewing, philosopher king janitor Heavy Gene on The John Larroquette Show back in the ancient 90s) was a delight. Channeling Gene here, his baggage tosser Joe is brash, yet still savvy to the needs of the anonymous millions he disservices (and quite cagey in scoping out their valuable errata). The guy knows stuff and has no misgivings about waxing poetic about the basic needs of people. His whole schtick reminds me fondly of that Robert Fulghum essay about chicken-fried steak (visit your local library). Joe is the guru Viktor needs to get his sh*t together, while all the while gathering more “sh*t.” Namely, finding your place in the midst of life, wherever that place may be. Now play cards.

Diego Luna was not an actor I was immediately familiar with, but (as they say, whoever they are. They is usually me, and I don’t know anybody) he “has that face.” Right; I saw him in Elysium, also covered here (vol 3, installment 1) and did some voice work for the well-received Book Of Life. He also did this little thing later called Rogue One: A Star Wars Story. So that. Guy’s been around. Here? He’s the hapless romantic figure. An oft dodgy prospect in most roles of such ilk. But I giggled a lot here thanks to his performance. That’s right: giggled, and not in a down-the-nose kinda way. Luna’s Enrique was a sweet, hapless romantic, a la Roberto Begnini and starring towards piece of Viktor’s fractured presence.

Did I mention that thing? That I found the supporting cast as representing aspects of Viktor’s psyche? Like a Greek chorus? The terminal being the grey matter dictating Viktor’s adventure, the minor players serves insight into our hero’s fractured voyage. If Chi was the sage—a wiseass sage to be sure—then Luna was the romantic, soft for stalwart Saldana and using Viktor’s supposed innocence as an ideal Cyrano. Must’ve sparked something in Viktor’s imagination, as well as his unwanted isolation to attempt to get all close to Amelia.

Ah. Sorry to be so abrupt (no I ain’t. This yer first time here?). Here we take the pipe. Jones’ Amelia is too fluffy and not fleshed out, perhaps on purpose. If that’s the case, then boo, Steve. Right on, she’s nice on the eyes, yes, but as a valuable addition to the chorus? Not so much. She comes across as an afterthought; some sort of device—perhaps a MacGuffin—to bolster Viktor’s unwinding story. Don’t get me wrong. Jones’ is a decent actress, often sly and funny. Some claim she’s pretty. She’s neither here (not the pretty part. She looks like my wife when I want her to. Love you, Seej! Don’t change the locks!). I figure we gotta have some wart festering in a tale like this. A cast of tens needs at least one square peg, right? Uh, wait. Dixon filled that slot. Jones had only three distinct spots here, and almost all of it fluttery and spineless, like she knew her role was superfluous and either incapable or unneeded of rising to the likes of, say, Kumar Pallana’s Yoda-like Gupta.

He was a trick, meaning he fooled me. Y’ever come across a guy who’s a real pest? Well-meaning and sharp but lacking the social skills to know when to shut the f*ck up? I work with a guy like that. Maybe you do too. Story time! Yet again! Shut up!

The kitchen I sweat at has at least three utility guys on the clock all day long. Utility? Read: dishwashers. One of them is a loud, boorish, jabber box off the first water. He has Asperger’s Syndrome. For those not in the know, Asperger’s is a high-functional type of autism. Namely, those that make their way in the world by abiding to their personal rules that guide them through the day. Like most of us, which means we don’t call for V-E-R-N when Tom Cruise rifles through our library. Unlike most of us however, when something occasionally goes awry (as it sometimes does), we try to not get very pissy and only chill when homeostasis is re-established. When the flow is restored. No. All is well when the system is in place, on certain terms. Take that away and Hail Columbia. In the interim, you can’t talk to the guy. He’s a raging torrent of profanity who looks eager to take a swing at you. Sometimes he does. No matter. He’s pesky. He means well overall. And if he doesn’t shut his trap when all’s on the level again YOU’RE gonna get ready at bat.

Gupta was kinda like that to me (especially considering how he wielded his mop). Pallana was mouthy, sour and the ideal Spielbergian avatar as emotional center for Viktor’s chorus. He was my fave character, though not at first. He reminded me a bit too much of my proto-Rain Man co-worker (do not ever f*ck with the guy’s system about stacking pots. I have nine fingers now. Kidding. Eight fingers and a thumb). Eventually my patience was rewarded. Gupta’s sagacity reflected Viktor’s trevails, but in a subtle, rather crafty way. Gupta’s presence was a slow build. A very slow build. Like Vik, get patient. Don’t stack the pots yourself. Just listen to the scamp; he knows sh*t. Viktor’s good at listening. With Gupta, Viktor/Hanks learned how to be selective in what to listen too. We eventually learn through Pallana’s ultra-subtle acting/characterization that prickly can often be dismissed beyond empathy and wisdom. That being said, I learned how to replace the detergent block in the dish machine to make those agony-inducing, digital bleeping screams go away for a while. Viktor learned fast to whom should be heard.

Terminal might be the most angular film Spielberg ever cut, and maybe on purpose. Couldn’t escape the feeling of a message being conveyed. Not sure of the message, but so much of the film seemed deliberate. That’s not bad thing; angular does not necessarily mean absent of nuance. The supporting chorus paired against Viktor’s crafty self cured that…with patience. Still, beyond any obvious human condition thang and Speilberg trademark humanity, Terminal was approaching some kind of statement. Again, not sure what, but the smell of that lingered. Might’ve had to do with how clever the movie played out. That deliberate feeling reflected when Viktor REDACTED his adopted home. It felt like a crafty descent into being clever. The entire film is clever in a very cheeky way, but it takes aeons to figure that out. That being said, Terminal is a voyage into the human condition, stuffed illegally into the overhead compartment with a lot of emotion, coat-tugging, willful disappointment, a lame Catherine Zeta-Jones and a dedicated appreciation for jazz. Something for everyone. Just keep your ears as open as your eyes. And mind the pots.

In hindsight, Spielberg’s 1989 misfire Always (which I enjoyed, thanks to the great cast replete with the likes of Dreyfuss, Goodman, Hunter and Keith David [!]) feels like a dry run for Terminal‘s story of being “lost” and eventually “finding the way again” metaphor. Sure, it was a 15 year gestation, but certain things need to take their good ol’ time. In that aspect Terminal was a minor miracle. A tale of naked human emotion that didn’t need Kleenex. Instead of rubbing your palms together, genuflecting and demanding of the sky, “What does it all mean?” we got, “Huh…” and (hopefully) later, “Ohhh.” Then break out the peanuts, please.

Airports tend to be dehumanizing, as I said. We’re all but airfares and lemmings. That actual building, the one embedded into concrete is the real master of air travel. Public charging stations, fees for fees, Dan Brown paperbacks with Hanks’ mug on the cover and all them cat o’ nine tails upon the Carlin-esque pre-boarding process. After watching The Terminal, I took some small solace in knowing I wasn’t all alone in such massive spaces, whether in major hub Salt Lake or parking lot Durango, CO (with or within the lost single-serving). Sure, we see the passing parade at the time. On the streets, in a mall, even on FaceBook. But for a singularity of purpose—getting the f*ck away—enjoy a layover.

That might’ve been the message I was grafting onto the character study that was The Terminal. Could’ve sworn I heard something…


Oh yeah. That return flight home.

You ever get lucky on a flight and have the entire row to yourself? Me neither, but en route back from Colorado I scored the next best thing: an empty seat between my rump and another poor schlub stuck on the same red eye. Never caught his name, but I remember being the first to suggest that we slap the armrests back and get some breathing room.

He was a software developer, from Seattle (hmm) on some junket and claimed feeling like he was paying rent here with so many whistle stops. I told him about me being a recent college grad and where I was departing from. From Montrose, CO to Salt Lake City—pushing three hours with the headwind—we chatted and joked about (then early) Internet tech, family, the delights of modern air travel, college and I shared my tale about my single-serving friend. Both our arms were crooked over the vacant headrest. We we able to swivel our legs inwards to maintain circulation as well as avoiding a brusque encounter with the errant beverage cart. The time flew. We had a grand conversation. Amazing what a bit of legroom could do. Best return flight ever.

He asked me about the Black Canyon. Always wanted to hike in Colorado but duty calls. He asked me if I recommended the Canyon to meet his curiosity. I ended that hike wheezing so hard I lost my cigarettes halfway up the ascent and found myself sucking on an oxygen mask like Ginger Lynn readying the money shot.

Of course I said yes. Wear the proper shoes. Worn out Doc Martin’s make for lousy climbing. You heard it here and it was the 90s.

You may now return your flight attendant to her full, upright position.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. Be patient, my friends. The payoff will come. Hanks is a good actor. He doesn’t push and pull. He’s lost but hopeful. He’s patient. He’s a good listener. Be like Hanks.

Steve is also hopeful. Also patient. A good listener. He makes nice movies. His win awards. Good luck being like Steve.

Stray Observations…

  • “America is closed.” Says it all.
  • BORDERS. Kind of on the nose there. But I do miss that chain, sorry. I have another story to tell there about how I got married. I just need to see the proper movie to introduce that rant. I am strict.
  • “She’s a Trekkie!” No…way.
  • I got a feeling that Viktor’s awkward posture was a ruse. Can’t put a finger on how, though.
  • “I hate Tuesdays!”
  • Always took a shine to a resourceful hero type. Must be latent “MacGyver” nostalgia/fandom.
  • “He love that goat.” Wink.
  • That being noted, we got some odd humor going on here. Uneasy, jittery. Post-911 perhaps? Again?
  • “You don’t like fish.”
  • This is the polar opposite of Munich, right? Right?!?
  • “Success.” Irony not lost.

Next Installment…

If you thought one was bad, try dealing with Seven Psychopaths, Clarice.


RIORI Vol 3, Installment 70: Garry Marshall’s “Georgia Rule” (2007)

The Players…

Jane Fonda, Lindsay Lohan, Felicity Huffman, Dermot Mulroney and Garrett Hedlund, with Dylan McLaughlin, Zach Gordon, Cary Elwes and the always reliable voice of reason in almost every Marshall-helmed flick Hector Elizondo (him usually always being the best part).

The Story…

Lily’s had her fill of her unruly daughter Rachel, what with the dropping out of school, questionable relations, too much obvious, reckless persona and even more reckless, obvious cleavage dripping off of her. So this exasperated mom takes her wild child to Idaho to live with her flinty, no-BS grandmother Georgia, who’s quick to lay down a simple set of rules centered on two things: God’s love and hard work.

This be some sh*t Rachel willfully knows nothing about. Not Lily either, really.

Let’s get ready to rumble!

The Rant…

Christ, hiccups are annoying. You wanna know how stop them? I got a trick, but first we need to know the nature of the beast.

A hiccup (or hiccough if you’re more sophisticated) is a spasm in the diaphragm, that thin muscle beneath the lungs that regulate their respiration. For some unknown reason the thing occasionally gets hinky. You usually breathe without thinking about it. Involuntary. But now and again you swallow too much Corn Pops at once or torpedo a can of PBR and bingo, your diaphragm gets all twitchy. Boink boink boink. It gets irritating, like a burp you can’t release.

Now science doesn’t know what hiccups are for, nor a bonafide way to stop them from happening. There are theories (some involving shotgunning PBRs) that when a foreign element intrudes on our normal breathing practices—some glitch in our standard, smooth-running, Twinkie bolting anatomy—our diaphragm gets mixed signals and suddenly there’s a scratch in our CD.

Here’s how you hack it.

Since breathing is an involuntary thing, as are hiccups, you should get all mindful. To rid yourself of this ant at the picnic you consciously take control of your breathing. Realize you do this normal breathing thing every second without a thought. Take deep, forceful, evenly paced breaths. For me it usually takes about five. Find your center. Breathe deep. You’ll become aware of your diaphragm. You’re controlling it now rather than the other way around. Sure enough after a few monitored breaths the doohickey will calm down and you can get back to that next can of PBR.

That lesson taught—and to get all Robert Fulghum on your collective asses—we can’t avoid hiccups in life. And not just the ingested ones, figuratively and literally. Again, science can’t explain the physical reasons why hiccups happen, but we can all identify with the bullsh*t that throws our routine out of wack. Our life out of wack. Can’t predict it. Can’t control it. Might be big, might be little. But after awhile it sure gets annoying as sh*t. It was all fine yesterday…now what?

In comparison, that’s what it’s like to be involuntary uprooted from your usual state of days and plunked into terra incognito. I’m willing to wager that modern science has a vague idea as to why hiccups happen, but probably due to meager funding and more important stuff like, I dunno, curing AIDS such annoyances like hiccups get slated to the back burner of a banquet kitchen range. That’s 8 burners, BTW.

But when such hiccups happen, sh*t they are annoying. There goes your comfy routine. No bacon with your eggs at breakfast. I gotta take the bus today? What do you mean it’s gonna take six to eight weeks for my winning eBay bid for a first pressing of the Faces’ Long Player album to arrive from London (okay, that was mine. Duh)? Hiccups. Things might seem mox-nix, but when the little, vital sh*t gets hacked, boy oh boy does the week get all kerfuffled.

Kinda like a forced homecoming in Idaho.

Wait. Too abrupt? Idaho? What the f*ck do hiccups have to do with the Gem State?

Quiet now. My blog, my Rule…

Being a parent is never easy. That goes without saying so much than why even say that? Still, as a mom and/or dad you do your best to aim your little ones towards the proper goals in life. Goals you may have reached and were rewarded by or goals that slipped by and wouldn’t want young Dick and/or Jane to miss out on.

But life itself intervenes, and there are hiccups.

Lily (Huffman) has had it up to there with her idful daughter Rachel (Lohan) and her wild child antics. “Antics” is a kind descriptor at best. Don’t even start with the “child” notion. Disrespectful, sexually precocious and simply headed down a path of wreck and ruin. Lily can see what’s happening (since it happened to her), so she feels for—demands—a change of environment for Rachel.

So it’s a bittersweet homecoming (mostly bitter) for Lily with Rachel in tow. Back to Hull, Idaho and see you later San Francisco. Home to Hull where Lily’s flinty, no-BS mom Georgia (Fonda) rules the roost. Grandma don’t take no sass, not pulling one’s weight and absolutely no blasphemy. To say Rachel is out of her element is a serious understatement.

Georgia’s heard all about Rachel from Lily’s cursory calls. Lily is sure that time with grandma with change Rachel’s mind about…everything. It sure did for Lily, and she grew up with her (and fled as fast as f*ck as possible to get the hell out of Dodge). Georgia may be down with lowering the boom on Rachel’s wild ways, but a little on the fence about reeling her boozy, chain-smoking daughter in, too. Apple and tree and all of that.

Neither of Georgia’s girls are gonna get out of Hull intact. Let the kicking and screaming commence…

I usually consult the professional reviews at AllMovie about the films on my chopping block to get an idea of what I might be getting into that week. Now I’m not a skeptic, not really. I’m more of a I’ll-belive-it-when-I-(literally)-see-it kind of guy. Whatever the critic in question bases their opinions about a particular film is subjective. Duh. I often don’t care what they say. I just want an idea of what I’m getting into. I’ll believe it when I see it. Literally.

This time around, I was forced to agree with AllMovie’s assessment of Georgia Rule. I owe critic Derek Armstrong a dinner for his words of caution. He wrote about the movie, and I quote: “Georgia Rule is an icky film.” Icky. There’s an adjective I thought I never use to sum up a film. Lousy? Sure. Bad? Pedestrian but to the point. Icky? That’s telling. And wholly accurate for this family melodrama in desperate need of a shower. The kind viral pathologists need after a solid day’s work. Icky.

Rule has precious little going for it, and that’s a shame since it could’ve been really sharp. There was a lot of family drama to cull from here; intergenerational family drama has been a proven film formula for decades, albeit hackneyed and often warmed over. I’ve learned in my short, misspent, missing the matinees youth that family melodramas almost always have a tired, trite premise (such as Rule‘s: wild grandchild, estranged daughter, steely matriarch who meant well but missed a mark, etc). Such tired tropes are sometimes redeemed by solid acting. Fleshed out characters courtesy of actors—seasoned or giving their best college try—that accept the cards dealt and give a (hopefully) fresh spin on old hat.

A good example of this kind of movie is On Golden Pond, a guilty pleasure of mine. Its plot is terribly derivative, rotten with sappy sentimentality and an all too pat resolution. But I love it. Why? Star Henry Fonda (in his final and only Oscar winning role) is a riot throughout, delivering smart and barbed one-liners throughout the movie bookended by smart, barbed grandfatherly wisdom. He was a hoot.

It was Katherine Hepburn’s swan song also, but she lived for another ripe quarter-century. Her sign off was the classic “mother trying to hold it together” via a warm heart and a plethora of wisdom learned against her crotchety hubby for decades. And key, Henry’s real-life estranged daughter Jane played as the on-film estranged daughter who through shared life behind the camera found an understanding with each other, brittle as it was. It wasn’t brittle for very long in reality. Henry was quite ill during filming, and received his Oscar via his hospital bed facing the TV broadcast of the 1981 Academy Awards, daughter Jane accepting in his stead, teary-eyed and quite proud of her dad.

In Rule, Jane seemed to channel her dad’s character from On Golden Pond. And like her dad in his final film, Fonda’s Georgia is the only fleshed-out character in Rule, despite being another stereotype, albeit acting better than the script dealt. I thank the genes. Her no-nonsense, yet still practical and at the same time unconventional Georgia was the best thing about Rule. The only thing, her being an old poop and all.

The rest of the cast is wooden. A clutch of pretty talented, somewhat reliable character actors playing their dealt hands and coming up trumps. What got under my skin about their performances (Lohan, Huffman, Mulroney, et al) is that they failed to rise above their stereotypes. All predictable, all lame. I mean, I would swear that this movie presaged Lohan’s fall from grace, but her performance—as an example—was so incongruent, so forced I was wishing for the actual off-screen BJ spoke about so frankly made it on-screen (hell, the movie was rated a rare R). A lot of shoehorning drama and deviance going on here.

Speaking of shoehorns, it was never really explained how Huffman’s reedy Lily turned out against Georgia being so strict. It came out that Lily’s dad was a drinker, but that only explained—nay, casually remarked—the chemical/genetic aspect. A drinker myself I know what drives my nasty habit, but regarding a fictional character’s personal descent into the bottle in a movie an audience demands some meat on the bones. With dry (so to speak) Lily all we get are bones. C’mon Garry Marshall, throw us one. If this was Mr Happy Days attempt at being edgy he shoulda stayed in Milwaukee.

Back to the ickiness factor: we couldn’t weld the sour with the (bitter)sweet here. It’s the feeling of stuff feeling forced here that also led to Rule‘s undoing. Marshall seemed well out his depth here. Disregarding his uneven CV, shortly within the first act something screamed derivative, more so than usual with Marshall’s trademark treacle. Don’t misunderstand me. Sometimes the man hits gold. Sometimes. The offbeat Frankie And Johnny. The perennial favorite weepie Beaches. The solid and charming Pretty Woman. These may not be great films, maybe barely good, but they delivered comedy-drama in a golden fashion. Rule in comparison is rusty, creaking along and desperately trying to fit into the mold of Marshall’s above mild triumphs. Nothing works, despite Fonda’s enjoyable performance. Star power counts for nothing here.

And that being said, let us consider the supporting cast, Fonda’s bookends. Lily and Rachel have more in common than either would ever admit. That’s obvious, and also gets dark rather swiftly, if not a bit preachy. Another example of Marshall not sure where to go here. Is Rule a family melodrama, a cautionary tale, a lecture? Is there some mirror action reflecting the Lily/Rachel dynamic regarding the opposite sex? I think so. Is there some kind of unhealthy grieving going on with Mulroney’s “vet” schtick? Maybe, unsure. Is Elwes a sexual predator? Yes and no and ugh. Was Marshall exploiting Lohan’s YA physical attributes here? I say too often and more please. Lots of head scratching, nothing to grab on to. Like I said earlier, well-structured characters delivered by solid actors can elevate a mundane story into interesting entertainment. Short of the mark in Rule, it all being so damned disjointed. Only the work of a Civil War sawbones’ skills could make this movie work. With crossed fingers.

There gradually came a large swath of this movie where I ceased taking notes. It wasn’t as if I oh so engrossed, nor there was nothing else to say. My brain just gave up. I’ve noticed I tend to go on and on and on thrashing movies I dislike, but positive commentary is usually short and sweet. Well, that’s how it should be I think. Good stuff doesn’t need nor invite a ticker-tape. Such flicks speak for themselves. The flipside sometime demands an air strike. Rule fell under the latter. And the irony is that respected actor Fonda caught a lot of heat back in the day with her USO appearance in Vietnam. She got carpet bombed in Rule right that. I almost feel sympathetic.

Now someone get me a glass of water. The breathing method ain’t working here.


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Relent it. This was awful. Not the worst movie dismantled here at RIORI, but damned close. That is all and good night.

Stray Observations…

  • “If she turns out to be sane…she’s all yours.”
  • Dylan versus Frankenreiter? No question there.
  • “Don’t hit me with fish.”
  • I will not mention the Dread Pirate Roberts.
  • “Not on the mouth.”
  • Jane’s got a nice butt, even at 70. Must’ve been all those aerobic workouts in the 80s.
  • “Go with this one.”
  • I liked not liking Elwes’ sniveling.
  • “Oh, please! You’re a lawyer!”
  • Was it in her contract for Lohan to wear only low-cut?

Next Installment…

Part 1 of a 2 part study examining Spielberg’s missteps (yes, he had a few): The Olympics are supposed to be time for nations to come together for friendly competition and putting politics aside. So what the blue f*ck happened in Munich back in ’72?