RIORI Vol 3, Installment 35: David J Burke’s “Animal” (2004)


The Players…

Ving Rhames, Terrence Howard, Chazz Palminteri and Jim Brown, with Wes Studi, Fasion Love, Paula Jai Parker, Taraji B Henson and Beverly Todd.

The Story…

It’s a foregone conclusion that way leads on to way. Violence begets violence. The sins of the father and so forth.

Hardcore, career criminal James “Animal” Allen was destined to be in prison, but not before leaving a legacy of violence behind. The proverbial apple doesn’t fall far. His misdeeds are carried on by his adept son, Darius. With his infamous father behind bars, Darius has keeping up the family business, keeping the neighborhood under tight scrutiny, and keeping the ever-profitable cycle of degradation moving for the next crop of kids.

It’s kinda bad that Animal’s no longer part of the cycle, him being in prison and and all. It’s also too bad he has all the time in the world to think about his misdeeds and what influences they may have had.

Also, it’s unfortunate it means Animal’s gonna have to man up to his stupidity. And face down the man in the mirror, for his son’s sake.

Way leading on to way.

 The Rant…

I’ve got another story to share about the comic book store.

Oh, sh*t. Not again.

*screeching tires peeling out*

Come back. You know I’ve recounted a few times my working in a comic book shop here at RIORI. Keeping it brief for the under-informed, it was a part-time evening gig to score some extra cash and get access to new Marvel titles at a discount. The place has since closed its doors after 30 years of neighborhood funny business, BTW. Hard these days to find a good indie book store—comic seller or whatever—in your neighborhood.

About the neighborhood. My old shop was on the way downtown. “Downtown” in my little burg was code for “trouble.” Meaning, “I’m headed downtown” was followed with an unmentioned “to score smack, guns and/or a little Chinese girl who can juggle.” Good times awaited. I figured that out because now I can get four balls in the air. In one hand. Not necessarily mine.

*fifth ball makes contact with crotch*

Thanks. But the neighborhood my comic spot was at wasn’t that bad a place to be. The shop squatted on the corner of Crip and Blood, and most of the residents turned their stereos down by 2 AM and didn’t turn on their lawnmowers on Saturday before…ever. I’m joshing you. Nice area, really. The houses were pristine row homes dating back to the early part of the 20th Century, most of them well-preserved, even maintained. A kind of loose historical district. Very little litter, and only two blocks from the high school. The shop had a choice location for business, and no surprise quite a few curious teens would step up into our doorway. Just your typical, urban residential neighborhood where nothing much ever happened behind most closed doors.

Right. Most doors. There’s always gotta be that shadowy place where the birds never fly over its roof. I’m not talking, “‘Stay out of the old Jenkins’ place!’ Mother would scold.” You know what I mean. If you don’t, you’re lucky and doubtless living on a street named after a minor president, so here’s what I mean: about half a block up from the Batcave there was this sinister-looking house; neglected aluminum siding, tattered shingles on the roof, busted screens and maybe two or twelve DirecTV dishes sprouting up like mushrooms—never a good sign in my book. They can afford satellite TV but can’t shell out the ten bucks for screen patches. Priority.

In short, uninviting, especially with the cadre of toughs perched on the porch day and night. It looked as if they were on patrol, looking for something. Trouble was the likely culprit. Someone should’ve given them directions Downtown.

Never fear, though. The mountain came to Mohammad soon enough.

We all knew that place was trouble. The neighbors knew. The cops knew. Sure as sh*t the insomniac thugs knew this, too. The grim pall cast over the neighborhood could only get so grey before something broke into the day.

It did, and it wasn’t our semi-annual Green Lantern blowout sale. Three power rings for the price of four! In brightest day!

Key word being “day.” I got the story on what happened one fateful day up the street. Don’t worry, it was on good authority: my boss. The tawdry tale woven took place in a daring, daylight showdown. Concerned neighbors watched out of windows, smartphones at the ready. I was not there. Either I was elsewhere girding myself as ref for the weekly grudge match between a pair of mouth-breathers debating who would win in a fight: Superman or Triple H (my money would’ve been on the Hulk. Y’know, Hogan. No, before, you dolts). It was at my other gig, earning bill payments, and blissfully unaware of the altercation that would soon be smeared all over the front page of our local rag.

Squad cars pulled up with sirens screaming. Cops called out to the thugs, surrender your weapons or else noogies all around. Turns out the entrepreneurs were dealing in contraband guns. Fun, fun, fun. Weapons were drawn on both sides. It was a standoff, cops crouching behind their cars, the dealers defiantly aimed back from the porch. A lot of shouting and potty mouthing. It was inevitable that one of thugs would take aim at the cops. One dumbass did. He would give the pugs what for. He held out his piece on its side—y’know, like the gangstas do in the movies, barrel parallel to the ground—ready to deliver some retribution for his biz being curbed.

The gun jammed. A cop shot him in the shoulder. The rest went quietly after that. No, really. That’s more or less how it ended. The gun jammed. Owie. Surrender. Ambulance. Paddy wagon.

I point out the gun jammed as the f*cking point of this tale. Any ballistics expert can tell you that when you aim a semi-automatic pistol on its side, it will most likely jam. Why? Bullets don’t load right to left, dipsh*t. You might as well be aiming the grip and clutching the barrel. Hell, throwing the damned thing  would do more damage.

So why’d the guy do it, hold the piece all wrong? Well, for one, it sure looks hella cool and intimidating. It’s an extension of the hand pointing an exaggerated, accusing finger. “You wanna piece of this, bitch?” Hard to believe the guy was unaccustomed to handling firearms, considering his chosen profession. His posture before the boys in blue was almost sure to make him a golden oldie.

So what the hell, tough guy?

Wanna know what I think? Sure you don’t. Tough.

I betcha he did it cuz he saw it a movie. One of those gangsta flicks. It looked badass. It looked like he’d mean business. It was how it was done in endless gangsta fantasies. But here’s the rub. You wanna know why it works there but not Downtown—or even near the corner comic mart?

Sure you don’t. Tough. You’re still here.

Because it’s from a f*cking MOVIE. Movies ain’t real, so the truth can be regarded with a certain suspension of disbelief. In Menace II Society, for example, Larenz Tate’s escapades sure do come across a gritty and  hair-trigger, so to speak. But no one apparently told our Emmy award winner with the busted rotator cuff that all that sh*t was acting. What happens in reality is not an extension of what happens in the pictures. That’s a case for insanity. Just cuz you saw some not-real character pull off a not-real stunt with not-real results does not make it not-not-real. Crime in movies is a helluva lot slicker than the clumsy sh*t that happens up on the screen. Our dimwitted Arthur Rimbaud watched one too many John Singleton movies.

Judgmental? Sure. But possibly just a case of life imitating art, I guess.

Sigh. My story—my boss’ story—plays out like a pretty okay example of why you gotta try and steer clear of cliches and worn-out story lines when making a film about crime in the inner city and its consequences.

Huh? What?

Just go with me here. It’s a movie blog, right…?

Sorry, but sometimes crime pays. And crime has been good to The Animal. Very good.

James “The Animal” Allen (Rhames) is as hard as they come. He’s made a career as killer, dealer and sh*ttastic family man. He’s damn good at two of the three. Too bad the third is gonna come bite him in the ass someday.

Unrepentant Animal gets dragged into prison for trumped up/perhaps erroneous charges. Who can tell with a hardcore thug like Allen? No matter now. He’s up the river and pulling hard time, probably never seeing the light of freedom. Or his lost son.

Well, Animal’s lost son is doing just fine. Flourishing, actually. Darius (Howard) gets all grow’d up while his thug daddy languishes. Naturally, he continues the family business of misery, even surpassing Animal’s meager accomplishments. In short, Darius is building an empire of well-paying crime. With a lot of blood on his hands.

Allen knows nothing about this on the Inside. He’s happy to just carry on being violent and a capo to sleazy, unscrupulous Kadassa (Palminteri)—a career inmate who runs the joint like a godfather. Animal know fortune favors the bold, even behind bars. He’ll take any fortune he can find after losing his on the outside.

On the inside, however, there might be another kind of fortune to be found. The kind that grants freedom of the body and the mind.

Former revolutionary and terminal lifer Berwell (Brown) is an educated, principled jailhouse philosopher. Yes, he has killed. And he has burned. But he has never strayed from his scruples, never beyond admitting to culpability to his crimes. Allen finds him a joke at first, all Mr Miyagi with his reading. Berwell sees a lot of himself in The Animal, though—a man of thirty years ago—and takes him under his wing. He advises Allen that to get out of prison and reconnect with his estranged son, he must free his mind first.

Berwell makes James understand that he is not the hindmost n*gger. He is an angry “Negro” blinded by the System, and in turn blinded from what he truly could be capable of. An educated man. A strong man of conscious. A father.

James must soon also realize to be a possible mentor to Darius, whether he can get out or not.

Back to the lowbrow scene out of Boys N The Hood by way of Spider-Man:

I know comparing a cops ‘n thugz showdown to the movies influencing a squishy mind was a bit of a stretch. Okay, 50 miles of bad road stretch. The sh*t that went down was out of a malign ep of Law & Order. All cliches in place. And this was reality. A reality scammed from a TV show, at least in my opinion. But some criminal mimicking bad behavior from a million different hackneyed gangster flicks invites this question: What if a filmmaker picked up on such drivel and translated it to his work (again, even though it was done a jillion times before with better results)? Curiously angled gat and alla dat.

Hey, guess what? Some deranged director actually f*cking did! I kid you not! I mean, what? Sure! Some goofball with a modest budget and a half-baked plot with a message got made. Not sure if this is a common thing or just when the planets align.

Yeah, so Animal was substandard. Predictable story, stereotypical performances from a clutch of (pretty decent actually) actors, style well above substance blah yak yadda. The hell of it is, Animal should’ve been better, sharper, even if only for a moment of synchronicity.

*cue marimba*

I noted Law & Order above. I’ve also dropped that name in a pervious installment of another crime caper with a misguided filmmaker and hack scenarist, The Watcher (shame on you director of Creed videos). That film kinda ran parallel to your standard L&O ep where Logan and Briscoe chase down a crazed murderer. Right, like every other episode; tune in next week.

But did you know this little trifle? Animal director Burke used to write for the original Law & Order back in the 90s! And take this: did you know he directed a fair share of those episodes?!? Fer sure. You’d think a guy well-seasoned like so much beef would know a thing or five about directing a minor film about life and death in South Central. Okay, it ain’t the City, but crime knows no urban sprawl. Well, maybe not Oslo.

Burke really dropped the ball with Animal. He populated the thing with all that sh*t listed above, and apparently did not learn a thing or twenty about what should not be in place for a movie like this. It’s not for his lack of experience, but this was his debut a movie director. Big jump from the small screen. Maybe he simply kept referencing the old playbook as to what to do next with Ving and crew.

It kinda shows. Animal plays like a ghetto Elmore Leonard story, minus the snappy dialogue. All the grittiness is well in place, palpable and even chewy. Unlike one of Dutch’s many colorful novels (and ensuing movie adapts), director Burke only walked away with the standard issues in place. Mostly cribbed from the possible notebook, smearing with sweat, coffee and ink of a thousand stubby, stolen pens for S Epatha Merkerson’s desk (don’t f*ck with the lady who delivered Pee-Wee Herman’s mail, buddy).

Animal was riddled with cliches, a well-worn script and way too many stereotypes. It was coarse, basal and more than a bit cloying. To me, sometimes it feels with movies like Animal the director and/or writer is so determined to get their “street poisoning a la Iceberg Slim” message and feel across to the masses their urgency plows under the need and value of traditional filmmaking: tell a worthwhile f*cking story. And don’t pander, either. Burke missed that stuff, and we ultimately got served an R-rated “After School Special” vibe. We got a message here, dammit! Pay attention kids, and note how the guns are held!

Ahem. Sorry. Gonna be hung up on that thing for a long time. Someone could’ve gotten hurt!

I know I’m slamming Animal pretty bad, almost as basal and coarse I claimed the damned film was. Still, even with the lamest of films I’ve always found some nuggets worth sifting. The acting—though nothing to really blog home about—was straining to be good. All our leads were worthwhile actors, doing their best against a tired, mediocre, caged-from-freshman-year-Shakespeare script and plot. It really shows with Burke’s subtle as a flying mallet moralizing and preachiness.

Rhames as street thug was rather satisfying. It’s understood he’s a walking, talking, shooting boilerplate. Rhames seemed to know this, so he threw himself into the role of Allen with hammy aplomb. The character was a nice example of the man’s being allowed to really dig in, have some dark fun and perhaps catharsis (only later to quietly morph into a reformed con without you really noticing it). It also helped that Ving’s been built like a Mack truck since the womb. The dude’s got himself some presence, and puts that to good use here. Animal’s maybe an amalgam of all the goons Burke concocted for Law & Order, but that makes Rhames no less interesting. His role may be trite, but it was hard to simply dismiss. So good there, Marcellus.

I have a soft spot for Jim Brown. He’s an SU alum, like me, so of course I ended up paying the most attention to him. Again, his Berwell is something out of a warmed-over Huey Newton biopic. All the trappings of a institutionalized philosopher. But like Rhames, Brown has charm, as well as gravitas borne from his post-NFL career (and he’s also built like a concrete walrus). Unlike Rhames, Brown’s presence comes less from his size, but the strong delivery of his lines even though they’re as banal as the rest of the story. Despite his on-the-nose characterization, his calm and tough demeanor is both disarming and earnest. The yin to Animal’s yang, as Burke designed it. Oh, and that’s not Jim Brown acting. That’s Jim Brown.

It was amusing to see Howard work through his salad days here. We all know he goes on to bigger and better things later, but it’s interesting to watch him apply his trade as well as trying to find his voice. His strength in Animal—as well as what would serve him in future roles—is him having the best facial expressions. It is what’s made his career. Doubt me? Check out Mr Holland’s Opus. Really. His mixture of baby face and tight, clipped speech made his Darius quite the paradox. Casual, if not sweet-natured mama’s boy cum cold-blooded killer, following in his nasty father’s shadow. His role was closest in terms of honesty within a standard script, if only in fits and starts. Better some than none, I guess.

Lastly, I’d be remiss in my duties without giving a shout out to Palminteri. A choice character actor of mine, but mostly known for playing mafia toughs and grizzled cops. His “man who knew how to get things”—a sort of malign Red from Shawshank—role was entertaining enough, if only for his scruffy, scabby chewiness. His what served as comic relief in Animal. Sure, it was grey, sleazy humor, and nothing out of SNL either (thank God), but you gotta have a little hot sauce on that stale taco so to shove it down your pie hole. That was all a complement, BTW.

So what have we learned? Never staff a gang yard redemption flick with a TV directer who never turned off the set (double shame/f*cking ironic from the quill of a Law & Order alumnus). Never let decent actors unable to be fully decent. And don’t make another goddam movie like this again. I mean again. It’s been done. It’s been passed, played and in the locker for years now. We get it. Prison sucks, gangs are stupid and destructive, violence begets violence and Jim Brown rocks.

Okay, maybe we can revisit the last thing again.

*cue that weird clank-bell-thud sound effect from Law & Order. One more time, with feeling!*

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Relent it. Animal was a chunk of marble in desperate need of a few spins in the rock tumbler. It was a retread, cast with cool actors probably frustrated with the…everything they got lassoed into. Bad agents! Bad, bad agents!

Stray Observations…

  • A pleading Ving Rhames is frightening.
  • “No fumar.” Ha.
  • I’m thankfully no expert, but I don’t think conjugal visits permit candles.
  • “You gotta live to get old, brother.” The always sage Jim Brown. Bless him.
  • How’d I know Malcolm X would eventually be brought up?
  • “You look like a burnt marshmallow.” Love is fast becoming one of my have character actors. He and Pena should go golfing.
  • “Tough ain’t sh*t son. It’s about being smart.”
  • …Bars everywhere.
  • “I’ve been waiting for my father to show up for over 20 goddam years. Then you the f*ck show up.” Best line in the whole damned movie. Might as well’ve been the tagline.

Next Installment…

It’s supposed to be Seth Rogen’s job to only Observe And Report any trouble at the mall he secures, not to canoodle with Anna Faris. Especially not Anna Faris.

RIORI Vol. 2, Installment 27: Paul Haggis’ “Crash” (2004)


The Players (we got us some live ones here)

Sandra Bullock, Don Cheadle, Matt Dillon, Jennifer Esposito, William Finchter, Brendan Fraser, Terrence Howard, Chris “Ludacris” Bridges, Thandie Newton, Ryan Phillippe, Larenz Tate, Michael Peña and Shaun Toub.

The Plot…

In post 9/11 Los Angeles, superficially separate from that national tragedy, tensions erupt when the lives of a Brentwood housewife, her district attorney husband, a Persian shopkeeper, two cops, a pair of carjackers and a Korean couple converge during a 36-hour period.

The Rant…

Now that Oscar time is upon us, I felt it proper to tackle a film that once won the Academy Award for Best Picture. ‘Tis the season.

When I was younger, no bigger that this, the Oscars were not to be missed. As a teen, I made it my quest to make sure that I saw all the movies nominated for Best Picture of the given year. Didn’t matter the actors, the directors, the plot or the hype, I saw ‘em all, if not in the theatre then eventually on video. I figured being a movie geek it was no less my patriotic duty to see these films, lest I be left out of some pop cultural loop. These movies were supposed to be the big deal, the crème de la crème, the sh*t that separated the wheat from the chaff. I also assumed seeing them made me more cultured than the dilettantes that wanted to be—bah—merely entertained.

I was a little snot then. No surprise. I’m a bigger snot now, but my motives have changed. Call it maturity.

I seldom pay any attention to the Academy Awards now. Unless it’s an Oscar-nominated film that just happens to hove into my radar, I could give two moldy sh*ts if it won anything. It’s most likely coincidence than anything. The last film I saw that won Best Picture was Argo in 2012, and I saw that one for the reasons I snuffled at when I was younger: I was invested its story, but definitely not in Affleck (though he did handily direct it, I’ll credit him that much). The only other Oscar nom I saw within recent memory was American Hustle, and that one for it being a David O Russell piece, as well as me being quite entertained by his Silver Linings Playbook (see Installment #7). Neither movie captured my interest by promise of accolades, red carpets, flashing cameras and a lot of self-patting of the backs. No. I simply wanted to check ‘em out, regardless of unbridled popular opinion, possible awards be damned.

It’s taken a few years, but I’ve figured out that the Oscars are a puerile, politically correct, dog and pony show of ego and hubris. That and most pictures nominated for anything are filler. I mean, you gotta fill up three to four interminable hours of honoring entertainment for entertainment’s sake with something besides the parade of who’s wearing what (and endless, pointless musical numbers). At the end of the day, the Oscars have less to do with movies and more—much more—to with Entertainment! Being entertained with the glitz and glamour, the who’s-who of celebs, the expensive clothes and exercises in narcissism. The movie aspect part are just the thumbtacks holding the poster to the marquee. In short, whatever gets a nomination doesn’t really matter. You only tune in for the show, not justification by both the public and Hollywood as to what passes for “art.”

The last Oscar presentation I actually tuned in to was to see if Argo got the coveted stamp of approval, seeing the story was so solid and deserved some more press. The first fourteen hours on the broadcast was an endless montage of shiny faces, dumb jokes, words of praise from Hollywood types congratulating each other as if they found the Lost Dutchman Mine, the aforementioned musical bits and a smattering of movie stuff now and again. The only thing I saw that was actually entertaining was seeing Jennifer Lawrence trip onto the stage. That was merely a bonus.

Here’s a bit of cinema trivia: Did you know that the bigwigs at the Academy of Motion Picture Sciences are not even required to watch the films that are chosen for Best Picture? It’s true. The so-called guidelines for a nom are dictated by a very simple edict: the movie had positive word of mouth (read: what the critics said) and decent enough box office takeaway. That’s it. If any of those old, doddering, white males happen to actually see a picture, well then bully for them. They were most likely checking in on their investments. The nomination process is akin to the beleaguered high school teacher tossing the midterm essays down the stairwell and whichever paper lands on the ground floor gets the A. At the end of the day, Oscars are dime-a-dozen based on a 12 dollar admission and what some paid film nerd said.

But there’s another, more sinister aspect of Oscar nominations that really has jacksh*t to do with actual movie merits. It has to do with keeping up appearances. Hollywood is all about image, after all. It’s also about making obscene amounts of money (and blowing it as well, either on many of the specimens covered here at RIORI or up collective LA noses. Bam!). In case you don’t recall the whole Mel Gibson/anti-Semitic very public douchebaggery from a while back, convey the wrong image and bye-bye career. And the most prickly of all things regarding image are the studio heads’ PR. They put on their Sunday best all of the time in order to coax cash from us. Heaven forbid they present a poor, socially irrelevant, insensitive and/or downright stupid face to the buying public. They have to hold something up to ward off bad press, and to even think of perhaps sometimes once in a while not backing a movie with a message…?

Well, here we go.

Here’s a Hollywood mentality that adheres to the Oscar tenet; it goes something like this: Last year, in 2013, 12 Years a Slave won best pic. This probably didn’t happen based on the struggling criteria I’ll lay out soon enough. It most likely happened because—hand to God—anyone on the Oscar committee wanted to snub a film that tackled an issue so serious as slavery. I mean, dismiss that and you could alienate a chunk of the movie-going consumers, and no producer worth their salt wants that. You dig?


I find it suspect that any film that has a message or a “cause” to rally around immediately trumps other films that struggle with concepts of “engaging plot” or “good acting.” I suppose this now sets me up via a knee-jerk reaction that I am a bigot and racist. Not anymore than the average person, but for f*ck’s sake and after all it’s just a damned movie, not a march on Selma. That being said, 12 Years was not a bad movie. Along the Academy’s so-called standards, it did extend a message that ultimately making white people look and feel guilty was good trade. For comparison, 2013’s nomintaed American Hustle didn’t make white people look guilty. Stupid maybe, but not guilty. One should not have to have one’s attention and conscience wrenched away from plot, acting and the overall execution of a particular movie in order for said film to be regarded as “good” and/or “noteworthy.” None of this socio-pop rhetoric escaped the notice of the Academy, or critics for that matter.

Here. I’ll go you one further:

Set the way-back machine to a quarter century ago, circa 1990. The best picture for that year was Dances with Wolves. Again, not a bad movie. But Kevin Costner’s acting was his usual wooden emoting, and he was nominated for Best Actor. Go fig. His direction won Best Of, quite the feat for a first time director (by the way, Hitchcock and Kubrick never won an Oscar. Just sayin’), and all that sweeping prairie did indeed do wonders for the lens. I’ll give Mary McDonnell’s portrayal of Stands-With-A-Fist worthy of the statuette, too. But the film hasn’t really aged well. These days it tastes self-indulgent and simultaneously comes across as pandering and somewhat demeaning to Native peoples, making aspects of such cultures seem dignified in its simplicity against the progress of greedy white people. I’m not saying that’s how it is. I know sh*t about the Sioux and would be first in line for a spanking. But anyway and overall, it was a decent movie. Just a decent movie. And just a movie, not revisionism nor retrograde propaganda, as some of the pundits made claim. Or merely perceived.

Another Best Picture nominee in 1990, however, was a fantastic movie.

Unlike Wolves, it had a unique story, great acting, superlative direction, and ended up being packed to the gunwales with critical praise. And it sure as sh*t has aged well, even endured. In fact, it hasn’t aged at all.

The movie was GoodFellas. It was Scorsese’s finest. It didn’t win. I figure the message of rooting for a strung out Ray Liotta would send a bad message.

And here’s a final story and a caution.

Years ago swimming clumsily about in an alcohol-soaked haze, I was at my local watering hole working my way through a Henry Rollins travelogue and several pints of lager. My on-again, off-again bar buddies brought up one of my favorite subjects: movies (duh). One of these guys wasn’t a close relation. In fact, the dude only ever engaged me in a friendly way over pop culture factoids. We got to talking about Martin Scorsese’s movies—Taxi Driver, Casino, etc.—when I said of myself that I had never seen GoodFellas. Here’s the caution: I absolutely despise it when people chew you out about never have seeing a noteworthy film (“You’ve never seen The Godfather?!? What are you, retarded?”). Putting you on the spot like that is not only mean, but unconditionally impolite. Not to proffer myself up, but when that kind of thing happens in conversation, my default response is more or less, “You should check it out. You’ll like it.” Simply embarrassing a guy will probably not only put him or her off to your so-called recommendation, but will also be demeaning as well. Don’t be that guy.

Well, following that guy’s directive or else, I added GoodFellas to my Netflix queue and waited for a lonely night (of which I had many) to crash and watch it. When I finally did, it was after a laborious pub-crawl, ending well after 2 AM. Maybe 3. I ended up along with the couch, cracked open a fresh bottle of Jameson’s and plunked GoodFellas into the player. Despite how drunk I was, I was absolutely glued to the screen. I polished off the whisky, collapsed into bed and remembered the entire movie the next day, with trembling opinions on my tongue I could not wait to share with the guy who made it my civic duty to watch this film. It’s one of my more pleasant memories from those dark days with the bottle.

Needless to say, Crash did not have the same effect as GoodFellas did (the being captivated part, not being intoxicated). The only reason I even got my hands on Crash was that it was a gift from my wife’s mother’s misguided mind. I say misguided because the woman would randomly pluck DVDs for sale off the rack at the local CVS just to have them, only later to pawn them off on, well, me. To put this into perspective, my eccentric—and that’s being polite—mother-in-law does not own a DVD player. Yeah, you figure it out.

Anyway, Mom’s “heartfelt” gift or no, I eventually watched Crash because: A) Hey, free movie, B) It won Best Picture despite my appreciation for Brokeback in tandem with bewilderment that that film didn’t win; and C) There was nothing else to do that night. In addition, my girl said something along the lines of “What the hell…”

This week’s installment, as you haven’t guessed already, is about a picture that, when the lots were drawn, won the vaunted Oscar for Best Picture of the year and didn’t really deserve to win. Not on merits alone, no, but based on the cagey way the Academy doles out the statues. It wasn’t a bad film, but is was a safe film. And here’s the curious part—based partly on my past determination to catch all the Oscar-nominated Best Pictures—I kind of fell into both the Brokeback and Crash viewings by accident. One by way of my fiancée, and the other via a gift from her demented mom who watches movies as frequently as the rest of us go ice fishing in July.

My girl had seen Brokeback Mountain, and insisted, nay, demanded that I watch it with her. Indeed I did. It was really good. I mean great, the stuff award-winning films should be made of. I say that it should’ve won Best Picture that year, being 2005. It didn’t, and most likely because the Academy codgers didn’t want to risk praising a film about gay cowboys, narrow as their view was. Instead, the award went to Crash, another one in the camp of 12 Years: a pretty good flick, and also far more anodyne than a love story between two shepherds.

Like I said, I fell into watching Crash instead of actively seeking it out. It wasn’t like my quest of my salad days. No. And I remember this time being quite sober. I watched Crash because, more or less, “What the hell…”

Los Angeles is a tangled city. Desert city. It’s not supposed to be there. Gets cold at night. Maybe the mad snarl of people who reside there are not supposed to be there either. A lot of lives cross a lot of lives in that desert city that should not exist. Populated with people that should not be there. Carrying out existences that are foreign, albeit very, very local. Despite of, or perhaps because of it, the social climate—thousands of people interact with one another in ways that might under other circumstances would be disparate—is also fractured.

It all ends with a car crash, and concludes another day-and-a-half whirlwind of human traffic in the City of Angels. Detective Graham Waters (Cheadle) staggers from the scene of the accident while his partner Ria (Esposito) decides to have it out the angry Asian lady who wedged her bumper into their door. Conveniently enough, the accident happens at crime scene of yet another anonymous dead black man. This time, however, Waters believes he knows this mystery body.

In fact, he’s sure of the identity.

Rewind two days ago…

In another, more well-lit part of town, Rick and Jean Cabot (Fraser and Bullock) are concluding a night out. Yet another function to better Rick’s face in the undying camera flashes that come with being the local DA. Also enjoying a night out, both of them dueling philosophy and the perils of being the only two black dudes in the whitest part of town, Anthony and Peter (Ludacris and Tate) amble down the boulevard towards their next job: Rick and Jean’s Lincoln.


Daniel (Peña), a locksmith in a beat-up part of the city has just tried to secure the backdoor to shopkeeper Farhad’s (Toub)—an Arab immigrant—meager convenience store. No go. It’s the door that’s damaged, not the lock. Daniel, all too used to frequenting operations in shady parts of town (places he’s worked to get out of), patiently informs Farhad it’s not the lock, but the door. He doesn’t take this well, and such his business’ safety a concern, what with all the Arab hate crimes that have popped up recently, wants nothing to do Daniel’s recommendation. So much so that Farhad has recently procured a gun to ensure his property’s safety. But not his sense of security, and it seems Daniel the former gangster whose trying to walk the straight-and-narrow may now be the brunt of his frustration.

Somewhere else…

Police officers Ryan and Hansen (Dillon and Philippe) get the call about the Cabot’s carjacking and are on the lookout for a couple of African-American men cruising about in the stolen SUV. Ryan, being ever shrewd, pulls over a vehicle that fits the description. But not the couple. Well-to-do and noted TV producer Cameron Thayer and his wife Christine (Howard and Newton) are not two black males. But they are black, and that’s good enough for Ryan, especially when he frisks Christine, much to her protest and Hansen’s reluctance to agree to the search. But after all, Ryan is just doing his civic duty. Right?

In another place…almost another world…

Los Angelinos are simply trying to make their days run into the next. Social interactions are fractured, isolated. Sound bites. Some of those sound bites are loud and grating. Most are quieter. Pretensions, assumptions, asides, slurs. Stereotypes. “The Man”, n*ggers, sp*cs, sl*nts, r*gheads. All alive and well across the square miles. More often than not their paths cross, and not in a convivial way. Or a gentle one. Sometimes the paths don’t intersect so much as collide.

LA is a tangled city. Maybe it’s been borne that way for a reason…

Crash is not a bad movie. It is actually quiet a good movie. It also has a singular glaring fault that is at odds with the engaging story arcs and solid performances.

Boy, is Crash hella preachy.

I’m not talking about preachy in dialogue, but in message, and that message is about as subtle as a fart at a funeral. Crash is bigotry incarnate, and in f*cking overdrive. I understand that writer/director Haggis was trying to drive home the “we’re all so different/we’re all the same” message—in passing, he stated he was more-or-less trying to bring back the “grit” to ensemble films about LA that often paint a sunny image of glamour to the city. There is a certain degree of forced grime to this movie—but ends up being pedantic. Crash is always on the nose. Here is racism under the glass. A “message” film is always perfect fodder for the wary Oscar committee. Yeah, it’s preachy and pedantic, but that makes it no less interesting. And it’s very well acted.

This is all about character drama. There really is no plot, just message. Crash is compromised of a series of intertwining vignettes. It’s odd how the movie manages a narrative structure based solely on the slow, disparate chapters that hold it together so well. There is some deliberate subtly here, and it mostly works. Character nuances, convincing dialogue, a lot of great facial expressions, all of this adds to the richness of the tapestry. Now if only that pesky message wasn’t so damned inescapable. We get it, we get it. So, what? Nobody in LA likes each other?

Crash is too pointed in its commentary. Pointed, but oddly digestible. I think it might be the snappy repartee. Overall I credit this almost exclusively to the acting. Like I said: no plot. The actors had better be damned engaging in order to hold an audience. And man, is this flick rife with characters.

I read somewhere that in writing, in order to create memorable, relatable characters (note I didn’t specify likeable characters), you had to make them big. Over the top types whose emotional motivations must be so extreme that making them stereotypes you don’t even recognize. Stuff like that. Crash is f*king littered with these stereotypes (the rookie cop, his bigoted superior, the affluent, insecure black guy, the introverted detective, the hotheaded Arab shopkeeper, etc.). And all the better for it, especially when you have a primo cast like this.

Don Cheadle (ostensibly the axis of the film), as I have said in past installments is a choice actor of mine. He’s always played subtle, reserved characters. I have never seen him portray a character that ever loses his composure, even when upset. Hell, even when duking it out with Tony Stark as War Machine in Iron Man 2, Cheadle was holding back. He’s finally used well here, the everyman an audience can find themselves in comfy shoes. He sees the world with a mind gritting its teeth however, and the tension is quite protean. He’s handed a lot of bullsh*t, and being forced to smell it in a town infamous for being sh*t-tastic, he bears it well and does a convincing job as our avatar of being smeared with hate and disgust around every corner.

Matt Dillon’s racist cop Ryan is awkwardly tender and conflicted. He does know compassion, but such is a weakness. What better moral fulcrum than a veteran LA cop? At least over the past 3 decades in a city not regarded fondly for its racial harmony. Again, the guy with power and prejudice is a tasty character to follow, because it’s so prevalent in the real world, and so juicy to hate. But Dillon acts more or less in his ways out of his character’s “duty” rather than outright hatred. Cops are usually heroes in these commercial films right? Let’s face it; playing against type is always engaging.

I think although I’m not sure that the “inner city philosopher king” bit was codified here. It’s almost a caricature. I’d like to think that is got hot with Ice-T, sprouted by way of the Last Poets. Here we got Luda’ and Tate. They’re the Abbott and Costello of angry black thugs. They’re the—pardon me—black comic relief. We gotta have these guys intertwining here to be a pressure valve to let the steam out. Without it, all this drama would be too overwhelming to take. It’s a Shakespearean thing, so don’t argue.

Peña is fast approaching one of my favorite character actors. His Daniel is the movie’s soft spot. Family man, hard-working, trying to atone for past transgressions. Like the comic relief, you need to have a soft, squishy role to lean on, and the scene with his daughter at bedtime, though tired, is touching. Dad’ll make everything better.

Lastly, I liked Howard’s portrayal of the successful black yuppie, unsure of his stature. Does it hinge on his status as a producer, or a good boy for playing the white man’s game, sacrificing his dignity in return? That’s a fair question I think, and Howard’s responses makes it no less easy to answer.

It’s all well-acted, if only in a Hemingway-esque sense (“Kill your darlings. Kill, kill your darlings”). What I mean is that Papa’s words, no matter how simple, cut. Crash has good facetime. Almost all the actors here work with a flat affect, save Terry Howard and Ryan Philippe (whose bright-eyed, naive rookie cop needed a good slappin’ now and then. Mostly now). It’s a blank slate. It’s gonna be you the audience to cringe and scowl and exasperate to fill in the blanks. Let’s face the stink: racial stereotypes are engaging because—like Avenue Q taught us—we’re all a little bit racist. If you say, vehemently, “Not me!” you’re a liar and you’re boring. Crash is nothing but your reflection, and it’s hard to take. It’s also very real, palpable and hard-hitting.

Yeah, Crash relies on shock value to create often false tension and drama. I say “false” because you can see a lot of the tensions between the characters coming from a light-year away. Kind of like that thing in horror movies when the main character investigates the strange noises in the basement defended by a lone candle. You want to bonk some of these folks over the heads for being too much “in the message.” And I guess that falls in line with the big bugaboo in Crash: that damned message.

Like I said with Dances with Wolves, a message film is a safe bet. I don’t think Haggis set out to lecture and bait us with cray-cray social commentary, nor do I believe he was creating a machine to suck up statuettes. Even the late, esteemed critic Roger Ebert bet the farm on Crash to be the headliner for that year’s Oscars. He probably made that bet based on a decent story, good acting and snappy dialogue, not on the whole “racism is bad” theme. We know racism is bad (I’ve often heard the same about cigarettes), but dealing with it creates delicious tension. It’s just such an overdone thing, and we’re getting hacked to bits with it here. With Brokeback Mountain as the favorite—which was, in fact, a more arty and obtuse film with an even more intense message to convey, albeit a helluva lot more subtle—Crash upsetting the public opinion applecart screams “safe.” A simple message, a high-end ensemble cast and executed with élan and sturdiness. This is a prime formula for a good movie. It’s also very easy to do, and also relying on a lot of shock-and-awe can easily bamboozle and guilt rich, white Hollywood into recognizing that a film can make them feel guilty about being rich and white. It almost screams white male guilt; “We’re not racist. Look how we honored this movie. Please don’t spend your money on a film by the rival studio.” It also makes Hollywood look hollow—which it is—to pat Crash on the back for being so bold as to address the race issue once and for all. Again. Now, whose buying?

Despite—or perhaps because of—all its stereotypes, archetypes, prototypes and typewritten scenes and characters (read: the message notwithstanding), Crash is quite a good morality play. It may be up in your grill and on the nose, but its solid acting can forgive most of the relentless hammering. It also keeps the meandering storyline in check bookended with the aforementioned racial undercurrents. Crash is well-assembled, well-acted and well executed overall. If it could only turn down the neon a bit here and there, it might’ve been a better contender for the award.

Preach on, brotherman, preach on.

The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. It is a good movie, albeit a tad pandering. Did it really earn the award? No, not really. Thank the suits at Paramount or wherever. You’re probably better off with Heath and Jake bumping very uglies. But overall, yeah, it’s okay. But do maintain your guard. Crash is fast approaching Dances with Wolves territory. In fact, it just did. Whoosh…

Stray Observations (lots of good quotes here)

  • “In LA, nobody touches you…”
  • It seems that any “intertwining storyline” movie since Pulp Fiction—nay, since Rashomon—is an obvious shoo-in for a Best Picture nom. Books do it all the time, that’s why they’re books. I suppose most movie moguls don’t ever f*ckin’ read. That’s what a staff is for.
  • “You could be right.”
  • I used to go with a girl that looked a lot like Sandra Bullock, but with larger breasts. Unlike Jean Cabot, she turned out to be an unrepentant harridan (no hard feelings) thanks to the open coffer that is the Internet. I have no idea what that even means. I do drink while watching these things, y’know.
  • “…Like a gun.”
  • And, of course, it’s Christmastime.
  • “Do I look like I want to be on the Discovery Channel?”
  • The highway rescue scene is the core of this movie, in the face of all the preaching. Remember that thing about “actions speak louder than words?” Yep.
  • “I love hockey.”
  • Mark Isham’s soundtrack is great. I don’t think he gets enough props for his movie work.
  • “A harsh warning.
  • There are a lot of nice touches here (the wedding ring, the kids coming home from school, etc.) that highlight family. It’s almost a hidden message here, in the background of all the noise. Kinda like a good bass player.
  • “You embarrass me.”
  • Wait. Was that Counselor Troi?
  • “It’s a good cloak…”

Next Installment…

Look out! It’s Scott Pilgrim vs. the World! Actually it’s more like Scott Pilgrim versus a girl. And a guy. And some twins. And…