Tales from the VIlle-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Conclusion

Wrapping this sad saga up with either a pretty bow or a hangman's noose, here is the blissfully final installment of my Palace Showboat directorial debut.

After the final dress rehearsal and less than 24 hours to go, it was coming right down to the wire. Set pieces we're still being constructed and painted that would hopefully be dry and nailed/glued/stapled/duct taped together by the time the curtain rose om opening night. That didn't stop the reception of another kick to my groin. In finale, set in a heavenly nightclub called Pair O' Dice, I envisioned tables with paper mache' fronts on either side stage painted to resemble clouds, Maxfield Parrish puffballs. My tortured heart sank to anew low when I saw the end result: two giant ice cubes that just tore a hole in the hull of the Titanic. What a metaphor. Too late to redo them, my final directorial decision was that to shit-can them both and keep them as boring cocktail tables. Blah, humbug.

For me, the opening weekend of LEGEND OF THE ROGUE/LIFE IS A CABARET was an absolute blur. Apparently, all was well, for the most part. The melo went swimmingly, a triumph I wasn't able to enjoy with the Sword of Damocles vaudeville hanging over my head. But CABARET, lumbering mess that it was, plodded along without a hitch with the exception that it was so bloody long. The entire show didn't let out until close to midnight, 30 to 45 minutes over.  

DW Landingham. Naturally.

In the following week, damage control was put into place without my participation. In effect, Goldie, in her venerable role as producer, basically took my show away from me, an act of mercy perhaps that should have happened weeks before opening. Instead of being led behind the barn with a bullet put to my head, I chose to suffer the consequences, namely staying with the show as a cast member only. (My director credit remained on the program.) More numbers were sliced, diced and tossed in the trash bin, replaced by a couple of old favorites from the Ville catalog, more irony for me to chew on. The great D.W. Landingham came in to save the day, becoming a special guest star cast member as the top banana in the DR. CURE-ALL sketch and THE HECKLER. Naturally, he excelled, guaranteeing his spot on the Pollardville Mt. Rushmore. This is how it went down for the entire run which continued without major incident or my input. By the show's end at the end of the summer, I was relieved for it to be over and put behind me.

But was it? Here I am over forty years later. dragging myself over the coals, though I'm doing so to gain some perspective and complete this apology tour. In retrospect, LIFE IS A CABARET had its moments, a very adequate second half,  though I know goddamn well that it is nobody's favorite. (In case you haven't guessed, I count myself in the mix) The musical numbers were all fine, throwing a tap number into the finale and a solo spot for our superb drummer Joel Warren playing the conga and singing Kenny Rogers' "The Hoodooin' of Miss Fanny DeBerry". However, there was a big gaping hole I didn't fill and that was COMEDY.  The one thing I had built my reputation upon had been sorely lacking. Two bits I conceived had been given the heave-ho and I had zippity doo dah to replace them. Thank Buddha for D.W. and some classic material at our disposal.

Quite frankly, as if I haven't been, the whole premise of the show was flimsy at best and, under scrutiny, fell apart at the seams. The only word to describe it all would be disappointing. It's like that phrase parents use to cut kids to the quick, "I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed." Among those I let down were Goldie, who gave me this shot, Bill, who I treated poorly as both a friend and never a collaborator, the cast, who always gave their best and elevated the material each and every performance and even the Ville itself for taking my back on its legacy because I wanted to put my own spin on things I knew nothing about. The previous show, GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE, was a big step forward while mine barely made it own of the starting gate before tripping over its own feet. 

Mercifully, it wasn't a complete boondoggle. The melodrama did maintain the spirit of excellence that SEVEN WIVES FOR DRACULA (GOODBYE TV's companion) set forth, both on stage and behind the scenes. For that I was grateful enough to keep my head above water. While the cast excelled throughout, I have to award the Most Valuable Player Award to Ed Thorpe for going above and beyond with his contributions to the whole show. Cast as Rhett, one of two henchman of the villain and the smallest role in THE ROGUE, he created a demonic Tasmanian Devil-like character that blew the roof off the joint. I had created a character for him in the second half, a hick stand-up comic named Jim Bob Cornhusker, that he brought to brilliant light but was unfortunately short-lived. To make up for it, he received an important role in DOCTOR CURE-ALL where he once again exploded onto that stage like the seasoned Pollardville pro he was and always would be.

What I have come to realize in reliving this episode of my Ville life is that prior to accepting the role of vaudeville director, things were too damn easy for me and when it became hard, I floundered like a tuna on the deck of a fishing boat. My inherent immaturity overrode my talent. What I failed to recognize is the plain truth (or life cliche', if you must) that it is the hard that makes it good. If putting a show together was so easy, everyone could do it. It isn't, they can't and at that pivotal moment, neither could I. But, hey, wasn't I supposed to be Orson Welles? Uh-uh. Neither was he at first. Orson didn't suddenly appear out of the blue with CITIZEN KANE in his hot little hands. He had years of training and stage experience under his belt before his career took off, albeit at an early age. Me, I'm self-taught at just about everything, which served me well initially, but the arrogance of youth, my own, exposed my shortcomings and damn near did me in for good.

Following THE ROGUE/CABARET came Bob Gossett's melodrama PIRATES OF THE GOLDEN SEA  (or KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY CHEST) and Ed's VOYAGE TO PARADISE. I wasn't about to jump into the frying pan again, so I stayed off the stage for quite a stretch. Goldie, bless her lil' pea-pickin' heart, played into my strengths again and allowed me to pen a couple of sketches and gags for it as I did for the next production as well. I kept my feet in the water, but I wasn't ready to go back into the deep end again. Not yet anyway. 

That's a story for another time. Just not this one. 

SEE ALSO;

LIFE IS CABARET PART ONE

and PART TWO

AND THE REST OF THE POLLARDVILLE STORY ALL ONE PAGE ENTITLED

TALES FROM THE VILLE

Tales from the Ville-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Part One

As I continue to chronicle my time at the Palace Showboat Theatre at Pollardville, I have to be as true to myself as I possibly can and admit to my own failures, this one in particular. These next few posts are pretty much of a purge, but necessary to my story.  

Because I was (am) a moony eyed dreamer, one of the early heroes I claimed in my creative development was Orson Welles. Using CITIZEN KANE as a benchmark, I aspired to achieve what he had with that classic film, that is, write, produce and star, by the tender age of 25. The title of wunderkind had appealed to me as well. Little did I fathom that I couldn't claim that for myself, but to have it bestowed upon by others. (There's a parallel here with the first appearance of a delusional Wile E. Coyote in a Bugs Bunny cartoon referring to himself as a "super genius".) This wasn't the only misconception I had about either myself or Mr. Welles at this point in time. To paraphrase Junior Soprano, what I didn't know could fill a book...or at least a couple of blog posts. 

Following my stage debut at the Ville, I unwisely opted out of auditioning for the next show, SEVEN BRIDES FOR DRACULA/ GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE for a couple of fairly valid reasons. The first was my commitment as Entertainment Director for a second year at then titled Tule Flats Ghost Town. The second, I wanted to create my own show for the Palace Showboat stage. Though Ed Thorpe and I wrote LA RUE'S RETURN, I wanted to go off and thus my first solo melodrama, THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE, was chosen for the next show, another feather in my cap of growing plumage. But that wasn't all, as I soon found out. Producer extraordinaire Goldie Pollard granted me the honor of directing the vaudeville portion of that same show. Therefore, the next production was to be a Scott Cherney joint from top to bottom. This incredible leap of faith on Goldie's part was insurmountable. Destiny itself had blown its majestic trumpet as I had been given the keys to the kingdom...at the age of 25. Orson who?

Over the moon and back again, I dove in head first. Following the current show would be a daunting effort to say the least. DRACULA/GOODBYE TV had pretty much changed the landscape of what was possible on that stage, ushering in a new era. I felt up to the challenge and set out to do it all by myself. After all, I wrote THE ROGUE in a week's time, so how hard could it be? 

Reality check, please! 

#1: This would be my directorial debut. On stage. I was a babe in the woods. I had staged a few gunfights in the ghost town the summer before, but what else? Zippity-doo-dah. 

#2: I wanted to re-invent the wheel...again, namely the concept of a Pollardville vaudeville show. Bill Humphreys had done this with GOODBYE TV and I chose to follow in his footsteps until I headed down my own path.  My arrogance (and ignorance) prompted me to turn my nose up to what I considered to be the cornball Pollardville formula. After all, I knew better, didn't I? 

#3 My theater experience overall was pretty slight, especially in terms of music and choreography. What the hell did I know? I had been a bit player in a high school production of DAMN YANKEES and struggled through the singing and dancing portions of  UNDER THE BIG TOP. I certainly couldn't read music and as for dancing, my closet was full of left shoes. 

Yup. The odd were against me, but what did I care? I'd show 'em. I'd show 'em all.  But first, I had to pass GO, with or without $200.

All summer long, I delved into the research and development of my show . In those pre internet days, my best friend was the public library for the wealth of information at my disposal. Initially I considered to go with a vaudeville centered around my favorite subject-the movies. I had no idea why I decided against it, probably because it was too easy. I went in to deep dive of material and soon, my concept became thus: A show that celebrated the elements of a Palace Showboat vaudeville from various venues around the world such as British music halls, Paris' Folies Bergere, American nightclubs, Germany's cabarets and so on, and so forth. Following that last piece of the puzzle came the title LIFE IS A CABARET. 

Despite this rather vague, unformed concept, my creative juices began overflowing with ideas. As a fan of THE MUPPET SHOW, I wanted puppets to serve as a background chorus for a voodoo number. A can-can dance was a necessity. I conceived a slapstick tango number to go to the tune of Ravel's Bolero. (Blake Edwards' 10, was a major film at that time). The guys' number was another rock and roller ala "Hot Patootie" from the current show. I wanted Spencer Davis Group' "Gimme Some Lovin'",  featuring Chicago gangsters for some reason I don't recall. I wanted the girls' number to be the absolute epitome of hot, a combination of  "Fever" and "Steam Heat". The opening of course had to be John Kander of Fred Ebb's "Cabaret". The finale I actually derived from a very racist Warner Brothers cartoon called GOIN' TO HEAVEN ON A MULE. In it, a lazy worker drinks a jug of hooch, passes out  and dreams he lands in heaven, which turns out to be a nightclub called Pair O' Dice. I kept that same setting with the addition of the numbers "This Joint is Jumpin'" and "It Don't Mean a Thing". Sounds horrible in a 21st century context, doesn't it?  I justified it all in the belief that whitewashing we'd apply would make all that nasty racism go away. In retrospect, I didn't have a fucking clue. However, no one else called me on this either. Not many years before, the Ville staged their own Caucasian minstrel show, so my ignorance ran concurrent with past productions. Unintentionally offensive is still offensive, but that was then, this is now. Can't change the past, but I sure can own up to it.

Let the cancellations commence. 

To Be Continued

See also: GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE TALES FROM THE VILLE-HI YO, SILVER! 

                THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE THE LEGEND CONTINUES

                 THE REST OF THE STORY, ALL ON ONE PAGE TALES FROM THE VILLE

Passion Plays

My jaw still hurts after sitting through Francois Ford Coppola's epic MEGALOPOLIS. My mouth fell open about five minutes into the movie and didn't close until I (finally!) visited the restroom two and a half hours later. I haven't seen anything as audacious, baffling, sumptuous, intriguing or incoherent on a cinema screen in recent or even distant memory. While endlessly fascinating, it also doesn't make a lick of sense much of the time, so much so that Fellini himself would said, "Huh?'

A more accurate title for Coppola's modernized Roman epic could have been EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE ALL AT ONCE if it wasn't already taken. I will fully cop to the fact that much of this film went over my head. Then again, I believe the same is true of Francis. He dove straight into the deep end and, even though he starts to drown, he keeps swimming anyway. He knew he was going to break the surface again, struggling the entire way, right up to the point of hallucinating as he runs out of air. And what does he do then? He plants those illusion straight onto the screen, somehow keeping the whole enterprise afloat. But did he have to pen his screenplay in the pool as well? MEGALOPOLIS is overflowing with the most indecipherable dialogue any actor has ever had to perform which occasionally ventures into Latin for reasons only FFC can answer. So many questionable character names as well, though I did have a favorite, Aubrey Plaza's Ego Platinum. 

The cast is game, going over the top from the git-go, not to an irritating effect for the most part, though Shia La Boeuf ventures closest to the edge. Interesting to see Dustin Hoffman and Jon Voight in the same film again, though it seemed a wasted opportunity that they didn't share a scene together. I have to give it up to Adam Driver for the Herculean effort he put into the lead role, running laps with his director in that drowning pool, unafraid of the consequences of his actions no matter how outrageous they might appear and oh, brother, did they ever. In some pretentious circles, this is considered bravery. "Oh, Adam's so brave for putting himself out there like that!" 

The true courage, if that's what it can be deemed, goes to Francis F. himself. The man is in his mid-80s and put everything on the line for this project that has been almost 50 years since its first inception. Raising over $120 million in this day and age for an independent production is a massive undertaking that someone half his age will find impossible. What he ended with may be a colossal mess, but to call it a failure is extremely short-sighted. For myself, this was a once in a lifetime viewing that I couldn't even begin to forget (with some exceptions, but let's get back to the platitudes). I may never sit through it again, but I actually cherished the experience. I was rooting for Francis the entire way, though I had some personal misgivings going in and almost didn't watch it.

As a rule, a passion project such as MEGALOPOLIS doesn't match up to the filmmaker's vision and often fall flat on their faces in abject failure. For example, look, if you can, for Barry Levinson's TOYS, Terry Gilliam's THE MAN WHO KILLED DON QUIXOTE (hello again, Adam Driver), George Miller's THREE THOUSAND YEARS OF LONGING,  and Martin Scorsese's SILENCE (what, again Adam?) You can add Michael Cimino's HEAVEN GATE to take that to the broken bank, but one must really look at Orson Welles' THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WIND. It took nearly 48 years to make before Netflix actually came to the rescue to help finish what Orson could not. WIND is as chaotic and captivating as MEGALOPOLIS. Time has a way of diminishing the initial fire of the filmmaker's imagination. For Orson Welles, it damn destroyed his last gasp once and for all. For Francis Coppola, the jury is still out, though in this age of snap judgments and rotten tomatoes muddying the artistic waters, he's been shown the curb by an unforgiving world, one he has skewed in the film in question.

More recently, Kevin Costner has stumbled out of the corral with his epic western saga HORIZON which has cost him a ton of dough, a TV series (YELLOWSTONE) and possibly a career. Costner is even more stubborn than Coppola, stubbornly splitting his film into four chapters, two of which have been completed. The critics have been brutal, the box office grim and HORIZON is already streaming less than three months after its debut. As for the fate of Chapter Two and subsequent installments, it's all on the roulette wheel for now. But Costner is no less driven and downright stubborn than his predecessors.

This all hits very close to home for this guy right here. I have been writing a novel for more years than I would care to admit, one I consider a passion project of my very own. I've recently completed a draft I can live with story-wise since in all that time, it has gotten away from me too. In no way am I comparing myself to anyone I've discussed, but I do understand how a long-gestating project can come apart at the seams. An unwelcome part of the task becomes trying to fix the damage done by waiting too fucking long. But in that time, I have been able to correct mistakes and, in some ways, made it even better. However, it isn't the same as I originally envisioned it. What was meant to be a springboard has become a life's work, unintentionally or not.  I am about enter an intensive editing phase because what I have now is way too much of what I fear may not be a good thing. In other words, an unruly overwhelming and ultimately mess.

That's my reason for nearly ditching Francis Ford Coppola's MEGALOPOLIS. His failure would have been too much to handle because I would have taken it to heart. His failure would have dictated my own. At this stage of the end game, this has become an irrational fear. I have threatened to shit-can my work so many times over the years, why not tank the whole enterprise and call it a day? I finally relented and saw MEGALOPOLIS as I should have in an actual cinema, an endurance test but with benefits. I came away with the belief that, regardless of the outcome, Francis Coppola didn't take no for an answer, least of all from himself. The same could be said for Kevin Costner and so many others. I stand in their corners because I get it. They may very well have created fiascos from which they may never recover, but they were theirs to make. In that way and perhaps that way alone, they succeeded, inspiring me to head for the finish line, tripping and wheezing the rest of the way.

Call it obsession. Call it foolhardy. Call it nonsensical.

Call it passion.

 

Rosebud Redux

An excerpt from IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER written by moi with a few recent musings at the end to wrap it all up in a pretty bow.

At last, I have vindicated myself. A wrong in my life has finally been made right.

A glaring red mark is now erased from my permanent record. I once was lost, but now I’m found.

What, you may well ask, is this bold, courageous step I have taken which will guarantee me a reserved seat in that big skybox above known as Heaven?

I have just seen CITIZEN KANE as it was originally meant to be seen-on an actual motion picture screen.

Okay, fine, I’m a little late. It’s not like I haven’t seen the dang thing before…only several dozen times since I was a lad of wee, but it was always on television. After all, CITIZEN KANE was a perennial LATE, LATE SHOW attraction in the prehistoric days before cable. I probably saw it for the first time on the San Francisco TV station KPIX at maybe two in the morning back in the 1960s. Even then, it was hard to deny the power of this incredible film, a tougher feat to accomplish in those days since it was broken up by incessant used car commercials featuring fast-talking hucksters like the notorious Ralph Williams, a dead ringer for Lex Luthor. CITIZEN KANE pulled me in every single time and I was always a willing hostage.

Only a series of missed opportunities throughout my movie-going life has prevented me from actually making the supreme effort to view what is generally acknowledged as the greatest film of all time in its natural habitat. Truthfully, it has been a major source of embarrassment to have to admit this shame of mine because I have always claimed to be somewhat of an expert on the cinema, a connoisseur, if you
will…someone who eats, sleeps, hell…even farts movies. Not to have seen CITIZEN KANE…really, honestly, truly seen Orson Welles’ masterpiece meant one thing and one thing only.

I was a fraud. Oh yeah. A genuine, bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool-whatever-the-hell-that-means, class A number one F-R-A-U-D.

But, not no mo’, pal.

Now, I can hold my head up high, climb to the top of Gene Shalit’s hair and shout victoriously, “Free at last! Free at Last! Pass the popcorn, I am free at last!”

This soul-cleansing redemption came one recent fall evening at the Guild Theatre in downtown Portland, Oregon, a venue that runs shows for the Northwest Film Center. The Guild has an auditorium that is old, musty and damp with seats to match, almost giving off the impression that’s it had been underwater for several years after a flood. That, to me, is part of its charm. The screen, framed by soft white light bulbs, was rather small, making me think this might be a 16mm showing, even though it wasn’t. The presentation began; stumbling and bumbling like a doddering old fool in the dark. The
opening titles, usually the first big rush I get because your anticipation is so high, were illegibly out of frame. The sound level was so loud, the NEWS ON THE MARCH fanfare alone nearly burst open my lower intestine. The print was fairly scratchy in that community college Film Appreciation class way. Instead of irritating the snot out of me, these gaffes actually amused me because they eventually worked themselves out. The Guild basically showed me a good time that night. I might even give it a second date sometime.

It is also my pleasure to report that I sat with a respectful audience that didn’t talk during the film, laughed at all the right places and even gave me a small sense of pride to be amongst them when they applauded after the closing credits. (There were a couple of knotheads that just HAD to leave just as the sled was burning. What’s the hurry? Afraid you’re gonna miss a rerun of JAG?)

To say that I’m familiar with CITIZEN KANE would be an understatement. Basically, I know this film backwards and forwards with entire scenes that I can recite verbatim. However, each repeat viewing affords certain aspects of KANE to stand out more than ever, as it would for any film. Projected on the big screen, these details are more abundant and have more clarity. I may not have seen KANE with “a whole new set of eyes” like a friend of mine suggested, but my vision most certainly improved. The opening sequence, just before Kane utters “Rosebud” for the very first time, has that eerie tour of Xanadu after dark. With its special effects and matte paintings, it looks damn near like animation, not dissimilar to early black-and-white Disney. Speaking of cartoons, check out the birds in the background of the Everglades sequence near the end. Just where the hell did Kane and Susan have that picnic anyway…Skull Island? Hey, look over there by the chilled prawns…it’s Bruce Cabot! Joseph Cotten is very obvious in the shadows of the screening room after NEWS ON THE MARCH. That smile he has on his face looks like he was trying to sneak into the scene. Another thing I’ve never really picked up on before: Dorothy Comingore, the actress who portrays the second Mrs. Kane, was hot! Take a look at the early boarding house scene when Susan Alexander is introduced. Small wonder how Kane got his hand caught in that “cookie” jar. Granted, she’s got a voice that would make Fran Drescher squirm, but how can I not pay tribute to the actress who says the immortal line, “Yer awful funny, are-runt cha?”

On the downside is a glaring oversight by Welles and screenwriter Herman Mankiewicz that weakens the film for me and obviously is something I haven’t picked upon before. There is a total lack of any kind of a payoff regarding the death of Emily, the first Mrs. Kane, and their son (played by the ever-popular Sonny Bupp) Surely, it was significant enough to warrant such attention. Their demise seems to be mentioned only in passing, as if it were merely a convenience of the story. Its absence leaves a very obvious gaping hole that I find impossible to ignore from here on out.

Volumes have been written about Gregg Toland’s cinematography and Bernard Herrmann’s music, so let me just add my undying admiration for both of their invaluable contributions, which are even more spectacular in a theater setting. When Rosebud’s secret is finally revealed and the music reaches its crescendo, so did I, in more ways than one. (You figure it out)

Orson Welles as Charles Foster Kane is the single greatest film performance of all time. Period.

After the movie, I drove home about as pleased with myself as I had been in quite some time. Now that

time has distanced me from that night, I have to ask myself why. What was it that I actually accomplished? I went to a movie. More accurately, I went to a movie that I’d seen maybe thirty times before I also own a copy of this movie I paid to see. The answer may be two-fold for it not only has to do with act of going to a movie, but also what it represents which, coincidentally enough, is a lot like the answer to the meaning of Rosebud. Watching CITIZEN KANE at the Guild gave me something I had been lacking-sense of being true to myself.

I love the movies. I own both a VCR and a DVD player. That means I will continue to watch movies at home each and every chance I get. The technology is getting better and better as each day passes, making the home experience a more viable option. There is never a lack of product since it is easier and extremely affordable to obtain movies to purchase or merely to rent. My own personal collection continues to grow into the treasure chest I’ve always dreamed of. But, it’s never going to be enough.
There is a qualitative difference in a theater, an entire dimension that is lost at home. This dimension is a separate world, a world of light and life that can envelop me entirely. It can make the fantastic positively believable and the tiniest gesture a poem. The portal to that world is a movie theater and I wish to remain a frequent traveler through its gateway. Sure, sometimes this magic portal takes me to a place where a teenager humps an apple pie. But, hey, allow me the pretentious metaphor.

The night I saw KANE was a wake-up call. It re-ignited the fire I myself allowed to go out, that is, my passion for the movie-going experience. It caused me to review the many options that exist out there for those with my voracious appetite for all things celluloid. I happen to be very fortunate to be living in an area where I’m only limited by my lack of imagination. The confines of the multiplex with its standard Hollywood fare mentality may be pre-dominant here as it everywhere but at least there are many other choices. Independent, foreign, revivals of classics, hell, even second run features at discounted prices are all currently playing at various neighborhood theaters all over town, many in glorious old movie palaces that have been saved and preserved by people who care. These are getting fewer and far between as each day passes, which is another reason to support them. There are even theater pubs where you can enjoy a meal and a brew while watching a movie. Okay, that’s here where I live. Maybe that doesn’t exist where you are. Go out and find them. If I didn’t live in this area, that’s what I would do. I’ve done it before and I’d do it again. And yes, I’ve even gone back to the multiplex too because it ain’t the only game in town. It’s just another option.

You see, as I said, I love the movies and I am proud to say the movies love me right back. What I’ve come to realize it that this a part of who I am and always will be, even it is just a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. This is my Rosebud.

In the dark, I see the light.

Copyright 2003 by Scott Cherney

CODA:
This incident occurred at the turn of century, a term that is still hard to swallow twenty three years into the 21st where we find ourselves now. That being said, some updates seem to be required. The Guild Theatre in downtown Portland is long gone. I no longer have a VCR, though am inexplicably holding onto some videotapes. There is no mention of streaming services because they didn't exist back then. You could rent a DVD from Netflix though if you so desired. 

I still believe in the power of cinema, especially in the realm of a movie theater. My attendance in recent years may belie this fanciful notion, but the experience in and of itself still gives me that visceral thrill like no other. In fact, I'm going to a movie tomorrow to keep my passion for film alive and hopefully still kicking.

IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER is available in paperback and Kindle on the Amazon

2008 is Enough-Part Two: The Year in Film

As I've stated here in years past, I'm not a stickler about what I consider to be the best of any given year, especially since I don't see everything that is released in the theaters in supposed "time allotted"-Jan. 1 through Dec. 31. Therefore, I can really only give you my impressions of what I have seen.
I will start off by declaring that my favorite 2008 release is Tomas Alfredson's sensational kid vampire tale LET THE RIGHT ONE IN (see 11/17/08 post: Stuff 'n Nonsense) , followed very closely by Guillaume Canet's riveting whodunit TELL NO ONE (post 8/26/08: Dog Days and Nights). Yeah, they're both furren filyums and I'm not trying to be anti-American or an elitist snob, but they ranked highest in what I was able to catch this last year. I also enjoyed IRON MAN, CLOVERFIELD, most of THE DARK KNIGHT, BURN AFTER READING, SON OF RAMBOW and QUANTUM OF SOLACE.
There are, however, several films that I viewed at home and from other eras other than our own that far surpassed the few I've mentioned above. For my on-going film education, 2008 was a year of rediscovery and, as a result, confirmation. As time passes, we sometimes become blase and somewhat contrite about the past, almost taking artists for granted when they should be celebrated for what they've given the world. Often, we equate longevity with just dumb luck and forget what made others stand out from the pack and endure over time.

Case in point: Gary Cooper
For myself, I tended to consider him just another cog in the star system, pleasant, but more of a star than an actor. I ate those words from dusk 'til dawn when I caught MR. DEEDS GOES TO TOWN. Here's a film that I let get away in the past, regarding it as another Frank Capra feel-good (more words I ingested). DEEDS transcends the limitations I had set upon it by leaps and bounds, showing me the error of my ways. This comedy of a small town yokel who inherits a fortune works on every level and especially because Cooper inhabits this role with gusto that has either escaped me in the past or I let pass by out of pure ignorance. I got almost as much pleasure watching Cooper in Lubitsch's BLUEBEARD'S EIGHTH WIFE.

Then there was Boris Karloff, another actor pigeonholed and typecast by Hollywood, but who was able to give incredibly complex performances in such films I saw for the first time such as ISLE OF THE DEAD and THE BODY SNATCHER for producer Val Lewton (whose other works floored me especially CURSE OF THE CAT PEOPLE). Catch BODY SNATCHER for a Karloff that will both chill and tickle you to the bone.

I also rediscovered the hidden treasures of the spaghetti western genre with RUN, MAN, RUN, A BULLET FOR THE GENERAL and the extraordinary THE GREAT SILENCE, directed by Sergio Corbucci, probably the bleakest film of that era and one of the most powerful.

Finding a lost treasure is always a thrill. This year, it was Terrence Fisher's THE DEVIL RIDES OUT (aka THE DEVIL'S BRIDE), easily one of the finest productions from the legendary Hammer Studios. Christopher Lee always claimed that this, along with the original WICKER MAN, were his best. I agree.




Of course, the best of the best was Orson Welles' F FOR FAKE, his film essay about hoaxes that had this great artist working at the very peak of his form in a format he created himself and acting as playful as a 26 year old kid playing with the world's biggest train set again. This was the true find of the year for me and one I will treasure always.

I went ga-ga over several others in 2008, including:

Samuel Fuller's PICKUP ON SOUTH STREET, THE NAKED KISS and the restoration of THE BIG RED ONE

The Chinese Martin Scorsese, Johnny To's gangster dramas ELECTION, TRIAD ELECTION and RUNNING OUT OF TIME (see blog dated 5/15/08: BAH-DUMP-BUMP!)

Two superb films noir: Nicholas Ray's IN A LONELY PLACE and Elia Kazan's PANIC IN THE STREETS

More crime dramas, this time with a French accent: Jean Pierre Melville's LE DOULOS (with the great Belmondo) and Claude Sautet's CLASSE TOUS RISQUES starring Lino Ventura, the French Spencer Tracy

Francois Truffaut's film about film DAY FOR NIGHT

John Carney's ONCE-one of the sweetest romances in the last decade

Brad Bird's RATATOUILLE (the best last ten minutes to a film all year)

Anthony Mann's classic James Stewart western WINCHESTER 73

Seth Gordon's Uber-nerd doc KING OF KONG

Geoff Murphy's riff on the post Apocalypse THE QUIET EARTH

Gary Sherman's cult horror flick from the Seventies RAW MEAT

The best western of this decade THE ASSASINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD by emerging director Andrew Dominik with a sensational Brad Pitt portrayal of the famous outlaw

The brilliantly diverse Japanese Cinema: Kento Shindo's haunting ONIBABA, Seijun Suzuki's wacky Yakuza actioner YOUTH OF THE BEAST, Nobuo Nokagawa's literal vision of Hell JIGOKU, Kenji Fukasaku's utraviolent teenager survivor epic BATTLE ROYALE, the sublime Yasujiro Ozu's TOKYO STORY and Akira Krosawa's riveting kidnap yarn HIGH AND LOW

Giallo or Horror, Italian style in Dario Argento's TENEBRE

Sean Penn's faithful adaptation of INTO THE WILD

Satjayit Ray's second in the APU trilogy APARAJITO, a nice balance to SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE

The Sixties ala American Internation Pictures in Barry Shear's WILD IN THE STREETS (Whatever happened to Christopher Jones?)

I cried like a baby and probably always will watching the HBO South African orphan docu WE ARE TOGETHER

Roger Corman directs a racist William Shatner in THE INTRUDER

and Erich von Stroheim's silent saga GREED

You know what? That ain't all. In fact, I saw 143 movies last year. These were the best of the best. Some day I'm sure that I'll see a movie a day, adding up to 365. But not this year.

I gotta get some air. See? You thought I was going to say get a life, huh? Fooled you. After all, to me, film IS life.

L'Chaim!

Happy New Year, Y'all