Month: June 2023

INDIANA JONES AND THE DIAL OF DESTINY

By Marc S. Sanders

When a film director, the writers, and producers are trying to make a fifth installment of a franchise that spans over forty years, centered around one of the most iconic characters in history, it is important to consider every factor involved in the process.  My colleague, Miguel, commented that Indiana Jones And The Dial Of Destiny had four writers attached to the project.  Normally, I call that a shortcoming.  When you’re stumped for imagination, turn to yet another writer.  In this case, however, I believe it served to ensure they were providing a fitting send off to the famed archeologist in search of rare antiquities.  Dr. Jones’ final silver screen adventure hits all the right notes thanks to storytellers focused on imagination and sensitivity for the celebrated character.

James Mangold, a director who I don’t think gets enough credit for his accomplishments (Walk The Line, Logan, Ford Vs Ferrari, 3:10 To Yuma) takes over for a busy Steven Spielberg who occupies the producer’s chair this time.  The Dial Of Destiny has a modern Mangold gloss to the cinematography, compared to the distressed, washed out films of Indy’s earlier adventures.  However, it remains a very well-constructed film that should be recognized especially for some outstanding editing.  At the center of the film is a swashbuckling chase through Tangiers on three-wheel scooters and cars. It is as breathless as any of Mangold’s prior work or Spielberg’s pieces.  In fact, all the fined tuned action sequences function so beautifully.   Give the editors an Oscar nomination now!  The DC superhero films need to take a lesson from this esteemed house of Spielberg.

The film has a wonderful prologue worthy of being in the same fraternity with the other films in the series as Indy (a de-aged Harrison Ford) and his colleague (Toby Jones) come face to face with Nazis as Hitler’s reign is quickly collapsing.  The set up of the titled MacGuffin is introduced aboard a high-speed locomotive through German territory.  Flash forward to 1969 in New York City, and it is the eve of Dr. Jones’ retirement being overshadowed by America’s parade celebration of the moon landing.  Circumstances that our hero was never looking for occur and before you know it, Indiana Jones is riding horseback through a subway tunnel after being set up by his long-lost goddaughter, Helena Shaw (Phoebe Waller-Bridge).  Clandestine antagonists are hot on their trail, particularly a professor who goes by the name of Schmidt (Mads Mikkelsen). Then it is on to Morocco, followed by a diving expedition among a school of threatening eels. Sicily is next, and I dare not even reveal where the final destination takes place, but it’s a welcome and very appropriate surprise.  Bravo to the promotion machinists for not even hinting where this new film eventually escorts Indy and his pals.

When George Lucas invented the famed archeologist with the fedora hat, crackling whip, and leather jacket, I believe he was simply looking to arrange with Steven Spielberg to offer an update of the Saturday cliffhanging serials they watched as adolescents.  Indiana Jones was not a character in Raiders Of The Lost Ark.  He was a carving.  Harrison Ford occupied the well-worn image. Spielberg’s silhouettes of the man kept him thankfully recognizable.  Later films gave the world traveler more depth with back stories pertaining to his father (a timelessly memorable Sean Connery) and his one true love Marion (Karen Allen; isn’t she great?).  Indiana Jones is an archeologist by trade. Yet, in an age of advancing technology with television sets in every home during the 1980s and video games being updated quicker than people pay for them, the character is cinema’s greatest historian and one its most adoring adventurers.  The greatest achievement that The Dial Of Destiny offers is an absolutely perfect send-off to the character that movie goers have gotten to know since he first appeared in 1981, when he was the best alternative to James Bond.

Unlike the British secret agent, though, I truly believe only one actor can play Indiana Jones.  All five films demonstrate that Harrison Ford is irreplaceable.  Unlike Bond, who is written to adapt to the respective modern age in which every new film is produced, Ford has aged in line with Jones.  Indiana Jones is a traveler through the history of the twentieth century, researching and uncovering evidence of centuries past.  In his youth he’s fallible, and his improvisation to get out of a tight squeeze remains thematically the same during his elder years.  Time passes and evolves over the twentieth century, but Dr. Jones’ profession and vast intelligence lives in a past before evolution and technological advancement.  

This film features snippets of 60s rock music and references the moon landing.  Jones clearly is grumpily dismissive of these new discoveries.  They are not appropriate in his world. His best skills in the field to fend off what interferes with him are a weapon of ancient times (his whip), some hard-hitting punches and a six-shooter pistol.  Other than his researched knowledge, he doesn’t advance further than that.  So, the character ages physically and out of modern date, just as the man who portrays him does as well.  Ford goes shirtless in one scene.  The wrinkles, grey hair, pot belly and love handles show.

The cast is very welcoming in this latest movie.  Phoebe Waller-Bridge is especially fun and spunky in the same vein as Karen Allen.  She’s smart and instinctual.  Daringly adventuresome too.  I know she’s a newly celebrated screenwriter, but I’d love to see more of her in front of the camera as well.  Toby Jones is that character actor who always looks fitting for a period piece.  Mads Mikkelsen is who casting agents dial up for the quiet, yet scary, villain that the best heroes in film need to face off against.  He’s not doing anything we haven’t seen him do before, but he works well as a smart Nazi stooge.  Antonio Banderas is here, not doing much really.  A kid actor named Ethann Isidore joins the party, reminiscent of the Short Round character, and John Rhys-Davies as Indy’s trusty pal Sallah returns for a few scenes to welcome applause.

The cast is dynamic, and all have their shining moments, but the film belongs to Harrison Ford. I regard his latest performance with a warm smile as a salute to his distinguished career of playing those everyman roles without the bulked-up muscles or tough guy bravado.  He never had the skillful soldier like ease of getting out of any dangerous situation like a Stallone or Schwarzenegger.  Ford steers his characters to those pictures where none of them, including Indiana Jones, ever expect to get caught up in grand adventures.  Yet, when it happens his performances leave you yearning for him to triumph and win out in the end.  The best example is Indiana Jones, of course.  He carries his audiences with the smarts of the character and the pursuit of the unknown and what we can learn more about.  The Indiana Jones series is one of the greatest inventions to ever grace a movie theater.  Because they are born out of history, they will always remain timeless and priceless with each passing generation that discovers these wonderful films.

It’s good to have Indiana Jones back in theaters.  I can’t wait to see this movie again.

ASTEROID CITY (2023)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Wes Anderson
CAST: More Actors Than You Can Shake a Stick At
MY RATING: 5/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 76% Certified Fresh

PLOT: In the mid-1950s, a roadside motel in a fictional mid-Western flyspeck plays host to a junior stargazing event that unexpectedly escalates, changing everyone’s world view forever.  …sort of.


Asteroid City, Wes Anderson’s latest film, feels like a collector’s edition box of Cracker Jack with no prize inside.  Or a cake that has prize-winning decorations, but it’s hollow inside.  It looks phenomenal; one of my fellow cinephiles, Anthony, predicts it will be nominated for cinematography and production design, and I agree with him.  But where the heart of the film should be is simply a crater like the one around which the fictional town of Asteroid City was built.  This is yet another star-studded cast for Wes Anderson, but Anderson has given them very little to do other than wear colorful costumes, look solemnly into the camera, and speak in very precise phrases.

This strategy has served him very well…no…EXTREMELY well in the past.  Moonrise Kingdom (2012) and Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) spring immediately to mind.  But some crucial piece of machinery is missing from Asteroid City.  The characters are colorful and quirky, but at the end of the day, I simply didn’t care about what they did or said.  (Well…except when actress Midge Campbell [Scarlett Johansson] decides to rehearse her nude scene for her next-door neighbor…I did care about that.)

The film opens with a pillarboxed segment in black-and-white.  Our host (Bryan Cranston) explains that we’re about to watch a staged presentation of the newest play from author Conrad Earp (Edward Norton), who proceeds to lay out the “set” for us.  “Upstage right is the crater…upstage left are the motel cabins”, etc.  Then the screen expands to full letterbox and we are treated to eye-popping Kodachrome desert landscapes as we follow a 165-car freight train as it passes by Asteroid City.  Well, “City” should be in quotes…the population is officially listed at eighty-seven.

This is some wacky city.  It’s as if Wes Anderson watched every Coen Brothers film set in the Midwest, from Raising Arizona to No Country for Old Men, and filtered them through a Looney Tunes cartoon written by Charlie Kaufman.  Vending machines on the porch of the rental office sell everything from snacks and drinks to martinis and parcels of local real estate.  (Cost for the real estate parcels: forty quarters…they’re not big parcels.)  An abandoned highway overpass lurks on the outskirts.  Periodically, a police chase roars down the otherwise empty highway, guns firing and sirens blaring.  The residents say nothing about this phenomenon.  And every now and then, the town shakes from nuclear testing being done hundreds of miles away, but close enough that the mushroom clouds are visible.

Man, I love this kind of thing.  The stage is set for one of the all-time great satires, or maybe just a flat-out fairy tale.  We meet the cast of characters who have congregated here to honor young geniuses who have invented everything from rocket packs to particle guns to a projector strong enough to project an image on the moon.  A full rundown of all these characters would wind up being a novella, but if you’re acquainted with Anderson’s work, they will all be familiar to you in one way or another.  (Not least because many of them have worked on Anderson’s other films.)  They have also gathered to witness a rare astronomical event: a solar ellipse.  Not an eclipse.  An ellipse.  The mechanism required to view an ellipse without damaging your retinas looks like something out of Brazil.

Again, I normally love this kind of stuff, really, I do.  But…okay, look, first of all, the film intermittently takes a break from the movie itself to yank us out of the story and show us an event in the playwright’s life that led to the casting of Augie Steenbeck.  Or to show us a rehearsal where an acting coach (Willem Dafoe) encourages the actors – that we’ve already been watching perform in the movie/play – to improvise what it’s like to wake up by first falling asleep.  There’s even a moment where the host shows up where he really shouldn’t be.  And when one of the actors has a moment of existential crisis concerning the character he’s playing, he simply walks off the set, goes backstage and asks the director (Adrien Brody) why he’s doing what he’s doing.

…I mean…what IS this?  Conceptually, I get it, even if it’s a little heavy-handed.  (“What’s my motivation?”  “You’ll have to figure it out as you go along.”  “That’s too hard!”  “Well, that’s life.”)  But…why is it here?  Anderson worked with non-linear structure before in Grand Budapest Hotel, and it worked marvelously.  Here, it feels indulgent.  In fact, many of the scenes in the movie feel that way.  There’s a moment where an army general (Jeffrey Wright) announces he’s going to deliver a speech he’s prepared for the occasion of the “ellipse.”  But this is no ordinary speech.  It’s practically beat poetry, delivered with the kind of conviction that only Jeffrey Wright’s magnificent voice can provide, but…but…why is it here?  Even in this weird, cotton-candy, retro-fever-dream of a movie, this “speech” felt out of place and just plain goofy.  In fact, quite a lot of the scenes between characters felt less like story and more like the kind of dialogues you find in source books for actors.  (101 Scenes for Two and Three Actors…that kind of thing.)

I will provide full disclosure and say the movie did deliver some decent laughs and chuckles.  There is an event that occurs during the ellipse (I’ll have to tread carefully here) that may not be entirely unexpected, but it’s executed and timed so well that I laughed pretty much through the whole scene.  It’s the kind of thing I imagine Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin would have thoroughly enjoyed, if I may be so bold.  There is also the problem of the disposition of a Tupperware container holding a valuable, ah, keepsake.  Oh, and that roadrunner was awesome.

But by the time Asteroid City rolled credits, I didn’t feel like I had seen one of Wes Anderson’s best films.  (The Royal Tenenbaums remains his best film, in my opinion.)  This almost felt like a movie made on a whim, kinda like, “Hell, I don’t know if this’ll work, but if I get enough star power behind it, this may turn out to be something.”  Alas, it did not.

HOBSON’S CHOICE (Great Britain, 1954)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

Director: David Lean
Cast: Charles Laughton, John Mills, Brenda de Banzie
My Rating: 7/10
Rotten Tomatometer: 92% Fresh

PLOT: A widowed bootmaker in 1880s England with three unmarried daughters is thrown when his eldest daughter announces her intentions to marry his best cobbler and start her own business.


From Wikipedia: “A Hobson’s choice is a free choice in which only one thing is actually offered. … The most well-known Hobson’s choice is ‘I’ll give you a choice: take it or leave it’, wherein ‘leaving it’ is strongly undesirable.”

Ask ten cinephiles about their favorite David Lean films, and I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts not more than two of them will even know Hobson’s Choice exists.  It’s one of only two comedies Lean ever directed (the other being Blithe Spirit in 1945), and it’s one of the last smaller-scale movies he would direct before 1957’s The Bridge on the River Kwai made his name synonymous with big-budget cinematic spectacles.  Hobson’s Choice oozes charm from every frame, has many well-earned laughs, and features a brilliant performance from the great Charles Laughton.  I just wish it had a better ending.  I’ll try not to spoil it for you, but…dang.

Henry Hobson (Laughton) is a widowed bootmaker in late 19th-century England with three unmarried daughters.  The eldest daughter, Maggie (Brenda de Banzie), keeps house, manages the books, and essentially runs the business, leaving Henry free to drink himself silly at the local pub every night and come home drunk as a skunk.  Being of an undesirable age – 30 years old – Maggie is also considered unmarriable.  But she’s no dummy.  See, one of Henry’s employees is a cobbler named William (John Mills, a legendary, prolific British actor), and Maggie notices when a rich patron praises William’s boots as the best she’s ever owned.  So, Maggie hatches a plan that will accomplish three things: get herself married, steal her father’s prize employee, and start her own business with the best bootmaker in town.  Hobson, of course, will have none of it, for various reasons…one of which is that, as the father, he is expected to pay a handsome dowry to the bridegroom, and he’ll be damned if he’ll give hundreds of pounds to a lowly cobbler, nor will he allow his “uppity” daughter to get the best of him.  Comedy ensues.

There is a lot to like in Hobson’s Choice.  First, there is the clever skewering of the class system, both socio-economically and along gender lines.  Hobson is reluctant to pay anything to William other than his barely-livable wages.  When circumstances force him to treat William as if he were a member of the same middle class as he, Hobson, is, he becomes enraged because…he simply has no choice.  The idea of all men being created equal is alien to him.  This same principle applies to his treatment and perception of his daughters.  He may genuinely love them in his heart of hearts, but all we ever hear from Hobson is how bothersome and loud and “uppish” they are.  To him, their sole purpose is to keep things neat and tidy and have dinner ready when he demands it.  It never once occurs to him that Maggie, the eldest, would be capable of putting her plan together, let alone actually pulling it off.

I also enjoyed how a good chunk of the story parallels Shaw’s Pygmalion, at least in broad strokes.  Will, Hobson’s prize cobbler, is as low-class as you can get, and has been treated as such his entire life.  Part of Maggie’s plan is to get Will to behave and dress more genteelly, and her method is nothing short of brilliant.  Rather than follow Henry Higgins’s approach – bullying with a heavy hand – Maggie very gently points Will in the right direction, stepping in with a firm hand only when necessary, as when it becomes necessary to deal with Will’s landlady, one of the funniest bits in the movie.  At first, Will is taken aback by Maggie’s directness, but it’s fun watching how gradually he gets turned around.  He may not be the spitting image of a member of the royal family after all is said and done, but his transformation is unmistakable.

Another great factor is the blustery performance by Charles Laughton in a role that, in my opinion, deserves more attention from film fans.  He’s most commonly associated with Quasimodo or Captain Bligh or the barrister in Billy Wilder’s Witness for the Prosecution (1957), but in Hobson’s Choice, he convincingly plays a man who is painfully aware he’s being driven towards a specific decision he does not want to make.  He’s been lord of the “manor” his entire life, and the idea that he might be forced to bow to his daughter’s whims is unbearable.  He is the most fun person to watch in the film…although John Mills is a close second.  I love his borderline incomprehension as Maggie patiently explains her plans and orders him about.

As I said, there is a lot to like in Hobson’s Choice.  But, man, did that ending let me down.  I was reminded oddly of David Cronenberg’s most recent film, Crimes of the Future (2022), which rolls the closing credits at the EXACT moment it becomes the most interesting.  I have no theatrical knowledge of the play on which Hobson’s Choice is based (other than the fact it ran for over 130 performances), but if the play ends the way the movie does, and I had been a member of the audience at a performance of that play, I would have rolled up my program and chucked it at the curtain.  I don’t want to give too much away, but its abruptness is breathtaking.  In my mind, it leaves far too much unresolved, unless there’s something I missed in that final scene/conversation.  I kept waiting for Hobson to make his eponymous choice, and for a second it LOOKED like he did, but it also looked like he had a devious plan of his own, and then…credits.

Oh, well, no matter.  There is more charm in a single frame of Hobson’s Choice than there is in any two Will Ferrell rom-coms.  I found it thoroughly enjoyable, even if it did let me down at the end.  Since Lean directed my favorite movie of all time, I’m inclined to forgive it.  I’ve seen most of Lean’s other films, and none of them committed this same blunder, so…c’est la vie.  Hobson’s Choice is still worth seeking out.

THE LOST WEEKEND (1945)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Billy Wilder
CAST: Ray Milland, Jane Wyman, Phillip Terry, Howard Da Silva
MY RATING: 8/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 97% Certified Fresh

PLOT: The desperate life of a chronic alcoholic is followed through a four-day drinking bout.


I don’t drink.  Like, at all.  I’ve never taken drugs, and I’ve never smoked a cigarette.  Luckily, I have never been gripped in the throes of a crippling addiction, unless collecting movies counts as an addiction, in which case I plead the fifth.  I say this, not to brag, but because a lot of my first impressions of Billy Wilder’s The Lost Weekend are tinted by the fact that I don’t know the first thing about being drunk or what it means to suffer from an addiction so crippling that it would force me to hang a liquor bottle outside my window to hide it from my brother.

As it happens, Don Birnam (Ray Milland) DOES suffer from this kind of mid-to-late-stage alcoholism.  We first meet Don as he and his brother, Wick (Phillip Terry), are packing for a long weekend to get away from everything and everyone, including alcohol.  Don is a would-be author who needs a break from…something.  (Whatever he went through is never specified, only hinted at: “It’ll be good for you, Don, after what you’ve been through.”)  Don’s plan to surreptitiously pack the hidden bottle of liquor falls through after the arrival of his almost unbelievably good-hearted girlfriend, Helen (Jane Wyman).  No matter.  He still has a plan, which he confides to the long-suffering but increasingly annoyed bartender, Nat (Howard Da Silva).  He’s bought two bottles of rye.  He’ll hide one badly in his own suitcase and another in his brother’s suitcase.  When Wick discovers the badly hidden bottle in Don’s suitcase, he’ll chew Don out, Don will act suitably contrite, and Wick won’t think about searching his OWN suitcase for a second bottle.  What could go wrong?

During these first few scenes, when Don lies and lies and drinks shot after shot in a bar and winds up missing the train for his getaway weekend, I found it difficult to sympathize with him.  Oh, he’s clever and loquacious when he’s either about to drink or while he’s drinking.  He has enough knowledge to quote Shakespeare at the right times and wittily proposes to Nat the bartender: “I wish I could take you along, Nat.  You and all that goes with you.”  Under the right circumstances, Don is a fun guy, always good for a laugh…until his seventh or eight or ninth shot of bourbon.  Then the other Don shows up, Don the drunk, Don the liar, the Don who gets so desperate for cash that he’ll walk 70 or 80 New York City blocks trying to find an open pawn shop so he can hock his typewriter for drinking money.

For some reason, it was harder for me to empathize with Don Birnam than it was to empathize with any of the main characters in Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream (2000).  In that film, not a single leading character escapes the ravages of addiction, and yet even as they made their mistakes, I empathized with them and grieved when their bad decisions made things worse and worse.  With Don Birnam, however, every bad decision he made just made me like him less and less.  I remember thinking at one point, “He’s brought this all on himself, he deserves what he gets.”  Not a very Christian attitude, but I’m not gonna lie about it: that’s what I felt.

And his girlfriend, Helen…wow.  It’s almost like she needs as much of an intervention as he does.  She loves Don so unconditionally it’s almost unbelievable.  What’s the attraction?  Perhaps it’s symptomatic of the era in which The Lost Weekend was made.  She discovers Don’s alcoholism late in their 3-year dating relationship.  (What did people think in 1945 of someone who dates a man for 3 years?)  Instead of breaking up with him or giving him ultimatums, she devotes herself to “fixing” Don.  Not precisely the course of action I would recommend myself in today’s world, but there you have it.

Director Billy Wilder presents this first half of the movie in a very uninflected tone with little-to-no comic relief.  This flat tone becomes very effective at simply presenting the information without directly commenting on it one way or the other.  There are moments up to this point where the movie seems to side with Don (his struggle to find a bottle whose hiding place he’s forgotten is particularly pathetic), but it’s still not really passing judgment or giving him a pass.

And then…the turning point.  Don accidentally falls down a flight of stairs and knocks himself out after finagling some drinking money out of a young lady he flirts with at his favorite dive.  When he wakes up, he’s lying in a bed in the Alcoholic Ward of the local hospital, face to face with one of the strangest characters I’ve ever met in a Billy Wilder movie, and that’s saying something.  He’s a nurse.  “Name of Nolan.  They call me Bim.  You…can call me Bim.”  The closest I can get to describing Bim’s weirdness is to imagine an evil Waylon Smithers from The Simpsons as a male nurse.  On quaaludes.  To Don’s slowly increasing discomfort, Bim lovingly describes what Don is in for during his stay on the Alcoholic Ward, giving the inside scoop on the various repeat offenders and what to expect during his D.T.’s: “You know that stuff about pink elephants?  That’s the bunk.  It’s little animals.  Little tiny turkeys in straw hats.  Midget monkeys coming through the keyholes.”  This Bim…he has NO bedside manner, man.  “Prohibition…that’s what started most of these guys off.  Whoopee!”  (Nice little social commentary there…classic Wilder.)

Don manages to find his way home once again, having not had a drink for almost a day-and-a-half, if my memory is correct.  And it’s at this point that the movie, Billy Wilder, and Ray Milland finally got me in Don Birnam’s corner.

SPOILER ALERT, SPOILERS COMING.

Don finally has a bout of the D.T.’s.  It’s not turkeys or monkeys or elephants, though…it’s a rat.  A single rat chewing its way out of the wall in front of him.  Then, out of nowhere…a bat finds its way into the apartment and flutters around the room.  Don is understandably distressed.  But then the capper: the bat swoops down to where the mouse’s head is poking through the hole, there is a terrible squealing sound, the bat sort of trembles and scuffles…and a stream of thick blood starts to dribble out of the hole where the bat is presumably chewing the rat’s head off or something.

To say I was surprised is an understatement.  Don starts screaming his head off…and at long last I finally empathized with Don’s situation, and I no longer wanted him to wind up penniless and/or alone and/or dead.  I wanted the movie to find a way to fix him, like Helen tries desperately to do through the entire picture.  From then on, I was on his side, or Helen’s side, or whoever’s side, it didn’t matter, as long as he figured out a way to get out from under the disease that was slowly killing him.

I would not dream of revealing exactly how the movie ends.  It might go the way of Leaving Las Vegas (1996).  Or it might go the way of the vastly underseen Duane Hopwood (2005), featuring David Schwimmer as an alcoholic father on a path of self-destruction, but who manages to turn things around.  (Sorry if I spoiled that for you, but I’m betting it’s not a movie most people will want to seek out.)  I will say that it’s the ending of The Lost Weekend that really showcases the era in which it was made more than anything else.  But it could just as easily have gone the other way and still been just as successful.

The Lost Weekend cleaned up at the 1945 Oscars, winning awards for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, and Best Adapted Screenplay (it was based on a novel).  At the time, it was the most unglamorous movie ever made about alcoholism.  Up to that point, drinking in movies rarely if ever led to hangovers and the D.T.’s and spending the night in the Alcoholic Ward.  It certainly belongs to be mentioned with Wilder’s greatest films.  But you’re gonna wanna watch something a little lighter afterwards.  Stalag 17, maybe.  Or Some Like It Hot.  A laughter chaser.

SHE SAID

By Marc S. Sanders

I get high off movies about journalism.  All The President’s Men and Spotlight are at the top of this pillar.  The main characters seem to be moving a hundred miles per hour even if they are reserved to their cluttered desks and phones, or if they are talking delicately, and slowly, with empathy as they carefully approach a potential, yet frightened source.  She Said is a 2022 film about how the New York Times reporters, Megan Twohey and Jodi Kantor (Carey Mulligan, Zoe Kazan), exposed the systemic process of sexual harassment and rape that was running rampant through Miramax Films.  The accused was always its CEO, Harvey Weinstein.

It’s extraordinary that this film got produced so soon after the MeToo movement and Weinstein’s downfall occurred.  All of it seems like it just happened yesterday.  In fact, Harvey Weinstein is still going through court procedure and trials for sexual crimes he’s accused of that occurred in London, New York and Los Angeles.  There might even be more locations.  New developments hit the internet all the time.  This guy just never stopped.  So, there’s much for the courts to process and try.  This was a terrible black eye, not only for Miramax’s reputation (at the time owned by Disney), but on the entire film industry in Hollywood.

She Said explores not only Twohey and Kantor’s relentless pursuit of the truth and various descriptions of Weinstein’s method with young women, but also how corrupt non-disclosure agreements (NDAs) were used.  The NDAs contained unreasonable demands for hush money provided.  Mandates such as speaking with a therapist or other professionals and close-knit relatives were never allowed lest they suffer consequences.  The victims would get paid, but would also be denied of a copy of the contract, and thus Weinstein found a way to allow his constant grooming and sick pleasures of perversion to carry on. 

The reporters concluded that these victims had no money or resources to stand up to the kind of bullying and harassing that Weinstein’s power exerted.  Quitting or getting fired for fighting for their rights or just refusing his advances left these women out of an industry in which they were trying to elevate their careers.  They lacked proof of the occurrences.  They had to fight a he said/she said scenario.  They were victimized by a man who associated with some of the most powerful people in the world.  It happened to known actresses like Rose McGowan and Ashley Judd (who plays herself in the picture).  It nearly happened to Gwyneth Paltrow (providing her own voice on the phone) as well.  Even worse, it happened to women who didn’t even have the luster of celebrity brand name recognition to help them in their cause.    Nevertheless, it practically destroyed McGowan’s reputation in Hollywood altogether as she was labeled a crazed pariah for declaring her truth.  The tolerance and strategic payoffs were perhaps just as overwhelming as the attacks by Harvey Weinstein.  (Forgive me, I say perhaps because there is no way I am qualified to empathize, measure, or relate to what these victims endured or continue to survive through.)

Maria Schrader’s film does a good job at explaining the risks these reporters take.  A brief prologue shows Megan Twohey getting death threat calls for her write up of Donald Trump’s accusations of sex crimes.  A very convincing Trump vocal impersonator even calls her to tell her she’s a disgusting human being and how he must be innocent simply because he does not know any of these women.  Reader, it bears repeating that many rapists and harassers never know their victims.  When Twohey teams up with Kantor, the intimidations don’t stop and their supervisors and editors in chief (Patricia Clarkson, Andre Braugher) lend support.

Paltrow’s ex-boyfriend, Brad Pitt, was a producer on this film and it’s gratifying to see him lend the support.  I recall reading how he confronted Weinstein following attempts of harassment upon Paltrow shortly after they began dating and making the film Seven together.  Looking back to those years of the mid-1990s, I’d argue that Pitt and Paltrow were taking enormous risks with their careers.  They were just becoming marquee names. Yet, they could have still been ruined within the industry.  This is an environment synonymous with putting blinders on to systemic offenses that occur while lending praise to those that’ll eventually grant them potential Oscar winning roles or twenty-million-dollar paychecks.  

When Matt Damon, Ben Affleck, George Clooney, and Quentin Tarantino say in interviews that I’ve seen that they had no idea what was occurring with Harvey behind closed doors, my reaction has always been skeptical to these claims.  At one point in this film, Twohey and Kantor refer to Harvey’s antics as the worst kept secret in Hollywood. It is sad to say that these marquee names will always owe their careers and success to Harvey Weinstein, criminal rapist or not.

I do have some reservations with She Said, though.  Often the reporters are typing and quick close ups or glances at their monitors are edited into the film, but I can’t read what they are documenting, and I believe the film was assuming I could.  At one point, Braugher’s character announces that Weinstein spoke to Variety magazine and another competitor to share his side of the story and declares “This is bad.”  Yet, we never find out what Weinstein said, and we just get the “Oh shit!” expression from Twohey and Kantor.  Why leave us in the dark on subjects like this?  Why is this so bad? 

The film is fast paced, but many of the scenes are identical to prior ones.  As the reporters speak with victims, they break down their own story.  I believe Weinstein practiced a similar method each time, but the dialogue in these accounts seems redundant.  I get that we are to understand how excessive his predatory actions were, but I was hoping for fresh angles to their ongoing investigation.

The cast is spectacular, particularly Mulligan and Kazan who make a great pair. I really like the dialogue written and delivered by Andre Braugher.  I always thought I don’t see that actor enough in films.  He’s sensational in everything he does, and he carries a real strength to his authority in the New York Times offices.  A championing moment occurs when he cuts in on Harvey’s call with the reporters to give an ultimatum and hangs up.  He just told Harvey, “ENOUGH ALREADY!”

She Said relies on prior knowledge that you must have before watching the film.  You must know who Harvey Weinstein was and the large space he occupied within Hollywood and the film industry.  You need to know who these actresses were, and you have to be familiar with the overwhelming female response to Donald Trump’s agendas which set up the picture.  Unless you’ve been hiding under a rock, it’s hard not to be aware of what’s occurred in the last 5-6 years. 

However, as this film is discovered by future generations, long after Weinstein and Trump, and these victims are passed on, future generations like our children’s children may not fully understand the terrible conspiracies that transpired. 

She Said is a good movie and it holds significant importance.  However, I imagine the book written by Twohey and Kantor provides more details and exposition that I wish the film adaptation offered.  The pace and performance of the picture work very well.  I’m just afraid the script relies a little too much on assuming we know the whole backstory as the film carries on to its triumphant ending.

Watch it anyway, though.  It’s a bravely daring film to say the least.

DEMOLITION MAN

By Marc S. Sanders

In the years since the Sylvester Stallone/Wesley Snipes futuristic action picture Demolition Man came out in 1993, bloggers have been giddy to post about how brilliant the satire is, especially since much of its fictional future set in a totalitarian San Angeles (formerly Los) in the year 2032 ended up becoming real to some degree.  Okay, fine.  I’ll go with what they say.  However, Reader, this is not on the same level as Paddy Chayefsky’s prophetical film, Network, and the legacy it has bestowed.  Demolition Man remains just as stupid as it was when it first came out.

In a mid-1990s prologue of fire, gunfire, and flames, a vicious killer named Simon Phoenix (Snipes), with a happy go lucky habit of giggling through the mayhem he unleashes, is apprehended by decorated cop John Spartan (Stallone).  However, both men are sentenced to decades of cryo-freeze imprisonment because the hostages that Phoenix held had perished and Spartan was found neglectful.

The film jumps to 36 years later. Phoenix has been released and immediately returns to his old habits.  The problem is the law enforcement of this period is not equipped to contain the crazed criminal.  So, Spartan is defrosted as well to go up against Phoenix.  This future is occupied by the cute smiles and charms of Sandra Bullock, Benjamin Bratt and Rob Schneider as the cops who happily sing the melodies made famous by radio and television ads.  Guns are entirely outlawed along with drugs, alcohol, spicy food, and obscene language.  Say a curse word and a machine is nearby, quick to charge you with the offense.  Touching and the exchange of bodily fluids are forbidden as well.  A high five with no contact was an uncanny precursor and is now reminiscent of the early days of the Covid crisis when it was strongly urged that people not even shake hands.  About the only favorable improvement of this future is that toilet paper is no longer used, and people resort to solving their hygiene problems with three seashells.  Regrettably, the technique is never demonstrated.

This film invests a lot of time in its satire, and I appreciate the attempt to find its humor.  The problem is the humor is delivered by Sylvester Stallone and he’s not Bill Murray or Aaron Eckhardt (check out Thank You For Smoking).  Satire is not a wheelhouse for Stallone to reside in.  Sandra Bullock on the other hand is cute in her response.  A memorable scene could have been so much better had Bullock had a more appropriate scene partner.  Lovemaking takes on a whole new method in this 2032 future.  Head devices are used to stimulate the mind.  Oddly enough, you could say that’s the direction that virtual reality has taken.  I appreciate the intuitiveness, but Stallone’s performance doesn’t.  What was intended to be a foreign experience for sexual gratification, comes off very clunky with Stallone.  Imagine what Ben Stiller or Paul Rudd could have done here.  Bruce Willis would have been marvelous in a scene like this.

Wesley Snipes is just as good an action star as Stallone or Willis or Schwarzenegger.  Unfortunately, his Simon Phoenix is so one note as a villain.  He’s a got a bleach blonde crew cut and a giggle and nothing else.  Stallone’s character describes Phoenix as a dirt bag, and the dastardly bad guy shoots guns and does quick kicks.  There’s nothing to know or learn about this guy.  He’s just a target for Sylvester Stallone to do his typical Sylvester Stallone with a shotgun and a handgun and his signature rahhhhhhh bellow that he’s provided in Rambo and Cliffhanger and Cobra and most of the rest of his career.  (Don’t get me wrong though.  Stallone does have a good repertoire of movies.  This one in particular is what doesn’t work.)

Denis Leary lends to the thin plot for a time.  Back in ’93, Leary was known for a few MTV ads where he did his infamous ranting monologue while popping a cigarette.  Because the script for Demolition Man is so nil, the angry comedian is granted opportunity to do his schtick here…twice!  It didn’t amuse me in ’93.  Now it’s just terribly outdated.

Back to the satire, I question the response of the players.  This film takes place only 36 years after a time of violent crime and cursing and smoking and drinking and all the debauchery that we were tolerated.  When Rob Schneider and the police look shocked and terrified at Simon Phoenix’ measure of violence, they are completely oblivious to what’s occurring.  I dunno.  Should they be that gullible?  This guy is only from a time that’s just over thirty years ago.  It hasn’t been that long.  Bullock even has a poster of Lethal Weapon 3 hanging in her office.  The response was hard for me to swallow, and that’s what killed the satirical attempts.  You can’t be that dumbfounded or naïve, can you?

There was a good idea here, but any kind of semblance of thought went out the window once that was jotted down.  The right player was not inserted into the main slot.  Stallone is miscast.  That’s the biggest problem.  Demolition Man hinges on the ho hum gunplay of any Sylvester Stallone actioner and stands on a sliver of irony with how dynamics have played out since the film’s release.  That’s not enough to consider it a fun kind of popcorn flick, though.  Demolition Man needs to remain frozen in time.

LIFEGUARD

By Marc S. Sanders

Sam Elliott is Rick, the Lifeguard at a sunny Los Angeles beach in 1976.  He’s handsome with his trademark mustache and bronze tan.  He’s also in his early thirties and his parents as well as some friends think it’s time he moves on from his occupation into a more responsible and adult line of work.  Even Rick considers the fact that perhaps it is time to finally come of age.

This film from director Daniel Petrie is nothing special or necessarily memorable.  However, while I first thought it would be a wasteful story of just the various walks of life that peruse the beach, it turns out to be a personal story about a man well past the time when he should have transitioned into the next phase of his life.

Rick has been invited to his fifteenth-year high school reunion.  It’s pretty telling when he enters the ballroom.  Petrie does close ups of the other attendees who are all talking about their jobs, maybe their children and spouses as well, maybe even their divorces.  Rick arrives in his gorgeous bachelor ride, a Corvette Stingray convertible, donning a leather jacket and a shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest.  He’s a fish out of water with his former classmates, but he’s still admired and welcomed.  He rekindles a romance with an old flame, Cathy (Anne Archer) who’s a successful art dealer, and he’s welcomed to get to know her young son.  Cathy is ready to go the distance in a relationship with Rick.

At the same time, Rick is trying to hold on to his youth of a bygone time.  He warns his new, college age lifeguard partner, Chris (Parker Stevenson), not to get involved with a cute and precocious seventeen-year-old kid named Wendy (Kathleen Quinlan).  Wendy has her eye on Rick though, and for a moment he returns to when the beach and the surf were once new to him, and he welcomes her invitation for an evening of lovemaking.  Later, as Rick becomes more aware of people his own age doing more appropriate activities for his generation, does it become a challenge for him to reject Wendy’s ongoing attention. 

The legalities and morals of Rick’s involvement with an underage girl are approached but the movie doesn’t delve much deeper than that.  It’s a film of its time, made in the mid-1970s.  I thought of movies like Little Darlings and even the original Meatballs when the drama focused on the internal struggle of some of its main characters. 

Lifeguard starts out episodic as it shows the shenanigans of its beachgoers.  Rick and Chris laugh as two goofballs manage to strip a bikini top of a young blond.  They also fend off a couple of potheads picking on a teen regular.  They deal with a perverted flasher.  Then the movie improves as it gets personal with Elliott’s character and his performance. 

Rick is the guy that everyone looks up to, but he’s human and he can even falter on a team relay race, gasping for breath that just won’t come as he sprints out of the water.  This is a good moment in the film.  Rick is desperately trying to catch his breath and young Wendy is looking right at him trying to see if he’s okay.  Rick’s youth is speaking directly to himself fifteen years later. 

He’s encouraged by a classmate to become a Porsche car salesman where he could make good money.  A good dinner table scene with his parents also occurs when he’s pointedly told to grow up.  I remember a couple of conversations like that with my father.  The question is who does Rick have to grow up for, himself or those around him? At the same time, he’s a very responsible and good lifeguard, and he reminds us that being a lifeguard is also about being a literal life saver.

I appreciate the conclusion to the film.  It’s more realistic and grounded than other movies might have offered with similar themes.  Framed around acoustic guitar and vocals from Paul Williams, Daniel Petrie allows moments of silence for Rick to contemplate and think while gazing at a sun soaked beach and ocean, not talking with anyone about what his next step in life should be.  Don’t we all do that, where we just sit and think, pondering the possibilities of various outcomes for ourselves? 

Lifeguard may be outdated, nearly fifty years after it was filmed, but it is an honest account of a guy who may be content with his current state, even if he’s not ready to consider what’s to come as he continues to age. 

THE LOST WEEKEND

By Marc S. Sanders

Ever wonder why I write so many reviews?  It’s because I yearn to be a successful playwright/screenwriter.  I’ve directed three original plays that I’ve written over the years.  I will be directing a fourth for the holiday season later this year.  Had a few short plays I wrote performed locally as well.  Still, I suffer from a terrible ordeal that often grinds me into bouts of depression and internal rage.  Writer’s block! 

My father always told me that he stayed away from gambling and casinos. He said it was because he could have an addictive personality and he was not confident he could stop if he started.  I know what he means.  I have an addiction.  One that’s not commonly recognized, but I obsess over something every single day. Without fail, every damn day.  It’s my weakness.  Sorry.  I must keep that to myself, though.  Yet my pursuit of what preoccupies my mind taxes on my motivations to write and stretch the imagination needed for churning out one script after another.  So, a remedy is to write about movies that speak to me in lieu of my next great play. 

Billy Wilder’s Oscar winning drama The Lost Weekend demonstrates a writer’s inability to exercise his talent when an endless need for alcohol consumes his every waking moment.  Ray Milland delivers an Oscar winning performance as Don Birnam, an alcoholic wannabe writer of the worst kind.  When Wilder’s film opens, Don seems healthy and spry.  He’s clean shaven, well dressed, and ready to pack a bag for a weekend getaway that his brother Wick (Phillip Terry) has arranged for him along with Don’s girlfriend Helen St. James (Jane Wyman).  Wick implies to Don that this trip is just what his brother needs after what he’s recently been through, and he’ll have his typewriter with him to write in calming solitude.  Eventually we get an idea of what Wick has been referring to as Don attempts to sneak a bottle of rye that is strung outside the window of his New York apartment.  Wick catches Don in the act, pours the bottle down the drain and assures him that he won’t find another drop of liquor anywhere.  He doesn’t even have money to go to the corner bar.  So, Wick and Helen leave Don alone for a few hours before it’s time to depart. Don gets ahold of some cash though, and thus begins a spiral into a drunken binge over a four-day weekend.

I read that when this film was released, test audiences laughed at it.  I guess in 1945 people were not attuned or prepared to witness an account of a very real disease like alcoholism.  I’m not certain it was even diagnosed as a disease at that time.  Surely, the addiction was an ailment though, and Billy Wilder uses some effective cinematic devices to demonstrate the journey into madness and desperation for even just a tiny shot glass of gin or rye. 

A repetitive device is to show a tormented performance from Milland within the shadow of bars or fences.  He’s trapped in his own need for swill.  A telling moment occurs when Don is desperately trying to pawn off his typewriter just for some money to buy more alcohol.  Every store in the city is gated and closed on this particular Saturday though.  It’s the Jewish holiday of atonement for past sins, Yom Kippur.  I found that little detail to be interesting.  Surely, it’s a sin to harm yourself whether by alcohol or suicide, for example, and the holiday is a time for speaking to your inner self and Hashem (G-d) for your past transgressions.  Yet, that is no matter to Don.  He’s not ready or wanting to climb out of his dark hole.

Inanimate objects or props are also given much focus.  Early on, Don is seen at the local bar and Billy Wilder brings an inventive visual to explain just how much this character has consumed in under two hours.  The camera focuses on the wet rings on the bar top left by Don’s shot glass.  First there are two rings, then four and soon, fifteen.  Wilder also zooms his lens into the very bottom of the small glass filled with liquor to show how much the audience will drown in Don’s despair over the course of the film.

Other props also work towards Don’s paranoia such as a ceiling lamp bearing the shadow of a hidden bottle.  Milk bottles left in front of his apartment are not collected from one day to the next showing the passage of time for this weekend, and how even the most basic chore is dismissed so Don can extend his stupor.  A lady’s unguarded purse offers temptation.  A tossed lamp shade seems to glare at Don like a hole that he’s in, as he gets weaker and weaker. 

A magnificent scene, one that I can envision a skilled director doing today with quick cuts on digital film, occurs as Don recalls sitting in a crowded opera house watching the toasting scene of La Triviata; one of the most recognizable operas of all time.  Don is one of many in the audience, and yet he’s the only one alone with the production’s props of various drinking glasses and champagne bottles being used on stage that are mere inches away.  Very quickly into the scene, Billy Wilder skillfully draws focus from the opera singers and diverts towards the immense amount of liquor adorning the stage and the cast with quick cuts of Don salivating and perspiring alone in a chair of a crowded theater.  Everyone else is watching the performance.  Don is gazing at the alcohol.  I wouldn’t be surprised if Martin Scorsese had much admiration for such a sequence.

Phillip Terry is very good in his performance.  I’m surprised he’s not promoted as much as the other two stars of the picture.  Wick cares for his brother, but he’s ready to give up on him after six years of this ordeal, with one more transgression played out. He’s exhausted from lying to cover for Don’s weakness.  He represents the outsider of the dilemma who’s been affected by someone else’s ailment. Jane Wyman as Helen serves a nice purpose as well.  The one last hope for Don.  She’s the only one left who holds on to the faith that she can pull Don out of this nightmare.  Wilder presents these characters as side effects in the Oscar winning script written by him and Charles Brackett. 

Another haunting, but effective dimension comes when Don finds himself in the alcoholics’ ward at Bellevue Hospital, shot on location, and the first film to ever do so.  With an eerie use of a theremin in the soundtrack from Miklós Rózsa, Don is surrounded by dark shadows and tormented victims suffering from drying out just like him.  A nurse explains that he still has the DTs to experience like envisioning being surrounded by horrifying images like bugs crawling on him or something comparatively worse.  I recall from childhood seeing this symptom used on an episode of M*A*S*H.  Wilder invents his own kind of imagery and it’s pretty shocking in its grotesqueness.

I ask for forgiveness when I say that The Lost Weekend seems a little melodramatic. Maybe that’s because movies have built themselves into much more graphic and honest depictions of alcoholism since 1945.  The ending seems to welcome a stringy violin to accompany Ray Milland’s final scene with Jane Wyman.  However, I’m completely impressed with how pioneering this movie must have been for its time.  Billy Wilder didn’t shy away from the dramatic side of drinking. 

The Lost Weekend is certainly an effective and important piece on the study of alcoholism.  I’d recommend it as a visual reference to what can happen to the one who suffers, as well as those around him, including the bartender who deals with the regulars he easily knows by name.  While it’s certainly a movie of its time, the message remains the same.  Though I’m no expert on the effects of alcohol, I’ve seen enough friends who deal with the problem to know that the message in Wilder’s film still rings true.  An addiction to drink will dominate a life.

I always say that movies offer another valuable avenue to learn from.  There’s much to learn from The Lost Weekend.