Honeydripper

You know, seeing a real movie is fucking great. Say it with us now, "a real movie" -- one that's not about focus groups and bullshit soundtracks and explosions and blockbuster actors. One that's not making anyone money or launching a career or about to fall prey to a studio's desperate Oscar campaign. One where every character has depth and pain and sadness and hope and a goddamn history so heart-wrenchingly real and true you catch yourself smiling as the tissue soaks up your tears. One where each and every second builds on each and every other one that came before it. One that could've only come from the master, John Sayles.

Return of the Secaucus 7

I already said most everything I want to say about John Sayles way back here. The abbreviated version is the guy's fucking great. Secaucus has been on the back-burner for the past few years -- I can't say I was all that intrigued by a directorial debut, especially one involving a group of post-activist thirty year-olds hanging out and talking. Zzzzzz. But then last week as I finished reading Sayles on Sayles, I figured it was time. And I'm glad I made the decision 'cause I still can't believe how enjoyable and well-done this movie turned out to be. Sayles has gotten better behind the scenes, but he's had that typewritten skill and talent all along -- the flick may start boring, but by the end you "get" (errr..."understand"?) all the characters, even the ones who only show up for ten minutes. The Sayles even turns in a role and somehow manages to out-act the mighty Straithairn!

Okay, so obviously the screenplay and performances are great, but I really couldn't help but find myself in sheer awe of the back-and-forth scene where Mark Arnott's character chops kindling. It's probably the Herzog on Herzog talking, but it is an image more poetic, revealing, and well-placed than anything anyone could have imagined. A true thing of simple cinematic beauty.

The Brother From Another Planet

Couldn't be more of a Roger Corman picture if it was. The Brother From is connected to the Corms tangentially (John Sayles screenwrote a number of drive-in classics and still script-doctors today), but it has all the trappings of a Attack of the Crab Monsters, a Deathrace 2000, or a The Wild Angels. Trappings like: understated yet wholly present socio-political commentary, cheap (read: nonexistent) special effects, undeniably great supporting cast (nothing but "that guy!"s), and burgeoning auteurs.

But get this: Sayles had three movies under his belt by this time. And all of his movies (save for the Roan Inish) are extraordinarily terrestrial -- characters so real they live next door and dialogue the entire time. Yet the Brother is a three-toed mute from the outer regions of this galaxy who finds himself adrift in Harlem with only the power to heal Burger Time machines and owies. It's as if the years behind a desk penning werewolf stories, 'gator scripts, and space operas caught up to Big John and he just had to make one himself. Once it left his system he was back to real estate development and hot bloggin'. Perhaps the world is a better place. You remember how we heaped praise on Limbo, but this one here fell a little short of our Sayles expectations. Quirky and interesting, but not really a success. At least not in the same way.

Still, this movie does its best to remained focused about immigration and xeno-relations (no, no, not Xenu-relations! Shit, don't click that link -- they might shut me down!), but we got a huge kick out of Sayles and Strathairn playing a pair of intergalactic men in black. You will never ever see Straths in something like this. So fucking camped out and classic. This pair in these roles is Jack in the dentist's chair, people. They order beer on the rocks, screech like banshees, and slink around the bar. I also dug how the Brother's silence made him something different to everyone. And also how he found a shoe in the trash. And popped out his eyeball. And boned that happenin' lady. This Joe Morton's a real actor I tell ya.

Keep your eyes peeled for the late Steve James, Josh Mostel, and Fisher Stevens. And this guy, who you'll recognize right off the bat but you won't know from where!

Limbo

John Sayles is a favorite at the Highland Cinema. He's done a few boring ones in recent years, sure, but if there's one thing he always nails it's characters. The best writing in the business comes from this guy: everyone in Limbo and nearly everyone in the other Sayles flicks thus screened is real. They're naturally complex and naturally remarkable. Joe, Donna, and Noelle are disappointed, but we don't have to wallow in their self-pity. So charming and awkward is the burgeoning relationship between Joe and Donna, and so poignant is Donna's love for her daughter. Whatever inner turmoils and troubles they have are revealed at a pace that's appropriate and true to life, and we never have to sit through Oscar-baiting emotional breakdowns. Salut to John Sayles! He writes each movie three times.

David Strathairn is a great actor and I'm glad he got some recognition last year, but Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio steals the show. She has a real set of pipes.