Inside Man

The Cinema's first Spike Lee joint and we'll be damned if it ain't the best one since, I dunno, Clockers! Sure, we liked Bamboozled more than the next guy (though we suspect it was the Union Jack talking more than our own gray matter...explanation upon request), but this Inside Man, she is full of the twists and the turns. Such a wonderful Mamet Jr script! Such witty dialogues and exchanges! They are both corny and clever at the same time. And the plot? The stuff of the suspense-building it is. Rest assured you 40 Acres devotees, you're still getting some trademark Spike, but the stuff you expect to see like the often too-loud and nearly distracting score, the heavy-handed scene or two about....racial relations (?!?!?!?!), the brief trolley cam, and the washed-out film stock show up a whole lot less than what Mo' Better accustomed ya to. Inside Man is a neat bank robbery caper if you can you believe it. The kind of flick the studios didn't have to give to Spike but did anyway. Hopefully he made those suits some cash 'cause the world is so desperately waiting for that Girl 6 sequel.

Go Knicks!

Another Woman

More of the serious from Woody Allen. I had nothing interesting to say when I watched it and that was days ago!

September

They told me this was a "Chekhovian drama," but I didn't see nuclear wessels anywhere.

I did see a lot of Woody Allen mid-80s Interiors tropes and eighty minutes of unrequited, idealized love, longing, and sadness. Essentially a filmic play, September only hit me during its first half and let me down big-time on the back nine. Lots of commendable performances from Sam Waterston, Dianne Weist (not annoying), and Mia Farrow (wow, even she's not annoy...well, no wait, yeah she still is...), but a story that plods along a little too much without really turning into anything.

Still some great camerawork from Allan Konigsberg's main lensman and great performances from an old couple who starred with Norm MacDonald in two different movies! Don't believe me? Look! Now look here!

Sorcerer

It's too bad this came out right before the "Behind the Scenes of a Jungle Epic" docs were in vogue 'cause, man, we're certain this would be one helluva making-of. That Billy Friedkin, he is a class-A nutjob, and any time you trek to them lands that time forgot you know there's a catastrophe or two in the works. Sorcerer isn't nearly as bad as its reputation, but it's strictly cable-tv fare. I mean, really, a '70s thriller with Roy Scheider?!?! How come Turner hasn't already shoved this down our throats? This flick should start at five after the hour at least once a week. Probably hasn't since it's the only picture about highly volatile explosives with zero suspense.

Sympathy for Mr Vengeance

Now this is more like it. Another Korean classic from our favorite Korean director. Sympathy is good ol' violent O. Henry digitally enhanced color fun that goes a little something like:

Deaf-mute tries some back alley surgery to save his sister but when he wakes up naked, bleeding, and without the organ he needs to save her, it's time for Plan B. A tragic black/bleak comedy of errors ensues as he innocently kidnaps a cute little girl, and executive dad tries to find the folks that nabbed his flesh and blood. (Let it be known that while the Highland Cinema hates American children, we think those foreign kids are so darn adorable! And such good actors!) Don't let my witticisms fool you, this ain't one of those haha funny or funny haha pictures, it's chock full o' pathos, platelets, and pain. But that irony is too much to ignore. There's fights, there's tears, there's groans.

And not one but two scenes of a retarded Asian duder throwing rocks in a river.

I'd like to say more, but this guy did it for me. I'll leave you with: Tartan Asia Extreme has been good to us so far, let's hope they keep it that way.

The Piano Teacher

Let's call this the return of In My Skin. The Piano Teacher started as a tale of sexual repression and ended as a tale of a sado-maso fantasy gone awry. I didn't dig it at all which came as a bit of a surprise since "Cannes accolades" plus "disturbing" equal serious Highland Cinema interest. Still had me a-wincin' during such uncomfortable scenes as the discarded tissue bouquet and the razor blade nick, but the whole thing felt cold, distant, and way too emotionless to be entertaining or engrossing. I think that was the point. The emotionless part, not the boring part. Still didn't do much.

You'll be glad to know that I felt quite the studious one pulling out my long-neglected copy of Bonds of Love once the end credits started rolling. Many Hegelian Freudisms to be found in this flick and many self-inflicted pats on the back for recognizing them!

The Last Detail

More Jack, more Towne, more...Quaid?!?! Yes, Randy "the Helper's just fine by itself" Quaid was really on fire during the early '70s: Oscar nods and Golden Globe nominations for two completely different flicks! Who knew?

For the first reel or so The Last Detail insisted on playing us this John Philip Souza marchin' band score, and that bleating, blaring drummer boy mess had us thinking a college bowl kickoff was around the corner. It drove us crazy and came real close to ruining the entire tone of this flick, but fortunately we held on 'cause right around the thirty or forty minute mark we got this great extended alcohol sequence, a sequence so great and true to life it renewed our faith in both Hal Ashby and humanity in general. Big Jack, Quaid, and that other guy in their hotel room, knee-deep in Olympias, bobbing and weaving as they tell stories that don't go anywhere and talk shit to one another. It's the kind of thing that really took us back. All the way to last week! Jack's character has to ruin the whole thing right at the end when he gets all mean and tries to fight a bro. That had us relatin' to stuff too, but not a good times kinda way. Oh well.

I'll be frank with ya and tell you guys that I enjoyed this more than Chinatown. A better movie? Of course not, but The Last Detail really came through right at the end when you realize all those scenes about Greyhound washroom brawls, hometown sidetrips, and chanting cults amounted to something greater than themselves. End credits roll and you understood everything you just watched. Good stuff. Not a true classic, but worth a view. Dig it!

Chinatown

Roman Polanski! Robert Evans! Jack Nicholson! Faye Dunaway!

Whoa, Robert Townsend?!?!

Oh no, wait a minute....Robert Towne. Okay...well....still good!

Too bad they squandered the talents of the uber-cool James Hong. Not even his best movie with "China" in the title.

Benchwarmers

Dude, this was fucking dumb. I know you heard me laughing aloud, but still....this was really goddamn stupid.

But have you guys seen Happiness? No? It's an uncomfortable one full of mucho sadness, pain, and, uh, stickiness, but there's this opening five minutes where Jon Lovitz gets dumped just as he's about to give his special lady this engraved silver ashtray thingy and it's just fucking amazing. No joke, that shit is way close to Alec-Baldwin-in-Glengarry-Glen-Ross amazing, and certainly better than Ben-Affleck-playing-Alec-Baldwin-in-Glengarry-Glen-Ross-in-Boiler-Room amazing. You'd never know it, but underneath those sandwich ads and "that's the ticket!" catchphrases the Lovitz is a real deal actor.

In Benchwarmers he drives the Batmobile and has a robot butler.

See, I told you. Fucking dumb.

Videodrome

We fucking dig David Cronenberg around here. And what's not to like? You can't tell me you're not dying to see Debbie Harry's nipples, James Woods make out with a tv screen, or a ridiculously cool stomach vagina that'll gape for Betamax cartridges and make a guy's hand explode.

We're calling Videodrome Big Dave's signature release 'cause even if it ain't his most effective or his best, it's a perfect meld of his '70s-era horror glop and current-era identity politics: technology/representations of reality dictate YOU and your perception of actual reality.

And then some dude's innards make a gurgling, bubbling, chunky mess on the floor.

Keep in mind the "New Flesh" reiterations and "neural floodgates" dialogue are almost too clumsy to be forgiven and the heavy-handedness of the Cathode Ray Mission is too much like Rocky IV-esque binary moralizing. Fortunately the rest of the thing is a well-realized Our Media, Ourselves treatise that combines all the essential elements of the Cronenberg Secrets of the Ooze trifecta: icy cold machinery, engorged sex organs, and ever-changing existence. The makings of a typically fantastic Crones experience!

We're unconditionally telling you to see this 'cause even though it's a kick-ass picture, it's more importantly a kick-ass example of the Highland Cinema as Joe Bob Briggs, PhD. Just as Night of the Living Dead's graphic zombifications recreated the horror industry, "Videodrome"'s sexual snuff clips recreate Max Renn.

Check out this Commodore 64 trailer which is nothing like the movie.

Futurama

It's time for the Highland Cinema to nerd it up a little bit and profess our love for Futurama. Television's shining (half-)hour? You bet. Sixty years of TV and I don't think it's ever gotten better than this. Too bad it's just like Fox to getcha into some show and then change the airtimes all around till you don't know which end is up. Faster than you can say "Herman's Head" your show's gone the way of The Secret Diary of Desmond Pfeiffer and you're stuck watching this.

I guess it's still better than when Fox had us watching this.

So every now and again when Final Jeopardy's over and we're sitting here waiting for the new set of reels to show up at the front door, we fire up the lobby VCR and pop in some Futurama. Maybe we should get a life, but we think these SLP recorded tapes are worth their weight in gold. The Cinema can't be zombies, beat-downs, and forced erudition all the time, but it'll be a cold day in hell before we take five from being all about references. And Futurama? References in spades, my friends, in spades.

Alright, enough of that. Time to get back to business. We allowed ourselves one television post and this is it, so don't get your hopes up for some Parker Lewis musings.

(Damn! That idea's not half bad. Oh well.)

Irreversible

Irreversible is even more disturbing and depraved than I Stand Alone, and way more fucking genius. This thing is another one to put at the top of your "must NOT see" list thanks to an opening sequence of basement bondage club glimpses, hateful dialogues, and brutal face annihilation at the hands of a fire extinguisher's blunt end. This is some serious shit, shit that gets all the more serious a few sequences later when Gaspar Noe subjects us to ten nearly-impossible-to-endure minutes involving Monica Belluci that make me realize I misplaced my Straw Dogs reference in that last post. If you don't already know, you don't want to.

Irreversible is nothing if not shocking, disorienting, and...necessarily cinematic! I sincerely don't think I'll ever see anything as nauseatingly perfect as this picture's opening thirty minutes -- a thirty minutes filled with barely-contained judgment-lapsed blind rage, barely-lit sexual deviance, horrific violence, and swirling, swooping, upside-down, falling-down drunk camera work. Amazing, moreso considering the eventual development and the plain-stated poignancy of the relationship between characters Alex, Marcus, and also-ran former boyfriend Pierre. You'll ask yourself if you're even watching the same movie. Staggering.

And still not for you.

I Stand Alone

I've sat here for over a week trying to come up with a decent write-up for this picture; it's proven to be a difficult task the likes of which few have seen. I Stand Alone is rage and hostility, misogyny and racism, narration and Genealogy of Morals. I don't even know what to say about the thing except that it most definitely isn't for you. Alienated like Taxi Driver and graphic like Bad Lieutenant, only more fucking real. This guy isn't a mass murderer just yet, but by the end of this one you know he's only inches away. Filmmaker Gaspar Noe treats us to a bleak and desolate character study and gives us a final fifteen minutes that are initially blunt and violent and then disturbingly insinuating, all the more so considering the "protagonist"'s sense of his own liberation through this impending actualization of his desires. Whoa, and not "whoa" in the Love Object sense. Don't ask.

In spite of it all, I Stand Alone is a real movie. It's steeped in venomous inner monologues and peppered with blunt force trauma, but within it all is a shocking tale of morality, justice, and probably early 1980s Franco-politics. Noe is a force to be reckoned with, a director who'll out-Straw Dogs Abel Ferrara and still have you reaching for your upper-division philosophy notes. He's already thesis-fodder, but once he has a body of work longer than two features and some shorts, he'll really be a iconoclastic grad student magnet.

But it's still not for you.

Mean Streets

Marty's "for all intents and purposes" debut gets a CRAP. Waffle Factor=3 for acting talents of Harvey Keitel and Bobby DeNiro, who prove to have been swell actors even before they were stars.

Maybe we should've seen Scorsese's other noteworthy sorta debut instead. At least that one had Barbara Hershey.

And Bernie Casey!

Y'know we really should've just watched this. Better guitar solos!

In My Skin

Youngish corporate woman slices her leg up real bad at a party, doesn't feel a thing, and then feels compelled toward cutting. Whatever. I was mistakenly under the impression that this would be really good and it wasn't even passably good. Plods along like a movie that means something, but never told us why she liked to prick herself with steak knives or made us empathize with her addiction. Esther's inability to feel pain requires her to create a visual and corporeal representation, maybe? Maybe not. Sicinski momentarily compared it to American Psycho in terms of the desensitizing nature of corporate politics. That's intriguing, but when left to the film itself it's not something of which I was entirely convinced.

Oh well. Someday I'll forget all about this one and it won't make a difference whatsoever. During the last ten to fifteen minutes In My Skin was a tad shocking and graphic, but the rest wasn't too bad...although I'll admit we're a rather poor yardstick for that kind of thing.

If we were willing to dish out extra points it'd be for the fact Marina de Van wrote, directed, and starred. That's pretty cool!

GWAR -- lots o' stuff

Good friend and proud owner of the Nekromantik series Anti-Michael made a guest appearance at the Cinema a few days ago, and you know when something like that happens you'll be ankle-deep in Keystone Light cans and Skulhedface box covers faster than you can say "remember that time...?"

Yes, we do love the Gwar around here, especially this week when these intergalactic space monsters hit us with a brand new record. Over the years the Cinema's library has amassed a collection of Gwar releases the likes of which you will seldom see, a collection of videos that really don't make that much sense even to us and we've seen 'em way too many times. What they do offer is plenty of off-color jokes, foam rubber, power chords, and low-budget Chroma-Key. Gwar takes on their early 90s obscenity lawsuit in Phallus in Wonderland (nominated for a Grammy!) and some tale about selling out and maybe censorship (again) in Skulhedface. For our money, we like the War Party tour flick the best since it works the best as background fodder and was a gift that came directly from the Slave Pit.

We'd love to tell you more, but you know that you'll be a-watchin' at least one of these when you step through our doors. Until then...

Moscow on the Hudson

In Soviet Russia country defects from you.

Zing! Patent office, here I come! Lines like that will change the world they will. Don't steal my material.

Eh, this movie sucks, but it sucks in a very KCAL-9 Cocktail kind of way (simplistic Hollywood swill that's kinda charming). It's jingoistically offensive (CCC of P = hella lame, US of A = supercool!) and you'll be hard-pressed to find anyone onscreen who isn't a caricature. Just look at that goddamn poster right there! Can you tell this came out in 1984?

Director Paul Maz hits you over the head with his cornball patriotism for an hour and forty, and right when you think he's done with it all he throws you the lamest scene yet. I thought Robin Williams all drunk and beaten up, disillusioned with the American Dream signaled a turn away from sappy indoor bullstuff, but then BAM! a montage of late night coffee shop immigrants reciting the Pledge of Allegiance proved me wrong. Good grief. You could hear the Cinema cringe and roll its eyes three towns over. I didn't think I'd see something more idiotic than that Keystone Kops inspired scene of KGB agents chasing Robin around Bloomingdale's, but I guess that's what happens when you assume.

At least Big Robs wasn't annoying or smug and arrogant like he is in everything else. And Maria Conchita! Why, she's a KTLA/Superstation staple and perhaps our favorite Arnold co-star. Check her out in a scene the powers-that-be will cut from basic cable. Be sure to keep your eyes peeled for the Family Matters grandma, obligatory Yakov, and uncredited Udo Kier -- that guy just keeps showing up at the Cinema and we don't even invite him.

Breaking the Waves

Man, if this isn't the most intense story we've ever come across. Extreme Calvinist devotion and dedication to the sacred vows of holy matrimony, all told through the lens of sexualized power relations. The box cover synopsis feels a bit misleading -- while the story does concern a wife's entrance into promiscuity in order to appease her newly-paralyzed spouse, the film is far more an Old Testament tale of isolated religious faith (a faith of both God and Man) than it is a sordid collage of stranger-lovin'. Lars von Trier's proto-Dogme realism makes things uncomfortable, but the film never feels exploitive, graphic, or manipulative, something I can't say for the only other von Trier joint we've seen (cue horribly depressing conclusion, cue uncontrollable sobbing).

I like how Breaking the Waves has my gray matter tied up in knots, but I ultimately think it's a bit of a failure. It's not Lars' fault, it'd be a Sisyphusian task for anyone to filmically realize the sheer gravity of this story. I will concede that the final twenty minutes are superbly effective and nearly make up for the shortcomings of the preceding 120.

Had Helena stayed on board we'd have had a completely different movie, and perhaps a better one. Emily Watson brought the provincial innocence like you can't believe, but I think Bess needed more of the crazy.

Matchstick Men

It's Saturday, it's 2 pm, you're watching HBO.


This movie'd be nothing without Nick Cage and Alison Lohman. Had the studio given this flick to some schlock director instead of a name like Ridley Scott, we'd have ended up with forgettable garbage instead of something that's actually pretty good and really well done. It's still not a great movie (reasonably lighthearted Hollywood caper stuff), but the interaction between these two actors is so A-plus money amazing that it's a shame I woke up thinking about this rather than this. Cage and Lohman's father-daughter chemistry is the reason you should queue this; once you see it you too will be taken aback by the astonishing collision of nervous tics and excitable adolescence. It's truly the stuff of a four-star classic, my friends. Too bad the rest of the movie only gets ya chuckling and grinning -- no lasting or profound emotions will shuffle through your noggin this time. But, hey, it's not like fun's a bad thing.

And...cue end credits.

Wanna get a sandwich?

The New World

I hear-tell that this here Terrence Malick is some sort of philosophical genius. I totally dig that, don't you know, but it's a tad unfortunate since it means that if watching this movie wasn't already hard enough, I've still got to write about the darn thing. And with dasein scholars in the room I'll have to watch what I say and how I say it. You know those philosophy types, they have to determine what the meaning of "is" is. Me? I haven't even read Being and Nothingness! (Although I do know Satre is smarter than this guy.)


We'll leave ontology out of this for now, and instead I'll assure you that every single goddamn shot for the entire two hour run time is both undeniably gorgeous and unpretentiously contemplative. The New World is so visually striking you'll feel bad your living room set's only 20 inches. I did. And how 'bout those twenty minutes where brooding-eyebrows Farrell and fawn-ing Q'Orianka Kilcher fall in love? Among the greatest performances captured on film, and I'll stand on Renee Jeanne Falconetti's coffee table in my cowboy boots and say that. We had some real emotions welling up inside us during some of those scenes what with all the red lips, fingertips, and silent stares. So good you'll want a ladyfriend by your side. Maybe two.

But the forty-five Xian Bale minutes are boring.

Still recommended, but we issue our official "all parts, no sum" caveat.

Requiem for a Dream

Is there a Golden Globe for most difficult montage? Tonight's thoughts also included:

Ellen Burstyn: acting!

Jennifer Connelly: beautiful

Keith David: Navy ads will never be the same

Darren Aronofsky: likes them crane shots

Marlon Wayans: good? w. t. f?

Drugs are bad, m'kay.

The Last Picture Show

Listen:

This movie is fantastic. Stop what you're doing and put it at the top of your queue.

Great imagery, expertly executed diegetic sound, and uniformly great acting, much of it by actors you didn't think were that good in the first place. Big Pete Bogs is the real deal, and it's a crying shame that it took us so long to see this. I can't say enough good things about this movie other than it convinced us that much more that Imperial Cruisers sounded the death knell of the motion picture industry.

Also: Cybill Shepherd!

She's a good actress too.

First Blood

Call this Rambo and you'll find yourself at the receiving end of the Cinema's fists of fury.

If you ask me, Johnny should've shot himself in that last scene like the good lord intended. Thankfully no one did ask me and now this, this, and this are part of our cultural history.

You should also know that Dan Hill's end-credits tune totally sucks out loud. I'm not sure I want to live in a world where I find myself wishing Frank was on the mic, but for a good two minutes that's where I was. Almost ruined a perfect UPN Sunday afternoon.

Jonathan Richman -- Take Me to the Plaza

Man, do I ever dig this Jonathan Richman. Normally the Cinema is doom, gloom, and mayhem, but Jonathan never fails to get me smilin' and sighin' with his super-sweet tales of romance, neon signs, and New England. So sappy, so corny, so unbelievably great.

Nothing else to say.

Who wants a hug?

The Making of Taxi Driver

Be sure and watch this when NetFlix delivers your copy. The darn thing's like an hour and a half long. Cinematographers and actors will tell you everything you read here, and then a little bit more.

If I played the guy that got my hand shot off you can bet I'd have that pic of me smoking with a knife jabbed thru my palm hanging right there in the living room. Sort of lame they interview Peter Boyle on the Raymond set. And why the hell is Albert Brooks in sunglasses? What a douche. Almost has me rethinking my position on Defending Your Life.

I just wanted to write another post. I don't plan write-ups for all the extras.

The Wicker Man

I like this and this, but wasn't too hot on this. Sporadically an enjoyable mystery, but the collision between old- and new-world faiths was completely lost on us. What the hell do I know about moon-dancing or Jesus? That said, the finale was surprisingly more effective what with its naked depictions of blind faith.

The powers that be sent us the truncated and probably lamer print. I was upset when that happened with this flick, but this time I don't feel cheated. Maybe the remake is good.

Crumb

Part of our Hall of Fame and the probably the Best of 1995. Famously denied a nomination. The world mourned.

R Crumb comes off as really funny and personable, and he is quite the snappy dresser. The critics surmised that art is therapy, but the social constructivist within me submits to you the proposition that interaction is therapy.

Taxi Driver

The other night at the weekly Heavy Duty/DivideByZero/Highland Cinema summit meeting I initiated a content and form discussion. I'm sure you're aware that it wasn't a landmark discussion, and it was more about content and form rather than content versus form. The whole thing came to mind earlier in the day when my current Chan Marshall enthusiasm started me thinking about artistic interpretation and appreciation. YouTube has this "Nude As the News" clip that I've watched a number of times this past week or two. You can check it if you want:


You don't have to watch the whole thing -- it's a 1996 Cat Power performance from a UK television program. I like it quite a bit as it illustrates the only consistently good thing about Chan (her voice) and also showcases her occasional talent for writing a good song.

Problem was, I didn't know what this tune was about. I wasn't paying attention to the lyrics at all. When I finally looked them up on the internets they didn't hit me in the gut like I'd hoped they would have. I started wondering whether or not that even mattered. From where should my appreciation derive? Is performance enough? I should probably get it, right? Am I doing this the wrong way?

Okay, so after we watched Taxi Driver I found myself (as usual) on the Crap/Not Crap Electrical forum where some guy wrote:

"First movie to ever make me feel like I was not crazy for feeling alienated and pissed off all the time. Top 5 all time.

NOT CRAP."

I first thought this was completely ridiculous. Travis Bickle should definitely make you feel like you're not crazy, but he sure as hell shouldn't make you feel that way because you identify with his alienation and hostility. He's clinically insane and dangerous. You angsty young men out there in the audience, your bodies full of piss and vinegar, your heads full of literate cynicism and hyperbolic disgust, you may think you are starting to relate to Travis thanks to his abject loneliness and inability with the fairer sex, but please for the love of God stop right there. He's a threat to society. He saved an eleventeen year old whore, but he was hellbent on killing a senator! For no reason. Well, no good reason. I hardly think misdirected sexual frustration is a valid motive for murder.

But then I realized that what's great about Taxi Driver is Marty's ability to subject us to a deplorable character while somehow keeping us from wallowing in said character's delusion and aggressively downward spiral. There's nothing noble or commendable about this guy and yet the movie is so expertly done that you sometimes catch yourself thinking of Travis as strange rather than as a candidate for Bellevue. There's certainly some whoa moments, but they are often understated and non-exploitive. I can't empathize with you if you honestly relate to DeNiro's character, but there's a certain level of frustration, anger, and fear present in this movie that you might find yourself thinking in a manner inconsistent with your rational mind. Taxi Driver is so good that it might make you think it's speaking for you even when the actual events taking place are entirely at odds with your moral compass. Bicks is an anti-hero in the true sense of the hyphenated term, but since the movie never stops being about him and his perceptions it doesn't necessarily debase or belittle him. Taxi Driver is uncomfortable, but I don't think it's pitiful or pathetic until you think about it later.

The point of all this was that my concern about whether or not I was misinterpreting "Nude As the News" seemed to go along with my reaction that the above Albini-fan had misread Scorsese. Upon closer inspection, I really don't think that either is a blatant case of a wrong interpretation. Sure, both could benefit from a more refined analysis, but what's most important about all of this, and what ultimately transpired from our NW Blogspot summit meeting, is that emotional response is the only thing that matters. All I knew was that voice, it made me cry. And that unnamed poster (who is most likely referring to a younger version of himself), all he knew was that Taxi Driver made him feel less alone in this cruel world in which we live. Both are entirely appropriate responses, and are furthermore ones that certainly aren't at odds with the artists' intents. So who cares? And why did I write so many paragraphs on it all? You should watch this movie. Even if you've already seen it 'cause it's really fucking good. Travis Bickle is lonely and pissed-off and alienated and you'll know that right off the bat. Hell, identify with it if you want. Chances are you're a smart cookie (you found to this page, after all!) and you'll get it soon if not now. So stop worrying. Hey, time for South Park. Later!

Congratulations! You have just read the first ever Highland Cinema "blog" post!

Capturing the Friedmans

Had Andrew Jarecki come to the Cinema for advice we'd have told him:

"Hammer home the absurdity of the McMartinesque accusations instead of making us hate the Friedman sons for the way they yelled and screamed at their poor mother."

He didn't ask us. This is still a worthwhile doc, but there's more to the case that what you see here. Just ask Debbie Nathan.

Ghost Dog

Forest Whitaker lives by a code. And kills for wiseguys. I sure wish he hadn't shot that fella who knew all the words to "Cold Lampin'." There's already too few of us in this sad and beautiful world.

Jarmusch movies are mostly the same: Good!

Forest Whitaker is a fave too...the sheer fact he did this overrides the sheer fact he did this.

Talons of the Eagle

Dr Pepper, Cool Ranch Doritos, Billy Blanks. The Holy Trinity of the Highland Cinema. Sure, we've upgraded a little, but little else has changed.

Yes, readers, it was eleven years ago that the seedlings of the Cinema first sprouted when a teenaged Highland Cinema board of directors stumbled upon the two greatest films of all time. One starred the most punchline-worthy of superstar siblings, the other featured Billy Blanks, trainer to the stars, ass-kicker of lesser stars, and the only man who can combine a serious lack of acting chops with a serious aircraft carrier-styled flattop. We've seen the Blanks rock some dudes with multiple kicks, machine gun punches, and double blasts. We've seen him take on pissant martial arts stars, sidle up next to super hot babes, wear way-too-skimpy muscle tees, and throw down with Don "The Dragon"Wilson. Hell, we've even seen his real-life "kicking machine" bro fight the Dragon. In a movie with Steve Garvey, if you can believe that! And remember that time Billy trained Shannon Tweed at Crunch Fitness? Of course you don't. Fuck yeah, we're old school, dammit, and this was all before TAE-BO so take your informercial jokes elsewhere.

The point is that Blanks is the fucking man and when I sat there scrolling through the list of Billy's cinematic achievements I stopped here. Talons of the Eagle? Must've slipped through the cracks. Holy shit! Also stars James Hong! Priscilla Barnes! Matthias (S)Hues! All of our favorites of years past. And present. Who doesn't fucking love Big Trouble? Or Three's Company? Or TC 2000? Here we are, legitimate adults and every single one of us here at the Cinema thinks hands down that Talons of the Eagle is the best movie in celluloid history. There's a theme song at the end credits! You see that picture up there? It's the fucking Eagle's Claw! Imagine you're hearing DVDA sing rawked up shit. Soooo good. Dude, these guys drive through a fireball! Blanks slices a guy's throat! That kind of shit never happens in these B-movies. A few necks get snapped, but you never see a karate dude work a blade through a jugular. But it happened here, and you know you're watching some serious shit.

You don't care about the plot, right? Oh, really? Blanks and Jalal Merhi are undercover cops out to get James Hong. The end. Lots of fighting and some stripper boobies.

We can die happy.

Wait, bitchin' sidenote!!! You know this is the Cinema's favorite band, but these guys are a close second. They were already closing in a battle royale with some space beasts, but once we found out they watched Showdown before every show the race got that much closer. Stay tuned.

Comedians of Comedy

How awesome is it that Brian Posehn got excited about buying candy? That guy can come to the Highland Cinema anytime. Our concession stand is here for you, buddy! And what's more is that this Posehn cat is goddamn hilarious. He has a Death Angel t-shirt! Remember when we saw them? He even makes a side-splitting "Straight Outta Cockpit" joke when they talk about Northwest Airlines. Hey, didn't we have that same conversation last night? Krusty Kuffs! Bleeps and creeps! George Lucas in a Greedo mask!

There. You've just watched the entire movie. Not amazing, but better than my original vitriolic draft would have led you to believe. Your enjoyment depends on how funny you find bear catch-phrases, arrested development, and hanging out. Hey, three for three for the Cinema. That stuff's gold, Jerry. Gold. We don't really dig on the comic books, though. Well, not most comic books anyway.

I walked away thinking that I should have been treated to a much better movie, but also that Maria Bamford has some serious fucking balls to do that act for the past fifteen years. I'm sure she was a favorite at the Sheboygan Giggle Hut.

Three Kings

A dude movie classic from a year known for its dude movies. Also a part of the Highland Cinema's permanent collection, a collection I found myself perusing after a sooner-than-expected return to headquarters late this morning.


Three Kings brings brings way too much cool to the table. Ice Cube! Marky Mark! Gaffs in a bit part! But we really have to give it up for this guy. Kudos to you, my main man, you stole the show almost as much as he did. A performance so good even they loved it.

And I don't know about you, but when I see Nora Dunn I only hear this voice.

Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe

Why? He is a man of his word, he is. And he is crazy.


Herzog has some good flicks under his belt, but I'll take his commentaries over his films any day of the week. Shoe is passable -- a story like this is the stuff of artiste legend, but I think it would be better served if the footage did not exist. Herzog lives as he speaks, I don't think anybody can deny him that. His pines for adequate poetic imagery are certainly realized here in spite of the fact he isn't even behind the camera.

Best of SNL -- Christopher Walken

Saturday Night Live is mostly unfunny.

Christopher Walken is one hell of a character.

The end.

Bruiser

This is the most awful piece of shit. Ever.

How's that for an opener?

Really though, Bruiser is worse than made-for-Showtime garbage and Sci-Fi channel originals. Worse than Hell Comes to Frogtown. Worse than Get Rich or Die Tryin'. Worse than Mac and Me. It bothered us that Bruiser wasn't coherent, stupidly violent, or interesting, but it insulted us that it was neither FUN nor fun to make fun of. I didn't even think such a thing was possible. The Cinema was dead silent for this one, and you know something is rotten when even we're not a-crackin' wise. I joked my way through a corpse's cunning linguistics, a school library one-man squeeze-off, and an entire Morrissey concert, but I spent my time with Bruiser dumbfounded and slack-jawed, all the while thinking, "Is that six-pound bag of pretzels really almost gone?" and "Is it eleven o'clock yet? Damn." Show me disgusting! depraved! shocking! but please don't show me boring.

This sure seemed like the perfect Cinema fodder. Guy wakes up with a mask instead of a face and lays down the law on those who've wronged him. Whoa. Neat, right? Let's see some revenge. Problem is he only offs three cats, and he kills 'em in the most mundane of ways: gunshots, sack of silverware to the dome, extension cord hanging. Laaaame. We kept thinking it would kick into gear, but it never ever did. I can't even figure out why in the hell he starts killing people in the first place. Is it because he doesn't have a face? That doesn't even make sense. He has a face, it's just sorta covered up. Now if he was invisible or marked for death, a killing spree I could understand. But this?!? Shouldn't there be some zombies or steel mills somewhere? This is a George A. Romero joint for Pete's sake!

At least we got to see the Misfits. Of course, it was the super-lame Mountain Dew Misfits instead of the super-cool Jagermeister Misfits. How much would it be to send this to Lodi, NJ? Express mail, please.

The final verdict: we used to suspect it, but now we're certain -- the only good thing about Big George is Tom Savini. Not even these awesome frames could change our minds.

City of God

I spent the entire movie trying to think of an appropriately side-splitting Seu Jorge joke without even realizing he was in the fucking movie! And not just as some goofball extra, but in a real deal role. The entire second hour depends on him! He's second in command!

Jesus, what an idiot.


I eventually got over that, but the Highland Cinema wondered what the future will say about City of God. At only a few years old it is fast becoming a certified classic -- the recipient of many-a four-star review and the eighteenth greatest of all time. Better than Dr. Strangelove says a mass of internet voters. Sure, we enjoyed it. We enjoyed it a whole lot in fact, but those jump cuts, that start-at-the-sort-of-end narrative framework, and the oversaturated color timing just scream turn of the millennium. Temporal is one thing, but dated can cast an overwhelming pall on a thing. Will Fernando Meirelles' excesses be Cidade de Deus' pastel sportcoat?

Broadway Danny Rose

That Woody Allen, he knows how to get the Highland Cinema a-laughin'. And now that we're getting older we've found out he also knows a thing or two about getting the Highland Cinema a-creeped out. I know, I know, she wasn't technically his daughter, but ain't no right about that, no way, no how.

This Broadway Danny Rose? "A-O-decent!" if I can steal a witticism from our imagined good friend. Lots of exaggerated schlemiel-in' and neat photography, but not a whole lot else that got me going. That parrot wearing a bonnet, though, that had me dying.

Chopper

Chopper is a bad dude. A bad dude with personality, but a bad dude nonetheless. Motherfucker gets stabbed eight times by his best friend and doesn't blink an eye. He pays a guy to cut off his earlobes just 'cause he wants a cellblock transfer. The blood's running down his shoulders and pooling at his feet and he's yelling at the guy to stop being a pussy and cut faster. Once he finally gets released he suspects his lady-of-the-night "girlfriend" is seeing another dude so he beats her senseless in front of her own mother. Then Chopper tracks down the other guy and shoots him in the stomach, but only after he demands a cash payout. Damn. One crazy s.o.b.

The Highland Cinema's only goal in life is to stay out of the pen -- smiley manipulative cats like this will trick you into thinking you're friends, but won't think twice about stabbing you in the face with a filed-down spork. Or worse -- you do know what prisons are most famous for, right? What hurts most is the lack of respect.

We Jam Econo: The Story of the Minutemen

The Highland Cinema doesn't listen to the Minutemen. "Why in the hell not?!?" I ask myself. Especially since I fucking love Mike Watt. Really I do. Those tour diaries? I've read every single one. In its entirety. Usually while at work. In less than two years I saw Watt play four different times, the first backing up my most-favorite of guitarists, the last supporting that awful band with Krist and Curt Kirkwood. And how couldn't I dig Watt when he has such super-cool fashion sense? It's like looking in a mirror.

But I still don't listen to the 'Men. The CD cabinet has some fIREHOSE and Engine Room, but where's Double Nickels? Would you believe that I have eight Greg Ginn solo releases and not this? What gives, Highland Cinema?!? You love SST! You love proto-alt-rock! Get with it!


We Jam Econo is great: chock full of live performances that are chock full of sweaty fat guys and drum fills. And lots of early 80s hipster talking heads -- most of whom you'll recognize from Get in the Van. But where's Ginn? And more Hurley! Is that J Mascis or your Grandma? Check out these guys' living rooms. Jack Brewer is forty-something and it looks like he lives at home, and Joe Baiza has Christmas lights in his kitchen.

What we really dug was how all these cats absolutely adored the Minutemen. This band was a force to be reckoned with, a live juggernaut that made you listen but weren't assholes about it. Seeing that almost makes me feel okay for not having any of the records -- they were just flyers for the gigs anyway.

You should totally see this. But skip the rambling, go-nowhere "deleted" scenes. "Deleted," my ass! No one would put that Pettibon segment in a movie.

Jandek on Corwood

Watch this movie and you might think Jandek's a genius.

But watch this and you'll probably think he's crazy.

I can't weigh in on the matter since there's no way I want to wade through forty-plus Corwood releases, but I sure think this Jandek guy's interesting.

Nekromantik // Nekromantik 2

Oh my goddamn. Who would've thought a corpse-lovin' double feature could be so gross? Hey, I know, how about everybody? And I don't mean just plain "gross," I mean fucking gross. Think of the most repulsive thing you've seen and add one. Hell, think of the most repulsive thing you can imagine and then add one. Or two. Or eight. Eighty minutes of greasy, slimy, decaying German bodies and people doing things they shouldn't be doing. 'Cuse me while I puke. [Shudder]


Nekro I is a classic inasmuch as something this putrid can be classic: you watch that opening menage and think, "Whoa, that's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen." [Blech] "That's a dead body! And a lady in the throes of passion!" [Barf] But hold on! If you make to the very end you'll get a scene that is even more disgusting and more offensive, and I will guarantee you that's it'll be unlike anything you'll ever see in any movie for the rest of your life. Especially one that you could get from Netflix. Yuck. I'm serious. Don't watch this. Ever.


But wait, there's more! In case you forgot about Nekro's finale, Nekro II makes you watch it again. The humanity! The horror! The...[throws up in trash can]. Man, that was fucked up, what the hell, Jorg? Nekro II is sometimes even more repellent than its predecessor thanks to a new and improved bloated green corpse. Yecch. [Retch]

Hey, why does it smell like pretzels and stomach acid in here?