On the Big Screen :: A (Frustrating) Day at the Movies: Comical Shoot-Outs, Free-Wheeling Pandas, and a Friendly Cannibal Invites You All to Dinner.

As I’ve belabored elsewhere, our local cinema leaves a lot to be desired in a “I laugh in their face whenever they ask if I’d like to become a premium member” sense. I mean, they force you to sit through over twenty minutes of previews (-- not an exaggeration --) for films that at least 2/3rds of which will never, ever play there. And this is why I occasionally abandon my small micropolitan community and head to Lincoln or Omaha for an all day movie binge to catch films that likely won’t make it into the hinterlands of our beloved Stadium 7, which is also kinda like the Hotel California in that if you find the sticky seat or splotched spot on the floor you may never, ever leave again.

And so, off to Lincoln I went this last Thursday for a proposed triple-feature at the Marcus Grand Theater, my cinematic Shangri-La-multiplex, if you will, with the nice comfortable seats with the retractable arm rests, the minimal previews, and the wide selection of features. But things were a tad ominous when I entered the building and saw one whole wing of theaters was roped off and tarped over due to some kind of remodeling effort. And then, when I laid out my day of viewing with the cashier, everything was normal with the first feature but for the second and third I had to pick a reserved seat in the newly remodeled theaters with the new and much ballyhooed “Dreamloungers”.

Now, I hate having to pre-select a reserved seat (-- for reasons I’ll get into later--) but I had been to a theater with those kind of oversized Naugahyde-covered recliners before at a different venue, and while I wasn’t a huge fan of them, this apparently is the future of cinema, making a trip to the movies the exact same experience as staying in your basement. That’s me shrugging right now.

Anyhoo, my first feature of the day, Ben Wheatley’s Free Fire (2016), was in a theater that hadn’t been refurbished yet and so I got to pick my own seat on a first come first seated basis as the cinematic gods intended since moving images first flickered. The film itself takes place in 1978 and concerns a brokered arms deal between two IRA members, Chris and Frank (Cillian Murphy, Michael Smiley), looking to buy some M-16s from a smarmy South African arms dealer, Vernon (Sharlto Copley), and his right-hand man, Martin (Babou Ceesay), in an abandoned factory along the Boston waterfront. Brokering this deal is Justine (Brie Larson), and moderating this transaction is some hired mercenary named Ord (Armie Hammer).

Now, despite not getting quite what was asked for specifically, it appears the exchange of money for guns will go off without a hitch with everyone satisfied and happy. Well, at least it was until mere coincidence rears its ugly head when the local thugs hired by each group to do the heavy lifting prove to have a volatile history (Sam Riley, Jack Reynor), which soon escalates into a massive firefight between the now opposing factions. Complicating matters further for this free-fire-for-all shoot-out is the location, which is tailor-made for ricochets, and whose low-lighting has loyalties switching as stray shots turn into friendly fire. And as the damage adds up and things devolve into everyone for themselves, things get even trickier when two more shooters show up, hired by someone already there, who had intended an ambush to take the guns and the money and leave no witnesses before the shit hit the fan, leaving the audience to sort out true allegiances and figure who, if anyone, will still be standing come the end.

Turns out reserved seating wouldn’t have been that much of an issue as I wound up with a private screening of Free Fire. And let me tell ya, you all missed a pretty great movie. You kinda wind up rooting for everybody in this thing -- except for Steve-O (Riley), who gets exactly what is coming to him. (And come to think on it, everyone kinda gets exactly what they got coming to them in this thing.) The action is great, the characters endearing, and the comedy is delightfully black and morbid. Sharlto Copley kinda steals the movie as the vainglorious dolt Vern, and I fall more in love with Brie Larson with each successive movie I see her in, but, holy crap, between this and The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (2015) the resurgence of Armie Hammer has been equally fun to watch. That dude deserves a bigger box office break. And so, with its brief, but action-packed run-time, I guess one could consider Free Fire to be nothing more than a disposable actioneer. But don’t be surprised if you keep digging it back out of the trash to watch over and over again.

Thus and so, the only real complaint I had during my first screening had nothing to do with the movie but the amount of construction noise leaking through the walls. Nothing like a power saw and stripped screws leeching into your movie. Luckily, my lone but out loud laughter was enough to drown most of that out. Thankfully, the next showing was in a theater further away from this demilitarized zone. And so, after a quick bathroom break, I made a beeline for my next feature, the Disneynature documentary, Born in China (2016).

Okay. Let me back up for second and confess to something. I was a little hesitant to see this film, what with it being a Disney animal documentary and all. Why? Well, we all know what happens in a Disney nature documentary, right? Right. [ArmsFlailing/] THEY’RE GONNA KILL THE MAMA ANIMAL BECAUSE THEY ALWAYS KILL THE MAMA ANIMAL IN A DISNEY NATURE DOCUMENTARY!!! [/ArmsFlailing] *thud* You know it will happen, I said. I know, I answered. You will start blubbering like you always do, I said. I know, I also said. And you will turn into a sobbing puddle of goo like you always do with these kinda things. True, I said. Still, Circle of Life and all that. And so, as I bravely entered the theater, bracing for the worst, I found something that did reduce me to remorse, but it had nothing to do with the movie.

No, the movie itself was fantastic, immersive and beautifully shot as the cameras and our narrator, John Krasinski, took us by the hand and led us on a year long adventure into the wilds of China, splitting time between a giant panda and her cub (Ya-Ya and Mei-Mei), a golden snub-nosed monkey (Tao-Tao) trying to find his place in the family clan after the birth of a little sister, a herd of antelope-like chiru and their reproductive migration, and a mother snow leopard (Dawa) trying to raise two cubs in a desolate rocky landscape.

Often hilarious and sometimes harrowing and, yes, sometimes melancholy, this film is a treat. Not gonna lie, though. There were some tears as [SPOILERS] casualties included one baby monkey snatched up by a hawk and one baby sheep felled by a predator; but where I really lost it is when the snow leopard gave her all for her offspring but came up short. And while the film called for optimism in the face of this kind of sacrifice and tragedy, the ultimate and unrevealed fate of her cubs kind of left me on a bit of a bummer despite everything else being pretty delightful -- especially watching a runaway panda bouncing uncontrollably down a hillside.

Still, my biggest regret of seeing Born in China was not what I saw on screen but what I was forced to sit on to watch it, bringing us back to those Dreamloungers. Now, as I said before, I had been to one showing at an AMC theater that had recliners and that is exactly what they were: single seat recliners. What the Marcus theaters were offering, however, was not a single seat recliner but a small two person loveseat with a retractable divider arm. Taking this in when I found my designated seat, I muttered “You gotta be f@cking kidding me.” The theater was otherwise empty as it was nearly twenty minutes until the next showing. First I tried to sit in it with the arm down and, being a very large man, one buttcheek got caught, leaving my ass at a 45-degree angle. That wouldn’t do. Next, I tried again with the armrest up. No 45-degree angle this time but you were still partially sitting on a hump with a pitiable small space left for some poor sap if they reserved the seat right next me.

It was at this point, completely frustrated, I contemplated going back to the ticket line and purchasing the second seat next to mine to make sure that didn’t happen -- I mean, I don’t like to get that intimate with a complete stranger, which isn’t really fair to them or me but it’s what you gotta do to fit in a world not built for your specs. And for a minute, as I envisioned the whole multiplex made over this way, I got really angry at this ruination and was almost ready to just chuck the whole thing, demand a refund for the second and third feature and go home. But I decided to wait it out and, if someone did wind up beside me I would apologize for the inconvenience and move to another empty lounger -- if they’d let me. (I lucked out as only four more people showed up for the second screening.) Again, yay, reserved seating. I mean, what happens if you get stuck by some obnoxious asshole? Or some fat-ass like me taking up a third of your seat? Or some tweener who can’t separate themselves from their cellphones. Or a rowdy family of six? Before, you could just move to another empty seat. Now, you might hesitate since that seat might belong to someone else, too. Madness. I also gave a morbid chuckle when the Marcus Theaters’ CEO came on screen and welcomed the audience to his theater and encouraged everyone to go for the large popcorn. Not with these limiting seats, buddy. Forget it.

And so, feeling bluer by the minute, I dragged myself toward the next theater and the final feature for the day. Again, I thought about buying the extra ticket but the small crowds of the first two features found me deciding to risk it again. And besides that, screw them. Why should I have to pay for a second seat due to your ill-conceived remodel. And another thing about these damnable Dreamloungers. Why put the controls on the inside of the armrest where the slightest contact from your thigh causes them to engage, either flopping you forward or backward as they recline and retract with no warning? Yeah, screw this noise, I thought. I am never coming back here again. Ever.

Regrettably, then, I was in a pretty foul mood when I carefully settled in for the third and final feature, The Lost of City of Z (2016), as best I could, which I was going into kinda cold, sold on the recommendation of a friend (-- thanks, Dave), who loved the source novel by David Grann, and beyond that really having no idea what I was about to see as my Dreamlounger reclined and retracted on its own through the whole damned movie at the minutest of shifting. (Never. Ever. Again.)

Turns out the film was good. Damned good. Real damned good. How good? I didn’t think about the infernal contraption I was sitting on for nearly two hours and twenty minutes, that’s how good it was as the film spun the true story of famed British explorer, Col. Percy Fawcett (Charlie Hunnam), who first journeys into the Amazon with his trusted Corporals, Henry Costin and Arthur Manley (Robert Pattinson, Edward Ashley) to survey and find the source of a river to settle a border dispute between Bolivia and Brazil at the behest of the National Geographic Society in 1906. There, deep in the jungle, Fawcett finds evidence and the remains of an ancient advanced civilization but when he brings his tale back to Britain he is met with scorn and ridicule and prejudice by the scientific establishment “who regard all indigenous populations as mere savages” and therefore completely incapable of building what he described. (The Incan city of Machu Picchu wasn’t 'rediscovered’ until 1911.)

Undaunted, Fawcett mounts a second expedition into the Amazon to bring back even more proof of what he refers to as the Lost City of Zed (Z). This, however, ends in both disaster and failure. Then, his ambitions are seemingly sidelined permanently after suffering injuries during a gas attack fighting in the trenches of World War I. All the while, Fawcett’s wife, Nina (Sienna Miller), has stood by his side -- mostly metaphorically as her husband spent years away from home on his adventures, leaving her to raise their three children on her own. His constant absence also estranges the father from eldest son, Jack (Tom Holland). But this is eventually reconciled, and together, father and son decide to go on one last adventure into the jungle together to find Zed in 1925 only to never be heard from again. And like with the real-life Fawcett, the film ends rather ambiguously on whether the expedition was a success or failure.

Tearing into the history of this film a bit shows it went through several casting changes before settling on Charlie Hunnam for the lead, replacing both Brad Pitt and Benedict Cumberbatch, but he acquits himself rather well and carries the epic scope of this film with ease. I did not recognize Robert Pattison at all, nor Tom Holland until the very end. And while this film felt like a bit of a throwback to the works of David Lean and the early films of Werner Herzog -- especially Aguire, the Wrath of God (1972), the biggest impression I took away from the film was how much the level, even-handed portrayal of the natives in The Lost City of Z was a raised middle finger to the likes of Ruggero Deodato and Umberto Lenzi and their exploitative cannibal atrocity movies. Cannot recommend this one enough.

Heck, I can honestly highly recommend all three films I partook in for this triple-feature. As for the venue, well, I’m still kinda bitter and think I have time for one more dig on the Dreamlounger before wrapping this up, specifically the very loud snoring from one of my fellow patrons reclined-up and sacked-out two rows up during the last film. Yay. Going to the movies is fun. Well. It used to be. *sigh* 

Cult Movie Project #10 (of 200) :: Beyond the Boundaries of the Medium: Abel Gance's Napoleon (1927).

As a friend of mine once said: I really wished I liked silent movies more than I do. And it's not that I don't like them. I've been scratching my head for the past ten minutes counting off the pitifully small list I can recall seeing and found nary a clunker in the bunch -- The General (1926), Ben-Hur (1925), Metropolis (1927), The Bat (1926), The Cat and the Canary (1927), Nosferatu (1922), a ton of Keaton and Chaplin vehicles, and that completely mental The Perils of Pauline serial (1914). A lack of exposure, then, might be the true culprit because I seldom, if ever, actively seek these non-talkies out. And so, it was with some trepidation that I plopped down in front of the TV to watch Abel Gance's fabled silent version of Napoleon (1927) -- all five hours of it.

Apparently, there are, like, 19 different cuts of this film out there, ranging from the director's own seven hour version (though this appears to be lost), to the severely truncated 87 minute version MGM whittled down and released when they imported it back in the 1920s. The most standard restored version runs 235 minutes, painstakingly put back together by several rivaling factions -- most notably Keven Brownlow and Francis Ford Coppola. (And the story of that pissing contest I will leave to you to seek out on your own.)

Now, the main reason I watched the five hour cut (311 minutes to be exact) is because it was the only copy I could get my hands on for this retrospective. And somewhat ironically, the print streamed via Vimeo was letterboxed in reverse; meaning the top and bottom of the square were cut off to form a rectangle -- including shaving off the inserted dialogue plates. *sigh* Still, I'd rather see that than the forced fit junk with everyone and everything squished and stretched. Anyways, about the movie...

Five years in the making and extremely ambitious in both scope and pomp and pageantry and chaos, Gance spent more than 17,000 francs, utilized 150 sets, and used 40 different stars and nearly 6000 extras for his film, which covers Napoleon's life from his boarding school days (focusing on two spectacularly shot sequences involving fights with snowballs and pillows with much higher stakes than those choice of weapons would imply); then his rise in military rank, beginning with the French Revolution through the Siege of Toulon (another series of mind-boggling battle sequences), where his victory first gained him national notoriety; to his arrest and imprisonment during the Reign of Terror, to the fall of Robespierre, to his own ascension as the savior of the Revolution; followed by his (one-sided) courtship with Josephine de Beauharnais, and then ends with him leading a rag-tag army to victory in Italy, planting the seeds for the emperor and empire to come.

Wow. *whew* I know that seems like a lot to cover even for that kinda time frame but, honestly, the flickering images were so fascinating and engaging the film just breezed by. And the ending didn't really feel like one -- more of a beginning, begging for the next sequence. Incomplete, basically. And apparently, that is exactly what the director had originally intended. Seems Gance had planned further installments (-- a trilogy according to some, five or six films to others --) on the life and times of Napoleon Bonaparte, but the financing always eluded him. Sadly, Gance's eventual depression over this failure led to him destroying a lot of the original negatives and materials, making the restoration process even harder and a complete version impossible.

But, from what I saw from what was left, this film still and should be rightfully championed for its technical innovations. For his grand vision, Gance experimented with hand-held cameras (-- giving it a documentary feel and a ton of verisimilitude), and slathered the film with POV-shots, montages, split-screens, trick-shots with multiple overlapping exposures, dollies, zooms, tracking-shots, crash-cut editing, brazen F/X, colored gels, and he even invented a new three camera technique, "Polyvision", for some sequences to be projected by three synched projectors as kind of a proto-CinemaScope experience. 

Even without the triptychs this looks like no silent movie I have ever seen; and while watching all of this unfold, if I didn't know any better, I'd have sworn on my stack of Cult Movie books I was watching an experimental French New Wave film from the 1960s.

However, as much rightful praise is heaped on Gance the film does have some glaring faults. While his battle scenes are ambitiously staged, the execution lacks discipline; it's such pure bedlam one cannot tell what is going on or who we're looking at half the time. (To be fair, this could be attributed to the print I watched.) Sadly, this lack of control while filming led to the deaths of two extras, who fell off horses, and the star was nearly drowned while filming near Corsica; 42 more extras were injured during the Toulon sequence; and even Gance himself and several of his crew members were severely burned when a magnesium pyrotechnic misfired and covered them in molten metal. His subject matter also suffers a bit from the designated hero conundrum. And while the visual metaphors are wonderfully staged and cut together, they tend to tarry and verge on drowning themselves out.

   
It still looked incredible, though. And as amazing as all that righteous (or misguided) tonnerre et éclair were, the quieter moments were just as powerful. I especially dug the "Watching the Revolution through a Window" sequence, where Napoleon sees a woman's face outside his apartment window but closer examination finds a dismembered head on a pike; riots and a lynching follows through this limited view-scape.

I honestly wish the whole film had lived up to that opening act at the school with young Napoleon (Roudenko). Thirty minutes in and you can easily see why filmmakers and cinema scholars have wet themselves over the years. Truly mesmerizing stuff. Again, the film never quite loses this momentum but, after the "Ball of the Damned" (another fantastic interlude), hour four really slows down for some melodrama, where a completely twitter-pated Napoleon (Dieudonné) pines for the unrequited love of Joséphine (Manès). Thankfully, that doesn't last too long and Napoleon is soon on the march again.

But, you say, if this filmmaker was so great, why haven't more people heard of him? Well, one of the reasons Gance's visual innovations never caught on (at least no yet back in 1927) was bad timing. With the release of The Jazz Singer the very same year, studios and theaters focused on a conversion to sound instead of widening their lenses and screens. Too bad, really. Also, with the death of silent films and Gance's own self-destructive behavior, the film basically disappeared for nearly fifty years.

At some point I might take another run at this film through one of the shorter cuts and (hopefully) a better print. Having said that, I do not regret the amount of time spent on what I watched already. That was one helluva an experience that I will not soon forget. 

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"Certainly no other silent films, not even those of D.W. Griffith or the great Russian and German directors of the twenties, are as visually spectacular as Gance's Napoleon. It went beyond the boundaries of the medium. He strapped cameras and cameramen to horses; he attached one camera to a guillotine, and placed another underwater; he placed a camera on a pendulum and swung it through a set. His intention was to make viewers feel a part of the action. Each sequence will stun you with it's technical brilliance and directorial bravura, the pageantry and poetry, the authentic recreation of a time gone by, and the aggressive energy of all the interesting looking actors and beautiful actresses Gance crowds into his frame." 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXX-- Danny Peary  

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The Fine Print: Napoleon was watched via Vimeo's streaming service in one sitting with a twenty minute intermission after hour three so the viewer could go to the bathroom and execute a quick burrito run. What's the Cult Movie Project? That's ten down, with 190 to go.  

   
Napoleon (1927) Ciné France :: Films Abel Gance :: Isepa-Wengeroff Film GmbH :: Pathé Consortium Cinéma :: Société générale des films / P: Abel Gance / W: Abel Gance / C: Léonce-Henri Burel, Jules Kruger, Joseph-Louis Mundwiller, Nikolai Toporkoff / E: Abel Gance / S: Albert Dieudonné, Vladimir Roudenko, Edmond Van Daële, Alexandre Koubitzky, Antonin Artaud

Trailer Park :: The Epic Scope and Sheer Magnitude of Cy Endfield's Zulu (1964)

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"Because we're here, lad."
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Back in 1879 Great Britain suffered one of its worst military disasters on the mountain slopes of Isandhlwanda, Natal, Africa, when 1300 Redcoats were overwhelmed and massacred by a large force of Zulu warriors. (And I pause for historical accuracy to add that the Brits were the aggressors, here.) Flush with victory, chief Cetshwayo next sent his impis, 4000 strong, to finish clearing out the invaders by destroying the outpost at Rourke's Drift; a Swedish mission doubling as a military hospital, where a small Welsh unit of barely a 100 men were stationed. This is where the film Zulu begins...

When word of the massacre reaches the mission, Lt. Chard (Baker), a Royal Engineer, abandons the bridge he was sent to build and musters the company to shore up the small outpost's defenses. Outranked by only a few months, Lt. Bromhead (Caine -- in his big screen debut), grudgingly relinquishes command of his men to Chard. And then the tension builds from the inside out as the fortifications go up and the camera lingers on the meager force back-dropped against the vast landscape, further fueled by the drunken ravings of Reverend Witt (Hawkins), who admonishes them to leave or they will all most assuredly be killed when the tide of Zulus arrive and overrun them.


Judging by the trailer I suppose you could consider Zulu as one of those old fashioned manly-men movies that could have easily been gleaned straight out of the lurid Sweats and male adventure magazines from the 1950's and '60s. Sure, it's wrought with a few historical inaccuracies but I think that's selling it a bit short. Check out the great scene early on in the film, when the brass works on their defense strategy with Ardendorff (Gert Van den Bergh), a Zulu expert and survivor of the earlier battle, and Bromhead dismisses the native levies who also died as "cowardly blacks." He is quickly rebuffed and reminded that it isn't the Grenadier Guards coming to wipe them out. Ardendorff also brought orders that they are to hold their position indefinitely, no matter what, to which Chard snipes about which "son or heir" -- who did nothing to earn their commission -- gave that asinine order. Now it's Bromhead's turn to be indignant, when he points out that they're no one's son or heir now. It's not very subtle, granted, but it does a nice job of evening out the playing field. You definitely feel the loss of humanity on both sides when the bullets and spears start flying, and you also witness bravery on both sides of the walls as well. After that the politics are left to the politicians; this is a tale of soldiers, and the only preaching comes from the inebriated Witt. And when a panicky private asks why they have to fight, the answer is simple: because we're here.


About the first third of the film is just a warm-up, dedicated to the fortifications, while the rest of the film is basically just one long, sustained battle sequence with a few brief -- and I mean brief, respites. Wave after wave of native warriors crash into the walls but are beaten back with sound strategy and superior fire power. But with every Zulu they knock down, three seem to take his place. And as the battle rages all day and into the night, with casualties mounting and most of the outpost burning or burned out, come the dawn, they all know their luck won't hold out forever. And when the sun does rise the next morning, I can only hope you all were as enthralled as I was when the Zulus sang and beat out their war chant and the Brits counter with their own hymn of defiance. Then, when the stand-off ends, and the final battle finally breaks wide open, I'll warn you that just when you think it's over it isn't as there are several surprises and one huge "Oh shit" moment still left to be unveiled.


For a guy who never really did anything like this before, director Cy Endfield, with a helpful assist from cinematographer Stephen Dade, is to be commended for his staging and execution. The battle scenes last well over and hour and, with some artful framing and extended set-ups, are truly incredible to watch. And he took the time to let us get to know some of the men -- from malingerer turned hero, Hook (Booth), to the stiff upper lip of Sgt. Bourne (Green -- who, with all apologies to Steve Reeves, made a great Hercules in Jason and the Argonauts) -- so we care what happens to them. There is some unintentional humor here, though, as the British troops are so regimented to a fault you half expect Graham Chapman -- decked out as the colonel from Monty Python -- to pop up and tell everyone to "Stop being silly" and then promptly take a Zulu spear to the chest. And to train his native extras, Endfield had to show them an old Gene Autry western so they could understand what they were doing.


As I said before, aside from a few bit parts, this was Michael Caine's big screen debut, and most of the art for the VHS and DVD covers tout this, and him, but the film really belongs to Richard Burton's drinking buddy, Stanley Baker. (And if anyone steals the movie, it's not Caine but Green.) This film was his baby, and the tough, gritty and highly combustible actor formed Diamond Films, secured financing from Joseph E. Levine, and hired the black-listed Endfield to write and direct the feature for him. Both actors do well anchoring the film, held up admirably by the supporting cast, and gives the carnage and story told here a lot of weight and emotional punch.


When it's all said and done, Zulu is not without its flaws (-- sharp eyes will spot re-animated corpses on both sides; Hook's malcontent seems anachronistically out of place; and some intentional humor misses badly), but it pluses leave the minuses choking on a lot of dust. From the actors, to the action, to one fantastic, rousing score from composer John Barry, it has something that today's big and empty blockbusters just don't have. Sure, they try the same noise and thunder (-- hell, Gladiator stole the Zulu's war chant for the "Unleash Hell" sequence), but they always seem lacking when it comes to three simple words: sheer, scope and magnitude. I don't think you can make grandeur, I think grandeur happens -- and I sure as a hell know you can't generate it on a computer. I mean, take a look at the scene when the Zulus first approach the mission. At first we don't even see them, but it sounds like the approach of an oncoming train. And when they do finally appear, that's about 700 non-CGI'd extras on the bluffs encircling the camp. So, do yourself a favor, when you track down the DVD make sure you don't get the cheaper pan-n-scan version. You need to see this thing letterboxed to fully appreciate the sheer magnitude of Zulu's epic scope.


Zulu (1964) Diamond Films :: Paramount Pictures / EP: Joseph E. Levine / P: Stanley Baker, Cy Endfield / AP: Basil Keys / D: Cy Endfield / W: John Prebble, Cy Endfield / C: Stephen Dade / E: John Jympson / M: John Barry / S: Stanley Baker, Michael Caine, Jack Hawkins, Ulla Jacobsson, James Booth, Nigel Green