Star Wars – Epidsode 3 – Revenge of the Sith

How is it that we were all able to agree that New Coke was a bad idea, but we can’t all agree that New Star Wars has been just as bad? Is it because Lucas won’t listen to his fans, because he has shelved away the original films and forced us to drink his new brand of digital swill or go thirsty, that we have to put up with this tidal wave of modern day mis-steps? Does Lucas care one bit or does he secretly hate Star Wars fans, as I am starting to believe he does? Did he complete the series – though stopping at six and not doing the once promised nine films – to simply shut up mouth-breathing, basement-dwelling fanboys?

Before I even pressed one finger to one key I cringed at the responses I may never get. Speaking out against Star Wars on an internite site makes me feel like a pacifist at the Republican National Convention. I feel like a Pro-lifer at a NOW meeting. I feel like a man about to piss off hundreds of Star Wars fans who want nothing more than a flame war to spice up their lives. Yet, before I do give them cause to get their XXL boxers in bunch I also feel compelled to scream, not just state but literally scream, “I Loved Star Wars“.

The problem is that I loved Star Wars when I was a kid. I even loved it through the early 90′s before Lucas arose from his long hibernation with a digital desire to dick with something classic. I still embraced the classic trilogy. I watched it everyday. I knew all the trivia. I wanted to wear a Stormtrooper helmet for my senior portrait. Admittedly, I was a geek. So, I take it personally when today’s Star Wars fans – those who have just come to embrace the films and those who have held a torch since the late 70′s – treat me as if I never knew their passion and therefore could never understand their love for these films. In a way, I am like a military vet speaking out against war – though comparing those who have put their life on the line to those who Star Wars fans in desperate need of a life does great disservice to those men and woman who fought in real wars.

All this said, I don’t want any flack from present day fanboys when I say one simple sentence that sums up this latest and final chapter in the Star Wars franchise.

IT’S SILLY.

That’s right, the film is silly. The whole damn story is silly. It’s so silly it made me lose respect for original trilogy.

Yes, I gave this new film the benefit of the doubt. I wanted it to be good. I really wanted it to erase the sour Jar-Jar-rific taste of Episode 1 and the not so horrible taste of Episode 2. Like all Star Wars fans I wanted it to tie up the loose ends and bind the two trilogies in a logical fashion. But, no matter how much benefit of the doubt I gave the film, no matter how greatly I tried to suspend my disbelief I still found the whole thing to be…you guessed it…SILLY.

Now, I could argue point by point the reasons why Lucas failed with this second trilogy and why Revenge of the Sith disappoints me – a die hard original trilogy fan. But, why should I? What difference would it make? Star Wars zealots can’t be reasoned with. They are blind to even the biggest problems in their beloved series. There’s just no arguing with them. It’s like talking to brick walls.

Though, I suspect that if they took the wise words of their adored Jedi masters and they looked in their hearts they would see the truth, they would know that Lucas failed them, that this film is silly. Buth then they’d look you straight in the face and lie to you. Because it’s better to fool yourself into thinking that Revenge of the Sith is the second coming than to admit that you’ve wasted your life waiting for hogwash. Silly, silly hogwash.

Tokyo no onna

Quite possibly it is with this film that Ozu finds his footing. Low camera angles, across-the-axis cuts, and duration based editing serve this story of honor, shame, and suicide. Whereas Ozu most often focused on parent/child relationships Tokyo no onna (Woman of Tokyo) focuses on sibling relations, but still it calls into question many Japanese traditions and the proper role of males in Japanese culture.

When a young student finds out that his older sister, Chikako, has been moonlighting at a geisha house to help pay for his education he first accuses her of bringing shame to the family. In an act of rare defiance by a female, the sister defends herself and her actions. Confused and angered the brother departs into the night, not to be seen again. Complicating the matters is the intertwined lives of the a young girl her brother – a police inspector. Originally, it the film was intended to have a subplot where the police inspector questions Chikako and accuses her of giving money not only to her brother, but to the communist party. This sub-plot only marginally exists in the film, but the inspectors sister still serves as the connection between the two sets of siblings. Her love for the student adds further weight to the story, but Ozu plays it subtle, making the interconnectedness of everyone’s lives feel more natural than staged for dramatic purposes.

While technically strong film, with all the trademark Ozu camera workings, Woman of Tokyo feels short of greatness. Partially due to its irregular run time of forty-seven minutes, this featurette film plays more like a theatrical exercise with cameras than a proper film, but still it is highly worth the three quarters of an hour that click by rapidly, without a mis-step.

Soshun (1956)

If there is a key to Ozu’s mastery it is balance. Early Spring is one of Ozu’s most devastatingly depressing films and yet it is not an entirely unhappy affair. Ozu understands that life is a mixture of emotions and he deftly fluctuates between a wide array of feelings and commentary.

Returning to a form of film knick-named ‘salaryman’, Ozu reconsiders the hard-working Japanese business ethic. Ozu had gotten his start making ‘salaryman’ films; often humorous films specifically targeted at the white collar working class. Now, Ozu takes a more mature approach, something contemplative and cautionary. Contrasting work life with family life, Ozu tells the story of Shoji, a recently graduated salaryman trapped in both his job and his marriage. His only release comes from flirting with a young typist he calls ‘Goldfish’. Shoji and Goldfish’s youthful romance shakes up the monotony of Shoji’s daily routine, but it also cracks the foundation upon which all of Shoji’s life rests. Ozu attempts to show that business relationships are not what matters most. It is family that should come first.

In Early Spring, Ozu’s pace is more restrained than normal as he attempts to mimic the banal word-a-day exist that has ground down his protagonist. The white-collar work day is reduced to morning commutes, long hours at the office, and the fleeting excitement of after-work drinks before finally retiring to home. Reunions with old army friends rekindle a fondness for war-filled, but youthful days. It is during this nostalgic drinking parties that Ozu lets humor seep into a sorrowful tale, but it is not for long. Shoji uses his wartime buddies as a cover, allowing him to spend the night with Goldfish. Still, no cover is enough to hide the distance that Shoji draws between himself and his wife. The tryst with Goldfish leads to a separation and a sudden transfer that relocates Shoji to a far-off rural post.

Much like the sudden appearance of a television crate in Ozu’s Ohayo brings about a fit of joy, the single image of a suitcase near the end of Early Spring collapses my heart. As always, it is a well composed image with the suitcase sitting low in the frame, neatly placed. Still, it is just an inanimate object, but through Ozu’s careful construction this one image sparks a revolutionary moment in the film. Just as it feels as if Shoji has worked himself into a corner, the suitcase appears. It is not a false moment, but something extraordinary, something promising and real. Shoji’s wife has come to stay with him. Somehow, she has forgiven him. It is not due to any form of weakness that she travels to this barren location. No, it is something else, something very human, something that speaks to the amazing power of the human heart. Their reunion is not one of exuberant joy, but one stumbling to find a reason to proceed. Each party cautiously feels their way around the other. Each wonder what the future holds for them. However, with that single image of the suitcase there is a sensation of hope.

Equinox Flowers (1958)

If there is a dominant theme in Ozu’s work it is that of change and with a change from black and white to color film Ozu remains consistent in his use of arranged marriages and the attitudes towards than as an example of the cultural changes in post-war Japan. In Equinox Flowers a tyrannical father wonderfully played by Shin Saburi, must deal with his liberated daughter who refuses to endure a practice she feels to be outdated and unromantic. Wrought with humor that pokes fun at both sides of the generational divide, the tension between the father and daughter develops into a touching reflection on tradition and passing of traditions.

Utilizing the same rigorous camerawork that has become Ozu’s trademark style, the Japanese director transitions to color film stock by continuing to carefully construct and compose the film frame, now splashing it with bright instances of the color red. Like a visual game, Ozu moves from shot to shot with a hint of red – be it a teapot, a lantern, or a bouquet of flowers repositioning its self in each image. Against the rather flat, linear constructs of Japanese interiors these blots of red jump forth from the screen. They are bright spots in what might be considered a rather staunch color palette. These flashes of color are like the winning smiles that grace the faces of Ozu’s most impassive characters; those hardliners clung to old ways. The use of such dotting of color, especially the color red is a theme that continues throughout the duration of Ozu’s film career, much as the image of laundry on clotheslines populates his entire filmography.

The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice (1952)

There is nothing like a pleasant surprise. Tonight, for me, The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice is just that.

Centered around an arranged marriage that has not exactly fallen into place, this social satire from director Yasujiro Ozu focuses on Taeko, a snobby wife, and Mokichi, her unsophisticated husband. While he slaves away at work she spends time with the girls going to spas and finding excuses to sneak away for the weekend. Mokichi is not totally ignorant of her schemes or the fact that their marriage is a mismatch. When a younger cousin says that she objects to the practice of arranged marriages Mokichi sympathizes with the young girl while he attempts to make his own marriage work.

More moving than Ozu’s other films, in the sense that camera is not so rigidly locked down and because Ozu takes his camera to active environments such as the bicycle races and baseball games, The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice seems atypical for the rather frugal director. However, at heart – where Ozu’s films work best- The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice is yet another shining example of what makes Ozu a master of cinema. Never flashy or ostentatious Ozu’s lively camera work never overpowers the emotional pangs that turn this light-hearted comedy into a contemplative drama.

Towards the end of the picture Ozu stops the storyline to dwell on a kitchen scene where Maeko and Mokichi stumble into their kitchen to make themselves a late night snack. With the house help turned in or sent home for the evening, the two clumsily search about for a bite to eat. Shot in real time, their domestic actions serve, as a new starting point for a couple that must begin their relationship anew if they hope to resolve their marital conflicts. Like two people meeting one another for the first time there is a quiet air of uneasiness that falls between their every move. The scene is highly reminiscent of the a scene from John Cassavetes’s Love Streams or final images in A Woman Under The Influence, two pictures shot many years after Ozu’s Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice, but a scene that is much fresher in my memory. Whether it is something personal or universal about a couple in a kitchen attempting to rebuild their relationship I am not sure, but for some mysterious reason a particular chemistry happens to occur late at night in cinematic kitchens.

Though I remembered seeing The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice many years ago, my memory was foggy and only the storyline remained. Tonight, I am surprised at how emotionally overwhelming the film is. To say it has instantly become my favorite Ozu feature may be a hasty call, but there is something in the air tonight that leaves me feeling as if I will never see a finer film. It is a pleasant surprise, for sure.

The Manson Family

You know you’re a hardcore independent filmmaker when you use own money and take over a dozen years to create a film. You’re even more independent when that film has no viable reason to be made. So much of today’s filmmaking is really marketing. You learn to strike while the iron is hot and before the blood dries. Stories of missing white women, ecological disasters, and epic battles seem to be the cinema du jour. The Charles Mason murders are dated and to reflect upon this is not marketable, even from a nostalgic viewpoint. Perhaps this is why it takes some one from Dayton, Ohio, not Hollywood, California to breathe some new life into one of history’s most iconic criminals.

Jim Van Bebber is born to make film. Some folks are born to sing, some folks are born dance, some folks are born to sell used cars. Folks like Van Bebber make films, not because they think its fun or easy or cool, on the contrary they’d tell you its hard fuckin’ work. Guys like Van Bebber make films because it’s in their blood. In fact, Van Bebber sold his own plasma to complete the film and while that’s a piece of folklore any good independent film director tries to attach themselves with it doesn’t feel quite as honest as it does when Jim Van Bebber rekindles that myth.

Blood or no blood, The Manson Family is a wonderful piece of old school filmmaking. Minus a troubled side-story that I’ll get to later, watch The Manson Family is like taking a trip back in time to a point when drive-in’s still existed, when grindhouses lined 42nd Street, and when every young independent filmmaker didn’t dream of making it to the big leagues. Here’s a film that knows its role, knows its limitations, and knows its audience. The Manson Family is not Van Bebber’s attempt to cash in on a ready-made market. Neither a fan of Manson’s lore or the hype that surrounds the cult of Manson, Van Bebber’s film asks more questions and provides little answers about one of America’s most notorious crimes. Thought the title was changed to draw a stronger immediate connection between the film’s subject matter and its famous namesake the emphasis should fall more on family than Manson. This is not an attempt to understand the warped logic of a truly madman, but rather a look back at a screwed up group of followers, full of drugs, looking for love, and gullible enough to believe the crazed whims of a father figure that was more manipulator than messiah.

The Manson Family utilizes a buckshot approach that combines old footage, doctored new footage, and the audience’s preconceived notions of film style to create a decopage design that mimics recent crime shows. Reminiscent of the less than noble Natural Born Killers Van Bebber’s film integrates his oldest footage, shot over a decade ago, that depicts life at Spahn Ranch as a halcyon daze of drugs and debauchery with manipulated modern day interviews of the various members of Manson’s murderous family. Their patchwork of stories creates a larger picture that is more cubist than correct. Since no one knows exactly what happened out at the ranch, in the desert, or at various murder scenes the conflicting stories create a palpable sense of chaos, confusion, and consciousness laced with remorse or righteousness, depending on who’s account you believe.

For the most part the actors are believable. Most notable of all is probably Marc Pitman who plays Tex. Less admirable are his moments of drug fueled hysteria before and during the murders, but only when compared to his stoic and sane retelling of past events during video interviews after the fact. Due to lack of trust worthy record Van Bebber’s fictional re-telling of the Manson murders are given lengthy leadway in their portrayal of persona, but each of his actors convey a mixture of lost, doped, crazed, and homicidal traits that create convincing impression of just the sort of people lured to Manson’s side. Leslie Orr and Maureen Allisse both turn in wonderfully on edge performances as Pattie and Sadie, respectfully and Van Bebber himself is capable of stepping in front of the camera to take on the role of Bobby – the first family member to slip from follower to murderer. Interestingly enough, Van Bebber’s performance shows the most growth, not just from his earlier film Deadbeat At Dawn to The Manson Family, but within The Manson Family itself. There is a noticeable difference between the early footage of young Bobby at Spahn Ranch and present day Bobby, serving a life sentence with a rather obvious fake moustache, but a chillingly real performance, real in the sense that it is believable, even if it may not accurately represent the real criminal. I suspect that the most ardent Manson historians would dissect each performance as only the sickest of fanboys seem capable of doing. I for one know very little about the actual accounts of the Manson murder trials even though I have read more books on the matter than I have read on our nation’s civil war. Still, if one is willing to suspend their disbelief enough to look past Van Bebber’s phony moustache, a few throw away lines, and the obvious physical differences between actors and subjects than one can truly appreciate the crazed portrayals that each actor delivers.

Necessary to the length of his shoot, the patchwork of film pieces he was left with and the disappearance of Marcelo Game, who plays Manson – in a suitable, but not stellar fashion, which probably helps Van Bebber’s objective – Jim Van Bebber is forced to construct a piecemeal portrait of a family that so many have tried to understand. In Van Bebber’s telling there is no hope of understanding the madness and manipulation that lay at the base of the Charles Manson phenomenon. Utilizing a tactic pulled straight from crime television and the likes of Geraldo Rivera, Van Bebber cast Dayton newsman Carl Day as a modern day crime reporter, covering the anniversary of the infamous Manson murders. It is here that the film’s purpose enters the foreground of film with Day openly stating that he is not interested in Manson as much as he’s interested in the folks who actually committed the crimes. This too is the purpose of Van Bebber’s film, less interested in Manson himself, in fact by about two-thirds of the way through the picture Manson is all but removed from the film.

If the use of Carl Day as an investigative reporter helps tie together the multitude of film clips and video interviews that make up the bulk of The Manson Family than the inclusion of a group of modern day Manson followers is more problematic. The idea that an overtly weird group of individuals would lash out at reporters or individuals looking to defame Manson’s legacy is rather interesting especially when Van Bebber makes joking references to modern youth who see Manson as an icon, but know little of the reality behind his rise to iconic status. Still, the freakish depiction of these modern Mansonites, mixed with gothic overtones and a transition from pot and acid to heavier drugs comes across as muddled and misguided, even desperate. I truly think that such a side story would work if it were not for the hyper kinetic camera style that Van Bebber chooses to shoot these most modern sequences in. Speed up footage that plays more like Our Gang antics than gritty digital realism undercut the sheer terror of possible modern day Manson disciples. When so much of Van Bebber’s footage seems straight from a different, dated era, this newest footage seems forced and out of place. Why he did not choose to shoot these sequences on a consumer level one-chip digital cameras, the sort of store bought or stolen equipment that these punks could easily access make little or no sense for a film that seems so sure-footed in its scratched up archival film style.

Rumor has it that the Manson family filmed much of their exploits and that somewhere in Death Valley those films sit buried. Van Bebber appears to have found them or at least created what he imagines to be captured on those rolls of film. The Manson Family depicts the violent and infamous murders in a shockingly brutal fashion. Though there will always be those who say that any depiction of such violent acts is really a form of exploitation or celebration. Van Bebber’s film surely shows enough skin and debaucher to fall prey to such accusations, but he also bothers to show the horrific consequences of such deadly acts and in a way he attempts to warn the world that just because Manson is now safely behind bars that does not mean that there is less evil in the world.

After countless attempts and over a decade since he shot his first roll of film Van Bebber finally delivers a film that is not perfect, but perfectly suited to its subject. Besides one mis-step Van Bebber does something that Jean-Luc Godard once proclaimed to have done with his endtimes social critique – Weekend – he pulls a film from the scrapheap. Most filmmakers would have given up on a project such as this a long time ago. Van Bebber is no saint for providing the world with another retelling of the Charles Manson story, but he devil of an independent filmmaker.

Tokyo Story (1953)

There is a scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where the whip-cracking archeologist watches as a Thuggee cult leader rips a still beating heart from the chest of a human sacrifice. While such a scene may have very little to do with the Tokyo Story it does a wonderful job of showing the emotional divide that spans between a director such as Steven Spielberg and Yasujiro Ozu.

Today’s theme park approach to cinema has been the bread and butter of Steven Spielberg’s career and when it comes to pulse raising entertainment no one can quicken the pace of your heart quite like the golden boy of Hollywood. Even when he attempts to create more dramatic works the clock is continually competing with the protagonists. Whether alien, monster, or Nazi soldier the threat of some evil force continually breathes down the necks of his heroes and only time will tell if the heroes will live to fight another day. The tension is one of comic book; action-adventure story proportions removed from the everyday, place its own time and its own world. Without a doubt the distance does not impede the film’s ability to exhilarate the audience. However, Spielberg is only capable of showing his audiences what it looks like to have your heart ripped out before your bare eyes. Yasujiro Ozu and his family melodramas actually deliver the sensation of having your heart ripped out. In a most emotional way, Ozu performs open-heart surgery, and Tokyo Story is his most memorable operation.

Tokyo Story tells the story of a disintegrating family. It is a tale Ozu will tell many time throughout his career, with the changing family structure being a favorite analogy for the post-WWII changes in Japan’s culture. Here, a mother (Chieko Higashiyama) and father (Chishu Ryu) decide to visit their children only to find that their children have no time to spend with their parents. Consumed with their jobs each of the offspring complains about their burdensome parents. Only their widowed daughter-in-law shows the slightest interest in entertaining the elderly couple and the busy offspring are more than happy to let her. When the mother and father finally decide to return to their home it becomes apparent that the mother has fallen ill. As the children rush to be by her side their personally pettiness continues to show as their father prepares himself for the loneliness of old age.

With a static camera and his trademark low camera angles, Yasujiro Ozu constructs a somber chamber piece that moves from room to room and scene to scene in an effortless and delicate fashion. Held together by wonderfully composed images of Tokyo, the film takes on a meditative quality that gives the viewer ample time to contemplate life, death, and what we are to make of each. Quietly the film creeps up on you waiting until the near end of the picture for it to lower the boom. When the family’s youngest daughter openly asks, “Isn’t life disappoint” the response she is given enough to rip your heart.

For those who have lived a little, laughed a little, and contemplated death a little Ozu is the greatest of film directors and Tokyo Story is the shining gem in his catalog of over fifty films. However, because he works against expectation he is forever doomed to live in the shadow of others. His stories are too ordinary, plucked straight from real-life they do not possess the epic, wide screen, historical drama of Kurosawa. Ozu’s films do not work as allegories, nor do they work through symbols. He is Kubrick, creating codes waiting to be cracked. His visuals are carefully constructed still life images designed to downplay their natural grace. They do not bask in the sun-soaked splendor of Terrence Malik’s postcard perfect world. They do not revel in the extraordinary, but rather they illuminate the ordinary. As a melodrama is work is subdued, steering far from the constant strum and drang of Douglas Sirk, Ozu waits for just the right moment to tug on the heartstrings. When he does pull, it’s enough to crush your heart.

While there is nothing stopping Kurosawa, Kubrick, Malik, Sirk or even Spielberg from also being called the world’s greatest film directors, there is something about Ozu that makes his films feel as if they have come from a world the audience can inhabit. There is something earthly, tangible, and memorable about Ozu’s work. One does not have to be Japanese to understand or, better yet, “to feel” Ozu’s work. His films are films of transcendence. They connect to anyone and everyone that has lived long enough to consider death, not a heroic death, but simply death itself. Yet, what makes Tokyo Story so surprising is how simply they seem. Family tales told in a slow, static manner – not the expected ingredients for a film so powerful that it feels as if it has ripped your heart out.

Wild Zero (2000)

Wild Zero is a sci-fi, zombie, rock ‘n’ roll, love story that comes packaged with its own drinking game. Normally, a film that tries for instant cult classic status dies under its own weight. This one is the exception.

Ace is in love with garage/punk/rock ‘n’ roll and his favorite band is Guitar Wolf – an actual Japanese trio consisting of Drum Wolf, Bass Wolf, and the eponymous Guitar Wolf. More poser than rocker Ace watches as Guitar Wolf put on a killer show that includes guitars that sling bolts of electricity and microphones that shoot flames. After the show Ace watches as his heroes deal bluntly with a crooked and vile concert promoter that has a disturbing propensity for short-shorts. Gun shots fill the air and when the smoke clears Guitar Wolf is howling “Rock ‘n’ Roll” and kick starting his motorcycle – off to he next gig.

Ace cruises on his scooter to catch Guitar Wolf’s next performance but along the way he stumbles upon a damsel in distress. This cute little dish named Tobio – is being held hostage by a trio of nimrod criminals, until Ace accidentally upsets their plans. After playing the role of unwitting hero, Ace sets love at first sit aside, just to catch the next Guitar Wolf show. It’s not until he’s half way to their concert when a horde of flesh thirst zombies create one hell of a road block. Ace returns to the gas station to save Tobio from the zombie attack. But zombies aren’t the only problem. The evil concert promoter is in hot pursuit of Guitar Wolf and a gold hungry gun runner is blasting her way through the zombies. Above, a fleet of UFO’s filling the sky possibly causing all of this undead madness. Not only that, but Tobio has a few surprises of her own. Unable to go it alone Ace calls for the help of Guitar Wolf.

With Guitar Wolf’s blown-out sounds setting the pace this music laden action flick explodes with coolness. Held together with a high production value and music video slickness Wild Zero is one part Plan 9 From Outer Space, one part Dawn of the  Dead, and the rest is purely original. Add to his the optional drinking game that comes with the Synapse DVD version of Wild Zero and you have the perfect makings for cult classic.

Repo Man (1984)

I am not one for top ten lists, but when pressed to compile a list of my ten favorite films one film always appears. Times change and so do tastes. A few films that once ruled the roost have found themselves on the chopping block – (i.e. Empire Strikes Back, 2001, Miller’s Crossing). There fate came about not because they are bad films, but simply because they lost favor. They marked more of a moment in time, a lack of experience, and a general ignorance of other films. Every film I see brings new choices and the process of selection is one that is constantly in flux. However, one film has continually remained a staple on such an unstable list. That film is Repo Man.

I saw the last ten minutes of this film when I was twelve years old. It played on the A&E channel back when the A&E channel didn’t just play crime and detective shows. This was back when Evening at the Improv was the cornerstone of their programming and al the comedians were nobodies standing in front of that famous brick wall. Waiting for the jokes to start I saw an iridescent car floating high above the Los Angeles cityscape. The city lights zoomed by in a psychedelic blur as Emilo Estevez peered out from the car window and Bob the Goon from Batman flew this glowing vehicle into the stratosphere while a haunting score escorted them on their way.

That night I watched all of Evening at the Improv and I stayed up extra late to see the second showing of this mysterious movie. Up to this point in time I had little idea of anything outside of the mainstream. Most of the jokes in Repo Man flew way over my head, but there was a vibe, a late night vibe, that flowed through the film creating otherworldliness. Alex Cox had crafted a film that felt like it came from an alternate universe, a dream world that contained many similarities to our own world, but a logic that wholly escaped our world.

Though the story of Repo Man is a rather convoluted scenario that starts with car on its way from Los Alamos to Los Angeles is carrying stolen alien carcasses, the film itself feels effortless. Never laboring to intertwine the lives of gun-totting punks, UFO conspiracy theorists, secret government task forces, undercover agents, and a very hot Chevy Malibu – Repo Man is a quilt work without visible seams. The film focuses mainly on young punk, Otto (Estevez), and his introduction to the to the wild world of car repossession. Brought into the racket by Bud (Harry Dean Stanton) it doesn’t take long before Otto is addicted to the intense life of the repo man. On the road he’s looking for the next big score or tangling with the Rodriguez’s Brothers. At the impound yard he is given the life philosophies of various repo men and the yard’s most out-there resident, Miller. Played by veteran character actor Tracey Walter (Batman, Conan the Destroyer) Miller professes a theory of connectedness that runs throughout Alex Cox’s lil’ masterpiece.

What makes Repo Man so special and a film that continues to entertain are all the subtle details that lie buried in the film. Small visual gags, audible clues, and double meaning abound. With each subsequent viewing another connection can be found. Nothing in the film is only referenced one, everything comes back, drawing a line between two points, connecting two dots. Just as Miller tries to explain to Otto that there are unseen forces at work in the world it begins to feel as if Alex Cox is that unseen force working in the shadows. Planting references here and there, Cox creates a film that does not hammer home its smartness, but lets the viewer discover it. Like Miller’s mentioning of how someone may mention a platter of shrimp only moments after you were just thinking about a platter of shrimp, Alex Cox does not force such a platter of shrimp into the film later on in the film, just to prove his character’s point. Instead, the platter of shrimp is hidden on a sign, in the background, easily overlooked. But it is there. The connections abound, but only if you look for them. Otherwise, they work like those unseen forces, a stitching that goes unseen, but holds together a crazy quilt of ideas.

Repo Man first introduced me to a whole new form of cinema, something I never had seen before and while I have seen many films like Repo Man since that one life changing night I always come back to Repo Man with fresh eyes. There is something at work in this film that is not at play in so many other offbeat, non-mainstream films. Repo Man is smart without showing off. It’s the difference between a braggart, know-it-all, and a wise sage. Keeping his smartness and his coolness quiet is the key to Cox’s success. So many filmmakers today make movies to stay one-step ahead of their audiences and to be toasted for their cleverness. Cox doesn’t push for this sort of praise and that is why he deserves roaring applause.

The World’s Greatest Sinner (1962)

The cult of Tim Carey is growing. The religion that has grown around this actor is miraculous. Like all good religious figures, it wasn’t until he passed from this mortal plain that they believers started to believe. Now, just about anyone who witnesses this man’s power is an automatic convert.

Through out the 50′s, 60′s and 70′s Carey worked with the greatest of film directors – Kubrick, Kazin, Cassavetes, Wilder. He’s even worked with one of the worst – Bert I. Gordon. He mouthed off to Brando in The Wild One and then he acted for him in One Eyed Jacks. He’s co-stared with the Monkees and acted in the same film as Francis the talking mule. He turned down being in The Godfather and The Conversation. He’s worked with Columbo, Mr. T., and Chesty Anderson USM. Mannix, Rawhide, Airwolf, Baretta, McCloud, CHiPs, Kung Fu, Gunsmoke, Charlie’s Angles, and The Greatest American Hero – he’s played in them all.

Timothy Carey is god’s gift to character acting. His unforgettable face, his fiery performances, his on edge personality just waiting to snap have set the standard by which all other character actors must be judged. But for all his bit parts, that continually steal scenes and outshine star players, nothing can overshadow the one completed film that Timothy Carey made. The World’s Greatest Sinner is Timothy Carey’s true gift to cinema.

Working both behind the camera and in the lead role Timothy Carey delivers a tale of tested faith that John Waters one craziest films he’s ever seen. The World’s Greatest Sinner starts with Clarence Hilliard (Timothy Carey), a feed-up insurance salesman calling it quits. With the help of his gardener friend, Alanzo (Gil Barreto) Clarence sets out to add meaning to other people’s lives. After seeing a rock’n'roll concert Clarence becomes convinced that he must pick up a guitar and preach his new philosophy of every man and woman being their own god or “super human beings” as he loves to profess. Taking to the streets Clarence strums and preaches. Crowds gather and very quickly he’s got a following. That’s when the devil enters the picture. In the form of a large snake, Satan whispers in the ear of Clarence, convinces him to change his name to God, to preach through music, to insight the masses. Finally, when Clarence or God as he know calls himself is able to whip up a maelstrom of existential followers the devil suggest he put down the guitar and aim for high positions of power, like the presidency. Convinced that he truly is a super human being, a god no less, Clarence pushes his family aside. He lets fame go to his head, abusing his power to score supporters – young and old – in the sack. Soon, a crises of faith arises and Clarence demands to know if there is a real god or not. The answer is just as shocking as the entire premise of this truly one-of-a-kind film.

Made with the most extreme personal passion The World’s Greatest Sinner is a those flawed, but precious films. Struggling for years to complete his opus, Timothy Carey is reported to have stolen a flat-bed editor from John Cassavetes just to complete his vision. This sort of dedication but Carey at odds with the Cassavetes camp. Everyone, but John Cassavetes himself refused to speak with Carey. John, on the other hand, loved Carey so much he not only looked the other way, but he professed his love for The World’s Greatest Sinner, and he hired Carey to be in many of his own pictures. A true independent and a certifiable nut, Carey’s film is actually a rather religious experience that makes instant converts of those who see it. At the same time that it brings new members to the Cult of Timothy Carey, the film’s story does an interesting job of examining nature of faith. It’s a message that can get easily lost inside the insanity of the film.

The World’s Greatest Sinner stands as a true cult classic that deserves a larger audience. Today, Timothy Carey’s son, Romeo, is out their spreading his father’s gospel. If you want to be witness to this religious experience you can find out more about Timothy Carey, The World’s Greatest Sinner, and other projects he did by going to http://www.absolutefilms.net/. While there buy a few copies of the film, give them to friends, give them to strangers, or leave them in bus stations – spread the good word!