Hot Fuzz (2007)

I foolishly waited all year to see this film. Now, it is literally the end of the year and I just manage to sneak it in.

The American police film was in desperate need of having the piss taken out of it. I’m glad the English stepped in. English humor, the kind many Americans don’t get, holds a stiff upper lip. Its satire cuts close to the bone. It goes for blood. America’s goes for the groin.

Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg are making quite a name for themselves by upending American movie tropes. Where Shaun of the Dead felt too infatuated with zombie films to make a serious critique of their cliches, Hot Fuzz has no qualms about attacking the heart of a genre fattened by clownish platitudes.

From the kinetic editing to the homosexual undertones in many cops and robbers flicks, the duo of Wright and Pegg strike with a near pitch perfect impression of the films they are skewering. Good satire does this. It comes so close to the original that it can nearly fool you. Then, it goes just a step to far, it flinches, it winks, and it lets you in on the joke?

It should be said that Hot Fuzz looks to not only sen-up American action films, but films about the English countryside as well. This is perhaps the film’s biggest saving grace. Anyone familiar this brand of film, often a favorite of the PBS and art house crowd, will laugh at the way Pegg and Wright construct an idle hamlet populated by just the sort of eccentric Brits that make Hugh Grant look charming. Of considerable note are Rafe Spall and Paddy Considine, two perfectly casted wankers with all the smarmy charm of David Thewlis at his nastiest.

Placing the big city cop in the provincial English town makes for a great fish out of water story, but what can be done about a genre that itself is already laughable. The conventions of the modern action film are no doubt kinetically energizing, but they are thoughtless. The second one stops to think about an action film it almost becomes farcical. All those guns, all those bullets, all the slow motion, all that destruction, all the convoluted plot lines full of twists and surprises, the coyish toying with emotions and all of it topped off with a cheeseball pun slyly delivered from the hero’s lips.  In and of itself the American action film is a joke. Perhaps this is why the last few minutes of Hot Fuzz feel less rewarding than the whole rest of the film.

By the end, a joke about a joke grows tiresome. I find most action films build not towards a grand conclusion (aka fight scene), but to a huge let down. In more recent times it is a let down that just won’t let go as filmmakers throw added twist upon twist to their film, proving that enough is never enough. The ending to Hot Fuzz drags. It also spreads its aim a bit far as it suddenly starts to incorporate parodies of Westerns. Trying to tackle too many targets in one comedy has been the fault of the never-ending string of bad American satires like Scary Movie, Epic Movie, et al. By the end of Hot Fuzz is hard to tell if this is because it continues to mimic the target or if it had fallen victim to that which it looked to ridicule. As Nitchze said, becareful when you go chasing monsters you’d best be careful not to become one yourself.

Crossfire (1947)

Late into Crossfire a police detective tries to persuade a solider to help him entrap a fellow solider and get the man to admit to a hate crime. I don’t know if ‘hate crime’ was even a term used in 1947. Posters for the film declare, “Hate is like a loaded gun.” The detective uses that same line when trying to explain how some men’s only motive for killing is a hatred they harbor deep inside themselves.

In getting one solider  to turn against another the detective gets on a soap box and delivers a long winded personal history lesson about hate in America. He tells how many immigrants when they first came to these shores were hated. His own grandfather was killed for being Irish and Catholic. If it wasn’t the Irish or the Catholics it was the this race or that religion. To be honest, he doesn’t mention anyone outside of those who’s skin is white or who’s religion revolved around Jesus. There is no mention of African-Americans or all those Japanese-American put in internment camps during World War II. The point he’s trying to make is that sometimes a man just kills another man because he’s bigoted.

In Crossfire Robert Ryan’s character killed a man simply because he was Jewish. Circa 1947 anti-Semitism was not prevalent in the movies, but World War II certainly placed it in the minds of everyone. The Nazi’s crimes and their hatred for the Jews made them the ultimate modern bad guys. Even today, the Nazi Swastika is a short hand symbol for evil. Robert Ryan’s character is no Nazi. He’s a GI. An American solider who hates Jews.

While much of the story centers around booze soaked flashbacks detailing a group of soldiers out for a night on the town and they mystery of how one man ended up dead, the question of Ryan’s hatred is squarely placed on his shoulders. His bigotry and hatred come from a defect within him. That’s how it’s positioned in the film. Though, I suggest that perhaps this is too short-sighted.

The most agonizing thing about Crossfire and its examination of hatred and bigotry is that it took the simple road to a complicated juncture.  In order for a solider to go out in combat and take a life he is often taught, sometimes covertly, sometimes overtly, to hate the enemy. You hate him because he looks different, talks different, believes in a different God, whatever you can find to dehumanize him and make him unlike yourself. During World War II there was a fair share of dehumanizing be done by our military and even Hollywood in its attempt to position Germans and Japanese as ‘the other’. John Paxton who wrote Crossfire and Edward Dmytryk, who wrote it could have dared to address the indoctrination of hatred that allows soldiers to see another human as being less than human. This would have been bold, perhaps too bold, but it would have been a worthy point to address. They could have made the victim something other than a Jew? Why not Black?  Would few people sympathize as easily with someone of darker complexion? This was still 1947 after all. No, I say that Paxton and Dmytryk took the easy way out, reducing everything to one rotten apple that had to be plucked from the bunch, never bothering to consider that perhaps something in the soil was breeding rotten apples.

Coincidently, the direct of Crossfire, Edward Dmytryk was dragged before the House Un-American Activities Committee and persecuted for being a supporter of Communism during the war. He went to prison for not ratting out others in Hollywood who were communists. His career was nearly murdered by Joseph McCarthy and his hatred.

Clash By Night (1952)

5 Random Thoughts…Clash By Night

1) The opening to Clash By Night plays like a student film. Rhythmic shots of water, boats, seagulls, seals, and the sky. It’s far better than a student film and when an actor, above the age of twenty enters the frame, the similarity comes to a halt.

2) The dialog is stagebound, but the outdoor scenery is alive with all the texture and atmosphere of a fishing town. Proving that reality comes not only from how the characters carry themselves but where they carry on.

3) Marylin Monroe looks better as a tomboy. Norma Jean was made for jeans.

4) All the foreshadowing of children being abandoned or found dead reminds me of earlier Fritz Lang films, but lacks the visual accompaniment you find in M. The references to these grizzly acts are merely that, verbal references – artifacts from the play, not transformed for the screen.

5) I am struggling with whether or not to give up eating fish – sushi is the only temptation keeping me from being a full-on vegan. Midway through the film, the family patriarch gives a toast where he says there is enough love, wine, and fish in the world for everyone. I agree with him on two of the three, but statistics are showing that the we are overfishing. Seeing the thousands of fish being harvested from the ocean convinced me that I did not need to eat another fish. Coincidently, Paul Douglas’ character notes that when his dad used to be a fisherman they only had to go out 2 or 3 miles to pull in a full load of fish. Now, things are harder. That was 1952.

Gorgon Video Magazine Vol. 1

Here’s a piece of media arche0logy. Gorgon Video Magazine came about in the late 80′s when video tapes had lots their newness and long before DVD’s would inspire a re-discovery of arcane films lost to time. An hour plus of interviews with b-movie stars, horror film directors, special effects wizards, mix with trailers for horror films and footage of a GWAR concert. It’s all hosted by Michael Berryman, camping it up for a paycheck.

Fans of Fangoria will feel right at home, while those who did not spend their youth thumbing through horror magazine may simply chuckle at peculiar culture of gore-hounds, not to mention that dated fashion. For trivia buffs, Alex Winter just happened to direct the segment on GWAR and their bizarre fans. Still the appeal is limited, even tame. The whole thing feels PG rated, almost quaint and innocent. It also smacks of marketing.

Magazines are most often a disposable medium; designed to push products more than information. The information digested is surrounded by advertisements. Often, the information itself is a sly pitch for a new commodity. In that respect they are the predecessor to the web page or the blog. Web pages, like magazines also allow you to thumb or click back and forth from one article to the next. Gorgon Video Magazine has all the content of a magazine or a website, but it is presented in a chronological format and tied to a specific run time. Flat out, it’s a video more than a magazine and no one wants to rent a magazine or worst yet, pay $20 for one.

Other volumes were supposedly produced and I’d be interested in seeing them for purely nostalgic reasons. They remind me of youth and though I never saw them when I was young, they encapsulate so much of what I was interested in that they slip on like well worn sneakers. Even if I don’t find the other volumes, I must thank volume 1 for reminding me of Death Spa, a horrible 80′s horror film I had all but erased from my memory.

A Christmas Story (1983)

Yes, again.

I guess seeing this two times in one year is far less than most will have to endure. May God take pity on those souls that were stuck watching the all day marathon.

Being repeatedly subjected to this film, one I used to enjoy, has continually made me re-evaluate and further dissect the film. On this viewing I was struck by the selfish, though expected, actions of Ralphie and his classmates who first dare their friend to stick his tongue to a metal pole and then abandon him.

Back in the classroom the teacher lays a heavy guilt trip on the students for not confessing as to who dared the poor child to do such a stupid thing. Through narration were hear Ralphie expressing how adults love to do this sort of thing to kids, but kids are smart and know that its best to get away with whatever you can and never confess to anything.

In another instance Ralphie gets caught dropping the F-bomb. While he gets his mouth washed out with soap as a minor form of punishment, he falsely states that one of his friends taught him the word. This leads to a phone call and the sounds of a far worse punishment being belted out on the other end of the phone line. Poor Ralphie’s innocent friend gets a whooping and Ralphie is almost grinning at how he got himself off the hook.  Sure, he’s got soap in his mouth, but that beats a beating any day.

As I’m watching all this my neurons are firing and I’m thinking to myself, where here it is folks, here’s the explanation for the lack of sever outrage at our current President. Sure, it’s a far leap from A Christmas Story to  the George Bush story, but as a society, we’ve given up on It’s a Wonderful Life and George Bailey and his dumb old building and loan. We’ve said screw you to helping others and pined for out Red Ryder BB gun. We’ve found it better not to try to make things right, but to get away with as much as we can and hope that some other sap takes our licking.

That’s the new meaning of Christmas.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1946)

Without doubt, It’s a Wonderful Life is sentimental, emotional, even foolishly quixotic. It is after all, a Christmas film. It used to be the Christmas film, but times and attitudes change.

This year, I had the displeasure of watching the movie with a real Scrooge of a person who humbugged their way through the film. The film’s finale George Bailey’s exuberance was too much for this Grinch and it was than that I realized what a great litmus test this film made.

People unable to even hold out hope that their life could be a half as rich as George Bailey’s will never enjoy It’s a Wonderful Life. His emotions will make no sense to them; they will repulse. We don’t have to go running down the streets of our town screaming Merry Christmas to all we pass as we rejoice in a second lease on life to understand that at its very best each holiday season allows us to take stock of what we have and consider how fortunate we are to have all that we do. Yes, there is always more to be had and even more there are those who have far less. It’s a Wonderful Life, if it asks nothing else, asks us to remember to count our blessings no matter how many or few they may be.

For those who don’t see their blessings this film must appear a joke. And, that’s at best. For many, I fear the film just asks too much. It asks them to drop their cynicism. It asks them to care about something other than themselves. At worst, it asks people to change the way they approach life.  Then again, it is only a movie, and were it any other time of the year and were this any other film I’d probably decry the film and puerile or schmaltzy. However, if we are to have one time of the year and one film that reminds us how our lives affect one another and what a great thing this can be, let it be this film and this season.

Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas (1977)

I cannot recall when or where I first saw this holiday special. I know it was not when it originally aired. We did not get cable for sometime and we rarely ever had HBO. Still, Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas feels as if it has always been a part of my seasonal video smorgasbord.

With its folksy Muppets, visible strings and all, the work surely shows its age. Yet, its Gift of the Magi derived sentiment still sounds like a breath of fresh air, if not an idealistic (or idiotic) promotion for the simple joys of life. The message makes little sense in these increasingly materialistic times. It’s as quaint and old fashioned as the puppets that deliver the notion that all we need is each other.

My wife wondered if the Otter’s were black. While there is certainly a strong sense of class structure at play in Frogtown Hollow, with the Foxes and the Bullfrog at the top and the Otters and Possums down below,  the question of race amongst animals is perhaps a bit silly.  They are certainly backwoods, perhaps Southern, though one could guess the Otter’s are an amalgamtion of a few different ethnic and regional traits. The whole notion of race is something for a Ph.D. dissertation. You might think I’m joking. But, just the other day, I heard about some professor questioning whether or not two characters in Reservoir Dogs were homosexual lovers. That has little to do with Emmet Otter other than prove that guess the ethnicity of Muppets is not that far-fetched of an idea for a some scholar’s next work. Of course thinking like this wholly misses the point. The message of Emmet Otter doesn’t change even if you opinion on his ethnicity does. As with so much of our problems in America we mistake rich and poor for black and white.

Vive Le Tour (1962)

In another case of what’s old is new again, Vive Le Tour brings up the question of doping. Presently, its Baseball and steroids, that has everyone buzzing, but even back in 1962 when Louis Malle made this brisk little documentary about the Tour de France, the question of athletes altering their performance through drugs was a hot topic.

It’s a small part of a short documentary, but its a painful one to watch. Pushed to the point of breaking, but unable to feel the pain that would tell them to stop, doped up racers merely peter out and crash. All of them that give up or hit the wall use the rather humorous excuse of having eaten some bad fish. Perhaps, the Baseball Players Union should take note.

Of biggest surprise is not that bicycle racers are doping, even in 1962. The sport has been plagued with scandal for decades. No, the big surprise is how much vim and vigor Malle puts into the work. The imagery breezes by in a near blur, zipping past like the cyclists themselves. I’ve never associated Malle’s films with this sort of speed. Of other curious note is the relatively low abundance of diagetic sound. Music and narration fill most of the audio track and the film feels better for it.

A Christmas Story (1983)

How many people saw this when it first played in the theater? How many people suspected that it would become a modern day staple of the holiday season? I did and I didn’t, in that order. Having replaced It’s A Wonderful Life as the ubiquitous Christmas movie A Christmas Story has lost its original charm. Like a television commercial that runs incessantly, the constant broadcasting of this film only irritate.

It also serves as a sad reminder of how our times have changes. It is no surprise that the selfless giving of George Bailey has been replaced by the selfish greed of Ralphie Parker. What hasn’t changed is our nostalgia for a more simple time. Placing a holiday story anywhere near our present day roots it too close to our egotistical, cynical, era where our presents are as wrapped up in paper as we our in ourselves. At the commercial breaks we are guaranteed that we won’t get the gifts we really want and that we should treat ourselves to those power tools and sport cars our loved ones are too Grinchy (a word now used as a synonym for practical) to get us. So, to appeal to our good, if not small hearts and the decency in each of us that knows the season is about more than what you receive, films like A Christmas Story are set in an idyllic past, most are too young to recall..

Of course, A Christmas Story has its figgy pudding and it eats it too. The story is wrapped in all the bucolic glow of Christmas past while little Ralphie pines for a present that will bring him supposed happiness. Friends and family, even teachers be damned, nothing should get between Raphie and his Red Ryder BB gun. He need do nothing to deserve such a gift. This level of entitlement and self-absorption is just the sort of film the 80′s were known for, but it took the wealth of the 90′s for its message to take hold and give birth to a new classic.

Still, the film has its charm and even a moment of pure grace. Its late in the film after most of the story has unfolded and little Ralphie has gotten his gun. Mom and Dad are down stairs, the tree is aglow, and the snow is beginning to fall. Music is playing in the background and for a brief moment there is no narration, no dialog, just a moment of calm, of great relief. It’s the sort of adult moment that is only understood once Christmas has stopped being a time of pure joy where the only responsibility is unwrapping presents, and it has turned into a grand spectacle that must be arrange and endured. For adults, Christmas is a production that starts with putting up the decorations and ends with the unwrapping of the presents. It’s late at night when all the presents are unwrapped and the Christmas dinner is well on its way to being digested when all pressure is off and the parents have moment to themselves before they start preparing for the next Christmas.

Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion (1970)

Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion asks the question – “Are some people free from suspicion simply because of who they are and the rank they hold?”

When a police chief recently promoted to a special division kills his mistress and purposefully leaves behind clues that could incriminate him, he finds himself exempt from suspicion. Those who do question his connections to the crime find that the power he wields can quickly have them dismissed as fools, radicals, or criminals.

Scant time is spent exploring the unnamed police chief’s behavior. Does he want to get caught? Is he trying to see just how much he can get away with? Is he simply flexing his power? Was everything done simply to fix his fractured male ego, upset by finding his lover with a young political radical? Does it really matter what drives this one individual? Do all positions of power create a loophole of legality allowing some to operate free questioning; free from justice?

Indagine su un cittadino al di sopra di ogni sospetto won an Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film in 1971. Today, the film in unavailable on VHS or DVD in the United States of America. Whether or not the film is worthy of such a coveted prize is open to argument. It’s lack of availability is however, curious.

This means more than it may seem to. We live at a time when morning news shows are giddy with speculation about whether a cop in Chicago has been behind the deaths of two of his wives. While further up the legal ladder scandals erupt weekly from the White House. Be it the badge wearing detective to top members of the executive branch, we continue to find a questionable lot who pressume that their positions of power allow them to operate above the law. A film about a police chief who gets away with murder simply because he is above suspicion is as timely now as it was then, perhaps more so.

I gather that the lack of interest in this film that has kept it from the U.S. DVD market reflects the lack of interest most Americans have in knowing the truth about the Bush administration’s abuse of power. We do not want to suspect those sworn to protect us of being criminal, but it is this willful blindness that sits as the central theme of Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion. Even when the unsuspected suspect leaves behind a damning trail of evidence it is much easier to overlook and excuse than to accept the grim truth.

I do wish that I am merely ignorant of some company’s plans to properly release this picture stateside. I was rather shocked to discover that a film awarded an Academy Award would slide into oblivion. My first knowledge of the film came from hearing a rendition of the movies theme music. Written by the famous and prolifics composer Ennio Morricon the music for this film highlight the odd mix of political seriousness, sexual perversion, and unexpected humor that arises in the film. The movie’s look and feel, its energy and its attitude, thoroughly root it in the early seventies. Even with its plot tangled in sexual affairs, mod fashion, and youthful radicalism, the central philosophical question of the corrupting nature of power and a society’s need to suspect corruption are just a problematic today.