elliott-43

Is this a slow film? It takes it time, sure, and it should. I never wished it moved more quickly. Humor served so deliciously can take its time. There is biting satire, moments of brilliant, visual cleverness, smart homages to Chaplin, Keaton, Fellini and others-in a non-stop progression of sketches that are never merely silly. Young YoYo's playful delight in his exploration of a mansion is the spell that establishes the story's magic. And the boy clown, in his clown shoes, white gloves, whiteface, painted tear drops, red clown nose and turned down hat is not in costume, but wearing his natural street clothes-reveals the loving, longing heart of this endearing, classic French meal that like a Michelin 3-star dining experience, is enjoyed at a pace that you might savor all the textures, flavors as well as the presentation.

In 1980 the suburban New York City town where my parents lived was a test market for HBO. Cable TV was just getting established. HBO, with a revolutionary concept at the time, of commercial free, uncut and adult-rated films was available by subscription. Its film library was far from expansive, airing a limited selection of mainly art house and foreign film titles, repeated over and over. I was in my early 20s and working odd hours and different shifts at the time. If I had a short turn around between shifts I would occasionally sleep at my parent's, whose house was much closer to my work place. So one day, as it happened, Luna was playing on HBO. My Mom and I, not aware of the plot, watched it together. There is a scene where Jill Clayburg manually brings her son to climax. My Mom and I were too frozen in awkwardness to move or speak. I was too self conscious to acknowledge my embarrassment and my Mom, I guess, was equally at a loss break the paralysis which kept us both stuck as the scene played out. So, unless you enjoy extreme squirming do not watch this film with either a parent or offspring!

I could not take my eyes off of this film. For the entire duration of its four-hour running time I remained fully engaged. I will not explain why because I run the risk of my words failing to accurately capture the visceral attraction of the story and it's telling; the sweetness, the humor, the unmitigated violence and the tension-and it's harrowing and haunting ending, which is a sobering reminder of our humanity. I have rated 644 films on IMDB only eleven have I rated 10. This beguiling film is a well deserved 10.

I was of the Sonny Fox era of Wonderama. I remember a cool guy in a business suit, who gave out an unending supply of toys and cool stuff at the slightest win of the slightest competition (how can I get on this show?!?!). At some point the goofy, wannabe-cool Bob McCallister replaced the smooth-as-Nutella Fox, who eventually became the VP of children's programming at NBC.

This film very much made me think of my Dad, who like Harry Dean Stanton, died in 2013 at 91 years. And because Lucky's days intersected with many of his contemporaries, so earnestly drawn by actors Ed Begley, Jr, Tom Skerritt, Beth Grant, James Darren, and others, I thought it was about that generation. But this sweet story offers such a large embrace and roped me in when Lucky sang the Spanish ballad, Volver, Volver, at the kids birthday party. This is a small story that has power to bring us all together with a big, sweet, knowing smile and not a kernel of sentimental corn.

I was 7 years old at the time of the Cuban Missle Crisis. I remember the Civil Defense Shelter in the basement of our apartment complex in Newark, NJ-- with those stacks of 50 gallon drums filled with emergency supplies of water. I remember me and my 2 brothers huddled in my Mother's panicked embrace, unable to shield us from her own mortal terror--is this a drill or the real thing? I remember the caravan of military flat bed trucks on South Orange Avenue carrying the sleek Nike missles to the Nike base on Riker Hil in Livingston.

This small and sparsely produced movie deftly captured a child's dread and panic, when the parents --too distracted by their own dread and panic--can't blow away the child's nightmare.

The final scene haunts me to this day.

Who expects good trips when a group of mostly strangers-peers in competitive dancing-and their handlers are unsuspectingly mega-dosed with LSD, at a remote location during the first night social of a weekend dance workshop? Gaspar accurately captures that complete unmooring of a bad acid trip, with visceral intensity. Using the camera as observer and an incessant dance beat, he never attempts to replicate the visual experience of tripping (because you can't). What he does do superbly is to capture the utter horror of being stuck in a raw, real, timeless, insanity, where there are no handholds of anything familiar and everyone is reduced to characters acting out of their most fundamental fears.

So smart, and pulled off by the greatest ensemble of droll, earnest and quirky characters, that Hail the Conquering Hero serves to make America fun again. This is essentially a cornball story of American values, but so archly drawn that even the most cynical will be taken in.

No doubt this is a powerful and raw portrayal of cruelty as sport set in the close, no-place-to-hide confines of a NYC Subway car. The strap-hangers here in the gritty, litter strewn, graffitied car have that 60's existential intensity, of the emotionally crippled, the ashamed and self-hating, the self-absorbed, the impotent--all easy targets for a pair of sociopathic avenging devils who mete out to the motley late night riders the piercing taunts that strike their injured souls with such perfection they can only sit in pained silence, or whimper powerlessly.

But I would argue with anyone who sees this as a reflection of our true nature. Sure, there are no shortages of bullies--from schoolyard to boardroom, and their enabling cowards. But we tend to act better than this in real life (commenters here have referred to the legendary Kitty Genovese murder in Queens in the 60's, where neighbors ignored pleas and screams for help for the hours it took Ms Genovese to die--although recent investigations show that published accounts were sensationalized to foster a false narrative of fear and indifference).

The cast here is nothing short of superb, bridging an ensemble of 40's, 50's and 60's Hollywood and Broadway talent, such as Thelma Ritter, Gary Merrill, Ruby Dee and Jan Sterling, with emerging 70's talent such as Beau Bridges and Martin Sheen.

In the real world, I have every confidence that in similar circumstances, the able-bodied and not so able-bodied, whether in a NYC Subway car, or in a Midwestern city bus, would quickly resolve to join forces and fight back against a similar menace.

I first watched Peeping Tom before I had become an avid consumer of the magical and transcendent films of Powell & Pressburger-- The Life & Times of Colonel Blimp; The Red Shoes; The 49th Parallel; I Know Where I'm Going; The Spy in Black, etc.--and I was not impressed. But having seen Peeping Tom for a second time, after being enchanted by the Powell & Pressburger style of storytelling, Peeping Tom--tho minus Pressburger-- was nearly as alluring a story as any in the Archers' canon. I suggest first cultivating a taste for Powell & Pressburger--you will not be wasting any film watching hours! Then, enjoy Peeping Tom.

In the long history of human challenges, what makes the housing crisis of WWII Washington, DC a worthy subject of a major Hollywood movie? Who knows? Who cares? It's the alchemic chemistry at work here that brings out the best of Charles Coburn, Joel McCrae and Jean Arthur, perfecting their comic timing, propelling this earnestly playful story into a film realm that is timelessly a deep delight, and gets you to stand up and join Coburn as Benjamin Dingle, in his silly, yet earnest mantra, "Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead!". This is as perfect as ensemble acting gets if you are inclined to enjoy a sweet, smart, and sly story that winks clear through any jaded movie soul, without plucking a string of sentimentality, yet grabs your heart for keeps.

Off-beat, character driven procedural involving implausible connections between improbable yet sympathetic characters with unlikely chemistry and a darndest plot twist. More like a 60s TV series than a hard boiled noir--the closing lines, between the sore loser and his boobie prize, is one of the genre's most brilliant endings.

A noble experiment: export the ground-shaking work of a Japanese auteur director, set it in the southwest high desert; with cowboys, a shamanic Indian, a Mexican outlaw, a snake oil salesmen, a lapsing preacher, a restless and frustrated wife; acted by Hollwood's circa 1964 pedigree--how could it possibly work? And it doesn't. The reason is simple--Rashomen is a brilliant reckoning of Japan's social turmoil of the time, told by proxies of its own mythologies, in a way that it's marvelously universal, but it is a silly exercise to literally westernize the telling. Paul Newman almost makes it work. E. G. Robinson too. It would have worked better, and fully occidentally perfected, if instead of Claire Bloom and Barry Sullivan playing the husband and wife, it was Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, spitfiring their love and hatred as George and Martha. And if Rod Serling talked us an epilogue. But that would be silly too, right? As probably would any co-option of Rashoman, however told.

Not bittersweet, but a tad sweeter, and lovely. Being a story about an extended Japanese family at an annual gathering to the home of the now grandparents. Emotionally modulated--the anger of a father's disappointment in his son's not living up to to his expectations, and the son's detachment from an overbearing and imperious father, overshadowed by the death of the father's revered other son, and the constant undertone of bickering between mater and pater--are not expressed in outbursts and loud confrontations. The burns are slow, the barbs are terse, as they go about the business of preparing meals and while sitting at the family tatami table and during the steep walks from the hilltop house to the beach, or in individual reflection while taking the traditional bath. The sweetness is in the relationship between the son and his wife and the growing connection with his pre-teen stepson, and with his sister and other extended family members; and in the ties that endure, to come together as a family.

It is so misleading to say this show is about a pot dealer. As if Thornton Wilders' "Our Town" is about a janitor. Yeah, there's plenty of smoke and some exposition about the nuances of sativa and indica blends, but rather the Guy is the perfect, contemporary observer who weaves together wonderful, sweet stories of people coping in the big city, but with such a buoyant spirit I just want to drop what I'm doing and move to Brooklyn, which is more of a magical state of mind than a brick, asphalt and concrete borough of NYC.

I've read some disappointments with the highly produced HBO continuation of the original web series. Well yeah, the original first season was delightful, brilliant with the atmosphere that was accomplished with no budget and compressed into 8 minute episodes. I would have been happy if it stayed in that space. But kudos to HBO for recognizing the talent here, investing in it, and allowing this team to see where it can go with all the tools they could use. They took it to an excellent place and I can't wait until season 3.

The story just needs a bit more time in the oven. Gus and the stumble of characters and situations that happen in this rake's bare progress are all likable and earnest with charming quirks even when it includes a suggestion of cannibalism--or was that a mere socio-political statement? It's all slightly off, like the eucalyptus grove in the Connecticut woods setting. The soundtrack has the hipness the film aspires to but doesn't quite live up to despite the junkie jade and pro to-punk references (which includes a real live reference in the form of an Iggy Pop cameo). I'm thinking about this film more than I expected and perhaps more than I care to. And is it truly devastating blow to a woman when a man passes out while still inside?