The Good Stuff: What’s to Love about Fights in Film

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Spartacus-fightscene
Talented poet and screenwriter, martial artist, and classics enthusiast Brian Wilkins agreed to guest post for me as part of The Sword and Sandal blogathon, hosted by Moon in Gemini. Check out his wonderful tribute to fight scenes below.

Sometime in 1998, I sit on the floor in my living room watching John “Kickboxing is the sport of the future” Cusack eject Benny “the Jet” Urquidez into a wall of lockers. He then proceeds to tattoo those locker numbers into Benny’s back several times with his foot. After some athletic grappling, the two fumble at each other’s skinny ties and Cusack jams his pen into Benny’s throat. I am overjoyed: Grosse Pointe Blank is everything a boy could wish for.

“Mom,” I say to the horrified woman behind me folding laundry who thought “light action comedy” would be a great choice for family movie night, “I think I want to do that. “

“I would pray you out of it,” she snaps. Mothers in the south can definitely snap and mention prayer in the same breath.

“What? Why?”

“You tell me you want to be an assassin because of a movie and you think…”

“Not an assassin, Mom! Geez. A fight choreographer.”

This comeback mollifies — but not much: “As long as you finish college.”

***
I finished a lot of college and never became a choreographer for anything beyond amateur productions of Shakespeare, but it’s hard to say who I would be without fight scenes in movies. I fenced because of The Princess Bride. I fell in love with Karate after watching Daniel-san wade through a series of talented black belts who inexplicably led with their faces. I even tried to land a crane kick at a tournament: once. I studied epic poetry in grad school because of 13th Warrior.

So when my friend Leah asked me if I’d like to contribute something for this blogathon, I jumped at the chance to look at the fights in gladiator movies. And not just any fights, but material from before Bruce Lee one inch punched his way into America’s heart and everybody was kung fu fighting. What did fighting look like in classic sword and sandal flicks?

Awful. It looks awful. It looks like America (except for James Cagney) couldn’t take a cardboard cutout prior to 1968. Honestly, watching films like The 300 Spartans must have given comfort to our enemies. I don’t know why the Russians didn’t invade.

And while I think even Alexander the Great couldn’t drink Spartans into being entertaining, it actually provides a solid rubric for what makes a good fight scene. It just doesn’t know that’s what it’s doing. Seriously, folks, I don’t think the director had ever heard the word phalanx. The best fight scene in the movie is when Diane Baker judo flips an overly amorous Greek shepherd.

***
Early in Spartans, Persian King Xerxes (David Farrar) argues with traitorous Spartan king Demaratus (Ivan Triesault) over Spartan valor. When Demaratus defends it, Xerxes suggests a fight to the death between Demaratus and a Persian swordsman. I suppose this is because Demaratus is so tiresome Xerxes would rather have him killed and be lost in Greece than listen to him flap his cheeks anymore about Spartan values. I felt that way. The two champions draw their blades in what seems an interminable fight with bowie knives. Xerxes demands, along with the audience, that they hurry it up. Quickly, death comes for the Persian, and Xerxes concedes, much to his boredom, that Spartans can fight.

Let me check my notes for this scene…oh, I just wrote, “WHAT?” about 15 times.

Two guys in tunics rolling around on dinner tables with plus-size steak knives isn’t an epic scene. There’s nothing to distinguish their fighting styles from each other, no real costuming, nothing resembling martial talent — if a fight scene looks like your kindergartner was filming themselves after raiding your closet for costumes, something has gone awry.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not advocating for historical accuracy, but just the exotic fantasy of history. I don’t care, nerds, that Russell Crowe stepped into a stirrup in Gladiator, so long as his wolf skin cloak looks really fabulous while he does it.

But just as important to style, there must be stakes for the viewer. Demaratus is a cowardly traitor: why do we care if he dies? Even this dude’s Spartan mother would spit on his corpse rather than shed a tear over not hearing more of his mind numbing dialog. Nameless Persian Thug #1 is no better. If I can’t feel passion or fear or even a soupcon of lust, why am I watching?

The plot must motivate the action as well. We have to learn something about character in this scene and the logic of the movie must give impetus to the conflict. It’s a bit like a song in a musical: the truth that can’t be said must be expressed and it must change the world we’re seeing. The correct ending in this fight scene was to have the Persian kill Demaratus. Instead, we’re now convinced the Spartans are being underestimated by Xerxes and that they’re nearly invincible. I found myself rooting for the Persians, underdogs that they were.

***
Demetrius and the Gladiators (1954) is like all of the strange pseudo-christian elements of Ben Hur wrapped up in one hell of a bogged down film.

This sequel to The Robe continues in that proud tradition, peppering in a few action scenes with Victor Mature to prod the viewer awake. It made the studios a lot of money, but I can only hope that was due to a paucity of action films…what’s that? Seven Samurai came out the same year? Well, screw it, 1950s America just loves misogynistic Christianity. Shame on you, 1950s. Shame.

Still there are elements in the fights in Demetrius that have potential. Take this clip, where Victor Mature’s Demetrius is throwing away his Christian values to avenge his girlfriend who was accidentally killed (but not really, there’s a magic robe that brings people back to life) by knuckle dragging gladiators at a party. Now that those “turn the other cheek” gloves are off, we can get some real fighting! Good thing her (apparent) death paved the way for some real entertainment! Or something like that.

You may have noticed that Mature uses his shield like a kid with a trash can lid storming the kitchen. I put that down to the vices of the choreographer, Jean Heremans, a fencing champ most noted for choreographing Scaramouche (not just a line from Bohemian Rhapsody, folks). His refined modern fencing style makes perfect sense in that 18th century setting, but it fails the style of the sword and sandal motif. Treating fighting as if it is fencing is the real dereliction of this period of choreography. I can only assume it comes from the same instinct that yearned to put a steak dinner into a pill: progress knows best.

Notice also the curious way of holding the sword with the palm down and the sword to the side, almost a foil fencer’s seconde parry. It feels out of place as a guard with short stabbing weapon and will likely get it smacked out of your hand — just in case you have to fight someone with a trident who knows what they’re doing. Despite a nice moment of dual wielding, the style doesn’t offer much excitement or novelty.

However, in terms of stakes and spirit this fight actually picks up the pace a bit. While I would have preferred any other reason for Demetrius to throw away his values and dig into fighting, his existential crisis adds a tangy zip to the clashing shields. This fight will change his destiny as a character, adding a thrill to what we’re watching. Revenge giving permission to the viewer to sanction violence, while also showing a character’s descent after the fact, and redeeming the character with a deus ex machina (almost literally) reeks of cliché, but that doesn’t mean it’s toothless. And when Demetrius actually gets clobbering a guy like Ty Cobb on opening day, we feel relief because the action initiates the structure of the story. And we like it because the choreography matches the moment and the weapons a bit more: freer and more direct.

But if you’re looking for a more nuanced examination of violence, watch Seven Samurai. Actually, if there’s one lesson you should take from this review, it should be “watch Seven Samurai.”

***
For a taste of a film that lets style guide the way, there’s always Jason and the Argonauts (1963). Ray Harryhausen’s special effects are legendary, precisely for their ability to create a world that, despite having a giant bronze statue really need a hair pin, feels real. In fact, unlike much modern CGI, it’s the actors that feel less real than the animations: a testament to the quality of both.

This clip is so iconic it really needs no introduction.

There are a lot of things to love about this scene, but there are certain moments that stand out for me.

  • The war cry the skeletons give just before charging after Jason and his compatriots: it immediately moves the bony little bastards out of the realm of slouching zombie and into something else entirely.
  • The skeletons get into fighting stances and even seem to relish stabbing the heroes. Their stances are better than anyone else on screen: hunched, menacing, preparing to do ill to the enemy. Jason looks like he just discovered swords over breakfast.
  • The skeletons seem to know how to use their shields. One even hooks a shield into the sea.

But most of all, this scene understands the equipment being used. You can’t stab a skeleton risen from the sown teeth of a hydra! Everyone knows that! Except Jason, who tries it at 3:36 in the clip. And that’s the core of why this scene is great: the heroes have to improvise and start using dodges, feints, throws, and even clubbing the skeletons with the shields (although why no one can seem to stab and block simultaneously is beyond me. I guess we’ll have to wait for Troy).

Though we learn little about the spirit of the characters beyond the fact that Jason is quite content to flee and let his friends die, the stakes in this scene feel high. Perhaps it’s just that as humans we must root for those of us still covered in skin. Perhaps it’s that this idea was fished out from the Hieronymous Bosch corner of the unconscious. But either way, Ray Harryhausen was a genius I wouldn’t have wanted to fight in any place with a sandy floor.

***
There’s no mystery in my mind about the best of the sword and sandal genre. It’s Spartacus, hands down. Ignoring the politics, history, and its place in film for a moment, though, it’s a damn fine fight film. It even has a great training montage! Look, a spinning practice dummy with a mace on it! And there, a spinning blade of death machine! Even face painting!

To set up the scene: Spartacus (Kirk Douglas) has been paired with the more experienced gladiator Draba (Woody Strode), to fight to the death for the amusement of visiting nobles, particularly Crassus (Laurence Olivier).

Good movies work as fractals: little gems of the overall message replayed again and again to make one larger, faceted meaning. This fight tells you all you need to know about the movie, and the tragic but worthwhile attempt of compassion and brotherhood to fight back against a rigged system. It teaches you to ask who the enemy really is. This is a fight between Drapa and Crassus, first and foremost. And the mild annoyance with which Olivier kills Strode, with his distaste for the blood spatter rather than the action of murdering a human being, drives the nature of that character home.

But that moment is preceded and earned by some rather decent fighting. Strode was far too athletic to not take advantage of his size and is a perfect pairing with the trident. Douglas is a little too lightly armored, actually. He should have at least a helmet. The lack here is better than just artistic license and wanting to see the actor’s face: it shows even more how dangerous this fight is for Spartacus, making the act of compassion even greater.

Though he does hold his own. He’s always driving forward, trying to cover the distance and his lack of technique with enthusiasm. And while it ends with a rather spectacular boot to the ribs, Spartacus fights with just enough skill to lose well, which helps momentarily suspend our belief that just because the movie is called, “Spartacus”, he’s unlikely to die at the first real fight.

Though you could wonder if the Romans care at all. The audience talks over the two men fighting to the death at first, allowing us to condemn the Romans for being that annoying couple at the movies who explain the plot as the movie progresses. The inclusion of the audience into the scene makes the points of the movie so well, and asks us to question our own participation. It calls us to act with mercy and courage.

***
The complaint you’ll hear most often about these fight scenes is that they aren’t realistic, by which most people mean gritty or brutal. Fights in real life aren’t as spectacular, they argue, or as technical, and they don’t tell us much about the nobler parts of our role to play as humans. This lack of realism somehow damages the truth a fight may offer. Sometimes they’re right: the samurai master is killed by a punk with a knife at dinner, people windmill at each other over bar stool rights, and most fights are just attacks by predators or drunks.

But that’s why we come to the screen in the first place: to dream our better selves into being. A fight, even a silly one against skeletons, can show us how to be brave, to stand against impossible odds. When asked to surrender by the Nazis during the Battle of the Bulge, Gen. Anthony McAuliffe sent back a telegram with a one word reply: “Nuts!” You can’t write better dialog than that. And that’s what I say to folks who can’t see the beauty in the ringing steel, the athletic achievement, and most importantly, the spirit of laying it all on the line. Except I want to add “you,” and “are.”

by Brian Wilkins

This post is part of the Sword and Sandal blogathon. Check out the other entries here.

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Sympathetic Liars: The Book of Mormon & Beat the Devil

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BeattheDevil-JenniferJones
Kooky. Bizarre. Silly. Odd. Original. It’s difficult to sum up the strange charm of Beat the Devil (1953), that Truman Capote-penned film* that fits no genre and makes no sense. You have the feeling as you watch that Capote must have been tripping, but his quirky personality, not to mention the strange antics that took place on the set–arm wrestling competitions between him and Humphrey Bogart, celebrity drop-ins who dictated costuming, etc.–may do something to explain its odd mishmash of mystery, comedy, and social commentary. I’ve never been a fan of Jennifer Jones, but she won me here as Mrs. Gwendolen Chelm, a seemingly ordinary wife who has the imagination of Capote, and no compunction about confusing her fantasies with reality. She is truly the director of the show. Just ask this question: “What would a film be like if a compulsive, whimsical fantasist got to rule the plot?” Your answer is Beat the Devil.

The film’s heroine reminds me of Arnold from the hilarious musical The Book of Mormon, and his twisting of the Mormon faith to convert Ugandans. (Minor spoiler: If you haven’t seen it, Elder Arnold Cunningham adds Boba Fett and some unfortunate AIDS-curing frogs to his faith’s origin story.) While an everyday liar provides little narrative interest, Chelm’s degree of imagination, as with Wes Anderson’s many heroes, seems to color the world with such an enormous brush that it’s hard not to become enthralled by her, as Bogart’s character is throughout Beat the Devil.

I dare not attempt to explain the plot to you, what little there is of one. It’s better if you simply start watching and see where it takes you. That’s clearly what Capote intended, and as any casual reader of his life knows, hanging out with Capote on a boring, rainy Sunday was probably thrilling. Watch the film. It’s as close to experiencing the mind of that fascinating socializer and entertainer, that creator of world-famous parties and disastrous scandals, as any of us are now likely to get.

*According to Gerald Clarke, Truman’s biographer, John Huston’s screenplay contribution was probably negligible.

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The Dark Humor of High Noon (1952)

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HighNoon
**Contains spoilers**

When I watched High Noon many years ago, I was struck by its pacing, its intensity, its seriousness. This time, I kept laughing. There’s something comic about watching Marshal Will Kane (Gary Cooper) aimlessly tread around the town, waiting for someone, anyone to assist him. I found myself curious (having forgotten most of the details) not whether he’d find aid, but just what methods of bailing on responsibility his fellow townspeople would employ.

The judge (Otto Kruger) is, of course, is my favorite. Having passed sentence on Frank Miller (Ian MacDonald), a killer who has now been freed and is headed to town for revenge, the judge opts for exiting pronto. He tells Kane, the marshal who caught Miller, to do the same. His advice is a cynical history lesson about how little one can rely on civilian ethics when danger is afoot–an account of Athenians who welcomed a tyrant they’d once banished, and watched as he executed their government; an incident much like one that recently occurred in a nearby town. The judge shares these accounts as he casually packs away his flag and scales of justice.

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His assessment about the value of the people he’s leaving to the mercy of an outlaw is almost as breathtakingly cold as the clock speech in The Third Man: “This is just a dirty little village in the middle of nowhere. Nothing that happens here is really important. Now get out.” The former marshal (Lon Chaney, Jr.), Kane’s mentor, is likewise a ray of light: “People got to talk themselves into law and order..down deep, they don’t care. They just don’t care.” Poor Kane is asking for just a bit of support before he takes on a posse, and these are his cheerleaders.

Of course, it’s hard not to love Kane, even as you wonder whether there’s a better way to overcome Miller than the one he’s devised (i.e., shoot it out).

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“I’ve got lots to do,” Kane keeps saying as the minutes creep by. But really, he doesn’t. He has to warn Helen Ramirez (former lover to both him and Miller), ask for volunteer deputies, and write a brief will. But this is a small town, easily navigated, and these tasks are quickly accomplished. What he really has to do is busy himself to avoid dwelling on the cowardice of his companions and his own slim chances for survival if he stays in town until noon, when Miller is arriving.

While Ramirez (Katy Jurado) is the most interesting character, it’s clearly Kane’s new bride, Amy (Grace Kelly), who brings on the dark humor.

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First, there’s the fact that she’s just had the biggest bummer of a wedding day ever. Then there’s the small detail that she’s a Quaker who has married a marshal. I don’t think I have to tell you that she may not be the wisest of women. Sure, he’s retiring; the new marshal is arriving the next day, and the newlyweds are planning to leave town and to run a store elsewhere before they hear about Miller. But surely five minutes of Kane’s obdurate behavior during courtship would have enlightened Amy that this whole conversion business–of both faith and career–wasn’t going to work so well. (Admittedly, given the pickings we see of the townspeople during the film, she may still have made the best choice of a mate she could.) And of course, it’s quite amusing that a woman who has to overcome her beliefs–not dodge them–is the only helper Kane receives. No wonder Kane throws his star on the ground after besting Miller.

That the film would include such darkness isn’t surprising from a screenwriter (Carl Foreman) who had been blacklisted before High Noon even came out. What he was witnessing of former friends and those he must have once respected couldn’t have led to idealism. Apparently, John Wayne scorned the film as anti-American, and Rio Bravo is a reinterpretation, with more admirable townspeople. While I agree with the movie’s distance from Wayne’s optimism, I think Foreman’s (and the original story’s) cynicism goes much deeper than any individual country, any specific belief system. It’s a simple, sadly humorous morality tale about human nature: while there may be rare moments of heroism (like Kane’s), typically, when the going gets tough, the “tough” scatter.

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The Klutziest Bonnie & Clyde Ever: Gun Crazy (1950)

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GunCrazy
**Only very minor, preliminary spoilers here**

Gun Crazy begins with a boy getting caught for stealing a gun because he trips. The kid, Barton Tare, has a mysterious attraction to guns he can neither explain nor control. Others try to defend him, given that he has no desire to harm and isn’t a good thief. But he’s sent to reform school anyway, and after that and a bout in the army, the young man returns home and falls for a carnival sharpshooter, Annie Laurie Starr (Peggy Cummins). The two are both skilled in their expertise with weaponry and in their seduction of one another (clearly what brings them together), but their limbs just go haywire in all other contexts. When they turn to crime to satisfy Laurie’s lust for excitement and cash, the two can’t stop themselves from tripping, falling, and dropping the payroll.

The chief delight of this famous noir is Laurie’s ruthlessness; she’s one of the most fascinating femme fatales; the whole movie, you’re just waiting to see if her attraction to her now-husband, Bart (John Dall), will trump her self-interest.

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Bart’s a little screwy (as when he brings a gun to school as a kid and refuses to give it to teacher or superintendent). But there’s an aw-shucks, Jimmy-Stewartist innocence to his love for his wife, making her single-mindedness and easy manipulation of him both sinister and completely believable. When the going gets tough, you know Bart will save Laurie. What you don’t know is whether Laurie will lose a nail to save him.

Their gun skills, of course, make them a dangerous pair when they start to rob. But in peak moments, the pair keep FALLING, making you wonder how many capers they could have actually pulled off. Call me cynical, but I think some grace might help in a getaway. This lack of finesse might dissatisfy viewers looking for slick criminals in action, but being anything but nimble myself, I found their lack of coordination endearing–an unexpected trait that made me worry for their chances, and realize that I’ve seen this trait in cinematic bank robbers too seldom. Far too many action stars have amazing reflexes without Jason Bourne’s training; more of us stumble in real life, as the Darwin Awards and local news so often prove. I know I’m not alone in loving the pratfallers, even in a noir. (Usually, only minor characters make such silly mistakes.)

Of course, there’s a lot more to recommend the movie: its stylishness, the costumes of Cummins (clearly an inspiration for Faye Dunaway’s in Bonnie and Clyde), the many artfully composed shots. But its lack of predictability (thanks to screenwriters, blacklisted Dalton Trumbo and MacKinlay Kantor) is what kept me watching and wondering. I expected some hairy getaways, but not the twists I got. I expected a dastardly female, but couldn’t predict her moves. And I certainly didn’t expect–but loved–all the great moments like this, Bart’s first tripping incident, which led to all the rest:

Bartsfirstfall-GunCrazy

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Mae West’s Theme Show: Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries

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EssieDavisasFisher
Sexually adventurous, unapologetic, averse to marriage, in control, attractive to all men–and in her 40s. Phryne Fisher (Essie Davis) is the kind of character feminists have despaired of seeing onscreen, and yet there she is, captivating her Australian viewers, and now American ones, who have binge watched her on Netflix as quickly as I have. She’s a 1920s heiress who solves crimes, and the rather dainty title of the show–Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries–doesn’t capture the boldness of its heroine at all.

Of course, being an appreciator of all things Mae West would love, I claim this would be her current TV show of choice, just as Elle King’s “Ex’s & Oh’s” would be her theme song. Essie Davis has just the right attitude for her role, and while she isn’t Mae West (who is?), the two would clearly get along. Not that the characters the two actresses play are doubles. The slow strut of West’s characters contrasts with Fisher’s quick energy, and while West’s characters clearly take pride in their sexual conquests, Fisher simply relishes them, as if so many lovers are simply a matter of course.

EssieDavisasPhryne Fisher
This is what you do when you’ve survived WWI, Fisher suggests: you have FUN. And yet, like West’s heroines, she never belittles her more demure fellow females; her closest companion (and employee), Dot (Ashleigh Cummings), is a devout, chaste Catholic (in more modern terms, Charlotte York to Fisher’s Samantha Jones).

The show is also praised for its female writers, its attention to historical detail, and, of course, its fashion. I can’t begin to describe those glorious costumes, but others have here and here. Like West’s characters, Fisher likes silk and feathers and furs and jewels, and wears them with panache.

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There are many other reasons to watch the show. The mysteries are fun, but in the end, I don’t care about them any more than I do in The Thin Man or Psych. Just gimme some more of Fisher’s chemistry with the detective (Nathan Page), more of her lascivious looks, more of her joyful dancing, more of her comments on singlehood, more of her liberality toward those mistreated by her time period, and in many cases, still by ours (gay friends, communists, anarchists, pacifists, prostitutes, working women, etc.) Give me more of the clothes. And most of all, give me more of that lust for life that has made me fall for Mae West. Please, please, you wonderful writers and you very busy star, give us a Season 4.

This post is part of my monthly West moment series.

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Happy Films: You Were Never Lovelier (1942)

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YouWereNeverLovelier
When asked to pick a film that I’d equate with ice cream for a sweet-inspired blogathon, I recalled the Rita Hayworth-Fred Astaire confection, You Were Never Lovelier. The plot is so silly: a sexist father, Eduardo Acuña (Adolphe Menjou), creates an imaginary secret admirer for his daughter, Maria (Rita Hayworth). He thinks he can handpick her suitor and pretend the boy is writing the love notes he himself is penning. But Maria mistakes a dancer, Robert (Fred Astaire), for her admirer, and much confusion ensues. It’s hard to explain why a story like this could win over its audience, especially since Maria is ridiculously susceptible, Robert directionless, and the film’s portrayal of Argentinians fantastical. And yet….What’s the primary feeling while watching? Utter delight. Try to watch it without grinning, rewinding, and pressing play again.

Why, you might ask?

Well, here’s our hero, Robert (Fred Astaire), dancing on a desk to protest Acuña’s refusal to consider him for his nightclub:


There’s the very funny meet cute between Robert and Maria, an encounter that doesn’t go well thanks to some snarky remarks by the former, who doesn’t know who she is.

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And there’s the heavenly dancing. Within one scene Rita Hayworth and Fred Astaire make you forget the implausibility of the story because these are two of the most expressive dancers ever. From their first dance in, you’re entranced by their characters’ romance. How could you not be convinced, after watching them together?


The sweet, Oscar-nominated score is lovely, and the songs are catchy. “I’m Old-Fashioned” always makes me smile. Listen to Ella Fitzgerald’s version, or even better, watch a much longer clip than I’ve posted here at TCM, with Hayworth lip syncing it (sung by Nan Wynn) to Astaire’s Robert.

And that’s just one scene. I envy all of you who haven’t seen this film. You’re in for a treat.

This post is part of the Classic Movie Ice Cream Social, hosted by Fritzi of Movies Silently: a celebration of those movies and recipes that make us smile.

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Gary Cole’s Brilliant Lumbergh

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It says something about me–the fact that I have a red Swingline stapler. I was a proselytizer where Office Space (1999) was concerned: My rec of the film was one of the ways I earned credibility with roommates and dates (the stapler itself was a parting gift from a convert). I even held viewing parties of the movie in grad school to remind peers that life could be worse: we could be in cubicles writing TPS reports.

So when asked to pick a favorite bad guy for this year’s villainathon, Gary Cole’s Bill Lumbergh seemed an obvious choice. The only surprise is that I needed someone (in this case, my sister, whose coworker gave her suspenders covered in flair) to remind me.

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What I find so compelling about Cole’s performance is that he uses his attractiveness to add to the sleazy quality of his character. That sexy bedroom voice; that graceful, lounging pose are hilarious when employed to deliver directives rather than pick-up lines. Note how his arm rests on Peter’s cubicle, his slow, almost sensual movements with the coffee. Cole knows he’s sexy, and just how to use that sensuality to make us laugh.

Of course, Cole has always been a comedic gem, as Veep fans can attest. I fell for him in The Brady Bunch Movie (1995) and A Very Brady Sequel (1996), but others have been following him much longer. Despite the longevity and versatility of his career, he has little name recognition. Yet I would guess most comedy fans out there know the name Bill Lumbergh. Of what could have been a throwaway villainous role, Cole created THE example of corporate villainy–obsessed with minutiae, valuing bottom line above all, utterly impervious to human responses to his actions. When watching him, you have the feeling that the feds could be busting down the office doors in a raid, and Lumbergh would still calmly walk over to his employees’ desks, and ask about memos.

Consider his approach to Peter (Ron Livingston) at the start of the film. Lumbergh (Cole) greets him by asking what’s happening, with so little affect that Cole illustrates in two words how little management cares. His slow drawl of “yeah” is one of the most memorable lines in a quotable movie, largely because it means nothing at all. It’s simply a transition into the corporate speak he’s about to utter. (It is also such a favorite word of his that he even says it before “hi” on answering machine messages.) What I find hysterical about Lumbergh is the distance between the exaggerated words he uses (“special,” “terrific,” “great”) and Cole’s flat delivery. Even in Peter’s nightmares about Lumbergh sleeping with his girlfriend, his arch enemy is still uttering his favorite banalities in a near-monotone (“mmmkay?” is another favorite).

Lumbergh’s facial expressions are as funny as his words. Observe his gaze at the birthday cake prepared for him, as if he can’t wait for this attempt at office civility to end. His thanks, especially how “special” this celebration for him is, demonstrates the degree of his insincerity.

Cole relishes exaggerating just how awful this man is. (I think he particularly enjoyed that line about pesticide to Milton.) But why I find Lumbergh such a compelling villain is just how real he is, how perfectly he embodies the ugly side of American capitalism. Other villains are more theatrical, exciting, but they don’t scare me; they are so clearly fictional. But as we viewers watch Lumbergh, we think, I know this guy. He’s someone we’ve met. He’s someone we’ve worked with (but hopefully not under). He represents, as Peter claims, “all that is soulless and wrong.” And he’s not going away anytime soon.

This post is part of the Great Villain blogathon sponsored by Speakeasy, Shadows and Satin, and Silver Screenings. Go see some brilliant entries here.

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New TV Show on Bette Davis and Joan Crawford!!

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BetteandJoanWhateverHappenedtoBabyJane
FX is bringing classic movie buffs’ favorite sparring partners, Bette and Joan, to the screen. And the leads for the pair? Susan Sarandon and Jessica Lange. How lucky are we? The show, aptly titled Feud, will also feature some amazing costars. The only downside? We have to wait until 2017.

Join me as I watch What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? on repeat to rev up excitement for its debut!

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Top 4 Lazy Evening Films on Netflix

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So you feel like doing nothing tonight, just want a film to make you smile? Here are four movies now on Netflix that I dare you to watch without grinning.

4. Bowfinger (1999)
Steve Martin, a conniving producer/con man down on his luck, forces paranoid action megastar Kit Ramsey (Eddie Murphy) into his film by stalking him and shooting his scenes without his knowledge. You in yet? Written by Steve Martin. Now?:)

Favorite moment: Carol (the amazing Christine Baranksi), who doesn’t know Kit is being manipulated, begins her scene with him by ambushing him at a restaurant, ranting about soybeans and aliens.

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Bowfinger is not a comedy classic, but it’s a pointed satire on Hollywood—so silly and so fun.

3. Charade (1963)

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Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn, and Walter Matthau (1963) star in this lighthearted romance/thriller. Basically, you feel no worry for Regina (Hepburn), despite the danger she’s in, and will give only cursory attention to the mystery itself, despite its fascinating twists and turns. Instead, you’ll just enjoy the cleverness of the script and watching Hepburn and Grant having a blast together.

2. Money Pit (1986)

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This updated version of Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (1948) is hilarious whether or not you’ve ever been foolish enough to build a house. With Tom Hanks at his broadest, comedic best, and Shelley Long before her ego got too big for her. I know everyone else will claim the original better (Loy, the paint scene!), but Philip Bosco and Maureen Stapleton are so funny in it, and Hanks in hysterics makes me giggle every single time.

1. Begin Again (2013)

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Not as brilliant as Once, but writer/director John Carney manages again to craft a story that’s moving and sweet and joyful without ever veering into sentimentality–or even romance. A celebration of music and collaboration as cures for what ails us, with charming performances by Keira Knightley and Mark Ruffalo. Quick warning: If you don’t want the fragile, soulful tunes in your head for the rest of the week, don’t watch.

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Remaking Hitchcock

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This week I’ve been lucky enough to convince author Michael Gutierrez into guest posting. Check out his wonderful book, The Trench Angel (which deserves cinematic treatment of its own).

Back in the early 90s, during a time when there were a spate of remakes of classic films, my grandfather posited: “Why don’t they just redo shitty movies?”

He was right, in a sense. Remaking the greats because you think they’ll appeal to a modern audience is usually a lost cause. His Girl Friday will always be better than Switching Channels, even if you add modern stars like Burt Reynolds (the 80s loved a good mustache). But “shitty movies” are often shitty for several fundamental, inalterable reasons, be it bad acting, poor production values, or, most likely, a terrible story idea. These are films that can’t be saved. Take Showgirls: you can blame star Elizabeth Berkley’s humorless performance or director Paul Verhoeven’s lack of visual dexterity, but the film would probably still blow even if you gave the camera to Scorsese and put Meryl Streep in pasties.

Yet, there’s a middle ground: remake mediocre films, movies that just missed being great for one or two specific, easily discernible reasons. It’s been done before, most recently with Ocean’s Eleven. The original Rat pack vehicle was poorly paced and weighed down by a lazy script, bad jokes, and half-in-the-bag performances. Enter George Clooney and Steven Soderbergh and you’ve got a remake that trumps the original.

Case in point is Alfred Hitchcock, a man who made plenty of just-misses. For every Rear Window or North by Northwest, you’ve got a handful of Suspicions. Hitchcock, himself, had no issue with remakes, re-doing The Man Who Knew Too Much twenty years after his original version. While many of his lesser films should be left alone (I’m looking at you Stage Fright), a few of his other movies were nearly great, but suffered under the weight of one or two specific flaws.

Here are three that Hollywood should re-do and I’ll even give them a hand by telling them how to do it.

Foreign Correspondent (1940)
The Story: American reporter Huntley Haverstock (Joel McCrea) is sent to Europe to dig up a story on the continent’s impeding war. While there, he finds himself caught up in a sinister international conspiracy, falls in love with the chief villain’s daughter (Laraine Day), while palling around in the Netherlands with fellow reporter Scott ffolliett (George Sanders).

The Good: There’s a great cat and mouse chase through a field of Dutch windmills and some fantastic Sanders scenes where he binge-eats the scenery.

The Problem: The romance between McCrea and Day has all the sexual charisma of an arranged marriage. In addition, Sanders steals the film. Even Hitchcock seems to realize he cast the wrong star, and pretty much turns over the last third of the film to the charming Englishman. Finally, the end transforms into a piece of pro-war propaganda, trying to convince America to join the fight against the Nazis. It made sense at the time, but now it dates the film.

The Solution: Cast Ryan Gosling and Marion Cotillard. Besides being capable performers, they’re both so pretty to look at. Plus, you could actually shoot the film in Amsterdam. Why aren’t there more films in Amsterdam?

The Lady Vanishes (1938)
The Story: Young European Iris Henderson (Margaret Lockwood) is travelling home via railway to get married. On the trip she befriends Miss Froy (Dame May Whitty), who suddenly disappears in transit, though the train has made no stops. Henderson and fellow passenger Gilbert Redman (Michael Redgrave) investigate, only to find themselves caught up in a sinister international conspiracy.

The Good: It’s a great set-up with some tense scenes, red herrings, and a bouncy tone. Plus, you’re on a train and trains are awesome.

The Problem: Lockwood doesn’t come across as someone willing to challenge a waiter, let alone a cabal of killers. It should have been Myrna Loy or Katharine Hepburn. Redgrave’s fine, but Cary Grant would have been better. There are also some really hokey special effects where the train looks like a child’s model set and Hitchcock spends too much time setting up the story and gives away the villain too quickly.

The Solution: I know they re-did this film with Jodie Foster as Flightplan, and I’ve heard it isn’t bad, but I can’t watch movies set on airplanes without a heavy, accompanying dose of Xanax, so let’s keep it on the train because trains are, as you know, awesome and put in Reese Witherspoon and Ethan Hawke. Give the characters some age and gravitas. Or if they won’t do it, Cotillard and Gosling will do.

The 39 Steps (1935)
The Story: Robert Hannay (Robert Donat) finds himself caught up in a sinister international conspiracy. There’s a lot of running through fake Scottish moors, an evil dude with half a finger missing, and Madeleine Carroll going full Stockholm Syndrome on Donat after he kidnaps her.

The Good: It sounds bad, but it isn’t. Seriously. It’s just not great. Even if the moor scenes were filmed on a sound stage, the running is fun and the scene at the end in the Palladium when Mr. Memory reveals the secrets of the 39 Steps organization is brilliant.

The Problem: How many memorable movies have you seen with Donat or Carroll? There’s a reason. Hitchcock once famously referred to actors as “cattle” and he must have gotten these two off the slaughterhouse floor. At times, you’re rooting for 39 Steps to kill Donat, while Carroll’s quick turn from kidnap victim to doting lover is super uncomfortable.

The Solution: Keep the missing finger, film on real Scottish moors, and bring in Charlize Theron and Tom Hardy. A Mad Max reunion. Unlike Donat, Hardy looks like he could actually land a punch and Theron seems like she’d take a little more convincing to fall in love with her kidnapper than a charming smile. Or, hell, just cast Gosling and Cotillard. That should work.

by Michael Gutierrez

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