A Cinephile's (Guiltless) Guilty Pleasures

The whole idea of a guilty pleasure movie has always both fascinated and humoured me.  First of all, I don't understand the whole concept.  As definition of the term, one must have guilt toward something they enjoy, and that seems a bit silly if you ask me (not that you did).  Yes, there are definitely movies that I like - that I thoroughly enjoy even - that are thought of, by major consensus, to be films of lesser value - bad films even.  Quite bad indeed.  This is the way of the guilty pleasure.  The only problem is that I feel no guilt - not even the twingiest of twinges - about liking any of these movies.  I like something, I like it - no matter what others may say - and therefore, no guilt dammit.  Now for the purpose of such an act as naming one's so-called guilty pleasures (which is, after all, why we are all gathered here right now) I suppose I can fib a little and pretend I have guilt from my cinematic likes and desires.  Who is it going to hurt anyway.

Now I also must mention about now why I am even doing this in the first place.  You see, the fine folks over at the Classic Movie Blog Association are hosting a Guilty Pleasures Blogathon from September 18th to the 20th.  Now apparently one must be a member of this fine organization in order to participate (and there are many great classic movie blogs entering the bloggy fray) but alas, I am not a member.  I figure my output on The Most Beautiful Fraud in the World is about 60/40 in favour of classic and/or older cinema (many reviews of new films dot much of the landscape around these parts) but not quite enough to be considered for membership in the aforementioned organization (not that I have ever actually applied for membership).  So, since I am not a member I cannot actually participate in any official capacity - but as far as unofficially, well...

So without further ado, and in no particular order, this cinephile gives to you his (Guiltless) Guilty Pleasures.

Land of the Pharaohs 

I first learned of Howard Hawks' ancient world epic when reading through a list of Martin Scorsese's so-called guilty pleasures (pleasures he too finds no guilt from).  Granted, I knew of its existence long before reading the great director's list, but I never knew much more than it being one of the supposed cheesy lowlights of the career of one of the finest of all directors.  Upon watching the film (on the big screen) I instantly fell in love with its gaudy cheesiness and audacious kitschy charm.  Fun and romping with sheer giddy snakes & funerals CinemaScopic good times (even in an often somber, dangerous story, which incidentally was co-written by Hawks' novelist pal William Faulkner) this film, which stars Jack Hawkins, Dewey Martin and a young, and quite nubile Joan Collins as the ultimate gold digger, is certainly not a thing that should instill guilt into anyone who happens to enjoy it.  Yeah, maybe it's not the pinnacle of Hawksian cinema, but it is far from his worst, and a pretty damn good film if you ask me, which you are not.  You can read more of my ramblings on this film by checking out "The Strange Greatness of Howard Hawks' Land of the Pharaohs."

Flash Gordon
I suppose this 1980 cult movie is on a lot of these so-called guilty pleasures lists.  Granted, one must assume that the film was made to be intentionally campy (there is no way in Hell it was not!) and therefore is meant to be 'bad' and should not really be considered what one calls a guilty pleasure (it's supposed to be corny and kitschy dammit!).  Still though, between the obviously poorly done special effects (even for the time period) and the even more poorly done script (they have laser keys that can unlock doors and the ability to telepathically speak to each other but they still have walkie-talkies with cords and manually adjusted antenna for their time bombs!?) and the oft-times terrible acting (Max Von Sydow's Ming the Merciless and Timothy Dalton's pre-Bond forest prince excepted) any love for this film will probably be met with more than a bit of scorn.  Hot slutty princesses, bravado-wielding Hawkmen and a soundtrack by Queen make it better than it probably should be though.

Ishtar
Yes, this Elaine May film featuring Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman as a Hope/Crosby duo of bungling lounge singers who become equally bumbling wouldbe cold war soldiers is a bad bad movie.  The two usually much better actors seem uncomfortable and out of sync in their roles, but still I cannot help but enjoy this quippy little bomb of a motion picture.  Sometimes I think that someday, perhaps twenty or thirty years from now, Ishtar, much like the once greatly-maligned now mostly heralded Heaven's Gate, will be re-evaluated and finally thought of as a true classic of latter-day cinema.  Praised as some sort of subversive cult classic comedy.  Okay, perhaps not.

Myra Breckinridge
I am not sure what most makes this 1970 cult film so disturbingly derailing.  Is it the scantily-clad (as per usual in her younger fur bikini days) Raquel Welch and the infamous 'pegging' scene?  Is it Rex Reed's transgendering pomposity?  Perhaps it is an obviously over-the-hill Mae West, mostly blind and dressed in a skin tight fringed dress and long blonde wig, 'belting' out Hard to Handle while being manhandled by a bevy of burly bare-chested male dancers?  Probably all three actually.  A film that is infamous in its hated status (Time magazine called the film "as funny as a child molester") it still thrills the hell out of this critic.  Not that I feel guilty because of it though.  You can read more of my ramblings on this film by checking out "The Wonderful, Horrible Fun of Myra Breckinridge, in 847 Words or Less."

The Silver Chalice
Another film that I have 'borrowed' from the aforementioned list of Mr. Scorsese's, this 1954 Victor Saville-directed widescreen tale of a young Roman artist (Paul Newman in his screen debut) who comes to Jerusalem and learns about love and Jesus and all that jazz (oh yeah, and to sculpt a vessel to hold the Holy Grail), is a film that has been mocked not only by critics upon its release (laughed at as Paul Newman and the Holy Grail by some) but by its brand new star as well (later in his career Newman would denounce the film and would throw parties where he and his friends would watch the movie as if they were on MST3K).  With the campiest of performances from villainous Jack Palance (even by Jack Palance standards for Christ's sake!) just adding to the overall silliness of the film, there is no doubt this is what one would describe as a guilty pleasure movie (though still no actual guilt over here).  The one thing the film does have going for it, among the critical sewing circles of the cinematic world, is the design of the whole damn thing.  Sets that look like abstract museum pieces give the whole film an almost Art Deco meets German Expressionism feel.  Apparently this unique look is the reason Scorsese hired Boris Leven to design New York, New York.  Now who's feeling guilty!?  You can read more of my ramblings on this film by checking out "The Silver Chalice or: Paul Newman & the Holy Grail."

Valley of the Dolls
One would expect the Russ Meyer-directed, Roger Ebert-penned schlock sequel, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls to be on a list like this (too obvious), but for me, the 1967 pill-poppin' original (just as salacious but without the purposefully over-the-top exploitations) was a much better film, even though it was just as equally maligned (though for differing reasons).  Hell, I liked the book too (there, I freely admit it!) and that can be considered a literary guilty pleasure all on its own.  I have always been a sucker for films that show the inner workings of Hollywood and this one is no different - even if these particular inner workings are more than a bit melodramatic.  Oh yeah, did I mention how much I love melodramas?  Well I do, so there!

St. Elmo's Fire
Yeah yeah, I know, but I just can't help myself.  No matter how many times I watch this 1985 Brat Pack dud, I can't help but well up with tears.  It is stupid I know, but it still happens.  I suppose due to the film getting released just as I was graduating high school and beginning to lose friends to college or just life in general (I never was very good at keeping in touch with past friends who move away) and setting off those emotions of loss with its storyline, it becomes a surprising tearjerker of a film.  I actually bawled my eyes out when I first saw this film in the theater - when those emotions were just hitting me in real life.  Corny I know.  Heck, even when it plays on the radio (which granted is not all that often these days) the Jon Parr title track will do this to me as well.  Still no guilt though.

The Fearless Vampire Killers
Exploitation cinema at its creepy Polanski best, this 1967 cult classic (of sorts) starring the impish director and his beautiful (and ultimately tragic) soon-to-be wife Sharon Tate, is a moody piece of audacious bravura  cinema disguising itself as a classic horror movie.  With the subtitle (hated by Polanski when the studio forced it upon him for US release) or Pardon Me, But Your Teeth Are In My Neck, this kinda groovy, kinda snarky, kinda kitschy thingamajig is a fun ride indeed.  You can read more of my ramblings on this film by checking out "Welcome to Mr. Roman Polanski's Giddily Demented World of Sex and Fangs: The Fearless Vampire Killers."

The Savage Innocents
With its casting of Mexican everyman Anthony Quinn as Inuk the Eskimo, as well as the casting of Japanese-Americans as his fellow tribesmen, not to mention (though I am mentioning it right now)  its rather ignorant take on how these people must speak (like Tarzan in parkas), this 1960 Nicholas Ray film was (and still is) barked upon as an overtly racist movie (though no more or less racist than most Hollywood films of this period).  Is it racist?  Yeah, probably, but then so is the blackface song and dance numbers by such varied classic Hollywood performers as Mickey Rooney, Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, Al Jolsen and Judy Garland.  It was a placement of its time and therefore seems even more racist by today's standards.  Nevertheless, this film (Ray's third from final fully realized picture) is a blast to watch, and Quinn's performance (a performance that inspired Bob Dylan to write Quinn the Eskimo) is, though racist-seeming, one of the actor's most gleefully innocent.

White Christmas
Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I love Christmas with all my heart.  Beginning to play Christmas music in the beginning of October (Oct. 1st thru Jan 1st is the proper holiday season and I stand fully by that!!) and pretty much whistling a happy holiday tune all season long (I love the crowds that gather at the stores around Christmas time - call me crazy) it should come as no surprise how much I adore Irving Berlin's White Christmas.  Directed by Michael Curtiz and starring Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen, this garish and gay Technicolor musical extravaganza (a reworked retake of 1942's Holiday Inn) may be looked down upon by those who expect their musicals to be of the quality of Singin' in the Rain, An American in Paris or Meet Me in St. Louis (my own three favourites of the genre) and may seem extra cheesy to those who look upon Christmas the same way many of today's jaded Scrooge's do, but I am here to tell you that there is nothing better at Christmas time (and there are a lot of great things indeed) than watching White Christmas up on the big screen - a tradition that my wife and I do each and every year.  No guilt at all baby.

Well that's about it for my (Guiltless) Guilty Pleasures.  I could have added more films (starting with but not ending with the loverly cornbally Andy Hardy series or any number of the slew of B-Noir from the 1940's) but I thought I would stop here.  Hopefully the fine folks over at the aforementioned Classic Movie Blog Association don't mind me piggy-backing on their blogathony turf.  And still, no guilt.

Welcome to Mr. Roman Polanski's Giddily Demented World of Sex and Fangs: The Fearless Vampire Killers

The following is my contribution to The LAMBs in the Director's Chair #18: Roman Polanski.

In reality, or at least in the reality of cinema (which let's face it, is the only reality we truly care about here), they really aren't all the fearless after all.  More like inept but lucky, but then The Inept but Lucky Vampire Killers isn't that great of a title.  And speaking of titles (as I wander off into an aside that will probably happen with a bit of frequency throughout the next few paragraphs) how is this for a title - The Fearless Vampire Killers or: Pardon me, But Your Teeth Are in My Neck.  Actually director Roman Polanski was very displeased with the title and subtitle given his film by the studio (his original title was Dance of the Vampires), but its irreverent nature does fit with the style of the movie itself. But enough of the title - let's get to the sex!

Actually the sex, or at least the sexuality comes from Polanski's then wife, the drop dead gorgeous Sharon Tate.  But before we get to the lovely and tragic Miss Tate, perhaps a little background on the film.  Coming on the heels of Repulsion and Cul-de-sac, Polanski was able to procure a large budget for his film and it shows in the lavish costumes and set design of the film.  This would also be the director's first film shot in colour and in the widescreen aspect of 2.35:1.  With its snow-covered, fairy-tale landscapes and textured, Chagall-esque moonlit-winter-blue color scheme, the film is a visual wonder - almost as if one had somehow fallen deep into the interior of a giant snow globe.  Well, a snow globe with vampires of course.  It is this magical looking world that makes the film work on much more than just the farce the studio was marketing it as.

The films stars the director himself as the younger of the titular duo (the elder being played by stage actor Jack MacGowran) who has come to this small remote mountain village in search of...well, you guessed it, vampires.  After checking in to the village inn and getting the proverbial cold shoulder from the villagers when inquiring about any strange behaviour, the innkeeper's beautiful daughter (the aforementioned Miss Tate) is abducted by a vampire, and the hunt is on.  Of course our somewhat bumbling yet intrepid hero Alfred (Polanski) has fallen head over heels for the lovely Sarah (Tate) and he breaches the vampire's castle to get her back.  Meanwhile, Sarah, who may be a lot prettier than she is smart, plays the purring tease as the stakes of their situation grow higher and higher.  And yes, the stake comment was a very much intended pun.

Anyway, without much further ado (other than a few chase scenes through the castle, the vampire's fanged son's futile attempt at seducing the bewildered Alfred and a buttload of visiting vampires) we come to the final set piece of the film - the dance of the vampires (remember that title?).  This finale plays, in a way, like the finale in An American in Paris and showcases an elegant yet giddily terrifying danse macabre minuet.  It is the gorgeous set piece that finishes an already quite visually succulent work of cinematic art.  It is here that Alfred, Sarah and the Professor (MacGowran) must attempt their escape from the dread that awaits them.  Add to this a great trick ending (though one surely sees such a trick coming, it is still a fun trick) and you have Roman Polanski's horror-comedy treat, The Fearless Vampire Killers (no subtitle, no matter how fun, is needed).

With elements of Kafka throughout, and Polanski's unique sense of humour (after a Jewish character is turned into a vampire someone comes at them with a cross and he laughs, saying"Oy vey, have you got the wrong vampire.") The Fearless Vampire Killers is a great blend of pantomime, dark humour, self-referential moments (the MGM's iconic Leo has been transformed into a greenish fanged ghoul) and Hammer-style horror.  His cinematographer, Douglas Slocombe, was quoted by Ivan Butler in his book, The Cinema of Roman Polanski, as saying, "I think he (Roman) put more of himself into Dance of the Vampires than into another film. It brought to light the fairy-tale interest that he has. One was conscious all along when making the picture of a Central European background to the story. Very few of the crew could see anything in it - they thought it old-fashioned nonsense. But I could see this background....I have a French background myself, and could sense the Central European atmosphere that surrounds it. The figure of Alfred is very much like Roman himself - a slight figure, young and a little defenseless - a touch of Kafka. It is very much a personal statement of his own humour. He used to chuckle all the way through."

And then there is Sharon Tate.  Miss Tate gives the film an alluring sex appeal not just with her looks, which were to die for, but with the way she would slink about like an innocent cat ready to pounce.  But it would be just a few years away when tragedy would strike.  More specifically on the night of August 9, 1969.  This would be the night that an eight-month pregnant Sharon Tate, along with her guests, were brutally slaughtered by the Manson Family.  After this, Polanski's films would turn dark (the first film the director made after the murders is considered to be the bloodiest Macbeth ever put on film) and even though he would go on to make one the best films ever, 1974's Chinatown, the rest of career has been all hit or miss.  His own personal life would eventually unravel with an arrest for rape and a guilty verdict in absentia as the director flees back to Europe, but then this is not the time nor the place to discuss such devisive tabloid tales, so let us finish by saying that even with the studio's attempt at turning the film into a kooky farce, The Fearless Vampire Killers remains to this day one of Polanski's best and most colourful cinematic works.

My 10 Favourite Things About David Lynch's Dune

Okay, okay, perhaps it isn't Lynch at his directorial peak, and perhaps it isn't the most classic of the science fiction genre, and perhaps it isn't the kind of cinema you are supposed to write home about as they say, but damn if it ain't a fun little romp to sit through - especially when seeing it in all it's 2:35 ratio'd glory up on the big screen, sitting alone in the dark on a Wednesday afternoon as if you are playing hooky from real life (one of my favourite things to do as a matter of fact).

With that said and out of the way, here are my 10 favourite things about David Lynch's deliriously demented Dune - numbered but not necessarily in any particular order.  And for those who care about such things, there be plenty of spoilers ahead.  Don't say you haven't been warned.

1. Studly young star Kyle MacLachlan plays wouldbe messiah Paul Atreides with a perfect blend of stage-frightened rock star and closet-case mama's boy - his seemingly innocent to the nth degree snide grin and his devastatingly handsome features (not to mention that coiffed mane of almost too-good-to-be-true hair - what was it Warren Zevon said of his London Lycanthropes but could have been speaking of MacLachlan, "his hair was perfect.") a testament to his wholesome worthiness of messiahdom.  Incidentally, this was MacLachlan's screen debut and one would think his rather frigid acting in this film (albeit befitting the character in many ways) would have been the end of anything big, but he would go on to make his second film, Blue Velvet (imagine these as your first two films!?) and thus becoming the new prince of the undefinable wolf-in-sheep's-clothing (this boy seems straight-laced but underneath it all, in those traumatic situations, the freak will sneak out and show itself - even if it goes running back inside once the shooting has ceased).  This of course would make him the perfect person to star in Lynch's Twin Peaks eventually, but even from this somewhat auspicious start, MacLachlan would play the part with a perfect concoction of wooden demeanor and matter-of-fact consciousness and the hidden arrogance and chutzpah of one who will lead his people out of bondage (to go with the most obvious biblical reference in the story).

2. Speaking of Mr. Lynch, Dune stands as one of the auteur's most atypical films, but still one can see the strange world that beats just below the surface of the director's mad mad mad mind.  With a humming reverberance beneath the surface of the entire film (sometimes we hear it, other times we do not but can still feel it inside you) and his use of disembodied voice-over, Lynch gives this film (already drawn from a strange-in-its-own-way novel) his own brand of good old fashioned weirdness.  Oddly enough this blend of sci-fi and Lynchian cinematic tropes work surprisingly well in their own bizarre form of unison. 

3. Even Lynch's batshitcrazy manner of filmmaking cannot hide the fact there are some pretty bad special effects herein - even by the day's standards (producer Dino De Laurentiis is known for such things though)- but somehow these cheap looking effects, from the squared off body armour (the first attempt at creating an artificial man on scree I am told) to the riding of the sand worms (which will be discussed later on in more depth) make the film all the more creepy in a way and therefore help to give Lynch what one assumes he was looking for in the final product of his endeavors.  Imagine though, what would have become of the story if the original director, the even batshitcrazier Alejandro Jodorowsky would have made it.

4. I suppose the most disgusting thing about Dune is the pustule-covered mad man Baron Vladimir Harkonnen.  Fat and covered in disgusting boils, and devouring his prey (aka slave boys) by puncturing their nipple valve (yeah, you read that correctly) and sexually(?) draining them of life fluids, the Baron, as played by Kenneth McMillan, looks like some sort of hybrid of the baby from Eraserhead all grown up and some sort of creature feature out of Cronenberg - a filmmaker incidentally who has a much in common with M. Lynch.  Oh did I mention that he also flies - or more accurately, he floats.  Oh yeah, and he is pure evil - a supposed explanation for the kinda allegorical (in a way if you stretch) nasty-ass boils all over his fat face. Then again, some people (most notably gay rights activist Dennis Altman) have more than alluded that these boils/legions/whatever are a sign of AIDS and that the filmmakers are equating evil behaviour with homosexuality (since the Baron is obviously quite queer indeed).

5. And speaking of bad ass bitches - the bald witch women who seem to (at least try to) control all the universe are pretty fucking badass. "Get back, she has the weirding way!" a potential enemy exclaims as Paul's mother Lady Jessica puts a stranglehold on him.  And speaking of Paul's mother, the Lady Jessica, as played by Francesca Annis, and her weirding way - can you say MILF.  Actually MILF is probably a bad term considering the actress, at the time of Dune, is four years younger than I (though if the seventeen year old me had seen this film in its original glory...).  Seriously though, this planetary queen who will one day become the new Reverend Mother of the bald witch women (I don't feel like looking up the name of her people that I cannot remember right now) is smokin' hot - and that's a fact, Jack!

6. And then there is that supporting cast - some of whom are Lynchian regulars or semi-regulars.  You have Freddie Jones and Brad Dourif and Patrick Stewart and Max von Sydow and Jose Ferrer and Richard Jordan and Linda Hunt and Everett McGill and Sean Young and Virginia Madsen and of course the omnipresent Jack Nance, but the one that shines above them all (as he would go on to steal the scene in Blue Velvet two years later) is of course the always great Dean Stockwell.  The reason Stockwell is so great in Dune (other than that kick-ass mustache of course) is because he is not afraid to cry.  I mean really cry - like a little bitch.  Sure, he has just betrayed his king and his people and is now having regrets but c'mon, this crying jag plays out as if a parody of such an act.  Dean, kick-ass mustache or not, this does not make you the suave fucker you will thankfully become.

7. The same people that brought us the songs "Africa" and "Rosanna" did the soundtrack for Dune?  Sure, why not.  Yes, you heard that correctly true believers - the prog-rock band Toto did the soundtrack for Dune.  This does of course explain the creepy yet non-threatening music going on in the background - sort of like a demented merry-go-round with delusions of scary grandeur.  Don't get me wrong, I like Toto (yeah, I said it, what are you gonna do about it!?) and their music does strangely fit the already discomforting effect Lynch has created here, but it still seems weird that Toto does the soundtrack to Dune.  Granted, Brian Eno also contributes a piece (which in my mind seems more appropriate) but still, Toto seems like an odd, but invariably good choice.  Though I was kinda hoping for "Africa" to show up while Paul was riding those giant-ass sand worms - now there is a musical number for the proverbial ages.

8. And speaking of dem worms dem worms - ridin' dem worms.  Nasty dangerous monsters slithering their collective way just beneath the surface of the desert world of Arrakis, these great beasties are a threat to anyone and everyone who comes across their path - well except for our intrepid wouldbe messiah, the studly and perfectly coiffed Paul Atreides.  In fact Paul will tame them and ride them (in some of the worst special effects one can imagine - c'mon guys this is after Star Wars, Tron and Blade Runner - get a budget Dino!) and use them to get his victory and revenge.  Still though, I would have loved to have heard "Africa" on the soundtrack as he rides the great beasties across the desert.

9. From everything I have read or heard on the subject, Lynch wasn't really much of a happy camper from day one.  It is the only film he did not have final cut on (he didn't officially have final cut on The Elephant Man but apparently producer Mel Brooks ended up giving him final cut anyway) and he was not happy with the outcome, which was mostly panned by the critical forces of the day.  Of course that is nothing compared to the uproar that ensued when the studio decided to re-edit Lynch's film, without Lynch's say-so or even knowledge, and release an extended "Special Edition" cut of the film for television broadcast and eventual VHS release in1989.  At this point, due to this new version being somewhat incomprehensible, Lynch petitioned to have his name taken off the film.  It would be replaced with the usual Alan Smithee directorial credit.  Lynch would also, in the best move of the whole situation, change his writing credit to Judas Booth in "honour" of Iscariot and John Wilkes.  To this day Lynch will have nothing to do with the movie (in either version) and refuses any and all invitations to do commentary of such on the film.

10. And probably the best thing this film has going for it - or at least the most fun - is the addition of Gordon Sumner to the cast.  I'm talkin' Sting baby!  Seriously, what a fun character.  Granted, the only real reason he is here is to take his shirt off, grin maniacally, be looked upon leeringly by his fat boil-faced uncle and be the bad boy rock star to MacLachlan's boy next door image.  He only speaks a handful of lines but the rock star image is still intact - probably because of such.  How can a movie go wrong when it has the only rock star (that I know of) to squeeze Nabakov into a hit song?  Really, how can you?

My 10 Favourite Things About Don't Touch the White Woman

**spoilers ahead, for those who worry about such things**

1) Obviously when talking about Marco Ferreri's French/Italian hybrid Don't Touch the White Woman, something must be said about the that title.  Played as a recurring gag (or jag) throughout the film, General Custer's Indian scout Mitch is repeatedly told this (or scolded about this) by the white men around him.  When I told my friend Max that this was the movie we were going to watch on a certain night, he instinctively assumed that I was acting the fool, and making such a title up.  But lo and behold, it is indeed Don't Touch the White Woman - or Touche pas a la femme blanche in its native French (and I use the term native in several different manners of ironic twist).

2) Ferreri's absurdist take on the American Western.  Placing characters such as General George Armstrong Custer, Buffalo Bill Cody and Chief Sitting Bull smack dab in the then-current 1974 Paris - with Richard Nixon as the beloved president - and setting the climactic Battle of Little Big Horn in the recently demolished remains of the old Paris marketplace.  Mixing and matching time periods, Ferreri's film is a comic absurdist delight.

3) Marcello Mastroianni as General Custer, extremely vain and quite pompous (this may actually be a rather accurate portrayal) and kicking up his boots in a ridiculously comic salutation of sorts, is at his batshitcrazy best here.  His long dangling locks, desire to change uniforms for each battle and constant militaristic attitude - not to mention his arrogant style of wooing - is great comic fun.

4) The (far from subtle) allusions to both Vietnam and Algeria (Nixon is president here, spying down at everyone from his overly prevalent framed pictures) and an obvious (and quite legitimate if you ask this liberal critic) Leftist attitude toward the military, as well as a revisionist outlook on American/Indian affairs of the time (the Custer time that is).  The Algerians are even thought of as an Indian tribe, and thus are treated in the same cold, hateful manner by the white people in the film.

5) The Altman connection.  Or I should say, the Altman feel.  Predating Altman's own Buffalo Bill movie by two years, Ferreri's movie plays out in a very Altmanesque manner, with characters speaking over top of each other and musicians following around as balladeers and an overall constant sense of mayhem.

6) Ugo Tognazzi, long before he became the prancing star of La cage aux folles (a role played by an equally prancing Robin Williams in the remake), plays the aforementioned Mitch, the man to whom the warning of the title is told to.  Of course he is not really an American Indian (and doesn't even look like one, given a tanning session before filming began perhaps) but full-blooded, and full-bodied Italian.  His leading of a sweat shop manned by white women (with the ever-watching eyes of big brother Nixon peering down from the wall) and his defilement of one of them is one of the many highlights of this crazy ass movie.

7) The use of what appear to be real period hippies as the Indians of this so-called Little Big Horn.  I mean really, who needs the noble savage when you've got a city full of hippies who will walk around in the background for, well for pretty much anything you are wiling to give them.  We even get one who looks an awfully like that self-declared ant-hippie, Jim Morrison.  Perhaps he didn't die in that bathtub after all.  I mean he did live in Paris when he "died".

8) Michel Piccoli may very well be the most batshitcrazy Buffalo Bill in cinematic history.  Played by everyone from Roy Rogers to Joel McCrea to Clayton Moore to Chuck Heston to Paul Newman to Stephen Fucking Baldwin (even Buffalo Bill himself - as himself! - appeared in several early silent films) but I can't think of anyone who made the man look like a stark raving lunatic more than M. Piccoli.  From his white eyeliner to his big-boobied back-up dancer to his bizarro (almost) one man show to his eventual maniacal cowardice and grandiose hissy-fit, Piccoli is the premier batshitcrazy Buffalo Bill.

9) I cannot confirm this was on purpose, and it may very well be a "just me" kinda thing, but the talking heads who we first see at the beginning of the film, and who recur throughout as nosy, do-nothing politicos, remind this critic of a certain band of outsiders (if you will pardon the pun) known collectively as the Nouvelle Vague.  The two main ones even resemble the new wave's leaders (for lack of a more apt word) Godard and Truffaut.  Again, it is probably all in my imagination, but isn't imagination what cinema is all about?

10) Catherine Deneuve as a redhead!!  I am sure I need not say more, but I will anyway.  Looking spectacular as a blonde is Mlle. Deneuve's normal style, but here she goes fiery red for her role as Custer's love interest, Marie-Hélène de Boismonfrais.  Perhaps it is in keeping with the batshitcrazy aspect of the film itself - after all (and this will get some angry comments I am sure, but I sincerely mean it in the most complimentary fashion possible) most redheads I have known have been quite batshitcrazy themselves.  Perhaps it is just to make the already drop dead Deneuve look all that hotter.  One of the final moments of the film - after the slaughter at this makeshift Little Big Horn - shows a now dead Deneauve covered partly in an American flag.  Except for the whole dead part (unless you are into that) this is a pretty spectacular image on the screen (which unfortunately cannot truly be captured by the corresponding image below).

The Silver Chalice or: Paul Newman & the Holy Grail

Victor Saville's 1954 biblical epic, The Silver Chalice, set just a handful of decades after Jesus, should be considered an important film in the career of Paul Newman - for two very integral (and opposing) reasons.  The first being that it was the iconic actor's big screen debut.  The second being that it was the iconic actor's most hated film of what would eventually become an oeuvre of nearly sixty motion pictures. Newman even publically apologized for his performance in this movie.  Upon finally watching the film this past week (after seeing it listed among Martin Scorsese's favourite guilty pleasures) I can certainly see why Newman disliked it so much (he is rather terrible in it and through probably no fault of his own), but I gotta admit, even with its nearly universal bad acting, a script that makes one's ears bleed and an overall "do-you-like-movies-about-gladiators" vibe, I kinda liked it.  So go ahead and scoff if you must, but I am not going to change my mind.

The Silver Chalice is the true definition of what a guilty pleasure movie should be (as opposed to Howard Hawks' Land of the Pharaohs - also on the aforementioned Scorsese list - which is, by all accounts, says the unabashed auteurist, a legitimately well-made film), which is where one derives enjoyment from a movie that is poorly made and/or sappy and/or cheesy and/or whatever other adjective one wishes to include.  Though in reality the idea of a movie's pleasure bringing on the emotion of guilt is probably a misnomer of sorts, since I feel no guilt from my love of The Silver Chalice - or from any other film one might call, out of necessity of getting your point across to an audience, a guilty pleasure.  Like I said before - and like I will probably say again before this whole shebang is over - I liked the damned film, so get used to it.

Two things in particular stand out to make me like the film so damned much.  Newman's rather lackluster performance (he is right to hate his performance here) is not among them.  The first is the art direction and set design courtesy of production designer Rolfe Gerard, Art Director Boris Leven and set decorator Harold Bristol.  From the gaudy feast of Nero (set inside what appears to be the Roman equivalent of DC Comics' Hall of Justice!), where everyone eats what appears to be silver food (actually looks quite strangely yummy) and scantily-clad, blue-skinned women (the kind Captain Kirk would so take his boots off for!) gyrate around to a poppy jazz score that is so out of time and place it almost goes the entire way around again and becomes perfectly scored, to the simple geometrical designs of Jerusalem that make this holy city an abstract wonder to behold as Newman's slave/artist Basil (a role originally turned down by James Dean) and the gorgeous Pier Angeli (James Dean's one-time lover) flee from Roman soldiers across the rooftops of this strange, exotic city, made even stranger and more exotic through staged architecture.  Everywhere one looks, no matter the lack of charisma from Newman (who would have it in spades in future movies!) and the quite idiotic preenings of co-star and Roman femme fatale Virginia Mayo, one is given a sight to behold indeed.

The other thing that stands out is (of course!) Jack Palance as the dastardly Simon the Magician (I assume based upon Simon Magus), wouldbe usurper to the aforementioned Jesus and all-around sly kook.  Crazier than I have ever seen him, Palance, even while giving such a soft-spoken kind of performance, hands in probably his most queerly wicked role ever.  Practically leaping out of the veritable closet as the no-good Simon, Palance is wonderfully kitschy in a role that he may very well have been oblivious to its camp goofiness.  I mean c'mon.  His playing with snakes and wearing the things he wore.  He must have known, right?  I mean, he is preening about in red superhero-esque tights with a cape and what appear to be giant black sperm designed into them.  This get-up is adorning the actor when he decides that he can fly (a, idea that, of course, does not come off to well for good ole Simon).  He is by far, the most interesting character in the movie.  Of course it is this very campiness that makes the movie so damned enjoyable (guiltily or not!!).

No matter that Newman took an ad out in 1966 (its television premier) decrying the picture and asking everyone to not watch (its ratings were phenomenal thanks to this actually) and would have friends over to watch it, handing out pots and pans and mallets and such in order to loudly criticize, like I said several times already (and I have forewarned of such again) I liked the damned thing - lock, stock and a big smoking Jack Palance.  Instead of placing screenshots throughout the piece (as is my usual modus operandi) I have saved the best for last.  Below are several great shots from the movie, showing just how succulent the imagery was/is, that were only magnified when I watched it up on the big screen.

The Strange Greatness of Howard Hawks' Land of the Pharaohs

"When I first saw it as a kid, Land of the Pharaohs became my favorite film." 

– Martin Scorsese

Scorsese's rather audacious proclamation aside (he does also call it his number one cinematic guilty pleasure), if one wished to call Howard Hawks' 1955 Cinemascope epic a great film - or even a good film - one would surely have a mighty strain on their hands to convince others they were serious about such an audacious proclamation of their own.  But that lack of obvious quality - it truly is a ridiculous film in many many ways - is part of what makes Land of the Pharaohs so damned enjoyable.  Yet, for all this ridiculousness - and there certainly is more than one movie's worth of such - Howard Hawks is still the great director he is in all of his other films, and therefore transposes the idea of camp or cult or whatever those in the know have called this movie throughout the years, and crafted a well-made motion picture experience that somehow manages equal parts good and bad, great and terrible, visually stunning and laughably portrayed, and has handed us (along with co-scenarist William Faulkner) one of the finest bad movies this critic has ever seen.   How's that for a schizophrenic appraisal?

Seriously though (well, at least seriously, with a slight mocking tone) Land of the Pharaohs is a beautiful looking film, with its muted colours and achingly detailed sets and costumes, and there are shots in here that would amaze even the most novice of cinephiles - one of which seems to have been pulled straight out of Hawks' film and placed smack dab in the center of Scorsese's Gangs of New York - and even though it does not equal the great auteur at his best, which is a list too long to reproduce here (Hawks is after all, in this unabashed Hitchcocko-Hawksian's opinion, the greatest of the Hollywood studio directors - no argument!), it is one of the most fun (the funnest?) movies I have seen in a while - and a great way to start off the new year (eight of us watching it on the big screen of Midtown Cinema after hours on New Year's Day night, via DVD projector, and yelping as if we were filming the latest episode of MST3K).  I suppose, in the end, even with the obvious string of ludicrous throughlines throughout, Howard Hawks' Land of the Pharaohs is a strong and powerful film indeed, and is one of the auteur's weakest films only because he has so many strong films to compare it too (even lesser Hawksian is good Hawksian). 

My three favourite moments of Land of the Pharaohs:

1) Joan Collins' entrance into the Pharaoh's palace, offering herself to him in lieu of her country's required payment to the realm and he ripping her robe off to uncover the beaded and bronzed feminine lures that were hitherto hidden beneath, all the while (and all through most of the film) her face an unearthly lavender that is probably less the would-be exotic affectation it is perhaps meant to be and more a poorly painted make-up job and/or the on-screen result of that strange creature known as Warner Color.

2) The moment when the stone statues of the Egyptian Gods begin to speak in voice-over and the cast of thousands (nearly 10,000 extras - a feat that would sadly be CGI'd in these days) ooh and aah and chant after them.  Scorsese says this is one of the defining moments of his cinematic childhood. The scene is just as wryly funny as it is awe-inspiring as it is somehow spiritually necessary.

3) The grand finale when Joan Collins' back-stabbing, gold-hungry would-be Queen Nellifer realizes her fate and the sand keeps pouring and the stones keep dropping and the would-be Queen Nellifer keeps screaming that she does not want to die.   I suppose the joke is on her after all.

Let me end with one of the best movie tag lines ever: "Her Blood Stained Every Stone of the Pyramid."

The Wonderful, Horrible Fun of Myra Breckinridge, in 847 Words or Less

Gore Vidal, on whose novel the film was based, publicly disowned the film, calling it the second worst film he had ever seen (you'll have to ask Mr. Vidal what the worst was).  It killed the career of its whack-job director, Michael Sarne, who would never work in Hollywood again.  It pretty much put the kibosh on the budding career of sex goddess Raquel Welch, slowing her meteoric rise to a mere trickle afterward (though, to be honest, her relative inability to act may have had a certain amount of cause and effect in such matters).  Film Critic Rex Reed, who makes his acting debut in the film (and ironically gives probably the closest thing this movie has to a good performance), wrote in Playboy magazine, that the film was so bad, it would probably never open (it did).  

Former child star and then-current US ambassador Shirley Temple Black, got her white house buddy Tricky Dick to demand the archival footage of her being squirted in the face while milking a cow (from a scene from Heidi) which was interspersed with a rape scene, be taken out of all prints immediately (which it was, though we do see and hear Ms. Temple in another, non-rape, section).  Loretta Young then, without the help of President Nixon, successfully sued 20th Century Fox for using images of her in that same infamous scene.  Seventy-six year old Mae West, who hadn't been in front of the cameras for nearly twenty-seven years, and acting as the diva bitch from Hell (Welch would get the brunt of such behaviour), made herself look pathetic and kinda creepy as a septuagenarian sexual deviant in her obvious long blonde wig and typical double entendres to all the young bucks within ear reach (including a very young Tom Selleck).  And to top this all off, Time Magazine opened their scathing review of the film with the line "Myra Breckinridge is about as funny as a child molester."

Now though this film is truly atrocious, easily deserving many of those aforementioned "accolades",  and is, from a cinematic standpoint, a train wreck from beginning to end, there is indeed another side to the film version of Myra Breckinridge.  A side that is a cheap and giddy delight for anyone with such cheap and giddy tendencies - which, admit it or not, we have at least a little bit of such inside us all.  A film that seemingly emulates Robert Altman's style, though in a much more amateurish manner (though considering Myra Breckinridge was being made at about the same time as Altman's breakthrough film M*A*S*H, this is either mere coincidence or just a sign of the filmmaking times) this quite infamous work (on many a worst movies of all-time list) is filled with fun moments that if strung together would make for a fine film - only, for some reason it never does.

As far as these so-called moments go, I am not sure which is my favourite.  Could it be the opening, pre-title sequence where Rex Reed is about to get his manhood severed by a mad-looking doctor played by John Carradine of all people?  Could it be that same Rex Reed, later on in the film, pawing at his chest and screaming "Where are my tits!?  Where are my tits!?" (a scene Reed had to be bullied into doing by being told they would cut away from Reed and a voice impersonator would just do the line for him in post production)?  Could it be Raquel Welch strapping on her own manhood and raping the naive young buck she has tied to an examining table, while dressed as some sort of cross between Wonder Woman and a cowgirl stripper (even without the aforementioned Shirley Temple scene)?  Could it be bellowing John Huston, strutting around in silly, jingle-jangling singing cowboy gear, complete with ridiculously over-sized twenty-five and a half gallon hat?  Could it be the male-centric joy of seeing Raquel Welch in bed with a young Farrah Fawcett?  But wait, there's one that tops 'em all.

Perhaps my favourite part of this ridiculous film is watching the sad and quite pathetic seventy-six year old Mae West, mostly blind from cataracts, and having to be led to the stage, and dressed in a slinky, skin-tight sequined gown complete with long flowing flaxen blonde wig, a chorus line of tuxedo'd black men dancing a la Pips style behind her, belt out a horrendous version of Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle" (a supposed prerequisite in Ms. West's contract was the demand to perform at least one song).  That one takes the proverbial cake for sure.  Whatever the case, and however bad this film may be, with no one wanting to take credit for any part of it (disavowed by pretty much everyone in a dvd special feature doc, from Vidal to Welch to Rex Reed to studio head Darryl 'Freakin' Zanuck!) there is still much to love in Myra Breckinridge.  Anyway, any film wherein Rex Reed screams "Where are my tits!?  Where are my Tits!?" is just alright with me.  Indeed.