Watching The Getaway recently reaffirmed for me what a great artist Sam Peckinpah was. Somehow I had missed this film over the years, discouraged from watching it by its highly uneven reputation, and the fact that I find Ali McGraw to be a black hole who tends to pull a movie into oblivion. The film didn’t change my opinon of La McGraw, and in fact her vacuity pulls her co-star Steve McQueen badly into its orbit. In Peckinpah’s preceding film, Junior Bonner, McQueen was at his best and seems well in the groove of Peckinpah’s male characters, their brutality an expression of their sensitivity. Here he seems like the Steve McQueen of the unwatchably glib The Thomas Crown Affair.

But everything about the film besides its lead actors is beautiful. The fact that it works as a crime thriller in a relatively uncomplicated way is a bonus, because, though it is not among his great works, it is fully haunted by the ghosts that make Peckinpah’s work so revelatory. Peckinpah at his best treats subjects that are at the centre of American storytelling (the frontier, masculinity, violence) with a grace, depth and poetry that exceeds even Hawks and Ford (maybe that’s just a generational thing, though; too bad no one of my generation managed to surpass Peckinpah).

So excited was I by this, that I immediately ordered a copy of The Osterman Weekend, Sam’s last film, which I saw at Toronto’s Imperial 6 Cinemas on its initial release in 1983, and remembered as borderline unwatchable. But if The Getaway was this good, perhaps I had just missed the point on Osterman (at the time I had yet to see The Wild Bunch or Ride the High Country or Bring me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, now three of my favourite American films, only Straw Dogs and at much too young an age [14]).

I have this theory: that films from the 70’s have gotten better, and films from the 80’s have gotten worse. It’s remarkable how few exceptions there seem to be. Sadly, The Osterman Weekend is not one of them. Not only was it is as bad as I remembered, knowing Peckinpah’s work makes its badness more tragic. Not primarily because of the vast gap in quality between Osterman and his earlier films — well, except for Convoy and The Killer Elite, though I think it is worse — but because it is a kind of announcement of the annihilation of a great filmmaker. It depicts a world in which all the values that were both celebrated and mourned in his great works – and that ability to both mourn and celebrate at the same time has something to do with their greatness– have ceased to exist. Those values have been destroyed by vast institutions (within the narrative, the CIA and the mass media; while embodied by the film itself, 20^th Century Fox and the cheesy producers [Highlander: Search for Vengeance, anyone?] who hired Peckinpah because he would work cheap and could do some signature slow mo). The “action” scenes come off as self-parody, which may have been inevitable given that the techniques of Peckinpah’s brilliant depictions of violence had already been absorbed by the mainstream which had fully inverted their meaning. The performances range from wooden to embarrassing, but what the actors have in common is an apparent cluelessness as to what kind of movie they are in and what they are supposed to be doing. Where Peckinpah’s great films were narratively spare, charting a linear trajectory as they accumulate mysterious depth, Osterman is not only cluttered to the point of absurdity but seems to deliberately void itself of narrative coherence as it proceeds (in spite of a screenplay by the wonderful Alan Sharp.) Where his previous films are preoccupied with the relationship between man and nature, and man and the community, in Osterman nature has ceased to exist (the film mostly takes place in an ugly house cluttered with video equipment, and the exteriors are largely barren) and the community has been rendered an abstraction by the mass media. In short, it may be that by 1983, the artistic construct known as the “Sam Peckinpah film” could no longer exist, not only because of Sam’s alcoholism, but because of history. (Alcoholism may have been only symptom, not cause.)

In any case, it seems like Sam, who had been given the kind of soul-breaking punishment Hollywood reserves for its most committed artists, had decided to offer a parodical reflection back at that world of its idea of what a commercial film is in the early 1980’s, in all its ugly, noisy, incoherent meaninglessness.

The saddest spectacle is watching auteurists try to justify the film’s brilliance, as though the subject matter was an artistic choice as opposed to the only job on offer, and as though it were an artistic testament rather than a self-inscribed grave marker.

It is true that the nihilistic ugliness of the film can be identified as a current in Peckinpah’s work as far back as The Wild Bunch. Part of what made Sam great as an artist was in the demons he confronted. In The Osterman Weekend, he shows us what ugliness is like without the artistry, since the world had no use for the artistry.

I haven’t yet listened to the commentary track by the redoubtable Seydor, Weddle, Simmons and Redmond, whose books I have devoured. Perhaps they will convince me otherwise. Nor have I watched the “directors cut” included, though I would bet dollars to donuts that it is just a more extreme version of everything I have stated above. Peckinpah spent 8 months editing the film before being fired, and I suspect he was just trying to leave them as big of a mess as possible.

D. Harlan Wilson is really making me look bad by recently releasing not one, but two books in the past few months. Here are the details on his most recent fiction release, Peckinpah: An Ultraviolent Romance:

TITLE: Peckinpah: An Ultraviolent Romance

AUTHOR: D. Harlan Wilson

PUBLISHER: Shroud Publishing

DATE OF PUBLICATION: August 2009

ISBN (PB): 978-098198-942-6

PAGES: 116

GENRE: Horror/Literary

Life in Dreamfield, Indiana, is a daily harangue of pigs, cornfields, pigs, fast food joints, pigs, Dollar Stores, motorcycles, pigs, and good old-fashioned Amerikan redneckery. The decidedly estranged yet complacent occupants of this proverbial smalltown go about their business like geriatrics in a casino … until their business is interrupted by a sinister gang of outsiders. Angry, slick-talking, and ultraviolent to the core, Samson Thataway and the Fuming Garcias commit art-for-art’s-sake in the form of hideous, unmotivated serial killings. When an unsuspecting everyman’s wife is murdered by the throng, it is up to Felix Soandso to avenge her death and return Dreamfield to its natural state of absurdity.

“A bludgeoning celluloid rush of language and ideas served from an action-painter’s bucket of fluorescent spatter, D. Harlan Wilson’sPeckinpah is an incendiary gem and very probably the most extraordinary new novel you will read this year.” ALAN MOORE, author of Watchmen, V for Vendetta and From Hell

Hollywood as we are all aware, has strong liberal sentiments. We watch the armies of Prius scurrying round the globe; vocally promoting the most progressive of causes. An endangered lab rat in Dubai, a boycott of a well known chocolate vendor or political conflict in a far far away land. But when it comes to progression within their own industry, Hollywood is the perfect example of cultural conservatism. Any person who has scouted the papers or dubya’s over the past year would be hard pressed not feel a strange sense of deja-vu. Film and Television it seems, has become obsessed with the past, redressing themes from the old to the damn near pre-pubescent.

Now you can forgive me if some of what I say appears just as unoriginal as the summer Blockbuster offerings. But the trend of remakes, re-drafts and reboots is becoming more and more frequent. The list of upcoming recycled properties is pretty staggering, especially when you look at the great filmmakers behind the texts. Filmmakers who have proven they have the artistic ambition to do something more original – have begun embracing nostalgic, more familiar material.

Step forward Steven Spielberg, the most successful filmmaker of all time announced that he will be ‘reimagining’ Harvey, the 1950 comedy starring Jimmy Stewart. Next we have Robert Zemeckis, another filmmaker with near-perfect credentials. He will be breathing new life into the iconic Yellow Submarine animation. Looking further, we have Bryan Singer’s upcoming remakes of Excalibur and Battlestar Galactica; while rocker turned auteur, Mr. Rob Zombie; still bloodied from the second Halloween set, is trying his hands at the tongue-in-cheek horror The Blob, the films third offering to an ever forgetful public.

Shoot ‘Em Up director Michael Davis is trying on Outland for size. Screen Gems is moving ahead with a new take on Peckinpah’s classic Straw Dogs. Believe me when I say, I wish I was finished – damn you hyperlink! Studio wise, were getting a Columbia Pictures remake of the 1990 sci-fi film Total Recall. Hancock director Peter Berg will have a look at Lynch’s Dune, Brett Eisner will reinvent Flash Gordon and Danny ‘Bhangra’ Boyle’s DNA Films is planning a new Judge Dredd movie. Terminator Salvation director McG will plummet 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, while Twilight filmmakers Summit Entertainment are having a ganders at the Highlander franchise.

There are countless remakes already on the studio release slates. MGM has a new version of Fame sitting atop mount box-office; with a remake of Red Dawn in the works. Sony, which gave us a remake of The Taking of Pelham 123 this summer, has a vehicle for Will Smith Jr in Karate Kid; coupled with our chubby cherub Seth Rogen as the Green Hornet next summer. Mr Murdoch will also be throwing a few flicks in the mix. New versions of Gulliver’s Travels, The A-Team, and yet another Predator offering. Universal has updates of both The Wolfman and Robin Hood, the latter with Russell ‘fighting round the world’ Crowe taking lead and Ridley Scott behind the camera.

No, still not finished. Paramount will have us tapping our feet to Footloose next year and begging Murphy to call it a day in Beverly Hills Cop. Warner brings up the rear with Sherlock Holmes, Clash of the Titans and A Nightmare on Elm Street.

Sadly, the only thing new and exciting audiences will get from Hollywood over the next few years are creative justifications for what is essentially – money for old rope. In an attempt to distance himself from the original Blob, Rob Zombie insisted, ‘My intention is not to have a big red blobby thing – that’s the first thing I want to change,”. Thank you Rob, very nicely put. The only thing I would question is why you would want to call it The Blob then. Just a thought.

So, why are there all these bloody remakes? Apathy? maybe. Economic woes? quite possibly. Is it familiarity? That detective, is the right question.

The figures speak for themselves sadly. Since January 2007, the ten highest grossing films at the box office have all been sequels, reimaginings of established franchises or action movies based on comic book characters. The marketers would suggest that we live in an environment so full of Jeremy Kyle and clutter that having a picture with a little spice of nostalgia is a crucial selling point. If you can sell a film around some form of familiarity, something the audience can latch onto, then you might just hit the jackpot.

We live in a world where the whole concept of originality is being reinvented. Artists are simply hitting the replay button, spending more time re-imagining, rather than rethinking, redefining and re-re-re-re…

If you would like to read this again please press PLAY.

Dré

Cavalli rotolano su loro stessi, ponti fatti saltare con la dinamite, cow-boy cadono dai cornicioni; poi, nella convulsione dell’azione subentra la calma, la tensione si scioglie.
I quindici minuti finali de Il Mucchio Selvaggio sono tutti così.
Pike e soci sanno da che parte sta il bene e da che parte è il male, ma si illudono che la loro posizione di fuorilegge li preservi dall’eterno conflitto. Loro devono pensare a concludere affari. Ma la mattina dopo la festa hanno le bocche marce d’alcool, la prostituta che hanno accanto ha un bambino appena nato che dorme nell’altra stanza, i vestiti puzzano e tutto quello che hanno guadagnato sono delle piastre di metallo nemmeno troppo simili a monete e allora si lasciano massacrare come cani, e questo sembra l’unica cosa che li appaghi realmente.
E ne Lo spacciatore di Schrader, LeTour, il protagonista, uccide l’assassino della sua fidanzata e i due scagnozzi in una camera d’albergo e poi, ferito a un fianco, assume la stessa posizione dei due Buddha appesi alla parete della suite.
Tutto in ralenti.
E in carcere LeTour dice: “Non ci crederai, ma è quello che è successo che mi ha dato la serenità”.

Massimo Volume, Peckinpah in ralenti

Director/Writer: Sam Peckinpah/Walon Green, Sam Peckinpah
Director of Photography: Lucien Ballard
IMDB: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0065214/
Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wild_Bunch
Video/Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aIwH96iZI7E

Summary (from IMDB): Outlaws on the Mexican-U.S. frontier face the march of progress, the Mexican army and a gang of bounty hunters led by a former member while they plan a robbery of a U.S. army train. No one is innocent in this gritty tale of of desperation against changing times. Pump shotguns, machine guns and automobiles mix with horses and winchesters in this ultraviolent western. Written by Keith Loh.

A few months before World War I, an aging band of outlaws led by Pike Bishop rob a Texas bank intent on using the money to retire. When the robbery goes wrong, the gang is forced to flee to Mexico with Bishop’s reformed ex-partner, Deke Thornton, in hot pursuit. With nothing to show for the failed robbery, Bishop’s gang agrees to steal a shipment of guns for General “Mapache” Juerta, to restore their fortunes. With Thornton closing in, and their association with the evil Juerta trying their conscience, Bishop and co. prepare for their lawless past to catch up with them. Written by Ronos.

After a botched robbery attempt in Texas, Pike Bishop and his gang head south across the Rio Grande and into Mexico. They are being pursued by Deke Thornton and his men, made up of bounty hunters. They had been hired by the railroad to stop Bishop and his gang from robbing the rail depot and now have 30 days to track them down and kill them. Bishop and his men plan to spend only a short time in Mexico and then cross back into Texas to continue plying their trade. Their stay is lengthened however when they meet a violent Mexican general who wants them to rob a U.S. train carrying arms. They do so, but it leads to a violent and bloody final confrontation. Written by garykmcd.

My Take: My summer roommate got sucked into this one just as I did. We spent the opening sequence making fun of the melodrama, but quickly changed our tune and both ended up enjoying it. ’Twas violent for its time – lots of shootin’ up cowboys and fake bodies bein’ run over by cotton-pickin’ wagons.

More importantly, though, “The Wild Bunch” should win some sort of award for best teeth. These guys had some serious oral issues but that makes sense since the local barber was also the local dentist.

Trivia: My summer roommate also made a bet that the guy who played Lt. Herrera (Alfonso Arau) was in Three Amigos as El Guapo. She won that bet so now I have to take her out to a nice Mexican dinner.

Director: Sam Peckinpah

Genre: Western

Summary: Former outlaw Pat Garrett is sworn in as sheriff and decides to start his career by taking down the notorious gunslinger Billy the Kid, formerly one of his close friends. What follows is a harrowing journey for both Kid and Pat, and the question on everyone’s mind is: who deserves to die?

Impressions: I was worried at first because the film was said to be 237 minutes. In fact it’s just under 2 hours. This is a somewhat epic journey for both men, kind of like a western Lord of the Rings. However, I watched the director’s cut. Peckinpah was supposedly so dissatisfied with the film that he recut it to an astounding degree. So much so that the original cast and crew disowned it. Peckinpah was plagued by alcoholism during the filming. Also, the studio made unreasonable demands that kept him from releasing the product he hoped for.

Seeing it now, knowing all of this, I feel like a lot of the film was largely unnecessary, and didn’t add to the feelings I believe I was supposed to have. There is a question of who is evil in the film. Pat represents the law but does some very bad things in pursuit of Kid. His former outlaw nature makes this understandable. Kid is supposed to be against the law but does more good for innocents than Pat, who has his eye on one thing. In the end you sympathize with Kid but feel guilty because he’s a ‘criminal.’

Due to Bob Dylan’s famous but mellow soundtrack, there is never much urgency in the film and it feels more like the slow intersection of two men destroying their old lives until one of them must destroy the other completely. It’s really touching, just not a typical western.

4 out of 5 (extra point for effort)

Sin duda, son muchas las películas que a lo largo de los años han destacado por su crítica antibelicista, en este caso de la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Otras, por el contrario, cumplen con la patriótica misión de dejar en buen lugar a esos soldados que se jugaron la piel por defender la bandera de su país. Películas focalizadas en un bando, el aliado, que parecen servir de redención al resto de compatriotas.

Sin entrar en la categorización de los distintos filmes bélicos, hay algunos que sirviéndose de los bunker y las trincheras ejercen un efecto inmediato de repulsa en el espectador, despiertan un rechazo visceral hacia una guerra en la que no hay vencedores ni vencidos porque todos pierden, algunos su propia vida, otros las ganas de seguir luchando.

Sam Peckinpah, en su brillante La cruz de Hierro, logra asombrar con el denominado lirismo violento a los espectadores que no esperan de ella sino otra película bélica más. Y no es, no, en ningún caso otra de tantas obras que se sirven del escenario de la Segunda Guerra Mundial para desplegar todo su armamento visual.  A lo largo de sus poco más de dos horas, esta película genera un efecto hipnótico, no tanto por la originalidad de su guión o la caracterización de los personajes, como por la fuerza de sus diálogos y la crudeza con la que se refleja el conflicto.

Con un guión basado en la novela de Willi Heinrich Das Geduldige Fleish traducido en español como La carne dispuesta, Peckinpah sitúa la acción en el frente oriental, concretamente en la Península de Taman, donde un contingente de soldados alemanes aguantará los ataques de los t-34 soviéticos, considerados los mejores tanques durante los años del conflicto. La trama se centra fundamentalmente en los personajes del capitán Stransky, un aristócrata prusiano desesperado por conseguir la Cruz de Hierro para no decepcionar a su familia y el cabo Steiner, cuyo odio a la guerra es parejo a la necesidad que tiene de ella.

Desde los inicios del cine, la violencia ha estado presente a través de distintas manifestaciones. Sin embargo, será en las últimas décadas del siglo XX cuando se haga explícita de un modo casi obsceno. Esta sobreexposición del acto violento encuentra su referente en el cine de Sam Peckinpah, ácido en sus críticas, quien no duda en mostrarnos el dolor de la guerra a cámara lenta.

No se conforma con una violencia almibarada, no sirven las medias tintas para un proyecto de tal envergadura. Se regodea en las escenas más duras y es precisamente en ellas en las que hace hincapié y de las que se sirve para generar un sentimiento de reprobación en el espectador. El acto violento no comienza, está inscrito en el filme desde el principio y es la clave que configura todo su universo. Según Mongin “No caemos en la violencia, uno se encuentra allí de entrada, no hay caída ni proyección”. La crueldad de la guerra se muestra sin ningún pudor, no se trata de una violencia condescendiente sino de la masacre vista en primer plano.

Los muertos no desaparecen de cuadro, como solían hacerlo en las películas clásicas, sino todo lo contrario. Se incide en las escenas más duras, como la muerte del joven prisionero ruso, a través de elementos como la cámara lenta o el fuerte color de la sangre. Se ha perdido el miedo a mostrar de forma tácita la violencia y las consecuencias resultantes de ella. No obstante, llega a un punto de excentricidad tal, que se muestra demasiado. El querer sobrepasar los límites a través de la violencia, remarca el carácter de “exceso” expuesto por Calabrese.

Arrasa, rompe esquemas, destruye conceptos para poder seguir su propio camino. No hay salida posible porque ya no existe un contorno delimitado, las reglas clásicas de representación se diluyen para configurar una nueva estética.

No es una violencia cotidiana, ni familiar, es una violencia que nos resulta ajena pero que atrae irremediablemente. Es el placer voyeurista del que mira algo que sabe que no debería ver. Con ello se mete en el mundo de lo prohibido, forma parte de un círculo de violencia que parece no tener fin, lo que Mongin denomina “violencia perturbada y a la vez perturbadora”. A pesar de que el sargento Steiner consigue la baja por sus heridas en el combate, no puede regresar al mundo civil, su vida es la guerra y aunque la odia no puede estar sin ella.

Henri Giroux estableció una tipología de la violencia, desde los inicios del cine hasta nuestros días. La violencia de La Cruz de Hierro se ubica dentro del concepto de violencia simbólica. Según palabras del propio Giroux “lo que pretende es conectar lo visceral con lo reflexivo, une la movilización de la emoción y las obsesivas imágenes de lo insoportable  con un intento de dotar de significado y de importancia a nuestros espasmos mortales”. Se trata de una violencia exacerbada, con una sobreestimulación de tal calibre que genera tensión continua en el espectador.

No obstante, el lirismo violento de sus imágenes ejerce un enorme poder crítico. Un manifiesto antibelicismo impregna este film desde el momento de su comienzo. Una diatriba que conjuga ironía, crudeza y mordacidad. Al son de una canción infantil Hänschen klein que sirve también de cierre, se inicia una película en la que los protagonistas no son los soldados del bando aliado, sino los alemanes, los grandes verdugos del imaginario popular.

“No os regocijéis en su derrota. Por más que el mundo se mantuvo en pie y paró al bastardo, la perra de la que nació está en celo otra vez”, es la cita del dramaturgo alemán Bertold Brecht con la que se cierra la película. Una sentencia rotunda que conecta con unos diálogos ácidos que ponen en tela de juicio los valores de los militares. Cuando a uno de los soldados le preguntan que piensa del capitán Stransky, su superior,  responde sin titubeos que “se ha creído que está una misión especial consistente en conseguir el dominio espiritual de su batallón, simbolizando la pureza y las virtudes del gran ejército alemán, incluso cuando estemos vencidos. Si eso es lo que nos queda, que Dios nos ayude”.  Con todo ello, La Cruz de Hierro es un alegato al antibelicismo, una de las críticas más duras que se han hecho de la Segunda Guerra Mundial.

Time on my hands again, and I’m watching more films I’ve had on my list.  The Comfort of Strangers, with a screenplay by Pinter, is one. Is this title a reference to “The Glass Menagerie,” the kindness of strangers..?  And why is Venice so popular a setting for ominous, creepy stories?  I’m thinking of Mann’s Death in Venice, Roeg’s film, Don’t Look Now, as well as this one.  I’m sure there are others.  Is it a northern European thing?  The seedy useless relic of a defunct empire as symbol of the hollowness and decay of all that is orderly and civilized?  I don’t buy it.

Comfort was, I think, a ridiculous film, saved only by the scenery and the sheer over-the-top quality of Christopher Walken’s performance.  It relies on the old standby of modern entertainment that lacks character motivation, the psychopath.  Any soap opera or TV movie can be made dramatic as long as there’s a killer maniac on the loose, especially if he’s charming.  We don’t deal with Satan anymore, so we have to make do with people twisted by their sadistic upbringing in our dramas.

This film reminds me of Straw Dogs by Peckinpah, another story of male softness and civilized courtesy overwhelmed by the brutal “reality” of life beneath the veneer of culture.  It’s a pretty tired idea, and I wonder why it appeals to writers.  My guess is that it says more about the insecurities of the artist than about the cultural standards it seeks to upset and question.  Showing a wily and unstoppable murderer preying upon innocent tourists brings a frisson, but I found Colin’s character totally unbelievable.  I would expect that any man who appears as he did in the film would not have let Robert punch him in the stomach, and then go to dinner with him.  Are we supposed to believe that he was such a wimp that he wouldn’t even demand of his girfriend that they leave immediately?  I don’t think so…

Hora de pôr o pé na estrada, sentir o vento no rosto e curtir um dos sub-gêneros mais gostosos do cinema.

Top! do Leitor:

Ronald Perrone

01. Paris, Texas (Wim Wenders, 1984)
02. Two Lane Blacktop (Monte Hellman, 1971)
03. Easy Ryder (Dennis Hopper, 1969)
04. Morangos Silvestres (Ingmar Bergman, 1957)
05. Tragam-me a Cabeça de Alfredo Garcia (Sam Peckinpah, 1974)
06. Um Mundo Perfeito (Clint Eastwood, 1993)
07. Historia Real (David Lynch, 1999)
08. A Estrada (Federico Fellini, 1954)
09. Profissão: Reporter (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1975)
10. Vanishing Point (Richard C. Sarafian, 1971)

Tops! da Equipe:

Daniel Dalpizzolo

Cuidei para não repetir muitos filmes com temas semelhantes aos já trabalhados, então cortei westerns, filmes de fuga e alguns outros estilos da parada, procurando ser o mais cru possível e etc. Alguns dos meus filmes preferidos estão aí nas primeiras posições – é possivelmente o estilo cinematográfico que mais fecha comigo – e não é por nada que todos os escolhidos são dos anos 60 e 70 – o que juro, não foi uma escolha consciente.

01. O Demônio das Onze Horas (Jean-Luc Godard, 1965)
02. Um Caminho Para Dois (Stanley Donen, 1967)
03. Corrida Sem Fim (Monte Hellman, 1971)
04. Profissão: Repórter (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1975)
05. Weekend à Francesa (Jean-Luc Godard, 1967)
06. O Imperador do Pólo Norte (Robert Aldrich, 1973)
07. Cada Um Vive Como Quer (Bob Rafelson, 1970)
08. Tragam-me a Cabeça de Alfredo Garcia (Sam Peckinpah, 1974)
09. Corrida Contra o Destino (Richard C. Sarafian, 1971)
10. Alice Não Mora Mais Aqui (Martin Scorsese, 1974)

Cassius Abreu

01. Ensina-Me a Viver (Hal Ashby, 1971)
02. Paris, Texas (Wim Wenders, 1984)
03. Perdidos na Noite (John Schlesinger, 1969)
04. Diários de Motocicleta (Walter Salles, 2004)
05. Butch Cassidy (George Roy Hill, 1969)
06. Fim Dos Tempos (M. Night Shyamalan, 2008)
07. Sem Destino (Dennis Hopper, 1968)
08. Encurralado (Steven Spielberg, 1971)
09. Quase Famosos (Cameron Crowe, 2000)
10. E Aí, Meu Irmão, Cadê Você? (Irmãos Coen, 2000)

Rodrigo Jordão

Não vi tantos assim, os mais óbvios como “Easy Rider”, e o próprio “Road Movie”, de 1974, dirigido por Joseph Strick, por exemplo. Mesmo assim arrisquei montar um top. O primeiro da minha lista é um road movie a pé.

01. Conta Comigo (Rob Reiner, 1986)
02. Thelma & Louise (Ridley Scott, 1991)
03. Encurralado (Steven Spielberg, 1971)
04. Quase Famosos (Cameron Crowe, 2000)
05. A Morte Pede Carona (Robert Harmon, 1986)
06. Fim Dos Tempos (M. Night Shyamalan, 2008)
07. Colateral (Michael Mann, 2004)
08. Perseguição (John Dahl, 2001)
09. Assassinos Por Natureza (Oliver Stone, 1994)
10. Priscila, a Rainha do Deserto (Stephan Elliott, 1994)

Pedro Kerr

01. Tragam-me a Cabeça de Alfredo Garcia (Sam Peckinpah, 1974)
02. O Demônio das Onze Horas (Jean-Luc Godard, 1965)
03. Corrida Sem Fim (Monte Hellman, 1971)
04. Profissão: Repórter (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1975)
05. Paris, Texas (Wim Wenders, 1984)
06. Coração Selvagem (David Lynch, 1990)
07. Guerra dos Mundos (Steven Spielberg, 2005)
08. Borat! (Larry Charles, 2006)
09. Bonnie & Clyde (Arthur Penn, 1967)
10. O Céu de Suely (Karim Aïnouz, 2006)

The Getaway

Pure fun this scene, a great moment of tension that recalls much of the dead straight talking of No Country for Old Men. The scenes of buying a gun in that movie certainly seem to pay homage to McQueen’s doc in this masterpiece from Peckinpah, easily one of my favourite directors (if I could just pick a single scene from Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia then it’d be up here in a second…

The scene itself is as simple as could be, Doc (Steve McQueen) and Carol (Ali McGraw) are on the run following their betrayal after a bank robbery. As the tension between them mounts they turn into a small town to pick up a radio. Doc see’s his face on the TV and then the fun really begins.
There’s something special here in the details. Doc turning off one TV then seeing his face on many more, realising how foolish he’s been to come into town. The police car being destroyed by shotgun fire, splitting into pieces as it’s really hit by the shot. His calm ordering of the shotgun in the gun shot. Finally there’s the wonderful fall at the end of the clip, as Doc is taken by surprise and crashes to the floor.

It really feels like the tension between McGraw and McQueen plays out here with Doc and Carol, and unlike many films that try to introduce ‘real’ moments here we see a man falling over who looks pissed off about it for real. I’ve never bothered to check but I like to think that this was a real moment luckily captured on film.

All in all, it’s a great moment in a film I’d highly recommend. Doc and Carol make a wonderful couple throughout the film – perhaps it’s only problem is the easy and abusive sexism of Al Lettieri as Rudy Butler. There’s something horribly casual about his cuckolding of a Vet’s wife and her easy acceptance of a violent man’s interest. It could have been played with a lot less sexism – but then again Peckinpah isn’t exactly well known for his understanding viewpoints.

Regardless of this though (the issues certainly don’t feature in this scene) it’s a movie well worth tracking down. Enjoy the clip.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=vVxGesu8EGU

Comment s’évader du pénitencier d’Angola, Louisiane, dans les années 1920 :

Si l’on s’en sentait capable, on pouvait quitter la route et prendre un raccourci vers l’ouest en traversant les marais. On avait toutes les chances de se noyer dans les sables mouvants, de se faire piquer par un serpent, bouffer par un alligator, dévorer par les moustiques à en devenir fou, de s’empoisonner avec de l’eau croupie, de se casser une jambe ou de mourir de faim en s’égarant à tel point que même le Diable ne serait pas venu vous chercher. On pouvait aussi tomber sur une racaille des marais qui vous abattrait à vue pour toucher la prime que l’Etat payait pour tout bagnard fugitif, mort ou vif. On n’avait plus jamais entendu parler de tous ceux qui s’étaient enfuis par là. Mais rien ne vous empêchait de créer un précédent.

James Carlos Blake écrit Un monde de voleurs. Les voleurs ne sont pas les pires, nous dit Sonny LaSalle, le narrateur. Ce jeune homme plein de talent monte une PME familiale avec ses oncles. La Louisiane des Roaring Twenties est un terreau fertile pour la libre entreprise. Activité principale : jeu clandestin et pillage de banques. Un métier dangereux, comme Sonny en fait rapidement l’expérience. Jouant de malchance, il tue un flic lors d’une simple bagarre de cellule. Il y gagne une lourde peine de travaux forcés, sans compter la haine de John McCabe dit John Macabre, le père de la victime. C’est un psychopathe franc et massif. Flic lui aussi, bien sûr ; quand Sonny s’évadera du pénitencier, il se lancera à sa poursuite jusqu’au fin fond du Texas pétrolier, où Sonny a rejoint ses oncles.

Nous suivons en parallèle les activités trépidantes de Sonny et ses oncles, et l’enquête de John Macabre. Jusqu’à une fin qui sera… noire comme l’or.

Une belle prose lisse et rythmée, qui atténue (je n’ai pas dit : humanise) la violence élémentaire que Blake met en scène. Pour Sonny, on a le crime dans le sang ou on ne l’a pas, et l’on n’y peut absolument rien. Cette idée le mènera loin – mais pas plus loin que le fond du Texas.

On pense bien sûr à Peckinpah, à Cormac McCarthy. Dans un monde où seule la corruption peut protéger de la violence, le désespoir de Blake est comme l’air que l’on respire.

–Du même auteur : Dans la peau. Un jeune homme, fils de l’exécuteur de Pancho Villa, devient le bras droit des frères Maceo, qui administrent la libre ville de Galveston. Il devra délivrer sa princesse, une Mexicaine enlevée par un latifundiaire particulièrement ignoble. Un comte de fée pour adultes, où les Parrains ont remplacé la marraine.

Chez Rivages Noir.

Hennessy Paradis – Mandarin Oriental Tokyo

Je suis un sale bourge. Un “salle bourge de merde”. C’était le commentaire d’un fan transi sur un billet antérieur, et la dernière réflexion lucide d’un ami alcoolique, en pleine crise de la quarantaine.

A l’heure où le pouvoir d’achat obnubile la majorité du pays, dessinant les contours d’un vote de rejet, moi, je parade, je picole, je m’empiffre, je claque. Ostensiblement.

Une soirée au Balzar, temple des traditions

La réussite ? Oui, mais laquelle ?

Compte tenu de mon background et origine de départ, j’imagine que le terme de réussite n’est pas galvaudé. Je ne suis pas mécontent de mon sort. J’ai eu la bénédiction de Mohammed Al-Fayed, et quelques attributs contingents. Je chausse chez Ferragamo, Dior ou Crockett & Jones quand ma femme porte des Blahnik et hésite entre Prada et Hussein Chalayan. Je suis du genre à aller à la piscine dans un caleçon Speedo CdG et elle porte, on s’en rappelle, un sweet Casper de notre ami Bernard Wilhelm. On me donne du “monsieur”, du “comment allez-vous”, du “au plaisir de vous revoir”. On me flatte. Le ventre me pousse. Le confort fait loi. Je suis un sale bourge. Plein de fatuité, de corruption, d’habitudes. De celles que j’entretiens Rue de la paix, où plus loin, place Vendôme. Loin du tumulte, loin des réalités contraignantes. Bourge et fréquentable. Rien qui n’irait trahir mes pratiques douteuses, et mes très mauvaises fréquentations. Cloisonner et diviser pour mieux régner. Tout le monde triche, tout le monde transgresse, alors pourquoi pas moi ?

Dior, Mocassins A/W 2007

Et pourtant. Au plus profond de moi, j’ai comme un doute sur cette gabegie consommatrice, cette vie à l’Amex. Comme un doute sur moi-même. Un doute insondable. Vide. C’est idiot, mais je crois que je suis blasé. Blasé de mes expériences, blasé de mes habitudes, blasé de ce masque, blasé de ces conneries.

The wild bunch

Mon film culte n’est autre que “La horde sauvage” de Sam Peckinpah. Et l’image que j’en garde, ce sont ces 4 hommes, en marche, sur un fond de musique militaire et de chants d’hommes ivres. Ils n’ont échangé qu’un sourire, une passade et le rire sarcastique d’Ernest Borgnine s’étrangle rapidement. Ils partent récupérer leur compagnon, résolus, They want Angel. Tout le monde a compris, Pike et ses “gringos” sont déterminés, le vent est aride. Ils savent qu’ils n’ont plus rien à espérer, plus rien à vivre, qu’ils vont probablement mourir, mais après d’innombrables fuites, ils veulent rester dignes. C’est probablement le plus beau suicide, avec les plus beaux salauds, pour un final nihiliste plein de violence et de fureur. Pour de la dignité.

Sanji m’a dit qu’en plaquant tout comme ça, je ne retrouverai probablement pas du jour au lendemain une situation enviable au Japon. Loin, très loin de ce que je vis en France. C’est vrai. Je cumule les handicaps. Je ne parle pas la langue, mon expérience vaut queue de chie, mes diplômes sont inaptes. Mais qui m’expliquera ce désir, qui m’expliquera ce feu qui me dévore, cette envie qui me taraude. Personne ne peut répondre pour moi. Et personne ne peut répondre de moi. Partir, est-ce forcément recommencer ?

Mon Mexique à moi, se situe dans le pacifique, sur cette île qui tremble, qui voudrait se voir uniforme, derrière des notions comme 建前 (Tatemae) et 本音 (honne), comme un paravent d’esprit à deux faces. Une île au soleil moite et humide en été. Une île où je vais devoir jouer les immigrés.

De toutes façons, les caissières de Carrefour n’ont jamais aimé qu’on paye avec des billets de 500. Ça les emmerde royalement.

__________

Rocé – Ma saleté d’espérance

Merci à Dareka pour avoir soufflé malgré lui l’idée du post.