The posting of these links was delayed while Ben Nelson decided whether or not he could support them as written:

• There is an update on the search for Federico Garcia Lorca.  Excavators found nothing at the site where he was allegedly buried.  Apparently, initial reports of the discovery of human remains were greatly exaggerated.
• Shortly before Germany surrendered in 1945, American troops captured Berchtesgaden, a town in the Bavarian Alps where many leading Nazis had homes.  Now, a World War II veteran has returned a book of photographs of artwork that he took from Adolf Hitler’s home near Berchtesgaden.
• Kim Morgan professes her love for Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia and its protagonist, Bennie.
• This story brings two interesting bits of news.  First, Al Pacino, Barry Levinson, and Buck Henry have teamed up to produce a film version of Philip Roth’s most recent novel, The Humbling.  Second, Buck Henry is still alive.  That guy looked old when he was on SNL in the ’70s.  I figured he was long dead.
• $10.5 million? This is an outrage!  If I were you, I wouldn’t pay it.
• And, if you have a spare 50 minutes, listen to this 1956 lecture by Carl Sandburg.

Sam Peckinpah

He was born on 21 February 1925, Fresno, California, USA. His early film career as a writer and director of TV western. He directed his first film in 1961. His first two films was somewhat successful. However, he had a difficulty getting along with the Hollywood movie studios for many years and had a hard time finding work. In 1969, he released his film The Wild Bunch. It was full with violence scenes and blood. His followed film Straw Dogs (1971) was also full with violence. These films gave him reputation as a self-destructive maverick.

His interesting films

The Wild Bunch (1969)

Straw Dogs (1971)

The Getaway (1973)

Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (1973)

Cross of Iron (1977)

The Lowell Film Collaborative headquarters recently upgraded our home theater system (unfortunately, we will still be schlepping the same old portable system for our local screenings – call us selfish!), and the results have been simultaneously euphoric, awe-inspiring, and time-consuming, destined to inhibit productivity around the house for months. At the crux of this “dilemma” is a Samsung Blu-Ray player with the inherent ability to stream Instant Play selections from our Netflix account directly through our television – oftentimes in HD!!!

It’s like a dream come true, and we have already made the most of it. Our latest discovery is Z Channel: A Magnificent Obsession, a 2004 documentary tracing the roots of the infamous cable station that dominated the households of film buffs in Los Angeles from 1974 to 1989.  Before movie-centric cable stations like HBO and Cinemax, Z Channel brought the miracle of uncut, commercial-free cinema to the homes of a select group of lucky LA subscribers.

At the center of it all was Jerry Harvey, a manic depressive film addict who seemed incapable of having any discussions outside of those involving film. When I say the man eat, drank, and slept film, it’s an understatement. Thanks to Harvey, Z Channel delivered more than just the blockbusters of the day. He was willing to show anything from art house films to foreign films to experimental films, and the “voice of the customer” was simply not a factor in his equation. In Harvey’s mind, catering to the least common denominator didn’t make sense. By catering to the opposite – the elite film snob – everyone else was sure to eventually catch up. And they did. When HBO and Showtime moved in to take over market share in L.A., they found a firm wall of fierce Z Channel faithfuls that were unwilling to give up their subscription to the station.

Z Channel the film is fun to watch if for no other reason than to discover forgotten films of the channel’s era. If you love film, rent this documentary. It will help you rediscover why you love the art form so much.

Some of the funniest (and explicitly gory) scenes from the film Black Sheep, a quirky 2006 production from New Zealand that was on TV last night.

Maybe you have to have grown up around menacing herds of sheep to appreciate the humour…

Working with star-actresses is demanding in terms of time and attention, and, yes, coddling, sometimes. People like Streisand and Goldie Hawn require reassurance, and they need to know their imput is valuable and possible. That’s why I don’t think male chauvinists can successfully direct strong females, as Don Siegel found out with Bette Midler in Jinxed! - Howard Zieff

É apenas coincidência, mas aparentemente estou numa fase “grandes diretores parceirinhos às voltas com estrelas de grande ego”, o mote da vez é Don Siegel encontra Sam Peckinpah. Tudo começou por conta de uns problemas cardíacos sofridos por Siegel durante as filmagens de Jinxed! e, apesar de uma comédia de humor negro ter pouco a ver com as escolhas profissionais de Peckinpah, estava lá Bloody Sam para dar uma mão ao amigo e mentor, assumindo teoricamente como diretor de segunda unidade, mas indo um pouco além de tal responsabilidade. Na verdade a parceria dos dois começou lá nos anos 50, quando Peckinpah começou a aprender tudo que deveria com Siegel, mas dividindo a direção, esta é a primeira, última e única vez, se bem me lembro eles não se juntavam profissionalmente desde quando o Peckinpah resolveu ser ator em Vampiros de Almas.
A trama começa basicamente como algo saído de um filme noir: loira fatal, cantora em Las Vegas, é maltratada por marido jogador e abusivo (Rip Torn), mas em dado momento conhece um dos desafetos do marido, o crupiê vivido por Ken Wahl (O Homem da Máfia! céus, que homem lindo) a quem Rip Torn está tentando destruir por meio de “má-sorte” (jinx), uma espécie de “maldição” que certos crupiês sofrem quando de alguma forma não conseguem ganhar do jogador oponente no blackjack, ou seja, o tal do jinx é uma dominação dos diabos que certos jogadores tem o poder de exercer, mais ou menos o mesmo que meu Parmera sofreu no final desse brasileirão.
O tal crupiê gostosão e a maltratada cantora acabam se conhecendo e todo mundo já sabe onde isso vai parar… mas ao contrário do tom mais sério do início do filme, a segunda parte se transforma completamente numa comédia, com direito a cameo do próprio Siegel como o dono de uma livraria pornográfica e porteiro de um peep show. É aí que está o problema, o tom de comédia não foi adequadamente colocado, a coisa parece não pegar no tranco, especialmente porque Ken Wahl e Bette Midler como um casal é de uma implausibilidade extrema, a falta de química é tão evidente que nem é necessário saber que Wahl chegou a dizer que preferia beijar um cachorro do que os lábios de Miss Midler, talvez alguém como a Dolly Parton fosse mais plausível como cantora com ares de loira de cinema noir (e com isso quero dizer apelo sexual!) e pouco tempo antes ela já provara que tinha dom certeiro para comédia com o Nine to Five, se Parton estivesse no lugar de Midler poderia haver mais afinidade entre a equipe e talvez o filme se desenrolasse melhor.
Tudo deu errado não só por conta do resultado capenga que vemos na tela, mas também no set de filmagens, provando que com esse lance de gato preto e má sorte é melhor não arriscar: os protagonistas se odiavam e o diretor sofreu um ataque cardíaco. É impossível imaginar Bette Midler num mesmo set de filmagens que o Sam Peckinpah, é o mesmo que tentar conceber a Barbra Streisand num filme do Russ Meyer, mas num filme do Siegel a coisa não parecia tão despropositada, muito embora o desafeto aconteceu mesmo quanto ao relacionamento de Midler com Siegel, com a diva chegando a tornar público que o diretor era tão hostil quanto Wahl. Anos depois Siegel rebateu dizendo que a experiência de trabalhar com Midler foi “extremamente desagradável”, o que prontamente acredito, afinal, o homem teve problemas cardíacos e se aposentou em definitivo do cinema, marcando o amaldiçoado Jinxed! como seu testamento final, mesmo que o lendário cineasta ainda levasse uma década para perecer.
No mais, sempre há coisas a serem aproveitadas, como a exuberância de Ken Wahl, as intervenções musicais de Bette Midler e o nosso rouba-show favorito que atende pelo nome de Rip Torn, um peculiar espancador de gatinhos e mulheres. A participação de Jack Elam também seria grande se não fosse a presença histérica de Miss Midler, mas como mulheres histéricas era um vício horroroso de boa parte do cinema dos anos 80, acho que pelo menos este lapso há de ser perdoado, especialmente se por outro lado Midler pôde proporcionar o que seria o ponto alto do filme, no melhor estilo “Um Morto Muito Louco” com a devida ajuda do insuperável Rip Torn.
O que realmente aprendemos com Jinxed? Jamais maltrate o gato de seu cônjuge, você pode acabar com veneno no seu whisky e, mais importante, essa mesma regra vale também para cineastas e suas divas num set de filmagens.

It’s always fun and enlightening to viddy a cult curio that has established a crazed reputation over the years such as Sam Peckinpah’s BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA, his most bugfuck personal masterpiece. After the success of THE WILD BUNCH (1969), STRAW DOGS (1971) and THE GETAWAY (1972), Peckinpah finally gained the 70’s cinema privilege of Final Cut, which he’d been denied on his previous films, all edited against his vision. So Bloody Sam decided to take total advantage of his contract and deliver a filthy, searing treatsie on the nature of greed and obssession, filtered through Peckinpah’s cynical, romantic, misanthropic lens.

The story by Frank Kowalski, Gordon Dawson and Peckinpah is simple and ludicrous: a cruel gangster known only as “El Jefe” (Emilio Fernandez), outraged that his daughter has been made pregnant by her lover, Alfredo Garcia (uncredited), demands his head as proof of his death for one million dollars. A slick criminal organization represented by Robert Webber and Gig Young (surrogates for Team Nixon, whom Peckinpah called “killer apes in suits”) seek out information from Bennie, a lounge loser ex-pat who entertains the customers of a Mexican whorehouse. That our anti-hero is played by the late, great Warren Oates is enough engine to drive the picture to memorable madness.

By this time in his career, Oates was becoming one of the go-to character actors of the era (thanks to Peckinpah) and he had transcended his hick cowboy movie roots as “GTO” in Monte Hellman’s brilliant TWO-LANE BLACKTOP (1971), showing his range as actor and human being. As Austin Pendleton once told me about working with him on THE THIEF WHO CAME TO DINNER (1972), “He couldn’t do anything that wasn’t true.” To that end, Oates honors (sic) his wild director by using him as the character’s template, even wearing Peckinpah’s creme suit and dark sunglasses through the whole of the film. I can’t think of any cinema antecedent to the scene where Bennie pours Tequila over his crab-infested crotch. Although Warren Oates only had a few lead roles, he made each one count (even in DIXIE DYNAMITE) and BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA is one of his finest, bravest performances.

Since Bennie is involved with Alfredo Garcia’s previous lover, Elita, a prostitute played with quiet strength and carnality by Isela Vega, he offers that he can track down Garcia’s body for 10 grand, unaware of the million dollar bounty. Their tangled relationship is the lonely heart of the picture, with Bennie hoping his reward money can take him and Elita far from their dingy dusty existence. Of course, Peckinpah’s misogyny comes into bloom again, and like most of his other heroines, Elia is nearly raped by a sensitive biker played by Kris Kristoferson in a cameo. But it’s a mistake to take this alcoholic Bennie for a weakling; after he warns the bikers, “You two guys are definitely on my shit list,” he dispenses his own brand of Yankee vengeance.

The bloody journey to Garcia’s head continues with diminishing pleasures for the doomed lovers. Bennie becomes fixated on their mission as Isleta finds his obsessive pursuit revolting. And once Bennie comes into contact with Garcia, the movie becomes a surreal tragi-comedy, with Oates developing a twisted, caring relationship with his crimson, fly-specked head-in-a-bag. To reveal more would deprive you of the film’s dark, weird surprises. I particularly like Webber and Young as the quiet, vicious, possibly homosexual hit-men. Though the film is a metaphoric death-trip, there are plenty of action scenes with Peckinpah’s patented kinetic naturalism. And despite his conflicted feelings towards women, he allows them the final triumph of sensitive strength over Man’s brutal chaos, as El Jefe’s reign of barbarism comes to an end under the watchful, approving eyes of his female familia.

As stated, this is Sam Peckinpah’s most crazed film, and of course, the one of which he was most proud. The movie’s atmosphere is so grimy that I actually took a hot bath after it was over. The sweaty cinematography by Alex Phillips (who later shot a myriad of exploitation efforts like THE DEVIL’S RAIN, SORCERESS and SURF II) keeps you in the hothouse ambiance throughout. The final apropos image perfectly sums up Peckinpah’s cinematic state of mind here, this celluloid bullet to his audience and perhaps his own career as he would never again make such a personal work. Like Warren Oates at the violent climax, he’s had enough of the free-market gang-bang and he’s going out in a blaze of dirty glory. BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA is Peckinpah’s crippled swan song to Hollywood and belongs in the pantheon of great bizarro films from the 70’s.

Enzo G. Castellari siempre fue un poco copiota. Cuando Sergio Leone se consagró definitivamente con El bueno, el feo y el malo (Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo, 1966), él no dudo en copiar la fórmula para su primera película, Voy… lo mato y vuelvo (Vado… l’ammazzo e torno, 1967), en la que tres pistoleros persiguen un fabuloso tesoro. Cuando San Peckinpah recurrió a la slow motion para Grupo Salvaje (The Wild Bunch, 1969), también se apuntó a la moda con su propio western crespuscular, Keoma (1976) [Nota: Keoma es una de las películas preferidas de mi socio Pablo. Hace cinco años se la presté en DVD y desde entonces no sé nada de él]. Y cuando Steven Spielberg aterrorizó a bañistas de medio mundo con Tiburón (Jaws, 1975), él se propuso hacerlo mejor con L’ultimo squalo (estrenada en 1981, fue demandada al instante por Universal al considerar que copiaba la  saga de Spielberg. Los tribunales dieron la razón a la productora, que se quedó con los derechos del film y todavía hoy no puede exhibirse en los Estados Unidos. A pesar de ello, José Frade, su distribuidor en España, la estrenó con el título de Tiburón 3). Lo que nunca hubiera podido imaginar Castellari es que una película suya, Aquel maldito tren blindado (Quel maledetto treno blindato, 1978), iba a ser versionada, treinta años después, por otro gran copiota de la historia del cine: Quentin Tarantino.

¡Ojo! Cuando hablamos de copiotas nos referimos cariñosamente a esa inclinación, a veces patológica, que tienen algunos directores con “homenajear” en sus films. Y parece que esa era la intención de Tarantino con Malditos bastardos (Inglorious bastards, 2009), cuyo título es el mismo que el que se dio en Estados Unidos a la película de Castellari. El propio Tarantino ha reconocido que Aquel maldito tren blindado es su película de guerra favorita. Pero como Pablo ya dio un repaso al último film del director de Tennessee, centrémonos en la obra de la que surgió todo.

Aquel maldito tren blindado es la historia del peor grupo de militares americanos visto nunca. Ladrones, desertores, asesinos… todos presos por délitos de guerra en la Francia ocupada, es decir, en todo el meollo de la II Guerra Mundial. Cuando son conducidos a una prisión militar, un avión alemán tirotea el convoy que les escolta y ellos aprovechan para escapar. De pronto, se encuentran entre dos fuegos: delante, los alemanes, y detrás, sus propios compatriotas. Deciden emprender la marcha hasta Suiza, pero un desafortunado incidente les pondrá al frente de una misión suicida, quizás la única oportunidad que tienen para rehabilitarse.

No se preocupen que no es para tanto. A pesar de la gravedad del asunto, Aquel maldito tren blindado no está destinada a encoger los corazones y mostrar la cara más amarga de la guerra. Todo lo contrario. Para Castellari, la guerra es un escenario perfecto para que sus personajes corran, golpeen, disparen y maten sin mayor pretensión que la de conseguir el sonrojo del espectador por estar pasándolo teta con tanta carnicería. Una fórmula mil veces trillada desde Doce en el patíbulo (Dirty Dozen, 1967), pero pasada por la freidora italiana, mucho más frívola y caricaturesca que la hollywoodense, como ya vimos con Cinco para el infierno (5 per l´inferno, 1969).

Sin embargo, Aquel maldito tren blindado resiste a los años porque Castellari era, y es, un buen director, un mago con chistera que sabe que, cuando no hay fondo, hay que sacar a relucir la forma. Y para ello utiliza todos los trucos posibles: acrobacias, explosiones, maquetas, chicas desnudas y la ya citada slow motion. Su estilo visual, ausente cualquier carga dramática, sí es al menos efectista y acorde con el ritmo trepidante que impone en la película. Los efectos especiales son bastante decentes para el presupuesto, la época y las dificultades en las que se vio envuelto el rodaje (una ley prohibió usar armas de fogueo en las películas, por lo que tuvieron que recurrir a armas de madera y realizar planos en los que no se viera el disparo), al igual que los decorados y el vestuario. Por cierto, las múltiples maquetas creadas para esta película son excepcionales, obra de Emilio Ruiz del Río, diez veces nominado a los Goya (ganó tres) recientemente fallecido y responsable de efectos especiales en Espartaco, Patton, Conan el Barbaro, Acción Mutante  o El laberinto del fauno, entre otras. Un lujo, vamos.

Fred Williamson interrogando a un nazi bajo la atenta mirada de Bo Svenson.

Mucha culpa del éxito de la película radica también en sus protagonistas. Como era típico en estas coproducciones, se llamó a actores americanos, para dar caché y luego vender más en Estados Unidos. Los elegidos fueron Bo Svenson (recuperado ahora por Tarantino en Kill Bill v.2 y la propia Inglorius Bastards) y el símbolo de la blackexplosion Fred “the hammer” Williamson. Su química en pantalla es nula, pero parecen realmente pasárselo en grande. Sobre todo Williamson, que protagoniza los momentos más divertidos del film (esa caída de culo en el techo del tren es memorable) junto al entonces famoso Dj Michael Pergolani, que con su melena y su bigotazo interpreta a un gracioso soldado ladrón y falsificador.

Para muchos, Aquel maldito tren blindado, al son de la magnífica banda sonora de Francesco de Masi, es ya un clásico de cine bélico. Otros consideraran esta película más propia de Celuloide Bizarro. Ni una cosa ni la otra: es un gran ejemplo de cine sin pretensiones del que puedes llegar a enamorarte cuando posee personalidad propia. Y sin duda esta película tiene personalidad para dar… y disparar.

Respirando e transpirando cinema noir.

Max Reinhardt was the most tremendous and important person to have ever influenced my career and my work. - Bob Ryan provando que Reinhardt não fora apenas um dos pais do teatro moderno e do cinema alemão, mas dele também.
Sem Reinhardt não existiria Lang, Murnau, Lubitsch e outros desocupados, por consequência não existiria todo expressionismo alemão e cinema noir norte-americano. Sem Reinhardt não haveria o curso de teatro que fundou nos EUA, Ryan não teria encontrado um rumo para sua vida neste mesmo curso e todos perderíamos um ator estupendo imortalizando uma quantidade incalculável de grandes cenas do cinema, boa parte delas fazendo parte daquele mesmo cinema noir supracitado.
Mas Ryan era diferente de outros ícones noir, gente como Bogart, Ladd, Lancaster e Mitchum possuíam um tipo de aura heróica e dignidade que prevalecia mesmo nos mais profundos esgotos, Ryan não, ele ia mesmo fundo na podridão humana, se mesclamava na escória, rastejava nos dejetos e é aí que entra a influência de Reinhardt, ao abster-se da vaidade do astro de cinema para dar vazão à necessidade do ator, numa quase-versão sexy de Peter Lorre. Robert Ryan é pulp cinema em suor, sangue, penumbra, músculos, pistolas, cigarros e câncer no pulmão.

RR tem tanto filme excelente no currículo que dá impinge pensar em fazer um top de sua filmografia.

1- Meu Ódio Será Tua Herança (The Wild Bunch, Sam Peckinpah, 1969)

2- Cinzas que Queimam (On Dangerous Ground, Nicholas Ray/Ida Lupino, 1952)

3- Punhos de Campeão (The Set-Up, Robert Wise, 1949)

4- A Quadrilha Maldita (Day of the Outlaw, André De Toth, 1959)

5- Casa de Bambu (House of Bamboo, Samuel Fuller, 1955)

6- Homens em Fúria (Odds Against Tomorrow, Robert Wise, 1959)

7 -O Preço de um Homem (The Naked Spur, Anthony Mann, 1953)

8- Rancor (Crossfire, Edward Dmytryk, 1947)

9- O Menino dos Cabelos Verdes (The Boy With Green Hair, Joseph Losey, 1948)

10- O Homem que Surgiu de Repente (La Course du Lièvre à Travers les Champs, René Clement, 1972)

11- Ato de Violência (Act of Violence, Fred Zinnemann, 1948)

12- Os Que Sabem Morrer (Men in War, Anthony Mann, 1957)

Nem só de sombras viveu um dos maiores motherfuckers do cinema, mais do que noir, Robert Ryan exalava testosterona. Desde os anos 40 Mr Ryan poderia entrar em qualquer antologia de cinema-de-macho, o homem trabalhou com Peckinpah, Fuller, Aldrich, Walsh, Boetticher, Winner, Frankenheimer, Anthony Mann, John Flynn e Sturges – ele também trabalhou com o resto da galera sem talento do outro lado como Lang, Tourneur, Losey, Ray, Ophuls, Lupino, Renoir, mas isso não tem a mínima importância. O que quero mesmo dizer é que o senhor Ryan tem todo direito de estar naquele seleto hall onde estão inclusos Clint Eastwood e Charles Bronson, com a diferença que Bob Ryan já era motherfucker antes que esse povo tivesse sonhado em ser tal coisa.
Apesar de RR ter sido separado de seu siamês Sterling Hayden logo após o nascimento, dessa galera macho-pra-dedéu o único ator páreo para ele no cinema americano era Lee Marvin – foram dois dos mais intensos, versáteis e talentosos atores evindeciados no pós-guerra – vai ver por isso fizeram quatro filmes juntos e Bloody Sam queria Marvin ao lado dele no Wild Bunch, em vez disso Marvin foi cantar com o Eastwood naquele outro filme… A verdade é que o duo Marvin-Ryan formam uma espécie de objeto transitório de anti-heróis com testosterona acima da média entre a geração Cagney-Bogart para o ciclo Eastwood-Bronson.

Eu sei que meus bíceps são irresistíveis, mas tenha respeito, Bronson!

Top “resto”:

13- Coração Prisioneiro (Caught, Max Ophüls/Robert Aldrich, 1949)
14- Só a Muher Peca (Clash by Night, Fritz Lang, 1952)
15- Os Doze Condenados (The Dirty Dozen, Robert Aldrich, 1967)
16- A Mulher Desejada (The Woman on the Beach, Jean Renoir, 1947)
17- O Mais Longo dos Dias (The Longest Day, Ken Annakin/Andrew Marton/Bernhard Wicki, 1962)
18- A Quadrilha (The Outfit, John Flynn, 1973)
19- Expresso Para Berlim (Berlin Express, Jacques Tourneur, 1948)
20- Billy Budd – O Vingador dos Mares (Peter Ustinov, 1962)
21- Rastros do Inferno (Inferno, Roy Ward Baker, 1953)
22- Conspiração do Silêncio (Bad Day at Black Rock, John Sturges, 1955)
23- The Iceman Cometh (John Frankenheimer, 1973)
24- Rei dos Reis (King of Kings, Nicholas Ray, 1961)
25- Uma Batalha no Inferno (Battle of the Bulge, Ken Annakin, 1965)
26- Os Profissionais (The Professionals, Richard Brooks, 1966)
27- Nas Garras da Ambição (The Tall Men, Raoul Walsh, 1955)
28- O Pequeno Rincão de Deus (God’s Little Acre, Anthony Mann, 1958)
29- A Batalha de Anzio (Lo Sbarco di Anzio, Duilio Coletti/Edward Dmytryk, 1968)
30- À Borda da Morte (The Proud Ones, Robert D. Webb, 1956)
31- Os Bravos Não se Rendem (Custer of the West, Robert Siodmak, 1967)
32- A Hora da Pistola (Hour of the Gun, John Sturges, 1967)
33- A Estrada Dos Homens Sem Lei (The Racket, John Cromwell/Nicholas Ray/Mel Ferrer, 1951)
34- Alma Sem Pudor (Born to Be Bad, Nicholas Ray, 1950)35- Mulheres de Ninguém (Tender Comrade, Edward Dmytryk, 1943)
36- Império do Pavor (Horizons West, Budd Boetticher, 1952)
37- O Assassinato de um Presidente (Executive Action, David Miller, 1973)
38- De Volta da Eternidade (Back from Eternity, John Farrow, 1956)
39- Escravo de Si Mesmo (Beware, My Lovely, Harry Horner, 1952)
40- Lonelyhearts (Vincent J. Donehue, 1958)
41- Tudo Por Ti (The Sky’s the Limit, Edward H. Griffith, 1943)
42- A Guerra Secreta (The Dirty Game, Christian-Jaque/Klingler/Lizzani/Terence Young, 1965)
43- O Homem da Lei (Lawman, Michael Winner, 1971)
44- Cidade Abaixo do Mar (City Beneath of Sea, Budd Boetticher, 1953)
45- Selvas Indomáveis (Escape to Burma, Allan Dwan, 1955)
46- O Melhor dos Homens Maus (The Best of the Badmen, William D. Russell, 1951)
47- Cada Vida… Seu Destino (The Secret Fury, Mel Ferrer, 1950)
48- Caçada ao Pistoleiro Escondido (Un Minuto per Pregare un Instante per Morire, Giraldi, 1968)
49- Horizonte de Glórias (Flying Leathernecks, Nicholas Ray, 1951)
50- A Volta dos Homens Maus (Return of the Bad Men, Ray Enright, 1948)
51- Capitão Nemo e a Cidade Submarina (Captain Nemo and the Underwater City, J. Hill, 1969)
52- Bombardeio (Bombardier, Richard Wallace/Lambert Hillyer, 1943)
53- Sem Deus e Sem Lei/O Passo do Ódio (Trail Street, Ray Enright, 1947)
54- Os Homens da sua Vida (Her Twelve Men, Robert Z. Leonard, 1954)
55- Marine Raiders (Harold D. Schuster, 1944)
56- Nuvens de Tempestade (The Woman on Pier 13/I Married a Communist, R. Stevenson, 1949)

Nota 1: Ninguém chuta a bunda de Deke Thornton, mas se não fosse pelo final, On Dangerous Ground seria talvez o primeiro dessa lista. O filme de  Ray sofreu exatamente a mesma coisa que The Magnificent Ambersons na década anterior, onde o final original foi refeito porque o estúdio assim quis e apesar do final imposto não ser uma tragédia, a situação original desejada por Ray era amplamente superior. Robert Ryan foi queridinho dos filmes B durante o reinado de terror de Howard Hughes na RKO, um bom motivo para que ele e Nicholas Ray se tornassem tão unidos no período, trabalhando juntos em quatro filmes seguidos (mais tarde tiveram um quinto filho temporão) – enquanto Hughes entrava de cabeça no macartismo, Ryan e Ray batiam o pé como notórios liberais, o que gerou todo aquele entrevero com John Wayne durante as filmagens de Flying Leathernecks, um filme cujo conteúdo belicista e de direita nada tinha a ver com suas visões.

Nota 2: Só as participações com no mínimo uma fala entraram no top, filme com participação ínfima deixei de fora, como é o caso de sua estréia em O Castelo Sinistro (The Ghost Breakers, George Marshall, 1940) onde fez figuração carregando uma maca (é, eu reconheço alguém com dois segundos em cena e praticamente de costas)Nota 2: O maior choque que tive seguindo a carreira de Ryan foi quando assisti O Pequeno Rincão de Deus (God’s Little Acre, Anthony Mann, 1958) foi alí que me dei conta que estava diante de um dos maiores atores do mundo. Quando vi a cena em que sua personagem resolve raptar um albino não sabia se gritava, gargalhava ou chorava de emoção por estar diante de um gênio em sua arte. Mann havia começado essa tranformação de Ryan em Zé Buscapé já em O Preço de um Homem (The Naked Spur, 1953), onde em meio a uma atmosfera leoniana Ryan praticamente cria o pai do Tuco de Três Homens em Conflito.

Nota 3: O top é por qualidade geral dos filmes, mas se fosse eleger as 12 melhores atuações de RR, seriam estas: Odds Against Tomorrow, Billy Budd, Caught, God’s Little Acre, Custer of the West, Clash by Night, The Iceman Cometh, The Set-Up, Born to Be Bad, The Naked Spur, Inferno e On Dangerous Ground.

Nota 4: Presumo que o “Patch Pack” tinha uma queda pelo senhor Ryan – Walsh, Ray, De Toth e Lang trabalharam com ele, o único maldito de tapa-olho com quem não trabalhou foi o John Ford.

Nota 5: É fato – Ryan tem os melhores bíceps e tenho dito. É por isso que recomendo com veemência filmes em que aparece sem camisa ou de camiseta, também por isso Ed Dmytryk disse certa vez: Bob hit like a mule.

Nota 6: A minha “fase Jeff Bridges” do último semestre me levou, por consequência, a ver alguns filmes onde Robert Ryan esteve presente. JB tem RR como ator favorito e impusionou-me a ver o porquê foi tão importante como muso inspirador, além do fato de dois dos últimos filmes com Ryan terem sido também dois dos primeiros filmes com a presença de Bridges. Só depois de ter trabalhado ao lado de Ryan, Lee Marvin e Fredric March em The Iceman Cometh (John Frankenheimer, 1973) é que JB resolveu ser ator de verdade, coisa que até então ele só levara na brincadeira, tamanho o peso que tais homens tinham em cena, algo fácil de se perceber já que Ryan e Marvin jogam ping-pong com JB naquele filme, onde o então guri fica na função de bolinha. Também pudera, The Iceman Cometh é o último momento de Ryan no cinema, o câncer em estado bastante avançado acabou tornando sua personagem ainda mais melancólica do que dramaticamente já era e presumo que nenhum outro ator de qualquer montagem da peça de Eugene O’Neill tenha sido mais efetivo durante o final do terceiro ato.

Nota 7: Robert Ryan foi o único ator que vi eclipsando James Mason. Vi Mason de igual para igual com Alec Guinness, Peter Sellers e John Gielgud, mas a única presença que esteve um degrau acima de Mason numa cena foi o Robert Ryan em Caught – *Medo. Em compensação o Nemo de Ryan não chega aos pés do de Mason.

Você é fodão, mas eu sou mais alto. mimimi

Hughes called Ryan in and said “It’s okay if you play me, I don’t want them to put some other actor in there” – Robert Parrish, então editor de Caught (Max Ophüls, 1949) sobre o fato de Howard Hughes achar que apenas Robert Ryan seria digno de interpretá-lo - como se já não fosse suficientemente estranho o patrão deixar que uma personagem pouco lisongeira fosse inspirada nele.

Nota final: Hoje comemora-se cem anos do nascimento de RR, oras.

*Da série: Este post foi programado, eu não estou aqui!

Today is Dia de los Muertos, or All Soul’s Day. If you’re unfamiliar with this holy day, a brief explanation of it can be found – where else? – on Wikipedia, here.

To celebrate, I thought I would share with you something both death-related and awesome, a combo not often seen outside of the films of Sam Peckinpah.

Sure, you can have an enormous holiday fiesta to celebrate those who have shuffled off this mortal coil, but what about the rest of the year? How can you keep your loved ones alive and fresh in your mind and heart? Some people take this to the extreme, but if you’re looking for a way to honor your loved one and don’t want to relegate their remains to the earth or a dusty box on the mantel, you can now have their cremated remains (or cremains, a portmanteau that resists tripping off my tongue) transformed into something beautiful and useful – ceramic pottery.

Now, before you freak out on me here, let’s take a moment to consider this. What better way to celebrate the beauty of a loved ones’ life than by the literal transformation of their remains into art? Their spirit has departed, but their body remains…is it better that they remain sealed in some ridiculously expensive steel Tupperware® for all eternity, or that the clay from which they came and to which they returned be used to craft an objet d’art, something that will beautify its surroundings and provide a very real reminder of your loved one?

Please keep all Fawkes jokes to a minimum.

Phoenix Memorial Art specializes in this sort of memorial. The company’s founder, Marjorie Hoachlander, originally conceived of the idea when her husband was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Together, they came up with the idea to incorporate his ashes into a piece of artwork, one that would serve as both a cherished keepsake of her husband and a lastingly beautiful monument. Doing so apparently helped Marjorie through the process of grieving; as she says:

“I can’t begin to express how much having this lovely artwork in my home meant to me while I was adjusting to living alone. As its proximity gave me inner peace and renewed strength, I realized that I wanted to benefit others in similar ways by founding Phoenix Memorial Art.”

We all have different ways of honoring our dead. We all want to be remembered when we’re gone, and too often, I think, we minimize or ignore death in the hope that we won’t have to face the pain it can bring. To me, though, it is truly an awesome thing to honor a loved one by creating a beautiful and, yes, sacred piece of art from their remains.

Now that you’ve got a great Dia De Los Muertos opener for today’s water cooler chat, why not take a minute to click the SocialVibe link in the upper-right of my blog? By clicking through and writing a note to Dress for Success™ candidates, you help not only inspire women struggling to achieve self-sufficiency, but also The Art of Elysium. Make sure you all the way through and leave your name and message so I know you stopped by (and also so your activity will count toward the art projects we’re generating for hospitalized kids). Thanks!

After his 1975 ninjitsu-fueled The Killer Elite bit box-office dust, Sam Peckinpah sought redemption in a script penned by an industry pro. Despite a lifetime of work in romantic comedies, screenwriter Julius Epstein (Casablanca, Arsenic and Old Lace) was commissioned to write the adaptation of Willi Heinrich’s German war novel, The Willing Flesh. In 1977, Peckinpah got a hold of Epstein’s adaptation and Cross of Iron became the only war film of Peckinpah’s prolific career.

The film takes place in 1943, in the Russian front. Peckinpah favorite James Coburn plays the highly decorated and recently promoted Rolf Steiner. Just as he arrives to camp after another successful mission, Prussian Captain Hauptmann Stransky (Maximilian Schell) arrives to take Steiner’s position. When Steiner’s squad, led by the brave Lieutenant Myer, engages in gruesome combat with Russian troops, Meyer is killed in action. Stransky reports to the figurehead that it was he who led the troops and requests to be awarded the Iron Cross. Steiner is called upon as a witness to Stransky’s valor and, naturally, he refuses to play ball.

War pictures, like prison films, typically feature highly diverse casts, and Cross of Iron is no exception. The two genres also resonate with similar senses of space, which is important in so much as character development is concerned. Prison blocks and battlegrounds both provide terribly oppressive environments, perfect for character tension to peak.

Coburn maintains a blue-collar swagger in his portrayal of Steiner. A born leader, Steiner displays commitment to his duties and expert tact on the battlefield. However, he is also a man rich in wisdom and justice. Unlike Prussian aristocrat Stransky, Steiner is in touch with reality, well aware of how war can rot a man’s conscience.

Cross of Iron is a bold entry among 70s war pictures for many reasons. Namely, Peckinpah’s sympathetic portrayal of the enemy is something distinctly uncharacteristic of Hollywood. Also uncharacteristic of war pictures at the time was the overt homosexuality in the film. Peckinpah challenges our traditional notion of what heroism means with a tale of sexually repressed men in uniform. Stransky cements his perverse notion of heroism when he professes to Steiner that “Without the Iron Cross, I couldn’t face my family.”

The film’s ending is a bit clunky, but it doesn’t actually detract from the film’s visceral punch. Anyhow, the ending is a little dodgy because the budget ran dry. Many are not aware that Cross of Iron was funded with dough put up by a West German porn producer. After all the money was gone, Peckinpah turned to Coburn to basically “improvise” the last scene. Well it’s at least better than the studio hack-job on Peckinpah’s Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid (1973). But we won’t go there — not today anyhow.

Go see this one!

Reviewed by: Marty

Director: Sam Peckinpah

Screenplay: David Zelag Goodman & Sam Peckinpah, from the novel “The Siege of Trencher’s Farm” by Gordon M. Williams

Cast: Dustin Hoffman, Susan George, Peter Vaughan, Del Henney

Music: Jerry Fielding

One of the (many) problems I have with mainstream cinema today is that nobody really takes risks anymore. Nobody pushes the boundaries, nobody shocks the public, nor the critics. You could argue that in less commercial cinema figures like Lars Von Trier, with his recent work Antichrist, are keeping that ‘uncomfortable’ area of modern cinema alive, as well as other international anarchists. But on wide release – aside from the dross torture porn of course, and run-of-the-mill grim, paranoiac Australian social studies – there are no A Clockwork Oranges, no Funny Games-esque films intent on making the viewers as distressed and shaken up as the protagonists they portray. This is where I look back on films such as Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs and admire them for what they are, and what they were at their time of creation – in the case of this particular movie, it is, as critic Pauline Kael wrote, a truly “fascist”, misogynistic, and absolutely violent filmmaking landmark. And for that, it’s astounding.

Straw Dogs sees Dustin Hoffman as softly-spoken but intelligently ironic American mathematician David Sumner, who, with hardly any suggested backstory, has moved to the green seclusion of British highland with his wife Amy, where she had spent her childhood and teenage years growing up. No doubt harbouring a desire to flaunt her success over in the US back home, Amy (George), in short skirts (despite the weather) and constant lack of bra exudes a kind of sexual confidence around her former admirers, while David saunters away with his mathematical equations in his study in their hilltop farmer’s cottage. Almost immediately, things start to feel unsettled, and David finds himself cast, like a fish out of water, into a society of alcohol-ridden, labor-driven men he has no idea how to deal with or relate to. A group of three or four omnipresent males work on constructing a garage for the cottage, and while David and Amy’s marriage begins to stir with tension on account of David’s obsession with his work and lack of responsibility, there is also a murmur of tension and violent disposition amongst the workers – some, most importantly a tall, burly man called Charlie (Henney), dark figures from Amy’s past – and David’s masculinity and pride are called into question when their cat is found strung by the neck in their closet. Events escalate, as they often do, and the film explodes into a strange festival of violence, immorality and drunken insanity.

When the film picks up in the last third or so, it becomes very clear that Straw Dogs is essentially Dustin Hoffman’s tour de force. At first occupying the archetypal shy intellectual who somehow ended up with a stunningly beautiful wife (who, it is likely insinuated, does not belong with him), David’s determination at having the upper hand on those who think they are cleverer than him ultimately becomes the impetus of the film’s plummet into desperation and insanity. David slowly – at first – morphs into a character hellbent on righteousness: he even disregards the potential usefulness and reasonability of his wife, as his elaborate plans for catching out the lurking male predators hovering around his house as the killers of the couples’ cat serve only to raise the tension higher.

Why Straw Dogs is essentially so brilliant and so discomforting at the same time is a difficult concept to understand, and could be due to any number of factors. Amidst the dreary mist and rolling green hills of the countryside village setting, all its inhabitants going about their daily routines, nothing ever really feels safe; there’s no concrete evidence as to why, but from the very first instance that David steps into the bar and watches old man Tom Hedden (Vaughan) flail around violently and unpredictably after being denied a drink, the rest of the film’s atmosphere feels the same: like the surface of a lake, just before a rock lands in it. This ever-insidious feeling of hidden or impending terror is perhaps the reason why the film’s infamous rape scene is so disturbing and distressing, and even more so as the victimised, Amy, eventually appears resigned to it.

A number of different things could be said about Straw Dogs’ ‘final stand’ scene, in which David risks everything for almost nothing save his own manhood: played out like a high tension Battle Royale, it’s almost exciting and riveting to watch how the hunted becomes the hunter – that is to say, how David comes up with ways of dealing with the inclosing predators. It’s also primitive and animalistic, a display of human behaviour when the most important instinct – survival – comes under threat. And, when it’s all over, there is no celebration; reality sets in, and the truth becomes even harder to comprehend than the violent insanity itself. The audience is left to feel exactly how David feels, wondering what they have just been through and what has been the cost of it.

Straw Dogs is a great film, and I’m tempted to leave it at that, because it could be read into a lot. It is a lot of things, but at the same time, it may be nothing at all. It was never meant to be a blockbuster, and it most likely wasn’t even meant to be enjoyable. What it was meant to be has more to do with what it was reflective of, and why it could be perceived as both surreal and disturbingly truthful. It’s almost allegorical; a twisted fairytale bathed in the harsh light of reality. But no matter what it is, it is worth seeing for how it makes you feel, for its impact leaves a definite mark. See at least once in your life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QPS-YFhhgx8 – the original 1971 trailer.

Let’s end the week on a lighthearted but blood-soaked note. Here’s a short clip from a 1972 episode of Monty Python’s Flying Circus. My brother and I laughed our teenaged butts off when we saw this sketch for the first time around 1990, and it still makes me giggle today:

Bring me the head of Alfredo García

Director: Sam Peckinpah.

Guión: Sam Peckinpah y Gordon T. Dawson, basado en una historia de Peckinpah y Frank Kowalski.

Intérpretes: Warren Oates, Isela Vega, Robert Webber, Gig Young, Helmut Dantine, Emilio Fernández, Kris Kistofferson.

Música: Jerry Fielding.

Fotografía: Alex Philips, jr.

EEUU. 1974. 107 minutos.

Peckinpah crepuscular

La película -de tan hiperbólico título- que nos ocupa pertenece a los últimos años de la filmografía del realizador de The Wild Bunch, unos años en los que se acusa cierta atrofia en el despampanante aparato visual de Peckinpah. Sin embargo, como igualmente sucede en otros filmes como The Iron Cross, este cierto descontrol escénico, o estético, o de montaje, no empece en absoluto la valía de los filmes, antes bien los imbuyen de un extraño hálito crepuscular de fuertes connotaciones referidas a la idiosincrasia, el sufrimiento y la sangre lírica del autor.

No retorno

En esta atípica road-movie, en esta narración de viaje de ida (y sin vuelta) al infierno de una recompensa, nos encontramos con el catálogo de excesos que forman parte de la iconografía del realizador. Tiroteos hiperrealistas, a menudo resueltos al ralentí, luces y sombras en los humildes parajes de la frontera normexicana, mujeres hermosas de superlativos pechos, sangre y vísceras, sugerencias que vienen de sencillas melodías a guitarra, estruendos en el fragor de la perdición. Esto es, una obra absolutamente coherente con las enseñas, entre lo mítico, lo lírico y lo nihilista, del director de Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid.

Parábola moral

De hecho, Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia es una parábola moral, y a la vez una declaración de intenciones de Peckinpah. Desde la secuencia bucólica que abre la cinta hasta el nefando tiroteo y la boca de cañón en primerísimo plano que la cierra se nos narra, sin contenciones ni concesiones, el trayecto pernicioso del dinero en el alma, y sirviéndose del protagonista que tan bien incorpora Warren Oates, extiende ese cuento a la podredumbre que anida en el sistema moral de aquel ciudadano estadounidense, que prima lo económico –la promesa de una mayor prosperidad- sobre todo lo demás, y el precio de esa recompensa es, por tanto, perder todo lo que importa, lo que no se puede comprar. Cuando Oates supera improbablemente todos los óbices y se encuentra de frente con su hado en metálico, se da cuenta del sentido de las advertencias que antes no quiso escuchar de la mujer que amaba, y a la que perdió. Atisbando finalmente la luz y revolviéndose contra su propio código de valores, resuelve a tiros esa encrucijada y se enfrenta gustoso a lo inevitable. Conociendo el talante de Peckinpah no es de extrañar que arroje a su protagonista a un redimidor suicidio.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071249/

http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/19740801/REVIEWS/401010307/1023

http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/bring_me_the_head_of_alfredo_garcia/reviews_users.php

http://fansonline.net/indie/article.php?id=37

http://www.bfi.org.uk/sightandsound/feature/49510

Todas las imágenes pertenecen a sus autores

Ross recently mentioned that he wouldn’t want to rent a good movie when having a date over. Although I understand his point of view, I disagree and would gladly rent something worthwhile. First, if the date is a bust, you can lose yourself in a fine movie and then call it a night once the credits roll. However, if there happens to be some promise to the date then it can all unfold after the ending. If you’re part of Ross’ school of thought, by all means, avoid renting any of the following for movie date-night. If you share my view then I’m sure you’ll take pleasure in watching any of the movies from our Top Five Westerns list, which was inspired by AskMen.com’s  profile on Clint Eastwood’s anti-western Unforgiven and is this list’s honourable mention.

Tied at No. 5

For a Few Dollars More / A Fistful of Dollars

Both starring Clint Eastwood and directed by Sergio Leone.

No.4

The Wild Bunch

Starring William Holden & Ernest Borgnine. Directed by Sam Peckinpah.

No. 3

Once Upon a Time in the West

Starring Henry Fonda & Charles Bronson. Directed by Sergio Leone.

No. 2

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

Starring Paul Newman & Robert Redford. Directed by George Roy Hill.

No. 1

The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly

Starring Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef & Eli Wallach. Directed by Sergio Leone.