0068. Freaks

So let's be frank about this--Freaks, as far as the art of mainstream filmmaking is concerned, plays by all of the rules and yet violates every single one of them. There's a beautiful story of deception, greed, and the power of friendship, yet all of that is very much swept under the rug because of the fact that, yes, damn near every "star" of this movie was an actual sideshow performer; or, as one could pejoratively say, a freak.

And yes, every single review of this movie will, for all eternity, be required to say in big bold capital letters BUT IT DOESN'T MATTER THAT THEY'RE FREAKS!, much like how, say, every review of a Pixar film must be prefaced with YOU KNOW, ANIMATION ISN'T JUST FOR CHILDREN!

But enough of that. Let's just get down to brass tacks here and throw out the fact that Freaks is just ridiculously weird on about as many levels as imaginably possible without even trying to be. This is no art-school surrealist mess with indeterminable meaning put to film; nah, such a feat would be too lofty for Freaks. It's weird, it's got poor production quality, and the story is somewhat hampered by the lack of acting ability from any of the major players.

But you know what? Freaks has heart, son. It may not be Academy Award material, but at the very least it has the guts to say that freaky people are people too (and, in truth, sometimes the normal people are the ones we should be afraid of). It never comes across as exploitative or cheap, but maintains a feel as though it were made by the very freaks it documents; it may have been a horror film in its own time, but today it comes across as very loving and tender. It's a strange, strange film, but treats its denizens with respect and dignity--as well as the audience.

My parting words: where else are you gonna see 'The Human Torso' light his own cigarette?

0539. The Last Picture Show

The very first shot of this movie is all too familiar to those who've logged many a mile on the highways of Texas: the sleepy little town, slowly dying a death it both stubbornly refuses and solemnly accepts. The November wind blows dust and tumbleweeds across the deserted main street, nearly every building appears boarded up in some way, and even the gentle familiarity of a Texaco sign is missing a letter or two.

But there's a suddenly a sense of warmth, a sense of love; the two co-captains of the local high school football team, Duane and Sonny, are lovingly teased by the townsfolk about the team's complete inability to do so much as tackle or throw. Duane and Sonny themselves, along with the other boys of the town, share that same brotherhood and camaraderie as so many schoolmates have since; hell, set the film a couple of decades later and all of the boys could've been in the Replacements (the band, not the football flick). Boys and girls go about their business of being, well, boys and girls in the process of becoming men and women. There's hangouts and dances, get-togethers and (somewhat laughably indifferent) breakups.

Not too bad for a film made about a decade before John Hughes codified the tropes of a "teen movie".

But the teen world, no matter how rough or idealized, doesn't last forever. People grow up, skip town. Preacher's kids do weird things with little girls. Mentors die. Things one thought were secret are the talk of the whole one-horse town. Best friends begin to resent one another. Everything falls apart.

And sometimes, like in the case of Jacy Farrow, the teenage fears that one will end up like one's despicable parents become harrowing, inescapable reality.

SYMBOLISM ALERT: There's a scene in which young Jacy, after leaving her beau behind, 'escapes' to a skinny-dipping pool party of the cooler and richer types; only, she has to strip down completely in front of all of them before she can truly become part of the group. The chord struck here--that the 'real world' is both appalling and appealing--is one that rings throughout the entirety of the film.

If nothing else, The Last Picture Show is brutally honest in its showing of the transition from adolescence to adulthood. Things never quite work out the way we plan them to--sometimes horrifically so. But through all of this, there's always some sort of hope for tomorrow, some smidgen in the back of one's mind that despite all odds, betrayals, and insults, there'll be some sort of acceptance and renewal in the future. When things are at their lowest, the only way they can go is up.

(TECHNICAL NOTE: I have never seen a movie that utilizes ambient audio [such as music played over a radio or conversations on a television program] quite like this one. Mad props to whoever thought to include such wonders.)

0668. Raging Bull

So I went into this without any prior knowledge of the film aside from the director and lead. I expected it to be just an average, ordinary sports movie, maybe a little bit greater than most I had seen in my life (which would explain its importance).

Five minutes in, there's a full-fledged riot on screen, a woman is being horrifically trampled to death, and my mind is being blown.

Which brings me to my first major point about this film: Raging Bull is violent and sexual in a way I have never seen before and most likely will never see again; oh, sure, American Psycho and other films have touched on such things, but not in the way that Raging Bull does. Other films throw in sex and violence as mere parts to the story, which is fine and dandy for what the other films are trying to achieve. Raging Bull, on the other hand, builds its entire story on violence--which, in turn, strengthens both the story and violence overall. I clearly recall wincing with every punch and headbutt DeNiro's Jake LaMotta threw against a prison wall; no other movie has ever made me do that before.

The story of Raging Bull succeeds in that it does not rely on the tropes and cliches of the average sports movie; nay, it seems more to be a deconstruction of the genre as a whole. Whereas most sports films would take us along only for the highs of a career (and maybe some humble beginnings as well) and end the story with the winning of the championship, Raging Bull tears the curtain down and exposes the innate humanity of its supposedly larger-than-life characters. These are real people onscreen, not idolized images to be thrown onto bedroom posters; and for that, Raging Bull is all the more memorable.

Two special notes: one, I loved the way in which this movie was filmed (from a technical standpoint). The black and white adds to the grittiness, and the contrast with the only parts filmed in color (idealized home movies filmed on what appeared to be period cameras) was astonishing and crucial to the film.

Secondly, the quoting of Brando's "Contender" speech from On the Waterfront brought a definite smile to my face (and maybe a tear or two to my eye).

"Let's face it. It was you, Charlie...it was you, Charlie."

0152. Casablanca

There is much to be said about Casablanca, and much of it has already been said by people much more qualified than I am to do so. Yet even so, I feel a very innate need to share my own personal feelings about the film; after all, it ain't called one of the best movies of all time fer nuthin'.

What strikes me as most odd about Casablanca is just how ludicrously well it works, despite how very disorganized the entirety of its making may have been. Even the "best film of all time", that wily Citizen Kane, succeeds nowhere near as well as a complete film as Casablanca does. It took me several repeat viewings to even begin to appreciate the totality of Citizen Kane; Casablanca, on the other hand, had me hooked in the first five minutes.

Every actor here is unbelievably well-suited for their role--and not only that, every character is vital to the success of the film as a whole, no matter how small or two-dimensional. The script itself is a modern marvel, especially considering the fact that it wasn't even completed at the time of filming! Somehow, though, Howard Koch and the Epstein twins managed to concoct a story of epic proportions, with just the right mix of heroism, villainy, romance, and desperation. Even from a technical standpoint the film is a masterpiece (go read about how they filmed the ending plane scene and tell me that isn't brilliance), and Max Steiner's score is absolutely timeless.

I wish there was more that I could say about Casablanca, but in all honesty, there really isn't anything else to say--the completeness of its greatness is just another of its charms, I suppose. And if you haven't seen it yet, that's OK; you're still in for a treat no matter when you end up finding yourself watching it.