Kiss Me Deadly (1955)

Remember Ralph Meeker? The consumate badass?

Sadly, Ralph Meeker never achieved the stardom he deserved, if only for playing Mike Hammer in “Kiss Me Deadly.” This is another film noir, with a post-nuclear twist. It wasn’t the most seamless hybrid, but it works.

The film starts with Cloris Leachman running down the middle of a street, naked except for a trenchcoat. She’s escaped from a lunatic asylum, where she swears she was being held illegally, that she’s not crazy. Naturally, bad guys intercept the couple, beat the crap out of Mike Hammer, and torture-murder the girl.

Mike finds himself drawn into the mystery, breaking a few noses and a few hearts on the way.

As we reach the climax, we find that the sought after treasure was not jewels or money, but something far more sinister.

“Kiss Me Deadly” is revered as a classic film noir–everyone smokes, and there are lots of shadowy staircase shots–but it was also one of the final releases of the golden noir age. This is because Hollywood began focusing more on nuclear annihilation and/or the effects of the bomb (“Them,” for example, with its radiation-mutated giant ants)

Ralph Meeker was an awesome Mike Hammer. He had the attitude, propensity toward violence, and a “love ‘em & leave ‘em” attitude toward women.

The ending isn’t especially strong, but to paraphrase The Grateful Dead, “We may be going to hell in a bucket, baby, but at least we can enjoy the ride.”

Excellent film.

Grade: A-

Double Indemnity (1944)

I have to admit that I’ve never been a big Fred MacMurray fan when it comes to serious acting. When I watch “The Caine Mutiny,” I can’t help but see the dad from “My Three Sons,” or the “Flubber” guy.

“Double Indemnity” showed me just how good an actor he really was. Raymond Chandler wrote much of the dialogue, and MacMurray delivers each line perfectly. Check out this rapid-fire exchange between doomed insurance salesman Walter Neff (MacMurray) and putative black widow Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck, at her sharpest):

Phyllis: Mr. Neff, why don’t you drop by tomorrow evening about eight-thirty. He’ll be in then.

Walter Neff: Who?
Phyllis: My husband. You were anxious to talk to him weren’t you?
Walter Neff: Yeah, I was, but I’m sort of getting over the idea, if you know what I mean.
Phyllis: There’s a speed limit in this state, Mr. Neff. Forty-five miles an hour.
Walter Neff: How fast was I going, officer?
Phyllis: I’d say around ninety.
Walter Neff: Suppose you get down off your motorcycle and give me a ticket.
Phyllis: Suppose I let you off with a warning this time.
Walter Neff: Suppose it doesn’t take.
Phyllis: Suppose I have to whack you over the knuckles.
Walter Neff: Suppose I bust out crying and put my head on your shoulder.
Phyllis: Suppose you try putting it on my husband’s shoulder.
Walter Neff: That tears it.

“Double Indemnity” is one of the best examples of film noir, where nobody is good, and everybody smokes. Basically, Mrs. Dietrichson wants to get an accident insurance policy on her husband. Her husband doesn’t want it. A policy is forged, and–SACRE BLEU–Mr Dietrichson is killed a couple weeks later, killed in such a way that the policy’s double indemnity kicks in, and the payoff doubles. It’s almost like someone familiar with the insurance business choreographed the entire thing. Hmm…I wonder.

I especially love how the story is presented. MacMurray stumbles into his insurance company’s empty office one night, sits down at the claims adjuster’s desk (Edward G Robinson shines as the claims guru and Neff’s friend), and begins dictating a memo, his confession. He’s bleeding from a left shoulder wound, and he deteriorates as his narrative unfolds. He’ll describe something, and then we flash back to it. Then back to him dictating, then another flashback. In essence, the action starts and ends in 107 minutes, but the flashbacks cover a few weeks.

Raymond Chandler and director Billy Wilder wrote the screenplay, and it is as splendid in its brilliance as was the hatred between the two men. I don’t care whether they were lovers or Hamilton and Burr: this one-off collaboration is an absolute gem.

This is one of the best mysteries, and the best films noir, ever made. Beyond that, it’s a beautiful piece of filmmaking.

Grade: A
(Note: if you’ve ever seen the excellent “Body Heat” with William Hurt & Kathleen Turner, you’ll see a lot of that film in “Double Indemnity,” just without nudity and color film. It’s as if Billy Wilder somehow copied a movie 40 years before it happened. “Body Heat” is another Grade A noir thriller)

Diet Mountain Dew in Heaven: Requiescat in Pace, Lisa Olson

Diet Mountain Dew in Heaven: Requiescat in Pace, Lisa Olson.

Diet Mountain Dew in Heaven: Requiescat in Pace, Lisa Olson

In my tenure upon my sandbar, I have met some truly colorful characters. I talked with Art Garfunkel about his walk across America. I spent a few hours recording a show with Dick Clark, before his stroke (nicest guy ever: we chatted about his dogs and my cat). Little Richard tried to convert me to vegetarianism, and I spent time with Lee Roy Selmon, NBA star & jazz bassist Wayman Tisdale, and Aaron Neville.

My mother’s father was a colorful character, too: an award-winning sportswriter, but also one of the most amazing storytellers I’ve ever met.

My friend Lisa Olson took being a colorful character to new levels.

Lisa and I worked together the past three years. When I started on the Supervisory Team, we were both on days. Once I moved to nights, I’d see her a few days a week. She would start her shift around the time I was leaving.

It was always quiet, almost funereal that hour of the morning. Fitzgerald wrote, “In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o’clock in the morning.” That’s when we crossed paths. Lisa came in with a giant cooler of Diet Mountain Dew, popped one open, and organized the candy dishes she stocked for us all. No matter the holiday, Lisa’s desk was decorated to the nines. Bats and cobwebs for Halloween, shamrocks for St Patrick’s Day, and beautiful manger scenes at Christmas.

Lisa epitomized Oscar Wilde’s observation that, “Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.” Lisa had some adventures in her past. Eventually, she grew strong in her faith. But she wasn’t big on judgment or exclusion. She was a wonderful example, in the way she lived her life, the way she conducted herself professionally, the way she treated her friends and family.

What I’ll remember is Lisa’s laugh. Hers was a 98th percentile laugh, throaty and warm and infectious. Her whole face lit up, almost like a cartoon. Even when she was in pain, or suffering through a loved one’s problems, that laugh was never hidden too far away.

And colorful: Good Lord, was Lisa Olson colorful. Her personality was quirky and fun, sure, but she came in some mornings glowing like a sun. Once, I remember her wearing a bright (BRIGHT) coral top, with a bright multicolor jacket. Her shoes matched the bright coral. Even her nails were painted coral. It all matched. She glowed. It was next to impossible to feel depressed with so much vibrant positivity emanating from Lisa: the color and the laughter, with a bowl of good chocolates to share.

Wednesday morning, April 4, 2012, Lisa left this world. Her car was hit by a garbage truck, killing her instantly. Lisa had a strong faith, that when she left us here, she’d go on to Heaven. I don’t know what the afterworld is; I can’t prove that it exists. Like my friend Nick said, “Tom? Lisa knows the secret. She knows…” and we both got phonecalls.

Lisa knows the secret. I can see her walking into Heaven, dressed in bright turquoise or neon purple, fashionable and exuberant. I can hear her laughing with her loved ones who preceded her there. I can imagine her saying hi to God, sitting down, popping a Diet Mountain Dew, and telling a funny story to the saints, who hang on her every word and laugh along.

She knows The Secret. And it’s no secret at all that those of us who loved her will miss her presence. However, we have rich memories, and loving fondness, and the sustaining hope that we’ll laugh together again, somewhere down the road.

Rest in Peace, Lisa. I’ll toast you with every Diet Mountain Dew I drink. We’ll see you around, and thanks.

“Giant”– (1956)

“Giant” is indeed the perfect title for this film.

This is because it is an adaptation of Edna Ferber’s 1952 novel called “Giant.” What the hell else would they call it? “Zack & Miri Make a Porno”?

Forgive me. Just a little film critic humor.

In all seriousness, I love “Giant.” It is a huge picture, spanning roughly 30 years in the life of Jordan “Bick” Benedict (Rock Hudson) and his wife, Leslie, née Lynnton (Elizabeth Taylor). Benedict owns the huge (590,000 acre) ranch, Reata, where his family has raised cattle for three generations. Reata is run by Bick’s leathery spinster sister, Luz (leathery Mercedes McCambridge), and a bunch of ranch hands, including the twitchy Jett Rink (The twitchy James Dean).

The film starts with young, handsome Bick travelling to Maryland to buy a prize stallion, War Winds (“Beauty” (Beauty the horse only starred in the one film, according to IMDB.com, but he raised the bar for generations of horse/actors who follow in his hoofprints)). While in Maryland, Bick finds that there are actually two lovely animals he’d like to mount, the second being spirited young Leslie. Bick pays $10,000 for War Winds, and marries Leslie, hauling them both back to Texas.

Luz is jealous of this Eastern outsider who married Bick. One day, Luz takes War Winds for a ride, and abuses the poor horse. Eventually, it wrecked (or whatever horses do). Luz was critically wounded, and War Winds had to be put down. In her will, Luz leaves a small piece of Reata to Jett. Bick tries to buy him out, but Jett is obstinate, and hates Bick as much as he loved Luz.

Jett strikes oil, and becomes hugely rich.

Time passes, as Bick & Leslie raise three kids of their own, and watch them move out into the world. Jett grows richer and lonelier. He builds a giant (no pun intended) airport and hotel, inviting hundreds of oil-rich Texans to the grand opening. He drinks himself stuporous, and passes out on the dais before he can give his triumphant speech.

“Giant” is a huge film. It clocks in at 3 hour, 22 minutes. So much life time is covered, though, that it never feels long to me. Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor have amazing chemistry together–they were very close friends from “Giant” through Hudson’s death in 1985–and the film never seems to bog down in any one spot.

Both Hudson and Dean were nominated for Best Actor Oscars.

I’d have voted for Hudson, myself. James Dean was killed a few hours after he finished filming. Dean had a meteoric career, with two Oscar nominations in his three starring roles. I’m not sure what kind of longevity he would have had. I don’t know how good he would have proved, ultimately. He worshipped Marlon Brando. Brando saw Dean as a good-looking kid who was a wannabe. Dean had charisma, to be sure, but if you compare him to some of the other Method actors of the time–say Brando and Montgomery Clift–Dean doesn’t seem as impressive. Watch Brando in “The Godfather,” “Last Tango in Paris,” or “Apocalypse Now,” and he gives three amazing performances in three very different films. Check out the clip I posted a few months ago, with Monty Clift in “Judgment at Nuremberg.” There are times where Jett would be, say, walking, and you could see Dean acting each individual step. He had some good scenes in “Giant.” I still think Rock Hudson was far better in this film. He at least seemed to be in the same film as everyone else, and interacted quite well with other characters. Dean seemed to treat every scene as some sort of drama class experiment; his performance in “Giant” wasn’t a character portrayal, but a sort of portfolio clip-reel.

Anyway, that’s just me.

“Giant” covers many issues, including race, war, poverty, and the post-WW2 change in family dynamics. It doesn’t seem heavy-handed, and I really like Hudson and Taylor as a couple. Dennis Hopper does a nice job as Jordan Benedict, III, the first Jordan Benedict who doesn’t want to be a rancher.

Don’t watch “Giant” if you’re in a hurry. The first time I saw it, I watched it twice. I was doing evenings at WSJT. Giant was on at 8pm, then again at midnight on TCM, I think. The part-timer who was supposed to come in at midnight didn’t. I was stuck on the air till 3:30am, so I had plenty of time to watch. That took the sting out of the long airshift.

It’s an epic in cowboy boots, and I recommend it.

Grade: A

The Girls With the Dragon Tattoos (2009, 2011) (warning: spoilers and 1.5 naked breasts below)

I just watched the David Fincher version of “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.” Last week, I watched the Swedish version. They’re both good movies. Nonetheless, I figured I’d break them down, part by part, and see how the Fincher adaptation compares to its Swedish counterpart.

Mikhail Blomkvist:
When first I heard Fincher had cast Daniel Craig as Blomkvist, I thought Stieg Larsson would approve, this since I’m sure he fancied himself a stud-journalist. I had to laugh after Blomkvist was shot, and he was in the shower. Simply, Craig could wear glasses and slouch the rest of the film, but he still has better biceps than any journalist I’ve ever met.

I thought Michael Nyqvist in the Swedish version better captured Blomkvist as I’d imagined him: a good-looking guy, but still a normal 40-something man, not James Bond.

Here we also run into the inevitable accent question. Michael Nyqvist managed a perfect Swedish accent. Of course, this is because he spoke in SWEDISH. Craig, of course, spoke English. I wasn’t sure how the actors would handle accents: would English and American actors attempt Swedish accents? Or would they each speak with his or her own accent? Daniel Craig seemed to be trying to sound American–or maybe Swedish–but kept lapsing into stage actor British. It bothered me sometimes. Other than that, I was impressed with how non-Bond he was.

Still: Nyqvist A, Craig B

Lisbeth Salander:
The first time I saw the Swedish version, I was blown away by Noomi Rapace’s portrayal of Lisbeth. She seemed too tall, but I understand there aren’t many 4’11″ tall actresses old enough to be Lisbeth. I thought she was amazing, especially in the incredibly tough violent scenes, and the horrifying rape scenes. I can’t imagine how awful those were. Anyway, this was a lock, I told myself.
Not so fast. Rooney Mara was also splendid. I thought she sounded vaguely Irish in early parts, but she evened out with a Swedishish accent (sic). Also, I think she was a little better at showing Lisbeth letting down her guard with Blomkvist. There’s no way to put every bit of Lisbeth’s personality on the screen–the movie would be a week long. I thought Mara’s choices were good.

Rapace: A-, Mara: A-

Henrik Vanger:
Both Henrik Vangers were fine. A’s for each of them. A bonus point for Christopher Plummer, just because he’s awesome, and he won a Supporting Actor Oscar this year (for another movie, but still: big +1 for him)

Martin Vanger:

I found the Martin Vanger character in each film to be the most compelling. In the book, Martin was an obvious ally to Blomkvist till the final puzzle piece fell into place. Peter Haber in the Swedish one fooled me longer, I think, but Stellan Skarsgård could teach graduate level seminars in film villain-playing. Also, Skarsgård’s Swedish accent was perfect (grin). The Martin roles were slightly different. The result was the same.

Haber: A, Skarsgård: A

Dirch Frode:

The 2009 Frode was fine. His role didn’t seem as big, but Ingvar Hirdwall did a good job.

Fincher hired one of my favorite villains to play Frode: Stephen “Victor Maitland in Beverly Hills Cop” Berkoff. He was creeptastic back then, and he’s still ookey. Even though Frode’s supposed to be friendly, I saw in Berkoff’s performance the shadow of Frode’s past as the Vangers’ wartime concigliere.

Hirdwall: B, Berkoff, A

Dragan Armansky:

Michalis Koutsogiammakis in the 2009 version seemed more like the book Armansky to me. Fincher hired Goran Visnjic, of “ER” fame. He was good, but all I could think of was that the dyed-white hair didn’t look right on Abby’s ex.

Koutsogiammakis: B+, Visnjic: B-

Nils Bjurman:

This was the biggest difference, in my opinion. The Swedish film featured Peter Andersson. He was creepy, oily, violent, and perverted. He made Bjurman just as loathsome as he was in the book.

Yorick van Wageningen was nowhere near as menacing during his scenes with Lisbeth. This may have been director Fincher’s wish, to pull back on the violence. These scenes were horrifying in the book, as well as in the Swedish film. They were difficult to watch, yes, but they are critical, and I didn’t buy this portrayal nearly as much as Andersson’s.

Andersson: A+, van Wageningen: C.

Fidelity to the story:
I’d call it even. The former glosses over the whole Irene Nesser bit. The latter eliminates Australia and Lisbeth’s mother. From a pure film standpoint, neither omission was a sin. I liked that Fincher showed that Lisbeth fell for Bond, DAMMIT, I mean Blomkvist, and matched the book’s ending fairly well.

Direction:
I was surprised, but I thought the Swedish version was more violent, and there was more nudity. I mean, if you pay attention to nekkid punk grrls.

Dragon Tattoos:
Rooney Mara’s dragon tattoo looked more like I imagined Lisbeth’s would look.

Overall:

I admit, I eagerly anticipated seeing what David Fincher would do with this novel, and I think he made a good movie. I was surprised at how restrained his version was, though, compared with the Swedish version. Not that it was bad, or even tame. But when your opening credits are rapid cuts with menacing black figures in the background, and a screaming new version of “Immigrant Song,” it seems your movie would be a bit more rock & roll. Both versions did all right by Stieg Larsson’s novel. I’ll be interested to see if Fincher goes forward with the rest of the trilogy–Sony Pictures is, and Craig & Mara are signed. The Swedish version of “The Girl Who Played With Fire” bored the skitprat out of me. I’d love to see Fincher hit tape measure homeruns with his next two at-bats.

2009 Swedish version: A-
2011 English version: B+

Let’s Get Lost (1988)

Blame Evan Rachel Wood for this. She tweeted that her song of the day, in honor of Valentine’s Day, is “My Funny Valentine,” by Etta James.

My favorite version is by Chet Baker. I went on YouTube to find a version to post here or on Facebook, and lo, and behold, somebody had posted the entire Bruce Weber documentary, “Let’s Get Lost.”

Even if you aren’t familiar with Bruce Weber’s name, you have definitely seen his work. He’s the guy who shot all those steambath Calvin Klein ads in the 80′s & 90′s.

Chet Baker is the perfect Bruce Weber subject. In the 1950′s, Chet Baker resembled James Dean. When New York was a riot of frenetic bebop, Baker and his peers epitomized the more relaxed, melodic, even romantic West Coast Sound (“Cool Jazz,” as some of the hep cats called it).

Chet Baker’s trumpet sound was amazing, warm and rich; his vocals were haunting. One photographer who shot a recording session Baker played said, “Looking at him through the lens, I suddenly understood what ‘charisma’ meant. And ‘star quality.’”

“Let’s Get Lost” shows hundreds of photos of young, handsome Chet Baker. These pictures are juxtaposed against Weber’s footage following Baker in 1987.

Holy shit, what a difference. There are some scenes where Baker makes Keith Richards look like Dakota Fanning. (Well, not quite, but I love that simile)

Ravaged doesn’t begin to describe the changes in Chet Baker’s visage. The documentary does. Chet Baker had his teeth knocked out trying to buy heroin in San Francisco. It took him three years before he was ready to play in a New York club again.

Baker tells these stories in his soft, haunting voice. I know I used “haunting” before, but there’s no better adjective to describe that voice, not as it talks about his favorite high being a “speedball,” and how the ratio of heroin to cocaine has to be just right. Not as it tells about arrests and jail and broken marriages.

And there are other accounts. Some of Baker’s ex-wives and former girlfriends describe their times with Chet, the manipulation and chaos. His teenaged daughter talks about trying to visit him, finding an empty house, and taking some of his girlfriend’s jewelry, because it’s the only way she could “get back at her.” His own mother admits to being disappointed in Chet as a son.

The odd thing is, everyone seems to accept him as he is. The camera follows Baker around Los Angeles and Cannes, and there are many times where he’s nodding off, obviously wasted on something. Near the end, we hear Bruce Weber tell Chet that they’ve arranged for some methadone, since he’s been away from his usual Amsterdam doctor. Baker’s response implies that he’s found another source, or else he wouldn’t have been able to complete the filming.

Chet Baker in “Let’s Get Lost” is a hot mess, but he still has that “something.” He may be half-stoned when he’s talking, but in the studio scenes, he is clearly in control. His voice is weaker than it once was, but he can still sing. To me, Chet Baker as a singer was always sad, like he was teetering between love and hurt, between being great or dreadful, with no gray area.

Weber shoots “Let’s Get Lost” entirely in black & white. His iconic stills are mostly b&w, so it makes sense. The added benefit in this case is that the modern flows so seamlessly into old tv footage and stills of Chet Baker. It gives the sense we’re seeing one big arc.

A card shortly before the credits describes how Chet Baker died shortly after filming. He jumped/fell/was tossed from an Amsterdam hotel window. He doesn’t seem like he’d jump. He was lost, but he was still kicking. Just in a subdued, purgatorial way.

I’m a jazz guy. I have been since I was a kid. I’ve seen many of the greats, and I’ve seen some old guys who might have been thisclose once, but now just play for drinks on open jam night. If you asked me which trumpet players were most innovative, I’d say Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis. If you asked me which trumpet player is my favorite, it has always been Chet Baker. He still is.

“Let’s Get Lost” just enhances the haunting beauty of Chet Baker’s music. It’s an amazing documentary, nominated for the Best Documentary Oscar in 1988. Another nominated film that year was Clint Eastwood’s tremendous biopic “Bird.” Forest Whitaker gave a scalding performance as Charlie Parker, a 1950′s jazz great, whose battles with drugs and the law cut short his career. Care to guess which sax player gave Chet Baker an early break?

“Let’s Get Lost” is a documentary that feels like a novel. It is sad, but also very, very beautiful. Even if you don’t like jazz.

Grade: A