Searing, Stunning, Unforgettable "Fences"

Fences*
directed by Denzel Washington
starring Denzel Washington, Viola Davis

At the close of Denzel Washington’s powerful and brilliant film adaptation of August Wilson’s play Fences, my sister and I sat stunned in our reclining theater seats, letting the weight of it wash over us.

You must see it.

Fences is a masterful piece of theater, a portrait of an African American family in the 1950s, at the center of which is Troy Maxson, a force of nature, a fabulist and charmer as played by actor and director Denzel Washington, whose smooth veneer masks a man struggling with pain, bitterness, limited education, intractable opinions, questionable choices, and fraught relationships with his wife and sons. There is no other word for Denzel’s performance other than … Astounding.

You must see it.

The film finds Troy working the back of a garbage truck and fighting for his right to become the first Negro truck driver in Pittsburgh – a role he ultimately wins despite being unable to read and lacking a driver’s license. Once a star ball player in the Negro Leagues, Troy’s playing days were well before major league baseball was ready to integrate, and Troy now has nothing but contempt for groundbreaker Jackie Robinson or for his teenage son’s opportunity to earn a college scholarship by playing football. He swills gin with his friend Bono and talks shit with the air of an authority, but he must constantly be reminded that times are changing around him.

You must see it.

So often stage plays that reach the big screen are “opened up,” so that the locations and other characters become more fully realized than they were on the page; thus the emphasis and impact of the play can be altered or shifted in ways the playwright didn’t originally envision or intend. Denzel as director is wise enough not to open up the play too much. He gives us a view of a working class black Pittsburgh neighborhood, but keeps true to the play’s key scenes firmly set in the Maxsons’ backyard and kitchen. The smartest move of all is that he lets the camera stay close and still upon its incredibly capable actors, whose performances are sterling. Mykelti Williamson never drifts into excess as Gabriel, the brain damaged WWI veteran and brother of Troy; the actors portraying his sons, particularly Russell Hornsby as Lyons, each have moments that show us the character’s entire lives of struggle and defeat in just a few scenes. But none are more affecting than acting powerhouse Viola Davis as Rose, a loyal wife who is shattered by her husband’s self-serving choices, or by Denzel himself as Troy.

You must see it.

The film is full of wonderfully melodic and metaphoric language and visual symbolism. We have Gabriel and his horn, the Fool who speaks Truth. We have Rose, a symbol of beauty and grace, to whom Grabriel -- not Troy -- brings a single bloom. There are personal sacrifices and images of crosses. There is the continual building of the titular fence, which Troy successfully erects between himself and others. Troy speaks of wrestling Death in an early scene; in another, he tells a story of being beaten by his father with the reins of a mule. Denzel’s delivery of this monologue is nothing short of miraculous, as he is seen envisioning the moment with a sense of reminiscent humor that we know was entirely absent from the event itself but that allows us to see its horror clearly as though we were there ourselves. Viola Davis’s portrayal of Rose, the woman who seems to be the quiet strength of the film, the eye to Troy’s hurricane, is compelling. In what has to be the climax of Fences, the “I have to tell you something” moment, Viola’s realness will tear at your soul.

I don’t know how to fully express the impact of Fences. By giving actors room to infuse ferocious life into their roles, and creating very simple sets, the import of all that is said and all that is not said falls down on us like a heavy blanket. We feel these people, we know them, we are astounded by them. Our hearts break for them.

You must see it.

It is the best drama I have seen in a long while.

_______________________________________________________
"Fences" is part of the late African American playwright August Wilson's cycle of ten plays about the same Pittsburgh neighborhood. The play won both a Pulitzer and the Tony Award as Best Play in 1987. Other plays in the cycle include "The Piano Lesson," "King Hedley II," "The Gem of The Ocean," "Ma Rainey's Black Bottom," and "Radio Golf."

Photo credit: David Lee - © MMXVI Paramount Pictures Corporation.

Bless Its Heart: A Few Thoughts On 'La La Land'

La La Land (2016)
directed by Damien Chazelle
starring Emma Stone, Ryan Gosling
original music by Justin Hurwitz

Let's face the music and dance.

1. I was born and raised and spent years working in New York. Friends and family couldn’t envision this Big Apple, Bronx-bred chick out on The Coast with the Holly Would-ers when I made the move in 1994. “So you’re moving out to La La Land, huh?” La La Land was where the loopy, thirsty and deluded went, where wacky trends in health and beauty were taken seriously, where people sold their souls to make it in the entertainment business, whether they had the skills or not. La La Land was where I was certainly going to lose whatever good sense I may have had.

2. But who says that good sense and dreams are polar opposites? I was born and bred in a city that reveres its musical theater traditions. Where making it big on a stage or a club was nearly the only legitimate path to widespread success for many an African American performer through the 19th and 20th centuries. Where I was fed a steady diet of musical fantasies.

3. Some of us need La La Land. Some of us need our dreams in order to move forward. And some of us live in a La La Land of our own design, whether we have a California address or not. Some of us don’t know when to let go of the “La La.”


4. I love classic movie musicals. I’m talking Cabin In The Sky, An American In Paris, Carousel, Seven Brides For Seven Brothers, Oklahoma!, Mary Poppins, Funny Face, 42nd Street, Funny Girl, Sweet Charity, Gigi, Hello Dolly!, and the like -- big singing and dancing spectacles with old school Hollywood stars like Howard Keel, Judy Garland, Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Eleanor Powell, Leslie Caron, Ethel Waters, Danny Kaye, Lena Horne, Ann Miller, the Nicholas Brothers, Frank Sinatra, and many others. These performers could sing as well as dance, and they worked with some of the most innovative and demanding of choreographers. To me, That's Entertainment.

La La Land, the movie ...

La La Land is a new age "musical" that utilizes the tropes of those classic Hollywood productions to tell its story, with varying degrees of success.

We have characters – Gosling’s jazz-loving piano player Sebastian and Stone’s budding actress and erstwhile barista Mia – pass through the meet-cute stage, and progress to tandem song and dance to reveal their growing attraction. Their romantic commitment lifts them from the ground into a magical dance among the stars, to a beautiful envisioning of a what-could-have-been-love montage. Along the way, viewers are treated to a few travelogue moments of classic Los Angeles (though not enough for my taste); The Warner Bros. lot in Burbank, the Griffith Observatory, downtown LA, Santa Monica, and the Hollywood Hills.

However, to pull off a truly great musical, you need two leads in whose performance talents you’re already invested. Stars Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone are highly appealing and capable actors. Gosling has earned his chops through such films as Drive, The Place Beyond The Pines, Blue Valentine, and Lars And The Real Girl, among other films. After a few smart-girl roles Stone impressed me most with her range as the bratty daughter in Birdman. However (and despite Goslings Mouseketeer background) these two have minimal song-and-dance credentials. And though they give it the Old College Try, La La Land left me underwhelmed by the musical's musical numbers.

Despite a wonderful musical score and sprightly songs (I am going to get my hands on the soundtrack posthaste because I love "City of Stars"), La La Land becomes an average musical because of the average talents of Gosling and Stone. While some viewers may feel that the charm of the film springs from their very average-ness, I found myself consistently bored and annoyed that such fantastic tunes and dance setpiece opportunities were squandered on the scratchy, whispery, karaoke vocals and Dance 101 high school hoofing of the leads. This pair would have been voted off of Dancing With The Stars in the early rounds. The film’s numbers don’t even approach the level of those teen Disney projects that were so popular a decade ago, High School Musical and the like.

But here’s the catch -- the thing has heart. Though it’s not a great musical, La La Land still manages to reel you in with its storytelling. An effective allegory about the struggle to set up a career in Hollywood, the trade-offs that one makes to stay afloat, and the effort to maintain a successful relationship, La La Land embodies a classic Hollywood story, one that endures because the struggle never gets easier. It’s a new age A Star Is Born, except no one succumbs to drink. It’s a wistful, honest, and ultimately heartrending story. Dreams come with a price tag, and sacrifices are part of the journey. And sometimes a great love is not forever.

Here is where the acting talents of Gosling and particularly Stone are most effective in conveying the emotional weight of what is mostly a weightless story. Extra credits given to Gosling, who actually appears to playing those keyboard riffs, even as he loses credits for white-splaining jazz to his beloved in the early part of their romance. And in her first scene auditioning for an acting role, Stone totally drew me in with her acting chops.

Furthermore, La La Land is beautiful to look at. It is sun-drenched and bright, and even in darkened settings such as the club where Gosling’s character Sebastian tickles the ivories, the sets and lighting are dreamlike, evocative, enthralling. The film is shot in CinemaScope, so its wide screen captures a broad swath of details. From the opening scenes, where the camera swoops between parked cars to capture the carefully choreographed singing, dancing, flipping, and skateboarding of motorists leaving their vehicles on a traffic-locked freeway overpass and then whirls through the rooms of Mia’s apartment to capture her roommates as they ready for a Hollywood party – we know that the film is an extraordinary feat of movie-making.

The movie seems destined to be translated into a Broadway musical in the coming years, and perhaps then the mediocre singing and dancing will be improved tenfold. There are so many screen-to-stage productions these days that it seems entirely likely.

As a classic movie musical,La La Land is a flop by my standards. There has been an ongoing trend of the last few years of having non-singing actors sing on screen, but I'm not with it -- particularly as there are so many musically talented performers available.

But as a film fantasy inspired by old Hollywood about new Hollywood, La La Land will touch you.

The Non-Review Review: "The Birth Of A Nation"

The Birth of A Nation (2016)
directed by and starring Nate Parker

Should you see it? I'll leave it to you. I don't have compelling arguments either way. Sorry if that's disappointing.

When the news began to trickle out of the film festivals that a new movie about the historic Nat Turner slave rebellion, one that was independently financed, directed by and starring Nate Parker was garnering rave reviews, many African American film fans pricked up our ears. A film about an amazing moment in our history, when an enslaved person rose up with hundreds of others in a bloody battle against their enslavers was finally being made? A film made outside the studio system? When this film was snapped up by a distributor for a record-setting $17 million, we were enthralled and agog.

And then began the furor over the college rape case in which Nate Parker was a defendant. Then the revelation that the victim in the case, for which Parker was acquitted but his roommate and the new film's co-writer was convicted, had committed suicide. The news was bad, conferring infamy on Parker and a long shadow over the fortunes of his film. Ugh, ugh, and ugh.

So what did Parker do? Apparently he started out to apologize, but sooner or later hubris and a sense of embattled entitlement took hold, and he either dug himself deeper in interviews or failed to engage the media at all about the film. He didn't seem to grasp why the public was up in arms about what he saw as a small footnote from his distant past, tried to wave it all away as youthful folly without a deeper discussion of rape, consent, respect for women, or his own role in what occurred. His refusal to truly show remorse or understanding backfired, big time. Now the media outlets are trumpeting the fact that his opening weekend was less than satisfactory.

Now, I try to watch films for their own artistic merits. I might stay away from a star or filmmaker's work because I don't find them to be to my taste, but not because of their personal lives or choices. So I went to see The Birth of A Nation with a mind to evaluating the narrative, performances and the production on their own terms.

But I have to admit that it was difficult to do and I'm not sure that I succeeded. Because my reaction to the film is, in truth, a kind of a shrug. It is not a bad film. It's beautifully shot. But I don't think it's a particularly great film either; I think its merits are in showing us a story that has never been shown on the big screen in this fashion before and in assembling a stellar cast and crew to create that film. Despite my best intentions, the bad publicity surrounding Parker, and the evidence of bad judgment he showed at the time of the rape and in defending his actions some 11 years after, have torn away any goodwill blinders through which I might have viewed this first directorial effort.

I may have judged Parker's performance differently, because as it stands, Parker shows us the facts about Turner, but his script doesn't give him a unique personality.

Nat Turner was taught to read as a child. He bore unusual marks on his body. He was a preacher. But the film never shows us his responses to those events or roles -- who did he think he was? Did he get fulfillment from being able to read when other slaves could not, what was the level of his religious belief? How did others see him? It's true that the state of being enslaved provided little room for emotional or creative expression. But slaves were human, and within humanity the traits of love, joy, art, and sensitivity are always present. Now it's true that the tropes of moviemaking often require that the audience root for a hero not just for his actions but for who he is -- someone larger than life, whose emotional conflicts are writ large on screen. The film attempts to perpetuate a kind of religious mysticism about Turner, but it comes off muddled. The viewer is left wondering when this Nat Turner fellow will catch fire -- and spark a fire in us as well. While Turner does of course see his sign in the sky and draw others into his plan, it seems to come late in the film and without the facts of history already telling us that a rebellion is coming, the film itself fails to build enough tension on its own.

There have been critics who say that the film misrepresents the roots of the Turner rebellion by making it about the attack on his wife and the rape of a fellow slave's wife. I didn't feel that those were the main causes -- I thought that Turner's observation of how all enslaved people were forced to suffer humiliations, indignities, abuse and torture was cumulative, leading him to read the Bible in a new way.

The film doesn't truly show the extent of the mayhem Turner and his followers brought to the white slave holders of Southampton county before they were brought down. Yes, we saw some chilling violence committed against his own master and a neighboring plantation -- and believe me, that violence was hard to watch -- but the way the film was cut, it left me with too many questions about the timeline and the overall impact of the rebellion. We did see Turner and many other African Americans hanged -- also, very hard to watch. But in terms of filling in the blanks for the viewer, perhaps Turner was smart not to. None of us was witness to those long ago events, certainly not Nate Parker, and perhaps if he had reached to create fictional events or imbue Turner himself with fictional traits, we'd be lambasting him even more.

In conclusion, I don't have much to say either way about the film. If you are so inclined to see this work, see it. If not, don't. I think Aunjanue Ellis, the actress who plays Turner's mother in the film, wrote one of the best essays I'd seen (in Ebony, read it here) about reasons to see the film, so I leave you with that.

Getting Down With "The Get Down": A B-Boy/Disco Queen Time Machine

The Get Down (2016; Netflix)

Finished watching the first six episodes of the Netflix series The Get Down last week, directed by Australian Baz Luhrmann (Moulin Rouge, The Great Gatsby) -- (and a shout out to series supervising producer Nelson George). I have to say that I loved it, unabashedly. I want to kiss it on both cheeks, hug it tight, thank it for coming, and ask it not to be a stranger. I know that it is unapologetically eccentric, long-winded, and prone to exaggeration, like an old auntie who spins fantastic yarns about how great things used to be; yet as in the wake of a visit by a relative with a great way with a narrative, I can't help reliving the best moments of the stories.

The Get Down's plot centers on the dreams of a handful of South Bronx teens, but careens from painting New York City history with broad strokes -- the blackout of '77, the burning of tenements, street gang warfare, the mayoral campaign of eventual victor Ed Koch -- to telling the true story of the rise of hip-hop and its disciplines (DJing, MCing, B-Boying, graffiti and eventually beatboxing) against the already peaking disco movement. But it also drifts into the realities of 1970s New York: poverty, racism, racketeering, the drug trade, prostitution and more. As such it is detailed, sprawling, inspired, beautiful, ugly, messy, historic, sentimental, nostalgic, rough, funny, tender, tense, and in some ways frustrating, revisionist, and fantastical, but I loved it just the same. But I can't help myself, I was predisposed to love it.

I'm an Afro/Carib/Latina who grew up in the Soundview section of the Bronx, and was 17 for most of 1977. The Get Down is a vivid reminder of just where I began my life's journey. Much like the lead character, Ezekiel "Books" Figuero (Justice Smith), I was a piano playing, poetry writing nerd teen coming up in a household that didn't always understand my artistic pursuits. And much like Zeke's love interest, Mylene Cruz, I had two loving, hard working parents trying to stretch a dollar and protect me and my sisters from the streets. And like most teenagers, I was balancing my love of music, art, film and books with my interest in boys; trying to keep up with my cigarette and weed-smoking, wine-swilling, disco dancing, record-swapping, relationship-drama friends; and coping with the overwhelming expectations from my parents and teachers for a promising future, where I would overcome my humble beginnings and ultimately get out of the South Bronx. (I did, btw.)

The show's ongoing visual of a grafitti-covered elevated subway train spinning over Westchester Avenue past burnt out tenements through the St. Mary's Park Houses toward the magic and promise of Manhattan (the show's episode titles are spray-painted on the cars) was part of my everyday reality, along with the bodegas, the storefront churches, the avenue beauty salons and record stores, and the clubs and discos that director Luhrmann so painstakingly recreated for the series. I had my Sweet 16 party in a community room on Sedgwick Avenue, not far from where hip-hop forefather Kool Herc held court (my party DJ is now the founder and CEO of the Universal Hip Hop Museum). Like Mylene, I often told my parents I was "spending the night" with a girlfriend but we snuck out in slinky disco dresses, makeup, and Charlie perfume on the 6 train down to the East Side of Manhattan, where we danced The Hustle with strangers at places with names like Ipanema and Pegasus and Copa Cabana. When the Blackout of '77 hit, I was just out of high school watching TV at home, and banned from leaving the house by my rightfully terrified parents. And I was a witness as the neighborhood crews sparking attention were now dudes with the powers to move the crowd through microphone and turntable skills as we danced under the playground streetlamps and shouted some of the first "Throw your hands up in the air and party like you just don't care" s ever heard.

The Get Down brings it all back. Watching now recalls moments of the 1975 film Aaron Loves Angela, a star-crossed teen lovers riff on Romeo & Juliet starring Irene Cara, whom Mylene actress Herizen Guardiola resembles; Wild Style, the 1983 film depicting hip-hop culture; and Fame, the urban high school musical classic from 1980.

As with most Luhrmann productions, the storylines are a bit overheated and at times surreal -- particularly the depiction of Shaolin Fantastic's initial legend and in the treatment of Grandmaster Flash as a mystical being. But I can accept that -- because early hip-hop was regarded by its young devotees as a mysterious, competitive and closed discipline that required dedication and skills for entrance. The glory of the series is in the details - the elaborate set designs, the precise costuming, and the pristine cinematography create a colorful tableau and brought me right back to those days of afros and tube tops, platform shoes and leisure suits, bell bottoms and 1940's styled dresses. The show gets the very smallest parts of the era right -- from Papa Fuerte giving his niece money for Huckapoo shirts, to Rah Rah advising Zeke to be "soave bolla" with Mylene, and especially to the exacting nature of turntablism and emceeing.

In fact, for me, where the series really gives me a jolt of electricity, is when the characters talk about their love for music. When Grandmaster Flash asks Shaolin why he wants to be a DJ and explains the sheer power inherent in music, and why music is its own reward, the hairs on my arms stood up. That message resonates with all music creators and fans, of every genre. Other characters, like washed-up songwriter Jackie Moreno and small-time gangster Cadillac, also talk about the pleasures of music in heartfelt terms.

The Get Down excels with its cast of young players, primarily Justice Smith as the earnest, smart and resourceful Zeke; the marvelous Shameik Moore (of Dope), who balances mysteriousness, toughness, and vulnerability as Shaolin Fantastic; veteran Jimmy Smits as "poverty pimp" politician Papa Fuerte, chewing the scenery with delicious abandon; Jaden Smith as the dreamy self-styled rebel and graffiti artist Dizzee; Skylan Brooks (who broke my heart in The Inevitable Defeat Of Mister & Pete) as youthful sage Ra-Ra; and fresh-faced Tremaine Brown, Jr., as small-fry comic relief Boo Boo. Mahmoudou Athie is a perfect ringer for Grandmaster Flash; and despite his role as cartoon villain Cadillac, Yahya Abdul Mateen II, tricked out in his sharpest Teddy Pendergrass look, is nothing less than sublime talking about his love of disco and dancing the floor in the Les Inferno club. Guardiola does her best with the teenaged Donna Summer wannabe role of Mylene; and Broadway vet Lillias White stretches out as Les Inferno's boss madame Fat Annie.

Kudos to Luhrmann and his production team for bringing in Grandmaster Flash himself, along with co-producer Nas, to help ground this show in the true spirit of hip-hop. Can't wait for the next six episodes, due in 2017.

Backward Glance: Ronin (Or ... Riding In Cars With Boys)

Ronin (1998)
Directed by John Frankenheimer
With Robert DeNiro, Jean Reno, Natascha McElhone, Stellan Skaarsgard

"After we avert this international crisis, let's have coffee." "Sure. But don't tell The Woman."


Watched Ronin again recently. I used to adore this John Frankenheimer movie unreservedly. It's brisk, suspenseful, brain-teasing in the spy-versus-spy way that today's Jason Bourne flicks are, and it's a French travelogue to boot. I still like it fine, but perhaps a bit less slavishly than before. Only because on repeated viewings I've become more aware of its plot holes and more shocked by its violence and muted misogyny.

There's a scene in Nice, France, where Irish rebel operative Natascha McElhone and American hired gun Robert DeNiro sit in a car, staking out the parties they plan to ambush and steal from. They've only met days earlier. When a car approaches, in order to look like a harmlessly amorous couple, DeNiro's quick thinking Sam wordlessly leans over and plants an unexpected smooch on "Deirdre." And she just goes with it, to the extent that even after the danger is past she continues the kissing. And that's basically how you have to be with this movie. From the first frame, without any real warning or an introduction, this flick is going to lean right in and tongue kiss the shit out of you and you will just have to go with it because it's so strong, attractive, and sure of itself.

In a Montmartre bar we are plunged into the first meeting of a group of international mercenaries, some of them referred for the job to the mysterious and badass ringleader Deirdre by "the man in the wheelchair." That's all we know about him, there is no name and no reason and we never see said man or his wheelchair. These hired guns are pulled together with various skills -- automotives, computers, weaponry, tactical warfare, resources -- and told they must wrest a "case" from a group of 3 to 8 men by force, and expect heavy retaliation. Again, no one is told what is in The Case or why it's so important to the parties willing to die for it. It's a MacGuffin of the highest order, in that what's in The Case proves immaterial to the narrative. Our interest is piqued by the setup.

And now, to the boys: Actor Sean Bean, who succumbs to a bad case of ring lust in The Lord of the Rings flicks, here plays an Irish hooligan who can't keep his mouth shut or his shit together during their very first weapons buy and gets canned as a faker before the action. The others -- steely American DeNiro, thoughtful French resource man Jean Reno, shifty eyed German computer wiz Stellan Skarsgard, and chain smoking American stunt driver Skipp Sudduth -- set up camp in a Nice hotel room to plot their assault.

As in most movies, whatever can go wrong will go wrong, and despite the perfect ambush plan that sends them on a nail-biting car chase through the town and hillsides of Nice and nets them The Case (while dozens of innocents die in the crossfire), they've been double-crossed by greedy asshole Gregor (Skarsgard), who snatches the case for himself to sell to the decadent Russians and leaves the others to die. Only American Sam is too freaking smart for the okeydoke.

In fact, Sam's all-seeing wisdom, tactical competence, and calm under fire begs the question of just who the hell he is, where he comes from, and why he's on this mission. As Vincent (Reno) tries to gently pry, Sam skirts questions about past and present affiliations with corny jokes. We know from the first that there's more to him than meets the eye -- and so does Vincent, who has some interesting affiliations of his own. Now that these two understand each other, it's a buddy film with Sam and Vincent doing the heavy lifting to find the case and save each others' skins in the process (France did give us the Statue of Liberty and we, like, owe them). The quest takes them, along with Deirdre and driver Larry, to the medieval town of Arles for a shootout, where poor Larry gets his throat slashed and Deirdre gets abducted. Now they follow Gregor back to a Paris ice skating extrvaganza to tangle with some treacherous Russians and Deirdre's superior, a rogue IRA operative named Seamus (played with evil gusto and a mean Irish brogue by normally mild-mannered Brit Jonathan Pryce).

The genius of director John Frankenheimer is in the chase scenes, particularly a white knuckle setpiece in which Deirdre takes the wheel -- with Seamus and Gregor along for the ride -- and attempts to evade Sam and Vincent by driving her Audi (or is it a Mercedes?) the wrong way through a Paris tunnel (the same one that later claimed the life of Princess Diana). Certainly Frankenheimer knows how to shoot speeding cars after helming 1966's Grand Prix, a feat of incredible filmmaking about French car racing (not to mention that he is a master of the taut suspense plot, having served up The Manchurian Candidate, The Train, and 1973's nail biter Black Sunday). He puts the camera and the actors right in the car and shoots live, often going up to 120 miles per hour. But yo -- there's driving fast and then there is driving fast AGAINST ONCOMING TRAFFIC. As a movie goer I don't think I'd ever seen a chase scene quite like this one, where the camera puts you in the driver's seat, and it left a big impression.

Yada yada yada. Turns out Big Bad Sam is only perpetrating as a gun for hire, he's still very much engaged by his "high school" -- as he euphemistically refers to the CIA -- and we can infer that Vincent has been similarly dispatched by European intelligence. Both men are not as concerned with the case and its contents as with putting a stop to the baddie who set all this international kerfuffle in motion, i.e. Seamus, who, as it turns out, has been ejected from the IRA and is acting alone. His capture helps Ireland's Sinn Fein party gain enough stability to sign a peace agreement with Great Britain, and all is well with the world. Cut to Sam and Vincent, raising a pint together at the bistro in celebration.

But back to the issue of the flick's mild misogyny, if indeed bias against women can ever be termed "mild." Sam's handpicked reward for all of this political aggravation -- a prize to which he feels eminently entitled -- is Deirdre herself. At the very end of the flick, to Vincent's bemusement, Sam hangs around the Montmartre bar where they first met a moment longer, hoping she'll show up. The audience is left wondering as Sam's wondering. But DeeDee, Girl, if you have any self respect, you won't show.

Although "Deer-dree" is presented at first glance as a pants-wearing, no-crap-taking boss lady, Sam constantly challenges her authority, tells her to call her "handlers" even when she insists that she's the shot caller, tells her "you look good cleaned up" when he forces her to pose as his rich tourist trophy wife (as if she didn't look good and/or was dirty before), and calls her "the woman" more than once. At one point he even tosses her the leather jacket he's wearing and tells her to "clean the paint off of it"; WTF, when did she become a domestic, no less an industrial dry cleaner? (And how the hell do you get silver spray paint off a leather jacket on Christmas Eve???) That kiss I mentioned at the top comes out of the blue; these two hadn't flirted or so much as smiled at each other up to that point, and yet Big Bad Sam instantly conquers and tames Queen Deirdre through the sheer power of his sexual prowess. But she's willing, folks. The film has her going in for more because that first kiss was so good -- I mean, that was all it took! Then, at the conclusion of the film, as Deirdre is just about to complete her mission by scooping up both Seamus and The Case, Big Bad Sam swoops down and plays Captain Save-A-Hoe. "Walk away!" he instructs her. Because, you know, otherwise she would be apprehended as an Irish terrorist -- and then who would be the grateful little cherry on Sam's sundae when all this is over?

The only other woman in the flick is a gorgeous Russian ice skater (played by East German Olympic gold medalist Katarina Witt), whose role in the film is to kiss and caress a Russian gangland gargoyle 20 years her senior, catch a bullet between the eyes and fall lifeless to the ice in the middle of a performance. (Witt: What's my role in the film going to be? Frankenheimer: You get to act out "a cold day in hell." Witt: Oh, danke!)

Ronin is still one of DeNiro's best mid-career screen efforts, and the combination with the fantastic Reno is hard to beat. There are explosions, incredible car crashes, a miniature set of Ronin (the masterless samurai the title refers to), and DeNiro extracts a bullet -- from himself! Adding significantly to the film's mood is the ominous and tense score by Czechoslovakian composer Elia Cmiral. Recommended for those who really like a good thriller with a splash of old school sex thrown in for flavor.

Late '60s Spanish Harlem Fantasy With "Popi"

"Popi" (1969)
directed by Arthur Hiller
Starring Alan Arkin, Rita Moreno



I have not seen this film in decades, but I remember it vividly because of its New York locations, its Puerto Rican characters, and of course the fiery Rita Moreno, whom I always loved, but here plays a less-fiery role.

Popi is positioned as a comedy, but at the beginning there are so many gritty, that's-a-bit-too-true-to-be-funny details in it that the film is sometimes more somber than it intends. But because of the casting of a non-Hispanic actor in the lead, and the stereotyping it continues to push, the film hits some bad notes that I wasn't entirely aware of when I was ten.

The story is about struggling Puerto Rican father Abraham Rodriguez, called "Popi" by his kids, played by decidedly Jewish actor Alan Arkin, who earned an Oscar for playing a deaf/mute in The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter from the year before Popi was released. Here, with an uneven accent, his character is trying to raise two rambunctious, mischievous young sons in the urban jungle of Spanish Harlem after their mother dies. Adorably precocious Luis, 9, and Junior, 11, are often on their own, and frequently ditch school and run wild in the streets with other kids among the pimps, hookers, junkies, thieves, and gangs while their father toils in an almost-comic-if-it-weren't-so-sad series of menial jobs to make ends meet.

What I remember from first viewing as a kid is all the precautions the father took to safeguard their precarious lifestyle: The door had like ten locks on it, including that one where you prop an iron rod against the door; when anyone knocked unexpectedly, Popi launched his convincingly menacing guard-dog bark to scare them away; he squirreled food and supplies home from his various jobs to help them survive; and he drilled his boys on cleaning up and saying the right thing for the social worker, the truant officer or any government official who comes by. Were these situations film stereotyping in the extreme? Certainly. But I remember that most of the black and Latino audience at the Westchester Avenue theater in the Bronx where my father took us to see it could seriously relate to what they saw on the screen.

Popi's dream is to make enough money to marry his girlfriend Lupe (Moreno) and move them all to the then-relatively safer and more family-oriented Brooklyn (I guess there were good pockets of Brooklyn at the time, but that borough was just as bad as Harlem in the '70s). When the boys are attacked and humiliated by a local gang, who steal their clothes and leave them stark naked, Popi has reached the end of his rope. He fears the boys will be further victimized in their rough neighborhood, despairs that social services will remove them from his care, he worries that despite his herculean efforts he may not be the father his children deserve and contemplates desperate measures.

While on a job Popi hears about a pair of young Cuban refugees who are rescued from a dilapidated boat in the waters off of Florida by U.S. officials, then granted asylum and whisked off into the arms of well-to-do American adoptive families for a happy ending. A lightbulb goes off. In a determined furor of self-sacrifice, Popi decides that the only thing he can do to guarantee his children a better life is to give them up so they can be adopted by people with middle-class resources and values. "what kind of a man would give away his children?" asks a horrified Lupe.

Undeterred, he hatches an elaborate scheme to set the kids adrift off the coast of Miami in hopes that the Coast Guard will find them and mistake them for Cuban boat people. Needless to say, things do not go according to plan.

The plan involves teaching Junior and Luis to speak only in Spanish; to memorize details about their fictional home in Cuba; coaching them in how to manage a rowboat on the lake in Central Park; and convincing them that it's all to the greater good. Popi manages to get them all to Florida, then steals a launch, drops the boys in and instructs them to gun the motor into the the Atlantic until the fuel runs out. So with a few food supplies and strict instructions, Popi abandons them to their fates with tears in his eyes as his son screams "I hate you, I hope you die!" It's a completely gripping and nearly unbelievable moment, because it's a big ocean and how could any parent do this without the firmest conviction that he's doing the absolute best possible thing for them?

Popi returns to his hotel, agonizing as hours turn into a day and a day turns into several days without any news Cuban boat people rescues. Then, as the anguished father regrets his decision, the TV news reports that his sons are rescued from their boat, hungry, sunburned and dehydrated and whisked to a local Miami hospital for care. The boys stick to their scripts, speaking in Spanish and repeating their stories as the public dotes on the "Cuban refugees" and showers them with gifts and attention.

But when Popi disguises himself to sneak into the hospital to give them final instructions and a last goodbye, the three break into an argument in English that exposes the whole thing as a hoax. Chagrined but relieved, Popi returns to New York with Junior and Luis in tow, and resume their precarious but familiar lifestyle routine.

The film begins as a compelling look at poverty-line life in New York's Spanish Harlem and how Puerto Ricans -- who are American citizens -- struggle to assimilate in America. But then the film turns into an awkward spoof of American/Cuban relations and plays some serious issues for cheap laughs. Regardless, Arkin is a brilliant actor who allows us to feel his deep love for his children and how much pain is involved in loving them enough to give them up.

The film proved popular enough at the time to launch a short-lived sitcom, also called Popi, starring Puerto Rican actor Hector Elizondo.

Here's a video about how the two boys who played Luis and Junior were chosen from hopefuls in Spanish Harlem:

Classic Western: The Magnificent Seven

The Magnificent Seven (1960)
directed by John Sturges
starring Yul Brynner, Eli Wallach, Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson, James Coburn, Robert Vaughn, Horst Buchholz, Brad Dexter

Everybody likes to see a bully get his, especially when the underdogs deliver the comeuppance themselves.

The story of The Magnificent Seven is an enduring one, which is no doubt why it keeps getting remade. Itself cribbed from Akira Kurosawa's 1954 Seven Samurai, this film gets another version this September 23 by director Antoine Fuqua (Training Day, The Italian Job) with Denzel Washington in the Yul Brynner role.



As a fan of old movies, I find it disheartening whenever a studio decides to "update" a film classic because inevitably they tinker with the script's best elements and make a mess of things. Here's hoping that Fuqua doesn't add too many extraneous details or an unnecessary love interest.

SYNOPSIS & SPOILERS

When a village of poor Mexican farmers sees its crops stolen and its women threatened for the umpteenth time by sneering bandit Calvera (Eli Wallach) and his crew of roaming outlaws, they decide they have no choice but to fight for their survival. They hire on a group of American mercenaries, led by Yul Brynner (with his usual accent, though this time he's supposed to be a Creole), to get them guns and train them in tactical warfare to ward off the bully next time he shows. Among the group of gunfighters are old hands Charles Bronson and Steve McQueen, long and lean James Coburn, cardsharp smoothie Robert Vaughn, reliable Brad Dexter and firebrand youngblood Horst Buchholz.

We're supposed to believe that Brynner and his cohorts are interested in fairness and justice, not just money; in an early scene Brynner and newly acquainted pal McQueen take a dare to drive the hearse carrying a dead Indian to the all-white town cemetery for a proper burial, something the white residents of the town try to prevent. The bigots get winged by a few bullets from the heroes in the process.

Once Brynner gathers up his posse, they travel across the border to the town and start weighing their options. Another indication of the group's "righteousness" is when the villagers gather up their meager resources to fete the mercenaries with a big feast. The men learn that most of the town's children are hungry and decide to share their meal. Look, gunslingers have hearts too!

Calvera shows his sweaty face again with 40 of his men and battles The Seven head on; as a result Calvera's crew gets their numbers significantly thinned out. Despite this early victory for the villagers, things turn more deadly when Calvera returns and takes over ("If God didn't want them sheared, he wouldn't have made them sheep" says Calvera of the villagers). This prompts one last shootout with the gunslingers that eventually kills Calvera, who can't quite seem to believe he's been bested by this crew and asks Brynner "why did you come here?" before kicking the bucket. Victory, yes, but the shootout has also left four of The Seven dead in the streets.

The Magnificent Seven is about good versus evil.

It's about the power of revenge -- but also what it costs to achieve.

It's also about male camaraderie; brotherhood in the service of a noble cause. This is a theme that has driven many a war film, not to mention dozens of "buddy" flicks.

And with its cast of tough guys, who have plenty of "cool" and swagger to spare, The Magnificant Seven still serves as a model of what the ultimate Man's Man is supposed to be: cool under fire; full of heart; ready and able to do the right thing; protector of women, children, and the downtrodden; but cold-blooded when necessary.

Unfortunately, the film bears the stamp of the "white savior" movie plot so prevalent throughout film history, though "The Magnificent Seven" tries hard to preach an equality-type message. Nevertheless, the Mexican villagers go hat in hand to the Americans for help, and find themselves learning how to stand up for themselves from the white Yankees.

Women do appear in the film, but they have no real agency. The village hides its women in the forest to protect them against the marauders until Buchholz smokes one out and forces her to share information. But in this film the men have no time for romance, and that's one of the things I like about it. Rather a film with no part for women, than a film that gets sticky with unnecessary liaisons or that shows off the rampant sexism pervasive both at the time the story was set and the time it was filmed.

A story of persistence and courage in the face of danger never goes out of style. Combined with great widescreen cinematography and a taut soundtrack, The Magnificent Seven is a magnificent western classic.