The Lucky Ones (2008)

A review of one of the films from the post 9-11 environment, written at the time of the film's release.

 

The Lucky Ones (Neil Burger, 2008) Every war, every "police action," seems to have its "re-patriation" film. World War 1 had The Razor's Edge, 2—The Best Years of Our Lives, Vietnam—Coming Home. The Lucky Ones involves returning troops in the ongoing Iraq War, different from their cinematic (and real) fellow troops in that they're not coming home. They're on a 30 day leave before going back as part of the "stop-loss" program. So, this takes place as more of an interruption to their service. What happens when the environment is not so regimented, or as dangerous. The three come back from the war altered, and all have specific goals in mind, all of which change when they actually touch boots to ground in the States.

It follows three vets—Cheaver (Tim Robbins), an older sergeant just off his third and last tour, T.K. (Michael Peña), wounded, but gung-ho about going back, and Colee (Rachel McAdams), a neophyte coming back with a mission and a hole in her leg. They're all damaged: Cheaver is psychologically out-of-whack; T.K.'s purpose is to get back to his fiancee to see if "his equipment" still works after being wounded; Colee wants to find the family of the guy she hooked up with there and return his guitar to them. Meeting on the flight state-side, they decide to pool resources to get where they're heading. But, like any road-trip, there are detours, changes of plan, and the occasional loss of bearings. Stability is not to be found at home for any of them, and the trip only reinforces the perception that their fellow soldiers are the only ones who've "got their back."

Some of the episodes reach a bit, while some feel natural, and mostly the film avoids easy answers—less than it avoids mention of the war, except for a brief opening scene. The Lucky Ones is less concerned with Iraq, than it is with the soldier's plight, caught in the demilitarized zone of not fitting in either here or there. Putting them on the road—in transit—reflects that sense of rootlessness (as most road-movies do) that these perpetual soldiers must have that is unique to this era's soldiers. The film never really tackles that subject head-on, as it almost has a duty to do, instead relying on the various "missions" and destinations to define the characters. Ultimately, the film has nowhere to go once those stories are used up, and the film ends on a logical melancholy note.

Where it shines is in the performances. As with the war, Burger and his co-writer Dirk Wittenborn are quiet about the soldiers, presenting them as rather independent pawns in a much bigger game, their choices on the road sometimes unconventional, and not S.O.P.  But McAdams, Pena, and especially Robbins (this is some of his subtlest work in the past decade and nice to see), breathe a likable humanity into their characters, buffering the moments of manipulation and contrivance. You like these guys and want them to succeed, even if they are a bit unreadable—enough so that some of their choices surprise, even deep into the movie. That The Lucky Ones manages to do that is no small accomplishment.

Babel

Babel

or

"The Crash Heard 'Round the World"

A nice little movie that no one has ever heard of is John Sayles' City of Hope made in 1991—it presents a limited space in time in the life of Philadelphia where the decisions of every character over the disposition of a single city block affects every other character in a way that negates any sense that lives can escape the self-imposed limits inflicted by others (and placed on themselves). Everyone is trapped and without any hope. 

 

Paul Haggis, when he copied the form in Crash offered the same bleakness but leavened it with individual rays of hope. One can look at these movies and quibble about coincidences and manipulation, but speaking as someone who's lived in one city and worked, basically, in one field for most of his life, those aspects of rubbing too many shoulders has never seemed like much of a stretch. It's pretty amazing how a large city can become a "small town" fairly quickly and without irony.

Babel, though (named after the tower in the bible-story that created so many ESL programs), takes it one planet further. From its opening image of a Moroccan hunter trudging the desert to its last shot of a man holding a naked woman on a Japanese balcony, every single life is intertwined in a way that makes one wince, and actually creates dread over the next revelation of inter-connectedness (there's one character, whose absence sets in motion an unfortunate series of events, that we never see—supposedly she'll be in Babel II). It's a bit of a stretch, lessened somewhat by the global investigation of a mistaken act of terrorism. Nothing brings the world together like Homeland Security.

Still, if one can overlook The Big Skein that hangs over the movie like a shroud, the individual segments are involving, dramatically impeccable and present worlds that are never less than intriguingly realized. One wonders throughout where the stories will lead, even if the answer on an occasion or two is nowhere.

To reveal too much would be robbing the movie of any freshness it possesses, but suffice it to say that lack of communication is a key in all of them and that they are resolved (when they're resolved) by a recommitment to family (except when they're not). It's a bit messy in that regard. But, then, what world isn't?

Gangster Squad

Saturday is traditionally "Take Out the Trash" Day.

 

Written at the time of the film's release...

 

Manifest Density

or

The War for the Soul of Los Angeles (such as it is)

 

Ruben Fleischer's third film (after the very good Zombieland and the excremental 30 Minutes or Less) is Gangster Squad, a Hollywoodized version of the efforts by the LAPD to take down the efforts of Mickey Cohen, the lieutenant of Bugsy Siegel's Jewish mafia, who took over Siegel's interests when the mob kingpin was murdered in 1947.

If one is looking for a history lesson, one should look elsewhere. This is a glamorized, fictionalized version of the events set in some art-deco post-war version of Los Angeles that doesn't seem to have existed anywhere except the Warner Brothers gangster films and Brian de Palma's The Untouchables, to which this film owes a great debt. The gangsters all wear dark clothes with long coats (the better to identify them) and are all greasy and ugly, while the police are all good-looking guys in nice suits who bend the rules a bit (with the possible exception of Chief Parker, played with a gruff somnambulance by Nick Nolte, who headed up the similar "Hat Squad" in Lee Tamahori's Mulholland Falls).*

It all feels very false, from how the gangsters rarely hit anything despite the thousands of rounds shot from tommy-guns, and the Gangster Squad "hit" ratio usually fares better. The Squad (hand-picked by the leader's wife, played by Mireille Anos, for being rough-necks and not promotion-headed top-of-their-classers) consists of boss John O'Mara (who did exist, but did not run the unit) as played by Josh Brolin, Jerry Wooters (played by Ryan Gosling), Max Kennard (Robert Patrick)—a sharpshooter, Conway Keeler (Giovanni Ribisi) a surveillance/electronics expert, as well as two PC members for the 21st century audience—Anthony Mackie (so good in The Adjustment Bureau) and Michael Peña. Their target is Mickey Cohen (Sean Penn in a make-up that makes him look like he walked out of Warren Beatty's Dick Tracy), who's reputation is movie-inflated to make him seem like he's an empire-building Al Capone, rather than the cheap hood with star connections he ultimately was.

Fleischer is more interested in flash than being true to the source. His fights are surprisingly well-staged, one shot per flying fist, but not Bourne-edited so one can easily follow it—an early fight in an elevator borrows heavily from a similar scene in a James Bond movie but actually goes places the 007 film merely used for suspense. Once in awhile, he'll go for a Matrix-y slo-sloo-slooo-mo effect (rather than a fleeting Peckinpah image) just to make a point of something, like cartridges flying out of a machine gun, or a Christmas ornament exploding due to gunfire, but it's just slowing things down as opposed to telling a story. Brolin's fine, nuanced even, but Gosling's McQueen-ish hipster act is wearing a little thin, and the chemistry exhibited between he and Emma Stone from Crazy, Stupid Love is completely missing here. Mackie, Peña, and Patrick are far more engaging probably because they don't fit the established mold.

It's entertaining, to a certain extent, but one gets the feeling, after patterns have been set that bring to mind other films, that one is being sold a bill of goods, and we are.

The real-life Cohen was convicted of tax evasion (not murder) in 1950, serving four years. Upon his release, he established several businesses (the ones portrayed in the film) and was again convicted of tax evasion in 1961 and released (again) in 1972. Cohen died in his sleep in 1976.

The real Mickey Cohen, photographed in 1950

The real "Gangster Squad"

* Amusingly, his driver is Officer Darryl Gates (played by Josh Pence) who would be Chief from 1978 to 1992.

30 Minutes or Less

Saturday is traditionally "Take Out the Trash" Day.

 

"Zombieland 2"
or
"30 Brain-cells or Less"

30 Minutes or Less is the latest film from director Ruben Fleischer, who had previously been in charge of the movie Zombieland (which was fresh, funny and smart) and I think that in the current movie climate, as damp and soggy (and derivative) as it is, that we might want to re-think the auteur theory—the critical bon mot from the 1950's era Cahiers du Cinema crowd that the director is the true "author" of a film, despite it, by necessity, being a collaborative medium. You can make a case for it with some—Hitchcock, Kubrick, Welles, Hawks, Ford, Capra, Leone, Fellini, Scorsese, Kurosawa, Spielberg, Woo, Malick...Michael Bay, Lars von Trier (hmmm). 

Well, for good or ill you can make the case.

Mr. Mason, your witness. "Call to the stand, Ruben Fleischer..." (and the prosecution then puts its head in its hands).

"Move to dismiss..."

As I said, I liked Zombieland (which, although it had moments when it dragged, was a hilarious take on zombie-movie traditions). But, I despise to the core of my critical thinking 30 Minutes or Less. And it shakes my faith, because the guy who brought so much to the former brings nothing to the latter, not even the smarts to know when something's not working and, in so realizing, makes the attempt to change it. That's what direction is all about, isn't it? There are the occasional stylistic flourishes—liked the pan up from headlights of both the protagonists and antagonists linking the two, and a fire-flash of seriousness there towards the end—but, for goodness sake, scene after scene of this nightmare falls as flat as a two hours old pizza (thin crust), bereft of story sense or any humor, other than a chain-link of easy crudities and a nasty streak of hooting at the flailing of the morons on display.

The plot—such as it is—involves slacker Nick (Jesse Eisenberg, looking a bit lost but doing so at 90 mph), a pizza-delivery boy, who, despite driving like a maniac, seems incapable of delivering a pizza on time.  He crosses paths with two even slacker bone-heads (Danny McBride, Nick Swardson—evidently the next big star of terrible films), who claim to be entrepreneurs—although they seem to have trouble pronouncing the word—even though they have no business sense, no ideas on how to make money—other than cleaning the pool of the lottery-winner-father of the former (Fred Ward, you should be ashamed), and could be considered troglodytes if only they had a hint of hunter-gatherer skills.

They decide to raise $100 grand to hire a hit-man (Michael Peña) to kill off said father—their only means of support—by robbing a bank, or rather forcing someone else to rob a bank by attaching a time-bomb to them, the not-agreed-to heist to be completed before bomb and bearer go boom. At least, their characterizations are consistent—they don't want to take responsibility for anything or for doing anything. They should probably re-think starting a tanning business and going into politics.

This is where Nick comes in. He delivers a pizza to the slackers, they drug him and attach the bomb while he's "out." In a panic, he must (for once) be on time, or he's dead. He recruits his pal Chet (Aziz Ansari) to help in the robbery, but, even though they get away with the money, it's a botch-job (no doubt inspired by the making of this picture), then comes the inevitable complications over the money hand-off and a resolution of sorts...lots of explosions that we are to believe people survive, as if this were some kind of Road-Runner cartoon (except those are entertaining).

The whole thing has a slap-dash feel to it, with a lot of ad-libbing between McBride and Swarsdon that comes off as "'Off'-Night at the Improv." The thing is totally devoid of wit and is just a string of sketch comedy riffs held together by the robbery plot. It's a movie best seen drunk or stoned or sleeping. After bearing with the thing for 45 minutes, I chose the latter.

Here's the thing—a variation on this really happened: On August 28th, 2003, a bank in Erie Pennsylvania was robbed by Brian Douglas Wells, a pizza delivery man, who was abducted and a bomb placed around his neck. Wells pleaded with everyone during the bank heist that he was doing it against his will and begged to get the bomb off him. Unfortunately for Wells, the bomb squad showed up four minutes after the device exploded, killing him instantly. Now, just imagine the brainstoming session between the script-writers where someone relates this horrible crime (it was attempted a couple weeks ago in Australia, as well) and said "This would make a great comedy!" ("Laugh? I thought I'd die!")

According to Wikipedia's entry on the movie, the scriptwriters, Michael Diliberti—his first screenplay after being an assistant to producer Scott Rudin—and Matthew Sullivan claim that they were only "vaguely aware" of it. "Vaguely aware" are the perfect words, I think. It seems that was the state in which the whole movie was developed and made. It's a bad idea for a movie, badly made. And now, in a moment of justice, Fleischer, Diliberti and Sullivan have their own "bomb" tied around their necks.

And they're going to have to carry it around for a very long time.

Lions for Lambs

Written at the time of the film's release...

"Never engage the enemy for too long, or he will adapt to your tactics"

Carl Von Clausewitz

 

There are three arenas in play, and as the film begins the protagonists are checking their ledgers and statistics: Lt. Col. Falco (Peter Berg) is checking his strategy briefings; Senator Jasper Irving (Tom Cruise) is looking at dropping poll numbers; Professor Steven Malley (Robert Redford) is checking the quarter's attendance; Reporter Janine Roth (Meryl Streep) is looking at her unopened note-book--an empty slate. Thus begins Lions for Lambs* a polemic about the current Middle-East War, the entities that package and sell it, and the public that may not like it, but won't do anything to oppose it. All the stories intersect a bit and the movie takes place over a few hours. The script is by Matthew Michael Carnehan, who also wrote The Kingdom. Its director, Peter Berg, who plays Falco here, said that film was "98% Action, 2% Message." Here, that ratio is reversed, and, man, is it tedious. 

First off, there is a heavy veneer of liberal self-satisfaction (though not as much as when conservatives put the hammer down). The senator is a Republican tyro, trying to bolster his party's (and his) poll numbers by setting up a new front in Afghanistan (Senator's can do that? I mean besides Charlie Wilson?) He's given Roth a solid hour (this is supposedly a big deal) to argue his case that this attack (no, really, this one!) will win the war in Afghanistan, the war on terror, the hearts and minds of Afghans (he really says this) and presumably bring the troops back home for Christmas (he doesn't say this, but he might as well have). Cruise was bio-engineered for this role (and you just know this is the part Redford would have taken during his career in the cynical 1960's), an opportunistic-photo-op-ready politico, with flags on the desk, pants-press in the office, and flashing Chiclets in his mouth, while Meryl Streep is all shambling messiness, trying to counter the arguments (is that her job?) that Cruise spins on the head of a pin. Their section is the sort of "greased-pig" argument and obfuscation bull-session that keeps me from watching the "pundit" shows--nothing's less fun or informative than watching two used-policy salesmen, hectoring each other trying to get their feet stuck in the open door of your mind. Finally it gets down to my favorite argument when rats-on-their-hind-legs are cornered--The Multiple Choice Bottom-Liner: "Do you want to win the War on Terror: Yes or No?". ("Well, I don't know, Senator, when did you stop beating your wife?") At one point Streep asks, "When does the new offensive start?" Cruise looks at his (supposed) Rolex. "Ten minutes ago." So much for pre-selling.

And in that ten minutes, the mission is already SNAFU'd, when two grunts are bounced out of a helicopter taking heavy fire, turning the offensive thrust into a rescue mission. Not a good start to winning those hearts and minds.

And by a curious coincidence--or a heavy-handed ploy by the screenwriter--those very two soldiers were both students in Professor Malley's political science class, who, in a school project capped their volunteerism argument by enlisting. Now, Malley uses them to guilt a slacker-student who can't be bothered coming to class because he's "busy with stuff," into considering a more activist stance before the bigger challenges of jobs, mortgages, ball-games, and watching "American Idol" zombies away any chance of him doing any critical thinking for the rest of his life. That's a valid argument to make, whichever side of the aisle you take bribes on. But instead of making the arguments, Malley turns them into three-corner shots that kind of dance around the problem, rather than saying something, oh, like "I would suggest you start coming to class or I will flunk your lazy frat-ass: your call."

The trouble here is that the issues are so immediate that the arguments the film is making were too late four years ago. So, it's a bit like soft-ball preaching to the choir. The arguments are sound, but they have very little relevance to extricating us from the tar-pit of this conflict, and, yes, people are getting chewed up by it, but that's the business of war, and why you try to avoid it, rather than rush in like a damned fool. It's great to be able to say all this with 20-20 hind-smugness, but it's essentially useless. Now tell us something we don't know, and how we can avoid it the next time. "Is he failing you?" a fellow frat asks the student about his meeting. The movie certainly is.

* The title derives from a phrase from World War I, but, the exact nature of the quote is subject to debate, and its history, like the film, is a bit muddled.

End of Watch

Written at the time of the film's release...long before the Derek Chauvin conviction, but long after the Rodney King footage. Police work is a tough job that I'd be quite incapable of. And it's made tougher by the fact that they've become the "catch-all" solution to all of Society's problems. There's got to be a better way...for them and for us. I stand by the police. But, I don't stand by, blindly, ignoring the fact that they've become a symptom of a system doing as little as possible...and leaving it for someone else to fix.

Cops, the Home Movie
or
"...More Capers in One Deployment Than Most Cops Will See Their Entire Career."

It's a war out there "once upon a time in South Central." And Officer Brian Taylor (Jake Gyllenhaal) is the front-line reporter documenting the whole thing "for a project."  He's carrying a camera—not that he really needs it, the dashboard cam will pick up everything needed for an investigation. But that camera can only look forward—it's myopic. It can't see around you, it can't check the perimeter. And it can't look into your soul. It can look at your back, but it can't have it.

It starts with one of those dash-cam chases, so familiar to "reality" chase shows. No overlayed sound, save for Gyllenhall's narration, said in a monotone as if he was giving you your Miranda.  

I am the police and I am here to arrest you. You have broken the law. I did not write the law. I may even disagree with the law. But I will enforce it. No matter how you plead, cajole, beg or attempt to stir my sympathy, nothing you do will stop me from putting you in a steel cage with gray bars. If you run away, I will chase you. If you fight me, I will fight back. If you shoot at me, I will shoot back. By law I am unable to walk away. I am a consequence. I am the unpaid bill. I am fate with a badge and a gun. Behind my badge is a heart like yours. I bleed, I think, I love, and yes, I can be killed. And although I am but one man, I have thousands of brothers and sisters who would die for me and I for them. We stand watch together. The thin-blue-line, protecting the prey from the predators, the good from the bad. We are the police.*

And with that, the law of the film is laid down. The dash-cam goes away and the camera goes into cinema verité, the camera pointing from inside Taylor's locker as he goes through basic introductions—himself, his partner Mike Zavalla (Michael Peña, never better), his equipment (and a conversation from Rio Bravo pops into one's head: "That all you got?" "That's what I got."), and the beginning of the look inside—the harsh joshing, the tensions, the coolness and coldness and camaraderie of the corps. Joseph Wambaugh had an apt phrase for them in his book (and subsequent film), "The New Centurions." But Rome was never like this.

The turf in South Central is tough and hard-scrabble. Poverty is on display on every street corner, and behind the boarded-up windows of the houses in various states of disrepute are secrets for the outside world not to know, but will see the light of day once the front door is kicked in. The war is in the streets, but inside cook the warning signs that something is about to explode, the stakes rising, the limits of human degradation dropping, the calibers of the weapons increasing, the risks increasing and the only good side of it being that they're not increasing exponentially.

It's a tough film, directed and written by the guy who wrote Training Day and the original The Fast and the Furious, David Ayer, who has a knack for keeping things on the down-trodden path no matter who's behind the camera or what the subject matter is. It's not a film for continuity buffs, who will be driven crazy if they think "Okay, who's taking that shot?" with every change of perspective. Very quickly, the strictures of the snatch-and-grabbed shot are forgotten to gain perspective. The film would have been a pretentious (and claustrophobic) confusion if the conceit was maintained throughout, (I can see the review headline now: "The Blair Watch Project"), but as it is, breathes enough air into it while maintaining a feeling of impromptu recording—keeping the spirit of the law, rather than the letter of it. That, along with the ad-libbed spark of the dialogue gives it an edgy immediacy that, again, "seems" right, while never fully escaping the feeling of planned manipulation (not that it ever could). Game try, though. And manages to show the life—long stretches of tedium punctuated by moments of terror—that one imagines the life to be, even though blown up with steroids to fulfill the needs for melodrama and tension.

* But, what it doesn't say is "We are also responsible, culpable, and...accountable."

The Mule (2018)

Mr. Day-lily
or
"Regrets I've Had a Few, But, Then Again, I Made The Rookie"

Glenn Close: This is Cameron's first nomination and he's in extremely good company. Tonight he joins fellow best actor nominee Paul Newman for "Coot", Clint Eastwood for "Codger", Michael Douglas for "Primary Urges" and Steven Seagal for "Snowball in Hell".

In & Out, 1997

It's a bit of a shock to see Clint Eastwood return to acting, his first appearance since 2012's Trouble with the Curve, at the age of 88. Then you relaize: who else could play The Mule, based on the New York Times article "The Sinaloa Cartel's 90-Year Old Drug Mule"? Who else would an insurance company bet on any other actor, other than Eastwood, to complete the film? After all, he has continued to direct films during his hiatus. As budgets bloom and special effects extravaganzas mushroom through the multi-plexes, Eastwood continues to make simple movies, under budget and under schedule. It is also an opportunity to work again with screenwriter Nick Schenk who wrote Eastwood's first "swan song" Gran Torino in 2008, ten years ago.

But, Eastwood is definitely looking his age: he's frailer, the skin on his arms—which one would have referred to as "guns" back in the day—has turned crepey, and a certain careful feebleness has crept into his movements. But, the crooked smile is still there and the enthusiasm is never less than present.

Never seen the fear, though.

Eastwood plays Earl Stone*, a commercial horticulturist with a specialty in day-lilies, those plants that flower one bloom at a time lasting 24 hours. He's done it for the last few years, carefully tending his wares, then traveling to horti-conventions where he likes to mingle and sell his starters, usually be sheer personality. He's always the life of the party and he makes a good living at it.

But, not a good life.

His time on the road makes him an absent father and grandfather, estranged from his wife Mary (Dianne Wiest) and daughter Iris (Alison Eastwood, appropriately, who played Eastwood's daughter in Tightrope), but still viewed with hope by granddaughter Ginny (Taissa Farmiga). Stone would rather be schmoozing in the bar than walk Iris down the aisle for her second wedding. Perhaps it's his age, but more than likely it's that he can't stop pursuing the bright shiny objects that he's afraid he'll miss. He's not into The Big Picture, or making a five-year plan, and he only looks down the road far enough to make his destination. He's lived far longer than is practical, given his short sight. 

For instance, his business. His nursery is a humble arrangement, but the business model gets changed by the internet. Pretty soon, his orders start to wither due to competing online sales. He loses the nursery and is left with his battered old truck and no visible means.

As he says, "I'm not a Plan-B kind of guy."

But, at his granddaughter's pre-wedding dinner—which deigns to attend, causing his wife and daughter to walk out in disgust—he gets an offer: how would he like to drive transport for "some guys?" His money situation is critical, so he takes the given address and drives to a nondescript garage, no questions asked.

He's looked at with suspicion by the guys at the garage, one of whom totes an automatic weapon. The job is simple; drive up to Illinois to a certain hotel, park the truck, leave the keys in the glove-box, and then...walk away. For an hour. Go get something to eat. When he comes back, the keys will still be there, but so will his payment. Then, just drive back.

Stone makes the first run, and is amazed to find an envelope with a stack of "benjamins" inside when he returns. His contact on that end makes an unprecedented appearance outside his window, saying he did good and that there is more work if he wants it.

Stone is flush—the pay for these drug runs is a thousand per kilo of cocaine delivered—and he buys a new tricked-out truck to replace the old one, and he is able to indulge. But, then some "need" will come along—his VFW hall is shutting down, his granddaughter is going to a cosmetology college—there's always something, and despite his years, Stone is well-regarded by his handlers, even friendly to him. Stone knows how to schmooze, when to play the fool, when to stand his ground, and he's respected. Sure, he's an ornery SOB at times, but he soon becomes known as "Grandfather" and "Tata."

Even Laton (Andy Garcia), who runs the whole operation from his sumptuous villa, thinks highly of Stone, because he's agreeable, somewhat efficient, and easily plied. It doesn't make any difference to him what he's traffiking. Nobody's going to suspect a friendly octogenarian.

Not even the DEA? The head of a local chapter (Laurence Fishburne) has just welcomed new recruit Colin Bates (Bradley Cooper) to his squad to be working with another agent (Michael Peña) in trying to stop the wide-spread illegal transport within the borders. He has one instruction—make a splash. This Bates does by putting pressure on a local contact who knows the routes, the people and the routine. Running parallel to Stone's story is their deliberate uncovering of the network pipeline and their planning to bust it wide open, the inevitable result of which being that, at some point, given twists in the road, the stories will merge, making Stone, once again, the center of attention, but the kind of notice that has consequences.

Eastwood's direction is simple, efficient, and not showy—as it usually is—and the performances are good throughout, with Wiest and Alison Eastwood being the stand-outs. Cooper and Peña are not given much to do other than act professional. It's Eastwood's show and a cautionary tale on the price of selfishness, hubris, and getting rick too quick—and of stubbornness without conscience.

* "The names have been changed." "The Mule" was actually Leo Sharp (pictured below). He died December 12, 2016 at the age of 92. The Mule was released on December 14, 2018.