Don't Make a Scene: American Graffiti

The Story: I still believe that American Graffiti is the best film directed by George Lucas (despite the elephant in the galaxy). One can certainly argue that it isn't the most imaginative (although at the time of its release, there wasn't a a big rush on 50's nostalgic films—and it would inspire quite a few) but its story of high school graduates on the cusp of changing their lives on one fateful night is the tightest, most complete, all-around film that the director has created and supervised.

It shows up in even minor scenes as the four male leads go off on their nocturnal quests of various types. For Richard Dreyfuss' character Curt, it's to decide if he wants to go back East to college, leaving California and his past behind. He is pushed and pulled by various conflicts: he is scared to leave home, he wants the adventure, then the night works its magic—there is a blonde (she was revealed to be Suzanne Sommers) in a white T-bird that he becomes infatuated with even though he knows nothing about her, his buddy Steve (Ron "Ronny" Howard)—"Mr. Prom King"—is pushing him to go (along with him is the plan).

Then there is the counsel of the wise-men he meets along his journey's path—one of whom, his friend and mentor Mr. Wolfe (Terry McGovern)—a spot-on name—former teacher of his, who advises in two ways of the "do as I say, not as I do" school: he went away to school, couldn't hack it (for whatever reason) and came back to Modesto to teach at his old school and (apparently) seduce students as the awkward encounter that ends their discussion attests. Curt will leave their talk disheartened and no wiser than before and it will take a pilgrimage to Lucas' version of the Voice of God to set him on the proper life-arc.

Yeah, it's a movie about cruising teenagers—but it's where they're cruising to (in '62) that makes the movie special and a classic. 

And Lucas' best movie.

The Set-Up: It's nostalgia time for last year's class as their school is holding a final dance before the start of the next year's terms. Curt Henderson (Dreyfuss) is set to catch a plane for back East tomorrow morning, but, back in the day when you could cancel a ticket and get a refund, he's thinking of not going. And he's got all night to decide.

Action...

HIGH SCHOOL HALLWAY

The Stroll music floats from the gym down the empty hall. Curt walks along with his hands in his pockets. One last trip down the grey, locker-lined corridor. 

He slows and stops by locker 2127. He smiles a little, then flips the dial of the lock. Once to the right--back to the left--then to the right again. 

Curt hits the handle. It doesn't open. Changed already. 

He shrugs and goes off down the hallway. 

HIGH SCHOOL GYM: 

Curt walks in the background, behind the line of kids clapping as one couple Strolls down between them. Then Curt hears somebody call him. 

MR. WOLFE (off) Hey--Curtis! 
Curt wanders over toward a young teacher, Mr. Wolfe, who is surrounded by a group of admiring (and grade-seeking) girls. Mr. Wolfe wears ivy league clothes and is about twenty-five, not much older than his students. 

MR. WOLFE Curtis, come here. Help me, will you? I'm surrounded. 
GIRL You won't dance? Come on. 

MR. WOLFE No, really, I'd like to, but I can't. I mean, if old Mr. Simpson came in here and saw me dancing with one of you sexy little-- excuse me...one of you young ladies, he'd have my rear end. 
GIRLS Aahhh. 

They all giggle. Mr. Wolfe shrugs at Curt and heads for a door. Curt follows him and they escape from the girls into the night. 
OUTSIDE THE GYM: 
Curt and Mr. Wolfe come out of the gym. Mr. Wolfe sees a couple of guys skulking around in the shadows smoking cigarettes and laughing. The music has changed to "See You in September." 

MR. WOLFE Hey, Warren. Come on, gentlemen, back inside. Put 'em out. Let's go. 

CURT (grinning as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes) Kids...Want one? 

MR. WOLFE (taking one from the pack) All right. Hey, I thought you'd left. 

CURT No, not yet. (looking for matches) I have no matches. 
Mr. Wolfe takes out a pack of matches and lights both their cigarettes. They walk down a chain-link fence, past dark, venetian-blinded classrooms. 

MR. WOLFE Brother, how do I get stuck with dance supervision? Will you tell me that?...You going back East?

MR. WOLFE Boy, I remember the day I went off. Got drunk as hell the night before. Just-- 

CURT Blotto. 
MR. WOLFE Blotto. Exactly. Barfed on the train all the next day. 

CURT (grinning) Cute. Very cute. 

CURT  Where'd you go again? 

MR. WOLFE Middlebury. Vermont. Got a scholarship.
CURT And only stayed a semester. 
MR. WOLFE (smiling and nodding) One semester. And after all that, I came back here. 

CURT Why? 

MR. WOLFE (shrugging) Decided I wasn't the competitive type. I don't know...maybe I was scared. 

CURT Well, you know I might find I'm not the competitive type myself. 

MR. WOLFE What do you mean? 

CURT Well, I'm not really sure that I'm going. 

MR. WOLFE Hey, now--don't be stupid. 

MR. WOLFE Go. Experience life. Have some fun, Curtis. 
Then a voice calls from the shadows. 

JANE (off) Bill? 
They turn and see a girl coming out of a doorway. Mr. Wolfe looks at Jane, one of his students, but doesn't say anything. 

JANE I mean--Mr. Wolfe. Can I speak with you a minute. (She smiles at Curt.) 

JANE Hi, Curt. 

CURT Jane... 

He looks at Mr. Wolfe, who seems a little embarrassed. Then, Mr. Wolfe sticks out his hand. 

MR. WOLFE Anyway--good luck, Curtis. 

Curt shakes his hand. 

CURT Yeah...I'll see you. 

CURT Thanks a lot. 

Curt walks back toward the gym. 

Looking around, he sees Mr. Wolfe standing in the shadows with the girl, talking intimately. 

Curt turns away and goes off.

American Graffiti

Words by George Lucas, Willard Huyck, and Gloria Katz

Pictures by Haskell Wexler, Jan D'Alquen, Ron Eveslage and George Lucas

American Graffiti is available on DVD and Blu-Ray from Universal Home Entertainment.

The Sound of Fury (1950)

The Sound of Fury (aka Try and Get Me!, Cy Endfield, 1950) I was watching an old repeat of "British Antiques Roadshow," when Cy Endfield's name came up. Brought up for appraisal was an elegantly designed silver and gold portable chess-set to commemorate the Bobby Fisher-Boris Spassky match in 1972. Much ooh-ing and ahh-ing was made over the piece for its design characteristics and it was mentioned that the fellow responsible was Endfield, described as a "polymath," as magician, engineer, writer, director and inventor. His most famous (and successful) film was Zulu (1964), a genuine British classic, but he also made Mysterious Island (along with Ray Harryhausen)—his Hell Drivers has been posted here. Those films were made in Britain, but he started his career in America, working at RKO (where his magic legerdemain brought him into the orbit of Orson Welles), and where he directed B-movies like The Underworld Story, only to be black-listed for his political beliefs during the McCarthy era.

The film we're talking about today (no matter which title you use) was particularly labeled by the House Un-American Activities Committee for being "un-American." Seeing as the film—and you could properly call it among the darkest of the film noir genre—is an indictment of capitalism, yellow journalism and mob violence, particularly lynching, one could see where this might cause a stir in '50's America. But, seeing as how it was based on an actual incident (which also inspired Fritz Lang's first American film, Fury), one might consider the source.

The film begins with a blind street-preacher haranguing passers-by that judgment day is coming and they should prepare to meet their lord (you know you're in for a rough time at the movies when that's the first thing you hear—evidently his appearance wasn't enough to assuage HUAC). The passersby ignore him, as does Howard Tyler (Frank Lovejoy), who's now out of work and prospects are thin. He's getting tired of it, especially when his wife (Kathleen Ryan) reminds him of his responsibilities and that they have a son to take care of...with another on the way.  

Tyler moves the family to Santa Sierra, California to get a job in the mines, but is unsuccessful. To get away from his wife's nagging, he goes to the local bowling alley where he meets a sharp named Jerry Slocum (Lloyd Bridges, pushing his acting boundaries considerably). Jerry's a vain-glorious dandy who talks big but is a bit schizy and convinces Tyler that working in the mines is a sucker's game, one that'll kill him without much to show for it. Slocum knows of a guy who needs a good driver for some jobs that need a certain level of confidentiality and Tyler agrees.

Those jobs turn out to be knocking over gas stations, and, as much as he doesn't like his part in it, he is at least able to take care of his family...if only his wife didn't ask so many questions about what he does at night. Meanwhile, the robberies are starting to get the attention of a local reporter (Richard Carlson), who gets the assignment to pump up the story as an incipient crime wave to sell papers. Things are starting to get hot and the added attention makes Jerry want out, but that inspires Slocum to pull one last crime—a big score—kidnapping the son of one of the town's rich folk and holding him for ransom.

But, Jerry's not the best at the "long game," being so fidgety and all. When the kid tries to make a run for it, Slocum picks up a boulder and smashes his head in, then dumps him in the river—but not before taking a distinctive tie-pin for evidence. He's still trying to get the ransom for a dead man. The two head out of town, the better to mail a ransom note, and Slocum decides to make things a night on the town with women, so that there's no show of two strangers showing up in town. But, Tyler's in bad shape and starts to drink...and well...you know. Plus, with the added attention of a blood-thirsty press, the temperatures in Santa Sierra start to soar above the boiling point.

Between Bridges' histrionics and Endfield's off-kilter camera-view, The Sound of Fury has more than its share of amped-up energy that starts to explode near the film's end in a sequence of mob violence that still stiffens the hairs on the back of the neck to this day. It's a bit mitigated to off-screen action, but, really, is that something you want to see? Endfield's suggestiveness is enough to give nightmares and paint a grim picture of majority rule when it becomes a mob.

It's been tough to see The Sound of Fury, as it wasn't a hit, and there weren't many prints. One, however, was owned by Martin Scorsese (for whom it's a favorite film) and, with his permission and efforts, the film is back to its pristine, if begrimed, glory.

Stardust (2007)

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

"Getting killed by pirates...heart eaten by a witch...meet Victoria--I can't seem to decide which is worse!"

Matthew Vaughn's film of Stardust is so far removed from his last film, Layer Cake, that it would take a Babylon Candle to bridge the two (Don't know what a "Babylon Candle" is? Then you'll have to see the film. You should anyway). 

Layer Cake (an updated aside—it's the film where, suddenly, Daniel Craig, managed to emerge from behind the furniture into a eye-catching starring performance) was a whooping, swooping kitchen-sink-and-Porsche's story of drug-dealing in contemporary London. And while some of the stylistic touches are the same for Stardust, the story couldn't be more different. For instead of modern-day Britain, he is spinning his camera through Neil Gaiman's Faerie-Land.

Gaiman's reach is all things mythical, from the twee to the atrocious--across the stars, underground, beyond the pale and underneath your fingernails. He borrows from all sources, and puts them through his own personal salad-shooter and spits them out with his own dressing. In his work you'll find echoes of Shakespeare, Marlowe and Milton, G.K. Chesterton and Jorge Luis Borges and the Brothers Grimm, Greek mythology and Roman gods, History and Urban Legend, The Arabian Nights and the Book of the Dead, The Bible and the DC/Marvel Multiverses. 

I've been reading Gaiman with delight (no pun intended) for years, starting with his "Sandman" saga, which dragged on for maybe a dozen more issues than necessary because he had so many stories he wanted to get to, but I also love his "Violent Cases," and much of his book-work. It is with some trepidation that one watches his forays into film--Jon Peters owns the film-rights to "Sandman," for instance, and Gaiman wrote the English translation for Princess Mononoke, and worked on "Mirrormask," and there's talk of filming "Good Omens," the book he co-wrote with Terry Pratchett.* That's scary talk. For what it's done to the works of Alan Moore, Hollywood looks like a gold-plated abortion clinic, and one wonders if they could do any justice to Gaiman's work. Even to attempt to film his "Signal to Noise" would be to destroy it.

Stardust makes the transition fairly well, though it eliminates the faeries and sprites that populate Gaiman's world like smoke, dust and flotsam do in Ridley Scott's (they also serve as little "Rosencrantzes" and "Guildensterns"). They throw in a sock-o finale, and the film has none of the delicacy of Charles Vess' illustrations from the graphic novel that Gaiman expanded to book-length. In fact, it has the sensibility several refinements up from Monty Python-design. But it does retain Gaiman's special form of "myth-busting," the wink-and-a-nod to the "real" world that suffused The Princess Bride, but without the Borcht Belt cinched around its waist.

What's interesting is how Paramount is selling it...or not selling it, as the case may be. Looking at the poster, you'd think it was one of the endless string of pre-teen or teen fantasy novels adaptations that are filling the Previews, or as reverent as Chronicles of Narnia, when nothing could be further from the truth, (but there are enough spinning helicopter shots of big landscapes to reassure the Suits that it has a "Lord of the Rings" quality). It's frequently hilarious in surprising and snarky ways, especially in the casting. 

Michelle Pfeiffer may not be the best at holding an accent, but her comic timing, and willingness to play against her looks is delightful. Robert DeNiro makes an entrance and you worry that he's been put in the wrong movie, but then he comes through with flying colors. Peter O'Toole does wonders with his limited screen-time as the Lion-King of a family of blue-bloods, and Rupert Everett shows up long enough to tweak his image hilariously. It's a fun, fine, un-gooey fairy tale that charms and delights. It's not doing well at the theaters, so do yourself a favor and go. Don't wait for Paramount to get their act together to convince you.

* "Good Omens" was made into a TV Mini-series in 2019 on Amazon Prime.

Red (2010)

Written at the time of the film's release.

"Better Dead Than Red"
or
"Who Wouldn't Want to See Helen Mirren with a Sniper Rifle?"*

Cute.**

That's the word for Red. Not good. Not bad. Just "cute." I mean, what's not to like? A movie top-heavy with talent in front of the lens—in fact, there are so many Emmy/Oscar-winning actors (including Ernest Borgnine and Richard Dreyfuss buried in the credits) that one wonders why there wasn't a better project for them to do than this. Yes, it's entertaining (if you turn the brain off). Sure, it's occasionally funny—it's especially nice to see Bruce Willis back in his lighter mode, reminding one of how damned good he was in his "Moonlighting" days, and John Malkovich taking full advantage of his "crazy coot" part without pretensions of doing anything serious. And it's nice to see a full cast of "mature" actors in a movie based on a comic book series, so that the potential audience demographic is as wide as Morgan Freeman's smile. For a reviewer of my advanced age (55), it is a little disconcerting to see these storied thesp's I've grown up watching (often from their first filmed roles) being sold as "old farts in the pasture,"*** despite how easily they deal with their younger counterparts, like fine actors Karl Urban and Mamet collaborator Rebecca Pidgeon, though it's presented in a somewhat condescending manner.

The main problem I have with the movie is that (timing aside), it's just another in the series of "Dirty Dozen" discarded mercenary movies we've seen so many of this year, and it's an uninspired entry, at that. Oh, sure, it's tricked up with animated post-card location bridges (that get tedious), a coy break-away editing style, and a pyrotechnic fetish that mushrooms every explosion into a lens-searing extravaganza, and the occasional "see-this-I-wonder-how-they-got-this" shot that is, basically, the director trying to draw attention from his actors ("I'm helping!!"). Wish he'd paid a bit more attention to what was going on in the script, rather than in how to present it.

There's a little too much reliance on exposition that telegraphs what will happen in the movie (and it doesn't help that the actors tend to "wink" the importance of those lines at times). And if there's a script problem, the director just figures out a way that he can draw attention away from it, rather than make it better.

Take, for example, an early shot of a line of gun-men—a nice, easily raked-over straight line of gun-men (wouldn't even need to go through a whole clip!)—advancing on a house that Willis' character Frank Moses lives in a quiet suburban neighborhood.  It looks impressive, until you realize how damn dumb it is. These jack-booted thugs (and in a NRA wish-fulfillment, they are government ops) advance on the house, not breaking formation, swiss-cheesing the house back to its foundation in the dead of night. Wow! Cool! One could make a case for "stylized comic action," if it wasn't so stupid-looking at first glance.

But, remember, I said "quiet suburban neighborhood?" You actually, earlier, do see neighbors. So, where is everybody? No one comes outside, the sequence goes on for many minutes, without a dog barking, a siren in the background, someone clappering-on the lights, or an actual NRA member shouting protest. That's just dumb. And it's the first of many "fish-bowl" sequences where things happen in only a world where this movie exists, as it has nothing to do with how "the real world" works—despite playing on the populace's paranoid delusions about "how the real world works." One wishes that one could forgive the contrivances, but you can't, as the movie hinges on them. And as sure as a bullet wound that was excruciating a few minutes ago, will be forgotten in the next few minutes, the director will find a way to wave something shiny at the camera (right before it explodes) to make you forget. I don't mind having my disbelief suspended, so long as someone isn't constantly cutting the cable to sabotage it.

Director Schwentke (The Time Traveler's Wife) is more interested in the kill-shot (with minimal blood-loss) than story-logic. But, lest one think I'm unappreciative, there is a neat shot, however it was done, of Willis stepping outside his skidding car firing his gun as the vehicle cantilevers around him.  Nice.

That's fun and all...even cute...but, I tend to like my spy stories to have a little more substance than cotton-candy to it, a bit more fiber, something at risk, so that when folks do go in harm's way, they do so because it is necessary to do so and the personal risk matters. So that they matter. Or else, what's the point of all the point-and-shoot? I'm not interested in watching a bunch of good actors having fun picking up a paycheck.

Still, want to know the coolest thing about Red? Seeing Helen Mirren firing an automatic weapon without so much as a flinch or an eye-blink, deliberately keeping those flinty eyes wide open, while the burly male extras playing the disposable agents firing back are fluttering their eye-lids right and left. Now, that's a Dame.****

* A quote from "Red" comic series writer Warren Ellis.

** Tommy Lee Jones revealed this (with a sneer) to be his least favorite word on "Inside the Actor's Studio." Yup.

*** The title refers to the group's designation as "Retired: Extremely Dangerous."

**** There was a sequel, that eliminated Urban and added Lee Byung-Hun and Academy Award winners Anthony Hopkins and Catherine Zeta-Jones. Haven't seen it and haven't because life is short.