The 27th General Hall of Fame

You know, I thought the teacher seemed familiar but I couldn't figure out why haha.

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There's something comforting about him showing up because everything he's in (that I've seen, anyway) is good. The Florida Project? Green Room? I Don't Feel at Home in this Home Anymore? I Care a Lot? He's in 'em!

I watched half of My Dog Skip yesterday, and the other half just now. Turns out I've actually seen it before, and just straight up forgot about it.

I don't know if I watched it on tv at some point when nothing else was on, or if my younger brother had it on when I still lived at home. Either way, that's another unintentional rewatch added to the list. I forget how many films are on it now though haha.

Same, LOL!

Where I have ultimately landed with this film is that the tension you name---is this funny or serious?--is the most perceptive part of the film.

In real life people in challenging situations or with mental health issues do things that are, on the surface, comical. But what underpins the behavior of the character is not just that he's some goof---it is certainly driven by grief and also possibly by mental health problems.

I think that a lot of scenes are Cummings deliberately pushing this tension in one direction or the other. I think that it often ends up doing kind of a circle: a scene will start out a bit serious, then get absurd, then get more absurd, but then suddenly it feels serious because an emotionally and mentally healthy person would not go to these extremes.

I feel this laughing/crying tension all the time with some of my students. One day a student in my class who has some neuro-atypical stuff going on simply laid himself out on my carpet like a starfish, and when I asked him to sit up so we could work together, he wailed that he couldn't because his pants were hurting his legs. So do I laugh or do I cry? Kind of both, right?

Jay Russell appears to have been very workmanlike in constructing My Dog Skip, showing efficient competence but not inspiration. The best example of this is the surrendering of his initial hope that he'd use just an ordinary dog for this film, as opposed to a trained 'acting' dog which would give everything a somewhat artificial feel. Frustrations very soon changed his mind, and that change of mind led him all the way to the other extreme - Moose and Enzo, who play the dog Eddie on Frasier, would be called upon to play Skip, which solved the problem very neatly but led to every scene involving Skip in the film feeling somewhat like he's a 'one dog trick per scene' performer rather than a boy's beloved friend. This seems to be the approach Russell takes to a lot of his filmmaking - he's definitely a man with a "job" and certainly no artist. Overall, the joints and seams were showing in My Dog Skip and that made it look and feel like a movie and not an experience. It's very ably made, and the heart at it's center isn't missing - it just doesn't feel as genuine as it should.

I should really start out by admitting that the epilogue to the film got to me - but that had nothing to do with most of what preceded that short section of My Dog Skip. The film for the most part is a living Norman Rockwell painting, and is based on the musings of American writer Willie Morris about his boyhood including the relationship he had with his dog. It's the 1940s and the Second World War is in full swing. Willie is an only child, and finds it hard to relate to other children in his neighbourhood. His best friend is young man Dink Jenkins, who Willie looks up to. His father was wounded during the Spanish Civil war, and lost a leg - he's strict and not an overly warm or hospitable father. His mother is independent, outgoing, and more emotionally engaged with her son. She insists on getting him a dog for his birthday, which has the exact effect she hoped it would. With his dog, Skip, Willie begins to interact more with kids his own age and explore the world both socially and physically. Through Skip, Willie learns about life and many of his childhood memories will be forever welded to this - his best childhood friend. The unquestioning devotion, and unwavering loyalty that a dog gives to a person (along with it's boundless optimism, sense of fun and enthusiasm) is like nothing on else to be found in this life.

Frankie Muniz didn't do much for me personally in the lead role - but I don't mean to imply he was awful either. He was very much the equal of Jay Russell and his "I guess that'll do" attitude. Kevin Bacon, as Willie's father, was one of the few people involved with this that decided he'd try and really give something beyond the scope of what most gave to the film - and stands apart. Diane Lane as Willie's mother and Luke Wilson as Dink Jenkins are fine. The rest are mostly child actors and older actors who often stand around mute. The music from William Ross - never too fussy about the films he works on - fits the tepid, somewhat derivative, average feel to everything that goes on around us. Director of Photography James L. Carter is most comfortable around television production, as are the film's editors. Apart from all of this, I don't mind at all that My Dog Skip went on to become a successful film and do exceedingly well at the box office. The sentiments of Willie Morris are genuine, and I also believe those of Jay Russell are - Morris would end up seeing the film in it's rough form just days before he passed away. He understood that this was just a "movie version" of what he wrote, and I believe he would have enjoyed it, as straightforward as it was.

Stories by Mark Twain and paintings by Normal Rockwell were really in Russell's thoughts while the film was being shot - his heart was engaged by Americana as much as the love a boy has for his dog. Willie Morris grew up Yazoo City, Mississippi (the story about the Yazoo Witch you hear about when the kids are in the graveyard is a real local legend) and the Southern heat beats down on most shots - as it did in real life. The film was shot on that location (along with nearby Canton) and as such there is a genuine feel for place and time. But, in spite of all of that, it was the most important element - the dog itself - that I felt lacked that genuine and spontaneous feel. When you interact with a dog everything is unprompted, and a dog rigidly performing tricks is no substitute for that. Some scenes, for example when the kids are playing football and baseball, were shot with a more documentary kind of style and as such these are a few of the scenes that are full of motion and real spontaneity. At the other end of the scale, the episodes with the moonshiners in the graveyard is something very novelistic and awkwardly shoehorned in to provide drama and excitement. Tearful moments with a boy begging for his dog to pull through after being hurt feel manipulative and exceedingly clichéd, but at the same time - what else could screenwriter Gail Gilchriest do? This was exactly where a movie like this was headed.

Some issues within the film, dealt with briefly, were interesting. The whole look at what Dink Jenkins goes through with his wartime experiences was complex and, I felt, informative for kids. He doesn't return a hero - instead he runs and is sent home in disgrace. Willie is disappointed in a man that was his idol, but when it comes to accusing him of cowardice, Dink explains to him that he wasn't afraid of being hurt or dying - that it's the killing that he had a problem with, and was running from. The torment they go through removes the glamour that the war seemed to have for the kid up until that point, and I thought it was very well put. It only makes up a small portion of the film, but I admired that. Also, as Willie observes, Skip is 'colourblind' - meaning that even though the South was still segregated, Skip would enjoy interacting with all portions of the community, and Willie takes especial note of the fact that of course black and white people are equals - people have to be taught to hate and exclude. It's good that some of this is included for kids in this movie. I wish I'd read the novel to know if these issues are discussed, or if it was an inclusion on the part of the filmmakers.

Harry Connick Jr. narrates as an older Willie Morris (he almost ended up with the part of Willie's father, before Kevin Bacon decided he'd take the part) and so it's with his voice that we go through the film's epilogue, with Willie growing up and leaving home, and Skip growing old, struggling - sleeping in his best friend's bed and bedroom and eventually dying. Willie's parents call him one day, and let him know - his childhood friend has passed away. I thought that the script at this point was of just the right tone, and that this would have left most of the adults in the cinema with a tear or two in their eyes. Perhaps this whollop of an end is what ensured that My Dog Skip would be successful and memorable. A lot of what had come before was decidedly average, and standard stuff - with some high points and some low points. The main crux - the dog - felt unnatural. It's tricks stilted, with very little unbridled action. Overall I was left with the impression that this was very much middle of the road when summed up as whole. When reviewing this, Roger Ebert decided to leave the entire film itself out of the equation, and simply think back to his childhood dog. I can just see Jay Russell crossing his fingers and hoping everyone does just that.

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But MUBI is incredible! I've come across SO many great movies I've never even remotely heard of on there, and I've only had it for about a month and a half. I don't think I've yet to see anything I didn't at least like a little bit, which is amazing considering how many of these films I've gone into completely blind.



And it has The Wise Kids on it, which seems so lousy in the first half hour, only to become one of the most subtley rendered coming of age stories I've seen (mixed with a lot to say about small town life in a religious community as well as what it is like to be gay in such a place as this). And I would have never got through it to the end if I didn't have faith enough in MUBI that it couldn't possibly be as bad as it seemed at first.

Attachments

 

It wasn't until I started reading the other reviews that I realized I have absolutely no recollection of the film's soundtrack.

If this description is accurate, perhaps that's why none of the music had any impact on me, and was immediately forgettable.

I'll keep it in mind.

For me, I'm at the edge of my entertainment budget, and I wasn't seeing enough to interest me to make it worth spending an extra $6 per month.

(And I made note of your positive review of The Wise Kids in another thread. It's on Prime, Tubi, and Kanopy, so I'll definitely get around to it.)

Mubi was worth it to me even back when it was just 30 films at a time

Kiyoshi Kurosawa was definitely doing more than telling a story when he wrote and directed his breakout 1997 film Cure. It's a film that forces the viewer to ask questions and think hard about what the answers may be - there's no hand-holding, exposition or easy explanations to be had. We know how we feel - which is creeped out by that hazy, dark kind of ghostly atmosphere that infused itself not only in this, but into the DNA of many of the Japanese horror films which began proliferating around this time. Kurosawa is particularly adept at creating that kind of mood. But feeling and thinking are separate when it comes to this - and Cure is like a shape you glimpse that's below water. You know something scary is there, and that it's alive - but what is it? Quite apart from most Asian horror from this time, the supernatural isn't invoked and relied upon to a greater degree, but rather our very own human nature and what may be lurking just under the surface. This gives the movie added weight, and only serves to heighten our apprehension when we realize just how real this horror is - it is ever-present in all of us.

Serial Killers were a staple of the 1990s, and as such this all starts out in familiar fashion, with a murder that, although pretty much instantly solved as far as the suspect is concerned, continues a mysterious pattern of homicides that all bear a remarkably distinct thumbprint. In all murders an 'X' has been carved into the victims upper chest and neck, and in all murders the perpetrator is easily apprehended, dazed, and somewhat fuzzy on exactly what occurred and why they suddenly decided to kill. The general layout plays much like a police procedural movie - with the mysterious character of Mamiya wandering through it. Although suffering amnesia and dazed himself, nevertheless he appears to hypnotize those he comes in contact with and inevitably it's these people who decide to murder those in close proximity to them. When apprehended, he confounds the police, and main character Detective Kenichi Takabe, who simply cannot penetrate the hazy wall of nothingness coming from within. Mamiya asks more questions than gives answers - but seems fascinated by Takabe, who he studies in an almost psychic manner. The last act appears as a battle of wills, which ends with a suggestive and eerie conclusion.

Mamiya is central to the mystery at the heart of Cure, and we glean more about him from his own words than anything Takabe might discover with his diligent legwork and investigation - but needless to say, what Takabe does dig up provides a fountain of fascinating mystery, suggestion and creepy imagery. The hypnotic power of the cross appears everywhere we look - not only carved into people, but walls, into the air and into some poor old desiccated monkey corpses. Water also appears to be important to the rituals that lie underneath Mamiya and his work, not to mention bright lights, which can be seen littered through this cinematic landscape. There must be times where we become suspicious of the film itself and it's attempts to beguile us - as if hypnotic suggestion is some kind of disease. The title Kurosawa gave this film gives some sort of sense of it's presence, and some connection is made between Mamiya and 18th Century German physician Franz Mesmer. The one thing it seems people are being relieved of in these instances is our inhibitions and repressed murderous desires, and the results don't appear like a clean bill of health for our society. Takabe's own cure appears to be about to reap a terrible price when the credits roll.

Director Kurosawa's long shots, without any close-up references for emphasis, put us in the frame of mind of constantly questioning inquisitors - even murders occur with cold brutality without any visual or aural emphasis to drive home their horrible impact. Of course, presented to us like this these murders feel even worse - more shocking in their unfiltered, natural cold and quiet surroundings. Interrogations and investigation also go forward with long uninterrupted takes - but when Mamiya begins his battle of wills with Takabe, flashes, hallucinations, intrusive thoughts and images appear before us, sometimes for just a few frames - and in light of what has gone before they seem all the more disturbing, yet important. We see a lot from the inside of Takabe's mind. Dreamlike images of seeing himself on a vehicle amongst the clouds, with and without his wife - not to mention his wife's suicide, and his wife's murder. Are these repressed desires? Perhaps everyone who watches this film will come to their own very unique conclusions. This is very much a film for pondering, asking questions and coming into contact with fundamental existential mysteries.

As far as mood goes, this film is devestatingly effective and very certain in each of it's steps and manners. Interiors are dim, dark and dirty - and even exteriors don't lack haze or twilight-like shades of shadow. Cinematographer Tokushô Kikumura would go on to film Ju-on: The Grudge not long after this, along with it's first sequel - which increases his J-horror credentials, as debatable as it is if Cure belongs strictly in that category. For the most part the complete lack of score increases that sense of discomfort which comes from that eerie and disquieting atmosphere to all proceedings here. When music does make it's occasional interludes, it can come in the form of strange sounds, or even a lighthearted contrast to bloody violence erupting, such as when a prostitute is murdered early on to some jaunty keyboard suggesting a completely free and happy mindset as far as the killing's perpetrator is concerned. Towards the end the sound of the wind, as haunting as that may be, is heard with no accompaniment. On paper it might sound a little too trite, but when you're watching this film it works perfectly and provides a real sense of what lurks in the frightening depths of the mind.

In the script, we learn what we can directly - that Kunio Mamiya, once a psychology student, vanished after becoming interested in the teachings of Mesmer. He describes to one of the people he comes into contact with that he's an empty vessel. That everything that used to be inside him, is outside - and that therefore he can see all of the things inside other people. A kind of ego death. His loss of identity has removed the boundaries between him and the universe. He might be trying to pass this along to everyone he comes into contact with - which might be why he continually asks everyone who they are. They often interpret this to mean "What is your name?" But when he asks "Who are you?" he's probably trying to get them to focus on identity and see beyond it's construct. He does the same by questioning Takabe, who has a mentally unwell wife at home who he continually has to look out for and protect. Takabe has two identities, detective and caring husband - and by asking which one he truly is he's suggesting that Takabe is neither. Takabe presents as a stressed man full of worry and preoccupation, until, by film's end - where he is changed after a confrontation with Mamiya.

I really appreciate mystery in a film of this nature, and especially when it's not explained away and dissipated. Towards the end we're introduced to a strange old abandoned hospital with instruments, wards and something about it appears to be wrong. This place most assuredly does have something to do with Mamiya and what he's doing, but everything is kept suitably vague. This is where Takabe eventually confronts Mamiya - after his psychologist friend Sakuma (Tsuyoshi Ujiki) commits suicide, suggesting that underneath his repressed desires he was a good man and wished no ill on society. Sakuma was pushed over the edge by Mamiya, increasing the stakes by the end of the film. There are some nice little flourishes near the end, which are wonderfully strange - such as the Edison Phonograph found in the hospital, which contains a recording both tantalizing and beyond comprehension, and the significance of the red dress that appears before Takabe when he is arguing with his dry cleaner. The final scene is cut short - and was originally more definitive - but if you're watching closely you can see that the waitress that Takabe (now happy and relaxed) interacts with is about to attack someone with a knife. A pretty chilling moment to throw us straight to the credits with.

Any gender politics surrounding the female doctor (I'm assuming that's unusual in Japan) I'm going to leave alone - the murder/mutilation scene involving her was great horror, and her "conversion" by Mamiya was the best of all the differing methods I saw. It was interesting that he had so many differing techniques, and when she forbade him access to his trusty lighter he found he could also rely on water to do the job. Something else I really enjoyed were all of the brief flashes, dreams and imagination - with Takabe's wife at one stage shown as a particularly disturbing murder victim, X inscribed into her neck/chest, sat upright - seeming to move. Also Takabe talking to her in that vehicle amongst the clouds. The head with no face that flashes up occasionally, and appears in textbooks or behind plastic screens adds to the whole swirling sense of dream logic - perhaps suggesting the death of ego alluded to earlier. I hate seeing monkeys in cages - but that pales in comparison to whatever the sacrificial monkey seems to have gone through, suspended above a bathtub, twisted, tortured and killed. There are many ingredients which swirl in the subconscious after seeing Cure.

The only other Kiyoshi Kurosawa film I'm familiar with is 2001's Pulse, but he has remained active and he seems to be the kind of filmmaker who is intent on exploring philosophical questions about society, people, and life in general - flitting across genres, which is an aspect he says he decides on first, before even formulating what his film will be about. I was very interested in Cure's supposition that the alleviation of many of the things that plague us could also unleash an intent to murder - with the crime's very repression possibly being what makes us sick. That we live in a society where, whether it be our close cohabitation or general culture, makes us on a more primitive level wish to kill each other. (I guess it turns the phrase "the cure is worse than the disease" into a completely different supposition!) Of course, I'm only leaving an impression of what my mind made of the film after pondering it for a while. I'm willing to forecast that many differing interpretations can be made - for nobody sits the hero of this story down and proceeds to lay out 4 and a half minutes of exposition for no other reason than let the audience know exactly what they're meant to think. Instead we're left to go to bed and lay awake half the night, creeped out by every noise we hear and unable to stop thinking about murder, ritual, mystery and the probability that our very next dream will frighten us a little more than we're ready for.

Even today not much more than 20% of doctors in Japan are women. I assume the gap was even more substantial in the 90s. It's still quite common for women to give up their careers after getting married in order to raise children. So even if a woman doesn't plan to leave her job, the social expectation that she eventually will makes it more difficult to be awarded professional opportunities.

Jaws

I have been trying to figure out what to say about Jaws, but nothing is really coming. It's one of the greatest films of all-time, but other than just mentioning scenes I like, I don't have much to say. I could possibly explore certain aspects of the film a little closer, but I haven't honestly put enough thought into them. Like, I'd probably need to actually read Moby Dick to talk about Quint's obsessive behavior regarding the shark and how that harkens back to Captain Ahab. The only thing I don't like about the film is the score. It either sucks or just feels out of place the whole film, the exception being the most famous piece of music for this film, which I still think is great and fits perfectly. I don't have any cool-guy hot takes about Jaws being overrated or anything. I might get more excited about more out there filmmaking styles, but (almost) everything comes together in this film. Sometimes films are made by masters and they are great for that reason, but sometimes films are great because imperfect individuals find a way to bring greatness together. To me, this is Spielberg at his best.

Considering that her patient was taken aback by being asked to lower his trousers, and that he felt the need to say "You're not shy, are you!" when she examined him, I had to wonder what daily trials female doctors in Japan must go through just to do their job in a straightforward manner. There's some tough cultural barriers to break through over there. In the film, Mamiya takes this to a pretty dark place.

For anyone else interested, I found a chart which compares the ratio of female doctors country by country. Japan features in last place (Australia and the U.S. not too far ahead - but it seems in Eastern Europe most doctors are women) - and yeah, back in 2000 the percentage was much lower :

My friend is a surgeon in a small town in North Carolina. She works in a hospital that is very small, and there are only four surgeons. She is always referred to in professional meetings by her first name, while her male colleagues are referred to as Dr. Lastname. So "We're going to update the rotation with Megan and Dr. Smith." Very disrespectful, obviously, and makes her crazy. She's asked multiple times to be referred to as Dr, and they just . . . won't.

There are also people who will not take orders directly from her, and so she has to get her male partner to give them the order. Total crap (and inefficient, when you think about it!).

I have another friend who manages field hospitals for Doctors without Borders (she is pretty hardcore---including managing an ebola outbreak in Liberia while she was pregnant). She has some WILD stories.

Midnight Cowboy (1969) -

This film was just as great as I remembered it being when I watched it last year, perhaps even more so. It's the kind of film that nails a few different types of greatness.

A lot of the film's greatness lies in the relationship between Joe and Ratso. When we first meet Joe, he seems overly-confident and adopts a John Wayne look with his cowboy clothing to create what he thinks is a sense of masculinity. The more we learn about his life via flashback though (his girlfriend and potentially him being sexually assaulted, for instance), the clearer it becomes that he dresses the way he does to cope with his past trauma. As he spends more and more time in New York City and experiences failure after failure, his confidence slowly slips away. New York City is shown to be a brutal city (we frequently see buildings being demolished and people breaking into abandoned apartments) and Joe doesn't seem to have it any better than the average, er, Joe living there (if anything, he seems to have it worse than most of the people we meet in the film). That's when he meets Ratso. Though they initially start off on shaky terms, they eventually warm up to each other and soon become close friends. Joe works as a male prostitute (he doesn't have much luck with this though), while Ratso, who's lived in NYC longer and has better adapted himself to its cruel environment, steals from people on the streets.

The emotional core of the film is watching two dysfunctional people bond. As the film goes on, their friendship potentially develops into a love that neither of them seem to fully understand. Joe has a couple sexual experiences with men in the film, so even though we never learn what his sexuality is, he doesn't appear to be straight (or, at least, he's in a process of questioning his sexuality). As for Ratso, even though he uses a number of homophobic slurs throughout the film, a breakthrough moment for him is when, after Joe helps him up a set of stairs at a party, he intimately leans his head into Joe's torso. This shows that both men are a lot softer than their masculine and homophobic outward personalities suggest. In a more cliché films, their growing (romantic?) friendship would give them extra confidence and lead to them finding success, but this film opts for a more brutally honest story where friendship and love don't save the day.

I also love the craft of the film. It has so many standout sequences (the hallucinations in the bus ride to NYC, changing the channel multiple times during a sex scene, Joe chasing Ratso to a subway, Joe's dream of the sexual assault, Ratso imagining him and Joe together in Miami, and the Warhol-esque party) which are literally perfect. Not only is the editing and visuals in those scenes spectacular, but the various cuts in the more grounded scenes are also excellent. And to top it off, that the film sometimes feels meandering and character-driven rather than plot-driven is the icing on the cake.

Overall, I'm glad I got to revisit this film. I wouldn't quite call it a favorite, but it's definitely really close to a 10/10 for me. A third viewing down the road may get me to bump it up to a 10/10. Who knows.

Next Up: My Dog Skip

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The Oscar most assuredly should have gone to Dustin Hoffman when all was said and done, although Jon Voight matched him in Midnight Cowboy - John Schlesinger's instant classic about one man's spiritual transformation, friendship and struggle to survive. The seedy streets of New York came of age, and for the first time the lens truly focused on the hustlers, con artists, crooks and desperados amidst the dirt and grime. Hoffman's performance was faultless, and rarely has an actor toiled as hard, or been as dedicated, as this actor was at the start of his film career. He already had The Graduate (and another Oscar nomination) under his belt, but Voight was as fresh faced as his character and had to go through many tests and auditions to play Joe Buck. It's a supreme pleasure to watch both of them perform, elevating each other and really bringing something from deep inside of themselves - the friendship that Joe Buck and Hoffman's Enrico Salvatore "Ratso" Rizzo develop is not only touching, but the driving force behind Buck's evolution as a whole person who can feel compassion and really see other people for what they are. In Danny Peary's Alternate Oscars he gives the award to Dustin Hoffman (but takes Midnight Cowboy's Best Picture Oscar and gives it to Once Upon a Time in the West.) Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was that year's favourite for Best Picture - but Midnight Cowboy was most deserving, and proof that the Academy sometimes gets it right.

In a small town in Texas Joe Buck packs his bags and quits his job as a dishwasher in a cheap restaurant to find fortune in the Big Apple as a hustler, convinced as he is of his prowess as a sex machine. Harry Nilsson performs Fred Neil's song "Everybody's Talkin", which captures the mood perfectly and really propels the film forward - both outwardly, and inwardly as Buck takes moments looking through store windows and on the bus to remember his past - a childhood that is more detailed in James Leo Herlihy's novel of the same name. Buck's 'cowboy' persona is very superficial and almost childlike in it's simplicity - he appears more or less as a fully grown man playing dress-up with his hat and boots. His expressions match this simplicity, not to mention naivety and overconfidence. This is soon punctured on the streets of the city, and in a hotel room which already begins to let him in on the fact that everything here will cost him. Instead of doing the hustling, he's outwitted and preyed upon by his first would-be customer who takes him for $20. There's a sweetness to Buck however, in as much as he feels compassion for people and hates to see this woman (Cass - played by Sylvia Miles in an Oscar-nominated turn) cry. Who he really needs is someone to show him the ropes.

That someone could be "Ratso" Rizzo, but of course Rizzo also decides to con Buck out of $20 while introducing him to a crazy closeted religious nut (John McGiver) and taking off. Buck plots his revenge in a series of crazy black and white shots, but soon enough is broke, eating free crackers in diners and doing sexual favours for young guys in movie theaters (who invariably don't have the money to pay him.) A young Jewish kid is played by a young Bob Balaban - a Wes Anderson favourite and future Oscar nominee. Locked out of his hotel room, with all of his belongings confiscated, Buck eventually comes across Rizzo again, and despite an initial confrontation "Ratso" invites him to stay at his place - an apartment in a condemned building, which is broken down, filthy and has no electricity. Rizzo, who suffers from a limp and bad cough, dreams of travelling to Florida, which he believes will help his poor health - posters of Florida adorn the otherwise dull walls of this apartment, where Rizzo and Buck will stay despite the cold which sets in, and for which they have no remedy. Desperation seeps through. The two often go hungry, and desperate for money Buck pawns the one thing he loves above all others - his transistor radio.

The two will remain close for the rest of the film. Rizzo's obsession about Florida leads to one of my favourite segments of Midnight Cowboy - which is Rizzo's fantasy about what life there will be like as Buck heads off to earn some money (that was intended for someone else.) In it, cinematographer Adam Holender completely transforms thought into another dimension - and the difference in light from overexposure makes everything seem heavenly. John Barry introduces a cheerful melody - a jaunty tune which accompanies scenes where Rizzo is a regular playboy and adored by the older women as he cooks, gambles and flirts with the ladies. He can outrun Buck, and returns waves from balconies in this happy, healthy atmosphere. Holender had come from Poland and became the director of photography during an audition process where different cinematographers came and went during preproduction. He used a long lens for many of the shots on New York streets, capturing the characters from far off in a more naturalistic way. John Barry is most famous from his work on the James Bond films, and the pieces of music we hear on New York streets are recognizable as his kind of melodic trademark.

Midnight Cowboy has a lot going for it as far as talent goes, not the least of which is it's terrific screenwriter Waldo Salt - who lovingly and carefully put together the screenplay, and spent many days on set revising it to perfection to make sure everything worked. Salt was a writer who spent time on everything he wrote, his slow pace a thoughtfully purposeful mode of working to make sure everything was exactly how he wanted it. He'd been blacklisted during the McCarthy Red Scare for being an avowed communist - a stance he abandoned when the many cruelties of the Stalin regime came to light. Waldo Salt won an Oscar for his screenplay for Midnight Cowboy, and would go on to write ones for such films as Serpico, The Day of the Locust and Coming Home (for which he won another Oscar.) Director John Schlesinger, an Englishman, was really coming into his own here, and his fascination for America and New York saw him accentuating things that an American director may have completely overlooked. He also won an Oscar for Midnight Cowboy and would work again with Salt on Day of the Locust and again with Hoffman when he directed Marathon Man.

Once established, the close friendship between Buck and Rizzo take them to a New York party that was shot over the course of three days, almost in documentary style, taking advantage of the many friends of Andy Warhol at an art event (Warhol himself had been shot around this time, and was unable to be present.) It seems a little slow, and out of place, but at the same time I feel that the film needed this change of setting and pace, and it's another event which takes the characters along on their journey of change. Characters and people who populated the Warhol Factory scene appear, such as Viva, Ultra Violet and International Velvet. Buck accidentally smokes a reefer, and finds for himself his first bona-fide client, which will potentially lead to more - but not before Rizzo's illness worsens and a desperate Buck resorts to violence in a powerful scene opposite Barnard Hughes. The two of them then find themselves on the road heading to Miami - Buck in the midst of great personal change and Rizzo deteriorating quickly. Those final scenes in Midnight Cowboy are masterful, moving and a perfect way to end what is nearly a perfect film.

Midnight Cowboy came on the scene over 50 years ago, and it appears to have aged particularly well. It's a film that has only grown in stature as far as I'm concerned, and although I've always held it in particularly high regard I admire it even more when I look at it today. It doesn't dwell on the darkness found in the deepest recesses of the alleys and tenements in New York, but instead takes what it finds in those places and uplifts it - holds a light to it so we can see inside and not only understand it, but realise that there is love and goodness to be found there as well. Buck is redeemed, not only through the journey he takes but by painfully recalling how he became the man he was when he set out on his journey. "Ratso" Rizzo is a dirty con-man scratching around for dimes in telephone booths, but shown love he becomes a human being once more - desperate for dignity and somebody to share a meal and cigarette with who might consider him an equal and companion. The friendship these men share is profound, and through Waldo Salt, John Schlesinger, Dustin Hoffman and Jon Voight every ounce of it is imparted to us the audience.

I love seeing the innocence on the face of John Voight and how it changes during the course of the film. There's a realisation he has, when he gets to New York and he briefly begins to write a postcard to a coworker he used to wash dishes with (and who he realises is illiterate, and as such couldn't read his postcard anyway) - a realisation that he doesn't really have a friend in the world, and perhaps never did. Through flashbacks we find out that Buck was once in a relationship with the town floozy - and that both of them were raped in a traumatic incident, where she ended up in a mental institution and him in prison. His mother dumped him on his grandmother, who used to force enemas upon him and treat him in an unusually tactile way. He's hardly had a chance to grow in a normal manner. None of this has hardened him - on the contrary, he's a soft and sensitive individual - but through what is perhaps the first real friendship of his life his childlike innocent selfishness turns outward and he reacts less about himself and more towards his friend. Eventually he throws his cowboy suit away, adorning adult clothes and talking to a waitress without putting a stud-like show on for the first time. Instead he talks to her simply as adult to adult in a normal manner. From start to finish this change in him has been transposed onto the screen in such a manner that it's simply so pleasurable to watch.

Another character in this film we can't forget is New York itself, a hard place for a child-like man with naïve dreams to land in alone with all of his worldly possessions in a small suitcase. John Schlesinger was fascinated by the place, and the crazy people doing crazy things on nearly every street (the drugged-up woman playing with the plastic mouse, and the one running about the street in a paranoid fashion were played by the same actress and both based on things Schlesinger had recently seen.) He was also captivated by American television of the day, some examples of which he included in the film. Recently arrived Adam Holender had the same kind of fervour and wonder for the place, with it's neon lights, skyscrapers, advertising and strange people. The film got some of it's most enthusiastic receptions from New York audiences, who agreed with the reflection of the city (while ironically, in other places some of the darker depictions of New York were frowned upon.) I've never been to New York, but simply having lived right in the heart of my city gives me an appreciation for how inner city living is depicted in Midnight Cowboy.

Midnight Cowboy ushered in a new era of filmmaking at a key period in United States history, one that could finally look at sex and homosexuality in a more open way, and be less restrictive when it came to depicting city streets and the lives of those living in cities who were less fortunate. For me though, it's the performance from it's leads that lift it into the stratosphere - a place it was destined to reach with such talent as Salt, John Schlesinger, John Barry and Adam Holender involved. Hearing "Everybody's Talkin", seeing those long shots, watching Voight and Hoffman and travelling on their journey will always remind me of just how great this film is. It is probably overlooked too often on "Best Films" lists these days - and to tell you the truth may have been overlooked by me if I hadn't of revisited it and really payed attention. There are many small and unmentioned little touches that add to it, and they're everywhere - from Dustin Hoffman's ad-lib when nearly knocked over by a taxi to Barnard Hughes suggesting that maybe his false teeth should come out when he's hit in the face by Buck. Everyone involved cared deeply about making the best film they could possibly make - and as such they did make the best film they could possibly make. When I see Voight lean over and close Hoffman's eyes, and then hold his little buddy on that bus - the look in his eyes reverberates in me - into my heart. Moments like that are why I love movies.

Demons - CONTAINS SPOILERS

This delightfully bleak samurai tale aims to reveal the dark heart of humanity, and boy, does it ever! While I didn't always like having to question whether what I was seeing was actually happening or imagined, this ambiguity is still one of my favorite qualities of the movie. It has an effect similar to the one in video games with morality systems such as Mass Effect for how it put me in Gengobei's shoes. I also approve of the high contrast black and white for its aesthetics and for how it enhances the movie's moral divide. As for Gengobei, talk about being born to play a part! The movie's makeup and hairstyling departments contribute a lot to Katsuo Nakamura's frightening appearance, but it's hard to think of another performance where someone embraces the darkness as convincingly as he does. That the movie doesn't shirk on the violence, particularly in the baby killing scene, also has a lot to do with this (and could explain why it's never been released on DVD here in America).

Even though this is a samurai movie, the other movies this one made me think about the most while I watched it are those by the Coen brothers, Fargo in particular. Marge Gunderson's "it's a beautiful day" monologue played in my head as the camera lingered on the accursed 100 Ryo one last time, thus confirming that money, poverty, wealth inequality, what have you is the stuff that demons are made of. Again, I have a love/hate relationship with the real vs. imagined ambiguity, and despite its unique use of black and white, the overall look and feel is a little off-putting since it seems more like a filmed play than a movie. I still think it stands alongside movies like Sword of Doom as a worthy addition to the "dark samurai" sub-genre.

Great review

Gonna try to get Demons watched today. I know I'm doing fine time-wise, but I feel like I'm falling behind.

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