State of Grace (1990, Phil Joanou)

In its relatively short life as a mid-major, Orion Pictures took home an impressive number of prestigious nominations and awards, including four Best Picture wins.  Today, the studio is most remembered for those successes and for its highly-publicized bankruptcy and eventual dissolution, which coincided with the back-to-back triumphs of Dances with Wolves and The Silence of the Lambs. When I think of Orion, however, it's not really for its most acclaimed titles, it's for its remarkably consistent run of intelligent and adventurous mid-budgeted pictures from the late '70s (when it was partnered with Warner Bros.) through the early '90s.

So many of my favorite films of the '70s-'80s begin with this memorable logo.

Phil Joanou's State of Grace comes at the end of this era and is, in fact, one of those highly unprofitable pictures that led to its parent company's demise.  A mob picture in a year full of high profile examples of the genre--Goodfellas, Godfather: Part III, Miller's Crossing--State of Grace was quickly in and out of theaters and out of the public consciousness.  I caught it a few years later on VHS, as a teenager, when I was making my way through the Sean Penn filmography (the film has the distinction of being Penn's final movie before his first retirement from acting) and then, again, a few years after that when a good friend of mine really sold me on its virtues. After this second introduction to the film, it became a favorite of mine due to its impressive cast and magnetic performances, very quotable dialogue, haunting Morricone score, and its pervasive gloominess and lack of sentimentality.  The latter qualities struck me as out-of-fashion then and, as Joanou notes on the fascinating commentary track on Twilight Time's new Blu-ray, time has only accentuated them.

Ed Harris as Frankie Flannery.  His performance might get lost behind those of Penn, Oldman, and Wright, but it shouldn't...this is his one of his best.

Jackie (Gary Oldman) in a rare contemplative moment at the bar, where he is most at home.

The kind of mid-budget drama that has very rarely been made by the studios post-'90s, a loss that Joanou laments on the aforementioned track, State of Grace is also an homage to the gritty 1970s cinema that so inspired Penn and Joanou.  To the film's credit, this was several years prior to the '70s revival when these sorts of tributes became de rigueur and stale.  Finally, as also discussed by Joanou and commentary moderator Nick Redman, in the 25 years since the film's initial release, New York City has become a drastically different place than when the film was shot there in 1989; like so many other films, the passage of time has made State of Grace an invaluable document of the place and time in which it was created.

Ed Harris and R.D. Call mean business.

Made just a few years before citywide clean-up and redevelopment efforts would really take shape, the film shows the city, midtown and downtown Manhattan in particular, when large swaths of it remained as they were in the "Wild West"-like 70s, some combination of unsafe, dirty, decrepit, underpopulated, and cheap...ripe conditions for a gang like the Westies to prosper. Much of the screenplay by playwright Dennis McIntyre and an uncredited David Rabe is inspired by the Irish gang's exploits in '70s and '80s Hells Kitchen; not so ironically it was federal prosecutor Rudolph Giuliani who would take down the Westie leadership of this era and later, as mayor, spearhead the gentrification and Disneyfication of their former territory.

I always thought that Sean Penn resembled Westie Jimmy Coonan in this mugshot of the gangster.

McIntyre and Rabe's major creation is Penn's Terry Noonan, a native of the Kitchen who has mysteriously returned to his old haunts after many years away, and reconnected with his best friend Jackie Flannery (Gary Oldman), Jackie's sister and Terry's childhood girlfriend Kate (Robin Wright), and their brother and boss of the gang, Frankie (Ed Harris).  Noonan's reunion with the Flannerys coincides with Frankie's efforts to align his gang with Italian mobster Borelli (the one-of-a-kind Joe Viterelli playing a character possibly based on Gambino boss Paul Castellano).  As the crazed Jackie, Oldman delivers an electrifying, scenery-chewing performance that ensures that the picture never really lacks energy; Penn has done that kind of thing before, but here he is the straight man, letting his face and body language communicate his character's inner torment.  And, the chemistry between he and his future wife Wright is palpable and she matches the heavyweights around her...it had to be something of a revelation in 1990 when her only previous exposure had been on Santa Barbara and as Princess Buttercup.  I don't know if Harris has ever been scarier than he is here, thoroughly convincing when playing the authoritative boss of his gang and humorously child-like when in the presence of Viterelli.

"You're cold, Kate." - Terry Noonan

The supporting cast includes a young John C. Reilly (cast on Penn's recommendation, following their work together in De Palma's Casualties of War), the ice cold R.D. Call (another frequent Penn collaborator--At Close Range, Colors, and several others), John Turturro, an uncredited James Russo, Marco St. John, Thomas G. Waites, and the great Burgess Meredith in one of his final roles (he has a brief, but heartbreaking scene, the casting of which Joanou beautifully recalls on the commentary track).  The movie, like so many other well-known gangster films is a modern Greek tragedy, and on this most recent viewing, I found it as powerful and mournful--with some darkly humorous moments sprinkled in the earlier parts of the film--as I always have; I did feel this time around, though, that it could have been trimmed a bit. That minor criticism aside, I maintain that the film is one of the most underrated films of the '90s and undeservedly unsung gangster films of any era.

"Scary Terry" Noonan.

With the aforementioned Morricone, Rabe, and cast, as well as cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth, editor Claire Simpson, and production designer Patrizia von Brandenstein, the young Joanou truly had a Murderer's Row of creative collaborators on this show and, unsurprisingly, it is a handsome production in all aspects.  This is to say that the new Twilight Time Blu-ray is a very worthwhile upgrade from the old DVD, with the HD presentation more faithfully representing Cronenweth's intricate lighting, von Brandenstein's carefully designed sets and, of course, the "dirty old New York" practical locations.  We also get a booklet with Julie Kirgo essay and Morricone's memorable (and also underrated) score on an isolated track. Morricone wrote more music for the film than appears in the final cut; I'm not sure if the isolated track includes all of this, so I will hang onto my long out-of-print CD.

The much-lauded playwright David Rabe, some years prior to State of Grace.  Sean Penn would later star in the film version of Rabe's Hurlyburly.  The 16mm print of State of Grace that I ran in college one St. Patrick's Day had a very prominent "special thanks" credit for Rabe at the top of the end credit role that I've never seen on any other version of the film.

Finally, to get back to where I started here, with Orion Pictures, it should be noted that State of Grace represents the final film in a long-running and very fruitful relationship that Sean Penn had with the studio, a relationship that led to The Falcon and the Snowman, At Close Range (coming soon from Twilight Time!), and Colors. Quite an exemplary grouping, I think.

Penn and Joanou on set.

Under Fire (1983, Roger Spottiswoode)

If that old canard about the Hollywood "liberal bias" were true, I think films like Roger Spottiswoode's Under Fire would be a lot more common than they are.  It just so happens that Twilight Time has, of late, seemingly cornered the market on these few '70s and '80s Hollywood-produced dramas set in war-torn countries in which the U.S. government had a dubious, at best, presence.  

Under Fire depicts journalists Nick Nolte, Gene Hackman, and Joanna Cassidy in a Somoza-led Nicaragua on the brink of collapse. Oliver Stone's more pointed Salvador has photojournalist James Woods in an El Salvador torn apart by civil war.  Richard Fleischer's Che is a Che Guevara biopic. And, John Irvin's The Dogs of War examines a soldier-for-hire (Christopher Walken) and his team of mercenaries sent into a fictional African country to overthrow a dictator.  Somewhat amazingly all of these titles have been issued by Twilight Time in quick succession.

Under Fire is an impressively mounted production, with a very fine trio of lead performances--the aforementioned Nolte, Hackman, and Cassidy--supported by a very strong Ed Harris, who is particularly chilling, the great Jean-Louis Trintignant, and Richard Masur.  Jerry Goldsmith contributes one of his most gorgeous and memorable scores, with key support from famed jazz guitarist Pat Matheny. Lastly, but no less important a credit is that of d.p. John Alcott, most renowned for his work as cinematographer for Kubrick on A Clockwork Orange, Barry Lyndon, and The Shining.

Hackman and Cassidy would reunite several years later in Andrew Davis' The Package, also from Orion and also newly released on Blu-ray.

In its set-up and through its second act, I found Under Fire riveting; where it lost impact for me, in contrast to Stone's Salvador and Costa-Gavras' Missing, is when its focus shifts from the political to the personal, from the reality-based situation on the ground in Nicaragua to the fictional love triangle between Nolte, Hackman, and Cassidy. The filmmakers ease up on their criticism of the U.S. government for its support of dictator Somoza and his efforts to put down the leftist Sandinista revolutionary movement in favor of the aforementioned love story and an implausible, cliche-ridden action thriller climax. To be fair, the latter is inspired by the real-life murder of ABC news reporter Bill Stewart.  

The film is at its best and most blood-boiling whenever the shameless, cruel soldier of fortune Harris is onscreen.  He pops up at various times throughout the story, whether in Africa or Central America, and he, along with Trintignant's wealthy French spy / informer, is the stand-in for capitalist greed and indifference, but the film would have been stronger if it were more direct in its critique of the U.S. government and U.S. corporations for their complicity in and profiteering from the crimes of Somoza and his ilk throughout Central and South America.  The great Harris performance is akin to Mickey Rourke a few years earlier in Body Heat, briefly stealing the film out from under its lead actors whenever he's onscreen.

The rabid baseball fan in me loved the film's reference to Nicaraguan native and one-time Major League Baseball star--and Baltimore Oriole, as you can see--Dennis Martinez. 

Twilight Time's Blu-ray features a handsome, film-like transfer, which does not appear to have unwelcome digital tampering, and contains the requisite isolated score (I listened to my LP of the soundtrack while writing this), as well as Julie Kirgo's informative printed notes, an interview with female lead Joanna Cassidy, an original trailer, a photo gallery, and two audio commentaries with director Spottiswoode, TT's Nick Redman and Kirgo, and other crew members.

Manero / Balboa Deux

Before pairing up for Staying Alive, Stallone and Travolta, aka Manero / Balboa, headlined this inspired drive-in double bill...

Trailer Not on the DVD: Sharky's Machine (1981, Burt Reynolds)

Not only do we still not have a decent, widescreen DVD or Blu-ray of Burt Reynolds' Sharky's Machine in this hemisphere, we also don't have this very effective theatrical trailer on the mediocre DVD we do have.

Or, these TV spots:

Orion's Got Gang Fever in '79

Surrender to Suburbia '79 / '82 (Or, "In My Room")

On the audio commentary track recorded with novelist / screenwriter Cameron Crowe and director Amy Heckerling for Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Crowe take a couple minutes to praise Jonathan Kaplan's Over the Edge and its influence on him when conceiving Fast Times.

Indeed, there are some visual, aural, and thematic similarities shared by these two classic portrayals of suburban youth of the late '70s.  Although filmed in late 1981 and released the following Summer, Fast Times still seems to belong more to the '70s, which is appropriate given its roots go back to 1979, the year Crowe went undercover at Claremont High School, outside San Diego.

This video marries Crowe's comments to some of those elements present in both films.  Robert Romanus and Michael Kramer, who feature prominently in this video, share a rememblance:

1979: Ooh Child, Over the Edge of Phantasm

1979's Over the Edge and Phantasm both feature narrow escapes by their adolescent male protagonists from exploding cars driven by villainous antagonists.  Music is Valerie Carter's version of "O-o-h Child" heard at the finale of Over the Edge, in lieu of director Jonathan Kaplan's preferred "Baba O'Riley."

Stallone-isms

With 6 Rocky installments and 4 iterations of Rambo it's no secret that Sly Stallone will return to the same couple of wells multiple times.  For me, a Stallone fan for as long as I can remember, it's interesting to see where some of the dialogue, narrative devices, and visuals of those films creep into other, less-celebrated Stallone vehicles.  Since the star so often writes and / or directs his own projects--whether in official or unofficial capacities--it's not surprising to have some overlap in terms of dialogue and scenarios across different films. 

I haven't seen every Stallone picture nor do I have access to all of them so this project reflects the titles I'm more familiar with and have an affinity for.  I'd certainly be interested to hear about more examples of these "Stallone-isms."

Director's Cut?

Prompted by the publication of a new monograph on Philip Kaufman by Annette Insdorf, the Film Society of Lincoln Center recently presented a 35mm print of Kaufman's The Wanderers.  FSLC dubbed the screening a "Director's Cut," and the print, indeed, came from Kaufman's private collection, but after watching it, it seemed to me to be a pre-release version of the film, perhaps shown to test audiences or exhibitors before the actual release date and before final editing tweaks took place.  This "director's cut" contains numerous scene extensions and 1 or 2 other entirely new scenes.  While they were fascinating to see, especially for someone like me who knows the film backwards and forwards, none of them improved the film to any appreciable degree.  On the contrary, most of these bits highlighted either some shaky acting or over-writing or a little bit of both.  The release version, which is perhaps 5 minutes shorter, is tighter, obviously, and more effective, a case of the old "less is more" school of thought.  All that said, it would be wonderful to see this extra material as a supplement on a future Blu-ray release (we can dream, can't we?).

As an example of what I'm talking about, in the theatrical release version, Turkey (Alan Rosenberg) is slashed by a Ducky Boy after he puts his hand on the gang member's shoulder and propositions him with an invitation to a go somewhere like a park.  A frightened, bleeding Turkey then runs and climbs from an ever-expanding phalanx of Ducky Boys before falling to his death. 

The "director's cut," has Turkey explicitly ask the Ducky Boy if he wants a "blow job," to which the Ducky Boy responds with "Blow job?" and then viciously knifes Turkey.  Turkey is then surrounded by a group of angry Ducky Boys to whom he pleads that he is "not a faggot!" and, in fact, a Marine (this coming after Turkey and a group of Fordham Baldies drunkenly sign up for Marine service).  After this, the film transitions to what we see in the "regular" version of the film as Turkey is chased and terrorized to his death. 

One of the most effective aspects of the release version of The Wanderers was that the utterly frightening Ducky Boys remain silent throughout; having the Ducky Boy verbally respond to Turkey's blow job offer, however, weakens the overall cinematic presentation of the Ducky Boys.  Further, having Turkey more explicitly express his sexual desires and then loudly proclaim his heterosexuality is unnecessary; the writing is too on the nose.

There is another example later, in the "director's cut," of a character (John Friedrich's Joey) telling another (Tony Ganios' Perry) that he is, in fact, straight, not a "fag."  If it was, in fact, truly Kaufman's desire to have this dialogue be as direct as it is in this alternate version of the film, I'd be curious to know what the motivation was and why it was cut.  It may have been deemed to risque for 1979 audiences by the studio, but as the film stands now, in its shorter theatrical release length, the handling of this homoerotic material (which appears throughout the film and Richard Price novel) is more deft, more sophisticated, and smarter than what I saw the other night at the Walter Reade.  Where the "director's cut" spells things out for the audience, the theatrical release version, shows us all we need to see.

Even with all of this additional material, one scene I've always been curious about remained m.i.a.  It is illustrated in this lobby card and German still depicting a post-coital Ken Wahl and Karen Allen. The banjo Nina (Allen) strums is a tantalizing link to the later scene in which an out-of-place Richie (Wahl) spots her entering Folk City to see a young Bob Dylan perform "The Times They Are A- Changin'":

ADDENDUM: Michael Sragow confirms in this New Yorker piece that what screened at FSLC the other night was, indeed, a true "Director's Cut." Even with that knowledge, I must remain partial to the theatrical release.

Greetings from the South Bronx...circa 1980-81

Just caught up with these two 1981 genre entries (one a straight-up police drama, the other a police-occult horror hybrid) via cheap DVDs from Amazon Marketplace. While neither was particularly well-received upon release, I see them as two more supremely valuable filmed documents of pre-gentrification, pre-Giuliani New York City, particularly the Bronx, which isn't seen as often in Hollywood films as some of the other boroughs. Aside from this, even though I know I shouldn't be at this point, I'm continuously fascinated by the way in which the studios can all pounce on the same idea at the same time; my favorite example of this is probably the "gang cycle" of 1979 and, here, on a smaller scale, we have the Bronx movies of '81, one made by Time-Life Films (distributed by Fox) and the other made by Orion (distributed by Warner). I would be curious to know of other mainstream Hollywood films, which made as much use of dilapidated Bronx buildings and neighborhoods as Wolfen and Fort Apache, The Bronx did, around the same time as these two pictures. Feel free to leave them in the comments section below.


Directed by Michael Wadleigh (Woodstock), Wolfen is stylishly filmed by Wadleigh, d.p. Gerry Fisher, and production designer Paul Sylbert, effectively using the same kind of p.o.v. thermography as Predator would several years later. Along with all of the great Bronx location work, which includes an abandoned church built and destroyed specifically for the film, Wolfen also has some beautiful footage of the Brooklyn Bridge, Battery Park, and some absolutely breathtaking shots from atop of the Manhattan Bridge. Albert Finney leads a great cast that includes Diane Venora, Edward James Olmos, Gregory Hines, Tom Noonan, and Dick O'Neill in a story about an ancient breed of wolves, with Native American connections, feasting on Bronx denizens that is perhaps a little leisurely and padded at just under two hours. That said, we're left with an air of mystery and ambiguity at the conclusion and have antagonists that are not entirely bad and, in fact, are admirable and sympathetic in many respects. Not having read the Whitley Strieber novel on which the film is based, I'm not sure how faithful the film is, or if my reading from the film is entirely correct. Nevertheless, I was mostly riveted throughout. If made today, Wolfen would probably somehow be even longer, but less nuanced and deliberate than the 1981 film in favor of more explicit f/x, horror, and gore.

I haven't yet read this scholarly piece on Wolfen and its representation of the Bronx, but it looks quite interesting.

It's funny that I watched this right before my brother introduced me to this site, which features some magnificent and audacious illegally-shot footage from atop the Williamsburg Bridge and inside abandoned subway stations and tunnels.

Fort Apache, The Bronx boasts what is, as far as I can tell, the last action role for Paul Newman. At 55, the actor's age is not surprisingly used as a major plot point in this story of a veteran New York cop toiling away in the city's most dangerous precinct. I would agree with the criticism of the time that said that the film's overall construction and narrative felt quotidien and tv-like, but, with hindsight, the film looks a lot better because of its sincere approach, stellar cast (Newman, Ed Asner, Ken Wahl, Danny Aiello, Pam Grier, Rachel Ticotin, Kathleen Beller, Miguel Pinero, Paul Gleason, Randy Jurgensen, Sully Boyar), and the fact that material like this is almost never seen in Hollywood films anymore; 30 years later, a property like Fort Apache, The Bronx is almost solely the realm of television. As with Wolfen, my attention was held throughout and I got quite a kick out of the teaming of veteran Newman and hotshot Wahl, once again making me wish we'd seen more of Wahl after Wiseguy.

This trailer features a great v.o. and on-screen logo announcing Orion's involvement with Wolfen as well as some remarkable footage of decrepit Bronx buildings being demolished:



The classic Vestron logo introduces this Fort Apache, The Bronx trailer that does not appear on the DVD:



Vintage television spot:

Prince Redux

When I watch shows like The Wire and The Shield, both of which I count as all-time favorites, I see Sidney Lumet, Jay Presson Allen, and Robert Daley's fingerprints all over them.

"I could never hate you, Danny."

When it premiered on network television on May 29 and 30 1984, Prince of the City was shown in 2 2-hour segments, including footage that was not part of the 1981 theatrical cut. I'd love to see this material, but, of course, it was not included on the rather thin "Special Edition" DVD from a few years back. Anyone seen a torrent of this television cut show up on one of those shadowy sites that shall go unnamed here--because I don't know the names of them?:

The above still mis-identifies Tony Page as Richard Foronjy.