Major Chords

I know I wasn’t the only one who noticed that during the impressively assembled tribute to Martin Scorsese on the Golden Globes a few weeks ago there wasn’t a single image seen in the entire montage from his legendary 1977 musical NEW YORK, NEW YORK. Not the title card, not a single shot of the two leads, nothing. The reasons for this feel mysterious unless there was some sort of legitimate rights issue (still, RAGING BULL is also UA and that was certainly in there) and for all I know the director himself requested its absence but even so it was hard not to notice that when Scorsese made his way to the up to the stage the band even played the legendary theme from the film. In spite of the harsh reception the film received at the time, just one year after the triumph of TAXI DRIVER, Scorsese has always addressed the subject of the film fairly in interviews, at times acknowledging the flaws in the work. The final result, whatever else you want to say, could certainly be seen as a stepping stone to what Scorsese and star Robert De Niro later achieved so brilliantly in RAGING BULL and beyond so in that sense the effect it had on their careers was positive in the long run. And it has to be pointed out that some of the film remains genuinely impressive and monumental years after it was made. So much so, that it makes me wish that I actually liked the thing.


Despite the fact that after multiple viewings through the years I’ve never gotten much pleasure out of the experience of watching NEW YORK, NEW YORK I sometimes feel drawn back for another try to see if all the extravagance and genuine passion will finally click for me. Unfortunately, it hasn’t happened yet—and with some films that turnaround has—but I’m still waiting, hoping. That passion for cinema that bleeds through in every single frame Scorsese directs here certainly has that kind of effect. Shots stay with me for weeks, moments linger through the years but the whole thing feels like it goes on for a day and a half with the overall effect I get from the experience coming off as such a pummeling that I begin to think that having De Niro in character as Jake La Motta yelling at me for two hours straight would almost be preferable. The unresolved feeling I have towards it makes it seem as if Scorsese never found the correct balance between the lightness of the classic Hollywood musicals he was so inspired by and the darker nature of his own thematic interests. The love for those old films that he is obviously aping comes through but he seems to be missing some key ingredient, like a vital part of the DNA necessary to its success never got added. The experience of sitting and watching it sometimes feels like trying to lift a piano over your head all by yourself. After a while you have to stop trying and just go outside to take a break.


The film was released in June 1977, one of several troubled auteur releases during a month which also included John Boorman’s EXORCIST II: THE HERETIC and William Friedkin’s SORCERER. Each of these films turned out to be commercially problematic (SORCERER, at the very least, is remarkable nevertheless) and that response wasn’t helped by the blockbuster success of STAR WARS at the time. The business was about to change fast and with the films they had completed pretty much rejected by the public Scorsese, Boorman and Friedkin weren’t doing anything to stop it. As it turned out, the major contribution to popular culture by Scorsese’s film was giving the world the title song, “New York, New York” which became legendary in 1979 when covered by Frank Sinatra. It’s kind of crazy when you think about it—this song that feels like it’s been around forever only comes from 1977? Even crazier is that it didn’t even receive an Oscar nomination for Best Song (the winner that year? The immortal “You Light Up My Life”). Maybe everyone back then really did think that it came from the era the film is set in and they’d heard it before in some bizarre dream, one that NEW YORK, NEW YORK had itself made an appearance in. The final film is about that dream state we associate with the movies we love and the cracks we sometimes see in the worlds that they present. It’s a daring thesis, but one that Scorsese and company possibly could never reconcile with what they were actually making.


Presented in the style of a musical that might have been made at MGM in the late 40s, NEW YORK, NEW YORK begins on V-J Day at a massive celebration where saxophonist Jimmy Doyle (Robert De Niro) meets Francine Evans (Liza Minnelli) and though she doesn’t respond to any of his advances she soon realizes that she can’t get rid of him and once he learns that she is not only a singer but a really good one, he’s hooked. He follows her off on the road where she sings with a traveling big band and with both of them clearly turned on by the others’ talent it isn’t long before they fall in love and get married. But Jimmy’s insistence on playing his music his way gets in the way of things making both sides of their relationship ever more tempestuous and things are only exacerbated when Francine reveals she is pregnant which drives yet more tension between them.


The postmodern tone of NEW YORK, NEW YORK which apes not only MGM but numerous other styles from the period was an early example of a film that would somehow attempt to recreate a style associated from older Hollywood movies (and elsewhere—Jimmy Doyle’s habit of checking into hotels as M. Powell namechecks Scorsese’s hero, the director of THE RED SHOES), attempted through the years in disparate projects from Joe Dante’s GREMLINS to Todd Haynes’s FAR FROM HEAVEN among others. The film isn’t really about the city of New York or even a hazy memory of what New York was but of memories provided by movies set there but always and only shot on Hollywood backlots during the 30s to the 50s. Scorsese was working on what was then still the old MGM backlot, with the presence of Judy Garland’s daughter Liza Minnelli playing the female lead no doubt adding to the intense desire to recreate what came before. Stylized to the extreme during every minute with impeccable cinematography by Lazlo Kovacs and production design by Boris Leven, the often empty backlot streets never strive to look anything like what they actually are, rearscreen projection is made obvious and the sets have a distinctive heightened tone throughout that makes their basic falseness readily apparent. In attempting to clash these settings with the more naturalistic performances that Scorsese was interested in achieving during these days it’s clear that he was trying to combine the type of film that he loved while growing up with the type of film he made, whether the two things matched up or not be damned. It’s a fascinating idea but something feels like it never quite connected during the process. NEW YORK, NEW YORK has remarkable moments throughout that you can’t quite shake but something feels almost top heavy with how it’s put together almost from the very first minute making it a tough movie to get a hold of.


The improvisatory nature ultimately never disguises how the issues of the relationship between the two leads never really feel like they were solved on a script level (Story by Earl Mac Rauch, Screenplay by Rauch and Mardik Martin who also co-wrote MEAN STREETS and RAGING BULL). Part of it feels like a dry run for how De Niro’s Jake LaMotta treated Cathy Moriarty’s Vicky in RAGING BULL and that type of hostility combined with a queasy charm in this context sounds compelling but we never can buy into why anyone would want to be around this guy. In the context of his own world the Scorsese-De Niro incarnation of Jake LaMotta is much more compelling. Jimmy’s own feelings about his music are never quite articulated in a way that we can connect with beyond just having a few nightclub owners complain about what they’re hearing so all we get is De Niro’s hostility to everything that’s said to him. Looking at it now it’s obvious how he really represents Scorsese, who himself could very easily submit to giving the studios and audiences what they want and reap all the glories but has little interest in capitulating to that. But since the character can’t quite put those feelings into words Scorsese can’t quite portray that cinematically. Pointing at his saxophone while talking to Francine Jimmy says, “If I can’t do this I’m not good for you and I’m not good for anybody,” which is something but not really enough.


The use of Liza Minnelli in this context is certainly striking—she’s essentially playing a version of a role her own mother might have played in something directed by her father Vincente Minnelli but the character can’t seem to understand that she’s not really in one of those movies and is instead caught up in something else, a much grimmer and possibly more resonant film than we would expect. Seeing this figure in such a context is fascinating but the heavy improvisatory nature of it all turns out to be extremely problematic—some sequences play by fine by themselves but when put all together, particularly during some nightclub scenes in the second half, it just goes on and on into infinity. Even when taken by themselves the scenes sometimes go on way too long and as a result the film begins to feel like it was edited in slow motion by people extremely groggy after having not gotten enough sleep the night before (there was apparently heavy drug use going on by Scorsese at the time, but I’m just going to sidestep that issue). CASINO is actually twenty minutes longer than this film and winds up feeling about two hours shorter, with a much stronger and clearly defined dynamic between the husband and wife in the leads as well. Even some establishing sections near the beginning seem to go on forever and yet something about Scorsese’s direction never seems quite as dynamic as we think he could go. It’s like he’s resisting the more extreme elements of his style so that it will correctly replicate a 40s movie—maybe he should have gone for the post-1955 CinemaScope look instead.


Only occasionally do the elements connect—when Jimmy’s being dragged out of a nightclub through a hallway filled with lightbulbs that he kicks out the feel of total cinema comes alive for a moment and one band rehearsal scene on the road seems to encapsulate all the musical and romantic tensions in a way that feels just right, giving the impression that they were able to break down what the actors came up with during rehearsal and put it on the page into something coherent. I was impressed in the commentary to hear Scorsese comment that he also felt it was one of the more successful sequences in how it correctly worked the improvisation into what was necessary to the story. But the film is so focused on what is going on with the characters that it never quite does justice to the world (real or unreal) around them—there’s probably a lot to mine in the story of the big band era’s end but it winds up buried here in the Doyle character’s own uncompromising insistence on the music he wants to play. Every now and then some dialogue—written or improvised, who knows, maybe both at times—connects (I like when Lionel Stander says, “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, so I’ll make another one. This one’s on me.”) but the movie seems to spend too much time wandering in its own wilderness to get to those moments. The degree to which the film is problematic makes it linger in the mind longer than if they had made just decided to make a simple homage to old musicals—it’s almost haunting how close it comes to greatness—but it’s hard for me not to remain frustrated by it ultimately.


The problematic history of the film at the time of its release included the issue of the legendary “Happy Endings” number, a nine-minute musical sequence late in the film which is intentionally kind of a combination of “Born in a Trunk” from A STAR IS BORN and “Broadway Melody” from SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN combined with who knows what else, holding up a mirror to everything that has happened in the film and what our own expectations from it probably have been. A favorite of the director all through shooting, the number was cut shortly before its unsuccessful release in an attempt to get the running time down but was finally restored when the film was reissued in 1981. Much of the problem is really structural—the sequence comes almost immediately after the character of Francine takes control of her life as represented in singing “The World Goes Round” and there’s still the climactic rendition of the title song to come. It’s all overpowering in that patented Liza style and each of these numbers in rapid succession almost becomes too much by a certain point, diluting the overall impact until we’re close to losing consciousness. This is especially a problem because even in saying all this the sequence feels absolutely necessary both in resolving the romantic conflict and as the ultimate statement of what Scorsese is trying to say with this film—it’s both a commentary on what this type of sequence represents and it’s truly earnestly trying to just be one of those scenes. There is something about it that feels like it just misses the mark that I can’t quite put my finger on (maybe because 70s filmmaking technology can only look so much like what was done in the 50s) but even the use of a blatant jumpcut near the end feels somehow correct—I know there’s an old musical that has something similar but can’t recall what. Maybe SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN?—as if Scorsese has no problem admitting how much he loves even this sort of technical imperfection in those movies. The sequence should probably be cut for our own sanity yet it absolutely needs to be in there for the film to make any sense. This issue alone feels indicative of how much the movie clearly wound up out of control at a certain point, lost to its own artistry and unreality. The imperfections haunt the film, like the hallway Liza Minnelli plays her last scene in which seems like just about the only naturalistic setting in the entire running time and stands out that much more as a result like splashing a tub of cold water on our faces after all that time. Whether it’s intentional or not, I don’t know. It probably doesn’t matter. I wish I could love the film. Sometimes I can’t stand it. It remains harshly, completely fascinating. Even the alternate ending on the DVD coming after years of dissatisfaction with the resolution is fascinating to finally see in how much of a revelation it is yet also in how it feels absolutely, completely wrong.


The performances are not the issue here unless one has a basic problem with De Niro’s basic approach towards this type of movie, which after all is partly the point. He doesn’t look like someone who would have starred in one of these movies during the late forties and his intensity would have been too much for someone playing a minor gangster in one of them. His goofy charm sometimes shows through but his drive to succeed on his own terms, damn the whole world trying to stop him, is impossible to ignore. It’s not Travis Bickle, it’s not Jake LaMotta—it might be the closest to Robert De Niro, circa 1977 that we ever got onscreen. Whether successful or not, how his style clashes with Liza Minnelli is sometimes fascinating to watch and the actress is fearless in how she seems willing to match him even if she knows she might lose. Say whatever you want about Minnelli and her performing style she dives head first into this approach and it works beautifully. Among those appearing throughout Mary Kay Place is Francine’s inadequate replacement in the band, Lionel Stander gets some nice moments as Francine’s agent, De Niro’s then-wife Diahnne Abbott (also in TAXI DRIVER and THE KING OF COMEDY) sings an enticing version of “Honeysuckle Rose” at the Harlem Club and the legendary Dick Miller turns up in the first of two Scorsese appearances as the owner of the Palm Club.


Even looking at some of it now I’m torn between thinking some of it is extraordinary and the desire to stop watching it immediately, never to put the disc back into the player. The very nature of it all—an examination of the movies that a person grew up watching, exploring the notions of why someone loves them and how it connects to their own lives means that there are few films that I wish I loved as much as I wish I loved NEW YORK, NEW YORK. But the film’s almost willful self-destruction, like what is occasionally exhibited by its characters, makes that desire impossible and as it is I’m not even sure that I like it all that much. It says something about my own attraction to this type of minutiae that the film’s final shot is just about my favorite thing in it—as the credits roll, we see a deceptively simple image of a deserted street in darkness somewhere on a studio backlot as a heavy rain falls. It gives the impression of a dark corner of some long-forgotten film that haunts our very dreams long into the night and never quite fulfills our desires the way we wish it would. That’s what these films do sometimes and when you come right down to it there’s very little reason in trying to figure out why. If I knew, I probably wouldn’t be writing any of this anyway.

More Than Most People Would Do

Since the triumph of L.A. CONFIDENTIAL in 1997 it’s safe to say that director Curtis Hanson has focused on films that could be considered more character-oriented than anything else. I don’t have any real complaints on this point, particularly considering how much I love WONDER BOYS. Hell, I think that IN HER SHOES might be one of the most underrated films of the Aughts. But I can’t help but wonder what sort of films we would have gotten if Hanson had chosen to focus on the sort of thrillers that came from him during the early years of his career. Some of these films work so well that I can’t help but wonder if he wouldn’t have had any strong objection if someone told him that he could only make that sort of film for the rest of his career, be it Hitchcock-type thrillers or some kind of down and dirty noir tribute. The little-known THE SILENT PARTNER from 1978 which he wrote the screenplay for is excellent and in the early 80s he even wrote WHITE DOG for Sam Fuller which certainly must have been some kind of dream come true. Around this time he also directed Tom Cruise in the teen-sex comedy LOSIN’ IT which seems like some kind of bizarre joke now (they should do another movie together) but I think everyone in the world saw that one on cable at some point during that decade.


By comparison, almost forgotten now is Hanson’s 1987 thriller THE BEDROOM WINDOW, released by the De Laurentiis Entertainment Group. Very obviously an attempt at making something worthy of being called Hitchcockian, that the film isn’t better known is unfortunate and undeserving but may have something to do with how it stars Steve Guttenberg whose prominence in the 80s maybe also seems like a bizarre joke. The actor appeared in five movies in 1987, including THE BEDROOM WINDOW, one more than Michael Caine. He was everywhere. Even stranger is how the film also stars French actress Isabelle Huppert in one of her only English language appearances during this period aside from HEAVEN’S GATE—year later she had a major role in David O. Russell’s I HEART HUCKABEES. Hanson, a well-known cinephile, was no doubt aware of Cimino’s epic so I wonder if he was an admirer or if he just wanted to work with Huppert. Maybe he was forced to take Guttenberg, a box-office name then if anything, by De Laurentiis and wanted to make sure some class got injected into this. I’m just guessing here. Either way, Huppert’s casting is one of a number of elements that makes THE BEDROOM WINDOW more intriguing than it might have been in other hands not as interested in the genre they were paying tribute to. The final product has its problems, but it certainly displays the considerable talents of the writer/director in development and deserves better than whatever limbo that it’s been tossed into.

Late one night after an office party Terry Lambert (Steve Guttenberg) has a rendezvous with his bosses’ wife Sylvia Wentworth (Isabelle Huppert) at his apartment. With Terry in the other room for a moment after they make love, Sylvia witnesses an assault on a woman in the park below outside his bedroom window and gets a good look at the man (Brad Greenquist). He gets away with the woman unharmed but word of a woman killed later that night hits the papers Sylvia wants to do the right thing and come forward but hesitates for fear of her husband learning where she was. Not wanting to be found out either, Terry reports the attack to the police himself, saying he was the one who got a look at the man even though he never saw a thing. When circumstances cause his story to break down and Denise (Elizabeth McGovern), the woman who was attacked, begins to suspect the truth Terry finds himself a suspect in the murder and soon realizes it’s up to him to catch the killer himself.


“You’re either a romantic fool or you’re an idiot,” McGovern tells Guttenberg at one point, trying to figure out his motivation, and that’s one of the problems in THE BEDROOM WINDOW. For a long stretch of screentime during the first hour it’s tough to figure out exactly why the lead character is acting with such little common sense unless he just knows that he’s in a thriller and needs to behave this way. After all, if he were at all smart would he really decide to lie to the police? Didn’t he have any idea he might be called in to look at a lineup, let alone have to go and testify in a trial? Maybe the character is suddenly feeling more alive by such an affair with this beautiful woman who inspires him to begin drinking white wine (Huppert is three years older but seems decades more worldly—she couldn’t find someone more interesting to have an affair with?) but Guttenberg isn’t enough of a presence to make that register. Fortunately the exceedingly clever plot machinations of THE BEDROOM WINDOW (screenplay by Hanson, based on the novel “The Witnesses” by Anne Holden) begin to kick into gear soon enough displaying a great amount of awareness of why this sort of film works and what can be done to correctly keep all the balls of the plot in the air. It certainly has a few problems—a few sections could be tighter, the lead characters are thinly drawn (what does Guttenberg’s character do? Maybe he's some kind of architect but it doesn't matter), the character of Huppert’s husband played by Paul Shenar isn’t enough of a presence, a preponderance of offscreen dialogue looped in feels placed to clarify things, it feels like Hanson’s direction isn’t as adventurous as it might have been several years later—but the cleverness and unpredictability is good enough to overcome any issues that are due to its leading man. It’s a considerable stretch but you could almost say that by a certain point the miscasting almost becomes a part of the very subtext of the film. The character is a fraud, which makes it difficult to sympathize with him, but in some ways Guttenberg isn’t up to this either and it gives an interesting extra layer to numerous scenes. All throughout the lead is opposite fellow actors, even some who are only onscreen for a few minutes, which manage to make more inventive use of their minor roles than he ever does and you could almost believe that’s exactly what they’re thinking as they’re in frame with him. The considerably more experienced Huppert even gives him a kiss-off line late in the film (I’d quote it but it’s a spoiler) that the actress seems to infuse with the awareness that she can’t believe she’s lowered herself to sharing the screen with this guy and just wants to get back to Europe to work with Godard or Chabrol again as soon as possible.


Putting aside the impatience that arises during some of the actions of the lead during the first half (not helped by the actor, but not his fault either) THE BEDROOM WINDOW is extremely well-assembled and even manages to use what has already been developed in the plot to totally pull the rug out from under us at the midway point (no spoilers, I promise), a surprise tactic that works expertly. Maybe this turn gives everything a jolt of adrenaline but as constructed much of the second half works considerably better, leading to a climax that hits all the right notes in how it’s assembled—if one test of a good director is in the clarity of how he stages a suspense scene in an enclosed space Hanson passes with flying colors (there’s also some liberal use of male and female nudity including, yes, from Huppert which gives the whole thing a considerably more adult feel). Keeping in mind the old Howard Hawks line about a good movie having three good scenes and no bad ones, THE BEDROOM WINDOW certainly fulfills that rule, with moments big and small throughout that work extremely well—when Guttenberg is found with a dead body and blood on him it plays like some sort of NORTH BY NORTHWEST/MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH mashup but Hanson stages it so while we’re very aware of the homage he never lets it get in the way of the scene, clearly knowing how to make these elements work in the best way possible. And maybe he wasn’t just thinking about Hitchcock—interestingly, the way Guttenberg realizes a key piece of information late in the film gives the impression that Hanson has studied his Dario Argento as well (though, it should be said, he holds back on the violence). The film was released by DEG back in the dead of January during 1987 (I didn’t see it then), a dump that wasn’t deserved but maybe appropriate for the sort of film that one should discover during the cold winter months. You don’t expect anything from it and what you get turns out to be an extremely rewarding surprise.


You could make the argument that Guttenberg’s lightweight nature works in his favor in this wrong man scenario. At least, you could try. The thing is, the actor just isn’t skilled enough to make that approach work. He can’t do much beyond playing happy-go-lucky and in a scene where he’s looking for someone and demands, “Damn it, where have they gone!” he doesn’t seem capable of even giving that line any real conviction. Even the bit player in that scene gives off more of a presence. In fairness to Guttenberg, he does seems fully committed to making the film work and maybe the fact that he really does seem to be trying actually is helpful to the snowballing momentum. Elizabeth McGovern, a pretty dependable face in films around this time, brings spunk and intelligence to her underwritten role which gains in prominence as the film continues. While the gorgeous Huppert seems to have some problems working in English the glamour and intelligence she brings to the role, as well as how she gives an extra level of depth to everything around her, is undeniable. Brad Greenquist, resembling a cross between Dennis Christopher and David Caruso, is very well-utilized in his mostly silent role of the killer. Other actors who make a strong impression in their scenes opposite Guttenberg include Carl Lumbly as the investigating police detective, Robert Schenkkan (whose head once exploded on an episode of STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION) as the state attorney, Kate McGregor-Stewart as a downstairs neighbor who seems strangely turned on by the possibility that a killer lives in her building and familiar face Maury Chakin as a sleaze in a bar. In just a single scene as Greenquist’s attorney, the always-great Wallace Shawn kicks all kind of ass during his few minutes onscreen (“Don’t trifle with the court, Mr. Lambert”), a hugely enjoyable update of one of those minor roles that Hitchcock always seemed to love having take over his films if only briefly. Hanson, in the way he uses Shawn, seems to know how unexpectedly effective such a personality in this sort of film can be.


Any film that contains Shawn’s scene here as well as the sharply executed pace of the climax is clearly put together by someone who loves engineering this kind of puzzle. It’s clear in what he does here that Hanson knows that Hitchcock’s films were not just made up of the intricate plotting and setpieces but also by their witty asides and supporting players, with everything combined in order to make them into those famous slices of cake. With the great L.A. CONFIDENTIAL ten years in the future his talent was clearly still developing at this point and maybe THE BEDROOM WINDOW needed a little more finesse in the writing and editing but its best moments are very good indeed, maybe even better than that. Seeing it on DVD and for the first time ever in Scope (like a few other well-regarded DEG films were) after seeing it maybe once on video over twenty years ago resulted in a tiny hidden treasure that shouldn’t even be called a surprise. After all, we should be very aware how good Curtis Hanson really is at what he does. There’s apparently a remake coming—what, because the title is so marketable?—with Kevin Williamson attached to write the script (he was recently quoted as calling the original ‘Curtis Hanson’s first film’ which isn’t close to being correct). Skip that version if it actually happens and just see this one since it’s all you’re going to need. And then just go through the rest of Curtis Hanson’s filmography because you can always learn from someone who knows what they’re doing.

Limpers Are Famous For Telling The Truth

The infectious disco-muzak feel of the old Marvin Hamlisch sound set to the sight of crashing waves up near Big Sur signals the opening of SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES, the Christmas 1980 release from Columbia back in the days when they still had that sunburst logo at the start of each film. The comedy marked the reteaming of Goldie Hawn and Chevy Chase after the success of FOUL PLAY from a few years before and this time they had a Neil Simon script to work off of which, instead of the Hitchcock pastiche of their first effort together, sought to be an update of screwball comedies from Hollywood’s Golden Age. I can remember seeing this one, just like FOUL PLAY, at the much-missed Scarsdale Plaza Cinema, a second run house which only charged 99 cents at this point and I even recall that the occasion was on a Saturday afternoon to a fairly empty house. Given the feel that Neil Simon was trying to pay tribute to the type of movie he had seen on the late show many times through the years, as SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES approaches its thirtieth birthday it becomes very clear in watching it how they really don’t attempt to make them like this anymore, something that makes its title rather fitting. If shown in a Neil Simon retrospective it would probably go over well with the audience and let’s face it, this sort of thing isn’t always easy to pull off. But the rimshot nature of the jokes doesn’t always play quite as well just watching it at home and some of it has dated in a few unfortunate ways. Somehow deep down I’m not sure that it’s really meant to be seen anywhere other than a half-empty movie theater in Westchester on a lazy Saturday afternoon in early 1981. It’s probably comfort food for somebody out there in the world which I have absolutely no problem with. It’s certainly pleasant enough. The Marvin Hamlisch music almost succeeds in transporting me back to that time while I watch it but let’s face facts, those days are long gone.


Writer Nicholas Gardenia (Chevy Chase) is working in seclusion up in Big Sur when interrupted by a pair of bank robbers who kidnap and force him to rob a bank up in Carmel. After pulling off the job and having his picture taken on a bank security camera Nick is shoved out of the car by them, leaving him on the lam so he seeks out ex-wife Glenda (Goldie Hawn), a pro-bono type lawyer who he still has feelings for. Glenda just happens to live in domestic bliss in wealthy Brentwood with current husband Ira Parks (Charles Grodin) who just happens to be the district attorney of Los Angeles and is about to be appointed by the Governor to be the state Attorney General. They also have at least six dogs living with them who make a habit out of continually running into scenes to disrupt things. When word of Glenda’s ex gets out Ira is naturally worried what this could mean for his chances (“we’re living in a very conservative state” he’s reminded about, um, California). Nicholas, meanwhile, having already done time in a Mexican prison and determined to not give himself up (“Ever since I was a kid I’ve had this wild and crazy desire never to go to jail”) attempts to worm his way back into Glenda’s life with Ira having no idea that her ex-husband is directly under his nose, sometimes literally. With the cops after him, Nicholas pleads with Glenda for help yet also makes it clear how much he still loves her. With both men now in her life Glenda is at a loss to know what to do but matters are made worse by the imminent arrival of the Governor to meet with Ira about the Attorney General position but everyone is aware that his main interest is eating Chicken Pepperoni for dinner.


Directed by Jay Sandrich, whose career has primarily been in television, the visual style of SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES is done in such a simple, get-all-the-coverage fashion that it’s not too much of a reach to speculate that a version of the same premise made in the 30s or 40s by some journeyman of the time wouldn’t have been all that different. The main difference in the two periods of course is Simon’s rat-a-tat dialogue all the way through which combines that screwball feel with the that farcical examination of married couples that we expect from. Enough of the film is set in and around the Parks’s house to the extent that, if necessary, reworking the piece for the stage wouldn’t have been all that difficult. How well Simon’s work dates today is still open to debate but I do wonder if the films based on his plays hold up better than his original screenplays, as if something about their sturdy structure enable them to play better through the years. When watched now, SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES isn’t bad at all with the film’s main problem feeling like the farcical developments never develop into anything much more than a simmer when they should reach a full boil. Every now and then characters seem to be reacting much more than really seems necessary considering the plot and the climactic dinner feels like it needed a few more elements other than just the butler getting drunk, a few more characters leaving the room exasperated a few more times. Even with the presence of all those yapping dogs, the courtroom showdown near the end has got to be the calmest, most well-reasoned explain-all-the-wacky-mix-ups-to-the-judge finales ever.


One alternative might have been to up the zaniness to a WHAT’S UP DOC-type level but maybe they just wanted to set all this more in the real world to allow the triangle of the leads play out better. This absolutely makes sense to allow the drama to work but it feels like there’s a farcical explosion just waiting in the wings that never quite happens. In fairness, there is some really good dialogue sprinkled throughout—I have a particular fondness for the bit where Chase tells a suspicious cop that he runs a business that involves carving the heads of presidents out of driftwood and one tiny exchange as the characters sit down in the dining room for the big dinner is a nice throwaway: “The house looks lovely, what have you done with it?” “We had it reshingled.” SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES put a fairly consistent smile on my face and I even got the occasional chuckle out of it—Chase’s pantomiming response to having his finger stepped on always did it for me and there’s finely calculated exasperation from Grodin nonstop—but maybe not much more than that. There is also some humor involving Glenda’s Mexican clients, the family maid Aurora played by Yvonne Wilder as well as one or two moments involving co-star Robert Guillaume (“As Fred”) that maybe doesn’t play so well these days but I guess we can ignore all that.


In his memoir “The Play Goes On” Simon doesn’t say much about the film beyond generally liking it—he indicates that the screenplay was written during a period of heavy activity and barely even remembers putting it down on paper. Even the plotting doesn’t always hold water with it seeming like several of the characters are having the same argument a few times too many—how many times does Nick say he’s leaving then come back? Not to mention his predicament which feels like it could actually be cleared up rather easily—early on we’re told that the two robbers “were smart enough not to get their picture taken” at the bank then of course later on we get a look at the picture that was taken of them. Of course, one could argue that we’re watching this movie for the laughs and romance, not intricate plot developments, which is completely fair. And we’re there to see Chevy fall down a lot as well. That’s what SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES feels like—a smoothly assembled vehicle made by people who know what they’re doing and it never results in anything more than that, but maybe it doesn’t need to be. While it’s not as hysterically funny as it may have been in 1980, it remains likable and the pacing maintains a sharp comic rhythm—it feels important to mention the involvement of legendary MGM editor Margaret Booth, then in her eighties, credited as Associate Producer and Supervising Editor, giving the film a direct link to what it’s paying tribute to. This sort of comic precision isn’t really attempted anymore, just as the comedies that are made no longer start with that patented Marvin Hamlisch sound. It might be a little cheesy but it’s kind of nice to hear music that seems so excited about the movie it’s underscoring and at least there’s not too much of it done in a cutesy manner to tell us how ‘funny’ everything is since the movie is able to do that on its own. It should also be pointed out that it feels like they never came up with the right ending for it all that would be as satisfying as the buildup. What we do get feels a little like a reshoot so I could believe that was very much an issue at the time. Or maybe this was the ending and I’m just overthinking the issue. After all, how else do you end a romantic comedy starring Goldie Hawn and Chevy Chase, anyway?


It's not exactly the career defining performance for anyone here but they all do very nice work and, it could be said, each displays the qualities that we like about them to begin with. Chase fits right in with the Neil Simon syntax and some of the dialogue seems perfectly written for him. Hawn, fresh off the smash hit PRIVATE BENJAMIN at this point, makes her character’s ever-growing hysteria endearing (when was the last time a lead character in a movie was named Glenda?) and Grodin uses his comic expertise to turn what is basically the Ralph Bellamy role into the Charles Grodin role—other actors might have made the character too unlikable but he makes his behavior completely reasonable and still very funny. Robert Guillaume gets some good moments as Grodin’s right hand man, George Grizzard is the unflappable Governor (“Notice how I remain calm?”), T.K. Carter, later in THE THING, is Chester the butler/chauffer and Jerry Houser of SLAP SHOT (and also the man who later married Marcia Brady) is a gas station attendant. As the flustered judge who gets everything explained to him in the end Harold Gould gets a number of genuine laughs and winds up seeming like he would be right at home in a 30s movie more than anyone else here.


The two leads unfortunately never made another movie together, although Goldie Hawn did appear on the first episode of Chevy Chase's legendarily awful 1993 talk show. Avoid it if you can. Putting all that out of mind, I don’t have the same affection for this Hawn/Chase teaming as I do for FOUL PLAY, but one thing the films have in common is the sort of music that I associate with lush, commercial Hollywood films of this period. FOUL PLAY had Charles Fox and Barry Manilow, this one has Marvin Hamlisch. Even as the credits roll on that ending that doesn’t quite satisfy the music comes in full throttle and I’m thrust back to the Scarsdale Plaza once again. I don’t want that music to play for too long but it is a nice place to spend a few minutes and maybe I even enjoy it more than I’m willing to admit here. Just as SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES isn’t all that great but it is pleasant enough to revisit after a long time away from it. Now that I’ve done that, I don’t think I’ll need to see it again very soon. Although I am still curious about how that Chicken Pepperoni tastes.

Between What Is Said And What Is Done

Next on the list of films I should have seen long ago but only got to now is GORKY PARK, the Michael Apted thriller released way back in December 1983. I’m going to take a wild guess that it didn’t really interest me at the time. Looking at it now makes it clear that it’s the sort of commercial film that studios unfortunately aren’t very interested in making anymore and I’m not talking about how it’s set behind the iron curtain. It’s very much a thriller for adults without the need to dumb things down, one that contains gripping action but is in no way an action movie and the intricate plotting doesn’t rush things leading to an end which may not be perfect but is still somewhat satisfying. The equivalent film made now might possibly rework the plot to up the stakes considerably as well as upping the quotients on violence and sleaze—and there is some sex in GORKY PARK already. Or it would go the opposite route and go for the prestige of making an ‘adult’ film, taking a more serious approach and therefore placing the whole thing more in line with the awards race—as it was, the closest the film came was a deserved Golden Globe nomination for female lead Joanna Pacula. The approach used by GORKY PARK, a fairly early Orion release, seems to place it stylistically between the 70s and the 80s styles, caught between being character based and the more expected elements from the genre, making for an interesting mix. It gets points for having its American characters play supporting to Russian at the height of the cold war, something which makes the dramatics more complex than it would have otherwise and the way the story develops reveals more of itself as it goes on. I’m tempted to just look at the whole thing as a nicely put together airplane read though there are a few more layers to it than just that. At its best it’s a very good film which gains in substance both as it goes on and after it ends.


When three dead bodies are found in Moscow’s Gorky Park, Soviet police inspector Arkady Renko (William Hurt) is assigned to investigate which he does so reluctantly due to his belief he expresses to trusted prosecutor Iamskoy (Ian Bannen) that the KGB may somehow be involved and he doesn’t like the thought that he’s being set up as a fall guy. But he nevertheless begins his investigation, which leads to beautiful Irina Asanova (Joanna Pacula) a mysterious young woman with a connection to powerful American businessman (Lee Marvin). When another American, New York Police Investigator William Kirwill (Brian Dennehy) expresses his own interest in the case Renko begins to realize how wide the conspiracy is but as his attraction to Irina grows he begins to find himself in danger as well.


Michael Apted is kind of a nightmare for people trying to look at director’s careers in an auteurist sense with a filmography that includes his famous UP series, biopics seemingly designed to get Oscar nominations for actors, comedies with the likes of John Belushi (CONTINENTAL DIVIDE) and Richard Pryor (CRITICAL CONDITION), as well as the 1999 James Bond film THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH. He currently has the third NARNIA film coming up and throughout his career there have been films that in their aim to be extremely serious have come off as many a little too stuffy. It’s easy to imagine a version of GORKY PARK which might have been that as well but even though it goes on maybe a few minutes too long it holds together very well and the director’s best work here is very good indeed. With a screenplay by Dennis Potter (PENNIES FROM HEAVEN) based on the novel by Martin Cruz Smith, GORKY PARK manages to overcome several points which otherwise would defeat a lesser film. William Hurt, complete with accent, is certainly not the most convincing Russian ever seen but it certainly helps that he’s a good enough actor to overcome this and the film has the confidence to make his accent fairly light so it’s not really much of an issue. There’s also the more problematic matter of having everyone speak English which wouldn’t be noticeable if everyone in the film were Russian—after all, we could just pretend they were speaking English—but when Americans played by Marvin and Dennehy turn up language is never even mentioned and when Hurt writes things down it’s in Russian with subtitles used which just muddies things. Maybe people didn’t think about this sort of thing as much at the time. Still, under Apted’s clearheaded direction and Potter’s page-turner of a script GORKY PARK remains both gripping and entertaining all the way through with enough complexity to correctly address the seriousness of it while still not making it too much of a polemic. Unlike any number of thrillers of this type the plotting never becomes overly convoluted yet it avoids the feeling that it’s trying to dumb things down. It’s an intriguing combination of cold-war politics, action scenes and a plot which is continually adding new elements, best encapsulated in how Lee Marvin’s powerful presence in the story grows as it goes on.


With the appropriately snowbound Helsinki subbing for Moscow (that huge mural of Lenin seen certainly helps the illusion) the film avoids becoming too grim by adding drops of wit throughout—even from Marvin—but even these touches are never allowed to overtake the chilly atmosphere that is so necessary. And it succeeds as an intelligent mystery that keeps things complex but still clear enough that it’s not a reach that Hurt is able to put things together—indeed, part of the plot is that certain people almost need him to—and it never does so in a way that feels like he’s accidentally stumbling into answers in order to dumb things down. What’s going on is just as simple as the dominoes he’s trying to put together in one scene yet, as things often are in life, much more complex as well which he seems to be very aware of. It’s easy to imagine another version of the story which makes the Brian Dennehy character the lead in a BLACK RAIN-type scenario which would simplify the politics—the Russians would just be made to be the ‘other’ and let us off the hook as the maverick cop goes barreling through Moscow intent on revenge, an idea it actually briefly touches on. Here, it’s the level-headed person who is the lead and he’s the one who needs to decide how much good that approach in life is really doing him. For the most part it all flows together very well though it could have used some tightening as it approaches the third act. Random rule that I guess I made up: If a film runs two hours and change, you could probably lose those few minutes to get it down to two hours and tighten things up a little (even so, one character’s exit feels unsatisfying though I don’t have a good solution to that). With a running time of 126 minutes, GORKY PARK seems to fall into that category.


Putting the politics of the day aside, the one thing which really strands GORKY PARK in its time period is the score by James Horner. It starts off in a sparse, evocative manner but soon incorporates a few too many 80s synths, not to mention that steel drum action thing that Horner used in all his urban-action efforts of the decade including 48 HRS., COMMANDO and RED HEAT—really, they all just wind up sounding like the same thing. If I were being chased through city streets to this music then, yes, it would be kind of cool but it still feels a little out of place here when compared to those more action oriented films. Regardless, the standoff climax shrewdly plays out with no score (I miss that sort of thing), which is allowed to remain tense from hearing not much more than the wind blowing through the trees in the woodsy surroundings and the entire sequence, extremely well-staged by Apted, succeeds admirably. The story pays off in the end, but the romance and political angle don’t work quite as well. I get the feeling it wants to be CASABLANCA in the end which it’s not, of course, and though it falls short in that goal I suppose there are far worse things you could say about a film’s ending than that it isn’t as good as CASABLANCA. Ultimately, the thriller elements of GORKY PARK work better than when it attempts to be a serious meditation on people trapped behind the iron curtain but overall the film succeeds as just the sort of adult thriller that, well, doesn’t get made much anymore.


William Hurt’s subtle work overcomes the accent issue very quickly (frankly, with multiple Brits playing the Russians, this isn’t a film to look for appropriate accents from anyone, except maybe Brian Dennehy) and his earnest nature becomes likable, particularly the way he freely tells Marvin in one scene, “I always wanted to meet an American.” He’s one of the key reasons why the film gains in resonance as it goes on—like the film, his cool exterior eventually gives way to something that has more going on underneath. Maybe if there’d been more films like this one out there the actor wouldn’t have gone off and disappeared for a few years or whatever it was he did. The off-kilter casting of Lee Marvin works very well—it’s the sort of role that might have been more expected from the likes of Richard Widmark in his COMA period but Marvin makes it so you never know what to expect from him in his three-piece suits and he’s very intimidating as he stares down Hurt, as if studying him to prepare for the kill. Suddenly Lee Marvin has become more threatening just sitting at a table wearing a suit than he ever was during a long career of holding a gun. Even though he died less than four years later, there’s still a great deal of power that he brings to even minor moments throughout and is one of the best performances from the latter part of his career. There’s also solid work by the supporting cast that includes Brian Dennehy (sarcastically calling Hurt’s character ‘Boris’ on occasion), Ian Bannen, Richard Griffiths and the forever icy Ian “Senator Palpatine” McDiarmid who provides much of the film’s levity as the sardonic Professor Andreev, the anthropologist who helps restore the mutilated faces of the victims. And there’s Joanna Pacula, a beauty who never seems to have had the career she might have had based on her excellent performance this film, though she has worked here and there through the years. She’s very beautiful with a lithe vulnerability yet she doesn’t come off as a supermodel playing a film role. Maybe that’s why she never got a Bond girl-sort of part but it certainly adds to her effectiveness here. There’s enough of a Nastassia Kinski resemblance to make it not much of a surprise that Polanski recommended her for the part as reported in a Time magazine profile on the actress way back in 1983. Casting the unknown paid off and it seems a shame that she never got such a good part again, displaying a maturity beyond her years as well as possessing a relatable type of beauty which keeps her from seeming out of place, a rarity for these types of movies.


And, yes, there is a sex scene complete with nudity from Pacula about which I have no complaints but since it seems to happen more because it was expected from this type of film (maybe cashing in on Hurt’s BODY HEAT success) than anything to do with the vulnerability of the characters it winds up making me think of the movie as more of a commercial thriller than anything else. GORKY PARK tries to combine those genre elements with a would-be serious look at life behind the iron curtain, culminating in a ‘one day we’ll be free’ metaphor along with a standard ‘corruption is everywhere’ theme about taking sides in the cold war. It’s as if the film is unwilling to admit that it’s, well, ‘just’ a thriller but in spite of its seriousness it ultimately does feel like more of a straight genre piece than, say, THE LIVES OF OTHERS turned out to be a few years ago (actually, that sounds like an interesting double bill). Of course, there’s nothing wrong with a movie that’s ‘just’ a thriller and there’s nothing particularly wrong with GORKY PARK either. As the credits roll and that damn (but admittedly pretty cool) James Horner steel drum music returns again it feels like the movie wants to say yeah, we know this was more about the chases and mystery, not the political message, and that satisfaction is what we’re ultimately left with. Even if its setting is now one that lies in the past the mystery remains strong and the film plays well, a work of intelligence that doesn’t need to account for itself at all.

Looking At Things Realistically

It’s the age-old question: in DON’T MAKE WAVES, do you prefer Claudia Cardinale or Sharon Tate? I freely admit that at one point in time I may have said Sharon Tate. But looking at it more recently, my mind seems to have been changed. Yes, Claudia Cardinale’s character is crazy and scatterbrained, not to mention at times being unable to stop screaming at Tony Curtis for so much as five seconds, but she’s certainly passionate. Not to mention that along with that passion you get the feeling that she may cook you a big spaghetti dinner with lots of red wine followed by amazing conversation, maybe still another argument where she loses her temper over some minor issue and then you’ll go to bed where more of that passion will continue to display itself. Plus she was in ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST—that should solve the matter right there. We should all be so lucky to meet such a woman. Sharon Tate is gorgeous, yes—in the context of some goofy 60s beach comedy she displays an energy which seems practically otherworldly—but it’s going to be hard to keep up much of a dialogue with a girl who sits in bed for long stretches staring at a Spanish-language program on TV, even though she doesn’t speak Spanish. She’s mind-bogglingly beautiful but there has to be something else there. Maybe, as in the film, it’s simply up to some bodybuilder to find out what that is. Either way, it’s a nice choice to pretend to have.


The 1967 southern California lifestyle satire DON’T MAKE WAVES isn’t quite a hidden classic although the Maltin book does refer to it as “the one gem out of nine million bad Tony Curtis comedy vehicles.” I haven’t seen every one of those nine million movies just yet, but DON’T MAKE WAVES does have a certain unique feel to it which sets it apart from other such films of the era, no doubt provided by director Alexander Mackendrick, the man who previously directed Curtis in the masterpiece THE SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS. It’s the sort of sixties comedy with enough of a genuinely oddball take on things that makes it enjoyable to return to every now and then but looking at it right now after seeing it several times over the years one element of the movie which strikes me just now might be how quickly its lead character is able to talk his way into a reputable job and a new life for himself out of nothing in the process. It’s enough to make me think that maybe I should take some pointers from such an approach at this point in time. After all, it might not hurt. It’s all kind of scattershot in the end and pretty much a mess, but many sixties comedies are anyway. At least it’s an interesting mess and contains some sharp satire of how the Los Angeles and Malibu lifestyles were perceived at the time, thought of as a place where you can reinvent your entire world as the continuous sound of those waves crash around in your head.


Carlo Cofield (Tony Curtis) has no sooner moved to Los Angeles and arrived at the Pacific Ocean to stare serenely out at the water than through a comical mishap his car and all of his belongings are destroyed by beautiful failed actress Laura Califatti (Claudia Cardinale) who was at the lookout point working on a painting. Insistent on getting her insurance info Carlo goes with her to her oceanfront apartment but that soon proves difficult when he runs afoul of her “patron”, her married boyfriend Rod Prescott (Robert Webber) who owns the car she was driving. Carlo soon uses what he knows about Rod to his advantage, not to inform his wife Diane (Joanna Barnes) but to secure himself a salesman job with the Prescott’s swimming pool company. Things are soon working out for Carlo faster than anyone could have imagined but he still finds himself continually on the beach infatuated with Malibu—not the place, but the girl (Sharon Tate, getting an “introducing” credit), a gorgeous beachgoing skydiver who he can’t keep his eyes off of even with her bodybuilder boyfriend Harry (real-life bodybuilding champion David Draper) nearby.


Pretty silly stuff and in the way it has dated DON’T MAKE WAVES doesn’t necessarily contain a laugh a minute but it’s breezily enjoyable the whole way through, partly due to the cast and partly due to how innocently appealing the world of the Malibu beaches looks today over forty years after it was made. Even in this goofy context it’s as if Mackendrick brought a surprising amount of intensity to this material, allowing it to hold together to a greater extent than any number of other comedies of the time which also had very little to do with reality—it actually feels directed, like there was genuine thought given to how to stage some of this silliness. There’s not much to it all, maybe indicated by how we never learn a single thing about the past of Tony Curtis’s character—going by the animated title sequence he’s come from somewhere back east and that’s all we ever know. He’s just Tony Curtis shacking up with beautiful women—what more do you need? But it has a nice snappy style in every single scene and its portrayal of a southern California lifestyle where everything imaginable falls into the lap of Carlo Cofield seemingly within days of arrival is infectious, particularly when backed up by a Vic Mizzy score. The Byrds sing the title song over the opening credits as well, making for a pretty enjoyable soundtrack album. The beach scenes are silly, but fun as well, with the bodybuilders and oddball girls who hang out there never portrayed as anything more than mildly eccentric (on his official website, bodybuilder Draper says of the film’s portrayal of the real-life scene, “It was not entirely accurate nor was it a mindless spoof.”). At the least, they’ve got things more together and understand their place in the world more than Tony Curtis’s character seems able to.


If there’s anything wrong with the film on a serious storytelling level (it’s based on the novel “Muscle Beach” by Ira Wallach, adaptation by Maurice Richlin, screenplay by Wallach and George Kirgo), it’s that the tightness of the plot isn’t able to sustain itself past the first forty-five minutes or so. Once Cofield moves into his Cliffside house overlooking the ocean the trail begins to get a little lost, with characters and plot strands seemingly vanishing for long stretches culminating in a climax that seems to begin rather abruptly. As Cofield hatches an elaborate scheme to win Malibu over, a plot strand that is dwelled on a little too long, Cardinale’s Laura gets a little lost gets a little lost in the mix like the plot doesn't know what to do with the character and it’s tough to know what she ever really thinks of the two men interested in her. Certainly a few more minutes of Cardinale screaming in Italian at anyone in this movie wouldn’t have hurt, but at the least we get to see her soaking wet wearing a provocative dress in the rain looking pretty amazing. At times it feels like there’s not much to DON’T MAKE WAVES other than seeing Tony Curtis gaze longingly at Sharon Tate (or a body double) bounce up and down on a trampoline for whole scenes at a time, but maybe that’s all we’re supposed to get out of it anyway. The climax could be seen as stating that the very foundation of Malibu—or maybe even all of sunny California—is so weak that the first crack will show itself at the first sign of a rainstorm, indicated by what happens to one of the swimming pools that are so doted on, sending everything spiraling into destruction (I can’t help but realize that I’ve written some of this during a pretty harsh rainstorm, making me wonder what’s in store for me soon).


The various plot strands get wrapped up in rudimentary fashion and the credits quickly roll as a few of the leads bounce around in the surf, not a single other care in the world since there’s ultimately nothing to worry about. One passage in the title song by The Byrds goes, “And when all the toys that you dreamed of finally come/They all will break and you’re back where you started from.” That’s all that DON’T MAKE WAVES really has to say—no matter what happens, even the loss of all your possessions, once you’re in L.A. (a place where “looking at things realistically” in regards to love doesn’t do anyone any good) ready to live “a full life, a rich life,” as Cardinale’s character puts it, the world is your oyster and anything you want can be right at your fingertips. This of course can include an expensive car, a luxury home looking out at the ocean, and the choice between Claudia Cardinale and Sharon Tate. Like I said, I’m going with Cardinale but you may have your own feelings.


For the record, in his recent autobiography “American Prince: A Memoir” Curtis doesn’t have much to say about DON’T MAKE WAVES beyond how happy he was to be working with Mackendrick again though he does offer, “The plot was utterly ridiculous, but I agreed to appear in the film because I got a percentage of the gross.” He also states that he plays “a professor” in the film so it’s doubtful much of that ridiculousness ever stayed with him. As for Sharon Tate, Roman Polanski later wrote in his own autobiography that she didn’t enjoy herself on the production, a tense set which was certainly exacerbated when a stuntman drowned when parachuting into the Pacific during the shooting of one scene.


Tony Curtis is certainly enjoyable to watch here, attacking the role with all the energy it needs but, in his early forties at the time, he does seem a little long in the tooth. Robert Webber and Joanna Barnes as the Prescotts manage to make their roles less of a stereotype than they might have been in other films although the resolution of their divorce storyline probably doesn’t play so well in this day and age. Mort Sahl and Edgar Bergen as “Madame Lavinia” appear as Special Guest Stars. Jim Backus cameos as himself with wife Henny, doing his Mr. Magoo voice during his brief appearance. As for the two women in question, Claudia Cardinale’s performance may be slightly hurt by how she seems to disappear for a little while during the second half but she’s a true firebrand whenever she’s around and her musings when she tells Tony Curtis about her life makes her extremely endearing. This wasn’t the only movie she made in the U.S., but there weren’t too many others so it seems somehow valuable there’s at least this one film featuring her in this town. As for Sharon Tate, she brings an undeniable magnetism to a pretty thin role almost as if she does has a power to do something special to the camera lens whenever she steps in front of it—it feels like any other film would have gladly made the character the mindless bimbo and left it at that but with Tate’s presence that’s impossible. That we’re reminded of the dark side of California in the sixties every time we see her in this film is unavoidable but her unique allure which is felt to this day lets this movie stand out more than it might have otherwise.


Claudia Cardinale worked for Sergio Leone in the legendary ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST the following year. Sharon Tate was tragically murdered two years later. Tony Curtis soon starred in Richard Fleischer’s THE BOSTON STRANGLER but his status as an A-list star wouldn’t last for much longer. Alexander Mackendrick never made another movie, instead going on to teach film at CalArts. The carefree world presented in DON’T MAKES WAVES certainly didn’t last much longer either making what we see here a fascinating record to have as presented by MGM. The film is unfortunately unavailable on DVD, although TCM does run it every now and then. A product of its time and kind of a relic now, DON’T MAKE WAVES remains endearing for the enjoyable look at the scene it portrays and the presence of the two female leads seen at their most attractive definitely helps. Sharon is truly stunning but, like I said, I go with Claudia. Crazy as she is, she’s got a lifeforce that’s easy to fall for and life with her would certainly be unpredictable. Just as the California of DON’T MAKE WAVES still is.

There Are No Truths, Only Stories

Remember the days when films released in January were obviously being casually dumped by their studios, clearly snuck into theaters in the hope that no one would notice due to the heavy blizzard outside? It doesn’t seem to happen much anymore—even the crap that comes out during the slow weeks nowadays generally has a big campaign behind it. Though I didn’t see it until it hit cable, I can vaguely remember when the big-business satire HEAD OFFICE was snuck into theaters on January 3, 1986 without the benefit of any reviews for critics, maybe because I had a reaction of ‘where did THIS come from?’ Ads at the time spotlighted a few of the bigger comedy names in the cast, though since they only appear in what are essentially cameos, the marketing people weren’t really selling what they had. There’s something strange about the film, something off, almost as if it was some sort of Canadian tax-shelter thing attempting to seem as if it was some big Hollywood comedy. Surprisingly, even though it was shot in Canada (though set in Chicago, which never really matters) the film was produced by Peter Guber and Jon Peters which makes the whole about as Hollywood as it gets. The oddness that’s present is probably due to a clashing of tones which seems to have affected the final product in an unfortunate manner, resulting in a strange film tonally and one that doesn’t even seem aware of what its best elements are. The movie is totally forgotten now except for maybe people who vaguely remember seeing it on HBO which makes it a little surprising it was even released on DVD—shot in anamorphic (Gerald Hirschfeld was Director of Photography), the transfer crops the Scope aspect ratio once the opening credits end which makes you wonder why they even bothered. The inconsistent approach makes it feel like we’re seeing portions of several different films over the course of 91 minutes, though there is some genuine cleverness in there and some unique casting choices at least means that it’s of some interest.


Immediately after graduating from business school Jack Issel (Judge Reinhold), son of corrupt Senator Issel (George Coe), is recruited to join multi-conglomerate INC International, a massive company run by Chairman of the Board Peter “Pete” Helmes (Eddie Albert) in which corruption and back-stabbing is the order of the day. After witnessing several executive fatalities on only his first morning, Jack is assigned to work under ambitious exec Jane Caldwell (Jane Seymour) in the process of sleeping her way to the top and on his first day he becomes attracted to Rachael, (Lori-Nan Engler), a beautiful young activist intent on preventing INC from shutting down a plant in the small town of Allenville and moving the plant to a Latin American the company has an interest in. Jack soon finds himself caught between accidentally stumbling up the corporate ladder and trying not to lose his soul in order to win Rachael’s heart.


I’ve sometimes said that Joe Dante’s GREMLINS 2: THE NEW BATCH, a personal favorite, has such a good cast and sharp comic tone that I would gladly see a version of that movie with just its characters and no Gremlins. In some ways, HEAD OFFICE could almost be considered an attempt at making that movie (maybe it’s the similarly metallic design of the corridors), a skewering of the 80s business world and the back-stabbing that occurs on a daily basis. The thing is, with or without the title creatures Dante’s film is sharper, more dead-on in its satire and funnier throughout. I certainly helped that it had a director as good at comedy as Joe Dante. The ads for HEAD OFFICE at the time spotlighted Rick Moranis and Danny DeVito—this was the time when I think a federal law had passed requiring DeVito to be in every movie—but they’re both gone by the twenty-five minute mark so the focus is nice guy Reinhold (also in his period when he was in most of the movies that got released) as the Jimmy Stewart type who gets caught up in all the madness as he tries to keep his sanity. Written and directed by Ken Finkleman (AIRPLANE II: THE SEQUEL), HEAD OFFICE feels like it began life as a comedy for adults in a Sturges vein that got transformed (I’m going to assume by Guber & Peters) into going for a more crassly funny CADDYSHACK/Ramis/Reitman/SNL kind of thing combined with elements that come in from a Capra-wannabe kind of thing. All this leads to a plot involving a toothless satire of dealings with Latin America which feels overly complicated yet is never very interesting and even tosses in a chase climax involving gunplay as if no one could come up with anything better. Plenty of comedies have the laughs take a backseat when the third act comes around but in this case it feels like the serious stuff comes in a little too soon and having Reinhold’s character stumble his way up to the top is never handled in a way that actually makes it funny. By the hour mark, it’s as if the film has decided to stop with the jokes and just take care of the plot—a shame, considering the characters it’s leaving in the dust.


Finkleman displays some genuine talent throughout in his dialogue (he went on to do some well-regarded work on Canadian television) but it’s such an odd combination of tones that it’s not particularly clear who the audience for this is supposed to be—I guess that explains the January release date (this is as good a place as any to note how at one point Reinhold looks through his empty appointment calendar when trying to set up a date with Engler and jokes that he’s “free through 2010.”) The whole Allenville subplot has potential but the film focuses way too much on it at the expense of laughs, killing the momentum and leaving such promising subplots as Wallace Shawn’s midlevel exec with eight months to live in the dust, forgotten along the way. The third act is pretty much forgettable and the ending feels patched together by some last-minute voiceover narration in order to shove the credits onscreen as quick as possible. There are some very good things throughout that I genuinely enjoy, making me wish I actually liked it better, such as the symmetry of how certain characters are paired up in twos and threes allowing these combinations to play off each other in interesting, clever ways. One particularly droll restaurant scene is written, played and paced in all the right ways but as the film goes on the film feels like it’s more interested in the annoying 80s soundtrack (dated synth score by James Newton Howard) and nightclub scenes, while not making nearly enough of an effort in making any sort of satirical point. By the time it’s clear that the whole Allenville thing has become the plot of the movie, it feels like a missed opportunity has taken place.


Reinhold was always likable and he still is here but his character isn’t given much to play beyond the understandable hesitancy to getting sucked into this world, leaving him to be overshadowed by everyone around him. Fortunately, one of the most intriguing things about HEAD OFFICE is some of those people he plays off of. DeVito and particularly Moranis (presumably doing a Joel Silver impression) are hysterically funny during their brief minutes of screentime but there are also some genuinely unexpected casting choices which include SNL legend Michael O’Donoghue in the largest acting role he ever had as one of the main company men. He’s very good, bringing a smooth, steady nature to every second of his performance (appearing in a few scenes with George Coe, someone who was also in the very first SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE ever) and he would have fit right in to a Sturges-like ensemble piece, particularly during his moments opposite Ron Frazier, also particularly funny as another company prick. Underused but making every moment count are Wallace Shawn and Bruce Wagner (author of the bitingly funny Hollywood novel FORCE MAJEURE), with normally upbeat Shawn mistakenly confiding in pessimist Wagner how he’s learned that he has eight months to live—Wagner’s moment when he lies to Shawn’s face about spreading the truth saying, “If I’m lying my wife and kids should be tortured and killed today,” is the single best line reading in the entire film.


Jane Seymour looks gorgeous and brings a definite spark to her scenes but there’s nothing really to her role other than being, as she puts it, the “A-1 bitch” sleeping her way to the top (and given a large, blatantly phallic sculpture in her character’s office) who later muses how she’s lost her soul, with no shadings to it either way. It feels like more a fault of the thinness of the material than Seymour who gives the role more dignity than was probably intended. Eddie Albert, playing a CEO so nasty that he personally goes over customer’s late phone bills to make the decision to disconnect, is always nice to have around but he’s portrayed as a little too much of a straight villain for a comedy. Even if he is seen eating Cocoa Krispies at one point there’s not enough of a cockeyed twist given to what he does to place it in more of a Sturges vein, which would have helped. With not enough to counteract that feeling, his scenes wind up dragging things down as the plot proceeds in the latter section. Likewise, Lori-Nan Engler (no credits after this film) in what is basically the role of “the girl” is cute but her character is so serious about the whole Allenville issue that in the context of a comedy she winds up coming off as kind of a wet blanket. Couldn’t Judge Reinhold show some interest in Jane Seymour instead? Richard Masur’s relaxed nature as Reinhold’s seen-it-all mentor is something to look forward to all the way through, Don Novello has funny bits as Sal the limo driver, Merritt Buttrick (STAR TREK II’s David Marcus) is a junior company weasel, William B. Davis (Cigarette Smoking Man on THE X-FILES) is a University Dean and Don King is in there somewhere too for some reason. I’m not sure why, but there are plenty of things about the 80s that can never be explained.


With genuine laughs scattered throughout, HEAD OFFICE feels like an almost-good movie, but one that is damaged by the feeling that it began life aimed at a certain audience then somewhere along the way was forcibly altered in an attempt to appeal to someone else altogether, not satisfying either group as a result. It makes the film just good enough to be frustrating, since its potential can constantly be seen but the tone is too inconsistent and the overall feel is too thin to take hold. The best moments—coming from Moranis, O’Donoghue and others—make it absolutely worth a look for someone who might be intrigued but it still feels like something was missed along the way. Some of what is portrayed is still relevant today and as of late I can certainly related to working in an insane environment with fear of getting the axe—yeah, that turned out really well—and all the talk of lies versus the truth seems to also resonate in today’s world. It’s just too bad that the weaker elements wind up taking over to such an extent. As far as movies that got buried on release in January and have rarely been seen again go, HEAD OFFICE doesn’t fully work but at least it has certain ambitions as well as an admirable amount of comic intelligence so it certainly gets credit for that.