Howling hurrah for Wolf of Wall Street

By Steve Evans

Martin Scorsese's new film The Wolf of Wall Street is getting some serious love on the cusp of awards season. Variety reports audiences howling with approval during early screenings.

Lotsa talk of probable Academy Award nominations for best pic, director and actor (Leo DiCaprio), as well as supporting actor Jonah Hill (!) and possibly adapted screenplay.

Wolf of Wall Street tells the more-or-less true story of disgraced stockbroker Jordan Belfort, who ran a pump and dump scheme in the 1990s to inflate the value of securities and sell them before the market got wise. He was indicted in 1998 on securities fraud, among other charges. After cooperating with the FBI, he served 22 months in a federal prison for his boiler room schemes, which resulted in investor losses of approximately $200 million.

Scorsese reportedly plays the material as comedy, which may be the best way to comment upon and perhaps ridicule the money-obsessed. Here's the second trailer:



Notice the trailer has the same jittery, machine-gun pacing as GoodFellas, which is not necessarily a bad thing. Scorsese's classic gangster film riffed on all the stylistic techniques pioneered by the Nouvelle Vague, then beat the French at their own game. Contemporary cinema could survive another blast of comparable exuberance. In the United States, only Scorsese (and maybe Quentin Tarantino) can convey the wild joy of making movies and telling stories of life lived on the edge through sheer bravado and consummate filmmaking skill.

As per my tradition with Scorsese films, I will be there for Wolf of Wall Street on opening night with a bag of roasted macadamias and a smile. Maybe two bags; the film clocks in a minute shy of three hours, making this Scorsese's longest picture after Casino.

Cinema Uprising copyright © 2013 by Steve Evans. All rights reserved.

Condoms & Killings: Celebrating Old-School F/X

By Steve Evans

Before computer-generated imagery turned most modern movies into digital cartoons, film craftsmen were forced to come up with clever special effects solutions using old-fashioned (but arguably more convincing) methods than what we see onscreen today.

In 1972, when you wanted to show a ketchup-spattered Mafioso at a toll booth, you hired a make-up guy named Dick Smith, who also engineered all the mayhem on display at the climax of Taxi Driver and eventually won an Oscar for turning F. Murray Abraham into an ancient Salieri in Amadeus.

For The Godfather, Smith designed little blister packs filled with fake blood, glued them to an actor with attached monofilaments (fishing line), then obscured the whole setup with pancake makeup. Check out that rare still from the Godfather's toll booth shooting location, above right, as Jimmy Caan waits for his big death scene.

Caan was instructed to stand still between takes and not rupture his rigging, otherwise the laborious process of applying bullet wounds would have to start over from the beginning. Reportedly, each setup took hours. If a shot was unsatisfactory, the wardrobe department would have to dress Caan in a clean suit and get the actor back into position. Note his left arm extended through the broken window of the car door in the image above, then compare it to the finished film. Continuity is an important cinematic element, so if the character is hanging onto the car door as he's eviscerated by machine-gun fire, his arm needs to be in the same position for retakes.  

When Director Francis Ford Coppola called action, Caan began thrashing about and the crew yanked the fishing lines, which were artfully concealed by camera placement and lighting. As the blisters tore open, rivulets of fake blood poured out and Caan cried “ouch!” in Italian. Similar setups were used for the scene where Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) guns down Sollozzo and Capt. McCluskey with headshots from a .38 snub in that cozy Italian restaurant in the Bronx.

Now back to the toll booth. For body shots, the Godfather crew rigged small explosive charges known as squibs beneath Caan’s double-breasted pinstripes. The traditional method called for condoms filled with stage blood to be placed over the charges, which were wired down the leg of his pants to a control panel out of sight. On cue, Caan would do his little dance of death while a crewman raked the contact wire across a series of terminals, setting off the sequence of small charges concealed under the actor’s suit. Voila! Sonny Corleone meets a gruesome end from a dozen Tommy guns.

Rapid-fire editing and some seriously convincing sound effects complete the illusion:



The dedicated do-it-yourself filmmaker can achieve approximate results today with a basic laptop, digital camcorder and off-the-shelf software, but it won’t look nearly as good as Smith’s 40-year-old effects. And you won’t get James Caan to dance for you, either.

Cinema Uprising copyright © 2013 by Steve Evans. All rights reserved.

Room 237: Living la Vida Loca

By Steve Evans

Room 237 is a documentary that tells us what some people think Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980) is really about. This is not as interesting as it sounds.

Over the course of a long 143 minutes, I was subjected to one insanely crackpot theory after another. It took me three days spread over two weeks to slog through this documentary, in which I am supposed to believe, variously, that The Shining is actually about the Holocaust, the plight of Native Americans at the hands of settlers, or that it is, instead, Kubrick’s public apology for faking the footage of the Apollo moon landing (my personal favorite), or that it is a dialectical exercise in the deconstruction of American capitalism. Oh, and running The Shining backwards supposedly reveals hidden meanings, too, although I’ll be damned if the documentary explains them.

For those who need a refresher, The Shining takes place in Colorado at the fictional Overlook Hotel, where extremely unpleasant things happen in Room 237. The room number was changed for the film from Stephen King's novel, in which the action occurs in Room 217. That's because the Timberline Lodge in Oregon, where the hotel exteriors were filmed, actually had a Room 217 and the owners didn't want guests to be afraid of staying there. This simple explanation for the alteration in room numbers from novel to film further undercuts many of the more salacious theories put forth in the documentary.

Kubrick, who died in 1999, was famously elusive and loathe to discuss his films once they were released. He preferred to let the films speak for themselves, leaving audiences free to interpret them as they wish. Ironically, it is Kubrick's own elliptical stance toward his work that encourages the fans interviewed in Room 237 -- let's charitably call them eccentrics -- to come up with their own goofy explanations. If Kubrick could see Room 237 he might well make an exception to his no-comment policy.

One theorist who claims The Shining is a veiled reference to the Holocaust holds up such proof as the numbers of the film's title, Room 237. When multiplied thus: 2 x 3 x 7 = 42, the Holocaust-theory guy claims that this represents the year 1942, which is when Hitler and Nazi Germany accelerated the Final Solution. The man says he is shocked no one else has noticed this hidden mathematical clue.

In other words, Room 237 is a hoot.

Seldom in my life have I heard so much amazing bullshit spewed with such utter conviction. This documentary is proof that some people will twist and contort anything to fit a thesis. Some of this stuff is fascinating. Just about all of it is gibberish.

For these reasons alone, the documentary is worth watching. Call it a meta-film best enjoyed by diehard film buffs and perhaps clinical psychiatrists. I don’t deny The Shining is a multi-textured film that rewards repeat viewings, but you won't learn anything about it from watching Room 237. The documentary succeeds mainly in tracking down the sort of people you wouldn’t want to be alone with, then letting them expound at length on their wild ideas. That they actually seem to believe their own nonsense is just precious.

It's probably pointless to review a film based on what I wish had been included rather than what is actually there. But I think the makers of Room 237 missed a prime opportunity to consider why The Shining continues to fascinate people 33 years after its release. Instead, they focus on the side show, the lunatic fringe who can be found lurking on the edges of just about any cultural ephemera that generates obsessive interest. That's too easy. Instead of crafting a challenging documentary, they've produced the year's best comedy.

Room 237 could never have been made during Stanley Kubrick’s lifetime. Even a recluse like Kubrick would probably be compelled to ridicule every whacked-out theory put forward in the film – even if he would not discuss his own intentions. Actually, he already did. A few years after the film was released Kubrick in an interview said The Shining is about "a family going insane together.”

Just like the people in this documentary.

Room 237 is available on Netflix.

Cinema Uprising copyright © 2013 by Steve Evans. All rights reserved.

Breaking Bad: Darkness Ends an American Dream

By Steve Evans

I'm not one to put a lot of thought into television shows. Most of them just fill time instead of passing it pleasantly. The difference between those notions is huge. Fact is, I've always preferred the cinema.

Then I was drawn into Breaking Bad, the only program since The Sopranos that grabbed me emotionally and intellectually. In its best moments, Breaking Bad was high tragedy, as good as Shakespeare, as devastating as David Mamet. I mean this most sincerely; not as mere hyperbole.

So here it is: Breaking Bad was the greatest TV show in the history of the medium. If you are among the few late to the party (the series ended last night), I can only suggest catching up via NetFlix and AMC.com while the full five seasons are still available for streaming.

For the clueless who've spent the last five years smoking drugs, Breaking Bad told the story of Walter White, a meek chemistry teacher who learns he’s going to die from lung cancer. Faced with insurmountable financial problems, a teenage son with cerebral palsy and a wife expecting an unplanned child, White slowly descends into the criminal underworld as a manufacturer of ungodly pure crystal methamphetamine. His goal, or so he tells himself, is to earn enough money in the illicit drug trade that his family will not suffer after he’s dead. Providing for his family informs his every decision, at least on the surface, but something else is going on deep inside Walter White. As his wealth and dark reputation begin to grow, a sense of excitement and purpose fuels a raging ego and a hair-trigger temper – traits he no doubt always possessed but had long suppressed.

The triumph of Breaking Bad comes from watching Walter White’s transformation from Mr. Chips into Scarface. Slowly. Incrementally. One bad decision leads to another until there is no turning back.

The episodes themselves are a goldmine of symbolism and subtext, for those who enjoy reading that sort of thing into a TV show. The cinematography (Breaking Bad is among a handful of shows shot on film) was consistently breathtaking, even innovative in its use of time-lapse photography as an exciting and effective alternative to montage. The acting was uniformly superb (star Bryan Cranston won three consecutive Emmys for best dramatic lead). The writing was beyond reproach, never a false note, while consistently surprising the faithful viewer with plot twists and ridiculously clever dialog. Characters ended in places we could not have foreseen.

Music cues were spot-on. I'll never forget Breaking Bad's use of the old pop ditty "Windy" by The Association as counterpoint to the comings and goings of a meth-addicted hooker named...well, Wendy, but close enough, or the propulsive instrumental "Shambala" to accompany a hitman on his murderous business. "Crystal Blue Persuasion" by Tommy James and the Shondells might seem an obvious choice for a scene of crystal meth cooking, but it was series' capper "Baby Blue" by Badfinger that set the perfect eleagic note before the credits rolled on the finale: "Guess I got what I deserved" is the song's opening line.

In terms of pure craft, this show was impeccable.

Mostly, though, I will always view Breaking Bad as an allegory for an America gone horribly wrong, where societal values are hopelessly skewed toward the banal and men have their DNA imprinted with certain cultural notions of what is expected of them -- and how success shall be defined. As Joe Pesci observed in Casino, "It's the dollars. Always the fuckin' dollars."

Ultimately, Breaking Bad was a show about choices and their consequences.

If drama serves as both entertainment and an opportunity to examine life in a certain place and time, then Breaking Bad used the tropes of that uniquely American genre, the Western, to deliver some seriously profound insights into who we are and how we live today.

I can relate to the travails of anti-hero Walter White even if I cannot condone his transformation. Perhaps only someone facing a terminal illness and dire financial straits could fully appreciate how a man might be tempted to veer toward the darkness. Breaking Bad also raises innumerable questions about morality and free will, then creates situations in which there are no easy decisions. See for yourself. At several critical junctures in this five-season saga, it is clear that characters have no choice but to keep inching closer toward a moral abyss.

The series finale may disappoint some viewers as a bit too tidy, perhaps even a callow bid for redemption. So be it. As much as fans may like to embrace this show as their own, it is ultimately an artistic work that belongs to the talented people who brought Breaking Bad to vivid life. Last night series creator Vince Gilligan presented his ending. He wrote it, he directed it, the choices were his. I respect that. Seldom does an artist get to realize his vision without interference. For good or ill, Breaking Bad ended on the same dissonant chord struck at the beginning of the series by Gilligan, whose decisions only the most arrogant viewer would dare to second guess. He went out on his own terms. Just like Walter White.

I would no more change the ending than I would tell Renoir how to apply paint to his canvas. Walter White's story arc was always about the journey, not the destination, which was inevitable from the pilot episode.

And now it's over. I will miss this show terribly and will always be grateful to Gilligan for expanding my consciousness while leaving me breathlessly entertained.

Farewell, Walter White. I will remember your name.

Cinema Uprising copyright © 2013 by Steve Evans. All rights reserved.