Deborah Lipp

Little Caesar (1931) 9/10
Caesar Enrico Bandello (Edward G. Robinson) works his way up through the gangs of Chicago, bringing along his old friend Joe Massara (Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.). As Rico rises in the ranks, Joe becomes less interested in crime and more interested in his dancing career and his girlfriend Olga (Glenda Farrell).

Little Caesar is remarkable on a number of levels. First is simply its raw energy. This is a gangster movie that simply bursts onto the screen. Robinson, as Rico, is a primal force of pride, avarice, and violence. Robberies and murders happen quickly and often off-screen, showing us brutal sketches of the criminals rather than the crimes. Next is the acting, primarily Robinson’s. He is truly iconic. It’s amazing to me that in this, his most parodied performance, a role that is as much reminiscent of Bugs Bunny as of anything else, he still manages to convince.

And then, halfway through the movie, I discover that this is the most homoerotic movie the 1930s ever produced. Forget James Whale, this is the real deal!

The light goes on when gang member Otero (George E. Stone) gazes lovingly at Rico and gets into bed with him. Yes, indeed. Rico is laying down, Otero tells him how wonderful and tough and cool and fabulous he is, while laying down next to him. The next scene has Rico being fitted for a tux. He stands up on a table to see into the mirror, and Otero stands in front of him on the floor, so that his head is exactly in blowjob position. Otero grooms him while Rico preens. Holy cow, is this ever blatant!

The key, though, is how profoundly jealous of Olga Rico is; he is compelled to compete with her for Joe’s affections. Joe has virtually left the gang, and Rico wants him back. He tells Joe he will kill Olga unless Joe returns to his side. In a moment of paranoia, he tells Otero he must threaten Joe because otherwise Joe and Olga will turn him in. But only after the threat is made do Joe and Olga realize they have no choice but to do so. This is classic jealous lover behavior (and atypical, I think, for a gang boss, who wouldn’t give people with such dangerous information so much leeway). This is, at its heart, a love story.

The movie is laughable about gangs in a way that simply delights me. In Little Caesar, gang violence exists in a vacuum, it just is; following its own rules that are disconnected from the real world in a way that is like nothing so much as little boys playing Cops & Robbers. In a way, this is part of the gay game; it’s not really a gangster movie, you see, so there’s no need for the gangsters to be real. Contrast this movie with The Public Enemy (1931), which shows something like a cultural context for becoming a criminal, or with Scarface (1932), which has a much firmer grasp on the real results of violence.

In Little Caesar, Rico takes over the gang by telling the gang boss he just doesn’t have it anymore. That’s it. The boss caves. There are no repercussions from the higher echelons (eventually, he is rewarded), no betrayals from within, nor thought of reprisals. He just decides to take over, stakes his claim, and it’s done. I love this! Because, y’know, gangsters aren’t so tough if you just talk tougher.

This is, of course, part of the love affair the film has with Rico. He gets to take over because he’s so hot when he does.

So, six months after doing a Separated at Birth? post I get a comment today. Which reminded me I’ve been meaning to do this.

Patrick Fugit and Tobey Maguire:

Hairy

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Garden State (2004) 10/10
Andrew Largeman (writer-director Zach Braff) returns to his New Jersey home to attend his mother’s funeral, after being away for nine years. Tentatively exploring the life he left behind, he meets Sam (Natalie Portman) and hangs out with his old friend Mark (Peter Sarsgaard).

Garden State was nothing like what I had expected, which is, of course, the danger of a movie getting “buzz”—you think you know what to expect. The buzz, as filtered through my understanding, was that this was some kind of total slacker movie with disaffected, ironic characters and a disaffected, barely-there romance, all about how disaffected “this generation” is.

Instead, what I saw was a movie about the value of life and the way that being disaffected is a trap. Dead-end people are, it turns out, dead-ends, and not really living their lives, and the notion that this is somehow noble is just one more nail in the coffin of misery clouded by being stoned.

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Inside Deep Throat (2005) 10/10
The pornographic film Deep Throat, released in June of 1972, becomes a benchmark for political and social change. Documentary.

People like to make fun of the seventies; the wildness, the fashion, the naïve hope that the world could be changed, the primitive lack of technology. Here was a time when pornographic filmmakers considered their work art, and believed they were heading for a day when explicit sex would be a normal part of mainstream movies; when Hollywood and porn would merge into a single industry. Here was a time when porn stars had their original breasts and faces, how innocent is that?

Deep Throat changed the ability of Americans to talk about sex. Then it changed it again. And again. Porn became the focus of what we now call Religious Right activism, just as gay marriage is today. Lawsuits were numerous. The most prominent effort to shut down Deep Throat as obscene ended up as a battle on the nature of female orgasm, with the defense contending the film had educational value, as it depicted a woman seeking the source of her problem achieving orgasm. The prosecution, however, used the Freudian canard that clitoral orgasm is unhealthy, and since this was the kind of orgasm the film encouraged, it could demoralize women who would never learn the true pleasure of vaginal climax. I know, it sounds silly, doesn’t it?

The film then became the focus of anti-porn feminists, who declared it abusive to women. This argument gained power a decade later when Deep Throat star Linda Lovelace (who died in 2002 in a car crash) revealed that she was forced into performing in the film by her then-husband (filmmakers were never implicated, and contend she appeared perfectly happy during filming; Lovelace argued she was coerced and controlled at all times, and that the film shows her being raped). In a bizarre coda, we learn that Lovelace’s daughter was asked to star in “Deep Throat 7” (she turned it down).

This is definite NC-17 material. The actual “deep throat” sequence itself is shown (which is a relief, I think; it would be maddening to talk and talk and talk about a moment that was never shown for propriety’s sake).

The documentary does a great job of bringing a wide range of different concepts together; the porn industry, the amateur filmmakers, the mob involvement, public and political reaction, the court cases, the “where are they now” aspect, and more. It ties it into the current political climate quite intelligently, making the movie so very pertinent today.

Robert Altman has died.

I guess this is one I should have expected, but the complexity and energy of the man never seemed to wane. Prolific and varied, he nonetheless had a distinctive signature style, easily satirized (as Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin did so charmingly at last year’s Oscars). I think A Prairie Home Companion was one of the movies of 2006.

The credits are impressive. Among the very greats, we must mention Nashville, The Player, and M*A*S*H. But even his less perfect movies have their rewards, as I’ve written before.

This is just one of those days when I feel like I’ve really lost something. Like there’s a real hole in the world.

Be born again among us, Mr. Altman.

Something’s Gotta Give (2003) 8/10
When Marin Barry (Amanda Peet) brings her much-older boyfriend (Jack Nicholson) to her mom’s home in the Hamptons, she doesn’t realize that mom—renowned playwright Erica Barry (Diane Keaton)—is there with her sister (Frances McDormand). When Harry (Nicholson) has a heart attack, Erica is stuck nursing him. Soon she is being wooed by both Harry and his handsome young doctor (Keanu Reeves).

Something’s Gotta Give is a flawed movie. Writer/director Nancy Meyers has an awkward hand with exposition. When she wants to tell you something, she tells you. Early, establishing dialogue has Erica using words like “misogynist” as a verbal American Express Gold Card; providing admission to all the right places. There are awkward early scenes where intellectual credentials are being established; I find it grating that in an group of smart, literate people, Zoe (McDormand) can only talk about sexism and cultural perceptions if someone apologetically explains that she’s a professor of Women’s Studies at Columbia. An aside like that manages to be simultaneously snooty and demeaning. Snooty, because look how smart and white we all are! Demeaning, because her academic credentials are treated like a tic; don’t mind her, she’s a feminist. Regular people don’t say such things, only professors of women’s studies, nudge nudge wink wink say no more.

For all of that, Something’s Gotta Give really does have something to say about women and men and aging and relationships, and it says it with the most soulful and natural performances I can imagine. Nicholson and (especially) Keaton are a dream.

There’s a scene where Erica is crying. She’s crying with total abandon, fully, voluptuously. It’s marvelous to watch; touching, funny, and very real. She’s not in the first moment of shock, she’s not overdramatizing for an audience, she’s just not censoring herself. She’s “processing;” she’s letting the feelings—grief, anger, loss—wash over her, without ever saying to herself “Okay, that’s enough, now.” Later, there’s a conversation with her daughter about letting yourself have deep feelings, even at the risk of grief, and the dialogue is rancid, stiff, trite, but Keaton sells it because we saw her live it.

Not that every moment of dialogue is bad; much is quite good. Nancy Meyers just doesn’t know how to write the conversations where you’re Making A Point®. Fortunately, with a cast as good as this, you can get over the bumps and love the movie.

The thing is, Meyers’s point is worth noting. Zoe points out that Harry, as a wealthy heterosexual bachelor, is considered fascinating, dashing, and enviable. But Erica, equally wealthy, equally successful, equally single, is, socially, pitiable. Being “of a certain age,” she is undesirable, despite her talent and beauty, and a man her own age is dating her daughter.

But then the movie throws us a curve ball, by having the very gorgeous, very young Julian (Keanu Reeves) fall for Erica. And what works about that is how Erica just can’t believe it. She’s sort of trying to correct him; ‘No, no, you don’t want to date me, you haven’t realized that I’m old. You haven’t realized that I’m not attractive. You haven’t realized that you want a beautiful young woman.’ And what that does is remind us what it feels like to be living in the skin of a social phenomenon. It’s not about a feminist theory, it’s about a beautiful, successful, brilliant woman who doesn’t trust that it’s okay to be pursued, okay to be desired, okay to be sexy and sexual and in love.

Thing is, I relate. I’m not rich, and I’m not Diane Keaton, and I’m not even in my fifties, but I’m a successful writer in my forties and I see how the success works as a turn-off, and more than that, I see how I fear it works as a turn-off. I see how I get lost in noticing that I’ve aged, and become absorbed in the thought that I can’t possibly be attractive because look! Crow’s feet! In her richly expressive performance, in the delicate way she allows self-doubt to play across her face, Keaton is embodying something very real, very present.

Now, Keaton is thin, so she doesn’t get the public excoriation that Kathy Bates suffered for nudity in About Schmidt, but it’s still remarkable how rare it is to see an older woman be sexual, be nude, and be, well, wrinkled. Not only are women never allowed to have relationships past 35 in the movies, they certainly aren’t allowed to look past 35 no matter what. Keaton hasn’t had a drop of plastic surgery. There are lines. And wrinkles. And small flaws. And that, in itself, is a stunning act of beauty. She is so wonderful to look at on-screen, because she’s not all shiny and plasticine. Simply starring in the film is a feminist act that thumbs its nose at a film industry that would make her disappear if it could.