Reviews

A unique, almost unclassifiable mixture of ghost story and poetic mood piece, writer/director Steven Peros's FOOTPRINTS opens on a dazed young woman (Sybil Temtchine) who comes to her senses in the forecourt of the Chinese Theater, then follows her as she wanders up and down the boulevard trying to piece together who she is, how she got there and what her future might be. Besides the Chinese, the film touches on many familiar landmarks (to Angelenos, at least) of the real, geographical Hollywood: the Egyptian Theatre, Hollywood Book & Poster Company, the Scientology Center, tour guides and street performers. In that sense FOOTPRINTS is very much a movie about the actual Hollywood, a gaudy and more than slightly seedy neighborhood where people live and work. Peros shows a real knowledge and affection for the neighborhood: you can almost smell the exhaust coming off the boulevard and hear the sounds of people jostling and hawking up and down the street.

On a deeper level, though, FOOTPRINTS is about the Myth of Hollywood, the dreams and delusions that young hopefuls bring there. Dreams that sustain them through years of rejection and disappointment, and dreams that in the end can break them. In an extremely savvy bit of casting, Peros draws on two Hollywood survivors -- actor H.M. Wynant (a familiar face to fans of classic 1950's and 1960's TV from appearances in "The Wild Wild West," "Playhouse 90," "Perry Mason" and many others) and actress Pippa Scott (THE SEARCHERS, AUNTIE MAME, "The Virginian") -- to play key roles in the story. Wynant and Scott both lend a quiet grace and rueful charm to their parts, and when they talk about Hollywood you get the sense it comes from a lifetime of hard experience.

It's not too much of a stretch to compare the film to THE WIZARD OF OZ, with Temtchine's lost, amnesiac lead character standing in for Dorothy as she wakes up in a strange wonderland filled with sometimes helpful, sometimes sinister characters, and trying desperately to find her way "home," wherever that may be. FOOTPRINTS is also a ghost story of sorts (although definitely not a horror film) -- and especially in an indie film world too often filled with overly literal, kitchen-sink dramas, it's really refreshing to see an independent film that's as poetic and haunting as this one is.

Monte Hellman remains one of America's greatest living filmmakers, director of metaphysical classics like TWO-LANE BLACKTOP (1971), arguably the ultimate American Road Movie, COCKFIGHTER (1974) and a handful of others. Like the masterful Spanish filmmaker Victor Erice (whose classic THE SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE Hellman gives a nod to in ROAD TO NOWHERE), it's something of a crime that Hellman has directed as few films as he has. So there's great reason to celebrate with the arrival of ROAD TO NOWHERE, his first full feature in over 20 years.

Hellman being who he is, ROAD TO NOWHERE is as dense, poetic and mysterious as anything he's made since probably THE SHOOTING in 1968. In fact, his new film is likely his most challenging ever -- but that shouldn't put you off. On the surface, it's the story of a real-life murder-suicide connected to a Southern politician -- a mystery which gets inextricably entangled with the making of a film about the tragedy directed by a moody, obsessive filmmaker (Tygh Runyan, who also played the moody, obsessive Stanley Kubrick in Hellman's "Stanley's Girlfriend") and starring a beautiful, opaque actress (Shannyn Sossamon, in easily her strongest and most rewarding performance to date). Add to this an almost infinite rogue's gallery of characters including veteran actors Cliff De Young and John Diehl, a wry extended cameo from Italian pulp cinema icon Fabio Testi (from Hellman's CHINA 9, LIBERTY 37) -- and you have the strangest Hall of Mirrors this side of THE LADY FROM SHANGHAI.

If you struggle to make "sense" of the plot, you'll probably miss the point -- since one of the major themes that emerges in ROAD TO NOWHERE is the impossibility of ever making sense of anything. (Hence the title: the Road leads Nowhere, but that shouldn't stop you from taking the journey.) Hellman uses a similar narrative strategy as in his classic TWO-LANE BLACKTOP where about halfway through the story the actual race stops mattering. In ROAD TO NOWHERE, the question of who committed the murder (or whether there was a murder at all) slowly drifts away in a Sargasso Sea of false leads, flashbacks and unanswered questions. What's left is Hellman's portrait of monstrous artistic obsession and some of his most intense and erotically-charged filmmaking ever, played out in long, lingering scenes between Sossamon and Runyan. There's also a bit of M.C. Escher here, like walking up a staircase only to find yourself at the bottom of another staircase, and another ...

If you're looking for an easy ride, then you should probably look elsewhere. But if you want to wander off-road, into the mysterious and inexplicable Zone (to quote from Tarkovsky's STALKER) where nothing is as it seems -- then Monte Hellman's ROAD TO NOWHERE is for you.

A highly entertaining and dreamlike little thriller, I KNOW WHO KILLED ME is essentially a modern-day film noir about a horrific crime and a victim (Lindsay Lohan) who turns out to be someone very different than we think she is. There are horror film elements in the movie -- a hidden serial killer with a fetish for glass knives and amputations; a spectacular climax straight out of a Dario Argento movie -- but this is basically NOT a horror film, and that may confuse and/or disappoint a number of viewers who expect one from the title and advertising which bring to mind something like I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER etc. Lohan, in a nifty dual role, gives a very credible performance throughout, and I encourage anyone who sees the film to put pre-conceptions aside and try to look at the movie, and her work in it, with fresh eyes. This is also a very female-centered story, one that hinges on the interior world of its young protagonist -- that in itself makes the movie a unique piece of work. The real discovery here, though, is director Chris Sivertson who more than delivers on the promise of his earlier film, the incredibly disturbing drama THE LOST (see it when it comes out later this year.) I KNOW WHO KILLED ME is much more of a mainstream, commercial movie than THE LOST, but that's not a bad thing -- this is a genre film, pure and simple, and within the rules of that terrain, Sivertson & Co. deliver a strange and hypnotic little mystery that confounds expectations at every turn. Highly recommended for both the movie and for Sivertson's work as director.

God bless the New Hollywood era of the late 1960's and early 1970's: it seems to be a bottomless well of offbeat (and often criminally overlooked) gems like Frank Perry's PLAY IT AS IT LAYS, Bill Norton's CISCO PIKE, Noel Black's PRETTY POISON -- and even the flawed but still-fascinating THE SPORTING CLUB. This was the first of several films based on the novels of (or screenwritten by) author Thomas McGuane, followed by the wonderful pot-addled western RANCHO DELUXE and the equally-good 92 IN THE SHADE with Peter Fonda and Warren Oates. THE SPORTING CLUB sadly isn't quite as good as these two, but it's still pretty interesting in its own right. The plot revolves around a woodsy retreat for wealthy sportsmen (and women) called The Centennial Club where they gather sporadically to drink heavily and congratulate themselves on being so rich. James Quinn (played by Nicolas Coaster in a fine, understated performance) is a soon-to-be-broke member of this fraternity whose one close connection is with his former college buddy Verner Stanton (Robert Fields), who has a dangerous obsession with dueling pistols, and Verner's girlfriend (Margaret Blye). There are some parallels here with DELIVERANCE (which came a year later): both movies feature heavily-armed businessmen trying to find themselves out in the woods, although SPORTING CLUB is much more satirical. The movie achieves a kind of cock-eyed brilliance when Jack Warden arrives, playing a boozey former bait-shop owner whose been picked as the Club's new groundskeeper. His performance suggests something that's been stewing in grain alcohol for a bit too long and captures the off-center flavor and rhythms of McGuane's writing better than almost anything else in the film. (It also strangely reminds me of Burl Ives's great performance as a grizzled swamp poacher in Nicholas Ray's WIND ACROSS THE EVERGLADES.) Warden's final anarchic act of payback against the Club members is truly classic. Director Larry Peerce's early 1970's career included some fine dramas such as "Goodbye Columbus," "A Separate Peace" and "Ash Wednesday" and deserves re-appreciation. One of the best sequences here comes early in the film when Fields and his friends hijack and destroy a bus during a Presidential appearance at the local dam; the sight of two wealthy capitalists literally trashing their own Establishment is the kind of contradiction that makes McGuane's writing so memorable. To be honest, the film is far from perfect -- the plot tends to meander too much and lose focus, and if anything, the movie feels a bit too consciously "literary" -- but its definitely worth checking out especially if you're a fan of early 1970's New Hollywood films. Note: although it doesn't seem to be listed on Amazon.com, there is a late 1980's video release of the film on Charter Entertainment so it's available if you can find it.

For nothing else, CAPTIVE WOMEN is worth checking out because it's the Reg Park-starring Herc film that preceded the epochal HERCULES IN THE HAUNTED WORLD directed by Mario Bava -- which still remains, hands down, the best of the Italian Herc movies ever made. CAPTIVE WOMEN is extremely well produced -- excellent production design and visual FX by Hercules standards -- and that's both its big plus and its big minus. The Retromedia DVD is very, very good -- in 2.35 Cinemascope, nice transfer -- and it's terrific to see a Hercules film given this kind of loving treatment. BUT -- it does point out some of the shortcomings of CAPTIVE WOMEN. Which are, mainly, that not a helluva lot happens. Herc goes sailing, a buddy goes overboard ... and he winds up in Atlantis, where the Evil Queen (note: Queens are almost always evil, and extremely smokin' hot, in Herc movies) gives him a magic potion designed to make him fall in love with her. Second note: magic potions figure prominently in a LOT of Hercules films, and they're almost always administered by smokin' hot Evil Queens trying to get Herc to fall in love with them. That's what we love about these films. Anyhow ... great production values but a bit, well, stiff somehow.

It's impossible not to compare the highly entertaining THE WITCH'S CURSE aka MACISTE IN HELL to the superior HERCULES IN THE HAUNTED WORLD. First, they're both Hercules (Maciste) movies in which our hero descends into the Underworld ... and second, it's a face off between arguably the two greatest Italian pulp directors of the 1960's, Riccardo Freda (HORRIBLE DR. HICHCOCK, THE GHOST) and the undisputed champion, Mario Bava (BLACK Sunday, KILL BABY KILL, LISA & THE DEVIL.) By any definition, THE WITCH'S CURSE is a very entertaining fantasy film: it opens with a prologue about witches in 18th century Scotland ... and then a bare- chested Hercules rides in. No explanation of how or why he's in Scotland -- WITH NO CLOTHES ON, and about twenty centuries late. That's what we really dig about mythological fantasy films -- they Never Have to Say They're Sorry. Or explain Anything. The Something Weird DVD is sadly not letter-boxed, and pretty fuzzy -- but still this comes across as one of the top 5 Hercules movies. Once Kirk Morris (juvenile, not a great Herc -- but who really cares?) gets into the Underworld, it's non-stop flaming brimstone nonsense. Even with a great transfer, this still wouldn't hold a candle to Bava's HAUNTED WORLD -- and in the end, that's the real difference between Freda and his pupil Bava, who far surpassed his master.

HERCULES VS. THE HYDRA definitely ranks in the top 5 of the hundreds of Hercules films made in Italy in the 1960's (the others being HERCULES IN THE HAUNTED WORLD; the original Steve Reeves HERCULES; THE FURY OF HERCULES; the delirious THE WITCH'S CURSE; and the equally gonzo HERCULES PRISONER OF EVIL.) But back to HYDRA -- first, you've got Jayne Mansfield and Mickey Hargitay, and the fact that they eventually married, and that Mansfield died tragically, lends an undeniable poignancy to this movie. There's no way around it, it's part of Hollywood history, and it makes this a very melancholy portrait of two people falling in love. Second, there's Hargitay -- and dammit, he's a REALLY GOOD Hercules, possibly the best on a pure acting level (and Hargitay wasn't really an actor, so that's saying something.) He's dubbed (of course), but there's a real emotional yearning quality that comes across here, and he puts his heart and soul into almost every scene. Watch a bunch of the other Hercules actors and you'll see what I mean. Best of all, the movie veers off into delirious Alexander Ptushko territory about halfway through, when Herc encounters the three-headed Hydra in the land of the Amazons. Anyone who loves Ray Harryhausen type fantasy films will get a kick out of this one. The weird-ass forest of human trees is especially good. Definitely a winner.

HAUNTED WORLD is, hands down, the best of the hundreds of Hercules films churned out in Italy in the 1960's (if you think Hollywood today is an assembly line -- look at all the Hercules/ James Bond flicks done in Italy in the 60's -- there are more than stars in the sky, literally.) HAUNTED WORLD is all about Bava ... Bava ... Bava. He's the difference between this and any of the other hundreds of Hercules films -- some very good, some decent, some appalling -- and it's a prime example of why Mario Bava was, arguably, the greatest pulp director, ever. Reg Park is a terrible actor -- but it doesn't matter. Christopher Lee is dubbed -- but it doesn't matter. The producer had about twenty bucks and change for visual effects -- doesn't matter. What counts here is BAVA. He, through sheer force of visual genius (and I'm not kidding -- watch a bunch of other cut-rate fantasy/sci-fi films and you'll go back to Bava every time) -- well, he elevates this into something like psychedelic poetry, dammit. The scenes of Hercules going to the masked Oracle are probably my favorite ... the way she moves her arms, and the lights flicker ... it's the Grateful Dead at the Fillmore West, it's early Pink Floyd at the UFO Club. It's pure, unadulaterated movie magic for Chrissakes. This ranks with DANGER: DIABOLIK and the sadly unavailable ERIK THE CONQUEROR as pure Bava escapism. Dive in.

FURY OF HERCULES is a damn good Hercules film -- in fact, it's a very solid and satisfying period action film by any standards, and you have to see at least 8 - 10 Hercules movies to know the difference. The plot revolves around Hercules (Brad Harris) visiting the daughter of an old friend and forced to choose between sides in a guerrilla rebellion. Most Hercules films -- God bless 'em! -- rely on standard plot devices and stock characters to move things forward. That's true here -- but to a point. Director Gianfranco Paolini actually pays attention to detail, and includes the kind of almost-throwaway moments that distinguish a wonderful Budd Boetticher film like BUCHANAN RIDES ALONE. Again, watch closely and you'll see. The other big plus here is that the story moves forward like a runaway freight train -- a lot of Hercules films are great to look at (HERCULES VS. THE CAPTIVE WOMEN is beautiful but surprisingly stiff), but this has the propulsive movement of a good Hollywood action film. Again, it's the difference between something like Hawks's LAND OF THE PHAROAHS (great) and THE Egyptian (pretty but boring.) Brad Harris is a decent Herc -- but for my money, the best is (believe it or not) Mickey Hargitay in HERCULES VS. THE HYDRA. Wish there was a better version than the old Goodtimes VHS but it's okay. Oh, and there's legendary French crooner Serge Gainbourg - almost forgot!

You'd have to be pretty hard-hearted not to fall for this one: Philippe Noiret and Annie Girardot (reprising their roles from the earlier DEAR INSPECTOR) are a middle-aged French classics professor and his no-nonsense police inspector wife, trying to celebrate their honeymoon in Greece ... and instead winding up chasing the marble hindquarters of a priceless 2,500 year old statue. De Broca (best known for KING OF HEARTS) does an admirable job of updating the timeless Cary Grant/Katharine Hepburn screwball formula from the 1930's -- but a better comparison might be something like SILVER STREAK with its mixture of offbeat leads, winsome romance and faux-Hitchcockian thrills. The film's real charm is in its throwaway moments -- at one point the getaway car stops so that someone can mail postcards to the folks back home -- and the marvelous rapport between Noiret and Girardot, playing two decidedly mature romantic leads who aren't too mature for a role in the hay with a crackling fire and the ancient Greek hills in the background. A lovely little movie: Hollywood in style but French in spirit, and made in Greece.