Rocky IV (1985)

Director: Sylvester Stallone
Writer: Sylvester Stallone

Fresh from reclaiming the championship title and dealing with the death of mentor Mickey, beloved underdog boxer Rocky Balboa (Sylvester Stallone) has new obstacles to overcome in this third sequel.

From my childhood, there are few movies that stick out as clearly as Rocky IV. It would be really easy to rip into this movie and pick it to pieces, but that would really do it a terrible injustice. I'll go out on a limb here: Rocky IV, for all its camp, may very well be the greatest Cold War film ever made. Picking up where Rocky III (1982) leaves off, Rocky taking back the title from Clubber Lang (Mr. T), former opponent and now best friend Apollo Creed (Carl Weaters) insists on fighting the Soviet Union's greatest amateur fighter Ivan Drago (Dolph Lundgren). The ensuing exhibition bout ends in Apollo's death. Rocky, distraught and feeling guilty over the loss of his best friend, flies to Russia to face Drago regardless of the American Boxing Commission's refusal to sanction the bout. The men train, they fight, it looks like Rocky's going to lose, then he comes back to win it. We all know how these movies turn out. But that's part of the fun. A Rocky film is not unlike an entry in any long-running slasher franchise. We'll use Friday the 13th as an example. You have your (anti)hero: Rocky/Jason. The obstacle: Drago/immoral teenagers. The inevitable outcome: Rocky wins/kids get killed. The death scenes of a Friday the 13th movie are akin to the boxing bouts in a Rocky movie. The slow-motion explosions of sweat and blood are the equivalent to the death scenes of a Friday the 13th entry. The voyeuristic desire to revel in violence is fulfilled by these scenes.

For what little story time there is - the film clocks in at just over 91 minutes with about one third of that dedicated to music montages - Stallone packs in a generous amount of topical political text. From the opening shot, two metallic boxing gloves with American and Soviet flags flying at each other and exploding, the audience understands that this sequel is tackling some larger socio-political issues. Rocky is one of the more recent incarnations of the Horatio Alger hero, an everyman who pulls himself up by his bootstraps to achieve greatness. In this installment, Rocky, who has come to represent our ideals about America, becomes the symbol of Western/Capitalist culture. As a Cold War film, the symbol of Eastern/Communist culture is Drago, the 6'5" blond monolith.

If the on-the-nose dialogue and simple narrative arc weren't enough to drive the East vs. West theme, then the many pop songs certainly bring the point home. The pop music in the movie is fantastic. Beginning with the "No Easy Way Out" sequence (featuring the song in full) followed by the "Burning Heart" and "Hearts on Fire" sequences. The lyrics to Survivor's "Burning Heart," literally, say it all:

Two worlds collide, rival nations

It's a primitive clash, venting years of frustrations

Bravely we hope against all hope, there is so much at stake
Seems our freedom's up against the ropes

Does the crowd understand?

Is it East vs. West, or man against man

Can any nation stand alone?

Of course we can't over look the "Hearts on Fire" training montage (wonderfully parodied by Family Guy). Rocky trains in the snow and in a barn with giant rocks while Drago trains with the latest technology. Of course, in the end, Rocky/nature/warrior spirit wins out over Drago/technology/brute strength. This is yet another touchy element of the film: its blunt handling of the larger themes and glancing over of small details.

What I think the film lacks, apart from some finesse in the script department, is a few extra scenes to round out Rocky's determination to fight Drago. The boxing commission's refusal to sanction the bout is only mentioned in newspaper clippings and news reports. The film's theatrical trailer has a few seconds of the commission deliberating. With that, we know the scenes were shot but excised from the film for whatever reason, probably that nebulous term "pacing." The inclusion of these scenes would, I think, make Rocky's decision all the more personal. Perhaps I'm expecting too much from the film. Maybe I've been watching too many art films to overlook its shortcomings. I mean, it is the fourth in its series; written and directed by its star; and only about an hour long without the music montages. Honestly though, I adore this movie for all the things that a technically wrong with it. All those faults, especially when Apollo's gloves suddenly disappear and reappear before his fight with Drago, are what make the film so memorable.

Apart from the original film in 1976, this entry, I believe, has had the biggest impact on popular culture. For example, this past April in UFC 83, after the Nate Quarry/Kalib Starnes bout, American Quarry ironically quoted Rocky's final "we all can change" speech to the booing Canadian crowd after humiliating his Canadian opponent. He entered the Octagon to jeers but once Starnes began running away from Quarry, the UFC crowd, like in this film, turned their favor to the better fighter. Given this and allusions in other texts, I think the film deserves its own special edition DVD, or even Blu-ray Disc. I mean, MGM could have a lot of fun with this title. I'm thinking commentaries (one with just Lundgren and Stallone), a nice long documentary on the film's making and cultural impact, maybe a trivia track, jump to a music montage option, retrospective interviews. But here's the icing on the cake: you call it "Rocky IV: No Easy Way Out Edition."

Unlikely, yes. But a man can dream.

For further reading, check out Hard Bodies by Susan Jeffords.

There Will Be Blood (2007)

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson

Writer: Upton Sinclair (novel), Paul Thomas Anderson (screenplay)

Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day-Lewis) is a successful oilman at the turn of the twentieth century. A young man's tip leads Plainview to California where a local preacher and the hazards of free enterprise are but a few of the obstacles between Plainview and incredible wealth.

Yet another film I wish I'd seen in theatres. Even once the DVD came out it took me a long time to get around to watching it because I had the feeling it required one sitting to really appreciate the film. Apart from his short films and Sydney (a.k.a. Hard Eight) (1996), I've seen his other three features: Boogie Nights (1997), Magnolia (1999), and Punch-Drunk Love (2002). There Will Be Blood is quite like these films and is at the same time quite different. There Will Be Blood is not as much an ensemble piece as his other films, much like how Punch-Drunk Love focuses on Adam Sandler and Emily Watson's characters though they're surrounded by over-the-top human foils and accents. Like Boogie Nights, this is a historical drama though far less tongue-in-cheek. This is also an adapted work, from the novel Oil! by Upton Sinclair, whereas his previous films are original screenplays.

Anderson's film is a tough one to get through at times. The two and a half hour running time is daunting, especially when coupled with the methodical pacing and specific visual style he implements. Several times during There Will Be Blood, I got the sense that the Anderson was channeling as much David Lean as John Cassavetes. The location and landscape is just as important a visual feature as any of the characters or the narrative. He uses the widescreen to his advantage to show the vastness of the location (e.g. the vanishing point railroad, Daniel and adopted son HW [Dillon Freasier] hunting) but also to show the intimacy and opposition of his characters in closer framings (Daniel and HW after the accident, Daniel and William Bandy before the baptism). Other times, such as when HW returns from boarding school, Anderson's camera is positioned very far away from the two but their voices are aurally "close" to the spectator. This gives an uncomfortable, voyeuristic quality to the scene, which is one of the film's narrative strengths. Anderson's film allows the audience to tag along with Daniel Plainview at specific points in his oil-oriented life. From his solitary prospecting in 1898, to a small oil drilling team in 1902, to our main chunk of story in Little Boston in 1911, and finally jumping ahead to 1927. The elliptical storytelling requires some dedication on the behalf of the viewer but is ultimately a rewarding experience.

The reward comes in the form of the central, personal conflict of the film. At the forefront of the narrative is the clash between oilman Daniel Plainview and preacher Eli Sunday (Paul Dano). The two actors play off each other wonderfully, presenting opposing side of ambition. Plainview is interesting in one thing: oil. Where he can find it, how he can get to it, and how he can profit from it. Eli, however, is driven by his faith and the development of his church, The Church of the Third Revelation. However, by the end of the film Eli is the fallen man, driven more by his own greed than his supposed faith.

I find it significant that neither man looks any older in final 1927 scenes as when they first meet in 1911. The men come to represent the frailties of human endeavor and how those frailties never age. Daniel Plainview is a bad man, you know, I know, Anderson knows it, and Daniel Plainview most of all knows it. This is what sets him apart from Eli Sunday. Sunday has allowed his self-delusion to overtake his being. From the beginning of the film, he sees himself - as I imagine most cult leaders do - as the guiding light for all those who dare follow him. He persists in this fantasy as he tries to build his church and his followers, always keeping himself on a pedestal. Daniel sees through Eli and at every turn knocks him down a peg and often does it literally. This self-delusion has landed Eli in the early grips of the Great Depression and Daniel in a more cushioned environment. Their final confrontation in Daniel's in-home bowling alley (a hokey set piece but effective nonetheless), is dramatic sum of the past two-plus hours. It is here that many of the images and narrative themes of the film repeat and come to full maturity. The revelation that Eli's twin brother Paul was the true prophet (bringing Daniel to Little Boston) and Eli's subsequent forced admission of such (like Daniel's beleaguered baptism) is Daniel's final emotional, spiritual, and physical assault on Eli. It is in this scene, despite Day-Lewis' excessive performance, where I am most reminded of the work of John Cassavetes and Robert Bresson. In many of Cassavetes' films (specifically Shadows [1959], Faces [1968], and A Woman Under the Influence [1974]) and Bresson's Diary of a Country Priest (1951) and Pickpocket (1959), the viewer spends nearly the whole length of the film absorbing these vignettes in characters' lives then. It's in the last few scenes and moments that the sum total of the previous images rushes back, swells up, and locks into place. You have to watch from start to finish in one go or the whole effect is significantly diminished. There Will Be Blood is not a film designed to make the viewer feel good. There is no one to root for (as a friend pointed out), it's a wholly pessimistic about industry, and our sympathies are consistently subverted by characters' actions. Even when we are manipulated to feel sorry for HW's lost hearing, he is sent away to school only to return as yet another reminder of what a terrible person Plainview is. However, I find these ostensibly negative qualities to be the real source of the film's strength. There Will Be Blood stands in opposition to generic Hollywood product and I hope more filmmakers will be bold enough, as Anderson has, to work in such dark cinematic terrain.

Lost and Found

This news is about a week old but I really wanted to let it soak in properly. They found the rest of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Put into simplistic terms like that, it sounds sort of silly but it really is a big deal. Metropolis is not just one of the undisputed masterpieces of silent cinema, it's also an integral part of our film history. Considering it took Lang two years to film, finally released in 1927, it's absolutely astounding to watch. Kino International's 124 minute version is the one with which I am most familiar. It includes a sort of disclaimer at the beginning stating that the missing scenes are considered lost and text, drawings, and production stills will attempt to fill in the gaps. Well, it's funny how things work out and how we've come to relocate the missing footage. I first heard the news from TheDigitalBits, which linked to the German periodical Zeit Online for the full write up. It's a short but very interesting piece. Here's the breakdown: in 1928, Lang sent a print of the film to Adolfo Z. Wilson, an Argentinean film distributor. The film is shown in cinemas then passes into the hands of critic Manuel Peña Rodríguez for his personal collection. Forty-odd years later, Peña Rodríguez sells the reels to Argentina's National Art Fund and then, in 1992, the film winds up at Museo del Cine in Buenos Aires. The new curator, Paula Félix-Didier, heard the rumor about how the museum's copy of Metropolis ran a little longer than everyone else's. Sure enough, with the help of three film experts, Fritz Lang's complete vision of Metropolis was "rediscovered" in Argentina. Kino, who has the rights to the film, has since confirmed that they will include the missing scenes in their DVD and Blu-ray Disc releases of the film next year.

This is, of course, not the first time someone has stumbled across a "lost" film. Take the case of John Ford's My Darling Clementine (1946). Ford's film was released to the public with a running time of about 97 minutes. In the mid-1990s, UCLA film students noticed that the print of the film donated to the school by Fox ran about ten minutes longer. Lo and behold, Fox had sent the school Ford's earlier cut, which was previewed, re-edited, and then released as the 97-minute theatrical version. Both versions are available on the most recent DVD, which makes for an interesting comparison study. A similar comparison is the theatrical version versus the restored version of Baby Face (1933). With public interest group breathing down Hollywood's neck, the Production Code (a.k.a. the Hays Code; the Code; the Breen Office) was put into place to regulate (read "censor") the content of American films. The restored version of Baby Face is a much darker, seedier vision of ambition and exploitation. The theatrical version softens the material and, in my opinion, dulls the overall impact. One of the more famous film restorations was that of Orson Welles' triumphant Touch of Evil (1958). Welles, a brilliant filmmaker to a fault, wrote a now legendary 58-page memo to RKO after viewing the studio's re-edited version of the film. The film remained as the studio cut it until Universal found an early post-memo, pre-release version of the film in 1976 used with test audiences. Finally, a faithful restoration was mounted in 1998, attempting to achieve Welles' original vision. On a personal note, Touch of Evil (like Chinatown [1974], Halloween [1978], and The Red Shoes [1948]) is one of those movies that remind me why I love film so much. It's such a textually dense work that I get sort of intoxicated by it. With that said, I know I'll be first in line to get the new 50th Anniversary Edition in October; it'll include all three versions of the film (!).

I suppose I'm like many fans of silent film and general film history because there are several films I'd love to see in their original versions. Erich von Stroheim's original 9-hour version of Greed would be amazing (the 4-hour version is pretty spectacular by itself). I really wonder what Orson Welles' first cut of The Magnificent Ambersons (1942) looked like. That is to say, before RKO re-cut and destroying any remaining footage. Legend has it a rough print is hiding somewhere in Brazil where Welles went to decompress after shooting.

You know, two of my favorite directors are Dario Argento and John Waters. I've seen just about every movie they've ever made with the exception of a few. Argento finished his "animal trilogy" (beginning with The Bird with the Crystal Plumage [1970] followed by Cat ‘O Nine Tails [1971]) with Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1971). After three back-to-back giallos, Argento made The Five Days of Milan (1973), a historical drama about the Italian revolution. Neither film is available in the States. I understand that Paramount owns the video rights to Four Flies. I have my doubts that they'll release it in any acceptable form considering the hack jobs they do on most of the genre DVDs like Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and that sad excuse of a Friday the 13th boxed set. As for Waters, I'd love to see Hag in a Black Leather Jacket (1964), Roman Candles (1966), and Eat Your Makeup (1968) available to the public. Waters, love him or hate him, hasn't lost his satirical edge. I'm looking forward to his holiday children's movie Fruitcake. Think I’m kidding? Go here.

I've gotten terribly off track but I think my point is there. Metropolis as Lang intended it was considered "lost forever" for eight decades until it was happened across, more or less, by accident. What really saddens me is the utter disregard for history and preservation the general public has for their film heritage. Just because it's in black-and-white or silent doesn't make it boring or a bad movie. Odds are it's better than 90% of the drivel that the studios dump on us today. I know it would be an expensive endeavor but I'd love for someone to start digging through the vaults and archives to see what other treasures are hiding. Maybe that print of The Magnificent Ambersons is just chilling in Brazil, waiting for someone to trip over it. Until then, I'll (im)patiently wait for the fully restored version of Metropolis to street. I'm sure that after watching it my head will explode into candy.

Caché (2006)

Director: Michael Haneke
Writer: Michael Haneke

Strange surveillance-type videos and post cards begin showing up at the home of a talk-show host and his wife. While trying to uncover who is sending the disturbing materials, the already strained relationship between husband and wife is punt under even more pressure.

Haneke has quickly become one of my new favorite filmmakers. My first brush with his work was when a close friend of mine told me I had to see this messed up movie called The Piano Teacher (2001). It was a truly upsetting film. My next experience with Haneke was Funny Games (1997), which is, hands down, one of the most emotionally brutal films I've ever seen. Caché is no exception. Haneke implements his long take style quite effectively in this film. The opening static shot, running a solid three minutes, in a way prepares the viewer for the rest of the film. The scene is an exterior shot of an upscale town home-like façade. Cars, pedestrians, and cyclists pass with synchronous audio. Then come the nonsynchronous voices of the married couple, Georges and Anne Laurent (Daniel Auteuil and Juliette Binoche), but at first we have no context for these voices. Haneke cuts to a different angle of the street as Georges walks out with Anne to inspect an alley and then back to the original static shot as the couples' voices reverberate in what sounds like an open room. Just then, the screen freezes and fast-forwards, a throw back to a pivotal moment in Funny Games. The spectator has just been duped by this technique, which Haneke will reuse throughout the film.

A regular obsession of Haneke's is central to the narrative of this film: the effect of new media, especially video, on reality. This is a topic Haneke has tackled before, most notably in Benny's Video (1992). But what does all that have to do with the opening shot? Like much of his work, Caché is a highly reflexive film. With that first sequence, Haneke is making his audience aware of not just their position as spectator but also the film's position as a piece of art. Because of our past consumption of films and engrained understanding of standardized visual and aural codes, we automatically assume that the exterior establishing shot is just that: an establishing shot. We take for granted that the filmmaker could be lying to us, manipulating our trust, and using our preconceptions against us. While film is not exactly a new medium (with over a century of practice under its belt), artists like Haneke find new ways to use and interpret the filmic image. In this case, working out how video can be use antagonistically.

As the story unfolds, we find out that what we saw on screen is a tape that mysteriously appeared on the Laurents' doorstep. As the film progresses, more tapes appear along with post cards and papers with the same crude drawing of a person bleeding from the mouth. The already strained relationship between Georges and Anne slowly fractures as they try to figure out who is stalking them. Using the images on the tapes as clues, Georges confronts a man from his past, which leads to tragedy. Haneke repeatedly emphasizes and reminds the audience of the voyeuristic nature of watching a film. The spectator identifies with the couple - Georges and Anne are also manipulated by the images on the screen - but is also implicated with the stalker by watching the couple's relationship crumble. Once the film ends, the spectator is forced to deal with Haneke's manipulations.

As impressive as Caché is, I do have one gripe. With the introduction of the drawings, there seems to be a subplot, made of visual clues, that pops up briefly. These clips are living versions of the stalker's drawings. As Georges explains an event from his childhood involving another boy (who he later confronts as an adult), we are led to believe these brief clues are Georges' memories. If so, then it seems like an unnecessary bout of subjectivity in the middle of an exercise in objectivity. Perhaps Haneke wants to interrupt our innate desire to identify with the story in some way by inserting this contradictory subplot. A few more viewings may bear out the rationale but for now, this seems like a superfluous narrative tangent. The only thing I can think of is that it may be acting as a parallel to the later confrontation, a mental association Georges makes, but again, the sudden introduction into Georges' mind is troubling from a narrative standpoint. Then again, what about Haneke's work isn't troubling on one level or another?