On April 2, 1968, Stanley Kubrick's masterful science fiction film '2001: A Space Odyssey' had its world premiere in Washington, D.C. Here's to the 50th anniversary of Kubrick's pioneering achievement as one of the most significant films ever made.
It’s thrilling with only a couple of real action sequences, gritty and shocking with only a handful of violent scenes, painful and difficult without a trace of any melodramatic gimmicks. A film that adheres to its own codes and vision and chooses to rely on its actors’ talent and the script’s strength instead of cheap spectacle, The Friends of Eddie Coyle is one of the greatest crime films of a decade that gave us so many cinematic treats of this particular genre.
Lumet’s directing debut is an unforgettable piece of filmmaking with lasting quality and never-ceasing influence. It’s no wonder that the film is still frequently shown not only in film schools around the world, but in law schools as well. In our opinion, 12 Angry Men is, first and foremost, a testament to Reginald Rose’s powerful writing and Lumet’s directing prowess, and we simply can’t be any happier to offer you a chance to study the hell out of Rose’s marvelous screenplay. Consider this our little present to you in this special time of the year when people around the globe celebrate Festivus. Dig in deep and deeply enjoy.
The film is depressingly prescient with regards to our Trump era malodorous schism in the way the establishment pits black against white in the name of power and money. Smokey is marked as the more troublesome and aware of the trio by the corrupt union bosses and is isolated and killed off in a horrific paint shop “accident,” asphyxiated by a faceless killer, a literal victim of the machine. Zeke is offered and takes up a position as shop steward, assimilated by the beast. Jerry turns into an FBI snitch, tasked with feeding them info on Union malpractice, leading to an inevitable and depressing bust-up with Zeke on the shop floor. Racial slurs rise to the surface as their co-workers stop and look on, the camera panning across their faces before the final freeze frame punch-up. Schrader said, “In their minds, and in the minds of a lot of people in this country, the union, the company, and the government are synonymous... (but with) different logos... Everyone’s trying to outmaneuver his fellow worker, and the easiest way to create tension in the workforce is through race, because everyone has this big button called racism mounted on their chest, so... you just reach over and push (that) button, and people start fighting amongst themselves.” Patsies, every single one of them, chewed up and spat out. The American Dream as sweaty, toxic nightmare.
As one of the most versatile and interesting filmmakers today, James Mangold seemed like a good choice for an interview. The last film he directed, this year’s critical favorite and box office triumph called Logan, raised enough questions and offered sufficient material to justify dedicating the whole piece just to it, but since we’re talking about a man who created such memorable films like Cop Land, Walk the Line and 3:10 to Yuma, as well as less advocated genre treats like Identity or Kate & Leopold, we felt it would have been a shame not to at least try to get him to talk to us about his career, both in general and the specifics, his directing style, inspirations and the current state of the American cinema. Expectedly perceptive and eloquent, but surprisingly talkative and motivated to satisfy our curiosity, Mr. Mangold spent an hour and a half leading a discussion with us that resulted in, we believe, quite an absorbing window into the filmmaker’s mind and professional craft. Logan is without a doubt one of the best films of the last couple of years, but as if the opportunity to discuss its creation with the mind behind it wasn’t enough, Marvel Entertainment, 20th Century Fox and Mr. Mangold have chosen Cinephilia & Beyond as the stage for the online premiere of Logan’s screenplay. James Mangold, Scott Frank and Michael Green’s brilliant script we provide here is, of course, for educational and research purposes only. Read, study, absorb—both the fascinating script and the great conversation that follows. Once again, many thanks to the studios and Mr. Mangold for their time and effort. It’s been a real pleasure.
By skillfully combining carefully choreographed action, a hugely talented cast, passionate dedication to details and genuinely apt storytelling, Mann created a mixture of period action and romance that stands out as one of the best movies not only of his career, but of the last couple of decades as well. What without a doubt adds additional value to the film is the larger picture here: by telling a personal story of an English settler raised in the ruthless and untamed wilderness of a new continent who becomes a part of his new environment and refuses to be a subordinate to the pompous British Empire, Mann simultaneously succeeded in telling the story of the conception of the United States. A quarter of a century before the Declaration of Independence, in the forests, creeks and mountains ungoverned by any European monarchs, in the character of Hawkeye the identity of a completely new nation was formed.
Witness’ significance lies not only in its craft but also in the context within which it saw the light of day: a Hollywood film advocating peace and harmony hitting theaters while the cinematically profitable Cold War was still in full swing. Not to mention the fact it treated an isolated, foreign community with respect and sympathy, which was no piece of cake back then, and seems especially relevant in our present as well. But one of the main reasons it’s so important to us is its beautiful epilogue, which sheds light on the film’s seemingly simple title. As the Amish villagers gather around the desperate policeman neck-deep in crime, he lowers his gun and gives up the futile fight and chooses to avoid bloodshed. The villagers simply stand there and watch him—they present no threat to his safety, they have no active role in the conflict, they are plain observers. But they are watching him, witnessing his actions, passively and peacefully forcing him to understand what he’s doing. Weir implies there’s a great power in our ability to watch, just like there’s a great responsibility in the hands of the community: don’t turn your back, don’t avert your gaze, witness what’s going on around you. In this interpretation, it’s easy to see why there’s no article the in the film’s title: is it possible that the title is a small piece of advice for the audience?
Predator premiered on June 12, 1987. The fame and machismo of its stars, the straightforward but effective screenplay by the Thomas brothers, Silvestri’s suspenseful tunes and McTiernan’s brilliant direction of action sequences secured the film’s place among action lovers’ favorites. Thirty years upon its release, Predator is still as exhilarating, nail-biting and terrifying as it was back when it premiered, and what kind of an influence it had on the world of entertainment is evident from the fact it brought us two sequels, several video games, novelizations and the upcoming The Predator directed and co-written by Shane Black. It also entered into popular culture: who hasn’t already heard the iconic “get to the choppa” line that permeated everyday speech? One of the best movies of Schwarzenegger’s rich career, a crucial step in the filmmaking career of McTiernan, who would make probably the best action film of all time only a year later (John McClane’s adventures at the Nakatomi Plaza), and a thrilling action classic people go back to with nostalgia and pure love. “If it bleeds, we can kill it.” Simple, epic and atmospheric as hell.
Almost directed by François Truffaut, Pauline Kael raved that it was, “A virtuoso piece of kinetic moviemaking.”
Twenty years have passed between Days of Heaven, Terrence Malick’s second feature film, and The Thin Red Line, his great 1998 comeback, the third film in a rich, influential and thoroughly unique career of one of the most interesting, inspirational and poetic filmmakers of our time. Twenty years is a very long time, but as The Thin Red Line proves, genuine talent and a true filmmaker’s heart isn’t something that withers and dies easily. Always careful about making bold statements and generalizations on the subject of filmmaking, ever so restrained in stating judgments about the unprecedented or unmatched qualities of certain films, we somehow feel safe to say The Thin Red Line is the greatest anti-war film we’ve ever seen.
Sixty years since its release, Out of the Past has long enjoyed an established place in film historians’ lectures on the best examples of film noir.
As much as Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is an exhilarating action film with dozens of dead bodies littered about the dusty, desolate landscape, this is a strange but powerful love story, an examination of people, emotions, relationships, love and sex. Think of the (improvised!) scene in which Elita confronts Bennie with the issue of their marital prospects–pure, intense, touching and deeply authentic. Peckinpah made a film that deeply resonates with the theme of lost time, ungrasped opportunities and the subtlety and complexity of true love. “This is Peckinpah making movies flat out, giving us a desperate character he clearly loves, and asking us to somehow see past the horror and the blood to the sad poem he’s trying to write about the human condition,” wrote Ebert in his original review 43 years ago. It took some time for the public to understand this poem, but Peckinpah, unfortunately, didn’t live to experience this deserved re-evaluation, being on the downward spiral during the very making of it. Co-writer Gordon Dawson saw this on set and pledged never to work with him again. “He really lost it on Alfredo. It tore my heart out.” Garner Simmons, the author of Peckinpah: A Portrait in Montage (1983), recollected how the filmmaker “did not strike him as someone capable of the legendary mayhem and madness generally attributed to him,” calling Peckinpah “fragile.” Much like the antihero of Alfredo Garcia, Peckinpah was worn out, near the end of his road, almost beaten, but not quite. The most productive and acclaimed period of his career was crowned with a beautifully sad but triumphant picture which might have been forced to deal with a lot of negativity and misunderstanding but now stands as perhaps the filmmaker’s most intense, interesting and probably subconsciously autobiographical work of art.
You never see the enemy. Like Christopher Nolan's triptych timeline suspenser Dunkirk, both quarry and hunter/guardians of the Allied Atlantic convoys our unterseeboot protagonists wrestle with, appear only as mechanised instruments of destruction, or chilling sound design: ghostly ships above the waves through the U-Boat periscope; pings on sonar, or the death-rattling booms of depth charges. Wolfgang Petersen's Das Boot does more to highlight, whether in its theatrical, television serial or Director's cut version, the sheer boredom, isolation and sudden, stark terror of warfare, in this case, the Battle of the Atlantic in the winter of 1941, than a dozen dusty tomes could do. As the film's opening legend states, “40,000 men served on German U-boats during WWII. 30,000 never returned.” The 1981 $18.5 million German-made film is based on Lothar-Günther Buchheim's 1973 German novel, a semi-autobiographical account of the war correspondent's time aboard such a vessel. Petersen's film largely tells its tale through Buchheim's avatar's eyes, Herbert Grönemeyer's naive Lieutenant Werner, and those of Jürgen Prochnow's weary sea-wolf, the unnamed Captain. Munich's Bavaria Studios produced the film, at the time Germany's most expensive and demanding production, shooting over a year in a near pathological quest for authentic exactitude. Although Petersen relished the minutiae of Buchheim's reportage, pushing for a universal “war is hell” experience, he rejected the author's long-buried zeal which critics brought up to counter his attempt in his novel to come to grips with the Nazi past–he had served on only one patrol, and his wartime reports were pulp propaganda. German public opinion in the 1970s was torn between honoring their war dead and disparaging them. Addi Schee, president of the Association of German Submariners, praised the novel for its realistic portrayal of a “submarine patrol with all its moods, excitements and dangers.” Another veteran argued the Association had missed the point of the novel entirely, and that tributes to the Fallen marked a failure to deal with German history honestly–Buchheim labeled the submarine an “iron coffin.”
A visionary artist obsessed with technology, who uses his enthusiasm, discipline, work ethic and unwillingness to settle for anything less than perfect to push the entire film industry forward, forcing it to keep up with his ideas, but also a man with masterful insight into human nature and what makes our hearts tick. A combination of mind and heart: that’s probably the best and the shortest possible description of both Cameron and The Abyss.