The Year of the Sex Olympics (1968) 3.5 of 4

** this review contains fairly mild spoilers **

First, this isn't spicy as the title suggests: it's a low-budget, British made-for-TV movie from 1968 (broadcast as part of Theatre 625).  If you're still reading, it's very good, like a low-budget Brave New World mixed with the anti-TV agitation of Network, Max Headroom, and Idiocracy.

It seems only a black-and-white copy survives, but the YouTube presentation was acceptable (the title is also listed on amazon).  The cast is excellent, including Leonard Rossiter (2001: A Space Odyssey, The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin) and an impossibly young Brian Cox.  The standout, though, is Tony Vogel as Nat.  With his burning, bugged eyes and combination of curiosity and idiocy, Nat seems of a future dystopia.

Nat Mender (Tony Vogel) gets an idea

The script borders on brilliant, with intelligence and a good pace.  There's some quietly effective future-slang: "so" is used roughly equivalent to "aloha," "king-style" means good, "super-king style," even better.

The story is from the point-of-view of the TV-producing elite, which saves on sets.  What makes them elite?  Mostly young, they're "high-drive," anti-intellectual and proud of it.

Lasar Opie (Brian Cox)

They share contempt for the "low-drive" majority, the idle proles watching the programs, and seen in surveillance footage (for purposes of ratings monitoring).  Escapist television is essential to keep the masses passive: it's "apathy control," much preferred to the dreaded "tension," root of all evil.  (Thank God it's just a story.)

the low-drives

The Sex Olympics is event-viewing targeting overpopulation: "Sex is not to do.  Sex is to watch."  (The surveillance shots are similar to those in Star Trek's inferior overpopulation-episode of 1969, "Mark of Gideon.")  Viewers are fickle, though, and new ideas are welcome.  Nat's restless, and inspired by a friend's transgressive paintings ("I want tension") he offers to leave comfort behind and (with two others) live like old-days "savages," as it's broadcast as a series (not called Survivor).  Can any good come from going outside?

Inevitably, the film is dated in some aspects (some of the music), and may seem all too low-drive next to the overblown likes of The Hunger Games.  It works though, as written by Nigel Kneale, creator of the TV/film character Professor Quatermass.  The Year of the Sex Olympics remains disturbing, even as most of it has come true.    

New Year Baby (2006) 3 of 4

New Year Baby is a documentary about the Khmer Rouge genocide, which occurred in Cambodia in the 1970s.  Specifically, it's the filmmaker's personal inquiry into her Cambodian-American family, several of whom gradually become more responsive to questions during a trip back to Cambodia.

From the world point of view, the news of the Khmer Rouge gave notice that genocide was not an historical anomaly but a pattern.  Subsequent events, of course, have confirmed this.  I remember this genocide achieving mass consciousness only with the release of The Killing Fields in 1984, approximately five years after the end of the genocide.  This delayed acknowledgement is part of the pattern.

I'll admit I had trouble adjusting to the gentle rhythms of New Year Baby, although that says more about me than about the film.  I've seem many movies and shows in my life, and most of those were made by men (behind the camera).

It seems to me that New Year Baby is a more feminine film (the title refers to the filmmaker's birthday being the Cambodian New Year).  That is, it focuses on how events and decisions affected a small group of people, especially their relationships.  The broader story of the genocide is covered in impressive animated sequences, but the film's emphasis is not facts, figures, or historical parallels.  This approach also allows the film to be suitable for all ages, despite the challenging subject. 

New Year Baby is about acceptance, compassion, and human growth.  It doesn't spend much emotion placing blame; the facts speak for themselves.  Those who survived did so through a mixture of heroism, blending in, and luck.

The fact that sticks with me is that the filmmaker's parents were matched (by the then authorities)  because they were so different (different class background, etc.).  The Khmer Rouge were high on this sort of thing, as they tried to remake their nation into a collectivist utopia at the point of a gun.  The matching of opposites could easily be made into a reality show by 2017 Hollywood, in the vein of Beauty and the Geek and Wife Swap.  My point is that the madness of genocide doesn't grow from this or that religion or political viewpoint, but from a mix of ideology, fanaticism and hatred.  I have to believe that latent self-hatred is a precondition for any attempted genocide.

I tend to see things politically/historically, so I'll continue in this vein, though New Year Baby gracefully refrains from such analysis.  

As far back as I remember (the 1970s), genocide has been a present topic of learning and discussion. What has changed, because of our inability to stop it, is a desperate emphasis on predicting the next genocide, which has now devolved into ugly rhetoric: we are quick to call our foes Nazis, and quick to identify ourselves with the victims of genocide.  Even aside from matters of taste, this is simply inaccurate: whether we admit it or not, history indicates that we are all potential genocideers.  Not all of us would wield the weapon, but all would at least be tempted to look the other way.

Our leaders use the rhetoric of genocide; the day's enemy is always the next Hitler, especially if war is in the plans.  What we've seen is that fighting "the next Hitler" is as likely to cause mass murder as prevent it.  In both Southeast Asia and in the Middle East, U.S. wars devastated and destabilized the region, leaving a power vacuum for the Khmer Rouge and ISIS, respectively.

As an American, I feel a little guilty about this, but not all that much, because I had nothing to do with those decisions.  Those wars were run by people who had themselves avoided combat, if not most types of hardship.  (I believe this is disastrous.  The best leaders have been through hardship: George Washington was a combat veteran, Abraham Lincoln had crippling depression, FDR had polio.)  Whatever their motives, those who prosecuted recent wars lacked the hard-won wisdom and humility of those interviewed in New Year Baby.  

A Rumor of War (1980) 2.5 of 4

** this review contains spoilers about this based-on-truth miniseries **

Maybe this is a good time for watching and discussing Vietnam War movies: it looks increasingly likely the American electorate will never choose a Vietnam veteran to be president.  (Of our last four, Donald Trump is the third draft-evader; Barack Obama was too young to be eligible.)

After taping this off TBS in 1993 (thus the commercials for Children of the Corn II and Matinee), I finally watched this miniseries, much-praised on release as one of television's first serious treatments of the Vietnam War.  I probably saw a cut version (the broadcast was larded with commercials), but I got the gist of it.

John Sacret Young, who later co-created the Vietnam War TV series China Beach, adapted Marine Philip Caputo's memoir.  A product of small-town America and admirer of the late John F. Kennedy, Caputo became a Marine lieutenant after college, serving in Vietnam 1965-66.  Brad Davis stars as Caputo; the excellent cast also includes Keith Carradine, Brian Dennehy and Stacy Keach.  Richard Bradford gives a memorably satiric turn as Gen. Rupert, so immersed in his talking points he's aghast when reporters doubt his accuracy.

Amidst the usual scenes of male bonding and military manners, the film relates how young soldiers were driven half-crazy by a war in which they rarely knew where the enemy was, or even who, given the Viet Cong's lack of uniforms and uncanny skill to blend into the countryside.  The soldiers' stress and grief over fallen comrades climaxes in their murder of civilians, after which Caputo is subjected to Kafkaesque military justice.

My authority on Vietnam films is Michael Lee Lanning, via his 1994 book Vietnam at the Movies.  Lanning's a bit hawkish for me, but as a Vietnam veteran he at least knows what he's talking about.  A Rumor of War gets one of his more positive reviews, although he idly wishes for an equally good film about a green lieutenant who does not murder noncombatants.

As a doughy non-veteran, I found A Rumor of War worth watching, if superseded by the likes of Platoon, Hamburger Hill, and Full Metal Jacket.  (The Vietnam film that rocked me the most: 84 Charlie Mopic, which Lanning also raves about).  My main complaint was the lack of convincing combat scenes.  I understand that the film is arguing most of our troops in Vietnam were woefully ill-prepared for a task that may have been impossible, the main point being the maddening lack of direct confrontation.

Still, it seems unfair this lengthy film lacks any scenes of American men on the offensive, fighting valiantly.  Instead, they mostly patrol the countryside, then frantically try to survive when they're shot at or bombed, always from a distance.  As Lanning observes, most of the cast fail to make convincing Marines.  (Also, I'm pretty sure that real soldiers don't throw their hands in the air like synchronized cheerleaders every time a bomb explodes nearby.  Even if they do, it looked vaguely ridiculous here.)


Reading the respectful reviews from Lanning and other vets, I'd like to see an uncut version sometime.  I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by now, but this TV production is not on DVD in the U.S. (even the VHS releases had cuts).  If this were a theatrical movie, Hollywood would've by now released it multiple times, with each one a bit different to catch the double-dippers.  To me, such non-releases indicate U.S. television still struggles with self-contempt.

When a Stranger Calls (1979) 3 of 4

** this reviews contains moderate spoilers, but no major ones **

I'd never seen this film; sometimes I mistakenly think of it as a TV-movie, because in line with the previous When Michael Calls (1972) and Are You in the House Alone?! (1978).  Actually, it's both cinematic and too raw to have been shown on TV at the time.  (I have seen neither the 1993 sequel nor the 2006 remake.)

The rap on When a Stranger Calls (1979): the first 15 minutes are much better than the rest of the movie (Wes Craven apparently liked the scene; Scream opens similarly).  I didn't respond that way.  Although I already knew the (now-famous) reveal, the entire film held me, offering style, strong characterization and a level of tension.

The story's apparent digression, with the villain stalking an older woman, is actually essential, because it shows how damaged people affect others even if (or when) they aren't violent.  Colleen Dewhurst is part of an outstanding cast that also includes Carol Kane and Charles Durning.  Note that Dewhurst is almost as leery of private-eye Durning as she is around the creep: an older woman on her own, she has a weary deftness with risk.  (As in many movies of the era, Durning's quest obliquely echoes that of The Searchers.)

Pretending not to be repulsed.

An atomized society can't adjust to people who are randomly homicidal, or even bent on hurting others from a distance.  Like so many horror villains, Curt Duncan takes advantage of modern anonymity -- "privacy" -- after escaping from lockup.  When his social idiocy provokes a beating, it barely slows him down; clearly, he's used to being victimized.  He can't cope with other human beings but goes through the motions of trying, for reasons of self-justification.  (British actor Tony Beckley makes an impression in his final film; he died the next year, at 52.)

That name is striking: "curt dunkin'" implies a perfunctory, weak religion.  The German first-name is especially noticeable in that Carol Kane is clearly Jewish, regardless of her character name (why not say so?).

Initially, Durning goes after Duncan with some kind of poisonous needles (call it a citizens' lethal injection), presumably to avoid a murder charge.  The needles are almost comically ineffective, another symbol of a society grown arthritic from its exhausting battle between arrogance and self-doubt.    

Quintet (1979) 2 of 4

what the white pages will look like in the (very cold) future

** mild spoilers below for a nearly plotless film **

Most of us dislike winter, but I think most people like a snow-and-ice film.  The snow film gives us the beauty and starkness of winter without the discomfort.  People and things pop out of the white background, there’s a pleasing sterility to it.  Also, winter in a movie charges every scene with life or death stakes: in real life, we’d just go inside, but in a snow movie there’s a good chance the character(s) will face death.

 

Quintet is very much a snow movie, thanks to the Montreal locations (the ruins of the Expo '67 World's Fair, the same event that gave a name to baseball's Montreal Expos, since moved south to be the Washington Nationals).  We're in a future ice age, in a vaguely medieval town populated by the enervated, accented denizens of the European art film: Vittorio Gassman, Fernando Rey, Bibi Andersson.  Paul Newman stars, vainly attempting to recoup the film’s budget.

Newman is Essex, a simple, good man; his wife is collateral damage in an apparent terrorist attack.  The bombing is actually part of the game, quintet (Videohound describes it as a variant of backgammon, but gleaning rules from the scant references is a job for someone who cares more than I do).  The bomber is himself killed, and Essex appropriates items from the corpse, including a hit list.  He pretends to be the dead man (hmm, like Jack Nicholson in The Passenger, 1975) in an attempt to find out what the hell’s going on.  He’s not the only one.

One of the things you learn watching science fiction is that cheesiness is not deadly to the genre, in fact, a layer of cheese can be great for the recipe (for an example, see the disturbing snow film The Colony).  What’s fatal to sci-fi is pretentiousness.  Maybe this is because science fiction grows out of ideas, about human beings and where we’re headed, in other words, science fiction tends toward pretense.  The sci-fi filmmaker needs to get busy grounding things, or else.
 

Robert Altman, director and co-writer of Quintet, did not understand this, in fact his film is even more portentous than his snow-Western, McCabe and Mrs. Miller (the films are vaguely similar).  Quintet is one of a number of 1970s films inspired by 2001: A Space Odyssey, which set an infelicitous vogue for alienated men struggling to care amidst futuristic entropy.  Most of these films merely demonstrate there was only one Stanley Kubrick: The Andromeda Strain, THX 1138, Silent Running, Soylent Green, Zardoz, Rollerball.  (Using a game as metaphor for our meaningless power plays recalls Last Year at Marienbad, another inimitable work.)

Like that cycle, and like the chilly Star Trek--The Motion Picture, The Thing, and The Big Chill, Quintet echos the sorrow of baby boomers as the hopefulness of the 1960s froze and shattered.  At one point, Andersson cries as she cuddles with Newman, helpfully pointing out that the intimacy “makes me think of the past, of what we’ve lost.”  Later, she notes that Essex still has hope, “like a little child.” 

All of this might have been fine if the film had distracted us with an actual plot and characters, like John Carpenter’s The Thing.  Unfortunately, we get little of either, in favor of much walking about in the snow, guarded questions and halfhearted threats between the game’s opponents, and people warming hands by fires (some even stick gloved hands into the fire: See how callous they've become!).

And by the way, even given the whole ice age thing, why is it just as cold inside as outside (judging from visible breath)?  That’s not just symbolic, it’s a good way to freeze to death.

Over the decades I’ve watched this film two or three times now, and seeing the name Fernando Rey in the end credits, I realized why.  I was weaned on Harlan Ellison’s non-fiction screeds about benighted Hollywood; Ellison was always ranting about how science fiction and fantasy should be treated as any other art form.  In fact, Ellison once dropped a fictional sci-fi movie into one of his stories, an adaptation starring, if I recall, Franchot Tone.  Or was it Fernando Rey?

That’s what Quintet is, an attempt at a sci-fi art film.  I keep returning to it because I want to believe any post-apocalypse drama, filmed by Robert Altman in the 1970s with a world-class cast, is some kind of lost gem.  It's not.  However, the snow and ice are pretty.

this blog post is part of the Nature's Fury blogathon, hosted by Cinematic Catharsis!

Creation (2009) 3 of 4

** if you're interested in this film, you already know the ending **

Creation is a biopic giving a glimpse into the crisis of conscience of Charles Darwin, when he could no longer procrastinate publishing his theory of evolution.  The reason (as we now need to be reminded) is that Darwin was raised in a Christian society and well knew he'd be dealing a severe blow to the Bible's primacy as a perspective on the universe.  Darwin (Paul Bettany) was a naturalist, not a dogmatist, and much less sanguine than his acquaintance and foil, Thomas Huxley (Toby Jones), who cheerfully tells him, "You've killed God, sir!"

Darwin's other friends are more gentle in urging him to publish the book we know as On the Origin of Species.  The other key players are Darwin's wife and their daughter.  Jennifer Connelly (also Bettany's wife) plays Emma Darwin as a sincere, rather strict woman whose staunch faith doesn't prevent her from supporting her husband (indeed, when he can't take the pressure any longer, he allows her to make the decision whether to publish).  Tragically, the couple lose their vivacious daughter, Annie.  The resulting grief, combined with the professional worries, makes Charles ill and nearly drives him to madness.

This is a solid film, if a bit staid and conservative, perhaps to balance the still-divisive subject matter.  Although it makes no apologies for celebrating a famous scientist, we also see Charles mocking his own youthful hubris, and there are touches of horror as he realizes his work leaves the universe a messier place than he found it.

Creation is one of those biopics you watch to find out what happened, as opposed to having a cinematic experience.   In that sense it reminded me of The Passion of Ayn Rand with Helen Mirren, and the recent abolitionist film Belle.  The viewer picks up some nuggets about the 19th century, for example, they were very big on "hydrotherapy": standing in torrential showers was supposed to cure various ailments.  That reminded me of a story about director John Huston, how he supposedly overcame a sickly youth by immersing himself in a waterfall.

I think of Darwin as one of the non-Biblicists of the 19th century (into the 20th), along with Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, and Albert Einstein.  All felt at least some guilt or anxiety over their discoveries, although from what I know, Marx's suffering was mostly from not being paid for his work, appropriately enough.

Along with the family drama, we learn that Darwin was actually the co-discoverer of evolution, sharing the accomplishment with Alfred Russel Wallace.  The DVD extras indicate Creation exaggerates for drama at least a bit, but then these are upper-crust Brits, so we shouldn't be surprised they stayed relatively polite even in these epochal circumstances.  It took the Americans to make the theory of evolution into a contact sport.

Gone Girl (2015) 2.5 of 4

** this review contains spoilers **

As a movie, this is an effective potboiler, if hampered by length, and the now-inevitable orange-and-teal, stone-washed photography.  The aspect of Gone Girl that most interests me is the parable about white Americans, our fortunes over recent decades. 

When we meet Nick and Amy, both write for lifestyle magazines: he writes for a male audience, she, for women.  This evokes the entitlement of white America, presuming to define what makes a good or successful man or woman.  (When Amy wonders if his job means that Nick "is an expert at being a man," he shrugs it off, but that doesn't make her wrong.)  We'll learn they are both pretending to be better than they are, for each other, but then what's white good for if not a lingering, guilty-but-relieved suspicion one is automatically better than other people? 

In recent decades, this supremacy has been hit with a twofold problem: white Americans are accused of benefiting from a history of oppression; as they attempt to tame or elude that charge, they're losing any immunity to economic collapse.  It's getting so the Nicks and Amys of the world can't complain about the Recession without being charged with white entitlement. 

Nick's mother's cancer prompts a move to Missouri, where the couple will start a family; this move repeats the immigrant's journey: New York City, then West to set down roots.  Financially, their salvation is Amy's trust fund, thanks to her parents' Amazing Amy books, a romanticized version of her own childhood.  We hear disparaging comments about this childhood "exploitation," but really, Amy's parents were doing the same as Nick and Amy, packaging the (white) American fairy tale for mass consumption.  They're just more successful at it, until Amy shows what she's learned. 

Assuming financial stability, the problem of white America is a public relations problem, created by brute force, very much a male specialty.  It's exacerbated by the fact that most people still marry within their race.  These facts dictate that women play a central role in any solution, and considering their own history of victimization, it's no surprise white women want to be well-compensated for any fix.  They want to call the shots. 

In this sense, Amy's scheme isn't crazy, it's clever.  Amy knows it isn't hard to make people revile a straight-white-male in today's world, they just need a little help.  Notice how Nick seems twice the size of any other white man in the film: white men are shrinking and big, virile Nick sticks out like a sore thumb, at least until he hires a black lawyer to block for him.  Nick's not as smart as Amy, but he's not a moron. 

Amy knows her gender takes the curse off whiteness, which is why "missing white women" is  ratings gold for TV news and TV talk shows.  People of color may find it hard to resist these stories, because compassion for white women implies the world will get around to people of color, in time.  To think otherwise would be awfully cynical, right?       

Amy's been paying attention.  She gives Americans a narrative they can understand.  She also proves herself, not only with guile, but with some brute force of her own, dispatching a straight-white-male who's too weak to be of use except as a corpse.  (Note that her worst setback comes when she trusts a woman; the blowback removes her last sentimental weakness, feminism.)  Nick is horrified, and afraid of her, but so what?  Why shouldn't the husband be afraid, for a change?  He'll get over it, as he appreciates that his wife has used changed social standards and technology to immensely improve their financial prospects.

In these difficult times, why shouldn't women take their turn, like good sports?  Amy only does what so many white men did when they built this country: connive, lie, steal, exploit, and kill.  They tamed a frontier, Amy dares the digital frontier. 

What's the matter, are you threatened by a powerful, successful woman?