Category: Directors Ni

Silkwood (1983, Mike Nichols)

I wholeheartedly recommend Silkwood. It’s beautifully made, with a singular performance from Meryl Streep and great performances from its astounding ensemble. I need to remember to list all the supporting actors in the film. But I caution against reading up on the actual history. The film’s very accurate; the problem isn’t with veracity; it’s with the dramatic choices for the finale. The film refuses to make any claims about union organizer Karen Silkwood’s mysterious death, which occurred while she was on her way to blow the whistle on her plutonium manufacturing bosses. They’d been really shitty about telling people they’d probably get cancer and die from their jobs, plus doctored reports to make things seem safer.

Streep gets involved with the union after her first contamination; she’d been building to it, concerned about one of her friends at the plant, but experiencing it herself pushes her over. Her life quickly changes, as she’s instrumental in involving the national union in the Oklahoma plant’s business. But with Streep’s increasing involvement, her relationships suffer at home and work. Home is stud muffin boyfriend Kurt Russell and their roommate Cher, a lesbian who’s in love with Streep but also thinks Russell’s swell. They all get high, bitch about work, visit Streep’s kids, and get poisoned by their job together. The first act is all about the trio; the second is about breaking up the trio, and the third is about them having to get back together because it’s partially a medical melodrama.

A damned good one.

But the finish skips ahead a lot, focusing on Streep’s still hot and heavy relationship with Russell, ignoring both her work stuff and her increasingly strained friendship with Cher. Despite the film’s abrupt, tragic ending, there’s some kind of closure with Russell and Streep. There’s nothing with Cher. Even though Cher shows up in the ill-advised closing montage, apparently having been present for a scene the film implies but doesn’t show. Because to show it would be to take a stand on Silkwood’s death.

The ending’s frustrating—I mean, Silkwood gets away with doing an actual pre-made Oscar reel for Streep’s nomination video, so it can frustrate all it wants, actually—but knowing there was more potential content—historically solid content, too—is upsetting. The film proposes there’s just not enough information to do anything else with the finish. But the real story had some more information. There were other choices.

Before reading up on the actual history, I had intended to start talking about Silkwood in terms of staying too strict with the reality, except it didn’t even make that choice. It did something entirely different. And the film can’t get away with it.

Silkwood starts a somewhat standard outsider drama. Streep, Russell, and Cher are stoners; their coworkers think they’re a truple; they don’t fit in. For example, even though Streep’s okay with Russell’s giant Confederate flag, she doesn’t join in racist conversations with her coworkers. The film’s Americana, but that Americana. Given Russell eventually getting uncomfortable with Cher taking up with another lady is a plot point, the film is aware of that focus. It just entirely dumps it, like they weren’t allowed to cut anything throughout the film but had to stop at exactly 131 minutes.

The film’s mostly a technical marvel—Miroslav Ondříček’s photography, Patrizia von Brandenstein’s production design, Ann Roth’s costumes—but Sam O'Steen’s cutting is only just okay. It’s often good, but because of the content, not because O’Steen’s got a good feel for that material. Though the Oscar reel partially redeems the lackluster final montage; Silkwood effectively gets away with nostalgically repeating something from two scenes before. It’s not great, but it does the job–it reminds how Streep’s performance over the last two hours and eight minutes has been absolutely mesmerizing.

So cast your votes for her.

Before I forget, here’s that supporting actor costar list. It’s entirely men, but major shout out to E. Katherine Kerr, who plays the other woman in Streep’s work crew. Also, Craig T. Nelson plays a creep coworker, and he’s in the movie a lot, so I’m not counting him. Bruce McGill’s also got a lot to do but much less than Nelson. The biggest part otherwise goes to Fred Ward, and in continuing descending order of importance: Ron Silver, Charles Hallahan, David Strathairn, Josef Sommer, J.C. Quinn, M. Emmet Walsh, James Rebhorn, Bill Cobbs, Gary Grubbs, Anthony Heald, and Will Patton–the Nichols Thirteen or something.

Russell and Cher are both good but not great. Well, wait. Cher’s always good but never great, while Russell’s often good but never bad. He’s really good with the bump and grind scenes, where he and Streep slobber on each other, but he doesn’t really get a character arc.

Nora Ephron and Alice Arlen co-wrote the screenplay, which technically never runs out of stream since there’s no dialogue after a certain point. Silkwood doesn’t want to do a thriller sequence in the third act—supposition and all—and their solution of flashing forward into the epilogue is unsuccessful. Nichols loses track of the story at just the wrong moment.

But, like I said before, it doesn’t really matter. Silkwood’s already knocked it out of the park; Streep’s astonishing, Nichols’s direction—big thanks to Ondříček’s lightning—is excellent, and the story’s always compelling.

Though—and I promise I’ll get back to an uptick for the end—we need to talk about Georges Delerue’s score before we go. Delerue starts doing honky tonk, which is fine, but then it stops and never comes back. He does lots of melodrama instead, which is fine too, but just when the music should be figuring out how to combine those two genres, Silkwood punts. The film gives Delerue a vote of no confidence with the ending music choice; it’s a cold burn to Delerue.

But, of course, Silkwood makes it work because it’s a superlative piece of work.

This post is part of the Everything Is Copy Blogathon hosted by Rebecca of Taking Up Room.

Gattaca (1997, Andrew Niccol)

Gattaca is a science fiction triptych character study by way of film noir. And while the film’s a murder mystery, it only uses the film noir device—narration—for a non-mystery section of the film. The narration ends with the murder mystery, not coming back until the finale. It’s an absolutely fantastic structure from writer and director Niccol, who’ll then lean into the character study elements, sometimes employing noirish visuals but always slightly not.

But Gattaca doesn’t take place in a dangerous world, and noir’s all about danger.

The film takes place in the near future when parents-to-be go to their location geneticist, and they pick out the best egg to grow into a baby. The film actually doesn’t get into whether or not the mother carries the baby at all, but it seems like maybe not. Not important. The film takes place in the future, where the next pandemic kills off all the anti-maskers and anti-vaxxers, and the rich liberals need to figure out what to do about the icky poors.

Anyway.

Ethan Hawke is a “God-child;” his parents left his genetics up to fate, and fate delivered them someone with a bad heart, among other ailments. We find out Hawke’s origins in the summary flashback, which he narrates. It starts a few minutes into the film, five or seven minutes; the film opens with Hawke scrubbing loose skin from his body and being a neat freak, shows him getting tested at work, then the flashback to explain he’s not like everyone else at the Gattaca installation; additionally, because he’s pretending to be someone else.

The Gattaca installation is a future NASA, where the best of the best prepare to explore the galaxy—or at least the solar system—and the even better best get to actually go on the missions. It’s finally Hawke’s turn, boss Gore Vidal tells him; one more week. The week will be the present action for most of the film but first is the thirty-plus minute flashback establishing Hawke and the future.

A murder kicks off the flashback, but that murder’s got nothing to do with the material it covers. Niccol lucks out at Hawke’s ability to narrate and make his character more sympathetic—he comes off like a prick in the pre-flashback setup, just another prig in a world of them—just through his vocal performance. The film traces his childhood, as mom Jayne Brook wants the best for her son, and dad Elias Koteas just wants a better son next time. Then the younger brother excels because he’s got the right genes, and how even mom gives up on young Hawke. It’s devastating, especially since Hawke—narrating from the future—doesn’t remark on the obvious psychological turmoil.

He runs away from home as a teenager, and in the next scene in the flashback montage is Hawke, now a custodian at the Gattaca installation. Since he was a kid, he’s been a space junkie, and everyone thought cleaning the spaceships would be the closest he ever would get, but he’s got a plan. Just because you’ve got perfect genes doesn’t mean you might not get hit by a car or fall down the wrong stairs, and then what can you do. Tony Shalhoub brokers a deal for Hawke to assume partially paralyzed Jude Law’s identity, which requires lots of cosmetic and mental work; in exchange, Hawke supports Law. Presumably, Gattaca pays well. They never talk about money in the future. Maybe there isn’t any.

The flashback changes speed throughout, emphasizing teenaged Hawke’s adversarial relationship with his brother (Chad Christ and William Lee Scott play the teenage versions, respectively), then also Hawke and Law’s initially testy relationship. In addition to being a depressed drunk, Law thinks Hawke’s genetically inferior and resents having to be in this arrangement. Especially since it means sobering up (at least occasionally).

As the flashback gets closer to the present, Hawke explains he’s running out of time with his heart defect—they can predict when your body’s going to give out with 99% surety, and he’s passed due—and the only thing impeding his space dream is this one crappy mission director at work.

Who turns out to be the murder victim.

And Hawke carelessly left an eyelash near the scene. His eyelash; not one of the ones Law plucks for him to plant.

The film runs 106 minutes, so the next seventy minutes (minus credits) take place over the few days before Hawke’s mission is scheduled to depart. The police show up at work, initially led by old school detective Alan Arkin, who’s convinced the eyelash guy must be the killer—one of the other things they screen out in the eugenics is the propensity for violence and criminal behavior—so Hawke’s got to stay on his toes.

Simultaneously, his coworker Uma Thurman starts getting interested in him romantically, but in Gattaca, romantic interest comes after running a potential partner’s genetic code. Thurman’s good enough for Gattaca in the brains department, but she’s not going to get a shuttle mission because she’s got a bum heart; sometimes, even with the eugenics, things still go wrong with the science.

Back at home, Law’s preparing for a year without an identity—Hawke’s leaving the planet; he can’t be in two places at once, which means Law can’t be anywhere.

Then there’s Loren Dean’s genetically superior police commander, who thinks presumably regular guy Arkin’s investigating the wrong leads, but Arkin thinks Dean’s all genes and no gut. The murder investigation gives the film a different, contentious structure running through the already established one-week-to-lift-off structure. It throws a wrench in Hawke and Law’s plans, but they need to adjust around it. Similarly, Thurman’s last-minute romantic interest in Hawke further complicates things.

The film gradually becomes that triptych character study: Hawke, Thurman, Law. Maybe Dean sharing some of the third spot with Law. The script mixes drama—family drama, as Hawke and Law have become the brothers neither had—romance, the general hard sci-fi of future eugenics and spaceflight, and murder mystery. Niccol’s script is phenomenal.

Along with that already considerable success is Niccol’s breathtaking direction. Gattaca’s a muted future, filled with people genetically engineered not to be impressed with the wonders around them. Niccol and cinematographer Slawomir Idziak shoot it clear but saturated with color. Then there’s the Michael Nyman score, which tracks the emotions of Hawke and the other actors throughout. The colors and the music mix and mingle, creating an encompassing backdrop for the actors’ performances.

Niccol does a great job with the actors. Hawke, Law, Thurman, Dean. Arkin’s kind of an extended cameo, along with Xander Berkeley, Ernest Borgnine, and Shalhoub. Everything about Gattaca—except Nyman’s score—is controlled or constrained. The music soars with the possibility of breaking free, and when characters actually get to do it too, Niccol scales appropriately.

Gattaca’s an exceptional film.

Michael Hayes (1997) s01e09 – Slaves

I wasn’t looking forward to this episode. “Michael Hayes” has been struggling the last couple and it was never on firm grounding to begin with. Then the opening title sequence hit and… the rest of the legal team actors’ names were in it. Episode nine is where Hillary Danner, Rebecca Rigg, and Peter Outerbridge get added as regulars. But then I saw the first guest star—Lucy Alexis Liu—and all of a sudden I remembered; I have one cogent memory of “Michael Hayes” and this episode was going to contain it. I remembered more along the way—Jodi Long’s so good and the scene’s such a “thank goodness” (she’s calling out white people’s savior complex in general, lead David Caruso as a specific example, while also addressing the efficacy of having biased white “experts” talking about the Chinese immigrant experience). It works out; my cogent memory is validated and the show is all of a sudden on completely different footing. Script credit to Anne Kenney and Paul Haggis.

The episode starts with Caruso addressing a bunch of cops about to raid a “house of prostitution.” Only, Caruso (and Kenney and Haggis) explain, it’s not a regular house of prostitution because the women are being held captive; they’re Chinese immigrants, in the country without visas—I’d forgotten how often the term “illegal aliens” got thrown around in mainstream media, even when there’s a whole thing about the system being inhumane and shitty—and they’re chained to the floor. 1997 is apparently before “human trafficking” entered Hollywood’s vernacular; it’s also back when you could have someone like Caruso say “America doesn’t do slavery” with a straight face.

The raid goes bad and Caruso and team are left with two potential witnesses—Liu and Jeanne Chinn—against a seemingly upstanding businessman suspect, Michael Paul Chan. Liu’s a good girl, Chinn’s a bad girl, but neither of them are receptive to Caruso’s questioning because he can’t keep them in the country. John Prosky shows up (again, I think) as a dipshit INS agent (it’s not his fault, it’s just the agency itself is shit is the message), with a chunk of the plot dedicated to Caruso and Outerbridge trying to figure out how to get him to grant refugee visas.

The procedural aspects, with Rigg and Ruben Santiago-Hudson (demoted in the credit order due to everyone but Caruso being alphabetical and three names getting added, but still a solid part) doing field work are good. Mostly thanks to the script, but also Adam Nimoy’s direction is the best the show’s had either ever or in memory. Also, Rigg’s a hoot out in the field, a self-aware brassy sitcom neighbor but as a meticulous lawyer; Rigg’s always working the character, even when she’s in background; the mind is racing. She’s awesome to watch, a great foil for Caruso, who’s doing the same thing.

But where the episode excels in the character arc for Caruso (and Liu). Without a lot of exposition setting it up—any exposition setting it up, actually—the episode essays Caruso’s emotional reaction to Liu and Chinn—Chinn’s a caricature for most of her time in the episode, but when that barrier cracks, it’s very much because of Caruso’s performance. It’s in the script and Chinn’s close to leveling up on her own, but Caruso—problematically, to be sure—is what makes it happen. “Michael Hayes” is about a white savior who just happens to be white. They wouldn’t be able to get away with any of it without Caruso, whose ability to toggle between loud and quiet is unsurpassed.

Except Chinn’s the bad girl who’s a (relatively) easy flip. There’s a lot more with Liu, as Caruso tries to crack her as a witness, then forms a bond with her. Unlike the Chinn stuff, Liu and Caruso’s arc succeeds because of Liu. Their scenes are all about the performances, because it’s all talk, sometimes about legal citizenship stuff, sometimes about aspirational Americana stuff, and the drama has to come out of the characters speaking to and reacting to one another. No wonder I remember loving this show.

No sign of other still regular cast members Mary B. Ward and Jimmy Galeota—I think they may have even taken Galeota’s picture out of Caruso’s office—and the show’s… better for it. Much better for it. Even with Danner not really having enough to do and Outerbridge still just being a blue blood stick in the mud, the team procedural dynamic succeeds.

I’m not sure what to expect from “Hayes” going forward and this episode might very well be its peak, but it’s a good peak. Even though it’s a CBS show by white people for white people from 1997, it ages all right. Kenney and Haggis are at least aware of that situation and try (well, not with the title but Haggis did end up making Crash, didn’t he). And Caruso and Liu are spectacular together, which is what matters. The episode is all theirs.

Biloxi Blues (1988, Mike Nichols)

Biloxi Blues has some rather peculiar, rather significant third act problems. Like, it doesn’t have a third act. Did they cut a bunch to keep the PG rating or something? Because at a certain point the rising action stalls out and the film goes into montage summary overdrive. After giving lead Matthew Broderick and ostensible love interest Penelope Ann Miller an amazing “meet cute” first dance, full of chemistry and energy, Miller never gets another line. She’s in a few montage shots, as Broderick romances her, but she’s not even present in the film, just visible. It’s a very weird development, especially considering how phenomenally director Nichols shoots that dance scene.

And Nichols has a lot of very thoughtful direction in the film, which is another reason it feels like it doesn’t have a third act. None of the direction is thoughtful. In fact, it’s tonally regressive. The end of the film—the last real scene—turns everything into a smile, with writer Neil Simon and Nichols running as far away from every question or difficult thought they raised as fast as they can. It just doesn’t make any sense. Unless Simon didn’t have an ending to the movie and for some reason everyone—Nichols, the producer, the studio—just shrugged and said, “Yeah, Matthew Broderick can sell it with narration, he’s Ferris Bueller, it’ll be fine.”

Is Broderick’s narration read good? Yeah… it’s not bad. It’s not great, but it’s not bad. It’s also not his fault because Simon doesn’t give him anything to say really. Whatever lessons Broderick learned from his time in boot camp in 1945 Biloxi don’t come through in the narration. Or Broderick’s onscreen performance. It also turns out he’s supposed to be narrating it from the present, which seems weird with the accompanying shots. There’s got to be a story behind Blues’s production. There’s just got to be.

Because no one has a full character arc in the entire film. Not even Christopher Walken, who’s about one great scene away from a fantastic performance. He never gets his great scene, never unconditionally. It’s usually a combination of script and Broderick; Broderick, not in performance or in role as written, never gets to honestly react to Walken. Walken hounds Broderick for much of the film, because Broderick’s a New York smart-ass and, well, he’s also Jewish. Walken’s not going to take a cheap shot about the Jewish thing, but it’s there. Anytime Walken and Broderick have some kind of showdown where you want to see Broderick’s reaction—or, hell, Walken’s—the action goes to the rest of the platoon.

The rest of the platoon is alpha Matt Mulhern, wannabe alpha Markus Flanagan, average guy Casey Siemaszko, popular but good guy Michael Dolan, and super-nerd (and fellow Jewish guy) Corey Parker. All of the performances are good. It’s exceptional Parker’s able to get away with such an exaggerated stereotype, especially since there’s not a lot of consistency with the character in the script. He starts the film constantly farting and having to take a crap. Apparently it stops being a problem after he starts eating the army food. He’s also supposedly having all sorts of run-ins with Walken; we see some of them, but never the fallout. It’s just like with Broderick… Simon’s not interested in the characters developing from their experiences in Blues.

But Nichols directs for it. The way he positions the actors—Broderick, Parker, Mulhern, Flanagan, Siemaszko, Dolan—Nichols has got a distinct focus. Only then the script goes somewhere else and Nichols lets the film lose that focus. As a result, it always feels like something’s missing. Especially with Walken; especially after the “third act” reveals on Walken. Biloxi Blues should given Walken a Best Supporting Actor Oscar and doesn’t.

Mulhern’s really good. Dolan’s really good. Flanagan and Siemaszko are sort of flat good; the script doesn’t really give them enough. In Siemaszko’s case, Simon forgets about him too.

Great cameo from Park Overall. Good photography from Bill Butler, good music from Georges Delerue, great production design from Paul Sylbert. The forties soundtrack selections aren’t great and tend to be during the ill-advised “for laughs” sections, but they also make the film seem artificial and vaguely insincere, which is definitely not what it ought to be doing.

Biloxi Blues should be really good. It’s got the pieces to be really good. Instead, it’s decent, but a misfire.

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966, Mike Nichols)

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? opens with this gentle, lovely music from Alex North. It’s night, it’s a university campus, a couple is walking silently as the credits roll; the music’s beautiful. Then the couple–Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton–get home. And pretty soon they start yelling at each other. And they don’t stop until the end of the movie, some two hours away–unless they aren’t in a scene together.

Burton is a history professor and Taylor’s suffering husband. Taylor is the university president’s daughter and Burton’s suffering wife. The film starts with them getting home from a faculty party at two in the morning. They’re both drunk and so they start drinking some more. But Taylor has invited over a new professor and his wife so they’re going to have a middle-of-the-night party, much to Burton’s chagrin.

The guests are George Segal and Sandy Dennis. Dennis is a little tipsy when they arrive, but Segal’s basically sober. Burton–correctly–guesses Taylor agreed to host the welcoming party (at her never seen father’s request) because Segal is something of a young blond stud and up-and-comer, not a middle-aged fuddy-duddy career burnout like Burton.

As the film progresses, the group–there are only the four characters in the film (with two uncredited actors at a roadside bar later on)–breaks up and reforms. Taylor gives Dennis a tour of the house, offscreen, while Segal and Burton bond. More Segal realizes his hosts are majorly dysfunctional and wants to get out of there, but ends up sticking around, getting drunker, with Taylor getting bolder and bolder about hitting on him. Dennis is oblivious, Burton is quietly raging.

Eventually–once they’re drunker–Segal and Burton have another bonding moment, while–again–Dennis and Taylor are offscreen. Segal and Taylor get scenes together, Dennis and Burton get scenes together. And little by little, it becomes clear there’s a lot more going on than Taylor’s a drunk unfaithful wife to Burton’s sad sack, drunken academic failure.

Woolf is exceptional on every level. The way Nichols directs the actors. Ernest Lehman’s script–adapting Edward Albee’s play. The performances. That Alex North music. The Haskell Wexler black and white photography, which gives the viewer insight into these uncomfortable moments–like when Taylor starts flirting with Segal and Dennis is in the background and the scene’s not about Taylor’s flirtatious rambling but whether or not Dennis is catching up with what’s going on. And then what her awareness or lack thereof means given Burton’s in the room too.

Dennis has a bunch of surprises in store, narratively and performance-wise, for later in the film. Virginia Woolf gets disquieting before Segal and Dennis even show up at the house, because Taylor’s obviously unstable. Possibly dangerously unstable. The film’s revelations about Taylor and Burton to their guests (and the viewer) drives their character development. This revelation or that revelation calls back to a previous one and where there’s an–intentional or drunken–disconnect fuels the development. Dennis and Segal are different. There’s definitely some development through revelation, but they’re not the film’s subjects. They’re both messed up a little with secrets of their own, but it’s nothing compared to Taylor and Burton.

Taylor gets top-billing and the best monologue. Burton’s second-billed but the protagonist. His monologues are different. He’s not self-reflective drunk or sober. Taylor’s self-reflective sober. Well, sober for her. Burton’s always trying to stay one step ahead of Taylor while she’s just naturally devious and manipulative. They’re both exhausted–the story itself is a marathon, with the two couples getting drunker and drunker as the night goes on. Movie starts at two in the morning, ends four or so hours later. So not real-time, but fairly continuous action. All of the characters (and actors) exhibit the exhaustion in different ways. While Dennis and Segal are the guests and their exhaustion is tied to them being in someone else’s home, Taylor and Burton are sort of in their normal. Their terrifying normal. Exhaustion included.

The script has the dialogue level, with Burton trying to torment his guests with wordplay and maybe embarrass Taylor a little with it, and then the narrative. This development, that revelation, all perfectly plotted out. Nichols hits every one just right. He gets the intensity of the scenes, the dialogue, the performances, all beautifully shot by Wexler, then Sam O’Steen’s editing packages them all together into these astounding, draining scenes. There’s a lot of dread in Virginia Woolf, even if you don’t know what you’re supposed to be dreading. From the first moment after the peaceful opening titles, the film’s primed for an explosion.

Singular acting. Segal’s the least great and he’s still great. Taylor and Burton kind of duke it out for best performance. They’re very different parts with very different requirements. It’s incredible how well Nichols directs the film, given his two leads are operating at different speeds and different narrative distances. And then you throw in Segal and, especially, Dennis. She’s phenomenal in the film’s toughest part. Because she’s got to be quiet. Burton, Taylor, and even Segal all get to be loud but Dennis does this startling, quiet performance.

And even when it seems like you finally get Virginia Woolf as the film goes into the third act, it turns out there are still some big twists. The film’s biggest twist isn’t even its loudest. And the loudest one is head-blowing big.

Richard Sylbert’s production design–the house and its yard where the action mostly takes place (though the roadside bar is also great)–is stellar.

As I said before, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is exceptional. On every level. It’s “run out of positive adjectives” exceptional.

4/4★★★★

CREDITS

Directed by Mike Nichols; screenplay by Ernest Lehman, based on the play by Edward Albee; director of photography, Haskell Wexler; edited by Sam O’Steen; production designer, Richard Sylbert; music by Alex North; produced by Lehman; released by Warner Bros.

Starring Elizabeth Taylor (Martha), Richard Burton (George), George Segal (Nick), and Sandy Dennis (Honey).


THIS POST IS PART OF THE REGALING ABOUT RICHARD BURTON BLOGATHON HOSTED BY GILL OF REALWEEGIEMIDGET REVIEWS.

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Pathfinder (2007, Marcus Nispel), the unrated version

If Pathfinder weren’t so long, it might be more amusing. For the first hour, it’s actually rather tolerable. It’s not any good, of course, but the story of this Native American tribe encountering invading Vikings does look good. There’s decent photography from Daniel Pearl and director Nispel, for all his problems, does compose the wilderness shots well.

But then the Vikings, led by the Kurgan–Clancy Brown in the film’s “best” performance–capture the hero (Karl Urban) and his lady friend (Moon Bloodgood). The sequence goes on forever, with Nispel borrowing action thrills out of Predator, Cliffhanger and probably Commando, only without knowing how to direct them.

Nispel’s inability to shoot action–he thinks making it gory covers him–is one of the biggest problems with Pathfinder. Another big problem is how stupid it gets. Having the Vikings be the villains sounds like an action figure play set from the seventies–Vikings vs. Indians–but, if the filmmakers played it straight, might at least be interesting as a “what if” thing. Instead, as my wife pointed out, they turned the Vikings into Klingons, complete with vicious dogs.

Will the hero–I forgot, Urban was a Viking lad stranded during their previous invasion who grew up with the Native people–battle Kurgan of the Klingons? Will he save Bloodgood? Will the movie ever end?

Urban’s got a terribly written part but he’s better than Bloodgood. No one’s worse than Russell Means. Jay Tavare’s nearly okay.

Pathfinder’s a terrible movie. Boring too.

0/4ⓏⒺⓇⓄ

CREDITS

Directed by Marcus Nispel; screenplay by Laeta Kalogridis, based on the film by Nils Gaup; director of photography, Daniel Pearl; edited by Jay Friedkin and Glen Scantlebury; edited by Jonathan Elias; production designer, Greg Blair; produced by Mike Medavoy, Arnold Messer and Nispel; released by 20th Century Fox.

Starring Karl Urban (Ghost), Moon Bloodgood (Starfire), Russell Means (Pathfinder), Ralf Moeller (Ulfar), Jay Tavare (Blackwing), Nathaniel Arcand (Wind In Tree), Kevin Loring (Jester) and Clancy Brown (Gunnar).

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Working Girl (1988, Mike Nichols)

Towards the end of Working Girl, the film seems to jump around a bit with the timeline. It seems to jump ahead, but then it turns out it doesn’t. And it only seems to jump ahead because of how director Nichols and editor Sam O’Steen structure a couple transitions. It’s not a big thing, but it does cause the viewer to reseat him or herself; it’s sort of a false ending but not. It’s a tension reliever.

Kevin Wade’s script has a lot of obvious material, but it saves the most important revelation–one the film shockingly gets away with not revealing in the first act–until the last few moments. And it’s all paced out perfectly.

But Working Girl couldn’t possibly function without its principal cast members. In the lead, Melanie Griffith is phenomenal. She needs to be sympathetic, but Nichols and Griffith subtly tone down the sympathy she gets for being unappreciated. There’s an initial shock value to her situation and then, over the course of the film, they show that shock was just to get the viewer paying attention.

As her romantic interest, Harrison Ford is fantastic. His character is one of the film’s more complicated–as the evil harpy boss, Sigourney Weaver is similarly fantastic. Weaver’s able to appear likable even when she shouldn’t. Ford is able to be assured even when he shouldn’t.

Nichols, O’Steen and cinematographer Michael Ballhaus put together some truly great scenes here.

It’s rather great; Griffith and Ford are wonderful together.

3.5/4★★★½

CREDITS

Directed by Mike Nichols; written by Kevin Wade; director of photography, Michael Ballhaus; edited by Sam O’Steen; music by Rob Mounsey; production designer, Patrizia von Brandenstein; produced by Douglas Wick; released by 20th Century Fox.

Starring Melanie Griffith (Tess McGill), Harrison Ford (Jack Trainer), Sigourney Weaver (Katharine Parker), Alec Baldwin (Mick Dugan), Joan Cusack (Cyn), Philip Bosco (Oren Trask), Nora Dunn (Ginny), Oliver Platt (Lutz), James Lally (Turkel), Kevin Spacey (Bob Speck), Robert Easton (Armbrister) and Amy Aquino (Alice Baxter).

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Wolf (1994, Mike Nichols)

Mike Nichols has a very peculiar technique in Wolf. He does these intense close-ups, sometimes zooming into them, sometimes zooming out of them. He fixates on his actors–usually Jack Nicholson and Michelle Pfeiffer, but all of the actors get at least one intense close-up (except maybe Eileen Atkins). It’s like he’s drawing attention to the unreality of the film medium, which makes sense since there’s a lengthy conversation between Nicholson and Om Puri about mysticism and modern life.

Wolf is a strange monster movie because, even though it’s about Jack Nicholson turning into a werewolf–he gets bitten in the opening titles no less–it’s not a monster movie. For a while it’s a workplace drama, then it’s a marriage drama, finally it’s a romantic drama between Nicholson and Pfeiffer. The film’s present action is extremely limited. It takes place over a week or so (one could probably easily chart out the days), but the filmmakers sell the roller coaster romance between Nicholson and Pfeiffer.

On the topic of those close-ups of Nichols’s, they wouldn’t be possible without Giuseppe Rotunno’s photography. Wolf is a beautiful looking picture; Nichols and Rotunno have these wonderful reflections in the car windows. They’re stunning. And having Ennio Morricone’s score over them–just great.

All the acting’s good. Pfeiffer gets the third act to herself and is fabulous. Nice supporting work from Kate Nelligan, James Spader, Christopher Plummer.

I’m not even sure Wolf’s a horror movie; it’s more a supernatural drama.

Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (1986, Leonard Nimoy)

In Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, director Leonard Nimoy establishes a light-hearted, but very high stakes, action-packed environment. Voyage Home is in no way an action movie–the action sequences mostly consist of chases and comedic subterfuges–but there’s a new one every few minutes. The screenwriters came up with a scenario where there’s always danger, but always an almost immediate comic relief.

Flipping between that danger and relief is where William Shatner is so important. He’s able to activate the intense concern momentarily, a grin ready for when the implications have surfaced. Shatner has the most to do in the film, but owns it the least–he’s got some flirtation with Catherine Hicks, but nothing as substantial as most of the other cast members. When he’s out with Nimoy in modern day San Francisco, he’s usually just there to set up Nimoy’s laughs.

The modern day setting is an incredible success too. Nimoy is able to so convince his audience of the 23rd century setting at the start, the trip to the audience’s own time takes them out of water too.

DeForest Kelley gets a lot to do, sort of switching between sidekick for Shatner, Nimoy and finally James Doohan. Kelley and Doohan are great together.

As a director, Nimoy’s sensibilities–especially for comedy–are strong. For a Star Trek film, he’s surprisingly uninterested in complicated space effects. He sticks to the grounded stuff.

Nimoy and company engage the franchise’s iconography to excellent result. Just great.

The Saga of Windwagon Smith (1961, Charles A. Nichols)

There’s nothing good about The Saga of Windwagon Smith. The best thing about it is the extended opening titles, which eat up some of the runtime and lessen the cartoon’s awfulness.

The animation happily plays at the nexus of lazy, incompetent and bad. Director Nichols–who cowrote–at least could’ve come up with an interesting visualization for his dumb story.

Instead, he relies on singing narration. It, and the dialogue, all rhymes. Except they’re bad rhymes, which makes one wonder how much time anyone spent on Windwagon. It’s like they wrote the dialogue first and the couplet at some later point.

Rex Allen is equally obnoxious as the protagonist and narrator.

The most striking thing about the cartoon, however, is the rampant racism. There are multiple Native American jokes, a Chinese one, but it also mocks the Kansas townspeople as moronic rednecks.

Windwagon‘s a dreadful way to spend twelve minutes.

1/3Not Recommended

CREDITS

Directed by Charles A. Nichols; written by Lance Nolley and Nichols; animated by Julius Svendsen and Art Stevens; music by George Bruns; production designer, Ernie Nordli; produced by Walt Disney; released by Buena Vista Releasing Company.

Starring Rex Allen (Windwagon Smith) and J. Pat O’Malley (Mayor Crum); narrated by Allen.

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