I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #111 - Cape Fear (1962, dir. J. Lee Thompson/1991, dir. Martin Scorsese)

Two movies, made twenty-nine years apart: same title, same basic plot, yet morally a universe apart. The original, starring Gregory Peck (one of the most likable actors in the history of Hollywood) as lawyer Sam Bowden and Robert Mitchum (one of the most menacing) as maniacal ex-con Max Cady, whose lives become intertwined when Bowden witnesses Cady assaulting a woman, testifies against him in court, and lands Cady with eight years of apparently very hard time. Cady has come from prison with one thing on his mind: revenge against Bowden and all that he holds dear. The original film, from 1962, is a classic noir, with beautiful use of shadow and light to illustrate the moods and advance the themes. The themes are also fairly black and white. Mitchum’s Cady is a tightly wound spring of a man. On the outside he is all smiling and laughing good old boy, but just below the surface seethes a dangerous, misogynist, predator. He has a history of violence and abuse to women, and shows no remorse or understanding of his actions. Mitchum was absolutely made to play this role, and all his greatest assets: the heavily lidded eyes, the deep, cultivated southern accent, and his entirely imposing physical presence work beautifully to assure us he is entirely below reproach. Peck’s Bowden is drawn just as broadly as Cady’s moral opposite: he is a good husband and father, an honest lawyer and a decent man. Cady’s animus towards Bowden seems random and inexplicable. Why not seek revenge on the judge or prosecutor? So the lines are clearly drawn for a clear-cut struggle between good and evil. And a gripping and tightly directed struggle it is, as director J. Lee Thompson skillfully builds Cady’s menace in the Bowden family’s life with escalating appearances in the personal affairs of Sam’s wife and pre-pubescent daughter. Events go from the murder of the family dog to an eventual appearance at Sam’s daughter’s school. At this point Sam Bowden has been pushed far enough. Fear and his protective instincts slowly challenge his core beliefs as he starts to try anything to stop Cady’s murderous revenge. Along with a friendly cop and a private detective he devises a plan to lure Cady to an isolated vacation spot called Cape Fear where he can be gotten rid of away from the eyes of society. While Bowden is clearly the morally superior man, we are forced to confront uncomfortable issues revolving around just what is justifiable in the name of self-protection.

Enter Martin Scorsese in 1991 with the same story drawn with a very different set of inks. In Scorsese’s film our protagonist, this time played with sleazy complexity by Nick Nolte, is not a clearly good guy. In fact he is a pretty lousy guy. He is a serial philanderer, his marriage on the rocks, and his fifteen-year-old daughter experimenting with sexuality and rebellion. In this version, Bowden actually was Cady’s public defender and intentionally hid evidence that could have exonerated Cady. It’s not that Cady didn’t deserve the jail time though; Robert DeNiro plays a Max Cady so beyond the pale of normal decency that he almost seems like a different species. In one of his most startling roles (and THAT is saying something) DeNiro channels every frightening, Pentacostal, woman-hating, backwoods, boogeyman stereotype you can imagine, and hones them into an almost unearthly, tattooed, bible-verse spewing, madman whose anger and desire for vengeance is demonic. The differences between this and the original film could not be any more starkly drawn. In Scorsese’s universe of the 1990’s, moral certainty no longer exists. Cady is a terrifying murderer, but his anger and contempt for Bowden seem far more understandable considering the lawyer’s own moral failings.

It is this very ambiguity that becomes the key to the latter-day Cape Fear’s greatness. The movie turns on the audience’s discomfort with Bowden’s own character flaws as they relate to Cady’s hostility. There is no question that Cady is evil, but there is a question about Bowden. Nolte’s performance is delicately nuanced as he goes from being annoyed by Cady’s appearance to furious and outraged, and finally landing at a near animal state as he locks into mortal combat with a human monstrosity.

Both movies ultimately belong to the antagonists. Mitchum beguiles us with his creepy southern charm, while DeNiro goes as far as he ever has in a role, offering up two of his most memorable scenes. In the most uncomfortable 10 minutes ever committed to film, he slowly and expertly takes the 15-year-old Juliette Lewis’ character into his confidence, exploiting her adolescent feelings of inadequacy and confusion to sexually advance on her. If you can watch this scene without discomfort, please see your therapist. In the final half hour of the movie, DeNiro’s performance defies expectation or category. The movie almost moves to the level of magic realism as Max Cady’s capacity for violence and pseudo-biblical narration take on nearly supernatural levels. I’ve seen this movie a number of times and I still scratch my head at that last scene. It is almost incomprehensible, except that it all feels somehow possible. Unfortunately, the real world has prepared me for this level of madness.

It is impossible to say which of these two thought-provoking thrillers is the more satisfying. The original offers the clarity of a black and white world. It has a beginning, middle and end leaving us with little uncertainty. Scorsese’s version is much more reflective of the modern world; it is a bleak look into moral uncertainty and unhappy endings. One film was much easier to watch, and provided a welcome sense of emotional closure as the credits rolled, while the other left me with deep, unshakable questions about the human heart. Now that is a good afternoon of film!

- Paul Epstein

I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #71 - Bringing Out the Dead (1999, dir. Martin Scorsese)

"I'd always had nightmares, but now the ghosts didn't wait for me to sleep.” – Frank Pierce

 Martin Scorsese is well known for films such as Goodfellas, Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Casino, Gangs of New York, etc. The list could go on and on. Unfortunately, when most people list off their favorite Marty flicks, there is one that is almost always missing: the 1999 film Bringing Out the Dead. Even though this film shares themes that audiences seem to enjoy under different titles, for whatever reason Dead gets left out in the cold. I’m here to turn you on to what is surely one of the most unique cinematic experiences you will have.

To begin with, this is the fourth collaboration between Martin Scorsese and Paul Schrader, the first three being Taxi Driver, Raging Bull and The Last Temptation of Christ. Excluding some controversy with Christ, these are routinely accepted as masterpieces. So, why the disconnect this time around? This writer thinks it is almost entirely a problem of preconceived notions. Even before the foolish critics of the time (excluding an excellent write up from Roger Ebert) labeled it as Scorsese-lite, people were turned off by the film. For unknown reasons, the all-star cast, including Nic Cage, John Goodman, Ving Rhames, Tom Sizemore, Patricia Arquette and Marc Anthony, didn’t fire up people’s curiosity. A good chunk of this trouble could be blamed on the film Marty directed prior to Dead – the unfairly maligned 1997 epic Kundun. Especially since Casino had come two years before that, people were in a gangster mood when the screen said Scorsese. Between the relative dislike of Kundun, the fact that not many people saw or cared to see his excellent documentary that served as a journey through Italian cinema (My Voyage To Italy), and the fact that this wasn’t a gangster film, Bringing Out the Dead was near destined to be a failure.

But, lucky for you, DVD exists and you still have a chance to dive headfirst into one of Scorsese’s most visceral films. Nic Cage plays Frank Pierce, a seasoned paramedic that works the graveyard shift in Hell’s Kitchen, in the early 90’s. For those who don’t know, this is New York at its worst: a vicious crack infestation (called Red Death in the film), unacceptable housing conditions, and crime at levels so high it almost becomes satirical. Your average filmmaker wouldn’t put in all the time necessary to recreate such a horrible time. But for Marty, this period is the absolute perfect setting for a tale of redemption through debilitating sacrifice and pain.  The cinematography by Robert Richardson gives an addictive energy to this oppressive tale of guilt and loss. One of the best things about Scorsese is that he will almost never judge characters in his films. Yes, Hell's Kitchen is shown as the crack-addled, violent, sleazy mess that it was at the time, but it rarely feels voyeuristic or superior. The purpose isn't to point fingers, but to study human behavior. Many will say that this is simply a poor rehash of Taxi Driver. Those people are fools. The two films are certainly related, but never the same. Taxi Driver is a story of revenge and redemption; Bringing Out the Dead is never a story concerned with revenge. Frank Pierce is a man haunted by his past and crippled by guilt over the lives he has lost. In particular a teenager named Rose, whom Frank couldn’t save, haunts him as if a ghost. Frank sees her face supplanted onto nearly everyone he comes into contact with. He hears her calling out for help and asking why he couldn’t save her. Through voice over narration, Frank lets us know that it has been months since he saved someone. This is where Scorsese drops us into the story. Frank is at (or very near) his lowest point. He drifts through his night-to-night existence fueled by whiskey, cigarettes and soul-crushing guilt. The film disorients the viewer almost immediately. Within minutes, we are part of this fever dream existence that Frank is trying to sustain. We begin to empathize to an almost uncomfortable degree made possible by Scorsese's ability to pull excellence out of Nicolas Cage. 

 Although Cage had offered up some great performances prior (Raising Arizona, Leaving Las Vegas), this marks the first time that someone could actually control him. Cage's normal performances range from vapid, blank stares to earth-shaking bursts of crazy. Bringing Out the Dead gives us his first performance that wobbles unsteadily in the middle. Without it, the film would've failed. The free flowing, unpredictable acting on display gives the film its shaky center, setting the stage for this brutal tale of suffering and the tension created from the line-riding is palpable. If a single line, either narrated or spoken, doesn’t hit home, the entire film falls apart. Scorsese wisely gives Cage a lot to do. We meet a wide array of people that all bring out some corner of Frank’s psyche that had yet to be exposed. John Goodman is Frank’s first riding partner in the ambulance. As always, Goodman brings an enormous energy and gets the film moving. We then get Ving Rhames at his best, as an energetic EMT who uses every opportunity to praise Jesus and deliver the Word. Last we get Tom Sizemore playing a man that can only get by taking his aggression out on whatever's around. Whether it's a crazed homeless man named Noel (a surprisingly solid turn from Marc Anthony), or the ambulance that acts as chariot to the hell that every night brings, Sizemore's character is on the verge of catastrophe at every turn. Along with Frank Pierce, the character Mary Burke (a slightly unenthused but solid Patricia Arquette), gives the story something to come back to after each vignette. Scorsese has been obsessed with faith, specifically Catholicism, since his first film. This time, he decides to be very overt in naming the character that Frank is drawn to for guidance, help and appreciation, Mary.  I shall now stop with any other plot details, because the rock n’ roll fueled energy that comes from seeing this film unfold would be foiled if more is revealed.

Moral of the story: why wouldn’t you want to watch a dizzying descent into one man’s personal hell, full of wonderful performances, a soundtrack that includes Van Morrison, The Clash, The Who and The Melodians, gorgeous, disorienting cinematography by Robert Richardson (Fast, Cheap and Out of Control, Casino), earnest balls-out direction from Scorsese and a brooding, psychologically probing screenplay from Paul Schrader? And of course we can’t forget – it’s a really great dark comedy. If I haven’t convinced you, here is a single quote from a better-spoken man than I that should do the trick.

“Once again, this carnival of lost souls gives him the stylistic equivalent of an adrenaline boost; intellectually, Scorsese may not pine for the early nineties, but they're custom-fit for his perpetual theme of redemption through suffering, and the vistas -- the steam heat rising like hellfire from the streets, the phalanx of hookers and dopers, the whole vast detritus of the human comedy -- leave him rapt. Scorsese used to make movies about this world when it was right on top of him; in Bringing Out the Dead, he's serving up what amounts to livid pictographs from the cave of an earlier era. Not too much earlier, though. His point may be that there's still a lot of Then in Now.” – Peter Rainer

   - Will Morris, House Manager, Sie Film Center

I'd Love To Turn You On At The Movies #42 - The King of Comedy (1983, dir. Martin Scorsese)

All the movies Martin Scorsese and Robert De Niro made together seem to fit into two categories: gangster films (Mean Streets, Goodfellas or Casino) and bleak movies about ultraviolent anti-heroes (Taxi Driver, Raging Bull and Cape Fear). Good as these films were – and some are among the best ever made – they give the impression that there was a limit to what the two could do together. But then there’s The King of Comedy, a weird little early eighties film that shows the breadth of talent and skill these artists possessed.

It’s the story of a wannabe comedian named Rupert Pupkin (played by De Niro) who’s desperate to land a spot on The Jerry Langford Show, a late-night variety program along the lines of The Tonight Show, with Jerry Lewis as the Johnny Carson-like host. Unlike many of the characters De Niro has played in Scorsese films, Pupkin is kind of a putz. He has a silly mustache, combs his hair over to one side and wears dorky sports coats and slacks. And he lives with his mom. In one classic scene, he turns on a tape recorder in his room and pretends he’s being interviewed by Langford, only to be interrupted by her shouting at him from the living room. “Mom!” Pupkin shouts back in a teenager-worthy whine that sounds incredibly funny and a little bit creepy coming from a 34-year-old man. As a comedian, Pupkin is a walking flop; he uses canned lines everyday on strangers, and they all induce groans. Yet Pupkin quickly reveals himself to be a menacing character, and after a series of very, very uncomfortable run-ins with Langford, he and another insane fan named Masha (played brilliantly by Sandra Bernhard) kidnap the TV star and hold him until Pupkin is offered an appearance on the show.

The King of Comedy is also a cinematic departure from other Scorsese works; it lacks the aggressive camera work and editing of his classics. Still, I rate it among his best, mostly because it’s a masterpiece of dramatic tension. From the beginning scene, when Pupkin muscles his way into Langford’s limo and begs for a chance to be on his show, this movie seethes with tension right through to the end. Part of this is due to the outrageousness of the kidnap plot, but it owes more to the acting and the subtlety of the script. In that early scene where Pupkin and Langford are in a limo together, for example, face to face for the first time, their motivations are so clear – Langford’s to be left alone, Pupkin’s to be accepted – that the clash between them is vivid and stark. Yet the scene keeps going beyond probability because the Langford character is just enough of a mensch to not kick Pupkin out of the car, and Pupkin is just enough of a psycho to not pick up on Langford’s vibe and just sane enough to appeal to Langford’s inner mensch. It’s a complex social interaction, but De Niro and Lewis make it look easy and natural. It takes a lot of skill to pull off that kind of scene. I also rank it high on my list of top Scorsese films because it’s wickedly smart and funny. Smart because he’s basically giving us a crime thriller in a comedy’s clothing. And it’s very funny, though darkly and ironically so. Some of the funniest lines and scenes are funny precisely because Pupkin is not funny. His jokes bomb hilariously, and some of the wittiest zingers are aimed at Pupkin’s lame humor. So it’s kind of a meta-film: a dark thriller about comedians that’s as hilarious and scary as can be.

- Joe Miller