That strange buzz in your ear, the one that’s been driving you nuts since July 24? It’s not a wax buildup. Nor is it a fly stuck in your auditory canal. Rather, it’s the CFS’s adoring public, all 13 of them, clamoring for a new post.
So, without further ado, let’s dig into four more films watched and appreciated on the small screen via pirated HBO whilst* (*Anglophilia) under the influence of 3.2% beer back in the late 1980s. Do they hold up in the cold, sober light of day?
Black Widow (1987, Dir. Bob Rafelson)
Before Debra Winger disappeared from the face of the earth for a spell (perhaps taking her character’s existential despair a bridge too far in the wake of her star turn in Bertolucci’s 1990 film adaptation of Paul Bowles novel The Sheltering Sky), she was quite prolific, appearing in some good films (Terms of Endearment), some bad (Legal Eagles) and, in the case of Black Widow, some pretty OK ones.
Directed by Bob Rafelson, he of Five Easy Pieces (“Now all you have to do is hold the chicken, bring me the toast…”) fame, the movie tells the story of Catherine (Theresa Russell), a super-intelligent femme fatal—or dare I say, “Black Widow!”—who courts wealthy men (cameos by Dennis Hopper, Nicol Williamson, etc.), ties the knot and proceeds to tie off said knot, devising clever ways to make murder look like natural causes thus sidestepping pesky gaol*-time. #MeToo, indeed!
Before moving on to her next mark, Catherine, utilizing her now-formidable wealth, changes her name, identity, look, diction, etc., making it hard for anyone other than those sitting in a darkened movie theater to see that something is amiss. That is, except crack Justice Department agent Alexandra “Alex” Barnes (Winger), who roots out evil like a truffle-sniffing dog.
When the trail eventually leads to the big island of Hawaii, Barnes, having quit her job to pursue this hunch, cozies up to Catherine and her husband-to-be-(dead). Which brings in certain ménage possibilities, especially considering Barnes quickly finds herself under Catherine’s erotic spell. (Cue the image of lascivious adolescent boys high-fiving on the basement couch.)
I don’t know about you, but were I Alexandra, I’d be watching my six. Catherine ain’t no hayseed. Remember, she mates and she kills. (Just like a black widow!) Even worse, Alex is barely field-tested, green as that lush Hawaiian rainforest featured in the last 1/3 of the film. How will this play out? (Rent it.)
Now, is this a great film? Certainly not. But it’s serviceable in many ways. The acting is uniformly fine—no surprise there considering the formidable talents of Russell and, especially, Winger. The production is top-drawer, with a special shout-out to the imagery captured by the late Conrad L. Hall, one of cinematography’s all-time greats. And then there’s the stuff with the (then) newly active Mt. Kilauea, 1/2 on-the-nose imagery (liquid bursting forth from a cone), the other 1/2 wondrous (the 35MM footage of the volcano spewing lava is something to behold).
Cult-o-Meter™ (10-pt. scale)
- 7.5/10 (General Quality Rating)
- 9.5/10 (Enhanced Rating When Viewed Post-Midnight and just back from 25¢ Beer Nite)
Miami Blues (1990, Dir. George Armitage)
Back in the 1970s, George Armitage, a Roger Corman protege, took the world of cinematic schlock by storm, pumping out Private Duty Nurses (“It’s what they do off-duty that’s really private!”), Hit Man (“He aims to please!”), Vigilante Force (“They called it God’s Country…until all hell broke loose!”) and Hot Rod (an ABC Friday Nite Movie) over an intensely fecund ten-year period. And then…nothing. For the next ten years he walked the creative desert.
Lucky for us, his buddy Jonathan Demme, another graduate of Corman’s B-movie factory, offered him the chance to write and direct an adaptation of a book called Miami Blues. Whereas Armitage’s earlier efforts had, shall we say, lacked refinement, Miami Blues marked a serious step forward creatively and technically. It’s clever, funny, offbeat, violent and well worth the 97 minute time investment. (As was his follow-up, Grosse Pointe Blank.)
The film tells the story of Frederick J. Frenger Jr. (a skinny Alec Baldwin), a ex-con who, arriving in Miami to begin a new life, proceeds to kill a Hare Khrisna in the airport. (An unfortunate side effect of breaking the man’s finger. Apparently Khrisnas are as soft as French prizefighters.) Sgt. Hoke Moseley (Fred Ward) is soon onto Junior and tracks him to an apartment he now shares with hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold named Susie Waggoner (Jennifer Jason Leigh).
Over an impromptu dinner between the three, Hoke drops clues (which sail right over Susie’s head ) that he knows Junior is his guy. An angry Junior soon breaks into Hoke’s apartment, beats the living crap out of him and steals his gun, badge and dentures. (Yes, this movie is played for laughs and there are many.)
With his new fake credentials, Junior starts posing as a cop, breaking up crimes but then stealing what the perp has already stolen. Hoke, on the mend and extra angry that he’s a) being falsely represented and b) doesn’t have his teeth, continues his pursuit. All comes to a head during and after a pawn shop robbery, a scene that will make the feint of heart cringe, especially if they’re possessive of their fingers.
Actually, the more I write, the more I realize this is one of those flicks you just need to see. Because any plot synopsis makes it sound dumb. Which it’s not. It’s rather terrific, actually. All three actors are on the top of their game. The dialogue crackles. And, as lensed by Demme regular Director of Photography, Tak Fujimoto, Miami looks as colorful and vibrant as advertised.
Bonus, the movie includes a supporting role for the great Charles Napier, who you may recall as the man who uttered this famous line in The Blues Brothers:
Cult-o-Meter™ (10-pt. scale)
- 8.5/10 (General Quality Rating)
- 9.75/10 (Enhanced Rating When Viewed Post-Midnight and just back from 25¢ Beer Nite)
No Mercy (1986, dir. Richard Pearce)
In my mind there are two Richard Gere’s, the pre-silver-fox and the post, the former marked by beefcake virility, the latter a certain smarmy spectacle-wearing handsomeness…
No Mercy falls into the beefcake category, with Gere oozing manliness as Eddie Jilette, a Chicago cop who finds himself a crayfish out of brackish water when he travels to Louisiana to—cliche alert #1—avenge the death of his partner. Seems his buddy was offed by a deep-south crime lord played, logically, by Dutch actor Jeroen Krabbé (below, right), who the sharp-eyed may recognize as the suave doctor responsible for the death of Richard Kimble’s lovely wife in 1993’s The Fugitive (below, left). See what happens when we let too many people into America from “shithole” countries like the Netherlands? Sad.
Jilette soon finds himself handcuffed (!) to Michel Duval (Kim Basinger), the illiterate love slave of Losado (Krabbé). The two make for the swamp, she unwillingly. Yet, despite the very real possibility of both developing acute trench foot, they—cliche alert #2—fall for each other.
Which, of course, leads to a—cliche alert #3—dramatic one-against-many shootout in an abandoned French Quarter hotel.
Make no mistake—this movie is formulaic and dumb. Sort of like the CFS. But it’s worth a look. Why? Well, first off, the acting’s fine (check out William Atherton and Terry Kinney chewing the scenery as the smarmy Deveneux brothers). Then there’s the NOLA setting, which is always a welcome sight to a pale Midwesterner who attends a pale Midwestern college. Also, plot wise there’s not a lot of heavy lifting expected of the audience, which is good for those who are slowly falling asleep with a half-eater gyro atop his/her chest. But the kicker, for me at least, is that this sweet ride makes numerous appearances, yet another example (excepting music) of the general wrongheadedness of 1980s:
Cult-o-Meter™ (10-pt. scale)
- 6.5/10 (General Quality Rating)
- 8.33/10 (Enhanced Rating When Viewed Post-Midnight and just back from 25¢ Beer Nite)
Two Moon Junction (1988, Dir. Zalman King)
A brief quiz: After familiarizing yourself with the photo to the left, please choose which of the following rings truest:
a) this man’s skull is actually a kernel of corn that tends to explode when exposed to hot photographic lights on days he hasn’t showered
b) this man single-handedly introduced soft-core porn to a generation of premium cable subscribers
c) this man once had the creative vision to cast Hervé Villechaize (Tattoo in Fantasy Island), Burl Ives (voice of Sam the Snowman in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer) and Kristy McNichol (Angel in Little Darlings) in the same film
d) this man’s tie appears to be made from a strip of shag carpeting left over from when Carol and Mike Brady redid their attic into Greg’s bedroom
e) all the above
Those who answered “e” please report to the Grand Prize Booth to claim your reward. Because, believe it or not, this is the late Zalman King, writer-director of such late 80s/early 90s nooky classics as Wild Orchid, Wild Orchid II: Two Shades of Blue, 9 1/2 Weeks (as producer-writer only) and, of course, the venerable Showtime erotic series Red Show Diaries.
However, most cinema scholars will point to 1988’s Two Moon Junction as his chef-d’œuvre, little surprise considering the film features a musclebound carney and a French dwarf. A quick synopsis:
April Delongpre (Sherilyn Fenn, last seen floating down a river on an air mattress with Charlie Sheen in 1986’s The Wraith), the beautiful, lustful and almost-married daughter of a rich, politically-well-connected Southern family, discovers the best way to combat post-college ennui is to fall for the aforementioned carnival hunk/drifter, Perry (Richard Tyson).
However, their torrid affair, all sweaty flesh and melting ice cubes, is jeopardized by April’s matriarchal grandmother, Belle (Louise Fletcher) and local sheriff Earl (Burl Ives), who she’s employed to make sure her granddaughter doesn’t besmirch the family’s good name by impetuously running off with a piece of white trash, albeit a very well-quaffed piece of white trash.
Despite this battle of wills, this push-pull between lust/impulse and duty/pedigree, the wedding date remains unchanged, with April appearing at the alter looking ravishing, if a bit put out, in her white(!) dress.
Dear reader, I mustn’t go any further. To tell you more would be to ruin the pleasure of discovery. A film like this comes but once in a generation. See it, savor it, melt ice cubes atop of it.
Cult-o-Meter™ (10-pt. scale)
- 10/10 (General Quality Rating)
- 20/10 (Enhanced Rating When Viewed Post-Midnight and just back from 25¢ Beer Nite)