In the film world, a planned sequel often finds itself in limbo until its predecessor proves its box-office legitimacy.
Adapting this business model to the blogging world, I kept a close eye on the readership numbers for Part One of this planned Bond-song-ranking trilogy. Thankfully, my rabid fanbase came through big—for the first time in the history of the CFS I actually had to use both hands to tally the number of click-throughs! #onthecuspofviral
Bond theme songs, ranked.
Yeah, it’s been done before. But not by the CFS via his patent-pending toolbox of complicated song-ranking algorithms. Which is another way of saying that what follows isn’t subjective, but rather accurate to within a micrometer of the empirical truth. Because there’s no fake news on the CFS’s blog, only brilliance built on the foundation of a very, very small loan I got from my father many years ago.
As we spiral deeper into yet another dark and hopeless Chicago winter, were you lucky enough to peek through the CFS’s hoarfrosted window you might just spy me thumbing through my mighty physical media collection in search of content that takes place in a warm locale and—to remind me that I don’t have it so bad after all—features emotional and physical catastrophes of Shakespearean magnitude. (Frankly, just typing that sentence reduced my Seasonal Affective Disorder by 18%.)
Recently, I dragged Mrs. CFS to a documentary called Free Solo, the one featuring Alex Honnold, who is, quite simply, an athlete without peer, maybe the greatest ever.
For those who don’t know, Honnold, 33, is a free soloist, which means he climbs sheer rock walls with no ropes, no crampons, no carabiners, no parachutes, no jetpacks, no nothing to arrest his fall if he makes even the teeny-tiniest mistake.
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?
First some housekeeping: for those hearty souls who read this post (<5), you’ll be excited to learn that I’ve begun my annual read of Rose by Martin Cruz Smith, number 15 by my count. Feel free to check it out for the first time.
With that bit of smug superiority out of the system (or is it a sad admission?), let us turn our attention to today’s blogpost, a relative quickie…
With writer/director Paul Schrader currently in the news for his critically lauded new film, First Reformed, it might be a good time to discuss one of his earlier efforts, one known to about five people outside of The Criterion Collection enthusiasts and a favorite of yours truly since checking it out on VHS back in the late 1980s.
Unless you live under a proverbial rock, you’ll know that journalist/author/dandy Tom Wolfe died on May 14 at the ripe age of 88. I won’t rehash his impact on American arts and letters — there’s been plenty of ink spilled for just that purpose the last week or so, including this obit in the “failing” and now “crooked” The New York Times.
Believe it or not, if you look past all the zombie nonsense they keep churning out well past its sell-by date, the American basic cable channel AMC has become the gold standard for multi-part adaptations of dense, complicated books.
This first occurred to me in 2016 when the channel aired The Night Manager, an adaptation of John le Carré’s 1993 best-seller. Not only did the program boast fine direction,
Well, I had another post in the works but the passing of two favorites, one a director, the other an actor, preempts our regularly scheduled programming.
Miloš Forman
While the great unwashed may not be familiar with the name, you certainly know his work, which I’ll get to in a moment. But first: