There’s little doubt a mention in B-Movie Cult Classics Unearthed Watching Late-Night HBO in College™, the CFS’s ongoing examination of eminently watchable if sometimes mediocre (or flat-out bad) cinematic curiosities, is coveted by filmmakers beyond all else, Oscar/Palme d’Or be damned.
Been a while. Bike accidents, vacations, life, etc.
Anyway, went to see Apocalypse Now (1979) the other day at Chicago’s Navy Pier IMAX, which, unlike the local multiplex version of the format (snarkily referred to as “LieMax”), happens to be the real deal (60’H x 86’W
Be it his turn as flamboyant TV host Caesar Flickerman in The Hunger Games I-IV, empathetic refuge scientist Abraham Erskine in Captain America: The First Avenger or long-suffering magazine art director Nigel Kipling in The Devil Wears Prada, Stanley Tucci has proven time and again to be one of our finest character actors.
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…
Let’s end this, shall we?