Showing posts with label Tommy Lee Jones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tommy Lee Jones. Show all posts

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Black Moon Rising (Harley Cokeliss, 1986)

If I was serving aboard a space station with Linda Hamilton's character in Black Moon Rising, the high-tech techno thriller co-written by John Carpenter and directed by Harley Cokeliss (who's credited here as "Cokliss," but I guess he, wisely, decided to add the 'e' at a later date), I would have stolen all her pant suits and... (You pant suit obsessed pervert. Not only have you created a scenario that would never happen--like any reputable space agency would allow you to go into space--but you managed to creep everyone out in record time.) Um, you didn't let me finish. As I was saying, I would have stolen all Linda Hamilton's pant suits and tossed them in the nearest airlock. (You mean you would have jettisoned them?) Yeah, jettisoned them, I like that. Anyway, I would have jettisoned them without hesitation. (Don't you think her decision to wear pants made it easier to perform her job? I mean, her job is to steal cars, not to give shiftless reprobates boners.) Hello? Since when has it been impossible to steal a car while wearing a modest skirt? And besides, these "boners" you speak of will actually come in handy. (Huh?) What? You don't think Linda Hamilton steals the cars herself, do you? Don't be crass, Linda Hamilton is too classy for that. No, she distracts the car's soon to be former owners with her womanly charms, while a team of men in blue jumpsuits pick the parking lot clean of the cars their boss desires.


(I'm still not convinced. Call me daft, but I think a modest skirt, one that boasts an equally modest slit, would have been a far more effective garment for Linda Hamilton to wear while stealing a shitload of cars.)


You don't say. Well, I think you might be underestimating the intrinsic allure of Linda Hamilton. (Ya think?) Yes, I do. She's got something about her that transcends modest slits and skimpy hemlines. (Don't tell me, it's her captivating face.) While I don't exactly care for the smug tone you're currently using, you're absolutely right, Linda Hamilton's face rules in this movie.


If that's the case, doesn't that mean her face would have to rule in every movie? I know, when you cast Linda Hamilton to be in your film, you usually get Linda Hamilton's face as well. But there's something different about the way it's shot in Black Moon Rising. Part of it has to do with the manner in which cinematographer Misha Suslov photographs her face (he has a tendency to bathe it neon light whenever possible), but most of the credit has to go to Linda Hamilton herself, as her face oozes a peculiar brand of sadness.


("A peculiar brand of sadness," eh? Colour me intrigued.) While she's grateful to her boss, Ed Ryland (Robert Vaughn), the car thief king of the west coast, for getting her off the streets, she's not all that happy being a criminal. Having access to fancy cars and an unlimited wig budget is great and all, but Nina, the actual name of Linda Hamilton's character, seems lost.


(You're not implying that she needs a rugged, freelance thief  in her life, one, perhaps, who is played by Tommy Lee Jones, are you?) While I would never imply that, a little T.L.J. is never a bad thing.


A government e-mail is sent to an Agent Johnson (Bubba Smith), F.B.I., instructing him that they need to get their hands on the financial records of the Lucky Dollar Corporation out of Las Vegas for an upcoming grand jury trial. Not wanting to steal "data tape #757-65" themselves, the government suggests that Agent Johnson, F.B.I., employ a freelance operative to procure the desired tape. In other words, hire a professional thief.


We meet this freelance operative while he nonchalantly confronts an inexperienced criminal wielding a pistol during an attempted convenience store robbery. Is Quint (Tommy Lee Jones) brave, suicidal, stupid, or all three? Either way, he manages to talk the gunman out of robbing the store, and then calmly continues to drink his coffee. Instead of labeling him, "brave, suicidal, or stupid," I'm declaring Quint to be a badass. Why? Look at the way he drives around Las Vegas to the music of Lalo Schifrin, it practically screams badass. The stealing of the data tape itself goes relatively smoothly. That is, until, Lee Ving shows up with Uzi (as he's one to do). Since Quint knows Lee Ving's character (he's in charge of security for the Lucky Dollar Corporation), he feels like he deserves more money (he didn't expect there to be any "old friends" firing Uzis at him on this job).


Eventually, Lee Ving and the boys (his underpaid underlings) track Quint and his bullet-ridden car down at a gas station located somewhere between Las Vegas and Los Angeles. Hiding the data tape in the back of an experimental car called Black Moon--one that was just clocked in at 325 mph during a recent test run and is being towed by Earl Windom (Richard Jaeckel), the car's designer, Billy Lyons (Dan Shor), the car's driver, and Tyke Thayden (William Sanderson), the car's mechanic--Quint hopes to rendezvous with the car at The Betsy, a fancy restaurant in Hollywood, where the Black Moon team plan on inking a deal with an Italian car company.


In the meantime, before Lee Ving and the boys show up, Quint takes the time to chat up an attractive redhead. Hey, wouldn't you know, the attractive redhead is played by none other than Lisa London, Rocky from Savage Beach and Guns.


After evading Lee Ving and the boys and acquiring another, less bullet-ridden, automobile, Quint heads over to The Betsy to get his precious data tape. Well, I must say, that wasn't a very interesting movie. Wait a minute, we have Linda Hamilton in a wig. I repeat... (don't repeat that.) Yeah, but, Linda Hamilton is... (We get it, she rules.) I don't think you get it, Linda Hamilton is wearing a wig and she's carrying a cellphone that's as big as a shoe box. (Aw, man, I didn't think you would become one of those blithering gits who constantly make snide comments related to the size of cellphones seen in movies made during the 1980s.) What can I say, I'm a snide git who loves to blither about chunky cellphones.


She must have a robust data plan, because Nina (Linda Hamilton) is always talking on her morbidly obese mobile phone.


Anyway, after bumping into Quint in the parking lot, Nina goes inside The Betsy and allows some dingus aggressively hit on her at the bar; you can tell Quint likes her already by the look on his face as he eavesdrops on her "conversation."


Little does anyone in the bar know, but Nina is planning on stealing a Rolls-Royce, an Excalibur, an Aston Martin and two Mercedes Benz's. I know, how is a single woman going to steal that many cars? Well, don't worry, she's got an entire team of car thieves working for her. As the desired cars are being driven away, Nina notices a strange car sitting on the back of a trailer. Deciding that she wants it, Nina hops in, pushes a few buttons, and she's off. Of course, Quint's data tape is still hidden in the back, so he jumps in his car and begins to follow her.


Oozing retro futurism and featuring cool camera angles, the chase between Quint's Dodge Daytona and Nina's Wingho Concordia II is probably the film's most memorable in terms of style. It's true, the music could have been more techno-ish, but I think it's safe to say that the sight of Linda Hamilton behind the wheel of that kooky car (the lights emanating from the dashboard dancing across her face like bolts of neon lightning), is worth its weight in scrunchies.


While the well-paid underlings in the blue jumpsuits answer to Nina, she answers to Ed Ryland (Robert Vaughn), a vintage car collector/evil bastard; to prove he's an evil bastard, he has Nick Cassavetes strangle a rival, and does so with a sly smile.


The fact that Nina stole the Black Moon without Mr. Ryland's permission causes friction between them. It also doesn't help matters that Quint (who still has Bubba Smith breathing down his neck) and the owners of the Black Moon are snooping around Ryand Towers, Mr. Ryand's state of the art headquarters (he keeps his car collection on the top floor and runs an elaborate chop shop/import-export business out of the basement).


When Nina is pissed, she drives a Jaguar XK-E, when she's horny, she drives a Studebaker Gran Turismo Hawk. Look at me, namedropping car models like it were a bodily function. She drives the latter to a nightclub (Tech-noir, perhaps?), where she meets Quint, and has...well, I won't spoil what happens next.


Eventually turning into a heist movie, a la Thief, the characters spend most of their time trying to figure out how to break into Ryland Towers. It's not exactly compelling stuff, but Tommy Lee Jones and Linda Hamilton are great as a couple of thieves who are tired stealing for others. If I had my way, I would have instructed Linda Hamilton to wear more skirts, added one more car chase involving the Wingho Concordia II (the car is not a factor for a huge chunk of the film's middle third), cast Jenette Goldstein as Bubba Smith's take no guff partner, and told Lalo Schifrin that I need to hear more synthesizers on the score.


Monday, January 10, 2011

Eyes of Laura Mars (Irvin Kershner, 1979)

The word "chic," to put it mildly, is a tad overused, especially in today's fashion obsessed culture, where things are repeatedly called "chic," when, in truth, they're not really all that chic. However, the same can't be said when it comes to describing some of the events that take place in the Eyes of Laura Mars, a giallo-esque thriller about a fashion photographer who sees through the eyes of an eyeball-perforating killer. Dripping, no, scratch that, oozing, unadulterated chicness from almost every one of its many unclogged pores, this skillfully made Irvin Kershner (yep, the same guy who directed Barbra Streisand* in Up the Sandbox) film is somehow able to capture the du jour essence of the fashion industry during the cocaine and disco era in a manner that will make your inner dandy's spirit soar gayly into the sequined stratosphere. Of course, if you were paying attention, you'd probably notice that I said "almost" when referring to its unclogged pores. Well, what can I say? It's hard to ignore the fact that Tommy Lee Jones' pores do not contain any chic properties whatsoever. In addition, I wanted to pluck his eyebrows so badly, that I nearly bit off my own tongue in a fit of misplaced follicle frustration (proper eyebrow maintenance has always been near and dear to my heart). Having said that, the overwhelming power of Faye Dunaway's urbane, shawl-assisted über-performance managed to supply this cinematic entity with enough voguish energy to fuel multiple movies.

The story revolves around a controversial fashion photographer named Laura Mars (Faye Dunaway), controversial because she specializes in photographing stylized acts of violence ("Blood and Black Lace" would make a great title for one of her provocative gallery shows). Starting off as nightmares, Laura develops a sort of sixth sense, an internalized vision, if you will. Usually striking while she's in the middle of a photo shoot, Laura sees what the killer sees. What's even more disturbing about these visions is that all the victims are people Laura works with. And, on top of that, the murders are eerily similar to images in Laura's photography book "The Eyes of Mars."

Who would want to bump off Laura's associates? An uncouth detective named John Neville (a pre-hard-target search Tommy Lee Jones) is put in charge of the case, and proceeds to question all the people who work for Laura. A miscellaneous group that includes her "flamboyant" manager Donald (the terrific Rene Auberjonois), a couple of models named Lulu (Darlanne Fluegel) and Michele (Lisa Taylor), her jealous ex-husband (Raul Julia), a lace-obsessed sycophant (Michael Tucker), and Tommy (the always awesome Brad Dourif), her twitchy chauffeur/bodyguard. I won't mention all the other folks Neville has his eye on, but I feel I gotta make at least a passing reference to the little person who stands behind Laura at her big gallery show (one that features the sublime photography of Helmut Newton and Rebecca Blake). Let's just say, he was very peculiar, and not because he was small in stature. I don't know, there was just something about the way he just lingered in the background in the two scenes he's featured in that didn't seem right. I guess it's what they call in the mystery business: a diversionary tactic.

Even though the hackneyed "(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty" by K.C. and the Sunshine Band is the song playing during the hubbub of Laura's trendy expo, what I heard in my head was Visage's "The Anvil" thumping oh so coyly on the soundtrack as a bubbly Darlanne Fluegel monopolizes the proceedings with a breathtaking ease. Sure, the sleek, posing-friendly new wave jam was still swimming around inside Midge Ure's subconscious in 1979 (it would come out three years after this film was made), but I still think it would have been the more appropriate choice.

Awash with red herrings and other plot-based doodads that are customary to the genre, the real star of Eyes of Laura Mars are the film's two main photo shoots. The first one being the infamous "coats and lingerie" shoot in the middle of a busy New York City intersection. Infamous because it's downright bizarre (models claw at each other's crimped hair while two wrecked cars burn in the background), the sequence depicts the artistry and the hard work that goes into creating your average fashion magazine photo spread. Working closely with the models and the hair and makeup people, Laura is like a conductor, commanding the chaos with her discerning lens. Still an influence on modern day pop culture (watch the fur and fire fly in the music videos for "The Dominatrix Sleeps Tonight" by Dominatrix and Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance"), the scene, partially set to the funky strains of Heatwave's "Boogie Nights," is a tour de force when it comes portraying the excesses of the fashion industry.

I don't think anything can come close to topping the sight of Darlanne Fluegel (To Live and Die in L.A.) and Lisa Taylor pretending to wrestle with one another in lingerie.

Saddled with the unenviable task of following the coats and lingerie pièce de résistance, the second fashion shoot, despite the fact that two of their amiable colleagues have been brutally murdered (the world of high fashion must go on), finds the diligent crew stetting up shop on the upper floor of Laura's studio, a spacious warehouse located on the Hudson River. An elaborate piece that I like to call, "the new wave bullet wound shoot," starts off by having each model strike a fierce pose. With the exception of a male model dressed in a tuxedo, all the models seem to be in a sort of trance. The breeze emitting from an industrial fan causes the loose fabric on their sheer clothing to sway violently, giving the scene a strange heavenly quality.

Unlike the gallery exhibition sequence, there's no need to fix the music, as the disco classic "Let's All Chant" by the Michael Zager Band creates just the right mood. The way the scene builds up to the "Your body, my body. Everybody move your body" part of the song was timed perfectly.

Next to the sight of the models fighting in front of those burning limousines in Columbus Circle, I'd have to say that my absolute favourite image in the Eyes of Laura Mars was the shot of a slick-haired Darlanne Fluegel, now wearing a pink see-through ensemble, pouting while holding a small revolver. Not only did it wonderfully capture the whole "What I'm trying to do here is blur the line that separates style and violence" vibe the film seemed to be going for, it had a fashion forward temperament about it that practically screamed: clinically-proven cyborg assassin with a makeover.

If I was forced to spend in an inordinate amount of time stuck in either one of the ocular cavities of any actress on the planet, the incomparable Faye Dunaway would definitely be one of my first choices. In the vicinity of her intense eye region–the film is called the "eyes" of Laura Mars and not the "ears" of Laura Mars for a reason–every time she would get a ghastly vision, you couldn't help but feel as if her eyes were slowly starting to become your eyes as the film progressed. If only I could say the same for her bone structure, as I would kill for her cheekbones. Oh, the things I would do if I was Faye Dunaway in the late 1970s.

Speaking of her body, only someone completely cognizant about their inherent legginess would wear the kind of skirts Faye Dunaway sports throughout this movie. Some boasting as many as three slits per garment (you heard me, three slits!), Faye is one of the few actresses with the rare talent to appear leggy onscreen, yet seem overdressed at the same time.

Integral to the plot, but frustrating from an aesthetic point-of-view, the manner in which each photo shoot was cut short by Laura's murderous visions was frustrating at times. The realization that "fashion" was being literally being killed off filled me with a great deal of sadness. It was like watching the world gradually drained of its chicness. It makes you just wanna put a trashy cocktail dress, call up Amanda Lear and Margaret Trudeau, do a bunch of cocaine, and hang out at Studio 54 for twelve hours straight. Purple garter belts forever!

* Barbra Streisand's "The Prisoner" opens and closes the film


video uploaded by robatsea2009
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