Darkman (1990)

Director: Sam Raimi

Cast: Liam Neeson, Frances McDormand, Colin Friels, Larry Drake

Have I Seen it Before: Oh, sure.

Did I Like It: On spec, the notion of Liam Neeson leading a Raimi-infused action steeped in the aesthetic of the classic Universal horror films would be at the top of my list of films to watch this year.

Releasing the movie in 1990 before Raimi had his solid run in the 1990s leading up to the breakthrough hit of Spider-Man (2002) and before Neeson had even been in Husbands and Wives (1992) to say nothing of Schindler’s List (1993)… It seems like a crazy idea, but I’m so glad it is there.

For me, this one gives Spider-Man 2 (2004) a run for its money as Raimi’s best work. Every manic impulse is on full display, and none of it has the self-conscious quality of some of his later work. Neeson, on the same front, is becoming the gruff, irate action hero we now know him to be, decades before anyone realized he had a particular set of skills.

Many of the great filmmakers have those films that never got made and we’re left wondering what could have been. Spielberg always wanted to make a Bond picture. Welles (and, for that matter, George Lucas) had his eyes set on some kind of adaptation of Heart of Darkness. James Cameron’s treatment of Spider-Man has always been the stuff of legend, snuffed out by protracted rights issues. Raimi has been on the record wanting at various points to do an adaptation of The Shadow. He didn’t get the go ahead in the 90s, and by the 2000s, he had indicated that he was never able to crack the story the way he wanted. By now, it may be too late. But at least we have this film. It may make us long for that lost film even more, but we are given a taste of what could have been.

Wonder Boys (2000)

Director: Curtis Hanson

Cast: Michael Douglas, Tobey Maguire, Robert Downey, Jr., Frances McDormand

Have I Seen It Before: Oh, my, yes…

Did I Like It: I was having a conversation with a friend recently, and she described Free Enterprise (1999) as one of—if not her absolute—favorite film ever. That caused me to shake my head a bit, as even when I first saw that film at the tender age of 17-or-so, I found the film to be a cheap, misanthropic riff of Play it Again, Sam (1972) and Swingers (1996) (and that’s when it was hitting its intended target). Seeing my dubious reaction, she immediately explained that watching the film feels like “being with my people.”

She hardly turned me around on the fictionalized exploits of Mark Altman and Robert Burnett (or Shatner rapping, certainly) but I couldn’t help but think of this movie.

I can’t imagine myself as accomplished and revered (or even as easily traditionally published) as even the most hapless character in the movie, but: Have I sat, mildly disaffected at a party, idly providing character histories for the people apparently enjoying themselves? Yes, yes I have. Have I stifled a laugh while attending a writing lecture? Yes. Yes, I have. Many times. Have I thought that writing conferences were kind of silly, and only wanted to go do some writing or hang out with other people that might actually have some ambition towards the completion or consumption of a book? Yes. Many, many times. Would I feel like I don’t have anything to contribute to an adult conversation other than movie trivia, and would be far more interested in priceless movie memorabilia than anything else at the host’s house? Have you met me?

Maybe these characters are not “my people,” but they are what “my people” are often like at their best. They’re what I want my people to be.

That’s more than enough to recommend the movie, I would think. But is it objectively good. Do I extol the virtues of the film, only to invite the sideways glances I give Free Enterprise? I would think not. The film manages to wrangle Chabon’s sprawling contemplative novel into a night-in-the-life story which tends to deflect the maudlin and embrace the jaunty. Putting aside my sentimental feelings for the movie, Douglas harnesses the same “likable asshole” energy which even ten years earlier would have been right in Jack Nicholson’s wheelhouse. The rest of the cast is great, too, to a performer straddling the line between funny and authentic*.

*Remember when Robert Downey Jr. was in movies which didn’t give a rat’s ass about the four quadrants? I do too, and… I might just be itching to get to my screening of Oppenheimer (2023).

Fargo (1996)

Director: Joel Coen

Cast: Frances McDormand, William H. Macy, Steve Buscemi, Peter Stormare

Have I Seen it Before: Oof. Buckle up on this one.

I first saw the movie in perhaps the worst way possible, on TNT airings in the late 90s. And Goddamn it if the film still doesn’t work when every flash of violence is truncated and every use of the word “fuck” is replaced with the wonderful euphemism “frooz.”

When the customer (Gary Houston) who is berating Jerry Lundegaard (Macy) calls him a “froozing liar,” that is as memorable a moment as I’m likely to encounter in film.

Although the cutaway to Showalter (Buscemi) and Grimsrud (Stormare) with the hookers always felt strange when all we were showed was them watching The Tonight Show.

But isn’t like I’m still watching a version of the film which is cut down to allow the maximum number of basketball games to be broadcast on a given day. The movie became all the better on DVD and Blu Ray in the following years, but here’s the weird thing:

Before this last weekend, I honestly can’t remember if I’ve ever seen it in the theater. I’m thinking there might have been a 20th anniversary screening five years ago at the Circle Cinema, but I can’t be completely sure. During a time where there were plenty of movie screenings, they do all tend to blend together.

Which brings us to this weekend. It’s been a year since I’ve been inside a theater, and with two full doses of Moderna running through my veins, it was time to come back. Wide releases are still in drips and drabs, and I just didn’t want my first trip back to be for Godzilla vs Kong (2021) or, God forbid, Mortal Kombat (2021), so I went ahead and waited until a verifiably great movie.

Oh, to be back at a theater. The bright light of an unseasonably hot spring day, giving way to the cool darkness of the inside, only release me back into the daylight. The posters and massive displays for upcoming releases...

And the popcorn. Oh, it was a moment of revelation when I realized just how different movie theater popcorn is from the microwavable stuff I’ve been using to fool myself in the time of COVID. I’d go on about the experience, but I’m nearly 400 words into this review, and I haven’t really talked about the film itself. I’ll just say thank you, Fargo. It’s good to be back.

Did I Like It: Aside from the sundry ways I’ve taken in the film, the thing I’m always struck by when watching it is a big question:

Who is the protagonist of the movie? Marge Gunderson (McDormand) or Lundegaard? Gunderson is the clear hero of the movie; by the time she shows up the plot is driven forward exclusively by her. On the other hand, she doesn’t show up in the film until roughly halfway through the runtime. To not introduce the protagonist until halfway through the film flies in the face of conventional screenwriting wisdom. It shouldn’t work like this, but somehow it does. The only other film I can think of that has such a schizophrenic relationship to its protagonist and doesn’t come across as hopefully amateurish is Psycho (1960).

Lundegaard, on the other hand is there from the first frame. He’s the one who’s got a desire, a plan, and is a bit of a stranger in a strange land. Thus, his—just as much as Marge’s—story is the hero’s story, even if it all collapses in on itself in well-deserved tragedy and comeuppance. 

An argument can be made for either. Depending on when I see the movie, I go either way. It makes it a pretty fresh experience every time, or far fresher than a 25-year-old movie has any right to be.

The next big question central to understanding the film is that of the sad story of Mike Yanagita (Steve Park). I’ve talked to any number of people, and seen a number of written pieces on the film that deem it as nearly flawless, but that Marge’s meeting with Yanagita at the Radisson is a weird non sequitur that serves no purpose.

Wrong.

Marge would have never taken a second look at Lundegaard’s increasingly thorny nest of lies, if she hadn’t been confronted with the complete falsehood that was Yanagita. The story doesn’t happen without it. Jerry just might have gotten away with it, even though the plan would have still been a disaster the moment that cop ate it in Brainerd. Without Mike Yanagita, the whole story falls apart. Mike Yanagita is load bearing, and there isn’t a wasted moment in this entire movie.

Almost Famous (2000)

Director: Cameron Crowe

Cast: Patrick Fugit, Billy Crudup, Kate Hudson, Frances McDormand

Have I Seen It Before?: Yes.

Did I like it?: I remember liking it well enough, but for whatever reason it didn’t enter that pantheon of great movies for me at the time. Now, as I watch it again twenty years after the fact, I can’t quite grasp why it didn’t more thoroughly burrow its way into my brain.

Which is odd, because that most profound experience occurs for me as the film unfolds. I see myself reflected in the characters. One might think its solipsistic to reach for those—perhaps tenuous—connections, but if we don’t reach to see yourselves in the characters projected for you on the screen, we’re doomed to be subjected seven or eight more Transformers movies, or the written-by-committee blockbusters that Disney and the other studios are churning out with disappointing regularity. We’ve relegated Crowe to not direct that much anymore, after the admitted misstep of Aloha (2015), but if he could reach into the recesses of his deeper felt inclinations to make more movies like this, it may be past time to let him out of director jail.

On first blush, I shouldn’t feel so connected to the film. The main character and I are almost pointed opposites in many ways. We are separated by thirty years. William Miller (Fugit) is doomed to appear younger than he actually he is for all of his days, while I appeared to be in my mid-thirties since the age of ten. Miller’s soul is filled with every inch of popular music, whereas I couldn’t be bothered with anything musical (itself a likely act of rebellion against my musically inclined family), but instead steeped myself in movie so early, it’s entirely possible my real life didn’t begin until after my family got a DVD player and I was first introduced to the wild world of audio commentaries.

So why do I feel seen by the film, as much as I myself am seeing it? There’s the scene early on where Miller and Lester Bangs (Philip Seymour Hoffman, so perfectly cast that I thought the role had to be written for him, until I realized he was one of the few characters who really existed) talk about writing just for the sake of it, with no aim in sight (see these reviews) and talk about their typewriters like people in other movies might talk about cars and motorcycles. It’s a small scene, but such a specific choice that tickles the wrinkles in my brain that I would have gone anywhere the film wanted to take me after that moment.