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The Lion King's original ending was just too dark for the remake
There is a natural order to the jungle. Animals routinely slaughtered by lions accept their fate in the circle of life and, in fact, trek miles to bow at the birth of one who will one day be their new chief slaughterer – Simba. But Simba has an uncle, Scar, who has been passed over by Simba’s birth. So Scar implicates the son in the death of the father (Mufasa), while making a pact with the rapacious, vicious hyenas. The father is killed. Simba must flee after he is designated for murder. Scar rules, ravishing the land. The land dies, not because of the slaughter – that’s the natural order of things – but because Scar is lazy and a glutton and he allows the hyenas to kill without economic management. The lions respect the royal line, and do their hunting, however unhappily, at Scar’s command.

And Simba? He leaves, finds a warthog and a meerkat, and lives the bohemian lifestyle. He becomes a vegetarian. He lives a life bereft of responsibility. He is away from weighty decisions. He is personally, individually, happy. Hakuna matata, is his “Turn on, tune in, drop out.”

But soon, his old love (to whom he was promised to be betrothed in an arranged fashion as a cub) finds him, and asks him to return. Simba refuses. He is angry. She has intruded upon his summer of love. “You don’t know anything about me or what I’ve been through” he snarls, as only a self-possessed individualist/narcissist can snarl.

Next, Rafiki, the religious leader of the tribe, finds Simba, and conjures up the ghost of Mufasa, who reminds Simba that he is more than some San Francisco hippie- he is royalty. “Remember who you are” the ghost intones. Simba returns to the pride, confronts Scar, and gives him a choice – be banished or die. Scar blames the hyenas, feigns cowardice and lunges at Simba. Simba dashes Scar over a cliff, to his death (Scar does not die, but injured, is set upon by the hyenas who overheard his attempt to foist responsibility for the coup and ensuing disaster on them).

Simba assumes the throne. His well-placed meerkat and warthog pal are exempted from slaughter as they now sit in his court. He is served by the same majordomo bird who served his father. The films ends with the birth of a new king, and the same animals traveling to give that king – their soon-to-be killer in the great circle of life – their fealty.

Oh, were Disney thus today!

The Good Girl. Mike White and Miguel Arteta’s Chuck and Buck was a creepy, human story about the loneliness of a boy whose development is arrested by his mother, unfortunately, at the moment he had sex with his childhood pal. When the mother dies, Buck goes to the only other person he’s ever loved, the now grown-up neighbor boy (Chuck) who lives in LA. In The Good Girl, White’s protagonist, small town Texas sales girl Jennifer Aniston, evinces a desolation that is more pronounced. She tells us of her misery, her dead-end job, her stoner but loveable galoot of a husband, her inability to get pregnant, in voice-over. However, she too must decide if and where to go. The story is about Aniston confronting, as opposed to overcoming her surroundings, and making non-Hollywood compromises in the end. The film has several things going for it: Aniston is cooly effective; she alternates between wily/selfish and lost/depressed very well. John C. Reilly (the galoot), Jake Gyllenhaal, and Tim Blake Nelson play the men in her life, and they’re all distinctive and even soulful. Better, The Good Girl neither sanctifies or lampoons small town America. There are things to laugh at, but White writes each of his characters (including his own Bible-reading session advocating security guard) with dignity. No one is sneering, but John Mellencamp’s “Small Town” is not assaulting our sensibilities either. What I liked most was the languid pace (others may find it too sluggish) and its lack of easy, pat lesson.

Barbershop is It’s a Wonderful Life updated to modern-day Chicago and with bawdy humor and black people. This is a sharp, feel-good, ultimately sweet movie about tradition and honor and community, yet it never elevates the sermon over the humor and the story, nor does it ever get dour, trying to tackle the “bigger” issues. Very easy to watch, many solid laughs (Cedric the Entertainer as a conservative barber delivers material so priceless that Jesse Jackson mau-mau’ed the producers into an apology). The best thing about Barbershop is that it is a “black” movie, as opposed to a black movie. Like Baby Boy (a film that proved John Singleton had actually grown up), Barbershop makes very critical, non-p.c. observations all in the aid of the joke. Thankfully, however, Lawrence Fishburne is not wheeled in to lecture the barbershop about the white dominant culture or how brothers need to stay with their woman.

Cedric the Entertainer’s best line?

Jesse Jackson? Jesse Jackson? Fu** Jesse Jackson!

It’s all in the delivery.

The Emperor’s New Clothes. A real find with a great concept. Napolean (Ian Holm) sits on St. Helena, but makes his escape to reclaim his Empire by use of the services of a look-alike. The plan: Napolean gets to France, the double declares himself a fake, and Napolean stirs the national passions to his rise once again. Needless to say, things don’t work out that way, and Napolean has to get himself a real job. Holm is pitch perfect. The picture is well-paced and a lot of fun.

Unfaithful. Diane Lane received some buzz as a best actress nominee for her portrait of a lustful suburban housewife in Adrian Lyne’s film. She is excellent, but the film is unconvincing, for several reasons. First, before Lane begins her tryst with the French hunk book seller who sweeps her off her feet, we are given a glimpse of her home life. It seems pretty nice. Not that we need to have a bad home life to presage her immersion into a lustful, dangerous affair, but some indication of wanderlust or dissatisfaction is called for. Second, her paramour is attractive but no great shakes. With a home life that seems healthy (both sexually and otherwise), it might help to give us an irresistible draw – say, a Jude Law in The Talented Mr. Ripley. Instead, we get a bland French model straight out of a GAP commercial. Third, Lane is so incredibly stupid that you lose all sympathy for her plight and just feel bad for her husband (Richard Gere), who may be so distressed because his wife is cheating on him AND she’s so bad at it.

Image result for Big bad mama

Five things recommend this film.

1) Angie Dickinson is both beautiful and naked in the picture. First, with a very young Tom Skerritt and next–

2) with William Shatner, who is also semi-naked in the picture, which significantly detracts from Dickinson being naked.

3) Angie Dickinson is one helluva woman.

4) It is an exploitation, low-budget picture that tried to be period (1930s Texas).  It is worth the rental alone to watch the modern 70s pop up in the 1930s.

5) This is Steve Carver work. Lone Wolf McQuade? Yes. That Steve Carver.

If you’re in a hurry, Dickinson’s naked scenes are about halfway through (it’s only 83 minutes).

P.S.  I saw this picture when I was 12 or 13 at my father’s apartment (he had the earliest version of cable-ready movies, which would show “racy” movies on weekend nights, so when we’d be at his apartment for the weekend, and he’d gone out, me and my brother got to see Russ Meyer movies, or movies with a naked Police Woman, from Big Bad Mama to Pretty Maids All in a Row, or Jacqueline Bisset in Secrets).  So, there’s that.

This movie is so good that AFI’s ranking of 94 is an embarrasment (Forrest Gump is rated almost 20 slots higher). From the moment of Ray Liotta’s first voice-over line (I don’t think there is more effective voice-over work in any film ever) to the maniacal, miserable fall, Scorsese chronicles the mob as fantasy to the crime as reality from Liotta’s boyhood to Witness Protection schlub. In re-viewing, here are my thoughts on what makes Goodfellas the greatest crime picture ever made.

The camera-work. The sheer audacity of Scorcese’s tracking shots make their counterparts in The Player and Boogie Nights seem gimmicky.  Scorcese goes on without an edit, not as flourish, but to introduce the cast of mob characters and their life  The uninterrupted trip of Liotta getting into a nightclub speaks volumes about the life – the excitement of his date (Lorraine Bracco) as they are being guided to the best table in the house is shared by the audience.  As we take the trip with Bracco, we are introduced to the glitz during a seemless dreamy waltz.  This is the difference between Spike Lee silliness (floating characters) and skill with purpose.

The Feel.  It looks and sounds right in every respect, from the kitschy Tiki bars to the outlandishly tacky apartments and home to the ghastly look of the mobster wives to the diners and late night drives.   Better, Scorsese, as always, picks the right song for each trip.

Liotta, Pesci and DeNiro, especially Pesci. Liotta, like us, is the outsider, though he is effortlessly conscripted.  Still, he plays Henry Hill as a shade removed from the crazy of DeNiro and Pesci.  He’s a brute but he is not an innate killer.  Thus we are capable of remaining empathetic.  Robert De Niro also keeps vestiges of humanity, though in fact, he is only one notch below Joe Pesci in terms of sociopathy. Pesci, however, is the most honest character and the heart of the picture.  He is a killer, his code is barbaric and his emotions uncontrolled. Which means that he can beat you near to death and comfortably have a meal right after.

Authenticity. The best example of this is not in the look or the sets or the music, but rather, in Scorcese’s portrayal of the easy violence, which one assumes he knows from his roots and/or from working with writer and former Mafia journalist Nicholas Pileggi. No better example is when Pesci comes back to kill the “made” guy (Scorsese and The Sopranos regular Frank Vincent) for busting his balls.  We know Pesci is going to snap, but the moment Pesci attacks him, De Niro jumps in viciously to assist, no hesitation. De Niro knows that killing the guy is stupid. In fact, De Niro was calming Pesci down earlier in the evening, trying to smooth things over. But the attack sets him off like a shark smelling blood, and he instinctively jumps in to rip the guy’s head apart. He’s an animal in a feeding frenzy.

Scorsese’s Casino is actually a deeper film about the Mob, but Goodfellas is the landmark, a precursor to the humor of The Sopranos and an obliteration of the operatic grandiosity of the life left to us by The Godfather.

 

Scarface travels well and survives the excesses of Al Pacino and the 80s Vision Quest/Flashdance/Top Gun cheeseball musical interludes (as Tony Montana’s crime empire grows, we are treated to a flashy 80s number, “Push it to the Limit” by the estimable Paul Engemann). The plot is simple. Cuban Marielitos (Pacino and Steven Bauer) come to Miami, work their way up the drug trade, do too much blow, and flame out. Scarface is an exercise in excess equal to the appetites of its characters. Pacino’s performance is gruesomely cartoonish, the violence is extreme, and DePalma lovingly lingers on each grisly moment.

The film is also very funny, not as camp, but intentionally so. DePalma does what David Chase does with Tony Soprano on HBO – he shoves Tony’s barbarism in your face, but he surrounds Tony with even more despicable characters, so you can root for him. Oliver Stone’s script loads Tony up with his own set of Harry Callahan one-liners. When his one-time boss, Robert Loggia, begs for his life, Tony leans down and says “I not gonna’ kill you.” As Loggia kisses Tony’s feet and thanks him, Tony turns to Bauer and says “Shoot this fu**ing cock-a-roach.” It’s a funny moment. Later, Harris Yulin, the corrupt Miami cop, takes one in the gut from Tony and he’s stunned. “You can’t shoot a cop,” he says, as he looks at the hole in his belly. But then he puts his hand up, and screams “Wait!” I love that moment. He’s still in the game. He thinks he can still make a deal. And as Tony becomes more powerful and self-pitying, he announces himself with “Make way for the bad guy.”

Scarface is also very effective at creating tension. Scene after scene ratchet up a fair amount of dread, from Tony’s favor knifing in a Miami holding area; to the botched drug transfer, where Tony’s compadre is chopped up with a chainsaw; to an unsuccessful nightclub hit on Tony, to Loggia’s murder. The doomed love story between Bauer and Tony’s sister, Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, also works. They seem to have a real affection for each other, and while you may root for Tony with guilt, you really like Bauer, who seems a very sweet thug. It’s also good to see Pacino, F. Murray Abraham, Mastrantonio and Loggia taking a stab at Cuban. They all come out with a different interpretation. The ending is giddy and ridiculous. Tony has become a coked out Superman. As assasins swarm over his estate like . . . well, like cock-a-roaches, he emerges from a pile of blow to kill almost all of them, with a very big gun.

A not very funny Jackie Chan movie, though Owen Wilson has a few good lines as the gun-slinger/bank robber who is into the gig for the chicks (my favorite is when he turns to one roughneck new to his train robbing crew and says, in all earnestness, “You all right? I know, I know. This is hard. You’re new. But you’ll do just fine”). It lags after 30 minutes and the rest is a hard road to hoe.

Ed Norton’s clunky directorial debut about two childhood friends – a rabbi (Ben Stiller) and a priest (Norton) – who reconnect with a third, Jenna Elfman. Hijinx, romantic entanglements and hurt feelings ensue. A few funny moments, but Elfman’s hyper-active me-me-me-ism is distracting, and Stiller is lost as a romantic lead. Worse, Norton knows nothing of pace.