The Fury

Of all the thrillers Brian De Palma made in the 70s and early 80s, The Fury holds the record for being the wackiest. Its loosey-goosey story involves youths with telepathy who are targeted by a secret government agency. The Fury has a terrific music score by John Williams. Williams’s music elevates the supreme goofiness of De Palma’s movie. (It was right around the time he was composing scores for Star Wars and Superman, and the influence is obvious, although the music is still distinct. It’s beautiful, emotionally big and evocative, and compelling.)

Kirk Douglas plays Peter Sandza, an ex-CIA agent whose son Robin (Andrew Stevens) has psychic abilities that the government wants to harness. So, they kidnap Robin after attempting to kill his dad while the two of them are vacationing somewhere in the Middle East. Then the film jumps a year ahead, to Chicago, where Amy Irving is strolling along Lake Michigan with her girlfriend, studying for an upcoming test. Irving’s character, Gillian, has the same kind of psychic powers as Robin, and a man—also possessive of these abilities—has procured her for the desperate Peter, who’s hoping Gillian can help him track down his son. 

Robin, it turns out, is being held by the afore-mentioned ominous government agency, pacified by a sexy psychiatrist (Fiona Lewis) while the government tries to exploit him. Gillian makes several psychic connections with Robin when she goes to stay at the Chicago-based Paragon Institute, a facility that reaches out to people with these kinds of gifts. It’s run by two apparently sincere scientists played by Charles Durning and Carol Rossen, who know Robin because he stayed there once too (briefly).

The government learns of Gillian’s powers just as Peter does, so that it becomes a race to see who can get to her first, and whether or not Peter can track down his son and rescue him from the manipulative clutches of the powers-that-be.

I took the time of explaining the oddball plot of The Fury to point out that Brian De Palma, perhaps more than any director working in his genre in the 1970s, was a filmmaker committed to a kind of madcap expressionism. The movie glides along to that wonderful John Williams score, soaking in the sights of Chicago, humming along with all its bizarre plot points, and as illogical, incredulous and half-baked as much of it is, the thing is a hell of an experience. It’s not as iconic as Carrie, nor as freaky as Dressed to Kill, but it’s alive with energy, and De Palma pulls sincere performances out of everyone in the cast. The movie falls apart in the end, but fans of such genre-tripping nuttiness should definitely give this freak-out of a horror film a try. It's wonderfully cynical and made with an exuberant love of the genre. There are also some bonkers special effects—especially at the end—featuring bodily explosions. (These youths have a lot of pent-up energy.)

With Carrie Snodgress, John Cassavetes, Joyce Easton, Rutanya Alda, and, in bit parts, Darryl Hannah and Dennis Franz. Screenplay by John Farris (adapted from his novel).  

Who Framed Roger Rabbit

For years, my adult self looked back on Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988) with fondness. It was a movie I watched fairly regularly, and it shared a VHS space with George Romero's Day of the Dead. (In those days, my parents taped movies off television, and we had hundreds of them, three to a video-cassette tape.) Well, having just re-watched Roger Rabbit for the first time in probably eight or nine years, I must report that I no longer feel the same affection for this movie. This time, I was struck by the fact that it's noisy and chaotic and not as entertaining as it used to be.

The director is Robert Zemeckis (Back to the Future), and Steven Spielberg co-executive produced the film, which was made by his production company, Amblin. And yes, it's some kind of an adult tribute to cartoons, from the old to the new, from MGM to Warner Bros. to Disney. The effects of intermingling live action and animation were, of course, something else a quarter-century ago. Today they're a bit dated, but the film is still watchable in that sense.

The plot is taken out of some 1940s L.A. noir. A washed-up, boozing private eye named Eddie Valiant (Bob Hoskins) is hired by a studio executive to take some lewd photos of a cartoon named Jessica Rabbit (uncredited voice of Kathleen Turner, who was the Lauren Bacall of the 80s) in flagrante delicto with Marvin Acme (Stubby Kaye), the owner of Toontown, which is exactly what it sounds like. When Jessica's husband the daffy Roger Rabbit sees them, he becomes infuriated. Next thing you know, Marvin Acme is bumped off, and Roger of course becomes the prime suspect. The obvious culprit isn't Roger, though. It's the ominous and clearly malicious Judge Doom (Christopher Lloyd), who has big plans for Los Angeles as it finishes out the 1940s.

Who Framed Roger Rabbit is designed to keep the kiddos interested. And with that, the filmmakers lose no opportunity to keep things flying at you. There's barely a moment to catch your breath. When the film slows down and allows Bob Hoskins to actually dominate the screen, it becomes more watchable. He's a marvelous actor who commands the screen when he's allowed to. He looks like Ed Asner: a lovable bear of a man, whose British accent occasionally slips out, generally when he's shouting.

Hoskins is paired off with Joanna Cassidy, who plays the no-nonsense bartender Dolores, his girlfriend who's too realistic to be bowled over with ideas of romance or being swept off her feet by her has-been of a beau. Cassidy doesn't have much room for character growth, but she's able to convey a lot just by the way she stands with her hands on her hips, or in the way she pronounces Eddie a failure with a look or a simple gesture. These are the kinds of actors you need in a film like this, where no one is particularly interested in the acting. All the eye candy is on display to titillate us, so why would we ever care about something so drab as performances? They make it palatable.

As the voice of Roger Rabbit, Charles Fleischer doesn't fail to inject a certain madcap genius into his vocal performance. But Roger grates on the nerves: he's the annoying sidekick who keeps ruining everything for the hero, and the fact that he's constantly trying to steal the show and be cute didn't endear him to me this time around.

There are lots of familiar voices popping up, as this isn't the kind of movie that's content to let the humor or the excitement build of its own momentum. It's all shoved into our faces at break force speed, with director Zemeckis seemingly screaming, "SEE? ISN'T THIS GREAT STUFF?!" You'll find: Betty Boop (Mae Questel), Bugs Bunny and various other cartoon characters performed by Mel Blanc. With Lou Hirsch as Baby Herman, David Lander as the Judge's right-hand-weasel, Alan Tilvernas R.K. Maroon, and Richard LeParmentier. Amy Irving sings "Why Don't You Do Right" as Jessica Rabbit. Written by Jeffrey Price and Peter S. Seaman. 104 min. ★★½

Crossing Delancey

I open my review of my favorite romantic comedy ever, the breezy Crossing Delancey (1988), with a brief exchange between the main character, Izzy (played by Amy Irving), and two of her friends (played by Deborah Offner and Suzzy Roche).

Karen: "I have a friend who thinks it's all a myth."

Izzy: "What?"

Karen: "The appalling lack of desirable single available men."

Marilyn: "Oh yeah? Tell your friend to give me a call."

1988 is deep in the era of the post-liberated woman: career-minded, but starting to feel a nagging lack in her life that may or may not be compensated for by marriage. Crossing Delancey plays with that tension in unassuming ways, allowing its characters to be human beings, not poster children for any given movement or set of beliefs. 

The film, which was directed by Joan Micklin Silver, comes from Susan Sandler's play, which Sandler adapted for the screen. It's a unique romantic comedy because it doesn't congeal in the crevasses of cliches. Instead, Sandler and Silver weave a rich little slice of life about a modern woman--Izzy, a 30-something New Yorker who's the event coordinator at a small, independent bookstore in the city. Izzy is single, and at least pretending to be happy about it. But she's also a bit deluded. The romantic in her awakens to the superficial poetics of a snooty European writer named Anton Maes (Jeroen Krabbe), who pens a gooey inscription onto the first page of his latest novel at a book signing she organized, and then tells her, "You can bill that to me." This little bit of attention from a guy who so embodies all of Izzy's ideals, means far more to Izzy than it does to the author. 

Izzy is proud of her life and the little circle she's eked out, rubbing elbows with the New York literati. Her grandmother (scene-snatcher Reizl Bozyk), the stereotypical feisty Jewish matriarch, isn't so satisfied with Izzy's lackluster love life, so she enlists the help of a trashy marriage broker (played by Sylvia Miles, with obnoxious reverie), and is set up with Sam (Peter Riegert), a down-to-earth guy who, gasp, may not have a college education, and who, double-gasp, sells pickles. Sam is charming, deep, and kind, but Izzy can't get past her snobbish distaste for his vocation and her gaga infatuation with the smug novelist who's using her.

Between her myriad friends, Izzy plays witness to just about every phase in the life of a modern yuppie woman. One is married, one is a new mom, several, like Izzy, are single and looking around to see who's out there. She's a bit jaded--none of her friends is exactly content--and afraid that her comfortable life might be compromised if the wrong guy comes along. So Sam, who doesn't fit the profile she'd figured in advance, is rebuffed. But he persists. And we pretty much know what's going to happen there, but it's the joy of the dance, the pursuit, that keeps Crossing Delancey interesting, not to mention the mosaic of characters who travel in and out of Izzy's life. 

Amy Irving is equal parts girl-next-door and icy stage queen, which might explain why she has had trouble finding the right parts in movies (although she's wonderful in a lot things, including Bossa Nova and Carrie). But here, she comes into her own: she's likeable, poised, smart, vulnerable, and mysterious: snooty enough to be a halfway literary snob, and literate enough to be cautiously wise and compassionate. Peter Riegert is exceedinly likable and a good modern-world Casanova with an old soul, and Bozyk is appropriately giddy, pushy, and old-fashioned, as the grandmother.

Crossing Delancey is a subtle entertainment, one for which you acquire an affection. It doesn't go for the continual button-pushing maneuvers of most comedies, but it has a lot of wonderful understated qualities that make it worthwhile, and even when it seems overly simple, it's charming fare. With George Martin, John Bedford Lloyd, Claudia Silver, David Hyde Pierce, Faye Grant, and Rosemary Harris (who's hysterical as an eccentric author who utters the film's funniest line, "Your hair! It's going to take over the planet!"). 97 min. ★★★

Carrie

Poor Carrie White (Sissy Spacek) is the scapegoat at school because she's awkward and quiet and plain. She lives with her raving lunatic of a mother (Piper Laurie), who's such an avid fundamentalist she makes up her own damning scripture verses and then utters them with gospel fervor. On top of all Carrie's problems, she's noticing some strange behavior: she can move objects with her mind if she concentrates hard enough. It's telekinesis, and director Brian De Palma has never had so much fun with it than here. (He takes the theme and runs--in too many directions--again in The Fury).

It's interesting to note that Carrie was Stephen King's first novel, but that we really don't think of Stephen King as much as we think of Brian De Palma when we think of Carrie. De Palma had begun making Hitchcock-influenced thrillers with 1973's Sisters, and some consider Carrie to be his ultimate thriller (that or 1980's Dressed to Kill). More than any of his other thrillers, Carrie has become part of pop culture. There's something sleazy and irresistible about it.  

Carrie is the outcast who simply snaps after she's been pushed too far. She's hated because she's stuck in a shell of social ignorance and otherness. But no one can really blame her for her ignorance, given her home life. In the opening scene, she panics when she experiences--rather late, biologically--the first signs of menstruation, and then pays for it when the other girls in the locker room begin hurling tampons at her. When Carrie gets home, her mother treats her like she's a harlot. Femininity is the enemy in Carrie's house, a sign of weakness and uncontrollable appetites that must be hemmed in by a rigidly dogmatic denial of pleasure.

Despite whatever it's saying about repression and fundamentalism, the movie is really just a big buildup to its grand finale, where the pig's blood prank turns Cinderella into the Medusa, and the Love Under the Stars dance into the prom from hell. De Palma uses a lot of European techniques to endow Carrie with a certain artful trashiness. It's visually very entertaining. Even in its most disturbing moments you find yourself laughing--it's all too histrionic to take seriously, unless you want to view it as a morality tale about the dangers of sexual repression.

Pino Dinaggio's score, which frequently rips off Bernard Herrmann's staccato violin from the Psycho shower scene, is very elegant but also over-the-top. It echoes De Palma's sensibility as a director all the way: violent, chaotic, and sensual, driving yet richly beautiful. Except for the Hermann imitations it's good.

The revenge element--the reason I'm including Carrie in my series on revenge in high school--points, partially, to the movie's endurance in popular culture. Sissy Spacek is so pathetic in the lead that it's hard to really see Carrie as the monster. She's been spit on by everyone, and stifled by her mother, who comes off as the movie's true villain. This might explain why Sissy Spacek did not become typecast as a horror movie star the way Anthony Perkins did for playing Norman Bates in Psycho. People seem to view Carrie as a validation of their wretched high school experiences, and they take comfort that they weren't alone. Carrie's always having a worse day than you, and her telekinetic meltdown elevates high school into the Shakespearean tragedy that everyone falsely makes it out to be in real life. She validates the stupid drama by sending the school up in flames. At least they had the guts to in Carrie what they ultimately couldn't do in Heathers.

With Amy Irving, William Katt, Nancy Allen, Betty Buckley, John Travolta, and P.J. Soles.

Bossa Nova

Amy Irving has an elegant discreetness about her that comes with classical theatrical training. Irving grew up surrounded by the theater: her father, Jules Irving, was artistic director at the Lincoln Center for many years; her mother (Priscilla Pointer) is an actress of the stage and screen. Irving attended the American Conservatory Theater in San Francisco, and then the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. She's beautiful and charming, but she's often miscast, or directors don't elicit from her the performance she's capable of. She's one of only a handful of actors to be nominated for an Oscar and  a Razzie (awards for the worst in movies) for the same performance (1983's Yentl), and she's also an incredibly talented singer, lending her vocals for Jessica Rabbit's risque musical number in Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988), which was produced by Irving's first husband, Steven Spielberg.

Irving gave a fine performance in the yuppie romantic comedy Crossing Delancey (1988), which had roots on the stage and, given its New York setting, was perfect material for her. In Bossa Nova (2000), which was helmed by Brazilian director (and Irving's then-husband) Bruno Barreto, she has to push through that ice queen elegance to fit the whimsical mood of this breezy rom-com, in which she plays Mary Ann Simpson, a widowed teacher of English who lives in Rio de Janeiro. (I wondered if the writers could have come up with a blander American nomenclature than "Mary Ann Simpson"?)

Bossa Nova moves along at no particular pace, but it has a rhythm you become accustomed to, and an assortment of amusing characters populates its world. The touristy setting of Rio de Janeiro is portrayed in an altogether different light: we see the people who actually live there, and we also get inklings of their perceptions of America and Americans. (There's a throwaway line about how much Americans respect art and how artists are all well-paid in America).

Irving's friend Nadine (Drica Moraes) likes to visit online chat rooms, where she has developed a cyber romance with an "artist" in "Sojo." (Incidentally, it was amusing to see how technology--particularly computers and cell phones--has changed in just a decade). Meanwhile, Mary Ann is pursued by a horny professional soccer player named Acacio (Alexandre Borges) as well as a soon-to-be-divorced lawyer named Pedro Paulo (Antonio Fagundes), who's still in love with his wife (Debora Bloch) even though she's living with somebody else. He starts going to the night class Mary Ann teaches. He's also trying to save his father's tailor shop from being lost in a divorce settlement. His brother becomes infatuated with Pedro's pixie of an intern (Giovanna Antonelli), but she's too young and restless to settle for a sensitive tailor who has a good ten years on her. She winds up with the soccer player, and there's a funny scene--reminiscent of screwball comedies--where they consummate their infatuation in Pedro's office. 

Bruno Barreto's direction is a bit imprecise, but at least it's not heavy-handed. Sometimes it feels as though the movie might never end, but it's perfect summer fare. It has something of a Woody Allen vibe to it, without Allen's sharp wit. This is a much subtler and unfocused but energetic and readily appreciated wit. Bossa Nova is a romantic comedy that doesn't make you hate yourself when it's over, and that's something. It doesn't gloss over the imperfections of relationships, but rather pokes good-natured fun at them. There are some delightfully scandalous daydream sequences that bring out Irving's carefully enshrined sexuality. She shows us she can be playful and have a good time. And there's a hysterically funny exchange between Mary Ann and Acacio where she's teaching him the various contexts for English curse words. It may slip out of your head as soon as it's over, but while it's on, you'll find yourself happily lost in its Midsummer Night's Dream-esque game of missed opportunities and offbeat attractions.

Adam

At the risk of summoning the adjective police, Adam is a poignant, vibrant and evocative movie. It's the story of a man named Adam (Hugh Dancy) who has Asperger Syndrome and lives a quiet, highly structured life in Manhattan. Not long after his father dies, Adam meets Beth (Rose Byrne), an elementary school teacher/children's book writer, and a truly unique relationship forms. One of the more refreshing movies of late, particularly because its characters aren't caricatures or stereotypes. They have a little more mystery to them and a lot more honesty. Of course I was thrilled to see Amy Irving in the film, even if the part--as Beth's mother--was fairly small.

The entire movie is beautiful--beautifully shot and featuring gorgeous locations of New York (and California, briefly). Likewise, the soundtrack is terrific (both the instrumental score and the lovely folk-pop songs that intermingle with it--I thought I heard Leigh Nash singing in the end credits but it turned out to be someone else). Do check out this little film. It didn't seem to make much noise (although it got some recognition at the Sundance Film Festival), but amidst a lot of noisier, flashier films, this one is worth listening to and looking at.

Directed by Max Mayer. With Hugh Dancy, Rose Byrne, Frankie Faison, Amy Irving, Peter Gallagher. 99 min. ★★★