Django Unchained

There's something unsettling about Quentin Tarantino's project of providing wish fulfillment revenge fantasies, first to the Jewish people in Inglourious Basterds, then to the American slaves, in Django Unchained. Watching one of Tarantino's films almost always gives me the impression that this director is full of himself, because his movies are so audacious. But it's hard to be too concerned with these thoughts, because Tarantino's movies are generally so much fun to watch. (Jackie Brown remains my favorite.)

The plot of Django Unchained is this: a German bounty hunter named Dr. King Schultz, played by Christopher Waltz (who was so deliciously evil in Inglourious Basterds that you can't help but wonder if he's going to turn bad in this one too) enlists the help of a slave named Django (silent 'D'), played by Jamie Foxx, to find three white men who are wanted for murder. Dr. Schultz works for the government, and is legally permitted to kill any of his targets as long as he produces their bodies. Django worked on a plantation under these men, who once beat his wife ferociously after she and Django tried to escape. Eventually Dr. Schultz and Django form a partnership, after Schultz gives Django his freedom, and they decide to rescue Django's wife, now working a plantation in Mississippi.

This plantation in Mississippi is run by Calvin Candie, and it's called Candieland. The name itself suggests the genteel, gruesome horrors of slavery. When we finally get to Candieland, where we know the film will play itself out in full faux-Shakespearean fashion (Tarantino is maybe the comic book Shakespeare of our time), it's the most terrifying visual in the movie: the cotton jutting out of the fields like white dollops of foam; the slaves working in the punishing Mississippi sun; and Leonardo DiCaprio, never more villainous and enjoyable in his entire career, as Calvin, the Southern gentleman with a murderous temper, who gets his kicks watching black men fight each other to the death.

Django Unchained is the most suggestively violent of the Tarantino movies. The director holds back here more than usual, presumably to demonstrate a little good taste. He's already walking on egg shells by making a movie that tries to retroactively punish white racism, and if you can allow yourself to enjoy its maniacal plot, you're likely to have a good time. The camera, more often than not, looks away from the violent acts, or at least, the most violent parts of them. The suggestion is powerful enough. There's the expected bloodbath, near the end. That's the cookie, the reward for the initiated, who perhaps sit through Tarantino's talky, long-winded plots just for those ten minutes of gory violence. But as much as I was filled with anticipation and suspense for that scene to come, the rest of the movie is what's more enjoyable (although the long-windedness takes a toll: they could have shortened it a bit, I think.)

The performances in Django Unchained are the film's strongest assets: Jamie Foxx turns into some kind of 1850's blaxplitation superhero. His performance is smooth and assured, and his indignation both righteous and horrific. Waltz is a charming participant, perhaps incredulously caught up in the story, but like any good bad movie, necessarily out of place. He's a wonderfully engaging actor, and all the scenes where he talks his way out of being shot by various farmowners and sheriffs and villains, are deliriously funny and amusing. DiCaprio is wickedly good, playing a part that's truly distinguishable from so many of the banal-important roles he's played before. He's colorful, capturing that weird mixture of Southern gentleman-Gothic torturer.

The South, like every other place figured into a Quentin Tarantino film, becomes the director's playground, where he employs any and every ingredient that interests him. Thus we get a movie set in pre-Civil War America full of 20th century Westerny songs as background music (and a few rap songs, too). The anachronism works well for this kind of pop-history-carnival ride. It's not a perfect film, and it's not the director's best film, but it's a fun movie, and I'm always grateful when movies aren't afraid of showing us a good time.

With Kerry Washington (as Broomhilda--Tarantino must have been waiting 20 years to use that name), Samuel L. Jackson (perhaps the most hated character in the movie, as the self-loathing head-slave, and Mr. Candie's right-hand-yes-man), Walton Goggins, Don Johnson, Laura Cayouette, Dennis Christopher, James Russo, James Remar, Tom Wopat, Cooper Huckabee, M.C. Gainey, Bruce Dern, Ned Bellamy, Jonah Hill (who has a cameo in one of the funniest scenes: a pre-KKK nighttime attack that isn't very well-thought-out by the participants), Tom Savini, Robert Carradine, Michael Parks, and Quentin Tarantino. Written by the director. 165 min. ★★★½

The Warriors

The Warriors (1979) is a cult classic, one that reminds you a bit of John Carpenter's Assault on Precinct 13 (1976), except the gang members aren't reduced to robotic killers. They're often comic figures in The Warriors. Just about everybody's deadly serious, and that's probably partly because most of the actors are inexperienced. But their green amateurishness lends a certain authentic charm to the movie. It's so much a part of its decade. The tumult of the 60s and early 70s had given way to a kind of urban decay by the late 70s. Rather than trying to examine why youths turn to gangs for their sense of belonging, The Warriors takes such ponderings for granted. It gives a brutal but surprisingly not heavy-handed window into one night in their unpredictable lives.

The story is set in motion at a massive assembly of representatives from about 100 gangs from the New York area, where one gang's charismatic, cultish leader, Cyrus, proposes that they unite, turning their considerable numbers into a makeshift army rivaling the NYC police force by about 40,000 men. When somebody assassinates Cyrus, the Warriors are blamed for the murder, and they spend the rest of the night trying to make it back to their turf, pursued by various gangs, most of them sporting ridiculous names and costumes. It's all a part of this movie's visual schtick, which is sometimes a bit obvious, but always really amusing. There's one gang called The Baseball Furies. Adorned in face paint that makes them look like mimes, they strut around in baseball uniforms and brandish wooden bats as weapons. Not very intimidating, although the image of them conjures up the Joker in your imagination.

Michael Beck heads the small band of Warriors trying to escape assault after assault (not just from the rivaling gangs but also from the incompetent police officers). He's a compelling looking lead: stony and thin and handsome in a bland sort of way. His power doesn't extend into his acting all that much, but again, the wooden performance suits the material, which is designed like a comic book come to life. (It reminded me of some of George Romero's movies, especially the scenes in Dawn of the Dead where a large band of bikers breaks into the shopping mall, as well as the weird jousting-on-motorcycles Arthurian drama Knightriders.)

You shouldn't see a movie like The Warriors expecting brilliance. But it's a fast-moving, energetic little action thriller. The fight scenes are sometimes dated, but they're not embarrassing, and the cast is fit enough to make them convincing. They have a real kick to them at times. One scene in particular comes to mind, where the Warriors are hiding in the stalls of a train station bathroom. You know they're in there, but you don't know how they're going to surprise their attackers.

It's based on the novel by Sol Yurick, adapted by David Shaber and director Walter Hill. Co-starring James Remar, Dorsey Wright, Brian Tyler, David Harris, Tom McKitterick, Thomas G. Waites, Terry Michos, Marcelino Sanchez, Deborah Van Valkenburgh, and Roger Hill as Cyrus.