Only now does it occur to me... THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE (1997)

Only now does it occur to me... that the 1997 supernatural courtroom thriller THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE is not merely a vehicle for Keanu Reeves to give voice to one of the worst Southern accents ever uttered,


nor is it simply a platform for Charlize Theron to allow her eyes to glaze over and pretend she's actually in ROSEMARY'S BABY,

nor is it merely a canvas for the best-worst pixelated hellscape that overtaxed '90s computer processors could provide,
 
More like THE GARDEN OF CGI-BLIGHTS, amirite? 

nor is it purely a delivery system for Al Pacino to scream hoo-ah (or something) while he transforms into a shirtless demon via a special effect that wouldn't have passed muster on ANGEL:





nor is it solely an offering of proof that Satan takes the subway:

no, though this amazingly dumb motion picture is indeed all of these things, there is still more. Like AMERICAN PSYCHO before it, THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE is also a repository of jarring Donald Trump references.

When minor villain and multiple-murdering billionaire Craig T. Nelson (essentially his character from ACTION JACKSON) appears on screen, his gaudy, gilded apartment seemed quite familiar to me:


At first I pegged it as a studio reproduction, but some quick research immediately confirmed that is indeed Donald Trump's apartment. People are saying, that when one comes to see any publicity is good publicity, one might loan out their personal quarters to a film where Satan himself reigns over a New York of moneyed minions,

and where the inhabitant of said gold-plated quarters is portrayed as an unrepentant psychopath who surrounds himself with legal counsel in place of a moral code. But one does not offer something for nothing: publicity begets publicity, and perhaps there was a synergy at play with regard to Trump crony Don King's cameo:

But screen-time for a friend fails to satisfy the ego, doesn't it? And so we enter a scene depicting a gathering of New York Republicans (though it's worth noting that Trump was a lapsed Republican and registered independent at the time––and would go on to register as a Democrat in 2001 before finally resettling with the Republicans in 2009),

Bizarrely, on the far right is then-sitting Republican Senator Al D'Amato, who seems shockingly on board with his cameo's implication that he's a Satanist.

where a gaggle of bon vivants speculate on the whereabouts of Donald Trump:

saying that he's probably tied up with a business emergency with Mort Zuckerman, owner of the New York Daily News and frequent Trump media foil.

We know that Trump has a history of insisting on cameo appearances in films where his properties are featured, so one can assume that he likely insisted upon this reference to himself. And it's also worth mentioning that it's not only a reference to his business acumen, but also a veiled attack on one of his enemies in the press.

Reading between the lines, people might even speculate on other elements that Trump may have insisted upon. For instance, it's unnecessarily clarified that Craig T. Nelson's character is a billionaire, not a mere multi-millionaire. Since we know that Trump's wealth may very well be the locus of his insecurities, it's not so hard to imagine that he would want audiences to know that only a true billionaire could possibly afford to live in his apartment. This brings me to a final question: if Trump projected his insecurities onto a character who lives in his apartment and wished to 'correct' that character to match his personal image, why didn't he interfere to make the character ultimately innocent of the crimes (or at least less of a blundering sociopath)? Or did that thought not even cross his mind?

Only now does it occur to me... THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND (1993)

Only now does it occur to me... that as we prepare for the long holiday weekend, the question we must ask ourselves is, "Shall we make this weekend an OSTERMAN WEEKEND?"  The answer is, indubitably, that we should and shall not. 

Technically Sam Peckinpah's swansong (based on a Robert Ludlum novel), THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND is a spy thriller with one of the greatest casts ever assembled:  

Burt Lancaster (BRUTE FORCE, FROM HERE TO ETERNITY, SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS, SEVEN DAYS IN MAY) playing as close an approximation to Alexander Haig as possible without being litigious:

 

Rutger Hauer (BLADE RUNNER, FLESH + BLOOD, BLIND FURY) in his first role as an "American," playing a television talking-head who's plunged into cloak n' dagger intrigue:

Meg Foster (she of the famous ice-blue eyes in THEY LIVE, MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE, and BLIND FURY) as a bow-hunting aficionado

who is married to Rutger (so BLIND FURY was really just an OSTERMAN WEEKEND reunion?):

John Hurt (he of the velvet voice from I, CLAUDIUS; ALIEN, WATERSHIP DOWN, THE ELEPHANT MAN, and MIDNIGHT EXPRESS) as a manipulated CIA lackey

 

who appears from time to time inside your microwave oven:

(I know it's not really a microwave, but still)

Dennis Hopper (BLUE VELVET, EASY RIDER, REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE)  as a creepy businessman with an RV (what else would he be?):

Craig T. Nelson (COACH, ACTION JACKSON) as a beefy, mustachioed man

 

who at one point enthusiastically strangles Rutger Hauer with a ball bat:

and Chris Sarandon (FRIGHT NIGHT, THE PRINCESS BRIDE, DOG DAY AFTERNOON) as a hot-tub frequenting, morally dubious crony.

It's no ninja hot tub, nor is it a Calamity Jane hot tub

Unfortunately, neither Peckinpah nor the amazing cast can save OSTERMAN from being the blandest of bland Cold War thrillers––it's a generic, exhausting mess that doesn't deliver in the suspense, coherence, or action departments.  The lack of compelling action is especially notable given that Peckinpah has never skimped when given the opportunity (he once said that BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA was the only film of his that didn't involve destructive studio interference).

Perhaps Peckinpah's original cut is worth our time (he was fired during post-production) but frankly, even if I could get my hands on it, I don't think I could get it up for anything OSTERMAN WEEKEND-related for a long while.

John Hurt will voice his disapproval with the most mellifluous voice in cinema.

If you're in the mood for some 80s spy action, allow me to recommend instead CLOAK & DAGGER, GOTCHA, THE FALCON AND THE SNOWMAN, or Grace Jones in A VIEW TO A KILL instead.  Happy Thanksgiving!

Film Review: POLTERGEIST (1982, Tobe Hooper & Steven Spielberg)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 114 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Craig T. Nelson (ACTION JACKSON, COACH), Heather O'Rourke, JoBeth Williams (THE DOGS OF WAR, STOP OR MY MOM WILL SHOOT), Beatrice Straight (won an Oscar for NETWORK), James Karen (RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD, MULHOLLAND DR., THE WILLIES), Sonny Landham (SOUTHERN COMFORT, PREDATOR, FLESHBURN), Zelda Rubinstein (TEEN WITCH). Music by Jerry Goldsmith. Written and produced by Steven Spielberg. Additional writers: Michael Grais and Mark Victor (DEATH HUNT, COOL WORLD, POLTERGEIST II).
Tag-line: "They're here."
Best one-liner: "Y'all mind hanging back? You're jamming my frequency."

I'm not here to argue about who actually did the bulk of the direction on this film (do a comparison with Hooper's Golan-Globus follow-up, LIFEFORCE, if you want to see what I think), but I think we can all agree that Spielberg was at the top of his game when he was peddling awesome, playfully morbid, PG-rated kiddie horror (from GREMLINS to TEMPLE OF DOOM). (See my TEMPLE OF DOOM review for a more in-depth discussion on the topic.) Largely inspired by the seminal TWILIGHT ZONE episode "Little Girl Lost," Spielberg proceeds to raise the stakes (and the steaks!) to the most ludicrously entertaining, technically innovative (the pre-CGI ingenuity of matte paintings, trick photography, and miniatures) point of spectral mayhem possible- ending up with basically THE definitive 'haunted house' film. Most horror films have 'that one scene' that they're remembered for. POLTERGEIST is a goddamned smorgasbord of ghostly delights: the clown, the tree, the chairs, the TV, the flesh-rippin', the pool... take your pick! The details are as exquisite as the main setpieces: a wind-up robot cackles in perverse amusement; a record plays itself in mid-air, a schoolboy's compass is the needle:

or a feathery skeleton-beast which could be 'THE monster' in any other movie, but which seems almost like a background detail in the no-holds-barred, chaotic finale:


The Freeling family is believable, likable, and engaging.

The scene of JoBeth Williams casually smoking pot (something that would never happen in a film today, unless it was being played for laffs) and Craig T. Nelson reading his Reagan book

is the perfect introduction to both their playful, private sphere and their stern, public façade. The reins of the nation were now ostensibly in the hands of meticulously contrived spokesmodel- the rest of the country had better maintain appearances, too. Forget the poltergeists for a minute, people– "It's morning in America again." Note the secrecy and embarrassment with which the family covers up its "problems at home." They should be feeling shame. They are no longer model residents of Cuesta Verde. It's one of Spielberg's more astute observations on the American family unit (Hooper's influence? Remember "The saw is family?"), and a certain, rare, non-gag-worthy morality emerges. When Carol Anne's bird "Tweety" dies, the bird is afforded a certain childlike dignity in its cigar-box burial. Of course, later, when James Karen's corporate douche reveals ("Oh, don't worry about it. After all, it's not ancient tribal burial ground. It's just... people. Besides, we have done it before.") his stance, we begin to see the general shift in basic human decency which that new morning in America was trying to obfuscate, I suppose.


Regardless, Tweety's funeral is crosscut with a group of hot-blooded men cheering on a football game.


Perhaps the spirits observed the value the living placed on this glowing electronic altar and for that reason chose to use it as a point of contact? Ha!

The supporting roles are solid, as well- Beatrice Straight's "if Joan Crawford were nice" grandmotherly expert, Sonny Landham's (!) bit part as a lascivious construction worker, Zelda Rubinstein's eerily wacky medium:

and James Karen's affably creepy land developer (who exudes eventual brow-furrowing 'what have I done?!' intensity):


James Karen: one of genre cinema's great unsung heroes.

Five stars.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: ACTION JACKSON (1988, Craig R. Baxley)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Running Time: 96 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Carl Weathers, Sharon Stone, Vanity, Craig T. Nelson, Robert Davi (SHARKY'S MACHINE, THE GOONIES), Thomas F. Wilson (Biff from BACK TO THE FUTURE), Sonny Landham.
Tag-line: "NAME: Jericho Jackson. NICKNAME: "Action." HOME: Detroit. PROFESSION: Cop. EDUCATION: Harvard Law. HOBBY: Fighting Crime. WEAPON: You're looking at 'em."

Best exchange: Craig T. Nelson: "You have this nickname - what is it, excitement, enthusiasm, esprit de corps...?
Carl Weathers as ACTION JACKSON: [cutting him off] -It's ACTION!

Though COACH is merely being facetious, I feel as if ESPRIT DE CORPS JACKSON would have been a film well worth seeing.

"How ya like your ribs?" FOOOOOOOOOOSSSSH. Carl Weathers just roasted a dude with a flamethrower. Watching this film is kind of like peering into an alternate dimension where Carl Weathers, not Schwarzenegger, Stallone, nor Gibson, was king of the 80's action flick.

Weathers is a benevolent monarch in this dimension, and ACTION JACKSON is just one work in his enviable oeuvre. Unfortunately, in our dimension, after ACTION JACKSON, Weathers was no longer seen as a qualified driver of star vehicles. In my mind, however, Weathers justifies his legend yet again. Weathers IS Action Jackson. He is a graduate of Harvard Law School who frequently disregards the limits of acceptable use of police force. Like this one time he jumped over a taxi that was trying to kill him. And this other time he proved his mettle in a fight the DVD chapter stops called: "Getting Ballsy in the Poolroom." Once he drove a sports car through a black-tie affair, wrecked it, and then started whaling on dudes- just to make an entrance. Craig T. Nelson is evil incarnate. At one point, you get to see him kung fu fighting Weathers as they both don tuxedos.



Vanity finally gets to show off her years of vigorous training under Stanislavski and Prince. Sharon Stone's around, too, but she's playing second fiddle to Vanity, which I think marked the last time anyone or anything was playing second fiddle to Vanity. All in all, a solid flick. I mean it's no TO LIVE AND DIE IN L.A. or LETHAL WEAPON, or even a KUFFS, or even a RED HEAT or a DEAD HEAT. Actually, I'm kind of puzzled as to why I gave this four stars. Oh, yeah. Carl Weathers. "How ya like your ribs?" FOOOOOOOOOOSSSSH.


Important side note: note the eerie similarities in cover art between ACTION JACKSON and BLIND DATE.

-Sean Gill