Only now does it occur to me... TWILIGHT'S LAST GLEAMING (1977)

Only now does it occur to me... that TWILIGHT'S LAST GLEAMING (1977)––a film I hadn't even heard of until a few weeks ago––is one of the finest political thrillers of its generation. Directed by master craftsman Robert Aldrich (KISS ME DEADLY, THE DIRTY DOZEN, WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE, EMPEROR OF THE NORTH), it's a chamber drama of the highest order (and with the highest stakes possible), and the only contemporary film of its kind I can think of that explores the disillusionment of post-Nixon America with such magnified audacity.

The set-up is this: an Air Force General (Burt Lancaster) has threatened to spill a few inconvenient truths about the Vietnam War to the American public––and winds up in prison for his trouble.

After befriending some fellow convicts (Paul Winfield and Burt Young, in sympathetic performances),


he busts out of jail and hijacks a nuclear missile silo (!), threatening to begin WWIII unless the sitting President, who had nothing to do with Vietnam (Charles Durning, sort of standing in for Carter), publicly releases the incriminating documents. To modern audiences, it may encourage comparisons to THE ROCK (1996), from its likable, spurned, and volatile General to the ginger handling of green, gel-based chemical weapons (sarin gel) in a particularly suspenseful sequence.


Above all, it's an adult thriller, brilliantly acted and directed, that trusts its audience to understand its labyrinthine politics and moral shades of gray. It could easily be a stage play, with the nuclear bunker on stage left and the Oval Office on stage right.

Charles Durning is particularly remarkable––he's sensitive and firm in his portrayal, the kind of clearheaded President you'd want on the front lines when something heavy goes down, like Henry Fonda in FAIL-SAFE or Martin Sheen on THE WEST WING. He grapples with the idea of the presidency becoming a puppet beholden to a shadow government, wondering if said government does not trust its own people, how can the people trust it? As a Carter-figure operating under the shadow of the presidents who came before, he must determine whether or not executive opacity has already crossed its Rubicon––or does the corrupted infrastructure yet contain an exit strategy for a decent man?

There's also a great moment where a brigadier general steals Durning's scotch

and Durning reprimands him, shouting:

"That's my drink, you make your own fucking drink!"

The supporting cast is a Who's Who of Old Hollywood testosterone, featuring everyone from Melvyn Douglas to Joseph Cotten to Richard Jaeckel to Richard Widmark.
 
And because it's a thriller with so few locations, Aldrich pumps it up with a style best described as "Brian De Palma on steroids," with plenty of two-way, three-way, and four-way split screens. Unlike De Palma, the tone is slightly detached, and consequently you almost feel like you're watching different news feeds of a historical event, rather than different channels jockeying for your attention.


Finally, Jerry Goldmith's wonderful score lends it a real, melancholy, FIRST BLOOD vibe. Like that film, it paints a picture for people who aggressively love America but don't think it's above reproach. (I guess I'm saying not to expect THE GREEN BERETS.) In all, it's an underseen gem with a clear and fervent voice that suceeds both as a white-knuckle thriller and as an investigation of a sadder, wiser American people.





Also, on a more frivolous note––half of the Rebellion from STAR WARS is working for the U.S. government in this movie: Garrick Hagon (Biggs Darklighter in STAR WARS),


William Hootkins (Jek Porkins in STAR WARS),


and John Ratzenberger (Bren Derlin in THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK)


all appear in bit parts as American soldiers.

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: SEVEN DAYS IN MAY (1964, John Frankenheimer)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Rod Serling, Burt Lancaster, Kirk Douglas, Ava Gardner, Fredric March (THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES, DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE), Martin Balsam (PSYCHO, TWO EVIL EYES), Edmond O' Brien (Oscar-nominated here, THE WILD BUNCH, THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE).
Tag-lines: "I'm suggesting Mr President, there's a military plot to take over the Government of these United States, next Sunday..."
Best line: "He's not the enemy. Scott, the Joint Chiefs, even the very emotional, very illogical lunatic fringe: they're not the enemy. The enemy's an age - a nuclear age. It happens to have killed man's faith in his ability to influence what happens to him. And out of this comes a sickness, and out of sickness a frustration, a feeling of impotence, helplessness, weakness. And from this, this desperation, we look for a champion in red, white, and blue. Every now and then a man on a white horse rides by, and we appoint him to be our personal god for the duration. For some men it was a Senator McCarthy, for others it was a General Walker, and now it's a General Scott. "

God damn, do I miss Rod Serling. His work at once effortlessly managed to tackle complex political subject matter whilst never appearing overly preachy or hitting you over the head with his generally grim assessments of the human condition. Serling's writing possessed a certain fluidity, mystery, and intellect that almost couldn't exist today; for it struck that near-impossible balance between universal accessibility and a refusal to pander to the masses.

Serling's obviously not the only creative force behind this film (along with director John Frankenheimer and original novelists, Charles Bailey and Fletcher Knebel), but his screenplay definitely sets the tone for the subject matter, which, given the events of November 22, 1963, could be just at home in reality as in the Twilight Zone. And given those then-current events, SEVEN DAYS IN MAY is jaw-droppingly, courageously bold; audacious for any time period, much less in the year after Kennedy's assassination.

Now, John Frankenheimer at his best (SECONDS, THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE) can easily match Hitchcock for pure foreboding and dread-inducing quoditian suspense, and with the narrative involving the slow unraveling of a hostile takeover of the U.S. government by the military elite, Frankenheimer has plenty of chances to shine. The acting is not only top-notch, it has a tremendous amount of class.

Burt Lancaster was a true razor-edged powerhouse, and to see a sharp battle of wits, politics, and logic between him, Kirk Douglas, Fredric March, Edmond O'Brien, and Ava Gardner shows off the classic Hollywood machine at the height of its powers. This film is beyond excellent; subversive, compelling, entertaining, artful, and a complete masterpiece, and without a doubt, the major template for every political thriller that followed in its wake.

-Sean Gill