Film Review: BRAINSCAN (1994, John Flynn)

Stars: 4.1 of 5.

Running Time: 96 minutes.

Tag-line: "Wanna play? I dare you."

Notable Cast or Crew: Edward Furlong (TERMINATOR 2, "Livin' on the Edge" music video) , Frank Langella (MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE, FROST/NIXON), T. Ryder Smith (off-Broadway theater star, winner of a Drama Desk Award), David Hemblen (THE SWEET HEREAFTER, TOMMY BOY), Amy Hargreaves (MICHAEL CLAYTON). Music by George S. Clinton (HELLBOUND, AMERICAN NINJA 2).

Best one-liner: "That outfit's totally bitchin'!" –"You think so?" "I know so. You look like that one girl in that one video by what's his face. Only better."

BRAAAAAAINSCANNNNNNNNNNN!!! That's right, folks, we're talkin' BRAINSCAN. Now, on occasion, I get a little too excitable about the movies that I watch and I'm perhaps prone to a little exaggeration. Under different circumstances, I might be labeling BRAINSCAN a masterpiece. Instead, maybe I'll simply say that it's a thousand times better than it ought to be. The reason for that might have something to do with the fact that its directed by John Flynn (THE OUTFIT, ROLLING THUNDER, OUT FOR JUSTICE), a master craftsman, "get 'er done"-style filmmaker who had more in common with Hawks, Peckinpah, and Fuller than anyone on Earth who you'd assume to be directing BRAINSCAN. How he ended up directing material worthy of R.L. Stine is anybody's guess, but here we are, so let's take a look at it.

On the surface, it seems a bit like a mash-up of TOTAL RECALL and VIDEODROME as written by, as I said, perhaps R.L. Stine for his FEAR STREET series. (For those not familiar, R.L. Stine was kind of the 1990's Stephen King for kiddies.) Brian Owens (HAPPY HELL NIGHT) and Andrew Kevin Walker's (SLEEPY HOLLOW, SE7EN) screenplay is certainly an enjoyable enough, twist n' turn-filled narrative, but it feels like an R-rated episode of EERIE, INDIANA (at best) or GOOSEBUMPS (at worst). On the page, it could certainly go either way. But Flynn grabs ahold of it, wrestles it, and emerges with an atmospheric, surprisingly immersive work of cinema!

Immediately, you can tell something strange is going on when you hear the opening theme (composed by George S. Clinton, whose most notable credits include several Cannon Films and the AUSTIN POWERS series), and instead of rootin'-tootin' honkytonk and wacky piano (as George S. Clinton is certainly known for), you hear soothing, foreboding strains- guitar reverb, ominous synths. Evidently somebody's Brainscan'd George S. Clinton and replaced him with some fusion of Angelo Badalamenti, Howard Shore, and Mychael Danna! And speaking of Egoyan (Mychael Danna is Canadian filmmaker Atom Egoyan's composer), BRAINSCAN almost feels like one of his films! (He did EXOTICA, THE SWEET HEREAFTER, THE ADJUSTER, SPEAKING PARTS, and FAMILY VIEWING, among others.) The gloomy, direful atmosphere; the engaging, gradual presentation of media commentary; the forlorn voyeurism; the muted, glossy, impersonal nature of society... in other words, Flynn is not going the R.L. Stine route. That 'Egoyan feeling' is amplified by the fact that David Hemblen (an actor who has appeared in ten Egoyan films) appears here as a disapproving teacher.

Now I can't find any interviews with Flynn which reference BRAINSCAN, but I still feel as if I can say with certainty that he had Egoyan on his mind.

But what the hell is BRAINSCAN, exactly?, the uninitiated are likely wondering. Well, I'll tell you. It's "the ultimate experience in interactive terror."

Edward Furlong plays Michael, a horror flick-obsessed, denim-clad lad who operates a film club at his school (where they screen movies like DEATH DEATH DEATH- PART II). He's one of those 80's and early 90's movie teens who has a bedroom tricked out with all sorts of ridiculous gadgets, sculptures, bizarre props, and a creepy virtual butler- a rich tradition embraced by everyone from Ferris Bueller to Pee-Wee Herman to Slater in PUMP UP THE VOLUME. Furlong's a rich kid, his dad is out of town, and, curious about this new 'Brainscan' CD-ROM game that's the talk of the town, he decides to give it a whirl. His absent father exists only as a disembodied voice on a non-responsive machine (voicemail), whereas Brainscan is immediate, immersive, and personal. He calls the 1-800 number (more on this in a bit) and talks to a human who calls him by name! Is there really any choice? Bring on Brainscan!

Now, it's basically Dario Argento meets Virtual Reality, and you play as a black-gloved malfeasant who murders people in their sleep. Sounds like a great game, right? Well, morbid little Furlong seems to like it just fine.

Oh yeah, and before I forget: the game is hosted by THE TRICKSTER, a freak-dancing CD-ROMMY "Freddy Krueger meets Drop Dead Fred"-type who wears a nose ring, eye-liner, long pimp fingernails, a fiery red mohawk skullet, and is, in short, the greatest thing to happen to the movies since the advent of sound.

THE TRICKSTER LIVES INSIDE YOUR TV

He's played with incomparable élan by the Drama Desk Award-winning T. Ryder Smith, who maybe you recognize from the American theater, perhaps from Sarah Ruhl's acclaimed PASSION PLAY where he played such figures as Queen Elizabeth, Adolf Hitler, and Ronald Reagan.

Yeah, this guy is amazing. He leaps and bounds and gesticulates with a Shakespearian panache and animal intensity.

I'm reminded of Scott Cohen's astounding performance as 'Wolf' in THE 10TH KINGDOM. Why the hell don't these theater guys get more work?! Would I rather watch some pretty-boy WB douche brood around in a stagnant movie with bad blue 'indie' filters, or would I rather watch the Trickster surge through a film like a flash flood, exuding psychotic magnetism and tearin' the hell outta the joint? 100% of the time, I am choosing The Trickster. So there.

Anyway, this is all well and good until Mr. Furlong discovers that Brainscan is not actually a game– there's some sort of ALTERED STATES-esque warp and these people are dying for real. And to make matters worse, their feet are turning up in his fridge. (Well, only one foot, to be exact, but you get the idea. And his attempts to dispose of said foot end quite comically with an overeager canine and a nod to YOJIMBO.) Before you know it, a no-nonsense cop- played by the one and only Frank Langella- starts sniffing around, and it's only a matter of time before Furlong's found out...

But then up pops THE TRICKSTER– and, you think you can just give it up and quit like that, Sonny?! Well, not when there's all these CD-ROM discs for you to play before all this is over!

Whew!

Now, John Flynn's vision of suburbia is singular and quite striking. It's the lushest depiction of suburbia I've ever seen– every scene looks as if it was filmed immediately after a light shower. As such, overcast skies and a vague wetness permeate the mise-en-scene- it almost feels like a dreamlike Midwestern rainforest. Furlong is kept pretty sweaty, too- nightmares, hair-raising situations, and the constant taunting of the Trickster can be fairly stressful. It lends the film a certain, tactile aura; all this humidity is almost something you can feel... can place your hands on.

Well, a pool of blood transforms into a CD-ROM, The Trickster engages in trickery, and all manner of mind-bending events occur. There's even a nod to Fritz Lang's THE TESTAMENT OF DR. MABUSE, with some ominous crosscuts of leering African masks during a murder.

Then The Trickster torments our hero with a video camera in what seems to have later been mirrored by David Lynch in LOST HIGHWAY, when Robert Blake eerily brandishes a camcorder.

If David Lynch is a fan of BRAINSCAN... Well, I'm not sure why, but that would make me very happy. (The man's always been exceptionally tight-lipped about his contemporary influences, though, preferring to focus on Tati, Wilder, Hitchcock, or Buñuel.) Annnnyway, the film ends. You think you're safe. And then- I shit you not- THE TRICKSTER HIJACKS THE END CREDITS. So help me God, I love this movie. A little over four stars.

Annnnnnd one last side note:

But back to that 1-800 number. The film flashes the number "1-800-555-FEAR," which is awesome, and could've even been an acceptable title for the film. I thought about what happened when we called the Encyclopedia Britannica Kid, and impulsively, as the film was running, I decided to give it a go. I was pretty excited as I dialed 1-800-555-FEAR. I had it all figured out. "Oh, hello. May I speak to The Trickster? ... No, it's just 'The Trickster.' Big guy. Long nails. Red mohawk skullet. Yes, yes, it's regarding the uh, CD-ROM he sent me? Yes, the Brainscan. Yes, that's correct. Yes, I'll hold." Unfortunately, I was unable to say any of those things- it went straight to a recording which told me to call a 1-900 number, which suspiciously sounded as if it had more to do with talking to sexy singles than Brainscanning. So that's enough of that. But I have to wonder- at one time, was the Trickster's number live? Could unsuspecting kiddies call it up and have the shit scared out of them by a live, mocking T. Ryder Smith? I sure hope so.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: THE OUTFIT (1973, John Flynn)

Stars: 5 of 5.

Tag-line: "Nobody plays rougher than The Outfit...except maybe Earl, Cody, and Bett!"

Running Time: 105 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew: Robert Duvall, Karen Black (EASY RIDER, NASHVILLE, THE GREAT GATSBY), Joe Don Baker (COOL HAND LUKE, CHARLEY VARRICK, LEONARD PART 6), Robert Ryan (BILLY BUDD, THE WILD BUNCH, HOUSE OF BAMBOO, THE PROFESSIONALS), Joanna Cassidy (BLADE RUNNER, STAY HUNGRY), Jane Greer (OUT OF THE PAST, Norma's mom on TWIN PEAKS), Richard Jaeckel (THE DIRTY DOZEN, STARMAN), Timothy Carey (PATHS OF GLORY, THE KILLING), Sheree North (TELEFON, CHARLEY VARRICK), Elisha Cook, Jr. (THE MALTESE FALCON, THE BIG SLEEP, ROSEMARY'S BABY, BLACULA). Music by Jerry Fielding (THE WILD BUNCH, STRAW DOGS). Based on the novel by Donald E. Westlake, aka Richard Stark (POINT BLANK, THE STEPFATHER, THE GRIFTERS).

Best one-liner: "Die someplace else."

One could say that the popularity of the 'crime film' represents our thinly-veiled desire to live out the seedy, vicarious thrills so readily provided by the genre. THE OUTFIT could go a long way in supporting that statement, but it could just as easily be used to dismantle it. It's got snappy noir dialogue, flashy con games, and feats of gun-blazing bravado; but it's tempered with quotidian details, cheerless characters, and unappealing locales. It takes place in those spaces behind spaces: hideously wallpapered hallways; back rooms with stained, pressboard ceilings; dingy men's rooms; sterile, colorless kitchens.

It's not an ugly movie, per sé, it just happens to take place in one dull, unappetizing location after another (with diversions on deserted, nondescript highways). I like this. It imbues the film with the squalid, low-rent atmosphere that the genre deserves. (And it originally was envisioned by Flynn as a period piece- elements of which remain in the finished film.) Flynn's direction almost becomes a character- he hammers out the scenes, getting straight to the root- the levelheaded truth- of each interaction. No frills, no dressing it up, just get it done, and do it right.

It reminds me of Don Siegel neo-noirs like THE KILLERS ('64) and CHARLEY VARRICK ('73) as much as it does the actual noirs like DETOUR ('46) and KISS ME DEADLY ('55). (Flynn very purposefully peppers his film with film noir icons, from Jane Greer to Elisha Cook, Jr. to Timothy Carey to the only Robert who could ever hold a candle to Mitchum: and that's Ryan.) And those quotidian details that I mentioned (like a realistic, genuinely-paced illegal gun sale or the time it takes to actually snatch up the money during a robbery) hearken back to the French crime flicks of Jacques Becker (TOUCHEZ PAS AU GRISBI- '54) or Jean-Pierre Melville (LE CERCLE ROUGE- '70).

Robert Duvall is Macklin. Macklin's just been released from prison. He learns from his gal Bett (Karen Black) that his brother's been rubbed out on account of their robbing of an Outfit bank.

The Outfit is a Mafia-style organization, which, as the tag-line says, plays pretty rough. Just to give you an idea of how rough they play, Robert goddamn Ryan runs the fuckin' thing:

Macklin's a hard guy to read. He wears grungy undershirts, and is pretty quick with a gun, or a bottle, or whatever's on hand.

His ideas of leisure activities involve cleaning his weaponry, loading his weaponry, and slapping around women. Along with his buddy Cody (a grinning, hardass Joe Don Baker), he embarks on a mission to bring down the Outfit. A series of events take place- robberies, killings, and interrogations. Macklin plays his cards close to the chest. Does he have a plan? Does he even care about revenge? Does he just want to fuck with the Outfit as much as he can before dying? What's he even need all that money for? Does it matter?

Duvall plays Macklin as a husk of a man who quite possibly never cared about anything; or, perhaps more accurately, has never appeared to care about anything. We receive glimpses of a human being beneath––the way he clutches his grandfather's watch, the fleeting bursts of emotion, the way he cuts you off if you're about to ask something personal. And he's got some great lines, too: "I don't talk to guys wearing aprons. Get St. Claire." or "You send a guy out to kill somebody, maybe his feelings get hurt." Duvall robs mobster after mobster after mobster, then disdainfully mutters about how easy it is, how these guys run a "shitheel operation." I love it.

Joe Don Baker's Cody here is almost as much fun as his villainous 'Molly' in CHARLEY VARRICK. "Suit yourself," says Sheree North after he spurns her advances. "I always do," he cooly retorts, the words curling forth from his lips with an oily tangibility to them, as if smarminess were something one could lay their hands on. He's got a great dynamic with Duvall here, and the hardened matter-of-factness which defines their interactions reminded me of the relationship between William Devane and Tommy Lee Jones in Flynn's ROLLING THUNDER.

You can play make believe, and run your diner or your bar or whatever, but these kinds of guys only bide their time, waiting for that ecstatic moment where they'll have a gun in their hand and an occasion to use it. Joe Don punches out an unsuspecting female phone dispatcher, too, and it's just about on par with the shocking scene of Clu Gulager tormenting the blind secretary in THE KILLERS.

Robert Ryan is Mailer. His missus is Rita (Joanna Cassidy), and their love seems defined by how many times Ryan can tell her to "Shut up."

Domestic bliss.

In fact, that's kiiind of Robert Ryan's catchphrase in this movie. And you never get tired of hearing him bark it, whether it's directed at his wife, our protagonists, or his henchmen. Ryan is never less than fantastic, and he exudes the proper weight, authority, and hot-tempered crabbiness that one would expect from a leader of the Outfit.

One of my favorite elements of this film is, again and again, how easily henchmen are convinced to A. Reveal intelligence info, B. Name names, or C. Give it up and go home. Over and over, the line "they're not paying me (or you) enough" is used by rationalizing, pushover goons and our persuasive protagonists alike. (Or "Don't be brave, buster: you just work here.") And you know what, it's true! Why do henchmen in movies generally find themselves so willing to fight to the death for mob bosses who are probably paying them like $100 a day to put their necks on the line? Shit on that. And often they get themselves killed even after their boss is dead. No, they're not paying you enough. It gives the film a humorous ongoing motif and lends it the ring of truth: it's the little matter-of-fact moments like this which really make it work (and have gone on to inspire filmmakers like Tarantino and Soderbergh: I'm especially thinking of the henchmen's squabble over what a 'sliding scale pay system is' in THE LIMEY).

In all, THE OUTFIT's one of the prime examples of that great 70's wave of American neo-noir, from Walter Hill's THE DRIVER to Arthur Penn's NIGHT MOVES to Roman Polanski's CHINATOWN to Robert Altman's THE LONG GOODBYE. No longer is crime hidden in expressionistic shadow and decked out in foreboding trench coats and ritzy fedoras; it's seeing the harsh light of day in a cheap, soiled suit: exposed to the world, warts and all. I also heartily recommend Flynn's ROLLING THUNDER (in a similar vein, but Schrader-ized) and Siegel's CHARLEY VARRICK (which uncannily shares with THE OUTFIT the plot element of robbing a mob-owned bank, a badass hero with nebulous motives, several key cast members, and they both came out in October of 1973!). For THE OUTFIT: five stars.

And a special thanks to J.D. at Radiator Heaven whose copy of THE OUTFIT made this review possible!

And why not––I'll add it to the Summer Movie series––it's best seen in a four-dollar room with a malfunctioning ceiling fan. Pass the Schlitz.

Junta Juleil's Summer '10 Movie Series
1. HELL IN THE PACIFIC (1968, John Boorman)
2. KUFFS (1992, Bruce A. Evans)
3. THE OUTFIT (1973, John Flynn)

Film Review: OUT FOR JUSTICE (1991, John Flynn)

Stars: 4.2 of 5.
Running Time: 91 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Written by David Lee Henry (ROAD HOUSE, THE EVIL THAT MEN DO). Music by David Michael Frank (THE HERO AND THE TERROR). Starring Steven Seagal, William Forsythe (EXTREME PREJUDICE, PATTY HEARST), Jerry Orbach, Gina Gershon, Julianna Margulies (ER), Raymond Cruz (CLEAR & PRESENT DANGER, THE SUBSTITUTE), bit part by John Leguizamo.
Tag-line: "He's a cop. It's a dirty job... but somebody's got to take out the garbage."
Best one-liner: "Yo, fuck nuts!"


Director John Flynn is a master craftsman. He was the kind of detail-oriented, old Hollywood workman who could've become a Steven Spielberg had his proclivities leaned toward family-friendly fare instead of movies where Steven Seagal bashes some dude's brains in with a hard salami.

The salami-bludgeon is hurtling through space with such speed that it made an adequate screencap nearly impossible.

This is why John Flynn is the man. A man of action. And OUT FOR JUSTICE is all about action. Martial arts action. Mafia action. Cop action. Revenge action. Old school, rip-roaring action. Meat cleaver action. Action action action.

YEOWWWWW


It's a gritty slice of the 70's served up on a 90's plate with an 80's garnish. It's the kind of work that should result in Sam Fuller takin' a long drag from one of his token cigars and delivering an appreciative nod, which is really the only kind of work that's worth talking about.

Seagal plays a "wop motherfuckah" named Gino, an old-New York-style cop with deep-rooted ties to the community––but right now, he's got only one thing on his mind: and it's revenge. In particular, revenge against a totally psychopathic, crack-smoking, innocent-bystander-killing, pasty, portly madman played by the one and only William Forsythe.

Does anyone want to lay down some odds on whether Forsythe is actually smoking that crack?


This one speaks for itself.


WILLIAM FORSYTHE WILL BREATHE IN YOUR FACE, AND YOU WILL HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO LIKE IT


I still want to see a movie where Forsythe plays Richard Masur's evil twin. 


During the apocalyptic final duel, Seagal accidentally broke Forsythe's nose for real. Forsythe likely responded by laughing maniacally and lapping up his own blood.

Now, whether or not this movie remains faithful to the codes, operations, and minutiae of neighborhood organized crime in Brooklyn is not for me to say. I will say that I was completely convinced- and in the context of this movie, isn't that all that matters? Flynn's matter-of-fact style and David Lee Henry's brawny screenplay lend themselves to this kind of verisimilitude––each anecdote and interaction possesses the plain ring of truth; every character seems perfectly capable of meting out the necessary violence and/or tough talk. It's peppered with old school New Yorkers like Jerry Orbach and Sal Richards, there's a few nods to classic NY crime movies like MEAN STREETS and FRENCH CONNECTION, and the violence has a sort of sordid, bone-crunching, back alley aesthetic to it.

The brothel shootout in the last act even hearkens back to the barbaric finale of Flynn's own ROLLING THUNDER.

The supporting roles are solid and believable, from Julianne Margulies' despondent neighborhood prostitute to Gina Gershon as Forsythe's spitfiery sis:

to Jerry Orbach as a "gettin' too old for this shit" cop.


In other words, Jerry Orbach, do you mean you're... too old... to... dress like THIS:


Our hero has a ponytail, a penchant for wearing berets and vests, and, at one point, uses a pool cue to duel a martial arts expert aptly named "Sticks" ("POKE HIS EYE OUT!").




He even saves puppies. He's a dedicated follower of fashion. He's a well respected man about town, doin' the best things so conservatively. Apparently he is the culmination of human perfection, according to Kinks lyrics.

I wish I had the balls to gallivant about Coney Island with a beret upon my crown and a puppy within my grasp.

In other words- yes, this movie has moxie. I mean, look at how Seagal defuses potentially volatile situations––how many movies end with a minor villain rolling around on the ground groaning "My balls, my balls..." as a puppy takes a piss on his face?



I say: only the best ones. A little over four stars.

Film Review: ROLLING THUNDER (1977, John Flynn)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 99 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Written by Paul Schrader and Heywood Gould. Starring William Devane, Tommy Lee Jones, Dabney Coleman, Linda Haynes, cinematography by Jordan Cronenweth (ALTERED STATES, BLADE RUNNER).
Tag-lines: "Major Charles Rane Is Coming Home To War!"
Best one-liner: "Listen Cliff, I hope you don't mind my saying this but I'd sure appreciate it if you didn't call my kid a runt."
Viewed: 8/8/09 at the Anthology Film Archive in NYC as part of a series of unavailable gritty 70's pictures chosen by Bill Lustig (MANIAC!, VIGILANTE, MANIAC COP).

This is not a simple revenge movie, an exploitation picture, nor is it a 'Nam vets gone wild flick. It's an art film- a powerful examination of frustration, memory, and endless brutality. Written by Paul Schrader (and Heywood Gould), the film centers on Schrader's lifelong fascination: in a society that ceaselessly pendulates between stagnancy and violence, how does the individual come to grips with the pain of living? With one's fists? One's guns? One's hook?

ROLLING THUNDER is TAXI DRIVER, BLUE COLLAR, and a touch of MISHIMA wrapped in one, taut package, full of moody natural lighting and potent chiaroscuro visuals (by BLADE RUNNER cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth). And who better to do the packaging than director John Flynn (THE OUTFIT), whose gritty, efficient storytelling and no-nonsense style perfectly suit the film and its themes?

Shielding himself behind mirrored aviator glasses, Charles Rane (William Devane, in one of the best performances of the 70s) is a burned-out husk brimming with Nitroglycerin: he's dead inside and knows it, but he wants to find his place, wants to put on a smile, wants to jam together the puzzle pieces that just don't fit no matter how hard he tries to force them.


A series of events occur, beginning with his homecoming (to a throng of well-wishers whose applause is as vacant as Rane's soul) and ending with the business end of a garbage disposal. Suddenly there are no more choices to be made, and the path has been set out. It's one he's followed before, and now its as simple as "I'll just get my gear."

Johnny Vohden (Tommy Lee Jones in a scary-good role) joins his former Major's quest with obedience and relief, having been equally unable to readjust (with a hilariously unaware, blathering family). It all plays out with a striking lack of standard Hollywood 'emotion' and is so intensely matter-of-fact that it lends itself as frequently to bouts of uncomfortable laughter as it does to recoils of mind-numbing horror. A criminally unavailable American masterpiece.

-Sean Gill