R.I.P., Nicky Katt

Only now does it occur to me... V: THE SERIES, "THE SANCTION" (1x5) (1984)

Only now does it occur to me... that I've finally discovered the "real" Cobra Kai. Allow me to explain.

If you're new to the "V" series, you could start by reading my initial post on the subject which, though it is eventually hijacked by a happening known as "the Nut Slide of Doom," lays out the basic reasons why you should watch the first two miniseries and then stop before you get this far (to V: THE SERIES).

To recap: the V saga tells the story of the invasion of Earth by fascist aliens (who are actually rodent-snacking reptiles in disguise) who intend to rob our planet of its resources and enslave/eat our population. Some humans collaborate with them and become Vichy-style puppets and/or Hitler Youth. Others join the resistance, engaging in guerrilla warfare against the technologically superior Visitors. This story is skillfully told in V: THE ORIGINAL MINISERIES (1983). It is enjoyably continued as the actioner V: THE FINAL BATTLE (1984). By the time we get to V: THE SERIES, its gutted budget and watered-down purpose have rendered it virtually unwatchable. (Meanwhile, the hair has gotten bigger and the costumes have become more ridiculous, so the "so-bad-it's-good" aficionados can still have a little fun.)

Jane Badler is the best: DYNASTY meets XANADU, man

 

The plot of this episode follows "Sean," son of Marc Singer's "Mike Donovan" (the BEASTMASTER himself, and the perpetrator of the aforementioned Nut Slide of Doom), as he continues his indoctrination as a member of the Visitors' youth program. Sean is now played by Nicky Katt (DAZED AND CONFUSED, THE LIMEY, THE BURBS), a longtime character actor and terrific smartass, who is at this point still a literal child.

Presumably because THE KARATE KID had come out that summer, this episode features the Visitors attempting to re-educate their human wards at a karate dojo.

 

 They introduce a new character to do so: "Klaus" (Thomas Callaway), who is equal parts "Jaws" from James Bond, random leather daddy, and "Kreese" from THE KARATE KID.

He is a sadist with a detachable hand which unveils a chain/whip extension. It's a whole thing. Anyway, he runs this evil dojo,

which is, for all intents and purposes, "Cobra Kai" with more space Nazis.

Now, the visual pun here is that the Visitors––who, remember, are reptiles in human disguises––are pretty close to cobras themselves, therefore, making this a technically more "authentic" Cobra Kai than the one featured in THE KARATE KID!

Anyway, this plotline comes to a close when Nicky Katt punches out (eventual KARATE KID alumnus) Michael Ironside and throws in his lot with the Visitors for good.

 

This does provide us with the excellent––if extremely improbable––visual of Ironside getting his ass kicked by a stone-cold child. (Who strikes first, strikes hard, and shows no mercy.)

I guess they did teach him some effective moves down at the fascist snake-man dojo. Uh, Kreese would be proud?

Film Review: RIDING THE BULLET (2004, Mick Garris)

Stars: 1.5 of 5.
Running Time: 98 minutes.
Tag-line: "The dead travel fast."

Notable Cast or Crew: Jonathan Jackson (GENERAL HOSPITAL, INSOMNIA), David Arquette (SCREAM, RAVENOUS), Barbara Hershey (THE STUNT MAN, HOOSIERS, BLACK SWAN), Chris Gauthier (FREDDY VS. JASON, INSOMNIA), Matt Frewer (MAX HEADROOM, every Mick Garris movie), Cliff Robertson (UNDERWORLD U.S.A., CHARLY, ESCAPE FROM L.A.), and Nicky Katt (THE LIMEY, DAZED AND CONFUSED). Makeup effects by Greg Nicotero, Rachel Griffin, and Howard Berger.  Written and directed by Mick Garris.

Best One-liner: "You're a ghost..." –"BOO!"

I'll try and keep this brief.  So I'm watching this movie, an adaptation of the lesser known Stephen King e-book/novella "Riding the Bullet,"  and I'm not gonna lie– I knew it was a Mick Garris flick beforehand, and I watched it anyway.
You've probably heard me talk Mick Garris/Stephen King before (DESPERATION, QUICKSILVER HIGHWAY, SLEEPWALKERS, THE STAND, etc.) and know by now that my condition is pathological.  It can't be helped.  Mick Garris is going to keep making bad Stephen King movies, King is going to keep sanctioning them, and I'm just gonna keep watching 'em.

 No exaggeration: that font might be the best thing about this movie.

So we got all the Mick Garris standbys- the Cynthia Garris appearance, the Nicolas Pike music, and the obligatory Matt Frewer role.  I've called Garris a one-man Frewer employment agency (they've worked together six times)

and his appearance here amounts to a walk-on as a groovy art teacher with a "cool" earring and a stiff turtleneck.  So yeah.
Anyway, with all these Garris-isms going on,  I started getting excited about seeing Steven Weber (ex-WINGS star and another Garris standby) put his unique acting "spin" on some role in this mess.
 
 Here he is, for instance, out-Nicholsoning Nicholson in THE SHINING '97.

I'm excited for Weber.  I'm jonesin' for Weber...  Where's my Weber?... and then I look it up on IMDb and find out that there's no Weber.  Could it be?  Could it be that there was no role for him?  No room at the inn for Weber? Then who is going to give us a Steven Weber-caliber performance?  We'll return to this pressing issue later on.

I read "Riding the Bullet" a few years ago (it's collected in EVERYTHING'S EVENTUAL) and still remember it pretty clearly.  It's a fairly satisfying, melancholy ghost story centered around an agonizing moral choice, and it plays around with the trope of the "Phantom Hitchhiker" for a while before coming in for a semi-emotional, King-ian climax.  This movie has been heavily expanded from the novella in ways that I don't really care about (which is classic Garris) and this definitely would have played out better as a 25-minute piece in a CREEPSHOW-style omnibus, but I suppose it's too late for that now.

Due to the feature-length padding, it becomes increasingly dull and most of the filler is only tangentially-related to the original story, being largely devoted to silly roadside scares and random fake-outs and dog attacks and killer hillbillies and did-it-happen-or-didn't-it moments and dream sequences that possess equal smatterings of FINAL DESTINATION and THE SIXTH SENSE.  This brings me to the wider question, which is "were people really clamoring to have 'Riding the Bullet' made into a feature-length movie?"  I have no problem with the original story, but I can think of probably forty to sixty as-of-yet-unadapted Stephen King stories that I'd rather see turned into movies.  And everybody knows that if you want to watch a Stephen King movie with "Bullet" in the title, you go for SILVER BULLET.

So this thing is a 60s period piece with an expensive soundtrack: Strawberry Alarm Clock, The Zombies, James Brown, The Chambers Brothers, The Youngbloods.  No idea where that cash came from.  (They shoulda spent it on Steven Weber!)  You can tell it's the 60s because people are referencing Tricky Dick and LEAVE IT TO BEAVER and "John 'I am the Walrus' Lennon" (yes, someone actually utters that aloud).  You can really tell it's the 60s though, because everyone has 90s haircuts and interior decoration

Pictured: The 60s.  (Shockingly similar to JAILBREAKERS' depiction of the 50s!)

 and Death smokes him some reefer, as he did in the 60s.

 This really happens, dear reader.

There's this whole terribly-thought-out narrative device whereupon our hero (Jonathan Jackson) has his internal monologue voiced by a CGI double, and it plays out in ineffective, head-scratching, and spit-take-inducing ways

That Cheech and Chong reference is a few years too early for the 1960s...  Also note: authentic beaded curtain.

that frequently plunge, headfirst, into a morass of unintentional comedy.

Would you believe that this actor came from GENERAL HOSPITAL?  WOULD YOU BELIEVE IT?!

Hey, at least CHRISTINE gets a cameo:


And speaking of cameos, we have two pretty good ones, likely responsible for all 1.5 of the stars I'm awarding this film:
There's the venerable Cliff Robertson, who shows up as an off-his-rocker, crotch-grabbing yokel:

Cliff: you deserved better.

and then Nicky Katt appears, exuding an enjoyable bit of manic energy as a VW minibus-driving fake hippie, and while he does his best to make this feel like a real movie, he only has about two minutes to do so.

Nicky Katt:  improvisin' up a storm.

Also, this movie co-stars Oscar-nominee and acting legend Barbara Hershey as our protagonist's mother.  She has been given the opportunity to utter scintillating Garris dialogue such as the following:


Wow.  Garris walked into a room with Barbara Hershey and said, presumably to her face, that "Today you will be saying 'Awful Damn Crapheads,' and you will be saying it on camera."  That takes balls, I suppose.  Or cluelessness.  And I don't mean to pile on Garris, even though I usually do– the man's contributions to CRITTERS 2, THE FLY II, and FUZZBUCKET are noteworthy, and he rather seems like a warm and enthusiastic man.  But wow.  "Awful Damn Crapheads."  It happened.  It happened and there's no taking it back.

Furthermore, I believe I have pinpointed the exact moment, on film, when Barbara Hershey fully realizes that her agent talked her into a Mick Garris movie–

It's sinking in: the contracts are signed and there's no backing out.  Study it for long enough and you can even see her internal pep talk at work: "I can handle this for two weeks.  I can handle anything for two weeks..."

Anyway, the movie's almost over when you realize that the main thrust of the novella hasn't even been addressed yet– the part where our hero is picked up by an undead messenger who (metaphorically) skewers him on the horns of a (moral) dilemma.

Said (ghoulish, zany) messenger is played by David Arquette.

Now wait one gosh-gadoodlin' minute!  Somebody call the police!  Arquette stole Steven Weber's role!  The above depiction was clearly intended for Weber.  It's in his wheelhouse.  That is Weber's wheelhouse.

The maniacal facial expressions, the vacant eyes, the dopey one-liners, the pain of WINGS that rests upon his shoulders like a shroud–  could it be?  Could it be that Arquette is playing the role as a Steven Weber pastiche?

Pictured: Steven Weber pastiche.


Pictured: actual Steven Weber.

That's my theory, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.  And despite my better judgment, I'm sure one day I will watch BAG OF BONES (the final Garris/King collaboration I have yet to see).  Whew.  Till that day comes...

 –Sean Gill

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #75-71

75. HANA-BI (1997, Takeshi Kitano)

 

Takeshi Kitano– one of the great, unsung heroes of contemporary filmmaking. Comedian, actor, novelist, director, painter, poet, singer, tap dancer, game show host– you name it, and he's done it. Do yourself a favor and read about his occasionally bizarre, occasionally incredible life story, which encompasses strip club stand-up comedy, a burgeoning art career, hitting rock bottom, a suicide attempt, rebirth, and a new Kitano renaissance. It's difficult for me to pick a favorite Kitano– amongst the films he's directed, there's SONATINE, VIOLENT COP, ZATOICHI, KIKUJIRO, and BROTHER; amongst the film's he's appeared in there's BATTLE ROYALE, GOHATTO, MERRY CHRISTMAS MR. LAWRENCE, and JOHNNY MNEMON– er, forget I said that last one. Anyway, HANA-BI (FIREWORKS) is presently my favorite. Kitano took up painting in a big way after his suicide attempt, and he often credits it as a factor in his rehabilitation and recovery. As such, painting is a central motif to HANA-BI, and there's a grand stillness in this film; somehow Kitano makes the act of soaking in a painting a kinetic, cinematic act. But it's not all tranquil musings on our own impermanence, it's also cool, calm, collected nihilism punctuated with sporadic, impromptu thunderheads of violence which would make Joe Pesci blush. In short, it's essential cinema.  

 

74. DAZED AND CONFUSED (1993, Richard Linklater)

 

While it might be heresy to rank this film higher than its inspiration, AMERICAN GRAFFITI, it's so much damned fun, I can't help it. Talk about a movie with a high rewatchability factor– I can watch this film anytime, anyplace. But probably the best time is late spring or early summer, so you can duplicate, even vicariously (especially vicariously!), that ecstatic feeling of 'SCHOOL'S OUT FOR MUTHAFUCKING SUMMER!' The feeling of an endless (well, it sorta felt like it at the time), boundless vacation as you're jamming spiral-bound notebooks into the trash and purging the piles of lead-scuffed busywork from your locker– it's the ultimate cleansing, a feng shui of the soul! Linklater unravels his tale with the ensemble-cast storytelling acumen of a Renoir or an Altman, portraying a rogues' gallery of middle and high school types with playful honesty and complete sincerity. Nicky "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!" Katt's raging asshole townie; Parker Posey's shrill, hazing harpy; Wiley Wiggins' newly-minted high schooler with a penchant for nose-touching; the trio of lovable proto-intellectuals (Adam Goldberg, Anthony Rapp, & Marissa Ribisi); Matthew "it'd be a lot cooler if you did" McConaughey; a paint-bedaubed Ben Affleck (which is the proper state for an Affleck)...I could go on. Pass the Lone Star.  

 

73. PHENOMENA (1985, Dario Argento)  

 

There's not too much to say that I haven't said already, so I'll say it again: "Jennifer Connelly plays a girl named Jennifer who can telepathically communicate with insects in this Dario Argento masterpiece. The atmosphere is exquisite- dreamlike, comforting, dangerous. Something about his use of the Swiss Alps, the rustling pine trees, the ominous mountain winds, and the over-the-top gore... it's a throwback to the original R-rated storybooks: brutal folklore like the Brothers Grimm. I love this movie. I love the fact that there is one line of narration in the entire film, spoken about twenty minutes in. I love that in that one line of narration, they mispronounce the name 'Richard Wagner.' I love that there is a chimp with a straight razor (in homage to Poe's "The Murders in the Rue Morgue"). Between this and SUSPIRIA, it is clear that Dario Argento loves maggots, retching, girls' boarding schools, brutal murders, and the volatile combination of all four. I love that he loves that. I love that there's not only ladybug POV, sleepwalking POV, murderer POV, and Great Sarcophagus POV, but there's also MAGGOT POV. I love that the supernatural is represented by fan-blown hair. I love that the ending somehow manages to be as abrupt AND more ridiculous than the screamfest at the end of TENEBRE. I love the inappropriate use of heavy metal, the baroque visuals, the viscerality, the Bee Gees & Richard Gere references, the charming and sympathetic Donald Pleasence (in spite of Argento dialogue), the evocative soundtrack, the bitchy teachers straight out of SUSPIRIA...in fact, there's nothin' NOT to love here. The only way it could be more ridiculously perfect would be if she made out with the chimp." Amen, Dario. Amen.  

 

72. FLESH + BLOOD (1985, Paul Verhoeven)  

 

Another sort of rehash here: "I'll begin with two quotes by Paul Verhoeven which seem apropos to this film: "People love seeing violence and horrible things. The human being is bad and he can't stand more than five minutes of happiness. Put him in a dark theater and ask him to look at two hours of happiness and he'd walk out or fall asleep." and "Remember that Christianity is a religion grounded in one of the most violent acts of murder, the crucifixion. Otherwise, religion wouldn't have had any kind of impact." A lot of people like to pin down Paul Verhoeven as 'the guy who did SHOWGIRLS,' and while he cannot erase the fact that he is indeed guilty of being the guy who did SHOWGIRLS, he's one of the most audacious filmmakers to emerge from post-WWII Europe. FLESH + BLOOD is Machiavellian power games, stillborn children, nun snipers, yellowed teeth, and dogs lapping up pools of diseased gore. This movie is absolutely BRUTAL. Every single character looks out for number one, and here, 'looking out for number one' means ripping an earring (and a chunk of flesh) from a woman as she's being raped or using 'God's word' when it's to your liking (Verhoeven has called organized religion a symptom of societal schizophrenia). Any time there's a moment for levity or genuine romance, it's immediately undercut by something like the rotting genitals or random carrion. It’s not exactly a historically accurate depiction of medieval warfare and the Black Death, and it doesn't quite take place in the 14th Century... sixty years ago it took place on the battlefields of Europe. Verhoeven was just a kid then, but he was there. As we speak, it's being waged by talking heads on TV, by hypocrites behind closed doors, and by vicious opportunists from here to the far corners of the world. Where an exploitation flick would insert a rape scene so the viewer could feel 'morally superior' as they enjoyed some T&A, Verhoeven stages sexual assault as a grotesque vortex of ever-shifting power dynamics between man, woman, and the collective. The performances are outstanding: Susan Tyrrell was born to do the Dark Ages- she enters the scene as a bawdy, pregnant, perpetually wasted camp follower whose life is a series of the highest, barbaric highs and the lowest, 'WHY ME?' lows; Brion James is pure animal, ruthless but bewildered; Ronald Lacey is the sinister Cardinal- malicious, but sincere (not that it matters when he's got his sword in your guts); Jack Thompson is the beleaguered hunter, embodying an almost Peckinpah-style morality (think Robert Ryan in THE WILD BUNCH); and Tom Burlinson is the man of science, but his singlemindedness gives way to a sanctimonious depravity. Rutger Hauer simmers and scowls- a calculating, towheaded, serpentine fiend, rapist, and murderer who might be the closest thing we've got to a 'hero.' Jennifer Jason Leigh- in possibly her finest performance- is a privileged, maid-beating blueblood who attends the condottiere's ‘school of hard knocks’ and emerges as perhaps the most complex and guileful of the bunch." It's nihilistic entertainment at its best, and my favorite Vehoeven (today, anyway).  

 

71. MR. SMITH GOES TO WASHINGTON (1939, Frank Capra)

 

A film which seems to grow in relevance with each passing year. Politicians love to reference this film in attempts to inflate their perceived "inner-patriotism" and vaunted "outsider" status, yet if there was indeed a real life Mr. Smith, soon after the events depicted in this film he'd probably be killed in a Cessna crash that'd be deemed "completely accidental." Oh, and by the way, it was written by a socialist who refused to name names to HUAC and got blacklisted for it (Sidney Buchman). Jimmy Stewart is absolutely brilliant as the callow, unsophisticated vacancy-filler with truthful eyes and hay behind his ears, and his journey perfectly illustrates how the powers that be have hijacked patriotism and hammered it into submission, recreating its twisted form in the new normals of jingoism, belligerence, graft, and corruption. Shouldn't we trust in humanism instead of the oligarchs' smear factory? Ah, well– I guess we're just doomed to repeat history, whether we can remember it or not.

Coming up next... silent film, Gary Busey, and what some have called "the most-hated film in the Criterion Collection besides ARMAGEDDON!" 

 

Previously on the countdown:

#80-76 

#85-81 

#90-86  

#95-91 

#100-96  

Runners-up Part 1 

 Runners-up Part 2

The Runners-Up to Junta Juleil's Top 100, Part 2

Ah, more spillover. But next, we'll be cracking the Top 100 for real.

DRACULA (1931, Tod Browning)

I've said before that "DRACULA is a monster classic, full of fleeting, mystical moments and ethereal majesties. Exceedingly atmospheric and possessing one of the most iconic leading performances in film history, DRACULA is a Halloween fixture and a classic of early sound cinema; it's mandatory viewing not only for horror fans, but for cineastes in general." The maniac élan of Dwight Frye; the ineffable, funereal poetry of Lugosi's performance; the weight and the torment of centuries... while it may not be an objectively perfect film, dammit, it's close enough for me.

STROZEK (1978, Werner Herzog)

"No one kicks you here, Bruno." –"Not physically...here they do it spiritually." So Herzog tackles the American Dream, er, let's make that the American Nightmare. How do we get from a point where the emotionally and institutionally damaged German street performer Bruno S. (played by the emotionally and institutionally damaged real-life German street performer, Bruno S.) is escaping thugs in Germany to find a better life in America, to the point where a cop is screaming "WE CAN'T STOP THE DANCING CHICKENS! WE CAN'T STOP THE DANCING CHICKENS, SEND AN ELECTRICIAN!?" Well, I'm not going to tell you how. See the film for yourself. But be prepared for more humanity in non-actor Bruno S.'s little finger than in the entirety of your average, unfortunate member of that species we call Homo sapiens.

THE MECHANIC (1972, Michael Winner)

A Michael Winner movie permitted to even bask in the presence of the top 100?! Yeah, you heard me right. While this might not be the best movie that Bronson was ever in, this is probably the best "Bronson movie." I've written of my love for this flick before: It's a detached, melancholy thriller with crisp, artistic cinematography; a dissonant, unnerving Jerry Fielding score; and perhaps Bronson's most complex, compelling performance. And, boy, has it got a doozy of an ending. Highest marks. (Plus, this might mark the beginning of Bronson's love affair with ice cream– not to be confused with his love affairs with chicken or bananas.)

THE LIMEY (1999, Steven Soderbergh)

The style of swingin' 60's Godard, but without all the pompous, pseudo-revolutionary hogwash and self-congratulatory pretension that've infected his films sometime since 1965 or so, THE LIMEY has what every movie should have: an aged, blood-spattered Terence Stamp screaming at the top of his Cockney lungs, "Tell him I'm fucking comingggg!" The brutality of a POINT BLANK or an OUTFIT combined with the thoughtfulness of a Jean-Pierre Melville or an Antonioni, THE LIMEY is, hands-down, Soderbergh's masterpiece. Cliff Martinez's somber, furtive score; the use of counter-culture icons like Peter Fonda, Barry Newman, and Joe Dallesandro; the lunatic improvisations of a pony-tail'd Nicky Katt; brilliant, deadpan sidekickery by Luis Guzman; and the ethereal cinematography of Edward Lachmann all revolve around the furious, uncompromising, force-of-nature lead portrayal by Terence Stamp. It's THE REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST for the Sons of Lee Marvin.

EXTREME PREJUDICE (1987, Walter Hill)

Because I can't really think of any way to put it better than I already did, I'll say this: "Before you stick this thing in your player, I want you to mark out an 8 foot radius around your TV set. Then I want you to make sure there's nothing in that zone that you wouldn't mind having 40 gallons of testosterone poured over. EXTREME PREJUDICE has been proven to make wombs shrivel and has turned the frilliest of ladies quite husky; it makes men stumble, confused, into the street with a mysterious desire to chomp on cigars and arm wrestle. It's robust, potent, severe, and is completely safe when used as directed." It's the ultimate manly man's 'manly man' movie, and just about the most fun you can have indoors on a hot summer's day. And I'll leave you with two words that you should always remember: "Michael," and "Ironside."

THE SADDEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD (2003, Guy Maddin)

"If you're sad, and like beer, I'm your lady." To that, I answer "why, I'm all of the above, but I thought Isabella Rossellini was already my lady." Guy Maddin, George Toles, and Kazuo Ishiguro put their heads together for a completely deranged, nostalgia-soaked, impeccably-desinged paean to silent and early sound cinema, a film so utterly bizarre and completely sincere that it avoids the typical pitfalls of pastiche. And even though the ending is borrowed from HANGOVER SQUARE, by God, it still takes the guts outta ya. (Also: Isabella Rossellini has prosthetic legs filled with beer, which might be enough to get this near the Top 100 alone.)

DOWN BY LAW (1986, Jim Jarmusch)

Picking a favorite Jarmusch film is a lofty task; I've got major soft spots in my heart for STRANGER THAN PARADISE, DEAD MAN, GHOST DOG, and MYSTERY TRAIN, to name a few. But nothing can match what Tom Waits called "a Russian neo-fugitive episode of THE HONEYMOONERS," the dingy-bayou prison-break (that doesn't actually show the prison-break) classic, DOWN BY LAW. You can almost touch the peeling paint, feel the haze of everpresent New Awlins humidity, smell the stench and stagnancy of the swamps... And that's not the half of it- there's the inscrutable John Lurie, the drunken Tom Waits, and the never-better zany Eye-talian, Roberto Begnini!

LE TROU (1960, Jacques Becker)

Speaking of prison breaks, this one's all about the logistics, the timeframe, and the little details that make it feel real. Jacques Becker's observational style is applied to a group of desperate, jailed men, and the results are astounding. He documented the behavior of criminals before in TOUCHEZ PAS AU GRISBI, but these men are anguished, doomed souls, yearning for freedom– they aren't zoot suit-wearing bon vivant gangsters; they're working-class buddies who had to push the acceptable limits of human behavior to survive in the free world (until they got busted), and now they have to push the limits of their own ingenuity if they want to survive a caged world. Often, in a film of this type, we'll see a man digging with a spoon or a toothbrush or a what-have-you, and then, via montage, we see the completed tunnel. There's an economy of storytelling in that, but it occasionally feels staged, contrived, or worse. In LE TROU, some men in real-time pass around a steel bar, taken from a bed, and smash at the concrete. When one man tires, he passes the bar to the next, and then to the next. Finally, with nary an edit, they break through, creating a hole. We've just seen the process and the effort which went into making the hole, and that is strangely satisfying. No smoke and mirrors here; it's real men doing real things. Strange that a genuine moment as simple as this should stick out to me in a life-time of film watching. Of course, it's not as simple as pointing a camera at someone doing something real and recording it– but I suppose therein lies Becker's genius.

BLOODSPORT (1988, Newt Arnold)

"What?!," I see you saying, way in the back, lurking in the darkness. "Who the hell lets BLOODSPORT within 30 miles of a Top 100 list?!" Well, 'Mr. Too-Fancy-to-Appreciate-Van-Damme's-Mastery-of-Splits-and-Full-Contact-Martial-Arts,' I do. Because there's something to be said for a movie (even if it's a big, dumb, fun movie) that can be watched again and again and again and again, forever. Cannon Films churned out some silly content and some serious content, but it was always audacious– ballsy, even- brimming with a genuine joie-de-vivre that was infectious then, and it's infectious now. Golan and Globus were producers who allowed their directors artistic control, who refused to stomp upon their creativity, and infused their production company with the sense that something new and exciting was happening– yeah, what were they thinking, right?! "Golan and Globus used to be big," says the naysayer in the rear. "No," I say, "they ARE big– it's the pictures that got small! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE!"

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING (1975, John Huston)

A grand adventure film from a time when that didn't mean a CGI fuckfest with a heavily airbrushed poster, a $200 million budget, a cast of brain-dead fluffballs for the younger demographic and "wait, do we have a script yet?– here, let's assign these eight guys to it, each of whom has a notable credit from a high-profile reboot." Rudyard Kipling's tale of fortune and glory and deification has been laid out on the screen here by John Huston, perhaps the best-suited man for the job from Kipling's time to ours. Somehow, all at once, he captures rollicking fun, the absurdities of imperialism, the outrageous hubris of man, and the pathos which often swells beneath it. And rarely have two lead actors (here, Sean Connery and Michael Caine) been so perfectly cast, so full of life, so connected to material that flits to and fro from the light-hearted to the downbeat like the oscillations of a river's current, flowing through a dramatic, uncharted slit of a canyon, somewhere on the other side of the world...

HIGHBALL (1997, Noah Baumbach)

Though this film's cult following outside of my apartment is likely pretty slim; I will say, that inside my apartment, said cult following is rather extensive and rather rabid. I've spoken of my love for this film before, and I have to say "it's the ultimate party movie for people who generally dislike party movies." Rae Dawn Chong as herself, Chris Eigeman, Carlos Jacott, John Lehr, Peter Bogdanovich... it's fantastic. Acerbic wit, low-budge' moxie, and an incredible re-watchability factor.

THE SCARLET EMPRESS (1934, Josef von Sternberg)

Holy shit– let von Sternberg do whatever he wants, and this is the result: a cast of thousands; imposing, grotesque statuary and sets that spiral toward the heavens; intertitles and silent film techniques in the midst of sound film; Sam Jaffe leering with half-witted insanity (he gives Dwight Frye a run for his money); and Marlene Dietrich in opulent period costume pieces and shot with starry-eyed closeups. Some have described it as "kitsch," and maybe it is, but it's really a weighty examination of the nature of power: we only see Dietrich become the "Scarlet Empress" at the film's close, in fact, we spend the majority of our time with her as a frightened young woman spirited away to a foreign land, yanked to and fro by forces beyond her control. Ultimately, she embarks on an inevitable, fascinating journey towards becoming the sort of deadened, manipulating individual capable of wielding absolute power. It's pretty damned spectacular.

THE GARBAGE PAIL KIDS MOVIE (1987, Rod Amateau)

Now I've done it– I've put Josef von Sternberg and John Huston in the same room as the Garbage Pail Kids, and I'll defend that decision to the death. Rarely does a movie achieve such a perfection of badness; not even TROLL 2 can quite compete with this schizophrenic tale of one-dimensional misfits. Take Ali Gator, for example. His dogged, single-minded quest to eat people's toes quickly vaults him onto the shortlist of my favorite characters in all of cinema. Seriously, his only character trait is that he longs, unswervingly, to hasten the union between your toes and his teeth. We've got little people in hideous, quasi-animatronic costumes. We've got "Captain Manzini," a sort of gutter-Shakespeare stock player. We've got bodily functions. Vomit. Farting. Musical numbers. We got a plot that revolves, entirely, around a fashion show. There's underage romance. Genuine rage. Powerlessness. Cries unto the night. Biker gangs. Toxic sewer sludge. Is it burlesque? Is it grotesque? The modern-day GARGANTUA AND PANTAGRUEL? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS THING?! All I do know is that it's truly something special, and if you'd caught me on a different day, hell, this thing could've cracked the Top 100 proper. So consider yourselves lucky. For now.

-Sean Gill