The Ghost and the Darkness - Revisited

The first review I posted on this blog was for The Ghost and the Darkness. It was a quickie that I’d originally posted elsewhere, then copied and pasted here just to get the ball rolling. But I think a fuller more in-depth discussion about the film is in order, so I’ve expanded my original review to something a bit lengthier. Most people don’t seem to care much for the film (the critics sure hated it) or care enough about it to give anymore than a passing opinion. But for me, this is one of my favorite films. I saw it alone, in an empty theater during a late night showing back in 1996, and have been enamored with it ever since. Don’t go into this movie expecting some heavily plotted historical epic. Nor should you fuss over its blatant historical inaccuracies regarding the (allegedly) true events off which it is based. It doesn’t matter.

The Ghost and the Darkness is a ripping, turn-of-the-century African adventure – a vintage dime novel yarn where the title alone evokes the trials and passages of industrial Man into the unknown, back when the unknown was still tethered to the mysteries of nature and the superstitions lurking therein. It is a clash of two different worlds: the light of learned, imperial Man, a builder of things, and his dominion of reason verses the darkness beyond. And in the darkness there are ghosts – darkness and echoes of the past that, when encroached upon, manifest, become enraged and bloodthirsty. This is a story for men, about men, who must face fear and test their mettle. “I’m going to sort it out” is a repeating, albeit malleable, mantra throughout the film that surmises all of life into a single work-ethic philosophy. Man must think, figure, summon courage. He must step into the darkness and vanquish an old evil, left to his own counsel and his own devices.

The year is 1898 and John Patterson (Val Kilmer) is an Irish born military engineer hired by a prickly financier named Sir Robert Beaumont (Tom Wilkinson) to venture to Tsavo, Kenya and take charge of a massive railroad construction site whereupon a bridge must be completed--all to the advantage of the British Empire. Hardships abound: the workers of Tsavo are vast in number, multi-ethnic, with conflicting faiths and wholly temperamental as a result; the bridge itself does not yield easily in its construction – not as simple as envisioned, continents away. Yet Patterson embraces the challenge: “It should be difficult,” he says with fixed determination, “What better job in all the world than to build a bridge? Make things connect. Bring worlds together.” Patterson is a dreamer, an idealist, who values the progress of Man. His associates are Scotsman Angus Starling (Brian McCardie) and native African Samuel (John Kani). Also assisting the camp is an English doctor named Hawthorne (Bernard Hill), a group speaker named Abdullah (Om Puri) and local hero Mahina (Henry Cele), the project foreman who once killed a lion with his bare hands.

The job carries on well enough for some time until Tsavo comes under repeating attacks by two paired man-eaters, the likes of which hunt and kill without rhyme or reason, but with a fury never before fathomed. Patterson, a hunter by default, has faced similar problems with big cats when building in India, but none as mystifying as this, none as remotely terrifying. His methods of extermination vary, but all fail. The workers are continuingly picked-off every night, and then during mid-day. Starling and even the great Mahina become victims. Out of fear and disillusion, the workers unite and threaten to leave; Beaumont, upon visiting, dismisses Patterson as a personnel mistake and sends for the legendary American game hunter Charles Remington (Michael Douglas) to kill the menacing vermin.

The film carefully edges the supernatural without ever sinking into full-blown fantasy. The killer lions are on one hand wild beast but on the other possessed by the ever-rising metaphors of vengeful nature and nativism: for the progress of modern Man there comes a price, born from primal fears and folklore. Again, this is a campfire ghost story about the old world tearing back into the new. To be sure, however, these themes are never butchered by anti-cinematic monologues – the characters are too busy dealing with the lions to stand around dishing verbal commentaries. The movie doesn’t feel the need to “explain” itself and the ideas presented are simple enough in narrative form.

The script was penned by William Goldman, who has since disputed the changes made by Douglas, doubling as one of the film’s producers, concerning the character of Remington. Originally, Remington was simply known as Redbeard, a more mysterious character intended to show up only briefly, but Douglas decided to change the name and expand the part, much to Goldman’s chagrin. Far be it from me to second guess a screenwriter as accomplished as Goldman, yet I can’t help but side with the end results.

Granted, much of the interaction between Remington and Patterson barrows heavily from the Jaws formula, but there’s a reason why they call it formula: because it works. Remington brings an appropriate dynamic to the story, key being Patterson’s rite of passage; while also simultaneously romancing and deflating the classic ‘great white hunter’ mythos. The two characters are strongly outlined and given unique personalities without being over-developed to the point that bogs down the story’s momentum. This is first-and-foremost an action film and these are men of action, but each of their reactions bear a degree of meditation, even when nothing is directly said. Paterson’s solve-all-with-planning approach succumbs to the rationale defying lions. Still, he pushes on with methods that shine Man’s gift for ingenuity. Even when his individual traps fail, his overall mentality stands firm as a direct response to the incalculable unknown.

For his part, Remington becomes Patterson’s senior man and the tactfulness in which he commandeers the lion hunt in itself becomes an unspoken mentorship. In one scene Patterson blunders a chance to shoot one of the two lions because his untested rifle misfires. And though Remington is quick to shun his ill-preparedness, he also consoles him that failure is an outcome that every man with a plan must inevitably face. During a later scene, Remington equates with their current situation by telling a story of two sibling town bullies who terrorized him as a boy. When Patterson asks how he dealt with the problem, the senior man’s sly response, “I got bigger,” gestures a broad philosophical solution to seemingly unbeatable odds – things change, grow stronger, nothing’s impossible. 

     

Never minding the barely there Irish accent, Kilmer delivers a low-key performance that is cerebral to the situations and landscape. His unaffected, naturalist acting style compliments the character of Patterson with the quiet reserve and dignity of a gentlemen-scholar. Douglas fittingly flexes is movie star muscles with his larger than life, exploit-type character. His purpose is to step in midpoint brazenly and make a lasting impression before dying by the sword; and he succeeds, even at the expense of being a little hammy here and there. The rest of the cast including Kani, Wilkinson, McCardie and Puri add considerable colour to the events.

Journeyman director Stephen Hopkins has little to offer under the ‘auteur theory’. Films like Nightmare on Elm Street 5: The Dream Child, Predator 2 and Blown Away offer, if nothing else, outlandish entertainment value. Lost in Space clunkers under a lousy script but, visually, along with the other aforementioned titles, proves Hopkins is technically proficient and a good camera man, who can deliver enjoyably heightened dramatics and visual flare for action and scenes of horror. The Ghost and the Darkness is undoubtedly his best feature. Its period setting is complete with authentic costuming and production design; and, of course, benefits substantially from its far-off locations (the Songimvelo Game Reserve in South Africa doubling for Kenya).

None other than the magnificent Vilmos Zsigmond lights the film with rustic reds, browns and other accompanying Serengeti tones. The climate feels real, it is real – characters perspire amidst Tsavo’s sun-baked, gritty environs. Between Hopkins and Zsiggy a 2.35:1 panorama frames everything from mass extras to simple two-shots with classy, lateral scale. The whole of the photography is robustly old-fashioned, yet Hopkins does not shy away from a certain degree of horror movie antics, where, during moments of suspense, the focus becomes tighter and tighter and the lions themselves appear in strikingly graphic compositions that spill into nightmarish imagery.

One powerful scene in particular involves three mercs trapped inside a train cart–intended as a cage–while the lion wreaks havoc opposite a failing set of bars, before glaring at them through fire, like a demon. It’s a genuinely frightening scene that also exemplifies the film’s well deserved Academy Award win for Best Sound Editing, its one piece of recognition. The use of CGI is minimal (down to two scenes if I recall) and, considering the age of the production, blends well enough with the filmic textures. For a number of close-ups and interacting shots Stan Winston and Co. provided impressively life-like animatronic lions that only differentiate from the real ones (two reportedly docile cats from Ontario’s Bowmanville Zoo) due to simple logic rather than any lapses in illusion. One cannot praise this movie without praising its musical score by Jerry Goldsmith. Putting into a balanced emotional perspective all of the discussed elements of the story and its characters, Goldsmith’s handsome, ethnically energized score is enough the rival that of The Wind and the Lion with breadth and scope and sheer excitement.

The Ghost and the Darkness is told luridly with a pipe & brandy spirit of adventure. It romances the accomplishments of Man in exotic locales but also revels in fantastic dangers that speak deeply to masculine urges, where men must prove their worth, making it a quintessential “guy movie”. All I ask of Paramount Distribution is that the film be given a proper Blu-ray release, as its visuals, cinematography and sound deserves high definition quality. For the time being there’s only a dated DVD with a grubby, non-anamorphic picture.

For some reason I really dig this rather simple poster. There’s something very “Hemingway” about it.  

   

Career Reboot: Reese Witherspoon

I was just about to write-off Reese Witherspoon as yet another driver of plushy relationship/romantic comedy vehicles, the kind fashioned for actresses who are either building or maintaining (desperately) an A-list, leading lady star persona i.e., Roberts, Aniston, Barrymore, Heigl etc. But then I reminded myself of her filmography, how many interesting or offbeat roles she's taken and just how much I've enjoyed watching her act over roughly the past two decades ...without ever realizing it until now. Going all the back to her 1991 screen debut in The Man in the Moon, Witherspoon, then 14 years old and in raw form, was an absolute natural – one of those performances by a kid actor that bares all without ever seeming aware of the camera. In the proceeding decade she took up commercial fare like Disney's A Far Off Place (a surprisingly good and underrated kid adventure), teen thriller/melodramas Fear and Cruel Intentions, and the wholesome but artful Pleasantville. Alternately were edgier projects like S.F.W., Freeway and Best Laid Plans, before adding her subversive perkiness to American Psycho.

In terms of box-office draw Witherspoon's biggest success is the admittedly charming Legally Blonde and its less than charming sequel. Sweet Home Alabama, Just Like Heaven, Four Christmases and the recently lousy How Do You Know are all forgettable efforts in the comedy romance genre. The Importance of Being Earnest and, to a greater extent, Vanity Fair were bold attempts at resting lurid costume epics on the shoulders of Witherspoon's star power with ultimately mixed results; the latter mentioned is probably the more entertaining of the two, if nothing else. Of course, there's her Academy Award win for Walk the Line, and while her performance as June Carter Cash displays all the measure and control of a professional, the height of Witherspoon's talent is best seen in Election. I could easily go on and on about Alexander Payne's 1999 comic masterpiece but Witherspoon on her own as the morally bankrupt, bat-shit crazy, super human Tracey Flick is a hyper reality of character that needs to be seen to be believed. And it showcases Witherspoon's ability to multilayer extreme traits into a singular performance that is at once frightening, hilarious and even strangely arousing. Sure, Witherspoon is a pretty girl, but not exactly a sex bomb. Observing her directly, she’s something of an odd looking creature: boyish countenance, compact composure and chipmunk-like concentration, often projecting the near opposite of “come-hither”. She’s like a determined little elf. But she’s interesting on screen, and whatever attraction there is can be attributed to her dynamic personality.

                                  

Time, however, has a way of sneaking up and marginalizing movie stars who become complacent with steady roles instead of intriguing ones (a process that is no doubt even harder for women) and it seems that Witherspoon, still young at 34, is reaching her turning point: continue on with glib romantic comedies until they become her prison, like with so many other actresses, or venture back into the unexpected; taking chances with more eccentric material or perhaps an ensemble cast, or even putting on a superhero costume or hopping aboard a spaceship.

Anything to break the predictability of chick flicks. She has already proven her scene stealing charisma and volatile nature hidden beneath sunny, smiley exteriors – a walking minefield when the part calls for it. I’d like to see her attain the kind of loosed freedom of, say, Cate Blanchett, waxing dramatic in some hard hitting prestigious endeavor or indie art-house film, only to later show up in as an Indiana Jones villain. Reese Witherspoon has too much talent to be regulated away into rom-com oblivion.       

The Greatest Show on Earth

Mention its Oscar win for Best Picture, or even the film itself in general, and many a cinephile will snort and sneer at Cecile B. DeMille’s 1952 circus melodrama royale. For anyone not up to snuff on their 20^th century U.S. history, the early ’50s Hollywood was undergoing some treacherous political climate as ol’ Joe McCarthy, whom DeMille was a know supporter, was on a witch hunt for all things Communism. In opposition was soon-to-be blacklisted High Noon writer/producer Carl Foreman. An air of suspicion was unavoidable, and certainly not unjustified. Politics aside, High Noon has since been revered as an envelope push for its day and, even now, a reigning contemporary styled, method-drama character study; The Greatest Show on Earth, on the other hand, long ago dismissed as a blemish against the more “artful” cinema to which it championed – further garnering resentment as a silly soap, overwrought on pomp and circumstance while devoid of any real substance or deeper meanings. It is arguably considered the worst Best Picture winner of all time.

I’m not here to make excuses for its Oscar win; again, the reasons for which may have very well been political, even if it was nothing more than an honorary salute to DeMille’s yet-to-be Academy awarded legacy. But I personally love this movie here and now, as the movie it was always intended to be. The Greatest Show on Earth is perhaps the epitome of DeMille as filmmaker, in that he was as much an all-out entertainer who dealt grandstands of spectacle and sensationalism. What better to marry his filmic ambitions than the world of Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus? The two were destined for one another.

DeMille was given the perfect excuse to, quite literally, parade endlessly remarkable feats of Man, beast and themed pageantry for all the commoner to see--all of which held together by the thinnest of plot and character. At times it almost seems as if you’re watching a documentary about the circus, or, even more so, some lavish promotional reel. Extended scenes follow one after another of varying acts and animals and ornate costumes – large portions of the film are little more than the circus on its own, either during its show or when viewing its mass logistics and assembly, where, employed, were some 1400 real life performers, trainers, technicians and laborers. It’s a sight to behold. But DeMille doesn’t stop there. Intermittent with the archive-like footage is a story that veers the whole enterprise into full-blown hyperbole.

Charlton Heston (in only his fourth film and debut as a leading man) plays hard-ass Brad Braden, the circus manager who’s dead set against the administrators’ plan to cut short the show to a mere 10 weeks, pledging instead to run the full season and turn a worthy profit. To draw audiences he hires The Great Sebastian (a jovial Cornel Wilde), an Italian trapeze flyer and infamous womanizer who quickly gets caught up in competition for center ring with fellow flyer Holly, played with exuberance by Betty Hutton. The three of them form a love triangle where ensues much swooning and wallowing. Rounding out the main is Jimmy Stewart as Buttons the Clown, who is never seen without his makeup and carries with him a mysterious past.

From here on DeMille stacks high a series of outlandish events: there’s a two-bit crime racket feeding off the circus side attractions; a trapeze stunt without safety net gone terribly wrong, which later leads to Sebastian’s claw hand (that’s right, a claw hand! – a moment when revealed is the peak of melodrama absurdity); a mad German elephant trainer who, in a fit of jealousy, threatens to crush his girlfriend’s head under an elephant’s foot, before the spectators no less; Button’s identity as a doctor on the lam for mercifully euthanizing his terminally ill wife (just your typical ‘tragic clown’ scenario). And then there’s a train-on-train collision… I’m not kidding. It’s as if DeMille, after reviewing the narrative, said aloud: “Not enough. Fuck it, let’s have a train crash!” and set out to do just that, complete with miniatures, rolling sets and lions run amok. At this point I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if Heston had spread out his arms and split the Red Sea.

I suppose all this ridiculousness can be taken as a negative, but I can’t help but admire the way The Greatest Show on Earth, despite the perfectly sensible premise, ends up trumpeting its own fantastical reality instead of placating to our own. And I certainly have no problem enjoying the hell out of it. The acting and dialogue is awash with cornball hokum and purple prose. Naturally, Heston (one of my all time favorite actors, by the way) grits the material with all his classic jawed posturing and sonorous vocal effect. He makes it seem effortless. Hutton and Wilde fair less as they bounce from scene to scene, line to line, stupidly, albeit assuredly. This would only be an issue if their characters were more fully developed; as it stands, they manage well enough with heightened rudiment expressions.

It's Gloria Grahame as gal-pal Angel who brings some much needed sass as she darts for affection between Braden and Sebastian, and the only (hint of) nuance in the film belongs to Stewart who achieves genuine warmth and empathy behind his fixed clown smile. The visual splendor of The Greatest Show on Earth cannot be denied. Richly adorned in Technicolor and square framed in DeMille’s signature tableau style, the imagery is a cross between Rockwell and some rustic circus poster art come to life. DeMille was never know for nifty camera work but his slow, drawl panning shots nicely appropriate the casual pacing of the circus serpent, letting our eyes rest on the extensive production value.

Lastly, I wish to rebuke, to a degree, the criticisms that this film has no insight to offer. Admittedly, it does not make for an overly profound viewing experience, but watch closely for the slightest touch of commentary in the reaction shots of the spectators, particularly the cropped and pigtailed boys and girls, eyes gaped and lips smacked white from their ice cream cones; and note the contrast between a giddy laughing father and his little boy seated next to him with a near blank expression: perhaps an irreverent jab at our stunted maturity and yearning for nostalgia?

Later, a detective shows Braden a photograph of Buttons sans the clown makeup – instead of a realistic picture of the character, a close-up reveals what is clearly and deliberately a professional headshot of Stewart, gazing at the audience, granting us our first and only glimpse of the star in idyllic form and conscious of our desire for said persona over the storied content. Is DeMille using Stewart himself as a thematic device? A reflexive totem? A moment of meta-cinema? Don't be so quick to think The Greatest Show on Earth an absolute dumbed-down romp. DeMille was more than capable of a sly wink here, a subtle nod there, beneath the cotton candy surface. All the same, he promises showmanship and delivers.



Con Air, bitches!

What was it about the 1990s? …I can’t quite put my finger on it. The idea of using music video and television commercial aesthetics for feature films was already well underway a decade prior, but by mid ‘90s the style had fully gelled and reached its zenith as a glossy, packaged, trademarked lens through which Hollywood focused its most hyperbolic action blockbusters. Perhaps the largest pie-chart percentage of this belonged to the Jerry Bruckeimer factory – a slick, overproduced movie universe with a color pallet almost entirely in sunset pinks and golds, where every hour was “magic hour”. And while many might attribute JB’s collaborations with Michael Bay as the go-to examples, the crowning jewel of this particular Neverland is the Simon West directed Con Air, arguably the best worst movie ever made. But why, you may ask? Because Con Air is different. It’s special. There is about it an added element that cannot easily be explained, one that elevates the film from stupid action movie to blissfully stupid-or-subversively savant Mangasm poetry. Earlier I used the term hyperbolic but Con Air is almost Superbowlic, in that it knee-jerks all of the gut sentiments of pro-America’s commercialized, playtime culture. I won't even bother you with the plot details. Instead, I've made a random list of 20 things I love about this absurdist romp.    

1. The first opening join-the-army montage, with an unseen Powers Boothe doing voice over.

2. John Cusack as Vince Larkin – a play on the verb “larking” as in “to lark”, which further explains his smartass personality and PC-mined poke at the prison system.

3. Cyrus grabs a medieval spear from somewhere atop a moving fire truck.

4. Bright orange fireball explosions. The kind that only exist in movies.

5. The guitar riffing score by Mark Mancina and Trevor Rabin.

6. Swamp Thing.

7. Two grown men fighting to the death over a stuffed bunny.

8. The fact that Simon West is the same guy who directed the Rick Astley ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ music video.

9. Armored money truck that stalls in the middle of the road, then gets hit by fire truck, explodes and rains money endlessly on downtown Las Vegas. 

10. Uncle Bob's Scenic Tours.

11. The second montage for the opening credits where, in an effort to establish Cameron Poe as the noble hero, the camera pans up to reveal him sitting in his jail cell doing origami. Genius.

12. Referring to Larkin who can't be reached on the radio: “Of course you're having trouble reaching him. He's off saving the rain forest or recycling his sandals or some shit!”      

13. Cameron Poe looking inquisitively at a pair of antlers in his hand.

14. Mass murderer Garland Greene (once wore a little girl’s head as a hat) gets a happy ending playing the craps table.

15. A free-falling Dave Chappelle corpse over Fresno (lands on a car following bird crap).

16. Ultra violence and racial/sexual vulgarities rendered moot by an uncanny feel-good enthusiasm. Rarely has a movie so enjoyed its own company.

17. The Pepsi and Budweiser visual approach. Traditionally, directors design shots accumulative to tell a story, but in Con Air shots are designed to advertise a string of gestures.

18. Cyrus’ totally nonsensical death scene: crashes through a skybridge then through power lines then falls onto a random construction site conveyer belt which rolls him head-first underneath a giant impact hammer; cue Porky Pig – ‘That’s all Folks!’

19. Cage Hair.

   

20. This line: “I'm gonna save the fuckin' day”