Starring Clint Eastwood, Verna Bloom, Marianna Hill, Billy Curtis
Directed by Clint Eastwood
Written by Ernest Tidyman, Dean Riesner
Produced by Robert Daley
105 minutes
3.5 stars
As someone who watches quite a bit of westerns, and even studied the genre to a degree in college, High Plains Drifter is one of my personal favorites, an easy classic, and certainly a landmark directorial attempt for Clint Eastwood. While not the high water mark for the revisionist genre that Unforgiven was, and not as technically brilliant as Pale Rider, High Plains Drifter begins Eastwood’s bending of expected western archetypes as continued in those films.
This is an early example of the “Weird West” subgenre, a fusing of the Western with, in this case, the occult or supernatural. Eastwood plays the Stranger, a rugged gunfighter appearing out of the haze of the desert and stumbling into the town of Lago, where he may or may not have unfinished business—left over from another lifetime. If that premise doesn’t do it for you, I don’t know what will.
High Plains Drifter was filmed along the shores of Mono Lake in California, whose exposed alkaline sands and craggy limestone rock formations are decidedly alien. The result is a production that is dreamy and surreal, aided by a ghostly synthesized score that sounds like wind moaning though a cave. The town of Lago reads like some final waystation for the damned, perched on the brink of a purgatorial void. For the grand majority of the film’s proceedings, we are limited to this place, only occasionally offered glimpses outward, through gaps between wooden buildings to the bleached white horizon of the desert beyond, or the unnatural blue abyss of the lake. The stark sense of place owes much to Eastwood’s unique selection of shots and vantage points, revealing just enough of the town to give us a sense of familiarity, but not enough to make us feel like we’ve overstayed our welcome. By keeping the action (for the most part) contained entirely within the town and its limited outskirts, Eastwood makes Lago seem like the last human settlement in existence, a rustic oasis in the middle of a bare, apocalyptic wasteland.
I like to think of this film as sort of an update on High Noon, or rather a “part two,” continuing its allegory of a community that remained silent while its members were blacklisted, with a more explicit, almost tongue-in-cheek approach. Both films feature a sheriff character betrayed and deserted by cowardly townsfolk who refuse to stand up to evil; this one assumes Will Kane died and came back as a vengeful ghost. Also, the townspeople don’t just vanish from the streets, taking refuge behind locked doors as in High Noon—they watch tepidly from the sidelines without raising a finger, occupying a very deliberate presence in the man’s death. I’m not surprised John Wayne turned down a role in this film, after his active participation in the blacklisting of High Noon screenwriter Carl Foreman. High Noon came out directly in the midst of McCarthyism; John Wayne and Howard Hawkes made Rio Bravo as a response, and I like to think of High Plains Drifter as Clint Eastwood’s answer to both of them.
Eastwood’s “Stranger” is less the duty-bound, courageous Will Kane, and more the grim “Man With No Name” a la Fistful of Dollars. It’s Eastwood at his most badass, a notion that was never far from my mind as I watched the familiar antihero character put three holes in three heads from a barber’s chair, slickly escape a hotel assassination attempt with a “dynamite” ace up his sleeve, and lasso a guy screaming into the night by his neck. As close as it is thematically to High Noon, this is a much darker story, about a Will Kane who went through the depths of hell and came out the other side changed. This one takes advantage of women, exploits the townspeople’s need for security and dependence on someone to do the job for them, and indulges in the town’s material offerings, all with a dark sense of humor. Although it’s left mostly ambiguous, there’s always a sense that his motivations are more sinister in nature.
Of course, a film as ambitious and experimental as High Plains Drifter is not without its flaws, and this is the kind of movie that’s better in retrospect than while you’re actually watching it. The mostly straightforward plot is marred by a few unwieldy scenes that raise the wrong questions—a casual rape committed by the protagonist, his continued objectification of the women in the town—as well as a few detriments to the minimalism aspect, such as a couple different shootouts that occur outside of town. The blood is also laughably fake, but I’ll let that one slide since this was probably one of the earlier instances of actual gore in a western in the first place.
Those problem scenes, however, will tend to be forgotten when reflecting back on the film as a whole—which I have to say, is just fucking cool. Other scenes, (the town “literally” painted red, “Hell” on the town sign, etc) will always override them in your mind’s eye.
Boasting some pretty iconic imagery, even as a derivative, revisionist film, High Plains Drifter is a unique western ghost story. You really can’t argue with its cultural significance (it was featured viewing on the syllabus for my Western class in college), or its sheer badass factor. If you haven’t seen it and you’re a fan of Eastwood’s “Man With No Name” from Sergio Leone’s Dollars trilogy, you owe it to yourself to check it out.
Starring Alex Winter, Michael Stoyanov, William Sadler, Megan Ward, Mr. T, Brooke Shields, Randy Quaid, Alex Zuckerman
Directed by Alex Winter, Tom Stern
Written by Tim Burns, Tom Stern, Alex Winter
Produced by Stephen Chiodo, Harry J. Ufland, Mary Jane Ufland
80 minutes
2.5 stars
Freaked is the brainchild of Alex Winter, that guy from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure and one of the vampires from Lost Boys. As such, it’s kind of a spiritual sequel to The Idiot Box, Winter’s sketch comedy/variety show which ran on MTV from 1990-1991. After producing only six episodes, Winter and pals signed a movie deal with 20th Century Fox, and Freaked, like a six-armed mutant risen out of a chemical sludge, was born.
Right from the very beginning, the animated opening title sequence brings back a flood of 90’s MTV-programming nostalgia. It’s no secret that MTV’s stamp is all over this movie, from its “sensory overload” aesthetic of excessive dutch angles, zoom-ins, and oversaturated prime colors, to its crude and gross mix of camp, social satire, and pop culture references. It’s what would happen if MTV took a 90’s-era Nickelodeon cartoon and made a live-action film adaptation. Furthermore, to say this is a “black comedy” is like calling Rocko’s Modern Life a “critique on corporate culture.” It works, but it’s not your first instinct.
Winter plays former child star Ricky Coogin, who relates the events of the film in an interview session with a Ricki Lake-type daytime talkshow host played by Brooke Shields. Relating his account of how he came to be hideously disfigured, Ricky’s tale begins when he signs a deal with EES (the “Everything Except Shoes” Corporation) to promote their controversial fertilizer product Zygrot-24, rumored to be extremely toxic. Accompanied by his perverted but loyal friend Ernie (Michael Stoyanov), and hounded by his relentless number-one fan Stuey (Alex Zuckerman), Ricky travels to South America to act as the spokesperson for EES and quiet the environmentalist concerns. When he gets there, however, he’s quickly smitten with Julie (Megan Ward), the organizer of the protesters, and the gang invariably wind up on an adventure together that has nothing to do with the corporate gig. The next thing we know, they decide to check out Randy Quaid’s roadside freak show, but end up becoming his captives in his latest “mad scientist” venture, assisted of course, by none other than Zygrot-24. What follows, amidst ham-fisted dialogue and greatly-exaggerated acting, is a sometimes disturbing, sometimes unwatchable, always ridiculous experience.
Freaked has the makings of a cheapened Terry Gilliam film, the body horror of David Cronenberg (in particular, the dream-like weirdness of Naked Lunch), and the tongue-in-cheek, over-the-top violence of Sam Raimi (think Evil Dead II or Army of Darkness). I want to say it has the mise-en-scene of Tim Burton, but really only the “afterlife waiting area” scene of Beetlejuice comes to mind; its zany collection of mutated and mutilated characters would be right at home in this film. Freaked has the non-sequitur comedic style of a Monty Python episode or a Mel Brooks movie, and the same kind of shenanigans you’d expect to find in Police Academy or Naked Gun. At one point, Stuey gets sucked out of an airplane, followed by an old man in a wheelchair, before a stewardess plainly walks up and closes the aircraft hatch. (The kid eventually lands on the ground below, gets up, says, “Hey, I’m okay!” before some debris falls on his head.)
The reality depicted in Freaked is squished and distorted, viewed as if through a kaleidoscope. It’s a wacky, frightening blend of twisted surrealism and jacked-up psychedelia, coming together to create a constant wonky, off-kilter feel. The result is like a bad acid trip. When you reflect back on what you’ve seen, it’s like stringing together the random, bizarre segments of a half-remembered dream from the night before. Nothing makes sense; what seemed to work in dreamland is now utterly absurd in hindsight.
As entertainment, Freaked skates a fine line between the inspiringly bizarre and the just flat-out stupid. Only someone with very immature sensibilities and the attention span of a second-grader will truly appreciate the monster that Alex Winter and his buddies have created. His raunchy brand of humor seems mostly directed at ten-year-olds, but sometimes will veer into R-rated territory. If you have the patience for, and can stomach the film’s unique brand of harebrained lunacy and occasional idiocy, there may be something worthwhile for you here. Otherwise, I suggest you pass on this like you would a high school cafeteria’s mystery quiche.
Starring Charlie Sheen, Michael Biehn, Joanne Whalley-Kilmer, Dennis Haysbert, Rick Rossovich, Cyril O’Reilly, Bill Paxton
Directed by Lewis Teague
Written by Chuck Pfarrer, Gary Goldman
Produced by Brenda Feigen, Bernie Williams
113 minutes
2.5 stars
I would have liked this movie fifteen years ago, back when I was going through my pre-adolescent military phase, and a bunch of guys blowing up some other guys with (then) state-of-the-art weaponry was all I needed. Navy SEALS isn’t a straight-to-DVD, patriotic glorification of advanced warfare, heavily endorsed by the US Navy—but it’s damn close. If it isn’t the kind of movie that was made to get a surge of young guys to sign up with their local recruiter, I don’t know what is.
The film boasts such star power as Charlie Sheen and Michael Beihn in a Tom Clancy-type plot, but one which is more in line with the Clancy-label videogame franchise than any of his novels. The tone is decidedly more Top Gun than—well, really anything else. You won’t appreciate this film if you’re expecting any sort of commentary.
The premise is simple. We see both “sides” of the lives of the men on a rough-and-tumble Navy SEALs team: one side when they’re on mission, the other when they’re off, with a few highlighted dramatic subplots interspersed between. The various attempts at endearing us to the characters are painfully obvious, first-date awkward. It’s basically Top Gun all over again, without the planes, and with Charlie Sheen standing in for Tom Cruise.
As hard as these guys work, they play even harder. We’re meant to assume that the experience of bullets flying past your head on a regular basis is automatically coupled with the mentality of being a larger-than-life, gung-ho risk-taker—the kind of action junkie whose night of shots isn’t complete until the bar is actually on fire, and for whom the instance of a towed car inspires hairbrained stunts of legend, involving a bicycle chase down the freeway, a Fast and the Furious-style hijacking while in-transit, and Jason Statham-brand maneuvers to escape oncoming traffic while driving in reverse. Yes, we understand that they’re supposed to fit the “badass tactical unit on-the-clock/rowdy-but-loveable gang of guys off-the-clock” stereotype, but a scene in which they tear up a golf course, consequence-free, starts to border on the absurd.
In the foreground of this merry band of hotshot supermen, are Hawkins (Sheen), Curran (Beihn), and Graham (Dennis Haysbert). As an added bonus, Bill Paxton plays a sniper they all lovingly refer to, while on mission, as “God.”
Hawkins is the wild, untamed one, with a simple need: a need for speed. Duh. He’s politically incorrect, he improvises, flies by the seat of his pants; a showy, hot-headed maverick. To help further illustrate this, he drives a red convertible. His “dramatic arc” is foreshadowed early on as a sort of need to seek a balance to his action high, to learn how to disconnect from his adrenaline rushes.
Curran is the leader, and thus the careful, rigorous strategist of the team, always the professional. He’s all about functionality and protocol; his mind never far from the job. To help you better understand his character, he drives a black, all-purpose Jeep. His dramatic arc is sort of a “struggle with the burden of command” type of thing.
Graham, at the beginning of the film, is about to get married. Unfortunately, just before the ceremony commences, everybody’s pager on the groom’s side starts to go off. This signals a drop-everything-at-a-moment’s-notice, priority-one mission call, and the bride is left hanging. Graham is skirting two worlds, that of the job, and that of the responsibility that comes with being a married man. He will have to choose one or the other—where to place his commitment—before the end of the movie, or before he dies, whichever comes first. Naturally, he’s more conservative and mature than the others.
While on the opening mission, which is supposed to be an open-and-close extraction of a captured American aircrew, Hawkins and Graham stumble upon a cache of Stinger missiles which could prove disastrous if allowed to remain in the possession of the terrorists. Unfortunately, Hawkins fails in his initial attempt to destroy the missiles, and Curran orders the entire team out before he can get another chance. This lapse in judgment precipitates the rest of the plot, as now the SEALs have to track down the missiles across the globe.
Very early on, the film sets up the rule that Intel is key—the team’s general badassery in the field is totally reliant upon good Intel, and rendered utterly useless without it. To this end, the team develops an information-based relationship with a Lebanese journalist played by Joanne Whalley-Kilmer, who drives a wedge between Curran and Hawkins when the two develop a mutual attraction to her.
What starts out as a brotherly, competitive relationship between the two naturally turns into a bitter resentment, further compounded by Hawkins’ sheer idiocy at certain points. Unfortunately what might have made for an interesting dramatic rivalry, never goes to the depths I wanted it to, the tension not thick enough; the conflict not deep enough to warrant more than a passing reflection. Unwilling or unable to push the drama further, and the script to new levels by exploring unfamiliar territory, the writers, Chuck Pfarrer (himself a retired SEAL commander) and Gary Goldman too often elect to “play it safe.” By this I mean they’re too afraid to make any lasting ruptures to the framework they’ve established in the opening acts, and tend to get out of a scene before the conflict threatens to go anywhere interesting. The action while on missions is highlighted; the team’s “time off” serves only as filler—it should be the other way around. Each time I thought a scene was going to cover new ground, the characters were plunged into another mission that put development on hold, and made it seem like everything was fine again between them, all rifts magically repaired. It’s almost as if all the “mission” scenes were written in order, by a giddy 12-year-old, and then all the “off-mission” scenes were written, by the same kid, now grown-up. The first collection is just a series of action scenes, by someone who thinks what they’ve created is a story, and the second collection of scenes is a story, but one that yet lacks maturity and experience.
And so, what you have in Navy SEALS is the start of an inquiry into the fragility of a friendship that is never really resolved. In a more interesting movie, we might have seen Curran pass his sights over Hawkins, and linger over him, the distinction between him and the enemy blurred for a delicate moment. Graham’s wife might have actually threatened to walk out on him if he didn’t make a choice one way or the other—the scenes between them, as they currently stand, are conflict-less, and essentially pointless.
While there are some memorable scenes, Navy SEALS is ultimately a hunk of clay that could have been a nice vase but which somebody decided to just make into a kitschy paperweight.
Starring Gene Wilder, Kelly LeBrock, Gilda Radner
Directed by Gene Wilder
Written by Yves Robert, Jean-Loup Dabadie, Gene Wilder
Produced by Victor Drai
87 minutes
1.5 stars
Further proof that Gene Wilder is not a director, The Woman In Red is one of those movies that should probably just be swept back under the rug of the eighties, and quietly forgotten as you back slowly away.
As a comedy, it’s a scattershot barrage of hit-or-miss gags. Mostly miss. Wilder is too busy trying to force cartoonish antics out of mind-numbing, lifeless situations that he forgets to make an entertaining movie. It’s certainly not his finest hour, but that goes without saying.
Essentially a movie about an affair that never takes place, The Woman In Red is based on a French film, Un éléphant ça trompe énormément, translated into English as An Elephant Can Be Extremely Deceptive. As an American remake, it feels dumbed-down and uninspired. Wilder fails to make the most of his scenes, and manages their transition to the screen poorly. I get the impression he had his hands full with both directing and acting duties. The result is a juggling act of disproportionate, eclectic odds and ends, all threatening to clatter to the floor at any moment.
Wilder plays Teddy Pierce, a low-risk, low-reward kind of guy with an average job, an average group of friends, and an average wife. Bored with this average set of circumstances but basically content, Teddy one day spies a woman in red (a slightly embarrassed Kelly LeBrock, who knows she’s only in this to look good) walk over a grate in a parking garage as a gust of wind causes her dress to fly up. Needless to say, he gets quite a show. At that point everything changes, and Teddy becomes obsessed with tracking her down. The woman, Charlotte, a successful model with her face plastered on every billboard in San Francisco, is involved in a campaign with Teddy’s ad agency, but in their chance encounters, barely acknowledges his existence. He tries unsuccessfully to capture her attention, initiating a series of gags including mistakenly setting up a date with a repulsive co-worker (Gilda Radner, who, it might be worth noting, Wilder married shortly after the film’s production), clumsily passing himself off as an experienced horseback rider, and getting an extreme makeover, all while convincing his doting wife Didi (Judith Ivey) that an affair is the last thing on his mind. By accident, he eventually does win the affection of Charlotte, and spends the second half of the movie trying to get into bed with her, while keeping up the charade with his wife.
I would say it runs out of steam at that point—but for a movie to run out of steam, it has to at least have some in the first place. The way the narrative is set up only distanced me from the comedy. Characters are hard to read and events that are critical to the central plotline are sometimes totally ambiguous. The relationship between Teddy and Charlotte doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense, and when they finally do start actually interacting it happens between the scenes, revealed to us in narration!
There is just too much unresolved weirdness; tangents are introduced that go nowhere and have no significance. At one point, we have a random, uncalled-for subplot about one of Teddy’s friends who turns out to be gay. The outing is made over lunch, and the character in question just kind of smiles while his friends look around awkwardly; the subject is never addressed between them for the rest of the movie, and the dynamic of the group never changes.
In the first act, we’re shown a glimpse into the fractured relationship between one of Teddy’s friends, a real scumbag (Joseph Bologna) and his wife, who leaves him once she finds out about his flagrant adultery. In a subsequent scene, Didi innocently reveals that she owns a gun, repeatedly and inadvertently resting the barrel right in Teddy’s lap while he’s in the middle of a fake phone conversation to lay out the façade of being “called into work on a Wednesday night.” In these scenes, Wilder sets up a simple expectation of the consequences of his character’s intended actions—but by the end, it’s unclear what sort of message, if any, he’s trying to leave us with, when the sleazy, cheating friend’s marriage falls right back into place, and a revelation of Teddy’s duplicity never occurs.
By the end I finally figured out that The Woman In Red wasn’t one movie, it was two. The first, from the beginning to roughly the forty-minute marker (halfway into the already scant running time), is the story of a man vying for the attention of a hard-to-get woman. Once she finally notices him, the second movie begins, in which a man tries and fails miserably at the task of having an affair, barely making it to the bedroom.
I might have been willing to forgive some of the meandering, mismanaged narrative if we had a decent protagonist to serve as an anchor—but Teddy is too much of an oafish loser to be endearing and runs dangerously low on redeeming qualities; incidents of karmic injustice and his resultant bumbling slapstick are largely wasted. Wilder, starting to show his age, plays Teddy with a meek concupiscence, but in scenes where he throws himself onto the hood of Charlotte’s car in the rain, and watches her undress, he comes off as more of a creepy lech. At least the way in which he handles his secret fantasy in front of his wife is halfway intelligent, but the reverse psychology tactics don’t exactly match the doddering simplicity of his character.
While Kelly LeBrock is quite possibly the most sensual creature on the planet, Wilder doesn’t bother to instill her with any personable nuances or characteristics that pique our interest beyond the visual level. There was never a moment where I was ever firmly aware of who she was; in fact until the end, due to her relative absence from the actual proceedings, I was convinced she was some ethereal, abstract idealization of a woman invented by Teddy’s fleeting subconscious—a delusional fantasy just barely derived, surface details only. Unfortunately the film is not that deep, so to speak.
Starring Andrew McCarthy, Jami Gertz, Robert Downey Jr., James Spader
Directed by Marek Kanievska
Written by Harley Peyton (based on the book by Bret Easton Ellis)
Produced by Jon Avnet, Jordan Kerner, Marvin Worth
98 minutes
3.5 stars
In a low-level film production class in my third year of college, our instructor, Jack if I recall, told us the two things to never include in our short scripts. We were about to enter into pre-production on our five-minute, 16mm films to be shot on the much-loved, spring-wound Bolex camera, and Jack was trying to jar us out of the hackneyed mentality that had befallen many a student filmmaker to come before us. Those two things, were of course, drugs and scenes shot in cemeteries. Perhaps more amusing than his facetious aside was the collective groan that followed. He went on to say that in the history of cinema, there were only two good movies ever made about drugs—and those movies were Requiem for a Dream and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
While his lofty expectations for what constituted a good drug flick got the pot stirring for the rest of that class period, and wasted more time than it should have, I found myself thinking back to that “lesson of the day” as I wondered where to begin with Less Than Zero. The fact that it has a strong anti-drug message can’t be understated. Where it differs from the source material (Bret Easton Ellis’s book of the same name) is that it seems to go for the low-hanging fruit, and does so pretty conspicuously. The question is, does it deserve to be considered a good film in spite of, or because of that fact?
I won’t lie, Less Than Zero has some sort of irresistible appeal for me. It’s definitely not to everyone’s taste, but remains one of my personal favorites from the eighties, a hugely underrated film that I think has more to say than just, “say no to drugs.” I forced myself not to bring any pre-conceived feelings to this review, though I suspect it’s a less-than-objective one.
The story involves three high school friends, from the day they graduate to Christmas six months later. In that time, they have all but drifted apart, emotionally as well as geographically—with straight-edge, college-bound Clay on the east coast and former girlfriend Blair and best friend Julian rapidly sinking into an abyss of drugs on the west. When Clay returns home to sunny L.A. to attempt to salvage his relationship with Blair, he finds Julian in need of some serious help and has to dig him out of an early grave.
Director Marek Kanievska seems to take the scared-straight approach, and of course a lot of that has to do with the studio’s efforts to clean up a lot of the X-rated, meandering existentialism of Ellis’s novel, in an attempt to put together a marketable package with three-act structure, an identifiable protagonist and a clear moral doggie bag to leave the theater with. The movie takes great liberties with the novel from what I understand, and I have a pretty good idea of what that means after having experienced both the cinematic and literary versions of American Psycho. Less Than Zero doesn’t have the cartoonish, satiric spin Ellis’s other adaptation does, and is instead a story told with gritty portent. Having not read the source material in this instance, I could only approach the movie as the landmark acting achievement in Robert Downey Jr.’s career that it surely is, and as a product of the eighties and all that that implies. Of course it’s possibly too dark and serious to be called an “eighties classic,” for fear of being lumped in with most of the movies you’d find in that category.
I’ll admit, it’s hard to feel passionate about these rich Beverly Hills kids stuck in the past and burning out. But their circumstances are thus to more effectively communicate the theme of reconciling old memories with the harsh reality of the present.
The film’s main point of contention, I feel, is whether or not Clay (a distant Andrew McCarthy) is a likeable protagonist. He’s the “responsible one” in the trio, yet is continually more interested in rekindling his high school romance than rushing to the aid of his best friend. Unfortunately, neither the character, nor McCarthy’s performance, can carry the movie. Were he more of a down-on-his-luck loser, someone who was no stranger to failure and whose experience of trying to make it meant he had to actually work for a living, he might bring something more meaningful to Julian’s complete downward spiral of self-destruction. Instead, I get the impression that at any moment, Clay could become the same person Julian is. What makes him so different?
And so, instead of a dramatic story of reconnection, we have a study of a human train wreck, brought to us by the phenomenal Robert Downey. As Julian drifts further and further away into oblivion, and Clay’s role remains passive, we watch the tragedy unfold. Exploring the elements of Julian’s life that have brought him to this point is like playing hopskotch over a trail of broken glass. Caught in the middle between the dark (Julian) and the light (Clay) is Blair (the lovely Jami Gertz), who is nearly a stone’s throw away from being dragged down into Julian’s world herself.
Julian is a terrifying picture of failure, or rather someone very much unable to deal with or process that concept. When we meet him, he’s on the verge of whoring himself out to pay back debts owed to the drug dealer (James Spader) who essentially owns him. He’s a complete mess: sweaty, hair matted, eyes bloodshot, dried vomit at the corners of his mouth. Desperately clinging to the notion that at any moment, everything is going to fall into place. If you’re familiar with Robert Downey Jr.’s history surrounding the film you know the story doesn’t end after the credits roll; the line between his on-screen character, and the reality of his situation behind-the-scenes, was largely blurred. Whether he brought a little something extra to the role, or the role rubbed off on him, I’m not sure. Knowing a few people like Julian, whose total refusal to accept rock bottom and be reasoned with only precipitate more severe consequences later down the pipe, I found his portrayal to be scarily spot-on.
As a film about or dealing with the consequences of hard drug use, Less Than Zero instills this lingering sense of unease that I think is quite unique. Julian is always on the verge of a breakthrough, but closer to a relapse. You know this is never going to end well. Thomas Newman’s powerful, haunting score evokes the nostalgia of childhood and happier days, yet each swell, when it hits, is deadly serious. And the bleak conclusion gives me a chill every time.
Drugs and scenes shot in cemeteries: Less Than Zero has both. Jack, this one’s for you.
