BEING THERE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - I like to watch Peter Sellers on the Criterion Blu-Ray

Yes, even a half-wit can change the shape of a nation.
Hard to believe, huh?

Being There (1979)
Dir. Hal Ashby
Nvl. Jerzy Kosinski
Scr. Kosinski, Robert C. Jones (sadly uncredited)
Starring: Peter Sellers, Shirley MacLaine, Melvyn Douglas, David Clennon,
Fran Brill, Richard Dysart, Jack Warden, Richard Basehart, Ruth Attaway

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Chance (Peter Sellers) is a gardener. He's lived his entire life behind the walls of a rich old man's urban fortress, a beautiful townhouse in a once-tony but now blighted, decrepit Washington, D.C. neighbourhood.

Living one's life in the same place is one thing, literally living one's life in the same place is quite another. You see, Chance has never left the house. Ever! All he knows about the outside world comes from watching television.

"I like to watch," Chance says at one point in Hal Ashby's exquisitely perfect Being There. He says this to Eve (Shirley MacLaine), the young wife of an aging, ailing tycoon of business, Ben Rand (Melvyn Douglas). Eve thinks Chance "likes to watch" women masturbating, so she obliges him happily. But like everyone, she misunderstands the gentle, soft-spoken, simple-minded, middle-aged gardener. He "likes to watch" TV.

Well, of course he does. Who doesn't? (My poison of choice is "Judge Judy", but that's another story.) But the fact remains, Chance really knows very little about anything, except, that is, gardening. Oh, he does know all about that. He's a veritable Rhodes Scholar of tending to plants and could, no doubt, give many a botanist a run for their money. When the aforementioned benefactor in the townhouse dies, Chance is ordered to leave the home and for the first time in his life, he's forced to confront the real world. It's in this brave new universe that the slow-witted horticulturist gives everyone a run for their money.

Being There is a great film. It's as great a film as its source material, the book by Jerzy ("The Painted Bird") Kosinski, is a great novel. Both are satirical as all get-out. After all, Ashby and Kosinski and company have deliberately chosen to render the tale of a half-wit who becomes an overnight media sensation when a car accident lands him as a guest in the home of Ben Rand and his pretty wifey. Chance's elegant attire and exquisite manners, thanks to his mysterious late benefactor, certainly don't betray him. He's also, by virtue of his mild mental challenges, someone who speaks in slow, considered ways in order to communicate.

That he knows everything in the world about gardening also holds him in good stead. Whenever he responds to a question or comment, all he can usually do is respond in horticultural metaphors. For example, one of the most hilarious scenes in the movie has Chance being introduced to the President of the United States (Jack Warden) in Ben Rand's study. Chance sits quietly as Rand and the Prez yammer on about economic policy. At one point, the President asks Chance if he agrees with Rand's view on the state of the country.

"As long as the roots are not severed, all is well," says Chance. "And all will be well in the garden... in the garden, growth has its seasons. First comes spring and summer, but then we have fall and winter. And then we get spring and summer again." The President mulls this over, quite seriously. Rand chimes in with: "I think what our insightful young friend is saying is that we welcome the inevitable seasons of nature, but we're upset by the seasons of our economy." Chance excitedly responds: "Yes! There will be growth in the spring!"

This conversation with a half-wit inspires the President to formulate his economic policy and even quote Chance in a State of the Union address to the entire nation.

The simple gardener becomes the buzz and toast of Washington, D.C. One night he's invited on a TV talk show broadcast to millions of people. When Louise (Ruth Attaway), the former maid at the townhouse, watches Chance with a whole passel of fellow African-American septuagenarians in the common room of the old folks home she lives in, she delivers one of the greatest satirical monologues in movie history:

"It's for sure a white man's world in America. Look here: I raised that boy since he was the size of a pissant. And I'll say right now, he never learned to read and write. No, sir. Had no brains at all. Was stuffed with rice pudding between the ears. Shortchanged by the Lord, and dumb as a jackass. Look at him now! Yes, sir, all you've gotta be is white in America, to get whatever you want."

To say Being There is prescient might be an understatement. Even more astonishing is that this movie is almost 40-years-old and has not dated in any way, shape or form.

Yes, it's a satire, but it's a very gentle satire. Thanks to Ashby's direction and the deeply moving performance of Peter Sellers, the film is laced with melancholy and even touches of sentiment. As the film savagely exposes truths about America, Being There not only makes you laugh, but in several moments, especially during the profoundly heartbreaking conclusion, it's impossible not to shed a tear or two. Even more amazingly, the movie lifts you to heavenly heights. It makes you soar while you weep.

That's genuine greatness!

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars

I NEVER watch added value items on home entertainment until after I see the movie and write about it. (So yeah, I'm writing this AFTER I finished watching the movie and writing the review above. What I can say, however, is that this is a great Blu-Ray and provides a wealth of material that truly enhance one's pleasure and appreciation of this movie. Most notable is the background on poor Robert C. Jones who was screwed out of a writing credit in an asshole move by Kosinski. So much of what's great about the picture comes from Jones's participation in the creative process. The other delightful feature is the unexpurgated blooper reel of a scene Peter Sellers was never able to properly complete because the absurdity of the lines and situation proved to be so hilarious that he couldn't help from breaking down in fits of laughter.

This truly has to be seen to be believed.

Being There on the Criterion Collection includes a new, restored 4K digital transfer, supervised by cinematographer Caleb Deschanel, with uncompressed monaural soundtrack on the Blu-ray, a new documentary on the making of the film, excerpts from a 1980 American Film Institute seminar with director Hal Ashby, Jerzy Kosinski in a 1979 appearance on "The Dick Cavett Show", appearances from 1980 by Peter Sellers on "NBC’s Today" and "The Don Lane Show", a promo reel featuring Sellers and Ashby, the trailer and TV spots, a deleted scene, outtakes, and alternate ending and an essay by critic Mark Harris.

THE ONION FIELD - Review By Greg Klymkiw - 70s Cop Classic Now on Kino-Lorber Blu-Ray

The Onion Field (1979)
Dir. Harold Becker
Starring: James Woods, Franklyn Seales, John Savage, Ronny Cox,
Ted Danson, Christopher Lloyd, David Huffman, Priscilla Pointer, Dianne Hull

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Given recent media exposure to the wholesale murder of unarmed American citizens by trigger-happy policemen, it seems appropriate to take a fresh look at the flip side in Harold Becker's 1979 film adaptation of The Onion Field, a harrowing 1973 true crime book by Joseph Wambaugh, the famed cop-turned-bestselling-novelist who created an important body of work devoted to the danger and drudgery of being a cop.

Though many are under the assumption that Wambaugh's books were little more than literary canonizations of policemen, the fact of the matter is that he tried to create balanced, sympathetic portraits of all his characters and most of all he was never shy about etching warts-and-all portraits of his lawmen. This book was no different, save for one detail. The Onion Field was not fiction and Wambaugh was actually familiar with the police officers he decided to write about. He'd laid eyes upon one of them on numerous occasions before and after the incidents depicted in his eventual book, but most importantly, he experienced first-hand how the said events were implemented into police policy and training.

The movie is now 35+ years old. At that point, it was depicting events that had occurred 15 years prior to its release. Seeing the picture now astonishingly places all police brutality in America over the past half century or so in a fresh context, since the events depicted in both the book and film inspired so many law enforcement agencies' hardline philosophies with respect to police work.

Rooted in the actions of the real-life cops in this story were the following strict policies:

1. Never give up your gun. Only cowards give up their guns.

2. Defend your life and the lives of all officers everywhere by always shooting under threat.

To witness an often first-rate dramatization of what led to the aforementioned inflexibilities, which began (not surprisingly) with the LAPD is a testament to Wambaugh's unyielding faith in the material. Unsatisfied with the severely flawed film adaptation of his first book The New Centurions, he was driven to self-finance this story that was near and dear to his heart. For the most part, his gamble and efforts paid off.

During a seemingly routine spot-check in 1963, LAPD plainclothes officers Karl Hettinger (John Savage) and Ian Campbell (Ted Danson) were kidnapped by Greg Powell (James Woods) and Jimmy "Youngblood" Smith (Franklyn Seales), two armed sociopaths on their way to a liquor store robbery. The officers were driven to an isolated farm near Bakersfield where one cop was shot repeatedly, execution-style, while the other managed to scramble away and tear madly across several miles of an onion field with the criminals in pursuit.

The officer survived and the petty hoodlums (turned cold-blooded cop killers) were captured. However, as the powerful tagline from the film's ads announced, what happened afterwards "was the real crime". The film painstakingly takes us through the initial investigation, the first trial (which results in a guilty verdict and death sentence) and then, like some labyrinthian Kafka-like nightmare, endless appeals and new trials continue - for years. In many instances, the courtroom turns topsy-turvy and endless retrials and mistrials are declared.

The surviving cop, suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, is forced to repeat the same horrific testimony to the point in which he loses count of how many times he's had to do so. Grotesquely, the court allows the jury not one, but several recreations of the killing at the exact time and in the precise spot in which the event took place, with, of course, the traumatized officer in tow. Add to this all the nightmares he experiences on a nightly basis, an overwhelming sense of guilt (placed on him by his LAPD superiors) that he was responsible for his partner's death and even being scapegoated by the LAPD to repeat said events at morning roll calls and training session with rookies. He's told this will help other officers to avoid mistakes that could lead to similar events in their own careers.

The cop's grief, deep shame and guilt mount steadily and overwhelmingly - so much so that he turns to alcohol, becomes a kleptomaniac and even physically abuses his own newborn baby before seriously contemplating suicide (and one night, caught by his eldest child as he places a gun in his mouth). Not only does he become a walking textbook case in which policies are changed, but the department offers no psychiatric assistance. Adding insult to injury, he's eventually caught redhanded while shoplifting and forced to resign, leaving him jobless and bereft of any benefits like medical insurance. His wife is forced to take work while he becomes a stay-at-home Dad with plenty of time on his hands to recount the tragic and terrifying events of that one night.

Yes, these actions perpetrated by the system not only bordered on criminality, but it's a perfect example of how institutions like the police department punished their own men instead of supporting them after traumatic incidents like this and how the wheels of justice often became an endless joke which had little to do with real justice, but rather, endless bureaucratic wheel spinning under the guise of providing the best defence for the perpetrators of crime.

Seeing this play out is both gruelling and haunting.

The Onion Field is, for the most part, an extremely fine film, but it's also saddled with a few glaring flaws, many of which are clearly the result of its producer (Wambaugh) having, perhaps, too much power and losing a clear sense of perspective in the pursuit of reality. There is, for example, a dreadful musical score which creeps in with jangling mediocrity during many of the "domestic" sequences and yet, is spare and effective during so much of the rest of the movie. How this inconsistency was allowed by Wambaugh is still a head-scratcher. Though the vast majority of the performances are flawless, there are a handful of smaller roles acted so badly that they stick out like sore thumbs. Harold (Sea of Love) Becker's direction wildly, unpredictably bounces between effective, subtle and chilling whilst alternately slipping into by the numbers TV-style camera jockeying.

One finally forgives these creative inconsistencies and instead admires what's great about the film: a genuine attempt to capture the complexities of the criminals and what led them to lives of criminality, the almost docudrama attention to the details of the initial interrogations, the strange machinations of the trials, the horrific day-to-day lifestyle on death row (including a horrendous suicide attempt by a man slated for a trip to the gas chamber), the unrelenting seediness of the motels, streets and cheap rooming houses the two main sociopaths lived in and most successfully, the film's successful rendering of a sense of family amongst the criminal class - one that's alternately false and deeply felt as real.

The leading performances are, without question, first-rate, but it's James Woods who steals the show with his crazy, scary performance as the most psychopathic of the duo. He chills to the bone in ways he's been able to mimic over the years, but here with a sense of razor sharp reality that has you on the edge of your seat.

There are moments in the film that are so moving that they're not only unforgettable, but are examples of the kind of filmmaking which is now so rare in American film, but was virtually de rigueur during the 70s - little details like when one of the cops, his hands up, slowly touches his partner's fingers when he realizes he's going to die, hoping to have one last touch of life before it all ends, or when one of the cops appears to be crying and his partner points out that it's a physical reaction to the fields of onions and later on, as the surviving cop brutally punches his baby in the back to make it stop crying and then, almost immediately fills up with horror and self-loathing over what he's done. The movie is full of moments like this which force you to catch your breath - again and again - as these heart-wrenching moments of sadness and brutality repeatedly knock the wind out of you.

Two especially powerful moments on opposite ends of the emotional and legal spectrum haunted me long after I first saw the movie first-run and knocked me flat when seeing it again on Blu-Ray are as follows:

1. When the most "sane" of the two criminals is asked if he feels guilty, he responds: "I think that is something that rich white guys dreamed up to keep guys like me down. I honestly don't believe there is such a thing... such a feeling. Guilty? That's just something the Man says in court when your luck runs out."

2. When the District Attorney, after endless trials and appeals decides to leave the law profession altogether upon realizing that the cop who died is long forgotten and that the one who survived is a mere ghost and that all that really remains with any meaning at all is the legal process. He states, with no irony at all that if it was in his power, he'd let the criminals go free. "…I'd just drop all the charges. Let 'em walk. If only I could send some lawyers and judges to the gas chamber."

The Onion Field, maybe now more than ever, is one of the most moving and truthful indictments of the American justice system ever put on film. It's neither dated, nor irrelevant to America today. It allows us to weep for the men on the beat as much as those behind bars and most of all, for the mess this incident inspired which transformed law enforcers into cold-hearted killers.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ****

The Onion Field is currently available on a new Blu-Ray from Kino-Lorber with an excellent selection of extras including a fine commentary track by director Harold Becker.

ALL THAT JAZZ - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Classic autobiographic Bob Fosse Felliniesque showbiz musical death fantasy gets the full CRITERION treatment - a real blast to the face

Bye Bye Life
Hello Emptiness

All That Jazz (1979)
Dir. Bob Fosse
Starring: Roy Scheider,
Jessica Lange, Leland Palmer,
Ann Reinking, Deborah Geffner, Ben Vereen, Cliff Gorman,
Erzsébet Földi, John Lithgow, Keith Gordon, Sandahl Bergman

Review By Greg Klymkiw

To my knowledge, All That Jazz is the only musical that is completely fuelled by self-destruction and death. Though Herbert Ross's joyously bleak 1981 Pennies From Heaven (from Dennis Potter's 1978 BBC mini-series) is equally infused with self-destruction and death, none of it is at all intentional as it is in this thinly-veiled autobiographical belly flop into the mind of Broadway choreographer/director Joe Gideon (Roy Scheider), standing in for director and co-writer Bob Fosse.

In the course of one year during the mid-70s, Fosse directed three major undertakings - the original Broadway stage production of Chicago, the harrowing motion picture biopic of doomed comedian Lenny Bruce with Dustin Hoffman in the title role and the massive live-to-tape television special Liza with a Z starring his original Sally Bowles from the Oscar-winning Cabaret. Anyone who has directed even one of the aforementioned knows how energy-draining and soul-sucking the process can be. Fosse did all three at once. He also suffered from epilepsy, smoked five packs of cigarettes per day, popped scads of uppers, drank like a fish, slept with at least one different woman every night and was "unexpectedly" hit with heart disease, which, subsequently led to Fosse undergoing open-heart surgery.

They don't make 'em like Bob Fosse anymore.

All That Jazz is the borderline avant-garde, semi-realist, semi-fantastical, and dazzlingly Fellini-esque musical rumination upon the aforementioned period of Fosse's life. Call it self indulgent if you will, but it's one hell of a great show.

Opening with a massive audition sequence with hundreds of dancers on the stage, slowly weeded out by Gideon to the strains of George Benson crooning "On Broadway", punctuated by early morning rituals of Vivaldi on his tape deck, squirting drops liberally into his bloodshot eyes, popping dexedrine and washing it down with fizzy alka-seltzer and then, ever-gazing at himself in the bathroom mirror as he utters his "It's showtime, folks!" mantra, we're privy to an insider's look at showbiz unlike any other. Whether Gideon's driving his dancers to tears - especially a leggy clodhopper (Deborah Geffner) he's recently bedded down - obsessively cutting his movie to get the performance of his leading actor (Cliff Gorman) 110%, being a super-cool dad to his daughter (Erzsébet Földi) and privately tutoring her in dance, commiserating with his wife (Leland Palmer) whom he still loves but can't live with (or rather, in all truthfulness, vice-versa), loving but not committing to his long suffering-girlfriend (Ann Reinking), tossing all his choreography out the window and re-jigging it with a hot blonde (Sandahl Bergman) as lead dancer in a piece drenched with nudity, sex and every conceivable carnal coupling, Fosse fashions a veritable kaleidoscope out of Gideon's life - and by extension, his life.

As if this wasn't enough to keep our jangled eyeballs glued to the screen, Fosse delivers a series of fantastical flash forwards with Gideon recounting his life and philosophies to Death (Jessica Lange). Yes, I kid you not, DEATH. And what a babe Death turns out to be. This is Lange's second film just after the 70s Dino De Laurentiis King Kong and Fosse's got her dolled-up head to toe in pure popsicle licking-and-sucking ice-goddess-white.

Of course, some of the most delightfully engaging and sexy conversations in the movie occur twixt the two characters. Gideon knows he can't bullshit Death and Death is rather charmed and amused by Gideon's antics. Besides, the more insanely self-destructive he is, the sooner she can claim Gideon to walk towards the white light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps the most telling exchange between them is when Death (or Angelique as she's listed in the credits) asks if he believes in love and his response is a very forthright: "I believe in saying, 'I love you.'"

And oh, does Gideon profess his love to all the women in his life: left, right, centre, up, down and sideways. At one point, as he's rushed down a hospital corridor on a gurney, he imagines his wife on one side of him and his girlfriend on the other. To his wife, he says, "If I die, I'm sorry for all the bad things I did to you." To his girlfriend he says, "If I live, I'm sorry for all the bad things I'm going to do to you." For Gideon, love hurts - just so long as he's not the one being hurt. After all, he only really loves one person, himself, and he's more than happy to hurt himself. In Gideon's eyes, Self-destruction doesn't count. Though he's a liar, cheat, bully, braggart and son of a bitch, we can't help but love him (and neither, of course, can he). As played by the super-manly-man tough guy Roy Scheider, Gideon's allowed to be artistic in what some might consider an effete profession - but good, goddamn, he's all MAN!!! Fosse gives us plenty of reasons to like Gideon. It's as if we're given permission to like this charming, chain-smoking, sex-charged prick.

Gideon, you see, is the ultimate choreographer. Not only does he choreograph his Broadway shows, he choreographs every aspect of his life, his friendships, his collaborations and his love relationships. They're all choreographed to satisfy him. He assumes, nay - demands - that what gives him pleasure is pleasure enough for all. Of course, since he has the self-appointed (anointed) power to choreograph his life, it stands to reason he's ultimately going to choreograph his ultimate production.

Speaking of which, the musical production numbers in the film, whether they're within a rehearsal context or eventually in full-blown movie-musical splendour during Gideon's open-heart-surgery reveries (yup, his hedonism leads to the Big One), Fosse continually enchants the eye and keeps one's toes a tapping. And nothing in recent decades has been quite as spectacular as the aforementioned "ultimate" Joe Gideon production - the man gets to choreograph his own death.

And what a death Gideon gives himself - a stunning showstopper of a number that includes a full band onstage, lights to trip fantastic to, agile chorus girls (and boys) spinning and gyrating with abandon, a full house including everyone and anyone of any consequence in his life, some of whom he dashes madly into the aisles to personally say farewell to and if that's not enough, the whole thing is set to a crazily funky rendition of the Everly Brothers' "Bye Bye Love", sung and danced by the astounding Ben Vereen with the word "Love" replaced by "Life". Hell, Gideon even gets a shot at crooning and engaging in pelvic whirligigs atop a glittery pinnacle with master showman Vereen.

"Bye Bye Life, Bye Bye happiness. . . Hello emptiness, I think he's gonna die. . . Goodbye your life, Goodbye. . . I think I'm gonna die!"

Bye, bye life, indeed.

Fosse won his directing Oscar for the phenomenal Cabaret, but it's here (and his subsequent Star 80, still begging for a proper home video release), where he really outdid himself. His direction of his own choreography is especially revealing. If one thinks, if even for just a moment, about any of Fosse's choreography in the film, it becomes readily apparent that all the numbers are staged in ways that would never work in a traditional proscenium context. This, ironically, is in marked contrast to the abysmal direction of the inexplicably-lauded film version of Fosse's Chicago wherein the boneheaded Rob Marshall directed choreography that might have worked on a stage, but is respectively, pathetically and laughably shot and cut with tin eyes and big old ham-fists.

Fosse is a filmmaker - the real thing! Like a few greats before him, most notably Busby Berkeley, Fosse directs and choreographs all the numbers for the camera - it's pure, joyous, unadulterated cinema. It also doesn't hurt that Fosse's cinematographer is none other than frequent Fellini lenser Giuseppe Rotunno. A canny-enough choice given some of the resemblance All That Jazz has, in homage, to 8-and-a-Half.

It's a marvel watching All That Jazz again on a superior format like Blu-Ray. It's not only as sumptuous and exciting as it was when it first unspooled on film in 1979, it's probably the next best thing to owning your own pristine 35mm print. In a contemporary context, Fosse's great picture feels even fresher and bolder today than I imagined it to be 35-years-ago.

And save, for all the endlessly delightful scenes showing doctors, including heart surgeons (!!!), chain smoking cigarettes, that's about the only thing in the film that feels even remotely dated.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars

And WOW! The Criterion Collection continues to outdo themselves. This gorgeously transferred dual-format (Blu-Ray AND DVD) home entertainment package in an all-new 4K digital restoration, with 3.0 surround DTS-HD Master Audio soundtrack, has OWN ME written all over it. The extra features are an absolute bounty. The 40-minute scene-specific commentary by Roy Scheider really knocks this one out of the park. He offers considerable insight into his role, the working relationship he had with Fosse and even the filmmaking process. I can't imagine anyone not enjoying this added-value feature, but it's an absolute must for actors to cherish (burgeoning or otherwise).

There are numerous interview segments with editor Alan Heim, Fosse biographer Sam Wasson, actors Ann Reinking and Erzsebet Foldi, plus an astonishing episode of the talk show "Tomorrow" from 1980, featuring Fosse and legendary choreographer Agnes de Mille. There are also two superb in-depth interview with Fosse from the 80s, one of which, conducted by Gene Shalit, is shockingly well done.

As if that's not enough, there are two full length documentaries on the making of the film, on-set footage, featurettes on the film's music (including one with George Benson) and a lovely booklet with a decent essay. The only mild disappointment is the feature length commentary by editor Heim who is either far too silent through most of the film, far too anecdotal (delivering information we already know from the added documentaries) and when it comes to discussing the cutting, he's far too general and not very specific. A minor quibble, though. There's plenty here to keep you engaged for a lifetime.

THE WARRIORS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - In light of so many dreadful blockbusters permeating the screens with their rancid odour of directors who cannot, for the life of them, direct action sequences (or much else), it's time for audiences to flush the likes of J.J. Abrams, Christopher Nolan, et al down the toilet and see what a real director can do with action.

The Warriors (1979) Ultimate Director's Cut ****
dir. Walter Hill
Starring: Michael Beck, James Remar, Deborah Van Valkenburgh, David Patrick Kelly and Roger Hill

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Damn! This is one spectacular action picture that definitely deserves to be ranked as a classic of the genre. The movie is over thirty-years-old and while falling a few tiny notches below utter perfection, it has not dated at all and still carries the weight and power to dazzle audiences as it did so many years ago. It really is so terrific that I'm compelled to urge everyone to see it - especially in light of such dreadful recent action blockbusters like Star Trek: Into Darkness, Iron Man III, The Fast and the Furious 6 and God only knows what other horrendous piles of crap that await us this summer from directors (I use the term loosely) who have absolutely no idea how to shoot action scenes.

We can also breathe a sigh of relief that the occasionally proficient hack Tony Scott took his mysterious dive off the Vincent Thomas Bridge in San Pedro before he had a chance to realize his planned remake of The Warriors (not to mention the potential of a Scott remake of The Wild Bunch, a bonafide, untouchable classic from Hill's mentor Sam Peckinpah).

That said, Tony Scott perfected the fast-cutting herky-jerky style of action with considerable aplomb. He, at least, knew what he was doing as opposed to the likes of J.J. Abrams, Justin Lin or Shane Black. The list can go on. In 2012 we had to suffer through the tin eyes of lame action direction from Joss Whedon (The Avengers,), Marc Webb (The Amazing Spiderman), Gary Ross (The Hunger Games), Sam Mendes (Skyfall) and the absolute worst hack of them all, Christopher "One Idea" Nolan (The Dark Knight Rises).

What is it with these clowns who can't direct action being allowed to direct action anyway? Even worse, what's up with audiences willing to accept noisy, frenetic, substandard shooting and cutting? Attention spans and/or brain matter must be at such an all time low that the Decline and Collapse of Western Civilization is not too far away.

One of the things The Warriors has going for it over these other horrendously directed pictures is that it has a nice simple narrative coat hanger for Hill to hang his cool shit on.

A visionary New York City crime warlord named Cyrus (Roger Hill) gathers nine reps from one hundred gangs to assemble for a meeting in a Bronx park where he charismatically informs everyone that fighting for turf amongst each other is a losing game. He notes that NYC gang members number 100,000 strong and with only 20,000 policeman to fight crime, they outnumber law enforcement authorities big-time. In this small, but pivotal role, Roger Hill - with his resonant alto-bass voice - whips the masses into a frenzy with his punctuating cries of "Can you dig it?"

Alas, the psycho Luther (brilliantly played by David Patrick Kelly - a pre-Crispin Glover who out-Crispin-Glovers Crispin Glover) assassinates Cyrus and blames the murder on the Coney Island gang called The Warriors. Soon, the nine, stylish and buff young fellas from the wrong side of Brighton Beach find themselves having to get back to their home turf with 100,000 furious gang members thirsting for their blood. As Cyrus ordered everyone to come to the meeting sans-heat, The Warriors are unarmed and need to use brains, animal instinct and their fists to savagely defend themselves and embark on a dangerous odyssey across the city - a city so dark and labyrinthine, they might as well be trying to make their way on foot from Toronto to Timbuktu.

Led by the silent, but deadly Swan (Michael Beck) and the hot-headed Ajax (James Remar), The Warriors encounter some of the most nightmarish gangs imaginable. This is where Hill really succeeds in painting a veritable inferno. This New York City is unlike any New York we have ever seen. Yes, the streets are as rough and dirty as we've seen, but the population at night appears to be solely comprised of cops and gangs. And the gangs are adorned in "colours" (the threads that identify them) that create a kaleidoscopic of fresco of trash fashion and malevolence: the Gramercy Riffs are adorned in bright yellow satin kung-fu jammies and shades, the Lizzies, an all-female gang ooze sex appeal with their trashy, utilitarian garb and, among many other, the Baseball Furies deliver the kind of dazzling nightmare qualities that only the movies can give us as the gang members are outfitted in full baseball regalia, hideously painted faces and wielding heavy-duty baseball bats.

The journey itself is propelled by the gorgeous lips of a female D.J. who sexily spins (on vinyl no less) appropriate tunes to fuel the action of the evening and murmurs threats to the Warriors and updated information to the 100,000 strong looking to take them out.The only slight disappointment here is the otherwise appropriate song "Nowhere to Run" which is, unfortunately, delivered by a pallid cover band instead of the original Martha and the Vandellas. Other than that, though, Barry De Vorzon's pulsating synth-score and Joe Walsh's stirring anthem "In the City", more than make up for the above mentioned musical gaffe.

Andrew Laszlo's cinematography etches a veritable film noir quality, but with dollops of fluorescent light and garish colour. The entire picture, save for the early morning light during the picture's climax, is shot at night where every deep, dark shadow pulsates with the threat of all manner of nastiness.

It's certainly no wonder that The Warriors took North American audiences by storm. Boxoffice on the picture sizzled and responses were highly emotional - especially in theatres situated in areas populated by heavy gang activity. This led to actual violence in some cinemas and both the studio and exhibitors across North America, fearing a backlash, idiotically started pulling advertising and even dropping the picture, in spite of its sizzling grosses. This, of course, resulted in numbers that didn't accurately reflect the movie's full potential.

As an audience member in the relatively benign (at least in the 70s) city of Winnipeg, I was always amazed at the hugely emotional reaction to the film. People cheered, whistled, and clapped their way through the picture, and even when it ended its run, I remember booking the film in a repertory cinema I programmed - again and again and again. The grosses were stunning long after its first-run. Midnight screenings were especially lucrative and the audiences (gang-affiliated or not) stylishly adorned themselves in the manner of all the gangs in the movie.

The Warriors was more than a movie. It was a phenomenon. The kind of thing that doesn't really happen anymore in our world of short-runs, multiplexes and home entertainment.

Directed by Walter Hill, the only real heir apparent to the legendary Sam Peckinpah (Hill wrote the wonderful screenplay adaptation of Jim Thomson's The Getaway for Peckinpah), he was, for much of his career, one of the most agile, tough-minded and original directors of exquisite pulp. Hill could direct action scenes with the assuredness of a master, but his real talents were rooted in creating worlds that could ONLY exist on film - delicious never-never-lands that delivered a macho fairy tale quality for little boys of all ages. (Though, if truth be told, my 12-year-old daughter has seen The Warriors many times and is thoroughly dazzled by it each time she does.)

With one great action picture after another, Hill took us into almost fantastical worlds on the darkside of human existence. His debut, Hard Times lovingly recreated the world of prize-fighting during the depression, The Driver dove deeply into a pseudo-existentialist post-Jean-Pierre-Melville-styled world of car thieves and crooked cops, The Long Riders was, without question, one of the most evocative renderings of the Jesse James legend ever made, Southern Comfort - clearly in Deliverance territory - was a terrifying thriller following a group of unarmed National Guardsmen through the Louisiana Bayous as they fend off repeated attacks by slavering psycho Cajun inbreds and finally, the spectacular expressionistic rock and roll phantasmagoria Streets of Fire capped a sterling career.

His foray into overtly conventional and commercial cinema delivered the well-directed, but empty-headed 48 Hrs. (and its dreadful sequel Another 48 Hrs.) and signalled a beginning of the end for Hill. He never quite recovered from this period and his output ranged from dreadful to competent, with a few flawed, but interesting pictures like Wild Bill, Johnny Handsome and Crossroads.

His one great masterpiece, however, was and still is, The Warriors. Hill's camera is always where it should be with superb compositions. Each shot is a gem and much like a great cartoon, Hill doesn't hold longer than he has to - he leaves you desperate for more. The editing, while fast-paced and flashy (replete with really cool wipes and dissolves) is, in tandem with the fabulous cinematography, never disorienting and/or sloppy in that contemporary herky-jerky style of contemporary action (usually directed by the aforementioned boneheads like J. J. Abrams et al, who have no talent whatsoever for crafting lean and mean action).

The Blu-Ray and DVD releases of The Warriors are both presented as a Director's Cut. What this really means, is that Hill was finally able to incorporate comic book panels to bridge all the different movements and locations in the film. While the film lived without these additions for a long time - now that they're there, I can't quite imagine the picture without them.

With all the contemporary comic book film adaptations out there these days, The Warriors actually comes closest to recreating a thrilling and delightful comic book style. Not only because of Hill's recent additions, but in his adherence to a never-never-land mise-en-scene.

And the action sequences have seldom been matched. These spectacular set-pieces - replete with Peckinpah styled slow motion - are charged with the kind of fury that great action thrillers MUST have. The battle between the Warriors and the Baseball Furies in a dark, inner-city park with rich green lawns and leafy trees, is still a thing of great beauty and there's a sequence on a subway platform that's both chilling and finally, when the action shifts to a grotty public washroom, the choreography and pyrotechnics are a veritable ballet of visceral violence.

If you've never seen The Warriors you are doing yourself a great disservice by not seeing it. If you've seen it before, see it again. My recent helpings of the picture were the first times I'd seen it since the 80s and I can assure you, it not only held up, but actually felt fresher, more vibrant and more urgent than ever before.

"The Warriors" is available on Blu-Ray and DVD from Paramount Home Video.

THE TIN DRUM - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Schlöndorff's Oscar-winning adaptation of the great Günter Grass novel given deluxe treatment on Criterion BluRay/DVD

OSKAR BANGS HIS DRUM

The Tin Drum (1979) ***
dir. Volker Schlöndorff
Starring: David Bennett,
Angela Winkler, Mario Adorf,
Daniel Olbrychski, Charles Aznavour

Review By Greg Klymkiw

There are many reasons why this film adaptation of the Günter Grass novel was a critically acclaimed, multi-award-winning box office smash in 1979 and stayed at the top for many years as the go-to-must-see rep-cinema darling of the early-to-mid-80s, just as there are explanations why it's lost some lustre over the last 30 years and why, in spite of this, the picture is still compelling viewing.



At the age of three, little Oskar Matzerath (David Bennett) decides not to grow. Believing a tiny physical stature will maintain childhood innocence, he violently tosses himself down the basement stairs and onto the concrete below. It works. Though his mind grows, he remains exactly the same height for the rest of his life and to the family and outside world, he's happily allowed to be three years old forever.

Living in the pre-WWII independent free city Danzig, Oskar'a maternal bloodline hails from the Kashubia region of northern Poland. Here, Poles and Germans live together in relative harmony - so much so that Oskar's mother (Angela Winkler) has concurrent mutual love affairs with a German (Mario Adorf) and a Pole (Daniel Olbrchski) and though it's the former who marries Mom to give Oskar a "name", it seems obvious that the latter is his biological Dad.

Oskar's most prized possession is the tin drum his mother purchases from the kindly Jewish Toy Shop dealer (Charles Aznavour) who sadly holds an unrequited torch for her. Oskar seldom lets go of the drum and he develops a unique talent. When he's displeased, he bangs his drum and lets out a piercing scream that is powerful enough to shatter glass.

Once Poland in conquered by Germany, the world changes, though Oskar remains a dwarf. This semi-childlike creature with the uncanny gift finds even more in the world to be dissatisfied about - especially now that he is developing the internal desires of manhood, but looked upon as a child.

It's a great story. Unfortunately, the years have not been kind to the movie, in spite of this being a new director's cut that adds 20 minutes to the running time. Much of the footage fleshes out what once seemed like a choppy, though eminently fascinating and grotesque movie.

In spite of this, the film's inherent flaws have not been eradicated by this new cut. Schlöndorff's erratic direction is still maddeningly all over the place. When the camera is trained on Oskar and the young David Bennett's great performance (coupled with the intensity of his sharply angular face and piercing eyes), the movie is certainly a strange and worthy look at war through the eyes of a child who refuses to grow up, but sadly does so beneath his outer physical appearance.

Schlöndorff errs, however, since he wants to have his cake and eat it too. Much of the film is played straight with a formal, classical structure whilst a variety of grotesqueries parade in front of the lens. I have no objection to this, but he never quite hits the right balance between playing the tale "straight" and injecting numerous hackneyed pseudo-hip touches like speeding up the camera at the beginning of the film to mime the period of cinema in which the action occurs. He just doesn't go the distance. The silent movie pastiche is inadequately rendered. It feels like lame parody rather than satire and sets the movie off on the wrong foot.

Some of the more magic-realist elements DO work - an astonishing within the womb shot of Oskar and a couple of perverse dream sequences are indelibly rendered. Others, however, fall flat on their face. The famous sequence in the book where Oskar manipulates a Nuremberg-styled rally is handled in such a straight forward and rather dull manner that the sequence feels more like a good idea gone bad rather than the sublime qualities of the same sequence in the book which, demanded a cinematic evocation with a delicately perverse touch.

Still and all, this is a film that demands being seen. The Criterion Collection edition expertly includes a series of extra features that do enhance one's appreciation for Schlöndorff's approach, but somewhat brilliantly display why much of his direction falters. The most telling added value bonus is seeing the aforementioned rally sequence with novelist Günter Grass reading the same sequence from the novel. The sheer poetic and lyrical qualities of the prose contrast wildly with the choppy, literal-minded rendering of the same sequence.

What the film needed was, if anything, delicacy - not a cudgel - which, more often than not is what Schlöndorff wields with a madness, even when he's resorting to straight-up by-the-numbers directorial approaches.

We're likely to never see another film adaptation of this astonishing book and as this is all we have, and because it's as well-intentioned and sometimes effective as much as it is annoyingly disappointing is reason enough to see it and embrace it as one would a ne'er do well blood relative. Blood is thick. And it must be acknowledged.

But oh, to think of how Andrei Tarkovsky or Ulrich Seidl or even (I kid you not) Steven Spielberg might have wrought a work of magic, of utter perfection; a work infused with uncompromising poetic qualities are some of the things that will always haunt me whenever I continue to watch this wholly worthy, yet oddly inadequate cinematic rendering of the great Grass novel. This most recent viewing made me even think about a movie that never was, but should have been - one in which the style of Ingmar Bergman's miscued Nazi horror film The Serpent's Egg could have been married to the same Grass-approved screenplay Schlöndorff worked from. What glorious imaginings.

The Criterion Collection Blu-Ray is more than worth seeing and because of its attributes on the level of the disc's production value (including the stunning remastering of the picture's look) offers yet another great home entertainment item also worth owning.

QUADROPHENIA - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Klymkiw's CHRISTMAS GIFT IDEA FOR 2012 #3 - The Deluxe Must-Own Criterion Collection Director Approved Blu-Ray & DVD

Sting's the Ace Face, Coolest Mod of All!

No surprise, really!

Here's your Greg Klymkiw Christmas Gift Suggestion #3 for 2012. It's the magnificent Criterion Collection - Director Approved Blu-Ray (or, if you must, DVD) of Franc Roddam's classic dramatic realization of the rock opera by The Who. This magnificent Criterion release includes a newly restored digital transfer supervised by cinematographer Brian Tufano which retains the vibrant, varied palette of colours, the glorious grain, the deep natural blacks and the blasts of night exterior practical lighting. Included is the original 2.0 stereo soundtrack and for audiophiles and cinephiles alike, a brand new 5.1 surround mix supervised by the Who and on the Blu-Ray, it's presented in DTS-HD Master Audio. The bonus treat includes a superb commentary track with director Franc Roddam and D.P. Brian Tufano - one of the best commentaries I've ever heard - replete with clear details of the filmmaking process and married to the picture with considerable skill. Another great bonus is a 1979 segment from the legendary BBC TV series "Talking Pictures" with excellent interviews and behind-the-scenes footage - SHOT ON FILM!!!!! As if this wasn't enough, you also get a wonderful segment from a 1964 episode of the French news program "Sept jours du monde" that focuses on the phenomenon of mods and rockers AND a very cool 1965 episode of the French youth-culture program "Seize millions de jeunes: Mods” that includes some of the earliest footage of The Who. There's also the usual Criterion assortment of additional interviews, an audio restoration demonstration, trailers and a lovely booklet that includes a critical essay, a personal history by the "original" mod Irish Jack and Pete Townshend’s legendary liner notes from the 1973 album by The Who. Not only a stellar package, but easily one of the top Blu-Ray releases of 2012.

LOVE in LONDON on a LAMBRETTA

Can you see, the Real Me?

Can you? Can you?

Quadrophenia (1979) Dir. Franc Roddam *****

Starring:

Phil Daniels, Sting,

Ray Winstone, Leslie Ash,

Michael Elphick, Kate Williams,

Phillip Davis, Mark Wingett,

Gary Shail, Garry Cooper,

Toyak Wilcox, Trevor Laird,

John Bindon, Timothy Spall

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Franc Roddam's extraordinary film adaptation of Quadrophenia, the legendary rock opera by The Who, was unleashed theatrically over thirty years ago. Great movies never die, never date, never spoil, but do, in fact, get richer with each viewing and every passing year. Happily, Roddam's fictional rendering of the clashes between the Mods and Rockers, two ultra-cool youth subcultures of the early 1960s, blasts off the screen with the same unyielding force that it did in 1979. In my books, it's more than earned bonafide masterpiece status.

The writing by Dave Humphries, Martin Stellman and director Roddam yields, in the best collaborative tradition of cinema, a straightforward, but strong narrative that springboards from the emblematic music and Pete Townsend's dazzling liner notes on The Who's original album. Dialogue sizzles on a skillet, like pork bellies in an ocean of rich, heavily-salted butter, leaping with abandon into the mouths of the film's actors who, in turn, volley the finely foul, flavour-drenched, crepitating poetry of London's dirty, drizzle-drenched streets of the early 60s with the same force Martin Scorsese and Mardick Martin's writing did for New York's Little Italy in Mean Streets. Adding to the screenplay's savoury (or to some, unsavoury) broth is the wide array of vivid characters etched onto the compelling tale of youthful rebellion, camaraderie and disillusionment.

The writing is an ideal blueprint for director Roddam to take a running leap into a chasm of stylistically adventuresome helmsmanship - rendering a movie for the ages. Applying a documentary sensibility to the proceedings, Roddam creates a great picture that bristles with life itself against an exciting backdrop and a solid narrative backbone.

Jimmy (Phil Daniels), our decidedly uncharacteristic hero, works a dead-end job as a mail-boy, shuffling through labyrinthine corridors of an upscale advertising agency with all the excitement of a George Romero zombie bereft of even the desire to eat human flesh. In the evenings, he returns to his working class home wherein a harridan mother (Kate Williams) and abusive alcoholic father (Michael Elphick) harangue him over a lack of ambition and his lazy, hedonistic "carryings-on". Even his sister (Kim Neve), a Sirenian subungulate who spends endless hours lolling under a sunlamp is quick to condemn Jimmy's interests and lifestyle (which essentially boil down to The Who and partying).

He finds hi only real sense of family, of belonging, of being his own person within the Mod lifestyle, a hyper-snazzy youth culture devoted to impeccable fashion: suit jackets, thin ties, painted-on jeans, The Who ('natch), riding about on gloriously ornate Italian scooters and, of course, all the parties, pills and fellowship amongst like-minded scene-sters. There's also the shared rivalry Mods have with Rockers, the old style be-bop-a-lula types with their uncool leather jackets, ape-like pompadours and cumbersome motorcycles.

Gang warfare based solely upon mutual hatred is par for the course.

Mostly though, being a Mod is a whole lot of fun.

Jimmy has his eye on the beautiful Steph (Leslie Ash) with her glorious alabaster pigmentation, straight burnt-orange-coloured hair and (if we're to believe the Austin Powers movies regarding British oral health) a shockingly winning smile. His Steph's a bit of a tease, mind you, so our Pete Townsend lookalike (Jimmy has a poster of Pete above his bed) will settle for a few gropes and french kisses with the spunky Monkey (Toyah Willcox), a saucy, little devil with short-cropped platinum blonde hair and a grand, giggling sense of humour (as opposed to the vapid ice-queen Steph).

Monkey pines for Jimmy. Jimmy pines for Steph.

Ain't it always the way?

What's really on everyone's mind, however, is the upcoming May long weekend festivities at the seaside resort Brighton and preparations include the simple, but arduous task of getting pills (amphetamines, to be precise). Twixt parties and more parties Jimmy and his mates embark upon an odyssey to score their mind-altering drug of choice - searching high and low for their main connection Ferdy (Trevor Laird), visiting Harry North (John Bindon), a slimy gangster who rips them off with wax capsules and in desperation, a furious late-night attempt to break into a pharmacy.

Amidst the booze-and-pill-fuelled revelry, Jimmy happens upon Kevin (Ray Winstone), a boyhood chum. Flabbergasted to find his old pal is - shudder - a Rocker, he tentatively renews a friendship that eventually seems to pickup where it left off.

And then, it's time for the holiday weekend in Brighton.

Joy is imminent.

Disillusionment is potentially not too far behind.

A classic coming of age tale is born.

Astoundingly, Roddam achieves what few directors have been able to do with similar material (especially contemporary directors). He indeed makes the familiar tale universal without pandering to ephemeral needs of both audience and marketplace (save for one bit of expert casting). He does it by skillfully remaining true to the period in which the film is set and the era from whence the original album originated.

Here's a movie, made in the late 70s about events that at the time, were already well over ten years past and had been forgotten by much of the world outside of the UK. The Who were huge, as were other stellar lights of the British Rock Invasion, but "Mod" had become more synonymous with London style (and swinging) than an entire youth culture as significant as either the punks or skinheads or, for that matter, the Beat Generation.

Even a great American picture like George Lucas's American Graffiti offered, to most, a quaintly genteel nostalgic rendering of "happier times" a mere ten years after the "Where Were You in '62?" generation lived lives similar to those depicted in the movie. Lucas's film was, of course, instilled with the undercurrents and portents of the Vietnam War, but most audiences tended to don blinders to these aspects of the picture.

Not so, with Roddam's film.

Quadrophenia is a film firmly divided between haves and have-nots, youthful abandon and the dull maturity of adulthood, Mods and Rockers (of course), but most importantly, a sense of rage and rebellion in a world that demands conformity, a world fixed in a class structure determined and decided by those with no interest in the needs and desires of youth. One of the most simple and powerful moments that illustrates both the divide between classes and age occurs in the lavatory of the ad agency Jimmy works in. Two pompous executives natter-on and preen themselves whilst a hung-over Jimmy wretches in a stall, stumbles out towards the sinks and splashes water on his face. Throughout the entire scene, neither executive acknowledges the presence of Jimmy and even when he stands between them at the mirrors, they look at each other through him as if he was invisible.

Indeed, to the "ruling" class, people like Jimmy are always invisible. For Jimmy's generation and subsequent generations just like him, raging against the machine might not be the best solution, but sometimes it seems like the only solution.

Breaking Records Everywhere.

Even in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

By the time Quadrophenia was released theatrically, the Punk and New Wave revolutions were in full swing. To the eventually gluttonous brokers of power during the latter portion of the 2oth Century (those lefty hippies who became pseudo-lefty capitalists of the most abhorrent kind), Quadrophenia was NEVER going to inspire innocuous nostalgic sitcoms of the "Happy Days", "Laverne and Shirley" or, God Help Us, the "Joanie Loves Chachi" variety. Nor would it have inspired the fake-grit-gussied-up-with-Disco-Fever in John Badham's Saturday Night Fever in 1977 and especially not the most ludicrous piece of cotton candy nostalgia of 1978's Grease. With Quadrophenia, nobody would have been "Hopelessly Devoted To…" the pompadoured 50s greasers of Randal Kleiser's inexplicably revered film rendering of the hit Broadway play that proclaimed to the world that "GREASE is the word!", nor would they be raging a storm in the "Disco Inferno" of Saturday Night Fever.

By 1979, young people from the tail end of the Baby Boom and on the cusp of the McJob Generation X were greeted with this equally nostalgia-drenched period piece that spoke directly to them, but rather than being a gentle reminder of how things were so much more simple "back then", Roddam's film was ingrained with violent energy and a cloud of disillusionment that gave even post-war disillusion a run for its money.

My own personal history with discovering the film was seeing it first-run in a packed-to-the-Gods 2000-seat picture-palace in Winnipeg and seeing it again and again and again - along with friends, colleagues and likeminded strangers. Punk and New Wave was raging amongst the youth culture of even this mid-western Canadian city surrounded by flat wheat fields in every direction. The picture sparked its own style revolution and spoke directly to young adults who frequented the punks bar and social events of this otherwise sleepy city. Of course when the film ended its surprisingly successful first run, I secured it for my own repertory cinema and played it incessantly at midnight shows and the like - to packed houses.

We lived as far away from London as one could imagine and certainly those of us who felt disenfranchised by our parents' generation and worse, those horrendous hogs-at-the-trough of the early-to-mid-baby-boom, embraced Quadrophenia as our own. Granted, Canada was, in fact, little more than a colonial remnant and was a country we grew up referring to as "The Dominion of Canada" and certainly in a city like Winnipeg, we were well aware of the province's unique history of rebellion against the old money WASPS in "Central" Canada.

This is a personal reminiscence, but illustrates how far reaching the film's grip on youth audiences actually went. People the world over - especially in English-speaking enclaves of the British Commonwealth - understood and identified with the plight of Mods and Rockers alike from a period of time over a decade old and in a film from a contemporary director who made a piece of Britain's youth history akin to our own.

Over the years, I've shown the film to younger generations and its power to thrill and move has not abated.

A lot of this, frankly, comes from Roddamn's brilliant work as a director. Though he casts his lens in verite fashion, he does so without the almost de rigueur shaky cam and sloppy non-lighting of the dogme-tistes of the late 90s and, even more offensive, the seemingly endless youth indie features from the last ten or so years (especially the wretched "mumble core" abominations).

Roddam, blessed with cinematographer Brian Tufano's first-rate lensing is, in fact, much closer to the Italian Neo-realist tradition - Vittorio DeSica in particular. Using deft compositions, elegant camera movement (not always flashy, but DRAMATICALLY effective) and an exquisite blend of practical lighting and just enough available light, the film paints a vivid, gritty portrait. The look never calls attention to itself save for when it's absolutely necessary in dramatic terms.

It's a rough-hewn classical approach that draws us in closer and/or presents a wide-eyed view to always place us squarely in the action of the story. When need be, we're fly-in-the-room viewers, following the action in long takes. Look, for example, to Jimmy's extraordinary entrance during the first party scene where the take appears to go on forever, but is so focused upon the dramatic action that we pretty much don't notice the camera work (unlike the numerous Scorsese/Goodfellas-inspired steadicam shots throughout the past 20 years).

To a certain extent, Roddam and Tufano even allow us to be participants in the dramatic action - look to some of the extraordinary shots during the Brighton riots sequence, or most evocatively, a scene where Jimmy and Steph, avoiding the cacophony of the riots, make out in a back-alley haven.

The casting and direction of the actors is so dead-on that again, we're reminded of DeSica's use of non-actors in dramatic roles. Phil Daniels as Jimmy was a complete revelation when Quadrophenia first appeared. His natural on-screen charisma was so strong that he lets us empathize and at times, even like a character who, at many moments, is downright obnoxious. Daniels here, was so tremendous, that lovers of BritPics across the pond scoured the movie ads for mention of his name and indeed, we thrilled to his occasional roles in works such as Scum, The Class of Miss MacMichael and Breaking Glass. (These days, after a successful stint as a rock musician, Daniels has become a prolific working actor on stage and screen. He even did the voice work on the Rat character in the popular animated film Chicken Run.)

Phil Daniels: Pete Townsend Surrogate "Jimmy"

As a sidenote, Johnny Rotten (Lydon) of The Sex Pistols (and eventually Public Image Limited) was auditioned and offered the role of Jimmy. Thank Christ none of the financiers were willing to pay the huge insurance premiums on Lydon since Daniels is so tremendous, I couldn't actually imagine anyone else playing Jimmy.

Besides, the film has a marvelous piece of stunt casting that works perfectly. Sting as the Mod King, Ace Face, is cooler than cool. Not only that, but I suspect it was a role he strongly identified with - he himself came from modest lower middle class beginnings and worked odd jobs for years - not unlike the one Ace Face is revealed to have during the picture's climactic moments. As well, it wasn't just stunt casting - the camera always loved Sting. Also, given that The Police had just released their first album a few months before the film's release, it made perfect casting sense on both a marketing level - as well as an aesthetic one. Quadrophenia was, after all, a film that appealed to punks and new wavers who strongly identified with the Mods. Decades later, Sting is not only emblematic to several generations for his always cool music styling, but his genuine activism on behalf of the disenfranchised the world over.

Given Sting's own early class struggles, and in fact, one of the huge flaws within Britain's class system

The young actors playing The Mods all acquit themselves strongly with the naturalistic verve of non-actors (some were, some weren't) and in the only supporting role of any substance representing the Rockers is the very young, handsome and hunky Ray Winstone as Jimmy's old school chum. Winstone's performance, given the eventual fate of his character, is genuinely moving - especially in how he and his character poignantly offer a foreshadowing of the negative aspects of fake individuality through conformity and signalling, the beginning of the end for even Jimmy's character.

All the adult roles are filled out beautifully with a winning array of Britain's best character actors. Michael Elphick and Kate Williams as Jimmy's Dad and Mom share the qualities Phil Daniels is imbued with - playing seemingly reprehensible characters, but with enough in the way of balance and layering to breathe humanity in them. The late Elphick (who tragically died a few years ago from a heart attack related to his extremely debilitating alcoholism) was a regular on the EastEnders TV series, but for me, he'll remain etched as the foul night watchman in the hospital housing John Merrick in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and here as the brutish, working class boozer, who below his gruff surface, just wants to understand his son.

The Late, Great Michael Elphick:

A Father's Love for his Son

Finally, that IS what Quadrophenia is really all about - understanding, or rather, the lack thereof. Because the picture is so well written and directed, it takes experiences from a long time ago in a world that no longer exists, but makes them universal. Pete Townsend's lyrics for "The Real Me" are as evocative a summation of the film's thematic resonance as any:

I went back to the doctor To get another shrink. I sit and tell him about my weekend, But he never betrays what he thinks.
Can you see the real me, doctor?
I went back to my mother I said, "I'm crazy ma, help me." She said, "I know how it feels son, 'Cause it runs in the family."
Can you see the real me, mother?
The cracks between the paving stones Look like rivers of flowing veins. Strange people who know me Peeping from behind every window pane. The girl I used to love Lives in this yellow house. Yesterday she passed me by, She doesn't want to know me now.
Can you see the real me, can you?
I ended up with the preacher, Full of lies and hate, I seemed to scare him a little So he showed me to the golden gate.
Can you see the real me preacher? Can you see the real me doctor? Can you see the real me mother? Can you see the real me?

I daresay the power of the film, what it hammers home so truthfully AND entertainingly is that thing we've all felt. Anyone who claims they've never wanted an answer to the question, "Can you see the real me?", is frankly, a liar.

Most importantly, like Jimmy, as the film and Townsend's great song reveal, we all pose the question and need the answer, but ultimately, we neglect to pose the question and look for the answer in ourselves.

It's Jimmy's journey.

And ours.

And it's one hell of a journey!