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Essential Films . . . & Others

Edward Hopper, New York Theater,

Edward Hopper, New York Movie, 1939

3,774 words

Looking over Trevor Lynch’s list of his “Ten Favorite Films” in his forthcoming collection, Son of Trevor Lynch’s White Nationalist Guide to the Movies, it occurred to me that I couldn’t possibly put together such a list, even if I could decide on a criterion or two.

I then remembered that Elmer O’Brien, S.J., in introducing his Essential Plotinus, faced a similar difficulty and suggested that there was an “essential” Plotinus as Coleridge had said there was an “essential’ poetry: “that to which with the greatest pleasure the reader returns.”[1] And I recalled that when I finally broke down and bought a DVD player, around 2005, I made a similar rule, to buy discs for movies that I was again and again stopping to watch if they showed up on my cable TV guide.

With the thought that some Counter-Currents readers might find it somewhat diverting, I have put together a little list of such “essential” films, the ones that I constantly default to. Constant Readers will recognize a few, since they are the films whose Constant Viewing has inspired one or more essays here at Counter-Currents, which are linked below. 

Casino (Martin Scorsese) — Like Leone, Scorsese is a master of what I like to call bravura filmmaking (de Niro’s barroom entrance in Mean Streets, Ray Liotta’s Copacabana entrance, Henry Hill’s last day of freedom in Goodfellas, etc.); Welles’s movie studio as “the best train set a boy every got.” The usual bag of tricks are here: goofy but murderous gangsters, explanations of how the money is made, etc. On repeated viewings, it’s the story of Ace and Sharon Stone’s marriage. “I’ve found a new sponsor” is the epitaph for the New Liberated Woman of the ’70s. But all the critics saw was “another Goodfellas.” Even the pop music cues are here, but what’s memorable is Howard Shore’s score, channeling Samuel Barber, linking Videodrome to Lord of the Rings. You might think I’d choose Gangs of New York, but despite its merits I find I only return to the final time-lapse of downtown Manhattan, and for that I have Once Upon a Time in America.

JFK (Oliver Stone) — Love the re-creation of ’60s USA. Thematically, Stone sets out to rip the lid off the Kennedy Assassination, but was eventually sold on the least plausible theory — Jim Garrison’s Theory of Guilt by Geographical Proximity — making his film a covertly pro-Warren Commission psy-op.

Along the way, though, Stone gives some of Hollywood’s best actors the chance to regale us with the most extreme political opinions you’ll ever hear on screen — “Lou Grant” isn’t so cuddly was he drinks to the death of “a bullshit President . . . That’s what happens when you let the niggers vote. They get together with the Jews and the Catholics . . . and elect an Irish bleeding heart . . . Here’s to the New Frontier. Camelot in smithereens.”

I love Garrison’s idea of a covert squad of right-wing homosexual spooks running guns to Cuba and generally doing more for the cause of the Right than 50 years of “conservative” politicking, while Kevin Bacon steals the movie by channeling Francis Parker Yockey through a male hustler: “You a liberal, you don’t know shit ’cause you never been fucked in the ass. This ain’t about justice! No, this is about order! Who rules? Fascism is coming back!” As always, only the bad guys get to talk sense. I wonder if Yockey sounded like that in jail?

Kiss Me Deadly (Robert Aldrich) — An Angry Liberal attempt to rub out Mickey Spillane’s “sadistic fascist” Mike Hammer goes wildly astray and winds up being condemned by the Legion of Decency; as if American Sniper had been intended as an anti-war protest film. Blindingly over-exposed night views of ’50s Los Angeles, seemingly after a super-nova, all boiling acid and chrome. But nothing can outshine the satanic brilliance of Gaby Rogers, Husserl’s niece and Anne Frank’s playmate, as the most fatal femme fatale of all; her eyes are like jellied fire and burn through the screen long before she sets herself, and the film, ablaze with an ending (in the original or now restored version) stolen from Ed Wood’s Bride of the Monster. “Kiss me, Mike. I want you to kiss me. Kiss me. The liar’s kiss that says I love you, and means something else.” Bang! (See my “Mike Hammer, Occult Dick: Kiss Me Deadly as Lovecraftian Tale,” reprinted in The Eldritch Evola . . . & Others.)

The Maltese Falcon (John Huston) — Again, three versions, but only one worth seeing. The first is interesting as a pre-code film that ramps up the sleaziness of Sam Spade; the second tries to be a screwball comedy, starring forgotten matinee idol Warren Williams and Bette Davis, who quit the studio in disgust. Third time around, everything is perfect. Especially the finest ensemble cast ever. Mary Astor essentially plays herself, the 1940s Drew Barrymore. Bogart creates the template for modern Aryan manhood, while interacting with three modes of queer: loudmouthed but incompetent Elisha Cooke, Jr., the archetypal runt (“The cheaper the hood the gaudier the patter” sneers Spade); effeminate but surprisingly competent Peter Lorre (“I intend to search your offices.” “Go ahead, I won’t stop you.”); and Sidney Greenstreet’s wise elder (“I care for you as if you were my own son. But, well, you can always get another son, but there is only one Maltese Falcon.”) (See my “Humphrey Bogart: Man Among the Cockroaches,” reprinted in The Homo and the Negro.)

Manhunter (Michael Mann) — I like everything about this film that people don’t like. Yes, the music is “from the ’80s.” It takes place in the ’80s, what kind of music do you expect, ragtime? Not only time-appropriate, it sets up Mann’s brilliant use of the non-diagetic “In a Gadda Da Vida” to represent the Tooth Fairy’s consciousness, trapped in the endlessly repeating past. And, I happen to like ’80s music; what critics mean is “the last time white music was allowed on the radio.” (In today’s “culture,” music, like athletics, is off-limits to whites). In general, it supplies my diet of the ’80s without having to choose Scarface (for which the same idiots want a remake using rap music).

As for Hopkins vs. Cox, the argument is moot, since they are in different film universes. Demme went for the easy Grand-Guignol approach, and so Hopkins is doing Phantom of the Opera (Boo!); Mann has chosen the actual but unreal world of Miami Vice, and so Cox is the smug, Bill Murray type guy who sits next to you on the train, strikes up a conversation about nothing, and the next thing you know you’re tied up in his basement.

Speaking of Phantom of the Opera, Tom Doonan’s Tooth Fairy is the archetypal psycho (though ironically Lambs’  Ted Levine is one of Mann’s rep players; Demme also recasts a policeman from Manhunter as Barney the orderly, as if Hopkins needs to be surrounded by Mann’s actors).

The shot of Doonan from above, holding Reba’s hand over his scarred mouth — where, in a remarkable bit of acting by Tom Noonan, directing by Michael Mann, cinematography by Dante (!) Spinotti (and yes, scoring by Shriekback’s The Big Hush), we seem to see his entire face collapse into a kind of corpse or skull (referencing the subliminal ending of Psycho), as the realization sinks in that he has found a fellow human, but it is too late, his stupid “killing and posing the victims to conjure up social acceptance” idea has doomed him already — is worth the whole Hopkins trilogy.

(See my “Thanks for Watching: Awakening Through Repetition in Groundhog Day, Point of Terror, & Manhunter, Part 1” and “Phil & Will: Awakening Through Repetition in Groundhog Day, Point of Terror, & Manhunter, Part 2.”)

North by Northwest (Alfred Hitchcock) — The whole New York sequence is Mad Men in real time. But overall, a time capsule of period when the rest of the country still existed; escaping a manhunt via train! (Ed Platt and that guy who spots Cary Grant at the station will later star in another train caper in Chicago film, the awful The Rebel Set). “George Caplan”’s itinerary of classy hotels: Philadelphia, “Dee-troit,” and even “Rapid City, South Dakota” (although James Mason does seem a little puzzled by it). Even the latter is home to Van Dam’s luxurious lair, a Bond villain hangout designed by Frank Lloyd Wright; Joseph Wiseman will shamelessly plagiarize Martin Landau’s ambiguously gay henchman for his own Dr. No.

Once Upon a Time in America (Sergio Leone) — Supposedly Leone was sick of Hollywood making movies about Italian gangsters, and decided to remake Godfather II from Hyman Roth’s perspective. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and Once Upon a Time in the West suggest themselves as well, and if they were shorter I might try the same stunt as with my combo of Rope/Dial M, but I don’t really return to them for more than a few scenes in each.

Like Ambersons, it was taken away and butchered by the studio, who re-edited it into chronological order (like Coppola’s “special edition” of the Godfather Saga), the awful result thereby proving the superiority of Leone’s Einsteinian storytelling; if you really can’t follow it, you’re too young to be going to movies by yourself.

A meditation on the presence of the past in the present that needs no fancy “sci-fi” trappings. “All that we have left now are our memories.” We first see James Woods as a charred corpse in 1933, but his eventual reveal in the present (1966) is more heartbreaking than any Phantom of the Opera, rivalling Tom Doonan’s in Manhunter (even though we see it coming a mile away; and it’s not his fault the old-makeup is on a level with Kane’s), as is De Niro’s quiet decision to, for the first time in his life, not resort to violence, preferring to keep living with the memory of Max as a friend (“You see, I have a story too, Mr. Bailey. I had a friend once. A dear friend. I turned him in to save his life. He died. But he wanted it that way. Things went bad for my friend, and they went bad for me, too.”) rather than admit Max’s incredible betrayal (“I took away your whole life from you. I’ve been living in your place. I took everything. I took your money. I took your girl. All I left for you was years of grief over having killed me. Now, why don’t you shoot?” — seemingly referenced in Casino: “Why protect a friend who would betray you like that?”).

Like Scarface, the intense violence earlier only serves to create the best “don’t do the crime” afterschool special ever. Again, a time when the flyover states mattered; Burt Young’s Detroit crime boss (related to “this old wreck from Detroit” in Casino?) delivers the film’s essence, right at the midpoint, when Woods and De Niro go astray: “Life is stranger than shit.” Oh, did I mention, Elizabeth McGovern and Jennifer Connelly?

Rope / Dial M for Murder (Alfred Hitchcock) — a bit of a cheat, two Hitchcock movies that seem essentially the same, at least to me. Hitch claimed that during dry spells he’d buy a theatrical property just to film it, as is, all the work having been done by the playwright. Yes, I know that these are essentially filmed plays, and everything is “fake,” but these highly artificial productions have, precisely for that reason, the kind of flat, Technicolor hyper-reality that makes me think I’m actually living in the past.

There was a time, some years back, when every late Saturday afternoon I’d make a pitcher of Martinis, open a pack of cigs, and drink and smoke along with the Happy Homicidal Homos of Rope, as the sun set on screen and in my apartment, which I calculated was directly across the East River from the diorama outside their penthouse.

It’s the little things, as Vince Vega might say: notice how Ray Miland and Grace Kelly are supposed to be rich, but their apartment is almost empty, barely furnished — only a handful of the Right Things, and no electronic gadgets to clutter it up.

In Rope, the rich WASP homo subtext (hidden crimes, tauntingly asking to be “found out,” etc.) is a blind for the real message: smarty-pants Jews (based on Leopold and Loeb) distort Aryan teacher’s version of Nietzsche. (“All fah-shist supermen were brainless fools, I’d hang any that were left . . . but you see, I’d hang them first for being stupid.”)

Rather than “opening up” the play, Hitch uses gimmicks: one is filmed without cuts (sort of) while the other was originally released in 3D. The latter, Dial M, on repeated viewings, leads the viewer into speculating on how it could possibly be updated for a world of locked doors, electronic banking, and cellphones.

The Fountainhead (King Vidor) — 1940s black and white Hollywood studio sets are the perfect medium for Ayn Rand’s tale, which, considering her years working for the studios, perhaps provides the true origins of Objectivism. If only Rand had managed to get Clifton Webb as Ellsworth Toohey! As it is, the real star is the architecture, as is only appropriate, though my favorite design isn’t Roark’s: it’s Gayle Wynand’s office. If I built my dream house, that would be the living room.

The Girl Hunters (Mickey Spillane; yes, that Mickey Spillane) — Mickey Spillane hated the satirical approach taken in Kiss Me, Deadly, and decided to exact cinematic revenge, with the view as collateral damage. An unprecedented and unsurpassed conceit; as if Ayn Rand (a fan, I hear, of Spillane himself), unsatisfied with The Fountainhead, had put together financing for Atlas Shrugged and cast herself as John Galt; a much more interesting idea than the Atlas films that eventually emerged.

Interiors shot in England, due to his financers being there (with a post-Carry On and pre-Bond Shirley Eaton), but the selling points are the early ’60s Manhattan shots — Mad Men in black and white.

Spillane plays himself, straight and utterly un-ironic, and he’s actually pretty good, I think. Swanning around his favorite hangouts in a white trench coat (“. . . [imagine tailing somebody in a white trench coat. Trying to pass as a fag I guess] . . . — Naked Lunch), the compulsive taking on and off of which constitutes his stage business, it’s the ultimate Method performance.

It’s especially amusing to see him interacting with apparently real friends, (including a long-forgotten newspaper columnist), who constantly remind him what a great guy he is, and how they hate the “commie punks” as much as they do. Mike Hammer’s climactic acts of “justice” are more literal but just as violent as the “ironic” violence of Kiss Me.

Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese) — New York City — and thus, by implication, America — at the bottom of its trough; a modern Inferno seen through the guilty imaginations of Catholic director Scorsese and Calvinist screenwriter Paul Schrader (who’d go on to produce the heartland version, Hardcore). Only Bernard Herrmann could score the anti-North by Northwest. Featuring future alt-Right icon and Mel Gibson collaborator Jodi Foster.

The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (Fritz Lang) — Originally I thought M, but since acquiring the Criterion discs (again, two versions, German and French, to say nothing of the American dub) I spend more time here. Along with Manhunter (‘m’, manhunt, get it?) it fulfills my quota of Hannibal Lecter, since initial sequences of Mabuse, under imprisoned study but mute, are clearly the template for Silence of the Lambs; Jonathan Demme’s Grand-Guignol approach in particular is derived from prewar Euro horror. There’s even a proto-Starling among the students if you look closely (she’s the one with the monocle).

Like Lecter, Mabuse is able to communicate with the outside world and even order up elaborate crimes, and does so by “getting into the head” of the head shrink (“You don’t want Hannibal Lecter in your head”). He does so literally in the posthumous transformation scene; where Mabuse goes beyond Lecter’s petty revenges is in the ensuing “Empire of Crime” speech: supposedly a “warning” about the National Socialists, the latter were happy to let audiences make the more natural inference that it referred to the chaos of the Weimar Republic.

It remains the template for every bogey-man from Keyser Sosei to Osama bin Laden; and note how the wildly erratic USA has now been dubbed “The Empire of Chaos.” Unnecessarily slow and complex death traps for the hero to escape, check! And look for the Mercedes hood ornament-cam in the final chase, which Hitchcock deliberately references in North by Northwest.

The Shining (Stanley Kubrick) — Masterpiece of paranoiac-critical filmmaking. Dr. Strangelove is great but too painfully arch to view more than once every few years; besides, the refueling footage is recycled in The Starfighters, q.v. below). Like W. C. Fields, Kubrick knew that all attention would be on the kid, so pay attention to what happens around Danny: notice how the arrows on the carpet change direction, how his sandwich goes from whole to half-eaten to whole? The obsessive Kubrick is in control over everything in the frame, so there are no accidents. Many people assume it was filmed at a hotel, but it’s all a set in London, even the maze. Everything is planned. Listen to the ambient noise too (deliberately recorded): are those words of cabalistic significance being whispered at certain moments? “Schwaaaa.” Dopey Stephen King complained about the ending, but that’s what makes the film, metaphysically: Danny leaps sideways out of the maze; Jack runs round and round and eventually freezes (symbolically identical states of stasis), stuck in past time.

The Skydivers (Coleman Francis) — Not an “ironic” choice; the more I watch the “Coleman Francis Trilogy” the more I suspect that, as with Ed Wood, professional “incompetence” allows a glorious serendipity to take place, à la Zen painting or surrealist poetry. And no one created a directorial emptiness like Coleman Francis: the anti-Kubrick. And like Zen, what you “let happen” may not be all hippie-happy. A somber masterpiece seemingly filmed in “Despair-vision,” possibly the saddest, bleakest film ever made; if Bergman had autism. Yet I find it oddly comforting. “I like coffee!”

The Untouchables (Brian De Palma) — Revenge of the Nerds, but with shamanism and the Männerbund. White ethnics unite to expel the invasive immigrant. (See my “‘God, I’m with a heathen.’ The Rebirth of the Männerbund in Brian De Palma’s The Untouchables” and “Of Costner, Corpses, & Conception: Mother’s Day Meditations on The Untouchables & The Big Chill,” both reprinted in The Homo and the Negro.)

They Live! (John Carpenter) — Another Liberal fantasy goes awry, birthing a potent new Rightist meme. And they wonder why they keep losing, even though they “control” the media! Meg Foster! For her alone, I might also have selected Masters of the Universe. Unlike Gaby, Meg’s eyes are clear, cold, alien ice blue, like a huskie from Pluto. Contrary to MST3k, this is the movie competing for the “Quiet Man Longest Fight” award. (See my “He Writes, You Read, They Live!” reprinted in The Homo and the Negro.)

Touch of Evil (Orson Welles) — The sweet spot of Welles’ career; Kane is too gimmicky, The Magnificent Ambersons a fragment of what was, and I find his post-Hollywood “fugitive” productions too cheap and shoddy, barely a step above Ed Wood or even Coleman Francis (who also had problems with financing and post-production) for this American film-watcher to take seriously. Only Hitchcock could rival the sense that every shot is an innovation. Welles’ narrative art is so objective as to make almost anyone else’s pretense to such laughable; a die-hard commie-symp, Welles here creates the ultimate sympathetic cop/fascist in his own person. The existence of at least 5 versions makes it the ultimate “postmodern” masterpiece before the Europeans even thought up the word. (See my “Breaking Badge: Touch of Evil Through the Lens of Breaking Bad.”)

Videodrome (David Cronenberg) — James Woods again! Essaying the sleazeball he’d perfect in Casino. Urban Canada as I lived it; cold and blue, like Meg Foster’s eyes, perfect for TV reproduction. Uploading your consciousness to a cable network makes perfect sense when there’s 12 inches of snow outside and Debbie Harry is on the tube. Long live the New Flesh!

. . . & Six Dishonorable Mentions

Constant Readers also know that I loves me some badfilm. Some are so bad as to exert almost the same magnetic attraction to compulsive viewing as actual movies, so for the record, here are the ones I find myself drawn to probe over and over, like a broken tooth.

The Beast of Yucca Flats — Of interest only because Coleman Francis would go on to make The Skydivers and Red Zone Cuba. Otherwise, incredibly bad; literally, there’s nothing there, nothing at all, though Coleman would eventually perfect this as a directorial strategy.

Manos, the Hands of Fate — Nothing to add to this internet legend, except to warn those seeking it out that the non-MST version is not only a bit longer, but almost literally unwatchable.

Monster a Go-Go — Beyond general incompetence, aspiring Midwest auteur Bill Rebane ran out of money, then sold what he had to schlockmeister Herschel Gordon Lewis, who filmed new scenes years later, dropping characters whose “actors” were unavailable; the “twist” ending is that the movie just stops. Almost becomes postmodern enough to be interesting, but not quite. Oddly even the DVD is lousy, with a stupid commentary by “director” Rebane that blames his problems on “unions,” while Lewis also tries the “it’s supposed to be funny” cop-out.

The Dead Talk Back — Topping Bill Rebane, this one was actually finished by the writer/director/producer in 1957, but then sat on a shelf at the photo lab until 1993, when MST3k discovered it. Bad on every level — one shot includes the reflector front and center, the sort of goof even Ed Wood never made — and after a few viewings you suddenly realize the dead never talk back! Though some of the over-exposed street filming of ’50s Hollywood Blvd. accidentally rivals Kiss Me, Deadly.

The Starfighters — So, NATO doesn’t want to buy the ridiculously dangerous F-101 Starfighter (a.k.a. the Flying Brick or The Widowmaker)? Just make a movie to show how fun it is! To paraphrase Joe Bob Briggs (who’s in Casino, by the way), instead of having the actors fly jets, they had jet pilots act. Stars future congressman Bob “B-1” Dornan in what is retrospectively Mission Accomplished: The George W. Bush Story.

The Wild World of Batwoman — Even worse than it sounds. Unbelievably, unendurably bad. Atop everything else, a supposed “comedy,” making it 70 minutes of continual douche chills.


1. The Essential Plotinus, Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1975, v.



  1. Peter Quint
    Posted February 13, 2015 at 10:02 am | Permalink

    If one wants to create a white nationalist list of favorite movies there is one essential skill that must be developed. That ability is the skill to sort Marxist propaganda into three categories: hard, soft, and none. An example of “hard” Marxist propaganda is when any non-white is portrayed as superior to white males in any way, (etc. almost every movie made today). An example of “soft” Marxist propaganda is when a movie solicits sympathy for non-whites in any way. (etc. non-whites in poverty or physical danger). An example of “none” is when superiority and sympathy are not expressed or solicited, but positive portrayal of whites is not emphasized, (etc. when the subject matter is a social issue of some sort). Do not forget to address white women when making a list, they may be white, but most white women get a thrill from seeing a white man humiliated and degraded, especially if it is done by a white women. Finally, if you want to find a movie that portrays whites in a positive manner, most of them were made before 1965 when immigration laws were changed. After 1965 Hollywood went overtly hard on the large and small screen. I know that Hollywood made overtly hard Marxist propaganda before 1965, but they were the exception and not the rule, (etc., “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner”; “To Kill A Mockingbird”). Nineteen Sixty Five was a turning point in the type and volume of propaganda produced. I mentioned “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner” as being made before 1965, forgive me if I erred.

    • White Rose
      Posted February 15, 2015 at 2:44 pm | Permalink

      Do not forget to address white women when making a list, they may be white, but most white women get a thrill from seeing a white man humiliated and degraded, especially if it is done by a white women.

      Not sure where you are getting your information. I, like many White women, fiercely defend our White men, our sisters, and our children from anti-White attacks. Perhaps we had best stop waging our enemy’s war (on us) for them. They have spent enough resources trying to destroy the White family. We don’t need to take on their efforts, as well.

      • rhondda
        Posted February 16, 2015 at 12:22 pm | Permalink

        While I do agree with you, there are not many white women in white nationalism and everyone has a tendency to generalize the behaviour of the sexes. Mr. Quint is right that a lot of women do enjoy seeing a man get his comeuppances especially if they are feminists with a victim mentality, ambitious opportunists (flaunting slut walkers, etc), or just plain resentful women. I have seen it and felt rather in a double bind. If you defend a guy in public two things can happen. 1. one gets labelled a traitor to women and 2. the guy might feel some humiliation that a women is defending him and that he did not defend himself. Then you become the object of his anger and you have both a man and a woman angry with you. So, I have had to ask myself, is it my responsibility?

  2. Petronius
    Posted February 13, 2015 at 12:26 pm | Permalink

    “alt-Right icon and Mel Gibson collaborator Jodi Foster”

    I don’t get it.

    • James O'Meara
      Posted February 13, 2015 at 12:58 pm | Permalink

      “If there’s one thing people found more baffling than Jodie Foster’s part-coming out, part-retirement speech at the Golden Globes Sunday night, it’s her close friendship with Hollywood’s pariah Mel Gibson.

      “Foster received the Cecile B. DeMille Award for outstanding contribution, handed to her by longtime friend Robert Downey Jr. Afterward, during her much-talked-about acceptance speech, Foster thanked her family, friends “and of course Mel Gibson, you know you saved me too.” The camera then showed a stunned and speechless Gibson. Later, the actor told people he “adores” Foster and “I kiss the ground she walks on.”

      “What Mel saved Jodie from is unclear — maybe from the perils of losing her privacy, which made up the bulk of her speech? — but it’s clear what the “too” in that remark meant. Foster did much of the saving, and still does, by remaining friends with the actor.

      “In 2011, when Gibson was on the receiving end of more scrutiny than praise (following the anti-Semitic and sexist slurs he made), Foster stuck by him and insisted he was still Hollywood’s “most beloved actor.”

      “The two actors starred together in the 1994 movie “Maverick” and in 2011 Foster directed the movie “The Beaver” featuring Gibson.” —

      • Jaego
        Posted February 19, 2015 at 10:21 pm | Permalink

        Cool your worship: Jodi refused to star in the last Lecter movie, claiming that it compromises Starling. Is it because Starling goes over to the Dark Side – in other words, the Hetero side with her going off into the sunset with Her Doctor?

        • James O'Meara
          Posted February 27, 2015 at 12:02 pm | Permalink

          Never the less, the Hannibal sucked, so perhaps it was just good movie sense.

          • Posted March 8, 2015 at 12:55 am | Permalink

            Ha! On occasion, artistry can indeed prevail over easy bucks.

            I agree that Manhunter is an excellent film – and not in spite of its soundtrack. Reading through this earlier, that part made me listen to the song “Heartbeat” by Red 7 from the soundtrack. I love that sound. There is an underlying sleaze in 1980s production, but what is so bad about that? We all have different tastes, and that one appeals to me. Sleaze might be the wrong word. No, it has a “hazy” atmosphere. The deep reverberations and delayed guitars conjure images of smoke-filled rooms, specifically cinemas from the days before the bourgeois class-warriors proscribed public smoking. I’m sure there are some here who sympathise with it (perhaps West Coast White Nationalists, with their love of rustic, organic environmental), since the anti-smoking movement has its roots in 1930s Germany, but my stubborn attachment to the flawed, unreformed character of working-class culture gives this an appeal of its own (even though I’m a snuffer, not a smoker). It is a symbol of modernism, and I don’t think a one-nation reformation would police the vices of normal people. I feel I ought to read Red Dragon to see how the on-screen presence of Lecter compares with Harris’ character, but as a self-standing work, there will always be an allure to his seductive intellectualism. I’m not sure if an abrasive cannibal could be viewed as an antihero, but his ability to outsmart the people trying to analyse him is easy to relate to, for those of who are viewed as worse than cannibals simply for having the “wrong” thoughts, by people with a deep lack of self-awareness and a fatal allergy to critical thought.

            I’m looking forward to watching the films mentioned here and in the comments that I haven’t seen before. I finally got a Blu-ray player a few months ago, and the first thing I bought was a De Niro box set, so Once Upon a Time in America will be on my agenda for Monday night.

            My favourite Scorsese/De Niro film is The King of Comedy. That peculiar beyond-the-edge-of-sanity mentality encapsulated by Travis Bickle reaches another level with Rupert Pupkin; but a more banal, lower level. The whole film is a prescient critique of the 21st century celebrity obsession and the Warholesque craving for an ephemeral spotlight – a debasement, in short, of heroism and role models. These are good things in themselves, but not when the craven minds seeks short cuts to achieve temporal support from scumbags like Paparazzo, in lieu of any higher ideal. When we finally get to see Pupkin doing his routine on Langford’s show, the most remarkable part is that he isn’t terrible. He is simply mediocre, and he would not have been out of place if he had taken the long path to get there. His deluded self-confidence is justified! Even moreso by his actions, which turn him into a minor sensation for the means by which he got on TV. Low-grade hacks who are happy to debase themselves in public are just what the media love.

  3. Posted February 14, 2015 at 3:45 am | Permalink

    Nathanael West wrote a book on his experiences in Hollywood in the 1930’s called The Day of the Locust. The film of the same name came out in 1975 starring Karen Black, William Atherton and Burgess Meredith. Donald Sutherland plays a character called Homer Simpson. An attempt to politicise some scenes with allusions to the then national socialist government in Germany don’t really detract from the depiction of tinseltown as a haven for egomaniacs, hedonists and corrupt movie bosses. It’s worth a look.

  4. Irmin
    Posted February 14, 2015 at 4:23 pm | Permalink

    I then remembered that Elmer O’Brien, S.J., in introducing his Essential Plotinus …

    It’s good to know that at least two contributors to this site know all about processions and emanations from the One, and all about Nature as contemplator, because they’re proud owners of O’Brien’s Essential Plotinus. Mine survived a fire and the cover has burned edges.

    Again, three versions, but only one worth seeing. The first [Maltese Falcon] is interesting as a pre-code film that ramps up the sleaziness of Sam Spade; the second tries to be a screwball comedy, starring forgotten matinee idol Warren Williams and Bette Davis, who quit the studio in disgust. Third time around, everything is perfect. Especially the finest ensemble cast ever.

    The first _is_ worth watching, if only to see how remarkably good the Bogart version is by contrast. The scripts are both similar, both are largely faithful to the novel, and the actor playing Sam Spade, Ricardo Cortez, is physically a better match for Hammett’s character (with his V-shaped face) than Humphrey. Yet in Huston’s film the cast fully inhabit their roles, and in the pre-code version they’re mostly just speaking lines. Its only superiority is the presence, as Archer’s widow, of Thelma Todd, known best today for her periodic appearances in Laurel & Hardy comedies but a talented comedienne in her own right.

    The Williams/Davis film deserves greater appreciation. It’s a funny parody of Hammett’s hardboiled world, with the femme fatale regularly outfoxing the detective. If Davis really didn’t like it, she suffered from bad taste.

    I don’t think it’s right either to say that Warren Williams was matinee idol, at least if that’s ended as a dismissal. He was basically a comic actor in most of the roles I’ve seen him play, which is quite a few. He is usually cool and confident, always getting himself into trouble, but disdainful of and superior to his various predicaments.

    Mary Astor essentially plays herself …

    Arguably true, though I don’t agree. If she did only play herself, Mary and Brigid must be similar personalities.

    — Irmin

    • James O'Meara
      Posted February 14, 2015 at 11:40 pm | Permalink

      Is that the old black Signet Mentor paperback or the later, Hackett reprint with the green cover (and bigger, more readable format)? And I hope you’ve supplemented that with Dr. Deck’s Nature, Contemplation, and the One, which Anthony Damiano thought so highly of he printed his own paperback reprint for lo these many years.

      I’m sure I did a dis-service to Warren Williams in my capsule review. I’d actually become interested in learning more about him as a forgotten star, after seeing his version of Falcon, but the only biography is about $30 as a kindle, which shows how much he’s gone from Hollywood’s biggest male star to obscure cult.

      • Irmin
        Posted February 15, 2015 at 11:58 pm | Permalink

        Is that the old black Signet Mentor paperback or the later, Hackett reprint with the green cover (and bigger, more readable format)?

        The green-cover Hackett.

        And I hope you’ve supplemented that with Dr. Deck’s Nature, Contemplation, and the One …

        Strangely enough, I have so supplemented the Essential Plotinus. Deck’s book has a dark-green dust jacket this time.

        It’s a very useful companion, with a slight downside. You emerge from it knowing more but also concluding that Plotinus was perhaps not so inspiringly odd a thinker as you initially supposed.

        — Irmin

    • James O'Meara
      Posted February 15, 2015 at 5:55 pm | Permalink

      >Mary Astor essentially plays herself …

      >Arguably true, though I don’t agree. If she did only play herself, Mary and Brigid must be similar >personalities.

      I was trying my hand at writing “capsule” reviews, so I didn’t really develop this point. I read somewhere that Mary Astor was involved in some tabloid scandal with her stolen diaries (the sex tape of the 40s) right before the Falcon, so audiences would have picked up on the nuances of lines like ” I’m not all I seem to be” or “I’ve been bad, worse than you could imagine” etc. It’s like casting Mike Tyson in your movie, he’s a known property.

      Which is not to say her performance isn’t first rate anyway. I rather like her in Dodsworth as well, were she plays, gasp, a proponent of “free love” who has an affair with Walter Houston, John’s father (who drops dead as Capt. Jacoby in the Falcon).

      • J Bonaccorsi, Phila
        Posted March 3, 2015 at 1:19 am | Permalink

        You might be interested to know that the Mary Astor scandal prompted a joke with which my innocent, Irish Catholic mother, in her childhood, unintentionally scandalized two of her maiden aunts. Unsullied as she is even now, on the verge of ninety-two, in nightmare America, my mother, I’m sure, has no real idea what the scandal was; but evidently, the joke, whose meaning was unknown to her, was a knock-knock specimen, in which “Astor” was converted to “Ask her” (“Ask her if she keeps a diary”). Amidst the distressed whooping that my mother occasioned by telling it, a third aunt took her aside–to the family kitchen, I think–and amusedly calmed her. This would have been in Philadelphia’s Germantown section, in, I guess, 1936, when the scandal broke and my mother and her twin sister turned thirteen. Before long, the third aunt was off to Emmitsburg, Maryland, to join the Sisters of Charity. With my mother, I went to her grave there, at the Seton Shrine, in 2009, the congregation’s bicentennial year. “Catherine,” my mother said, as we came to the gravestone, but I’d known the woman as Sister Emily.

        Just thought you’d want to know, as I say. Scrap of a vanished nation.

  5. Faustian Spirit
    Posted February 15, 2015 at 4:04 am | Permalink

    Interesting list. Indeed, the majority I haveseen long ago, and appreciated and others, well, are now a must see..


  6. R_Moreland
    Posted February 15, 2015 at 5:12 am | Permalink

    A movie may have a meta-level of ideas which are pro-white nationalist, even if its putative heroes are non-white. Consider The Matrix (the first one in the series, not the atrocious sequels): ok, so Keanu Reeves is multiracial; and his mentor is black. Nonetheless, The Matrix provides some of the most powerful metaphors for the Dark Enlightenment (e.g., “taking the red pill”). Of course, it can be argued that the (white) Agents are really the heroes of the series, since they are defending the system against crazed multicultural revolutionaries!

    • James O'Meara
      Posted February 15, 2015 at 1:58 pm | Permalink

      I haven’t heard that reading of The Matrix before.

      It might be useful to make a distinction btw “creative misreading,” where an audience, quite ingenuously, gives a film a meaning not intended by the creators. For example, Gregory Hood on C-C has written about how black and Hispanic audiences have taken Scarface not as a cautionary tale but as a role model. (The plans I mention to junk the soundtrack and replace it with hip-hop “tributes” is an extreme example of fan piracy).

      In other cases, the film itself seems to have gotten out of the director’s hands, and taken on its own meaning. As I point out in my review of Touch of Evil and Breaking Bad, both Welles and Gilligan intend their leads to be bad men, but the process of showing their development creates audience empathy.

      (In Mnnhunter, unlike Red Dragon, Mann wisely excises all exposition of the Tooth Fairy’s childhood abuse, leaving Graham to say “As a child I weep for him, but as an adult I want to blow him out of his socks.” In both Manhunter and Silence, Lecter is on screen about 6 minutes, yet dominates the film and the audience’s memory; the later films attempt to exploit that interest by creating a back story, which is crude attempt to explain our fascination with Evil as pity little Hannibal’s travails).

      But ironically, this “fail” may actually be a sign of artistic greatness; the objectivity to present life as it is, rather than forcing it into crude ideology and propaganda.

      I’m not sure where my views on Coleman Francis wind up. The MST2k comment “Coleman has a vision. A dark vision” is more than just a joke about poorly lit scenes. The films themselves clearly are intended to promote a “tough guy” existentialism that he must have picked up in the 50s with everyone else. But through incompetence, something else, something more interesting, to me at least, emerges, which I think is in some sense “really there” precisely through the absence of any directorial input.

      • Proofreader
        Posted February 15, 2015 at 10:24 pm | Permalink

        “It might be useful to make a distinction btw ‘creative misreading,’ where an audience, quite ingenuously, gives a film a meaning not intended by the creators. For example, Gregory Hood on C-C has written about how black and Hispanic audiences have taken Scarface not as a cautionary tale but as a role model.”

        That’s what you call projection!

      • R_Moreland
        Posted February 18, 2015 at 5:05 am | Permalink

        Might also consider how Archie Bunker of “All in the Family” was supposed to be the heavy, but much of the audience perceived him as the series’ hero. Perhaps this was due to Carroll O’Connor’s evocation of the white working class veteran paterfamilias, someone who had earned the right to keep the “others” in their place. I wonder if they can even show re-runs of “All in the Family” any more, given the racial epithets? (Since I got rid of my television, I no longer follow such things!)

        Here’s a thought for an enterprising WN producer: a post-modern modern “All in the Family” which pits an up and coming white identitarian against an old time liberal TV producer (perhaps based on Norman Lear?). Each episode would have our young identitarian expose another aspect of liberal hypocrisy, anti-white prejudice or suicidal politics. Things like the mainstream media turning black flashmobs pillaging a neighborhood into unruly “teens” out for an outing, or Hollywood’s bizarre obsession with the Third Reich while ignoring communist atrocities.

        Given how IT has facilitated producing and distributing media, it might not be too difficult to pull off.

  7. Remnant
    Posted February 15, 2015 at 9:27 pm | Permalink

    Are there any plans for an O’Meara film review collection?

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