Harold and Maude

Took me a while to get around to Hal Ashby's Harold and Maude. A film about a guy who attends funerals for fun and fakes his own suicides to torment his domineering mother hasn't seemed all that appealing lately.

I've been stuck for a couple of months, actually. Chalk that up to the grieving process, I guess. My mom's death continues to weigh on me, and I don't want to post some hand-wringing, navel-gazing stuff every day. I just don't feel like watching my movies much, but I'm not quitting. I've just slowed down.

Tonight, though, I put on Harold and Maude, and felt relieved when I watched the scene with the marching band parading by the funeral procession, and I couldn't stop laughing. Maybe I'm gonna be okay after all.

I'd never heard of Harold and Maude before taking that film genres course at Ball State in 1997ish. Although I had heard of Cat Stevens, whose songs comprise the entire soundtrack, I'd never paid much attention to his music.

After watching the film in class, I was a fan of both for life. Within the first 10 minutes, you get three Cat Stevens songs and two of Harold's faked suicides. Talk about a hook.

When Harold finds himself in therapy, he seems to be going along with the process; he's well behaved, soft-spoken — but look at what Harold is wearing on the left, as opposed to the therapist on the right:

This isn't Harold being compliant or active in his own therapy, but more of a "fuck you" to the therapist. Harold seems to make a comment on the superficiality of it all — dressing like a therapist doesn't make one a good therapist. This is what a rebellious young man would do, as he struggles with the adult world and all of those compromises, hypocrisies, and ironies.

Harold's uncle, Victor, "General MacArthur's right-hand man," according to Harold's mother, doesn't actually have a right arm. He salutes a poster of Nathan Hale by pulling on a string in his lapel that brings up his starched right sleeve. Ridiculous.

Of course, for all the commentary on death, there are several moments that take life quite seriously — Maude's concentration camp tattoo, for one. This isn't a film that deals with life and death in a flippant way, but contemplates the meaning we find in both. At one point, Harold and Maude find themselves together, their relationship blossoming like new life, and they're here:

Much has been written about this film over the years. Film scholars love Harold and Maude for the deft contemplation of life and death combined with moments that are still hilarious and disturbing 40 years later. You can read the film in the context of early 1970s American independent cinema, or you can recontextualize the film as a kind of comment on the modern tendency for people to get wrapped up in shit that isn't important at all, so much in fact that they forget how to enjoy life.

However you see the film, just see the film. Harold and Maude is a classic black comedy — the kind of film I don't return to much, but one that reminds me, abundantly, of who we've lost, how much we've lost, and all that's left behind.

Hard Eight

Before There Will Be Blood, Magnolia, or Boogie Nights, Paul Thomas Anderson made a film he called Sydney, and later renamed Hard Eight.

Much has been written about how Robert Altman's films influenced Anderson. Even Anderson has discussed this at length. Hard Eight seems to be the most Altman-esque of Anderson's work — even casting Philip Baker Hall in the lead role.

But touches of Stanley Kubrick's work appear in the cinematography as well, along with French New Wave films. I'd go on citing other influences, but that's not the point — and you can read.

Hard Eight was one that I had to track down on glorious VHS, after I'd seen Magnolia and Boogie Nights. Even later, I picked up a copy on DVD at my local, dying Borders store. Unfortunately, I never got around to re-watching the film until tonight.

I've written a lot about films that impressed me long ago, but don't seem to sit the same way now — maybe they don't disappoint me, but I feel differently about them. I've also written about films that are just as good as I remember — ones that haven't aged a day.

Occasionally, a film is even better than I remember. Hard Eight is like that — great characters in complicated situations, with a cast that feels just right. I don't know why I don't watch this film more often (I probably say that about my whole collection). The film isn't Anderson's best, but looking again was totally worth the time.

Hannibal

Perhaps the most surprising thing (to me) about Ridley Scott's Hannibal is that I own a copy of Ridley Scott's Hannibal. The film really isn't that great.

The film just misses greatness by feeling a little too much like airplane reading — you know, the formulaic type sold in airport bookstores and meant to be consumed quickly and without much thought.

The story gets wrapped up in fine details of fine things set in fine places, and even after several viewings, I still feel the presence of Thomas Harris trying to impress me with how much he knows about hand cream.

Further, and probably more obvious, is that Jodie Foster isn't here. Julianne Moore does an admirable job stepping into an iconic role, but I still can't get past it. She's not Jodie Foster, and no amount of southern accent can make her a different person, even if the film is set 10 years later.

But I went through a Hannibal phase a few years ago anyway, picking up The Silence of the Lambs first, then Hannibal, and finally Red Dragon. Sometimes, obsessive completist tendencies got the best of me regardless of quality.

Of course, I've seen the film that started all this Hannibal Lecter stuff — Michael Mann's Manhunter, but that film feels terribly dated and inconsistent compared to the films featuring Anthony Hopkins.

Just as Brian Cox does not feel right as Lecter in the first film, Julianne Moore does not feel right as Clarice Starling. Maybe for thinking this way, I'm one of the Philistines that Dr. Lecter rails against. I hope he doesn't find me rude for saying these things.

p.s. I should note that I do not own a copy of the prequel, Hannibal Rising. That film is garbage.

Halloween

Alphabetical order brings the occasional happy coincidence — Groundhog Day coming up in February, for example. But Halloween is next, and this is March. We soldier on.

The first time I watched Halloween, my family caught the televised version at some point in the '80s. I was maybe 8 or 10 years old — far too young by today's standards, but my parents let me watch anyway. I've mentioned before how they rarely prevented us from watching anything except sex scenes (which were often just fast-forwarded — comical to watch and to contemplate as an alternative to watching at regular 30 frames per second).

I'm thankful my parents let me watch whatever, because I was exposed to so much great cinema at an early age. I often romanticize the weekends when Dad would bring home a pile of VHS tapes from the local video store, and I attribute much of that to a lack of money in those Reaganized '80s, but there's also a twinge of sadness when I look back, because as a family we really aren't that functional. We don't talk and when we do, we don't have much to say. We get along okay, but sometimes there are long silences.

We watched movies well, though.

Not surprisingly, Halloween scared the living shit out of me — the breathing noises, the "eyehole" perspective, the over-the-shoulder shots of Michael wandering around Haddonfield in broad daylight, the creepy music, the scene when Michael kills the German shepherd, and that moment in the night when he is standing across the street, silhouetted in the porchlight, and then...gone.

John Carpenter's script simply referred to Michael as "The Shape," which is pretty much the freakiest descriptor you could put on a killer stalker type in the late '70s/early '80s. This "shape" picked the one night of the year that he could walk around Haddonfield acting creepy, walking from place to place wearing a mask, and no one would suspect him (except Loomis).

Halloween is credited as the first "slasher" film, as well as inventing a host of other horror film cliches and spawning much discussion:

"The film set in motion the Puritanical, psycho-pathological principle that one's survival was directly proportional to one's sexual experience. It also asserted the allegorical idea that sexual awakening often meant the literal 'death' of innocence (or oneself). With the title character Laurie (Curtis) a virgin, she is able to escape mostly unscathed (as does the asexual Dr. Loomis and the young pre-teen Tommy Doyle), but others who are more promiscuous and sexually-charged are less fortunate and suffer deadly consequences as victims. In this film, murders often occur after sexual encounters when victims are distracted and off-guard."

Surprisingly, in addition to scaring me half to death, Halloween brought out my empathy. I remember feeling a strong sense of sadness and pity when the bullies knock the little schoolboy to the ground, shattering his pumpkin. I was sort of that same picked-on boy back then.

As an adult, the film doesn't work as a horror film for me anymore, but as a classic John Carpenter film, oh yes. As I get older, I appreciate Carpenter's efforts more, because I see how technically sound his work is now that I've studied film and watched thousands of terrible movies. For me, films don't get much better than Carpenter's work from 1978-88.

The Carpenter geek in me loves seeing the tribute to The Thing From Another World on televisions on this Halloween night. Carpenter would go on to make his own version of the film, a modern reimagining/tribute/sequel/somethingeruther that's not only a great horror picture, but just great filmmaking (not a surprise).

I didn't realize what I was watching then — Carpenter seemed to blend in with a lot of the cinema of the time, and I was too young to really know the difference (or associate names with films — but when you put Halloween, Escape From New York, The Thing, Christine, Starman, Big Trouble in Little China, Prince of Darkness, and They Live up against most modern excuses for filmmaking (especially genre pictures), you really can see a difference. Look at what John Carpenter was able to pull off without a lot of money but with a ton of creative control. He should be a hero to aspiring indie filmmakers.

I didn't want to watch this film lately because I wasn't feeling particularly Halloween-y in March, but I'm glad I forced myself to push through. Thankfully, I don't have any of the sequels to choke down (though Halloween II isn't bad). I've seen all the films in the original franchise, and they just get worse and worse.

And don't get me started on Rob Zombie's version, which took Michael Myers, the horrifying, unstoppable, mad killing machine, and made him a whiny little boy with flowing hair for the first half of the film. Basically, Rob Zombie did to Michael Myers what George Lucas did to Darth Vader. Not cool.

Somewhere along the way, filmmakers, writers, and audiences became obsessed with origin stories — and generally wanting to know how a madman is created. Okay, here's the challenge: Find one of those films where the madman origin prequel story is more terrifying than the actual, original film.

I contend that knowing how a villain got here is not nearly as scary as a villain who exists from nowhere, with little motivation. (Witness Heath Ledger's Joker for an example.) That's far more terrifying than knowing that a character was molested or abused in some way a la Zombie's interpretation, or fed "sister stew" a la Hannibal Lecter.

Madness comes from a deep, black void that defies description. The original Michael Myers personifies that void; we're looking off a balcony and seeing nothing but darkness and space where a man should be.

Groundhog Day

I wanted to get to Groundhog Day on Groundhog Day, but that didn't work out. Then I figured I'd just settle for getting to this film during the month of February. Here you go.

I heard of Groundhog Day shortly after the film's release in 1993, when I saw my neighbor, Chris, wearing a "Groundhog Day -- the movie, not the holiday" t-shirt (or was that a hat?). I don't remember when I ended up seeing the movie for the first time, but for some reason, I remember that shirt/hat. Okay, it was some kind of article of clothing. Or maybe a coffee mug. Okay, it had the name Groundhog Day on it somewhere.

Anyway, the point isn't when I saw the movie, but that I saw the movie.

After maybe 15 or 20 viewings now, I can't hear Sonny & Cher's "I Got You Babe" without laughing. I can't hear the name Ned without following with "Ned the Head." I can't hear the name Punxsutawney Phil without affecting a Brian Doyle Murray voice.

Like all great American comedies, Groundhog Day stands up well to repeat viewings mostly because of great dialogue and brilliant comic moments. Every Groundhog Day brings out this DVD in homes across the country, including ours.

My wife and I watch Groundhog Day every year on Feb. 2 -- like many people, we like our little traditions, even if this one has an annoying moment or two. (Every year, at the 29:00 mark, I see David Pasquesi and tell my wife that I once took a class with him at The Second City in Chicago. The first few times, I didn't remember saying as much the year before. Now I just do it to annoy her.)

At least one part doesn't work at all — when Larry and Rita identify Phil's body in the morgue. Phil kills himself multiple times, only to wake up instantly at 6 a.m. to repeat the day. To spend time with his dead body indicates that the rest of the day goes on without him, and that's a little plot inconsistency that's always bothered me. Then again, maybe the whole day goes on without him and resets at the same time each night regardless of whether Phil is alive. I've never really understood this part. The older I get, the more thought I give this movie.

A couple great articles contemplate how many days Bill Murray spends living the same day over again. Here's one, and here's the other. Even Harold Ramis responded at one point. Great reading while it's still February.

There's even a film now with a Groundhog Day-inspired title. This is one of those films, like so many of Bill Murray's, that gets a little better every year, as nostalgia and anticipation play their part to make this film a classic.

I wonder if tonight is the last time I will watch Groundhog Day on DVD. I picked up a copy on Blu-Ray this year, and obviously the picture and sound quality are so much better. Knowing that, I nearly sold off my DVD copy this month, but I just couldn't skip blogging about Groundhog Day in February.