For Eli Cross (Peter O’Toole), the auteur theory is woefully inadequate, godhood being the only status comparable—in his view—to that of a film director with an unorthodox approach to stunt casting.
Peter O’Toole and Steve Railsback in The Stunt Man (1980).
I’ve had Paul Brodeur’s 1970 novel on my shelf for over a decade—and its time will eventually come—but just over a year ago, I rewatched The Stunt Man (1980)—on the occasion of screenwriter-director Richard Rush’s death, and it was no less a marvel of smoke and mirrors than when I first saw it on Anchor Bay’s splendid DVD release 20-odd years ago, right around the time they issued The Wicker Man (1973), as it happens.
Because process is as important as product—even when the product represents the best the medium has to offer—I admire the creative ethos of Vince Gilligan.
Vince Gilligan by Peter Gould.
From fostering the creative aspirations of his staff—many of whom are now the top talents in their respective crafts—to disseminating the credit for the success of Breaking Bad (2008–13) and Better Call Saul (2015–22) among the entire cast and crew—despite the showrunner being an obvious lighting rod for attention—to the ongoing effort to share how the series were made—via Blu-ray supplements and the Insider podcasts from editors Kelley Dixon and Chris McCaleb—every element of the production seems geared to not only get the best out of those working on the shows themselves, but to inspire them—and their audience—to create something special.
The Wicker Man (1973) is a searing reminder that not everyone believes the same thing, and that any given majority’s belief—no matter its basis—will have the last word.
Ingrid Pitt, Peter Woodward, Diane Cilento, Donald Eccles, Christopher Lee, and Britt Ekland in The Wicker Man (1973).
The B.E.R.G.CAST suggests most people born after the era live dramatic broadcasts and the heyday of Hammer Films approach writer Nigel Kneale via the gateway drug of Doctor Who. I was no exception. As I dug deeper into the making of my beloved tv series, the name came up over and over again, until I was forced to pick up an Anchor Bay DVD double-feature with Quatermass and the Pit (1967).
My timing was excellent, with more material available than at any time in the history of home video, and though I still have a lot to seek out, the just-released Nineteen Eighty-Four (1954) will be tonight’s treat for a day of hard work.
Ordinarily, I try to verify the quotes that accompany these postings, but I’m hideously behind already, and if this wasn’t actually said, it should have been:
“All stories should have some honesty and truth in them, otherwise you’re just playing about.” Nigel Kneale (28 April 1922 – 29 October 2006)
The beautiful and terrifying thing about the human race is the ability of its constituents—when provided with the same right or wrong data—to develop wildly varying interpretations of the information. This phenomenon seems to result in two products: Art and War. Generally, I think the former happens when an individual perception of reality—despite its uniqueness—captures something universal when presented to the world. The latter seems to be a result of the individual trying to inflict their interpretation—typically an erroneous interpretation full of projection and superimposition—on everyone else…probably to avoid the embarrassment of being laughed at for decades of thinking the woman who wanted to put Toto down was called Elvira Gulch rather than accepting she’s Almira and blaming the true villains of this sordid history: the damnable Oak Ridge Boys.
This is, of course, all preamble to Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979), a superlative study of the phenomenon mentioned above, no matter how many sandals your faith requires you to wear…
“The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. Then the soul-erosion produced by high gambling—a compost of greed and fear and nervous tension—becomes unbearable and the senses awake and revolt from it.”
The first two words of the second paragraph transform the name of an American ornithologist into a literary and cinematic trademark worth more money than I can possibly imagine.
Favorite #360 is not 007—and all that goes along with his licence to kill—but rather that first spin of the roulette wheel, the initial roll of the dice, the hole card you haven’t yet seen. Casino Royale (1953) by Ian Fleming could have been just another book. Even the best-written book with the excellent reviews and the full backing of an enthusiastic publisher can vanish without a trace in a decade. That James Bond lives on gives me hope, as does the fact that Fleming wrote Casino Royale when he was 44. No pressure, Jason.
When I was eleven or twelve, Nickelodeon started running Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In (1968–73). That’s where I heard the phrase “Beautiful downtown Burbank” uttered every night by Gary Owens. It was a bit like a well-executed commercial jingle, setting up residence in my mind.
A decade later, I booked an extended-stay apartment in Burbank because that’s where all the interns from my Radio-TV-Film department stayed…of course, their internships were at NBC and mine was at Fox, but at least there were people I knew in the complex. I didn’t see much of Burbank in that month, but I saw enough, so I came back three years later. I’ve lived here longer than anywhere else, and I even got to hear Gary Owens utter his famous phrase in person for the city’s 100th anniversary a few years ago.
This favorite keeps getting bumped down the list because I originally wanted to synopsize it in the style of Rick Polito’s 1998 TCM logline for The Wizard of Oz. I got it down to what I thought was a pretty witty one-liner, but A) my summary used some loaded political language that put me off, and B) these favorites—while primarily reminders to myself of all the beautiful things that make life worth living—are also intended to share these delights with others and I was giving too much away…so:
Watchmen (1986–7) was written by Alan Moore, imaged by Dave Gibbons, colored by John Higgins, and edited by Len Wein and Barbara Kesel.
Every time I revisit those twelve issues, they have something new to say. Like the best art, Watchmen whispers one thing to a teenager bouncing between high school and his first job, tells a young adult embarking on a career a totally different tale, and still managed to scare the hell out of a middle-aged man arriving at his mid-life crisis. It also offers the best take on omnipotence and omniscience I’ve ever encountered.
I saw the Mad Men (2007–15) pilot six months before the premiere and did my best to sell everyone I knew on the series, but despite my personal campaign’s success, it wasn’t as winning as the protagonist’s outlook on life:
“You’re born alone and you die alone and this world just drops a bunch of rules on top of you to make you forget those facts, but I never forget…I’m living like there’s no tomorrow, ’cause there isn’t one.” Donald F. Draper
From 2014 to 2017, WGN—the Chicago-based superstation that gave me Bozo in my youth—became a purveyor of original, scripted television as WGN America. Though short-lived, the experiment yielded a quartet of fascinating series: Salem (2014–7), created by Brannon Braga & Adam Simon; Manhattan (2014–5), created by Sam Shaw; Outsiders (2016–7), created by Peter Mattei; and Underground (2016–7), created by Misha Green & Joe Pokaski. Each had elements to recommend it, but my favorite was Manhattan, a fictionalized account of the development of the atom bomb, that reminded me of the works of Costa-Gavras, Gilliam, and Kafka.
