martin scorsese

#1118 – The Last Waltz

/ Chase Clark / Leave a comment

This film should be played loud!

On Thanksgiving Day, in 1976, The Band took the stage for the last time together. After 16 years of nearly constant touring as backing band for Ronnie Hawkins and Bob Dylan, as well as their own group, Robbie Robertson, Levon Helm, Rick Danko, Garth Hudson, and Richard Manuel decided to hang it up. Well, Robbie Robertson decided to hang it up, and the rest of The Band had to go along with it. In order to go out with a bang, they decided to perform at the venue of their first show as The Band in 1969: the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco, and invited a gaggle of friends and influences to join the show, including Ronnie Hawkins, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Van Morrison, Ringo Starr, Neil Young, Neil Diamond, Emmylou Harris, Muddy Waters, the Staple Singers, Joni Mitchell, Paul Butterfield, and Dr. John, and called in Martin Scorsese to film it all.

The Last Waltz acts as both a concert film, capturing this momentous event in its raw, unfiltered glory, and a music documentary, chronicling their history and where they are at the end of the road through interviews with members of The Band. Ultimately, the film is a piece of music history and a good bit of Thanksgiving-time viewing if you’re into that sort of thing.

Scorsese’s love of rock music seeps into everything we see throughout the film: camera angles, lighting, rhythm and what’s on screen and when. He’s a perfect fit. And he brings with him a slew of talented cinematographers, particularly László Kovács, who was a staple of the look of the American New Wave, having worked on such films as Easy Rider, The Last Movie, Paper Moon, and Shampoo. The result is a natural look and mood. Even a couple of songs performed on a soundstage feel real.

Behind the scenes, drug use and rockstar ego made for a difficult production, but it hardly interferes with the overall product. You can’t tell from watching The Last Waltz that Bob Dylan nearly got the entire production shut down because he backed out of wanting his performances recorded on film at the last minute. You can read into the body language and inflections on what’s said that Robertson and the rest of The Band clashed on calling it quits, but it doesn’t actually show up on film. You can’t see the glob of cocaine hanging from Neil Young’s nose because it was edited out in post-production. But it’s all part of the mythos of rock stardom and The Last Waltz.

The highlight of the movie is, of course, the music. The Band is at the top of their game as they barrel through their hits, a few lesser gems, and covers of some of their favorites. Their encore, which takes place at the beginning of the film, is an ironic cover of Marvin Gaye’s “Don’t Do It”. Other highlights include a soulful rendition of “The Weight” featuring the Staple Singers, Van Morrison belting out “Caravan”, Robertson taking over a guitar solo from Eric Clapton on “Further On Up the Road” after Clapton’s strap broke, without missing a beat, and “I Shall Be Released” which features everyone who performed over the course of the show, plus Ringo Starr and Ronnie Wood, led by Bob Dylan.

The Last Waltz is considered the greatest concert film of all time, and it’s hard to disagree. It’s such a perfect storm of music and film history, during a tumultuous time in American history, that it acts as a time capsule that merits our attention even 45 years after its release.

Shutter Island

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Martin Scorsese, in a near 30-film career, has hardly spent any of that filmography on film noir. He’s certainly championed the movement, specifically mentioning films such as Out of the Past, Nightmare Alley, and Leave Her to Heaven in interviews as prime examples of what noir can do, and many of his films dance around noir motifs (much like the films of the Coen Brothers), but the only full-fledged neo-noirs Scorsese has made are Taxi Driver and Shutter Island. To compare, that’s less than his number of gangster/crime dramas (duh), spiritual films, period pieces, biopics, female-led films and on par with his number of romance dramas, remakes of other films, and comedies. So, when Scorsese divulges into the world of film noir, it’s best to take notice.

Shutter Island may not belong in the zeitgeist of the time it was released like Taxi Driver, Goodfellas or The Wolf of Wall Street, and it may not be the laud of film bros like Raging Bull, Casino or The Departed, but it deserves a place in the discussion of Scorsese’s oeuvre if only for its unashamed adoration for the films and genres that inspired it. Pulling from both Jacques Tourneur and Alfred Hitchcock, Shutter Island twists and turns and nearly terrifies from the beginning all the way to its depressing conclusion.

Leonardo DiCaprio, in his fourth collaboration with Scorsese, plays Deputy Marshal Edward Daniels, but he goes by “Teddy”. He arrives on Shutter Island with his new partner, Chuck (Mark Ruffalo), hot on the trail of known arsonist Andrew Laeddis. Teddy is determined to find Laeddis, convinced he killed Teddy’s wife, but finds the staff at Shutter Island to be uncooperative in his investigation, particularly Dr. Cawley (Sir Ben Kingsley), the head psychiatrist. As Teddy uncovers more about the mysteries of Shutter Island, he also uncovers the ‘truths and lies’ of his own past. That’s the most I can say about the plot without giving too much away, so you’re on your own as far as that goes.

Criticism of Shutter Island tends to focus on the heavily leanings into genre tropes and the over-the-top story, and while these things may be true, they’re certainly not criticisms – they’re assets. DiCaprio’s manic performance fits Teddy better than his period-accurate pants in the flashback scenes. Ruffalo, Kingsley, as well as Michelle Williams and Max von Sydow are all in top form. The atmosphere of the film is dark and brooding. Cloudy skies, rain and hurricane winds convey the external mood and the internal despair. The film practically begs for a lightning strike when the lighthouse on the island is in full view. Shutter Island may be unapologetically genre filmmaking and not as highbrow as it wants to be or Scorsese is typically associated with, but the intrigue that peppers the entire length of the film and the thought-provoking ending make it an enthralling experience.

Killers of the Flower Moon

/ Chase Clark / Leave a comment

Well, it’s here. The time has finally come. Martin Scorsese’s latest, Killers of the Flower Moon, is in theaters, which means two things: 1. You should go see it, and 2. I can review it.

Filmed in and around Pawhuska, Oklahoma, Killers of the Flower Moon is the story of the Osage Murders in the 1920s. After black gold is discovered on Osage land, the entire Nation becomes rich beyond their wildest dreams. In an opening cinematic meant to look like an early newsreel, Osage women are shown flashing large jewels and furs, men are in suits and hats, and they’re driven around by their lowly white cabbies. From there, we’re introduced to Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo DiCaprio), a World War I vet fresh off the train. He’s a simple man, and cowardly, and his uncle, “King” William Hale (Robert De Niro), can smell the loyal dog in him at their reacquaintance.

Ernest makes his living as a cabbie. That is, until he meets and falls in love with Mollie (Lily Gladstone), a local Osage woman taking care of her ailing mother. Mollie is two very important things to Ernest: beautiful and rich. Hale encourages his nephew to marry the woman, and soon, there’s a wedding, and little Burkharts running around not long after. The couple are in complete marital bliss, despite the rampant death surrounding them. But then, the murders start hitting closer to home. One by one, Mollie’s mother and sisters die, and even she is starting to show signs of the “wasting death”. Believing her illness is related to her diabetes, she takes insulin shots paid for by Hale. Though the book the film is based on took its time to reveal the masterminds behind the murders, the film makes it clear early on that Hale is not the guy you want providing insulin for your sick wife.

After an explosion of dynamite kills her cousin, Reta, and Reta’s husband, Bill, Mollie is tired of waiting on the local authorities to do anything and goes to Washington D.C. to plead with the president to investigate the murders. A former Texas Ranger, Tom White, is sent to Osage country to get to the bottom of it, and thankfully, he’s good at what he does. The murderers are brought to justice, and finally, William Hale’s reign of terror is ended.

A lot has already been said about how this film shifts focus from Tom White and the creation of the FBI to the relationship between Ernest and Mollie. Just to throw in my two cents, it was the right decision. Not only does it avoid the White Savior trope that a lot of these movies can fall into, it also gives the story a much-needed emotional core and depth. We should all be able to look back at these events in our country’s history and be appalled, but when you connect it to these people that we care about and fear for, we’re once less removed from their horror. Scorsese has never shied away from terrible violence in his films, and that remains true in Killers of the Flower Moon. Wide shots of the murders come quickly and without warning. We are made to witness it all.

Despite some of these scenes, the film is beautiful to look at. Oklahoma rarely gets recognition for its dazzling landscape, but its here for all to see. Gorgeous horizons, rolling hills, and golden fields of tallgrass fill the frame and paint a vibrant picture of the plains. The camera is always at work and rarely static. There’s not a dull shot in the film, but there are some that stand out from the rest. One that comes to mind is a scene where Hale is burning the fields around his house for the insurance money, and the images become distorted and dreamlike as the camera focuses through the flames. One of the earliest shots in the film is a group of young Osage men dancing in a field beneath a geyser of oil as droplets rain down on them in slow motion.

Another high point of the film is the score from the late Robbie Robertson, guitarist and songwriter for The Band. Robertson, who was of Native American descent, has collaborated with Scorsese on multiple films, but Killers of the Flower Moon might be his best work. Being a Scorsese movie, it’s very blues-heavy, but there’s a major emphasis on percussion that drives it along and keeps it close to its Indigenous roots, most notably in that aforementioned scene with the men dancing under the spraying oil. There are blues, gospel and Native American songs from the time sprinkled throughout as well, adding to the authenticity of the film.

Killers of the Flower Moon boasts incredible talent in front of the camera. It’s only the third collaboration between Robert De Niro and Leonardo DiCaprio, despite both of them working with Scorsese for decades, and they are both true to form. I’m sure both of them will be strong contenders come Oscars season. However, the performer I want to draw special attention to is Lily Gladstone. Gladstone’s entire filmography can be counted without taking off your shoes, and she is a demanding presence even when sharing the screen with someone like DiCaprio. It probably helps that Mollie is the analog for entire Osage Nation that we’re supposed to care for and sympathize with, but regardless, this woman can act. True to character, she says very little, but in that silence, she says so much. There’s a fortitude and intelligence behind her eyes.

SPOILERS FROM HERE ON OUT

Is everyone who is trying to avoid spoilers gone? Okay, good. Back to Lily Gladstone. Before the film transitions to its coda, Gladstone’s Mollie confronts her husband on his involvement with the murders. She tries to get Ernest to admit to poisoning her, but he can’t bring himself to do it. She’s known for some time that he was involved, but she gives him one last chance to come clean and prove that there’s still honesty between them. When Ernest refuses to admit to anything other than insulin, Mollie gets up and walks out on him without another word. She doesn’t have to say anything. Her face says it all. The scene is particularly heartbreaking, in no small part due to Gladstone’s performance.

Now, about that coda. From this scene, the movie transitions into a radio show. A recreation of an early Lucky Strike Hour radio program acts as our epilogue in lieu of title cards explaining where the characters are now. It explains that both Hale and Burkhart were sentenced to life in prison (and both got out early on good behavior), and in a very poignant moment, Scorsese himself makes a cameo to give us Mollie’s obituary. He explains that she died at 50 from complications with her diabetes, and was buried next to her family that preceded her. The very last words of the film are his: “The murders were never mentioned.” There’s a duality going on here. On the one hand, there’s a critique of Scorsese’s own actions as a filmmaker – taking a tragedy and turning it into entertainment – but on the other hand, there’s an argument for the need and value of storytelling. Without David Grann’s book and without Scorsese’s film, how many people would even know about these murders?

The film is wisely bookended with two Osage ceremonies. The very first scene is a burial of a pipe as the Osage people mourn the loss of their culture as new laws demand that they learn the history of White Men. They cry for the loss of their language. They cry for the loss of their history. The very last shot of the film is a modern drum ceremony shown from a bird’s eye view. As the kaleidoscopic image fades to black, we realize that Osage history is not lost, as long as there are people with the power to tell it.

Bringing Out the Dead

/ Chase Clark / Leave a comment

If someone were to pitch me a Scorsese movie starring Nicolas Cage as a paramedic in the process of going insane, I’d be hooked immediately. And then I’d watch Bringing Out the Dead and be surprisingly disappointed. This is the only collaboration between one of my favorite directors and one of my favorite actors, so it’s a real shame that it doesn’t play out better. Nicolas Cage doesn’t even do any of his somewhat-annoying Cage-isms. But there is something off about the movie, and maybe by the end of this review I will have pinpointed what it is.

Nicolas Cage is Frank Pierce, a paramedic who hasn’t successfully saved anyone in months and is therefore incredibly depressed. He sees the faces of his “victims” everywhere he goes, and suffers from insomnia because of it. Frank just needs a vacation. But there’s no rest for the saints of New York. We follow Frank on three shifts, paired with three different fellow paramedics. There’s John Goodman as Larry; a simple man who sees their job as a reason to be happy because they help people, Ving Rhames as the religious zealot (who is still somehow okay with picking up prostitutes), Marcus, and Tom Sizemore as…Tom, a volatile, ticking timebomb of a man who seems to prefer nearly killing people instead of saving their lives.

Frank responds to a call on the first shift we see him on regarding a man who is in cardiac arrest. At the scene, Frank sees the man’s adult, former-junkie daughter, Mary Burke, and he becomes obsessed with her. It doesn’t appear to be a romantic thing between them, Frank just sees the light of hope when he looks at her. She’s something for him to latch on to and find comfort in when the world around him becomes ever darker.

The movie seems to have a tonal problem. At different points, the film is depressing, goofy, frustrating, helpless, hopeful, and romantic. It never really lands anywhere. It was very strange watching a scene where Frank and Marcus are driving and they flip their ambulance over and I’m laughing intentionally. I do believe screenwriter Paul Schrader intended the scene to feel comedic, but it’s bizarre to be laughing at such a scene in such a movie. Bringing Out the Dead reminds me of another Scorsese film. It’s a dark and depressing, hellish nightmare version of After Hours with a dash of Taxi Driver.

Visually, the movie is uncanny. It looks like it was filmed digitally, even though it was made with filmstock. It’s oversaturated and incredibly grainy, which I think serve a purpose for displaying the inner anguish of Nicolas Cage’s character, who also acts as the narrator, but it can be an assault on the eyes in some scenes. The final shot, riffing on Catholic paintings of Mother Mary holding the Christ child, is a nice touch, however. It also has opening credits that are designed very similarly to those old piracy warnings that played at the beginning of DVDs.

In the end, this Scorsese film gets swept under the rug, and perhaps that is as it should be. I hate to say it, as I have never watched a Scorsese movie that I didn’t like, but this one comes close. Maybe after a repeat viewing I will change my tune, but for now, I will have to settle on the fact that it was one Nicolas Cage’s best performances…and that’s about all it has going for it.

#1198 – Mean Streets

/ Chase Clark / Leave a comment

I recently watched this film again, also through the Criterion Channel, after not having seen it since college. I remember when I watched it that first time and thinking, “This movie looks cheap. New York City looks so grimy, and the camera is all over the place.” At that time, I naively considered these flaws of the filmmakers, and enough to make me dismiss the film as a whole. Obviously, I have since changed my tune. Those things still remain, but some are due to budgetary restrictions and therefore cannot affect the merit of the movie as a whole, and some are stylistic choices. Most Scorsese gangster movies have a crisp look to them. NYC isn’t the problem, it’s the people who are grimy. Mean Streets informs us that it’s both, and that, in part, was the intention.

Charlie (Harvey Keitel) is a good boy – he works for his mafia-connected uncle, and therefore has to do some unsavory things, but he’s very concerned with his sense of morality and the salvation of his immortal soul. So concerned that, every time he sees fire, he tries to touch it in hopes he can withstand the heat. Anyone who has ever touched a hot stove knows that doesn’t go well for him. Since the Catholic Church will not absolve him of his sins without him actually confessing them, he attempts to earn his salvation another way.

Enter Johnny Boy, played by a nearly brand-new Robert De Niro. Johnny Boy is the cousin of Charlie’s epileptic girlfriend, Teresa, but more importantly, he’s a ne’er-do-well on the path to eternal damnation. Charlie sees Johnny Boy as his ticket to Heaven. If he can get Johnny to walk the straight and narrow, there’s no way Saint Peter would turn him away. The only problem is that the more Charlie interferes with Johnny Boy’s erratic way of living, the worse it gets. Johnny Boy feels coddled. Some people just don’t want to be saved. His antics not only set his life on a downward spiral, but he begins taking everyone else down with him – particularly Charlie. It all comes to a head in a drive-by shooting in those mean streets. Johnny Boy, Teresa and Charlie are all hurt, but Johnny Boy walks away into an alley where the red, flashing lights of a police car hint at his final destination, and Charlie walks out into the street, baptized in the waters of a broken fire hydrant. Only Teresa is unable to get out on her own, more damaged than the others, requiring the EMTs that get to the scene first to help ease her out of the car. Teresa and Charlie will survive, but while he kneels in the street, and images of the sinful life he is potentially leaving passes before his eyes, Charlie doesn’t even acknowledge the condition Teresa is in. And in that moment, that final scene, we understand how selfish Charlie’s quest to earn his own salvation truly is.

As I said before, my views on this film have changed significantly. Where as once I held Mean Streets with slight disdain, even considering it lower-tier Scorsese, I have now nearly flipped that completely. Mean Streets isn’t just a great film, it’s also pure Scorsese, through and through. It’s full of Catholic guilt, religious imagery (a chat between Charlie and Johnny Boy in a graveyard, where Johnny lays on a grave and Charlie leans against a cross, is particularly excellent), an internal wrestle between saint and sinner, a killer 60s pop soundtrack (one of the first examples of a jukebox soundtrack; the infamous bar brawl scene is set to the Marvelettes’ “Please, Mr. Postman”), tracking shots (that same bar brawl), and a whole lot of New York City.

I read that Scorsese wrote the screenplay for this film (not something he does often) after a talk with actor/director John Cassavetes, where Cassavetes criticized his previous film, Boxcar Bertha, for being uninspired. His advice to a young Scorsese was to make films he’s passionate about. You can feel the passion in Mean Streets. I argue you will not find a film so near and dear to Scorsese’s heart again until 2019’s The Irishman. It’s reflective and thoughtful. It’s genuine. It’s a filmmaker in the middle of insecurity, discovering his voice and, somehow, confidently firing on all cylinders. Martin Scorsese’s third film is, dare I say, a masterpiece, and sits alongside Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, and GoodFellas in the discussion for his best.

Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

/ Chase Clark / Leave a comment

At the time of my writing this, Martin Scorsese’s latest picture, Killers of the Flower Moon, is roughly three months away from release. Early buzz for the film ranges from “Scorsese’s masterpiece” to “a fantastic film, if a little too long”. Between the collaborations (Scorsese, De Niro and DiCaprio, not to mention Lily Gladstone), and my own personal interest in the story (I read the book, I’m from Oklahoma, and I have an unhealthy obsession with Native American history and culture), it’s preemptively my most-anticipated release of the year. What better time, then, to take a deep dive into Scorsese’s hefty filmography? This is an odd starting point, considering what Scorsese’s famous for, but it was available on The Criterion Channel for the month of July. So, here it is: Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore.

Martin Scorsese’s fourth feature film puts the director into uncharted waters of his oeuvre: the romantic comedy. Apparently, this film wasn’t even on Scorsese’s radar at the time. Ellen Burstyn, who plays the titular Alice, and won an Academy Award for Best Actress to show for it, received a copy of the script from her agent after being tasked with finding a complicated woman for her to play. After reading the script, she went on the hunt for a young, visionary director to helm it. It was Scorsese’s previous film, Mean Streets, that was garnering all the buzz at the time, and after viewing a screening, Burstyn decided he was the man for the job. Warner Brothers agreed, and so began Scorsese’s journey into major studio filmmaking.

Alice is a stay-at-home mom caught between her needy and verbally abusive husband and her preteen boy who is discovering that “brat” is a viable personality. Alice doesn’t have to keep the peace very long when her husband dies in a work-related accident. His death, however, leaves Alice and her son without any prospects or security, so they hit the road, heading towards California, so she can realize her dream of being a singer – a dream that was completely derailed by married life.

Her financial straits demand they stop in Phoenix to earn enough money to make the rest of their trip. Initially, she can only get work as a waitress, but through her determination, she is able to secure a job as a lounge singer. She captures the heart of the young cowboy, Ben (played by a young Harvey Keitel), and he sweeps her up into a whirlwind romance that is going great until she discovers he’s also abusive. Oh, and also, he’s married. Yikes! In the middle of a confrontation between her, Ben, and Ben’s wife, Alice decides it’s time to continue to Monterey. They get as far as Tucson before they are forced to stop again.

In Tucson, Alice gains employment as a waitress at Mel’s diner, working alongside the outspoken, headstrong Flo, and timid-to-the-point-of-collapse Vera. The chaos in the diner leads to some of the funniest scenes in the film, especially when Vera’s involved. Alice also meets a divorced rancher, David (Kris Kristofferson), and they fall in love. “Oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I’ve found you!” It’s days of wine and roses until David finally does the seemingly unforgiveable: he spanks Alice’s son. Trust me, over the course of the movie, I spent more time with Alice’s son than David did, and he’s lucky a spanking is all he got. When he runs away after his reprimanding, Alice frantically searches all of Tucson for him, determined to find him and get him to Monterey. However, when she finds her son, they have a heart-to-heart, and Alice realizes that she’s happy in Tucson with David, and so is her son, so they make the decision to stay.

The script and Burstyn’s feminist take on the character makes Scorsese an interesting choice when considering modern criticism of his filmography (i.e. the sidelining of his female characters). I suspect her decision to choose a man over her dreams won’t sit as well with the most recent wave of feminists as maybe it did in the 70s. However, I think one of the things this movie does well is show growth in Alice’s character. At the beginning, she doesn’t have a choice in the direction of her own life, or at least she doesn’t believe she does, but at the end of the film, it’s completely her decision to stay or go. The other thing this movie does well is lean into the shmaltzy look and feel of older soap operas and 1940s melodramas. It gives the movie character and a charm that it’s mostly lacking.

This brings me to my biggest criticism of the film: it’s surprisingly bland. Without its color and occasional cutesy attitude, I doubt I would have made it to the end. Ellen Burstyn does great, but it’s far from her best performance (I suspect the Academy gave her the award for this film because they realized their mistake in not giving it to her for The Exorcist), and with the exception of Flo and Vera, all the other actors are wooden. I’ve never considered Kris Kristofferson a good actor and he doesn’t change my mind here. The kid is the most frustrating part of the entire film, though that may not be the actor’s fault. The character is insufferable, and I have never wished for a worse end to a kid in a movie since Mildred Pierce.

In the end, the movie is passable, and cute enough to give a look if you have the time, but don’t go out of your way to make time for it unless you’re doing a Scorsese marathon like I am. Mean Streets was a glimpse of what Scorsese could become, but Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore is someone else’s movie tossed into his lap.