Dale Cooper Black

Last Jedi deserves to be discussed precisely because of the conversation that has erupted around it. I'm a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I've seen every "real" Star Wars movie in the theatre during its initial release. (I was barely more than a baby when the first one came out, but my parents assure me that I was riveted by it the whole time.) After Phantom Menace, my relationship with Star Wars movies became akin to Charlie Brown's relationship with Lucy's football. I kept promising myself that I wouldn't fall for it again, only to cave in (i.e. waste money on the price of admission) every time. Last Jedi is the first Star Wars movie in a long time (since I first saw ROTJ as a kid, in fact) that has stayed with me after I left the theatre. Everything about the Luke/Kylo dynamic resonated strongly with me, and it was a perfect continuation of the family dysfunction that hung over Empire and ROTJ. Anybody who thinks this movie is a betrayal of the original trilogy (or their own expectations, or their childhood power fantasies, or whatever) obviously doesn't understand what a story is. I will never understand why anybody would eagerly seek out a "drama" that predictably indulges their own expectations. As I've said elsewhere, if you want a story that does nothing more than this, why not just act it out with your Star Wars action figures?

Get Out, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Killing of a Sacred Deer, Last Jedi, Lucky And Twin Peaks, if you agree with Lynch that it is an 18 part movie (which I do not).

This was a great episode, so thanks for that. I'm surprised at how much I enjoyed this episode, given how lukewarm I am on American Psycho, the movie. (Unlike American Psycho, the book, which I hate with a passion.) This episode inspired me to re-watch the film for the first time in 17 years, something I didn't think would ever happen. Unfortunately I feel the same way now as I did then: lukewarm. This movie earns extra points for taking a very pointless and nauseating novel, and crafting it into something that resembles genuine satire, but the filmmakers simply are not able to shake off the emptiness at the core of this story. This is not a slam against Mary Harron; I don't think any director could have made this into a great film during that era. Maybe Gaspar Noe. But a Gaspar Noe version of American Psycho would almost certainly be unwatchable. This version is watchable, but there is something "off" about it. The sound mix is very hit or miss, and the New York in this movie has a sort of candy-like sheen that doesn't seem quite right for the 80s. And everybody's slicked back mullet looks wrong. And the movie doesn't pay off in any meaningful way. I understand that the point of this movie is that Bateman doesn't suffer any consequences for his actions, but can't we at least be teased with the idea that anything that happens in this movie actually matters? There is a shootout with some cops, but this scene feels like a dream sequence, as does nearly everything that follows. (I realize this ambiguity is inherent to the source material, but it is far more damaging to the film's fragile satirical framework.) Another commenter here argued that the carnage at the end could not have actually occurred because the lawyer has met with Paul in the interim. Is this a legit takeaway from this movie, or a failure on the filmmakers' part? I always thought that the lawyer was full of shit. These yuppies make all kinds of false claims to puff themselves up; why should the lawyer's claim of meeting Paul in London be taken at face value? Are we really supposed to question the authenticity of Bateman's version of events? One of the few great ideas in both the book and the movie is that a chainsaw-wielding Bateman could chase a screaming woman through the corridors of an apartment building without arousing the attention of the neighbors. It's a great, dark comment on urban apathy and insensitivity, but if this event was in Bateman's mind--if everything that happens in this movie can be interpreted as a hallucination--then what is the point? Ultimately, this movie is just a bunch of stuff that happens. There are some great moments (like in the threesome scene, where Bateman is obsessed with his own reflection) but on the whole, this movie is an exercise in banality. It feels like the real story is missing, as though some of the most effective scenes were randomly strung together with a bunch of deleted scenes, with no regard for narrative flow. (Full disclosure: It's possible that I'm still upset about Ellis's treatment of Alison Poole, protagonist of Jay McInerney's great, underrated Story of My Life.)

I take it you've never seen The Stepfather.

What's up with hot dogs

.Say no to eggs

The tip of his carrot is still intact

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Damn kids

I am officially offering to change my vote to His Girl Friday for the low price of 1 bitcoin. Any takers?

Or, as I like to call it, "Toby Jones Gets Overshadowed by Big Hollywood Star, Vol. 2"

The problem with Hitchcock is that he is basically a canon unto himself. There are at least 30 movies in his filmography that could be considered slam dunks for the Canon. It would be easier to create a podcast devoted entirely to Hitchcock than to debate which two or three of his films might be considered "definitive." Having said that, I just re-watched The Lodger last week, and I do think it would make for an excellent episode of the Canon. Hitchcock considered it his first "real" film, but it is most definitely not a slam dunk. I know Andrew Pulver of the Guardian is a big fan of the film, he would probably be a great guest host. (BTW @DrEricFritz when I first read the title of your post, I thought you were nominating the film "Hitchcock" starring Anthony Hopkins!)

I'm not necessarily voting based on cultural impact (I think The Room is truly hilarious and bizarre enough to be enjoyed on its own terms), but I think it's a mistake to discount the imprint this film has made. There's a reason Tommy Wiseau is constantly touring with his movie, while the director of Kangaroo Jack (another terrible movie from 2003) is sitting at home, waiting for the phone to ring. Fourteen years is actually a long time for a cult movie (or even a mainstream movie) to survive and thrive. 2003 was a great year for movies (Finding Nemo, Return of the King, Pirates of the Caribbean, Kill Bill Vol 1, Lost in Translation, to name just a few), but the fact that we're even having this conversation about The Room (as opposed to Dogville, or American Splendor, or A Mighty Wind--all released in '03) speaks volumes. The concept of "so bad it's good" is deeply entrenched in film culture, and it's a niche that deserves representation in the Canon. The only other real contenders are probably Plan 9 From Outer Space and Troll 2 (although I'm sure a case could be made for many others), but I think The Room eclipses both of those movies in terms of pure entertainment value. (Plan 9 probably wins on the cultural impact front, though.)

You're tearing me apart, HoldenMartinson and bleary!

Great episode, nothing much to add. This movie must be watched. It belongs in the Canon for the same reason that pictures of war atrocities belong in history books. On a side note, the pizza order was most definitely not ad-libbed, as evidenced in the clip below. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsnfLsyfsgk

Back from the dead

I liked this episode a lot, and I didn't mind hearing Brett talk about his work at all (other than one particular tangent that kind of fell off a cliff). Looking forward to Jane. One thing that seemed amiss: Brett's failure to acknowledge Morris's "beautiful eyes" which I think are actually key to bringing out those "emotional truths" Brett mentioned. Morris's eyes convey a combination of child-like giddiness, learned wisdom and deep empathy that you rarely find outside of characters created in Jim Henson's Creature Shop. I can't imagine staring into those eyes and being able to keep a lid on any truths, emotional or otherwise--although Donald Rumsfeld somehow managed to. And that voice.... The first time I saw this movie, and I heard that peculiar voice chime in from behind the camera, I thought the movie was about to take a sharp turn into Q&A territory. And then it doesn't, and the moment has a kind of awkward beauty to it, like a kid in a junior orchestra who suddenly starts playing his clarinet at the wrong time, but then gracefully punches out. I've always loved this movie, and I don't have much more to say about it, especially because I think the movie works best if you don't know too much about it going in. This was true for me, and I was astonished at how these seemingly disparate stories started to intersect and connect--or maybe "converge" is a better word for it. I can't help but unload a pet theory of mine, however, about the true spiritual predecessor to this movie. Moreso than Natural Born Killers, I would argue that D.W. Griffith's Intolerance would make an excellent pairing with this movie. (I would highly recommend Intolerance on its own anyway, as it's one of the few movies of its era that can still hold a modern audience's attention. There are a lot of versions floating around, but try to find a restored version projected at the proper frame rate, with stabilized image.) Both films employ crosscutting to tell four separate narratives, which gradually synch up thematically at an increasingly dizzying pace. Both films were very much "discovered" in the editing room; when Griffith's original, chronological approach wasn't working, he tore the film apart and gave us the prototype of non-linear storytelling in film. And Griffith's extensive use of closeups was, like the Interrotron, an important innovation in bringing a feeling of intimacy to the big screen. Anyway, that's a "yes."

If it's a tie, I suggest we find a guest host to mount a defense of RoboCop, and put RoboCop up against Starship Troopers in a fair fight.

So, so weird to be on the negative side of this. I have been an unrepentant defender of Starship Troopers since it came out (as can be attested to by the many customers who suffered through my pro-Starship Troopers rants when I worked in a video store), but I think the pendulum has now swung too far in the other direction. It's better than was appreciated in '97, but nowhere near as deep or subversive as it's now given credit for. One thing that everybody seems to have missed is that the filmmakers (both Verhoeven and screenwriter Ed Neumeier) wanted to have their cake and it eat too--and got neither. Like the 1966 incarnation of Batman, RoboCop managed the impressive feat of working on two different levels for two different audiences, and it's obvious that Neumeier and Verhoeven thought they could pull this off again with Starship Troopers. But Starship Troopers was not a smash hit by any measure, and it sure as shit didn't make any kind of lasting impression on a populace that sleepwalked into the Iraq war a few years later. Jingoism--and I would argue that the satiric target of this film is jingoism, not fascism (even given how loosely the latter is defined these days)--was on full, unironic display in the real-life military ramp-up after 9/11. Of course, just because the audience didn't get it (and still doesn't get it, frankly, based on some of the comments I've read in this thread), doesn't necessarily make the film a failure. (It certainly succeeds as an enjoyable send-up of its own source material.) But is it canon worthy? Honestly, I don't think so. As for RoboCop, I'll save any further comment until it shows up as a contender for the Canon. (Although I have a feeling that if it survives this round, it'll eventually be put up against Brazil or Videodrome or some other 80s sci-fi classic in yet another cruel quandary.) P.S. It's funny that Wonder Woman was brought up during this podcast because (at the risk of shitting all over everyone's Wonder Woman parade) my biggest problem with Wonder Woman is that it is guilty of very unironically indulging in what this film satirizes: Wonder Woman is about nothing more than "might makes right." Superior physical force is the deciding factor in that movie (other than Steve Trevor's self-sacrifice). Ultimately, whoever punches harder wins, and I think that's a shit message for the little girls in the audience. (And the boys, for that matter.) P.P.S. Another casting fun fact... One of the roughnecks is played by Seth Gilliam, aka Carver from The Wire (sorry if anybody else pointed this out already and I missed it).

So much gold this month

I couldn't get the system to accept my "no" vote, but I'm in a tiny minority--and Amy has probably recorded the new episode by now, anyway--so nbd. Soft "no" on the first BTTF (which would be just sweet and clever enough to squeak in on its own terms) because the filmmakers have forever imprisoned it inside the BTTF "trilogy." ("Endurance test" would be a more apt description.) Anyway, I really just came here to quickly celebrate the nightmarish horror that is BTTF Part 2, the most bizarrely fascinating misfire in all of cinematic history. This movie has always been classified as a comedy, which is mystifying to me. Whatever BTTF Part 2 is, it is not a comedy. I can't remember if it was Amy and Devin who pointed out that Forrest Gump was secretly a misanthropic masterpiece, or if I heard that somewhere else, but in any event, the Gale/Zemeckis team showed their hand early with BTTF Part 2. Every character in this movie is either selfish, sociopathic, criminally clueless, completley bonkers, or some combination thereof. Marty and Doc Brown in particular show a lack of empathy bordering on psychopathy. If further proof is needed, consider the fact that, for no good reason whatsoever, they drug Marty's girlfriend and dump her in an alley. A goddamn ALLEY. In the middle of town, in an environment that is completely alien to her. Without a shred of remorse or any good reason. This wouldn't be so bad if this particular future were presented as some kind of peaceful utopia, but with Griff and his criminal cronies running around wielding baseball bats, this is clearly not the case. (And just who or what is Griff, anyway? Some kind of clone? Somebody please explain to me who his parents are.) Speaking of clones... why are so many people in Hill Valley exact replicas of their male ancestors? Is it something in the water? Is it possible that Doc Brown's miscellaneous tinkering with atomic energy has had an unexpected effect on the town's gene pool? (It's too bad we never get to see Doc's grownup sons interacting with their dad, which would surely been have been a tour de force by Christopher Lloyd.) Speaking of Doc... I can't stress enough what a menace this dangerously unhinged lunatic is. From his association with Libyan terrorists to the continual and pointless risks he poses against the very fabric of existence--not to mention his habit of spying on people from the shadows--this guy has exhibited nothing but creepy, reckless and irresponsible behavior. Doc keeps insisting that the time machine must be destroyed, and yet he keeps coming back to it, like a compulsive gambler. (And the stakes are the spacetime continuum.) Also, if you actually apply the series' own rules to the narrative, the Doc who exists post-Part 2 (and continues to live in Hill Valley up until 1985) should remember sending Marty #1 back to the future, and then finding out from Marty #2 that his (Doc's) own "future" self will die in the old west. (I know that's a confusing sentence, but blame the filmmakers.) Why would he bother going through the whole debacle? His smartest move at that point, after sending Marty #2 back to the old west, would be to hang up the whole time travel business (thus negating the entire series). Most importantly this movie MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE. I'm not the first person to point out that Marty, Doc and Jennifer would've arrived at a future wherein they should've been considered missing persons since 1985. I'd give that a pass if it were merely an oversight in an otherwise coherent and delightful adventure. This movie, however, sets up an intricate time-hopping plot with a very strict set of rules--rules which Doc Brown helpfully "Brownsplains" to the audience on a chalkboard--and then proceeds to constantly trash those rules with a criminal disregard for logic or consistency. Also, why are most of the cars grounded, other than in the opening scene, if flying cars are a thing? Old Man Biff says he hasn't seen a flying car in 30 years, only to see a flying police car and two flying taxis within the next two minutes. Are flying cars commonplace in this future, or not?? Speaking of Old Man Biff... fans sometimes ask why he would bother bringing the Delorean back to where he got it from. That's not the problem. The problem is that he could not have done so even if he wanted to. If, as per Doc's explanation, Doc and Marty can't drive the Delorean into their original, non-dystopian future, why could Biff? Also, where are the Doc and Marty native to the dystopian timeline? If Biff (armed with his almanac) started the new timeline on his 21st birthday, Marty would have been born, mourned his father's death, watched his mother marry Biff, and then... what? Where the hell did the dystopian-timeline Marty go while regular Marty was visiting this era? And why don't Doc and Marty show any concern about bumping into their dystopian alter egos, as they do in other eras? I could go on and on, but some of the other issues I have are covered in the episode, plus it's a fool's game to talk people out of their own nostalgia. I'll conclude by saying that we do need a Crispin Glover film in the Canon, so I'm on board with the inclusion of Part 1. Also, the scene in Part 2 where a drone walks a dog is awesome, and I'm wondering why I haven't seen that happen in real life yet. Anyway, great ep as always.

Great, great episode. Nice to hear from Kier-La, Cinemuerte is a sorely missed event here in ever-more-gentrified Vancouver. It might be my Canadian bias, but I think nearly all of Cronenberg's pre-Crash work deserves a place in the Canon. Many of his films come across as cold and impersonal--if I had to describe his body of work in one word, it would be "clinical"--but there's no denying that he's able to tap into some pretty elemental fears. Cronenberg movies are scary like a trip to the principal's office is scary; the sense of dread looming over the proceedings is more horrific than anything else. I was a bit disappointed that there wasn't more of a discussion of Cronenberg's films as a tax haven. Canada's tax-shelter film industry produced a hell of a lot of weird movies in the 70s and 80s (mostly garbage), and it's kind of a miracle that a truly great filmmaker emerged from that debacle. By the way, if anybody wants to dig deeper into the rabbit hole of Canada's sordid history of psychiatry and mind control, they might be interested to know that the late Leonard Cohen was almost certainly a victim of it. Anyway, easy yes for The Brood. Thanks again for a great episode.