Short stories and essays by Shaun Costello, as well as excerpts from manuscripts in progress.

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AN UNTIMELY EXIT

 

AN UNTIMELY EXIT

This is the 60th and final post on this Blog

By Shaun Costello

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So, it’s come to this. Considering my situation, I suppose that only my pig-headed stubbornness has kept me going for the last few years. The perhaps unrealistic anticipation of a change of fortune. The possibility, no matter how remote, that a publisher would see value in one of my manuscripts, and come to my rescue with an advance check that might just serve to keep the wolves at bay. A television producer might call with an offer I couldn’t possibly refuse. My Blog might grow in popularity to the point where ad

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revenues would be offered per site hits received. Even a winning Lotto ticket – Hey, you never know. So I kept on writing, and promoting, and networking, and buying those silly Lotto tickets, and trying not to lose hope. There’s a moment however, when you simply run out of options, and run out of time. And that moment confronts me now.

Since none of the aforementioned possibilities have come to fruition, the crushing financial reality of the situation I face remains unchanged and untenable. Unfortunately, I can not work. My arthritis, while not life-threatening, keeps my physical abilities limited. I have struggled, with some success, to make my handicap as unnoticeable as possible to those around me. But, none the less, it’s there. My small Social Security stipend

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does not come close to paying my monthly bills, and sooner than later, the services those bills represent will begin to disappear. Sad stuff indeed. So, like a cowboy wanting to hit the big roundup in the sky with his boots on, I think it more seemly to leave this world with my lights still burning, the water still running, and my internet connection still active.

I’ve spent a good deal of my life fixing problems and overcoming obstacles through sheer bravado. I would beat up on whatever stood in my way until it yielded to me. And until now, I’ve gotten away with it. But this mortality business is something else again. The will to live is surprisingly strong. It can’t be bullied. It has to be finessed.

I have few regrets. Until my illness in 1993, my life was going according to plan. I couldn’t have written a better script for myself. I was doing the work I loved, surrounded by people whose company I found blissfully stimulating, and being well paid for my efforts. But the parasites my body collected, while I was in the Middle East making a film for Time Magazine about the first Gulf

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War, took their hungry toll. Although I recovered after a year of treatment, my body was never the same. The poison given me to kill my little passengers also did damage to my immune system, which gradually sped up the onset of those maladies normally associated with aging, like my arthritis. My body clock’s rhythm increased exponentially after the bugs. Again, not life-threatening, but certainly life-limiting.

Since I was outed in 2005, regarding my porn involvement back in the Seventies, and with the help of social media, I’ve been able to reconnect with old friends long absent in my life, and have made new friends who have become surprisingly important to me. I’ve enjoyed the daily Facebook banter, even though the site, because of its popularity and the greed of its controllers, has lost much of its initial luster. Maintaining almost constant contact with friends across the US, and all over Europe has been fun.

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In an attempt to maintain my legacy, such as it is, I have taken steps to protect those two elements that comprise the body of work I leave behind; my Blog, and the publishing rights to my writing. My friend Alan Hoffman in Chicago has generously agreed to maintain my Blog, which exists under the domain names – http://shauncostello.worpress.com and http://shauncostello.com I have assigned all publishing and media rights to everything I have written in my lifetime to my friend Thomas Eikrem in London, with the understanding that he will pass on any revenues to my daughter, who lives with my sister in Sag Harbor, New York.

So, that’s it then. My affairs, such as they are, are in order. My only regret is the timing of my exit. I would have enjoyed continuing to live my life, finishing my manuscripts, contributing to my Blog, harassing Republicans on Huffpost, creating an internet ruckus whenever I felt it necessary, and interacting with friends. Other than living with sore joints and needing another new hip, I’m actually surprisingly healthy for my age. But I’ve been living on borrowed time, and that time is up. Life is a luxury I can no longer afford. I’m doing nothing, more or less, than playing the hand I’ve been dealt, and I’m afraid it’s time to fold.

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© 2013 Shaun Costello

WILD ABOUT HARRY

WILD ABOUT HARRY

A friend who knew him well

remembers HARRY REEMS

by Shaun Costello

AVAILABLE NOW

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AVAILABLE NOW

On March 19th, just three weeks ago, HARRY REEMS, the star of Deep Throat and many other adult films of the 1970′s, died of pancreatic cancer, at a VA Hospice in Salt Lake City, Utah. Before the media circus that surrounded Deep Throat created the fast talking, Burleaque-comedic actor know as HARRY REEMS, he was just a young man, trying like so many before him, to make it in show business. He was born Herbert Streicher to a Jewish family in Brooklyn, and was a close friend of mine. When I read the news of his death I was devestated. So many rich memories. Such an important friend. I knew I had to do something, so I put everything else aside, and sat down to write a personal reminiscence of my friendship with Herb. I have worked almost around the clock, since the day after his death, and finished the text yesterday. I’m very pleased with how it came out. I think Herb would be too.

Herb and Harry – a dichotomy he leaves behind for the rest of us to puzzle over. As Herb he was a son, a brother, a Bar Mitzvah boy, a High School track star, a student, a Marine, an aspiring actor, and a loyal and generous friend. As Harry he was a porn icon, an international celebrity, a darling of the TV Talk Show circuit, a victim of judicial overreach, a convicted felon, a finally-absolved and victorious defendent, a drunk, a drug addict, a Twelve Step Champion, a converted Christian, a successful real estate executive, a scratch golfer, a semi-pro skier, a loving husband, and, at long last, a happy man.

WILD ABOUT HARRY is a hard cover, eight by ten, four color book – text driven, and including over a hundred four color and black and white, fun images of HARRY’S life. It’s being printed on an on-demand basis and is available now at the link below:

http://www.blurb.com/b/4214470-wild-about-harry

 I’m quite pleased at how this story came out, and, for those of you who have a fascination with the Seventies, the birth of the adult film industry, the First Amendment trial and media circus that surrounded the prosecution of Deep Throat, and the complex character that was HARRY REEMS, you will be too.

AVAILABLE NOW – CLICK ON LINK BELOW

http://www.blurb.com/b/4214470-wild-about-harry

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NOW AVAILABLE AS AN eBOOK FOR iPAD: $ 9.99.

 

SWINGERS

 

SWINGERS 

Rick was narrating my sexual experience with my screaming blonde friend, like Howard Cosell calling the Thrilla in Manilla 

By Shaun Costello

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Excerpted from the “Seventies” manuscript:

RISKY BEHAVIOR

Sex, Gangsters, and Deception in the time of ‘Groovy’

 

My girlfriend Jane had taken a job working for an aging literary agent named Kurt Hellmer who, because of his advancing age, had let his business slip, and had lost many of his authors.  Jane, who was the best-read person I knew, was a quick reader with amazing retention, and she seemed to have a knack for spotting publishable manuscripts from the huge slush pile that came across her desk daily. My continuing porn involvement was not spoken about, and my plan to sell the golf film that Bill and I had made the previous summer to a television network seemed enough for Jane to tell her parents about, in order to justify her continued involvement with me.

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She had been talking for a while about the two of us trolling a “Swingers” bar, looking for some erotic adventure. Jane considered herself to be on the vanguard of the sexual revolution – a master player in the game of erotica. But none of this was true. She was just a smart, manipulative “Five Towns” girl who had read too much Anais Nin, and derived considerable pleasure from creating embarrassing scenarios for her malleable and impressionable roommates from Long Island to play out. Jane herself however, seldom took risks, being uncomfortable in situations she did not control. Not wanting to be involved in one of her ridiculous sociological experiments, I made a series of excuses for not participating, but Jane was relentless. The more I resisted, the more she demanded my involvement, until finally, I gave in from sheer exhaustion. But I knew it was a mistake. Jane in a party full of Swingers? This had disaster written all over it.

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She searched through the alternative classifieds, and came up with an ad that seemed perfect. There was a restaurant down in the financial district called “Smitty’s” that served lunch to stock brokers and, because there was no night-time business in that area, they leased the place out after-hours to groups who hosted private parties. The ad in the Village Voice suggested that these parties were attended by open-minded couples, and that no single men were allowed.

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 We arrived about nine on a Friday night. The price was ten dollars a couple, which seemed reasonable enough, and there were maybe a hundred people already milling about. Jane was a very attractive 23 year-old cutie, so most eyes in the room followed our every move. About half the crowd was out on the dance floor gyrating to Elton John’s Bennie and the Jets, and one by one, we were approached by couples looking to hook up. The MO seemed to be that couples met here at Smitty’s, and then gathered later on at private parties for

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some intimate activities. As we met more people I became aware of an odd phenomenon. The men made all the arrangements. Women took no initiative and seemed satisfied to be included in the coupling negotiated by their male partners. Women’s lib did not seem to have affected the Swingers set. After several private-party offers we were approached by a couple named Rick and Ione. They were a bit older, and of course Rick did all the talking. They were having a few couples over to their apartment later, and maybe we might like to join them. “And Shaun, maybe you would like to dance with Ione”. Jane and I exchanged looks and Ione led me out

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to the dance floor where we slow-danced to Barbra Steisand singing “The Way We Were”. Ione made sure that our crotches were seriously grinding against each other and told me that this song always made her cry, which she proceeded to do. As we slowly did our turn on the dance floor Ione looked up at me, Streisand-induced tears running down her cheeks and said, “I saw you when you came in. I want you in my mouth. I want you in my mouth now”.

Their apartment was on West 54th Street, between Broadway and Seventh Avenue, and about ten couples had been invited. Jane, who seemed extremely nervous, was off somewhere doing god-knows-what with Rick, while Ione led me into her bedroom. Along the way she had taken a female friend in tow, and proceeded to slowly undress us both. She had closed the door, assuring our privacy, which I thought was a nice touch. Ione’s idea was to choreograph a sexual encounter between myself and her girlfriend, and participate as she saw fit during carefully chosen moments. I have to confess here that it was exciting, within limits, and that Ione, although several years older, was imaginative, and resourceful. I also have to admit to thinking, at the time, that I was living out a scene from one of my own movies. She spread me across her bed, placing her girlfriend over me but facing away. Ione was extraordinarily proficient at oral sex on both men and women, or at least she professed herself to be, and proceeded to slowly lick and suck each of her co-conspirators in this frolic, as she drew us closer together in the process, until we were joined.

Ione was at the bottom of the bed, her noisy mouth glued to our genitals, and as the motion grew faster and mutual orgasm seemed approaching on the near horizon, Ione suddenly, but assuredly,

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like she had done this many times before, knelt up, reached into her mouth, and removed her teeth. Well, this was certainly a startling development. “There”, she said, “This will make it better”, and she leaned over and put them on the night table right next to my face, and resumed her oral endeavors with a new fervor. I guess it probably did feel better, but the sensation of the joined male and female genitalia, enthusiastically licked and slurped by Ione’s tongue, not to mention Ione’s gums, was just not as fulfilling when, right next to my head, were Ione’s dentures; a full set, uppers and lowers, a whole mouth full of teeth, like something you saw in a gag store that wound-up and chattered. At this point comedy overtook erotica and, although we somehow took this cumbersome adventure to completion, my heart was just no longer in it. Post-coital Marlboros were passed around, and Ione didn’t seem to need her teeth to smoke.

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I wandered out into the common area of the living room, where mixed groups seemed huddled in twos and fours, touching, and munching on each other’s body parts, while others were sitting naked on the couch watching Johnny Carson.  Jane was nowhere in sight, which relieved me of the responsibility of making sure she was enjoying herself, a burden she seemed to relish delegating to others, usually me, which never really worked, but that fact never kept her from trying. Jane’s happiness was my responsibility, in the world according to Jane.

A young, cute blonde girl, maybe twenty, came out of the kitchen, grabbed my hand, and led me to the other side of the room. ‘Where have you been?”, she asked, “I’ve been looking for you”. I had noticed her dancing back at Smitty’s, and thought she was pretty cute, but hadn’t seen her at Rick and Ione’s until this moment. As she started swallowing my face I realized that my intermission was over. I ate her for a long time. She was sweet, and responsive, and came at least twice before I removed my mouth from her clitoris. We seemed to have become the main attraction, as most of the party guests gathered around us in a circle. She turned over on her stomach and spread her cheeks apart. “Shove it in my ass, go ahead, give it to me, give it to me.” Well I didn’t have to be asked twice. I could sense the crowd drawing closer around us as I started fucking her harder. “Hurt me. C’mon, hurt me”. And I was fucking her much harder now, and we were soaked with sweat, and she was screaming, and all of a sudden I became aware of someone’s mouth very close to my ear softly saying, “They met in a swingers bar. When she saw him across the room she knew she had to have him. She knew he would do her bidding, no matter what she asked. Anal

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sex was what she needed and she was going to get from him no matter what”.  I looked to my left, and it was Rick, who was narrating my sexual experience with my screaming blonde friend, like Howard Cosell calling a Mohammad Ali fight. “She wanted to experience the shame of anal penetration. To be subjugated by his masculine will. By his strength. By the pounding of his cock”.  And my partner, who seemed to not hear a word of this narrative blow by blow, was still screaming for me to hurt her, over and over again. Rick softly, but audibly continued his narration to the delight of the crowd of sweaty party goers who seemed caught up in the whole rhythmic, slamming, screaming, narrated event, until she came, and I came, and we melted into a puddle of two sweaty swingers, and all I could hear was the sound of our breathing; and of course Rick, whose relentless narration continued. “She felt the intrusion of his manhood deep within her willing rectum, burning her, scalding her into a submissive jelly. Tonight she got exactly what she needed”. Well, nothing like a good narration to put things in perspective.

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In the cab on the way home I asked Jane why she was being so quiet. “Don’t even talk to me”, she responded. Evidently I was guilty of something. Crimes against Jane, no doubt. “How could you?” she asked. I remained silent because it seemed like the best course to take. “You went down on her”, she scowled at me. ‘You never go down on me. Never. And you went down on that waitress, or dental assistant, or whatever that stupid slut was”.  A bit judgemental on Jane’s part. The girl might have been an astronaut.  “Jane, this whole thing was your idea, remember?” An attempt at making sense got me nowhere. Jane was insistent, “A stranger. You ate out the cunt of a stranger. What about me? What about my cunt? What about me?”

We remained silent for the rest of the cab ride, and I let Jane out at her building on East 48th Street, then headed home. Why did she ever leave her husband, the Doctor? Why did I let her talk me in to doing this? Probably because I knew that something amusing would happen, and it did. I thought about Ione’s teeth all the way home.

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© 2013 Shaun Costello

BEST OF THE WEST

 

BEST OF THE WEST

Hollywood’s All-Time Ten Best Westerns (the movies – not the motels)

By Shaun Costello

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The Western, being Hollywood’s favorite entertainment genre, was produced in such numbers that the sheer volume of titles makes the job of narrowing the field to only ten just about impossible. Maybe, the first task is to define the genre – just what exactly is a Western Movie? The stranger, who shows up in the nick of time to save a town from corrupt land owners – SHANE? The town Marshall who single-handedly takes responsibility for the safety of his town, even though the very people he’s protecting run for cover, and refuse to stand behind him – HIGH NOON? A noirish cavalcade of over-the-hill characters trying to make a buck on aging reputations – UNFORGIVEN?  Cowpokes, banding together, against all odds, to make the impossible journey – RED RIVER? A tale of vengeance, and the collecting of odd souls, as a man seeks out the men who murdered his family, only to find salvation in something more important – THE OUTLAW JOSEY WALES? The saga of men who had outlived their era, and couldn’t seem to adapt to reality – BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID?  The answer, of course, is yes to all of these, as well as the other titles on this list.

But what must we eliminate? Here’s where I begin to make enemies. First, the Seven Samurai clones: THE WILD BUNCH, THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN, and THE PROFESSIONALS – three of my all time favorite movies, but not true Westerns, not really. Next, anything with singing – sorry, Gene and Roy. And how about all those dark, cerebral, recently made Westerns, starring country western singers with long hair, and giant hats, wearing those ankle-length duster-coats, that seem to make Nascar fans swoon – Nah! Let’s stick to the best of the genre. And let’s also remember that we’re doing the subjectivity shuttle, here. Everyone has their favorites, and I know there are die-hard Peckinpah fans out there, who would rather go down in a hail of squibs, than turn their back on THE WILD BUNCH, but this is MY list, and it’s tough to whittle it down to just ten. For purpose of full disclosure, I have to admit to breaking one of my rules here, which is to never list a movie that’s been on one of my previous lists, but RED RIVER is one of the greatest films ever produced by Hollywood, and it’s a Western, so it’s here. Get over it.

 

So, in alphabetical order:

 

BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID

      1969   George Roy Hill            

                                                                                                          (Four Oscars)

   

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Hey, it was the Sixties, and if ever there was a Sixties western, it’s this memorable saga of Butch and Sundance. William Goldman’s tasty screenplay is loosely based on real events, so here is some background:

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Robert LeRoy Parker (April 13, 1866 – November 6, 1908/1936?), better known as Butch Cassidy, was a notorious American train robber, and leader of the Wild Bunch Gang in the American Old West, doing most of his mischief in Wyoming and Montana from the 1880’s through the turn of the century. After pursuing a career in crime for several years in the United States, the pressures of being pursued, notably by the Pinkerton Detective Agency,

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forced him to flee with an accomplice, Harry Alonzo Longabaugh, known as the Sundance Kid, and Longabaugh’s girlfriend, Etta Place, first to Argentina and then to Bolivia, where he and Longabaugh were allegedly killed in a shootout in November 1908.

OK, back to Hollywood. This movie is many things on many levels, and all of them good, which almost never works, but in this case, worked to perfection. Enough beautifully staged action to qualify as

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a solid action film, Goldman’s brilliant and hilarious screenplay, which makes it an engaging comedy, and the inevitable, tragic ending, which you knew somehow was coming, but that happens so quickly that it doesn’t sour the film’s success as the ultimate, happy go lucky Buddy Movie. From the trick opening, to Butch and Sundance’s demise in a hail of Bolivian bullets, the movie never loses its focus, probably due in equal parts to Newman and Redford’s chemistry, Goldman’s script, and George

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Roy Hill’s adroit direction. Katherine Ross, as the Kid’s gal pal, is lovely to look at, and nice ensemble work by a game cast. Solid lensing by Conrad Hall, who moved in with Ms Ross during the shooting, and a lovely score by Burt Bacharach. The huge worldwide Box Office would encourage producers to come up with an appropriate vehicle to repackage the Newman/Redford magic, which would happen five years later in another George Roy Hill blockbuster, The Sting. 

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X41Ylp02NRs

 

THE GUNFIGHTER    1950    Henry King

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The problem with being a gunfighter, it seems, is that everybody wants a piece of your street cred.

Notorious but aging gunfighter Jimmy Ringo (Gregory Peck) tries to avoid the trouble that goes with his reputation as the fastest draw in the west. However, when a cocksure cowpoke named Eddie (Richard Jaeckel) deliberately provokes an argument and draws on him, Ringo has no choice but to kill him. Ringo is warned to leave the area because the deceased has three brothers who are certain to seek revenge. Sure enough, the brothers pursue him, but he takes them by surprise, disarming them and driving off their horses.

Ringo then stops to wait in the nearby town of Cayenne, where he occupies a corner of the largely empty saloon for most of the remaining film. It is only revealed later that he is hoping for a chance to see his wife and young son, whom he has not seen in

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eight years. The local barkeep, Mac (Karl Malden), remembers him from the past in another town and alerts Sheriff Mark Strett (Millard Mitchell), who turns out to be an old friend of Ringo’s. Strett also knows Ringo’s wife Peggy (Helen Westcott), and tells Ringo she has changed her surname to hide their past life together. Urging Ringo to leave town as quickly as possible, Strett nevertheless agrees to go and ask Peggy to come and see him. She declines, still fearing the notorious and hotheaded nature of Ringo’s younger days that drove them apart.

While waiting, Ringo also has to deal with Hunt Bromley (Skip Homeier), the young local would-be gunslinger who is keen to make a name for himself, and Jerry Marlowe (an uncredited Cliff Clark), a semi-retired man who mistakenly believes Ringo killed his son some years before. Ringo also meets another friend from the

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past, a bar-girl named Molly (Jean Parker), who eventually persuades Peggy to come and talk to her husband. Meeting at last, Ringo tells his wife that he has changed, that he wants to settle down somewhere where people do not know him, possibly out in California, and asks her to leave with him. She refuses, but agrees to reconsider in a year’s time if he will remain true to his word. Ringo also gets acquainted with his son at last, although he does not tell him of their relationship.

However, by this time Ringo has spent too long in town. The three brothers are still trailing him and arrive, but are captured by Strett and his deputies before they can ambush Ringo. As Ringo makes final preparations to leave, Bromley seizes his chance. Eager to get himself a reputation as a gunfighter, Bromley shoots Ringo in the back, fatally wounding him. Word quickly spreads through the

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town that Bromley has shot Ringo. As Ringo lies dying he tells Sheriff Strett to say that he, rather than Bromley, drew first. When Bromley starts to say that he doesn’t want Ringo’s help, Ringo rejects Bromley’s words, informing his killer that he will soon know how it feels to have every hotshot and two-bit gunfighter out to get him in turn. An angry Strett tells Bromley to leave town immediately, punctuating his order with a severe beating which he warns is “just the beginning” of what Bromley’s got coming to him for killing Ringo. It is clear that Bromley has become a magnet for trouble: he will soon discover (just as Ringo did) that notoriety as a gunfighter is in reality a curse which will follow him wherever he goes, making him both an outcast and a target for the rest of his life.

The film closes with Peggy Walsh attending Jimmy Ringo’s funeral, making her way through the crowd around the church door with her son to reveal, quietly but with pride, what the townsfolk have never known – that she is Mrs Jimmy Ringo. Thus, despite his death, the gunfighter finally achieves what he sought in coming to the town – his wife’s forgiveness and reconciliation.

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Nice work by a peak Peck, Malden, and a game ensemble of mostly “B” players. Solid direction here by Henry King, and dark lensing by Arthur C Miller. The screenplay is credited to William Bowers, but word has it that a major rewrite was done by Nunnally Johnson, who also Produced. Good score by Alfred Newman. This is a small, dark, unpretentious Western that never tries to over-reach, and stays on-target throughout.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3z6Obp0rcuo

 

 

HIGH NOON    1952    Fred Zinnemann

(Four Oscars)

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Now considered one of the great American Westerns, High Noon received some frosty reactions when it opened in 1952.

Upon its release, the film was criticized by audiences, as it did not contain such expected Western archetypes as chases, violence, action, and picture postcard scenery. Rather, it presented emotional and moralistic dialogue throughout most of the film. Only in the last few minutes were there any action scenes.

In the Soviet Union the film was criticized as “a glorification of the individual.” The American Left appreciated the film for what they believed was an allegory of people (Hollywood people, in particular) who were afraid to stand up to HUAC. However, the film eventually gained the respect of people with conservative/anti-communist views. Ronald Reagan, a conservative and fervent anti-Communist, said he appreciated the film because the main character had a

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strong dedication to duty, law, and the well-being of the town despite the refusal of the townspeople to help. Dwight Eisenhower loved the film and frequently screened it in the White House, as did many other American presidents.  Bill Clinton cited High Noon as his favorite film and screened it a record 17 times at the White House.

Actor John Wayne disliked the film because he felt it was an allegory for blacklisting, which he actively supported. In his Playboy interview from May 1971, Wayne stated he considered High Noon “the most un-American thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life” and went on to say he would never regret having helped blacklist liberal screenwriter Carl Foreman from Hollywood.

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Ironically, Gary Cooper himself had conservative political views and was a “friendly witness” before HUAC several years earlier, although he did not name names and later strongly opposed blacklisting. Wayne accepted Cooper’s Academy Award for the role as Cooper was unable to attend the presentation.

In 1959, Wayne teamed up with director Howard Hawks to make Rio Bravo, as a conservative response. Hawks explained, “I made Rio Bravo because I didn’t like High Noon. Neither did Duke. I didn’t think a good town marshal was going to run around town like a

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chicken with his head cut off asking everyone to help. And who saves him? His Quaker wife. That isn’t my idea of a good Western.”

Irritated by Hawks’s criticisms, director Fred Zinnemann responded, “I admire Hawks very much. I only wish he’d leave my films alone!” Zinnemann later said in a 1973 interview, “I’m told that Howard Hawks has said on various occasions that he made Rio Bravo as a kind of answer to High Noon, because he didn’t believe that a good sheriff would go running around town asking for other people’s help to do his job. I’m rather surprised at this kind of thinking. Sheriffs are people and no two people are alike. The story of High Noon takes place in the Old West but it is really a story about a man’s conflict of conscience. In this sense it is a cousin to A Man for All Seasons. In any event, respect for the Western Hero has not been diminished by High Noon.”

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I included so much background because it’s so surprising. Back to the movie. It’s said the there’s no such thing as an honest man. Will Kane (Gary Cooper) proves otherwise. Kane, the longtime marshal of Hadleyville, New Mexico Territory, has just married pacifist Quaker Amy Fowler (Grace Kelly) and turned in his badge. He intends to become a storekeeper elsewhere. Suddenly, the town learns that Frank Miller (Ian MacDonald)—a criminal Kane brought to justice—is due to arrive on the noon train.

Miller had been sentenced to hang but was pardoned on an unspecified legal technicality. In court, he had vowed to get revenge on Kane and anyone else who got in the way. Miller’s three gang members – his younger brother Ben (Sheb Wooley), Jack Colby (Lee Van Cleef) and Pierce (Robert J. Wilke) wait for him at the station.

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Kane and his wife leave town, but fearing that the gang will hunt him down and be a danger to the townspeople, Kane turns back. He reclaims his badge and scours the town for help, even interrupting Sunday church services, with little success. His deputy, Harvey Pell (Lloyd Bridges), resigns because Kane did not recommend him as the new marshal.

Kane goes to warn old flame Helen Ramírez (Katy Jurado), first Frank Miller’s lover, then Kane’s, and now Harvey’s. This girl gets around. Aware of what Miller will do to her if he finds her, she quickly sells her business and prepares to leave town.

Amy gives her husband an ultimatum: she is leaving on the noon train, with or without him.

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The worried townspeople encourage Kane to leave, hoping that would defuse the situation. Even Kane’s good friends the Fullers are at odds about how to deal with the situation. Mildred Fuller (Eve McVeagh) wants her husband, Sam (Harry Morgan) to speak with Kane when he comes to their home, but he makes her claim he is not home.

In the end, Kane faces the Miller Gang alone. Kane guns down two of the gang, though he himself is wounded in the process. Helen Ramírez and Amy both board the train, but Amy gets off when she hears the sound of gunfire. Amy chooses her husband’s life over her religious beliefs, shooting Pierce from behind. Frank then takes her hostage to force Kane into the open. However, Amy suddenly attacks Frank, giving Kane a clear shot, and Kane shoots Frank Miller dead. As the townspeople emerge, Kane contemptuously throws his marshal’s star in the dirt and leaves town with his wife.

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No Western had ever come close to this kind of gripping drama, and the term “Adult Western” was coined to describe it. Brilliantly piloted by Zinnemann’s steady hand, the tension builds relentlessly until the Quaker bride shoots the last bad guy. Cooper is steadfast and perfect, Kelly is trim and convincing, and Katy Jurado shines as the busiest girl in town. Crisp black and white lensing by Floyd Crosby, and brilliant editing by Elmo Williams and Harry Gerstad, relentlessly keeping the clock ticking as the whole town waits for the Noon Train. A memorable music score by Dimitri Tiomkin. One of the real champs.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkNu4-sSglY

 

THE OUTLAW JOSEY WALES    1976    Clint Eastwood

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I know I’ll take some flak for including this, but I love this movie, and every ridiculous character in it.  

Josey Wales, a Missouri farmer, is driven to revenge by the murder of his wife and son by a band of pro-Union Jayhawkers—Senator James H. Lane’s Redlegs from Kansas.

Wales joins a group of pro-Confederate Missouri Bushwhackers led by William T. Anderson. At the conclusion of the war, Captain Fletcher persuades the guerrillas to surrender, saying they have been granted amnesty. Wales refuses to surrender. As a result, he and one young man are the only survivors when Captain Terrill’s Redlegs massacre the surrendering men. Wales intervenes and guns down several Redlegs with a Gatling gun.

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Senator Lane puts a $5,000 bounty on Wales, who is now on the run from Union militia and bounty hunters. Along the way, despite wishing to be left alone, he accumulates a diverse group of companions. They include an old Cherokee named Lone Watie, a young Navajo woman, and an elderly woman from Kansas and her granddaughter whom Wales rescued from Comancheros. And a mangy hound who Wales spits his tobacco on.

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In Texas, Wales and his companions are cornered in a ranch house which is fortified to withstand Indian raids. The Redlegs attack but are gunned down by the defenders. Wales, despite being out of ammunition, pursues the fleeing Captain Terrill on horseback. When he catches him, Wales dry fires his pistols through all twenty–four empty chambers before stabbing Terrill with his own cavalry sword.

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At the bar in nearby Santa Rio, a wounded Wales finds Fletcher with two Texas Rangers. The locals at the bar, who refer to Wales as “Mr. Wilson,” tell the Rangers that Wales was killed in a shoot-out in Monterrey, Mexico. The Rangers accept this story and move on. Fletcher refuses to believe that Wales is dead. He says that he will go to Mexico and look for Wales himself. Seeing the blood dripping on Wales’s boot, Fletcher says that he will give Wales the first move, because he “owes him that.” Wales rides off, hopefully to rejoin his odd collection of companions who have set up housekeeping at the old lady’s late son’s Rancho.

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This is typical, sentimental story telling from Eastwood, who, along with John Ford, gets two titles on this list. Without his knowledge or consent, and gradually throughout his journey, Josey’s murdered family is replaced the odd collection of characters who he saves from calamity along the way, and feels responsible for. Chief Dan George plays the old Cherokee, and delivers too many hilarious, dead-pan lines to count.

Nice work by director Eastwood, with solid cinematography by Bruce Surtees, and editing by Ferris Webster. Nice job by all.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=en9rfsUGDkc

 

RED RIVER    1948    Howard Hawks

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As American as it gets. Hawks’ memorable tapestry of the blazing of the Chisholm Trail. The cattle were in Texas, but the Rail Head was in Abilene Kansas. And driving a huge and ornery herd of cattle, for the very first time, across the Red River, over mountain ranges, through hostile Indian territory, risking misadventure with nature and bands of rustlers, was no easy business.

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Hawks, probably Hollywood’s best dialogue director, made John Wayne almost believable. Lots of crusty, spicy cowpoke dialogue that might be corny in the hands of another director, but Hawks pulls it off.

One memorable scene has John Ireland and Montgomery Clift admiring each other’s six shooters in great detail. Say’s Ireland, “The only thing as beautiful as a good gun is a Swiss Watch, or a

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woman from anywhere. You ever have a Swiss watch?” Of course, Hawks was having some fun with guns as penis parody material, which gets funnier with each viewing.

It’s dawn on the range, and the men and the cattle are ready. Hawks’ camera does a slow, minute-long, 360 pan across the faces of cowboy after cowboy, beginning and ending on Wayne, who looks to Montgomery Clift and finally say’s, “Take ‘em to Missouri, Matt”. Clift raises his hat and whoops the first of many,

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And the next cowboy does the same, and in quick cuts now, face after face, whoop after whoop, until, finally driven by the drama of the moment, the music swells, and the herd begins to move. It’s one of the great moments in movie history and, if you haven’t experienced it – shame on you. 

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http://www.tcm.com/mediaroom/index.jsp?cid=12520

 

http://movieclips.com/S47B-red-river-movie-showdown/

 

THE SEARCHERS    1956    John Ford

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Directed by John Ford, based on the 1954 novel by Alan Le May, and set during the Texas–Indian Wars, the film stars John Wayne (who else) as a middle-aged Civil War veteran who spends years looking for his abducted (by Comanches no less) niece played by Natalie Wood, along with Jeffrey Hunter as his adoptive nephew, who accompanies him on the search.

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In 1868, Ethan Edwards (Wayne) returns from the American Civil War, in which he fought for the Confederacy, to the home of his brother Aaron (Walter Coy) in the wilderness of west Texas. Wrongdoing or legal trouble in Ethan’s past is suggested by his three-year absence, a large quantity of gold coins in his possession, a Mexican revolutionary war medal that he gives to his young niece Debbie (played as a child by Natalie Wood’s sister Lana Wood), and his refusal to take an oath of allegiance to the Texas Rangers, as well as Rev. Samuel Clayton mentioning that Ethan “fits a lot of descriptions”.

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Shortly after Ethan’s arrival, cattle belonging to his neighbor Lars Jorgensen (John Qualen) are stolen, and when Captain Samuel Clayton (Ward Bond) leads Ethan and a group of Rangers to follow the trail, they discover that the theft was a ploy by Comanche to draw the men away from their families. When they return home, they find the Edwards homestead in flames; Aaron, his wife Martha (Dorothy Jordan), and their son Ben (Robert Lyden) dead; and Debbie and her older sister Lucy (Pippa Scott) abducted.

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After a brief funeral, the men return to pursuing the Comanches. When they find their camp, Ethan recommends an open attack, in which the girls would be killed, but Clayton insists on sneaking in. The Rangers find the camp deserted, and when they continue their pursuit, the Indians almost catch them in a trap. The Rangers fend off the Indian attack, but with too few men to ensure victory, Clayton and the posse return home, leaving Ethan to continue his search for the girls with Lucy’s fiancé Brad Jorgensen (Harry Carey) and Debbie’s adopted brother Martin Pawley (Jeffrey Hunter). However, after Ethan finds Lucy brutally murdered and presumably raped in a canyon near the Comanche camp, Brad becomes enraged, rides wildly into the camp, and is killed.

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Ethan and Martin search until winter, when they lose the trail. When they return to the Jorgensen ranch, Martin is enthusiastically welcomed by the Jorgensens’ daughter Laurie (Vera Miles), and Ethan finds a letter waiting for him from a man named Futterman, who has information about Debbie. Ethan, who would rather travel alone, leaves without Martin the next morning, but Laurie provides Martin with a horse to catch up. At Futterman’s (Peter Mamakos) trading post, Ethan and Martin learn that Debbie has been taken by Scar (Henry Brandon), the chief of the Nawyecka band of Comanches. A year or more later, Laurie receives a letter from Martin describing the ongoing search. In reading the letter aloud, Laurie narrates the next few scenes, in which Ethan kills Futterman for trying to steal his money, Martin accidentally buys a Comanche wife, and the two men find part of Scar’s tribe killed by soldiers.

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After looking for Debbie at a military fort, Ethan and Martin go to New Mexico, where a Mexican man leads them to Scar. They find Debbie, now an adolescent (Natalie Wood), living as one of Scar’s wives. When she meets with the men outside the camp, she says she has become a Comanche and asks them to leave without her. However, Ethan would rather see her dead than living as an Indian. He tries to shoot her, but Martin shields her with his body and a Comanche shoots Ethan with an arrow. Ethan and Martin escape to safety, where Martin saves Ethan by tending to his wound. Martin is furious at Ethan for attempting to kill Debbie and wishes him dead. “That’ll be the day,” Ethan replies. The men then return home.

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Meanwhile, Charlie McCorry (Ken Curtis) has been courting Laurie in Martin’s absence. Ethan and Martin arrive home just as Charlie and Laurie’s wedding is about to begin. After a fistfight between Martin and Charlie, a nervous “Yankee” soldier, Lt. Greenhill (Patrick Wayne), arrives with news that Ethan’s half-crazy friend Mose Harper (Hank Worden) knows where Scar is. Clayton leads his men to the Comanche camp, this time for a direct attack, but Martin is allowed to sneak in and rescue Debbie, who welcomes him. During the attack, Martin kills Scar and Ethan scalps him.

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When Ethan sees Debbie, Martin is unable to stop him from chasing her, but instead of killing her, Ethan carries her home. Once Debbie is safely with her family, and Martin is reunited with Laurie, Ethan walks away, alone, the cabin door closing on his receding image in one of the most famous and iconic closing scenes in film history.

Quite a yarn, nicely piloted by Ford, with beautiful cinematography by Winton Hoch. Ford’s Favorite location, Monument Valley, never looked better. Wayne seems comfortable with this kind of suds, and obviously works well with Ford. Jeffrey Hunter, Vera Miles, Ward Bond, and Natalie Wood round out the cast.

A busy Western about guilt and vengeance. Very nice indeed.

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yr7KzwRV2qM

 

SHANE    1953    George Stevens

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I saw this as a child, in the Edwards Theater in East Hampton, which was the venue that provided so many of my early movie experiences. I can still remember young Brandon deWilde’s voice echoing across the valley, calling to Shane to come back, as Alan Ladd rides off into a perfect movie ending. Great stuff. Great movie.

Two themes here that reoccur in movie westerns, over and over; you just can’t escape who you are, and sometimes a man just stands up. And more often than not, both cost you what you want most. This is a simple story about good and evil, and right and wrong, and doing what’s needed, no matter the cost. A simple story delicately handled by director George Stevens, with a game cast of heroes and villains. It’s the old story of the hard working homesteaders, trying to make a go of it against all odds, and against the will of the greedy land barons, who want to keep the range open and free of the fences these pesky farmers keep putting up everywhere. Just how far will the land Barons go to squeeze the homesteaders off their land? Assault? Arson? Murder? There’s no end to it. These are simple farmers, unable or unwilling to fight back. They need help. They need a hero. Into this sordid atmosphere, a quiet man appears, riding into town wearing buckskin, looking for work. His name is Shane.

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The location is an isolated valley in the sparsely settled territory of Wyoming. Whatever his past, Shane soon finds himself drawn into a conflict between homesteader Joe Starrett (Van Heflin) and ruthless cattle baron Rufus Ryker (Emile Meyer), who wants to force Starrett and the others off the land.

Shane stays for supper and the night at the invitation of Joe’s wife, Marian (Jean Arthur), and starts working as a farmhand. Young Joey (Brandon deWilde) is drawn to him and the gun, and wants to learn how to shoot. Shane tries to teach him and his mother that a gun is a tool like any other, except it’s designed to shoot people. Whether it’s used for good or not depends on the person using it.

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There is an obvious attraction, and perhaps a history, between Shane and Marian. She tells Shane that they would be better off if there weren’t any guns in the valley, including his. She is emphatic that guns are not going to be a part of her son’s life.

When Shane goes into town with Starrett and the rest of the homesteaders, he gets into a fistfight with Ryker’s men after being ridiculed for backing down before. With Joe’s help, they win, and the shopkeeper orders them out. Ryker declares that the next time Shane or Joe go to town the “air will be filled with gunsmoke.”

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As tensions mount, Ryker hires Jack Wilson (Jack Palance), an unscrupulous, psychopathic gunslinger, who laughs at the thought of murder. Wilson goads ex-Confederate Frank ‘Stonewall’ Torrey (Elisha Cook, Jr.), a hot-tempered Alabama homesteader, into a fight, and shoots him down in the street.

After the funeral, many plan to leave. But a fire set by Ryker’s men spurs them into pulling together to put it out, rather than driving them out.

Ryker decides to have Wilson kill Starrett in an ambush at the saloon, under the pretense of negotiating. One of Ryker’s men loses his stomach for this, and warns Shane that Starrett’s “up against a stacked deck.”

Joe is resolved to go anyway. He knows that Shane will look after Marian and Joey if he doesn’t survive. But Shane tells Joe he’s no match for Wilson, although he might be a match for Ryker. They fight and Shane has to knock him unconscious. Joey yells at Shane for pistol whipping his father with the butt of his gun.

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Marian begs Shane not to go and asks if he is doing it for her. He admits that he is, and for Joey, and all the decent people who want a chance to live and grow up there.

In town, Shane walks into the saloon. Shane tells Ryker that they’re both relics of the Old West, but Ryker hasn’t realized it yet. Wilson draws, but is shot and keeps reflexively shooting, even after he’s dead – only Jack Palance can get away with stuff like this. Ryker pulls a hidden gun and Shane returns fire. He’s turned to leave when Ryker’s brother fires a Winchester rifle from the balcony overhead. Joey, who ran after Shane, calls out and Shane fires back.

Shane walks out of the saloon, where Joey is waiting for him. He says that he has to move on and tells him to take care of his family. Shane also says to tell Joey’s mother that there “aren’t any more guns in the valley.”

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Shane’s blood runs onto Joey’s hands when he reaches up to him. Joey’s worried, but Shane tells him that’s fine. Wounded, Shane sits up, with his arm hanging uselessly at his side as he rides past the grave markers on Cemetery Hill, and out of town, into the sunrise, over the mountains.

Whether Shane has been mortally wounded, as is often speculated, is apparent in neither the film nor in Schaefer’s novel.

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Best scene: Stevens needed a gimmick, a piece of stagecraft to set up the entrance of Wilson, the gunfighter hired by Ryker to harass the homesteaders. Wilson is played by Jack Palance, billed in the credits as Walter Palance, in his first important role. Stevens wanted the audience to understand that the man who was about to come through the swinging doors of the Saloon, was evil incarnate, before they ever saw him. In the background is the

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doorway to the saloon, not yet open, with a man’s legs and boots visible behind the swinging doors. Stevens sticks a sleeping dog in the foreground. As the saloon door opens, the dog awakens, whimpers, and crawls out of frame. One of the best evil entrances ever staged.

A simple story – beautifully told.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zdd07SDHv5Q

 

SILVERADO    1985    Lawrence Kasdan

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Something you need to know. Two years before Silverado, Larry Kasdan made The Big Chill, which did impressive box office, and was loved by just about everyone I knew. And I hated it. I thought it was an endless, pretentious, post mortem gab fest, although I loved

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the house, and the music, and fell totally in love with a delicious young Glenn Close. Anyway, The Big Chill was supposed to be a great opportunity for a young unknown actor named Kevin Costner to show his stuff. Unfortunately for Costner, the picture was re-edited leaving his entire performance on the editing room floor.

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He’s the dead guy in the coffin, who everyone’s talking about. Kasdan liked Costner, and felt badly about what had happened, so he kept an eye out for a likely vehicle to put Costner’s talents to good use. While working, two years later, on the script for Siverado, Kasdan expanded the role he wrote for Costner, to make up for poor Kevin getting stuck in that coffin. Just so you know.

Emmett (Scott Glenn) is ambushed by three men while he sleeps in a deserted shack. In a brief gunfight, he kills all of the assailants. As he travels to Silverado, Emmett finds a man, Paden (Kevin Kline), lying in the desert, having been robbed and left to die.

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Emmett and Paden ride to the town of Turley to meet Emmett’s brother, Jake (Kevin Costner), who is locked up and awaiting hanging for killing a man in self-defense. Paden is later jailed when he encounters and kills one of the men who robbed him. Emmett aids Jake and Paden in a breakout with the help of Mal (Danny Glover), a black cowboy who was run out of town by sheriff John Langston (John Cleese).

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After helping a wagon train of settlers recover their stolen money from thieves, and leading them to Silverado, the group disbands to find their relatives and settle into the town. Emmett and Jake learn from their sister’s husband, the land agent for the area, that rancher Ethan McKendrick (Ray Baker) is attempting to maintain the open range, which he will dominate with his enormous herds of cattle, by driving all lawful claimants off the land. Emmett had

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killed McKendrick’s father years earlier in a gunfight, and McKendrick had hired the men who attempted to kill Emmett upon his release from prison. Mal finds his father Ezra (Joe Seneca), left destitute after his home had been burned down and his land overrun by cattle.

It is soon revealed that the sheriff Cobb (Brian Dennehy), an old friend of Paden’s, is on McKendrick’s payroll. After McKendrick’s men murder Ezra, burn the land office, and kidnap Emmett’s nephew Augie (Thomas Wilson Brown); Paden, Mal, Emmett, and Jake determine to defy

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Cobb. The four stampede McKendrick’s cattle to provide cover for a raid on his ranch, in which most of the bandits are killed and the kidnapped boy is rescued. They then return to town, where in a series of encounters, each defeats his own personal enemy. In the last of these, Paden kills Cobb in a duel. Emmett and Jake leave for California, their long stated goal, while Mal and his sister reunite and decide to rebuild their father’s homestead. Paden stays in Silverado as the new sheriff.

This is rollicking, knee slapping good fun from beginning to end. Nicely piloted by Kasdan, who also wrote the screenplay with his brother Mark. Tasty tangy dialogue delivered by a game cast, but it’s little Linda Hunt who steels the show as the tidy little saloon keeper who rather fancies Kevin Kline. A robust musical score from Bruce Broughton, whose work I’m unfamiliar with. Good work by all. Great fun.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VACFLuni49c

  

STAGECOACH    1939    John Ford

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In 1939, John Ford (who else) would finally make a Western for grown ups, and movies would never be the same again. Rumor has it that Orson Welles screened Stagecoach over twenty times with DP Greg Toland, during pre production for Citizen Kane. Room Ceilings had been included in Stagecoach by Ford and DP Bert Glennon, and Welles was so impressed that he reworked the cinematic design for Citizen Kane.

John Ford’s first talking Western – and talk they do, starring Claire Trevor and John Wayne in his break-through role. The screenplay, written by Dudley Nichols and Ben Hecht, is an adaptation of “The Stage to Lordsburg”, a 1937 short story by Ernest Haycox. The film follows a group of strangers riding on a stagecoach through dangerous Apache territory.

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Although Ford had made many Westerns in the silent film era, he had never previously directed a sound Western. Between 1929 and 1939, he directed films in almost every other genre, including Wee Willie Winkie , starring Shirley Temple, and The Informer, starring Victor McLaghlen.  Stagecoach was the first of many Westerns that Ford shot using Monument Valley, in the American south-west on the Arizona–Utah border, as a location, many of which also starred John Wayne. In Stagecoach the director skillfully blended shots of Monument Valley with shots filmed at Iverson Movie Ranch in Chatsworth, California, and other locations.

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In 1880, a motley group of strangers boards the east-bound stagecoach from Tonto, Arizona Territory to Lordsburg, New Mexico Territory. Among them are Dallas (Claire Trevor), a prostitute who is being driven out of town by the members of the “Law and Order League”; an alcoholic doctor, Doc Boone (Thomas Mitchell); pregnant Lucy Mallory (Louise Platt), who is traveling to see her cavalry officer husband; and whiskey salesman Samuel Peacock (Donald Meek).

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When the stage driver, Buck (Andy Devine), looks for his normal shotgun guard, Marshal Curly Wilcox (George Bancroft) tells him that the guard has gone searching for fugitive the Ringo Kid (John Wayne). Buck tells Marshal Wilcox that Luke Plummer (Tom Tyler) is in Lordsburg. Knowing that Kid has vowed to avenge the deaths of his father and brother at Plummer’s hands, the marshal decides to ride along as guard.

As they set out, U.S. cavalry Lieutenant Blanchard (Tim Holt) informs the group that Geronimo and his Apaches are on the warpath and his small troop will provide an escort until they reach Dry Fork. Gambler and Southern gentleman Hatfield (John Carradine) joins them and at the edge of town, the stage is flagged down by banker Henry Gatewood, (Berton Churchill), who is absconding with $50,000 embezzled from his bank.

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Along the way, they come across the Ringo Kid, whose horse became lame and left him afoot. Even though they are friends, Curly has no choice but to take Ringo into custody. As the trip progresses, Ringo takes a strong liking to Dallas.

When Doc Boone tells Peacock that he served as a doctor in the Union Army during the “War of the Rebellion,” Hatfield quickly uses a Southern term, the “War for Southern Independence.” Later, Mrs. Mallory asks Hatfield whether he was ever in Virginia; he tells her he served in the Confederate Army under her father’s command.

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When the stage reaches Dry Fork, the group is informed that the expected cavalry detachment has gone to Apache Wells. Buck wants to turn back, but Curly demands that the group vote. With only Buck and Peacock objecting, they proceed to Apache Wells. There, Mrs. Mallory faints and goes into labor when she hears that her husband had been wounded in battle. Doc Boone is called upon to assist the delivery, and later Dallas emerges holding a healthy baby. Later that night, Ringo asks Dallas to marry him. She does not give him an immediate answer, afraid to reveal her checkered past, but the next morning, she agrees if he promises to give up his plan to fight the Plummers. Encouraged by Dallas, Ringo escapes but returns when he sees signs of a possible Indian attack.

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When the stage reaches Lee’s Ferry, the passengers find the station and ferry burned, and those who were not killed have fled. They tie large logs to the sides of the stagecoach and float it across the river. Just when they think that danger has passed, they are set upon by a band of Apaches. Curly releases Ringo from his handcuffs to help repel the attack. During a long chase, when things look bleak, Hatfield is about to use his last bullet to save Mrs. Mallory from being taken alive when he is fatally wounded. Just then, the 6th U.S. cavalry arrives to the rescue of the group.

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When the stage finally arrives in Lordsburg, Gatewood is arrested by the local sheriff, and Mrs. Mallory is told that her husband’s wound is not serious. Dallas begs Ringo not to seek vengeance against the Plummers, but he is determined to settle matters. Curly grants him leave and his gun. In the ensuing shootout, Ringo dispatches Luke and his two brothers, then returns to Curly, expecting to return to jail. He asks the lawman to take Dallas to his ranch. However, when Ringo boards a wagon and says goodbye, Curly invites Dallas to ride to the edge of town. As she climbs aboard, and Curly and Doc laugh and start the horses moving, letting Ringo “escape” with Dallas.

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Stagecoach is the granddaddy of the modern Western Film genre. The yardstick by which all others are measured. After Stagecoach, movies would never look the same. Ford had invented a whole new kind of movie, which would be endlessly imitated throughout the post-Stagecoach era of modern motion pictures.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NBuPI4m4pO8

 

 

UNFORGIVEN    1992 Clint Eastwood

(Four Oscars)

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If you’re looking for a good guy to root for, you’ve come to the wrong movie. Unforgiven has none.

Produced and directed by Clint Eastwood with a screenplay written by David Webb Peoples, the film tells the story of William Munny, an aging outlaw and killer who takes on one more job years after he had hung up his guns and turned to farming. A dark, dark Western that deals frankly with the uglier aspects of violence and the myth of the Old West, it stars Eastwood in the lead role, with Gene Hackman, Morgan Freeman, and Richard Harris.

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Eastwood dedicated the movie to deceased directors and mentors Don Siegel and Sergio Leone. The film won four Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor in a Supporting Role (Hackman), and Best Film Editing. Eastwood himself was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actor for his performance, but he lost to Al Pacino for Scent of a Woman. In 2004, Unforgiven was added to the United States National Film Registry as being deemed “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant”.

The film was only the third western to win the Oscar for Best Picture following Cimarron (1931) and Dances With Wolves (1990).

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A group of prostitutes in Big Whiskey, Wyoming, led by Strawberry Alice (Fisher), offers a $1,000 reward to whomever can kill Quick Mike (Mucci) and “Davey-Boy” Bunting (Campbell), two cowboys who disfigured Delilah Fitzgerald (Levine), one of their own. This upsets the local sheriff, Little Bill Daggett (Hackman), a former gunfighter and now an obsessive keeper of the peace who does not allow guns or criminals in his town. Little Bill had given the two men leniency, despite their crime.

Miles away in Kansas, the Schofield Kid (Woolvett), a boastful young man, visits the pig farm of William Munny (Eastwood), seeking to recruit him to kill the cowboys. In his youth, Munny was a bandit who was notorious for being a vicious, cold-blooded murderer, but he is now a repentant widower raising two children and has sworn off alcohol. Though Munny initially refuses to help with the

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assassination, his farm is failing, putting his children’s future in jeopardy. Munny reconsiders a few days later and sets off to catch up with the Kid. On his way, Munny recruits Ned Logan (Freeman), another retired gunfighter who reluctantly leaves his wife (Cardinal) to go along.

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Back in Wyoming, gunfighter English Bob (Harris) and his biographer, W. W. Beauchamp (Rubinek), arrive in Big Whiskey, also seeking the reward. Little Bill and his deputies disarm Bob, and Bill beats him savagely, hoping to set an example for other would-be assassins. The next morning Bob is ejected from town, but Beauchamp decides to stay and write about Bill, who has impressed him with his tales of old gunfights and seeming knowledge of the inner workings of a gunfighter’s psyche.

Munny, Logan and the Kid arrive later amid a rain storm and go to the saloon/whorehouse to discover the cowboys’ location. Munny has a bad fever after riding in the rain, and is sitting alone in the saloon when Little Bill and his deputies arrive to confront him. Little Bill has no idea who Munny is, and after finding a pistol on him he beats him brutally and kicks him out onto the street. Logan and the Kid, upstairs getting “advances” on their payment from the prostitutes, escape out a back window. The three regroup at a barn outside of town, where they nurse Munny back to health.

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Three days later, they ambush a group of cowboys and kill Bunting – although it becomes apparent that Logan and Munny no longer have much stomach for murder. Logan decides to return home while Munny and the Kid head to the cowboys’ ranch, where the Kid ambushes Quick Mike in an outhouse and kills him. After they escape, a very distraught Kid confesses he had never killed anyone before, and renounces the gunfighter lifestyle. When Little Sue (Frederick) meets the two men to give them the reward, they learn that Logan was captured by Little Bill’s men and tortured to death, but not before giving up the identities of his two accomplices. The Kid heads back to Kansas to deliver the reward money to Munny and Logan’s families, while Munny drinks half a bottle of whisky and heads into town to take revenge on Bill.

That night, Logan’s corpse is displayed in a coffin outside the saloon. Inside, Little Bill has assembled a posse to pursue Munny and the Kid. Munny walks in alone and promptly demands to know whom is the owner of the establishment brandishing a double-barrel shotgun. Skinny Dubois (James), the saloon owner and pimp steps forward in an attempt to dissuade Munny, who in response guns him down, stating in response to a comment from Bill “Well he shoulda armed himself if he was gonna decorate his saloon with my friend”. After some tense dialogue, a gunfight ensues, leaving Bill wounded and apparently dead and several of his deputies dead. Munny orders everyone out before a moment later stopping Little Bill from trying to shoot him in the back with his drawn pistol. Bill complains about not deserving to die and curses Munny saying he’ll see him in hell. Munny says “Deserves got nothing to do with it…” and with a simple Yea’ Munny finishes him with a final rifle-shot to the head. Munny then threatens the townsfolk in the rain before finally leaving town, warning that he will return if Logan is not buried properly or if any prostitutes are further harmed. If he finds out that someone has, he will return and kill them, their entire family and friends. Then rides off into the rain to go back home to his children.

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Eastwood attempts here to make his character more appealing by having him ride a mangy old horse that repeatedly dumps him. It almost works. This is a dark, almost sacrilegious descent into the sleazy underbelly of Western Movie culture, and it’s delicious. Steady direction by Eastwood and a cast that seems to be swapping

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bad guy one-upsmanship throughout the film. The tired old killers, game for a comeback (Eastwood and Freeman). English Bob, the sadistic British gunslinger (Harris). The corrupt Sheriff, Little Bill (Hackman). English Bob’s biographer W. W. Beauchamp (Rubinek). The insecure Kid, out to get that first notch on his gun (Woolvett). Quick Mike and Davey Boy, two nasty drunken cowpokes who disfigure a Hooker with a knife when Quick Mike can’t get it up (Muuci and Campbell). Bad guys all, in the town of Big Whiskey. The only let up from nastiness is the Madam of the local Brothel, Strawberry Alice, and the disfigured prostitute with a heart of gold, Delilah, who offers “free ones” to cowboys she likes.

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Darkly and beautifully shot by Jack Green, a nice musical score by Lenny Niehaus, and crisp pacing by editor Joel Cox. Dark and unseemly doings in the town of Big Whiskey.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bhWNbBzzOK0

 

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*

© 2013 Shaun Costello

2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 10,000 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 17 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

HOW THE NRA HOODWINKED AMERICA

By Shaun Costello

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Somewhere along the way, the National Rifle Association, which is nothing more than a lobbying entity representing the firearms industry, has positioned itself as an organization dedicated to preserving the freedoms of each and every American citizen. This extraordinary advertising coup was achieved by enlisting Hollywood actors like Ronald Reagan and Charlton Heston to espouse

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the importance of the firearm as an integral element in America’s history, and in every American’s heritage. America’s freedom from the tyranny of British rule was achieved by means of the gun, claims the NRA, therefore freedom itself, the birthright of every American, can only be maintained by the gun. Early on, the NRA ingratiated itself with alleged patriotic organizations like the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution), the American Legion, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, and any and every right wing political entity they could penetrate. Over the years, with careful image control, and effective

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advertising, the NRA has positioned itself as the protector of America’s Freedom, and an integral element in the maintenance of democratic rule, as created by America’s founding fathers. The objective of this image campaign was to equate the NRA with all things patriotic, so that the average American would think of the NRA, right up there with the Bill of Rights, The Declaration of Independence, The Boston Tea Party, George Washington, the flag, and Mom’s apple pie.
And it worked. Now that the NRA, which in reality was simply a lobby group for a multi-billion dollar industry, had woven its way into the fabric of patriotic America’s tapestry, its next move was to begin donating to key political campaigns, creating a network of obligated politicians across the country who would vote pro-gun, regardless of their prior, or actual beliefs.

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The word was out now for every elected official, regardless of political affiliation. Want to keep your job? Vote pro-gun.
With political power in their grasp, the NRA would control all legislation that might effect or regulate the firearms industry, which has annual revenues exceeding eleven billion dollars. Through fear tactics, and the patriotic bully pulpit, the NRA’s base expanded, and their power became unchallengeable. But suddenly, America woke up. The recent tragic events in Newtown Connecticut have changed everything. A deranged kid with his mother’s legally bought, .223 Caliber military assault rifle, slaughtered 20 little children in their classrooms, 6 teachers who died protecting their kids, his mother, and finally himself. A catastrophe of such

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magnitude that America has been shocked into a reality that might finally put a stop to unregulated manufacture and sale of assault weapons, and the NRA’s strangle hold on the political machinery that allowed those weapons to find their way into the hands of killers.
After a week’s silence, Wayne LaPierre, the President of the NRA, called a news conference this afternoon, finally expressing the NRA’s response to the tragedy in Newtown. His words were shocking, but not surprising. In keeping with the NRA’s policy of ever-expanding gun sales, LaPierre suggested arming teachers and school administrators. Mr. LaPierre stood there at the microphone and said, “The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun.” So, the NRA-supported firearms industry will supply both the good guys and the bad guys with more guns, and they can shoot it out.

NRA
Not this time. America seems finally to have awakened to the NRA’s charade of patriotic hyperbole and congressional manipulation. Twenty kids are dead. Enough. The President seems to have awakened as well, and even some Republican Congressmen are beginning to understand the need for more stringent gun regulation. Will it happen? I hope so. Will Americans finally understand that the Second Amendment, which the NRA successfully tattooed on the American psyche as giving anyone the right to unlimited and unregulated gun ownership, is an archaic instrument, used by the paranoid to assuage their fears and insecurities? I can only hope.

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The NRA is not what it claims to be. They’re the playground bully, threatening the weaker kids and stealing their lunch money. Once America begins to understand this simple fact, and politicians stop cowering in fear that their re-election funding will dry up, maybe we’ll stop shooting each other. After all, no playground bully is anywhere near as tough as he thinks. He’s only what you believe he is. Nothing more.

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© 2012 Shaun Costello

JACK’S CHRISTMAS BLAST

“Mommy, Santa’s asleep on the kitchen floor”
By Shaun Costello

EPSON scanner image

 

Christmas in the Forest Hills Gardens was my favorite time of year. A great deal of attention was paid by Gardens residents to make sure that the little hamlet was as adorable as was intended by the designers who created it. The

Station Square snow great

Gardens Corporation spent a hefty portion of its annual budget making sure that every lamp post, every pine and spruce, even the stop signs were appropriately adorned and decorated to say “Merry Christmas” to each and every passer by. There was a full scale Nativity Scene with a stable, and life size statues of the participants, as well as enormous stuffed sheep and goats. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, the older kids would rearrange the juxtaposition of the scene’s characters to suggest that the Magi were doing something unnatural

nATIVITY

with the sheep, but the following morning the Gardens Corporation’s handyman would put things right, and Yuletide spirit would resume, uninterrupted.
The houses were elaborately decorated with lights, and wreaths, and holly, with candles in the windows, and Santa’s sleds on the rooftops. There was a team of judges who traveled about the community, making notes on the quality of decorations, and a prize was awarded to the best dressed home on Christmas night right in the middle of Station Square, the epicenter of the community. There was a rumor, that the judges could be bribed with martinis, so the validity of the prize was in always in question.

Revelers

On Christmas Eve the grown ups had lots of parties, and the Gardens Corporation kept track of where they were so that a list of addresses could be given to the Gardens Carolers, who would sing their versions of “Silent Night”, and “We Three Kings of Orient Are”, at each and every gathering, after which they would be rewarded with drams of eggnog and cognac and thus fortified, move on to the next venue. The streets in the little hamlet were crowded with revelers, drinks in hand, arm in arm, singing and laughing, as they staggered from party to party, hell bent on the proper celebration of the birth of the Christ child. Enormous consumption of alcohol seemed to be an integral element in the festivities.

Carolers one
Each Christmas Eve the Gardens Corporation “conscripted” a group of Santa’s from among the Gardens’ teenage population. They were dressed in Santa outfits, given a list of addresses complete with the names of the children in residence, and a bag of gifts, one for each child on the list. This event was enormously popular with the children of the community, who got a visit from their very own Santa, who handed them a gift with their very own name on it. On this particular Christmas, my friend Bill Beggs’ older brother Jack was to take his first tour as Santa, and Bill’s friends, me included, went over to the Beggs’

Christmas Tree outdoors

house to give Jack pointers on his Santa performance, and tease him as much as he would allow. Jack Beggs was an unassuming, engaging, friendly kid and Bill’s friends all liked him. He was the only teenager in the community who treated us like humans.
There was a tradition at the Gardens Corporation office on every Christmas Eve, that involved giving each Santa a shot of brandy to ward off the cold, along with a Merry Christmas toast before the eager team of teenage Santa’s began their rounds of gift giving. Jack was fourteen, and had never had a shot of brandy before, but the fiery liquid was a welcome fortification against the cold, not to mention his nervousness at the possibility of giving the wrong presents to children whose names he might forget. Properly imbibed, Jack began his rounds.

Santa drunk with kids

Mr. and Mrs. Beggs were out doing the party circuit, so Bill answered the phone when it rang about two hours later. “Look Beggs, this is Al Relyea down at the Gardens office. I just got an angry phone call from Doctor Fallon. I guess you know that your son Jack is a Santa this year. Anyway, he evidently got his hands on a bottle of hooch, and got himself plastered. He passed out on Fallon’s kitchen floor and threw up all over the place. The Doc’s kids are hysterical, and he’s threatening to sue the Gardens Corporation for something called “loss of innocence”, unless we get young Jack out of his house right away. Say, how old is Jack now, fourteen? I guess he got an early start. Hair of the dog, eh John? Look Beggs, you’ve got to help me here. Go over and get your son out of there”. A stunned Bill Beggs, lowering his voice as far as it would go said, “Right away’, and hung up.

Santa drinking illustration great
Not knowing what to do, and realizing that if his parents found out, Jack would be on house arrest until his 65th birthday, Bill called me. Jack was simply too big for the two of us to handle, so we enlisted the help of the Bullock twins, and Chipps Page, who were delighted to be able to witness the sight of Jack in his Santa suit, unconscious on the Fallon’s kitchen floor, and they met us outside the Doctor’s house.
When we knocked on the Front door we were confronted with an angry Doctor Fallon, who challenged Bill with, ‘Where’s your father, mister?” We explained to the Doctor that Mr. and Mrs. Beggs were out, so the five of us would get Jack out of his house and take him home. Santa was still out cold on the kitchen floor, his beard all askew, and Mrs. Fallon was busy cleaning up the remains of the dinner that Mrs. Claus must had made for him before he began his trip from the North Pole, and that he had thrown up all over the Fallon’s floor. Jack was dead weight and it took all the strength we could muster to get him out of there and back home.

Drunk santa illustration great
Here’s what had happened. It seems that there’s one more tradition in the local Christmas lore that Jack was unaware of. Each time Santa makes a visit he is rewarded by the grateful family on which he has bestowed his gifts, usually in the form of what local grown ups referred to as a “blast”. This consisted of a strong eggnog, or a shot of Cognac. The Fallon’s were Jack’s tenth and last family, which meant that fourteen year old Jack Beggs, whose first taste of alcohol was the Christmas Toast earlier that evening at the Gardens office, had consumed five eggnogs and four Cognacs before he knocked, with great difficulty, on the Doctor’s door. He had somehow lost his

Man with beer in snow

hat, and was wearing his beard sideways as he staggered into the Fallon’s living room. Poor Jack was sick for a few days, and his parents actually did find out about his mischief, but drunkenness in the Forest Hills Gardens was a forgivable sin, not only condoned, but encouraged, even in children. Young Jack became a folk hero in the eyes of the local grown ups, who were sometimes referred to by their children as, the “unquenchables”. His father was greeted by friends with, “Chip off the old block, huh John?” His heroic performance had added stature to Jack’s reputation in the community, and I wondered how long it would be before his dad greeted him one evening with, “Hey son, how about a blast?”

Carolers 2

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© 2010 Shaun Costello

KING OF THE ELEVATOR – AND DAVE BRUBECK’S BITCH

by Shaun Costello dAVE SNOW SCENE
In the dead of Winter, in either 1990 or 1991, I was returning from a long shooting day, along with my assistant and sound recordist. I don’t remember which project it was because those were halcyon days for me, and I was booked solid. We were tired and cranky. It was cold. Snow was on the ground. It was late –must have been after 10PM, and we had been working since early that morning. I was using the off-line
Dave cameraediting system in a friend’s apartment in Manhattan’s West Eighties,
to cut the project, and we were returning our equipment to his
editing room. We were standing on the lobby floor, waiting for the
Dave hat

elevator. The door opened, and we lugged our equipment cases into the small cubicle and turned to face the front. My camera was visible because I seldom put it in its case. Before the door closed, an old man, bundled up with too many clothes against the cold, got in with us. He looked like a kid whose mother had dressed him for a snowball fight – his arms, covered with too many layers to quite fall to his sides, stuck out a bit. He wore one of those winter hats that people in places like Minnesota put on their heads, the kind with ear flaps that tie under your chin. The flaps were untied and stuck straight out at right angles from his ears. His thick, black-framed glasses were still frosted over from the heat inside the building. This was about as dorky a guy as you’re going to run into, and considering the late hour, and state of exhaustion, I was not ready for conversation.
The elevator door closed, but instead of turning to face the front of the car, the old man in the snow suit just stood there looking at us. He was grinning. ”You guys out shooting in the cold? Must have been an important gig to keep you out until this hour, in this kind of cold. Something big, huh?” On the streets of Manhattan, a film crew is often approached by gawkers and passers bye, looking to make a negative assertion, saying something stupid, going for the cheap shot, something you get used to and try to ignore. But we were trapped

Dave wedding

inside the elevator with Mr. Dorky, who was just about impossible to avoid. I could probably attempt to excuse my behavior that night by reminding you, dear reader, of how tired I was – but there’s no excuse for being that big a jerk. “We’ll shoot anything”, I answered, “Weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, no job’s too small, and as you can see, weather’s no object.” Was it my intention to belittle the man in the snow suit, to treat him with condescension and one-upsmanship? To show him just who he was dealing with here, late at night in the confines of that elevator? I’m a film director, you dork. How dare you speak to me.
His expression never changed. He just kept grinning, impervious to the pompous condescension I had dumped all over him. I can still remember his grin, framed by those those ear flaps. As the elevator came to a stop at his floor, still grinning he said, “It’s Tuesday. There are no Bar Mitvahs on Tuesdays. Night, boys.” And off he went, having won the bout with my surly personage by knockout.

Dave Brubeck old
As the elevator ascended to our floor, I couldn’t get the “Mr. Dorky” image out of my head. There was something about this guy – something strangely familiar. The door opened on the eighth floor and it fell on me like a ton of bricks, as I realized who the guy was. I turned to my assistant. “Do you know who that was?”, I asked. He just said, “Yeah”, and kept moving our equipment cases out of the elevator. “Do you know what kind of an asshole I was?”, I asked him. “Yeah”, he said again, grinning like Mr. Dorky, and turning the key in the apartment door. “Why didn’t you poke me, or something?” I was feeling deflated, like I had just behaved about as badly as a person can, regardless of my exhaustion, and pathetic need to exert my superiority over my fellow man. “You were too busy being a jerk”, my assistant told me, stacking cases in the editing room.
He was right. I was too busy being a jerk to notice that I had just treated one of this world’s true geniuses, and a personal hero of mine throughout my school years, one of this planet’s giants, with a combination of condescension and dismissal. The man had asked an honest question, and I, in my delusional need for one-upsmanship, tried to play King of the Elevator with a perfect stranger, whose only sin had been an engaging grin, and his refusal to take the bait. I felt such a fool. Such a guy. Such an asshole. A victim of my gender’s need to feel superior, even in an elevator.
And superior to whom? An old dorky guy in a snowsuit, who had the audacity to cross the line. To ask an honest question. To risk a moment of familiarity with a perfect stranger, with no motive other than simple curiosity. I’d like to say that I learned a lesson that night. That I woke up the next morning a better person, ready to take on the world. Able to slay the dragon. But none of that is true. I’m sure I awoke the next morning as big a jerk as I was the night before. Feeling impossibly crippled my own insecurity, and in awe of an old man in a snow suit, whose simple honesty had been so elegant. The old man, you see, was Dave Brubeck, who knew from personal experience that Bar Mitzvah’s were never held on Tuesdays. Rest in peace, Big Guy.

Dave Brubeck young

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© 2012 Shaun Costello

ALEXANDER’S – THE STORE AND THE RAGTIME BAND

I am now pretty old, and have had certain dreams that have repeated themselves, sometimes identically, and sometimes in varying forms, throughout my life. Though my memory is nowhere near perfect, I can recollect events in detail going back to early childhood. My earliest memory is of being bathed by my mother in what seemed like a large kitchen sink,

probably at the age of one, give or take. I have several visual recollections from that time, but one is quite puzzling, and I thought I would share it with you, along with a startling discovery about that memory, and the possibilities of cognitive recollections from a sensory amalgam of sources, as my brain developed. The first dream, that I remember, was at approximately the age of between eight and ten. (1952 – 1954) The visual images and music would repeat, in varying forms, on a regular basis, until a discovery in the winter of 2001. I can only be vague about the frequency and number of repetitions, but it seemed often, and in the hundreds. Over the years, I have tried to discern the reasons behind the repeated recollection, but could come to no conclusion that made sense – until 2001.

 

It seems like winter. I am bundled. I am low to the ground. I am not walking. I am being propelled somehow. Above me are two faces. They are women, wearing hats. The top half of their faces are covered by nets, the kind that were attached to women’s hats in the 1930’s and 1940’s. They are talking to each other, and sometimes to me, although I can not hear their voices. But I do hear music. I hear the song Alexander’s Ragtime Band, with lyrics clear and loud.

That’s it. Over the years I came to some obvious conclusions:

That the two women were my mother and her best friend.

That I was being pushed along, low to the ground, in a child’s stroller.

That I was less than a year old. (I began walking at the age of ten months)

The mystery was the music. It was always recognizable as Alexander’s Ragtime Band. At some point along the way I simply stopped attempting to discover why this combination of images and music repeated itself so often, and accepted it as a fated event, and a pleasant one at that.

For a reason I can’t possibly explain, in the winter of 2001, I decided to take a look, and I returned to the physical location that I had concluded must have been where this took place.

I was born in the Bronx NY, in 1944. We lived not far from Fordham University. My father was in the Army, serving in the Pacific. The main shopping thoroughfare in our neighborhood was a boulevard called the Grand Concourse. To reach this venue from where we lived, you would have to walk up Fordham Road, about ten blocks or so up a gradual incline. My guess was, that my mother probably spent more time pushing me in a stroller along Fordham Road than any other street. I must have had some time on my hands that day in 2001, so off I went, searching for my early childhood.

Oddly enough, other than demographically, the neighborhood had not changed that much. The buildings that stood, back in the 1940’s, were still there, but of course housed different tenants and businesses. I walked East past Fordham University, and began the slight climb, up toward the Concourse, which was ten blocks away, at the top of the hill. The physicality of the street seemed correct, in terms of possibly being the location of my recollections. After walking about three blocks, I stopped to get my bearings, and see the bigger picture. It was here that I saw it.

At the very top of the hill, some six or seven blocks away, was a large brick building, distinguished from the surrounding architecture only by its larger size. Along the top of the building were five letters, ALEXA, very faded, probably painted many years ago. As I got closer, I realized that these letters were not a word, but part of a word. After the second A, the building had been painted another color, covering the last letters in the name. Then suddenly, I understood. The building at the top of the hill had been the original ALEXANDERS DEPARTMENT STORE, a popular neighborhood shopping venue in 1945, but only the first five letters of the name were still there, albeit just barely.

I guess you can see where this is headed, and it’s a fascinating possibility. Could the curious eyes of a child, less that a year old, have absorbed everything around him, storing different bits of data in separate parts of the brain, and have recollections of that data appear as memory, as the brain was able to decipher the information according to that brain’s cognitive evolution? That day, in that stroller, pushed along by those two women, could I have seen the ALEXANDERS sign as an image that could not possibly have any meaning until I learned to read? The sign would have been background to the closer, more vivid images of the two women, so the meaning of the letters would have no significance, until the brain was able to process the data and make the connection. The song Alexander’s Ragtime Band was popular at the time the images were imprinted. Could my brain have connected the song with stored image of the sign after I learned to spell, and scored the reoccurring dream with the song? The dreams began just after I learned to read. This was a genuine moment of discovery for me, and after that afternoon in 2001, I never had the dream again. A delicious conundrum.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPTbgvzgMZU

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© 2012 Shaun Costello

A DVD TWIN BILL FROM ENGLAND’S GOLDEN AGE OF AUTEUR-DRIVEN FILM MAKING

A few months ago I saw a documentary on TCM called CAMERAMAN – THE LIFE AND WORK OF JACK CARDIFF. After an astounding seventy years in the motion picture business, and with an astonishing portfolio of ground-breaking films to his credit, Cardiff’s interview in the film was both whimsical and revealing.

Having established himself as England’s leading Technicolor cinematographer, Cardiff talks about being approached by the great Michael Powell to shoot his next film, A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH – retitled STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN in the US. This would become an historic creative partnership between Cardiff and co-directors Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, that would yield A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH, THE RED SHOES, and BLACK NARCISSUS – three films that became the crowning achievement of England’s             1940′s/1950′s era of auteur-driven film making.

Having a behind the scenes look at the making of these classic films made me hungry to see them all again, and this double bill was my first purchase. Anyone who has not experienced the mesmerizing directorial skills of the Powell/Pressburger tandem, and who appreciates inventive, daring, and surprisingly challenging film making, will be thrilled with these unique motion pictures. There’s never been anything quite like them.

OK, these two titles on one DVD:

A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH (STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN) 1948 – Jack Cardiff’s first film with the Powell/Pressburger team – with David Niven, Kim Hunter, Robert Livesey, Raymond Massey, Marius Goring.

During the waning days of World War II, Niven, an RAF bomber pilot returning from a bombing raid, his plane in flames somewhere over the English Channel, radios his position only to discover a surprisingly delightful voice (Kim Hunter) on the other end. Niven had given his parachute to his navigator, and rather than burn to death in a plane crash, he tells the voice on the other

end of the radio that he’s going to jump. Something clicks (hey, it’s a movie) between Niven and Hunter, and he say’s a wistful farewell before jumping to his certain death. But something goes wrong somehow in Heaven’s Welcome to Eternity department, and we discover Niven, washed up on a beach somewhere in England. He awakens, thinking he’s dead, only to find he has somehow survived. YES, IT’S A DEAD GUY MOVIE! But the best ever made. Heaven goes into damage control over its mistake, and a great trial for Niven’s mortality begins. Of course, because this is a Dead Guy Movie, he meets the girl who stole his heart over the radio in his last moments in the burning bomber (Kim Hunter) and falls head over heels. I know this sounds ridiculous, and of course it is, but Powell and Pressburger’s nimble direction and Cardiff’s extraordinary visuals turn suds into cinema, and make it all work. During pre-production, Cardiff asks Powell if Heaven will be in color, and Earth in black and white, a safe assumption.

“No”, say’s Powell, “that’s just what everyone will expect”. So they flip the Heaven/Earth – Color/ B&W transition, that worked so well in The Wizard of Oz, in Earth’s colorful favor. It’s all fabulous fantasy from Powell, Pressburger, and Cardiff, who delivers ground breaking visual effects seamlessly. One of the real champs.

Special Features: Martin Scorsese on A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH – Commentary by historian Ian Christie

http://cinemajaguar.com/38733/A-Matter-of-Life-and-Death-1946-Trailer

 

And now for something completely different:

AGE OF CONSENT – 1969 – Directed by Michael Powell, and his last film. With James Mason, a very young and astonishingly beautiful and mostly naked Helen Mirren, and Jack MacGowran.

A middle aged painter (Mason) and an under aged girl (Mirren) on an almost-deserted Australian island. His mid-life crisis. His Tempest. He wants to paint her naked, and she gladly agrees. Do they? Could They? Should they? Not in today’s ridiculously politically correct moralistic cinema, but this is 1969,

and Michael Powell tells this taboo tale without a hint of judgment. Fluff, certainly, but fascinating fluff, with a compelling Mason, as the middle aged painter with an obsession, and Mirren, as the woman/child, without a care, and without regret. A sexual taboo, dealt with by Powell, without judging its outcome. A simple film of lyrical beauty (about twenty minutes of startlingly gorgeous cinematography with a totally naked Helen Mirren swimming underwater while Mason paints away in his little boat), and well handled by all involved.

Special Features:  Martin Scorsese on AGE OF CONSENT – Commentary by historian Kent Jones – Making of Age Of Consent – Helen Mirren: A conversation with Cora – Down under with Ron and Valerie Taylor

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHrEmY2RqyU

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© 2012 Shaun Costello

 

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