American Buffalo (1996)

THEY HAD A PLAN. IT WASN'T WORTH A NICKEL.

David Mamet is a writer who knows a thing or two about the ways of desperate men, primarily because all men are desperate. A primary concern of his is the idea of a man’s struggle to reach the top, to get just one shot at the brass ring. Surely it runs that for every one guy that reaches his goal and makes it all the way, there are dozens who don’t. These are the ones Mamet looks at. Even if they think they’ve given up, got too old to for the fight, or have convinced themselves that they’re happy where they are, it only takes the least little glimmer of light and they will do some pretty messed up stuff to make the grab. Back in 1975, Mamet wrote a play about this very idea, centred around two men, one boy and a coin.

Don (Dennis Franz) runs an inner-city junk shop, and feels rather put out when he discovers he sold a coin for much less than it was worth. He decides to rob the man he sold it to with the help of teenager Bob (Sean Nelson). On finding out about the plan, Don’s friend Teach (Dustin Hoffman) proposes a new plan, where he’s in, Bob’s out and the job becomes about more than just a coin.

It’s pretty hard to poke holes in the script for American Buffalo, which Mamet himself adapted from his own play. Considering that upon its debut, it would win awards for Best New Play, has been revived on Broadway a few times and, in 1983, was called “one of the best American plays of the last decade” by New York Times critic Frank Rich. It’s an absolutely blazing work, full of anger, spite and real tension. Part of what makes it interesting is that it is, effectively, a ‘heist gone wrong’ story, but here the heist goes wrong before it’s even begun. These characters think they know what they’re doing, and to some degree, they actually might. However, whatever skills they may have don’t mesh and they are in constant conflict over every detail of the proposed venture. They trade notions of ‘what if’ as if it were a gunfight, crippling themselves by trying to outthink the other. It’s classic paralysis through analysis. The dialogue is fierce, profane, incendiary… it’s pure David Mamet. Teach is something of a self-anointed gutter philosopher, pontificating viciously on life and the way of the world. “The world is lies. There is no friendship,” says Teach. It’s precisely this kind of bitter cynicism that has held him back all this time, but he genuinely sees no other way it could work. If the world was fair, he’d be better of, but he isn’t. The world has cheated him out of what is his, so parrots this behaviour back to other people. He’s the kind of borderline nutcase who thinks that everyone is just like him and to pretend otherwise is a sure way to get taken. Don is the same, only he’s convinced that he’s stepped back from the fray, watching it all go by from the window of his shop. As he tells his student, Bob “There are people on this street, they want this, they want that, do anything to get it. You don’t have friends this life.” It’s twisted, it’s cruel, it’s mean and he really does mean it.

Considering that there are only three actors ever seen on screen, it is important for them to make their presence felt… and lord, do they work for it. Sean Nelson doesn’t nearly have enough time of screen as the other two, but he keeps his end up very well. Bob clearly wants to please his friend and learn from him, but he’s just not quite able to hold the same level of cynicism as Don and Teach, perhaps because he knows that, young as he is, he still has a shot. Dennis Franz continues his great line in searing looks that served him so well in the interrogation scenes in NYPD Blue. Don is tough, and seems to have let go of unrealistic dreams of the big time, but it’s an act that’s there largely to fool himself. The fire still burns in him, even if it’s just a little bit. All he needs is for the window to open just a little bit and it’ll burn him up all over again. Franz carries this so well. However, as it would be, it’s Hoffman that steals the show. Teach is fierce. He can’t let things go, either because he’s too stubborn or too dumb to recognise when he’s beat. He thinks everyone has an angle or a cheat or a con or some way that gives them the unfair advantage over him. Where Don has let his inner fire cool over the years, Teach is still consumed by his. He’s a man frustrated and Hoffman is a ball of tension and anger. Also, what continues to amaze me about Hoffman is that even though he is this short, unassuming guy, he can still be very intimidating when he wants to be. Just look at the scene where Teach and Don are quizzing Bob, who they think is acting suspiciously. All Hoffman does is sit in his chair and wheel it back and forth, staring at the boy. It’s menacing as hell. Both Franz and Hoffman work really well together, too. They keep great pace with each other, spitting the dialogue back and forth like they’re trading blows. It’s Mamet dialogue as a weapon in the hands of those who know how to use it.

Frankly, if there is one thing that lets down American Buffalo as a film, it’s Michael Corrente’s direction, which lacks any real invention to make it as completely searing as it could be. He certainly understands the high tempers of the piece, the feeling that what you’re watching is two fierce animals stalking around in a cage. At any moment, one of them could blow and someone will get hurt, but Corrente misses out on the capability of the camera. With the camera, you can get right in there with them, close enough to read their faces. However, the camera often keeps at a distance, not really wanting to get involved. Sure, it’s great to see Hoffman and Franz share the screening, sparring, throwing out their test punches, but you can get this from the stage production. Several times, the camera literally hides behind items in the junk shop, so we get a partially obscured vision of what’s going on. Also, there are moments where the framing of the piece would suggest that the two are on the same side, rather than in opposition, which is clearly the real heart of the matter. This is a boxing match, masquerading as a conversation. The performances more than meet this, but the camera does not.

American Buffalo is a superb script that’s acted with force and gusto, but the direction is just too unimaginative and lacklustre to really succeed as a film. The performances do make it absolutely superb watching, so it’s not exactly a wasteful watch. It would just have been better served under the direction of someone possessed of more visual flair.

All the President's Men (1976)

THE MOST DEVASTATING DETECTIVE STORY OF THIS CENTURY.

Journalism. Freedom of speech. The search for the Truth in a sea of ambiguities, doubts and “non-denial denials.” In the early part of the 1970s, two Washington Post reporters began an investigation into a seemingly rather innocuous event and ended up lifting the lid on a conspiracy which eventually led to the resignation in disgrace of President Richard Nixon just two years later. Facing an incredible uphill struggle, the reporters Woodward and Bernstein forged through the morass of dead-ends, evasions and rejections and, placing the reputations of themselves and their paper at stake, fought to get the story told. It’s the stuff political thrillers are made of and, in 1976, the tale was told in All the President’s Men.

In the run-up to the 1972 US elections, Washington Post reporter Bob Woodward (Robert Redford) covers what seemed to be a minor break-in at the Democratic Party National headquarters at the Watergate. When he finds top lawyers on the defence case, and the names of Republican fund organisers amongst the accused, he teams up with Carl Bernstein (Dustin Hoffman) to follow the trail of evidence behind the break-in higher into the Republican Party and the White House itself.

Woodward and Bernstein wrote the book from which the story was adapted, so it was rich in the detail of the graft of journalism and the manner in which they conducted their investigation. William Goldman was the one who adapted the story and it is a superb script. It captures the characters of Woodward and Goldstein and the people they worked with, the heavy dramatic weight of the subject matter and the great complexity of the story. Every scene is solid as drama and small touches that are included bring a superb level of detail to the whole affair, like the initial lack of trust in Woodward’s abilities given his relative rookie status at the paper, or the near chaotic round table discussions of the paper’s various editors, or even the fact that someone Woodward speaks to mentions that his neighbour’s wife was kidnapped. That actually happened. Both reporters are evoked superbly. Though they are both possessed of the same dogged relentless thirst for the truth, their styles vary. Bernstein will keep notes on anything he can get his hands on, so his pockets are stuffed with napkins and matchbooks and strips of toilet paper, and he is a little more prone to trickery; Woodward is more straight-lined, but no less tenacious. The film itself only covers a certain amount of the book, since to cover more would involve a film of several hours. Honestly, to some degree, I don’t think I would have minded much.

Alan J. Pakula’s direction is so visually suggestive that there doesn’t need to be any dramatic speeches about the overwhelming nature of the ever faceless enemy, or for anyone to explain the nature of journalistic responsibility. It’s all rendered in the visuals and the sounds of the world Pakula creates. He shows two vastly contrasting worlds in the film: one of dark (the shady political side); and one of light (the one of journalism). Suspicious deals and murky meetings are submerged in darkness, whereas the reporters exist in a world of full light, where nothing can be hidden. Gordon Willis’ cinematography is so adept at identifying the two opposing sides that, when Woodward and Bernstein are knocking on doors, you can tell who will talk by how much light they live in. The framing of the film is absolutely impeccable, too. When Woodward and Bernstein leave government buildings or drive by them, they appear miniscule in comparison, elegantly underlining that theirs is a monumental task against a huge opponent. The office of the Washington Post is also superbly realised, so bright and open, and it’s all kept in such focus that you can see everything going on around our protagonists. Even inside offices, the doors are open and the windows show the office buzzing behind. Once again, in this place, nothing is hidden. And it’s all kept up with such bustle. There’s no sitting around from these people. They move, they interact, they gather and disperse. Pakula has done a great job with them.

The editing and sense of pace in the film are also excellent. Some shots are held for so long that, at times, it becomes unbearably tense. There is a shot where Woodward is on the phone to Dahlberg, delicately trying to get information from him, though Dahlberg is clearly very nervous about this. It begins as a wide shot, taking in all the activity of the office, but slowly moves in on Woodward as he pushed Dahlberg. It’s all dialogue. That shot lasts for about six solid minutes and runs in a single unedited take. A later one has Bernstein on the phone to another source and in it he counts to ten. That’s it, but it is the most tense ten count outside of a boxing ring. It’s then immediately followed by a single shot tracking shot of Bernstein as he runs through across the newsroom and into the foyer. Good lord, it’s brilliant.

The sound plays such a huge part in the film, too. Listen to the busy newspaper office, the crowded and noisy streets, the eerily quiet government offices. This is a city that’s alive. Even points where we lose our pair in the crowd of a restaurant or the whole city, we never lose their voice. Not just in terms of the filmmaking, but in terms of the story, theirs is the voice we can’t lose. Even if we don’t see them, we need to know that they are out there. There’s also a great emphasis put on the strikes of a typewriter. When the film opens with the hammer of a typewriter falling on the page, they sound more like gunshots. These words are as much weapons as guns. The final shot, a wonderfully framed juxtaposition of the Presidential inauguration and the unremitting reporters at work, brings this idea of guns versus words together with great power and simplicity.

The whole cast is first-rate. Hoffman and Redford work so very well together. Two very controlled performances from two fine actors, and they play such a great game of give-and-take with each other. The pair actually learned each other’s lines so that they could jump in on the other, finish each other’s sentences. It feels like a real partnership between the two. Individually, they hold up really well, too. Just watch how uncomfortable Redford seems to be in the dark of the parking garage meetings. He’s someone who’s not used to being so enveloped like this. It’s not fear, so much as unease, uncertainty. Hoffman has the slightly showier role, but only so very slightly. You can see the excitable tremor he gets when he’s on to something, but he never lets it get the better of him. Also, in the scene where he speaks with Jane Alexander (who is also superb in her understatement), you can see him treading so carefully as he questions her. He needs the answers, but doesn’t want to scare her off. It’s great dexterity on his part. Jason Robards is solid as a rock as the bullshit-free editor Ben Bradlee. He’s the steady reign on the two, giving them enough that they can investigate, but controlled enough that he doesn’t let the thrill of the chase throw him off. He’s a hardass, to them more than anyone, but he knows what he’s doing.

Did you know that All the President’s Men is often shown to journalism students? It’s true. The reason being that, aside from being a damn good film, it espouses a certain idea of what it means to be a journalist, particularly one in America. Despite the story taking place in one of the shadiest conspiracies of the last 50 years, the film is actually quite idealistic. I mentioned earlier about the contrast between light and dark so brilliantly captured by Gordon Willis. This is something Pakula extends to certain landmarks to be found in Washington, D.C. At night, places like the White House, the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial are lit up at night as a resolute symbol of the Good shining in the Dark. Pakula brings these monuments into the frame of his film regularly. Despite where the evidence seems to be taking them, these reporters are not out to take down the government; they’re out to defend it. They’re out to uphold the principles of the Truth, Justice and the American Way. It sounds incredibly corny, but it’s quite sincere and not in the least bit flag-waving. In fact, I’m not sure if I can remember seeing a single American flag once in the entire film. The connection is being made, though. Those that hang around in dark, shady rooms are the ones who are in opposition to the ideals of America. Woodward and Bernstein work in the light, which makes them more in line with what the country wants to be.

My reviewing this film is actually rather timely, considering the current state of journalistic affairs. For those of you not aware, or who may be reading this way down the timeline, a mere five days prior to the time of writing, the British tabloid newspaper, the News of the World, produced its final issue before being closed down by its owner Rupert Murdoch amid allegations of phone hacking, corruption and cover-ups by senior executives. Reporters and administrators from the News of the World have been accused of illegally hacking into voicemail services of numerous people, from the Royal Family and politicians to the more unsettling instances of hacking into the voicemails of murder victims and the families of dead soldiers. The outrage over this ordeal forced the paper to be shut down, those accused to be arrested and a public government enquiry being set up to investigate the matter further. It also put a complete halt on the attempt made by Murdoch’s News Corporation to take over BSkyB, first by executive decision, then by government mandate. Claims have also been made that the News of the World is unlikely to be the only newspaper to engage in such activities.

It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it? In All the President’s Men, an ideal is put forth about journalism, its importance in the search for facts, for truth, for justice. That good, honest and solid investigative journalism into a story are one of the strongest and most important tools a society can have. Around 40 years later, the very world of journalism is shaken to its core by the disquieting actions of certainly a few, perhaps even many of its number. How can it be possible to trust in those who claim to report for the greater good when the manner in which they obtain their facts is as underhanded and occasionally sickening as the ones they seek to expose? What story are they trying to tell that could warrant this? Freedom of speech is probably the most guarded right that Americans hold (it’s their First Amendment, for God’s sake) and it certainly holds equally true to others who have it. However, with that power comes the grave responsibility of knowing how and when to use it. When you speak without thinking, without considering consequence, without caring how you say something, you devalue not only your own words, but the very system that allows you to speak them in the first place. Freedom to speak is a right, but it should be treated as a privilege. In the end, it’s your job to police yourself, not someone else’s. If this means taking an extra minute or two to think about what you’re going to say, then so be it. This is the idealism that exists at the heart of All the President’s Men. Woodward and Bernstein know they must speak, but do everything in their power to make sure they're ready before they do. Words are not meaningless or inert; words are powerful. Words have impact. Whether used properly or improperly, words can do more damage than people are really willing to admit. As corny as it may seem, sometimes the pen really is mightier than the sword.

All the President’s Men is an absolutely superb thriller, made stronger and more sinister by the fact that it’s all true. The direction is outstanding, as is the script, the editing, the sound and the cinematography. Redford and Hoffman are also on top form as the intrepid pair of journalists fighting for truth. More than just an excellent film, though, it’s got ideals and hope, without coming across as being naive.

Accidental Hero (1992)

ONE SELFLESS ACT OF COURAGE CAN REALLY MESS UP YOUR WHOLE DAY

What makes a person? Specifically, what drives them to be self-centred shmucks as opposed to selfless do-gooders, or vice versa? Is it possible for someone to step outside of his or her own character and, more importantly, will anyone believe it if they did? Such is the central concern to Stephen Frears’ comedy-drama Accidental Hero. Part media satire and part morality play, the action surrounds three disparate individuals – a selfish conman, an almost jaded news reporter and a destitute war veteran – as they find themselves thrown together by circumstance and opportunity in the shape of a plane crash.

Bernie LaPlante (Dustin Hoffman) is a cynical hustler whose life is quickly falling in on itself. Whilst on his way to his son’s birthday, he witnesses a plane crash right in front of him. He begrudgingly goes on board to help, and rob, some people, including television reporter Gail Gayley (Geena Davis). It’s too dark to see who it is, so Gail starts a campaign to find the hero, offering one million dollars reward. In steps John Bubber (Andy Garcia), down-and-out nice guy, to claim the credit and reward. Media attention grows as Bubber’s conscience starts to creep in, and Bernie wants his money.

Right from the off, Frears tries to evoke a sense of the olden days, with the stirring music of Auld Lang Syne playing over the opening credits. Not the real olden days, though. The olden days as filtered through the haze of nostalgia and filmic memory. A time when many who saw Accidental Hero when it came out were young, when life was simpler, when there was no real complexity to moral questions and problems. There was right and there was wrong and you didn’t need any kind of moral compass to know which was which. God, if only it could all be this simple.

Things are then dragged into the here and now with a resolute introduction to two of our main characters and the world in which they live. Bernie LaPlante is in court, being defended by a young lawyer fresh from school, watching proceedings with a look of both bafflement and cynical resignation. Whilst the judge and lawyers work out the terms of his case, Bernie, noticing his lawyer’s unguarded purse, snatches it up, empties it of all cash. After they leave, he then gives the money back to his attorney as a repayment for a loan she gave him the week before… and then takes it right back again because, you know, he needs some gas money to go see his kid. His family life is, as you’d expect, not exactly glowing either. Long since split from the mother of his child, he’s a part time dad at best, and given some of the advice he dispenses to his son when they do get together, you get the feeling that maybe the boy would be better off without his father’s influence. In a single trip to a diner for lunch, he ditches the bill, keeps a wallet that his son found (and tried to return himself) and tells the youngster that he should try to avoid feeling bad for homeless people because most of them have plenty of money anyway and are just looking for more. In Bernie’s worldview, everyone’s like him… a hustler, a conman, someone just looking to take advantage. As far as Bernie’s concerned, being honest about dishonesty makes him the honest one… what a scumbag.

Our introduction to Gail Gayley isn’t exactly a shining one, either. We meet her as she interviews a man, a respectable man, with a nice suit, nice hair and something of warm smile on his face. When their interview concludes, he promptly turns round and jumps off the ledge he was standing on. Turns out that Gail was there, standing right on the ledge next to him, to get the final words of this man’s story before he leapt to his death. She is shocked that he actually does it, of course, but she’s clearly in conflict with herself about the situation. The second the poor sap lands, she says to her cameraman, “Did you get that?… Did I just say that?” She knows it’s her job to get the story at all costs, because there’s nothing worse than being scooped, but she is aware that this need to get the story is having an adverse effect on her personality. So, from the start, we’re shown that our protagonists (for now) are both at some stage of moral compromise.

Later that night, when Gail is flying back from a ceremony where she was given an award for her tireless pursuit of truth (where her acceptance speech is a rather frank dissemination on the nature of the media’s propensity to reduce individuals to stories than human beings), a disaster strikes. Gail’s plane crashes, trapping everyone on board. At just this moment, Bernie is driving along nearby, and sees the plane go down… but he doesn’t want to help out. Why would he? It’s wet out there and it’s dangerous and he’ll end up ruining his $100 shoes. Eventually he relents, swims through the muddy water the wreckage and opens up the emergency hatch. After a little boy begs him to save his dad, Bernie heads into the flaming fuselage to drag people out. When he stops to help the attractive redhead (Gail) from her seat, he can’t help but steal her purse and award, too. Well, he should get something for all his trouble. After all, he does end up losing a shoe in the process. When everyone’s safe, Bernie gets out of there because he’s late for his son’s birthday.

After the crash, the media are all over it, with everyone trying to find out who the mystery rescuer was. A massive campaign is started, headed by Gail, to find him. When they offer a $1,000,000 reward to the hero, every crazy person comes out of the woodwork, claiming to be him. Bernie can’t make it, though, because he gets arrested trying to sell Gail’s credit cards to some undercover cops. In court, he hears news that the mystery hero has come forward… John Bubber, an impoverished war veteran whose sincere eyes and humble words make him an instant hit. Bernie now has to get himself out of jail as soon as possible so he can get what’s coming to him. Sadly, he’s such a parasitic low-life to all that know him that his cries fall on deaf ears. Meanwhile, as the world, and Gail, become more enamoured with their new media sensation, John begins to feel the strain of being so loved for something he doesn’t deserve.

David Webb Peoples provides a wonderful script, with intriguing characters that oppose and parallel in equal measure. There’s a concern with legend or notoriety versus fact that Peoples used to near perfection in the same year’s Unforgiven. Bernie deserves the attention, but doesn’t want it; John doesn’t deserve the attention, but thinks he can handle it; and Gail knows that the attention is, for the most part, fleeting and all just a matter or perception, but it's her job to give that attention. It’s a fascinating dynamic, and pulled off very nicely. Peoples has also got a great sense of the dialogue for his players, giving Gail a media-savvy air to her words; lending John an eloquent, old-time corny manner of speaking honestly about life; and distilling Bernie’s cynicism into a few choice, occasionally profane, phrases… his simple rules of cutting through bullshit with even more bullshit. At some point during proceedings, when John wants to come clean and tell the world of Bernie’s heroism, Bernie tells him, “I don’t take credit, I’m a cash kinda guy.” Tell me you don’t get a sense of this man just from that one line.

Whilst it never just comes out and says it (which would be a bit much), Accidental Hero plays on the notion of morality, not just in the heavy maelstrom of a media blitzkrieg, but more when it actually counts. No one believes Bernie is capable of such selflessness, except for his son. John doesn’t think he could have done that, though everyone is positive it’s within him, including Bernie. Perhaps these guys are representative of the struggle within every person when faced with any kind of moral decision – John is who we want to be, with his humble nature and desire to do good and inspire good in others; Bernie is who we really are, with his more self-centred and cynical ways, wanting to be sure that he never gets taken advantage of. And within all this is the consideration that, when crisis comes knocking, we know we can depend on Bernie… we’re not 100% sure of John.

As previously noted, Stephen Frears does a nice job in bringing about the feel of an old screwball comedy from the 40s, as if Preston Sturges or Howard Hawks were in the director’s chair. Even the musical underscore echoes this kind of throwback, with it's play on songs by Gershwin and the patriotic stirrings of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Within this, though, he doesn’t lose sight of the contemporary concerns of the film, like the satirical take on the modern media’s hysterical propensity to deify and manipulate, creating their own stories that can be mined as long as the star player holds out. It almost feels like Network if it were directed by Frank Capra.

There are maybe some points where this approach seems to contradict itself. Capra was a master at emotional manipulation, but for a good cause. With Accidental Hero, there are some times where you will watch the careful deification of a hero in an editing suite, the emotional manipulation to create an idol for a news story, only to have yourself be on the receiving end of a different form of emotional manipulation for the film. Fortunately, Frears is savvy enough a director to be aware of this. At a key climactic scene, he turns his camera away from the moment and points it at another camera, which just stares right back at you. Some moments are too personal to be shared with the world. Sometimes they’re just for those involved.

The cast handle themselves beautifully, too. Andy Garcia brings such a humble, ‘aw shucks’ quality to the role. A soft-spoken, wide-eyed charm that makes John Bubber, who could so easily have been too saccharine or preachy, feel like such a genuinely nice guy trying to do good. Geena Davis is equally charming, capably handling the role of a woman divided between being the battle-hardened journalist and the caring human being. Each has its draws and drawbacks, and Davis works it well (although her last conversation with her boss may be a bit too sob-filled for some). As it would be, it’s Dustin Hoffman who’s the standout. He’s always had that downtrodden sad-sack look about him, but tempered by a fierce emotionality that he can focus into a single look, which is ultimately what sells Bernie. For all his indignation and ranting and speeches about a terrible world, one look in his eyes and you can see that he’s not the soulless misanthrope he thinks he is. His biggest con is against himself. He’s just as vulnerable as anyone; only he’s got himself a much better shield.

There’s great support throughout, too. Joan Cusack is always a treat, particularly when you watch her react to other people in the scene. She’s a goldmine of comedic twitches and inflection. Chevy Chase, in keeping with the old-time feel of the piece, channels some of the great screwball comedy bosses, all sharp tones and staccato sentences, and Stephen Tobolowsky is a great partner for these moments. Kevin J. O’Connor is also a light joy as Gail’s cameraman, Chucky, a guy who can’t help but give a running commentary on the visual poetry he tries to create with every shot, convinced that each one is a prize-winner. Even James Madio does well as Bernie’s son, Joey.

Accidental Hero is a great, and surprisingly overlooked, little film. Performances are strong, the direction and script are great, and it’s a genuinely affecting piece of work. The message it holds may not be anything new, but it is a worthy one. Even if you don’t come away with the desire to give a helping hand to some poor bugger in the street, or be a better person to those around you, it’s still warm, funny and well worth the time you give it.