The Amityville Horror (1979)

"FOR GOD'S SAKE, GET OUT!"

In the 1970s, there was something of an appetite for horror films with a supernatural charge, with demonic possession or acknowledgement of the occult as the major basis for the attempted scares. If it was based on a true story, and that productions were themselves haunted, even better. In 1973, The Exorcist was released, which really kicked everything off. The next big one was three years later, with 1976’s The Omen. Three years later, there came another. Based on a book recounting the “true” experiences of the Lutz family, who claimed to be terrorised by a demonic presence in their new home, which was itself the site of a multiple homicide, The Amityville Horror was released.

George and Kathy Lutz (James Brolin and Margot Kidder), a newly married couple with three children, move into their beautiful new house in Amityville, knowing full well that it was the site of a mass murder only a year before. After moving in, they begin to be tormented by an evil force within the house, trying to drive them away.

As a movie villain, haunted houses are rather tricky. Since there’s no actual monster or direct physical threat to centre the terror on, it relies on the careful construction of a malevolent atmosphere within the structure itself, a faceless sense of foreboding that should make the audience uneasy without really knowing why, a gradual building of unbearable tension. It takes a steady hand to work this angle. The Amityville Horror has none of these things.

First off, the script by Sandor Stern is devoid of any legitimate structure. The whole narrative unfolds as if it were a 9-year-old trying to tell a scary story. ‘These people moved into this house and the house was haunted… and one day, there was a lot of flies in a room, but they weren’t there anymore… and then, when everyone was sleeping, there was a noise downstairs, but there wasn’t anyone there… and then the man lost some money and he couldn’t find it anywhere… and then there was a cross on the wall that went upside down… and then the door burst open, but no one did it… and then…’ This is unbelievably juvenile storytelling. Characters are treated with roughly the same amount of respect, given next to no actual motivation or depth, existing only for bad stuff to happen to them. Once the bad thing has happened, they are simply forgotten. The kids may as well be named Boy #1, Boy#2 and Girl for all the character they possess. Father Delaney is given a line about being a psychotherapist, but it’s treated with such tokenism that it’s just insulting. And Sergeant Gionfriddo does nothing. It is a truly woeful piece of writing.

Stuart Rosenberg’s direction is abysmal. It’s all over the place. It’s so clumsy and uneven that it’s amazing to consider that this is the same man who gave us Cool Hand Luke. The horror genre is just clearly not his forte, being that he seems utterly incapable of capitalising on any kind of opportunity for tension. He’s simply stuck on using stock tricks that are just cheap and inept (a jump scare with a cat), stealing ideas from better movies (spot the constant Psycho rip-offs) and constantly looking at things that are a bit weird (like an ugly porcelain dragon by the fireplace or the infamous “evil eyes” of the house). Everything about it shows Rosenberg’s complete lack of control in such a genre. There’s a story that, in order to get a frightened reaction from Margot Kidder when she sees two lights/eyes/whatever outside the house, Rosenberg held up an orange velour pig with glass eyes… what? Never mind why he thought that would scare someone, where did he get something like that? Rosenberg’s use of religious iconography is also incredibly weak. The editing is atrocious as well. An early scene where the couple are being shown around the house by the realtor is punctuated with shots from the previous scene of the murders being committed. It has literally been only a couple of minutes since we saw them, and we haven’t left the house, but they feel the need to remind us of what happened in these rooms. The fact that the murder scene could have been worked in to better effect later on and the realtor scene cut out altogether is yet another problem with the film. And the sound design… in this world, tension is signified by the sound of a live cable left unplugged, so a less than subtle hummmmm rests under, or rather over, moments when you’re meant to be scared. This just feels like rank amateurism.

I have no idea what the cast are doing. Every one of them seems to be working on a different film, or at least at different stages of this one. James Brolin becomes the angry guy so quickly, he’s barely registered on screen before he develops bags under his eyes and his carefully constructed hair loses its body. Margot Kidder must have the shortest memory ever, since her character will completely dismiss something she thought strange only seconds before. ‘What’s that smell? There’s some kind of… ah well, must be nothing.’ Rod Steiger (here looking weirdly like Piper Laurie) is so over-dramatic that he stands out purely because he’s yelling all the time. Honestly, I think that a lot of the problems with the performances stem more from Rosenberg’s awkward direction than the actors themselves, but they still turn in poor work.

Perhaps the reason for the sheer underwhelming nature of the film stems from the possibility that no one working on the film actually believed that the story was true. After the film was released, both Brolin and Kidder were fairly open about the fact that they did not believe any of it. Kidder would later admit that she hated the film. In fact, when you consider some of the scenes of supposed terror, you can actually see how the filmmakers don’t believe it and are perhaps offering very subtle alternate theories as to what really happened. When the money goes missing, the babysitter was there, so maybe she did it. When the babysitter gets stuck in the closet, maybe the little girl really did do it and not some ghost. The house itself could quite easily be riddled with carpentry problems or electrical issues, which could account for some things.

Of course, all of this is moot anyway. The whole story was debunked years ago, thanks to a multitude of investigators and a lawsuit surrounding the authenticity of the events recounted in the original book. Besides, if the purpose of the film was to offer a critique of the legitimacy of the hauntings, then it should have been made clearer. However, it’s not. It was an actual attempt to make a horror film based on true events in an effort to scare people, and it failed miserably at its task.

The Amityville Horror is an incredibly poor film, lacking any kind of atmosphere or tension. The performances are over-the-top and inconsistent, the script unfolds in a manner akin to a child telling a ghost story, and, judging by the constantly ham-fisted attempts to frighten, it’s clear that Rosenberg has no idea as to what is actually scary. The fact that it has a cult appeal based on how laughable it is really should be enough of an indicator.

Amistad (1997)

FREEDOM IS NOT GIVEN. IT IS OUR RIGHT AT BIRTH. BUT THERE ARE SOME MOMENTS WHEN IT MUST BE TAKEN.

It’s a little unsettling to consider that back in the heyday of slavery, one of the issues of practicality was the nature of a slave’s stance with the law. Some places regarded slavery as illegal and all those in its chains were people who were taken against their will. Others saw its slave populace as items, literally with no more significance or legal right than a chair or a lamp. Still others would say that it depends on where they came from. What happens, then, if a boatload of slaves were to rise up and kill their captors? Would you accuse a cow of murder if it killed its owner? Would the issue be as to who owns these now ownerless slaves? Or is it about victims fighting back for the freedom that was taken from them? In 1839, just such a case was brought before the US courts as the “cargo” of a Spanish slave-ship broke free from their chains and killed those that chained them.

Based on the true story of the mutiny aboard the slave ship, Amistad, and the subsequent courtroom drama as the American lawyers fought for the slave’s freedom and return home. The case would be a watershed moment for America-Spain relations, and reveal the political motivations behind the North-South conflict that would lead to the American Civil War.

David Franzoni’s script is a work of marvellous texture and depth. It draws on all of the emotive aspects of the story very well, but couples them with a great courtroom drama, and some wonderful characters. It avoids the pitfall of having the slaves, so often regarded as nothing but property, register as nothing more than a solid, indiscernible block. It has at least one real personality in there to identify with, perhaps even two or three. It also has a great dexterity with language. Communication is a great concern for those involved. The imprisoned slaves of the Amistad (Spanish for ‘friendship’) don’t speak the language of their captors, nor their attorneys. English, Mende and Spanish are all language barriers that these characters, and thus the script, must overcome in order to communicate effectively. Until a translator is found, it falls to body language, gesture and images to carry the weight of the initial tentative conversations. Motivations, strengths and weaknesses are considered well, which does enhance the drama to a fine degree. That, in the film, John Quincy Adams still struggles to live up to the example set by his father, former President John Adams, is used very well. That a relatively minor character like Judge Coglin gets some depth, his Catholic faith being used against him, is also refreshing. Indeed, it is obvious that care has been taken to give some balance to many of these characters.

Spielberg, as he would do, makes a great use of the story and his cast. He has always shown himself to be someone to take tackle historical issues with a sense of responsibility, showing a desire to respectfully explore the past and relate them to the present. Here, he utilises the same mix of frankness and sensitivity that served him so well on Schindler’s List. He doesn’t shy away from the horrors of the events (a story recounted by Cinque on a previous slave-ship, The Tecora, is indeed horrifying), but neither does it linger on them. Spielberg is wise enough to know that he need not exploit the pain of these characters, that he need only show you a little of such things for you to be affected, and then moves along. Indeed, he also shows a maturity in his decision to forgo his usually sweeping, fast-paced openings for something slower, but altogether more appropriate. His visual sensibility remains strong, catching such things as a recurring image of Cinque trying to follow the sun, struggling towards the light.

The cast assembled for this film is astounding. Anthony Hopkins, Morgan Freeman, Matthew McConaughey, Stellan Skarsgård, Anna Paquin, Djimon Hounsou, Nigel Hawthorne, Jeremy Northam, Pete Postlethwaite, Chiwetel Ejiofor, and many more besides that you’d recognise the instant you saw them. This superb cast, along with the sprawling nature of the story and characters, is really set to ensure that no one person is given The Lead. Everyone supports everyone, so it’s really anyone’s game to stand out. Indeed, two stand out remarkably. Djimon Hounsou is excellent as Cinque. Due to the language barrier that rests against us as much as it does the other characters, much of what we get from Cinque comes just from his presence and his expression. Thankfully, Hounsou, a former model, has a firm screen presence, proud, intense and strong. He carries every bit of the emotional weight of himself and the other men and women from the Amistad. The other performance of great note is Anthony Hopkins as John Quincy Adams. His Adams has every appearance of an awkward old man, scattered and tired, more concerned with his flowers than matters of State. However, he is more than capable of rising to any challenge set before him, carried off with a dignity and erudition that is really rather inspiring. It’s Hopkins who is given the most singularly wordy scene, a full eleven-minute long monologue on the subject of freedom and all the things it guarantees. Hopkins delivers it, not with over-dramatic scenery chewing, but with the true greatness that we know he’s is capable of. Others carry themselves admirably, with another mention for Pete Postlethwaite, who makes great impression with the relatively small role he inhabits.

The film is a fine one, though it should be understood that it does owe as much to fabrication as to historical document. The deviations from fact are somewhat regular, and can have something of an effect how some characters are portrayed. It works well within the context of the film, creating a tangible sense of tension and drama, but the fact is that the real people being represented don't always get their due. The character of Theodore Joadson, played by Morgan Freeman, is a fictitious creation, essentially brought in to present a former slave, now well-to-do free man fighting for the abolition of slavery, and his reaction to walking through the Amistad, haunted by the chains and scratches and blood smears that cover the lower decks. The scene has some poignancy, but is also somewhat superfluous. I get the feeling that the part was included more at the behest of Spielberg, perhaps simply wanting to work with Morgan Freeman, but more likely to compensate for a backlash against his The Color Purple, which was criticised for its negative portrayal of black men. As such, space has been created for the character at the expense of others, such as Professor Gibbs, who comes across as rather inept instead of the competent linguist that he really was.

Also, the attempts to draw the events into a context more identifiable to its contemporary audience, particularly American audiences, does create a more compelling sense of motivation for characters, but this is also at odds with the facts. President Martin Van Buren, played by Nigel Hawthorne, comes off as rather weak-willed, a typical politician more concerned with re-election than fighting for the cause of freedom. That he encroaches on legal proceedings for fear of a war (the Civil War) that would not come to pass for another two decades presents something of difficulty for a film purporting to represent history.

However, this is not a problem unique to Amistad, but something that all historical films must contend with: historical fact vs. dramatic storytelling. Many would argue that the allowance for alteration of fact lies in proportion to good storytelling – it’s okay to change some facts, so long as they make for a much more compelling story. Plus, if the spirit of the piece remains essentially respectful to the heart of the matter, then we can’t judge it too harshly. Alternately, many would say that any kind of alteration of fact is dishonest and that if the true story really were so compelling, then alteration would not be required. Otherwise, you may as well just make up a completely new tale and say it was "inspired by...". I’m certainly not going to try and settle this argument, I can only speak to what impact this film may have, or at least had on me.

I believe that Amistad is a very good film, an important film, and one that should be seen. Spielberg was pretty much preaching to the choir if he sought to convince me that slavery was bad. I’m already with him on that. If there is one overall concern with this film, and many others of Spielberg’s oeuvre, it’s to hold up examples of good people that others can learn from. No iconoclast, Spielberg knows the value of a hero, particularly from the past, and seeks to bring this idealism to the world. What Amistad really does is try to shine a light on instances in the past where a few have fought for a just cause in the face of overwhelming odds. It’s not really important as to whether or not John Quincy Adams actually had Cinque over to his house for tea. It’s just important to know that John Quincy Adams spoke with dignity and passion for Cinque’s freedom.

Amistad is very affecting film, well-written, directed and acted throughout, with particular credit going to Anthony Hopkins and Djimon Hounsou. There may be a consideration in the fact that it does take more than a few historical liberties, which does have an effect on characterisation somewhat, but it really takes little away from the dramatic nature of the film. It remains a poignant, emotive, occasionally difficult watch, but still an important one.

American: The Bill Hicks Story (2009)

THE GREATEST COMIC OF HIS GENERATION. KICKED ASS. TOOK NAMES. CHANGED THE GAME.

Today, we hit upon something new in our journey: our first documentary. Not a dramatised biopic, but an actual documentary looking at the life of someone no longer with us - Bill Hicks. Hicks began his career as a stand-up comic at the age of 15, doing open mic nights in Austin, Texas. Often he had to sneak out of his house at night to bike over to the club he was performing at, knowing his parents would likely disapprove because, if for no other reason, it was a school night. This was the humble beginnings of a long career in comedy, taking him all across the US and Britain. His legacy continues on all these years after his death, and in 2009, a documentary about his life was released.

Bill Hicks was one of America’s best and most intense stand-up comedians until his death in 1994. Though he had something of a fanbase, he remained largely uncelebrated in his home country. Since then, his renown has grown every year thanks to his humour, his passion and his fearless attacks the hypocrisy he saw all around him.

I’m a big fan of Bill Hicks. Scratch that - I’m a huge fan of Bill Hicks. I can honestly say that, had I not discovered Bill Hicks, I would probably not be the person I am today. I was always possessed of a sense of humour of sorts, but growing up, I was something of a quiet and weird kid. I didn’t care too much for high school, precisely because I was quiet and a bit weird. It was not long after leaving school that I discovered the comedy of Hicks, which had a very profound effect on me. Not only was he so funny, but he was so outspoken, so intelligent, so fiercely confident in himself. He started doing stand-up at 15? Christ, I wasn’t comfortable speaking up in class, never mind asking a room full of people to focus on me so I could tell a killer joke. So, naturally I did what most people do when they discover a new thing in their lives… I went out and got everything I could on the guy. I got videos and DVDs and CDs and books. I was utterly hooked. I can still remember my first time listening to Rant in E Minor in my bedroom, laughing hysterically, but also being completely bowled over by the sheer balls of the man. Since then, I’ve become a different person. I’m much more comfortable in front of people now. I can talk, joke, lecture and rant. Like I said, without Hicks, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

Now, given Hicks’ notoriety and his story, it really did seem like only a matter of time before his story found its way onto the big screen. Lenny Bruce got his biopic back in 1974, so why not Bill? Indeed, there was a rumour floating around some years back that Russell Crowe was in talks to play the man himself on film. That eventually seemed to just dissipate and, at the time of writing, nothing more has come of that project. However, two British filmmakers, Matt Harlock and Paul Thomas, took the challenge to tell Hicks’ story in a biography of his life.

Working with Hicks’ family and friends, who work hard to ensure Bill’s legacy, Harlock and Thomas gained access to photos and home movies to use alongside the television appearances, gig footage and interviews with people who knew Bill to tell his story. They even chose to underscore the majority of the picture with the music of Marble Head Johnson, the band Bill formed with friend Kevin Booth. They have indeed immersed themselves in the wealth of material available to them.

They also have a very unique and inventive way of constructing the narrative. Using the interview footage as a basis, they have used the photos and images available and animated them together in a very clever and stylish manner, so an anecdote being recounted can become almost an actual scene of conversation between those involved in the story. It’s an animated style that’s similar to the production of South Park, but rendered more realistically, using body doubles and location pictures to build a decent, if clearly animated, sequence. It’s very nice to watch.

However, despite the inventive visuals, I did not particularly care for this film. My problem is not exactly a unique one, but it is one that would get in my way more than someone who was less familiar with Hicks… I know too much about the man already. Since I have listened to his routines, read about his life (American Scream by Cynthia True is a superb biography) and watched a Channel 4 special on Hicks’ career, I know much more about the man than this documentary gives you. For example, where is the stuff about his relationship with fellow comedian Sam Kinison, who was a strong personal influence in his life? What about his relationship with his agent, and his agent’s wife? It’s not even just about the omission of significant parts of his life. Things that are mentioned are handled in a very clumsy fashion. What about his legendary love of books and rock music, both of which are only alluded to in clips of his stand-up? Hicks was a huge fan of Hendrix, often using Purple Haze as his intro music. Much like himself, Hendrix was initially ignored in the States, getting a much better reception in Britain before becoming the legend he is now. This point was not lost on Hicks, but it seems to have been lost on the filmmakers. And what about Hick’s fascination with what he always said was his favourite topic of discussion: the Kennedy assassination? This feeds directly into his concern for truth-seeking, which in turn feeds into his interest in Waco. The subject of Waco is addressed, but in an awkward ‘6 Months Earlier’ bit that makes it seem like the film forgot about it and then quickly doubled back. Also, Hicks’ descent into alcoholism just seems lacking here, so his triumphant return simply feels less triumphant. Even small things are fumbled. Towards the end of the film, Kevin Booth talks about how Hicks wanted to do some final projects before he died, one being a third film in their Ninja Bachelor Party series… I’m sorry, what? A third? Why was there no mention of this project before? Why is it just getting a backhanded reference as things are coming to a close?

In addition to these points, considering the highly influential nature of the man, why are the only discussions with fellow comedians limited to those that he started with? They’re good and interesting, but they don’t exactly give much scope to the piece. Why didn’t they actually speak to Jay Leno? Or Brett Butler? Or Richard Belzer? Why was there no mention of the fact that, so loved was Hicks in the UK, that a British MP held an early day motion in Parliament commemorating the 10-year anniversary of Hicks’ death? Why not even talk to other comedians who were influenced and inspired by him? Why was there no mention of the controversy between Hicks and Denis Leary? These could perhaps have been included or acknowledged in some way, but clearly this is not the story that Harlock and Thomas wanted to tell. They wanted to tell Hicks’ story in a unique and interesting way, but it seems like this approach has just got in the way of telling the story. The style really did smother the substance.

Now, I know that they can’t tell everything. I know that some things would have to be overlooked in favour of maintaining focus on the whole story. I’m very much aware that it is incredibly difficult to tell the full story of someone’s life, deciding what’s important and what’s not. I absolutely understand and appreciate the task at hand. However, American: The Bill Hicks Story just doesn’t stand up as a work of professional documentary. It feels more like a very well produced home movie, something that is of mild amusement and interest, but is ultimately disposable. Sure, if they adopted a more standard approach, it would have been less stylish, but you would have gotten a better sense of the man at its heart. And isn't that the point?

I honestly can’t help but feel rather let down by American: The Bill Hicks Story. The visual style of the film is inventive, and it makes good use of the photographs available in a manner that feels fresh. However, the overall direction lacks the real emotional punch and texture that’s needed to tell the story of someone so important and interesting, so it all feels much lighter than it should. If you aren’t aware of Hicks’ story, then you may get something from this. For me, all I could see were gaps and omissions and a feeling that someone I greatly respect deserved much better than this.

An American Werewolf in London (1981)

FROM THE DIRECTOR OF ANIMAL HOUSE -- A DIFFERENT KIND OF ANIMAL

Horror and comedy have a lot in common, and it rises beyond the attempt each genre makes to provoke a specific, though very different, physiological reaction in its viewer. The success of these endeavours rests on a very particular relationship it has with its audience. Things like melodrama or musicals or thrillers or adventures asks the audience to engage with the action onscreen on a level of cohabitation. It wants you to want to go along for the ride, be part of the process, enjoy the vicarious nature of the piece. Both comedy and horror work a bit differently. You’re not a cohort; you’re a target. Both attack the audience, rely on a degree of victimisation. It’s really no coincidence that people so often look at moments from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and There’s Something About Mary and say the same thing… “I’m glad that isn’t me.” So, given this deep-rooted connection between these two generic concerns, it’s no surprise that the two often cross paths in the same work.

Two American students, David (David Naughton) and Jack (Griffin Dunne), are on a walking tour of Britain. Despite the cryptic warnings of the local villagers, they find themselves lost in the moors, and they are attacked by a werewolf. Jack is killed, but David survives. Coming to in London hospital three weeks later under the care of Nurse Alex Price (Jenny Agutter), David begins to have horrific nightmares of violence. On top of that, his dead friend begins to appear to him, telling David that he is now a werewolf and must kill himself before he hurts someone else.

If you’ve ever seen John Landis be interviewed, the one thing that comes across about him is his enthusiasm, so energetic that it borders on hyperactive. The other thing that comes across is his love for classic horror movies, the kind that Universal made back in the day. As such, it seems fitting that he should be the one to bring us one of the most successful horror-comedies ever in An American Werewolf in London. Supposedly, Landis began writing it whilst working as an assistant on Kelly’s Heroes in Yugoslavia, making him 20 at the time. One day, he saw a gypsy funeral in progress, the body bound in garlic and then buried in a very large hole, so as to prevent the corpse from rising again. Between this scene, the Yugoslavian countryside harkening back to the Universal monster movies, and his general feeling at the time of being a foreigner in a strange land, the young Landis resolved to make classic monster picture that played on these themes of superstition and alienation.

These influences are very clear in the script Landis produced. The stereotypical nature of the English people, both rural and urban, may seem to be unnecessarily broad, but that’s exactly the point. Not only is this just the kind of thing that typified films like Dracula and Frankenstein and The Wolf Man (the alien weirdness of those of a foreign locale), but it does serve to effectively heighten the uneasiness of David and Jack. Have you ever walked into a pub and had everyone stop and look round at you? I have. It’s very unnerving. And that was just in a different town, never mind a different country. This sense of exaggeration in the rendering of, for example, the locals that fill the Slaughtered Lamb pub is entirely fitting with the tone of the piece. There’s also the great touch of having the victims of David’s lupine alter ego appear to him as mutilated spirits, not as the moaning, chain-rattling prophets of doom, but as people who have suffered something of an inconvenience by being killed and who now seek appropriate reparations in the form of David’s suicide. How typically British. Even Jack feels sympathy for David’s supernatural predicament, despite being a walking member of the undead and missing a sizeable portion of his face. It’s not without some holes, though. It does seem kind of weird that, considering what happened to David and how long he was unconscious, his parents never go to London to visit him or bring him back. That he decides to stay on in London is rather odd. Then there’s the romantic subplot, but I’ll get to that later.

Landis does have some great skill as a director. American Werewolf has a very good sense of pace. For the first hour, before David’s initial transformation, the film has a fairly slow pace, giving David a chance to consider whether or not he's a newly initiated member of the werewolf club or just going insane. However, following David’s change, the film rockets forward, a new sense of the inevitability driving the film. Landis’ sense of humour is also very apparent throughout. It should be, since Landis’ four films prior to this were all comedies (Shlock, Kentucky Fried Movie, National Lampoon’s Animal House and The Blues Brothers). Rarely does he let any moment go by without having some sort of absurd joke thrown in for good measure. A classic example of his absurd humour can be seen in the film within the film, See You Next Wednesday, the porno that’s showing in the theatre where David has his last transformation. The couple onscreen are interrupted mid-coitus by another man entering the room, saying that he told them not to do this again. The couple tell the man that they’ve never seen him before, so he sheepishly apologises and leaves. It’s utterly pointless, but very funny. That the couple are interrupted again later by a wrong number phone call is equally amusing. Also, the rapidly deteriorating vision of the undead Jack is wonderfully undercut by his perpetually cheery demeanour. The first time we see him as a mangled walking corpse his first words are, “Can I have some toast?” That’s pure Landis right there. The moments of humour are met with some rather unsettling scenes of horror, too. David’s dream of being home with his family before a squad of machine gun-toting, Nazi demons burst through the door, laying waste in a frenzy of bullets and fire. It’s sheer over-the-top nature makes it both darkly funny and rather horrifying. In fact, the whole film is surprisingly gory, especially considering the clampdown on “video nasties” that would kick in soon afterwards. There are also numerous other touches that show a more subtle hand as well. That Landis has assembled and effectively used a selection of songs that all contain the word moon in the title is a nice touch. Also, in the scene where David accidentally locks himself out of Alex’s flat, he sees two little girls laughing at him. These two girls are wearing the same colour coats that he and Jack wore when they were attacked, bright red and dark green. That the girl with the red coat, David’s colour, has a dog on a leash is a very subtle indicator of David current situation. In a manner of speaking, he too is holding back an animal. In fact, just consider the prevalence of the colour red as the film progresses.

Of course, what we cannot fail to mention is the famous transformation scene, in which David turns into a wolf right in front of us, in full light. Rick Baker, really a god in the movie makeup world, did an unbelievable job in this film. It’s a marvel of practical special effects as we watch David’s body elongate, contort and shift into the form of a supernatural beast. His hair grows, his teeth and eyes change, his nose flattens, and none of it is encased in shadow or hidden behind a desk. It all happens right in front of us in bone-cracking, skin-stretching detail. The editing around it is superb, with every cut revealing a new change. It’s seamless. To this day, it’s effectively unnerving and rather uncomfortable to watch, especially at one point when David looks pleadingly into the camera for help we can’t give. Fun fact: Baker was actually the first person to ever win Best Makeup at the Oscars in a competitive manner (this was the first time a makeup category was created, though honorary awards were given in 1964 and 1968). It’s easy to see why.

If there is a real misstep of sorts in proceedings, it’s the rather rushed feel to the romantic subplot between David and Alex. Both Naughton and Agutter do their best with it, but it does still seem rather improbable that the two would indeed fall in love so quickly. Call it the Florence Nightingale effect, whereby, in this case, the nurse develops romantic feelings for one of her patients, but that is still a fleeting notion. That Alex later confesses to David’s wolf form that she loves him does little to assuage the thinness of this ideal. Then again, perhaps this is the point. In one scene, David begins talking about The Wolf Man, suggesting that, by the lore espoused by the film, in order to be cured of his newly acquired lycanthropic ways, he must be killed by someone who loves him, which he believes could be Alex. However, there is already evidence that this is not true. The werewolf that attacked David and Jack is killed without any such concerns, and when David talks to Jack’s corpse about whether or not he needs silver bullets to kill himself, Jack dismisses this as nonsense.

All of this somewhat relates to how the film ends, which seems to have two different opinions concerning the motivation behind it. When David, as a werewolf, is cornered in an alleyway by armed police officers, Alex runs to meet him and tries to get him to… calm down? Anyway, after she tells him she loves him, he makes a lunge and is shot and killed. From what I’ve seen, some people believe that David was still in there somewhere, recognised Alex and purposely made a jump in order to get himself killed, lest he continue his murderous rampage. Others believe that, in his wolf form, David was consumed by the beast and was unaware of anything Alex said to him. He made his lunge to kill her, but was stopped by a hail of bullets. Love, real or imagined, had no effect either way. Personally, I go with the latter reading. I’m frankly a little perplexed that some consider the former theory as possible, given what seems to be such a relatively flimsy romantic relationship

An American Werewolf in London is, to this day, still funny and scary in equal measure. It’s a classic story updated to a more contemporary setting, but it’s lost none of its subtextual concerns of culture shock and feeling misplaced in alien surroundings. The effects, as well, remain something to behold. It’s also constantly marked with a degree of wit and self-awareness, shown in the dismissal of Hollywood-esque lore, its use of certain musical cues and in the directorial flourishes of colour and pacing. There has been many an imitator since, but few have managed to come near the potency of this film.

American Splendor (2003)

ORDINARY LIFE IS PRETTY COMPLEX STUFF

Today, we again find ourselves in the land of the biographical film. Ordinarily, I’d try to deliver some kind of context from which the film can be discussed, considering the source of the material or what measures have been taken to fictionalise it in an effort to make a film with a traditional narrative strike. However, the source material in this case gets much of its strength from the lack of fictional pretence, its stance as a story borne not of imagination, but of reality. In the latter half of the 1970s, Harvey Pekar created a comic book of his own life, detailing his own struggles with the mundanity of everyday life. He called it American Splendor. The movie arrived in 2003.

Harvey Pekar (Paul Giamatti) is a file clerk at the local VA hospital. A collector of jazz records and a comic fan, he’s also lonely, morose and sees life as a constant uphill struggle. When his friend Robert Crumb (James Urbaniak) finds international success for his underground comics, Harvey decides to write his own brand of comic book, a typically unsentimental record of his own life. From his work, Pekar finds some level of fame and meets his soul mate, Joyce Brabner (Hope Davis).

American Splendor’s opening scene pretty concisely tells you exactly what Pekar is like, and therefore the comic, and therefore the movie. Some kids are out trick-or-treating, and they've stopped at another house for their treat. The woman of the house comes forward, bowl of chocolatey goodness at the ready. Smiling, she looks down to the first boy, dressed as Superman, and gives him his treat. Likewise with the next three boys, dressed as Batman & Robin and Green Lantern. She comes to the last boy and stops. “Who are you supposed to be?” she asks. This is young Harvey Pekar. He’s not dressed as anyone. Just himself. The woman seems genuinely unsure how to proceed. He’s not dressed as a superhero like the other boys, so should she really give him anything? He makes the decision for her by dropping his bag and walking away, lamenting the idiocy of dressing up for a chocolate bar. He can’t relate other people too well. Even from a young age, Harvey Pekar was not someone to pretend he was someone else to make things easier. He’d rather be honestly himself than falsely someone else. Tone set.

As I said, American Splendor the Comic sets itself as being something that does not shy from the reality of existence. It doesn’t attempt to mythologise or sanitise. It simply presents the experiences of a working-class shlub with a cranky disposition and a less than firm hold on the notion of cleanliness. Given this central ideal, it feels appropriate that the filmmakers, Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini, have tried to adopt this same method during the process of making American Splendor the Film. Lines between reality and fiction are fudged so much, fourth walls so repeatedly broken that it’s almost like watching an experiment in post-modern living than a film, though that does sound much more pretentious than it actually is. The film plays almost as any other would for the most part, with the occasional narration from the real Pekar, who talks about how Paul Giamatti doesn’t look much like him. Then, every now and then, the film will leave the fictional portion of events and have a brief chat with the real Pekar, sitting in a white recording studio limbo, discussing how the film was made. “If you think reading comics about your life seems strange,” he tells us, “try watching a play about it. God only knows how I’ll feel when I see this movie.” Other moments of the fictional form of the narrative are scattered with drawings, such as when Movie Pekar is being harangued by an animated version of himself in a supermarket; or when the filming of a scene comes to a close, but the camera continues, shifting perspective on to Real Pekar and Real Toby as they discuss jelly beans, their corresponding actors sit in the background, reading or watching their counterparts behave; or when Movie Pekar addresses the camera directly, relating a form of existential worry about how many Harvey Pekars are actually out there, meanwhile the background is being drawn behind him. Even parts of the movie reality will feature moments from real reality, such as the numerous appearances of Real Pekar on The David Letterman Show. It’s quite a scope that Berman and Pulcini are working with. It may not necessarily be anything particularly new in the form (Last Action Hero actually sort of covered some of this same ground in 1993), but it’s all handled very well and really seems to have a root in genuine thought and consideration for the source material.

The cast assembled is excellent, headed by two of the most consistent actors going – Paul Giamatti and Hope Davis. Giamatti already has something of a foothold for these kind of characters, being that he isn’t exactly the best looking of guys (apologies, Mr. Giamatti) and seems to just effortlessly exude the kind of sadsack air of someone like Pekar. Naturally, he remains as superb as ever. Hope Davis, always so underrated, is equally superb. Really, why isn’t she better known? The rest of the cast is rounded out by quality, such as James Urbaniak’s Robert Crumb and Judah Friedlander as Toby Radloff, someone you’d be convinced doesn’t actually exist until you actually see him and understand just how good Friedlander captures the character.

I have to confess that, whilst I do like the film and appreciate it very much, I am left a little cold by it, though I seem to be at something of a loss as to why. It could be because this is actually the first time I have seen the film, and so I had eight years of people telling me how great it was slowly building it up, but I don’t think that’s the case. Whilst many people did tell me their fondness for the film, it hardly amounted to a crushing weight that no film could stand up to. Plus, it’s been a while since anyone mentioned the film to me, so whatever pressure there may have been had certainly eased off.

Maybe part of my problem with the final product is that, for all of the cleverness of the direction, the shifting of narrative focus, the mixing of formats, the way genre is bent, even broken, by the end of the film, there’s no great epiphany at the end that justifies all the filmic trickery. It might be that for all of the effort that has gone into this film, I expected more of a final payoff than I got. Then again, doing this would just feel false. Indeed, in the film, Pekar decries happy endings and stuff that feels disingenuous for the sake of emotional catharsis and other “Hollywood bullshit.” Life isn’t really like that.

I think perhaps the thing that makes me feel, not let down as such, but less moved than I should be is that the structure of the film occasionally gets in the way somehow. Now, I really like the concept of the whole thing, blending real reality and fictional reality and artistic renderings of reality. It’s very clever and very interesting. However, I often felt that just as I was starting to get into the story and the characters, the direction would shift to another reality and the illusion would be broken. This is clearly the intention here. They don’t want you to forget that this is all a pretend version of a reality long since passed. They don’t want you to get comfortable with the falsehood. However, there are aspects of the story that the film is actually trying to tell that become compromised by this intention. Some of the sequence where Harvey is treated for testicular cancer gets rather glossed over, in favour of drawn images showing him at various stages of fatigue, along with the occasional fictional shot. I’m sure that this packs much more of a punch in the graphic novel, which served as a partial basis for the film, but the way it’s handled here, the way the medium bends itself, makes it feel a little distant, harder to fully connect to. At least, that’s how I felt.

However, this is all my problem. Likely I’ll watch this again at some point down the line and feel a much greater appreciation for the message, the tone, these characters, their lives. That I didn’t find myself similarly enraptured like so many others is perhaps more of a reflection on myself… or maybe everyone else is wrong.

Despite my problem with the direction, American Splendor is still worth the watch, if for no other reason than to introduce yourself to the world of Harvey Pekar. There are fine performances on show and the manner in which the project is shaped makes for a very interesting watch. Don’t be too letdown if it didn’t grab you the first time. Maybe allow it a second viewing. It deserves the benefit of the doubt.

American Psycho (2000)

... NO INTRODUCTION NECESSARY

What can you really tell about a person from the image they project of themselves? If someone appears to be good, caring, and socially conscious, does it necessarily follow that they are? What if this is just a persona that they put on for other people? What if the reality of that person is much darker and more dangerous than you think? In the 1991 novel American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis conceived of such a person, a murderous psychotic that everyone believes to be harmless, so good that he’s actually kind of a simp. Setting it the 80s, the decade of the "Me Generation", it was also a satire on the drug-fuelled vacuity and self-absorbed nature of the upper-class elite having their heyday at the time. Nine years later, the highly controversial novel was finally brought to the big screen.

Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) is handsome, wealthy and intelligent. He’s twenty-seven years old and living the good life. He’s also a homicidal lunatic whose obsession with murder and nightly escapades see him cut a bloody swathe through the streets of New York. Lately, though, he feels like his careful mask of sanity is starting to slip…

American Psycho is a tough read. Not even really because of the incredibly graphic depictions of sex and murder, often one leading to the other, but because of the sheer density of the material. The book is told, mostly, from the perspective of its main character, Patrick Bateman, whose mind works in a very interesting way. Sure, he’s a vicious maniac, but he’s also obsessed with making sure he fits in with those around him. As such, he’s highly concerned with details. So much of his concentration is taken up with noting exactly what people are wearing that it’s almost a psychosis in itself. There’s one instance in the novel when Bateman, on seeing someone he knows enter a bar, mentally notes everything they are wearing, what the label is for each item and runs through the alphabet four times before they’ve crossed the room to meet him. This rather concisely illustrates his level of obsession with the exterior, the frankly terrifying speed at which his mind works and his pathological need to keep his mind distracted, occupied by some meaningless task. It’s this last aspect that means a great deal. What is it he needs to distract himself from? Bateman answers this in an anecdote to his friends about infamous serial killer Ed Gein. Bateman asks, “Do you know what Ed Gein said about women?… ‘When I see a pretty girl walking down the street, I think two things. One part wants me to take her out, talk to her, be real nice and sweet and treat her right.’ Bateman’s friend asks, “And what did the other part think?” His reply, “What her head would look like on a stick.” Bateman finds this very amusing, but it’s a rather telling insight into the way he himself thinks, why he needs to distract himself by noting Armani suits and Rolex watches and luggage from Dolce & Gabbana. He needs to try to fit in because, if he doesn’t, his horrifying bloodlust will completely take over.

One of the weird things about the book is that, despite all of the murders and the sex and full chapters about Phil Collins and Whitney Houston, it’s actually very funny. Bateman may be a maniac, but he’s such a goofy sonofabitch, such a pantomimic character, such a complete and utter dork that you often completely forget about his desire to mutilate and kill. In fact, many of these scenes, shocking as they may be, are so ridiculously over-the-top that they come off as darkly comic anyway. The book itself is also a very sharp and witty satire on the rampaging egotism and self-obsessed vanity of the Wall Street elite. A moment of great humour comes when Bateman and his peers compare their business cards, seeing who has the best one. Never mind the fact that they all say Vice President (echoing a theme of near God-like power, but without the full weight of responsibility). Just notice the colouring, the font stylisation, the texture, the thickness… they’re all pretty much the exact same card, but for the little details that denote the subtle shades of superiority in their circle. Others may be able to shake this off easier, but Bateman is instantly plunged into meltdown, a world of self-doubt and rage. He must kill because the guy that he hates has a business card with a watermark.

It says a lot for the film that these various details and ideas are kept gleefully intact in the transition from page to screen. Writers Mary Harron (also the director) and Guinevere Turner (also with a small role) do a fine job of locating these moments and bringing them to life onscreen. They also do an excellent job of condensing some of the denser passages of the novel down to some choice sequences. As I previously mentioned, there are some moments in the book where entire chapters are dedicated to Huey Lewis, Phil Collins, Whitney Houston or the intricate technical detail of Bateman’s new stereo (that was a tough one). They have maintained this sense of absurd detail that concerns their protagonist’s mind, but they’ve also nicely captured the tone of the piece. Yes, it’s often quite unnerving, but it’s more frequently very amusing. Like the novel, it invites you to laugh at someone that you should be scared of, mainly because he’s actually a complete tool. Christ, he wears a tuxedo and rides in a limousine to pick up a hooker. The guy actually seems to think he's James Bond. They’ve also maintained the constant play of mistaken identity very well, though it’s too much a part of the story to be left ignored. There really isn’t a wasted moment or opportunity in the script... sort of... I'll get to that later.

Harron’s direction is interesting. It’s not that it’s bad, it’s actually really very good. I just get the occasional feeling that there’s a missed opportunity here and there, moments that would have been more resonant if tweeked just slightly. One such example is near the beginning of the film, when Bateman is in a club buying some drinks. He tries to use drink tickets, but is informed that they’re no good anymore and he’ll have to pay with cash. He happily does so, but as soon as the bartender’s back is turned, he tells her “You’re a fucking ugly bitch. I want to stab you to death, and then play around with your blood,” most of which we can only see if the mirror above the bar. She doesn’t hear him because the music is so loud (along with some degree of the self-absorbed nature of all of the characters), so when she turns back, he’s smiling again and goes on his way. I just feel like this would have carried more weight if all of his vicious threatening were seen only in the mirror, thus better echoing the theme of duality in the piece. However, this is only a small point. I’m certainly not going to crack down on her for her work. There’s actually a scene that has only one word of dialogue, but wonderfully sums up exactly how Bateman gets away with being what he is. He sees a woman walking down the street (the streets are always virtually deserted) and follows her a little. She stops at a pedestrian crossing, he stops right beside her. From looking forward, he looks to her, smiles and says “Hello.” She curtly says hello back and they both look forward again… and then she looks back at the nice handsome polite gentleman standing next to her. The light changes and the two start walking together, wordlessly, away from us and towards the darkness. It’s subtle and elegant and tells us just how easy it is for Bateman to snare a victim. Classic territory of people like Ted Bundy, who was so nice and calm that he once managed to talk himself out of a speeding ticket, despite having the bagged remains of a cheerleader in his backseat at the time. It’s positively chilling. And the title sequence does exactly what the titles of Dexter would do six years later, finding the vicious in the mundane. Harron really has done some excellent work.

There are strong performances throughout the film, but Christian Bale dominates all of them. It’s a superb act, layered and solid. Bale is, regardless of what he may be like in his regular life, a damn good actor, approaching every role with a fierce commitment. On first note, Bale certainly captures Bateman’s physicality. Bateman is as obsessed with maintaining his physique as he is with covering it with the best clothes money can buy, and Bale fully embraces this regimen and looks every inch the muscular fitness freak that’s needed. More than this, though, Bale captures the entire raging torrent inside Bateman. Two scenes stand out on this front. The first scene is when Bateman murders a colleague in his apartment whilst giving his critique on the career of Huey Lewis. It’s important to consider that, for serial killers like Bateman, murder is a substitute for the sex act, and this scene corresponds, in a very twisted manner, to a sex scene. An equivalent moment in another film would probably see the guy giddily prepare for the evening by pouring the girl a drink, putting on some romantic music (Marvin Gaye, classic), ensuring protection and making his move. Now, look at this one… Bateman giddiliy prepares for the evening by getting his victim drunk, putting on some music (Huey Lewis, because Bateman probably has no conception of what’s romantic), ensuring protection (he’s laid down some paper and donned a plastic raincoat) and making his move (swinging an axe into his victim’s forehead). Bale is hysterical in this scene, amping up the absurdity of the piece (he even moonwalks into the room, for God’s sake) and acting like a complete cheeseball before turning on a penny, and becoming an utter monster. That is superb control. The second scene to consider is Bateman’s cackling, sobbing, unsettling confession to his lawyer. It’s mostly in a single take and runs the complete gamut of frayed emotional intensity of a quickly devolving killer, and it’s very impressive. Bale even delivers the little moments expertly, such as his regular excuse that he has to “return some videotapes.” It’s always delivered with a weird kind of self-righteous force, as if he’s making a firm and resolute declaration of status that requires his utmost attention. Bale is on absolute fire in this film.

There is one thing that is something of a cause for concern in the movie, which it turns out is something from the book as well. I’ve already said that Harron’s direction is very good and that the script from herself and Turner does a fine job of transposing the novel to the screen. However, there is something of a debate regarding how it all ends, both in the book and the film. Ellis’ books often rest on a degree of ambiguity (In Less Than Zero, it was a few chapters in before I could pin down the gender of the main character), with some lack of certainty as to whether or not the crimes of American Psycho even took place. From my understanding of the novel, and the film, I believed it to be pretty clear that all of Bateman’s murders did not happen and existed only in his head. I’m certainly not alone on this one. In fact, I have only ever met one person who thought that Bateman really did kill all those people. Since that time, though, I have come to learn that Ellis, Harron and Turner all share the same perspective… of course he did it. I find this rather disquieting. I’m not exactly stupid, and I know some very smart people, so how can we have got things so clearly wrong? It would seem that there is plenty of evidence to support our case. For the sake of simplicity, I’ll stick to the film for this bit. There is one sequence that is so often offered as evidence of the “all in his head” school, which is towards the end and begins with Bateman trying to feed a cat into an ATM. He’s at the machine, taking out some money, as he regularly does. A stray cat starts to rub against his leg, so he picks it up. The ATM screen then reads ‘FEED ME A STRAY CAT’, which he tries to do. An old woman sees him and asks him what he’s doing, so he shoots her dead. This kicks off a short police chase, which sees him kill several other people, become involved in a typical Hollywood style shootout with the cops, blowing up a car with a single shot (which surprises even him), before ducking into his office building to evade the helicopter. This all smacks of the kind of juvenile fantasy that a dork who watches too many 80s action movies would cook up to feel important and noticed (there’s actually way more to it in the book). Are we to take it that these moments actually happened? That an ATM really did tell Bateman to feed it a cat? That he really did blow up a cop car with a single shot?

Keep in mind that Bateman narrates this film, so it is all being told from his perspective, which he willingly admits is rather skewed. Given the somewhat compromised nature of this telling, can we really trust anything that we see? The only time we leave Bateman as a narrative anchor is when we see his secretary, Jean (Chloë Sevigny), discover his diary in his desk drawer, which is filled with detailed and disturbing drawings of what we have, until now, seen to be his genuine nightly activities. Is it not perfectly reasonable to think that perhaps these drawings are the beginning and end of his homicidal desires? Also, the points when one of his victims seems to still be alive, although we never seem them again, adds more to this. On the other hand, the constant points of mistaken identity throughout could just as easily cover this. Ellis has said that the reason Bateman finds it so difficult to confess or be caught is because that is part of the satire. Precisely because everyone is so self-involved and concerned with the pursuit of profit, each person a hideous personification of corporate America’s greed, that they genuinely couldn’t care less if one of their own is hacking up a bunch of whores and winos. Ellis makes the point that if Bateman didn’t kill people, this satirical point is rendered moot and the purpose of the novel made irrelevant… I’m not sure I agree with this, even if it means I’m apparently wrong. The satire does still exist within the piece, even if you disregard the “fact” that Bateman is killing people. The characters are still self-obsessed, vain, drug-crazed, profit-fuelled bastards. And whether he committed the crimes or not, the fact that they don’t even entertain Bateman’s confessions and apparent lunacy speak to this regard too. The point isn’t that Bateman has killed people. The point is that no one cares either way.

The only thing that I can really see coming mainly from this idea that he did kill these people is perhaps that the reason no one cares is because they are all the same. They are all equally possessed of the same drives and urges that Bateman feels, it’s just that they seem to handle it better than he does. This would give a degree of credence to the picture that everyone seems to have of Bateman, that he’s a wimp, a dweeb, “a lightweight.” The idea that Bateman believes that he is alone in these killer urges, whereas the “truth” is that he’s really not, seems to fly in the face of what would seem to be the popular notion amongst real serial killers and mass murderers. People like Charles Manson often make the point that they only thing that separates them from us is the final act itself. They say that inside we’re all just like them, we just haven’t got that far yet. In this case, it isn’t Bateman that’s the psycho; it’s the book, it's society. He’s the abnormal one because he seems to be the only one who thinks someone should care. The darkness of this implication is almost overwhelming, and is actually so huge that it’s difficult to believe that this is the correct reading from what we have on show. I really like the book, and the movie, but I feel somewhat unsettled by the final product not because of its message, but because of the disconnect that seems to exist between the intention and the reality. It rather says a lot that both Harron and Turner have said that they feel they failed in adequately expressing what they wanted to with the film, that their attempts to echo the ambiguity of the source rendered the film lacking in the final statement intended. For what it’s worth, the fact that, at the end of both the film and the book, I came away with the exact same conclusion surely speaks to how well they adapted the book. But then, what do I know, I thought it was all in his head…

Putting aside the disquieting ambiguity of the whole product, American Psycho is still a fine film, built around an absolutely searing performance by Christian Bale. It’s troubling, it’s funny, it’s thoroughly interesting and it really is something that can be debated endlessly. Maybe some of you can figure it out.

The American President (1995)

WHY CAN’T THE MOST POWERFUL MAN IN THE WORLD HAVE THE ONE THING HE WANTS MOST?

In 1992, there was a film called A Few Good Men. Written by Aaron Sorkin, first as a play and then a screenplay, and directed by Rob Reiner, the film was a huge hit. It was thrilling, intelligent, dramatic and carried a satisfying weight of political discourse and idealistic consideration. It also garnered four Oscar nominations, one of which was for Jack Nicholson thundering performance. A few years later, after Reiner had a career stumble thanks to an almighty disaster with North, he hooked up again with Sorkin for his next politically centred script. This time, it was a romantic comedy about the US President’s attempts to win over a girl he likes… sort of a When President Harry Met Sally.

Andrew Shepherd (Michael Douglas) is a widower raising a young daughter. He’s also President of the United States. Whilst working out a new environmental bill, he meets Sydney Ellen Wade (Annette Bening), a paid political activist working for an environmental lobby group. He instantly takes a liking to her and the pair start dating. However, with not long to go before the next election, this new relationship leads his prime political opponent, Senator Bob Rumson (Richard Dreyfuss), to launch an attack on the President’s character.

When The American President came out in 1995, it was pretty much free of anything to which it could be readily compared, outside of classic Capra movies or director Reiner’s back catalogue. However, by today’s standards of comparison, there is one thing that casts an almighty shadow over The American President. It’s another one of Aaron Sorkin’s creations… The West Wing. I’m a huge fan of The West Wing, which still remains one of the most intelligent, dramatic and funny television shows ever. That both properties are Sorkin products set in the White House isn’t where the similarities end. The American President is full of points that crop up in The West Wing, clear indicators of a future project being tested. For example, at one point, President Shepherd makes the point that he studied under a Nobel prize-winning economist. In The West Wing, President Bartlet is a Nobel prize-winning economist. That’s just one example of many. And the cast is strewn with actors who would go on to hold major roles in The West Wing. Martin Sheen, Anna Deavere Smith, Nina Siemaszko, Beau Billingslea, Joshua Malina, Ralph Meyering Jr., Thom Barry… there’s likely others, all of whom serve as regular reminders of a product that surpasses this one. Now, it certainly isn’t fair to this film to compare it to a product that wouldn’t exist until four years after it was released. Nevertheless, there’s no escaping that those familiar with the TV show will find this film slightly lacking. It’s a shame, because it’s a very good film.

Sorkin’s script is solid, and contains all of his trademark smart dialogue, political savvy, and the equal balance of idealism and realism that is something of a trademark of a Sorkin product. Now, all of that makes it seem like this is a far more political picture than it really is. Fittingly enough, it’s the tentative relationship between Shepherd and Wade that provide the simple heart for the piece. It’s simple enough stuff, but it’s carried with a nice degree of wit and charm. The political stuff is really there to add conflict and a depth to proceedings. There are some nicely refreshing touches throughout the film, too. In any other film of this ilk, with a single father taking his first steps into the dating world, the child would often be a concern, the cliché running that they would be a ball of frustrated emotion, crying about how their dad is trying to forget their mother, leading to a scene where the father has to calm them down and tell them that they would never forget their mother and blah blah blah. In this film, Shepherd’s daughter isn’t that way at all. She’s actually very well adjusted, happy to see her dad looking to find someone again. It’s these kinds of evasions of stock situations that set this film apart from others in a very agreeable manner.

Reiner’s direction aims his eye well, managing to draw out the classical characteristics of the script, so there’s a definite Capra-esque quality to the whole. He does well to see that the political aspects don’t bog down the romantic storyline, as well as making sure the romantic side of things doesn’t cheapen the political considerations that drive the conflict of the film. There may be the odd bit that seems a little hokey in this respect (John Seale’s cinematography has the light deliberately catching the eyes of Bening in moments of intimacy), but these can be overlooked when taking in the overall feeling. Marc Shaiman’s music is also wonderfully evocative of the classic sense of romantic notions, both of the heart and the body politic.

The cast do very well, with several standouts. Michael J. Fox’s Lewis Rothschild is full of fiery idealism, striving to make changes for the good, and pissed off if unsuccessful; Martin Sheen’s steady and calming A.J. MacInerney is a solid presence; Richard Dreyfuss’ Senator Rumson is a suitably shifty and smug individual; and Michael Douglas ably carries a sense of dignity and charm as President Shepherd. However, it’s Bening that gives the best performance. She nimbly shifts from astute political operator to girl who both woos and is wooed and back to the political side again. It’s great stuff. She also, alongside Sheen, has the best ear for Sorkin’s sharp and fast dialogue. It’s always a mark of Sorkin’s character’s intelligence that they can not only speak with great verbal dexterity, but also do so convincingly at great speed and Bening gets this. Also, Bening and Douglas do make a very appealing couple.

Despite now having to live in the shadow of The West Wing, The American President is a fine film, both warm and intelligent. Performances are strong throughout, the dialogue is great and it has a sturdy backbone in romance and politics, which go together here very well. It’s a solid show all round.