Smoke and mirrors … Dennis Hopper in 1982. Photograph: Jane Bown
Oddly, of the various emotions the film lover routinely puts him or herself through – frustration, confusion, impotent rage – disappointment doesn’t often figure. The longer you’re watching movies, the more experience counsels you to lower your expectations, and the better you become at gauging a film from a hundred yards – so while you might, for whatever masochistic reasons, willingly submit to something you know is doomed to be a clunker, it’s rare to find yourself surprised by it.
But now and then your optimism still betrays you – and the sorrow that results came to the blogosphere this week courtesy of Filmbrain. The cause was Believe in Me, an early 70s showcase for the fleetingly modish Michael Sarrazin and Jacqueline Bisset, directed by Israel Horovitz (father of the Beastie Boys’ Adam) and rooted in the then popular drug peril subgenre. The blog had high hopes – hopes then conclusively dashed: “Unravelling with all the warmth of a government-sponsored anti-drug screed, the film lacks a human element [...] Believe in Me is an embarrassing mess, made tolerable only by a handful of street scenes that capture the true grit of Manhattan circa 1971. That, and hearing Bisset utter the line ‘I steal, I shoot dope, I fuck.’”
For all our hard-earned scepticism, it’s a feeling most movie fiends can identify with. At one point or another, many of us must surely have taken a small, shivering breath as we loaded up a scratchy VHS of a long-forgotten obscurity … glowed through the opening credits … squinted patiently as the first scene seemed, perhaps, a little stilted … began to grow concerned as to when just one of the characters might develop a personality … why the dialogue all sounds like it’s been poorly translated from Hungarian … how come you can’t remember a single detail of the story 25 minutes in. Until, finally, you admit it’s all been a terrible mistake.
For me, the most recent example was the punk rock curio Blank Generation, starring arch scenester Richard Hell in a dimly-lit tale of a mumbling New York bass player romanced by a French journalist and vexed by the Man. As an obsessive for Hell’s first band Television, I’d known of and hankered after the film for years. Imagine my excitement, therefore, when out of nowhere it emerged on DVD back in 2000 – and picture my horror at finding that it made the Downtown NYC of 1979 appear as sybaritic and boundlessly creative as an indie night at a club in Worthing. The combined effect of the bad acting and non-direction was enough to leave me all but comatose, stirring only for the highlight of a baffled cameo from Andy Warhol, who genuinely seemed without the first idea who any of these people were.
Then, of course, there’s another class of disappointment – that which comes when returning to a film adored in a distant youth, only to be watched as an adult and found to be as appealing as shingles. More than any other genre or individual, I’d personally put 90% of the career of Dennis Hopper at the head of this particular category. Having lapped up vast quantities of his output as an adolescent (almost certainly the best time to do it), I’ve recently, and randomly, re-watched Rumble Fish, The Last Movie, and the rambling, post-’Nam freakout Tracks. All of these performances were judged by the 17-year-old me to be grand displays of Method genius, but now look uncomfortably like the addled over-emoting of an empty vessel – a discovery that left me mourning a vital (if deeply embarrassing) chapter of my youth.
Not that I can see Dennis losing much sleep over me – after all, he’s got the Turner Prize to be thinking about. And his prize-giving doesn’t end there – as reported by Anne Thompson’s blog at Variety, he’s also acting as the judge for a competition for DIY travel films with cash prizes attached. Only American residents are eligible to enter, sadly – meaning those living near popular British tourist spots might want to keep vigilant for attempted Hopper homages. Surely none of us want to see Apocalypse Now re-staged on an open-topped bus up Shaftesbury Avenue.
Source: The view: Why movie lovers should never get their hopes up
There’s a little something for everyone in this bag of December theatrical treats. We all know the studios love to pack the last few weeks of the year with heavy dramatic fare, however there’s also a sprinkling of lighter films thrown into the mix this year. That’s great news for moviegoers ready to relax and escape into the make-believe world of films.
Mathieu Amalric stars in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly based on the true story of former French Elle editor Jean-Dominique Bauby. Successful, popular, and only 43-years-old, Bauby suffered a stroke which paralyzed his body with the exception of one eye. Trapped inside his body with a mind still completely functional – a condition known as locked-in syndrome – Bauby and his therapists devised a complicated communication system. Through a series of eye blinks, Bauby was able to vividly describe his new life, as well as his fantasies, wishes, and regrets, in what ultimately became his memoir, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Read On…
