the rhapsodic cineaste

Man On Train: Don’t take that tone with me, young man. I fought the war for your sort.
Ringo: I bet you’re sorry you won.

The author Kurt Vonnegut once explained, “I say in speeches that a plausible mission of artists is to make people appreciate being alive at least a little bit. I am then asked if I know of any artists who pulled that off. I reply, ‘The Beatles did.’” Without hyperbole, Vonnegut managed to characterize the Beatles’ importance to the music and culture of the 20^th century better than 40-years of euphoric praise and thoughtful analysis combined.

To measure the talent of the Beatles, not just as musicians, but as performers and humanitarians one simply has to listen, to observe. It would be a profound understatement to call them merely infectious. Watching the screaming throngs caught up in Beatlemania, it’s as if the world had gone collectively insane. It’s kind of a hysterical euphoria, and I think it’s fair to say the world hasn’t seen anything quite like the Beatles since. There are occasional pretenders to the throne, but none have managed to capture humanity’s hearts and minds quite so universally.

This is my roundabout way of framing A Hard Day’s Night with some perspective. Anyone well familiar with the Beatles will know what to expect. For those new to the band and their music, the film is as good a place as any to dig in. Knowing only their musical legacy, one might be surprised by how funny and subversive their first film is.

Presented as a kind of mock documentary, A Hard Day’s Night chronicles the Beatles as they make their way to a television performance. While the band is surrounded by fictitious handlers, and Paul McCartney is assigned an imaginary grandfather, the film is filled with much honesty.

From the opening sequence, with the band running from their mobs of fans in a train station, the film captures the phenomenon of Beatlemania. It also manages to highlight the personalities of each individual Beatles, as well as their dynamic as a group.

Fans of the Peter Sellers and Richard Lester short, The Running, Jumping & Stand Still Film, the Beatles happily approved manager Brian Epstein’s suggestion that Lester direct their first film. Today it seems like an obvious choice, for the Beatles themselves were natural comedians. From their first big break, the chance to record with comedy producer George Martin, to their eventual break-up, when George Harrison suggested that the Beatles’ spirit entered Monty Python, the band’s entire career was infused with humor.

Watching A Hard Day’s Night, it’s impossible not to laugh. Here the Beatles are simply four lucky lads, surrounded by chaos but very much at the eye of the storm. They have a wonderfully giddy rapport, spring-boarding off of each others jokes. Though scripted their banter feels genuine, largely to the credit of screenwriter Alun Owen. As Paul McCartney explained in The Beatles Anthology:

“Alun picked up a lot of little things about us. Things like: ‘He is late, but he is very clean, isn’t he?’ Little jokes, the sarcasm, the humour, John’s wit, Ringo’s laconic manner, each of our different ways. The film manages to capture our characters quite well, because Alun was careful to try only to put words into our mouths that he might have heard us speak.”

This resonates, especially when comparing the band’s first U.S. press conference to the film’s encounter with reporters. While the movie’s scripted answers are a bit snappier, in reality the Beatles were very quick on their feet. It becomes clear that in the film they’re essentially playing heightened versions of themselves, reciting lines but not really acting.

I suspect that A Hard Day’s Night would remain a comedy classic, even without it’s Beatles music. As it is, I’d be remiss not to mention the songs, but then again I can scarely imagine that anyone is unfamiliar with them. The Beatles catalog has been the soundtrack of my own life, and I was born after they’d disbanded. They’re simply ingrained in our collective consciousness.

Revisiting this film, laughing at the boys’ antics and their witty banter, tapping my foot to Ringo’s perfect rhythm, or humming along to their soaring melodies, and occassionally adding my own soft voice to the Beatle harmonies, I know that Vonnegut was exactly right. Spending time with the Beatles, I realize how lucky I am to live in this time and in this place. Their music and their films make me happy to be alive.

“THERE ARE MORE THINGS N HEAVEN AND EARTH HARRIS, THAN ARE DREAMT OF N YOUR PHILOSOPHY” – Freeway Condition Roadsign

I first saw L.A. Story eighteen years ago, and instantly became smitten. In a nod to La dolce vita (1960), the film opens on a stunning vista of Los Angeles. Gorgeous woman dive into a pool. Overhead the famous Tail o’ the Pup hot dog stand floats lazily in mid air, surreally suspended by a helicopter, all to the strains of Charles Trenet crooning Le mer. I knew then, in those first moments, that I was going to love this movie.

Steve Martin, who wrote the film, stars as Harris K. Telemacher. Harris has a PhD in arts and humanities, but performs the wacky weekend weather on TV. For fun he roller skates through art museums. Like his Shakespearian mentor, The Great Blunderman, he is a fellow of infinite jest. Harris is also “bored beyond belief,” searching for some deeper meaning from life.

Mostly about relationships and the search for lasting love, the film is also about Harris’s romance with the “City of Angels.” In many ways L.A. Story is the west coast answer to Woody Allen’s longstanding love affair with New York. Though this film is both sweeter and less literal than much of Allen’s oeuvre.

Unlike Allen’s pessimistic view of fidelity, often coupled with his clinical atheism, L.A. Story is optimistic and, quite literally, magical. Early in the film, Harris is introduced to Sara McDowell (Tennant), a British journalist who’s writing a story about Los Angeles. There is a mutual attraction but complications, both real and imagined, keep the couple apart. That is until a freeway sign begins communicating with Harris, offering him advice about love.

I was reminded of L.A. Story when watching Groundhog Day earlier this week. Meteorology must be a particularly soul-deadening line of work because, like Bill Murray’s Phil, Harris is going through the motions, essentially empty inside.

More importantly, both films employ fantastic devices to rescue their protagonists. Groundhog Day never reveals its secrets, we never find out how the magic trick was performed. We don’t learn much more from L.A. Story, but at least here we see the magician, the highway condition road sign.

Or perhaps Los Angeles itself is orchestrating events, and merely using the road sign as its prop. In either case, we are at least aware that events, or fate, are conspiring to help set Harris on the right path.

If I have one criticism of L.A. Story it’s that the film is really a mishmash of comedic styles. Much of the film wants to be seen as serious, or at least genuine. We’re expected to believe that, in the film’s universe, these elements of wonder are not only possible but real.

But there are a few sillier moments that threaten to turn the film to pure farce. At one point Harris realizes that it’s the first day of spring, open season on the L.A. freeway, and so begins an absurd gunfight between angry motorists. Similarly, when Harris drives his car just down the block to visit a neighbor, the film becomes simply ludicrous.

Sure these things are funny. But this is a film that asks me to accept that a weatherman and a talking freeway sign can reverse the polarity of the earth. If it took itself just a bit more seriously, the film’s magic might feel less like slight-of-hand. Then again, I’ve never been to L.A. Perhaps Martin is suggesting that the city itself is so absurd as to defy belief, that the entire story is to be taken at face value.

Fundamentally, L.A. Story represents the generic boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy wins girl back romantic comedy. But it does this in such a unique way, with so much texture, that the formula feels somehow fresh. And any film that deftly combines a homage to Shakespeare with its sincere tale of romantic wonderment, set to a soundtrack that incongruously blends both Django Reinhardt and Enya, has earned a place of deep affection in my heart.

Martin Kreutz: Where’s my sister?
Jason Bourne: Why don’t you sit down.
Martin Kreutz: Where is she?
Jason Bourne: She’s dead. She was killed. I’m sorry.
Martin Kreutz: I knew it would end this way. It was always going to end this way.
Jason Bourne: I didn’t believe that.
Martin Kreutz: And how did she die?
Jason Bourne: She was shot. We were together in India. He came for me.
Martin Kreutz: You killed him?
Jason Bourne: Yes.
Martin Kreutz: And now what?
Jason Bourne: Someone started all this, and I’m going to find them.

With The Bourne Ultimatum, the trilogy of Jason Bourne films comes full circle, ending quite literally where the story began. Not at the covert CIA medical facility where we learn that David Webb became the killer Jason Bourne, but in New York’s East River. Once again, an unconscious man, suffering from a gunshot wound is floating in the water.

As I mentioned previously, the Bourne films are just smart. They’re very well written, and unlike most sequels, Bourne’s subsequent outings feel as if they were planned from the beginning. Nothing feels tacked on or reinvented, but rather part of an intended arc.

Here, for example, Bourne is trying to unlock the mystery behind Operation Blackbriar, not Treadstone, which was the focus of the two previous films. But we learned of Blackbriar in the first film, when Ward Abbott (Brian Cox) disavowed Treadstone before an oversight committee. Densly plotted? Absolutely, but this is the sort of attention to complicated details that bothers me when missing.

There are some new villains in this final installment, but this too carries the air of believability. Bourne has eliminated many of his earlier adversaries, and considering this is a story about a vast government conspiracy, it’s not surprising for previously unseen players to appear.

CIA operatives Pam Landy (Allen) and Nicky Parsons (Stiles) both return in this chapter, continuing to provide Bourne with support. Both relationships to Bourne evolve nicely, and their assistance is much more overt here. For the first time since Marie’s death Bourne has clear allies, people he can trust. The Groundwork has been laid that suggests future Bourne films, beyond the resolution found here.

The least plausible parts of The Bourne Ultimatium, are the action set pieces, particularly a street chase that begins in a parking garage. The lack of abuse that several of the characters endure becomes just too hard to believe here. There’s also a sequence where Bourne breaks into a CIA office complex that, while thrilling, seems ridiculously easy, even for a covert agent.

When it’s not focused on outperforming its predecessors, this is still a movie with a soul. The ghost of Marie hangs over the picture. Even after her death in the second film, the character still serves as Bourne’s conscience, keeping his darker instincts in check. She’s also driving his desire, not for bloodlust, but to terminate the project that created him.

The Bourne Ultimatium is a fitting conclusion to a riveting trilogy of films. The entire series is so well crafted, and so well received, that further Bourne adventures are all but assured. I, for one, cannot wait.

Ward Abbott: I don't suppose it’ll do me much good to cry for help, huh?
Jason Bourne: Not much. You killed her.
Ward Abbott: It was a mistake. It was supposed to be you. There were files linking me to the Neski murder. If the files disappeared and they suspected you, they’d be chasing a ghost for ten years.
Jason Bourne: So we got in the way. Is that why Neski died? Is that why you killed Marie?
Ward Abbott: You killed Marie, the minute you climbed into her car. The minute you entered her life, she was dead.
Jason Bourne: I told you people to leave us alone. I fell off the grid. I was halfway around the world.
Ward Abbott: There's no place it won’t catch up to you. It’s how every story ends. It’s what you are, Jason, a killer. You always will be. Go ahead. Go on. Go on! Do it! Do it!
Jason Bourne: She wouldn’t want me to. That’s the only reason you’re alive.

Watching The Bourne Supremacy, I can’t help but be reminded of a relatively obscure Harrison Ford film, Regarding Henry (1991). In that movie, Henry Turner (Ford) is merely a sleazy, self-absorbed attorney. But, like Jason Bourne, his character suffers a brain trauma and loses any memory of his previous life. While Henry is merely a opportunistic lawyer, as opposed to Bourne’s cold-blooded assassin, both stories are tales of redemption—showcasing the heartwarming, positive aspects of severe head injury. And it’s telling, I suppose, that in Hollywood’s eyes, a career as either a killer or a lawyer require similar redemption.

Joking aside, Bourne’s amnesia allows him to push the reset button on his life, to reevaluate his choices—what he can remember of them anyway. He is steered on this path by Marie Kreutz (Potente), who he dragged into his journey escaping from the U.S. Embassy in Geneva. The Bourne Identity ended with the pair, now lovers, reunited in hiding.

It will not spoil much of The Bourne Supremacy’s plot to reveal that Marie is murdered very early in the film, in an botched attempt to assassinate Bourne himself. Unbeknownst to Bourne, he has been set-up by Ward Abbott. Brian Cox reprises his role as Abbott, the CIA deputy director responsible both for the Treadstone project, and the attempts to eliminate Bourne in the previous film.

Complicating matters is a second CIA deputy director, Pam Landy (Allen), who is investigating the set-up where Abbott has implicated Bourne. Landy is an ernest patriot, chasing the evidence wherever it may lead. As such, she is essentially Bourne’s ally, though neither agent realizes it.

As my attempt at a summary might suggest, the film is intricately plotted. To its credit, all of the pieces fall into place and there are no glaring errors. The set pieces are ratcheted up from the first film, becoming somewhat less believable. Though for an action film—particularly a sequel—it again manages to balance the thrills with a rare intelligence.

The nicest surprise in The Bourne Identity is in its use of Marie’s character. Unlike a Bond film, there isn’t a new leading lady for every Bourne outing. And though Marie dies early in the story, it is her death that propels events forward.

If Bourne hadn’t suffered from amnesia and had never encountered Marie, one can imagine that Abbott’s betrayal would drive him to carnage. But because of Marie’s influence, which facilitates his redemption, Bourne seeks simply to disable his enemies, not destroy them.

There’s a moment in the first film where Bourne realizes that Marie is afraid of him. They’ve both had the chance to digest their discovery that he is a killer, a fact which intimidates her. Marie eventually moves past this, compartmentalizing the information. Bourne does not really get past this moment though. From this point on, he uses Marie as a kind of moral compass, substituting her conscience for his own.

Watching the trilogy in rapid succession, it’s interesting to note how fluid they are. In The Bourne Identity, Marie suggests that if she leaves, Bourne will quickly forget her. He replies, “How could I forget you? You’re the only person I know.” It is a testament to how well these films work that, though she dies early in the second film, Marie remains Bourne’s touchstone, impacting the story long after her character has died. That’s a remarkable achievement, particularly for a film as adrenaline-fueled as this one.

Jason Bourne: Who has a safety deposit box full of money and six passports and a gun? Who has a bank account number in their hip? I come in here, and the first thing I'm doing is I'm catching the sightlines and looking for an exit.
Marie: I see the exit sign too. I'm not worried. I mean, you were shot. People do all kinds of weird and amazing stuff when they are scared.
Jason Bourne: I can tell you the license plate numbers of all six cars outside. I can tell you that our waitress is left-handed and the guy sitting up at the counter weighs two hundred fifteen pounds and knows how to handle himself. I know the best place to look for a gun is the cab of the gray truck outside, and at this altitude, I can run flat out for a half mile before my hands start shaking. Now why would I know that? How can I know that and not know who I am?

The Bourne series of films feel fairly smart. Or, at the very least, they don’t feel dumb. Typically action films are filled with ridiculously imagined gadgets and a glibness in the face of danger that often cheapens their threat. (See: Bond, James) There’s no outlandish technology here, though. No biting quips in the face of almost certain death.

As Jason Bourne, Matt Damon is a refreshingly intelligent action hero. Before engaging in a Parisian street chase, he’s studying a city roadmap. And when escaping from an embassy, he ditches a gun in favor of a radio and foorplan, to evade his would-be captors and to find a way out as quickly as possible. There’s an attention to detail, a kind of realism that lend the film its intelligence.

And sure, all action films are stupid to a degree, they defy believe. Particularly unrealistic is the level of physical abuse that our action heroes usually sustain. CIA trained or not, there’s only so much damage that the human body can realistically endure. In this sense, even The Bourne Indentity strains credulity, but it doesn’t bother me because it’s a film with purpose behind it, it has a moral.

As the film begins, a man is pulled unconscious from the sea by a fishing trawler. He has been shot, and when he awakens we learn that he has no memory. The number of a Swiss bank account, found in his hip, provides the only clue to unlocking his past.

In Geneva, the man uncovers his identity, learning that he is Jason Bourne, and that he lives in Paris. He also discovers that that he has multiple aliases, a deposit box filled with currency, and a gun. So Bourne makes his way to Paris, bribing a down-on-her-luck sojourner named Marie (Potente) to take him there.

What Bourne does not realize is that he is a CIA black operative, who in a crisis of conscience, botched an assassination attempt. Now, his superiors at the agency need to eliminate him, to protect their own careers.

When The Bourne Identity was released, it represented a fresh take on the spy thriller. And, apart from the tongue-in-cheek devolution of the Bond series, I think what set Bourne apart, what makes the character not only compelling, but relevant is that he represents the intelligence services in a jaded era.

In a cynical age, where faulty intelligence was used to justify war in Iraq, Bond still proudly serves Queen and country. Bourne is out in the cold, abandoned by his government and protecting his own interests.

Until Casino Royale (2006), when a Bourne inspired Bond was revitalized, 007 had become self-parody. Though the agent had a license to kill, Bond was not a stone cold assassin. Sure, he’d kill when necessary, but couldn’t really be considered an killer.

Bourne on the other hand is instinctively lethal, though he tries not to be. Fighting his instincts, partly due to the amnesia, and partly Marie’s influence, Bourne takes every opportunity not to do harm. More than once he ends up in possession of a gun, only to throw it away. He murders several adversaries, but only when his own life is at stake. He is desperately trying not to function as the instrument he was designed to be.

As I mentioned, the film has a moral. Bourne is seeking not only his identity, but also a kind of redemption. As bits of his memory come back, he is ever more desperate to escape the killer he knows that he is.

The Bourne Identity is something of a hybrid. It takes all of the traditional elements that still work, like filming on location in beautiful foreign cities, and couples this with a freshness, in fantastically fast editing and exhilarating stunt work. Combined with a modern, and believable espionage concept, it is the most refreshing, seemingly honest spy thriller in many years.

Read the whole damn thing. Though not really a critic, as a film enthusiasts, I find this depressing and offensive:

“It is often said in Hollywood that no one sets out to make a bad movie, but the truth is that people cheerfully set out to make bad movies all the time. It is more accurate to say that no one sets out to make a movie without having a particular audience in mind. Many studio executives argue that films can’t objectively be categorized as “good” or “bad”: either they appeal to a given demographic—and make the studio at least a ten-per-cent profit—or they don’t.”

I don’t care that it’s already made more than $85 million, and I will confess that I haven’t seen it, but I’m willing to go out on a limb and declare that Paul Blart: Mall Cop (2009) is an objectively bad movie. Popular? Sure. Good? Not a chance in hell.

“I wake up every day, right here, right in Punxsutawney, and it’s always February 2nd, and there's nothing I can do about it.” – Phil Connors (Bill Murray)

In Groundhog Day Bill Murray’s Phil Connors joins the echelon of characters who, needing a bit of redemption, bear witness a holiday miracle. Only unlike Ebenezer Scrooge, or George Bailey, Phil’s miracle comes not at Christmas, but on February 2, Groundhog Day.

And though rodent of legend, Punxsutawney Phil, makes an appearance, he is not outwardly involved in Phil’s miracle. Nor is Phil visited by the traditional ghosts or angels. In fact, Phil’s journey may not be a miracle at all.

Is Groundhog Day science fiction? A fairy tale? Both or neither? At one point Phil even suggests, “I’m a god. I'm not ‘the’ God…I don’t think.” His life has become so insane, the events so bizarre, that he’s just not sure.

And neither are we. The movie doesn’t feel the need to explain itself, because it knows that the why is less important than the what, simply that Phil is reliving the same day, Groundhog Day, over and over again.

In some ways Groundhog Day feels like an old episode of Star Trek, or The Twilight Zone. It resembles a time travel story where we keep seeing the same events play out again and again. Stories like that tend to be repetitive and dull, the science fiction equivalent of a clip show, reusing the same footage over and over.

But Groundhog Day capitalizes on this inherent monotony. At first, living the same day repeatedly drives Phil crazy. So crazy, in fact, that he tries to kill himself, but to no effect. No matter the method, he wakes up again on February 2^nd, and again to the maddening strains of Sonny & Cher’s I Got You Babe.

For a comedy, the film is surprisingly deep. When Phil realizes that there is no way out of his predicament, he begins to abuse it. Studying people and their habits, Phil uses his unique knowledge for seduction. Soon though, he realizes the emptiness in this and starts to use his never-ending day to improve himself, and the lives of others.

Murray is terrific in the film, the perfect blend of incredulous and sarcastic. I particularly like that he doesn’t begin the story as a cardboard villain. He doesn’t shift away from a life of evil because a ghost has terrified him with visions of hell. He’s simply lost. Cynical? Sure, and maybe a bit self-important. But he’s not really bad, just a bit empty on the inside. It makes his spiritual transformation easier to believe.

Another thing that makes the movie so good is how it gets out of it’s own way and just lets the plot unfold. Most stories dealing with inviolable rules of the spacetime continuum are too often filled with breathless exposition, that lets us know why we cannot defy physics.

Groundhog Day does none of this. Sure, Phil tries to kill himself and fails, repeatedly. In watching, we understand that whether due to paradox or divine will, it’s not Phil’s time. Likewise, when Phil begins to use his gifts to help people, we see him desperately try to save an old man. He cannot, no matter how he tries. These things are explained subtly, and we simply accept them as true.

Tolstoy once wrote that, “everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.” The funniest parts of Groundhog Day come after Phil realizes that he can’t change anything else, so begins instead to modify his own behavior. We watch Phil at his daily “first ever” piano lesson, become a master ice sculptor, and continually tweak his reaction to insurance salesman Ned Ryerson (Tobolowsky). There’s an infectious joy in watching Phil expand his horizons.

When watching the film, there is just one piece of the puzzle left unanswered that I’ve always wondered about. Exactly how long is Phil’s life on repeat? How much time did it take him to get it right? Months? Years? Decades? We’ll never know, I guess. But this too doesn’t really matter. What remains important is that he becomes unstuck.

“My name is Harvey Milk and I’m here to recruit you! ” – Harvey Milk (Sean Penn)

I find that you can usually tell when a film, particularly one with an agenda, has eclipsed its status as mere entertainment and become something greater. Whether it is striving for artistic or political importance, the process for judging a film’s success is generally the same.

For me, it usually begins when, after watching the film, I think less about the acting or cinematography, whether the script was any good or if the pacing was off. When I see a great film, my thoughts afterwards are entirely centered on how the film made me feel, what it made me think.

After watching Milk, what I came away with was a profound sense of moral outrage. It was as if I’d been punched in the gut. I was, and I remain, pissed off. I wasn’t thinking about Sean Penn’s acting, which was excellent. I didn’t notice Van Sant’s direction or have the chance to absorb the camerawork of Harris Savides.

Instead, I just kept thinking to myself, ‘this sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen here.’ I’ve always believed, naïvely I suppose, that we are a kinder, gentler nation than the America represented in Milk. But then, I’m probably getting ahead of myself.

Milk is a biography of Harvey Milk, a member of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors and the first openly gay elected official in California, or anywhere else for that matter. The story begins with Milk’s political awakening, and his realization that organizing minority voting blocs is the key to political power. From here, Milk’s multiple runs at city and state office are chronicled, before culminating in his battle against California’s Briggs Initiative (Prop. 6), a ballot measure to remove openly gay and lesbian teachers from their jobs in California’s public schools.

When I was a kid, I remember being amazed that in the mid 1960s, when my mom attended college in Florida, the drinking fountains were segregated. Learning of these bigoted anachronisms in school, the photos were so anathema, they seemed from a much more distant past. I thought of this while watching Milk, because its hatreds seemed both more contemporary and more exotic at the same time.

There are series of debates in Milk, between the activist and State Senator John Briggs (Denis O'Hare), who suggests that gay teachers are dangerous, because they’ll recruit the state’s youth to their “homosexual agenda.” I found this ironic, particularly because we did learn of racism in public schools. But I was much older before I knew of Harvey Milk, Anita Bryant or discrimination ordinances related to sexual orientation.

And while it doesn’t seem particularly helpful to compare one group’s victimization to another’s, it strikes me that today we’re witnessing the same discrimination against gays that Harvey Milk rallied against thirty years ago. Can anyone not see the parallels between California’s Prop. 6, from 1978 and the 2008 ballot measure, Prop. 8 that stripped California gays of their marriage rights?

There’s a pivotal moment in the film when Harvey Milk takes the stage at a rally. There have been death threats against him, but he grimly jokes that being assassinated will at least provide publicity to the gay rights movement. On stage Milk speaks of “The New Colossus,” an Emma Lazarus poem that adorns the base of the Statue of Liberty. He quotes its famous line, “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free.” Milk then mentions the Declaration of Independence, citing its observation that “all men are created equal,” that we all have the same unalienable rights.

Observing Penn, as Milk, deliver this impassioned speech, I was personally reminded of the Pledge of Allegiance, and that it closes with the affirmation, “with liberty and justice for all.” Milk reasons that these words are true, that the statue will not crumble, that the Declaration will outlive all of us. It occurred to me, watching this, that you either believe in the primacy of these ideas, or you do not. You either hold sacred these concepts, or you instead favor your prejudices, you make excuses for your preferred exclusions.

But Milk was smarter than I am. He understood that you cannot reach people with abstract arguments about freedom and liberty. You have to personalize your arguments. Milk demonstrates this, showcasing the activist’s controversial suggestion to begin outing closeted gays, and with his plea for gays to begin outing themselves, to parents and friends, forcing the bigots to make their hatreds personal.

There are lessons to be learned from this film, which concludes with the murder of Milk and San Francisco mayor George Moscone by another city supervisor, Dan White. In the aftermath of the shootings a crowd march from the Castro district to city hall, while Penn delivers, via voiceover, one of Milk’s speeches, ruminating on adversity and hope.

Milk was a man who lost, frequently. He may have become discouraged, but he didn’t give up. He picked up and started over, working to win more people to his side. If the American experiment is to continue and flourish, if we are to witness the day when the founding documents are true for all people, than like Milk we have to pick ourselves up and start again. We can do something about inequity.

These are the thoughts that came to me while I watched this film. For me it is a transcendent success.

“Suppose Nancy sees me coming out of the shower and decides to come on to me. I’m looking good, got a luscious v of hair going through my chest pubes down to my ball fro. She takes one look at me and goes ‘Oh my god, I’ve had the old bull now I want the young calf’ and grabs me by the weiner.” – Dale Doback (John C. Reilly)

I don’t really have anything to say about Step Brothers. It’s essentially a one-note joke stretched out for ninety minutes. Expanding on the conceit established in The 40-Year-Old Virgin (2005), Step Brothers goes a step further, with two 40-year-olds (Ferrell & Reilly), both still living at home, forced together when their parents marry.

The movie essentially takes what happens when two eight-year-olds are forced to cohabitant, and translates their behavior to grown adults. It’s incredibly stupid, but I laughed, a lot. Full Disclosure: I’d had some bourbon.

I happen to like both Reilly and Ferrell. If you enjoy Ferrell’s previous comedies, you’ll probably find this amusing.

“Come on, now. Don't be naïve, Lieutenant. We both know how careers are made. Integrity is something you sell the public.” – Walter Chalmers (Robert Vaughn)

Whatever else you may think about Bullitt, it certainly is an interesting case study on how much the crime drama has changed in the intervening forty years. My wife found the pacing labored, whereas I’d call it deliberate. I suppose essentially we’re really saying the same thing. Though I enjoyed the more languid tempo and she didn’t.

Interestingly, while I don’t put too much merit in the Academy Awards, the technical categories are always interesting, because the winners are selected only by their peers. Bullitt won the 1968 Oscar for film editing. So, even though the film’s pace may feel leisurely today, it’s telling that it was highly regarded by film editors in the late 60s.

The film’s plot is simple enough. Steve McQueen is Lieutenant Frank Bullitt, selected by Senator Walter Chalmers (Vaughn) to protect a witness for an upcoming Senate subcommittee hearing. While being protected by Bullitt’s men, the witness is murdered, leaving Chalmers furious and Bullitt eager to find the killers.

Bullitt, like Dirty Harry (1971), pays homage to San Francisco’s infamous Zodiac murder investigation. Here McQueen based Bullitt on homicide detective Dave Toschi, even copying Toschi’s fast-draw gun holster, a fact mentioned in Fincher’s Zodiac (2007).

McQueen oozes a badass cool, but the film itself is not wall-to-wall action. At the time of its release, it was apparently noted for its realistic portrayal of police and coroner procedures. While an interesting footnote, that’s the sort of detail that gets lost today. For better or worse, it also contributes to the film’s leisurely pace.

Bullitt does become exponentially more intense as it goes on though. Its much heralded car chase through the streets of San Francisco is still exhilarating. Particularly noteworthy is the fact that the sequence is not scored. Today, I’m sure a film’s big set piece would be paired with bombastic music, but Bullitt is better than this, and allows us to simply watch the spectacle unfold, unaccompanied. It almost has a documentary feel, and is the best part of the movie, worthy of its reputation.

Bullitt’s airport climax, involving a terminal stakeout and a runway chase, is also fairly suspenseful. And I really liked that, while the case is resolved, the film ends somewhat ambiguously.

Bullitt and his girlfriend Cathy (Bisset) have a dialogue thoughout the film. The detective is closed off and won’t let anyone in. Cathy worries that he’s become desensitized to the violence that surrounds him. The movie’s final scene touches on this argument obliquely, but offers no closure. The quiet moment in Bullitt’s apartment is note perfect and the sort of thing you just don’t see anymore.

There is one final little bit of awkwardness that I want to touch on. The film deals with a mob hit, but never uses the word mafia. Instead it continually refers to to the organization. I've read that The Godfather (1972) never used the term mafia because the studios feared organized crime’s influence over the labor unions instrumental to the film’s production. They were paranoid about work stoppages.

I wonder if the same sort of issue was at play here. Either way, the phrase the organization feels clumsy watching today, more like badly written science fiction than dialogue from a gritty urban cop flick.