I Love Michael Biehn and You Should Too

Hello, all.

So yesterday, as many of you probably do, I decided to hunker down and make some delicious French salmon en papillote (which turned out splendidly, thanks for asking) and, just to keep the nice cultured ambiance alive while I cooked, watched The Terminator. About halfway through the film my roommate appeared and inquired what I was watching, to which I answered, "Terminator" (and we high-fived, because it's the kind of movie where you sort of have to high-five after saying its name). I then added, "Yeah, I like this one better than Terminator 2--'cause Michael Biehn's in this one."

To which he replied, "Who's Michael Biehn?"

Well, folks, I would be lying if I said this wasn't the first time I'd received this reaction and as always it had me stumped. Though he's starred in some of the biggest movies of all time, for some reason Michael Biehn has always managed to fly under the radar for many viewers (a lot of my friends will realize who he is after I've rattled off a couple of films that he's starred in--namely the ones directed by James Cameron). And yet personally I always find that when he's in a movie he elevates it to another degree, and always gives a more subtle, intelligent performance than almost anyone else in the role could. He's got the standard film star appearance--blond, blue eyed, ruggedly handsome, but there's always an undercurrent of more going on beneath the surface; a sharpness and an intellect that belie his looks.

So in celebration of my longstanding love of Michael Biehn, I offer forth the following three roles, which I consider to be his best:


3. Lt. Hiram Coffey, The Abyss

Okay, so maybe The Abyss wasn't the greatest movie ever made. I loved it until the lumpy, preachy third act. That scene where Ed Harris plummets down...and down...and down...I swear to God, my fists were clenched so hard my knuckles were turning white. It built up a fantastic amount of pressure (pun intended), then threw it away on a bunch of moralizing Play-Doh colored aliens. But I digress.

What's worse than being stuck really deep underwater where some extremely strange occurrences are happening in/around your overwhelmingly claustrophobic sub? Having batshit crazy Navy SEAL Michael Biehn running around going batshit crazy in your already batshiteddly crazy sub, that's what! The first warning sign we should recognize here is the mustache: the primary indicator of evil Michael Biehn is the 'stache (see also: Johnny Ringo, Tombstone). But we all must admit how well Biehn sports a 'stache. That's not some wimpy hair growth there, people. Those follicles mean business.

Right off the bat you can tell that Biehn's Coffey is a couple aces short of a full deck, but his growing paranoia and the confined areas of the sub, as well as his access to a fairly extensive store of deadly machinery (not to mention his training as a SEAL) rack up most of the tension in the first half of the film. It's very disconcerting to see someone who looks like Michael Biehn going all twitchy and broodingly paranoic in scene after scene until finally we realize those eyes are completely bugging out and everyone else had better beware because some nuclear shit is about to go down. There's not a lot that could threaten Ed Harris, but in their brutal, violent showdown you start to actually wonder whether Ed will come out on top. Plus, Coffey (spoiler alert) gets one of the best deaths in the film: imploding to death in a pressurized plummeting pod! What an alliterative way to go.


2. Kyle Reese, The Terminator

And just where would the The Terminator franchise be without Kyle Reese? Nowhere, that's where! It wouldn't even have a y chromosome! It's Linda Hamilton who often gets remembered as the most badass parent of John Connor (due in part to her incredible physical transformation for Terminator 2), but Biehn's portrayal of Sarah Connor's lonely protector in the first film gives the film an emotional resonance that elevated it above mere cheesy B sci-fi shoot-'em-up. Consider the two opposing sides: on one hand we have Arnold Schwarzenegger as the Terminator, all beef and muscle, never feeling pain, always marching onward. On the other hand we have Biehn's Kyle Reese, comparatively small, painfully skinny (not a lot of vegetables or protein in the post-apocalyptic future, apparently), easily bruised but positively dogged in his determination to keep Sarah Connor alive. Look at the way the two sides are introduced--the Terminator appears in a crash of lighting, curled in a sprinter's crouch, absolutely unfazed. When Reese appears a scene or two later, he is unceremoniously dumped on the cement naked and vulnerable, struggling to his feet and wincing through the visible pain (not to mention the time-traveling induced jet lag, which can really be a killer). What he lacks in outright physical strength against the machine he makes up for in cunning; he is the fox to the Terminator's brutal hunter. And dammit, if Sarah had just listened to him and not called her mother at the motel things might have turned out differently...

But watch the way Kyle interacts with Sarah; forcibly when he has to, tenderly and encouragingly when it's needed. Biehn frequently gets typecast as some sort of official member of the law enforcement, and like I said it's the look that gets him those roles--the sort of blond all-American do-gooder look, but it's the man beneath that elevates it up another notch in action films like these. Reese is really a tragic romantic figure, first and foremost a soldier with his duty to keep in mind, but at the same time he's a man who is deeply in love with a woman he's never even met, whose picture he keeps tenderly folded up beneath his armor. Part of it is James Cameron's ability (unlike some blockbuster directors, cough Michael Bay cough cough) to write characters that delve deeper than their surface would imply, but much of it is Biehn's ability to convincingly portray a balls-out action hero that segues seamlessly into a sensitive, intelligent, quiet romantic lead. And if you think about the fact that it's his son who sort of plays matchmaker between the two (by giving his father Sarah's picture), it's really rather cute. Sort of like an Olsen twins movie. With homicidal death machines.


1. Corporal Dwayne Hicks, Aliens

This is the one that really did it for me. First of all, I just have to say that I love Aliens. I love Aliens more than most things. You'd have an extremely difficult time trying to convince me that a) this isn't one of the best movies ever made or b) that this isn't the single greatest action movie ever made. I had probably one of the best first impressions of this film that anyone could ever have--I watched it for the first time on the night after I got my wisdom teeth out and I was jacked up to the eyeballs on codeine and I swear that this was one of the most awesome movie experiences you could possibly imagine (mostly because I could wave and shout at the screen and drool all I wanted and the rest of my family just sort of chalked it up to the medication and let it slide. Later attempts at this sort of behavior did not go over as well.) Luckily, I soon discovered that the film was just as incredible without being in a drugged stupor.

So here, once again, you have Biehn + a classic James Cameron action movie. I begin to detect a trend. (*Note: when I talk about this film, I'll be referring to the director's special edition, which I prefer to the theatrical release, not least of all because it contains a good deal of content relating to Michael Biehn's character that was cut in the original). All through it, there are wonderful moments that would be absent in another director's film--Cameron is patient enough to wait and build the suspense and let the terror grow and grow until he finally lets it rip and sustains the climactic adrenalin rush for an exhilarating, exhausting forty minutes. This skill is extended to Cameron's deft handing of the characters, from Sigourney Weaver's Ripley (the seminal example of the intelligent, tough, yet undeniably feminine action hero) to Biehn's Corporal Dwayne Hicks, who slowly emerges from the sea of Marines as Ripley's ally and shy, tentative love interest.

The first time I watched Aliens I was mostly involved in the essential plot, worrying about Ripley and Newt, cheering them on as they blasted away from the diseased planet, yelling and pumping my fist and enthusiastically drooling at the screen (codeine) at the "Get away from her, you bitch!" line. But then I watched it again, and another time, and I started to focus instead on Hicks. At the beginning it's hard to pick him out. He's in the same Marine uniform as the others and he's blond like Bill Paxton, who admittedly gets some of the film's best lines (say "Game over, man, game over!" in your best Paxton whine at any film kid gathering and immediately you shall be welcomed into the fold with open arms). But watch his performance and you'll see the little grace notes he adds that shine throughout the whole movie--if you're paying close enough attention to catch them.

At dinner, he stares at Ripley while the others are dismissing her; she catches his gaze and blushes (and it takes one hell of a man to make Ellen Ripley blush). In the debriefing seminar he sits in the back of the group, but when Vasquez says "I only wanna know one thing, man...where they are," you can see him mouth the words along with her--for those that see it we immediately know that this is a group who has been living and fighting together for a long while and he, like the others, has his place within the pack. As they drop down to the infested planet LV-426, Paxton whoops and yells, "We're on an express elevator to Hell--going DOWN!" (another greatest line, and one that my younger sister repeated to me as we teetered at the summit of Texas's tallest rollercoaster--I half-screamed, half-laughed all the way down). Ellen closes her eyes as they plummet to the surface, gritting her teeth, clearly wishing that it was all over. And Hicks? In a brilliant cutaway, we see that he's fallen fast asleep, mouth slightly open as the ship hurtles down to the planet. Who doesn't love a guy like that? It takes an inventive mind to use falling asleep as a way to illustrate the bad-assity of a character, but Cameron and Biehn succeed brilliantly--not to mention the scene is played out for a great laugh. Once they land, they're called out to assemble. "Somebody wake up Hicks," the Sergeant orders disgustedly. Apparently, this is a frequent occurrence.

And all through the film you catch Hicks stealing glances at Ripley and is consistently the only one who listens to her or backs her up on anything. He's tender and patient with little Newt, and when most of the other soldiers have been killed and it's brought up that he now has seniority over the operation, he accepts the responsibility with a reluctant "Yeah..." He's both respectful of Ripley ("I can take care of myself," she tells him flirtatiously. "Yeah, I noticed," he mutters, hiding a grin) and equal to her--his idea of courtship is showing her how to use a pump-action plasma rifle and on more than one occasion proves that he can more than handle himself in a fight. The only thing that takes this man down is when he gets squirted with alien acid blood that eats through his armor. This is, it must be noted, after he literally shoves his rifle down the throat of the alien as it claws its way into the elevator with him and Ripley, grunts "Eat this," and blasts its head off. This from the same guy who gently chides, "Don't touch that honey, it's dangerous," when he catches Newt playing with one of the soldiers' weapons. He is the ultimate thinking woman's space Marine.

So there you have the thoughtful, stoic, badass glory that is Michael Biehn as Corporal Hicks. Action heroes like this are few and far between nowadays--men who are willing to work alongside their female allies as equals instead of trying to best them or get them into bed, who do instead of boast, who can be quiet and almost sweet, yet utterly fearless in battle. Maybe it's because those nuances are decidedly subtle for an action film, perhaps because audiences are primed for shows of bravado to tell them who they should be rooting for that Biehn's work in this film has gone under the radar. But watch the film again and see how he slowly separates himself from the pack of Marines to stand side by side with Ripley all the way to the end. And see how, in the last shots of the film, you have this wonderful image of a futuristic nuclear family emerging from the horror and bloodshed of their experiences on the planet: a man, a woman, a child...and their chewed-up, half obliterated android.

Honorable mention: The Sheriff, Thanksgiving Trailer

Little needs to be said about this except that Biehn's ten seconds (starting around 2:04) are among the best in this entire trailer. NSFW. 

And that, dear reader, is why I love Michael Biehn and why you should too.

For further watching, check out Tombstone, The Rock, Grindhouse (Planet Terror), The Magnificent Seven (TV series). Spread the love.

Cheers,
-Baz

5 Great Endings

While rewatching the Coen Brothers' No Country for Old Men this evening, I was inspired to make a little list of great movie endings. Now, please note that this list is not titled "the 5 best endings in film" because that's stupid. My goal here is not to inspire inter film-geek shankings, it's just to point out a few films whose endings really just...*clenches fists*...Ahhh. 

So, one may ask, according to Baz, what makes a great ending? I will admit that I am a sucker for two things in particular: dramatic uncertainty and helicopter shots (which go hand in hand more often than not).  Give me a good helicopter shot of a guy wandering off into the distance and I'm like a cat getting its tummy rubbed (see: Proof of Life, The Electric Horseman). I am aware of this prejudice, so I've nixed all helicopter shots from this list because the commentary would be identical ("Look how lonely he looks! And uncertain! You can tell because he's getting smaller and smaller in the distance! It's just like LIFE!!!") I love endings that tie things up but still leave room for a bit of mixed emotion or thought at the end. In some cases, I think a fairly reasonable policy is the more neat and tidy the ending, the less you'll think about it afterward. Because really, where are endings neat and tidy except in fiction? In life, things never really end. A plot may be resolved but the story goes on.

And on that overwhelmingly poetic note, I present you with:

5 GREAT ENDINGS

(in no particular order)

p.s. it should be obvious, but if you haven't seen these movies and don't want to know how they end, DON'T READ THESE. Thank you.

1. The 400 Blows

This was one instance where the ending of a movie made me fall completely in love with the rest of the film itself. I vividly remember where I was and what I was doing the first time I saw The 400 Blows. I was in my freshman Language of Film class at NYU, a class cursed with the strange Film Kid Paradox--you find yourself (you being a dorky movie lover from way back) in a class where pretty much your only task is to stay awake and watch amazing classic film after amazing classic film, but quite often you find yourself being distracted by thinking about what you'll be doing once you get home and checking your watch to see how long it is until the movie is over so you can go home...and...watch...more...movies. In essence, many film school classes are forced viewership, and that sort of situation (where you're made to watch a movie you didn't elect to view) very rarely inspires appreciation. For this reason, I think a lot of great movies get a bit neglected by film students and sometimes it takes a rewatching on a comfy couch with a good bowl of popcorn to set things straight.

Now, up until the last bit of The 400 Blows, I was stuck squarely in the middle of the Film Kid Paradox. It was dark, I was tired, I wanted to go home. I liked the movie and I thought Jean-Pierre Leaud was fascinating and immensely watchable and there were definitely bits that made me laugh. However, the movie was turning out to be a bit of a downer--this poor kid gets caught in unfortunate circumstance after unfortunate circumstance. Parents don't understand him, teachers are cruel to him, the world seems to have it in for him. I was fairly certain how it was all going to turn out for little Antoine Doinel.

And then the boy winds up in juvi. It's horrible. His parents have given up on him completely. Everything seems to have come to a horrible, grim dead end for this boy. I'm checking my watch. And then...without warning, Antoine (who is out on a soccer field with the other boys) runs after a stray ball. He chucks it back to his compatriots, then, with only a second of consideration, bolts for the fence, slithers under, and breaks free. It's only a few seconds before the guards are after him. Well, this is going to be over shortly, I thought to myself.

But then he hides beside a bridge and the school officials go past over his head. And Antoine sneaks under the bridge and begins to run. And runs. And runs. And runs. 

It's the brilliance of Truffaut that he used a single tracking shot to follow Antoine on his escape. With each passing unbroken second of film, I swear I felt like the theme from Chariots of Fire was playing in my heart, I wanted to get up, shout at the screen, pump my fist and cheer Antoine to GO! Every second I thought they were going to catch up with him, that they'd find him, that the shout would go up and they'd wrestle him down and haul him back, never to let him out again because that's how these things always end. But he didn't and they don't. Then he reaches the sea (which he has never seen before). He runs as far up to it as he can, right to where the tide is breaking. He can't go forward anymore. He can't go back. So he turns and faces the camera. His face in that frozen last frame is the embodiment of all the confusion, complexity, promise and freedom of youth. It's a stunning sequence and to this day I cannot write about it without tearing up a bit. Watching this ending for the first time remains one of the seminal film experiences of my life.

2. No Country For Old Men

For some reason, this ending aroused a lot of controversy (and still does when it's brought up among my film-minded friends) who cannot ever agree whether the ending is brilliant or whether it sucks beyond belief. In my mind, it is a perfect, deceptively simple ending. No Country tells the story of a man who comes across millions in bloody drug money, takes it, and is pursued by an almost archetypal figure of evil and death as personified by Javier Bardem, who leaves nothing but senseless, emotionless death and destruction in his wake. After the plot has resolved and almost everyone but Bardem's hit man has been killed, the sheriff (Tommy Lee Jones), the quasi-archetypal "good guy"--outwardly simple, inwardly complex, fighting a losing battle on the side of good, discouraged by the harsh face of evil he has been forced to witness, retires from his job. The final scene finds him recounting two dreams he had about his father (who was also a lawman) to his wife:

"Alright then. Two of 'em. Both had my father in 'em. It's peculiar. I'm older now then he ever was by twenty years. So in a sense he's the younger man. Anyway, first one I don't remember too well but it was about meetin' him in town somewhere, he's gonna give me some money. I think I lost it. The second one, it was like we was both back in older times and I was on horseback goin' through the mountains of a night. Goin' through this pass in the mountains. It was cold and there was snow on the ground and he rode past me and kept on goin'. Never said nothin' goin' by. He just rode on past... and he had his blanket wrapped around him and his head down and when he rode past I seen he was carryin' fire in a horn the way people used to do and I could see the horn from the light inside of it. 'Bout the color of the moon. And in the dream I knew that he was goin' on ahead and he was fixin' to make a fire somewhere out there in all that dark and all that cold. And I knew that whenever I got there he would be there. And then I woke up."

 I suppose people's opinions of this scene depend greatly on what they believe the film to be about. If you thought the movie was about a guy who finds $2 million, who plays a deadly cat-and-mouse game with a psychopath who eventually catches up to him and kills him and then gets away with everything, sure, you're going to find this ending unsatisfying. But if you instead realize that the entire "plot" of the film merely serves as a MacGuffin for a deep meditation on violence and evil, then the ending is absolutely perfect. No Country observes the way in which those horrible things seem to grow and grow and grow through every generation, unstoppable by all those who oppose it (look no further than the car accident near the film's end if you want proof of the film's overarching metaphor--Bardem's hitman is struck by what should be a fatal blow, but gets up, merely grits his teeth and marches on). But it's the intelligence of the film and the filmmakers that allow it to end not on a cynical note (and it's a pretty cynical film), but on a note of hope. Tommy Lee Jones's weathered face is the picture of world-weary struggle as he reflects on the men who came before him, wistfully recalling the days when such violence, such evil was yet unheard of. The telling of his dream is an assurance to the audience that men like him and his father before him will always be out there in "all that dark and all that cold" to light a fire for us to follow.

 

 

3. Roman Holiday

This is a classic example of an ending that could not possibly have been filmed in Hollywood today. Today's rules dictate that everything must end prettily and happily, tied up with a large (preferably matrimonial) bow, scored by a Katy Perry song over the end credits. Roman Holiday is fantastic proof that all it takes is a pair of balls to actually make a romantic comedy that has deep emotional resonance and an ending that feels right instead of forced.

After spending a day together in Rome, Princess Ann (who has been masquerading as a commoner named Anya on her stolen day off of princessing duties) and Joe (a reporter who is well aware of her true identity, but decides to forget his exclusive scoop when he realizes that he's fallen in love with her) come face to face when she gives a press conference. Up until this scene, I was rolling my eyes and gritting my teeth, just knowing how it would all turn  out--Joe would cave in and sell his story, betraying Anya's trust and making her furious at him, and then he would realize the error of his ways, stage an extremely public apology just in time for her to confess her love as one of her cabinet members provides a convenient clause in the laws of her kingdom for them to be able to marry, they embrace, all of Rome applauds, credits roll and I have already been asleep for fifteen minutes.

But then I realize why I love old Hollywood eighty thousand times more than mainstream films today. It does the exact opposite--it shows the reality instead of the fantasy, and in doing so finds more cinematic magic and emotional resonance than an overdramatic conclusion ever could produce. It's a brilliantly acted scene on both parts. Joe is smiling to himself, watching Ann in all her grace and poise and public decorum (after having seen her smash a guitar over someone's head mere hours before). Ann scans the line of reporters, her gaze focuses on Joe, and her eyes flash with recognition, shock and then panic. He's a reporter. He's sure to reveal her secret. But then, during her question and answer section with the reporters, she goes off script (to the visible chagrin of her secretary), throwing in a subtle bit aimed directly at Joe about "faith in the goodness of people" to which he replies that her faith will not be misplaced. Her sigh of visible relief is heartwrenching.

She then stands and goes down to shake the hands of the men and women of the press. In an unbroken shot we follow her all the way down the line, person after person until finally she reaches Joe. She shakes his hand politely, gives a courteous smile, then continues on to the next person. Only the audience, Joe and Ann know the inner turmoil brimming beneath the surface. Finally, she turns back, smiles (a tear glistening brilliantly in one eye), waves and is gone. Joe stands alone until the room clears out, then slowly begins to walk out of the now deserted room, hands in his pockets. Finally, he smiles a bit to himself, and along with him we find a sort of resolution--the day they spent together was something to be treasured and cherished and we get the feeling that Joe will do just that until the end of his life.

4. The Graduate

This is certainly one of the most celebrated endings in film, and rightfully so. Its off-balance uncertainty perfectly encapsulates the spirit of the whole film which, in itself, was the spirit of an entire disillusioned generation of youth at the time the film was released.

Benjamin Braddock, a recent college graduate has embarked on, among other things, floating aimlessly in a pool, conducting an affair with his parents' married friend, falling in love with her daughter, stalking said daughter all the way to Berkeley, acting like a nut until she finds out he slept with her mother at which point she high-tails it off to marry some zero her parents like. Benjamin must finally rouse himself out of his stupor in time to save the woman he loves from a fate worse than death (mediocrity: the same one that consumes his parents and the Robinsons). He does just that--in high style.

He drives like a maniac all the way to the church where Elaine is being married, can't find a way in, so he pounds on the glass window above, screaming Elaine's name until she finally sees him. At first she is embarrassed and looks away...then she sees the angry, ugly faces of those silently cursing him around her and realizes the hole she's nearly fallen into. "Ben!" she cries, and that's all he needs. A few moments later, after grabbing Elaine, punching out a few people and fending angry relatives off with a crucifix, Ben and Elaine race out of the church and onto a nearby bus, where they plop down in the back seat laughing with exhilaration and giddiness (when I saw this scene for the first time I was literally laughing in tears on the floor). But, as the camera unflinchingly stares them down, their giggles gradually lessen to reflective smiles, then the smiles fade away and we are left with the image of two people together, being carried forward into an uncertain future. If that's not something legions of people can identify with, I don't know what is.

5. The Man Who Would Be King

Among other things, this is the most unforgivably unappreciated masterpiece in film. I just needed to get that out there and trust me, there will be at least one other post devoted to how great this movie is. In case you haven't seen it, let me spell it out for you: Sean Connery. Michael Caine. In their primes. Directed by John Huston. Based on a story by Rudyard Kipling. Two swashbuckling con men/British soldiers travel to Kafiristan to become kings and are just as surprised as we are when their plans actually work out (for a time). Adventure. Loyalty. Hot woman (Caine's wife). One of the greatest stories of friendship on film. Done. Go rent it. Now.

Read no further if you haven't seen it. The story has been told in flashback by Peachy (an almost unrecognizable Michael Caine) to Rudyard Kipling (Christopher Plummer). The Peachy in the present is a beggar dressed in rags and a turban, speaking in a hoarse whisper, horribly disfigured. We see the whole story--how Peachy and his best friend Danny (Connery) conquered Kafiristan, where through a blind coincidence Danny is mistaken for a God and crowned King. All is not well, however, when he falls in love with a mortal woman and refuses to leave with Peachy, who is eager to take their newfound riches and make an escape. Peachy reluctantly agrees to stay for Danny's wedding "for old times' sake." The girl Roxanne fears for her life (any mortal who makes love with a god is rumored to go up in smoke) and bites Danny as he kissses her at the end of their marriage vows. Seeing the blood on his cheek, the high priest of the country realizes that Danny is, "Not god, not devil, but man!" Danny and Peachy make a run for it but are cornered by the hoards of angry priests and, seeing that escape is hopeless, Danny apologizes to Peachy "for being so bleedin' high and bloody mighty", and his friedn forgives him. This being settled, they throw down their weapons and Danny is led to a bridge which is cut out from beneath him. Danny tumbles to his death, leaving Peachy behind singing his battle cry.

The final note of the film may strike some as odd. We are once again in Kipling's office and Peachy is the beggar. He tells of how he was crucified by the Kafiris, then, when he refused to die, was cut down and set free. He made it back to India on his own--or, as Peachy believes, with Danny "never letting go of his hand." "And Peachy," he continues, "Never let go of Daniel's head."

"His head?" Kipling asks in a hoarse whisper, clearly believing him mad--unsure of whether the outrageous story was true or whether it was the ravings of a lunatic.

With that, Peachy quietly sets down his mysterious parcel, mumbles something about urgent business in the south (a throwback to his introduction with Kipling at the beginning of the tale) and shuffles off into the darkness to be forgotten. Kipling steals forth, pulls the shroud from around the parcel, then shrinks back when he realizes that what is before him is Daniel's head--still wearing the crown of Kafiristan. His eyes narrow as he takes it in. It's a spooky, macabre sight until the triumphant battle hymn "The Minstrel Boy" (Danny's theme throughout the movie) kicks in on the soundtrack and we realize that this is exactly what he wanted--to die a king. And he did. We are left with a smile and the overwhelming conviction that films as great as this simply don't get made anymore.

Anyway, those are some of my favorites. Feel free to contribute your own in the comments below!

Cheers,
-Baz

Great Face, Great Performance: Cary Grant as Devlin in Notorious

It seems only fitting that to kick off my series "Great Face, Great Performance" I feature one of my favorite actors in what is (in my humble opinion, at least) his finest role. Coincidentally (or perhaps not) the part also happens to be from my favorite movie, Hitchcock's Notorious.

I once read an article seeking to praise Cary Grant for the usual things: his charm, his athleticism, his poise, his charisma. That iconic "Cary Grant" persona, so carefully honed and developed over the years, has become indivisible from its creator, and Grant is often criticized for playing the same suave urban sophisticate from film to film, accused of never really bothering to "act", simply being himself. Grant's role as T.R. Devlin in Notorious is a subversive, indisputable contradiction to that assumption. Here is a subtle, nuanced portrayal of a chilly, cold, yet undeniably alluring man whose immaturity and insecurities lie only slightly hidden beneath his carefully polished veneer. There are deep wells of warmth and emotion within but to get to them you have to chip away at layer upon layer of ice. It's a role that completely inverts that familiar charming persona, turning the lithe, athletic sex appeal into something dangerous and destructive. It’s the role that should have won Grant his Oscar.

The story of Notorious is a near-perfect setup for an espionage thriller. (Beware, ahead and throughout the rest of the post, there will be spoilers. If you haven't seen the movie, go rent it. Now.) Alicia Hubermann (Ingrid Bergman) is the daughter of a Nazi traitor. She is a hard-partying, heavy-drinking girl who, beneath her jovial, devil-may-care attitude, is desperately seeking acceptance and love. After a party, she is recruited by Devlin (Cary Grant) to help the U.S. with a covert operation in Rio. As they wait for news of their assignment, the two fall in love, but Devlin seems unable to fully return Alicia's ardor. Then, they get word: Alicia is to seduce the head of the Nazi ring operating in Rio. Alicia looks to Devlin for a sign of his love, but gets none and agrees to the assignment. At a big party, Alicia and Devlin discover that the Nazis are smuggling uranium ore hidden in wine bottles. Alicia's husband, the Nazi ringleader Sebastian (Claude Rains) gets wind of her treachery and slowly begins to poison her. Alicia is on the brink of death when Devlin returns and in a daring, suspenseful act of bravery, rescues her from the house and brings her to safety. 

From the very beginning of the film, we realize that Hitchcock is going to toy with our perceptions of the enigma that is Cary Grant. The calculated restraint with which Hitchcock uses his star is perfect evidence of what sets him apart from lesser film directors; at every opportunity, Grant is held at arm’s length. Hitchcock places him in the back of a frame, or with his back turned to the camera or in silhouette. He understands that Grant, as a major star, will automatically be the object of focus for the audience—what better way to create tension than to deny the audience what they want? In many ways, we start to feel just like Alicia, inexplicably drawn to a man who is always just a bit out of reach.

His introduction is the shot featured above, just the back of his head sitting still and silent at the drunken party as Alicia gazes at him from across the room. We, of course, already know who it is. Slicked hair, perfect collar, a wry, ironic cock to the head. 

The next morning, Alicia awakens with a dreadful hangover and peers through her haze up at Grant, and this is what she sees:

Why can I not wake up after a night of drunken partying to this in my doorframe?

For the greater part of the film, we (the audience, the camera) are Devlin's only confidantes. Hitchcock brings us in close to his face in moments of deep catharsis or emotion, but to the other characters (Alicia, Sebastian) he is almost invariably shown as I described before: at a distance, in shadow, in profile or with his back turned to the audience. It's a perfect marriage of performance, composition and camerawork combining to present a man who is always a step or two removed from those around him. Examples:

As Alicia and Devlin return to her apartment to get in some quality smooching time, Alicia pauses and removes her gloves, watching as Devlin walks away from her to the balcony. The unanswered question (which she poses to him more directly later in the scene): does he actually love her? 

Alicia dresses up for a party at Sebastian's house. As she talks to Prescott, their boss, about her instructions for the night's event, Devlin remains silent, his back turned to the audience, closed off in his own thoughts as she steals little glances at him here and there. 

After getting word of the nature of Alicia's assignment, Devlin returns to Alicia's flat to keep his dinner date with her. As she happily chatters on in the kitchen, unaware of what has happened, he walks out to the cold balcony and hunches his shoulders up, staring down at the ground. Once again, he is isolated and in Grant's simple gesture we can feel his loneliness and his helpless, tortured vulnerability.

 In one of their early love scenes, Alicia teases Devlin: 

"You're sore because you've fallen for a little drunk you tailed in Miami and you don't like it. It makes you sick all over, doesn't it? People will laugh at you, the invincible Devlin, in love with someone who isn't worth even wasting the words on..." 

Devlin alternates through the little scene by gazing at her and then looking away--her words are hitting too close to home for his comfort. Then, in a gesture that seems equal parts passion and equal parts desire to shut her up, he seizes her and kisses her. 

Then, the last scene, the most important. Grant has infiltrated Sebastian's house and crept up to Alicia's room to see her. His appearance here is a direct mirror image to his first arrival through her drunken haze in the beginning of the movie.

Framed in a doorway, covered in shadow. He walks forward slowly (quite literally “walking into the light”), and we see now that there is no cocky, inscrutable smile on his face. It's an unabashed expression of horror: 

From here on out, once Devlin makes his confession of love, there isn't a shot of Dev without Alicia nestled safely in his arms. Hitchcock devotes himself to intimate two-shots of the two of them, showing them now as a unit, displaying through the staging and the composition of his shots that Devlin is a changed man and is now able to love, trust and truly care for Alicia. 

There are, of course, a generous amount of frontal close-ups of Grant's face, but these are almost exclusively given in his moments of intimacy with Alicia, when he drops the cold facade and lets a little warmth shine through. And, as mentioned before, we as the audience are given a privileged glimpse into Dev's psyche--one thing Hitchcock loved to do was to let the audience in on more secrets than the characters. We know that Devlin is truly in love with Alicia at least an hour and fifteen minutes before she does. Look at his expression after Alicia walks into the room all dolled up for a party at Sebastian's. Prescott (to the right of Devlin) has the line and gets the focus of the shot, but should you be quick enough to catch one look at Dev's face and you'll know the whole story.

After meeting at the racetrack for news of the previous night's party, Alicia informs Devlin that she and Sebastian have slept together. Swallowing his shock (which we as an audience absorb in a straight-on closeup of his face), Devlin begins to lash out at her in that clipped, perfect monotone, bringing her to tears. 

Notice the difference in frame between Alicia and Devlin's shots. Alicia's close-up is so intimate that we can see the tear glimmering in the corner of her eye. Devlin's (as seen from Alicia's point of view) is cold, closed-off, icy. We only see half his face as she looks up at him. 

Some of the most wrenching moments in the film are when we witness Devlin’s defense of Alicia to Prescott and the others--precisely the sort of defense Alicia desperately needs to hear but that he is, for reasons of his own, unable to tell her. At a meeting, Prescott and the representatives of the Rio government discuss the progress being made in the case. Grant has his back turned to them, deep in brooding thought and only bothers to turn around (so the audience can feel the full force of his emotion) when one of the men refers to Alicia as "a woman of that sort.”

It's in these little moments that Grant really shines in this role, not least because of the love Hitchcock's camera shows for Grant's face. The nuances Grant delivers are so subtle that some of them may only be picked up upon repeat viewings. Occasionally, it is merely a flick of the eyes or a turn of the head that betrays what he is actually thinking. The few moments where Devlin allows himself to lose that cool (the aforementioned moments where he defends Alicia, or when he furiously reacts to the news of her assignment--below) are shocking both in their explosiveness and the speed with which Devlin quickly shuts himself down after his outbursts. We get the feeling that there are barely contained fires stewing under that effortless cool and that at any moment—with the right look, word, touch—they may come bursting forth. Grant is able to convey the sense that Devlin, even more than he is afraid of Alica (“I’ve always been scared of women,” he remarks dryly), is perhaps even more afraid of himself and the depth of emotion he feels for her.

The carefully placed layers of true love/false love serve as the major suspense throughout the movie; for a closer breakdown of the film’s plot, I suggest you read Donald Spoto’s excellent essay on Notorious in his book “The Art of Alfred Hitchcock.” Even with a cursory glance, we see the meticulous way Hitchcock has all the levels playing off of one another: Devlin pretends not to be in love with Alicia, who must in turn pretend to be in love with Sebastian, and then must pretend to not be in love with Devlin when Devlin pretends to be in love with her in order to keep Sebastian off the trail of the uranium ore in the wine bottles. And then there are the feigned gestures of love (again outlined by Dr. Spoto): Alicia passionately embraces her husband to conceal the fact that she has just stolen a crucial key from his chain. Devlin's kiss of Alicia's hand at the party (witnessed narrowly by the jealous Sebastian, who takes it as a true sign of affection between the two) actually conceals Alicia passing off the key to Devlin:

Their kiss by the wine cellar is the single most devastating moment in the film; about eighty-six different emotional threads are running through this scene and Hitchcock orchestrates it like a symphony, with Rains, Bergman and Grant playing their parts to perfection.  We are at once terrified of their being found out, thrilled at the passionate kiss, afraid of what Sebastian will do to Alicia when he finds them together. We are torn apart by Alicia’s breathless protestations against her love for Devlin, when only moments before she helplessly whispered, "Oh, Dev...Dev." Devlin’s own short speech to Sebastian about his love for Alicia borders on the comedic. Again, he is turned away from Alicia and the camera, and we can immediately see that the confession hits too close to home for him; he can only bear to admit his ardor in the driest of monotones—to put any emotion in it, even at this crucial moment when their lives hinge on his performance, would be revealing too much. 

  

This analysis wouldn’t be complete without a slightly gushy paragraph about why exactly Cary Grant is so cool, so, dear reader, here it is. 

The first conclusion: it’s hard to deny the sex appeal of an obviously athletic man in a three-piece suit. Grant milked this appeal for the entirety of his career (seeing the former acrobat randomly do a back flip nearly perfectly in place while wearing a full suit in Holiday is one of the singularly most surprising, wonderful moments in Grant’s filmography). That athleticism is an undercurrent throughout this film; there is a shocking moment where the previously complacent Devlin lashes out and with a single, efficient blow, knocks the drunk, protesting Alicia unconscious in her car, then calmly scooches her over and takes the wheel. Whenever a crisis arises, we see where Devlin’s calm comes in to play and there is something so attractive about the way he keeps his head (even when we don't want him to--during their passionate wine cellar kiss, it is Devlin who has the presence of mind to urgently mutter "Push me away," to Alicia as Sebastian approaches). When they’re in the wine cellar and a bottle breaks, Alicia frets and runs to and fro worrying about whether Sebastian will find them. Devlin calmly leans down and starts cleaning away the ore, even cracking a few jokes as he puts everything in order. Who can do cool, humorous and athletic better than Cary Grant?

At the film’s conclusion, it is his quick thinking that saves their lives, as he realizes that the only way to save the woman he loves is to walk her right out through the lion’s den. Devlin is the ultimate poker player. He learns of Alicia's mysterious "illness" and absorbs it with only the flicker of a glance, then we see him begin to put the pieces together. Grant is so wonderfully transparent in this scene that we literally see the wheels turning in his head.

He begins to walk up the stairs...

...then begins to run, taking them two at a time as the audience cheers him on.

Later, during their escape, he keeps his face perfectly straight and his hand hovering over his pocket just to give the suggestion of a gun, breezing out of the house right under their noses and leaving poor Claude Rains pathetically begging in his car's wake.

And I mean, come on, what woman doesn’t want a guy who can not only rock a tux but save her from a house full of Nazis without firing a single shot?

The look says it all.

Grant’s masterful performance in this movie is really what gives Notorious its devastating emotional core and is in itself a fairly definitive argument against those who claim that he never actually bothered to act. In the masterful hands of Grant and Hitchcock, we’re given one of the most understatedly complex leading men in cinema; a handsome, capable, intelligent man who is nevertheless terrified of himself and the strength of his own emotions; whose cruel, careless actions and neuroses nearly lead the woman he loves to her death. Notorious gives us the odd situation of a hero who arguably is much more cruel to the heroine than the actual villain. We, as an audience, are already predisposed to like Grant/Devlin, which makes his treatment of Alicia all the more devastating. Had Hitchcock not shown us glimpses into the inner turmoil within Devlin, and if Grant hadn’t so brilliantly been able to play him both as calculatedly cold and heartbreakingly vulnerable at the same time, Devlin would come off as merely sadistic or an antihero impossible to root for. But all of it pays off-- the moment of his revelation is one of the most moving, triumphant climaxes in cinema. I have seen this film countless times, and it is absolutely impossible for me not to cry at the moment when he admits his mistakes to Alicia and finally confesses his love to her. “You…love me,” she whispers, and smiles. “Oh, you love me.” 

It's perfect.

Cheers,

-Baz

Sorely Underappreciated Movie File #001: The Magnificent Seven

If there's one thing that I've learned from my many film arguments with Adrian, it's that a person's fondness for a certain film can have an enormously big correlation to how old they were when they saw it. This has resulted in a number of explosive debates about old Disney classics in which he insists that the Dutch-dubbed version of Beauty and the Beast is far superior to the English, and when I try to argue he merely says, "Who's Angela Lansbury?" at which point I have to excuse myself from the room.

She's GOD, that's who she is.

So it was with a good deal of defensive incredulity that I gradually came to realize that the rest of the film world did not seem to love John Sturges's The Magnificent Seven as much as I did. It had been a Saturday morning staple of mine since early childhood. I loved everything about the movie--the score, the friendships, the bad guy, the one-liners, the effortless cool with which the cowboys swaggered across the screen.

Though extremely popular upon its release, spawning, among other things, a sequel and a television series, The Magnificent Seven, at least in my experience, is seen by the world of film criticism as the red-headed stepchild of Seven Samurai, the Kurosawa film on which it is based. When I started reading film critiques and delving into Greatest Movie lists, I was shocked to find that the only time Seven was ever mentioned was in reviews of Seven Samurai. And then, usually the only reason it was mentioned was to establish that there was an American remake and to emphasize the superiority of the original.

Now, in talking about these films (and, for that matter, in every other film in the Sorely Underappreciated Movie File series) I am going to try my very hardest not to get too defensive--which is a challenge, since every article is essentially a defense. I'm not going to say that anything in Seven is "better" or "superior" to Samurai since that will get us nowhere. Instead, I'll try to point out the things Seven really has going for it as a completely separate entity.

The plot, by this point in cinematic history, is an old one but a good one. A village of poor Mexican farmers is being harassed by a bandit, Calvera, who routinely comes through, steals their harvest, and takes off. Tired of being pushed around, three villagers go to a border town where they join up with Chris (Yul Brynner) a world-weary cowboy who informs them that it's cheaper to buy men than guns. He helps them recruit six others and the seven return to the village, where prejudices on both sides flare up between the gunmen and the farmers. After a few skirmishes, the cowboys are betrayed by a faction in the village, and are permitted by the bandit to walk free. Once outside the town, the cowboys decide not to walk away from the conflict, and return to the village once more. In the ensuing battle, all but three are killed and the bandits are eliminated. One of the surviving three has fallen in love with a girl from the village and decides to remain, leaving Chris and his friend Vin (Steve McQueen) to ride off into the sunset.

Now, first things first. I'll take you through the things that Magnificent Seven has going for it.

#1: The seven. Let's review the names here: Yul Brynner, Steve McQueen, James Coburn, Robert Vaughn, Charles Bronson, Brad Dexter, Horst Bucholtz. All of them seemed to have been carved from the woodwork solely to play these sorts of characters. Brynner as the Cajun (?) no-nonsense leader who has seen and done it all sports a swagger and a low growl, and only reluctantly realizes that he still has some sentimentality left in him.

Coburn, as the impossibly tall, thin drink of water who says next to nothing yet is universally agreed to be the most dangerous fighter among them. (Coburn, incidentally, was a great fan of the original film and wound up playing the remake's equivalent of his favorite character from Samurai).

Bronson is a burly, down-on-his-luck mercenary whose gruff exterior hides a definite streak of mother hen.

Dexter, who has a twinkle in his eye and a greedy itch in his fingers.

My fingers are itching greedily!

Bucholtz as the young wannabe who, while definitely lacking the fantastic uninhibited wackiness of Toshiro Mifune, nevertheless manages to annoy both the audience and the other cowboys in equal degree.

And, finally, Vaughn, whose dapper high-stepper is concealing pathological fears.

The interplay between the seven is finely constructed and there are a lot of sidelong looks or nods that pass between them, letting the audience in on the little jokes and decisions that are made.

#2--Steve McQueen.

Thought I forgot about him, didn't you? Parents, if you want to make a McQueen devotee of your children, I suggest you start here. McQueen plays Vin, ostensibly Chris's "sidekick", but who often (quite forcefully) steals the show away. This film was made before McQuen was a bona fide movie star; he was already a hit on TV with his western show Wanted: Dead or Alive (from whose set he played hooky in order to make this movie). In Magnificent Seven you can see, perhaps more than anywhere else, the charisma and star wattage that was going to make him a film icon.

In Seven he is funny, friendly, approachable and surprisingly unselfconscious while still maintaining that veneer of unstudied cool. Not as smarmy as in The Thomas Crown Affair, less cold and closed off than in Bullitt or Nevada Smith. Here, he genuinely looks as though he's enjoying himself, comfortable in the role of counselor, comic relief and, when the urge takes him, limelight stealer.

I would now like to propose a new drinking game entitled "Who's Riding Shotgun?" It will take place during the scene where Vin and Chris first meet. Chris volunteers to drive a hearse up a hill to a cemetery where a group of racist protesters will attempt to violently prevent the funeral, and Vin agrees to ride shotgun. What follows is one of the most hilarious scenes of one-upsmanship in film. Gameplayers are encouraged to take a shot every time McQueen upstages Brynner. The legend goes that McQueen's antics so frazzled Brynner that he hired someone to watch the rushes and count the number of times McQueen stole the focus. Watching the movie you can see why.

Brynner lights a cigarette...

...McQueen loudly shakes his cartridge and loads his rifle.

Brynner takes a puff, McQueen raises up his hat to check the sun.

Brynner lights another cigarette, McQueen twirls the rifle around in his hands.

The whole thing must have been infuriating, but onscreen it comes across as friendly competition. McQueen's facial expressions are also pretty classic. There's one scene where he's in the woods training some of the peasants with James Coburn. He looks over to one side and something catches his eye:

His reaction?

#3--The one-liners.

Surprisingly, the script of Seven has more than its fair share of great lines. If you haven't seen the film and you don't want the lines to be spoiled, just move on down to #4.

At one point, Coburn, Vaughn and Bucholtz (the young dweeb) are sent off into the woods after a few bandits that have been spotted in the hills, with instructions to bring one back alive. Coburn easily kills two of them, and then sets his sights on the third. It's an impossible shot. The bandit is incredibly far away, already riding at top speed over the top of the hill, when Coburn fires. The bandit drops. Bucholtz looks as though he's about to wet himself.

Bucholtz: That...that was the greatest shot I've ever seen!

Coburn: The worst. I was aiming at the horse!

When Chris is recruiting men back in the border town, he invites Vin over for a drink at his table. He asks Vin if he has any employment already lined up.

Vin: Guy bouncin' a grocery store across the street. 

Fella told me I'd make a crackerjack clerk. Crackerjack.

Vin and Chris go to visit the old man who lives on a hill bordering the village. They encourage him to move into the village so that they will be better able to protect him. The old man demurs, saying that the farmers' conversation would bore him to death. 

Old Man: Farmers talk of nothing but fertilizer and women.

I have never shared their enthusiasm for fertilizer. And as for

women...I became indifferent when I was eighty-three.

And, of course, McQueen's priceless reaction:

#4, 5, 6--The action, the villain, the score.

These are purely elements of cinematic fun. The action is fast paced, alternating between incredibly tense (Chris and Vin at the cemetery, Britt in the knife-throwing contest that introduces his character) and good, old-fashioned, rip-snorting western shootouts. There are gun tricks, knife tricks and horse stunts, and someone even gets axed in the back. 

 

Then, of course, there is the villain Calvera, who is played with gleefully slimy aplomb by a gold-toothed Eli Wallach. The film benefits greatly by witnessing the relationship between the villagers and Calvera, making the tension between them all the more heightened in the face of their previous personal interactions. 

Wallach's greasy, heartless bandit is almost the polar opposite of the quiet, elegant Chris, yet there are parallels between them that the film is intelligent enough to sketch out (comparisons completely ignored by Samurai, whose bandit we barely even meet). Both live lives of destruction and violence, and Calvera himself recognizes the similarities between himself and Chris, and appeals to the fact that they both belong to the same warrior caste, high above the lowly farmers. It is this recognition that leads Calvera to make his fatal mistake and let the gunfighters go free, thinking that there is no way they'll return and risk their lives for such a small, insignificant little village. Perhaps at the beginning of the film Calvera would have been right, but the gunfighters' experience in the village has changed them; there is a newfound sense of honor in them. "No one throws me my own guns and says run. No one," Britt growls. So when Chris and Calvera face each other down and Chris shoots first, Calvera looks up at him in disbelief. "You came back - for a place like this. Why? A man like you. Why?"

He dies with his question unanswered, and in Chris's unspoken reply lies the heart of the movie. 

Any discussion of The Magnificent Seven wouldn't be complete without a mention of the stirring, rousing score. Those first musical hits are alike a Pavlovian trigger in my head--I hear the notes and I'm instantly transported back to the age of ten on a Saturday morning.

#7--The relationship with the farmers.

Here I can get a little defensive--Seven is most often accused of having little to no emotional depth, but I think that that is because critics haven't looked past the gunplay to the core beneath. There are deep strains of moral quandary running throughout the movie--the morality of fighting or killing, identity and heritage, class systems, compassion, bravery, honor and what things people are willing to die for. Seven shows a prescient ability not to stereotype--the Mexican farmers are not all brave and righteous, nor are they cowardly and weasely. Some rightfully think that it is irresponsible to risk their lives and the lives of their families by fighting back against the bandit Calvera, others believe that if they don't fight they are doomed as well. They go to seek help across the border not because they are ignorant or weak but because, as one farmer puts it, "We know how to plant and grow. We do not know how to kill." And, just as the gunfighters are guilty of stereotyping, judging or looking down on the farmers, so are the farmers guilty of the same prejudice. They see the gunfighters both as a salvation and as bringers of death and destruction. 

Chico, the young hotshot, stumbles across one of the village girls hiding in a forest and carries her back to the others. "Farmers," he spits disgustedly. "Their fathers told them we'd rape them." Chris considers. "Well, we might," he says equably. "But in my opinion they might have given us the benefit of the doubt."

In Chico, we find the most explicitly presented take on the class differences between the farmers and gunfighters. Chico is the son of Mexican farmers much like the ones in the village And, whereas the futures of the other gunmen are already set in stone, his is still open to be written. At one point, Chris taxes him about his hatred for the farmers, and Chico spits back (in a line almost directly taken from Seven Samurai) "Yes, I'm one of them. But who made us the way we are? Men with guns. Men like Calvera and men like you." His fervent rejection of his heritage and the intensity of his worship of the fighters makes his final decision to remain in the village all the more poignant. It takes the horror of battle and the wastefulness of death to turn him around, and the small action of his removal of his gun belt is the major triumph of the film. 

Part of why the protagonists' struggle is so appealing is that they all seem to be consumed with some degree of self-loathing, which only gradually is stripped away as during the course of the conflict they realize that they are still capable of self-sacrifice and compassion. In the beginning of the film, Chris attempts to turn away from helping the farmers. "Everything we own," insists one villager. "Everything of value in the village." Chris pauses for a moment. "I have been offered a lot for my work," he says quietly, "but never everything." 

Vin, too, at first tries to deflect. "Nah...it wouldn't even pay for my bullets," he murmurs after Chris tells him what the job pays.

All of them seem to want to be simple mercenaries bought for their services, but it's almost as if the very hopelessness and impossibility of the situation is what draws them to it (with the notable exceptions of Chico, who's crazy, Lee, who wants to find somewhere to hide, and Harry, who is convinced that there is gold somewhere nearby). The audience knows, long before they do, that they are at heart good men, and watching their gradual realization take hold is one of the joys of the film.

Another current runs through the character of Bernardo O'Reilly, played by Charles Bronson. He is, as he himself puts it, "Mexican on one side, Irish on the other and me in the middle."  He is adopted by three young boys from the village, who tag along behind him, keep watch with him and helpfully inform him that if he is killed they'll take the rifle and avenge him, and always keep fresh flowers on his grave. "That's a mighty big comfort," he says dryly. 

At one point, the boys talk about their role in the conflict and one boy shamefacedly calls his father a coward. In a shockingly violent moment, the normally gentle Bernardo seizes him, gives him a wallop and releases him.

"Don't you ever say that again about your fathers, because they are not cowards. You think I am brave because I carry a gun; well, your fathers are much braver because they carry responsibility, for you, your brothers, your sisters, and your mothers. And this responsibility is like a big rock that weighs a ton. It bends and it twists them until finally it buries them under the ground. And there's nobody says they have to do this. They do it because they love you, and because they want to. I have never had this kind of courage. Running a farm, working like a mule every day with no guarantee anything will ever come of it. This is bravery. That's why I never even started anything like that... that's why I never will."

The boy is deeply abashed and the scene passes, but it an incredibly beautiful and honest moment that would probably not have existed in a lesser  movie. Another telling segment exists in a scene between Vin and one of the Mexican farmers a few moments after the villagers have experienced their first successful conflict against the bandits.

Hilario: The feeling I felt in my chest this morning, when I saw Calvera run away from us, that's a feeling worth dying for. Have you ever felt something like that? 
Vin: Not for a long, long time. (smiles) I...envy you.

And that smile sums the whole film up. The crux of the conflict is that these gunfighters only now, now that they've lived and fought and killed, recognize that the farmers' life, the one they initially shunned, as the sort of existence they long for. It's sort of an Orphic revelation; the life they desire is just beyond their grasp and it brings a distinct wistful sadness to their interplay with the farmers. They recognize that the only thing they can do is to try and preserve that other way of life as best they can. The world-weariness is most evident when Chris and the others begin to discuss their philosophies on life and the farmers.

Chris: It's only a matter of knowing how to shoot a gun. Nothing big about that.  
Chico: Hey. How can you talk like this? Your gun has got you everything you have. Isn't that true? Hmm? Well, isn't that true? 
Vin: Yeah, sure. Everything. After awhile you can call bartenders and faro dealers by their first name, maybe two hundred of 'em. Rented rooms you live in--five hundred. Meals you eat in hash houses--a thousand. Home, none. Wife, none. Kids... none. Prospects are zero. Suppose I left anything out?  
Chris: Yeah. Places you're tied down to, none. People with a hold on you, none. Men you step aside for, none.  
Lee: Insults swallowed, none. Enemies, none.  
Chris: No enemies? 
Lee: Alive.  
Chico: Well. This is the kind of arithmetic I like.  
Chris: Yeah. So did I at your age.

At one point, it looks as if the farmers have decided to give in to Calvera and Chris furiously stalks off. Vin follows, recognizing that there is something else going on underneath.

Vin: You know the first time I took a job as a hired gun, fellow told me, "Vin, you can't afford to care." There's your problem.  
Chris: One thing I don't need is somebody telling me my problem.  
Vin: Like I said before, that's your problem. You got involved in this village and the people in it.
Chris: Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk? 
Vin: The reason I understand your problem so well is that I walked in the same trap myself. Yeah. First day we got here, I started thinking: Maybe I could put my gun away, settle down, get a little land, raise some cattle. Things that these people know about me be to my credit - wouldn't work against me. I just didn't want you to think you were the only sucker in town. 

It's a bit like a Greek tragedy, however--the fates of all the characters are foretold from the beginning and the gunfighters are all too aware that the destiny they've chosen is to die and to die bloody. The only question, really, is where or how. So at the end of the film they go back to save the village and there is the climactic final shoot-out. One by one, the fates are sealed and there is almost a sense of poetry in the deaths. Bernardo dies protecting the children. Britt is gunned down, leaving his switchblade jutting out of a wall. Harry dies protecting Chris and Vaughn finally faces his fear and stages a brilliant rescue for some farmers. As he hesitates, contemplating his personal triumph, he is shot. When the smoke clears, only Vin, Chris and Chico are left, and the final scene has the three standing at the top of a hill looking down on the farmers as they once again begin to sow the next crop. Chico looks between the gunfighters and the farmers, then tips his hat to Vin and Chris and rides back down into the town, undoing his gun belt. Vin and Chris watch with rueful smiles from the hill, seeing in Chico the part of themselves that has been lost, the inevitability of their own fates, and the hope that goes along with Chico's decision to remain and live the life of peace they now wish they had chosen.

"The old man was right," Chris says wistfully. "Only the farmers won. We lost. We'll always lose."

And with that, the two friends turn their backs on the village and ride off into the distance as the music swells and draws to a close.

In some ways, the film's score is the key to truly understanding and appreciating The Magnificent Seven. The film is often overlooked, I think, because its spirit is ultimately that which is contained in the musical theme--one of adventure and fun and pure entertainment. Unlike its predecessor, Seven doesn't aspire to be high art. It is instead a fantastic example of the kind of film I first saw it as--a Saturday morning western, albeit one whose moral core and emotional depth can be all too easily overlooked by those who choose to watch it without divorcing it from Samurai. It is unfair to judge either Samurai or Seven in light of one another; the two are extremely different films--Samurai as an example of fine filmic art, and Seven as a specimen of sheer intelligent entertainment. Neither film may be for everyone and both have their positive and negative points. Scoff all you want at Seven, but good luck trying to get your ten year old (or my mother, for that matter) to sit through the three-hour-plus running time, the long quiet periods in the film and the often comically overwrought acting style of Samurai. On the other hand, the extra hour of time affords Kurosawa the opportunity to inject a number of wonderful dramatic, comic and human nuances into his film, and Toshiro Mifune's searing performance completely obliterates the comparatively weak character portrayed by Horst Bucholtz.

But is it fair to say that Samurai is "better" than Seven? No. The following is something that I firmly believe and will probably be the thesis for a number of these articles: to turn one's back on the value of entertainment is to look away from the reason the medium was invented in the first place.  Nor should Samurai be dismissed simply because modern viewers may find it more difficult to approach and more challenging to watch.

Seven is crippled as well by being the "remake". If Samurai had come after Seven, I believe that there would be a larger dialogue about the qualities of Seven instead of its immediate dismissal (ironic, too, since Samurai owes its inspiration and style just as much to movies like Seven as Seven does to Samurai). To me, The Magnificent Seven is a wonderful story with more than its fair share of acting talent, and remains an outstanding example of the western film genre, which definitely deserves a closer, more unbiased appraisal by its detractors. If you've seen it before, give it another watch. If not, you're in for a treat.

cheers,
-Baz