Movies I Watched in May, Part 2

Hoooo boy, is this a strange little film. Based on a play by Jules Feiffer (that itself was inspired by the Kennedy assassination – JFK, not RFK), it delivers what just might be the bleakest portrait of New York City in cinema history. If you thought the world of, say, “Taxi Driver” was a little too cheery and chipper, then “Little Murders” might just be the movie for you. Elliot Gould, who used his post-“M*A*S*H” clout to help get this made, plays a nihilist photographer who has ceased to care about anything, up to and including the frequent beatings he receives from random gangs on the street. He meets a young woman (Marcia Rodd) whose upbeat attitude would be admirable in any other movie but in this one comes off as oblivious at best and perverse at worst. Still, she manages to slowly break through Gould's shell and prove to him that life is indeed worth living. This is despite the fact that her own parents (Vincent Gardenia and Elizabeth Wilson) have obviously been pushed well past the breaking point by the stress of modern living and her brother (Jon Korkes) is dealing with pretty deep issues of his own. There’s a grim twist near the end that I won’t spoil, but it hits like a battering ram, and the last scene – the last line, in fact – makes for one of the darkest, most twisted endings I’ve seen in a long time. "Little Murders" was directed (very well) by Alan Arkin, who contributes a memorable scene as a detective who’s losing his mind. Appearing in another single, great scene is Gould’s “M*A*S*H” co-star Donald Sutherland, playing a minister who conducts maybe the most bizarre marriage ceremony in movie history. Have I mentioned, by the way, that “Little Murders” is a comedy – and a frequently funny one at that? 
Thanks in part to “Sweet Smell of Success,” I’m a big fan of Burt Lancaster, and I’ve heard plenty about this movie – most recently on Gilbert Gottfried’s Amazing Colossal Podcast – so when TCM (who else?) re-ran it lately, I made sure to catch it. And I was not disappointed. A million miles from the master of the universe he played in "Sweet Smell," Lancaster is a broken – or at least breaking – man in “The Swimmer.” Sure, he’s smiling that million-watt smile and displaying a physique that defies his age at the time (55!), but you sense something lurking just beneath the surface, a sense of desperation and forced bravado that becomes more apparent as he explores his ritzy neighborhood, chatting with his rich neighbors and taking dips in their pools. Lancaster cheerfully tells everyone that he’s “swimming” back to his home, and at first you think it’s his virility and positive outlook that unnerves his repressed, status-obsessed neighbors, but slowly you realize that things are not as they seem and his constant references to his daughters and happy family life are more than a little delusional. That doesn’t come as a surprise, of course, especially considering this film is based on a John Cheever story, but Lancaster’s energy and sheer star power make his eventual crumbling surprisingly effective – and that final shot, given all the sunny scenery of the preceding 94 minutes, is a doozy. Keep an eye out, by the way, for Joan Rivers in a small role.

In our continuing effort to introduce young Allie to movies that were actually made (partially, at least) for grown-ups, Amy and I decided to show her some of the films of M. Night Shyamalan, figuring that they’re largely lacking in sex, violence and profanity while still delivering some genuine suspense and relatively blood-free thrills. We started with his 2002 alien invasion movie, which I’ve always really enjoyed despite the fact that (a) I’m not a big Mel Gibson fan, (b) I don’t agree with the whole faith-over-reason argument and (c) the ending has way too many coincidences and plot holes to work – and yet, somehow, to me at least, it all does. It’s obviously ridiculous that (spoilers, I guess) aliens vulnerable to water would visit Earth, but despite that glaring fact, I still get a genuine charge when Shyamalan does that fish-eye shot on Mel Gibson in his living room and all the previously disparate elements – the glasses of water, the baseball bat, etc – click into place. And, for the most part, I enjoy what comes before that, too – the slow burn, the character moments and the whole concept of an alien invasion shown from the perspective of a single family in a single house. I still maintain that Shyamalan writes dialogue like he’s never heard an actual human conversation before, but even that sort of adds to the ominous vibe the movie generates. One final, odd note: When Amy and I first saw the movie back in 2002, we thought the way the daughter (Abigail Breslin) left glasses of water all over the house was unbelievable and too obviously a way to set up a plot point. Imagine our surprise when, as a little kid, Allie did the exact same thing. Too bad we never got to use them during an alien invasion.

Up next: We wind up the May recap with two more M. Night Shyamalan movies and a certain Star Wars movie you might have heard about...