Movie Review: Insignificance (1985)

A drama imagining a hypothetical meeting of four icons from the 1950s, Insignificance poses a speculative question then flounders in search of an interesting answer.

The setting is New York, and although the four main characters are never named, the representations are obvious. On the night Marilyn Monroe (Theresa Russell) shoots the blowing-skirt-above-the-grate scene for The Seven Year Itch witnessed by a mass of onlookers, Albert Einstein (Michael Emil) is holed up in a hotel room preparing for a conference. Senator Joseph McCarthy (Tony Curtis) is in town trying to pressure Einstein into admitting he is a communist sympathizer. And Marilyn's husband Joe DiMaggio (Gary Busey) is despondent, watching the world ogle his wife.

Over one long night the four characters meet in pairs in Einstein's room, engaging in conversations on a variety of topics. An elevator attendant (Will Sampson) interacts with a few of them.

Writer Terry Johnson adapts his stage play to the screen, and admittedly, Albert Einstein, Marilyn Monroe, Joe McCarthy and Joe DiMaggio walk into a hotel...is a potentially compelling introduction to a joke or a skit. But despite oodles of style, director Nicolas Roeg cannot hide the subsequent lack of substance. Beyond the initial what if curiosity, Insignificance fizzles.

So Marilyn is not a dumb blonde and can take a (clumsy) crack at explaining the theory of relativity. Reciprocating the role reversal, Einstein responds by revealing his legs, and is not beyond considering a sexual escapade, although he is resolute in refusing to humour McCarthy's accusations. Meanwhile the Senator's frolic with a prostitute is compromised by his erectile dysfunction. And Joe DiMaggio is exactly who he is, a gum-chewing ballplayer deeply in love with his wife, but tired of her prolonged absences and forced to share her with millions of fans.

Roeg scatters flashback snippets to the childhoods of the four characters in a superficial attempt to explain what shaped their psyche, and makes an effort to infuse some visual splendour as an antidote to the nondescript hotel room hosting most of the dialogue. The ending attempts to layer Einstein's worst nightmare on top of the already imagined drama, and by this stage the film is gasping for any oxygen to relieve the tedium.

With four character sharing the screen time, the actors are unable to meaningfully delve beneath the make-up. Insignificance is a compelling set-up with a limp punchline.



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Movie Review: Black Widow (1987)

A slick psychological thriller, Black Widow entertains with a dangerous battle of wits between two damaged women.

An alluring woman who may be called Catherine (Theresa Russell) specializes in marrying older rich men and then expertly killing them with undetectable poisons, inheriting their vast wealth. After murdering the prosperous Mr. Peterson and then Dallas toy magnate Ben Dumers (Dennis Hopper), she targets Seattle museum curator William McCrory (Nicol Williamson).

Justice Department Agent Alex Barnes (Debra Winger), a workaholic with no private life, spots the pattern of aging wealthy men unexpectedly dying  after brief marriages, and starts to investigate. She tracks down McCrory but is unable to intervene. Catherine senses that she is being stalked and relocates to Hawaii, setting her sights on hotel tycoon Paul Nuytten (Sami Frey). With the help of scrappy private detective Shin (James Hong), Alex tracks down and befriends Catherine and has to try and find a way to stop the killing spree.

Although relatively lesser known, Black Widow is a welcome entry in the series of glossy and somewhat cerebral crime stories that hit the screen for about a decade starting in the early 1980s. Neo-noir in theme if not always in aesthetics, films like Body Heat, Fatal Attraction, Basic Instinct and Jagged Edge played up eroticism as a key ingredient within the evil intent broth. In Black Widow sex and seduction play as much of a role as well-planned murders, and Catherine is a classic femme fatale. Her ability to ensnare a succession of powerful yet emotionally vulnerable men with purring sexuality is central to the premise.

Director Bob Rafelson had previously contributed to the revival of the eroticism-and-murder mix with his version of The Postman Always Rings Twice, and here he delivers a polished drama oozing with sensuality. As written by Ronald Bass, Black Widow skips past the violence, which happens exclusively off-screen, and instead focuses on the simmering emotions of two women circling each other in a lethal game of chess.

Catherine is beyond twisted, and Theresa Russell is excellent in providing a murderess with just the necessary hints of humanity. What may have started for her as a get-rich-quick scheme has evolved into an insatiable lust to conquer and kill. She needs to satisfy an incomprehensible urge for repeated demonstrations of domination, and Catherine herself has a limited understanding of what is driving her.

Alex's issues are relatively more mundane, and Debra Winger grounds the film with a steady performance combining determination with self-doubt. Alex is a magnet for men at the office, but swats them away with careless disdain, choosing instead to pursue Catherine and get under her skin.

Once the two women meet Rafelson injects the film with high-wattage erotic tension, conveniently starting with CPR training at a scuba diving course and an opportunity for mouth-to-mouth contact. Alex has to predict Catherine's thought process and get close enough to threaten the spider without getting herself stung, and the film deliciously hinges on whether she is maintaining or losing control.

Adding to the fun are some interesting secondary characters, most notably James Hong as a bottom-of-the-barrel private detective Shin. The other men surrounding Alex are all clumsily lustful and deserving of her disdain, while Catherine zeroes in on men too focussed on impressing her with money to notice her intent.

With the plot engaging throughout, Rafelson also creates a compelling aesthetic, contrasting with colour, fashion and set design Alex's shabby government-employee world with Catherine's jet-set life of glitz and glamour. Gradually the two meld together, and as Alex is drawn into Catherine's orbit, the style versus substance war plays out to the final scene. The ending is too abrupt, but then again, so is the sting of the Black Widow.

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Movie Review: Wild Things (1998)

A neo-noir with an abundance of style and seduction, Wild Things saturates the screen with back-stabbing characters up to absolutely no good, although the fun goes somewhat off the rails in the final third.

In the posh Miami community of Blue Bay, hunky high school counsellor Sam Lombardo (Matt Dillon) is fending off the advances of cheerleader Kelly Van Ryan (Denise Richards). Sam used to be the lover of Kelly's mother Sandra (Theresa Russell), one of Blue Bay's richest women. Meanwhile, Suzie Toller (Neve Campbell) is a white trash teenager from the wrong side of the tracks, holding a deep grudge against Sergeant Ray Duquette (Kevin Bacon) of the local police force. Suzie holds Ray responsible for the shooting death of a friend. Whenever he can, Sam tries to help Suzie, who is held in contempt by Kelly.

Blue Bay is rocked when Kelly accuses Sam of rape. Sandra hires high-priced attorney Tom Baxter (Robert Wagner) to seek justice for her daughter, while a shocked Sam can only afford cut-rate lawyer Ken Bowden (Bill Murray) to represent him. The case makes headlines, and takes a sensational turn when Suzie comes forward to claim that she too was raped by Sam. With his prospects looking grim, Sam's fate is in the uncertain hands of the less than trustworthy Ken.

The synopsis covers barely half the film. Once Ken starts to interrogate Suzie, the revelations cause outright pandemonium, and the courtroom twist is only the first of many to come. Wild Things has plenty of secrets waiting to bust out, as the characters carry many hidden motivations and brutal scores to settle. This is a small film with a big agenda, drawing on the rich noir legacy to bring forward a convoluted story of seduction, big money, betrayal, revenge and class warfare in the Miami heat.

Wild Things is filmed in vivid colours, accompanied by a siren call of a George S. Clinton music score, dripping with the dangerous sensuality of the Florida swamps. And for the most part, director John McNaughton steers the film with silky smoothness, introducing the many characters and focusing on the pervasive lust in a community with too much money and too much time dedicated to rapacious pursuits.

Wild Things' appeal is in updating most of the noir elements into a hyper-driven modern context. The schemers are younger, the money bigger, the scandal more sensational, and the sex more intense, particularly a legendary threesome that provides an exclamation mark next to the film's crowning revelation. But the film also forges ahead with a plot that while comprehensible, just pushes for too many convolutions. Once the twists start coming, they never stop, and with a new reveal every few minutes as the film enters its final half an hour, the surprises lose their edge.

The cast is outstanding in depth and execution. The roles are almost all played straight, with Richards and Russell providing gallons of fervor, Campbell contributing dark broodiness, while Dillon and Bacon (who also served as executive producer) play the men who don't quite know how little control they have. Murray is a riot as a crooked lawyer in unkempt suits, with the twinkle in his eye suggesting that the ruffled persona may just be a camouflage for a sharper than expected mind. Where the wild things roam, nothing is as it seems.

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Movie Review: Physical Evidence (1989)

A limp courtroom drama with wooden performances and a forgettable story, Physical Evidence lands with an excruciatingly dull thud.

Suspended and quick-tempered police detective Joe Paris (Burt Reynolds) wakes up one morning with a hangover and no recollection of what happened the previous night. When evidence is found in his apartment linking him to the grim murder of hated nightclub owner and mobster Jake Farley, Paris is designated as the prime suspect. Inexperienced public defendant Jenny Hudson (Theresa Russell) is assigned to the case. Grizzled prosecutor James Nicks (Ned Beatty) offers a plea bargain, but Hudson is determined to prove herself by exonerating her client.

As Paris and Hudson try to uncover what happened on the night of the murder, they develop some attraction, much to the chagrin of Hudson's rich fiancé Kyle (Ted McGinley). Meanwhile, the married Deborah Quinn (Kay Lenz) comes forward to offer her lover Paris an alibi, despite threats from her rich and powerful husband. Matt Farley (Tom O'Brien), the victim's son, emerges as another possible suspect, since he inherited his father's evil empire, and there is no shortage of former convicts who harbour a grudge against Paris for putting them behind bars.

Originally intended as a sequel of sorts to Jagged Edge (1985), everyone associated with that project wisely bailed out, leaving Physical Evidence to wallow in its strictly derivative awfulness. The script, the directing and the performances are all just a tiny notch above TV movie tripe. There is simply nothing here that has not already been done repeatedly in other movies.

The story leaves gaping holes at every turn, with underdeveloped and unconvincing characters hissing at each other in forced conniptions, doing their best to act as idiotically as possible while trying to imitate better performances from much better movies. Joe Paris' most convenient memory loss opens the door for all sort of half-baked theories to be dragged from the oven moist with drooping ingredients trying to explain who did what to whom. It never matters, since Paris is an unsympathetic character and Jenny Hudson is more likable but much more annoying.

Theresa Russell delivers her lines in a catatonic monotone that suggests either a locked jaw or a mouthful of cotton, and her contrived pampered-girl-looking-to-do-good character hardly helps. For all her good intentions, Jenny Hudson simply reacts to the initiative of others and does absolutely nothing to help Joe Paris prove his innocence. A rather ridiculous hairdo does not help.

Burt Reynolds is marginally better, but he also walks through the movie with a been-there, done-that resignation, metronomically alternating anger, temper and frustration on a carousel of stock emotions.

It is left to Ned Beatty and Kay Lenz, ironically the two secondary characters who should have been the most predictable, to inject some much needed spice to the proceedings. Both bring welcome relish to their roles, with Lenz overcoming a wedged-in and unconvincing distraction about Deborah carrying on an illicit affair with Paris.

Author and wannabe director Michael Crichton would not direct another movie after this one. He may have had the ambition, but the evidence was against him.

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Movie Review: Straight Time (1978)

A fine example of street-level 1970s filmmaking, Straight Time presents a downcast story of a man looking for a break but unable to escape his past. Dustin Hoffman delivers a gritty performance as an ex-con briefly tasting freedom but finding the lawful life most unwelcoming.

Max Dembo (Hoffman) is released from prison after serving a six year sentence for armed robbery. He makes a seemingly genuine attempt to earn an honest living despite the bullying presence of his parole officer Earl Frank (M. Emmet Walsh). Max meets Jenny (Theresa Russell) at an employment office, and they start a tentative relationship as he secures a grimy apartment and an unglamorous job at a canning factory.

But an unfortunate encounter with Willy (Gary Busey), a former colleague from his criminal days, derails all of Max's effort to go straight, and lands him on the wrong side of Earl's intentions. Max snaps, humiliates Earl by chaining him to a fence on a freeway median, and slips back into a life of crime. With Jerry Schue (Harry Dean Stanton) as a partner, he embarks on a crime wave that soon turns bloody.

The ease with which Max get back to grips with a life of hold-ups, guns, greed, shady characters and murder betrays his earlier attempts to reintegrate into society. Earl's boorishness was just the first in what would have been many obstacles for Max to overcome to go straight, and his tendency for violence and comfort with brutality are clear indicators that he never really stood a chance. It is to Hoffman's credit that for the first part of the film, we believe that his struggle for civility is well intentioned, and this makes his about-face and headlong dive back into violence a memorably jarring transition.

M. Emmet Walsh is deliciously hateable, a man whose instinctive mistrust of ex-cons proves to be both well-placed and a self-perpetuating stance. Gary Busey nails Willy as a dim-witted, jovial bear of a man, a victim since the day nature handed out intelligence. Smarter but no less ill-fated is Harry Dean Stanton's Jerry, a reluctant rifle man, unable to resist the buzz of the hold-up but equally unable to control Max's excesses. Kathy Bates appears in a small but memorable role as Willy's wife.

Theresa Russell's Jenny is fresh-faced and innocent, a 1960's left-over deep into the desperate 1970's. Her character is the only odd fit in the movie, Jenny's desperation to fall for and then stay with a man having a shadowy past and no future prospects left unexplained.

Director Ulu Grosbard finds the more dank corners of Los Angeles to place Max's story, easily overcoming the absence of New York by further degrading Max in the city of supposed dreams and opportunity. Grosbard keeps Max at the centre of the story and the enigmatic Hoffman in the middle of the frame, with no chance to escape to the edges of his natural tendencies.

Straight Time is a story of lost hope and preordained destiny. There may be a willingness to change the course of a life, but sometimes the gravitational pull of history determines the future.

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