True crime on film: an introduction

The legitimacy of the true-crime genre was bolstered by the publication of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood (1965). Previously, those associated with genuine artistry were leery of being affiliated with the recreation of the heinous in the modern age. Although violence has been an integral part of much of great literature, documenting real-life atrocities of recent history has drawn the indignation of some literary critics. These critics often saw the true-crime genre as exploitative and unworthy of the serious artist. Capote helped change this, and literature was further enriched by Norman Mailer's The Executioner's Song, the re-telling of the tragic destiny of Gary Gilmore and his victims. Despite such legitimacy, there is often a certain degree of suspicion directed towards aficionados of true-crime narrative. Readers are sometimes dismissed as morbid, potential miscreants who gain amusement from the misfortunes of others. While utter immersion in the field of true crime may be disquieting over the long run, criminality has inspired excellent films that merit considerable attention.

Returning to the man who helped pioneer this literary genre among respected writers, Truman Capote saw his work of literature transformed into film in 1967. In Cold Blood, starring Robert Blake and Scott Wilson, is one of the most powerful re-enactments of a senseless slaughter ever brought to screen. The story concerns two young men, no strangers to the penal system who, upon release, decide to rob the safe of a seemingly prosperous Kansas farmer. Supplied with this faulty intelligence whilst incarcerated, the two cons are disappointed to learn that the farmer is no more a man of means than the two miscreants are men of honor. Enraged, the duo slaughter the entire family, an act of violence completely incomprehensible in peacetime to those resident in Holcomb, Kansas. The film wisely avoids sensationalism and focuses more on subdued character analysis of the murderer with whom Capote formed the closest bond. Robert Blake, the diminutive, former child star, is particularly moving as a criminal who has only known disappointment and has brought suffering upon others. What is most striking about In Cold Blood is the constant reminder that without each other, these two men would likely have never graduated from hooliganism to mass murder. By focusing on one individual, we are led to see that without the malign encouragement of the other, no such cataclysm would have taken place. In Cold Blood is a most worthy starting point for anyone determined to gain a good understanding of the criminal mind via the medium of film. It was remade several years later for television and featured the sadly under-utilized talents of Eric Roberts. While the 1967 production is the worthier of the two, the remake merits viewing as well.

The theme of Folie à Deux, a madness shared by two people, is not applicable to the preceding work. While the savagery of the Clutter Family slaughter could not have transpired without the efforts of two men, no indication of madness is ever given to the perpetrators. Theirs was a crime carried out in the heat of the moment by two desperate men, both eager to prove their masculinity to the other as well as dispose of evidence. In the case of Heavenly Creatures, a genuine exploration of madness is given us. Heavenly Creatures concerns the murder of Honora Parker in 1954 New Zealand. The act was carried out by her daughter and her daughter's closest friend whilst on a hiking trip outside Christchurch. The urge to matricide is generated by the decision of the concerned parents to seperate the girls from what they see as an unnatural attachment. The cinematic treatment of one of the uglier episodes in recent NZ history was given by Peter Jackson who attained even greater acclaim with the Lord of the Rings' series. Kate Winslet and Melanie Lynskey play the principals and the performances are universally good. Most striking, however, is the near-perfect ability of the camera to recreate the New Zealand of the Post-War period.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Film Review: The Confession (l'aveu) 1970

Whether or not totalitarianism is the natural by-product of communism is a matter subject to debate. Although history provides abundant examples that show the two co-existing, certitude regarding whether or not Marxism automatically facilitates authoritarian rule still proves elusive. No more compelling a display of the state's ability to pervert justice, demote loyal partisans to the status of traitors and remove them from the annals of history exists than with the notorious show trials that had characterized Stalin's Soviet Union. With Stalin's grasp extended over Eastern Europe after WWII, the paranoia and zeal for condemnation of the accused that had seized the USSR found itself firmly lodged within the new satellite states. One unfortunate heir of the Stalinist justice system was Czechoslovakia. Zealously rooting out partisans of the late Leon Trotsky, as well as those of the renegade Tito, the ruling apparatchiks devoted themselves to a sanguinary purge in 1952.

One source of information regarding this travesty of justice comes to us from the writings of Artur London, a Czechoslovakian communist who, although having burnished his Marxist credentials with service in the Spanish Civil War, found himself imprisoned by the very power structure whose rise he helped enable. Accused of Trotskyism and ideological alignment with other subversive elements, London found himself the recipient of a brutal reconditioning that sought to break him down into a quivering, apologetic, self-professed enemy of the state. Brought to trial with several other defendants in what came to be known as the Slansky Affair, London was one of the fortunate few who was spared execution.

Costa Gavras, the earnest, if sometimes heavy-handed director of Z, another work regarding the eradication of dissent, has dramatized the plight of Mr. London. Yves Montand, the Italian-born, French leading man fills the role of London -here known as Anton Ludvik-with an intensity that illuminates this decidedly grim story. Brought to "justice" by a group of assailants and subjected to routine brutalization, Montand perfectly displays a man brought down to his very foundations. Equally impressive is the work of Montand's real-life spouse Simone Signoret as his wife, now a societal pariah owing to her husband. The film also heightens the sense of terror felt by the principal in its use of a camera style that captures the sombre, almost monochromatic surroundings that encircle the prisoner and his interrogators.

The Confession is less an indictment of communism than a condemnation of authoritarianism, a theme that Costa Gavras has treated on multiple occasions. What this work of Gavras ultimately gives us is a bleak depiction of justice subverted for expediency. It is a haunting reminder of the societal framework under which millions lived for decades in the aftermath of WWII.

The Confession (French title: l'aveu) (1970)
Directed by Costa Gavras
Color
139 minutes

Film Review: Charade (1963)

What could go awry when one pairs the epitome of feminine grace and beauty with the consummate matinee idol of years past? In the case of Charade, nothing! Charade, a 1963 offering from Stanley Donen, matches the charms of Audrey Hepburn with the elegance of an aged Cary Grant in what was sadly their sole collaboration.

The multi-layered plot involving a gang of rogues out to retrieve a fortune stolen by Hepburn's late husband is surprisingly free of plausibility gaps. Hepburn and Grant are aided by a remarkable cast consisting of James Coburn as a loutish Texan, Walter Matthau as the bumptious man of mystery who may or may not be Hepburn's protector, and several others who add to the richness of this romantic thriller.

Charade is a winsome, fast-paced spectacle that recalls a sophistication often lacking in modern cinema. As important as its principals is the city of Paris, used superbly as the backdrop for the intrigue at the center of the film.

Absorbing, perfectly scripted, splendidly acted and brilliantly photographed, Charade is a jewel from a by-gone era awaiting a new generation of viewers.

Charade (1963)
Directed by Stanley Donen
113 minutes
Color

Film Review: The Basketball Diaries (1995)

Few transitions from written word to cinema have disappointed me as gravely as The Basketball Diaries (1995). Adapted from Jim Carroll's underground work recounting his descent into the vortex of heroin addiction, the film is a lamentable misfire.

A book that merited a better adaptation

Although Carroll's chronicle takes place in the 1960s, there is a certain timelessness about it. Excessive attention is not paid to the shifting fads of the moment and the reader is instead left to focus on the more universal themes of degeneration through excess and revitalization through art. Even though The Basketball Diaries is not a period piece, its transition to film would have been better served by placing it within its original time frame. The reason for this is that the life of the heroin addict in Carroll's book is substantially different from what his modern-day counterpart experiences. The junkie of 1965 confronted neither the menace of AIDS nor the modern-day War on Drugs, two things that did not come into prominence until much later. Although, as mentioned previously, the work does treat the timeless themes of dependency and rebirth, setting the story in the New York of the 1990s is likely to lead an audience into questioning factors about which the novel was unconcerned.

The subject of addiction has been handled with more finesse in several other films. Most notable among these are The Man with the Golden Arm (1956), Panic in Needle Park (1971) and Sid & Nancy (1986). The Basketball Diaries does not earn its place among them owing to the amateurish nature of the film itself. Although the performances, particularly those of Leonardo DiCaprio and Lorraine Bracco are strong, they do little to salvage the final product. One can only hope that the passage of time will allow a more gifted director to honor the work of the recently deceased Mr. Carroll.

The Basketball Diaries (1995)
Directed by Scott Kalvert
Color
103 minutes

Cinema: reflections on Costa Gavras

Achieving homogeneity of thought among the populace is almost always the goal of an autocrat. The means used to attain such a feat often involve imprisonment, re-education, torture, propaganda and outright elimination of ideological opposites. Perhaps no other director has devoted as much time and effort to documenting the abuses of power and those who find themselves on the wrong side of the intellectual divide as Costa Gavras. Gavras, the Greek-born, French-educated director, is the acclaimed, thoroughly politicized filmmaker who rose to fame with Z in 1969.

Retrospectives of the director's work are not uncommon owing to the themes he has addressed, as well as his technical mastery of the film medium. It is through my own personal retrospective that I wish to offer newcomers a resource for approaching his work.

My first encounter with Gavras came about as a teenager when, by chance, my father had selected a videotape of The Music Box from our local video outlet. The Music Box, released in 1989, stars Jessica Lange and the East-German defector Armin Mueller-Stahl in an emotionally charged drama that brings home the theme of disbelief when confronting a family member's grim past. The Music Box is the story of a respected Hungarian immigrant, comfortably settled in the United States, who finds himself accused of wartime atrocities. Inspired by the real-life trials of John Demjanjuk, the Music Box delivers us a compelling narrative in which the themes of family loyalty, dual identity and the human capacity for evil are explored. Although far removed from the stylistically pared-down settings of his previous films, and prone to melodrama, the Music Box is a rewarding spectacle that has reaped deserved acclaim.

To watch Missing (1982) is to be struck by a certain irony. The irony is that the Chile of Missing, so ideologically repugnant to Gavras was the locale used to denounce the extreme right in State of Siege (1972). This, of course was when Chile was under the rule of Pinochet's liberal predecessor Salvador Allende. Unable to film his condemnation of rightist torture squads in authoritarian Uruguay, the home of the Tupamaru rebels whose story inspired the film, Gavras opted for filming it in the socialist experiment of Allende's Chile. To film Missing in Chile years later would have been an impossibility, so the nation of Mexico, then under the rule of the far less dictatorial Portillo, stood in for the Southern Cone nation.

Missing is a success owing not only to the emotional range of Jack Lemmon and Sissy Spacek's performances, but also for its deft handling of the search for truth in a society where an inquisitive mind represents a menace. The inquisitive mind and the dangers it represents for those who wield power through intimidation are the focus of Z (1969). Z addresses the theme of political assassination in Greece, which had degenerated into a paranoid police state following the seizure of power by its military in 1967.

Politically-charged cinema most certainly did not begin with Gavras; however, he is one of the most capable pioneers within this genre. For that, his work will undoubtedly attract yet another generation of devotees.

Revisiting Billy Wilder

Revisiting the delights of one's youth is a curious undertaking. There is always the fear that the venture could prove anti-climactic; on the other hand, there is always the hope that the retrospective will give vitality to a jaded adulthood. Such has been the case with my recent return to the works of the Austrian-American film director Billy Wilder (1906-2002).

Billy Wilder came to my attention in early adolescence. At the age of 13, slated to attend a Catholic boy's school in New York, I was anticipating the following morning's tour of Xavier in Manhattan. My plans for a night of slumber were halted by a PBS showing of Double Indemnity (1944). PBS had served as a valuable cultural ally in my childhood. It was through them that another solitary night had been enlivened through a midnight showing of I am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang (1932). Other offerings I had come to treasure by the time I entered my teen years were The Invisible Man and several other masterworks of the 1930s featuring Peter Lorre, Boris Karloff, Claude Rains and Bela Lugosi.

That night in early 1988 was a revelation. Although I had been exposed to Some Like it Hot (1959), I had taken no notice of the director's name. What had impressed me was the script. Sparkling, witty, fast-paced and mordant, I.A.L. Diamond's collaboration with Wilder had brought forth a comedic masterpiece. Because of the exchanges within the film, my focus was on the written word rather than the direction. All of this changed upon watching Double Indemnity.

Watching the flawless performances of the principals, listening to the crackling dialogue, entranced by the moody black & white cinematography, I asked myself, "who enabled this all to come together so perfectly?" It was through my well-worn copy of Leonard Maltin's gift to cinephiles with short attention spans, Movie Guide, that I came across the name of Billy Wilder for the first time.

The fascination with Wilder had begun. Fortuitous for me was a late-night showing of the Apartment (1960), captured on videotape thanks to my parents' VCR. Watching the story of infidelity, secrecy, corporate shenanigans and the eventual attainment of true love, the Apartment had helped solidify my already growing admiration for the director. The Apartment did not engage me to the same extent as had Double Indemnity, but it brought me further into the world of Wilder, and for that, I had reason to be grateful.

Late-night commercial television, it would turn out, had more surprises for me. This would be the chance to see One, Two, Three (1961). Obscured by the comedic genius of its predecessor Some Like it Hot, One, Two, Three has been a sadly marginalized masterpiece that merits reappraisal. The comedic talents of its lead James Cagney were sadly under-utilized in his lifetime. Here, portraying an amoral Coca Cola executive in Berlin before the construction of its most notorious barrier, Cagney delivers a performance that is for the ages. Rapid-fire delivery of its clever dialogue, superb timing by the principals and crisp black & white cinematography render One, Two and Three a cinematic gem in need of a wider audience.

Another source for Wilder was Admiral Photo & Video, located about half a mile from my parents' apartment in the Bay Ridge sector of Brooklyn. The video store, with its steel-encased frames for holding multiple video jackets, presented me with Stalag 17 one winter evening. Once again, Wilder had delivered his young devotee a near-perfect assemblage of comedy and pathos. It was here that I came across William Holden for the first time. Mr. Holden would occupy a central role in the Wilder odyssey. It was he who played the lead in the film that makes me realize that there is one equal to Double Indemnity. That film, of course, is Sunset Boulevard (1950).

William Holden mastered the wry tone needed for an actor portraying a man plunged into the absurd. The absurd is represented by a delusional, faded movie actress who longs for her return to the prominence she enjoyed in her youth. Overshadowing Mr. Holden's capable performance is the one of Gloria Swanson, magnificently portraying a character whose own derangement would have far-reaching consequences. What links Sunset Boulevard to Double Indemnity is the masterly use of Los Angeles as a sordid, sprawling backdrop wherein the downtrodden, the conniving, the estranged, the faded and the eccentric all come together. Few directors have capitalized on a city as superbly as Wilder did; yet, one must recall that Wilder, while capable of eliciting all that he could from the city of angels, nonetheless was at home in a number of environs, whether they were a P.O.W. camp, the urban landscape of New York City or post-war Berlin.

What I have written here is hardly a summary of Wilder. All it is a pithy tribute to a man whose work illuminated my adolescence and continues to add light to my adulthood. To Billy Wilder's memory I am indebted.

Addendum: it would be a staggering oversight to neglect Wilder's 1957 romantic comedy Love in the Afternoon starring Audrey Hepburn and Gary Cooper, but that is exactly what I did last night whilst writing this short piece. Here we have a winsome piece that chronicles the romantic misadventures between the lovely Hepburn and her older suitor played by Cooper. Like the other works mentioned in this summary, it deserves multiple viewings.

Film Review: Joe (1970)

            Few films profited better from the 1968 scrapping of the production code as Joe (1970). The ability to approach the topical with a degree of realism is something directors could only have dreamed of in years past. Circumscribed by the Hays' Code, the cinema could only approach matters such as race, sexual abuse and blasphemy with a certain caution that often compromised the final product. Notable directors, such as Stanley Kubrick with Lolita (1962), found ways of undermining the authority of the censors via clever double entendres and other forms of sublimation. Joe is a film that could not have been made five years prior to its release in 1970; although it would have had just as much relevance to a 1965 audience as a 1970 audience.

             In regards to relevance, the film, although marred by certain elements that strike the viewer as incredible, is one that holds value for the contemporary audience. Joe is the story of William Compton, an upper-class Manhattan executive whose daughter, tiring of the limitations of her social class, is drawn into a relationship with a Greenwich Village drug dealer with whom she shares a scarcely habitable apartment. The daughter, played by the newcomer Susan Sarandon, is hospitalized as a result of her drug excesses. Her concerned father, whilst gathering her personal effects back at the apartment, becomes locked in a heated dispute with the reprobate boyfriend, killing him accidentally after a violent fisticuffs. Fleeing the scene and seeking immediate solace, the well-heeled executive finds himself at a decidedly low-brow drinking establishment. It is here where the audience is introduced to Joe, a foul-mouthed, cantankerous WWII veteran who, disregarding the feelings of anyone in earshot, offers a drunken rant outlining his contempt for homosexuals, blacks, liberals and hippies. The hate-filled oaf, at times a caricature, is pleased with the mumbled confession of Compton regarding the slaying of only an hour past. The two men form an unlikely bond that will take them through a culture they have instinctively scorned .

           Joe is memorable chiefly for the bold performance of Peter Boyle who was only 35 at the time of filming. Boyle conveys perfectly the frustrations of a middle-aged man left behind by a society increasingly influenced by the New Left. What weakens the film are several gaps in plausibility. One such example is the headline given to the murder of a low-level drug dealer by a major New York newspaper. It is here that Joe discovers that the bar patron whom he encountered the night before was indeed telling the truth. Other elements that detract from the credibility of the story are Joe's ability to find Compton through a telephone book listing of a common name in America's largest city. Such incredible elements only inflict minor damage to the film. The stellar performance of the lead, combined with the dark comedy of the script, are a winning formula.

         Joe may be looked upon by contemporary audiences as a relic of the late 1960s; however, recent strides made by the more reactionary elements of our society merit more careful analysis regarding its timeliness. Joe's palpable hatred for the counterculture is hardly dissimilar to the views expressed daily towards today's progressives. It is for that that Joe cannot be looked upon as an anachronistic form of entertainment. Although marred by plot holes, Joe is a worthwhile expenditure of one's time. One of its qualities is that it reminds us how, within our society, Joes, with their uninformed ranting and knee-jerk reactions, are not a part of our past, but our present. In addition, just as the cinematic Joe did not lack for companionship, his real-life heirs are rarely without company either, and that company represents a not-insignificant part of today's voting demographic.

Joe (1970)
107 minutes
Color
Directed by John G. Avildsen

Film Review: Love and Death on Long Island (1997)

Bathos, defined as the sudden appearance of the commonplace in otherwise elevated matter or style, has provided the basis for some of the richest comedy in cinematic history. To see the elegant and the erudite among the coarse and the obtuse is usually a winning formula. Nowhere is this more evident than in the cinematic adaptation of Gilbert Adair's novella  Love and Death on Long Island.

Richard Kwietniowski has directed the story of an erotomaniac brought out of his narrow existence by an unlikely attraction. The plot concerns Giles De'ath, an aged English writer who favors an aesthetic belonging to an era largely forgotten. Isolated from modernity, the novelist leads a reclusive existence, acknowledging only a select few, including his housekeeper and his publisher.

The inelegance of modern-day London makes itself evident from the first few frames where Giles, a creature in opposition to modernity of any sort, makes reluctant incursions into the metropolis. Contrasted with the fastidiousness of Giles, modern society is seen as an unwelcome assault on refined sensibilities.

Nowhere is this juxtaposition more humorously conveyed than when Giles, opting to see an adaptation of E.M. Forster's The Eternal Moment is ushered into the wrong theatre. It is here that the literary aesthete finds himself in the room where Hot Pants College II is being screened for a tragically over sized audience of ca. 6 people. Incensed by the inanity of what he sees on screen, the indignant writer is about to storm off before gazing at the delicately featured Ronnie Bostock, portrayed by real-life teen idol Jason Priestley. Smitten, the writer cultivates an unlikely obsession for not only the physical features of Mr. Bostock, but also for his cinematic oeuvre. Ashamed of his secret passion, which is fulfilled through acquisition of teeny-bopper magazines and VHS tapes of sub-standard films, Giles immerses himself more and more within the hermetic world of concealed same-sex attraction.

This attraction serves as the inspiration to seek out Ronnie Bostock in the secluded Long Island hamlet of Chesterton. For Giles, the chicanery he must employ in order to arrange an "accidental" encounter with Bostock provides some of the richest comedic material. Eventually, the vacant teen idol's girlfriend recognizes the true intent of Giles; thus, the ruse of being a writer merely seeking to selflessly advance Bostock's career is uncovered. The homo-erotic desires of Giles remain unbeknownst to Ronnie, providing for a genuinely moving climactic scene in which the normally dispassionate writer's wishes are revealed at last. Both the veteran English actor and the Canadian-born television star handle the scene in a most delicate manner, exercising a restraint and humanity that characterizes the film itself.

Beautifully filmed, sublime and worthy of a greater appreciation than it has been given, Love and Death on Long Island is worth the attention of all true cinephiles.

Love and Death on Long Island (1997)
103 minutes
Color
Directed by Richard Kwietniowski

Androcles and the Lion (1952)

            Few organizations have done more for the preservation of culture while garnering so little attention for their efforts as the Criterion Collection. The Criterion Collection has been responsible for making accessible those works of cinema that merit special consideration. Several directors, including Bergman, Godard and Truffaut have been the beneficiaries of this treatment.

            Focusing on the dramatic works of the great Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw, Criterion has made available the cinematic adaptations of the works of the Hibernian dramatist. One such offering is Androcles and the Lion, released in 1952.

             Shaw's adaptation of the classic fable is often overshadowed by his more celebrated works such as Pygmalion, Arms and the Man, Mrs. Warren's Profession and Major Barbara, but this does not signify that this meditation on Christian values in pre-Constantine Rome is any less worthy.

             Androcles and the Lion is the story of a naïf who is taken for a sorceror by the authorities. Fleeing for his life, the youth is set upon by a rapacious lion. The lion, it is revealed, is in the throes of agony induced by a splinter in his paw. Allowing himself to be healed by the fugitive, the lion desists from what comes naturally to him: preying upon his savior. Arrested shortly thereafter, the fugitive is sentenced to death along with the members of a renegade sect that threatens the cohesiveness of the Empire, in this case the early Christians. Pitted against the lion whose recovery he facilitated, Androcles the accused sorceror and erstwhile veterinarian, is saved as the lion expresses once again a gratitude towards that which he normally views as a source of sustenance.

              The film itself offers us a curious melange of British and American talent. The English-born, Canadian-bred Alan Young conveys well the simplicity of the titular character. Victor Mature is imposing as a Roman captain torn between obligation and love. Adding to the ensemble is Jean Simmons as an ingenue whose attractions help soften the heart of the Roman captain; in addition, Robert Newton conveys both menace and comedy in a deft portrayal of the condemned Christian Ferrovius.

Androcles and the Lion (1952)
Black and white
98 minutes
Directed by Chester Erskine

Film Review: "Wonderland" (2003)

             The life of an adult-film star, no matter how obscure a performer, is a treasure trove for the dramatist. Often exposed to prolonged periods of abuse in his formative years, extensive exploitation in young adulthood and marginalization in later years, the porn star has often tread a path alien to those within the parameters of ordinary society. It is because of the prurient interest in how an individual could have arrived at such a state that documentarians and film directors turn to this subject time and time again. Treated in a semi-comedic vein, Paul Thomas Anderson's "Boogie Nights" (1998) helped bring a human touch to the micro-cosmic society of porn performers in early 1980s' Los Angeles. The success of Anderson's youthful debut has helped affirm that future treatments of the subject matter will continue. Given the lucrative nature of such a cinematic topic, it is no surprise that a dramatization of the life of John Holmes, or rather a defining incident in the life of the prolific pornographer, should find its way to a mass audience.

              Mass audiences now have the spectacle of "Wonderland" (2003) as a grim counterweight to the sometimes frivolous "Boogie Nights." What links the two films together is that John Holmes (1944-1988), the subject of the former work, is the inspiration for the story of Dirk Diggler, recounted by Anderson in his work of fiction. The two films, however, could not be more different in tone. Whereas Anderson mixes an outsider's perception of the 1970s underworld with deft touches of comedy, "Wonderland" serves its audience a landscape bereft of any such levity.

               It is precisely this absence of trivialization and comedic elements that make "Wonderland" such a formidable work. "Wonderland" is the product of James Cox who, like his contemporary Paul Thomas Anderson, was far from the age of majority when the events of this film transpired. The event in question is the brutal slaying of four individuals on Wonderland Avenue in 1981. A multiple slaying is grounds enough for a compelling, true-crime drama, but add to the mix the association of a notorious adult-film star, and an even more compelling storyline is born.

               John Holmes came into this world in 1944 as John Curtis Estes, a child whose world would be shaped by a fractured family structure and dire poverty in post-war Ohio. Unable to suffer the daily struggles of life with an alcoholic stepfather, the youth, with the complicity of his mother, enlisted in the U.S. Army at the age of 16. Shortly after his discharge in 1963, the young Holmes made his way to Los Angeles where an apparently ordinary life as a married man in a series of dead-end jobs appeared to be his lot. Turning his destiny around, Holmes made himself a star of an industry that would achieve even greater prominence in the early 1970s. A star of sorts was born. The gangly, small-town boy became an underground phenomenon, but with success came new temptations. For Holmes, the primary temptation was cocaine which, like pornographic film, had permeated even more strata of society than in any previous time.

               Holmes, enervated by his all-consuming addiction, found himself increasingly on the margins of what was, despite patronage of the dominant class, an outcast society. As a result, the once handsomely paid performer was reduced to acts of petty crime to support his habit. Graduating from the petty to the heinous, Holmes found his associations becoming increasingly sordid as his spiral into addiction ensued. One such association was  with Eddie Nash, the Palestinian immigrant who made his fortune among the underworld of Los Angeles and who became a dominant figure in the life of Holmes owing to his generous allocation of cocaine and money.

            The lurid associations with the criminal element did not finish with Mr. Nash. Holmes was increasingly drawn to the denizens of Wonderland Avenue, a group of individuals tightly linked with the lucrative drug trade in Los Angeles. The single-minded coterie sought new and increasingly perilous ways to remain both solvent and stoned. One such way was to gain access to the mansion of Nash via the trust established by Holmes. Once inside, the plan was to seize as many of Nash's assets as possible and secure enough lucre to maintain themselves in a state of drug-induced ecstasy. Unfortunately, for all involved, such a destiny proved elusive. Captured days later by Nash's minions, Holmes was forcibly led to the house of the bandits and coerced into slaying four of the five inhabitants with lead pipes. One individual survived with extensive brain damage and was thus incapable of identifying the assailants. What took place was a prolonged trial for Holmes that was characterized by witness protection, flight from justice, recapture, and imprisonment. It is these elements that lend themselves to the dramatic intensity of "Wonderland."

          Dramatic intensity is hardly a difficult feat to achieve when recounting one of the darker moments in an already bleak demi-monde; however, the director adds to what already exists owing to a finesse that bodes well for future projects. Rigorous attention to period details, a use of naturalistic dialogue and a surprising level of restraint keep "Wonderland" from lapsing into the sensationalistic.

             Val Kilmer is cast as Holmes in one of the wisest casting decisions in recent years. Although more finely featured than the relatively homely pornographer, Kilmer is convincing as a complex figure within a sordid subculture. Eric Bogosian, whose role as Eddie Nash would ordinarily inspire much scenery chewing in other actors, handles the role with more dignity than one would expect. The one actress who illuminates the film throughout is Kate Bosworth. Bosworth plays the throwaway teen who is dragged through the purgatorial underworld of her elder lover John Holmes. Throughout this nightmarish descent, Bosworth character manages to transmit an enduring innocence. Equally impressive is the work of Lisa Kudrow. As the long-suffering and estranged wife of John Holmes, her performance is a revelation. Here, Ms. Kudrow deftly portrays a woman whose essential decency still obligates her to a man who subjected her to some of the worst humiliation possible. Serving as a virtuous foil to the sociopathic Holmes, Kudrow's work brings much-needed humanity to a thoroughly benighted environment.

             It is for these factors that "Wonderland" deservedly ranks as a must-see, not only for fans of Kilmer, or those with a perverse interest in the abbreviated life of John Holmes, but to anyone interested in a masterly true-crime story.

(Yes, a man who looked like this had a successful career in porn!)

Film Review: "Obscene" (2007)

Accustomed to the norms in a more permissive society, the consternation caused by Lawrence's "Lady Chatterley's Lover" presents a near mystery to me. Even in one of the most reactionary of states, I can access this book at my public library without effort. Yet, the world I live in today is vastly different from the one encountered by those of the WWII generation, and it is one member of this generation who helped facilitate the availability of landmark works that have become nearly canonical. The man in question is Barney Rosset, former proprietor of Grove Press, the venue responsible for helping to bring selected works by Beckett, Genet and Lawrence to American readers. The life of this iconoclast who helped revolutionize societal attitudes towards the explicit in literature is celebrated in the documentary "Obscene" by Daniel O'Connor and Neil Ortenberg.

"Obscene" recounts the rise of Rosset, the scion of a privileged Chicago family headed by a Jewish father and Irish mother, to his adolescence at the progressive Francis Parker School, a most likely candidate, along with an upbringing in the Midwest's most cosmpolitan city during the era of Prohibition, for his future stature as a stalwart force against repression. In uniform during the Second World War, we learn of his exposure to the underworlds of India and China where he found himself engaged as a cameraman for the service. While hardly a libertine by the standards of any free thinker of any era, Rosset is nonetheless a man further incensed and bewildered by the self censorship, willful ignorance and philistinism of the society to which he returns. With a grounding in literature provided by a diverse array of institutions, it scarcely surprises the viewer to learn of his move towards disseminating that which is supressed.

"Obscene" devotes the appropriate amount of time towards the case of "Lady Chatterley's Lover, as the trial is only one element of the struggle that helped lift the spectre of literary censorship from us. Included in the panorama of personalities affirming the role of Grove Press in the demolition of such barriers are Amiri Baraka, William S. Burroughs, Ray Manzarek, Jim Carroll and others, either direct or indirect beneficiaries of the struggle undertaken by Rosset and staff.

More striking, however, is the presence of the notorious pornographer Al Goldstein as Rosset's interviewer. Unencumbered by any inhibitions, Goldstein dispenses with tact and facilitates a deeper exploration of Rosset's psyche. Through him, we learn more of the intimate details of the man's life, personal attitudes towards human sexuality and the perception of marriage as an institution after four failed attempts.

O'Connor and Ortenberg have not only delivered to us the study of a man, they have given us a portrait of the inertia by which so many Post-War minds were tramelled. Grove is an institution to which much is owed, not only by those with a particular affinity for the likes of Genet or Burroughs or Lawrence, but by any individual inspired to tear down the limits imposed upon artistic freedom. We owe not only gratitude towards Grove, but also to the two documentarians who have given us a compelling exposé of a less enlightened time challenged by a man of vision.