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I came across the writing of indie director Alex Cox about a year ago in Film Comment magazine, where he writes a regular column. I’d only seen a couple of his films and had no real idea of what his filmmaking principles were, so to speak. But reading his writing about what films he liked made me want to know more about him. He is also a fine writer, so I knew reading a full-length book from him would be a pleasure, no matter what the topic. But another event occurred recently that made me want to read this even more.

In early 2008, Criterion released his film Walker in a packed special edition DVD. Though I’ve still not seen it, this project fascinated me for many years. Made in Nicaragua with the full support of the Sandinista government in 1987, Walker was about an American who, in 1855, invaded Nicaragua with the intention of annexing it for the US. Considering the political climate of the time, with American-backed “contras” trying to overthrow the Sandinistas, Walker was never going to be a commercial success. But something about Cox’s steadfast and sometimes quixotic support of left-wing causes made us kindred spirits and so it was always on my list of films to see.
In X Films: True Confessions of a Radical Filmmaker, he recounts stories from the making of ten feature films, including Walker. Beginning with his film school days at UCLA, Cox talks about how he acquired his lifelong resistance to the big studio way of making films. I especially love that in true indie style he draws inspiration nowadays not so much from filmmakers but from hackers and other culture jammers:
Today, an independent filmmaker is a revolutionary fighter, in a prolonged popular war. This is the same war that Free Software and GNU/Linux activists fight against Microsoft; that the Slow Food movement fights against McDonald’s; that independent musicians fight against the RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America) and the Apple Music Store; that Fairtrade activists fight against WalMart and the WTO; that the Zapatistas fight against patriarchal systems of control in Mexico. There are no spoils to be had on this battlefield, and no prospect of a quick and easy victory. Yet, buoyed by belief, and by the lack of a sustainable or sane alternative, the guerrilla soldiers on. In the case of feature films, the battle for an independent, personal art form is already won (thanks to the Mini DV tape and the DVD), lost (thanks to the studios and their admirers), but irrelevant anyway.
Irrelevant because the feature film was the original art form of the twentieth century. It can’t be the original art form of the twenty-first as well. Something that goes beyond it will displace it—some medium equally visual and visceral, but interactive, with multiple narrative possibilities. It’s already being born: out in the same uncharted territory as the computer game, the “readjusted” corporate web site, and the home-made CD of “illegal” MP3s. But the birth won’t be easy, and the new form is destined for a long and hard-fought war.
It’s not all quite that provocative, but I like where he’s coming from. And in his anecdotes from a lifetime making films, you can see how he’s come to embrace the new technologies while continuing to believe in the power of a good story.
Liverpool-born Alex Cox’s directorial credits include Repo Man, Sid and Nancy, and Walker. He also wrote the script for Terry Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and has acted in many of his own and other directors’ films.
If you buy from Amazon using this or the above links, you’ll help support Toronto Screen Shots.
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I’ve been reading Kevin Kelly’s True Films site for a while now. Kevin was the founding executive editor of Wired magazine and is a former editor of the Whole Earth Catalog. He’s well-known for his incredibly useful Cool Tools weblog. So he’s a smart guy, and he loves documentaries. He’s also a generous guy, and has just announced that readers can download a free copy of the third edition of his True Films book in PDF format. The book contains 200 reviews of documentaries that have appeared on his site, and it’s free because there are some ads embedded in the PDF.
The book is available from Kevin’s site, but if his bandwidth runs out, comment here and I can host it as well.
Thanks to Kevin and Andre for the tip.
Bearing the unwieldiest of titles, Conversations with The Great Moviemakers of Hollywood’s Golden Age at the American Film Institute nevertheless deserves a spot on your summer reading list. AFI founder George Stevens Jr. collects interviews with many of Hollywood’s great directors, plus a handful of cinematographers and writers, and a few foreign directors as well. Drawn from the AFI’s renowned seminars, each is a delight. And I’m only thirty pages in so far.
I’d buy the book just for a particular gem from Raoul Walsh. While making In Old Arizona (1928), a freak accident resulted in the loss of his eye. When doctors asked if he’d like to have it replaced with a glass one, he snapped, “Hell no. Everytime I’d get in a fight, I’d have to put it in my pocket.” He wore a black eyepatch for the rest of his life. (Note to self: track down his autobiography, Each Man In His Time. He’s got a lot of great stories. Sadly, the book is currently out of print.)
Check out this great list of interviewees:
- Harold Lloyd
- Raoul Walsh
- King Vidor
- Fritz Lang
- Frank Capra
- Howard Hawks
- James Wong Howe
- Mervyn LeRoy
- Rouben Mamoulian
- George Folsey
- William Wyler
- George Stevens
- William Clothier
- Alfred Hitchcock
- George Cukor
- Billy Wilder
- John Huston
- Ray Bradbury
- Elia Kazan
- Fred Zinnemann
- David Lean
- Stanley Cortez
- Robert Wise
- Ernest Lehman
- Gene Kelly
- Richard Brooks
- Stanley Kramer
- Hal Wallis
- Jean Renoir
- Federico Fellini
- Ingmar Bergman
- Satyajit Ray
If you buy from Amazon using this or the above links, you’ll help support Toronto Screen Shots.
Senses of Cinema article on Raoul Walsh by Tag Gallagher
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Last night we watched Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), one of director Peter Weir’s first films. It’s a strangle little film, about a group of Australian schoolgirls who disappear while on a picnic at a rock formation on Valentine’s Day, 1900. The first part of the film, before the disappearance, is charged with expectation. There’s an eerie feeling, but also a sort of sexual tension (it is the Victorian era, after all) that’s really powerful. It’s not a suspense or mystery film in the usual sense, and you never really know what happened, but if you enjoy creepy films, you might want to check it out. Peter Weir went on to direct lots of successful Hollywood films, including The Year of Living Dangerously (1982), Dead Poets Society (1987), and The Truman Show (1998).
In other film news, today would have been Billy Wilder’s 96th birthday. I’m currently reading On Sunset Boulevard: The Life and Times of Billy Wilder, by Ed Sikov, and Billy was certainly a fascinating and brilliant man.
And tonight, our little film group will be screening The Sweet Smell of Success (1957), starring Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis. Being a fan of great writing, I’m looking forward to hearing all of the great lines in this one. In Barry Levinson’s great movie Diner (1982), set around the same time, there’s a character who walks around only speaking in quotes from this film.
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Books,
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DVD
I find it hard to believe that a giant dog turd of a movie called Scooby-Doo could sell more than $50 million in tickets on its opening weekend. The funny thing is that it cost $80 million to make it. Imagine!
I’ve just finished reading an interesting book by Peter Biskind called Easy Riders Raging Bulls, about how the culture of director-driven films of the 70s collapsed into the blockbuster-driven Hollywood of today. It’s really disheartening. Imagine taking the $80 million spent on Scooby-Doo and splitting it among ten hungry young independent directors. Even if half of the films weren’t that good, at least none of them would be Scooby-Doo!
Brooke and I watched the original Mr. Deeds Goes To Town (1936) last night. The reason this movie works and the new one with Adam Sandler probably won’t is that Gary Cooper is not winking at you the whole time. You really believe he is a decent human being. Adam Sandler will instead come across (as always) as a moron.
I also finally watched Harold and Maude (1971) and loved it. I’d heard that it’s been a big influence on Wes Anderson’s films and that was easy to see. There’s a sort of gentle affection for the strange, damaged characters on the screen, along with a large dose of black humour. A really touching film, and a great Cat Stevens soundtrack.
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