Friday's Old Fashioned: The Paper (1994)

A few years ago, in the middle of one of my inane posts about Entertainment Weekly covers, I compiled a Top 5 ranking of the best Ron Howard movies. I slotted “The Paper” in at #3 behind “Ransom” and “Apollo 13” and having now rewatched all these movies in the last few years, reader, I am here to tell you that I was wrong, dead wrong: “The Paper” is #1 and it’s not close. It is Opie’s magnum opus. It should have been nominated for Best Picture. In telling the story of a fictional news tabloid called The New York Sun, “The Paper” is not only a throwback to a time before the news industry was gutted by specious forces but when mid-budget movies ruled the roost. In just an hour-and-fifty-two minutes, this comedy-drama juggles multiple characters, storylines, and tones, and brings them all to life with equal parts verisimilitude and sheer blinding entertainment. Nowadays, such a movie would be puffed out into a 10-part streaming series to ostensibly delve deeper into its characters and situations. But “The Paper demonstrates that just like a good newspaper writer, a little bit of craft goes a long way.

“The Paper” is set over the course of 24 hours and it essentially begins in the kitchen of Sun metro editor Henry Hackett (Michael Keaton) turning on the news and popping his first can of Coke for the day. This is one of “The Paper’s” most nimble feats, folding incessant product placement into character by making Henry a caffeine addict by way of Coca-Cola rather than coffee. He also has a job interview with the Sentinel, a more prestigious New York paper offering a less demanding role which is crucial given that his wife sitting at the breakfast table across from him, Martha (Marisa Tomei), currently on leave from the Sun, is pregnant. She is due in two weeks, but you know that baby will arrive in two hours instead, just as the gun that Sun columnist Michael McDougal (Randy Quaid) carries for protection against any of the human subjects he has cut down to size seeking retribution will undoubtedly go off. This means the screenplay by David and Stephen Koepp is brandishing two Chekov’s guns. Henry and Martha’s introductory sequence also illuminates “The Paper’s” foremost tension: life and work and how they overlap and get in the way of one another.

Indeed, it is a testament to the Brothers Koepp that their full but not overstuffed screenplay refuses to sideline Martha. She not only pines for the thrill of the reporting chase, but she also goes out and does it by helping ferret out a critical lead in the big story that will come to define the plot. At the same time, lunch with a friend (Catherine O’Hara) puts into perspective the harsh realities of balancing work and motherhood. This idea of women in the workplace is echoed in managing editor Alicia Clark (Glenn Close). Both the character and Close’s performance are icy, and that iciness correlates at least in part to how she is forced to carry herself while overseeing so many men, all of whom socially ostracize her, a casualty of sexism to which the script is not ignorant nor indifferent. Editor-in-chief Bernie White (Robert Duvall), meanwhile, has cancer and an estranged daughter (Jill Hennessy), seeking to right his wrongs before it’s too late. And as hackneyed as that sounds, well, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to let the esteemed Roger Ebert take the reins on this one: “Duvall plays the paper’s editor with such depth that he turns an essentially supporting role into the man’s life story.”

“The Paper” turns on a story involving two young Black men (Vincent D’Arbouze and Michael Michael) who are arrested and charged with the murders of two out-of-town white businessmen. And though the Koepps’ screenplay does not quite turn them into full-fledged characters, it imbues them with just enough human dimension, nevertheless. Nor does it play coy with their innocence, showing the audience that they are guiltless right up front. That’s an important narrative distinction. By making this clear from the outset, “The Paper” is less a crusade for justice than a dramatization of best journalistic practice. Henry must move heaven and earth to get a quote from an unnamed police source to ensure they have the story right even if getting the story in the first place turns on nothing less than an old-fashioned newspaper war while also mounting the case with a nifty self-aware twist on the “Stop the presses” cliche that when you have the truth in your hands, you can’t just sit on it when it best serves your needs but must get it out to the public. 

It’s true that the wrap-up to these various storylines skews melodramatic. But there can be veracity in melodramatic exaggeration, and it is noteworthy how despite so much swelling music and so many storylines sensationally converging that “The Paper” still conveys real truth. And though its wrap-up makes clear the cost of putting work over family, “The Paper” is not necessarily suggesting that this approach is wrong, merely two ideas opposing ideas that leave these various editors and reporters to decide for themselves what matters most. The concluding scene of Bernie spying on his daughter from afar as she steps outside to pick up her morning copy of the New York Sun feels syrupy on its face. But when she reads the triumphant, truth-telling headline with a satisfied smile, she never realizes her dad is there. That means their seemingly inevitable reconciliation never comes, rendering the moment as a flowery gut punch, daring to suggest that sometimes the cost of doing journalistic business might just be worth it. 

In Memoriam: Tom Skerritt

When Tom Skerritt was recruited to play the lead role in Ridley Scott’s seminal 1979 sci-fi horror movie “Alien,” he was already 46, firmly in middle age and far from heartthrob status. That was appropriate given Scott’s evocative description of his desired aesthetic: “truckers in space.” In his mustache and beard and unkempt hair, Skerritt was less, say, Han Solo than Kris Kristofferson in “Convoy” while his all-around wearied countenance evoked someone making long hauls for a living from one end of the galaxy to the other. My favorite horror movie scene has always been the one when Skerritt’s Captain Dallas is tasked with entering his space tug’s air duct to flush out the eponymous creature with a flamethrower, a task that goes about as well as you’d expect. It ends in a classic jump scare, but it’s how the whole sequence induces dread that makes it count, due in no small part to Skerritt intrinsically echoing the direction and editing to impress upon us a man gradually realizing he is in way over his head. The word “uh” has never sounded so gut-wrenching. 

That made it somewhat ironic when Skerritt was enlisted seven years later by Scott’s brother Tony to play the Top Gun instructor Viper in his 1986 box office bonanza. If “Alien’s” aesthetic was truckers in space, then “Top Gun’s” aesthetic was heartthrobs in the sky, a music video as recruiting ad. In the eventual 2022 sequel, no one was allowed to be bigger than Tom Cruise but in the original, Skerritt was. The way he peered through his horizontal office blinds while lecturing Cruise’s hotshot Maverick, or in how he tilted his head back while leaning one arm on the wing of his plane, he radiated a bravado and supreme authority that all these heavily styled young bucks could not quite match. And in the key scene when Viper tells Maverick the classified story of what happened to the latter’s father, Skerritt takes his character’s clarifying “I won’t blow sunshine up your ass” as gospel, mentoring by pulling no punches. 

Skerritt had much less screen time in 2017’s “Lucky” yet still left an indelible mark. That indie drama belonged to then 91-year-old Harry Dean Stanton in the last year of his life, drawing on the longtime character actor’s lengthy Hollywood history and real-life backstory as a Naval veteran to play the eponymous character, a Naval veteran managing an exacting daily routine in his twilight years. And though the movie was sculpted in Stanton’s image, so, too, did Skerrit’s one scene as an ex-Marine named Fred draw from his own history. Skerritt was a veteran, having served four years in the Air Force, and his character’s monologue recounting a harrowing experience at Okinawa during WWII opened a line all the way back to “Top Gun,” one a militarist fantasy, the other an emotional account of war’s brutal reality. In his air, Skerritt embodies not just a man shaped by experiences most people could not hope to grasp, but one finding solace in being allowed to unburden himself to one of the few he knows will understand.

More Bowl Games That Could Be Movies

“The Mosquito Bowl” was released over the weekend to, eh, well, less than rapturous reviews. Not that reviews matter with such a movie. No, in my experience, “The Mosquito Bowl” is the kind of movie where viewers who accuse critics of having already made up their minds before watching it have, in fact, themselves already made up their minds before watching it. Based on the 2022 book by Buzz Bissinger, the two-hour war film tells the true story of two regiments of American Marines at Guadalcanal in 1944 that played a football game on Christmas Eve dubbed The Mosquito Bowl. It was directed by Peter Berg, our go-to filmmaker for noisy nationalism, and so I understand why in making a movie about a football bowl game he chose The Mosquito Bowl rather than the so-called Atomic Bowl played by two Marine units at Nagasaki six weeks after it was obliterated by an atom bomb. That would have required tact and a multidimensional viewpoint that is not typically part and parcel to the Berg arsenal. Nevertheless. 

Movies and college football bowl games are my two foremost interests, of course, and just as they intersected a couple weeks ago, now they have again. And even if I will likely not see “The Mosquito Bowl,” I am grateful for its existence. Because it’s Election Day in America, after all, and everybody is angry, exhausted, and tense, and I was able to distract myself the last few days by imagining a few real bowl games as fake movie pitches.

More Bowl Games That Could Be Movies

1933 Festival of Palms Bowl. Before the Orange Bowl became a south Florida institution, there was the ramshackle beginning in which principal organizer Earnie Sieler lured Manhattan University to play a middling hometown Miami team for $3,000. Yet, when he couldn’t make the guarantee, Sieler cut a deal with some local bookmakers to make up the rest with the understanding that Miami keep the score relatively close so those bookies, no doubt, could make back their money, a reminder of when gambling in college sports was under the table rather than out in the open and right in your face. Yet, perhaps owing to a combination of Manhattan’s arduous trip and a field in rough shape, Miami did not just keep the inaugural Festival of Palms Bowl close, they won 7-0. And good for them. But in our Festival of Palms Bowl movie, with local bookmakers making not-so-subtle threats, the desperate bowl game organizers must ensure Miami does not beat Manhattan, or else, forcing them to slip Manhattan a teamwide mickey, deliberately sodden the field, deploy a wind machine, steal signals, and send a dog running onto the field at a crucial moment to try and prevent a handicapping calamity. 

1912 Bacardi Bowl. This strange but true version of a bowl game that existed in Havana, Cuba at different points during the first half of the previous century in different iterations was so strange, in fact, that The New York Times filed a report on how Florida football coach George E. Pyle was taken into custody by the police after having some manner of disagreement with the officiating. (The contemporary Times dispatch erroneously calls him “Pyles.”) The one-time Florida sports information director Norm Carlson elaborates: “a Cuban judge...ordered (Pyle) to take his team and get out of town before he put them all in jail.” Ah, but this is a movie, and in our 1912 Bacardi Bowl movie, the Cuban judge will put Pyle in jail, forcing his team to draw up a scheme without the ol’ ball coach’s help to break him out, fleeing the island and justice.  

2003 Hawaii Bowl. This wild-assed affair that ended in overtime with hometown Hawaii winning 54-48 over Houston did not, in fact, end there, but rather with the two teams brawling and throwing punches on the field to such a lengthy and inflamed degree that police had to intervene to break it up. This was more ironic because the game was contested on Christmas Day – and a happy New Year! “The Mosquito Bowl” took place during war, but “The Hawaii Bowl” will demonstrate the price of treating football like war.

1990 Independence Bowl. When the 15th edition of the Shreveport, Louisiana bowl game christened in the year of the United States Bicentennial found itself on the verge of folding, it was resuscitated by virtue of a corporate sponsorship with the since bought out Poulan/Weed Eater, thereby creating the infamous, glorious, ridiculous Poulan/Weed Eater Independence Bowl. Our two-hour drama will not recount the bowl game itself, per se, but the Independence Bowl chairman’s frantic rush to secure corporate sponsorship before the clock runs out. The movie ends with Maryland and Louisiana Tech players looking askance at their Weed Eater gift bags.

1902 Rose Bowl. In the nascent era of the college football playoff, bowl games have wound up on the endangered list. Indeed, Bowl Season executive Nick Carparelli gave the whole extravaganza the vote of confidence just last month and in this business, a vote of confidence is typically the kiss of death. (I honestly did not know that Bowl Season was an official organization. That not only feels inane, like trademarking March Madness, but at odds with the dodgy local hucksterism that bowl games were all about in the first place.) So, let’s make a movie of the first bowl game, the Tournament East-West football game, in which Michigan routed Stanford so badly that as dust swirled and darkness descended, Stanford opted to concede. That is how our 1902 Rose Bowl movie will end, in the dust and darkness, a lyrical eulogy to bowl season itself, one of my absolute favorite things in this world and one that has been rendered archaic gradually, to quote Hemingway, then suddenly.

It Ends

Tyler (Mitchell Cole), James (Phinehas Yoon), Day (Akira Jackson), and Fisher (Noah Toth) pile into a car for a late-night drive. All four have just graduated college and have different plans, or lack thereof, and are all gripped in their own way by dreaded post-grad malaise. Writer/director/editor Alexander Ullom brings that malaise to life when it becomes apparent that this quartet is stuck on a supernatural two-lane road to nowhere. It’s a little bit “No Exit,” a little bit “Groundhog Day,” a little bit “Gerry,” but really, what I most kept thinking of was Noah Baumbach’s indie comedy “Kicking and Screaming.” There, facing his own post-grad malaise, the surly quasi-sage Max (Chris Eigeman) wishes he could just skip past all of it and right to the end, observing, “I wish I was just retiring after a lifetime of hard labor.” It’s such a 90s sentiment, thinking of retirement as something plausible. When James makes his own observation about the future in “It Ends” it goes a little different: “I think I’d like to be put into some sort of medically induced coma hooked up to serotonin-oxy cocktails.” It brought to mind Chinese youth opting out of their country’s all-consuming rat race by lying flat.

As the drive begins, James and Fisher are having an argument fueled by a meme, less an old-fashioned brain teaser than a new-fangled conundrum, no right or wrong, which not only encapsulates their place in life but also foreshadows the ensuing journey. That journey begins in earnest when Tyler, who is at the wheel, realizes that they did not miss their turn but that their turn was never there in the first place. Bit by bit, they decipher their predicament, propelled by a bottomless gas tank they are stuck on a never-ending country road that is otherwise empty save for hordes of screaming people that descend on them within 30 seconds if they get out of the car and other vehicles that seem to have been abandoned during the course of their own unceasing journeys. The quartet cycles through all the same questions that the audience, no doubt, is asking, gaming out the possibilities. It sounds meta, and on some level, it is, but unlike, say, the ironic detachment of the Gen X “Scream” series, “It Ends” is infused with a Gen Z earnestness. When James wonders if they are, in fact, dead and if this might be some white-lined purgatory, he is not being flip. Neither, though, does that portend a philosophical talkfest like the situation might suggest. The characters proffer a few confessions, but Ullom prefers to let the circumstances and his characters reactions to them impart deeper meaning.

As they first set out on their unwittingly endless voyage, Ullom does not just keep the camera inside of the car, he eschews showing the world outside of it. This does not induce claustrophobia so much as it imparts the unmistakable sense of the characters’ small, constricted world. It is only once the situation reveals itself to them that the camera in turns reveals the outside the world – nothing more, really, than asphalt, trees, and sky. There is a monotony that sets in and if the horror initially starts out more in a traditional sort of register, that gradually falls away, as the car eventually travels so far that the screaming hordes are no longer heard from, and the monotony turns to enervation and then a struggle for acceptance. No one struggles to accept their new reality more than James, who often feels most illustrative of Ullom’s point-of-view, fueled by a desperation to understand, to have this inexplicable situation pay off. It culminates, in a manner of speaking, with an undermining of narrative expectations that is less shaggy dog Sartre than a transcendental version of Topper Harley reading Dickens in “Hot Shots! Part Deux.”

Friday's Old Fashioned: Stir of Echoes (1999)

Unlike, say, “Dante’s Peak” and “Volcano” in 1997, “The Sixth Sense” and “Stir of Echoes” in 1999 were not twin-type films who knew of each other and raced to be released first. No, they were just eerily similar movies, both with a young boy who could see dead people that happened to be released within six weeks of each other in the summer of 1999. And when M. Night Shyamalan’s psychological thriller became a cultural phenomenon, David Koepp’s supernatural horror movie was destined to get left behind, viewed as a latecomer copycat, as Janet Maslin of The New York Times, who really should have known better, implied in her review, even though the latter was based on a book from 1958. It was unfortunate because despite that crucial similarity, their respective tones were nothing alike. What’s more, whereas “The Sixth Sense” was heavily reliant on its twist, “Stir of Echoes” essentially puts its analogous twist right before the opening credits as five-year-old Jake Witzky (Zachary David Cope) looks into the camera and speaks in such a way that implicitly communicates that he is talking to a ghost. It’s a helluva curtain-raiser.

Jake’s father Tom (Kevin Bacon) is a telephone lineman in Chicago, living in the neighborhood where he grew up, playing part-time in a rock ‘n’ roll band, fumes of an old pipe dream. Indeed, the first time we see him, he is strumming his guitar while keeping an eye on Jake, effectively living the idea of putting away your dream to mind your family even as you can’t help but quietly cling to it. Not long after, in a sequence with his wife Maggie (Kathryn Erbe) that is well acted if a little on the nose, Tom expresses, well, not regret for what his life has become but disappointment that he, himself, did not become something more. Set in fall, “Stir of Echoes” has the feel of A Christmas Carol for the Halloween season in which rather than being granted a supernatural alternate look at life, Tom is infused with a supernatural ability that grants the alternate life he craves, in which be careful what you wish for becomes a silver lining in dark clouds.

Since Tom’s son can see dead people, it would only make sense that his biological makeup might make it so he could too, if that’s how such mystical things work, and his own ability presents itself when he is hypnotized. He is put under hypnosis by his sister-in-law, Lisa, played by Illeana Douglas which goes on the mantle of impeccable 1999 Movie Casting along with Debi Mazar in “The Insider.” She evinces this off kilter but also easygoing air of a character who just sort of excitedly rolls with the discovery that she has unlocked her brother-in-law’s latent psychic ability. Tom’s hypnosis is imagined as him inside an old movie palace, looking up at a glowing white screen, a double-layered idea essentially equating the movie-going experience itself with going under. When he suddenly snaps to, he finds himself not so much with a new outlook on life as having been unveiled as an intermediary between the afterlife and the mortal one.

Almost immediately, he has visions of a young girl inside his home. Gradually, though, Tom is made to realize that she’s not haunting him so much as reaching out to him, seeking help, an idea eventually elucidated by a cop (Eddie Bo Smith Jr.) belonging to a whole community of receivers. This is an interesting idea that Koepp eschews exploring, focusing instead on Tom’s own tightknit community. This is a Chicago movie through and through, filled with all kinds of local flavor, location shots with L trains rumbling in the background and other little flourishes like a neighborhood block party and characters walking and talking on their way to a high school football game. It impresses the idea of this as a place worth preserving, as Tom’s buddy Frank (Kevin Dunn, a Chicago native) keeps saying, and is why even if the denouement can feel a bit perfunctory, there is a believable element of tragedy, nevertheless.

If “Stir of Echoes” goes to some dark places, it does not always suggest that Tom’s gift is a dark one, and neither does Bacon’s performance. He balances both the fear from the unknown of what’s happening to him and an almost kind of giddiness at the same time, the sense that he has some sort of higher calling and must attend to it. The way it fractures his relationship with Maggie is not superficial but baked in and real, the strain evident in their marriage even as she struggles to make sense of it as much as he does. At one point, Frank is compelled to start digging up the backyard, enlisting Jake to help, and when Maggie happens upon this unsettling father and son excursion, it proves to be the movie’s best moment. “Ok,” she says to herself coming out the backdoor and Erbe’s drawn-out delivery of that lone word is brilliant in so much as it registers the terror in her voice but also the need to maintain an even keel to help her husband through whatever this is. At first, we don’t even see the digging, we just see her, and as she walks over to Tom, the camera pans with her, effusing a sense of unsettling discovery in the moment, an image that may as well summarize the idea of being led along by some power you don’t understand.

The Whisper Man

Netflix has been politely asking reviewers to refrain from spoiling a familiar face that shows up in a crucial role in their straight-to-streaming serial killer drama “The Whisper Man.” That’s funny because even if that information was not already all over the interweb, the movie itself spoils it early on. No, from the menacing crane shot kicking things off to the flamboyant red herring, there are no real surprises in store for New Zealand director James Ashcroft’s American feature film debut. I wondered what Tom Kennedy (Adam Scott) would make of that given that he’s a mystery writer himself, though the screenplay adapted from the book barely exploits this fact. Neither does the movie exploit its would-be prevalent theme of fathers and sons, setting it up but never baking it in. Tom’s son Jake (Acston Luca Porto) is abducted, and Tom’s dad Peter (Robert DeNiro) was responsible for locking up a serial killer decades ago who might be connected to this case, and so both Tom and Detective Amanda Beck (Michelle Monaghan, as in “Gone Baby Gone,” constantly on the screen with nothing to do) recruit him into the fold. If there is one thing to write home about it is Robert DeNiro. His performance is so solemn that he might be accused of Phoning it In, to quote the age-old parlance, when really, he is embodying a man who has chosen to recede from the land of the living. It’s just that his finely calibrated dour air cannot help but embody the rest of the movie too.  

Backrooms

I did not see “Backrooms” in the theater, more’s the pity, and when I watched it on my streaming platform of choice, I noticed the run time was an hour and fifty-one minutes. So, I was surprised when a little over ninety minutes in, the end credits rolled. Were the end credits 20 minutes long? They weren’t. There was bonus footage, it turned out, tacked on to the end. None of this altered what I had just seen in any real way, and as writer/director Kane Parsons has explained, it wasn’t meant to, merely intended as an additional layer. “Backrooms,” after all, was not the brainchild of Parsons. It began with a picture of an empty, mucus yellow office space posted in 2019 to a so-called imageboard web site where all manner of anonymous users gradually fleshed it out with a creepy backstory; you entered this space by passing directly through a wall, noclipping a la a video game terminology, and found yourself trapped in “approximately six hundred square miles of randomly segmented empty rooms.” Parsons found the photo and turned it into a short film and then turned the short film into a 25-part web series and now has turned the web series into a movie, layers built upon already existing layers. It’s evocative of how fan theories and online folklore have become as prominent a storytelling method in our time as the traditional analog ones. It’s also what makes “Backrooms” the movie such a bizarre cinematic experience. 

The backrooms of Parsons’s psychological horror movie are located beneath a furniture store in 1990 San Jose, California, the setting and oft-VHS quality aesthetic deliberately evoking an obsession with the past mirrored by the place’s owner, Clark (Chiwetel Ejiofor), an antagonistic narcissist harboring a drinking problem and unrealized dreams of being an architect while smarting from a recent divorce. This gets laid out in an early scene of Clark’s therapy session with Dr. Mary Kline (Renate Reinsve) who encourages role-play, a convenient delivery device for extensive exposition. It also hints at the video game-like levels awaiting Clark in the sprawling backrooms once he discovers them, accidentally noclips into them, and then becomes obsessed with them, returning to them again and again, even dragging in a couple of his employees (Lukita Maxwell and Finn Bennett) and eventually tempting Mary to enter them too. Those endless levels, though, also epitomize just how many conceptual bits and bobs Parsons throws at the figurative wall: stasis, trauma, clinical diagnoses of life itself, and some sort of DHARMA Initiative-like entity with Mark Duplass as its face. Rather than creating a concise narrative that lands like a punch to the face by way of an ellipsis, Parsons provides just enough of a little of so many things to allow considerable space for Letterboxd users and the Reddit brigade to spawn fan theories and build upon the existent folklore. It’s akin to “The X-Files” movie from 1998, a waystation on some larger journey more than a journey itself from point A to point B. 

“Backrooms” is also so much better and distinct than “The X-Files.” If his inability to tie meaning to form disappoints, Parsons’s formal command impresses, nevertheless. Inside the backrooms themselves, Parsons creates an aesthetic that is like a dead mall video set in Narnia, or maybe Narnia in a dead mall, either way, and effuses a sensation as mundane as it is otherworldly, as disorienting as it is terrifying as it is weirdly thrilling. The camera often seems to be pulling both us and Clark forward, conjuring that inescapable sensation of wanting to see what might be waiting down the next hall, or around the next corner, even as the whole space as we seem to know it continually changes when looking right, or left, or behind. Ejiofor mirrors these myriad sensations in his jittery performance, embodying someone who seems to be mesmerized even as he unwittingly comes unglued, making it all the more disappointing that “Backrooms” eschews a proper arc. (It feels like there is a whole previous scene, or collection of scenes, missing when he explicates that the backrooms are where he belongs.) When he approaches Dr. Kline to tell her of the backrooms rather than, say, the authorities, or the zoning ordinance administration, what might have been a gap in logic is instead baked into Ejiofor’s turn, a furious anger to prove her wrong after she claims not to believe in him and to show her what he perceives as the light. In one moment when Clark pleads with her, his right hand reaches in desperation toward the camera, almost through the camera, it seems, from the high angle and the high-definition device that Parsons deploys throughout, maybe the single most thrilling shot of the year. For a split-second, the movie itself virtually noclips our own reality.