Ho Chi Minh Doesn’t Skateboard: Gleaming the Cube

The 1980s were riddled with an abundance of ridiculously cheesy teen-targeted sport themed movies. Movies like Thrashin’ (1986), Under the Boardwalk (1989) and Rad (1986) used textbook slang, template storytelling, and stereotypical characters that made obvious commercial filmmaker and producer’s attempts to effortlessly cash in on the industries that, by the middle part of the decade, lived long enough to prosper. It would also influence the future of voice-overs in Asian film (see BioZombie).

Gleaming the Cube (1989) is one of the better skateboarding adventures, abandoning the single-minded tale of the dubious underdog who must prove his worth in some ridiculous, climactic contest. As a Cold War-themed skateboard movie, it fuses the cheesy teen sports movie with another staple of 80s movies: over-the-top action films who’s templates of oily, muscular good guys single-handedly avenging foreign-born warlords seethed in compensatory patriotism and political propaganda. By doing so, skateboarding, which in the 1980s would reach such pivotal commercial heights, would become the tool of irreverent youth turned defenders of American colonialism pride.

Like a Goofus & Gallant comic, bleach blond skate-punk Brian Kelly (Christian Slater) is the exact opposite of his straight-laced adopted brother, Vinh (Art Chudabala). Brian and his friends are bribing jet pilots and getting arrested for trespassing in a rich, loud homeowner’s swimming pool while Vinh is helping with his girlfriend’s father’s post-Vietnam War relief program. After Vinh brings to the boss’s attention possible errors in inventory shipping, he is curiously fired and is later found hanged to death in a hotel room. When there doesn’t appear to be conclusive evidence of foul play according to the young, hard-edged detective (Steve Bauer), his death is officially written off as a suicide. But Brian is certain that his brother wasn’t the type to check into a hotel and kill himself, and so he embarks on his own investigation which leads him on the trail of weapons smugglers and their ninja-like henchmen (except the one who liked Vietnamese versions of Motown songs… he just didn’t work well under pressure). Analogous to Louden Swain in Vision Quest (1985), Brian is “gleaming the cube” in the aftermath of Vinh’s death. As his faithful friend Yabbo (Max Perlich in his characteristic red buzzcut and white t-shirt) explains, “he’s trying to find his place in the circle.” This means easily, but temporarily trading the slacker skateboarding image for the Vinh II style of collared shirts and attention to homework. Sure it helps with trying to maintain a friendship with Vinh’s girlfriend, but once the kid soon gets back to his senses does he realize the potential crime-fighting advantages of skateboarding.

Director Graeme Clifford and writer Michael Tonkin’s Gleaming the Cube (or, A Brother’s Justice as it was called in its TV release) does undoubtedly have the trappings of typical 80s teen movie corniness. Brian brazenly suggests to the hard-edged detective that if he had a dog who resembled said detective that he would shave it’s ass and tech it to walk backwards (gasp!). There’s the panicked goon who drives around in his cool black vintage convertible listening to Vietnamese covers of Motown. And who can forget the theme song, Gleaming the Cube, by Michael James Jackson? It was just as inspirational as Joe Esposito’s “You’re the Best” from the Karate Kid (1984). Although most of the cheesiness can be chalked up to Christian Slater’s hammy acting technique (especially the part when he’s informed of Vinh’s death). And, even though there are plenty of genre clichés to pack into the 100 minutes running time which means a big chase finale, it’s all on a tolerable level and keeps it from crossing that line into it’s so bad it’s bad, though it might rightly be considered so bad it’s good.

The film’s unique quality is the not-so subtle political text for which a movie about skaters seem like an odd forum. Sure, it is not a novelty to inject it into a teen movie, and especially an action movie which undoubtedly helps to quickly create a villain as it were in Red Dawn (1984) and Toy Soldiers (1990). Yet, the intermittent cursing of the Vietcong at least doesn’t consume the entire movie. Oddly, Vinh’s boss–father of his girlfriend, opponent of Communism, and partner to an American weapons smuggler–curiously won’t let his daughter associate with white boys. In fact, the he Communist weary characters are actually exceedingly paranoid, and our hero Brian Kelly, skeptical of consumer culture, isn’t really being “un-American” when he says that maybe the worst possible fate of humanity is “having a 7-11 on every corner.”

More unusually and the thing probably keeping this movie at the forefront of pop culture memories of young 80s nostalgics (when not listing the obvious in favorites from the decade) is behind-the-scenes trivia. Documentary filmmaker Stacy Peralta, a former pro-skater for the legendary Dogtown team and Powell-Peralta skateboard company co-founder worked on this movie as second unit director, shooting the skate sequences, while another legendary team of skateboarders, The Bones Brigade, were brought on to perform stunts and training. As Christian Slater’s stunt double, Rodney Mullen, the Freestyle King, can be seen in the warehouse montage and Mike McGill performed ramp and pool tricks (although he was replaced by Jozsef Attila towards the end of filming when he got food poisoning).

Meanwhile, Tony Hawk and Tommy Guerro (who also taught Slater how to skateboard noting that he didn’t seem too enthused to learn much beyond the basics) have minor roles as members of Brian Kelly’s skateboard posse. Probably the most endearing moment was young Tony Hawk in his Pizza Hut delivery truck barreling down a highway with a satisfying grin on his face as the sure victor in a game of chicken against some of the goons. Co-star Max Perlich was a veteran skater too, which means that Slater was probably cast primarily because he was the burgeoning teen celebrity (although he was 20 at the time of the film’s release) the same way that Leif Garrett was cast in Skateboard: The Movie (1978). Tony Hawk, in his autobiography Occupation: Skateboarder wrote about some of the movies that he worked on as a stunt consultant, including Thrashin’ (1986) and the timeless classic, (yes that’s sarcasm!) Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol (1987). The funnier insider information there, however, being that Perlich nearly got his ass kicked by an irate guy who showed up to the set. He owned the car that Perlich did an acid drop off of one night while skating with the Bones Brigade.

A review of Gleaming the Cube on The Chucks Connection (because some of the actors wear Chuck Taylors in the movie) probably says it best: there’s plenty of cornball elements in this movie (bad acting by Slater, convoluted plot), but there’s enough to keep the not-too-serious view entertained.

 

Gangster Goes Arthouse: Revolver

Writer and director Guy Ritchie has gained considerable notoriety for his British cult films of ganster follies Lock Stock & Two Smoking Barrels and its sequel, Snatch. Like American films and television shows centering on New York mafia, Ritchie’s films, too, spawned numerous British gangster cast regulars. His films also offer a refreshing humor that is rarely, if ever, present in the American gangster genre. But most importantly, the gem of these movies is the writing, and some would follow this model of both humorous and tragic ironies, such as the slick drama, Layer Cake (2004). But writer/director Ritchie, teaming up with French director Luc Besson (he holds writing credits here), might surprise audiences expecting their latest work, Revolver, to be something similar to either Ritchie or Besson’s previous films. Instead, much of this film appears to be an experimental effort that might aptly be labeled Gangster Arthouse.

Granted, the movie begins as one loyal to the British gangster genre might already expect. Jason Statham, a leading regular in Ritchie’s movies, is Jake Green. Now with a full beard and head of scraggly long hair, Statham looks rugged, though dressed in crisply tailored suits, his appearance might be considered somewhat biblical at times. As is typical of Stratham’s leading character, or what might be better compared to Daniel Craig’s unnamed character in Layer Cake considering the similarly serious tone, he is reluctantly forced into a situation that is likely to end badly, narrating to audiences all expectations and consequences, whether direct or analogous, as someone well versed in the criminal activities with which he is involved. It is always a game of strategy.

Green is an impeccable card player and for him, gambling is really a hustle and one that’s made him quite wealthy over the years. When challenged to play Dorothy Macha (a well-tanned and droopy-faced Ray Liotta who walks through most of the movie in spandex briefs) who is a horrible poker player that people forfeit their games to out of fear of retaliation, cocky Jake Green not only beats Macha, but insults him relentlessly. As expected, Macha orders a hit on Green and while Green allies himself with two unlikely brothers–Avi (Andre Benjamin of Outkast) and Zach (Vinnie Pastore who is probably most recognizable known for his role in The Sopranos), they are not offering protection out of sheer generosity. Rather, Green is forced to turn over to them all of his money so the trio can become loansharks and most importantly, bring down Macha. And though Macha’s power is contingent on sustaining a feared presence, he has one of his own to worry about: the elusive Mr. Gold, rumors of whom make him sound as relentlessly vicious as Anton Chigur, the villain of No Country for Old Men (2007). “Mr. Gold doesn’t accept excuses and he doesn’t give second chances.”

The leading characters of modern British gangster films have always been dependent on strategy and considering all possible outcomes, whether of their allies or enemies. But, In order to become the strategic mastermind of all the interconnected foes in this film, it will require more than the usual criminal expertise that guided the troubled “good guys” of Lock Stock and Snatch, for example. Now the rules critical to Green’s survival, which means learning an entirely new arena and successfully conning his opponent, derives from one of the oldest games of strategy: chess. He proves to be an expert in the game, but the applying in the real world the rules he frequently uses to defeat even the most masterful opponents will require abandoning a rather large ego, the thing that got him in trouble in the first place. But soon, the game becomes perplexing for Green and things begin to turn into a personal nightmare. Unfortunately, his explanations of the expert deconstruction he taught himself while serving a lengthy sentence of solitary confinement, tend to become lengthy and meld into exhaustive and confusing jargon when presented as fleeting words rather than hard text. A word to the wise: this is not a movie to start from anywhere but the beginning.

While the story follows some of the usual plot arrangements including plenty of slick, mob-styled revenge, both visuals and the narrative encompass avant garde (or, characteristically arthouse) elements. The transition of subtitles present in some of the film might not be considered much of a novelty after what had been done in the remake of Man on Fire. During major action sequences in the middle of the film, live action mixes with a sudden transition to comic book styled animation similar to the Aeon Flux cartoons. When Stratham’s character undergoes self-actualization, the intensity is interrupted with one sentence quotes from the pages of “The Road to Suicide,” something which might fool audiences to expect the credits to roll and accept a frustratingly uncertain conclusion. Much of the cinematography, too, appears rather uncharacteristic for this context. Several scenes are drenched in solid colors of red or blue. And dialog between characters in a car or talking over a game of chess are shot from very low angles. Moreover, as the credits roll (unusually including credit for prop apprentices and metal workers, among others), one might expect that Ritchie or Besson intended the film as an educational effort; an insight into paranoia and schizophrenia as various academics discuss the function of the ego.

But despite some of the experimentation, this, combined with other elements, seems to have angered critics searching for some value in what looks to really be a convoluted and obvious attempt at a psychological thriller, something film critic Roger Ebert might have expressed best in the introduction to his Chicago-Sun Times review:

Guy Ritchie’s “Revolver” is a frothing mad film that thrashes against its very sprocket holes in an attempt to bash its brains out against the projector. It seems designed to punish the audience for buying tickets. It is a “thriller” without thrills, constructed in a meaningless jumble of flashbacks and flash-forwards and subtitles and mottos and messages and scenes that are deconstructed, reconstructed and self-destructed. I wanted to signal the projectionist to put a gun to it.”

Another review defended the movie (sorry, lost the link… but will post if found) comparing the genius of the film to having read a book for the first time that would be considered brilliant, but who’s understanding is lost on the first read. Which, in turns sounds like the statement that if you make a movie people don’t understand, they are willing to accept that lack of understanding as a mark of genius. If what is being said can truly be considered something intelligent, if not remarkable, then why must it be done to the point of being exceedingly perplexing where the meaning is lost even on second and third reflection?

Bang, bang.

Johnny, Get Yer Gun: No Country For Old Men

Twenty-three years after their collaborative film debut, Blood Simple, and seven years from the last break of comedy productions with The Man Who Wasn’t There, writers/directors Joel and Ethan Coen return to their second comfortable genre–noir–with the unflinching No Country for Old Men. Taken verbatim from Cormac McCarthy’s 2005 novel, the story unfolds on the parched terrain of isolated, southwestern towns so typical to these stories of greed and consequence; these settings outline the borders of hell where righteous humanity is scarce.

“The Old-Timers never even used to carry guns…” begins the nostalgic narration of Sheriff Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) as he tells about the way town sheriffs once conducted business. Bell seems to be a helpless character in the wake of what he considers an uncontrollable taint of Man that has ruled obsolete the methodologies of the Old Timers and ruined moral certainties. Though, as even Bell is reminded in this story, that taint is no novelty.

Lewewlyn Moss (Josh Brolin) is not the typical noir protagonist. Nothing in his character suggests much previous innocence, nor even moral judiciousness towards the choices that set events in motion. While hunting antelopes in the mountains, he stumbles across a failed Mexican heroine deal and explores the dismal remains of something like a circled wagon train. The ground is covered with bullet casings and shotgun shells. Bodies lay in pools of blood drawing flies. And dusty trucks are covered in bullet holes and shattered glass, some of the drivers laying slumped over the wheel. And amidst the carnage, remains an unclaimed satchel full of money that Moss quietly collects.

Moss has such a matter-of-fact approach to his gamble. In modern noir, redemption is not always a guarantee and viewers are constantly reminded of the lack of certainties of any kind in this story. Redemption is not even an effective option. Viewers are likely to reason that stealing from a drug dealer, and especially a villain who lays everything to waste without question, is not really a damning fault. Though, it can be a very stupid thing to do. And, in classic noir form, where greed and conscience are often odds, Moss’s momentary inclination towards the latter poses the challenge for his own survival.

Moss’s crucial worry is not the aging Sheriff Bell (Jones) nor the understanding federal drug agent Carson Wells (Woody Harrelson), as most all representations of law enforcement seem to be two steps behind the action. Rather, his critical concern is his black-hearted personal reaper, Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem, closely resembling a young Raul Julia) who would fit the line Donald Pleasance once used to refer to young Michael Meyers in the 1979 movie, Halloween: “He had the blackest eyes; the Devil’s eyes.” Carson Wells explains to Moss when he is recovering in the hospital from he and Chigurh’s first face-to-face confrontation, that this is not a man that can be reasoned with. “He won’t care if you return the money… he’ll kill you just for inconveniencing him.”

The story of the greedy man turned drug dealer’s prey has been told countless times before and yet, Joel and Ethan Coen have produced a film of such immediate applause (already achieving a top 40 spot in the IMDb top 250 movies list as of this writing). The initial draw is like from Coen Brother loyalists and those lured by the solid starring and supporting cast. The film itself draws on the love affair for retro atmospheres that directors like Quentin Tarrantino have made a trademark, and the only real reference calling audiences back to this century is the comical mention of an ATM. But this nostalgia appears to offer a more primitive playing field for the characters. The fancy digital packages that worked for the young characters in chase during Disturbia, for example, are of no use in this dusty arena. Hell, they’re not even an option.

But perhaps the most effective device in this film are characters cut from a more convincing reality. Lewewlyn Moss is an intelligent man who suspects early on that someone, whether dealer or the law, will come for his claim and he is quite adept in protecting himself. Perhaps his only idealism is that he is convinced he can killed Chigurh. Chigurh, on the other hand, is the unfathomable mold; the man without conscience. And worse, he seems indestructible in ways that suggest nothing will end as we expect, much to the chagrin of audiences expecting easily manageable explanations and showdowns as the final marker in this narrative spectrum. Some have called it anticlimactic. But that is not to say that we are really left with any overwhelming complexities and uncertainties, save interpreting Bell’s final monologue. But, the audience will have to do some of their own work to understand how this tale ends and it almost requires abandonment of typical frames of moral logic.