Howard Hampton

  • Luis Buñuel, The Exterminating Angel, 1962, 35 mm, black-and-white, sound, 93 minutes.
    film December 31, 2016

    No Angels

    IT’S HIGH TIME to take Luis Buñuel’s The Exterminating Angel (1962) and elevate it to its rightful place as a holiday—any holiday—classic. For one thing, its exquisitely paralyzed time-spatial continuum leads straight to Groundhog Day’s looping perpetual déjà vu machine. Buñuel’s inexplicably stranded, upper-encrusted partygoers—prisoners of their own karmic device—are doomed to snipe their looping, arrogant-respectable way through a mazy purgatory of socialized entropy, Catholic hypocrisy, and primal malevolence dressed as good manners. To rephrase a certain beloved yule-riptide airing-of-grievances

  • Rowdy Herrington, Road House, 1989, 35 mm, color, sound, 114 minutes.
    film September 28, 2016

    On the Road Again

    EVERY GENERATION SHOULD HAVE A ROAD HOUSE OF ITS OWN—a gamy little refuge on the outskirts of good taste, reeking of smoke, liquor, cheap music, oiled pecs, pin-up legs, clenched fists, paperback sex, bad blood, and bad hair. The 1948 and 1989 films claiming that title have just been separately but almost simultaneously reissued on disc: Sharing naught but a commitment to period-specific cheese/beefcake and endearing/enduring tawdriness, these lean-to Road Houses represent an all-American continuum. Jim Morrison encapsulated their lowdown philosophies in the Doors’s “Road House Blues” (1970):

  • Phillip Kaufman, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, 1978, 35 mm, color, sound, 115 minutes.
    film September 09, 2016

    Spore Reports

    THE BACKWASH OF 1960S shock waves broke down the firewall between serious cinema and genre films. (In the “P” column alone, the mid-’70s had Polanski’s Chinatown, Penn’s Night Moves, and Pakula’s The Parallax View.) Hollywood wrestled—flailing, kicking, and squirming—to assimilate disruption and ambiguity into an updated commercial playbook. Remember that Robert Altman, funky high priest of alternative, independent-minded cinema, got his break with a wacky military-service comedy (MASH), hit his zenith with a poet-junkie-woodpecker western (McCabe and Mrs. Miller) and a shambling private eye

  • Alexander Hall, Here Comes Mr. Jordan, 1941, 35 mm, black-and-white, sound, 94 minutes.
    film July 07, 2016

    Military Might

    KICKING BACK AND CHILLING in an undisclosed concrete-reinforced location, you would be hard pressed to corral two vintage Hollywood comedies separated by a deeper chasm of sensibility than Here Comes Mr. Jordan (1941) and Dr. Strangelove, Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964). However the gleaming new Blu-ray editions of them disclose certain endearing and disconcerting affinities. With their blatant aerial motifs and cloud-dappled intimations of afterlife (or radioactive half-life), inadvertent themes and stammering anxieties—transferred à la the bomber-refueling ballet

  • Stephen Frears, My Beautiful Laundrette, 1985, 16 mm, color, sound, 97 minutes. Omar and Johnny (Gordon Warnecke and Daniel Day-Lewis).
    film August 03, 2015

    Laundry Days

    A KICK IN THE LILY WHITE TEETH to England’s gilt-hedged public imagery back in 1985, My Beautiful Laundrette raised thirty-year-old mixed-race writer Hanif Kureishi from a stymied playwright (“the theater thing hadn’t been working out for me”) to a counterculture hero, established forty-four-year-old vet Stephen Frears as a world-class director, and gave a struggling twenty-eight-year-old aspirant named Daniel Day-Lewis his first Brando-Dean close-up. Kureishi now likens Day-Lewis’s iconic intro under a lamppost to the image of a rent-boy Clint Eastwood; Frears compares his come-hither gaze to

  • Louis Malle, My Dinner with Andre, 1981, 35 mm, color, sound, 111 minutes. Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory.
    film July 05, 2015

    Dinner Sanctum

    LOUIS MALLE’S My Dinner with Andre doesn’t fit the usual definition of a great movie, but it has an inexhaustible, omnidirectional confidence. It’s the most subliminal piece of magic realism—expansive, incantatory words jousting with monotonous matter—ever put on film. Playing amusingly distilled, intensified versions of themselves, Andre Gregory and Wallace Shawn sprang this cantankerous cerebral doubles act—part doleful Vladimir and Estragon, part verbal Laurel and Hardy—on an unsuspecting world in 1981. The oblique eccentricity of this archetypal pair of dissatisfied, failure-haunted “men of

  • Vincente Minnelli, The Band Wagon, 1953, 35 mm, color, sound, 112 minutes. Tony Hunter and Gabrielle Gerard (Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse).
    film April 18, 2015

    Behind the Music

    MGM’S BEST MUSICALS personified Show Business as bipolar cottage industry—miracles of scrambled, collaged, precision-tooled, toe-shoe equilibrium. Star-struck, self-aware, and ruthlessly efficient, these engines of chaste desire merged revels and reveries into the ever-present bottom line. Poised betwixt gee-whiz uncomplication and sophisticated manners, their escapades showcased hyperbolic performers, idealized characters, and dazzling shades of homogeneity. Yet the same storylines also incorporated a cheeky penchant for relaxed displacement and rib-poking irony into otherwise corny affirmations.

  • Nicolas Roeg, Don’t Look Now, 1973, 35 mm, color, sound, 110 minutes. John Baxter (Donald Sutherland).
    film February 16, 2015

    Roeg State

    NICOLAS ROEG WAS ALMOST FORTY in 1968 when he got his big break. After kicking around the British film industry for ages—shooting dazzling second-unit footage for Lawrence of Arabia (1962), but fired by David Lean from Doctor Zhivago (1965); at last getting a foothold by photographing Julie Christie’s next three films, Fahrenheit 451 (1966), Far from the Madding Crowd (1967), and Richard Lester’s kook-descending-a-staircase Petulia (1968)—he suddenly was the hottest, hippest London cinematographer around. Elevated to codirector alongside writer–novice filmmaker Donald Cammell to shepherd

  • David Lynch, Eraserhead, 1977, 35 mm, black-and-white, sound, 89 minutes. Henry Spencer (John Nance). Photo: Catherine Coulson.
    film September 19, 2014

    Midnight’s Children

    IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT, a couple days before the end of 1979. A young woman is driving past a movie theater on Santa Monica Boulevard, going nowhere but away. She argued with a boyfriend while trying to watch an X show at Madame Wong’s: Sick of his macho-crybaby shit, she shoved him into some angry skinheads, jumped in her rusty Datsun, and bolted. On KROQ, Frazier Smith’s following “Search and Destroy” with “Baby’s on Fire”...

    It’s almost 12 AM now, though who trusts the clocks in LA? Streets are pretty deserted, but she sees an orderly queue of people lined up at the theater’s box office. MIDNIGHT

  • John Cassavetes, Love Streams, 1984, 35 mm, color, sound, 141 minutes. Sarah Lawson and Robert Harmon (Gena Rowlands and John Cassavetes).
    film August 22, 2014

    Let It Bleed

    THE COVER IMAGE of the Criterion booklet for John Cassavetes’s Love Streams (1984) Blu-ray is a doozy. Who is that motherfucker in the goofy hat? (And what’s love got to do with it?) It’s Cassavetes, naturally, but that chintzy gardener’s chapeau makes him look like he’s auditioning for the role of Torgo in a John Huston remake of Manos: The Hands of Fate. It is an awesomely unflattering look—the face moist and sickly (it’s supposed to be rain-soaked, but here it looks like fever sweat on a wax effigy), eyes darting and ever-wary, the full-frontal effect ludicrous, scary, guardedly self-aware,

  • Left: Howard Hawks, Red River, 1948, 35 mm, black-and-white, sound, 133 minutes. Thomas Dunson and Tess Millay (John Wayne and Joanne Dru). Right: John Boorman, Point Blank, 1967, 35 mm, color, sound, 92 minutes. Chris and Walker (Angie Dickinson and Lee Marvin).
    film July 18, 2014

    Face Off

    BY THE SPLINTERY MID-1960s, John Wayne was a hotheaded, potbellied anachronism riding the slow trail to extinction. Lee Marvin had emerged as a cagey new breed of movie tough guy, a resourceful, silver-haired nihilist who climbed out of the slough of deadweight heavies, TV cops, and mobster sadists to stardom. Marvin had sparred with the Duke in a few films before he got his late break with the spoofy-squishy Cat Ballou and won a fluke Academy Award in 1965 (a piece of cute stunt casting and almost a parody-in-advance of Wayne’s self-glorifying, self-burlesquing Oscar victory lap in 1969, True

  • Stanley Donen, Funny Face, 1957, 35 mm, color, sound, 103 minutes. Jo Stockton (Audrey Hepburn).
    film April 07, 2014

    The Hunger Game

    AMBIVALENCE IS A HARD CONDITION to pinpoint in a film. Is a movie sending out cross-purposed signals or are you and I simply projecting our own conflicted feelings? Even encountered as a movie-mad kid, Stanley Donen’s Funny Face (1957) struck me as somehow off—what was supposed to be a carefree, blithe romp felt oddly ponderous and stilted, unlike the beautifully unified song-and-dance-and-comedy stylization of Donen’s Singin’ in the Rain (1952), Vincente Minnelli’s The Band Wagon (1953), or even Mark Sandrich’s Top Hat (1935). It presented a bright public face laden (burdened?) with gaiety and