
By Jonah Raskin
Source: CounterPunch
In January 1970, R.G. Davis, the founder of the San Francisco Mime Troupe and one of the fathers of guerrilla theater, filmed a 60-minute video with seven of the defendants in the Chicago Conspiracy Trial. Long buried, the film which is titled “Chicago Conspiracy Eight,” recently surfaced thanks to the Media Burn Archive. Unedited and uninterrupted, it can be viewed on Vimeo.
According to the web site, the Media Burn Archive “collects, restores and distributes documentary video created by artists, activists and community groups.”
They’ve done a great job with the “Chicago Conspiracy Eight,” which illustrates the wonders one can work with a camera, a cast of colorful characters and a lot of gumption. By January 1970, when R. G. Davis produces the video, Bobby Seale of the Black Panther Party had already been severed from the federal case, which indicted eight men on charges of conspiracy and rioting in the streets during the 1968 Demcratic National Convention.
In the video, R. G. Davis and the seven defendants sit around a large table littered with food and drink. R.G. serves as the moderator, though he doesn’t really moderate the discussion. Indeed, it’s a wild hour in which everyone gets to speak, albeit some longer than others. An empty chair sits at the head of the table and carries a sign that reads, “Mr. Bobby Seale.” His absence is palpable.
The video tells a story that Aaron Sorkin’s feature film, “The Trial of the Chicago 7,” can’t and doesn’t tell. In this case, reality beats fiction. The magnificent seven each have their own individual hair styles: Dave Dellinger with long sideburns, Abbie with a Jewfro, as it was called, Jerry and Lee Weiner with full beards, Fronies with a mustache and Tom with the unkempt hair on the top of his head. Rennie Davis looks the cleanest cut of the lot. The era was a lot about hair. Our side clearly won on that front.
The seven defendants talk about Chicago in the summer of 1968, the Conspiracy Trial and anything and everything else that comes up, spontaneously. There’s a great deal of humor and a lot that’s serious, though no one seems to be afraid of going to jail. No topic is sacred. Everything can be and is the butt of comedy, including Abbie raising his middle finger and shouting “Fuck the Movement.” As a Yippie who battled the stogie members of SDS, that’s understandable.
The video is often about language and the spoken word. Jerry explains that “the most beautiful moment” in the trial takes place when poet Allen Ginsberg of Howl fame testifies on the witness stand and “the courtroom becomes a religious place.” In the video, Abbie is the most literary and cultural of the defendants. He likens the trial to Brave New World and describes Judge Julius Hoffman as Captain Queeg in The Caine Mutiny. Tom Hayden calls the U. S. “a police state” and recounts the murders of members of the Black Panther Party, including Fred Hampton and Mark Clark. Rennie Davis explains that racism “effects every major institution” in American life. That it did.
John Froines jokes about being “a male chauvinist.” Dellinger plugs non-violent tactics as “revolutionary” and Jerry says that the word “Fuck is the biggest issue” in the courtroom. It did push a lot of buttons. Abbie tells R. G. Davis that he and the other defendants want to be honest and not fudge facts and at the same time “beat the rap.” That’s the tricky part, coping to the revolution and aiming for a not guilty verdict. The Chicago eight aimed to beat the rap in the courtroom and outside the courtroom where they organized, appealed to the media and aimed to put pressure on the judge and the prosecutors.
Here and there, bits of history show up in the video: the Haymarket Riot of 1886; and U.S. Communist Party members who defended themselves when they were on trial. Abbie adroitly weaves together comedy and ideology. He calls the Hilton “a symbol of American imperialism” and adds that the demonstrators marched on the hotel with the intention of “changing the sheets.” That’s still pretty funny.
Near the end of the hour, R.G. Davis tells the others, “I got some good points.” Indeed, he did. He deserves credit for his realization that it was essential to bring the defendants together while the trial still raged. Starr Sutherland and Tom Weinberg produced the 2020 video, along with the team at MediaBurn who deserve praise from everyone who rioted then and everyone who protests these days.

By Owen Gleiberman
Source: Variety
Among the pivotal and juicy nuggets of film history recounted in “Making Waves: The Art of Cinematic Sound,” Midge Costin’s wonkishly engaging movie-love documentary, there’s one that speaks volumes about the foundation of the New Hollywood.
It’s 1967, and George Lucas, who is three years away from making his first film, is on the set of “Finian’s Rainbow,” the clomping warhorse of a Hollywood musical that his buddy and fellow film-school brat Francis Ford Coppola has been hired to direct. Coppola, who already dreams of making his own more personal film, asks Lucas if he knows a good sound designer; Lucas tips him off to his USC colleague Walter Murch. Coppola and Murch then team up to make “The Rain People,” a road odyssey they literally shoot across the country, with Murch using the new Nagra Portable Audio Recorder. That’s when these filmmakers have their aha moment. “If we can make a film out of a shoe store in Nebraska,” realizes Murch, “then why do we have to be in Hollywood?” At that point the three head up to San Francisco to form American Zoetrope.
The New Hollywood kicked into high gear in 1969, and it was a revolution in countless ways. Yet when you think back to so many of its classics — “Mean Streets” and “Dog Day Afternoon,” “McCabe and Mrs. Miller” and “The French Connection” — the fact that they were shot on locations that became the films’ realities was central to their aesthetic. It was the new world of aural recording that made that possible. As much as anything, the ’70s film revolution was a sound revolution.
This hit home to me when “Making Waves” dissected the sequence in Robert Altman’s “Nashville” where Ronee Blakley’s Barbara Jean arrives at an airport that’s a mad swirl of scrambling civilians, random traffic, baton twirlers marching in formation, with the film’s main characters sprinkled throughout the jamboree. “Nashville” is my favorite movie, and I have a burnt-in visual impression of that sequence — but watching it in “Making Waves,” you realize that apart from several master shots, the images aren’t as packed and teeming as you might think. What’s packed and teeming is the soundtrack, a layered experiential hubbub that goes beyond even Altman’s famous “overlapping dialogue,” since most of what we’re hearing in this sequence isn’t dialogue. It’s the airplanes, the marching band, the nattering newscaster, all woven into something close to life.
“Making Waves” is about the evolution of film technology, yet the key to its appeal is that it revels in the holistic, aesthetic side of technology: not just buttons and dials and gizmos, but technology as an expression of something human. As lovingly directed by Midge Costin, a veteran sound editor, the film explores landmark moments in movie sound, like the fact that contemporary sound design really began with “King Kong” (1933), which pioneered effects that are still in use today, or that it was Barbra Streisand’s insistence on making the 1976 version of “A Star Is Born” an enveloping experience that pushed movie theaters into using stereophonic systems (she also spent four months and an additional $1 million on the film’s sound editing, unheard of at the time), or the fact that Ben Burtt devoted the better part of a year to coming up with the right modified animal sounds for the voice of Chewbacca (but would you have guessed that the bluster of the fighter jets in “Top Gun” was also modified animal sounds?), or that on “Apocalypse Now” there were half a dozen sound editors, each in charge of a different element (choppers, munitions, the boat), to forge a total symphonic effect.
Or take “The Godfather.” “The Rain People” turned out to be a disaster for Coppola, to the point that Warner Bros. claimed the money they’d given him to make the film was a personal loan. They wanted it back (it was the equivalent of $3 million today), which bankrupted Zoetrope and put Lucas’s career on hold. That’s one reason Coppola took on what Murch calls “this sleazy gangster film that 12 other directors had turned down.”
Murch, once again, was Coppola’s sound designer, and though “The Godfather” is a profoundly realistic film, in the famous scene where Michael Corleone kills Sollozzo in the Italian restaurant, the hit is preceded by a close-up of Michael’s face accompanied by a slow-building electronic din that sounds like the expressionistic version of a screeching subway train. “What you’re listening to,” says Murch, “are Michael’s neurons clashing against each other.” I’ve seen “The Godfather” a dozen times, but when that moment happens I’m so in the moment that I have never consciously heard that sound.
“Making Waves” presents Walter Murch as the grand architect of the Hollywood sound revolution — though the film doesn’t shortchange the extraordinary achievements of Ben Burtt, recruited out of USC by George Lucas to do “Star Wars,” or Gary Rydstrom, who became the sound guru of Pixar. (His first achievement: making those lamps in John Lasseter’s minute-and-a-half 1986 showpiece short “Luxo Jr.” “speak.”) The film also recognizes Orson Welles as the supreme cinema magician who first grasped, based on his radio experience, that sound was the art of illusion: creating an aural landscape to fill the spaces a camera could only show you. (It was the sound in “Citizen Kane” that let you feel those spaces.) The film salutes the directors who worked hand in glove with their sound wizards, notably David Lean and Alfred Hitchcock, Lucas and Spielberg, as well as Kubrick, Altman, and David Lynch.
But it’s Murch’s story that’s the archetype. Born in 1943, he recorded sounds off the radio as a boy, splicing and re-arranging them — and then, in 1953, when he first encountered music concrète from France, he felt like he was part of a movement. The works of John Cage were an influence, revealing a kind of sonic ideology in which anything you could hear became “music.” So were the Beatles, whether it was the future-shock distortion of “Tomorrow Never Knows” or the hipster music concrète of “Revolution 9.”
As a teenager, Murch soaked up Bergman and Kurosawa (both of whom cast spells with sound), and he then moved to Paris and connected with the New Wave, but at USC he returned to his tape-manipulating roots; he fused the mind of a scientist and the heart of an artist. Murch became a collector of sounds, and then a symphonist, forging a new kind of immersion in “Apocalypse Now.” Ben Burtt collected sounds, too, and one of the revelations of “Making Waves” is that many of the movie sounds we think of as futuristic, like the gun blasts in “Star Wars,” are things that were painstakingly culled from this world. (In their paradigm-shifting space opera, Lucas and Burtt actually cut against the eerie synthesized future sounds in films like the 1953 “The War of the Worlds.”)
“Making Waves” is a brisk 94 minutes, the last half hour of which is a quick-study primer on the categories of movie sound. The film is quite educational. I confess I had no idea that a “Foley” refers to a highly specific sound that’s crafted and post-synched — and that the term was named after Jack Foley, the sound editor who was ordered to make the armies of “Spartacus,” with their clanking armor, sound more realistic, and did so by employing such advanced technological devices as jingling car keys. In the years since “The Matrix,” anything has seemed possible. “These days,” observes David Lynch, “there’s so many tools to manipulate a sound that now, if you can think it you can do it.” That said, I wish “Making Waves” focused a little less on movies defined by their visionary action sequences: “Star Wars,” “Apocalypse Now,” “Saving Private Ryan,” “The Matrix.” I get that each of those films were game-changers, but if anything the movie teaches you to hear the expressive magic in the quietest of sounds — to know that when you’re listening to a movie, there’s always more than meets the ear.
Watch Making Waves on Hoopla here: https://www.hoopladigital.com/title/12896425

“Dark Star” (1974) is a science fiction comedy directed and produced by John Carpenter and co-written with Dan O’Bannon. The film originated as a USC film project from 1970 to 1972 and expanded to a feature length project in 1974. It plot follows the mentally deteriorating crew of the starship Dark Star, twenty years into their mission to destroy unstable planets that might threaten future colonization of other planets.
Dark Star was the feature directorial debut for Carpenter, who also scored and produced the film. It was also the feature debut for O’Bannon, who also served as editor, production designer, visual effects supervisor and actor.

Review by Donald Guarisco
Source: AllMovie.com
Though it rarely gets mentioned in round ups of rock and roll movies, Get Crazy is one of that genre’s best outings. The script offers a savvy satire of the rock business, put forth in an appealing lighthearted style that makes it accessible. Allan Arkush directs the proceedings with flair, keeping the multiple plotlines moving forward while still delivering plenty of music and laughs. Get Crazy further benefits from a fun cast: Daniel Stern makes an appealing average-joe lead, Malcolm McDowell delivers a sly comedic turn as an egotistical Mick Jagger-styled rocker and Ed Begley Jr. is a deadpan delight as an evil mogul trying to steal the concert hall’s real estate. Rock fans will also want to look out for punker Lee Ving and alternative-rock legend Lou Reed in fun cameo roles (Reed in particular has fun satirizing Bob Dylan). In short, Get Crazy is a funny and fast-paced rock and roll flick that deserves a bigger cult following.

By Alexis Garcia
Source: The Cut
Am I alone in thirsting for normalcy when Christmas rounds the corner? No matter how contrarian I fancy myself to be, once local radio stations incessantly drone “Jingle Bells” I become a walking cliché hellbent on conjuring the magic of a Winter Wonderland fantasy. Whether it’s stealing a kiss under the mistletoe, a family dinner that doesn’t end in a full-blown argument, or finally sticking to that Christmas gift budget — invariably, my idea of the perfect Hallmark holiday all goes to hell. And when I can’t go to sleep because of the jolly nightmare of my own making, I’m comforted by the thought of Kate Bush’s blood-splashed Christmas special.
The first thing you should know about her 1979 BBC holiday broadcast is that it’s almost entirely devoid of Christmas. Recorded after the English singer-songwriter’s first (and only) tour, the special is composed of 12 songs gathered from her first three studio albums and features an appearance from former Genesis frontman Peter Gabriel. There’s no coherent theme or message to the show — the only constant is Kate’s stunning ability to shock viewers at every turn. This is most effectively accomplished with her mind-boggling performance of “The Wedding List,” a song based on a French New Wave film about a grieving bride avenging her husband-to-be after he’s slain at the altar.
It all starts innocently. A heavenly pitch fills the room as green cartoon hands and red text animate the screen. Is this the voice of an angel? As the titles fade out and the stage lights come on, we see Kate dangling from the ceiling — not as the Christmas cherub we first envisioned, but as a gothic bat rising from the abyss, clad in black sequins and plush feathers. As the opening salvo of “Violin” comes to a close I begin to wonder if this was actually meant to be a Halloween show. (After all, parts of the taped performance were filmed in a South London cemetery).
The next 40 minutes of Kate’s festive fever dream veer from the chaotic to the surreal to the just downright horny. In one scene, Kate, only 21 at the time, looks everything like the Victorian ideal of the virtuous woman as she plays an emotional andante called “Symphony in Blue” at the piano. Her figure shimmers in a sparkling silver cardigan and emerald-green skirt. But just as we settle into the moment, Kate peers at the camera, a twinkle in her charcoal-lined eyes, and seductively chirps, “The more I think about sex, the better it gets.” Not exactly the family-friendly content you’d expect from a holiday show!
I’ve watched this special dozens of times since I discovered it on YouTube years ago. I had always been a Kate Bush fan. Many of the artists I grew up listening to — like Tori Amos, Fiona Apple, and Big Boi — had cited her as a musical influence. But I didn’t fully start to appreciate her dazzling panache until I entered my 30s. Like many women, I found myself exhausted from trying to “have it all” and stretching myself to meet everyone else’s expectations. And here was Kate, a total unapologetic weirdo, being celebrated and revered for letting her freak flag fly. She’s written songs about menstruation and embarking on a steamy love affair with a snowman (so hot, in fact, that he melts). Her maniacal style of pouring tea, as captured in a 1989 BBC interview, has been made into a meme, as has footage of her rather unappetizing vegetarian cooking. And every year fans across the globe gather in parks dressed in flowing red gowns to recreate dance moves from her iconic “Wuthering Heights” music video. Her authenticity is the reason she’s cultivated such a devoted fan base and why her music still resonates after all these years.
The 1979 Christmas special is also significant because in many ways, it’s Kate’s departing gift to fans — a bow atop a year that would mark the end of her concert career for the next three decades. Like anything with the notoriously private singer, the more information I try to find on this special, the more questions I ultimately end up having. Why, for instance, did Kate think it was appropriate to perform a murder-suicide ballad for a holiday show? Who at the BBC approved this to go on air? How does she pop out of a garbage can so effortlessly in skin-tight leather pants? And does she even know what a Christmas special is? Do we?
But this is why I keep coming back to the Kate Bush Christmas special, year after year. The desire to conform to the cookie-cutter — and completely unattainable — Christmas ideal unleashes my inner control freak, but I never stop to ask myself why I want this version of the holidays in the first place.
Even her one Christmas song is a wink to this idea. In “December Will Be Magic Again,” she sings with childlike yearning for the idyllic Christmas. “The white city, she is so beautiful, upon the black-soot-icicled roofs,” Kate coos. It’s a beautiful image, the dusting of pure white snow, falling like the haze of nostalgia to cover the tarnished memories we’d rather forget. But Kate knows it’s a pipe dream. And she gives us permission to let it all go.
Her Christmas special feels especially relevant this year, as normal has never felt more out of reach. It would be easy to give into a collective sense of despair as we enter an uncertain winter. But when I watch Kate roll around on the floor, fake blood dripping from her lips as she gleefully shoots a hole into the chest of her lover’s murderer, I am embraced by the warm comfort that things will be okay. Even if this holiday isn’t what we envisioned, it doesn’t make it any less special — all we need is to give ourselves the space to get a little weird.

By Daniel S. Levine
Source: Move Mania Madness
“You may be a one-eyed jack around here, but I’ve seen the other side of your face.”
Marlon Brando’s One-Eyed Jacks (1961), the only film America’s greatest screen actor ever directed, was itself a one-eyed jack for many years. Seen as an example of excess and the dangers of handing a star with a big ego a big budget, we are now seeing the other side of its face. Thanks to the incredible restoration by Martin Scorsese’s The Film Foundation, the film has been saved and we can now see the true wonders hidden by One-Eyed Jacks‘ production issues and public domain status.
Brando stars as Rio “The Kid” and Karl Malden (Brando’s co-star in On The Waterfront and A Streetcar Named Desire) plays “Dad” Longworth. At the start of the film, Rio and Dad pull off a heist in a Mexico town. During the chase, they split up, with Rio left to fight the Mexican authorities himself and Dad going to get new horses. But instead of returning to help Rio, Dad decides to escape. Rio is caught and jailed.
Five years later, we suddenly see Rio escaping prison with his friend Chico (Larry Duran). He picks up Bob Amory (Ben Johnson) and Harvey Johnson (Sam Gilman) while on the trail to find Dad. That trail leads him to Monterey, California, where Dad is now the sheriff. What follows is nearly two hours of pure tension, watching the blood boil between the two as Dad and Rio move their chess pieces ever closer to a final duel that’s over in a flash. Each action the two men take – from Rio romancing Dad’s step-daughter Louisa (Pina Pellicer) to Dad framing Rio for a bank robbery and murder – is meant to move them closer to a crescendo.
One-Eyed Jacks is hardly perfect and one does wonder what a seasoned director like Stanley Kubrick (who was signed on to make the film at first) would have done with it. But it is doubtful anyone but an actor-as-director could have brought out vibrant performances as Brando did. We can see what the characters are thinking, something few movies can achieve without voiceovers. He has full faith in the audience to figure out what’s going on without dialogue, but he also doesn’t go for heavy-handed symbolism. Yes, there’s that beautiful shot of waves crashing behind Brando, but much of the film plays out in the characters’ minds when their words fail them.
It’s hard to see how Westerns after One-Eyed Jacks could exist without it, especially Sergio Leone’s films. If anyone was listening to Brando in 1960, One-Eyed Jacks would have announced the death knell of the Classic American Western long before Sam Peckinpah shot it to hell with The Wild Bunch. Although Peckinpah’s work on One-Eyed Jacks was likely completely gone by the time filming began, there still seems to be a bit of Peckinpah DNA left in the final result.
Based on the novel The Authentic Death of Hendry Jones by Charles Neider, the plot echos themes and plot points that later show up in the “revisionist” Westerns of the late 1960s and ’70s. We have two men scarred by a betrayal, a hero on the wrong side of the law and a corrupt official. Sadistic men roam this world, others are guilty until proven innocent and townspeople are mere casualties in their play.
There are truly few other movies like One-Eyed Jacks, a film that simultaneously breaks from Hollywood tradition while following it. The additions Paramount insisted Brando make don’t completely strip away his vision for a movie. It might not have been a success at the time, but the rebellion against the old system it declared certainly was.

By Sheila O’Malley
Source: RogerEbert.com
Keanu Reeves has a mixture of stilted awkwardness and gangly grace that is uniquely his own, and that makes him an often strange, disaffected presence. This can either work or not work. His line readings are sometimes baffling. But his simple sense of truth and touching trust in the material (whatever it may be) is one of the reasons his career has lasted so long. There isn’t a ton of ego in his work. It’s refreshing.
“Man of Tai Chi”, Reeves’ feature film directorial debut, has the same sometimes-awkward blend that Reeves brings to the table as an actor. The film is super serious (as befitting the martial arts genre, where everything is a matter of life or death), with moments of strange stilted dialogue (also par for the course) and scene after scene of thrilling physical combat, filmed with grace and certainty and no small amount of awe for the athletes involved.
Tiger Chen, a stuntman in the two “Matrix” sequels, plays the eponymous character, also named “Tiger Chen”. He is a devoted practitioner of the ancient art of tai chi, working with a master named Yang (Yu Hai) in a beautiful temple. For his day job, Tiger works as a delivery boy, driving packages around the city, and flirting with a receptionist at one of his regular stop-offs. He lives with his parents. He does not have ambition to “do anything” with tai chi, because the rules underlying his apprenticeship with Master Yang say that those who practice tai chi do not do so for money, glory, or even to win. But during a public competition, his undeniable skill brings him to the attention of a mysterious individual named Donaka Mark (Reeves). Donaka lives in a cold man-cave of a penthouse, furnished in black leather and chrome. He strolls around barefoot on shiny black marble floors, he speaks only in terse commands. He has a security detail working for him that would rival the NSA’s. He reaches out to Tiger, offering him a security job, when in reality it is a recruitment for a deadly underground fighting ring.Tiger is flown to an undisclosed location, put into an empty grey room with a mirror on one wall, as he waits to see what will happen. A female voice commands: “Fight”, and from out of nowhere an opponent grabs Tiger from behind. Tiger is then engaged in a fight for his life in that grey room with the big mirror, and it is an Alice-through-the-looking-glass moment which will bear fruit through the rest of the film: Like Alice, Tiger is catapulted from one strange experience to the next. The normal rules of regular life no longer apply.
Donaka, of course, is watching through that mirror. That first fight is a test. Tiger passes, but it is only the first of many. Donaka’s fight club is run like a cult, where essential information about the nature of the organization is withheld from the participants until they are too deeply embroiled to get out. Tiger finds himself back in that grey room again and again, fighting increasingly vicious and skilled opponents. To what purpose? What is it all for?
The money Donaka offers is substantial. When Master Yang’s temple is slated for demolition unless money can be raised for necessary repairs, Tiger caves. And so the sacred temple is now being financed by someone who has betrayed the underlying principles taught there, a terrible irony. Tiger Chen, a superb athlete (to watch him is to go slack-jawed in wonder and appreciation), is also a terrific actor, going believably from sweet open kid to cold lean killer with a haunted aspect. “Man of Tai Chi” takes place in a deeply moral universe where our choices have spiritual implications.
Tiger Chen, a stuntman in the two “Matrix” sequels, plays the eponymous character, also named “Tiger Chen”. He is a devoted practitioner of the ancient art of tai chi, working with a master named Yang (Yu Hai) in a beautiful temple. For his day job, Tiger works as a delivery boy, driving packages around the city, and flirting with a receptionist at one of his regular stop-offs. He lives with his parents. He does not have ambition to “do anything” with tai chi, because the rules underlying his apprenticeship with Master Yang say that those who practice tai chi do not do so for money, glory, or even to win. But during a public competition, his undeniable skill brings him to the attention of a mysterious individual named Donaka Mark (Reeves). Donaka lives in a cold man-cave of a penthouse, furnished in black leather and chrome. He strolls around barefoot on shiny black marble floors, he speaks only in terse commands. He has a security detail working for him that would rival the NSA’s. He reaches out to Tiger, offering him a security job, when in reality it is a recruitment for a deadly underground fighting ring.Tiger is flown to an undisclosed location, put into an empty grey room with a mirror on one wall, as he waits to see what will happen. A female voice commands: “Fight”, and from out of nowhere an opponent grabs Tiger from behind. Tiger is then engaged in a fight for his life in that grey room with the big mirror, and it is an Alice-through-the-looking-glass moment which will bear fruit through the rest of the film: Like Alice, Tiger is catapulted from one strange experience to the next. The normal rules of regular life no longer apply.Donaka, of course, is watching through that mirror. That first fight is a test. Tiger passes, but it is only the first of many. Donaka’s fight club is run like a cult, where essential information about the nature of the organization is withheld from the participants until they are too deeply embroiled to get out. Tiger finds himself back in that grey room again and again, fighting increasingly vicious and skilled opponents. To what purpose? What is it all for?
The money Donaka offers is substantial. When Master Yang’s temple is slated for demolition unless money can be raised for necessary repairs, Tiger caves. And so the sacred temple is now being financed by someone who has betrayed the underlying principles taught there, a terrible irony. Tiger Chen, a superb athlete (to watch him is to go slack-jawed in wonder and appreciation), is also a terrific actor, going believably from sweet open kid to cold lean killer with a haunted aspect. “Man of Tai Chi” takes place in a deeply moral universe where our choices have spiritual implications.
The fighting ring is illegal. The cops (one in particular) close in on Donaka, who remains elusive and omniscient. Donaka understands that tai chi is not the usual fare in the martial arts underground, and he gets off on the fact that Tiger has sold out. That’s the turn-on, the power trip. Reeves isn’t in the film all that much, and there are a couple of extremely stiff scenes of dialogue, but he does get a very impressive fight scene with Tiger near the end. This is Tiger Chen’s picture all the way. You watch him transform, and you watch his soul go dark.
CinematographercElliot Davis films the fight scenes with thrilling immediacy: lots of long takes, so you realize you are actually seeing these guys actually do this, as opposed to watching something pieced together later in the editing room. The camera circles and rises and pulls back, moving horizontally and vertically with the movements of each fight. The filming is intuitive and visceral. There’s one masterpiece of a scene that takes place in a hidden night club floating in the bowels of a cargo ship in Hong Kong harbor. The setting is surreal: the circular stage painted with psychedelic dizzying swirls and the circular tables surrounding said stage, not to mention the bored elegant silent crowd, is reminiscent of the midnight theatre scene in David Lynch’s “Mulholland Drive” or the freaky tiered nightclub in Josef von Sternberg’s “Shanghai Gesture”. Each fight gets more dangerous. The stakes rise. Death is the only possible outcome. Reeves approaches the genre with respect and passion. “Man of Tai Chi” is hugely entertaining.
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