A Dispatch from My Sick Bed

Notes from a Movie Marathon, Brought to You by COVID-19

Photo by Rex Pickar (via Unsplash).

It’s been nearly two months since my last post, far and away the longest stretch of silence since this newsletter’s launch over a year ago. An extraordinarily busy time at work was followed first by preparations for my elder child’s 16th birthday, then a car accident — no injuries, thank goodness —, and any time I’ve found for writing has been dedicated to a 4000-word monster of an essay I’ve been working on about Junebug (2005), the tiny indie dramedy that made a star of Amy Adams. And then came a gnarly bout of COVID. Thanks to diligence and vaccinations, I managed to avoid the disease during the peak period of lockdown only to come down with it twice in the last three years. The first instance was mild and asymptomatic, a relative walk in the park. This time was decidedly different. High fever for days, incessant cough, congestion: no fun at all. It well may be the 6000+ pollen count that contributed to the misery.

Thankfully, nearly a week after onset, I’m finally peeking out from my quarantine room. The one and only upshot of the illness was that it allowed for some of the most sustained and varied movie-watching I’ve had in years. I knocked out eight films during my convalescence, and I made it a point to vary up my selections. (Letterboxd makes it so easy to filter your watchlist by genre, country of origin, length, etc.) So, in lieu of one of my longer, more formal essays, I offer this dispatch. I’m treating it like a report from a film festival that had only one attendee. I hope to resume my normal pace of writing next week.

---

1/ Call Me By Your Name (2017)

First watch. Indeed, until recently, I’d seen none of Luca Guadagnino’s output. I’m beginning to see what all the fuss is about. In a text conversation with a friend, I described the sensuousness of this movie as akin to that feeling of having something just short of a sunburn. You know that feeling when your skin radiates a pleasant warmth hours after you’ve retreated indoors. That’s what this film feels like to me. It’s a joy to look at, and Chalamet is really fucking good here, head and shoulders above Hammer, despite the latter being physically more towering. I must admit, though, that I am a bit icked by the sexual politics of it all, as the astute film critic Sally Jane Black summarizes in her Letterboxd review.

2/ The Thing (1982)

When a movie opens with a man firing a rifle upon a dog, from a helicopter, in Antarctica, you’re off to a promising start. First time seeing this since childhood. It fucking goes.

3/ Memories of Murder (2003)

Memories of Murder felt like a revelation to me 20 years, but I liked it a bit less on this re-watch. It’s still remarkable for its balancing of incongruous tones. The sticking point for me is how much of the climax is tied to one of the detectives taking notice of a band-aid. It’s at that moment you can feel the screenplay trying to wrap things up. In a movie that resists closure, it still tries mightily to pull all the motifs and themes together at the end, which feels somewhat clumsy to me, like a failure of nerve, like a retreat into more conventional storytelling.

4/ The Third Man (1949)

First time seeing this since 1998, my freshman year of college. That blinking light revelation of Orson Welles’ character is just one of the most electrifying, gasp-inducing moments in American cinema. Joseph Cotten: never better.

5/ Hitchcock/Truffaut (2015)

Kent Jones’ documentary of the canonical movie nerd book of the same name focuses on Francois Truffaut’s weeklong sit-down with Alfred Hitchcock to discuss his films at great length. If you’ve studied the book, the film offers a vibrant reminder of how important and necessary that text is. As a documentary, however, it suffers from some odd choices. The film focuses almost exclusively on Psycho and Vertigo — totally valid choices — but I would’ve loved to see it delve into what Truffaut and his compatriots at Cahier du Cinema saw in tier-2 Hitchock movies. The doc notes that Blackmail (1929) was Hitch’s (and Great Britain’s) first talkie, but it fails to note that it was released in sound and silent versions. What Hitch did with sound with his very first go at it is astounding. Where’s that discussion? I would’ve liked more breadth and less depth is all I’m saying.

6/ The Slumber Party Massacre (1982)

Another one from my childhood. I didn’t realize at the time that this film was written, produced, and directed by women, so it’s playful, arguably feminist, upending of the genre’s conventions was lost on me then. It’s a fun, funny, and at times incisive take on the slasher with a great, denouement-less ending.

7/ Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974)

I’ve only seen a few of the nearly 40 films Rainer Werner Fassbinder made between 1969 and 1982, and Fear Eats the Soul reminds me that I need to get on that. This particular movie is a tender one, but it’s made all the more powerful by Fassbinder’s stylistic command. Specifically, he’s great at having actors remain still, almost in tableau, while his camera circles, pushes in, reframes. It wallops. See for yourself:

8/ Cruising (1980)

First viewing of this one, directed by Billy Friedkin (of The French Connection and The Exorcist fame) and starring Al Pacino as an undercover cop hunting for a serial murderer who targets gay men in the S&M clubs of Manhattan’s Meatpacking District. Cruising was somewhat notorious when I was in film school, dismissed for its gawking presentation of leather bars and for pathologizing queerness. It’s since enjoyed a pretty extensive reevaluation. Seeing it with 21st century eyes, I found myself wishing it had gone further. For instance, the Pacino character says repeatedly that his assignment is troubling him, disturbing him, but the film doesn’t care to explore what specifically is causing him distress. Is it that he’s disgusted by the acts he sees on the nightly, or perhaps turned on by them? A braver film would’ve had the character engage in some of the sexual activities that otherwise are there only to titillate or revolt viewers. All we get is a naked and hog-tied Pacino; I need the Pacino-gets-a-blowjob-in-the-men’s-room scene. The second half hits its thriller stride and is effective, but it doesn’t quite cohere. Nevertheless, points for its willingness to be lurid even if it can’t quite land the plane.

---

That’s all for now. I look forward to bringing you your irregularly scheduled programming in the very near future. Cheers!