The Sheer Badness of Costner and Kasdan's Wyatt Earp Film

 So many movies mature into something better than what they were when they were young. Cimino's Heaven's Gate, for example, grew into itself; the director's cut is a lavish, visually beautiful, poignant western, having distanced itself from the director's excess when it was made. Raising Arizona and Repo Man both established themselves as brilliant-but-formerly-misunderstood classics, even funnier today than when they were released to the "lukewarm critical reception" filmmakers dread. But Kasdan's 1994 Wyatt Earp was bad prior to release, bad upon release, and remains bad over a quarter of a century later. 

Made as a Costner-centric response to the flawed-but-fun Tombstone, Wyatt Earp is more tribute to one man's ego than to one man. Costner withdrew from the wildly popular Tombstone project to create a film more narrowly focused on one character - coincidentally, the very character Costner attempted to portray, Wyatt himself. He mumbles and glowers his way through a muddy, weepy, angsty version of Wyatt and the events that shaped the man. Costner's weak pre-pubescent voice is a perfect fit for this flimsy but star-filled vehicle.

The normally-reliable Kasdan is at his worst here. The normally-lovable cast of the film, depicting what are apparently supposed to be "headstrong" women (read: bitchy and insufferable), carefree villains (read: indistinguishable from each other), introspective heroes (read: fond of hearing themselves emote), and politically-oriented townspeople (read: gnat-like and annoying), are unmemorable, unlikable, and most certainly unlovable. With the possible exception of Dennis Quaid's bug-eyed Doc Holliday, the cast fails at rising above the bland, predictable, sappy script. Unlike Tombstone, arguably the most quotable movie of its decade, Wyatt Earp offers not a single quote worthy, memorable line - except those you'd quote to mock the movie, like the final exchange between Wyatt and Josephine. (Although hearing various Earp brothers say, "Shut up, Allie," is always welcome.)

What makes the move so unbearably bad, though, is that it takes itself so very, very seriously. It's too earnest, too proud of its dull exterior, too self-assured of its own profundity. Like a college kid who hears a cool concept in Philosophy 101 and can't wait to tilt his head and, with gravitas, repeat the idea at every bar he visits, Wyatt Earp is sure you're going to be duly impressed. Instead, you find yourself anticipating each line and saying it aloud before the character gets around to making an intense expression and then proffering it with so much deliberateness. Need another movie drinking game? Guess the next line and drink up each time you get it right! Pro-tip: Stock up heavily on what you'll be drinking, and arrange for that designated driver in advance.

Visually, the movie fails to enchant. This can't be blamed on the shortage of western costumes available due to not one, but four, westerns being produced at the same time - because Costner's team got first pick. From Wyatt's sad little hat to a weird slope-brim confection that real-life Johnny Behan would NEVER be seen in, the headwear is dismal. The women's dresses, usually such a joy in good westerns, are bland. Does Mattie Blaylock even OWN more than one dress? What desperate dudes would even visit hookers in such drab duds? Kudos to the Tombstone team for having period clothing made by everyone from the Opera company in Tucson to Stetson, while having those exquisite - and colorful - women's clothes shipped in from Europe. The western vistas are ... wait, did western vistas even make an appearance in this shadow-filled mostly-indoor film? Filmed largely in Las Vegas, New Mexico - an endearing, authentic, gritty, historic western town built around a terrific square - the street scenes are surprisingly flat, the town curiously devoid of its own character. If Costner was worried about focus being shifted away from his Earp, he needn't worry with the stages set for this debacle. These sets will never upstage him.

Historically, the film gets a nod for depicting Behan's conversation with Earp in which he tells Earp there's enough to go around, but that's about it. Virgil and Morgan weren't shot on the same night, but months apart. Johnny Ringo committed suicide after a day of drinking, and wasn't the victim of a revenge shooting. Virgil Earp was shot in the OTHER arm. There's no way in hell Wyatt mumbled as much as Costner's character, or people around him would've shot him just to be rid of that incessant whining. 

Worst of all, the film is brutally ill-paced. Overlong, it would still be languid had it been a merciful 90 minute production. I have visions of the wonderful Val Kilmer version of Doc Holliday from Tombstone butting in and saying, "Oh, I know! Let's TALK" in a paraphrase of his iconic "I know! Let's have a spelling contest!" jibe. That's what these characters do: They ... talk. And talk. And talk, and yet purport nothing. 

This might just be one of those films you have to watch just to appreciate the sheer badness of being. You might even want to take notes, in fact - because you most definitely do not want to have to watch it twice if you miss anything.

Want to see if you can get through it? Here's a link (and I do earn a commission if you opt to torture yourself this way): Wyatt Earp film.  If you can find something good to say about this movie, please share. You'll be a daisy if you do.

A Something Wild Thing

 Having just watched the masterpiece that is "Something Wild" for the first time, something nagging kept gnawing at me. Was I watching a reworking of "Breakfast at Tiffany's?" The shape-shifting theme, the masterful Demme details, the  Demme femme sophisticate who is, as it turns out, actually from the 'burbs - it was all too perfect. By the joyful ending with Sister Carol singing "Wild Thing," and the reformed wild child stepping forward wearing a very Holly Golightly-esque dress and hat, I was convinced. As usual after watching a particularly good film, I do a deep-dive into reviews, actors, directors, and foundation material. None of the reviews I happened across mentioned B at T; no comparison / contrast pieces; no quotes from Demme describing the influence of Capote or the film. 

Yet ... what's this? Holly Golightly in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" is played to perfection by Audrey Hepburn. Holly's real name, back in her small-town past, is Lula Mae. In Demme's film, main character "Lulu" is actually named Audrey, back in her own suburban origin story. Both women are sexual transgressors; Holly is a call girl, and Lulu / Audrey is a kidnapper of a cute, straight-laced businessman, whom she plies with Scotch, then handcuffs and ravishes. Neither has an apparent means of legitimate income. Both women have a husband lingering in the background until they step forward in drastically different ways; Lula Mae has Doc, and Lulu-Audrey has Ray. Neither man is ultimately capable of hanging onto their spirited, role-playing wife. 

Best of all, the repeated renditions of the song "Wild Thing" in "Something Wild" are a harmonic convergence with the iconic "wild thing" scene from "Tiffany's." Holly Golightly tells her husband, Doc, "You mustn't give your heart to a wild thing. The more you do, the stronger they get, until they're strong enough to run into the woods or fly into a tree. And then to a higher tree and then to the sky." Lulu-Audrey sees herself as that same wild thing, thus the theme song making its sonic appearance at the most enchanting moments. Similar to Holly Golightly, Lulu has put herself in a box despite identifying as a wild and free creature. She's still bound to her sociopathic husband, bound to a self image of her own creation, bound to the "wild" life she's created for herself. She's as much an indentured servant to her own decisions as hapless Charles is to his veneer of conventionality, right down to the Ford station wagon he drives.

The ending of B at T parallels the ending of "Something Wild" as Charles searches for Lulu in apparent vain dejection. When he encounters her, she's wearing that striking Hollyesque dress with that very Audrey Hepburn wide-brim hat. It's a beautiful moment, and a clear nod to "Tiffany's" - even without the nameless cat or an acoustic Moon River.

If you haven't seen "Something Wild" or - gasp! - "Breakfast at Tiffany's," here are links to get them. I may receive a commission if you use these links (and I appreciate the support!)  

Something Wild     

Breakfast at Tiffany's

Miller's Rules of Investing

1. The first rule of investing is …. invest.  Put money into an investment account. If you can’t do so on a set schedule, do so on a set program - for example, every time you have windfall cash, put half of it immediately into your investment account. Use the other half on debt reduction or, if you must, something you will enjoy - but always put half into your investment. What are windfalls? Overtime! That’s not part of your salary - it’s a windfall. Bonuses. Gifts. Rebates. Refunds (looking at you, tax refund!) A $200 incentive you earn by opening an account. Cashback from credit cards. A repaid debt from a friend (not that this actually ever occurs, I know).

2.  The second rule of investing is … never, ever, EVER touch your capital. If you put $100 into your investment account, that initial investment always stays there. You can take out dividends if you absolutely must but never touch that capital. This is the “goose that lays the golden eggs” principal. The capital - that means anything other than dividends, cash-in-lieu, and royalties - is your goose. The income you earn from it, such as dividends, are the golden eggs. Don’t kill your goose. Don’t even cut body parts off it. Leave the goose alone.

3.  The third rule of investing is … when buying stocks, buy only dividend (income) producing stocks. If stocks don’t pay you dividends, they are only worth money when you sell them - and guess what? When you sell them, you don’t have them anymore. You don’t get regular return on your investment. For every good non-income stock, there’s a good income-paying stock. Why on earth wouldn’t you choose an income stock? 

4. Rule #4: Do NOT use dividend reinvestment (DRP) plans. First, it takes the decision to reinvest out of your hands. Why would you trust someone better than you trust yourself? Second, it has a ginormous opportunity cost. Those little drips eventually grow into a share of stock, but is that necessarily the stock you’d be deliberately purchasing at the moment? Even worse than having someone else make the decision for you, drip programs have no intelligent oversight at all … they just are. 

5.  Rule #5: NEVER pay someone to manage or invest your money. This includes financial planners, fund managers, ETFs, and fees for trading (commissions). If you like an ETF or a specific fund, look at the top ten holdings and start acquiring those holdings independently. ETFs DO have a built-in cost. If you put $100 into an ETF, you will NOT get $100 worth of equities. If you put $100 into a fund, you do NOT get $100 worth of equities. If you want to buy $100 worth of stock and there’s a $5 fee for buying it, you are NOT getting $100 worth of stock. No-load funds are not exempt from fees. Somebody is paying for the Jaguar the fund manager is driving, no matter what fund (and ETFs are funds) you choose, or how it’s sold to you. Buy your own Jaguar someday … don’t buy one for the guy managing your money.

I’m not fond of spending money on investment advice subscriptions (Motley Fool, etc.).  The internet is full of free information on the market and investing. You’re better off putting that $60 subscription fee into a $60 income-producing share of stock. Let’s see … $60 a year for five years is $300 you’ve spent. A $60 share of stock every year is $300 of investment money. If it yields a modest 4% dividend, not even taking in account capital gains, dividend increases, and reinvestment potential, at the end of three years of investing you’ve got $312 dollars. That’s a $612 difference between buying something and investing the money. No brainer!

6. Rule #6: Your stock value, or lack thereof, is only real on paper unless you sell it. Don’t panic when your stock prices fall. Eventually you will diversify enough that one stock can hit rock bottom (or even go bankrupt) and you won’t even care, because everything else in your portfolio is doing well. You’re in this for the long term. You buy something with that precious $100 you’ve got, and next month it goes down to $80. Who cares? It’s likely still paying you the same dividend and, if you have chosen wisely, it’ll come back up eventually. In the meantime, that number doesn’t impact you unless you unwisely choose to sell. Sell it at $80, and you’ve lost $20. Wait  until it comes back up and you haven’t lost a thing.

7. Rule #7: When you first start buying stocks, follow certain rules. These are mine:

~ Companies must produce tangible products or visible things. If you can’t SEE what they’re selling, don’t buy it.

~ Invest in companies you understand and, ideally, use and believe in. Do you like a certain product? Research it. Use something reliably, and know it to be a good product? Consider it. You’ll not only be knowledgable (to some degree) about what the company produces, but you’ll have an understanding of the product availability, quality, and consumer issues. 

~ If something is glittery and shiny and everyone is buying it, don’t. If Elon Musk says, “Buy this stock!” don’t. If it’s the top of the list on the Kiplinger “Ten Stocks You Must Buy,” don’t. First, you won’t get it at the right value because there’ll be a surge in price, no matter how modest. Second, trust yourself before you trust others. Third, too often what everyone is “talking about” is a fad, a trend, or a risky speculation. Think of stocks as fashion: What’s trendy today is, by definition, not trendy tomorrow. You’re better off picking classic stocks and comfortable blue jean stocks than the skinny pants of stocks, because you don’t want your portfolio to look ridiculous when fashions change. 

~ Avoid stock in companies that are ridiculously vulnerable to certain market influences to include litigation, legislation, sudden supply issues, or abruptly-changing consumer tastes. 

~ DO NOT TIME THE MARKET. Identify a good, solid, income-paying stock you like, buy the damned thing at market price, and then don’t touch it. 

~ Consider buying stock with potential to split or to spin-off new baby companies. I love companies that have their fingers in a dozen different sectors, because eventually they birth baby companies. Those baby companies don’t pay dividends so I sell them and then buy dividend-producing stocks. I’ve made a lot of money this way. I’m looking at you, Honeywell, Ralston-Purina, and several others. For splits, Apple has done right by me. Although investors love to say, “Buy low, sell high,” that’s actually not a rule I follow. Buy high on a good, solid, product-producing and income-producing stock and often your stock will soon split. 

~ With rare exceptions, avoid retailers when buying stock. Better to buy the stock in the manufacturers that produce the things being sold at retail outlets than to buy the stock in the retailers themselves. How many big box stores are vacant in your area? Also to avoid: restaurants. See above.

Now, some nuts and bolts. How do you get started? Open an online investment account with FREE trades. There are many that do not require an opening balance for those free trades. Consider a bank that also offers free trading, such as Ally or Wells Fargo, because you can move money back and forth to your linked checking and savings accounts. This has many advantages. Better yet: Open an account at a bank that offers you a $200 or $500 bonus for opening an account, and then use that money to fund your investment. This will also keep your investments “pure” so you’ll know how you’re doing without having to deduct all the deposits and withdrawals you make from your regular bank.

Once you’ve got the account open, make your first trade. Just do it. Don’t overanalyze and be paralyzed by all the kajillions of choices and variables. Pick a major company that’s doing well - something that isn’t sexy and isn’t trendy - and buy the damned shares. Got $100? Buy some Pfizer (PFE) and you’ll own some “big pharma” stock (they usually pay solid dividends, BTW.) Consider 3M (MMM) (did you know they make sandpaper and sticky notes?) or Procter and Gamble (PG). I mean, everyone uses toilet paper and toothpaste … and they pay good dividends. Do you ever eat? So does everyone else. Look at General Mills (GIS), Mondelez (MDLZ), or Kraft Heinz (KHC). What do these have in common? They produce tangible goods, they pay dividends, they may split or spin off other cute little baby stocks, and they are definitely not sexy or fashionable. They make the goods that other companies sell or cook up into dinner dishes. 

Keep good records of all your trades. You’ll need them at tax time, particularly when one of your stocks splits, merges, or spins off others. You’ll have to establish a cost basis for the proceeds, and you can’t do that without keeping records of your purchases. 

Do not sell any stocks short term! This will impact your taxes also. Of course, you weren’t going to do that anyway, because of Rule #2, above. 

Now, get together that pool of cash you have on hand - or take that credit card rebate money you’ve got accrued - and invest. See Rule #1. 

Go forth and prosper!

(c) Copyright 2021 Marcy J. Miller * All rights reserved * No part of this content may be used without express permission of author * Links to this page, however, may be freely shared and are appreciated. 

Dancing Hooves and Velvet Noses: A Critical Review of "The Perfect Horse"

I really, really wanted to love this book.  What could be more to my tastes than a combination of horses, history, and literature? If anyone was predisposed towards Elizabeth Letts' The Perfect Horse: The Daring U.S. Mission to Rescue the Priceless Stallions Kidnapped by the Nazis, it would be me. I'd grown up among the Arabian ranches in Scottsdale, Arizona, and personally knew some of the people and the direct offspring of the horses featured in her book. I'll never forget being the horse-crazy child who thrilled to pet the face of Favory Dubwina, one of the imported Lipizzaner horses maintained at Equestrian Manor, where my seven-year-old self took riding lessons. I worked with Arabians professionally for years, and bred a few generations of them. I excitedly attended the touring Lipizzaner shows when they came to Phoenix and I'd met some of the riders, looking on them with star-struck eyes. And, more recently, I'd been reading a series of non-fiction works on World War II history, covering works on wartime Churchill and the rise of Nazi Germany. If anyone was going to enjoy The Perfect Horse, dammit, it'd be me.

But just pages into the book, I knew The Perfect Horse was destined to disappoint - and even to annoy me. I debated even writing a negative word about it on this, my unread blog. Elizabeth Letts worked hard and birthed a book that the vast majority of reviewers loved. They praised her research, her passion, and her eloquence. And I was but three pages in when I started to sigh and shake my head at the cliche-ridden, stylistically-painful tome. 

I use the word "tome" ironically here. How many people actually use the word tome unironically? Probably about as many as there are horsemen who carry sugar lumps in their pockets and refer to their horses as "steeds" and continually wax poetic about their prancing hooves, velvet noses, majestic presence, deep brown eyes, and full-throated whinny. And therein is what drove me utterly crazy about Letts' book: it's written like a bodice-ripper for horsewomen. No sentence is free of incessant strings of adjectives. There's no simple "blue sky," or even an azure sky; instead, every sky is radiant blue. The horses are imbued with human qualities and even prescience at every turn of phrase. Since no one knows what people were actually thinking or feeling during the moments she dwells upon with such full-throated ecstasy, Letts goes out of her way to fully describe what they must have been thinking, or how they would certainly have known. No one rises from his chair; they all spring, or leap, or coil. 

Lest you think I'm unduly harsh, here's a bodice-ripper sample for you, chosen randomly by just flipping the book open to page 44: "The stallion's crest was arched, his nose was perpendicular to the floor, and his hind legs were gathered underneath him, showing off the powerfully developed muscles in his massive hindquarters." Be still, my beating heart! I need a cigarette. (I've never smoked one, but how else to convey my quivering orgiastic sensation after reading such a purple passage?) Throughout the book, we have soldiers constantly stroking velvet noses, an act many real-life horsemen hesitate to engage in because it encourages nipping - especially in stallions - and when they aren't stroking velvety noses, they're "handing out lumps of sugar" to each horse, an even more egregious act of encouraging bad manners. That's not to say that these battle-hardened soldiers didn't carry sugar cubes in every pocket and constantly stuff them into all available velvety muzzles; it's just, well, unlikely. The velvet and sweetness prevails throughout the length of the book. On page 247, we have "Witez, with his velvety nose ..." and those velvety noses and their accompanying "soft whinnies and friendly nudges" were often greeted with "soothing words" from their human handlers. Your stallions have gotten loose together on a thrashing ship on stormy seas? Breathe soothing words at them!

The horses were ennobled and humanized to the point of hilarity. They constantly "seemed to understand the danger" or acted in such a way "as if to say ..." Their nostrils constantly trumpeted, and their hooves constantly stamped. Coats shone like burnished bronze. When first we meet Witez, we're introduced to his "luminous dark brown eyes" and his "delicate flaring nostrils." On page 266, "Witez cantered along a hillside trail, kicking up small puffs of dust with each stride. His coat shone with a coppery fire; his black tail floated behind him like plumes of blowing smoke." On 273, Witez's "large dark eyes" survey his kingdom as he shows his "well-shaped head and sculpted muzzle." Just three pages later, his "fine boned head turned, deep brown eyes lighting up in recognition" and he emits a "deep, full-throated whinny" with "dark eyes set off by an irregular white star, the curved ears that seemed almost to touch when he pricked them forward." Here we have a reunion, and Witez's "nostrils fluted, showing delicate pink inside," as he extends his velvety muzzle to be stroked by one of the soldiers who'd brought the horse to America. I am certain the man offered him a lump of sugar. The stallion deserved it, for he'd live on to be 27, when his "dappled coat shone and his tail floated on the soft California breeze." By page 280, I was inwardly groaning when I read, "The polished brass of his leather halter jingling as his hooved thumped on the ramp. He raised his head, flicked his ears, and trumpeted his pink-and-black speckled nostrils ... Picking a familiar face out of the crowd, he lowered his head and let out a warm whinny." Can we quit trumpeting nostrils, Bueller? How many flicked ears and deep dark eyes must we endure?

In between the soft-eyed-horse-porn full-throated whinnies and the floating tails, Letts actually introduces a lot of damned good information. It's a compelling story, for sure; precious bloodstock rescued from the clutches of brutal Nazis and delivered in a harrowing mission across the ocean to what turns out to be a rather uncaring America. Letts accompanies her text with an excellent selection of photographs of horses and men alike. But you must get past the constant cliches: "the cream of the crop," blending in "like a chameleon," "his face showed no emotion, but inside he was a nervous wreck," and "as still as porcelain statues." Letts brings a lot of solid characters to life, if you don't mind the repetition of paired adjectives. With proper editing, this 350-page book could have been an outstanding 250-page adventure. But somehow redundant and fluffy writing like this slipped past the editorial team - both of these examples are even on the same page, 117: "After one last lump of sugar, one last pat on the neck, Hank said goodbye to his ponies ..." and "Horsemen proffered an extra sugar lump, feeling the tickle of whiskers on the flat of their hands as they looked into their four-legged friends' inscrutable dark eyes." With a few cups less sugar and a lot less gazing into each others' dark eyes, Letts might have had a finely-written tale.

Would I discourage anyone from reading Letts' book? Absolutely not. It's worth it for the historical perspective and for the memory of the truly great Arabian and Lipizzaner stallions rescued during an inhumane war. Kudos to Elizabeth Letts for fully researching and retelling their story. If you'd like to form your own opinion, here's an affiliate link to buy your own copy through Amazon: The Perfect Horse. Heck, it's a New York Times Bestseller, and a winner of research non-fiction awards. You'll probably love it. But if you find the full-throated whinnies and dancing hooves a bit cloying, don't say I didn't warn you.

Harley Quinn Flies High in Birds of Prey

Let me just say this right up front: I liked Suicide Squad. I liked the pace, the characters, the screen writing, and most of all, I liked Margot Robbie's exuberant badassery as Harley Quinn. Robbie's got a golden touch and such undeniable charisma - a presence rarely seen in today's starlets - I'd give a film a chance just to enjoy Robbie's talent. Despite my annoyance with woke cinema, and my utter reluctance to see distaff reboots of B-list efforts, I'd been looking forward to Birds of Prey. It wasn't because the trailer was particularly appealing; it wasn't. It wasn't because I love every super-hero and super-villain film around; I don't. It's because of the potential to do great things with the Harley Quinn / Margot Robbie winning ticket.

The film opened in theaters just three days ago. Not one to enjoy crowds, I waited until this afternoon - a Monday - in hopes of a quiet venue at the Imax. It was, in fact, so quiet that my friend and I had the theater to ourselves other than two other women who, as luck would have it, were actually sitting in the two exact seats my friend and I selected (even though the other two gals bought their tickets and selected their seats first). Go figure. In this near-empty theater, the four of us sat in a knot and waited through an exhaustively long preview for another film before Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) opened.

I opted not to read anyone's review prior to the film; so often reviews are much of the same refrain. I couldn't tell you if critics liked it or not. As for me, I give it two baseball bats up. Despite the frenetic jump-cut pace, the beginning scenes were tedious enough, but as the film warmed up and the plot solidified, I warmed up to the film as well. It's a fun film, humor-filled and visually a treat. The cast, from Margot Robbie to Ewan McGregor, was capable, with Rosie Perez as the tough-as-nails perpetually-underappreciated detective, and Mary Elizabeth Winstead as "the Huntress" deserving special mention. Robbie, of course, steals the show in every appearance. As an especially physical actress, she uses her body to command the scenes much as Johnny Depp does in his productions. She's simply great fun to watch.

In film, just as with literature, I appreciate allusions to other works. References to Reservoir Dogs were clear in Birds of Prey: the villain, Ewan McGregor's Roman Sionis, had a half-dancing way of moving that called back to Michael Madsen's twisted Mr. Blonde, and the famous three-way standoff of Dogs is re-created in Birds. Glimpses of The Warriors shine through at times, and shades of buddy-squad films such as The Magnificent Seven are perhaps present. Yet despite these and other references to past films, Birds of Prey has its own distinctive style and approach. Much of it has to do with the "woman's touch" in the production. Written by Christina Hodson, directed by Cathy Yan, and starring an all-woman squad of badass criminals and crime-fighters, the film does a largely admirable job of presenting uniquely female motivations and plot lines. These aren't just women chosen for their physical beauty; some, such as Rosie Perez's character, are surprisingly relatable. They kick ass when fighting, but in some beautifully gymnastic ways, choreographed well to highlight agility and legginess.

The soundtrack features female musicians and female-themed songs throughout. Paying homage to rockers like Joan Jett and Pat Benatar, the music is as capably done as the soundtrack to Deadpool. Nothing is lost by the emphasis on female characters, plot lines, or contributors to the film. It's no Ghostbusters on estrogen, nor is it simply a wokey-wokey version of The Avengers. However, it does slip into heavy-handedness in one jarringly unnecessary line: Ellen Jay Basco's Cassandra Cain, aka "the kid," painfully blurts out something to the effect of, "You're not the only one making money off dumb white men." How refreshing it would have been to watch a newer film that, just once, doesn't bask in the "white men evil" fad. The film is good enough on its own merits that it doesn't need to call on tired female empowerment / male toxicity standbys. The diverse cast is a success because they're good entertainers, not because they're diverse; they stand on their own, with perhaps the exception of Basco. Given a relatively ineffectual character to play, Basco isn't charismatic enough or skillful enough at delivering her lines to make the "kid" sympathetic.

It's a shame the film played to such an empty theater. It deserves better. Far better than Suicide Squad, perhaps it's tainted by association with that generally ill-received film. It offers satisfying fight scenes, likable characters, hatable villains, a tolerable story line, plenty of pyrotechnics, and a soundtrack that'll keep you wanting to rock long after the lights come on. Most of all, it has the hyper-talented Margot Robbie as the hyper-charming Harley Quinn. It doesn't take itself too seriously, and for high-energy escapism, you won't go away disappointed.

Midnight Cowboy, 51 Years Later

In recent months I've been catching up on films, good and bad, that I missed when they were released but that influenced culture in a variety of ways. Although I never saw Midnight Cowboy until tonight - I was six when it was released - I grew up with an appreciation of its impact on cinema, and with a vague awareness of its plot. I'd forgotten - or maybe I never knew? - it was X-rated on release. I knew   critics applauded Jon Voight and Dustin Hoffman for their gritty, pathos-bathed performances. I knew they portrayed hustlers in the flophouse districts of Manhattan, although I'd always thought they were explicitly and solely gay hustlers.

I didn't know how very stark I'd find the film. Having recently watched Joker I can say Cowboy makes Joker seem uplifting. They share themes of lonely misfits trying to forge a humble path in an uncaring and insensitive world, where alienation and survival override abiding by laws and social mores. Unlike Arthur Fleck, Enrico "Ratzo" Rizzo and Joe Buck find friendship and solidarity in each other's company. Their humanity is a jarring contrast to the absence of it in Joker. They're losers, but they're losers who care and sacrifice for each other.

John Schlesinger glamorizes nothing about the film. The marvel of it is how little the characters have to offer in the way of redeeming qualities. Joe Buck isn't a savant; he's a barely-literate mentally-slow dishwasher. There's no hidden genius or talent behind his faux-cowboy visage. He sees the "Mutual of New York" neon sign, the first letters of each word emphasized, and believes it spells "Mony." He writes the letter "e" backwards. He struggles to understand, and he's fool enough to think he's going to make it big in the city.

Ratzo, a tubercular who lives not on the kindness of others but on their turned backs, vacillates between fearfulness and longing. He's neither witty nor charming. Yet despite Rizzo and Buck's character flaws and sleaziness, they're sympathetic beings. They invoke compassion and sadness and an overwhelming urge to wash one's hands in hot water.

Today, such a film would hardly shock, much less be considered for an X rating. The performances hold up after so many years, but seem "stagey" and more theatrical than cinematic. This isn't a criticism; it's refreshing. Perhaps my greatest surprise was the understated homoerotic themes, having grown up hearing references to the film's homosexual story line. Instead, Ratzo and Joe share a loving relationship based on friendship and caring. Of the many sex scenes in the film, the only two characters who truly care for each other do not participate at all.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood: Favorite Allusions and References

This past year found me more at a disconnect with less-vintage generations than I've felt before. It manifested in the expected, time-worn ways: opposing politics and values; a difference in technological choices and abilities; and generational rivalries. It was the first year, though, that I noticed vast differences of opinions regarding films. Never one to hold critics and reviewers in contempt as a default mode, I've long appreciated thoughtful and well-written reviews. In recent months I noticed two patterns: One, that every film has to be judged now on wokeness as well as film-making quality; and second, that today's writers on the film beat just do not appreciate the movies I love.

As soon as I saw the trailers for Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, I was instantly smitten. It wasn't the all-star leading lineup that took hold of me, nor even the fact it was a Tarantino film (whom I unabashedly adore). I was hooked on the wistful, joyful nostalgia that shone through. Here was a film that clearly paid tribute to the series, movies, and events I grew up watching. Here, among all the all-female reboots and tenth-generation sequels that Hollywood has spawned in recent years, was a jewel of an original. For the first time in years, I eagerly awaited a movie release date. 

Once did not disappoint. Every minute offered an exuberant take on Hollywood characters and industry, overlaid on a tapestry of the culture and personalities of 1969. I fail to understand the reviewers who felt it lacked plot or depth; I found both. DiCaprio and Pitt turned out stellar performances of men struggling with their midlife career challenges, and ever-watchable Margot Robbie delighted with each sunny scene she graced. But best of all, for boomers such as myself, were the wondrous allusions and references to past events and films buried within the script and set design. 

As I gathered the subtler references that delighted me so, I realized here may be why the film didn't thrill the younger reviewers as much as it did me: Perhaps, not having grown up watching dusty reruns of western series in the 70s, or having missed reading the horrors of the Manson murders as they were reported the days immediately after, the reviewers simply didn't "get" many of the allusions. Perhaps they did, and simply found the boomer-oriented, unfashionably white film relevant.  For those who enjoyed it as I did, here's a retrospective of my favorite such allusions and buried gems within the film. For those who didn't enjoy it (and if so, why the heck are you reading this?) here are some of the interesting details you might have missed.

The Title

The very name Once Upon a Time in Hollywood hearkens back to the spaghetti-westerns made in the 1960s, specifically referring to Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West. DiCaprio's character, of course, was a fading star of Bounty Law, a Rifleman-like series who revives his stardom and financial standing by traveling to Rome to make spaghetti westerns. Leone, by the way, also made Once Upon a Time in America. The choice of "Once Upon a Time" is, of course, a reference to a fairy tale - and with Tarantino's version of events in Once, a fairy tale happy ending can be had after all. That's the thing about Tarantino: He thinks on several levels, and analyzing his films always brings some symbolic or metaphoric surprises.

The Series within the Film ... and the Starring Motorcyclist 

While we are captivated by the decline of Rick Dalton, DiCaprio's character, we also find ourselves enjoying the plot of an episode of Lancer, a western in which Dalton guest stars as a villain. Lancer was (in real life) a popular series running from 1968 to 1970, one of many family-legacy types of westerns. Starring James Stacy as the gunslinger brother, Johnny Madrid, Lancer (like so many westerns of the time) featured the usual heavy-handed patriarch; diametrically-opposed brothers; and a headstrong, lovable sister. 

Within Once, we see the Johnny Madrid character as acted by the latest flavor-of-the-month popular hunky star, James Stacy (played by Timothy Olyphant). Dalton is now aware he's being put up against Stacy so Stacy can benefit from being seen as "killing off" the star of the past, Dalton. After cutting away from the episode Dalton guest stars, Tarantino briefly shows the James Stacy character leaving the set, putting on his helmet, and climbing onto his motorcycle. The scene is so subtle and inconsequential, it almost seems out of place ... but true movie buffs will revel in that moment, for real-life James Stacy, on September 28, 1973, climbed on his motorcycle for one last time. With his girlfriend, Clair Cox, behind him on the bike, Stacy's bike was struck head-on by a motorist who'd been drinking at a bar called "The Chopping Block." Cox was killed instantly, and James Stacy nearly died. As a result of the gruesome wreck, he lost his left leg and his left arm. 

Prior to the wreck, James Stacy had been a Hollywood favorite. From 1968 - 1969 he'd been married to Kim Darby, who starred in one of my favorite westerns from childhood - the original True Grit. Before that, from 1963 - 1966, he'd been married to actress Connie Stevens. Suddenly, with the wreck, his leading-man status was gone. Although he did return to acting despite his amputations, he would never again be the star he was. Shortly after the wreck, Connie Stevens (who remained a good friend to him) was among the celebrities who organized a fundraiser for him. Later, Stacy sued the Chopping Block Bar for damages for over-serving the drunk driver who hit him; he received $1.9 million. 

The real James Stacy in 1968, before tragedy struck. 

Connie Stevens is also portrayed in Once, played by Dreama Walker. Tarantino, who credits his audience with being able to draw lines between the dots in his films, doesn't dwell on any of these connections, but they're neatly present nonetheless.

In another sad sidenote to the James Stacy story, Stacy served six years in prison later in his life for molesting an eleven-year-old child (and stalking others). Knowing he was facing prison time, he flung himself off a cliff in a suicide attempt in Hawaii. The ultimate survivor, the double-amputee survived the fall and lived until 2016, when he died at age 79.

Paul Revere and the Raiders

Several references were made to the music of Paul Revere and the Raiders in the scenes showing Sharon Tate (played deftly by Margot Robbie) in the house at 10050 Cielo Drive. That house, where the Manson murders of Sharon Tate and friends occurred in real life, had been previously occupied by record producer Terry Melcher. Terry is referenced several times in the film, as Charles Manson visits the neighborhood trying to track him down. Terry's roommates in the home were his girlfriend, Candice Bergen, and his friend Mark Lindsay. Mark Lindsay was the lead singer for the band Paul Revere and the Raiders. In Once, Sharon Tate and company play and dance to records by the band; Brad Pitt's character, Clifford Booth, listens to them from the rooftop of the house next door. Four of the band's songs are featured in the film.

A little more trivia: Terry Melcher was also the son of Doris Day.

Red Apple Tobacco

One of the great product placements of filmdom, Red Apple Tobacco shows up in several of Tarantino's films. He doesn't reap the rewards of advertising money for highlighting it, though - it only exists in Tarantino's world. The cigarettes, distinctively packaged in a pack with a seedy-looking worm protruding from an apple, appear in Once's commercials-within-the-film, promoted by Rick Dalton. The full commercial is a bonus feature on the DVD version. Don't look for Red Apple Tobacco at your favorite vendors - but look for it on Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill, The Hateful Eight, and Inglourious Basterds, among other QT films.

The Narrator 

Midway through Once, the format of the film shifts and a narrator takes over, verbally time-stamping events of the film and describing the action. (That narrator, Kurt Russell, also plays a casting director in the film.) The narrative device occurs as the film shifts to the events of the night of August 8, 1969 - the night of the Manson Family murders of Sharon Tate, Jay Sebring, Abigail Folger, Steven Parent, and Wojtek Frykowski at 10050 Cielo Drive. The change to a narrator-driven format provides a sense of urgency to the events at hand, and builds suspense. It's also familiar to cinema buffs, for it was used to great effect in Goodfellas. Tarantino employs it as yet another tribute to great films. 

The Wilhelm Scream

Movie buffs immediately recognize the famous Wilhelm Scream - that stock "aaaaaargghhhh" scream used originally in a 1951 film, and inserted routinely in films since. At first used because it was a terrifically hideous male scream, it later became a tradition for filmmakers to include it in their films. Listen for it in Once.

The Flame Thrower

The infamous flame thrower from Rick Dalton's appearance in "The 14 Fists of McCluskey" makes a grand entrance at the film's climax. Look for it earlier leaning against the wall in Dalton's backyard cabana / shed when Cliff Booth is rustling up supplies to fix the antenna on the roof.

The Rolling Stones "Out of Time"

As we watch Margot Robbie's Sharon Tate approaching the film's climax, the Rolling Stones' sing the words, "Baby, baby, baby, you're out of time," in a haunting warning. It's almost heartbreakingly poignant. It's one of my favorite accompaniments on the soundtrack, so perfectly incorporated into the film's foray between real life and historical revision.

Another Clu

One of the standbys of 1960s TV western series was rugged, good-looking Clu Gulager. He shows up as a bookstore proprietor in Once, talking literature with Sharon Tate. His brief appearance is dignified and avuncular, unlike the wonderfully crude George Spahn played by my favorite villain, Bruce Dern. Although Burt Reynolds was Tarantino's original choice for Spahn, he died before filming. Dern steals the show in typical gritty Dern style, an irascible old man untroubled by etiquette (or polite society),

The Manson Family

Volumes have been written on the background of Charlie and his murderous family, and much could be written regarding the characters they inspired in the film. Highlights in Once include "Squeaky," played chillingly by Dakota Fanning. Squeaky is inspired by Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme, the family member who served decades in prison for her attempt on the life of President Gerald Ford. Squeaky, the first member of Charlie's family, engaged in multiple offenses outside the Manson cult as well. "Tex" Watson is another of the film's well-portrayed cult members. The member of the clan who runs away and leaves Cielo Drive in the car when the situation became all too real appears to be an interpretation of Linda Kasabian, the member who testified against them when the murders went to trial. In real life, Linda did not run away, although she testified that she would have, had her small child not been back at Spahn Ranch. Tarantino's composite had either the moral fiber or the self-interest to do so. 

One of the real-life Manson victims was a 6'4" stunt man by name of Donald "Shorty" Shea, a ranch hand at Spahn Ranch. Clifford Booth's suspenseful visit to the ranch alludes to the man's presence at Spahn Ranch. Like Booth's character, Shea's career was dwindling, but the fictional Booth fared better. Shea was tortured and brutally killed, his corpse remaining concealed and unrecovered for nearly a decade afterwards.

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