The Krays

The Krays (119 minutes) 1991/Rated R – starring Gary Kemp, Martin Kemp, Billie Whitelaw, Tom Bell, Susan Fleetwood, Charlotte Cornwell, Kate Hardie, Avis Bunnage, Alfred Lynch, Gary Love, and Steven Berkoff. Directed by Peter Medak. Released through RCA/Columbia Pictures Home Video.

The riveting true-life story of the Kray brothers, Reg and Ron, peppered the British tabloids in sordid detail throughout the 1960s, fascinating housewives and businessmen alike. The trail of mayhem and violence they left behind, either through machine gun chatter or samurai swordplay, remains legendary in the annals of English crime. After their arrests and convictions for the murders of gangsters George Cornell and Jack “The Hats” McVitie, the U.K., and specifically London, gave a hearty sigh of relief. The British comedy troupe Monty Python tried to bring levity to the twins’ awesome exploits by spoofing them in television sketches as the Piranha Brothers.

Director Peter Medak translated their shallow lives to the screen in his 1991 film version of “The Krays.” Starring Spandau Ballet’s guitarist Gary Kemp as Ron Kray and bassist Martin Kemp as Reg Kray, the two musicians and real-life brothers got their first break in motion pictures turning in tremendous performances as the dreaded duo. Gone were the wispy, fey facades they fostered in their videos for such Top-Ten hits as “True” and “Gold.” The Kemps glowered fiercely and hinted with subtlety at their characters’ underlying damaged souls.

Not only is “The Krays” a great gangster flick, it strives to peel back the psychological underpinnings of its two antiheroes. Growing up during the Second World War, the Kray twins seemed to have an eerie, unspoken bond that united every breath they took. A compelling moment early on in the film showcases an amateur boxing bout at a local carnival, where members of the audience are free to climb into the ring for a challenge. The two Krays inaudibly invite the other onto the canvas and proceed to pummel the living ca-ca out of each other. Not only do they play together, they practically want to kill each other! The Freudian probe extends deeper as we see their mother Violet (the superb Billie Whitelaw) smother them with tough love, garnering a greater respect from them than they afford their wimpy dad. They sit by her side throughout the movie like malevolent Dobermans. By the time the boys are rich thugs, running posh nightclubs and wiping out their competition, their dear mum is still seen shuffling around their abode, serving all members in the gang some tea and biscuits.

Gary Kemp’s Ron is a loose cannon, unhinged by the fact that he is a closet homosexual, and incestuously jealous of his brother’s affections for a society girl. The homoerotic tension between the two siblings onscreen lends each scene a taboo-inciting undercurrent that practically screams for a damnable moment of consummation. Martin Kemp’s Reg is torn between his heartfelt desires for a wife-to-be and his all-consuming love for his bro. Martin is particularly effective when he is shattered by the suicide of his wife and then resurrects himself into a homicidal beast far more unhinged than his fellow psycho sibling. The Kemp lads, although two years apart in age, inhabit these doppelganger roles so smoothly — their body language moving in tandem, their wordplay complementing the other in staccato soft rhythm — that they’ve practically invented a new kind of two-headed movie villain. Gary Kemp once told a fan, “Martin is not just the best friend of mine, but my conscience too. And then there are no secrets between us, not even on stage.” These brothers were born to play these roles.

While both of the boys pursued subsequent acting gigs, mostly forgettable straight-to-video fodder, “The Krays” remains their most outstanding accomplishment. The supporting cast is all-pro, and the technicians behind the scenes have made the film wonderful to look at. Aside from a few overextended musical numbers at the Krays’ nightclub, the movie gallops along at a fast clip, twisting and turning through each brother’s erratic sociopathic episode. For a night of insightful, intelligent entertainment concerning infamous hoods on the other side of the Atlantic, “The Krays” will fit the bill like a bloody cup of tea.

© 2000 Ned Truslow

The Leading Man

The Leading Man (96 minutes) 1996/Rated R – starring Jon Bon Jovi, Anna Galiena, Lambert Wilson, Thandie Newton, Barry Humphries, Patricia Hodge, Diana Quick, Harriet Walter, David Warner. Directed by John Duigan. Released through BMG Independents Home Video.

British playwright Felix Webb is having an affair with the leading lady of his latest production, Hilary Rule. Felix’s wife Elena suspects he is straying. Felix does not wish to hurt Elena’s feelings as he contemplates leaving her for Hilary. Enter Jon Bon Jovi as Robin Grange, a sweet-talking, smoldering, high-profile American actor who has chosen to perform in Felix’s new play. Sensing the distraught Felix’s weakness of the heart, Robin swoops in like a silent tornado, with his lothario looks and slick charisma, offering to seduce Elena, for Felix’s sake, of course, so that Hilary and Felix can conduct their affair guilt-free. What Robin’s true motivations are and how this quartet of carnal cougars contend with Robin’s overt sexuality, ultimately set this plot on a path to potential destruction.

John Duigan, director of films like “Wide Sargasso Sea” and “Sirens,” has had a knack for presenting sophisticated plotting and mature themes in a bemused, uncomplicated manner throughout his sexually-entrenched narratives. “The Leading Man” tumbles each turn of the story over in an uncontrived, realistic fashion. It’s like watching a long episode of “Red Shoe Diaries,” except that with Duigon’s deft touch, you can satisfyingly enjoy the proceedings with your brain turned on as well as your lust.

Jon Bon Jovi does a great job with his role as the mysterious Robin. With his wide smile and soft voice, which never rises above seduction level, he presents the mask of a cipher who only seeks to manipulate and toy with the feelings of others, just because he can. Little touches Duigan’s crew bring to Bon Jovi’s character, such as a small basketball hoop on the back of his dressing room door, help to spotlight the Americanized playfulness Robin is exuding amongst his very English co-stars. Robin is the consummate, conceited actor, a two-dimensional character gliding through real life, devoid of a past, who delights in the instant pleasures he can derive from only the present and the future. Consequences and conscience do not ever cause doubt in him. Bon Jovi, dressed mostly in casual black, knows exactly when to throw a smile to melt a lady’s heart, appears quietly super-confident when a sexy groupie approaches him, and appropriately calm when he moves in tight to stroke the hair of his female prey. So many actors on the screen these days are not able to appear at utmost ease when executing a cerebral playboy role like this. Bon Jovi is comfortable.

The other actors in “The Leading Man” are in top form as well. As the suffering wife, Elena, Anna Galiena exudes humanity and touching grace as she yearns for someone to cast nurturing light on the empty chambers of her heart. Lambert Wilson expertly conveys Felix as a man who conspires to shape his romantic destiny, which, in the end, only serves to reduce him to an unsatisfied, detached existence. And Thandie Newton capably presents Hilary’s tug-of-war emotions as the proverbial woman-in-the-middle pawn. As a favor to Duigan, who cast her in her first major feature film role in “Flirting,” Nicole Kidman shows up in a cameo as an awards presenter, giving the film’s climax an appropriate credibility ace-in-the-hole.

The film’s photography and lighting are gorgeously golden and soft, which lends to the love-in-the-air tone of the piece. Duigan’s subtle direction turns even the briefest of scenes into stylish artistry. For example, a moment in which Elena is getting ready to go out to meet her new love, Robin, is interrupted when Elena’s daughter pops her head in and comments on how beautiful her mother looks. This is all that is said in the scene, yet the daugther delivers the line choked up because ultimately, it’s not a compliment, but an acknowledgment that she knows her mom is having an affair. This scene could have played much more confrontational and overwrought in a less competent director’s hands, but Duigan’s tactful finesse is masterfully evident in the majority of moments throughout this film. For a night of intellectual and mature interplay, “The Leading Man,” and in particular, Jon Bon Jovi’s performance, are well worth a peek.

© 2000 Ned Truslow

The Wedding Planner

The Wedding Planner (100 minutes) Rated PG-13/2001 – starring Jennifer Lopez, Matthew McConaughey, Bridgette Wilson-Sampras, Justin Chambers, Judy Greer, Alex Rocco, Joanna Gleason, Charles Kimbrough, Fred Willard, Kathy Najimy, and Kevin Pollak. Directed by Adam Shankman. Now in theaters and distributed by Columbia Pictures.

As a website devoted to music and the personalities that make those notes come alive, it’s fair to say that when we review a movie around here, we’re not only checking out the acting, the story, and the photography, but also the soundtrack. Music, of course, is used for character definition, pacing, and can signal an underlying mood in support, or counterpoint, to the story unfolding on the screen. Unless it’s used during a moment devoid of dialogue, a film’s soundtrack should be subtle and masterfully subordinate or complementary to the scene at hand. Someone tell Mervyn Warren this. He’s the overbearing composer of “The Wedding Planner.”

If you haven’t seen this film but intend to, listen up to the score. I don’t think you’ll have much of a choice not to ignore it. This is how not to score a film. Every comic “gesture,” however lame it is, is given a kooky musical “stab” for emphasis. Even those moments when one character simply gives a “look” at another is nudged with cutesy notes. Lines that fall flat in wit are unmercifully “pumped up” with a jolly orchestral titter. And scenes that are just plain ordinary (fer cryin’ out loud!), are given such a goofy, giddy goose under the musical direction of Warren that the tone of “The Wedding Planner” rockets far past the insipid, groan-inducing merriment of a Dean Jones-Sandy Duncan matinee.

The film’s achievement in mediocrity shouldn’t be laid completely at the feet of its composer, however. The two writers who share screenplay credit must have never collaborated on the final draft because the movie feels as if one script was stitched onto the other halfway through the storyline. When the film begins, unhitched wedding guide Jennifer Lopez, a woman who is so anal she alphabetizes her credit cards, meets “cute” with the glazed charm of Matthew McConaughey, after he rescues her from a runaway dumpster. The two connect romantically on a date before Lopez learns that the drawling Don Juan is due to marry a socialite and poor Jennifer is in charge of the wedding details. What unfolds for the next 45 minutes are “comedic” vignettes so uninspired and contrived that more originality seemed to ooze from the red-lit EXIT sign next to the theater’s screen.

Watch how the duo dance a synchronized tango together at a ballroom dance class, all the while arguing with each other! See Matthew overreacting to a comment Jennifer makes to his fiancee by swerving into oncoming traffic! Bust a gut over Mr. McConaughey inexplicably being drawn into competing with an Italian admirer of Jennifer’s as the two men lift weights and wrestle each other! All of these stock “comedy” scenes might have risen above their banal execution if any one character in this film had the slightest connection to a human being. Jennifer and Matthew elicit no initial chemistry together. Their supposed romantic “connection” turning point, at an outdoor date in a San Francisco Park (actually shot at LA’s Veteran’s Administration Hospital), is absolutely barren of scintillating dialogue or genuine feeling. The story demands that these two get together, but outside the confines of the flickering frame, you’d never buy in real life that these characters “instantly” cared for each other.

Lopez, who’s feisty work in “Out of Sight” and “U-Turn” showed a woman who can bring spark and depth to a role, has absolutely nothing to play with here. First off, we’re supposed to swallow the fact that her wedding planner hasn’t had a date in two years, as a fallout result of a broken-heart. That leaves Jennifer with nothing to do but basically be a gorgeous wallflower with a winning smile. Not entirely believable. The man she does fall for is not very charming. Oh sure, the screenwriters have painted the “by-the-numbers” wacky scenarios mentioned above for McConaughey to force the audience to accept his veneer of charm. But since his fiancee, played by the wonderfully-grounded Bridgitte Wilson-Sampras, is portrayed as a delightful companion in her own right, and Matthew’s time is simply spent skulking about, almost creepily, pursuing Lopez, his character comes across as not very genuine and worse yet, a bit of a cad.

When the script switches tone jarringly halfway through the movie, the two leads suddenly become different characters. They instantly are given a semblance of maturity, as they take long moments to discuss their conflicts and feelings. Jennifer’s only standout performance in the film occurs during this second half, when she gets inebriated and mumbles her lines with abandon. For once, the director allows the “situation” and Lopez’ acting chops to calmly exhibit the comedy element to a scene instead of bombastically goosing it with overuse of smarmy looks or that horrid music score. Speaking of which, Mervyn Warren finally takes a brief moment to layer on the romantic strings with an appropriate cue during Lopez’ drunken scene before going over-the-top nutty at the end.

Believability, a romantic bond and comedic balance are all we ask out of a decent lighthearted tale of the heart. “The Wedding Planner” unfortunately had a flat tire while delivering these elements to the chapel of love.

© 2001 Ned Truslow

Wanted Dead Or Alive

Wanted Dead Or Alive (104 minutes) 1987/Rated R – starring Rutger Hauer, Gene Simmons, Robert Guillaume, Mel Harris, William Russ, Susan MacDonald, Jerry Hardin, Hugh Gillin, Robert Harper, Suzanne Wouk, and Eli Danker. Directed by Gary Sherman. Originally released through New World Home Video.

It’s fair to say there are so many by-the-numbers maverick-cop-versus-malicious-foreign-terrorist-organization films in the archives of global cinema today, that it takes skillful writing, clever direction, and solid performers to breathe life into this overly-tired formula. Most of the recent endeavors are produced with lightning-quick scenes (usually under two minutes), are littered with canted camera angles and swish pans, and have an assortment of B-grade actors spewing anger and irritation without the slightest care to lending their personas an ounce of emotional resonance. So, it’s a rather unique viewing experience to get nostalgic and watch one of these formulaic movies from a decade and a half ago.

“Wanted Dead Or Alive” is certainly no masterpiece. At best, it’s just average B-grade action fare. But its characters do stop to talk a moment. The execution of scenes aren’t one big truncated MTV montage. When maverick, ex-detective, bounty hunter Rutger Hauer enters his voluminous loft in an abandoned warehouse in downtown LA, we get to see him simply take a moment to check the mail, amble into different rooms, in essence, Breathe. As stilted as Hauer’s line delivery tends to be, the camera lingers on him, allowing us to examine his features longer than two seconds, read the worry and concerns in his brow. These are shadings of characterization, however minute, that are all but lost in today’s B-grade action pictures. Hauer’s Nick Randall becomes likeable not because the camera poses him a certain way, not because he blows away innumerable bad guys, and not because the script gives him clever witticisms honed by writers hired to punch up the material. No, he’s just interesting because we’re given time to study him.

The story concerns a former fed agent (Hauer), once linked to anti-terrorist efforts in the Middle East, being caught up in attempts to thwart the violent plottings of a renegade faction led by Malak Al Rahim (the superbly-malevolent KISS maestro Gene Simmons). Of course, there’s someone corrupt within the feds who have persuaded Nick, now a bounty hunter, to work along with the organization again. Yes, the plot is propelled by Rutger shaking down the low men on Rahim’s totem pole until he finally catches up with the madman. But both hero and antagonist act in such an understated manner, that it’s a guilty pleasure to see the story unfold in an unhurried, yet predictable, manner.

Hauer’s full Flock-of-Seagulls mane of blond hair and the Members Only jackets worn by several extras date this as a the mid-eighties adventure it is. The relationship between Hauer and his girlfriend Terry (Mel Harris), and his friendship with his cop friend (William Russ), are quite realistic and given some screen time to develop, and therefore, both are given tragic weight when the terrorists dispatch these two people that Hauer cares for. As far as worthy opponents go, Gene Simmons agreeably chews the scenery with his menacing sneer and bone-dry utterances. He embraces his villainy with relish, as he coldly shoots one of his cohorts in both the foot and in the kneecap to extract information. After splattering the brains of a female operative against the inside of the window of a truck he’s driving, Simmons nonchalantly wipes away a clean spot from the bloodied pane as if it were just a smidgen of dirt clouding his vision. In other words, he’s baaaad, but not in an overstated way.

You may find the majority of “Wanted Dead Or Alive” forgettable, but low-key charm can be found in its leisurely pacing and concerned characters. The climax of the film, when Hauer finally finishes off the ruthless Simmons in a unique, show-stopping manner, however, is quite memorable, I can assure you.

© 2000 Ned Truslow

McVicar

McVicar (104 minutes) 1980 – starring Roger Daltrey, Adam Faith, Cheryl Campbell, Steven Berkoff, Brian Hall, Jeremy Blake, Leonard Gregory, Peter Janfield, Anthony Trent, and Ian Hendry. Directed by Tom Clegg. Originally released through Vestron Home Video.

John McVicar was Britain’s most wanted criminal in the late 1960s. Famous for his armed robbery exploits, he was finally nabbed and sent away to prison for 23 years. Obtaining a college degree behind bars, he was subsequently released in 1978 after serving eleven years and went on to be a broadcaster and a freelance journalist. His recent articles have tackled subjects as diverse as the World Chess Championships and the Russian Secret Service. Nowhere in the film “McVicar,” co-written by the ex-con himself, does it showcase the man being any brighter, charming or conniving than the average bank robber. What the movie does highlight is the fact that The Who’s frontman, Roger Daltrey, finally learned how to act on the big screen after a series of stilted, silly performances in the early 1970s.

After his goofy, deer-in-headlights turns in “Tommy” and “Lisztomania,” Daltrey must have felt the sting of the laughter and cast about for meatier roles. Set up under the funding of the rock group’s movie division, Who Films, “McVicar” presented him with numerous situations to scowl, sneer and appear generally peeved. The screenplay, however, makes Daltrey’s efforts seem smug and tonally inappropriate because, frankly, the McVicar character comes across simply as a self-absorbed, average thief who should’ve gotten just what he deserved.

The first hour of the movie takes place in the prison system. Under the kinetic force of Daltrey’s title song, “Free Me,” McVicar is transferred to a tighter security facility. The place isn’t San Quentin or The Tombs. It looks adequately accommodating. So when McVicar instantly institutes a riotous mutiny just because the cons would have to wear prison issue uniforms and work a little during the week, his actions elicit the thought, “poor baby.” The guards at the penitentiary are quite chipper and hardly overbearing. “C’mon now lads we’re all gonna lose on this,” the chief officer tells the barricaded rioters. You almost expect them all to sit down for a cup of tea. The brutes respond by tearing the administrative offices apart, and then they sing a good-natured pub ditty. This movie about hardened criminals makes the whole thing look like a Bing Crosby Catholic school fracas.

McVicar finally makes his break with his jail pal Probyn (Adam Faith). Some of the film’s few fine moments occur when Probyn asks a guard to test the strength of a rope he’s fashioning for the escape and blatantly responds to the warden’s concerns about his upcoming parole by saying, “I’m planning on making my own way out, sir.” Falling back in with his old robbery cronies, McVicar pulls a few payroll jobs (which we never are privy to witness) and one routine armored car theft as his big score. This last crime is meant to be the film’s ‘showcase’ robbery, signaling to us what a master criminal McVicar is. But when he fires a shotgun on a fumbling security man, the impression one comes away with is that we wish the poor employee had blasted McVicar first. That’s not a very good indicator that the director has done his job to make us care one iota about the film’s protagonist.

Daltrey is in top form physically, as evidenced in his unabashed nude prison shower scenes, and he conveys an appropriate dose of menace to authority figures (even if we wish said authority figures would just bash McVicar’s face in). When he returns home to his wife and child, (a moment that plays like he’s returning from the fish & chips shop and not on the lam as public enemy number one), the rock star gives a restrained, convincing scene as doting father to his infant son, Russell. (Interesting side note: In reality, McVicar’s son Russell grew up to execute 16 armed robberies of his own in the 1990s, including the theft of a Picasso).

The screenplay leaves many supporting character storylines simply unresolved. McVicar’s chum, Probyn, who is developed for the film’s first full hour, is never heard from again after Daltrey escapes. A villified sex offender is introduced in two scenes only to never be dealt any prison justice. McVicar’s rivalry with a fellow con (Steven Berkoff) is simply dropped after he leaves him behind in the clink. It’s as if there are two stories just stapled together at an intermission point, neither having much to do with the other.

Daltrey’s stirring vocals, courtesy of his collaboration with musician Jeff Wayne (“War Of The Worlds”) results in a series of effective songs like “Without Your Love” and “Waiting For A Friend” during key moments in the narrative. Combined with his decent thespian chores, Daltrey’s turn in “McVicar” is far more worthy than the material or the main character himself ever warrants.

© 2000 Ned Truslow