Don't forget to check out other twisted feelings I have about stuff that is borderline valuable/important/relevant over at Twitter. All of it 140 yummy, caramel filled characters at a time.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Don't forget to check out other twisted feelings I have about stuff that is borderline valuable/important/relevant over at Twitter. All of it 140 yummy, caramel filled characters at a time.
Remake This: The "Foreign" Remake
The “Foreign” Remake
a.k.a. You’re Too Fucking Lazy To Read Subtitles - Can’t we just put Al Pacino in it and make sure they talk American all the way through it? Or maybe Tracy Morgan and Chris Rock could do it. Them guys is funny.
Americans would rather not read. This is not a supposition, it is incontrovertible truth according to Hollywood’s powers that be. Reading requires effort and patience. A simple and basic American ethos is that neither of those “skills” should have anything to do with going to see a movie. Once Al Jolson yelped his vaguely racist, out of tune impression of Edward G. Robinson doing an off-Broadway musical in 1927’s The Jazz Singer the majority of the American movie-going masses ceased having to read title cards. The talkies were here to stay and the necessity to read at the movies existed no more. As of that moment the patience and the ability of the average American film watcher to read during a film has decreased exponentially. Ever notice how a narrator will read a letter during an important plot point in a film instead of letting the viewer read it? You might get the idea this is done for dramatic effect - and that’s partly true. It’s mostly done though to keep John Q. Jackass from having to read on his night off work.
When a European or Asian film is very successful overseas, a film distributor who wants to show that film in the US can do one of two things. They can a) Subtitle the film in English so the actors onscreen speak their original dialogue in its native language and the audience reads subtitles for the dialogue in the film. American film distributors believe that this method has it’s place. It’s called, New York/Los Angeles/Cannes/Netflix. In other words, on about 4 screens for a sum total of six days and after that go hit up the folks at the Criterion Collection. The second option is that they can b) dub in the dialogue. This involves bringing in English speaking actors reading a translation of the dialogue and any inflection or verbal emotion included in the speaking portion of the original performance are gone and replaced with the new “English” version. One could surmise that the primary complaint against this method would be to lose the authenticity of the original performance. However, in the eyes of studio heads, the fact that the audio and the moving actor’s mouths do not match up can lead to only two conclusions: 1) The mouth to audio contrast draws a focus to the fact that this film wasn’t originally made in English! Which of course, means it is sub-standard to American films. 2) It looks like a hokier big budget version of a Bruce Lee film. In the eyes of the flick bosses, neither of those are good for receipts.
The conventional wisdom on foreign films breaks down something like this: “Why would I waste my time and energy on a Friday night watching something that I have to read? I didn’t plunk down $10.75 to be dropped into sophomore year English class again. I came to see a movie, not join a fucking book club!” Therefore, distributors and studios are left with the option to come up with other original ideas that will gross better than these foreign options that have already done well in box offices around the rest of the world, or they can make American versions of said foreign films. Hollywood, in it’s infinite laziness and crass assessment of the American populace has opted for the latter. I’ll be damned if it isn’t often very, very successful. A good example of this phenomena is the Al Pacino/Robin Williams remake of Insomnia. Made in 2002, the film is Christopher Nolan’s directorial follow-up to Memento. This film is actually pretty good but I can only speculate as to what possessed Nolan and the other principles to star in the remake of a film made just five years earlier in Sweden. At its core, the issue has nothing to do with which is the better film. That argument is moot. It’s not about which is better, it’s about which is more saleable. What is curious is why remake you'd remake it just five years later. The themes, setting and plot lines are nearly identical. One can deduce that language and “star power” are the only real discernable differences. Well, that and the fact that the original version grossed just north of $200,000 in the US while the remake raked in more than $67 million. Perhaps that is all we need to know about that particular cinematic equation.
Now, let’s go so far as to agree with the general supposed studio belief that the American movie goer is an uneducated slob who is afraid to watch movies in a language he cannot speak, and that he is too lazy and/or dumb to be asked to sit through a film with subtitles. I certainly know some folks who fall into this category, but I also know many, many people from Midwestern America so excited at the prospect of seeing an original idea they’re willing (or happy) to deal with the subtitles - but let’s just take it at face value that the average ticket buyer won’t abide subtitles. If we accept even that as truth, then someone is going to have to sit me down, talk to me like I’m a 5 year old and explain what the fuck the remake of Death At A Funeral is all about.
For those not in the know, Death At A Funeral is a 2007 comedic film that was shot in and takes place in the UK. It was critically well received, did reasonably well at the box office and was directed by a man named Frank Oz. That’s a name you might remember if say, you ever watched an episode of the Muppet Show (he’s the voice of Ms. Piggy) or saw films he directed like Housesitter, In & Out, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels or What About Bob? just to name a few. He also acted in a number of films including 5 of the 6 Star Wars movies. In other words, this is not an industry outsider. Yet, in 2010 Sony Pictures chose to remake the film. At its peak the original was shown on 260 screens while the remake was plastered across 2459 screens. Nearly ten times as much coverage. Did Sony really think their version was 10 times better? No, they just felt it was 10 times more sellable. That’s all that matters. Good has nothing, I mean absolutely jack shit to do with it. Just line up the suckers and we’ll get their buttery dollar bills. Though it's purely speculation on my part, I would guess the case is simply that this angle all a hell of a lot easier than writing an original script.
a.k.a. You’re Too Fucking Lazy To Read Subtitles - Can’t we just put Al Pacino in it and make sure they talk American all the way through it? Or maybe Tracy Morgan and Chris Rock could do it. Them guys is funny.
Americans would rather not read. This is not a supposition, it is incontrovertible truth according to Hollywood’s powers that be. Reading requires effort and patience. A simple and basic American ethos is that neither of those “skills” should have anything to do with going to see a movie. Once Al Jolson yelped his vaguely racist, out of tune impression of Edward G. Robinson doing an off-Broadway musical in 1927’s The Jazz Singer the majority of the American movie-going masses ceased having to read title cards. The talkies were here to stay and the necessity to read at the movies existed no more. As of that moment the patience and the ability of the average American film watcher to read during a film has decreased exponentially. Ever notice how a narrator will read a letter during an important plot point in a film instead of letting the viewer read it? You might get the idea this is done for dramatic effect - and that’s partly true. It’s mostly done though to keep John Q. Jackass from having to read on his night off work.
When a European or Asian film is very successful overseas, a film distributor who wants to show that film in the US can do one of two things. They can a) Subtitle the film in English so the actors onscreen speak their original dialogue in its native language and the audience reads subtitles for the dialogue in the film. American film distributors believe that this method has it’s place. It’s called, New York/Los Angeles/Cannes/Netflix. In other words, on about 4 screens for a sum total of six days and after that go hit up the folks at the Criterion Collection. The second option is that they can b) dub in the dialogue. This involves bringing in English speaking actors reading a translation of the dialogue and any inflection or verbal emotion included in the speaking portion of the original performance are gone and replaced with the new “English” version. One could surmise that the primary complaint against this method would be to lose the authenticity of the original performance. However, in the eyes of studio heads, the fact that the audio and the moving actor’s mouths do not match up can lead to only two conclusions: 1) The mouth to audio contrast draws a focus to the fact that this film wasn’t originally made in English! Which of course, means it is sub-standard to American films. 2) It looks like a hokier big budget version of a Bruce Lee film. In the eyes of the flick bosses, neither of those are good for receipts.
The conventional wisdom on foreign films breaks down something like this: “Why would I waste my time and energy on a Friday night watching something that I have to read? I didn’t plunk down $10.75 to be dropped into sophomore year English class again. I came to see a movie, not join a fucking book club!” Therefore, distributors and studios are left with the option to come up with other original ideas that will gross better than these foreign options that have already done well in box offices around the rest of the world, or they can make American versions of said foreign films. Hollywood, in it’s infinite laziness and crass assessment of the American populace has opted for the latter. I’ll be damned if it isn’t often very, very successful. A good example of this phenomena is the Al Pacino/Robin Williams remake of Insomnia. Made in 2002, the film is Christopher Nolan’s directorial follow-up to Memento. This film is actually pretty good but I can only speculate as to what possessed Nolan and the other principles to star in the remake of a film made just five years earlier in Sweden. At its core, the issue has nothing to do with which is the better film. That argument is moot. It’s not about which is better, it’s about which is more saleable. What is curious is why remake you'd remake it just five years later. The themes, setting and plot lines are nearly identical. One can deduce that language and “star power” are the only real discernable differences. Well, that and the fact that the original version grossed just north of $200,000 in the US while the remake raked in more than $67 million. Perhaps that is all we need to know about that particular cinematic equation.
Now, let’s go so far as to agree with the general supposed studio belief that the American movie goer is an uneducated slob who is afraid to watch movies in a language he cannot speak, and that he is too lazy and/or dumb to be asked to sit through a film with subtitles. I certainly know some folks who fall into this category, but I also know many, many people from Midwestern America so excited at the prospect of seeing an original idea they’re willing (or happy) to deal with the subtitles - but let’s just take it at face value that the average ticket buyer won’t abide subtitles. If we accept even that as truth, then someone is going to have to sit me down, talk to me like I’m a 5 year old and explain what the fuck the remake of Death At A Funeral is all about.
For those not in the know, Death At A Funeral is a 2007 comedic film that was shot in and takes place in the UK. It was critically well received, did reasonably well at the box office and was directed by a man named Frank Oz. That’s a name you might remember if say, you ever watched an episode of the Muppet Show (he’s the voice of Ms. Piggy) or saw films he directed like Housesitter, In & Out, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels or What About Bob? just to name a few. He also acted in a number of films including 5 of the 6 Star Wars movies. In other words, this is not an industry outsider. Yet, in 2010 Sony Pictures chose to remake the film. At its peak the original was shown on 260 screens while the remake was plastered across 2459 screens. Nearly ten times as much coverage. Did Sony really think their version was 10 times better? No, they just felt it was 10 times more sellable. That’s all that matters. Good has nothing, I mean absolutely jack shit to do with it. Just line up the suckers and we’ll get their buttery dollar bills. Though it's purely speculation on my part, I would guess the case is simply that this angle all a hell of a lot easier than writing an original script.
BTW, don’t even pretend that you like the Magnificent Seven better than the Seven Samurai. That shit won’t play here. Even Steve McQueen and Chuck Bronson know better.
Remake This: A Primer
I loathe the Hollywood remake from the core of my soul. Every fiber of my critical being cringes at the hokey remake concept that the major (and sometimes not so major) cinematic shit-servers chuck into the multiplex Bouillabaisse. But why does this phenomenon aggravate me above all others? There are dozens of absolutely terrifically awful ideas that are vaguely original, or at least not outright copycat retellings that are at best a piss poor excuse for a movie, let alone actually worthwhile, or culturally fulfilling. Is a dreadful live action/CGI retelling of the Underdog storyline going to be any worse than the most recent schlock-filled romantic comedy with Cameron Diaz and Ashton Kutcher? The easy answer (and probably the right one too) is NO! This then, still leaves a fundamental issue hanging over the popcorn trough and butter spigots: Is the remake rage in Hollywood really worse than the myriad other offenses of the mainstream film-making market? And, if so, why?
The best way to begin breaking down this quandary is to define what constitutes a remake and categorize the offenders. Next, it’s imperative to determine if amongst those categories, there is a greater or lessor evil. In other words, is it more dreadful to do say a shot by shot remake of a universally loved and respected film that defined an entire genre and begat at least three sub-genres or to “reinvent” (and I use that word in the most sarcastically liberal sense) a well loved or greatly appreciated sitcom? While there is no “winner” here - because both scenarios are soul crushing - the actual answer to this question ought to be self-evident and if you find yourself unsure as to its answer, these periodic installments may provide some very bumpy reading for you.
For all the naysayers and “but-throwers” out there, please be reminded that simply because one or more given films in a particular category may be good, it does not in total validate the idea of rampant remakes. Let’s say you really liked the 3:10 To Yuma remake with Russell Crowe and Christian Bale and you are determined to believe it is a far better film than the original version starring Glenn Ford. I would disagree (only slightly albeit) but I would acknowledge that in the realm of remakes this isn’t that bad of a film. It was reasonably entertaining, didn’t shit all over the original and managed to at least hold it’s own for the most part. We’ll be generous and call this a success. Now, let’s for the sake of this scenario we’ll give it the benefit of the doubt and call 3:10 To Yuma a “good film”. Again, this is a stretch but we’re dealing in hypotheticals here. According to this thought process, 3:10 To Yuma now qualifies as a good film. A stretch, but we'll go with it - for now.
I’ll be generous and say that 10% of the “remakes” that are foisted on the cineplex each year are “good films” - and again I am being generous. That means that 90% of them are a celluloidal abomination. The better way to think about this is you take an annual hunting trip with your chums. The first year you bag a nice buck and get loaded around the campfire telling the story and bragging about your crackerjack aim and top of the food chain prowess. That year is your 3:10 To Yuma year. The next nine years you winnd up pulling buck shot out of your left ass cheek while your best pal tries to keep you from bleeding out. Those years are akin to sitting through the Tim Burton/Marky Mark version of Planet Of The Apes. Except that 48 minutes into Apes, you’re praying for someone and their merciful 12 gauge to end the agony. Again, the 90/10 ratio is under the kindest and most forgiving of circumstances, so stop thinking of the remake that “wasn’t awful”. It’s not an excuse. It’s not a valid argument. Shut the hell up.
The (Not So Great) Gazoo
This morning I couldn’t recall the name of the alien that was Fred’s pal on the Flintstones. My wife was no help either. So after a solid four seconds of contemplation on the matter, I wiki-googlied the interwebs and was reminded almost instantaneously that the little green bugger who helped all of Bedrock jump the shark was none other than Gazoo. The Great Gazoo if we’re being formal. It is a floating green alien with an overly large head that has rabbit ears on it after all, so formality does seem to be in order here.
The thing that troubled me here wasn’t that I failed to have instant recall of what The Great Gazoo’s name was. It didn’t bother me that my wife was at a loss - though she is typically Johnny-on-the-spot in these situations. It bothered me that I gave the matter no intellectual (if we can refer to this endeavor at all as intellectual) even slightly. In other words, I didn’t even try to think about it on my own. I just lumped over to the old Apple Mac-a-doodle and waited the requisite .245 seconds for a meaty information sandwich to get shoved down my lazy, gaping gullet.
There was a time when I would have taken it as a point of pride to pull the Great Gazoo’s name from the ether when asked this sort of question, even if I was the one who asked it. The rules of that game of pride would have also insisted that I be given a reasonable length of time (somewhere between 3 hours and a week) to come up with the correct answer without the benefit of using reference material. An attitude something akin to: “The good lord did not put me on this earth to just look shit up. He put me here to remember it with my powerful pop-culture noggin - and eating a pint of Haagen Dasz chocolate chocolate chip while watching nine straight episodes of Happy Days in a row, all while playing Trivial Pursuit laying down. In other words, don’t spoil it for me, I will get to it on my own, God Damn It!
Now, it’s either just too easy, or I’m too tired of playing the rough and tumble game of pop-culture Raymond Babbitt. I just don’t care that much anymore and the only reasonable scapegoat I can give you is the internet.
I am a 38 year old man with a family, a business, a reasonable amount of self-esteem and a still more than healthy first-hand knowledge of marginal television shows, Quentin Tarantino dialogue and expertise of Velvet Underground records. So, how could I possibly have let myself lose to something like the internet? I, unlike the internet, have a heartbeat, a soul and the pudgy/bookish good looks of the assistant librarian that works the closing shift on a Wednesday. In summation, I am a man. These qualities apparently cannot compete at all with the internet’s total recall of the TGIF lineup from 1999 even after I have had three Dogfish Head 90 minute IPAs. My mushy frontal cortex “could” figure it out on it’s own like some 8th grade story problem, but it’s a helluva lot easier to jump to the back of the book, write down the answer and explain how we got there later.
More than once I have explained the lack of personal effort in this arena to age. The late 30s (where I currently find myself clinging on with nothing more than a slight hold via poorly groomed toes) is when the memory begins to fade ever so slightly. My schedule has certainly tightened since my peak performance years of my late teens to early 20s. Furthermore, I used to subject myself to a fearless regimen of taxing and exhausting trials/trainings involving games of quick memory recall, movie title free associations and chronological actor filmographies. Now it’s a miracle if I can make it all the way through the 10 pm rerun of American Dad. Yet, inasmuch as I would like to blame time, practical application, the onset of my 40s and my rest home bedtimes, it falls directly at the feet of laziness.
I scurry to the internet to answer these important questions of life because I can, not because I have to. With straight face and clean conscience I could probably swear that after 32 minutes of deep deliberation I just couldn’t come up with The Great Gazoo as Fred’s vaguely gay, green alien chum. But the truth is that I gave it not 32 seconds of thought. This is what is so truly troubling about this. Complacency has run amuck, and I fear this could permeate (nay it already has) into my realm of things that are borderline important that I really should know. More disturbingly, I can’t imagine why I would “waste the time” working at it on my own, when I could just let some wikipedia nerd do it for me.
While I was growing up, I was quizzed on the state capitals prior to meal time. I had a nifty place-mat with all of the states and their capital cities on it. My folks would quiz me and by the third or fourth grade I knew all of them by heart. Now, the average 8 year old doesn’t need to know this stuff.
Knowing trivial things won’t make you smart and it won’t make you money unless you’re Ken Jennings. But, for me at least it provided an early lesson that any knowledge is inherently valuable - even if it’s trivial. It’s a terribly useful skill like knowing how to balance your bank account or tying your shoes. Even if what you know about is just a floating alien that helped a mediocre animated sitcom that ripped off the Honeymooners. Stupid Gazoo.
The thing that troubled me here wasn’t that I failed to have instant recall of what The Great Gazoo’s name was. It didn’t bother me that my wife was at a loss - though she is typically Johnny-on-the-spot in these situations. It bothered me that I gave the matter no intellectual (if we can refer to this endeavor at all as intellectual) even slightly. In other words, I didn’t even try to think about it on my own. I just lumped over to the old Apple Mac-a-doodle and waited the requisite .245 seconds for a meaty information sandwich to get shoved down my lazy, gaping gullet.
There was a time when I would have taken it as a point of pride to pull the Great Gazoo’s name from the ether when asked this sort of question, even if I was the one who asked it. The rules of that game of pride would have also insisted that I be given a reasonable length of time (somewhere between 3 hours and a week) to come up with the correct answer without the benefit of using reference material. An attitude something akin to: “The good lord did not put me on this earth to just look shit up. He put me here to remember it with my powerful pop-culture noggin - and eating a pint of Haagen Dasz chocolate chocolate chip while watching nine straight episodes of Happy Days in a row, all while playing Trivial Pursuit laying down. In other words, don’t spoil it for me, I will get to it on my own, God Damn It!
Now, it’s either just too easy, or I’m too tired of playing the rough and tumble game of pop-culture Raymond Babbitt. I just don’t care that much anymore and the only reasonable scapegoat I can give you is the internet.
I am a 38 year old man with a family, a business, a reasonable amount of self-esteem and a still more than healthy first-hand knowledge of marginal television shows, Quentin Tarantino dialogue and expertise of Velvet Underground records. So, how could I possibly have let myself lose to something like the internet? I, unlike the internet, have a heartbeat, a soul and the pudgy/bookish good looks of the assistant librarian that works the closing shift on a Wednesday. In summation, I am a man. These qualities apparently cannot compete at all with the internet’s total recall of the TGIF lineup from 1999 even after I have had three Dogfish Head 90 minute IPAs. My mushy frontal cortex “could” figure it out on it’s own like some 8th grade story problem, but it’s a helluva lot easier to jump to the back of the book, write down the answer and explain how we got there later.
More than once I have explained the lack of personal effort in this arena to age. The late 30s (where I currently find myself clinging on with nothing more than a slight hold via poorly groomed toes) is when the memory begins to fade ever so slightly. My schedule has certainly tightened since my peak performance years of my late teens to early 20s. Furthermore, I used to subject myself to a fearless regimen of taxing and exhausting trials/trainings involving games of quick memory recall, movie title free associations and chronological actor filmographies. Now it’s a miracle if I can make it all the way through the 10 pm rerun of American Dad. Yet, inasmuch as I would like to blame time, practical application, the onset of my 40s and my rest home bedtimes, it falls directly at the feet of laziness.
I scurry to the internet to answer these important questions of life because I can, not because I have to. With straight face and clean conscience I could probably swear that after 32 minutes of deep deliberation I just couldn’t come up with The Great Gazoo as Fred’s vaguely gay, green alien chum. But the truth is that I gave it not 32 seconds of thought. This is what is so truly troubling about this. Complacency has run amuck, and I fear this could permeate (nay it already has) into my realm of things that are borderline important that I really should know. More disturbingly, I can’t imagine why I would “waste the time” working at it on my own, when I could just let some wikipedia nerd do it for me.
While I was growing up, I was quizzed on the state capitals prior to meal time. I had a nifty place-mat with all of the states and their capital cities on it. My folks would quiz me and by the third or fourth grade I knew all of them by heart. Now, the average 8 year old doesn’t need to know this stuff.
Knowing trivial things won’t make you smart and it won’t make you money unless you’re Ken Jennings. But, for me at least it provided an early lesson that any knowledge is inherently valuable - even if it’s trivial. It’s a terribly useful skill like knowing how to balance your bank account or tying your shoes. Even if what you know about is just a floating alien that helped a mediocre animated sitcom that ripped off the Honeymooners. Stupid Gazoo.
Wages Of Fear
The Wages Of Fear (1953)
directed by Henri-Georges Clouzot
"Contemplation often makes life miserable. We should act more, think less and stop watching ourselves live." - Chomfort
On the surface, Henri-Georges Clouzot's Wages Of Fear appears to be, very simply, a thrilling adventure epic of four men on a suicidal trucking mission through the mountains of Central America. Clouzot, however, aimed higher; tying elements of imperialism, tense comraderie and the revival of a zest for life into his exquisitely gut-wrenching narrative arc. By melding the thrillingly suspenseful trucking sequence with an exploration of man's desire to go back and fix the mistakes of his past, Clouzot creates a sort of Greek tragedy in the third world desert. In many ways, Wages Of Fear feels like the most ambitious Hitchcock film ever made.
At the outset we're introduced to a sleepy, wayward Central American village where life is not only difficult and dreary, it's soul crushing - a sort of desert prison of poverty, contempt and regret. Drifters from across the world who have haphazardly wound up in this go nowhere backwater invariably end up converging on the town's saloon; drowning their sorrows in liquor (when the funds are available), avoiding the scorching blaze of the sun and wondering how and when they'll ever get the hell out their malaise and back to some sort of life.
Mario (Yves Montand) is a sort of de facto leader and example of the ex-Pats and part-time lover of Linda, the saloon's bar maid. Through a series of his own missteps Mario has landed in this dead end town. He clings to his most prized possession, a Parisian Metro ticket, his talisman for returning back to his home. Montand exudes a sort of Bogart-like charm with cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth and kerchief covered neck. It's such a nod to Bogart there are times when you feel as if Montand's Mario is a spitting image of Bogart's Charlie Alnutt from The African Queen. You can't help but be drawn to his magnetism and yet, Mario's callous treatment of Linda is an indication of his contempt for the current state of his existence. Montand manages to bridge the gap in Mario's shortcomings beautifully. Like Bogart's Spade his panache and cool make him so enigmatic that you can forgive his sometimes severe foibles.
Throughout lengthy set pieces in the first hour of the film, Clouzot reinforces, if a bit too much that life in this part of the world is hardly worth living. A protest soon breaks out within the natives of the town when the area's true ruler, American oil company SOC has a derrick explosion and several men, mostly local workers are killed. SOC needs a ton of nitroglycerine trucked into the area where the explosion occurred. Due to pressure from the natives, scapegoats must be found for this suicide mission. The slightest bump could send the entire truck into oblivion and none of SOC's union employees can be selected for the job. Therefore, SOC offers $2000 a man for the 300 mile trek across the mountain, and Mario, his pal Jo, his former friend Luigi and holocaust survivor Bimba are chosen to set out in two separate trucks to deliver the nitro. If they survive they will earn their ticket to freedom and a new life.
Clouzot's most remarkable gift in the 90 minute mountain drive sequence is his uncanny knack for timing. This is most beautifully illustrated when a narrow mountain road requires a turnaround on a half-finished wooden platform. Seconds seem to pass like minutes as the harrowing maneuver is delicately handled with marvelous editing and superb camera angles. It would be easy for Clouzot to simply make this scene a thriller, but he also sets it up as a major plot point and one of the film's primary character definitions. It is a scene for the ages.
By playing with the confined space of a truck cab, Clouzot has created a little world inside a world where all cursory distractions have been eliminated and the battle of life versus death can commence on the open road. Marvelous cinematography by Armand Thirard reinforce the claustrophobic confines of the truck's cab and juxtapose that with intercut wide shots of the open road to create a whole new sort of fear.
At times, early in the film, Clouzot's heavy handed efforts to portray the American imperialist influence of SOC do get a bit overbearing and repetitive. The ugly Americans theme, while valid, could have been delivered in a more efficient manner and Clouzot ought to have clarified the drudgery of daily life in his third world hell-hole in probably half the time he chose to use. However, it is these same elements of timing that make the majority of the nitro mission so fascinating to watch. While the opening hour keeps the film from being perfect it is understandable why Clouzot made the choice he did in the opening sequence and even if it drags a bit, the rest of the film more than makes up for it.
It seems ridiculously ambitious for a film-maker to attempt to create a thrilling action film, a political set piece and throw in themes on the division of labor and human cowardice/courage all while delivering some of the finest and most terrifying sequences this side of Psycho. Yet, Clouzot manages all of this and more with Wages Of Fear, a film which, if you've not had the pleasure of seeing it, may completely redefine what a thriller is for you.
Rating: 9/10
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