Tag Archives: Jeff Bridges

Frontier Fractured: Taylor Sheridan’s Neo-Western Reckoning

Posted on by Arleigh

“The characters are fiction, but the landscape and the lives the characters are navigating are real.” — Taylor Sheridan

Taylor Sheridan’s American Frontier Trilogy—Sicario (2015), Hell or High Water (2016), and Wind River (2017)—stands as a landmark in modern neo-Western cinema, a tightly crafted exploration of America’s frayed edges penned by the screenwriter who would later dominate television with Yellowstone. These films, while not narratively linked, form a thematic triptych that dissects the moral decay of the contemporary frontier, where law buckles under the weight of systemic injustice, economic despair, and cultural erasure. This retrospective examines Sheridan’s screenplays as a cohesive vision of a nation haunted by its own myths of manifest destiny, blending pulse-pounding tension with unflinching social critique.

Defining the Trilogy’s Core

Sheridan’s “American Frontier” trilogy emerged from his own observations of overlooked American landscapes, as he described in interviews around Wind River‘s release. Sicario, directed by Denis Villeneuve, plunges into the U.S.-Mexico border war on drugs, following idealistic FBI agent Kate Macer (Emily Blunt) as she’s drawn into a shadowy CIA operation led by the enigmatic Matt Graver (Josh Brolin) and the ruthless Alejandro (Benicio del Toro). The film boasts breakneck pacing and claustrophobic tension, transforming a procedural thriller into a meditation on moral compromise, where the line between hunter and hunted dissolves in Juarez’s blood-soaked streets.

Hell or High Water, helmed by David Mackenzie, shifts to West Texas, chronicling brothers Toby (Chris Pine) and Tanner Howard (Ben Foster) as they rob branches of the Texas Midlands Bank—the same institution foreclosing on their mother’s ranch. It delivers a lean, character-driven drama, with an ear for authentic dialogue that captures rural Texan fatalism: lines like “You’re free now” underscore a cycle of poverty where crime becomes an act of reclamation. Ranger Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges), pursuing them, embodies the law’s weary inefficiency.

Wind River, which Sheridan also directed, unfolds on Wyoming’s Wind River Indian Reservation, where U.S. Fish and Wildlife officer Cory Lambert (Jeremy Renner) aids rookie FBI agent Jane Banner (Elizabeth Olsen) in investigating a young Native woman’s death in the snow. It lands as a gut-punch of grief and rage, spotlighting the epidemic of missing and murdered Indigenous women (MMIW), with Cory’s personal loss fueling a vigilante justice that indicts federal neglect.

What unites them? Remote, unforgiving terrains—the border deserts, dusty plains, frozen reservations—mirror the characters’ isolation. Protagonists skirt legality not from villainy but necessity, exposing institutions (CIA, banks, FBI) as complicit oppressors. The “United States legal system” emerges as the trilogy’s true antagonist, wreaking havoc on the marginalized.

Thematic Pillars: Justice Beyond the Badge

At the trilogy’s heart lies a profound distrust of official justice, a motif each film escalates. In Sicario, Kate’s arc is one of disillusionment; she clings to warrants amid Graver’s extralegal raids, only to realize the “war” thrives on endless escalation. Sheridan’s script masterfully builds dread through escalating set-pieces—like the night-vision tunnel assault—while Alejandro’s backstory reveals the human cost of cartel savagery, blurring good and evil. It’s a film where victory feels pyrrhic, the frontier’s violence spilling northward unchecked.

Hell or High Water flips the script to economic predation. The Howards aren’t greedy outlaws but desperate everymen funding their family’s future against predatory lending. Sheridan’s sardonic humor amid despair shines in banter between Marcus and his partner Alberto (Gil Birmingham), laced with casual racism that humanizes their bond. The film’s climax, a bank standoff turned shootout, affirms the brothers’ twisted righteousness, critiquing how banks “won the West” anew through debt. It’s Sheridan’s most optimistic entry, suggesting personal agency can pierce systemic greed.

Wind River delivers the rawest indictment, weaving personal trauma into institutional failure. Cory tracks predators—animal and human—across a landscape where Native lives vanish without trace; statistics cited in the film (96% of reservation rapes unreported) hit like bullets. Its poetic minimalism—from snow-dusted crime scenes to Cory’s haunting promise to a grieving father: “I wish I could take that pain away”—underscores how the reservation embodies America’s forgotten frontier. Here, justice is vengeance, meted quietly in the mountains.

Across the trilogy, Sheridan updates Western archetypes: the principled lawman (Kate, Marcus, Jane) yields to the lone avenger (Alejandro, Toby, Cory). This serves as a modernization of classic Western struggles, swapping cattle barons for cartels and banks.

Stylistic Mastery and Sheridan’s Voice

Sheridan’s prose is economical yet evocative, favoring sparse dialogue that reveals worlds. His authentic regionalism comes through in Texan drawls in Hell or High Water, Arapaho stoicism in Wind River, and border Spanglish in Sicario. Directors amplify this: Villeneuve’s Sicario is visceral, with Roger Deakins’ cinematography turning borders into hellscapes; Mackenzie’s Hell or High Water feels expansive yet intimate, Giles Nuttgens capturing Texas’s soul-crushing vastness; Sheridan’s Wind River is austere, Nick Cave’s score amplifying isolation.

Performances elevate the scripts. Del Toro’s coiled fury in Sicario earned Oscar nods; Bridges’ folksy gravitas anchors Hell or High Water; Renner and Olsen ground Wind River‘s procedural in raw emotion. Yet Sheridan’s writing shines brightest in quiet beats: Kate’s post-raid breakdown, Toby’s motel confession, Cory’s frozen vigil.

The films were critically acclaimed for their sharp writing and thematic depth, earning Sheridan Oscar nominations for Hell or High Water and Wind River, while resonating widely with general audiences through gripping narratives and relatable human struggles that packed theaters and sparked enduring discussions. This neo-Western revival took audiences to unseen locales, from Juarez slums to Wind River snows.

Cultural Impact and Legacy

Released amid the turbulent 2010s—marked by escalating border crises, the lingering financial fallout from the 2008 recession, and rising awareness of the #MMIW epidemic—the trilogy presciently tapped into deep-seated national anxieties, reshaping conversations around justice, identity, and power in America. Sicario arrived as tensions over immigration and the drug war boiled over, humanizing the futility of America’s “war on drugs” just before the 2016 presidential debates on border walls and cartel violence. Its portrayal of shadowy U.S. operations crossing ethical lines sparked debates on real-world CIA tactics and the moral cost of security, influencing discourse in policy circles and popular media alike. The film’s raw depiction of Juarez’s carnage forced viewers to confront overlooked atrocities, bridging Hollywood thrillers with journalistic urgency and priming audiences for later works like Narcos.

Hell or High Water struck a populist chord amid post-recession rage, echoing Occupy Wall Street’s anti-bank fervor and the foreclosure crisis that ravaged rural America. By framing bank robbers as sympathetic everymen fighting predatory lending, Sheridan tapped into widespread resentment toward financial institutions, a sentiment that fueled political movements from Tea Party economics to progressive wealth taxes. The film’s Texas setting amplified its authenticity, resonating in heartland theaters and inspiring think pieces on economic despair as a driver of crime. Its legacy endures in modern “eat the rich” narratives, from The Gentlemen to economic thrillers, while proving indie sensibilities could deliver blockbuster emotional punches.

Wind River ignited a cultural firestorm by centering the MMIW crisis, a long-ignored epidemic where Native women face violence at rates exponentially higher than the national average. The film’s stark statistics and harrowing story propelled #MMIW into mainstream consciousness, directly contributing to legislative momentum like Savanna’s Act (passed in 2020), which improved federal responses to cases on tribal lands. Sheridan consulted with Native communities for accuracy, amplifying Indigenous voices through actors like Gil Birmingham and Julia Jones, though it faced critiques for “white savior” elements. Nonetheless, it opened doors for Native-led stories in films like Reservation Dogs and heightened Hollywood’s focus on underrepresented frontiers.

Collectively, the trilogy’s impact reverberates profoundly. Lionsgate’s 2022 Blu-ray collection formalized its status as a cinematic canon, while Sheridan’s scripts birthed his TV empire—Yellowstone, 1883, Lioness—exporting frontier grit to streaming billions. Yet the films surpass his serialized work in laser-focused purity, influencing a neo-Western renaissance seen in No Country for Old Men echoes, The Power of the Dog, and series like Longmire. In policy realms, Sicario informed border security debates under both Biden and now-President Trump’s 2025 reelection; Hell or High Water prefigured rural economic populism in Trump-era politics; Wind River bolstered tribal advocacy amid ongoing land rights battles.

By 2026, amid Sheridan’s Yellowstone spinoffs dominating Paramount+ and renewed border rhetoric in a second Trump administration, the trilogy feels more vital than ever. It birthed a cinematic language for America’s internal fractures—geographic, economic, racial—challenging viewers to question who truly governs the forgotten edges. Academic panels dissect its archetypes; fan communities on Reddit and Letterboxd binge it as essential viewing. Flaws persist—Sicario 2‘s dilution without Sheridan, Wind River‘s debated optics—but its triumph lies in tension and truth, proving standalone stories can outlast franchises. Sheridan’s evolution from struggling actor to scribe magnate underscores a rare feat: films that entertain viscerally while indicting society, ensuring the frontier’s ghosts haunt us still.

Individual Breakdowns

Sicario: Border Inferno

Villeneuve’s adaptation turns Sheridan’s outrage at Juarez carnage—ignored by U.S. media—into a descent narrative. Kate’s naivety crumbles amid moral voids; Alejandro’s vendetta personalizes cartel horrors. Its operatic violence peaks in the stadium raid, where justice devolves to assassination. At 121 minutes, it’s taut prophecy.

Hell or High Water: Desperate Heist

Sheridan’s personal favorite channels his Texas roots, pitting family against finance. Pine’s everyman resolve contrasts Foster’s volatility; Bridges steals scenes with wry wisdom. The thrilling cat-and-mouse culminates in redemption through sacrifice, a neo-Bonnie and Clyde for foreclosure America. 102 minutes of populist fire.

Wind River: Frozen Requiem

Sheridan’s directorial bow personalizes loss—his script grew from real MMIW stats. Renner’s haunted tracker partners uneasily with Olsen’s fish-out-of-water fed; subplots flesh reservation despair. Its heartbreaking intimacy ends not in triumph but resolve amid endless winter. 107 minutes of unflinching truth.

Why It Endures

Sheridan’s trilogy isn’t mere genre exercise; it’s elegy for eroded American dreams. By bucking plot contrivances for lived-in despair, it forces reckoning with borders, banks, and buried bodies. These thrillers bleed social conscience—unadulterated, unflagging. In a franchise-saturated era, these standalone gems reclaim cinema’s frontier spirit.

Review: Hell of High Water (dir. by David MacKenzie)

Posted on by Arleigh

“I’ve been poor my whole life… like a disease passing from generation to generation. But not my boys, not anymore.” == Toby Howard

Hell or High Water is a gritty neo-Western that captures the desperation of rural America with sharp dialogue and tense heists. Directed by David Mackenzie and written by Taylor Sheridan, it stars Chris Pine and Ben Foster as brothers robbing banks across West Texas to save their family ranch. As the second film in Sheridan’s American Frontier Trilogy, it dives deep into economic despair on the fraying edges of modern America, carving out a raw, personal tale of survival amid systemic rot.

The story kicks off with Toby Howard (Pine), a quiet divorced dad scraping by at a casino, teaming up with his wild older brother Tanner (Foster), fresh out of prison and itching for chaos, for a string of quick bank jobs. They’re targeting branches of the Texas Midlands Bank, the same predatory outfit that’s been bleeding their late mother’s ranch dry with reverse mortgages that ballooned after her death. Toby’s motive is pure and heartbreaking: he wants to pay off the debt and hand the property—now sitting on untapped oil reserves—to his estranged kids, breaking a multi-generational cycle of poverty that’s crushed their family under debt, divorce, and dead-end jobs. It’s not about greed; it’s survival, wrapped in a fierce code of brotherly loyalty that feels timeless, echoing the blood oaths of classic Westerns like The Searchers or Unforgiven. Sheridan builds this setup methodically, letting the brothers’ quiet desperation simmer before the first robbery, making their partnership feel inevitable and doomed from the start. You get these early glimpses of their bond—Toby’s measured calm clashing with Tanner’s explosive energy—over shared meals or late-night drives, hinting at the fractures that prison and hardship have carved into their lives.

What stands out right away is how the film paints West Texas as its own brutal character—dusty highways stretching into infinity, faded diners serving coffee and Whataburger breakfast tacos, ghost towns where the only new construction is more banks or payday loan shacks preying on the broke. Giles Nuttgens’ cinematography turns the landscape into a vast, unforgiving canvas, with wide shots of endless plains, shimmering heat haze, and abandoned oil pumps that mirror the characters’ isolation and the weight of their choices. The visuals aren’t flashy; they’re oppressive, framing lone figures against horizons that swallow them whole, emphasizing how small these men feel against the indifferent sprawl. Nick Cave and Warren Ellis’ score adds a haunting twang—sparse piano notes, eerie strings, and subtle guitar plucks that build tension without ever overpowering the dialogue or action. It’s masterfully subtle, letting the silence between robberies speak volumes about the boredom, hopelessness, and fleeting camaraderie of these small, overlooked lives in flyover country. Even the sound design nails it: the rumble of getaway trucks, the click of slot machines in casinos, the distant wail of sirens—all weaving a sonic tapestry of gritty realism.

Chris Pine shines as Toby, completely shedding his action-hero polish for a layered everyman performance full of bottled-up resolve and quiet pain. You see the weight of his failures—a loveless marriage shattered, kids he barely knows living hours away—in every furrowed glance, every deliberate pause before he pulls a mask down. He’s the planner, the reluctant criminal whose moral compass wavers just enough to justify the heists in his mind, but you sense the toll it’s taking, like a man grinding his teeth through every moral compromise. Ben Foster, though, steals every scene he’s in as Tanner, the hothead ex-con with a wolfish grin that barely masks his pent-up rage and damage. His unhinged energy explodes during the heists—like firing warning shots at terrified tellers or flipping off pursuing cops mid-chase—but it’s always undercut by real pathos; years in prison have broken something fundamental in him, turning brotherly love into a volatile lifeline. Their dynamic is the beating heart of the film—casual banter over stolen cars, casino poker games, or roadside Whataburger runs feels achingly genuine, a brief respite from the doom that’s closing in. Moments like Tanner teasing Toby about his ex-wife or the brothers sharing a rare laugh humanize them, making their inevitable collision with fate hit that much harder.

Then there’s the pursuit side of the equation: Texas Rangers Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges) and his partner Alberto Parker (Gil Birmingham), who provide the perfect counterpoint to the brothers’ frenzy. Bridges chews the scenery with gleeful abandon as the grizzled vet nearing retirement, obsessed with cracking one last big case before hanging it up. His folksy drawl delivers casual racist jabs at his Native American partner—not out of outright malice, but as a form of twisted, old-school affection that reveals Marcus’s own deep-seated insecurities about aging and obsolescence. It’s uncomfortable, authentic, and played with such charm that it lands as character revelation rather than cheap shock. Birmingham matches him beat for beat with deadpan comebacks that land like quiet thunder, turning their stakeouts into a buddy-cop routine laced with sharp cultural commentary. Chats about diner waitresses’ curves, Comanche history, or the ethics of bank robbery add unexpected levity and depth, transforming the cat-and-mouse chase into something richer, almost philosophical, amid the choking West Texas dust. Bridges’ Marcus isn’t just hunting criminals; he’s confronting his own mortality, piecing together the brothers’ pattern like a puzzle that might define his legacy.

Taylor Sheridan’s script nails modern American malaise without ever slipping into preachiness or melodrama. Poverty isn’t some abstract talking point; it’s visceral—Toby’s trailer-park existence with its peeling paint and flickering lights, the single mom’s quiet despair over her mortgage payments, the rusted oil rigs promising riches that never trickle down to anyone local. The banks emerge as the true villains, plastering billboards with false salvation (“Texas Midlands: Your Friend in Need”) while gobbling up ranches through fine-print loopholes and aggressive collections. Sheridan weaves in these details organically—no info-dumps, just overheard conversations at diners or glimpses of foreclosure signs dotting the highway—that build a world where desperation breeds crime. Violence erupts organically from this pressure cooker—robbers improvise with stolen cars and sawn-off shotguns, rangers swap hunches over lukewarm diner coffee—not in overblown Hollywood set pieces, but in raw, consequential bursts that leave real scars. A botched heist introduces innocent blood on their hands, forcing you to grapple with whether Toby’s noble ends can ever justify Tanner’s reckless means, a moral tightrope Sheridan walks with unflinching precision. It’s this nuance that elevates the film: no one’s purely good or evil, just products of their environment, clawing for a scrap of dignity.

The film’s slow burn pays off in spades. Early jobs are clinical and methodical: masks on, small bills only from the tellers’ drawers, in-and-out in under two minutes to avoid dye packs or alarms, always hitting small branches mid-morning when staff is light. Tension simmers in the mundane details—laundering dirty cash at Native casinos amid blinking lights and cigarette smoke, dodging security cams with cheap disguises, or holing up in cheap motels with peeling wallpaper—building inexorably to a final showdown that’s as brutal as it is poetic. No heroes ride off into the sunset unscathed; justice twists unpredictably like the West Texas wind, leaving you questioning who’s really won in this rigged game. It’s balanced too—no glorifying crime without consequences. Toby’s noble intent constantly clashes with Tanner’s powder-keg recklessness, while Marcus’s dogged pursuit peels back layers of his own regrets about a life spent chasing ghosts. Everyone’s deeply flawed, chasing some form of redemption in a system that’s stacked against the little guy from the jump, and Sheridan lets those contradictions breathe without forcing resolutions.

Pacing does drag a tad in the middle, with those ranger stakeouts testing patience at times, but it masterfully mirrors the tedious grind of real low-level crime—the waiting, the watching, the endless coffee refills—making the climaxes land with twice the force. Character depth is rock-solid across the board, though side players like the waitress (Katy Mixon) or the casino manager get a bit short shrift in the script’s tight focus. Still, the core quartet carries the weight effortlessly, with Bridges delivering a masterclass in weathered charm—part crusty mentor, part comic relief, all heart. Even smaller beats, like a teller’s trembling hands or a deputy’s split-second choice, add texture without stealing focus.

Hell or High Water revives the Western genre for the 21st century—less six-guns and saloons, more economic gunslinging and ATM skimmers. At its core, it’s about family ties that bind even as they strangle, personal failures that haunt like ghosts on the plains, and faceless corporations devouring the heartland one foreclosure at a time. Toby’s final call to his ex-wife, hinting at a freer future for his boys on the now-clear-titled ranch, lands with bittersweet punch, his voice cracking just enough to sell the lie he tells himself. Marcus, surveying the bloodied aftermath from a ridge, mutters about Comanches losing their land centuries ago—a stark reminder that history’s cycles of loss and revenge remain unbroken, no matter who holds the deed. No tidy Hollywood bows, just hard-earned truth staring you down from the screen.

In a landscape clogged with summer blockbusters, this indie gem—backed by bold financiers—proves that small-scale stories pack the biggest emotional wallop. Watch it for the immersive vibes and regional flavor, from the twangy accents to the sun-bleached pickups; stay for the soul-stirring performances and themes that linger long after the credits. If you dug the Coens’ No Country for Old Men, this slots right in—tense as a taut wire, thoughtful without pontificating, unflinching in its gaze at America’s underbelly. Hell yeah, it’s absolutely worth your time.

4 Shots From 4 Films: Special Jeff Bridges Edition

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

4 Shots From 4 Films is just what it says it is, 4 shots from 4 of our favorite films.  As opposed to the reviews and recaps that we usually post, 4 Shots From 4 Films is all about letting the visuals do the talking.

Today, we celebrate the birthday of Jeff Bridges!  It’s time for….

4 Shots From 4 Jeff Bridges Films

The Last Picture Show (1971, dir by Peter Bogdanovich, DP: Bruce Surtees)

Thunderbolt and Lightfoot (1974, directed by Michael Cimino, DP: Frank Stanley)

Cutter’s Way (1981, dir by Ivan Passer, DP: Jordan Cronenweth)

Starman (1984, dir by John Carpenter. DP: Donald M. Morgan)

 

Tron Ares (dir. by Joachim Rønning)

Posted on by Leonard Wilson

Tron Ares is this year’s Spawn for me. 

For those unaware (and I really should write about Spawn one of these days), I saw Spawn with a friend when it first came out. I loved it, walking out the theatre and raving about it. Over pizza, my friend explained in great detail the many ways it actually sucked. Even Michael Jai White hated it. 

With my expectations being lower than they ever were for anything, Tron Ares surprised me. I leaned forward in my seat. I chuckled, and bobbed my head to the music and stayed until all of the credits were done. It could have done many things much better than it chose to do, but given the distance in time between Legacy and the choices for where the story could go, it’s not the worst film in the world. It’s not like Tron as an entire franchise was ever that deep with its storytelling (with the clear exception being Tron Uprising, of course). It brings some new elements to the overall tale that I didn’t even consider. Imagine what the writers could have done if they started working on this right after Legacy. With 15 years gone, it’s hard to get actors together for a project.

Both Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross are Executive Producers on Tron Ares. They threw money at this. They even have cameos in the film. At best, Tron Ares is the coolest looking Nine Inch Nails feature length music video to have ever existed since perhaps The Perfect Drug. The music compliments the film exactly as Daft Punk’s did for Legacy and Wendy Carlos’ did for the original. The sights are dazzling and the sounds are sharp. The music isn’t so much the subtle Reznor/Ross we’ve had with Bones and All, or the weirdness of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem. This is loud and kind of booming. We finally get light cycles in the real world (which isn’t giving anything away that wasn’t already in the trailers). In that sense, it’s a win on a few levels. 

If it’s a deep story with characters you’ll root for and possibly worry about, however, Tron Ares is not that film. You’re probably better off with either One Battle After Another or Weapons, both of which are equally good. I will say that what Tron Ares lacks in story, it does make up for with some generous fan service moments. There are tons of references to both Tron and Legacy if you pay attention, even if the story itself veers off tangent. I felt it handled this so much better than Legacy ever did. You can’t say the other films weren’t considered in making this. It’s not that far from another Disney project, F/X’ and Hulu’s Alien: Earth in some ways. 

In the years after Tron Legacy, there have been many changes. Encom encounters some competition in the form of the Dillinger Corporation, lead by genius Julian Dillinger (Evan Peters, X-Men: Days of Future Past) and his mother, Elizabeth (Gillian Anderson, The X-Files). Kevin Flynn’s (Jeff Bridges, The Big Lebowski) dream of crossing the digital frontier has become a race to see who can make their digital assets a reality. Dillinger’s newest, greatest program is Ares (Jared Leto, Morbius), who is fully versed in various fighting techniques and security protocols. What does this mean for life in The Grid, the universe inside the machine? Can Ares be trusted, or controlled, for that matter?

Acting-wise, everyone has a job to do. To his credit, Leto is not bad in this. It’s not robotic, but it’s not quite the second coming of Jordan Catalano (if anyone even recalls who that is). It’s not like the script, written by Jesse Wigutow (Daredevil: Born Again) and David DiGilio (The Terminal List & The Terminal List: Dark Wolf) calls for his character to have a great depth of emotion. Greta Lee (Past Lives) and Evan Peters do most of the work, along with Jodie Turner-Smith, who seemed to have the most fun. Anderson also does a good job, but again, there’s not a whole lot to work with. 

Tron Ares hovers right above the Incident mark for me. It could have been so much better than what it was, and who knows how long the visuals will stay with me. Yet, just like the films before it, it’s rescued by a score that may be remembered more than the film itself in the years to come. I don’t know if I’d go back out to see this, but would happily catch it once it comes to digital. 

Tron (dir. by Steven Lisberger)

Posted on by Leonard Wilson

Many years ago in Southern Oregon, I had a conversation with friends about some of our favorite films growing up. Movies like The Goonies, The Dark Crystal, Watership Down and The Secret of Nimh were all on the list, as well as Disney’s Tron. In our excitement for all these movies, we ended up renting the films from a local video store to relive our childhood. While the nostalgia was nice, we all ended falling asleep halfway through Tron, despite our love for it.

I guess one’s enjoyment of Tron is based on how it’s viewed. I caught the film two years ago at the Museum of the Moving Image, in 70MM. The first thing that caught my attention was the film grain. I’ve grown so used to the clarity of digital film presented in 4K that I couldn’t help but catch the little flicks and “cigarette burns” in at the start. This was life before digital, and it was beautiful to revisit. In a theatre, the film’s 96 minutes blazed by for me. The early 1980s was basically made up of bike rides and video arcades. The little boedga on the corner of my block back home even had a few arcade machines in the front of the store in the first half of the 80s. The Bodega’s still there, the arcade’s now a deli/hot meal area. Times can and do change.

Tron is the story of Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges, Bad Times at the El Royale), a former employee at Encom, a major computing and videogame company. Encom’s made some wonderful strides in technology as of late, by 1980’s standards. Encom performs special matter tests in a specialized lab, while the programmers grind away code in their cubicles. All of their work is overseen by the Master Control Program, an operating system of sorts. Granted, the workforce at Encom isn’t too pleased about having the MCP monitor their applications. Alan Bradley (Bruce Boxleitner, Kuffs) and Lori Baines (Cindy Morgan, Caddyshack) also have programs and projects of their own that are being culled. Alan’s program, Tron (also played by Boxleitner) is of particular interest to the MCP, as it acts an a security threat that could bring some serious problems. Kevin tries to hack his way into Encom with the use of a program he created called Clu (also Bridges), but the MCP and the Senior Vice President of Encom, Ed Dillinger (David Warner, The Omen, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze) keep Flynn at bay. When Alan and Lori discover what Flynn’s up to, they confront him at his arcade, where he explains that he was the actual creator of Encom’s top games. He only needs the data as proof. This leads to the team breaking into Encom, where the MCP digitizes Flynn and brings him into the computer world. Can Flynn escape and help liberate the programs enslaved by the MCP and its henchman, Sark (both also played by Warner)? Can Flynn find the proof to exonerate him? And just who is this Tron fellow, anyway?

The plot for Tron inside the machine becomes a bit theological. The programs believe in the Users, and that they were each created for a particular purpose. From Ram (Dan Shor, Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure) being an Actuarial Program to Tron being a defense against the MCP, it’s kind of interesting once Flynn shows up. As a User, he doesn’t have much more power than a program, save that he can’t really be derezzed and that he can mimic the neon glow of anyone he touched. I always thought they could have given him something cooler to do, though for 1982, repurposing machines does have some benefits. The story slows down a bit in the middle, feeling like it’s somewhat unsure of itself, but picks up in the final act with Tron vs. Sark and the MVP. Though Flynn is important to the outcome, he’s more like Big Trouble in Little China’s Jack Burton, kind of just watching this happen around him. He does have his moments, though.

When I was little, my dad owned a Commodore 64 and a Floppy Disk Drive. He would regularly pick up magazines like Byte! to catch up on new innovations. In most of these magazines, they’d have a program that you could enter in at home to create various effects like making a balloon fly across your screen. Those programs were usually written over a number of pages with hundreds of lines of code. For Tron, there were 3 teams dedicated for the Visual Effects. According to the behind the scenes documentary on the disc, Information International Inc., known as Triple-I, was brought in to handle the major work along with Mathematic Applications Group Inc. (MAGI), who director Steven Lisberger worked for at one point early in his career. Digital Effects of New York handled some of the responsible for some of the original CGI work used in Michael Crichton’s Westworld (considered one of the first CGI movie uses ever) and it’s sequel, Futureworld. For the time, the effects were groundbreaking. Mind you, most of this was all before we ever hit the 8-bit era of Nintendo, the Commodore Amiga or even the high resolution arcade games of Sega’s heyday like Space Harrier, Outrun or Afterburner. In an actual arcade in 1982 had games like Q-Bert or Dig Dug with the kind of graphics you’d never see on home systems.

Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges) and others (including a young Michael Dudikoff to his right) watch Tron fight for the users. This would inspire Dudikoff to become an American Ninja.

The designs for the look and feel of the computer world came from Lisberger himself, with a bit of assistance from both futurist Syd Mead and legendary artist Jean “Mobius” Giraud. Both men were extremely popular. Mead was the equivalent of Apple’s former Chief Design Officer Jony Ive, having created the “V’ger” model for Star Trek:The Motion Picture. Ironically, Mead’s work (both on the set design and the flying cars) would be seen by audiences watching Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner just a month shy of Tron’s release. Having worked on Alien years prior, Giraud helped to design and inspire both the clothing and some of the vehicles, such as the weird cradle for Dumont (Bernard Hughes, The Lost Boys) and the Light Cycles.

Jean "Mobius" Giraud's sketches for Dumont in Tron.

A film dealing with computers needed a composer familiar with electronic music.It seemed fitting that Wendy Carlos(A Clockwork Orange, The Shining) took on the challenge. Having built a computer at 14, Carlos’ love for music over the years lead her (with Robert Moog) to help develop the Moog synthesizer system. The Moog would go on to be used by Kraftwerk, Giorgio Mororder, Nine Inch Nails, The Prodigy Daft Punk and even J Dilla, among others. The Tron Soundtrack was a mix of orchestra, choir and electronic music. Although the sound may not be as dark and digital as Daft Punk’s score for Tron: Legacy, I felt it worked for the time and moves well with the film. In addition to Carlos’ score, Journey wrote the song “Only Solutions” for the film, which also happens to be a line uttered by Kevin Flynn.

Overall, Tron is one of those movies I can happily rewatch without much in the way of expectation. I enjoy it for its place in Sci-Fi cinema, and the memories it awakens. I don’t think Disney ever fully recognized the full potential of where they could take the story, though the animated Tron: Uprising was a great part of the saga. I’m just hoping Tron: Ares doesn’t stray too far from the fold.

Film Review: Stay Hungry (dir by Bob Rafelson)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

In the 1976 film Stay Hungry, Jeff Bridges plays Craig Blake.

When we first meet Craig, he doesn’t have much of a personality, though we still like him because he’s played by Jeff Bridges.  Living in Alabama, he’s a young rich kid who, after the death of his parents, divides his time between his nearly empty mansion and his country club.  Craig suffers from a good deal of ennui and seems to spend a lot of time writing letters to his uncle in which he promises that he’s going to eventually get his life together.  Craig eventually gets a job at a real estate firm that is managed by Jabo (Joe Spinell).  We know that the real estate firm is shady because Joe Spinell works there.

Craig is assigned to handle the purchase of a small gym so that he can eventually close the place and allow it to be torn down to make room for an office building.  However, Craig soon falls for the gang of colorful eccentrics whose lives revolve around the gym and bodybuilder Joe Santo (Arnold Schwarzenegger, who gets an “introducing” credit, even though this was his fourth film).  The friendly Franklin (Robert Englund) is Santo’s “grease” man.  Anita (Helena Kallianiotes) is tough and can kick anyone’s ass.  The receptionist, Mary Tate (Sally Field), is a free spirit with whom Craig soon falls in love.  In fact, the only less than likable person at the gym is the former owner, Thor Erickson (R.G. Armstrong), a heavy-drinking perv who has a hole in the floor of his office that he uses to peek down at the women’s locker room.

There’s not much of a plot here.  Instead, the film plays out in a rather laid back manner, with Santo befriending Craig and showing him the joy of embracing life.  Arnold Schwarzenegger actually won an award (well, a Golden Globe) for his performance here and it must be said that he’s very good as the gentle and easy-going Santo.  Because he’s huge and he’s Schwarzenegger, we expect him to be intimidating.  Instead, he’s a soft-spoken guy who is quick to smile and who doesn’t even get upset when he finds out that Mary Tate and Craig are now involved.  There’s even a surprising scene where Joe Santo picks up a fiddle and starts playing with a bluegrass band.  Schwarzenegger is so likable here that it’s easy to wonder where his career might have gone if he hadn’t become an action star.  Even early in his career (and when he was still speaking with a very thick accent), Schwarzenegger shows off a natural comic timing.  He’s fun to watch.

In fact, he’s so much fun that the rest of the film suffers whenever he’s not onscreen.  The cast is full of talented people but the film’s loose, plotless structure keeps us from truly getting too invested in any of them.  (Santo is training for Mr. Universe so at least he gets an actual storyline.)  Sally Field and Jeff Bridges are cute together but their romance is never quite as enchanting as it seems like it should be.  The main problem with the film is that, when it ends, one still feels like Craig will eventually get bored with the gym and return back to his mansion and his country club.  One doesn’t get the feeling that Craig has been changed so much as Craig just seems to be slumming for the heck of it.

There are charming moments in Stay Hungry.  I’m a Southern girl so I can attest that the film captured the feel of the South better than most films.  If you’re a Schwarzenegger fan, you have to see this film because it really does feature Arnie at his most charming and natural.  Unfortunately, despite all that, the film itself never really comes together.

Film Review: Thunderbolt and Lightfoot (dir by Michael Cimino)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

1974’s Thunderbolt and Lightfoot opens with two men, one young and one middle-aged, facing a moment of truth.

The younger of the two is Lightfoot (Jeff Bridges), a wild and hyperactive rich kid who is in his 20s and who steals a corvette right off of a used car lot.  The other man is simply known by his nickname, Thunderbolt (Clint Eastwood).  When we first see Thunderbolt, he’s giving a sermon in a small Montana church.  When a gun-wielding man steps into the church and promptly starts firing at Thunderbolt, he takes off running.  Pursued by his attacker, Thunderbolt runs through a field and just happens to jump onto Lightfoot’s speeding corvette.  Lightfoot runs over the Thunderbolt’s pursuer.  Thunderbolt slips into the car and Lightfoot drives on for a bit.  Lightfoot is excited and talkative.  Thunderbolt is more concerned with popping his shoulder back into its socket.  A stop at a gas station leads to the men stealing someone else’s car.

And so it goes for a good deal of the movie.  Thunderbolt and Lightfoot is a road movie, the majority of which is taken up with scenes of the two men just hanging out.  Thunderbolt and Lightfoot take an instant liking to each other.  When Lightfoot picks up a prostitute (Catherine Bach), he makes sure to ask that she bring along a friend for Thunderbolt.  When a criminal punches Lightfoot, Thunderbolt is quick to punch back.  “That’s for the kid,” Thunderbolt says.  That’s the type of friendship that they have.  Jeff Bridges is handsome and full of energy as Lightfoot and Clint Eastwood smiles more in this film than I think I’ve seen him smile in any other film.  For once, Eastwood is not playing a perpetually grumpy stranger or a supercop.  Instead, he’s just a blue collar guy who enjoys having a friend to travel with.

Eventually, Thunderbolt and Lightfoot meet up with two of Thunderbolt’s former associates.  Red (George Kennedy) is a brutal brawler who, it is suggested, served with Thunderbolt in the Korean War.  Goody (Geoffrey Lewis) is a gentle soul who takes orders from Red but still can’t bring himself to shoot anyone, no matter how much Red demands that he pull the trigger.  Red and Goody have always assumed that Thunderbolt stole the loot from a bank robbery that they pulled off.  Thunderbolt explains that he didn’t steal the money.  He just got arrested after hiding it.  Lightfoot suggests that maybe the four of them could pull off another bank heist….

Kennedy and Lewis are perfectly cast as the two criminals who end up working with Thunderbolt and Lightfoot.  In many ways, the relationship between Red and Goody mirrors the relationship between our lead characters.  The main difference is that Red is sadistic and quick to loose his temper, whereas Thunderbolt controls his emotions and tries not to hurt anyone while committing his crimes.  Lightfoot looks up to Thunderbolt and Goody looks up to Red.  Again, the difference is that Thunderbolt actually cares about Lightfoot, whereas Red is incapable of truly caring about anyone but himself.  Eastwood, Bridges, Kennedy, and Lewis make quite a team and it’s hard not to worry about all four of them, especially when the film takes an unexpectedly dramatic turn during its third act.

I really wasn’t expecting Thunderbolt and Lightfoot to make me cry but the final thirty minutes of the film brought tears to my eyes as what started out as a buddy comedy turned into a tragedy.  (I shouldn’t have been surprised.  I’ve seen enough 70s movies that I really should have known better than to have expected a happy ending.)  Thanks to the perceptive script by Michael Cimino (who would go on to make The Deer Hunter and Heaven’s Gate) and the performances of Eastwood and Bridges, the movie’s final moments carry quite a punch and they leave you wondering if Thunderbolt and Lightfoot’s road trip was worth the price that was ultimately paid.  The film works as not only a tribute to friendship but also as a fatalistic portrait of life on the backroads of America.

Thunderbolt and Lightfoot was the first Eastwood film to receive an Oscar nomination, with Jeff Bridges competing for Best Supporting Actor.  (He lost to Robert De Niro’s star turn in The Godfather, Part II.)  Eastwood, reportedly, felt that he deserved a nomination for his performance as Thunderbolt and, considering that that Oscar itself was won by Art Carney for his pleasant but hardly revelatory work in Harry and Tonto, Eastwood was correct.  Instead, Eastwood would have to wait for another 18 years before he finally received Academy recognition for starring in, producing, and directing Unforgiven.

Film Review: Starman (dir by John Carpenter)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

John Carpenter has directed 18 features film, from 1974’s Dark Star to 2010’s The Ward.  Some of his films have been huge box office successes.  Some of his films, like The Thing, were box office flops that were later retroactive recognized as being classics.  Carpenter has made mainstream films and he’s made cult favorites and, as he’s always the first to admit, he’s made a few films that just didn’t work.  When it comes to evaluating his own work, Carpenter has always been one of the most honest directors around.

Amazingly, Carpenter has only directed one film that received an Oscar nomination.

That film was 1984’s Starman and the nomination was for Jeff Bridges, who was one of the five contenders for Best Actor.  (The Oscar went to F. Murray Abraham for Amadeus.)  Bridges played the title character, an alien who is sent to Earth to investigate the population and who takes on the form of the late husband of Jenny Hayden (Karen Allen).  The Starman takes Jenny hostage, though its debatable whether or not he really understands what it means when he picks up her husband’s gun and points it at her.  He and Jenny drive across the country, heading to Arizona so that he can return to his ship.  Pursued by the government (represented by the sympathetic Charles Martin Smith and the far less sympathetic Richard Jaeckel), the Starman learns about emotions, eating, love, and more from Jenny.  Jenny goes from being fearful of the Starman to loving him.  Carpenter described the film as being It Happened One Night with an alien and it’s not a bad description.

After Jenny and the alien visitor make love in a boxcar, the Starman says, “I gave you a baby tonight,” and that would be an incredibly creepy line coming from a human but it’s oddly charming when uttered by an alien who looks like a youngish Jeff Bridges.  Bridges definitely deserved his Oscar nomination for his role here.  Speaking with an odd accent and moving like a bird who is searching for food, Bridges convincingly plays a being who is quickly learning how to be human.  The Starman is constantly asking Jenny why she says, does, and feels certain things and it’s the sort of thing that would be annoying if not for the way that Bridges captures the Starman’s total innocence.  He doesn’t mean to be a pest.  He’s simply curious about everything.

Bridges deserved his nomination and I would say that Karen Allen deserved a nomination as well.  In fact, it could be argued that Allen deserved a nomination even more than Bridges.  It’s through Allen’s eyes that we see and eventually come to trust and then to love the Starman.  Almost her entire performance is reactive but she makes those reactions compelling.  I would say that Bridges and Allen deserved an Oscar for the “Yellow light …. go much faster” scene alone.

Carpenter agreed to make Starman because, believe it or not, The Thing had been such a critical and commercial flop that it had actually damaged his career.  (If ever you need proof that its best to revisit even the films that don’t seem to work on first viewing, just consider Carpenter’s history of making films that were initially dismissed but later positively reevaluated.  Today, The Thing, They Live, Prince of Darkness, and In The Mouth of Madness are all recognized as being brilliant films.  When they were first released, they all got mixed reviews.)  Carpenter did Starman because he wanted to show that he could do something other than grisly horror.  Starman is one of Carpenter’s most heartfelt and heartwarming films.  That said, it also features Carpenter’s trademark independent streak.  Starman not only learns how to be human but, as a result of the government’s heavy-handed response to his arrival, one can only assume that he learns to be an anti-authoritarian as well.

Starman is one of Carpenter’s best films and also a wonderful showcase for both Karen Allen and Jeff Bridges.

Film Review: Tucker: The Man and His Dream (by Francis Ford Coppola)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

First released in 1988, Tucker: The Man and His Dream is a biopic about Preston Tucker.

Tucker was an engineer in Detroit who went from designing vehicles for the Army during World War II to trying to launch his own car company.  His ideas for an automobile don’t sound particularly radical today.  He wanted every car to have seat belts.  He wanted a windshield that popped out as a safety precaution.  He want brake pads and he also wanted a car that looked sleek and aerodynamic, as opposed to the old boxy cars that were being pushed out be Detroit.  He wanted a car that got good mileage and he wanted one that could be taken just about anywhere.  Unfortunately, Tucker’s dreams were cut short when he was indicted for stock fraud, a prosecution that most people agree was a frame-up on behalf of the Big Three auto makers.  Tucker was eventually acquitted but his car company went out of business.  Of the 50 cars that Tucker did produce, 48 of them were still on the road and being driven forty years later.

The film stars Jeff Bridges as Preston Tucker, Joan Allen as his wife, Christian Slater and Corin Nemec as two of his sons, Lloyd Bridges as the senator who tried to take Tucker down, Martin Landau as Tucker’s business partner, and Dean Stockwell as Howard Hughes, who shows up for a few minutes to encourage Tucker to follow his dreams regardless of how much the government tries to stop him.  One gets the feeling that the film was a personal one for director Francis Ford Coppola, a filmmaker who has pretty much spent his entire career fighting with studios while trying to bring his vision to the screen.  Tucker fought for seat belts.  Coppola fought for a mix of color and black-and-white in Rumble Fish.  Tucker stood up for his business partner.  Francis Ford Coppola stood up for Al Pacino when no one else could envision him as Michael Corleone.  As is the case with many of Coppola’s films, Tucker: The Man And His Dream is a film that Coppola spent years trying to get made.  It was the film that Coppola originally intended to be the follow-up to The Godfather, with Marlon Brando projected for the lead role of Tucker.  After watching the Tucker, it’s hard not to feel that it worked out for the best that Coppola was not able to make the film in 1973.  It’s impossible to imagine anyone other than Jeff Bridges in the role of Preston Tucker.

“Chase that tiger….chase that tiger….chase that tiger….” It’s a song that Tucker sings constantly throughout the film as the camera spins around him and how you react to Tucker: The Man And His Dream will largely depend on how tolerant you are of Coppola’s stylistic flourishes.  Coppola directs the film as a combination of Disney fairy tale and film noir.  The opening of the film, with Tucker running around in almost a manic state and excitedly telling everyone about his plans, is presented with vibrant colors and frequent smiles and an almost overwhelming air of cheerful optimism.  As the film progresses and Tucker finds himself being targeted by both the government and the other auto companies, the film gets darker and the viewer starts to notice more and more shadows in the background.  The moments of humor become less and less and there’s a heart-breaking moment where Martin Landau, in one of his best performances, reveals just how far the government will go to take down Tucker’s company.  But, in the end, Tucker refuses to surrender and Jeff Bridges’s charming smile continues to fill the viewer with hope.  The film becomes about more than just cars.  It’s a film that celebrates all of the innovators who are willing to defy the establishment.

There’s a tendency to dismiss the majority of Coppola’s post-Apocalypse Now films.  However, Tucker: The Man And His Dream is a later Coppola film that deserves to be remembered.

Film Review: Heaven’s Gate (dir by Michael Cimino)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

First released in 1981 and then re-released in several different versions since then, Heaven’s Gate begins at Harvard University.

The year is 1870 and the graduates of Harvard have got their entire future ahead of them.  At the graduation ceremony, Joseph Cotten gives a speech about how, as men of cultivation, they have an obligation to help the uncultivated.  Student orator Billy Irvine (John Hurt) then gives a speech  in which he jokingly says the exact opposite.  Amongst the graduates, Billy’s friend, Jim Averill (Kris Kristofferson), laughs at Billy’s speech.  It’s a bit of a strange scene, if just because all of the graduates appear to be teenagers except for Hurt and Kristofferson, who are both clearly in their 30s.  The graduates of Harvard sing to their girlfriends and dance under a tree and, for a fleeting moment, all seems to be right with the world.

Twenty years later, all seems to be wrong with the world.  Averill is now the rugged and world-weary marshal of Johnson Country, Wyoming.  Cattle barons are trying to force immigrant settlers to give up their land.  Gunmen, like Nate Champion (Christopher Walken) and Nick Ray (Mickey Rourke), are accepting contracts to execute immigrants who are suspected of stealing cattle.  When Averill stands up for the people of Johnson Country, the head of the Wyoming Stock Grower Association, Frank Canton (Sam Waterston), hires a group of mercenaries to ride into Johnson County and execute 125 settlers.  Billy Irvine, who now is dissolute alcoholic who works with Canton, warns his old friend Averill.  Averill, who has fallen in love with Ella (Isabelle Huppert), the local madam, announces that he will defend the immigrants.  Nate, who is also in love with Ella, considers changing sides.

Heaven’s Gate is loosely based on an actual event.  I actually have three distant ancestors who traveled to Wyoming to take part in the Johnson County War.  All three of them survived, though one of them was shot and killed in an unrelated manner shortly after returning to Ft. Smith, Arkansas.  That said, director Michael Cimino is clearly not that interested in the historical reality of the Johnson County War or the issues that it raised.  Just as he did with Vietnam in The Deer Hunter, Cimino uses the Johnson County War as a way to signify a loss of national innocence.  Averill and Irvine start the film as hopeful “young” men with the future ahead of them.  By the end of the film, one is dead and the other is living on a yacht and dealing with what appears to be crippling ennui.

Heaven’s Gate is a bit of an infamous film.  Though the film was pretty much a standard western, Cimino still went far over-budget and turned in a first cut that was over six hours long.  A four hour version was briefly released in 1980 but withdrawn after a week, due to terrible reviews and audience indifference.  A studio-edited version that ran for two hours and 35 minutes got the widest release in 1981.  Since then, there have been several other versions released.  Cimino’s director’s cut, which was released as a part of the Criterion Collection in 2012, runs for 212-minutes and is considered to now be the “official” version of Heaven’s Gate.

For years, Heaven’s Gate had a terrible reputation.  It’s failure at the box office was blamed for bankrupting United Artists.  After the excesses of the Heaven’s Gate production, studios were far more reluctant to just give a director a bunch of money and let him run off to make his movie.  (They should have learned their lesson with Dennis Hopper and The Last Movie.)  Described by studio execs as being self-indulgent and even mentally unstable, Michael Cimino’s career never recovered and the director of The Deer Hunter went from being an Oscar-winner to being an industry pariah.  (Some who disliked The Deer Hunter’s perceived jingoistic subtext claimed that Heaven’s Gate proved The Deer Hunter was just an overrated fluke.)  However, the reputation of Heaven’s Gate has improved, especially with the release of Cimino’s director’s cut.  Many critics have praised Heaven’s Gate for its epic portrayal of the west and, ironically given the controversy over The Deer Hunter, its political subtext.  It’s anti-immigrant villains made the film popular amongst the Resistance-leaning film historians during the first Trump term.

So, is Heaven’s Gate a masterpiece or a disaster?  To be honest, it’s somewhere in between.  Whereas it was once over-criticized, it’s now over-praised.  Visually, it’s a beautiful film but those who complained that the film was too slow had a point.  As with The Deer Hunter, Cimino takes the time to introduce us to and immerse us in a tight-knit immigrant community.  Personally, I like the much-criticized scenes of the fiddler on skates and Averill and Ella dancing in the roller rink.  Overall though, as opposed to The Deer Hunter, the members of the film’s victimized community still feel less like individual characters and more like symbols.  As for the political subtext, I think that any subtext of that sort is accidental.  (I feel the same way about The Deer Hunter, which I like quite a bit more than Heaven’s Gate.)  Cimino is more interested in the loss of innocence than whether or not the Johnson County War can be fit into some sort of nonsense Marxist framework.

The main problem with the film is that there is no center to keep everything grounded.  Kris Kristofferson had a definite screen presence but, as an actor who was incapable of showing a great deal of emotion, he lacks the gravitas necessary to keep from being swallowed up by Cimino’s epic pretensions.  Isabelle Huppert, an otherwise great actress, also feels lost in the role of Ella and Sam Waterston is not necessarily the most-intimidating villain to ever show up in a western.  Christopher Walken, as the enigmatic and intriguing Nate Champion, gives the best performance in the film but his character still feels largely wasted.

There are some brilliant visual moments to be found in Heaven’s Gate.  I even like the Harvard prologue and the ending on the boat, both of which are not technically necessary to the narrative but still add an extra-dimension to both Averill and Irvine.  But, in the end, Heaven’s Gate is big when it should have been small and epic when its should have been intimate.  It’s a misfire but not a disaster.  Even great directors occasionally have a film that just doesn’t work.  Speilberg had his 1941.  Scorsese has had a handful.  Coppola’s career has been a mess but no one can take his successes away from him.  Michael Cimino, who passed away in 2016, deserved another chance.