Misery (1990)

Director Rob Reiner takes on Stephen King in a funny, dark take of the horror author’s “Misery,” the story every artist must fear: What if you were immobilized and taken hostage by your No. 1 Fan who also happens to be a psychotic lunatic? That’s what happens when world-famous author Paul Sheldon (James Caan) crashes his pretty car during a snow storm, and to the rescue is crazy, lonely, book-loving RN Annie Wilkes (Kathy Bates). You know the rest: Annie infamously swings a sledgehammer when she learns Paul has “killed” his famous heroine, Misery. Crack! Get me rewrite! I loved King’s claustrophobic nightmare book which never leaves Paul’s trapped view. Here, Reiner and screen adapter William Goldman (he also adapted “Princess Bride”) regularly visit the nearby sheriff and his wife (Richard Farnsworth and Frances Sternhagen). While the move kills the suspense, it adds humor as we watch the couples bounce off each other. The casting is genius: Tough guy Caan plays a weak jerk and Bates wins Oscar gold as the deeply insane and vastly sad Wilkes. I loved hating Annie's cock-a-doodie guts. B+

Total Recall (1990 and 2012)

If you asked me to name 25 action films from the past 25 years that needed remaking, or even warranted remaking, “Total Recall” would not make the list. Not even on a count of 50 movies. Not by a long shot. And not one of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s greatest hits.

The “silly gorefest” -– as a colleague calls it –- that is the 1990 version of “Total Recall” is a subversive high-comedy of outlandish action indulgence and excess, cranked to 111 and one more. It’s a classic mixing of Schwarzenegger, the unstoppable action giant who ruled the box office, and Paul Verhoeven, the director of satirical over-the-top grisly violent films a la “RoboCop” that wink at film violence and American macho chest-beating even as more shit is blown up and arms are ripped off bad guys. With a one-liner retort hitting every minute. In short, I love it. And watch it at least once a year, maybe twice.

Anyone who likes action or sci-fi film knows the story. Schwarzenegger plays Douglas Quaid, a lug-head TV news addict construction worker who knows deep in his skull he’s meant for something “special,” more so than being married to Sharon Stone. (That in itself is hilarious.) Quaid dreams of Mars every night, and a mysterious woman he knows only in a state of R.E.M. In this romp, Mars is the source of much war and mayhem because of an energy source, a theme of the Middle East relevant 22 years ago, and damn relevant today, post Bushes, H.W. and W.

I digress. A subway car ad promises Quaid an “ego trip” to Mars courtesy of the company Rekall. See, the trip is all in your head. The ultimate virtual reality Stay-cation, if you will, before the Internet. Quaid jumps like a starry-eyed child into buying a silly 007 “Spy Game”-extras package the Rekall used-car-salesman slick prick offers. Mr. Slick promises Quaid by the end of his “vacation,” the latter will have saved the planet, killed all the bad guys, and scooped the hot girl. “Sign me Up!” Quaid practically drools.

Of course, Quaid wakes up just as his dream session is to begin, realizing his cover as a secret super-spy from none-other-than Mars has been blown and everyone is out to kill him in an intergalactic conspiracy that focuses on him as the most important man in the galaxy. “Get your ass to Mahz,” Quaid -- who isn’t even actually boring construction worker Quaid, but a resistance fighter named Hauser -- says and does. To himself. The rest is relentless action, mutant aliens, and gasping for air on the red rocky dust outside.

It’s that moment where Mr. Slick promises Quaid he’ll be the hero that “Recall” really hits its glorious hands-down genius cruising speed as several more bit-players throughout the film tell us exactly what will happen, what has happened, and mock the whole affair. One character, a lab tech, gives away the final scene in a barely audible aside. Later, a fat, blandly pale geek openly calls “Bullshit!” on the entire plot to Quaid/Schwarzenegger’s face. Not just of this film, but every action film ever made, since time began. It’s akin to hearing a film critic second guessing the movie as it plays on screen.

Stone – before “Basic Instinct” -- is just amazing here, veering from sympathetic “wife” one second to banshee-wild killer psycho the next. There’s this devilishly funny ongoing joke that Stone as an evil spy posing as Quaid’s Earth-bound spouse “enjoyed” her assignment quite well, and her husband –- the bald, skinny main enforcer for the whole intergalactic conspiracy against Quaid –- isn’t happy about it, not with his ambiguously gay henchmen sidekick snickering aloud. Michael Ironside as the villain is genius at playing evil and slow burns as you see him thinking, “What if she… ?!?” Talk about nervy humor.

Let’s not forget how good Schwarzenegger is here, how smart for him to completely lampoon his Macho Man box office streak, even dressing in drag, and do it so smoothly and effortlessly, that I dare say 90 percent of his fan club never even picked up on the joke. He helped shepherd this film into reality, even suggesting the mastermind spy posing as a day laborer track. The man’s never been better, period. Fact. Even in “Terminator.”

Bonus points: The whole production could be, most likely is, a trippy head trick. Is all the action inside Doug’s head, as Rekall promised? Decide for yourself. I think so, going back to the pasty fat guy and all his predictions, and that final scene where the sun light hits like bliss. Or a lobotomy. But that’s the real cool factor here, satire included -- this is an action film worthy of fun debate. “Inception” plays like a head-trippy grand-nephew. if you want to ignore it, or cannot see it, the film still is an “A”-grade blast.

Which brings me to the remake. Now in theaters, playing in PG-13 safe non-glory, as I write this. Or, actually, it is bombing in theaters as I write this. Two weeks out.

Actually, hold off a minute, “Total Recall” – both of them – is (umm, are?) loosely (very loosely) based on the Philip K. Dick classic short story, “We Can Remember It for you for Wholesale.” In it, an office drone type has dreams of spy adventures on Mars, and like Quaid goes to a virtual reality company named Rekal for the same spy dream package. Quail -– not Quaid, the surname name of the hero from the book was changed in 1990 to avoid political association with then-VP Dan Quayle -- also wakes up as his dream implant begins, realizing his cover as a Big Brother-type assassin has been blown, and all hell breaks loose. The kicks come fast. Super-kick: Quail has many bizarre pasts hidden deep inside his noodle, now back from the void. Dick ends his story quick and open, leaving the reader to go fan fiction in his or her head. It’s a corker, and could make a damn fine and faithful movie one day, a sci-fi offspring of “Memento,” with an unlikely nerdy hero. 

So, why the Star Circle Planet Number Sign Exclamation Point did the movie studio – Sony, the dicks who just remade “Spider-Man” after a mere decade for crying out loud  -- and director Len Wiseman (of the “Underworld” series and the shitty and soulless “Live Free and Die Hard”) virtually ignore every chance to go Dick and go smart with a whole new tale, with a whole new title? Money? Cluelessness? Laziness? What the hell ever.

I purchased my movie ticket hoping/thinking surely this isn’t a point-for-point rehash of what Schwarzenegger, Verhoven, and Stone did so perfectly damn well, and with miles of wit. But that it is, sans wit, and a stone-cold serious and heavy-handed rehash with no purpose or comment on today’s world or movies. It not only rips off every single plot twist and kink from the 1990 version, but also stands a clear forger in spirit and look and design of “Blade Runner” and its dystopian, post-world’s-end set and mood. “Blade Runner,” by the way, is its own mind-trippy sci-fi classic film, and based on a Dick story. Also ripped off: “Fifth Element,” with its ultra-packed, multi-layered cities stretching up into the air, and the cult film “The Cube” with shifting elevators. There are more films aped, too.

So, on a future Earth near ruined by chemical warfare, Douglas Quaid (Colin Farrell) is a factory worker who builds “I, Robot”-type law enforcement robots, living in what we consider Australia and working in daily shifts in what we consider England. Do not ask about the commute, it has to do with an elevator that runs through the Earth, and the entire thing is just flat laugh-out-loud ridiculous, and the writers forget the rules of the contraption as the film slogs on. Those robots, by the way, are striking similar to the Storm Troopers from a certain George Lucas film series. Shocker, I know.

This Quaid – carbon copy to 1990 Quaid -- also is unhappy with his life. Wants something more, a thrilling adventure as a spy. On his commutes, he reads Ian Fleming’s James Bond book, “The Spy Who Love Me.” (O.K., I admit, that is funny.) This Quaid also dreams of Mars, spies, and a mysterious woman (Jessica Biel here). He wakes up next to Kate Beckinsale, and is still unhappy. Off to Rekall, he goes, too. You know, the rest.

The changes upfront are several but not enough: There’s no getting of ass to Mahz. This story is Earth bound. In so many ways. The wife and enforcer bits have been combined, so Beckinsale plays both Stone and Ironside. She’s good, but when paired against Biel, I could not tell the woman apart. All the gotch’yas and double-crosses remain intact. I longed for one major change, a zag where the 1990 version zigged. This isn’t a movie. It’s a product birthed by bean-counters who know the teens out there know no better, and sucker film fans such as myself will pluck money down to see the film of the week.

Look, Farrell is a fine actor. Ever see “In Bruges”? I love that film. Here, the gods bless him, Farrell -– all reaction -- is lost amid the $200 million special effects and art direction, another cog in the wheel. Any actor could have played this part. (The 1990 version demanded Schwarzenegger.) He just can’t compete. Schwarzenegger -- all 600 pounds or whatever of him -- held the screen. Easily.

Some bits stand out -– a literal hand phone that is Owellian to the max, mainly -– but every other minute is a reminder that if one is going to remake a brilliant, witty classic of action cinema, you better have enough guns and guts off screen as you do onscreen. This retread wimps out with no guts at all, PG-13, indeed. And to think, a few months ago, “Conan the Barbarian” also was remade. I have forgotten that, too. Why the hate on Ahnuld? Oh, and, Hollywood, do not touch freaking touch “Kindergarten Cop,” please. Never. OK?

The 1990 version: A. The 2012 version: C-

GoodFellas (1990) and Heat (1995)

Watching Robert De Niro burn his unparalleled talents in shit such as “Little Fockers” or “Righteous Kill,” it’s unbelievable that just 20 years ago he had two of the best films in his storied career and of the decade under his belt. “GoodFellas” – directed by Martin Scorsese – and “Heat” – directed by Michael Mann – are crime genre classics, eternally re-watchable and endlessly fascinating. The man is a monster in both films, of cinematic talent, and of men’s character. 

“GoodFellas” opens with this line, spoken by Ray Liotta as Henry Hill, a Bronx-born hood who was mobbed up by age 14: “Ever since I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.” Wow. This is Hill’s story, from rise to vast rule to ketchup and egg noodles in the Midwest. De Niro is his mid-level mob boss. Joe Pesci costars in an infamously profane and violent performance so shocking, it’s bewildering to know the man he plays was far more dangerous. The film is flawless, so amazing good and detailed (the food alone!), it’s a thrill to behold for a 15^th viewing. My words do not do it justice. 

In “Heat,” De Niro is a master criminal of a high-end gang (Val Kilmer and Tom Sizemore co-headline his crew) being chased by an obsessive detective (Al Pacino, also scraping bottom in “Righteous” and “88 Minutes”) in Los Angeles. We also follow the cop’s home life as Mann’s three-hour epic film spreads far and wide, almost too wide – an icky serial killer plot thread goes nowhere. The actions scenes are you-are-there-real and spectacular, including a long finale outside the Los Angeles airport that boomed in a theater.

De Niro is the star of both, the ballast holding each film together, keeping the madness, violence, crazy details, and other actors (Pacino goes “PACINO” a few times) cemented and whole, but let it be known these worlds are the creation of, respectively, Scorsese and Mann, both in unmatched top form. Know this: “GoodFellas” was based on a true story, but “Heat” inspired a criminal duo to pull off a daring bank robbery that eerily mimicked the mid-section scene here.

GoodFellas: A+ Heat: A

The King of New York (1990)

From the first minute of “King of New York,” Christopher Walken owns the screen. And he doesn’t speak for another 10. Directed by Abel Ferrara, the “King” is Frank White, a recently paroled mob boss who makes clear that he will never again bow or be caged. Bodies stack high as White alternately wrecks havoc on his competitors and the police alike. Meanwhile, White plays Robin Hood, giving away millions to the needy. This is wildly violent stuff that makes “Goodfellas” seem quaint, especially after a band of rogue cops (headed by a young David Caruso) declare war on White. The plot is thin, and not interested in the criminal mindset. This is all about mood, and the mood is bloody, messy, dark as a lightless cave, and unsafe for everyone on screen. Walken is delirious, funny, dangerous and wicked cool, all in a single scene. “King”rules. A-

Wild at Heart (1990)

David Lynch’s “Wild at Heart” is another slice of a dream-state American pie. Burned to a crisp. Nobody sets a mood quicker or with romantic/doomed/thrilling atmosphere than Lynch, and this film is loaded with scenes beautiful (a couple in love dancing wildly on a desert side road) and hellish (Grace Zabriskie as a wordless demonic killer) and downright weird (Crispin Glover, going 111 on the nut-bucket scale).

The dancing lovers are Nicolas Cage’s Sailor, a newly paroled convict, and Laura Dern’s Lula, an innocent with a her bat-poop crazy momma (Diane Ladd, Dern’s real mother). The couple head West, fleeing mom, who sends a private eye (Harry Dean Stanton) and then a troupe of killers. I won’t dish on the rest of the pretzel-twisty plot, but say only that Lynch riffs off “The Wizard of Oz,” but with hard-core graphic sexual and violent content. There literally is a magic globe, a Wicked Witch and a Good Witch.

There’s so much to love here. A roadside car accident in particular is a dip into tragic/magic life and death as a Sherilyn Fenn plays a young girl whose head literally splits open. (Half the cast came from “Twin Peaks.”) Yet, this whacked trip Cannes Film Festival winner has its faults: Sheryl Lee, the dead Laura Palmer, plays a great corpse. Playing the Good Witch, not so much. She sucks, actually. And Willem Dafoe plays a disgusting, ill-conceived, seedy reincarnation of Frank Booth from “Blue Velvet,” but with a dash of “Deliverance” teeth and the strut of a 13-year-old boy. Dennis Hopper’s Booth came from Hell and remains the absolute movie psychopath. Dafoe’s bonehead is an unfunny joke. And, sure enough, someone’s head is blown off into tiny chunks. Is this Lynch on autopilot?

Side note: I still don’t get Lynch’s apparent fear of North Carolina. (Is it the barbecue?) “Heart” opens in Cape Fear, N.C., not too far off the map from Lumberton, where “Blue Velvet” was set. Or is he just paying homage to the original “Cape Fear” from decades back, as the 1992 remake was not yet released? Not sure...

Oh, this is where Cage’s Elvis homage began, and several years before the former’s career crashed deader than the latter's fat butt. Cage is throbbing with energy here, frightening one moment (the opening scene) and insanely funny the next (“What do you f-----s want?”). He is on 100 percent, though, in a daring, damn the rules role. He needs good directors. Alas, Dern plays another pure girl who bemoans if love is enough to conquer evil and death. Lynch loves a blonde like Hitchcock.

Not Lynch’s best by a long shot, but still a shocking, mind-blowing Avant-Garde treat with scenes that dead end but nevertheless fascinate. “Velvet” from start to finish stays on the soul, and is part of me, whereas “Heart” comes and goes in spurts. Still, less than perfect Lynch is one amazing ride. B+

Total Recall (1990)

“Total Recall” is a classic mixing of Arnold Schwarzenegger, the unstoppable action giant, and Paul Verhoeven, the outlandish director of satirical over-the-top grisly violent films.

Schwarzenegger plays Douglas Quaid, a construction worker who knows he’s meant for something “special,” more so than being married to Sharon Stone. (Only in movies.) A subway car ad promises Quaid an “ego trip” to Mars courtesy of the company Recall. See, the trip is all in your head. Don’t leave home without it. Quaid jumps at the chance, but (!!) wakes up mid-session realizing his cover as a secret superspy from Mars has been blown and everyone is out to kill him. “Get down!”

Nearly 20 years on, “Recall” kicks ass, especially that pounding music score and those bulging eyes. It has more brain than 10 Michael Bay films, satirizing grisly gun porn flicks even as it plays out as one, and giving a kick to unchecked American and British colonialism. It’s also a great comedy: Watch how minor characters repeatedly stop the action to tell Doug (and us) what exactly will happen next, and it all comes true.

Bonus points: The whole production could be a trippy trick. Is all the action inside Doug’s head, as Recall promised? I absolutely think so. My wife disagrees. Giddy nasty debatable fun. A

Dick Tracy (1990)

The live action all-star "Dick Tracy" is pure eye candy -- fun and silly. Let's get it out in front: The plot stinks. Bad. Rotten. But that's beside the point. Warren Beatty directs and stars as Tracy, helped by Al Pacino, Dustin Huffman, Glenne Headly, William Forsythe, Kathy Bates, Paul Sorvino, Dick Van Dyke and a bunch more. Pacino is the stand out as Big Boy Caprice, a hysterically incompetent Al Capone clone with a Hitler haircut and no sense of history or leadership. For once, Pacino's gift for over-acting works in his favor. It's comedy brilliance. The whacked makeup, eye-popping art direction and giddy costumes all invoke the feel of the Sunday morning comic strip. It really is a beautiful-looking fun film. And wonders of wonders, Madonna, as a lounge singer, is good. The awkward sexual asides belong in another film, though. I fondly recall my younger brother wanting to be the kid (Charlie Korsmo) in this. Gingers they sure as hell stick together ... B+