Pulp (1972)

Mike Hodges’ Italy-set dark comedy “Pulp” is the tale of a crime writer (Michael Caine) who fancies himself a gangster and a blowhard retired actor (Mickey Rooney) who was once that gangster. The plot: Novelist Mickey King gets hired to ghost write the memoirs of Rooney’s mobster, and all that pulp fiction that bubbles out of King’s pointy head becomes real with guns, bombs, and bodies. Hodges (“Flash Gordon,” a long-time guilty pleasure favorite) starts strong with a free-spirit slapstick vibe that screams anything goes, but that pitch comes with a price. Vital exposition is endlessly told, rarely shown, by Caine, and when Rooney exits, “Pulp” loses its punch. By the finale, set on a beach and truly unexplainable, nothing seems worth caring about. As that’s how King operates, maybe it’s on purpose, and I’m just not hip to the joke. Caine is marvelous, making a joke of his fantastic accent and lady-killer charisma. But I loved Rooney. I prefer him gruff, here and in “Requiem for a Heavyweight.” (He’s damn funny, too.) This tiny guy blowing fury, tearing down meat-hook-hands guys 6 foot 5? It’s great stuff. B

Don’t Look Now (1973)

Donald Sutherland plays John Baxter, an academic and artist/restorer, obsessing to the point of tedium over the exact size and shade of colored squares for bas relief sculptures on his latest facelift project, a centuries old church in a dreary, wintry Venice. The work is good, it keeps him distracted from thinking about the soul-crushing drowning death of his young daughter back home in England, the brokenness pooling inside his wife, Laura (Julie Christie), and the fact that he foresaw the girl’s death moments before it occurred.

When a small gesture – the closing of a restaurant window – brings Baxter and his wife into contact with two sisters (Clelia Matania and Hilary Mason), one of whom is blind and psychic, lives will unravel. For the blind woman can see the dead daughter, and the girl has a message for daddy: Flee Venice or die.

That is the premise of Nicolas Roeg’s justifiably famous psychological horror/thriller “Don’t Look Now.” There is a serial killer here, yes, but the suspect is off to the side, a secondary plot tangent, whereas the real onscreen horror is about a couple desperately trying to come to terms with unfathomable loss and guilt, and further losing their paths – mentally and physically – along the way to recovery. The latter part is literal, as the streets and alleys of Venice can be an endless puzzle box, where light often is absent and unreachable. Even during daylight.

I have been there, to Venice, and I have never seen its dark side – and it has a dark side, no lie – put to better use than here. This is a city where walking around a corner can bring you to the safety of a market square or a pitch black dead end. Dread follows this couple.

Roeg’s story, loosely based on a short story, and his editing and camera work, and the refusal to use subtitles for spoken Italian, constantly keep the viewer off balance. Some scenes play out mysteriously and suddenly, and it is not until the end credits roll that one realizes their significance. A second viewing is a must. Also our heroes are not so lovable: They abandon their surviving child to a boarding school back in England after he watched his sister drown. Who does that? One pauses at their parenting skills, and ponders the meaning of such a send-off.

Absolutely among the most terrifyingly real films I’ve ever seen, and winced through twice in a row. Sutherland I don’t think has ever been better, or Christie more lovely and hurt, and as the blind woman with a special sense all her own, Mason nearly steals the film in the final freakish minutes.

Not for all tastes that’s for sure, it contains one of the most notorious sex films ever put in a film. The drowning of the child, at the opening of the film, is also startling, leaving one cold and uneasy. Emotions throughout the film, including the climax, cling to you. Or they dd to me, even writing this blog piece days after viewing the film.

Incidentally, or not, “Now” has one of the most layered depictions of a Catholic priest I have ever seen. The bishop (Massimo Serato) overseeing the renovations dismisses the detailed work by Baxter. Having suffered his own tragedies, he shrugs off stucco choices and the shapes of gargoyles, and all the brick and mortar worry. Baxter foams and protests, “This is important!” It’s just a building, the priest says, looking with grave concern at his troubled and grieving employee and friend, “God has more important priorities.” A+

The Tourist (2010)

How can a romantic crime caper set in Venice and starring superstars Johnny Depp and Angelina Jolie as would-be lovers go wrong? That’s the real mystery of “The Tourist.” Because there’s not much in the subpar-Hitchcock plot, credited to the three brilliant guys who gave us, respectively, “The Usual Suspects,” “Gosford Park” and “The Lives of Others.” There’s an obligatory helping of Last-Minute Climax Reveal, but it’s more latter-day M. Night Shyamalan than anything in, say, “Charade.”

Look, I’m an absolute movie snob, but when I read the reviews to “Tourist,” I thought, “Guys, have some fun.” I wanted to like this. Jolie. Depp. Paris. Italy. This movie had instant classic written all over. But, damn, it never takes off, not even a bump, even after arriving in Venice for boat chases down canals, raging grandpa gangsters (Steve Berkoff), and more dumb cops than 42 “Keystone Kops” shorts.

“Tourist” gives us the genre basics -- an exotic woman and the common man go on the run from killers and police alike in a beautiful locale, falling in love in the process -– and fumbles fast. Aside from the ending I saw off the bat, the problem here is in the actual casting, and how the characters play out. Boring.

Jolie is stiff and strangely dull as a wealthy English aristocrat, lathered in more makeup than Tim Curry wore in “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” Depp, in a surprise move, under-hands his performance as an American math teacher who’d rather stick his nose in a book than watch the Italian countryside glide by. He’s a wallflower. This must be some kind of joke, on the part of Depp, but only he is laughing.

Now, in these films, the couple is always supposed to meet cute and exchange banter that works on three levels –- mysterious, comedic and sexy. But, here, it’s flat month-old soda. The gut-ripping dump in “The Social Network” had more wit, and that was a heart crusher. See Frank Sinatra and Janet Leigh rip the world open in the classic “The Manchurian Candidate.” That’s a train meet-up. The talk here is cheap.

Now for that last-minute plot twist: 1) It pissed me off because I guessed it, and 2) It requires Jolie to be stupid. She may be many things on film: Kick ass, mean, tragic, and occasionally overly hysterical as in “The Changeling.” But stupid? Never. The script is insulting to her and us. One of the co-writers and director of this faux farce is Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, who made “The Lives of Others.” That film -- shocking, dark and beautiful -- is one of the best films of this past decade. But if this signals his Hollywood career, then back to Europe he must go.

This isn’t a total dud. It’s a great-looking film. The costumes and art direction are some of the best of the year, and Venice, a great city to photograph, is splendid in big-screen glory. It also has Timothy Dalton doing his classic piss-ant Brit act, whcih always is a treat. But, if you’ve ever been to Venice, you know the water in those canals stinks. And at 5, it gets high. People tip-toe around and jump over puddles and carry children to avoid the fetid mess. That’s the best advice I can give here. Run. Hide. Avoid. C+

The American (2010)

At one point in “The American,” George Clooney’s cold-hearted assassin desperately asks his handler, “How did they find me!?!” Clooney’s Jack is talking about the relentless thugs gunning for his ass. I thought, “Cause, damn, man, you the only fhking American within 300 miles.” Indeed, killer-for-hire Jack is the only apple pie eater hiding out in a tiny Italian village. Every resident spots Jack from a mile away and yells, "Bonjorno American!" His enemies can’t not find him. (Why the hell not stay in Rome? I've been there. It's easy to get lost.) Jack is rightfully paranoid, frisky and ready to give up the job, but not before assembling a rifle for a mysterious hit-woman (Thekla Reuten) who -– as does Jack -– digs butterflies. Directed by Anton Corbijn, the photographer famous for U2 album covers, “American” recalls a dozen old French or Italian dramas about the thug who emerges from his self-made hellish life just before the clock stops. The film is nearly saved by gorgeous camera work and Clooney’s performance, all cold, raw and grounded. B-