American History X charges headlong into the aspect of racism (historical Nazism or neo) that almost every other movie is at pains to avoid: the startling primal attraction it contains. If Aryanism/racism/white nationalism didn’t present something attractive for its potential members, who would ever join? But, of course, the fear in presenting this puts a filmmaker (or artist in any medium, but especially a medium of popular entertainment) in a worse predicament than a director who illustrates a story of violence with violence or a story about sex with sexual content. It’s a far more volatile topic. I’m glad the director Tony Kaye and screenwriter David McKenna had the courage to confront the issue anyway, because it goes a long way towards explaining why such simpleminded, self-destructive attitudes continue to hypnotize people. And not just the simpletons, as we might like to believe. You don’t build the power base or even the technical facilities of the Third Reich by only attracting the ignorant, and you don’t entice people to follow by putting forward an unattractive image.
American History X is centered on the savagely sexual performance of Edward Norton. Taunt, muscled, posed, and powerful, he’s a poster boy all right. Remove the Nazi tattoos and he’s what most young men want to be: assertive, in control, sexually satisfied. He’s a take-charge guy. He’s resourceful. He’s Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry, but articulate, and pulled out of that simpleminded, jingoistic world (though he’s ruled internally by a similar simpleminded, jingoistic credo) and put into our own. Actually, he’s smarter than Dirty Harry. When Norton proposes a blacks-against-whites basketball match as a turf war, his ingenuity is uncomfortably impressive. It’s a non-violent solution, for which as an audience we are both grateful and at the same time disturbed because it’s still a choice propelled by hate. (And it isn’t like Norton’s character has no thirst for violence.) It confuses our responses, as it’s meant to, as it confuses his brother and others who gravitate towards him as a leader. His strength, flexibility, his championship spirit is intoxicating. You have to remind yourself you aren’t supposed to cheer his victory.
Of course, we are seeing this through the adoring eyes of his younger brother, Edward Furlong, who idolizes his brother as a father figure, a role model, and a rebel combined. Norton exists for Furlong as both a patriarchal and an anarchic figure, the way self-chosen role models often do for young teens (because half the time they want to overthrow the world, and the other half of the time they just want to be shown the ropes to survive in it). The disturbing nature of Norton’s character is twofold. We note how we respond to it, even as informed adults, and worse we can see how he has warped his brother’s unformed mind. And it’s chilling that even after all the changes that occur in Norton’s character, Norton can still walk through a room filled with Nazi propaganda and react so casually to it, as if it’s no big deal, the way in another era he might have looked at a sister’s Bobby Sherman posters. Just something you outgrow. This is how thoroughly the hate imagery has been imbedded in their lives.
The world they live in gives ample testament why Norton went the route he did and his brother does. A world of poverty in which people feel they have no control, and so have to take it by whatever means necessary. A world in which a man feels exactly what men are told they shouldn’t: impotent, no more than pawns in a bigger game beyond their control. And the only way to feel one has regained strength, one has subdued that environment, is in a gang, and the mixture of loyalty and dominance it provides. And it is in no way restricted to whites. But the difference between what the blacks and the whites feel, and that hits a white viewer so strongly, is of course the difference in history. American history for blacks has always been about oppression. But I think most whites, even the most liberal, enjoy a subconscious satisfaction that they have been spared this, that while there are injustices in the world, luckily they themselves aren’t the victims.
Not any longer. The characters live in Venice Beach, which many moviegoers are familiar with from 1960’s teen movies, but we don’t see Annette Funicello or Frankie Avalon here. We see thugs and drug dealers and poverty, and we can share their despair and sense of impotency. It’s probably an accident, but the high school used for exteriors is the same used in Grease, and seeing the more or less squeaky clean Rydell High (even if we did see it from the point of view of dirty-minded greasers) turned into the location of turf wars has a primitive, almost subconscious effect. What has happened to our neighborhood? (We should ask ourselves why we are so sure it’s “ours.”) In a neighborhood going down the tubes, economically, there is already a hit to that. And as minorities come to be the majority (the idea expressed to Norton later in prison, “you’re the nigger here” in fact has been true all along), an even more defensive edge creeps in. And when affirmative action is introduced, another fear is unleashed. All this is unreasonable, intellectually indefensible. But fears don’t work through rationality. It’s through the unknown, that irrational, that so many of our fears are governed. It’s the new turn in American history for whites, and gives the movie’s title a haunting resonance.
But the movie, of course, isn’t a propaganda poster for white supremacy, and what keys us in that the material has been handled so effectively, so responsibly, is that when Norton commits the brutal act that will land him in jail, we are not remotely on his side, even though the people he assaults are hardly innocent. I could watch every atrocity performed in Schindler’s List clear-eyed and undisturbed because Spielberg’s characters were so unreal, I didn’t believe humans were being sacrificed. The boorish, cartoon Nazi and the innocent-lamb victims and the fatuously wise Ben Kingsley were just the typical ingredients of melodrama, empty of personality and so without impact. But I had to hide my face during Norton’s rampage because I was watching real people, a frighteningly determined man programmed with hate and gang members who were certainly not innocents but obviously not deserving of the brutality inflicted on them. The whole nightmarish spectacle was just too much to deal with, and I couldn’t look. I had a similar response in the painful rampage on the Korean owned supermarket. (Both sequences show us Norton performing the actions we usually associate with an assured, galvanic hero: he’s not only the strong man white supremacists might want to emulate but the hero of every American action film.)
I stress the unspoken power of the visuals, because it is largely through these means that the story makes its point. The movie’s release was damaged by a hardly behind-the-scenes wrestling match for control of the final cut. The version we see is, presumably, not that of director Tony Kaye. It’s hard to endorse a version you know doesn’t have the director’s approval. The DVD contains additional scenes as an extra features item, but that only further clouds the issue, since Norton claims that Kaye actually wanted to the movie shorter than the eventual running time of the released version. Adding the extra scenes could arguably be farther from the director’s vision than what we have now. And the basic difficulties wouldn’t be helped anyway, as they lie in a script that often can’t deal effectively with the compelling issues it raises, and an often ineffective supporting cast. The movie captures lightning in a bottle in terms of confronting its subject matter head on emotionally, but intellectually it lags far behind.
Stacy Keach’s snarling villain with the dramatic scar is too easy a target, as is Ethan Suplee’s overweight goon (though you have to give it to Suplee, so likable and harmless on cheesy sitcoms like Boy Meets World, for his willingness to be thoroughly disgusting here). Their mechanical function, of course, is to take the heat of Norton, and allow us to direct our hate elsewhere. Norton isn’t “really” bad; he’s just had his mind screwed with by the “real” bad guy, Keach. Likewise, Suplee is supposed to show us (or audience members who might miss the message) that most Nazi punks aren’t chiseled tough guys like Norton, but bloated losers. Of course, that’s quite true, and it’s equally true that men like Keech’s character are manipulating a lot of the Aryan movement (though probably without the scar), but the movie would be better off without them. We should confront what Norton is about singularly, and if that means we hate him all the more as the worst thing we see on the screen (redemption or no) so be it. And if we’re disturbed by seeing how appealing he can be, so be that, as well. We should be disturbed, that’s the whole point. Scapegoats don’t help anything, and that’s just what Keach and Suplee’s characters are providing. The movie is on slightly better ground with William Russ as Norton’s dad, but he’s only got one scene and, again, it’s frustratingly schematic. A son doesn’t become a racist as a result of one dinner conversation. And since when do teens dutifully imitate their parents’ political beliefs, anyway? (There’s a frustrating 1950’s quality to all this. The wise figure from the world of education rectifying the shortcomings of a weak home, and the fear of “outside” influences taking the place with both. This is the cant that marred Rebel Without a Cause.)
I did like Edward Furlong as Norton’s younger brother. Ostensibly, this should be his movie. His assignment is the spine of the story, and the struggle for his salvation is the key, but Furlong doesn’t have the same charisma as Norton, and he’s closed off as an actor. In a sense this is provocative, as is his squeaky, always ironically modulated voice. We don’t know how to take his interaction with the white supremacists. Is he really influenced by them, or does he just get a kick out of subversion in writing a paper on Mein Kampf, and letting loose at a beer blast (at an age where the link between playing at ideas and reality of imbibing them are not as easy to gauge)? But this is diffused by the voice over narration, one of the issues Kaye and Norton argued over (Kaye didn’t want it). Personally, I think it would be a stronger picture without it, because it would force us to do more of the work ourselves, instead of being handed our evaluation pre-packaged. But I find the narration inoffensive, and there are spots the narrative itself, as it now stands, doesn’t clarify.
At least screenwriter McKenna knew what he was doing in not giving any of the liberals a speech comparable with the various racist monologues. What those speeches show is us how empty cant is, how easy it is to manipulate with words. Putting similarly charged words into a liberal spokesman would only make him or her seem equally manipulative. It’s better the way the message pervades the movie by tone and by the simple example that the people we side with (in particular, of course, Avery Brooks as the high school teacher) are the only ones doing anything positive.
Another big problem is that the movie simply has too much material. Considering how empty most movies are, if feels ungrateful to complain, but there are storylines here for several three-hour-plus movies. The influence of Norton’s teacher (Avery Brooks, one of the best thing the movie has going with it, and the rare liberal spokesman onscreen in any movie who doesn’t come across as a fuddy-duddy) on him. Norton’s relationship with Guy Torry in the pen. The Aryan gang movement. Norton’s relationship with his family itself has so much going on between his weak, and ailing, mother (and her Jewish boyfriend, a terribly misused Eliot Gould improbably also a teacher at the high school), his cheerful, supportive, racist dad, his liberal sister, and his lost brother. The result is that every storyline is, to a greater or lesser extent reduced to its most shallow possibilities and all we have to go on is the visceral emotion of the movie.
Still, I can’t put the movie down when it happens to be better than just about any movie I’ve ever seen at explaining why someone could choose to embrace a life of hate. This movie addresses, largely non-verbally, important ideas about how hate is made compelling, how people make frightening choices, and how much we are wrestling with these concepts today. Up until this movie, the mix of American propaganda with Nazi propaganda always rang so false, I didn’t see how anyone could fall for it. But the images make the jingoism in our own patriotism, the crack in our myths of rugged individualism, startlingly obvious. I happen to think American History X is the best movie on the evils of racism ever made.
This is the fifth of the seven Lee/Hammer Studios Dracula collaborations done from 1958 to 1973 and is my candidate for "Best Of The Rest". The two must-see features of the series would be the first two (from 1958 and 1966) but aspiring completists would do well to hit "Scars" next.
First, the problems: much has been made on comment boards about the budget and script problems that led to things like the lack of Peter Cushing's character (Van Helsing from the novel) and the reliance on an unconvincing mechanical bat at important plot junctures. Lee and director Roy Ward Baker note the bat problems on the DVD commentary track, while mentioning that modern techniques would probably minimize similar glitches today. But to get any film made at all is a victory of sorts and my determination is that no problem here was of sufficient seriousness to sink the film as a film. Even denied period balance reports on what the allowed proceeds from the studio for spending even were, Baker pulled through and delivered a film with many positives.
Now, some of those positives: Count Dracula has measurably more lines than that character had in the previous few films, and those lines are pretty much in accord with Stoker's figure, although not from his book directly. And the 'Tania' character (Drac's main female sidekick) was the strongest such part in the whole Lee Dracula series, played by the later fashion designer Anouska Hempel. The external castle set was innovative in layout, and probably different since the Bray Studios facility was not used in this case. I'd have to check the book for accuracy of the layout, but for the first and only time we see a doorway-fitted Italianate portcullis which leads into a courtyard that faces the walled cliff precipice, with the manor/keep to the left and apparently a gatehouse and stable to the right. The sets also for the first and only time visualize where Drac hides in the daylight hours, so as not to be vulnerable when asleep.
Other positives can be found in the interior set design, which offered a smaller central hall area, in which Drac holds court. The "Scars" interiors are properly somewhat cramped, with massive archwork, walls and stone stair balustrades, fashioned apparently in material from the local hillsides and quarries. The rooms are furnished with whatever period furniture the studio happened to stock, but it was arranged properly and with an eye to 19th century context. The French Louis XVI stuff is grouped in one area, while other rooms are Jacobean or utilitarian in composition, as needed. No other Drac movie was decorated this logically or usefully. Even maroon-red upholstery and draperies contribute to the film's mood and contrast with the faux stone walls of the sets.
The edition offered (the "limited edition" from Anchor Bay) contains two DVDs, the one for the film and a second with a documentary about Lee's career called "The Many Sides Of Christopher Lee", which is worth the extra price. It's a bit long on interview and short on film clips but what's there is largely clip material I hadn't seen. Plus, there are curiosities like a few of the music videos to which Lee's contributed over the years. Be aware that he here does a competent "It's Now Or Never" ("O Solo Mio"), mostly in Italian (he is of Italian descent and is fluent in that language). That was a surprise for me.
So if you can justify 3 Lee Dracula pics for your collection, the production of "Scars" itself plus the packaging of this edition argue that you should make this the third and final of an essential trilogy, consisting also of "Horror Of Dracula" and "Dracula: Prince Of Darkness".
(with apologies/condolences to Ulysses)
One look at the picture for this story and you'll swear that Anna Nicole Smith would be a mother of the year by comparison. One reading of the blurb mentioning the two subjects and you'll realize that irony is not just a theory!
Coming next ... Marilyn Manson Jr joins a new version of The Monkees?
(he passes this to his address list from the dark reaches of Arkansas)...
(quote begins)
If you can read this whole story without laughing then there's no hope for you. I was crying by the end. Note: Please take time to read this slowly. If you pay attention to the first two judges, the reaction of the third judge is even better. For those of you who have lived in Texas, you know how true this is. They actually have a Chili Cook-off about the time Halloween comes around. It takes up a major portion of a parking lot at the San Antonio City Park. Judge #3 was an inexperienced Chili taster named Frank, who was visiting from Springfield, IL.
Frank: "Recently, I was honored to be selected as a judge at a chili cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last moment and I happened to be standing there at the judge's table asking for directions to the Coors Light truck, when the call came in. I was assured by the other two judges (Native Texans) that the chili wouldn't be all that spicy and, besides, they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, so I accepted".
Here are the scorecard notes from the event:
CHILI # 1 - MIKE'S MANIAC MONSTER CHILI...
Judge # 1 -- A little too heavy on the tomato. Amusing kick.
Judge # 2 -- Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.
Judge # 3 (Frank) -- Holy shit, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the flames out. I hope that's the worst one. These Texans are crazy.
CHILI # 2 - AUSTIN'S AFTERBURNERCHILI...
Judge # 1 -- Smoky, with a hint of pork. Slight jalapeno tang.
Judge # 2 -- Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken seriously.
Judge # 3 -- Keep this out of the reach of children. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more beer when they saw the look on my face.
CHILI # 3 - FRED'S FAMOUS BURN DOWN THE BARN CHILI...
Judge # 1 -- Excellent firehouse chili. Great kick.
Judge # 2 -- A bit salty, good use of peppers.
Judge # 3 -- Call the EPA. I've located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now. Get me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my backbone is in the front part of my chest. I'm getting shit-faced from all of the beer.
CHILI # 4 - BUBBA'S BLACK MAGIC...
Judge # 1 -- Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.
Judge # 2 -- Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or other mild foods. Not much of a chili.
Judge # 3 -- I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it. Is it possible to burn out taste buds? Sally, the beer maid, was standing behind me with fresh refills. That 300-LB woman is starting to look HOT...just like this nuclear waste I'm eating! Is chili an aphrodisiac?
CHILI # 5 - LISA'S LEGAL LIP REMOVER...
Judge # 1 -- Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, adding considerable kick. Very impressive.
Judge # 2 -- Chili using shredded beef, could use more tomato. Must admit the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.
Judge # 3 -- My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili had given me brain damage. Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from the pitcher. I wonder if I'm burning my lips off. It really pisses me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming. Screw those rednecks.
CHILI # 6 - VERA'S VERY VEGETARIAN VARIETY...
Judge # 1 -- Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of spices and peppers.
Judge # 2 -- The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic. Superb.
Judge # 3 -- My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulfuric flames. I shit on myself when I farted and I'm worried it will eat through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that Sally. Can't feel my lips anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone.
CHILI # 7 - SUSAN'S SCREAMING SENSATION CHILI..
Judge # 1 -- A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.
Judge # 2 -- Ho hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of chili peppers at the last moment. **I should take note that I am worried about Judge # 3. He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing uncontrollably.
Judge # 3 -- You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn't feel a thing. I've lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili, which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava to match my shirt. At least during the autopsy, they'll know what killed me. I've decided to stop breathing. It's too painful. Screw it; I'm not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I'll just suck it in through the 4-inch hole in my stomach.
CHILI # 8 -BIG TOM'S TOENAIL CURLING CHILI...
Judge # 1 --The perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili. Not too bold but spicy enough to declare its existence.
Judge # 2 --This final entry is a good, balanced chili. Neither mild nor hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge #3 farted, passed out, fell over and pulled the chili pot down on top of himself. Not sure if he's going to make it. Poor feller, wonder how he'd have reacted to really hot chili?
Judge # 3 €“ No Report
Called out via email:
So this week, we've invited Rebekah Ringwald-Velva, from Houston's favorite B-52's tribute band (the Aqua Velvas), to sit in with us. And she said OK! Will she be able to hold her own against Carrie's amazing dance moves, Sam's blistering guitar work, Dekan's stunning good looks, and Gene's mustache? Will she inspire a blathering and shameless writeup at www.gregsopinion.com? Can she swear like a Ringwald? There's only one way to find out -- come see the show for yourself.
The Breakdown:
So it's been a while since I've had my fix of 80s fun with Molly & the Ringwalds. Too long. And darn the luck, but the multi-talented, unlame, lead singer, Jennifer Ringwald is on vacation now.
Still, the promise of statuesque blondes in 80s garb taking Jen's place does not strike me as altogether bad. True, there can be only one Jennifer Ringwald. And no amount of bashing in absentia by the villainous Sam Ringwald can convince us otherwise. Given what our options were for the weekend, Rebekah Velva-Ringwald is no shrinking violet. So allow me the brief luxury of documenting the evolution of thought on one of Houston's finest in action:
1. (pre-show) "Hmmm, blondes in red are a good thing."
2. (still pre-show) "Stiletto heels? Guess we can write off any massive amounts of jumping about on stage, ala Jen."
3. (first coupla numbers) "So is she gonna sing or what?"
4. (Money shot #1: Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again") "Has its moments of greatness, but one cannot imitate David Coverdale ... one must become David Coverdale."
5. (Money shot #2: The Go-Gos' "Vacation") "Hot blonde dressed like a dead ringer for Belinda Carlisle, circa 1983 ... but this one needed more practice."
6. (Money shot #3: B-52s' "Love Shack") "Golden."
OK, so for the males of the bunch, I think I stand on solid ground that there's no way to leave disappointed with a "Rebekah and the Ringwalds" performance. The band itself is more known for the degree of levity to which they add to our weekend and I've yet to catch a show where that hasn't happened. There was a disclaimer ultimately provided that there wasn't any practice time with Rebekah and the band. She's done some bangup live karaoke with the band in the past, however, and she's certainly got her moments where you do hear something different and unique compared to the known quanitity in Jennifer. There's also moments where it just sounds like a prolonged karaoke night with the band and the stage presence that only Jen can provide was certainly wanting.
But given my early estimation that the amount of stage dancing might be limited by tall heels, I stand in total error on that one. So much so, that I have to express complete amazement at the degree to which Rebekah DID manage a bit of prancing about on stage. And while I'm not big on listening to "Love Shack," you'd expect someone who happens to lead a B-52s tribute band to really ace that number. And, true to form, she delivered the goods on that one.
My initial response to the email shoutout above was that as long as she managed a decent sultry version of "Here I Go Again," I'd call the whole thing a rousing success. And to further explain my somewhat obtuse reference to "imitating" and "becoming" David Coverdale, I guess what I really mean by that is that I have a hard time thinking anyone can really pull off the vocal style of Coverdale by attempting to mimic it. You just have to be yourself, with every last bit of soul you've got in your voice. The last high note before the guitar solo is a case in point where I think Rebekah seemed to cut loose with the impersonation of Coverdale and just let loose with her own style for a moment. It was a great note that was well done and leads magnificently into a guitar solo that I love enough to give Dekan Ringwald a hard time everytime he screws it up. Alas, the solo was done justice on this evening, complete with Dekan hitting the proper pinched harmonic during the bridge.
I only reference "Vacation" as a money shot for the evening due to Rebekah's look just screaming Belinda Carlisle. That may or may not be fair, but I'd argue that if some Go-Gos were done faithfully by Rebekah, it'd be a winning combination of looks, music, and style. Since we'll see Rebekah again next week, here's to hoping that this happens.
As for the non-Rebekah portion of this review, there's still more highlights to cover:
Anyways, I've been shameless and blathering enough. If you've lasted this far in the read, make it out to the Continental Club in Houston's Midtown (3700 Main, to be precise). It's an early show (7pm to 9:30), but there's no cover and the drink prices aren't jacked up to accomodate. The club simply knows that the Ringwalds pack em in and everyone leaves suitably entertained.
Behold ... wine in a can!
This is truly a golden age in which we live ...