Reflections on Easy Riders, Raging Bulls

I confess, the other day I rented other films from Videotheque, the beautiful, amazing, slightly pretentious video shop (it’s the part of town, not the shop itself, perhaps, that’s pretentious). Movies are sorted by decade, or star, or director, and of course, new stuff. Extensive foreign and arthouse and indie selections. I got the entire Wire series up to this point from there. Good stuff. This time, I rented a film from the Great Writers collection: on Dostoevsky, distributed by Kultur, an educational company, from whom I purchased films on the Augustan, Romantic, and Victorian poets. Not a bad collection, readings, biographies, scholars discussing both the work and historical context. Informative, insightful. Buuuut, the Dostoevsky video, which has been on my amazon.com wishlist for some time, was little more than a shallow biographical overview with no insight from scholars, and a confusing timeline. Not worth the cellophane it was printed on. I also rented Burden of Dreams, after sitting at a pretentious gathering, during which someone kept yelling “Fitzcarraldo!” and asking if anyone had seen Rescue Dawn, responding a little too quickly and mysteriously that “He’s pretty much the only one doing much these days” (italics mine) “Fassbinder’s dead, Wim’s not doing much these days.” We can infer in between cigarette puffs that HE is Werner Herzog, even if we haven’t seen Fitzcarraldo or Rescue Dawn, we at least have heard of the silly commentary on Grizzly Man, or heard about how Joaquin Phoenix was pulled to safety after driving off the road in The Hills (the Hollywood Hills to you, that is). Sooo, slightly annoyed with the smug pretentiousness of the conversation, and slightly genuinely interested in a supposed classic of documentary filmmaking, I rented the film, which had overtones of Hearts of Darkness, but ultimately was a little annoying, although, like the other jungle filmmaking doc, Herzog sounds like Coppola when discussing the moviemaking process as a kind of ontological act, an existential one, without which these men might as well not exist, one that gives them not just meaning, but being. Maybe I’m a shallow person, but I lost interest as soon as the electrifying Jason Robards and quirky 80’s Mick Jagger dropped out of the project and were replaced by the extremely unattractive Klaus Kinski. The name Fitzcarraldo (derived from Fitzgerald), pronounced by the strong German guttural accent was like fingernails on a chalk board. I know I am skipping the trials of the filming process, the singular genius and determination of an obsessive-romantic and his artistic process and the metaphoric parallels between Fitzcarraldo and Herzog, but I just wasn’t into it. Not to mention it was getting later in the day and I had an appointment, and had to drop off the movies. But earlier I had watched the real gem of the bunch: Easy Riders – Raging Bulls. This was a great film, insightful into the shift from Big Studio Hollywood through the brief Auteur Era of the late 60’s early 70’s to the contemporary Blockbuster/Corporation-driven era, ushered in, ironically, by members of the auteur group – Steven Spielberg with Jaws and George Lucas with Star Wars. For those of us born in the late 70’s or early 80’s, we don’t really know any different. Anyway, hip to social change and representing the cream of new talent and in defiance of social conventions, a group of young directors took Hollywood by storm in the early seventies, Bogdanovich, Hopper, Scorsese, Lucas, Spielberg, Coppola, Peckinpah, Ashby. Most of these succumbed to their own excesses, either artistically or chemically. The ones that made it were the ones who stayed away from the rampant substance abuse of the era. But one impression I was left with was the mythologizing of previous eras, the sexual liberation, the drugs, the parties, the incestuous relationships, and sometimes, the tragedies, the camaraderie. It didn’t sound that much different from my experience going to a private High School. But we somehow imagine these people had crazy experiences untouched before or since. What was once revolutionary now seems commonplace. Anyway, Ashby and Peckinpah succumbed to their own “inner demons,” read immaturity and inability to stay away from drugs, which first was “fuel, then a crutch, then their addiction.” Ain’t that the way. I must say, I love Ashby’s humor. Bogdanovich seemed like a good guy who had a sense of entitlement and an immaturity when it came to relationship, always falling in love with his leading lady. Roman Polanski seemed like an opportunistic, self-important asshole. Scorsese seemed like a likable guy who’s a little too obsessive compulsive and liked cocaine a little too much, but thankfully had a good career. Hopper is Hopper, and could have made a lot of good films, I think, if he had been able to tone it down. The film is vague about Coppolla’s drug use, but hints that he burned out. Seriously, has he made anything worthwhile since the 70’s? Spielberg and Lucas were the film geeks who were more about the movies than the lifestyle. What happened to Lucas that he felt the need to Disney-fy his first trilogy in the re-releases, (note: Sy Snootles, if a little weird, was cool, understated, acceptable, while the CGI and over-the-top Joh Yowza (Joh freakin Yowza?!?) sucked and dragged the movie into Saturday morning cartoon-land...we should have known then the prequels would suck...but the trailers looked to so good. agh!) make them more ridiculous and kiddy, and then withdraw all the funds he had deposited in the culture’s bank account in three short strokes. With the prequels, you feel he has lost touch, the performances are wooden, the stories are clichés instead of fresh, you feel its more about trying out new filmmaking technologies than about making good films. Jar Jar? Dex’s Diner? The Vader-as-whiny-Wuss/Frankenstein scene? Say it ain’t so. Lucas himself said it best in the 80s – a special effect without a story is pretty boring thing. The tragic thing is that he could have had the pick of the litter in terms of screenwriters or directors for the whole thing. He went it alone, no one in his camp had the balls to tell him it sucked, and the ship sinks. The only ones in the whole group still making fresh, relevant material are Spielberg and Scorsese. Anyway, not a bad documentary.