Dublin filmmaker. Prone to biting off more than I can chew.
I last saw this film on tv in the early 90s and really all I remembered about it was an electrical shock feeling like this is what being connected to the mainline of cinema is like. I haven’t rewatched it since then until now, and it still feels exactly the same, a piece of pure cinematic beauty. Same ending, oddly enough, as HG Lewis’s The Wizard Of Gore.
I’m not sure how to put what I feel about this movie into words properly yet so this is a placeholder but for now:
It’s a sprawling epic that tries to portray the vast story of how America’s indigenous people were robbed of their heritage, and it’s also Scorsese’s second film in a row where the protagonist is a stranger to himself, a man mired in cruelty and bloodshed but seemingly able to compartmentalise himself so thoroughly that he thinks…
Patrick Dewaere's untimely death is hard to ignore when you're watching this film, about a skinny, hypertense, delusional man who seems to be operating in a world of his own right from the extraordinary opening scene where he acts out an entire Hollywood movie all alone in a desolate outer-Paris car park.
There's never been a better adaptation of Jim Thompson's novels, because nobody has ever been able to embody the dual nature of Thompson's protagonists - on the one…