GREASE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Iconic 70s Homage to the 50s from Hit Play an Exercise in Futility.

Do you detect the aroma of our love?

Grease (1978) dir. Randall Kleiser **
Starring: John Travolta, Olivia Newton-John, Stockard Channing, Didi Conn

Review By Greg Klymkiw

I hate this movie. I have always hated this movie. I will always hate this movie. In fact, the only reason I feel compelled to give it a two-star rating is that virtually everyone else in the world seems to think it’s worthy of slavish devotion. (I’m tempted to say “hopeless devotion”, but refuse, ultimately, to succumb for fear of morphing into Gene Shalit or worse, Peter Travers.)

So why, you might ask, is this innocuous tuft of powder puff worthy of my hatred? First and foremost, it paints a bone-headedly sun-dappled portrait of 50s America – a period so rich in contradiction and darkness just below the thin surface of light, that I find it impossible to stomach the pure nostalgic fakery. Call it curmudgeonly, but even upon its first release, I responded to the picture with the same kind of jaded contempt that (at the time) made me cringe when I first saw Star Wars a year earlier. In retrospect and with the benefit of several helpings since that time, including the new Blu-Ray release, Grease, like Star Wars, sits there in cinema history – a perfect Easter Island-like moai of how, by whom, where, when and why movies started to go seriously awry and led to a decade (the 80s) that was replete with some of the most mind-numbingly empty movies of all time. Even ace film critic Pauline Kael abandoned the lively sexually-charged titles of her book collections of reviews and collectively titled her pieces during the early 80s as “State of the Art” – reflecting the soul-bereft technical proficiency and machine-tooled quality of the work during that period.

In tandem with the aforementioned, the second most important piece of ammunition for my derision is the simple fact that Grease is not especially well made. It’s definitely machine-tooled, but not in any aesthetically pleasing way.

While many of the songs are not without the melodic qualities that popular music needs, the delivery of said pieces vocally and visually is either insipidly competent at best and at worst, downright dull. Olivia Newton-John, while suitably Sandra-Dee-like in her performance as the blonde goody-two-shoes who falls for the greasy bad-boy played by John Travolta, delivers all her vocals with the same lifeless range that vaulted her to the top of the A.M. charts during one of the most tunefully-challenged periods of mainstream music. Travolta’s singing is marginally better in that he attempts to infuse his clumsy warbling with something resembling pizzazz. The supporting cast is in better voice – notably Stockard Channing who delivers (in spite of her obvious over-age and flabby thighs), a musical performance that has EXACTLY what a musical needs in terms of vocal delivery – she has a great voice and lots of character.

Worse yet are the dance numbers. Newton-John simply can’t dance and Travolta, who can, never really gets a chance to cut loose as in Saturday Night Fever and, in later years, Pulp Fiction. This is not necessarily ALWAYS the fault of the performers. Patricia Birch’s choreography is pretty run of the mill, but worse yet, Kleiser simply has no idea where to put his camera during these scenes. I normally have no problem with proscenium-styled theatrical choreography where the camera lets the performers do most of the work, however with Grease, many of the shots are really uninspiring and/or just plain slapdash and while the idiotic over-cutting that pastes them sloppily together is not quite as awful as in most contemporary musicals, it does signal the shape of things to come such as cutting to the beat and/or constantly punching in for unnecessary close-ups. (An excellent example of proscenium styled choreography that’s handled deliciously can be experienced in the Blu-ray release of Joshua Logan’s gorgeous and stunning South Pacific.)

At the end of the day, I have no problem with fluff if it’s first-rate, but Grease – after several viewings over the years – seems (at least to my eyes) lacking the kind of style and oomph one normally equates with great movie musicals. There’s also something vaguely detestable about the “Happy Days” quality to the nostalgia. George Lucas went back to 1962 with the brilliant American Graffiti, but the movie captures a time of change so that the fun and frolics have a true bittersweet quality to them. Grease captures not much of anything, save for some poorly shot, cut and choreographed musicals numbers purporting to capture a period that doesn’t seem to exist in any world save for the one belched up by Kleiser and his factory workers.

The Blu-Ray release of Grease is also a bit of a disappointment, too. Part of the problem is the source material since the movie is not especially well shot, but there also seems to be something not quite right about the transfer. After my considerable disappointment with the look of this Blu-Ray release, I compared the virtually identical DVD version. Surprisingly, the Blu-Ray disc doesn’t look much better than the up-rez that occurs when I play the DVD on the Blu-Ray player itself.

The extra features are the usual grab bag of fan-aimed nonsense. The “documentary” elements of the extras are not much more than publicity-styled puff pieces, the deleted scenes are only of use to die-hard fans and the sing-a-long feature feels oddly out of synch. (My little girl, who loves the movie and the music, switched off the sing-a-long feature and did her thing without it because the karaoke effect was just confusing.)

The real surprise and best thing about the Blu-Ray release is the excellent commentary track by Kleiser and Birch. For a bad movie, a dreadful director and an unexciting choreographer, they actually sound like intelligent people and some of the insights into the production are informative and entertaining – not enough, alas, to change my mind about the picture itself, though. Ah, the hell with it. Call me a wet blanket and enjoy!

Grease is available via Paramount Home Entertainment on Blu-Ray & DVD in a package titled “The Rockin’ Rydell Edition”.

RIO LOBO - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Ho-Hum Howard Hawks is better than no Howard Hawks at all as this amiable, watchable John Wayne western vehicle proves.

Rio Lobo (1970) **1/2
dir. Howard Hawks
Starring John Wayne, Jorge Rivero, Christopher Mitchum, Jennifer O’Neill, Sherry Lansing and Jack Elam

Review By Greg Klymkiw

While I have fond memories of Rio Lobo from when I first saw it on the big screen as a kid with Dad, I should have guessed something was wrong when my memories were little more than assuming I’d enjoyed the picture. No other details were seared into my brain save for the opening train robbery sequence. After seeing this movie 41 years later on Blu-ray release, I can definitely vouch for the train robbery – it’s a genuinely kick-ass set piece.

Having the distinction of being the last movie directed by the great Howard Hawks, this might perhaps be the only reason not to completely dismiss it. That said, Rio Lobo is a reasonably pleasant 114-minute duster. In spite of the familiar territory of the plot, the screenplay, co-written by Leigh Brackett, is a loose re-telling of Hawks’s classic Rio Bravo and the entertaining but not-so-classic El Dorado (both of which were also written by Brackett). And gosh-darn-it, the picture is not without merit.

Beginning during the civil war, the story involves a Union Colonel (played by John Wayne) whose pay train is robbed by a couple of Confederates (played by Jorge Rivero and Christopher Mitchum). Wayne realizes they’re the two responsible for the hard, dirty work, but the robbery itself has been ordered by someone inside the Union army. When the war is over, Wayne becomes pals with Mitchum and Rivero (he views their pre-war actions as just that – an “act of war”) and the three of them team up to track down the Union traitor (whose actions Wayne views as an “act of treason”). This all converges when the trio helps out the settlers in and around the nearby Rio Lobo, who are beleaguered and bullied by a corrupt land baron. (I’ll let you guess whom the Union Army traitor turns out to be.) At one point, like the aforementioned Hawks westerns, a motley assortment of good guys hole up in a jail whilst the bad guys lay siege.

So in terms of plot, it’s mostly a case of been there done that, but there are worse crimes a western can commit. It’s all in the delivery.

On the plus side, the action set pieces are extremely thrilling. Hawks was wise to hire ace action and stunt genius Yakima Canutt (the man solely responsible for the legendary chariot race in Wyler’s Ben-Hur, among other great cinematic rollercoaster rides), and his second unit direction includes some truly masterful carnage and derring-do.

Another good move on Hawks’s part was re-enlisting screenwriter Brackett to his cause. Not only is the plotting reasonably solid, the movie is peppered with some really crisp dialogue. The problem is that so many of the actors in the film are completely at a loss as to how to deliver their lines.

John Wayne seems up to the challenge, but having to play opposite the sad likes of Jennifer O’Neill (her line-thudding monotone is especially egregious) and the handsome but stilted Jorge Rivero appears to visibly drive the Duke to distraction onscreen. On the other hand, Wayne is such a great actor and true star that one is still glued to him throughout and happy enough to amble along the familiar trail his character is on. Our first introduction to Wayne is especially terrific and sets the tone of his character perfectly. When a young officer approaches Wayne and apologizes for disturbing him, Wayne responds in his deadpan drawl, “You were told to disturb me. You’d have been a lot sorrier if you hadn’t.” Gotta love the Duke!

One also assumes Brackett had a hand in the many funny jokes involving Wayne’s paunchy physique. As the story goes, when Hawks was running into trouble with William Faulkner on the screenplay for The Big Sleep he demanded the immediate assistance of “that guy Brackett” to punch things up. Having written primarily science fiction to that point, Brackett also wrote an amazing hard-boiled detective novel, “No Good for a Corpse,” and the writing endeared itself to Hawks as just what he needed. Throughout many pictures, including those of Hawks, “that guy Brackett” handled HERSELF with the craft and aplomb of an old pro – that she most definitely was. My favourite John-Wayne-directed joke in Rio Lobo is when some strapping young men lift his dead weight after knocking him out cold and one of them quips, “He’s heavier than a baby whale”.

The banter delivered via the screenplay to O’Neill and Rivero is exceptionally well written, but neither actor can attack it with the ping-pong ferocity that was such a hallmark of Hawks’s great comedies and most certainly not to the level displayed by Bogie and Bacall in Hawks’s first teaming with Brackett in The Big Sleep. As the film proceeds, one can almost feel the frustration Hawks must have been fraught with as scene after scene involving these two drags the movie down to some considerable depths.

Much better in the supporting cast is future producer and studio head Sherry Lansing who proves to be a gorgeous and terrific actress. If only she’d had O’Neill’s role. There’s also able support from Robert Mitchum’s son Christopher, who is a lightweight compared to Dad but attractive and affable enough. He’d have been great in Rivero’s role. Thankfully, there are some wonderful old hands like Jack Elam (chewing the scenery like only he could) and a nice bit from Hank (Ole Mose) Worden.

If you’re a fan of Hawks, westerns, good writing (albeit butchered by some awful actors) and The Duke, Rio Lobo will prove to be worth seeing. How memorable it will be is another question, but I can assure you that my second helping after four decades was not without merit.

"Rio Lobo" is available on Blu-ray from Paramount Home Video. It has no extra features, but the movie looks just fine in high-definition, and thankfully some over-zealous flunky in the transfer suite hasn’t seen fit to remove the grain and given the film some quality colour balance. Should you buy it? I would. But that’s me.

GLADIATOR: EXTENDED CUT - BluRay/DVD review by Greg Klymkiw - Now Longer! Now Just as boring than ever!

Gladiator – Extended Cut (2000) **
dir. Ridley Scott
Starring: Russell Crowe, Joaquin Phoenix, Oliver Reed, Richard Harris, Derek Jacobi, Djimon Honsou, David Hemmings

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Introducing the Sapphire Edition Blu-Ray of Gladiator, director Ridley Scott dourly admits that the true director’s cut is not this plodding studio cash-grab, but the shorter 155-minute theatrical version. Why Paramount Home Entertainment bothered to include the grim admission is rather beyond me since Sir Ridley’s lack of enthusiasm for the 171 minutes to follow is hardly a ringing endorsement. For me, though, it wasn’t much of a bummer since I’ve never particularly enjoyed the picture anyway. While Gladiator is no better in this form, the extended version is a tad more cohesive – not much, mind you, but at least a pubic hair’s worth.

It is, however, just as boring as it ever was.

There has also been some controversy surrounding this Blu-Ray Sapphire Edition. If I actually liked the movie, I doubt I’d be THAT disappointed in the new version and packaging. It’s crammed with tons of extra features – many of which are kind of interesting to watch and if you ever craved to get more Ridley Scott than you ever imagined, you sure get healthy doses of him here on the commentary track and all the various introductions to the extra features. What many geeks have complained about is the high definition transfer itself. Not that I’m much of a Blu-Ray-o-phile, but the transfer looked quite fine on my 32-inch flat screen and was crisp enough to reveal that the film’s leading lady appears to have a woeful skin condition. Either that, or it IS a dreadful transfer.

As for the picture itself, everyone is, I’m sure, rather familiar with the plot – a fictional rendering of the beginnings of the fall of the Roman Empire. General Maximus (Russell Crowe as the imaginary title character loosely based on a number of personages – most notably, Spartacus) is loved as a son by Emperor Marcus Aurelius (Richard Harris). Marcus’s jealous psychotic progeny Commodus (Joaquin Phoenix) murders his father and orders the execution of our hero.

A badly injured Maximus narrowly escapes death and is sold into slavery to eventually fight as a gladiator under trader/trainer Antonio (Oliver Reed). Here he befriends the gorgeous black warrior Juba (Djimon Honsou) on the blood-soaked coliseum grounds and plots his revenge against Commodus, the new Emperor of the Roman Empire.

In Rome, the ex-lover of Maximus, Lucilla (Connie Nielsen) plots with Senator Gracchus (Derek Jacobi) to overthrow her insane Emperor brother who not only runs amuck like a headless psycho chicken, but also has incestuous designs upon her. When Maximus enters Rome, he becomes a star of the Coliseum games, presided over by the foppish Cassius (David Hemmings). Maximus threatens to become more popular than Commodus amongst the rabble. Revenge follows, but only after lots and lots of bloodshed.

At the end of the day, Gladiator, for all its Oscar glory, surprisingly positive critical response and huge boxoffice, is little more than a sword and sandal epic in the tradition of innumerable Steve Reeves epics of the early 60s – albeit with a budget far exceeding the sum total of every Steve Reeves movie ever made (and there were many). Sadly, for all its multi-millions-of-dollars, the pectoral and firm buttock action in Gladiator is a pale shade of the glory that was the Italian sword and sandal epics of the 60s. (For those so inclined, the entertaining 300 served up some mighty juicy homoerotic goods for the edification of libidinous lassies, Nancy Boys and closet cases the world over.)

Some of the scenes that appear in the extended edition of the Gladiator Blu-Ray are actually pretty decent. In spite of this, Scott natters on during the extended scene intros about how they weren’t all that necessary in moving the story forward. A few quasi-literate moments with Derek Jacobi spouting mock philosophical dialogue might bolster Scott’s snooty argument, but within the context of this longer version, one would, I’d argue, have been quite happy to listen to Derek Jacobi recite the contents of a Racing Form, so one wonders why Scott is so high and mighty about this. Odder still is Scott’s dismissive attitude to a great scene where the men responsible for lying to Commodus about the death of Maximus are executed. It’s one of the few moments where Commodus displays the kind of despotic evil that goes beyond mere insanity, yet Scott was quite happy to dispense with it in his theatrical “director’s cut”.

However, one does not wish to reserve all one’s bile for Scott since many sequences are genuinely well directed in the manner that all works by great hacks are directed. He manages to elicit some extremely fine performances – especially from such stalwarts as Oliver Reed, Richard Harris and David Hemmings – and under his command, the picture is blessed with some fine production and costume design.

What one really wants to question is why this movie was made at all in the manner in which it was made and with the somewhat dull script it was made from. As a machine-tooled semi-remake of Spartacus, one can acknowledge the business decision to green light the picture, but frankly, Gladiator is a case of where truth is definitely stranger than fiction and could have been far more entertaining if it had been adhered to.

I suppose it’s not fair to imagine a movie that could have been instead of what was eventually delivered, but the hell with it – life’s not fair, and Gladiator is definitely a movie that deserves a bit of trouncing for being so tediously by the numbers. The bottom line is this – Maximus, as presented, is a bit of a dullard. He’s certainly not the piss and vinegar of Kirk Douglas in Spartacus and he is most definitely not endowed with the magnificent pectorals of Steve Reeves. Maximus, as a hero, is a bit of a washout – a pudgier Charles Bronson in sword and sandals.

In any event, the really cool character from this period of history was the nut bar Commodus. In real life, this bloodthirsty bonehead was not only a poor substitute for his philosopher king of a father, but he was so clearly and utterly out of his mind that his antics would have been way more entertaining than watching Joaquin Phoenix mince about like some Roman Snidely Whiplash. Commodus, you see, fancied himself a bit of a gladiator and often went into the ring himself to fight with real gladiators – though he seldom killed anyone in the ring since all of them were instructed to let him win so he could grant them their lives in front of the rabble. Commodus instead murdered the gladiators he sparred with in preparation for the games.

He also had this truly bizarre habit of instituting wholesale public slaughter – by his own hand, no less – of various cripples who were defenceless and hundreds of exotic animals that Commodus butchered in front of the masses. Tigers, lions and even elephants kind of made sense, but he also delighted in chasing ostriches around the coliseum and eventually beheaded them. The weirdest thing Commodus did in public was to hack a giraffe to death. I kid you not! A giraffe!

Look, I love Joaquin Phoenix as much as the next fella, but Scott really has no idea how to use him to his fullest potential. Seriously, though, can you imagine Joaquin beheading ostriches and hacking a giraffe to death?

Damn! It sure sounds like a movie I’d like to see.

But until such time as someone (Terry Gilliam, perhaps) makes Commodus: Giraffe Slayer of Rome, we have Ridley Scott’s Gladiator – in an extended version no less and one which, its director hates.

THE WARRIORS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - In light of so many dreadful blockbusters permeating the screens with their rancid odour of directors who cannot, for the life of them, direct action sequences (or much else), it's time for audiences to flush the likes of J.J. Abrams, Christopher Nolan, et al down the toilet and see what a real director can do with action.

The Warriors (1979) Ultimate Director's Cut ****
dir. Walter Hill
Starring: Michael Beck, James Remar, Deborah Van Valkenburgh, David Patrick Kelly and Roger Hill

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Damn! This is one spectacular action picture that definitely deserves to be ranked as a classic of the genre. The movie is over thirty-years-old and while falling a few tiny notches below utter perfection, it has not dated at all and still carries the weight and power to dazzle audiences as it did so many years ago. It really is so terrific that I'm compelled to urge everyone to see it - especially in light of such dreadful recent action blockbusters like Star Trek: Into Darkness, Iron Man III, The Fast and the Furious 6 and God only knows what other horrendous piles of crap that await us this summer from directors (I use the term loosely) who have absolutely no idea how to shoot action scenes.

We can also breathe a sigh of relief that the occasionally proficient hack Tony Scott took his mysterious dive off the Vincent Thomas Bridge in San Pedro before he had a chance to realize his planned remake of The Warriors (not to mention the potential of a Scott remake of The Wild Bunch, a bonafide, untouchable classic from Hill's mentor Sam Peckinpah).

That said, Tony Scott perfected the fast-cutting herky-jerky style of action with considerable aplomb. He, at least, knew what he was doing as opposed to the likes of J.J. Abrams, Justin Lin or Shane Black. The list can go on. In 2012 we had to suffer through the tin eyes of lame action direction from Joss Whedon (The Avengers,), Marc Webb (The Amazing Spiderman), Gary Ross (The Hunger Games), Sam Mendes (Skyfall) and the absolute worst hack of them all, Christopher "One Idea" Nolan (The Dark Knight Rises).

What is it with these clowns who can't direct action being allowed to direct action anyway? Even worse, what's up with audiences willing to accept noisy, frenetic, substandard shooting and cutting? Attention spans and/or brain matter must be at such an all time low that the Decline and Collapse of Western Civilization is not too far away.

One of the things The Warriors has going for it over these other horrendously directed pictures is that it has a nice simple narrative coat hanger for Hill to hang his cool shit on.

A visionary New York City crime warlord named Cyrus (Roger Hill) gathers nine reps from one hundred gangs to assemble for a meeting in a Bronx park where he charismatically informs everyone that fighting for turf amongst each other is a losing game. He notes that NYC gang members number 100,000 strong and with only 20,000 policeman to fight crime, they outnumber law enforcement authorities big-time. In this small, but pivotal role, Roger Hill - with his resonant alto-bass voice - whips the masses into a frenzy with his punctuating cries of "Can you dig it?"

Alas, the psycho Luther (brilliantly played by David Patrick Kelly - a pre-Crispin Glover who out-Crispin-Glovers Crispin Glover) assassinates Cyrus and blames the murder on the Coney Island gang called The Warriors. Soon, the nine, stylish and buff young fellas from the wrong side of Brighton Beach find themselves having to get back to their home turf with 100,000 furious gang members thirsting for their blood. As Cyrus ordered everyone to come to the meeting sans-heat, The Warriors are unarmed and need to use brains, animal instinct and their fists to savagely defend themselves and embark on a dangerous odyssey across the city - a city so dark and labyrinthine, they might as well be trying to make their way on foot from Toronto to Timbuktu.

Led by the silent, but deadly Swan (Michael Beck) and the hot-headed Ajax (James Remar), The Warriors encounter some of the most nightmarish gangs imaginable. This is where Hill really succeeds in painting a veritable inferno. This New York City is unlike any New York we have ever seen. Yes, the streets are as rough and dirty as we've seen, but the population at night appears to be solely comprised of cops and gangs. And the gangs are adorned in "colours" (the threads that identify them) that create a kaleidoscopic of fresco of trash fashion and malevolence: the Gramercy Riffs are adorned in bright yellow satin kung-fu jammies and shades, the Lizzies, an all-female gang ooze sex appeal with their trashy, utilitarian garb and, among many other, the Baseball Furies deliver the kind of dazzling nightmare qualities that only the movies can give us as the gang members are outfitted in full baseball regalia, hideously painted faces and wielding heavy-duty baseball bats.

The journey itself is propelled by the gorgeous lips of a female D.J. who sexily spins (on vinyl no less) appropriate tunes to fuel the action of the evening and murmurs threats to the Warriors and updated information to the 100,000 strong looking to take them out.The only slight disappointment here is the otherwise appropriate song "Nowhere to Run" which is, unfortunately, delivered by a pallid cover band instead of the original Martha and the Vandellas. Other than that, though, Barry De Vorzon's pulsating synth-score and Joe Walsh's stirring anthem "In the City", more than make up for the above mentioned musical gaffe.

Andrew Laszlo's cinematography etches a veritable film noir quality, but with dollops of fluorescent light and garish colour. The entire picture, save for the early morning light during the picture's climax, is shot at night where every deep, dark shadow pulsates with the threat of all manner of nastiness.

It's certainly no wonder that The Warriors took North American audiences by storm. Boxoffice on the picture sizzled and responses were highly emotional - especially in theatres situated in areas populated by heavy gang activity. This led to actual violence in some cinemas and both the studio and exhibitors across North America, fearing a backlash, idiotically started pulling advertising and even dropping the picture, in spite of its sizzling grosses. This, of course, resulted in numbers that didn't accurately reflect the movie's full potential.

As an audience member in the relatively benign (at least in the 70s) city of Winnipeg, I was always amazed at the hugely emotional reaction to the film. People cheered, whistled, and clapped their way through the picture, and even when it ended its run, I remember booking the film in a repertory cinema I programmed - again and again and again. The grosses were stunning long after its first-run. Midnight screenings were especially lucrative and the audiences (gang-affiliated or not) stylishly adorned themselves in the manner of all the gangs in the movie.

The Warriors was more than a movie. It was a phenomenon. The kind of thing that doesn't really happen anymore in our world of short-runs, multiplexes and home entertainment.

Directed by Walter Hill, the only real heir apparent to the legendary Sam Peckinpah (Hill wrote the wonderful screenplay adaptation of Jim Thomson's The Getaway for Peckinpah), he was, for much of his career, one of the most agile, tough-minded and original directors of exquisite pulp. Hill could direct action scenes with the assuredness of a master, but his real talents were rooted in creating worlds that could ONLY exist on film - delicious never-never-lands that delivered a macho fairy tale quality for little boys of all ages. (Though, if truth be told, my 12-year-old daughter has seen The Warriors many times and is thoroughly dazzled by it each time she does.)

With one great action picture after another, Hill took us into almost fantastical worlds on the darkside of human existence. His debut, Hard Times lovingly recreated the world of prize-fighting during the depression, The Driver dove deeply into a pseudo-existentialist post-Jean-Pierre-Melville-styled world of car thieves and crooked cops, The Long Riders was, without question, one of the most evocative renderings of the Jesse James legend ever made, Southern Comfort - clearly in Deliverance territory - was a terrifying thriller following a group of unarmed National Guardsmen through the Louisiana Bayous as they fend off repeated attacks by slavering psycho Cajun inbreds and finally, the spectacular expressionistic rock and roll phantasmagoria Streets of Fire capped a sterling career.

His foray into overtly conventional and commercial cinema delivered the well-directed, but empty-headed 48 Hrs. (and its dreadful sequel Another 48 Hrs.) and signalled a beginning of the end for Hill. He never quite recovered from this period and his output ranged from dreadful to competent, with a few flawed, but interesting pictures like Wild Bill, Johnny Handsome and Crossroads.

His one great masterpiece, however, was and still is, The Warriors. Hill's camera is always where it should be with superb compositions. Each shot is a gem and much like a great cartoon, Hill doesn't hold longer than he has to - he leaves you desperate for more. The editing, while fast-paced and flashy (replete with really cool wipes and dissolves) is, in tandem with the fabulous cinematography, never disorienting and/or sloppy in that contemporary herky-jerky style of contemporary action (usually directed by the aforementioned boneheads like J. J. Abrams et al, who have no talent whatsoever for crafting lean and mean action).

The Blu-Ray and DVD releases of The Warriors are both presented as a Director's Cut. What this really means, is that Hill was finally able to incorporate comic book panels to bridge all the different movements and locations in the film. While the film lived without these additions for a long time - now that they're there, I can't quite imagine the picture without them.

With all the contemporary comic book film adaptations out there these days, The Warriors actually comes closest to recreating a thrilling and delightful comic book style. Not only because of Hill's recent additions, but in his adherence to a never-never-land mise-en-scene.

And the action sequences have seldom been matched. These spectacular set-pieces - replete with Peckinpah styled slow motion - are charged with the kind of fury that great action thrillers MUST have. The battle between the Warriors and the Baseball Furies in a dark, inner-city park with rich green lawns and leafy trees, is still a thing of great beauty and there's a sequence on a subway platform that's both chilling and finally, when the action shifts to a grotty public washroom, the choreography and pyrotechnics are a veritable ballet of visceral violence.

If you've never seen The Warriors you are doing yourself a great disservice by not seeing it. If you've seen it before, see it again. My recent helpings of the picture were the first times I'd seen it since the 80s and I can assure you, it not only held up, but actually felt fresher, more vibrant and more urgent than ever before.

"The Warriors" is available on Blu-Ray and DVD from Paramount Home Video.