Meanwhile, back in Gotham, here comes another chaotic neutral character from DC Comics, the whirling sexy batwielding, bat-smashing Harley Quinn. Unlike the more Jungian equations of Marvel, DC, home of Catwoman, offers a fusion between totemistic mythology, civics classes, and those old Mexican wrestling movies, the kind where cultural and financial differences are worked out in fights and everyone prefers to use high kicks and pile drivers rather than guns, and masks protect us from the painful humanity of archetypal embodiments, and that's pretty cool. Now that JOKER is a work of art, building on the work that came before from Jared Leto and Heath Ledger, which in turn riffed off Jack Nicholson and Ceasar Romero, we can draw a straight line in DC from camp to art. And dead in the middle? David Ayer's underrated Suicide Squad.
Ayer, paragon of macho (he made Fury with Brad Pitt for god's sakes) is the reason we have Joker getting edgy acclaim, as well as the new Birds of Prey: The Emancipation of Harley Quinn opening this weekend, so it must be acknowledged that some special magic in SS made it a cultural touchstone (all the girls in the club were Harley for Halloween). Maybe his fight club morning practices of helped make everyone seem tougher; or maybe because Robbie was so alluring in the way only hot messes can be; or maybe I'm loyal to SS since I relapsed to it back in Xmas 2016 and my feeling of insane 'emancipation' was perfectly matched in the theme, style and plot. Libertad! Libertad!
You may shake your head in disgust at that last--admittedly personal--connection; if you haven't been sober for 20 years, been a massive alcoholic whose life went instantly from chronic depression to magical aliveness once he started drinking (late, senior year of HS), who was terrible at sports all through his childhood but was terrific at them suddenly, with a drink in his system to improve his coordination (children of genetic alcoholics often have this weird issue), then you can't know what it means to go from utterly miserable for days on end while everyone around you on Xmass day is loud, shouting as Alexa every five minutes, throwing darts over your head, laughing and swilling Jack Daniel--to finally breaking down, gulping a big swig of vodka and going from a 1 to a 10 in mood over the course of two minutes. That sudden change is, itself, addictive. To know the last 20 years of your life are, with one guzzle, a closed book, is so freeing there are no words for it, except one, the one America professes to be about: Freedom. It's almost worth being miserable and winding up in the hospital for that hour of total freedom and a sense that your horizons have just widened by a significant "Kansas-switched-to-Technicolor-Oz" level. for however short a time your biological jailer decrees.
Suicide Squad gets that sense of freedom vs. restriction. Viola Davis with her remote control that detonates the jugular vein bombs in the squad's necks being my own biochemistry, no longer able to handle alcohol in any amount, as I would later learn the hard way.
No wonder I too feel the draw of the madness of Joker, a 70s NYC-ish Gotham-set saga of mental illness and delusion... and white male rage! Todd Phillips' film proves a fine echo-drenched tribute to the golden (70s-early-80s) era of Scorsese, and hence perfect in the same year Scorsese slanders comic book movies and delivers his own (early-90s) Goodfellas-"tribute," The Irishman. It all happens in the order it does for a reason. Some day you'll understand that (1).
Living in a loosely delusional zone between Taxi Driver, if Travis was fired from a temp clown agency, and King of Comedy 2, if Rupert Pupkin (De Niro) takes over the Jerry Lewis role and is finally popped off live on TV by someone twice as crazy as him. He loses his mom, his grip on reality, and his illusory girlfriend and then he finds his true self when a Goetz-y self-defense killing of three rich a-holes on a late-night subway triggers all sorts of fun insane civil unrest as people reason killing the rich is pretty cool if they can't see your face because you're wearing a clown mask. And Fleck, I mean the Joker, I mean "Joker" doesn't disappoint his fans. To paraphrase that old Joseph Campbell quote about "the mystic swims where the psychotic drowns," Joker sinks to the bottom and realizes he's got gills. When you've lost everything, as Tyler Durden says, you can do anything. Of course you can argue it's a symptom of our trigger happy white male rage mass shooter age and we mustn't laugh at such things. But Fleck doesn't use an automatic weapon. He uses a pistol, a present from his Peter Boyle (whom he later stabs to death with... I think... a pen). Thanks to a great color and lighting scheme (how his red, orange and green suit contrast against the dingy gray of the city) and the way---during his celebrated stairs dance---the low-end roll of convicted felon Gary Glitter's "Rock and Roll (part 2)" pumps perfectly through the channels opened by the mind-meltingly deep and true cello chords of Icelandic genius Hildur Ingveldar Guðnadóttir, making for one of the defining moments of the cinematic year.
Pauline Kael would have loved it and recommended seeing it in a dirty 42nd Street grindhouse
But first, before the psychotic can swim (2)-- he or she must find their animal or elemental or archetypal talisman:a penguin, a cat, an egg, ice, earth, a playing card, fir or ice, a coin, or even just riddles: their psychosis and amoral love of crime and villainy can take to the air like a kite. And not only that, their chaotic evil gives Bruce Wayne an excuse to cut out of whatever gala he's slumming through. He's glad to have--once more--someone to chase around (if he grows up), so don't worry about him. The deal: just tie him up and roast him over some hot coals, rather than merely shoot him.
But Wayne's just a kid here. It's all Joker. It's all just Phoenix looking in the mirror and abusing his smile. But that stairs dance to Glitter's anthem works so indelibly as a moment because it takes the time to work, to breathe into it, and because the music is perfect; the stairs are perfect and the sight of this clown, literally, in this super clean clown suit is so perfectly etched against the filthy melange of urban decay/gray that it makes you stop and catch your breath. We can't help but love him because there is nothing this clown wants from us anymore. He's broken through to the other side. He no longer whines for our love or attention (the way, say, Jerry Langford used to do back in his bellboy days), and that's why we must give it. Usually there's something terrifically desperate about a clown, the human equivalent of a needy puppy that starts to whine the moment you cease petting it. But this clown has moved beyond us. The only person he needs to make laugh is himself. And he can't stop.
My guess: everyone worried the ending--the triumph of the loon--might incite the juggalos to rise the way they way gang violence used to erupt at inner city Warriors screenings, or the old Aurora Dark Knight Rises incident. They even once worried Fight Club would motivate the trolls (back before they were called that) from out mom's basements and teach them the ways of men. The ways of men went on in basements too -- and punches hurt my widdle hobbit hands!
But no worries, the time for fight clubs has passed; the time to don thy juggalo paint and raise a mighty ruckus is also passed. The popularity of Joker (and its cop-out "Scarface on the gallows" ending-ending) assassinated the present and there's no sense fighting if the opponent is but a dream. Safe in anonymity behind the goofball mask, we avoid the sting of teargas and truncheons by living outside the flow of time - clickclickclackclick. The NYC of the 70s, the one of pay phones and rampant street crime, seems long gone today. Computers were the things at the DMV and that's it. But Joker reminds us that should our 5G network go out, the 70s won't be far away. Joker is with us when we walk home on NYC streets deserted of brick and mortars. So why worry about the present with its Disney and Warner Bros. flagships that we once bemoaned for cleaning up the dirty streets of Gotham provide fun jobs. Their clowns bounce with big bulbous heads, and if the Joker was just more cartoony, he'd be one of them. But let's face it. He's gone dark. He's joined the past, hanging out in front of the stores that were once crumbling movie theaters showing kung fu movies and pornography and posing for invisible tourist pictures.
Welcome the overalls
Of course Anna Biller set the bar really high in Love Witch (2016) as far as able to bring a truly feminine eye towards lady sexy craziness. It looks from the outside like Yan and Hodson aren't even going to try, delivering instead what looks like another 'freshly broken up girl throws Ewan McGregor a beatin'' plot. Now, I'm all for beating up Ewan McGregor. No actor in the last two centuries has seemed to so fully warrant it (3) but the kind of crazy that's psychotic and sexy-gutsy, rather than just a mopey crying-jag downer, in films is all too rare, it's like striking gold when we stumble on it, Hence the preciousness this year with Joker, the Beach Bum; the Parasite birthday picnic, the crazy subterranean's weird smiles in Us, the second half of Climax. But so much else in modern movies seems mired in a by-the-numbers sanity that unfortunately dogs even Frank Miller's DC adaptations like a plague.
When money is more than just paper, signifiers connect, and noir cliches about shadows in crumbling alleys rule over all, then we never really lost anything to begin with, did we, doctor?
SUICIDE SQUADS AND CRAZY LOVERS
"I don't know who's crazier, me or you." - Iris to Travis (Taxi Driver)Phoenix, coming into Joker, knew he had big shoes to fill.... big shoes to fill.... big shoes to fill... (4) The ballsy insanity we see finally erupting from the ratty shell of lil' Phoenix is like the origin story for the comic book bizarro "dog chasing cars" mania we see fully formed in Heath Ledger's "latter period" edition (in 2008's The Dark Knight.) Scenes like his burning his share of the mob's stolen money, a vast mountain of it which he pours lighter fluid on (just his half!) or his giving a loaded gun to Two-Face and leaning his own head against it (after blowing up his girlfriend). We loved Ledger for putting his head in the lion's jaws of true insane criminal genius. He became a kind of totem of lunatic freedom unseen in films since, perhaps, Tyler Durden in 1999. That model hasn't aged half as well ---too laddish. But Ledger's Joker lives large in our modern age of #metoo (he's not rapey) and global warming (he's all about depopulation). He's selfless in his homicidal genius, beyond desire and fear and even the need to commit weird social jokes. (Durden in turn was the descendant of Sir Guy Grand [Peter Sellers] the millionaire in The Magic Christian  who ends the film by pouring a lot of pound notes in a big vat of sewage waste, so he can judge all the bourgeoisie who go wading in, their expensive suits be hanged ). When he throws down weird games of kill your friend or anonymous group on another boat before they kill you, it's not--despite Batman's smug analysis--some sick need to prove Gotham is corrupted, it's for amusement and cajones measuring, in the tradition of Price's Prince Prospero in Masque of the Red Death (1964) or Boris Karloff's General Fang in West of Shanghai (1937).
Jared Leto's Joker in Suicide Squad was, in my opinion, an underrated and very druggy cool serpentine performance, the first embodiment since Ledger's untimely death. Seen through the prism of his adoring lover Harley, we see him first when she was an Arkham shrink, through to his issues trying to fight his gooey feelings towards her by convincing her to fall backwards into a vat of, presumably, toxic magic clown combat syrup, planning to let her drown in there, then sighing and jumping in after her. That was so romantic! I hadn't cried like that since Powell and Pressburger's A Matter of Life and Death (1946). Anyone in a relationship they're always half-escaping, a love despite their self conception as a rover and a bounder, a love that challenges even their cracked self image, could relate. Is it what we imagined we wanted? No. It's real, and that's even worse. Even virgin nerds could respect that kind of vivid anarchic outlaw couple love. We end up with the person who can stand us, and who we can stand. Those two things are themselves miracles, triumphs. Even if they drive us over a cliff, we can at least lean out the passenger window and flip off the cops and ride it straight to hell with a psychotic laugh.
By contrast, consider the dopey self-absorbed sexual heat between Ilsa and Rick in Casablanca. Rick needs a whole movie to help another man leave with the girl he loves just because that man wrote some inflammatory ant-Nazi pamphlets. Rick and Ilsa are too suffused with self-pity and pious mopery to crank it. (19) If it was real love, Rick and Ilsa would leave Lazlo behind at the airport, shouting your pamphlets suck! Love doesn't let doofus politics or even wars dissuade it. Neither marriage nor jobs or children - it's worse than the most addictive opiate. Rick says "if you don't leave with Viktor you'll regret it, maybe not today but tomorrow and for the rest of your life." Love doesn't give a shit about that, and does regret it for the rest of their life but still, there you are. Love insists on leaving a scar.
There are so few examples in modern movies it's almost shameful. I think of Gun Crazy (1950) and the scene where John Dahl and Peggy Cummins abandon, spur of the moment, their 'take separate cars' getaway plan, or Thelma and Louise going over that cliff. So few outlaw couples films get that moment right that when they do, as in Suicide Squad, it makes my palms sweat. We feel there's a Harvey Keitel in our earpiece begging us not to do it, to accept the cavity search that welcomes us back into banal time-space crawling.
Then there was that Enchantress (Cara Delvinge), alive like a sharp intake of breath, with tentacles and dreamy electric cloud shapes on exhale, her shimmering South American rainforest ayahuasca energy pulsing and slithering around the bigwig government Pentagon offices like an anaconda of kundalini dark magic. Yet she could still say "you don't have the balls" when mentioning her Jekyll side's boyfriends threat to stab her separated straw heart). Or what about the interesting low-key bond that forms in the margins between Harley and Will Smith's sniper character--Smith gamely recognizing the cliche inherent in his character's constantly threatening anyone who steps to him and/or just wanting to see his kids, and doing something new with it. They're both the coolest and most level-headed natural leaders of the group, and smart enough to talk to each other in their indoor voices.
I feel like I'm trying to justify my love of the Squad. Is it that dirty a kind, the kind not the sex kind of dirty but the need to justify with intellectual pretension dirty?
One gets a feeling that for her Boids of Prey "emancipation," Harley is not being allowed to keep that kind of moment-to-moment beyond good-and-evil kinetic batshit DSM-V charting, sexy-crazy-cool, becoming instead a kind of de facto good girl whose crazy is limited to a few giggles, endless video game-style choreographed fights, and the odd goofy dance or slow-mo walk away from an explosion. After all, there was that one wrong note where Enchantress shows Harley a possible future as a banal housewife with a baby and Joker heading off to his legit 9-5 job in the sunshine of the early morning. Ewwww! She likes that kind of sick shit?
No offense to the married and childrened, but offense meant for implying that underneath her bravado and kinetic psychosexycrazycool, she's just acting nuts because her "puddin" is nuts and that she hopes one day he'll grow out of it and get a real job, the way friends who didn't know you were gay or bi, presume you'll grow out of it after college and settle down to 'what matters." Love makes us do funny things: Kate Hepburn even gave up a lot of her own freedom to correspond to Spence's antiquated notions of femininity. She even plunged to her death rather than embarrassing Herbert Marshall with a kid out of wedlock in Christopher Strong. She did get a statue out of it but not the golden man kind, the silver art deco Central Park kind. Still nice, but then again the patriarchy always honors scary freedom once it's safely dead - the passed past is where freedom rings its scary drum. Statue please!
THE AWAKE RUNNETH AMOK IN THE CITY OF SLEEP
What makes DC comics different from Marvel is that Marvel generally makes every character (this being Stan Lee's secret sauce) complex--grey rather than black or white. There's no all-good hero or all-bad villain - everyone has their reasons and their weaknesses. They are 3-D people down to the smallest role. DC on the other hand, is all about types, ala professional wrestling. Gotham in particular, is a land of 'types' - everyone not in the main character roster is as banal and shorn of tics as a civics lesson film strip. The news vendor must sound like a blue collar guy from the 30s ("papah heeeeah!"); the thugs must be brutes with bad teeth and a thoid grade education; the victims must cower in the corner of the parking lot before saying "Th-th-thanks, Batman." The mobster on trial must cover his smirk with his hand as the rigged jury finds him innocent. His lawyer must be a shifty mouthpiece; the DA a noble idiot whose hands are tied. Even Batman with his childhood trauma of seeing his rich parents shot, is a type: seldom smiling, all justice-vigilante, but never killing anyone (that we see, he risks terrific collateral damage in order not to directly kill or permanently maim even the most evil of villains). Who wouldn't be crazy in a city like that? And who wouldn't be motivated to crime, as if no one but you really exists, that this is all a dream so there are no consequences to your actions?
Thus, it's fitting that the villains generally wind up not in jail but in Arkham, Gotham's asylum for the criminally insane, where it's very easy to escape. In short, being the only complex characters in a city of 'types' like Gotham has made them crazy. There's no reality to challenge them. Even Phoenix's Joker, whose Gotham is perhaps the most realistic, has no firm grip on reality. It's all a dream within a dream. Phoenix being the origin story Joker, is just realizing this - the rudimentary feeling that marks psychosis and schizophrenic narcissism. His Arthur Fleck/Joker thought he was in real life for the longest time, but by the end he knows it's "just a comedy." He's free. But the flip side is a terrible loneliness you can never wake up from. That's why his romance is so touching in the long game of Squad.
Harley on the other hand with her doctoral brilliance, does believe people are real, and so they are. The best moment in Squad, for example, is Harley asking one of the other members if he can see the wild light show effects circling above the amok Enchantress and her newly incarnated temple god brother (it is really there - she's relieved to find out. , into their own evil power station; her relief to find out. The Joker wouldn't worry whether the orbiting cloud of stuff was real or not. No true psychotic ever bothers to sort that shit out. When Don Birnim screams at the sight of the bat eating the rat in the wall during his DTs in Lost Weekend he's proving he's still a punter. A seasoned tripper wouldn't blink twice, even if the bat and rat were really there he'd presume he's hallucinating and shrug it off. We've all looked down at our hand and seen the flesh melting off the bone during bad acid trips, but we're not wally enough to try to cut it off with a bandsaw like in Psych-out or demanding someone drive us to the ER.
There is one Batman movie where Gotham is nuts as the villains, i.e 1997's Batman and Robin, (above) in which everything resembles one big black light poster; all the graffiti is Day-Glo and ridiculous art deco sculptured skyscrapers threaten to swallow up the villains to the extent they become normal inside the context. It's Batman with his copycat hangers-on Batgirl and Robin, that become the odd ducks. Freshman 15-afflicted Alicia Silverstone as ill-equipped for form fitting black leather tights and also too short to seem at all menacing; Robin bidding for Poison Ivy's attention with Bruce's own money like a bitch, trying so hard to seem straight while wearing little green shorts and a sailor boy crew cut. Clooney's Batman doing his best with this dopey coterie of kiddies but gladly letting Uma and Arnold take the cake and run. But run where? It's all like being trapped in an 80s new wave club, trying to find the bathroom but finding only day-glo graffitti on painted black plywood dividers.
Heath Ledger's Joker in Dark Knight on the other hand gets that he's dreaming for no city could be this 'film they show you at jury duty'-level banal. He thinks he Batman are the only normal, cool people in town. Batman on the other hand, refuses to acknowledge the divide, doesn't even grant Joker a courtesy laugh. Sadly, Joker is alone in his full consciousness. He just gave Batman the benefit of the doubt because of the kinky get-up. But sometimes loners dress like bats for reasons that have nothing to do with pleasure, or so they keep telling themselves.
Everyone has their favorite villains in this DC-verse and their least (Jesse Eisenberg as Lex Luthor). When it comes to Catwoman I belong to Julie Newmar. See my praise on nearby Mediated "Kitty Kali" if you doubt that I'm down. Her playful ease with her mouse-eared crook gang in the 60s TV show is exactly the way I imagined myself in her presence (me being merely seven or eight when I first fell for her), a kitten luxuriating in the clawy grasp of a lithe black-spangled diamond snatcher with the kind of brilliance of real cats. Runner up Catwoman would be Ann Hathaway, who still rocks the best eyeliner in Hollywood. Michelle Pfeiffer's was okay but that Burton sequel was rather leaden and hard to wade through with all Danny DeVito's hamming and Michael Keaton's sulking. And Halle Berry's the worst Catwoman of all, mistaking mousiness for for normal and materialism for a superpower (she's only a hero because when she's about to rob a diamond store, someone is already there first, so she settles for kicking their ass -stealing from thieves being the lamest kind of heroism).
As for the Riddler, there is only Frank Gorshin. As for Two Face, who gives a shit (or who doesn't)? The rest of my love goes to Uma Thurman as Poison Ivy. and Dr. Zodiac himself, Ceasar Romero as the TV show Joker (far underrated over the sea of time, check him out again if the series rolls past you and give a close reading of his giddy mephistophelean relish for crime and cunning).
As for the heroes, there's no such thing as a good Robin - the whole boy sidekick idea is misguided and shows a horrific lack of understanding of the average child reader's psyche (Marvel never had them after Stan Lee took over). The best Batman is Adam West. Batgirl by Yvonne Craig looks marvelous, but the idea of just feeling the right to imitate Batman's schtick out of some little sister copycat style impulse is kind of anathema to what superheroism is all about, Mom! Cindy, get your own cave and animal totem. I support the lesbian slant of the new WB's new version, but what's with the terrible red wig?
And now, between the three recent Jokers--Phoenix's low key psychotic, Jared Leto's druggy serpentine hustler, and the late Heath's ambulance-chasing dog anarchist, the bar has been raised mighty high. The big issue which we will learn this week is: Does Harley Quinn survive her girl power makeover emancipation or does she become just another over-costumed mannequin on which various craftsman all drape to the point of overkill in between her letting her hair fall in her eyes so she can be doubled by her stuntwoman? Shall she be drenched in the stagnant swamp of unconscious Gotham sanity? Shall the Birds of Prey lure her into peppy 70s-scored montages ballet kicking? Will this become another girl Ghostbusters making genitalia jokes in between 3D stream crossing, or tired Charlie's Angels boasting of their concert hall-style closets=?
Make no mistake, DC villain roster! After Phoenix's Joker and Robbie's first rendition of Harley Quinn (and maybe the second), the writing is on the wall - go nuts. I don't mean the hamming it to the rooftop with evil laughing nuts, I mean DSM-V-charting here comes the warm jets surrealist gibbering nuts. I mean the 'break the shackles of the establishment and terrify the old academy into turning the channel lest the villain crawl through the screen and grab them around the neck'-kind of nuts. The last thing we need now is another step back from the ledge into some generic half-hearted Eisenbergian titter. We've come so far! Just one more push! And this time, no "it was all a psychotic break hallucination," por favor. Some of us still just want to watch the world burn! We know it's a movie. We don't need an extra layer between madness and the real world outside the theater.
Oops, forgot. Outside in the parking lot... the world is engulfed in fire. I was kidding (myself) before, the happy ending to Joker is not the same as Robot Monster or Wizard of Oz but the same as Brazil. What we don't see from inside Arkham is that the world is burning outside. And the 'just a dream' coda is our see-no-evil last gasp denial of our responsibility for it. We didn't stop the fire, we just warmed ourself at it then quietly snuck away. The engulfing flame of mob violence, and Jennifer Lawrence hitting the 'reset' button (6), take saints and sinners alike in its arkless arms. So hide in the comfort of your televisual straitjacket while ye may, Erichs. And let the Ativan work its magic. Note how soothing are these nice white walls, their bubbling white paint like polka dots. Feel how gobsmacked this electric current is by her flames; even the electroshock machine melts in her mouth of madness.
In the name of Pauline Kael, Molly Haskell, Camille Paglia, and Kim Morgan, let the gutsy brilliance of true feminine lunacy ring. xoxo
2/7/20: The film is out and the critics have spoken. So far the reviews are positive Looks like I was wrong to rant so (though the critics are all dumping on Suicide Squad at the same time and citing references to Tank Girl, which I do not care for. )
PS -2/15: I saw it, stay tuned for a new post on it, Batfans. Crazier than even this one!
FURTHER BAT READING:
Monsters Crash the Pajama Party: DARK KNIGHT RISES, TARGETS (8/6/2012)
"Gunman turns movie into surreal horror: 'This is real'" - News headline (Aurora Shooting)"
Rolling her eyes and carrying on about the plants of Mother Nature having their day, luxuriating over her plans to rid Freeze and herself of the feathered and furry caped crusaders, Thurman is at least in on the joke and exhibiting some signs--lacking in all the other cast members--that she's actually seen some of the films Schumacher is referencing. Bane, too, is ten times more fun in this issue as a hulking, mute, seemingly-inflatable Mexican wrestler under her control instead of Chris Nolan's musclebound Marxist professor.
Burn the Money: DARK KNIGHT and The Joker's Post-Fascist Used Topia (8/5/2008)
Chris Nolan seems to underline the hyper-commodity fetishism of Wayne's world, offering a sly socialist critique even as he fulfills his conspicuous consumption fantasy obligations to the producers and advertisers (Alfred is always interested in knowing what of Wayne's many cars will be taken out for drives. "The Lamborghini, sir?" he says, all a quiver)
All Clawed up and Nowhere to Go: CATWOMAN (8/10/2004)
Showgirls was camp feminism as imagined by bearded men with coke habits and million dollar tabs with Heidi Fleiss, but at least they weren’t afraid to portray the kind of feminism they wanted to see: Sharon Stone sticking that ice pick; a Joe Esterhaz stand-in getting the tar kicked out of him by a stripper in high heels --that’s real feminism as only the heirs to the Russ Meyer throne can portray it! But leave it to a Frenchman to get camp so very wrong. Here the feminist icon can’t crack a convincing smile let alone a whip.
Kitty Kali: (4/4/2011)
a sexy supervillainess makes the Batman mythos operate at a far more evolved level than with male baddies, for instead of an all-boy group of kids pretend fighting in the backyard, there's the female element of the hottie next door who makes all the boys stammer; the yin-yang dichotomy is in place. She becomes the chthonic enemy of normal patriarchal civilization, its inescapable shadow. How easily she gets our dynamic duo in tied-up situations, yet always leaves them room to escape; she likes the chase and the drama and the last minute rescues and, like the other villains, there's a clear idea that without the dynamic duo to wrestle with and subject to various colorful slow torments, a life of crime would be a drab, dull affair--no one to play with..
1. as Bogie once said to Ingrid in Casablanca, a line that smacks of patriarchal condescension (she's been trying to get him to understand it all through the movie; then she realizes the easiest way to get those visas is to play along and let him think it's his idea)
2. To paraphrase that old Joseph Campbell quote (? was it Jung?) "A mystic swims where a psychotic drowns"3. Though to be fair, I'm basing that off of three movies he was in where he played a reprehensible swine, his smirky wally in The Men Who Stare at Goats; his entitled abusive/possessive poet in Moulin Rouge; and his bad haircut-sporting traitor ex-boyfriend to Gina Carano in the oft-seen-by-me Haywire.
4. Simpsons quote (S1: "Krusty gets Busted"), because we shouldn't let the last 20 seasons sway us from remembering the brilliance of the first 10
6. See: Mother (2016)
9. The kind of gross 'dead-horse-dragging' belabored hipster triteness that makes you turn your back on hipsters and never want to watch the movie again for no other reason than the memory of it makes you want to retch and it's such a waste of Raquel Welch as a whip-wielding galley master. Who was the idiot editor who said "less Welch in leather please, and more posh shit-wading
19. In the flashbacks we see how cuckoo he is over her, and how for her it's just sex at first but also amused at his naivete and goo-goo eyes. This is now Americans fall for Europeans (or girls from Buenos Aires), our inability to realize a relationship can be just sex because when we find a girl for whom it's just sex we fall in love since we've longed for such a thing. It's the ultimate irony that then our innocence and adoration wins them over, as if that kind of naive swooning was as precious to them, moored in old world cool as they are, as their slutty self-assertion is to us (whose sex is mired in neo-Puritan 'Rules') But it's not really love, not the way Thelma and Louise, or the Joker and Harley, or John Dahl and Peggy Cummins, do it. The problem with the Lazlos of the world is they force everyone to either kill them or join the fight. It takes a Switzerland to know how to stay neutral even when the Lazlos are grabbing at your lapels like old Ugharti begging for a place to hide.