'Hamlet' review, Jan. 18, 1991

By DONALD PORTER

Standard-Examiner staff 

I confess. When I heard Mel Gibson was set to play the lead in “Hamlet,” I feared a cataclysmic screen disaster on the order of Clint Eastwood singing in “Paint Your Wagon.” 

But the fears were unfounded. Gibson is good. Capable, even. 

Sure, he’s no Larry Olivier. And he seems aware of his limitations. So he plays Hamlet, the vengeful Dane, as ferocious instead of introspective and brooding. Amazingly, it works. 

Purists may protest, but this film adaptation of Shakespeare’s 400-year-old play is accessible and energetic. Therefore, it has the potential to introduce the Bard of Avon to a wide spectrum of the American public. 

It will come as no surprise that the man behind “Hamlet,” the Mel-movie, is director Franco Zeffirelli, who made popular cinematic adaptations of “Romeo and Juliet” and “The Taming of the Shrew.” He aims to make audience-pleasers, and with those films he succeeded. Time will tell for “Hamlet,” but neither Gibson’s fans nor those of classic theater should be able to find much to whine about here. 

“Hamlet” is the complex tale of a Danish prince, Hamlet, who grieves over the loss of his father, the king. Even more distressing is the appearance of the dead monarch’s ghost, informing Hamlet that the death was, in fact, murder – committed by the king’s own brother, Claudius (Alan Bates). 

This knowledge, coupled with the immediate marriage of his mother, Gertrude (Glenn Close), to Claudius, effectively drives Hamlet ’round the bend. And as his madness flowers, drawing more and more characters into the fracas, danger and intrigue mounts and multiplies; loyalties are suspect, treachery awaits his every move and even good people are destroyed in the havoc wrought by Hamlet in his quest to avenge his father's death. 

In short, this is a great story, full of passion, romance and skullduggery. And all of it hinges on Gibson’s ability to carry it off, which he does. He’s a blustering presence on the screen, constantly on the move, a raving lunatic with a dark purpose in mind. 

Zeffirelli buys considerable insurance for his star in the form of his supporting cast. Close plays a youthful-looking Gertrude with a wide-eyed openness that deflects suspicion. Ian Holm is rock solid as Claudius’ loyal Polonius, and his tragic end – even though we know it’s coming – still shocks and dismays. And Bates’ performance as Claudius is a fine contrast to Gibson’s Hamlet. Claudius, wary of his nephew’s fury, is reserved, cautious. 

“Hamlet” is a revelation. Gibson is more than an action star. What a nice surprise.

Lawrence Bender, producer of "'Reservoir Dogs," Jan. 8, 1993

EDITOR'S NOTE: This interview was conducted at the 1992 Sundance Film Festival. 

By DONALD PORTER
Standard-Examiner staff

PARK CITY - Lawrence Bender sits at a table in the hospitality suite o f Z Place, where press and filmmakers come to mingle, do business and escape the crush of humanity on Main Street during the Sundance Film Festival. 

Bender has a broad smile on his face, conveying his feelings of wonder and excitement to all who see him. He’s been that way for a couple of days, since “Reservoir Dogs,” a gritty crime film he produced, began getting most of the ink and much-coveted buzz at this 1992 edition of the premiere festival for American independent filmmakers. 

“This is a really great time for me,” Bender says ,with barely contained enthusiasm. “I’m like a kid in a candy shop. I’ve made a couple of other movies, but I was a production assistant on a TV commercial two months before we went into production on ‘Reservoir Dogs’ because I had no money.” 

Then Bender, formerly an actor, had the good fortune to pass along a script by his friend and former video store clerk, Quentin Tarantino, to his acting teacher. The teacher, in turn, gave the script to actor Harvey Keitel (“Mean Streets,” “Bugsy”), who read it, loved it and helped Bender and Tarantino get the movie made.

“Harvey Keitel is one of mine and Quentin’s all-time favorite actors,” Bender explains. “And when I got a message on my answering machine from Harvey Keitel that he loved the script, it was the dream of my life come true.” 

But Keitel became so involved – financing early casting sessions in New York that landed Steve Buscemi (“Barton Fink,” “In the Soup”) as one of the lead actors – that Bender asked Keitel, over supper one evening at the Russian Tea Room, if he would become a coproducer on the film. To which Keitel replied: “Lawrence, I’ve been waiting for you to say this. What took you so long?’”

Inspired by Stanley Kubrick's “The Killing,” “Reservoir Dogs” is a film about the aftermath of a botched diamond heist; as the tough guys who took part meet afterward in a warehouse to sort out what went wrong, why and, most important, who’s to blame. 

“But what’s different about this film is that you never actually see the robbery,” Bender explains with the kind of verve he might have used when scrounging for money to make the $1.1 million production. “And when they come back to this warehouse where they’re supposed to meet, it’s like ‘Rashomon’ – everyone comes back with a different story. 

“And as an audience member, you really don’t know what actually happened. ... And then at a certain point in the movie, you start to understand a little bit more than they know. The movie’s sort of structured in chapters, and it’s very intriguing. In most movies, you get the questions and then you get the answers. But in this movie, sometimes you get the answers and then the questions.” 

And you get something else: unvarnished violence. Point-blank shootouts, sadistic torture and bleeding wounds are included in the price of admission – which, Bender asserts, is precisely the point. 

“The script is a very visceral, brutal depiction of a group of guys,” he says, looking like he’s answered this question more than a couple of times this week. “And the movie is really about loyalty – not among robbers, but amongst men. And loyalty taken to an extreme – such an extreme that extreme things happen because of loyalty. And you start questioning, ‘What is loyalty all about, anyway?’

“And as far as the violence, Quentin actually feels that film is a place where violence should be shown, because violence and action are very cinematic, and that kind of material can really be shown in a very cinematic way.” 

In this regard, Tarantino’s film recalls the more violent and machismo-infused films of Martin Scorsese, Sam Peckinpah and John Woo – influences Bender eagerly acknowledges. (In fact, Tarantino is currently at work on a project with Woo.)

“We actually shot certain scenes that could have been cut to be more graphically violent, but we didn’t do it because it didn’t work the way we wanted it to,” Bender explains. “And actually, most of the violence happens off- screen.

“So, to me, I’m really glad that people come out with that reaction; because when you see a picture and you don’t see a lot of graphic violence but you get a feeling of brutality, we feel like we’ve done our job.”

'Reservoir Dogs' review, Jan. 8, 1993

By DONALD PORTER

Standard-Examiner staff 

The title, all by itself, gives a pretty good indication of what’s in store when you sit down to watch “Reservoir Dogs.” It’s as visceral a moviegoing experience as you’ll get anywhere.

The film was something of a sensation at last year’s Sundance Film Festival, and is only now making its way back to a Utah theater. Its writer-director, first-timer Quentin Tarantino, has done himself proud with “Reservoir Dogs,” creating a bold genre film that’s repulsive, hilarious, sexist, violent, profane and utterly – utterly – engrossing.

Inspired by Stanley Kubrick’s ’50s heist film “The Killing,” Tarantino’s “Reservoir Dogs” opens with a gang of robbers gathered in a coffee shop. They’re analyzing the lyrics of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin,” debating the etiquette of tipping waitresses and preparing to rob a jewelry store. The language is blunt and offensive, but we realize we’re onto something different here; Tarantino is a style- and violence-wonk in the tradition of Martin Scorsese: There’s artistry galore, but he makes you pay for the experience. 

From the restaurant scene, Tarantino cuts forward to minutes after the caper – we never actually see the robbery, but that's OK ... really. The crime went down badly, and a robber named Mr. Orange (Tim Roth) is gut-shot, screaming and bleeding profusely in the back seat of a getaway car driven by Mr. White (Harvey Keitel). They rush back to the prearranged meeting place, an empty warehouse, and wait for the others to follow.

Soon enough, the rest have returned, including Mr. Pink (Steve Buscemi) and Mr. Blond (Michael Madsen). The ringleader, Joe Cabot (Lawrence Tierney), has mandated the color-coded aliases to prevent each of his men from knowing the others; only Cabot and his son, Nice Guy Eddie (Chris Penn), use their real names. 

As Mr. Orange bleeds to death , on the floor, the rest of the gang discusses, excitedly, the possibility that they were betrayed by an informer. If so, that would mean one of them is a cop. And so Tarantino uses a series of flashbacks to provide background on each of the remaining robbers – Mr. Brown, played by Tarantino himself, buys the farm early on – detailing how they came to be involved in the diamond heist. 

“Reservoir Dogs” is in many ways similar to the hyperstylized crime films of white-hot Hong Kong action master John Woo (“The Killer,” “Hard Boiled”). And Scorsese and Sam Peckinpah are other obvious influences. What seems to set Tarantino apart from these others –the professed adherence to “professionalism” and an intense friendship between Mr. White and Mr. Orange notwithstanding – is an overall emotional detachment and a vision that’s ultimately nihilistic. 

Where his predecessors scoop some form of redemption, however meager, from the ruins of his protagonists’ ordeals, Tarantino appears to revel in the brutalization of both his characters and the audience. The scene that’s been getting all the attention, and rightfully so, is the one in which the psychotic Mr. Blond produces a cop he’s taken hostage and – to the tune of the annoying ’70s pop tune “Stuck in the Middle With You” – proceeds to carve the patrolman’s ear off. While the actual removal of the ear takes place off-camera, the experience is unusually harrowing; Tarantino plays the violence in his film realistically, as opposed to the cartoonish brand of mayhem we typically receive via mainstream Hollywood. 

“Reservoir Dogs” is by no means a “fun” movie. It is, however, a well-made film and one that should be seen by those interested in exciting talent – both in front of, and behind, the camera.

'Scent of a Woman' review, Jan. 8, 1993

By DONALD PORTER

Standard-Examiner staff 

In the course of living, we inevitably encounter people who are so persistently obnoxious that we go to great lengths to avoid them. Al Pacino plays just such a jerk in “Scent of a Woman.” But we’re supposed to pay good money to spend more than two hours with him. 

It’s the same sort of bizarre miscalculation director-star Billy Crystal made with last year’s “Mr. Saturday Night,” which also was a movie about a jerk. 

There are some people you just don’t want to spend a couple of hours with. As cinematic torture goes, there are worse movies to punish yourself with (“Toys,” for example). Still, “Scent of a Woman” is not the only other movie in the marketplace.

Pacino plays Frank Slade, a former military man whose loud, boorish behavior worked fine for him while he was on LBJ’s White House staff a quarter century ago – LBJ, after all, was probably worse than Slade in the crude department. But somewhere along the line Frank’s career derailed, and he wound up playing hot potato with live hand grenades to relieve boredom, or prove his mettle, or whatever. The stunt blinded him, and he’s been living on a disability pension ever since. 

Bottom line: Frank’s life, as he views it, isn’t much fun anymore. He’s been living with his niece, her husband and their two kids – and hating every moment. Now’s his chance to make a break for it: They’re leaving home for the weekend and have hired a teenager, Charlie (Chris O'Donnell), to look after him. 

Unbeknownst to everyone, Frank’s been stashing his pension checks away, saving for a big trip to New York City. He hauls Charlie along, of course, and once in the city they eat the best food, drink the best liquor and Frank spends time with the best call girl. 

Inevitably, the two males wind up teaching each other about life over the course of their eventful weekend. 

Regrettably, the one major plot twist that’s supposed to take us by surprise is shockingly easy to anticipate – a flub that further deflates the movie. (I won’t reveal it, but rest assured that if you see the film you’ll catch on early.) After that, all that’s left is to watch Pacino slam dunk all the other actors who venture into the frame alongside him. 

The man can act ... with a vengeance. There, hasn’t been this much acting going on in a movie since Dustin Hoffman wore a skirt in “Tootsie.” It’s a shameless play for Oscar consideration, a big bold “Look, Ma, I still have what it takes!” message for a Hollywood currently obsessed with younger talent.

The thing that makes you cringe is the knowledge that, yes, Pacino has talent to spare; he really is the genuine article, one of our best actors. It’s precisely his ability to remain truthful to the character of Frank Slade that does the movie in: Frank is so easy to dislike that we stop caring precisely when we should be caring the most. Frank’s a goon.

"Chaplin" review from Jan. 8, 1993

 

‘Chaplin’ offers little new 

By DONALD PORTER
Standard-Examiner staff 

The equivalent of a Reader's Digest Condensed Version of Charles Chaplin's life opens in movie theaters today under the title “Chaplin.” It’s adequate, but by no means revealing – or, for that matter, perceptive. 

After all, Chaplin’s career – as an actor first, and director-star later on – was marked by a series of ground-breaking, hilarious films. He was consistently good at what he did.

And while “Chaplin” gives us an inkling of the filmmaker’s obsessional perfectionism, it seems more preoccupied with detailing his many affairs with underage and/or overwrought females. Director Richard Attenborough (“Gandhi”) displays an eerie fascination with the breasts of his actresses; as a result, you walk away from “Chaplin” thinking the filmmaker may have been a genius, yes, but he was also a leering, dirty old man. 

Chaplin is played by Robert Downey, Jr. (“Less Than Zero”), who displays an impressive talent for physical mimicry. Furthermore, he captures –insofar as the shallow script allows – the frustration, self-doubt and ego that made Chaplin the man he was. 

Born and raised in England, Chaplin was a child of poverty whose mother (Geraldine Chaplin, who plays her own grandmother here) was mentally ill. Chaplin began on the vaudeville stage, and was summoned to Hollywood by comedy director Mack Sennett. He was a natural, and before too many years had passed, was running his own studio and making his own movies – the most popular comedian in the world.

But Chaplin's personal life was a disaster, as friends like Douglas Fairbanks (Kevin Kline) were wont to point out. Chaplin only seemed to settle down late in life, when his physical decline slowed his randy impulses. 

Aside from Downey’s marvelous performance, there are a few surprises. For instance, did you know that Chaplin hid away in a Salt Lake City hotel to edit “The Kid,” so as to avoid having the movie seized in a bitter divorce battle? Or that he apparently saw his first movie in Butte, Mont.? Or that he insulted J. Edgar Hoover at a dinner party years before Hoover headed the FBI, and that apparently Hoover’s vendetta against Chaplin – which eventually resulted in the filmmaker's exile in Switzerland – arose from that incident?

Attenborough also manages to restore some luster to Fairbanks’ reputation by way of Chaplin’s continual praises. And the judicious use of clips from actual Chaplin films serves to validate the film’s reason for being: Charlie Chaplin was the best at what he did, despite the shambles of his personal life.

Stevenson plunges in- again – after ‘M*A*S*H’

From the Standard-Examiner, published sometime in 1985:

By DONALD PORTER

Standard-Examiner staff

McLean Stevenson in "M*A*S*H" (credit: IMDB.com)

SALT LAKE CITY - McLean Stevenson had been on the road for days, hyping his new show "America." His suits were rumpled, he was tired and irritable. It was only 10:30 a.m., but be had been speaking to groups of journalists and potential advertisers for several hours.

 

Finally, the man who gained fame in the role of Lt. Col. Henry Blake on “M*A*S*H” was taking a break, eating breakfast and making small talk with KSL-TV newscasters Shelley Thomas and Dick Nourse.

 

The laughter and chatter came to a sudden halt when his publicist appeared at the table, reminding him it was time for another interview.

“The Sandlot” interviews, April 9, 1993

By DONALD PORTER
Standard-Examiner staff


Renna

SALT LAKE CITY -- Patrick Renna and Chauncey Leopardi, two youthful co-stars of "The Sandlot," are sitting in a suite at the Hilton Hotel, attempting to verbalize their feelings about acting in the movie. It's a nostalgic kiddie-baseball fantasy, very much in the vein of the vintage "Our Gang" series.

Renna, a husky 14-year-old, plays Ham, the team's slugger and chief trash-talker. Leopardi, 11, plays Squints, a bespectacled half-pint with a taste for older, buxom women.