Anna and I had an interesting conversation about people’s taste in movie earlier this week. You see we have a mutual friend that has rather eclectic taste. She’ll swing from one end of the pendulum to the next with ease, investing time and money in enjoying dreck like Twilight yet turn right around and revel in Let the Right One In. Oh sure she feels guilty by many of the things she watches (her music and reading taste tends to be just as “diverse”) she lessens that guilt by enjoying plenty of high brow fare.
Now I have taken the position that I don’t care if someone wallows in the occasional awful film, so long as they routinely balance that out with more challenging and inventive fare. I know I find that kind of see-sawing viewing habits is far more stimulating then continually watching all to often pretentious art films for hours on end.
Anna takes a slightly different approach in that there are only two kinds of films she enjoys. This includes the rare guilty pleasure (these typically involve demons or possession or demon possession) and films that she loves unconditionally. In between is a wide range of films that may or may not waste her time but certainly waste her money.
Thankfully, early on we figured out a way to balance our disparate viewing habits but there are still a few bones of contention and this discussion inevitably brought some of those to a head. “Of course you’d defend her taste,”as Anna prepared to launch her first offensive, “Because the movies you like suck!” To which my inevitable, if somewhat obvious, retort of “You suck!” seemed wholly appropriate.
Our largest running point of contention is Pump Up the Volume, a film I have tried to watch twice in the in the last week and have tried to convince Anna since we have first met to suck it up and watch it. She refuses simply because I tell her she might actually like it, which she might, and because she sucks. The angst and cynicism of the film is something I know she would relate to, and the ridiculous sexual antics of Happy Harry Hard-On is right up her twisted alley. As an added bonus the film possess possibly the greatest soundtrack ever compiled. It is hip and edgy and has aged better then most fine wines over the past 18 years. It even helped introduce and entirely new generation to the brilliance of Leonard Cohen. Also, who wouldn’t want their very own Eat Me Beat Me Lady?
But Pump Up the Volume does have its drawbacks. The aging of the film is surprisingly uneven. While anytime Christian Slater is on air is gold, almost all of the remaining dialog is painfully awkward and outdated. Also many, if not all, of the mannerisms and actions of the students are so woefully out of touch they border on the absurd. But what redeems the film, and still holds up incredibly well today, is Pump Up the Volume’s defiant nature. It isn’t pandering in its message of individuality, but rather actively and effectively promoting it in a manner that is easily recognizable and appealing to its core audience. And what originally seemed like a ridiculous ending scenario of urging kids to take over the airwaves, now in the age of blogs seems stunningly prophetic.
But no, Anna won’t give it, nor practically any 80′s film I enjoyed, a chance. So when I chose the relatively unremembered Judd Nelson starring vehicle From the Hip I knew it wouldn’t have more then a few minutes to impress her enough to sit through the remaining 85 minutes. But thanks to a horrific song being played during the DVD menu, From the Hip was dead in the water before I even had the chance to press play.
Robin “Stormy” Weather (Nelson) is manipulative, willing to bend any rules to his advantage, obscenely likable and a bit of a liar, which makes him a terrific lawyer. The problem is, after scamming his way through his previous case that ultimately infuriated his firm, he has now been stuck with an unwinnable murder trial and a mandate of win or go home. It doesn’t help matters that his client (John Hurt) is most assuredly guilty.
For one the music is atrocious in From the Hip. Its that light jazz with a lead saxophone junk that makes people shudder at the term “elevator music”. Its like a foot constantly applying pressure to your brain pan. If only it would stop I just might … wait … are they adding crappy synthesizer keyboards to it now? Ugh, this would sound bad even on an episode of Perfect Strangers.
Outside of the musical torture From the Hip has plenty of other problems. The script, penned by a then unknown David E. Kelley, is almost wholly ridiculous. Populated with horrible puns and an even flimsier storyline the film stagnates every second it strays outside of the courtroom setting. The first half of the film is especially brutal, as it attempts to setup Weathers as a sympathetic hero who questions the very nature of his unethical and immoral acts. You read that right, Weathers is the good guy because he feels bad about breaking the law and being grossly rewarded for it.
Even the courtroom antics of “Stormy” are patently ridiculous, but even then Kelley had a gift at finding entertainment with these antics. Sure none of these court cases could have possibly happened in such a fashion, but man is it fun to watch. From randomly placed vibrators, to a wall of obscenity filled books to borderline fisticuffs between the attorneys it is pure showmanship of the highest order and absurdly effective. It is easy to see how Kelley was able to parlay this film into such a successful career writing courtroom dramas, he has a certain knack for it that was plain to see even in his first foray.
But From the Hip takes a decided turn once we are introduced to suspected murderer Douglas Benoit (Hurt) is introduced. What had been a relatively pointless farce quickly shifts into a serious drama. Sure the sidebar on Weather’s continued feelings of guilt still drag down the proceedings, but Hurt absolutely commands the screen and gives a standout performance in an otherwise forgettable film. Benoit is a grade-A douche bag of epic proportions. Intelligent, controlled, outwardly pompous and quite British. A deranged snake oil salesman that seems liable to snap at any moment. It is a performance Hurt should be proud of, and more then worthy of standing alongside any of his others.
Conducting these theatrics is the great Bob Clark (Black Christmas). Attempting to recover from the string of dismal releases including the now iconic A Christmas Story, double Razzie winner Rhinestone and Turk 182!, Clark took the directorial reigns of a seemingly odd choice for his next project, that of a tepid, yet colorful, comedy. But Clark truly lets his darker side sneak through in the second half of From the Hip once he unleashes Hurt. The camera work, so often stilted and banal early on in the film, now begins to drift through the ether, as it seemingly stalks every character in the film. It is a dark and foreboding movement, yet subtle enough not to distract. And as Hurt becomes seemingly more and more unhinged, Clark’s pacing becomes ever more brisk. He spends less and less time on the details outside the courtroom, choosing instead to focus on the battle of wits between Weathers and Benoit.
From the Hip is not a terrific movie by any means. It lurches around, seemingly unable to decide just what type of film it wishes to be. The supporting characters are often times superfluous and unnecessary, and “Stormy” Weathers is a flawed hero who is clearly a self-aggrandizing jerk, and the humor often seems badly misplaced and terribly underwritten. But what it does have is an outstanding performance, solid pacing that helps build suspense and a climax that is as ridiculous as it is exciting. Problem is, when the credits roll you are left with no denouement, which would be fine if you weren’t still wishing to see just what happens between Benoit and Weathers next.
