1980 Week: Raging Bull

          Alongside Nashville (1975), Martin Scorsese’s almost universally revered character study Raging Bull is one of the few “great” American movies that I simply don’t get. To be clear, I have no difficulty appreciating the film’s artistry, craftsmanship, intelligence, and passion—Scorsese obviously bled his soul into the very grain of this picture, letting his visual imagination run wild even as he wrestled with personal demons through the prism of professional boxer Jake LaMotta’s rise and fall. Intellectually, I understand that the movie is a significant accomplishment. Emotionally, the movie leaves me so cold that I get bored every time I try to watch the thing. Perhaps because Scorsese and screenwriters Mardik Martin and Paul Schrader elected not to illustrate the central character’s formative years, I can’t connect to the movie’s version of LaMotta. He comes across like an ignorant thug who surrounds himself with awful people, which means his adventures are unpleasant to watch and not, to my eyes, edifying.

          Robert De Niro’s leading performance is supremely committed, so the pain that LaMotta feels as he stumbles his way through life is palpable. Alas, because the pain is mostly self-inflicted, for reasons that utterly escape me, generating empathy is challenging. Compounded with the excruciating brutality of the boxing scenes and the numbing repetition of coarse language, the opacity of the leading character makes me feel like I’m the one receiving constant jabs and left hooks while the movie unfolds, rather than the onscreen pugilists. The funny thing is that I should love Raging Bull because artistically, chronologically, and thematically, it’s the apex of the grungy loser movies that flowered during the ’70s. Yet there’s a world of difference between the humanity of films along the lines of Fat City (1972), a boxing picture I enjoy much more, and the relentless ugliness of Raging Bull. I take it on faith that Scorsese knows whereof he speaks when depicting the anguished lives of Italian-Americans stuck in the quagmires of male identity and religious guilt, and I freely acknowledge that his various movies about New York underworld types speak to a lived experience far outside my own frame of reference.

          Yet at the same time, I look at the way I’ve made connections with movies about other cultures that are foreign to me, so I feel comfortable saying that the problem with some vintage Scorsese—and specifically with Raging Bull—runs deeper. I believe the right word is fetishism.

          It often seems as if Scorsese simply can’t tear his eyes away from scenes of thick-headed men destroying themselves, mistreating women, and starting pointless battles with enemies and friends alike. There’s more than a little bit of a pain-freak voyeur in Martin Scorsese. In the best of times, this tendency allows him to reveal truths in places other filmmakers find too frightening to explore. And, presumably, that’s what his advocates would say he does throughout Raging Bull. In any event, the unassailable elements of the movie include Michael Chapman’s muscular black-and-white photography, which is energized by Scorsese’s unexpected shifts in frame rates and his wizardly camera moves, as well as Thelma Schoonmaker’s meticulous editing. Viewed strictly from the perspective of how the filmmakers exploit and manipulate the very medium of film, Raging Bull is extraordinary. So let’s leave it at that.

Raging Bull: GROOVY

The Wanderers (1979)

          New York City novelist/screenwriter Richard Price didn’t truly connect with Hollywood until his script for Martin Scorsese’s The Color of Money (1986) announced his expertise at writing tough underworld stories. Yet Price’s association with the movies actually began in the ’70s, when two of his books were adapted into features. First came Bloodbrothers, a small-scale drama released in 1978, and then came The Wanderers, a quasi-epic about Brooklyn street gangs. Co-written and directed by the unpredictable Philip Kaufman, The Wanderers is ostensibly a nostalgic look at teen life in the early ’60s, before the assassination of JFK, the emergence of the counterculture, and the beginning of America’s Vietnam entanglement. The title refers to a gang of Italian-American teenagers who spend their free time chasing girls, fighting with rival gangs, and generally prolonging adolescence. Their exploits are set to a thumping soundtrack filled with tunes by Dion, the Four Seasons, and other doo-wop-influenced groups.

          When Kaufman keeps things simple, focusing on the misadventures of gang leader Richie (Ken Wahl) and his cronies, The Wanderers works well. However, Kaufman takes the movie in strange directions by treating the presence of a gang called the Ducky Boys in an apocalyptic fashion—whenever the Ducky Boys show up to cause trouble, the movie’s tone shifts from playful to terrifying. And since many scenes in The Wanderers approach outright comedy, the presence of the dissonant Ducky Boys vignettes undermines the integrity of the whole piece. And that’s not the only problem with The Wanderers. Much of the picture comprises a romantic triangle involving Richie, his maybe-pregnant girlfriend Despie (Toni Kalem), and Nina (Karen Allen), the new girl who catches Richie’s eye. This coming-of-age material is trite, and a subplot involving Despie’s dad, Chubby (Dolph Sweet), seems overly grim because Chubby’s a wiseguy who does things like dropping a bowling ball onto an enemy’s hand. From start to finish, The Wanderers can’t decide if it’s a wild-youth romp or a gritty portrait of urban violence.

          Nonetheless, the movie has amazing textures. Ace cinematographer Michael Chapman gives the visuals gravitas, and memorable actors add idiosyncratic flavors to the mix. For instance, The Wanderers features diminutive Linda Manz (best known for Terrence Malick’s 1978 mood piece Days of Heaven) and hulking Erland Van Lidth, who plays a massive street tough nicknamed “Terror,” as an unlikely couple. Demonstrating his customary interest in surprising juxtapositions, Kaufman portrays Manz as the tougher of the two, while still leaving room to reveal her character’s fragility. Similarly, Kaufman gets terrific work out of Wahl—a Stallone type with legitimate acting chops—and John Friedrich, who plays the other main Wanderer, Joey. Scenes of these two and their pals cruising the streets of New York are exciting and fun. Alas, for every vivid bit—Terror’s gang memorably threatens the Wanderers during a harrowing trip to a bridge—there’s an improbable moment like the scene in which a teacher (Val Avery) nearly instigates a race war in his classroom. The Wanderers lacks discipline, restraint, and shape, but it explodes with energy and intensity. In modern parlance, the movie’s a hot mess.

The Wanderers: FUNKY

Hardcore (1979)

          There are some deeply flawed movies whose intentions I admire so much that I view the pictures more favorably than I probably should. Paul Schrader’s sophomore directorial effort, Hardcore, is one such film. A tough exploration of horrific subject matter that Schrader approaches with intellectual rigor and moral complexity, Hardcore is frequently sublime. However, Schrader writes himself into several corners, and the second half of the picture meanders on the way toward an unsatisfying final scene. Yet even in its murkiest stretches, the film has instants of tremendous power—so, for instance, the finale is disturbing and exciting until the movie falls apart its final frames. Plus, the overall story is enough to turn even the strongest stomach. After his teenaged daughter disappears from a church trip to California, a Midwestern father hires a private detective, who discovers the young woman has become an actress in grimy underground porno films; once the detective’s efforts flounder, the father goes undercover in the porno world, posing as a producer, in order to find someone who knows his daughter’s whereabouts.

          Schrader pulled many elements of the story from his own life, making the picture feel deeply personal. Like Schrader, the family at the center of the movie is from the Calvinist community in Grand Rapids, Michigan, a milieu defined by hard work, stringent religious practice, and the repression of primal urges. Schrader’s protagonist, Jake VanDorn (George C. Scott), runs a successful manufacturing business, so he has the resources to mount an intensive search. Jake is presented as a walking embodiment of rectitude, his properness manifesting in everything from crisp diction to natty clothing. The contrast between Jake and scumbag PI Andy Mast (Peter Boyle) is bracing, but that’s only the start of Jake’s trip down the rabbit hole. Eventually, this devout man finds himself wearing gold chains, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and a wig while “auditioning” male porn actors who insist on showing him their equipment.

          The most impressive aspect of Hardcore is Schrader’s depiction of Jake’s skin-trade education; in the course of learning what he needs to pursue his investigation, Jake encounters every ugly thing about humanity from which his religion previously shielded him. Thanks to Scott’s precisely modulated performance, it’s sickening to watch this virtuous man slip into a quagmire of exploitation. Considerably less effective is the relationship Schrader creates between Jake and Niki (Season Hubley), a prostitute who serves as his guide through the porn world. The pointed exchanges these characters have about relative morality slow the movie down—even though, on a thematic level, these scenes represent the core of Schrader’s narrative. Working with cinematographer Michael Chapman, a master at creating eerily atmospheric lighting, and composer Jack Nitzsche, whose powerful score features everything from the ethereal sound of the saw to the thumping grooves of seedy funk, Schrader creates vivid worlds with every frame of Hardcore. Even at this early stage of his directorial career, one could see the tendency of the director to reach beyond his grasp, but it’s hard to criticize an artist for aspiring to greatness.

Hardcore: GROOVY

Taxi Driver (1976)

          “Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.” That snippet of voiceover, an excerpt from the apocalyptic interior monologue of New York City cabbie Travis Bickle, gets to the heart of what makes Taxi Driver so intense: Instead of simply throwing a monster onscreen for lurid spectacle, the psychologically provocative drama takes us deep inside a man who does monstrous things for reasons he considers unassailably virtuous. As brilliantly realized by director Martin Scorsese, Paul Schrader’s astonishing script introduces viewers to Vietnam vet Travis (Robert De Niro), an insomniac loner cruising the nighttime streets of the city within the self-imposed prison of a metal coffin on four wheels. His unique vantage point exposes him to the worst the city has to offer, the junkies and pimps and psychos, so his PTSD and whatever else is cooking inside his troubled brain compel him toward a “righteous” mission with a body count. Disturbing but mesmerizing, Travis’ journey is a profound exploration of the ennui chewing at the outer edges of America’s collective unconscious.
          The story elements are simple but audacious. Travis becomes preoccupied with two women, a polished campaign worker named Betsy (Cybill Shepherd) and an underage prostitute named Iris (Jodie Foster). So disassociated that he can’t remember how to relate to people normally, Travis takes Betsy on an excruciatingly awful date to a low-rent porno movie, and presents himself as Iris’ savior even though she doesn’t believe she needs to be saved. Zeroing in on men he perceives as enemies, Travis targets Betsy’s politician boss and Iris’ pimp, leading our “hero” to arm himself for battle with an arsenal of illegal handguns. By the time Travis sits alone in his apartment, practicing his quick-draw with a cannon-sized pistol and a shoulder holster while delivering his infamous “You talkin’ to me?” soliloquy, viewers know they’ve been drawn into a nightmare.
          Scorsese’s camerawork and dramaturgy are extraordinary, infusing scenes with lived-in reality while never departing from the dreamlike stylization that makes Taxi Driver feel like a horrific fable; with the heavy shadows of Michael Chapman’s photography and the pulsing waves of Bernard Hermann’s insidious score, Scorsese achieves something like cinematic alchemy. In front of the camera, De Niro gives a selfless performance that channels Schrader’s vision of a lost soul who can’t differentiate idealism from insanity, becoming a figure of almost otherworldly menace. As the opposite ends of Travis’ imagined romantic spectrum, Foster nails the ephemeral idea of a jaded innocent, while Shepherd’s chilly inaccessibility is perfectly fitting. Comedian Albert Brooks provides helpful levity as Betsy’s coworker, Peter Boyle adds worldliness as one of Travis’ fellow cabbies, Harvey Keitel lends seedy color as Iris’ pimp, and Scorsese appears in a startling cameo that illustrates how deeply he saw into the meaning of this allegorical phantasmagoria.
          A breakthrough for everyone involved, Taxi Driver plays out like the anguished cry of a society in need of deliverance, filtered through the twisted worldview of someone damaged and discarded by that very society.

Taxi Driver: OUTTA SIGHT