Sid & Nancy / 11.07.1986

August 16, 2026
by words by ruin
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I first saw Sid & Nancy when I was fifteen years old at the Polar Theater in Anchorage, Alaska. These were the early days of my punk rock journey; a journey that began several months prior when a friend’s older brother turned me on to The Damned by the Plasmatics. An itch I didn’t even know I had was scratched on that day. Soon after, I caught a community radio broadcast out of the Matanuska Valley and heard the Dead Kennedy’s for the very first time.

MTV Get Off the Air.

That was it man. I was in. Hook, line, and sinker.

April showers bring May flowers and soon I was off to discover The Misfits, The Ramones, 7 Seconds, Social Distortion, Black Flag and, of course, the Sex Pistols. Lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my!

In the mid-eighties, punk rock in Alaska was hard to come by. The pre-internet Last Frontier was a world of mail order – sending away for obscure magazines and indie mailing lists, sending out hundreds of self-addressed stamped envelopes in hopes of a reply. To have a punk rock movie delivered straight to the local theater – it was glorious.

I caught the seven o’clock showing of Sid & Nancy that night. I went alone, as I often did in those days. I watched it in a mostly empty theater. (The best kind of theater in my opinion, but I digress.) It was love at first sight. When I exited the theater a couple of hours later, I found the lobby occupied by every established punk rocker in town. The cool kids. They had all shown up for the nine o’clock show. Foiled!

I’m sure they dug it too, Sid & Nancy is as fine a motion picture as you will ever experience.

Critics are always falling over themselves praising Gary Oldman’s portrayal of Sid Vicious. You’ll get no argument here – the man played a wax statue to perfection in those opening scenes – though oddly enough Oldman himself didn’t particularly care for the role. For my money though, it was Chloe Webb’s portrayal of Nancy Spungen that really shined. By all accounts Nancy was an amazingly disturbed individual. (See also: And I Don’t Want to Live this Life written by her mother, Deborah Spungen.) Disturbed since birth as the song goes. Toss heroin addiction to the mix and you have an emotional whirlwind of Looney Tunes proportions. Chloe nailed it to a T.

Sid & Nancy had way too much influence over my life back in the day.
I foolishly took this movie as an ode to love eternal, the blueprint from which to build my house. And I did, one dysfunctional relationship to another. I was young and naïve, and it took years to shake that. I still say it’s a good love story, despite its most obvious and fatal flaws. But a blueprint it ain’t.

I always hoped that Alex Cox would have his Cronenberg moment, ala The Fly. Something that would just blow people out of the water and let the world know just how great he was. But it never happened.

Sid & Nancy was the first Criterion Collection release I ever purchased. One of my first eBay transactions as well. I’ve got history with this flick.

Memories.

And to hell with Gary Oldman if he doesn’t like it.

(Just kidding Mr. Oldman, sir. I loved you as Sirius Black.)

PIG / 07.16.2021

August 16, 2026
by words by ruin
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I’ve been here before. Here in this place. Figuratively. Literally. Metaphysically. It’s a familiar feeling. That eerie sense of déjà vu. It started just the same as before. I began to hear about the faint rumblings of a new Nicolas Cage movie. A psychic itch developed that begged to be scratched. To top it off, the film was set in Portland, Oregon. A town I called home for fifteen years or more.

The first time it happened was twenty-six years ago. I was living in Portland at the time. The film was called Leaving Las Vegas; a movie that both disturbed me to the core and indirectly shaped my future.

Now, the movie is called Pig.

Hot damn, this is a fine, fine movie. I rented it on my birthday. And what a birthday present it is. Nicolas Cage shot back into the realm of my favorite male actors – joining Tom Hanks, Paul Giamatti and Ben Foster.

Don’t call it a comeback.

The years since Leaving Las Vegas have not been kind to Mr. Cage cinematically speaking. But they have been lucrative. You can’t begrudge the man that. There were some moments of genius in there. (See also: Bringing Out the Dead, Adaption, World Trade Center, Kick Ass) The National Treasure series were quite fun and I often find myself wishing there were more. But there are a lot of stinkers clogging his filmography. There’s no getting away from that. (See also: Ghost Rider) As a fan it really felt like he was saying yes to the paycheck rather than the role. Most of these films I just ignored.

Still, this is Nicolas Cage. Battered and broken, he still remains the high priest of manic acting and if he doesn’t get an Oscar nod for Pig, then I’ll eat my shoes.

I watched Pig back to back with another movie shot in Portland; Leave No Trace, featuring Thomasin McKenzie and the mighty Ben Foster. I got my PDX fix in real good.

And then I watched it again. The Leaving Las Vegas curse strikes again.

But this time I wasn’t disturbed. I was in awe.

The Portland scenes were bittersweet for me. I had lived there throughout my twenties and well into my thirties before moving on. The most recent time I visited was a few years ago and I hardly recognized the place. The skyline was different, the people were different. The whole place was one giant and sterile Brooklyn. It wasn’t home anymore. It’d lost the stink that made it so memorable.

Still, there is probably no more cinematically appealing city than Portland, Oregon. (See also: Drugstore Cowboy, My Own Private Idaho, Leave No Trace)

The Warriors / 02.09.1979 / The Delinquency Trilogy Pt. II

August 16, 2026
by words by ruin
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Should any of us live long enough to witness the introduction of a lifetime achievement award for general badassery, then The Warriors is certainly a shoo-in. (See also: Escape From New York.)

For the uninitiated – and by all means, initiate yourself at your earliest convenience – The Warriors is based off of Sol Yurick’s 1965 novel of the same name, itself based upon the story of Anabasis by the ancient Greek writer Xenophon, circa 370 B.C.. The Greek and Persian forces of the original are replaced by New York City street gangs in Yurick’s book and the subsequent movie.

The Warriors is both a cult classic and a rite of passage. One of those things you either get right off the bat (Baseball Furies!), or will never understand. Gallons of ink – later a googolplex of bits and bytes – has been spilt discussing this film.

In his original 1979 review, Roger Ebert described The Warriors as, “a stylized ballet of male violence.” Parents were outraged. Theater owners were afraid of the gang violence the film was sure to bring to their cinema. There were even efforts to band the movie outright. The Warriors rattled some nerves back in its day.

All the right ones.

Is it a violent movie? Not by today’s standard’s it’s not. Itchy & Scratchy showcases more violent acts in under a minute than The Warriors contains in ninety-four. When I was growing up the local stations used to air it all the time. The cursing was bleeped out of course, but the original violence was pretty much left intact.

The male violence isn’t the selling point. It’s the stylized ballet that holds up after all these years.

Just like the gang members themselves, The Warriors flows from frame to frame with animal grace. There is no wasted movement. Every scene has a point to make. A story to tell.

Exhibit A: Swan and Mercy on the subway engaged in a stare down with the clean-cut, presumably rich, kids that just boarded the car. The prom kids are having the night of their lives. Swan and Mercy are running for theirs. There is tension in the air. Mercy moves to fix her hair, to make herself more presentable, only to be stopped by Swan. It’s a lesson in pride and self-respect in the face of adversity. The scene is less than two minutes long and manages to tell more of a story than half the movies that came out after. Watch if for yourself. It’s that damned good.

It’s been forty years and people – myself included – are still obsessed with this movie. Search The Warriors on YouTube and you’ll find options a plenty. Reunion subway rides, “Where Are They Now” segments, tours of filming collections. The other day I even found a fan-made collection of DVD extras. This is a movie that breeds fanaticism. Sometimes too much. Plug The Warriors: Director’s Cut into your favorite search engine and prepare to witness a debate of Star Wars prequels proportions.

Here’s to the next forty years.

The Scorsese Binge (2024 Edition)

August 15, 2026
by words by ruin
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A few months back I had the silly thought to binge my way through a few of my favorite Scorsese flicks. This, of course, turned into a deep dive of his filmography. (Excluding documentaries, cable shows, etc.)

They say anything worth doing is worth overdoing, and there is some truth to that I suppose. I blew through twenty-five films, albeit not in chronological order.

It was fun. Occasionally tedious.

Who’s That Knocking at My Door (1967) – This felt like I was watching a nineties-era indie film more so than a film from the late-sixties. That says a lot more about the nineties than the sixties or Scorsese methinks.

Boxcar Bertha (1972) – Barbara Hershey and David Carradine in all of their seventies glory. Yes, please.

Mean Streets (1973) – So is the the title sequence of Drugstore Cowboy an homage to the title sequence to Mean Streets? Is this a love connection?

Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (1974) – This is the flick that turned me on to All the Way from Memphis by Mott the Hoople. It is also the inspiration for the television series Alice, which I watched incessantly as a child. Kiss my grits y’all.

Taxi Driver (1976) – I realize I’m in the minority here, but Taxi Driver is my least favorite Scorsese film. I hit the scene with Scorsese cameoing as the stalker in the cab and my stomach turns sour each and every time. It completely throws me off the rest of the film.

New York, New York (1977) – I will admit to multitasking during this film. We have three kids in this house, there’s always laundry to be done. I like Liza Minnelli (Arthur!), and I dig DeNiro. Together, we’re just not having that Reeses Peanut Butter Cup moment.

Raging Bull (1980) – If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times. Somewhere Over the Rainbow makes everything better. Still, my heart remains loyal to one Rocky Balboa.

The King of Comedy (1982) – This was a first time viewing for me. Watching it through post-Joker eyes was interesting. Sandra Bernhard was born to play Masha.

After Hours (1985) – Well, that was weird. In a good way, I think.

The Color of Money (1986) – I dig Newman. I dig The Hustler. I’ll leave it at that.

The Last Temptation of Christ (1988) – Congratulations  are in order to Willem Dafoe for being the first actor to portray both Jesus Christ and the Green Goblin.

Goodfellas (1990) – The Godfather for those born in the seventies or later. Not that The Godfather isn’t great. But Goodfellas? Fughetaboutit. Sid Vicious’s My Way at the end? Icing on the cake, baby.

Cape Fear (1991) – DeNiro with a southern accent is a bit off-putting. Juliette Lewis breathes rarified air.

The Age of Innocence (1993) – I’d really like to know what the hat budget was for this film.

Casino (1995) – I once wrote in a question to Frank Rosenthal – the real life Ace Rothstein. He answered on his website. I swooned.

Kundun (1997) – I had to find this one on YouTube. At once not my cup of tea and strangely alluring.

Bringing Out the Dead (1999) – I went through quite the Nicolas Cage phase in the nineties. I have no regrets. Bringing Out the Dead has always been one of my favorites.

Gangs of New York (2002) – I’ve never been a fan of Daniel Day Lewis, but damn if he doesn’t nail it in this one.

The Aviator (2004) – I could really do with a sequel to this. I want the Vegas years. I want Melvin and Howard, the Scorsese treatment.

The Departed (2006) – “What, you on your period?” A well-deserved best picture and a permanent resident of my personal top ten. Ray Winstone is (insert your own series of expletives here) amazing.

Shutter Island (2010) – The first time I saw this flick, I thought it was a Christopher Nolan film because I was thoroughly confused through much of the picture. My second viewing has done nothing to compromise that original reaction. I eventually just bought the book.

Hugo (2011) – Answering the age-old question, what if Martin Scorsese made a Harry Potter film? If you didn’t dig this flick, then I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Spike Lee, you’re next.

The Wolf of Wall Street (2013) – More decadence and anarchy than the first two Decline of Western Civilization movies put together. So much fun.

Silence (2016) – This is that flick where Kylo Ren and Spider-man 2.0 go on a quest to discover whatever happened to Qui-gon Jinn.

The Irishman (2019) – This is one long-ass movie. The first time I watched it, I broke it up over three days. It’s a slower pace in comparison to other Scorsese flicks, and that takes some getting used to. The second time around I only broke it up into two nights. Third time’s a charm.

25 flicks.

The Order Watched: Goodfellas, Casino, The Departed, The Wolf of Wall Street, After Hours, Bringing Out the Dead, The Irishman, Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, The Color of Money, Hugo, Shutter Island, The King of Comedy, The Last Temptation of Christ, Who’s That Knocking at My Door?, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, Silence, The Aviator, Cape Fear, The Age of Innocence, New York, New York, Gangs of New York, Kundun, Boxcar Bertha, Raging Bull

By the Numbers: 25 Scorsese films. 3,445 minutes of screen time. Approximately 57 1/2 hours. 9 instances of Robert DeNiro.  6 instances of Harvey Keitel. 5 instances of Leonardo DiCaprio. 2 instances of Daniel Day Lewis. 1 somewhat annoyed spouse having to put up with my impromptu career retrospectives.

The Kubrick Binge (2022 Edition)

August 15, 2026
by words by ruin
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Hey, it’s cheaper than film school.

Fear and Desire (1953): Fear and Desire is in the public domain, which means the quality of the production is completely dependent on which copy you come across. The one I watched was this wierdly colorized version where each scene looked as though it was viewed through a kaleidoscope. Clothes and skin color would change on a whim. Actors would have a blue shirt on in one scene, blue skin in the next. Very Smurfy. It was kind of cool in an acid flashback sort of way.

Killer’s Kiss (1955): Killer’s Kiss is tacked onto the Criterion Collection edition of The Killing, but to me, it was the star. There’s a bunch of little moments showcasing the seeds from which Kubrick’s career would eventually grow. The scene with the mannequins was just awesome.

The Killing (1956): Solid noir. A solid caper. Any movie with Elisha Cook Jr. is all right by me. (See also: The Big Sleep, The House on Haunted Hill, Rosemary’s Baby.)

Paths of Glory (1957): This is the movie that introduced me to Timothy Carey for which I will be forever grateful. Character actors make the world go round.

Spartacus (1960): Kirk Douglas is not dead. Spartacus is not over. He’s still out there. It’s still playing.

Lolita (1962): Watching Lolita through 2022 eyes is a touch disturbing at best. Still, I could listen to James Mason speak the day long. If anyone needs me, I’ll be rewatching 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964): I’ve watched Dr. Strangelove a handful of times at this point in my life. Each time it’s like watching a funhouse version of what a movie should be. Slim Pickens is my man, so his climatic scene will always resonate with me over the rest.

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968): I showed this to my kids a few months back, thinking they would turn away from the artiness of it all. Nope. They were mesmerized. Proud moments in cinephile parenting. 2010: The Year We Make Contact is pretty good too.

A Clockwork Orange (1971): I was obsessed with this movie as a teenager. VHS copy and all. To this day I still listen to I Wanna Marry a Lighthouse Keeper. This is one of those movies that keeps evolving. What was shocking in the eighties when I first watched it – to say nothing of those poor, unfortunate souls who caught it opening night – looks like reality television or clips from the Tik Tok generation. The fashion and sets along are amazing. What goes around comes around. My personal favorite Kubrick flick.

Barry Lyndon (1975): The never-ending story before The Never-Ending Story. Everyone loves this film. Phil Rosenthal loves this film and I love Phil Rosenthal. But I don’t love this film. The best part for me was using the intermission of Barry Lyndon to pause and watch Filmworker which put some – non-story related – things into context. I was bored during the first half of the film, but completely engaged for the second. Movies have a funny way of doing that to you.

The Shining (1980): I watched this movie in the wee hours of the morning heading into Father’s Day. In hindsight, that was probably not my best move. It took a few episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond to cleanse my mental palate enough so that I could go to bed.

Full Metal Jacket (1987): This movie is great. But the Mickey Mouse Club March scene at the end is easily in my top ten movie moments of all-time.

Eyes Wide Shut (1999): Maybe it’s just me, but the words Tom Cruise and erotic thriller, don’t exactly mingle for me.

Extra Credit:

Room 237 (2012): I may be agnostic, but y’all need Jesus. This film was so nutty, I watched it twice.

Filmworker (2017): This documentary was both inspiring and depressing.

By the Numbers: 

Order Watched: The Shining, Room 237, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Fear and Desire, Paths of Glory, A Clockwork Orange, Full Metal Jacket, Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, The Killing, Killer’s Kiss, Barry Lyndon, Filmworker, Lolita, Spartacus, Eyes Wide Shut.

By the Numbers: 15 films, breaking down to 13 Kubrick flicks and 2 docs. 4 instances of Peter Sellers spread across two films. 3 instances of Leon Vitali, including an entire documentary in his honor. 2 instances of Kirk Douglas. 2 instances of Timothy Carey. (Look him up, he’s amazing.) 1 instance each of Phil Rosenthal, the mighty Slim Pickens (See also: Blazing Saddles), and the one, the only, Scatman Crothers. To quote House of Pain, Scatman Crothers gets all of my love.

Grease / 06.16.1978 / The Delinquency Trilogy Pt. I

August 15, 2026
by words by ruin
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Were you to sequence my DNA, odds are good you’ll find traces of Grease woven into the very fabric of my existence. Grease was that important to me. To my development, my burgeoning philosophical views and social leanings, it’s all right there. Grease soaked itself into my preadolescent genes and wreaked havoc. Grease is part of my history, a measurable part of who I am.

Movies have a bad habit of doing that to folks.

In the mid-to-late seventies, my family packed up their bags and moved from my birthplace in sunny southern California to the snowy wilds of Anchorage, Alaska. I was six or seven years old at the time and this upheaval was a major cause of my discontent. During those first few weeks in the Last Frontier, we stayed in a motel until such a time that more permanent arrangements could be made.

I don’t remember much about the lodgings, only that it offered a world-class view of one of the Sundowner Drive-In’s three outdoor screens.
Every evening before bed, I would venture into the room’s tiny bathroom, turn over the little plastic trashcan to use as a stepstool and balance myself on my tiptoes until I could just barely see out the window. From there I would treat myself to a complimentary – though audio-free – showing of Grease.

Every.

Single.

Night.

Now, I’ll admit to having been an impressionable young lad in my youth. I had the same fantastical hopes and dreams as the other kids; envisioning myself as an astronaut, or a dinosaur trainer, etc. But the one thing I wanted to be most of all was a delinquent. A real J.D. That was the be-all, end-all of my larval insect brain.

In retrospect, it all sounds a bit childish. Then again, I was a child.
But talk about being in the right place at the right time. The seventies were a particularly glorious time for juvenile delinquency. Not since the Judas Priest-clad glory days of the 1950s has there been such a bumper crop of films celebrating the joys and wonders of a youth gone wild.

Grease is the founding pillar of my delinquency trilogy. The gateway drug to an inglorious life of mischief and mayhem. That first high that can never be replicated, but you’ll sure as hell spend the rest of your life chasing.
Yes! It is so gosh-darn sugary sweet that the celluloid will rot through your teeth by the time the end credits roll.

I get that.

And while we’re on the subject, it’s predicable too. It doesn’t matter if you’re sitting down for your first, or five-hundredth viewing, there is never any doubt that Danny and Sandy are going to get back together in the end.
But therein lies the rub. Grease isn’t about Danny and Sandy.

Not to me it isn’t.

Danny and Sandy are merely the eye candy to sweeten the dish and make it more palatable for the masses. The real stars of Grease are Keneckie and Rizzo.

Allow me to explain.

First of all, Danny and Sandy do not exist in real life. They are as alien to this earth as E.T. You will never run into one of them at your local grocery store, corner pub or coffee shop. Characters like that only exist pop songs, the stage and screen, or in-between the pages of your favorite book. The closest this world has ever gotten to a real-life Danny Zucko is Andrew Dice Clay and boy, did that experiment ever go horribly, horribly wrong. (To be fair, the Diceman will always have a special place in my heart for his role as the bouncer in Pretty in Pink. He wasn’t half-bad in A Star is Born either.)
And Sandy? Even Olivia Newton-John herself can’t compete with Sandy Olsson. No one can, and those that try are likely to wind up serial killers.

(See also: Serial Mom)

On the flipside, I’ve come across plenty of Keneckies and Rizzos in my life and times, and the world is far a more interesting place for them.
Full disclosure: I am a card-carrying member of the Cult of Betty Rizzo. Catch me in the right mood, and I might even show you the secret handshake.

Despite Stockard Channing’s many feminine charms, Rizzo is genderless. She is everywoman. She is everyman. In contrast to Sandy Olsson’s seeming charmed life, Rizzo’s skin isn’t perfect and her attitude is even worse. Betty Rizzo is damaged goods and you can’t help but fall in love with her for it.
And Keneckie? The poor sap spends half the movie building his dream car out of scraps, only to have Zucko drive to victory in the end. I don’t know about you, but I’ve found myself in Keneckie’s zip code far more often than I’ve stepped foot in Danny’s.

Sandy slaps away Danny’s clumsy attempts at heavy petting while Keneckie and Rizzo fall flat on their faces with a pregnancy scare. Danny and Sandy tell the classic tale of opposites attracting. Keneckie and Rizzo are, at their core, one in the same. Danny and Sandy have a bright and cheery future ahead of them, complete with white picket fences and flying cars. Kenecki and Rizzo are staring down a future of double-shifts at the local factory. By the end of the movie there is no doubt that Danny and Sandy are going to make it and the viewer is left crossing their fingers, hoping that Keneckie and Rizzo manage do the same.

Danny and Sandy are the whitest of white bread holding this sandwich together. Keneckie and Rizzo are the protein.

And, in case you were wondering, Frankie Avalon is the mustard.