“Then Again” lets Keaton, best known for roles in “Annie Hall,” “The Godfather” and “Something’s Gotta Give,” open her soul for a most unconventional look at her life.

And none of it would have been possible without her mother, Dorothy Deanne Keaton Hall.

“Then Again” is like two memoirs in one, the tale of a gifted but insecure actress and her ma, a woman whose artistic talent lacked the outlet her daughter possessed.

Keaton rights that wrong in “Then Again,” a book that’s vigorously self-reflective without being boastful. The beguiling Keaton isn’t like many of her acting peers, and her thoughtful essays reflective that fact.

Keaton’s life story is told in dreamy passages, diary entries and other textual collages. Chronological order feels like a nuisance for Keaton, a writer far more interested in sharing the nuances of her personality and the role Mama Hall played in her life.

When we hear about her acting lessons, the sudden bursts of fame or her tabloid romances with Woody Allen, Warren Beatty and Al Pacino it feels like an afterthought.

Oh, and by the way, Woody and I broke up before shooting “Annie Hall” but we remained dear friends for decades.

Narrative means little to the author, it’s more about presenting herself and her mother in a way that reflects their personalities, hopes and fears. The older Hall lived a stereotypical life as a happy mother, house maker and wife, but all along she chafed at how that image restricted her.

Keaton, by stark contrast, found fame in Hollywood, shared a bed with some of the industry’s most handsome leading men but either avoided or couldn’t sustain a committed relationship like her parents.

Gossip hounds will pore over the love letters Keaton received from Allen and Beatty and chuckle over the bursts of celebrity trash Keaton gently recycles. Marlon Brando’s only words to her on the set of “The Godfather” were sexually demeaning, and Jack Nicholson’s randy image gets turned upside down when we learn how he shared his slice of the profits from “Something’s Gotta Give” with a stunned Keaton.

We also learn Keaton thought Allen had a great body, and that the actress can’t spare a negative word about her old flames. And, if the tabloids have taught us anything, each could use a condemnation or two for their romantic exploits.

“Godfather” fanatics will nod their heads as they read about the turmoil on the set of the third saga in the film franchise, as creator Francis Ford Coppola furiously rewrote scenes at the last minute to wrap up the feature.

“Then Again” can be an infuriating read. We get hints at her acting methods, but not much more. Keaton invites us into her personal relationships yet we remain at arm’s length, never learning exactly why they withered away. And while Keaton’s shock hit “Something’s Gotta Give” proved that Hollywood can occasionally embrace an older woman’s love story, we get little details about the fight to make it happen.

Yet Keaton can be remarkably candid, a trait her fellow actors may not share.

“Without a great man writing and directing for me, I was a mediocre movie star at best,” she says after Allen struck up a relationship with Mia Farrow, leaving Keaton behind.

“Then Again” wraps not without any celebrity triumph, but with the slow, ravaging decline of Keaton’s mother to age and Alzheimer’s disease. It’s a tribute to the Oscar-winner that she sees this as her memoir’s most poignant moment, and not the kind of Hollywood award or tribute an actress of her gifts has or will receive.

Is HBO’s ‘The Pacific’ An Underrated Masterpiece?

After the brilliant “Band of Brothers,” I was excited about this HBO mini-series and then Tom Hanks had to get goddamned stupid and partisan and anti-American and ruin the whole thing. I knew he was a lib but that didn’t matter. I loved Tom Hanks and then he had to go and declare that our WWII veterans were waging a war of “terror and racism.”

It would be great to be able to go back to enjoying his work, but now — I just can’t get over this.

I’ve never seen “The Pacific.” I do know Hanks probably hurt the ratings and that the reviews weren’t very good. I also know that Hanks so toxified the atmosphere around the release that the thought of watching it still makes me ill.

35mm Projection Could Be gone by 2015

This is actually one way in which Hollywood can save a ton of money, which of course is what they’re desperate to do in order to avoid the hard work of making better movies that will make more money.

People often confuse me as some kind of purist when that’s really not true. I could care less if the projection is digital or 35MM. I love story. Tell a good story and how you project it won’t make a bit of difference.

Woody Woodpecker Movie in Development

Gee, I hope he learns stop wounding Gaia’s trees with all that awful woodpecking.

Innovations of  Zelda Franchise

Back in the mid-80’s when Nintendo first came out it was the 1986 release of “The Legend of Zelda” that became my crack-cocaine. I became so addicted that once I finally won the game I gave up video games forever.

11 Great Films You’ve Never Heard Of

“Purgatory,” a shockingly Christian Western (in a good way), is a great choice, as is “Citizen X,” a superb HBO film based on the true story of the hunt for a brutal child predator in the Soviet Union before, during, and after the fall of the Wall.

I’ve seen three others: “Shattered,” “Split Second,” and “City of God.” Meh. Certainly worth a look.

Can’t comment on the others.

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Last Night’s Screening

Carlito’s Way (1993) — It’s been years and years since I’ve seen Brian DePalma’s near-great, urban gangster tale of a former heroin kingpin (Al Pacino as Carlito) attempting to go straight. I had remembered none of it and enjoyed every minute. There are two amazing set-pieces and two things that just didn’t work for me.  One of the set-pieces takes place in the back room of a barber shop where a very tense drug deal goes bad and the other during the climax at Grand Central Station where our desperate protagonist makes every move he’s learned over his long, sordid life to dodge five mob assassins driven by a blood feud. These sequences represent DePalma at his best where every camera move and cut serves the moment in a way most directors can only dream of.

What bothered me, though, was the silly notion that we’re supposed to believe that Carlito, a man nudging fifty, feels completely out of place returning to his old neighborhood after a five-year prison stint. When you’re that age (and I’m close enough to it), five years just isn’t that long. If he had been locked up for ten or fifteen years it would make more sense. Nothing involving the theme of feeling out of step with the time and place he used to call home rang true.

No one’s ever accused me of being PC, but I was also troubled by the casting of Penelope Ann Miller as Carlito’s love interest. In 1993, Hollywood was still doing something they would never consider today, casting the Italian Pacino as a Puerto Rican. But for whatever reason, casting this very blonde, ivory-skinned woman as our protagonist’s savior and angel felt wrong and like an overt choice meant to symbolize hope, salvation, and redemption through her Caucasian  looks. As someone who’s in an interracial marriage, it’s certainly not that, and normally I don’t even notice such things.

But at some point during the story I asked myself, “Why couldn’t this girl be Puerto Rican?” Rachel Ticotin sure looks like an angel to me and she would’ve only been 34 when “Carlito” was shot. Oh, and she’s one of the most underused and under-appreciated actresses of our time.

As Carlito’s best friend and attorney, it’s Sean Penn who really steals the movie. Why the Good Lord would give a jerk like that so much talent is beyond me. Viggo Mortensen also kills in his only scene.

Pacino’s performance is typical post-Oscar Pacino — a flamboyant scenery-chewer with an over-the top accent.  But reunited with his “Scarface” director, that performance is pretty perfect.

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SCOTTD’S EPIC LINK-TACULAR

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FYI

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MICHAEL JACKSON BIOPIC CIRCULATING HOLLYWOOD

EIGHT CHARACTERS POSTERS FROM ‘THE AVENGERS’

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CLASSIC PICK FOR FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 18

TCM:

10:00 PM  EST: Man Called Peter, A (1955)  – A Scottish boy follows his faith to a bright career preaching in Washington, DC. Dir: Henry Koster Cast:  Richard Todd, Jean Peters, Marjorie Rambeau. C-119 mins

Imperfect but still interesting and respectful biopic about Peter Marshall, a man “called by God” to become a minister; a calling that eventually earns him national recognition. Well worth your time, though, especially for a superb scene where Jean Peters speaks to a group of young woman about what feminism and being a woman really means. You wouldn’t hear that message in our popular culture today.

It starts here at right about the 2:00 mark.

--Please send tips/suggestions/requests/complaints to jnolte@breitbart.com

With a stunning 0 percent so far on Rotten Tomatoes the day before it hits theaters one might think Sandler had made a film that was completely, utterly and irredeemably lacking in laughs and entertainment value.

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But – taking into account that this isn’t pretentious art-house, Oscar-aiming fare – “Jack and Jill” is just another sad example of most critics’ single-minded agenda to give Sandler a smack down for daring to make movies that, while engaging in some crude humor, nearly always wind up upholding old-fashioned values like solid families, respect for elders (especially grandmas with meatballs!) and true love.

This time around, he includes a strong anti-bullying angle, and dares to have not one, not two, but three broad-sided smack downs of an atheist character – so be fully aware that while this isn’t a perfect film, it is damn funny. The packed audience I saw it with laughed their heads off while the few critics in attendance groused afterwards about what an atrocity it was.

In dealing with the film “Blue Valentine” back in January, I noted that most critics were treating it like the second coming of Christ set to celluloid. Depicting an awful relationship that goes from wonderful to sick within six short years, the nation’s alleged arbiters of taste declared it a masterpiece, while I pointed out that most people don’t want to spend their hard-earned money on date night watching a husband practically rape his wife before she kicks him out screaming “I have nothing left for you!” I predicted it wouldn’t even make $10 million, and I was right.

Meanwhile, I pointed out that only 10 percent of critics dared to say Sandler’s “Grown Ups” – featuring intact families with fathers regaining their leadership roles – was any good, despite the fact that, again, a packed house of regular folks had just exploded with laughter around them for 90 minutes. “Grown Ups” made $160 million. It wasn’t Oscar fare, but for Pete’s sake, it did its job by making people feel good.

So, know going into this review – or better yet, the film itself – that the critics who dog it are lying. They are completely disregarding the simple truth that the movie delivers plenty of laughs and good, solid values. They know Sandler is an openly Republican Hollywood figure, and they are out to take him down.

Now, about the movie: “Jack and Jill” is a typical creation from Sandler’s Happy Madison production company. He plays both Jack and Jill, brother and sister twins who have argued since birth. When Jill, who is single, lonely and in her 40s, comes to visit at Thanksgiving, it’s supposed to be for four days. But complications repeatedly ensue, dragging her visit all the way through a New Year’s week cruise with Jack’s family.

Along the way, the siblings fight constantly, but Jack puts up with her presence because he needs to get Al Pacino to act in a Dunkin Donuts ad for his advertising company, and Al surprisingly becomes smitten with Jill. Ultimately, Jill learns to value herself through the attentions of Al, and Jack’s wife helps win him over to seeking reconciliation with his sister.

“Jack and Jill” is unmistakably silly, and Sandler looks like he’s having more fun than he’s had in years in playing the twins, diving into his dual personas with comic gusto in addition to engaging in physical comedy including a “double Dutch” jump rope routine with his alter ego.

The real surprise here, however, is Pacino, who satirizes his over-the-top, angry public image by falling for Jill and seeking to win her heart in order to regain his artistic courage. In scene after scene, he’s completely, daffily absurd, and yet his joy is infectious. Katie Holmes as Jack’s wife also does a nice job, but the biggest and best aspect of the film for Christians and families is that the film places a high and unmistakable value on the beautiful power of families and sibling bonding, while also criticizing dishonesty and meanness, mocking atheism and making belief in God look cool. Most importantly, the film shows true inner beauty can lie within anyone.

Yeah, the movie’s got a few fart jokes. Yes, Sandler looks ridiculous in drag. But “Jack and Jill” has heart and plenty of laughs, and if you’re an honest human being – unlike my robotic brethren of critics – you’ll enjoy it. A lot.

Jonathan grew up in a Queens housing project where he earned the nickname “Milk” for being the only white kid surrounded by minorities. He was stuck living there with his impoverished grandmother because his cop father was killed in the line of duty. Surrounded by broken lives and with a black child named Vinny as his only true friend, Jonathan dreamed of getting out fast – particularly because a crack addict named Hanky is constantly terrorizing the kids in the building.

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Milk and Vinny find a gun and never really intend to use it other than to scare Hanky away, but in a moment of panic Milk shoots and kills the junkie. When he and Vinny move the body to cover up the killing, another drug dealer finds out and, in an ensuing tussle, the dealer tumbles down a flight of stairs to his death.

Detective Charles Stanford (Al Pacino), the former partner of Milk’s father, figures out these were innocent accidents that took out the worst human trash in the projects so Milk is never charged. The deaths are left officially unsolved.

Sixteen years later, amid NYC’s rabid love for its police after the heroics of 9/11, Milk (now played by Channing Tatum) becomes a rookie cop himself. And just as his precinct chief, Captain Marion Mathers (Ray Liotta) is imploring his officers to keep their noses clean for the public love affair to continue, Milk starts getting mysterious notes threatening to expose his secret killings. Making matters worse for Milk is a neighborhood newspaper editor (Juliette Binoche) printing notes calling for justice in the killings.

As the threats escalate and his past closes in on him, even Milk’s wife (Katie Holmes) starts to wonder what’s going on. The young cop must race against time to figure out who knows about his past and figure out how to stop them from destroying his life.

As written and directed by Dito Montiel, who came out of literally nowhere at age 38 in 2003 to win the best picture prize at Sundance with his debut film “A Guide To Recognizing Your Saints,” “Son” stands in the proudly gritty tradition of Sidney Lumet’s and Martin Scorsese’s best New York City films. Its story is harsh and uncompromising, but it provides a meaty series of ethical dilemmas that rarely are seen in the dumbed-down movies of our times.

Montiel provides a terrific script to build upon but also draws great performances from his deeply talented cast. While Tatum does solid work as Milk, there are three particularly strong and surprising turns. Katie Holmes does her best acting to date while Pacino actually manages to be subtle and affecting. The biggest surprise is comic Tracy Morgan, expertly playing the adult Vinny, a man who has been pushed so far by a hard life that he may never come back to normal.

With a profuse amount of profanity (that nonetheless feels true to the setting and characters) and some intense moments of danger involving children, “A Son of No One” might be difficult viewing for the easily offended. But for those who are longing for the kind of gritty cop drama that is all too rare these days,  it more than fills the bill and in my mind stands as one of the very best films of the year.

1992:

“Unforgiven” – Yes, yes, yes. This is a great movie. Spot on. Finally, some recognition for Clint, who by this point had been awesome for, oh, twenty some odd years — but welcome to the party, Academy.

“The Crying Game” – Oh. Okay. It’s a good movie, kind of defined by the twist. I liked the movie, but the marketing campaign — in which Miramax told us there was a big twist — was egregious and perhaps evil.

“Howard’s End” – Oh, dear Lord I hate Merchant-Ivory movies. Not my cup of tea, but right up the Academy’s collective alley. Wikipedia says it was the first film to be released by Sony Pictures Classics, so named because Sony Important and Destined to Be Remembered Forever Films sounded too presumptuous.

“A Few Good Men” – Really loved this back then, the dialogue, the speech, and Tom Cruise’s performance. And while I still enjoy it, it’s not as good as I thought it was.

“Scent of a Woman” – Ugh, are you serious, Academy? Obviously I’m not the first to point this out, but this was the turning point for Pacino, when he decided to start sentences in his normal, gravelly voice and then to SHOUT THE REST OF THE SENTENCE LIKE THIS. It’s really annoying but he was RE-WARDED! WITH AN OSCAR!

What Should Have Been Nominated:

“Glengarry Glen Ross” – Pacino didn’t do that as much in this adaptation of Mamet’s play. He did the short. Bursts. Of. Inflection. But without as much shouting. And when he did raise his voice, it seemed to fit the material. As in his response to Ed Harris’s query, “What does that mean?”

“It MEANS, Dave, you haven’t had a good one IN A MONTH. None of my BUSINESS. You wanna PUSH ME. To ANSWER YOU.” He’s great, Harris is great, Spacey’s at his weaseliest, Alec Baldwin’s at his slimiest, and Lemmon’s at his vulnerablest. Great. Movie.

“Reservoir Dogs” – Oh, dear Lord, I love Quentin Tarantino movies. Sure, there was the controversy, that he stole the plot and some shots from “City On Fire.” I will concede that he’s a total talentless loser when you produce a scene from “City On Fire” in which the characters discuss Madonna, which then leads to a discussion of “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia,” and another scene where, oh, I don’t know, a cop posing as a criminal tells a phony story that includes the line, “I’m trying to watch ‘The Lost Boys!’”

“Malcolm X” – Seriously, I thought of this movie when George Clooney accepted an Oscar for “Syriana” and bragged about how forward thinking the Academy is.

“One False Move” – I expected greater things from Carl Franklin after this, an absorbing crime thriller starring Bill Paxton and Billy Bob Thornton, the latter of whom co-wrote the script. You can do it, Carl. Make another great movie. Please.

“Unforgiven” – It’s a hell of a thing, killing a man. You take away all he’s got. And everything he’s ever gonna have.

The genius of Eastwood’s film is that its characters have the same misinformed awe for the outlaws and lawmen of the American west that led to the genre’s dominance. In my last column, I attributed the greatness of “The Silence of the Lambs” to its focused point of view. “Unforgiven,” on the other hand, takes multiple points of view in telling the story of several prostitutes who put a bounty on a couple of cowboys who scarred one of their friends for life because she giggled at the size of the bigger cowboy’s, um, manhood.

When William Munny (Eastwood) meets the so-called Schoefield Kid (Jaimz Woolvett), the story behind the bounty has already taken on a life of its own. “Hell, they even cut her teats,” Schoefield, a legend in his own mind, tells Munny. Munny needs the bounty. A widower, he struggles to run a hog farm with his kids. He enlists the aid of his old running buddy, Ned Logan (Morgan Freeman), and in doing so further exaggerates the extent of the damage done to the prostitute.

Ned and Munny were bad boys. Outlaws. Cold blooded killers. And so was Little Bill (Gene Hackman), the gun control crazy Sheriff of Big Whiskey, the town where the cowboys cut up the woman. Little Bill makes quick work of English Bob (Richard Harris), the first bounty hunter to show up in Big Whiskey, and steals English Bob’s biographer, a scared little weasel named Beauchamp (Saul Rubinek) to boot.

Little Bill eviscerates Beauchamp’s work, pointing out that his writing is filled with inaccuracies. Like a man nicknamed “Two Guns” didn’t carry two guns at all, but was simply well-endowed. And he died for it. It’s ironic, then, that the inciting incident was spurred by a man who was not so lucky to be well-endowed. His buddy, who did no cutting, but held the woman down, tries to give the victim a peace offering, but the other women won’t have it. It’s very obvious that they don’t speak for the victim; she appears touched by the gesture, but says nothing.

The movie asks if a man, more to the point, a killer, can change and can he outrun his past? Yes, and no. Ned freezes after firing a shot that maims the more sympathetic cowboy, leaving Munny to finish him off. But Ned quits, and heads home, only to be caught by Little Bill’s posse. As they torture him, The Schoefield Kid confirms our suspicions: he’s a liar and a fraud, a normal person who is desperate to have the reputation of a killer. He goes through with the murder, but it takes a toll on his soul. Finally, he reasons, “They had it coming,” to which Munny replies, “We all got it comin’ kid.”

It all leads to a confrontation between Little Bill and Munny, during which Munny takes out half of Big Whiskey. Only one man can survive and, for the time being, outrun his past.

No one in film has so dissected and anatomized diabolical corpi with more dedication and precision than Al Pacino.

Not even the combined forces of Martin Scorcese and the chilling characters he created with Robert DeNiro can come up with the living, breathing reality of what Pacino only began to discover with his Michael Corleone of The Godfather.

Prophetically and, I imagine, presciently, I initially spelled Godfather as Todfather.

Yes. The Deathfather!

That rather says it all.

Three film titles initially leap to my mind when I think of Al Pacino’s entire body of work: The Godfather (1972), Devil’s Advocate (1997), and Insomnia (2002).

Pacino’s greatest performance to my mind can be experienced with the film Insomnia, and his portrayal of the LAPD detective, Will Dormer, an indelibly scarred soul farmed out to Alaska. He finds himself in, of all places, Alaska. A town called Nightmute. 

Perhaps that is the author’s version “Nightmare” in the language of First Nations.

“Will Dormer” is there to possibly keep himself far away from the limelight of an Internal Affairs investigation back in L.A.

This obvious hero of the LAPD may have cut a few too many corners in a murder case on his home turf.

Why is Will Dormer my favorite Pacino performance?

It is this born performer’s genius filled to the brim with the miracle of normal humanity.

Though evil is an ocean this great actor swims in as if it were his own bubbling Jacuzzi, I always waited for him to come down to earth and play a simple human being.

He carries such a portrayal to divine heights with his “Will Dormer.”

The great excitement in the film is that he is paired with another, specifically comic genius, Robin Williams, who is equally given to a Shakespearean range of theater games.

Both of these volcanoes play the most divinely impressive game of who can out-underplay the other. With explosive possibilities rumbling within the Pacino/Williams Showdown, what we’re invited to watch are two extraordinary artists laying out the mysteries of two seemingly normal but tragically flawed men.

The hero of Insomnia, as always with great drama, is the Truth.

Pacino and Williams wallow divinely in the dual dances of death they perform to escape the truths of their own lives.

Aren’t all of us, in some small or large way, doing that? Until we, like Al Pacino’s role, heroically face the truths of our life, and balance the scales of justice before we die.

Insomnia is a great film with two exceptionally sacred performances.

Why sacred?

We’re dealing with Good and Evil; and on the most disturbingly personal level.

Insomnia is, therefore, a sacred dance of death.

The dance of good and evil within Al Pacino’s life as the Boswell of Evil, however, has its greatest metaphor in that capital of The Devil’s Advocate: New York City.

More specifically Manhattan.

Central Park and the upper East Side.

What a film is The Devil’s Advocate!

As a former cave dweller in Manhattan, it is hard to know where to begin in praise of this achievement.

The Devil’s Advocate lays bare the central disease that has not only plagued New York but now engulfs all of America: hypocrisy.

The land of the “inalienable right to life” has legalized abortion for 38 years, and, in my opinion, Roe v. Wade is the most diabolical of American hypocrisies. It is akin to the Supreme Court’s legitimized slavery with the Dred Scott decision.

No one and nothing can so expose hypocrisy with more precision than Lucifer himself.

Caught staring in the headlights of their own self-delusion, one “sheep” within The Devil’s Advocate after another falls to the insatiably smiling fangs of Al Pacino’s “wolf.”

Holy airs surround the family of our central figure, Kevin Lomax, performed by Keanu Reeves as a younger version of Arthur Miller’s Willy Lomax in Death of a Salesman.

Lambs led to slaughter?

As the Devil of Al Pacino might gloat, “They danced there of their own free will!”

I danced to such slaughter until I met Janet Reno in the backroom of a Washington D.C. hotel. The sulfur rising from our chicken dinners was prophetically tyrannical. It was a preview of the enlightened despotism to be found in the Progressively Marxist New World Order of the Obama Nation. Such sulfur literally pores out of Joe Bidon’s pro-abortion Catholicism as his high-speed train pummels us more firmly into debt.

Here’s a glimpse of the Biden Dream as envisioned by Aftermath Cartoons:

Diabolical delusions of grandeur which carry Cairo, Egypt, and Madison, Wisconsin into civil unrest that presage the anarchism of hell.

Al Pacino’s prophetically named character, John Milton, 17th Century author of Paradise Lost, eventually sees his own, infernal heaven on earth destroyed by his son’s suicide. His progeny’s complete rejection of Satan’s rule on earth.

Of course, such a finale would be too generously sentimental.

At the end?

There is Al Pacino’s bad boy smile assuring us that The Devil’s Advocate is only Act One.

All of America is now in the third act of a five act, Shakespearean saga easily the equal of Richard III, Macbeth, Titus Andronicus, and King Lear combined!

Where is the hero Henry V?!

Ironically posing as Falstaff or a Latter Day Bible’s David and Goliath of New Jersey.

Meanwhile, Al Pacino can smile within a certain, very Catholic state of grace.

Why?

No actor has followed the call of a very Jesuitical vocation in the theater more profoundly than Al Pacino.

He is film acting’s C.S. Lewis: fiction’s version of The Devil’s Boswell.

But these great Americans are generally not members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, and they don’t get to vote for who takes home the Oscar.  People like Sean Penn do.  And Tim Robbins.   And tranny vomit recipient Susan Sarandon.  

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These are the kind of folks who make up the majority of Oscar voters, so it’s no wonder that the Academy Awards show is so often a festival of nitwittery that leaves normal Americans scratching their heads wondering, “Um, what the hell was that?” 

Oscar has more than its share of astonishing failures, of crazy-uncle-locked-in-the-attic nods that the Academy sorely regretted about the time the after-party coke bowls ran dry.  The terrible Oscar choices listed here are only from the last few decades since the sting of choosing How Green Is My Valley over Citizen Kane and The Maltese Falcon has presumably faded since 1941– well, for some of us.  Oh, and you won’t find Marisa Tomei on this list – she rocks.  Deal with that, haters. 

So, in no particular order of insanity, here are Oscar’s 10 biggest recent screw-ups: ]

1. Crash: Best Picture 2006: Before Paul Haggis annoyed the Scientologists, he annoyed most of the rest of the world with Crash, a ponderous stew of liberal guilt and condescension that lucked into a Best Picture Oscar through a combination of pinko button pushing and the pure dumb luck of having an equally tiresome raft of competing nominees.  

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With fellow nominees Brokeback Mountain, Munich, Capote, and Good Night and Good Luck, Crash was up against sodomy, moral equivalence, more sodomy and George Clooney.  Apparently, the voters found Crash the lesser of five mediocrities. 

2. Shakespeare In Love: Best Picture 1999:  Well, I guess I’m just being petty.  I mean, Saving Private Ryan was merely a stirring, technically magnificent tribute to the unbelievable bravery of the heroes who stormed the beaches at Normandy and freed Europe from the grip of Nazi tyranny.  But Shakespeare In Love was about show business and it also displayed Gwyneth Paltrow’s epically unimpressive rack.  So I guess it was an easy choice for the Academy – they got to pick a flick about Actors and Acting while also dissing those dirty brutes who do Army stuff.  To pat themselves on their collective backs and diss the proles – how could they pass up that opportunity?  Well, they couldn’t, and they didn’t. 

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Now, there’s nothing really wrong with Shakespeare In Love.  It’s a perfectly serviceable film if you happen not to have testes, or merely hate all they stand for.  Sure, there are some guys out there who think a topless Gwyneth from 14 years ago is sexy, but movies need to appeal to more than just lonely shut-ins whose life partners are manufactured by the Kleenex Corporation.  This condescending, anti-American snob is to hot women what her husband’s band Coldplay is to cool music,and she needs to stick to her goop.com blog where she comments on the everyday problems that real moms face, like uppity butlers and “tiara hair.”  Enough said about her.  

In ambition and execution, Private Ryan – a film I have my problems with – was so manifestly superior artistically and technically that to overlook it could not simply be a mistake.  The electrifying initial landing scene is so unforgettable that it alone justified a Best Picture award regardless of what came after.  No, there had to be an agenda.  And that’s what makes this choice more than just risible – it was despicable. 

3. Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman: Best Actor 1993:  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  From his iconic roles in the 70’s like Michael Corleone to the bizarrely over-the-top but unforgettable Tony Montana in the 80’s, you could always count on Al to deliver.  But this?  It’s bad enough that it came to this; it’s worse that the Academy acted as an enabler to Pacino’s sad decline into tedious caricature. 

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Hooah?  I don’t think so. 

4. Roberto Begnini in Life Is Beautiful: Best Actor 1999:  This award was so manifestly undeserved that it made President Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize seem as underwhelming as a third place middle school science fair ribbon tossed at Albert Einstein.  Let me put this out there – Life Is Beautiful is perhaps the stupidest, most offensive major motion picture ever made.  When the Nazis came looking for Begnini, this holocaust comedy literally had people in the audience yelling, “Hey, he’s hiding in the alley!” 

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Someone told Roberto Begnini a terrible lie – that he was amusing.  In fact, he is the most annoying performer in the entire history of cinema, a history that includes Matt Damon and Channing Tatum.  What takes him to a whole new level of suck is that he thinks he’s hilarious, which he is – in the same way a giant herpetic lesion is hilarious.  

The “wacky” English-mangling acceptance speech he offered when presented with this award was brilliant…to those who hit the sauce in their limos beforehand.  For the rest of the audience, it was like a root canal sans anesthetic, but without the fun.  Fortunately, Begnini has faded into well-deserved obscurity and his movies are today largely forgotten, a tribute to the collective human mind’s ability to block out traumatic experiences. 

5. Alan Arkin in Little Miss Sunshine: Best Supporting Actor 2007:  “Let’s honor a trangressive indie comedy where the grandpa swears and drinks and does drugs – yeah, that’ll blow the collective minds of those squares out there in Jesusland!”  Such was no doubt the thought process that went into handing the little gold naked guy to veteran Alan Arkin for what was essentially playing the same curmudgeonly character he’d been essaying since the great Freebie and the Bean.  Now, that was an amusing, truly un-PC movie: 

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So rent Freebie and let Little Miss Sunshine fade into a vague, unpleasant memory. 

6. Diablo Cody for Juno: Best Original Screenplay 2008:  Once again, the Academy experienced the equivalent of a “double bagger,” where it wakes up in the morning, looks at what it brought home, and asks “What the hell was I thinking?” 

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Juno is not the most horrible movie of all time, despite the presence of the spirit-killing Michael Cera and Ellen Page and a soundtrack full of crappy, waify hipster alt-folk songs that are so twee they make Justin Beiber seem like Megadeth.  It’s just that Juno is embarrassingly pretentious, with the precocious heroine’s vocabulary packed with painfully cutesy words like “shenanigans.”  And when Rainn Wilson’s character calls her “home skillet,” well, you just want to slap him. 

This is the problem with a novelty act movie – the Academy is amused for a few minutes, votes it an Oscar, then spends the rest of eternity shaking its collective head after figuratively sobering up.  

7. An Inconvenient Truth: Best Documentary 2007:  It’s hard to believe that it was only four years ago that people actually believed in global warming.  But it’s not hard at all to believe that among the biggest suckers were the pampered quarter-wits who do most of the Academy Award voting.  Al Gore’s ridiculous exercise in propaganda, delivered with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, was a natural choice for the Oscar voters, but they were probably pretty disappointed they couldn’t also vote for the nominated documentary that dissed Christians or the other one that trashed America over Iraq.  Whoever said that Hollywood doesn’t embrace a diversity of thought?  

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In any case, An Inconvenient Truth is destined to be the Reefer Madness of 2007, with stoned UC Berkeley students from the Class of 2032 laying around their dorms laughing at how stupid people were back in the mid-aughts.  Well, some people. 

8. The English Patient: Best Picture 1997:  Perhaps the Academy wanted some balance after properly awarding the magnificent Schindler’s List Best Picture in 1994, which is the only possible explanation for why this over-praised, under-interesting celluloid atrocity could have won.  After all, this is the film that seriously posits that collaborating with the Nazis is perfectly cool if it will help you score with a mediocre chick who happens to be married to some other dude.  

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Sure, we can’t expect the film’s mere utter moral bankruptcy to dissuade the Academy voters – these are the folks who think Roman Polanski is the real victim.  But couldn’t they at least notice that this soapy melodrama is about the most boring way to spend nearly three hours outside of a Meet the Press marathon?  

9. Kate Winslet in The Reader: Best Actress 2009:  What the hell is it with Hollywood and Nazi sympathizers?  Well, admittedly Kate Winslet’s character had more going for her than just cavorting with brownshirts – she was illiterate and liked to do underage boys.  In Hollywood, that’s like an acting trifeca, and Kate went the full fascist-illiterate-pedo. 

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Oh, the performance itself?  Um, I have a question:  How did Kate Winslet get tagged as some sort of great thespian revelation?  In every movie she is in, she always seems to bear the same furrowed-brow, vaguely troubled expression, as if she was suffering from mild indigestion.  It must be something else – perhaps her willingness to doff her clothes and display her chubby charms in pretty much everything she’s been in.  Whatever.  

10. 3-6 Mafia’s “Hard Out here For A Pimp”: Best Song 2006:  Perhaps the most hilarious pick of all time, the Academy’s choice of the year’s Best Song from the rap/hooker extravaganza Hustle & Flow was just awesome.  For once, the saccharine Disney ditties and the generic pop hits were thrust aside in favor of a gritty urban tune that finally dared to musically explore the difficulties that industrious entrepreneurs face in their daily lives.  Yeah, nothing like a song we can all relate to. 

Most amazing were the hip hop stylings of those past and future unknowns, 3-6 Mafia, cavorting on stage while a bunch of dancers dressed like Hollywood’s idea of “hos” gyrated and frolicked before the bejeweled and bewildered audience: 

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Simply spectacular.  Yeah, it sure is hard out here for a pimp who’s trying to get his money for the rent.  Who can’t identify with that?  Especially in Hollywood.  

And this year, Oscar, don’t forget to keep your pimp hand strong!

Why it’s a left-wing film

Once again, like “A Civil Action,” we’re presented with a left-wing film using the cover of a true story to further an overall message. And once again I’m not going waste time and energy digging into the weeds of arguing for or against the facts of this particular “true story.” So let’s stipulate the story is true and get to the bigger issue: The True Stories Left-Wing Hollywood Chooses to Tell. But first, my own biases up front…

Believe it or not, I don’t hate Hollywood. People think I do and I take complete ownership of that misconception but my feelings towards today’s movie industry are something more along the lines of the parent of a bad seed. I love Hollywood, wish it would do better (both morally and creatively), forever hope it will, and for my troubles am constantly getting my heart broken. Also, to their credit, on the field of political battle, Hollywood is at least something of an honest broker. Like Keith Olbermann, Bill Maher, and the Huffington Post, leftists in Hollywood make little to no attempt to disguise their agenda. Yes, it’s unfortunate that too often they stand against good, but they’re also fairly upfront in presenting themselves as who and what they really are. On the other hand, there’s the left-wing media…

As far as the Washington Post, New York Times, Politico, Jon Stewart, the broadcast networks, the wires, and sites like Mediaite, etc…  Well, let me put it this way, the only way I’d piss on any of them is if they weren’t on fire. Yes, on a human level there are no doubt some genuinely nice people who work within these completely corrupted institutions, but as a whole they are committed leftists willfully lying and manipulating the truth to further an agenda and most unforgivably, doing so under the guise of sanctimonious elites who puff themselves up as pillars of objectivity.

There just isn’t a corner of Hell hot enough to stack the legacy of the whole bunch.  

On the other hand, there’s a redeeming quality in the person of an Oliver Stone and those like him who say “I’m a Leftist and this is what I believe.” By contrast, there’s absolutely nothing redeeming about Jon Stewart and Katie Couric and those who say, “I will tell you what the truth is.”  Would I press the red button that would make them all disappear forever? No. But I would stroke it as though it were a cat and I were the head of S.P.E.C.T.R.E.

Where was I?

The hero of “The Insider” is real-life, left-wing journalist Lowell Bergman (portrayed by Al Pacino and his rooster hair) and he is presented to us in the way Hollywood always presents left-wing journalists, as a crusading truth-teller who oozes integrity, is incapable of lying, and who only runs into trouble when he stands too firm upon noble principles. Maybe that’s true about Bergman and maybe that is exactly the case surrounding “The Insider’s”  story of a whistleblower tobacco executive and the reluctance of CBS to air his story on “60 Minutes” for fear of how the threat of a multi-billion dollar lawsuit could upset the impending sale of the network to Westinghouse. I don’t know and more importantly, I don’t care.

What I do know is that the only time Hollywood criticizes the news media is when they’re not liberal enough, when they’re not anti-American, anti-conservative, anti-capitalist, anti-business, and anti-war enough. Which, of course, is the least of the media’s problems, much less “60 Minutes’.”

Where’s the film on RatherGate? Talk about a rise and fall story. Where’s the film on the fallout from Walter Cronkite’s decision to abuse his position and turn against the Vietnam War? Better still, where’s the film laying out how the Tet Offensive was completely mischaracterized by the entire media which ultimately resulted in the massacre of a few million innocents in Southeast Asia ?

Good grief, Walter Duranty anyone? How about the fall of ACORN?

There are so many scandals involving the American media’s malicious liberal bias and sins of omission that contain all the human drama and history you could ask for in a great film, and yet all we get from Hollywood are cherry-picked representations like “Good Night and Good Luck,” and “All the President’s Men” that venerate liberal journalist chasing conservative politicians or “Shattered Glass” that are meant to show us just how ethical and trustworthy a liberal institution like the Nation is or “The Insider” that laughably tries to tell us journalism isn’t liberal enough.

Michael Mann’s film hits every left-wing sweet spot there is: Big Evil Tobacco, corporate evildoers threatening a brave whistleblower and his family, the left’s latest straw man about corporate influence on the same media that’s currently more biased in favor of the left than ever before, and the bottomless integrity of those old-time, left-wing muckrakers.

Context is the left’s Kryptonite, which is why “The insider” (and Hollywood) views and delivers the story of the American media through a soda straw.

Finally, watching the same Leftists who are in favor of schools handing out condoms, free needle exchanges, sex education for grade schoolers, legalized marijuana, abortion on demand (without parental consent), and euthanasia rail against cigarettes is always good for a laugh.

Why it’s a great film

One of the failures of the absolute junk Hollywood’s creating in an effort to undermine the War on Terror, artistically embarrassing stuff like “In the Valley of Elah,” “Rendition,” “Lions for Lambs,” “A Mighty Heart,” and the dozen or so others that brightened al Qaeda’s day, is that rather than focus on a universal theme everyone can relate to, they instead focus on the agenda. The result of this will always be the same, a laughably bad, spell-breaking heavy-handedness that manages to drive away even those moviegoers sympathetic to the message. Never forget that there were more than enough Bush-haters in America to make every one of those flops a major hit.

Michael Mann, however, is way too gifted of a filmmaker to ever fall into that trap and so the story he tells is one that focuses primarily on the timeless theme of finding the courage to tell the truth when the cost is so personally high no one could blame you for not doing so. Bergman (Pacino) has one of the greatest jobs in his chosen profession to lose. His whistleblower, former tobacco executive Jeffrey Wigand (Russell Crowe), has a nice severance, a home, a family in need of medical benefits, and the perfect Get Out Of Telling The Truth Card known as a non-disclosure agreement.

Neither man will profit from telling the truth. In fact, both have everything to lose, especially Wigand who believes his life and family are in real danger. And yet, in the end, both men selflessly and admirably do the right thing. On the flip side, though, there’s Mike Wallace (Christopher Plummer) and Don Hewitt (Philip Baker Hall), two giants of the news business who, for lack of a better term, sell their souls for their own selfish reasons.

“The Insider” isn’t a political tale, it’s a morality tale. And a damn good one.

Well shot, well scripted, beautifully acted, and perfectly structured, “The Insider” not only takes you inside the fascinating world of high-stakes television journalism for a thorough tour of all the sausage-making, it also wraps its agenda in the simple idea of a complicated moral dilemma and shows us how the story’s characters react to it.

As someone who freakin’ hates the MSM and who sees the left’s war on smoking as just another assault against personal liberty, Michael Mann still manages to manipulate me to his side. And because I really do love Hollywood, I admire that when I should probably resent it.

What’s not on the list:

Fort Apache the Bronx (1981) — Good film but not terribly partisan.

There Will Be Blood (2007) — Good performances, beautifully filmed, and a first and second act that mesmerize. The third act, unfortunately, falters. Too dark, too unrelentingly ugly, too self-conscious in its symbolism, and ultimately this all ends up being surprisingly boring.  In the end we have no protagonist, no one to root for. And once we stop caring about the characters we’re watching, there’s really no story left to tell. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t sit through two hours in the hopes of a final confrontation between big business and organized religion.

Heat (1995) is more than just a heist film – it’s an epic, a shambling three-hour monster of a movie that soars and frustrates, leaves your jaw hanging in awe and you scratching your head wondering what the hell is going on.  The star power it unleashes is literally unparalleled, the direction by Michal Mann is superb, the music is incredible (go buy the soundtrack now), and the cinematography creates a vision of Los Angeles that is more real than the reality.

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I will not insult your manhood by recapping the plot.  Actually, it’s so dense and convoluted it would take forever anyway.  Plus, there are the tangents that I still don’t fully get – what the hell is that whole Natalie Portman subplot doing in there anyway?  And some parts you just have to see for yourself – think Waingro’s plot line.  Bottom line: if you have never seen Heat, go buy it immediately.  Until you do, if you are biologically male, you are not entitled to stand while urinating.

For many of us, Heat has a personal connection that comes from both its time and place.  I saw Heat in Houston the day it came out (December 15, 1995), having been waiting for it for months thanks to the remarkable trailer.  I was there for a buddy’s wedding the next day; at that wedding, I would meet my hot wife for the first time.  About a month after, the giant law firm I was then slaving away for moved into the 444 South Flower building.  You probably know it best as the bank De Niro’s crew robs.  Before I quit (I had more business than many of the partners but they offered me the same crappy $500 bonus they gave to the guy caught sleeping under his desk, so I counter-offered that I’d keep everything), I must have walked past the spot where Val Kilmer first opens up with his CAR-15 a hundred times thinking, “Dude, I know where you’re coming from.”

But even if the movie might not be wrapped around your life as it is mine, it’s likely to have hit you at some deeper level.  Heat is a man’s film in a very true way – it’s about loyalty, honor, and commitment.  It brooks no compromise – the men in it must do what they must do regardless of the cost and regardless of their personal feelings.  Al Pacino’s Vincent Hanna gives up his potential for a normal life because Robert De Niro’s Neil McCauley must be stopped.  And De Niro’s McCauley gives up his chance too because he owes it to his dead buddies to see that Waingro pays for his betrayal.

These are men who live this code.  They don’t whine.  They don’t talk about their feelings.  They don’t make excuses.  They are everything our liberal culture despises – real men, even if not necessarily good men.  And they sure as hell don’t buy into that “COEXIST”/“Violence Never Solves Anything” crap.

These men walk to their fates heads held high, knowing their ends are the results of their choices and accepting the responsibility for the consequences.  I’d take a Neil McCauley over a Harry Reid and his liberal ilk in a heartbeat – they both pillage money from decent folks, but at least McCauley doesn’t wrap it in sanctimony and pretend he’s something else.

The film’s classic set piece – one of many classic set pieces – is the high intensity bank heist and shoot-out scene on downtown Los Angeles’s Fifth Street.  Let me throw this out there: it’s the best gunfight in the history of the cinema.

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Watch Val Kilmer in particular.  Now, director Michael Mann had former SAS operators train the cast on weapons and tactics, and Kilmer really took to it.  Check him out as he pivots, fires a short(ish), controlled burst, then pivots again and engages a new target.  When he runs out of ammo, watch him drop the empty mag, slap in a new one, and re-engage in about a second.  That’s some nice suppressive fire there, Tex.

And listen to the sound effects – Mann understood the effect of the shock of the noise from the gunfire (especially in an enclosed space surrounded by skyscrapers) and cranked up the volume.  You feel every burst of fire.

Interestingly, Heat is a remake of Mann’s 1989 TV movie L.A. Takedown, a nearly forgotten flick made on about a thousandth of the budget.  Most of the key elements are there, including much less awesome versions of the bank shootout and the famous Pacino/De Niro coffee scene (the Heat scene was filmed at Kate Mantalini in Hollywood – you can sit at the same table).

The cast is remarkable not just because of the big stars but the ones filling in the supporting roles.  William Fichter is great as a scumbag businessman.  Henry Rollins, taking a break from bad slam poetry and punk rock, is a terrific petty criminal.  Danny Trejo is in the house too – he has a great death scene.

One guy who stands out is Big Hollywood’s own Jon Voight as Nate, the crew’s sickly fixer and voice of reason.  I saw him and, frankly, thought Voight was about to die.  I mean, he looks like he’s at death’s door – which is a tribute to Voight’s power as an actor.  You see him in Heat and come out thinking he needs either an Oscar or an IV or maybe both.

Hell, Jeremy Piven is in it for about a minute as a squirrely doctor and even he’s great.  Yeah, that Piven!

And the dialogue is alternately funny, harsh, and (again) true.  Michael Mann’s words take the cast’s work to the next level, elevating it into the iconosphere.  You could go an entire day speaking in nothing but cool lines from the movie.

Finally, there is the music.  Much of it is electronic, giving the film a kind of tech noir vibe that works perfectly.  Of special note is the Moby(!) cover of Joy Division’s ominous New Dawn Fades that plays while Hanna roars down the I-105 freeway after Cauley.  And a Moby original, the soaring God Moving Over the Face of the Waters, plays over the climax and the credits.  Who would have thunk it – a pinko, vegan twerp like Moby making some of the most amazing music ever on screen in a flick like Heat?

Now, if you’ve read this far and have not gone to get your Heat DVD, or went out to buy a DVD, or borrowed a DVD from someone much cooler than you, I’m not sure I can help you.  Heat is one of the rare movies that is truly essential – a movie that tells basic truths that many people don’t want to acknowledge and that strikes a common chord in its fans so that it has become a part of the American male canon.

To paraphrase De Niro’s Neil, you must have nothing in your life that will prevent you from seeing Heat in 30 seconds flat.

Mind you, they’re still charismatic and entertaining to watch, but in an almost clownish way. We now go to see them not to be wowed by their acting, but to be entertained by their chewing the scenery and hamming it up. Whereas in the past they lost themselves in a part, now their well-known, theatrically overblown personalities overwhelm everything else on screen.

Who are the worst offenders? My own Top 5 list was compiled with two ground rules: each candidate had to be alive (so James Dean and Marlon Brando each get a reprieve), and they have to have won at least one Academy Award for acting (which spares modern, less-laurelled hams such as Robert Downey Jr., Johnny Depp, Woody Allen, Jeff Goldblum and Mel Gibson.) Again, the following actors are not necessarily unpleasant to watch — raw charisma goes a long way — but they have become predictably one-note parodies of themselves.

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5. Tie: Christopher Walken/Robert De Niro

Best Supporting Actor: The Deer Hunter (1979 — Walken), The Godfather, Part II (1974 — De Niro)

Best Actor: Raging Bull (1981 — De Niro)

Insufferable Affectations: unblinking eyes (i.e., The Innsmouth Look), mouth hanging agape and licking lips like a parched salamander, creepy monotone dialogue delivery (Walken); incessant squinting, head cocking, aimless glancing around between lines (De Niro).

When every comedian is doing impressions of you and when Saturday Night Live builds entire skits out of mocking your instantly recognizable mannerisms and vocal intonations, you’ve perhaps become a bit too ossified in your acting range and delivery.

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4. Philip Seymour Hoffman

Best Actor: Capote (2005)

Insufferable Affectations: eternally constipated facial smile/grimace, slothful dialogue delivery, labored mouth-breathing.

Easily my least-favorite actor of the modern age, a sort of monstrous antithesis of everything that once made Hollywood classy, glamorous, and great. Whether mouth-kissing Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights (1997), rutting naked with poor Marisa Tomei in Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead (2007), or channeling stomach-churning depression and illness in the incomprehensible and excruciatingly pretentious Synecdoche, New York (2008), he always seems to be hammering us in the solar plexus with premeditated attempts at disgust, ennui, and despair, levied against us for our own good in the name of Art. His winning an Oscar for Capote seemed a fitting capstone to arguably the single worst-ever year for the Academy Awards.

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3. Jack Nicholson

Best Actor: As Good As It Gets (1997), One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1976)

Best Supporting Actor: Terms of Endearment (1984)

Insufferable Affectations: Cheshire cat crap-eating grin, arched eyebrows, overblown temper tantrums.

When a young Christian Slater effortlessly channels you in a movie like Heathers, you know the shtick is worn out. And that was way back in 1989. Like most hams, his later career has been a steady stream of mostly forgettable movies, with few coming close to the fine pictures of his early days.

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2. Al Pacino

Best Actor: Scent of a Woman (1992)

Insufferable Affectations: flamboyant yelling, whiskey-soaked drawl, throwing arms and hands wide open when making points in ego-driven monologues.

I still remember the promo trailer in the theater for Carlito’s Way, where the studio started with a greatest-actor-of-all-time type audio medley of Pacino’s past performances. “Aaaaaaaaticaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaticaaaaa! . . . .I’d take a flaaaaaaaamethrower to this plaaaaace!” et cetera. What happened to the actor who made Michael Corleone such a measured, quiet, emotionally believable person in the first two Godfathers?

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1. Meryl Streep

Best Actress: Kramer vs. Kramer (1980), Sophie’s Choice (1983)

Insufferable Affectations: ostentatious accents, reading every line as I-M-P-O-R-T-A-N-T.

There isn’t a more soullessly mannered and technique-driven actor working today. Every syllable, every movement is so calculated and consciously performed and projected that it feels more like an impression of the character than the character itself. Far from losing herself in a role, she always glows as bright as possible, ever shooting for that next acting accolade. I can’t think of a single movie where her presence seems calibrated to the story, where she’s an organic part of the movie’s tapestry. Like a diva on stage or a star basketball player hogging the ball, she always demands the spotlight. As a result, she has many individual awards but few if any enduring and beloved classics to her name.

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The following movies, each containing not one but two Top 5 hams in them, should be packaged in DVD cases made out of rye bread:

Doubt (2008 — Streep and Hoffman), Angels in America (2003 — Streep and Pacino), Ironweed (1987 — Streep and Nicholson), Heartburn (1986 — Streep and Nicholson), Heat (1995 — Pacino and De Niro), The Godfather Part II (1974 — Pacino and De Niro, mitigated by the fact that they don’t appear together on screen and both are still in their pre-ham prime), Righteous Kill (2008 — Pacino and De Niro), Scent of a Woman (1992 — Pacino and Hoffman), Gigli (2003 — Pacino and Walken).

And there’s one movie sporting the unholy intersection of an astonishing three members from this list, which must make it the cataclysmic thermonuclear ham movie of all time: The Deer Hunter (Streep, De Niro, Walken).