Deathlog 2019: Part 2

 

© BBC

 

Continuing my tribute to folk who inspired me who passed away in 2019…

 

July 2019 was a harsh month as it witnessed the deaths of two of my favourite actors.  The English character actor Freddie Jones, a man who over six decades managed to be a member of David Lynch’s repertory company, a Hammer horror regular, a collaborator with Federico Fellini and Clint Eastwood, a star of bucolic TV soap operas and much more, died on July 9th.  Ten days later saw the passing of the great Dutch star Rutger Hauer, who always managed to have a discomforting, Nietzschean-superman glint in his eyes whether he was appearing in a stone cold classic like Blade Runner (1982) or The Hitcher (1986), or in some hoary old exploitation rubbish, or in his advertisements for Guinness stout.

 

Other notable actors who died in July included, on the 9th, the American performer Rip Torn, whom I’ll always remember as demented coach Patches O’Houlihan in 2004’s Dodgeball, training Vince Vaughan and his team in the titular sport by hurling monkey-wrenches at their crotches; on the 18th, the American actor David Hedison, whose CV included the original The Fly (1958), the TV show Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea (1964-68) and the James Bond movies Live and Let Die (1974) and Licence to Kill (1989), in which he became the first-ever actor to play Bond’s CIA buddy Felix Leiter twice; and English actor Jeremy Kemp, who appeared in everything from the early seasons of the seminal BBC TV police series Z Cars (1962-78) to war movies like Operation Crossbow (1965), The Blue Max (1966) and A Bridge Too Far (1977) and to the exuberant Zucker, Abrahams and Zucker comedy Top Secret! (1984).

 

© 20th Century Fox

 

August 5th saw the passing of American novelist Toni Morrison, author of Beloved (1987) and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1993.  August 16th brought a triple whammy – the deaths of American actor Peter Fonda who, through his work with director Roger Corman and his appearance in Easy Rider (1969) became a 1960s countercultural icon, before he settled down to become a more conventional action-movie hero in the likes of Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry (1974) and Race with the Devil (1975); of British-Canadian animator Richard Williams, whose work included Who Framed Roger Rabbit? (1988) and the legendary but never-finished epic The Thief and the Cobbler (1993), as well as animated sequences for The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968) and the Pink Panther movies; and of English actress Anna Quayle, memorably rotten as Baroness Bomburst in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968).

 

American bass guitarist Larry Taylor, who played with the blues-rock band Canned Heat, died on August 19th; English TV scriptwriter and immensely influential (though unsung) children’s-books author Terrance Dicks died on the 29th; and American TV actress Valerie Harper, Mary Tyler Moore’s co-star in The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1970-77) and star of its spin-off Rhoda (1974-78), died on the 30th.

 

English playwright Peter Nichols, whose most famous works were probably A Day in the Death of Joe Egg (1967) and Privates on Parade (1977) – both of which got capable film versions, Joe Egg directed by Peter Medak in 1972 and Privates directed by Michael Blakemore in 1982 – died on September 7th.  The next day saw the death of English starlet Valerie Van Ost, whose presence enlivened several Carry On movies and who provided Christopher Lee’s aristocratic vampire with his first victim in 1973’s The Satanic Rites of Dracula.  She was also considered as a replacement for Diana Rigg in the stylish TV show The Avengers (1961-69) before Linda Thorsen got the gig.  Rik Ocasek, singer, songwriter and guitarist with new-wave American rock band the Cars, died on September 15th while Larry Wallis, an early member of thunderous heavy metal band Mötorhead, died four days later.

 

© Goodrights / Lionsgate Films

 

Finally, checking out on September 21st was American actor Sid Haig, whose early career involved many collaborations with director Jack Hill in such cherish-able exploitation fare as Spider Baby (1968), Coffey (1973) and Foxy Brown (1974) and also more mainstream items like John Boorman’s Point Blank (1967), George Lucas’s THX 1138 (1971) and the Bond movie Diamonds are Forever (1971).  Tired of being typecast as a heavy, Haig was ready to give up acting in the 1990s and considered becoming a hypnotherapist.  Cinema’s loss and hypnotherapy’s gain were thwarted by Quentin Tarantino, who lured Haig back to the screen for a role in 1997’s Jackie Brown. Thereafter, Haig kept acting, most notably as the droll, clown-faced Captain Spaulding in the Rob Zombie-directed trilogy of House of 1000 Corpses (2003), The Devil’s Rejects (2005) and 3 From Hell (2019).

 

The first week of October saw two notable departures in the musical world – Kim Shattuck, singer, guitarist and songwriter with American punk band the Muffs, died on the 2nd; and English drummer Ginger Baker, who most famously thumped the skins for the late-1960s power trio Cream but also played with Blind Faith, Fela Kuti, Hawkwind and Public Image Ltd, died four days later.  For a fascinating and at times disturbing profile of Ginger Baker, I’d recommend the 2012 documentary Beware of Mr Baker, which among other things features filmmaker Jay Bulger getting assaulted and having his nose broken by his mega-truculent subject matter.  Between those two deaths, on October 4th, English actor Stephen Moore passed away.  Moore’s voice is surely better known than his face, for he supplied the lugubrious, self-pitying tones of Marvin the Paranoid Android in the 1981 TV adaptation of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

 

From pinterest.com

 

Northern Irish poet and novelist Ciaran Carson died on October 6th, while Russian cosmonaut Alexi Leonov, the first human being to carry out a spacewalk, departed this world for good on October 11th.  Leonov was an artist as well as a cosmonaut and he once cheekily pointed out to sci-fi author Arthur C. Clarke that a painting he’d done in 1967, showing the sun, earth and moon, bore an uncanny resemblance to an iconic scene in the following year’s movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, which Clarke had co-written with Stanley Kubrick.  On the day that Leonov died, so too did American actor Robert Forster.  Like Sid Haig, Forster had been a prolific actor during in the 1970s and 1980s but his career had somewhat entered the doldrums until Quentin Tarantino gave him a role in Jackie Brown.  More recently, Forster appeared in David Lynch’s Twin Peaks: The Return (2017), meaning he’s yet another member of the Twin Peaks alumni whom we’ve had to say goodbye to in the past few years.  Finally, Scottish journalist Deborah Orr died on October 19th and American film producer Robert Evans, who enjoyed a roll in the late 1960s and early 1970s with such classics as Rosemary’s Baby (1968), The Godfather (1972) and Chinatown (1974), died on October 26th.

 

Aged a venerable 103, the formidable French resistance fighter Yvette Lundy passed away on November 3rd.  The next day saw the death of Irish broadcaster Gay Byrne who, whether you loved him or hated him – I seem to remember describing him on this blog as a ‘twinkly-eyed shit-stirrer’ – was surely the most influential figure in Irish TV history and, through that, a major influence on the Irish psyche generally since the 1960s.  The frontman with a favourite 1980s folk-rock band of mine, John Mann of the Canadian outfit Spirit of the West, died on November 20th.   Check out Spirit of the West’s Hounds That Wait Outside Your Door for a more damning account of the Maggie Thatcher era than any British folk band managed to offer at the time.  And the American illustrator Gahan Wilson, creator of countless delightfully ghoulish cartoons, died a day later.

 

The brainy Australian (but British-based) polymath Clive James – a broadcaster, critic, novelist, poet and memoirist – died on the 24th.  James’s death wasn’t announced until three days later, which coincided with the death of Jonathan Miller, a brainy English polymath – a medical doctor, humourist, writer, TV presenter and director of film, stage and opera.  The simultaneous news of James’s and Miller’s deaths prompted many British people to quip on social media that the country’s collective IQ level had just dropped by a few dozen points.  And guess what?  Three weeks later, Boris Johnson got re-elected as British prime minister.

 

© United Artists

 

This blog-entry has already mentioned Peter Fonda, Rutger Hauer and Sid Haig.  On November 20th died an American actor who’d performed memorably with all three of them.  Michael J. Pollard appeared with Fonda in the Roger Corman-directed Hell’s Angels epic The Wild Angels (1966), with Hauer in Tony Maylam’s barking-mad monster movie Split Second (1992) and with Haig in the bloody but funny prologue to Rob Zombie’s House of 1000 Corpses.   However, Pollard will be most remembered for playing C.W. Moss, the spaced-out gas-stand attendant who ends up joining the gang of the titular bank robbers in 1967’s Bonnie and Clyde.  I prefer him, though, in a movie he made two years later, Hannibal Brooks.  In that, Pollard and Oliver Reed play a pair of escaped prisoners of war in Nazi Germany / Austria who intend to do very different things with their freedom – the psychotic Pollard wants to kill as many Germans as possible, while the peace-loving Reed just wants to lead an elephant he’s befriended in the bombed Munich Zoo to safety.  With Pollard looking baby-faced and innocent and Reed being, well, Reed, it’s a surprise their roles weren’t reversed.

 

The final month of 2019 was another bad one for the acting profession.  The American character actors René Auberjonois – who among many notable performances played Father Mulcahy in the original, Robert Altman-directed M*A*S*H* (1970) – and Daniel Aiello died on the 8th and 12th respectively.  The Danish-French actress Anna Karina, frequently considered a ‘muse’ for Jean-Luc Goddard, died on the 14th.  English actor Nicky Henson died on the 15th.  Though the self-deprecating Henson liked to joke that the only information on his tombstone would be that he once appeared in an episode of John Cleese’s sitcom Fawlty Towers (1975-1979), I liked him for his performances in two British folk-horror movies, the gruelling Witchfinder General (1968) and the lovably laughable Psychomania (1971).  Claudia Augur, who played Domino in the 1965 James Bond movie Thunderball and was one of at least three Bond girls to pass away in 2019, died on the 18th.  And Sue Lyon, who played the pubescent moppet Dolores Haze, subject of the pervy lusts of Humbert Humbert (James Mason) and Clare Quilty (Peter Sellers), in the 1962 Stanley Kubrick-directed adaptation of Vladimir Nabokov’s novel Lolita, died on the 26th.

 

© Fontana

 

In other fields, Barrie Keeffe, scriptwriter of Britain’s best-ever gangster movie The Long Good Friday (1980), departed on December 10th; Roy Loney, co-founder of Californian garage-rock band the Flamin’ Groovies – the Groovies’ Slow Death is a particularly epic song to shake a leg to – died on the 13th; and American-born Anglo-Scots artist and illustrator Tom Adams died on the 17th.  The covers that Adams created during the 1960s and 1970s for a string of Agatha Christie novels, published in paperback by Fontana, are now considered iconic.  And December 29th saw the demise of Neil Innes, the doyen of British comic singer-songwriters, the deviser with Eric Idle of spoof-Beatles band the Rutles, and the unofficial ‘seventh’ member of the Monty Python team.  “I’ve suffered for my music,” Innes once told an audience.  “Now it’s your turn.”

 

Finally, the beginning and end of December brought sad news for the literary scenes of two countries I’ve had long associations with, Sri Lanka and Scotland.  On December 2nd, Sri Lankan novelist, poet and journalist Carl Muller passed away.  Muller’s engrossing and bawdy novel The Jam Fruit Tree was joint winner of Sri Lanka’s first-ever Gratiaen Literary Prize (founded by Michael Ondaatje) in 1993 and he was the first of his countrymen and countrywomen to have books published overseas.  And December 29th saw the death of Glaswegian author – and artist, playwright, poet, polemicist and academic – Alasdair Gray.  He was an important influence on me and I’ll be writing more about him on this blog soon.

 

From pinterest.com

 

Time and tide wait for no man and no replicant

 

© Warner Bros / The Ladd Company / Shaw Brothers

 

July 2019 has been a cursed month for my favourite actors.  On this blog I occasionally post instalments in a series with the self-explanatory title Cinematic Heroes and in the past few weeks two people whom I’ve featured in the series have gone to meet their maker.  On July 9th veteran English actor Freddie Jones (Cinematic Heroes 12) passed away.  And it was recently announced that on July 19th the great Dutch actor Rutger Hauer (Cinematic Heroes 6) died after a short illness.

 

Shit.  I’m almost afraid to write any more Cinematic Heroes posts about living actors, in case I jinx them and they die too.  Maybe I should just stick to writing about actors who are already dead.

 

Freddie Jones was a marvellously eccentric and sonorous actor who seemed to exist on several different planes of cinematic reality at once.  He was simultaneously a regular in David Lynch movies (1980’s The Elephant Man, 1984’s Dune, 1989’s Wild at Heart); a star of Hammer horror films (1969’s Frankenstein must be Destroyed, 1973’s The Satanic Rites of Dracula); a fixture of kids’ teatime TV programmes in the 1970s (1976-78’s The Ghosts of Motley Hall, 1976’s Children of the Stones); and a familiar face in dumb Hollywood blockbusters with one-word titles in the 1980s (1982’s Firefox, 1983’s Krull, 1984’s Firestarter).

 

He also showed up in a trio of great but overlooked British movies that are close to my heart: Basil Deardon’s The Man Who Haunted Himself (1970), in which he’s a hoot as the wonky Scottish psychiatrist giving advice to a troubled Roger Moore; Douglas Hickox’s Sitting Target (1972), in which he, Oliver Reed and Ian McShane are three convicts staging a memorably nail-biting prison breakout; and Richard Lester’s Juggernaut (1974), in which he’s a retired bomb disposal expert suspected by Anthony Hopkins of planting six explosive devices on board a luxury liner.  (Figuring out if the mad bomber really is Freddie Jones is not the most difficult conundrum in cinematic history.)

 

He was also, latterly, a soap opera star, which meant when news came of his passing, social media was gummed up with soap-opera fans lamenting that the lovely old guy who’d played Sandy Thomas in Emmerdale from 2005 to 2018 was no more – which did scant justice to Jones’s tremendous acting CV.  Still, I like the fact that he was in Emmerdale because it kept him on our screens until last year, by which time he was in his nineties.

 

We can also draw comfort from the fact that Freddie Jones’s son Toby, who’s every bit as versatile and quirky as his old man, is nowadays ubiquitous in films and television.  This means that the Jones character-acting DNA should continue to entertain us well into the 21st century.  Indeed, my dream movie would be a remake of Juggernaut with Toby Jones in it, along with Jared Harris and Rory Kinnear, whose dads Richard and Roy starred alongside Freddie in the original.

 

© Brooksfilms / Paramount Pictures

 

Freddie Jones was 91 when he died, so his passing wasn’t a huge surprise.  However, Rutger Hauer’s death definitely was a surprise.  He was 75 and so had passed the allotted three-score-and-ten.  But as he’d specialised in playing Nietzschean supermen, such as in Blade Runner (1982) and The Hitcher (1986), it was easy to assume he wouldn’t die.

 

Mind you, at 75, Hauer’s lifespan was almost 19 times longer than that of Roy Batty, the artificially-created humanoid ‘replicant’ he played in Blade Runner, who was programmed to expire after four years.  And by a spooky coincidence, Hauer has died in 2019 – the year in which the events of Blade Runner, including Batty’s death, took place.

 

Conventional wisdom has it that Hauer reached iconic status in Hollywood in the early-to-mid-1980s with Blade Runner and The Hitcher but thereafter suffered a decline as he made increasing numbers of straight-to-video exploitation movies.  But even if you buy into this theory, you can’t deny that Hauer appeared in a large number of truly enjoyable films.  Although some of the later ones are in the so-bad-they’re-good category and / or are mainly enjoyable because he’s in them.

 

On one side of the quality divide, there’s Nicolas Roeg’s Eureka (1983), Richard Donner’s elegiac and criminally underrated Ladyhawke (1985) and Paul Verhoeven’s delicious medieval gore-and-tits epic Flesh + Blood (1985).  He also turned up in Sam Peckinpah’s final movie The Osterman Weekend (1983) which, while a mishmash of themes and styles, is still a blast because it features Peckinpah’s much-loved scenes of slo-mo carnage, and Rutger Hauer, and John Hurt, and Dennis Hopper.

 

Among the later entries in Hauer’s filmography, I defy anyone to say a seriously bad word against Philip Noyce’s Blind Fury (1989), which has Hauer as a blind Vietnam veteran who’s still capable of slicing flying apples in half with his samurai sword.  Or Lewis Teague’s Wedlock (1991), which has Hauer escaping from a futuristic prison with an explosive collar around his neck and grappling with the splendidly villainous Joan Chen and Stephen Tobolowsky (who as the prison governor gets to utter the movie’s best line: “You nonconformists are all alike!”).

 

Or Tony Maylam’s barking-mad Split Second (1992), which has Hauer investigating a serial-killing alien predator in a globally warmed London alongside Alun Armstrong, Pete Postlethwaite, Ian Dury, Michael J. Pollard and – ahem – Kim Cattrall.  Or Ernest Dickerson’s Surviving the Game (1994), which has Hauer as a late-era capitalism scumbag who organises adventure holidays in the mountains for rich bastards who get to hunt homeless people, and which has another sublime cast including Ice-T, Charles Dutton, F. Murray Abraham and Gary Busey.

 

And let’s not forget Jason Eisner’s fascinatingly terrible / brilliant Hobo with a Shotgun (2011).  Here, Hauer is a kindly but tough old vagrant who arrives in a city wanting to buy a second-hand lawnmower and start a grass-cutting business, but ends up, amid welters of extreme violence, taking on the family of murderous psychotic gangsters who run and terrorise the place.  Well, if you get between Rutger Hauer and his dreams of a lawnmower, you deserve to die.

 

One other reason I have for loving Hauer is that in the early 1990s he was the face of the advertising campaign for my favourite alcoholic brew, Guinness.   (Dressed in black, and sporting a shock of fair hair, Hauer did subliminally resemble a pint of Guinness.)  Unfortunately, Guinness is well-nigh impossible to obtain in Sri Lanka, where I live now, so I can’t down a glass of the black stuff to the great man’s memory.  But as soon as I arrive in a Guinness-friendly country, my first pint will have Rutger Hauer’s name on it.

 

© Guinness

 

Dare to dream of electric sheep

 

© Warner Bros / Sony Entertainment / Scott Free Productions

 

I’m afraid that over the years I’ve learned to distrust optimism and embrace pessimism.  I’ve gradually reached the conclusion that it’s better to fear the worst at all times and experience the occasional pleasant surprise when things don’t turn out as badly as expected; rather than to assume the best will happen and then be crushingly disappointed when it doesn’t.  (This may be the result of spending decades following the national Scottish football team, a masochistic pursuit that rarely, if ever, rewards hopefulness and optimism.  As was evidenced the other evening…)

 

Thus, when it was announced that, after 35 years, a sequel to Ridley Scott’s mighty 1982 science-fiction epic Blade Runner was in the works, I didn’t bother at all to exercise the part of my brain that deals in hope and optimism.  No, I just assumed the sequel was going to be crass, brainless, 21st-century-Hollywood-style bollocks and I resolved to ignore its existence.

 

Blade Runner, based on Philip K. Dick’s 1968 novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, means a lot to me.  I rate it alongside Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) as joint-best science-fiction movie ever made.  It’s also one of my favourite films of all time.  I remember when I first saw it at the age of 17.  Late in the summer of the film’s release, I travelled to Glasgow for a job interview.  I had a few hours to kill after the interview and I happened to wander past a Glaswegian cinema where Blade Runner was still playing.  On the spur of the moment, I decided to go in and watch it.  I had the auditorium almost to myself – the only other people there were two middle-aged Glaswegian ‘wifies’ who, half-an-hour into the film, with much head-shaking and muttering of incomprehension, left their seats and never came back.  I’m surprised I recall those two women leaving because by that point I was absolutely mesmerised by what I was seeing on the screen above me.  Bombarded by spectacle, special effects and emotional and  intellectual intensity, I found the Blade Runner experience awesome.

 

© Warner Bros / The Ladd Company / Shaw Brothers

 

Blade Runner is a movie that’s difficult to talk about objectively these days.  When it first appeared, many critics disliked it – in Britain, the only newspaper critic I remember taking it seriously was the Observer’s Philip French.  It didn’t do much at the box office either, probably because 1982 cinema audiences, like those two ladies in Glasgow, wanted comfortable, feel-good science-fiction movies such as the same year’s ET and the second Star Trek movie.  Yet it’s proved massively influential.  Its depiction of a future Los Angeles as a dystopian, rain-drenched monster-metropolis, flavoured with the aesthetics of 1940s film-noir and of modern Tokyo, seems to have turned up again and again in a thousand science-fiction movies and rock videos made in the years since.

 

However, for all the impact of Blade Runner’s set design and visuals, its excellent cast ensures that the human (and artificial human) characters remain in the mind too.  This includes Harrison Ford as Deckard, the weary bounty hunter and titular ‘blade runner’ tasked with tracking down and executing runaway replicants, who are the artificially-created, super-strong humanoid slave labourers of the future.  Despite Ford’s presence, though, it’s really the Dutch actor Rutger Hauer as Roy Batty, leader of a gang of on-the-run replicants, who in modern parlance ‘totally owns’ the film.

 

Played by Hauer, Roy Batty is fascinatingly multi-faceted.  By turns he’s brutal, ruthless, terrifyingly physical, animalistic, child-like, icily intellectual, tender, melancholic and – when he finally shows mercy to Deckard and saves him from falling off the top of a vertiginous skyscraper – noble.  Indeed, he becomes more sympathetic than Deckard, whom we’ve seen in the course of his work blasting down two female replicants, played by Darryl Hannah and Joanna Cassidy.  (The role of Deckard has never sat comfortably beside the other, straightforward-heroic roles Ford has played, like those of Han Solo and Indiana Jones.)

 

In Philip K. Dick’s original novel, the replicants have no capacity for human emotions and are presented purely as a threat.  In Hampton Fancher and David Peoples’ script for Blade Runner, however, they’re given a pre-programmed four-year lifespan that means their situation has a tragic, almost Milton-esque aspect.  They’re not simply running amok, but are searching for the corporation head who created them in the hope that he can extend their lifespans beyond four years.  And near the film’s end, we get one of cinema’s great lump-in-throat moments when Batty, after he’s rescued Deckard and before he dies, gives his famous tears-in-rain speech:  “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I’ve watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.”

 

© Warner Bros / The Ladd Company / Shaw Brothers

 

Everyone associated with Blade Runner – Ridley Scott, Hauer, Ford, Hannah, Cassidy and even Sean Young, who played the movie’s heroine Rachael but never fulfilled her potential in an erratic career afterwards – seems in my mind to possess an immense, if elegiac and dystopian, coolness.  This coolness extends to Greek prog-rock / ambient composer and musician Vangelis, whose haunting soundtrack for the movie is a career best.  It’s certainly miles better than the pompous theme he supplied for pompous British film Chariots of Fire the previous year.  For one Blade Runner track, Tales of the Future, Vangelis recruits the portly, kaftan-clad Greek warbler Demis Roussos, who’d always been a bit of a joke in Britain thanks to his being referenced in Mike Leigh’s stage and TV play Abigail’s Party (1977).  But hey, even Demis Roussos sounds spooky and unsettling and, yes, cool here.  That’s the transformative magic of Blade Runner for you.

 

So I was blown away by Blade Runner in 1982, even though the version of it I saw was the weakest one that’s been released.  This was the studio cut, where the film was tampered with at the last minute by frightened executives after they realised Ridley Scott hadn’t delivered the easy-on-the-brain Hollywood blockbuster they’d expected.  Their tampering included adding a redundant voiceover that explains what’s happening in the film for any morons who might be present in the audience; and the least-convincing happy ending in the history of the cinema.  Ten years later, Ridley Scott was allowed to release the version of the film that he’d wanted to put out originally, Blade Runner: The Director’s Cut.  In it, both the voiceover and the happy ending are gone, thankfully, and a new dream sequence suggests that Deckard isn’t the simple cut-and-dried character he was in the original version.  Guess what he might really be?

 

© Warner Bros / The Ladd Company / Shaw Brothers

 

As Blade Runner is set in 2019, which we’re only two years short of now, it’s fun to see how wide of the mark some of the film’s predictions have been.  We haven’t had replicants in the real world nor, alas, have we had flying cars.  And Western cities haven’t become heavily ‘East-Asian-fied’ in the manner of Blade Runner’s Los Angeles, aside from acquiring a few hipster ramen and sushi joints.  Maybe this is because Japan’s bubble economy burst dramatically in the early 1990s and the country never quite became the world power that many in the 1980s had expected.  (William Gibson’s celebrated ‘cyberpunk’ trilogy of science-fiction novels, 1984’s Neuromancer, 1986’s Count Zero and 1988’s Mona Lisa Overdrive, rather overplay the Japanese influence in their future scenarios too.  Incidentally, Gibson is said to have walked out of Blade Runner after 15 minutes, because many of the ideas he’d been toying with for his then-nascent novels were already on the screen.  He didn’t want to get any more depressed.)

 

In addition, certain companies whose logos appear in the famous dazzling advertising displays of Blade Runner’s cityscape no longer exist, like Pan Am and Atari.  Well, Atari still does, barely, but not in the world-bestriding way that the filmmakers assumed it would.

 

The sequel, Blade Runner 2049, was released in the UK four days ago.  Taking place 30 years on from the events of Blade Runner and starring Ryan Gosling as a new ‘runner’ called ‘K’, it brings back the now-craggy but still-personable Harrison Ford as Deckard.  To my utter surprise, the reviews have been excellent, with both critics I like (the BBC’s Mark Kermode) and ones I don’t like (the Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw) calling it a five-star masterpiece.  Compare that with the original film, which had to wait years before the critics reappraised it and declared it a classic.  2049 has flopped at the US box office, admittedly, but then so did its predecessor; and the fact that Donald Trump-land doesn’t seem to like it might be a further indication of its quality.  It’s surely a good omen too that it’s directed by Canadian filmmaker Denis Villeneuve, who last year gave us the moving and thought-provoking science-fiction picture Arrival.

 

In fact, the part of my brain that deals in hope and optimism is beginning to stir.  Rather than ignoring the existence of this sequel, I now find myself tempted to go and see it.  Yes, I’m daring to dream that Blade Runner 2049 might actually be good.  Let’s hope I’m not disappointed.

 

But at least it can’t be any worse than that bloody football match the other night.  Come on, world.  Hurry up and invent some real replicants – and then get eleven of them playing football for Scotland.

 

© Warner Bros / The Ladd Company / Shaw Brothers

 

Cinematic heroes 6: Rutger Hauer

 

From hdwpapers.com

 

Dutch actor Rutger Hauer celebrated his 70th birthday two weeks ago, on January 23rd, which makes me feel very old indeed.  When a figure who seemed only yesterday to be the embodiment of swaggering, superhuman indestructibility – thanks to turns in movies like Blade Runner and The Hitcher – becomes a septuagenarian, you realise you must be advancing significantly in years yourself.

 

Born in Breukelen in the Netherlands, Hauer started adult life doing a variety of jobs – as a deck-cleaner on board a freighter, a joiner, an electrician – before he found his way into an experimental drama troupe.  He was in his mid-twenties when he came to the attention of Dutch director Paul Verhoeven, who would later find infamy in Hollywood as the maker of bludgeoning, blood-soaked science fiction satires like Robocop, Total Recall and Starship Troopers and trashy, salacious bonk-busters like Basic Instinct and Showgirls.  Verhoeven first cast Hauer in Floris, a popular Dutch TV adventure show set in the Middle Ages and then had him star in a quartet of Dutch movies that he directed.

 

The first of these, 1973’s Turkish Delight (in Dutch Turks Fruit) features Hauer as a Bohemian sculptor and chronicles the rise, fall and tragic end of his relationship with a well-to-do young woman (Monique van de Ven) whose family disapproves of his lifestyle.  At the time of its release, more than three million people went to see it in Dutch cinemas, which constituted more than a quarter of the Dutch population.  Indeed, such has been the enduring popularity of Turkish Delight that in 1999 it was named Best Dutch Film of the Century at the Netherlands Film Festival.

 

Hauer and Verhoeven’s next movie was 1975’s Katie Tippel (Keetje Tippel), which is about a 19th-century woman – van de Ven again – and her struggle with poverty and prostitution.  Hauer plays the duplicitous banker who begins a relationship with Katie but then abandons her.

 

(c) Samuel Goldwyn Company

 

In 1977’s Soldier of Orange (Soldaat van Oranje), Verhoeven casts Hauer alongside another Dutch actor who’d later make a name for himself in Hollywood, Jeroen Krabbé.  It tells the story of a group of student friends who react in different ways to World War II – collaborating with, fighting against or imprisoned by the German occupiers of their country.  Soldier of Orange is considered another classic of Dutch cinema.  In 2010, it was even turned into a musical that employed a cool-sounding ‘Scene-Around’ system whereby the audiences’ seats revolved to face different stages as the show progressed.  The set-up was so elaborate that the musical had to be staged inside a former Dutch airbase hangar.

 

Hauer and Verhoeven’s final collaboration on their native soil was Spetters in 1980.  This gave Verhoeven his first major taste of something he’d receive again in Hollywood – controversy.  Spetters’ portrayal of homosexuals, Christians, the police and the media upset a lot of people, although one mightn’t have expected such controversy from a film that is ostensibly a coming-of-age story involving, of all things, motor-cross racing.

 

Inevitably, Hollywood – always on the lookout for European actors to play psychotic scumbag terrorists who speak sinister non-American-accented English – recruited Hauer in 1981 to play the baddie in the Sylvester Stallone action-thriller Nighthawks.  I’m no fan of Stallone and his monosyllabic, humour-free acting style, but I quite like this movie thanks to its excellent supporting cast, which in addition to Hauer has Billy Dee Williams, Lindsay Wagner, Indian actress Persis Khambatta and distinguished English actor Nigel Davenport, who unfortunately passed away late last year.  But Hauer’s performance in Nighthawks would be overshadowed by the work he did in his next Hollywood film  That was Ridley Scott’s science fiction epic Blade Runner, based on the novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep by Philip K. Dick, in which Hauer played Roy Batty, leader of the replicants – artificially-engineered and super-strong humanoids to you and me.

 

Blade Runner is a movie that’s difficult to talk about objectively these days.  It’s proved massively influential and its dystopian, rain-drenched metropolis (“Hell after the property developers have moved in,” as one critic described it), flavoured with aesthetics of 1940s film-noir and of modern Tokyo, seems to have turned up again in a thousand science-fiction movies and rock videos made in the decades since.  Indeed, it’s said that writer William Gibson, soon to become the leading light in the cyberpunk genre, watched Blade Runner for about 15 minutes and then walked out of the cinema – many of the ideas Gibson had been toying with, which he’d shortly incorporate into his novels like Neuromancer, Count Zero and Mona Lisa Overdrive, were already up on the screen and he didn’t want to demoralise himself any further.  However, for all Blade Runner’s visual impact, Hauer and his fellow cast-members make sure that the human characters (and the artificial human characters) aren’t swamped by the film’s production design.

 

Played by Hauer, Roy Batty is fascinatingly multi-faceted.  By turns he’s brutal, ruthless, terrifyingly physical, animalistic, child-like, icily intellectual, tender, tragic and – when he finally shows mercy to Harrison Ford’s Deckard character and saves him from falling to his doom from the top of a vertiginous skyscraper – noble.  In fact, he becomes more sympathetic than Deckard himself, whom we’ve seen blasting down two female replicants, played by Darryl Hannah and Joanna Cassidy, during his work as the blade runner of the title, i.e. a bounty hunter who ‘retires’ rogue replicants.  (When Scott finally got to release his Blade Runner: the Director’s Cut in the early 1990s, he gave us clues to suggest that Deckard is not the simple cut-and-dried character he was in the film’s original version.)  In Philip K. Dick’s original novel, the replicants have no capacity for human emotions and are presented purely as a threat.  In Hampton Fancher and David Peoples’ script for Blade Runner, however, they’re given a pre-programmed four-year lifespan that means their situation has a tragic, almost Milton-esque aspect – they’re not simply running amok but are searching for the corporation head who created them, in the hope that he can extend their lifespans beyond four years.

 

The film concludes with one of cinema’s great lump-in-throat moments when Hauer, after rescuing Ford, and just before he dies, gives his famous tears-in-the-rain speech – “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I’ve watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain. Time to die.”  Hauer improvised the soliloquy himself and no doubt it’s the film clip that’ll be shown on TV news reports on the day that the great Dutchman goes to meet his own maker.  But hopefully that won’t happen for a while yet.

 

(c) Recorded Picture Company

 

With Blade Runner, unfortunately, Hauer had already hit his peak.  Whatever he did afterwards, no matter how good it was, couldn’t help but be slightly anti-climactic.  But he certainly got some decent roles over the next few years.  In 1983 he appeared with Gene Hackman, Theresa Russell, Mickey Rourke and Joe Pesci in Eureka, directed by the legendary Nicholas Roeg.  Dismissed at the time as the weakest of Roeg’s movies, Eureka has more lately been reappraised, positively – Danny Boyle, for instance, has championed it.

 

The same year, Hauer starred in another underrated film by another legendary director, Sam Peckinpah’s The Osterman Weekend.  Based on the novel by Robert Ludlum, it’s a complicated and sometimes uneasy mixture.  It combines a conspiracy thriller with a satire of the growing CCTV / surveillance culture that was turning countries into real-life equivalents of George Orwell’s 1984, and Peckinpah also throws in those bloody, slow-motion action sequences that he could have directed in his sleep by then – indeed, this was his final film.  Nonetheless, The Osterman Weekend is entertaining and its cast (Hauer, John Hurt, Dennis Hopper, Craig T. Nelson, Meg Foster and Burt Lancaster) is a pleasure.  It certainly wasn’t the worst way that Peckinpah could have ended his career.

 

In 1985, Hauer teamed up with his old colleague Paul Verhoeven for the violent medieval adventure Flesh + Blood, which was supposedly based on unused material from the Dutch TV series Hauer had starred in, Floris.  I’ve never seen Floris, but if it resembled the fest of blood, breasts, buttocks and bubonic plague that is Flesh + Blood, it must have been pretty racy for the standards of TV at the time.  (Verhoeven also considered Hauer for the lead role in his next, and best, Hollywood film, Robocop, but eventually he opted for Peter Weller.)

 

(c) Warner Brothers

 

And in 1985, Hauer appeared with Michelle Pfeiffer in Ladyhawke, which was one of a glut of fantasy movies made during the 1980s – see also Dark Crystal, Dragonslayer, Krull, Legend, Labyrinth and Willow.  I’ve always considered Ladyhawke an elegant and charming film, thanks largely to its leads.  However, it’s another Hauer movie that’s been unfairly underrated and neglected – perhaps it needed to have David Bowie playing the King of the Goblins to lodge in people’s memories.

 

The following year, Hauer got his second-most memorable role, as the title character in the horror movie The Hitcher.  Wearing a long dark coat and with a Nietzschean gleam in his eye, he plays a mysterious hitchhiking psychopath who stalks the near-empty highways of the American desert and butchers anyone hapless enough to stop and offer him a ride.  C. Thomas Howell picks him up early on the film and isn’t too happy when Hauer starts reminiscing about the previous driver to have given him a lift: “…I cut off his legs… and his arms… and his head.  And I’m going to do the same to you.”  Howell manages to outwit him, but then finds himself embroiled in a desperate cat-and-mouse game with the dark-clad monster.

 

As a relatively modern country, the USA doesn’t really have any ancient myths for filmmakers to exploit – unless they dig around in the folklore of the Native Americans – but The Hitcher, with its bleak desert vistas and lonely, nocturnal road-scapes, and with a main character who seems almost supernatural in his malevolence and omnipotence, manages to tap into something primordially American.  It evokes, for example, the Doors song Riders on the Storm (“There’s a killer on the road…”)  I’ve also seen a painting by the artist Peter Booth in a gallery in Australia – another young country of wide open spaces and long, straight highways – that somehow captures the vibe of this particular movie.  Here’s the painting.  If that central figure doesn’t look like Rutger Hauer, I don’t know what does.

 

 

After The Hitcher, alas, the quality of Hauer’s movies nosedived.  Many of them went straight to video (or later, straight to DVD), and the best that can be said of them is that some fall into the ‘enjoyably stupid’ category.  Definitely in that category is Philip Noyce’s Blind Fury in 1989, in which Hauer plays a former soldier, blinded in battle, who’s learned to use his remaining four senses to become an expert in the martial arts – meaning he’s deadly at wielding a samurai sword but useless at driving a van when trying to escape from the baddies.  (Needless to say, Noyce inserts a sequence where the sightless Hauer has indeed to drive a van to escape from the baddies.)

 

I’m also quite partial to the cheap science fiction actioner Wedlock (1991), in which Hauer plays a convict who escapes from a futuristic prison and sets off to find the villains who’ve double-crossed him.  The catch is that the prison inmates are paired off and forced to wear deadly explosive collars that blow up if they pass beyond a certain distance from each other – meaning that Hauer has to escape with his collar-wearing partner (played by Mimi Rogers) and keep her close while they’re subsequently chased by the authorities.  (It would make more sense if the convicts’ deadly partner-collars weren’t worn by other convicts but were kept locked up in a vault in the middle of the prison – nobody, surely, would try to escape then.)  The film is helped by deliciously villainous performances by Joan Chen, as Hauer’s treacherous ex-wife, and by the great character actor Stephen Tobolowsky, as the slimy prison governor.

 

While Hauer’s film output stayed mostly below the radar during the 1990s and early 2000s, he was also busy in television, appearing in series and one-off dramas such as Alias, Escape from Sobibor, Fatherland, Hostile Waters, Inside the Third Reich, Merlin and Smallville.  He was also, for a while, the face of the advertising campaign for Ireland’s national drink, Guinness stout.  He presumably got the job because with his shock of blonde hair and his trademark black clothes he rather resembled a pint of Guinness himself.  When I saw Blade Runner: the Director’s Cut in a London cinema in the early 1990s, there was a roar of laughter when one of Hauer’s Guinness adverts popped up on the screen just before the main feature.

 

But after a decade-and-a-half in the straight-to-DVD wilderness, Hauer’s movie fortunes seemed to improve again.  In 2005 he was given villainous roles (though admittedly minor ones) in Robert Rodriguez’s Sin City and Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins.  Perhaps the fact that both films owe an obvious visual debt to Blade Runner influenced Hauer’s casting.  More recently, he appeared in Cyrus Frisch’s experimental movie Dazzle, acclaimed as one of the best Dutch films of 2009.  He was also the star of 2011’s Hobo with a Shotgun, the full-length spin-off from one of the fictitious movie trailers in Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez’s Grindhouse project.  I haven’t seen Hobo with a Shotgun, but my brother has – he says it’s the worst film he’s ever seen, so it might actually be worth watching.

 

Recently, Hauer has appeared as Van Helsing in Dracula 3D, an adaptation of Bram Stoker’s classic vampire novel by the once-great Italian director Dario Argento.  Reviews of Dracula 3D have not been good, to say the least, and it sounds like it’s another nail in the coffin of Argento’s reputation.  Come to think of it, Hauer has a poor track record with vampires – he played a rather camp Vampire King in 1992’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a crude and disappointing movie prototype for the much, much better TV series that would appear in the late 1990s.  Hopefully he’ll have better luck with the currently-running vampire TV show True Blood, for whose sixth season he has recently signed up.

 

Away from the film and television cameras, Hauer is a keen environmentalist and he’s been involved in the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society.  (There’s also a Rutger Hauer Starfish Association, which is not, as you might expect, a group dedicated to conserving starfish, but is in fact an AIDS awareness organisation.)  Hauer’s environmental concerns may explain why, the last time I visited his website (http://www.rutgerhauer.org/), there was film footage of penguins on it, cavorting about on the ice.

 

Then again, they might have been replicant penguins…

 

(c) Tristar Pictures