Midnight Movie of the Week #132 - Emperor of the North

Sometimes, the measure of a great actor is how well he or she can play against our expectations.  Like, when a guy we know as a comedic buffoon plays a sensitive poet or when a romantic comedy veteran plays an angry stripper.  Taking roles that are against type doesn't automatically make you awesome - if that's how it worked, Elizabeth Berkley would have all the Oscars for shedding her Saved by the Bell image (and all her clothing) for Showgirls.  Extenuating circumstances stopped that scenario from happening - plus she was never exactly Meryl Streep Jr. in the first place.

If we're talking about times when great actors (i.e. - not Elizabeth Berkley) surprised us with their range, we might talk about Emperor of the North.  Or at least I might.  In fact, I've been meaning to talk about this movie for a long time, and it's with a heavy heart that I finally bring it up now, just days after the death of its star, Ernest Borgnine, who has long been one of my favorite actors.

I first took notice of Borgnine, like many genre fans, when he appeared as the endlessly lovable Cabbie in John Carpenter's Escape From New York.  I was certainly late to the party, as Borgnine had been working in TV and film for thirty years when that film was made and closer to fifty years by the time I saw the film.  I'm positive it wasn't the first film I saw that featured the man, but it's definitely the first time I remember taking notice of how good the actor was at his craft.  And as I looked into his earlier films - including true classics like Marty, for which he won the Best Actor Oscar in 1955.

(Fun Fact: To win that Oscar, Borgnine beat a field of competitors that included no less than James Cagney, Charlie Chaplin, Frank Sinatra, and Spencer Tracy. An impressive - and well deserved - feat.)

Borgnine took on several villainous roles - in fact, he opposed Tracy in Bad Day at Black Rock the same year he won his Oscar - but I still generally saw him as a charming grandfather figure who makes me smile when he shows up in any film.  Which makes his work on Emperor of the North that much more impressive.

The film, set in 1933 and the height of the Great Depression, features Borgnine as a sadistic train conductor, known only as "Shack" to both his colleagues and the hobos who fear him.  No punches are pulled in creating this character, as the script calls for Borgnine to brutally beat a man with a large railroad hammer before the opening credits make their way to the screen.  Several of the down-on-their-luck types who populate the film speak of Shack as a mythical villain.  One of the characters even opines with fear that "Shack'd rather kill a man than give him a free ride", as if the character is completely devoid of a soul.

And that's where the surprise I mentioned earlier comes into the film. The script can say whatever it wants about Shack, but only the right actor can make us believe what we learn about Shack.  And - as you can probably guess by now - Borgnine does not disappoint.  There's an intensity behind the man's eyes that comes from a scary place.  It's kind of like that first time a kid sees their parent really angry, and feels like they're seeing an entirely new person, or like that scene from Monsters, Inc. when Boo sees Sully in scary mode.  Borgnine smirks and sneers and almost seems to get a rise from the violent attitude he shows on screen, and it's a complete change from what I used to expect from the jovial actor.

The performance works even better opposite granite faced tough guy Lee Marvin, who does not play against type in this role.  Another past Oscar winner, Marvin plays the cagiest 'bo (that's Shack-speak for hobo, naturally) on the rails, who makes it his goal to ride Shack's train despite the legends of cruelty that precede the railman.  Marvin, covered in dirt and sporting impressive whiskers, is the perfect foil to our snarling madman who has no real motivation for being so vicious.

In fact, it's that lack of motivation (along with some fun asides and a bit of perspective on the culture of that time period) for both characters that really pushes Emperor of the North into a special place.  Shack and his opponent are driven by little more than a desire to be the best at what they are.  Some would say that the hobo is riding for his survival - an idea that is referred to on an opening text that explains the railroad hopping hobo of 1933 - but most scenes that show Marvin's character off the train present a man who is relaxed and care-free in the moment.  My interpretation of the film has always been that this is a battle for supremacy, pure and simple - especially when you realize how little Shack really has on the line in regards to one stinkin' hobo and his tagalong (a young and raw Keith Carradine, who misses a few notes) catching a ride to Portland.

Emperor of the North has all the makings of a fun '70s flick, balancing the line between drama and grindhouse expertly.  But it's these performances that really make it something unique.  I've never seen Ernest Borgnine like he is in Emperor of the North Pole, and this brutal outlier serves as a great example of how seriously the man took his craft.  Shack is a bad, bad man - and Ernest Borgnine isn't going to let the fact that we all think he's the sweetest old man on the block stop him from becoming one of the era's most deadly villains.

R.I.P, Ernest Borgnine. Thank you for the memories, and know that I - and many others - have found great joy in your works. We will miss you.

How PJ Soles (Totally) Changed The Mike's Life

When you're young, it's not always easy to foresee how the people you cross paths with will effect you in the long run.  As a teenager, one often focuses on the easy answer, lets that unwritten high school class system take over, and doesn't give much thought to the people that aren't like them.  I know those of you that know The Mike believe he is a wise and enlightened man, but I was once caught in that rut too and I didn't always realize that experiencing people who weren't "like me" wasn't always a bad thing.

But since teenage The Mike was a nerd who just sat around watching movies whenever he could - and one who lived in rural Iowa - his interactions with people who weren't like him happened really only happened through the safety of a protruding glass screen. And when I say "people who weren't like me"...I basically mean popular people.  Or cool people.  Or the people who were interesting enough to be featured in a movie.

(Anyone else remember back when television screens protruded?  Man, THOSE WERE THE DAYS!)

There were a lot of popular and cool people who taught The Mike life lessons from that box, and one of the key people that he met through that screen was a young woman by the name of PJ.  He first came across her in a decidedly un-horror manner, as she portrayed one of two military policewomen/love interests in the Bill Murray comedy Stripes.  That film was always a favorite to watch with my father, but Soles honestly was only a small part of the film's charm.  I will give her credit in one regard, however, because I always found her more likeable than her on-screen cohort, Blade Runner femme fatale Sean Young (SPOILER ALERT: Finkle is Einhorn.)

But Stripes was not the film that made PJ Soles a permanent fixture in my life.  That distinction, of course,  belongs to John Carpenter's Halloween, which needed less than 100 minutes to become permanently entrenched in my mind as my favorite horror film.  While I was certain about the film's killer and the hero and the heroine all being folks that I was quite interested in, I couldn't quite figure out what was up with that one loud mouthed cheerleader.  Now I realize: I was a bit foolish to dismiss her so easily.

Looking back, I realize that Soles' Lynda was, in a way, as much a part of the film's success with me as anything else.  It was the outlier.  While everything else, from the direction to Donald Pleasence's performance to Jamie Lee Curtis' squeaky clean image, was clearly defined and neatly placed.  At the time I thought that the film, in total, was carefully structured, adhering to a strict set of rules about the people in it.  And I see now that Lynda was the wild card.  She was not only a victim, she was the representation of chaos at work in the film.  I know what you're thinking - "Wait...isn't the escaped mental patient/mass murderer the chaos at work in the film?"  Well, yes, he is.  But to the viewer, he's a known quantity.  Heck, I'd already seen Scream by the time I saw Halloween, I knew what Michael was.  Lynda - she was something completely new to me.

None of that would be possible without Soles' natural charisma.  Though it's been said that Jamie Lee was more like Lynda in real life, you'd never expect that Soles was actually the girl on set who was opposed to smoking cigarettes on screen.  And while the character was designed to be annoying, there was something about Lynda that was surprisingly human.  Being a teenager at the time, I couldn't help thinking that this girl - who totally bugged me with her repetitive use of certain words and wasn't really a sympathetic character - was one of the most realistic characters I'd ever come across in horror.  Soles didn't take Lynda over the top, she just made her a teenager.  Even 20 years after the film and in the middle of Iowa, I could instantly picture Lynda as a character in my school - and all Soles needed to do was act naturally.

I didn't get it at the time.  I was too young, too goofy, and too oblivious to the real world around me.  I knew that Lynda was something different, but it didn't click for me for a while.  Over time, I realized that most of Halloween - and later (to me) Carrie and Rock 'N Roll High School - existed in a world that was foreign to me, but PJ Soles' turn as Lynda was a rare turn that created an imperfect character who had a place in my world.  She was an extravagant character sure, the likes of which you wouldn't expect in your everyday life.  I wasn't sure about her then, but I soon realized that her flaws made her feasible.

 Now, as I look back, it's easy to realize that Soles' work in the last half of the 1970s created some of the most interesting teenage characters put on film.  They were not the kind of people I'd expect to like in real life, but they were the kind of people who make life a bit more interesting.  Meeting Ms. Soles through that TV screen got me thinking about the people I may dismiss or shy away from in life.  And it got me thinking about the good that could be found in them too.  Maybe it's not a total victory for Mike-kind, but PJ Soles shook the pillars of my cinematic experience.  Because of that, she lives on today as one of FMWL's favorite people.

RIP Michael Gough (1917-2011)

It's with a heavy heart that I remember the life and films of Michael Gough, who has passed away at 94 years young.  He's been a favorite of mine for years - and has been featured at FMWL before.  Like most young people, I was introduced to Gough when he played Alfred Pennyworth in the Tim Burton/Joel Schumacher Batman films, and he quickly became my favorite part of those films.  He portrayed Alfred as a wonderfully supportive grandfather figure to Bruce Wayne, and it's safe to say he became my own personal cinematic grandfather.

When I grew older and learned of Gough's early history in horror films from Horror of Dracula to Horrors of the Black Museum, along with later appearances in The Legend of Hell House, The Serpent and the Rainbow, and Sleepy Hollow, I found the actor in a new light.  His ability to play both mad doctor and concerned lover, among other roles, made him one of the few British actors to stand alongside the likes of Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing in my mind during the Hammer and Amicus era.  He often lifted lesser material, like Black Museum or the cheesy Konga, due to his intense presence and trademark voice.

At 94, I'm sure Mr. Gough lived a full and worthwhile life, but it still stings a bit to see the road end for a personal favorite.  So here's to you, Michael Gough.  The Mike and his copy of Konga shall remember you fondly.

RIP Gloria Stuart (1910-2010)

It's almost shocking to think that, in this day and age, we're bidding farewell to someone who starred alongside Karloff and Rains in the films of James Whale.  Rest in Peace, Ms. Stuart.

Stuart in Whale's 1932 horror, The Old Dark House

Stuart with Boris Karloff in The Old Dark House

Stuart with Henry Travers in The Invisible Man (1933)

Making an entrance in The Invisible Man

Stuart with Claude Rains - The Invisible Man.

The Post in Which FMWL Mixes Father's Day and Psycho

It's been a family filled six weeks here at FMWL, with a Mother's Day tribute leading into memories of my sister on her birthday and then my own birthday. Now, Father's Day is upon us and the family circle becomes complete.

When it comes to The Fasha and The Mike, movies have never been the king of our castle. That honor belongs to, and shall always belong to, Green Bay Packers football. But beyond our adherence to the Lombardi code (God, Family, & the Green Bay Packers), there have been some fabulous movie moments. I've found many all-time favorites via the man - ranging from his insistence upon John Carpenter's The Thing (which I initially rebuked, but that's a different story...) to the time when he took 8 year old I to see The 'Burbs (which is definitely the movie that triggered the "movies about psycho killers can be fun?" switch in my brain). He even instilled in me a love for Minilla, the Son of Godzilla! But there's one fateful movie experience with dad that has stuck with me for nearly 15 years, even haunting a few dreams.It was a normal week night as teenage The Mike, starving to fulfill his lust for Hitchcock after viewings of Rear Window, The Birds, and Vertigo, plopped down on the cushy leather sofa for his first viewing of Psycho. Opposite he, in his trusty recliner, sat The Fasha, with decades of horror movie experiences in his past.

Now, I've seen a lot of movies in my life, but I feel very comfortable saying that this was the most intense viewing experience of my life. I entered the film entirely blind to what was going to occur, and was on the edge of my seat, enthralled near immediately. I knew something was up with this Bates fellow, and I knew whatever happened would probably shock me. As the film rolled my dad must have come to know this too, because shortly after the shower curtain hit the floor, he looked at me and said ----- wait just a minute --------

(Before I tell you all what he said, I suppose I should make a statement. If you, for whatever reason have not seen Psycho, you should probably do that before reading any further. I really hope that no one reading this hasn't seen it....I mean, it is freaking Psycho...but just in case, THIS IS A WARNING THAT GIGANTIC SPOILERS ARE ABOUT TO BE UNLEASHED.)

Shortly after the shower curtain hit the floor, The Fasha looked at me and said: "You know the mother's dead, right?"

Needless to say, my jaw dropped a bit. This was Hitchcock, mastering his craft, doing something the likes of which I'd never seen in cinema, and with more than an hour of Bernard Herrmann's shrieking score until one of cinema's greatest reveals...the air had been let out of my sails. Dad quickly tried to cover with a "Uhh, I think they say that in one of the sequels", but my level of baffledness had reached a peak.

At this point in my life, as addicted to movies as I am, I would consider ending friendships over a spoiler of this magnitude...though I'm not sure many exist. Can you think of a bigger spoiler? This wasn't some Bruce Willis was dead all along BS, this was the Master of Suspense at his most masochistic. This was a game changer akin to Brett Favre's worst overzealous interception (for me, that one happened in the 2004 playoffs at Philly, but that's a different story too).Looking back, I'm pretty sure that this was the worst thing my Dad ever did to me. But when I consider the possibilities, and all the deadbeat dads I encounter on a daily basis, it's a fantastic reminder of how blessed I've been in life. Psycho isn't any worse because of it - still has to be among my five favorite horror films - and my Fasha's still mega-awesome, even if he might occasionally spend 3 straight hours of a road trip back from Green Bay listening to the same Coldplay song on repeat. (Yes, that really happened. But still, he's awesome.)

The man brought me up to work hard, to love the most noble and storied franchise in professional sports, and to enjoy the crud out of having a laugh (occasionally while scaring Mamada during horror movies - you all should have seen her when he screamed at the final scare at the end of Carrie). We all go a little spoliery sometimes, but that's easy to get past (eventually). Everything else is worth a Happy Fasha's Day, for sure.

And now, the obligatory Creepshow picture, to wish all the great dads out there their own Happy Father's Day! Have some Jell-O Cake!