Johnny Alarimo was an assistant director on the classic masterpiece, Ben-Hur. The director, William Wyler, wrote him a letter of thanks. Charlton Heston drew his portrait on set and signed it “Chuck H.” But Alarimo received no credit, not for Ben-Hur nor any of the other numerous films he worked on because at the time studios only credited department heads. Johnny and many like him are lost to history.
Johnny was an old man living amongst relics of the so-called Golden Age of Hollywood when his second cousin, documentarian Joe Forte, showed up to make friends. Johnny’s lived a glamourous, star-studded life and had a successful career in film, but all that’s left is the dazzling detritus: a cigarette case engraved by Elizabeth Taylor, a stack of Christmas cards sent by Rock Hudson, a mention in a Gore Vidal book. Sure it’ll bring a bundle at auction, but it doesn’t keep you warm at night.
This film works on two levels: first and obviously, as a piece of film history. Johnny Alarimo saved lots of memorabilia from Ben-Hur and other sets, usually those filmed in Italy, where he provided invaluable translation. But it’s also just the story of two men, vaguely related, trying to forge a friendship. That’s harder than you might think considering one of them is a lonely old man. But it turns out that Hollywood may attract a certain kind of person: the kind of person who makes superficial friendship during the 3 or 4 months of shooting and then moves on. Johnny has never had a lasting relationship, and now, at the age of 89, does he have regrets?
I felt heart-broken for much of this film’s run time. Old people, like film credits before the 1970s, are often forgotten. He was the last surviving American crew member of Ben-Hur, but the L.A. Times refused to run his obituary because they choose not to honour those “behind the scenes.” This documentary very quietly shows you that you can have hundreds of bonafide celebrities on your rolodex but even all together they don’t add up to one real friend.
Film buffs will love this rare glimpse at little-seen memorabilia, but I think this movie speaks to all of us. The Man Who Saved Ben-Hur is available on VOD and with just an hour’s worth of viewing, you can do your bit to remember this man and his passion.
The olde West. There are good guys, and there are bad guys: you can barely tell the difference between them. They all wear black hats.
versed in giving her daddy “rubdowns” as is the frontier way.
They own proton packs. They drive Ecto Ones. They horde merchandise to the extent that it threatens their marriages. Ghostheads is the 2016 documentary that takes a good hard look at these amped-up fans. Ghostheads is the new Trekkies.
Suddenly shy geeks who rarely interact with the human species don these alter-egos and strut around like heroes. In Ghostheads you’ll encounter one painfully shy man who doesn’t hesitate to walk up to total strangers to spout any of dozens of lines of dialogue memorized from his favourite movie. He’s happy to pose for pictures and merrily draws attention by flipping on the siren on his Ghostbusters car (his only car. He drives his daughter to school in it). Fandom has really kicked into high gear these past few years (we discussed FANdementalists on a prior podcast) but I think the Ghostheads embody the very best of it: a sense of community. Just like-minded people sharing something they love, a movie that happens to be about camaraderie and helping others (and mutant marshmallows).
pregnant. “Get an abortion” he says, and she agrees, because who’d want to have a baby with him? But he has a change of heart and she agrees to consider it if only he’ll finally introduce her to his surviving family members – a grandmother and a sister he hasn’t spoken to since his parents’ funeral.
gleefully catching them all on fire. Trash Fire has its roots in horror of course, a fact that constantly slithers up and down your spine, especially when AnnyLynne McCord tiptoes into the bedrooms of the sleeping guests with nothing but a ghostly white nightie and a shotgun.
After a ten year hiatus, Shainberg is back with Rupture, a film decidedly less kinky but a little more kick in the teeth. You know how when a cartoon character falls in love, his heart visibly pounds out of his chest? I’m pretty sure mine was doing much the same while watching this film, out of discomfort and dread.
exposing them to it – not to scare them to death, but to scare them beyond it.
Canadian cinematographer Karim Hussain creeps around corners to give us a relentless and increasingly cramped view of our heroine and her struggles, soaked and saturated in hues of viscera. He tightens the frame like a vise so her pain is sharply in our focus. Noomi Rapace, no stranger to body horror, is up to the challenge, aided and abetted by Peter Stormare, Lesley Manville and Michael Chiklis, who are surreally spooky. Things are so peculiar that the audience sometimes titters with nervous laughter.
monarch extremely wealthy. To get to Tarzan, he of course kidnaps Jane. Christoph Waltz has played versions of the same character over and over since he won the Oscar for it in Inglorious Basterds. It doesn’t work here and hasn’t worked in a while, but he’ll keep getting typecast, and we’ll keep suffering. But there’s a trade-off: Samuel L. Jackson is our comic relief, and he’s almost too good at it, stealing scenes from Tarzan himself.
hallucinations. But that’s 6 months or more perfecting his physique (and what was wrong with it to begin with, I wonder? He wasn’t exactly known for being a slouch), and maybe 10 days of memorizing his lines, and that’s “acting.” To be fair, Skarsgard isn’t really the problem here, but he’s also not much of a help. He’s surrounded by 2 Oscar winners and 2 more nominees. If Tarzan is the weak link in your Tarzan movie, your Tarzan movie’s got a problem. And as pretty as he looks, I did wonder how it was that Lord Greystoke, so long removed from the jungle, still had that amazing King of the Jungle body. Jane’s cooking must really suck. Were there even gyms in 1880s England?
Cue Showgirls, the movie where she somehow failed to earn accolades or respect by baring her beaver. In fact, the film positively dies every time she’s on screen. She’s horrible. Horrible. I was literally annoyed by her in less than 2 minutes flat (watch it and see if you can do better!).
Verhoeven turned up in personal to collect both Worst Director and Worst Picture. He was the first director to ever do so (Berkley opted not to collect hers).
MacLachlan can – he’s said to have walked out of the premiere but he denies it, insisting “I sat thee and suffered for the whole two hours.” Steven Spielberg also gave up on the movie halfway through, saying “Sometimes, I hate this town.” It does have a fan in Quentin Tarantino though – he calls it “the Mandingo of the ’90s.”
ASSHOLES WATCHING MOVIES 