FILM FAILURES I REFUSE TO ABANDON Part Four

THE ROOTS OF HEAVEN (1958: Dir. John Huston)

                                                                                                                                             

The animal rights film is a genre that, much like the cause it espouses, never gets the attention it rightfully deserves.  Rarely does one see the stirring example of filmmakers such as Bill Travers and his wife Virginia McKenna, who parlayed their success as the stars of Born Free (1964) into a passionate crusade against wild animals in captivity through a series of dramas and documentaries that helped to foster empathy and enlightenment for generations of apathetic zoo visitors. With the recent uproar over the sport killing of a famous wild lion in Nigeria, I was reminded of the neglected anti-hunting film, John Huston's The Roots of Heaven. It was producer Daryl F. Zanuck, who purchased the rights to Romain Gary's novel after it won the Prix Goncourt, France's highest literary award and promptly hired Huston to adapt it to the screen. Famous for his reputation of always having things his own way, Zanuck uncharacteristically gave Huston free reign on the project, on the condition that his protegee, French chanteuse Juliette Greco be given the female lead. Greco, whose natural beauty and compelling charisma on camera, proved to be a worthy addition to Huston's eclectic cast of character faces. For his protagonist, Huston had originally wanted handsome headliner and real-life African conservationist William Holden, who proved unavailable. Instead he chose British leading man Trevor Howard, an authoritative and effortless performer who brings a poetic dignity to the heroic idealism of Morel, a zealous and often ridiculed enemy of elephant slaughter. Top billed is Errol Flynn, all too convincing as alcoholic ex-soldier Forsythe. This part mirrors the broken-down lush he played in Zanuck's The Sun Also Rises (1957), as well his own debauched lifestyle that would soon kill him within 18 months of the film's release. Flynn is joined by his Sun co-star Eddie Albert as a ambitious photographer, as well as the oleaginous Orson Welles, a close friend of the former swashbuckler, who used Flynn's yacht in his film The Lady From Shanghai (1948). Cast here in the cameo role of an arrogant American television correspondent, Welles becomes the de facto mouthpiece of director Huston when he refers to the killing of an elephant as a sin, words that Huston himself had uttered when referring to the big game hunting he himself had endorsed while on location in Tanganyika filming The African Queen in 1951. Despite never having personally killed an elephant, some thought Huston was a hypocrite for making a film decrying the African hunt, but his sincerity is ably demonstrated by a deliberately ethical choice to depict only violence done to humans on-screen. His experiences in Africa must have also had an obvious impact on him personally, when after the film he gave up the shooting of wild animals altogether. Photographed on location in French Equatorial Africa, by Huston's frequent cinematographer Ossie Morris (The African Queen, Moulin Rouge), the exotic scenery captured is a stunning Technicolor record of the threatened wildlife from a time when the incursion of tourism, due to the post war boom in transcontinental travel, was just beginning to see the tragic massacre of numerous indigenous species. The Roots of Heaven, a wordy and worthy film, was never meant to be a rip-roaring adventure. It is rather a sober and passionate cry for environmental awareness, at a time when atomic destruction rather than animal extinction, consumed the thoughts of humanity. Huston accepted blame for the film's failure at the office, but he always believed that the story, although a bitter pill for audiences to swallow, still had merit and could be re-made successfully. As with most films in his oeuvre, The Roots of Heaven, depicts the courage of those who dare to challenge a blood-thirsty system, an inspiring theme that we as custodians of a fragile planet would do well to embrace, now more than ever. Blu-ray

THE COMEDY OF CONCEALMENT

THE RETURN OF THE PINK PANTHER (1975: Dir. Blake Edwards)

There are very few in my performer's pantheon who hold the place of Peter Sellers. Although he has been dead for 35 years, to fans like myself his eccentric collection of characters are still living and breathing in their own perfectly preserved worlds of pure mirth. No matter the quality of the film, Sellers was always in top form, exhibiting a seamless schizophrenic personality that left him utterly possessed by the part he was playing. He would often describe his own lack of a distinct persona, and how he saw himself as empty vessel to be filled by the various film roles he had chosen. Consequently, all of his performances have merit, but there are a few classics that rise above the fray to be counted as indelible masterpieces of film comedy. These five roles are the stuff of legend for Sellers addicts. When the names of Fred Kite (I'm All Right Jack), Dr Strangelove (Dr. Strangelove), Hrundi V. Bakshi (The Party), or Chance the Gardener (Being There) are evoked, one can't help but smile with remembrance, but when the character of Inspector Jacques Clouseau is mentioned, all at once are heard the joyful echoes of laughter from an entire generation. For such a legendary comic creation, it is surprising that this oafish officer of the law was almost not portrayed by Sellers at all. Peter Ustinov had originally been cast in the role, before bowing out at the last minute. Sellers was called in as an inspired replacement and the resulting film, The Pink Panther (1963) became Clouseau's smash debut. Envisioned as a supporting player to David Niven's suave jewel thief Sir Charles Litton a.k.a The Phantom, the idiot Inspector's persona didn't really come into full focus until the second and some say best film of the Clouseau series, A Shot in the Dark  (1964). Building on past experience, Sellers now painted in the idiosyncratic details of this arrogantly oblivious bumbler, thus allowing the baroque gags devised by director Blake Edwards to take on a comical complexity, without losing sympathy for the hapless Frenchman. Although Sellers enjoyed a volatile though productive working relationship with Edwards, his increasingly mercurial behaviour and boredom with the character precluded any further Clouseau adventures. As a result, the late Sixties and early Seventies saw Sellers' popularity in near free fall, with one film after another making little or no connection with audiences. So in an eager attempt to regain former glory, he reunited with Edwards to make what is arguably the most important film in the Clouseau franchise. It is hard for today's audiences to remember what The Return of the Pink Panther meant at the the time to Sellers' loyal and hungry fans. Not only did he bring back a beloved character from his illustrious past, but he took the time to further embroider this already inventive caricature. Clouseau (Mark II) now talked in a side-splittingly grotesque accent, mangling his spoonerism-laced dialogue with bizarrely memorable pronunciations. Always eager to get into someone else's clothes, Sellers also indulged his personal propensity for elaborate disguises featuring a rogue's gallery of colourful costumes, grotesque facial hair and ridiculous putty noses. It was a full-time job channeling Sellers' unique creativity, so to provide contrast to all the craziness, Edwards cleverly re-cast the Charles Litton role, eschewing the light comic persona of Niven in favour of the more menacing presence of Christopher Plummer, well paired with a cheerfully vivacious Catherine Schell as Lady Litton. Much-loved supporting players from the previous film also returned, particularly the hilarious Herbert Lom as Clouseau's exasperatedly slow burning boss, and the acrobatic antics of Burt Kwouk as Clouseau's martial-arts practicing manservant, Kato. Credit must also be given to intrepid stunt coordinator Joe Dunne, whose death defying deeds are a visceral example of "going beyond the pain barrier", a slapstick style Blake Edwards learned from Laurel & Hardy director Leo McCarey. Audiences marveled at the outlandish physical feats that were the Clouseau trademark, a challenge that had to be topped for each subsequent film. It made for a potent comedy cocktail eagerly enjoyed by moviegoers around the world, where The Return of the Pink Panther earned back eight times its production costs. With a grand flourish Sellers had resurrected a near moribund career with his biggest hit yet. Capitalizing on this well-earned windfall, Sellers and Edwards immediately went into production with The Pink Panther Strikes Again (1976), in the opinion of many an even funnier sequel that fell oddly short of Return's stupendous success.  Emboldened, Sellers continued his run of good fortune with a final appearance as Inspector Jacques Clouseau in Blake Edwards' Revenge of the Pink Panther (1978), the highest grossing entry yet and my own personal favourite, as it featured some of Sellers' most outrageous masquerades and a ripping finale in Hong Kong. By this time, Sellers' work schedule revolved almost entirely around his most famous character but his fragile ego could no longer share any success with Edwards, the series' artistic co-creator. Before his early death at age 54 of a heart attack, Sellers had intended to make one more Clouseau film, Romance of the Pink Panther, to be directed by former collaborator Clive Donner (What's New Pussycat?). It would have been an unusually intimate setting for the Clouseau character, at last falling in love and perhaps living happily ever after, but alas, it was not to be. Blake Edwards would pay tribute to his troubled former comrade when he resurrected Clouseau one more time for the posthumous Trail of the Pink Panther (1982), using deleted scenes from the previous films. Some thought it desperate and in bad taste, but I personally believed Edwards in his assertion that he had just wanted the public to enjoy every priceless morsel of Clouseau magic. Befitting its cut and paste construction, Trail was a box office disappointment. However, in those treasured scenes when the late Peter Sellers was on screen as cinema's most beloved trench coat-wearing twit, Inspector Jacques Clouseau came alive once again, and for a brief time, one could bask in the healing gales of merriment bestowed upon us by a singular comedic genius.  BLU-RAY

FILM FAILURES I REFUSE TO ABANDON Part Three

WINTER KILLS (1979: Dir. William Richert)

Writer-director-actor William Richert is a maverick filmmaker is every sense. With only four feature films in his 40 year career, Richert has skirted along the edges of the mainstream, persevering as an independent artist while contributing at least one minor classic to the Seventies cycle of paranoia thrillers. The film is Winter Kills, an adaptation of a Richard Condon novel that was Richert's screenwriting and directorial debut. It was an initiation into Hollywood that began in a whirlwind of anticipation and ended in a chasm of tragedy. Condon's novel was the stuff of provocative entertainment, a satirical speculation about the Kennedy assassination and the family's own complicity in its cover-up. Nearly twenty years before Oliver Stone re-opened the skeletons in the Warren Commission's closet, Richert fearlessly waded into murky waters with his version of Condon's controversial conspiracy theories. Showing the requisite bravado, he assembled one of the most eclectic casts of the decade, including Jeff Bridges fresh from the 1976 blockbuster remake of King Kong, legendary filmmaker John Huston of recent Chinatown-fame, Japanese superstar Toshiro Mifune (The Seven Samurai), and Elizabeth Taylor at the lowest ebb of her career, making a silent cameo appearance as a high-class prostitute. They were joined by a peerless crew of technicians and creative personnel, not least, award-winning cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond (The Deer Hunter) and veteran production designer Robert Boyle (The Birds). Forebodingly, the film's independent financing came from a pair of fledgling producers whose primary source of income came from smuggling marijuana. Richert would later regret this dubious alliance when production was shut down halfway through shooting due to lack of funds. After a brief period of panic, filming resumed for a short time before one of the producers was found murdered in his home, thus seemingly putting a final halt to the production. Unbowed, Richert brainstormed a unique solution, he would make another movie with the same lead actors, Bridges and leading lady Belinda Bauer (Richert's girlfriend at the time), using its pre-release profits to finish Winter Kills. This quickly assembled film, an eccentric comedy made on the cheap in Germany brazenly entitled The American Success Company (1980), begat the necessary completion funds. So, after twice being cast to the winds, Richert and company were finally able to consummate their cinematic endeavours, and despite arguments with the distributors over the final cut, Winter Kills received its limited release to theatres. However, tragedy was to have its way again. It closed within a single week, perhaps owing to a cynical tone and surreal fable-like atmosphere that was far too confusing for a post Star Wars audience engorged on pulp panaceas. Some astute critics properly praised it as a worthy successor to The Manchurian Candidate (1962), another Condon adaptation that ironically, had been endorsed by President Kennedy. With its initial failure at the box-office, the aura of adversity lingered around Richert's film for decades, notwithstanding two subsequent re-releases featuring improved cuts of the film that did little to excite new interest. Nearly 25 years after its original lacklustre premiere, Winter Kills was finally given the respect it deserved when the director-approved DVD was released in 2003. At last devotees and cultists, like myself were vindicated when it received nearly unanimous praise for its flamboyant style and wit. No one could have been more overjoyed than William Richert, a self-effacing survivor who beat the odds to witness the well-earned adulation for his forsaken labour of love. It couldn't have happened to nicer guy. BLU-RAY

AFTERNOON WITH AN ARTISAN

BLOOD ON THE MOON (1948: Dir. Robert Wise)

I once had the good fortune to talk with a filmmaker responsible for some of the 20th century's most indelible films. His name is Robert Wise and he had the rare privilege of claiming ownership to at least one seminal film in six different genres including: West Side Story, The Day The Earth Stood Still, The Set-Up,  Run Silent, Run Deep, The Haunting, and The Andromeda Strain, not to mention such other fan favourites as The Sound of Music, The Sand Pebbles, The Hindenburg, and Star Trek: The Motion Picture.

It was on one of the hottest days of the year in July of 1995 when an 80 year-old Robert Wise kindly made room in his busy schedule for a book-signing of Robert Wise On His Films at TheatreBooks, where I ran the film department. Wise was actually in Toronto to film a cameo in the feature film The Stupids, joining such other auteur filmmakers as Costa-Gavras, Atom Egoyan, David Cronenberg, Norman Jewison and Gillo Pontecorvo, all doing their bit parts at the behest of the film's cineaste director John Landis. Mr Wise arrived by taxi right on time, and as I went out to greet him I was immediately struck by the dignity and strength of his character. Still sporting a tall and robust frame, despite his age and semi-retired status, his unpretentious yet courteous demeanor belied the reputation of the many legendary films in his oeuvre. As this public appearance had been rather hastily arranged with no advanced publicity available, there were unfortunately no customers awaiting his entrance, save for the few staff on duty. Sensing a lull, I quickly offered Mr. Wise a chair and right away began plying him for anecdotes about his storied career, with special emphasis on his early years as an editor working with Orson Welles (Citizen Kane, The Magnificent Ambersons), and his first directing jobs making horror films for producer Val Lewton (Curse of the Cat People, The Body Snatcher). I was especially eager for some reminiscences about his two projects with one of my favourite actors Robert Ryan, the brutal boxing picture The Set-Up, and the largely forgotten Film Noir Odds Against Tomorrow, featuring a full jazz score by musician and Modern Jazz Quartet co-founder John Lewis, one of the first Hollywood films to a use a Black film composer. Indulging my rabid curiosity, Wise generously stayed for a full hour without having sold a single copy of the book, all the while cheerfully answering any and all questions I put to him. I was also able to converse with him about a mutual friend of ours, TVO's Saturday Night at the Movies host Elwy Yost, a unquenchable film buff  and historian of whom Wise spoke with genuine fondness. When the time was up, I walked him through the sweltering summer heat to his awaiting cab. Still in a daze from our voluminous conversation, I shook his hand, thanking him for his inspirational body of work, and his kindness in making a special effort to visit the store. Before he got into the cab, he turned to me and said with a twinkle in his eye, "Do me a favour?" "Sure", I said. "Turn down the goddamm heat!!" he chuckled, and was driven away in a flash, leaving me to ponder all of the films unmade and unmentioned in our conversation, yet still feeling pleasantly satisfied that I had sat down with one of cinema's great craftsmen.

One of the films I forgot to inquire about with Robert Wise was Blood on the Moon, a moody noir Western that he made during his RKO contract days. Much overlooked, its low profile has remained constant over the years perhaps due to its uniquely stylized look and relative unavailability. Providing one is prepared for the experience, the film yields many pleasures, especially with its chiaroscuro cinematography that bathes the celluloid image in high contrast black and white often obscuring faces and sets, almost to the point of audience frustration. Director of photography Nicholas Musuraca, was an artist who painted with light, and this, his third film with star Robert Mitchum, is a further refinement on the shadowed look he had already perfected for their previous pairing, the quintessential noir Out of the Past, directed by another Val Lewton protege, Jacques Tourneur. Wise utilizes Musuraca's daring lighting to heighten the existential reality of the characters, tightening the screws on Mitchum's taciturn drifter, a man who's loyalty and moral rectitude find him on both sides of a violent range war. As in all of his pictures, Wise directs his evocatively chosen cast with a steady hand, avoiding the pitfalls of overwrought melodrama, in favour of the lingering aura of doomed peril. Emotions are instead reflected in action, particularly in a bravura bar-room fight between Mitchum and his former partner Robert Preston. Intensely staged with a bloody savagery meant to illustrate the chasm between two men who were once trusted friends, it is one of the most disturbing scenes of violence in Wise's entire filmography. Itching to finish off his seven-year contract, Blood on the Moon would be Wise's penultimate film at RKO, followed by the audacious "real-time" drama of The Set-Up, before he began his celebrated film work at the major Hollywood studios of 20th Century Fox, United Artists, Metro-Goldwyn Mayer and finally Universal Pictures. All of these later films would exhibit the same artistry Robert Wise brought to Blood on the Moon, qualities that make his contribution to cinema an eternal gift to future generations. It was my most profound privilege to spend an enlightening afternoon in his company. BLU-RAY

FILM FAILURES I REFUSE TO ABANDON Part Two

VICTORY (1996: Dir. Mark Peploe)

It is a crime against the viewing public when a film remains undiscovered due to the ego of a producer. Such is the case with Mark Peploe's VICTORY, a literate and sweepingly romantic adaptation of Joseph Conrad's 1915 novel. Produced by Miramax Films, it was unceremoniously buried after company president Harvey Weinstein personally deemed it unsuitable for North American audiences.  Years later it became available on DVD, where its exquisitely told tale of the South Seas could at last be appreciated. In a sympathetically sensitive performance, Willem Dafoe stars as Axel Heyst, a self-imposed American exile in the Dutch East Indies whose hermit-like isolation masks an aching loneliness of purpose. In a precious moment of courage he abandons his secluded existence when he chooses to harbour Alma (Irene Jacob), a comely fugitive fleeing the white slavery of an all-girl orchestra lorded over by its grotesquely omnivorous conductor (Simon Callow). With her innocent beauty, Alma quietly lays siege to her saviour's fortified heart, but their love is soon threatened with the ex-machina arrival of two criminals, the sleazy psychopath Mr. Jones (Sam Neill), and his bestial sidekick Martin (Rufus Sewell). These greedy interlopers are seeking an apocryphal treasure hidden somewhere on Heyst's forlorn plantation, thus igniting a tinder box of emotion that will consume all the characters in a fiery finale. Previously known for his screenwriting collaborations with Bertolucci (The Last Emperor) and Antonioini (The Passenger), VICTORY was filmmaker Mark Peploe's sophomore directorial effort after the cult success of his art-house horror film Afraid of the Dark (1991). As a Kenyan-born Brit, he was often drawn to exotic locales for his screenplays, including the Sahara Desert, and China's Forbidden City. His interest in foreign environments finds full flower here, where together with Bertrand Tavernier's former cinematographer Bruno De Keyzer, and Merchant Ivory production designer Luciana Arrighi, Peploe unerringly brings to life the fetid jungles and unencumbered lifestyle of a primordial Indonesian island. Dafoe and Neill would re-unite nearly two decades later on another Antipodean island story, The Hunter (2011). Set in Tasmania, and once again featuring Dafoe as the loner protagonist, that film would enjoy a modest though satisfying success, something tragically denied Peploe, who with the failure of his ironically titled masterpiece VICTORY, has never set foot behind the camera since. BLU-RAY

A STONE WRAPPED IN COTTEN

THE STEEL TRAP (1952: Dir. Andrew Stone)

               A BLUEPRINT FOR MURDER (1953: Dir. Andrew Stone)

In the 1950s, there was only one filmmaker apart from Alfred Hitchcock, who consistently delivered superior white knuckle entertainment to cinema-goers, Andrew L. Stone. Beginning  in 1950 with the gut-punching gangster film Highway 301, this maverick writer-director-producer made nearly one suspense film a year until Ring of Fire in 1961 ended his unprecedented string of low budget successes. Stone, often with his wife and editor Virginia as co-producer, had been directing films for nearly twenty years when he finally hit his stride with a pair of lean nail-biters starring Joseph Cotten. Both of these were mini-masterpieces of domestic tension, and featured Cotten as a man struggling to care for his family under the most desperate circumstances. In The Steel Trap, he is the grasping husband of naive homemaker Theresa Wright, who successfully steals from the bank where he works only to have second thoughts. The film's coup de cinema comes when he decides to return the money before its discovered, leading to an extended sequence of almost unbearably nerve-wracking intensity as he attempts to rectify his misdeeds with the same precise planning that he used to execute the robbery. Stone, whose independently financed films where a textbook model of economy, always believed in the use of real locations instead of studio built sets, not just for parsimonious reasons, but to add a contemporary reality often missing from glossy Hollywood products. This practice was particularly effective in The Steel Trap, a film that lingers in the methodical detail and procedure of the bank and its employees, as it slowly tightens an invisible vice grip around the audiences' throat during the film's ticking clock climax. Director and star reunited the following year in A Blueprint For Murder, another solid suspenser with Cotten as a distraught man trying to solve the murder of his wealthy young niece. Unspooling in a brisk 76 minutes, ten minutes shorter than their previous collaboration, Blueprint, is, despite its mundane police procedural elements, nearly as heart-stopping, with a wrap-up that keeps one guessing almost until the end credits roll. In both films Cotten acquits himself admirably in roles which require him to convincingly convey moral uncertainty, while at the same time displaying a genuine and sympathetic every-man earnestness. As box-office insurance Stone made sure to cast previous Cotten co-stars as his love interests. Theresa Wright, who had played his admiring niece in Hitchcock's Shadow Of A Doubt (1947) becomes his loving spouse in The Steel Trap, and Jean Peters, the well-intentioned woman who discovered Cotton's uxoricidal intentions toward an unfaithful Marilyn Monroe in Niagara (1953), this time plays his coolly elegant and recently widowed sister-in-law. Stone was able to repeat this winning combination with two memorable back-to-back James Mason vehicles, Cry Terror! (1958), a paranoid home invasion extortion thriller, and The Decks Ran Red (1958), an offbeat seafaring tale of murder and salvage. Prior to that he also gave Doris Day her most emotionally overwrought role as the eponymous wife terrorized by pathologically jealous husband Louis Jordan in Julie (1956), an exercise in near hysterical unease. My particular favourite of Stone's suspense cycle is The Last Voyage (1960), a sinking cruise ship disaster movie with stalwart hero Robert Stack bravely rescuing his family from breathtaking jeopardy, his wife poignantly portrayed by Stack's former Written On The Wind (1957) co-star Dorothy Malone. Typical of the director's constant efforts at cinema verisimilitude, Stone rented the Ile de France ocean liner and flooded parts of it under controlled conditions, even insisting his actors undergo death-defying peril including Stack, who, with only a wire around his wrist, valiantly traversed a narrow plank precariously perched over an actual 73 foot drop. Ring of Fire, with Deputy Sheriff David Jansen menaced by a raging forest fire while being held hostage by a gang of criminal fugitives, provided a fitting end to this pot-boiling phase of Stone's oeuvre. Turning the page, Stone decamped to London where he made three largely forgotten comedies, followed by Song Of Norway (1970) and The Great Waltz (1972), a misguided matched set of thoroughly maudlin musicals whose disastrous receptions spelled the end of his career behind the camera. Having the last laugh, he lived to the grand old age of 96, long enough for critics to finally acknowledge this early auteur of anxiety. DVD

FILM FAILURES I REFUSE TO ABANDON Part One

The Sicilian (1987: Dir. Michael Cimino)

 

I pride myself for my loyalty. If a filmmaker makes even a single work that I fully embrace, then I consider myself a custodian of his entire oeuvre. Michael Cimino is one of these artists I will defend at any opportunity. Under the screenwriting mentorship of Clint Eastwood, Cimino made a memorable directorial debut with an eccentric heist buddy comedy Thunderbolt and Lightfoot in 1974.  His follow-up was The Deer Hunter (1979), one of the most influential films of the Seventies, and the first Oscar-winning movie made about the Vietnam War. High on his sophomore success, Cimino garnered an unprecedented budget and schedule commitment from United Artists to make his mesmerizing mega-budget western Heaven's Gate (1980), a nearly four hour box office disaster that bankrupted the studio, and became the tipping point for directorial excess in Hollywood. Chastened by his fall from grace, Cimino regrouped for the slightly less ambitious Year of the Dragon (1985), a dynamic though money-losing cop picture plagued by protests for its "racist" portrayal of Asian culture. Undaunted, Cimino accepted the assignment to direct the film adaptation of Mario Puzo's sequel novel to The Godfather, entitled The Sicilian, a largely fictionalized retelling of the life of Salvatore Giuliano, an actual post-war Italian bandit, known as the Robin Hood of Sicily. Puzo, in a crass bid to give historical credibility to his invented Corleone family, shoe-horned them into Giuliano's real-life exploits. With all cinematic rights to The Godfather still in the hands of others, any mention of the Corleones were excised from the script of The Sicilian, and Cimino also distanced himself from Coppola's landmark saga by avoiding the casting of any familiar Mediterranean faces. This led to some downright odd casting choices, including German Fassbinder almuni Barbara Sukowa as an American-born Countess, Cockney Terence Stamp as an effete sphinx-like Italian Prince, and fair-haired Irish actor Ray McNally as a Roman politician. Cimino personally campaigned for Frenchman Christophe Lambert as Giuliano, and at the time his choice must have seemed right, given the era's paucity of young bankable Italian stars. Lambert, whose myopic intensity and physical grace often compensated for his limited emotional range, perfectly embodied Cimino's romanticized hero, a direct contrast to the docudrama approach favoured by Neopolitan writer-director Francesco Rosi for his 1962 film Salvatore Giuliano. Much like Rosi, Cimino saw his Giuliano film as a personal statement, the third in his mythic trilogy of criminal systems and the rebels who oppose them. In Heaven's Gate, it was Kris Kristofferson's cynical betrayal by the robber barons of the East Coast, a reality lived by Cimino himself when the film was cut in half and forsaken by its distributors. In Year of the Dragon, it was Mickey Rourke's noble redemption in his one-man war with the Chinese Tong, revealing a determination which mirrored Cimino's own rising from the ashes, but it would all come to a fateful conclusion with The Sicilian, where the optimism of altrusitic banditry is proven to be no match for the seemingly eternal corruption of Mafia-controlled Sicily. Cimino learned the same hard lesson about the Hollywood system when his 146 minute director's cut of the film was legally butchered to 115 minutes and released with minimal enthusiasm by a fledgling production company founded by former Columbia Pictures chief David Begelman, the convicted embezzler in a notorious 1977 cheque forging scandal that almost fatally damaged the career of actor Cliff Robertson. Maimed in previous battles, Cimino now seemed to have lost the war, making only two forgotten subsequent films in the Nineties (The Desperate Hours; Sunchaser), before pursuing a career as a novelist in Europe. With its lacklustre North American reception, The Sicilian was effectively orphaned, with only a later home video version of Cimino's cut, where the virtues of David Mansfield's lush Italianate score, Alex Thomson's burnished cinematography, and the director's own eye for visually epic composition, could still be appreciated by those who believe that a true artist is the author of his or her own fate and can never be silenced by the opposition or indifference of their corrupt benefactors. BLU-RAY