The Neon Rain, Heaven’s Prisoners and Black Cherry Blues by James Lee Burke

James Lee Burke is the crawlin’ kingsnake of Southern crime fiction. His novels are taut, violent flashes of suffering and redemption. Great stuff if you can take the pain. These are the first three novels in the long-running Dave Robicheaux series. Burke is a heavy-hitter, a novelist who beautifully mixes emotion, character, plot, and terrific prose all within a hard-boiled framework. Basically, he does what a great writer is supposed to do –- blow the reader away with his skills. He has put the zap back into the crime fiction genre. So far I’ve only read the first three in the series, but I can’t wait to work through the rest of them. Which says a lot, I think, since the series is now up to book twelve. That’s a lot of suffering and agony for a reader to endure. But these books are worth it due to Burke’s strong yet lush prose and memorable characters. Unfortunately, Burke’s female characters (mainly Annie from the first two books) leave a lot to be desired. Burke has a tendency to cast them as either mother figures or victims, although perhaps that’s just dirty ol’ Robicheaux’s perceptions. It’s hard to tell. Nevertheless, these first three novels make for excellent reading, especially if your sensibilities lean toward the dark.

Beware that the below mini-reviews contain major spoilers!

The Neon Rain introduces us to the character of Detective Dave Robicheaux, a recovering alcoholic Vietnam-vet who isn’t afraid to stir up the shit on his New Orleans beat. Hailing from the Cajun backwoods of New Iberia, Robicheaux is one bad ass dude with plenty of skeletons in his closet. After the discovery of a black prostitute’s body in his old parish, Robicheaux becomes obsessed with finding out who murdered her. Unfortunately, no one cares enough to help him on his crusade, including his own partner Cletus, who is a certifiable loose canon. But Robicheaux won’t let the case die, and soon the entire city becomes a killing ground for a cop who is going off the deep end. Although arguably the weakest of the three, The Neon Rain makes for an exciting first book in the series. It’s strong stuff, especially when Robicheaux falls off the wagon and almost ends up destroying everyone and everything around him. But the book’s strong sense of story and character make it impossible to put down.

Even better is Heaven’s Prisoners. Robicheaux is now married, retired from the police force, and living back in New Iberia. But when Robicheaux and his wife witness a plane crash in the bayou and save a young El Salvadorian girl from the wreckage, Robicheaux is drawn back into a sinister plot of murder, gun running and politics. And then there’s the crime kingpin Bubba Rocque. Bubba and Robicheaux have known each since childhood and have always had a confrontational relationship to say the least. But when Robicheaux suspects that his old friend is behind the brutal slaying of his wife Annie, their relationship enters a whole new level of conflict. Heaven’s Prisoners contains some brilliant and horrifying moments, and it also has some of the best villains that I’ve encountered in a long time. Fantastic stuff.

But for all of the previous novel’s excellence, Black Cherry Blues reaches a whole new level of greatness. After a chance meeting with his old college roommate, a down-and-out rhythm and blues guitarist named Dixie Lee Pugh, Robicheaux is accosted by an ambitious DEA agent who wants to nail the infamous Sal the Duck, a.k.a. Sally Dio, a major mob player operating out of Montana. The feds want Dio’s ass and the only way they can nab him seems to be through Robicheaux’s connection with Dixie Lee. Of course, this being a James Lee Burke novel, things do not come together that easily. Dave’s daughter’s life is threatened, Robicheaux is accused of murder, and Sally Dio and his gang of criminal scumbags wish they’d never even heard of big bad Dave when he arrives in Montana to stir up some serious shit. Throw in the return of Robicheaux’s ex-partner Cletus into the mix, and what you end up with is one wild read that is bold, violent and ultimately unforgettable. I was a little worried, at first, about taking Robicheaux out of the bayou. But the change of atmosphere works beautifully and my fears were quickly quashed. At this point in the series Burke really needed to open things up a bit and try something new for fear of repeating himself. He succeeded in spades.

Wishing Cats Could Talk: CQ (2001)

I love this film. Roman Coppola’s groovy ode to love, identity, fantasy, and most importantly, the delirious joys of Italian B-pictures from the 1960s, pretty much flew under the radar when it was released in 2002. Too bad, since it was one of the best, most thoroughly enjoyable films to come out that year. It’s now out on DVD, so perhaps it’ll find a more appreciative audience. Jeremy Davies (who has quickly become one of my favorite actors) plays Paul, a young film editor living in Paris in 1969. Although he’s working on a science-fiction film called Codename Dragonfly, a wild mix of Barbarella and Mario Bava’s Danger: Diabolik, Paul’s real passion is in completing his own black & white film that is basically a cinematic diary of his own life (an homage to Jim McBride’s classic David Holzman’s Diary starring L. M. Kit Carson, who also has a cameo in CQ). Unfortunately, it’s working on the science-fiction film that is going to help him pay the rent and hopefully make a name for himself, especially when the film’s quasi-Marxist director, played by Gerard Depardieu, is subsequently fired for not giving his film the proper action-oriented ending. When Dragonfly’s new director, played to perfection by Jason Schwartzman, is injured in a car accident and decides to take some time off, Paul is given the chance to complete the film. But is it worth it?

CQ is a wonderful surprise for lovers of late-60s European exploitation films. But even if you’re not well acquainted with directors such as Bava and Jess Franco, the film still works on many other levels. Coppola’s persistent questioning of what is real (whether through visual terms or verbal) is never heavy-handed or clumsy, and his low-key directing style perfectly complements the film’s re-imagining of the era. The gorgeous Angela Lindvall, in the duel roles of Dragonfly and Valentine the actress, is great as the object of Paul’s wistful attraction, as is Giancarlo Giannini as Dragonfly’s tyrannical producer. John Phillip Law, the star of Bava’s Danger: Diabolik, also makes an amusing cameo in Dragonfly. The spacey, Euro-hip soundtrack by Mellow is also superb and is worth picking up as well. It’ll be interesting to see what Coppola will focus on next. Let’s hope he doesn’t make us wait long.

CQ is available on DVD from MGM Home Entertainment.

What if Vampires Owned a Dairy Farm: Thirst (1979)

Thirst is not a great horror film (it goes on a bit too long), but there are enough ingenious ideas and grotesque imagery in it to satisfy die hard fans. In fact, although it is a vampire film, it leans more towards science-fiction than anything gothic. The vampires, who run a medical facility in the Australian outback where they bleed victims for drinking with machines, are members of the establishment –- respected, civil, non-threatening. Underneath their veneer of upright behavior awaits the same hunger that has plagued them for centuries. But when the vampires, led by Dr. Fraser (wonderfully played by David Hemmings), discover that a descendent of Countess Bathory lives near by, they kidnap the young woman (Chantal Contouri) with the intention of re-educating her to her noble, albeit violent lineage. Of course, that’s easier said than done, and most of the film deals nicely with the woman’s refusal to accept her destiny. Some of the optical effects in the film are cheesy (the vampires’ glowing red eyes), but there are more than enough disturbing images in the film to make for an enjoyable night. It reminded me of a horror pulp from the 1930s or so. Good stuff.

Thirst is available on DVD from Elite Entertainment. The disc contains commentary from director Rob Hardy and producer Antony I. Ginnane, an isolated music track, and the requisite theatrical trailer and T.V. spots.

Bigger is Better: Hercules in the Haunted World (1961)

I’ve got a thing for sword & sandal films. Well, actually I have a weakness for all kinds of epic films. Whether it’s the religious phantasmagoria of The Ten Commandments (1956), the pleasure of watching The Vikings (1958) rape and pillage, seeing the mighty forces of Rome get their comeuppance at the hands of barbarian hordes in The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964), or witnessing the lone Maximus getting his just-revenge in Gladiator (2000), the twelve year-old boy in me can’t seem to get enough of the spectacle and the melodrama that are integral to the genre. For years, before the latter of the above became a smash success and ended up winning Oscars for Best Picture and Best Actor, I complained to anyone who would listen (mostly my indulgent wife and friends) that Hollywood (or anyone else for that matter) was no longer making those kind of pictures any longer. “Why not?” I asked, absolutely mystified. “They’re so damn cool!” Obviously expense played a huge factor in them not getting made. But now with advancements in special-effects, you don’t actually need a thousand extras to fill the seats of the Coliseum. You don’t even need the Coliseum for that matter. All you need is a computer.

Of course, you don’t really need that either. Mario Bava didn’t have a computer or a cast of thousands to help him and he ended up making one of the best, most enjoyable of all peplum films, Hercules in the Haunted World (1961). For those of you who don’t know anything about the peplum genre, the films were primarily Italian made and focused on the heroic exploits of legendary figures such as Maciste and Hercules. A lot of the films were dull and unimaginative. But at their bizarre best the films are splendid pulp melodramas with imagination to spare. Although Bava is best known for his wonderfully surreal horror films Black Sunday (1961), Black Sabbath (1963), Blood and Black Lace (1964), and my personal favorite Kill, Baby … Kill! (1966), his contribution to the genre is an equally excellent mix of sword & sandal and horror. Starring British body builder and two-time “Mr. Universe” Reg Park (who replaced Steve Reeves in the role) as Hercules, and the great Christopher Lee (who would also work with Bava in the 1963 gothic Whip and the Body) as the evil and vampiric Lyco, Hercules in the Haunted World is one of the best of its peculiar sub-genre. Like most of Bava’s films from this period, Hercules is fabulous to look at and contains plenty of eye-popping, hallucinatory visuals. Whether it’s seeing Hercules and his faithful sidekick crossing a lake of fiery lava by rope or watching Hercules battle flying cave-dwelling vampires in his quest to retrieve a golden apple that will save the soul of the woman he loves, the film is perfect matinee material. Bava’s use of dazzling primary colors (one of his trademarks) and inventive set designs help raise it far above its hackneyed storyline or lackluster acting (Christopher Lee excluded).

In all fairness, I don’t watch films like Hercules in the Haunted World for “good” acting and a strong storyline. Sure, if the film contains strong performances and a brilliant narrative, then all the better. I surely won’t complain. But it’s all about spectacle, really. These films, however ridiculous and cartoonish they may get, reconfigure history through the infernal lens of cinematic fantasy and myth, eschewing the restraints of reason and logic for something far more powerful and all-consuming. And that’s not just the twelve-year old boy talking, either.

Hercules in the Haunted World is available on DVD from Fantoma in all its widescreen glory and in its original European cut with English or Italian language options. Bava biographer Tim Lucas (his long-awaited book on the director should be out in June) has written informative liner notes for the release, and the disc also includes a theatrical trailer and some cool stills and poster art.

In Memoriam

Country music legend June Carter Cash, wife of the great Johnny Cash, died on Thursday May 15th at the age of 73. She will be fondly remembered.

Johnny Cash ~ Murder

I’ve been listening to a lot of blues and country music lately. Real country, mind you, not that soulless shit that Nashville’s been spewing out. Although Johnny Cash is always a favorite around these parts, he’s been on heavy rotation lately. But what can you say about Johnny Cash that hasn’t already been said a million times? He’s a living legend, a voice for the working classes, and a storyteller of the highest order. Elvis may be the King to most, but Mr. Cash is truly America’s finest singer/songwriter ever. Murder is a collection of 16 previously released songs that chronicle the lives of killers, thieves, assassins, and other miscreants. A lot of the songs will be familiar, like “Folsom Prison Blues,” “Delia’s Gone,” “Orleans Parish Prison,” and “Don’t Take Your Guns to Town.” But there are less-familiar tunes also included, such as “The Sound of Laughter,” which was previously unreleased in the U.S., “Hardin Wouldn’t Run,” and “When It’s Springtime in Alaska (It’s Forty Below).” Although it’s difficult for me to pick favorites, I’d have to go with the eerie “The Long Black Veil” and Mr. Cash’s incredible cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “Highway Patrolman.” Springsteen’s original version, from his album Nebraska (which I hope to write about soon), is extraordinary and haunting in its own right, but Mr. Cash’s more orchestrated version adds a layer of emotional depth that is hard to argue with. It’s all in the voice, I guess. Murder is available on its own or as part of a three CD box set entitled Love, God, Murder. As with this disc, the other two are also thematic.

When it Rains it Pours: Rolling Thunder (1977)

After spending seven years inside of a hellish North Vietnamese prison camp, Major Charles Rane (William Devane) returns to San Antonio, Texas, hoping to get his life back in order. Rane is given a hero’s welcome and is offered a brand new red Cadillac and a couple thousand silver dollars for his patriotic commitment. Unfortunately, the hero’s welcome doesn’t extend to his home life. On the first night of his return, Rane’s wife informs him that she’s been having an affair and that she wants a divorce. The scene is stark and uncomfortable to watch as the camera focuses in on Rane quietly smoking a cigarette and drinking a can of beer as he solemnly listens to his estranged wife. Although the news is painful and shocking, Rane is no stranger to suffering. All those years as a P.O.W. have burned itself deep within him. He’s become a friend to pain; a martyr in search of the next masochistic abasement. Realizing that his marriage no longer exists, Rane moves into a shed in the backyard and spends his days exercising and getting to know his son, who was only a few months old when Rane left for Vietnam. He also spends a lot of time brooding on his time in captivity. Not overcoming the nightmares, mind you. Just brooding on them. Rane is too far gone and wound too tight to be liberated from his torture-fueled memories. But you do get the feeling that he wants some peace. Of course, for a man like Major Rane, peace is a luxury that is far beyond his price range. Upon returning home one afternoon, Rane finds a group of good ol’ boys in his house. They’ve come for the silver dollars. Rane refuses to give up the money and is subsequently beaten. And when the beatings don’t make him talk, the thieves resort to torture (they shove Rane’s right hand down the garbage disposal, grinding it to a bloody pulp). Nearly dead from the torture, Rane still refuses to speak. But when his wife and son return home, the boy reveals where the silver dollars are. Then the nightmare really starts to cook. The thieves shoot Rane, his wife, and the boy, leaving them all for dead. But Rane survives the horrible crime and vows vengeance. Equipped with a metal claw for a right hand, Rane enlists the help of a young woman (Linda Haynes) who wore his dog tags while he was incarcerated and who is a self-described Major Charles Rane groupie, and the two of them cruise through Texas and Mexico hunting down the killers. Eventually Rane reunites with his old friend and fellow P.O.W. Johnny Vohden (played by an excitable Tommy Lee Jones in one of his first roles) to help him on his crusade. Vohden, whose return to civilian life has also been difficult, eagerly accepts the invitation. Like two desperate outlaws looking for one last shotgun blast of redemptive glory, Rane and Vohden journey to a Mexican whorehouse to slaughter their way into Heaven.

Written by Paul Schrader, fresh off his work on Martin Scorsese’s classic Taxi Driver, and crime writer Heywood Gould, Rolling Thunder traverses much of the same thematic ground as the earlier film, albeit in a more straight-forward B-movie fashion. John Flynn’s direction is sometimes crude and strictly utilitarian. But the film nevertheless harbors moments of great visceral power and complexity. William Devane is superb as the taciturn time bomb Major Rane. There is a disquieting calm about his performance, recalling less Robert De Niro’s role of Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver and more like Martin Sheen’s low-key haunted Captain Willard from Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now. More than just a retread of Schrader’s work on Taxi Driver, Rolling Thunder above all quotes the films of Sam Peckinpah. Whether it’s the perceptive reconfiguration of the American action-hero as a Puritanical kill-crazy avenger, the use of Mexico as a symbol for lawlessness and moral chaos, or the portrayal of the climatic shootout as a holy soul-cleansing ritual and philosophical confirmation that life is indeed a Nietzschean struggle beyond good and evil -– Peckinpah’s ruthless stamp is all over this equally brutal and shattering film. It may not be a masterpiece, but Rolling Thunder is definitely in my top ten favorite action films of all time.

Rolling Thunder is currently not available on DVD, but it was issued on VHS by the now-defunct Vestron Video label. Considering that Quentin Tarantino named his video label after the film, it would seem likely that he would put it out. So far he hasn’t. Regardless, it’s definitely worth hunting down.

The City that Never Sleeps: Violent City (1970)

Bronson, thy name is toughness. Although Lee Marvin is without a doubt my favorite tough guy actor of all time, Bronson is close behind him. Violent City (a.k.a. The Family), directed by Sergio Sollima (The Big Gundown), is a fast-paced hard-boiled shot of sleaze, violence and general politically incorrect behavior. In other words, it’s prime B-movie fare. Bronson plays a hit man named Jeff (but we all know it’s really Bronson playing himself, right?), who has a pretty big bone to pick with a syndicate crime boss played by Telly Savalas. Yeah, you heard me right -- Telly Savalas. You see, someone tried to rub Bronson out while he was on vacation with this hot blonde chick, played by Jill Ireland (Bronson’s future wife). Who was the mastermind behind the ambush? Well, Telly Savalas of course. And Jill Ireland too. In fact, before Bronson blacked-out he saw Jill take off in a little sports car. So anyway, a lot of the film is just about how Bronson is looking for some serious payback. He gets to beat, stab, shoot, break, and maim people left and right. He’s a regular Mr. Murder. He even slaps around Jill Ireland a couple of times, but she likes it. No, she really does. Eventually Bronson and Kojak have a little showdown, mano e mano. And Bronson ends up with the girl in the end. I think. I can’t remember since I was drunk. Violent City was written by European filmmaker Lina Wertmuller, who made a number of provocative films in the 1970s including the original Swept Away and Seven Beauties, the latter of which garnered her Oscar nominations for Best Screenplay and Best Director. The film also contains a fantastic score by Ennio Morricone. The film may not be Bronson’s best (I’ll leave that for Mr. Majestyk, which I hope to write about soon), but it’s right up there.

Violent City is available on DVD from Anchor Bay Home Entertainment and contains a great 15-minute interview with the director, the original theatrical trailer and more. But really, what more could you possibly want from a Bronson movie called Violent City? Perhaps only that it was longer.

Acid is Fun: Blue Sunshine (1976)

Long coveted by psychotronic film aficionados, Jeff Lieberman’s Blue Sunshine is a cranked-up psychotic bad trip that starts out twisted and only gets tighter as it goes along. Starring future soft-porn movie czar Zalman King, Sunshine examines what happens when a group of former college friends, who in the heady 1960s all took a bad batch of LSD known as Blue Sunshine, are now reaping what they’d sown. And man, it isn’t pretty. Blue Sunshine may take ten years to peak within the user, but it definitely makes up for lost time. Users of the drug (a reporter, a housewife, a political aide, a cop) turn into complete homicidal maniacs. Oh, and their hair falls out also, making them appear like Manson Family members, albeit more culturally conservative ones. Blue Sunshine may be a seriously whacked-out exploitation film, but its satire of American consumer culture is nevertheless dead-on. Like the films of cult film auteur Larry Cohen (God Told Me To, It’s Alive!, The Stuff), the early films of David Cronenberg (Shivers, Rabid, The Brood, Scanners, Videodrome) and George A. Romero’s classic living dead trilogy, Lieberman deftly skewers strip malls, suburbia, television, advertising, and most of all, the so-called Me Generation of daft “experimenters” who for one brief moment believed that there would be no repercussions for their downward spiral of collegiate decadence. Zalman King, as the “hero” of the film, is completely over-the-top. I’m still not sure whether he’s brilliant or the worst actor of all time. Perhaps he’s a little of both. On a scale of one to ten on the hysterical meter he rates an eleven and a half, just a little behind Steve Railsback’s totally bizarre performance from Tobe Hooper’s unjustly-maligned science fiction bomb Lifeforce. But to tell you the truth it’s too close to judge accurately. Previously, Lieberman had directed the Nature Run Amok drive-in classic Squirm (1976) and the Hillbilly Run Amok film Just Before Dawn (1981). Both have their value, but Blue Sunshine is definitely the one to see. Nostalgic baby-boomers, neo-hippies and disco-cogs should stay away, though. Everyone else should dose.

Blue Sunshine is available on DVD from Synapse Films. The Special Edition disc contains a short film called The Ringer, director’s commentary, the requisite theatrical trailer, and for a limited time only the original soundtrack CD.

Apocalypse Whenever: Who’ll Stop the Rain (1978) and Cutter’s Way (1981)

The 1970s sucked. Don’t let anyone tell you differently either. While revisionist filmmakers love to perpetuate the smiley-faced myth of the supercool decade as one long groovy party with television shows like That ‘70s Show and features like Boogie Nights and 54, the real 1970s gave us Watergate, the Pet Rock, and paranoia as a way of life. It was an irony-free decade of hirsute men and women getting some afternoon delight while television programs like The Gong Show kept the Lazy-Boy inmates sedated. It was also the era of Vietnam, left-wing terrorists like the SLA and The Weathermen, and bands like The Eagles. The 1970s more than sucked.

But while the cities burned and the crime rate soared, Hollywood was churning out some of the finest films ever. Directors like Roman Polanski, Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, Michael Cimino, Robert Altman, William Friedkin, Paul Mazurski, Woody Allen, Hal Ashby, and of course, Steven Spielberg and George Lucas, all helped define the so-called New Hollywood, for better or worse. They were young, brash and most of all talented. When you examine the defining films of the decade -– Chinatown, The Godfather, Apocalypse Now, Taxi Driver, The Deer Hunter, Nashville, Annie Hall, The Exorcist, An Unmarried Woman, Star Wars, Jaws, Coming Home –- you begin to see why they mattered, if only for the moment. But for every maverick filmmaker that came down the yellow brick road bent on kicking out the jams, there were other directors and writers who quietly slipped into the Emerald City to expose the rottenness that was punctuating much of American culture.

Based on Robert Stone’s award winning novel Dog Soldiers, Karl Reisz’s Who’ll Stop the Rain is a caustic, violent character study of three people who will do anything to hit the big payoff, make the permanent vacation, cash in on the Big Sell-Out. Michael Moriarty plays a shell-shocked ex-Marine turned war journalist who enlists the help of his Nietzche-reading Marine buddy, played by Nick Nolte, to smuggle two kilos of uncut heroin from Southeast Asia into California. Once there, Moriarty’s wife, played by Tuesday Weld, will help Nolte make the score and then the three of them can reap the immense financial benefits together. They’ll be set for life. But considering that life rarely goes as planned, things quickly fall apart. And when the CIA gets in on the action, things get even stranger and decidedly more deadly.

Although far from perfect, Who’ll Stop the Rain contains three very fine performances from its leads and from the supporting players as well. Paranoia runs deep through its veins, conjuring up nightmare visions of CIA drug smuggling and torture of American citizens. It’s Treasure of the Sierra Madre for the angel dust crowd. Bitter, corrosive and memorable. It’s occasionally awkward and meandering, ugly and ridiculous. But then again, so was the decade that it’s ripping apart.

Czech director Ivan Passer’s Cutter’s Way is even better. In fact, it’s arguably the best damn neo-noir film of the era, second only to Roman Polanski’s classic noir masterpiece Chinatown. Based on Newton Thornburg’s celebrated cult novel Cutter and Bone, the film is a descent into the sun-baked nightmare world of the rich, the oblivious, and the acid-soaked gravediggers that populate Santa Barbara circa the late 1970s. The film was released in 1981, but there’s no doubt what funeral it’s attending to. Cutter (John Heard), an alcoholic, half-crazed belligerent Vietnam vet with only one usable arm and a leg that’s seen better days, his best friend Richard Bone (Jeff Bridges), who works part-time as a sail boat salesman and full-time as a gigolo/party boy, and Cutter’s wife Moe (Lisa Eichhorn), who spends her days and nights secluded in the house drinking endless bottles of vodka and waiting for the world to blink out once and for all, are all attendees at the funeral. But when Bone, on his way to meeting Cutter at a bar one night, witnesses a man dumping the body of a young woman into a trash dumpster, the brutal crime becomes a catalyst for these damaged souls to grasp one last time for a semblance of justice and for a balm of truth. Unfortunately, truth and justice don’t always mix nor do they come to those who need them the most. Some mysteries are simply never meant to be solved.

It’s hard to imagine a film like this being made today. In a time when most productions, whether made within the constraints of Hollywood or not, are afraid to be ambiguous, or worse, afraid to leave the viewer feeling bad, a film like Cutter’s Way is worth more than a multitude of designer-nihilistic hand jobs like Fight Club or retro-tough guy noirs from Tarantino and his ilk. Cutter’s Way is about something real. It’s a cry from the iron lung, a wheeze of societal malaise and post-Vietnam burn-out. The film may be low on flash, but its subtle artistry and powerful performances more than cover the bill. It’s memorable stuff, and paired with Who’ll Stop the Rain, a reminder that the decade of the hustle was also the decade of disaster. Funny how things haven’t changed.

Both films are available on DVD from MGM Home Entertainment.