drqshadow-reviews

A quiet, measured meditation on the latter days of the old west, Jeremiah Johnson stars Robert Redford as a know-nothing who plunges himself into the harsh Rocky Mountain winter and learns on the job. He's way out of his depth, right away, and everyone can see it. Some, like the shopkeep who points the way from train to wilderness, merely smirk and shake their heads, having watched the same story a hundred times before. Others take a more active role, like the wizened old grizzly hunter who takes pity and shows him the ropes, or the skin-headed scoundrel who repays Johnson's generosity by leading him into tough situations. Lessons come in many forms, and Jeremiah is hungry to learn. He's a compelling figure, if a stoic one; versatile in his capability to adapt to a situation, whether its demands be physical or mental.

Johnson endures some hard times, but he's rewarded with moments of great beauty which never seem wasted. Much of this film was shot on Redford's vast personal property in Utah, and the star's familiarity with the land allows us to behold a number of stunning vistas. Plenty of time to soak them in, too, as director Sydney Pollack seems equally enchanted by the area's natural majesty. It's enough to put anyone in a contemplative mood, so it comes as no surprise that the mountain man often surrenders himself to reflection, pairing his inner compassion and determination with a serene outer calm that betrays no weakness. He's like a naturalist Bob Ross in these scenes, which makes for good existential conflict when unfair circumstances push him to a breaking point. Once he crosses that line, the film's mood shifts and its tempo picks up, but Jeremiah doesn't change much. Though he's now fighting for his life in different ways, he still takes challenges in stride and responds with due consideration.

It can sometimes feel ponderous and flat, but Jeremiah Johnson's sweeping depiction of self-discovery in a broad, isolated wilderness finds strength and meaning when it needs to. Redford puts good work into a role that isn't scripted to be very forthcoming, and his way of life feels romantic, authentic and enveloping. Peaceful at times, stirring at times, stagnant at times.

Mark Gregory starred in one of my all-time favorite crappy movies, 1990: The Bronx Warriors; a relentlessly stupid tough-guy action creampuff from the same age (and the same cut-rate Italian movie studio) that produced this dated dose of VHS shelf-filler. Where Bronx Warriors asked Gregory to imitate Mel Gibson in a silly Mad Max knock-off, Thunder (aka Thunder Warrior) casts the Roman actor as a Native American and shoos him off to do his best Sylvester Stallone. Painted as a stone-faced Navajo drifter who wafts into a small Arizona town, our pouty action hero makes fast enemies of the crude, ignorant white folk (especially, but not exclusively, the police) and leads these angry occupiers on a well-armed chase through the buttes and mesas of the American southwest. Sound familiar? It's First Blood for natives, with a few cacti and rock formations tossed in for variety.

Thunder is a mess, and not half as much fun as its Bronx-dwelling predecessor. The plot is loud and aggressive for no good reason, escalating a mundane land dispute into a fiery free-for-all because, I guess, the creative department had already illustrated such a badass movie poster. Every character can be reduced to a single broad stroke (one angry cop enters every scene with a reminder that "my brother might never walk again!"), and this includes the protagonist. Does he want fiery mayhem, or just a measure of respect? His words say one thing, but his actions imply another. At least, we have to assume that's what he's saying, because Gregory clearly doesn't speak much English. To work around this, or perhaps to ensure their star doesn't seem any more out of place, the entire cast is saddled with a set of horrendous, out-of-sync overdubs. Why would I expect anything else? While it may have been half-filmed on location, with a cast of mostly American actors, this is still a flimsy Italian budget production.

Even for those of us who get a kick out of bad cinema, Thunder isn't a good time. There are plenty of similar fish in the sea, ones with more amusing ineptitudes or louder bangs, and Mark Gregory's weird personal mannerisms are less enjoyable when he isn't straddling a motorcycle with an illuminated skull mounted to the handlebars. Still, it must've made a decent return. They filmed two sequels.

The simplistic story of a hard cider brewer who loses his business, goes hungry, learns to live off the frozen tundra and falls for a trader's flirty daughter. But it's not really about any of that. Instead, our eyes and minds are glued to the pure, syrupy stream of superficial sight gags and charmingly made-at-home SFX gimmicks. With only the loosest scraps of a narrative, Hundreds of Beavers instead offers sharp, tireless doses of inane slapstick that owe an awful lot to silent pantomime and classic Looney Tunes, especially the wordless Wile E. Coyote episodes. Those ones were always my favorites, growing up, and it didn't take long for this homage to find a similar standing in my heart.

You're going to want a few minutes to acclimate, so don't write this off right away. I know I needed ten or fifteen to realize that it wasn't just an extended prologue, to take a step back and re-center myself in the right head space. Once I recognized the kind of ride I'd just boarded, embraced the madcap and let go to the flow, I had myself a ball. This is raw, unfiltered pandemonium; a fire-hose surge of stupid ideas that are seen through with excited theatrical charisma, even as they completely lose sight of reality. Chaplin, Keaton and Lloyd would be proud, although their work would only bend the law of physics where Hundreds of Beavers eagerly smashes it into a million glittering pieces and then dances amidst the wreckage. It's shallow humor, flat and dumb, often perverse and scatological, but I'm not above cackling at childish jokes when they hit me right. I think we could all do to be a little more adolescent, honestly. And, while the punchlines all dwell right there on the surface, their composition is surprisingly adept. Each time we circle back around the hunting loop, to check traps and revisit recurring gags, the laughs are complicated and amplified. Like its hero, who progresses from buck-naked neophyte to almost-competent trader, the script does a great job of gradually leveling up, of perverting and tilting the bits that came before to boost their later renditions. Mayhem this may be, but it's well-orchestrated.

Hundreds of Beavers isn't high art, but it's as enthusiastic and creative, not to mention laugh-out-loud funny, as any comedy I've seen in the past two decades. It might not be for everybody, but it won't keep you waiting to find out. Straight out of the gates, these guys show you exactly who they are, exactly what we can expect. It's on us to recognize that, and to understand if we're the intended target. The team must've spent a fortune on furry, big-head mascot costumes.