Pedaling its way into theaters this weekend (and surely a lot of hearts too) is the Dardenne Brothers’ beautiful and poetic The Kid with a Bike, whose red-shirted, redemption-bound lead, Thomas Doret, should be penciled onto your shortlist of Best Actors for 2012. They may not be as common as the boy-and-his-dog tale, but stories about kids and their bikes have long been hitting screens (as evidenced herein, the 1980s, in particular, had a bike-film free-for-all). So before you check out this new can’t-miss slice of cycling cinema, dig into our list, likely the only one to put Nicole Kidman in the company of Lori Loughlin.
Henry Thomas in E.T. The Extra Terrestrial (1982). It’s only one of the most iconic images in American film: Elliot (Henry Thomas) sailing across the moon on his bike, with little E.T. tucked into a crate strapped to the handlebars. This forest flight has been dubbed by some as cinema’s most magical moment, and Spielberg famously went on to incorporate the shot into his Amblin Entertainment logo. It’s bike riding immortalized, alright. Feel free to grab your Reese’s Pieces before clicking on.
Paul Reubens in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure (1985). So this one doesn’t actually feature a kid, but try finding another adult who acts like Pee-Wee Herman. Co-written by Paul Reubens and the late Phil Hartman, this big-screen extension of Reubens’s stage act, The Pee-Wee Herman Show, had Time Burton in the director’s chair, and saw its singular eponymous hero scour the nation in search of his big red bicycle. A year later, the world was exposed to Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, and six years later, guests in a Sarasota porn theater were exposed to Reubens’s real pee-wee.
Sean Astin and friends in The Goonies (1985). Determined to find One-Eyed Willie’s treasure and save their precious Goon-Dock homes, Mikey (Sean Astin) and his fellow Goonies have to first tie up big bro Brand (Josh Brolin) in his exercise equipment so they can high-tail it on their bikes. Forced to chase them, all Brand is left with is a tiny girl’s bike. Cue Cyndi Lauper!
Angelo D’Angelo, James Lugton, and Nicole Kidman in BMX Bandits (1983). An Aussie kids’ film that proved ‘80s bike hysteria had spread ’round the globe, BMX Bandits features a trio of bike-riding kids who draw attention from police and a pack of thieves when they still the thieves’ walkie-talkies and thwart a planned robbery. Nicole Kidman was all of 16 when the film hit screens in Sydney, her Oscar-winning, Tom-Cruise-divorcing, country-singer-canoodling current self a mere twinkle in her eye.
Jon Heder and Efren Ramirez in Napoleon Dynamite (2004). An empty high point in the world of modern indie quirk, Napoleon Dynamite scored a lot of uncomfortable laughs with its near-insufferable hero’s random acts of amusement, like his and Pedro’s pathetic attempt to ride a bike off of some “sweet jumps.” No need to kick him in the nuts, he’s got that covered himself.
Kevin Bacon and company in Quicksilver (1986). And on go the ‘80s. Kevin Bacon’s Footloose follow-up, Quicksilver, reeks of its decade, and yet, it’s all so 2011: A young floor trader grows disenchanted with work and loses everything, so he takes a job as a bike messenger and finds release among the rabble. Amplifying Bacon’s “Six Degrees” power here are co-stars Jami Gertz, Laurence Fishburne, and Louie “Life with Louie” Anderson.
Demian Slade in Better Off Dead (1985). John Cusack was the star of this suicide-laced teen comedy, but the character many viewers remember most is Demian Slade’s pushy paperboy, Johnny Gasparini, who goes to such extreme lengths to collect the money owed to him that he follows Cusack’s Lane Myer onto a ski slope in the film’s climax. “I want my two dollars!” Johnny demands, spawning a catchphrase that, these days, is kinda like what you’d yell after seeing a John Cusack movie.
John Boyega and the gang in Attack the Block (2011). The rare contemporary film to showcase bikes prominently, last year’s British genre mash-up Attack the Block harkens back, with transgressive grit, to the ‘80s kids flicks on this list, pitting a crop of badass teens against an invading alien force. Gang leader Moses (John Boyega) and his cohorts mount bikes, motorbikes, and scooters as they protect their block from neon-toothed beasties.
Bill Allen and Lori Loughlin in Rad (1986). A joke of a film that birthed a rather sizable geek following, Rad was the penultimate directorial project for now-inactive stuntman Hal Needham, who also helmed Smokey and the Bandit, The Cannonball Run, and their sequels. A hallowed movie among BMX lovers, Rad follows an impassioned cyclist (Bill Allen) who chooses the Helltrack races over his SATs. It also boasts the presence of Aunt Becky herself, Lori Loughlin.
Salvatore Cascio in Cinema Paradiso (1988). The widely-beloved Oscar winner is highly overrated, but one of its better scenes sees young Toto (Salvatore Cascio) walking home with the town’s censorship-happy priest before hopping onto a bike with Alfredo (Phillippe Noiret), his tragic father figure. It’s a metaphoric ride into destiny, as Toto, of course, becomes the projectionist’s successor at the titular movie house.
Garrett Hedlund in Tron: Legacy (2010). Shuttled into a video-game world to go after his mastermind father (Jeff Bridges), twentysomething Sam (Garrett Hedlund) proves surprisingly efficient in the ways of the Tron world (the Grid), including the steering of those sleek and speedy light cycles. Though a disappointingly shallow sequel, Tron: Legacy, as promised, still has style to burn, never more evident than when Sam’s light bike is leaving vivid trails amid a deadly race.
Brian Tochi in Revenge of the Nerds (1984). Brian Tochi certainly left his mark on the ‘80s and early ‘90s. In addition to appearing in the third and fourth Police Academy films, he voiced Leonardo in three of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movies. Yet no Tochi character is more indelible than Toshiro Takashi from Revenge of the Nerds, who gains cheers of applause in a mostly offensive scene that sees him win a tricylce race while chugging beers (it’s the Greek Games, natch). Tochi pedals away while the soundtrack plays an Asian rendition of”A Bicycle Built for Two.”
Patrick Borriello in Die Hard with a Vengeance (1995). Honestly, the best image to be found of Patrick Borriello’s foul-mouthed punk in Die Hard with a Vengenace is the one above (he’s the fuzzy screamer, Photoshopped in on the right). Bumping in to John McClane after ripping off a quickie mart, Borriello barks, “All the cops are into sumthin! It’s Christmas, you could steal city hall!” Gifted with an epiphany, McClane takes the kid’s bike, enduring a whole lot of curses as he rides.
Dennis Christopher in Breaking Away (1979). Of his Breaking Away quartet, which also featured Dennis Quaid, Jackie Earle Haley, and Daniel Stern, Dennis Christopher went on to be the least famous, but he held the spotlight in this coming-of-age crowd-pleaser, which casts him as a globally-minded super-cyclist who’s laps ahead of everyone else in his Indiana town. Known for such scenes as when the friends need to take turns peddling after Christopher’s character’s race injury, Breaking Away netted a screenplay Oscar for Steve Tesich, who also penned the Kevin Costner bike film American Flyers.
Enzo Staiola in Bicycle Thieves (1948). Not even the Dardennes’ latest triumph can trump Vittorio de Sica’s sweeping masterpiece, the bicycle movie that any other will always be measured against. Still inspiring films as offbeat as Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy, Bicycle Thieves owes much to lead star Lamberto Maggiorani, but the pain of it all truly lies in the eyes of Enzo Staiola, whose character, the son of Maggiorani’s devastated searcher, witnesses all the desperate, loving, foolish, and fateful acts that are prompted by dire financial straits.
Review: That Was Something Lays Bare the Ephemeral Desires of a Lost Youth
By the end, the lesson we’ve learned is that the stories we tell ourselves about the past have always been revised from a previous draft.
Film and theater critic Dan Callahan’s witty debut novel, That Was Something, chronicles the young adulthood of Bobby Quinn, a gay Midwestern transplant who’s just moved from Chicago to Manhattan to attend New York University. Retrospectively, it examines his obsession with the two leading players in the story of his early days in the city in the late 1990s: the enigmatic Ben Morrissey, an irresistible fellow student destined for fame in the art world, and the mysterious Monika Lilac, a dramatic and performative slightly older cinephile whose devotion to silent films is emblematic of her entire character. “I was looking for the keys to the kingdom, and I found them or thought I did in Manhattan screening rooms, in the half-light and the welcome dark,” Bobby declares to the reader in the novel’s opening, and so begins a provocative—and conspicuously wine-drenched—narrative that serves both as a paean to a bygone era and an emphatic testimony about how we never really leave behind the people, experiences, and places that shape us into who we are in the present.
For a fleeting period of time, the lives of these three characters become intertwined and united by their shared passion for the cinema—and for each other. While Ben and Monika enter into a tumultuous romance, Bobby watches from the sidelines as he privately explores his own sexuality, mostly in dalliances with anonymous older men who he meets at bars in Chelsea, having learned to offer himself up “as a kind of virgin sacrifice.” Throughout, Callahan’s frank descriptions of Bobby’s early sexual experiences are a welcome departure from metaphor, while still seeming almost mythical in the way that Bobby recalls them, just like how all of the liminal moments in our lives—the moments in which we cross a threshold and permanently abandon whoever we had been before—seem to mark our personal histories almost like the transitions between the disparate chapters of a novel.
Bobby has been deeply in love with Ben ever since the two met for the first time in a common area of their shared dormitory at NYU, and Ben keeps Bobby only barely at arm’s length—sexually and otherwise—throughout the dazzling weeks, months, and even years of their relationship as young men. He constantly reminds Bobby that they would probably be lovers if only Ben were gay, which is obviously music to Bobby’s ears, fueling many of his private fantasies. And Bobby is also the prized subject of Ben’s budding photography career, often photographed in the nude, and both the photographs themselves and the act of bringing them into the world blur lines of sexuality and masculinity as the friendship between the two young men deepens and becomes increasingly complex.
Callahan cocoons his characters in what feels like a time capsule, capturing them at their most beautiful and glamorous and then presenting them to us as if on a stage—or on a screen, which the characters in the novel would agree is even more intimate, even more akin to a grab at immortality. Other characters drift in and out of the central narrative in the same way that one-night stands and people we’ve met only at dimly lit parties can sometimes seem blurry and indistinct when we try to recollect them later, but the love story that Bobby is most interested in sharing with the reader is that of a queer young man’s obsession with his larger than life friends during a time when everything for him was larger than life.
Callahan’s previous book, The Art of American Screen Acting: 1912-1960, demonstrates the author’s talent for dissecting the subtlety and nuance of the many nonverbal ways in which the icons of the screen communicate with one another, and here too in That Was Something is close attention paid to the power of performance. The novel is also a story about falling in love with a city, even in retrospect—and even after the version of the city that you originally knew is gone forever. And in the familiar yet always poignant way in which the sights and sounds of a lost New York typically wriggle their way into a novel like this one, the city is at first a backdrop before it inevitably becomes a character.
Monika Lilac hosts a silent film-themed party at her house during which the guests have been cleverly instructed to pantomime their communication to one another rather than speak out loud, and to write out any absolutely necessary dialogue on handmade title cards. At the end of the party, the various revelers—wearing only their underwear, at Monika’s command—all together “streamed out into the night and ran like crazy” through New York City streets while being pummeled from above by heavy rain, not caring at all who was watching. And Bobby, from the vantage point of years in the future, recalls:
In any other place, we might have been harassed, arrested, or the object of wide-eyed stares. Not in Manhattan. And that has its flip side, too. Because Manhattan will let you do whatever you like, at any time of the day or night, but it won’t ever pay attention to you. You can be world famous, and Manhattan still basically doesn’t care, most of the time. And if you aren’t world famous, Manhattan regards you at several ice-slicked levels below indifference. And sometimes, on less wonderful days and nights, some attention might be welcome.
In a blurb on the novel’s back cover, Wayne Koestenbaum describes That Was Something as “The Great Gatsby on poppers,” and there’s definitely something of Nick Carraway in the voice of Bobby Quinn as he looks back at his disappearing New York and the people who populated it, the ghost of a city that disappeared forever the moment he looked away. Callahan’s novel enters the canon of the queer roman a clef—as well as the literary New York novel—by mixing vibrantly realized memories of a fleeting youth, ruminations on the origins of desire, and a deeply felt nostalgia for the way things once were into a cocktail that tastes exactly like growing up and growing older in the same city in which you were once young. And the hangover after a night spent knocking them back in the dim light of a Manhattan dive, as anyone who still occasionally haunts the haunts of his youth can tell you, is always brutal.
Bobby is now many years older as he narrates That Was Something, his desires tempered or at least contained by realistic expectations of how and in what ways they might be satisfied, and his relationships with Ben (now famous) and Monika (now vanished) are either nonexistent or else greatly demoted from the centrality that they had once firmly occupied in the narrative of his life. But there’s still urgency in what Bobby is telling the reader. In the novel’s brilliant final pages, we come to realize that the act of looking back at our younger selves is both masturbatory and transitory, mostly an exercise in framing. Bobby has been explaining how age has made him wistful about his moment in the sun, but then he’s suddenly remembering a fantasy that he once enacted alone one afternoon in his dorm room, back when he was still a virgin—and back when all of his fantasies were about Ben Morrissey:
I entered another place with my mind. It felt like what stepping into the past would feel like now, maybe. It was forbidden, and I was getting away with it. … Looked at from the outside and with unsympathetic eyes, it would be pitiful and grotesque, maybe even laughable. So why am I still so certain that something else occurred?
The lesson we’ve learned by the end of That Was Something is that the stories we tell ourselves about the past have always been revised from a previous draft. Just think of all that film that ends up on the cutting room floor during the editing process, to be forgotten and swept away with the garbage after the best take has been safely delivered. Only with the benefit of hindsight can we wipe away the shame and growing pains of early stabs at love and failed expressions of desire and instead render the past beautifully, artfully, just as the cinematic film frame limits our perspective so that all we can see is what the director has meticulously manufactured specifically for us. The equipment that made the image possible in the first place has been painstakingly concealed, so that all we notice—all we remember—is whatever ends up remaining beneath the carefully arranged spotlight.
Sometimes a great novel, like a great film, can at once transform and transport us, offering a glimpse into a lost world made all the more beautiful by the distance it asks us to travel into our hearts and minds. At the end of one of the last film screenings that Bobby attends in the company of Monika Lilac, she says wistfully to him, “You know, you’re downhearted, and you think, ‘What’s the use?’ and then you see a film like that and it speaks to you and suddenly you’re back in business again!” And the film they’ve been watching, she has just whispered to Bobby as the credits rolled in the emptying theater, was the story of her life.
Dan Callahan’s That Was Something is now available from Squares & Rebels.
Blu-ray Review: Peppermint Soda Gets 2K Restoration from Cohen Media Group
Diane Kurys’s poignant debut powerfully evokes the bittersweet feelings of leaving behind the halcyon days of one’s youth.
Diane Kurys’s Peppermint Soda is like flipping through a young girl’s diary, capturing as it does snippets of the small-scale tragedies, amusing hijinks, and quotidian details that define the lives of two Parisian teenage sisters over the course of their 1963-to-‘64 school year. Through a delicate balancing of comedic and dramatic tones, Kurys’s debut film taps into the emotional insecurities and social turmoil that accompany the awkward biological developments of adolescence with a disarming sweetness and subtlety, lending even small moments a poignancy that shuns overt displays of sentimentality or nostalgia. As evidenced by the opening title card, in which Kurys dedicates the film to her sister “who has still hasn’t returned my orange sweater,” Peppermint Soda’s authenticity arises from its specificity, both in its characters’ tumultuous inner lives and the detailed rendering of their friends and teachers, as well as the classrooms within which they passed their days.
Structured as a series of loosely connected vignettes, the film bounces between the introverted 13-year-old Anne (Eléonore Klarwein) and her outgoing, popular 15-year-old sister, Frédérique (Odile Michel), who both attend the same strict, bourgeois private school. While Anne’s concerns often verge on the petty, be it her frustration at her mother (Anouk Ferjac) refusing to buy her pantyhose or at her sister for preventing her from tagging along to social gatherings, Kurys depicts Anne with a uniquely compassionate eye, mining light humor out of such situations while remaining keenly aware of the almost insurmountable peer pressures and image-consciousness that are the driving forces behind most irrational teenage behavior.
Some scenes, such as the one where Anne’s art teacher ruthlessly mocks her drawing in front of the class, are representative of the emotionally abusive or neglectful relationship between Anne and many of the adults in her life, and throughout, Kurys understands that it’s how Anne is seen by her classmates that most dramatically affects her state of mind. In the heightened emotional state of teenage years, the sting of simply not having a pair of pantyhose can be more painful than a teacher’s overbearing maliciousness. But Peppermint Soda isn’t all doom and gloom, as the bitter disappointments of youth are counterbalanced with a number of droll passages of Anne gossiping and goofing off with her friends. Particularly amusing is a conversation where Anne’s friend confidently, yet with wild inaccuracies, describes sex, eventually guessing that boy’s hard-ons can grow to around six feet long.
In Peppermint Soda’s latter half, Kurys seamlessly shifts her focus toward Frédérique, broadening the film’s scope as current events begin to shape the elder sister’s political consciousness. Everything from John F. Kennedy’s assassination to a classmate’s terrifying firsthand account of the police’s violent overreaction to a student protest against the Algerian War lead Frédérique to slowly awaken to the complexities of the world around her. But even as Frédérique finds herself becoming quite the activist, handing out peace pins and organizing secret meetings in school—and much to the chagrin of her mother and her sexist, conservative teacher—she’s still prone to fits of emotional immaturity when it comes to her boyfriend.
It’s through these frequent juxtapositions of micro and macro concerns, when the inescapable solipsism of childhood runs head-on into the immovable hurdles and responsibilities of adulthood, that Peppermint Soda most powerfully evokes the bittersweet feelings of leaving behind the halcyon days of one’s youth. Yet the sly sense of whimsy that Kurys instills in her deeply personal recollections acts as a comforting reminder of the humor tucked away in even our darkest childhood memories. Sometimes it just takes a decade or two to actually find it.
Peppermint Soda is now available on Blu-ray and DVD from Cohen Media Group.
Oscar 2019 Winner Predictions: Sound Editing
If it were biologically possible to do so, both Ed and I would happily switch places with A Quiet Place’s Emily Blunt.
If it were biologically possible to do so, both Ed and I would happily switch places with A Quiet Place’s Emily Blunt, because we’d much rather give birth in a tub while surrounded by murderous blind creatures than have to once again write our predictions for the sound categories. As adamant as we’ve been that the Academy owes it to the nominees to air every category, which they agreed to after an extended “just kidding,” it might have given us pause had the sound categories been among the four demoted by Oscar. But no, we must now endure our annual bout of penance, aware of the fact that actually knowing what the difference is between sound editing and sound mixing is almost a liability. In other words, we’ve talked ourselves out of correct guesses too many times, doubled down on the same movie taking both categories to hedge our bets too many times, and watched as the two categories split in the opposite way we expected too many times. So, as in A Quiet Place, the less said, the better. And while that film’s soundscapes are as unique and noisy as this category seems to prefer, First Man’s real-word gravitas and cacophonous Agena spin sequence should prevail.
Will Win: First Man
Could Win: A Quiet Place
Should Win: First Man