There's a lot to be considered about Do the Right Thing, and I intend to devote more thought to it. These are just my knee-jerk reactions.

Between the font used in the opening credits, Samuel L. Jackson, and then Miguel Sandoval, I couldn't help but to think of Jurassic Park throughout the movie. They'd make for an interesting double feature, really, with Ian Malcolm looking on in approval as Sal's burns to the ground.

The cast is terrific. Here I give a special acknowledgment of Giancarlo Esposito. Buggin' Out is the kind of character - and person, for that matter - who grates on my nerves, but Esposito played it so straight that it didn't feel like a put-on the way a lot of such performances usually do. Offhand, the only peer I could cite would be Stephen Lang's infuriating turn as Ike Clanton in Tombstone.

The first three-quarters of the film are so relatively lighthearted that even though it's apparent from the outset that tensions are going to escalate into something out of hand, I was still startled by the severity of the riot. It's a reminder that a smaller scale often has greater impact. It's ultimately just one contiguous fight scene involving several people, with a few minutes of on-screen vandalism, but it was far more affecting to watch than, say, the wanton destruction of half of Metropolis in Man of Steel.

I also give Spike Lee credit for giving us lots of reasons not to sympathize with anyone. Pino (John Turturro) is easily the least likable character in the film, but even Mookie (Lee), our point-of-view guy, is clearly too irresponsible to be an employee at a local pizza place, much less to be a father to young Hector. Here's a guy who's told there'll always be a place for him at Sal's, ignites the riot by throwing the garbage can through the window...and has the temerity to then demand his pay for the week! We hear from both his sister Jade (Joie Lee) and his girlfriend Tina (Rosie Perez) about how he doesn't actually stay at work, or come around to spend time with his son.

It would have been easy to have made Mookie a more traditional protagonist, but by imbuing him with these glaring character flaws, Lee gives us both a character and, by extension, a film that has depth. There are things to like about the guy. So many, in fact, that it's heartbreaking that he's the one who smashes Sal's window. I really wanted him to be the one to reinforce Da Mayor's appeal for the crowd to disperse. I hoped he was going to use the garbage can to stand on and address everyone, to be the voice of calm.

Beyond that, I appreciated that Lee set at the epicenter of the violence two of the three most antagonistic characters in the whole picture. They don't just get on Sal's nerves; Sweet Dick Willie (Robin Harris) is just as irked by Radio Raheem (Bill Nunn) as Sal. Only Radio will entertain Buggin's boycott; everyone else thinks it's ridiculous and petty.

Of course these would be the two guys to instigate something. And all for what? Complaining about a business owner's choice of celebrity photos to display and his ban on boomboxes? These aren't even subjects that most of society considers up for debate, much less a boycott-worthy offense. That's why it's so perfect. Lee spreads around the blame, making sure we have reasons to hold just about everyone at fault at least indirectly for what happens.

I imagine Huey Freeman shouting at everyone, "... And stop the damn dancing! Act like you've got some goddamn sense, people! Damn! I'm through playing around here!" (see: "The Trial of Robert Kelly"). Lee gets us to the point we want, expect, and even need for someone to be that voice of reason. He lets Da Mayor try, but doesn't let him succeed. It is upsetting, which is of course the whole point.

Do the Right Thing entered my Flickchart at #236/1576

In his essay for The Criterion Collection, Two-Lane Blacktop: Slow Ride, Kent Jones summarizes:

This movie about a cross-country race between a car freak in a lovingly souped-up ’55 Chevy and a fantasist in a store-bought GTO moves at an even, gliding pace, and it’s all about stopping to gas up, eat, make some bread in local quarter-mile drag races, pick up hitchhikers, let the engine breathe, share a drink.

Much of Jones's praise for the film falls somewhere between hyperbole and aggressive marketing, but he's spot-on about how it's "the least romantic road movie imaginable". Director Monte Hellman, he tells us, saw it as a romantic film anyway and I'd agree with that characterization. Most road trip films glamorize the open road, presenting it as a sort of magical place all its own where fascinating people go to find grand adventures, playing lots of energetic music and occasionally stopping for sex. Two-Lane Blacktop knows that's not true of most actual road trips, though, and gives us instead the tedium of cross-country driving.

Edgar Wright confessed, "It’s probably not cool to admit you don’t quite get a cult movie. But it’s probably better than trying to act cool by pretending you really dig a movie that you don’t fully understand." I can't claim to fully understand every nuance of the film, but I do feel that I get it. We hear "It's about the journey, not the destination". That annoys me in large part because it's trite and often used by people trying to sound poignant, but for certain travelers, the journey is its own world to be visited. I'm such a traveler. I mean that in the literal sense and not the pretentious, metaphorical sense.

The people who ask "Are we there yet?" are the worst travelers. They don't find anything satisfying about crossing state lines, seeing different kinds of trees, or the imagined camaraderie of finding in the afternoon the car you passed in the morning. Two-Lane Blacktop gets these things, though. It's not worried about getting where it's going. It'll get there when it gets there. No one stops to ask, "Are we there yet" because being on the road is the reprieve from being places that everyone wants. In fact, we never actually do get where we're ostensibly headed.

I couldn't help but to think at times of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, particularly the relationship dynamics between The Driver (James Taylor), The Girl (Laurie Bird), and GTO (Warren Oates). The Girl is Etta place, tagging along until she decides to leave the boys to their finale - whatever it may be. She sleeps with The Mechanic, for whom there is no Butch analog, but like so many things in Two-Lane Blacktop, that occurrence is something of a non sequitar anyway.

It would be tempting to dismiss Two-Lane Blacktop as either dull and lacking in purpose (we never even learn anyone's actual name or reach Washington, D.C.), or so full of itself as to be off-putting ("Me and Bobby McGee" playing in the car at the gas station, that last shot of the burning celluloid). I can easily appreciate how viewers of different tastes would respond in those ways. Throughout its 103 minute run time, Two-Lane Blacktop was not just a vicarious road trip, but one that felt like a road trip I've actually taken, or easily could have taken. I don't really do much traveling these days, so it was nice to ride shotgun from California to North Carolina.

Two-Lane Blacktop Entered My Flickchart at #289/1577

I'm a native Kentuckian, but it would be disingenuous for me to insinuate that I grew up around the coal mining part of the state. Still, you do grow up acutely aware that you live in a state where this is the way of life for a lot of your metaphorical neighbors. You discuss their socio-economic plight in social studies, and the nature of coal mining in science. Classmates have grandfathers who were miners. You hear about these things in music, like when Dwight Yoakam included "Miner's Prayer" on his debut album, Guitars, Cadillacs, Etc., Etc. The point is, even when you've never set foot near a mine, you absorb some of that culture.

So it was that when I finally sat down to watch Harlan County U.S.A., I wasn't shocked the way that I'm sure a lot of viewers over the years were. The key theme that I don't recall having been emphasized in my classroom studies of such things, though, was how important were the women in this strike. We always heard about striking miners and what they wanted, but I don't recall it ever being discussed how integral to the success of the strike were the women; wives and mothers who put themselves in harm's way on the picket line even as the men they represented slacked off and didn't even show up for themselves!

Paul Arthur put it succinctly in his essay, Harlan County USA: No Neutrals There for The Criterion Collection:

Kopple clearly demonstrates how the political resonates through the deeply personal, gendered tasks of child rearing and other domestic chores in the daily lives of miners’ wives. However, these women are also shown taking vital leadership roles: organizing picket lines, forming support committees, and directly confronting the violence of scabs and company thugs.

It would be going too far for me to claim any meaningful solidarity with these miners, or even their descendants underground as I write about this documentary in my cozy suburban setting, but I think it reasonably fair to at the very least liken my reaction to watching and cheering on the Cincinnati Reds, my favorite baseball team. I'll never be a ballplayer myself (my one year of Little League was not good), but just as millions of sports enthusiasts across the world, I have a specific kind of vicarious identification with the team.

I think part of my attraction to rooting for Team Miners is that I cannot think of a harsher line of work. Coal mining is synonymous with black lung disease, and when was the last time any other vocation was best represented by a disease unique to its labor force? That's hardcore.

What could possibly lure an entire region, generation after generation, into that misery? It's always easy on the outside to shrug off someone else's plight and smugly suggest things like "If they don't like it, they should do something else". Trying to understand why so few ever could just "do something else" has long been at the heart of not just my philosophical relationship with mining, but my views on capitalism and socio-economics.

Anti-labor rhetoric historically demonizes workers as some combination of greedy and lazy, and here is where coal miners are the greatest counterargument. Whatever they get paid, it ain't enough! You can say multi-millionaire athletes are greedy or lazy when they threaten to strike, but you can't say that about miners. In fact, that's one of the implicit points of Harlan County U.S.A. that's the most powerful: These men and women endured all the hardships and abuses of their strike...so that they could return to the hardships of mining.

Think about that.

Being on strike for ten months was probably the healthiest, most rewarding time in the lives of these miners and their families, whom they finally got to actually see on a regular basis. I wish Barbara Kopple had showcased more of how different families handled the strike. It would have been interesting to learn, for instance, what (if any) impact the strike had on things like marriage, divorce, and birth rates.

We only see the impact of the strike on two families: The murder of Joseph Yablonski, his wife and daughter, by UMWA president Tony Boyle's hired assassins, and Lawrence Jones, a miner killed by a strike-breaker. Jones left behind a 16 year old widow and a 5 month old daughter. Think about that: A 16 year old widow with a 5 month old daughter.

And all of this strife for what? So that Duke Energy's shareholders could bask in a 107% increase in profits while the miners struggled with just a 4% increase in pay...in the face of 7% increase in cost of living expenses?

On a peripheral, but personal note, I was thrilled to find in the booklet for the Criterion DVD I was able to borrow from the Campbell County Public Library through the inter-library loan system a second essay, The Sound of Harlan County U.S.A., penned by Jon Weisberger. Back in the days when AOL provided USENET access, I connected with people like Jon and Patsi Bale Cox on the forum, rec.music.country.western.

After AOL stopped providing that access, most of the group regulars fell off. This was before social media really came along and I regret to say I lost contact with those folks. Jon was always thoughtful and passionate, and one of the good guys of Internet discourse. I'm sure it was a particular thrill for him to get to write this essay for this DVD release. I wish Criterion.com made it available to readers online.

Harlan County U.S.A. entered my Flickchart at #237/1578

"What is most extraordinary about Jutra’s masterpiece is that even for the spectator who knows nothing about Québécoise history and is oblivious to the film’s allegorical meaning, it can still be appreciated as one of the most touching and endearing coming-of-age stories ever made, in Canada or elsewhere."

- André Loiselle, Mon oncle Antoine: Of Asbestos Mines and Christmas Candy

Loiselle's essay surveys Québécoise history of the mid-20th Century, from the 1940s (when the film is set) through the early 1970s (when the film was made). I confess, my own grasp of Canadian history is minimal (okay, non-existent) and I was mindful of that ignorance throughout the film. I was certain that I was missing a lot of symbolism that would have been blatantly obvious to those who knew what was being referenced.

Yet, as Loiselle noted, even despite knowing I didn't know what things meant, I was able to follow and appreciate the film on its superficial level as a coming-of-age story. For instance, I found myself smiling at the scenes of the villagers making merry in the general store, content to watch everyone tease and drink.

It was, of course, pretty obvious that somehow death was going to connect Benoit to Jos Poulin by way of Antoine, the undertaker. But I give credit to director/co-writer Claude Jutra and co-writer Clément Perron for keeping the narrative interesting rather than allowing it to annoyingly try to delay the inevitable. Everything that happens is intimated in the first ~10-15 minutes, following a course of development that manages to be organic where it could easily have instead fallen flat as perfunctory.

Just as obvious as how death would unite those characters was the question we're meant to ask: "What now?" Every plot point, from how the Poulin family will cope with not just the death of their son but his body having been lost, to how anyone will reconcile the affair between Cecile and Fernand, is left unresolved. We take our leave before any of these things are addressed, and that lack of resolution, Loiselle explained, reflected the uncertainty of Québécoise politics and identity.

Sometimes that approach to storytelling is "too cute" and banal, but here it works because, as I've said, the narrative here plays out organically. A chief reason for that is the pervasive verisimilitude. Loiselle devotes an entire paragraph to crediting co-writer Clément Perron for that. Because we recognize these characters and their situations as so true to life, we almost don't need to see what comes next. We can speculate a handful of likely outcomes, eliminating the more fantastic ones, and then at some point realize that what happened next isn't even all that relevant. How we got there is what mattered, and that's why Mon oncle Antoine works.

Mon oncle Antoine entered my Flickchart at #414/1579

On paper, I should love this film. There's an intimate relationship drama set against the backdrop of the Russian Revolution/World War I. There are rich, well-developed characters. The cast is terrific, particularly Margarethe von Trotta - who co-wrote the adapted screenplay - as Sophie. Igor Luther's black and white cinematography is visually arresting. Just about every shot in the film would make for a wonderful still image. I did dig all of those things.

And yet, aside from being dazzled by von Trotta's Sophie, I found myself growing impatient. The true nature of Erich's "inclinations" was pretty obvious from the outset, and I had hoped something more meaningful would come from its reveal. I typically dig muted stories with a certain ambiguity and/or ambivalence, but this one frustrated me. I think I would have preferred to have seen more of Konrad, particularly with Sophie rather than with Erich. As it stands, even though he's central to the relationship drama, he exists as a plot device more than as a character.

I had hoped reading the essay on Criterion.com excerpted from Hans-Bernhard Moeller and George Lellis’ Volker Schlöndorff’s Cinema: Adaptation, Politics, and the “Movie-Appropriate" would unlock something new for me, but other than learning about the director, Volker Schlöndorff, I can't say that I gleaned anything deeper about this specific narrative than what I caught on my own.

I may never get the sight and sound of Valeska Gert laughing at the piano out of my mind.

Der Fangschuss Entered My Flickchart at #631/1579

This is considered a companion piece to Ozu's 1936 film, Hitori musuko [The Only Son]. Several themes and even specifics are recycled but this time the story follows a father and son, and the emphasis is on the divide between them caused by the father's unfailing work ethic.

I confess, I didn't get into this one. I had an uncle who drowned as a teen a few years before I was born, and that cast quite a shadow in my family. I grew up with a pronounced understanding of the frailty of life and a strong belief that while work should be done professionally, it should not be more important than investing one's time in the relationships that really matter. There's also my own estranged relationship with my dad, which makes me particularly antipathetic toward father/son stories.

At the conclusion of The Only Son, we're left with the idea that perhaps the next generation will enjoy the fruits of the labors of the parents. Though the characters and stories follow different tracks, they converge on the same ultimate point: to do right by one's family. In The Only Son, this means living up to one's potential; in There Was a Father, it means carving out time for one's family. Taken as a duology, the theme plays out very clearly and touchingly though, as I've indicated, I was much less taken with this film than with its predecessor.

One last throwaway note: I couldn't help but to feel a strong sense of a gay subtext to this one. Hirata particularly seems to have some kind of unspoken attraction for Horikawa. There are numerous looks between the two, and then there's the ambiguous description at their reunion dinner of a going away party Hirata threw for Horikawa. Also, Ryohei seems to have little interest in Fumiko and even his relationship with his father seems to veer away from outright hero worship and into a sort of odd longing. Maybe this isn't in the film at all and I'm just coming to it with too much Fat Girl and In the Realm of the Senses swirling about my head.