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Archive for the ‘Denzel Washington’ Category

The Tragedy Of Macbeth

06 Jan

The Tragedy of Macbeth — directed by Joel Coen. Costume Drama. 1 hour 45 minutes Black And White 2022
★★★★★
The Story: A victorious general hears a prediction that he will be king and his wife convinces him to take the necessary steps — which produce dire consequences.
~
“The Tragedy Of” — what a title! Do the words mean we are meant to care about Macbeth from the start? You bet your life it does.

And you’d better bet your life or you won’t recognize what this movie of The Tragedy of Macbeth is about. It’s about someone who bets his life.

When Mike Todd died in an air crash, he was on his way to sign Lawrence Olivier and Vivien Leigh to make a movie of Macbeth. It was said to be Olivier’s greatest role. You will no longer wonder why theater folk never quote it or mention the play by name but refer to it only as The Scottish Play. Worse than bad luck — to theater folk sheer misfortune is always attached to the title and its contents.

Well, the Oliviers never made it, but Olivier did say this. He said that Mrs Macbeth was stupid. He meant that she was a Park Avenue bitch who got above herself by wanting her husband to become CEO Of The Corporation he was a mere field manager for. Olivier said that the tragedy of Macbeth was he fell victim to that inclination in humans of: “I know this won’t work, but I’m going to try it anyhow.”

The thing about Macbeth is that he is not by nature or inclination an executive. He is a soldier. His wife wants him to have a title that will give her a title, but she has no sense of whether he is right for the job. He isn’t and won’t be. Like Jackson, Eisenhower, Grant or Washington or, in another way, Donald Trump, he is out of place as an administrator. And we never see him as a competent king. Only as someone who wants to hold onto the title once it is his.

Macbeth is Shakespeare’s shortest tragedy. One thing this means that its story is brisk enough to play itself. Unlike Hamlet and King Lear it never threatens to be diffuse. But the role of Macbeth is nonetheless hard to play. And the reason for this is that once the cho-choo train of the play gets going with the assassination accomplished, the play tends to just carry the actor along — but after that it’s very hard for the actor to stay upright in the role and in the present. The conflict for him, once his wife is satisfied, is all offstage in England or Ireland. This means that the actor playing Macbeth can just ride it out. Or indulge the talent in his guts with those fabulous speeches.

Yes, Hamlet’s conflict is also internal. But, unlike Macbeth’s, Hamlet’s conflicts are always also on stage and right on front of his nose: with his father, his uncle, his mother, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and finally Laertes. All Macbeth’s enemies are fantasies. The only conflict King Macbeth is actually faced with is the Laertes figure of MacDuff at the end.

Some Macbeth actors fall asleep. They nap under the counterpane of their technique. Or their performing personality. This means they, when they sometimes wake up, must catch up, like Jason Robarts Jr. whom I saw do it with Siobhán Mackenna. John Colicos overplayed it, which meant he is always way down the track chewing ham to drag the engine forward, even with Carrie Nye, a little blonde flower, touching as Lady Macbeth perhaps because less shattered by the play than by Colicos’s explosion of scenery chewing. Geraldine Page got herself up like Ellen Terry in a wig with a huge red braid down the back but underplayed the role because she was playing it with a husband, an actor, Rip Torn, far less talented than herself and who hadn’t a clue. Orson Welles got in the engine and drove the train. Paul Rogers and Coral Browne were overblown provincials one discovered interloping the stage of the Wintergarden.

After Duncan’s death, the Macbeth train drives itself. And Denzel Washington tends to lag. When he catches up and jumps on board, he plays it as it lays, at least when he wakes to the fact that he has fallen asleep in the role, which is to say that Macbeth has fallen asleep — which, in Washington’s case, is not a conscious decision to be unconscious, but an unconscious one. Is Macbeth’s besetting sin that, outside the battlefield, he is terribly lazy? Or is it because he has nothing kingly really to do?

Perhaps the problem is that Denzel Washington does not have the vocal foundation for Shakespeare. Shakespeare wrote plays to be seen by thousands at a time in an outdoor theatre without microphones. The voice production they were written for, in, as, and require, has two effects. The actors who have it may become audible even of a whisper and they may become present in the parts, because the role may arise from deep in their being.

But maybe the problem is that after the assassination, the role of Macbeth seems to be something that is merely happening to the actor. Why? Maybe because once Macbeth is out of his depth as murderer, the role loses its dramatic force because missing on-stage conflict. Once he gets on the slide and must go down — doesn’t only great Gravity run the show?

How, without dramatic opposition is one to act, then, the major part of the play? Does the play then not become a case study of human dissolution? Or a program of gorgeous monologues? Or a series of set pieces? Or a catalogue of predictable lost causes?

Denzel Washington’s Macbeth is not deeply lodged in his body. He is vocally ordinary. His is filmspeak technique. The actors rehearsed the play a good while before they performed it for camera, but never before a large audience. It needs from him depth of attack. He needs to dive into it and rise from it.

The role of Macbeth is that of a person who thinks he must fight, kill, and cheat fate to hold his job. The trouble is he is not fit for the king position to begin with. For, while as a general Macbeth has legitimately killed many people and knows how to do it, he is not an assassin. He is a soldier. He would never consider killing the president — but his social-climbing wife convinces that his role as a male means he must become one. Besides the witches have foreseen him as king. But Washington’s vocal level is a choice inapt to such a massive situation. Denzel Washington is not hammy, but the role of Macbeth is not a slice of Nebraska bacon either.

Denzel Washington brings other forces to Macbeth. His male presence, his bowed legs, his height, his looks, his heft, his vast martial arts training, his ability to wear period costume, his searching eyes, and our expectations for what a superstar such as him might offer — for whether he produces its effect or not, we assume he has done so. And this is understandable with this play in which for most of the play the part of Macbeth plays itself.

It may be the director’s choice, but Denzel Washington is allowed to play it more contemplatively, meaning that some of its big scenes are played with him sitting down — which they were not written to be. Washington is very good at contemplation, no one better, but contemplation is not the same as being to this degree upset. Indeed, Macbeth is a role in which the actor must never stop pacing the floor.

One person who is right for the job is Lady Macbeth as Queen. She is a quick, slick operator and a canny administrator. She is right about being Queen, wrong about her husband’s being King.

Arthur Miller said of Macbeth that there is a scene missing — a final scene between Lady Macbeth and Macbeth. It is an interesting observation because Lady Macbeth does tend to disappear from the action that she has been instrumental in bringing into being. The play as written confirms the Macbeths’ marital separation by her absence from the stage. Before and after the assassination of King Duncan, in addition to being his wife, she is also Macbeth’s head nurse. After the assassination, she is not his wife, but only his nurse. But then the nurse herself goes crazy. Once she becomes Queen her roles run down, and she disappears from him even as spouse, he who is espoused only to remain supreme.

What first can be noticed about Frances McDormand’s Lady Macbeth is her skirting of the monster-wife Judith Anderson brought to Maurice Evans’ Macbeth. Instead she dives under the role and brings us a woman whose own strength is disabused by its outcome in a series of the gruesome effects of it on her husband. She takes him to be as strong in the same way as she herself is. Her wishes in the matter are her undoing, and McDormand brings us a character so firmly rooted in the inevitability of her own strength that the derangement of her husband’s mind that her own strength causes deranges her own mind. As to madness, the Macbeths are simply contagious of one another. They are both incarnadined by their murder of the king, but, when she goes off the deep end, it is from a very high platform — which is to say that the actress does not begin the role, as many actresses do, playing Lady Macbeth already as a cold neurotic vicious bitch but as sexually warm and sane.

On the other hand, McDormand is never ordinary in the sense of every-day. It’s not McDormand’s nature as a human. Frances McDormand is always special. She knows how to bring queenly confidence from before even her first scene. Her confidence will result in a ghastly success. Frances McDormand — who would ever imagine her to be a movie star! Yet, who could ever doubt it. Our incredulity rivets us to her. For another contribution of Frances McDormand to the tragedy is that, unlike every other actress I have seen in the role, and I have seen a great many good ones, one believes from the start that Frances McDormand loves her husband.

Vocally, she is more at home with the text than Denzel Washington. On a deeper level, she is comprehensible always. Arthur Miller is wrong in thinking a scene is missing between Lady Macbeth and Macbeth. Her death-scene exists in a single line, the sentence, “She should have died hereafter.” That’s all he has to say. So we never learn how she died, because Macbeth does the unthinkable — he never asks. Divorce knows no greater spectacle to demonstrate itself than the absence of this natural husbandly and human question.

My first reservation about this production came before I saw it, and that was the actors were too old. These parts are usually played by actors twenty years younger, but ripe enough so that the ambition for a life-long royal status would be understandable in them. But I was mistaken. These two are both in their 60s and both are grounded in the material, nonetheless. I witness that ambition is not age-specific.

Nor is the film race-specific. This results from the film being in black and white which has the effect of washing out race difference. That Denzel Washington’s face is masked in a grey beard washes it out also. And costuming remains uniform between the races, which tends to blend them. So my experience of this Macbeth did not bring any sense of race to mind as I watched, but only now as I summon the matter.

The film is enhanced by the physical production of it, which includes the music by Carter Burwell which never attempts music of the Middle Ages or the country of Scotland, but rather halos the action in the realm of its zeitgeist, which is its true locale, a possibility floating like a dissonant tune in our human potential, the music of this sin in the atmosphere of life itself.

The German Expressionist style of sets by Stefan Dechant does the same thing. We are never in some dank castle in Scotland and do not need to be and do not want to be. We are in the straightened corridors of truth itself or the vast chambers of state of a story, such that nothing distracts from us from the tragedy once the startling effect of each the set dissolves into what it more importantly contains.

Bruno Delbonnel’s photography works to the same end. We are never in the Highlands. We are always in The Mind Of Us All.

The costumes by Mary Zophres accomplish the same narrative clarity — they never existed in the Middle Ages. They exist only as a meeting ground for the veracity of this catastrophe.

All this enables us to fall into The Tragedy Of Macbeth without obstacles. Down we go, right into it. Pointless to hold on for safety. Clarity and Simplicity clear the space for us. Everyone knows about this story because everyone has its temptation in them.

Kill them. Kill them all. Until there’s no one but Me left standing.

 
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Posted in Denzel Washington, Frances McDormand: acting goddess, WRITTEN BY: William Shakespeare

 

The Preacher’s Wife

28 Apr

The Preacher’s Wife—directed by Penny Marshall. Comedy. 123 minutes Color 1996.
★★★
The Story: A church nears receivership and when its preacher asks God for help and an angel arrives, the preacher disbelieves it—but his wife and the angel get along all too well.
~
Thank God for movie stars. By this I mean Denzel Washington.

Lying in the background is The Bishop’s Wife, in which Cary Grant was originally cast as the bishop but preferred the angel as the better part. David Niven played the bishop and Loretta Young the wife.

Now Loretta Young really knew how to be a movie star. That is to say, she knew how to glow. So the original version had three movie stars while the present has but one.

Courtney B. Vance is a good actor, but he is not a movie star and he is not an actor who is inherently funny, as was David Niven. Certain actors have that ability. John Wayne’s humor was an inherent wryness, Cary Grant’s an inherent slyness, James Stewart’s an inherent preposterousness. They could make any word sound droll they wished.

An empty comic hammock here must thus be filled by able supporting actors—Jennifer Lewis as the dread mother-in-law and Jennifer Devine as the lecherous church secretary in love with the fat bus conductor: “Lord, put that man under the Christmas Tree…if he’ll fit.” Gregory Hines, as the satanic real estate investor who own the church property, is jim-dandy.

Apart from the direction which lacks any touch of wit and the writing which lacks premeditation of the audience’s wit, the difficulty lies in the casting of the title role.

The difficulty is not that Whitney Houston is neither a natural nor a trained actress. The difficult is that she is a demonstration.

I look at her and I wonder. It is not that she is empty. That would be something. Mahershala Ali is empty, and out of that emptiness he spins characters. No. The problem is that Whitney Houston is vacant.

Reading up on her, I see she starts young as a church singer. As a teenager she is a recording backup singer. By her early twenties she is an enormous recording success.

The success is based upon her mezzo-soprano, which is strong and versatile—not particularly beautiful in any of its many ranges but remarkable for its litheness. As a young woman, she has huge hits, earns big money, and tours worldwide.

It’s a sorry story. Sorry because there is nothing else to the story. She hasn’t a chance in hell. She doesn’t garden. She probably doesn’t read. She probably has no education. Outside of her church singing, she probably has no cultural background. Her name heads a charity, but she does not seem active in public service. She does not jog. She probably does not cook meals. She probably has no conversation. What you see before you is a human being who has developed no personal resources. As to a spiritual life, which might have kept her safe when a girl, it does not transplant to show-business which lofts in altitudes above and far away from the spires of its cathedrals.

This is a terrible life for a human being. Not fatal, but perilous.

In addition, in Whitney Houston’s case, one of the problems with it lies in the voice and the use of the voice. Its predilection and foundation lie in the virtuosoism of gospel singing.

I don’t like virtuosoism. You see it in acting—Laurence Olivier, Rod Steiger, Glenn Close—and you hear it in Whitney Houston’s singing.

When you look at her in song, her eyes remain the same throughout the song. She shines. She smiles. She has wonderful teeth. She is a pretty woman. But she is emotionally unconnected to the words. She relates only to what her voice can do. So the pleasure you get from her singing is not musical—because at once-remove from music. It is the pleasure of her demonstration of what her voice can do “to” the music, the pleasure, if it is your pleasure, of virtuosoism.

And I pity her.

She died a terrible death before she was forty. And when I see her standing there singing, I pity her most.

I pity her because there is nothing lying behind her singing, in her singing, under her singing. The lofty tricks her voice can perform received praise upon praise. Oh, yes, her melisma was bankable. But I look at this lovely young woman, and I do not wonder she took to drugs to fill the vacancy of her fame. What an easy mark she must have been.

No one is to blame, nor is she to blame. But it’s so obvious.

Denzel Washington paid her 10 million dollars to appear in his film. There is no way that either the drugs she was devoted to at that time or the price she demanded could lead to anything but to blind her from the ability to play the character she is hired to play, the wife of a preacher.

When you watch Denzel Washington, you can see an acting technique at work. He gathers the scene in his arms and his immediate response to it is performance. He is dressed entirely in silver, which does service for the habit of an angel, but all his acting needs is his body’s present apprehension. There he stands inwardly open. It is so simple. It drives the words out of him, yes, but the placement of his being is what is memorable. The use of his interior is what is memorable.

Art is a gutsy craft. It counts on the vast, powerfully telling, and superior intelligence of the instinct of the belly. Instinct is rarely virtuosoistic. Because its manifestations are so readable, it only needs to be virtuosoistic when the character is virtuosoistic, as in that passage in Training Day when Denzel Washington briefly takes on the conventional virtuoso voice of the black thug—the demonstration of the fallacy of which devastates his character right in front of the eyes of everyone.

Someone needs to get ahold of these singers and mentor them before their lives vacate them. Someone needs to warn them that, outside their time on stage, their time needs to be filled with a world neither show nor business. Left-over time to fill. Hard for any of us to make good use of. Hard to distinguish one fun from another. And the ego of the diva is larger than that of any king. No one seems to have learned from The Rose. No one seems to have seen Bohemian Rhapsody for what it is. No one.

 
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Posted in ACTING STYLE: AMERICAN REALISTIC, Denzel Washington

 

Fences

27 Dec

Fences – directed by Denzel Washington. Drama. 2 hours 18 minutes Color 2016.

★★★★★

The Story:  The lives of a family swirl around the big personality of the pater familias who rules the roost with his ebullience and pigheadedness.

~

The movie is written by the now deceased playwright August Wilson. He is one of the great American playwrights, and I contrive to see any professional production of his plays that I can. His scheme was to write one play involving black lives for each decade of the 20th Century. Fences is set in the ‘50s.

August Wilson never went to plays or read them. So you can see, what he could not, the big flaw in this one, which is its failure, early enough, to dramatize the life-long frustration of the wife, which Viola Davis plays. It could have been remedied by the offstage children. And the frustration of the father needed to be established sooner also. He never seems frustrated. Instead what we get from him is a round and stunning display of vim and vitality.

But you take these in stride, and your stride must be long. For Wilson is the opposite of Harold Pinter. When you sit down to a play by August Wilson you sit down from soup to nuts. You get up from the feast stuffed. The danger with such a method for a playwright is that he may fall into the banal. He must always surprise you, and this the playwright does speech by speech and scene by scene.

James Earl Jones played it originally on Broadway, and he, of course, is, an actor of greater amplitude than Denzel Washington, but Washington gives the performance of his lifetime. He holds us still in his character’s terrible self-regarding silences and certainly holds us in the great arias Wilson has required of him. You watch him and you listen to him as mesmerized as his family is surrounding him.

His character, like at least one character in each of Wilson’s plays, has a big rhetoric. He talks a lot but he’s fun, he’s entertaining, he’s outrageous. He’s also full of himself.

This means his inability to see someone else’s point of view is his tragic flaw. His action in the play creates a fissure in him, and you can see it form. It creates a fissure in all the characters around him. Washington does that rare thing in movie actor performance: he lets you into his eyes. He  gives a performance which is sterling in its formation, for he performed it on Broadway, and has brought members of the Broadway cast into the picture Viola Davis plays the wife. The impeccable Stephen McKinley Henderson plays the chum Bono: every time he’s on the set you want the camera to be on him.

The play won the Pulitzer Prize and Tony Awards for best play, Best Actor and Best Actress Tony Awards for Denzel Washington and Viola Davis. Also a Tony for Best revival.

This sort of acting is very seldom to be seen in movies, where character-story ends to reside in subtext and the oblique. Here the performance is a full-blown stage performance. And, in fact, nothing less will do.

I love movies with a lot of speeches. Where characters say it. As Coco Pekelis once said, Taciturnity is not more profound than self-expression. I like the glory and daring of our language. And when you see Fences, you will face it at once. It will take a moment to accustom yourself. After that you will lean forward in your seat, not wanting to miss a word.

 

 

 

 

 

Flight

09 Nov

Flight –– directed by Robert Zemeckis. Melodrama. An alcoholic and drug addicted pilot saves a disintegrating passenger plane from crashing, and then suffers the consequences. 138 minutes Color 2012.
★★★★
You might want to go in order to see the performance of James Badge Dale as a free-associating cancer patient on a chemo-high. His appearance is so welcome one hopes that the film will take off in this direction of brilliant decor, as Renoir’s films were wont to do –– but no. The film remains predictable from its unpredictable start, which takes us into an exciting crisis aboard a malfunctioning aircraft. To save the ship we have that old reliable ship-saver Denzel Washington. Washington is, as Sydney Poitier was the proud black hero, the powerful black hero. With what wit, what sangfroid, does he give the odd orders that will save his nose-diving airliner! Wonderful! And then…and then he has to face the music of have a blood test come out positive for a snort of cocaine and two mini shots of vodka. Ah, I had hoped to see a rare performance here. Washington has been doing serious stage work, so when he comes under official scrutiny, he has drunk scenes to play, which he plays well, and scenes of personal insecurity, which he plays well, but the time comes when he has to tell the investigating board, spearheaded by Melissa Leo, about those two shots of vodka, and boy does he chew the scenery. He rolls his tongue into one cheek and then into the other, then back to the first, just as Olivier used to do, in similar straits, straits which in Olivier’s case he caused himself by doing such things. Washington pauses until an entire freight train can pass, he hesitates, he under-projects, he does everything a human actor can do to disguise the lousy line he has to answer: “In your opinion did the stewardess drink those two bottles?” It’s not a line any investigator would speak, for the answer to the line is, “It’s not proper to offer an opinion on the matter. It’s not proper of you to ask the question. Opinion has nothing to do with it.” And then, of course, he tells the truth and pays the price. But so do we, for we next find him in a prison speaking to an AA meeting, but in such a dour, gravid, and solemn manner that it is impossible for us to swallow the medicine prescribed. We’d rather see him drunk. Or, no, we’d rather see him happy, joyous, and free, as is the speaker at the AA meeting he first attends with his girlfriend. So we are left, not with a message to black males from their idol, Denzel, about the wreckage addiction causes, but with an almost caddish preachment, which will beguile no one towards the path of sobriety at all. So the film ends by the actor making the character dull. The light in his eye has gone out. No one applauds. The film is perfectly and usefully cast. Don Cheadle plays his lawyer, Bruce Greenwood his ally at the union. Pete Gerety is marvelous as the owner of his airline. They have very good lines. Their scenes, each by each, are effective and surprising. John Goodman, always a welcome presence, plays Washington’s drug fixer in a turn that delights the senses. The material in its details is unexpected. But the films as a whole falls flat. This is inevitable when a main character is given star treatment, because its actor is a star. Washington has presented himself as the power hero for years. Poitier was never sexually powerful (righteous people seldom are), but he was beautiful and earnest, and firm. For Washington whole chapters of acting are open that Poitier was never called upon to explore, and, besides, Poitier did not have the gift for exploration. He had anger and a searching eye. Moreover he was not American, he was Jamaican, while Washington is American all through. Poitier would lack believability in a role such as this. But also such roles as this did not exist in his day, which is not far past. But the danger artistically is the same for both of them: to exploit their star presence and replace acting with it. There are moments here when Washington does just this –– the mouth drawn down in taciturn authority, for one. I wanted a great piece of work from Washington here, and why isn’t it here? In that odd scene with James Badge Dale (uncuttable because it’s the scene where the hero and heroine meet), you see Dale alert, standing within himself, doing it, whereas you see Washington sitting back inside his star authority on a break. His choice might better have been to be eager for Dale to shut up, so he could get to talk to the girl. So his is a performance interesting in certain details but not in all, and not in its overall arc, which, like the film itself, is politically and politely pat.

 

The Great Debaters

26 May

The Great Debaters – Directed by Denzel Washington. Winning-Through Docudrama. A small rural Negro college in Texas in 1935 gains national acknowledgement as an unbeaten debating team.  126 minutes Color 2007.

* * * *

The musical score of this film undermines by supplanting the drama and emotion of every scene it is heard in. And this is quite unnecessary, because Washington is a first class director of actors. They need no musical appurtenances. There are four debaters and their skin is beautiful, their faces are beautiful, their acting is beautiful. Denzel Washington plays Melvin Tolson, a brilliant professor among brilliant professors at Wiley College in Marshall Texas, and he coaches them ruthlessly to win, and win they do. This is like a Rocky film or a horse film. Since it is about a feat, you understand at the outset that you are to be faced with a foregone conclusion, and so we are presented here with the customary tropes of such stories. For me, the problem with this show was that these tropes galloped away with the film, and with it went all living peculiarity. We are left with nothing but the contraption of the tropes. Washington begins it with a brilliant display of character acting as he recites poetry in his classroom and scares and excites everyone therein. But his entire character is lost as the film goes on, and lost too is his particular story of his writing all the debates for the students, and lost too are the character pieces, the genre scenes, those little anteroom scenes necessary to put the film on a siding so that we may enjoy and get to know the characters. Forest Whitaker plays the chaplain of the college, and he is getting to be a better actor with time; it’s nice to see. Neither he nor Washington, though, has any temperamental or ego conflict to be resolved with one another or with anyone else in the picture. We have four lovely actors playing the four debaters: the 14 year old Denzel Whitake playing son to his father; Nate Parker as the brilliant and defiant ne’er-do-well; Jumee Smollett as the first female debater, and Jermaine Williams who must bow out. They are dear, but I wish the choochoo train the script thrust them on had, from time to time, stopped at a station not called Debate. Although it’s played well, the whole romance business could have been scrapped; it goes nowhere, and it routinizes the film. However I am grateful for the small mercies of it, an accounting, especially at the beginning, of how it all started. I wish Washington had not been forced by the script to forsake his character for his usual star stuff. Given the script, there was nothing else for him to do. I love these black actors, though, and I am grateful to see them in films where violence is not the main source of interest. The Extra Features are lovely, and in so many ways, so is the film.

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POWER

25 Mar

Power— Directed by Sidney Lumet — Political Drama. A power broker takes on a loser and turns him into a saucepan full of popcorn. 111 minutes Color 1986

* * * *Watch Instantly

Richard Gere is and always has been so badly spoken that he seems crude in everything he plays. This lends him the luster of the cheap, for which he has been cast these many years. It disguises the fact that he is an actor of considerable sensitivity. The love scene between himself and Julie Christie is a case in point. Of course she is the most alluring woman in the world, so who could fail? He is excellent as a political power-broker and the power-broker world is fascinating. Gene Hackman does a wonderful character involved in a slapstick public drunk scene. E.G. Marshall is, as usual, priceless, and Beatrice Straight is as usual florid.

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Cast:

Richard Gere, Julie Christie, Gene Hackman, Kate Capshaw, Denzel Washington, E.G. Marshall, Beatrice Straight, Fritz Weaver, Michael Learned, J.T. Walsh, E. Katherine Kerr, Polly Rowles, Matt Salinger, Tom Mardirosian, Omar Torres, D.B. Sweeney, Donna Hanover

Director:

Sidney Lumet

 
 
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