Cimino: The Deer Hunter, Heaven’s Gate, and the Price of a Vision
FFC rating: 7/10
by Charles Elton

by Bill Chambers Six years after his death, Michael Cimino remains an enigma, shrouded by a swirling mass of rumours and contradictions. A biographer has their work cut out for them. Before reading Charles Elton’s Cimino: The Deer Hunter, Heaven’s Gate, and the Price of a Vision, I took stock of everything I knew about the mercurial filmmaker: that he helmed seven movies during a span of 22 years, the second of which he was fêted for (The Deer Hunter), the third of which he went to director jail for (Heaven’s Gate); and that he gradually began to look different in ways for which time alone cannot account. I also had some preconceived notions about Cimino–that he was vain, an egotist, one who burned a lot of bridges–that are more or less borne out by Elton’s overview, but it’s important to note that Cimino was not around to defend himself when the author went rummaging through his past. (I feel fairly confident in saying, again from the picture Elton paints, that he probably would’ve spent more energy trying to halt the book’s publication altogether.) Though Cimino is not one of the great posthumous bios on the order of David Weddle’s If They Move…Kill ‘Em! or Lee Server’s Baby, I Don’t Care, it does have unique virtues (which I’ll get to) and is reasonably good at preserving Cimino’s dignity while countering or outright demolishing his own unreliable narrative.

A Long Time Ago in a Cutting Room Far, Far Away: My Fifty Years Editing Hollywood Hits―Star Wars, Carrie, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Mission: Impossible, and More
FFC rating: 8/10
by Paul Hirsch

by Bill Chambers “You know what’s a great cut?” I said to the editor of my student film–or he said to me, I can’t remember now. Conversations frequently began this way in our cluttered editing room, a glorified broom closet we’d decorated with, among other things, a life-size cardboard cutout of Mr. Spock and the poster for Sam Peckinpah’s Cross of Iron. Anyway, the answer to that rhetorical question was the opening of Casualties of War: a stark cut from black to a shot inside a subway car, where Michael J. Fox, the movie’s star, is Where’s Waldo?-ed amongst the passengers. The other person enthusiastically concurred; it was an incredible bonding moment between us, realizing we’d each recognized the power of this relatively obscure and deceptively simple moment. Since Paul Hirsch had edited so many Brian De Palma films, including his then-recent Mission: Impossible, we assumed it was his handiwork. (Smart-phone technology for checking these things instantly did not yet exist.) A different De Palma veteran, Bill Pankow, cut Casualties of War, as it turned out, but our misapprehension sparked a discussion of the legitimate work of Paul Hirsch, who soon became the patron saint of Casa Spock. Hirsch had edited the kinds of films us Gen-X cinephiles internalized like radio hits, and even though we were cutting a dopey little student film, we aspired to his rhythmic grace, which remains somewhat overshadowed by sheer popularity when it comes to his biggest credits (Star Wars, Footloose, Planes, Trains & Automobiles).

BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME: A MEMOIR
FFC rating: 6/10
by Burt Reynolds and Jon Winokur

DROPPED NAMES: FAMOUS MEN AND WOMEN AS I KNEW THEM
FFC rating: 10/10
by Frank Langella

by Bill Chambers Burt Reynolds and Frank Langella are very different actors (Burt could not have pulled off Dracula, nor would Langella have ever looked at home behind the wheel of a Trans-Am) and, as it happens, very different writers, yet in 2015’s But Enough About Me: A Memoir and 2012’s Dropped Names: Famous Men and Women As I Knew Them, respectively, they’ve taken a similar approach to memoir by reminiscing about, in Langella’s words, “the transient company of many remarkable people.” Langella sticks to the rich and famous while Reynolds broadens his repertoire to encompass his father, various civilian friends, and a horse, but a more significant distinction is that, with one exception, everyone Langella writes about is dead, whereas quite a few of Burt’s players are still alive. It sometimes makes But Enough About Me read like an open letter–one with decidedly Nixonian overtones in a passage listing every person who stood by Reynolds when it was rumoured he had AIDS. (If you’re not on it, fuck you is the subtext.) If Langella is by definition the more vulturous of the pair, he’s also the superior anthropologist, a keener observer, and, comparatively speaking, a born humorist, vividly caricaturing his subjects so that even the most reviled of them (Anthony Quinn, Lee Strasberg) will seem worthy of the contempt. Here’s how Langella introduces his chapter on Strasberg: