“Hardcore” (1979)
The lurid erotic neon-soaked sleaze of L.A. has been well-documented in music, with bands like The Doors, Jane’s Addiction and Guns’ N’ Roses (not to mention the ‘70s L.A. punk scene) all taking inspiration from the anti-glamor of the seedy Sunset Strip. Michael Mann also has a preoccupation with this scuzzy milieu and its vampiric subdwellers, but no one chronicles its sordid grime quite like Paul Schrader—perhaps because it was so vivid and fresh when he first experienced it relatively late in life. Borrowing autobiographical elements from his own Calvinist upbringing, “Hardcore” stars the great George C. Scott as a conservative Midwestern father and businessman who has to delve into the squalid underworld of L.A. pornography to recover his abducted daughter. Co-starring Peter Boyle as a shady private detective and Season Hubley as a porn actress that helps the father track down his daughter, the picture chronicles a generally unseen subculture and exploits its dramatic and revolting qualities for all they’re worth, like many of Schrader’s movies. There’s a dark religious irony at work within “Hardcore” too, that Schrader likely relished: how does a man so pious deserve a daughter consumed by the sub-rosa world of pornography? Along his journey into the netherworld of L.A., Scott’s father gets his hands real dirty having to deal with every pimp, prostitute and greasy peddler to find his precious kin and in doing so, loses a piece of his humanity. Featuring a score by Jack Nitzsche and cinematography by Michael Chapman (who, just a few years earlier, shot the New York grime of Travis Bickle’s New York for Scorsese), “Hardcore,” is typically bleak stuff from Schrader that like “Taxi Driver” is modelled after John Ford’s “The Searchers.” Perhaps the most telling dichotomy of “Hardcore,” which brings us into the window of the director/writer’s psyche, is watching the painful repugnance the protagonist endures while losing his soul and simultaneously, in what is obviously Schrader’s utter morbid fascination with this X-rated world. [B+]
“American Gigolo” (1980)
More L.A. sleaze from Schrader came only one year later in the stylish “American Gigolo,” proving the filmmaker hadn’t quite exorcised his demons or his desire to document the depraved seedy underbellies of Californian society. This time, however, his trademark self-destructive urban loner protagonist lives in the world of upscale male hustling. A classier affair than “Hardcore,” apropos for a world that calls their streetwalkers “gigolos” instead of “prostitutes,” ‘Gigolo’ still has its share of kink, amorality and degenerates. Following the noir-ish set-up template of a desperate man in desperate circumstances, “American Gigolo’ stars Richard Gere as Julian, a shallow, narcissistic male escort with champagne tastes who finds himself framed for a murder he didn’t commit. Lauren Hutton co-stars as his object-of-affection trick who is married to a local politician, Hector Elizondo plays the indefatigable detective hot on his heels, and Bill Duke plays the unscrupulous pimp that sends Julian on his most debased assignments. One of these is a rich man who pays Julian to physically abuse and have sex with his wife while he leers on in the background. She turns up dead a few days later and though Julian has an alibi, the client refuses to cooperate in order to protect her reputation. Squeezed from all sides, Julian’s desperation becomes more violent as he seeks to uncover who set him up. The character’s bloody frantic is heightened by Giorgio Moroder‘s ominous electro pulse of a score (though it’s really just different instrumental variations of Blondie’s “Call Me”) and by John Bailey‘s shooting (in only his third DP credit). Whereas “Hardcore” depicted its sleaze in the neon night of L.A., Schrader here decided on perhaps a more insidious illustration: the nastier side of sex in affluent California in broad daylight (though the darkly lit and scuzzy gay club scenes are on par with anything William Friedkin delivered in his notorious “Cruising”). Detached and voyeuristic in the way that many Schrader films are (which puts some audiences at a distance), there’s a cold and deadened eroticism to “American Gigolo” that’s perhaps not unlike the director’s more recent “The Canyons”: Julian’s a lost soul and perhaps by nature of his trade, there’s simply no easy passage to redemption. [B]
“Cat People” (1982)
If Paul Schrader’s writing and directing track record was mostly unassailable up until “American Gigolo,” it faltered rather hard with the poorly received “Cat People,” an erotic horror remake of Jacques Tourneur‘s 1942 effort of the same name. Starring Nastassja Kinski (in various states of softcore full frontal undress, of course), “Cat People” chronicles the story of a young woman who discovers that her sexual awakening and erotic arousals turn her into a monstrous murderous black panther. Reunited with her brother in New Orleans, Irene (Kinski), finds herself drawn to a captured black panther (who mauled someone) at a local zoo where she quickly takes a job in the nearby gift shop. Co-starring Malcolm McDowell, John Heard, Annette O’Toole and Ed Begley Jr., if your suspension of disbelief is strained in just reading the basic synopsis, well, it’s largely strained in execution as well. While “Cat People” has an admirably sensual mood and ominous atmosphere and tone, Schrader’s attempt at saying something about the degradation of sexual innocence is lost in what mostly amounts to a lurid B-movie (the unintentionally humorous tagline: “An erotic fantasy about the animal in us all” kind of says it all). Giorgio Moroder once again composed the score, including the film’s eponymous theme song sung by David Bowie (and most recently appropriated by Quentin Tarantino for “Inglourious Basterds”) and while that’s sultry enough, Schrader’s ongoing examination of desire and sexual hang-ups has been represented far more potently elsewhere. [C]
“Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters” (1985)
Schrader has referred to ‘Mishima’ as his best work as director and the motion picture, boasting executive producers George Lucas and Francis Ford Coppola, is a tremendous accomplishment. Ostensibly a biopic, but more aptly a study of controversial Japanese poet Yukio Mishima, Schrader invokes arresting imagery via stylistic flourishes that become far more than simply an attempt to suggest substance. Mishima must have been, if not a kindred spirit, at least a fascinating persona for Schrader to channel his own preoccupations through. The resulting film embraces the director’s favorite concepts: sexual ambiguity, obsession, repression and finally a rapturous release that feels both victorious and filed with regret. Via the titular four chapters, Schrader provides a portrait of Mishima that not chained to chronological fidelity—we witness the poet in his final hours and as a developing young boy, coming of age in a Japan as traditionalism is engulfed by capitalism. Plenty to work with and yet the picture also includes scenes from several of Mishima’s novels, enveloped by startlingly artificial backgrounds and providing a cunning blend of reality and fiction that appears to be true to Mishima’s own life. A moving score by Philip Glass aids the melodrama and doesn’t interfere with the more contemplative moments. With ‘Mishima,’ Schrader offers up a blatant tribute, a homily to the power of film—it’s a throbbing, living portrait that doesn’t lend itself well to a dry dissection but still feels poignantly measured. [B+]