Saturday, December 30, 2017


What the team behind Loving Vincent achieves is a mixed blessing. The movie is meticulously handpainted by a 100 or so artists, so the roiling skies and swirling suns depicted by Vincent Van Gogh seem to undulate before our eyes. The living actors are "animated," though animation is too cheap a word for the technique going on here. Their faces undulate, too. Almost to the point of distraction.

Van Gogh not only defined modern art, but set in motion the decades long cliche of the "crazy artist," made concrete by Kirk Douglas' scenery chewing performance in Lust For Life (1956). For many years the lasting image we had of Van Gogh was of Douglas holding his hand over a candle and gritting his teeth, or using a straight razor to slice off his ear. That is, until the 1990s when Tim Roth played the artist in Robert Altman's Vincent and Theo, an underplayed performance which said much about the way the culture had changed since Douglas' day. Douglas looked like he might detonate at many moment;  Roth was more insipid, wimpy.  I was curious to see how Van Gogh would be depicted in 2017, an era choking on its own political correctness. 

I admit that I entered the screening not aware that the movie had been handpainted, and I was a bit disappointed because I wanted to see an actor, not a an animated figure, as Vincent. What it all amounted to was something resembling the painstakingly crafted "rotoscope" cartoons developed by the Fleischer studios back in the days of Betty Boop. I also thought of Disney's Snow White, with her delicate gestures and dainty feet. Loving Vincent, of course, is more artful, and more realistic looking, but a cartoon is a cartoon. In a key scene, Vincent stares out at us from the screen; I saw neither madness nor brilliance, only the lifeless eyes of a drawn figure.

I could go on and on about the techniques used to illustrate this movie,  but I suggest you see it rather than let me try to explain how Van Gogh's bright stars and angry crows seem to come to life. It was a damn nifty trick, and there was a lot of thought involved, say, in casting the right actors to resemble characters in Van Gogh's paintings.  The  care that went into the production is admirable - artists on three continents worked on this thing - and will almost make you forget that the movie itself is so thin. Even the announcement at the film's start, which alerts us to the incredible amount of work that went into the creation of Loving Vincent, seems like a bulletproof vest wrapped around the movie. Don't you dare say anything bad about us, it implies, because we all worked so damned hard.  Indeed, I overhead people exiting the theater talking abut how "magical" it all seemed. Still, I found it as rudimentary as one of the Classic Comics I might've read in fourth grade.

The story centers around Armand Roulin (Douglas Booth), the son of Van Gogh's postman, delivering a letter from Van Gogh to his brother, Theo. Vincent has been dead for a year, and the circumstances around his death are mysterious. Roulin, in the manner of Philip Marlowe questioning suspects in The Big Sleep, starts digging around the old neighborhood, trying to learn what he can about this strange painter who committed suicide at 37. Van Gogh's last months are revealed to us in flashback sequences. The painter (Robert Gulaczyk) is seen shambling around, from his rooming house to the wheat fields, occasionally hunched over a canvas, huffing and puffing. He was sometimes seen in the company of rowdy drunks, or fruitlessly trying to chat up women.

He was diligent about his work, though. There's a bit where kids spot him painting in a field and start throwing rocks at him; he simply picks up his easel and canvas and shuffles away, less because of the flying debris, and more because he wants to get on with his art. He painted outdoors even in driving rainstorms. It was as if he knew his time here would be short, and he was trying to get all of his work done before he imploded. We see him writing letters to his brother, asking for money. We see him playing with a little girl, teaching her to draw a chicken. Most people recall him as a clumsy loner, a "tramp." At least one person describes him as "evil," but most think of him as a local eccentric, sort of likeable. Meanwhile, Roulin chases around for witnesses, gets in a few fist fights, argues about the plight of the artist.

As Roulin tries to assemble the pieces of the  puzzle, he's baffled. Why would a man touched by genius want to take his life? After all, things were going fairly well for  Van Gogh once he left the asylum at Saint Remy. And though he wasn't selling his work, he certainly had his admirers. Then again, he had plenty of bitter rivals who were jealous of his talent, and things had grown stressful with Theo. Like characters in an Agatha Christie novel, everyone Roulin speaks to has a theory behind Van Gogh's death. Not everyone thinks Vincent committed suicide. Some think he was shot in the gut by a local roughneck. The movie wants to leave us wondering.

Ultimately, I liked Gulakzyk's portrayal of Van Gogh, visible even through the animation technique. He doesn't chew the landscape like Douglas, and he's not simpering like Roth. He's a rough, awkward man trying to prove that he's worth something. He had mental problems that could probably be tempered now with lithium, or some other drug. At the time, he was mercurial, prone to deep melancholy and hysteria, balanced by fits of lucidity and energy. This movie, though, is less about Van Gogh and more about the way people saw him, which is fitting for our era of gawkers, voyeurs, and gossip. It puts Van Gogh in a brightly colored fishbowl so we can look on and tell ourselves that we'd be kind to him, suggest he find a good therapist; maybe we'd  try to find him a wife on OKCupid. This, I suppose, is the current way we look at madness, as something we can take care of with hugs.  Loving Vincent, so full of anachronisms like "nutcase" and "How is that working out for ya?" is Van Gogh's story retold for the Oprah generation.

There is one sublime moment, however, and it is Van Gogh's death scene. He's in bed, bleeding, a country doctor at his side, when the room suddenly washes over in tones of dark blue and grey. There was something in the tableau that recalled Ingres' deathbed scene of Leonardo Da Vinci, where the revered artist is shown dying in the arms of the French king, but with Da Vinci's grandeur and stately bed replaced by Van Gogh's simple room. Unfortunately, the atmosphere was nearly ruined by a version of Don McLean's "Vincent" that plays over the closing credits,  a cloying song that doesn't quite reflect a man who saw stars bursting in the night, and skulls smoking cigarettes.

Tuesday, December 26, 2017


How to portray the development of a serial killer? Directors usually show them being abused, or under the influence of an older, sadistic relative, but for the most part the disturbed youngster  is shown staring off into space with vacant eyes, being awkward around women,  perhaps torturing an animal. We sit there waiting for the moment when he realizes how liberating it can be to take someone into the woods and cut their throat.

Rarely does a film present these killers as remotely human. It only happens when a filmmaker is bold enough to suggest these murderers grew up in ways most of us will recognize. Monster (2004) had some of this, where Charlize Theron played Eileen Wuornos as a deranged highway prostitute who, when she wasn't shooting men in the head, simply wanted to be loved like anyone else. Marc Meyers' My Friend Dahmer has this, too, in that America's favorite gay cannibal is shown in a high school environment that looks more or less like an episode of Freaks and Geeks.

Dahmer's madness is difficult to understand because it can't be easily labeled. Serial killers are all superficially similar - they work out their violent fantasies by murdering over and over again - but there are enough differences between say, Dahmer and Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy, to keep them from being packaged together. Perhaps, like artists, serial murderers each express something unique.

Jeffrey Dahmer was one of the most baffling of serial killers. His psychosis was so personal that psychologists end up as puzzled as cartographers who have found an ancient map with unexplained landmasses near  Australia. My Friend Dahmer doesn't attempt a diagnosis. It simply examines the fact that Dahmer, who raped and murdered 17 young men and preserved their bones in his Milwaukee apartment,  had been a typical teenage misfit. He didn't kill because he enjoyed it, he killed because it was a means to an end. Even the usual serial killer trait of killing animals was of no interest to him; instead, he picked up roadkill and brought it home to study. How do you study the bodies of young men? They don't turn up on the road like flattened raccoons. You have to kill them.

Meyers' approach in My Friend Dahmer is very basic, but effective. He simply shows us what people do, lets us hear what they say. He  is most concerned with presenting Dahmer as a kid who played trumpet in the high school band and, for a while, had some notoriety as the class clown, a boy who would get laughs by bleating like a sheep or pretending to throw epileptic fits. If you didn't know Dahmer's story, you might watch this movie and think you're seeing the origin of a punk rock singer, or a belligerent stand up comic. Sure, he brought home some dead possums, but if you heard the same about Iggy Pop you'd probably accept it as sort of weird but cool. As played by Ross Lynch, young Dahmer is shy and clumsy, trapped in a perpetual slouch, but smart enough to keep his dark side hidden.

The movie takes place inside and around the dulling middle class world of mid-seventies suburban Ohio, where Dahmer's parents play out the ritual of a failing marriage. Dahmer's mother (Anne Heche) is a pill popping, self-absorbed neurotic who has been in and out of mental health clinics, while his father ( Dallas Roberts ) is a stammering chemist who fears his son will grow up to be an unhealthy nerd. Dahmer seems oblivious to his parents, too consumed with spying on the handsome fellow next door. Dahmer even hides in the woods with a baseball bat, waiting to clobber the guy and do who knows what with him. It never happens, though. Dahmer's not yet ready for murder.

There is a sense that Dahmer understands how people are supposed to behave in society. Watch the scene where he asks a freshman girl to the prom. He's downright charming. He knows she doesn't care about him,  but he convinces her to go because it will be good for her to be seen there, even with the class oddball. We can imagine him years later luring victims back to his apartment with the same logic and easy smile he used on this girl. Not all charming men are serial killers, but it's a rare serial killer who isn't charming.

Dahmer's murders were such a direct expression of his tangled psyche - a morbid interest in skeletons dovetailing with a teenager's homosexual anxieties  - that one  almost understands his eventual need to possess his victims utterly. He was the rare serial killer who didn't blame his actions on Satan, or pornography, or voices in his head. His overriding compulsion to know what we look like on the inside is captured in a strangely compelling scene where Dahmer and his buddies go fishing. When he's supposed to release his catch back into the pond, he kneels down and frantically hacks it apart with a knife. When he's done, he is neither excited nor satisfied. It's as if he's still searching for something, some elusive hidden treasure that exists between bones and guts.

The details of Dahmer's young life are here. The early addiction to alcohol. The isolation. The first victim, a teen hitchhiker named Steve Hicks. My Friend Dahmer is a small masterpiece mostly because Myers takes the most unlikely approach: he gives Dahmer a break, and treats him as a human. He achieves this partly by surrounding him with stuff we recognize. The kids in Dahmer's high school are familiar to me. They are  types I knew, smart but not insightful. For a while, Dahmer walked among them, called a few of them friends, and made them laugh.

Friday, December 22, 2017


Here's a movie that doesn't say much. It doesn't really have a plot, and when we think we're starting to see one take shape, it quickly vanishes. Yet, Armando Bo's The Last Elvis has moments of such beauty and inspiration that I can't stop thinking about it. I'm not sure if I can recommend it, or if you'd like it, and yet there is something in me that wants to hail it as a unique little masterpiece. 

The main character is Carlos Gutierrez  (John McInerny), a factory worker in Buenos Aires, Argentina. By day he works his dreary job, but at night he sings in seedy restaurants and wedding receptions as an Elvis impersonator. It's more than a side job, though. It's an obsession. He refers to himself as "Elvis," and calls his estranged wife "Priscilla." Naturally, their daughter is named "Lisa Marie," which is also stenciled on the side of his old Ford LTD. One wonders what came first, the car or the girl.

He lives alone in a rundown little house, surrounded by Elvis memorabilia. At one point a female visitor (possibly a hooker) offers him a blow job. He can't be bothered, because he's entranced by an old Elvis interview on TV. We sense his marriage ended because he wasn't a reliable father. He was too busy, as his wife says, "singing his silly songs." He practices his Elvis act diligently, but is constantly struggling to get paid. Some of the best scenes in the movie involve him visiting the talent agency's office, where various other showbiz lookalikes mill about while waiting for their paychecks. Apparently, Buenos Aires is chock-full of Barbra Streisands, John Lennons, Mick Jaggers, and Kiss wannabes.

But Gutierrez is more than a lookalike, and you wouldn't dare tell him otherwise. For one thing, he can actually sing. He doesn't look much like Elvis, but he embodies something about him, the easy swagger, the cool vibe. He may look like a white whale when he squeezes into his jumpsuit, but Gutierrez has more panache than a dozen Las Vegas Presleys. Trying to gain weight to play the late period Elvis, he even stuffs himself with peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Eventually, his wife is injured in a car accident, which means Gutierrez has to look after his daughter. He feeds her banana sandwiches, and serenades her with Elvis songs before she goes to sleep. Father and daughter grow close, and we imagine the movie may move in this direction, where the little girl supports her dad's strange dream of being Elvis. Instead, the mother snaps out of her coma and this part of the story line ends. (We do, however, notice his wife trying to cover a tattoo on her arm; later we see that it says, "Love Me Tender.")

Serious Elvis fans may pick up clues of how the movie will play out. For instance, Gutierrez makes a big deal of rehearsing "Unchained Melody," which he eventually performs - beautifully, I might add - for an audience of old ladies at a bingo hall. This song appeared on Elvis' final studio album, and was often performed during his final tour in 1977. It was perhaps his final great performance, a vocal high-wire act. Gutierrez, getting fatter and fatter, and focusing on Presely's late period music, appears to be tracing Elvis' steps in the months before he died. I'll say no more, but McInerny, who hasn't appeared in many movies, is tremendous as Gutierrez. I loved how he sings "You Were Always on My Mind" at a senior citizens' home, and his version of "The Hawaiian Wedding Song," sung to his daughter, is spellbinding. I'm familiar with  Elvis' music because my mother owned his albums, so I know McInerny is nailing every last nuance. There's power to this guy. He may be a slow moving train, but he's a train, nonetheless.

The movie isn't overburdened by dialog. Bo is best known as the Oscar-winning screenwriter of Birdman, another film where a man's alter-ego overwhelms him. But in that one, people talked too much. In The Last Elvis, Gutierrez is a simple man, not given to grand pronouncements. "God gave me a gift," he says. "I just accepted it." He's crazy, too. He sings well and seems like a decent chap, but there's a screw loose. The movie made me wonder why so many people want to be someone else. It also made me wonder why, whether you're dressed as Elvis or Britney Spears, and whether you're insane or not, you still have to stand in line to get a paycheck. And sometimes you don't get one.


This movie is available on DVD, and on the Fandor movie app.

Sunday, December 10, 2017


 Whether it was punk rock, pop art, disco, or hip-hop, Manhattan has always embraced the new and the novel. In boxing terms, the newest and most novel is Ukraine's Vasyl Lomachenko, a fighter who trains by catching quarters in mid air and holding his breath for three and four minutes at a time, and whose footwork combines the fleetness of Willie Pep with the rhythms of Ukrainian folk dancers. Inside The Theater at Madison Square Garden on Saturday night, Lomachenko took on the highly regarded Guillermo Rigondeaux and showed that his unique, frenetic style creates hell for even the best fighters. Rigondeaux, undefeated since 2003, shocked the crowd of 5,102 by quitting after the sixth round.

Don't misunderstand: it's not as if Rigondeaux took a brutal beating. He was, at age 37,  with two Olympic gold medals to his credit and an undefeated professional record, savvy enough to survive by clinching and fouling. Ultimately, though, he chose to follow the template of Lomachenko's three previous opponents and retire on his stool.

When Lomachenko, who has won 10 of 11 pro bouts (with nearly 400 amateur wins and two of his own gold medals) started unloading in the third - he astonished observers with a triple right uppercut - it seemed as if Rigondeaux  might get an opportunity to lure the Ukrainian into one of his own stunning left hand shots. But rather than patiently wait for Lomachenko to get cocky and walk into something, Rigondeaux came unglued. He began to behave like a frustrated rookie, holding and stalling. Lomachenko, meanwhile, looked like a young country boy enjoying his first barn dance, at one point grabbing Rigondeaux by the neck and pirouetting around him. After Rigondeaux had landed one too many cheap shots, Lomechenko answered with a stiff right to the jaw, long after the bell ending round five. Even if you cheat, he seemed to say, I've got your number. 

"I lost, no excuses," Rigondeaux said after the bout. Then he gave an excuse. "I injured the top of my left hand in the second round." Though he'd come up a weight class for the bout, he didn't blame the loss on being smaller than Lomachenko. "The weight was not a factor in this fight. It was the injury to my hand."

Not many were buying Rigondeaux' story. He was jeered by the crowd, and also by several hyperventilating television commentators, as if he'd done something akin to treason. Perhaps it's easier to speak badly of a fighter for quitting than it is to praise a fighter like Lomachenko, whose greatness is difficult to measure by any existing yardstick. There were moments in the bout when Rigondeaux looked like a homeless man stumbling through bad weather, wondering how life could've left him in such circumstances. He had no answers for the merry trickster in front of him, and the hopelessness in his eyes was poignant, particularly in the sixth when referee Steve Willis penalized him one point for a foul. At that moment, the fight slipping away beyond his reach, Rigondeaux looked like the loneliest man in New York. Faced with an opponent whose feet move quicker than the average man can think, Rigondeaux decided that jettisoning his undefeated record was better than taking any more of Lomachenko's strange abuse, which must feel like being poked by a circus clown long after the joke has worn off. 

Rigondeaux' back may not have hit the canvas, but his spirit was certainly knocked out.

It would've been interesting to see how Lomachenko responded to one of Rigondeaux' powerhouse lefts, for Rigondeaux is a certified jawbreaker. But anytime Rigondeaux tried to land something, Lomachenko would suddenly be behind him, or at his side, or peppering him with punches, or nimbly shifting around, giving Rigoneaux angles not usually seen in a boxing ring. Lomachenko is boxing's equivalent of the knuckleball, never where you expect him to be. Keep in mind, we once spoke of Roy Jones Jr. this way, and he turned out to be painfully mortal. For now, Lomachenko is bright and new, and at age 29 he's in prime form. He also understands that beating an older, smaller fighter will not exactly punch his ticket to Valhalla.

"This is not his weight, so it's not a big win for me," Lomachenko said. "But he's a good fighter. He's got great skills. I adjusted to his style, low blows and all."

If Lomachenko was humble, promoter Bob Arum didn't hesitate to put some extra shine on the moment. "You are all seeing something special," Arum said, comparing Lomachenko to the greats of the past, including Muhammad Ali and Ray Leonard, plus contemporary icons like Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao. Lomachenko, Arum crowed, is "the most unbeatable fighter I've ever had."

Hype aside, Lomachenko is a young man with an impressive style, and a dedication to being perfect in the ring. For now it's fun for him. He's like a brilliant teenage chess prodigy who casually beats masters twice his age and acts as if it's all easy, a joke that only he understands.

But Lomachenko wasn't the only one smiling. After the bout was stopped and Rigondeaux announced his hand was bothering him, Lomachenko's father and trainer, Anatoly, started removing his son's gloves. "Is this OK?" the older man said, setting up his own punchline. "How is your hand?" Father and son shared a laugh.

How great it must be, and how novel, to have figured out the secret of invincibility.

- Don Stradley

Tuesday, December 5, 2017


As far as unsolved murders go, the  killing of Elizabeth Short in 1947 has a special place in the pantheon. She was a 22-year-old woman living on the fringes of Los Angeles, allegedly making a few bucks as a nude model for a cut-rate porn ring. One morning her body was found in a vacant lot, severed in half, drained of blood. When acquaintances mentioned her habit of wearing a black flower in her hair, Short was fitted with a nickname that would live for decades: "The Black Dahlia." A few years of garish headlines followed, with  hundreds of weirdos coming forward to offer phony confessions. Theories were plentiful. Some speculated that the killer had been a crazy lesbian, or an insane surgeon. Even folk singer Woody Guthrie was a suspect after sending a series of sexually suggestive letters to a friend's sister. The Dahlia case gave L.A. a mystery to rival the crimes of Jack the Ripper.

The circumstances around this grisly homicide - the poor woman's body was not only bisected, but mutilated in many strange ways, as was her face - and the peculiar behavior of the Los Angeles police, are thoroughly examined in Piu Eatwell's Black Dahlia, Red Rose. Eatwell had access to rare files, and even interviewed the few living relations of various people involved in the investigation. If her writing style is a bit reserved, her commitment borders on the heroic . I've read a lot about Elizabeth Short, but this is the closest I've come to understanding what may have actually happened.
Short was actually a Massachusetts girl, from a suburb north of Boston, transplanted to L.A. with hopes of becoming a movie star. She ended up nearly destitute, living in rooming houses and relying on a string of "boyfriends" to keep her in nice dresses and fancy shoes. As one news editor described her, she wasn't good or bad, she was just lost, trying to find her way out of the hole she'd dug for herself. It wasn't long before she was in the company of some shady types, of which there was no shortage in 1940s LA.

Among the shadiest was an unemployed bellhop named Leslie Dillon. By all accounts he was "an insignificant, sloop shouldered man in glasses," with a penchant for dying his hair different colors. He was also a small-time pimp with an interest in psycho-sexual crimes. Many months after the murder, he began a correspondence with Dr. Paul De River, a psychologist working on the case. Perhaps, Dillon wrote, Elizabeth Short had "mocked" someone and, out of revenge, the killer had, in the process of annihilating her, "experienced a new sensation by accident..." During the remainder of the correspondence and an eventual meeting, Dillon revealed details that only Short's murderer could've known. He was, as the cops say, a live suspect.

Dillon did everything but provide an outright confession. He drew pictures; he gave details; and when he agreed to meet with Dr. De River in Las Vegas, he packed a suitcase full of razor blades, women's shoes, and a bloody dog leash, as if to say, This is how the well-dressed psychotic travels in late '40s America. Put simply, he was a strange cat, a sex-fiend, and he was quite likely the one who killed Elizabeth Short and cut her in half. But with the type of cunning usually reserved for super villains in a Thomas Harris novel, Dillon slipped out from the investigators' grip. It seems he had enough dirt on the LAPD, probably from his days pimping, that he was virtually untouchable. This was a time, after all, when the LAPD was at its most corrupt, freely mingling with gangsters; Dillon, Eatwell guesses, knew where the bodies were buried. He walked, and was never heard from again. Whether he killed anyone else is unknown, but Eatwell suggests the possibility. Cheekily, Dillon later married and named his daughter "Elizabeth."

Eatwell has worked as a producer and researcher for various BBC documentaries and has a passion for dark crimes and sinister characters. With the Dahlia case, she's knee deep in depravity and cover ups. It's unfortunate that Dillon vanished into the night, for he's certainly the most intriguing suspect. There was, recalled one investigator, something about Dillon "that raises a man's animal instincts, makes the hair on the back of your neck bristle up." From  admitting that he liked to knock women out with drugs, to his knowledge of what was done with the Dahlia's pubic hair, Dillon convinced Dr. De River that he was "either guilty of the Dahlia murder, or heavily implicated in it."

Killing a woman in such a manner is a big job, and there's plenty of evidence suggesting that Dillon didn't work alone. Eatwell's theory is that a runty nightclub owner named Mark Hansen had approached Short  to work for him as a prostitute, or perhaps to be his lover. When she refused, he hired Dillon to knock her off. Dillon, a lover of true crime tales and sadistic fiction, went about killing her with, shall we say, too much enthusiasm. Yet, he was so pleased with his work that he couldn't help but taunt the police and De River.

Dillon may have vanished, but the story of the Dahlia never goes away. It's been turned into a few forgettable movies (including one starring Lucy Arnaz!) and has inspired a cottage industry of books, including a couple where authors accuse their own fathers of being the killer. There's even one where the killer is said to have been Orson Welles. The result is that the books and films are interesting to a point, and then fall apart in vague accusations and hearsay.

Eatwell does better than most who have tried. By focusing on Dillon, who is usually a footnote in the investigation, and having fun with the film noir aspects of the story - she names each chapter after a movie of the period, ie. The Lodger, Panic in the Streets, The Glass Alibi etc - Eatwell turns in a taught, thought provoking crime story. Especially effective is her depiction of the Aster Motel, "a place of secrets, where men in dark suits paid cash to closet themselves in cabins with nameless associates and women in red lipstick and high heels."

The day after Short's body was found, a cabin at the Aster was reportedly covered in blood and feces. Witnesses claimed to have seen a man there resembling Dillon, and a woman resembling Short.

Eatwell's style is elegant and understated, a long cry from the hyperventilating spin used by most so-called Dahlia experts. At first you may be underwhelmed by the low key tone of Black Dahlia, Red Rose, but it works. You'll also be introduced to some great characters, like Aggie Underwood, the city editor at the Los Angeles Evening Herald & Express, who worked doggedly to cover the case, and the "Gangster Squad," a  crew of veteran L.A. detectives who came very close to cracking the Dahlia mystery.

She doesn't quite pinpoint why the LAPD seemed so determined to forget the case, but alludes to key members of the department being friendly with Hansen, who had probably set up more than a few cops with women, possibly procured by pimp wannabe Dillon. The cover up of a murdered girl was easy in an era noted for the "cozy relationship played out in downtown bars between police and mobsters, the wads of dough traded at the doors of the gambling dens and whorehouses as a price for being left alone."

Newspaper editors effected the case, too, if only because of their handling of the Dahlia's image, taking her from a mysterious beauty to a kind of sleazy loser. Were they under orders to portray her as a whore, to cool the public's interest?

My own experience with a Dahlia-type of murder was back in the 1990s, when I lived in a shabby studio behind a Pizzeria Uno's outside of Boston. One Sunday morning I  saw several police cars parked in the Uno's lot. The commotion was because of what someone had seen in the Uno's trash dumpster: a pair of female legs. I don't recall the torso being found, and I'm pretty sure the case, like Elizabeth Short's, was never solved. It didn't get a glamorous name like "The Black Dahlia," and after a few days no one gave a damn about it. Many murder cases go this route, especially when the victims are women, especially when the victims aren't rich. The horror isn't that these things happen, the horror is that the killers can just about get away with it.

The killers of Elizabeth Short got away with it, but Piu Eatwell presents compelling evidence involving some players previously lurking at the outskirts of the story. She's onto something.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017


The news that Miguel Cotto will retire after this weekend's New York bout against Sadam Ali is bringing back memories. They're all good, I must say. There was the time Freddie Prinze Jr chatted with me about how Cotto could probably run for governor of Puerto Rico and win. I also remember the time Jose Torres, the great Puerto Rican champion of the 1960s, confessed that he admired Cotto even more than another recent star from the island, Felix Trinidad. "I don't know what it is," Torres said to me as his eyes moistened, "but I love this kid."

Perhaps the most unique take on Cotto came from a New York cab driver. I'd rushed out of Madison Square Garden after one of Cotto's bouts, skipping the post fight presser because nothing useful ever happens at those things, and jumped into a taxi back to the hotel. The driver, a young Puerto Rican male, looked at me in the rear view mirror and asked if I'd seen the fight. I gave him a brief rundown. He shrugged, satisfied. "Cotto is good for the city," the driver said, as if the fight itself didn't matter. "It's party time. And I'll make extra money taking these people home."

Cotto's promoter in those days, Bob Arum, usually booked him in New York on the weekend of the annual Puerto Rican Day parade. If you've never seen it, it's a colorful rolling festival that takes place one Sunday in June and sets Manhattan aglow with music and dancing. Pity the person who has to drive in the city that day, because for miles the streets are jammed. I viewed the spectacle from the sidewalk a few times; it was impressive, joyous. Cotto was grand marshal at least once or twice.

Watching Cotto at Madison Square Garden was always special. The crowd sounded different on those nights. When he made his entrance, an incredible noise erupted across the highest points of the arena, like restless, dangerous winds coming in from the Atlantic. It swirled around the building, reminding me of the old movie theaters that were fitted with cinema shaking "Sensurround" systems. It was unforgettable.

Cotto may or may not be the best fighter to come from Puerto Rico. He was damned good, though. Serious as a brick, and nearly as hard. He did some major damage in New York.

Paulie Malignaggi stood up to Cotto's best shots at the Garden, but when that bout was over, the entire ring was spattered with red blotches the size of quarters: Paulie's blood. I'd gone into the Garden that night not sure about Cotto, but came out a believer.

There was also the night Cotto beat up Zab Judah. That was possibly the best Cotto we'd ever see, fast and mean and strong. The replay on TV did no justice to the power of Cotto's punches. When he hit Judah, it sounded like a hammer on a pumpkin.

He had many good nights in New York. He beat Shane Mosley at the Garden, and on a humid June night in 2010, he beat Yuri Foreman at Yankee Stadium. It wasn't quite like the stadium bouts of boxing's golden era, but it was a tasty appetizer for the Sunday festivities. And the festival atmosphere, as my taxi driver explained, was what it was really all about.

"Let me tell you about Cotto's fans," the driver said. "Puerto Rican people wait all year for something like this. They will go without groceries or food for a month. They'll save up all their money for the ticket, just so they can be there. They love it. They don't care what it costs, or who the opponent is. They're going to represent."

They certainly did, even on nights when Cotto wasn't at his best, like the time he suffered a nasty cut in a Garden bout with Joshua Clottey. Clottey was an awkward fighter with a forehead shaped like a gourd. After a head clash, Cotto started bleeding buckets. He struggled for the rest of the bout, but rallied to win a split decision. Not his best work, but his fans whistled and the parade rolled along on schedule the next morning.

In Las Vegas, Cotto suffered a punishing loss to Antonio Margarito. It was later revealed that Margarito was likely fighting with something extra in his gloves. A rematch was demanded, and there was no better place for it than Madison Square Garden in New York. In front of  a sellout crowd of 21,239, a vengeful Cotto handed out the sort of prolonged beating usually seen in mafia movies, making sure Margarito tasted every punch.

From there, Cotto began losing more often - he even lost one in New York, to Austin Trout - and we realized his best days were behind him. Yet, he could still find magic in Manhattan, like the night in 2014 when he whipped Sergio Martinez. Nearly 15 years had passed since Cotto made his New York debut, winning a four rounder at the Hammerstein Ballroom, but still vibrant was the love affair between Cotto and the city. His fans were still saving their money, filling the seats, representing.

He's 37 now. He'd be smart to retire after this weekend's bout. He's one of the few fighters of recent times who was never boring in the ring, never coasted, never mailed one in. We'll all look back on Cotto and agree that boxing benefited from his presence.

Cotto fights Ali on Saturday at Madison Square Garden. It's the perfect place to end Cotto's story. His unbreakable spirit was best displayed in the city of New York, where Puerto Rican fans filled the air with unforgettable sounds, where blood colored the ring, where cabbies raked in the extra fares, where a long retired champ was nearly brought to tears by his love for the kid, and the victory celebration almost always included a parade.

New York was Cotto's town and always will be.

- Don Stradley

Friday, November 24, 2017


It's sad to realize Harry Dean Stanton is gone. He died in September at 91. His heyday was in the 1970s and '80s, in movies like Dillinger, Alien, Wise Blood, and Repo Man. He found his best role in 1984 when he played a drifter in Wim Wenders' Paris, Texas. Stanton, who began his career as a bit player in the 1950s, was a lanky guy with a hangdog face and soft, brown eyes. He was the closest thing Hollywood had to a human coyote. He was once offered his own TV series but turned it down; he didn't want the success of the show to rest on his shoulders. Stanton was better suited to the fringes of the movie business, small parts, in and out, fast, almost unnoticed. A coyote. In recent years he became a kind of fetish figure for the same types who dig gnarly old survivors like Keith Richards and Johnny Cash. Lucky, though it's as lightweight as a greeting card, certainly won't hurt his reputation. Like the leather cowboy boots he wears in the movie, the Stanton vibe was made to last.

The movie has won awards and accolades from critics, but it's a fluff piece. First time screenwriters Drago Sumonja and Logan Sparks give us a flimsy story about a codger named Lucky (Stanton) who is starting to feel the terrors of old age. He's healthy enough  - only a pair of idiot writers would create a 90-year-old character who smokes a pack of cigs per day and have a doctor tell him his lungs are fine - but after an episode where he falls down in his kitchen, he acknowledges that there is a lot more life behind him than ahead of him. The method here is all quirky, indy self-consciousness: Lucky's refrigerator contains only three quarts of milk; his ashtray always has exactly three butts; the local bar, the local diner, the local store, are all too cute. We constantly hear "Red River Valley" played on a harmonica (by Stanton), until we're ready to cry uncle. Meanwhile, Lucky is brimming with ersatz wisdom. "There's a difference between lonely and being alone," he says. If that strikes you as deeply profound, maybe Lucky is the movie for you.

Director John Carroll Lynch, however, is tasteful, and he puts veteran cinematographer Tim Suhrstedt to good use, especially when Lucky is out in the desert, going on one of his many solitary walks among the cacti. And I liked David Lynch as Lucky's eccentric friend, Howard, all shook up because his pet tortoise ran away. Some will think Lucky is a nice meditation about those who quietly rage against the dying of the light, and some will be overly impressed by the way Stanton puts his scrawny old body on display. Yes, there was no vanity in the guy, and there's something admirable about an elderly actor who, as Stanton does here, appears in a movie either semi-nude or in his underwear. On the other hand, I got pretty tired of looking at Stanton's balls and armpits.

Stanton gives Lucky what he always gave to movies: his presence. He was never one who knocked the walls down with his acting. But it was always great to see him. When he popped up in a movie it was like recognizing an old friend in a crowd. This was a guy who could play an understanding father in John Hughes' Pretty in Pink, or appear in an episode of Laverne & Shirley as a seedy lounge singer named Johnny Velvet. He was believable every time, and he's certainly believable in Lucky. But it would be misleading to say he carries the movie on his own narrow shoulders, or makes it worth seeing. Lucky is just too pleased with itself, and we can almost feel the writers patting themselves on the back when they come up with a line of crap dialog like, "Realism is a thing." Ironically, they did come up with something good in Lynch's character, who pines for his lost tortoise, wants to leave all of his money to it, and solemnly promises to be there when the animal returns. Lynch has the best scene in the movie when he talks about how his tortoise, named "President Roosevelt," must have carefully planned his escape because it had something important to do. "That tortoise affected me," he says. For a moment we can see the movie that should've been made.

Monday, November 20, 2017

JIM & ANDY: The Great Beyond...(on Netflix)

In 1999 Jim Carrey starred in Man on the Moon, a screen biography of the late Andy Kaufman. It was smart casting, because Kaufman was on the brink of being entirely forgotten, and Carrey was just about the biggest comic actor on the planet. It also turned out that Carrey was a devoted Kaufman fan, even willing to audition for director Milos Foreman by videotaping himself doing some of Kaufman's old bits. Once the role was his, Carrey dove in with such commitment that he demanded everyone on the set refer to him as "Andy," and, just as Kaufman often did in his heyday, Carrey remained "in character" for the duration of the production. Carrey also hired his own crew to shoot behind the scenes footage, which he'd hoped to use as part of the original film's DVD release. Universal objected, fearing the footage made Carrey look "like an asshole." As we can now watch the previously unseen footage on Jim & Andy: The Great Beyond, the studio had a point.

Of course, Carrey is the best type of asshole. But how do we respond when he suggests that he was channeling Kaufman's spirit? "It was," Carrey says, "as if Andy came back to make his movie, and he turned the world upside down." When filming scenes with the original cast of Taxi, the ABC sitcom where Kaufman starred as the lovable Latka Gravas, Carrey is relentless, irritating his co-stars until the discomfort is visible in their eyes. "I'd feel guilty," Carrey says, "wondering if I'd gone too far. Then I'd wonder what Andy would do. And Andy would take things even further." Foreman is exasperated, and we feel for him, but Carrey is fascinating, like fireworks that unexpectedly spell out obscene words.

People will no doubt discuss the "meta" quality of the movie, for it's a documentary about a movie within a movie, and it'll set your head spinning. It also comes with a big dollop of Carrey's "None of us really exist" hokum, which has been his stance of late. Yet, as he now sits behind a bushy beard, his eyes smaller and more piercing than I remember, he tells the tale of his life and this movie like a melancholy guru. He reached the top of his profession, and found it lacking; now he's gone existential on us. Whether or not I share his views on how the universe works, I could listen to him for hours.

The documentary reminds us of how incredibly famous Carrey was in the 1990s (which is likely the reason he got away with so much crap), and his gargantuan reserves of silliness, but also of how great Kaufman was in his 1970s heyday. It's worth seeing just for Carrey's impeccable version of Kaufman's alter-ego, the nasty lounge singer Tony Clifton. The gag Carrey plays at the Playboy Mansion is priceless; Kaufman would've approved.

Some wonder if Carrey's recent philosophical musings are merely a new unleashing of  his Kaufmanesque side, as if he's testing us, putting us on, but I don't think so. Not only do I think he believes in what he's saying, but I think he may be done with entertaining us. When he's done, he's done. Even when he shed the Kaufman costume, he wouldn't put it on again, not even when R.E.M. wanted him to appear as Kaufman in a music video.

As I watched Jim & Andy, I wondered what Kaufman would've done with Carrey's monstrous success. And I wondered if Carrey might've been happier if he'd been a cult figure, like Kaufman, rather than a world renowned movie star. And I wondered if Carrey really thought he had brought Kaufman back to life, somehow, for the filming of Man on the Moon. And I wondered why there was such an all-pervading sense of gloom around Jim & Andy. Is it because Kaufman died young? Is it because Carrey already seems like part of our past?

What is amazing is how Carrey got so many members of the crew to go along with him. Hairdressers, actors, and members of Kaufman's family appear to genuinely embrace him as Kaufman. Carrey gets teary-eyed when he talks about meeting Kaufman's daughter, and again when he talks about his own father, a budding sax player who gave up his dreams in order to support his family.  Such heartfelt moments are unexpected, but they work. It's one of the damnedest documentaries ever made.

Saturday, November 18, 2017



Late in Battle of the Sexes, we see real photos of Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs, black and white shots from their 1970s period. King looks pugnacious, energetic, vibrant. Riggs, posing as he did for a mock Playgirl centerfold, is grotesque. In fact, an older lady in the audience seated near me let out a shriek when she saw the image of Riggs. It was as if his obnoxious presence still perturbs women 40 years after the ultimate "male chauvinist pig" challenged King, one of the top players in women's tennis, to a match. The event became a pop cultural phenomenon and aired on ABC on a Thursday night in September of 1973  (probably preempting Kung Fu and The Streets of San Francisco), even though Riggs was  55 years-old and King was in her athletic prime. In 2001, ABC presented When Billie Beat Bobby, an entertaining piece starring Holly Hunter and Ron Silver. I kept thinking of that one, even as Emma Stone and Steve Carrell did their best to present the story again. Stone and Carrell are major talents, but too cute, like Barbie and Ken dolls cast as Lillian Hellman and Dashiell Hammet.

Carrell, for the most part, is a reasonable choice to play Riggs. He may seem a little too burly for an over-the-hill tennis legend who was spending his retirement years hustling his pals at the local gentleman's club, but Carrell's got the devil-may-care silliness and the "Why should I give a fuck what you think?" attitude (his speech at a gambler's anonymous meeting, where he tells people their real problem is that they're just shitty gamblers, is the highlight of the movie). Stone, though, is too far from the  cloth from which King was cut. (Hunter played King as a muscled up warrior, worn down by outside pressure, not battle.) Stone is too delicate boned to play King, more like a JV cheerleader than a tennis beast, and when she speaks with confidence that she'll whip some opponent, we don't believe her. Even when she decides to embrace her lesbian feelings and have a fling with her hair stylist, it's as if she's a nervous teen going on a first date with her best friend's father.

It's nice to see a few familiar faces from the past, including Elisabeth Shue as Rigg's long suffering wife, and Bill Pullman as Jack Kramer, the arrogant tennis promoter who doesn't want to pay the women as much as the men. Neither gets a chance to do much in the movie, but they show how not to overact, which Sarah Silverman can't avoid doing as the agent of the women's team, holding her cig like Bette Davis, complete with bride of Frankenstein lightning stripes in her hair. Directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Feris demonstrate none of the finesse or ingenuity that made their debut feature, Little Miss Sunshine (2006) so watchable. It's as if they were baffled by the sheer scope of the King-Riggs match, and with "women's lib" sounding like a fad from the seventies, they decided to be more fashionable and make a heartfelt coming of age story for lesbians.

I'm not sure what to say  about Simon Beaufoy's screenplay. Beaufoy, an Oscar winner, has written some highly regarded films, including The Full Monty (1997) and Slumdog Millionaire (2008). Battle of the Sexes has elements of those movies in that it's about people having to perform on a grand stage while putting their personal lives on the line, but he's not up to the task of jamming a year's worth of history into a comfy 2-hour format. Some of it feels too coincidental, too pat. With the ladies' flamboyant wardrobe designer (Alan Cumming) popping up every few minutes like a one man Greek chorus, offering glib one-liners, or giving Billie Jean a comforting hug at the right moment, it's as if Beaufoy felt tennis wasn't so interesting, so he padded the story with gays and camp humor. And because the focus is mostly on King while Riggs is just a comic foil, the message is skewed.

So Battle of The Sexes, intending itself as an inspirational pageant for the LGTBQ community, bends itself to accommodate everyone in its target audience. For fans of King and her considerable achievements, she's portrayed as a serious but vulnerable athlete trying to change things for women's tennis. For fans of Emma Stone, her love scenes with Andrea Riseborough are downright cuddly, though "Crimson and Clover" on the soundtrack was used to better effect when Christina Ricci and Charlize Theron fell for each other in Monster (2004). For those who dislike heterosexual men, they are all portrayed here as flabby creeps. That is, except for King's husband, who gently applies ice to his wife's knees even as he realizes her heart belongs to another woman. As played by Austin Stowell, he's the dream man for sexually confused females everywhere: the handsome, non-judgemental doormat.

Thursday, November 16, 2017

THE DINNER...(new on Netflix)

Movies taking place around a dinner table generally bog down into long monologues where the characters argue about one thing and then another. You know that every character seated at the table will get a chance to blab, and before the movie is over each will get a moment where they stand up, show some anger, reveal their secrets. It's a genre, usually indulged in by young playwrights who are trying their own version of Whose Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, without having the life experiences or emotional facility to draw from. Oren Moverman's The Dinner, based on a novel by Herman Koch, isn't exempt from the worst of the dinner drama cliches but, because of a few good performances and the gorgeous camera work of cinematographer Bobby Bukowski, rises above the predictable mess it could've been. I can't quite recommend the movie. I can't say it's bad, either. Like all of Moverman's movies, it's not necessarily there for your enjoyment. His characters aren't meant to reflect your own phony image of yourself.

In The Dinner, Richard Gere plays Stan Lohman, a budding congressman whose son and nephew have committed a horrible crime: they set fire to a sleeping homeless woman, recording her death throes on their smart phones as they laughed. Stan's brother Paul (Steve Coogan) is the father of the more vicious of the boys. Stan arranges a dinner date at an exclusive restaurant so he and Paul, plus their wives, can discuss what to do about their sons, who haven't been caught. The story rolls out gradually with many subplots, the main one being  Paul's deteriorating mental health, and his grudge against Stan, the more glamorous politician brother. Stan wants the boys to pay for their crime. Paul's wife (Laura Linney) fears what might happen to them in jail. Meanwhile, Stan's wife (Rebecca Hall) doesn't want anything to interfere with her husband's run for congress. She put a lot of time into this guy, after all. Around and 'round they go.

Meanwhile, as the family argues and hisses, a series of entrees are brought out to their table and described in detail by the maĆ®tre d'. It's not clear whether this is meant to be a satire on the eating habits of the affluent, but the courses look ridiculous. One looks like asparagus tips served on a bonsai tree. The Lohamns fight, eat, and fight some more. Meanwhile, in flashback scenes, we see the boys killing the homeless woman. The kids in the movie are pure shits, heartless and arrogant, though Paul's wife insists they are "good boys" who simply made a mistake. Paul, who hasn't been taking his medication, can't focus on the situation. He amuses himself by insulting the waiters. Stan, in turn, is distracted because his assistant keeps interrupting the dinner with phone calls, the important ones that politicians always get at dinnertime. 

The Dinner isn't Moverman's best, though it's tempting to say it's worth watching becaue of Coogan's portrayal of Paul, the edgy loon of the Lohman family. To say this, however, isn't quite true. The Dinner has too many storylines, too many flashbacks, and eventually falls into the same routine as all dinner movies, where each character gets a turn to be dramatic. Moverman wants all of the characters to state their cases, but their arguments are frail.  One can imagine a movie being made that focuses solely on Paul, and how this damaged character navigates a family tragedy. Coogan, who gets better as he matures, could've carried it. He's very fine here, all sharp edges and frayed wires, and even though Gere is watchable as always, it's Coogan who steals every scene, playing the kind of unpredictable character John Cassavettes used to play. Moverman tends to draw good performances from actors, or maybe he simply gives them a chance to do things they don't ordinarily do, as he did in Time Out Of Mind (2014) where Gere played a homeless man, and Rampart (2011), where Woody Harrelson played an unhinged L.A. cop. Moverman's movies may be hard to like, but I haven't disliked any of them.

Friday, October 27, 2017

Gerald's Game...1922...on Netflix

Stephen King still qualifies as a brand name -- he's like McDonald's, or the WWE, the sort of company where you know what you're getting, and you have only yourself to blame if you aren't happy with the product. This is, after all the guy who writes about haunted cars and vampires for fuck's sake -- and carries enough clout that Netflix has invested in two original features this month based on his writing. The movies are based on two of his shorter works, which is where his best stuff is usually found. King's writing went all bloated and wobbly when his love of cocaine dovetailed with the advent of the word processor, because when you give a guy with his galloping imagination and love of words  a machine that makes writing easier, coupled with a coke habit, you get novels that are twice as long as they need to be. Fortunately, he could still stick the landing when he wasn't all hell bent on writing an epic. Unfortunately, whether he was writing long or short, King's storytelling  can be baffling for filmmakers. 

This is evident in Gerald's Game, which is about a middle-aged couple who try to spice up the old love life by engaging in some bedroom role playing. Hubby's idea is to handcuff his wife to the bed so he can act out his rape fantasies. Ironically, he has a heart attack and dies in the middle of playing bad boy, which leaves his angry wife cuffed and helpless. The novel, written by King in the early 90s, was a quick and dirty metaphor for rotten marriages everywhere, especially when a starving dog sneaks into the house and starts snacking on the dead husband's arm. It was nasty stuff, and King exhibited strong insight into the way our adult relationships allow us to rehash templates set in our past. We're shackled to our spouses, we're shackled to beds, we're shackled to our childhood. He nailed it. King is often at his best when writing about, not the horrors of the undead, but the horrors of something far more sinister and mysterious: marriage.

The movie, though, is too slick, too pristine. I remember the couple in the novel being rather average, perhaps unattractive; the movie features a pair of performers who have obviously spent months getting into shape because they knew they were going to be shown in bed, semi-nude. The husband (Bruce Greenwood) looks like one of those fellows in a Viagra commercial, grey at the temples but buff. The wife (Carla Gugino) has biceps like a pole vaulter, all the more noticeable when she's cuffed to the bedposts. The result is that they seem less like a real couple, and more like generic Hollywood types. The script, co-adapted by director  Mike Flanagan, can't improve on the worst of King's instincts; in King's world, successful men attend board meetings and tell dirty jokes at Christmas parties. Their wives suffer silently, harboring dreadful secrets. At his best, King creates wonders. At his worst, he's as hokey as Danielle Steel. At least Carel Struycken has a good turn as a gigantic serial killer known as "The Moonlight Man." He's the best thing in the movie.

I'd had higher hopes for 1922, which stars Thomas Jane as a farmer who murders his wife.  And while it is better than Gerald's Game, it stumbles a bit. Jane looks appropriately rugged and sunburned, but every time he opens his mouth we see a set of perfect Hollywood choppers, circa 2017.  Worse, Jane's acting consists of speaking like he has lockjaw, and spitting a lot. I'm not sure what he was spitting; it wasn't chewing tobacco, not with teeth that white. He's also not very convincing as a man who has committed a heinous crime. This, perhaps, is the fault of director Zak Hilditch, who should've gone for an Edgar Allan Poe type of paranoia, but opts for a tone that is like watered down Tales From the Crypt. Still, even if Jane never seems sufficiently spooked, 1922 manages to be more compelling than Gerald's Game. For King's stories to work best, the viewer must be put in the position of a child with an unpredictable parent. In both of these Netflix originals, the tone is sleepy, not nightmarish. Each movie has an unsettling moment or two, and there are plenty of rats, and knives and disfigured faces, but neither Hilditch nor Flanagan understands what scares us, or what makes marriage such a minefield, or why poor farmers of a century ago didn't have teeth like Tom Cruise.

Friday, October 13, 2017


Wolf Larsen was not yet 30-years-old when he made the long walk down Woodhull Street in Brooklyn on his way to the Bethesda Mission. With his busted up features and cauliflowered ears - unfortunate reminders of his career as a prizefighter - made worse by the bloating effects of liquor, Larsen didn't look like a young man. Most thought he was well into his 40s. Maybe a few people recognized him. Maybe they'd seen him  brawling  with cops, or singing in the street in a loud, drunken voice. Maybe he just looked like another local mug who had come to the mission for help. The kind people there took him in and let him rest on a cot.

He would be dead inside of 18 months, worn down by a decade of heavy drinking and reckless living. But as he did in many of his fights, he managed a rally. There was almost always a moment in Larsen's fights, usually when he was hopelessly behind, when he'd start throwing haymakers, gambling on his heavy right hand,  just to keep the bout interesting. Those desperate moments were exciting, but ultimately, he'd just tire himself out and barely make it to the final gong. That is, if he didn't get knocked cold. The way he rallied at the mission was by making himself useful as a cook, handyman, and night watchman, fixing things and sweeping up and being respectful. But as usually happened when Larsen tried one of his late round bursts, it wasn't enough. Yet, the people at the mission spoke well of him when he died; they said he was a good guy who had been helpful in his final months. 

It was as if Wolf Larsen knew his days were numbered and he wanted to change the way people saw him. 

He was born Magnes Andreas Larsen Ros on May 14, 1901 in Ostre Moland, Norway. According to legend, or the imaginings of a slick press agent, he was the grandson of the sea captain Wolf Larsen, a character fictionalized by Jack London for his novel  The Sea Wolf. Like most of the men in his family, he became a seaman at a young age. For amusement he would often box his fellow seafarers. At age 18 he found himself face to face with none other than Battling Siki, the great Senegalese fighter who would soon be the light heavyweight champion. 

The Siki story was told in many ways, sometimes set on a ship, or at a circus - the most fantastic was that Siki was scheduled to fight but his opponent didn't show, and Larsen came out of the crowd to fill in - but it always ended with Larsen and Siki in an impromptu 10-rounder, with Larsen getting the best of it.

When Siki went on to win the title from Georges Carpentier of France, it was Larsen himself who told the tale to The Brooklyn Daily Eagle, explaining that he and Siki had been sparring partners at the Amsterdam Club gymnasium in Holland. 

"He was striving to pick up the fine points of the game," Larsen said, "and was anxious to have me box with him. He knew little about boxing, but possessed some hitting ability. I was very much his master at that time, and still think I am, granting that he has improved much since then."

But even this version of the story is suspect. From what we know of Larsen  - a New York writer once described his style being as "wide open as a Havana cafe" -  we can't imagine him at 18 being remotely familiar with the "fine points of the game." Also, by 1919, Siki had been a professional for years, and had earned medals for bravery during the war.  It's doubtful he would be schooled by Larsen, a novice. 

Regardless, after the alleged encounter with Siki, Larsen left Holland for Australia, did a bit of boxing down there, and then shipped off for the states. Once in New York, some buddies coaxed him into entering an amateur tournament. Larsen was a thrill seeker, and brawling for an audience seemed more exciting than being an anonymous figure on a schooner. At the time, Jack Dempsey was the biggest thing in the country, and boxing was enjoying unprecedented coverage. It's no wonder Larsen wanted in.

By dominating the local amateurs in New York, and winning the AAU title at 175 pounds, Larsen became a hero to the Norwegian Turn Society, a collection of immigrants that had started their own athletic organization. Though boxing wasn't as popular among Norwegians as gymnastics and wrestling, Larsen won his countrymen over with his free-swinging style. Besides, he was a winner. Everybody likes a winner.

Larsen entered the professional ranks on the winds of blowhard manager Tom O'Rourke, whom we can probably thank for the of hype that accompanied Larsen during the early months of his career. This included everything from Harry Greb wanting to fight him, to Dempsey wanting to hire him as a sparring partner. This was probably all nonsense, but it was good stuff. It could almost distract you from the fact that Larsen lost his first two professional bouts.

The downhill skid was on.

With only five fights on his resume, Larsen found himself matched against Gene Tunney.  O'Rourke should've been strung up by his ears for putting a rookie in with a sharpshooter like Tunney, who at the time was undefeated in 42 bouts. Still, Larsen was probably all for it. On October 25, 1921, at New York's Pioneer Sporting Club, Tunney stopped Larsen in seven rounds. The New York Tribune called it "a slaughter, pure and simple," and reported that Larsen  "absorbed enough punishment to put the average boxer in the hospital for several months." Other reports describe Larsen as "clearly outclassed," and "cut to ribbons." Tunney would recall Larsen a few years later as a "powerful and rushing slugger," but "an easy one, a 'wolf' in name only."

Larsen's next handful of opponents were unknowns - soldiers returning from the war, a local fireman who had taken up boxing to cash in on the Dempsey craze, young Irish and Jewish men trying to make a buck with their fists - perhaps fed to him to rebuild his confidence; he knocked most of them kicking. Charles Mathison of The New York Herald pegged Larsen as "a stocky, phlegmatic chap, guiltless of boxing skill but with a battering ram punch in his right mitt." There was more talk, obviously planted by O'Rourke, that Larsen was being groomed to meet Dempsey. In reality, Larsen had all he could handle from such characters as Tarzan Larkin, the "Minnesota Cave Man," who decked Larsen six times before finding himself on the wrong end of Larsen's right hand. 

More often than not, Larsen simply got his head beat in, like when he faced "Sailor" Maxted in what the Eagle called "a one sided contest." One report had Larsen hitting the canvas a dozen times during the first two rounds, though he managed, in one of his familiar but futile comebacks, to put the much larger Maxted down once in the third. Larsen simply ran out of energy by the sixth, which prompted his manager to throw in the towel, saving Larsen from what one reporter termed, "utter annihilation."

Larsen would often do well enough in his losing battles that he'd keep his status as an entertaining opponent, a lovable loser. His October 1922 loss to California's Billy Shade earned raves from The New York World, particularly in the late rounds when,"to the astonishment of the spectators," Larsen "suddenly braced and stuck his stout jaw out inviting Shade to hit (him) at will." 

By 1923, New Yorkers had seen enough of Larsen. Under the guidance of new manager Jim Buckley, Larsen began a two year stint in the Boston area with a few stops in Maine and Canada. He lost most of those fights, too. He was often matched against bigger men, on a schedule that saw him fighting (and losing) sometimes three times per month. In one of his Boston bouts, Larsen grew angry when he thought the referee had tried to trip him; he let his frustration out by knocking the ref down with a single crack on the chin. Not waiting to hear that he'd been disqualified, Larsen fled the ring and went home. 

Still, Larsen kept fighting. Boston newspapers called him the "Swinging Swede," and he even scored a third round knockout win on the undercard of an event at Braves' Field, "hitting all together too hard and  often" for Dan Lucas, a soldier from nearby Camp Devens. But after a TKO loss to Hambone Kelly at Mechanics Hall in Boston, Larsen collapsed and had to be taken to a local hospital. It turned out he was fighting too soon after an appendix operation and shouldn't have been in the ring, anyway. 

Larsen never got near Dempsey, but he did fight and lose to some pretty good men, including Kid Norfolk, Ad Stone, and Lou Bogash. A valiant losing effort against heavyweight prospect Jim Maloney earned him praise from The Portsmouth Herald's Norman Brown. Larsen, Brown wrote, "gave Maloney one of his toughest battles," and nearly "knocked him cuckoo."  

Boston dried up, and then it was back to New York where the losses continued. Al Roberts, a plodding, unimaginative heavyweight from Staten Island who had lost to the likes of Tunney, Greb, Jack Sharkey, Billy Miske, and others, scored two decisions over Larsen, which meant Larsen was now a punching bag for other punching bags. By the summer of 1926, after a 'no contest' in Brooklyn with a character named Johnny Urban, Larsen  disappeared from the scene. According to one columnist, an altercation with the police had left him with such injuries that he had to stop boxing for a while.

Why didn't Larsen live up to the promise he'd shown as an amateur? True, he didn't exactly look after himself, he preferred drinking to training, and his management treated him like a piece of meat. But the real reason may go back to the Tunney fight. When Larsen saw how a seasoned professional, as the Tribune put it, "battered him all over the ring," he may have realized that he was simply an awkward second rater. So, in the words of one journalist, he decided to  "live a life of enjoyment." By the time Larsen heard the news that his old sparring partner Siki had died in the gutter, he was well aware that being a top fighter didn't guarantee a good life.

When he couldn't get fights, Larsen worked as a seaman on the Great Lakes, or bounced around Red Hook. Though he tried to present himself as a sort of roguish playboy, he was just a local lunatic, a rock-bottom alcoholic known for crazy street brawls that sound like the stuff of silent movies. He once knocked a man through a wooden wall at the Columbia Street subway station.

"He won plenty of decisions," Buckley said. "But more of them were against cops than prizefighters."

Larsen became a kind of walking urban legend. Among the slew of farfetched tales he inspired was one that involved his attempt to steal a pony from a neighborhood fish peddler. As legend has it, Larsen simply picked the animal up and started walking in the direction of the nearest pawnshop. When the police asked him where he was going with the pony, Larsen said, "Pony? I thought it was a calf."

But not all the stories were fun. On one of his aimless strolls along the waterfront, Larsen saw a couple of men breaking into a speakeasy. Thinking this might be a nice way to score some liquor, he tried to assist the robbers. They responded by cutting Larsen's face and leaving him for dead. He survived, though. In January 1929 he was stabbed again in a restaurant brawl in Red Hook. 

Larsen's final ring appearance took place in April 1929 against journeyman Joe Lill at the New Broadway AC in Philadelphia. John Webster of The Philadelphia Inquirer wrote that Larsen, "gamely stood up under a hail of leather until the referee halted the bout in the third." Fittingly, Larsen went out with an "L." His record was approximately 28-40-2, but anyone who says they know Larsen's exact record is a liar.

By 1930, Larsen was homeless, sleeping in a stable, and  seen regularly in New York breadlines and Salvation Army kitchens. 

"Broadway is a funny place," Larsen said. "Everybody'll give you  a drink, and nobody'll  give you anything to eat."

Ironically, a successful film version of Jack London's The Sea Wolf began playing in New York around that same time. There was a "Wolf Larsen" on the big screen, played by  Milton Sills. There would also be, in the ensuing years, a number of "Wolf Larsens" in football, baseball, and wrestling. But the Wolf Larsen of boxing was now on the streets of New York, drinking as if he had a personal vendetta against the Volstead Act.

At the Bethesda Mission, Larsen behaved himself. He never mentioned having a home or a family; it was as if he'd been born simply to drink and fight. For several months, he was a model citizen. Then, during the first week of July, 1931, he wandered out into the evening and returned drunker than he'd been in a long time. He died a few days later at King's County Hospital of pneumonia.

But, if one may use this soggy old cliche, he was a fighter to the end, literally, as a mission volunteer named John Olsen recounted. Upon hearing Larsen had died, Olsen told the press, "I saw a fellow he hit the night before he went to the hospital, and the fellow was still bent over, a cripple."

 Why write about Wolf Larsen? Well, fighters like him provide the grease and fuel on which the boxing machine runs. Sometimes they're named Wolf Larsen. Sometimes they're named Augustus Burton, or Garing Lane. Without them, how would the young, well-connected contenders fatten their records? Dismiss Larsen as cannon fodder if you like, and maybe you wouldn't want to be around him when he was drunk, but he deserves a tip of the cap. Besides, he spent the last months of his life cooking for other lost souls at the Bethesda Mission, and that deserves a tip of the cap, too.