James Woods – The Magnificent 60s

Night Moves (1975) **** – Seen at the Cinema

You want to know what screenplays are all about, it’s rarely dialog. It’s something registering the eyes. It’s very rare for a movie’s tone to change in a heartbeat. Or in this case in the blink of an eye. Planning to surprise his wife Ellen (Susan Clark) coming out of a movie theater, private eye Harry Moseby (Gene Hackman) sees her snuggle into the arms of another man (Harris Yulin).. The look on his face is pure shock. And from here on in, Moseby’s life turns upside down. He goes from macho man, ex-football jock with a swagger, to someone who’s duped by everyone around him.

Scottish screenwriter Alan Sharp was, for half a decade, an anomaly – though in the best possible way. Few screenwriters have achieved general fame – maybe Robert Towne (Chinatown, 1974), William Goldman (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, 1969) or John Milius (Magnum Force, 1973) – recognized for their writing style and creating identifiable characters. This was the final film in a short-lived golden era for Sharp, an award-winning novelist, who hooked Hollywood with his fresh takes on two of Hollywood most important genres, crime and the western. Beginning with The Last Run (1971) starring George C. Scott, he followed up with elegiac western The Hired Hand (1971), directed and starring Peter Fonda, Robert Aldrich’s tough Ulzana’s Raid (1972) with Burt Lancaster and Billy Two Hats (1974) topbilling Gregory Peck.

In a decade majoring on disillusion, Night Moves set a new template. Previously, the private eye, no matter how cynical, remained a hero, walking the mean streets, always coming out on top. Even Jack Nicholson in Chinatown won the day, exposing corruption, and Elliott Gould was as cool as the cats he preferred in The Long Goodbye (1973).

Moseby isn’t that good at his job. Little detection is required to track down missing Delly Grastner (Melanie Griffith), whose alcoholic mother Arlene (Janet Ward) requires her returned so she can claim an alimony check. This takes Moseby to old buddy, stunt coordinator man Joey (Edward Binns), making a film in which Delly is an extra and her sometime boyfriend Quentin (James Woods) a mechanic. And then onto the Floridsa Keys where the girl is hiding out with her stepfather Tom (John Crawford) and his younger sensuous ex-stripper girlfriend Paula (Jennifer Warren).

As the body count climbs – none of it Moseby’s doing, he’s not in the pistol-packing Dirty Harry league – and a boat wreck is found by Delly while snorkelling, the mystery deepens. But unlike most movies in the genre where the private dick is single or divorced, Moseby is (or was) a happily married man. And where in most movies in the genre, the personal life is left behind once the sleuth is on a case, here Moseby’s head remains filled with betrayal. His wife hasn’t even swapped him for a romantic hunk, instead his rival is smaller and walks with a limp.

Instead of Ellen taking the blame for the situation, Moseby is forced to confront his shortcomings which, of course, include not being able to talk about his early life or his feelings. Which means he’s primed to fall for Paula. Being the macho man, he thinks he’s making the running but in fact she’s using him as a patsy. And soon, just as he’s not spotted signs that this wife was being unfaithful, so, too, his misreads everything about the set-up at the Florida Keys and only discovers, when it’s too late, that he’s been played for a fool.

Usually, the protagonist in these pictures gets away with a quip or is disinclined to take commitment seriously, bed-hopping like James Bond. But Moseby is uxorious and finds it impossible to come to terms with his wife’s deceit. Once in a while he’s able to verbally let go, but mostly Hackman hardly needs dialog to convey his inner feelings to the audience. It’s an acting master class.

And it’s a very bold downbeat ending, the metaphor of a boat going round in circles is easily indicative of Moseby. You’re not going to get a more complicated character in the entire genre than Moseby and this is Gene Hackman (The Gypsy Moths, 1969) at his very best even though his peers didn’t notice, no Oscar acclamation forthcoming. The female roles are distinctive, Melanie Griffith (Working Girl, 1988) theoretically the most auspicious but all the women deceive, Jennifer Warren (Sam’s Song, 1969) slinky about it, while Susan Clark (Coogan’s Bluff, 1968) turns the situation back on her husband.

Arthur Penn’s (The Chase, 1966) career was already on the slide after the critical and commercial success of Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and revisionist western Little Big Man (1970). Warner Brothers didn’t like the finished result and neither did critics nor moviegoers, so in general it’s fallen away in public esteem.

Demands re-evaluation.

Best Seller (1987) ***

If nobody’s shot your dog or killed a member of your family, it’s kinda hard for an assassin to work up much audience sympathy. And although this is closer to John Wick than say The Mechanic (1972) or Day of the Jackal (1973), it doesn’t help the sympathy cause if your leading character is played by James Woods (Oscar-nominated the same year for Salvador) who so often essays an amoral fidgety weasel.

So it’s left to Brian Dennehy (F/X, 1986) to do the heavy lifting. Dennehy was the kind of stolid supporting actor who once in a while in the Hollywood Dream made it through on occasion to top billing. His brawn was not in the obvious top-off mold of muscle men Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenneger and more in keeping with Holt McCallany (The Amateur, 2025).

It’s not unheard of for characters on either side of the law to team up to tackle the bad guys, but it’s a bit of a stretch for incorruptible widowed hero cop Dennis Meechum (Brian Dennehy) not to toss assassin Cleve (James Woods) into the pokey especially when there are ample witnesses to one of the killer’s killings. But, wait, let’s throw him a get-out-of-jail-free card because he saved the life of Meechum.

Even so, Cleve is as creepy as all get out and even if – especially if – he was a fantasist and not an accomplished assassin you would expect the sensible cop to run a mile, especially after he kidnaps Meechum’s daughter. For reasons unknown, Cleve is handed another get-out-of-jail-free card because actually he didn’t kidnap the 16-year-old Holly (Allison Balsam) but just gave her and her pals a lift home. Quite why a cop’s daughter would fall for the line given by a complete stranger that he was her dad’s pal is anyone’s guess, except it suits the script.

There’s quite a lot of what used to be called “high concept” – in other words getting away with the most unlikely of scenarios – here, not least that Meechum would go along with the psychotic Cleve in order to get the material to write a book, that particular well having dried up after the death of Meechum’s wife.

The fact that Meechum has a side hustle as a best-selling author – though still a cop – is one of the many stretches in the tale. You have to go along with quite a lot until the proper narrative kicks in, and realize that, in fact, Meechum is merely the dupe to allow Cleve to achieve his real aim which is to gain revenge by knocking off former employer David Madlock (Paul Shenar) who, regardless of whatever other malarkey he is up to, had the good sense to rid himself of the psychotic entitled gunman.

It seems inconceivable, too, that, by the simple device of employing a barrage of lawyers, big businessman and philanthropist Madlock would not be able to block publication. Meechum refuses to bow under pressure but his publisher might well do once she has been terrorized by Cleve.

And this wouldn’t work at all except for Cleve. Like Jeff Bridges in Thunderbolt and Lightfoot (1974) he’s a loner (though also like that character having no problem seducing women) who’s desperate for male friendship and appreciation. He wants to buddy up with Meechum and for the cop to enter into such a relationship willingly. In Cleve’s demented eyes, sharing the same woman appears to be one way they could cement the relationship. He appears to view the publication of the book which would uncover the illegitimate activities of the seemingly legitimate Madlock as a means of redemption. He wants to come out well in the book, even introduces Meechum to his quite normal family, and sees that as some kind of weird redemption.

Eventually, there’s enough shoot-out action, especially when Cleve enters silent John Wick assassin mode, to make the journey worthwhile. But although Cleve is a fascinating original character and the dynamics of the relationship constantly shift, it beggars belief that Meechum would entertain him for a moment especially when he discovers Cleve was responsible for wounding him and killing some of his colleagues in a robbery several years before.

Woods is the standout though Dennehy does stake a decent claim as a leading man. Despite being third-billed Victoria Tennant (The Ragman’s Daughter, 1972) hardly appears.

Screenwriter Larry Cohen (It’s Alive, 1974) is no stranger to the genre mash-up and generally gets away with inconsistencies but here the bar is set way too low at the outset for the tale to be believable. Director John Flynn (The Sergeant, 1968) goes with the flow.

Worth it to see Dennehy get a shot at the big time and for another in Woods’ tribe of weasels but will have you scratching your head with the unlikeliness of the tale.

Any Given Sunday (1999) *****

It’s always with trepidation that I go back to a banker, one of my favorite films, hoping that it will remain timeless, and still good enough for a place on my all-time personal Top Ten. I’d planned a double bill of Kingdom of Heaven (2005) and this but the former proved so disappointing that it took me a while to pluck up the courage to watch Oliver Stone’s kaleidoscopic American football epic.

My fears proved misplaced and this is bearing in mind that I know nothing about the sport and have little understanding of what always appear arcane rules that make little sense to someone brought up on the more disciplined (at least in my eyes, rules-wise) football/soccer (or the hybrid “soccerball” as my grandkids refer to it). I’ve always been a fan of sports movies, which means American sports movies, because with the exception of Chariots of Fire (1981) the British don’t seem to have the knack. So I’m used to following movies where I don’t necessarily understand what’s going on the field of play.

This is driven by three compelling narratives – all power duels of one kind or another, between owner Christina Pagniacci (Cameron Diaz) and various politicians, between her and coach Tony D’Amato (Al Pacino), and between Tony and arrogant rising star quarterback Willie Beaman (Jamie Foxx). And while all these battles are a mixture of discreet management and full-blown blood-and-thunder shouting matches, the movie is liberally sprinkled with tiny cameo moments that add depth.

There’s a blink-and-you-miss moment when team physician Dr Mandrake (James Woods) is seen in conversation on the sidelines with a blonde cheerleader. The next time you see her is when she chooses not to follow Mandrake when he is fired, as curt a signal as you’ll ever find that position rather than personality equates to worth. She appears for one more nanosecond and this time in conversation with his replacement Dr Powers (Matthew Modine).

The saddest moment is when cute sex worker Mandy (Elizabeth Berkley) tries to let Tony down gently that theirs is purely a financial, not romantic, transaction. But that’s run close when Willie’s girlfriend Vanessa (Lela Rochon) is given the brush-off by the established WAGs. And the toughest scene, amidst all these high-powered testosterone-driven adrenalin male and female junkies, is when injured star quarterback Cap Rooney (Dennis Quaid) is given the mother of all slaps by wife Cindy (Lauren Holly). All such moments are merely incidental to the three main narratives, as is the battle for music supremacy in the dressing room, when the head-bangers among the team turn the volume up to eleven.

Revenge is a theme. And that can run from setting loose your baby alligator in the team shower room, taking a buzz saw to a rival’s ultra-expensive automobile or his team-mates punishing Willie for his overweening arrogance by not protecting him on the field and allowing him to be battered by the opposition. Though there’s little as sweet as Tony handing Christina her come-uppance by stealing away Willie for his new team. But that’s run close by the grim smile of satisfaction on the face of the Football Commissioner (Charlton Heston) when he, too, brings her up short. And by Tony stiffing cocky pundit Jack Rose (John C. McGinley). Indulgence, by comparison, is sniffing coke off a naked woman’s breast. There’s even moments of comedy, Willie being duped into taking flowers to the coach when invited for dinner, and the holding-up-the-hand scene.

And all of this is before we get to the meat of the movie, the games that mean absolutely everything – more than sex, family and drugs – to the participants. Sometimes Tony, a 30-year-old veteran, conjures up the words to inspire his team, sometimes he doesn’t, occasionally he turns away from them in disgust, occasionally it’s left to the padre (in the days when “take a knee” meant something else) to inject some common sense into the overloaded equation.

If all these characters are larger-than-life that’s no surprise because there’s little room in the hard world of top-level sport for the shy and withdrawn. So shouting matches are titanic. Lives play out only in the fast lane. Winners get the prom queen, losers get…nothing. And unlike sports originating from Britain – like football/soccer/soccerball or cricket – there are no draws. If you’re not a winner, then you’re a loser.

The essential tale of staying on top, maintaining a winning role, reversing a losing one, getting to the playoffs, the holy grail of winning the Super Bowl (known here as the Pantheon) and the coveted ring that accompanies victory, is always going to be packed with drama. But director Oliver Stone (Platoon, 1986) adds other layers, the daughter whose father wanted a son, the coach who’s driven away everyone who ever loved him and now pays through the nose for nights of affection, the quarterback so infused with self-belief and victim mentality that he learns the hard way he needs help.

You can’t deny Stone his quirks, the lightning bolts or seemingly endless snatches of pop tunes and shadowy figures who appear out of nowhere, and cuts to cheerleaders or crowds, and the paraphernalia that surrounds the game. But not a moment is wasted.

The acting is top-notch. Al Pacino (The Godfather, 1972) gives one of his best performances, Cameron Diaz (The Mask, 1994) upends her cute screen persona, James Woods (White House Down, 2013) plays another version of his screen schemer, Jamie Foxx (Back in Action, 2025) gives notice of his talent. Written by John Logan (Gladiator, 2000), the director and Daniel Pyne (The Manchurian Candidate, 2004).

Best-ever sports movie (though maybe tied with Field of Dreams, 1989).

Without doubt retains its place on my All-Time Top Ten.