Joanna Cassidy – Movie Musings

Well-filmed but politically naive Nicaraguan revolution film that pulls its punches and settles for melodrama

Director: Roger Spottiswoode

Cast: Nick Nolte (Russell Price), Gene Hackman (Alex Grazier), Joanna Cassidy (Claire Stryder), Ed Harris (Oates), Jean-Louis Trintignant (Marcel Jazy), Richard Masur (Hub Kittle), René Enríquez (President Anastasio Somoza Debayle), Hamilton Camp (Regis)

In 1979 Nicaragua was torn apart by revolution as the regime of right-wing President Somaza was challenged – and eventually overthrown – by the Sandinata National Liberation Front (FSLN), a coalition of left-wing revolutionaries. The US largely threw in its lot with the Somaza government until its appalling human rights record – and the outrage at the murder of journalist Bill Stewart, which was caught on camera – led to it withdrawing aid and the collapse of the regime. Not that it led to peace in the country, as Raegan’s government promptly began supporting the right-wing Contra rebels (but that’s another story).

A version of this is bought to the screen in Roger Spottiswoode’s earnest but slightly naïve film which tries to walk the walk but largely pulls its punches. Here Bill Stewart is translated into Alex Grazier (Gene Hackman) whose journalist ex-wife Claire Stryder (Joanna Cassidy) is in love with his best friend war photographer Russell Price (Nick Nolte). Price and Stryder are embedded in Nicaragua and find their sympathies growing for the left-wing revolutionaries – and their hackles rising at some of the actions of their country.

That “some” is the key here. For all Under Fire would like to be a firebrand political film – a sort of Battle of Algiers by way of All the President’s Men – it’s a film that continually pulls its punches. When compared to the brutal honesty Missing (a year earlier) looked at America’s bungled, self-serving and short-sighted foreign policy in Latin America, bashing any communist leaning revolutionary, even if meant propping up blood-soaked dictators, Under Fire looks very tame indeed.

Only the barest information and context is given to American policy. The only two villainous representatives of American policy we see are carefully distanced from the government. Oates, played with empathy-free gusto by Ed Harris, is a mercenary as happy driving trucks as he is executing POWs. The CIA’s man-on-the-ground is not even American – instead he’s a supercilious, lecherous Frenchman played with awkwardness by Jean-Louis Trintignant. Trintignant gets the closest anyone gets to a political speech, pointing out today’s sympathetic left-wing revolutionaries are tomorrow’s Stalinist purgers. But he’s always a degree separate from official American policy.

Instead, America remains the innocent here. The implication is the true decision makers don’t realise what’s going on, on the ground. It’s only the murder of Alex – and the smuggling out of Russell’s photos showing his execution – that leads to America having its eyes opened and withdrawing its support. This neatly lets everyone off the hook. Neither does the film dare suggest the hypocrisy of a country pouring money and arms into the bloody Somaza regime for years, only stirring when one innocent American journalist is killed. Not once does the film challenge the unpleasant truths that lie behind a statement made by a Nicaraguan: “if we had killed an American journalist years ago perhaps you might have done something”.

Instead, the film settles for a slightly naïve romance of the largely decent, young and sympathetic rebels vs brutish Government soldiers. The rebels are all plucky kids – like the young man and would-be baseball player Russell and Claire follow through a street battle in Leon (naturally, he’s shot by Oates, in the back of all places). Either that or decent, wise figures who would never consider sullying their hands the way the government forces do. It all feels a long way from the mutual brutalities of Pontecorvo’s Battle of Algiers or the (admittedly spittle-mouthed) fury of Oliver Stone’s Salvador.

After a while you start to feel Nicaragua is really a backdrop for a half-hearted romance between two journalists who re-discover their idealism under fire. The sense that the film could be set anywhere really is backed up by it’s opening in the Chad civil war, which is explored in fifteen minutes in the same cursory depth as the Nicaragua revolution. It’s all exotic backdrop for a drama about whether Russell and Claire can get over the guilt of sort-of betraying Alex (although Claire and Alex are already separated by the time they get it-on) and convert their affair into something more meaningful.

Truth be told all three journalists are thin characters, invested with more depth than they deserve by three very strong actors. Nolte is at his gravelly best, scruffy but impassioned, righteous anger bubbling not far under the surface. Cassidy turns a character that could have easily been “the woman” into a dedicated, intelligent and inspiring professional. Hackman finds beats of self-doubt and sadness in an anchorman worried he’s left what he’s loved (personally and professionally) behind.

Spottiswoode films with sweep and energy – helped by a very good score by Jerry Goldsmith and some impressive recreations (sanitised as they are) of street clashes in Nicaragua. But the story never takes flight and its political edge gets far too blunted. Even the murder of Alex is turned into melodrama, the focus quickly shifting to a wild chase for Russell to smuggle his film out of the country to end the Somaza government claims that the killers were the rebels not his soldiers.

It’s where the film goes wrong, settling for melodrama and romance where it should be angry. In the end it’s a romantic film, where American policy is misguided for the right reason and good triumphs. The cheering crowds that end the film ring especially hollow considering the continued violence that plagued the country throughout most of the 80s. It’s a solid thriller, but a flawed film.

Harrison Ford hangs on for dear life in Blade Runner

Director: Ridley Scott

Cast: Harrison Ford (Rick Deckard), Rutger Hauer (Roy Batty), Sean Young (Rachael), Edward James Olmos (Gaff), M. Emmet Walsh (Harry Bryant), Daryl Hannah (Pris Stratton), William Sanderson (JF Sebastian), Brion James (Leon Kowalski), Joe Turkel (Dr Eldon Tyrell), Joanna Cassidy (Zhora Salome)

Everyone knows Blade Runner surely? And everyone has a viewpoint on its central mysteries. Why for a film largely ignored on release? Because as well as being tight and engaging, this is a rich thematic film, crammed with mystery and enigma. And there are few things more engaging than a film that succeeds in being as open to interpretation as possible.

In 2019 a dystopian, polluted Los Angeles is a launch pad for the wealthy to head out into the new colonies in the stars. Off-world, the unpleasant tasks are carried out by artificial humans known as replicants. Replicants are banned from returning to Earth – but a group of five led by soldier Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer) have come to Earth looking to extend their pre-programmed limited lifespans (no more than five years). On Earth, Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford) is reinstated as a Blade Runner, an agent whose job is to ‘retire’ (i.e. kill) replicants on Earth. Deckard is reluctant, having an increasing distaste for his work, but begins to hunt and eliminate the replicants.

Blade Runner may be one of the most influential science fiction films ever made. Its look and style influenced virtually every other dystopian future you’ve seen in any other film since. Tall, run-down buildings. Overbearing corporate advertising. Flashing neon lights. Terrible weather. Everything dark all the time. Poverty and degeneracy on every corner. You’ve seen it in every dystopian future since. Visually, the film is a landmark, a testament to Ridley Scott’s graphic artistry.

But that wouldn’t be enough for Blade Runner to last the course. When released it was perhaps too elliptical and hard to categorise – equal parts dystopian thriller, noir detective story, sci-fi morality tale, dark romance – for audiences to really understand. Certainly the studio didn’t. After disastrous test screenings, it was re-cut. So began a fable of slice and dice that made Blade Runner perhaps second only to Brazil in the annals of re-versioned films.

The release included an overtly “happy ending” (bizarre images of our heroes driving into a blissful countryside, totally at odds with the rest of the film) and a disengaged voiceover from Harrison Ford that eradicated all the film’s subtlety. This was the only version for 10 years until a “Director’s cut” was released. This removed these elements, retooled scenes and introduced the famous “unicorn dream” sequence (of which more later). Fifteen years after that, Scott finally found the time to work on a “Final cut” which presented the film as Scott had intended it – with all its mysteries and questions intact. Has there been any other film with so many different “official” versions?

Anyway, was it worth the struggle? Certainly. While you could argue it is predominantly a triumph of style, Scott laces the film with a sense of mystery and profundity that makes it a rich and rewarding viewing experience. It’s a trim detective thriller that also questions the nature of humanity. It is a perfectly formed elliptical mystery, an archetypal cult film that engrosses the viewers to such an extent that 30 years later there is still a healthy debate about what the film means.

Humanity is =the key issue. The human characters are functional, cold, distant and unengaging. The hunt for the replicants (who are basically slaves) is brutally and unremorsefully executed. The replicants have been designed to learn and grow but cruelly had their lives capped to stop them taking advantage of this. Their world is polluted, tawdry, soulless and lost.

Meanwhile, the replicants exhibit far more (whisper it) humanity than the aloof human characters, ]despite the fact we are repeatedly reminded they cannot feel empathy. Clearly this is not completely true. And, the film argues, if an artificial human can display loyalty, fear, love, anger and pain, what actually is the difference between that and a “real” person. If a replicant can only be identified after dozens of questions in a test, can they really be that different from a human being?

Questions about this coalesce around Deckard. If the film has remained such a part of cultural discussions, it’s partly because of the fun of theorising about his true nature. Is he a replicant? Scott’s insertion of Deckard’s unicorn dream (implying the origami unicorn left by Gaff at the film’s end shows Gaff knows Deckard’s dream, meaning the dream is an implant in an artificial mind) very much suggests so. There is a case to be made either way, both of which work.

Deckard’s ruthless replicant hunt is deliberately juxtaposed with their own warm feelings. Deckard grows in humanity and reluctance as the film progresses – is this him becoming more human, or is it is humanity emerging? His coldness and reserved hostility contrast with the vibrancy of Batty, Pris and the replicants. In many ways, he fits in as the quintessential human in this world – a vague discomfort with what he is doing, but no real hesitation about continuing. Thematically, it makes more sense if Deckard is human – that he represents dehumanisation (and gradually realising it) while the replicants become more human.

However, clues are sprinkled throughout that Deckard is not what he appears. His distance from other characters. The treatment he receives from his co-workers. The photographs that fill his apartment (replicants enjoy photos as it gives them a sense of a past). His bond with Rachael. His relentlessness – and the fact that he is clearly considered expendable by the police. Then there is the rich irony: the best way of hunting down replicants is to create a hunter replicant. Either way, it’s a debate and conversation that sustains the film – and allows multiple interpretations of every scene.

It’s a debate that feeds into the main theme of the film: humanity, free will and our God complex. Batty, the dying replicant searching for new life, confronts his maker – a distant, arrogant man with no interest in his creation. And kills him. But Batty feels more human than any other character. He shows more affection, frustration, anger and grief than anyone else. His last words (the famous “tears in rain” speech) had such cultural impact because it has such poetic joy and depth to it. They are lines enthused with a desire to live, a romantic vitality. It’s the most poetic moment in the film and it comes from someone who isn’t “real”. What more sign do we need that the replicants are human? If we can create poetry in a machine, does it stop being a machine?

Empathy is the quality the replicants are judged on – but as we see replicants dispatched with little sense of regret, and then witness Batty and Leon’s grief for their fallen comrades, or Pris’ ease with man-child Sebastian, the lack of empathy from humans is all the more clear. Deckard is a fascinating character as he falls between two stools – either a human who has buried empathy, or a replicant discovering empathy. Strange and disjointed as the relationship between Deckard and Rachel is (and there is an uncomfortable moment where Deckard gets too physically forceful) it fits into this – are these two artificial people discovering the ability to bond? Or is it an emotionally stunted human finding himself drawn towards someone who feels more real than the other humans?

What makes the film work is that it doesn’t hammer home, these issues. It allows us to make our own minds up. It frames the action within a noirish detective thriller, laced with mood and awesome visuals. It’s sharply and sparingly written, with real intelligence. For all its discussions about humanity, it does feel at times a cold film – but it’s so rich in suggestion and implication that it doesn’t really matter. Yes you could argue the implication and playful suggestion imply more depth than actually exists, – but the film gets away with it, because it works so well.

Rutger Hauer gives easily the finest performance as Batty (he allegedly wrote the famous speech on the day). Batty is the most vibrant and dominant force in the film, who goes on the most engaging emotional arc. For me the dark secret of the film is Harrison Ford is slightly miscast– he’s aiming for moody, Bogartish disillusionment, but he comes across more disengaged (he’s strikingly better in Blade Runner 2049). I think Ford struggled with the character – it’s a role better suited to a John Hurt or James Caan, rather than Ford’s more conventional (if world-weary) magnetism – he’s not a natural fit for a bitter cynic. Olmos, Cassidy, Walsh, Sanderson and James give strong support.

Blade Runner is a visual triumph and a rich experience. Its story is compelling, but the real richness is the thematic layers under its skin. Scott created a film open to interpretation, and that’s what really grabbed the imagination. It marries mystery with curiosity and avoids pretension, becoming intriguing and engrossing. Scott has rarely made a film with such intense ideas and poignant confusion before. You could argue the final cut leans too far one way in the central mystery, but there is more than enough eerie richness under that – helped by Vangelis’ unsettlingly grand score – to keep people viewing and talking about it for another 30 years.