Public Enemies (July 1) Acclaimed heavyweight filmmaker Michael Mann (Heat, Thief) cranks up the turmoil, drama, and machine gun fire in this action-thriller set in the 1930s about the federal government's relentless pursuit of celebrity gangsters John Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson, and Pretty Boy Floyd. Depression-era outlaw Dillinger (played here by Johnny Depp) was a charismatic bank robber whose rapid-fire raids made him the number-one target of J. Edgar Hoover's upstart FBI and its top agent, Melvin Purvis (played by Christian Bale). Dillinger, too, was a folk hero to a public beaten into submission by a faltering economy. Parallels with contemporary society are probably not entirely coincidental. Depp, always game for a walk on cinema's wild side, relished the opportunity to play the much-mythologized Dillinger. “Let's just say, how often do you get to stand on the running board of an old 1932 Buick, blasting a fifty-round clip from a Thompson machine gun?” he recently told Entertainment Weekly. “When do you get to do that without getting into trouble for it? And with Michael (Mann, a noted obsessive-perfectionist), you get to do it again and again and again.” We're primed for Mann's high-octane, character-driven, but bullet-riddled take on this loaded and resonant material.
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Tom Hanks as Robert Langdon in Angels & Demons. © 2008 Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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Angels & Demons (May 15) Oscar-winning director Ron Howard teams up with Oscar-winning actor Tom Hanks in a return to the international scene of the crime in Angels & Demons, a follow-up to 2006's TheDa Vinci Code. Based on Dan Brown's globally successful religious thriller, Angels follows Harvard University professor of religious symbology Robert Langdon as he solves murders, decodes Illuminati mysteries, and halts a terrorist act against the Vatican. Having braved Catholic protests and negative press, much of it surrounding Tom Hanks's wildly baroque hairdo in Da Vinci, Angels filmmakers promise an even better film this time out. Can it outdo National Treasure? Screenwriter David Koepp (Jurassic Park, Spider-Man) thinks they got it right, as he explains in an interview below.
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AHMM: Tell us about being drafted for the big-screen version of Angels & Demons, and what challenges and opportunities the project offered you as a writer.
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David Koepp. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures.
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Koepp: I got a call from Ron Howard, who I'd worked with before (on The Paper), asking if I'd take a look at the book. I'd read The Da Vinci Code, like the rest of everybody on the planet, but not Angels & Demons. I thought, in many ways, it was a much more straightforward adaptation than Da Vinci Code needed—it was sort of structured like a movie already. So I sort of saw the movie in it right away, but the challenge with Dan Brown's material is that its greatest appeal lies in the fact that it's jammed with history lessons, art lectures, religious conjecture—and how on earth do you get that into a movie?
AHMM: What about the decision to make Angels a sequel, even though the novel itself is a prequel?
Koepp: Prequels are tough in movies if you have any recurring characters because in real life people tend to age! And there was no real creative reason for it to be a sequel. It read perfectly well as the second in a series of adventures that this great detective character was having. In fact, by making it a subsequent adventure, instead of a prior one, it did allow us to put in an element of tension between Robert Langdon and the Catholic Church, because of the events in the first film. I viewed the beginning of this story the way I remembered those great old Sherlock Holmes movies with Basil Rathbone—they always started with a crime, and then some poor beleaguered soul found their way to Holmes and begged him to come in and solve the mystery. Which is exactly what we do with this film.
AHMM: Tell us about the process of adapting a Dan Brown novel for the cinema. His novels are a lot of fun, but they tend to be very talky and full of exposition. How do you make that cinematic?
Koepp: I think the key to any good adaptation is choosing the material to adapt wisely. Even though these books may not seem like obvious adaptations, they have a strong, inquisitive, active central character, which makes things a hell of a lot easier on the movie. The fact that there is so much learned discussion, and so much thought, though that is harder to get on screen, isn't as off-putting as you might think. As long as there are interested parties around to listen to your “professor” character while he expounds, and as long as you have good reasons for him to share his insights, you're fine. I toyed with the idea of including flashbacks to classroom scenes to get in even more of the teachable stuff from the books, but the fact that the movie's so driven by a clock, and a literal ticking bomb, made that impossible.
AHMM:Da Vinci Code was a lightning rod for controversy, but Angels has not attracted the same furor. Tell me your thoughts about this.
Koepp: I think any time you speculate about someone's religion, you are bound to ruffle a few feathers. But since the very notion of faith means believing in something that can't be proven, these conversations are fruitless. Everyone is right. What people are really trying to tell each other sometimes is, “No, you shouldn't believe that.” But that's a crazy thing to say. People believe what they believe, and no amount of persuading can, or should, change that. Being an agnostic secular humanist myself, I don't get into those kinds of conversations very often. Everybody's right. And, probably, everybody's wrong.
AHMM: What's your favorite sequence in the filmed version of Angels?
Koepp: My favorite part of the film is the opening, and since it's the beginning, I don't think I'm spoiling anything by saying it concerns the death of the Pope. All that Vatican pomp and ceremony is fascinating to me, as I was raised Catholic and went to Catholic school for many years. But from a writing and storytelling point of view, what I love the most
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Fiction: HOW AUNT PUD, AUNT MARGARET, AND THE FAMILY RETAINERS KEPT ME FROM HANGING by Mike Culpepper
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Joel Spector
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I lost track of how many drinks we had. After a while I lost it all.
"Say what you like, this Mussolini has some good ideas."
Aunt Margaret ignored me, concentrating on her stitchery. Aunt Pud smiled. “Name two, dear."
I hate it when she does that. She knew I was just talking. She knows everything, Pud does. I said, “He made the trains run on time."
"Did he? Were they very late?” Pud wore that big thick smile that makes some people think she's a fool.
"You know what I'm saying. Things are in a mess. We need efficient men in power. Mussolini, Hitler..."
"Stalin?"
"I'm no Bolshie, Pud."
"Of course not.” And she smiled at me, her eyes all lit with love.
Pud is short for “Pudding,” which is what I nicknamed Aunt Charlotte back in my chuckle days. It was because of her big gelatinous stomach that she used to hug me against, but everyone wanted to save her feelings so they said to her face things about how a charlotte was a pudding and such, even as they laughed behind her back. Pud was never fooled. No one ever could fool her, simple as she seems sometimes. She's the brains of the pair. But she loves me in spite of all, and more every time I call her by the name I gave her.
These two old spinsters, I was their heartstrings, oh yes, though you might not think it to see me now. Lord knows I never had a nickname for Aunt Margaret. She would have skinned the first person to call her Maggie or Marge or Peg, or at least no one had the parts to try. Rail thin, “like a bird,” people said, but rails are made of iron and I reckon skinny Margaret always weighed a half ton more than fat Pud. She never hugged me against her hard belly, never! Still, Pud is the brains. Listen:
Pud got up, shaking her head. “That Hitler is going to be very very difficult."
Margaret: “You think there will be another war, Pud?"
Pud: “Oh yes, no doubt at all."
Margaret: “How long do we have
?"
Pud: “Let me see...” And she cogitated a minute or two, all for effect since she's already worked out the damned answer. “Well, I think Europe will be at war in another eight or ten years, no more. We may stay out a year or two."
Margaret: “Well, then...” She stared at her needlepoint. “Maybe he'll be too old, then.” It always comes back to me.
Pud: “You never can tell. They may get desperate."
That wounded my feelings. “Maybe I'll just join up!"
Pud smiled at me. “Oh, Jack, you'd be so much more use behind a desk. With your brains and all.” That's her trying to manipulate me, you see.
Margaret: “You'd think this family had given enough.” Muttering into her needlework, not looking up at me. Poor, stupid Dad made the great sacrifice, leaving me to carry on the family name.
Pud said, “You know, Jack, wars can be great opportunities for intelligent young men.” She nodded. “Something to think about."
See, Pud does the thinking, Margaret does the acting. That's the way they work it, these two. Pud always thinks things through, and no one dares to face up to Margaret. They've got it knocked.
It was nine thirty, time for Pud and Margaret to each take a warm glass of milk upstairs for a half hour of reading before lights out and exactly eight hours of sleep. “Jack...” Margaret stopped by my chair on her way upstairs.
"Yes, Aunt Margaret?” I knew what she was going to say.
"Don't you think it would be wise to stay in tonight?"
"Do you think so? Well, possibly it might.” I gave her my most winning smile, squinting my eyes a bit like my father in the photograph she looks at sometimes. Actually, I resemble my mother more than my father, but Margaret never looked at Mother's pictures. She thinks I got all my badness from that side of the bloodline. I didn't fool Aunt Margaret. She sighed and took her milk upstairs.
Pud didn't even try. She knew it wouldn't help, you see. She gave me a big wet kiss on the cheek. “Good night, Jack."
When I was ten or so I used to wipe off her kisses, but that just made Pud laugh. She can really laugh, too, shaking and quivering all over. “Good night, Pud.” I smiled at her too, not pretending. I do like the old Pudding. And Aunt Margaret, too, in spite of herself.
So, they went upstairs to bed. I waited ten minutes for decency's sake, then strolled out to the garage. It was a warm May night, the bugs weren't too bad yet, maybe later there'd be a moon. I was feeling pretty good when I spotted Strother sitting in the garage. Well, I knew he'd be there, spying for my aunts, checking up on the boy. “Good evening, Strother."
"Evening, Mr. Jack.” The garage used to be a stable and he sat up on one of the old feed bins. I turned my back on him and climbed into the big Packard. How I wish we had something smaller, a snazzy little runabout, but the Packard's twelve cylinders do put out a lot of power and Strother keeps them ticking over ever so nice. “Going out, Mr. Jack?"
Now some might think it's impertinent for a colored person to question a white man that way, but Strother has certain privileges. He went off to war with my father, you see, and was at Lieutenant Jack's side when he died. If my father had made it to the front lines perhaps they both would have died in a Boche attack or something and the story would be better, but the war ended by the time they reached Europe so the two of them turned around and came back. Along the way Dad picked up the flu that killed him, lying in a cot in a big warehouse turned hospital in Washington, D.C. The Senator was in Congress at the time, working at losing his seat, and he was there, too, when his son died. The two of them brought his body back. I'm sure they were a great comfort to one another. So there you have it, now the Senator and his boy are gone, the faithful servant looks out for the wayward son.
"It's a nice night, Strother. I believe I'll go for a ride."
"Yes sir, Mr. Jack.” I don't know how he managed to put so much disapproval in those few words.
Soon enough I was charging down the highway in that big old Twin Six, headed for the BusyB. The Bee isn't much, but it's the biggest thing going in this corner of Arkansas, which isn't much, either, and I thought, someday soon I am going to leave this hick place and see New York or maybe California or even Paris, like Father almost did.
The place was jumping. A hot quartet was pounding out the jazz, and people were dancing, packed in together, sweat running down their faces. Benny B came over right away when I walked in the door. “Good evening, Mr. Tait."
"Evening, Benny. Swell night!"
"Oh yes, we have good times here.” He made it sound like a special product he was selling, Good Times in a cellophane wrapper. Well, with nickel cotton, crashed markets, and busted banks, Good Times were worth paying for.
Benny snapped open a cigarette case and offered me one. I don't usually smoke, but you have to look the part in a place like this, so I took one. It was fine aromatic tobacco, Turkish, I think. The cigarette had a cork tip and a little B printed on it. Benny was sharp. I don't know what the “B” in his last name stood for. It was rumored that he was Italian. He had slick black hair and lazy dark eyes, and the women all whispered and giggled about him. Italian or not, he had come here from the Hot Springs and probably had acquaintances in Chicago or the Kansas City mob.
"There's a game in the back room."
"You know I don't play cards, Benny.” We grinned at each other. Benny held a fistful of my markers from his craps table. Aunt Margaret had paid off one batch not so long ago and I didn't want to tap her again so soon. Still, I felt my heart pump faster at the thought of those ivory cubes clicking down the felt. Then I caught sight of Noreen at the bar and felt a different excitement. “Maybe later, Benny."
"Sure.” Then he was gone, just like that. Gone to look after another customer soon as he saw I was taken care of.
Noreen batted her eyes at me from under her black shingle bob. She was wearing small stud earrings, and when I got closer, I saw they were little roses, red as her lipstick. She had on a black sequined shimmy. The hemline just cleared her rolled stocking tops. Above the stocking tops, under her dress, she didn't wear anything or, at least, hadn't, the last few times we tested the Packard's big back seat. She shifted her gum and smiled at me. I smiled back.
We had a few at the bar, then got a table and the waiter brought us a few more. One way you can tell the BusyB has class is that it only uses white waiters. The Bee has a lot of class for a roadhouse, yessirree Bob. I lost track of how many drinks we had. After a while I lost it all.
I woke up hearing somebody calling my name. “Wake up, Mr. Jack! Wake up!” The bright sun knifed me in the eyes and I squeezed them shut. “Get up, Mr. Jack, for the Lord's sake!” My jacket was stuck to the seat, but I peeled up an arm and shaded my eyes. Strother peered back through the Packard window at me. I grabbed for the steering wheel to pull myself up but it wasn't there and I realized I was in the back. “Mr. Jack!"
"All right, dammit.” I pulled up into a sitting position and my stomach heaved. I grabbed the door handle and yanked it open and fell out onto my knees. My head felt like a sliced melon and my stomach was percolating. I got to my feet without heaving, though. It only took three or four minutes.
"Oh, Mr. Jack, look at you!” I looked. I was a mess, my clothes all stained and wet. I thought I'd pissed myself until I realized it was blood. “Mr. Jack, what have you done?” whispered Strother. Then I did heave, or tried to, but nothing came up. Strother stood watching me, then said softly, “Let's walk on home, Mr. Jack."
The Packard was parked by the Indian mounds near the Switchety River, which was probably a lot bigger back when the mounds were built, before it silted up. This is one of my favorite spots. I tell the girls it's a haunted Indian burial ground and they get a little scared and thrilled. They like that kind of thing. “Noreen!” I remembered. “Where's Noreen?” I staggered over to the Packard and looked in, but there was no one there, not on the front seat, not on the floor, just a terrible lot of blood everywhere.
Strother t
ook my arm and walked me back to the house. It was less than a mile across the fields.
I was going to hustle straight upstairs to a bath and clean clothes, but Aunt Margaret was waiting in the hall. “Oh, Jack! Oh, Lord!” Her hand flew up to her mouth. I'd never seen her so upset. Pud came into the hall and Aunt Margaret straightened up. She was always in control when Pud was around.
Pud eyed me up and down. She walked around me, examining me, and stopped back in front. She gestured. “All this blood is on his left front side."
"Why, yes, Miss Charlotte, that's so!” I couldn't see why that interested Strother. “Mr. Jack was lying on the back seat on his right side."
Pud nodded. “He was lying there when the blood sprayed on him. Is there much blood in the front seat?"
"Oh, yes'm, an awful lot."
"Margaret, you have film in that Kodak?"
"I think so. I'll go fetch it now. You want a picture of the way he looks?"
Pud nodded, but before Aunt Margaret could leave, Amelia, the housegirl, came in the hall. “Miss Margaret, there's cars out front. I think it's the police!"
"Show them in the parlor and tell them I'll be there directly, Amelia.” She led the rest of us into the dining room and closed the door. “Quickly, Jack, what happened?"
"I don't know..."
"We don't have time for nonsense, Jack. You went out last night.” It wasn't a question. I nodded. “To the BusyB?” I nodded again. “And...?"
"Well, I was drinking..."
"For the Lord's sake! You're not even twenty-one and they're serving you alcohol!” Of course it's illegal to serve alcohol to anybody, underage or not, but to Aunt Margaret, that doesn't matter. She shook her head. “Go on."
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 12
