All posts by One Guys Opinion

Dr. Frank Swietek is Associate Professor of History at the University of Dallas, where he is regarded as a particularly tough grader. He has been the film critic of the University News since 1988, and has discussed movies on air at KRLD-AM (Dallas) and KOMO-AM (Seattle). He is also the Founding President of the Dallas-Fort Worth Film Critics' Association, a group of print and broadcast journalists covering film in the Metroplex area, and was a charter member of the Society of Texas Film Critics. Dr. Swietek is a member of the Online Film Critics Society (OFCS). He was instrumental in the creation of the Lone Star Awards, which, through the efforts of the Dallas-Fort Worth Regional Film Commission, give recognition annually to the best feature films and television programs produced in Texas.
Now Showing

THE ALTO KNIGHTS

Producers: Irwin Winkler, Barry Levinson, Jason Sosnoff, Charles Winkler and David Winkler   Director: Barry Levinson   Screenplay: Nicholas Pileggi   Cast: Robert De Niro, Debra Messing, Cosmo Jarvis, Katherine Narducci, Michael Rispoli, Michael Adler, Ed Amatrudo, Joe Bacino, Anthony J. Gallo, Wallace Langham, Louis Mustillo, Frank Piccirillo, Matt Servitto, Robert Uricola, James Ciccone, Mike Seely, Belmont Cameli, Tim Livingood, Luke Stanton Eddy, Antonio Cipriano, Glenn Cunningham, James P. Harkins, Abi Van Andel and Zach Meiser   Distributor: Warner Bros.

Grade: C

There’s an old-fashioned feel to “The Alto Knights,” not just because it’s about the Mafia history of the forties and fifties (with brief detours back to earlier decades and ahead to later ones) but because the look of the picture—with a glossy, if not exactly lived-in, production design by Neil Spisak and costumes by Jeffrey Kurland, set off by Dante Spinotti’s luminous cinematography—goes to great lengths to exude period authenticity. 

The nostalgic element is further emphasized by the casting of Robert De Niro at the center of a film that fits snugly into a genre that he’s specialized in over the years to such an extent that he’s thought by many to be synonymous with it.  And he takes on not one but two leading roles as mobsters in it—Frank Costello and Vito Genovese, whose childhood friendship turned into rivalry when they struggled over control of New York’s Luciano crime family.

Some will dismiss the actor’s dual—and dueling—parts as a stunt, and to some extent, of course, they are.  But it’s a stunt that De Niro, with makeup jobs to distinguish the men, pulls off, even if neither performance is among his best.  His Genovese, in particular, verges on over-the-top; some would argue that it does.  But its extreme volatility draws the required contrast with the restrained, practically-minded Costello, from whose perspective the tale is largely told through his narration, very often in monologues delivered straight into the camera.

The contour of the story is a matter of record.  Both Costello and Genovese became members of the Luciano family as young men (Costello was older by six years), and in 1936, when Luciano was sent to prison, Genovese took over as boss.  But the following year he had to flee to Italy to avoid a murder rap, and handed over control to Costello.  When he finally returned to New York in 1945, Genovese expected to resume his old position, but things had changed, and though Costello made him an important underboss, he wasn’t satisfied.  After more than a decade of contention, Genovese plotted Costello’s assassination in 1957, but the gunman, Vincent Gigante (Cosmo Jarvis) muffed the job, and Costello survived.

He didn’t, however, identify Gigante to the cops, and rather than letting the incident ignite a mob war, he made plans to retire and turn over the position of “boss of bosses” to Genovese.  The assassination of his ally Albert Anastasia (Michael Rispoli)—recreated in quite explicit terms here—reinforced his decision, though Genovese, according to the scenario constructed by Nicholas Pileggi, doubted his sincerity.  Nonetheless he agreed to have his restored role recognized at the famous meeting of bosses from across the nation at Apalachin in upstate New York.  Pileggi follows the unproven theory that the apprehension of many of the attendees (including Genovese) by law enforcement, which led to the revelation of the Mafia as a national criminal organization, was a trap sprung by the absent Costello to undermine Genovese and Cosa Nostra as a whole.

That makes for a nifty ending even though, like some other elements of the Pileggi screenplay, it’s speculative and structured for dramatic effect.  Despite that, and a few liberties taken with chronology, however, “The Alto Knights”—named after a social club in Little Italy where the Luciano gang congregated—is generally fairly accurate from a historical perspective.  That’s the case not only with the Mafia material (including the footage given over to the investigation of organized crime by the congressional committee headed by Senator Estes Kefauver, played by Wallace Langham), but with more personal elements.  Substantial time is devoted to the relationship of Costello and his loving, understandably concerned wife Bobbie (Debra Messing), who was, controversially among the Italian hoods, Jewish, and the far more volatile one between Genovese and his wife Anna (Kathrine Narducci)—the sequence of them squabbling before their divorce judge is hardly subtle, but it’s fun.

Messing and Narducci are both fine, and the rest of the supporting cast is filled with actors who are expert at playing colorful gangster types—not only the energetic Rispoli and dim-bulb Jarvis, but James Ciccone as Carlo Gambino, Anthony J. Gallo as Tommy Lucchese, Frank Piccirillo as Richie Boiardo and especially the late Robert Uricola as Tony Bender, Vito’s elderly, put-upon underboss.  There are also nice turns by those not part of the mob—Langham, for example, or Matt Servitto as Frank’s lawyer George Wolf, or Mike Seely as the state trooper who sets off the stampede of mobsters at Apalachin.

But it’s De Niro who dominates the picture, chewing the scenery with relish as Genovese and exuding practical-minded cunning as Costello.  In a couple of scenes the two bosses sit across a table and debate with one another, and De Niro seems to be enjoying himself no end playing against himself. 

It’s a pity his deft double work isn’t situated in a better movie.  While veteran director Barry Levinson doesn’t embarrass himself the way Francis Ford Coppola did, for example, with “Megalopolis,” he fails to infuse the film with the intensity that De Niro’s old collaborator Martin Scorsese would have brought to it.  It’s not for lack of trying: he encourages Spinotti and editor Douglas Crise to jazz things up with lots of found footage, historical stills and busy, jerky montages, but that merely accentuates the ramshackle construction of Pileggi’s script, resulting in a jagged, helter-skelter vibe.  David Fleming’s score often comes on too strong, too.

“The Alto Knights” isn’t boring, and it affords the opportunity to appreciate Robert De Niro’s virtuosity as he runs the gamut of mobster characterization in his two roles.  But as a whole it’s a pale reflection of the classics of the genre he made in earlier days. 

Now Showing

MISERICORDIA (MISERICORDE)

Producer: Charles Gilibert   Director: Alain Guiraudie   Screenplay: Alain Guiraudie   Cast: Félix Kysyl, Jean-Baptiste Durand, Catherine Frot, Jacques Develay, David Ayala, Sébastien Faglain, Tatiana Spivakova, Salomé Lopes, Serge Richard and Elio Lunetta   Distributor: Sideshow/Janus Films

Grade: B+

One detects traces of Hitchcock, of Chabrol, of Highsmith in this thriller by Alain Guiraudie (“Stranger by the Lake”), but its streak of deadpan sexual farce is sui generis.  It’s surprising how funny the film is; at times you might think the proper English translation of the title would be the exclamation “Mercy!” (which some viewers might feel prompted to shout at certain points).  Yet the bizarre mixture is engrossing and effective.

The catalyst for the action is Jérémie Pastor (Félix Kysyl), a recessive young man who returns to his home village of Saint-Martial after spending some years in nearby Toulouse.  He’s come to show his respect at the funeral of Jean-Pierre (Serge Richard), the local baker who was his mentor—and, we will learn, more.  The dead man’s widow Martine (Catherine Frot) is pleased to welcome him back, and offers to put him up in the room once occupied by her son Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand), who was Jérémie’s best friend but is now living with his wife Annie (Tatiana Spivakova) and their son Kilian (Elio Lunetta). 

At first Vincent, though a surly fellow by nature, is welcoming too, in his own way—he engages in roughhousing with Jérémie in which, being stronger, he always wins.  But as Jérémie shows no indication of leaving, he becomes hostile.  He’s offended by the suggestion that Jérémie might take over his late father’s shop, and even more so when Jérémie begins wearing his father’s clothes.  Jérémie is taking advantage of his mother’s kindness, he thinks, even suggesting that he might be planning to take advantage of her in other ways.

But though Jérémie talks elliptically of a girlfriend he left behind in Toulouse, it’s revealed that he was in love with Jean-Pierre.  Even now he sneaks from his bedroom to the living room to moon over photos of the dead man at the beach in the family scrapbook.  And during the day he goes for long walks in the village and the surrounding forest, connecting with Walter (David Ayala), a sloppy, overweight fellow who’s abandoned farming but still lives in his family’s house.  He also gets to know the village priest Father Grisolles (Jacques Develay), one of whose passions is searching the woods for wild mushrooms, a hobby Jérémie takes up as well, or at least pretends to.

Without revealing too much, the plot turns explicitly into thriller territory when a major character disappears.  There’s no question of how—this isn’t a whodunit, and we know the answer—but the film turns on the investigation into whether it’s a case of the person’s having been murdered or simply having run off.  The search is conducted by an intrusive cop (Sébastien Faglain), who appears to possess a skeleton key for every door in town and subscribes to the notion that confessions can best be extracted from suspects while they’re asleep, and his young assistant (Salomé Lopes); but everyone left behind is drawn into the inquiry (though, except for those already mentioned, there’s only the slightest indication that there’s anybody else living in Saint-Martial; “Misericordia” is basically a chamber piece).

But the film is hardly a police procedural.  It’s a tale of buried secrets, some of them literally so, and submerged longings, and it gets some of its funniest moments out of the fact that, as in soap operas, characters are always turning up at inopportune moments to overhear conversations they shouldn’t.  It also exults in abruptly shocking turns that reveal the underside of small town life, in a fashion similar to what Hitchcock pulled off in “Shadow of a Doubt” and Chabrol in “Le Boucher.”   A scene between Jérémie and Walter is pungent in that respect, but the most astonishing is certainly that involving a most unusual conversation in a confessional, which takes the resolution in any entirely new direction; it turns out that the nod to Hitchcock doesn’t involve only “Shadow of a Doubt” but “I Confess,” though in a fashion Hollywood would never have allowed in the fifties.

The entire cast is excellent, but among the ensemble Kysyl and Develay stand out.  Technically the film has a homespun feel, but the crew—production designer Emmanuelle Duplay and cinematographer Claire Mathon in particular—work with Guiraudie to create an almost tactile sense of place, as does editor Jean-Christophe Hym to maintain a sense of simmering tension.  Marc Verdaguer’s score is spare but has its moments.

Ultimately, though, for all the collaborative efforts “Misericordia” is the work of a true auteur, as the French critics would say, and one with a very personal perspective.