Impact is Saved by Paranoia After a Walk Through Hell
by Adam Haynes
Things went from bad to worse. For a while I wasn’t sure if I would even make it to the fall season.
Faith was almost lost.
Reduced to renting videos I’d already seen seven or eight times, hoping that some of the original IMPACT that had knocked me off my feet on the first viewing in the theater was still there. Somewhere…
The heat continued.
So I go back again into the theaters, telling myself that it’s all over, that something happened and IMPACT is gone for good, or changed into something I’m not cognizant of yet – all the while hoping and praying that next feature will deliver. Something. Anything.
No dice.
The IMPACTLESS summer grows more and more oppressive.
August hits and I’m the first one in line for Air Force One. Harrison Ford is always good for a little IMPACT. Even all those gut-wrenchingly bland Tom Clancy movies still had some of the big I.
Plus, director Wolfgang Petersen made In the Line of Fire and The Never Ending Story, the latter of which kept me full of IMPACT for at least two years, so maybe this is going to be the one that saves me. My hopes go way, way up.
The tale of the cinematic sucker continues. The film’s not only utterly IMPACTLESS but the worst plate of stale shit served to the wretched and desperate masses yet this season.
Nothing about it is remotely interesting or engaging and all the special effects look like they were lifted from some old flight simulator game. Harrison Ford looks like he’s wearing a wig and lost a lot of weight – in short, ineffectual. Naturally the rest of the nation just eats this film up which furthers my feelings of alienation and bitterness.
The next day I’m watching cable and Sabrina comes on and I start crying because Ford plays an old dumpy fuddy fuss – and I realize that’s exactly where he’s at right now. Something happened and he not longer has big I riding on his shoulders.
Attend Ulee’s Gold and try to convince myself and everyone I know that IMPACT is now REFINEMENT, it grew into that last winter when I started maturing and listening to bluegrass instead of rock, and I have to accept that it’s now Peter Fonda who delivers the goods.
I can only keep this up two days.
Then the real breakdown occurs.
Not wanting my roommates to see me like this, I take a shuttle to New York and then hop a cab to Brooklyn where I drink bottom-rack tequila and warm Bud Light for two days in this Polish dive, listening to Polka and Billy Joel’s greatest hits.
Sobbing like a baby.
Mourning the death of summer IMPACT. For real.
The old men next to me who work in the pillow factory next door cry too. They don’ t even speak English, but there’s something between us. Anyone who has suffered the stresses of the Eastern Bloc has some idea what I’m going through.
My sadness turns to rage and I move up to Wall St. because I feel it’s time now for a good old-fashioned wake. The middle-aged Irish accountants who hang out at the The Old Blarney Stone start feeding me forty year old scotch just so I’ll stop blabbering. They don’t care a damn about cinema or my pain.
Several hours later I’m at the Angelica in the Village, corked and breathing fire. This art house has always been the arch-enemy of IMPACT. I want to burn the fucker down. But that’s no good, they’ve won – no more IMPACT. The summer is for snobs again!
So instead of arson, I see this film called In the Company of Men that’s a cross between Whit Stillman and David Mamet. Actually not half bad, but the message is clear. IT’S OVER. AMBLIN/WAGNER SUMMERS ARE ONLY NOSTALGIA NOW, KID. Don’t care. I’m laughing. IMPACT’s dead – I accept it finally. Maybe I’m crying again. That’s okay, too. The important thing is maybe now I can move on.
Next day. Feel no need for drink. Take long, long walks up and down Amsterdam Avenue. The blinding hangover turns into an ill feeling of peace. City air blows on my face. The sun isn’t too hot. Summer’s on the tail swing.
My final night in New York and I can’t think of anything else to do. My friend who’s stuck with me through most of this can barely stand straight in her platforms. Neither of us has done much sleeping recently.
What the hell. We decide to go see Conspiracy Theory. And this is where the resurrection myth happens all over again. I had really thought that the summer IMPACT movie was dead. Really, really.
HOW GOOD IT IS TO BE WRONG !!!
I was right before when I stated that IMPACT has got to grow with the viewer and change as the viewer changes. Conspiracy Theory shows that change does not mean an end to IMPACT.
Forget what you’ve seen in the previews or have had fed to you by the critics. Conspiracy Theory is a smart, slick-as-my-ass mindfuck disguised as more summertime bullshit.
The biggest criticism I’ve heard about it so far is that it’s plotless. Well, a) very intricate psychological plots are different from non-plots, b) the story is character-driven which makes plot less important, and c) as I have stated previously, the majority of critics out there don’t know shit.
More important is that Richard Donner manages not to over-direct or otherwise fuck up the wonder script which, even though the credits say otherwise, I would bet my left nut was penned by Shane Black.
So what’s it about? Conspiracies, but more importantly it’s a post-Hitchcockian exercise in paranoia. Just playing with aesthetics here, nothing fancy or pretentious. The film’s aim, through a pretense of entertainment, is to snare the viewer and show them what paranoia feels like from the inside out. It’s the evolution/revision of Paranoia Tit Death. Pretend The Last Action Hero was a really good movie, then remake it along the lines of Hitchcock product. Finally, a good dose of humor to keep it all accessible.
That’s why they have to sell it as a no-brainer, in order to suck you in. Commercial and subversive. Fooled me.
Mel Gibson gives his best performance since Gallipoli. I haven’t seen anyone so invested in a character in ages. Our man even goes to the leading-man danger ground of dorky and unattractive – makes all the posturing that goes on in Cop Land (still a great film) look like just what it is. And Julia Roberts, who I never thought was a bad actor, just not very sexy… I found sexy (Jesus, does this mean I’m going through puberty again?). And I don’t think it’s just her new haircut.
There’s a point in the film where Mel explains to Julia that the best conspiracies are the ones you can never solve. If you leave the theater not knowing what to make of the film, consider this your key. If you’re still confused, go to the video store and rent John Frankenheimer’s The Manchurian Candidate and Seconds. If you still don’t get the movie, that means you loved Air Force One.
Doesn’t matter to me. I might have endured the fires of hell this season, but I have my IMPACT. And it’s mine, ain’t no one gonna take it away. Oooh baby, love that Revisionist Paranoia Tit Death! Feels so good! Bring on the fall.
