Before Sunset: The Sundae Presents Bonus Episode 7

Ciara and Dean co-host The Sundae Presents, a podcast in which they each make the other watch films they haven’t seen. Usually. In a second back-to-back guest episode, the lads are joined by their friend Josh O’Reilly (@snowboiiii on Twitch!) to chat about Richard Linklater’s romance classic Before Sunset. They talk about his collaborative creative process with stars Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, the transient nature of memory, and how much Jesse hates his wife.

Before Sunset The Sundae Presents

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I Know Your People, Sean

The Quiet Man is the bogeyman of Irish cinema. Shot on location in County Mayo in the west of Ireland in 1951, it’s both the most significant—and most acclaimed—screen depiction of the country before an indigenous film industry developed in the 1990s, a go-to example of stage Irish buffoonery that Irish cinema has raced away from. When An Cailín Ciúin—the first Irish language film to be nominated for an Oscar—powered itself to the Academy Awards last year, its English title framed it as a reply to John Ford’s fantasy depiction of Ireland: The Quiet Girl

Irish people lay claim to and celebrate The Quiet Man—there’s a whole museum in the village where it was filmed—but just as often, cringe away from it. We anxiously imagine that this is how Americans see us. But the truth is, The Quiet Man is a much bigger deal to us than it could ever be to them.

I wrote about The Quiet Man and John Ford’s complicated diasporic nostalgia for Bright Wall/Dark Room. You can read it here!

Outside Providence: The Sundae Presents Bonus Episode 6

Ciara and Dean co-host The Sundae Presents, a podcast in which they each make the other watch films they haven’t seen. Usually. In the first of two more guest episodes, Ciara and Dean are joined by Dr. David Clare to discuss the Farrelly brothers’ lost child, Outside Providence. They talk about its odd place in their filmography, its portrayal of Irish-American identity, and how much Gabriel Mann looks like James Spader in Pretty in Pink.

Outside Providence The Sundae Presents

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Top Gun: Maverick: The Sundae Presents Bonus Episode 5

Ciara and Dean co-host The Sundae Presents, a podcast in which they each make the other watch films they haven’t seen. It’s another emergency episode from our top secret vault! Dean finally got around to watching Top Gun: Maverick, so Ciara finally got to grill him about it. They talk about the original film, the death of the movie star and how Tom Cruise saved cinema.

Top Gun: Maverick The Sundae Presents

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The Cheerfully Dystopian Americana of Hands on a Hard Body

On paper, the premise of Hands on a Hardbody: The Documentary–released twenty-five years ago this week–might sound niche: it documents a 1995 endurance competition where the last contestant to keep their hands on a Nissan Hardbody pick-up truck wins the truck. But on screen, it’s enthralling, an irresistible salted-caramel treat. It is, somehow, both giddy and grim: at once a bite-sized anthropological study of post-Reagan America and the most exciting sports movie not to feature Rocky Balboa. 

A dealership in Longview, Texas has run the Hands on a Hardbody competition for years. The twenty-four contestants are drawn from a raffle because there are so many entrants: you’re only allowed to put your name forward once per day, so prospective hopefuls come back day after day to maximise their chances of being selected. When the selected two dozen arrive on the morning of the competition, the rules are outlined. You must have one hand on the truck. You cannot lean on the truck, or squat; you have to be standing. There is a five-minute break hourly and fifteen-minute break every six hours.  The first time I watched it, I thought six hours seemed like a long time. 

I wrote about Hands on a Hard Body for Crooked Marquee. You can read it here!

The Miracle Worker Is Not The Film You Think It Is

The Miracle Worker is something of a middle school staple in the United States. Helen Keller is a significant figure in American history—she was the first deafblind person to earn a bachelor’s degree and a co-founder of the American Civil Liberties Union, among other things—and the 1962 film offers an accessible way into her story. But when something’s a middle school staple, you inevitably tend to continue viewing it through your middle school eyes, no matter how the years pass. It can take so much to let go of that—even though, if pushed, none of us would have trouble admitting that we were really stupid when we were 13. 

I’m from Ireland, where The Miracle Worker doesn’t have that kind of cultural cache, but I’ve spent enough of my life online to absorb it by osmosis. For American leftists in particular—eager to reassert Helen Keller’s socialism, since that doesn’t seem to come up in middle school—The Miracle Worker is almost a bogeyman. The more I learned about Helen Keller, the more it seemed like people talking about her life and work were actively countering The Miracle Worker, sometimes explicitly. The Miracle Worker is the official Helen Keller story, sanitized and shrink-wrapped for moral majority suburbanites, a reduction of a complex, trailblazing woman. For disability activists, it’s invoked the way Rain Man is by autistics: this is how they see us, this is what we are understood to be

I wrote about the 1962 Helen Keller biopic The Miracle Worker for Current Affairs. You can read it here!

The Best Years of Our Lives: The Sundae Presents Episode 28

Ciara and Dean co-host The Sundae Presents, a podcast in which they each make the other watch films they haven’t seen. Ciara takes Dean back to 1946 with The Best Years of Our Lives, William Wyler’s kitchen sink epic about soldiers returning from World War II. They talk about Harold Russell’s double-Oscar-winning performance as Homer Parrish, Gregg Toland’s groundbreaking deep focus cinematography and why Ayn Rand tried to complain about the film in Congress.

The Best Years of Our Lives The Sundae Presents

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Notes on Where The Truth Lies

This article is part of the Notes on Failure series, which discusses interesting cinematic failures. Previously, The Conjuring.

As I threatened to at the end of last year, I have gotten way into Martin and Lewis. I have watched all their movies and a bunch of Colgate Comedy Hour, and read Dean & Me: A Love Story, Jerry Lewis’s memoir about his partnership with Dean Martin. I have bored the pants off people by subjecting them to irrelevant Martin and Lewis anecdotes.

So, naturally, I carved out a couple of hours to watch Where the Truth Lies. Adapted from a novel by Rupert Holmes (of ‘Escape (The Piña Colada Song)’ fame), it’s a queer fictional take on Martin and Lewis’s break-up – a ‘90s erotic thriller half a decade late. By rights I should love it no matter how bad it is. But Where the Truth Lies is not just bad, it’s baffling. Top to bottom, it’s full of insane decisions at basically every level of filmmaking.  

Here’s why:

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The Long Goodbye: The Sundae Presents Episode 27

Ciara and Dean co-host The Sundae Presents, a podcast in which they each make the other watch films they haven’t seen. It’s The Long Goodbye, and it happens every day! Dean turns the tables on Ciara and shows her a classic seventies film widely considered among the greatest ever made, Robert Altman’s neo-noir classic, starring Elliott Gould as Philip Marlowe. They talk about its portrayal of post-Manson L.A., the many iterations of its title song and the security guard’s amazing celebrity impressions.

The Long Goodbye The Sundae Presents

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Come and Have a Go, If You Think You’re Clever Enough

Television criticism, maybe even more so than other forms of arts criticism, has an implicit but rigid hierarchy. “Often, these biases involve class, gender, race, and sexuality, disguised as biases about aesthetics,” Emily Nussbaum writes in her book I Like to Watch: “Green/grey drama, serious; neon-pink musical, guilty pleasure. Single-cam sitcom, upscale; multi-cam, working class.” Nussbaum attributes this, in part, to television’s status anxiety: it wasn’t too long ago that TV was considered the idiot box, the boob tube, a vast wasteland. “So much of TV,” John Mason Brown told Steven H. Scheur in 1955, “seems to be chewing gum for the eyes.” For the rest of the twentieth century, at least, most people would agree with him. And so critics appeal all too readily to other, more respectable mediums – it’s a visual novel, a ten-hour movie. It’s not TV, it’s HBO.

I agree totally with Nussbaum’s argument, and have made versions of it myself over the years. But the privileging of drama over sitcoms, of gritty realism over silly genre fare, of masculinity over femininity, is a relatively small part of the equation. The types of television most neglected by critics are, if we’re honest, the same ones that make up most of the TV made and most of the TV watched: all the vast, vast area that exists outside of scripted comedy and drama programmes.

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