Heaven’s Gate (1980): Death by 229 Cuts.

After the stunning success of the Deer Hunter, Michael Cimino’s next film was a catastrophe. Heaven’s Gate ran over budget, over time and was plagued by negative press, culminating in the eventual collapse of United Artists and forged Cimino’s reputation as an overbearing and out of control director.

The first cut Cimino handed in of Heaven’s Gate was well over five hours long. So he must have perceived the picture to be some sort of masterpiece. As Cimino believed the film was worthy of spending the modern equivalent of $120 million and bankrupting United Artists, I will review Heaven’s Gate with all the respect and reverence Cimino would have wanted.

I’m going to review each individual minute of Heaven’s Gate, so I can fully understand and convey the artistry that must have gone into this enormous film. The DVD running time of Heaven’s Gate is 229 minutes, (just under four hours). So I have my work cut out for me, but it’s still going to be easier than my original plan of reviewing it frame by frame.

So here it is – Michael Cimino’s Heaven’s Gate, minute by minute.

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The opening credits (so far) are beautiful in their simplicity. Cimino has opted for classic and dramatic white letters on a black background. The font is reasonable and the director has resisted the temptation to use Sanskrit or the Cyrillic alphabet, (though the latter would have been acceptable for a Russian release). You are immediately filled with anticipation. Will Christopher Walken feature in scenes that make creative use of a tarp? Will John Hurt balance atop something cylindrical? One can only guess. But as soon as Kris Kristofferson’s name appears and is spelled accurately, you know you’re in good hands.

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Well, frankly the second minute of opening credits was not as dynamic or energetic as the first. It’s more of the same, and after a stellar opening minute of names fading in and out, you are left feeling a little disappointed.

It’s an old technique, but the second minute could have benefited from the filmmaker intercutting pictures of zebras and gnus between the credits.

However, it wasn’t all bad. There is a false ending to the credits just before the two-minute mark, proving Cimino still has a few tricks up his sleeve. Additionally, “Joseph Cotton as the Reverend Doctor” is a credit that should feature in all opening credit sequences.

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The final names appear, then pictures! But first it should be noted that Michael Cimino has given himself two credits – written by and directed by. Rather than having his name appear twice, Cimino could have combined the two and formed a “written and directed by” title. Cimino clearly knows nothing of word economy.

But considering this is a man who’s produced a three plus hour film, I don’t know why I should expect any different.

Despite this, the moving pictures are the focus of this minute. An orange sky, a man running toward a gate and a superimposed caption beginning to fade in. Why is the man running? Did he set fire to a hedge? Did a hedge set fire to his aunt and he’s running to get help? Why are hedges lighting people on fire?

I look forward to answers.

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The caption fades in. It reads “Harvard College Cambridge, Massachusetts 1870”. Judging from the wear on the tree in the left third of frame, I would have said 1871, but there’s no time for pedantry, because the man is running at alarming speed. Alas, no signs of hedges, nor of a hedge plot to set fire to aunties. There is instead the distant sound of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. I thought the man may have been running to warn the band that the American Civil was over and the film was to be a story about a group of rogue Harvard students who, refusing to believe the war has ended, build a replica Abraham Lincoln out of cobble stones and surplus twine. But it quickly becomes apparent that the man is Kris Kristofferson and he’s running to join a parade. A friend calls Kristofferson “James”, revealing that Kris must be playing some sort of character who goes by this name. At any rate, James seems rather happy to be joining the parade. And who wouldn’t be? There are top hats as far as the eye can see! James takes in the merriment as the band marches through a suspiciously Oxford looking Harvard and John Hurt says something inaudible – probably about wagons. James also wears gloves.

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“Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His truth is marching on!” The parading persons seem very keen on throwing their hats into the air. This minute is practically an exposé of hat throwing at Harvard University in the 1870s. The students would want to be careful. In 1864 graduating students at Yale University each threw up their hats at the same time, blocking out the sun for ninety days and killing all life in Connecticut. John Hurt joyfully utters a curious line, “this very night I am going to repent all my sins.” I assume he killed a hooker, but what was her name? And what was John Hurt’s motivation for lashing out in such a way? It’s hard to know as the band drowns out the rest of his sentence. The music is stirring and the costumes are terrific, but I felt this scene could have used a pie fight or some form of archaic jape to distract the audience from the fact that nothing has happened yet.

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The terminus of the marchers is revealed – It’s a hall of some description. Finally, the band leads the hat throwing hollering idiots to their destination. The horn players, to their credit, seem incredibly focused. I wonder how much the band would be paid for performing in that procession? Are they employed by the university on a permanent basis? More likely they’re a student band who are happy performing to gain experience. They’d probably won the regional battle of the marching bands in the summer of 1869 and are building their reputation and stage time. If I had to criticise the musicians, I’d suggest they expand their repertoire. I don’t think I could listen to another second of Battle Hymn of the Republic. They could have played something by Chuck Berry, perhaps? Or even Philip Glass or Julian Lennon. There was not one banjo either. When I arrive as part of a procession at a hall, stadium, youth club, chamber or community centre, I like to be heralded by at least three banjo players and a lute player who doesn’t play the instrument, but rather smashes it across the heads of the banjo players. As you can tell by my in depth analysis of the Harvard band, this is a minute of film that could have been cut from Heaven’s Gate if Michael hadn’t been padding to make the film an acceptable length. These thousand reel pictures are so hard to fill out…

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At last! After the drama of the opening credits and intensity of the band, Heaven’s Gate reveals a lighter side.

 Believe it or not, it comes in the guise of John Hurt and some off-the-wall hijinx. If you play this minute backwards through a violet filter you soon realise that Hurt’s clowning is a clever distraction. While Hurt hilariously puts his top hat onto a head that is not his, numbers and phrases appear that signpost it’s only another four minutes to go until the famous eleventh minute of Heaven’s Gate – sixty seconds that Michael Cimino himself claimed was “the greatest minute ever captured on celluloid”. What will that minute portray? The beach? Stress balls? At this stage only the wisest of mystics would hazard a guess through fear of getting it wrong and being shunned by their oracle friends, consequently resulting in being unwelcome at soothsayer dinner parties. But let us remove the violet filter and get back to the John Hurt comedy showcase.

The focus of the comedy is his interruptions of a valedictory speech. It makes you want to cast him as the zany sidekick in a film about a straight-laced man who finds himself mistaken for a blackjack champion, in trouble with the mob, and forced to play cards to save his life and the comparatively more attractive woman he loves. It’d be called “Double Down” and would go straight to video – literally. It would not be put on DVD, but rather some outdated media such as VHS or Beta.

Anyway, I will leave you with the phrase that closes the minute, “it is not great wealth alone that builds the library”. Mmm, put on some violet tinted glasses, say it backwards and mull on that.

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It is abundantly clear that “behove” is a word which is not used oft’ enough in modern cinema. I personally believe it behoves all hairdressers to watch this 60,000,000,000 nanoseconds of film as the side part count is through the roof! The tally is kept on a large scoreboard atop the hall where the class of ’70 are congregated. A large scaffold surrounds the board as it is being renovated thanks to the kind donations of Mrs. Herbert Slone. Of course, the scoreboard isn’t shown and Mrs. Slone is never mentioned, but their existence is implied by the way Kris Kristofferson blinks. It’s a testament to Kristofferson’s acting. Was Brando able to imply a large score keeping device on a roof by merely closing his eyes momentarily? I think not! Well, maybe once… certainly in On the Waterfront, possibly in Superman and about nine times during the Godfather – but that’s all!

I can’t wait to experience what else Kristofferson’s involuntary facial movements convey.

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John Hurt takes to the lectern. Here is what he said:

“Class of ’70, (applause and cheers), I enjoy many things – a symmetrically hung photo frame, for instance. But there is no thing on this earth I enjoy more than clams. Oh, how the thought of a happy clam makes me tingle with excitement. I find every aspect of bivalve molluscs gives me great pleasure – from their spectacular shells to their soft gooey innards. There are many things one can do with a clam. Soup, chowder, pasta and even curries are a delectable vessel for the clam, but one must not discount non-culinary (polite applause), applications. Clams enjoy being taken to fairs and ice-rinks and great satisfaction can be obtained through witnessing a clam participating in wholesome activities at these venues. I once saw a clam ice dance to the music of Verdi and then frighten a local boy by lobbing itself into the child’s ice-cream cone. The boy was immediately hospitalised, but later saw the funny side. (Applause.) I have been known, by all of you, to do a great many things with clams. You are all aware that I often freeze clams, with the intent of later throwing them at dogs. I have, on occasion, placed them in pianos and I frequently use their shells as castanets in order to mock the Spanish. I have made a gold chair and I intend to spend my days sitting on it amongst the many clams I’ve accumulated and have passing travellers ask me questions. I… I feel alienated and I wear jumpers in the summer time even though it’s hot and makes people feel hotter when they look at me.”

Or at least that’s what I think he said – I don’t know, I had the sound down.

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I eagerly sit in my viewing chamber, remote at the ready. I’m about to witness the minute of Heaven’s Gate that Michael Cimino was most proud of. In fact, he believed it to be the greatest sixty ever seconds captured on film. I hit play and sit back. But something strange occurs. The DVD skips over the eleventh minute and moves straight to the twelfth. I rewind, skip back, press stop, mute and play, but nothing seems to work. I remove the DVD from the player, blow some dust from the surface (like that ever works), and notice something very peculiar. On the disk is a circle of microscopic black dots. I scratch and rub, but nothing will remove them. It becomes obvious what has happened. For some weeks I’d had the suspicion that I was being followed. I wasn’t sure by who or why, but it’s abundantly clear that one of Cimino’s goons has broken into my castle and altered my copy of Heaven’s Gate to stop me viewing and reviewing the eleventh minute.

I ring all local video stores to try and rent Heaven’s Gate, but every copy in the suburb has been borrowed by a Mr. Omnici. My last hope is the local library, but I arrive to discover it has been burned to the ground.

I skulk home and find an odd note pinned to the drawbridge. The note is blank, but smells of lemon juice. I know exactly what to do. I take it inside and wave the note over a candle. It instantly bursts into flames and I’m left holding an incinerated letter and reeking of burned lemons. But what if the note didn’t hold a secret message, but was a clue? I run to my lemon cupboard and remove the largest. I calve it open and in the lemon’s centre discover a microfilm. Without pause I rush to retrieve the microfilm projector I bought from a catalogue when I was seven and load the film. The message reads “meet me in the lemon cupboard”. I rush back to the lemon cupboard to find a man in a tweed jacket and leather slacks smoking a pipe. He takes a lemon and squeezes the juice over his head, all the while staring intently at me. Spitting juice as he speaks, the maninstructs me to travel to an address in Auckland. I rub my eyes to wipe away the citric acid to find the smoking man has disappeared.

I board my private jet and head straight for Auckland, via Christchurch to do some shopping. The address is in the centre of Auckland, but the driveway to the house is some 40km long, winding through forests and mountain ranges. I eventually arrive at a decrepit wooden house atop a lonely hill. As I push on the front door it disintegrates into dust. Stepping over the pile of door dust, I enter the house.

In the corner of the room is a man who, like the man in my lemon cupboard, is smoking a pipe and wearing a tweed jacket. The only difference is that he is wearing shorts, long socks and one sandal. He welcomes me and expresses admiration of my bravery and choice of knitwear, though I’m not wearing any.

The man reveals his name to be Henry Splund.

“Why the secrecy?” I ask.

“Cimino has many spies – many, many,” he says in a hybrid New Zealand and Welsh accent. “His gaze is never far away.”

“Why is he thwarting my efforts to view the eleventh minute?”

“Michael is a sensitive man, very sensitive indeed – proud too! He regards the eleventh minute of Heaven’s Gate a great achievement. But as the film was panned, he believes the public not worthy to sit before the majesty of his eleventh minute,” explains Henry.

“That sounds a little extreme.”

“Oh, he’s mad as two shits.”

“Who are you?”

“I am but a man; a dedicated man and admirer of Mr. Cimino. I remember the first time I saw the eleventh minute of Heaven’s Gate I was so awestruck I was forever changed. When I heard Cimino had attempted to eradicate the eleventh minute from every copy and print of Heaven’s Gate, I couldn’t allow it, I just couldn’t! I managed to steal the minute from a film reel in the Cimino Library. I smuggled it here to my secret hideout to be restored and guarded. I guess you could call me the keeper of the eleventh minute. When I heard that you were to review… well, I was elated. But I know Cimino and his cronies would never allow it.”

“So you sent me a series of cryptic messages?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I have a telephone?”

Henry ignores my reasonable point and opens a hatch in the floor.

“Come,” he says excitedly, “I must not delay you any further. It is time to see what you have come to see.”

Henry disappears down the hole and I climb through the hatch close behind.

As I follow Henry through a series of doors and long corridors, I become incredibly nervous. I’m essentially alone in an isolated area with solitary sandal wearing loon who has dedicated his life to sixty seconds of celluloid. Is he going to murder me? And surely the piece of film couldn’t be that good? We arrive at what I’d describe as a mini-cinema and what Henry refers to as “The Temple”. Fighting back a proud tear, Henry takes a canister of film and loads the projector.

I am incredulous as Henry threads the film – there is no way this obscene quest is going to be worth the effort. But as the projector fires up my scepticism is soon put to rest. The reel features John Hurt continuing to wank on about something, but it’s so… exquisite. My eyes refuse to blink through fear of missing one moment. The lighting, the costume and framing all come together in a visual orgasm. I hold Henry and we weep together at the sheer beauty of the eleventh minute of Heaven’s Gate. Bless you Cimino! Bless you!

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Shitful.

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Finally, John Hurt moves off that effing lectern. It’s taken a while and I have no idea what he said, but I’m sure it was a stunning oration. But as he descends the podium something miraculous happens. It rains paper! A4 sheets fall from the sky as the students rejoice. This raises several questions: a) How did the paper clouds form indoors? and b) why didn’t anyone think to bring a paper umbrella? All the students and faculty are completely at the mercy of paper precipitation. Poor planning Harvard University; poor planning. The pouring vellum forces everyone outside, where they gleefully waltz to classical music. How they were able construct a stereo to play the piece, I have no clue.

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Waltzing – so much waltzing. But are the hats waltzing, or the people underneath them? Hmm, a bit too metaphysical for my liking.

As far as dance sequences go, this is pretty good. Could have used a few more wizards. But I feel that most film dance sequences lack wizards. The 12 seconds Cimino directed of Footloose, before he was fired, contains numerous wizards. Some would say too many, but it’s a fine line when it comes to including wizards in dance numbers. They have such terrific beards, you see. They flop around in time with the music, with their grey colour contrasting perfectly against the bright robes. It’s ideal if they use staffs as part of the choreography, but can be tricky if the wizard is inexperienced or drunk. I suppose most directors avoid employing wizards as their tall pointy hats make them rather hard to frame. But there are top hats-a-plenty in this scene and the lack of wizards is a missed opportunity if you ask me.

It is a shame because it’s the wizards who lose out in the end.

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Here’s a prediction – this waltzing sequence goes on for a while yet. Call it instinct, call it an educated guess, call it a safe bet – but call it something for goodness sake. So people are spinning, while some continue to throw junk in the air, while invisible people hold invisible placards brandishing slogans urging the plot along. These people are known as the audience and have been ignored thus far. Kristofferson calls a broad beautiful and she reciprocates the compliment. It would have been more interesting if she’d cogently discussed quantum mechanics instead, but clearly Cimino is sexist. I’m not going to qualify that slanderous comment further. John Hurt too is dancing, swinging his partner round like a coat hanger on a clothesline. I hope she dries soon.

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Yep, more dancing. The dame Kristofferson dances with giggles like an idiot as he inquires as to whether she is alone. At first it seems the laugh is a nervous one. But I believe it to be a mocking snicker because even if this girl wasn’t surrounded by a large group of people, she’d still have to be in the presence of Kristofferson for the question to be asked of her rendering her completely not alone. Have a think before you open your mouth, Kristofferson, you twerp. Suddenly, Cimino cuts to a courtyard and students come running in from all directions. One can only deduct that they are running from some sort of emergency. Perhaps the Legion of Anti-Waltzers has set off a laser bomb under John Hurt. A laser bomb is a futuristic devise whose blast consists purely of high-powered lasers and deadly holograms. I assume the Legion received the futuristic devise after winning the door prize at the valedictory speech. Perhaps next time Harvard will think twice before handing out high tech weaponry to encourage people to attend their functions

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What a peculiar minute. I assume the students are participating in some sort of ritual, but they seem to be thrashing the hell out of each other around a tree. It could also be that the tree said something about John Hurt’s mother and the students are rushing to rough if up, while the tree’s posse attempt to protect it. Typical of trees, isn’t it? Slagging-off well dressed people. The flowers at Flemington Races are constantly berating me and a shrub once called Winston Churchill a “biscuit swilling glass horse”. How you swill biscuits is anyone’s guess. I’d ask the shrub, but it’s dead. That’ll teach it. Overwatered, it was – according to the coroner’s report. It was all put down to an accident, but I suspect foul play. I’d ask Winston Churchill, but he’s yachting in the Simpson Desert.

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The students continue to thrash the hell out of each other. John Hurt receives the most blows making this a very pleasing and cathartic minute. Eventually James (Kristofferson) clambers up the tree, fending off fists and gropers to finally snatch the bouquet. All cheer except the tree who seems rather uninterested. A pointless scene? No, I think not. What this scene demonstrates is that James does not suffer from hay fever. His eyes are neither itchy nor watery. He sneezes very little and excretes only minute amounts of mucus. I’m sure this fact will no doubt become important later should James have to fight the hind legs of a giant bee. I hope this is the case. My guess is that John Hurt’s character will drink the campus wattle given to it by the colony of New South Wales and morph into a large obnoxious bee. If this does not occur, to hell with you Cimino, I’m making that film.

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How do you celebrate thrashing the hell out of each other by a tree? Apparently you form an orderly square in front of it, bleed profusely and sing songs with incomprehensible lyrics at women holding candles on the second floor of a building. Perfectly obvious, I would have thought. Bit of a cliché isn’t it? The amount of times we’ve all seen that! Goodness! Jaws, All the President’s Men and an episode of Prisoner each contained such scenes. However, on the plus side, the tree’s character of a hot rod loving delinquent is fleshed out somewhat. Unfortunately its monologue lamenting the loss of American innocence post Civil War is interrupted by James’ classmates who hoist him onto their shoulders. Boorish idiots. I hope the tree doesn’t offer them a lift home after such rudeness.

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After a few more cries of “yippee!” from Hurt and a demonstration of an obvious fire hazard from the women holding candles, Kristofferson is suddenly on a train twenty years later.

The prologue was just his memories!

Rather detailed for a memory. Over a twenty-year period there is no way that he’d recall every detail of his graduation, especially the events he never witnessed. Anyway, Kristofferson is on the train, leaning back with a hat over his face, presumably because it helps him see through time. On top of the train, a whole lot of people are sitting calmly. Black smoke is puffing from the engine and… my god; they’re not fuelling the train with people are they? Shovelling poor passengers into the burner! Of course! That would explain why the smoke is black rather than white, which it would have been ordinarily at that time as the steam engines in the west used wood – not coal. Goodness, gracious! Get off the train! They’re gonna burn you alive so Kris Kristofferson can get to wherever it is he’s going! Jump! Run!

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

While I do not expect that a personal request from me would convince you to cease your, so far, rather unflattering deconstruction of my masterpiece I would like to implore that you at least do me one favour.

In the 21^st minute there is a rather lovely long shot of a train puffing along in front of a backdrop of snow covered mountains. I think you’ll agree it’s a rather breathtaking shot and one that gives me great pleasure and sense of accomplishment. It may seem silly, but it would mean a lot to me if you would please not rubbish that shot.

Yours sincerely,

Michael Cimino

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Goodness gracious, what’s with the shot of the snow covered mountains? The mountains look as though they’ve been constructed with chicken wire and papier-mâché by a grade four student as a hurriedly put together science project and the snow looks like my tears. How embarrassing! Boy, I’d hate to have expressed pride or satisfaction at this shot. Just imagine being an old man sitting back reflecting on your achievements and remembering with contentment the background snowy peaks of this scene. Of course, the mountains are not fake and nor is the train puffing along in front of them. I can only surmise that the poor quality of this shot is due to the director being a stupid jerk face. As for the scene – Lord knows where Kristofferson is headed. Perhaps to the post office to complain about a letter from a long lost sweetheart that was opened and sniffed by post office staff? Kristofferson can’t prove it, but he knows, oh how he knows…

To be continued…

By Simon Godfrey