Heaven’s Gate (1980)
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. As he 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 went 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…
- It’s quite intimidating being marched at.
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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.
- A gnu
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.
- sidepart, hidden by hats
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My goodness! Kristofferson’s nose twitches implying that he enjoys crocheting collars in chateaus. How does he do it? I’ll bet he owns a hut. Well, in a change of pace, something appears to be happening. John Hurt, referred to as the “class orator”, is called to the lectern. Then there’s clapping and by minute’s end he is not yet at the lectern. Perhaps John Hurt’s character will do something bold and dramatic, like move the plot forward, or even get the story started. So far we know it’s 1870 and a class is graduating. This has taken nine minutes to establish. If that ratio of two pieces of information per nine minutes was applied to a film like Star Wars: A New Hope, it would have had a running time of six years. The film series would therefore collectively run for approximately thirty-six years, or just over the average lifespan of a pre-Columbian North American. But my gut tells me that Hurt’s character will not move the plot along during his speech. It also tells me that Columbus wouldn’t enjoy westerns, but would opt for German melodrama as his film genre of choice.
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- The budget blow out probably took root during this speech. Look at all those outfits.
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.
11 of 229 – The greatest minute ever captured on celluloid
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 21st 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…
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At last, some effing violence! Blood, guts, sinew and entrails are picked up from the mud. It’s an animal carcass, though I’m not sure what animal. Perhaps, as previously discussed, it’s from a gnu. Could also be a giraffe, though admittedly the chance of giraffe’s being in Wyoming in the 1800s is remote, but not impossible… No, actually it is impossible. There’s also a bit of wind in this scene, nice to see nature playing a part. Unless the wind is from the mouth of a dragon? This is, of course, less likely than the giraffe claim. Woh, hold on a second – something is happening. Yes, believe it or not, something is happening! Someone is approaching the man cutting the carcass, casting a shadow with a definite cowboy hat on the sheet surrounding his log house. The butcher seems rather threatened and calls out in Hungarian. Spooked, he raises his knife. Oh goodness! In the shadow I can see a gun! Giraffes in hats are attacking! What will happen next? The suspense!
After a long and drawn out court proceeding, Death by 229 Cuts is back! Mr. Cimino put out an injunction against the review claiming it was “slanderous, malicious and very silly”. Of course, he’s right, but I couldn’t let that twerp get the better of me, so for the last few months I’ve been fighting for the continuation of the review in the courts. After twelve seconds deliberation the judge ruled:
“I have heard both sides of this case. This is of little consequence as I also, when considering my verdict, watched Heaven’s Gate. I found it to be very long – very, very long… so long and well, long. I am a Harvard man, Mr. Cimino and my aunt was once set on fire. Her name was Cathy. Wonderful woman. I also don’t particularly enjoy the music of Kris Kristofferson. I mean, he’s ok, but never really grabbed me as an artist. I’ve got a “best of” lying around somewhere that one of my kids bought for me as a Christmas present, but I never listen to it. Anyway, I rule in favour of Mr. Godfrey and order you to pay him damages of $12 million. Probably a bit excessive, but it’s been a long day. Can I award damages like that to a defendant? Ah well, who cares? I’m a judge; I can do whatever the hell I bloody please. Court adjourned. Stop weeping!”
So with special thanks to inherent injustices in the justice system I present the return of Death by 229 Cuts!
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Good grief! It’s Christopher Walken and he just wasted that guy! He blew a hole right through the sheet and through the Hungarian man’s abdomen. As he flies back into the butchered animal carcass, the animal inaudibly mutters, “Serves you right.” The man’s wife, or relative, or whatever is distraught, but has to admit, it was a pretty good shot – blind through a sheet; that’s some marksmanship! She will come to acknowledge this in time. Walken turns nonchalantly and struts away, while the wife covers her loved one in a sheet to keep the guts from spilling out. I know she’s probably in shock, but seriously, that sheet aint gonna do much, lady. Having completed the kill, Walken rides off into the distance. Let’s hope his sacrifice pleases the giraffe dragon. Bite me, Cimino.
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Having killed the migrant, (presumably for sport), Walken rides past a massive line of more migrants. They appear downtrodden and Walken’s horse kicks up dust from the road they trudge along. I count 447 million dust particles, but it could be 448 million: the film grain makes it hard to count. The migrants don’t seem in high spirits. Perhaps the 1890s sport of migrant shooting isn’t their cup of tea? It could also just be half time in said sport and they’re pooped. More likely that whenever migrants walk along in a line, carrying their possessions, they have to look downtrodden; it’s a union thing. Woo, if the fact he just shot someone doesn’t give it away, Mr. Walken is angry. He yells at the travellers to go back to where they came from as he speeds away on his steed. Go back to where they came from? Atoms of a star? Surely reverting to this form would make them invincible and impossible to shoot. Walken is either thick or likes a challenge. It’s probably a bit racist to assume that all migrants can regress to stardust when they feel like it. Some can, obviously, though not all. But when the ones that can, do… it’s quite a sight. Oh, sorry, it was 448 mil. I missed a particle on someone’s shoe.
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25 of 229 (Super Special Pictureless Edition For The Text Age (SSPEFTTA)
This is a minute of migrants walking. That’s all. Where are they walking? To the promised land – a land of coconuts and small frogs who dance on command? To a place of unimaginable opulence and a factory that produces empty soup cans; which perplexes all but a wealthy industrialist named Bert? To a region where fabric is illegal and humming birds tell smutty one liners at night clubs? To a location where you can cross at whatever part of the street you deem appropriate and policemen act out pantomimes about puppeteers who’ve fallen on hard times? To a site where the grass sleeps in twenty-minute intervals and handsaws are reasonably priced? To a setting where puzzles aren’t so difficult and “refraction” is the word all the cool kids are using? Probably.
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A train arrives at the station. It has antlers. Ha ha, don’t they all? No, they don’t. It’s probably not a train, but a since-extinct species of antelope or, (could it be?) gnu.
This locomotive shaped wildebeest was once prominent in these parts, but was hunted to extinction, as it was the main food source of native pump trolleys and Buster Keaton. A caption appears – the antelope train is in Casper, Wyoming. It’s pulling into a station, making it less likely that it is a grass-grazing animal. Oh look, Kris Kristofferson is onboard. It seems like only yesterday, seven months ago, that he was dancing and molesting a tree at Harvard. If Kris is inside, it’s almost certain this is a train and not an antelope. If it were, it would be quite a disgusting trip for poor Kristofferson. Though he is swigging from a hipflask.
You’d have to think travelling in the rank bowels of a gnu would send you to drink. Anyway, the antlers sure fooled me. Clever disguise, Mr. Train. Well played, sir; well played.
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Action! Excitement! Drama! Suspense! Romance! All elements that do not feature in this minute. The focus of this sixty-seconds is boots and getting your feet into them. James (Kristofferson) rolls around on the floor of the, (I must admit), beautifully lit train attempting to force his foot into a boot. It must be crammed full with something else like dreams, anxieties, melancholy or other such intangible abstractions. The lighting does steal the scene and I wonder why you’d go to all the effort creating that effect so you can portray a drunk man trying to put on his shoes. It probably took 4 hours to set-up the lighting and it’s a bit like assembling the world’s greatest cinematographer, set designer and lighting designer to recreate the Hanging Gardens of Babylon only to have your lead actor crap on the head of a cat. Incidentally, that is precisely what this scene needed.
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The Battle Hymn of the Republic serves as the score for this scene as James, having exited the train, walks along the platform past the carriages. One has a large “86” painted on it. What is the significance of this number?
Part I
If you add 8 + 6, you get 14 and if you add 1 + 4 it equals 5 – which is interesting because James first strides in front of the carriage bearing the number 86 at the 5 second mark.
He arrives at the painted number “86” at the 12 second mark of this minute. If you divide 60 (seconds) by 12 (seconds) it equals 5.
If you add the 5 seconds (when he is first in front of carriage) with 12 (when arrive at No.) it equals 17. If you add 1+7 you get 8.
Part II
Divide in a similar fashion, the 60 seconds by 5 seconds (time first walked in front of carriage), you get 12 – the time he arrived at the number.
Part II (a)
James is at the end of the carriage at the 20 second point. Divide (as we have been) 60 by 20 and it equals 3.
Add the totals of his arrival at the carriage (60/5) total of 12 + his departure (60/20) total of 3, you get 15. Add 1 + 5 and you get 6.
Conclusion
Put the two numbers of those totals from Part I and Part II together and you have 86. Add 8 + 6 = 14. Add again 1 + 4 = 5… and guess what American Civil War era military song is playing during the fifth minute of Heaven’s Gate? Poker Face by Lady Gaga. Shit, all that maths for nothing.
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There’s a conversation going on between James and an old friend of his, but it’s mostly inaudible. Something about a driving coach… a woman is going to hang… head west… someone else is dead… I doubt the audio for this scene was recorded with microphones, but rather four shaving brushes, yarn and an egg whisk. Innovative, but hardly a crisp sound reproduction. I find if you’re going to create sound recording devices on the fly, it’s best to use good quality yarn. It sounds like Cimino has used inferior thread, possibly from a loose hem or button. Why didn’t the sound guy speak up and insist on using a microphone? The rumour is that Christopher Walken shot him with a rifle to get in character. Method actors, hey – gotta respect their process, but it’s the sound that inevitably suffers.
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According to James’ friend who works at the station, immigrants in the area steal cattle to feed their families. It all makes sense now! Christopher Walken’s character has been hired by cows to carry out revenge killings. I wonder where the cows get the capital for such an enterprise. John Hurt? Is John Hurt a cow? No, surely not. Cows, if memory serves me correctly, are rather entrepreneurial and tend to own shops and sell white goods. I’m fairly sure in the nineteenth century you could get a bank loan to murder Hungarians so long as you had a business to borrow against. This is especially likely if cows had moved into the banking sector. I haven’t done the research and nor will I, but I think it’s safe to say that cows were given large amounts of cash from banks interest free for most of the eighteen hundreds and they used the money to hire people to avenge the deaths of other cows. This movie just got interesting and all it took was some bloodthirsty cows and half a fucking hour.
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Still at the station.
James’ friend admits between puffs on a pipe that he can’t stand his job. Inside the pipe is a small family who lost their land in a high-stakes game of snap. They are allowed to live rent free inside the pipe, so long as they keep it stocked with tobacco and chocolate. The father, whose penchant for children’s card games lost the family their land, is not a happy chap. He’s almost over his gambling addiction, but lost the nephew who was staying with them in a game of go-fish with the father of the family who live in James’ friend’s hat. He is trying to redeem himself by saving as much money as he can to move his family up in the world and rent inside a sock or shoe. One day, if enough is put aside and the father works hard, he can buy an apartment in a wristwatch.
It’s a noisy place to live, but at least you don’t have someone shoving a lit match through your roof every twenty minutes.
- What lies beneath?
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Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, oh my goodness! Hovering bicycles! How are they flying and why is no one paying any attention to them? Were flying bikes so common in the eighteen hundreds that their presence doesn’t even warrant an acknowledgement? Get on one Kristofferson and go and fight areal battles with other hover cyclists. The minute closes with a man watching Kristofferson. He has a dirty face and I’m going to assume a dirty mind… thinking about peaches. I don’t understand – if you’re going to invent a bike that flies, why would you put wheels on it? Surely the flying supersedes the wheels? It’d be like inventing a car with a horse in the bonnet.
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The peach philanderer is in the market for a rifle. It’s quite a diverse shop that James finds himself in. From it, you can purchase (aside from hovering bicycles), harmonicas and all sorts of weapons. Why can’t you buy instruments from gun shops anymore? This seems a shame. Weapons were once synonymous with music. My father bought his first ukulele from a knife shop and large weapons manufacturers used to invest heavily in instrument technology. If only the US government hadn’t ceased funding Lockheed’s laser guitar, popular music would have been revolutionised! Instead, they opted for a government program independent of big weapons and aerospace companies to develop the keytar. When will people stop demonising companies whose products wreak destruction and realise that peace = keytars.
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Whiskey and a rifle… what a purchase! I think in the 19th century you couldn’t buy one without the other. It’s a sliding scale as well. If you buy a knife, you grab a beer and if you buy a cannon you score some smack. As Kristofferson pays, there is some commotion outside. An immigrant is getting the shit kicked out of him. In case you haven’t picked it up yet, I don’t think they are well liked, but I can’t be sure. Perhaps if it’s demonstrated a few hundred more times or so it might sink in. Just to be safe, the film could have used a subtitle each time an Eastern European appeared on screen reading, “not liked.” Hold on a second! Someone does like them! James (Kristofferson) is sticking up for the guy who got beat. I think the assailant is going to throw a punch. What will James do? He’s holding a riffle and a bottle; surely he can’t defend himself with his hands full. The other guy isn’t holding anything, but he could have horse coursing through his veins. Gasp! Look out James! He may have a cannon!
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Alright, the fighting man didn’t have a cannon. I got a bit excited. He did have a cannon ball though. I guess to fire he either places the ball on a pile of match heads or simply lobs it at his enemy. The immigrant is being beaten quite badly and his wife seems somewhat upset about it. Seriously, is there anything worse than a wailing eastern European woman? No wonder they’re subject to such racial vilification in this film. James isn’t having a bar of it. He slugs the attacker somehow, even though he’s holding the entire contents of the shop in his arms and the assault is over. He wanders over to the man with the pipe he recognised on the train platform. The family inside the pipe have gone through some further hardships in the past few minutes. The gambling father went mad and ate his family. At least he can’t use them as collateral in high-rolling games of Uno anymore. He’s also got more room for himself and plans to put in a spa and tennis court once the blood is mopped up. Meanwhile, the fighting man continues to yell abuse at the wailing woman.
“Why don’t you go back to where you came from?” he cries.
“Hardship,” I assume is the answer. But I don’t speak Hungarian.
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There is a conversation afoot between James and his pipe smokin’ Irish friend. Oh, there’s a-talking going on let me assure you. None of this mouth moving without sound being produced nonsense… OK, to be honest, I can’t understand a bloody word he’s saying. Even without the obscene amount of background noise his Irish accent is so inaudibly thick it sounds like he’s chewing on mice while speaking – so at least the accent is genuine. This is what I’ve managed to make out so far, “Baltimore oysters… citizen… Dudley… eyes like a dead fish… currently in the employ… association.” No idea how to decipher that. Is Dudley a dead fish? Killed after he was fed bad oysters by a citizen currently employed in a lesser role in the same association as Dudley out of jealousy? Hmm, if you were describing a dead fish, you wouldn’t say, “It had eyes like a dead fish.”
Firstly, it’s a given that a dead fish would have eyes like a dead fish. It would also, presumably, have fins like a dead fish and gills like a dead fish. A fish, alive or dead, with fish eyes is entirely unremarkable.
“Dudley, the dead fish, had eyes like a youthful human” – now there’s something to report.
“Dudley, the dead fish, had eyes like a perturbed pademelon, gills like a sparrow and a tail fin like a 747” – even better.
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James’ Irish friend shoves a flaming match into his pipe, burning the poor man who lives inside alive. I shouldn’t say, “poor man” as the creep had it coming. But I did say, “poor man” and nothing will undo that, except the delete button, which I’m not going to push.
Thus ends the inaudible exposition sequence, though a final exclamation of, “Every citizen’s business is his own affair. Not mine, damn it!” from the Irishman is easily heard and would have been a powerful statement if I knew what on Earth he was talking about.
Now, this is a curious development. The scene cuts to some sort of manor and a spooky butler carrying a tray shuffles down the hallway past a bust. I wonder if the bust can talk? I’m going to assume that it can, but the shuffling drowned it out. I believe it is saying, “Fetch me some brine!” I wonder if the inclusion of the spooky butler indicates a genre shift and the film is soon to be a murder mystery? Perhaps all the immigrant troubles was just a red herring, that had eyes like a dead fish.
Where do you advertise for spooky butlers? The trading post? Do you need to supply them with a cobwebbed uniform? First world problems, hey…
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Special no picture edition
The butler is leading us somewhere… But where? He’s got that old butler shuffle down. I think the “Old Butler Shuffle” was a kooky novelty dance popular at parties in the late nineteenth century. Oh, it’s a room full of people and no, they’re not dancing but whinging about immigrants. My previously expressed suspicion that a number of characters in this film are not overly fond of them is now confirmed.
Let’s check-off what we’ve learned thus far:
Click for begin learning tone
Eastern Europeans aren’t popular
James has trouble putting dressing himself on trains
Sparrows have gills
The butler and his tray demonstrate that even bigots need tea. Gasp! John Hurt is amongst the group. Tell me you’re not there for the racism, John! Tell me you’re just there for the beverages and to jive to novelty songs should the party turn wild! It’s a little known fact, but racists make fine tea. You’d think they drink whiskey, drain cleaner or brake fluid, but no – chamomile. They never drink peppermint though. No real reason, it’s just a hang-up.
“Come on everybody! Put down your Silvo!
Grab that lonely widower and do the Ol’ Butler Shuffle…”
Johannes Brahms 1890
From “Dancing Through Servitude – Songs to Belittle”
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This is possibly one of the greatest ‘character speaks, crowd reacts with derision or agreement’ scenes in motion picture history. It takes a great degree of skill to direct your extras to nod and make “oh yes, indubitably” noises without looking hammy or over the top. All the moves are there. For derision they bust out the classics – Look to the people either side of you, shaking your head; look down to your lap as you shake your head and the oldie but goody; lean forward, shake your head and mutter something incomprehensible to the person next to you. For agreement, the moves are pretty much exactly the same, but substitute head shaking for head nodding and do it with a smile instead of a scowl. One extra just sniffed, which was a nice flourish. You don’t get paid for such improvisations – that was on his time.
For the aspiring extras reading this, it’s important to give your character of Crowd Member #7 (for example), a full and complex back-story. Just by the sudden audible drawing of air through his nose, I can tell the character was born in Canada and raised by a half-amphibian man named Clyde. Through swimming the lakes of Nova Scotia alongside his guardian, Crowd Member #7 developed a severe disliking for Clyde and icy water and moved south when he turned 19 ¾ . He took a job as a door-to-door salesman and married a botanist named Carrie, who he accidentally locked in a cupboard. He enjoyed the peace and quiet and Carrie had a thing for enclosed spaces, so they were both happy until Carrie suddenly exploded. Crowd Member #7 wandered aimlessly for many years until he caught a cold from a Burmese prostitute and found himself at a meeting with John Hurt.
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To catch you up, as I got slightly distracted with the performance of the extra playing Crowd Member #7 last review (he was rather good), there were some minor plot developments I neglected to mention. The meeting is chaired by the actor who plays the lawyer on Law and Order and provided the voice for Abraham Lincoln in Ken Burns’ epic documentary series The Civil War. Lincoln himself was a lawyer, but is now dead. Anyway, the small plot points I missed are the meeting is of the Stock Growers Association and they’re employing fifty men at five dollars a day to kill cattle thieves with a bonus of fifty dollars for each thief shot or hung. They’re then going to go to Johnson County, depose the civil authority and keep possession of the town until they can take charge of the courts. Nothing major; barely worth mentioning, really…
John Hurt seems upset at the prospect of hiring vigilantes to murder cattle thieves and moves they stop. But what about the job losses? What are those poor murderous goons to do? Where will they go? John Hurts cares not for the working families of the 1890s. I think in another life, I would have liked to have been a hired gun. It’d be fun to have on your business card and an interesting talking point at dinner parties. Hang on a second; there are now two spooky butlers in the room! Are they multiplying? Never mind the hungry/Hungary people stealing out of desperation, turn your guns on the spooky butlers before they take over the world. They have vengeance in their hearts! Look at the way they’re just standing there! It’s only a matter of time before they rise up and refuse to serve you cream with your coffee!
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Evidently the Governor is on board for massacring cattle thieves and I must admit my assumption expressed in entry 30 of 229 that cows were hiring gunmen to carry out revenge killings on Hungarians for eating them appears to be false. I do, however, stand by my claim that John Hurt is a cow. Don’t ask me why, it just seems to fit. Cows find it difficult to act drunk as they are creatures of four legs and have little experience with poor balance. John Hurt is either a cow struggling to act authentically drunk, or Mr. Hurt believed he was acting in a hammy silent era comedy, where pratfalls and hilarious stumbling over furniture japery was the order of the day. Put this scene on roller skates and we’d have a comedy classic on our hands.
The shooting cattle thieves scheme is put to a vote and John Hurt exits the room with a disgusted look on his face. He’s either abstaining from the vote or hurriedly leaving to throw up all the brandy he’s ingested. As he has two stomachs there’s going to be a lot of vomit. Thank goodness the spooky butlers are multiplying because it’s going to take a few to clean it all up.
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The bovine silent film comedy continues as John Hurt stumbles into the next room, stealing a cigar from a sleeping man slumped in a chair. The soundtrack lets this minute down. A trombone making ‘barrr-ruump’ sounds to accentuate each moment of perfectly executed physical comedy is lacking. This sequence should also have been shot in monochrome, instead of yellow-brown hued colour film. Why does it appear so yellow? Perhaps Michael Cimino spilled tea on the final print. Or maybe he deliberately soaked it in tea to give the illusion of age, like when you dunk a map you’ve drawn in tea to make it seem ye olde for a school project. Those were the days! To give your map a further air of authenticity you’d take a lighter and scorch the edges as though every map from the 17th and 18th century suffered some minor form of fire damage. It’s how can you tell if an old map is the genuine article – the more scorch marks, the older the map. This is why few maps survive from medieval times. As they age the maps eventually burn away, which is what inevitably happens to your school project as your subtle scorching turns inferno, forcing you to run to the sink to put it out. You’re left with some cinders, no homework and a baking tray of undrinkable tea.
With his Charlie Chaplin homage complete, Mr. Hurt heads upstairs to investigate a strange noise that sounds like billiard balls clanking together. I wonder who could be shooting pool up there? I bet it’s James. Anyone want to bet me? No? Didn’t think so. It’s almost certain to be him and I wouldn’t take on that bet. Perhaps I’ll go see if Giles next door would like to – he’s a gambling addict. I think that’s why his wife left him. Easy money… It’s not the only reason she left. They’d been drifting apart for years and Giles burning down the cellar in an attempt to age their wine didn’t help.
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The mysterious snooker player is James! Stop weeping and pay-up, Giles. I don’t care if your kids go hungry. A small note to the props department – those billiard balls look really big. Have they gotten smaller in the last hundred years? Because the balls James is hitting around seem to be as big as Fitballs™. You could sit on them for ergonomic support, which would come in handy after bending over a billiard table all day. The science of ergonomics has come a long way, but I feel people seem to slouch more these days. Is that just me? To clarify, I don’t slouch. I was questioning whether others have noticed the decline in correct posture. You could lay me down and put a spirit level on my back.
Some important information is revealed in this minute, namely John Hurt’s character’s, um… name. It’s Billy, which I find a bit of a let down. I was expecting Count Harriet Mensworth-Smithe of the Grand Dutchy of Lutsylvania. I swear those balls are bigger than usual; they’re seriously the size of pandas.
A slight amount of intrigue underpins this scene. James and Count Harriet Mensworth-Smithe haven’t seen each other in a long time. The Counts asks why James has come, but James is coy. He could be up to something, or might just be concentrating really hard on not breaking his cue on the giant panda balls.
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“Bill, you’re the only son of a bitch I ever knew worth getting seriously drunk with,” says James. I suggest getting seriously drunk in order to endure this minute because it’s seriously dull. Grab yourself a bottle of hard liquor… no scratch that – grab a mask, a dropper and some ether because you’ll need something a little stronger.
Count Harriet Mensworth-Smithe (Bill) quotes somebody and that’s about it. There’s some mild panda thrashing, but not much else happens. The quote is delivered as though its poignant. It’s about drifting – presumably off to sleep before movie’s end. I find when I’m playing pool and a friend stares into the middle distance and starts quoting nonsense it makes for an enlightening but tedious game of nine ball. In such circumstances I coolly chalk the cue tip, then throw them out the window. Often I’ll dive after them screaming, “Quote Keats now, you fucker!” and seven out of ten times, they don’t.
As a side note; John Hurt is seriously overacting, the self-important git. He needs to lighten-up. Wear an amusing shirt once in a while and just chill…
Dear Sir,
I took particular exception to your critique of my alleged ‘seriousness’ in the forty-fifth installment of your blow-by-by account of Heaven’s Gate. I am constantly fighting my reputation as a person who takes himself too seriously, when I in fact enjoy levity. Just last Christmas I told a joke about a sheep and this was before I recited Hamlet in its entirety. My sheep quip received quite the response and it was totally spontaneous. It wasn’t even in one of those bon-bons where you get a present and a paper hat, which I refuse to wear. Those bloody things are so uncomfortable and unflattering. The children are always pleading, “Uncle John, Uncle John, put on your paper crown!” the little whinging shits. Can’t they see I’m trying to enjoy my turkey without interruption from bright-eyed little fuckers who’ve yet to be shown that life is a pitiless, merciless endurance that doesn’t require further complication by being forced to wear silly fucking hats!
Yours sincerely,
John Hurt
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John Hurt sinks an impressive shot off two rails and into the corner pocket. I wonder how long that took to perfect? There goes two days of shooting right there. Perhaps he’s not acting drunk and is genuinely intoxicated. No one can play that well sober. Yes, even billiard world champions. You know who you are…
The phrase “gob spit”, a synonym for bulldust, hare swill and horse twaddle is used to great affect. I think it should be reintroduced into the modern vernacular. I say, “reintroduced” because I assume it was used previously and wasn’t the invention of the writer. If anyone has any information on the etymology of “gob spit”, please set up a website called cowboyphrases.org and sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labours. But for goodness sake, don’t write to me.
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Can the Stock Growers Association massacre cattle thieves without consequence? “In principle, everything can be done,” believes Billy/Count Harriet Mensworth-Smithe. In principle, perhaps. But in practical terms, not everything is possible, such as fly racing. It’s near impossible to get the bloody things to race in a straight line and have you ever attempted to attach a fly to a sulky? They weigh a ton, the harnesses are ill fitting and it tends to upset the flies. And that’s not the worst of it! The Fly Racing Association is corrupt and the sport rife with cheating. How they inject the flies with steroids I’ll never know. Surely the needle would pass straight through? I don’t understand the sport’s appeal. I’ve been to a few meets and it’s usually a shambles. Any movement of the sulkies and jockeys is purely incidental and due more to wind and plate tectonics, rather than from the fly’s efforts and it’s bloody noisy. There is nothing more disconcerting than a chorus of frustrated and furious flies. Ban fly racing, I say. It’ll never happen, though – the State Government makes too much from the tax revenue.
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Basset Horn
Is Count Harriet Mensworth-Smithe going to stop the Stock Growers Association from slaughtering cattle thieves as though they were… cattle? Probs not, is the answer. (I’m paraphrasing.) This telling moment is underscored by a solemn, stripped back acoustic guitar rendition of the Blue Danube. The minimalist music is in stark contrast to every single other aspect of the production. If the music were to match the epic nature of the rest of the film, it would be recorded by a 12,047 piece orchestra, conducted by everyone who’s ever conducted (living or dead), and feature instruments from all over the known universe, including long forgotten instruments such as the basset horn and completely invented instruments such as the shoe-bow.
Why the Blue Danube? I’ve no idea. Perhaps it’s a bizarre reference to 2001: A Space Odyssey and the movie is about to match cut from a billiard table in the 19th century a few thousand years into the future to a space billiard deck of the 23rd century. I saw one of those at a World’s Fair in the sixties. The astronauts looked as though they were having fun, but I noted they were chalking the ends of their cues before each shot. Surely if you’ve the capability to shoot pool in space, you could invent a cue tip with enhanced grip. Hang on, how on Earth did I get to see a World’s Fair in the sixties? Oh yes, that’s right; Fred gave me a lift.
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O-oh! It’s confrontation time! James is ordered out of the clubhouse and there is a lot of macho posturing until the guy from Law and Order slaps him across the face with his gloves. James open palm slaps him back and it becomes a little awkward. This is a western, shouldn’t they spit in a spittoon and draw pistols? At least use a fist, for goodness sake. They look as though they’re performing a German folk dance. There is no piano or piani player, no card gamblers and the villain isn’t even wearing a black hat. And if they are staging a German slap dance, there is a severe lack of accordion! John Ford would be turning in his grave, unless he was cremated, in which case he’d be churning in his urn, or viewing the scene with indifference. Everything seems less important once you’ve been turned to ash. But if you’re trapped in a box you spend your days being outraged at trivial things. The main reason is you need the exercise and an excuse to roll around. If it weren’t for the worms, you’d get so flabby just lying there. To clarify, I am suggesting that John Ford would take issue with a German slap dance devoid of accordion. He’s a purist.
To be continued…
By Simon Godfrey
