Coburn, baby, burn (dicks so infernal)
Me finding fresh material for posts.
Me sampling political or economic or financial blogs of any stripe, though 'specially of the sweaty, doomsday, we're-all-screwed, the-president-is-Hitler/un'Merkun/andaboveallnotmeormydimestoreheroes, buy-gold-and-guns-and-tinned-beans sort, upon finding that their authors in their earnest and unstinting deadpan really are playing it straight and not as the sublimely over-the-top absurdist hide-the-[underaged]-children masters of farce for which I had until background Googling taken them.
And since there is in this world No Greater Love than that of this James Coburn fan for a good horselaugh in gratitude toward that race which alone makes every last among my equine gut-blasts compulsory, I cannot resist my latest plug for one of my favorite films:
But soon he discovers that he’s been dropped down the rabbit hole into a spy-vs.-spy world of espionage, counter-espionage and counter-counter-espionage, where paranoia really is the most sensible response. After the strain of his top-secret sessions drives him to a nervous breakdown, he flees to the outside world.... Schaefer’s disorientation and increasingly legitimate paranoia — even his girlfriend (Joan Delaney) isn’t what she seems — thrust him from one set piece to another.
He hides out with a suburban family of militant, self-described political “liberals” armed to the teeth against right-wing “fascists” who “oughta be gassed.” The father (William Daniels) boasts that they’re for “Negro” rights, yet Mom (Joan Darling) offhandedly calls going out for Chinese food “eating Chink”; Arte Johnson‘sDragnet-clone FBI agent reprimands their wire-tapping boy for using such bigoted argot. One minute Mom is asking Schaefer if he reads Gourmet magazine, the next she’s delightedly kick-boxing international killers while dead-eye Dad blasts away with his .357 Magnum. (Earlier, he admonishes his son to never confuse the family’s “car gun” and the “house gun.”) ...
... Sidney can't trust anybody. So, for now, he has managed to slip away in the station wagon of the Typical American suburban Quantrill family of Seaside Heights, New Jersey: Wynn (William Daniels), Jeff (Joan Darling) and their son Bing (Sheldon Collins), tourists he picks up while they are taking a White House tour.
Me sampling political or economic or financial blogs of any stripe, though 'specially of the sweaty, doomsday, we're-all-screwed, the-president-is-Hitler/un'Merkun/andaboveallnotmeormydimestoreheroes, buy-gold-and-guns-and-tinned-beans sort, upon finding that their authors in their earnest and unstinting deadpan really are playing it straight and not as the sublimely over-the-top absurdist hide-the-[underaged]-children masters of farce for which I had until background Googling taken them.
And since there is in this world No Greater Love than that of this James Coburn fan for a good horselaugh in gratitude toward that race which alone makes every last among my equine gut-blasts compulsory, I cannot resist my latest plug for one of my favorite films:
If Philip K. Dick had worked for Mad magazine, he might have come up with The President’s Analyst.
In this mordant comic satire (which is also a bottle of distilled, carbonated 1967), the president of the United States is “overworked, overtired, overburdened.” So the FBI and CIA grudgingly join forces to press Manhattan psychoanalyst Sidney Schaefer into service. At first the mod, urbane Schaefer is ecstatic at such an august promotion, and the job of unburdening the “great man” is an exhilarating rush.
But soon he discovers that he’s been dropped down the rabbit hole into a spy-vs.-spy world of espionage, counter-espionage and counter-counter-espionage, where paranoia really is the most sensible response. After the strain of his top-secret sessions drives him to a nervous breakdown, he flees to the outside world.
He hides out with a suburban family of militant, self-described political “liberals” armed to the teeth against right-wing “fascists” who “oughta be gassed.” The father (William Daniels) boasts that they’re for “Negro” rights, yet Mom (Joan Darling) offhandedly calls going out for Chinese food “eating Chink”; Arte Johnson‘sDragnet-clone FBI agent reprimands their wire-tapping boy for using such bigoted argot. One minute Mom is asking Schaefer if he reads Gourmet magazine, the next she’s delightedly kick-boxing international killers while dead-eye Dad blasts away with his .357 Magnum. (Earlier, he admonishes his son to never confuse the family’s “car gun” and the “house gun.”) ...
Close-Ups: Blinded by the grin
... Sidney can't trust anybody. So, for now, he has managed to slip away in the station wagon of the Typical American suburban Quantrill family of Seaside Heights, New Jersey: Wynn (William Daniels), Jeff (Joan Darling) and their son Bing (Sheldon Collins), tourists he picks up while they are taking a White House tour.
"Gee whiz, Dad. Why can't we take the FBR tour?" Bing whines. "I want to see the files."
"Sorry Bing," Dad replies. "We've got to get back to New Jersey as soon as we finish the White House.
"Now be a good boy and enjoy your heritage," says Mom.
The Quantrills are liberals. Not left-wingers or anything like that, but they're for civil rights. They've done some weekend picketing. As a matter of fact, they even sponsored the "Nigro doctor and his wife" when they moved into the development. Their next-door neighbors are fascists, though.
Stepping into the Quantrill's split-level home, Wynn flicks a switch on the living room wall and groovy Bacharach-esque Muzak begins to play. "Total sound," he explains with evident satisfaction.
"Want a draft beah?"
Dr. Sidney Schaefer slides off his sunglasses and beams ingratiatingly. "Yes."
I defy you to watch Coburn flash his killer pearly-whites here (can you tell Sid is maybe beginning to go a little off his rocker?) and not find yourself grinning, too. This is megawatt star-power, so bright you gotta wear shades...
Comments
By Dan Erdman on October 13, 2007 3:07 PM | Reply
I love THE PRESIDENT'S ANALYST. In a perfect world, this would be the true cinematic touchstone of 1960s paranoia and DR STRANGELOVE would just be some forgotten obscurity.
By on October 13, 2007 5:52 PM | Reply
Coburn's pretty much the poster boy for 1960s-'70s heterosexual stud entitlement, and man, does that come through in his grin. What a strutting devil he was! I am convinced that the slight soft-focus effect in many of his Nixon-Ford era movies isn't the result of a filter on the lens, but his sheer testosterone warping the celluloid.
If memory serves, he was, for quite some time, the highest paid actor in the history of acting, on a per-word basis, for his 1970s ad for Schlitz Light. He only said the name of the product and took home half a million bucks. That's $250,000 per syllable.
By on October 14, 2007 12:09 AM | Reply
Dane: "Manchurian Candidate," for sure!
Matt: What makes this particular shot so funny is that Coburn is flashing that smile at William Daniels, of all people.
