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Some intention into Abel Ferrara’s ‘King Of Fresh York’, two gangsters conspire in a tiny cinema showing F.W. Murnau’s 1922 scare classic ‘Nosferatu’. Playing the scene where the vampire disembarks his corpse- and rat-ridden ship docked in England, it has sure reference to Ferrara’s protagonist, Frank White (Christopher Walken in one of cinema’s tremendous, swiftly performances), a drug-smuggler recently released from a long period in prison, hoping to reassert his local criminal power. White refers to his return as ‘coming succor from the dead’, and Walken’s long, tremulous figure and dancer’s movements have some of the aristocratic grace of a eminent hide Dracula, Christopher Lee. Mostly seen at night, he gathers recent recruits (unusual blood) around him to ‘feed’ on. One great shot, after a prolonged sequence of snappy violence, has him lit so his eyes shine like some jumpy undead; another has the camera following him through a railway site until it is stopped by bars - it can only impotently glimpse as White glides up the stairs to be swallowed by the night. The film even has as one of his opponents a cop played by future vampire-slayer Wesley Snipes.
But the ‘Nosferatu’ allusion points to something else - Ferrara’s unusual absorption of still cinema. In terms of sigh, ‘King’ is a gangster film like any other: loud, frightening, violent, brutal, lurid, hysterical. But it has a purity and beauty very different from the stylised melodramas of Martin Scorcese, whose equally bloodthirsty ‘Goodfellas’ came out in the same year. The first ten minutes is an astounding, virtually wordless, visual tour-de-force, not simply presenting the main character, his region and environment, but introducing symbolic motifs that are all the more much for being valid, a share of Frank’s world, and not simply imposed. Bars and grids (in prison, gates, bridges etc.) are the most prominent, signifying initially Frank’s literal imprisonment, then his difficulties with the law and fellow criminals, and his frustrated ambitions (including a Guiliani-like zero-tolerance programme to desirable up the streets), but eventually, as we might ask from a Ferrara littering his film with religious iconography, something distinguished more metaphysical, outside the confines of genre (hence the references to Melville) .
After this, there is a lot of talk - noisy, profane, humorous, aggressive, threatening - but the best sequences sustain this still aesthetic: the night-club double faulty leading to a car wander and man-hunt under a bridge; a police funeral in which a limousine hit provokes the scattering of black-clad, bankside mourners; the ‘Le Samourai’-like subway confrontation between gangster and cop [although the film's very greatest scene, Larry Fishburne's Jimmy Jump ordering rapidly food objective before being busted for abolish, depends for its execute on the conflict between talk and silence, his bluster oblivious to the still arrests playing out tedious him]. The spend of grand, intense close-ups bewitch the emotional mute era, as does Ferrara’s camerawork, more deliberate and heavy than Scorcese’s flash pyrotechnics. The staging of set-pieces is as artifical as Murnau’s setscapes in ‘Sunrise’; the underworld carnival is more Celine than Scorcese. Even the exhaust of blue filter in key scenes is less a signifier of atmosphere or artifice than a nod to the practise of ‘colorising’ monochrome silents.
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By employing this style from a period he clearly loves, Ferrara is able to inject a spirituality and ceremonial gravitas not immediately apparent in the crudity of the genre subject.
KING OF Novel YORK is, for my money, the most well-known (and the most underrated) film of the last 20 years. It is a homage to the classic American genre - the gangster record - with the depth and subtext of a European art-movie. It’s a precursor to urban crime thrillers like Unique Jack City and Menace II Society (Ferrara points out they first obsolete a rap-score in 1982) . An ode to drug-culture. A pitchblack satire of capitalism and its grotesque fallout. It’s got a cast to die for, and a close-knit crew at the height of their powers.
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It’s shot across an array of locations including Sing-Sing, Donald Trump’s Plaza Hotel, and various crack-lanes; it weaves seamlessly between an modern rep, and the music of Vivaldi and Schooly D; the film is meticulously colour-coded (as pointed out by Slit Johnstone in his book) to add up to a frosty critique of the red WHITE and blue, the all-American war-on-drugs; the tempo is expertly-managed, the movie simmers for a while then explodes into heavy-metal carnage, and then it dies with a unlit whimper. The film is spectacularly violent, but believe about the handling of the violence. There’s a tall Peckinpah slo-mo shootout, then the brave shootout in Chinatown. But in the 2nd half of the movie the deaths are deliver, painful to inspect, and pitiful in their execution.
And then there’s the cast: Walken was never better. He mesmirises you, brilliantly charismatic. And he looks so otherworldy, what with the hair and the deathly complexion, he’s like the man who fell to Earth, the oddest looking `hero’ you’ve ever seen. Fishburne reinvented a character imagined for James Russo and the whole movie turns on that transition. Its simply impossible to imagine how it could have worked ½ as well with Russo, or any1 else for that matter. Caruso is a fire-engine red ball of rage. The scene when he rushes from his colleagues funeral is one of the most beautifully played-out expressions of vigilantism ever place on film. Argo as a weary, deflated, pill-poppin’ `old man’ who has been there and knows the war is unwise and un-win-able.
As far as Im concerned, every sequence, every line of dialogue (”I’m not the dilemma, I’m objective a businessman”) is pure gold. Ferrara’s is the cult-of-cults, his movies usually too far-out or nihilistic to accumulate mighty of a following. But this one I bet Tarantino wishes he’d made.
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And the DVD package…The documentary is not comprehensive, but it re-enforces what sets Ferrara’s films above those of most of his contemporaries, the sheer degree of collaboration enthusiastic. Abe’s anarchist mentality has freed up guys like Joe Delia (music), Anthony Redman (editor), Charles Lagola (production get) and Ken Kelsch to acquire exactly the sort of films they want. Kelsch makes the most telling statement towards the extinguish, which might interpret why Ferrara hasn’t made a film for about five years (after a Woody Allen-esque burst of creativity in the 90s) . In fact, as basic as it is, the doco is startlingly impartial and revealing about its subject.
Ferrara previously contributed a delirious commentary to The Driller Killer, but this time round you kinda feel shadowy listening to his hazy lack of insight, having the suspicion that his personal curse has robbed him of both his allies and his inspiration at the moment when he’s finally getting his dues. But the commentary track is actually a blast! Abel and his best-mate Frankie crack commence a few brews, he makes some comic asides about Walken’s hair and the reaction to the film on release. And if you come by to the credits, you acquire to listen to Abel bang out Schooly’s title-track on an acoustic guitar with a Dylan yelp.
Check out the title card on the trailer. Under the title it reads (a Ferrara / St. John modern), like the credits on the notice of a 45″ characterize. Like Mick and Keef, or Scorsese and Schrader, these guys made dynamite 2gether. KONY is their towering achievement, it’s one of the immense films ever made.
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