Saturday, February 12, 2011

Come On & Buy a Bottle of Twister Wine

[I should mention that this is for the Michael Mann Blogathon going on at Seeti Maar- Diary of a Movie Lover]
 
Spoilers for THE JERICHO MILE (1979) after the jump.

JERICHO MILE is a film about a mustachioed runner. I should explain that I have an affinity for films about mustachioed runners, and the fact that there are more than a few of those is a topic for another post. Also, the absence of a moustache should not prevent me from covering MARATHON with Bob Newhart in the future. Anyhow, the man in question is called Murphy (Peter Strauss), and all he does is run. The film begins showing everyone on the yard, doing what they do to forget that they are on the yard in Folsom. Mostly they work out in one form or another, but still others play cards, read comics, dance with their boom-boxes, get stoned on pruno. One guy makes a top hat out of a paper bag.
Murphy runs. His nickname around the prison is “Lickety-Split”, which is an awful jail-house name if you ask me. It sounds like a mamma-mia Italian cartoon saying “lick the split”, which, again, has connotations that you don’t want following you around the joint. Running with Murphy is Stiles (Richard Lawson) whose cell is adjacent to Murphy’s and is the only person who really talks to him. Murphy really is the ultimate Michael Mann protagonist. He speaks to Stiles only because Stiles talks and talks until it seems that Murphy is only saying something to stop the other man’s words. Murphy also does not participate in any of the commerce going on around him. He doesn’t work, he doesn’t care about commissary credits, he only wants his three squares a day and to run. After lock down he resorts to any form of exercise he can manage in his cramped cell, including pulling a pipe from his (apparently at least half-broken) sink for a makeshift chin-up bar.
The principal differences between Stiles and Murphy become obvious pretty quickly, and for Michael Mann’s first (TV) movie, his lines of conduct are already clearly drawn. Murphy wants nothing, and therefore needs no one. He is not beholden to the distilled capitalism that exists inside the prison walls. Stiles has an impending conjugal visit, but he is not willing to wait the three months to see his wife. There are other convicts who can make such things happen, convicts like Dr. D (Brian Dennehy) who can pull the strings for a hefty price. Stiles knows that Dr. D just lost his sugar connection, and without sugar there can be no pruno. He offers to get them the sugar if they can bump up his conjugal visit. By dealing with these men, Stiles invites the turmoil they bring to his life.
 
Meanwhile the warden (Billy Green Bush) and prison psychiatrist Dr. Janowski (Geoffrey Lewis) have been taking notice of just how fast Murphy’s running the yard. Janowski thinks he could be setting records and not even know it. He calls in Murphy for a session and tries to figure out what makes Murphy run. He wants to know if Murphy is picturing himself running elsewhere, or running away, which causes Murphy to break down his philosophy for Janowski (and the audience) - he is present, mind and body, but he is doing his time, his way. He wants no trouble, and will cause none. When asked what he would think about bringing in a trainer and some runners from the outside, Murphy reluctantly concedes that if they show up when he’s running, they can run too.
Stiles is readying for his conjugal visit, buying new pants on the yard and feeling “Outrageous, righteous and relaxed” which would be a good alternate name for this blog. He goes for his visit, but the woman waiting for him is not his wife. She is a mule for Dr. D, and she wants to go to the conjugal trailers to exchange two balloons of heroin (I love picturing the balloons being full of sugar for pruno), but Stiles is having none of it. He flips out and walks away, leaving the woman to beat a hasty retreat, but not before she gets herself arrested. His anger is understandable, but he has to know that his life is ending over this hissy-fit.
At the same time, Murphy is meeting with the other runners and their coach (Ed Lauter). The outside runners all have fancy gear and scoff at the lack of a professional track, having to take four laps around the garbage cans. Murphy bests them all, and even bonds a little with the coach over the idea of running so long you feel like you’re “floating”. The spell is quickly broken when the coach speaks of training, an arrangement the warden, psychiatrist and coach had made without consulting Murphy. The warden and Janowski say they were going to ease Murphy into it (not unlike Jeffrey Wigand and his wife in THE INSIDER). Murphy walks.
 
Back in their cells, Stiles is breaking down, finally feeling the full weight of his actions. Murphy advises him to get into solitary confinement until this blows over, but Stiles fears he isn’t strong enough. Murphy talks him down, convincing Stiles it’s the only way. Just before they are to be released from their cells, one of Dr. D’s goons (they are referred to in the end credits as the “White People Party”, which just sounds like a lame get-together. White People Party- from 9 to ?) puts a weird pad-lock clamp on Murphy’s cell door, preventing him from getting out. He shouts to Stiles, but Stiles is just trying to get to the safety of solitary. He is soon cornered by three “White People” bearing shanks. Well, two of them have little potato peeler shanks (Richard Moll and Burton Gilliam), and the blonde doo-wop guy has a big bowie knife. God knows where he hides this during a pat-down. Stiles has no chance. Murphy eventually breaks the lock using his chin-up pipe from the sink, but he is too late. He cries and shouts over his fallen comrade.
The death of Stiles convinces Murphy to finally join society, even if it is only to get revenge. He uses his leverage with the warden and Janowski, agreeing to train with the coach and run for them if they let him have some time alone in the metal shop. Once we get into the metal shop, it becomes apparent why he wants to do this – all the meatheads from the “White People Party” are working there. It is where they find their release from the prison walls, the one thing they enjoy. The guards clear out all the workers and let Murphy do what he came to do. I don’t know that being a bereaved star athlete in prison gives you license to trash a metal shop, but it does provide a way for Murphy to find a wad of Dr. D’s “dope money” under a locker. He takes a paint can of flammable liquid and the cash out to the yard, builds himself a little fire right in front of Dr. D, who flips out, shouting that he’s “looking at a dead man!” When I first watched this movie, I thought they would slice Murphy’s hamstring or something to keep him from running. Their revenge is less violent but just as damaging, they boycott inmate construction of the Olympic regulation track necessary for Murphy’s qualifying run to be official.
Soon the “Black Brotherhood” is looking for answers in the death of Stiles (who was also black. Did I mention that? I hope you haven’t been picturing Stiles from TEEN WOLF this whole time.), which leads them quickly to Dr. D. Brian Dennehy has a wonderful look of repressed glee when he tells the “Brotherhood” to their faces that he is responsible for the murder, but that his motivations were “political” and that Stiles acted against “the code”, and that’s enough to keep him from getting murdered. (That and his gang of thugs.) He also tells them that “Lickety-Split” is the one that pointed Stiles in Dr. D’s direction. When the “Black Brotherhood” corners Murphy, he has no reason to expect an ambush, so he goes willingly. He gets beaten while they recount Dr. D’s allegations, including that Murphy had turned out Stiles. Murphy takes this as a personal insult against his dead friend, and wants to keep fighting for his honor, even after the “Brotherhood” has begun questioning whether they have the right man. When they ask what Murphy will do when they leave, he answers that he needs to finish his work out.
 
The codes of respect in the prison have been established from the beginning of the film. There is a prisoner who puts together a newspaper, and Janowski is seen giving him a hard time at one point in the film because all his stories are about how every crew in the place is the best at whatever it is they do. He explains that this will help keep some peace and he’s just trying to do his bit. Dropping the word “political” into a disagreement seems to neutralize both parties, it almost gets support by default, and Dr. D is well aware of this. So when the “Black Brotherhood” questions the integrity of his “political” boycott of the building of the track, it’s as though it nullifies all their agreements of mutual respect, and threatens to escalate into a full blown riot. There’s a point in the build-up of tension, when both parties are heatedly talking out their points, and the prisoners of all colors are in a united front against Dr. D and his crew. There is music lightly playing on the soundtrack, and Dr. D seems to know he’s outnumbered, and for a moment it seems like they might back down. It’s hard not to be acutely aware of this being a TV movie – that is in no way a knock on its quality, but prison life is not as clean as an ABC movie of the week – and for just a brief second it looks like we might get everyone united in harmony. Then after a couple quick shots of some nasty looking shanks, we know shit is about to go off. Extra points to Mann for how brutal this scene comes off while staying within 1970s TV standards. When the dust settles we see a few bodies that look pretty dead from an overhead shot, but the next day the warden says he has only six in the hospital.
In the beginning of the film, no one took notice of Murphy running around and around the yard, maybe because he ran alone or with Stiles (Stiles is shown keeping up with Murphy, so either Murphy was going slow for his friend’s sake, or no one cared that Stiles was also a world class runner). Once outside runners show up, some take notice, even more when it’s apparent that their boy is smoking the pros. Maybe, to borrow the analogy from THE AVIATOR, you can’t tell the planes are going fast until you have still clouds behind them. And when there is the possibility that Murphy could go to the Olympics, the inmates show their support in ways that truly matter. Building the track is the most important, but the scene where these people that he chooses not know, or talk to, all come to his table one by one and offer spare portions of their meals to him is far more touching. Food in prison is a precious commodity, and what it means for others to go without to give Murphy extra strength is clearly not lost on him. Peter Strauss does magnificent things in this scene, so obviously touched but not wanting to show weakness in front of the other prisoners. They offer their goods and services to the man who shuns capitalism.
The prisoners have gathered to support their boy in his moment of glory; even Dr. D (who now sports an eye patch) is there. The qualifying run is well shot, as is the rest of the film, but the beauty of the images coupled with the precision of the sound design elevates it to something more. The sound switches between the actual sounds of the crowd cheering, drowning out everything else, and the subjective sounds of feet on the track, putting us in the heads of the runners. Murphy wins, and qualifies for the Olympic tryouts. He looks to the second place runner with respect in his eyes, suggesting that only fellow runners (Stiles, the coach, and the second place runner) get any respect from Murphy.
Janowski, after all this, finally decides to confront Murphy about his crime, to try and understand him. He refers to Murphy by his first name, Larry, and asks him why he killed his father. He has a reason (his drunk father was pushing around his step-sister) but is not apologetic, and also believes that he belongs in prison. Later, when they are in a meeting with the Olympic committee over Murphy’s eligibility, the head of the committee (Edmund Penney) needles Murphy into blowing up, shouting that he would kill his father again if he had the chance. The committee head is suitably smug, as he clearly wanted nothing to do with this convicted felon running in his prestigious Olympics.
Back at the prison, morale is back to its regular low. The unity and pride is all but forgotten. Everyone is back to doing their thing to forget their lot. The boom-box guy is dancing to race results, where the announcer reports that a new record has been set in the mile, in the very race that Murphy was not allowed to run. After his daily run, he returns to his cell and hears another report, this time on the television, of the new record running of the mile. In his cell, Murphy sees his track shoes, a gift from the coach. He returns to the yard and strips to his shorts on this cold day, laces up his shoes and gives it his all. He runs with his stopwatch, another gift, this one from a fellow runner, engraved with the ‘Jericho Mile’ quote, which the coach clunkily interprets for the audience as that run that makes the walls come tumbling down. While the introduction and explanation of the quote are not graceful, it sets up the final wordless moment. Murphy finishes his mile, having given it his all, and has set a new record (verified by the newspaperman convict), then hurls his stopwatch at the prison walls, watching it shatter, feeling victorious and vindicated, if only until the runner’s high fades.

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