input: "Look, I know this may suck right now, but pain is temporary, film is forever. Whatever you do right now is burned into celluloid for all time and for thousands of years to come." Robert De Niro

This was initially a film for Steven Spielberg, the director hiring several screenwriters to adjust the screenplay so that it more suited his themes. And so we have a dysfunctional family that is threatened by a deranged monster in the form of a recently released from prison Robert De Niro. Like "Jurassic Park", "Poltergeist" and "War of the Worlds", the dysfunctional family bands together to defeat the beast, the beast being the creation of the father, a lawyer who failed to defend De Niro during his trial.

In typical Spielberg fashion, the father kills the monster that undermines the family and is then promptly absolved of his sins. Like Oscar Schindler, Robin Williams, Sam Niel, Tom Cruise and virtually every "daddy" figure in Spielberg land, the father reclaims his paternal duty in the kind of bittersweet coda that Spielberg so enjoys.

But Spielberg eventually abandoned the picture and the project was instead turned over to Martin Scorsese, who at the time was seeking to try his hand at more commercial fare. The result is arguably the worst film in Scorsese's filmography, and, ironically, his most illuminating.

An artist's failures or misfires are often very revealing, exposing the inner workings of their art. When the story doesn't work, the characters don't connect or the images don't sear, we find ourselves left with a kind of inner core. This the remaining carcass- is what the director's cinema is about.

Now "Cape Fear" is an impersonal film, so we won't find any thematic connections to the rest of Scorsese's filmography ("You already sacrificed me!" De Niro yells, but the films themes of Catholic redemption are cookie cutter). What the film does, though, is expose the kind of language that his filmography hinges on. Watch how Scorsese's camera desperately whips back and forth, how he zooms frantically onto doorknobs and windows in an attempt to force tension and how his characters are all loud and screaming for attention. But more importantly, watch how the film makes no spatial sense. A showdown on a boat at the end of the film takes place on an obvious sound-stage, a street parade is claustrophobic and takes place within no larger context and the family's house doesn't seem to exist anywhere in particular. There is simply no geographical sense to anything in the picture, Scorsese unable to film space or create any kind of spatial environment.

The reason for this is that Scorsese's camera always has to be bound, or intimately tethered, to his central character. For the world around the character to make sense, his camera has to be focused on the character. Resnais can take you around a French Hotel, Welles and Hitchcock can dance you down a street and up a building, Cameron can give you a tour of the Titanic, Scott can recreate an entire future cityscape, Lucas can give you an alien desert planet, and most other directors can create a sense of space by textbook "close up-mid shot-wide shot" combinations, but Scorsese can't do this. There's no poetry, no sense of tangible space in his films. He's all about the character. You break that tether, you leave that boxing ring, that taxi cab, you look away from De Niro, and everything collapses. He simply cannot break away from this very documentarian style of shooting, which, in a way, is a prerequisite for action film-making.

Scorsese tried to rectify this problem with "Gangs of New York", where the space and the sets become the central character, but even this self consciously spatial experiment gets sabotaged by the magnetism of Daniel Day Lewis, the actor drawing Scorsese's camera inexorably toward him like a moth to a bulb.

5/10 Even as a generic B-movie, this is an ugly, vulgar looking film. Look at the matte paintings, the inept attempts at tension, the silly rotorscoped special effects and hokey fistfight showdown. Still, we have Robert De Niro to pick up the slack. De Niro, who gives his body over to Scorsese like a tattooed Christ, gives the film its only great scene. In an improvised romantic sequence with young a Juliette Lewis, he sticks his thumb into her mouth and kisses her. A kind of symbolic rape, the girl runs away, both aroused and repelled by this man's interest.

But De Niro's performance, so deliciously over the top, simply can't be imitated by Scorsese. You'd need the operatic tone and the baroque visuals of someone like De Palma to make this work. But Scorsese? Nope.

Worth one viewing.

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pos/neg ans: negative

input: My boyfriend and I both enjoyed this film very much. The viewer is swept away from modern life into old Japan, while at the same time exposed to very current themes. The characters are realistic and detailed; it has an unpredictable ending and story, which is very refreshing. The story is made up of mini-plots within the life of several geisha living together in a poor city district. I highly recommend this movie to anyone who is interested in a realistic romance or life in old Japan.

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pos/neg ans: positive

input: Like many people on this site, I saw this movie only once, when it was first televised in 1971. Certain scenes linger in my memory and an overall feeling of disquiet is how I remember being affected by it. I would be fascinated to see it again, if it was ever made available for home video.

Possible spoiler: I wonder if anyone else would agree that the basic plot setup and characters might have been derived from a 1960 British movie, originally titled City of the Dead, retitled Horror Hotel for the American release? There are some similarities also to a later British film The Wicker Man.

One detail remains with me years after seeing the film. It's a small but significant moment near the beginning of the film. As I recall, a minister and his wife have stopped to aid some people by the side of the road, circa 1870, somewhere out West. The friendly seeming Ray Milland introduces himself and his ( daughter?), Yvette Mimieux, a beautiful young mute woman. While the preacher is helping Ray Milland with the wagon, a rattlesnake slithers into view and coils menacingly, unobserved by any of the characters except Yvette Mimieux. She doesn't look scared at all, but stares at the snake with silent concentration, until it goes away. With this strange little moment, we already realize there's something highly unusual about these seemingly normal folks, though the possible danger to the minister and his wife remains vague and uncertain for a long time.

That one little scene stays with me vividly after all these years, along with many others. The film has a haunting quality about it that won't let go, and it's not surprising that people remember it so vividly. Someone ought to make this available for home video!

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pos/neg ans:
positive