I meet Keith outside a rest stop in Indiana. Keith is a truck driver, slumped over and shapeless, wearing XXL sweat pants that clash beneath his paisley. Keith moved down this way “a while ago,” satisfying a mandatory prerequisite for his job. These days, Keith splits his time between the big rig and his God. He sneaks in references to the messiah at every turn, whether discussing the 90-year history of Route 66 or the robust arts community that exists outside of Omaha. We shake hands upon departing, and I offer Keith best wishes. “I leave it all up to the man in charge,” Keith assures me. He is pointing off toward an empty sky, a soiled Band-Aid dangling listless from his arm.

The story of the Flatlands is a story bathed in Christianity – a long-lost tug of war between an America that never was and the capitalist regime it’s since become. Here in the Flatlands there are feuding steeples all but dwarfed by giant crosses, Christian universities located on opposite ends of the same block. There are billboards draped in crimson, plagued with slogans about God and love and Christ and death; bankrupt houses sinking low into the ground. There are burned-out train cars, rusting silos, stripped-down plants that haven’t seen good work in years.

“I come here every evening,” an elderly woman informs me. We are standing in an open field along the northern edge of Cloverdale. “I search the brambles for my Jackie.” Jackie is a house cat. Jackie flew the coop after his lifemate disappeared. It’s been several weeks now since poor Jackie hit the bricks. And yet his owner still comes out here right at sundown, unwilling – or perhaps even unable – to acknowledge the bustling traffic less than 40 yards away.

Bob Hill’s America: General Index

The first day is a day of reminders. Reminders to disconnect appliances, to lock all windows and doors, to double-check for laptop and adaptor, Paxil, toiletries and phone. The first day is a day of refamiliarizing myself with the mechanisms of a motor vehicle, with an FM dial forever rife with songs by Journey, Fleetwood Mac and the Doobie Brothers (everywhere the goddamn Doobie Brothers). The first day is a day of reorienting myself to a normal daylight schedule, to a life out on the road.

I am off now, free and clear, American flags hanging in tatters from the chain-link overpasses above. Painted buses, chutes and ladders, an abandoned factory, a rotting farmhouse … Kittaninny, Tuscarora, FM stations bearing handles like The River and The Peak; Michael Savage down on 103, denouncing the scourge of anti-white racism in America.

I pass a string of pines beyond the watershed, struck down and left for dead along the roadside. It is dusk now, queer and foggy, and I check into a motel southeast of Pittsburgh. I have driven 500 miles. I have another 6,500 left to go.

Bob Hill’s America: General Index

I’ll see you back upon my return.

In the meantime, why not:

• Read a film essay
• Look at pictures
• Check out a half-cooked novel
• Dig into an ongoing nonfiction serial about Wildwood, childhood and life after drinking, or
• Follow IFB on Facebook or Twitter.

Goodbye For Now.

Bob Hill

Errol Morris’s background as a private investigator might explain his unrivaled ability to gain access and answers, to know when to push or pull back, how to dig and where, what to look for, how to supply interviewees with just enough rope to let them hang themselves. Alex Gibney has this ability, to a lesser degree, as does Ken Burns. But they take their cues from Morris, who, in turn, took many cues from Werner Herzog.

Morris’s most recent documentary, The Unknown Known, focuses almost entirely on the labyrinthine Defense record of Donald Rumsfeld, in much the same way Morris’s Fog of War focused on the record of Robert McNamara. While not an overt indictment of Rumsfeld (one could actually make the case this film is a tribute to Rumsfeld’s genius) The Unknown Known does an exceptional job of exposing Rumsfeld’s blind spots. As an interviewee, Rumsfeld shucks and jives, conversationally perjuring himself with all the deftness of a swashbuckler.

The name of Morris’s film is derived from a 2002 press conference. Rumsfeld, while responding to a question about terrorist ties in Iraq, insisted: “There are known knowns. There are things that we know that we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns, the ones we don’t know we don’t know.”

Here we find both the genius and the conundrum – an equivocator so complex he steered a country into war. Morris conducted over 30 hours worth of interviews with Rumsfeld in conjunction with the film, and Rumsfeld – to his credit – breezed his way through every minute. He’s a marvel to behold, like watching an aging champion lace ’em up for one last spar. The Unknown Known is a compelling character study, so rich that while one may or may not come out of with a more sympathetic view, there’s very little risk of coming out of it with no new view at all.

(The Unknown Known opens in limited release this Friday.)

“What happened? How Did Detroit – the most iconic of American cities – become a cadaver?

Detroit’s slide was long and inexorable. You might blame it on white racism and legal mortgage covenants that barred blacks from living anywhere but the most squalid ghettos.

You might blame the city’s collapse on the 1967 riot and the white flight that followed. You might blame it on Coleman Young – the city’s first black mayor – and his culture of corruption and cronyism.

You could blame it on the gas shocks of the seventies, which opened the door to foreign car competition.

You might point to the trade agreements of the Clinton years that allowed American manufacturers to leave the country by the back door. 

You might blame the UAW, which demanded things like near-full pay for idle workers, or the myopic management, who instead of saying no took their piece and simply tacked the cost onto the price of the car.

Then there is the thought that Detroit was simply a boomtown that went bust, a city that began to fall apart the minute Henry Ford began to build it. The car made Detroit and the car unmade Detroit. Detroit was built in some ways to be disposable. The auto industry allowed for sprawl. It allowed a man to escape the smoldering city with its grubby factory and steaming smokestacks.

Detroit actually began its decline in population during the 1950s, precisely the time that Detroit – and the United States – was at its peak. And while Detroit led the nation in per capita income and home ownership, automation and the beginnings of foreign competition were forcing automobile companies like Packard to shutter their doors. That factory closed in 1956 and was left to rot, pulling down the east side, which pulled down the city.

By 1958, 20% of the Detroit workforce was jobless. Not to worry, the city, rich with manufacturing revenue, had its own welfare system – a decade before Johnson’s Great Society. The city provided healthcare, fuel and rent and gave $10 every week to adults for food; $5 to children. Word of the free milk and honey made its way down South and the poor “Negros” and “Hillbillies” flooded in by train. If it wasn’t for them, the city’s population would’ve sunk further than it did. 

Even the downtown train station – the Michigan Central Rail Depot – was ill fated from birth. Three weeks after it opened in 1913, Henry Ford announced the $5 workday, causing the ascension of Detroit and the inevitable bust of the train in America.

People came from Poland, from Ireland and from the sharecroppers’ shacks of Mississippi. The American middle class was born here.

And the Michigan Central Rail Depot has been set upon by vandals. The mahogany bannisters have been looted, as have the copper wiring, the marble walls. In a city full of ghost skyscrapers, the depot is Detroit’s Flying Dutchman, its gravestone, a mocking symbol of its lost greatness. On a clear day, you can see straight over the river to Canada, right through the windowless building.” 

(Excerpted from Detroit: An American Autopsy)

Guy Pearce has reached that age, much like Clive Owen and Jude Law, where the industry has forced him to accept onscreen mortality. What this means, in a larger sense, is that, going forward, Pearce will make more sense as a father figure, the aging rocker, a midlife professional, wrestling his own demons. For leading men, this is an inevitable transition, one that’s infinitely eased by way of acceptance.

Pearce, the one-time star of Memento and co-star of L.A. Confidential, has not only accepted that transition, he’s embraced it. While still open to accepting his equal share of major paydays (Prometheus, Iron Man 3, etc.), Pearce is simultaneously carving out a niche for himself as the middle-aged star of worthwhile indies, the most recent of which is Breathe In.

The story of Breathe In is nothing new – a devoted father, his suburban family, the introduction of an exchange student come to live inside their home. We understand where this is going, and yet it never reeks of earnest. The tension rises slowly, the actors keeps you wanting, and Felicity Jones conveys deep longing through the stillness in her eyes.

Jones, who previously appeared in (Breathe In Director) Drake Doremus’s Like Crazy, remains just as unassuming here. It’s quite a coup, the way the 30-year old demands your adoration despite wreaking havoc on a peaceful home. Guy Pearce proves equally evocative – conflicted-yet-relatable, fucking over both his wife and daughter.

If there’s any weak link throughout Breathe In it would have to be Mackenzie Davis. To be fair, it’s difficult to discern whether Davis, in her portrayal of a melodramatic high school athlete, is turning on the schmaltz intentionally. Either way her role is minor, and the ensemble more than compensates. The chemistry is so palpable that, in the end, Breathe In proves one of the most intimate – and effective – motion pictures that’s been released in the past year … a supreme indication that its Director, Drake Doremus, is on a trajectory to shine.

(Breathe In opens in limited release this Friday.)

In May of 1986, my mother handed me $10, money allotted for to buy a souvenir while on a field trip to New York City. I spent that money on a poster, one I found inside a gift shop high atop of the World Trade. This poster ran 24 x 36, a photographic rendering of Ronald Reagan’s head superimposed on Sylvester Stallone’s body. The President was cradling an M60, bullets draped like cloth across the outside of his wrist. “RONBO,” The poster shouted,  each letter stenciled in blood-red.

As a 12-year old, my connection to that poster had nothing to do with its underlying connotation. At the time “Born In the U.S.A” was still an anthem (three years after its release), Casualties of War and Born on The Fourth of July were looming large in pre-production. There was a prevailing sense that Vietnam had done us dirty, the conflict’s heroes viewed like vagrants, approached with apprehension in America’s small towns.

First Blood – released in 1982 – represented a scathing indictment of that culture, departing as it did from David Morrell’s original 1972 novel. The Rambo of that novel was an unrepentant killing machine, climactically gunned down by Colonel Trautman, his creator. It was this specific difference in the screenplay that caused Kirk Douglas to abandon the role of Trautman, altogether, Richard Crenna stepping in to fill the void with zero notice.

What remained vastly unchanged between the book and the movie was Rambo’s post-traumatic haze, exacerbated by gray bureaucrats who pushed and pulled until they forced him over the edge. This tug-of-war suggested a bold new wrinkle in America’s man-against-the-system genre. First Blood, while not as celebrated as, say, Badlands or The Deer Hunter, remains a great deal more satisfying, particularly because it grips you by the throat, declaring all-out war on hypocritical small-town values. With a running time just over 90 minutes, this film gets in and out at break-neck pace, its protagonist proving sympathetic enough to incapacitate without killing. The location shoots (i.e., British Columbia) look sensational, Goldsmith’s score sounds patriotic, and Sylvester Stallone oozes pure vengeance in his great turn as the lead.

All told, First Blood unleashed some powerful juju, delivered at an opportune time to an unsuspecting audience. The movie made its mark – thanks in part to strong reviews – raking in continued box office well into 1983. The following summer, Bruce Springsteen began appearing just like Rambo while onstage. Four months later, President Reagan co-opted Springsteen – as well as the Vietnam veteran – during a speech in southern Jersey. Two years later, I stood inside a gift shop high atop of the World Trade, purchasing a poster that featured Reagan as the quintessential bureaucrat, his head positioned firmly on the shoulders of another.

(First Blood is available for rental via YouTube, Amazon and various other platforms.)

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David Morse is a Philly guy. He lives 10 miles outside of Philadelphia. He’s appeared in several Philly films, 12 Monkeys and World War Z among them. During the aughts Morse played the lead in a Philadelphia-based series about a retired-cop-turned-taxi-driver who solved crimes out of his cab. All of which explains why it should come as no surprise that Morse accepted the role of a violent, two-faced Philly cop in Josh Waller’s dour film, McCanick.

Detective McCanick is a hypocrite, brimming with self-loathing, harboring a secret so explosive he’d stoop to murder just to keep it. His story starts off gracefully  – a loyal sword breaking the job down for an all-too-buoyant rookie. But McCanick quickly strays from that agenda, spiraling from earnest to unfathomable, leaving Morse’s ample presence with almost no room to maneuver.

As an aside, McCanick represents the final motion picture appearance for deceased star Cory Monteith. Monteith’s role in this film is a surprising turn, one that holds the key to several plot points in a movie not-so-good.

(McCanick opens in limited release today.)

The morning after Meghan’s graduation I awoke to rhythmic pounding shaking stucco off the walls. I was back now, living inside of The Vacationer, forced out of my one-bedroom thanks to summer rental tolls. Beams of sunlight pierced the room at jagged angles, reflecting hard against a clock that blinked at 12 p.m. forever. I staggered limp across the hallway, took a piss inside the bathroom. I drank cold water from the faucet, felt that pounding, “BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.”

I put on jeans and grabbed a T-shirt. I wandered barefoot down the hall.

“Fire Inspector,” a man in uniform informed me. “I need to know if you’ve been living on these premises.”

My next-door neighbor stood along the sidewalk, leaning his chin against a broom.

“On these premises?” I asked the Inspector.

“On these grounds,” he fired back.

A pair of firemen filed past me, threw bright lights along the hall.

“No extinguisher,” the first one shouted. “Goddamn death trap,” the second one confirmed.

The inspector pulled his clipboard, slapped a sticker on the door.

“WARNING,” the neon sticker bellowed. “This property’s been inspected and conditions have been found which are unsafe and unsanitary and which are in violation of the NEW JERSEY HOUSING CODE. It shall be unlawful for this property to be occupied until repairs required by the NEW JERSEY HOUSING CODE as being necessary to again render this property as fit for human habitation have been made in a satisfactory manner and approved in writing by the DIRECTOR OF THE OFFICES OF CODE.”

The Inspector took my name down, wrote “dark hair” across a form.

He tipped his cap and said, “I’m sorry,” called his men and closed the door.

***

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