“One thing that perhaps helped me get over being a misfit – a school misfit – was that I became interested in photography at about the same time; around 12 or 13. Now I think that if you get involved in any kind of problem-solving in-depth – almost anything – it’s surprisingly similar to problem-solving [in terms of] anything. I started out by just getting a camera and learning how to take pictures and learning how to print pictures, then learning how to build a dark room and learning how to do all the technical things, and so on and so on. And then finally trying to find out how you could sell pictures and, y’know, would it be possible to be a professional photographer? And it was a case of, say, over a period of, say, 13 to 17 you might say, going through step by step by myself – without anybody really helping me – the problem-solving [aspects] of being a photographer. And I found that, I think – in looking back – that this particular thing about problem-solving is something that schools generally don’t teach you. And that if you can develop a kind of generalized approach to problem-solving, that it’s surprising how it helps you in anything. And that most of the deficiencies that you see around you in people that you don’t think particularly are doing their job right or something, it’s really that, I mean, assuming that they care – y’know, a lot of people appear to care, or may actually care – if they’re still not going about things completely the right way, when you think about it, I generally find it’s just that they don’t have a good generalized approach to problem-solving. They’re not thorough. They don’t consider all of the possibilities. They don’t prepare themselves with the right information, and so forth. So I think that photography, though it seemed like a hobby – and ultimately led to a professional job – might have been more valuable than doing the proper things in school.”

The opening line of Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska – both the album and the song – declares: “I saw her standin’ on her front lawn/Just a twirlin’ her baton/Me and her went for a ride, sir/And 10 innocent people died.” That is a direct homage to Terrence Malick’s Badlands – the classic drama that forever changed the way Hollywood portrays its cops and robbers.

Badlands addresses the ’60s counterculture given the bleak benefit of hindsight. Rather than go wide – adapting his taut screenplay into epic – Malick set his sites on Dustbowl America. And in so doing he achieves a sense of voyeurism, if not a brilliant satire on the nature of celebrity, itself.

Badlands is equal parts Manson and Starkweather, with a shot of Easy Rider in between. What’s more, it came along during a time when Terrence Malick still had something left to prove – long before the ornery director would abandon linear construction altogether; long before a lot of A-list talent would openly disparage him in the press.

Right time. Right place. Right vehicle. That’s Badlands.

There was, of course, the prudent casting of Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek – most notably the wide-eyed Sheen, caught square in the deep throes of his big moment. In the 40 years since, Sheen has never, ever come off better – not in Apocalypse, not in Gandhi, and almost certainly not in Bobby. Sheen’s performance via Badlands plays like a thesis in restraint. His character appears as both lover and lothario; a beautiful loser wrought with magnetism and grace.

From a screenplay perspective, Malick sneaks in tidy references to modern gadgetry along the way – the early Dictaphone, the Videograph, and (most impressively) the Stereocticon. He incorporates a soundtrack featuring “Gassenhauer” (later used as the basis for Hans Zimmer’s score from True Romance), “Love is Strange” (later used in Dirty Dancing), and Nat King Cole’s “A Blossom Fell”. And, then, of course, Malick draws us in via that astonishing sequence on the lawn – (i.e., “I saw her standin’ on her front lawn/Just a twirlin’ her baton …” ).

Springsteen’s Nebraska, while representing the most overt of mainstream references, is also very far from the only work to pay homage. You can find unique aspects of Malick’s film sprinkled throughout Natural Born Killers, The Outsiders, and (perhaps most notably) A Perfect World. You can find Badlands tucked inside the nuance of Spring Breakers and The Wire. And – assuming you’ve got a stringent eye for such matters – you can more than likely find Badlands simmering just beneath the murky surface of Aurora, if not Columbine, Newtown, and Angelus Oaks, California (among others). Now 40 long years down the line, Badlands is still a haunting reminder of just how far ahead Terrence Malick really was, and just how much he has since fallen behind.

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One can only imagine what type of lather Jimmy Franco might be working himself into right this moment, what with the prospect of a good Franco versus bad Franco Franco weekend at the theater. So yin. So yang. So Franco. So what?

Here’s what: James Franco provides a pretty awesome turn via his role in Spring Breakers. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that Franco puts 10x as much into this role as he did The Great and Powerful. And yet, Franco only represents one tiny fraction of the whole. You’ve got mad ballers, shot callers, and a real-life troupe of Mouseketeers. You’ve got hedonism and capitalism, both masquerading as evangelicalism. You’ve got degradation and exploitation; you’ve got free lunches set in mousetraps. You’ve got paradise and innocence, both of them disappearing in the muck. You’ve got a fast-humming screenplay, spinning by in a blur. You’ve got sex and death and love and fear, each of them sucking you down until you just can’t see the light. And – assuming you’re Annapurna Pictures or Harmony Korine – you sure as shit have got yourself one hell of a cult classic.

Spring break. Spring break. Spring break, forever.

Now that’s the way we OGs like it.

(Spring Breakers opens in limited release today in New York and Los Angeles, with a national rollout to follow.)

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It was more than 30 years ago when now-accomplished photogs Brian Rose and Edward Fausty began to document the Lower East. This was a time when New York City still retained its sense of grit; when Greenwich Village was still struggling to move ahead without forgetting. To experience that East Side today is to feel your Village heart laid low. It is the story of a disappearance, if not a slow migration. In that spirit, Time & Space presents the New York that we talk about when we talk about New York. The beauty of this exhibition being Brian Rose set out again a few short years ago, this time to document the same East Side a full three decades now removed. If anything, these photos serve as a reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same. But they also leave a sense of setting out again at twilight, if not the very awkward feeling it’s much later than you know.

(Time & Space runs through April 9th at the Dillon Gallery in Chelsea, Free, 555 W. 25th Street.)

Five More For the Offing:

• Asia Week: A Celebration of Asian Art @ various different galleries and outlets across New York City (Free, 3/15-3/23)
• Fashion + Street by William Klein @ The Howard Greenberg Gallery (Free, through 3/23, 41 E. 57th Street, Suite 1406)
• In Search of True Painting by Matisse @ The Metropolitan Museum of Art (Free with suggested donation, through 3/17, 5th Avenue at 83rd Street).
• Paper Like Skin by Zarina Hashmi @ The Guggenheim (Free with admission, through 4/21, 5th Avenue at 89th Street.)
• Sinister Pop by various artists @ The Whitney Museum ($18, through 3/31, 945 Madison Avenue at 75th Street)

Little Danny Lutz is pushing 50 now. And yet the one-time boy from Amity still cops to hearing voices. Ask him frankly what these voices represent and he’ll tell you it’s possession. Ask any other rational adult the same question, and he or she might just say that it’s a shame. And therein lies the reason My Amityville Horror feels so altogether creepy – it’s a case of arrested development masquerading as deep science.

Is it entertaining? Sure. Right up until the moment that you realize what you’re watching. Is it compelling? Well, only in so much that it exploits a grown man’s illness. If anything, My Amityville eeks by because it exposes Nixon-era occultists for the kooks they always were.

For a while there, you tend to believe that’s just the point – that 26-year old director Eric Walter is simply handing these nuts ample slack to fashion their own noose. But it doesn’t take long before you realize Walter’s making no effort to counterbalance all their claims – chief among them the idea that spooky demons live inside us. And – as such – it really doesn’t matter how effectively Mr. Walter employs light and shadow; how often he insists upon conducting interviews with faded clippings strewn about. It doesn’t matter that he pulls in tight to create a sense of intimacy; or that he pulls in fast to create a sense of emphasis … because in the end all Eric Walter is really complicit in accomplishing here is the perpetuation of an illness that has haunted the same man for well over 30 years now.

That man – or manchild – is 47-year old Danny Lutz – one of three ill-fated children who moved into a house along Amityville back in December of ’75. These days, Mr. Lutz fancies himself a bit of a hard case – still imprisoned by false notions set in motion during childhood. The majority of what Lutz passes off as supernatural could just as easily be attributed to fact (e.g., some window dropping on the young boy’s fingers; random cold spots in the kitchen; a priest coming over to bless the house, etc.). And yet, it isn’t until Danny Lutz really sets to spinning yarns full-bore that one should offer him a wider berth. For it is at this point – amidst fast talk of flying beds and hanging dogs – that Danny Lutz begins to lose it (i.e., flailing arms, constant blinking, running roughshod over facts, etc.).

And this … this is where the shame – if not the sham – of My Amityville Horror takes its toll. Because the thing is, whatever that is (or was) Mr. Lutz reportedly went through, it is more than likely not a case of the incarnate. I mean, I suppose it’s entirely possible that Danny Lutz might know exactly what he’s doing. But the more likely explanation is that all those ghosts and goblins spinning madly in his head? They represent the only coping mechanism a scared young boy has ever known. To tear down those 10-foot walls without warning might be to reduce a grown man’s world to little more than smoke and rubble.

From a filmmaker’s perspective, My Amityville rides a thin line between curiosity and exploitation. While I’m sure Eric Walter would insist that it’s on the level, it certainly does not appear that way. In fact, it feels a whole lot more like the equivalent of someone driving up to Martha’s Vineyard just to hear worthwhile tell of the great white. Walter is manipulating most of the footage here, which is fine, because raw footage has no conscience set to speak of. But he’s also dredging up some really arcane bullshit – the kind that ultimately served to tear a young family apart. I mean, sure, one might argue all is fair in love and movies. But in this case, I’m fairly sure that I’d have to disagree. For in this case, one might walk out having realized Danny Lutz just spent the first half of his life just trying to exorcise one movie, and now he’ll spend the next half just trying to exorcise another.

And, meanwhile, you just paid to watch it happen.

(My Amityville Horror opens in limited release at the IFC Center in New York City this Friday, 3/15, with a staggered national rollout to follow.)

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It’s a funny thing about the 00s, in that they have such short expectancy. And yet every little thing surrounding them just keeps right-on evolving. All six of the leading men who’ve portrayed 007 are still very much alive. Meanwhile, James Bond’s legacy, which seemed so stunningly anemic just a few short years ago, is suddenly rejuvenated (thanks in large part to the Skyfall). And so here now, in that spirit, IFB presents a ranking of all six Bonds – past and present – in terms of each actor’s relevance, if not his ability to put a new stamp on the franchise.

1. Sean Connery. Connery represented the epitome of suave, and – as such – his Bond was both a chauvinist and a lothario. Yet he somehow managed to bring class to the role. Sean Connery had that brogue, if not the bone structure and chest hair to go with it. But he also carried himself with unprecedented poise. You could see it in the way he’d shoot his cuffs or light a smoke. Whatever “it” was, Sean Connery most definitely had it. In fact, one might even argue that there wouldn’t be a Bond had it not been for Mr. Connery. Rumor has it United Artists wanted Cary Grant cast in the role, but Albert Broccoli kept steering them toward the Scot (Keep in mind, Grant was not only an American, he was also only willing to agree to a one-picture deal). Connery may very well have proven himself a ripe and mangy bastard, but he cast a looming shadow that has yet to disappear.

2. Daniel Craig.  All anyone needs to know about Daniel Craig’s portrayal of 007 is this: The guy has only appeared in three James Bond pictures to date, and two of them are among the top five Bond films of all-time. Daniel Craig represents the reinvention of 007 as a callous blunt-force object. Granted, he’s been the beneficiary of great writing. But great writing has also been the beneficiary of him. For it is Craig’s Bond, perhaps more so than any other, that underscores the vast importance of simply playing it as it lays. Over the past five years, Daniel Craig has transformed the MI agent into a stone-cold killer with steel jowls. What’s more, Craig’s got those stunning, deep-set eyes … the kind that might very well have rendered him a pretty boy, had it not been for that scowl.

3. Roger Moore. Roger Moore’s tenure began auspiciously, as producers could not agree on whether to cast him. And who could blame them, really? Studio execs had just been taken for a ride thanks to Connery, not to mention the whole mess with Mr. Lazenby between. There was pressure now …. mounting pressure to find a permanent replacement. It was a make-or-break moment, not only for said actor, but for all of James Bond’s financiers as well. Choose the wrong man, and critics might say it was all just Sean Connery. Choose the right man, and you breathe new life into Bond’s gills. To that end, Roger Moore represented a more refined 007, if not a chivalrous step down. And yet, Moore not only proved himself completely worthy of the mantle, he also exorcised the ample specter of Mr. Connery in the process.

4. Pierce Brosnan. An unfortunate pattern had emerged by the time Mr. Brosnan came along – a good-Bond-bad-Bond scenario via which filmmakers had gone from Connery to Lazenby, then Lazenby to Moore; from Roger Moore to Timothy Dalton, and then from Dalton onto Brosnan. History was on Brosnan’s side. But it had nearly six long years to put James Bond back on the screen. To his credit, Pierce Brosnan was able to reinvigorate the Bond mystique. He was not only good, but exceptional as 007, despite never reaching the elite heights of Mr. Connery or Craig. Brosnan was, is, and always will be the one and only Clinton-era 007 – for better or for worse, a stunning reflection of said values.

5. Timothy Dalton. Dalton was a Shakespearean actor by trade, a lifelong student of the theater who more than likely should have stayed there. He brought very little to the role in terms of breaking hallowed ground. Timothy Dalton was a place-keeper, so to speak, slotted in at the last moment when Mr. Brosnan couldn’t wrangle free from Remington Steele. Dalton’s was a stunningly bland era, marred by regrettable one-liners and mediocre press reviews. He would almost assuredly land square at the bottom of the barrel, had it not been for a virtual unknown by the name of …     

6. George Lazenby. “This never happened to the other fella.” No, no, it sure didn’t, Mr. Lazenby. While scriptwriters might have assumed this throwaway line little more than an homage, long-time aficionados came to view it as a vote of middling confidence. From day one, Mr. Lazenby – the small-time wannabe who literally forced his way onto the lot – was resigned to becoming little more than a brief footnote in Bond’s symphony. The good news is modern die-hards now regard George with a modicum of respect. As a result, the man’s become a major hit on conference circuits, raking in some worthwhile cash along the way. Lazenby was neither the first Bond, nor the best Bond. Instead, he was just a Bond, which – while infinitely more tragic – is obviously good enough for government work.     

The Italian version of Black Sabbath was released as something called I Tre Volti Della Paura, which – literally translated – means The Three Faces of Fear. True to form, Mario Bava’s triple-feature presents three separate works of horror, each of which maintains some eery similarity to the others. All three involve the undead (at least in the American version), all three involve revenge, and all three are highly indicative of the Hitchcockian belief that a slow-ticking suitcase will almost always trump the exploding bomb.

The American Black Sabbath swaps the order of the Italian original, placing the two most similar features back-to-back. This creates an odd mirror effect, allowing the audience to pick up on various cues (i.e., two films, two single women who live alone in a small apartment, both of whom are interrupted by an unexpected phone call, both of whom eventually find themselves struggling just to make it through the night, both of whom have good reason to fear retribution from the dead).

In terms of modern cinema, most of the mechanisms Bava uses in Black Sabbath have since been rendered antiquated, if not wholly obsolete. You’ve got tumbleweed and nickelodeon filters; you’ve got weak dialogue (e.g., “It’s as if she’d been frightened to death!”) set along some creepy discourse (“What’s the matter with you, woman? Can I not fondle my own grandson?”). And yet, this is precisely the type of thing that happens to all great cinema over time. This is how cliches become cliches, for lack of any better way of putting it. Time – and time alone – is enough to reduce even the best ideas into suey.

Despite that, Black Sabbath has managed to find its own freak niche over the years, thanks in large part to Ozzy Osbourne, Quentin Tarantino, and the Coen Brothers (among others). The film is certainly an odd, if-not-fascinating detour for anyone who has interest in such things. In fact, it may even be of interest to casual fans of Boris Karloff (This despite the fact Karloff looks and sounds more like an aging Vonnegut in this film).

Beyond that, the problem is not so much that Black Sabbath wasn’t a decent horror film in its heyday as it is that people have just kind of gotten beyond that whole thing (i.e., the creature-double-feature, etc.). To convince an average viewer to sit still for 95 minutes while watching aging cinema like this would be to convince him or her that there was literally nothing else on TV, which may very well be true, but doesn’t make persuasion any easier.

(Black Sabbath is currently streaming via Netflix.)

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“In 1947, Anita Summers, the mother of my long-time mentor Larry Summers was hired as an economist by the Standard Oil Company. When she accepted the job, her new boss said to her, ‘I am so glad to have you. I figure I am getting the same brains for less money.’ Her reaction to this was to feel flattered. It was a huge compliment to be told she had the same brains as a man. It would have been unthinkable for her to ask for equal compensation. We feel even more grateful when we compare our lives to those of other women around the world. There are still countries that deny women basic civil rights. Worldwide, about 4.4 million women and girls are trapped in the sex trade. In places like Afghanistan and Sudan, girls receive little or no education, wives are treated as the property of their husbands, and women who are raped are routinely cast out of their homes for disgracing their families. Some rape victims are even sent to jail for committing a “moral crime” … The blunt truth is that men still run the world. Of the 195 independent countries of the world, only 17 are led by women. Women hold just 20% of seats in parliaments globally. In the United States, where we pride ourselves on liberty and justice for all, the gender division of leadership roles is not much better. Women became 50% of the college graduates in the United States in the early 1980s. Since then, women have slowly and steadily advanced, earning more and more of the college degrees, taking more of the entry-level jobs, and entering more fields previously dominated by men. Despite these gains, the percentage of women at the top of corporate America has barely budged over the past decade. A meager 21 of the Fortune 500 CEOs are women. Women hold about 14% of executive officer positions, 17% of board seats, and constitute 18% of our elected congressional officials. The gap is even worse for women of color, who hold just 4% of top corporate jobs, 3% of board seats, and 5% of congressional seats. While women continue to outpace men in educational achievement, we have ceased making real progress at the top of any industry. This means when it comes to making the decisions that most affect our world, women’s voices are not heard equally. Progress remains equally sluggish when it comes to compensation. In 1970, women were paid 59 cents for every dollar their male counterparts made. By 2010, women had protested, fought, and worked their butts off to raise that compensation to 77 cents for every dollar men made. As activist Marlo Thomas wryly joked on Equal Pay Day 2011, “Forty years and 18 cents. A dozen eggs have gone up 10 times that amount.”

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