Author’s Note: This morning, I read that the 2026 Oscars Ceremony, which was held last night, omitted the great character actor Tom Noonan from its In Memoriam segment. I can’t throw stones at the Oscars. When Noonan passed away a few weeks ago, I didn’t say anything about it, either, in part because I had just posted a tribute to the great Robert Duval, who died about the same time. Also, I simply didn’t know enough about Noonan to do a proper post. He only had a few notable film roles, but they were all doozies.
His best was as the serial killer Dollarhyde in Michael Mann’s Manhunter. I am reposting this essay about the film as a kind of (admittedly lame) tribute.
*** SPOILERS BELOW ***
As any old movie buff knows (and many younger ones, too), crime thrillers in 1980s almost constituted their own sub-genre. That is, they had their own special vibe. Slick. Stylish. Erotic. Typically, they boasted good-looking actors with great 80s hair, wearing garish 80s clothes and doing dangerous things. These were exotic and entertaining films, usually set in one of two environments: a dark city landscape (i.e. L.A.) or a gorgeous, sun-drenched beach (i.e. Miami).
And then there was the soundtrack. Synth-heavy, but punctuated with propulsive rock songs from the era—usually something from Genesis or Phil Collins. Take 1984’s Against All Odds, for example, starring Jeff Bridges and Rachel Ward. Collins wrote and sang the theme song for that one, garnering him an Oscar nom. (And, yes, that movie was set against a dark L.A. landscape and a gorgeous beach.)
But my absolute favorite 1980s crime thriller, by far, is a movie almost no one remembers: Michael Mann’s 1986 serial killer flick Manhunter. I saw it when it first came out in 1986, and then saw it again, quickly, before it vanished from the cineplexes forever. In the forty years since, the film has gotten almost no respect, except from a few cinephiles like me. (Quinten Tarantino is a famous booster; he put Manhunter on his list of favorite 1980s films.)
I’ve often wondered why Manhunter is so underappreciated. It probably has something to do with its lame title, which the studio forced Mann for reasons too stupid to discuss here. The original working title was, of course, Red Dragon, taken from the source novel by Thomas Harris. I often think that if the studio had stuck with that title, the film would have been a hit. Another reason is that the brilliant soundtrack, which mostly samples great songs from the era but includes great original music from The Reds, was soon deemed as “dated”. (It has actually come back into fashion thanks to the rise of the Synthwave aesthetic.)
A few days ago, I saw a tweet (yes, damn it, a tweet) pointing out that the iconic song “Feel Good Inc” is now twenty years old. It’s amazing how much that song has permeated popular culture in those two decades. I first heard it in the excellent film The Big Short, where it featured prominently on the soundtrack. It’s one of those songs that, once heard, one never forgets.
However, there are a couple of things people might not know about the electronic band Gorillaz, who, with some help from De La Soul, created the song. First, they are a virtual band, meaning that the members seldom meet in person. Instead, they compose and record via the internet. One could write a whole book on the way the internet has changed music—and many already have—but the rise of virtual bands is a seldom-discussed sub-topic.
Another thing people might not know is that lead singer and founder Damon Albarn is also the mastermind behind the (even older) British band Blur, which blew people’s minds back in the 1990s. This song, especially, was hugely popular and influential. Entitled “Song 2” but almost universally known as the “Woo-Hoo Song,” it came out way back in 1997. And, for a few months, it was all you heard streaming out of people’s car radios (yes, we still had car radios, back then).
A few years ago, I wrote a post called “The Metaphysics of Left and Right (No, Not Politics; the Freakin Directions!),” in which I suggested that our ability to tell left from right, even as young children, and when facing a completely symmetrical landscape like the plane of the ocean, is somehow suggestive of a deeper truth about the nature of consciousness and dualism. As part of this philosophical (and very possibly harebrained) rumination, I explored how difficult it would be to communicate our definitions of left and right to a distant extraterrestrial civilization using only words or very simple pictures. One way, I argued, would be to use the inherent chirality of certain molecules, whose structure our hypothetical E.T. would recognize.
So, you can imagine my delight at discovering that one of my favorite YouTube channels, PBS Space Time, devoted an entire episode to this very subject. As host Matt O’Dowd explains, all biological life displays a mysterious homochirality, or bias toward either left- or right-handedness over the other. All DNA, for example, spirals the same way. Similarly, all sugar and amino acid molecules are not only chiral but unflippable. That is, their mirror images are never found in nature. And when these reversed molecules are deliberately created in a lab, they are biologically useless and, often, highly toxic. Not to mention totally…unnatural.
Even now, in the 21st Century, no one is sure why this handedness in nature exists, although it is theorized that it might be connected to the most fundamental laws of nature—specifically, the asymmetry of the weak force.
I’ve been reading an excellent non-fiction book by Paul Fischer called The Last Kings of Hollywood: Coppola, Lucas, Spielberg—and the Battle for the Soul of American Cinema. It’s very similar to another great book I read recently (and subsequently wrote a post about), Don’t Stop: Why We Still Love Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours,” in that both books document the history of struggling artists—film directors, in the former, and rock stars, in the latter—who hit the Big Time. Inevitably, they each also tell the story of a bohemian sub-culture of the 1970s, when people lived hand-to-mouth in the canyons of Southern California, occupying cheap, hardscrabble houses and doing menial jobs while they developed their artistic skills. They also did a lot of drugs (mostly cocaine, booze, and marijuana) while having lots of sex with multiple partners. Fischer’s book, in particular, tells the great story of aspiring actress Margo Kidder, whose rented, A-frame house was frequented by young film makers, actors, musicians, and other arty-types, all attracted by Kidder’s good-natured wit, excellent cooking, and general hospitality. And by her beauty, of course. As Fischer relates, Kidder once joked that if she had bothered to write a memoir of that halcyon time, she would’ve entitled it I Fucked Everybody.
Such artistic, bohemian scenes are as old as…well, 19th Century Paris, when the term “bohemianism” came into use. Apparently, it first referred to the Romani people of Paris, who lived a nomadic existence doing odd-jobs and performing various services (most legal, some not) for local people. In French, they were called bohémiens, because they were thought (mistakenly) to have migrated to France from the Kingdom of Bohemia. Bohemian soon came to describe anyone who, by choice, lived an unconventional life on the edges of society, doing as they pleased. Often, these were artists (painters, writers, musicians) who refused to pursue a normal career, but it also included the moneyed, free-spirited offspring of rich people, who went “slumming” with those same artists.
As I was reading the Wikipedia page on bohemianism, I discovered that such bohemian subcultures are often examples of a precariat. Precariat (I learned) is a mashup of precarious and proletariat, the latter being Karl Marx’s term for the working class. (“Proles” as they are called in George Orwell’s 1984.) People in a precariat are usually just as poor but also lack even the job security of the traditional industrial class, going from low-paying job to low-paying job, with no guarantee of when they’ll land their next position (or be able to pay the rent).
The term (I also learned) is particularly apt today, being often used to describe our modern world of Uber drivers, digital freelancers, and other non-traditional workers. As I read about all this, I thought of a book I posted about some years ago called Nowtopia: How Pirate Programmers, Outlaw Bicyclists, and Vacant Lot Gardeners Are Inventing the Future Today! by Chris Carlston. Written at the dawn of the so-called gig economy, Carlston describes how, rather than dreading the precariousness of modern capitalism, some people have embraced it. By working temporary gigs, such people—whom Carlson calls Nowtopians—have managed to preserve the time and freedom to pursue their true passions like art, or education, or community service, or whatever. He writes:
What we see in the Nowtopian movement is not a fight for workers emancipation within the capitalist division of labor…. Instead we see people responding to the overwork and emptiness of a bifurcated life that is imposed in the precarious marketplace. They seek emancipation from being merely workers. To a growing minority of people, the endless treadmill of consumerism and overwork is something they are working to escape. Thus, for many people time is more important than money. Access to goods has been the major incentive for compliance with the dictatorship of the economy. But in pockets here and there, the allure of hollow material wealth, and with it the discipline imposed by economic life, is breaking down.
Looking back on these words now, they seem a bit naïve. The longings of a utopian dream. They hardly seem describe our current gig economy, which, instead of new bohemian class, seems little more than a last-ditch means of survival for those who can not find good, decent-paying jobs (with benefits). As wealth and power become more concentrated in the hands of a few (usually male) oligarchs, fewer people have the freedom to do anything, no less pursue art. They’re too busy working, looking for jobs, looking for housing, or generally getting by.
In fact, rather than a utopia, our precariat seems more like the dystopia of which William Gibson foretold in his early, cyberpunk novels. Worlds in which most people on earth are underemployed, rootless, and in constant danger, while a tiny middle-class manages everything for an even tinier upper-class. The heroes of such novels are usually young, smart people who resist in the only way they can—by entering an underworld of artists, hackers, thieves, and gangsters who make their living off the rich.
Does this mean that we, as modern Americans, are headed for a world in which the precariat is, essentially, everyone? I think so, yeah. After all, isn’t that the fantasy of every oligarch—to rule over a vast sea of unpaid serfs with no autonomy to control their own lives? A limitless, self-perpetuating underclass, with no agency to defend themselves from the predatory impulses of the ultra-rich, impulses are, ultimately, sadistic in nature.
Despite a youth in which I read literally hundreds of sci-fi novels, I somehow missed the works of Clifford D. Simak. I would blame the fact that Simak wrote his best books long before I was born, in the Golden Age of Science Fiction, but I managed to read other giants from that period like Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein. No, I think I missed Simak simply because, well, he wasn’t as popular as those guys. In fact, he became known as one of the founders of Pastoral Science Fiction, a sub-genre in which the stories are set in rural or other off-beat settings. (Sounds sexy, huh?)
So, you can imagine my surprise when I read Simaks 1964 novel They Walked Like Men. I stumbled upon the book on my local library’s web site. It was a modern copy (see the excellent 1979 cover below by Jan Esteves), and I figured that if my librarians like it enough to buy an e-book copy, it must be worth a shot. So, I checked it out. And I loved it. It’s one of the strangest, edgiest sci-fi novels I read in a long time. Imagine an alien invasion narrative, set in the early 1960s, in which the major plot point is…real estate.
Sounds funky, right? The protagonist, Parker, is a hard-drinking, noirish newspaper man who stumbles upon a plot by mysterious strangers to buy all the real estate in town. Naturally, the strangers turn out to be aliens whose actual shape is something like a bowling ball, but who can simulate almost any form—kind of like the T-1000 in Terminator 2, with equally gruesome results. Parker makes it his mission to get to the bottom of the murderous aliens’ plan, whose true motive turns out to be even stranger than I suspected.
Honestly, I can’t believe no one has adapted this book into a movie. It reads like The Maltese Falcon meets Twin Peaks meets The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I could someone like Jordan Peele coming in and making this into a really cool, eldritch thriller.
In the meantime, we have the book! Check it out…
Here is the cover from the latest printing, which I also really like…
If there is one song that can instantly evoke memories of the early 1980s, when me and friends stayed up all night watching MTV, it’s this one, “Mexican Radio.” It’s a very strange little song by a very strange little band, Wall of Voodoo, but it perfectly captures the “collapsed-time” vibe of the Reagan era. The suppressed but inescapable feeling that American culture had somehow degraded (“de-evolved,” as the band Devo put it) to a state where it was totally insane, vulgar, and incomprehensible.
The same sort of black humor, satirical zeitgeist was immortalized in film two years later, in 1984, when Alex Cox’s Repo Man came out. That movie’s soundtrack included many fine punk and post-punk bands like Wall of Voodoo—but without Wall of Voodoo. Oh, well. The movie could have given the band some much-needed exposure. They never did get the respect they deserved.
But for a while, they really did shine.
(Fun fact: I always thought the band’s name was a reference to a spell in Dungeons & Dragons, but I was wrong. It was, in fact, inspired by the brilliant madman Phil Spector and his famous Wall of Sound effect on the songs he produced in the 1960s. Go, figure.)
Yesterday I got a three-word text message from my son Connor: Kilgore is dead.
I knew, of course, exactly who he was referring to—Robert Duvall, the great actor who passed away yesterday at the age of 95. More specifically, Connor was calling out one of Duvall’s most memorable characters, that of Lt. Colonel Kilgore, the cheerfully psychopathic Army commander in Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now.
Everyone, it seems, has a favorite Duvall role. For many young dudes these days, it is Kilgore. For others, it’s the soft-spoken but iron-willed Tom Hagen in the Godfather films. For still others, it is the authoritarian Marine dad in The Great Santini, or the fearless Texas Ranger Augustus McCrae. No matter what kind of character he was playing, Duvall’s own, real-life character always shone through: smart, fierce, tough, and comfortable in his own skin.
Being a mega-film-nerd, my definitive Duvall role was that of THX 1138, the titular character in George Lucas’s first film, which is still one of the most daring and visually stunning movies ever made. THX 1138 also marked one of the few films in which Duvall got to play the lead. Most of the time, he was cast in supporting roles, working in the background. Invariably, this allowed him—like Kilgore in his helicopter—to swoop in and steal the movie.
Although he trained with many famous Method actors, he was not generally considered to be one himself. Yet, he could hang with the De Niros, Pacinos, and Hoffmans of the world with seemingly effortless ease. Indeed, as an actor, he could hang with anybody.
For many (White) guys my age, Duvall represented the ideal American man. German/Irish but still cool. Macho but not toxic. Smart but not showy.
And funny. Even in the midst of mass-slaughter, Kilgore is funny. So is Santini. So, in his own way, is THX 1138. One of my favorite, later roles that Duval played is that of the craggy old Marine who helps Tom Cruise in the 2012’s Jack Reacher. With just a few lines of dialogue, and a barely suppressed, ghoulish chuckle, he manages to deliver some of the funny moments in recent cinema.
I finally moved out of my parents’ house when I was twenty-two, when I embarked on a cross-country move to Tucson, Arizona. I had enrolled in an M.F.A. program at the university there, and I arrived knowing not a single, living soul. Once I found a place to live and acquired a U-of-A ID card, I spent my evenings going to the small, student gym in the basement of the football stadium, where I and a few other lonely souls (all dudes) worked out until the lights went off.
I vividly remember my first night at that gym. There were radio speakers in the ceiling tuned to the local F.M. rock station. That night, as it happened to be running an hour-long special devoted entirely to one rock album: Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. The show included a few tracks off the album along with interviews with Lindsey Buckingham, Stevie Nicks, and Christine McVie. (For some reason, Mick Fleetwood and John McVie were left out.)
By this time, Rumours had already achieved legendary status of the sort afforded very few pop-music albums. (Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is perhaps the only other.) Today, many years after that first night in Tucson, the album’s popularity and reputation has not diminished. If anything, it has increased. It’s gone from being a recognized artistic masterpiece to a timeless cultural colossus. As each new generation of music fans and musicians have discovered Rumours, an entire legendarium has been constructed around it.
Entire books have been devoted to the months-long, tortuous period in 1977 when the album was recorded. Two of the band’s members, John and Christine McVie, were in the midst of an ugly divorce. Two other members, Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham, were in the midst of an ugly breakup. And the remaining member, drummer and band leader Mick Fleetwood, was on the verge of breaking up with his famous wife, Jenny Boyd. The five members alternated between screaming obscenities at each other and slipping into effortless, soulful harmonies, all while drinking heavily and vacuuming titanic amounts of cocaine up their collective nose.
At one point late in the process, the album’s producer, Ken Caillat, was horrified to discover that the master recording tapes were literally flaking-out. They had been re-run through the mixing machines so many times that the metal-oxide strip was coming loose from the plastic, threatening to lose all the work he and the band had done. A technician from the manufacturer was flown in to manually transfer the recording onto a new tape before disaster struck.
In short, the fact that Rumours was made at all seems like something of a miracle.
I’ve been saddened by the deaths of many famous people, but only three genuinely depressed me. Like, for a good while. These were Robin Williams, David Bowie, and Dolores O’Riordan.
Everybody remembers the first two, and I would bet that many people shared my crestfallen reaction to those two deaths. But relatively few will recognize the third. Unless, that is, you were alive in the 1990s and listening to alt-rock.
I was in the early stages of a career at the time, writing code for a series of software companies, and I was always amazed at how many macho, tech-bros I met were also huge fans of The Cranberries, the band that O’Riordan joined when she was eighteen years old and soon made famous. The band’s first mega-hit, Linger, is also their best song. It displayed O’Riordan’s unique genius—her amazing, Irish voice, alternating between dreamy-and-angelic to fierce-and-vengeful. And the lyrics! Even as a teenager, she could really write! The song’s tale of a woman who has been deceived by the one she loves is sad but not sentimental. Never weepy. Rather, it surges forward with tremendous power.
But it was this song, Zombie, that proved how powerful the band—and O’Riordan—could hit. It’s a protest song, but like all good protest songs, it works both as a political statement as well as a kick-ass song. Some have called it the definitive grunge-rock song. I don’t know about that, but it’s damned good.
Interesting fact: The music video was partially filmed on the streets of war-ravaged Belfast. The kids (and the soldiers) are real folk, for better or worse.
Ash Clifton, Writer 