Mean Streets (1973)

          “I swear to Jesus Christ on the goddamned cross, that kid thinks he’s makin’ a jerkoff outta me, I’m gonna break his leg!” That’s what loan shark Michael (Richard Romanus) hisses at one point in Martin Scorsese’s breakthrough movie, Mean Streets, and the line encompasses nearly everything that distinguishes Mean Streets—indeed, it encompasses nearly everything that defines Scorsese as a kingpin of New York crime cinema. The line blends Catholicism with macho swagger, vulgarity, violence, and the moral code of the Italian-American underworld. All of those themes pervade Mean Streets, which was Scorsese’s first “real” feature after helming the grungy black-and-white indie Who’s That Knocking at My Door? (1967) and the lurid Roger Corman production Boxcar Bertha (1972). With its bravura camerawork, naturalistic performances, and thundering soundtrack, Mean Streetsput Scorsese on the map.

          The picture was also his first collaboration with actor Robert De Niro, because even though the star of Mean Streets is actually Harvey Keitel—who also had the top role in Who’s That Knocking at My Door?—De Niro gives the picture’s most flamboyant performance, and his live-wire energy is the film’s pulse.

          Written by Scorsese and Mardik Martin, the movie tells a simple story about Charlie (Keitel), a low-level mobster whose ascension through the Mafia’s ranks is impeded by the destructive behavior of his best friend, Johnny Boy (De Niro). Arrogant, immature, and impulsive, Johnny Boy flagrantly rips off one loan shark after another, displays contempt for underworld authority figures, and relies on Charlie—whose uncle holds a position of power in the Mafia—to bail him out of trouble whenever things get too intense. Complicating the dynamic between the men is Charlie’s romantic involvement with Johnny Boy’s cousin, Teresa (Amy Robinson). As the movie progresses, Charlie wrestles with his various obligations—to Johnny Boy, to Teresa, to his uncle, and to God (since he’s a devout Catholic), trying and failing to be everything to everyone.

          Mean Streets is a movie of unassailably noble intensions, because Scorsese is after nothing less than defining the soul of a community. By examining various characters who represent different facets of New York mob life, the director ponders the enigma of men who treat each other with honor while stealing from the rest of the world. Furthermore, Scorsese’s camerawork and direction of actors are consistently remarkable. The camera whips and whirls around scenes to accentuate the volatility of situations; the quick editing and imaginative use of pop songs and classical music on the soundtrack gives the movie a unique rhythm; and the performances all feel so naturalistic that many scenes seem as if they were improvised. All of Scorsese’s preternatural gifts are on full display here.

          Unfortunately, so are his weaknesses.

          The depiction of women in the film is outrageously sexist (both by male characters and by Scorsese, who needlessly includes leering nude scenes); the show-offy auteur flourishes, like scoring a fight scene with the peppy Motown song “Please, Mr. Postman,” are fun but distracting; and the constant barrage of “fucks” within dialogue gets tiresome. The biggest shortcoming of Mean Streets, however, is also the film’s key virtue—the fact that the picture is an anthropological study of assholes. Dimensional though they may be, the characters in this film are still inherently awful people, criminals driven by greed, id, and a lack of social conscience. Scorsese captures these people better than anyone else, but the question remains whether low-rent scumbags actually deserve this sort of close attention.

Mean Streets: GROOVY

The Last Waltz (1978)

          The reasons why The Last Waltz has enjoyed adoring praise since its release are myriad. The documentary captures the final performance of the Band, the seminal ’60s/’70s rock group that first caught notice as Bob Dylan’s backup outfit when the folksinger went electric; in addition to being critical darlings for their artistic integrity and rootsy grooves, the Band had the rare grace to step off the public stage before they wore out their welcome. Thus, the movie is not only a compendium of passionate performances, but also a record of musical history. Additionally, the Band invited many of their famous friends to join them onstage, so The Last Waltz features killer numbers by Dylan, Neil Diamond, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, and others. Beyond the stars and the tunes, however, The Last Waltzhas something other ’70s music movies don’t: Martin Scorsese.

          Because the fast-rising auteur was a close friend (and onetime roommate) of the Band’s principal songwriter, Robbie Robertson, Scorsese was a natural choice to oversee the Band’s grandiose vision of a filmed farewell concert. And because Scorsese is among the most musically sensitive filmmakers of his generation, he seized the opportunity by creating an opulent visual atmosphere. Lighting San Francisco’s Winterland Arena like a soundstage (and supplementing concert footage with artsy flourishes shot on an actual soundstage), Scorsese approached The Last Waltz like a feature instead of a straight documentary. Therefore, an overall artistic vision is evident in every scene—Scorsese set out to elevate the feeling of a concert into something mythic, defining his subjects as magical figures emerging from darkness to make joyous noises.

          To realize this elaborate visual scheme, Scorsese enlisted several gifted cinematographers (including Michael Chapman, László Kovács, Hiro Narita, and Vilmos Zsigmond), thus ensuring consistently elegant camerawork. Yet the film also has a personal quality, thanks to unvarnished interviews with Robertson and his bandmates that Scorsese conducted in a Malibu recording studio; one senses the presence of Scorsese the fan and Scorsese the historian, not just Scorsese the artiste. Some have griped that the filmmaker actually put too distinct a stamp onto this movie, placing style over substance, but an argument can be made that Scorsese’s choice to complement the Band’s handmade aesthetic with a sophisticated visual treatment created a dynamic juxtaposition.

          No matter how you regard the presentation, though, it’s hard to argue with the music. Beyond performing their own classic songs (“The Night They Drove Ole Dixie Down,” “Up on Cripple Creek,” “The Weight,” and more), the Band provide thunderous backing for Dylan (“Forever Young”), Young (“Helpless”), and the film’s other guests. From the simple charms of the Band’s ingratiating music to the extravagant flair of Scorsese’s cinematic embellishments, The Last Waltz is filled with rich textures.

The Last Waltz: GROOVY

Woodstock (1970)

          Even though it’s a documentary about the quintessential ’60s event, Woodstock is among the essential movies of the ’70s. As endless historians have noted, the movie captures a moment that had already slipped into history by the time the film was released, since the slaying at a notorious Rolling Stones concert in Altamont effectively snuffed the peace-and-love dream exemplified by ’60s music festivals. The poignant experience of beholding a utopian vision that was destined to remain unrealized lends bittersweet gravitas to Woodstock. However, the movie would have been remarkable under any circumstances. Given tremendous access to the preparation and execution of the Woodstock Music & Art Fair, filmmaker Michael Wadleigh and his crew captured the gradual birth of the so-called “Woodstock Nation.”

          Sprawling over three hours and, thanks to tricky split-screen editing, sometimes sprawling across three different frames, the movie follows an approach that’s simultaneously phantasmagoric and straightforward. Simple scenes, like lyrical vignettes of hippies bathing in ponds, are presented as unvarnished reportage, while the most incendiary music performances, like the Who’s speaker-blasting set, get the full visual-assault treatment. Wadleigh displays remarkable sensitivity toward the material, treating each sequence in just the right way, so viewers can savor the illusion of being at the festival. Plus, by condensing three days into three hours, the movie becomes much more than just a filmed concert—it’s a freewheeling dissertation on the way a generation hoped to change the world for the better. For instance, when promoters finally acknowledge the obvious by starting, “It’s a free concert from now on,” the film cuts to kids pushing down chain-link fences and storming the grassy hills of the festival area. Seeing this moment is like watching flower children topple the divisive us-and-them structures of the Establishment.

          Great personalities populate the movie, from mellow, vest-loving promoter Michael Lang to toothless hippie hero Wavy Gravy, and the unforgettable musical moments are countless. A “scared shitless” Crosby, Stills and Nash playing their first-ever concert. Jimi Hendrix serenading an early-morning crowd with his wailing take on “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Bands like Canned Heat, Santana, and Ten Years After jamming as if their survival depends on finding the right groove. It’s all amazing, and it’s all right there, captured by Wadleigh’s team and assembled by an editing crew that included a young Martin Scorsese. Few documentaries have captured significant historical events as completely and with such an appropriate aesthetic approach. Therefore, as if being the most important rock movie ever made wasn’t enough, Woodstock is also, arguably, the definitive look at ’60s counterculture, in all of its gloriously grubby excess.

Woodstock: OUTTA SIGHT