King of New York (1990, Abel Ferrara) (Patreon)

63/100

Second viewing, last seen during its original theatrical release (when it served as my introduction to Ferrara). I can see why it left me mostly indifferent at the time: St. John's drug-war narrative amounts to a series of generic violent confrontations, usually involving several minutes of smack talk followed by someone just pulling a gun and opening fire. Not my thing unless it's done very stylishly indeed, and for a while, this time around, I thought it was all downhill from the opening sequence of Frank White surveying his terrain from the back seat of a limo chauffeuring him home from Rikers Island. Like De Niro and Pacino, Walken has pushed into self-parody as he's aged; his comparatively internalized performance here, all but free of vocal mannerism (though we do get a goofy dance to Schoolly D), is a welcome reminder of what he could once accomplish via stillness. On the other hand, Walken's the wrong actor to convey a crime boss' sincere benevolence toward the downtrodden—Frank's interest in the hospital feels entirely script-driven, and winds up being undermined by subsequent ruthlessness (e.g. taking the woman hostage on the subway and insisting, persuasively, that he'll kill her if necessary). As for Frank's crew...well, let's just say that this cast seems retroactively overqualified for what their scenes demand. Fishburne's having a blast, but you'd never guess that Esposito and Buscemi are destined for greatness—hell, I'm not sure that I even recognized Esposito as the same guy who'd played Buggin' Out just a year earlier. Throw in a group of equally unmemorable macho cops and you've got a movie I'm liable to perceive as lucky to avoid having gone straight to video.

That's more or less how I felt all the way through the Chinatown sequence. Neither bored nor particularly engaged, thinking about the film primarily as a typical relic of its era. Then the last half or so unexpectedly slapped me awake. Ferrara directs holy hell out of the Queensboro Bridge car chase/shootout—as vehicular kineticism in the pelting rain goes, it's perhaps not quite as electrifying as what Gray does in We Own the Night, but I had a very similar "Okay, I did not realize he was capable of that" response. (If there are bravura action scenes in, say, Fear City or Cat Chaser, I wouldn't know, as I haven't yet caught up with those.) And then I'm not sure exactly what switch got flipped, but the intensity thereafter goes off the charts. Jump's showdown with Gilley and Flanigan verges on fucking operatic, to the point where you'd be absolutely certain, were you somehow to watch it out of context and with zero foreknowledge, that David Caruso and Larry Fishburne play the film's lead roles, and that you've just witnessed its finale. Victor Argo's world-weary cop likewise suddenly takes on far more weight, while Frank gets a monologue that makes his ostensible virtues appropriately self-serving (he's like the abusive husband who prides himself on hitting his wife with an open palm rather than with a closed fist), hence credible. Ending's basically a Scarface riff—only a "The World Is Yours" sign is missing, and that promise is embedded in the title anyway—but it's staged by Ferrara in Times Square with riveting implacability, and all the more potent for going with the whimper and not the bang. In short: opens gorgeously, concludes magnificently, kinda marks time for a good long while in-between. I won't forget it this time, though.