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Dancing Souls

Dancing Souls (photo)

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Envy me, because Werner Herzog’s “The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans” is more fun to write about than it is to watch, and it is barrel-of-monkeys fun to watch. Everything about it is wrong, so wrong that categorizing it that way is meaningless, but wrong nonetheless, down to its title (that awkward “the” on the film’s opening title card, that anachronistic and irrelevant “port of call,” the subtitle itself, erroneously suggesting sequel-hood, etc.).

Of course, the film has no relation to the 1992 Abel Ferrara film, except it involves a police detective who is “bad,” insofar as he dopes, gambles and isn’t very effective as a cop. In the first film, the character’s self-immolation was an existential passion; here it’s… I don’t know what it is. Herzog was brought on as a director-for-hire (which is very wrong, in the grand cultural scheme of things), after screenwriter William Finkelstein (“Doogie Howser,” “NYPD Blue”) was enlisted to sorta, kinda, remake Ferrara’s film, the producers’ initial intention. Star Nicolas Cage decided it would take place in New Orleans because he likes the city. One head-shaker after another. One imagines that by the time Val Kilmer was signed on for a worthless supporting straight-man part, the whole project was a giant rolling snowball of wrongness, headed inexorably toward us.

Oh, but if only movies were tidy little jigsaw puzzles, the assembly of which is either complete or not, rather than, sometimes, messy, impulsive, psyche-eating juggernauts within which visionaries, imps and opportunists have a unstable chemical romance and burn the place to the ground. Herzog’s long and great career, after all, can be seen as one long timeline of deliberate and horrifying accident-making, and so in that sense, if few others, “Bad Lieutenant” is quintessentially Herzogian. It’s the first time in the man’s fictional films we’ve smelt the singed carbon of self-parody, or at least tongue-in-cheekness, but in Werner’s world, the film itself can be scanned as another absurd, grotesque pageant, like the procession in “Even Dwarfs Started Small,” or Bokassa’s gold-plated ceremonies in “Echoes of a Somber Empire.”

Amid the chicanery — which only begins with an impulsive leap into Katrina floodwaters, and crests, perhaps, in the hallucinated presence of fat iguanas at the scene of a stakeout — there’s the brittle skeleton of a standard TV police procedural plotline, tracking down drug-cartel killers, by way of interrogations and evidence-hunting. Forget it, because although Herzog couldn’t quite, he obviously sighed with relief whenever he concocted a means to detour away from Finkelstein’s script (the iguanas, snapping at the camera to the tune of bluesman Sonny Terry’s “Old Lost John,” as Cage glares at them from the background, serve such a purpose).

The remaining 75% of the movie is comprised of the pas de deux between Cage and Herzog, as the two try almost anything that pops into their heads. Cage’s Terence McDonagh begins with a back injury, which nets him a Vicodin habit, which quickly graduates to crack and smack — hilariously, this heavy load of recreationals does not represent a “Leaving Las Vegas” death wish, but is merely a comically spiraling addiction scenario, fueled by itself, not by primal angst. (“I did what I thought was coke,” he explains woozily to hooker girlfriend Eva Mendes, “but it was heroin and I have to be at work in an hour.”)

McDonagh isn’t terribly irate about anything, and he doesn’t spend much time loathing himself — he’s just a dolt, a sloppy cop more worried about his access to his department’s property room and its stashes of powder (a great running gag) than his job or, really, anyone else’s well-being. Herzog never before seemed to be a filmmaker interested in the drama of addiction and recovery, and here he’s not either: he’s just letting Cage’s mayhem play out like any natural force run amok, as if the Hollywood filmmaking machine and the ego fireworks of one of the world’s most bankable stars is a warped spectacle on the level of the dancing chicken in “Stroszek.”

11182009_BadLieutenant5.jpgBut even that doesn’t “work” — we know how to watch a high-wire, no-rules actory tear. Cage is strangely subdued most of the time, and never approaches the incendiary lunacy of his earlier peak moments, in “Vampire’s Kiss,” “Peggy Sue Got Married” or “Wild at Heart.” Have so many stolid action movies tamped down his pilot light? Beyond an early conniption in a pharmacy, and a slew of late scenes in which crack reduces him to a yowling mess, McDonagh manages to keep his behavior under check, despite eventually lurching around with a rather Karloffian glower when having a hard time finding a fix, speaking as if he has a mouthful of bad dentures built from soft wax. For insurance, the film is stocked with other Industry eccentrics and inebriates, from Kilmer to Fairuza Balk, Michael Shannon, Brad Dourif and Jennifer Coolidge, and the vague conjunctions with David Lynch’s filmography seem organic and inevitable. (Lynch produced Herzog’s next film, “My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done,” with several members of “Bad Lieutenant”‘s cast.)

Herzog has never been deft at comedy, and has rarely tried, and so this film has the ramshackle air of one made in an experimental spree, strapping a camera to a crocodile for a roadside P.O.V. (this after a lovely tableau of crushed croc roadkill, a blood trail and a car wreck), letting Cage frame out his scenes as if he were a stand-up comic imitating Klaus Kinski in Herzog’s “Nosferatu the Vampyre,” envisioning a drug thug’s post-shootout “soul” breakdancing, and so, crazily, on. In the most trivial ways, “Bad Lieutenant” is an anemic shadow of Ferrara’s knucklebuster, but for the most part, it is an animal apart, bristling with a set of conflicting and half-baked agendas, and as spellbinding as a Ferris wheel coming off its pylons.


Final Countdown

The Best Of The Last

Portlandia Goes Out With A Bang

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The end is near. In mere days Portlandia wraps up its final season, and oh what a season it’s been. Lucky for you, you can watch the entire season right now right here and on the IFC app, including this free episode courtesy of Subaru.

But now, let’s take a moment to look back at some of the new classics Fred and Carrie have so thoughtfully bestowed upon us. (We’ll be looking back through tear-blurred eyes, but you do you.)

Couples Dinner

It’s not that being single sucks, it’s that you suck if you’re single.

Cancel it!

A sketch for anyone who has cancelled more appointments than they’ve kept. Which is everyone.

Forgotten America

This one’s a “Serial” killer…everything both right and wrong about true crime podcasts.

Wedding Planners

The only bad wedding is a boring wedding.

Disaster Hut

It’s only the end of the world if your doomsday kit doesn’t include rosé.

Catch up on Portlandia’s final episodes on demand and at


Rev Up

Your Portlandia Personality Test

The New Portlandia Webseries Is Going Your Way

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Carrie and Fred understand that although we have so much in common, we’re each so beautifully unique and different. To help us navigate those differences, Portlandia has found an easy and honest way to embrace our special selves in the form of a progressive new traffic system: a specific lane for every kind of driver. It’s all in honor of the show’s 8th and final season, and it’s all presented by Subaru.

Ready to find out who you really are? Match your personality to a lane and hop on the expressway to self-understanding.

Lane 10: Trucks Piled With Junk

Your junk is falling out of your trunk. Shake a tail light, people — this lane is for you.

Lane 33: Twins

You’re like a Gemini, but waaaay more pedestrian. Maybe you and a friend just wear the same outfits a lot. Who cares, it’s just twinning enough to make you feel special.

Lane 27: Broken Windows

Bad luck follows you around and everyone knows it. Your proverbial seat is always damp from proverbial rain. Is this the universe telling you to swallow your pride? Yes.

Lane 69: Filthy Cars

You’re all about convenience. Getting your car washed while you drive is a no-brainer.

Lane 43: Newly Divorced Singles

It’s been a while since you’ve driven alone, and you don’t know the rules of the road anymore. What’s too fast? What’s too slow? Are you sending the right signals? Don’t worry, the breakdown lane is nearby if you need it.

Still can’t find a lane to match your personality? Check out all the videos here. And see the final season of Portlandia this spring on IFC.


Give Back

Last-Minute Holiday Gift Guide

Hits from the '80s are on repeat all Christmas Eve and Day on IFC.

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GIFs via Giphy, Photos via The Everett Collection

It’s the final countdown to Christmas and thanks to IFC’s movie marathon all Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, you can revel in classic ’80s films AND find inspiration for your last-minute gifts. Here are our recommendations, if you need a head start:

Musical Instrument

Great analog entertainment substitute when you refuse to give your kid the Nintendo Switch they’ve been drooling over.

Breakfast In Bed

Any significant other or child would appreciate these Uncle Buck-approved flapjacks. Just make sure you’re not stuck on clean up duty.

Cocktail Supplies

You’ll need them to get through the holidays.

Dance Lessons

So you can learn to shake-shake-shake (unless you know ghosts willing to lend a hand).

Comfy Clothes

With all the holiday meals, there may be some…embigenning.

Get even more great inspiration all Christmas Eve and Day on IFC, and remember…