A Complete Lack of Direction

Last Action Hero by John McTiernan. I spent an hour outside the Loews Orpheum Theatre VII at Third Avenue and 86th Street in Manhattan the Monday after the film opened, and asked the first 10 people coming out if they knew who had directed the movie. None knew or cared. One man volunteered, "Renny Harlin," then said, "I work in this business and I don't know who directed it. I own six movie theaters. But nobody knows who directs these things."

Actually, Renny Harlin, who directed Die Hard 2, was a pretty good guess, since John McTiernan had directed Die Hard. What's more, Cliffhanger, which Renny Harlin did direct, was playing in the same theater as Last Action Hero. Determined to give McTiernan the benefit of the doubt, I hung around and asked 15 more people, including a half-dozen Chinese-American high school students, if they could identify the director, but they mostly looked at me as if the question were incredibly stupid. Incidentally, most of the people I polled did feel that the film sucked, so in the long run, the lack of a high profile is probably going to work in John McTiernan's favor in terms of his directing career. Result: 0/25.

The Crying Game by Neil Jordan. This artsy affair had gotten lots of attention in New York City, drawing on the huge transvestite audience, and had won tremendous praise for its director. It was playing in a snotty, cigar box theater across from Bloomingdale's in midtown Manhattan, and a lot of the people coming out after seeing it looked like your typical art-house crowd. But none of the 10 people I polled had any idea who directed it. "Michael Jordan," was the closest I came to getting an accurate identification. Result: 0.5/10.

Guilty As Sin. This was the one instance in which even I didn't know who had directed the film I was asking questions about. Because the movie featured an actor who has married Melanie Griffith twice, I naively assumed that the director must be somebody with a name like Nick Castle or Shlomo Gildermeister. So did my polling group. People emerging from the City Cinemas/Cinema I on Third Avenue at 60th Street in the middle of that sweltering afternoon were amazed that anyone could possibly have the chutzpa to ask who had directed a Don Johnson movie, much less a film with Rebecca De Mornay in it. The typical reaction was that of two smarmy yuppies bulging out of wide-lapelled suits, their huge porcine visages adorned by gleaming Ray-Bans. They cracked up when I asked the question.

"Get out of here," said one, good-naturedly.

"What kind of question is that?" guffawed the other.

I didn't find out until I read an article in The New Republic the next day that the director was the revered Sidney Lumet. Jesus, was I embarrassed. Result: 0/10.

Dave. "An Ivan Reitman Film." You know, like, "a film by Federico Fellini." Or Ran, "a film by Akira Kurosawa." Obviously, none of the 10 people I quizzed outside the Loews Columbus Circle theater in Manhattan had any idea who had directed this lame political satire. The closest anyone came to a positive ID was the thin, middle-aged man who said, "I know he's got a Russian name. Is it Ivan or something?"

"That's right," I replied. "It's Ivan..."

"I don't know the last name."

"Lendl?" I volunteered. "Ivan Lendl? Does that sound about right?"

"Yes," he said. The very next afternoon, the aging Czech tennis player got eliminated in the second round at Wimbledon. Result: 0/10.

Sleepless In Seattle by Nora Ephron. Playing at the Loews 84th Street VI at 84th and Broadway in Manhattan. Get real. Result: 0/10.

Posse. "A Mario Van Peebles Film." You know, like "David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia." Or "Dave: An Ivan Reitman film." Given the fact that I was asking people, "Who directed Posse?" while they were standing directly in front of a huge poster reading: "A Mario Van Peebles Film: Posse," you might have expected the results to come out a bit skewed in Mario's favor. But no, only one of my 10 pollees at the Embassy 2, 3, 4 theater at 47th and Broadway in New York City could tell me who'd directed this dimwitted, affirmative-action cowboy flick. Most just shook their heads. A couple of teenagers shrugged. At least one person didn't seem to understand the question. And a belligerent young man of not inconsiderable girth got right into my face and asked, "Who the fuck wants to know?" Well, precisely. Result: 1/10.

Cliffhanger by Renny Harlin. The first nine people I polled outside the Loews Orpheum Theatre VII at Third Avenue and 86th Street seemed to think the question was impertinent. The 10th said: "Renny Harding." Close enough. Result: 0.75/10.

Indecent Proposal by Adrian Lyne. Playing at the Loews 19th Street East VI at 19th and Broadway, not far from Greenwich Village. Yeah, sure. Result: 0/10.

Jurassic Park by Steven Spielberg. This was the one phase of the experiment where the results literally blew me away. I'd turned up at the Cineplex Odeon at Park and 86th Street, where the picture was playing in both theaters, convinced at least 90 percent of the people coming out of the theater would know that Jurassic Park was a Steven Spielberg production. No way. The very first person that I asked, a woman in her twenties, confidently said, "Yeah, I know who directed it. Stephen King."

Stephen King was also the answer supplied by a fiftyish, dorky guy. Five obvious Manhattanite women shot back "Steven Spielberg" without missing a beat, but three young males--one white, one black, one Hispanic--all said they had no idea who directed the film. One corpulent woman checked me out carefully after I said, "Excuse me, but I'm doing a study for Movieline magazine. Could you tell me who directed the movie that you just saw?"

She simply sauntered off, ignoring me, sneering over her shoulder, "That's the best pick-up line I've heard in a long time."

I watched her amble down the street. Then I reflected on what she had just said. I thought about classic pickup lines, such as "Do you come here often?" and "Do those legs go all the way up?" and "Excuse me, but aren't you Demi Moore's sister?" Then I compared these lines to "Excuse me, but I'm doing a study for Movieline magazine. Could you tell me who directed the movie that you just saw?" Then I hollered after her: "If that's the best pickup line you've heard in a long time, you're in big trouble." She kept walking. Result: 5/10.

Menace II Society. Directed by the Hughes brothers or the Hughes cousins or something, and playing at the City Cinema 86th Street East Twin, between Second and Third Avenues in Manhattan. Yeah, right. Result: 0/10.

Howards End by James Ivory. My experience standing outside the tiny Cineplex Odeon on East 59th Street right up the street from trendy Bloomingdale's was a true epiphany. Everyone coming out of the theater knew who had directed the film. Everyone coming out of the theater knew who had produced it. Everyone coming out of the theater thought the question was stupid. The problem was: Everyone consisted of only four people. This made me realize that there is an inverse relationship between the audience's ability to identify the director of a film and the amount of money the movie will probably take in. A movie with 100 percent directorial recognition is almost certainly going to be a movie with Vanessa Redgrave in it somewhere. This is no way to run a railroad. What Hollywood wants, what Hollywood needs, is an infinite stream of movies that absolutely nobody can tell you the director of. Hollywood doesn't want four people coming out of a movie house knowing that James Ivory directed the film and that Ismail Merchant produced it. It wants 2,000 people coming out of a Renny Harlin movie thinking they've just seen a movie by John McTiernan. You know, the guy who directed Die Hard... ? Result: 4/4.

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