Once upon a time, there was a child actor. He was a legend by the time he was six. He held his own with major stars and stole scenes from the legendary scene stealers he was working with. His show topped the ratings scale and entire episodes were written to spotlight his precocious talents. Freckles and a greeting card grin, skyhigh cowlicks in his Howdy Doody hair, and the cutest little child's delivery you'd ever wanna hear.
Who knew he would grow up to be a world-class director and spokesman for the Baseball Cap Wearers of America?
If Ron Howard goes completely bald, he might very well become the next Cecil B. DeMille. To start in the directing game, he churned out a Roger Corman hot wheels epic, a box-office bonanza in the Deep South drive-in market. Those of us who remember Grand Theft Auto remember thinking, "Damn, Opie. Andy never taught you to drive like that!" (Okay, maybe the Fonz showed him a thing or two in those demolition derby episodes of "Happy Days." You know. The ones with Pinky Tuscadero?) Those teens-on-tires films were as much simple formula as lunch at a day-care center, but they were movies all the same. And, slowly, his hairline began to recede.
From there, he drove bigtime into the "industry" with Night Shift, giving the world a cool-less Henry Winkler and a new absurd comedy star named Michael Keaton.
He followed it with the romantic-comedy smash hit, Splash! It made Tom Hanks into a household name, and showed Daryl Hannah's nekkid butt, a plus for any film. It followed a pretty specific formula, sure, but it had a twist or two to keep it interesting, and it made a ton of money. More success followed with them alien-lovin' old folks and Cocoon. Acclaim rolled in. And, slowly, Ronnie lost more hair.
Fantasy films called, and Ronnie answered with Willow. It had its obvious nods to George Lucas, and more than a few subtle reminders of a dozen other movies, but it was pretty respectable for what it was, and it gave a lot of midgets work, which is always admirable. But it set a stage for the next step in the evolution. And, sadly, the last of the top hair faded away into the sweatband of his cap.
He snuck into the world critics called "legitimate films." The public was frightened. "Opie," they said, "it's a big mean world in there. Go back where you belong." Opie didn't listen. Thank the Lord for selective hearing. Ronnie's now sporting a Sean Connery do, the dignified horseshoe of hair wrapped around his melon, and he's making tough-as-nails movies. He held his own with the best when he put together a team of notoriously difficult to work with actors, turned them into firemen, and made heroes in Backdraft. He even managed to make Fire a cast member, an active contributor to the suspense and drama, the worst sort of "bad guy."
Ron traveled on to lose a few coins with Far and Away and The Paper, sure, but, the high-gloss, big-star nature of the projects eased him out of "movies" and into "cinema". He hit bullseye with Apollo 13, fighting the forces of gravity, shooting film in 70-second bursts, and prying suspense out of a well-known history lesson.
So, what does he do next? He takes the man that hipchecked him out of the Best Picture Oscar, casts him in a remake of a Glenn Ford movie, and turns out the tightest thriller to come out of Hollywood in a bushel of years.
The filming surely cost Howard a few more follicles. Blizzards in the Big Apple stopped production more than once. The much-hyped Oscar duel between Apollo 13 and Braveheart added a dose of distraction to the set. Mel Gibson blew a cog in his gut and wound up in the E.R. with an emergency appendectomy. But nothing would stop receding Ronnie on his quest for perfection. He pressed on, and he made a near-'bout perfect movie.
Everything seems to work in Ransom. Mel Gibson and Rene Russo play the parents of a kidnapped child. Their worry, anger, and frustration are a constant undercurrent that drives the pace to a fevered pitch. Russo is a little hindered by the stereotypical "frantic mother" character, but it's Gibson who seems to grow an inch taller in every scene. He dominates through word and deed, and this is, indeed, his movie. To Howard's credit, though, this film never becomes Mad Max Takes Manhattan, contrary to many Hollywood whispers during the filming. Instead, it is a case study of a successful man driven to drastic means.
A major reason this thing clicks is due to the casting of the bad guys. Gary Sinise, lovably hateful in Forrest Gump and incredibly Do-Right in Apollo 13, becomes a perfect King Creepy. I truly believe that if Hell had a vice-president, it'd be Gary Sinise. His voice drips with menace, and there's something about the way he smiles that could peel the paint off the ceiling of the Sistene Chapel.
If there's one flaw in this whole thing, it's the last ten minutes or so, where, in lieu of spilling the outcome, I'll tell you that Ron dove overboard with the directing and editing. Too many jumpcuts, too many narrowing eye closeups, too many things happening that don't need to happen. I guess, in the scheme of things, you want to keep everything tense -- but not at the expense of ruining the moment. By suddenly becoming "Ron Howard DI-REC-TOR" instead of "Ron Howard, director", our balding auteur gets in his own way. He went a little snip-happy in the edit suite, and the film suffers a bit for it.
All in all, I still think Ron Howard is a crackerjack filmmaker. He's smart as an engineer, has a storyteller's sensibility, and surrounds himself with the best cast and crew in the business. And he's to be congratulated again for his supporting casting, (always above par) in this case, Lili Taylor, one of the most underappreciated actresses working today. He made a genuine four-star film here, just a shade this side of perfection.
Maybe, when his head goes total Kojak, he'll get to absolute perfection, and he'll get the Oscar he's in line for. Listen, if Laverne De Fazio can get nominated, then Richie Cunningham will win one. Count on it.
Copyrighted image courtesy of Touchstone Pictures.
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in for observation