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"Taras Bulba" is undoubtedly one of the ten or
twenty greatest Yul Brynner movies ever made, and I'll thumb wrestle Roger
Ebert and Gene Siskel at the same time if they contend otherwise.
Mr. Brynner was fresh from his swaggering triumph in "The King & I" as the singing, dancing,
slave-whipping King Mongkut of Siam. "Etcetera, etcetera,
etcetera" -- has anybody ever said it better? I still get tingles. All
right, I love Chow Yun Fat too, and his remake was OK, but I prefer him in sunglasses with a gun in his hand killing more Hong Kong gumbahs than you can count. Plus Chow didn't sing! And he's not Siamese, he's
Chinese, a totally different Oriental. Case closed.
One last thing I have to mention: I love to "whistle a happy tune
whenever I feel afraid." Throw away your self-help books and Zoloft,
people. Go rent a shopping cartful of Yul Brynner movies: conflicted Ramses
Jr. in "The Ten Commandments" trying to figure out the right
thing to do with Charlie Heston and his stubborn Jews; JoJo Gunn
blazing away for defenseless peons in "The Magnificent Seven;" crazy Maggot sniffing his fingers in "The Dirty Dozen";
and, of course in his Oscar-winning role, the saint-like Gandhi shuffling across India in his
loincloth and granny glasses. You could study these works for the rest of
your life, and never plumb their depths. He's his own Talmud.
Yul is simply the greatest bald-headed actor of our or any time.
As "Taras Bulba" opens we survey the vast Ukrainian steppe.
(Actually, due to cold war tensions, the vast Argentine Pampas; the missile
"crisis" had put Khrushchev's nose out of joint.) A simple sod
hut with smoke curling out of its smoke hole; the wailing cry of a newborn.
Suddenly the hide door-flap is pushed aside and out strides a man
magnificent in his pride and power, with his red, wet, wrinkly, screaming
heir in his arms. He walks past the dungpile heaped against the hut to the ice-covered Dnieper river, breaks a hole with
his boot heel, plunges his son in, then raises him up, shrieking
("Fuck that's cold!"), to make a powerful speech about what it
means to be a Zaporozhian Cossack! I don't remember the exact words because I saw the
movie like thirty-five years ago on Million Dollar Movie, and it's not
available through Netflix. Some shit-stuffed suit at
TurnerWarnerAOLTimeLife needs to get his head out of his ass. Wake up! We
want this on DVD now, with all the trimmings. Director's cut.
Note to publisher: if owned by TWATL, please go ahead and denigrate an
appropriate substitute. Enjoy yourself; this has nothing to do with my own
integrity as a writer. In fact, I can't think of anything that does.
The Cossacks were a superb, fierce, free, horse-riding people, ruled only by their passion for pillage and that weird, knee-kicking squat-dance they do. Historically, they lived between the Tsars of Russia, the Kings of
Poland and the Khans of the Crimean Tartars. In fact, prior to the
invention of fluoride, Cossacks were the most effect Tartar control agent
available. Oh boy, I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. And believe me, it wasn't easy
figuring out how to squeeze it in. Anyway, the Tartars play no role in this
movie.
Taras Bulba is Hetman of the 16th century Zap Cossacks (I'm pretty sure
"hetman" is a misspelling of "headman," the Cossacks
weren't Rhodes Scholars) and right from the start you peg him for a kind
of hard-ass father. Fair, but hard: strong, taciturn, obstinate, even
grumpy. In fact, it would be nice to see Yul in a different kind of role
sometime: softer, more vulnerable, maybe a battered "wife" in a
gay relationship, his tear-streaked face framed by a saucy head rag, or
perhaps goofy, shambling Charly in "Flowers for Algernon" (a lot
of Oscars grow in that fecund soil), or even a small juicy bit in one of
those fat Klump Family movies that Eddie Murphy makes. Spread his wings a
little.
Mr. Brynner is not totally bald in this one, he's got a scalplock -- a ponytail type thingee -- hanging
off the crown of his otherwise distinctive and legendary pate -- really
gives him an authentic Cossack look, especially when he swings it back and forth like the Breck-shampoo girl. I don't know how the hairpiece was attached -- I
don't remember any clip like on Steve Martin's clip-on ponytail in
"Bowfinger". Did Yul glue it to his glabrous scalp? Computer-aided design?
Here's where a "Making of the Movie" DVD segment would really
prove its worth. Sometimes Mr. Bulba wears one of those woolly, conical
Russian hats when it's particularly chilly outside. (You know, you lose
97.3% of your body heat through an uncovered head, especially if it's as bald as Yul's or mine.)
Guess who the son turns out to be? This is genius. Tony Curtis!
Isn't that just the icing on the eskimo pie? Who doesn't light up when
unexpectedly finding Tony in a movie about Ferdinand's Conquistadors (mano
y mano with Montezuma on the ramparts of Tenochtitlan), in a 17th century
Bantu Kingdom (in blackface, climbing with big smile out the belly flap of
a disemboweled elephant), or among Genghis' slaughter-happy Mongols
(carrying the inevitable pole with the furry tails hanging on it)?
Exceeding expectations once more, Tony decides to turn his back on his birthright as
an ass-kicking Cossack. First of all, he's got a heavy-duty Bronx accent. Furthermore,
he wants to dream his dreams, wear a beret, hang a Gauloise off his lip, drink espresso,
blow some blues on his klezmer, scribble poetry in his journal, plumb his
own infinite depths. (Infinite? Trust me, kiddo, I've been there: more like
toenail deep.) He doesn't want to play galloping buzkashi with a goat
carcass all day long; he wants to go to college, read Rod McKuen in
the original, dance all night at CBGB's.
Taras has a look on his face like he's been kicked in the head by a
Clydesdale.
Yeah, you got it, it's one those father is a steelworker/coalminer,
what's-good-for-the-goose-is-good-for-the-gander, but Junior
wants-to-dance-ballet movies. Still, it's very well done and the historical
details are exquisite. Mom, Mrs. Bulba, backs up Jr. and off he goes to Cracow
University, much to Dad's enduring disgust. Yul tosses his scalplock and gallops off --
maybe to another pogrom, swing his scimitar and lose himself in his work for a couple days.
In his "Deconstructing the Massive, Gloomy Russian Novel of Future Centuries" class, Tony meets a feisty, beautiful blonde, the Polish Princess Magda
Pilsudski. They circle each other warily like dingoes over a kangaroo
carcass, undressing each other with their eyes. (You know, just once,
I'd like to feel someone undressing me with their eyes, preferably
female and/or under 400 pounds. If anything, when I go to the nude beach I
can feel dozens of eyes dressing me in a frenzy, as if I was a naked
Elephant Man doll. On the other hand, I've added some nice things to my
wardrobe this way.)
Meanwhile, in the real world, relations between the Poles and the Cossacks
are going through a rough patch. Cossacks love freedom, rape and babyback
ribs; Polish nobility love exploited serfs, feudalism and Mrs. Vilviatchi's
cabbage rolls. I guess the Tartars were quiescent for the time being --
maybe it was Ramadan. Bulba and a particularly nasty, haughty piece of work
of a Cracow prince get together to hash things out. They argue vehemently
about what goes into a piroshki and someone cuts off someone else's hand. I
know this is disappointing, but I just can't put my finger on who loses the
hand, might be Bulba, could be the Prince. I'm pretty sure it's not Tony,
because he lost a hand in "The Vikings," and I'm positive he
wouldn't want himself to be typecast that way. (What next, "Captain
Hook?" A "Best Years of Our Lives" remake?) In my mind's
eye, I see Magda with both hands all the way to the end of the movie.
Somebody loses a hand, ok?
Yul goes to war -- don't piss off the Cossacks, they're tetchy -- and
besieges Cracow with an immense army of magnificently mustachioed horsemen.
Lots of panoramas of whooping, singing, galloping Cossacks in a strong bid
for a cinematography Oscar.
Cracow becomes infested with the plague -- more rats than "Willard": bodies
tossed on carts, buboes, runaway psoriasis, smoke in the streets, very authentic, you find
yourself scratching your scalp and armpits. I remember a scene with Tony
and Ms. Pilsudski -- in a castle basement-type place -- Dad sent the
lovebirds down to get another case of Yoohoo, or Tony's been chained to a
wet, slimy wall because he's an enemy alien. It doesn't really matter. Lots
of rats, squeak, squeak, squeak.
Tony agrees to lead the Cracow brigade in an attempt to break the siege --
he's eighteen and insane with lust. Magda is always pressing her ripe
Polish body against his, then as soon as he gets heated up, breaks away and
talks about how they go to different churches, their parents don't get
along, his folks cook over horse dung fires... Oh, but how she loves him
wildly (body press and grind, rub rub, hot panting breath, a lashing ear
tonguing). Jr. can barely stand up straight with blue-balls, would do anything
for a little relief, thinks "maybe if I break the siege, I can move to
second base, then steal third, hope for a bunt and slide home."
Off he rides, in shining breastplate, through the sally port at the head of
a glorious troop of cavalry. In the thick of fighting, father and son meet
and stare at each other. They each must do what they must do, but oh the
anguish beneath the armor and hide, neither wanted things to come to this.
The whole movie is an exceedingly rich metaphor, and as searingly pertinent
to our lives today as when it was made forty years ago. I won't say a
single word more because I don't want to give anything away -- I hate those
reviews, which tell you everything that happens.
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