Greatest Movie Opening Sequences: John Frankenheimer's Grand Prix

It is an article of faith, universally accepted in OnceWereBachelor circles, that Steve McQueen is an icon, perhaps Icon Number One. He is one of few real people whom, as the old saw goes, men want to be and women want to be with. So it may be blasphemy not to select his legendary racing movie Le Mans for veneration in this series. But I have mentioned Mr. McQueen here and here, so I think my opinion of the man is a matter of record.

Le Mans, in fact, is a great movie and perhaps iconic in its own right. The fact that it even exists is testament to the Icon's sheer will. McQueen envisioned it as an artifice-free depiction of the great endurance race, and in watching it one can see that, despite studio involvement, the movie largely delivers that. Very little drama, very much racing - real racing. McQueen's personality, persona, and devotion to the motorsports must have been turned up to eleven, to overcome the Suits who were concerned about the marketability of such a film; one which was really an unadorned depiction of a 24 hour race going round and round, and in which its principal bankable star would do his own driving at race speeds.

So, despite not being blessed with the Greatest Movie Opening Sequence in a Movie About Racing, I present to you, the opening sequence of Le Mans, in which Icon Number One wordlessly tours the early morning roads of France in a 911T of pristine condition and provenance, prior to doing actual battle with hated Ferrari in a Porsche 917 in Gulf livery.

We now move on to the actual subject of this post, Grand Prix, starring James Garner and Eva Marie Saint, and directed by All-Timer, John Frankenheimer. This sequence is the Greatest because it is everything about the event and almost nothing about the man. It captures the details of pre-race preparation, the sliding throttle bodies, the wrenching, the vintage helmets, the roaring engines. And the goggles (we all know how much I love goggles). The lore is that Frankenheimer labored to develop a technique that would portray cars racing in a way never before seen, and I think he's succeeded. It doesn't have the mythology of Le Mans, especially as history passes judgment, but as a technical achievement in its own right, it may be more exciting, more entertaining, more complete a movie. And so, Frankenheimer serves up a better movie of lesser legend, one which begins here in Monaco, and wends its way through Formula 1 Europe circa 1966, stopping at such locales as the Belgian GP circuit, Brands Hatch, and - most dramatically - through the deadly banked turn at Monza.

And this post would not be complete, I think without a goat. And that goat is Sly Stallone and Reny Harlin's Driven, about some palooka named Joe Tanto brought back to the sport to mentor a young buck named Jimmy Bly in IndyCar racing. I would describe this as the racing movie analogue to the stripper flick Showgirls. Actually, the movie does a fair to middling job of referencing the other two movies here, but that's about as good as it gets and arguably its more rip-off than homage. So here, coming in DFL*, is its trailer, wherein much of the car racing is computer generated. Ick.

* In racing parlance, dead f**king last.

Strong Bodies Fight That Weak Bodies May Be Nourished

I watched My Fighting Irish keep step with the hated Trojans for 59 minutes and 59 seconds of regulation football time, only to see them run out of it in the last moments. They came up a touchdown short, and really it wasn't as close as the score makes it sound, but in the last quarter they sure cozied up to the possibility of an upset win. It was heartbreaking, in a way, but also a triumph. Going in the Trojans were top-five and the Irish were top-nothing.

But if beating USC is the only bright side to the University of Notre Dame, then it would be mighty dark indeed. In fact, if ND football were the only bright side, then it's fairly dim these days. So luckily there's still lots about Notre Dame to be proud of. One of the most fantastic stories out of Notre Dame are the Bengal Bouts. Intramural boxing in which all proceeds from the tournament go to a Holy Cross mission in Bangladesh. It's been going on since the middle of last century, and it is quite a tradition.

Walk around campus on any day and you'll see these determined young men wearing 'Notre Dame Boxing" sweatshirts. You'd think their feet don't touch the ground. These are serious, focused gentlemen who quietly go about their sememsters, probably keeping above-average GPAs to keep themselves on the teams, training intensely in the gym, learning the sweet science, usually for the first time. The Bengal Bouts are their only destination, and their hope is to advance each night to make it to the finals. Now I've seen some bad amateur boxing and this ain't it. In fact, the Bengal Bouts is a ferocious flurry of leather, for very little glory to the participants save the bruises and the sweatshirt. The beneficiaries are the weak bodies in Bangladesh.

What I Wore Twenty Five Years Ago

A long time ago, in my I Didn’t Know As Much As I Thought I Did days I was a punk rock skateboard kid of the second generation (the first generation being the wiggy hippies from the seventies, and the third being today’s mind-blowing kids with no fear). Most days, I could be found listening to the Adolescents on my Sony Walkman kitted out in skatepunk attire. That would be: plaid shorts and white Hanes t-shirts, which I hand-decorated in black indelible ink with the genre’s logos and bands. Black and white and plaid all over was my leitmotif. Without fail, I was shod in Converse Chuck Taylor hi-tops in a range of colors, from classic black or white to maroon or turquoise (hey it was the Eighties). Those were great shoes, and still are. In fact, I currently have a pair in conservative navy blue. Still goes well with everything casual that I wear, from jeans, cargo shorts, or khakis. I’m eyeing classic whites for my next.

The skateboard and hi-tops marriage is a venerable one, because of the support provided to the ankle. There were my Chucks, for sure, but others wore other basketball shoes including the original Air Jordans, and others still wore the first industry-made skateboarding shoe, Vans. I myself thought Vans were a bit “on the nose” and obvious, but I’ve got a pair now, for irony’s sake.

That’s Natas Kaupas from Venice, CA, sporting a pair of unidentifiable basketball shoes. His performance on a skateboard pretty much convinced me to give it up and helped me admit to myself that I was only ever really faking it all those years.

Insane

wingsuit base jumping from Ali on Vimeo.

This is apropos of absolutely nothing that this blog is about. But it is frigging insane, and ultimately, I think that's what everything in life is about. There's a quote from one of these nuts in the video where he basically says "we just started trying to fly as close to the cliffs as possible because just jumping, by itself, was getting boring." Can you imagine fatiguing your nerve endings to the point that the only stimulus it can detect is flying past a craggy wall at sixty unprotected.

The Big Kahuna

There is a whole host of surfing on film (and video) out there. This one's not the first. But it is the Best. Robert August and Mike Hynson at Cape St. Francis, South Africa. No "dude". No tongue studs. Not even earings. No tribal tats. Just a couple of clean cut All-American boys travelling the world in seersucker jackets, skinny ties, & flat-front chinos.

Go Irish

I read an article long ago that derided that within the first five minutes of meeting one, you will promptly learn that he is (a) a United States Marine or (b) a graduate of the University of Notre Dame. That observation was meant as an insult, so as much as possible, I try to refrain from identifying myself as a Notre Dame alum for at least the first 6 minutes of a new acquaintance. It's been three months and 21 posts and I haven't said anything, but I will now take this opportunity to point out the following:

1. It's college football season, and
2. Unlike the last two years, the Fighting Irish seem to be making a go of it, with a current record of 3-1.

Now I'm not predicting any national championships anytime soon. Touchdown Jesus only knows if they'll ever return to their days as a legitimate contender like they were back when Lou Holtz and I were there, counting every fleet yard Rocket Ismail crossed, or every lineman Chris Zorich reduced to a weeping ninny. But I can savor wins over Michigan, Stanford, Purdue, and San Diego State. No, as much as I'd love to see Notre Dame upset the USC Trojans, I don't see a repeat this season of the Irish upset of then #1 Florida State back in 1993.

I know that, like the New York Yankees, the Fighting Irish can trigger hatred from non-fans. In fact, as many fans as there are, it's probably even more fashionable to root against the Irish than for them. Let's face it, it's just not cool to root for anyone but the Underdog. And with Knute Rockne, the Gipper, Joe Montana, the NBC broadcast contract into perpetuity, and the whole College Football Tradition Thing, the Irish are anything but. Winning record or not, Notre Dame will always be the epitome of the Overdog. But I can tell you that, as uncool as it may be, I am proud to always root for the Fighting Irish, win or lose.

I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down

OK, so as any OnceWereBachelor knows, Marriage and Fatherhood, take its toll. You get old and you get busy. You can't log hours in the gym, on the road, or (in my case) in the outrigger canoe quite like you did in your twenties, without hurting yourself both mind and body. One must exercise efficiently. I've turned to two things. The first is Bikram's yoga (the hot room yoga) which is a hell I'll save for another post (it's enough for you to know at this point that it is hell).

The second is stand-up paddle surfing, which can be heaven, once you get the hang of it. Here's some guys who have.



And then there's me. I just bought a board last week (a hard to get Blane Chambers 10'3"), and although I've logged many hours surfing and even more paddling. Neither completely prepares you for stand-up, which is touted as an excellent core and conditioning workout. I'm supposed to experience weight loss and the rock hard abs I never had when I was young enough to both paddle and drink competitively. Right now, though, all I do is float around and fall down.

Which brings me to this great Elvis Costello cover of the old Stax single I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down.



The upshot of all of this, I guess, is care for yourself so that you can have the longevity to see yourself get into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, even after coming into the game as a stone outcast.