Union City (1980)

The Worst Film Ever

Excellent, Without a doubt!!

Crappy film

Blistering performances.

Several surprises for me in this film. I had never watched it before, rather assuming that it was very much a star vehicle for Deborah Harry. How wrong can you be, she puts in a most solid performance but there is not much star twinkle in this downbeat oddball of a movie. I was also surprised that we did not get, Debbie Harry singing, Union City Blues throughout, maybe this was written later, or considered inappropriate. Biggest surprise of all is just how good the movie is with hardly any 'action' and instead of some big sexy sex scene, a rather sad, lack of sex scene. Runs very much like a low budget independent in a rather 'noir' style and you would be hard put to guess the year, other than from the aforementioned Goddess' presence, of course.

This film was a desperate ode to Film-Noir. Random clichés of a poor 40's thriller were thrown together with no attempt to cover the flaws: poor dialog, misguided acting, poor editing, an amateur synthesizer soundtrack, and a one-note plot that's painfully stretched out and not believable in the first place (corpses rot and smell at room temperature). The actors were simply imitating characters they've seen in old movies. Even the costumes were used incorrectly. For example, men didn't wear their hats indoors. The camera is mostly static and many dialog scenes have jarring editing.This is what a 40's thriller would look like if had been done by a student on a very limited budget and schedule.

Union City was to be the vehicle (many of her fans thought) that would launch Deborah Harry, lead singer of Blondie, into screen superstardom. It didn't happen, though Harry went on to appear in numerous movies. But in Union City, she's kept in drab, dark locks until the very end, and gives a stylized, one-note performance, as though she were in a skit. No doubt that was at the prompting of writer/director Marcus Reichert, who made a rigidly stylized movie that looks almost cartoonish – though today, `like a graphic novel' might be the better phrase.And that isn't exactly a put-down. The achievement of Union City lies in sustaining interest despite the fact that very little, really, happens. It takes place in 1953, in a tired old apartment house across the Hudson from Manhattan (with a couple of excursions to a corner saloon). Accountant Dennis Lipscomb, a master of the paranoid personality style, is obsessed with a milk thief who drinks from the bottle delivered every morning. His feckless wife (Harry) doesn't pay much attention to his irrational rages, and he in turn pays little attention to her, at least where it counts – she's carrying on with the building superintendent (Everett McGill). When Lipscomb finally catches the thief, he accidentally kills him and stows the body in a Murphy bed in a vacant apartment.Most of Union City is a mood piece, with Lipscomb hitting the bottle to drown his guilt and Harry sticking daffodils into her underthings to vent her sexual frustration. The moods are expressed in the movie's distinctive look, with garishly saturated hues glowing through the heavy gloom – and some of that look is echoed in later movies like the Coen Brothers' Blood Simple and The Man Who Wasn't There, in David Lynch's Blue Velvet, even in Warren Beatty's Dick Tracy. But Reichert doesn't just surrender to the atmospherics; at the end, when Harry unveils her bottle-blonde tresses, like Tippi Hedren in Marnie, he delivers a twist (courtesy of Cornell Woolrich, who wrote the original story) that daringly relies on the viewer to fill in. For some reason, the print of this movie released in Canada runs some three minutes longer than the American version. Those three minutes contain a scene in which Harry – like Arlene Dahl in Slightly Scarlet, like Elizabeth Taylor in Butterfield 8 – scrawls on a mirror with lipstick. (Maybe keeping that scene intact would have given Harry the push to stardom she craved.) Union City can be counted a success (though not a popular one), paving the way for a second-phase cycle sometimes called neo-noir.

Wonderful low key film about a husband so obsessed with having a few sips of his milk stolen that he fails to pleasure his beautiful young wife for so long that she does it herself in a wonderfully touching scene. This was the standard artists' claim against the materialism of the 50's in which this story seems to be set. It's typical film student's protest against straight society's misplaced priorities in which the starving artist appears the hero, but is imaginative enough and with the right mix of humanity, suspense, plot twists and lingerie touching to make it pleasant to watch. And the ending is satisfying.The Dolacoids refers to the Nazi theory of racial superiority based on the shape of the skull in which the long headed or dolacoid race is destined to rule. The former Stanford professor Thorsten Veblen, more known for his "Theory of the Leisure Class" -- the groundbreaking analysis of conspicuous consumption, wrote a brilliant satire of Nazi race theory entitled The Rise and Fall of the Dolocoid Race in which he proves that Dolocoids are destined for extinction because they are so concerned with their status and conspicuous consumption that they fail to have time to perform their filial duties, and hence produce no offspring, while the roundheads seem to make that a priority.This movie does a great job of working this theme. And I do mean that the scene in which a beautiful young woman like Blondie, is neglected for the sake of a sip of milk is tragically moving. Boy some guys really know how to screw up.