Cape Fear (1991) is Scorsese's most under-appreciated film in this author's opinion, hands down. It's almost never venerated like some of the top-tier works in his oeuvre and while that's not a slight by any means, Cape Fear is hardly among his worst.
I, for one, am all praise for De Niro's outstanding portrayal. He inhabits the character emotionally as well as physically to showcase a powerhouse performance that's easily in his all-time top five, in my opinion. Nolte -- who's pretty damn impressive himself -- selflessly allows the more imposing character Max Cady to be in the saddle. You watch The Shawshank Redemption (1994) and you see prisoners come out after completing their sentences as shadows of their former selves, bruised and broken by the prison system. But Max Cady is hardly written as your typical low-life criminal... more like a formidable personification of cataclysmic ideas: A larger-than-life figure who quotes literary texts, solves complex arithmetic problems in his head, charms women whenever the situation demands, and bashes the living daylights out of hired crooks even when he's outnumbered. As the tattoos inscribed on his brawny body read, vengeance is his -- the thirst for divine retribution steering his schlep. Samuel Bowden's judgmental, self-righteous ways have come back to haunt him big time.
Against the backdrop of this terrifying nightmare inflicted upon the Bowdens, Scorsese is saying something about the American Dream and its fragile nature. Things were already less than perfect before Max's unwelcome arrival, but they were surely never going to be the same after his exit. Cady menacingly enters the places they frequent, the home they dwell in, the life they once cherished, and in consequence the dark memories they'll be sweeping under the rug long after his departure (pardon the Semantic Syllepsis). Cady's comfortably sprawled-out frame on the compound wall etched against the blaze of a firecracker-lit July Fourth sky drives the point home with splendor and visual acuity. The tragedy is ultimately young Danielle's -- our narrator of these events -- who's forced to let go of her innocence and embrace womanhood against her will.
Who exactly has the final privilege of judgment? Of course, that's assuming it is a privilege and not a crippling burden. Samuel's decision (a judgment call) to withhold the promiscuity report triggers the prime conflict. Should he be commended for listening to his higher voice of conscience, or should he be proscribed for holier-than-thou dereliction? Cady is 100% correct when he reminds Bowden that a lawyer is supposed to ZEALOUSLY represent his client. Scorsese, rather intelligently, is more interested in posing than answering this question. For a brief moment during the powerfully acted mock trial on the boat, Cady's eyes look directly into the camera while presenting his case, as if we, the viewer, are the Judge and he the plaintiff. The Court of Justice awaits our verdict, even though it won't have any bearing on the characters' fates.
I've never seen the original with Robert Mitchum and so have little idea regarding the sweep of its thematic coverage. But a pall of blinding darkness hangs over Scorsese's version -- there's a genuine horror to uncover in its thematic core. It exhibits filmmaking of a high standard, offers spine-chilling thrills, and launches a realistically disconcerting assault on our frangible repose. In hindsight, Cape Fear was an absolute gem of a thriller.
I, for one, am all praise for De Niro's outstanding portrayal. He inhabits the character emotionally as well as physically to showcase a powerhouse performance that's easily in his all-time top five, in my opinion. Nolte -- who's pretty damn impressive himself -- selflessly allows the more imposing character Max Cady to be in the saddle. You watch The Shawshank Redemption (1994) and you see prisoners come out after completing their sentences as shadows of their former selves, bruised and broken by the prison system. But Max Cady is hardly written as your typical low-life criminal... more like a formidable personification of cataclysmic ideas: A larger-than-life figure who quotes literary texts, solves complex arithmetic problems in his head, charms women whenever the situation demands, and bashes the living daylights out of hired crooks even when he's outnumbered. As the tattoos inscribed on his brawny body read, vengeance is his -- the thirst for divine retribution steering his schlep. Samuel Bowden's judgmental, self-righteous ways have come back to haunt him big time.
Against the backdrop of this terrifying nightmare inflicted upon the Bowdens, Scorsese is saying something about the American Dream and its fragile nature. Things were already less than perfect before Max's unwelcome arrival, but they were surely never going to be the same after his exit. Cady menacingly enters the places they frequent, the home they dwell in, the life they once cherished, and in consequence the dark memories they'll be sweeping under the rug long after his departure (pardon the Semantic Syllepsis). Cady's comfortably sprawled-out frame on the compound wall etched against the blaze of a firecracker-lit July Fourth sky drives the point home with splendor and visual acuity. The tragedy is ultimately young Danielle's -- our narrator of these events -- who's forced to let go of her innocence and embrace womanhood against her will.
Who exactly has the final privilege of judgment? Of course, that's assuming it is a privilege and not a crippling burden. Samuel's decision (a judgment call) to withhold the promiscuity report triggers the prime conflict. Should he be commended for listening to his higher voice of conscience, or should he be proscribed for holier-than-thou dereliction? Cady is 100% correct when he reminds Bowden that a lawyer is supposed to ZEALOUSLY represent his client. Scorsese, rather intelligently, is more interested in posing than answering this question. For a brief moment during the powerfully acted mock trial on the boat, Cady's eyes look directly into the camera while presenting his case, as if we, the viewer, are the Judge and he the plaintiff. The Court of Justice awaits our verdict, even though it won't have any bearing on the characters' fates.
I've never seen the original with Robert Mitchum and so have little idea regarding the sweep of its thematic coverage. But a pall of blinding darkness hangs over Scorsese's version -- there's a genuine horror to uncover in its thematic core. It exhibits filmmaking of a high standard, offers spine-chilling thrills, and launches a realistically disconcerting assault on our frangible repose. In hindsight, Cape Fear was an absolute gem of a thriller.
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