The story is set in 1962 Louisiana. The Batiste family is headed by charming doctor Louis. Though he is married to beautiful Roz, he has a weakness for attractive female patients. One night... See full summary »
Samuel L. Jackson,
Langston Whitfield is a Washington Post journalist. His editor provocatively sends him to South Africa to cover the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings, in which the perpetrators ... See full summary »
Samuel L. Jackson,
Romulus is mentally ill, a troglodyte in a New York City park. He's also a gifted composer and the father of a city cop. On Valentine's Day, a young man freezes in a tree near his cave. The police determine it's the accidental death of someone behaving bizarrely, but Romulus believes a friend of the dead youth who says that noted avant-garde photographer, David Leppenraub, murdered him. Romulus, urged on by hallucinations of his wife as a young woman, resolves to catch the killer and manages to be invited to Leppenraub's farm to play a new composition. Can Romulus hold it together long enough to get to the bottom of the death and also to make a breakthrough with his daughter? Written by
Choreographer Otis Sallid originally tried professional dancers to play the moth-seraphs, but decided to switch to athletes instead, saying they had "the bodies, the mentality and the strength". See more »
In one shot when Bob and Betty toast Romulus in his new suit, Bob's "z-ray" green drink is orange (though this may have been intentional, since it is unclear if the "z-rays" are simply in Romulus's mind). See more »
Don't you watch me! You think you're gonna crawl into my brain and see a show? That what I am? Is that what you think?
What I think, Mr. Ledbetter, is that the temperature is dropping.
I got freezing temperatures all over my brain. And I got legends of angels up there! Like little moths, and they'll beat the hell out of you with their wings!
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For "Billie" 1955-1999 - "love you baby. always have. always will." See more »
Hollywood has a difficult time with mental illness. Typically, delusional characters are shown from the outside, with only the actor's performance to give you a clue about what is going on inside.
This is a challenge that "The Caveman's Valentine" meets head-on. In addition to Samuel L. Jackson's fine portrayal, director Kasi Lemmons actually seeks to bring us into his world and show us the things that he sees. In most movies, this is a recipe for failure. Not here.
Samuel L. Jackson's Romulus Ledbetter is a schizophrenic Julliard-trained pianist who lives in a cave in a New York park. He hears music in his head, and is haunted by visions of "moth-seraphs", whom we see in striking surreal imagery that perhaps too much resembles last year's "The Cell" for its own good, but is effective nonetheless. Ledbetter believes in a sinister force which he calls "Cornelius Gould Stuyvesant" (a combination of the names of three significant figures in New York history), who lives atop the Chrysler Building and controls people's minds with "y-rays" and "z-rays." The scenes involving the unseen Stuyvesant are the movie's most effective. The Chrysler Building, itself a symbol of New York's wealth, towers over exterior shots, and shimmers with malevolent green light as traffic lights flash and Ledbetter looks on with horror. The sequences are mesmerizing.
Jackson's performance, too, is notable. Playing a schizophrenic homeless man seems like an opportunity to play big, ranting speeches, but Jackson plays it more subtly. Ledbetter is not a sugary stereotype or an object of pity. Jackson gives him some bite that often makes him unpleasant, but always believable.
Like the character in "Shine", it is implied that Ledbetter cracked under the pressures of genius, and in order to make it through the movie, he has to face the mind-breaking terror of performing on the piano. In one particularly affecting scene, a lawyer (played to smarmy perfection by Anthony Michael Hall; it's good to see him all grown up) asks Ledbetter to play a piece in exchange for the loan of a suit. Ledbetter plays something (which sounds like Donizetti by way of the "Blade Runner" soundtrack), and we can feel the twitchy stress as Ledbetter's fingers touch the keys. Jackson has made us believe.
There is also a vicious humor in the movie's idea that a delusional psychotic, with just a shave and a good suit, can without too much difficulty schmooze with New York art swells. I don't know if this joke is intentional, but it sure is funny.
So, what's wrong with all this? Unfortunately, "The Caveman's Valentine" takes this great, textured performance and this brilliant visual depiction of the landscape of madness and grafts it on to a clunky "Diagnosis Murder"-style plot. The clumsy story, about a death which Ledbetter becomes convinced has to do with a trendy Mapplethorpe-esque photographer, relies heavily on the three c's: coincidence, contrivance, and cliche. It's got more holes than the back wall of a firing range. In addition, Colm Feore is uninteresting as the photographer ("Wild envy surrounds me," he says at one point;) and makes a far less compelling villain than "Stuyvesant." Ann Magnuson is wasted as the photographer's sister.
Jackson is brilliant. Lemmons' visuals are brilliant. You may never look at the Chrysler Building quite the same way again. Unfortunately, there's an old saying in the military: when you mix good troops with bad, you get mediocre. And so it is with the movies, too.
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