One-Time Directors

The Honeymoon Killers

Jack Goes Boating

Hi, hello, how are you, my dear reader? I’m personally a bit frazzled and flustered (but when am I not) as I prepare myself for my first Fantastic Fest this weekend. I love covering film festivals. There are great movies to be seen, great people to be met, and for a brief moment in time, an unemployed mediocre writer such as myself is semi important to filmmakers—at least the ones who want me to review their films for the PR of it all (a symbiotic relationship that I love.) Film festivals, be they Sundance or Southby or something super niche and small, are a celebration of the different cogs in the machine of filmmaking—the kind of celebration that awards shows always promise but never fulfill. So before I embark on my next film festival excursion, I wanted to explore and appreciate some films that were directed by filmmakers who’d never directed anything before—or since. There are countless films that I love, that were created by one-time directors, like horror-actor Charles Loughton’s horror-classic The Night of the Hunter, educational filmmaker Herk Harvey’s only narrative film Carnival of Souls, Yoshifumi Kondo’s Whisper of the Heart, and most recently actress Zoë Kravitz’ directorial debut Blink Twice. There have also been plenty of one-time directors featured on this blog, like actress Drew Barrymore’s Whip It, film editor Walter Murch’s Return to Oz, and Rémy Belavaux/André Bonzel/Benoît Poelvoorde’s Man Bites Dog—all but the latter feel deserving of follow-ups. The one-time director’s club feels as if it should have more members, but it’s more rare of an occurrence than you might think. There are many directors who seem like one-time directors—William Shatner, Nicolas Cage, and Tommy Wisseau, to name a few—but they’ve all directed more than one film, against everyone’s better judgment(s). In another universe where people are given more resources and time, tonight’s films could be mere directorial debuts for these creators, but by virtue of different circumstances, these are the only films these directors ever made. Up first is an enduring one-off film that acclaimed director François Truffaut once heralded as his “favorite American film”, and this is Leornard Kastle’s 1970 film The Honeymoon Killers. I first learned about this film when listening to the first episode of Danielle Henderson and Millie De Chirico’s podcast I Saw What You Did back in 2020, and I’ve been wanting to watch it ever since. After producer Warren Steibel’s disagreements with its previous two directors (one of whom was Martin Scorsese), Leonard Kastle, an opera composer, librettist, and teacher, was asked to direct The Honeymoon Killers. The Honeymoon Killers is a crime thriller based on the real-life Lonely Hearts Killers of the 1940s, a serial-killing couple responsible for the deaths of at least twenty women who were seeking romantic connections through personal ads in the newspaper. The film introduces us to Martha Beck (Shirley Stoler), an exhausted and depressed nurse who cares for her mother in their tiny home in Mobile, Alabama. Martha’s a bit cranky and curvy, but as her friend Bunny (Doris Roberts) says, “You could be sexy with the right man!” Bunny signs a hesitant Martha up for this matchmaking service and pretty soon, Martha becomes matched with a mysterious and debonair gentleman from New York City named Raymond Fernandez (Tony Lo Bianco.) The two correspond via letters for quite awhile before he finally comes to visit, and much to Martha’s surprise, Raymond isn’t just as handsome as his photo, he’s smart, he’s kind, and he even likes her senile mother. Martha has never been swept off her feet like this, and when Ray departs, she is positively despondent, still hearing the latin music Ray played for her in her head. After Martha threatens suicide, Ray invites her to New York, where she sees his apartment, and all of the photos of the other women he’s been talking to. Blindingly, stupidly, dangerously smitten, Martha tells Ray that she doesn’t mind if he’s been dating other women. And when he admits to marrying then robbing these women, Martha wants to get in on the scheme. Ray is a bit bewildered but impressed by Martha’s loyalty, and happily invites her along to his next wedding grift as his “sister”. Martha smiles through Ray’s marriage ceremony to Doris (Ann Harris), his next victim, knowing that her and her lover will be off with this lady’s money the second she turns her back. But Martha quickly and uncomfortably learns that in order to make these heists work, Ray has to really sell that he is in love with these poor, desperate women. These single, often divorced or widowed women are always eager to get into bed with Ray, but to convince them to give up their money requires a bit more convincing. At first, Martha is sloppy, impatient, and a bit rude to her faux sisters-in-law, but after a few fraud marriages and the subsequent leaving of these ladies in a lurch, Ray molds Martha into the ideal crime accomplice. And while it’s difficult for Martha to see these women swoon and sigh after her lover, Ray is constantly assuring her that as soon as they have enough money, they’ll run away and get married themselves. Martha and Ray are certainly an odd couple, but the film strangely never made their love feel totally phony. It could be argued that Ray, of course, never truly loved Martha, but The Honeymoon Killers does the oddly sweet task of making this couple’s attraction feel solid and true. The more women they steal from, the better they seem to get at working together, even when one of these marriages goes awry and the two have to take murderous measures. And while the entire film is tense and torrid, there’s a moment where things really turn pitch black. I’m not totally sure when this shift occurs, but suddenly Leonard Kastle’s directing begins to feel more intentional, and the actor’s performances feel more authentic. The Honeymoon Killers is as lo-fi as they come, with its black and white camera and, frankly, horrendous sound quality, but this only added to the film’s grittiness. It is a supremely dark story, told with a supremely dark sense of humor, in one of the most elegant blends of shock and sincerity that I’ve ever seen from this era of film. Tony Lo Bianco was dashingly handsome and unreasonably charismatic as Ray, and Shirley Stoler was the perfect combination of likable and deplorable as Martha. It is actually so pleasantly surprising to see fat, female representation in this era, and Shirley Stoler’s screen presence brought with it a fun combination of grit and glamour. I mean this with the utmost respect, but Martha is pretty in a rare, John Waters-kind-of-way, and even sounds like a John Waters character when she says to one of the short-term wives, “Not only are you pregnant, you’re disgusting. You’re the hottest bitch I’ve ever seen.” Honestly, werk. When producer Warren Steibel explained the aim of the film, he stated, "We wanted to do an honest movie about murders. These are not charming people. They are sleazy people—but fascinating. You won't come out of the theatre feeling sorry for the killers like in some movies. It is not romanticized." And Martha and Ray are certainly not glamorized, nor is their relationship dynamic aspirational, but there is still an undeniable, infectious chemistry between them. These people, no matter how lost and lonely and misguided, were destined to find each other. And The Honeymoon Killers invites us on a front-seat ride through their tumultuous, ill-fated, but never boring affair. The acts committed in the film could easily be sensationalized in a lurid, Oliver Stone-ish manner, but Kastle’s amateur filmmaking style allows for far more sensitivity and subtlety than one might guess—which only makes its series of unfortunate events seem even more intense and unexpected. When The Honeymoon Killers first begins, I was worried that it would leave me feeling distraught for its complex female lead—as many films that feature fat actresses in lonely roles tend to do—but she’s given enough agency and development and personality that I felt thoroughly conflicted by the time the film ended. Which I actually love. People are a complex species, and The Honeymoon Killers certainly showcased this, as did tonight’s next film—the only movie ever directed by the late, great Philip Seymour Hoffman: Jack Goes Boating. Jack Goes Boating premiered at Sundance in 2010 and is based on Robert Glaudini’s play of the same name, in which three out of the four main leads reprised their role for the film adaptation: Philip Seymour Hoffman plays Jack, John Ortiz plays Jack’s coworker Clyde, and Daphne Rubin-Vega plays plays Clyde’s wife Lucy. Jack is a sweet, shy New York City limo driver, who looks a bit downtrodden when we first meet him. He is employed at his uncle’s limo service company and works alongside the friendly and funny Clyde, who says he wants Jack to meet a girl he knows. Connie (Amy Ryan) works with Clyde’s wife Lucy in what appears to be funeral sales—potentially the most depressing job of all time—and is just as shy and awkward as Jack. Clyde and Lucy host this blind date between mutual friends at their cozy apartment, and awkwardly observe these two middle-aged, middle-of-the-road people struggle to make conversation. Connie’s attempt at chit-chat results in a discussion about her father’s coma and subsequent death, and how the coma nurse wouldn’t stop hitting on her. And all Jack can muster up is, “God”, which is more than I could come up with in response. While there isn’t much instant-chemistry between Jack and Connie, the two form the beginning embers of a spark when they step outside into the snow, and discuss the eventual Summertime, and how they’d like to go boating. Connie very quickly kisses Jack on the cheek before hopping in a cab, and while Summer and the prospect of boating is months away, Jack is over the moon. The only issue is that Jack doesn’t know how to swim, but Clyde is happy to teach Jack the ropes at a local, heated pool in Harlem. The rest of the film is a clunky journey toward connection and love that involves swimming lessons, cooking classes, and the growing rift between matchmakers that is only made more obvious by the blossoming relationship of these unlikely lovers. Jack and Connie’s conversations continue to be depressingly discordant, but they eventually evolve into something sweet and serene. The backdrop of New York City and of Clyde and Lucy’s well-established but fraught relationship, makes for a rather chaotic romantic affair, but this felt appropriate for this film’s tone and, at-times jarring, sense of humor. I only wish we’d been offered more of Jack and Connie’s cute courtship, but sadly Jack Goes Boating spends an equal amount of time detailing the resentments and complications of their good friends’ relationship as well. I got the vibe that this film would be firmly mumblecore from the first Grizzly Bear song it featured, but I’d just hoped that it was the uplifting flavor of nothing-movie, not the sad flavor. I was unfortunately mistaken, as this film persistently tries to squash the hopes of the audience watching as each of these relationships evolve and devolve into something undoubtedly believable but unfortunately unpleasant. I appreciated the way that these characters were written, not to be mere working class archetypes but actually fully-formed people with hopes and dreams and idiosyncrasies and whatever. And I appreciated the fact that despite Lucy and Clyde’s many troubles, they can put their issues aside to help their friends find love. What I didn’t appreciate was the overall sheen of miserable mopey-ness that clouded this film, and any sense of hope that it half-ass instilled. The majority of Jack Goes Boating feels slow, steady, but accurate to the pacing of a budding relationship between two shy and inexperienced people. But the final act felt like a feverish rush to emulate the same frenetic charm that a movie like Crazy, Stupid, Love accomplishes, with an even more unsatisfying ending. And, completely unrelated to any and all of my critiques, Jack Goes Boating confused me the most when it came to Philip Seymour Hoffman’s hair—which, to me, just appeared to be messy and tangled each time he removed his beanie, but in actuality he apparently has dread locks?? Reader, I can assure you that I am a focused, diligent, passionate film-watcher. I watched this movie beginning to end and did not realize that these bizarre twists of hair that PSH had were meant to be dreads. This is something I only learned in my research. And while this is highly irrelevant to my harsh critique of Jack Goes Boating, my lack of awareness of these white-guy-dreads feels like the perfect summation of my frustrations with this movie—if there was magic to be experienced, I simply missed it. Regardless of my annoyances, I thought all of the performances in Jack Goes Boating were stellar—particularly Philip Seymour Hoffman, who, as Simon Hattenstone of The Guardian remarked, refreshingly showed PSH as “a regular dysfunctional guy rather than a freaky dysfunctional guy.” Jack Goes Boating wasn’t the worst sad-guy mumblecore movie I’ve ever seen, but it felt like more of a character study than a story, and it felt more like a play than a film. So I was unsurprised but still annoyed when I learned that this film was indeed originally a play when the credits rolled. I’m not anti-play, I mean I’m a big fan of musicals, but to me, plays are like poems—everyone loves to write them, but I don’t personally care to see them. And it’s not just because I was semi-traumatized by my high school theater’s production of Dog Sees God (a play in which a teenage Charlie Brown has to bury Snoopy and deal with his friend’s various drug addictions—perhaps the one area Euphoria handled better.) You know it’s bad when the most entertaining and energetic film of the night is called The Honeymoon Killers but sometimes that’s the way the cookie crumbles. I’ll always admire Philip Seymour Hoffman as an actor, and I’ll forever be impressed by Leonard Kastle’s The Honeymoon Killers. Both of their respective legacies will live on in all of the many people and films that were clearly inspired by these subjects. Thanks for reading this one-off post about one-time directors, dear reader, and be sure to check back next week—for something s༙྇p༙྇o༙྇o༙྇k༙྇y༙྇ this way comes…