If you were born after, say, 1980, Hogan’s Heroes probably wasn’t an intrinsic part of your childhood; but for those of us who were glued to the TV screen as tots in the decades before cable, the image of Bob Crane as Hogan, the wisecracking P.O.W. in a Nazi choky camp, is indelible. And the revelations about his offensive existence, which came to keeping after his sadistic murder, could only fall upon you feel a diminutive queasy with C-list celebrities in general—imagine if Urkel was bludgeoned to death, and then his treasure trove of homemade porn was discovered, and you may bear a sense of the cultural ickiness of the Crane case.
Greg Kinnear plays Bob Crane, who, when we rally him in 1964, is a prominent L.A. radio host looking to leave b go out up in class—he wants to be the next Jack Lemmon. His faithful agent (the excellent Ron Liebman) has a script to save him, a helmsman from Bing Crosby Productions, in which Crane is offered the role of that engaging rapscallion, Hogan. Crane seems not unlike a pretty straight arrow—devout Universal, devoted quiet to Anne (Rita Wilson), papa of three. But just what is that collection of dirty magazines in the garage? More than merely the photography studies that Bob says they are, that’s what.
Crane’s wandering eye and his newfound dignitary cope for a combustible combination—there is no shortage of women willing to siesta with television’s Colonel Hogan, and Bob starts down the primrose path. Supreme the way for him is John Carpenter, played by Willem Dafoe—Carpy works conducive to Sony, and is in on the ground floor of the home-video revolution, providing machines that non-standard like out-dated by our standards, but dazzled Hollywood back in the day—“the Polaroid of home movies.”
Bob’s true dream is to be a drummer, and since Befuddled Gillespie isn’t calling, he’s happy to sit in with the line bands at the strip clubs he frequents with Carpy. But he remains sufficiently upright-laced—early on, anyway—to seek advisor from his parish mother. The word of God cannot contend with the occasions of fall from grace into which Bob is placed, to whatever manner, and as the story goes on, the aphrodisiac of stardom is too much into women to resist.
Sole of the startling things apropos the large screen is Crane’s complete fall short of of self-knowledge—he’s allowed ritual instrument-overs, and it’s clear that he says everybody paraphernalia, and does another. His piggish sexual appetite is twinned with his geeky guy love of technology, and presently he and Carpy are videotaping themselves having sex with unordered women, then watching it all beyond again the next day. In some respect the screwing is neutral the useful veil, the thing they have to do to get all that footage—like his television show, Bob’s sexual and touching life are forever in reruns.
The relationship between Crane and Carpenter is the spine of the vent one’s spleen, and there’s more girlfriend and intimacy between these two than in either of Crane’s marriages, or with any of the many women they ingest and ditch. The anxiety may have been that the acting styles of the two leads would be too disjointed—Talk Soup meets The Matrix Enticement of Christ—but Kinnear and Dafoe are terrific. As Crane, Kinnear has the smirky, smarmy love down incomparably, and he’s spot on as a lower-tier notability cashing in every piece he can. (After Hogan’s gets canceled, in one scene, Bob goes to a shut out, has the bartender flip greater than to the local affiliate rerunning his reveal b stand out, and primps and preens preceding the time when the television, waiting for tonight’s prospective conquest to identify that it’s him up there on the monitor. Hey, guys use what they got.) And Dafoe is like a jilted lover—there are intimations that he’s got sexual feelings for Crane, and the movie all but comes absolute passe and says that Carpy was Crane’s killer-diller from Manila. (In a smashing bit of irony, Crane was bludgeoned to death with a camera tripod. Carpenter was charged with the murder, and acquitted at trial.)
This can be an uncomfortable film to watchman on the alert for, for a number of reasons—principally because it shows a crew succeeding down a black hole, overcome by his own creation, and also because it’s full of unpleasant, sexually explicit scenes of two guys making their own porn. It’s no great shock that this wasn’t a gargantuan commercial success—Hey, honey, let’s go certain the movie about the fucking-addicted ’60s sitcom actor who got killed in a Scottsdale condo!—but its roughness is palatable because there’s a fortune of truth here. Crane seems emblematic of a certain sort of American man, raised in the Eisenhower years and taught to about women as chattel; Bob’s unique solution was, as social mores changed in the 1960s, to parlay his minor stardom into lots and lots of cheap sex. It’s bad to know what forced to have been more humiliating pro him—these endless anonymous encounters, or being reduced to playing bad dinner theater in Wichita. But he remained so clueless that the sorry spectacle of his spirit was seemly lost on him, as he was forever out just looking to provocation.
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