On the Waterfront is one of the greatest movies ever made and I can't watch it because it makes my skin crawl. Make sense? No? Well, allow me to explain.
I usually can't stand the thought of this movie, but just the other day I was discussing this it with a friend of director Elia Kazan’s and an old movie pro by the name of Robert Jirus. Bob, who believes Kazan could do no wrong, basically dared me to review this fairly, so here I am.
Every critic has biases; just like every person has biases. The difference between me and all the rest is that I admit them. By admitting them, you can separate that opinion from your review. I’ll admit mine now. I don’t like Elia Kazan. I didn’t like him then and I don’t like him now.
I should give you some background here first. Kazan started his career as an jack-of-all-trades with the Group Theatre, the crew that popularized method acting and started the career of John Garfield, Clifford Odets and Lee Strasberg among others.Some members of this group were known for their liberal, even radical, politics and when the Communist scare started after World War II this crew was an easy target. Most of them held tough and protected their friends. Garfield refused to name names and saw his career and his life end as a result (he died of a heart attack in 1952 at 39).
Kazan on the other hand felt the need to protect his flourishing career, so he turned on six people including, Strasberg's wife, Odets and J. Edward Bromberg, who had been dead for a year when Kazan named him (talk about kicking you when you’re down). Kazan's public reasoning was that he couldn't take the guilt of knowing all those Communists were running around. Of course, he could take $500,000 that the studio offered him right after he proved his was a good American by burying his friends.
Now the problem was that the studios and Congress might love him, but ever since the days of Benedict Arnold, turncoats have never been popular with the public. So Benedict Kazan dilema is that he has to find a way to educate (brainwash) the public as to why ruining the lives of your friends is good for America.
Just about this time, Malcolm Johnson of the New York Sun was putting the finishing touches on a magnificent series of articles about the mob's control of the New York docks. Johnson started by looking stevedore Andy Hintz’s murder at the hands of union bosses John Dunn and Andy Sheridan and from there covered decades of corruption on the waterfront from the lowest grunt in the hole up to the Anastasia clan.
Screenwriter Budd Schulberg was inspired by this effort and did some further research on his own before buying the rights of the series from Johnson. Schulberg then finished the first draft of a screenplay and tried to peddle it to the mindless idiots that produce movies in Hollywood. Everyone passed on it. The movie seem dead until red-hot director Elia Kazan decided he wanted to work with Schulberg. Budd tried to push his waterfront script again and Kazan saw potential - potential to rework the story to show why squealing is as good for you as spinach and broccholi.
The final draft of the script is about longshoreman Terry Malloy (Marlon Brando), a former boxer and brother of union leader Charlie (Rod Steiger), who has a cushy job on the docks, but every once in a while has to help out the gangsters who run his local. One of those favors led to the death of Joey Doyle. This was a bit much for Terry and he begins to have his doubts about his brother and the union head, Johnny Friendly (Lee J. Cobb). While the union tries to keep Terry in line, a priest (Karl Malden) and Joey’s sister, Edie (Eva Marie Saint), try and get Terry to join their movement against the union and do the right thing – testify before the commission.
From my earlier tirade, you can guess how it ends. As an aside, a commission was not involved in Johnson’s articles. In the cases mentioned by Johnson and Schulberg, the longshoremen used force and the democratic process to take back their unions.
The movie itself is phenomenal. The acting is top notch from Marlon Brando to Rod Steiger to Lee J. Cobb all the way down to the actual longshoremen playing bit parts. The location photography cannot be grittier or more appropriate. Budd’s screenplay is one of the best you’ll ever see. But here it all comes back to the acting.I hate to single out the obvious scene to point out why this movie is so good, but I want to look at something you might not have noticed. In the famous “contenda” scene, watch Brando’s reactions when his brother pulls out the gun. The standard here would be to look shocked or frightened. Brando just looks depressed and sad, which seems stupid at first, but then it makes perfect sense. What have these thugs done to my brother to make him pull a gun on his own blood? It’s scenes like this that show why early Brando was so good before he became a bloated parody of himself.
There are no scenes or even moments when I roll my eyes in the entire movie. It’s probably the most realistic film I’ve ever seen and a credit to everyone on the staff. And everytime I watch it I see the justification for John Garfield's death. On the Waterfront is a great movie. It is also a momument to Kazan's greed and cowardace. I hope you enjoy it.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
Woodstock ****
If you have any desire to watch a live conniption, just mention “It’s All True” to Orson Welles and watch the memories flow back.
This seed was planted in 1942 when the folks at RKO were a little worried about Orson’s new film, The Magnificent Ambersons. Orson believed this was going to be his masterpiece and if the last two hours were anything like the first fifteen minutes I would be inclined to agree. The studio thought the whole thing was a little avant guard and asked Orson to edit it. Of course the dogmatic director said no and instead of pressing the issue, RKO sent him to Brazil to do a documentary about Carnival. While he was gone, “those pigs” did a complete reedit and “destroyed my beautiful film.”
As much as he hated it due to the above reasons, It’s All True, ended up being a good film as well as his other documentary, F is for Fake, where he looks at con men.
I often talked with Orson about It’s All True for two reasons. First, his vitriol on the topic always amused me.
The second and more important reason for our discussion here, is that he is one of the few directors that I know of that is equally adept when working on documentaries or feature films. One night, I asked Orson how he succeeded where others failed and he said, “It both cases, you’re just telling a story. In a documentary, you just have to find it.”
This brings up two subdivisions of documentaries - the propaganda film and cinema verite. Propaganda is not the correct word for the first type of film, but I can’t think of a better one. The basic difference between the two films is that in propaganda films you know what story you want to tell ahead of time and you manipulate the film to tell that story (think Michael Moore), in cinema verite, the film itself tells the story.
The one of the best cinema verite documentary that I’ve seen is Woodstock. As an aside, you might have noticed this if you have read many of my reviews, but I’ll take this moment to put it in black and white – I don’t care about politics in movies. What I mean by that is I will only look at how effective a director is in getting his point across, what that point is doesn’t concern me. I’m not a political writer. It’s not my job. (I will make an exception to this rule when I get to On the Waterfront, because politics has something to do with the actual making of the movie).
The key to filming an event like Woodstock is to capture the moment. The director’s job here is to convey the energy and passion being experienced by those who were there. This has really only been effectively done twice while capturing a once-in-a-lifetime event like this. One was a pseudo documentary called Medium Cool which contained live segments from the Chicago riots at the Democratic National Convention in 1968. The other time was Triumph of the Will, where Leni Riefenstahl captured the fury of the 1934 Nazi convention in Nuremburg. I think Michael Wadleigh, a director who hasn’t done much of note aside of this, accomplishes that goal here.
There are some editorial decisions that Wadleigh makes that serve as an unwanted distraction, such as his habit of using the mirror split screen for no apparent reason or putting on Arlo Guthrie (a musical criticism, not a political one) at all, but overall he gives his viewers an idea about what it was like to be at the 3-day event. The editing job must have either been tortuous or a labor of love because I can only image the amount of film they went through.
In addition, Wadleigh either must have had cameras everywhere or he’s a very lucky man because he was about to get some great footage of the rains and the mudslides.
To focus on the music here would have been a massive mistake because the music is almost secondary to the event if the director is looking to make a truly great documentary. Unfortunately you could have made many concert documentaries about Country Joe and the Fish (another musical criticism), but there is only one Woodstock. The crowd is probably even more of a story here than the musicians and Wadleigh correctly emphasizes that here.
Wadleigh also makes some interesting decisions in filming the bands. He changes styles which each new band, using the extreme close-ups on Country Joe, then going to the wide shots of Santana, giving each band a distinctive visual appearance.
One key to finding out if a music documentary is great is if a viewer can watch and enjoy the movie without having to love the music accompanying the movie because movies are a visual medium at heart and if you can’t enjoy the pictures first, then the director failed. I sat through two songs by Country Joe and his little tirade; so I guess that means Wadleigh succeeded.
This seed was planted in 1942 when the folks at RKO were a little worried about Orson’s new film, The Magnificent Ambersons. Orson believed this was going to be his masterpiece and if the last two hours were anything like the first fifteen minutes I would be inclined to agree. The studio thought the whole thing was a little avant guard and asked Orson to edit it. Of course the dogmatic director said no and instead of pressing the issue, RKO sent him to Brazil to do a documentary about Carnival. While he was gone, “those pigs” did a complete reedit and “destroyed my beautiful film.”
As much as he hated it due to the above reasons, It’s All True, ended up being a good film as well as his other documentary, F is for Fake, where he looks at con men.
I often talked with Orson about It’s All True for two reasons. First, his vitriol on the topic always amused me.
The second and more important reason for our discussion here, is that he is one of the few directors that I know of that is equally adept when working on documentaries or feature films. One night, I asked Orson how he succeeded where others failed and he said, “It both cases, you’re just telling a story. In a documentary, you just have to find it.”
This brings up two subdivisions of documentaries - the propaganda film and cinema verite. Propaganda is not the correct word for the first type of film, but I can’t think of a better one. The basic difference between the two films is that in propaganda films you know what story you want to tell ahead of time and you manipulate the film to tell that story (think Michael Moore), in cinema verite, the film itself tells the story.
The one of the best cinema verite documentary that I’ve seen is Woodstock. As an aside, you might have noticed this if you have read many of my reviews, but I’ll take this moment to put it in black and white – I don’t care about politics in movies. What I mean by that is I will only look at how effective a director is in getting his point across, what that point is doesn’t concern me. I’m not a political writer. It’s not my job. (I will make an exception to this rule when I get to On the Waterfront, because politics has something to do with the actual making of the movie).
The key to filming an event like Woodstock is to capture the moment. The director’s job here is to convey the energy and passion being experienced by those who were there. This has really only been effectively done twice while capturing a once-in-a-lifetime event like this. One was a pseudo documentary called Medium Cool which contained live segments from the Chicago riots at the Democratic National Convention in 1968. The other time was Triumph of the Will, where Leni Riefenstahl captured the fury of the 1934 Nazi convention in Nuremburg. I think Michael Wadleigh, a director who hasn’t done much of note aside of this, accomplishes that goal here.
There are some editorial decisions that Wadleigh makes that serve as an unwanted distraction, such as his habit of using the mirror split screen for no apparent reason or putting on Arlo Guthrie (a musical criticism, not a political one) at all, but overall he gives his viewers an idea about what it was like to be at the 3-day event. The editing job must have either been tortuous or a labor of love because I can only image the amount of film they went through.
In addition, Wadleigh either must have had cameras everywhere or he’s a very lucky man because he was about to get some great footage of the rains and the mudslides.
To focus on the music here would have been a massive mistake because the music is almost secondary to the event if the director is looking to make a truly great documentary. Unfortunately you could have made many concert documentaries about Country Joe and the Fish (another musical criticism), but there is only one Woodstock. The crowd is probably even more of a story here than the musicians and Wadleigh correctly emphasizes that here.
Wadleigh also makes some interesting decisions in filming the bands. He changes styles which each new band, using the extreme close-ups on Country Joe, then going to the wide shots of Santana, giving each band a distinctive visual appearance.
One key to finding out if a music documentary is great is if a viewer can watch and enjoy the movie without having to love the music accompanying the movie because movies are a visual medium at heart and if you can’t enjoy the pictures first, then the director failed. I sat through two songs by Country Joe and his little tirade; so I guess that means Wadleigh succeeded.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Breathless (no stars)
Somewhere toward the end of 1951, I was having drinks with John Huston at the Brown Derby while talking about a movie we were putting the finishing touches on called the African Queen when a writer from a new French magazine interrupted us.
Francois Truffaut at the time was a film critic for a French publication called Cahiers du Cinema, a sheet that would unfortunately become quite influential. This was before Francois came out with his famous auteur theory, but the young journal still had some clout. Cahiers just came out with their top ten movie list for 1951 and I spent much time making fun of them. The list was ridiculous. Diary of a Country Priest was ranked two and Sunset Boulevard chimed in at eight.
What? Never heard of Diary of a Country Priest? The title pretty much explains the plot, except it should say Diary of a Dying Country Priest to be complete, I guess. I have a personal rule-of-thumb. If I ever have to use the word microcosm to describe a movie, it’s not good. Of course, ol’ Francois said Diary was a microcosm of the universal struggles of human kind. Yep, bring the kids.
Francois and the guys took Cahiers (and everything else) seriously and didn’t take too kindly to my constant criticisms and we started to debate the issue. I was a little loaded at this point and began to resort to my trademark caustic humor. As misguided as he is on just about everything, Francois does have a temper and this potentially intellectual debate quickly deteriorated into something unpleasant.
Here’s the odd thing. If you read Truffaut’s and Jean-Luc Godard’s theories and compare them to my ideas, we aren’t too far off. I’m all for the auteur theory which stipulates that the director’s vision must be what you watch on the screen and this is coming from a screenwriter. I’ve often deferred to Johnny during the making of African Queen and never had a problem doing things his way.
Truffaut and Godard love Hitchcock and Hawks. So do I.
Our differences can be seen in the final product. They believe in making film for the sake of making film – no story necessary. I see film as the highest form of story-telling and all tools in the movie making process should be utilized in telling the story with all of the clarity and emotion necessary to fulfill the director’s vision.
I also believe films should be entertaining. Have you ever watched a film and said “that was a nice shot” or “that was a nice cut.”? Probably not. If the final product is not entertaining, no one will see it and then what’s the point.
This is how our discussion should have gone. I believe the confrontation was my fault and in retrospect I feel guilty. I should have debated Francois with the merits of my argument because there is no question in my mind that I’m right. To prove my point, I will take one of the French New Wave masterpieces and dissect it. The movie I’m choosing is Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless which is the grandfather of the New Wave.
Allow me to make a quick concession here before someone else realizes it. Bosley Crowthers panned this movie for the New York Times. He also panned Diary. But he’s still a clown because his reviews focused on trivial complaints like Jean Paul Belmondo’s physical appeal in Breathless or that he was “confused” (not hard) in Diary. My problem with both is that they are not referential enough to the medium and only desire to show what they can do with a camera. Anyone can do that. Utilizing the camera and the moviola to make them part of the story – that takes talent.
Roger Ebert has written that Breathless was the most influential movie since Citizen Kane. To be more precise, this movie influenced the most influential movie since Citizen Kane – Bonnie and Clyde (which Bosley also panned). It is the difference between those two movies that makes my point as to why the French New Wave is trivial.
Watch the scene where Bonnie and Clyde die. There were dozens of cuts during that sequence, but those cuts quickened the pace to the scene and added a sense of desperation. There was a point to the technique. Breathless was one of the earliest movies to rely that heavily on the jarring edits that director Arthur Penn used so effectively in Bonnie and Clyde, but those edits not only do not add to the story, they take away from it. The cuts actually serve as a distraction to the viewer.
The plot in Breathless is really nothing. Belmondo (who is actually a talented actor) plays a Bogart-worshipping thief that shot a policeman and is hiding out at his American girlfriend’s (Jean Seberg) apartment. They spend most of the movie avoiding the police and hanging out in her bedroom. Breathless is basically homage to American film actors and movies while showing the difference between the old and the new. It’s a movie about movies basically with the actors using certain mannerism that were made famous in other films.
Okay, I needed a break here in order to drink a few martinis.
I’m ready.
I’ve been trying to avoid this, but I really have no choice when talking about this movie. Breathless is an early reference to post-structuralism where a character is not a person, but an archetype of something larger. This is a New Wave standard. In post-structuralism, the idea of a single meaning also extends to the story as well where it is considered more important what the viewer thinks, then what the auteur intends.
Sounds like fun, huh?
The fact that I had to go through that stupid description is everything that is wrong with Breathless and the New Wave. Great directors get their points in almost subconsciously while entertaining the viewer. There is nothing about the previous paragraph that is entertaining.
Film is such a powerful medium that it can be the highest form of human communication, but a movie like Breathless is no better than any Steven Segal movie because both experiences are mind-numbing and nothing comes across. Both are just exercises. All Godard is saying is that he likes films. This is fine.
What isn’t fine about Godard and his buddies is that people not only take them seriously, but look down on others who have a differing view. For those contrarians out there, take heart, they don’t get more intellectual than me and I can’t make it to the end of Breathless. Not because I can’t, but because Godard hasn’t shown me why I should.
Francois Truffaut at the time was a film critic for a French publication called Cahiers du Cinema, a sheet that would unfortunately become quite influential. This was before Francois came out with his famous auteur theory, but the young journal still had some clout. Cahiers just came out with their top ten movie list for 1951 and I spent much time making fun of them. The list was ridiculous. Diary of a Country Priest was ranked two and Sunset Boulevard chimed in at eight.
What? Never heard of Diary of a Country Priest? The title pretty much explains the plot, except it should say Diary of a Dying Country Priest to be complete, I guess. I have a personal rule-of-thumb. If I ever have to use the word microcosm to describe a movie, it’s not good. Of course, ol’ Francois said Diary was a microcosm of the universal struggles of human kind. Yep, bring the kids.
Francois and the guys took Cahiers (and everything else) seriously and didn’t take too kindly to my constant criticisms and we started to debate the issue. I was a little loaded at this point and began to resort to my trademark caustic humor. As misguided as he is on just about everything, Francois does have a temper and this potentially intellectual debate quickly deteriorated into something unpleasant.
Here’s the odd thing. If you read Truffaut’s and Jean-Luc Godard’s theories and compare them to my ideas, we aren’t too far off. I’m all for the auteur theory which stipulates that the director’s vision must be what you watch on the screen and this is coming from a screenwriter. I’ve often deferred to Johnny during the making of African Queen and never had a problem doing things his way.
Truffaut and Godard love Hitchcock and Hawks. So do I.
Our differences can be seen in the final product. They believe in making film for the sake of making film – no story necessary. I see film as the highest form of story-telling and all tools in the movie making process should be utilized in telling the story with all of the clarity and emotion necessary to fulfill the director’s vision.
I also believe films should be entertaining. Have you ever watched a film and said “that was a nice shot” or “that was a nice cut.”? Probably not. If the final product is not entertaining, no one will see it and then what’s the point.
This is how our discussion should have gone. I believe the confrontation was my fault and in retrospect I feel guilty. I should have debated Francois with the merits of my argument because there is no question in my mind that I’m right. To prove my point, I will take one of the French New Wave masterpieces and dissect it. The movie I’m choosing is Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless which is the grandfather of the New Wave.
Allow me to make a quick concession here before someone else realizes it. Bosley Crowthers panned this movie for the New York Times. He also panned Diary. But he’s still a clown because his reviews focused on trivial complaints like Jean Paul Belmondo’s physical appeal in Breathless or that he was “confused” (not hard) in Diary. My problem with both is that they are not referential enough to the medium and only desire to show what they can do with a camera. Anyone can do that. Utilizing the camera and the moviola to make them part of the story – that takes talent.
Roger Ebert has written that Breathless was the most influential movie since Citizen Kane. To be more precise, this movie influenced the most influential movie since Citizen Kane – Bonnie and Clyde (which Bosley also panned). It is the difference between those two movies that makes my point as to why the French New Wave is trivial.
Watch the scene where Bonnie and Clyde die. There were dozens of cuts during that sequence, but those cuts quickened the pace to the scene and added a sense of desperation. There was a point to the technique. Breathless was one of the earliest movies to rely that heavily on the jarring edits that director Arthur Penn used so effectively in Bonnie and Clyde, but those edits not only do not add to the story, they take away from it. The cuts actually serve as a distraction to the viewer.
The plot in Breathless is really nothing. Belmondo (who is actually a talented actor) plays a Bogart-worshipping thief that shot a policeman and is hiding out at his American girlfriend’s (Jean Seberg) apartment. They spend most of the movie avoiding the police and hanging out in her bedroom. Breathless is basically homage to American film actors and movies while showing the difference between the old and the new. It’s a movie about movies basically with the actors using certain mannerism that were made famous in other films.
Okay, I needed a break here in order to drink a few martinis.
I’m ready.
I’ve been trying to avoid this, but I really have no choice when talking about this movie. Breathless is an early reference to post-structuralism where a character is not a person, but an archetype of something larger. This is a New Wave standard. In post-structuralism, the idea of a single meaning also extends to the story as well where it is considered more important what the viewer thinks, then what the auteur intends.
Sounds like fun, huh?
The fact that I had to go through that stupid description is everything that is wrong with Breathless and the New Wave. Great directors get their points in almost subconsciously while entertaining the viewer. There is nothing about the previous paragraph that is entertaining.
Film is such a powerful medium that it can be the highest form of human communication, but a movie like Breathless is no better than any Steven Segal movie because both experiences are mind-numbing and nothing comes across. Both are just exercises. All Godard is saying is that he likes films. This is fine.
What isn’t fine about Godard and his buddies is that people not only take them seriously, but look down on others who have a differing view. For those contrarians out there, take heart, they don’t get more intellectual than me and I can’t make it to the end of Breathless. Not because I can’t, but because Godard hasn’t shown me why I should.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Paths of Glory *****
I died on May 16, 1955. I was 46. My youthful demise was the result of a rather rambunctious life. At the end I was a little nervous because I wasn’t sure what was on the other side and I wasn’t what you would call “Heaven material.” After a couple of years in Purgatory and a good word or two from a few friends, I made it.
Overall its been a pleasant experience, I got to meet a lot of my heroes at first, then as the years went on, some of my old friends came up to join me. Looking back, there was no need to be afraid at all.
The only time I feel any regret is when I see one of my old friends struggling with a problem and I can see they need an encouraging word or some support. I try to give it from here, but sometimes you need to see someone in the flesh. It’s those times, when I’m the outsider looking in, that are the toughest.
I first felt this sensation in 1960 when Kirk Douglas was just putting the finishing touches on Spartacus and he was deciding whether or not to give screenwriting credit to Dalton Trumbo, one of the blacklisted Hollywood Ten, who had not had his name on a screenplay in years. Trumbo was still working, but he would also have to use pseudonyms. He actually won an Oscar for the Brave One using the name Robert Rich. I knew Dalton was a member of the Communist Party for a while. I don’t think he was very involved. Most theatre and film guys weren’t. Anyway, Trumbo wouldn’t rat anyone out like Budd Schulberg did, so Dalton took the hit.
In 1960, Stanley Kubrick, being Stanley Kubrick, wanted to be credited as the screenwriter of Spartacus. Kirk, who was producer, wasn’t comfortable with this and started to toy with the idea of giving Dalton credit. The advisors in his company said he was crazy and this move would force the company into bankruptcy. Kirk, being Kirk, did it anyway and that broke the blacklist. When Dalton and I spoke later, he said he was so proud of Kirk for giving him his name back. So am I.
I want to celebrate the independent spirit of Kirk Douglas here, but not by looking at Spartacus, which was never one of my favorites. I want to look at another movie that would have never been made without Kirk Douglas – Paths of Glory.
In 1952, Kirk and I were in Havana drinking Hurricanes at the Copacabana. It was a vacation and I had worked in Havana years earlier, so I was the de facto tour guide. Kirk needed some time away because he was getting frustrated with the studio system. Back then, you signed a seven year contract with a studio and that was it. You did whatever they asked you to do – or else.
Kirk had just finished Big Trees, which wasn’t what you would call a classic. He couldn’t understand this. He just had four or five monster hits in a row, pulling down a couple of Oscar nominations in the process and he’s relegated to this drivel. As the night progressed, I said if he was so unhappy, he should break away and start his own company. Now before anyone thinks I’m giving myself credit for this, I was joking. It was unheard of to break away back then. It wasn’t even discussed. But Kirk didn’t take my quip as a joke. He said he was going to do it and once I got over my shock, I started to egg him on, telling him what a perfect idea it was and what great movies he could make.
One of the first films he made was Paths of Glory. The film was adapted from a book and based loosely on a true story. It takes place during World War I where a French general (George MacCready), seeking a promotion, sends three of his regiments on a suicidal mission to take a hill. One third of the soldiers do not leave the trench, some because of the unreasonableness of the order and some because of they can’t get past the German shelling.
The general orders one of his artillery to execute the straggling men. The soldier refuses to do so without the order in writing. Instead the general decides to court-martial 100 men for cowardice. That number is lowered to three – one from each regiment. The first soldier (Ralph Meeker) is chosen because he doesn’t get along with his captain. The second soldier (Timothy Carey) is picked because he does not fit in with the other men. The third soldier is chosen randomly and he just happens to be one of the most decorated in the unit. The colonel, who led the men (Douglas), defends his soldiers during the trial. I’ll stop there, so as not to give up the ending. But I’ll give you a hint; this ending would not have taken place today.
Without Douglas, this movie would not have taken place at all. The only star here is Douglas. All the other roles are filled by talented actors who usually only do bit parts. This is a dark grim movie that tells an important story from a unique perspective. The plotting of the film is different in almost everyway from any type of movie you’ve seen before.
This was one of Kubrick’s earlier films. I’m not a big Kubrick fan. He has a few great films, but most of those were early in my opinion. This film is probably one of his best, if not the best. Every shot is utilized in telling this story. It almost feels like a documentary. There’s no extra flourish here. If Kubrick using a tracking shot, it’s meant to convey an emotion or catch another side of a person, it’s meant to push along the story.
I like Kubrick’s work here, but I still don’t like him. Another blacklisted writer Jim Thompson did a lot of work on this screenplay, but his name couldn’t be used in the credits. Guess whose name was used? I have one other regret about being dead; that I couldn’t be in the room when Kirk told Kubrick to go to hell in 1960.
Overall its been a pleasant experience, I got to meet a lot of my heroes at first, then as the years went on, some of my old friends came up to join me. Looking back, there was no need to be afraid at all.
The only time I feel any regret is when I see one of my old friends struggling with a problem and I can see they need an encouraging word or some support. I try to give it from here, but sometimes you need to see someone in the flesh. It’s those times, when I’m the outsider looking in, that are the toughest.
I first felt this sensation in 1960 when Kirk Douglas was just putting the finishing touches on Spartacus and he was deciding whether or not to give screenwriting credit to Dalton Trumbo, one of the blacklisted Hollywood Ten, who had not had his name on a screenplay in years. Trumbo was still working, but he would also have to use pseudonyms. He actually won an Oscar for the Brave One using the name Robert Rich. I knew Dalton was a member of the Communist Party for a while. I don’t think he was very involved. Most theatre and film guys weren’t. Anyway, Trumbo wouldn’t rat anyone out like Budd Schulberg did, so Dalton took the hit.
In 1960, Stanley Kubrick, being Stanley Kubrick, wanted to be credited as the screenwriter of Spartacus. Kirk, who was producer, wasn’t comfortable with this and started to toy with the idea of giving Dalton credit. The advisors in his company said he was crazy and this move would force the company into bankruptcy. Kirk, being Kirk, did it anyway and that broke the blacklist. When Dalton and I spoke later, he said he was so proud of Kirk for giving him his name back. So am I.
I want to celebrate the independent spirit of Kirk Douglas here, but not by looking at Spartacus, which was never one of my favorites. I want to look at another movie that would have never been made without Kirk Douglas – Paths of Glory.
In 1952, Kirk and I were in Havana drinking Hurricanes at the Copacabana. It was a vacation and I had worked in Havana years earlier, so I was the de facto tour guide. Kirk needed some time away because he was getting frustrated with the studio system. Back then, you signed a seven year contract with a studio and that was it. You did whatever they asked you to do – or else.
Kirk had just finished Big Trees, which wasn’t what you would call a classic. He couldn’t understand this. He just had four or five monster hits in a row, pulling down a couple of Oscar nominations in the process and he’s relegated to this drivel. As the night progressed, I said if he was so unhappy, he should break away and start his own company. Now before anyone thinks I’m giving myself credit for this, I was joking. It was unheard of to break away back then. It wasn’t even discussed. But Kirk didn’t take my quip as a joke. He said he was going to do it and once I got over my shock, I started to egg him on, telling him what a perfect idea it was and what great movies he could make.
One of the first films he made was Paths of Glory. The film was adapted from a book and based loosely on a true story. It takes place during World War I where a French general (George MacCready), seeking a promotion, sends three of his regiments on a suicidal mission to take a hill. One third of the soldiers do not leave the trench, some because of the unreasonableness of the order and some because of they can’t get past the German shelling.
The general orders one of his artillery to execute the straggling men. The soldier refuses to do so without the order in writing. Instead the general decides to court-martial 100 men for cowardice. That number is lowered to three – one from each regiment. The first soldier (Ralph Meeker) is chosen because he doesn’t get along with his captain. The second soldier (Timothy Carey) is picked because he does not fit in with the other men. The third soldier is chosen randomly and he just happens to be one of the most decorated in the unit. The colonel, who led the men (Douglas), defends his soldiers during the trial. I’ll stop there, so as not to give up the ending. But I’ll give you a hint; this ending would not have taken place today.
Without Douglas, this movie would not have taken place at all. The only star here is Douglas. All the other roles are filled by talented actors who usually only do bit parts. This is a dark grim movie that tells an important story from a unique perspective. The plotting of the film is different in almost everyway from any type of movie you’ve seen before.
This was one of Kubrick’s earlier films. I’m not a big Kubrick fan. He has a few great films, but most of those were early in my opinion. This film is probably one of his best, if not the best. Every shot is utilized in telling this story. It almost feels like a documentary. There’s no extra flourish here. If Kubrick using a tracking shot, it’s meant to convey an emotion or catch another side of a person, it’s meant to push along the story.
I like Kubrick’s work here, but I still don’t like him. Another blacklisted writer Jim Thompson did a lot of work on this screenplay, but his name couldn’t be used in the credits. Guess whose name was used? I have one other regret about being dead; that I couldn’t be in the room when Kirk told Kubrick to go to hell in 1960.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Fury *****
Somewhere in the early 1950s, I’m drinking Cutty Sark with Pat O’Brien and Spencer Tracy at Toot Shors and we’re all breaking up because we just heard a new “Method” story.
Method acting was pretty new at the time and mostly New York stage guys used it. Only a handful of film actors were trained that way (John Garfield, Monty Clift, Rod Steiger, Brando, Karl Malden, off the top of my head), so they were certainly in the minority, but guys like Brando were getting so much press that everyone thought it was the next big thing.
Some of the old-timers got offended by the kid gloves treatment that the kids got from reviewers, but others were just amused. That was pretty much the way O’Brien and Tracy looked at it. But there was one thing about the Method for which they took great pleasure – the stories about the ridiculous extremes that some Method actors would go to prepare for a role.
On that day at Toots, I was telling Pat and Spence about two Brando stories I just heard. One took place during the filming of Viva Zapata. There was one scene where Brando was supposed to be drunk, so of course he got drunk. So fall-over drunk that he couldn’t function and the shoot had to be postponed until the next day. During that shoot, he got drunk again and it got postponed again, and so on. Don’t bother to look for the scene in the film, they ended up scrapping it. (“It’s very important for these Method kids to learn how to hold their booze,” Tracy said after hearing the story.)
The second story had the two great Irish actors nearly on the floor. I can’t remember during what shoot it took place, but there was one scene where Brando was supposed to be suffering from severe burns. Marlon read somewhere that burn victims felt a freezing sensation. Being the Method actor that he is, Brando covered himself in ice. Problem was he stayed in the ice too long and got frost bitten.
This reminded Pat of something that Jack Barrymore said after being asked about the Method. “Method acting? There are quite a few methods. Mine involves a lot of talent, a glass and some cracked ice."
Being the good reporter that I am, I asked Pat and Spence how they would describe their acting styles. “I always think of my dead mother,” O’Brien said.
“Your mother’s not dead,” Tracy said.
“That’s why I’m not a very good actor. All good Method actors need a dead mother.”
Tracy’s answer to the same question was a little simpler. “I remember my lines and try not to hit the damn furniture.” It’s that simplicity that made him so wonderful.
Of all the great performances that Tracy has given, my two favorites were ones where he wasn’t even nominated for Academy Awards. The first was The Last Hurrah where he played a roguish mayor of a large eastern city (read Mayor James Curley from Boston). Even though the guy would cheat or rob anyone to get his way, Tracy was so likable in the role that you found yourself rooting for him. In that movie it was the simple things he did, almost unnoticeable, like when he was trying to intimidate an opponent and in the middle of the grilling, Tracy patted and rubbed the guy’s arm and with that trademark Tracy growl said, “Oh, you don’t want to do that” before his eyes widened and he got to the threat.
He was great in The Last Hurrah. He was better in Fury.
Fury was made 20 years before The Last Hurrah, but Tracy, unschooled and working off natural talent, was the same actor he would be in his later years.
The movie was about a regular guy whose car broke down in some god forsaken small town. It just happens that as this poor schlep was looking for help, word leaks out that there was a kidnapping and rape in the town. Of course, the new face becomes suspect number one for a variety of reasons. The police toss him in jail, almost for his own protection, but the town storms the jail and burns it down. All the residents and Tracy’s fiancé and brother believe Tracy died in the fire, but the town tries to cover it up. The fiancé and brother press the issue hard and charges are filed against some leaders of the mob. When the trial starts random and incriminating evidence begins to appear against the mob leaders. Unbeknownst to anyone, the evidence is being leaked by Tracy who actually survived the fire and is hell-bent on getting revenge.
This is one of the more interesting roles I’ve ever seen in a film because the Tracy character is acting like a villain would, but his actions are justified in the minds of the audience because of what the mob put him through. This is another movie that ends up having a theme and a point, but once again this movie works because it is so entertaining. I don’t care how peace-loving you are. I guarantee that you will be frothing at the mouth and rooting on Tracy in his search for revenge by the middle of this one.
I am convinced that this movie would have failed if anyone other than Tracy did this part. He is the best at justifying his actions on screen while staying within character, so the audience can understand and still like him, no matter what he does.
Looking back at all the great actors during that era, the Bogarts, the Cagneys, the Tracys, the Grants, I always laugh at the acting schools today and wonder what they could have done with giants like that. These guys all learned on the job. There was only one great old-time actor that tried to learn the Method, Marilyn Monroe, and it ruined her because it took away her natural ability.
You can’t argue with the quality of the work that guys like DeNiro, Pacino, Hackman, Garfield and, yes, Brando, have produced. But when I see Tracy in Fury, it makes me think that the job just isn’t that complicated.
Method acting was pretty new at the time and mostly New York stage guys used it. Only a handful of film actors were trained that way (John Garfield, Monty Clift, Rod Steiger, Brando, Karl Malden, off the top of my head), so they were certainly in the minority, but guys like Brando were getting so much press that everyone thought it was the next big thing.
Some of the old-timers got offended by the kid gloves treatment that the kids got from reviewers, but others were just amused. That was pretty much the way O’Brien and Tracy looked at it. But there was one thing about the Method for which they took great pleasure – the stories about the ridiculous extremes that some Method actors would go to prepare for a role.
On that day at Toots, I was telling Pat and Spence about two Brando stories I just heard. One took place during the filming of Viva Zapata. There was one scene where Brando was supposed to be drunk, so of course he got drunk. So fall-over drunk that he couldn’t function and the shoot had to be postponed until the next day. During that shoot, he got drunk again and it got postponed again, and so on. Don’t bother to look for the scene in the film, they ended up scrapping it. (“It’s very important for these Method kids to learn how to hold their booze,” Tracy said after hearing the story.)
The second story had the two great Irish actors nearly on the floor. I can’t remember during what shoot it took place, but there was one scene where Brando was supposed to be suffering from severe burns. Marlon read somewhere that burn victims felt a freezing sensation. Being the Method actor that he is, Brando covered himself in ice. Problem was he stayed in the ice too long and got frost bitten.
This reminded Pat of something that Jack Barrymore said after being asked about the Method. “Method acting? There are quite a few methods. Mine involves a lot of talent, a glass and some cracked ice."
Being the good reporter that I am, I asked Pat and Spence how they would describe their acting styles. “I always think of my dead mother,” O’Brien said.
“Your mother’s not dead,” Tracy said.
“That’s why I’m not a very good actor. All good Method actors need a dead mother.”
Tracy’s answer to the same question was a little simpler. “I remember my lines and try not to hit the damn furniture.” It’s that simplicity that made him so wonderful.
Of all the great performances that Tracy has given, my two favorites were ones where he wasn’t even nominated for Academy Awards. The first was The Last Hurrah where he played a roguish mayor of a large eastern city (read Mayor James Curley from Boston). Even though the guy would cheat or rob anyone to get his way, Tracy was so likable in the role that you found yourself rooting for him. In that movie it was the simple things he did, almost unnoticeable, like when he was trying to intimidate an opponent and in the middle of the grilling, Tracy patted and rubbed the guy’s arm and with that trademark Tracy growl said, “Oh, you don’t want to do that” before his eyes widened and he got to the threat.
He was great in The Last Hurrah. He was better in Fury.
Fury was made 20 years before The Last Hurrah, but Tracy, unschooled and working off natural talent, was the same actor he would be in his later years.
The movie was about a regular guy whose car broke down in some god forsaken small town. It just happens that as this poor schlep was looking for help, word leaks out that there was a kidnapping and rape in the town. Of course, the new face becomes suspect number one for a variety of reasons. The police toss him in jail, almost for his own protection, but the town storms the jail and burns it down. All the residents and Tracy’s fiancé and brother believe Tracy died in the fire, but the town tries to cover it up. The fiancé and brother press the issue hard and charges are filed against some leaders of the mob. When the trial starts random and incriminating evidence begins to appear against the mob leaders. Unbeknownst to anyone, the evidence is being leaked by Tracy who actually survived the fire and is hell-bent on getting revenge.
This is one of the more interesting roles I’ve ever seen in a film because the Tracy character is acting like a villain would, but his actions are justified in the minds of the audience because of what the mob put him through. This is another movie that ends up having a theme and a point, but once again this movie works because it is so entertaining. I don’t care how peace-loving you are. I guarantee that you will be frothing at the mouth and rooting on Tracy in his search for revenge by the middle of this one.
I am convinced that this movie would have failed if anyone other than Tracy did this part. He is the best at justifying his actions on screen while staying within character, so the audience can understand and still like him, no matter what he does.
Looking back at all the great actors during that era, the Bogarts, the Cagneys, the Tracys, the Grants, I always laugh at the acting schools today and wonder what they could have done with giants like that. These guys all learned on the job. There was only one great old-time actor that tried to learn the Method, Marilyn Monroe, and it ruined her because it took away her natural ability.
You can’t argue with the quality of the work that guys like DeNiro, Pacino, Hackman, Garfield and, yes, Brando, have produced. But when I see Tracy in Fury, it makes me think that the job just isn’t that complicated.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Footlight Parade **
One judge of superstardom is when people not only look for your films 70 years later, but look for your bad films and even call some of those classics.
I’m not one of those old-timers who insist that all movies made back then were classics or even good. The only reason it might seem that way is that the bad movies for the most part don’t last the test of time. There were no videos or DVDs back then, so if a studio wanted to kill a movie, they just would. There are some bad cult classics that can be found today like Reefer Madness, but most of those clunkers die a peaceful death.
But movies don’t die when Jimmy Cagney is involved. The man could do everything and anything – sing, dance, comedic roles, dramatic roles, tough guy roles – and he did it all brilliantly. He’s probably the single most versatile performer in the history of cinema with the possible exception of Lon Chaney Sr. He can mesmerize an audience so much that they don’t realize that they are watching an absolutely indescribable piece of garbage like Footlight Parade. Notice I didn’t say unwatchable because nothing Cagney is in is unwatchable.
With that description, it might seem odd that I would choose Footlight Parade as the first Cagney movie to review. It’s not odd at all. It’s easy to shine in a great movie where everything in clicking. Greatness is judged when the wheels are falling off. With that in mind, the wheel-less Footlight Parade is the best judge of Cagney’s greatness.
I’ve seen this movie five times, once sober. You can’t watch this movie sober. Once you see Ruby Keeler as the Asian prostitute, you’ll go into convulsions. Ruby’s always puzzled me. She dances like a sumo wrestler at a ho-down, can’t really sing too well and those are usually two qualifications for being a star of musicals. She also can’t act and that would usually be a qualification for WASPish woman to portray an Asian prostitute. With all this considered, she was probably the most famous musical star of her day. I have a headache now and it’s time for some Tequila.
Usually at this point, I’d give a brief description of the plot. I’ve only seen this five times, and I have no clue. It has something to do with Cagney playing a former musical producer who wants to get back into the business. Then Dick Powell falls in love with the pseudo-Asian prostitute for unknown reasons. The wonderful Guy Kibbee makes a quick appearance. There’s three-foot tall Billy Barty playing a child, even though he’s about 52 years-old. During a lull in the action, Busby Berkeley takes a moment to break into his trademark camera-100-feet-in-the-air-women-in-bathing-suits-pretending-to-be-objects “dance” routine. It was always a big crowd-pleaser in the day (unless I was in the crowd).
Now for the big finale. Jimmy Cagney goes searching for Ruby Keeler (hopefully to deport her) in an opium den. I’m not sure where the opium den came from. This may be the first time an opium den has been mentioned in the history of cinema. Historic. There’s a black sailor sitting with a white prostitute (well, isn’t that progressive?). Cagney breaks into the horrible song Shang Hi (Shang Hai?) Lil, which he heroically tries to save. Cagney finds Keeler (AND THERE’S A CLOSE-UP OF HER!!! MAKE IT STOP!!!), carries her out of the den and throws her into a pit of sulfuric acid (Okay, the last part didn’t happen, I just wanted to see what it looked like in print. I like it.). At the end, everyone lives happily-ever-after and Busby does one more routine where sailors dance and from above appear to be the American flag, then they shift and it appears to be FDR’s face in the middle of the flag, then they shift again and there is the NRA eagle (portrayed by the white swimming caps of Busby’s dancers) in the middle of the American flag. Sorry for giving away the ending.
Now I know you’re all sitting there thinking, “Jim, that was a poorly-written account of this movie and we are under the impression that you’re drunk.” Well, you watch it and try to do better. Granted I just ate the worm, but I’m telling you there was some morphine involved when this was written. Those weird movies in the 1960s were meant to be weird. They were meant to be anti-establishment. That’s why it was weird. That was the point. How the hell do you explain this debacle? When a movie ends with an endorsement of the National Recovery Administration, it’s usually not meant to be avant-garde. I’m sure Roosevelt was thrilled to see his program’s symbol portrayed with dozens of swimming caps.
Now look up this movie on-line. Look for other reviews. They will all be glowing and fawning. People write about what a wondrous work this was. I don’t get it. Please watch it and honestly defend it using specifics without sounding like Jerry Garcia. It can’t be done.
This movie is just garbage, but again it was not unwatchable because no movie with Cagney is unwatchable. That’s why Cagney is the greatest movie star ever. You have a problem with that statement. I present Footlight Parade as Exhibit A.
I’m not one of those old-timers who insist that all movies made back then were classics or even good. The only reason it might seem that way is that the bad movies for the most part don’t last the test of time. There were no videos or DVDs back then, so if a studio wanted to kill a movie, they just would. There are some bad cult classics that can be found today like Reefer Madness, but most of those clunkers die a peaceful death.
But movies don’t die when Jimmy Cagney is involved. The man could do everything and anything – sing, dance, comedic roles, dramatic roles, tough guy roles – and he did it all brilliantly. He’s probably the single most versatile performer in the history of cinema with the possible exception of Lon Chaney Sr. He can mesmerize an audience so much that they don’t realize that they are watching an absolutely indescribable piece of garbage like Footlight Parade. Notice I didn’t say unwatchable because nothing Cagney is in is unwatchable.
With that description, it might seem odd that I would choose Footlight Parade as the first Cagney movie to review. It’s not odd at all. It’s easy to shine in a great movie where everything in clicking. Greatness is judged when the wheels are falling off. With that in mind, the wheel-less Footlight Parade is the best judge of Cagney’s greatness.
I’ve seen this movie five times, once sober. You can’t watch this movie sober. Once you see Ruby Keeler as the Asian prostitute, you’ll go into convulsions. Ruby’s always puzzled me. She dances like a sumo wrestler at a ho-down, can’t really sing too well and those are usually two qualifications for being a star of musicals. She also can’t act and that would usually be a qualification for WASPish woman to portray an Asian prostitute. With all this considered, she was probably the most famous musical star of her day. I have a headache now and it’s time for some Tequila.
Usually at this point, I’d give a brief description of the plot. I’ve only seen this five times, and I have no clue. It has something to do with Cagney playing a former musical producer who wants to get back into the business. Then Dick Powell falls in love with the pseudo-Asian prostitute for unknown reasons. The wonderful Guy Kibbee makes a quick appearance. There’s three-foot tall Billy Barty playing a child, even though he’s about 52 years-old. During a lull in the action, Busby Berkeley takes a moment to break into his trademark camera-100-feet-in-the-air-women-in-bathing-suits-pretending-to-be-objects “dance” routine. It was always a big crowd-pleaser in the day (unless I was in the crowd).
Now for the big finale. Jimmy Cagney goes searching for Ruby Keeler (hopefully to deport her) in an opium den. I’m not sure where the opium den came from. This may be the first time an opium den has been mentioned in the history of cinema. Historic. There’s a black sailor sitting with a white prostitute (well, isn’t that progressive?). Cagney breaks into the horrible song Shang Hi (Shang Hai?) Lil, which he heroically tries to save. Cagney finds Keeler (AND THERE’S A CLOSE-UP OF HER!!! MAKE IT STOP!!!), carries her out of the den and throws her into a pit of sulfuric acid (Okay, the last part didn’t happen, I just wanted to see what it looked like in print. I like it.). At the end, everyone lives happily-ever-after and Busby does one more routine where sailors dance and from above appear to be the American flag, then they shift and it appears to be FDR’s face in the middle of the flag, then they shift again and there is the NRA eagle (portrayed by the white swimming caps of Busby’s dancers) in the middle of the American flag. Sorry for giving away the ending.
Now I know you’re all sitting there thinking, “Jim, that was a poorly-written account of this movie and we are under the impression that you’re drunk.” Well, you watch it and try to do better. Granted I just ate the worm, but I’m telling you there was some morphine involved when this was written. Those weird movies in the 1960s were meant to be weird. They were meant to be anti-establishment. That’s why it was weird. That was the point. How the hell do you explain this debacle? When a movie ends with an endorsement of the National Recovery Administration, it’s usually not meant to be avant-garde. I’m sure Roosevelt was thrilled to see his program’s symbol portrayed with dozens of swimming caps.
Now look up this movie on-line. Look for other reviews. They will all be glowing and fawning. People write about what a wondrous work this was. I don’t get it. Please watch it and honestly defend it using specifics without sounding like Jerry Garcia. It can’t be done.
This movie is just garbage, but again it was not unwatchable because no movie with Cagney is unwatchable. That’s why Cagney is the greatest movie star ever. You have a problem with that statement. I present Footlight Parade as Exhibit A.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Midnight Run *****
After finishing the Untouchables, Robert DeNiro wanted to do a comedy, so he started to talk to Penny Marshall about the lead in a movie that she was about to start shooting called Big. I’ll pause here so you can read that again.
The director and actor were in serious discussions about this until the studio put the kybosh on it and the role went to Tom Hanks instead. DeNiro ended up taking the lead role in another comedy called Midnight Run.
I love these little near train-wrecks that clutter movie history. These stories go back to the times when directors had to carry firearms to defend their cameras from Edison men in the old silent days. For example, some brass at Warner Brothers actually threw out Ronald Reagan’s name for the role of Rick Blaine in Casablanca. That threat wasn’t as serious as the time George Raft was actually offered the Sam Spade role in Maltese Falcon. Raft turned that one down because he didn’t want to work with a rookie director (John Huston), so that role went to Bogart.
You can’t call DeNiro’s professional flirting with Penny Marshall on par with the two above referenced near disasters because I actually preferred Midnight Run even though Big might have been more profitable. I say might have because in all honesty I can’t even picture Big with DeNiro. It may have been the funniest movie of all time. I’m chuckling just thinking about it.
In this case, I’m glad we film gods intervened because in my opinion Midnight Run in one of the best comedies of the past 30 years. The best part about it is that its only positive attribute is that it is a damn entertaining film (god forbid, we have one of those). There’s no big message. There’s no theme. There’s barely even any character development. The two lead characters basically stay the same to the end. The only difference is that they change their opinion about each other.
The movie starts as a quick character study on a Monday morning of the down-and-out bounty hunter, Jack Walsh (DeNiro), who wears shabby clothes and works out of the dingy office. While there, DeNiro takes a call from a local bail bondsman, Eddie Moscone (the always marvelous Joe Pantoliano). Moscone wants Walsh to go find this guy Jonathan Mardukas (Charles Grodin), an accountant that embellezed $15 million from a Las Vegas mob boss, Jimmy Serrano. The payoff is $100,000 if Welsh can get Markdukas to Los Angeles by midnight on Friday. Moscone convinces Walsh that this will be a easy job, a “midnight run.” Of course, it’s not. Not only are the F.B.I., Serrano’s crew and a second bounty hunter that Moscone hired as insurance after Mardukas, but once Welsh catches the accountant in New York, he turns out to be a whiny, pompous, anal pain – perfect for a cross-country trip.
This scenerio provide a nice chance for some good chase sequences, but the crux of the movie is the non-stop banter between DeNiro and Grodin, who is perfect in these obnoxious rich guy roles. There were several phases to the ending which I won’t give away. Let’s just say the ending made sense and it worked.
Everything here just works. Sometimes having a director staying out of the way isn’t a bad thing. There are no frills here, no trick lighting or camera work. It’s just an entertaining movie.
Some critics make reference to DeNiro’s rare turn as a comedic actor, but Robert basically played it like he does all of his tough guy roles and let writer George Gallo’s lines do the work. Grodin does the same thing. The acting isn’t particularly noteworthy here. It’s just perfect casting.
Bogart once said after he won his Oscar that the Best Actor award is just a popularity contest and the only way to really compare acting chops is to have everyone take a turn as Hamlet. Well I’m sure Bogey would be great as the Danish prince, but I’ll take him as Rick Blaine, thank you. I’m also sure DeNiro would have been great dancing out chop sticks on a giant piano in a toy store, but I’ll take him in Midnight Run.
I’ll also take Grodin as the rich jerk. He was about the fourth choice for this role behind Robin Williams and Bruce Willis, who took the John McClain role in Die Hard after being turned down here. Cher was even considered at one point to add sexual tension. Grodin probably provided more sexual tension. Thankfully for you, us film gods stopped that one. We work in funny ways up here.
The director and actor were in serious discussions about this until the studio put the kybosh on it and the role went to Tom Hanks instead. DeNiro ended up taking the lead role in another comedy called Midnight Run.
I love these little near train-wrecks that clutter movie history. These stories go back to the times when directors had to carry firearms to defend their cameras from Edison men in the old silent days. For example, some brass at Warner Brothers actually threw out Ronald Reagan’s name for the role of Rick Blaine in Casablanca. That threat wasn’t as serious as the time George Raft was actually offered the Sam Spade role in Maltese Falcon. Raft turned that one down because he didn’t want to work with a rookie director (John Huston), so that role went to Bogart.
You can’t call DeNiro’s professional flirting with Penny Marshall on par with the two above referenced near disasters because I actually preferred Midnight Run even though Big might have been more profitable. I say might have because in all honesty I can’t even picture Big with DeNiro. It may have been the funniest movie of all time. I’m chuckling just thinking about it.
In this case, I’m glad we film gods intervened because in my opinion Midnight Run in one of the best comedies of the past 30 years. The best part about it is that its only positive attribute is that it is a damn entertaining film (god forbid, we have one of those). There’s no big message. There’s no theme. There’s barely even any character development. The two lead characters basically stay the same to the end. The only difference is that they change their opinion about each other.
The movie starts as a quick character study on a Monday morning of the down-and-out bounty hunter, Jack Walsh (DeNiro), who wears shabby clothes and works out of the dingy office. While there, DeNiro takes a call from a local bail bondsman, Eddie Moscone (the always marvelous Joe Pantoliano). Moscone wants Walsh to go find this guy Jonathan Mardukas (Charles Grodin), an accountant that embellezed $15 million from a Las Vegas mob boss, Jimmy Serrano. The payoff is $100,000 if Welsh can get Markdukas to Los Angeles by midnight on Friday. Moscone convinces Walsh that this will be a easy job, a “midnight run.” Of course, it’s not. Not only are the F.B.I., Serrano’s crew and a second bounty hunter that Moscone hired as insurance after Mardukas, but once Welsh catches the accountant in New York, he turns out to be a whiny, pompous, anal pain – perfect for a cross-country trip.
This scenerio provide a nice chance for some good chase sequences, but the crux of the movie is the non-stop banter between DeNiro and Grodin, who is perfect in these obnoxious rich guy roles. There were several phases to the ending which I won’t give away. Let’s just say the ending made sense and it worked.
Everything here just works. Sometimes having a director staying out of the way isn’t a bad thing. There are no frills here, no trick lighting or camera work. It’s just an entertaining movie.
Some critics make reference to DeNiro’s rare turn as a comedic actor, but Robert basically played it like he does all of his tough guy roles and let writer George Gallo’s lines do the work. Grodin does the same thing. The acting isn’t particularly noteworthy here. It’s just perfect casting.
Bogart once said after he won his Oscar that the Best Actor award is just a popularity contest and the only way to really compare acting chops is to have everyone take a turn as Hamlet. Well I’m sure Bogey would be great as the Danish prince, but I’ll take him as Rick Blaine, thank you. I’m also sure DeNiro would have been great dancing out chop sticks on a giant piano in a toy store, but I’ll take him in Midnight Run.
I’ll also take Grodin as the rich jerk. He was about the fourth choice for this role behind Robin Williams and Bruce Willis, who took the John McClain role in Die Hard after being turned down here. Cher was even considered at one point to add sexual tension. Grodin probably provided more sexual tension. Thankfully for you, us film gods stopped that one. We work in funny ways up here.
Friday, July 14, 2006
The Wages of Fear *****
In 1953, Alfred Hitchcock and I were having some beverages while sitting in an outdoor café at Cannes during the film festival that year. We’d just watched Lili and Come Back, Little Sheba and were both embarrassed to part of any community that would be responsible for such garbage (I was actually thrown out of Little Sheba for throwing my martini glass against the screen). Then, it happened – we saw Wages of Fear.
Both of us just sat there nursing Scotch in a daze. Wages was one of the most gripping thrillers I’d ever seen and it even had the "Master of Suspense" shaken. The basic concept was a huge American oil company needed to find a way to get several barrels of nitroglycerin over a rocky mountain pass. No union man would take the job, so the nod went to four down-and-out locals who saw this as their only change to get out of this hellish town.
The first hour was spent developing the characters (with two particularly memorable performances by the always great Charles Vanel and Yves Montand) and relating how horrible this town was. Basically the point that the great French director Henri-Georges Clouzot wants to establish is why four people would do what they are about to do. This material would make a reasonably entertaining movie by itself if he just cut 30 to 45 minutes out of it, but here it’s just the set up for the main event.
The final hour-and-a-half of the movie are spent in the truck as Clouzot tosses one dilemma after another at his four characters. One problem was that the truck has to cross an oil pit. A second issue occurred when the driver discovered if the truck drove under 40 miles-an-hour over one part of the terrain, the barrels shook too much. There were also a few extra sharp turns and one classic scene where the truck is caught on a rickety wooden platform while trying to cut a corner.
Once we both got some booze in us and were able to formulate complete sentences, I joked with Hitchcock that if he made the story, he would have had the drivers hit a big rock in the first fifteen minutes, blow up, find a new body under the rock and start the real murder mystery. After laughing for a minute about the convoluted plot that was typical of some of Hitch’s early movies, Alfred stopped laughing and took on a far-off gaze. I should have copyrighted my idea since it bears great similarity to the opening minutes of Psycho.
Anyway, Hitchcock was a great admirer of Clouzot for obvious reasons. Clouzot was a firm believer in Hitchcock’s theory of thriller movie-making. Hitchcock never wanted to scare anyone. He just wanted to drive you insane with suspense. He once said that it’s easy to scare someone; put a bomb under someone’s chair and set it off without the audience knowing its there. But suspense is an art. An example of suspense that Hitch always used was to take that same scene, except let the audience, but not the protagonist, know that bomb is there and make it a time bomb. Let the audience hear the ticking while the main character sits unaware. This is suspense and the longer you can stretch this out, the better a filmmaker you are. Clouzot was one of the best.
This movie was remade 25 years later by William Friedkin, a fine director in his own right. This newer version was called Sorcerer and it was a pretty good effort, but it lacked something. Friedkin had better technology at hand and this helped with some of the scenes, but the timing was just a little off. It wasn’t frantic enough. Friedkin couldn’t keep up Clouzot’s pace. Clouzot would move the camera in and out, back and forth and keep cutting the entire time. He would cut between a close-up and a long shot, jarring the audience through the bumps of the terrain. With the knowledge that one bump too many could send this truck off into a million pieces, each jarring edit added to the tension.
The best part was that today a thriller has to have a happy ending (Speed) – not back then. These four men were at Clouzot’s almost-sadistic whim as he played puppet-master with their lives. It just ratcheted up the tension even higher. After walking out of the theater, people were visibly shaken, some looking white as a summer cloud.
Two years later, Clouzot would make another classic, Diabolique, which had probably the greatest plot twist in the history of cinema. The beauty of the twist was how perfectly Clouzot set us all up. I believe this twist was the inspiration for the famous ending of Hitchcock’s Psycho.
Hitchcock and Clouzot are great directors and the difference can be seen in this quick story. For years, Jean-Luc Godard dismissed all of Clouzot’s movies until in 1956 when he made The Mystery of Picasso, which featured Picasso painting against glass while explaining what he is doing. To Godard, that was the movie that established Clouzot and made him a great filmmaker. Next time you try and tell me that Godard knows what the hell he’s talking about, think about what you would rather watch – Wages of Fear or watching paint dry.
Both of us just sat there nursing Scotch in a daze. Wages was one of the most gripping thrillers I’d ever seen and it even had the "Master of Suspense" shaken. The basic concept was a huge American oil company needed to find a way to get several barrels of nitroglycerin over a rocky mountain pass. No union man would take the job, so the nod went to four down-and-out locals who saw this as their only change to get out of this hellish town.
The first hour was spent developing the characters (with two particularly memorable performances by the always great Charles Vanel and Yves Montand) and relating how horrible this town was. Basically the point that the great French director Henri-Georges Clouzot wants to establish is why four people would do what they are about to do. This material would make a reasonably entertaining movie by itself if he just cut 30 to 45 minutes out of it, but here it’s just the set up for the main event.
The final hour-and-a-half of the movie are spent in the truck as Clouzot tosses one dilemma after another at his four characters. One problem was that the truck has to cross an oil pit. A second issue occurred when the driver discovered if the truck drove under 40 miles-an-hour over one part of the terrain, the barrels shook too much. There were also a few extra sharp turns and one classic scene where the truck is caught on a rickety wooden platform while trying to cut a corner.
Once we both got some booze in us and were able to formulate complete sentences, I joked with Hitchcock that if he made the story, he would have had the drivers hit a big rock in the first fifteen minutes, blow up, find a new body under the rock and start the real murder mystery. After laughing for a minute about the convoluted plot that was typical of some of Hitch’s early movies, Alfred stopped laughing and took on a far-off gaze. I should have copyrighted my idea since it bears great similarity to the opening minutes of Psycho.
Anyway, Hitchcock was a great admirer of Clouzot for obvious reasons. Clouzot was a firm believer in Hitchcock’s theory of thriller movie-making. Hitchcock never wanted to scare anyone. He just wanted to drive you insane with suspense. He once said that it’s easy to scare someone; put a bomb under someone’s chair and set it off without the audience knowing its there. But suspense is an art. An example of suspense that Hitch always used was to take that same scene, except let the audience, but not the protagonist, know that bomb is there and make it a time bomb. Let the audience hear the ticking while the main character sits unaware. This is suspense and the longer you can stretch this out, the better a filmmaker you are. Clouzot was one of the best.
This movie was remade 25 years later by William Friedkin, a fine director in his own right. This newer version was called Sorcerer and it was a pretty good effort, but it lacked something. Friedkin had better technology at hand and this helped with some of the scenes, but the timing was just a little off. It wasn’t frantic enough. Friedkin couldn’t keep up Clouzot’s pace. Clouzot would move the camera in and out, back and forth and keep cutting the entire time. He would cut between a close-up and a long shot, jarring the audience through the bumps of the terrain. With the knowledge that one bump too many could send this truck off into a million pieces, each jarring edit added to the tension.
The best part was that today a thriller has to have a happy ending (Speed) – not back then. These four men were at Clouzot’s almost-sadistic whim as he played puppet-master with their lives. It just ratcheted up the tension even higher. After walking out of the theater, people were visibly shaken, some looking white as a summer cloud.
Two years later, Clouzot would make another classic, Diabolique, which had probably the greatest plot twist in the history of cinema. The beauty of the twist was how perfectly Clouzot set us all up. I believe this twist was the inspiration for the famous ending of Hitchcock’s Psycho.
Hitchcock and Clouzot are great directors and the difference can be seen in this quick story. For years, Jean-Luc Godard dismissed all of Clouzot’s movies until in 1956 when he made The Mystery of Picasso, which featured Picasso painting against glass while explaining what he is doing. To Godard, that was the movie that established Clouzot and made him a great filmmaker. Next time you try and tell me that Godard knows what the hell he’s talking about, think about what you would rather watch – Wages of Fear or watching paint dry.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
The Last Laugh *****
Orson Welles used to call the great silent director Erich Von Stroheim, my ersatz "von." Erich’s last name was actually just Stroheim; he threw the von in there to make himself sound more imperial. This perfectly fits into the personality of the man who was legendary for his extravagance. During the filming of one movie, he actually bought a city block in San Francisco because recreating that same block would not be realistic enough
Billy Wilder once told me a story about working with Erich von Stroheim during the making of Sunset Boulevard. During one scene where the actor von Stroheim was supposed to snap a picture, Erich complained that there was no film in the camera. Wilder said it didn’t matter, just fake it. “You can’t fake it,” Von Stroheim said. “The audience always knows.”
I love the ersatz "von" and I love his films, but he’s wrong here. The audience never knows. That’s the magic of film. There are three types of directors; the first let’s the story and the actors do all of the work while he stays in the background, the second becomes part of the movie with wild and sometimes nonsensical camera movements and edits, the third turns the camera and the moviola into characters themselves. Greatness lies with the third director, because it is they who understand the art of cinema and can explore its various modes of expression to the fullest. Welles, Hawks, Scorcese, Fellini, Hitchcock are all classified by the third style – as is F.W. Murnau.
Murnau is the greatest of the German expressionist directors and it is his subtlety that sets him apart from those who were defined by this style. You always knew you were watching a Murnau film as he hovered in the background; maneuvering the camera to change your opinion of a character; changing the focus to give you a different impression. More than anything else it is the camera movements that stand out in retrospect, but go almost unnoticed while you are watching the film. The slow movements capture a different side of a face, pick up a different reaction, effecting the overall emotion of the film.
All of Murnau’s movies have this artistry, but if I have to pick one that displays it best, I’ll go with The Last Laugh. Some have said that this is Carl Meyer’s vision and that Murnau just executed instructions. I don’t buy it. If you watch Meyer’s most famous film, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, there is none of the emotion or subtlety that is evident in The Last Laugh. Caligari is simply an exercise in how many stunts and tricks you can do with a camera. The camera doesn’t add to the story in Caligari, it distracts from it, in turn becoming an act of ego and nothing more. There are various camera movements and stunts in The Last Laugh but each one is meant to enhance the story and nothing distracts the viewer.
The story itself is about a doorman who lives in a small German town. The doorman wears a regal red outfit for his job and when he goes home his neighbors look at him with respect and his family with pride. The uniform gives him the look of a general and his entire sense of self-worth is based in those clothes. The doorman takes vast pride in his position and works very hard; but one day his boss notices that he’s winded after carrying a couple of bags up a few flights of stairs. Thinking that maybe the doorman is getting too old for the job, he is transferred to wash room attendant. The move wasn’t meant to be a demotion, but there is no regal red uniform to go along with being a wash room attendant and the door man is devastated. A phony ended is tagged on that doesn't fit with the story and looks like a studio insisted on it, so I won’t bother discussing it.
The doorman is played by Emil Jannings, who is the only Nazi to win the Best Actor Oscar (quite a distinction and something we’re all proud of). I am biased here because I don’t like Jannings and will go to any length to avoid giving the Swastika-loving goose-stepper credit for anything. He died in 1950 and I toasted his death with a 15 year-old bottle of scotch.
He does give a fine performance here, filled with pathos. But (and here it comes), I’m not sure how much credit I want to give Jannings for this performance because the subtle camera work of Murnau adds so much emotion. It’s very difficult to describe. Any great work of film should be hard to describe and that’s why film is such a great medium. With the greatest of movies, film should be the only way to tell the story.
The Last Laugh is told entirely without title cards. No words – written or spoken. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; the best films should be understood without any words. Not only is that the result in the Last Laugh, but you also get a film that balances a very fine line between ridiculousness and pathos. The doorman’s situation is kind of silly on the surface, but you watch The Last Laugh and you’ll notice your allergies acting up by the end. That’s also the magic of film.
Billy Wilder once told me a story about working with Erich von Stroheim during the making of Sunset Boulevard. During one scene where the actor von Stroheim was supposed to snap a picture, Erich complained that there was no film in the camera. Wilder said it didn’t matter, just fake it. “You can’t fake it,” Von Stroheim said. “The audience always knows.”
I love the ersatz "von" and I love his films, but he’s wrong here. The audience never knows. That’s the magic of film. There are three types of directors; the first let’s the story and the actors do all of the work while he stays in the background, the second becomes part of the movie with wild and sometimes nonsensical camera movements and edits, the third turns the camera and the moviola into characters themselves. Greatness lies with the third director, because it is they who understand the art of cinema and can explore its various modes of expression to the fullest. Welles, Hawks, Scorcese, Fellini, Hitchcock are all classified by the third style – as is F.W. Murnau.
Murnau is the greatest of the German expressionist directors and it is his subtlety that sets him apart from those who were defined by this style. You always knew you were watching a Murnau film as he hovered in the background; maneuvering the camera to change your opinion of a character; changing the focus to give you a different impression. More than anything else it is the camera movements that stand out in retrospect, but go almost unnoticed while you are watching the film. The slow movements capture a different side of a face, pick up a different reaction, effecting the overall emotion of the film.
All of Murnau’s movies have this artistry, but if I have to pick one that displays it best, I’ll go with The Last Laugh. Some have said that this is Carl Meyer’s vision and that Murnau just executed instructions. I don’t buy it. If you watch Meyer’s most famous film, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, there is none of the emotion or subtlety that is evident in The Last Laugh. Caligari is simply an exercise in how many stunts and tricks you can do with a camera. The camera doesn’t add to the story in Caligari, it distracts from it, in turn becoming an act of ego and nothing more. There are various camera movements and stunts in The Last Laugh but each one is meant to enhance the story and nothing distracts the viewer.
The story itself is about a doorman who lives in a small German town. The doorman wears a regal red outfit for his job and when he goes home his neighbors look at him with respect and his family with pride. The uniform gives him the look of a general and his entire sense of self-worth is based in those clothes. The doorman takes vast pride in his position and works very hard; but one day his boss notices that he’s winded after carrying a couple of bags up a few flights of stairs. Thinking that maybe the doorman is getting too old for the job, he is transferred to wash room attendant. The move wasn’t meant to be a demotion, but there is no regal red uniform to go along with being a wash room attendant and the door man is devastated. A phony ended is tagged on that doesn't fit with the story and looks like a studio insisted on it, so I won’t bother discussing it.
The doorman is played by Emil Jannings, who is the only Nazi to win the Best Actor Oscar (quite a distinction and something we’re all proud of). I am biased here because I don’t like Jannings and will go to any length to avoid giving the Swastika-loving goose-stepper credit for anything. He died in 1950 and I toasted his death with a 15 year-old bottle of scotch.
He does give a fine performance here, filled with pathos. But (and here it comes), I’m not sure how much credit I want to give Jannings for this performance because the subtle camera work of Murnau adds so much emotion. It’s very difficult to describe. Any great work of film should be hard to describe and that’s why film is such a great medium. With the greatest of movies, film should be the only way to tell the story.
The Last Laugh is told entirely without title cards. No words – written or spoken. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; the best films should be understood without any words. Not only is that the result in the Last Laugh, but you also get a film that balances a very fine line between ridiculousness and pathos. The doorman’s situation is kind of silly on the surface, but you watch The Last Laugh and you’ll notice your allergies acting up by the end. That’s also the magic of film.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Fireman's Ball *****
For the average cinema patron, the back story behind what a filmmaker had to go through to see his project completed is meaningless; but you, my friends, are not average in anyway. Your high level of education and breeding is clear for the sole reason that you are reading this site.
This background information is not always important, but when the situation a director is in affects what he puts in a movie or how he shoots a scene; you, the best and brightest, should certainly care. This background adds something to the viewing experience.
For example, I was polishing off a marvelous bottle of Cognac with Orson Welles in the late 40s when we were discussing the movie that was not only his masterpiece that many consider the greatest movie ever made, but also the project that ended his career, Citizen Kane. The movie led to his downfall, because, at the precocious age of 25, Welles decided to take on one of the most powerful men in America, publisher William Randolph Hearst. Into the cups a bit, Orson admitted that he had one regret about Citizen Kane.
There was one scene that Welles talked about adding with his screenwriter Herman Mankiewicz regarding the mysterious death of producer Thomas Ince on Hearst’s boat in 1924. Many stories circulated about what happened, but the one that Mank (who knew several people on the boat) told Welles was that Hearst believed his wife was sleeping with Charlie Chaplin. According to the story, Hearst flew into a jealous rage and tried to shoot the actor, but hit Ince by accident. Due to Hearst’s influence, the story that was published was that Ince died of a stomach ailment. Looking back, Welles believed if he had inserted that scene, Hearst would have never challenged the film because he would have had to claim responsibility in the Ince affair.
Looking back on how that film affected the movie world and publishing, I find in fascinating. Maybe Welles could have gone on to make several other great films if Hearst hadn’t destroyed him here.
Milos Forman faced similar problems when he was making Fireman’s Ball, but if he made the wrong choice during a scene or inserted the wrong line of dialogue, the result would have been worse than a wrecked career. A mistake here could have cost him his life. See, the Czechoslovakian censors were not known for their taste in satire especially when aimed at the local Communist government. Forman and his screenwriter Ivan Prosser had to use the subtlest of humor to get his message across and it is that subtlety that leads to a comedy you can watch over and over again and find different things to laugh about each time.
On the surface, the movie is about a local volunteer fire department that is holding a ball to send off one of their own into retirement. They actually meant to do it the year before when the guy was actually retiring, but they kept putting it off, now the retiring fire fighter has been diagnosed with terminal cancer and the ball has a feel of shoveling dirt on the guy’s grave.
The running theme is that everything the fire fighters do is a dollar short. They hastily plan a beauty pagent at the last second and when all of the women you would want in such a pagent turn them down, they are stuck with shy, plump women who would probably be happy with a trophy made of chocolate and whipped cream.
Another scene shows two volunteers putting up a banner, but when the ladder collapses, the banner catches on fire. In each instance, individual people are not the focus of the satire, but it is the group or the unit. This little fire department and the people setting up the party are symbolic of the Communist party – a dollar short.
Now, I know in the past that I’ve complained about movies devoted to a theme, but that is because the picture is more concerned about being about a cause than about being a movie. In the case of Fireman’s Ball, the subtlety needed to get these lines past the censors makes the finished product even wittier. It’s like hearing the great double entendre dialogue from the 1930s and 1940s when screenwriters were trying to get their material past the Breen Office.
This very funny picture is made all the more dramatic and interesting knowing that if the government officials were smart enough to figure out what Forman was doing he would probably be arrested. Instead, the censors complained that the movie portrayed their society in a negative light. They missed the big picture and Forman remained a free man and was able to immigrate to America where he won an Oscar as Best Director for One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I like Fireman’s Ball better.
My favorite scene of the movie is at the end where in the middle of the ball the fire fighters respond late to a blazing barn. Outside as they watch the structure burn to the ground, the farmer complains to one of the fire fighters that he was cold. So the fire fighter pushes him a little closer to the fire. A little jab at the censors, maybe?
This background information is not always important, but when the situation a director is in affects what he puts in a movie or how he shoots a scene; you, the best and brightest, should certainly care. This background adds something to the viewing experience.
For example, I was polishing off a marvelous bottle of Cognac with Orson Welles in the late 40s when we were discussing the movie that was not only his masterpiece that many consider the greatest movie ever made, but also the project that ended his career, Citizen Kane. The movie led to his downfall, because, at the precocious age of 25, Welles decided to take on one of the most powerful men in America, publisher William Randolph Hearst. Into the cups a bit, Orson admitted that he had one regret about Citizen Kane.
There was one scene that Welles talked about adding with his screenwriter Herman Mankiewicz regarding the mysterious death of producer Thomas Ince on Hearst’s boat in 1924. Many stories circulated about what happened, but the one that Mank (who knew several people on the boat) told Welles was that Hearst believed his wife was sleeping with Charlie Chaplin. According to the story, Hearst flew into a jealous rage and tried to shoot the actor, but hit Ince by accident. Due to Hearst’s influence, the story that was published was that Ince died of a stomach ailment. Looking back, Welles believed if he had inserted that scene, Hearst would have never challenged the film because he would have had to claim responsibility in the Ince affair.
Looking back on how that film affected the movie world and publishing, I find in fascinating. Maybe Welles could have gone on to make several other great films if Hearst hadn’t destroyed him here.
Milos Forman faced similar problems when he was making Fireman’s Ball, but if he made the wrong choice during a scene or inserted the wrong line of dialogue, the result would have been worse than a wrecked career. A mistake here could have cost him his life. See, the Czechoslovakian censors were not known for their taste in satire especially when aimed at the local Communist government. Forman and his screenwriter Ivan Prosser had to use the subtlest of humor to get his message across and it is that subtlety that leads to a comedy you can watch over and over again and find different things to laugh about each time.
On the surface, the movie is about a local volunteer fire department that is holding a ball to send off one of their own into retirement. They actually meant to do it the year before when the guy was actually retiring, but they kept putting it off, now the retiring fire fighter has been diagnosed with terminal cancer and the ball has a feel of shoveling dirt on the guy’s grave.
The running theme is that everything the fire fighters do is a dollar short. They hastily plan a beauty pagent at the last second and when all of the women you would want in such a pagent turn them down, they are stuck with shy, plump women who would probably be happy with a trophy made of chocolate and whipped cream.
Another scene shows two volunteers putting up a banner, but when the ladder collapses, the banner catches on fire. In each instance, individual people are not the focus of the satire, but it is the group or the unit. This little fire department and the people setting up the party are symbolic of the Communist party – a dollar short.
Now, I know in the past that I’ve complained about movies devoted to a theme, but that is because the picture is more concerned about being about a cause than about being a movie. In the case of Fireman’s Ball, the subtlety needed to get these lines past the censors makes the finished product even wittier. It’s like hearing the great double entendre dialogue from the 1930s and 1940s when screenwriters were trying to get their material past the Breen Office.
This very funny picture is made all the more dramatic and interesting knowing that if the government officials were smart enough to figure out what Forman was doing he would probably be arrested. Instead, the censors complained that the movie portrayed their society in a negative light. They missed the big picture and Forman remained a free man and was able to immigrate to America where he won an Oscar as Best Director for One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I like Fireman’s Ball better.
My favorite scene of the movie is at the end where in the middle of the ball the fire fighters respond late to a blazing barn. Outside as they watch the structure burn to the ground, the farmer complains to one of the fire fighters that he was cold. So the fire fighter pushes him a little closer to the fire. A little jab at the censors, maybe?
Monday, July 10, 2006
The Big Clock ***1/2
No one can seem to agree what movie was the first film noir since no one can agree on what the exact definition of film noir is. It’s another of those many categories in film where you know it when you see it.
There is not even a consensus over critical elements, but in many of them you have a hapless male protagonist, a femme fatale, quick, snappy dialogue, and dark, shadowy photography with most scenes taking place at night. It’s a formula that’s effective and can make films that would otherwise only be ordinary, special.
Take for example The Big Clock: This is the story of a crime magazine editor who gets a snootful one night, wakes up the next day, and the woman he was with is dead. He doesn’t remember a thing, but all of the evidence points toward him. Right off the bat, I think they made two mistakes in this film. First, I see what they were trying to do, but they gave away the mystery too soon. I understand this was necessary to enhance Charles Laughton’s part, but it doesn’t work. Another critical aspect of film noir is that the main character cannot know more or less than the viewer. If he does, then what’s the point of the story? If he does not, then he just looks like a boob. The story has to be told through the main character’s eyes.
Speaking of the main character, that brings me to the second problem. Whenever I hear anyone say that Broderick Crawford was the actor with the least talent to win a Best Actor Oscar, I need to remind all of those people that Ray Milland took home the trophy for a lame performance in The Lost Weekend. B.C. at least gives you an honest effort as opposed to the ridiculous hystrionics that Ray employs. Picture an old silent melodrama film star cast in a modern day soap opera - that’s Ray. Milland gets exposed even more because he is working with Charles Laughton who completely outclasses him. I almost wish Laughton had Milland’s role because Charley’s part was clearly expanded to give him something to do. It’s great to see him, but he really has no impact on this movie.
Milland’s acting gets completely out of hand during the scene when he gets loaded because Raybo won the Oscar for his performance as a drunk, so ipso facto he is an expert. John Barrymore covered in bacon is less hammy, but the scene does inspire me to mix myself something green like in the movie (combinng Curacao and bar mix with vodka and gin does the trick).
Now with all of that said, you might be surprised to find out that I actually liked the movie. The main reason for that is the formula simply works. There have been many classic film noirs and even more good ones, but there has not been too many bad films made in this dark world.
Being the intelligent film student that your are, you would probably now ask how can I say that right after admitting it’s impossible to define what a noir is? Fair enough. In my mind, there are two critical elements that are necessary in a movie for me to be able to call it film noir – first, the film must be told through the eyes of the protagonist and second, the photography must be dark and filled with shadows.
For half of the film, both of these goals are accomplished, but around the midway point the secret is revealed to show the steps that the villain is taking to protect himself. It is at this point that the The Big Clock begins to fall apart because once the film moves away from the formula; the other faults (such as casting Milland) become more glaring. The film noir story-telling technique is so effective in relating the protagonist to the viewer that even a melodramatic boob like Milland can come across as compelling. Once the director and screenwriter let you in on who is behind the whole set up, then Milland come across looking like an idiot and the whole story starts to disintegrate.
If I wanted to show you an example of film noir at its best there are at least two dozen movies I could review over this one, but I picked this one for a reason. It’s a good movie and it could have been a great movie even though there is no reason for it. The casting and acting are bad and worse. The writing is good with the exception of the fatal flaws that I have already documented.
In the end, this is a movie that people still search out 60 years later even with all the mistakes that I’ve have gone over. Why? Because the formula works.
There is not even a consensus over critical elements, but in many of them you have a hapless male protagonist, a femme fatale, quick, snappy dialogue, and dark, shadowy photography with most scenes taking place at night. It’s a formula that’s effective and can make films that would otherwise only be ordinary, special.
Take for example The Big Clock: This is the story of a crime magazine editor who gets a snootful one night, wakes up the next day, and the woman he was with is dead. He doesn’t remember a thing, but all of the evidence points toward him. Right off the bat, I think they made two mistakes in this film. First, I see what they were trying to do, but they gave away the mystery too soon. I understand this was necessary to enhance Charles Laughton’s part, but it doesn’t work. Another critical aspect of film noir is that the main character cannot know more or less than the viewer. If he does, then what’s the point of the story? If he does not, then he just looks like a boob. The story has to be told through the main character’s eyes.
Speaking of the main character, that brings me to the second problem. Whenever I hear anyone say that Broderick Crawford was the actor with the least talent to win a Best Actor Oscar, I need to remind all of those people that Ray Milland took home the trophy for a lame performance in The Lost Weekend. B.C. at least gives you an honest effort as opposed to the ridiculous hystrionics that Ray employs. Picture an old silent melodrama film star cast in a modern day soap opera - that’s Ray. Milland gets exposed even more because he is working with Charles Laughton who completely outclasses him. I almost wish Laughton had Milland’s role because Charley’s part was clearly expanded to give him something to do. It’s great to see him, but he really has no impact on this movie.
Milland’s acting gets completely out of hand during the scene when he gets loaded because Raybo won the Oscar for his performance as a drunk, so ipso facto he is an expert. John Barrymore covered in bacon is less hammy, but the scene does inspire me to mix myself something green like in the movie (combinng Curacao and bar mix with vodka and gin does the trick).
Now with all of that said, you might be surprised to find out that I actually liked the movie. The main reason for that is the formula simply works. There have been many classic film noirs and even more good ones, but there has not been too many bad films made in this dark world.
Being the intelligent film student that your are, you would probably now ask how can I say that right after admitting it’s impossible to define what a noir is? Fair enough. In my mind, there are two critical elements that are necessary in a movie for me to be able to call it film noir – first, the film must be told through the eyes of the protagonist and second, the photography must be dark and filled with shadows.
For half of the film, both of these goals are accomplished, but around the midway point the secret is revealed to show the steps that the villain is taking to protect himself. It is at this point that the The Big Clock begins to fall apart because once the film moves away from the formula; the other faults (such as casting Milland) become more glaring. The film noir story-telling technique is so effective in relating the protagonist to the viewer that even a melodramatic boob like Milland can come across as compelling. Once the director and screenwriter let you in on who is behind the whole set up, then Milland come across looking like an idiot and the whole story starts to disintegrate.
If I wanted to show you an example of film noir at its best there are at least two dozen movies I could review over this one, but I picked this one for a reason. It’s a good movie and it could have been a great movie even though there is no reason for it. The casting and acting are bad and worse. The writing is good with the exception of the fatal flaws that I have already documented.
In the end, this is a movie that people still search out 60 years later even with all the mistakes that I’ve have gone over. Why? Because the formula works.
Billy Jack (-****************)
For the sake of full disclosure, I am completely snookered right now. You might ask how any responsible adult could act in this manner while working? Well, you see, that’s why I got drunk. It’s the only condition I can be in to get through Billy Jack in its entirety (or the opening credits for that matter). And so it is because of you, you my faithful readers, that I find my self in this condition. I hope you’re all proud of yourselves.
I have made the argument in the past that Billy Jack is the greatest plague that has ever been released on the cinema. Note the wording because it’s important. I didn’t say it was the worst movie ever made (even though it is close, maybe some Ed Wood movie is worse). I said it was the greatest plague. Big difference. Being a plague is much worse, but there is a lesson to be learned here. We’ll get to that later. Where to begin?
Back in the early 1970s, this jackass, Tom Laughlin, decided he wanted to address every social issue in the country and do it not by writing a pamphlet, but by making a film. Into this film, he tossed in some good ol’ wilderness shots, a bunch of hippies and some horrible twangy Leonard Cohen-sounding drivel. Oh and by the way, we’ll throw a little karate in there too. I hate martial arts movies in concept alone because the basic premise is that not only is the main character a karate expert, but also everyone else he happens to run into, which is stupid. I can maybe understand it in a Japanese film where karate is taught to everyone since the age of one, but this is bunch of frigging white guys in Oregon. Why don’t they just have a whittlin’ competition to settle their differences?
Take all of the above referenced ingredients, add in some sanctimony, uncharismatic bad acting by Laughlin as the star and a lovely message stating that a gun is more important then the Constitution when it comes to getting justice - and there you go.
Like I said, the movie’s bad enough, but that’s not what disgusts me about it. What does disgust me is that people went to watch this. Enough people so that sequels were made. Billy Jack became a cult figure. Laughlin got more work. David Carradine, Jean Claude Van Dam and Steven Segal found a doorway to a successful career doing something other than washing your car. And all this because you thought it would be a good idea to give this godforsaken movie a shot one Saturday night because you were bored. Because you have no life, we all have to suffer.
This piece of garbage starts by telling the story of this woman named Jean, who runs the Freedom School in Pueblo, Colorado (okay, I said Oregon, what’s the hell’s the difference?) where she teaches children creative arts and how to love the children of God. The conflict arises a white business man (you’ll notice I keep bringing up ethnic origins – so does Billy Jack) sees this school as a threat to his livelihood and to his dominance of this small desert town so he sends thugs to have it destroyed. But half-Cherokee and half-white Billy Jack arrives back from Vietnam to save the day and karate people into submission. It’s kind of like a hippy version of Road House.
I just thought of this. Laughlin makes a big deal out of BJ being half-white and half-Cherokee. The movie also emphasizes that BJ hates violence, but he has to use it in order to protect all the people singing kumbaya. I bet the honky part was the violent half and the Cherokee portion was the kumbaya half – how’s that for deep thinking? I really hate this movie.
Well, the evil white guy (I have no idea who plays him) won’t give up that easily and he sends a force the size of Patton’s Third Army after Billy Jack, but ol’ Billy fights them off using his crack shot as well.
During the course of all this fighting, Billy Jack confronts and solves a lot of problems in the world such as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict (he beats them all up), high gas prices (he invented a car that runs on vegetable oil), corruption in government (he installs a socialist government that he runs), and the global warming (he moved the earth 500 miles away from the sun).
I won’t give away the ending because I don’t remember it and I refuse to finish this because then I have to hear the god-awful theme song, One Tin Soldier, again, and I won’t do that…for you or anyone.
I sacrificed for you by watching this horrible movie and for this I need you to take one thing away from this dreadful experience. There is a personal responsibility that comes with going to the movies. It’s not just entertainment. It’s a big money business that influences a lot of lives.
The people who went to see Billy Jack when it originally came out are probably in their sixties now and their grandchildren are still paying the price for their lack of judgment. Not only was one Billy Jack sequel made, but two. Then think of all the horrible Steven Segal movies. Think off all the tight denim jackets and pants people wore after this. If this movie got the viewership it deserved, none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t have to review this 36 years later. Laughlin can still be found on television and he has a website where he still refers to himself as Billy Jack. Think about that next time you’re opening another Pandora’s Box at the movie theatre. It’s eight dollars for you and a lifetime of pain for the rest of us.
I have made the argument in the past that Billy Jack is the greatest plague that has ever been released on the cinema. Note the wording because it’s important. I didn’t say it was the worst movie ever made (even though it is close, maybe some Ed Wood movie is worse). I said it was the greatest plague. Big difference. Being a plague is much worse, but there is a lesson to be learned here. We’ll get to that later. Where to begin?
Back in the early 1970s, this jackass, Tom Laughlin, decided he wanted to address every social issue in the country and do it not by writing a pamphlet, but by making a film. Into this film, he tossed in some good ol’ wilderness shots, a bunch of hippies and some horrible twangy Leonard Cohen-sounding drivel. Oh and by the way, we’ll throw a little karate in there too. I hate martial arts movies in concept alone because the basic premise is that not only is the main character a karate expert, but also everyone else he happens to run into, which is stupid. I can maybe understand it in a Japanese film where karate is taught to everyone since the age of one, but this is bunch of frigging white guys in Oregon. Why don’t they just have a whittlin’ competition to settle their differences?
Take all of the above referenced ingredients, add in some sanctimony, uncharismatic bad acting by Laughlin as the star and a lovely message stating that a gun is more important then the Constitution when it comes to getting justice - and there you go.
Like I said, the movie’s bad enough, but that’s not what disgusts me about it. What does disgust me is that people went to watch this. Enough people so that sequels were made. Billy Jack became a cult figure. Laughlin got more work. David Carradine, Jean Claude Van Dam and Steven Segal found a doorway to a successful career doing something other than washing your car. And all this because you thought it would be a good idea to give this godforsaken movie a shot one Saturday night because you were bored. Because you have no life, we all have to suffer.
This piece of garbage starts by telling the story of this woman named Jean, who runs the Freedom School in Pueblo, Colorado (okay, I said Oregon, what’s the hell’s the difference?) where she teaches children creative arts and how to love the children of God. The conflict arises a white business man (you’ll notice I keep bringing up ethnic origins – so does Billy Jack) sees this school as a threat to his livelihood and to his dominance of this small desert town so he sends thugs to have it destroyed. But half-Cherokee and half-white Billy Jack arrives back from Vietnam to save the day and karate people into submission. It’s kind of like a hippy version of Road House.
I just thought of this. Laughlin makes a big deal out of BJ being half-white and half-Cherokee. The movie also emphasizes that BJ hates violence, but he has to use it in order to protect all the people singing kumbaya. I bet the honky part was the violent half and the Cherokee portion was the kumbaya half – how’s that for deep thinking? I really hate this movie.
Well, the evil white guy (I have no idea who plays him) won’t give up that easily and he sends a force the size of Patton’s Third Army after Billy Jack, but ol’ Billy fights them off using his crack shot as well.
During the course of all this fighting, Billy Jack confronts and solves a lot of problems in the world such as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict (he beats them all up), high gas prices (he invented a car that runs on vegetable oil), corruption in government (he installs a socialist government that he runs), and the global warming (he moved the earth 500 miles away from the sun).
I won’t give away the ending because I don’t remember it and I refuse to finish this because then I have to hear the god-awful theme song, One Tin Soldier, again, and I won’t do that…for you or anyone.
I sacrificed for you by watching this horrible movie and for this I need you to take one thing away from this dreadful experience. There is a personal responsibility that comes with going to the movies. It’s not just entertainment. It’s a big money business that influences a lot of lives.
The people who went to see Billy Jack when it originally came out are probably in their sixties now and their grandchildren are still paying the price for their lack of judgment. Not only was one Billy Jack sequel made, but two. Then think of all the horrible Steven Segal movies. Think off all the tight denim jackets and pants people wore after this. If this movie got the viewership it deserved, none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t have to review this 36 years later. Laughlin can still be found on television and he has a website where he still refers to himself as Billy Jack. Think about that next time you’re opening another Pandora’s Box at the movie theatre. It’s eight dollars for you and a lifetime of pain for the rest of us.
Friday, July 07, 2006
A Fistful of Dollars *****
Of all the definitions of mythology that I’ve looked up, none of them satisfy me. They're all too narrow. To me, something becomes part of mythology when it not only achieves iconic status within that same culture, but to other cultures.
So when I see an Italian director, remaking a Japanese movie, to give his take on the Western – I think it’s safe to say that the Wild West has reached the level of American mythology. The cowboy has become a symbol of what America is to the world.
I’ve already said that Jack Ford is the great American mythologist because of the outstanding Westerns that he has shot, but to explore the idea of the Western as American mythology I did not want to use one of his movies and I’ll use the follow story to explain why.
One dry summer day in Los Angeles, I was having lunch with Ford at some place on Wiltshire Boulevard and we started discussing My Darling Clementine, Ford’s film about the Gunfight at the OK Corral. There were parts of that movie that I had never read in any history book, so I asked Ford how much license he took with the legend. “None,” Ford answered. “I told the story exactly how Wyatt told it to me.” You learn something every day. It turns out that when Ford starting making silent westerns in the teens, he had become friends with the aging gunfighter Wyatt Earp.
My point is that Ford’s movies had somewhat of a first hand experience to them. He was just telling stories as he or his friends knew them. Sergio Leone and Akira Kurosawa explore the mythology that Jack Ford helped to create.
Kurosawa’s movie came first in 1961. He took the ideas and themes in a Western and adapted them to a story about a Japanese icon, the Samurai. Kurosawa did one thing a little different then most Westerns did when it came to plotting the story. In Yojimbo, the main character was completely immoral. The unnamed Samurai’s only goal was to obtain profit no matter who got hurt. And this was the hero! It sprinkled a bit of gray into a traditionally black and white business (Ford’s The Searchers is the exception here).
A couple of years later, Italian director Sergio Leone virtually plagiarized the plot of Yojimbo, placed it in the American West and had a bounty hunter/gunman replace the Samurai (one icon for another) and called it A Fistful of Dollars. Leone would go on to make several of what are called Spaghetti Westerns. There’s been some debate about which one of these movies was the best, but there’s always a soft spot in my heart for A Fistful of Dollars. This is my favorite Leone movie for two reasons; first of all, it was the maiden voyage and it was chartering new ground with each shot, and second, the Man with No Name was never quite as gloriously immoral in the sequels as he was in A Fistful of Dollars.
The basic story is that there are two families feuding in some unnamed town during some unmentioned time. Into this situation walks Clint Eastwood, the Man with No Name. After sizing up the deal, Clint decides to offer his services to one family to act as their bodyguard and to repel the threat of that other horrible family. The first family agrees, so Clint then goes to make the same offer to the second family. Following these original propositions, Clint then continues to work one side against the other until the entire town is decimated and he becomes rich in the process. I started to grin just thinking about it.
Not only does Leone explore this great American myth, but he enhances it by adding to the mix another great American tradition, capitalism. What Eastwood does is simply an immoral version of supply and demand and in turn becomes the Westerns first full blown antihero.
As great as the story is that is not why this movie is important. It’s the look of it. I’m not sure Leone even knows what a medium or a two-shot is. In this movie there are two options – the long, long shot where you can see into the next state or the extreme close-up where you can see the beads of sweat forming on the brow.
The vast, long shots are nothing new and have been a Ford staple for decades, but the close-ups are different. These shots can accomplish one of two things – either making the character larger-than-life by having a face fill the screen or making someone looked deformed or evil by focusing on a flaw. These shots also show the dirty, grimy part of the West as juxtaposition to the long beautiful shots of the vast scenery.
Also note that the hero does not have a name because that character is not a person at all, but an American archetype. It’s interesting to watch this movie because it’s a great film first of all and it shows an outsider’s take on something that is truly American.
By the way, if you still doubt that the Western is the only mythology that is uniquely American, tell me the last time you saw a Italian movie about George Washington. A Japanese film? Greek? I’m pretty sure the Brits didn’t do one.
So when I see an Italian director, remaking a Japanese movie, to give his take on the Western – I think it’s safe to say that the Wild West has reached the level of American mythology. The cowboy has become a symbol of what America is to the world.
I’ve already said that Jack Ford is the great American mythologist because of the outstanding Westerns that he has shot, but to explore the idea of the Western as American mythology I did not want to use one of his movies and I’ll use the follow story to explain why.
One dry summer day in Los Angeles, I was having lunch with Ford at some place on Wiltshire Boulevard and we started discussing My Darling Clementine, Ford’s film about the Gunfight at the OK Corral. There were parts of that movie that I had never read in any history book, so I asked Ford how much license he took with the legend. “None,” Ford answered. “I told the story exactly how Wyatt told it to me.” You learn something every day. It turns out that when Ford starting making silent westerns in the teens, he had become friends with the aging gunfighter Wyatt Earp.
My point is that Ford’s movies had somewhat of a first hand experience to them. He was just telling stories as he or his friends knew them. Sergio Leone and Akira Kurosawa explore the mythology that Jack Ford helped to create.
Kurosawa’s movie came first in 1961. He took the ideas and themes in a Western and adapted them to a story about a Japanese icon, the Samurai. Kurosawa did one thing a little different then most Westerns did when it came to plotting the story. In Yojimbo, the main character was completely immoral. The unnamed Samurai’s only goal was to obtain profit no matter who got hurt. And this was the hero! It sprinkled a bit of gray into a traditionally black and white business (Ford’s The Searchers is the exception here).
A couple of years later, Italian director Sergio Leone virtually plagiarized the plot of Yojimbo, placed it in the American West and had a bounty hunter/gunman replace the Samurai (one icon for another) and called it A Fistful of Dollars. Leone would go on to make several of what are called Spaghetti Westerns. There’s been some debate about which one of these movies was the best, but there’s always a soft spot in my heart for A Fistful of Dollars. This is my favorite Leone movie for two reasons; first of all, it was the maiden voyage and it was chartering new ground with each shot, and second, the Man with No Name was never quite as gloriously immoral in the sequels as he was in A Fistful of Dollars.
The basic story is that there are two families feuding in some unnamed town during some unmentioned time. Into this situation walks Clint Eastwood, the Man with No Name. After sizing up the deal, Clint decides to offer his services to one family to act as their bodyguard and to repel the threat of that other horrible family. The first family agrees, so Clint then goes to make the same offer to the second family. Following these original propositions, Clint then continues to work one side against the other until the entire town is decimated and he becomes rich in the process. I started to grin just thinking about it.
Not only does Leone explore this great American myth, but he enhances it by adding to the mix another great American tradition, capitalism. What Eastwood does is simply an immoral version of supply and demand and in turn becomes the Westerns first full blown antihero.
As great as the story is that is not why this movie is important. It’s the look of it. I’m not sure Leone even knows what a medium or a two-shot is. In this movie there are two options – the long, long shot where you can see into the next state or the extreme close-up where you can see the beads of sweat forming on the brow.
The vast, long shots are nothing new and have been a Ford staple for decades, but the close-ups are different. These shots can accomplish one of two things – either making the character larger-than-life by having a face fill the screen or making someone looked deformed or evil by focusing on a flaw. These shots also show the dirty, grimy part of the West as juxtaposition to the long beautiful shots of the vast scenery.
Also note that the hero does not have a name because that character is not a person at all, but an American archetype. It’s interesting to watch this movie because it’s a great film first of all and it shows an outsider’s take on something that is truly American.
By the way, if you still doubt that the Western is the only mythology that is uniquely American, tell me the last time you saw a Italian movie about George Washington. A Japanese film? Greek? I’m pretty sure the Brits didn’t do one.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Eight Men Out****
Few people know this, but the Maltese Falcon was made three times before John Huston got his hands on it. The first three versions were far from the classic that John made, but it had been made and no one was interested in making it again.
On the set of the African Queen, John why he decided to make the Falcon. He had been a successful screenwriter and he was trying to decide what movie he wanted to direct first. Howard Hawks suggested the Falcon. John thought Howard was nuts. It failed three times. Why would it work now?
"Because they didn't do it right," Hawks told John. "The movie was right there in the book and they didn't make that movie. They made something else. Just follow the book. It's right there for you."
Sometimes writers and directors out-think themselves and try so hard to make their own imprint on a story (see Truffaut, Francois) that they ruin the film. Eight Men Out was a story that told itself.
Being a child of ten in 1919 and a big baseball fan when the World Series fix took place, it affected me greatly. I also knew Ring Lardner's family well, so I was familar with his side of the story. Ring also was one of the many larger-than-life characters in the movie with other people like Arnold Rothstein, Kenesaw Mountain Landis, Ban Johnson and Charles Comiskey.
For those who don't know this famous story, the Chicago White Sox were about to polish off the 1919 regular season as American League champions. They were regarded as one of the best teams in recent memory and it was a foregone conclusion that they would crush the National League Champion Cincinnati Reds. For their part, the White Sox players weren't happy. They were stiffed out of bonus money for winning the pennant by their stingy owner Charlie Comiskey. One night, some gambler heard their complaints and came up with a proposition - we'll get you money if you tank the series. These gamblers were small time guys though and they needed big time cash. For that, there was only one man to go to - Arnold Rothstein. The small time guys were able to contact the big guy through an elaborate web of mobsters and the deal was complete. In the end there were two problems with the corrupt bargain - first, not all of the money due to the players trickled down and second, two reporters, Lardner and Hugh Fullington, began to smell a rat.
We didn't have independent movies back in my day. Didn't need them. The studios made a lot more movies back then and they didn't spend as much each film, so a story like this could get made. For some reason it wasn't and it took a little independent guy like John Sayles to see this for the great story that it is. He creates a great look, puts together a fine script, casts some good actors and gets out of the way.
For the life of me, I don't understand why more good sports movies have not been made since the drama's ready made, but of those that have been filmed, this one's the best. It has sentiment, drama, realism, grit and a smart director.
When ever I see this, I remember something that my good friend John Lardner, Ring's dad, wrote many years ago. John was a sports writer and he covered a lot of boxing. One story had to do with the death of former middleweight champion, Stanley Ketchel. Here's the lede - "Stanley Ketchel was twenty-four years old when he was fatally shot in the back by the common-law husband of the lady who was cooking his breakfast." You don't even need to read anymore. Lardner told a tragedy with one line - simply, dramatically and subtly.
That's a good description of Eight Men Out - simple, dramatic and subtle.
On the set of the African Queen, John why he decided to make the Falcon. He had been a successful screenwriter and he was trying to decide what movie he wanted to direct first. Howard Hawks suggested the Falcon. John thought Howard was nuts. It failed three times. Why would it work now?
"Because they didn't do it right," Hawks told John. "The movie was right there in the book and they didn't make that movie. They made something else. Just follow the book. It's right there for you."
Sometimes writers and directors out-think themselves and try so hard to make their own imprint on a story (see Truffaut, Francois) that they ruin the film. Eight Men Out was a story that told itself.
Being a child of ten in 1919 and a big baseball fan when the World Series fix took place, it affected me greatly. I also knew Ring Lardner's family well, so I was familar with his side of the story. Ring also was one of the many larger-than-life characters in the movie with other people like Arnold Rothstein, Kenesaw Mountain Landis, Ban Johnson and Charles Comiskey.
For those who don't know this famous story, the Chicago White Sox were about to polish off the 1919 regular season as American League champions. They were regarded as one of the best teams in recent memory and it was a foregone conclusion that they would crush the National League Champion Cincinnati Reds. For their part, the White Sox players weren't happy. They were stiffed out of bonus money for winning the pennant by their stingy owner Charlie Comiskey. One night, some gambler heard their complaints and came up with a proposition - we'll get you money if you tank the series. These gamblers were small time guys though and they needed big time cash. For that, there was only one man to go to - Arnold Rothstein. The small time guys were able to contact the big guy through an elaborate web of mobsters and the deal was complete. In the end there were two problems with the corrupt bargain - first, not all of the money due to the players trickled down and second, two reporters, Lardner and Hugh Fullington, began to smell a rat.
We didn't have independent movies back in my day. Didn't need them. The studios made a lot more movies back then and they didn't spend as much each film, so a story like this could get made. For some reason it wasn't and it took a little independent guy like John Sayles to see this for the great story that it is. He creates a great look, puts together a fine script, casts some good actors and gets out of the way.
For the life of me, I don't understand why more good sports movies have not been made since the drama's ready made, but of those that have been filmed, this one's the best. It has sentiment, drama, realism, grit and a smart director.
When ever I see this, I remember something that my good friend John Lardner, Ring's dad, wrote many years ago. John was a sports writer and he covered a lot of boxing. One story had to do with the death of former middleweight champion, Stanley Ketchel. Here's the lede - "Stanley Ketchel was twenty-four years old when he was fatally shot in the back by the common-law husband of the lady who was cooking his breakfast." You don't even need to read anymore. Lardner told a tragedy with one line - simply, dramatically and subtly.
That's a good description of Eight Men Out - simple, dramatic and subtle.
Blazing Saddles ****
Now, I'm sure you're going to say how can this dead guy like such a crude and disgusting movie? Doesn't he stand for old-fashioned values?
This site has nothing to do with wholesome movies or values of any kind (I actually tried to write an Andy Griffith death scene in one of my movies just for fun). All I care about is quality filmmaking and entertaining movies and trying to explain why movies back in the day were simply better than today.
Blazing Saddles may have been crude, but here's the rub, my darlings - there's a point to the crudeness. Not only is there a point, but the crudeness exposes those who are intelligent film viewers and the fungus growing out of a chair in the theatre.
For example, let's take the camp fire scene, shall we? For the fungi, the scene is a bunch of guys passing gas while they scream, "Funny. Funny. Do again. Do again," leading Darwin to desperately search for white-out.
Now for the intelligent film-goer, they would realize that all of the people around the camp fire were eating beans and would recall that beans seem to be the only item in the diet of most cowboys (at least as far as Westerns go). I actually can't recall seeing John Wayne eat anything but beans. How combustible must he have been? Now you figure with all that bean consumption, a scene like the one around the camp fire would have to take place at some point, so, what the hell? Mel Brooks decided to shoot the scene that must have been on the cutting room floor in The Searchers.
The movie is a satire, and making fun of such minor hypocrisies is what satire does. Satire is also a difficult thing to do, especially in the way that Brooks does it, tossing everything into the stew and hoping no one gets poisoned. I've always thought of Brooks in terms of baseball. Brooks probably has a gag every 10 seconds in one of his movies. If he hits 40 percent of them, it's a classic; 30 percent it's a good movie; 25 percent it's watchable; 20 percent or under and it's carbolic acid time. If he just hits 30 percent of the time, that's about 240 successful gags in a movie. Of course, you try writing 720 gags in a two-hour movie.
What Brooks does is not easy and it can (and has) lead to disaster (Robin Hood). Mel has two movies which climb over his 40 percent line - The Producers and this one. Even though I like The Producers more, I picked this one because it is a better example of Brooks's style of filmmaking and a better example for my little thesis here.
Blazing Saddles is much baser than The Producers. In retrospect, it seems like Brooks was behaving himself during The Producers until he had a success and once that movie became a big hit he was free to do what he wanted. Blazing Saddles takes place in 1874 in some former Wild West town that has been civilized. The government wants to build a train through the town and, Hedley Lamarr (yes, the joke is made often), a corrupt assistant to the governor, needs to find a way to get the people out of town, so he can buy the land cheaply and sell it back to the government. First, Lamarr sends a group of thugs to bully them out, but the townspeople hold their ground and ask the governor for a new sheriff. Lamarr convinces the governor to send a black man by telling him that he will be a hero to the civil rights movement (which was certainly important in a western town in 1874). The governor's not too bright, so he agrees. Lamarr hopes the presence of the new sheriff will finally drive everyone away.
Where's the satire here? Name me one black guy who has ever (EVER!!!) appeared in a western. And minstrels don't count. Yes, John Ford used Stephen Fetchit once but it wasn't a Western and it was Stephen Fetchit, so that doesn't count either.
There’s your plot. Now chaos ensues and somewhere in the next two hours a former football player hit a horse in the mouth. Why not?
Within all of this madness, the jokes keep coming back to making fun of the old Westerns and making fun of racism. My favorite bit in the movie is when Clevon Little, who plays the Sheriff, does an impersonation of Fetchit every time he gets into trouble. For some reason, each time Little does this gag, the people in the town forget they are mad at him and try to help the “poor Negro.”
Ironically, this style of movie led to a whole bunch of horrible rip-offs. I mean this style may be responsible for more bad movies (some of them Mel’s) in the past 30 years then any other one combined. But I'm not here to judge those movies, I'm here to judge Blazing Saddles, which was a damn funny movie.
This site has nothing to do with wholesome movies or values of any kind (I actually tried to write an Andy Griffith death scene in one of my movies just for fun). All I care about is quality filmmaking and entertaining movies and trying to explain why movies back in the day were simply better than today.
Blazing Saddles may have been crude, but here's the rub, my darlings - there's a point to the crudeness. Not only is there a point, but the crudeness exposes those who are intelligent film viewers and the fungus growing out of a chair in the theatre.
For example, let's take the camp fire scene, shall we? For the fungi, the scene is a bunch of guys passing gas while they scream, "Funny. Funny. Do again. Do again," leading Darwin to desperately search for white-out.
Now for the intelligent film-goer, they would realize that all of the people around the camp fire were eating beans and would recall that beans seem to be the only item in the diet of most cowboys (at least as far as Westerns go). I actually can't recall seeing John Wayne eat anything but beans. How combustible must he have been? Now you figure with all that bean consumption, a scene like the one around the camp fire would have to take place at some point, so, what the hell? Mel Brooks decided to shoot the scene that must have been on the cutting room floor in The Searchers.
The movie is a satire, and making fun of such minor hypocrisies is what satire does. Satire is also a difficult thing to do, especially in the way that Brooks does it, tossing everything into the stew and hoping no one gets poisoned. I've always thought of Brooks in terms of baseball. Brooks probably has a gag every 10 seconds in one of his movies. If he hits 40 percent of them, it's a classic; 30 percent it's a good movie; 25 percent it's watchable; 20 percent or under and it's carbolic acid time. If he just hits 30 percent of the time, that's about 240 successful gags in a movie. Of course, you try writing 720 gags in a two-hour movie.
What Brooks does is not easy and it can (and has) lead to disaster (Robin Hood). Mel has two movies which climb over his 40 percent line - The Producers and this one. Even though I like The Producers more, I picked this one because it is a better example of Brooks's style of filmmaking and a better example for my little thesis here.
Blazing Saddles is much baser than The Producers. In retrospect, it seems like Brooks was behaving himself during The Producers until he had a success and once that movie became a big hit he was free to do what he wanted. Blazing Saddles takes place in 1874 in some former Wild West town that has been civilized. The government wants to build a train through the town and, Hedley Lamarr (yes, the joke is made often), a corrupt assistant to the governor, needs to find a way to get the people out of town, so he can buy the land cheaply and sell it back to the government. First, Lamarr sends a group of thugs to bully them out, but the townspeople hold their ground and ask the governor for a new sheriff. Lamarr convinces the governor to send a black man by telling him that he will be a hero to the civil rights movement (which was certainly important in a western town in 1874). The governor's not too bright, so he agrees. Lamarr hopes the presence of the new sheriff will finally drive everyone away.
Where's the satire here? Name me one black guy who has ever (EVER!!!) appeared in a western. And minstrels don't count. Yes, John Ford used Stephen Fetchit once but it wasn't a Western and it was Stephen Fetchit, so that doesn't count either.
There’s your plot. Now chaos ensues and somewhere in the next two hours a former football player hit a horse in the mouth. Why not?
Within all of this madness, the jokes keep coming back to making fun of the old Westerns and making fun of racism. My favorite bit in the movie is when Clevon Little, who plays the Sheriff, does an impersonation of Fetchit every time he gets into trouble. For some reason, each time Little does this gag, the people in the town forget they are mad at him and try to help the “poor Negro.”
Ironically, this style of movie led to a whole bunch of horrible rip-offs. I mean this style may be responsible for more bad movies (some of them Mel’s) in the past 30 years then any other one combined. But I'm not here to judge those movies, I'm here to judge Blazing Saddles, which was a damn funny movie.
Monday, July 03, 2006
The Sun Shines Bright ***
In my mind, John Ford is arguably America’s greatest mythologist. My reasoning being that Ford is the greatest director of westerns in the history of film, and the Old West would be the great American mythology.
With that said, I am watching Jack’s personal favorite, The Sun Shines Bright, and there is Stephen Fetchit. Now what do I say?
For those who do not recognize the name, Stephen Fetchit was the character played by Lincoln Perry in the early days of talking pictures. Fetchit was basically every stereotype of the black man back then that you could think of; lazy, shiftless, slurring speech, so on and so forth.
Perry was actually a talented actor in his own right and very literate, but the only part that would pay him any money back then was variations of this Stephen Fetchit role. I love Ford’s movies, but here I am trying to figure out what deep purpose Jack could have in casting Perry to do his Stephen Fetchit bit here.
This is not the first time one of Ford’s movies has been criticized for relying on stereotypes. The depiction of Native Americans in Stagecoach probably isn’t what Sitting Bull had in mind.
This is a theme I look at a lot because I do believe it is important, but how far do you let stereotypes and ignorance negatively influence your opinion of what is othewise a great film? I’ve address this often before in regards to Birth of a Nation, but in that case, the movie was such a landmark and so influential that it was an easy call. What about The Sun Shines Bright? It’s a very good movie with a phenomenal performance by Charles Winniger as the good natured judge who is filled with contradictions. The themes of this film all mean well with Judge Priest putting his community ahead of himself and helping all members of that community, even those who can’t vote (African Americans).
Before I get too far ahead of myself, I should give a little plot synopsis. The Sun Shines Bright was made in 1953 and was a compilation of three Irvin S. Cobb short stories. Cobb’s famous character was Judge Priest, a mostly liberal, open-minded man, who proudly served the Confederate army and loves Southern traditions. I told you he was filled with contradiction, and, as always, contradiction done well lead to an interesting character and Winniger does him well.
The film is a character study of Priest and a look at how he deals with certain problems. The movie takes place at the turn of the century in Kentucky and Priest is up for re-election against a conservative, law-and-order, opponent. During the election, Priest confronts a lynch mob that is about to hang a black teenager who is accused of raping a white woman. Priest forces the mob to disperse at gun point. The judge also attends a funeral procession for a woman he knows that is known around town for having a questionable background. These actions throw the popular judge’s almost certain re-election into doubt.
From that description, the movie appears to be quite progressive in its views, but then you see the parts for the black actors and how those actors are treated. Even Judge Priest’s treatment of these characters can at best be called paternal – very paternal. I've put much thought into that word. I don't like it, but I can't come up with another. In this movie, Priest (and I mean who the character is written) does not treat the black people of the down badly, but there is a certain unintentional condensation to his tone. It's hard to describe, but unmistakable.
On the other hand, this movie does take place in Kentucky during the turn of the century. People like Priest not only remember the Civil War, but fought in it. Would it be intellectually dishonest to expect anything more even from an open-minded character like Judge Priest? Would it be historically laughable to place a Bobby Kennedy-type person in that time and place?
Here’s my problem. I was born in Tennessee in 1909. I was poor and I moved to Massachusetts at a relatively young age, so I didn’t get a chance to soak up too much Southern atmosphere. Ford was born in Maine, so he’s not exactly a son of the Confederacy either. What I do know is that for some odd reason whether it’s ignorance or laziness, Jack Ford uses stereotypes of African Americans in this movie for no reason that I can see to drive the story. Now is Priest acting the way he is because that is all you could get away with back then, or is he a bigot as well?
The bottom line is that because Ford was ignorant or lazy in his characterization of the African Americans here, it throws into doubt how much good will I feel like granting Judge Priest. I’ve always said I like to think during movies, but not this much.
This movie is worth watching because of Winniger's performance, the overall quality of the film and maybe as an educational tool on how even smart men like Ford could be warped by ignorance. The movie is also physically beautiful in it’s depiction of a small Kentucky town circa 1900. It’s frustrating because this should have been a great movie, but I can’t say that and it’s Ford’s fault.
With that said, I am watching Jack’s personal favorite, The Sun Shines Bright, and there is Stephen Fetchit. Now what do I say?
For those who do not recognize the name, Stephen Fetchit was the character played by Lincoln Perry in the early days of talking pictures. Fetchit was basically every stereotype of the black man back then that you could think of; lazy, shiftless, slurring speech, so on and so forth.
Perry was actually a talented actor in his own right and very literate, but the only part that would pay him any money back then was variations of this Stephen Fetchit role. I love Ford’s movies, but here I am trying to figure out what deep purpose Jack could have in casting Perry to do his Stephen Fetchit bit here.
This is not the first time one of Ford’s movies has been criticized for relying on stereotypes. The depiction of Native Americans in Stagecoach probably isn’t what Sitting Bull had in mind.
This is a theme I look at a lot because I do believe it is important, but how far do you let stereotypes and ignorance negatively influence your opinion of what is othewise a great film? I’ve address this often before in regards to Birth of a Nation, but in that case, the movie was such a landmark and so influential that it was an easy call. What about The Sun Shines Bright? It’s a very good movie with a phenomenal performance by Charles Winniger as the good natured judge who is filled with contradictions. The themes of this film all mean well with Judge Priest putting his community ahead of himself and helping all members of that community, even those who can’t vote (African Americans).
Before I get too far ahead of myself, I should give a little plot synopsis. The Sun Shines Bright was made in 1953 and was a compilation of three Irvin S. Cobb short stories. Cobb’s famous character was Judge Priest, a mostly liberal, open-minded man, who proudly served the Confederate army and loves Southern traditions. I told you he was filled with contradiction, and, as always, contradiction done well lead to an interesting character and Winniger does him well.
The film is a character study of Priest and a look at how he deals with certain problems. The movie takes place at the turn of the century in Kentucky and Priest is up for re-election against a conservative, law-and-order, opponent. During the election, Priest confronts a lynch mob that is about to hang a black teenager who is accused of raping a white woman. Priest forces the mob to disperse at gun point. The judge also attends a funeral procession for a woman he knows that is known around town for having a questionable background. These actions throw the popular judge’s almost certain re-election into doubt.
From that description, the movie appears to be quite progressive in its views, but then you see the parts for the black actors and how those actors are treated. Even Judge Priest’s treatment of these characters can at best be called paternal – very paternal. I've put much thought into that word. I don't like it, but I can't come up with another. In this movie, Priest (and I mean who the character is written) does not treat the black people of the down badly, but there is a certain unintentional condensation to his tone. It's hard to describe, but unmistakable.
On the other hand, this movie does take place in Kentucky during the turn of the century. People like Priest not only remember the Civil War, but fought in it. Would it be intellectually dishonest to expect anything more even from an open-minded character like Judge Priest? Would it be historically laughable to place a Bobby Kennedy-type person in that time and place?
Here’s my problem. I was born in Tennessee in 1909. I was poor and I moved to Massachusetts at a relatively young age, so I didn’t get a chance to soak up too much Southern atmosphere. Ford was born in Maine, so he’s not exactly a son of the Confederacy either. What I do know is that for some odd reason whether it’s ignorance or laziness, Jack Ford uses stereotypes of African Americans in this movie for no reason that I can see to drive the story. Now is Priest acting the way he is because that is all you could get away with back then, or is he a bigot as well?
The bottom line is that because Ford was ignorant or lazy in his characterization of the African Americans here, it throws into doubt how much good will I feel like granting Judge Priest. I’ve always said I like to think during movies, but not this much.
This movie is worth watching because of Winniger's performance, the overall quality of the film and maybe as an educational tool on how even smart men like Ford could be warped by ignorance. The movie is also physically beautiful in it’s depiction of a small Kentucky town circa 1900. It’s frustrating because this should have been a great movie, but I can’t say that and it’s Ford’s fault.
Slave Ship ****
What is taboo? What should not be discussed?
These are not rhetorical questions as far as I'm concerned. I really don't know. Can the art of film making be judged on its own without looking at the context? To that question, I will say yes since for decades I was one of D.W. Griffith's loudest defenders. There really is no questioning the racism in Birth of a Nation, which is is indefensible, but the greatness of that movie is not subjective, it's objective. Every film you see today has been influenced by the work of Griffith and his great Director of Photography Billy Bitzer. That is a fact.
We run into the same problem while watching Leni Riefenstal's Triumph of the Will. It's without a doubt a great movie. The visuals and the editing are stunning, but it is also a dangerous movie - far more dangerous than Birth of a Nation. Triumph of the Will is a marvelous propaganda piece showing the greatness of the Nazi party. So marvelous that I actually felt queasy several times during one screening.
Should this film be destroyed? I would say no. No matter how dangerous, I would be hesitant to destroy anything that can teach us something, no matter how unpleasant. Both of these films teach us not only about how to make a great film, but also about the darker recesses of the human spirit. We may not like to admit this but people who believe this stuff do exist and they may be sitting on the train next to you. This brings us to today's movie - Slave Ship. This movie would not be made today and that's a shame because it is a topic that is not looked at enough in history classes. The Nazi's were horrific enough, but at least they had some ideology, no matter how disgraceful. Slave traders had none. They destroyed millions of lives for profit. What the hell would possess someone to do this?
This movie looks at the men who make their living trading slaves back in 1860. If the movie was made today, these guys would just be the same black and white bad guys without looking at the actual people. This movie actually looks at the people. The ship owner and the first mate are played by Warner Baxter and Wallace Beery respectively and they don't come anymore underrated than these two. Baxter actually won an Oscar for his performance in In Old Arizona, but that movie was horrible, so I don't count it. Baxter and Berry just give one solid honest effort after another and they are both on top of their game here.
Baxter is a little uncomfortable with how he makes his living and tells Beery that this trip will be their last in this line of work. Baxter is about to be married and he wants to go legitimate, trading non-humans. There is less money doing this type of work, but that doesn't bother Baxter as long as his conscience will be clear from now on. There's nothing wrong with Beery's conscience or that of the crew for that matter. With that in mind, they don't like the boss's business decision so they revolt. And there you go. You have to go get it to find out the rest.
It’s a very interesting movie. The story is by William Faulkner, which considering the topic, provides for some legitimacy. There are also some Faulkner touches that can be seen in some of the unique and eccentric Southern characters.
The final script was not credited to Faulkner and those parts are evident as well. Faulker’s has a smooth, steady writing style even when he was experimenting. There are not a lot of scenes in Bill’s work which would be considered jarring, but there are many such moments in Slave Ship. The most famous of these scenes is where the crew comes up with a repulsive and horrifying way to hide evidence from an invading English policing ship. To give you a hint, this scene would be replayed 60 years later in a film called Amistad.
Slave Ship is not a masterpiece, but it is an emotional, disturbing, unsettling and upsetting lost classic which deserves a better fate than it has received. Some people go to the movies to get away from their stressful lives and to be taken on a fantasy ride. That’s fine, but if you go to the movies to be challenged and to learn about something you might not know about, then this is the flick for you. There are evil people in this world and if you just want to call them evil and not learn how they got that way, more power to you, but that’s how World War II got started.
Sometimes there are things in this world that are uncomforatable and it's not dangerous to look at it; it is dangerous not to. Of course, the same studio I applaud for making this film also decided to leave most of the black actors uncredited. I guess good will and humanity only go so far.
These are not rhetorical questions as far as I'm concerned. I really don't know. Can the art of film making be judged on its own without looking at the context? To that question, I will say yes since for decades I was one of D.W. Griffith's loudest defenders. There really is no questioning the racism in Birth of a Nation, which is is indefensible, but the greatness of that movie is not subjective, it's objective. Every film you see today has been influenced by the work of Griffith and his great Director of Photography Billy Bitzer. That is a fact.
We run into the same problem while watching Leni Riefenstal's Triumph of the Will. It's without a doubt a great movie. The visuals and the editing are stunning, but it is also a dangerous movie - far more dangerous than Birth of a Nation. Triumph of the Will is a marvelous propaganda piece showing the greatness of the Nazi party. So marvelous that I actually felt queasy several times during one screening.
Should this film be destroyed? I would say no. No matter how dangerous, I would be hesitant to destroy anything that can teach us something, no matter how unpleasant. Both of these films teach us not only about how to make a great film, but also about the darker recesses of the human spirit. We may not like to admit this but people who believe this stuff do exist and they may be sitting on the train next to you. This brings us to today's movie - Slave Ship. This movie would not be made today and that's a shame because it is a topic that is not looked at enough in history classes. The Nazi's were horrific enough, but at least they had some ideology, no matter how disgraceful. Slave traders had none. They destroyed millions of lives for profit. What the hell would possess someone to do this?
This movie looks at the men who make their living trading slaves back in 1860. If the movie was made today, these guys would just be the same black and white bad guys without looking at the actual people. This movie actually looks at the people. The ship owner and the first mate are played by Warner Baxter and Wallace Beery respectively and they don't come anymore underrated than these two. Baxter actually won an Oscar for his performance in In Old Arizona, but that movie was horrible, so I don't count it. Baxter and Berry just give one solid honest effort after another and they are both on top of their game here.
Baxter is a little uncomfortable with how he makes his living and tells Beery that this trip will be their last in this line of work. Baxter is about to be married and he wants to go legitimate, trading non-humans. There is less money doing this type of work, but that doesn't bother Baxter as long as his conscience will be clear from now on. There's nothing wrong with Beery's conscience or that of the crew for that matter. With that in mind, they don't like the boss's business decision so they revolt. And there you go. You have to go get it to find out the rest.
It’s a very interesting movie. The story is by William Faulkner, which considering the topic, provides for some legitimacy. There are also some Faulkner touches that can be seen in some of the unique and eccentric Southern characters.
The final script was not credited to Faulkner and those parts are evident as well. Faulker’s has a smooth, steady writing style even when he was experimenting. There are not a lot of scenes in Bill’s work which would be considered jarring, but there are many such moments in Slave Ship. The most famous of these scenes is where the crew comes up with a repulsive and horrifying way to hide evidence from an invading English policing ship. To give you a hint, this scene would be replayed 60 years later in a film called Amistad.
Slave Ship is not a masterpiece, but it is an emotional, disturbing, unsettling and upsetting lost classic which deserves a better fate than it has received. Some people go to the movies to get away from their stressful lives and to be taken on a fantasy ride. That’s fine, but if you go to the movies to be challenged and to learn about something you might not know about, then this is the flick for you. There are evil people in this world and if you just want to call them evil and not learn how they got that way, more power to you, but that’s how World War II got started.
Sometimes there are things in this world that are uncomforatable and it's not dangerous to look at it; it is dangerous not to. Of course, the same studio I applaud for making this film also decided to leave most of the black actors uncredited. I guess good will and humanity only go so far.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
The Third Man *****
Over 100 years ago, D.W. Griffith and his great cinematographer Billy Bitzer invented the close-up. In honor of the centennial of that ground-breaking moment, James Cameron decided to shoot one.
The close-up, like the edit, is a distinctive facet to the art of film making. It's one of the things that makes films different. With a close-up, you can tell four pages of dialogue with a glance or even just a deep look into one's eyes with the camera. What's more powerful? That shot of the eyes or a nice speech. James? He'll take the four pages.
As I was watching today's movie, I kept thinking about what it is that bothers me about Titanic. Is it the worst movie ever made? Certainly not. It actually had the potential to be one of the truly great films of all times, but falls short due to the minimal attention paid to the characters. For example, name one character on the boat aside of Kate and Leo. Anyone? Actually, now that I think of it, Molly Brown was a passenger. That says all you need to know; one of the most interesting female characters of all time and I almost forgot about her.
The story itself is painted with the broadest strokes possible with no nuance or subtlety. When the boat starts to go down, do I need Gilbert Grape to tell me that "This is bad"?
Directors like John Huston and Orson Welles couldn't get away with sloppiness like this because they did not have $500 million to spend on special effects, and even the best effects available back then looked phony. But even if they were available, they wouldn't be necessary. For example, I guarantee that Welles' first appearance in the Third Man is more memorable than the whole damn Titanic going down.
"How could that be?," you might ask. "What's the difference?" Well, Titanic is obviously about the Titanic and unless you have the thinking capacity of lead paint, you know the boat's going down. But from the opening scene of the Third Man right through the first hour of the movie, all everyone talks about is Harry Lime. Is Harry Lime dead? Was he killed in an accident? Was he murdered? Was he blackmailing people?
The movie takes place in post-World War II Vienna, which was divided up into four segments, one for each of the four Allies. The city itself is chaos completely dominated by the black market.
Into the mess steps Holly Martins, a drunken writer of bad dime westerns, at the invitation of his friend Lime, only to hear that Harry is dead. He does go to the funeral and there is a casket, but he never sees the body. Add to this, that everyone seems to have a different story about what happened. The police don’t care because, as they tell Martins, Lime’s a blackmailer and no one cares how he died as long as he’s dead.
Martins gets a job with a local literary society as a lecturer, which allows him to stay in Vienna and start investigating on his own. Most of the people Martins talks to are either frightened or just lying since they are all crooks. The only one that Holly is making any headway with is Harry’s girlfriend.
Everyone else is not only withholding information from Martins, but starting to get worried about the questions he is asking. After asking the police again why they are not investigating Lime’s death, Martins gets to see all of the evidence against his friend. It appears that Lime was heading up a ring of crooks that stole penicillin, diluted it and sold it back to sick men, women and children with illnesses like meningitis and gangrene. Major Galloway of the police also told Lime’s girlfriend.
That’s when Lime finally makes his first appearance through the shadows. Welles swore to me that he had nothing to do with the directing of this film, but the style is distinctly his. Carol Reed was more of a standard, bread-and-butter, director. The Third Man almost uses the camera and lighting as a special effect in itself – high angle shots, low angle shots, shots tilted to the left and to the right, shadows, flames and smoke creeping across the screen. There are also a lot of staircases and shots where the ceiling and floor can be seen - all favorites of Welles.
The shots vary so often that actors seem to look different each time they appear on screen. If the film is completely Reed’s, then it is the best work of a very distinguished career.
The script is also a treat with the great Graham Greene’s lean, sparse dialogue. The one bit of indulgence in the screenplay is the legendary Cuckoo Clock speech (and if you haven’t heard it yet – I refuse to give that away). This script is plotted so well that Greene gives away his big secret a little over half way into the movie and the rest is still gripping. I’ll go one step further – I told you what the big secret is and it will still be gripping.
Let me put it this way. You watch your favorite scene in Titanic and then watch the Ferris Wheel scene and tell me which is better. If you say Titanic, then you’ll probably be surprised by the ending, so with that in mind - the boat sank.
The close-up, like the edit, is a distinctive facet to the art of film making. It's one of the things that makes films different. With a close-up, you can tell four pages of dialogue with a glance or even just a deep look into one's eyes with the camera. What's more powerful? That shot of the eyes or a nice speech. James? He'll take the four pages.
As I was watching today's movie, I kept thinking about what it is that bothers me about Titanic. Is it the worst movie ever made? Certainly not. It actually had the potential to be one of the truly great films of all times, but falls short due to the minimal attention paid to the characters. For example, name one character on the boat aside of Kate and Leo. Anyone? Actually, now that I think of it, Molly Brown was a passenger. That says all you need to know; one of the most interesting female characters of all time and I almost forgot about her.
The story itself is painted with the broadest strokes possible with no nuance or subtlety. When the boat starts to go down, do I need Gilbert Grape to tell me that "This is bad"?
Directors like John Huston and Orson Welles couldn't get away with sloppiness like this because they did not have $500 million to spend on special effects, and even the best effects available back then looked phony. But even if they were available, they wouldn't be necessary. For example, I guarantee that Welles' first appearance in the Third Man is more memorable than the whole damn Titanic going down.
"How could that be?," you might ask. "What's the difference?" Well, Titanic is obviously about the Titanic and unless you have the thinking capacity of lead paint, you know the boat's going down. But from the opening scene of the Third Man right through the first hour of the movie, all everyone talks about is Harry Lime. Is Harry Lime dead? Was he killed in an accident? Was he murdered? Was he blackmailing people?
The movie takes place in post-World War II Vienna, which was divided up into four segments, one for each of the four Allies. The city itself is chaos completely dominated by the black market.
Into the mess steps Holly Martins, a drunken writer of bad dime westerns, at the invitation of his friend Lime, only to hear that Harry is dead. He does go to the funeral and there is a casket, but he never sees the body. Add to this, that everyone seems to have a different story about what happened. The police don’t care because, as they tell Martins, Lime’s a blackmailer and no one cares how he died as long as he’s dead.
Martins gets a job with a local literary society as a lecturer, which allows him to stay in Vienna and start investigating on his own. Most of the people Martins talks to are either frightened or just lying since they are all crooks. The only one that Holly is making any headway with is Harry’s girlfriend.
Everyone else is not only withholding information from Martins, but starting to get worried about the questions he is asking. After asking the police again why they are not investigating Lime’s death, Martins gets to see all of the evidence against his friend. It appears that Lime was heading up a ring of crooks that stole penicillin, diluted it and sold it back to sick men, women and children with illnesses like meningitis and gangrene. Major Galloway of the police also told Lime’s girlfriend.
That’s when Lime finally makes his first appearance through the shadows. Welles swore to me that he had nothing to do with the directing of this film, but the style is distinctly his. Carol Reed was more of a standard, bread-and-butter, director. The Third Man almost uses the camera and lighting as a special effect in itself – high angle shots, low angle shots, shots tilted to the left and to the right, shadows, flames and smoke creeping across the screen. There are also a lot of staircases and shots where the ceiling and floor can be seen - all favorites of Welles.
The shots vary so often that actors seem to look different each time they appear on screen. If the film is completely Reed’s, then it is the best work of a very distinguished career.
The script is also a treat with the great Graham Greene’s lean, sparse dialogue. The one bit of indulgence in the screenplay is the legendary Cuckoo Clock speech (and if you haven’t heard it yet – I refuse to give that away). This script is plotted so well that Greene gives away his big secret a little over half way into the movie and the rest is still gripping. I’ll go one step further – I told you what the big secret is and it will still be gripping.
Let me put it this way. You watch your favorite scene in Titanic and then watch the Ferris Wheel scene and tell me which is better. If you say Titanic, then you’ll probably be surprised by the ending, so with that in mind - the boat sank.
Ship of Fools *
I’m going to make a little confession here; I’m not a Stanley Kramer guy. That can be dangerous to say because he made a lot of movies that contained some very powerful messages. Unfortunately, most of those movies weren’t particularly good. By trashing the movie some believe that you are trashing the message and that’s not the case.
Stanley Kramer certainly made some decent movies and at least one great one in Inherit the Wind, but it was almost impossible to botch that wonderful story. The major problem in just about all of Kramer's movies is that all of the characters are one dimensional and there is no nuance to the story. Good and bad. That's it.
It’s like if you want to make a statement about war being bad why not just write out a sign that says “War is Bad.” Actually you could just say “War Bad.” Even more powerful. If you are going to make a three hour movie, you need more than a message. You need a story, compelling characters, good writing and all the other stuff. But to have a compelling story sometimes you have to explain the hound’s side before getting to the fox. Stan doesn’t seem too big on that.
So that brings us to Ship of Fools (1965) because I can't think of anyway to stall further. This is Kramer's attempt to modernize Magic Mountain, which was a Thomas Mann story taking place prior to World War I showing that Europe was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. To show this, he used patients in a sanatorium, with each person representing a different theme (radicalism, humanism, duty, etc.). It's certainly a great book, but I wouldn't grab it for that afternoon at the beach.
Kramer tried to do the same thing, taking his story from a novel written by some woman that I don't remember. The two major differences are that the story takes place on a luxury cruise liner and it deals with World War II. There are also two major problems. First, Mann started writing his novel in 1912 before the war broke out. Ship of Fools was written in the early 1960s, a little after the war ended I believe. This makes a line like "What can the Nazi's do? Kill six million of us?" sound ridiculous (but since the movie is set before World War II it makes sense to Kramer). The second problem is that the First World War was nuanced. No one ever accused the Nazis of nuance.
Let's see any other way I can stall here. Want to hear how my day went? I had a long talk with...alright, alright, I'm going. I'll just review it as I watch it. We're doing shots for this one. That 151 rum will be the official drink of this review with an opium chaser. So Michael Dunn, a dwarf as he is kind enough to tell us, goes through his opening speech (Roosevelt had nothing on these guys) telling us that this is a Ship of Fools (hence the title), everyone on the boat is a fool, and maybe, just maybe, I can see myself on the boat as one of the fools. Yes, I can.
Now we are introduced to the Macy's-sized parade of characters. There's Lee Marvin as a baseball player, who is racist and ignorant, and can't grasp how others don't understand his game (see, he is the ugly American of the group). There is Jose Ferrer, who doesn't like Jews and believes that all people who are not Aryan should be killed as well as anyone with any mental defects. He would be the Nazi. (By the way, even Hitler had more subtlety then this beaut). Let me stop here for a second to say that Marvin and Ferrer really do some heroic work here with some stodgy material. Ferrer especially stands out as he usually does.
Two more shots, a couple of cigarettes and back to the movie. Julius Lowenthal, the Jewish philosopher (he would be the Jew of the group), represents the good guys. Vivian Leigh and Simone Signoret hold the chairs for the old bag contingent. Not to be rude or anything, but who the hell did the makeup here? Signoret's forehead looks like the walls of my living room and Vivian is either having a really bad hair day or that's a wig that needs to be fed. If Vivian and Simone don't care what they look like that's their business, but that pitcher's mound on Simone's head is distracting me. It's just all caked right there. I'm missing speeches (thank you) because I can't take my focus away from Simone's forehead.
Another odd thing (and I have no train of thought going right now) is that it appears that Kramer wanted to load up the cast with stars so it will have a Grand Hotel feel. Maybe if this was 1904. Fatty Arbuckle wasn't available? Where's Edwin Booth? This might have been Simones first talkie and in all honesty, I thought Vivian was dead at this point. Now I'm really torn over whether or not that's a wig.
Oh joy, I forgot Oskar Werner was in this. He's the ship doctor who ends up having a love affair with the heavily made up and just plain heavy Simone Signoret. I'm biased here: I think Werner's a lazy, no-talent slug. He plays the same colorless, bland, pseudo-brooding, pseudo-European in every movie and for some bizarre reason he actually was nominated for an Oscar for this. I didn't get it then. I don't get it now. There is also the Mexican migrant workers who are all stuffed in the bottom of the ship (they represent the oppressed underclass). The workers eventually have a riot which leads to the only action scene in the movie. Actually, most of the scenes I really enjoy involve these nameless poor folks.
The entire movie just shifts from a conversation involving two of the above to another conversation involving two of the above with the occasional appearance by George Segal and some woman as his lover (they represent the young lovers of the group). During all this, someone falls off the boat and dies (I didn't see who it was) and a couple of more people die, some other people get yelled at and they reach Germany. For some reason I keep thinking if Telly Savalas was in this it would be better.
Here we go. They're getting off the boat. And even this is taking forever. Some cute blonde just slapped Ferrer; the lovers are back together; and they are pulling a coffin off the boat while everyone looks depressed. I don't remember who's in the coffin, but by the looks and the age of most of this cast, it could have been anyone. Hopefully it was Kramer for making me sit through this.
Then at the end (go screw, I had to watch it, and now I'm giving away the ending) Michael Dunn said, "Now you may ask what this has to do with you? Nothing." Yeah, no kidding. There's room for you in that casket too, little man.
Stanley Kramer certainly made some decent movies and at least one great one in Inherit the Wind, but it was almost impossible to botch that wonderful story. The major problem in just about all of Kramer's movies is that all of the characters are one dimensional and there is no nuance to the story. Good and bad. That's it.
It’s like if you want to make a statement about war being bad why not just write out a sign that says “War is Bad.” Actually you could just say “War Bad.” Even more powerful. If you are going to make a three hour movie, you need more than a message. You need a story, compelling characters, good writing and all the other stuff. But to have a compelling story sometimes you have to explain the hound’s side before getting to the fox. Stan doesn’t seem too big on that.
So that brings us to Ship of Fools (1965) because I can't think of anyway to stall further. This is Kramer's attempt to modernize Magic Mountain, which was a Thomas Mann story taking place prior to World War I showing that Europe was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. To show this, he used patients in a sanatorium, with each person representing a different theme (radicalism, humanism, duty, etc.). It's certainly a great book, but I wouldn't grab it for that afternoon at the beach.
Kramer tried to do the same thing, taking his story from a novel written by some woman that I don't remember. The two major differences are that the story takes place on a luxury cruise liner and it deals with World War II. There are also two major problems. First, Mann started writing his novel in 1912 before the war broke out. Ship of Fools was written in the early 1960s, a little after the war ended I believe. This makes a line like "What can the Nazi's do? Kill six million of us?" sound ridiculous (but since the movie is set before World War II it makes sense to Kramer). The second problem is that the First World War was nuanced. No one ever accused the Nazis of nuance.
Let's see any other way I can stall here. Want to hear how my day went? I had a long talk with...alright, alright, I'm going. I'll just review it as I watch it. We're doing shots for this one. That 151 rum will be the official drink of this review with an opium chaser. So Michael Dunn, a dwarf as he is kind enough to tell us, goes through his opening speech (Roosevelt had nothing on these guys) telling us that this is a Ship of Fools (hence the title), everyone on the boat is a fool, and maybe, just maybe, I can see myself on the boat as one of the fools. Yes, I can.
Now we are introduced to the Macy's-sized parade of characters. There's Lee Marvin as a baseball player, who is racist and ignorant, and can't grasp how others don't understand his game (see, he is the ugly American of the group). There is Jose Ferrer, who doesn't like Jews and believes that all people who are not Aryan should be killed as well as anyone with any mental defects. He would be the Nazi. (By the way, even Hitler had more subtlety then this beaut). Let me stop here for a second to say that Marvin and Ferrer really do some heroic work here with some stodgy material. Ferrer especially stands out as he usually does.
Two more shots, a couple of cigarettes and back to the movie. Julius Lowenthal, the Jewish philosopher (he would be the Jew of the group), represents the good guys. Vivian Leigh and Simone Signoret hold the chairs for the old bag contingent. Not to be rude or anything, but who the hell did the makeup here? Signoret's forehead looks like the walls of my living room and Vivian is either having a really bad hair day or that's a wig that needs to be fed. If Vivian and Simone don't care what they look like that's their business, but that pitcher's mound on Simone's head is distracting me. It's just all caked right there. I'm missing speeches (thank you) because I can't take my focus away from Simone's forehead.
Another odd thing (and I have no train of thought going right now) is that it appears that Kramer wanted to load up the cast with stars so it will have a Grand Hotel feel. Maybe if this was 1904. Fatty Arbuckle wasn't available? Where's Edwin Booth? This might have been Simones first talkie and in all honesty, I thought Vivian was dead at this point. Now I'm really torn over whether or not that's a wig.
Oh joy, I forgot Oskar Werner was in this. He's the ship doctor who ends up having a love affair with the heavily made up and just plain heavy Simone Signoret. I'm biased here: I think Werner's a lazy, no-talent slug. He plays the same colorless, bland, pseudo-brooding, pseudo-European in every movie and for some bizarre reason he actually was nominated for an Oscar for this. I didn't get it then. I don't get it now. There is also the Mexican migrant workers who are all stuffed in the bottom of the ship (they represent the oppressed underclass). The workers eventually have a riot which leads to the only action scene in the movie. Actually, most of the scenes I really enjoy involve these nameless poor folks.
The entire movie just shifts from a conversation involving two of the above to another conversation involving two of the above with the occasional appearance by George Segal and some woman as his lover (they represent the young lovers of the group). During all this, someone falls off the boat and dies (I didn't see who it was) and a couple of more people die, some other people get yelled at and they reach Germany. For some reason I keep thinking if Telly Savalas was in this it would be better.
Here we go. They're getting off the boat. And even this is taking forever. Some cute blonde just slapped Ferrer; the lovers are back together; and they are pulling a coffin off the boat while everyone looks depressed. I don't remember who's in the coffin, but by the looks and the age of most of this cast, it could have been anyone. Hopefully it was Kramer for making me sit through this.
Then at the end (go screw, I had to watch it, and now I'm giving away the ending) Michael Dunn said, "Now you may ask what this has to do with you? Nothing." Yeah, no kidding. There's room for you in that casket too, little man.
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