Le Concert is a warmhearted film for music lovers, and judging by the audience reaction at last night’s Seattle International Film Festival screening, I am neither.

The French-Romanian co-production, marketed as a bittersweet east-meets-west comedy and directed by Radu Mihaileanu, concerns a disgraced conductor who thirty years ago made a moral decision which cost him his career. Working as a janitor for the Bolshoi Orchestra, reliving his glory days and fixated on an aborted performance of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D major, he intercepts an invitation from the Châtelet Theater in Paris. Determined to finish what he started thirty years ago, he rounds up a rag-tag bunch of Jewish and Gypsy musicians and cons his way to Paris with the help of his endearingly eccentric friends and frenemies.

My problem with the film, was that it asked both too much and too little. It wanted to sell me hard on the humor and heartache, and both the comedy and pathos were, to my sensibilities anyway, unearned. Despite many decent performances, I was turned off by the tone of the film, which wanted me to find them endearing before I had a chance to know them or feel it myself. I also thought the competing comedy/drama elements sat uneasily together, making both feel forced when the story might have gone over better with a more consistent tone. Perhaps a darker comedy, or a drama with light touches, would have worked better than alternating low-brow, clichéd humor with strained melodrama. Further, the “east-meets-west” comedy seemed entirely based on the idea that Russians (or Jews or Gypsies, I’m not sure) are opportunistic, unsophisticated folksy types. My biggest problem, however, was that I was unwilling to suspend my disbelief that a group of players who has not worked together in thirty years and has not rehearsed can triumph on the strength of one man’s dream. And we know that’s where it’s going from the very beginning.

It’s obvious that the film is intended, fully, to appeal on the basis of triumphing on the strength of one man’s dream. So perhaps the fault is not really with the film, but with my watching it. I related far too much to the woman who tells the conductor that it’s a concert, not a therapy session, and he needs to get help. The movie doesn’t think so, and I think the film should appeal to classical music lovers who will appreciate the importance placed on performance and the fact that the concerto is played all the way through. In the end, that wasn’t enough for me.

The first thing I knew about Roman Polanski, before I’d even seen any of his movies (or probably, could remember which ones were his), was that he’d had sex with a teenage girl and fled the country in the 70’s. This is, it seems, his story so far as he has one anymore, and I think it’s probably supplanted Roman Polanski, the man whose pregnant wife Sharon Tate was murdered by the Manson Family in the 60’s. Roman Polanski: Wanted and Desired, which originally aired on HBO last year, does two things: it explores the concept of media celebrity as it relates to Polanski’s life, and addresses a legal injustice which, regardless of his crime, seems by all accounts egregious.

The facts seem to be undisputed: in 1977, 44 year old Polanski was hired to take photos of young girls for Vogue, and asked one 13 year old’s mother for permission. During the course of the shoot, which took place without other adult supervision, Polanski gave the victim champagne and Quaaludes and had intercourse with her. Polanski, as far as this documentary presents it, never denied that he had done it; indeed, he says in one archival interview at the beginning of the film that he believes all men desire young women. In a plea bargain Polanski pled guilty of “unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor,” dismissing the more serious charges. He was then sentenced to a 90-day psychiatric evaluation, deferred so that he might finish his current project. He served 42 days, and shortly left the country, never to return, fearing imprisonment should he do so.

What’s interesting about this film is that it barely touches the issue of what Polanski did, or why. There is certainly background, enough to make one sympathize for the man’s misfortunes (which were considerable) without excusing his behavior. But the film focuses instead on a miscarriage of justice perpetrated by the Santa Monica judge, Rittenband, who according to the film was a publicity hound and desperately afraid of losing face in the press. It’s a complicated enough chain of events that it does need a film to explain them, but suffice to say both the defending and prosecuting attorneys agree that the treatment of Polanski was both out of accordance with the treatment of perpetrators of similar crimes in the state at that time, and that finally this treatment ventured into the extra-legal. Which puts a different spin on Polanski’s “flight from justice,” certainly.

The film is well put-together, with archival footage and photos and lots of interviews from almost everyone involved—though there are no modern ones with Polanski himself. Given the ample evidence as to his treatment by the media, it seems no wonder that he would not wish to rehash the whole thing again, at this point. It is also interesting that his crime is neither glossed over nor exploited—for the most part, it is treated as a fact in a story that, however you feel about him, is about something else. That said, it is still a difficult movie because of the subject matter, though the media/legal situation is riveting especially as so much of it is a revelation after all these years. It is also somewhat disconcerting how charming Polanski comes across, and his tragic story combined with his unapologetic pursuit of very young women make him a complicated focal point. It is rare that a man who makes movies is so appropriate a subject for one himself, but if anyone is, Polanski is certainly at the top of that list.

Okay, be honest: after my multiple demonstrations of crabbiness re: remakes, adaptations, Hollywood, and general messing with my stuff, how many of you thought I'd hate it?

I didn't! At all! This is not a review, obviously! This is me not wanting to write a review yet, because even though I didn't think it was a great film, I sure as hell enjoyed it.

( why, and why not, though now that I've written this I don't think there are spoilers )

Most people know the name Spartacus even if they’ve never seen the movie, or the famous “I am Spartacus” scene it’s most identified with. It now stands as a prime example of the epic film, though a flawed one which shows the strain of contradictory aims. It is also a relatively early Stanley Kubrick film, though it shows less of his influence than he would later be able to assert on his work.

The basic storyline, that of rebelling slaves (starting with gladiators-in-training, but swelling from there), is fairly obviously treated by Dalton Trumbo and by the editing of the film itself, and therein lies one of the biggest problems. The rebellion is boring. We are treated to endless montages of poor faces in the crowd, spread liberally through the film whenever there is space for them, and after the first few the audience should be fairly well aware that slavery is bad and that their rebellion is just. What’s unfortunate to the “cause” is that the Roman “bad guys”—Laurence Olivier, Charles Laughton, and Peter Ustinov—are far more interesting and entertaining than the too-modern and rather pedestrian Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis. The best parts of the film are the conversations between Ustinov and Laughton (supposedly scripted by Ustinov himself) whose easygoing hedonism seems genial and harmless. Of course it isn’t, but it’s far more entertaining than Douglas preaching about rights with stilted language and heroically unrealistic lighting.

Likewise the subtleties of Olivier’s performance—scenes of which were famously cut out at the behest of the MPAA because they suggested bisexuality—are far more interesting than the straightforwardness of the Americans. While no one would argue about who ought to have won, there is a problem when the viewer cannot wait to leave the rebel camp and go back to decadent Rome. Though of course the attraction of the ambiguously villainous over the stolidly heroic is not isolated to this movie, and the work that focuses on a “social problem” (and it seems clear to me that Trumbo meant to evoke some time period more contemporary than ancient Rome) is often preachy and dull.


That said, aside from a few modernisms of speech and a dreadfully dated score, the film remains an enjoyable and thoughtful alternative to the big budget action films of the present to which it is related. Looking back, it definitely shows the strain between writer, director, studio, and censor, and is not quite as “tight” and efficient as perhaps it should be. For myself, all of that is entirely overshadowed by Olivier, Laughton and especially Ustinov, whom I fell in love with from his first scene. While this makes it a very enjoyable film, the fact I can so easily take the perverse view indicates that it does not achieve what it was supposed to, at least for this viewer, and if it is a masterpiece it is a decidedly flawed one.

There's something to be said for the pleasure of being surprised by a film, or a book, or even a discussion, about a topic you're not that interested in. It means that the treatment of it, the thought put into it, or the human drama of the situation transcends your own personal likes and dislikes and I, for one, enjoy that sort of surprise. When a film does it with a quiet sort of grace, it's even better.

The Wrestler is Darren Aronofsky's fourth feature film and it achieves the above with simplicity above all else. Just look at the title. A description of the plot doesn't really get across what this movie is about: a pro-wrestler, now fallen on hard times, plots a comeback, befriends a stripper, attempts to get in touch with his adult daughter, and faces the medical consequences of his lifestyle. But that's not the point, because what this movie is about is watching him interact with his world. It doesn't matter what you think about wrestling, because especially in the hands of Mickey Rourke Randy "The Ram" Robinson (not his real name) has an interesting story, worth watching.

It seems to me that Aronofky's chief move here was to direct a movie he hadn't written. While I enjoyed Pi, Requiem for a Dream and The Fountain, for different reasons, I sense that in his own hands this story (had he chosen to tell it) would have included far too much explanation and imposed meaning. We would have had to know how Randy got to this point, how he lost his daughter, and what it all amounts to in the grand scheme. Instead, we are only shown these things, and left to figure them out on our own. Parallels between the wrestling ring, the topless bar and the deli counter are there, and unmissable, but no conclusions are drawn for the viewer. Likewise, the film maintains a careful balance between showing the artificiality of wrestling along with the severe physical toll it takes. "Wrestling is fake" is a common refrain, but only half the story. And rarely have I seen violence--the relatively "minor" violence of the "fake" wrestling ring--portrayed with so little glorification and, at the same time, so little exaggeration. Again, nothing is shoved in your face, but it's difficult to watch anyway because it's too simply real.

The one misstep I perceived was in the music, which got too saccharine and manipulative here and there for my taste. This movie is so naturalistic and low key that a swelling score (even if there are electric guitars in there) is overkill. The cinematography walked the line between arty pseudo-documentary and hanging back to let the film tell itself, and I thought it worked well. The acting, too, was good without being showy, and Rourke was perfect.

Though this film didn't necessarily touch me deeply (at the time--I think it will linger, and the more I think about it the more effective it is), I wish there were more like it, with this combination of skill, restraint, and trust in its audience. That trust paid off, if the film's reputation is any indicator, and we could use more well-made, quiet, thoughtful films about pretty much anything.

By now, we're all used to the benevolent alien trope. The alien(s) come(s) to Earth, humans are suspicious, do human-type things like try to blow it/them up, and then we learn a valuable lesson about healing the world or at the very least something about friendship and loyalty. (There is, of course, the apathetic version: alien comes to Earth and is corrupted by our culture, but we'll leave that for another time.) Especially after the early 80s, when we seemed to be inundated by them. But in 1951, I can't imagine that a movie like The Day the Earth Stood Still came as anything but a surprise.

Coming shortly after World War II, in the midst of the Korean War, and in the early stages of the Cold War (not to mention the era of McCarthy/HUAC suspicion), The Day the Earth Stood Still showed a different future. The one that would happen if Mutually Assured Destruction were allowed to reach its logical fruition. The story seems familiar enough now that it's hardly a spoiler to say that in it, a man comes to Earth and tells humanity it's on the brink of destroying itself.

Looking back on it 58 years later, a few things strike me. The movie seems simplistic in its world view, both in terms of the dangers that beset humanity and the idea that all we need is to start talking again to ensure peace. It also seems “naive” (or blessedly optimistic, considering your view) about Mr. Carpenter's sudden appearance in the midst of the boarding house family and his easy association with little Bobby; Bobby's mother's boyfriend is jealous, but no one seems to suspect anything strange about a man who offers to watch a stranger's kid—that is, they don't suspect what we do now, watching it. Is that our problem, or theirs?

But what's saddest to me is the knowledge that this movie couldn't be made today. It wasn't, when the remake came out last year (which, for the record, I have not seen, though it has been described to me). One could argue that audiences are more sophisticated now, and in a sense we are—we demand more jargon and no longer accept “it's a powerful nuclear engine” as an explanation for anything, though modern films rarely say more despite their explanations and exposition. But most of this film involves a stranger coming to town, attempting to learn about its people, and talking while touring the D.C. sights. All the violence occurs off-screen. There's a chase that basically entails the army keeping tabs on the movements of a cab and reporting back to HQ. A strange man and a little boy talk about physics and Abe Lincoln.

The Day the Earth Stood Still is not my favorite film, but in this basic scenario, it is the film I want to see: the film about how a literal alien interacts with our culture and navigates his living situation. And then calls on his giant robot. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it, despite its “simplicity.” It doesn't rely on adrenaline, and it makes a clear, if apparently obvious, point. Of course, the film started out as a point looking for a story, but I still admire its compactness.

Finally, while I knew the story and the politics going in, I was surprised by the fact that the “message” is so violent. Humanity must change its ways and become peaceful—by threat of force. Which begs the question: is this stance hypocritical, or merely Klaatu's practical way of dealing with an unenlightened species who understands nothing more?

I was not in that group of comic book readers blown away by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons' Watchmen in 1986. In fact, by the time I was reading comics and watching movies critically, the bitter, reflective mode of the book had already permeated the superhero ethos, and its revolutionary aspects had been re-integrated into the texts it rebelled against. Even the animated Batman of the early 90's, my own foundational text in this genre, wouldn't have existed without this attitude, even if on the surface it was the stuff of Saturday mornings. When I finally read it a few months ago, it seemed more shocking in its use of pink and bright green than its philosophy, and I suspected the impact had been diluted by everything that had come after, along with my own visual preferences.

I was not, however, prepared for the travesty director Zack Snyder made of it that I saw last night.
( Read more... )

The story of Bluebeard exists in several variations, but usually goes like this: a poor girl gets married off to an ugly (though rich) brute who tells her he can go anywhere in his house/mansion/castle but this one room, and that she must keep this key/egg with her at all times. By the way, he says, I'm going on a trip. The wife, driven by her womanly curiosity, enters the forbidden room to find a bloody abattoir filled with former Mrs. Bluebeards. She drops the key/egg, and to her dismay finds the blood will not wash off, thus alerting Bluebeard upon his return that she has gone against his orders.

This happens a few times until lucky number three, usually a sister of the other two, devises a clever plan to avoid dropping the key/egg or alert some sort of lover or brother of her predicament. This wife is rescued, and sometimes rescues the other wives, who can be sewed back together or pulled out of hell or otherwise recovered. The story is a flip-side of "Beauty and the Beast," where the vicious new husband really is a monster who cannot be redeemed, and where the woman's main attribute, curiosity, gets her into trouble. I suppose the lesson is that marriage is scary for a young girl, and sometimes the vicious beast turns out to be all right—and sometimes he doesn’t. I’ve written a little about this before, in the context of The Phantom of the Opera.

This basic storyline is more or less absent from Bartok’s opera Bluebeard’s Castle and Michael Powell’s 1963 film for German television. This film is very rare, and a few weeks ago tkp, Mr. Daroga and myself got the opportunity to see the one print that’s available. According to Powell’s wishes, the German opera is presented without translation, and only a few descriptive subtitles cue you in to certain emotions or events. (You can see the first 9 minutes here)



( some spoilers for a movie you probably won't see )
That got a little rambly. I had this all written in my mind last week, and it fell out. I would encourage anyone interested in forming their own opinion to see this if they get the chance. Especially Stefanie—I think you’d love it.

[I'm trying something a little different with this one. There are spoilers and some analysis under the cut, but hopefully the outside-the-cut bits will offer a decent review for those who wish it. Let me know how it works.]

It seems simplistic to say that our cultural romance with the vampire is about sex, or blood, or anxiety about either or both. But when a film like Let the Right One In cuts right to the heart of this by making the vampire a pre-pubescent girl, it's almost a relief. Finally, a vampire film (with requisite gore) that is unflinchingly not about velvet-drenched sould-searching angst or eternal-youth rockstardom.

Instead, this Swedish film (based on a novel) is about a little boy, Oskar, who slowly befriends his new next-door neighbor, a strange, beautiful creature named Eli. Eli walks barefoot in the snow. Eli does not go to school. Eli lives with an older man who may or may not be related to her, but whose relationship is decidedly not parental. Oskar is bullied at school, and spends most of his time on his own, dreaming of revenge he never takes. As his relationship with Eli progresses, it becomes clear that neither of them really has anyone else, and the secret they share unites them in a world Oskar may or may not be ready to join.

The film is starkly real without sacrificing style (except for some dreadfully unfortunate CG cats I am endeavoring to forget about), and for the most part plays out like a boy-meets-girl story with periodic violence rending the silent, frozen landscape. The contrast here, both visually and thematically, is striking and effective, and it's probably the most interesting vampire movie I've ever seen.
( contains spoilers for this film and Martin (1977) )

What's so compelling about Let the Right One In, along with the general quality of the filmmaking and acting, is that it doesn't shy away from any of these disturbing elements. Nor does it give us any clear answers. It creates a world, much like ours, where vampires are real but most people don't know about them, and then treats it from a child's point of view, with all the horror (and sweetness) that entails. The two children together are incredible, and the only reason I don't want to say that they transcend the words "vampire film" is because I think every horror movie should be saying something about our psychology or society. Perhaps most of them are, but few of them do so with the curious mix of overtness and restraint as this, and few offer so much food for thought.

Not having read the book (horrible English Lit graduate that I am), and with David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia firmly upheld as my Favorite Film of all Time, watching his significantly smaller, black and white, decidedly non-epic literary adaptation of Dickens might have seemed a set up for disappointment. In all honestly, I had been disappointed years ago, watching it on a small screen with perhaps more riding on it than was logical. (Note how I avoided any punning with the title.) But last night’s screening at the Seattle Art Museum, part of a pre-epic David Lean series, changed my mind entirely.

Smaller in scale is may have been, but it covers no less territory. Pip’s life is laid out in stark visual terms, the black and white cinematography allowing for an expressionistic landscape as Lean refuses to adhere to a strictly realistic style. The beginning of the film, dealing with Pip’s childhood in the marshes, is especially effective, full of twisted trees and silhouettes that make escaped convicts just another fixture of his world, like the gibbets Pip passes without comment on the way to the graveyard where his parents are buried. Other sequences, such as the fire at Miss Havisham’s and the older Pip’s fever, are more suggested than seen, Lean combining imaginative filmmaking with a trust in our own imaginations to carry us through.

Lean’s greatest asset in a film like this may be his touch with actors, which includes the young Pip and Estella. Anthony Wager, in fact, is so good as Pip (despite having no prior acting experience) that I missed him when he grew into John Mills. Mills is excellent as well, despite being nearly 40 at the time—a fact which is obvious and distracting. Alec Guinness in his first speaking role as Herbert Pocket, at 32, is closer but doesn’t really look it. Nevertheless, he’s charming as Pip’s friend and fellow lodger, though he disappears from the later part of the film without explanation. Jean Simmons’ Estella is preferable to Valerie Hobson’s, but that may be that the part she’s given to play is more fun. And everyone else in the film, from Miss Havisham to Wemmick’s Aged Parent, are characters, not caricatures, no matter how little screen time they’re given or how ridiculous they are. Lean gives them all a sort of dignity.

Above all, Great Expectations is a good story, told well. Pip’s journey is interesting, as are the class navigations that are never fully resolved—though of course all characters must be returned to their proper places by the end of the film. Though, as I said above, I have not read the novel, it does not feel choppy in the watching of it, and my sense is that it’s a good adaptation of the source material, all things considered. I could certainly watch more of Pip and Pocket’s adventures in London together, and I would have been more satisfied with a less rushed ending for Pip and Estella, but what the crowd at the SAM reminded me was that it is still a surprising and enjoyable film, with innovations of its own (beyond its literary merits) to offer.

The main thing I learned from A Man for All Seasons is that a slew of very talented, very interesting people made a film about a talented, interesting person who I find admirable, and yet whose conscience dictated loyalty to something most of us would not agree with—the corrupt Catholic church which at the time faced reforms both inside and out. This actually does not lessen the impact of the script, written by Robert Bolt, which (like Lawrence of Arabia) uses one man's struggle to illuminate the broader themes Bolt was interested in exploring. Like Lawrence, Thomas More is streamlined even if he remains complex, those facts which do not support Bolt's thesis (More as the ultimate man of conscience) stripped from the action. Like Lawrence, he is one man caught in Great Events of History, who rises to the challenge though not without personal cost. (The use (or misuse) of historical figures for a writer's personal aims should probably be addressed elsewhere; for me, it often depends on the particular use and the skill with which it's been accomplished.)

Also like Lawrence..., a fantastic performance is the centerpiece of the film. Paul Scofield, of impeccable reputation perhaps because of his short list of credits, seems born to play this role. He is steady, likable without being overtly attractive, and possessed of an amazing voice. He embodies Bolt's idea of More perfectly, appearing eternally upright and benevolent as the only man to oppose Henry VIII's breaking an entire country away from the Pope on a whim. One cannot imagine this More condemning heretical Lutherans to the stake, but that's not the point; Bolt's themes are anti-authoritarian and pro-conscience, regardless of whether he believed in More's cause. Indeed in the film, More's response to anti-Catholic sentiments in his prospective son-in-law is to forbid him to marry, but not from seeing, his daughter, until he gets his mind right and becomes merely an anti-corruption Catholic.

Bolt's script is witty and to the point. One thing I admire about Bolt's screenplays is how little fat there is in them, though they rarely feel stagy. The supporting players all do a fine job as well, especially Robert Shaw's Henry, who is endearingly ridiculous as the moody, virile, and self-satisfied king. Orson Welles has a cameo as Cardinal Wolsey, looking corrupt and bloated by power; John Hurt appears as the soon-corrupted Richard Rich, and Wendy Hiller as the steadfast Alice More. My major complaint is about the photography itself; for whatever reason, many scenes end with a fade that seems to come too hard on the heels of the last line and draws attention to itself. Otherwise it is uninspired, and the film is of primary interest for its script and acting, both of which are sufficient cause for seeing it. One should, however, be prepared to listen a great deal. With Scofield speaking, I myself did not find that a tall order in the least.

Based on the true story of a bank robbery gone bad in 1972 (“30% true” the actual perpetrator, Sonny Wojtowicz claimed), Dog Day Afternoon is, like Network, one of Sidney Lumet's best films an a fine evocation of media paranoia in the 70's. Taking place during one afternoon and evening during a heist-turned-hostage situation, the film unfolds as the heat builds and the would-be robbers, Sonny and Sal, grow more desperate.

This is my favorite of Al Pacino's performances, and it falls before the Pacino-playing-Pacino era. Sonny is a complicated character, a Vietnam vet who can't get a job, a man with a high-running temper who doesn't really seem to want to hurt anyone, a “misfit” who responds surprisingly well to anyone who pays him attention. Early in the film, the head teller turns on him and asks if he had any kind of plan at all, or just did this on a whim. He falls silent, like a chastised boy.

The teller has a point, and illustrates one of the great things about this movie; the characters emerge as their own people, quirky but not too quirky to be believed. I find Sonny's relationship with the police detective assigned to the situation, played by Charles Durning, to be oddly affecting. Sal, played by John Cazale, is also arresting and reminds me what a pity it was he wasn't around longer. These performances are in keeping with the film, as well, which feels very “real” without going too far in the pseudo-documentary direction and thereby drawing attention to itself. The camera movements are many, but not invasive, and the locations and atmosphere consistently depicted. Larger themes are mentioned without being the point of the film, and this nearly real-time event has been used to illustrate the contradictions of one life without seeming to draw any conclusions about it. Sonny is likable even though he's clearly got problems and you probably don't want to be involved with him, and his problems are never traced back to any one aspect of his character or past. (Criticism has been leveled at the film for sensationalizing certain aspects of the case, and while I can see that in the larger context of Hollywood in the 70s, I don't feel that way about the film's text viewed on its own.)

Dog Day Afternoon is a surprising film in the best way; it takes a worn premise and surprises you without throwing you out of its own world. It's neat without being pat, and its topical without being overly self-conscious of that fact. The overall consistency of tone, acting, and camerawork, too, mark it as a classic and it's especially interesting when viewed in conjunction with Network, a more self-conscious treatment of themes touched upon in this film.

Reviewing All About Eve is difficult for me, as it is most of my favorite movies. I find objectivity difficult to maintain when I’m so delighted by the very thought of the film. But maybe that’s part of a review in itself.

The story—and it’s very talky—concerns an actress verging on middle age and an up-and-coming young woman who enmeshes herself in the older woman’s life. There are jealousies, rivalries, cynical columnists, a young Marilyn Monroe looking fabulous, and above all, Bette Davis.
( Read more... )

The problem with a film like The Boys in the Band, William Friedkin's film adaptation of Mart Crowley's hit off-Broadway play about a birthday party of New York City gay men, is that it looks different depending not only on which political stance you take but what year you're looking at it from. It was gay men, after all, who lined up to see it; it was likewise gay activists who railed against it for years because it traffics in every stereotype known to 70's homosexuality: promiscuity, effeminacy, self-hatred, self-medication, and a tendency for every conversation to be about being gay. Revival in the 90's implies that it has been rehabilitated somewhat, but I actually picked it up because of its prominence in the book and documentary The Celluloid Closet which holds it up as an example of how not to portray homosexual characters.
( The truth, for me, is a little more complicated. )

Compulsion, based on the Leopold/Loeb murder case and directed by Richard Fleischer, is a tight little movie whose performances by Dean Stockwell, Bradford Dillman and Orson Welles elevate it above some less-talented bit players and conventional surroundings. It was the last film Welles made in Hollywood for some years, and though he enters an hour into it, his performance as a Clarence Darrow-inspired lawyer is unforgettable.
( Slight spoilers, but only because the film has to assume you know who Leopold and Loeb are )

While Mr. D and I are not yet done with our OrsonWatch project, we've embarked on an overlapping film series which involves watching every movie in Danny Peary's Cult Movies [volume 1], mostly because every movie we've seen that we heard about from reading it (or the two follow-up volumes) has been awesome. Some may dispute the cult cred of the titles, and I've seen many of them before, but we figure it's as good a guide as any. So for my own amusement, I'm going to list them here in the hopes it will make me write reviews of them as I go.
( the classics, the sleepers, the weird, and the wonderful )

Sometimes, a film requires a review to make sense of it, or to examine what the reader, and subsequent viewer, ought to get from the film. But in this case, I'm not certain Aguirre needs sense imposed; it's an experience, a nightmare played out in slow motion. You might not even know you're dreaming until you wake up.
( Read more... )

Some disclaimers: I just got back from the film and fear if I don't talk about it now, I won't bother later. And I'm also writing this from the point of view of someone who read all the books for the horror of it, rather than 1) a fan or 2) totally disinterested. I think that'll color things. Plus, I'm about to go to play a gig, and I need to pack up. Basically, this is not the review for those who have no idea who Bella and Edward are.

So. Twilight. A theater full of Sunday matinee Twi-fans, ambiguously-aged young women and a few older women. And us, whatever we are.

In short: It was a lot better than the book. To the extent it was successful at all, it was in spite of Stephenie Meyer's original. It cut out most of Bella's whining, the overt Romeo and Juliet references, any talk of dazzlement. The actors were forced to play characters that made some kind of sense at least to them, which meant that Bella's dad and others were granted that kind of consideration for the first time. Meyer only included such periphery individuals because she needed them, but she never seems to build a world that humans live in--Charlie, and to an extent Bella and Edward, actually show up as better fleshed-out here than when filtered through whatever fantasy Meyer was trying to live out.

Kristen Stewart is amazingly not annoying as Bella--this is a highly biased view on my part, because within about half a paragraph I hated her and my not wanting to strangle her is equates to high praise indeed. She's still remarkably stupid, but she doesn't have the smug superiority based on utter nothingness that she does in the novel; her martyr complex is set up at the beginning and otherwise Stewart plays her like a stupid-in-love but generally pretty normal teenager.

Robert Pattinson's Edward is, in a word, perfect. I've heard reviews (from disinterested film critics) that say he fails to distinguish himself or Edward, but from the point of view of someone who thinks that Edward is a ridiculous, maudlin, bipolar, stalkery weirdo, Pattinson is amazing. Actually the majority of my entertainment in this film was in watching him create the Edward I saw in my head instead of the one haunting the masochistic dreams of at least half the 13-year-old girls in America. It's possible he made that one, too, and I haven't the magic glasses to see it. If he fails to make Edward a heartthrob, he's failed the task the studio set him--but he's succeeded in the one I would have.

Lots of the film was terribly sloppy. The special effects were uninspired, and the camerawork attempted to be too inventive in the sense that it seemed to move constantly in order to make up for the average audience's perceived inability to sit still while people are talking to each other. There were also flubs of the "Oregon license plates in Washington" variety and quite visible foundation especially on Carlisle's (Peter Facinelli's) part.

All in all (I'm running out of time), the film could have been a lot, lot worse. It's unoriginal, and without my interest in Pattinson's take on this year's Byronic stand-in I'd have found it pointless and too interested in hybridizing unmotivated teen love and bad action. But the biology class scene, where Edward first catches a whiff of Bella's pungent yumminess, is overblown to the point of hysteria and cannot have been intended seriously by the creators. If only they'd maintained that sort of over-the-top tongue in cheekiness for the rest of the film. Still, for all I know, they fully meant to.

Less-than-full reviews so I can get this out of my system, and you won't have to suffer as long.

Tomorrow is Forever (1946)
Tomorrow is Forever is a postwar melodrama Martin Guerre-with-a-twist that was apparently designed to make mothers feel better about having let their sons/husbands go off to war. The story concerns Claudette Colbert and Orson Welles, happily married for about two minutes before Welles ships off in a too-tight uniform to fight in WWI. Welles is blown up, and Colbert gets the fateful telegram informing her of his death.

But Welles is not dead--he's laid up in a hospital, his hands non-functional and his face swathed in bandages denoting terrible disfigurement. He won't tell the doctors his name, for the sentimental reason that he does not want to saddle his wife with this wreck of a man.

Twenty years later, on the eve of another war, Colbert is happily married with two sons. Her husband one day brings home an Austrian chemist, who recognizes Colbert right away because she has not aged at all but is apparently unrecognizable as Welles, disfigured as he is by horn-rimmed glasses and a beard. (Incidentally, the age makeup here is probably one of the better technical accomplishments of the film, for he looks a lot like the older Welles but smaller.) He's also sporting a new name and Austrian accent, as well as a tiny blond Natalie Wood--a girl he's adopted after she saw her family killed in front of her. Conflict erupts first as Colbert's son--a young man Welles is mathematically certain is his own, born after his supposed death--demands to be allowed to join the RAF so he can fight the Nazis, and later as Colbert begins to suspect that Welles is Welles.

There's some interesting tension provided almost entirely by Welles' acting as he attempts to connect with his son, who has no idea his father isn't his father. The unequal conversation is somewhat moving, as is Welles' general situation. However, the film also calls for a lot of ridiculous speechifying about the need to let young men make decisions and the duty of and to mothers and Welles' character's absolute refusal to admit he's her husband--aside from stating that if he were such a man, he would not tell her so, because she's happy and has a family and it's all for the best this way. The plot is artificial and melodramatically patriotic, and Colbert gets rather hysterical except for the parts where I found myself wondering why she wasn't reacting more. However, Welles stands out as the only thing worthy or interesting in the picture, and oddly enough the least heavy-handed.

Prince of Foxes (1949)
This is one of several movies Welles acted in (without directing) in Europe in the late 40s, while intermittently filming Othello whenever and wherever he could. As a film, it's rather dull and uninspired and written apparently by random, and to my eyes Tyrone Power is a wooden and altogether inexplicable leading man.

Welles, however, turns in what might be an overly energetic performance except for the fact that 1) he's playing Cesare Borgia and 2) the rest of the film is so boring you're fairly aching for some scenery chewing and lament the bulk of the time he's not on screen. Welles' slightly campy, overtly smarmy, and ultimately totally charming Borgia is exactly why he gets criticized for "hammy" acting, but I see no more appropriate place for it than here. Then again, what a lot of people call "ham" I think should be more rightly considered "charm" in the right hands--early William Shatner, for instance, is not the man of endless parodic ellipses but does twinkle almost manically with delight a good portion of the time. Don't we all know charismatic people like that? Ah well, it's probably the case that what one finds charming, another will find grating, and vice versa.

Borgia is so smoothly, uncomplicatedly, and happily evil that he might be ridiculous, and perhaps he is. But he's also tremendous fun. Welles' performances reads like a man who's doing everything he can to amuse himself--in a better movie, it might detract, but in this one, it at least means there's something amusing us. (This scene is the centerpiece, really--keep watching to the end, it's worth it.) He also looks surprisingly fit in tights.

Radio Plays: Les Miserables, Dracula, A Tale of Two cities, Treasure Island, Rebecca
Welles' radio dramas--directed, acted, and frequently adapted by him--were a staple of late 30's radio. Welles' innovation was to adapt the material as faithfully as possible using a viewpoint character to tell the story--often voiced by himself. The result was an intimate hour of radio theater that did not always get to the heart of the material but always evoked some of its quality. With his Mercury Players around him, Welles' created seamless dramas with innovative use of sound and narrative that he later translated to film technique.

Briefly, I will say that listening to hour-long truncations of the works I am familiar with work better than those I am not, aside from the annoyances created by the leaving out of key plot points (there's a lot of fat to trim in Dracula, for instance, but leaving out the fact that Rebecca was dying in the eponymous work renders the ending nonsensical), but the attempts are admirable. It cannot be easy to reduce A Tale of Two Cities to such a time frame. Welles plays, respectively, narrator/Valjean, Dr. Seward/Dracula, Sydney Carton/Alexandre Manette, older narrator!Jim Hawkins/John Silver, and Maxim de Winter. He does each admirably, and the works in which he appears as multiple people do not suffer from it, for he disguises his voice well enough to get away with it. His Valjean is particularly memorable (the very well done series focuses on the Valjean/Javert angle, cutting most everything else, and featuring a regrettable performance by Welles' then-wife, Virginia Nicholson, as the older Cosette) as is his de Winter, who ought to have been immortalized on film due to his perfect capturing of both the vulnerable and commanding sides of his nature in a way the other three men I've seen (Olivier, Brett and Dance) have not.

Journey Into Fear is an odd hodgepodge of a film, a mashup of elements that may have, under different circumstances, coalesced into more than the sum of its parts. As it is, the potential is clear, the elements themselves promising, but the end result is a bad thriller made entertaining through no fault of its actual subject matter. Written by Orson Welles and Joseph Cotten, who also starred; directed by Norman Foster, who didn't read the book; and peopled with Citizen Kane veterans and Welles' touches of atmosphere and mood, the film also bears the scars of Production Code interference.

The story, in as much as it matters, describes an American engineer's (Cotten) involuntary entanglement in foreign intrigue. On a brief business trip to Istanbul with his wife, Howard Graham is soon whisked away to a cabaret, where he meets a mysterious dancer (Dolores del Rio, at the time romantically attached to Welles) and is almost murdered. He then finds himself on a whirlwind journey out of the country, prompted by Welles' police chief Haki and not allowed to see his wife. Graham spends most of the rest of the film on a steamer, with eccentric characters all about, any of whom may be the assassin or a double agent, and one of whom is the dancer, Josette. The film ends with a standard climactic chase involving windows and ledges, and is over almost before you can figure out whose side everyone's on.

With a plot like that, the film's overall quality and enjoyment could go either way. In this case, it goes both—as a film, it's too confusing and quite shallow to be good, though as entertainment there is enough to keep one going, as long as one doesn't think too hard. Cotten plays his typical, absolutely clueless American (think Holly Martins from The Third Man, only far less capable or interesting) but the side characters make up for him. Welles' police chief is larger than life and ambiguously helpful. The denizens of the boat are bizarre characters with quirks who feel the need to corner Cotten to tell him about them. And the assassin, a Mr. Banat (I'm not giving anything away, he's viewed in the first scene), never speaks a line yet exudes a peculiar menace. A short, round little man with glasses, at first glance he seems the least dangerous person in the lineup. But he's heralded by a phonograph playing a scratchy old French song, which sets him up in the first scene and then recurs to great effect on the boat. There's also a scene where the camera lingers on him eating dinner across from Cotten, who is now convinced the man is trying to kill him, and it's somehow both absurd and suspenseful. The film is physically very dark, and mostly shot in the low interiors of the steamer, making it a suitably claustrophobic and noirish film, if not pretty.

The problems with the film are not all due to the writers, cast and crew. Many can be traced to sensitive foreign relations during the war and a desire on the part of the studio and the Hays Office (precursor to the MPAA) to remove anything that might be deemed offensive, either sexually or nationalistically, from the film. Names were changed, ethnicities blurred, and in general confusion about who was who reigned to the point where the director admitted to often not knowing what was going on. But even apart from these problems, it plays like a film that was meant to be quick and fun, not anyone's masterpiece or comment on society. As such, it doesn't fail as much as it might have and it's worth it for thriller fans and Welles completists.