September 2008: 15 Mini Reviews
September 10, 2008
The last fifteen films I've seen.
Scarlet Street ('45): One of the seminal films noir of the '40's, Fritz Lang uses the same stars, cameraman, and basic plot line of 1944's “The Woman in the Window” to re-imagine Jean Renoir's “La Chienne” into a deeply cynical tale of delusion, fantasy, identity, and murder. Edward G. Robinson gives one of his finest performances as Chris Cross, a meek bank clerk and idealistic amateur painter who fantasizes about being loved by a younger woman; when he rescues the beautiful Kitty March (Joan Bennett) from a street beating by her pimp/lover (Dan Duryea), he just might get his wish. What follows, as Cross obsesses over Kitty, stealing money from his employer and shrewish wife to set Kitty up in a swanky loft, is the downfall of a man who, through petty delusions and adolescent fantasy, comes to see his life as ruled by the unrealistic possibility of his obsession becoming real, and when it doesn't, well, that's Lang's ultimate tragic reality check. Beautifully photographed by ace cameraman Milton Krasner entirely on sound stages, where Lang felt most comfortable dictating his rigid and fevered productions, this film is sometimes regarded as Lang's best American picture, a categorization I have a hard time dismissing.
Flags of Our Fathers ('06): Clint Eastwood honors the soldiers of Iwo Jima while shining a light on homeland propaganda and hypocrisy in this riveting war drama, about three soldiers who get a reprieve from fighting because of their inadvertent participation in a famous flag-raising photograph, to which officials use as a rallying cry during a desperately needed bond tour. Writers Paul Haggis and William Broyles Jr. adapt James Bradley and Ron Powers' best selling book with a tricky back-and-forth narrative that simultaneously tells the twin stories of the invasion and battle with the conflicted soldiers during the bond tour, where they're forced to be received as heroes, when they know their friends are back in the Pacific dying in an ugly and brutal fight, and encouraged yet to lie about the photograph, the story of which isn't as glorious and special as it was perceived to be. Of the three soldiers tasked with igniting the bond tour, Adam Beach is most memorable as Ira Hayes, a disillusioned Native American who faces racism and guilt by drowning his anger in alcohol, a tragic figure in a film where false heroism and national propaganda may be the greatest tragedies of all. Executive produced by Steven Spielberg and Eastwood, the gory and lengthy battle scenes draw to mind “Saving Private Ryan”, as does the notion of fighting with your friends as opposed to taking a special mandatory leave back home, but somehow Eastwood's film is more pessimistic than Spielberg's; of course war is hell, but when death is eclipsed by phony pageantry and pandering, that's something dismal altogether.
The Professionals ('66): Burt Lancaster, Lee Marvin, Woody Strode, and Robert Ryan are the all star team assembled by railroad tycoon Ralph Bellamy to find and return his kidnapped wife in combative Mexico, but that's not as easy as it seems against renegade Jack Palance and his army of rebels in this highly entertaining '60's western from Richard Brooks. Sexy Claudia Cardinale is the kidnapped wife who proves less than cooperative when the team finally reach her, giving the predominately macho cast a much needed bout of feminine toughness, holding her own in romantic scenes opposite Palance and Lancaster; after all, the plot wouldn't work if the prize wasn't worth it, and Claudia is definitely worth every penny. Cinematographer Conrad Hall would use similar outdoor techniques a few years later on “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”, but his day-for-night photography here is particularly gorgeous, utilizing the vast emptiness of California's Death Valley as a substitute for the unforgiving Mexican desert, where our diverse bag of heroes rough-ride their way through an adventure of mutual understanding, male bonding, and self discovery, rare in an era that came to be typified by the bloody devastation of “The Wild Bunch”.
I Was Born, But... ('32): Yasujiro Ozu's most fondly remembered silent film, and one of his most cinematic, this funny and bittersweet family comedy about two young brothers who lose faith in their working-class father when they see him playing the fool in an innocent office filmstrip, served as the basis for the director's own Technicolor “Good Morning”, two and a half decades later. In the latter film the boys play the silent treatment after their father refuses to buy them a new TV, here it's a hunger strike when they realize their father's position as the subordinate to the father of one of their school friends, who they feel superior to; both films deal predominately with the struggles of a father to please his growing and ever critical children, but given the enormous gap in time between the projects, including the devastation of the war, it's interesting to note how innocent the earlier film plays compared to the stark capitalist satire of the latter. Most Ozu buffs prefer the silent film to it's late life remake, not just because it comes from a time when Ozu was still experimenting with a moving camera and looser editing style that he all but abandoned after the war, but because it so joyously revels in the livelihood of school kids - fighting with bullies, feeding sparrow eggs to the dog to spell a playground myth, ditching class and forging a homework assignment – before coming to its more dramatic family resolutions. Of all the great directors, nobody remade his own work better than Ozu, he did it many times and often both films are exemplary, such is the case here; “Good Morning” serves its purpose at a time and era when Ozu was winding down and critical of Japan's post-war westernization, but here he was just building his style and reputation - the film won the prestigious Kinemo Jumpo award for Best Film of the year, the first, but not the last time Ozu would be so honored.
Frozen River ('08): Well made, depressing, but ultimately hopeful independent drama starring Melissa Leo as a struggling mother of two in upstate New York who, desperate to earn enough money for a down payment on a new trailer, after her gambling addicted husband makes off with the rent, stumbles into a human smuggling ring on a local Indian reservation bordering Canada. Her accomplice, a young native woman (marvelously played by Misty Upham), brought into the plot trying to steal Leo's car, has equally dire financial and family troubles, making the partnership both desperate and essential, skirting the law as much as possible through reservation loopholes. The trafficking runs, over the frozen river of the title, are fraught with tension and danger, especially one stormy night when a baby is lost, but the film is less a thriller than a portrait of two women who, initially standoffish, come to understand each other's pain, and in Leo, as a mother who will do anything to keep a roof over her two precious boys, the film has one of the breakout performances of the year. It's so good that you fear the smallness of the film itself will render it under seen, but hopefully with good word of mouth (it's been one of the most acclaimed films of the year) she'll pick up some end of the year awards, and possibly an Academy award nomination; in a perfect world Misty Upham would join her in the accolades, she's just as crucial to the success of the film, and her performance complements Leo's perfectly.
Trafic ('71): The best thing about Criterion's new release of this Jacques Tati comedy, his last effort as his famed alter ego M. Hulot, is an accompanying 1989 documentary by the legendary director's daughter Sophie, seven years after his death, a feature length examination of the Tati genius that never quite outlived the enormous success of the first two Hulot films. It's also welcome to finally have “Trafic” on DVD, completing the Hulot cycle of mostly masterpieces (“Mr. Hulot's Holiday”, “Mon Oncle”, and “Playtime”), it's still representative of the auteur's dedicated portrayal of consumerism as outlandish and ultimately clownish (this time tackling the auto industry though an incendiary series of hit-or-miss set pieces), but to suggest that the often laborious film – an extended road trip from France to Amsterdam – is nearly as funny or sharp as its predecessors is a stretch even for the most ardent Tati buff. My suggestion to the uninitiated, watch the first three Hulot's in order, “Jour de Fete” if you can find it as well, then “Trafic”, and then the accompanying documentary, maybe read David Bellos' “Jacques Tati: His Life and Art”, and you should be an expert in no time.
Letters from Iwo Jima ('06): Seen separately from “Flags of Our Fathers”, this Japanese-language masterwork from Clint Eastwood completely examines the dedication of the Japanese soldier to fight to the death, even when it becomes apparent that they've virtually been left for dead by a depleted and devastated army, but as a humanist companion piece to the earlier American film, it shows the frailties of human relationships on the brink of inevitable death, and that no matter what side you're on, this kind of existence is brutal and unimaginable. Eastwood paints the Japanese soldiers, primarily the tactical General (Ken Watanabe), a young, rebellious baker (Kazunari Ninomiya), and a disgraced M.P. (Ryo Kase), with compassionate strokes, their personal letters read in voice over serving as a guide to pre-war flashbacks that help us better understand the home front mindset of a people brainwashed into compliance with the Emperor's military aggression. That we know the outcome of the battle is of no importance, it's the characterizations that are so affecting, especially Ninomiya, whose scared and sensitive portrayal of the baker Saigo is an equal counterpart to Adam Beach's disillusioned Ira Hayes of the first film, making this as emotional and personal a war film you'll ever see. Together with “Flags of Our Fathers”, this gut wrenching two film stretch firmly places Eastwood as possibly the greatest actor turned director of all time, though from “Unforgiven” and “Million Dollar Baby”, we probably already knew that.
The Little Mermaid ('89): To suggest that this wonderful animated adaptation of Hans Christian Andersen's beloved children's fantasy was Disney's best film in nearly three decades is an understatement, nothing since 1961's “One Hundred and One Dalmatians” had so perfectly realized the classic Disney model of sturdy lead characters, hilarious sidekicks, song, and redemptive personal growth within a basic story arch as well as it did here, and thanks to the success, Disney's animation department would reign supreme for the next ten years. Who can't relate to the film's basic need to want to explore, to be free of familiarity, to grow up, in this case, escape an underwater world that, though beautiful and comfortable, doesn't excite our heroine like the seafaring pirates and handsome Prince of the human world; it's everybody's dream who ever found themselves stuck in a rut and didn't have Howard Ashman and Alan Menken to provide them lyrics to escape. It's the songs, naturally, that set the film apart from the previous films of the '70's and '80's, and would continue to dominate “Beauty and the Beast”, “Aladdin”, and “The Lion King” to come; Ariel's heartbreaking “Part of Your World”, classic villainess Ursula's “Poor Unfortunate Souls”, the French chef's jubilant and sinister “Les Poissons”, and best of all, Sebastian the crab's two show-stoppers, the romantic “Kiss the Girl”, and Oscar winning “Under the Sea”, a rasta flavored gem so good “The Simpsons” did a nearly shot for shot parody a few years later and still couldn't match the brilliance of the original. Included in the Platinum Edition DVD is a juicy 50-minute doc that suggests just how down in the dumps the animation department was before the film caught on at the box office and how, thanks to savvy marketing, the template was set for how to promote an animated film for the next two decades, a strategy of toys and mass production that all but secured Disney's continued stature as the most important name in children's entertainment.
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari ('19): Werner Krauss is Dr. Caligari, a sly psychopath who attracts a gawking rabble at a town carnival by presenting Ceseare (Conrad Veidt), a permanently entranced somnambulist, who, at the sound of Caligari's instruction, awakes to predict the fortunes of his crowd. The catch, unbeknownst to the crowd, is that whoever Ceseare picks is unjustly murdered by the zombie that same night, a master plan by Caligari that seems to suggest nothing more than a horrifying lust for murder, and how, given the doctor's demented smirk and how he and Ceseare's psychosis perfectly intertwines with the artificial sets of Robert Wiene's expressionist painted sets, a deeply disturbing horror story. A story of course is what it is, suggested by the twist ending that renders the madness of Caligari to be that of our storyteller, a detective whose best friend was killed by the sleeper, and that's just one of the shockers that continues to keep this ancient film text, arguably the most famous silent film of its sub-genre, German Expressionism, relevant and exciting today.
Atlantic City ('80): Louis Malle's best American film was made at just the right time at just the right place, as Atlantic City was literally being transformed from a third rate ocean resort with a once glamorous past to one of the world's leading casino gaming attractions, where the remnants of the past crumble to the earth by way of wrecking ball and dynamite. Burt Lancaster has the best role of the late stage of his career as Lou Pascal, a former small time numbers runner who, way past his prime, tries to live out missed glories by rescuing beautiful Susan Sarandon from drug dealers, pretending, with a new white suit and some smooth talk, to be the big-shot he once wished to become. Malle's presentation may take place in America, with the decay and rebirth of an American city representing the symbolic dreams of the lead characters, but his presentation is European in feel, using the basic plot outline of stolen drugs and the dealer's retribution as a springboard not into a thriller, as you'd assume, but into a precise examination of identity, regret, and idealistic fantasy.
Hamlet 2 ('08): Riffing on everything from inspirational teacher movies to the recent wave of big screen musicals, Andrew Fleming and Pam Brady's inspired comedy of the absurd finds a pitch perfect Steve Coogan wallowing away in Tuscan, Arizona as a hack drama teacher, so oblivious to his pathetic life he doesn't realize his “drama” - two man plays based on bad Hollywood films – is widely ridiculed, and that his bored wife (Catherine Keener) is about to leave. When the aggravated school principal tells him his drama class has been canceled, his plan is a lavish original musical sequel to “Hamlet” that will hopefully raise enough money to save the program, but with politically incorrect content about Jesus, rape, child abuse, and abandonment, local conservatives are up in arms. Coogan's Dana Marschz (“Mar-chis-itz”) is clueless and the butt of his student's jokes (in one extended scene a bully slips him acid and he winds up naked in a ditch the next morning), but his intentions are pure; there's a sweetness to the character, and the film, pulling disinterested detention bound kids into musical theater and making them, and us, care about the awful, highly inappropriate, but altogether hilarious treatment, and in that treatment, there hasn't been a more gonzo musical number as the brilliant Grease-esque inspired “Rock Me Sexy Jesus” since the avant-garde glam of “Hedwig and the Angry Inch”. This film may play with high school cliches, but it's an engaging and original work, Coogan gives the funniest performance of the year, and the music is great; a real surprise.
Vicky Cristina Barcelona ('08): Woody Allen's love letter to European art and beauty is, at its base, a Dear John to love itself, where marriage is seen as stodgy and boring and free sex, though problematic, is bohemian and cool. At 73, Woody's still figuring out relationships, but now it feels less like a man trying to cope with the love of his life (“Annie Hall”), or the peculiarities of marriage (“Husbands and Wives”), than an old man fantasizing about young lust and the choices that ultimately lead to heartbreak and cynicism. Not that love and cynicism have never meshed in Allen's work before, many of his best films in one way or another have been about the differences of men and women, sex and commitment, and here, embodied in American tourists Scarlett Johansson and Rebecca Hall, who while on a summer vacation in Barcelona meet and sleep with sexy painter Javier Bardem, whose troubled ex-wife (Penelope Cruz in another Oscar worthy performance) adds flavor and complications to the trysts, the line between casual sex (“making love” as Bardem stresses in a sleepy European lilt) and deeper emotional feelings is thinly blurred. What keeps the film from being a repetitive and ordinary entry to Allen's relationship canon is the European setting, which seems to have inspired Allen to write crisper dialogue, peppering his talented cast with a mixture of sensuality, romanticism, and psychoanalysis. It may not live up to his previous excursions into the minds of men and women and what makes them choose one bed from the next, but given Allen's two decades of mostly misses, this is a solid hit.
The Woman in the Window ('44): Fascinated by a portrait in a store window, middle aged professor Edward G. Robinson fantasizes about the beautiful model, Joan Bennett, when, in one of the most magnificent shots in the cinema of Fritz Lang, the girl appears out of nowhere, an apparition in the glass, ethereal and dreamlike, to tempt our lonely man with dreams of pleasure. The question posed by Lang and Nunnally Johnson, is the girl real, seen in reflection, or just the dizzying hopes of a lonely man whose family is away on vacation? Not as dark as next year's “Scarlet Street”, and Robinson has a bit more dignity here, not relegated to cleaning his wife's dishes in a frilly apron and painting his canvasses in the bathroom, here he actually kills a jealous lover in self defense and literally taunts the district attorney (Raymond Massey) to pin him, making out of murder and adultery a game of Catch Me If You Can. This is one of Lang's essential independent productions, made for Johnson's International Pictures with little interference from the distributing major, RKO, much the same as “Scarlet Street” a year later through Lang's newly formed Diana and Universal, stroking the director's massive ego to artistic heights. For such an important film, the no-bones DVD is a letdown, despite a good transfer; let's hope Criterion can eventually get title permission, it deserves a commentary track and scholarly liner notes to properly place it as one of the first and essential films noir.
Tobacco Road ('41): Trading the headstrong and resolute Oakies of “The Grapes of Wrath” for Erskine Caldwell's dirt poor Southern hillbillies, John Ford and Darryl F. Zanuck create one of the oddest companion pieces to a bonifide American classic ever made. The fact that it's hardly watched today, where 'Grapes' is still mentioned whenever a new list of the greatest American films ever pops up, suggests how bizarre it truly is; a mixture of Southern slapstick, sentimentality, and broad crude humor, toned down from Jack Kirkland's long running Broadway adaptation, but still raunchy enough to place itself at the opposite end of 'Wrath's class standing. It's a minor film in the Ford filmography, notable not only for the easy comparisons to “The Grapes of Wrath”, but for the lead performance by Charley Grapewine, reprising his stage role as Jeeter Lester, an aloof coot who kind of tries to save his decrepit farm from a bank foreclosure, but would rather steal turnips or laze about on the porch instead, creating the kind of hilariously crazy old earth man that Walter Huston would later trademark (and win an Oscar for) seven years later with “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre”.
The White Sheik ('52): Federico Fellini's first credit as a solo director is a fine mixture of familiar Italian genres, from slapstick and soap opera fantasy, to sexual farce and neo-realism, playing with cliches and conventions at the beat of his own slightly surreal, impeccably timed pace. Leopoldo Trieste plays a harried groom, taking his lovely young bride home to Rome to meet his family on a perfectly calculated timetable, but the girl, wonderfully played by Brunella Bovo (“Miracle in Milan”), inadvertently gets whisked away by a troupe of photo-novella actors in Arabic dress when she tries to meet her fantasy hero, the White Sheik (Alberto Sordi), causing much confusion and disruption for the exasperated groom. What we get is Fellini taking a standard trope, the country newlyweds lost in a haze of fantasy and reality in the big city, and turns it into an equally devastating portrait of dashed hopes (his about his innocent wife, hers about the purity of illusion), miscommunication, and reconciliation, as the decidedly un-cynical finale proves. Fellini would expand on the differences between reality, fantasy, and human relationships for the rest of his career, venturing further and further into the realm of self reflexive surrealism; “The White Sheik” doesn't quite live up to “La Strada” or “8 ½”, but it doesn't have to, judged on its own merits, with terrific lead performances from Trieste, Bovo, and Sordi, and Fellini's growing confidence as writer and director, it's a debut worthy of any great artist.