September 2010: 15 Mini Reviews

September 24, 2010

The last fifteen films I've seen.

Pleasures of the Flesh ('65): Oshima's first film made for his independent studio doesn't feel as radical as the earlier films that made such a furor at Shochiku, but this tale of revenge and sexual obsession is right up the director's alley.

When a corrupt official witnesses Akira Hamada committing a murder on a train, he blackmails the man into caring for his 30 million in embezzled funds while he serves a five year prison stint; if the money isn't in tact when he gets out, the jig is up. But Hamada has plans of his own; he's been jilted by the love of his life, and, obsessing over it, begins to pay women huge sums of money to be his sexual slave, and the four that agree over the course of a year (a singer, a wife, a virgin, and a mute prostitute) come to represent the stages of a sexual awakening. When the money begins to run out, Oshima has a few ironic twists in store, and nobody come out unscathed.

There's little to suggest that this should be considered a famous "pink" film, the kind of Japanese soft-core feature with lots of sex and nudity; of course the movie is about sex, domination, and revenge, and it's a lush production (in full, beautiful color), but the sex is never shown, there's no nudity, and the women, ciphers for Hamada's hatred and betrayal by his unrequited lover, become more greed and loneliness than purely sexual beings. Oshima would get more graphic in a few years with "In the Realm of Senses", but this sexual psycho-drama is equally devastating, and playful.

Wooden Crosses ('32): As far as WWI films go, this French gem isn't as well known as fellow classics like "All Quiet on the Western Front", "What Price Glory?", "Paths of Glory", "The Big Parade", and "Seventh Heaven", but it's arguably just as powerful in it's anti-war message.

Raymond Bernard, an accomplished silent film director, utilizes brilliant visual techniques to tell a universal story of one regiment as they fight a brutal ten-day battle on the front lines, dreaming of home, getting drunk when they can, and desperately waiting for a death that seems imminent.

Bernard's frequent use of double exposure of the soldiers matched against rows and rows of the titular grave markings is especially poignant and unforgettable.

Underworld ('27): Josef von Sternberg finally found an audience with this massive hit from 1927, the first of a string of silent masterpieces that would all but solidify his place in film history.

Here Sternberg, working from an Oscar winning (largely altered) script by Ben Hecht, literally invents the gangster genre with his triangle of Chicago toughs (George Bancroft, Clive Brook, and moll Evelyln Brent), partying, glancing, posing, posturing the night away in a series of brilliantly lit interiors, in between jewel heists and attempted hits.

Bancroft, all gawd, smiles, and suspicions, is the hammiest of the actors, though he commands the screen whenever he needs to explode, and near the end, in an apartment shoot-out cribbed by Howard Hawks for "Scarface", when he realizes the folly of his ways, and the growing bond between Brook and Brent, he's somewhat touching, in a sacrificial, ironic way.

But that's Sternberg in a shell, a glorious surface of beauty and mayhem, with a biting core of cynicism and irony in the middle; it worked in 1927, and it's amazingly refreshing 80 years later.

Rusty Knife ('58): Ever busy Yojiro Ishihara stars in this gritty noir as an ex-gangster who gets roped back into the game when an aggressive D.A. tries to turn him into a witness against a ruthless gang leader, but the boss has other ideas about that, and Yojiro, trying to go straight, and still haunted by the death of an old girlfriend, wants nothing to do with any of them.

Naturally, all sides collide, massive corruption is unearthed, a wicked knife fight commences, and the future of Japan's post-war youth and economy comes to rest on the symbolic shoulders of this struggling-to-reform ex-hood.

All around entertaining Nikkatsu action drama, with glimpses of fellow stars Akira Kobayashi, Mie Kitahara, and Jo Shishido, in a brief role as a snitch getting pitched from a speeding train.

Kick-Ass ('10): Wildly violent adaptation of a graphic novel by Mark Millar, about a comic book nerd who wonders what it would be like to don a wetsuit and pretend to be a superhero; the results, mixed. On the one hand, he isn't much of a fighter, so he continually gets whooped, but on the other hand, his audacity brings out a father-daughter team (Nicolas Cage, Chloe Moretz) who make it their personal mission to bring down a drug cartel, and they're much better trained, and armed, than our would-be hero. With themes of self respect, courage, revenge, honor, and legacy, director Matthew Vaughn's film tackles some weighty, serious issues, but really it's an action-comedy, and not a particularly good one; too bloody, too uneven, and often unflinchingly vulgar, leaving a bad aftertaste. Though the trio of young stars, Moretz, Aaron Johnson, and Christopher Mintz-Plasse are passable, and seem to have bright futures.

Withnail and I ('87): Bruce Robinson never quite lived up to the promise of this bittersweet autobiographical debut, about two unemployed actors in 1969 London, living hand-to-mouth in a cold apartment, who take a trip to the countryside to recoup, but find miserable conditions (and a few crazy locals) put a strain on their already shaky friendship. Funny sequences include a run in with a randy bull, a drunken attack on a dowdy countryside tea and crumpet shop, a session with a drug dealer (Ralph Brown) smoking a carrot sized joint, killing a live rooster for supper, and dodging the advances of an amorous gay uncle (scene stealer Richard Griffiths). The farce is bawdy and very British, but the emotional core is real, and by the end of the weekend trip, the two friends (played brilliantly by Paul McGann and Richard E. Grant) have all but grown apart, one with a future, one into the bottle, and the final scene between the two is devastating.

The Last Command ('28): From the second we see him, peeking his trembling head out from behind an apartment door, Emil Jannings is nothing less than fascinating in this masterpiece by Josef von Sternberg, one of the great films in the last days of the silent era.

Jannings plays a deposed Russian general who, having narrowly escaped the revolution, now works sporadically in Hollywood as an extra; when a former adversary (William Powell), now a top director, sees his head shot in a pile of photos, he looks to enact some karmic revenge on the once great man.

What ensues, following a lengthy flashback to the final days of the revolution, and to Jannings complicated romance with a beautiful proletariat ("Underworld's" Evelyn Brent), is a brilliantly realized dance between fiction and reality, as the old man is called upon to play act a character similar to his former self, and the filming becomes so intense that his perception of time and surrounding gets altogether lost.

Sternberg is having a field day sending up the politics of Hollywood and studio film-making, especially in a funny early scene involving a crush of extras and their daily wardrobe routine, but make no mistake, this is large scale studio film-making of the highest order, and no matter how cynical he pretends to be towards the magic factory, his spectacle is part of the history, and a great one.

Louie Bluie ('85): Terry Zwigoff's odyssey in producing this low budget doc is almost as memorable as the movie itself, and on Criterion's unexpected, welcomed DVD, he gets a showcase commentary track to tell the story.

A longtime aficionado of old time blues and country music, Zwigoff set out to write an article on long forgotten Chicago mandolin master Howard "Louie Bluie" Armstrong, but when he finally tracked down the musician, living in a rundown Detroit housing complex, he was so fascinated by the man that he put his life savings into a film project, and through additional grants, and ingenious self-made situations (like pairing Armstrong with his old recording friend Ted Bogan, and fellow blues masters Ikey Robinson and Yank Rachell for a series of impromptu sessions), a 60 minute film was crafted, serving not only as Armstrong's own charming oral narrative, but of black country blues music dating back almost to the slave quarters.

Armstrong, 75 when Zwigoff filmed him, comes off as a man of many talents; besides being a virtuoso mandolin and fiddle player, he's an exceptional painter and narrator, spinning yarns five decades old like they just happened, and cultivating a chronology of his life's experiences (and a bizarre opus about the eroticism of pornography; something in common with Zwigoff's next subject, Robert Crumb) in beautiful watercolor, and surreal whimsy.

This is a strange, loving portrait of a man, a sound, a culture, practically lost to the history books and dusty collections of obsessive record collectors; it was worth the director's life savings at the time, and it's priceless now.

Time Bandits ('81): Like all of Terry Gilliam's fantasy films, this children's tale about a lonely boy who tags along as six little people jump across time and space stealing treasure from famous historical figures, is hit or miss; imagination to spare, though borderline uninteresting and awkward.

With a tremendous debt to "The Wizard of Oz", Gilliam's adventure finds a young boy literally escaping a poor, lonely childhood into fantasy, though where Dorothy found Oz on the other side of a twister, our Kevin finds his six little friends in his closet, running away from their employer - God. Soon they're jumping through black time portals, back to the time of Napoleon (Ian Holm, perfectly cast), ripping off his loot, and then even further back, to Greece in the time of Agamemnon (Sean Connery), or to the wacky forests of Robin Hood (John Cleese, hamming it up), before an evil wizard hatches onto their plot and steers them his way.

The effects, primitive as they are for an independent film of the early 80's, blend nicely with the models and makeup of this fantasy world, but there's little importance to the story, and as a whole, it's not nearly as funny or satirical as Gilliam, Cleese and Michael Palin's best Monty Python work. Though don't take it from me, this was a big hit, and remains a cult classic.

The Haunted Castle ('21): Beware poor prints of this 1921 Murnau chamber drama, like the one offered on Netflix, in which a country party in a big old country mansion becomes rife with intrigue and suspicions when a suspected murderer crashes the party. Otherwise, on a clear print, as offered by Kino, the drama is decent, and as always Murnau's lighting and framing are excellent.

You Only Live Once ('37): Following "Fury", Fritz Lang continues his American odyssey into early Film Noir with this tale of doomed lovers on the run, partially inspired by Bonnie and Clyde, with sympathetic bank robber Henry Fonda dragging down sweet innocent Sylvia Sidney when a prison break goes horribly wrong and a priest gets shot.

Fonda, in one of his first starring roles (though Sylvia is top billed), is dynamic playing, in all essence, the good-bad guy, a tough stiff who just can't catch a break in the world, and when he finally does, it's mitigated by ironic circumstances (shrouded in Lang's expressionistic use of fog) leading to murder, and no way out.

Like in "Fury", there's a notion of impending doom and chaos, that no matter which way the characters turn, be it trying to go straight, trying to beat a frame up, or live long enough on the lamb to see your baby born, nothing will work, and I'm sure in 1936, having declined Hitler's invitation to run the German film industry and all it's propaganda efforts, fleeing to France, then America, Lang sympathized with the displaced and unjustly accused, and there's just enough of his home country expressionism to quell the treacly romance with necessary dread.

Lang's American output is problematic, and even this early effort, produced independently by Walter Wanger, was cut down by 20 minutes because of what was thought to be unnecessary violence, but what remains is an occasionally brilliant, occasionally clunky hard luck melodrama, evincing themes of justice, persecution, and the perception of good and bad key to the director's entire canon.

The Spiders ('19): Early Fritz Lang action epic was meant to be a four part serial, and too bad the final two parts never materialized, because Carl de Vogt as Kay Hoog is a genuine action star, suave and indefatigable, and these first two parts aren't short on suspense. Sure the editing is choppy, partly due to the fact that the film was lost for years, and only resurfaced fifty years later in bad shape, but Lang had probably seen enough Griffith by 1919 to know how to string together action and intrigue (and some cringe-worthy Asian stereotyping) to make it a smooth two-plus hours.

Violence at Noon ('66): Nagisa Oshima takes a page from the New Wave and chops this psychological serial rapist thriller into a jumble of jump cuts, rapid edits, time shifts, camera trickery, and political satire, and it's one of the most ambitious, mesmerizing films of his career.

The late Kei Sato stars as the High Noon Attacker, a farmer who, as flashbacks tell us, has devolved into a rapist and a murderer because of the misguided affections of a local school-teacher and a young, comely maid, both of who know they shouldn't be hiding the man's identity from the police, but that's the nature of psycho-sexual obsession. As the film plunges like a speeding train towards it's disturbing conclusion, Sato and the psychology of a murderer become less prevalent than the budding frustrations and duel psyches of the women, who blend in a "Persona"-esque nightmare.

Oshima keeps us guessing as to why the murderer is as he is, and why these two women are so drawn to him (with both hate, and especially, lust), with a narrative that routinely shifts back and forth in time with little indication or physical association for clues, but it's all part of a fascinating cinematic fabric, confusing and exhilarating.

The Story of a Cheat ('36): Famous French thespian and playwright Sacha Guitry is the epitome of the auteur in this one-of-a-kind comedy, written, acted, directed, and masterfully narrated by the star in a witty, imaginative, and sincere dialogue with the image and the audience.

Ostensibly, Guitry narrates the life of an orphan from the day his extensive family is killed by poisonous mushrooms, through to his 50's, where in a lonely, stage bound cafe, he's writing his memoirs, of which serve as the key device to plunge back and forth in time, as the boy grows up and tries to change his errant ways, only to find theft, love, and excitement come hand in hand during the first decades of the 20th century.

With a brilliant editing precision, Guitry's voice and story play the narrative along as the images remain all but silent, focusing almost entirely on the older man's recollection of his life, decades later, while remaining an elusive figure in the present; a dapper storyteller with pen and paper, and just a bit of unaccountability to keep the stories remarkable, sweet, and thoroughly funny.

My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? ('09): Lesser Herzog often plays like a parody of classic Hezog, and this bizarre film, exec-produced by David Lynch, has hints of Aguirre and Bruno S. in it's depiction of slow building madness, but it's a slog, miscast and uneven.

Michael Shannon plays Brad, a loafer from Southern California who lives with his mother, surrounded by flamingos in a perfectly Lynchian suburb; one day he takes a sword and stabs her to death in a neighbor's living room, serving the film with it's central mystery as it plays out in flashback during a hostage negotiation.

Willem Dafoe is the head detective in charge of figuring out the mystery, with Chloe Sevigny as Brad's fiancée filling in crucial plot holes, like Brad's disastrous white-water rafting trip to Peru, and character traits, which come to beg the question of Brad's sanity, and why he wasn't committed sooner, pre-matricide.

There's nothing aesthetically wrong with the picture, Herzog can frame a lunatic against a Peruvian backdrop as good as always, it's just that Brad goes off the deep end so fast that his motives (his clingy mother, the bad Peru trip, his firing from a Greek tragedy play) never register as important enough to justify the setup.

asuraf@DunkirkMA.net