*Since January 1, I've watched 99 of the AFI 100 Years...100 Movies, *mostly* fulfilling my goal of watching all 100 in 2016. I deliberately skipped Birth of a Nation.
**While I have watched the films, I didn't stick to the schedule, and I am woefully behind in posting comments. I plan to complete the comments (albeit slowly) in 2017. I'm sad that I didn't adhere to my own rules more strictly, but in my defense I have a job, a first grader, a new house, and a new baby!
Saturday, December 31, 2016
Friday, September 30, 2016
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Week of October 9-15: Pulp Fiction (1994) & King Kong (1933)
What's unfortunate about the film is it's rampant racism and sexism, from its portrayal of the indigenous population on the island and the "Chinese" cook to its insistence on referring to Fay Wray as a "girl" and aggressively belittling her (and all women, generally) throughout the film.
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Week of August 28-September 3: Ben Hur (1959)
If you can't handle sitting through the entire three hours and forty minutes, at least skip ahead to the race and prepare to be awed.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Week of June 12-June 18: All about Eve (1950) & A Clockwork Orange (1971)
A Clockwork Orange: I don't like this film. I first saw it nearly fifteen years ago, when I was in college. I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now. If possible, I actually dislike it even more now. I mean, I get it. I understand why it's "important." It's impressively acted, full of captivating visuals, and is an undeniably visceral experience. It's uncomfortable, unsettling--and that's the point. And that's fine. But it's not for me.
So I fell behind a little...
My apologies for falling so gloriously behind in posting! I have still been watching the films (and am only 1 film behind schedule), but I've been bad about keeping this site updated. In my defense, we're still getting settled into our new house. Plus it's summer--a busy time for my job and a busy time for family trips and activities. Biggest of all, though, we're expecting a baby in December, and preparing our (new) home for the (new) arrival has kept me busy!
What I plan to do going forward is create a schedule (and list the movies a few weeks out in advance). I will return to the schedule to post comments on the films as I'm able. Sound good? Great!
Watch on!
What I plan to do going forward is create a schedule (and list the movies a few weeks out in advance). I will return to the schedule to post comments on the films as I'm able. Sound good? Great!
Watch on!
Saturday, June 11, 2016
Friday, May 27, 2016
Monday, May 16, 2016
Week of May 8-May 14: Wuthering Heights (1939) & Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)
BCATSK has a lot of fun moments, and with the easy buddy chemistry between Redford and Newman, it's totally understandable as to why this one was a hit. It's violent, though, and dark, with that gang of faceless horsemen in constant pursuit of our heroes--an interesting, if somewhat obvious, metaphor for the fast-approaching future. Not as dark as its 1967 outlaw predecessor, Bonnie and Clyde, though. The (mostly) peppy Bacharach soundtrack contemporizes this Western, too, making the turn of the century setting feel a little like the late 1960's. I like this film. As I think about it, it's a film of transition. Technology overtaking the old west. The sixties ushering in the seventies. Newman cresting his peak of popularity while Redford is just climbing towards his. Maybe dark is the wrong word for this film. Maybe melancholy? Change can be exciting. But also scary. And sometimes sad.
Wuthering Heights is just one long, depressing slog towards its inevitable conclusion. Probably sounds like I'm complaining, but I'm not. The film is very effective. It looks amazing.Wyler masterfully sets the tone.
Week 18
Duck Soup (1933): I can handle the Marx Brothers in small
doses. But Duck Soup, coming in at
just 68 minutes, was waaaaaaaay too much. In joke-a-second delivery, I feel
like you need to hit as least as much as you miss, and that’s not the case
here. The puns and double-entendres are sometimes amusing, but the volume of
them is tiresome, and a lot of them fall flat. Additional complaints: the plot
is extremely thin (which would be fine, if the other elements played out
favorably), the musical numbers (likely used as filler to pad the short running
time) are unremarkable, and much of the comedy is downright cruel. I’ll have to
revisit some other Marx Brothers films when I have time to explore whether or
not I’m a fan of theirs at all. Perhaps I’ve just outgrown them.
Some Like it Hot (1959): I like Billy Wilder. And I like this film. Given contemporary sensibilities about presentation of gender, Some Like it Hot does pose some problems. But overall, I appreciated that its approach was much like the one later taken by Tootsie: the film sometimes delivers jokes at the expense of women, but it as (or more) frequently uses its conceit to criticize the boorish behavior of men. And it’s funny. Very funny. And it kept me guessing. It’d been long enough since the last time I saw it, that I couldn’t quite remember who ultimately paired off together from the love triangle until well past the halfway point of the film (much like my experience this time around with The Philadelphia Story). Curtis, Lemon, and Monroe work well together. And Billy Wilder, as always, has a great sense of pace. In the end, this isn’t a particularly important film, but it is a pretty fun one. By far my favorite comedy this week.
Some Like it Hot (1959): I like Billy Wilder. And I like this film. Given contemporary sensibilities about presentation of gender, Some Like it Hot does pose some problems. But overall, I appreciated that its approach was much like the one later taken by Tootsie: the film sometimes delivers jokes at the expense of women, but it as (or more) frequently uses its conceit to criticize the boorish behavior of men. And it’s funny. Very funny. And it kept me guessing. It’d been long enough since the last time I saw it, that I couldn’t quite remember who ultimately paired off together from the love triangle until well past the halfway point of the film (much like my experience this time around with The Philadelphia Story). Curtis, Lemon, and Monroe work well together. And Billy Wilder, as always, has a great sense of pace. In the end, this isn’t a particularly important film, but it is a pretty fun one. By far my favorite comedy this week.
Week 17
Dr. Strangelove Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964):
I was in college the last time I saw this, and I then found it mildly
amusing. This time I laughed out loud. A lot. The laughter came from discomfort
and fear, sure—but it manifested in full-fledged guffaws. Kubrick was way ahead
of his time with this one. Sellers is fantastic in three very different roles; I
especially enjoy his phone conversations (as President) with the Russian
Premier Dmitri (of which we, of course, only hear one side). They’re so familiar
with each other, which is made all the more hilarious by the fact that they’re
talking about the possible (and accidental) annihilation of the entire planet. And
George C. Scott (who was apparently “tricked” into his performance by Kubrick,
who asked him to be extra zany during “rehearsal” takes, which were ultimately
used in the film) is hilarious—something you don’t see from him in pretty much
every other film he’s done.
It looks good, too. It was wisely shot in black and white. And some of the green screen effects still hold up quite well. It works as a race-the-clock type thriller, but it’s difficult to guess how well it would have been received had it not been for the satirical element, given how dark the story is (and that it was released during the heart of the Cold War—just three years after The Bay of Pigs). But I’ve read that the jokes kept bubbling to the surface of the script, and Kubrick felt he had no choice but to make the film a cold war satire. And I think it’s the satirical aspect that’s given the film its long life and made it possible to be released when it was released in the first place. So grab some popcorn. Watch for a pre-Star Wars James Earl Jones to pop up. Practice your duck and cover. And enjoy the film.
The Grapes of Wrath (1940): So let’s be honest. This one’s a downer. One long downer. But so is its source material. The film is actually more optimistic than the book. And one could probably argue that the film (released within a year of the book) helped solidify the novel’s place in the American literary canon. (I would argue that the film is better-paced and more coherent than the novel.) What’s most remarkable to me is both the book and film were released while the country was still in the midst (if at the tail-end) of both the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, making The Grapes of Wrath a pretty remarkable piece of art that manages to capture a significant moment in American History really well (without much or any benefit of hindsight). The plight of the migrant workers is rawly depicted (at least by 1930’s and 40’s standards) and felt. What’s more, the film is still relevant. There are still—and will always be—greedy people at the “top,” exploiting those at the bottom. Well-acted, well-directed, well-photographed, and perpetually relevant, The Grapes of Wrath deservedly made this list.
It looks good, too. It was wisely shot in black and white. And some of the green screen effects still hold up quite well. It works as a race-the-clock type thriller, but it’s difficult to guess how well it would have been received had it not been for the satirical element, given how dark the story is (and that it was released during the heart of the Cold War—just three years after The Bay of Pigs). But I’ve read that the jokes kept bubbling to the surface of the script, and Kubrick felt he had no choice but to make the film a cold war satire. And I think it’s the satirical aspect that’s given the film its long life and made it possible to be released when it was released in the first place. So grab some popcorn. Watch for a pre-Star Wars James Earl Jones to pop up. Practice your duck and cover. And enjoy the film.
The Grapes of Wrath (1940): So let’s be honest. This one’s a downer. One long downer. But so is its source material. The film is actually more optimistic than the book. And one could probably argue that the film (released within a year of the book) helped solidify the novel’s place in the American literary canon. (I would argue that the film is better-paced and more coherent than the novel.) What’s most remarkable to me is both the book and film were released while the country was still in the midst (if at the tail-end) of both the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, making The Grapes of Wrath a pretty remarkable piece of art that manages to capture a significant moment in American History really well (without much or any benefit of hindsight). The plight of the migrant workers is rawly depicted (at least by 1930’s and 40’s standards) and felt. What’s more, the film is still relevant. There are still—and will always be—greedy people at the “top,” exploiting those at the bottom. Well-acted, well-directed, well-photographed, and perpetually relevant, The Grapes of Wrath deservedly made this list.
Monday, May 2, 2016
Weeks 15-16
High Noon (1952): Yeah, it has something of a macho “man’s gotta do…”
mentality and it’s not shy about ] shaming a young Quaker woman into a “stand
by your man” situation, but it’s also an interesting exploration of duty and
honor and what it means to be brave (or, conversely, cowardly). I like
how everything is tied together by Tex Ritter’s “Don’t Forsake Me, My Darling
(High Noon),” which does a great job of setting the film’s tone in the opening.
Plus snippets of the song frequently turn up throughout the film, and the
rhythm of the tune is suggestive of both the chug of a train and the tick-tock
of a clock—quite appropriate as the film (more or less) unfolds in real time as
the marshal awaits the arrival of the noon train, which will bring an
exonerated enemy out for revenge. The film is “slow”—at least by western
standards and not particularly action-packed, with the exception of two
fights/battles. But it’s never dull. What makes the film compelling is watching
these characters’ interact as we navigate their loyalties. Every person in
town, one after the other, for one reason or another, refuses to stand with the
marshal. Everyone in town (friend and enemy alike) forsakes him in the
end—except for his new wife. So the only one to stand and “fight” with him is
his pacifist bride.
A Streetcar Named Desire (1951): This is more or less a straight screen adaptation of the play—even in its casting, as Brando (Stanley), Hunter (Stella), and Malden (Mitch) all reprise their stage roles. The performances are fantastic. I especially like Brando. Almost everyone else’s performances are heightened, melodramatic, but his feels very natural—it’s a nuanced counterpoint to the others. Interestingly, he’s the only member of the principal cast who didn’t win an Oscar for the film. A friend (and fellow film lover) posited that the character of Stanley might have been too unlikeable for Academy voters, and he suggested that probably few actors portraying “unlikeable” protagonists have walked away with Oscars, especially before the 1970s. I think he’s right. It didn’t help Brando, though, that he happened to be up against Bogie and his “legacy” Oscar for The African Queen.
Streetcar is set primarily in and around Stanley’s and Stella’s apartment in a slummy part of the French Quarter in New Orleans. The sultry air is palpable. We sweat with the characters. At times, witnessing Blanche’s descent into madness is almost unbearable. She’s a well-drawn character, who simultaneously perturbs and saddens us. We want to dismiss her. We want to root for her. Stanley, at times, seems reasonable, if hot-headed, in his suspicion of her, especially as Blanche seems to take pleasure in antagonizing him. At other times, Stanley is downright cruel. In the end, he destroys her. When Stanley returns home from the hospital to rest, Blanche is decked out in her southern-belle finest, and she spins a yarn about a suitor coming to take her away. She’s nips at Stanley, letting him know in no uncertain terms how high above him she believes she and her sister are in social standing, how far she feels Stella has fallen by marrying this “Polack.” Then he bites back. Horrifically. And the thing we feared might happen the whole film happens.
On the Waterfront (1954): Damned if you do; damned if you don’t…
Brando is reunited with Streetcar
director Alia Kazan and costar Karl Malden in a nearly perfect film about
labor violence and racketeering in New Jersey. Probably my favorite Brando
role. And one of the best stories on
the AFI list. I don’t even know where to start. The compelling family drama (between
Terry and his brother)? The fact that Terry’s love interest is the sister of a
man he helped kill? The fact that he didn’t even know he was aiding in a
murder? The priest who (at least, at first) single-handedly takes on the mob?
The revelation that Terry essential ended his boxing career on a fight his
brother asked him to throw (for money)? The internal turmoil Terry experiences
weighing whether or not to stand up, to fight, to “rat”? The lovely, if
obvious, irony that Terry is a gentle soul who looks after rooftop pigeons (his
own, plus the pigeons of the man he—accidentally—helped kill), all while
weighing whether or not he should himself become a pigeon? The heartbreaking
moment when the neighborhood boys, who’ve always looked up to him, turn their
backs on him (and slaughter aforementioned pigeons) when he talks to the police?
Just stop reading this blog now and go watch the movie.
The Third Man (1949): This is another one that will likely be at the top of my rankings for this list at the end of the year. It’s got a lot of great “filmy” stuff for geeks, but it’s a solid mystery flick.
The Third Man (1949): This is another one that will likely be at the top of my rankings for this list at the end of the year. It’s got a lot of great “filmy” stuff for geeks, but it’s a solid mystery flick.
The story—a lopsided love-triangle filled with intrigue and delightful
characters (even their names are wonderful—Harry Lime, Baron, Callaway, Holly
Martins)—is great. The action is well-paced. And the music is fun. I even like
the unique opening credit sequence: a static shot of zither strings plucked by
an unseen musician.
From a filmmaking perspective, The Third Man is
stunning. The copy I have is a 15+ year-old DVD that was either scanned from a
really poor print of the film or copied from an old VHS tape. I probably
plucked it out of a $2 bin at a discount store. I plan now to upgrade to
Blu-Ray (unfortunately the Criterion is out of print!). But even with this poor
transfer, I could appreciate the meticulous use of light, shadow, and framing.
There are several unique and arresting camera angles, too, and the film manages
to feel fresh after more than six decades.
The story was penned by Graham Greene, but from what I’ve read, Greene himself didn’t realize just how great the story was. Apparently he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about director Carol Reed’s ending, either, which has become one of the most iconic scenes in classic film: Anna’s long, slow walk towards Holly--a continuous one minute take with beautifully framed symmetry. The film is symmetrical in structure, too, both beginning and ending with a funeral, and a shot of Anna walking away from it.
The story was penned by Graham Greene, but from what I’ve read, Greene himself didn’t realize just how great the story was. Apparently he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about director Carol Reed’s ending, either, which has become one of the most iconic scenes in classic film: Anna’s long, slow walk towards Holly--a continuous one minute take with beautifully framed symmetry. The film is symmetrical in structure, too, both beginning and ending with a funeral, and a shot of Anna walking away from it.
It’s dark, but it’s fun. Joseph Cotton’s Holly Martins is
brash and antagonistic towards the authorities in Vienna, often calling Major Callaway
“Callaghan” (maybe deliberately, maybe not). Callaway dishes it back just as
well, telling Holly, “I don’t want another murder in this case, and you were
born to be murdered.”
What makes the movie most memorable for me, though, is the climactic chase scene through the sewers of Vienna. It’s thrilling, intriguingly staged and shot, and it concludes in a poignant confrontation between old friends. Wells’ (Lime’s) pleading face is almost boyish, harkening back to his and Holly’s childhood friendship.
What makes the movie most memorable for me, though, is the climactic chase scene through the sewers of Vienna. It’s thrilling, intriguingly staged and shot, and it concludes in a poignant confrontation between old friends. Wells’ (Lime’s) pleading face is almost boyish, harkening back to his and Holly’s childhood friendship.
Monday, April 18, 2016
Weeks 13-14
Taxi Driver (1976): So
here’s my thing about Scorsese. I like his films. And I’ve seen many of them.
But no matter how many I’ve seen—or how often I’ve seen them—the violence
always startles me. Not only did I know what was coming at the end of Taxi
Driver because I’d seen it before, but I knew what was coming even the
first time I saw it because there is a palpable sense of foreboding coursing
through the film, beginning right away in the opening frames, as a cab emerges
ominously from a cloud of steam, and then building (with an appropriately tense
and crescendo-ing soundtrack) towards the big, bloody conclusion.
But still—when the inevitable violence actually unfolds—it feels abrupt, jarring. And for me, that’s part of the film’s power. It’s visceral. I actually did the throwing-my-hands-up-in-front-of-the-screen-to-block-my-own-view bit a few times.
De Niro’s turn as Travis Bickle is pretty fantastic, too. At first he seems like a nice guy (if a little odd). But he gets progressively creepier. Something’s definitely off about this guy; he has an odd and difficult-to-discern moral code. And his insecurities (which represent those of many white men in the seventies—and even today) spawn misogyny and racism. His letters home are heartfelt, sad, striking, but I wonder if his parents are actually even still alive. Are the letters (which serve as a voice-over for the film) more of a journal for Travis? Or does he actually send them to someone?
And what’s most interesting about the film is the violent act Bickle ultimately “chooses” in the end. The film seems to suggest it might not be his first choice. Is he first contemplating shooting up a campaign event and killing dozens of innocent people (or at least the candidate) before settling on rescuing Iris (a young Jodi Foster) from her “life on the street”? Travis ultimately comes out a hero in the end, when throughout the rest of the film, he’s—at best—an anti-hero. At worst, he’s a sociopath. Or possibly, he’s neither—he’s just a guy suffering from insomnia and (probably) PTSD, who feels isolated and powerless in a decaying urban jungle. When it comes to violence, just how fine is the line between the good guy and the bad guy?
From Here to Eternity (1953): This one was both worse and better than I remember. Worse because much of the film, while moderately entertaining, feels mostly like a middling melodrama. Better because of two elements that elevate it above a large crop of other WWII films. First, the acting is good, from everyone involved. Sinatra even won an Oscar. But mostly, it’s the final twelve minutes or so that have given this film its 60+ year life. The attack on Pearl Harbor is captured in an exciting way, but more importantly, it adds gravitas to what was otherwise mostly melodrama. Knowing the time-period and setting, the audience is aware of the impending attack. The characters, however, are not. This dramatic irony serves as a ticking time bomb, intensifying all of the interpersonal and emotional drama the characters face throughout the film. And it all comes perfectly to a head in the climactic bombing sequence and the film’s sad (if oddly satisfying) conclusion.
It Happened One Night (1934): Before I get into the “good” stuff, I have to say this film provides another example of how antiquated sensibilities can be distracting in an otherwise fun diversion. Right away, in the opening scene, Colbert’s character is treated like a child. Her father has kidnapped her and is holding her captive on his yacht because she’s married someone he doesn’t like. Almost all men in the film treat her unkindly. They’re condescending, bossy, and cruel. Even Gable, with whom she eventually falls in love, refers to her as a “brat.” And I realize that most of this is likely meant to emphasize she’s spoiled, out-of-touch, and lazy, and her character certainly does make some poor decisions. Plus it’s all meant to play for laughs. But it felt like too much. And I know I’m ragging on some of these films a lot, but if I’m going to do this thing right, I’m going to give you my honest observations!
Now, all that said—the movie is still fairly enjoyable. The banter between Colbert and Gable is solid. The movie rolls along at a quick pace. The road trip element provides a nice framework (for both a beginning and end point to the film as well as a means of introducing new settings and situations). It's generally entertaining.
Chinatown (1974): This film holds up very well. Still feels relevant, modern. Definitely one of (if not the) best detective noirs produced outside of the 1940’s and 50’s. The story is twisty. The acting is phenomenal. The photography looks great. And the backstory is richly detailed. Plus it’s an excellent period piece. It manages to capture both the place and period in which it’s set—L.A. in the late 1930’s—and the period in which it’s made—the 1970’s. And the juxtaposition of such a dark story (corruption, rape, incest, murder) unfolding in bright, warm, and beautiful southern California is powerful; the film captures this L.A. contradiction better than most. And the abrupt and tragic ending, and Gittes’ (Nicholson’s) reaction to it, is about the only (and perfect) way to conclude the film. This one makes my top-five for the AFI list so far.
But still—when the inevitable violence actually unfolds—it feels abrupt, jarring. And for me, that’s part of the film’s power. It’s visceral. I actually did the throwing-my-hands-up-in-front-of-the-screen-to-block-my-own-view bit a few times.
De Niro’s turn as Travis Bickle is pretty fantastic, too. At first he seems like a nice guy (if a little odd). But he gets progressively creepier. Something’s definitely off about this guy; he has an odd and difficult-to-discern moral code. And his insecurities (which represent those of many white men in the seventies—and even today) spawn misogyny and racism. His letters home are heartfelt, sad, striking, but I wonder if his parents are actually even still alive. Are the letters (which serve as a voice-over for the film) more of a journal for Travis? Or does he actually send them to someone?
And what’s most interesting about the film is the violent act Bickle ultimately “chooses” in the end. The film seems to suggest it might not be his first choice. Is he first contemplating shooting up a campaign event and killing dozens of innocent people (or at least the candidate) before settling on rescuing Iris (a young Jodi Foster) from her “life on the street”? Travis ultimately comes out a hero in the end, when throughout the rest of the film, he’s—at best—an anti-hero. At worst, he’s a sociopath. Or possibly, he’s neither—he’s just a guy suffering from insomnia and (probably) PTSD, who feels isolated and powerless in a decaying urban jungle. When it comes to violence, just how fine is the line between the good guy and the bad guy?
From Here to Eternity (1953): This one was both worse and better than I remember. Worse because much of the film, while moderately entertaining, feels mostly like a middling melodrama. Better because of two elements that elevate it above a large crop of other WWII films. First, the acting is good, from everyone involved. Sinatra even won an Oscar. But mostly, it’s the final twelve minutes or so that have given this film its 60+ year life. The attack on Pearl Harbor is captured in an exciting way, but more importantly, it adds gravitas to what was otherwise mostly melodrama. Knowing the time-period and setting, the audience is aware of the impending attack. The characters, however, are not. This dramatic irony serves as a ticking time bomb, intensifying all of the interpersonal and emotional drama the characters face throughout the film. And it all comes perfectly to a head in the climactic bombing sequence and the film’s sad (if oddly satisfying) conclusion.
It Happened One Night (1934): Before I get into the “good” stuff, I have to say this film provides another example of how antiquated sensibilities can be distracting in an otherwise fun diversion. Right away, in the opening scene, Colbert’s character is treated like a child. Her father has kidnapped her and is holding her captive on his yacht because she’s married someone he doesn’t like. Almost all men in the film treat her unkindly. They’re condescending, bossy, and cruel. Even Gable, with whom she eventually falls in love, refers to her as a “brat.” And I realize that most of this is likely meant to emphasize she’s spoiled, out-of-touch, and lazy, and her character certainly does make some poor decisions. Plus it’s all meant to play for laughs. But it felt like too much. And I know I’m ragging on some of these films a lot, but if I’m going to do this thing right, I’m going to give you my honest observations!
Now, all that said—the movie is still fairly enjoyable. The banter between Colbert and Gable is solid. The movie rolls along at a quick pace. The road trip element provides a nice framework (for both a beginning and end point to the film as well as a means of introducing new settings and situations). It's generally entertaining.
Chinatown (1974): This film holds up very well. Still feels relevant, modern. Definitely one of (if not the) best detective noirs produced outside of the 1940’s and 50’s. The story is twisty. The acting is phenomenal. The photography looks great. And the backstory is richly detailed. Plus it’s an excellent period piece. It manages to capture both the place and period in which it’s set—L.A. in the late 1930’s—and the period in which it’s made—the 1970’s. And the juxtaposition of such a dark story (corruption, rape, incest, murder) unfolding in bright, warm, and beautiful southern California is powerful; the film captures this L.A. contradiction better than most. And the abrupt and tragic ending, and Gittes’ (Nicholson’s) reaction to it, is about the only (and perfect) way to conclude the film. This one makes my top-five for the AFI list so far.
Your thoughts?
Wednesday, April 6, 2016
Week of April 3-April 9: It Happened One Night (1934) & Chinatown (1974)
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Weeks 10-12
Soooooo...we’ve been house hunting, and
that’s occupied the majority of my critical and creative energy over the past
few weeks. As a result, I’ve again fallen behind in posting. But I have kept up
with viewing. Here’s an epic six-film post to catch us up. My apologies. Please bear with me!
The Philadelphia Story (1940): It seems like an odd premise—at least by today’s standards: a
scandal might possibly interrupt the nuptials of socialites. But perhaps it’s
not that odd for the plot of a theater production, which is what The Philadelphia Story is based on (in
fact, Katharine Hepburn reprises her role as Tracy Lord from the play in the
film). And perhaps that’s just it—maybe we don’t have many films like this
anymore, because fewer films are based on theater productions. And maybe that’s
because American audiences don’t have the patience for a film with minimal set
pieces and maximal dialogue. In this, as in many romantic comedies of the
period (including many others with Hepburn and/or Grant and/or Stewart),
densely packed lines are delivered rapidly and in quick succession. It can be
exhausting to follow, absorb, and process everything the characters are saying
to each other. But it’s also rewarding. And the best part about the film is
that several outcomes seem entirely possible (even probable) as we’re coming
into the homestretch. Even though I’d seen the film before, I was myself only
half-sure of how it would turn out. It’s wild, it’s fast, and it’s funny, if
still more than a little old-fashioned in its philosophy.
Stagecoach (1939): Yet
another film full of classic western tropes—the macho, fearless cowboy, the
savage and violent Indian, the righteous Calvary—but darn it if this film isn’t
immensely entertaining. I’ve never been a fan of Wayne’s, but in a film like
this, I can certainly see his appeal. He exudes cool confidence, and you can’t
help but root for his character. And for a film that is more than 75 years old,
it involves some remarkable action/stunt sequences, unique camera maneuvers,
and breathtaking cinematography (which showcases the scenic Monument Valley).
And it’s full of a surprisingly amusing cast of characters. Furthermore, the
film seems to sympathize with the outcasts (an escaped prisoner, a disgraced
and drunken doctor, a prostitute) while sticking it to “The Man” (a greedy,
thieving banker, who amusingly and presciently observes, “What this country
needs is a businessman for a president!”). And while the final showdown between
Wayne’s character and his brother’s killer is a bit hokey (but still visually
striking), the film overall is an entertaining success. (I’m even left suspecting
Tarantino drew some inspiration from Stagecoach
when he wrote The Hateful 8.)
Annie Hall (1977): Sometimes
I love Woody Allen’s work. Sometimes I don’t. In this one, I think he gets it
just about right (at least for me). He’s just the right amount of neurotic.
Just the right mix of annoying and appealing. I love the manner in which he
repeatedly breaks the fourth wall in this film, with numerous direct addresses and
asides to the audience. This is a technique that few films since seem to get
right (although the recent film, The Big
Short, comes pretty close). My favorite is when he’s in line at the
theater, listening to a blowhard loudly offer his opinions about film, and Alvy
actually brings out Marshall McLuhan to discredit him! I also love the scene
when Alvy first rides in a car with Annie. It perfectly encapsulates the
passive-aggressiveness and nervous energy of his character: “You have a nice
car. You keep it nice. Is this a sandwich?” I also like the structure of the
film. May times the non-linear narrative is done as a gimmick, and I suppose
some might suggest that’s how it was used here as well, but I think the way the
story unfolds serves to maximize the emotional impact. We already know where
the relationship ends up, and this way we get to see glimpses of how it got
there (not in chronological order, but more like how we’d recall the events
from memory or relate them as short stories to our friends).
Rebel Without a Cause (1955): I’ve always thought this title was something of a misnomer,
because he’s certainly not without cause. But I suspect that’s’ the point—the
title reflects the adult perception of this “rebel’s” behavior as being without
cause or merit. The film follows Dean’s character as he struggles to transition
into adulthood. He’s angry. He’s lonely. He feels like the adults in his life
are failing to provide a positive model of adult thought and behavior.
Generally, adults are portrayed as distracted and distant—a not uncommon
depiction in films from the post-war era, as affluence and commercialism ballooned.
Adolescents are given more freedom during this time, but they’re also generally
ignored.
A few things strike me about this film. First,
there’s a fine example of good community policework early on—an officer offers to
talk (and listen!) to Dean’s character without (much) judgment or pressure, and
without even the threat of “throwing the book at him” (and it’s a standing
offer that extends beyond their first meeting). Also, it’s lovely seeing Dean
play a character that is simultaneously so cool and uncool. He’s got style, but
he’s awkward and emotional; he’s vulnerable. And finally, the film is certainly
melodramatic and unfocused at times, but I hardly think those are
faults—because that’s pretty much what most of adolescence is like, too.
Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948): Another fine film by Huston. The tone and pacing is
fantastically crafted. This is a great example of picking an intriguing
setting, introducing us to some interesting characters full of personality and
desire, throwing some fantastical opportunity at them, and then winding it all
up really tightly and letting it go. With each new development in the story
(finding gold, being discovered by another potential prospector, having run-ins
with bandidos, etc.), we bring each character a little closer to his breaking
point. And we wonder, as the film progresses, which one of the trio of
prospectors we’re most like—hoping we’re the nobler Curtin (or even Howard) but
worrying we’re the increasingly fearful, paranoid, greedy, and obsessive Dobbs,
stumbling ever closer to a tragic (but seemingly inevitable) demise. I feel
Bogart was robbed of the Oscar for this role (I don’t think he was even
nominated), but the film was honored
during award season. And there’s an interesting bit of trivia on that topic: Walter
Huston won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his role as the
prospector “Howard.” John Huston, who
won the Academy Award for Best Director for this film, is Walter’s son. That
was the first time that a father-son duo won Oscars at the same ceremony.
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner (1967): This film gets credit for intention, certainly. It was released
at a time when interracial marriage was still illegal in more than 15 states.
The acting is superb—especially by Poitier, Hepburn (in one of her several
Academy Award-winning roles), and Tracy. And there are some very satisfying
moments—like when Hepburn’s character fires her snoopy and judgmental employee:
“Get. Permanently. Lost.”
But the film has its problems. First, towards
the end of the film, we get one lengthy, pious monologue after another. Few of
us ever speak at length so eloquently or effectively as several characters in
this film do—especially in moments of stress or passion. Second, after all of
the goodwill established early on, the final (and most important) say still
comes down to the old white patriarch (even if his decision is to say that it’s
not really his decision, everyone still listens to and eagerly awaits his
judgment). Finally, I didn’t care for the theme song the first time I heard it
(during the opening credits) and I was downright sick of it by the time the
film was over! J
But overall, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner is a still-timely example of how white
liberals might advocate equity and justice outwardly but are often poor at
practicing what they preach—especially when it bears actual personal
consequence in their own lives.
A side note: Hepburn never saw the final cut
of the film (her final of nine films with husband Spencer Tracy), as Tracy died
less than three weeks after filming wrapped, and she felt it would be too
painful to watch.
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
Week 9
The Maltese Falcon (1941) & Casablanca (1942)
Bogie week this week. And there might be another in the future. Lots
of Bogie films on this list. And I get it. He has, what many call, presence. That’s especially true in Casablanca. His Rick Blaine is magnetic.
Sure, he sort of fills the protag trope of tall, dark, handsome, and
mysterious. But it works. Nearly every character in the film (believably)
respects him. Most even like him. And we do, too. Even when he seemingly takes
a turn towards self-interest, we can empathize with what he’s going through.
Most critics agree that Casablanca
is a film that no one expected to be great. It had big stars in Bogie and
Bergman, of course, but most at the time figured it would be another solidly
made, if inconsequential, studio production.
But that obviously wasn’t the case. It’s now considered one of
the most beloved American pictures of all time. Bogie and Bergman are a big
part of that. As is the supporting cast (which includes Peter Loore and Sydney
Greenstreet, who—incidentally—also both appeared in The Maltese Falcon with Bogie a year earlier). And perhaps its
release, right in the midst of World War II, played a role.
The biggest factor, though, is likely the story itself. Rick and
Ilsa’s tale strikes a chord. I’ve seen this film several times now, and I’m
convinced it actually gets better with subsequent viewings. And I know that
gets said about a lot of films (I’ve said it myself—probably even on
this blog), but this film truly is richer each time you see it, because you understand
Rick’s and Ilsa’s relationship—especially their time together in Paris—better each
time. Every sentence they say to each other has a new layer of meaning. Every
close up of their faces when they see each other gets a little sadder. Every
iteration of “As Time Goes By” gets a little more painful to listen to.
And where we at first might “choose sides” in the love triangle,
choose sides among the political forces in Casablanca, with each viewing,
I like all of the characters a little more (with the exception of the Nazis, of
course) and feel compelled to align myself specifically with Team Rick or Team Laszlo a little less.
And the film is full of so many lines from the classic film
lexicon that it’s easy, on a first viewing, to dismiss them, even chuckle at
them, because they’ve become so caricature-ized over the decades. But the more
you’re invested in the story and understand how these iconic words fit into the
context of what’s happening on the screen, the more lines like “Of all the gin
joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine” or “[I]t
doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount
to a hill of beans in this crazy world” feel poignant and authentic, and you understand just how they became so oft-quoted.
Finally, Rick’s choice at the end of the film is the choice. It’s just the right choice
for the story. There’s so many ways the film could have ended, and Hollywood
usually chooses the wrong way, the
perceived “happy” ending, but here the studio got it right, and it was the
difference between this being just another Warner Brothers’ studio production and CASABLANCA, an important and iconic film
that we’re still watching and talking about more than seven decades after its
release.
The Maltese Falcon is probably the definitive detective story of film noir. It’s claustrophobic,
twisty, darkly humorous, and full of interesting and enigmatic characters
(portrayed by a stellar cast—including, again, Peter Loore and Sydney
Greenstreet). It’s Huston’s first, and possibly finest, film, and that’s saying
a lot when you look at his output from the 1940’s and 1950’s (which includes The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, The
Asphalt Jungle, Key Largo, and The
African Queen). And the character of Sam Spade (especially how he is
portrayed by Bogart) is a big part of it, too. Dashiell Hammett wrote the
original story, and based much of it (especially many of the well-drawn characters)
on his experiences as a Pinkerton operative. Many speculate that Spade, while not exactly autobiographical, was a composite of what many Pinkerton operatives hoped to be.
There’s just so much going on in this film. There’s a woman who
lies about who she is and hires Spade and his partner with a story that neither
of them believes; a murder; a murder of a murderer; a “grieving” wife who not
only suspects Spade killed her husband (his partner) but hopes he did—so that she and Spade can be together; police
detectives who go back and forth between thinking Spade’s protecting someone
and thinking Spade committed the murder himself; antagonists that are at turns
businesslike and cordial and gentlemanly, malevolent and trigger-happy, and
generally bumbling and clueless; and alliances that are in constant flux so no
character ever trusts any other character for very long.
As with Casablanca,
this is a film that rewards viewers for repeated viewings, but not for the same
reasons. Casablanca’s story is
emotionally resonant, but The Maltese
Falcon is a technically superior
film, carefully crafting its scenes to evoke its precise atmosphere and tone.
It’s high-class pulp.
Friday, March 11, 2016
Week 8
To Kill a Mockingbird (1962) & One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975)
I’m late to post this entry, but I
watched To Kill a Mockingbird the week Harper Lee died. I last
saw this film maybe 5 years ago, well before her book Go Set a Watchman was
released this past summer. We’ve yet to see exactly how the release of this
“sequel” will affect the legacy of her Pulitzer-Prize-winning Mockingbird in
the long-term, but in the short-term, it’s left some fans of the original book
with a sour taste in their mouths. I won’t go into great detail about Watchman,
as we’re talking about Mockingbird (and the film, not the
book), except to say that many believe an aging and ailing Lee never meant for
it to be published—and I probably won’t ever read it.
What I can say about the film is that I still find the story
compelling, even having now read and/or seen it a dozen or so times. Also, I
love the opening sequence, which is both sweet and contemporary, with close-ups
of crayons and toys and such (mostly items that will play an actual or symbolic
role in the film). It’s the most “filmic” part of the movie. What was different for
me this time around—and I don’t know if this is due to my getting older or
what—is that I realized what a white film it is. It’s yet
another story about a noble white man doing the right thing—which is fine,
except there’s a difference between being an ally and being a savior.
By contrast, I watched Selma the same week. What a powerful
story. And while it maybe gives President Johnson too much of a savioric nod in
the third act, it’s primarily a story about civil rights told from the
perspective of those most directly and profoundly invested in the fight. And
the cast is phenomenal.
A lot was made of #OscarsSoWhite the past two years. And I heartily agree. I’ve
been a film lover all of my life, and I’m a sucker for Hollywood—especially Old
Hollywood. But as progressive as Tinseltown might be in some respects, it’s
still stuck in a pretty regressive place when it comes to diversity.
Selma garnered just TWO OSCAR nominations. 2.
T-w-o. So this isn’t only a problem of black actors and filmmakers not getting
involved in the types of projects that might win Oscars, because even when they
do (as is the case with Selma, a film that tells a culturally significant story quite
poignantly) they are completely cut out of the honors.
So that’s my beef with To Kill a
Mockingbird. It’s not that I don’t like it. To the contrary—I like it quite
a bit. The acting is phenomenal, and its exploration of complicated themes is
admirable. It is an important story, and it took a "side" during a tumultuous decade. But unfortunately, I think it also represents
the mindset (at least when it comes to race) that Hollywood still seems to be
stuck in—the progressiveness of the white patron or savior, an idea that all
progress is made by important and noble white people saying "it's time." And it was rewarded for its
efforts at the Oscars—with eight nominations and three wins at the 1963 Academy
Awards Ceremony.
One
Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is a powerful film
about nonconformity. There’s a lot going on that works really well in this film.
The cast, for starters, is phenomenal. Fletcher’s Nurse Ratched is so
malevolent, but it’s not obvious to us at first—we realize it as the film
unfolds. Nicholson’s Randle is just the right amount of unhinged—we understand
he’s a guy who’s made some mistakes and we don’t particularly “love” him, but
he’s certainly sympathetic. Great supporting cast, too (including a young-ish Danny
DeVito and Christopher Lloyd). I especially like Brad Dourif (a character actor
who would later play a slew of sociopaths and serial killers—he was even the
voice of “Chucky” in the Child’s Play
films) as Billy Bibbit. Bibbit’s story, actually, is a fine example of the
film’s primary strength—its emotional core. We’re invested in the characters,
especially Randle, who sort of “grow" on us as the film advances. Randle's selfish and self-indulgent behavior slowly and gradually give way to a more benevolent
attitude towards his peers. Even when he ropes them into schemes for his
own benefit—like his campaign to watch the World Series, his pick-up basketball
game, his impromptu fishing trip, even the “party” he throws towards the end of
the film—he inadvertently benefits his fellows. And it’s clear he’s changed by
the end of the film (even though he likely wasn’t trying to), because he makes (perhaps
a hasty) decision not to escape (even though he has an opportunity to), because he’s
worried about Billy.
Cuckoo's Nest is dark and sad. But it’s also oddly
hopefully. And that’s just about my favorite kind of film.
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