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.

Your thoughts? 

Week of April 3-April 9: It Happened One Night (1934) & Chinatown (1974)

(Note: Week 13 post will be up soon!)

Week of March 27-April 2: Taxi Driver (1976) & From Here to Eternity (1953)

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.

Week of March 13-March 19: Annie Hall (1977) & Rebel Without a Cause (1955)

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.

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.