I Put My Whole Self Into Everything I Do: A Face In The Crowd (1957)

The work of Elia Kazan will forever be clouded by his unfortunate relationship with the naming of names what marred American entertainment and politics during and after Joseph McCarthy.  As such, when Kazan received an lifetime achievement award from The Academy, it was met with a degree of hostility and certainly seen as a betrayal to the idea of liberty and freedom.  In doing so, one is led to question what it means to separate an artist from their work, or in turn, attach their name to any action. Indeed, it is not quite as troubling as what occurs regarding the virulent political attacks that Lee has become known for in the past few years and is certainly a far cry from the troubling attachments to the work of Polanski or Allen.  I could never hope to speak to the layer of ethical issues at play in such divisions, but what I can assert is that distancing or rejection should be related to the degree of problematic action.  For Kazan his betrayal of other entertainers was troubling in so much as it was tied to fears of blacklisting and political threats, to act in accordance with these was deemed a moment of backstabbing, but frankly it is situational and while few did take a stand the anxieties of communist invasions were so manifest that any disavowing was met with animosity.  In contrast an issue of direct violation of another human beings liberty is far more troubling and worthy of chastizing, again a discussion for another location and certainly not the intent of this blog at large.  I do provide this bit of a diatribe, because I find the continual exclusion of Kazan from the obtuse cannon for these political reasons f somewhat frustrating as in comparison to say D.W. Griffith and his rather blatant offenses, particularly since Kazan, I would argue is his film making equal.  Having already seen and adored On The Waterfront and begrudgingly accepted A Streetcar Named Desire as a masterpiece, I understand the controversial director's ability to capture the common man and place him in a space of cinematic distress rivaled only by Italian Neorealism to be exceptional.  What makes A Face in the Crowd all the more brilliant is that it takes this initial depiction of the man who is down and out on his luck and pushes it to the impossible by making the tale one of political aspiration, social expectation and cultural madness that is somehow deeply satirical, but also subtly disparaging.  It is in a work like A Face in the Crowd that one can see flickers of inspiration for Altman, while also finding a heavy does of Shakespearian hubris at play.  It is a film with a direct and realized intention and succeeds in its execution magnificently.

A Face in the Crowd begins rather inconspicuously in a jail cell where Marcia Jeffries (Patricia Neal) a journalist and entertainer has taken her show A Face in the Crowd into said jail to find one of the many voices of America.  While the persons present in the space of the jail are mostly dismissive, the warden promises one of the men in the space a chance at an early freedom if he provides Marcia with a song.  The man in question Larry Rhodes (Andy Griffith) agrees, albeit begrudgingly, and proceeds to belt out a fiery tune about what he believes to be an ill-fated promise on the art of the warden.  After doing so, Marcia immediately realizes his potential, dubbing him Lonesome Rhodes and allowing him to speak more about his opinions, ones that immediately call attention to acts of oppression.  Lonesome's particular swagger and sense of justice take off like wildfire and before he has even spent moments out of jail, he is offered a show on the local radio station, wherein he takes to task politicians and important figures alike, always and at once making advances towards Marcia, while also sleeping with women as he sees fit.  When even this surge of success proves small, Lonesome is offered a show in Memphis complete with sponsorships and while he is initially flippant about the methods of television, the rough and tumble singer takes to the airwaves with equal fervor and every man ideologues. Through sheer magnitude and occasional drunkenness, Lonesome is able to exploit the act of television advertising by not playing the game per se, but by calling attention to its fabrication, specifically the selling of useless goods.  Indeed, it is Lonesome's selling of a placebo pill called Vitajex that gets him the most acclaim, despite being fully aware that it is nothing more than sugar and caffeine coated in yellow coloring.  With this act, Lonesome is capable of swaying opinion in a grand way or advancing a cause that is flailing, all the while ignoring his relationship with Marcia in favor of younger women and drink.  This prideful approach to life pushes Lonesome to the heights of Madison Avenue, yet when one drunken, on air diatribe is unknowingly captured the bottom falls out for the provocateur and before losing out to his deals completely he attempts to envision his own future presidency, if only created as a result of the very entertainment-based fabrication that made his career in the first place.

The person on spectacle is frankly one of the major themes of my blog nowadays, I am fascinated by how the body is offered up cinematically and the way in which a particular performer can add or detract from the success of said spectacle.  I know it was discussed for its celebratory manner in the previous post on John Woo's Once A Thief, but here it is almost knowingly ironic.  Kazan, no stranger, to the way in which the male body can be constantly powerful in the cinematic presence, manages to still subvert the layers of desire, much as he does with the slightly feminized Brando in both Streetcar and Waterfront.  Frankly, there is nothing feminine about Lonesome and Andy Griffith provides no moment where such an interpretation could be gleaned.  Griffith pulls from a fire somewhere deep in his belly and bellows through his lines, even the ones of despair and angst.  To place a version of masculinity such as this on display required both Kazan and Griffith to understand that it is not only fake, but in a constantly expanding form of performance.  When one initially encounters the film, one might wonder how Griffith could ever hope to top that initial song of freedom as it is hardly contained within the confines of the jail, and by extension the frame of the shot.  As Lonesome's popularity expands so do his opportunities to perform, either by using radio waves to call attention to the absurdity of domestic unpaid labor, while also enjoying the products of said labor, or to allow a space for working class kids to play at the expense of a wealthy radio tycoon, it is constantly growing and always threatening to explode.  Take for example either Lonesome's initial television encounter or the absolutely thrilling Vitajex commercial, both have to move to multiple spaces to capture the exuberance of Lonesome, though multiple screens both diegetic and non to push his message, whereas the Vitajex commercial exists in a temporal and spatial impossibility that is matched only in the decadence of Busby Berkeley show numbers.  Griffith's performance pushes the limits of filmic representation and Kazan constantly opens new doors for the growth to swelter, making the call to attention at the end all the more noted, as it relies on fabrication to succeed in the illusion, or rather disillusion.  So what starts as a loving and endearing depiction of the down and out person growing to stardom shows that even this is met with pride-ridden downfall.  To be allowed a voice in the space of entertainment is notedly powerful, but it is also one that must be always aware of its performance elements, even at its most ironic.

Key Scene:  The Vitajex sequence really is quite amazing, I am quite earnest when I compare it to 30's era Busby Berkeley work.

A Face in the Crowd is one of the many gems that is laying in wait at the expansive Warner collection that is in a DVD-Bluray limbo.  I cannot express enough how necessary it is to view this film.  While, On The Waterfront will likely always be Kazan's most well-regarded work, A Face in the Crowd is quite possibly his true masterpiece.

It Only Feels So Bad In The Morning, Because It Feels So Good The Night Before: Pal Joey (1957)

It is quite apparent at this point in my month of musicals that George Sidney will be the most problematic of directors, in that his films possess notable issues of misogyny and in earlier films appropriate racism.  At least when it came to Show Boat era could forgive some of the missteps, as problematic as they be and in the later film Viva Las Vegas, the element of teachability for the male gaze makes it considerably more engaging.  Unfortunately, Pal Joey is somewhere between these to and in no way is this a good thing.  It is an absurdly misogynist film that promotes male promiscuity in a manner that is not even remotely ironic or satirical.  It is clear that the film intends to fully embrace the transitional figure of Frank Sinatra as the lead, here a far cry from his wide-eyed second man roll in something like On The Town and while his performance is certainly worthwhile, given the context of his debonair and libertine ways within the film it leads one towards more points of frustration than feelings of positive execution.  Musically, the film is rather exceptional, but that is hardly to Sidney's benefit, as both the earlier mentioned films also possessed great music, one by a popular musical powerhouse and the other by the duo who is perhaps most synonymous with musical theater and film.  Under the veneer of all these problems could very well lay a great film, but without a context of knowing irony that emerges in works like Funny Face or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers the attempts at humor and endearing misogyny fall flat and manage to affirm patriarchal principles in a musical space that is already suffering from heteronormativity in a wild and inconceivable way.  I think the greatest tragedy of the films is that it could have been the musical equivalent of a Hitchcock film, particularly with some of the more surrealistic bends the film takes in the back half and only doubly so with the inclusion of Kim Novak in the cast, but wherein the psychosexual tension at play often obscures clear gender norms in the great auteur's work, here it is yet another device that does not hit its mark with any sense of intent or clear message.  Pal Joey suffers from being far too narrow in its ideology and focus.

Pal Joey begins with the title character Joey Evans (Frank Sinatra) being tossed onto a train out of town after a revelation that he was caught in a room with a woman, who just happened to be underage and the daughter of an influential politician, thus setting into motion his own relationship with a narrative wherein his philandering ways, as incredibly troublesome as they may be, become  point of narrative connection between viewer and subject.  Joey, returning to his old stomping grounds attempts to gain a job as a lounge singer, immediately meeting up with not only some of his former lovers, but various big shots in the entertainment industry, some of whom he has less than stellar relations.  The former fling Vera (Rita Hayworth) is particularly interesting to Joey's past as he recalls her from his time as a a singer in a burlesque club, wherein Rita would perform various stripteases, a revelation, Joey manages to make real during a high end charity dinner, using the power of money and philanthropy to get the hesitant Vera to recreate her former self.  This act, while initially frustrating to Vera, does cause the two to begin a rekindling of their relationship, but when another young artist named Linda (Kim Novak) enters the picture, Joey migrates towards her ingenue stylings and general impressionability.  This movement of affections on the part of Joey, leads to Vera throwing herself at Joey in figurative ways, both agreeing to sell her club and even marry Joey if he will agree to stay with her, however, Joey chooses to pursue a life with Linda, one that involves them opening their own night club together, although in its initial inception, Linda is less than pleased with the idea and allows for the overly optimistic Joey to travel to Sacramento alone.  Eventually, realizing her own equal feelings for the singer, Linda follows Joey.  Joey the constant trickster attempts to ignore the advances of Linda, pretending to be over desiring her affections, but he eventually gives into her and the two are shown walking hand-in-hand in the closing moments of the film.

This film is decidedly frustrating because it places the burden of the failed relationships not on the philandering Joey but on the respective women of the film, even going so far as to visually suggest that it is understandable for Joey to want to navigate between a use of both bodies, because they are both things to be looked at and objectified.  For Vera it is in the classical fixed camera sense, where her burlesque is done in a more theatrical styling, whereas Linda's involves constant and frenetic zooming of the camera to add a haptic feeling to the relationship between looking and desire that is to be appropriated both to the viewer and to Joey.  Essentially, the film is positing, through these various gazes that Joey is being masculine and is privileged to choose between either, or both if he pleases and it is wholly the responsibility of the respective women to deny or deter such possibilities. If either of them fail to do so, at least as Sidney's film suggests, it is not to be the fault of Joey, indeed, the film almost laughs at his mishaps, even when the appear to be nothing short of statutory rape.  I knew from the opening moment of the film that it would be a bit of a bumpy ride, when after being tossed on the train for his near sexual encounter with an underaged girl, the film throws in a knowing comedic look by Sinatra and enough slapstick musical cues to make Billy Wilder roll over in his grave.  George Sidney, is clearly going for comedy, but it is comedy that is entirely constructed from a place of privileged pretense, one that affords indifference to the possibility that rejecting the love or misusing any love that is accrued by Joey could have very dire results for the respective women, particularly when they are asked to become vicious towards one another over a man who, in all likelihood, will continue his philandering only moments after settling into his new relationship.  While, Joey's mock refusals are to be taken lightly in the closing moments of the film, they too show that he could step away from such a relationship with equal levity, moving away and towards the things he desires in a way equally frenetic as the camera work of the film.

Key Scene:  Rita Hayworth's musical number is quite provocative, rather humorous and one of the only real saving graces of this film, but this can be chalked up entirely to the performance and not the work of the filmmaker.

Et Cetera, Et Cetera, Et Cetera: The King And I (1956)

Appropriation has been a rather significant point of conversation as I have navigated through this month of musicals, most notably as it relates to the American South and the pictorial depictions both post-War African-American communities, or more commonly the lack of depictions in favor of things like blackface and hyper-performative elements by the few black actors and performers who were able to make a name for themselves in a white entertainment business.  Not known for their particularly subversive depictions of gender, race and by extension class, I knew that the engagement with the Rodgers and Hammerstein fare that was to be The King and I would not be the most ideal of situations.  While Yul Brynner does an exceptional job in the film, met with an equally paced performance on the part of Deborah Kerr, the film does suffer a bit from a dated insight into how to properly depict a country that is less than familiar to the Western world.  There is a high sense of absurdism at play in the film, where joking passes and barbarism on the part of the Siam persons on display takes on a rather blatant and unfortunate level of Orientalism.  I say unfortunate because much like the blackface performances of eras earlier, The King and I is a visually perfected film that happens to incorporate rhetoric and performance that would, and should, be considered racist and sexist in a contemporary setting.  Like The Jazz Singer though, the film represents a considerable shift in the language of cinema, here not so much as a matter of technological advancement, but is instead in direct relationship to shifting understandings of narrative construction and what place a musical interlude can play into a narrative.  I would place this in a similar space as Black Narcissus although that Powell and Pressburger film exists in a world all its own, the only real significant connections being the lead actress and a considerable layer of Western encounters the East through institutionalized colonial movement.  Watching The King and I with a critical eye can prove a rewarding experience, one that is accepting of its ethical problems, while also enamored with its visual audacity.

The King and I centers on the life of Siam dignitary and decided egomaniac King Mongkut (Yul Brynner) whose recent dirge of children, 106 altogether, paired with an expanding world of Western influence, cause him to agree to hire on a teacher for his various children and wives.  The woman hired is Anna Leonowens (Deborah Kerr) who along with her son Louis (Rex Thompson) take to Siam only to discover a world far apart from their demure British life.  Mongkut is a highly assertive figure, demanding complete humility by all those involved, including the equally confrontational Anna, seeing her status as a woman as a thing to serve his male privilege. Furthermore, considering the rather solitary space of Siam, Mongkut has a very limited understanding of the Western world, pulling much of his knowledge from The Bible, whose words are confounding and particularly confusing, when Anna begins to teach his children and wives about the world of science, contradicting the religious text blatantly.  Mongkut is further frustrated by Anna's use of Uncle Tom's Cabin in her curriculum, both in its message about slavery, as well as in the realization that it was written by a woman.  Nonetheless, through some sacrificing of dignity, Anna is able to convince Mongkut of the benefit of her education, while also preparing the somewhat brutish king for a visit by other British dignitaries, one that requires considerable posture training on his part amongst other points of etiquette.  Indeed, it is during their visit that both Anna and Mongkut come to realize that they want similar things, both for themselves and their children to be respected, leading to a unified effort to impress the British by what Siam offers.  Mongkut's various wives and children then put on an ballet adaptation of Uncle Tom's Cabin that is complete with replacing the figure of God with that of Buddha, although the entire performance nearly derails when one of Mongkut's more outspoken wives calls attention to her own status as servant.  While this is corrected, the remainder of the even goes off successfully and Mongkut comes aware to his own aggression and oppressive behavior, which is fortunate as he is very close to dying.  It is indeed in this moment of death that Anna agrees to stay on as an educator, while the previously male-minded king appoints one of his daughters as the new leader of Siam, her first act to remove any act that would create a stander of lesser than another.

While much of the narrative is about issues of appropriation, it is equally so about bargaining with powerful forces, or more specifically patriarchy in a Western context.  Both Anna and Mongkut represent figures who are oppressed in various ways.  As a widowed mother, Anna is allowed very little mobility, particularly in 1860's England, where her economic privilege is inherently tied to a male figure and little was placed on the issue of divorce, death or any situation that might remove that access.  As such the seemingly absurd act of seeking out employment in Siam is met with necessity.  While Mongkut might also seem like a figure of power, it only extends to the space of his incredibly small kingdom, one that is sheltered from the Western world and subject to the eyes of greedy colonizing bodies who see he and his barbaric land as a thing in need of reform to reflect the Christian, Western ideal.  Anna realizes that her financial safety is contingent on Mongkut continuing to keep her employed, therefore she plays into his demands for keeping her head at a lower place than his, while also knowing it is nothing more than a bargaining chip to remain employed, while also subversively teaching the various women in the kingdom of their ability to rebel.  Mongkut is not ignorant to all this by any means and does seem quite hesitant to embrace such a set of teaching, however, he is also bargaining with his own status as a body that is threatened by colonization.  He knows that to teach according to what he believes would make his family look foolish, but he also seems quite aware that he is working with a woman who will be capable of teaching he and his family to fend for themselves in the corrupt world of colonization and imperialist movement.  This all coalesces in the bargaining of the Uncle Tom's Cabin narrative to reconsider the element of servant in a colonial context, by reappropriating the image of the African-American slave to represent Siam, one that further extends to allegorically consider one of Mongkut's wives.  While he is initially frustrated by such a confrontation, he is able to come to a realization of his own problematic oppression in the process.  Here the bargaining is provided with a positive outcome, tragically such maneuvers do not always play out as successfully.

Key Scene:  The entire Uncle Tom's Cabin sequence is quite stunning and aside from its problematic elements, one of the more intriguing rewordings of a narrative I have seen to date.

This is an easy thing to obtain on DVD, but is probably worth renting before owning.

Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair: South Pacific (1958)

I know I have been dropping words like sumptuous, lush and lavish in my descriptions of the musicals I have been watching over the past month and in most of the instances it has been more than a deserved attribute within the larger film, often serving as one of many factors in the escapist cinema and its varied mise-en-scenes.  However, now having seen the absolutely stunning South Pacific I am rather certain that this is the singular example of use of Technicolor within cinema, as not only does it manage to use it to draw attention to the vivid landscape on which the narrative is set, but it also uses the various dyes individually to set a mood for the space of the island in a vibrant and wholly different way.  South Pacific, itself, is not the most moving or stirring of musicals by a long shot, indeed, proving a bit on the dated side throughout and as heteronormative as things come in terms of musicals, yet this factor of visual aesthetics proves to be the most rewarding element carrying the viewer throughout its admittedly exhaustive runtime, looking and feeling more like a western than a musical per se.  Yet, one must remember that this is a Rodgers and Hammerstein production so runtime is a bit more in line, pulling from grand musical numbers and reprises of these numbers as a means to create narrative flow and an evocation of sentiment.  Complete with a overture and intermission theme, this is about as dedicated to a musical recreating its staged look as one can find and while it does not always translate to enjoyable cinema, South Pacific must be acknowledged for its integral approach in moving between the language of film musical and theatrical musical, taking risks that do occasionally pay of in magnificent ways, whether it be the absolutely perfected use of lighting throughout the film to give it a saturated almost humid feeling that is in line with the island or the fact that the performances often break the fourth wall as if to draw attention to the performative elements at play in the genre.

South Pacific is a rather expansive plot considering its lengthy runtime, although much of the narrative is centered on the space of a Word War II military base in a nondescript location in the South Pacific.  The film focuses primarily on the going-ons of Army nurse Nellie Forbush (Mitzi Gaynor) an idealistic young woman who takes great pride in her serving her country, but has also come under questioning for her relationship with a French exile named Emile de Becque (Rossano Brazzi) who is under the watchful eye of the American government for his having killed a man prior to his coming to the South Pacific.  Meanwhile, other members of the military located on the island are doing their best to convince locale native and trading pro Bloody Mary (Jaunita Hill) to allow them access to the island of Bali Ha'i a place that is off limits as sanctioned by the American government.  The understanding that Bali Ha'i is such a lush and untampered place drives many of the men into a blind ambition to navigate the space, most notably Lieutenant Joseph Cable (John Kerr) who is eventually able to make it to the island and meet with a young woman named Liat (France Nuyen) who he becomes romantically involved with, immediately discovering that she is the daughter of Bloody Mary thus leading to their being confirmed as man and wife.  As the narrative unwinds the relationship between Nellie and Emile is complicated by a variety of factors, whether it be Nellie's hesitation to embrace a relationship with the ex-patriate due to his mysterious past, or Emile's own concerns about the lasting possibilities he could possess for a young up-and-coming woman while he is a lowly farmer that also happens to have children from a previous marriage.  After failing to "spy" on Emile for the government, Nellie asserts that he is not as terrible as her higher ups assume and he is recruited to help with a campaign in the area.  After a notedly troublesome engagement with the Axis, Nellie assumes Emile to be lost, thus taking it upon herself to raise his children.  In the final moments of the musical, much to her surprise Emile returns and the two set down to dinner in a new tropical family scape.

Post-colonialism.  Perhaps the most complex and theoretically dense of all the post-modern theories.  However, it is deservedly so, because the mass subjugation of person's based on skin color and economic variants from their mostly western counterparts is problematic and frankly outright absurd. While South Pacific is not the most clear-eyed and well-intentioned consideration of issues of colonization, it becomes bluntly apparent within the opening moments of the film that this is its primary concern.  The setting is perhaps the most obvious element of this, both in the fact that much of it is a recreation of the American space through the GI's using an island as their own personal rec center, complete with a bar and various leisures.  The notion that the American military could move into a space and essentially set up shop is wildy problematic, but a reality in terms of what overseas stations have become, particularly in non-Western countries.  The addition of Emile to the mixture ply makes the narrative that much more complex and decidedly on the side of problematic.  Of course, individuals like Bloody Mary and some of the other locals represent a knowing opposition to this colonizer, particularly in their methodologies for exploiting the various lieutenants and higher ups for money and goods, in exchange for trinkets and non-value items.  This is a literal reverse for what many were doing to Native Americans during westward expansion.  The film does become troubling when all of this is set up in the kaleidoscopic lens of the the Technicolor adding a degree of magical realism to what were, undoubtedly, real issues during American occupation of the South Pacific.  If one needs examples they can certainly consider the occupation of spaces like The Philippines or Tonga, where this film allegedly takes place.  This hyper stylizing is most evident in Cable's sexual encounter with Liat, one that is so stylized and predicated by a heavy filtering of the camera, as to make the entire event seem impressionistic.  Yet immediately following the consummation of their relationship the image of islanders working, moves into a bizarre blue green contrast that suggests an uncertainty, something that helps to ground the inherent problems in such an act as colonization.

Key Scene:  When Nellie sings directly into camera it is paired with the noted Technicolor fade framing and it seems as though the very film itself has fixated on a singular voice.  It is truly fascinating.

Unless you are a person fascinated by the historical evolution of color in cinema, South Pacific is a rental type of film.

The Knack To See White When It Is Black: The Tales Of Hoffman (1951)

I am constantly amazed by certain directors when each time I unpack a work of theirs for the first time I find myself captivated and moved in new ways, showing that their cinematic abilities transcend singular feats or ideas, able to appropriate various genres, stylistic choices and ideas into deeply moving and wholly encompassing films.  When I think of directors that this statement holds true for, although they are not given equal credit to Kubrick or the Welles, my mind immediately wanders to the work of Agnes Varda and Paul Thomas Anderson.  Each time I find one of their films anew, or sit down and earnestly revisit their works it is as engaging, if not more moving than the first time, and, fortunately, for the both of them there are still films in their respective oeuvres that have yet to be viewed.  I am adding the directing team of Powell and Pressburger to this list, because they could very well prove the dynamic duo that are in possession of two films in my top ten film discoveries of the last year when I compose such a list on Letterboxd in the upcoming months.  While quite familiar with them years ago, I have only started to chip away at much of their collective works in the past year, one being the absolutely perfect The Red Shoes.  However, it is not this film that moved me in a new cinematic way, but was instead A Matter of Life and Death (aka Stairway to Heaven) which helped me to understand new cinematic conventions and exactly how powerful a shift one can evoke simply by moving between color and black and white.  As such, stepping into their 1951 film The Tales of Hoffman was initially more of a checklist activity that happened to coincide with my month of musicals than an actual desire, thinking that it would not even come close to A Matter of Life and Death.  While this is true, because the former is traipsing around in top ten films of all time territory for me, The Tales of Hoffman is still an absolutely exception and realized work of art.  I found myself yelling expletives at the screen not out of disdain, but out of earnest confusion as to how such magic could be achieved and how even two directors could deliver such consistency for a two hour film.  This is the magic of the moviegoing experience so many speak of and wax poetic about in interviews and text.  This film was ahead of its time and frankly is still quite ahead of its time.  Nothing works on the visceral viewer quite like the lavish, lush landscapes of a Powell and Pressburger musical.  Nothing.

The Tales of Hoffman is a pseudo-omnibus film in that it is a collection of short narratives all centering around the literary figure of Hoffman (Robert Rounseville).  This man, a poet of sorts navigates the spaces of various tales as a poet and observer to some rather curious occurrences, the first taking place in the laboratory of scientist and engineer of sorts.  In this laboratory the scientist is noted for his ability to create automatons that replicate human movement and behavior, having particular success with the Olympia (Moira Sheerer) whose lifelike movements become a thing of longing for various persons.  Indeed, when donning a special pair of glasses the person looking at the various automatons, including Olympia come to realize that they replicate human behavior on far more than a marionette level.  The second story centers on the travels of Hoffman through Venice where he meats a sultry courtesan named Giulietta (Ludmilla Tchérina).  The bejeweled woman while incredibly attractive and clearly curious about Hoffman, becomes indifferent to his ways when she comes to understand him as nothing more than a trickster, emphasized by his attempts to fabricate various jewels out of colored candle wax.  The final and perhaps most evocative of the three stories centers on the relationship between Antonia Crespel (Ann Ayars) a sickly opera singer who simply wants to be with her partner who is once again Hoffman.  However, the love is made to be stifled by Antonia's father and stickler for formalities and class separation Spalanzi (Léonide Massine) thus making their relationship an impossibility.  These stories are, of course, all woven together by the narration of Hoffman who explains to those listening to, or rather attending, the ballet that the stories are all intended to represent aspects of a ballet dancer named Stella (Moira Sheerer) who is decidedly his muse.  Yet when, one of Hoffman's advisors and confidants explains that this is problematic, doubled by Stella's own refusal of his advances, Hoffman is left with nothing more to do than to sulk at a bar that fills with young patrons.

Meta.  It is a thing that I will admit to throwing around rather hap hazardously, if not outwardly ironically here on the blog, suggesting that films often take on a meta level that is, if anything, purely incidental.  In regards to The Tales of Hoffman, however, this is meta-narrative, meta-cinema and probably other forms of meta that I could not even begin to unpack.  Tales of Hoffman, is already setting itself up as an adaptation, borrowing form Jacques Offenbach's opera of the same name, however, it becomes fascinating when one considers that the story is about a group of people attending an opera, wherein Hoffman is the focus of the story, yet within the very focus of the story, it is Hoffman telling a further series of stories.  The viewer of this film is asked to watch a film about a group of people watching a play about a man telling stories.  That might be as deep a layer of metafiction as I have encountered and one would assume that such structures would be stacked in such a way as to cause the narrative to implode within itself.  Not in the world of Powell and Pressburger, however, this sort of narrative richness is their expertise and one becomes so aware of the sense of scale both in its grandness, emphasized during the Antonia sequence, when the two lovers are attempting to unite and an image of theatre seating is layered to appear as though it is celestial in composition, only to be double by a kaleidoscopic image of the scowling Spalanzi.  Yet the sense of grandiosity is not the real fascination here, as it is a thing that is often achieved to great ends within cinema.  The real curiosity her comes in the way of Powell and Pressburger devoting an equal level of attention to the most minor of spaces. Indeed, the already expansive narrative delves into the microscopic by allowing the etchings on the side of beer steins to take on their own dance number, moving into the space of art in such a simple way as to show and interconnectedness that New Age thinkers could only hope to express in their faux-intellecutal sermons.  Few films move through space in such a moving way, but even fewer do so with such exuberance.

Key Scene:  For all the real ballet going on in this film, the marionette sequence is absolutely stunning.

This film is sadly OOP and while I have been lucky enough to attain a Criterion disc copy, I would suggest finding a means with which to rent it as its price tag is steadily rising.

I Got, Rhythm!: An American In Paris (1951)

Often times when I am encountering films it proves to be a singular scene of misguidance and ill-conceived execution that cause me to dismiss a work entirely.  This is often frustrating as it proves to come in the closing moments of a film and make everything that has occurred previously moot and irrelevant.  My most notable case of this problem occurs in Ben Affleck's The Town, an exceptionally well made film up to the point of its awful ending.  In contrast there are the occasions when the execution of a film is less than stellar, particularly in comparison to the actors and directors involved leading to a certain degree of tuning out on the part of the viewer, who is hoping for equal excitement as to their other works.  All but turned off to the film, the closing segments of the film take such a dramatic switch as to become wholly engaging and captivating in a way that only occurs with the most focused and concerted efforts.  An American In Paris absolutely falls within the latter, proving to be a work that is lesser than Vincente Minnelli's Meet Me In St. Louis, as well as not possessing the captive qualities from Gene Kelly that make Singin' In The Rain a masterpiece in cinema.  Indeed, I was quite upset with An American In Paris, not because it was bad by any stretch of the imagination, but because it had moments that pulled from the previously mentioned films, as well as attaining a few moments of choreography on par with The Red Shoes and never seemed to push to coalesce them together.  I was upset, that is, until they did move together rather brilliantly in the final section of the film an extended and thrilling dance number whose sense of scope necessitates not only an enormous soundstage, but also a movement through filmic temporal space with clever cuts and edits that make the magic of Paris come to live both in a historical understanding of the city, as well as a loving eye of the filmmaker.  In terms of Americans abroad in film, this work is quite prolific, cowering only to the likes of The Third Man and a few other significant films.  It is no Singin' In The Rain, but, to be fair, most films pale in comparison anyway.

An American In Paris centers on three artists in Paris, the first is the World War II veteran Jerry Mulligan (Gene Kelly) who has taken to the tenement lifestyle as he struggles to make it as a painter of various Parisian landmarks.   Jerry's friends include the concert pianist Adam Cook (Oscar Levant) who has been living in the space of Paris on various artist grants for nearly half a decade, only managing to stay financially above water with the help of his friend and night club singer Henri Baurel (Georges Guétary).  After hearing from Henri about an attractive young woman, Jerry takes to the streets to attempt to sell his work, scoffing at the various American college girls abroad and their misguided attempts to overanalyze the various artwork on display, including his own.  Yet, when Jerry is approached by a wealthy woman named Milo Roberts (Nina Foch) who buys his work on the spot he becomes somewhat suspicious of her intentions.  This hesitation is verified later, when Milo admits to wanting to use the guise of helping Jerry as an artist to attain his affection, also admitting to finding him incredibly attractive.  Jerry is despondent, thinking this is far from where he wanted to be as an established artist and travels to an art show at a Parisian nightclub to sulk.  It is at this point that Jerry notices the beguiling Lise Bouvier (Leslie Caron) who he takes an instant liking to, finding her absolutely stunning and attempts to pull her away from her various gentlemen.  While Lise is initially confused and a bit taken aback, she eventually falls to Jerry's charm and agrees to go on a date with him.  Jerry is given a gallery open by the still infatuated Milo, although upon her realization that he has taken a new romantic interest in Lise, she begins to recoil, only furthered by the insistence on the part of Jerry that he be afforded an opportunity to establish himself as an artist on his own.  Jerry's world is made all the more frustrating when it is revealed that he is pursuing the very same girl that Henri had spoken of at the beginning of the film.  After a series of seemingly misguided daydreams, Jerry and Lise are able to reunite, all to the perfect swell of a Gershwin composition.

I rarely approach things from a formalist standpoint, because it is a slippery slope I do not care to become heavily involved with.  Indeed, understanding how things are executed within films while incredibly important, does tend to take the magic out of the enjoyment, as is the case for Days of Heaven a film which possesses an absolutely captivating scene that has been deconstructed multiple times, leading me to hesitate actually viewing the film as I know it will invariably lack in the magic that occurs.  In the same vein, I actively avoid researching the special effects execution at play in 2001: A Space Odyssey because to do so would almost certainly assure that it loses some of its inconceivable execution, or perhaps not, because that film still manages to exist in an impossible film world regardless.  As such, I want to merely touch on some of the elements that make that final scene in An American in Paris so exception.  Primarily, it occurs as a result of the mixture between the fabricated and the real, there is a seen where Kelly and Caron flutter from one set to another, the space starting as clearly impressionist sets, to somewhat more realist sets and ultimately resting in the space of a stage where actual dancers and actors occupy the table.  The actors remain frozen though as to allow for a remaining temporal space that seems surreal, but still exists within a rather simply executed cinematic trick.  This holds true for the use of space during this sixteen minute ballet sequence, wherein it seems to extend and evolve continually never resting on a single fixed area.  Much of this is afforded through a crane that is panning and moving without cutting, therefore, moving sets and shifting dancers can be done in a small space, but still without being noticed in the diegetic space.  Of course, this is still a feat of precision and some editing does allow it to work smoothly.  Even then, there are still inconceivable scenes of cinematic magic, the most notable one being the closing of the sequence when Gene Kelly moves from being a superimposed image over a backdrop to fading into frame while the background dissolves.  It is absolutely stunning.

Key Scene:  Refer to the paragraph above.

Bluray should be an obvious choice in this regard.

Oh What A Beautiful Morning, Oh What A Beautiful Day: Oklahoma! (1955)

Leave it to Oklahoma! to simultaneously possess one of what I now find to be the greatest moments in cinema, as well as one of the most singularly offensive occurrences as well.  I figure I will start with the bad first and simply get it out of the way.  There is a character Ali Hakim (Eddie Albert) who is intended to be a Persian goods peddler.  If it were not enough that it is played by a white guy, the acting choice in terms of accents Albert appropriates is one of an Irish person.  If it were not enough to assume that this accent would suffice, it is also a terribly stereotypical accent no less, evoking the Lucky Charms leprechaun and leading to a lot of face palming on my part throughout.  However, this inconvenience was quickly overshadowed by the presence of the lecherously delightful Rod Steiger, who makes his traditional brutishness work while also managing to delight with some talk singing in the vein of opera that made my bizarre cinephile self as giddy as can be.  These are two polar opposites, however, and certainly probably affect only my personal response to the film.  What I can say more generally about the film is that it is one of great genre hybridity that makes the previously enjoyable Seven Brides for Seven Brothers seem simple although still good.  The dance choreography within this film possesses such a flow and scope that its major sequence prior to the intermission makes for an experience equal to Singin' In the Rain or The Red Shoes thus begging, if not outwardly demanding that it earn its own high definition upgrade.  The music in Oklahoma! is also decidedly iconic and aside from the title song, I had no clue that "Oh What A Beautiful Morning" came from this of all musicals.  Between its inclusion of an overture and intermission and some rather evocative ballet sequences, this is both precisely what I expected to experience when undertaking this marathon, while also proving to be curious in its departure from the natural order of the genre.  I would assume it to be a result of also pulling from the western canon.  Either way, what Oklahoma! offers is enjoyable, although normative, made all the more endearing by the ways in which it is distinctly a product of the mid fifties both in subject matter and visual compostion.

Oklahoma! centers on a community in, as the title suggests, the still expanding Oklahoma, here in the middle of westward expansion, wherein a space like Kansas serves a point of idealism both for well-established business persons and struggling farmhands.  As such rough and tumble cowboy Curly McLain (Gordon MacRae) proves the fitting example of the town, looking to make a name for himself with little money, while also winning the heart of local girl Laurey Williams (Shirley Jones).  Of course, this task is not quite that simple as Laurey also proves the point of desire her Aunt Eller's (Charlotte Greenwood) hired farmhand Jud Fry (Rod Steiger).  Using guile and charm, however, Curly pushes towards a reality where he can win the hand of Laurey and, subsequently, settle down into a worthwhile life.  Another portion of the narrative centers on the shrill, but desirable Annie Carnes (Gloria Grahame) seeking out her own relationship, longing to be with Perisian peddler Ali Hakim, while ignoring her family's promise that should the seemingly worthless Will Parker (Gene Nelson) actually attain enough money that he can earn her hand in marriage.  Working through the various holidays and festivals in the territory the push and pull of the dueling relationships comes to full steam, with Curly finally attaining a return affection from Laurey much to the Chagrin of Jud who vows to earn her hand by any means necessary, while Annie plays oblivious to the continually lecherous nature of Ali, while stifling all the advances by well meaning Will Parker.  When it seems as though Jud will attain the last say in marrying Laurey a desperate Curly sells everything he has to his name to win her hand, leading to the frustrated Jud exacting a fiery revenge, only to literally fall on his own knife in the process.  Annie comes to see the earnestness of Will, while Ali ends up becoming involved, by gunpoint, in a marriage one that is to a women whose charms are overshadowed by her rather unfortunate laugh.  In the closing moments, highly idyllic as they may be, Curly and Laurey are shown riding off into the sunset in a white carriage that the young cowboy had promised earlier in the film.

This film is delightful, it is really hard not to become engrossed in the visual sensibilities and the generally sumptuous nature of the Technicolor process, even if one is watching the particular film at a bizarre 30 frames per second.  However, it should be noted that the hybridity at play here comes from what may well be the two most heteronormative genres in all of film.  The western, while quite often existing in a space of the masculine, nonetheless, ascribes to a certain self/other sensibility that is very much on display in the likes of Shane and Rio Bravo, but is also capable of being subverted in works like Johnny Guitar, or in extreme opposite something like Brokeback Mountain.  This is more so the case for musicals wherein romantic connection is almost a necessity for an engaging story, particularly since musicals in their various heydays served as pointed escapist cinema.  I would posit that in many ways Oklahoma! is the worst combination of these two worlds, demanding that figures like Curly and Annie seek out the most obvious forms of relationships, so much so that they should destroy all sense of their material and emotional selves in the process, Curly doing everything short of selling the shirt off of his back to simply attain a date with Laurey, while Annie admits to being narcissistic when it comes to her desire for men, treating their comparisons of her as a sweet thing to be consumed as endearing and not pure, unadulterated objectification.  I know that it might be coming from a space of love for Rod Steiger, but I almost wonder if his character is not intended to represent some degree of othered desire, one that is well meaning but inexplicable in the space of the doubly heteronormative, indeed, the associations with a fiery death evoke something like a Frankenstein imagery and his lurching, groaning singing only emphasize this possibility.  Furthermore, while I would love to extend the same consideration to the figure of Ali, he is both a terrible misogynist and a figure whose cast in the very oppressive shadow of an orientalist understanding of the foreigner, resulting in a figure who acts both highly offensive and is depicted as offensive.  There is no desiring differently in the space of Oklahoma! because it is as normative of a film as one can find.  Indeed, that is what makes it so curious to watch, as it represents both a singular moment in American culture, while also showing the power of film to promote ideals even if unintentionally.

Key Scene:  The dance sequence prior to intermission is stunning.  Absolutely awe-inspiring.

This is a great film, one that is egregiously problematic though.  However, it is currently only available on DVD and begs to be upgraded.  As such renting it is the appropriate option.

Don't Scream At The Top Of Your Lungs, I Had Champagne Last Night: High Society (1956)

There are films who existence is rather stunning due to their shoestring operations that would assumedly prevent them from making moving and engaging cinema, yet, nonetheless, result in a poised poetics that only rare happens even in the bigger budgeted films.  In sharp contrast there are the high profile films that simply take on too many stars to seem worthwhile or consistent.  High Society, a rather well-received musical from 1956, while not a thing of perfection does manage to succeed at incorporating varied stars from the time, without becoming solely a spectacle.  In fact, it is very much of of the film's benefits that the stars coalesce beautifully, all playing characters while also appropriating their celebrity within the process, excluding, of course, Louis Armstrong who plays himself.  High Society is perhaps the most obvious of all titles when it comes to musicals, other examples only pulling an item or thought into a larger narrative, whereas this film is wholly concerned with a specific class-based group and what occurs when this space is invaded by both welcome and unwelcome guests.  I am not an expert on the wide world of film musicals and certainly not so on the traditionally staged versions (hopefully I can be by the end of the month), however, I would be inclined to describe something like High Society as existing within a space where narrative emerges and the music is secondary, almost entirely a product of the stars on display.  High Society, as such, has more in line with a film like Gentleman Prefer Blondes than say Top Hat, although it is no less engaging with the music used.  The playing off of tones between Crosby and Sinatra is something rare and pure, not to mention the inclusion of Armstrong's fiery trumpet.  Of course, the aid of Cole Porter lyrics never hurt.  I say all this because it is not going to prove to be one of my favorite musicals of the month by quite a long shot, but it does prove to be one of the more consistent in terms of structure, musical flow and performances proving to be one of the more profound musicals from a formalist frame of reference.

High Society centers on the impending wedding of Tracy Lord (Grace Kelly), a socialite whose standing was previously faltered by her previous marriage to songwriter and debonair gentleman C.K. Dexter-Haven (Bing Crosby).  As part of a way to remind Tracy of his frustrations, Dexter plans and implements a jazz festival to happen on his property, which also happens to be no more than a hundred years away from Tracy's home.  All the while, Tracy's fiancé George Kittridge (John Lund) plays the fool assuming their relations to be a thing of the past, an ignorance that is emphasized by his class detachment between Tracy and Dexter.  Even with this bit of absurdity, Tracy's wedding is proving to be far more perplexing as the editor for Spy magazine purports to be in possession of a story that verifies that the Lord patriarch Seth (Sidney Blackmer) has been engaging in an extra-marital affair.  Tracy's mother hoping to save face agrees to allow two reporters from the magazine to provide a full report, with pictures, on the wedding.  The reports in question being Mike Connor (Frank Sinatra) and a photographer named Liz Imbrie (Celeste Holm) arrive wholly dismissive of the entire endeavor thinking it frivolous and illogical, completely unaware of the blackmail issue at hand.  This wild cocktail of animosity and miscommunication plays out as Dexter attempts to win back Tracy who he still adores, while also becoming accidental friends with Mike seeming to connect upon their love of champagne and dismissal of performing for the sake of social graces.  Upon discovering Tracy's own animosity towards the idea of privilege, Mike takes a liking to her traveling about and getting close to becoming intimate with her, but, ultimately, avoiding to do so for the sake of the upcoming wedding and because he knows such an action would be immoral, especially since Tracy is very drunk during the encounter.  While George is at first frustrated he attempts to be forgiving towards Tracy for her actions, yet the more free-willed Tracy decides their marriage is probably a terrible decision and she precedes to call things off, however, it does not mean that a wedding does not occur by the closing moments of the film.

High Society is probably one of the more formulaic and seemingly obvious films that I have included in my marathon and from an initial glance it seems to be just that a singular style of cinema that aims to tell a story with music in the most linear way possible.  It does just this without a doubt, but it also manages to repeatedly call attention to the celebrity of the characters on display.  This is most obvious in the fact that Louis Armstrong is ostensibly playing himself throughout the entirety of the film, providing a musical introduction that is wonderful and in sharp distinction to his work in On Her Majesty's Secret Service.  Yet, Louis Armstrong is assumed to be a point of star power who identities as such, while viewers are asked to understand Crosby, Sinatra and even Kelly to exist within the diegetic space.  Thus, it becomes a film, like so many of the musicals discussed thus far, that navigates enigmatically between the reality and the fabrication afforded a narrative in cinema.  I know this is essentially the case for most films, but this film makes note of the difference between Bing Crosby as Dexter and Louis Armstrong as Louis Armstrong.  I would posit then that the film is an early example of post-modernism, even if unknowingly so, as the narrative is constantly reminding those watching that he is existing within the film, but what makes the argument more plausible is the musical encounter between Crosby and Sinatra where Sinatra calls out Crosby's Dexter for his inclination towards crooning, although it is intended to take a stab at his character's age, the counter by Crosby suggesting that Sinatra's Mike must be one of the new guys speaks to the shift in music that was very much occurring, sliding away from the crooning of Crosby to the more swing enduring language of Sinatra.  All the while, Grace Kelly is doing her own shades of performance, clearly tapping into stardom and style of then starlet Audrey Hepburn, ironically reappropriating it here for a character whose extreme innocence is also nearly her downfall.  I would posit that this is far more than an acting choice on the part of Kelly and indeed plays into the larger possibilities of post-modernism emerging in one of its earliest moments.

Key Scene:  The "Who Wants to Be A Millionaire?" performances with Sinatra and Holm with all its auditory twisting is highly enjoyable and is also in line with the film being super early post-modernism.  Also Grace Kelly in this film!

This is a curious little film, one that is also extremely watchable.  I would suggest renting it first though as it is not necessarily a film demanding repeated visits.

Love Is Like The Measles: Seven Brides For Seven Brothers (1954)

When I set about to make an entire month devoted to musicals I knew to expect a variety of performances almost all of which would find themselves entrenched within the idealism and wholesome world of Classic Hollywood.  Indeed, while there are a considerable amount of pre-code Hollywood musicals that have a decided dose of the subversive, most come from a time when promoting the perfect image was not only preferred but necessary to success.  Long detached from the grit of the post-World War II noir film is something like the genre hybrid Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, wherein the styles and cinematic grandiosity of the western are borrowed, for the most part successfully, to consider the nature of love and burgeoning romance in the wild world of the establishing West.  Sure Seven Brides for Seven Brother will never prove to be the musical of the ages, relying far more on one solid dance number and intermittently interesting singing to keep itself afloat, but what it does possess is enough heart and a surprisingly intriguing post-modern context enough to stay relevant in filmic and musical discourse.  Indeed, in all its impossibility, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers manages to be a curious work that begs questioning and revisitation in a way far detached from say Singin' in the Rain or The Wizard of Oz, wherein the classic status remains unquestioned, unfortunately, also leading to the seeming belief that any new critical discourse on the film is unwarranted.  Fortunately, the odd burgeoning academic will come along and see a work through a new and necessary lens affording an astute reading or reconsideration upon a seemingly beaten down text, the late Alexander Doty certainly did so with The Wizard of Oz.  A film like Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, while nowhere near as prolific as Singin' in the Rain does warrant a reconsideration as it exists in an unusual contrast to its other colorful music counterparts, so much so that to consider it as a narrative wherein sexuality and gender become ambiguous is not only quite plausible but seemingly the intention by some bizarre temporal extension.  Seven women and seven men may situate the narrative, but their relations are far from glaringly normative by the film's end.

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers initially focuses on the endeavors of the mountaineering Pontipee men, led by the rustic and forthright Adam (Howard Keel).  Adam travels into his local town in the hopes that like tobacco, sugar and lumber he can bargain to attain a wife.  Adam, the demise of the town is seen as a woeful, but necessary source to the town's economy and certainly not ideal for the marrying type, yet when he finds himself adoring a local girl named Milly (Jane Powell) he springs into action and proposes to her in an immediate and direct way, suggesting that were he in the East he would have been quite elaborate with the entire ordeal, but considering the wily ways of the frontier, time does not afford such patience.  Both liking Adam and accepting the brash forwardness of his offer, Milly accepts his proposal and the two get married in a rather unceremonious way, Milly immediately traveling to the outskirts of town to join Adam and his six brothers in their mountain lifestyle.  The six brothers, all named contingent on their relation to birth and a letter in the alphabet, the most unfortunate of which being Frank (Tommy Rall) whose full name is Francincense as his mother adored the fragrance from its biblical reference and could not think of a proper F name upon his release.  While Milly is, at first, frustrated and dismissive of the ways of the people in the Pontipee house, she warms to their endearing charm and realizes them in need of nothing more than a considerable amount of social etiquette training and mannerisms.  While it is a hard won battle, Milly is eventually able to instill considerable manners into the men of the Pontipee family all culminating in their acrobatic and poised dancing during a housebuilding party, doubled by their patience when jealous men of the town attack them in the process.  While they must eventually resort to self defense against the bombardments of physical attacks the brothers do learn manners and begin seeking brides.  Although their kidnapping ways are highly problematic they do attain the adoration of a group of women and eventually marry finding happiness and companionship in the film's closing moments.

I mention that this film is a bit subversive, even if accidentally so, in the way it handles gendered relationships.  Assumedly the Pontipee family is a group of men, led by Adam, who are attempting to look over land that their late parents left them.  However, it is not entirely clear who these parents were, nor that they ever existed in the first place.  What is indeed clear though is the close knit relationship that emerges between Adam and his supposed brothers, one that takes on a clear, albeit non-sexual, homosocial bond.  The Pontipee boys with their scruff and constant bickering, paired with physical attacks upon one another is textbook replication of male celebrations that also evoke notions of male desire to celebrate in each others' male privilege.  This privilege obviously tied to their power through a non-lack is celebrated and constantly in opposition to Milly who they initially see as a curiosity in that she is a figure attached to Adam and one that is purportedly for his conquest. The initial night involving Milly's staying and refusing to sleep with Adam, while the brothers wait incessantly is certainly a degree of such an idea. This curiosity again is not one where they all desire to bed Milly, but perhaps one where they all possess desires that cannot be enforced in a public context, the brothers are highly jovial to one another and again, with no clear lineage connecting the seven men the desire even if only passively in a homosocial context, nonetheless, becomes worth noting.  While all the men wish to find a way to talk with women and eventually become married, this hesitation and they inability to communicate with the opposite sex take on a layer of sexual confusion and detachment from a heteronormative expectation, one that is physically attacked by the men of the town who see their presence as threatening.  The fact that the narrative pushes towards an idea of marriage in the closing moments is tenuous at best, as each brother involved must become married only at the encroachment of the patriarchal figure, just as the women must continually accept such advances even if the men are only doing so in the most performative of contexts.

Key Scene:  The ballet/tap dancing on the strips of lumber sequence!

This film is as feel good and simple as they come, but also very much a rental and nothing more.

I Can Never See A Patient Walk Out Of Here, Never: The Men (1950)

The social issue film can often prove to be a contentious space of filmmaking one that delves into narrative misdirection by either focusing too deeply on one issue or grazing over the subjects in very troubling terms.  When you add the subject of disability into this particular construct things become even more frustrating in their lack of proper execution, a genre that suffers heavily from exploitation of characters, while also proving a place for actors to assure Oscar wins for being able bodied in a disabled role.  Essentially, while I do find Daniel-Day Lewis' performance in My Left Foot to be absolutely astounding, I am also aware that this role could have been provided to a truly disabled individual and achieved a tangible reality.  All this aside, I find it a considerable challenge attempting to locate films that focus on disability without it becoming an act of overt, privileged sympathy or a space for actors to grandstand in hopes of receiving accolades.  The Men, the film known for launching the career of Marlon Brando, does have moments where his Stanislavsky influenced method acting does result in broken glass and growling on the then still evolving actor, however, considering that it manages to situate itself almost entirely in the space of a Veteran's Affairs office, it takes time to delicately touch upon the identity, and more importantly, the embodying of a disabled self.  Wherein other works on this subject purposefully shy away from acknowledging issues of self and other, able and disabled, The Men constantly makes this a reality, lingering on the immobility or struggled movement of the bodies whose legs, while still present, are entirely inoperable.  Taking on even more layers, the film notes how longing and gendered desire factor into the disabled self and how even when dealing with a person struggling with disabilities a moments hesitation can carry dire consequences.  Furthermore, were these all not justifications enough to adore this movie, which is stunningly shot and compose, it includes a young Jack Webb rocking a beard and at one point drunkenly reciting Shakespeare and these are pretty much the very things that compose my dreams.  The Men is a masterpiece in social realism that deserves mention in the same space as To Kill A Mockingbird.

The Men centers on a group of soldiers who are shown engaging in combat, specifically Ken (Marlon Brando) who are injured while in the line of fire.  Ken is indeed shown writhing in pain as he slowly loses feeling in his legs.  The narrative then jumps to Ken in a dark room of a hospital bemoaning his very existence, refusing to even acknowledge a possibility of rehabilitation and projecting anger at the world around him.  Ken, of course, is not the only member of the hospital, which is full of other disabled veterans, all overseen by the optimistic and stern Dr. Brock (Everett Sloane).  The other members of the hospital include the horse gambling aficionado Leo (Richard Erdman) and the soft spoken Angel (Arthur Jurado) whose particularly agility despite being a paraplegic has earned him the title of Tarzan.  Furthermore, the group includes the leader of a Disabled Veterans Activism Group named Norm (Jack Webb) who approaches the issues of his specific community with unwavering optimism.  Between advocating for his patients continually working in rehabilitative therapy, Dr. Brock also attempts to lecture the families of paraplegics in the issues they will face once reintroduced into a non-disabled friendly world.  During one lecture, Dr. Brock is approached by Ellen (Teresa Wright) who purports to be a former girlfriend of Ken, admitting to having followed him to various hospitals only to have him refuse to meet with her, clearly ashamed of his disabled body.  While Dr. Brock initially sides with Ken's choice, he seems to realize that Ellen could prove to be the exact point of inspiration necessary to push through physical therapy.  The angry Ken appears dismissive at first, but when Ellen proves persistent, he agrees, hoping that he can make it through enough therapy to stand on his own during their wedding.  This challenge is also faced with the loss of patients to death and a continual awareness of the ways in which disability is severely limiting.  It is not long after their wedding, that Ellen has a moment of hesitation when Ken becomes frustrated, resulting in his leaving in a fit of rage, becoming AWOL in the process.  Through dedication on the part of Dr. Brock and some stern decisions on the part of Norm, Ken is able to have a last minute wake up call returning to Ellen and accepting her as a beneficial force in his life.

The way in which this film works with disability is fascinating in both a historical and theoretical framework, attempting to deconstruct the ways in which both intersect in the world.  Given that it is situated in a veteran's hospital affords it, in the context of 1950, a decidedly masculine twist, taking on feelings of lack and castration which are drawn upon, when the various characters forced those with privilege and ability to acknowledge their lack.  Indeed, when individuals like Ellen and other women invade the space it is almost out of curiosity and desire in a point of similarity, as opposed to unrestrained desire for the privileged able body.  The camera seems equally curious to consider how one desires the disabled body, resting on the fit and attractive body of Brando as he swings across parallel bars or simply lies in his bed severely immobile.  Brando can be desired and gazed upon in a unique way that would not quite work in the ways it would in later films, here lacking the desire of drag or queerness, but instead being a hyper-masculine figured incapacitated.  More contemporary works on this subject, mostly in the documentary sense seem to have reappropriated the masculine through sports, indeed a place where many disabled men are able to find their maleness again, thus finding shades of normalcy in the process.  This notion is perhaps most evident in the captivating documentary Murderball.  It is not small accident that Ken comes to rediscover his legitimacy through playing sports with his fellow patients, thus again asserting masculine prowess.  Yet, The Men seems hesitant to make this the ultimate answer to how to deal with disability, also offering outlets through embracing intellectualism as does Norm, whose quick mind and wit seem to be his method of confronting his lack.   For both men, however, failure still arises and their lack is still a reality, the closing moments of the film move into a decidedly melodramatic space, wherein Ken awakens to his, to borrow a term from Linda William's bodily sickness and it is his acceptance that Ellen is a force of aid that he moves to a new awakening.  Ken will always internalize his paraplegic self, but according to The Men, those willing to help should not be ignored, particularly those doing so out of the deepest feelings of love.

Key Scene:  Jack Webb drunk reciting Shakespeare.  Perfection.

Buy this movie, it should be more widely seen.

Dirty, Stinkin, Slimy Gators!: The Alligator People (1959)

It is quite the challenge to make an engaging film without throwing away any concern whatsoever for giving the narrative any semblance of moral seriousness or weight.  Indeed, this has always proved particularly problematic when considering genre films who in their traditional sense negate any possibility of high brow criticism.  This is not to say that on various occasions the narrative elements of a genre film cannot transcend their low-culture status and become profound considerations of societal issues.  It is merely a matter of understanding that there is a very delicate line between being subtly condemning and belligerently on the nose.  For example, much of George A. Romero's early output focuses on these issues by merely making them a fact from the opening of the film, casting black men and women in lead roles, thus subverting the tradition and making a classic work in zombie horror in the process. However, most of the output is not this masterful, instead the attempts at commentaries on racial issues or class access become lost in a hopes that a crazy looking creature or beast will lull viewers into the nature of the spectacle.  Tragically this is very much the case for The Alligator People, a work whose special affects, albeit glaringly low-budget still manage to create a sense of dread and creepy ambience, aided almost entirely by its bayou setting, one whose shadows and general mugginess do extend beyond the screen.  Yet, given the storied and very troubled history of slavery and racism in these spaces the film finds no shame in exploiting these narratives to their fullest, without ever suggesting a means to undermine oppression or challenge the very issue with which it metaphorically situates its film.  Lon Chaney Jr., the other man of many faces, does his best to add a new layer to the film, occupying his bizarre mutant creature in a way to bring humanity to an otherwise monstrous figure, yet by the end of the film his association with the animalistic is so ingrained in viewers frame of reference that attempts to humanize him, or relate to the "hysterical" woman's narrative that situate the film become almost impossible.

Joyce Webster, and or Jane Marvin (Beverly Garland) is a woman who manages to hold down a rather respectable job as a nurse for her boss and doctor Erik Lorimer (Bruce Bennett), but as he shows another colleague, when given a particular sleep including drug, Joyce/Jane recalls events she experienced while traveling with her fiance Paul (Richard Crane).  During their travels Paul leaves their cart to answer a telegram, at which point Joyce/Jane loses track of him, only to discover that he has inexplicably gone missing.  Stepping of the train to iscover a crate of radioactive cobalt, Joyce/Jane meets Mannon (Lon Chaney Jr.) a servant for the Cypress family and seemingly likable individual.  At this point, given her confusion, Joyce/Jane tags along with Mannon to the nearest house in hopes of finding her fiance, only to discover that the maniacal Mannon enjoys trying to kill alligators, attempting to run one over on the way home and later drunkenly tries to shoot a handful.  During the night, Joyce/Jane hears the rings of a piano, only to discover a misshapen Paul playing the piano, his skin reflective of that of an alligators, scaly and dry.  As things unfold, Joyce/Jane learns of Paul's troubles with radioactive chemicals and the manner in which they have caused him to become a hybrid of a alligator and a human, constantly shifting between both, but never finding a point of complete stasis.  Through the help of his family and a set of local doctors, Paul hopes to reverse the process of his mutation in one last blast of cobalt radiation.  However, it is during the final test that the mutation takes its most drastic turn, causing the already disfigured Paul to become almost entirely alligator, taking on the entire head and tail of the reptile, while still possessing the limbs of a human.  In his fit of rage and confusion, Paul wanders into a lake and begins wrestling with an alligator, losing out and sinking with the creature to the bottom of the thick bayou.  At this point, the narrative returns to Joyce/Jane's contemporary state, wherein awake she has completely forgotten about her dire experiences, only now curious as to why the doctors have begun treating her slightly different.  The two, hoping to allow her some semblance of normalcy, simply chose not to acknowledge her story again and move on with their drug testing accordingly.

The trick of making a social critique within a genre film is the awareness that there is a very thin line between subtly and overdoing it, which is not necessarily as restrictive within the more traditional film genres, particularly something like the social drama or the melodrama.  Given the context of absurdity and impossibility that exists within the genre of horror specifically, things are in a constant state of juxtaposition between self and other that makes all other dichotomies become extremely apparent.  Take for example the traditional teen slasher film, wherein it is a group of teenagers taking on some weapon wielding psychopath, in these scenarios it is a group versus a singular figure mentality that affords a considerable continuation of the traditional heteronormative divide between male/female and any attempts at blurring this prove damn near impossible.  Of course, there are exceptions to this notion, when the thing of horror is contagious or decidedly insurmountable, either zombies, swarms of say, shark wielding tornadoes, or even the mega monsters of kaiju films.  The Alligator People is deceptive in its name, one that suggests a large group of mutated humanoids, wherein the narrative is more so concerned with one man and his navigation between the space of human and alligator.  As such, the back drop of racial dichotomies within the film become glaringly and troublingly apparent wherein the oppression of the servants goes unchecked and unchallenged, more so serving as figures of cautionary speech to Joyce/Jane than an actual group moving towards some degree of transcendence.  Indeed, where the film to be about the raiding of the Cypress estate by a large scape Alligator People attack then maybe these racial divides would be undermined or altogether destroyed in the realization that genetically speaking there is a distinct divide between man and not man, one which is not at all predicated upon the color of one's skin.  Of course, the film was made in 1959 so progressive racial commentary is far from the expected norm, but one often wonders why, in a genre expressly influenced by the ability to bend the rules, such an egregiously offensive use of race was allowed.  Metaphor be damned, The Alligator People simply fails to engage with social critiques in any transgressive or revolutionary manner.

Key Scene:  Alligator man versus alligator is kind of cool I guess.

There are other movies worth bothering with and this one can easily be passed over at no cost to your cinematic evolution.

It's A Hard World For Little Things: The Night Of The Hunter (1955)

Every time I hear Robert Mitchum move into the swelling and baritone singing of "Lean on Jesus" I literally get goosebumps.  I watched this film early in the morning, perhaps the exact opposite of the ideal time to view this film and found myself still feeling the anxiety, dread and frankly adoration I initially felt upon discovering this film years ago.  What do I have to thank for this revisiting of a fear-inducing classic, none other than the brilliant Movies, Silently and her recent Gish Sisters Blogathon.  Admittedly, I jumped on the chance to revisit this film, because it is, undoubtedly, one of my favorite films of all-time, if only for it being the rare example of a perfect piece of cinema, one that was the single directorial work of Charles Laughton no less.  Furthermore, by choosing to specifically focus on this film, I was able to truly look at the role Gish offers, which shines both narratively and emotionally compared to the seething corrupt figure made a cult icon by Mitchum.  I went into this viewing anxiously awaiting all my favorite scenes, between the Love/Hate hand story and the image of Shelley Winters body at the bottom of the lake, I had my notion of what this recent viewing of the experience might prove to become, what I did not expect was to be rewarded with a far more clever film than I had recalled previously, both in terms of some devilishly subversive writing, as well as in the many cinematic choices inside and outside the diagetic space of the film that allow for it to seem like something that exists entirely in a world all its own, one where crane shots can sweep into sequences, maniacal preachers can instantaneously transport themselves from town to town and where small girls can begin singing with the voice of a grown woman.  In a lesser film all of this would seem like poor editing choice or over-the-top elements intended to draw in mild interest in the viewers, however, in the eyes of Laughton and through the very nature of the narrative, these seemingly arbitrary acting choices are evocative, engaging and, at times, cinematically engaging, much in the same vein as a work by Stanley Kubrick.  The Night of the Hunter is many things, a noir, a crime thriller, a family drama, a kids film and a work of melodrama, however, it is certainly and undeniably a masterpiece that should be viewed by all many a time.

The Night of the Hunter, begins, after an eerie floating head narration involving a then unidentified woman talking within children, with a murder.  This murder, is suggested to be exacted at the hands of one Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum) a preacher whose communique with God leads him to confess to having a unhealthy attachment to women, wherein he constantly asks forgiveness and provides thanks to the religious figure for providing him with a constant flow of money, of which he draws from recently widowed women.  Meanwhile, two children John Harper (Billy Chapin) and his sister Pearl (Sally Jane Bruce) witness their father Ben Harper (Peter Graves) return from a recent robbery, only to quickly stuff his money in Pearl's doll, before being hauled off to jail, where he is found guilty of murder and sentenced to execution.  It is in jail that he meets Harry Powell, who becomes curious when Ben begins vaguely quoting scripture and mentioning the whereabouts of his money.  After Harper's execution, Powell feigns being a dear friend to Harper returning to his hometown and tracking down his widowed wife Willa (Shelley Winters) who is hesitant to welcome the slick-talking preacher, particularly when she suspects that he is only after the money which her late husband had hid.  John is even more suspicious leaning on the promise he made to his father not to betray the location of the money, constantly assuring that the less intelligent Pearl does the same.  Harry uses a variety of forms of trickery and smooth words to try and attain the whereabouts of the money, even resorting to murdering Willa when she comes to suspect that her new husband really only cares to find the money, made all the more a betrayal after she has given herself up to his religious ways, blindly spouting scripture.  The murder of their mother leads the children on an exodus down river in a rowboat, where they eventually land in the backyard of self-run foster mom and general good samaritan Rachel Cooper (Lillian Gish).  Realizing that John and Pearl are clearly running from a dire situation, when Harry comes knocking at her door she quickly banishes him with the threat of a shotgun, an action she goes through with when the slimy Harry returns later that night.  After a successful arrest of Harry, John frustratingly tosses the money at the handcuffed preacher explaining that he can no longer stand the burden of carrying such a secret.  AFter doing so the two join their fellow orphans and Rachel for Christmas celebration, one that affords John the very watch he has had his eye on since the films opening moments.

It might seem like the best move for analyzing a film such as The Night of the Hunter would be to go at it from the "what is the nature of religion" route and while this is certainly a theme that emerges specifically in the contrasting characters of Harry and Rachel, one could extend this argument on to consider the larger idea of authority and whose given the power to say what is right or wrong in the face of figures who are culturally afforded an unquestioned amount of respect.  The Night of the Hunter appears to suggest that only two things stand to be undeniably authoritative, the rule of law and time.  Yet even law within the narrative becomes rather murky when a man is stealing money to make living in a moment of depression a bit easier, or when the same law enforcement spends its time hunting psychotic serial killing preachers while completely brushing by lines of starving children.  Justice, in the context of The Night of the Hunter then becomes tied almost solely to the notion that if one is able to understand time, not control it, but merely work in its favor they can assure that justice will work in their favor, particularly if they are working in a fair and reasonable way.  Indeed, the reason that Harry is eventually is not because he gave himself up or was actively pursued by the police, but because he attempted to cheat time and kill children to attain money from them, his similar actions in previous situations are also his own act to avoid the effort and patience of attaining money, something he thinks he can merely get by working within his bizarre relationship with God.  The other notion of authority comes then in signifiers of power, for Harry it is always tied to his phallic knife something that takes on blatant sexual allusions throughout the film and remains his point of privilege until challenged by Rachel's much larger and more powerful shotgun, the subversive gender politics even more interesting. Indeed, this leaves John as a figure to be swayed by the time and signifiers of authority in the films closing, as Rachel accepts that her stories from The Bible only serve a cursory function to instill authority.  It is indeed not until she hands John the watch that he becomes an arbitrator of authority because he can now tell the time, that thing that rules over all within the film, as well as those outside of the diagetic space, verified when Lilian Gish breaks the fourth wall in the closing moments of the film.

Key Scene: The scene involving the joint singing of Lean on Jesus by Gish and Mitchum is absolutely one of the premier moments in all of cinema.  Furthermore, one could also make the case that the images of Willa's body laying at the bottom of the lake are also some of the most haunting ever committed to film.