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.

Informers Inform, Burglars Burgle, Murderers Murder, Lovers Love: Breathless (1960)

I am once again in the throes of a blogathon, this time hosted by the excellent blogs Once upon a screen... and Classic Movie Hub Blog.  The topic: "Dynamic Duos in Classic Film."  I was a bit late to the sign-up for this blogathon, so missed the chance to jump on some of the real classic duos, both in terms of romance and comedy, which is fine, because I have read the work of many of the bloggers involved and I am certain that they will more than do justice to the topics.  As such, I decided a bit of creativity could not hurt in the endeavor and I began to think of a dynamic duo within the context of classic film, pre-1970, that managed to hearken back to an earlier period, while still remaining within the confines of "classic."  I realize that this may have seemed like an absurd endeavor, but considering that the collective of the sixties were a watershed moment in history, it by extension assumes that the same rings true for movies as well.  With that in mind, I realized that I had the perfect offering for this blogathon with what may well be the most important work to come out of the 1960's in Jean-Luc Godard's Breathless.  The now well-established classic was by many accounts, the premier film in the French New Wave movement and invariably changed the language one uses to describe cinema.  This masterwork in European filmmaking, is a rare treasure that offers many varied and legitimate critical levels, while also proving and fresh and unique viewing experience.  Trust me, I have seen the film countless times and it only proves more engaging, the more my cinematic language and consumption matures.  In fact, the current Criterion bluray available only helps to add layers to the film's conceptual framework.  I say all this to set up how it is very much a work that exists within the important film's involving dynamic duos.  Part romantic comedy, part crime thriller there is, excluding Tarantino, perhaps not a more cinematically referential work than Godard's 1960 breakout hit and one of its many points of reference come in the duos of classic noir thrillers, wherein Godard borrows the dynamism of the genre and its gendered duos, using its tropes to push his hip, wild and fast-paced narrative, while also completely calling attention to the frailty of the structure of such an assumedly dynamic pairing.  If some of the other works mentioned during this blogathon embrace the lasting nature of the romantic dynamic duo, it is fair to say that Breathless makes viewers aware of both the performance involved in such duality, while also suggesting that at some point the differences in the duo will result in a collision of fatal proportions.

While the film is about a romantic coupling to a degree, it does begin focusing primarily on the film's "protagonist" Michel (Jean-Paul Belmondo) a part-time thief and full-time woman admirer, who is constantly on a quest to make money, while spouting his own frustrations and problems with the opposite sex.  Indeed, Michel makes it quite clear that women, in his eyes, are incapable of functioning on any legitimate societal level, taking particular disdain in their always being broke and their being terrible drivers, never mind that he himself is constantly without money and certainly is not the most sane or logical of automobile operators.  When an auto theft goes awry and Michel murders a cop to save his own life, he moves into a constant state of paranoia and flight from authorities, which seems to be fine, until he runs into Patricia (Jean Seberg) an American living in Paris while working as a correspondent/salesperson for the European branch of The New York Herald-Tribune.  While the narrative does not outright express it as fact, it is assumed that Patricia and Michel have had some intimate past together, indeed, Michel admits to returning to visit her, almost entirely on a desire to have sex.  Patricia who is initially dismissive of Michel due to his one-track mind and his flippant attitude towards her and most women, nonetheless, agrees to spend time with him, when he seeks shelter from the authorities in her apartment.  At this point the two spend an entire afternoon, evening and morning discussing the ethics of love, lust and humanity, while engaging in intercourse.  In the process, the two become more romantically entwined than before, admitting their deep affection for one another and while they would enjoy the possibility of staying in the moment, Patricia must return to work, while Michel must accrue the necessary funds to flee from his imminent arrest.  It is while Patricia is at work that French police approach her with information regarding Michel, threatening her livelihood and visa status should she not help their investigation.  At first, Patricia is committed to her affections for Michel and stays by his side, yet when it becomes clear that he is still occupied with his criminal life, Patricia breaks down and reports his location to the police, an act she clearly regrets immediately.  Irony arises when the two are driving and the police finally catch up with Michel, only moments after he obtains the money he as been seeking since the onset of the film.  Realizing the futility of the entire endeavor he flees down the street, only to be gunned down by officers.  Patricia distraught runs to Michel's aide and stares at him as he slowly fades into death.  Michel simply dismisses her and her foolishness, claiming that her betrayal makes him want to puke, although a language barrier causes Patricia, in the closing moments of the film, to wonder exactly what "puke" means.

It is precisely this closing moment of Patricia being "lost in translation" as it were, that speaks to the particular dynamism of the duo of Michel and Patricia.  Language being the first obvious difference between the two, lays out a duality of difference that is often challenged, ignored and undermined in the hopes that the two can create some degree of a lasting and meaningful romance together.  Many of the classic Hollywood comedic duos play upon this difference, while, ultimately, noting that the pair can overcome adversity and find a powerful force in love, and Breathless, certainly borrows from that tradition.  However, Godard has over the years been very expressive of the major influence the genre of film noir had on his works, particularly this and Alphaville.  In as much, Michel and Patricia are as much a hapless hero and femme fatale, as they are a romantic comedic pairing.  However, even this is revisionist to a heavy degree, because Michel, while misogynist and a criminal, does not exude the same hardboiled chiseled nature of his idol Humphrey Bogart, in fact, when his absurdly effeminate mugshot appears in the papers, one cannot help but laugh at how non-threatening he looks, despite having committed a murder earlier in the film.  He is not the traditional masculine figure of the genre, just as Patricia is not truly a femme fatale.  Sure it is her betrayal that causes his downfall, but there is not the sense of remorselessness that comes with a Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity.  The duo is not a pair of drifting individuals who come together for a fleeting moment, but instead to opposing forces, that find themselves so magnetically drawn to each other that their cohesion factors heavily into the film.  The hotel room scene, where they consummate their love for one another, lasts roughly thirty plus minutes, nearly constituting half of the film, which is deservedly so, because what happens prior is their movement at a high speed towards one another, while the post-apartment moments represent the aftermath of their collision, which has a very fatal result for Michel.  The ignorance of Patricia at the films closing could be read as demeaning to her character, but I think it simply speaks to a larger issue of duality in love, where ideologies never truly mesh and because of such inherent miscommunication one partner is always far less aware of the damage done to the other, so while it is literal in the film, it plays into a much larger metaphorical statement.  In the end, Godard is clearly claiming that love can arise between even the most unusual of duos, and while it can certainly burst through barriers of language, ideology and personal desire, doing so also runs the risk of one or both of the people involved being trampled in the process, or in the case of this film being shot in the streets of Paris.

Key Scene:  While it is quite an extended bit to consider a scene, I do thing the entirety of the dialogue and interactions occurring within the apartment, might be the single greatest moment in modern cinema.

Criterion Bluray.  Buy it...for your health.

If You Lose The War, Don't Blame Me: The General (1926)

I have long adored Buster Keaton as being both a brilliant filmmaker and a master of the slapstick comedy genre.  In many ways one can tie Keaton to all the best elements of the silent era, whether they be the great narratives, captivating visuals or senses for a cinematic landscape that is capable of intense specifics and grand generalities.  The General is certainly Keaton's most well-regarded film, one that often gets placed as number one in his oeuvre as well as being in top hundred lists on a near regular basis, in fact, if I am not mistaken it has also managed to find its way onto the most recent incarnation of the Sight and Sound poll.  While I will probably always be partial to Sherlock Jr., I certainly found myself completely captivated by the world of The General and even became aware of myself laughing out loud at many moments in the film, something that seems to be a rare occurrence when I engage with movies these days, let alone a silent era film at that.  Perhaps it is the universality of the narrative, or the genuine zeal of the stunts and comedy in The General, but damn if it is not a well-perfected bit of film, that leads me to suggest that it is no far extension to mention the late Keaton in the same breath as other major cinematic figures, whether they be Welles, Kurosawa or Renoir.  I know that Chaplin would prove more successful and that Harold Lloyd would commit to a higher degree of insanity, but one of my many adorations towards Keaton is his seeming ability to effortlessly weave both the serious elements of his film, in this case, the trials of war, with complete absurdity, thus allowing viewers to, unknowingly, become fully aware of the more serious and to some degree illogical elements of war.  Of course, it is not necessarily the ideal commentary one would hope for considering the clear positive and negative sides of the war, however, it is a film from the twenties, and is certainly far more critical of The South than say, The Birth of a Nation, furthermore, it is not unlikely that Keaton stages his protagonist on the side of the Confederacy as a means to layer on the irony.  If all of this manages, however, to not be a selling point it is worth remembering that this film possesses the single most expensive scene in all of the silent era pictures, and is well worth it as far as the history of cinema should be concerned.

The General focuses on the attempts of railroad engineer Johnnie Gray (Buster Keaton) to become a soldier with the Confederacy, almost entirely to assure the well being of his fiancee Annabelle Lee (Marion Mack) and the upkeep of his locomotive The General, for where the film obviously draws its title.  Upon discovering that Gray is a engineer the South rejects his desires to enlist and say that he should stay at home, however, the officers fail to explain their decision to Gray who assumes it is a negative choice, leading to his repeated attempts to join the Confederacy, particularly after he is egged on by his fiancee's brother and father.  Annabelle not realizing precisely why Gray is not enlisted, threatens to leave him unless he shows up in the clothing of the Confederacy.  Time passes and during an unusual event, Annabelle becomes a prisoner to escaping soldiers, leading to Gray chasing them down on a pushcart, which leads to the mid-section of the film which is a glorious and lengthy set of chases and re-chases between Gray and the soldiers in blue, often taking turns throwing things into one another's paths to slow down their already specified mobility.  During a night when Gray sneaks into the enemy camp he discovers their plans, which revolve heavily around a specific bridged trade route and after taking the lead in his locomotive, he is able to draw the Union soldiers towards the bridge, which he has started on fire, causing the passing trains to pass over the bridge, only to have it cave in while riding over it, leading to the destruction of the trade route in the process.   This is followed by a thorough trouncing of the soldiers on the part of the South, a barrage which directly involves Gray, at one point he becomes the bearer of the Confederate flag.  In the end, however, Gray obtains the thing he truly desires, via reuniting with his fiancee who has forgiven him and understands his situation, the two are shown kissing, while Gray half-heartedly salutes the passing soldiers, considering that his efforts on the train led to several degrees of promotion in one fell swoop.

The General is a lot of different things, whether it be a early reflection on the filmic possibilities concerning an anti-war statement, a fear of modernization blocking from human interaction, even in a negative sense, or perhaps most obviously it is a romance.  One with these suggestions can create arguments as to their validity and relevance to the respective film, however, there is an undeniable and outspoken consensus that this is easily one of the greatest comedic films of all-time, in not the to few concerning America specifically.  The question then arises as to what precisely makes The General such a stand out comedy, often placed higher on lists than any other Keaton film, and in many instances well above the first mention of Chaplin.  I would suggest that a ton of the support and eventual critical success of the film is its purposeful commitment to some of the more traditional tropes of Westernized culture, although completely reverting and reappropriating them to fit the desired situation.  It is no small feat to move a large train forwards and backwards, let alone choreographing one's movements through that area as well, much like Lloyd and Chaplin the shear athleticism is baffling and to center it within a comedic context is something entirely its own brilliance.  Keaton would often forces his way through scenes to make the moment work, diving, twisting and dodging accordingly all in the name getting the ideal shot or sequence.  Where the slapstick elements not enough, however, it manages to be further brilliant by the genuine comedy of the plot and the passing of being a soldier for either side, by simply switching coats, a mockery of Benedict Arnold, while also earnestly considering what it means to identify with one side during a war.  Perhaps the real humor in the film, however, comes at its most scathing moment, wherein Gray ignores all the killing he has done now that he has repossessed the affections of his fiancee, suggesting he would literally kill to win her back.  As noted before, it is seemingly simple, however, it has layers of irony and criticism when one pauses to truly place the situation against the backdrop of the war occurring simultaneously.

Key Scene:  The match cut of Keaton dropping stuff of the train while the following train and soldiers continually pick the stuff of the tracks is filmmaking 101, but few have used the match cut as well since...oh yeah there is also this really cool train crash sequence.

Buy this movie, it is a backbone for any collection.  I certainly plan on upgrading to blu in the near future.

Let Joy Be Unconfined: A Night At The Opera (1935)

A Night at the Opera is by no means my first engagement with the beloved Marx Brothers, for whom all comedic film is to thank, and rightfully so considering that they were the veritable grandfathers of every comedic styling imaginable, aside only from toilet humor it appears, but even that manages to sneak in occasionally.  As part of my relatively recent discovery of the film podcast Filmspotting, I have come to appreciate not only their gloriously terrible "Massacre Theater," but their ever impressive film viewing marathons, and while I found myself incapable of following along with their blaxploitation marathon, I assured myself that I would at least engage within one film in their Marx Brothers marathon.  I was able to catch up with A Night at the Opera and despite the seeming dissatisfaction the duo appears to have had with the classics of comedy, I could not help but still adore this film, even with their criticism of the other works in the back of my head.  Sure some of the jokes fail to land in the films, but much of that is, undoubtedly, a result of contemporary viewer's considerable distance from the material, yet one must truly consider that nearly all of this film is engaged in humor, almost all of which is uproariously hilarious and well-delivered, even layering upon itself, to make, dare I say, meta-comedy.  One is also reminded, while watching this particular Marx Brothers film, that the group was necessarily tied to vaudeville performances, particularly the fact that often in their routines they did more than just crack jokes, but could actually deliver some rather stellar music performances and choreographed dance/acrobatic numbers.  Furthermore, while much of the film is focused primarily on the gags and insanity of the Marx Brothers' characters, it also does have a larger overarching story, which only passingly involves the comedic trio, and considering that it is a secondary element of the narrative it is, nonetheless, a decent offering.  Also, as appears to very much be the case for Marx Brothers works as a whole, A Night at the Opera is incredibly anarchistic and completely dismissive of any sort of social guidelines or rules, and it is perhaps in this clear consideration of all that is to be maddening that it is to be adored.

A Night at the Opera begins in an non-descript European country in which opera is highly praised, it was, of course, intended to be Italy, but due to its date of release censors demanded that references to the country be removed.  Regardless, in this country exists one Otis B. Driftwood (Groucho Marx) who has made a living by playing on the beliefs of one Mrs. Claypool (Margaret Dumont) that he has the power to make her a relevant figure in the high class society, however, Driftwood is merely a very well-spoken con man and manages to take her for money, while making her believe that she can achieve prevalence by becoming friends with the local opera managers.  All the while, Driftwood seeks another means to gain money and finds it through a burgeoning opera star named Riccardo (Alan Jones) who is managed by the wry and slightly abrasive Fiorello (Chico Marx).  Driftwood and Fiorello strike up a contract, or lack thereof, in which they obtain money for Riccardo's performances, although they both seem quite aware that to assure this success they must dethrone the opera company's shining star Rodolfo (Walter Woolf King), which also means Driftwood losing his ties to the higher end opera figures.  Also within the mix is the wardrobe/stage/sound manager and mute Tomasso (Harpo Marx) who seems more content with showing how he can ruin a job than actually complete it with any degree of proficiency.  The entire opera troupe ends up taking up a job performing in The United States leading to a portion of the narrative occurring on the ship, during which time, the sly ways of Driftwood, Fiorello and Tomasso are brought to attention, yet their ability to think on their feet allows them to evade arrest and eventually shack up in an decent apartment until the opera season begins, at which time they use the opportunity to create chaos within the theater allowing for Riccardo to gain prominence, while also destroying the image of Rodolfo.  In the closing moments, everyone seems to have won their desired possession, except of course Rodolfo, but the narrative clearly makes him the bad guy and a person deserved of criticism.

I mentioned the anarchistic elements of A Night at the Opera as something rather present in much of the  work of the Marx Brothers.  I mean to say this both as a narrative device and, in some regards a cinematic sense, while the stylistic elements are certainly not as intentionally undermining as something done by Godard or Tarkovsky, they certainly exist within A Night at the Opera, particularly the act of speeding up images, or cramming the space within as many bodies possible would reflect this, especially as we see within the scene staged within the lower deck of the ship.  Language, is, undoubtedly, a part of the anarchy of a Marx Brothers film, obviously rooted within Groucho whose sure fire and every ready wit have become a bit of an iconic thing within cinema and cultural history.  Yet he is not the only one reconsidering language, Chico's purposeful misunderstanding, or, more importantly, refusal to understand certain terms could be their own place of anarchy within the filmic narrative.  Then, of course, there is Harpo whose refusal to say even the simplest phrase makes his use of language absolutely, and, undeniably, anarchistic.  If these elements are not enough to sway a reader as to the anarchistic nature of the Marx Brothers and A Night at the Opera specifically, the complete dismissal of everything bourgeois and sophisticated certainly should. One can see this in a super specific situation when looking and Driftwood and Fiorello attempting to create a contract, only to completely destroy it in the process, however, this also absolutely and obviously occurs within the final opera sequence when ever sense of normalcy and class separation is deconstructed through acts of acrobatics, bringing a working class game of baseball into the space, or by completely throwing of the staging of the play by dropping different scenery onto the stage.  It should be acknowledge, however, that not even the Marx Brothers believe that everything is a justification for insanity and even they can find moments of serenity and poetic transcendence.

Key Scene:  This serenity actually becomes the films highest moment, when viewers are treated to a Truffaut-like scene of Harpo and Chico playing music for children on board the ship that is a thing of legitimate cinematic beauty.

This DVD is relatively easy to come by and with no apparent bluray release in the future it is well worth the investment.

I've Always Depended On The Kindess Of Strangers: A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)

Elia Kazan is perhaps one of a handful of well-established auteur oriented directors who fails to receive the credit and praise due his way, I mean the guy did make On The Waterfront, a film I plan to revisit when the Criterion bluray drops next week, although amidst all the work and other films I have on my docket it may be awhile before I actually get around to doing just that.  Regardless, A Streetcar Named Desire was one of the many "shame list" films I felt terrible for having never seen, partially because of my own admiration for Kazan, detached entirely from his problematic relationship with the House Un-American Activities Committee.  It certainly does not help that it is one of the most quoted films based off of one of America's most well-known plays.  This set of standards, undoubtedly, clouded my expectations for the film and I will admit that for a better part of the first act I was uncertain that I was really prepared to embrace its presence.  Yet, as the film unfolded and I became invested in the chiaroscuro world of Louisiana depicted within the, Kazan's masterful use of the subtle melodrama and yet another brilliant performance by Brando, I was in love with the film by its closing scene.  Of course,  somewhere in the back of my mind I was completely aware of the plot and nature of A Streetcar Named Desire, but that did not manage to make this cinema classic any less enigmatic.  This film, much like Kazan's Waterfront, or even his slightly problematic Pinky, manage to exist within a sphere that somewhat represents reality yet so continually betrays it as to be something of a metaphor, one that suggests entrapment, disillusion and everything that has become jaded as a result of the loss of the American Dream, which is rather surprising considering that the film, not to mention the play existed well before realizations of the true abyss that would be the fifties unfolded.  No character within A Streetcar Named Desire could be remotely described as possessing redeeming qualities, yet they are depicted in such a stark and honest manner that it is near impossible not to pity them to some degree.  Essentially in create a film that discredits everything a viewer assumes to be America, Kazan manages to somehow make one of the most American films ever imagined.  Also, I will admit my ignorance, in that I thought "desire" was a metaphor, and while it still may be the case, it is also very much the name of the streetcar as well...who knew.

A Streetcar Named Desire begins with the arrival of one of literatures most iconic women Blanche Dubois (Vivien Leigh) a mysterious and sultry woman who has travelled from Mississippi to meet up with her sister Stella (Kim Hunter) who she believes to be living the grand life in New Orleans, a illusion that is immediately shattered when she finds her living within a dilapidated house along with her husband Stanley Kowalski (Marlon Brando), never mind the fact that the couple is expecting a baby.  Nonetheless, Blanche clings to the illusion of her sister's traditional nature and assumes the best, even falsely believing Stanley to be a stand-up guy despite his constant drinking and generally negative behavior towards Stella.  In fact, it is not so much the crumbling relationship between two sisters that becomes central but instead the burgeoning resentment between Stanley who believes Blanche to be dishonest about her past, particularly regarding the means by which she obtains her various luxuries, particularly her strings of pearls and a dress that appears to be made of gold, as Stanley so eloquently puts it.  Blanche is no kinder to Stanley claiming that he is an ignorant brute and finds her notions affirmed when during one drunkenly impassioned argument Stanley actually lays hands on Stella.  Despite Blanche's concerns, Stella returns to Stanley and things pan out with a degree of discomforting normalcy, yet when Blanche begins spending large amounts of time with Mitch (Karl Madden) a friend of Stanley's, he begins to dig deeper into the dark past of Stella's sister.  It is revealed that Stella certainly has her own dark past she is running from, one that may entail a considerable amount of less than "ladylike" behavior, leading to the penultimate confrontation in the film where Stanley and Blanche argue about values and appearances leading to Stanley violently attacking Blanche and perhaps raping her in the process, although on the following day when Stanley has a disheveled and distraught Blanche committed to an insane asylum, he swears innocence.  Regardless, the actions of the night prior prove to be the last straw for Stella who finally leaves Stanley in the film's closing scenes.

The film is somewhat overshadowed by an implied rape which is not to be taken lightly, but it must be considered that if this were solely a film about an individual losing out to the aggressions of an angry, virulent male it would not have such a well established and seminal place in both American theater and film.  I would argue that the film manages to remain a cinematic standard, which is often placed high on the list of American cinema, as well as global cinema, results from its often direct, if not always indirect,  study of a woman learning to discover her own self-identity detached from patriarchal oppression and internalized notions of her own ugliness in regards to false and vain notions of beauty.  Stella is the real point of interest within at least the film, I have not read the play entirely through so cannot speak to it with any authority.  She is always and at once suffering from a variety of indefinable women's issues that have come to demarcate feminist politics and rhetoric since the films original debut.  Firstly, she suffers in a clearly abusive relationship, but cannot escape her situation due to the economic binds of lacking self-suficiency as well as a place with which to escape to, only causing her being relegated to a small space within an already cramped domestic space all the more tragic.  Similarly she suffers from the misdirected assumptions of an idealized femininity tied to Blanche who believes in the idea of a proper woman, one that is able to accrue status and respect through wealthy gifts and gentleman callers, although as the narrative makes quite clear even Blanche is incapable of navigating these waters in the ideal manner.  Finally, Stella finds herself oppressed by the societal expectations of motherhood, and despite being in an awful marriage and lacking economic grounding, norms suggest that she carries a baby to term, as in the early fifties the notion of an abortion were simply not acknowledged.  All of these oppressions combined make Stella's final departure that much more powerful, leaving the clearly staged setting of her home to enter the equally intersectional streets of New Orleans preferring the freedom of uncertainly to the assurance of discomfort.

Key Scene:  The tension that builds and then unleashes revolving around the card game was the point at which I understood the lasting effect of this film and is certainly a highlight in a film full of classic moments.

Buy this film, honestly, you have no rational reason not to.

Buzz, Buzz, Buzz Went The Buzzer: Meet Me In St. Louis (1994)

I have a handful of genres or moment in film history where in I find myself rather certain that I will like everything from the are, whether it be New Korean Cinema, German Expressionism or Italian Realism, however, if you were to ask me four or so years ago when my love for cinema was initially burgeoning, I would never have even thought to guess that one of my favorite films genres would prove to be the technicolor musical, yet me deep affinity for Guys and Dolls, as well as a considerable admiration for Singin' In The Rain, it has come to my attention that, in fact, I do very much enjoy this particular time in musicals, although I can certainly name ones from the surrounding eras of which I love.  As such, it should not have come to a surprise that I too would enjoy Meet Me In St. Louis, which is a dazzling bit of music oriented cinema, one with some catchy, all be it simplistic songs, a segment of an unusual creepiness, not to mention one of the single greatest deliveries of the word "what" in the history of film.    However, what proved to be the greatest and most welcome revelation in the film was none other than Judy Garland, who like Marilyn Monroe was initially somebody I had boxed into a corner of Hollywood disaster icon, however, as I have done more film theory reading, particularly that related to feminist theory it has led me to appreciate certain performers in a new light, for Monroe it is her ability to perform against her objectification, while with Judy Garland I have come, within a single viewing of Meet Me In St. Louis, to understand what has allowed for her to become one of the most stalwart of icons for the gay community.  Her surprising amount of androgyny, personal life plagued by societal scorn as her constant desire for some form of comfort within her films explodes in a way very real and pertinent to the struggles of many gay individuals, males in specific.  Meet Me In St. Louis, in particular, shows viewers a Judy Garland that is clearly a little uncertain in her own body, but, nonetheless, embraces it in a manner so rich and rewarding that I could rewatch the film countless times only for her incomparable crooning...I am talking a Bing Crosby level of mastery.

Meet Me In St. Louis is a film centered on the Smith family, which is headed by the cantankerous father figure Alonzo (Leon Ames) whose desire for his family to attain middle class respectability and conservative normalcy affects every interaction, whether it be his eldest daughter Anna (Mary Astor) and her desire to be proposed to by a high school sweetheart, or the passing of his masculine privilege on to his son Lon (Henry H. Daniels Jr.), or simply trying to find a reasonable course of action for his daughter Esther (Judy Garland) who appears to be moving through her teenage years with a bit of confusion and uncertainty, although it is rather apparent that she has taken a considerable liking to the neighbor's son John Truett (Tom Drake).  It is precisely when a realization is made to Esther's feelings for John that big news shifts the household, it is realized that Alonzo will be required to move to New York in order to pursue a hefty promotion within his job, although this is much to the chagrin of the family who has worked so very hard to solidify their place in the ever growing St. Louis.  The narrative then focuses on the family preparing for their inevitable move, particularly Esther who must ween herself away from the loving John, in order, to assure her happiness in New York, void of her boyfriend.  It is during Christmas night when Alonzo hears Esther sadly singing Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas that he realizes his mistake in forcing his family on an exodus to the unwelcoming and bustling Big Apple.  At the last moment, before realizing that her father has changed her mind, Esther accepts a marriage proposal from John, although she warns him of the woes their engagement will face with a long distance factor, fortunately, they realize that changes allow them to pursue a life together within the city limits of St. Louis, ending spectacularly with the family, including their newest members enjoying the spectacle and wonderment of the World's Fair, which they all strongly believe serves as the moment to place the city on the world map.

So one could bemoan the problematics relating to the nuclear family as it relates to this film, just as easily as one could critique the film for embracing a clearly pro-middle class ideology and certainly these critiques would not be ungrounded.  However, I really want to consider the performance of Judy Garland in this film, one that is dressed and acted in androgynous manner.  While one could certainly chalk her specific look up to cinematographers and costumers/makeup artists adapting to technicolor, it is really quite hard to overlook the masculine features inherent to Garland in this film, whether it be her define jawline, or her unusually butch makeup.  Similarly, her singing in the film is notably deeper then her female counterparts, and often serves as a definably masculine aspect of herself within a feminine context.  Her appropriation of Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, certainly hearkens back to Bing Crosby, as I noted earlier, adding yet another layer of androgynous performance.  It is also no accident that the two youngest daughters in the family perform cross-dressing for Halloween, not to mention Anna's tie dress, almost as if to add a layer of support to Esther and her divergent performance of femininity.  In an active sense, Esther also challenges traditional femininity in first her demand within her relationship to have a voice, one that discredits John's demand for an instantaneous marriage, not to mention disregards the lesser of male suitors, a decidedly unfeminine act for the era.  Ultimately, Judy Garland's performance within Meet Me In St. Louis is certainly not the most revolutionary ever enacted upon screen, but something is to be said about its divergences, if only to serve as a groundwork for her assured icon status within in the gay culture for decades to follow.

Key Scene:  The Trolly Song was a blast visually and aurally and well worth watching as a solo piece, although when Lon delivers a "what" in relationship to a bizarre proposition by Esther I could not stop laughing for the remainder of the film and well into the next day.

Buy this movie it is a cinematic gem, I plan to upgrade to bluray soon as the technicolor seriously drips of the screen at times.

Shadows, Voices And Faces Seemed To Take On A Hidden Meaning: Vampyr (1932)

In my book, Carl Theodor Dreyer can do no wrong, his adaptation of The Passion of Joan of Arc is without out contest one of the greatest pieces of cinema ever produce and with this knowledge going into my month of horror films I leapt at the opportunity to include his work Vampyr in the list of films I would watch and review.  I am here to attest to the brilliance that exudes throughout this grand piece of cinema and could very well make a short list of the best cinematography I have seen in a black and white film to date sitting nicely aside Last Year at Marienbad and Carnival of Souls (A film that may end up being reviewed within the month).  However, what surprised me the most about watching Vampyr, is that in relation to the other movies I have watched thus far, it may well be the scariest of them all, particularly in its starkness and the way the sets and their shadows invade every mise-en-scene, never allowing for a moment of comfort or familiarity.  Furthermore, without the use of heavy make up or an onslaught of CGI, Dreyer manages to make some creepy vampires simply by great casting and demanding some driven performances by the actors involved in the film.  Traipsing the line between silent and talkie film, Vampyr is both an experiment in filmmaking with its horror themes, as well as a perfectly crafted execution of melodramatic traditions.  I am ready with much conviction to claim this as my new favorite Dreyer film, not only because it deals with his traditional themes of religion, and the existential self in times of death, but because it is far and away one of the most beautiful films I have ever seen, more so I have not found myself asking "how did they do that scene" as much as I did during Vampyr since I initially viewed Inception, and the later had the benefit of 75 plus years of technological advancements to make it look so cool.  Vampyr is a masterpiece and a film that is beyond fully realized one that is a pleasure to watch and ends all too soon.

Vampyr focuses on a journey undertaken by a traveller and lover of the bizarre named Allan Gray (Nicolas de Gunzburg) to a remote village known as Courtempierre.  When Allan takes up residence at a local in he is bothered by voices on his very first night, ones that lead him to an old man who provides him with a package that he demands be opened upon the old man's death.  Taking it in a bit of suspicion, Allan is then led to a manor in the village by an assortment of bizarre and inexplicable shadow figures.  Entering the manner, Allan witnesses the man he just saw being murder, leading to him opening the package to discover a book detailing the horrific exploits of demons known as Vampyrs, and of their particular effect on the town of Courtempierre.  Simultaneously, Allen discovers that a young woman in the manor named Leone (Sybille Schmitz) has taken seriously ill, or as he realizes has become infected with the curse of the vampyrs.  This leads to a confrontation with the local doctor, who Allan suspects as being a henchmen of the vampyrs, and Allan demands that the doctor perform a blood transfusion between himself and Leone.  After an incredibly unusual nightmare sequence in which Allan watches himself being buried alive, he comes to the aid of Leone, as well as her sister Gisele (Rena Mandele) who Allan has taken a liking to, which involves driving a stake through the dead body of a local woman who is believed to be the origin of the vampyr curse.  While seeking refuge in a mill, the doctor who has been an aide to the vampyrs becomes trapped under falling flour, while Gisele and Allan cross a river into an idyllic forest, suggesting movement to a better place.  The film then closes as the cogs in the mill begin to slow down, almost as though the flow of time itself had stopped.

As I noted in the introduction, Dreyer's films almost always preoccupy themselves with notions of death and how one's spirituality plays into coming to terms with such occurrences.  If one looks at the text cards throughout the film, they alone help to indicate the possible religious commentaries, as well as existential motifs that run through the film, whether it be the hourglasses signifying time or the crosses helping to differentiate good and evil they serve a purpose to remind viewers of what morals they can glean from the film.  Furthermore, a couple of scenes in which Dreyer breaks the fourth wall, as well as some stunning point of view shots later in the film allow for the viewer to assume the role of the protagonist in the film, subsequently reinforcing the themes and religious commentary latent in the film.  The overarching commentary then becomes something to the nature of the importance os self-sacrifice in the name of good and a suggestion that in performing such an act a person affords an opportunity to directly confront evil and if successful ultimately destroy its existence.  However, Dreyer is careful not to claim that this action is by any means easy.  Allan's out of body experience reflects a sort of existential reflection about his life and the reality of such sacrifices, in that he essentially witnesses his own death a vision that is eerie because once again it is done in a pseudo-point of view manner that causes the viewer to simultaneously consider their own life.  One could easily walk away from Vampyr brooding over their own life in relation to the cogs of time and while that may seem like an awful experience, perhaps it is not all together a bad thing.

Key Scene:  Either the shadow directions or the funeral procession, both are equally stunning.

This is a movie you need, no excuse necessary as to why you do not own it.  Criterion has a DVD available, go ahead and buy yourself and me a copy.

Glut Yourself On My Accursed Ugliness: The Phantom of the Opera (1925)

Perhaps the oldest film I will discuss this month, The Phantom of the Opera, the original at least, is a French silent film that often gets relegated to secondary mention in the silent film classics of the 1920's. Yet, I can say with some degree of certainty that this is, by far, one of the great works of silent cinema and perhaps one of my new favorite horror films, because unlike some of the previous films discussed this month, one can easily center this nearly century old film comfortably within the genre even if it does have a few moments of melodrama thrown in for good measure.  Beyond that, it is easily one of the most well costumed and designed films I have ever come across, between Phantom's too human replica of a mask to the Red Scare costume and even the unexplained headless statue that evades many scenes, nothing is normal in this film and I can imagine that it provided many a nightmare upon its initial release and certainly has the potential to scare the hell out of people even today.  Stepping away from the filmmaking aspects, one can still draw a lot of greatness from The Phantom of the Opera in the  ways it comments on forced love, notions of societal beauty as well as the breeding of hate in one's soul, all themes that are tackled in great detail and with a decent deal of success.  While I understand that it is by no means the first horror film ever made, I would be willing to bet that it is one of the first to engage viewers on such a magnificent cinematic and philosophical level, without getting lost in its showiness, even if it is a theatrical film, it exists in a very self-aware manner of performativity.

The film locates its story at the Paris Opera House where two young woman are vying for lead roles night after night in the various sold-out performances at the theater.  The two women, the prima donna Carlotta (Virginia Pearson) and her understudy Christine (Mary Philbin) are not at odds with each other, but when mysterious threats from an unseen man named the Phantom are directed at Carlotta, Christine is afforded an opportunity to sing, with much success, as well as praise from her beaux Raoul (Norman Kerry).  After a well-received performance, Raoul begs Christine to step away from opera and marry him, only for Christine to become distracted by voices in the walls from the Phantom (Lon Chaney), confessing his love for Christine and his assurance that she will always have a place as a leading lady in the opera house.  Phantom makes true on his promise by causing a chandelier to crash down during Carlotta's next performance, causing mass panic in the house and affording him an opportunity to kidnap Christine.  At this point, as a hostage to Phantom, Christine disobeys his request to not remove his mask, only to discover a grotesque man underneath the disguise causing her to faint in disgust and fear.  Eventually, Christine agrees to give her heart to Phantom, who she learns to be a man named Erik, if he will allow her back on to perform.  Of course, Christine uses this opportunity to meet up with Raoul, much to Phantom's demise, considering he has attended the masquerade the two are at dressed as a demonic version of the Red Scare.  Set on keeping Christine for himself, Phantom steals her away again, only to be chased by Raoul, as well as a detective named Inspector Ledoux (Arthur Edmund Carewe) who is an expert in the ways of Phantom.  After a series of traps and troubles, the two, along with a mob angered at the Phantom, break into his labyrinth and drown the Phantom, but not before the Phantom slyly reminds them that their fears exist in nothingness.

Again this movie is perfection, as far as silent filmmaking is concerned.  I dread ever having to watch one of the film remakes of this story, because I know wholeheartedly that it will be less than stellar and will in all likelihood humanize the character of Phantom.  My worries are not in the making the Phantom's looks a means for pity, because it is tragic no doubt, yet this narrative suggests that he gained the disfigurement from dabbling in the dark arts, and, furthermore, his incessant demand to have Christine as a possession all his own reflects an inner ugliness that should manifest itself in a physical way.  The original Phantom, one could argue, lacks any redemptive qualities, he readily harms people to get his way and chooses happily to exist in solitude, one article in the film suggesting he actually does so in order to avoid being involved with a bloody revolution.  Perhaps we are to blame Andrew Lloyd Webber for making Phantom into something else, but I just want to reiterate that in this early version, with Lon Chaney delivering a brilliant Phantom he has nothing to embrace, except maybe a bit of ungrounded fear directed towards him by a mob of Parisians.  Essentially, like all the characters in this film, Phantom is performing a role, one that he gladly embraces and shows no remorse towards, perhaps if he had then his life would have been spared.

Key Scene:  There is a moment where Phantom, while dressed as the Red Scare, is hiding in a tree that is one of the greatest moments of cinematography I have ever seen.

I cannot express how necessary of a viewing experience this film proved to be and while it is available to Watch Instantly on Netflix, I highly suggest getting the blu-ray as it will undoubtedly improve the experience.

For Some Men, Nothing Is Written, Unless They Write It: Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

If D.W. Griffith is the father of epic films, then David Lean's 1962 historical epic Lawrence of Arabia is the prodigal son.  A masterfully shot and superbly acted film, Lawrence of Arabia is impossible not to enjoy even though it clocks in at nearly four hours in length.  Next to Kes, which I have yet to see, this film appears to be the masterpiece of British cinema on all accounts.  This film, like no other I am aware of, jumps between genres flawlessly.  In one moment the film is a war film, at others a melodrama and in yet other moments poetic realist film.  Loosely describe as a drama, Lawrence of Arabia is something far grander, it is neither a simple biography, nor is it a sweeping study of World War I.  It is as impossible to perfectly describe this film, as it was for characters to perfectly describe the title characters life.  What David Lean offers is a series of vignettes about a controversial hero and he does so beautifully.

Lawrence of Arabia, as the title suggests, chronicles a brief period in the life of British historical figure T.E. Lawrence who is played flamboyantly by a young Peter O'Toole.  The film begins with Lawrence's untimely death via a motorcycle accident, which leads to reporters attempting to find an in-depth and accurate account of the icons life.  Reporters are quickly disappointed when they realize that Lawrence's past is rather convoluted and those who claimed his companionship know little, if nothing, about his life. A reporter stumbles upon a man who claims to know a decent bit about the late veteran's life and begins the story of how Lawrence forever changed relations with Britain and the Arabic world.  A younger Lawrence is introduced to viewers as a rebellious college educated man who sees the war as futile and is simply floating by in his post, assuming little will change between feuding Middle Eastern tribes.  However, Lawrence's desires to remain anonymous through the war quickly change when he is appointed to gather better information about the feuding tribes.  Agreeing reluctantly, Lawrence endeavors on a quest through the Arabian desert to discover the larger issues of Arabian relations.  On his quest, Lawrence discovers not only the illogical nature of the feuds between the tribes, but much about his own passive participation in the oppression of the native peoples.  In a fit of disillusionment, Lawrence takes it upon himself to repair the entirity of Arabian relations, often sacrificing his livelihood in the process.  His quest leads him to encounters with a veritable who's who of British actors circa 1960, including Alec Guiness as the paranoid Prince Feisal, Anthony Quinn as a head of a feuding Arabian tribe, and Omar Shariff as Sherif Ali, a cautious Arabian who at first sees Lawrence as a threat, only to discover a bond with him greater than tribal feuds.  After various desert treks, train attacks/robberies and a rather unproductive political council, Lawrence realizes his efforts, no matter how grand, are useless.  The intervention of Lawrence, and Britain as a whole, cannot assure peace in Arabia...only the people of Arabia can assure such things.  The film closing, while cynical, shows Lawrence returning to England, his "home," to concern himself with his own countries issues.

The fact that this films closing portions focus heavily on Britain's failed interventions is the Middle East is of note to me.  Lawrence of Arabia is very much an anti-imperialist film.  Sure Lawrence proves beneficial to those he aids, but he is also fatal to those he opposes, most notably the Turks who he kills on countless occasions throughout the film both passively and actively.  Even in the face of adhering to Arabian tradition, Lawrence finds joy in the destruction of what we can safely call the other.  It is tough to determine whether Lean is praising or criticizing Lawrence for his interventions, however, it is obvious that Lean is showing their futility.  I find this film to be terribly pertinent to a global audience, but more specifically to an American audience.  I am elated by the fact that troops will be removed from Iraq by the end of this December, however, I am also quite aware that this only represents a small fraction of our involvement in the Middle East, which could continue well into the next decade.  I know it seems rather silly, but I cannot help but wonder if our government could not learn a few things from watching this film, particularly the fact that Western intervention does not necessarily imply a positive advancement.  In many instances, it is quite hazardous to countries advancements.  We have seen this in many of our previous war efforts and a film like Lawrence of Arabia only reminds viewers of its inherent problems.

Ignoring my political diatribe, I cannot emphasize this film enough.  As is the case with my last review of Chinatown, Lawrence of Arabia still lacks a Blu-Ray release.  As such, a DVD will have to suffice.  I strongly encourage you to set a few hours from your day aside to watch this masterpiece...it will stick with you.

Diets I Can Accept, But Not Obsessions: The Rules Of The Game (1939)

Jean Renoir's incandescent films have a way of sneaking up on viewers.  His oeuvre reflects slowly paced films that manage subtle brilliance and narratives that are always well acted.  Renoir's 1939 offering The Rules of the Game, considered his masterpiece and one of the greatest pieces of cinema ever, is precisely this and involves perhaps his most complex set of characters and most scathing critique of bourgeois excess prior to Luis Bunuel.  It is a reminder that in regards to French cinema there was a glorious time prior to the New Wave and that Renoir is possibly the greatest French director to date.  Furthermore, it is a staple of what makes the Criterion Collection so respectable, their transfer of the film is excellent and I cannot wait to check out the newly released Blu-Ray in the near future.


The Rules of the Game, as noted earlier, follows the exploits and decadence of an upper class French family and friends.  It is part comedy and part drama in its approach showing that bourgeois pride is often fatal.  One of the film's central characters is a pilot named Andre Jeruix (Roland Toutain) who has recently flown a lengthy record-breaking trip.  However, instead of gloating on his achievement he takes his moment in the spotlight to confess his desires for a unnamed woman.  Viewers discover this woman to be the aristocrat Christine (Nora Gregor), who is married to one of Andre's close friends Robert (Marcel Dalio).  This romance plays the central role to the film; however, it is much more convoluted than this simple love triangle.  For example, Andre has his own affair occurring with a maid and spends most of the film attempting to hide his infidelity through the purchasing of elaborate music players.  Similarly, other characters pine for Christine's affections, while a variety of other infidelities occur.  Tragically, the deceit and hidden advances lead to one character's sudden death as a set of servants incorrectly assume their masters wife to be partaking in an act of cheating.  I would make this all much clearer, but to do so would undermine an incredibly well executed narrative.  I can only suggest watching the film, particularly the back half of the film, which spirals into an oneiric spectacle of comedic misfortunes.

The Rules of the Game has a rather interesting history.  The film is obviously magnificent, yet upon its initial release it was derided as being a slanderous look at upper class Paris.  It was so intensely disdained, in fact, that restoration was impossible for quite sometime given that it was believed that the original negative was destroyed sometime during World War II.  Speaking from a purely formalist view, the loss of this film would have been tragic because Renoir's use of editing, angles and focus all result in a film the burns off the screen.  From an artistic standpoint, it is an offense that people demanded its removal from cinemas.  Their are far more controversial films than this and it only shows the tragic obstacles filmmakers face when producing movies.  In reference to this film, I want to expressly state the necessity for open narratives in artwork, particularly filmmaking.  While there are certainly clear boundaries between the filmmable and the profane, I strongly advocate the necessity for open venues for all film themes.  It is a tragedy that Passolini was executed for his controversial film Salo and it is absurd that Harmony Korine still lacks a critical respect given the rather abrasive nature of his film, and I do not want to even go into length about my rage over the editing off Eyes Wide Shut.  The rise of internet filmmaking certainly holds promise for more challenging filmmaking and I am sure a complete removal of a film negative will likely never happen again, but one only needs to watch the documentary This Film Is Not Yet Rated to realize that censorship occurs, even if it is not enacted in such a physical manner.  In short, The Rules of the Game is great, and had we not been lucky this work could have been lost forever.

If I have not sold you on the film yet, let me reemphasize its masterful nature.  It is not my favorite French film, but I can safely say that it is the French equivalent to Citizen Kane.  A perfect gem of a film that should be high on any film scholars must watch list.  Go spend your monies at Criterion to get a Blu-Ray copy and feel free to let me know what you think.

I Loathe Tragedy, Such An Inferior Genre: Children of Paradise (1945)

A film that is poetic realism realized, Children of Paradise incandescently studies the world of a struggling theater troupe through its moments of success all the way to its moments of abject failure.  The masterpiece of French director Michael Carne, Children of Paradise is a brutally honest look at love, lust and the troubling links of romance, ultimately, positing the failures of true romance in the face of bourgeois oppression.  The film is uniquely its own work, incorporating tight and claustrophobic cinematography that still manages to flow with grace, as well as acting that is theatrically excessive, yet manages to be achingly real.  The film clocks in at an epic three plus hours, yet the viewing experience seems all too short and ends abruptly, all be it appropriately, leaving those witnessing the magnificent work yearning for something more, but like the films characters viewers are left with a fading flicker of something soulful that has forever escaped their grasp.   
 

As noted the film follows the interconnected narratives of a theater troupe located on the appropriately named Boulevard of Crime.  The films central character is certainly the aging beauty Garance (Arletty) whose illustrious beauty proves irresistible to the men living on and around the crowded boulevard.  The first to approach Garance with interest is the aspiring actor Frederick (Pierre Brasseur) who at first sees the gorgeous woman as a conquest, but quickly finds himself in a state of perpetual infatuation with Garance.  Not soon after Frederick’s advances, Garance is accused of thievery, however, she is saved by a mime named Baptiste (Jean-Louis Barrault) who explains that it was in fact a conman named Laceneire (Pierre Renoir) who stole the watch, while also expressing his own interests in Garance.  Garance thanks Baptiste for taking her side and offers him a flower in gratitude.  Baptiste, like Frederick, is quickly infatuated by Garance, however, it appears as though she actually shares similar feelings.  All appears set for Baptiste and Garance to fall madly in love, until Count Edouard  (Louis Salou) enters the picture.  Described in the film as a dandy, Edouard is an extravagant man who uses his monetary extensions to get what he wants, proving successful even with Garance.  Garance is shown choosing Edouard over the other gentlemen at the end of the first act, and we are brought back in a few years later showing both Frederick and Baptiste as successful actors, although Baptiste appears to be in a state of constant depression over his loss of Garance.  These issues are only made more severe by the constant meddling of Laceneire who believes he can use guile to win over Garance.  Ultimately, the four men roguishly trick one another into winning over Garance, who is obviously lost in thoughts of Baptiste.  Tragically it is their relationship that is never rekindled as they fail to cross paths and Baptiste is left chasing after Garance in the crowded Boulevard of Crime, only to be consumed by the mass of people.  In this moment, Garance dismisses Baptiste as nothing more than a face in the crowd, literally becoming a faceless man behind the makeup of a mime.

The film is stunning and absolutely enthralling, yet in the back of my mind I fell bothered by the overarching assumption that all masculine camaraderie is somehow ruined by the interference of a female.  All the men act in a ludicrous manner over their desire for Garance and at times the film suggest that it leads to their disconnection.  In fact, a rather endearing scene between Baptiste and Frederick over their mutual respect for each others craft, is quickly dismissed when Frederick sleeps with Garance, despite knowing that Baptiste is only a room away.  This assumption is only made worse as it is assumed that Garance is entirely incapable of truly choosing her own mate.  Garance only settles with Edoaurd in order to avoid a serious prison sentence, however, once she chooses to settle with the count it is mutually believed between viewer and characters that she is inextricably tied to him, despite her continuing longing for Baptiste.  Incidentally, a male character must even assure her of her love for Baptiste, specifically when Baptiste’s son states that she cannot have his father, because he is happy with his own family.  It is patriarchy working at its most destructive level, one in which even a male child proves to have more authority than an aging woman.  I consider most of the problems to be indicative of forties Europe, yet I could not praise this film, without also making note of these glaring gender issues.

Sadly, Criterion has yet to release this gem on Bluray, however, that should not deter you from getting a copy, because it is one of the rather moving pieces in the collection and a definitive example of French Poetic Realism. 

You May Say That I Ain't Free, But That Don't Worry Me: Nashville (1975)

Robert Altman was one of the most prophetic filmmakers of the second half of the twentieth century and continued to make respectable films until his passing in 2006.  Critics claim his 1975 work Nashville to be his masterpiece and the statements are more than justifiable.  In a film that weaves between a nonlinear experimental film and a astute political satire, Nashville becomes something tragically real yet absurdly impossible.  As a viewer I was uncertain whether to take the film as a blatant social criticism or a preemptive parody of the political thrillers that would soon follow Nashville, most notably the works of Oliver Stone.  This hybridity of narrative makes the film incredibly enjoyable and makes the lengthy viewing seem rather brief, given that dispersed focus of plots and constant flow of hilariously tragic characters that result.  Nashville is its own film, by an auteur whose main concern is creating a seemingly illogical film that still has a very cohesive underlying statement, one that is quite cynical, yet seems to be proving truer as American politics evolve into the 21st century.


Given the rather sporadic nature of the narrative, I am going to approach my discussion of the plot through the various vignettes within the film, as Nashville is more about the characters as they relate involuntarily relate to a political movement much larger than themselves.  Altman makes it very clear that the film is about the actors and their characters given that the films opening credits are done in the fashion of a concert commercial.  It is made clear that this is a film about actors playing characters, one that just happen to be tied to political ideologies, whether by their own decision or not.  The political party discussed directly in the film is that of the Replacement Party, which proposes bizarre changes to politics.  This party throughout the film is led by the unseen voice of Hal Phillip Walker, whose image is obviously so important that he cannot afford to be seen interacting with the rather remedial characters that exist in Nashville.  In fact, the only semblance of an individual from the Replacement Party comes through John Triplette (Michael Murphy) who is obviously using this job as a stepping stone to his own political future.  Triplette has been assigned to create a fundraising event involving prominent Nashville musicians and understands both the delicacy of the situation and the necessity of it being a very broad night of music.  His first acquisition for the event is the Haven Hamilton (Henry Gibson) a staunchly patriotic, sequin suit donning country star whose fading image is obvious to everyone but himself, particularly when he dismisses Opal (Geraldine Chaplin) the overzealous and misguided BBC reporter whom he believes to be sabotaging his recording session.  Opal simply desires to get a real image of Nashville, which in her mind is as faded as the garbage dumps she frequents.  Triplette also garners the help of a young musical folk trio that are constantly breaking up and reuniting without logic and seem rather lost as musicians in the god fearing and flag waving musical styling of the rest of the city.  The trio's most troubled member is Tom (Keith Carradine) whose womanizing tragically leads to his downfall, particularly as he takes advantage of a Linnea Reese (Lily Tomlin) a depressed housewife whose only joy appears to come from taking care of her two deaf children.  This depression also stems from her disconnect with her husband Delbert Reese (Ned Beatty), a real southern boy who is more concerned with advancing the image of his fading starlet Barbara Jean (Ronee Blakely) whose recent unexplained accident has left her mentally unstable and physically drained.  It is Barbara Jean, in fact, who proves the most important character in the film as she ultimately becomes the victim of an implied political assassination.  I have only mentioned a handful of characters, which fails to represent the entirety of the films twenty plus interacting major characters.  The characters all react to the assassination of Barbara Jean in various ways, however, each individuals actions are obviously for personal advancement and not a single one of the characters shows a genuine concern for the dying starlet.  It is terribly cynical but rather reflective of Robert Altman's worldview, particularly as it relates to politics.

Robert Altman's films posit a notion of futility as it relates to political movements and attempts to form grassroots revolutions.  He delivers this most effectively in his mini-series Tanner '88 which features Nashville star Michael Murphy playing democratic candidate Jack Tanner, a "for real' political candidate who is genuinely concerned with changing the corruption in American politics.  However, in the cynical cutthroat world of politics, Tanner is doomed from the start and is undermined not only by news media and other candidates, but by his own campaign team, who, like Murphy's character in Nashville, have their own ulterior motives.  In the end Tanner is left disillusioned about politics and realizes that people will only vote for the person they "like the most," which rarely has anything to do with politics.  Similarly, in Nashville, Altman creates a world in which politics are won by who you know, not what you know.  Hal Phillip Walker's image relies on his political ties, thus explaining Triplette's concern with accruing not only staunchly conservative characters like Hamilton, but allowing for their image to be mixed with someone like Elliot Gould, who makes a cameo in the film at a mixer for the Replacement Party.  This particular scene is brilliant because neither Hamilton nor Gould recognizes the other, yet they are at the same party, performing their believed duty to a political candidate.  It is precisely this act of performance, which Altman criticizes throughout the film, everything is done with imagery as an underlying concern.  For example, the films opening scenes involve Hamilton singing an obnoxiously patriotic song about the bicentennial celebration in the United States.  His performance is rather uninspired, yet he decides to criticize his hippy looking pianist for its terrible quality, as though the guys look will be reflected on the entirely audio.  Similarly, the Grand Ole Opery night shown is both riddled with ridiculous uses of advertising as well as a token performance by a black singer, which borders on minstrelsy, both to assure revenue for the dying musical venue as well as a new more politically acceptable image.  The brilliance in these images is that Altman is attaching them to the overarching issue of political actions claiming that they are nothing but a performance and those involved concern themselves with images and not ideas.  It may seem cynical, but it is proving rather pertinent in our previous political elections, and particularly so in our upcoming primaries as well.  The next time you watch a debate, keep this film in mind.

I am particularly fond of Robert Altman and this is right up there with The Long Goodbye and Tanner '88 as one of my favorite films by the director.  I cannot emphasize how necessary owning a copy of this film is, although I would also strongly encourage you to share it with your friends, as it is a brilliant and continually pertinent film.

Perhaps So, I’ve Brought The Apple Anyway:…And God Created Women (1956)

The world was never the same after the introduction of Brigitte Bardot and cinema has this film to thank.  Perhaps more well-known for his cult classic Barbarella, Roger Vadim’s film is a sexual romp through the French coast that is as sultry as it is sentimental and serves as one of the fleeting moments of brilliance that existed in France prior to its filmic upheaval that would be the French New Wave. It is at times funny, while at others tragically serious, but despite its wavering it never manages to loose its illustrious Technicolor flow fashioning itself around a young vixen whose on screen presence would forever change the way sexual promiscuity was framed worldwide.

While Juliette (Brigitte Bardot) is the character the films title references, the actual narrative is more concerned with the small Tardieu family as they attempt to secure their living amidst the ever contentious demands of a sleazy businessman whose interests also lie in dominating the young Juliette.  An orphan, Juliette fills her days with lackluster work at a bookstore and dancing into midnight, actions which eventually lead her foster mother to banish her, stating that she is to return to a far off boarding school.  Realizing her imminent loss if she were to be relocated, Juliette prays on a the middle brother of the family, using his shyness against him and becoming a femme fatale of sorts, ignoring the death associated with the character as it relates to film noir.  Her seduction of the middle brother is partially for self-perseverance, but it also is intended to exact revenge on the family’s oldest brother who unknowingly admits his attempts to use Juliette at a late night party.  The film then spirals into a abyss of infidelity, double speak and business, which witnesses the Tardieu’s dismissing their land with the promise of earning off of whatever is built.  In a fleeting moment, the oldest brother and Juliette engage in an act of intercourse, which ultimately destroys the rather close relationship previously existing between the Tardieu’s.  In the classic femme fatale fashion, Juliette remains relatively unharmed and appears to have learned very little from the endeavor making the men’s unrestrained desire the problem, as opposed to the innocence of a young vixen.

The critiques of this film are vast and varied, but I find the most obvious ones to emerge when approaching it from a feminist lens.  The first issue is the most blatant, it is a film preoccupied with the male gaze.  Our first introduction to Juliette is of her legs as they emerge from behind a dangling sheet.  The film then cuts to an old man approaching her with a toy, yet in a moment of cinematic genius it then cuts to a far off house to show that yet another man is gazing at the young girl.  In this sense, Juliette cannot escape the gaze of men within the film, let alone the gaze of the films viewers.  Furthermore, the film relishes in the notion that Juliette is a sexual object.  The eldest son Antoine (Christian Marquand) is never punished for his open claims of desiring to degrade Juliette and, in fact, he is rewarded by eventually claiming her sexually.  This lack of concern for Juliette is only furthered by how little is known about her past.  It is evident that Juliette is the black sheep of the community, but her association with disdain is rarely elaborated on and instead appears to be from deep seeded jealously on the part of the women in the community, yet another problem addressed by feminist.  Jealously is solely the result of a patriarchy that demands women be sexually desirous, an obvious undertone in this films narrative.  To put it succinctly the film does not treat women well, but is certain to chastise the men for their actions, perhaps it’s only redeeming feature (besides the luscious Technicolor of course).

This is not one of my favorite Criterion releases by any means, but it is quite good.  I would only suggest snagging a copy if you are a CC fanatic and want to one day possess the entire collection.