Two Old-Fashioneds, For Two Old-Fashioned People: Make Way For Tomorrow (1937)

I realized as today rolled in that I had all but failed to blog this month, which I am constantly apologizing for during this semester.  It might get better in the upcoming weeks, but as it looks there is hardly any end in sight.  I even had big plans to do a Zatoichi marathon this month and that has managed to fall to the wayside.  My busy status is wholly revolving around things that I enjoy thoroughly though so it is far from a complaint and merely a reality, so for me to report back on the movies I am encountering necessitates two things to work simultaneously.  First, I have to be deeply moved in a way by such an encounter as to be determined to set aside time to write a blog about the film in question.  Second, this being profoundly moved by a film also has to occur at a time when I could still manage to set down for more than a few minutes and compose valid thoughts on the subject.  Since writing nearly half a month ago about Lilies of the Field I have seen some great stuff (Nanook of the North, Stalker and Love Jones) and I also saw some atrocities (Arcade and Broken Arrow).  I wanted to write at great length, but alas time did not allow.  In fact, Broken Arrow took me four miserable late nights to finish.  What I come to write about today is something so off the radar that had I not been fortunate to be a member of The POV Cineclub, I would likely have never encountered the work.  The film in question is Leo McCrary's Make Way For Tomorrow, a little film from 1937 that just happens to fit so delicately in the cracks between the classics of the silent era and the wonderful works of World War II America.  Were the movements altered in even the slightest of ways, this film would be completely overlooked.  While the subject matter is hardly related, I would not hesitate to assert that this has the same sort of rediscovered classic status that is afforded to The Night of the Hunter, here, however, the sentimentality runs thick only to dry up by the end and the narrative is not something that causes a viewer heart to begin racing, but, instead; to wrench in the most jarring of manners.  The open acknowledgement on the part of Yasujiro Ozu that this film was one of his major influences is no surprise, particularly given the staging and angles incorporated in this shot, never mind it possessing what might be one of the most curious breakings of the fourth wall ever committed to celluloid.

Make Way For Tomorrow centers around the Cooper family, more specifically the parents of the children who are now grown and living on their own at various locations within the United States.  The father George Cooper (Thomas Mitchell) is facing a reality wherein his old age and failing vision have led to his being less successful at bookkeeping and subsequently retiring.  Alongside George is his loving wife Lucy (Beulah Bondi) who is also dealing with aging and the inability to take care of major chores in their home, one that in the past had housed their four children, centering specifically on their oldest son Barkley (Victor Moore).  With the impending mortgage on their house becoming due George and Lucy are threatened with eviction, calling all of their children home to deliver the rather unfortunate news.  When it becomes clear that staying in the home is not an option, the two parents ask for help from their children, minus one who cannot extract herself from life in California.  While the children all attempt to save face, while also side stepping the burden of taking care of their children, Lucy ends up moving in with Barkley and his wife and daughter, while George moves in with the considerably disgruntled but nonetheless accepting daughter Anita (Fay Bainter).  While the two parents prove to throw off the tense infrastructure of the various spaces they occupy, they seem to want nothing more than to live under the same roof again, George hoping to find a job and have Lucy move in with him again, whereas Lucy attempts to be as amiable as possible to Barkley, even going so far as to help her granddaughter Rhoda (Barbara Reed) hide a burgeoning romance from her mother.  Yet, when these tense structures fall apart, it is the parents who are deemed the problem and Berkley succumbs to the reality wherein he must send his mother to a nursing home, while the family agrees that it is best for George to head to California.  Given then only a few hours of time together before what will likely be their last time together, George and Lucy spend the evening as thought it were their honeymoon all over again, completely overlooking the dinner they had planned with their children.  In the closing moments, the aged couple share a kiss and a goodbye that could give Casablanca or Brief Encounters a run for their money in melodramatic despair.

One might be a bit curious as to how a seemingly innocuous and overlooked romance/drama film from the 1930's could even begin to reflect the ideal film for this genre, but I will gladly put this in the same framework as Brokeback Mountain or Her, wherein it requires viewers to renavigate their understandings on how love works in film and who is allowed to be depicted in such engagements cinematically.  Indeed, if their is a more heartfelt couple in cinema than this, it is only in gradations, because where other romantic films are wrought with melodramatic sacrifice or one-sided desire, this is as intense a shared love as any and one that is delivered with such earnestness from Mitchell and Bondi respectively.  A 1930's romantic film is usually signified by its over-the-top performative elements, but the subtlety and simplicity at play here work wonders for the narrative arch as a whole.  The struggle here is not one of unseen forces (sickness, war or Shakespearean rivalries) which create an insurmountable barrier, but a unwillingness on the part of a few children to return the care and love their parents directed at them, assuming this entitlement to go on forever.  Indeed, as George carefully observes, it is at after the age in which it is alright to tuck them into bed that things get complicated, because while they still expect that sort of guidance, care and aid, their gratefulness will have either manifested itself or completely gone to the wayside, and in the case of the Cooper children it is decidedly the latter.  Even Rhoda who is capable of exploring the world of romance, is only able to do so out of the kindness of her grandmother, who is later exploited and blamed when Rhoda attempts to elope with an older man.  As such, when the two elderly parents are finally able to enjoy their last day together, the romance swells and the world suddenly seems wholly in their favor, between car rides and free cocktails the two receive more than they had hoped for and certainly everything the viewers had desired for the couple, making the fourth wall moment all the more curious, because it is as though the viewer is willing that kiss and George and Lucy break the fourth wall to remind viewers that it is their story.  It takes Linda Williams's notion of genre, gender and excess to its most...excessive, all the while blowing the lid off of presumptions about cinema of the particular era.

Key Scene:  The almost kiss and the turn to camera is so unusual that it takes the best scene, although Lucy on the phone during the bridge game is also quite good.

The Criterion disc looks about as well as a film from 1937 could hope to and frankly it is so overlooked that any love directed towards it could only aid a better transfer in the future.  Buy it accordingly.

Top Ten Thursday: The Best Film Discoveries of 2013

It has been a considerable time since i have committed to making a top ten thursday list.  Indeed, if it was not the last time that I did a best film discoveries of the year it was pretty damn close.  While I am still tenuously navigating the space between being certain I have found all my favorite films released in 2013 and being certain the list cannot change, I figured now was an appropriate time to attempt to deliver the list accordingly of my most favored films that were not released in 2013, but were first time encounters this year.  While I was able to catch up with some rather glaring shame spots in my filmic viewing (Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Rio Bravo, My Neighbor Totoro) I decided to exclude those form the list, because I was fairly certain I would adore the films.  The list here is compromised of films that so utterly startled me as to make me considerably change my favorite films of all time list in very drastic and real ways.  These films have in varying forms altered my understanding of cinema, my academic research endeavors, or frankly were just so enjoyable as to rekindle the love for medium of film in a fresh and rewarding way.  In the past year I did a ton of marathons and even managed to tackle viewing a hundred movies in a single month.  The resulting list is barely a reflection of the options I had, but were certainly the most captivating outcomes.

10. Terrorvision (1986)

Between being what might be the zaniest film ever produced and being the most underrated film of the decade Terrorvision deserves all the cult adoration it has achieved.  Thanks to Shout Factory this overlooked horror/comedy/sci-fi study of the nuclear family in the misguided decadence of the 80's can be enjoyed by all in the highest of definitions.

Review Here

9. To Be or Not To Be (1942)

Ernst Lubitsch appeared a lot in my film viewing this year and while most of it was in regards to his silent work, this comedy that doubles as a scatting critique of Nazism managed to pull me into its narrative despite being viewed on a computer screen.  Indeed, this along with other works like The Doll and I Don't Want To Be a Man have led to me thinking that Lubitsch might be a single director research interest for me.

Review Here

8. Born Yesterday (1950)

This film was my first knowing introduction to the comedic genius of Judy Holliday and by far the most rewarding experience I had with a George Cukor film this past year.  The fact that it also happens to be a insightful consideration of gender relations in 1950 is equally engaging.

Review Here

7. The Man from Nowhere (2010)

I would be remised not to include at least one South Korean film on my year end list.  While I failed to watch as many as I would have liked, this accidental inclusion during my Kung Fu marathon was by far my favorite contemporary work from a country that still pushes the boundaries of cinematic possibility.

Review Here

6. Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933)

There is a agreed argument that Singin' in the Rain is the key text in the genre of the musical.  This is certainly true, but this Busby Berkeley choreographed film that has become a point of feminist critique is pretty damn close to its equal.

Review Here

5. Existenz (1999)

While this is probably not a universally adored Cronenberg film, it has, nonetheless, proven to be the single most important alteration in my understanding of cinematic possibilities and by extension my own continually evolving research interests.

I some how failed to actually blog about this film!

4. How the West Was Won (1962)

I watched a lot of westerns in May.  Most of them were brilliant.  While this is not the single most realized western, the use of Cinerama made it my favorite by far and it is essentially all the best parts of various westerns combined into a single epic film.

Review Here

3. Mind Game (2004)

I watched this film twice this year, it is still an enigma.  Furthermore, I watched quite a bit of animation, but this by far stretched my understandings of its conventions to their greatest point.

Review Hhttp://cinemalacrum.blogspot.com/2013/07/fear-takes-shape-we-are-willing-to-give.htmlere

2. The 36th Chamber of Shaolin (1978)

If I were told two years ago that I might seriously add a kung-fu film to my top ten films of all time, I would have scoffed off the possibility, but then I saw this film.  Body identity and Buddhist learning oversee what might well be one of the most stunningly shot action films ever made.

Review Here

1. A Matter of Life and Death (1946)

A absolutely moving film, this Powell and Pressburger film is a perfect navigation of color and black and white filmmaking that simply has to be seen to be believed.  While it does not receive the praise and adoration of The Red Shoes it is easily the greatest of the directing duo's works.

Review Here

Honorable Mention

On Her Majesty's Secret Service (1969)
The Illustrated Man (1969)
Fantastic Planet (1973)
Possession (1981)
Sunshine (2007)

Pay No Attention To The Man Behind The Curtain: The Wizard Of Oz (1939)

I have on occasion tackled some of the grander works in cinema, hoping to shed some semblance of light upon their established state as classics.  Usually, I flail to come up with anything profound or new to offer to the equation or spend much of my time convincing those who read this blog that revisiting this work is well worth their time, particularly since things like King Kong and Singin' In The Rain are often overlook primarily because both moderate film fans and cinephiles alike think they know the film and do not bother to engage with it in any way.  Other works like Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey are constantly reproached because while you do know how great the film if, it always manages to be considerably better upon the second, third or tenth encounter.  These are the films that grow as one grows in their ability to understand and consume film.  I would not suggest that this is impossible for the other films already mentioned but it works on a different layer.  I would absolutely place The Wizard of Oz with the likes of Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey, particularly since I knew going in that it was already a phenomenal work one that captivated me as a young child and at that point in time the film was only 60 years old or so.  Now reaching its 75th anniversary, the stunning bluray upgrade I was able to watch affords it a new layer of interpretation, engagement and genuinely equal cinematic escapism as the work, undoubtedly, did when first in theaters.  Like Citizen Kane the narrative here is so precise and honed that even in its surprising brevity it manages to sweep viewers into the real and the fantastical simultaneously and much like 2001, the cinematic achievements both in scope and execution lead even an expert in cinematic trickery to wonder exactly how such shots were attained.  It is a concoction of perfection that exists in a space of maybe ten or twenty films to date, thus helping to explain its wide influence and adoration from noted cult directors to art house cinephiles with pretentious palettes.  Simply put to not love The Wizard of Oz is by its very extension to not love cinema itself.

The Wizard of Oz centers on the young wide-eyed Dorothy (Judy Garland) who wants nothing more than to assure the safety of her dog Toto from the animosity and outrage of a local woman who blames it for the entire downfall of society.  Despite having the love of her Auntie Em (Clara Blandick) and Uncle Henry (Charlie Grapewin) and the adoration of the local farmers, Dorothy is distraught at the possibility that one person could lead to her losing her beloved dog and flees to the outskirts of town to avoid such occurrence, there meeting Professor Marvel (Frank Morgan) a trickster who helps Dorothy to believe in the future that she will avoid such troubles.  Yet on the way home, Dorothy is caught in a tornado, one that knocks her unconscious and leads her on a trip via her house to a magical land full of color, munchkins and a variety of witches both good and evil, most notably The Good Witch Glinda (Billie Burke) and her counterpart The Wicked Witch of the West (Margaret Hamilton) who takes a striking resemblance to the same woman who attempted to rid Dorothy of Toto.  Informed that Dorothy might be able to return home if she follows a yellow brick road to Emerald City wherein she will find The Wizard of Oz who will be capable of helping her to return to Kansas where she belongs.  Along the way, Dorothy makes a few friends in The Scarecrow (Ray Bolger) who hopes to find himself some brains, The Tin Man (Jack Haley) looking for a heart and The Cowardly Lion (Bert Lahr) who only hopes to attain courage.  Together the group hopes to collectively find help from The Wizard.  Upon arrival they are given the spa treatment, before meeting The Wizard, a floating head projection that explains he will gladly help if the group is capable of taking down The Wicked Witch of the West and returning with her broom.  Meeting up with flying monkeys, and a variety of other trickeries at the hands of the Wicked Witch, the group is eventually successful if only by accident.  Upon returning they are initially denied aid by The Wizard, but when they discover his projection to be a false extension and merely an operation via mechanics they demand his end of the bargain.  Giving the group items that signify their desires, while offering Dorothy a ride home in his hot air balloon all seems ideal.  Although Dorothy misses the ride, only to be told by Glinda of an alternative means home via her earlier attained ruby slippers.  Upon performing the suggested task, Dorothy is able to return to Kansas where she recollects her wild experiences to a some what skeptical group, save for the seemingly knowing Professor Marvel.

There are tons of ways to talk about this film, some from purely historical approaches, while others could solely stand this up against its literary inspiration.  However, I am going to go in the same direction I always go when talking about Judy Garland films while also extending it outward to consider the whole film, and that is the notion of performed bodies.  Take for example, Dorothy herself whose femininity comes at odds with the other witches upon arrival in Oz.  Here her prettiness is a thing to be admired by the munchkins while also being vilified by the Wicked Witch who sees it in contrast to her wickedness, verified in the classic scene of her melting.  Of course, the other bodies in question include the Scarecrow who is a literal manifestation of the straw man argument of philosophy, one that is built up but really contains no tangible  or logical grounding.  The body of the scarecrow is lacking in brains, or more accurately a means with which to verify such knowledge, whereas the Tin Man wants a heart, his performance of "maleness" in that he is allegedly a man made of tin is one of hard exterior that is so lacking in the emotive as to become frozen in immobility, only made to move again by oil, which must be applied by others.  However, the most interesting character becomes The Cowardly Lion whose organic composition suggests him to be similar to human, although his cowardliness is somehow more tied to a performance of his lionesque identity.  He is expected to be brutish and mean, although he is far more demure and passive.  The certain accentuation Lahr adds to the character goes along way in suggesting the Cowardly Lion to not be cowardly per se, but non-normative in his performance of masculinity, or to go a step further one of gayness.  It is fascinating that the means with which the three bodies become reinscribed with their desires is through signifiers, one receiving a diploma and another a badge.  These are additions to their performed selves that are externalized, but not internal.  As is the case for the tin man receive a heart pendant that is also a clock, the implications this carries for what represents emotion as being temporal are astounding and fascinating, a statement that speaks to the confounding but engaging nature of the film overall.

Key Scene:  It is all good, but the actual moving onto the yellow brick road musical number has such an audacious scope and grandeur that when it succeeds, I actually felt myself gasping in amazement.  Mind you I have seen this film before, but never truly appreciated the impossibility at play.

Bluray. Get it.  NOW.

I Never Even Learned Short Division: Alexander's Ragtime Band (1938)

I would appear, at least according to IMDB, that any film that has won a an Oscar tends to get incredibly high ratings, all the more so when that film was released prior to say 1988.  While it is likely that the amount of people rating these films, are low and directly tied to those impassioned enough to go through thirties era films and make ratings erroneously high.  This is the case for the early version of Cimarron as well as films like Wings.  I go on this aside because while I am aware of quite a few films from this era that I actually adore, there seems to be something about the combination of Oscar winner plus thirties era that just do no mesh well.  Wings is not an outright terrible film, but it is not a piece of cinematic magic that having an Oscar should attain and that is certainly not the case for the musical Alexader's Ragtime Band as well.  Working from the music of Irving Berlin, it is indeed only the musical numbers that carry any weight and those elements could easily be gleaned from simply listening to the recordings detached from any moving images.  Suffice it to say, I was not impressed with Alexander's Ragtime Band and simply found much of what it had to offer a bit predictable and decidedly safe, even shooting itself in the foot further by including necessary images of performers in blackface.  I accept that this was a reality in most early musicals, but here they simply exist as background figures, not even relevant to the music at hand.  I would assume that much of the failing of Alexander's Ragtime Band comes from the director,  Henry King, attempting to use the same methodology as Busby Berkeley, wherein, lavish musical numbers were intercut with simple stories, the problem here however, is that there is no discernible rhythm for the various musical scenes and, indeed, the moments in between are often quite bland, consisting of half realized dialogue and a variety of less than fully realized acting moments.  Trust me, I wanted nothing more than to wholly embrace this film, but it simply proved to be a back drop for the swinging tunes of Berlin and the one or two moments of actually well-executed musical cinema were lost in the milieu of middle-of-the-road thirties studio mediocrity.

Alexander's Ragtime Band focuses primarily on the musical endeavors of violinist Roger (Tyrone Power) who sick of his bourgeois lifestyle seeks out solace by playing with a ragtime band at a local shipyard saloon. Along with the aid of his pianist and friend Charlie Dwyer (Don Ameche) Roger seems set to achieve moderate success playing popular tunes.  However, when the group plays one song by Irving Berlin titled "Alexander's Ragtime Band' it stirs up the frustrations of Stella Kirby (Alice Faye) a singer who had used the same song in her own repertoire.  Intervening in the performance by simply hopping on stage and sing, the combination of Roger's musicality and Stella's singing cause the audience to get ecstatic, being invited to perform an encore immediately after the show by the saloon's owner, much the the chagrin of Roger, who becomes in the moment known as Alexander and Stella who has no desire to work with the group.  Yet, the success cannot be denied and the two make amends, eventually coming to find each other very attractive, creating a burgeoning romance in the process. However, Stella is offered a lucrative solo career, which she jumps on immediately, leaving the band although promising to return for them once she accrues enough success, wherein the heartbroken Roger joins the military and works as a band leader and morale booster, although most just as a point of pride for the Army over the Marines.  Whilst away, Roger also gets married, leading to the now equally heartbroken Stella marrying Charlie in turn.  Thus the two create diverging musical lives, both with considerable success, although it is Roger and his turn as Alexander that proves slightly more productive, even attaining sold out shows at large musical halls.  Hoping to meet him one last time, not aware that he and his wife had attained a mutual divorce, she arrives at his sold out performance, only to hear him cue up "Alexander's Ragtime Band." Jumping at her chance to rekindle the flame Stella enters the music hall and is invited by Roger to join in singing.  The two share a tender embrace in the closing moments of the film.

In a variety of senses, Alexander's Ragtime Band is a film about appropriation.  In so much that it is borrowing, sometimes knowingly, other times, without awareness from other cultural institutions and points of popular reference to create a narrative anew.  This is not to be confused with say the post-modern use of reappropriation, wherein the same elements are used but to make a divergent, if not purposefully oppositional statement with the material.  Here, the most obvious appropriation comes in the way of the literal appropriation of the Irving Berlin songbook, the music in use almost arbitrary as long as it proves appropriately up temp or slowed down in regards to the point of reference in the film, it is only the title song and one other song within the film that seem to have definite relation to the larger narrative.  Indeed, even the entire sidewinding plot involving Roger's time in the military seems appropriated, as though the success of other war based musical numbers justified an entire bit about the beauty of the YMCA and waking up to walk of to war.  Sure the war element is present, but only in so much as it is meant to be a point of separation for the narrative to be resolved with unity.  The military appropriation is indeed so arbitrary to the plot as to almost feel exploitative.  I am not doubting that the intentions of the filmmaker and producers were not well-intended, but would also posit that such a wild redirection could only work as a result of it occurring right before the onset of World War II wherein all military imagery would have fell within quite strict use and regulation.  Of course, the most offensive of all appropriations comes in the unnecessary and outright exploitative use of blackface in this context.  I want to assure that I will not defend it as an institution within the classical entertainment industry, but I can accept that it was a popular medium of performance in vaudeville, here blackness as appropriated with absolutely no context, not even a racist one, although its inclusion merely for aesthetic completion and without any acknowledgement beyond this might be all the more racist.  Alexander's Ragtime Band is all about borrowing things, but none of it is done with a shred of skill.

Key Scene:  I really enjoyed the "Walking Stick" number but that is only a result of me doing a queer reading of the moment, although a completely obvious one if I do say so.

There are better thirties eras to watch than this, might I direct you towards Astaire and Rogers films.

Ol' Man River, He Just Keeps Rollin' Along: Show Boat (1936)

Appropriation is a real tricky thing in popular culture.  While music did, for obvious reasons, lift heavily from African-American folk songs and performances the result has been highly rewarding and helped to cement the likes of Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday the American collective memory.  Show Boat includes one of the most stirring musical compositions ever realized in Paul Robeson's version of "Ol' Man River," however, this is only a singular element within the larger narrative of appropriation.  Musical performances during this era, as well as decades earlier pulled quite gladly from minstrelsy and thus found no trouble performing numbers in blackface, even when there were characters within the narrative that also are clearly black themselves.  It is rare for me that the inclusion of a minstrel performance, particularly one with such intense racial elements manages to not make me hate the movie, even if its inclusion is momentary and decidedly arbitrary to the larger narrative.  However, as much as I adore Paul Robeson and even a few of the other musical numbers in this Hammerstein driven musical, it's use of minstrelsy, even if minor proves to reflect a larger issue within the narrative, one that both appropriates black culture and uses it as a stepping stone geographically to set up a narrative that focuses instead on struggles of white persons who simply want to be in love.  As showy and performative as the film may be, Show Boat manages to revert its possibilities for cinematic consideration of the layers of racial identity, by again, making race merely a part of the narrative which must be acknowledged, as opposed to being dealt with in an intense and inquisitive manner.  Employing some of the most prolific African-American actors of the time in Paul Robeson and Hattie McDaniels it is amazing that TCM has not pushed it to the forefront on its screening times, but then again this is the same company that often edited out these very performances to placate audiences not wanting to confront a problematic past.  Show Boat is both a time capsule regarding the racial indifference in Classic Hollywood, as well as an enigma as to how a film could both concern itself with passing and also pass as something completely detached from racial considerations.

Show Boat is narratively set over a forty year span, beginning with the arrival of a boat based revue to a nondescript town on the Mississippi River.  The boat The Cotton Palace is known for a variety of plays, musical numbers and even comedic bits all intended to pull upon the dreary and uneventful lives of the persons existing in the spaces.  Of course, since the space is in the antebellum South, it is also occupied by African-American workers, most notably the Queenie (Hattie McDaniel) and her husband Joe (Paul Robeson) whose backbreaking work provides the livelihood of an otherwise transitory space.  The narrative is also troubled by issues of miscegenation when the leading lady is shown to be of mixed blood and a rumor that she is married to a man who is wholly white causes them to be suspect to breaking the law.  Although the couple is capable of tricking officials into believing that they are not involved in miscegenation, it does require that they step away from the show.  In this moment, aspiring actress and daughter of the river boat captain Magnolia Hawks (Irene Dunne) is able to take the stage, only in need of a new leading man to stand next to her.  In a stroke of pure luck a wandering debonair named Gaylord Ravendal (Allan Jones) serves the part his dashing looks and genuine adoration for Magnolia proving more than enough to make their acting work.  The two quickly hit it off and eventually marry, even having a child.  It is, however, during this time that the Hawks family discovers Gaylord's past as a gambler, even committing a murder although apparently in self-defense.  Becoming a point of frustration, Gaylord and Magnolia move away to Chicago, wherein they live for a considerable amount of time off of Gaylord's gambling winnings.  Tragically, however, Gaylord hits a series of bad luck and loses almost all of his finances.  Julie (Helen Morgan) the very woman who was charged with having mixed blood has managed to remain successful, although also a bit of a lush, still managing to revive Magnolia's career when her and Gaylord part.  In the closing moments of the film, when Magnolia seems content to live a somewhat tragic life, she attends the performance of her daughter, only to have Gaylord arrive and in a show of admiration their daughter asks them to sing a duet to closeout the film, followed all to problematically by Robeson's humming of "Ol' Man River" in the closing moments of the film.

As I noted Show Boat is a performance and should certainly be considered as such.  Indeed, the opening moments of the film have the camera panning into the stage of a play, complete with the title cards as part of the diegetic world, therefore, allowing the possibility that this version of Show Boat is also a metanarrative, or a series of performances within a performance.  This includes the staging of a play as part of the larger play, an occurrence that happens on multiple times.  Take for example the song between Gaylord and Magnolia called "I Have the Room Above Her," by its physical existence it should not serve as a division as in most any apartment setting, a man whaling at the top of his lungs would cause another to hear them and likely inquiring as to why they are singing, particularly if the song is about said person listening.  Yet, assuming Show Boat to exist within a theatrical staging it allows not only Gaylord to sing such a song, but for Magnolia to provide responding melodies completely detached from an awareness that he too is singing.  It is something essentially only possible within the metaperformance.  This would make the film wildly intriguing and worth embracing where this layered performance not also extended to include issues of racial performance as well.  Indeed, the actress playing Julie is white and to suggest her as a mulatto (a person mixed race) character implies a racial performance even if only in narrative.  It is blackface, in that it denies the role to a woman of color and is made all the more an absurd performance in contrast to the blackface number led by Irenne Dunne and a series of minstrel singers and dancers.  This is all in contrast to the staging the film, at least initially, within the rural South, wherein racial elements are at their highest intensity and rather openly confronted via Robeson's singing.  Indeed, while I would never knock what Robeson is doing in this moment, his stirring rendition reflecting the confusion and frustrations at play in race relations, it becomes exploitative in the larger frame of the narrative, one whose closing embraces forgiveness to a river boat gambler, while only marginally acknowledging the previous elements of race.

Key Scene:  "I'm sick of living and scared of dying."

This film is certainly of historical importance and Paul Robeson's singing is enough to be intrigued, but, honestly, you could just watch his section on YouTube and be all the better for it without having to sit through the remainder of this frustrating film.

Her Niceties Are The Nicest: Top Hat (1935)

I have been away from the blog for longer than usual, I openly admit this.  I could blame it on the reality that I am knee deep in graduate school and have been afforded little time to do anything beyond heavy paper writing, a few within the grasp of academic publication.  I could blame it on this and it would probably be accurate.  However, while on Thanksgiving break I found out that one of the great modern atrocities will be occurring in the upcoming weeks on a major network channel.  Apparently Carrie Underwood and one of the vampires from True Blood are going to do a live on television version of Sound of Music.  This hurts my soul and it too should hurt your soul.  However, instead of ranting on about purity and how some works should not be tampered with or recreated I have decided to pull forth a planned month of movie marathons and spend the entirety of December watching and reviewing musicals.  While my marathons for Kungfu films and westerns were inspired by my illiteracy in the genres (still so even after knocking out thirty films in each situation) I am somewhat more versed in regards to musicals.  At least I thought I was more versed in this sense, but I began looking at lists of suggestions and getting a recommendation here and there from a friend and it turns out that I am quite lacking in both contemporary and classic Hollywood musicals.  As such I will take it upon myself to watch thirty musicals some from the burgeoning moments of sound right through to the recent popularly successful but critically panned Les Miserables.  I am hoping that by doing so I will bring more awareness to the genre, even if only a handful of people read the posts and expand my understanding on one of cinema's most misunderstood and mocked genres.  While I am still deep in school for at least another week, I also hope to crack into some literature on the genre and begin to consider the more complex layers of cinematic narrative and diegesis at play, which is fitting since I begin the marathon with the delightful and charming Astaire and Rogers number Top Hat, made purely cinematic with the inclusion of an Irving Berlin score.

Top Hat focuses on Jerry Travers (Fred Astaire) a prominent song and dance man who has recently been recruited to work on a show in London.  His boss and friend Horace Hardwick (Edward Everett Horton) hoping that Jerry will prove the exact spark necessary to drive his show to the top.  While Horace is a bit bumbling and well-meaning, he is no match for the guile and constantly devious ways of Jerry, whose willingness to tap-dance at a moments notice lead to a confrontation with their downstairs neighbor the equally adept performer Dale Tremont (Ginger Rogers).  Jerry instantly falls for Dale, finding her confrontational manner delightfully open not to mention her looks stunning.  Dale initially oblivious to this becomes to point of Jerry's adoration when he begins sending gifts to her, including a large horseshoe shaped bouquet, much to the frustration of another of Dale's suitors the idiom misusing Alberto Beddini (Erik Rhodes).  Yet, Jerry the constant trickster decides it will be funny to send the gifts in the name of Horace as a way to assure that he and Dale will meet up again, which he manages to make happen on a variety of occasions.  Horace oblivious to this occurrence, is berated and eventually hit by his angered wife Madge (Helen Broderick) who thinks him to be flippantly having an affair.  Indeed, Dale even believes Jerry to be Horace, making the insistence on the part of Madge that the two become partners that much more confusing since she thinks Jerry to also be the very Horace that Madge has mounted complaints against.  All the while, Alberto attempts to swoon Dale, eventually dragging her to Paris and convincing her to get married when she believes Jerry to indeed be married to Madge, thus sad as she has genuinely grown to adore his company.  After a series of even more comedic encounters it is revealed, in a rather underwhelming way, that Jerry is not Horace thus saving Horace from more abuse.  Fearing that the two will not be able to marry, it is revealed that the ceremony was overseen by Bates (Eric Blore), Horace's butler and not an official priest, thus allowing Dale and Jerry to happily, and literally, dance of in their new life together.

Top Hat is probably the best place for this marathon to begin because it manages to enigmatically traipse between the space of the diegetic and non-diegetic in a way that makes the musical decidedly fascinating.  Indeed, one of the main critiques mounted against people who "like" movies is that musicals are impossible in the willingness for characters to break into song and dance for little to no reason.  While this is true, it is often within the context of adding emphasis to scenes or to consider the way in which space works within cinematic language, never mind that the people who often deliver these same criticisms are themselves huge proponents of the horror genre, which I find to exist in a cinematic space more implausible than the musical.  Either way, I digress, because what I find fascinating about these films is that there seems to be, at least it is the case with Top Hat, a knowing navigation between the space of the cinema and the music that non-diegetically invades the film.  In the opening dance number Jerry begins to dance to the music, the tapping a response to the music that assumedly exists outside the cinematic space, yet it is his dancing that leads to Dale responding to a very loud and very diegetic sound, the large thumping coming from above her hotel room.  In this sense the film works not only within the diegetic and non-diegetic, but arguably also an extra-diegetic space, wherein a response to a sound, is a response to music and the two, at one point occur simultaneously.  This does not only consider the music though, as there are also scene which are purposefully staged, as is the case with the delightful "Top Hat, White Tie, and Tails" which happens to also possess a bit of narrative extension.  This staginess, however, also comes to be replicated when the cast moves to Paris, where the gondola rides and the like are also indicative of a theatre stage, as is Horace's apartment.  Indeed, the only space of the film that seems to certifiably exist within the diegesis, is that of Dale's bed, where she incidentally hears Jerry's tapping.  It causes one to wonder about the layers of the imaginative at work in the film, particularly since all the action moves from the reactions of Dale, right through to her idyllic closing dance with Jerry.

Key Scene:  Fred Astaire gunning down dudes with his cane is great choreography in a film full of genius music and dance.

This is a great film, one of the certifiable classics and certainly worth your time.  It is justifiable as a rental, but also a worthwhile buy.

Your Will Is Strong Van Helsing: Dracula (1931)

I am returning from what may well be my longest hiatus away from posting a blog since its inception and I feel as though a bit of explanation is necessary.  First, I am getting further into the beast that is legitimate academic scholarship on film.  Not that I do not love writing blog posts, but these are a labor of love that serve more as a space for me to toss around ideas about films I view for later reference, the fact that anybody reads the posts is added benefit, particularly when they leave wonderful and insightful commentary after doing so.  Second, I have spent almost the entirety of last week at Orphans Midwest, an amazing conference of discussions on non-commerical films and their place in social and academic discourse.  The entire event filled with prolific discussions by scholars, as well as an insane amount of rarefied screenings from Hollis Frampton outtakes to 40's era Studebaker was everything I could possibly want to spend time doing, but it was certainly daunting and very time consuming.  As such, I have decided to return this month with a similar marathon as I had last October, one focusing entirely on the genre of horror films, both in their most obvious incarnations, as well as some of their more unusual executions.  I really enjoyed this endeavor last year and managed to knock a ton of previously unseen films off of my list, as well as found myself being afforded with an opportunity to revisit some of my favorite works.  This year it will be more heavy on things that I have never seen, especially some of the real classics, but I have made room for one film that I have been meaning to revisit since it was the subject of an "informative" documentary, both on the nature of film studies and individuals' relationships with art in general.  Beginning with one of my rather large shame spots, I have decided to undertake Tod Browning's 1931 adaptation of Dracula, one of the major works in Universal Studios' long run of monster movies from the thirties, a work whose expressionist charm and chiaroscuro haunting imagery meld into a work that seems as scary, and, more importantly, timeless as its introduction over eighty years ago.

Dracula, this version at least, begins with Renfield (Dwight Frye) a solicitor organizing a visitation to through the townsfolk of Transylvania with the hopes of meeting Count Dracula (Bela Lugosi) on an urgent business manner.  Confused as to why the townsfolk are hesitant to help him in his endeavor, Renfield, nonetheless, accrues a driver to take him to Borgo Pass where he is to meet Dracula at midnight.  A series of events, including a bat-led carriage lead Renfield into a state of paranoia, one fully affirmed when he finally meets Dracula in his castle, realizing that the count is very much a vampire, using his ability of fascination to drive the unsuspecting Renfield into madness and using him as a means to transport himself to England.  Upon arrival in England, Dracula immediately takes it upon himself to find bodies with which to feed upon, including the young Mina (Helen Chandler) whom Dracula fascinates and then preys upon in her sleep, resulting in her death the following day, despite a series of unsuccessful blood transfusions.  Renfield, now housed in an insane asylum, becomes the obsession of Professor Van Helsing (Edward Van Sloan) who realizes taht after his talk of spiders and vampires, that he is clearly a victim of Count Dracula, thus leading to Van Helsing seeking out the vampire and ridding London of his violent endeavors.  Van Helsing and Dracula eventually encounter one another, wherein Dracula explains that Mina is invariably attached to his influence, suggesting that she belongs to him now through a blood bond, one affirmed by her zombie like attachment to the count.  Van Helsing, an expert in the folklore of vampires, manages to equip himself with the various paraphernalia necessary to counter Dracula's tricks and fascinations, particularly a crucifix which drives the vampire away instantaneously.  After a run-in with the still maniacal Renfield, Van Helsing is able to trap Dracula inside his coffin during the daylight, affording him an opportunity to drive a stake through the vampires body, thus freeing Mina from her possession.

Dracula is a classic work in expressionist horror, working right on the cusp of the silent era German Expressionist work, wherein the lines between darkness/light, good/evil and sanity/insanity are thinly veiled, if not entirely non-existant.  Think about basically the entirety of Dr. Caligari, wherein the narrative takes a turn, then another turn, only to be followed by another turn, just to have that all be a turn within in a turn.  Suffice it to say, it makes Inception look like child's play.  Dracula is not a convoluted plot in even the loosest of terms, indeed, it is about as straight forward as a film can be, indicative of Classic Hollywood filmmaking and much of the horror output dumped on viewers by Universal, the exception to this being any narratives involving the more complex character of Frankenstein, whose Universal film might receive in-depth focus later this month.  The choice ot make the divides rather blatant in this film, afford it a degree of study on the nature of insanity, one that suggest that much of madness might well be rooted in a reality, even if it is the result o fa truly demonic/evil presence inducing such mania.  Renfield, is certainly crazy for his preoccupation with spiders and vampires, but it is something that came after a traumatic event, not something that necessarily reflects a person being induced by inexplicable mental breakdown.  Similarly, there are clear lines drawn between good and evil that are tied to more traditional norms, which seem almost seem absurd by contemporary standards.  Take for example the rural townsfolk whose purity is tied to their proletariat nature, one that is in direct contrast to the bourgeois excess and evil of Count Dracula whose consumption of things around him, literally in the sense of bodies, make him both evil in a demonic sense, as well as in a non-capitalist context.  Indeed, the only person of wealth who is deemed morally forthright is the doctor Van Helsing, but his goodness is tied to his profession one that affords him likability and lightness, in contrast to the darkness of Dracula, making the matted style of this film with its expressionist backdrops that much more clear in its divisions.  Formulaic as they may seem by contemporary eyes, these are tropes that were then still establishing themselves, and Browning serves them up at their most pictorial.

Key Scene:  The classic scene of the line of light on Dracula's eyes when he is in the act of fascinating Mina is a point of perfection in Gothic horror.

This film gets a bit long in its last act, stopping it from being a flawless film, but it is still an exceptional work, whose classic status is without question.  Furthermore, it is available on Netflix so watching it is easy and worthwhile given its short runtime.

2013 Summer Reading Classic Film Book Challenge (Book 1) Shadows of Doubt: Negotiations of Masculinity in American Genre Films

When an author sets out to compose a text that concerns itself with as complex of themes as how gender is performed within cinema, particularly genre films no less, which come with their own set of contested definitions, a reader might be hesitant to follow the complex threads argued by the author.  However, Barry Keith Grant's Shadows of Doubt: Negotiations of Masculinity in American Genre Films is an exception to such a rule.  While, at times it reads much more like a genre revisionist piece than a critique of how masculinity has evolved, altered and deconstructed itself within American film, Grant infuses the piece with such realized close readings of both prolific films and lesser known classics that both the casual reader and the die-hard film theorist can find points of intrigue.  While the text does expand beyond the seventies briefly, more as a point of conclusion than study, Shadows of Doubt takes into consideration the elements of masculinity at play both in front of and behind the camera, discussing everything from D.W. Griffith's important work Broken Blossoms, to a gendered analysis of Stanley Kubrick's enigmatic ending in 2001: A Space Odyssey.  At no point during his varied analysis does Grant become self-agrandizing in his argument, although he is not above dismissing what he feels to be ill-conceived analysis, taking a particular stance in his defense of horror as not only a genre of films worth critical discussion, but, perhaps, the ideal point of criticism both in their mass appeal to moviegoers and in their inherent counter-cinema nature.  In particular, Grant tackles George A. Romero's early zombie classic Night of the Living Dead, a film I have written about critically in the past, and, where I thought I had pulled and prodded at all its gendered commentaries, Grant manages to strip away the layers of gory cult status, to truly paint a picture of not only a film genre (and arguably larger industry) on its last breaths of classic life, but a society crumbling under its own foolish clutching to antiquated ideals of culture.

The text is highly valuable to film theory, because while it does entrench itself within American film entirely, some of the themes are somewhat universal, affording the same argument to be applied to Red River (for which Grant's write-up is a revelation) that could be extended to something like Kurosawa's Seven Samurai, with a minor altering of archetypes here and there.  Indeed, masculinity in film has been discussed ad nauseum since film theory moved away from a purely structuralist frame of referecne, however, it has not been delivered with such poise and diligence has it occurs here in Shadows of Doubt.  In fact, Grant is keen enough to avoid the trap that befalls many film theorist, myself included, where once you make the decision to include particular work in your narrative, you convince yourself of it being a masterpiece, as to justify its continual acknowledgement.  Grant is above such frivolous approachs, instead, when he is aware that the film proves only a cultural or critical value he mentions its less than stellar cinematic value, this is evident in his extended discussion of The Delicate Delinquents, for which, he seems to only enjoy on a moderate cinematic level, but, nonetheless, deconstructs for its seminal place in the discussion of an evolving masculinity in the work of American genre filmmaking.  Another benefit of Grant's work is that while he is considerably critical of misguided opinions about work, he does seem willing to the keep the dialogue open, neither claiming the final say in a matter, nor a single answer to any one cinematic masculine presence, indeed I found myself wonder, what his thought were on some of the more complex male figures in the history of American film, such as Robert Mitchum's maniacal priest in The Night of the Hunter or the tense, yet relatively humorous engagements of The Rat Pack.  At times, Grant purposefully chooses lesser known, or critically dismissed movies as a point of reference to their gender dynamics, in some cases, arguing that their unique portrayal of new versions of masculinity, in some ways led to their timely demise (refer to his magnficent analysis of Elvis, rock'n'roll and a reconsideration of the musical for the best example).  Ultimately, Grant lays a groundwork for the hybrid discussion of genre and gender, one that has, as mentioned before, existed in varying degrees prior, but never with this much tenacity and possibility.

Best film discovery of the book:  Being a huge fan of counter-cinema, Grant's entire chapter devoted to Shirley Clarke's The Cool World opened my eyes up to a film that I was unaware of prior, and one made by an African-American woman no less.  It is a stellar work in cinema verite and a clear through line to the hip works of Jarmusch and Tarantino, which is yet another reason to check out Shadows of Doubt, available here.

Everytime You Say Cheap And Vulgar I'm Going To Kiss You: Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933)

It is really hard to fathom and era where the Hays code did not exist, or has, subsequently, influenced what is allowed in mainstream film.  Sure a lot of contemporary films through caution to the wind and deliver base jokes and bawdy humor with little concern for structure or delivery, yet this has not always been the case and in the earlier decades of film, particularly in the musical and comedy genres pushing the barriers of the  moment before strict censorship, which led to punning and backdoor sexual innuendos that simply are too wise and informed to play well on contemporary audiences.  This is one of many things that manages to make Gold Diggers of 1933 a standout work of cinema, one that is entirely a product of the escapist cinema of The Great Depression, while also being revolutionary and ahead of its time.  While I have been on record as say that the success and watchability of most of these early thirties studio films is directly a result of Busby Berkeley's mesmerizing choreography and its sumptuously engaging cinematography, there is a rather watchable, albeit, simple story involved.  Performers like Ginger Rogers and Dick Powell are electrifying, delivering a presence on celluloid that would not be replicated until Gene Kelly and and Debbie Reynolds took flight in the equally moving Singin' In The Rain.  Again, what makes a work like Gold Diggers of 1933 stand out in comparison to its later variations on the genre is that these films are referencing, if not directly commenting on their predecessor.  Between the singing in pig latin to prove that the sound was indeed synched to the image and stories of wild dreams of Broadway success, everything that has made the musical one of the staples of American cinema owes its success to this film, as well as 42nd Street which was released the same year.  As I mentioned, Gold Diggers of 1933 in all its cinematic glory is rather indicative of the era, to some degree, because I have seen a lot of films, ones with decidedly dark endings, yet the manner with which this film executes itself results in that closing number being a stark contrast so lathered in a chiaroscuro madness as to result in being one of the darker closing sequences I have seen in film, standing right up there with Godzilla's death.

Gold Diggers of 1933 focuses on a group of aspiring Broadway performers, who happen to all be women, therefore, leading to their being colloquially known by society as a group of gold diggers.  The group is led by the young and optimistic Polly (Ruby Keeler) who seems content with any role as long as she can live out her passion.  Included in the mix is the comedically inclined Trixie (Aline MacMahon) and group's torch singer Carol (Joan Blondell), as well as the member by association Fay (Ginger Rogers) who is so fixated on her success that she has no qualms stepping on the toes of those around her.  The group is disheartened when they discover that their recent Broadway revue has been cancelled due to lack of funds, almost entirely a result of the depression.  The women, defeated, return to their New York flat, hungry and hoping they can shy away from having to pay rent for yet another month.  It is not until Polly overhears the harmonic singing and piano playing from a complex across the street, where she discovers a songwriter named Brad (Dick Powell).  His talent is blatant, and, indeed, quite infectious, so much so that the girls' manager Barney Hopkins (Ned Sparks) suggest that he serve as the sole songwriter for his upcoming revue.  Brad is, at first, reluctant, due to the possibility of being seen publicly, but eventually agrees to the proposition on the grounds that Polly be allowed the female lead.  Yet, the issue of money emerges, when Barney explains that he cannot fund the endeavor fully, at which point, Brad offers a considerable amount of money should there be no questions asked about how it was obtained.  Blind with the possibilities the group agrees, although Trixie is rather suspicious and believes Brad to be a robber who has been making the rounds through the United States.  During dress rehearsals Brad is continually critical of the male lead, at which point Barney suggest that he step in, but he is still hesitant for inexplicable reasons, but on opening night when the lead falls sick, Brad steps in to save the show and the financial stability of all involved.  What unwinds is a series of revelations concerning Brad's coming from wealth and the "disgrace" of him lowering himself to the world of musical theater.  Yet, through determination and a will to prove their value the girls and Brad trick his relatives into accepting their world by default, allowing for the show to succeed without any notable hitches.  Yet, realizing the realities of war and depression in America the film closes with the sobering "Remember My Forgotten Man" as if to suggest escapism is a foolish and unhealthy endeavor.

While it would be more than feasible to talk about the censorship and degrees of escapism that are involved within this film, I am more drawn to consider the communal relationship involved with the "gold diggers" who navigate the narrative space of the work.  I choose the word commune, because there is a decided embracing of their own otherness as a result of being feminine.  Indeed, when Brad's relatives suggest that both Trixie and Carol are nothing more than lowly gold diggers who are attempting to use their looks and feminine charm to grab up men, they certainly react critically, but also use it as a moment to appropriate the situation into something that will allow them to advance by exploiting the foolish and ignorant assumptions of two white men. This is best evidenced in the hat buying scene, wherein both Trixie and Carol exploit the fears of the men for the dastardly doings of such lower-class women, while also using their sexuality to attain items.  It is a communal action that results in their self-protection from the lechery of the men while also advancing their cause as career women.  It should be noted that much of what ties the women together, aside from their gender is their equal lack in regards to economic privilege, indeed they share a communal space because it is a necessity in the high-end pricey neighborhoods of New York City.  A layer of issues do emerge then when one considers Brad's entrance (invasion) of their communal space, while it might be assumed that he is doing so on a shared class oppression, the revelation that he is indeed quite wealthy betrays this notion considerably, although his acceptance of the women's struggles and his genuine admiration for the business and, more importantly, Polly, allow him some leeway to be a progressive character.  In this reading of the community of women that are the "gold diggers" one must necessarily consider Trixie as a unique stand alone character.  In fact, I would even go so far as to suggest her to be a lesbian character, one that desires the companionship of other women on a level far more than platonic.  Indeed, masking the lesbian character in the comedic is not something unusual in media, another famous example being Sally Rogers from The Dick Van Dyke show, whose defeatist quest for a man took on layers of implications.  Considering Trixie as a lesbian figure allows for a further explanation of her defensive attitude towards the women and their engagements to the outside world, especially when Polly expresses interest in Brad, as does it explain her detached attitude towards the advances of the elderly gentlemen caller she picks up later in the film.

Key Scene:  All of the Shadow Waltz sequence, water dolly shots and neon violins alike.

This is a marvelous film, I intend to nab the entire Berkeley box set, although it is available as a stand alone DVD.

I Keep My Undies In The Ice Box!: The Seven Year Itch (1955)

First off, I want to thank Movies, Silently for the opportunity to be involved in The Funny Lady blog-a-thon, and be given the excellent task of tackling Marilyn Monroe no less!  I have decided to revisit The Seven Year Itch, a film I have no seen in years, firstly, because I find it to be one of the funniest (if not the funniest) films ever made.  Second, however, I also believe it speaks volumes to the brilliant performer that Marilyn Monroe was, while also allowing her to play with notions of her own place as a sexual icon, as well as the larger idea of male fantasy and expectations of the "ideal conquest."  I picked this movie specifically because it is so funny, and while much of that can be credited to the involvement of Billy Wilder and the droopy-eyed performance of Tom Ewell, it, ultimately, comes down to the masterful delivery of Monroe as a fantastical version of some robotic version of an ideal male woman, who is a risqué model with demure sensibilities and a young, overly idealistic woman who just also happens to have a mature understanding of the complexities of marriage.  While it is never expressly stated, one can assume that the film is a large scale fantasy on the part of the main character and that his fantasy is merely a projection, in which case, the performance Monroe puts on takes another layer of absurdity, nonetheless, being portrayed with a stone-eyed certainty as she delivers lines about retrieving snack foods and undergarments from iceboxes.  Simply put, what Monroe does in The Seven Year Itch is reject everything that the cult of celebrity had created for her, through blowing it all out of proportion, because while the cultural image of Monroe is easily the famous publicity still of her in a white dress catching a draft from a passing subway car, that was merely an instant in this film, it is not reflective of her in the slightest.  One must remember that Monroe also took on serious roles in films like All About Eve, Clash By Night and another Technicolor delight River of No Return.  As such, she is performing a comedic deconstruction of herself within the framework of The Seven Year Itch, one that is half-fantasy/ half-absurdity and all perfection.  I would argue that actors, regardless of gender, struggle to commit to a character with such a degree of certainty as Monroe displays in this racy film that stands as one of the big breaks from the restrictions of The Hayes Code.

The Seven Year itch focuses on the experiences of the shy and sheepish Richard Sherman (Tom Ewell) a well-to-do publishing agent who, like many men living in Manhattan in the fifties, finds himself seeing his wife Helen (Evelyn Keyes) and son Ricky (Butch Bernard) off as they leave town, while he stays in town and continues accruing wealth for the family.  Richard, a schmuck of sorts adheres to every detail his wife lays out for him, including an avoidance of smoking and drinking and a strict diet, all doctor's orders of course.  Richard, who constantly speaks about his love for his wife, nonetheless, fantasizes about all his possible moments of infidelity, while also creating a projection of Helen that dismisses his claims.  Richard finds himself even incapable of thinking about cheating, without the condemnation of his wife.  Seemingly fine simply existing in a liminal space between freedom from his family and a constant reminder of their presence, through slips on roller skates and hidden keys to his cigarette chest, things change for Richard drastically when he is met with a new occupant in his complex, a curvaceous young blonde woman who becomes simply known as The Girl (Marilyn Monroe).  The innocent girl initially asks Richard for help getting into the house which he gladly agrees to do, although it is clear that he is fraught with anxiety over how to help this woman whose stunning beauty is alarming, a matter that is made all the worse when she accidentally knocks a tomato plant onto his balcony later that evening, only missing Richard by seconds.  This accident leads to Richard inviting The Girl down for a drink, to which his fantasies begin running wild from causing the girl to swoon over performances of Rachmaninoff to perfect cocktail recopies.  Yet even as Richard unfolds elaborate plans his reality impedes constantly, through things like the landlord attempting to change the carpeting and a check-up call from Helen.  Despite these constant distractions timing still proves in his favor as The Girl enters and the two hit it off, despite his nervousness, awkwardness and misdirection, leading to a failed performing of not the Russian composer, but instead the simple Chopsticks.  The next day, Richard finds himself despairing over his foolish advances, only to be furthered condemned by a psychoanalytically inclined author that says his desires are a result of pent up frustrations and the like.  Invariably, Richard and The Girl continue seeing one another, although their engagements, aside from innocent kisses are left undisplayed, but an encounter with one of Helen's dear friends leads Richard to realizing where his true concerns should lie and he flees form Manhattan, ultimately, leaving both his fantasies and realities behind him to join his family on vacation.

If one is to assume that much of this film exists in the space of Richard's fantasies, the dream sequences within the already established dream would make the film a sort of meta-fantasy, wherein, Richard has one projection of his own life that is not suited to his liking and simply adds another layer to make it more fantastical or indicative of his personal desires.  This is scene when he is already troubled by the idea that he does not represent the ideal masculine of somebody like Tom MacKenzie (Sonny Tufts) who he suspects his wife to be having an affair with, therefore, he creates another layer to his fantasy that involves The Girl saying that she is only interested in men who, like Richard, are shy and constantly perspiring.  If there is a certain degree of layering to his idealization and desire on Richard's part I would contest that there is also the same amount of twisting and multiplicity within Monroe's performance.  As noted earlier she is playing a heavily caricatured version of the sultry, yet shallow, young model that would encompass male desire, tragically, something she would become known and stereotyped for both on and off the screen.  Yet, Monroe bring a certain vapidness to the role, not because she is a bad actress, that is far from the case (refer to the films mentioned earlier), but because she knows that such a "desired" version of femininity requires that the woman strip away all notions of emotion or a soul and become, like the picture of her in which Richard constantly sneaks a glance, a object of desire without thought or reason.  Incidentally, it is no coincidence that the still of the dress being blown by the subway draft is the most famous scene of the film, despite being only a publicity still, it reflects this same non-animated form of objectification.  The beauty of Monroe while important to the film, particularly when Wilder's script breaks the fourth wall and has Richard suggest that the woman hiding in his house is none other than the real life version of Marilyn Monroe, is secondary to what she is stating about the nature of a desired body both in fantasy and reality.  To Wilder and to Monroe, it is one thing for her character's performance to be one of Marilyn Monroe, but it is secondly so because she is playing into a heavily muted version of herself, one that must only be sexualized because it is realistic to be anything else.  To Monroe this is to be laughed at, and while it may not have been realized at the time, it is certainly the case now, and easily stands as Monroe's funniest performance, and were it not for the unfortunate tragedies that would follow in years to come, I would imagine that this performance would stand up to be one of the single greatest strokes of comedy genius to ever grace the screen.

Key Scene:  All that I have mentioned culminates perfectly in the Rachmaninoff scene, although there are other wonderful moments throughout the film that combine together to make Richard's fantasy world one of the most foolishly funny visions in all of cinema.

This film, along with a ton of other Monroe classics is available in a bluray box set.  The transfer is stunning and the extras are wonderful, particularly the Hayes Code meter that you can have play throughout the film, showing the degrees of "obscenity" that the picture would have received.

You Were Ready For A Love Affair, But Not For Love: All That Heaven Allows (1955)

The melodrama is a staple in the history of cinema, much as the unfortunately named "women's weepie" proved to be an important sub-genre within the movement, and it is quite obvious that no direct embraced this style of filmmaking, quite like Douglas Sirk.  To call his movies simple or traditional is to read them at face value and completely ignore the degree of commitment and detail to scenery, narrative and the way actors performed their roles, within films like Written on the Wind, Sirk manages to capture both the real tragedies of the middle class, white American existence, while also proving all to aware of their problematic and privileged lifestyle relational to the world around them.  For this month of women in film I knew that it would be a huge oversight on my part not to include at least one work by Sirk, particularly since he was so closely attached to the "women's weepie" film.  While I could likely have went with pretty much any film by the late director, I felt the subject matter of his 1955 film All That Heaven Allows would prove the most useful, both in its consideration of gender expectations as they extend beyond not only class, but generations as well.  Furthermore, the acting in this film is both within the exaggerated mannerism of melodramatic tradition, while also proving to be quite refined and focused, especially via Rock Hudson, whose charm and outright presence in the film cannot be ignored.  The mix of frank considerations of oppressive societal expectations and the idyllic landscapes filmed in brilliant Technicolor result in a film that is almost otherworldly in its displays, or at the very least so slightly altered as to make the viewer quite aware of its synthetic nature.  A film like All That Heaven Allows is a favorite of many, most surprisingly that of Fassbinder, whose Ali: Fear Eats the Soul is both an homage and admittedly partial remake of Sirk's magnificent work.  This may come as a surprise to those familiar with Fassbinder's work, yet the sort of veneer that exits over the reality of authoritative oppression, reflects not only Fassbinder, but directors like David Lynch as well.

All That Heaven Allows focuses on the seemingly mundane life of Cary Scott (Jane Wyman) a widow who fills her days with half-hearted attendances of luncheons and parties, as well as planning dinners and such for her two children when they return home from college on the weekends.  Cary, while not completely detached from her late husband, seems to long for a means to move on with her life, and even though she finds herself the point of admiration for many of the older men within the country club of her town, she turns down any advances from them beyond a cocktail and some light chit-chat.  All the while, Cary has been getting trees and gardening done by a younger man named Ron Kirby (Rock Hudson) whose soft-spoken yet kind demeanor and devilishly handsome good looks, become a point of admiration for Cary, who finds herself falling for Ron.  Fortunately for Cary, Ron too seems to find himself growing fond for her, and the two begin a sweet and simple romance that centers particularly on their trips to a dilapidated barn on the outskirts of the town, a place owned by his family.  When word of their relationship makes it to town, the people begin to talk and condemn the two for engaging in what many claim to be an illicit relationship, not because Cary is a widow, but because she is so much older than Ron.  Realizing its detrimental effects on their family name, Cary's own children turn against her, eventually rejecting her desire to be with Ron, even though she emphasizes her love and earnest feelings for him.  As a result, she leaves him alone and rejects his marriage offer, only to realize that her own happiness is far to valuable to simply toss away.  What follows is an attempt to return to Ron, only to grow cold feet at the last minute.  However, seeing Cary walks away, Ron attempts to follow her only to fall of a ledge and injure himself.  Hearing the news of the accident, Cary returns to make amends with the ailing Ron who welcomes her back and the two are allowed to obtain their own world of happiness regardless of what the societal norms might suggest.

The melodrama as a genre, has always proved problematic in relation to women, particularly its emphasis that they exist within the domestic sphere.  Of course, one benefit of the melodrama, particularly from the era of filmmaking where Sirk emerge, was its heavy use of women in lead roles, an act that did challenge cinematic conventions of its time.  However, women, even in the context, of such a revolutionary film portrayal were decidedly expected to perform within perfectly aligned gender roles.  In the case of All That Heaven Allows, Cary is told that she is to play the part of the grieving widow and mother to her children, and not expected to venture into such a controversial love affair with a younger man.  It is interesting to note that she is chastised, not for seeking a new partner, in fact, she is made multiple marriage propositions in the film, however, it is her blatant choice of a younger man and, subsequently, her refusal to worry about the frivolous world of social outings to find romance.  The people of the country club, as well as her children, seem content on her remarrying to another well-off widow in order to assure financial security and that class divisions not be overlapped.  As such, one can read into the possibility that individuals are not so much upset with Cary for seeking romance with a younger person, but for doing so with somebody of such a lower class.  Regardless of their feelings and attitudes towards the arrangement, one thing is clear. they seem content to blame the entire ordeal on Cary, despite it being quite clear that Ron is also interested and involved in the initial flirtation, however, Cary is mature, educated and a mother and should, as a result, know better.  It is a film about finding love in unlikely places and the rewards present when someone opens their heart up to such possibilities, however, its dueling context of societal norms and their ability to cause an institutionalized idea of normal romance, to become internalized quite quickly.  The original ending of the film had Ron's accident serve as the closing moment, leading to his survival being uncertain, an act studios found far too depressing, yet, ironically, it is perhaps this ending that was more fulfilling than his survival.  Sure they will end up together, but they are no less suspect to the condemning glances of their community.

Key Scene:  The initial trip to the barn, is seemingly simple, but its romantic energy and sexual undertones are far too brilliant to underestimate or overlook.

This is yet another gift from Criterion.  While I am holding out for a bluray upgrade, for those solely rocking DVD's this is a must own in every regard.

I'm A Bagel On A Plate Full Of Onion Rolls: Funny Girl (1968)

I must admit that my growing up in a world of South Park and Family Guy created a certain expectation of Barbara Streisand as being this over-the-top and over-the-hill performer whose dramatics and larger than life sensibilities were a thing to be mocked, this information was of course all procured without every actually seeing a single film involving Streisand, or hearing any of her music for that matter.  Since those days that seem so long ago I have come to understand Streisand as a legitimate performer and a woman more than capable of singing.  Sure she has a certain degree of maudlin about her performances, just check out her homage to Marvin Hamlisch at this years Oscars.  Yet to completely dismiss her as a performer is illogical, it is simply a performance method that works surprisingly well for her stylistically and represents the theatricality that seems to evidence Streisand's staying power.  No worries if this is all a bit new, I only came to this realization after watching Funny Girl yesterday as a part of this month of women oriented film, of which, I knew I could not overlook Streisand.  In this film, much is to be said about her commitment to theatricality as a means to acknowledge her otherness, both as a Jewish woman and one whose body image does not necessarily reflect that of the societal mythologized ideal.  Through an embracing of humor, Streisand and director William Wyler depict a larger social commentary within a rather normal musical.  I say that not to dismiss it cinematically, it is by no means the most stellar musical I have ever seen, but it does take its critical lens very seriously and nearly deserves unadulterated praise for that alone.  While, Streisand makes the film comedic, she is also very aware of the seriousness of the narrative, particularly as it relates to expectations in a heteronormative relationship, something that can prove disparaging when both parties have not laid out their expectations from the onset.  Overall, Funny Girl does not stand out as a flawless piece of filmmaking and suffers from its misguided concern for showiness, yet Barbara Streisand is phenomenal and certainly deserved the Oscar she obtained, as a result, and just to reemphasize this fact, Streisand can sing, and she sure shows it in this film.

Funny Girl centers on Fanny Brice (Barbara Streisand) a now successful Broadway performer who is setting introspectively in the theater putting on a recent production of Ziegfeld Follies, for which she is the star.  The film then moves to a flashback, in which viewers are shown Fanny's twisting and unconventional move to stardom from being the object of affection in her crowded Jewish home to making a name for herself not as an outright Broadway beauty, but for learning to embrace her considerable attractiveness, while also using her unconventional looks as a means to poke fun at her performances, something crowds love, despite the frustration of her manager.  During one of her early performances she meets Nick Arnstein (Omar Scharif) an exotic horse racer and gambler who takes an instant liking to Fanny, to which she is more than welcoming, finding his dark features and suave mannerisms to be captivating.  The narrative then moves into Fanny and Nick learning to navigate their decidedly different lifestyles, for Fanny constant traveling and for Nick needing to stay put when luck suits him to do so.  However, one thing is clear the two care deeply for each other and eventually agree to get married, something that both embrace dearly, yet no amount of affirmation can help to contest their truly unique lifestyles and when Nicky fails to attend one of Fanny's performances due to riding a hot hand of gambling the two have a considerable falling out, yet, Fanny knows he was only doing what he thought to be in his best interests.  When it is revealed that Nicky has accrued huge debts she attempts to help him by providing him with a job prospect, but his desire to be self-made causes him to refuse, ending up with him becoming involved in an illegal bond trade and subsequent arrest, all the while Fanny trucks along with her career, up until the moment from the films opening, where she is now revealed to be sitting and awaiting the return of her loving husband, while also realizing that the world she exists in is something she obtained almost entirely on her own, aside from an initial white lie on the part of Nicky to expedite the process.

Funny Girl almost mocks the assumption that everything financial should necessarily involve a masculine presence.  While Ziegfeld the character is certainly present in the narrative and finances many of the performances in which Fanny earns her reputation, she refuses to adhere to the uniformed rigidity associated with such situations, much to his dismay, although he realizes that attempting to subdue anything that is Fanny would be to ruin her stardom and presence on stage.  Even her husband Nicky proves to contradict the image of masculine provision, in that he makes money intermittently and is always seemingly lost within moments to follow, yet he finds it impossible not to navigate the capitalist fueled world of bourgeois decadence, complete with phallic cigars, near empty brandy sifters and thousand dollar bills.  It would be easy to state that Nicky has a gambling problem, yet, when he has a chance to win money against Fanny's family with a sure hand he refuses to do so, perhaps solely as a result of respect, but more likely a result of his assumptions of money and masculinity.  His choice to not take money from these women is somewhat ironic, because it is made rather obvious that these woman have managed to create a space all their own completely detached from masculine provisions.  Sure it is not as lavish and luxurious a world as the card rooms where Nicky plays, or the crystallized worlds of Fanny's stages, but they are happy in their self-sufficiency and ability to navigate their world with considerable success.  This is clearly something that influences Fanny as she uses it as an inspiration to strive for career advancement, which she does, despite being and othered other.  The closing scenes of her occupying an entire theater only speak to how successful she has become with her economic endeavors, which, unlike Nicky, are backed by mental comfort as well.

Key Scene:  The rollerskating scene is hilarious and well done and helps to explain why this film gets referenced so frequently as one of the best musicals of all time.

This did not blow me away by any means, but it has a historical relevance and says some interesting things within its narrative, as such I strongly encourage renting it, or finding a streaming version.