No Mothafucka Tells Me When I Can Split: Super Fly (1972)

Well it has officially been the longest amount of time I have spent away from the blog since its inception.  Usually, I have some reason for a two to three day split that is tied to being out of town or simply not having a film with which I feel passionate enough to devote a few paragraph to at any great length.  This most recent stepping away though is wholly due to the notable shift in my life priorities, ones that have led to me spending a very very large amount of time at school (four graduate school courses proving time consuming).  I am also working on a few film related conference presentations as yet another work for publication!  As such, this blog which has always served as a sort of space of reflection will serve, at least for the next few months, as a space where I might occasionally reflect on a film or two, as I will be dumping almost all of my time into research (whispers that it might involve Godzilla are abound).  Furthermore, while it is still in the early, early planning stages there is also a plan for me to become involved with a podcast, one that will invariably help me to gain exposure to the world of film review and criticism that will be a welcome alternative to my enjoyable, but, nonetheless, taxing work in academic film writing.  With that in mind, I am still catching up with as many films as possible, quite a few I had hoped to share on the blog, but am only now coming back to review Super Fly a film that I had been quite hoping to watch some time ago.  Stuck inside because Columbia, SC has managed to actually receive snow, it is the only thing I am aware of that is cooler than the temperatures outside and is quite indicative of everything that has made the blaxploitation sub-genre, not a thing to mock and dismiss, but something that is wholly embrace by cinephiles.  Taking on filmmaking in a way that is both noticeably amateur, but also quite in tune with neo-realist filmmaking practices, Super Fly is nothing, if not a fantastic character study and time capsule of a moment in black urban thought.  Edited frenetically and pushed forward with a poised pace, the film would be quite respectable on its own.  Adding the superb soundtrack of Curtis Mayfield only makes it something extraordinary.

Super Fly focuses on the struggles of characters in black urban New York City as they exist involved to varying degrees in the trafficking, selling and using of cocaine.  At the center of this entire trade is Priest (Ron O'Neal) a cocaine dealer himself, who occasionally takes a sample from his own stash.  Yet, tired of being nothing more than a pusher man for the higher ups in distribution, Priest gets a wild idea and believes that with the help of his partner and fellow cocaine distributor Eddie (Carl Lee) that they can make one swoop of success over cocaine sales that will help the two remain rich for years to come.  After pushing and prodding their former drug source Scatter (Julius Harris) the two are able to get in contact with the biggest cocaine distributor in the city of New York, one who no surprise has ties to the mob.  When Priest puts his foot down as to both his own legitimacy as a dealer, as well as his own assertion that he will take no degradation on the part of a white man, he is provided with a large amount of drugs and sets about dealing them to the community.  Showing no shame in his actions, he eventually has a run in with the police, who instead of arresting him decide that they want to be in on the profits, allowing them to continue in their distribution as long as they pay a hefty fine to the boys in blue.  Scatter who finally sees this shift in the selling dynamics as his means to escape the city, borrows money from Priest and hopes to flee.  In his exit, however, he is stopped by the police and is forced into a heroin overdose in the back of his own Rolls Royce.  Providing a moment of clarity for Priest, he decides to take his half of the profits and split, using his guile to extract his money from Eddie's home without even the slightest of suspicious on the part of the police.  However, when the chief of police attempts to use firepower as a means to suppress Priest, the empowered ex-drug dealer blackmails him and escapes from the situation unscathed, looking with much hope into his future with money, love and perhaps a lot less cocaine use.

Super Fly might well be the most wholly realized of all the works the complete the blaxploitation cannon, excluding post-genre items that are often looking back on the era with love and admiration, but more importantly a far bigger budget.  As such, gleaning any singular theoretical idea from the films of this era are somewhat of a challenge, because frankly they were engaged in as many social messages as possible in condensed narrative spaces.  Super Fly while it may be about a drug dealer, is certainly also a prophetic warning against the dangers that drugs present not only to the African-American community as a whole, but to all individuals, regardless of race, creed or religion.  Indeed, Priest and those who surround his drug trafficking are aware of the terrible world within which they exist, but their respective decisions are predicated on addiction, survival and feelings of entrapment.  Painting the narrative as something that manifests itself out of white, hegemonic power structures, the presence of the corrupt members of the New York Police Department, take Super Fly from simply being a hip crime thriller, to something with the most profound of Foucaldian implications.  Whether it be the bizarre layers of self-regulation at work when the tenants of the dilapidated slums simply cower in the corner as opposed to mounting a revolution, or Scatter flees from the game only to be killed via forced overdose, the narrative shows the way in which law and its assumed protective status cause people to self-regulate in wild and oppressive ways.  Priest, whose name thus takes on more layers, serves as a counter to this authority and finds means to look back at the authoritative gaze, questioning the grounding of their power and whether or not the figures in charge need to undertake their own self-reguation.  Of course, Super Fly is not a film entirely void of its own problems, most pertaining to its complete lack of positive female characters throughout, aside from those who have direct ties to Priest's worldview.  It is in this narrative structuring that Super Fly becomes a hyper-masculine text, one that is afforded a bit of balance when juxtaposed with pretty much any film involving the headstrong Pam Grier.

Key Scene:  The drug trafficking montage is cinematic in surprising ways.

The DVD for this is quite cheap and well worth grabbing.  Hell the soundtrack is also worth your time.

Getting Involved Is So, So Involving: On The Town (1949)

I have already watched High Society as part of this month of musical, wherein a variety of stars coalesced together to make an enjoyable, but somewhat less than realized musical.  In contrast, is On the Town, a film that included a considerable amount of people working both in front of and behind the camera who were still establishing themselves in the entertainment business.  This establishment, however, does not equate to underwhelming delivery on any of their parts, indeed, Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra put on career defining work, all the the swell of Leonard Bernstein compositions.  This alone would make for a noted and wholly engaging piece of film, but add Stanley Donen to the mix and it becomes a thing of sheer beauty.  The version of this film that I was able to catch up with was a digitized version of the VHS copy, which meant a bit of blurriness and weird fading in and out throughout, but like my copy of Pather Panchali which suffers from the same issues, this still worked beautifully.  The swagger that is seemingly inherent within Frank Sinatra's music pushes some of the numbers to new heights and an extended ballet sequence affords Gene Kelly a chance to shine, moving madly through the space as though it were foolish to even confine his dynamism.  It would be one thing to just sing the praises of the visual elements of the film, which are extensive and noted, but it also manages to also be an incredibly funny film, one that plays into the absurdity of heteronormative ideals in the musical, while also knowingly ascribing to them to avoid any confusion.  It is perfectly post-World War II in its composition using the narrative of a few Navy guys on leave to push for a stranger in a strange place narrative that also refers back to the down on their luck girl in the big city that made for a narrative in nearly every Busby Berkeley musical of a decade earlier.  I could sit here and pick apart every single thing that works about On the Town, but it would ruin some of the surprise, or worse would contradict the perfect simplicity of the film, using basic cinematic language to lovingly move through a stylized and sensational version of New York City.

On the Town works in a cyclical narrative focusing on the arrival of a group of Navy men on leave.  The Navy guys include the somewhat brutish but well-meaning Ozzie (Jules Munshin), the curly haired and dashing Chip (Frank Sinatra) who wants nothing more than to explore the city his father has spoken so fondly about.  Finally, there is Gabey (Gene Kelley) the everyman sailor who is simply along for the ride.  When it is Gabey who encounters Ivy Smith (Vera-Ellen) a local model and ballerina who Gabey assumes to be famous as a result of her being on the billboards of Subway trains.  Gabey is smitten with Ivy, but she flees the scene to return to her rather desolate life as a student/exploited worker for the maniacal Madame Dilyovska (Florence Bates).  Recruiting his pals, Gabey, Chip and Ozzie take it upon themselves to search all of New York City for the model.  Along the way the each member meets their romantic parter, Ozzie coming to be a point of desire and fascination for museum curator Claire Huddesen (Ann Miller) who compares him to a primitive male on display in the museum.  While, Ozzie is initially confused by such an assertion, he also enjoys the advances of the attractive Claire.  Chip meets up with the local cab driver Brunhilde "Hildy" Esterhazy (Betty Garrett) whose wild-mouth and assertive nature lead him to enjoy her company in a roundabout way, only spurred further by her near textbook memory of all the spaces in New York, thus making his tourism more well-executed and updated.  Yet, Gabey is still struggling to find Ivy a quest that is greatly shortened by a happenstance encounter.  Ivy explains that she is also quite attracted to Gabey, but her point of employment proves rather problematic since it involves burlesque dancing for the Madame Dilyovska who uses the cost of her ballet lessons over the young Ivy.  Agreeing to meet on the top of the Empire State Building things become complicated when Ivy must return to her work, the determined Gabey seeks her out, nonetheless, all the while the group must run around the city police force that have taken a stand against their various accidents and inducing of trouble.  The groups concerted effort does allow for the two to unite, in the process discovering that they might have been far closer together than they ever imagined.

This film, as I noted borrows from the Busby Berkeley narrative of woman in the big city, who is struggling in her place of employment, while also hoping that they can snag a man for their point of escape.  Furthermore, given that it involves a group of Navy men navigating New York City it also takes on a layer of the homosocial bond, their own engagement with the girls becoming a point of this shared desire.  What becomes fascinating though is that both group are played at odds to one another in a very heteronormative manner, the girls looking at the men as a bit ruff and tumble, particularly since they are Navy men, although in non-diegetic sense both Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly exert more feminine identities at this point in their careers.  In contrast the men see the woman as things "to be saved" although it is rather clear that both Hildy and Claire possess jobs that are financially independent and of which they are quite proud.  Indeed, Hildy even makes a note of her distinct difference to the other male cabbies in New York.  It is a film that carefully crafts the two gendered and genre spaces together, at times making a clear distinction between the two.  There is a particular dance and musical number with the men praising the life of the Navy that allows them to constantly philander about never needing to settle down.  In yet another knowing moment the choreography has the women look at the camera asserting their own knowledge of this reality, while also seeming to suggest that they can end these wily ways by a mere flashing of their eyes.  The narrative pushes to have these unions be somewhat unconventional, pairing the oafish Ozzie with the intellectual Claire and the travelled Hildy with the somewhat sheltered Chip.  It would seem like it is a suggestion that all women are capable of finding a man, without expecting them to be a fabrication of themselves, again terribly heteronormative, but understandably so for the era.  I would seem this is the case, but it would negate the unfortunate experiences of Lucy Schmeeler (Alice Pearce) a comedic point of contrast to the "beauty" of the other women.  None of the men even acknowledge her as a sexually attractive individual.  Even though Gabey asserts that she will eventually find her partner, his conviction seems particularly uninspired.

Key Scene:  Frank Sinatra singing "You're Awful" is just about the most delightful song I have heard in quite awhile.

The DVD for this is cheap enough to suggest buying, but renting might not be a bad approach as it is admittedly not the lavish musical some might initially apply to a Stanley Donen work.

I Must Remember This Feeling And Use It In My Acting: Fame (1980)

Grandstanding and bombastic line delivery seem almost too inextricably tied to the musical to be a thing that I find issue with.  However, this is an attachment that almost exclusively works in the context of Classical Hollywood musicals and becomes less necessary the farther into contemporary film one gets.  More so, when a film clearly makes it a point to embrace a low-budget, intimate look at a inner-city life one ravished with poverty and immobility the grandstanding can become somewhat more troublesome.  Fame, the cult musical from Alan Parker does suffer considerably from this very over-the-top nature, but in some ways it is rather acceptable considering that it intends to look at a space where people are constantly performing for the sake of self-identity as well as for their future livelihood.  Fame works in some was primarily because it takes no shame in going big with its ideas, while juxtaposing them against the stripped away veneer of a rundown, but, undoubtedly, prestigious fine arts school. Indeed, while it does possess enough musical numbers to warrant it being placed within the genre, it far more something in line with the coming of age tale, wherein, a group of awkward kids come to learn about sex, lies and the trouble of access in a harsh world.  This sort of scathing look at growing up would appear ill-conceived and somewhat troublesome, but it manages to approach the issues with some degree of earnestness, only going too far on a few occasions, allowing for characters to exist in nearly possible moments only to allow their character to take on narrative layering.  Indeed, while the film does clock in at over two hours, it still feels as though it is missing some elements, almost as though characters backstories were cut out in favor of focusing on two singular experiences making certain portions come off as slightly exploitative.  While not completely unwatchable and certainly better than some of the musicals I have encountered this month, Fame, nonetheless, does become underwhelming during its closing sequence one that is assumed to carry a heavy emotional investment, but like its cutting to credits merely stops not attaining anything deserved of next level film admiration.

Fame focuses rather sporadically, albeit in a linear fashion, on the experiences of a group of students attending the New York High School for the Performing Arts, first beginning with auditions, where the various instructors of dance, theater and music are subjected to both profoundly moving and outright awful performances, while also establishing the importance of various characters, whether it be the accidental dancer Leroy (Gene Anthony Ray) or synth rock prodigy Bruno (Lee Curreri) and his expansive keyboard set up.  The students all begin by claiming their desires to be in the unique setting, many noting their particular financial limitations.  As the narrative moves into Freshman year the narrative focuses in on the experiences of two students in particular, the wide-eyed and constantly evolving Doris (Maureen Teefy) and South Bronx native turned aspiring stand-up comedian Ralph (Barry Miller).  While they do possess a mutual friend in Montgomery (Paul McCrane) his own struggles with embracing his homosexual identity lead to him stepping away from the narrative.  As the students move through Sophomore and Junior years, Leroy is confronted with a classroom setting where his lower class, black identity becomes a thing of confusion and fear for his English teacher, who finds it necessary to constantly bemoan his indifference in class, even calling him out for his inability to read at one point in time.  Bruno comes under fire by his orchestra teacher Mr. Shorofsky (Albert Hague) for a disagreement on the nature of Mozart in a contemporary setting and Doris and Ralph, after an initial romantic fling, have a falling out when Ralph's drinking and unhealthy bar life become a thing of trouble.  Other members of the school both current and former come to discover the ways in which the industry, particularly, acting on screen proves limiting and threatening, particularly for one young girl named Coco (Irene Cara) whose foolish belief that she could star in European art house films is quickly shattered when she attends a screen test.  However, upon graduation it appears as though all has come to fruition even in insane contexts, allowing the entirety of the class to somberly and sentimentally reflect on their past and look forward into the future.

The sort of brevity and briefness of most encounters in the film is decidedly frustrating.  I respect the film for attempting to navigate a rater wide scope of identities within the space of the performing arts, but it also does so with such faint brush strokes as to give off an heir of essentialism, wherein Leroy and his own struggles to move out of severe poverty speak to all identities within the urban African-American community, just as Montgomery comes to reflect the entirety of gay culture in what is essentially a monologue about said identity.  Fame seeks in what appears to be earnestness to tackle these issues, without realizing that a mere mention is often far more fatal than an actual singular focus.  Sure it is great that the film wants to paint such a complete picture, but it also means a complete loss in depth to the film, which helps to explain my earlier complaint that by the closing of the film the resolution carries little to no emotional investment because there is nothing within which for the viewer to ground their experience.  Sure Montgomery is relatable, but his portion of the film accounts for maybe two percent of the narrative and aside from the overplayed moment of Leroy struggling to read next to a fire barrel under a bridge nothing affords the viewer a reason to relate to him, instead only being able to pull from his confrontational attitude in other moments throughout the film.  Interstingly, the film almost seems to lean on the power of the teachers in the film, whether it be Leeroy's stern English teacher, who appears to receive more narrative leeway than the homeless Leroy, or the manner with which the stuffy Mr. Shorofsky still proves to be "correct" about the nature of classical music, despite completely rejecting the possibility that Bruno's music could attain any success, an assumption that is negated by the success of Coco and Bruno when performing.  If any figure actually achieves respect that is not a student it comes in the way of Bruno's father Angelo (Eddie Barth) who is wholly supportive of his son's musical aspirations both emotionally and financially, although this is even tenuous as he constantly calls attention to his sacrifice.  It is a film that wants so desperately to show the layers and varieties of struggling that it is at once spread too far and too thin to prove evocative.

Key Scene:  The construction of the scene when Ralph reflects on his violent father in the neon-light lit apartment is poetic and while the acting and narrative might be a bit lacking, it is washed over with the soft red in such a way to allow it to be decidedly moving.

This is easily a rental option, although it might be more worth your time to watch The Rocky Horror Picture Show which is actually shown at considerable length during one sequence.

You Can't Fuck The Future, The Future Fucks You: Saturday Night Fever (1977)

The danger of planning a blog marathon is getting behind on posts because you realize that you have all kinds of other life events getting in the way, which means doubling down on viewings and blog posts some days in order to maintain any consistency.  Today is once such day as I earlier scrambled to piece together something on Yankee Doodle Dandy and am now writing about yet another musical, in a far different sense with Saturday Night Fever.  Aside from not being the show tune heavy films of decades earlier, Saturday Night Fever also manages to navigate a space that is distinctly different narratively than most films, far more in line with the films of a year earlier than the escapist cinema of its genre.  Indeed, where it not for the reality that the film does involve a heavy amount of disco dancing, I would be convinced that it was a direct shot-for-shot homage to Rocky, although the movie poster to the film in the main character's room does suggest a knowing borrowing.  I will admit that I was myself a bit presumptive as to what I would be given by way of Saturday Night Fever as it is most certainly attained a reputation for being that one film that heavily uses that one song by The BeeGees, unfortunately, this claim is often intended to be a degrading thing, both dismissing the genius of the Gibbs brothers and their musical while also cornering Saturday Night Fever into a genre box that is illogical and inconvenient.  The acting of John Travolta is one of many things to be fascinated with in this rather overlooked film, even if it does have a noted classic status, not to mention that it does pull from some great music of the time, The BeeGees included.  However, it has some elements about it that at their core may have been purely choices of budget and necessity, but, nonetheless, become indicative of deep considerations on viewership relations within cinema and further inquire as to what it means to be a body on display that is also in the process of objectifying while bizarrely respecting the bodies around themselves.  Saturday Night Fever works because it unconventionally deals with notedly conventional subject.

Saturday Night Fever focuses on the experiences of Tony Manero a man who by the very way he walks can suggest to people that he is a ladies man.  At least, that seems to be what he strives for in his young life, only shooting for the money to buy the latest and greatest in polyester fashions in the hopes that it will afford him the desires of the women and the animosity of the men he encounters at his favorite disco club 2001: A Space Odyssey.  Alongside his motley crew of friends Tony manages to exists as a point of deep female desire, handfuls of women throwing themselves at him in the guise that they enjoy his dancing.  Tony while incredibly flattered by the advances seems rather clear that he is not interested in them, although deceives their hopes by agreeing to serve as their dance partners nonetheless, especially being kind to a young woman whose clearly suffering from some minor mental issues.  Yet, life is also troubling for Tony as he must navigate a home space where his family denigrates him for not being more like his brother, an established priest who the family lovingly refers to as Father Frank Jr. (Martin Shakar).  Tony hoping that by throwing all of his drive and passion into dancing he can somehow come to understand the complexities of the world around him, but when he Stephanie (Karen Lynn Gorney) he manages to find a reason to pursue dancing even more as he immediately becomes infatuated by her ethereal charm and decidedly hard-to-get attitude. Mounting various approaches, he is finally able to convince her to get coffee a task that is juxtaposed with the falling apart of his own family life, particularly when Frank Jr. returns home and finds out that his brother has left the priesthood.  Paired with a variety of other forms of unfortunate news, Tony comes to reconsider his relationship with dancing, only to pour every last bit into a final act with Stephanie, one where they are clearly bested by a competing couple.  When it becomes clear, however, that their winning was predicated upon racial issues and not actual skill, the overly idyllic Tony awakes to the nonsense of his life and moves out of the negative world of his life in the process.

The social realist drama is quite hard to execute without becoming grandstanding or overtly detailed in a way that can be off putting to filmgoers.  I would further argue that this becomes doubly problematic when you make the realist picture within the constraints of a genre picture.  Finally, I would make an argument that it is damn near impossible to keep this a reality when you are creating a diegesis that involves music in a way indicative of a musical wherein the music, at times, manifests itself from beyond the narrative.  This would be a rare occurrence, but much to my amazement it is something that is pulled off brilliant.  More so, aside from the odd continuity error, Saturday Night Lever is a perfectly shot and edited film, one that tells a story in an intimate way without being predictable.  I say all of these things in unison, because somehow it manages to do the same things that made works like Taxi Driver and Nashville work a few years earlier, but few have sung the praises of Saturday Night Fever in the same rhetoric they afford it to the previously mentioned films.  I would argue then that the reason I for the longest held off to see the movie is that it was either implied that Saturday Night Live was nothing more than a disco film, or the alternative that the people who cling on to specific genres or constant themes invariably find the musical dismiss of any social legitimacy.  Indeed, as I work through more musicals this month I will undoubtedly watch this happen on different, but perhaps not so fatally as is the case with Saturday Night Fever.  Masked behind the assumption that it is a dance movie are some serious considerations about the role of body in looking and cinematic gaze, as well as a repetitive, but quite necessary barging against gender performance and including its more problematic final scenes, it does provide a visual into a life that is often swallowed up by other more powerful figures or entities.  If not for this one can still justify its status by the use of The BeeGees alone.  I know this is a ton of rambling, but I did only finish the film about an hour ago so my reactions are fresh and haphazard, mostly in relation to my own surprise by the film I saw as opposed to what I expected.

Key Scene: There is a scene where Tony makes a discovery about a hidden secret of another character, during which Travolta delivers a death stare for the ages.

Rental, this is that in a very real sense, but it is not terrible so purchasing it is not absurd.

Sometimes I Feel Like A Human Sacrifice: New York Stories (1989)

The anthology film has become a thing to expect in contemporary cinema, a means within which to bridge the gap between loose genre ideas or to create a feeling of a global community discussing the rhetoric of a singular idea, such as love, loss or happiness.  Even the other omnibus works, such as Paris Je T'aime suffer from a heavy sense of knowing that this work is offered within a collection of larger statements, therefore, unjustly affording filmmakers a belief that they do not really have to try and offer anything of worthy cinematic consideration.  This is by far not the case when concerning New York Stories, a set of three featurettes by three directors whose identities are more or less inextricably tied to the city.  What makes this anthology work particularly fascinating is that the products of two out of three of the filmmakers are some of their best work in rather storied and well-regarded careers, and the third while clearly the weakest in the collection, nonetheless lays out what cinephiles would come to expect from a second generation filmmaker and writer in one of cinemas most well-respected families.  Where as other city film anthologies use the space of the movie to wax poetic about the serene and sentimental experiences of the spaces they occupy, New York Stories exists in  world about New York that paints it both with endearing pride, while also making note of all the ways it is a city of struggles, failures and lack.  Two out of the three works exist in a state of magical realism, nonetheless, playing upon the tropes of New York, where as the other manages to pinpoint into a singular narrative of a man and woman "in love," perhaps even extending into its own consideration of the relationship between New York and New Yorker.  I say all of this having only spent a couple of hours in New York as a teenager, not really understanding a bit about its spaces or the bodies which occupy its vast area.  Instead, what I posit is that New York Stories works for all moviegoers because through the intimacy of the subject matter, passion emerges, so much so that it becomes a text book look at New York, the entity, without ever being pretentious or calling attention to many viewers outsider status.

Split into three distinctly different narratives, the first film directed by Martin Scorsese is title Life Lessons and focuses on action painter Lionel (Nick Nolte) who is panicking for his upcoming studio exhibit, much to the chagrin of his agent  Lionel, while allegedly capable of throwing together a show at a moments notice is, nonetheless, anxiously awaiting the return of his assistant and lover Paulette (Rosanna Arquette).  Upon her return Paulette explains that she no longer wants to be involved with Lionel and has indeed just ended a tumultuous relationship with performance artist Gregory Stark (Steve Buscemi).  Flailing to assert his authority, Lionel plays a game of cat and mouse with Paulette, using his power as an artistic giant to convince her to stay and hone her craft in his studio.  However, it becomes clear that Lionel is only interested in using her sexually, leading to her eventually packing her things and leaving, an act that leads Lionel to complete his Bridge to Nowhere painting and mirroring this metaphor with his immediately moving on to a new ingenue during his exhibit opening.  The second film Life Without Zoe, is directed by Francis Ford Coppola and co-written by his daughter Sofia Coppola.  Wherein a young girl named Zoe (Heather McComb) talks in roundabout fairy tales as a way to analyze the troublesome relationship between her parents flautist Claudio (Giancarlo Giannini)  and wife Charlotte (Talia Shire), as well as commenting upon the feelings of alienation which emerge for her parents constantly being away.  In a decidedly child as adult feel evident in later Sofia Coppola work, the film looks at Zoe's attempts to act in the hyper-adult, only able to do so through excessive wealth.  In the end, however, Zoe realizes that sometimes a momentary feeling of unity with one's family is far more valuable than anything money could hope to buy.  The final segment is Woody Allen's Oedipus Wrecks which focuses on Sheldon (Woody Allen) an established attorney with a loving girlfriend named Lisa (Mia Farrow).  Despite success and love, Sheldon cannot shake the condemnation he constantly faces by his mother, played by Mae Questel.  It is during an "unfortunate" accident at a magic show that Sheldon's mother disappears inexplicably, leading to a momentary feeling of freedom by Sheldon, improving his sex life, while allowing him the freedom to excel at his job in new ways.  However, when his mother emerges as a floating entity in the sky line of New York things change drastically and Sheldon's feelings of oppression blow up to a grandiose proportion.  It is indeed not until he finds a new girlfriend appropriate to his mother's strict demands that her presence no longer becomes omniscient, or at least less blatantly so as the closing moments of the film might suggest.

The fascinating thing about this particular anthology is that aside from auteurist elements present within each film, one could find themselves hard-pressed to claim a thematic link between the three separate stories.  Indeed, aside from the psychoanalytic nightmare that is traditional Woody Allen filmmaking from the era, these seem like, as noted earlier, statements on existing within New York, more so that individual films about a city.  For Scorsese, the issue at hand is how one "performs" the New York lifestyle, particularly one like the New York art world which predicates itself upon a certain pomp and circumstance where struggle is embraced, but not something that should be affirmed physically.  Take the distinct difference between Lionel and Paulette for example, he is well off given his status in high art and can afford to drunkenly feign trouble, whereas Paulette's gender and other issues legitimize her struggle and also do not allow her the privilege to simply perform any degree of abjection.  Coppola's film then becomes about the issue of learning class privilege in the space of New York, it is fitting that Sofia helped write this script, because it lends a layer of credibility to how she would have seen the world as a youth, attempting to rationalize the decadence of her youth with the bustling reality of New York, one where hands literally extend from the trash to beg for food, while she can purchase absurd amounts of food, jewelry and even alcohol despite being admittedly too young to understand how credit works.  The robbery in the film takes on a wonderful layer of class conflict, as does the closing moment in Rome become a moment of scathing irony, which would become a staple of Sofia Coppola's oeuvre (it would be fascinating, in fact, to stand this film up against Marie Antoinette).  With these two films in mind, Oedipus Wrecks then considers the nature of constant looking and watching that occurs within New York, to Allen, New York in all its wonder is also a place where every action is scrutinized, because space is limited and filled with many bodies, all with stories and opinions, some more willing to share than others.  Always the existentialist, the film considers what distinction could possibly emerge between Sheldon's singular struggles and the larger struggles of society.  Perhaps it is all inherently meaningless and Sheldon is merely overreacting, what Allen does show is that, in the end, some encounters are simply unavoidable.

Key Scene: Woody Allen steals the show here and Sheldon's smirk when his mother is "being stabbed" will make you laugh.

The bluray for this is surprisingly cheap, but should in no way suggest a lesser product.  In fact, this is probably one of the more overlooked works from the year.

All These Beautiful Things That Were Destroyed...I Could Restore: The Mystery Of The Wax Museum (1933)

For the final post to the enjoyable and brilliantly put together TCM Summer Under the Stars Blogathon, I decided to go in the direction of a film I had never seen, as opposed to revisiting works for which I knew I already had a deep affinity.  This is always a gamble, considering that I could turn out not to enjoy the movie at all and would be left writing a blog for a blogathon that is anything but celebratory about the work in question.  Fortunately, The Mystery of the Wax Museum is an incredibly watchable film that manages to be one of the creepier and haunting film I have ever encounter, despite being made in 1933.  Images of melting wax faces and the chiaroscuro expressionism that generally influence the narrative of this film are some of the best of the era, existing in a wonderful middle ground between the nightmarish work of Fritz Lang and the dreary desolation of the film noir works of the forties.  Indeed, The Mystery of the Wax Museum could have gotten away on looks alone, the added enjoyment of some great acting and a relatively engaging plot make for an all around great cinematic experience.  Since this is a blogathon concerning the "Featured Star" of the day, I must give brief mention to Glenda  Farrell who is wonderful in this film and is indeed the reason this film was take upon by me, even if blindly.  Knowing very little about her (and highlighting her in the synopsis), I thought it worth mentioning  Fay Wry whose presence reminded me that she was the famous girl from King Kong, as well as in the criminally under-viewed 1932 adaptation of The Most Dangerous Game.  Along with her presence in The Mystery of the Wax Museum and a ton of other horror films, I am considering that argument that Fay Wry might be the original scream queen, or at the very least the grandmother of genre films.  Her presence in this film is decidedly within her more traditional roles, but given the manner with which bodies double and layer upon one another through wax duplications, her presence also takes on an ethereal quality, adding to the already eerie nature of the film.  The Mystery of the Wax Museum is not a grand stroke of horror through barrage, but instead; is a subtle repetition of creepy moments that come together to really leave an unsettling feeling in the viewer long after finishing, much like Dead of Night or The Blair Witch Project.  This is the ideal horror cinema.

The Mystery of the Wax Museum begins with Ivan Igor (Lionel Atwill) completing yet another work in his prized London wax museum, centering around his incredibly lifelike statue of Marie Antoinette.  His moment of happiness is quickly stifled when he is visited by his parter Joe Worth (Edwin Maxwell), who explains that the museum is proving to be a huge loss financially and that the only way to recoup the losses is to burn the entire place down for the insurance money.  Ivan attempts to stop Joe from his act but fails to do so.  The film then fast forwards twelve years to New York, where the city is receiving its own wax museum, overseen by Ivan, who must use apprentices to do his work, considering that he no longer has hands to sculpt with after they were severely damaged in the fire.  Ivan is particularly frustrated with the new work, blaming much of the trouble on hiring a recovering drug addict named Professor Darcy (Arthur Edmund Carewe) and a deaf-mute named Hugo (Matthew Betz).  Regardless, the museum is slated to open soon so Ivan pushes through with his work at full speed, even receiving a new statue in the mail whose life like qualities are quite uncanny.  Centering this female statue as the center of his exhibit as a Joan of Arc recreation, Ivan slips into a maniacal push for perfection.  Meanwhile, up and coming journalist Florence Dempsey (Glenda Farrell), while investigating a murder, comes to realize the similarities between a recently deceased woman and the new statue, as well as a similarity between a few other missing bodies and some of the other additions to Ivan's collection.  Hoping to warn others, particularly her roommate Charlotte Duncan (Fay Wray), Florence takes it upon herself to make the connection between the dead bodies and the new statues, coming into contact with a deeply entrenched bootlegging scheme in the process that is run by none other than Joe Worth.  This, however, does get the attention of the police, who agree to meet Florence at the museum a decision that proves quite fortuitous because they arrive only moments before Charlotte is to be "embalmed" by the maniacal Ivan, who believes that she will provide the final piece de resistance for his collection.  In the end, Florence saves the day with her persistence and because the film was set in the early thirties, her reward is nothing more than marriage to a man she only remotely likes.

For a film that is an early work in horror/thriller filmmaking, I did not expect to be able to pull a lot from work critically.  However, from the moment Ivan lingers on the female statues in his London museum, which cinematically are clearly played by actresses (one's who will later play characters in the narrative) it becomes clear that the film takes on a second layer of objectification of the desired body.  Objectification and looking at bodies in cinema are nothing new to theory and criticism, indeed tying most prominently to Laura Mulvey and her idea that the gaze in cinema is that of a male viewer that objectifies the woman on screen as an other.  While this theory has been reconsidered, altered and contested over the years, it, nonetheless, stands as the language used to describe the female body on display in film.  However, while these bodies are desired in the film, it is precisely the double layer of the "fake" body and the real that causes viewers to reconsider how they constitute the objectified body passively and what happens when the active body is forced into passivity, or in reverse what happens when a body, like the film's opening image of Marie Antoinette later becomes the character of Florence.  This is a wild notion of movement through a space by a body, one that is, as Mulvey would suggest, in a constant state of cinematic desire, whether to be objectified by the male gaze or longed for as a thing of cinematic beauty by the women who look at the ethereal presence of the wax versions of Wray and others.  Ivan represents a maddened version of the gaze in the diagetic world of the film, enacting his artistic objectification of bodies, both male and female, taking dead corpses, who are no longer active and proceeding to make them even less human, by making them posthumous objects of artistic desire.  The fact that Ivan himself is a crippled figure adds another layer of disability in relation to the ideal body as a point of desire and thus objectification.  In that he is no longer human, indeed relying on wax to pass as visually normal, he could be read as a vengeful disabled body that seeks "justice" upon the able-bodied individuals he encounters, housing them in a shell of wax, to deny their ability, while making his wax visage no longer the disabled figure, but that of normalcy.  This is all happening in a film from 1933, it is quite amazing that it has not gained the same level of notoriety as its counterpart from the same year King Kong.

Key Scene:  The opening fight in the London Wax Museum is really creepy, in a I might have nightmares from melting wax faces kind of way.

The DVD I have is not the greatest of version, particularly since it appears to be stuck between full colorization and black and white scenes.  Nonetheless, it is a magnificent work and well worth tracking down in an alternative format.

Finally, I would once again like to thank Jill (Sittin' On a Backyard Fence) and Michael (ScribeHard on Film) for letting me be part of this wonderful blogathon.  This last film was a great discovery and my previous revisits of Spellbound and The Blob were equally enjoyable.

You Bought A Used Jacket? What Are We Poor?: Desperately Seeking Susan (1985)

I am a huge proponent of reconsidering the classic eighties films that for one reason or another managed to become second rate to their more successful contemporaries, particularly when the films manage to achieve a certain cult status, which is certainly true for a personal favorite of mine in Repo Man, as well as the recently reviewed Earth Girls Are Easy.  Of course I cannot love every film and certainly am not adoring of everything produced, although I tend to be pretty favorable for most works reviewed on this blog, however, I occasionally just do not enjoy a film, 1985's Desperately Seeking Susan stands to be one of those films, which is not to say it is bad or anything, but is simply nothing I found profound or deserved of its seemingly unquestioned cult status.  While the film certainly possessed a degree of quotability and a rather stellar cast for the era, including many of my favorite actors from the works of Jarmusch and Lee, it falls short so obviously that it cannot justify a high level of praise.  Furthermore, the main factor in me not completely dismissing the film resides in its being directed by a woman a feet that was rare in the 80's and still proves quite uncommon even today.  In fact, I find myself perplexed as to its sustained popularity, perhaps it is due to some brief nudity on the part of both lead actresses respectively, although if one were to seek a piece of media solely for a naked Madonna, it seems as though this rather forgotten film of the eighties is a bit out of ones way.  To be fair I did read a handful of reviews on the film as a means to attempt to sway my feelings towards the "cult classic," and while this did not prove successful I have been led to believe that Desperately Seeking Susan does reflect the wild and wily ways of the hip crowds and individuals occupying upper class New York during the time something I find myself surprisingly turned off by, as was the case with Metropolitan a film of which I should have loved, but found off putting in its distancing.  Honestly, Desperately Seeking Susan is not an awful film, it is actually considerably decent, however, the world portrayed and the methods of narration enacted were far from something I desired to embrace

The film, taking the famous lines of newspaper classified, expands on this notion to suggest that somewhere in New York City a couple uses this unusual form of communication to meet up on rendezvous, in this case the appropriately named Susan (Madonna) and Jim (Robert Joy) whose relationship is considerably strained since Susan appears to be a part time prostitute, while Jim is clearly preoccupied with seeing his band succeed, nonetheless, the duo manages to make things work, while becoming engaged "accidentally" within mob activities.  Enters Roberta (Rosanna Arquette) a rather disillusion housewife, whose husband Gary (Mark Blum) engages in the selling of pool and spas and rarely pays attention to his wife, who according to other may have suffered from a severe lack of sexual satisfaction.  In an attempt to add variety to her mundane life, Roberta decides to tag along to one of Susan and Jim's classified adds, in which she hopes to meet the lovebirds and undertake a bit of vicarious happiness, yet through a rather tragic twist of fate and the obtaining of one of Susan's signature clothing items only days earlier, Roberta is mistaken for Susan, leading to her being attacked by a mafia hit man.  After slipping and hitting her head, Roberta loses consciousness only to awake to Dez (Aidan Quinn), a friend sent by Jim to meet Susan and not having any memory due to her brief unconsciousness, she assumes herself to be Susan, causing Dez to take her back to his place and protect her from the unknown attacker.  The rest of the movie, suffice to say, focuses on the issues of the miscommunication by everyone involved, particularly since everyone appears to have an issue to hide, all of which explodes in a final and admittedly hilarious confrontation, involving humorous use of Madonna's own music, in a tip of the hat moment of meta filmmaking.  Also something involving a stolen pair of earrings seems pertinent to the larger story, all be it a bit forced.

As one could expect from a major film of the eighties, especially such a liberal leaning, feminist oriented film (again it would seem a perfect film for my palette) the narrative focuses on the tragedies of capitalist desires and conspicuous consumption, most blatantly in the character of Gary, who demands that everyone at a party view his commercial, which of course has a unique place in Marxist rhetoric in that it is a product with value that is designed to promote another product with a value.  Yet no amount of financial comfort or clear monetary success seems to prove fulfilling for Gary, let alone Roberta who suffers from another level of dissatisfaction.  In contrast we have Susan, engaging in prostitution, which is popularly known as the worlds oldest profession, but something with no quantifiable value, save for unfortunate cases involving STD's, which problematizes notions of capitalist associations of monetary value when it is purely for a qualitative act.  Yet, even Susan who engages in the problematic act of prostitution consumes conspicuously, however, she uses a bartering system to obtain her desire items, in the case of the narrative a jacket.  Her free movement from house to train station, also contests notions of capitalist power, because much of value is predicated on possession of private property.  If the film played more into these commentaries and the issues surrounding them, perhaps then I would be completely enamored with Desperately Seeking Susan, tragically none of this proves to be the case and instead the film plays too much into burgeoning or suppressed sexualities, without really even revolutionizing the discussions around both.  Perhaps the real tragedy of the film is its desire to comment on every problem in America without properly approaching anything specific.

Key Scene:  I guess if one were to be picked I would go with the train station scene involving Susan initially as it is a considerably solid introduction to the characters lifestyle and subsequently their psyche.

This is a film to avoid for the most part, although I know many people do love it quite a bit, as such I will leave the decision up to others.

Thank God For The Rain To Wash The Trash Off The Sidewalk: Taxi Driver (1976)

Taxi Driver is unequivocally one of my favorite movies, and next to The Last Temptation of Christ it is one of Scorsese's finest films.  It is what one looks for in a perfect piece of cinema: quotability, cinematic grandiosity and an enigmatic yet accessible narrative that causes viewers to debate its meaning and argue over its social commentary well past its initial release.  There are a slew of excellent films from the seventies, mostly from the hands of Francis Ford Coppola, however, Taxi Driver, as well as Robert Altman's Nashville, reflect the essence of the seventies, particularly the political disillusionment and sexual abjection.  However, as pertinent to the time of release as Scorsese's film may be it has a clearly timeless element about it that makes it so damn enjoyable some thirty-five years later and its brilliance cannot be denied.  The accessibility of the film is not an easy thing to locate, because it is clearly a challenging film that does not offer its viewers quick answers and certainly procures more answers than solutions.  It is art house cinema meets traditional Hollywood in something so unique and lasting that it has undeniably influenced cinema in a lasting way.

Taxi Driver focuses on the rather unusual experiences of Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro) a New York taxi driver with a clear disdain for the citizens of what he believes to be a lost city.  Travis, suffering from a severe case of insomnia, decides to roam the streets of New York finding meaning for the malaise that is his inconsequential life  During one of his day time routes he discovers the headquarters of political candidate Charles Palentine (Leonard Harris) and one of its employees Betsy (Cybil Shepard), to who Travis takes an instant liking.  While initially successful with his approaches to Betsy, he fails to woo her after taking her to see a pornographic film and is left alone yet again.  As a result, Travis begins to wonder the streets yet again and encounters an extremely young prostitute named Iris (Jodi Foster) who also goes by the unfortunate name of Easy.  Travis makes it a goal of his to remove Iris from her unfortunate situation, given his own definition of an ethical world, which defines that Iris is stuck in a terrible situation and must be extracted from it, despite her own personal opinion of her lifestyle.  Travis attempts to simply ask Iris to leave, but her inextricable ties with her pimp Sport (Harvey Keitel) who clearly has his own feeling for Iris.  As a result, Travis accrues a large amount of fire power and raids the house in which Iris stays only to receive opposition from Sport and his various lackeys.  Left wounded, Travis is able to fend off the various attackers and save Iris from her situation only to become the praise of local newspapers.  The film then cuts to Travis returning to his job as a taxi driver, escorting Betsy to a random event.  Travis then looks into his mirror and the film ends in the same pace of disparity as when the film began.

There are three interpretations that I have come across when looking at analysis for Taxi Driver, two that are clearly incorrect when approaching such a complex film.  The first is simply to claim that the film is a reflection of the dire state of New York during the seventies, this interpretation is obvious.  The second is to read the film as an attempt to affect political change in a world of indifference, this reading is possible, however, the film only deals with this concept in portions of the film and even then it is in a very passive manner.  Instead, in my opinion, the most pertinent reading of the film is to call it a dreamscape relating to the mind of Travis Bickle.  If one is to look at this film as such it is easy to read the film as a subconscious romp into ones darkest desires.  Travis continually claims his loathsome relationship with New York throughout the film and it helps to explain how in his own mind that he could kill a large amount of criminals with little trouble from the judicial system.  Furthermore, if one looks closely at the film instances that occur throughout the film are clearly tied throughout the film, whether it be Travis's presence during every conversation at the Palentine headquarters, or what could be clearly his imagination creating a scenario between Sport and Iris.  However, what cements the film as a possible dream narrative is the bookends of the film which have Travis looking into the rear view mirror of his taxi car, implying that he is lost in his own personal thoughts throughout the film, thoughts which become the surreal, absurd landscape for almost two hours of cinematic brilliance.

Taxi Driver is magical in its existence and the recent bluray transfer is phenomenal, getting a copy is mandatory for even the most minimal of film libraries.