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.

And We Won't Come Back Till It's Over Over There: Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)

I remember way back in the days of high school I though it a worthy idea to take a web design class.  The high school I went to at the time was far from exceptional and certainly lacked all the resources to actively and properly teach a class, especially since our professor insisted on the use of Geocities as a web server.  While I did not learn anything worth value in relation to the art of html or designing of websites, we were fortunate to be provided with an assignment where we created a website for an actor or actress that had won an Academy Award, the only stipulation being that they could no longer be alive, thus limiting, rather considerably, who I could choose.  When I was told that my choice of John Wayne would not suffice since he had only received an honorary Academy Award I decided, instead; to go with James Cagney.  Knowing nothing of the man, I preceded to discover that not only was he an icon of the gangster picture of the thirties, but that he also happened to be in Yankee Doodle Dandy, a performance that netted him a deserved Oscar.  This all happened well before I got into film, indeed, I think at that point I probably only cared about Lord of the Rings and could not be bothered to even acknowledge a world where other cinema might exist.  Yet, in the back of my mind I had always had this curiosity about Yankee Doodle Dandy, looking at the stills from the film and hearing brief soundbites of the actor delivering lines.  I have since then sought out the the film but never had the right moment to engage with it in any real way.  This month of musicals, however, is such an occasion and it was a frontrunner for inclusion.  Thankfully so, because Yankee Doodle Dandy within all of its grandstanding, jingoistic patriotism is something extraordinary, it is the forties musical at its most realized and absolutely fitting as a World War II propaganda piece that also doubles as an exceptional film.  It is baffling to think that Michael Curtiz released this film in the same year as Casablanca.  Other directors would work through their entire career just to obtain the success of one of these singular works.  For Curtiz it was a matter of multiple occurrences in the same year.  However, what is exceptionally phenomenal about Yankee Doodle Dandy, is not the work of Curtiz, although it helps, it is wholly the magic that the unlikeliest of performers brings to stage, the incomparable James Cagney.

Yankee Doodle Dandy focuses on the life of George M. Cohan (James Cagney) prolific songwriter and performer, known for his patriotic tunes "Over There" and "Yankee Doodle Dandy," although it sets the narrative up within the context of the elderly Cohan meeting with Franklin D. Roosevelt (Jack Young) whom Cohan has recently played in a musical.  Inquiring as to his thoughts on performing, Cohan begins to unfold his entire life story for the president, looking back on his time in vaudeville shows with his father, mother and sister, wherein he made a huge break taking on the role of Peck's bad boy, landing him in the curious eyes of agents and showman hoping to exploit his talent for huge financial gain.  In a wave of precociousness, a young Cohan is able to negotiate highly for his family, so much so that they can live comfortably well into Cohan's late twenties when the performer takes a shift towards songwriting specifically.  The Irish-American Cohan finding great joy in creating songs about the power and strength of America, making a name for himself in his rousing performances of revues that included songs like "Yankee Doodle Dandy."  Yet, Cohan seemingly always aware of the expectations of both audiences and critics strives to achieve the best possible in each scenario, answering the demands by critics that he branch away from his singular use of flag waving, or showy dance numbers.  Through trials and tribulations, Cohan manages to find his niche, always bring delight to audiences, even stepping in to serve as a figure of morale to troops during World War I when he is informed his age is a severe limitation to his being able to join the service.  Of course, age does catch up with Cohan, as does it with the rest of his family, both his mother and father stepping down from their jobs as performer to retire.  As they do so, Cohan comes to realize that the world around him is moving into a world of moving pictures and popular music, his show tune days becoming as aged as his body.  Yet, the spirit of resilience remains strong with Cohan, thus affording him a part in a play about Roosevelt.  In this moment the narrative returns to Cohan's discussion with the president, wherein Roosevelt rewards Cohan with a medal thanking him for his service to the country.  The elated Cohan dances down the stairs out into the streets, where marching soldiers are sing his tune, Cohan joining in the procession with tears in his eyes.

Jingoistic as Yankee Doodle Dandy may be, it is quite difficult to find a film with more inherent heart and good feeling within its structure.  Sure the film exists in a time when racial identity and gender oppression were troublesome, yet unlike the earlier reviewed Show Boat, Yankee Doodle Dandy does not purport to make these elements part of their narrative only to turn around and destroy them for the sake of white privilege.  The narrative of Yankee Doodle Dandy is a biopic first, afforded its musical status almost entirely as a result of its subject matter.  Music here works in a very literal sense, as they serve as depictions of moments from Cohan's life, as opposed to non-diegetic intrusions into the diegetic world of cinema that become things with which characters react.  Yankee Doodle Dandy, despite also being propaganda, also manages to tackle some issues of who is allowed to appropriate the American identity, particularly in a time when such actions took up layered implications.  Cahon's Irishness within the film, while not wholly acknowledged, is integral to the text, his attempts to break into the larger revue field, requires that he and his sister perform a song about Irish individuals, wherein, Cohan delivers his lines with a severe accent, almost knowing performing this element to mock the listening agents.  It makes within its narrative quite clear that the American mentality during World War II, even with something as seemingly inconsequential as music served as a state of heighten defensiveness, almost to the point of being confrontational.  Hell, one only needs to read the lyrics to "Over There" to discover how exceptionally flag-waving and idealistic films of the era proved to be.  It also works on layers, however, by showing Cohan interacting with a younger audience that to properly exert propaganda must require working within the space of the old ideas of entertainment (Cohan and his music) and new experiences within culture (the kids speaking adoringly of movies).  In many ways this is what Yankee Doodle Dandy does so brilliantly, it manages to be a culture exploration of patriotism and pride that works for a generation living with film and one who is decidedly confused by its operations.

Key Scene:  "He's a yankee doodle dandy...."

Buy this film.  It is an important backbone in the narrative of American cinema.

You Are Doing Good Just Bring It Down A Bit: A Chorus Line (1985)

I was made to believe that A Chorus Line was some modern classic in the way of the musical, navigating a space that had at the time yet to truly be uncovered.  Sure, it is quite intriguing for the ways in which it meshes together the traditional aspects of the musical film with a social realist drama that pinpoints all the intersections of difficulty at play in the world of professional dancers and their aspirations.  I could expand rather instinctively on how this is a great thing to consider in film, but becomes rather disconcerting when done in the exploitative way shown in A Chorus Line.  I could do a ton of these things and be completely warranted in my opinions.  However, on the other end I could defend it for its audacious and at times incredibly ambitious cinematography that manes to make the cramped stage of a chorus line audition seem to fill the world, or discuss how absolutely stellar Michael Douglas proves to be in a film where he rarely leaves the space of a casting chair.  I could go one of two ways with this film and certainly find a following and opposition in either camp.  While i am inclined to lean slightly towards it being a decent film, I know in my heart that A Chorus Line is about as middle of the road as a musical can come, particularly when it has a tendency to fall under its own datedness.  As a musical it hits all the necessary points, even digging a bit deeper than normal when the endeavor proves advantageous, unfortunately, the sort of fabrication at play makes it a matter of accepting that everyone will be afforded a chance to tell their unique perspectives is about as overly idealistic a thing that will ever happen in this particularly traditionalist genre.  A Chorus Line asks for moments of truth from its characters and since it exists in a layered space of the performance, there seems to be a knowing relationship between the dancers and the person shooting the film as to how created the entire process is, but also how important it can be to pushing their own careers forwards, as this proved to be either a definitive breaking point for cinematic success.

A Chorus Line begins about as in media res as a musical could, in so much as it looks at a group of initially nondescript dancers pouring their hearts into a dance number that is been over seen by the choreographer Larry (Terrance Mann).  The group consisting of several dozen performs fill up the space of the stage, hoping to do precisely what is necessary to catch a glimpse of interest from premier choreographer Zach (Michael Douglas).  Indeed, Zach is almost indifferent to the initial tryouts standing like a ghost in the background as lines upon lines of performers dance for his amusement, eventually using the help of his assistant and head choreographer Larry (Terrence Mann) to break down the group to roughly ten applicants including a variety of men and women all competing for, in the end eight parts.  The group is possessive of a variety of different faces, whether it be aging dancer Val Clarke (Audrey Landers) who seems a bit jaded about her hopes and dreams, or the brash Gregory Gardner (Justin Ross) who makes his gay identity known in a very empowering, albeit confrontational, way.  Together they represent a group hoping to attain the one job that will afford them a big break, all the while Zach judging their every move, this becomes more so the case when Zach's former lover and noted dancer Cassie (Alyson Reed) attends the tryouts.  She, along with the remainder of the group, expound upon why they decided to become dancers, whether it be one girl's desire to replicate the success of a small town Rockette, or another who always felt himself to be a bit more in line with his sister, literally wearing her shoes to attend a dance class on the fly.  Zach still secretive about exactly what his show will entail, pries and pulls for these various stories, even coming to relate closely to one young man named Paul (Cameron English) taking special consideration for him when his knee gives out during the beleaguering tryouts.  In the end, Zach does narrow it down to a select group in a manner that reconsiders how one assumes their ability and the receiving of accolades, although the closing number suggests that with the right amount of willpower every person can achieve the singular goal of their lives.

A Chorus Line is rather obvious in its premise that the musical is something that is enjoyed for its spectacle and very little, if anything, is made to consider how involved the personal lives of those on the stage become, indeed, each member of the line possessing their own unique, and often complex, life.  Instead, accolades and admiration is often mounted towards individuals like the producer or director who are seen as visionaries and geniuses, in its own way taking on an issue of gendering in all varieties of the performing arts.  A Chorus Line exists to show these stories within the context of the musical, moving away from the spectacle to the reality of those involved and in some ways it really works filmically, providing genius use of the inner monologue through song as a way of working within the genre, but also keeping it decidedly personal, however, it is also embracing of the spectacle in ways that make a lot of the scenarios become wrought with over performance and sensationalism that simply pad the encounters from any sense of earnestness, particularly when intended to be jarring and unsettling.  There are some rather serious considerations of racial identity that are swept under the table as passing jokes, ones that Zach seems considerably flippant towards, indeed, ignoring his own space of privilege, both as a white male, but also a person who has managed to make it big in the industry.  Sitting, almost as if his own personal panoptician, Zach is capable of judging those below him on a variety of issues, only feigning interest in their personal lives as it affords him personal advancement to his artistic vision.  He seems dismissive of othering, while also fascinated by the curiosity that comes with such identities, although in the end he seems quite content to fall back on his relationship with Cassie, her traditional beauty and normalcy becoming a thing of admiration, even affording her the ability to skip the more arduous elements of a tryout and eventually find her place within a chorus line.  The film wants to consider the ways in which intersections of identity play into the world of dance and theatre, but it also does not seem intent on being the least bit edgy in the process.

Key Scene:  Let Me Dance for You is good, but a bit too over the top at times.

A Chorus Line is a decent film, but, honestly, there are quite a few more musicals that are well worth your time.

I've Seen Brightness In One Little Spark: Dancer in the Dark (2000)

I am a proponent of the work of Lars Von Trier, while I had seen films like Antichrist and The Five Obstructions and was aware of his dreary style and bleak worldview, it was not until I encountered the enigmatic, condemning and frankly post-cinematic film Dogville, one of his offerings to the Dogme 95 group whose demand that cinema return to the very act of recording the image managed to constitute a new idea of the possibilities of digital cinema.  Dogville is a very tough sit, indeed, one of the most confrontational and, ultimately, moving films I have ever encountered.   It also happens to be one of the films for which I have had the most emotive response.  I did not think it would be likely that I would encounter another work quite like it, but leave it to watching another Lars Von Trier film to allow for such an occurrence.  Here in Dancer in the Dark, the cinephile that is Von Trier takes a the much beloved genre of the musical, noted for its escapist elements and asks filmgoers to truly understand who is escaping from what during such a film and more so, who is afforded access and privilege in such spaces.  I had heard whispers of this for some time, but its difficulty to obtain, rather lengthy runtime and an admittedly long time on my part to come around to the genius of Bjork, made me hesitant to embrace this endeavor.  I am now ashamed that it indeed took so long, because it is really something special, not always happy or enjoyable in the escapist cinema context more in line with the musical, but in a post-structuralist and, dare I suggest, post-modern cinema this is the only type of genre film that should exist, one that reminds viewers that their hopes of escaping into the world of film is always tempered with the reality that the visual image is only partial reality when placed in a cinematic where linear narrative can be broken.  Von Trier, always the provocateur, asks those watching a film like Dancer in the Dark a very stern and appropriate question.  Should the society which condemns a figure in trouble that clings tenuously to a dream, or should the collective viewership of a film that demands such dreams be fictionally allowed be the real villain.  In traditional Von Trier fashion, the answer is far from obvious.

Dancer in the Dark centers on the struggle single mother Selma (Bjork), whose legal blindness makes it somewhat difficult for her to remain viable and successful at her factory job, where precision and focus are not only necessary but key to survival.  Despite these troubles she works hard and slowly builds up a large amount of money which she plans to use to help her own son Gene (Vladica Kostic) attain corrective eye surgery so he will not have to live his life with the same crippling blindness Selma has faced.  While Selma does have the odds stacked against her, she is aided by the maternal guidance of another factory worker named Kathy (Catherine Deneuve) who helps her work through the nights and keeps an eye out for her in dangerous situations.  Selma and Gene are also fortunate to be provided a cheap living space with a local family consisting of cop Bill Houston (David Morse) and his wife Linda (Cara Seymour), although it is revealed that Selma has been engaged in an affair with Bill for quite sometime, he constantly borrowing money from her for some unestablished source of money leak.  When Bill becomes persistent about receiving a large loan, Selma refuses explaining that she is quite close to having the money for Gene's surgery and cannot afford the gamble.  Frustrated, Bill betrays Selma and tells his wife that Selma has been making advances towards him, all the while taking the money he needs.  Selma, as happy as ever, attempts merely to take the money back from Bill, who in a fit of defense ends up shooting himself and blaming Selma for the act.  Selma on the run, attempts briefly to return to her dream of playing Maria in a local production of The Sound of Music, but is eventually tracked down by authorities who bring her in on murder charges.  During her trial it is revealed that Selma has fabricated some of her past experiences, particularly in regards to who her father is thus leading to the jury finding her guilty of the murder she committed. While Kathy and others do their best to get a plea bargain for Selma, she is slammed with a death sentence that is acted out in the space of a penitentiary, but not before one final stirring and, ultimately, disconcerting dance number, one that is made all the more jarring by the film's final shot.

Dancer in the Dark, like all of Lars Von Trier's work exists in the post-structuralist state, as noted his Dogme 95 group draws attention to the very fabrication of cinema.  With that in mind, Von Trier does include elements of post-production, often in a very purposeful and deconstructionist manner, this is evidenced in the final moment of Breaking the Waves when CGI invades previously minimalist film in a arguably divine manner.  The same post-production elements work within Dancer in the Dark by the way of the musical performances, which while filmed in a realtime and on the fly do have the benefit of a post-production recording making the varied shots and ability to create continuity work.  In the context of Von Trier this would seem like a betrayal to his style, but it is important to remember that the musical numbers exist within the mind of Selma and nowhere else, to her they are moments of dreamlike escapism that often result in her returning, very jarringly, to a disparaging reality.  It is necessary to remember that there are other musical interludes in the film in the way of Selma and Kathy attending screenings of classic Hollywood musicals, these are not cut for continuity and the dialogue splits the film, in Selma's reality her escapism cannot come through the cinema, both because of her inability to see, but the refusal of other patrons to afford her extra sight by way of condemning her talking during the film.  Thus, Dancer in the Dark uses the post-production nature of the musical and its navigation of the diegetic and non-diegetic world to suggest that escapism is at play in all musicals in so much as their impossibility must exist in a day dream of sorts, because singing and dancing to all-invading music is simply not part of a reality.  Von Trier is commenting upon the world of the musical by showing that if musicals are in their purest sense the ultimate form of escapism, their success is predicated upon the viewer sharing in the sympathies of the cinematic subject, one that was established through witty dialogue in the thirties is here done through the reality afforded in digital cinema.  In either case, the choreography, music and generally cinematic nature of the musical performance is not lost, but merely predicates itself upon different standards entirely.

Key Scene:  The "I've Seen It All" sequence is profound.   Simply profound.

I know it is not the cheapest of films to pick up but it is worth owning.  I intend to upgrade to the Japanese bluray, but considering not all have gone region free, the DVD will suffice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.