The Classics Corner #19: M

Genre: Crime/Thriller

Director: Fritz Lang

Writers: Thea von Harbou and Fritz Lang

Producer: Seymour Nebenzal

Cast: Peter Lorre, Otto Wernicke, Gustaf Gründgens, Ellen Widmann, Inge Landgut, Theodor Loos, Friedrich Gnass

Music: Edvard Grieg

Cinematography: Fritz Arno Wagner

Editing: Paul Falkenberg

Distribution: Vereinigte Star-Film GmbH

Release Date: May 11, 1931

Running Time: 110 min

Fritz Lang’s M has one of the most evocative openings of any film. Even for those who have their doubts about watching an early German sound film will be nailed to their seats. It’s almost impossible to describe in words, because the entire sequence, and the entire film for that matter is so rooted in visual storytelling that it needs to be seen to be appreciated. While Lang’s contemporaries in America were using sound for mostly comedies and musicals, Lang crafted with his first sound film a disturbing tale about a child murderer on the loose played by Peter Lorre.

In M Lang pushed the capabilities of the new sound technology to the limits, using it not to be the focus of the film, but to be another element to the film. The focus here is still on pure cinematic storytelling. The story of M, about the child murderer who finds himself hunted by both the law and the criminal underworld is simple on paper, but by using innovative storytelling techniques, Lang elevates the film above simple pulp fiction. His direction, for one, lends the film an almost documentary like realism at times. While the look and feel of the film is still heavily indebted to German Expressionism, Lang’s camera almost voyeuristically intrudes itself into the events that unspool on screen. It isn’t until about a half hour or so into the film that we have our two main characters firmly introduced, the Inspector Lohmann (Otto Wernicke), the criminal ringleader Safecracker (Gustaf Gründgens), and the murderer doesn’t even come in until near the end of the film. Instead Lang begins the film by highlighting the paranoia gripping Berlin. People erupt in mobs, the police raid the bars, neighbors turn suspicious against one another, and it’s a feeling that never lets up even for a minute.

It’s been said that M was meant to be an allegory for the rise of the Nazis, but I think the themes put forth in M remain just as, if not even more prevalent in today’s times. Lang also touches on issues such as psychosis, mob justice, and capital punishment, but he does so in a manner that I found refreshingly complex. Rather than shoving an agenda down his viewer’s throats, he allows us to come to our own conclusions about the events on-screen, and what haunting events they are. The final half hour where the criminals place the murderer on a mock trial has lost none of its power to send chills straight down the spine of any viewer. This is in part due to the central performance by Peter Lorre. He plays the murderer as a nervous, wide eyed man who is always looking over his shoulder. He manages to express so much in so little screen time and without very much dialogue by just using his face, though his delivery of his final speech to the “court” is a brilliant display of screen acting, it’s Lorre’s face that will stick with the viewer long after.

Of course, Lang infuses the film with a brilliant visual sensibility. Every composition, camera angle, movement is carefully planned out for maximum effect, and the lighting is spot on. He has such an eye for atmosphere and space, his camera capturing the seedy dives and smoke-choked rooms of the film. Lang overcomes any technical limitations there may be. One scene I particularly liked was towards the middle of the film where the criminals and the cops are debating what to do about the murderer that has made life so difficult for both groups. Lang uses similar visual compositions, and intercuts between the two groups using dialogue. Also, Lang allows the rooms to become more smoke filled as the scene progresses increasing the intensity of the moment. I also found Lang’s use of mirrors and reflective surfaces to be quite expressive, one moment that has stuck with me is when Peter Lorre stands in front of a shop window as the reflections of jewelry create a square around his head, almost as if it is entrapping him. Though Lang’s visual style is bold, he often understates the events on screen. No murders are ever shown, just a ball rolling away or a balloon floating off, making everything all the more ominous and evocative.

M is one of the essential classics of the silver screen, it’s a powerful, haunting work by one of the cinema’s great artists. I can’t recommend this film enough, and the Criterion DVD is a first class restoration (I swear, I’m not working for them or anything, I just love their stuff).

The Classics Corner #18: I Vitelloni

Genre: Comedy/Drama

Director: Federico Fellini

Producer: PEG Produzione Film, Lorenzo Pegoraro, Mario De Vecchi, Jacques Bar

Writers: Federico Fellini, Ennio Flaiano, Tullio Pinelli

Cast: Franco Interlenghi, Alberto Sordi, Franco Fabrizi, Leopoldo Trieste, Riccardo Fellini

Music: Nino Rota

Cinematography: Carlo Carlini, Otello Martelli, Luciano Trasatti

Editing: Rolando Benedetti

Distribution: Janus Films

Release Date: August 26, 1953

Running Time: 103 min

I Vitelloni is not the great Italian auteur Federico Fellini’s greatest film, nor is it one of his more well-known, so why choose it as the first Fellini film to appear on The Classics Corner? Why not La Strada, La Dolce Vita, or 8 ½? I find that out of all of Fellini’s films I Vitelloni speaks to me the most. Watching it is like catching up with an old friend whom you haven’t seen in some time, the characters of the film do indeed resemble people I myself have known, and in many ways captures my own fears of growing up, my first attempts at starting relationships, and just trying to eke out an existence.

That and I Vitelloni is just grossly underrated often overshadowed by the maestro’s later achievements. For one, it’s still firmly a neorealist film, and aside from a few moments, can’t really be considered Felliniesque, though it also showcases Fellini’s artistic evolution and willingness to break new ground. While the film utilizes many neo-realist elements such as on-location shooting and a sharp, observational eye towards Post-War Italian society, most of the actors are professionals, and while most filmmakers at the time such as Rossellini or De Sica were more concerned with the changing politics of the times, Fellini is more interested in the changes in the social mores of mid fifties Italy.

Plus Fellini was showing a more playful side. Like many of Fellini’s films, I Vitelloni is rooted in Fellini’s own life experiences, and the film is set in Fellini’s hometown of Rimini. However, as he did later in Amarcord, this is a purely fictionalized Rimini. As the film opens the audience is introduced to the five main characters, the Vitelloni (the word itself an invention of Fellini). There’s Alberto (Alberto Sordi), a man fast approaching middle age, and riddled with insecurities, Leopoldo (Leopoldo Trieste), a faux intellectual who dreams of being a great playwright, Moraldo (Franco Interlenghi), a young man just beginning to experience life, Riccardo (Riccardo Fellini), a man who dreams of being a great singer but is stuck wallowing in his dreams, and Fausto (Franco Fabrizi), the “spiritual leader,” who has just impregnated Sandra (Leonora Ruffo) and finds himself an unwilling husband. None of these characters are based off of any real people, rather they just seem different facets of Fellini’s own personality. The opening scene where all the Vitelloni are introduced is one of the film’s most memorable. The camera fluidly tracks its way through a party on the boardwalk, the night sky pitch black, and the wind rustling as the narrator sarcastically comments on the going-ons while introducing us to our main characters.

The film follows the group of five over one year in their lives, as things around them begin to change. Though there’s that cynicism that’s always bubbling under the surface in Fellini’s work, the director is more sympathetic to his character’s here. There’s a certain melancholy that permeates throughout the film. Even in some of the film’s most comedic moments, it’s hard to shake off that feeling of desperation that’s always threatening to envelop the main characters. The characters in I Vitelloni feel like real people, they’re relatable, likeable, but not above pity. After all, they’re all over-sexed, and over-indulgent, wasting away their lives. One of Fellini’s great skills was getting great performances out of his actors, and this film is no exception, the actors themselves, though professional actors, give performances that aren’t far off from what you expect to find in other films of the neo-realist period. There’s a sense that the actors themselves have had experiences similar to the characters of the film, allowing them to truly embody their characters. The characters are what drive this mostly episodic film; the story isn’t as important as the characters are, and at times this can be a problem. At just over an hour and a half, I feel there just isn’t enough time to flesh out the characters completely. There’s so much more about them that I wanted to know, character traits that are only hinted at. The script feels disjointed and clunky at times, and yet the film in some way benefits from the feelings of imperfection, I don’t feel it would be the same had Fellini made this one a few years down the line, this is a film that could only be made by a young man, because it’s so entrenched in a young man’s experiences and his desire to portray the world around him.

We also begin to find Fellini indulging in some cinematic tricks here. There’s a magical quality to the film, a dose of stylization, especially during the scenes depicting parties in which the camera swoops every which way, most of all, though Fellini manages to create a feeling of the passing of time through his images. The images really do tell the story here. And of course there’s the ever great Nino Rota’s fantastic score. It wouldn’t be a Fellini film without Rota. The film has a flowing, lyrical quality to it, but again it does feel clunky at times. Fellini is working with three different cinematographers here, and there’s a certain disjointed quality to the images here, the flow always feels as if it is being interrupted by something. These problems would largely be fixed in Fellini’s next film La Strada, but here they keep the film from achieving so much more than it does.

Then again, I ask, if this film was more polished, would it be the same? I don’t think so. This is a film built on the raw emotions it brings across. It needs to be viewed for what it is, and it needs to be rediscovered. It’s such a shame that this film is being neglected, so do yourself a favor and pick up Criterion’s restoration of this gem and savor it. I promise that you won’t be let down.

The Classics Corner #17: Imitation of Life

Genre: Drama/Romance

Director: Douglas Sirk

Producer: Ross Hunter

Writers: Eleanore Griffin and Allan Scott (screenplay); Fannie Hurst (novel)

Cast: Lana Turner, Juanita Moore, John Gavin, Sandra Dee, Susan Kohner

Music: Frank Skinner, Sammy Fain, Henry Mancini

Cinematography: Russell Metty

Editing: Milton Carruth

Distribution: Universal International Pictures

Release Date: April 17, 1959

Running Time: 125 min

Is there any film more melodramatic than Douglas Sirk’s Imitation of Life? Indeed the film contains many scenes of an almost operatic intensity that one would be hard pressed to find anything more over-the-top than this gem of a film here. Douglas Sirk could probably be considered responsible for creating the modern American soap opera. His string of suburban melodramas made in the 1950s contain all the elements of a soap opera. The films all have the usual ingredients of a typical potboiler; the familial melodrama, illicit romance, murder, addiction, sex, topical issues and the like, but rather than just turning out syrupy “women’s pictures” as Sirk was accused of doing so by critics at the time he used melodrama as a means to launch critiques of the material society he saw around him. Instead of just simple soap operas Sirk’s films combine drama, dark comedy, social commentary, and evocative camerawork to elevate pieces of pop trash into pop art. Perhaps no film displays Sirk’s talent better than his last film Imitation of Life made in 1959.

Imitation of Life can best be called a melodramatic epic of sorts following the trials and tribulations of aspiring actress Lora Meredith (Lana Turner), her daughter Susie (Karin Dicker and later Sandra Dee). Within the first ten minutes of the film she meets a black woman Annie (Juanita Moore) who like Lora has a daughter of her own. Annie’s daughter Sarah-James (Terry Burnham and later Susan Kohner) is a fair-skinned girl who as we learn tries to pass herself off as white so she won’t have to endure the troubles her mother goes through on the basis of her skin color. As the years pass Lora has an on again off again relationship with a photographer Steve Archer (John Gavin) and becomes a famous Broadway actress all while Susie tries to deal with her mother’s absence. Meanwhile Annie continues to struggle with Sarah-Jane’s rejection of her own race whilst trying to lead a simple and devout life. Plenty of melodrama follows of course.

Sirk tells his tale in a multi-layered manner. First off there’s the surface story which is a multiple-hanky tale. The entire thing is told like an opera with each small event taking on monumental importance. Then there’s what’s bubbling under the surface, Sirk’s social commentary. For a viewer who is on the film’s wavelength Imitation of Life holds a spellbinding quality. The melodrama is simply fascinating in the way that television soap operas are fascinating, everything takes place within reality, and yet at the same time it is so far removed from reality that a viewer cannot help but be fascinated. At the same time though, Sirk is critiquing this desire that we have to escape reality. Throughout the film the characters are constantly trying to escape reality only to find its one step ahead of them. Annie is the only character who is really willing to accept the hardships of the real world while Lora, Susie, Sarah-Jane, and Steve all try to live up the good life. For a film so obsessed with surfaces its characters are strikingly realistic, and their conflicts are handled in a more subtle manner than the surface of the film would allow the viewer to believe. Underneath all of the suds, there’s still a human element to the story. These characters feel like real people and the situations are believable despite the fact that everything is played up for melodramatic effect. The reason why the film has aged so well is because Sirk doesn’t allow the film to loose sight of the human element or descend into kitsch.

Plus every scene has two or three different subtexts running through it. Take the scene where Sarah-Jane’s boyfriend discovers she’s white and begins to beat her. It’s a shocking scene, but at the same time the music is a very upbeat jazz soundtrack and the entire sequence is delivered with such style. Is one to laugh? Cringe? Or something else? On one level we feel bad for Sarah-Jane, but at the same time we see the irony in her situation, it was her own fault for getting into the situation she was in, or was it her fault? There are so many scenes in the film which will have you going back and forth between different emotions and ideas. This is what makes Sirk’s satire so great, that he’s able to create so many different reactions from a viewer while still managing to get his ideas across. At the heart of the film, Imitation of Life is both a satire and a document on the American experience

At the end of the film I was in tears because of all the emotion being pumped out from the screen, and yet at the same time I was laughing at the entire production. Sirk directs the entire film with such style and panache. His style manages to be both elegant and lurid at the same time in his use of skewed angles and elegant tracking shots. Also note the gradual buildup in the intensity of the cinematography as the film progresses. The beginning of the film uses mostly browns, greens, and reds with an eye level camera, but as the film progresses the colors become more intense and the camerawork more extravagant. Sirk’s technical mastery is so sumptuous that every shot and movement is perfectly in tune with the music. The film feels almost like a fever dream at times in its execution, and the effect is amazing. Sirk definitely knows how to tell a story cinematically.

The acting in the film isn’t great though. Lana Turner is one of those actresses that is more of an icon than an actor. Her performance is almost a bit too melodramatic and stilted, and yet when placed in with the rest of the film Turner fits in. The same goes for John Gavin’s wooden, pretty boy performance. He feels like a poor man’s Cary Grant, and he’s no replacement for Sirk regular Rock Hudson, but I can’t help but feel that his wooden performance works. The same goes for Sandra Dee and Juanita Moore. However Susan Kohner does an amazing job as the older Sarah-Jane, her performance is more natural and she brings a dose of unrestrained sensuality to her character. She’s sort of like the straight man in a comedy, her performance is more method than melodrama, but it still has that burning intensity especially in some of the later scenes. I feel that while the acting fits the film well, it could have been better, because aside from Susan Kohner I just wasn’t riveted by the performances, I was riveted by the actor’s ability to be intense.

Imitation of Life is a strange film, upon release it was loathed by the critics and loved by the audiences, but that seems to have changed now. Audiences today laugh at the Sirk films, while critics and filmmakers such as Roger Ebert, Todd Haynes, and Rainer Werner Fassbinder revere Sirk. His oeuvre is entertaining, intelligent, cinematic, and enthralling, and Imitation of Life stands at the pinnacle of the fifties soapers.

The Classics Corner #16: Rio Bravo

Genre: Western/Romance/Drama

Director: Howard Hawks

Producer: Howard Hawks

Writers: Jules Furthman and Leigh Brackett (screenplay); B.H. McCampbell (short story)

Cast: John Wayne, Dean Martin, Ricky Nelson, Angie Dickinson, Walter Brennan, Ward Bond, John Russell, Pedro Gonzalez-Gonzalez, Estelita Rodriguez, Claude Akins, Malcolm Atterbury, Harry Carey Jr.

Music: Dimitri Tiomkin

Cinematography: Russell Harlan

Editing: Folmar Blangsted

Distribution: Warner Bros.

Release Date: March 18, 1959

Running Time: 141 min

The films of Howard Hawks remain some of the most accessible films of the classic Hollywood era because they remain as fresh and exciting when viewed today as they were for audiences when they were released. Hawks was a director who held a sense of fierce independence at a time when many directors found their work cut up by the long arm’s of the studio, he was also a meticulous craftsman who could work up a great script, get great performances from his actors and bring all of the elements together into one great movie. This is perhaps why his films have transcended cultural and generational barriers, they’re simply great entertainments, and no film shows off Hawks’ style more perfectly than his 1959 classic Rio Bravo.

Originally intended as a response to High Noon, a film reviled by Wayne and Hawks, Rio Bravo adapts the basic story of a sheriff defending his town from outlaws, but drops the overt political subtext that surrounded High Noon and instead focuses more on the characters and situations. At the center of things is Sheriff John T. Chance (John Wayne) who has locked up the brother of a powerful ranch owner for murder. Chance is a stubborn man who despite the danger of his situation refuses help from all but his closest friends, including his two sheriffs Dude (Dean Martin) and Stumpy (Walter Brennan). Dude is a flawed man with a penchant for drinking, and Stumpy is a cripple resigned to guarding the jailbird. Much of the film the plot is pushed into the background and instead the camera focuses on the characters and their struggles. In fact Rio Bravo is a film that could take place anywhere at anytime, it’s the characters and their struggles that matter. The suspense in the film isn’t derived from the impending fight, but rather the character’s struggles. One of Hawks’ great skills as a filmmaker was his ability to draw us into the problems and dynamics of his characters. Every character in Rio Bravo is richly detailed, and thoroughly human, and Hawks handles their dramas in a very mature manner. Take Dude’s struggle with alcoholism, a lesser filmmaker would have turned it into a preachy story arc, but instead it remains thoroughly dramatic. Notice how instead of intervening, Chance lets Dude overcome his own struggles, take for example when Dude and Stumpy get into an argument, Chance decides not to get involved. There’s also Chance’s relationship with the professional gambler Feathers (Angie Dickinson), revealed through energetic and sexually-charged conversations between the two. Hawks had such a way with dialogue, and Rio Bravo is filled throughout with memorable one-liners and great conversations. Hawks’ naturalistic dialogue has in fact been an influence on many filmmakers to come such as Quentin Tarantino.

Above all though, Rio Bravo is one hell of a fun western. It’s a film that has all the staples of a great western, but instead of merely relying on clichés it transcends them. The suspense, the action, the story is all superbly handled by Hawks who has a keen understanding of cinematic technique. To the naked eye, Hawks’ direction can appear theatrical, he preferred to shoot his scenes at eye level and rarely used close-ups, but Rio Bravo belongs specifically to the cinema. Hawks’ placement of all the elements in a scene, the way he edits, and places his actors is all distinctly cinematic. Take for example the wordless opening sequence, like most of the film it is shot at eye level and from a distance, save for a jarring cut when the camera cuts to an angle shot of Chance. Hawks uses devices like these such as shots of sunsets, and radical angles sparingly to give a sense of uneasiness. I also applaud his use of music, there’s a sequence towards the middle of the film where the band in the saloon is instructed to play a haunting melody that permeates throughout all of the other scenes, and the feeling it provides is so atmospheric. The action scenes are all tense and exciting, and the gunfight at the end is not to be missed. It’s exciting and well-directed, and a stunning conclusion to the film.

Rio Bravo is a well-acted picture. The central performance from John Wayne remains to this day one of his best. Just the way he carries himself throughout the film, the way he delivers his dialogue and his distinct mannerisms with an air of confidence is superb. Wayne though doesn’t allow himself to dominate the screen, and instead allows Dean Martin, Ricky Nelson, and Angie Dickinson to give strong performances. Dean Martin gave what I thought was the best performance of the film, and his portrayal of the alcoholic Dude remains so real and empathetic. I forget at times that I’m watching an actor and become fully caught up in the character he is playing. Angie Dickinson is one of the great Hawksian women. She plays her character with an air of confidence, but not without a bit of sex appeal, she plays so well off of John Wayne and their scenes together are some of the best of the film. Ricky Nelson is a bit, well, he’s good, he’s got energy, but his performance isn’t in the league of Wayne’s or Martin’s. The cast is rounded off by a wonderful performance from character actor Walter Brennan as stumpy and a colorful supporting cast.

Rio Bravo is one of the great westerns, and it’s one of the great films period. There are few other films that are so well directed, well scripted, and well acted. It’s entertaining, exciting, and above all human. It’s one of the last of the great Hollywood studio films before the sixties changed the way films were made, and it’s quite a swan song.

The Classics Corner #15: Black Narcissus

Genre: Drama

Directors: Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger

Writers: Rumer Godden (novel); Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger (screenplay)

Producers: Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger

Cast: Deborah Kerr, Flora Robson, Jean Simmons, David Farrar, Sabu, Esmond Knight, Kathleen Byron, Jenny Laird, Jenny Laird, Judith Furse, May Hallatt, Shaun Noble, Eddie Whaley Jr., Nancy Roberts, Ley On

Music: Brian Easdale

Cinematography: Jack Cardiff

Editing: Reginald Mills

Distribution: General Film Distributors

Release Date: May 26, 1947

Running Time: 100 min

Rising out of the ashes of WWII, Britain experienced a flourishing of creativity within its film industry. Filmmakers like David Lean and Carol Reed were spearheading this renaissance with visually invigorating and daring films. However it is the films of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, known as The Archers, who were responsible for the most creative and daring films of the period. Always working just to the left of mainstream, Powell and Pressburger created a body of work that consisted of highly stylized offbeat melodramas such as The Red Shoes and A Matter of Life and Death that continue to be discovered and cherished by cineastes worldwide. Perhaps their most well known work though is their 1947 Technicolor symphony Black Narcissus, a film which remains as exciting and shocking today as it had been to audiences back in 1947.

Black Narcissus follows a convent of Anglican nuns led by Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr) as they try to establish a hospital and school in a remote, old palace in the Himalayas. However the palace does not seem the ideal place to establish a nunnery as it is decorated in erotic art and the villagers are reluctant to accept the nuns. The nuns have a hard time adjusting to the harsh environment around them, and one in particular Sister Ruth (Kathleen Byron) worries Sister Clodagh, in particular because her attention seems to be straying away from God and towards the handsome, but amoral land agent Mr. Dean (David Farrar). Each nun begins to grapple with repressed memories and desires in some way or another and their convent is slowly torn apart, but these desires, these all to human desires. Powell and Pressburger establish these challenges of the environment early on, not only is the palace not the ideal place to establish a nunnery, but they also face challenges from the villagers who are unable to accept the outsiders coming onto their land. In fact the General of the village (Esmond Knight) has to pay them to visit the hospital the Sisters have set up. However it’s apparent that there is something more insidious tearing apart the convent, the very atmosphere of the environment around them is not kind to those who try to fight it as the Sister’s are trying to do. The Sister’s face a spiritual challenge from the Holy Man who sits atop a hill ever silent to the world around him, and the villagers are more willing to accept the Holy Man than they are the convent. Powell and Pressburger use subtle pieces of symbolism, especially sense stimulated symbolism such as colors, sounds, and smells to create an atmosphere of dishevelment and dread.

Sister Clodagh is perhaps too young to take on the task of leading the convent as she struggles with repressed memories of a lost love. She tries to remain bold in the face of the challenges that await her, but she’s never able to keep things together. Because she was never able to control and overcome her own insecurities that she is unable to lead. It’s the battle of wills between Clodagh and Sister Ruth that is perhaps one of the most fascinating aspects of the film. Ruth and Clodagh both suffer from the same problems, but both nuns have a different way of expressing themselves. While Clodagh tries to repress her memories and desires, Sister Ruth announces them to the world, trying to control everyone and everything around her. It becomes apparent that both nuns express desire for Mr. Dean, but neither are able to come to terms with their own humanity in a healthy manner. Mr. Dean is perhaps the most sensible character in the film, he knows that the land is harsh and the Sisters desire him, and he tries to be subversive hoping that he can get the message across, but he fails to do so.

Between all of these events, there are other plot threads that serve to bring about the end of the convent, such as the affair between the Young General (Sabu) and the dancing girl (Jean Simmons) or the eldest nun Sister Philippa’s (growing doubts surrounding her once strong faith. Some viewers may find the melodrama of Black Narcissus to be off-putting, but I believe the melodrama creates a hypnotic atmosphere; it brings the film into the realm of heightened reality to the point of being almost a fever dream. The cinematography by Jack Cardiff only assists in creating these feelings. Every shot in the film is composed like a painting, making bold use of colors and lighting. The use of sharp camera angles and various sound effects create a powerful effect. However there are many small visual touches that go unnoticed, and it’s these subtle touches that elevate Black Narcissus from simple melodrama to Technicolor symphony. It’s hard to believe that not a single piece of the film was shot on location, because The Archers held complete technical control over every aspect of the film. Black Narcissus has a reputation of being one of the best films filmed in Technicolor, and it lives up to that reputation, there’s no doubt that the technical innovations The Archers used here were an influence on filmmakers such as Douglas Sirk and Nicholas Ray who would go onto make their own melodramas in a fashion similar to that of Powell and Pressburger.

The acting in Black Narcissus is as strong as the rest of the film. Deborah Kerr gives an astounding performance as Sister Clodagh, she often acts with her face, even when she’s delivering dialogue. Her scenes with Kathleen Byron as Sister Ruth are especially memorable because Kerr’s acting is much more subdued while Byron allows herself to descend into all out hysteria, and since much of the film is seen through the eyes of Kerr, Byron’s acting creates a powerful effect on the viewer. I thought David Fararr’s performance as Mr. Dean is often undervalued. He’s down to earth, but not without charm, and he interacts well with the other actors. Fararr, like his character, is the lynchpin that keeps the all of the other actors together, because he’s the voice of reason among so many mad people, and he plays the part well. Jean Simmons and Sabu make great turns as the Young General and the dancing girl, and Jean Simmons leaves quite an impression despite having limited dialogue and screen time. The supporting cast rounds out the film pretty well, some are better than others, but no one is bad in anyway.

Black Narcissus remains one of the most transcendent experiences I’ve yet had as a film-goer. The work of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger has impressed me just as it has impressed countless other cineastes. For those yet unfamiliar with the work of The Archers, I recommend picking up a copy of Criterion’s restored re-release of Black Narcissus when it hits shelves in June, and prepare to be blown away by the sheer power of this masterpiece of melodrama.

The Classics Corner #14: Jules and Jim

Genre: Drama/Romance

Director: François Truffaut

Writers: Henri-Pierre Roché (novel); François Truffaut and Jean Gruault (adaptation and dialogue)

Producers: Marcel Berbert and François Truffaut

Cast: Jeanne Moreau, Oskar Werner, Henri Serre, Vanna Urbino, Boris Bassiak, Anny Nelsen, Sabine Haudepin, Marie Dubois, Michel Subor

Music: Boris Bassiak, Georges Delerue

Cinematography: Raoul Coutard

Distribution: Cinédis

Release Date: January 23, 1962

Love, I believe is something that is difficult to portray on film, because while passion is universal, love is different for each of us. Perhaps that is why Jules and Jim creates such polarizing reactions from viewers, because the film is very much director François Truffaut’s perspective on love. Though the film was based off of an autobiographical novel written during the days of World War I, the film doesn’t belong to the early twentieth century, but rather to the early 1960s in it’s depiction of love, passion, and existentialist angst. Truffaut’s vision of the novel on screen also belongs more to the cinema than to the literary world; such was the tradition of the French New Wave. When Jules and Jim was first screened in 1962 its cultural impact was undeniable. It’s impact on me was also undeniable, Jules and Jim is a film that changed the way I looked at how cinema was able to portray emotion and ideas, and it also changed the way I looked at my own life. This analysis will probably be more personal than the past reviews I’ve written, but that’s only because Jules and Jim is a film that means so much to me.

Unfurling in the years before and after World War I, Jules and Jim tells the complicated story of the friendship of the Austrian Jules (Oskar Verner) and the Frenchman Jim (Henri Serre) who meet in Paris before the war and the love for Catherine (Jeanne Moreau). The film does tell a story, but it’s driven purely by emotion. The characters of Jules, Jim, and Catherine exist outside of time, they’re driven by human emotions, and their actions and needs are always shifting and changing. Jim is shy and awkward with women, while Jules is outgoing and exuberant, though both men are compassionate and passionate about life.. But it’s Catherine that’s the most fascinating character. She’s woman incarnate, an intellectual, emotional creature who is never sure what she wants, and though she manipulates her friends to get what she wants, she never quite does, and only winds up with guilt. Perhaps this is why the film feels so spontaneous. The plot feels as if it is an unwritten narrative unfurling itself in all sorts of exciting directions. The film at once resembles a farce not unlike a Charlie Chaplin film or a screwball comedy, and at other times its drama enters a land of romantic melancholy that reminds one of Jean Vigo’s L’Atalante, a film which greatly influenced Truffaut as a young boy.

As viewers we are swept up in the character’s emotional hurricane. Watching the film I was excited by the spontaneity of the lives the character’s led, the way the allowed their pure emotions to dictate them and how they faced the future on unknown, and despite the tragic consequences of their actions, perhaps no other film captured for me my own emotions at the time of watching the film. I admire the characters in the film, but I often wonder how I will view this film five, ten, twenty years down the road when I am older and not so susceptible to my teenage mood swings. Though perhaps it is my demographic that Truffaut intended the film to be seen by, Truffaut after all was young himself at the time, but steadily getting older. If The 400 Blows depicted his childhood, perhaps Jules and Jim was meant to depict his younger years and the relationships he embarked on. That is after all what the author of the novel Henri-Pierre Roché intended. I think it’s because of this my aunt and uncle who are approaching middle age were not able to fully appreciate Jules and Jim, their young years of spontaneity had left them behind and though the remember those years, they cannot remember the way they felt during them. And although Truffaut is a romantic, he isn’t a sentimentalist, the tragedy in the film is on the characters own doing, and we should pity them not fawn over them.

There is a purely cinematic way with which Truffaut manages to trap so much emotion. One is his sprightly direction which skips through the years like a pebble on water creating an atmosphere of time lost. However through collaboration with cinematographer Raoul Coutard and through his own innovative devices Truffaut creates so much visual poetry. He uses all of the devices at his disposal such as jump cuts, long takes, tracking shots, still pictures, stock footage, narration, etc… to weave his poetry, and he makes no effort for there to be consistency in his use of cinematic technique, though the film takes on a slower and more somber appearance as it progresses. The visual style though captures so much; Truffaut has this uncanny ability to capture raw emotion on film in a distinctly cinematic manner. How fortunate we are the Truffaut shot the film in black and white, it’s so soft and poetic, and though the events in the film are complex, the visuals remain in pure black and white, and the images he captures with them stir so much up in the viewer.

The acting in the film is fantastic throughout. Jeanne Moreau casts a fiercely sensual presence. She is the archetypical New Wave female, a woman who seduces with her intellectual ability rather than with her body (though I don’t think anyone is denying that Moreau is a beautiful woman). She is able to speak so much using her face, and she delivers her dialogue in constantly shifting tongues. Oskar Werner and Henri Serre are both fantastic as Jules and Jim themselves. Oskar Werner always has this sad, wistful look on his face, he slips into the role of the awkward Jim quite comfortably. The supporting cast is all fantastic, they really bring their all into the film especially the little girl Sabine as Jules and Catherine’s daughter, and she’s just so adorable.

Jules and Jim is a film that remains after almost fifty years as fresh and exciting as it did when it came out. It’s a film that exists outside of time, and with the ability to tap into the consciousness of any generation. Truffaut never did anything this masterly again, but maybe he knew Jules and Jim couldn’t be topped. It remains one of the few perfect films I have seen, and one of the few films that I feel a part of emotionally, because I am made a part of the story. See this movie and experience these feelings for yourself.

The Classics Corner #13: The Maltese Falcon

Genre: Crime/Film-Noir/Mystery

Director: John Huston

Writer: John Huston

Producer: Hal B. Wallis

Cast: Humphrey Bogart, Mary Astor, Gladys George, Peter Lorre, Barton MacLane, Lee Patrick, Sydney Greenstreet, Ward Bond, Jerome Cowan, Elisha Cook Jr., James Burke, Murray Alper, John Hamilton

Music: Adolph Deutsch

Cinematography: Arthur Edeson

Editing: Thomas Richards

Distribution: Warner Bros.

Release Date: October 3, 1941

Running Time: 101 min

The Maltese Falcon is one of those films that we remember; it’s certainly one of the silver screen’s most iconic pieces. The characters, the quotes, the drama is all so seeped into public consciousness that many who finally see the film are disappointed that it isn’t what they were expecting. It’s less flashy and stagier than later film noirs, but no less entertaining, and it’s a film that established film noir as a style of filmmaking. Up until The Maltese Falcon there had been films that had elements of film noir, but The Maltese Falcon was the film that brought these elements together for the first time. Second it made the careers of Humphrey Bogart and John Huston. Everyone knows who Bogie is, he’s without a doubt the most iconic actor in the history of cinema, and that’s because he’s a badass. John Huston on the other hand remains not as well known, but during his nearly fifty year career as a filmmaker he was responsible for some of the most entertaining and engaging films ever lensed. Like his characters Huston was an adventurer, womanizer, boxer, painter, writer, and war hero. Bogie and Huston were made to work with one another; both were men’s men who had a similar vision. This is a film to be reckoned with.

Adapted from Dashiell Hammet’s novel of the same name, The Maltese Falcon introduces tough guy detective Sam Spade (Humphrey Bogart). He owns a private detective agency with his partner, but mostly tackles menial cases. However one day the seductress Brigid O'Shaughnessy (Mary Astor) comes to visit Spade pleading for help. One dead partner later and Sam Spade is on the hunt for the killers as O'Shaughnessy drags him into a twisted criminal underworld. The plot of The Maltese Falcon is like a jigsaw puzzle that never quite fits together. It’s infamous for being so confusing, and there are plenty of plot holes that careful viewers could pick out. However the film is less about the mystery and more about the characters that surround the mystery. Sam Spade as portrayed by Bogie is a tough guy who isn’t above knocking out a few teeth now and again, and he views the world around him with such contempt. The death of his partner doesn’t seem to phase Spade, and it isn’t long before he’s necking with his widow and having the signs on their office changed. Sam Spade is a character who is driven by some hatred that the source of is never fully revealed. Take another scene for example where Spade punches out Joel Cairo (Peter Lorre) for having a scented handkerchief, an obvious sign in 1941 that the eccentric Cairo was homosexual. The Maltese Falcon devotes much time to exploring Spade’s character. His scenes with O'Shaughnessy are especially fascinating, and the audience is let in on several details about Spade’s past through the dialogues with her. We get the sense that Spade has been double-crossed by a woman before, and isn’t going to let it happen again. Spade holds very little value on human life, and is more interested in seeing that everything works out favorably for him in the end. The real mystery of the film is not the events surrounding the Black Bird, it’s the mystery of Spade’s character, and he is a character that audiences continue to be fascinated by.

The story is delivered in a somewhat theatrical tone, there are only a few other main characters and almost everything is dialogue. There’s Mary Astor’s O'Shaughnessy a woman who can turn the tears on and off like a faucet, a shady woman with a past, that like Spade’s is only somewhat explained. There’s the flamboyant Joel Cairo who barley suppresses his violent urges and is tossed around by the other characters like a punching bag, and there’s the “Fat Man,” a man quite literally larger than life. All these characters are chasing after the exact same thing, a golden statue of a falcon. Their allegiances are constantly shifting as is who has power over the others. The character dynamics are fascinating, and the dialogue is brilliant. Each scene is filled with memorable, evocative dialogue that moves everything along at a quick pace. Though the film is more theatrical than other noirs everything remains fascinating because the writing is top-notch. This is a film that doesn’t let up, and the audience is constantly kept guessing as to who is who and what is what.

As Sam Spade Humphrey Bogart delivered a career-defining performance, and it is a tour de force. The mannerisms, the accent, everything we expect from Bogart came from this movie. Though Bogie is often remembered for playing tough guys, he was a much better actor than some groups of people give him credit for being. Especially during the scenes with O'Shaughnessy there’s a certain look to his eyes, and the way he delivers his dialogue has such an edge to it. One can’t help but wonder if Bogie knew this movie would define him. Mary Astor as O'Shaughnessy gives a fine performance, but there’s something about her that doesn’t work in the role of femme fatale. She isn’t as seductive or slinky as some of the other women of film noir, and yet there’s something in her matronly quality that works. Astor has a certain innocence she casts about her, and like her character she can turn the tears on and off. It’s easy to see how she can lure men into her trap. Peter Lorre is fantastic as usual playing Joel Cairo, and his ability to play an oddball has never been displayed better. Sydney Greenstreet holds a certain captivating power as the Fat Man, and he brings a literally larger than life presence to the film. When on screen together these actors are all fantastic, each star burning bright and lighting the screen.

What’s surprising about The Maltese Falcon is how much of it takes place inside nice hotels and offices. It’s a far cry from the down and dirty streets of later noirs, and the look of the film is far more theatrical. However John Huston has a great eye for space and composition. The settings are all lit and shot and peculiar angles, and the use of shadow is restrained but effective. The techniques Huston uses were being used by Orson Welles in Citizen Kane the same year, but Huston shoots with much more restraint and professionalism than Welles does. Still there are some very creative shots, such as during Spade’s first meeting with the Fat Man we see everything from various angles, and then a POV shot in which Spade has clearly been drugged. Watching the scene again, I’m amazed at the economy and flow that Huston shot the scene with, it’s exhilarating. There’s such flow and excitement that Huston creates with so little in this film.

The Maltese Falcon is rightly a classic, and the achievements of the film may outdo the film itself at times, but one cannot deny the sheer entertainment of the film. This is one of those films where all the elements were in the right place at the right time and came together in a perfect manner. Film noir began here.

The Classics Corner #12: Ran

Genre: Action/Drama/War

Director: Akira Kurosawa

Writers: Akira Kurosawa (screenplay), Hideo Oguni (screenplay), Masato Ide (screenplay); William Shakespeare (Play “King Lear”)

Producers: Katsumi Furukawa, Serge Silberman, Masato Hara, Hisao Kurosawa

Cast: Tatsuya Nakadai, Akira Terao, Jinpachi Nezu, Daisuke Ryû, Mieko Harada, Yoshiko Miyazaki, Hisashi Igawa, Peter, Masayuki Yui, Kazuo Katô, Norio Matsui, Toshiya Ito, Kenji Kodama, Takashi Watanabe, Mansai Nomura

Music: T?ru Takemitsu

Cinematography: Asakazu Nakai, Takao Sait?, Masaharu Ueda

Editing: Akira Kurosawa

Distribution: Toho

Release Dates: June 1, 1985 (Japan); December 20, 1985 (US)

Running Time: 160 min

Akira Kurosawa is one of the masters of the cinema, aside from Hitchcock, I would argue that no other director has had more influence on the medium than Kurosawa. An expert in visual storytelling, Kurosawa’s films continue to feel fresh and exciting. Today is the 100^th anniversary of Akira Kurosawa’s birth, and in honor of this great filmmaker, today on The Classics Corner I’m taking a look at what I consider to be his magnum opus, Ran. Made when Kurosawa was seventy-five years old, Ran was one of the most ambitious projects Kurosawa took on. Ran is an adaptation of King Lear with elements of Japanese folklore and noh theater, but it’s so much more. During the time of production Kurosawa was severely out of favor with the Japanese film industry, his films were being seen as too stilted and old-fashioned, either too Japanese or too western, but also during the production Kurosawa’s beloved wife passed away. After Ran Kurosawa was only able to make three small scale films before passing away in 1998, and Ran in many ways was his last breath. Let’s take a look.

As mentioned before, Ran is an adaptation of King Lear, but Kurosawa isn’t interested in creating a faithful adaptation here. The most radical changes any fan of Shakespeare will notice is that Lear’s daughters have been changed into the sons Taro (Akira Terao), Jiro (Jinpachi Nezu), and Saburo (Daisuke Ryû). The three brothers like in King Hear are the sons of the ruler of the land, and here in Ran that’s Lord Hidetora Ichimonji (Katsumi Furukawa) who unlike Lear is a cruel warlord who has pillaged villages and murdered women and children. Hidetora is old and dying and splits his kingdom up among his three sons, but Saburo is wary of his father’s actions and dissents resulting in his banishment despite being the only one of the three sons that actually loves his father. It’s not long then before a power struggle ensues between Taro and Jiro and Hidetora is cast into the wilderness to go mad.

Kurosawa places a heavy emphasis on pacing in Ran, allowing the story to unfurl itself at a slower pace than normal for the director. The audience spends a lot of time with Hidetora, seeing the world through his eyes as everything seems to tear itself apart. Kurosawa is fascinated by the power struggle that develops over the film, but one gets the sense that the struggle for power isn’t just between Hidetora’s sons, but also a much larger event being played out in the heavens. Kurosawa did call the film a “series of human events witnessed from heaven,” and in Ran Kurosawa turns the viewer into a God almost witnessing the human destruction being wrought. Even in chaos Kurosawa always manages to find the humanity. One plot thread involves a woman whose parents were killed by Hidetora, and her brother blinded by his soldiers. There’s a scene where she stands with Hidetora against the sunset and tells him how she cannot hate him, and Hidetora begs her to do so. This scene is all done in one long take with very little camera movement, and no background music, all we’re shown is the interaction between these two characters, and the human connection between them. These are the scenes I think Kurosawa wanted viewers to focus on, and these moments are so simple and subtle that one cannot help but feel for the characters. The mood of the film always has a soft subtlety to it, and even the horrific elements are depicted in a somewhat minimalist manner, a far cry from the heightened emotion of Kurosawa’s earlier productions.

The story arc throughout the film is handled in an almost symphonic manner. Though Kurosawa places a heavy emphasis on pacing, he never allows the film to become bogged down in itself, everything flows naturally working itself up to the unforgettable climax. Like Shakespeare, Kurosawa is a poet who knows how to create sublime poetry, and he displays this skill perfectly in Ran. As I mentioned earlier Kurosawa turns the viewer into a God almost, and he does this by filming mostly in long takes and long-shots. Kurosawa painted out every scene on the storyboard to make sure his vision would translate perfectly onto the screen, and it does. The use of color in Ran is bold and spectacular, employing rich hues for every scene. All of the battle scenes are filmed in long-shots as well, using jump cuts to convey tension, and a haunting score is used in place of the noise of war. It’s an effective method, and the battle scenes in Ran, are some of the best in cinema. They manage to be both beautiful and horrific at the same time. The cinematography is so stunning that words cannot describe the pure cinematic effect of it; it must be seen in every sense.

Ran is spearheaded by a fantastic performance by Katsumi Furukawa who plays Hidetora. As usual in Japanese cinema the performances are highly stylized and theatrical, but impressive, and Furukawa gives an intense performance. His performance relies heavily on body language and facial expressions, and one can literally see the change in him and his character as the film progresses. About halfway through the film Hidetora is trapped in a burning castle as arrows fly around him and he sits motionless. Furukawa keeps a stoic, but broken look to his face that slowly keeps on breaking apart, it’s fantastic acting. Of course there are plenty of fantastic supporting performances, and one I think that’s worth highlighting is the crossdresser Peter as Hidetora’s fool. There’s a strong sense of sexual ambiguity that Peter brings to the role that works really well, and he brings a subtle dose of humor to the film while still allowing us to take his character seriously. The other cast members perform at top game, and Ran is a film that has its whole cast putting it all into the project.

There aren’t enough good things to say about Ran, it’s a perfect film. Akira Kurosawa is a talent who the twenty-first century could sorely use, he was a master craftsman, and although he’s been imitated and copied from, there’s still no experience like actually watching a Kurosawa film. My grandparents who never watch foreign films, and who don’t even know who Kurosawa is saw a part of Ikiru on Turner Classic Movies, and were glued to their seats, this just shows how Kurosawa has transcended both time and cultural barriers. Happy birthday Kurosawa.

The Classics Corner #11: Sátántangó

Genre: Comedy/Drama

Director: Béla Tarr

Writers: László Krasznahorkai (novel) and Mihály Vig (story), Péter Dobai (story), Barna Mihók (story); László Krasznahorkai (screenplay) and Béla Tarr (screenplay)

Producer: György Fehér, Ruth Waldburger, Joachim von Vietinghoff

Cast: Mihály Vig, Putyi Horváth, László feLugossy, Éva Almássy Albert, János Derzsi, Irén Szajki, Alfréd Járai, Miklós Székely B., Erzsébet Gaál, Erika Bók, György Barkó, Peter Berling, András Bodnár, Ilona Bojár, Péter Dobai, István Juhász, Zoltán Kamondi, Barna Mihók, Mihály Ráday

Music: Mihály Vig

Cinematography: Gábor Medvigy

Distribution: Facets (US)

Release Date: February 8, 1994

Running Time: 450 min

There’s been a change in schedule; my review of Umberto D. is on hook until further notice.

Béla Tarr, anyone with even a passing interest in art cinema has heard that name. Roger Ebert calls him a director that’s more talked about than watched, and indeed for the longest time Tarr was just a name to me. I’d heard about Werckmeister Harmonies and Sátántangó, but I’d never actually taken the time to sit down and view the films. Why? Sátántangó is a long movie, and I don’t mean long as in it’s more than and hour and a half and the teenagers with ADD find it long, I mean seven and a half hours long. If you’re still here, good. It’s not an easy film to write about, and not just because of its length, but simply because it’s artistry is so intense it’s difficult to know where to begin, but I will make an attempt to review Béla Tarr’s 1994 masterpiece Sátántangó and prove that the film isn’t just known for its runtime.

Béla Tarr has constructed such an impressive, and hard to define work most summaries of the film come off as obscure and incomprehensible. What the film actually is about is a group of desperate strangers on a failing collective farm at the fall of Communism who fall prey to the conman Irimiás (Mihály Vig) and his partner Petrina (Putyi Horváth). The film is organized around the steps of a tango, for every step forward the story takes it takes a step back. The film is divided into three different acts and further into twelve smaller chapters that all twist back and forth in time. Though this is by no means Quentin Tarantino in Hungary, though Tarr’s film does have the explicit language, but unlike other films like Rashomon and Citizen Kane which use flashbacks and time-twisting narratives to create confusion Tarr here uses his narrative as a means of actually making the film flow more, there’s a certain poetry to the structure of the film and it’s hard to imagine the film working as a single flowing narrative.

Tarr has complete technical control over his film at all times. Sátántangó has been described as a two hour film elongated to seven hours, and that’s not untrue. Tarr shot Sátántangó entirely in long takes very reminiscent of Andrei Tarkovsky’s work, although unlike Tarkovsky who would break up long takes with quicker ones Tarr uses only 150 shots throughout the entire film and all are at least four-five minutes long. However his compositions are striking. Shot entirely in a grungy black and white, and often using Lynchinan industrial noise every shot in the film is perfectly controlled and beautiful, whether the camera is still or moving everything is sublime. I’ve never seen a film where each shot has such gravity as Sátántangó, there’s a weight and atmosphere of doom that Tarr creates, and he never lets up. Because of the film’s unique style it takes some adjusting to get used to the length of the shots, but once you’ve entered Tarr’s world there is no escape, the long takes are so astounding, and the way his camera flows from one situation to another without cutting is amazing.

There are so many hypnotic scenarios in the film, but the most memorable revolves around an old alcoholic doctor played by Peter Berling. The entire hour devoted to him shows him spying on his neighbors and recording their activities in a journal while trying to get drunk. The entire sequence is disgusting and unholy yet absolutely hypnotic. His house is like a giant piece of mold slowly enveloping him, and when he treks out to get more drink night begins to fall and he stumbles around in the dark, its enthralling cinema. There are so many other sequences I could discuss, the men walking in the wind, the little girl and her cat, the manor sequence where the camera flows from one character to another in a strange melancholy. Tarr’s use of rain is extremely sensual, and the rain and mud become characters unto themselves surrounding the film, the characters, and the farm.

Tarr leaves much room for contemplation throughout the film, and as a viewer I was left with far more questions than answers. The characters motives, the interpretations of certain scenes, and the overall structure of the film leaves a lot open to debate. Tarr insists that his films contain no symbolism, but Sátántangó does contain a lot of symbols. On the surface the film is about the failure of Communism but also a critique about the corruption of Capitalism, but the film isn’t a political drama by any means, its main theme is more of a power struggle, not just between the villagers but between nature and machine.

The acting in the film is a tough nut to crack. On one hand the actors are more like chess pieces to Tarr, and yet there are some great performances. Peter Burling is perfect as the doctor, and he plays a good drunk and Mihály Vig is exhilarating as Irimiás, but the film isn’t a textbook for great acting, but that’s alright because this isn’t an actor’s picture, and for the material given the actors do a good job. One performance that really stood out to me was Erika Bók as the tortured little girl Estike, for a child actor her performance is nothing short of outstanding. Overall this is a well-acted picture, but don’t expect too much.

Sátántangó is not easy to write about, and it’s a film that since finishing a few days ago I continue to be puzzled by. One recommendation I make is to watch a disc at a time. This isn’t like Fassbinder’s Berlin Alexanderplatz which can be watched in parts, but it’s rather one long take. It’s a film that fascinates me though, and on some level it’s a strange sort of masterpiece. I look forward to the required second viewing as insane as that sounds.

Welcome One, and Welcome All

To The Classics Corner, where I your humble reviewer ZGDK will be taking a look at great movies from all across cinematic history. The first ten articles I uploaded are the first ten installments of The Classics Corner I wrote for my blog at That Guy with the Glasses, but I've decided to try Blogger as a way to possibly expand my audience. I love to discuss film, so feel free to contact me if you're interested in talking, take some time and look around, enjoy, have a coffee.

The Classics Corner #10: Persona

Genre: Drama

Director: Ingmar Bergman

Writer: Ingmar Bergman

Producer: Ingmar Bergman

Cast: Bibi Anderson, Liv Ullman, Margaretha Krook, Gunnar Björnstrand

Music: Lars Johan Werle

Cinematography: Sven Nykvist

Distributed By: AB Svensk Filmindustri (Sweden), United Artists (US)

Release Date: October 18, 1966 (Sweden), March 6, 1967 (US)

Running Time: 85 min

“At some time or other, I said that Persona saved my life — that is no exaggeration. If I had not found the strength to make that film, I would probably have been all washed up. One significant point: for the first time I did not care in the least whether the result would be a commercial success...”

-Ingmar Bergman on Persona

I am often asked what my favorite movie is. To that question I would answer either Hitchcock’s Notorious or Fellini’s La Dolce Vita. Both movies for me embody what I love so much about going to the movies. Notorious is a film that is cinematic to the core, a film that is elegant, subtle, and suspenseful and propelled by fantastic performances. La Dolce Vita is life, music, art, love, sex, literature, and all those things on film. It’s a film that has had a tremendous impact on me, not just in the way I look at film, but how I look at art and life in general. There are other movies too that I love like Ran or It’s a Wonderful Life or Touch of Evil or here I go again. Now ask me what the greatest movie ever made is and here we have a problem, because greatest is different from favorite. Greatest implies that it is the best of all time, and film when compared to literature and music is still in its infancy, so there are so many great films that have yet to be made, but my answer must for now be Ingmar Bergman’s Persona, the subject of today’s Classics Corner. There are SPOILERS ABOUND so you have been warned.

Persona is a difficult film to approach, it’s by no means an easy film to watch, and the best way to describe the experience is an existentialist nightmare. Bergman’s muse Liv Ullman plays an actress named Elisabet Vogler who for some reason stops speaking in the middle of performing Electra. The silence seems to stem from some horrible trauma she has suffered in her mind, and in order to recuperate she is sent to a beachside house to rest herself. Bibi Anderson plays Nurse Alma who tells Vogler all of her secrets believing she will not tell anyone. What plays out is a power struggle between the two women who find that their very identities are disintegrating into one another. This is the most plot we get; the film is really a series of events that heavily mix dreams and reality. The viewer is never quite sure if what’s being shown is real or not. The famous opening scene of the reel of silent film clips and a later “interruption” of the film by a repeat of these clips suggests that what we are witnessing is a film within a film and son on. Persona also features heavy sexual imagery from the quick shot of the erect penis at the beginning to the surreal dream Alma has of Elisabet to the camera heating up and then cooling down. Then there’s the pure intensity of the struggle between the two women, it’s violent and unpleasant, the two abuse each other physically and emotionally and it is painful to watch, Persona is an intense emotional experience.

It’s these elements that have led critics to label the film as a sort of a modernist love story between the two women, though I believe it is simpler than that. The power struggle is a result of the repressed sexual feelings the women have for one another, it’s all pure lust and guilt. The film is also about female expression, remember this film was made in 1966 just as the feminist movement was gaining ground, and Bergman’s representation of the female mind was shocking for the time. Nurse Alma is a sexually manipulative woman, and in a famous monologue she explains how she seduced two adolescent boys on the beach into having sex, though she is unsure of whether it was intentional or not. Elisabet’s rejection and horror of becoming a mother was and still remains shocking, because even today many do not understand the horror many women feel during pregnancy. This is my own opinion on what I believe the film to be about, Bergman allows for plenty of different ideas to be presented, and the film is extremely open-ended and allows for many emotional reactions.

If all this sounds confusing, it is, Bergman intended for Persona to be a “visual poem,” and he succeeds in that area. Collaborating with his favorite cinematographer Sven Nykvist, the entire film is shot in a high contrast black and white. Everything has this feeling of eerie sterilization, as if what we’re watching isn’t real at all, but rather some distorted version of reality. It’s a visually stunning work, and each shot is set up with careful attention to detail. The contrast between black and white increases as the film progresses until we reach the scene where the two women sit down for dinner clad in pure black clothing. Like with The Seventh Seal there are scenes in Persona which have entered the popular culture, the scene where the two women’s faces come together has been borrowed by other filmmakers like David Lynch or parodied several times. However even when the film isn’t being visual it still keeps visuals in play. During Alma’s monologue about her day at the beach, she describes the entire event in such detail that we cannot help but imagine the scene in explicit detail, and Bergman keeps the dialogue in tune with the rest of the film, that cryptic, sterile style so that we are able to imagine the scene as looking like what we have been seeing on screen. His use of film stock is also well used, he uses just enough for effect, but doesn’t go overboard with it, and each piece of film stock is selected to fit in with the film and its themes.

Like always Bergman extracts fantastic performances from his actresses. Liv Ullman and Bibi Anderson understood what Bergman was trying to create and they pull from somewhere two great performances filled with what must have been an unbearable agony. Liv Ullman is perfect at playing the ice queen, her eyes and sly expression are always hiding something, and she feels manipulative, but her face also hides something else, a broken woman. Bibi Anderson has a child-like naivety about her, and a certain innocence that lends well to her role, but as she gets closer to her breakdown she begins to breakdown, and her performance is filled with just this great intensity. The two actresses are amazing with one another, and their performances must be admired if not that they are great performances, but for what must have gone into these performances that made them so great.

Persona is an enigma; it’s neither an easy film to watch nor an easy one to write about. Perhaps that’s why it took me nine previous articles before I was ready to write about it. I haven’t been able to say everything there is to say about the film, but there isn’t enough time to go more in-depth than I have, so I leave you all, dearest readers with this. Go watch Persona, if you haven’t seen it, see it, if you have seen it, watch it again. This film really shows us what cinema is capable of.

The Classics Corner #9: Bride of Frankenstein

Genre: Horror/Sci-Fi/Thriller

Director: James Whale

Producer: Carl Laemmle, Jr.

Writers: Mary Shelley (suggested by the original story written by) (as Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley); William Hurlbut (adapted by) and John L. Balderston (adapted by) (as John Balderston); William Hurlbut (screenplay); Josef Berne (adaptation)(uncredited), Lawrence G. Blochman (adaptation)(uncredited), Morton Covan (adaptation)(uncredited), Robert Florey (story)(uncredited), Philip MacDonald (adaptation)(uncredited), Edmund Pearson (screenplay)(uncredited), Tom Reed (contributing writer)(uncredited)R.C. Sherriff (adaptation)(uncredited)

Cast: Boris Karloff, Colin Clive, Valerie Hobson, Ernest Thesiger, Elsa Lanchester, Gavin Gordon, Douglas Walton, Una O’Connor, E.E. Clive, Lucien Prival, O.P. Heggie, Dwight Frye, Reginald Barlow, Mary Gordon, Anne Darling

Music: Franz Waxman

Cinematography: John J. Mescall

Editing: Ted Kent

Distribution: Universal Pictures

Running Time: 75 min

Release Date: April 22, 1935

Bride of Frankenstein is one of the most deliriously original films I’ve yet seen. Rightfully called Campenstein no other film has combined horror, comedy, drama, and a bit of homosexuality the way Bride of Frankenstein does. Here we have a film that bounces back and forth between its various elements while never sticking to any one single element. What we have instead is a cocktail of various ideas, which somehow shouldn’t work, but do.

James Whale is a director who is especially noted for his work in the horror genre, the original Frankenstein is a classic, and probably the first important horror film of the sound era. However it isn’t a perfect film, but it’s a prerequisite for watching Bride of Frankenstein, and it is a triumph of art direction. The film was a financial success, but Whale held off from directing the sequel, he felt the story had been exhausted, and a sequel would be foolish. Money talks though, and he was promised complete creative control, so he took up the task. What he came up with was a much more original film, the original Frankenstein lacks an edge that it had back in 1931, the film was about shocks, and it doesn’t shock anymore. This time Whale had bigger ideas in mind, for one he sticks closer to the novel and some of the bigger themes of the novel, and although he insisted the film was meant to be made as a farce he doesn’t allow the campiness get out of hand, and even leaves room for some scenes of pure beauty surprisingly enough.

Perhaps the greatest change this time around is the character of The Monster, once again played by Boris Karloff. The Monster is no longer the antagonist, but rather a sympathetic anti-hero. He’s a lost soul trying to become human, but alas he’s doomed from the start. About halfway through the movie, The Monster befriends a blind violinist who has all but been abandoned by society. The relationship between these two misfits is oddly touching and has a certain beauty. Karloff allows himself to become much more human here, the expressions he takes on are quite heart-wrenching, and express so much, and in the scenes as he’s introduced to those good ol’ vices like smoke and drink there’s a childlike curiosity in his face that really brings the character to life.

The film, as mentioned, has a great dose of camp value. Most of this is supplied by the wonderfully flamboyant Dr. Pretorius (Ernest Thesiger) who has come to rope Dr. Frankenstein (Colin Clive) into creating The Monster’s bride. Thesiger gives a gloriously over-the-top performance, and he just secrets melodrama and lights up the screen every time he comes on. He is the archetypical mad scientist, but at the same time he’s a fully fleshed out character. There’s a scene where he shows to Dr. Frankenstein his army of little men, the twinkle he gets in his eyes is unsettlingly funny, one can tell Thesiger had a blast playing the role. One minute he can be docile and humorous and the next he’s a madman. Pretorius is a fascinating character, and he supplies the film with some of the most memorable scenes. There’s one moment where he decides to have a full course meal while sitting in a crypt, it’s hard not to laugh as he sits there are docile and when The Monster enters he doesn’t express any surprise what so ever. Yet, like The Monster, he’s a tragic character, what is it he really wants? To make The Monster a mate, or further his experiments?

The acting around the table is memorable. Colin Clive’s role as Dr. Frankenstein is limited, but he provides the perfect foil to Pretorius, he’s more calm and collected, and the look on his face as he gets dragged into the whole affair is priceless. There’s plenty of turns by some great character actors as well, who can forget Una O’Connor as the bumbling Minnie? The blind hermit, mentioned earlier is brought to life perfectly by O.P. Heggie, who brings the right amount of pathos to his role.

It’s this tug between horror, drama, comedy, and camp that makes Bride of Frankenstein such a great film and the film is also enhanced by masterful visuals. Whale was working with a bigger budget this time around, and this allowed for a bit more visual elaboration. The creation scene of The Bride is much more extravagant than the one in the original movie; it’s unforgettable, and truly amazing. The scene where Pretorius displays his little people boasts some great special effects that still hold up today. Whale’s cinematographer John J. Mescall was supposedly drunk all the time, but he conjures up some great images, and uses expressionist lighting and a mobile camera to create some indelible images. The design of The Bride is a triumph of art direction, and though her role is limited she creates a lasting effect. This is one tightly directed film.

Bride of Frankenstein is a classic, it remains not only one of the best horror films, and one of the best sequels of all time, but one of the greatest films in general. It’s witty and full of creativity at every turn. They certainly don’t make horror like this anymore.

The Classics Corner #8: Meet Me in St. Louis

Genre: Family/Music/Romance

Director: Vincente Minnelli

Producer: Arthur Freed

Writer(s): Irving Brecher (screenplay) and Fred F. Finklehoffe (screenplay); Sally Benson (book)

Cast: Judy Garland, Margaret O’Brien, Mary Astor, Lucille Bremer, Leon Ames, Tom Drake, Marjorie Main, Harry Davenport, June Lockhart, Harry H. Daniels Jr., Joan Carroll, Hugh Marlowe, Robert Sully, Chill Willis

Music: Ralph Blane, Hugh Martin, Nacio Herb Brown, Arthur Freed, George E. Stoll

Cinematography: George J. Folsey

Editing: Albert Akst

Distribution: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

Release Date: January 1945

Running Time: 115 min

Is there any genre more joyous than the musical? Just think emotions so strong that they can only be expressed in the medium of song and dance. Director Vincente Minnelli understood this, and with Meet Me in St. Louis he cemented his reputation as one of Hollywood’s most creative auteurs and the master of the American musical. When film critic Andrew Sarris wrote his famous work The American Cinema he placed Minnelli in the far side of the auteur paradise for “believing more in beauty than in art,” but what he failed to recognize is that beauty is the core of Minnelli’s art. If Meet Me in St. Louis wasn’t so beautiful almost all of the time, would the film still be loved today?

For the musical, Meet Me in St. Louis was a film that changed the genre, no longer did people break out into random song and dance numbers, but the music was integrated into the story. While I normally like my musicals with some nice dance routines, there’s a certain flow to this film that other musicals lack. Take Top Hat for example, the dance scenes between Fred and Ginger are spectacular, but they’re placed in at an uneven pace, and in between what we have is nothing more than a typical rom-com. Even Singin’ in the Rain, which tells a wonderful tale, suffers from an uneven pacing in its musical numbers. To a certain extent the same problem exists in Meet Me in St. Louis, most of the musical numbers are front-loaded into the beginning of the film, but because everything flows so well, and the story is so well-written it really doesn’t matter.

The heart of the film’s story is the characters, a typical middle-class family living in St. Louis at the turn of the century. They’re all well-rounded and well-acted. In The Wizard of Oz I found Judy Garland to be irritating, but here she’s playing a character that is more grown-up, and her performance feels more natural. She expresses so much with her face that Esther comes to life in a way many actresses would not be able to pull off. When she sings “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” to her sister Tootie (Margaret O’Brien) there exists this achingly heart-wringing melancholy in her eyes, and her voice is like that of an angel. However then there’s the famous trolley car sequence as Esther looks around for the boy next door, at first everyone around her is singing as she’s squeezed in by them, and her face expresses anxiety, but then she breaks out into a song of her own, and the joy, real joy is there. It helps that Esther is a three-dimensional character instead of just an object to push along the story with. She’s very human, and her trials and tribulations are human as well.

The rest of the characters are fascinating as well. I mentioned the six year old sister Tootie, but she is perhaps the most fascinating character in the film, not to mention she’s played perfectly by O’Brien, but she supplies an undercurrent of darkness to the film. Tootie has a morbid obsession with death, and this is put on full display during the famous Halloween sequence when Tootie “kills” her neighbor with flour so that she can help build a massive bonfire. The older sister Rose (Lucille Bremer) is out looking for love as well, but she’s far more cynical than Esther, obsessed with finding a mature man, which forms a humorous subplot that carries on throughout the film. There’s also Katie (Marjorie Main) the maid, and the two parents (Mary Astor and Leon Ames) who are trying to keep their love alive and Grandpa (Harry Davenport), and many others. Somehow we are all kept interested in these characters and like everything else in the film Minnelli balances out his cast well, squeezing excellent performances from all of them.

The film is one of the best directed films out there. Minnelli often designed his own sets and costumes, and here he uses bright, bold colors, and gives the film a dreamy look. His use of color is especially noteworthy, and he uses different shades and hues for each season. The camerawork is excellent, take during the trolley song as his camera travels all over the trolley, picking up little details while never loosing sight of Esther or during the ball sequence as the audience is carried from one dancer to another. The film looks and feels beautiful, and the songs are outstanding and catchy as I’ve mentioned before. This here is beauty on film.

Meet Me in St. Louis remains one of the best Hollywood musicals ever lensed, it’s a film where all of the diverse elements come together perfectly, and we are always left in awe. It’s the type of movie that Hollywood simply does not make anymore.

The Classics Corner #7: Double Indemnity

Genre: Crime/Film-Noir/Thriller

Director: Billy Wilder

Producers: Buddy DeSylva, Joseph Sistorm

Writers: James M. Cain (novel); Billy Wilder (screenplay) and Raymond Chandler (screenplay)

Cast: Fred MacMurray, Barbara Stanwyck, Edward G. Robinson, Porter Hall, Jean Heather, Tom Powers, Byron Barr, Richard Gaines, Fortunio Bonanova, John Philliber; George Anderson (scenes deleted), Al Bridge (scenes deleted), Edward Hearn (scenes deleted), Boyd Irwin (scenes deleted), George Melford (scenes deleted), William O’Leary (scenes deleted), Lee Shumway (scenes deleted)

Music: Miklós Rózsa, Victor Schertzinger

Cinematography: John F. Seitz

Distribution: Paramount Pictures

Release Date: April 24, 1944

Running Time: 107 min

In today’s world of TruTV, Dateline NBC, Forensic Files, and 48 Hours Mystery it seems highly unlikely, even shocking that a movie like Double Indemnity was at one point considered scandalous. But then again it was 1944, in just over a year the G.I.’s would be returning home, and America would be receding into the sheltered suburbia that defined the fifties, and it’s no wonder because Billy Wilder would build his career off of scratching America where it itches. Working with a script co-written by Raymond Chandler and from a novel by James M. Cain, Wilder crafted a film that drew in and shocked audiences, and while the shock factor may have worn off in the close to seventy years since the release of Double Indemnity, it’s a film that continues to draw in audiences, and for good reason.

Double Indemnity follows insurance salesman Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) who leads a successful, but uninteresting life. All this changes when he meets the smoldering Phyllis (Barbara Stanwyck), the wife of an oil man who convinces Neff to help her murder her husband so that they can be together and collect the insurance money. Their plan works, but they’ve attracted the attention of Neff’s best friend Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson) who just happens to be the claims investigator for the insurance firm Neff works for, and the whole scheme begins to unravel.

Raymond Chandler supposedly showed up drunk and without any knowledge of writing a screenplay. He and Wilder didn’t get along, and there was plenty of conflict. One thing Chandler knew well was how to write dialogue, and the dialogue in Double Indemnity is akin to that of hard-boiled poetry laced with innuendos. What Wilder knew was how to write, and bring to life a story driven by characters. The characters in Double Indemnity are archetypes, but they’re interesting archetypes. Their stories are wrapped in mystery, and Wilder holds back telling us everything about them to keep things more interesting. The film has a heightened level of suspense, once they carry out their crime viewers will be on their seat’s edge with excitement to see how it all unravels. It’s a superb story, told fantastically.

Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck have a great screen chemistry, their scene’s together are steamy, but at the same time have a certain chill to them. MacMurray turns himself into a complete ass hole, he delivers his dialogue in a wonderfully hard-boiled manner, but he’s just as adept at acting with his face, subtly showing us the breakdown of his character. Barb Stanwyck dominates her suburban castle with the force of an icy feline, and save for the garish blonde wig, her role of Phyllis remains one of the screen’s most seductive femme fatales. Edward G. Robinson makes a great supporting role turn as Keyes, the private investigator; he’s likeable and brings a dose of humanity to the film.

Billy Wilder was never a director known for flashy visuals, but like many of his mentor Ernst Lubitsch, there’s a certain visual quality to Wilder’s work. Being a film noir Wilder brings out this quality more here, he favors using the depth of space and a more subtle use of film noir’s trademark shadows. Wilder’s camerawork is perfect on so many levels, and Double Indemnity has a very distinct look. The brooding score is fantastic, and is a total original. Double Indemnity is a film directed with a certain sophistication and style that could only belong to Wilder.

Double Indemnity is one of the greatest of all film noirs, tough a cynical, but with a touch of humanity, it still works today because all its various elements come together so perfectly.