My Life in Movies

There’s another entry on the way, but I thought I’d take a moment to cover a couple of this last weekend’s movie events.

I didn’t watch the Oscars last night, but I did catch up via Kimberley Lindbergs‘ and Roger Ebert’s live tweets.  To be completely honest, I saw absolutely none of the pictures nominated for the major categories, but I was really happy to hear that Kathyrn Bigelow won for Best Director.  82 years later, a women finally wins an award for directing a film, not just acting in one.  Bigelow apparently did not make note of this fact in her acceptance speech, which is not a huge surprise from someone who would rather be recognized as a director who just happens to be a woman.  Nonetheless, it’s something worth mentioning.

While I didn’t see The Hurt Locker, it’s equally heartening that a smaller film won over a special effects laden behemoth like Avatar (a film I didn’t really care to see, much less want to see nominated).  Of course, that behemoth did win for Art Direction, Cinematography, and Visual Effects, but that’s to be expected.  And I’m equally thrilled about Jeff Bridges, an actor I’ve liked since seeing Starman as a kid, winning for Best Actor.

For more post-Oscar coverage, visit Nathaniel Rogers at The Film Experience Blog.

‘That is not said right,’ said the Caterpillar.

‘Not quite right, I’m afraid,’ said Alice, timidly; ’some of the words have got altered.’

‘It is wrong from beginning to end,’ said the Caterpillar decidedly…

On Friday, Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland premiered.  I flirted with attending a 3-D screening with friends but ended up gallery-hopping instead.  Back in the 90’s, I was a huge fan of Tim Burton’s films, particularly Edward Scissorhands and the under-rated Batman Returns, but after Sleepy Hollow I’ve gradually soured on his work.  Charlie & The Chocolate Factory was a dismally glossy affair that might have been more tolerable had Burton and his screenwriter, John August, not shoehorned-in a back story for Willy Wonka.  I still haven’t seen his screen adaptation of the musical Sweeney Todd.

Alice is a whole other matter.  I haven’t soured on Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass since I read the books as a child.  They are, in my opinion, among the richest novels in the English language–at the very least among the best fantasy and children’s books ever written.  Very few, if any, film adaptations, have managed to capture what makes Lewis Carroll’s words so special on the page, though many have tried.  Back in 2007, I mused about adaptations of Alice after rediscovering clips from the 1985 TV musical version, one of the most faithful adaptations in terms of plot.  My favorite adaptation is still Svankmajer’s dark Surrealist take on Wonderland, but I’ve yet to see the 1933 star-studded Golden Hollywood adaptation or the 1966 English TV adaptation that looks very interesting.

Burton’s new film is not so much an adaptation as a re-imagining, similar to Hook or Return to Oz.  The plot also bears some resemble to a two other re-imaginings of Alice, American McGee’s Alice computer game and a book called The Looking Glass Wars.  I’m not necessarily against re-imagining the story, as Svankmajer’s film takes quite a few liberties with the source, but it does seem that grafting on a climactic battle sequence deviates too much from the interesting qualities of the original stories.  Perhaps that’s the only way to a broader contemporary audience.  I’m not so sure.

The jury is still out on whether I’ll be seeing this latest Alice in theatres or not.  For those who have seen it, I’m curious what you thought.  Is it another mis-step by Burton, or a delightful update of a classic tale?

It’s strange to find Scarface absent from the AFI 100, though it was one of the 400 films nominated for inclusion and is featured on their list of Top 10 Gangster films.  Along with Pubic Enemy and Little Caesar, Scarface is one of the most influential gangster pictures of the 1930’s, which is no doubt why Jonathan Rosenbaum sought to include it on his alternate 100.  Prior to Scarface, I’d seen four of Hawks’s films (Bringing Up Baby, His Girl Friday, The Big Sleep, and Red River), so I was aware of his great versatility in terms of genre and adeptness with quick, witty dialogue.  While I can’t claim to be a huge Hawks fan, his films are always been worth watching–practically unavoidable if you like Golden Age cinema.

Of course, you probably know the story already: gangster Tony Camonte, nicknamed Scarface, works his way up the crime ladder and isinevitably destroyed by his own greed and egotism.  Scarface is played by Paul Muni, whose fascinating performance serves as the film’s center.  His Tony Camonte is a brutish ape-like child, for whom violence elicits a sick joy.  The perverseness of the character is heightened by a nearly incestuous concern for his sharp-talking sister (played by Ann Dvorak).  The cast is rounded out by a variety of mostly solid players, including Boris Karloff as the rival gang boss Osgood Perkins (father of Anthony Perkins) as the Johnny Lovo, as the gang boss Scarface works under and will eventually overthrow.  Karen Morley plays Lovo’s girl, Poppy.  She is given little more to do than look pretty and act a bit tough, but the first meeting between Poppy and Scarface is mildly provocative for the period, as she is clearly  Lovo’s unmarried kept mistress, introduced in nothing more than a silk slip.

At the time of its release, Scarface was provocative and violent enough that it did not pass muster with some regional censors.  Several scenes were “cleaned up,” and an alternate ending was added, but Hawks and producer Howard Hughes were so unsatisfied with the results that they opted instead to show the original cut in cities with less strict censor boards.  While the alternate ending included on the DVD punishes Camonte far more severely and leaves no question as to his immoral character, the original cut is not lacking in the overt moralization lacking in more recent gangster/crime films.  The intro title card informs us that:

This picture is an indictment of gang rule in America and of the callous indifference of the government to this constantly increasing menace to our safety and our liberty.

A later conversation between the cops investigating and containing the gang war further bolsters this message, in addition to the characterization of Tony Camonte as an overgrown and egotistical child with a big gun responsible for his own downfall.  Yet the film was (and, among some, continues to be) controversial for its realistic, at times fun, depiction of violence.  Hawks’ gritty, ambivalent approach to the violence is much of what speaks to the contemporary viewer, in addition to its influence on filmmakers like Godard and Scorsese.

The violence and overall look of the film no doubt influenced the film noir of the 40’s and 50’s as well.  Hawks makes brilliant use of light and shadow, particularly in the opening sequence in which we are introduced to Tony Camonte as only a shadow on the wall.  The sequence leading up to Camonte’s death makes equally good use of chiaroscuro by way of police spotlight.  Perhaps the most memorable image in the film is of the neon sign for a travel agency that reads “THE WORLD IS YOURS,” in which Camonte sees a reflection of his own desires, a dark shadow of the American Dream.  Eventually, the sign serves as a blatant and ironic antithesis of those desires.

Despite the thin use of sound that plagues many films of the 30’s and the occasionally dated style of acting, Scarface is an engrossing film that transcends its age.  I had not expected to like it quite as much as I did, but I came away quite impressed.  Besides deserving its status as an influential classic, it’s an effectively ambivalent portrayal of both the glamor and foolishness of criminal culture in American society.

As mentioned in my 2009 review, I’ve been spending the last few months watching selections from the AFI 100 Movies list (both the original 1998 list and the 2007 revision) and Jonathan Rosenbaum’s alternate 100, compiled as a reaction and counter to flaws within the AFI selections.  The idea came out of a desire to find a road map through all the American classics I haven’t yet seen and feel a need to experience.  Once I get through the bulk of pre-1960 black & white films on the list, I’ll discuss general thoughts on the selections, in addition to the whole concept of lists and canons.

Swing Time is, of course, not the first film on this compilation of lists, but it appears as #90 on the 2007 revision of AFI’s 100 Movies list.  It’s the 6th of 10 films in which Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers appeared together and regarded by many critics as one of the best.  To be completely honest, it’s the first Astaire/Rogers feature I’ve ever seen, minus a few clips I’d seen previously, so I’m hardly qualified to judge whether they made anything comparable.  But I did enjoy it and would place it among the best entertainments 1930’s Hollywood had to offer.

I say “entertainment” because the story is not particularly deep and contrived in the same manner as most Golden Age romantic comedies.  Astaire plays a dancer nicknamed “Lucky,” who misses his wedding and must come up with $25,000 to win back his bride.  He ends up in New York where he meets a young dance instructor, Penny (Ginger Rogers), with whom he has real chemistry on the dancefloor.  Of course they fall in love, and of course she refuses him after finding out that he’s already engaged, and of course circumstances conspire to bring the two together in the end.  Yes, it’s predictable, but it’s well written enough that the twists of fate are surprising, and gambling is used a clever metaphor for how the characters attempt to navigate fate and how easily luck can shift from one’s control.

The romance between the two leads is also allowed to develop gradually, not so much through the dialogue as through the three major dance numbers, which were choreographed by Astaire in collaboration with Hermes Pan.  Each of these sequence is built on a similar set of steps, modified to reflect the emotions between the characters in the particular scene.  It helps that Astaire is a masterful dancer, full of grace and elegance, while Rogers serves as the perfect foil.  These scenes are filmed in long shots with a single take, emphasizing the full movement and feeling of the body.  Watching An American in Paris and Singin’ in the Rain, it’s easy to see how Astaire’s approach towards dance in film influenced Gene Kelly and other dancers and choreographers for decades to come.

There are a few other numbers apart from the three pinnacle dance sequences, the most famous being “Bojangles of Harlem,” in which Astaire dons blackface and tap-dances in homage to Bill Robinson.  The sequence culminates in Astaire dancing with 3 shadows projected behind him.  It’s one of the few numbers in the film that does not pertain directly to the story but allows Astaire to show off his skills with a fun gimmick.  Another of my favorite numbers was the infamous “The Way You Look Tonight,” a standard I know well but had never seen in its original context.  The “punchline” of this sequence offers an amusing counterpoint to the content of the song.  While neither Astaire nor Rogers are brilliant singers, both have the ability to express the basic emotions within the songs and are thus engaging to listen to.  The music, composed by Jerome Kern with lyrics by Dorothy Fields, is among the most solid jazz-inflected pop of the period, comparable to George Gershwin and Cole Porter.

Astaire, while charismatic, is not a particularly remarkable actor and really comes alive when he’s dancing, but Rogers is quite natural and engaging, and her presence improves most of the scenes.  Helen Broderick and Victor Moore offer plenty of comic relief as the older friends/sidekicks.  George Metaxa, as the bandleader whose eyes are also on Penny, is not particularly good, but the character himself is not very well written, serving primarily as another hurtle for the couple to overcome.

Despite this deficiency and the overall lightness of the film, I enjoyed Swing Time for its clever plotting and dialogue.  As someone who’s not an enormous fan of musicals (but hardly dislikes the form), I appreciated that the song & dance flowed naturally from the story, rather than imposed on the story or thrown in as a distraction.  Mostly, though, I enjoyed the opportunity to watch Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire dance beautifully and gracefully across the screen.

It’s been a couple weeks since I saw Terry Gilliam’s latest film, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, and I don’t really have a lot of say about it.  For the most part, it hit the same sweet spots that his previous Imagination Trilogy hit–baroquely referential production design that evokes many cultures and times all at once; often discursive narrative structure with overlapping plot threads; and rumination on the power (and danger) of imagination and storytelling.  At times I found the plot hard to follow and required my partner’s help on some details.  While understanding of Gilliam’s storylines often improves on subsequent viewings, Time Bandits, Brazil, and The Adventures of Baron Munchausen all took less initial effort (though I realize plenty of people have difficulty with all his films).  Nonetheless, comparisons to those previous films is apt, and The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus is one of the best films Gilliam has directed in the last decade.  One senses that the story has very personal appeal to Gilliam, since Parnassus is a storyteller who must face old age and come to grips with his daughter’s passage into adulthood.  The end of this Faustian tale is touching, suggesting a greater maturity than the previous films it is most comparable to.

Panic in the Streets is a tense crime thriller/drama shot primarily on-location in New Orleans.  Some scenes and dialogue were improvised, and non-professionals appear among familiar faces (like Richard Widmark and Jack Palance).  One of the most memorably intense scenes occurs early on, when a feverish immigrant leaves a game of cards and is chased through the trainyards by some smalltime thugs.  The interplay of light and shadow enhances the sense of claustrophobia as the man is caught and murdered.  The next morning, his body is discovered, and what at first seems to be a routine case for the cops turns into a potential outbreak of the plague.  Much of the film concerns the rush by the police and the health officials to find the murderers and contain the risk.

Richard Widmark plays Dr. Clinton Reed, a uniformed doctor working for the U.S. Public Health Service.  While Widmark does well enough playing Reed’s terse frustration and lends him an uneasy quality, the role is simply not as interesting as the ones in Pickup On South Street or Night and the City.  Barbara Bel Geddes, playing his wife, and Paul Douglas as the police captain do a similarly solid job with somewhat basic characters.  The best scenes are the less tense personal interactions between Reed and his wife or the police captain.  One of the more interesting performances comes from Jack Palance as the gangster, Blackie, which is a case study in minimalism.  His calm, studied reactions to the ever-tightening grip of the law is thankfully unexpected.  And Zero Mostel is surprisingly solid as his greasy, toad-like henchman.

Panic in the Streets is weaker compared to the other Kazan films I’ve seen (A Streetcar Named Desire, On the Waterfront, East of Eden, and Baby Doll).  As tense and dark as it is, the parts never quite gel; as enjoyable and interesting as it is, it just feels like a lesser film.  As noir, it’s somewhat comparable to Dassin’s The Naked City, with its use of location shooting and a reasonably upbeat ending.  While Kazan also depicts the authorities as basically well-meaning and good, the internal dynamics are less than perfect, not quite the well-oiled machine found in Dassin’s film.  Aesthetically, Panic in the Streets is a much darker film, and the plague as uncontrollable fate looms more heavily.  Definitely something I’d recommend if you’ve seen most of the major noir classics or are interested in Kazan’s direction.