It’s telling that the Criterion Collection touts Master of the House
as a comedy. So regularly austere are the more popularly known works of
Danish great Carl Theodor Dreyer, that perhaps in comparison, yes, this
is at times funny. As a standard comedy, it’s admittedly weak; as a
drama, however, it’s largely effective. Historian Casper Tybjerg, in an
interview included on the new Criterion Blu-ray/DVD, makes a (only
slightly convincing) case for the film as “basically” a comedy, noting
that it was even made at a studio identified with comedic films. But
more accurate is David Bordwell’s description of the film, which he
mentions in a visual essay also included. In its employment of “silent
film conventions of domestic drama,” it forms something more akin to a
chamber play, so prevalent in the silent cinema. What sets this apart
from some of these other films is Dreyer’s notable attention to detail.
As Tybjerg does quite rightly state, Master of the House is very much “a film about the importance of little things.”
The
film begins with keen attention on these little things. Ida Frandsen
(Astrid Holm) is introduced, along with her three children, as she
begins her morning duties: preparing breakfast, doing the laundry,
cleaning, and so on. Manic though it appears, she seems totally in
control. Presumably, she is the master of this house. But no, the
titular master is the tyrannical Viktor (Johannes Meyer), her husband,
for whom all this work is apparently done. Utterly helpless, Viktor
apparently awakens in a bad mood. He barks for his slippers (in the
nightstand right next to him, which his daughter nevertheless fetches),
he complains when the coffee isn’t waiting for him at the table, and he
doesn’t like the clothes hanging up to dry. There’s not enough butter on
his bread either, so Ida, unbeknownst to him, scrapes the butter off
hers and adds it to his (he thinks she was simply being stingy). These
are some of the little things Dreyer makes us see with sure focus,
emphasizing their importance and the importance of Viktor’s
obliviousness.
What
a morning. The sad part is this is routine. Ida is in a near constant
state of fear and anxiety due to the cruelty and irrational expectations
of her husband. He’s never content with all that she does for him, yet
he even chides her for getting up and working: “Must you run around all
the time?” To keep up with his demands and the demands of the house, she
must. The family is not well off either; we gather as much by holes in
shoes and minimal food options, but we’re told outright later that
Viktor is, in fact, unemployed.
Dreyer
certainly makes his point in these early scenes, and if the film has
any major faults, it’s in the redundancy of variations on Viktor’s
harshness. By the 30-minute mark, it’s clear to the point of being
tedious: this is no lovable grouch à la W.C. Fields or even Archie
Bunker — Viktor is simply a bastard.
Ida
makes excuses for his behavior — his lost business has made him bitter —
and she argues that they’ve had their good years. But Viktor’s old
nanny, Mads (Mathilde Nielsen), who is still a visiting fixture at the
house, isn’t buying it. With Ida’s mother, the two elderly women
conspire to give Viktor his comeuppance. They get Ida out of the house
(not telling Viktor where she is for more than a month) and Mads takes
over. Since Mads dares to challenge and talk back to the brute
(functioning more or less as the comic relief), things begin to change.
Put in his place, Viktor grows subservient to Mads, just as he was as a
child. He does his own chores and soon sees the error of his ways. He’s
even friendly to birds! “His pompous sense of entitlement is punctured
in due course by the machinations of the clever old family nanny,”
writes Mark Le Fanu in an excellent essay that’s part of this Criterion
package, “… and the film culminates, as all the best comedies do, with
equilibrium restored and the womenfolk quietly vindicated.” While Mads
gets an odd sort of delight from seeing Viktor humiliated, and
apparently changing his infant daughter is humiliating (?), the desired
outcome, in any case, is achieved. Viktor gains an appreciation for all
that his wife does. As a concluding title card states: “SHE is the Heart
of the Home.”
Everything in Master of the House
is very well photographed, not unusual for Dreyer, with exquisite
close-ups and camera maneuvers that are most striking due to their
infrequency. As would be evinced in his greatest work, there’s also a
particular devotion to composition. Essentially taking place in one
location, it’s notable how Dreyer manages to prevent the film from ever
feeling cramped. Movable studio walls helped open up the interiors, but
more than that, ingenious alterations in camera placement and distance
keep the rooms and the action (for lack of a better word) freshly
depicted. Dreyer’s skill at filming interior space is expertly analyzed
in the Bordwell essay, where he also comments on the nuanced
performances of the film. This might be the most unheralded aspect of
the movie. There’s little emotionally explosive drama, so it’s easy to
overlook the subtlety of the actors’ expression and movement, but
fortunately, Dreyer’s direction makes sure such features are paid their
due attention.
Not
of the caliber of Carl Theodor Dreyer’s finest achievements (Bordwell,
Le Fanu, and Tybjerg argue otherwise), all of which are also available
from Criterion, Master of the House is nonetheless a vital
release, if nothing else because it marks the first American home video
version of the film, and anything to boost the availability of the
Dreyer canon is a surely a good thing.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Director Anthony Mann was a specialist at genre filmmaking. From early crime dramas like T-Men and Raw Deal, to historical epics like El Cid and The Fall of the Roman Empire,
he seemed to have a knack for working within — and working with — the
conventions of a given generic formula. His Westerns, especially, are
among the best that that particular type of movie has to offer. And when
he set his sights on the war film, his natural aptitude for genre would
be as prominent as it was anywhere. Men in War, from 1957, his second war film of the decade (released two years after Strategic Air Command),
contains much of what makes Mann a distinct filmmaker, and reveals much
of what makes the war film its own unique form of motion picture.
Set in Korea, 1950, Men in War
has a deceptively simple narrative set-up. A platoon of about a dozen
exhausted men are isolated in enemy territory. They can’t establish
friendly contact by radio and their closest point of safety is a hill
miles away. Their truck has broken down, so they have to carry all their
supplies. The men are weary, and one is very sick. But led by Lt.
Benson (Robert Ryan), they soldier on and remain determined. As the
primary plot is revealed, so too are the essential features of Men in War,
and the war film generally. A printed statement at the beginning of the
film declares, “Tell me the story of the foot soldier and I will tell
you the story of all wars.” Indeed, this could be a war film about any
war: its setting is mostly indefinite, the enemy is largely unseen, and
many of the genre’s basic ingredients are present. This is what makes
Mann’s work in diverse genres so fascinating. Before the 10-minute mark,
he depicts the anxieties of the soldiers, their discomforts, their
habits, their rations, the way they eat, their aliments, their gear,
their equipment, the hazards inherent in war, and the seldom seen combat
reality of downtime, when there is no action and the men are simply
waiting. This range of features establishes what this group of men is
like and what their status is at this point in the mission. It also acts
as a larger commentary on the genre itself, filled as it is with so
much of what defines the war film. Just as Mann’s Westerns are rife with
the characteristic visual and thematic icons of that genre, Men in War
is quickly shown to be a conglomeration of the war film’s key
components. (This iconographic allusion was even present in the titles
of certain of his Western films: Winchester ’73, The Tin Star, The Naked Spur, etc. As far as Men in War goes, its title plainly situates the film in its given genre; the next year, Mann would likewise release a Western called Man of the West. The importance and overt awareness of genre is obviously fundamental.)
As
the men march forward, there’s a sudden shift in action. They see a
jeep plowing through an open field. Given the proximity of the enemy,
they assume the driver must be crazy to reveal himself like this, but
more importantly, they see the jeep as a vital resource, something to
assist in the movement of their supplies. Once they stop the speeding
vehicle, they find Sgt. Montana (Aldo Ray) driving, and his passenger is
a shell-shocked colonel (Robert Keith). Montana is reticent to divulge
too much of his or the colonel’s backstory, so subsequently, Benson is
skeptical about the sergeant’s true motivations. Benson commandeers the
jeep and the group continues.
The
goal for the men is relatively clear. They have to reach the hill to
obtain the upper hand, or at least some relief. But it’s a long haul, a
grueling trek for a group disheartened and fatigued. In their weary
physical and mental condition, and with prolonged periods of inaction,
it’s easy for the men to lose focus. There’s the chance for complacency
to settle in as they navigate the grounds without incident. They must
avoid carelessness and remain on guard, for they know what can happen if
they disregard their threatening circumstances. The murder of the
mechanic, Killian (James Edwards), serves as a reminder. He sits and
dreamily picks some flowers, stretches his legs, and neglects his
surroundings. He is promptly dispatched by the hidden enemy. This
particular death scene stands out, as Mann brilliantly films the slaying
by showing first Killian’s twitching foot at the moment of the
stabbing, and then simply showing the moving grass as the North Koreans
quickly flee. On the other hand, the men can also become hypersensitive.
See, for example, the mania, the sheer terror on their faces when they
encounter landmines.
The narrative trajectory of Men in War
is extremely economical. The men essentially stay on one path, and
every now and then, a new obstacle arises. Threats can be internal, as
in the animosity between Benson and Montana, or external, as in the
looming danger of the unseen enemy. In either case, Mann’s establishment
of a clear goal and path allows drama to surface along the way, without
apprehension about the audience forgetting the ultimate aim. It also
allows for Mann to revisit any number of his frequent themes. First
among these is the attention paid to loyalty and responsibility. Montana
has a blind devotion to the colonel, the result, we find out, of a
previously formed paternal bond. Similarly, the platoon is quick to obey
Benson and trust his instincts. When an enemy soldier surrenders, the
primary concern is to test his reliability. In a second, typically Mann
motif of morally ambiguous heroes, Benson can be ruthless, but he has
the respect of his men. He’s reasonable, driven, and strategic, and he
can also be harsh and easily blinded by his objective. Third is
location. Most prominently (and understandably) highlighted in his
Westerns, Mann’s use of setting is one of his hallmarks. In Men in War,
like in those Westerns, the environment serves a number of functions:
it’s an impediment and it’s camouflage; it works against the men and it
works for them; it affects their actions and thoughts and it influences
their plans and determines their outcome.
The new Blu-ray of Men in War, from Olive Films (the company behind the Blu-ray release of Mann’s Strangers in the Night and his extraordinary God’s Little Acre),
is a no-frills disc, with zero special features. The audio and video
transfer, however, is quite good. The quality of the imagery is of
particular note, as when Mann was working at his best, his talent for
composition and camera movement rivaled that of John Ford or Samuel
Fuller, to cite just two contemporaries. And with cinematography by
Ernest Haller (The Roaring Twenties, Gone with the Wind, and Rebel Without a Cause, among others), Men in War is a film boasting exceptional photography.
When
he was working, Anthony Mann never quite received the critical or
industry recognition he deserves now in retrospect, though as the disc
summary points out, his work here did warrant him a Director’s Guild
award nomination, his second of three. Officially written by Philip
Yordan (probably fronting for the blacklisted Ben Maddow), Men in War is, at any rate, a valuable entry in the fascinating, varied, and significant filmography of an American movie master.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Director Lars von Trier is nothing if not creative. From films like Epidemic in 1987 and Europa in 1991, to last year’s two-part Nymphomaniac,
he has managed to bring a continually imaginative photographic and
narrative formula to nearly all of his films, the best of which
ultimately end up masterpieces of contemporary international cinema. It
was arguably his 1996 feature, Breaking the Waves,
that first, and most dramatically, catapulted him to the front ranks of
modern-day global filmmaking, particularly within the arthouse arena and
festival circuit, and understandably so. This affecting film is a
powerful work that delves deeply into often unspoken and unconventional
recesses of faith and love. Its themes are profound, its performances
staggering throughout, and its visual palette and filmic technique are
replete with saturated hues, vigorous camera work, and an unabashed
intimacy.
It’s the imagery of Breaking the Waves
that most benefits from the new Criterion Collection Blu-ray/DVD. The
transfer is magnificent, with the granular quality sharply evident and
the locations rendered markedly realistic by a now clearly visible level
of interior and exterior detail. As von Trier notes in a printed
interview included with the release, the film was transferred from film
to video, the color was adjusted, and it was transferred back to film;
this manipulation and visual experimentation has never been more
apparent than it is here. Bonus features that include scene-specific
commentary with von Trier, editor Anders Refn, and location scout
Anthony Dod Mantle, as well as interviews, deleted and extended scenes,
and von Trier’s rather curious Cannes Film Festival promotional clip,
makes this a superb addition to Criterion’s already notable treatment of
the director’s films. (It’s a shame they didn’t get their hands on Melancholia.)
The
film begins with the uneasy wedding between Bess McNeill (Emily
Watson), a simple-minded, deeply religious, and purely good young woman,
and Jan Nyman (Stellan Skarsgård), a hardworking and occasionally rowdy
but generally pleasant laborer on a nearby oil rig. Von Trier chooses
to skip over their courtship (it must have been unorthodox), but it’s
clear that their relationship is facing its fair share of obstacles. The
locals are leery of “outsiders,” and while Jan is by no means a bad
man, he and his friends are a little too unruly for their puritanical
sensibilities. Most of the animosity arises due to the extremely
conservative religiousness of those in the northern Scotland setting.
Women do not speak during church services, nor can they attend funerals;
in all aspects of life, these individuals are set in their restrictive,
dogmatic ways. “Our church has no bells,” declares one elderly
gentleman. “Not too fun, is it?” argues a friend of Jan’s. But this life
is crucial to Bess. As von Trier notes, “Religion is her foundation,”
and it proves to be the motivation, for better or worse, for most of her
ensuing decisions.
While
the villagers remain skeptical about the new couple, Bess is steadfast
and confident; she is sure of her love for Jan and his love for her. The
others are concerned, though. Everybody likes Bess — she has a big
heart, giving freely of herself, to others, to the church, to her god —
but her mental stability, or at least her cognizance, is shaky. There is
some concern that in her blind obedience to Jan, he will take advantage
of her. This seems unlikely, so subsequent audience allegiance is
firmly placed with these young lovers as they stand strong against the
naysayers. There’s also more than a little insinuation that jealousy is a
factor in the local mistrust. Dodo McNeill (Katrin Cartlidge), Bess’
widowed sister-in-law, is mostly on the side of the newlyweds, but there
is perhaps some resentment at their marital joy, which she no longer
has. And in general, the happiness Jan and Bess express is not displayed
elsewhere amongst this largely dour group of neighbors.
As with other von Trier films, particularly as of late, sex is important in Breaking the Waves,
and it’s shown to be central to the early days of this marriage. It’s
initially awkward for the inexperienced Bess, but Jan is gentle and
caring and eventually, she grows increasingly uninhibited. When Jan goes
back to work on the rig, she even attempts some sweetly uncomfortable
phone sex. The importance of physical love in their relationship proves
fundamental when tragedy strikes. As Bess childishly and anxiously waits
for Jan (some accuse her of loving him too much, of being unable to
function on her own), she prays for his return, and when that return
comes due to a debilitating accident that leaves Jan paralyzed, she is
racked by guilt. She believes she asked for this and God gave her what
she wanted: Jan has indeed come home. The doctors aren’t convinced that
the life Jan will have is worth living, but Bess remains optimistic.
Sexuality again becomes prominent as Jan first requests that Bess wear
looser clothing, so he can’t see her body and consequently become
aroused, and then instructs her to seek out lovers and relay the
experiences, somewhat similar to her phone sex routine. He reasons that
it’s a way for them to have a type of sexual connection. Bess, who is
still bothered by what she thinks she caused, does what Jan asks. She is
relatively content to carry out whatever marital and spiritual
obligations she can manage, and in her quest for redemption, it is hoped
that both she and Jan will achieve a sort of mutual fulfillment.
Dodo
and the others become troubled and even angered by this most unusual
arrangement, but Bess insists that these “stories about love” are
valuable: “Love can save Jan,” she contends. Bess and Jan’s situation in
the community, which was precarious to begin with, is even more
uncertain once word spreads of her dalliances. However innocent and
well-intentioned she is, the villagers are unable to comprehend or
sympathize. And once Jan’s condition deteriorates — physically and
mentally — Bess isn’t sure how to cope; her actions grow more daring and
dangerous and others become even more hostile. By the end of the film,
conflicting opinions are given about Bess and her unique form of
martyrdom. Jan’s doctor at one point describes her as “an immature,
unstable person” who suffered from being good. Ultimately, the film’s
final sequence and final image seem to suggest that maybe she was on to
something after all.
As he would do in most of his films following this one, von Trier incorporates multiple formal devices to enhance and punctuate Breaking the Waves.
To begin with, the film is broken up into novelistic chapter headings,
the titles of which are shown over a scenic panorama of regional natural
splendor with 1970s rock songs playing in the background. Neither the
songs nor the images necessarily relate to the film’s basic narrative,
but the breaks do provide moments of reflective respite from what is an
otherwise intensely demanding feature. There are also Watson’s
occasional glances at the camera. A Filmmaking 101 no-no, these direct
confrontations with the audience arguably serve a variety of purposes,
none of which are spelled out in any explicit fashion. Is Bess guiding
the audience to join in with her joy or sorrow, to sympathize with her;
is she perhaps inviting us to objectively contemplate her dilemma; or is
it simply a self-conscious decision on von Trier’s part? It wouldn’t be
the first or last time he did something provocative for provocative
sake. Any – or all – of these options are equally plausible.
These
direct looks at the camera are not the only deviations from standard
cinematic rules and regulations regarding normative moviemaking
practice. There are also jumps cuts, discontinuous sound, and a handheld
camera that occasionally goes in and out of focus. These various
stylistic choices contribute to the film’s modernist immediacy and a
sense of the characters’ chaotically dramatic existence. It’s also part
of an approach on von Trier’s mind at the time. Breaking the Waves
was made just after the director joined other fellow Danish filmmakers
to sign off on the so-called Dogme 95 manifesto, essentially eschewing
typically used cinematic devices such as artificial lighting, a
demonstrative score, optical effects, etc. As Breaking the Waves
would nevertheless adhere to some of these customary conventions anyway
(though it would ignore others), von Trier’s next film, The Idiots, would be his first true entry in the short-lived movement.
According
to Stig Björkman, von Trier was initially quite afraid of actors and
tended to focus more on the mechanical side of filmmaking. Björkman puts
the change in this methodology around the time von Trier first started
working on The Kingdom TV series, starting in 1994. Certainly Breaking the Waves
still has its fair share of technical flair, unpolished though it may
be, but clearly, von Trier was adjusting nicely to working with actors.
Case in point: Emily Watson, a newcomer to movies at the time (who
showed up for her audition barefoot – footage of which is also included
on the disc). Watson notes an autobiographic interest in this film,
having come from a strict cult-like religious upbringing, and she admits
that this film, with its sexuality, nudity and rawness of emotion, was
an “extreme place to start.” She reiterates the adjective by summing up
the film as an “extreme version of human experience.”
Breaking the Waves
would launch Watson’s career, and rightfully so, as she’s remarkable in
the film, and it would also signal the beginning of an extraordinary
string of female roles created by von Trier and brilliantly executed by a
wide range of actresses through the years. While Kirsten Olesen turned
in a great performance in the title role of von Trier’s Medea
in 1988, it was with Watson that von Trier would establish himself as a
preeminent director of women, from Björk to Nicole Kidman to, recently
and especially, Charlotte Gainsbourg. Though the women in his films,
including Watson here, do go through a lot — emotionally, physically,
mentally —Skarsgård, for one, points out the absurdity of the
accusations that von Trier doesn’t like women. Ever the provocateur,
this is just one charge von Trier has had to contend with. But perhaps,
as Skarsgård says, not necessarily pertaining to this issue, but just in
general, “The problem’s not Lars von Trier. The problem’s the world.”
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
As with much of his work, especially in the last 15 years or so, one’s response to Brian De Palma’s Snake Eyes (1999) was to a large degree established even before the film’s release. Coming off the commercial success of Mission: Impossible
two years prior, this 1998 feature was in many ways a return to form
for the filmmaker. There were certainly flourishes of his established
formal virtuosity in the Tom Cruise-starring blockbuster, but
thematically and narratively, Snake Eyes was reminiscent of De
Palma’s more (in)famous thrillers. As such, expectations were set, but
they cut both ways. To De Palma fans, those who stuck by him through
generic departures and critical and financial disasters like Wise Guys (1986) and The Bonfire of the Vanities (1990), Snake Eyes
was undeniably going to please; this was the territory where they most
liked to see him work. Conversely, for those who had had De Palma in
their sights since Dressed to Kill (1980), Scarface (1983), and Body Double (1984), with condemnations of excessive violence and misogyny, Snake Eyes
wasn’t going to produce any converts. To be sure, it didn’t contain
either of these disapproving features (whatever their validity in the
first place), but minds, in both cases, seemed to be made up. When it
comes to Brian De Palma, his devotees are seldom disappointed, just as
his detractors are never satisfied. Rare is the alteration, even more so in recent years. In any event, Snake Eyes was a project perfectly suited to De Palma’s own sensibilities.
With a screenplay by Mission: Impossible scribe David Koepp, based on a story by he and the director, the set-up for Snake Eyes
is classic De Palma. A detective uncovers a multilayered conspiracy
following the assassination of the secretary of defense during an
Atlantic City boxing match. Duplicitous personalities, ulterior motives,
and conflicting points of view are rampant, and De Palma does what he
does best to stylishly convey a sense of confusion, suspicion, and
desperation. As the detective—the verbose, egotistic, and frenzied Rick
Santoro—wild-eyed Nicholas Cage is initially overbearing and almost
embarrassing to watch. The over-the-top behavior is thankfully subdued
when Santoro unearths the plot and learns of the involvement of his old
friend, Commander Kevin Dunne (an at times robotic Gary Sinise). The
audience is made aware of this revelation about 45 minutes in, but
Santoro is only gradually convinced, the seeds of doubt having been
planted by Julia Costello (Carla Gugino), a young woman who first tried
to warn the secretary and soon becomes Santoro’s lone ally. This tactic
of having the audience privy to information before certain characters is
admittedly conventional, but it does work well with Snake Eyes,
particularly as the film’s main themes deal with the visible and the
hidden, the known and the unknown. After all, the “eye in the sky”
camera that records the nefarious actions of Dunne, finally convincing
Santoro, only captured that image because no one knew it was there.
With
no apparent conscience to speak of—personally or professionally—Santoro
is suddenly stricken with a moral compass and finds his allegiances
conflicted. Dunne based his illegal actions on the assumption that
Santoro could be bought, no matter the situation. He banks on his
friend’s carelessness and penchant for corruption, and while we may feel
certain that Cage will end up the “good guy,” there is a brief moment
of hesitation that causes some doubt. Santoro is not exactly easy to get
behind (to be sure, he is one of the least endearing characters Cage
has played), but ethical misgivings notwithstanding, he knows what he’s
doing and he’s good at what he does.
De
Palma utilized split screens early in his career, and it was a tool he
returned to repeatedly, for good reason. The technique is particularly
functional in the hands of a filmmaker so concerned with multiple points
of view (his, the audience’s, the character’s). Snake Eyes is
no exception, with one split screen sequence taking place about halfway
through the film. But here De Palma ups the ante by also incorporating
diverse diagetic vantage points as well as a temporal and spatial
shifting of narrative revelation: simultaneous actions recorded or
recalled from a variety of viewpoints. Key sequences are repeated, but
each is different as each is dependent upon those relaying the events.
Not all perspectives are equal, nor are they necessarily reliable. It’s
reminiscent of the varied points of view in something like Rashomon.
Here though, the points of view also belong to a multitude of cameras.
Security and television cameras have recorded much of the drama, and in
doing so, they provide continual points of reference and revelatory
possibility. It’s impossible for any one person, including the
spectator, to have witnessed everything, but with these various
devices—the individual recollections and the recordings—Santoro is able
to piece together what transpired; likewise, the audience assembles a
wider range of narrative and geographic understanding.
De Palma once said, “The camera lies 24 frames a second,” and with that in mind, Snake Eyes
is an exceptional examination of what we see, who governs it, how, and
why. At the beginning, we are first shown the action via three
television monitors: three different cameras feed three different
screens, each distinct and each mediated and controlled by unseen
parties, but none the “true” event. The film is at once concerned with
the idea of multiple views, but is also illustrative of manipulative and
illusory appearances. The plot is driven by false impressions and
deceit. The boxing match contains a fake victory, a thrown fight. The
missile test that is the background catalyst for the political intrigue
was manufactured to distort perceptions and prompt legislative action.
Everyone in the film either has an angle or is suspected of having an
angle. Stories are spun, from the actual nature of the weather to the
varying accounts of what really happened. When Julia first appears,
before it’s made clear what her role in the whole ordeal is, she is seen
wearing a blonde wig—even one of our protagonists is in disguise at
first. The opening shot of the film, an apparent 12-minute take, is
itself an illusion. In fact, this sequence, a bravura example of
cinematic choreography in any case, contains no less than eight cuts,
each hidden by camera or character movement.
Speaking
of this opening, while today’s visual movie dazzle seems to typically
consist of special effect sequences bolstered by heavy CGI, there’s
still something to be said for the elaborate camera movement unaided by
computer technology. Fluid long takes around characters and their
environment are a uniquely cinematic display of technical and artistic
proficiency. Snake Eyes surely benefits from this stylistic
choice, as amidst the crowd of fight fans and through the corridors of
the casino, De Palma’s camera winds and weaves incessantly and
gloriously. With Stephen H. Burum as cinematographer (his seventh
collaboration with the director), the camera adopts points of
objectivity, as in the crane shot shooting over the top of various hotel
rooms, as well as the subjective views of several key characters.
Especially early on, with a dizzying array of lights, movement, and
people, De Palma’s prolonged takes and intricate maneuvers convey the
bewilderment that drives the action. When this type of aesthetic is
competently executed and is done so with a purpose, the results can be
extraordinary. And when Brian De Palma does this well, he does it as
well as anybody.
In the director’s own words, Snake Eyes
is “a very Brian De Palma film,” even if it would signal more divisive
work to come. As for Nicholas Cage, by 1998 he was on a roll. An Oscar
in 1995 for Leaving Las Vegas led to a string of successful and generally entertaining action films—The Rock (1996) and Con Air and Face/Off (both 1997)—and the romance, City of Angels, released a few months before Snake Eyes.
Today however, Cage’s performances, and their reception, have been more
erratic. He has made some excellent movies since, even receiving
another Oscar nomination in 2003, for Adaptation, but many of
his choices have left audiences and critics scratching their heads. On
the other hand, De Palma’s success rate since the turn of the century
has been negligible across the board, except of course to those ardent
admirers.
Snake Eyes was recently released on Blu-ray by Paramount Catalog.
This REVIEW was previously published in FILM INTERNATIONAL
The past few weeks have been good for Humphrey Bogart on Blu-ray. The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and The African Queen were recently rereleased and assembled for the Best of Bogart Collection, and now, Sabrina,
one of the legendary star’s final films, has received its first
American appearance on the format. Perhaps more importantly, if total
number of titles available on Blu-ray is the basis for judgment, Sabrina
also marks one of disappointingly few Billy Wilder titles available in
the remastered form. That the film also stars the radiant Audrey Hepburn
and the remarkably versatile William Holden confirms that the release
is worth commending.
From about 1944, with Double Indemnity, to Irma la Douce in 1963, Wilder had an astonishing run in Hollywood, and Sabrina came roughly in the middle of that period. Wilder, by this point, had 12 Oscar nominations for writing or directing. Sabrina would bring him 13 and 14. It was a relatively early picture for Hepburn, just a year after her similarly delightful turn in Roman Holiday, and it was arguably at the height of Holden’s career. He had worked with Wilder on Sunset Blvd. and Stalag 17,
winning his only Oscar for the latter. Ernest Lehman and Samuel A.
Taylor, who would both have several stellar titles to their credit in
years to come (each would do work with Hitchcock, for example), co-wrote
the script with Wilder. Finally, with Charles Lang (Charade, One-Eyed Jacks, Some Like It Hot, The Man from Laramie, The Big Heat, Ace in the Hole) as director of photography, it’s easy to say that Sabrina had considerable talent behind it.
Based on Taylor’s original play, “Sabrina Fair,” Sabrina
tells the pleasant story of a chauffeur’s daughter who first falls in
love with one rich brother then, over time, falls for the other. The
brothers are David (Holden) and Linus (Bogart) Larrabee. The waifish
girl is Sabrina Fairchild (Hepburn). The Larrabees of Long Island lead a
life of wealth and luxury, to say the least, the description and
presentation of which is done in typically cynical Wilder style. We are
introduced to their lifestyle by way of their hired hands and
possessions (indoor pools, outdoor pools; indoor tennis courts, outdoor
tennis courts). While this may seem comical to the audience, the young
Sabrina witnesses the life they lead with extreme envy and wonder. She
is particularly smitten by younger brother David, a frivolous playboy.
Doe-eyed, she looks on David and the Larrabee life in general with great
awe. But it is not to be. They are out of her class. As her father
reminds her, there is a front seat and a back seat, and there’s a window
in between.
In
contrast to David is the financially minded and pragmatic Linus. While
David is out spending the family money, Linus is making it. Part of his
scheme for profit is to have David married off for business purposes.
David is not one to settle down, nor is he particularly worried about
the productive merger that would develop as a result of the arranged
union. Nevertheless, the engagement is settled and all seems to be going
well for the Larrabee clan.
Following
her pathetically amusing suicide attempt, spurred on by David’s
inattention to her, Sabrina is sent off to Paris for culinary school,
where her first lesson is apparently on how to correctly boil water.
Away from David for 2 years, Sabrina matures but never truly forgets the
love she has for him. Upon her return, that infatuation is rekindled,
this time with a twist. The twist is that now grown up, smartly dressed,
well spoken, and looking even more radiant, Sabrina catches David’s
eye. If only he wasn’t now engaged. And if only the family company
didn’t have so much riding on the impending marriage. In any event,
Sabrina now enamors David, while the perpetually diligent Linus is more
concerned with a newly manufactured plastic. This all changes, however,
when Linus schemes to keep David’s focus on the marriage/business
proposal and intimately encounters Sabrina himself, becoming equally
besotted by her looks and charm.
With
Linus, before her true feelings for him are apparent, Sabrina is
easygoing and cordial. She doesn’t have to try so hard with him. There
aren’t years of infatuation to overcome. Even if Linus isn’t sure of
what to do with Sabrina, how to keep her away from David and to not
interfere with the marriage/merger, he manages to charmingly entertain
her and their relationship grows closer with each diversionary attempt.
They even share a troubled suicidal past. Ultimately, both David and
Linus fall for Sabrina, no matter how they came to that feeling, how
genuine it may be, or how likely their association is.
Like Bogart’s most famous feature, Casablanca, there was supposedly quite a bit of trouble with the Sabrina
screenplay, even as filming was underway; like that 1942 classic, one
would never know it by the completed film. Most prominent and admirable
is the adept balance of romance and drama infused with comedy. Wilder,
as he does so well, keenly observes and reveals the subtle humor
inherent in even the most dramatic moments, never taking anything too
seriously. The smartness of the dialogue is also typical for the
filmmaker: after sitting on champagne glasses, David begins composing a
poem and wonders, “What rhymes with glass?” All three main performers
expertly fluctuate between moments of almost screwball comedy and
delightful romantic rapture, and all work particularly well with and
against each other. It must be admitted, however, that Bogart does seem
somewhat out of place in the film, if only because he’s not typically
associated with such a straightforwardly stuffy character. Cary Grant
was the original choice for Linus, and Bogie’s casting was the subject
of some debate at the time, revolving mostly around his age, despite the
fact that he was only about 6 years older than Grant; when taking
Sabrina out at one point, Linus dubs himself “Joe College with a touch
of arthritis.” He was not pleased by Holden and Hepburn as costars,
either (though they certainly didn’t mind each other – they fell in love
while making the movie). Bogart apparently wanted his wife Lauren
Bacall instead of the young leading lady newcomer, whom he felt wasn’t
the least bit talented.
None
of this stopped the film from being a success, ultimately earning $10
million, about five times its budget, and garnering a multitude of
awards; its only Oscar win was for Edith Head’s black-and-white costume
design. Along these lines, a short bonus feature on the disc highlights
not only Head’s celebrated work, but also focuses on Hepburn as a
fashion icon. Upon Sabrina’s return from Paris, Hepburn’s stylish
prominence is evident, particularly in view of Sabrina’s “ugly ducking” narrative transformation.
Additional
features on the disc run an eclectic gamut, from a documentary on the
North Shore of Long Island to a promotional overview of the film’s
production. More interesting are the features that look at William
Holden’s career at Paramount (where he evolved from William Franklin
Beedle Jr. into the leading man he became by the time Sabrina
rolled around) and the short look at Paramount’s camera department. The
real gem of the supplemental materials, however, is a documentary titled
Supporting Sabrina, which highlights some of the character
actors in the film, such as John Williams, Marjorie Bennett, Emory
Parnell, Ellen Corby, and Walter Hampden. While Sabrina is just
one film to feature some of these familiar but frequently forgotten
faces, the value of these performers is a subject crying out for
extensive exploration and further study.
With
solid bit players like these, stars who shined as bright as any in
Hollywood, a versatile director who maintained a staggering constancy of
theme and wit, and with such an agreeably simple story, Sabrina is a classic of American cinema. It’s an exceptional example of the assured best the studio system had to offer.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
When he wasn’t genre hopping from Film Noir
to Westerns to epic spectacles and war films, the perpetually
underrated Anthony Mann was mixing conventions and mingling styles
amongst more indefinable works. These were films like Reign of Terror (1949), The Tall Target (1951), Serenade (1956), and, perhaps his most eccentric picture, God’s Little Acre
(1958). Over the course of about two hours, this idiosyncratic slice of
quirky, sultry southern life is a fusion of homespun philosophizing,
social commentary, sexual pervasiveness, inflated melodrama, and
ventures into the downright bizarre.
Based on the novel by Erskine Caldwell, who also penned the source of John Ford’s Tobacco Road (1941), God’s Little Acre was officially adapted by Philip Yordan, screenwriter of the similarly unorthodox Johnny Guitar (1954) as well as, later, El Cid
(1961), which Mann would also direct. The true writing of the film,
however, is somewhat more ambiguous, as Yordan was frequently a front
for the left-wing Ben Maddow, a target of blacklist-era suspicion. This
sort of indistinct gestation of God’s Little Acre suits the film well, as it too is a schizophrenic blend of diverse narratives, performances, and forms.
A
boisterously animated Robert Ryan, acting here quite unlike he ever
has, is Ty Ty Walden, a Georgia farmer bent on finding the gold his
grandfather supposedly buried on their farm. He’s aided by two of his
sons, Shaw (Vic Morrow) and Buck (Jack Lord, later to star in the
popular television show Hawaii Five-O). The latter is married to the stunning Griselda (Tina Louise, later to star on Gilligan’s Island).
Animosity between husband and wife is quickly established, and much of
it derives from a past relationship she had with Will Thompson (Aldo
Ray), who is now married to one of Ty Ty’s daughters, Rosamund (Helen
Westcott). It also doesn’t help that the exaggeratedly attractive
Griselda causes nearly every male in the film to ogle incessantly; this
includes, rather awkwardly, Ty Ty and Shaw. This much of the family is
first seen in Ty Ty’s field, which is peppered with mounds of dirt
shoveled aside to yield one gaping hole in the ground after another.
They’ve been at this for quite some time.
Living
nearby, but brought in to be a part of the gold quest, is another
daughter, the kooky Darlin’ Jill (Fay Spain). She is the object of Pluto
Swint’s lusty affection. Swint is a most unlikely sheriff candidate
(who nevertheless does get elected) played by the bumbling Buddy
Hackett. It is Swint who suggests that Ty Ty enlist the services of an
albino to help him find the hidden treasure. Quite straight-faced, Swint
asserts that albinos possess secret powers: “They can see right through
the ground.” Ty Ty, who had previously decried superstition (he
repeatedly touts a “scientific” approach), is nonetheless quickly
convinced. The audience is, for better or worse, denied the albino
wrangling, but we soon see that sure enough, this crew has attained this
apparently exotic creature. Not that they care (an albino could be from
another planet the way they act), he is named Dave Dawson (another TV
connection: Michael Landon, future star of Little House on the Prairie). While initially rather reasonable, God’s Little Acre
takes a turn to the surreal with this peculiar plot component that
doesn’t really get anyone (or the film) anywhere, though Darlin’ Jill,
for all the wrong reasons — primarily, and probably solely, his unusual
pigmentation — is instantly smitten by Dave. It is, however, darkly
ironic to see the farmhand Uncle Felix (Rex Ingram), an African
American, standing over Dave with a shotgun ordering him around. And it
must also be admitted that the matter-of-factness that follows regarding
Ty Ty’s use of Dave is, at times, quite funny: “What would I be doing
with an albino if not to get gold?” he asks, as if it should be obvious.
A
side drama, which compared to the gold digging and albino retaining
emerges as the more practical narrative, revolves around Peach Tree
Valley, home to Will and Rosamund. In this distressed company town,
where the chief source of employment and income was the now six months
inactive cotton mill, Will persistently drinks (and apparently abuses
his wife), as he and the other out-of-work men wait mournfully for the
mill to get up and running again. Mann shows his noir roots in
these sequences; always shot at night, the lighting of the streets
evocatively illuminates the mass of men huddled in the shadows. Will’s
combustible nature also gives the sense of danger and dread that ran
through so many of Mann’s earliest features. While this semi-urban
milieu stands in contrast to the comparatively Western setting of the
farm, it’s more than just visual differences that affect the characters.
The town vs. farm conflict, coupled with the Will/Griselda past,
emerges as a frequent, if underexplored, cause of strife between the
brothers and Will. He disparages their toiling away on the farm, while
they see him as being uppity in his highfaluting “townie” attitude. This
sentiment is also echoed later by the emergence of yet another son, the
cotton broker Jim Leslie (Lance Fuller). He lives in the even more
sophisticated Augusta, in a nice house full of what Ty Ty condemns as
“breakables”. Now widowed, he has made a clear break from his less
refined, though more genuine, family, and not without some ill will.
As God’s Little Acre
progresses, these various narrative elements collide and merge as the
film’s main themes become apparent. Among them is a constant suggestion
of naïve stubbornness working for and against the characters. On the one
hand, this refusal to deviate from the norm acts as a motivating factor
in their lives: if they did change their ways, would they know what to
do? Especially for Ty Ty, tenacious routine seems to keep his life worth
living. On the other hand, blindly clinging to one’s past — past
relationships, past jobs, past rumors — hinders emotional evolution and
existential mobility.
With Mann’s notable use of setting in his Westerns and Films Noir,
it is no surprise that he skillfully utilizes what this region has to
offer, in terms of substantive natural elements, to enhance
personalities and action. Aided immensely by the renowned
cinematographer Ernest Haller, the photography gives a tangible sense of
stifling southern heat. With a majority of the scenes playing out in
daytime exteriors, the sun beats down on the performers as they’re
constantly wiping their sweaty brow, dirt caked to their glistening
faces, and the related violent and sexual pressure enhanced by these
conditions grows increasingly hazardous.
God’s Little Acre
also contains a notable attention to detail, in setting and dialogue.
In the case of the former, minutia like flypaper hanging from ceilings
gives the entire film a localized authenticity. Concerning the latter,
down-home moralizing (a “street of sin and shame” outside a saloon) and
humble musings (“God never made a finer raincoat than a man’s skin”)
contribute to a richness in character development. Other comedic
comments, especially from the unpretentious Ty Ty, help to leaven some
of the tension in certain parts of the film (his comment about one of
Jim Leslie’s paintings being more beautiful than the newly erected
Coca-Cola signs comes to mind).
And
finally, one can’t really discuss this film without noting its overt
sexuality. Made at a time when Hollywood was pushing the boundaries of
such explicitness (this was two years after Elia Kazan’s Baby Doll, probably God’s Little Acre’s
closest kin), the at times comically obvious sexual suggestiveness
seems unavoidable, particularly when Tina Louise enters the frame. One
scene, for example, borders on self-conscious parody as she, wearing
only a slip, cools down by dowsing herself in well water and then
intimately encounters Ray, shirt off, smoking and sweating profusely.
These moments are never tawdry—it’s all in good fun—and indeed some of
the implied sexual banter is quite amusing: “Is that watermelon cool and
ripe and ready to eat?” asks Ty Ty when Griselda exits the house
bearing the voluminous fruit.
A most unusual film by a tremendously talented filmmaker, God’s Little Acre
is an underseen gem of cinematic distinction. Captivating performances
(if not fully convincing), exceptional cinematography, and a curiously
unpredictable story keeps the whole thing uniquely fascinating in spite
of its occasional, inconsequential faults.
God’s Little Acre was released on Blu-ray and re-released on DVD by Olive Films
This REVIEW was previously published in FILM INTERNATIONAL
“A
mother and a daughter. What a terrible combination of feelings and
confusion and destruction.” So says Eva (Liv Ullmann) toward the end of
Ingmar Bergman’s Autumn Sonata (1978). More than any other line
of dialogue, in what is a remarkably written film, this gets to the
crux of the picture’s thematic concerns. Here the mother/daughter
composite of parent Charlotte (Ingrid Bergman) and child Eva unleashes
an onslaught of conflicting and combative memories, emotions, and
personal grudges, all brewing beneath the surface and suddenly liberated
during the course of the narrative, in which the harsh realities of a
familial relationship in tatters emerge.
Bergman
begins the film with a modest depiction of stable domesticity. Eva
writes at her desk while her husband Viktor (Halvar Björk), a minister,
directly addresses the camera and brings the audience up to speed on his
wife’s back-story. Crucially, he twice repeats that Eva has stated, “I
feel at home here.” This idea of being comfortable at home and with the
simplistic demands that their relatively sedentary life requires is but
one point of contrast as Autumn Sonata progresses. Compare this
with Charlotte’s comment at the end of the film: “I’m always homesick.
But when I get home, I find it’s something else I’m longing for.” In
their parsonage, Eva and Viktor are content if not tremendously
exciting. The house’s interior suggests a humble situation, as does
Ullmann’s unadorned appearance; she has never quite looked so demure and
vulnerable. When into this enters Charlotte, very much a worldly and by
comparison demanding individual (even her breakfast order is high
maintenance), the inevitable conflict begins.
It
has been seven years since mother and daughter last saw each other, and
their reunion quickly gets off to a rocky start. Charlotte almost
immediately relates in detail the recent death of her lover, Leonardo,
and, blind to Eva’s obvious joy at having her mother there, rambles
incessantly about herself. “Do you think I’ve changed much?” asks
Charlotte. “You’re just the same,” replies Eva, who has remained
silently off-screen. At first, it seems Charlotte recognizes her
self-centered verbal bluster, but she then proceeds to further discuss
her graying hair, her new clothes, her back pain, and so on. Then, less
than 15 minutes in, the insults start and it’s clear that this visit is
not destined to be a pleasant one. To make matters worse, Eva reveals
that her handicapped sister, Helena (Lena Nyman), is staying at the
house. Not one to revel in difficulties that aren’t of her own creation,
Charlotte is displeased by this reminder of her other daughter’s
affliction, something she has long since tried to forget. Ranking as one
of Bergman’s finest chamber dramas, Autumn Sonata takes this
initially hospitable household and steadily develops it into a confining
pressure cooker building on the volatile Eva/Charlotte dichotomy.
With
Charlotte being a successful concert pianist, music is understandably
presented as a key connection between the two women, and as a major
point of dissention. Ever in her mother’s musical shadow, Eva feels
artistically inadequate. She plays the organ at church; her mother
entertains thousands. When Eva tries to impress by playing a Chopin
prelude, she asks her mother, “Did you like it?” “I like you,” is the
cold, condescending response. Of course, Charlotte then proceeds to play
it better. Bergman here includes his now-famous composition of one face
seen frontally and one in profile, signifying the private dividing
resonance of this implicit altercation.
Following
dinner, which with decoratively folded napkins, candles, and flowers,
is meant to rouse the sophisticated Charlotte, more friction arises.
When Viktor finally speaks substantially (he has so far sat bemused and
mostly quiet), he primarily attempts to psychoanalyze his wife to
Charlotte. Later, when getting ready for bed, Charlotte and Eva continue
their passive-aggressive combativeness. Prone to theatrical dramatics
(alone she soliloquizes constantly), Charlotte’s vitality engulfs the
pacific Eva. Most of their conversions alternate between accusations and
insults and apologies and compliments, a bipolar back-and-forth of
discomforting relations.
After
what for the film’s first half have been really just previews of
pent-up resentment, the severity of such antagonism dramatically comes
forth in a prolonged sequence confining Eva and Charlotte to a single
room in the middle of the night. Awakened by a nightmare, Charlotte is
met by a worried Eva. But it doesn’t take long before this concern
shifts to a full-fledged verbal assault. For about five hours, the two
undergo a relentless and exhausting exchange of hurtful honesty and
brutal revelation. Contending that she never felt smart enough, pretty
enough, or talented enough, Eva strikes the first blow against her
mother’s parenting skills, or lack thereof. Finished at one point, she
demands, “Defend yourself.” Charlotte, in turn, responds with her case
for herself and against her daughter, but while we understand where
she’s coming from, sympathizing, certainly by comparison, is more
difficult.
Threads of maternal concern run throughout Autumn Sonata.
Obviously, there are the current issues between Eva and Charlotte, but
it’s revealed that more lies dormant, stemming back years prior. With
Eva, who was frequently dismissed as a girl by her preoccupied mother,
her troubles first came about at the age of 18, when she became pregnant
and, if not forced to, was at least not discouraged by Charlotte to get
an abortion. A second chance at motherhood was also cut short when
Eva’s son drowned at the age of three. Subsequently, with barely any
time spent being a mother herself, Eva has retained a strong attachment
to her own childhood. This ranges from her aforementioned reticence to
her later donning girlish pigtails. However, a sense of her motherly
love potential does appear in the compassion shown toward her stricken
younger sister. Charlotte too recalls a childhood void of physical
attention and consideration, and such similar absence of maternal
support leaves Eva to wonder if it isn’t somehow handed down; she even
goes so far as to suggest that perhaps there is a hereditary tendency
for a mother to feel triumph at the cost of her daughter’s misfortune.
During
this volley of personal jabs and accusations, Bergman inserts brief
flashbacks illustrating some of the events mentioned in the distressing
discussion. Though providing a visual reprieve from the spatial
constriction of the room, the cutaways aren’t necessarily required; with
two such stunning and gifted actresses as his focus, Bergman could have
easily just maintained tight close-ups throughout. Like Persona (1966), Autumn Sonata,
itself essentially a two-person drama, boasts an impressive visual
intimacy, particularly in this latter sequence. Liv Ullmann and Ingrid
Bergman are immensely expressive as their red eyes and weary,
tear-stained faces reveal an excruciating catharsis of emotional release
(Ullmann calls to mind her painfully emotive performance in Bergman’s Scene from a Marriage five years earlier).
In
the aftermath of this nocturnal divulgence of individual torment,
Charlotte having now departed, Eva writes her mother a letter. In it,
she nevertheless conveys optimism toward their relationship. It’s not
clear if Charlotte wholeheartedly concurs, but perhaps some resignation
has indeed been achieved. The only question now is of its permanence.
Given the abrupt immediacy of their recent purging, it is entirely
possible that this hopefulness is temporary and only based on the
relative fresh sense of sincerity.
Self-exiled
in Norway (due to a convoluted tax evasion charge in Sweden), Ingmar
Bergman assembled just a handful of regular collaborators for Autumn Sonata.
Ullmann was there, spectacular as always, and Gunnar Björnstrand and
Erland Josephson also make appearances. Behind the camera,
cinematography by Bergman mainstay Sven Nykvist helps to visually
distinguish the film. Starting with the screen behind the opening
credits, the picture is color-coded (via lighting as well as set design
and clothing) to reflect the titular season and the austerity of the
film’s subject matter. Bergman enveloping the imagery in shades of deep
oranges and reds and somber greens is reminiscent of his use of dominant
reds in Cries and Whispers (1972) and points toward the colorful shift from welcoming warmth to barren danger in Fanny and Alexander (1982).
Finally,
the much-heralded casting of Ingrid Bergman is, and was, noteworthy.
Magnificently acting in her native language for the first time in more
than a decade, this would tragically be the star’s final feature film. A
recently diagnosed cancer would take her life just four years later.
Autumn Sonata was released on Blu-ray and DVD by the Criterion Collection.
This REVIEW was previously published in FILM INTERNATIONAL
The
blacklist that shrouded the Hollywood community in suspicion, paranoia,
and tragedy during the 1940s and ’50s, a steadily spreading outgrowth
of the tactics formulated and executed by the House Un-American
Activities Committee (HUAC), would leave its tarnishing mark on many in
the film industry: screenwriters, actors, producers, directors.
Seemingly all branches of the motion picture industry were affected by
the political upheaval of the time. Some individuals were admittedly
marginal in the annals of film history; some were prominent figures with
distinguished careers; all were working men and women who, in many
cases, found themselves blindsided by the sudden furor.
This
back-drop against which one typically places the life and career of
Jules Dassin is crucial to his biography and a clear understanding of
his working processes, but it can also be a distraction. There is no
denying the impact — Dassin was named by colleagues as a former
Communist (which he briefly was in the late 1930s); he was subsequently
subpoenaed by HUAC in 1952, was blacklisted after refusing to testify,
and then chose to leave the United States for France the following year.
That, of course, is going to affect anyone, especially a director like
Dassin who, with several titles to his credit, including the classics Brute Force (1947), The Naked City (1948), Thieves Highway (1949), and Night and the City
(1950), was developing a cinematic proficiency of considerable
distinction. Still, as with Elia Kazan, his own controversial role in
the HUAC investigations, and his succeeding masterpiece, On the Waterfront
(1954), one’s take on Dassin’s work, especially his post-HUAC output,
is always prefaced with, or complicated by, how/why/if his films
reflected or were a direct result of his personal struggles (just like
this piece has been so far). His places of production changed, granted,
and his general manner of filmmaking in Europe was obviously going to be
different than that in Hollywood, but a filmmaker’s talent is there no
matter what. What’s on the screen is what truly represents a film’s
significance and quality. That’s why, after one attempts to sweep away
this subterfuge of baggage and focus on the movie itself, it becomes
easier to see Dassin’s Rififi (1955), his first film made as an
expatriate, as the exceptional film that it is, regardless of troubled
biographical back-story. Where, when, how, and why Rififi was
made is important to history, no question, but its taut, supremely
well-paced narrative, technical brilliance, and extraordinary
photography raises the film and Dassin himself above the clamor.
Despite
not speaking the language, despite the aforementioned drama still
fresh, and despite prior trouble getting film work (Dassin called the
period between the blacklist and Rififi “the void”), Rififi nevertheless ended up being a remarkable achievement, part heist/crime film, part noir.
These were genres well tread by Dassin before. The immediately
preceding four features noted above were marked by their attention to
gritty detail, their use of actual location, their atmospheric lighting
and set design, and their focus on the criminal underworld — “I think I
am a crook at heart,” said Dassin, also acknowledging that he liked
“authority to be conquered.” There was also already a rich tradition of
such films in France, taking into account everything from Louis
Feuillade’s silent serials to Marcel Carné’s atmospheric dramas of the
1930s, to Jacques Becker’s Casque d’Or (1952) and Touchez Pas au Grisbi (1954) released just before Rififi.
Here though, one gets the best of both worlds: an American filmmaker in
Paris making the type of film he does best, for a country and an
audience that truly appreciated the form.
When
our “hero” Tony le Stéphanois (Jean Servais) is first introduced (only
after lingering close-ups of playing cards, cigarettes, and ashtrays,
shot in a kind of blatant and tangible detail that reoccurs throughout
the film) it’s as a worn, weary, sickly, and somewhat debased ex-con
gambler. He has been playing cards all night and he’s out of money. So,
he calls Jo (Carl Möhner), a friend and former criminal associate. Jo
has a deep respect and love for Tony (Jo’s son is named Tonio), plus he
owes him; Tony did time only after not “squawking,” thus leaving Jo to
go free. Jo spots Tony the money. He’s the back up (“somebody’s gotta
be”), in a procedure that is apparently quite common. This has happened
before, but Jo remains faithful.
The
two move on to meet a new acquaintance, Mario (Robert Manuel), a more
flamboyant character who divulges his latest scheme, a caper involving
the heist of some jewels from Mappin & Webb. It’s a proposal with
much to gain and much to risk. Tony is reluctant. He is, after all, a
beaten down shell of his former self, with a persistent cough only
adding to the uncertainty of his abilities and physical state. Being in
the noir lineage, once the key female character enters the picture — not quite a femme fatale,
Mado (Marie Sabouret) is Tony’s former lover who now sees the corrupt
gangster and nightclub owner Louis Grutter (Pierre Grasset) — Tony’s
hesitance is swayed. Sympathies are unquestionably with Tony from the
very beginning of Rififi (“Rififi” meaning “rough n’ tumble,”
according to a nightclub musical number). But when he brings Mado back
to his apartment and proceeds to make her strip, to whip her with his
belt, and to then kick her out, we are left wondering about this man’s
morality. Strange though, just how fast this behavior is forgotten as
the film proceeds. In any event, apparently Mado follows money. Tony
needs money. Perhaps his motivation for joining in on the caper is as
simple as that.
With
Tony signed on, all that’s needed is someone to handle the safe. For
that, Mario suggests bringing in an expert, Cesar (played by Dassin
himself, using the pseudonym Perlo Vita). He’ll agree, asserts Mario,
just to be able to work with the famed Stéphanois — this is the first
real sense we get of just who Tony used to be, his reputation one of
great renown and esteem. This rounds out the likable and competent
quartet, and with the decision settled, the duration of the film, about
90 minutes still, focuses on the heist itself and the aftermath.
Without
giving away the events that occur following the theft (one of which
includes a betrayal, perhaps the most plausible element of the film
echoing some sense of Dassin’s HUAC familiarity), attention must be, and
always is, given to the heist sequence. There are some moments in film
history that are consistently cited for their brilliance. Everyone knows
them, everyone recognizes the skill; it’s basically seen as a matter of
fact that such and such a scene/shot/sequence is simply genius, no
doubt about it. Rififi’s 30-plus minute B & E, with not a
word spoken and no music, is one such example. Production notes point
out that Dassin was never a fan of Auguste le Breton’s source novel, “Du
rififi chez les hommes.” In it, the heist is a “mere 10-page throwaway”
that occurred early in the 250-page text. By comparison, the deft,
meticulous, professional execution of the film’s heist, and Dassin’s
similarly adept construction of it, is astonishing. The four men move
and operate with a distinguished sense of purpose and grace; it’s
balletic the way their respective duties are acted out, each coordinated
to move in accordance to the action of others (Cesar even wears ballet
shoes to help keep quiet).
By this point, Rififi
has already integrated many of the crime film’s staple ingredients.
There’s the street-wise jargon (“rod,” “sparkler,” “busting chops”) and
the settings are notably familiar, from the glittering nightclub, to the
streets with perpetually wet cars and pavement illuminated by a
dizzying hue of neon phosphorescence, to claustrophobic backrooms and
shabby apartments. (These scenic visuals benefit greatly from Philippe
Agostini’s black and white cinematography; having worked with Carné,
Bresson, and Ophüls, among others, he knew a thing or two about
composing impressive imagery.) In the presentation of these generic
necessities, and especially in the bravura heist sequence, Dassin
further distinguishes the film by his precise direction of carefully
arranged shots and sequences. Everything about Rififi feels as intricately deliberate as the film’s famous larcenous centerpiece.
In an ironic career twist, Rififi
proved to be Dassin’s most successful film to date, critically and
commercially; among its accolades was the Best Director prize at the
1955 Cannes Film Festival (the film was also nominated for the Palme d’Or). Successes followed with Never on Sunday (1960) — another Palme d’Or nomination, as well as Oscar nods for Dassin’s script and direction — and Topkapi in 1964, a Rififi-esque tale of crime that garnered most of its plaudits for Peter Ustinov’s performance. Dassin’s final feature was Circle of Two
in 1981. He would pass away 27 years later, at the age of 96, having
lived long enough to see his politics forgotten and his work remembered.
Rififi was released on Blu-ray and DVD by Criterion Collection on January 14th, 2014.
This REVIEW was previously published in FILM INTERNATIONAL
It’s
understandable if some viewers were a little surprised to learn Martin
Scorsese was behind the comedic masterpiece that was last year’s The Wolf of Wall Street.
While many of his films have had their fair share of black humor, he
had never made what could be considered an outright comedy. The closest
he had in the past was The King of Comedy, out now for the
first time on Blu-ray. But this is no casual laugh riot. Quite the
contrary, this 1982 film is among Scorsese’s most challenging features.
Even with a dose of straight comedy, particularly early on, the film’s
key themes and the increasing desperation of its primary characters are
far from simply comical. Instead, The King of Comedy ends up as
a cultural commentary wrapped in a darkly humorous veil, a disturbing
work of discomfort, and an extraordinary motion picture.
In
a 2013 interview included on the disc, recorded at the Tribeca Film
Festival’s restoration premiere of the movie, Scorsese and Robert De
Niro play it coy about even calling The King of Comedy a
“comedy.” Both are reluctant to place it in the genre, and insist they
never really intended to make it funny. This, however, is somewhat
contradicted when Jerry Lewis later joins the two on stage (“You two do
good together,” he tells the actor and director). Lewis recalls Scorsese
having asthma attacks from laughing so hard and they all note a good
deal of improv and behind-the-scenes antics. Even if they don’t want to
call it a comedy, it’s certainly still funny. Perhaps Scorsese
compromises best, dubbing the film a “comedy of manners.”
Stating
he “didn’t quite get it” when he first read Paul Zimmerman’s screenplay
in 1974, Scorsese was convinced to do the film by De Niro, who found
the material more appealing. From there, in their fifth collaboration,
the two discovered the film as they made it, according to Scorsese. De
Niro as Rupert Pupkin is one of the legendary actor’s greatest and most
underrated roles. It’s unlike anything he has ever done before or since,
and while he has given fine performances in many excellent films that
followed, it’s perhaps only with slight hyperbole that one could say his
turn here was his last truly astonishing achievement.
Pupkin
(commonly misspelled and mispronounced, as he frequently notes) is a
budding comedian with pipe dreams of late-night television stardom, in
the fashion of his idol, Jerry Langford (Lewis), a Johnny Carson-esque
personality of tremendous popularity. For now, Pupkin settles with a
makeshift stage in his mother’s basement (Scorsese’s mother plays his
mom). There, with life-size cardboard cutouts of Langford and Liza
Minnelli, he acts out his greatest hits and dreams, with show music,
recorded applause, and a laugh track. A bold encounter with Langford
leads to Pupkin’s naïve belief that his hero is willing to lend a hand
and give the aspiring performer his big chance. To be fair, Langford
does seem genuinely encouraging, even if we know he’s simply placating
Pupkin in order to get away from him.
Somewhat unusual for a “Martin Scorsese Picture,” there is comparatively little camera movement in The King of Comedy.
This was a conscious decision on Scorsese’s part, who intended to give
the film a more sedentary look, not unlike television (at least in the
early 1980s). This stationary intimacy results in some powerfully
awkward viewing, whereby Scorsese has the camera just sitting back,
observing, not flinching or looking away. The undercurrent of potential
violence that runs through the film, coupled with Pupkin’s sympathetic
desperation, is excruciatingly effective. Scorsese speaks of the “levels
of hostility” present in the film, and the comparison to Travis Bickle,
De Niro’s character from Taxi Driver, is apparent. Pupkin’s
rapid path from admirable confidence, to brazen action, to sheer
insanity is troubling, and with the proper trigger, he only seems a
block away from Bickle’s vicious neighborhood. Shades of Travis are
particularly strong when Pupkin barges back into Jerry’s office building
after being kicked out. He doesn’t seem the violent type, but his
belligerent drive suggests the prospect of anything being possible. His
passive-aggressive interaction with Langford’s secretary is indecent,
his blind optimism having given way to egotistical defiance. Pupkin
embodies what happens when mere fandom becomes a frightening fixation.
Things
come to head after Pupkin and Rita (Diahnne Abbott), the bartender he’s
in love with, audaciously show up to Langford’s house. The justifiably
perturbed television star chides Pupkin with some much-needed brutal
honesty. Now accompanied by his partner in crime and celebrity
obsession, Masha (Sandra Bernhard), Pupkin kidnaps Langford at gunpoint
(albeit with a fake gun), presuming that with the star as a hostage, the
television studio will surely give into his demands — he will now
appear on late-night TV. Left alone with Langford, the eccentric Masha
reveals herself to be an equally deranged fan. However, she is more
obsessed with Langford the man than with being a star, and her threats
are more along the lines of sexual molestation than violent brutality.
Remarkably,
Pupkin achieves his goal. He’s on Jerry’s show long enough to perform
his standup routine before he is promptly arrested. He has no regrets,
though: “It’s better to be a king for a night than a schmuck for a
lifetime,” he declares. As it turns out, he’s going to get what he wants
after all. He serves a reduced sentence and becomes an overnight
celebrity, with money, a book, which will be turned into a movie, and
his own television special. Like with Travis in Taxi Driver, the destination to fame and admiration can have a curious path.
The characters are complicated in The King of Comedy,
as they regularly are in Scorsese’s films. Even with his rudely
inappropriate impudence, Pupkin is not totally unlikable, at least
because he’s so pathetic. He gives his own autograph to Rita as a gift
and his “office” is a Times Square pay phone, but his dreams are
earnest, which makes his reality all the more distressing. The fantasy
sequences where we see him and Jerry interacting as he one day imagines
are not sad because we know it will never happen; they’re sad because
Pupkin continues to think it will. Still, there’s no denying that he’s
annoying and a nuisance.
On
the other side of this, Jerry Langford doesn’t quite elicit sympathy
without issue. He is dismissive and rude in his own way, and though he
does put up with a lot, especially from his fans, ranging from decently
complimentary to the overbearingly oppressive, these are nevertheless
demands that go with the territory of being a celebrity. Lewis
apparently knew where Langford was coming from, basing some of the
incidents on what happened to him in real life, but audiences may have a
harder time identifying. It’s clear that what Pupkin does is improper
and, eventually, illegal, but Langford isn’t exactly a bundle of charm.
This blurring of “good” and “bad” characters is typical of Scorsese,
with parallels in his work up to and including The Wolf of Wall Street.
Despite similarities with later films, by Scorsese or others, nearly all involved with The King of Comedy
contend, with good cause, that it is unique, and what is more, that it
is the last of its kind. Scorsese, looking at the film in terms of post-Heaven’s Gate
Hollywood filmmaking, when personal, controversial, idiosyncratic
movies were few and far between (as opposed to in the 1970s), states
that The King of Comedy is one of the last vestiges of “that
type of picture.” It’s the “last really great film about culture,”
according to Bernhard. A great film about culture, yes, but not the last
one, though it was ahead of its time when it comes to the
precariousness and fascination of television celebrity.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
