If
ever there was a movie to reap the visual benefits of a Criterion
Collection Blu-ray digital restoration, it is Douglas Sirk’s 1955 film, All That Heaven Allows.
This lushly photographed work is Sirk’s most scathing and insightful
commentary on subversive Hollywood cinema and the sociocultural norms it
sought to challenge. With venerable cinematographer Russell Metty
behind the camera, the film is radiant with rich, pulsating color,
giving visual vibrancy to lives of complacency and routine. It was
Sirk’s follow-up to his successful Magnificent Obsession from
the year before, which has similar themes and tones and was another
gorgeous melodrama. Universal kept what worked, bringing back Rock
Hudson, Jane Wyman, and Metty. In many ways though, it’s All That Heaven Allows
that stands as the defining work of Sirk’s career, the greatest of his
films made in the midst of a decade in which he turned conventional
“women’s pictures” or “weepies” into profound, virtually unparalleled
conflicts played out in domesticated arenas.
Here,
Cary Scott (Wyman) and Ron Kirby (Hudson) personify opposite poles of
suburban life (both still quite ordinary), but their societal daring —
hers by choice, his natural — bring them together in defiance of
cultural presumptions. She is a modest widow, not much of a “club
woman,” but still with plenty of money thanks to the business work of
her late husband, a pillar of the community. Ron is a class below Cary,
but by no means as destitute as some of the townsfolk would suggest. He
has taken over his deceased father’s nursery business and plans to get
into growing trees full time. Ron has worked at the Scott house for
years, even when the husband was still alive. (Was something perhaps
already brewing between Cary and Ron back then? No, but still, the
scandal!) One fall New England day, he and Cary stop and talk, and while
neither probably had the intention of falling in love, the attraction
is abrupt and powerful, and it threatens to shake up the relatively
stolid lives of all those around them. And one certainly has a stolid
life when such an innocuous affair is indeed a grand tragedy.
The
objections to this union are many, but for Cary the most important and
prevailing come from her son, Ned (William Reynolds), and daughter, Kay
(Gloria Talbott). Their mother remarrying isn’t the problem; it’s that
they thought it would be to Harvey (Conrad Nagel), someone they know,
someone who fits in, someone more appropriate than a mere gardener
(never has this profession been uttered with such derisiveness). Ned and
Kay’s objection proves the most aggravating. This martini-making
Princeton man and this Freud-citing New York social worker behave like
sniveling children, and yet, once Cary calls off the marriage, they
quickly go about their own business, all but ignoring their mother. He
leaves for Paris, she gets married, their mom gets a TV. Cary’s supposed
friends also don’t condone the relationship between her and her “nature
boy.” Their reasons vary from accusations of gold digging to
insinuations about their age gap (in reality, Wyman was 38, Hudson, 30).
But the heart wants what it wants, and for a time, the two happily
flaunt societal conventions.
To
Cary, Ron represents a whole other way of living. His worldview is
based on a life inspired by Thoreau’s “Walden,” a text with a message he
embodies: “Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed and in
such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his
companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him
step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” This is
completely foreign to Cary, the dutiful housewife who had previously
existed as pure conformity. Ron and his friends, on the other hand, are
totally devoid of pretense. They don’t sweat the small stuff. They are
who they are and don’t need to be anyone else for anybody.
Points
of societal contrast come across in a number of other ways throughout
the film, first in clothing choices. In their commentary track for the
Criterion release, scholars John Mercer and Tamar Jeffers-McDonald note
how, in the opening scene, Cary is in a subdued grey outfit. For his
part, Ron is in earthy tan work clothes. For now, they blend right in.
But eventually color comes into their lives (her red dress, his red
flannel coat), and they suddenly stand out. They’ll occasionally revert
back to the drabness throughout the film, but that potential is always
there. There is also the difference in interior spaces. Cary’s house is a
nice but confined location, comfortable though somewhat claustrophobic.
Ron lives basically in a greenhouse, his glass ceiling open to the
stars. Eventually, he fixes up an old mill for he and Cary to live in,
and one of its grandest features is a large window. Cary and others like
her are shut in; Ron never wants to be too far removed from the
outdoors. (Surely there’s something to be said about throwing stones and
glass houses here. But it’s Cary’s associates who throw the stones and
Ron who lives in glass…)
The
imagery of glass is also prominent in the constant appearance of
reflexive surfaces: windows, mirrors, a television set. It’s all about
seeing something real in a mediated form; it’s never quiet wholly
authentic. An ultimate distortion of the real comes in Kay’s room when a
candy colored glass takes in the exterior light and casts a falsified
rainbow of illumination. And even with Ron’s large windows, while one
can see outside, they’re not really outdoors. There’s still a
separation. Similarly, in mirrors, one can see their reflection, but
it’s not really them. Sirk openly acknowledged his famous affinity for
mirrors as a metaphoric device, a way to break up the space of the frame
and to suggest alternate emotions and meanings. (An aside here to bring
up an amusing quote from the venerable John Waters who, when asked by
Vanity Fair what he would choose what to come back as when he died,
answered, “A mirror in a Douglas Sirk film.”)
The
television is sold to Cary as a substitute for real life, for real
relationships, real human interaction: it’s “drama, comedy, life’s
parade at your fingertips.” It’s not the real thing though, and it will
keep her indoors, but at least it’s something. All That Heaven Allows
is very much concerned with stodgy indoor entrapment. Kay relates an
Egyptian custom whereby a widow is walled up alive in the funeral
chambers of her dead husband along with his “other possessions”: “The
theory being that she was a possession too. She was supposed to journey
into dead with him. The community saw to it. Of course it doesn’t happen
anymore,” she says. “Doesn’t it?” replies Cary.
Kay
is frequently spouting off psychoanalytical drivel, attempting to
scrutinize sex and relationships to the point that they are beyond any
real feeling. When confronted by her mother’s decision to marry Ron, she
proclaims that there’s no point in approaching the issue emotionally.
They should try to remain objective. But it’s exactly personal passion
that is missing here. This is where the sumptuous color scheme of the
film takes on a more than decorative purpose. The hypnotic look of the
picture is probably its most pleasing virtue, like it was kissed by the
Crayola gods, and while it certainly looks good, it also hints at an
undercurrent of vitality that lies dormant in much of this world. Sirk
will oftentimes compose a single shot or frame in reasonably tame colors
— tans, browns, creams, etc. — but then there is a yellow curtain, a
green light, a red dress, and the image pops. The colors are like hidden
emotions normally kept in check and suddenly bursting forth. The film
is all about the release of passion — emotional and aesthetic passion.
Of course, all of this does give All That Heaven Allows
an obvious look of artificiality. Shot on the Universal Studios
backlot, the film is a study in artful cinematic arrangement. There is
impossibly blue moonlight and snow as thick as marshmallow cream. It’s
not necessarily meant to look real though; it’s all part of a heightened
experience. Compositions in this film are so mannered in their careful
inclusion and so purposefully crafted in their design that nearly every
shot seems to suggest something else, some theme or symbol. There may be
a few, such as those mentioned above, but sometimes a cigar is just a
cigar.
Along these lines, All That Heaven Allows is also an ideal film for one to explore the biography of Rock Hudson, as Mark Rappaport does in his 1992 film, Rock Hudson’s Home Movies,
included as part of the Criterion package. Knowing what we now know
about Hudson’s homosexuality, it seems like hints were everywhere in his
work, some more obvious than others. Whatever the validity of these
apparent signs, and whatever their real use is in the first place, there
are more than a few moments in this film:
Ron: “Mick discovered for himself that he had to make his own decisions, that he had to be a man.”
Cary: “And you want me to be a man.”
Ron: “Only in that one way.”
This
“essay film” from Rappaport is but one insightful feature Criterion has
assembled for this DVD/Blu-ray set. Also included is a 1982 interview
with Sirk, a portion of a 1979 documentary on the director, and an
interview with actor William Reynolds, who appeared in three Sirk films
including this one. An essay by Laura Mulvey and an excerpt from a 1971
essay on Sirk by Rainer Werner Fassbinder, one of the director’s
greatest acolytes, round out the package.
As evidenced by similar variations on its basic premise, such as Fassbinder’s own Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974) and Todd Haynes’ Far from Heaven (2002), All That Heaven Allows
powerfully retains and expresses universal and contemporary relevance
when it comes to critiquing multifaceted prejudice and the harsh
realities of conformity. With a script by Peg Fenwick (her sole writing
credit), Sirk’s film is one of the great works from Hollywood in the
1950s, among those extraordinary films that carried with them a social
commentary that could, when necessary, go unnoticed, but when brought to
light, they revealed darker truths about contemporary American
existence.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Howard Hawks’ Red River
is supposedly the film that convinced John Ford of John Wayne’s talent
(apparently opposed to his abilities to simply perform or suggest a
powerful screen presence). Ford had, of course, worked with Wayne
previously, and Wayne had appeared in dozens of other films prior to
this point, but when Ford saw what Wayne did in the role of the aged,
bitter, driven, and obsessive Thomas Dunson, it led him to comment to
his friend Hawks, “I didn’t know the big son of a bitch could act.” If
it were only for Wayne’s performance, which is excellent, Red River
would be a vital entry into the Western genre. But there is more, much
more to this extraordinary picture. That’s why it’s not only one of the
greatest Westerns ever made, it’s an American classic.
Thankfully, the folks at the Criterion Collection must also feel this way. Their release of the Blu-ray/DVD Red River
set is an awesome tribute to this film, boasting two versions of the
movie: the theatrical release version (Hawks’ preferred cut, at least up
until the ending), and the longer, pre-release version. There are three
separate interviews, with Peter Bogdanovich, Molly Haskell, and Lee
Clark Mitchell. Audio excerpts from a 1972 conversation between Hawks
and Bogdanovich are included, as is part of a 1970 interview with
novelist and screenwriter Borden Chase. A radio adaptation of the film
with Wayne, Joanne Dru, and Walter Brennan, and a booklet featuring an
essay by critic Geoffrey O’Brien round out the disc’s primary special
features. Still there’s more, if purchasing the dual-format release.
There’s a 1991 interview with Hawks’ editor Christian Nyby and a
paperback edition of Chase’s original novel. That’s a lot to go with one
film, but this one surely deserves it.
Chase’s
Oscar-nominated story begins in 1851, with Dunson and Nadine Groot (a
name perfect for a Walter Brennan character) as they separate from a
westward wagon train and head south into Texas, seeking water and good
land to raise cattle. In doing so, Dunson leaves behind the woman he
loves, Fen (Coleen Gray). He’ll come back for her once they are
established. But no sooner do Dunson and Groot call it a day when they
look behind them and see a mass of smoke. Indians have attacked the
wagon train, presumably leaving everyone dead. Everyone except a young
boy named Matt Garth, who wanders his way to the duo with one lowly cow
in tow. Dunson and Groot take in Matt to be a part of their hopeful
cattle empire.
Fifteen
years later, Matt (Montgomery Clift) returns from the war and finds
that his adoptive father Dunson has achieved his goal. He has been
prosperous and owns thousands of cattle on a vast expanse of land. But
the war has caused the market to dwindle in Texas. If Dunson’s
livelihood is to survive, he must take his stock elsewhere, to where
there’s money to be made. They set their sights on Missouri, a thousand
miles away. So, with about 10,000 head of cattle, Dunson and his men
begin their drive along the Chisholm Trail. Perilous and to a certain
extent unprecedented, it’s a “fool drive,” according to Groot, and, sure
enough, there are more than a few obstacles in their way: inclement
weather, rough terrain, border gangs, and, of course, Indians. As they
go along, however, the biggest concern soon becomes Dunson himself. His
mind’s made up to get to Missouri, and he doesn’t change his mind. He’s
intensely driven, dangerously so. When he assumes the role of judge,
jury, and executioner and chooses to hang two men who stole some
supplies and attempted to leave, even Matt stands against him.
Kansas
keeps coming up as an alternative possibility for the cattle. It’s
safer, quicker, easier, and rumor has it there’s a railroad. But nobody
can be certain, and Dunson refuses to bend, to take the chance. A
growing frustration among the men builds. They’re sick of being short on
rations and drinking bad coffee. The drive seems impossible, and to
make matters worse, Dunson becomes even surlier once he’s been shot. He
begins to drink and he won’t sleep (the better to keep an eye out for
any deserters). Sure, there’s ineptitude among some of the men (one
childishly reaches for sugar and ends up causing a stampede), but Dunson
won’t keep things positive either. For example, he won’t tell the men
when they do a good job because, well, that’s their job. The physical
strain of the endeavor is bad enough; the sheer exertion necessary to
work like this is taxing on all involved. But Dunson’s methodology is
ruthless. He becomes beyond focused — he grows fanatical. Such mutual
antagonism cannot last. Matt, who has otherwise been loyal, having his
doubts but never questioning, finally draws a line. He wounds Dunson,
takes the cattle, and heads to Abilene with the men. Dunson swears
vengeance, and Matt and the others are forever looking over their
shoulder for the duration of the drive.
With its focus on a job to be done, and the related intricacies of such an endeavor, Red River
affords Hawks plenty of opportunities to visually and thematically
detail the work itself. For the most part, these are professionals, and,
as such, they are prime characters for a Hawks feature. Bogdanovich
comments on the “reality” of the film, and there are times when the
picture seems like a contemporary documentary on the processes of
raising cattle and driving them to market. Dunson takes the notion of
professionalism to an extreme degree, but he and the others are largely
competent authorities who know and care about their work. And as one
would expect in a Hawks film focusing mostly on a group of men assembled
together, there’s plenty of sizing each other up, the abundance of
testosterone keeping everyone rough and ready. Red River casts a
notable spotlight on the professional and personal relationships that
develop between men in such a situation. But, as the film dramatically
points out, what happens when that kinship unravels can be tragically
destructive. Along these lines, also symptomatic of Hawks at his finest,
is a treatment of quick, simply shot, efficient action, be it involving
the rampaging cattle or the occasional sudden bursts of gunplay.
Somewhat atypical for Hawks, on the other hand, is the sheer epic scale of Red River,
its visual scope and expressive beauty. The movie’s visceral sense of
place is among its most pronounced traits, the dust and rain and sun and
wind all intensely illustrated. With so much exterior shooting, Hawks
has described the film as one of his most difficult to make, partially a
result of the genuinely inhospitable region. What Hawks manages to do
with this region, however, is quite remarkable. Save for something like
the much maligned Land of the Pharaohs (1955) or Hatari! (1962), his compositions are seldom grandiose — perfectly arranged, but never overly pictorial — but Red River
is a gorgeously photographed piece of work, even though Hawks regretted
having shot the film in black and white, contending that color would
have helped the film last (as if it needed help) and would have added
further visual dynamism to certain sequences. For one stand-out scene,
Hawks admitted to Bogdanovich that he had John Ford’s affinity for
striking visuals in mind. The look of Red River was obviously
of exceptional concern for Howard Hawks. Credit here should also be
given to cinematographer Russell Harlan, who had or would work with such
directorial luminaries as Anthony Mann, Billy Wilder, and Vincente
Minnelli, as well as Hawks several more times later.
Aside from Wayne and Brennan, Red River
also boasts a who’s who of other classic Western stars (certainly
adding to its stature in the genre). There’s Harry Carey and Harry Carey
Jr., as well as John Ireland, Noah Beery Jr., and Hank Worden. If
you’re going to make a Western with a traditional focus like working a
cattle drive, these are the men you’re going to want with you. Then
there’s Montgomery Clift, according to Bogdanovich the “most beautiful
actor in the American screen,” here in just his second feature film
role. But Red River is really all about John Wayne. In his
superb recent biography on Wayne, Scott Eyman cites Jeanine Basinger who
describes the ultimate non-movie lover as “The person who walks out of Red River
talking about Montgomery Clift.” And Bogdanovich describes Wayne here
as “tough, acerbic, rough.” Indeed, he argues that his Dunson character
may be the roughest he’s ever played. When push comes to shove, he’s
absolutely merciless, but by the conclusion of the film (and the
conclusion is admittedly somewhat unsatisfactory), we still end up
behind Wayne. Still though, Basinger’s comment aside (surely she’s
exaggerating?), the generational toe-to-toe between Wayne and Clift is
one of Red River‘s strongest features: Wayne the
classic, indomitable man’s man vs. Clift the tender, mannered Method
actor. It’s a dueling of tenacious personalities and intrinsic
masculinity that appears so often with Hawks, and while a female love
interest arises near the end of the film, the capricious bond between
Dunson and Matt is the true embattled relationship of the picture.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
This year marks the 70th anniversary of one of the greatest film noir
ever made, perhaps the quintessential title of that perpetually popular
and occasionally fluid cinematic category. To celebrate the occasion, a
new restoration of Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity premiered
at the recent TCM Classic Film Festival, and the film had its American
Blu-ray debut in April. To treat this movie with reverence is
understandable. From story and stars to direction and dialogue,
everything about this 1944 classic sizzles. It’s little wonder the
picture garnered seven Academy Award nominations upon its release and in
2007 ranked among the top 30 American films ever made, according to the
AFI. To paraphrase main character Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray), it’s a
honey of a movie.
First
published as a serial by James M. Cain in 1936, the property took
nearly eight years to finally get the go-ahead from a Hollywood studio.
With all the adultery and murder, this was a tough sell, especially on
the heels of the Hays Code crackdown. Eventually, everything fell
together and the official script writing was underway, a process not
without some drama itself. Raymond Chandler was brought in to jazz it up
with some of his noted colloquial flair, but he and co-writer/director
Wilder didn’t exactly see eye to eye. Whatever the behind-the-scenes
antagonism may have been though, the final product speaks for itself.
And speak does it ever. There’s much to admire about Double Indemnity, but its dialogue may be its most enjoyable feature. Take one often-cited example:
Phyllis: There’s a speed limit in this state, Mr. Neff. Forty-five miles an hour.
Walter: How fast was I going, officer?
Phyllis: I’d say around ninety.
Walter: Suppose you get down off your motorcycle and give me a ticket.
Phyllis: Suppose I let you off with a warning this time.
Walter: Suppose it doesn’t take.
Phyllis: Suppose I have to whack you over the knuckles.
Walter: Suppose I bust out crying and put my head on your shoulder.
Phyllis: Suppose you try putting it on my husband’s shoulder.
Nobody
talks like this…and it’s fantastic! This kind of witty banter never
lets up; it’s almost comically persistent, audaciously and
self-consciously clever.
In
the film, Walter Neff is a top-notch insurance salesman who plans to
sell an inconsequential auto policy to Mr. Dietrichson (Tom Powers).
Upon visiting the Dietrichson household, however, Neff is quickly,
severely, and tragically sidetracked by the missus. Phyllis Dietrichson
(Barbara Stanwyck) is seductive, sharp, and conniving—the embodiment of
the femme fatale—and Walter falls hard for her wiles, her
looks, and her anklet. The rapidly escalating affair between Walter and
Phyllis leads to a mutual scheme (initiated by Phyllis, eagerly endorsed
by Walter) to do away with her husband, only after he unknowingly signs
off on a hefty accident insurance policy. Once the deed is done,
paranoia sets in (this is noir, after all). Driving the anxiety
is claims adjuster, and long-time colleague and friend of Walter’s,
Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson), who gradually begins to smell a rat.
The insurance business is an ideal vocation for film noir,
and it works perfectly here. These are people who make death,
accidents, and suspicion part of their profession. Keyes has a clear
passion for his work and is a wolf at spotting phony claims. There’s an
almost Hitchcockian revelry in the way Keyes rattles off types of
suicide and murder possibilities, conveying his vast expertise in this
macabre field. He’s also got a “little man,” somehow connected to
indigestion, and this alerts him to claims that aren’t on the up and up.
As for Neff, he’s the top salesman at the company, skilled at selling
whatever he needs to, however he needs to do it. This means we have
competency on both sides. And as in a Howard Hawks film, a stress on the
occupation itself runs throughout the film. It sometimes seems that
Neff gets into the whole ordeal as much out of a professional challenge
as he does through his infatuation with Phyllis. He knows the insurance
game inside and out. Can he buck his own system, cheat at his own game,
fool Keyes’ “little man”?
Still though, it is film noir,
so the girl is the more evident part of the equation, as is pure and
simple monetary gain. Upon her first appearance (where she, like her
husband, is not “fully covered”), Phyllis exudes a potent and knowing
sexuality. As her murderous ultimate goal comes to light, Neff at first
plays the morally wounded soul, outraged at a suggestion as scandalous
as killing her husband, but as he admits, the hooks are too strong.
Aiding in their decision is Mr. Dietrichson’s personality. He is grouchy
and bossy and he’s apparently abusive—at least that’s what Phyllis
says. As much as this seals the deal for them, it also helps keep the
audience’s allegiance uncomfortably on the side of Walter and Phyllis.
Of course, Mr. Dietrichson’s behavior is no excuse for murder, but
certainly it does contribute to the ultimate viewer alignment in Double Indemnity, and so many suspenseful noirs
like it: that we, the decent and ethically superior viewer, are totally
committed to the bad people. We fret when there’s a kink in their
plans, such as a potentially postponed trip or a stranger on the
observation deck, and we breathe a sigh of relief along with them as
Keyes initially backs up the supposed accident hypothesis.
This leads to a strong sense of cynicism, a term commonly applied to Billy Wilder and for good reason. It’s no surprise that film noir,
that most jaded and pessimistic form of motion picture, was such a
natural fit for the director. In this mode, he’s able to challenge not
only issues of principled association, like those just mentioned, but
also social institutions and human nature itself. The famous scenes in
the grocery market are good examples. Amidst the shoppers busily and
obliviously filling their carts, Walter and Phyllis contemplate murder.
In this setting of banal consumerist custom, Wilder has death and deceit
right next to the instant coffee and canned beans. It’s a darkly ironic
and comic juxtaposition, like murder smelling of honeysuckle. And it
seems almost inevitable that by the end, Walter and Phyllis will turn on
each other. She’s so calm and collected about planning the murder
(almost as if she’s been here before). In fact, Dietrichson’s daughter
Lola (Jean Heather) knows Phyllis is wicked, and tries to convince
Walter that she was behind the death of Dietrichson’s first wife. Walter
begins to wonder, but his doubts lack conviction. The duo’s association
is, of course, destined to fail, and not just because the production
code would have had it that way, or because the film begins with the end
where we’re basically told how things turn out (Neff says he killed for
a woman and money, and he doesn’t get either). Moreover, as Keyes says,
when two people are involved in a plot like this, it’s “ten times twice
as dangerous.”
All the aesthetic hallmarks of noir are in Double Indemnity as well. Venetian blinds, a set decorating godsend to film noir,
produces distinct shafts of light permeating dust-littered interiors,
creating a stunning balance of light and dark, one that, as several
critics have pointed out, creates bars already entrapping the
characters. And while it’s always (ironically) sunny outside in the
daytime, the nights are as dark as can be. Throughout the film, Wilder
and cinematographer John F. Seitz design scenes in the deepest and
darkest of shadows. And through this visual design, viewers can begin to
appreciate the symbolic implications; in this film, with these people,
there’s a lot to hide. This type of mise-en-scène construction certainly stands out, as it’s supposed to with film noir,
but otherwise, Wilder maintains a reluctance to get overly stylish.
Never a fan of “fancy schmancy” camera moves or angles, Wilder focuses
more on having the camera just where it needs to be to adequately, yet
creatively, capture the drama. In some cases, as in the shot down Neff’s
apartment building hallway, where Phyllis hides from Keyes behind
Walter’s open door, that ideal placement also works out to be visually
ingenious as well.
Variations of eventually adopted noir traits appeared in many features prior to 1944, foreign and domestic, but it’s with reasonable justification that Double Indemnity is considered the first true film noir,
where there is a notably cohesive accumulation of these formal
attributes into one film. If this is the case, the bar was now set quite
high. The same could be said for Wilder as a filmmaker. With this film,
just his third directorial effort in Hollywood, he proved himself a
major figure behind the camera and the typewriter. He would clear this
early bar at least five times over the next two decades.
REVIEW from FILM INTERNATIONAL
Angel
is a 1937 feature directed by Ernst Lubitsch and starring Marlene
Dietrich. It’s not the greatest film of either one of their careers,
however, it is a film deserving of attention, at the very least because
it’s a film directed by Ernst Lubitsch and starring Marlene Dietrich.
And now, it’s also available for the first time on an American-issued
DVD, by way of Universal’s Vault Series collection.
Dietrich
is Maria Barker, but we first see her as “Mrs. Brown,” the false name
she registers under when arriving in France. She’s “in Paris but not in
Paris,” there to meet an old acquaintance, the Russian émigré, Grand
Duchess Anna Dmitrievna (Laura Hope Crews). At the same time, Anthony
Halton (Melvyn Douglas) drops by the duchess’ “salon,” at the suggestion
of a friend who sent him there for an “amusing time.” It’s clear by the
subtle exchanges that this venue serves multiple purposes of, shall we
say, obtaining entertainment. When Halton asks to see the Duchess, who
is an older, rather overweight woman, Maria coincidentally comes through
the door. Halton is quite surprised by how attractive the duchess is,
not at all as the captain described her. Maria plays along for a time,
offering to help Halton find a way to get amused (the days take care of
themselves, he notes, it’s the evenings that are more difficult).
Miscommunication — intentional or accidental — is an immediate theme
with these two, but eventually she fesses up to the charade and, now
fully enamored by each other, they agree to meet for dinner.
Dietrich
during these earliest sequences is as one would expect, and as fans
would appreciate. She is aggressively coy, at once reserved and
provocative. She knows what men want, or at least what this man wants,
but she’s playful with her obviously powerful allure. These scenes with
Halton don’t immediately appear as high points for Dietrich; they’re
typical, but not anything special. By the end of the film though, if one
is watching Angel to see some of that famous Dietrich
seduction, this is as good as it gets. By comparison, as the film
progresses she is relatively tame.
Throughout
the evening, Maria and Halton maintain personal secrecy. She has yet to
reveal her true identity, insisting on no names and no discussion of
their past. This works fine for him; he’s in love and doesn’t care who
or what she is. She’s an angel, he says, so that’s what he’ll call her
(we’re not so sure the name applies). That night, when his attention is
diverted, she suddenly flees.
Cut
to London days later, where we see that, no, the name does not apply.
Maria is in reality Mrs. Barker, wife to English diplomat, Sir Frederick
Barker (Herbert Marshall), who has been away at a gathering of the
League of Nations. Barker is prosperous but not much of a charmer, and
later it’s revealed that his apparent neglect is what partially lay
behind Maria’s dalliance. He doesn’t even know she’s been in Paris, and
as far as he’s concerned, they are a “hopelessly happy married couple,”
and even when she does tell him the truth, about falling in love with
another man and planning to run off with him, he thinks it’s merely a
rhetorical scenario and brushes it off. He really has no reason to think
otherwise, and she doesn’t bother to correct him.
The
farce reaches a point of fracture when Halton and Barker meet at a
luncheon. As it turns out, they served in World War I together, even
falling for the same girl while they were on leave in Paris. Neither, of
course, have any idea of what now connects them, remaining obliviously
cordial as they reminisce. Barker invites his old associate to his
house, and after hearing of Halton’s mystery love, he advises him
against pursuing this “Angel,” arguing that only a disreputable woman
would be in a place like the duchess’ residence.
At
the Barker house, the expected confrontational awkwardness is obvious,
though the hidden drama remains unspoken. In a clever sequence, the
servants note that neither Maria nor Halton ate their dinner, their
plates returned still full; the unknowing Barker wiped his plate clean.
Left alone with Halton, Maria plays down the encounter, but it’s only a
matter of time before Barker discovers the affair.
In the scenes when Barker and Halton first reunite, and later when all three main characters are together, Angel
begins to reveal some of that famous “Lubitsch touch.” As we know what
we know, and they don’t, there are a few sly glances and witty
insinuations that keep us smiling. But on the whole, Angel
lacks the delicate and risqué innuendo for which the director was so
celebrated. Some of the dialogue by Samson Raphaelson, who had worked on
the more befittingly Lubitsch features One Hour with You and Trouble in Paradise,
is humorous: When Barker inquires about the London weather (it’s gloomy
and pouring down rain), his valet tells him it’s “not bad.” But these
kind of quips are few and far between.
Moments
of technical flourish are also sparse. Lubitsch does incorporate a
rather inventive crane shot early on, when, almost as in a Brian De
Palma film decades later, the camera sweeps alongside the exterior of
the Grand Duchess’ house, peering through the passing windows as it
proceeds. And, again primarily early in the picture, when Dietrich is
most clearly being Dietrich, Lubitsch and the great cinematographer
Charles Lang seem to allude to Josef von Sternberg’s distinguished
visual treatment of the actress. Her cheekbones are lit so that the deep
shadows of her face play against the glowing ring that outlines her
hair. There’s no doubt about it, Dietrich looks great on screen.
Angel
may not be the finest film from any of its key contributors. There are
undoubtedly many other more characteristic features from Ernst Lubitsch
and Marlene Dietrich. But this one has its moments, and in the interest
of Hollywood legend totality and of preserving and distributing lesser
known works, this Universal release from their archives is not at all a
bad way to spend 90 minutes.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Before
he filmed his eccentric version of what makes a bad lieutenant, and
before he fictionalized his documentary about Dieter needing to fly,
Werner Herzog in 1979 wrote and directed a full-fledged remake of a
silent film classic. His Nosferatu the Vampyre, an exceptionally faithful take on F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu
from 1922, recalls the original in story, tenor, and potency. No
matter the subject, Herzog frequently manages to endow the mundane and
banal with qualities of inherent peculiarity; here, working specifically
within the horror genre, his capacity for the uncanny is as
intoxicating as ever.
In
a contemporary documentary about the making of the film, included as
part of the newly released Blu-ray, Herzog declares Murnau’s picture to
be “the most important film ever made in Germany.” That’s quite a
statement, certainly a debatable one, but it is nevertheless evident
that Herzog has the utmost reverence for Nosferatu. Such
respect is clear in this documentary and on Herzog’s commentary track
(it’s always great to hear him speak, no matter what he’s talking
about). It’s also obvious in the film itself.
Herzog’s Nosferatu
has the same basic story as the Murnau release. Wismar resident
Jonathan Harker (Bruno Ganz) is hired by Renfield (Roland Topor) to sell
a house to the mysterious Count Dracula (Klaus Kinski). Jonathan
travels to Transylvania to meet the count, who, it is quite obviously
revealed, is a vampire. Dracula is inspired by a photo of Jonathan’s
wife, Lucy (Isabelle Adjani), or more specifically, her throat, and
travels to Wismar to track her down, whereupon pestilence and death
follow. The story is admittedly secondary, if for no other reason than
its familiarity. Where Herzog’s Nosferatu excels is in its deliberately contemplative form and its relentless sense of dread.
This
dread is immediate, despite the initial setting of tranquility. The
serene town of Wismar is first shown as if in a dream; it’s calm and
leisurely. There’s a whimsical quality to the imagery, enhanced by a
melodic Popol Vuh score. But when the bizarre Renfield divulges the
ominous real estate proposal to Jonathan, a shift in mood is clear.
Jonathan is cautiously optimistic, stressing that he and Lucy need the
money, but she is instantly troubled by a disconcerting premonition,
something to do with a threatening and fearsome force. Once Jonathan
departs, the score takes on a more menacing tone, as does the look of
the film. Now, darkness prevails. The landscape is still gorgeously shot
(no surprise from Herzog and Jörg Schmidt-Reitwein, his frequent
cinematographer at the time), but Jonathan is clearly traveling to a
place where terror pervades. Near Dracula’s castle, the locals refuse to
assist Jonathan, and they warn him about what awaits. The rumors of
evil and impending doom keep everyone on edge. (Transylvania is “a
wonderful place,” Renfield contended, “a little gloomy, but very
exciting.”) Jonathan is determined though, and marches on by himself.
Finally, at the castle, and after a brief and most unorthodox dinner
with the count, Jonathan discovers that there is indeed cause for
concern.
Notorious
Herzog collaborator and “best fiend” Klaus Kinski is extraordinary as
Dracula. Caked in hours of makeup, his flesh is a pasty pale that is
almost luminescent. He walks with a stilting gait, his rigid body barely
containing a potentially explosive violence. And when Dracula makes a
nocturnal visit to Jonathan’s bedroom, approaching slowly, hands out,
grappling pointed fingers spread, the effect, as Herzog films it in one
continuous shot, is truly terrifying. The terror is also manifest via
the excellent production design by Henning von Gierke (another Herzog
regular). The castle interiors are intimidating in their expansiveness,
like some sort of elaborate and sparsely domesticated echo chamber,
divided into rooms and halls that appear as barren cells of disquiet,
trepidation lurking around every corner, no sign of life now or ever
before. As Jonathan explores the grounds, it become apparent that things
here are not as they should be, a portent of what’s to come.
Once
Dracula arrives in Wismar, a new sort of darkness emerges. His massive
shadow enveloping the Harker house conveys his veiled omnipresence, and
as much as anything, the theme of terror in the unknown and unseen runs
throughout Nosferatu, adding to an inexplicable yet distinct
haunting quality. Dracula’s appearance in the town also brings the
plague, transmitted by hoards of rats that run rampant in the town,
scurrying along the streets, down alleyways, on stoops, on tables, etc.
This turns the whole community into a surreal arena of death,
fascinatingly juxtaposed with a still present, though transient, life.
Herzog strikingly contrasts the steady infection and ultimate death with
images of dancing and dining, revelry conducted by the townsfolk under
the impression that they may as well make the most of what time they
have left. It’s a further instance of the slow but sure torment that is a
focus of this particular vampiric tale. With Jonathan debilitated,
slowly descending into his own transitional being, Lucy steps in to
pique Dracula’s interest, distracting him, eventually leading to his
demise.
Everything about Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu is methodically enacted. Kinski’s performance and von Gierke’s sets are but two elements utilized by Herzog to keep Nosferatu
frightening, but there’s a crucial difference with this film between
something scary (which it isn’t) and something haunting (as it is).
Rarely is Nosferatu scary in the sense of eliciting jumps or
screams. Instead, its horrific power lies in a slow, meandering
exploration of death. Jonathan’s transformation once bitten is painfully
plodding, and Dracula’s own torment is his eternally daunting
immortality. Somewhat a result of this, and despite great performances
from Kinski, Ganz, and Adjani, the film doesn’t affect on a normal
emotional level. It’s something deeper than that. In the documentary,
Herzog (rather tragically) acknowledges that he develops his films from
pain, not pleasure, and while Nosferatu is a wonderful film,
with much to admire, it isn’t exactly pleasurable, except perhaps
visually. As noted above, it doesn’t offer up any cathartic release
typically associated with a horror film. This is something more gradual,
something that works its way in and isn’t necessarily let out. Like so
many of Herzog’s finest films, this picture operates on a level of tone
and image, more so than any strong emotionally stirring resonance. And
make no mistake, it’s all the better for it.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
When
a director like Samuel Fuller finally gets the chance to make his
passion project, rest assured, there’s going to be more than a little of
the man himself in the movie. With Fuller, this would have undoubtedly
been the case no matter what type of film it was, but when the film is
an autobiographical World War II yarn about the first infantry division —
the “fighting first” — the filmmaker’s stamp is evident from start to
finish. The Big Red One is an episodic chronicle of this
military assembly, here focused on The Sergeant (Lee Marvin, adding
classic film respectability), and the “four horsemen,” Pvt. Griff (Mark
Hamill, adding contemporary film marketability), Pvt. Zab (Robert
Carradine), Pvt. Vinci (Bobby Di Cicco), and Pvt. Johnson (Kelly Ward).
The men who make up the four horsemen, a label that emphasized the
bonding of the four leads on and off screen, are all varying
incantations of Fuller himself, most notably the cigar-chomping narrator
and crime novelist, Zab. The Sergeant, or more specifically Marvin,
also had a strong connection to Fuller, as the actor likewise served in
WWII.
The
film follows the rifle squad on their campaigns to North Africa,
Sicily, Omaha Beach, Belgium, and France. Along the way, scenarios play
out against several terrific set pieces, with intermittent obstacles
testing the men and their morale, ethics, and humanity. Being a Sam
Fuller movie, there’s also considerable humor, usually on the dark side
and occasionally crude; there’s shrewd banter; and there’s frequent
economically inventive camera work. And as this is a story Fuller lived,
we feel we’re in authoritative good hands as we ardently observe the
mechanics of this unit working together.
Now,
while the film has many merits, the new Blu-ray of the film should be
met with some ire. As with the DVD version of the reconstructed release,
the bonus features, carried over here, are great: a commentary with
reconstruction producer Richard Schickel; his documentary, The Men Who Made the Movies: Sam Fuller; another documentary, The Real Glory: Reconstructing The Big Red One; The Fighting First: A War Department Film,
which lends credence to Fuller’s historical accuracy; deleted and
alternate scenes; and more. Plenty of valuable information and footage
for the Fuller enthusiast. However, and it’s a big however, Warner
Brothers’ high-definition transfer of the film is inexplicably for the
truncated theatrical version only. The 162-minute reconstruction — the
only version to see — is in standard definition. Essentially,
notwithstanding those who would for some reason want to watch the
theatrical cut of The Big Red One, there is nothing here that wasn’t already on the DVD.
That said, one way or another, The Big Red One
is a film that should be watched. “This is a fictional life based on
factual death,” says a title before the film starts, and due in no small
part to Fuller’s first-hand knowledge and experience, one of the key
assets of this film is its sense of authenticity, even despite budgetary
constraints. More than anything (rather than, say, an allegiance to
graphic, realistic violence), this accuracy comes across in the
inclusion of small yet significant details and intensely reflective
themes. Details like putting condoms on rifle barrels to keep them dry,
swapping cigarettes for ears, and flashing close-ups of a wristwatch on
the arm of a dead man, showing the slow, relentless passing of time. And
themes like struggling with the morality of killing someone in wartime,
of war-weary disillusionment (even on the German side), and of what to
do when coming face to face with a defenseless enemy who you know would
kill you if he could.
There’s
also the repeated notion of war’s arbitrary designations. The Sergeant
is haunted by his actions in World War I, when he unknowingly killed a
German hours after the armistice had been signed. In just a matter of
minutes, a sworn enemy becomes simply another man. It’s as problematic
as the differentiation between “murdering” someone and “killing”
someone, a discrepancy that plagues the soldiers now in this war. And
how does one handle the replacements who continually show up? It’s
almost inevitable that they’re going to die (at least as far as this
film is concerned). With so many coming and going, are they really worth
getting to know? Then there are the children. Some are innocent enough,
yes, but what of the ones trying to shoot you? How should they be
treated? While The Big Red One avoids standard narrative
conventions, insofar as a customary three-act beginning, middle, and
end, its focus on these thematic concerns is exceptional.
Each
of the four young soldiers have traits that flesh out their
personalities, fears, anxieties, and so on, but it’s the Sergeant who
emerges as the most complex and thoughtfully written character. Marvin
is excellent as a man, in Fuller’s words, “who represents death.” One
minute, he can innocently don a helmet festooned with flowers, courtesy
of a little girl; the next minute he can reach up and choke a German
doctor, even as he’s lying wounded in bed. He’s also an expert military
strategist. It’s he who makes the desperate decision that results in one
of the film’s standout sequences. Stuck in the Kasserine Pass with
German tanks approaching, the Sergeant instructs the men to dig in. And
they literally do, actually digging narrow holes in the ground to hide
in as tanks roll over their heads (Fuller’s company really did this).
Of course, The Big Red One
also wouldn’t be a Sam Fuller movie without tough guy one-liners and
words of snappy philosophical musing (as well as a character named
Griff). Standing in front of a World War I memorial, Johnson marvels at
how fast they put the dead men’s names up. It’s from the previous war,
corrects the Sergeant. “But the names are the same,” states Johnson.
“They always are,” says the Sergeant. During another scene, Zab
sardonically remarks, “You know how you smoke out a sniper? You send a
guy out in the open and you see if he gets shot. They thought that one
up at West Point.”
After this picture, just a few more films lay ahead for Sam Fuller (the extremely controversial White Dog
in 1982 among them), but he mostly spent the rest of his life writing
and receiving belated and much deserved recognition from international
festivals and famous fans like Quentin Tarantino, Tim Robbins, Martin
Scorsese and others. His reputation and notoriety grew, and his films
received a serious reevaluation and newfound appreciation. Now, Fuller
stands as one of the most unique, daring, and accomplished of American
filmmakers, and The Big Red One might just be his magnum opus.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Ace in the Hole
is a quintessential Billy Wilder movie. Though largely ignored upon its
initial release, this 1951 feature bears all the hallmarks one
associates with Wilder’s best work: cynicism, humor, terrific
performances, sharp dialogue, and impeccable direction. Here, to keep
within the theme of the title, we get it all in spades.
The
recently released Criterion Blu-ray of the film likewise boasts an
abundant assortment of features. There is of course the new restoration,
which looks great, as well as a commentary track with scholar Neil
Sinyard, a brief afterword by Spike Lee, and interviews with Kirk
Douglas and cowriter Walter Newman. The insert booklet, with essays by
filmmaker Guy Maddin and critic Molly Haskell, is cleverly assembled as a
foldout mock newspaper. And the documentary, Portrait of a “60% Perfect Man”: Billy Wilder,
along with excerpts from a 1986 Wilder interview at the American Film
Institute, give considerable insight into the director’s filmmaking
processes, and include numerous anecdotes and comedic quips.
In
the film, Douglas stars as Chuck Tatum, a newspaper reporter who has
bounced around from city to city, having been fired from nearly a dozen
different publications (some of the best, as he would be sure to note).
With Tatum, Douglas takes his generally admirable screen persona and
dramatically flips it on its head. In the interview here, he admits
dangerous roles excite him, and while he played similarly ruthless
figures in films like Champion and the Bad and the Beautiful, his role in this picture is notably callous and self-centered. Maddin, whose essay reads like his films look, states that Ace in the Hole
“might be Kirk’s best-of album.” Douglas fires on all cylinders in this
film, as only he can. He’s charming to get what he wants; he’s
theatrically dramatic to hammer home his points; and he’s emotionally
animated just when the audience needs to get in his corner, or at least
try to. But this isn’t easy. Tatum is no heroic figure. He’s cocky,
impudent, conniving, and, to make matters worse, competent. The
character’s introduction says it all. He’s first seen casually reading a
newspaper in the front seat of his convertible … as it’s being towed
down an Albuquerque street. Treating the tow-truck like his own personal
chauffeur, Tatum instructs the driver to pull over in front of a
newspaper office, the Sun-Bulletin. “Wait here,” he instructs. Inside,
after breezing past a Native American employee clipping from the papers
(a condescending “How” is Tatum’s greeting to his future coworker), he
demands to see the boss. Granted the visit, Tatum proceeds to tell the
publisher that he read his paper that morning over breakfast, and it
made him throw up. More bravado and derision follows — and he’s hired.
A
year into his new beat, Tatum is fed up. While he has everyone under
his spell (this East Coast guy talks a good game, and look how he lights
his match on the typewriter!), he’s nevertheless growing anxious and
bored by the lack of groundbreaking news. He’s longing for the big
story. He even fantasizes about the worst happening: tornadoes,
explosions, murders, rattlesnakes loose in town. Something … anything.
Assigned to cover a snake hunt (not what he had in mind), Tatum lucks
out by stumbling onto a relatively minor tragedy when stopping for gas.
Gas station owner Leo Minosa (Richard Benedict) is trapped in the
partially collapsed and now perilously unsteady Indian cliff dwelling
known as the Mountain of the Seven Vultures. Tatum sniffs out a possible
story and investigates. It turns out the site is believed by natives to
be protected by ancient spirits. Did these angry beings from the beyond
have a hand in the accident? Of course not, but that would sell papers.
So Tatum begins his coverage.
Milking
every incident and development for all it’s worth, Tatum takes charge
and gets local law enforcement, television, and Leo’s family on board.
Before long, curious crowds gather and it’s clear to Tatum, as well as
Lorraine Minosa (Jan Sterling), who cares little for her husband, above
or below ground, that there is money and fame to be had. The Minosa’s
gas station also offers food and novelties, and poor Leo’s plight is
good for business; a lot of visitors equal a lot of mouths to feed. In
the American way, as Spike Lee points out, “If there’s a buck to be
made, it’ll be made.” Mrs. Minosa, who could give Tatum a run for his
cunning money, even brings in a carnival, an outrageous yet somehow
natural step in this ever-evolving circus (an alternate title of the
film was, fittingly, “The Big Carnival”).
Tatum
does pretty well for himself, weaseling his way to become the primary
media source for information, a local icon who seems to have Leo’s best
interests in mind; Leo even considers him his best friend. But while
thousands of onlookers gather to witness the excavation (all charged
admittance), Leo’s condition in this subterranean Jenga game grows
increasingly hazardous. The drama that surrounds the rescue, much of
which is stimulated by Tatum, begins to overshadow the man himself.
There could be a quick and easy way to get Leo out, but that would
reduce the publicity and the income. Since personal gain is the name of
the game, Tatum manages to prolong the ordeal by suggesting an alternate
rescue. “Everybody likes a break,” says Tatum’s young photographer. “We
didn’t make it happen.” But is he asking him or telling him?
The concept of yellow journalism was nothing new in the early 1950s, but Ace in the Hole
as a sellable property was shockingly risky. It’s likely the bitterly
pessimistic and extraordinary vision of the whole thing that contributed
to the film’s box office failure. Seen in 2014, though, it all seems so
tragically real, so frighteningly probable. Molly Haskell puts it like
this: “Already in the squawking, hawking opportunists are our own
telegenic communicators in embryonic form, the self-promoting reporters
donning bedouin robes or Muslim chadors or hurricane slickers to provide
twenty-four-hour coverage of themselves at the ego-center of hot spots
and sleazy ‘human interest’ tabloid stories.” Tatum would fit right in
this age of continuous news cycles, bombastic “news” personalities, and
careless Twitter-based news reporting (#sevenvultures, #saveleominosa,
#tatumpulitzer). To say that the Oscar-nominated screenplay by Wilder,
Lesser Samuels, and Walter Newman was prophetic would be a grand
understatement. Spike Lee suggests a double bill with this film and Elia
Kazan’s A Face in the Crowd, two films he rightly notes had their crystal ball.
Kirk Douglas perhaps sums up Ace in the Hole
best, noting its “biting, sardonic humor,” which is still remarkably
modern and not at all old fashioned. It’s as hard-hitting as ever. As
for Wilder, simply put by Douglas, “Billy’s a giant.”
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Gene
Kelly, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Busby Berkeley, Vincente Minnelli,
Arthur Freed: names synonymous with the movie musical. Missing from this
standard list is a key contributor to the form, the French director
Jacques Demy. Perhaps part of the reason for his widespread
unfamiliarity, even to those who adore the genre, is that Demy only
directed a handful of musicals in his entire career. It’s also likely
that the musical is simply thought of as an American type of movie, and
therefore, “foreign” practitioners don’t quite warrant similar
attention. In either case, Demy did amplify the genre with at least two
major works, one of them the recipient of the Palme d’Or at the 1964
Cannes Film Festival. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, which also
received four Academy Award nominations (at least some American love
there), is not just an exceptional musical, it’s a genuine advancement
in the genre. With every line of dialogue sung, it’s essentially
operatic, but its distinctly cinematic features are what make it a truly
great movie.
Divided into three parts (The Departure, The Absence, The Return), The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
follows 17-year-old Geneviève Emery (Catherine Deneuve), who works in
her mother’s umbrella store — the title of the film — and is in love
with the 20-year-old Guy Foucher (Nino Castelnuovo), an auto mechanic.
Like many young lovers in the movies, they have their obstacles, her
mother’s disapproval being the first one. But it gets worse. Geneviève’s
mother (Anne Vernon) is heavily in debt and Guy is soon drafted to the
war in Algeria, where he’ll be for 2 years. Madame Emery finds her
solution when she sells some jewelry to gem-dealer Roland Cassard (Marc
Michel). That brings in enough money for now. What’s more, Madame Emery
is quite taken by Roland, and while she herself appears smitten, it’s
actually her daughter she has in mind. Roland is handsome, has money,
seems to have a good head on his shoulders, plus, unlike Guy, he’s
there. When Geneviève goes some time without hearing from Guy, it’s
decided that she would indeed be better off marrying Roland, even if she
is with Guy’s child. Upon his return, Guy discovers the scenario played
out in his absence, but he too reluctantly moves on, marrying Madeleine
(Ellen Farner), a young woman who had been caring for his ailing, now
departed, godmother. In the end, an epilogue years later finds Geneviève
and Guy briefly reunited. Having gone their separate ways, each with a
new mate, each now with a child, their lives are not at all what they
envisioned a few short years ago. Is there still a love there, or has
time and the harsh realities of life dissipated what once was?
Sadness prevails throughout The Umbrellas of Cherbourg,
but the ending doesn’t quite fit that term. It’s certainly not happy,
but it’s not really sad. Despite the fanciful whimsy inherent in a film
that is wall-to-wall music and singing, this conclusion is something
closer to a contented reality. This is the true course of love: at times
tragic, at times joyful, but more than anything, utterly unpredictable
and uncontrollable. The film also alludes to realistic themes of wartime
separation and heartbreak, the struggles of fidelity in the face of
challenging truths, and familial and economic burdens.
Still,
with Michel Legrand’s astonishing score, covering all the musical
bases, from enchanting romanticism to jazzy swing to somber melancholia,
The Umbrellas of Cherbourg can’t help but be delightful. Add
Jean Rabier’s Eastmancolor cinematography, which color-coordinates
interior spaces, clothing, and seasonal shifts, and the film is simply a
spectacular sensory achievement. The upcoming Criterion Collection
transfer of the film, set for a July 22 release, is sure to be a
stunning audio/visual treat.
On
the surface, the concept of having the characters sing each and every
phrase — the mundane and the genuinely lyrical — does seem a bit
gimmicky. Yet not only does it work and work well, it works quickly.
Early in the film, one of Guy’s coworkers puts down opera: “All that
singing gives me a pain. I like movies better.” It’s amusing because
already we’ve seen what all that singing is going to be like here, and
far from being an off-putting experience, set within Demy’s gloriously
lush world, it’s instantly evident that this is going to be something
special, a musical unlike any other. It wouldn’t be the type of film
that deconstructs the musical in some self-conscious way, like, say,
Godard’s genre experimentation around the same time. This was, in its
own way, a comfortable fit into the classical movie musical model.
It’s
somewhat difficult to judge the performances here because they’re not
necessarily dramatic in the conventional sense, but each of the key
players does a fine job. If anyone though, it’s Catherine Deneuve who
stands out, and indeed does convey the most effective emotional range.
Frankly, she is also stunning to behold. Around 20 at the time, Deneuve
is captivating, and with this film, her star was firmly set to rise.
With her radically different turn in Roman Polanski’s Repulsion the next year, and her equally remarkable performance in Luis Bunuel’s Belle de Jour in 1967, Deneuve had — and still has — considerable talent to go along with that beauty.
Directly following The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, beginning with another (even better?) musical, The Young Girls of Rochefort,
again with Deneuve and this time featuring the venerable Gene Kelly,
Jacques Demy took on ever more diverse projects, including two personal
favorites, Model Shop and Donkey Skin. Yet somehow,
despite even the efforts of his wife and fellow filmmaker, Agnès Varda,
he didn’t quite achieve the stature of other New Wave icons such as
Godard, Truffaut, Resnais, Rivette, and others. The aforementioned
Criterion disc, in which The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is one of six of his films included in a set, will hopefully help rectify that oversight.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
The
Cannes Film Festival has long been a venue to court controversy, and
filmmaker Luis Buñuel was likewise one who consistently reveled in the
divisive. At the 1961 festival, Buñuel brought his latest release, Viridiana, and the results were spectacular, and spectacularly contentious. The film, which shared Palme d’Or honors with Henri Colpi’s The Long Absence,
was subsequently met with charges of blasphemy from the Vatican’s
newspaper, and it was promptly banned in Buñuel ‘s native Spain.
The Spanish reaction was particularly critical. Viridiana’s
production in Buñuel’s place of birth was already a hot topic. Having
left for America and Mexico in 1939, Spain’s surrealist native son was
back home, the adamantly leftist filmmaker now working amidst Francisco
Franco’s fascist dictatorship. What’s the worst that could happen?
Viridiana
is what happened, a gloriously provocative middle finger to so many
sacred Spanish establishments, not the least of which was the Catholic
church. Spanish officials passed the screenplay (vague written details
were easily transferred into scandalous images on film), and the film
went unseen until the Cannes screening. Following that, however,
anything to do with the picture was ordered to be destroyed.
Fortunately, prints were smuggled out and the movie still exits.
Welcome home, Luis.
Viridiana
stars consummate Buñuel dirty old man, Fernando Rey, as Don Jaime, an
ailing, wealthy gentleman whose last wish is to see his niece, a nun
named Viridiana (Silvia Pinal). She is away at a convent preparing to
take her vows and is reluctant to leave. But since her uncle paid for
her education, her sense of obligation sends her on her way. We first
see the widowed Don Jaime as he looks upon a young girl jumping rope —
doing so at his request. The girl is introduced through his lingering
gaze upon her bare legs (legs, always legs with Buñuel). Viridiana
arrives and Don Jaime immediately comments on her resemblance to his
late wife, whom we later see he is more than just enamored by. “You even
walk like your aunt,” he tells her. You can see where this is heading.
At
the house, Viridiana is spied upon and is visibly uncomfortable with
Don Jaime and her surroundings. A good example is her failed attempt to
milk a cow, the camera emphasizing her reluctance to grip the animal’s
teat (get it?). The night before Viridiana is to leave, Don Jaime asks
that she do him one favor. She agrees. Cut to her in her aunt’s wedding
dress. She’s not happy but she’s complainant. And then he asks her to
marry him.
Before
the night is over, in a desperate and disturbing effort to keep
Viridiana with him, Don Jaime drugs the girl, lays her in bed, begins to
undress her, and kisses her. In the morning he tells her, “I made you
mine while you slept.” That will keep her away from the convent. He
didn’t really though, confessing that he only possessed her in his
thoughts. As if she wasn’t ready to leave before!
Viridiana
is about to head to the convent when she is urgently called back to the
house. Don Jaime has hung himself (with the jump rope). Guilt-ridden,
Viridiana stays on at the house and is soon joined by Don Jaime’s
estranged son, Jorge (Francisco Rabal), and his girlfriend. While Jorge
tends to the property, Viridiana attempts to make penance by taking in a
group of derelicts, assigning them various tasks around the residence.
She has a heart of gold, as one bum notes, but, as another declares,
“she’s a little nutty.” Jealous of Viridiana, Jorge’s girlfriend leaves,
and he instantly seduces Ramona (Margarita Lozano), one of the
servants. He criticizes his cousin’s piousness, but it’s clear there’s
also some attraction there as well.
One
evening, Viridiana and Jorge are called away, and she naively leaves
the house under the supervision of some of the more “responsible” new
tenants. Left to their own devices and vices, all hell breaks loose in a
menagerie of drunkenness, debauchery, and general misbehavior. The peak
of this assault on decency is a mocking tableau of Leonardo da Vinci’s
“The Last Supper”; the icing on the irreverent cake is when, rather than
photographing the group at the table, as she said she would, one of the
female vagrants lifts her dress and flashes everyone. Jorge and
Viridiana return to the chaos (whereupon she is almost raped by one of
the men she helped to shelter), the tramps disperse, and in a day or so
things appear back to normal. Jorge is now firmly involved sexually with
Ramona, and when Viridiana stops by the room where there two of them
are supposedly playing cards, Jorge invites her in. Ambiguous glances
are exchanged and the three of them sit down at the card table together.
“You know,” says Jorge to Viridiana, “the first time I saw you, I
thought, ‘My cousin and I will end up shuffling the deck together.’” The
camera retreats from the room. The end. Originally, just Jorge and
Viridiana were to be left in the room together, but that was deemed
indecent. Adding another women is much better.
Viridiana
takes on multiple social and cultural conventions in its varying
insinuations, some more subtle than others, but in typical Buñuel
fashion, it’s religion that bears the brunt of his humorous,
challenging, perhaps even affectionate, criticism. Religious imagery is
skewered, in the form of a crucifix that reveals a knife (which actually
existed) and a crown of thorns set ablaze. Even the use of the
Hallejujah chorus from Handel’s “The Messiah” seems included to inflame.
But it’s all in good fun, at least to fans of Buñuel.
Whatever its reception, Viridiana
was a major film for Luis Buñuel. While many of his movies in Mexico
were quite good — some, in fact, are among his best — they weren’t
usually enough to put him on the world stage. (Cannes was good to Buñuel
during these years though; five of his Mexican features won or were
nominated for various awards at the festival.) But what followed was a
brilliant, nearly unparalleled succession of extraordinary work. From Viridiana to That Obscure Object of Desire in 1977, Buñuel directed one great film after another, nearly all, like Viridiana, succeeding in at least getting people to talk.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
