Jacques Demy’s The Young Girls of Rochefort is the Oscar-nominated follow-up to his immensely popular and successful The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
(1964), which with all of its dialogue sung was something of a
reinvention of the movie musical, an almost experiential musical. Young Girls, on the other hand, is simply a great musical. To be sure, Umbrellas is an excellent film as well (see my take on it here),
but while it surely resonates with its tale of love unhappily ever
after, and it radiates in attractive Eastmancolor, it’s in some ways
hampered by its own novelty. There is of course more to it than merely
the fact that everyone sings everything, but to many it’s probably best
known as the movie where everyone sings everything. Young Girls
is more traditional in that it has dialogue interspersed with the
singing and dancing sequences, and the narrative (complex if not
terribly original) proceeds in a more straightforwardly absorbing
fashion, without necessarily having the music overshadow any customary
storytelling. Gloriously composed — visually and aurally — The Young Girls of Rochefort
is a lyrically light holiday to this provincial town, with its
assortment of pleasant people having their fair share of romantic
troubles. Moreover, it’s one of the best musicals the form has ever
seen.
As a great musical, it excels in its generic requisites. Michel Legrand’s catchy music is actually better than that in Umbrellas,
as are Demy’s songs (understandably so, since in the earlier film the
lyrics are basically conversation). Many of these songs act as
reoccurring character themes, motifs that summarize and cue associations
with their respective dreams, doubts, and feelings. Like Umbrellas,
there are times when banal chitchat is rendered musical, and moments
when spoken dialogue rhymes, but generally the songs here are clearly
distinct segments. The choreography and staging of the dance numbers,
both first-rate, are whimsically random yet with obvious structure. They
spring from nowhere, and sometimes not everyone shown seems to be on
the same page (some townspeople join in while others just mill about as
the main players enthusiastically dance around them). There’s an
arranged, improvisational quality to the routines; the movements have a
vibrancy that nevertheless appears carefully directed. Keeping
everything color-coded and connected, cinematographer Ghislain Cloquet
works brilliantly with Demy’s pastel designs, with most of the costumes
and sets in the hues of an Easter egg.
The
whirlwind weekend of the film begins on a Friday morning, with a mosaic
roster of interconnected figures, most unknowingly so, all with romance
on the mind. There are two freewheeling young men who arrive as part of
the fair: Étienne (George Chakiris) and Bill (Grover Dale), sweeping
into the modest town like they own the place and mixing and mingling as
if they’ve known the residents forever. The other duo is Delphine and
Solange Garnier (real-life siblings Catherine Deneuve and Françoise
Dorléac). They are a “pair of twin born in the sign of Gemini,” the
former a piano teacher and composer, the latter a dance teacher, the
both of them longing for love, a better career, and a more hip existence
in Paris.
Their
mother, Yvonne Garnier (Danielle Darrieux), runs a glass-enclosed café
centrally located in the middle of town, which is frequented by, among
other regulars, Maxence (Jacques Perrin), a budding artist who has his
ambitions sidetracked by his naval duty. The wistful Maxence has painted
his “feminine ideal,” which is hung up in the gallery owned by
Guillaume Lancien (Jacques Riberolles) and which looks strikingly like
Delphine, whom he has never met. Guillaume, however, does know Delphine
and harbors unrequited feelings for her.
There’s
also Simon Dame (Michel Piccoli), who just opened a music store and
encourages the career of Solange. Finally, there’s Boubou (Patrick
Jeantet), Yvonne’s youngest child, from a different father than the
girls. As it turns out, Simon is Boubou’s dad. He was engaged to Yvonne
but their marriage was thwarted because, among other reasons (though
primarily), she dreaded the thought of being referred to as “Madame
Dame” (it is comical, and some of the other characters can’t help but
laugh when she tells her story). She and Simon have no idea that the
other is in such close proximity, but both separately wish to reunite.
Finally, there’s Andy Miller, a friend of Simon’s. When Solange picks up
Boubou from school, the boy throws a tantrum and tosses his school bag
on the ground, its contents falling out. As she kneels down to pick
everything up, there’s another set of knees there to help. Those knees
belong to Andy, who is played by Gene Kelly.
The
casting of Kelly here is interesting. The film goes to another level
when he appears, his iconic role in the musical genre bringing with it
all sorts of connotations and allusions to prior masterworks. The music
knows this and dramatically swells. Sure, that’s partly because it’s
love at first sight for Andy and Solange, but it’s also because it’s
Gene Kelly. His mere presence gives the film an amusing, self-conscious
sensibility. It’s 45 minutes in before he appears, and another 30
minutes or so after that before he’s seen again, but his imprint on the
film is unforgettable, for reasons not the least of which have to do
with his casting as a fine example of the French idolatry for classic
Hollywood personalities. (He doesn’t have the name or face recognition
of Kelly, but including Chakiris, who starred in West Side Story earlier in the decade, was similarly a casting coup for Demy, the musical fan that he was.) Hollywood aside, in the best Nouvelle Vague tradition there are other, more local cinematic references throughout, from the mention of Truffaut’s Jules and Jim to characters referring to Legrand himself.
Everyone
is in place by this point, and unbeknownst to them all, the love they
desire is just around the corner. Rochefort is a small town — how long
can they continue to miss these corners? A song declares, “Chance often
does things right, but it got its wires crossed,” and that’s what moves
much of the drama in The Young Girls of Rochefort: barely
missed connections, past associations, lost and unfound loves. There’s a
lot going on, yet Demy insisted that the plot meant little to him. More
important was “a general feeling, a moment in life, just moments of
existence.” While some of these moments are temporarily tragic, in that
they revolve around individuals deeply pining for love and living with
regret, more often than not, they are simply delightful. The characters
are smiling, dancing, and carefree. How carefree? When it’s revealed
that a recent dinner guest is actually an ax murderer, Yvonne thinks
back to his uncooperative behavior at that dinner and humorously
decries, “And that fuss about cutting the cake!”
Life
and death, love and solitude: it’s all part of the game, and Demy and
his characters take it in stride. The always insightful Jonathan
Rosenbaum compares the film’s “poetic vision and its artisanal
techniques” to Jacques Tati’s Playtime, with a similar
“polyphonic plot of crisscrossing missed connections, ironically built
in relation to a closely intertwined community.” It’s a spot-on
association, and the Tati connection carries even further in the way his
films and this Demy picture in particular treat life’s follies and
foibles with a subjective bemusement. There’s also a resigned
recognition of the tragically uncontrollable. So it’s fitting then, too,
that Rosenbaum also quotes Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story,
specifically when Kyoko ponders, “Life is disappointing, isn’t it?”
Rosenbaum does not, however, include Noriko’s response, where she
answers smiling, “Yes, it is.” In other words, C’est la vie.
The new Criterion Collection release of The Young Girls of Rochefort
is but one part of their fabulous ‘The Essential Jacques Demy’ set.
Boasting new restorations of six of Demy’s best films and a wealth of
bonus features, this is one exceptional compilation. The disc for Young Girls
is representative of what’s included with each title. There’s a
discussion between Demy biographer Jean-Pierre Berthomé and costume
designer Jacqueline Moreau, and a short segment from a 1966 series about
the film. But the real highlights are a 1966 interview featuring Demy
and Legrand, and Agnès Varda’s 1993 documentary The Young Girls Turn 25.
The
Demy/Legrand inclusion gives a fascinating and charismatic glimpse at
the duo’s creative process, where we see just how interconnected they
are, how indispensable their respective contributions are to the picture
as a whole. It’s amusing to see the two of them collaborate and banter
with the interviewer. But Varda, Demy’s widow and an excellent filmmaker
in her own right, is responsible for what is the most emotionally
affecting of the bonus features. It’s genuinely touching to see the
footage she shot of Demy during the film’s production, and to hear her
loving comments about her gifted husband. Mostly though, her documentary
revolves around a visit to Rochefort as the town and seemingly all of
its residents prepare to celebrate The Young Girls of Rochefort’s
25th anniversary. “We were all sort of slumbering,” says one gentleman.
“The film people came and we awakened … and we all began to sing.”
Everyone in the documentary, from Deneuve to some of the extras who had
only the smallest of roles, speak with warm fondness for the film
(basically the town’s primary claim to fame) and Demy as a man and
filmmaker. As part of the celebration, public performances feature
costumes and songs from the film, the town is festooned in the film’s
distinctive colors, there are municipal dedications in the names of
those associated with the film, and schoolchildren draw pictures of the
“Young Girls”. One youth interviewed even shows that wherever she goes,
she carries with her a copy of The Young Girls of Rochefort on videocassette.
Sure
it’s the setting, but is there really any call for a whole town to
elaborately commemorate a film like this? Is it a film that is so good
it needs to be with someone at all times? Is it that enjoyable, that
charming, that memorable? To again quote Noriko, “Yes, it is.”
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Even if we weren’t told at the start that Picnic at Hanging Rock
was about a group of girls who disappeared Saturday, Feb. 14, 1900 and
were never seen again, it would become apparent almost immediately that
this 1975 film was not going to end happily, or progress normally.
Director Peter Weir, working off a script by Cliff Green (adapted from
Joan Lindsay’s novel), presents Appleyard College in Victoria State,
Australia, and the nearby wildness, as otherworldly locales with an air
of haunting splendor. The first lines of the film, from Miranda (Anne
Lambert), not quite the lead, but an individual of focus more than the
others, hint at what’s to unfold: “What we see and what we seem are but a
dream, a dream within a dream.” And henceforth this surreal, stunningly
photographed picture proceeds as if indeed in a perpetual dream-state
plagued by melancholic doom.
By
way of a whimsical and deliberately hallucinatory technique, the
opening sequences at the college introduce the primary characters – the
girls as well as, most importantly, Mrs. Appleyard (Rachel Roberts) and
Miss McCraw (Vivean Gray). Weir and cinematographer Russell Boyd utilize
not only diffused illumination to create an impression of enigmatic
sensuality and mystery, but also slow motion and dissolves, resulting in
a spellbinding visual peculiarity. “Poetic” would also describe Picnic at Hanging Rock,
particularly early on and later during the more fantastic moments. But
it’s perhaps music that has the most in common with the film, notably in
terms of its atmosphere, the way it absorbs one into its creation.
Aided by the oftentimes blank and trancelike intensity of the girls, and
the evocative score by composer Bruce Smeaton and pan flute musician
Gheorghe Zamfir, this is a movie that truly gets under one’s skin.
Lest
it is shrouded by the ambiance, there is a story here. The girls travel
to the “geological miracle” that is Hanging Rock, a massive volcanic
formation that looms large over the neighboring woods. Of the students,
only Sara (Margaret Nelson), a troubled girl who bears a perhaps more
than friendly affection for Miranda, is left behind. Initially, the trip
is pure bliss, with the girls delighting in being able to remove their
gloves — once they’re appropriately distanced from town that is.
Clothing proves to be a recurring, if puzzling, feature of Picnic at Hanging Rock.
The incongruity of the girls’ formal wear in the wild is striking, out
of place and seemingly out of time, even despite the period setting; and
later, bits of clothing, either missing or remaining from the girls who
vanish, cause perplexed distress.
Also
picnicking in the forest is the Fitzhubert family. Son Michael (Dominic
Guard) and valet Albert (John Jarratt) see Miranda, Irma (Karen
Robson), Edith (Christine Schuler), and Marion (Jane Vallis) wander away
from the group and explore the rocks. The girls appear as majestic
visions to the two boys, and around this time, the film takes on a more
pronounced supernatural tenor as all wristwatches are discovered to have
suddenly stopped at exactly noon. It’s “something magnetic,” contends
Miss McCraw, but as the four girls go deeper into the labyrinthine
rocks, something further inexplicable transpires. Edith is ill and
repeatedly decries the area being “nasty.” She stays back, but the other
three venture further into a narrow crevasse, into, perhaps, another
dimension. They vanish and Edith screams and runs away. And so it
begins.
The
boys are questioned, as is Edith, who when fleeing down the hill saw a
red cloud overhead as she passed Miss McCraw running up the hill. Edith
reveals that Miss McCraw, who has also now disappeared, was no longer
wearing her dress. Michael is guilt-ridden for not having somehow
watched over the girls, and after days of searching bear no results, he
and Albert begin their own investigation. Michael tries to enter into
the fracture where the girls disappeared, but something prevents him
from moving forward. He succumbs to the pressure and the exertion and is
found by Albert, who discovers that the disturbed Michael is clutching a
piece of one of the girls’ dresses. As Albert goes back amongst the
rocks, he amazingly finds Irma, traumatized but still alive. She has
scratches to her hands and fingers, as if she clawed at something, and a
bruise on her head, as if she was struck, but the rest of her body is
unmarked. She has no shoes, socks, or corset, but rape is ruled out. She
has no memory of what happened.
Nothing about this adds up, nothing ever will, and that’s the point. Picnic at Hanging Rock
exists simply and effectively as a work meant to confound, to
challenge, to perhaps even frustrate in its ambiguities and unsolved
mysteries. When Michael is stricken by whatever it is that befalls him,
over his anguished body Weir superimposes earlier scenes accompanied by
snippets of dialogue. This sequence coalesces times when what characters
said and did seem to clearly imply the mystery to come. We’ve seen
these instances since the beginning of the film. Before leaving the
school, Miranda knowingly says she won’t be around much longer. There’s
talk of the rock waiting a million years, just for the girls. “We shall
only be gone a little while,” cryptically says one student as she
leaves. “A surprising number of human beings are without purpose, though
it is probable that they are performing some function unknown to
themselves,” says another. Each time one of these phrases is uttered
(“Everything begins and ends at the exactly right time and place” is
another provocative line) the sense of impending doom is called to the
fore. The same goes for the expressions of somber reverie, the
tantalizing wave from Miranda as she and the other three walk off, the
exchanging of glances that suggest something between suspicion and
acknowledgement. From the start, these signifiers of ambiguity are
relentless. And when Weir includes the montage of these moments, with so
many seen all at once, overlapping, we expect them to present or at
least hint at a solution of sorts. This is the moment in a mystery where
the details of previous incidents are seen together and give rise to
apparent significance, meanings that weren’t necessarily clear when they
first occurred. This is how the viewer puts together the pieces and
solves the puzzle. But nothing of the sort happens with Picnic at Hanging Rock. We’re given the baffling ingredients, but a recipe for a simple explanation doesn’t exist.
There
are also times when symbolic imagery is explicit and seems to indicate
an overt connotation. From high above, Edith looks down at the other
picnickers and comments, “Except for those people down there, we might
be the only living creatures in the whole world.” Cut to a high angle
shot of the group of girls strewn against the rocks, laying every which
direction. Cut to ants likewise mingling randomly amongst grass and
discarded food. The associative montage suggests a related aimless
existence, but where that goes and just how it plays into the totality
of the film remains inconclusive.
As Vincent Canby notes in his review
of the film, the open ending is bound to aggravate a certain portion of
the audience (if the preceding events hadn’t already). “I can’t tell
you how the story is resolved,” he states, “though some people will feel
cheated.” So where does that leave a film like Picnic at Hanging Rock?
Canby suggests it’s a type of horror film. It’s eerie enough, its
haunting effect is indeed a lingering one, and with young girls
tormented and screaming, it at the very least contains those hallmarks
of the horror genre. However, to place this film into such a generic
category would be an injustice to a movie that so obviously seeks to be
something else all together, which it surely is. One of the great things
about this film is Weir’s audacious — and successful — choice to
intentionally present a mystery and make no attempt to solve it, to make
a movie that resists classification, with a narrative and a style that
defies convention and simplistic understanding or description. Its
riddles may frustrate, but they’re presented as if an answer were just
within reach, a solution so close that one wants to keep coming back to
the film to make sure something wasn’t missed, a key wasn’t overlooked.
And yet, even if no such solution is to be had, Picnic at Hanging Rock is such an extraordinary achievement that the ultimate uncertainty is worth the road it took to get there.
REVIEW from FILM INTERNATIONAL
Robert
Bresson’s is one of the great singular visions of the cinema. Like
Stanley Kubrick and Andrei Tarkovsky, Bresson’s output was relatively
minimal — 13 features over the course of 40 years — but it is likewise
instantly recognizable. Though it’s something of an auteurist cliché to
say that one can identify a given director’s work by just a single scene
or even a single frame, in this case, the declaration holds true.
Bresson’s work is so distinct, so deceptively simple, so regimented in
its formal construction, that to see one of his films is to witness an
exceptional directorial style, one consistently employed throughout an
artist’s body of work. With this consistency comes the subsequent
creation of one extraordinary film after another, each similar to the
previous, with reoccurring imagery, themes, and performances, but each,
at the same time, notably unique. Bresson directed several films that
could be considered his greatest, and while Au Hasard Balthazar (1966) puts up the strongest fight, a good case could be made for Pickpocket, from 1959, as the inimitable filmmaker’s finest achievement.
Though
there are others in the film, Michel (Martin LaSalle) is the titular
thief of concern. Michel is, in James Quandt’s words, a “walking
semiotic system of alienation.” LaSalle’s blank slate of a face allows
the audience to project any number of emotions and thoughts onto this
young man, but such associative engagement is sheer speculation, for
rarely are we afforded any overt suggestion of true feeling. His
self-imposed isolationism keeps him at a distance from society, for
which he seems to care little, and from family and friends. Jeanne
(Marika Green), his teenage neighbor who cares for his ailing mother
(Michel would rather give his mother a wad of cash than visit with her),
and Jacques (Pierre Leymarie), his sole friend, offer a way out from
the solitary existence, a path of intimacy and amity, but Michel greets
this closeness with trepidation. Though the three do socialize on
occasion, Michel’s public presence is awkward to say the least.
Adding
to his social discomfort is his disconcerting worldview, his take of
what is right or wrong and his questioning of morality and appropriate
justice. With Jacques and the police officer who is suspiciously on his
trail at all times, Michel daringly lays out his philosophical stance
when it comes to the justification of certain crimes if committed by
gifted men, men better than others, men above the law, “supermen”
operating autonomously from societal structures. Such a duel (dis)regard
for certain people and not others is manifest in Michel’s visually
evident and even stated appreciation for his chosen craft and those
craftsmen who so expertly execute the crime. (Real-life pickpocket
Kassagi appears in the film and acted as a technical advisor for the
production, lending the criminal methodology shown considerable
authenticity.) The ambiguous awe with which Michel sometimes examines
the other pickpockets gives credence to some of the psychosexual
readings that have been assigned to the film; they’re perhaps not what
first comes to mind watching the movie, but once the suggestion has been
made, as Quandt does make, it’s hard to shake the theory.
Michel
meticulously practices his thieving routine, and once successfully put
into action, the anxiety gives way to euphoria; watching Michel enact
his felonies is truly a sensual experience. The same goes for when we
see Michel and his fellow pickpockets stage elaborately designed joint
thefts. The bravura sequence at the train station is a wonderfully shot
and arranged display of intricate collaboration. Such careful commitment
to a crime is, it must be admitted, rather admirable and impressive.
But of course, that doesn’t make it right, and on the flip side of this
is the omnipresent potential for apprehension. The police are also
competent figures in Pickpocket. There are officers doing their
own work, and frequently succeeding. What emerges is a sort of
professional tête-à-tête of contrasting and competing occupational
proficiency.
Known
for his austere and stripped down treatment of imagery, Bresson here
reveals a notable stylishness, with a smoothly flowing camera and
outstanding montage sequences — Pickpocket is also perhaps less
rigorous due to its rapid pace and its condensed runtime (about 75
minutes). While it is a brisk film, Bresson nevertheless allows for
certain formal features more synonymous with his cinema: extreme,
perfectly composed close-ups of small details and abstract body parts;
lingering shots of halls and doorways, transitional places maintained in
the frame before or after a character has moved through them; and the
integration of a complex soundtrack as a way to establish and enlarge
off-screen space. Paul Schrader, in his introduction to the film that
accompanies the recently released Criterion Collection Blu-ray,
discusses these and other unique Bresson approaches to filmic
guidelines. His decisions when it comes to editing tempo, genre
convention, shot size, and pacing are most unusual, and yet are highly
effective in terms of narrative progression and the general impression
of the film. This impression, as Quandt mentions in his commentary, is
one marked by the “everyday transfigured by Bresson’s strange
attentiveness.”
Schrader, who calls Pickpocket the most influential film on his own career (with allusions most clearly in Taxi Driver and American Gigolo),
considers Michel as a soul floating around. Much of this detached sense
is a result of Bresson’s use of actors (or, as he would sometime refer
to them, “interpreters” or “models”). Like automatons that have not yet
developed an emotive aptitude, the performers here and in other Bresson
films are in a perpetual state of lethargic restraint and sobriety, only
occasionally countered by outbursts of passion. Bresson cast
“non-actors who non-act,” as Schrader puts it, but interestingly, given
the director’s penchant when it comes to performances, their impact
operating in this unorthodox style is always a lasting one.
It
is stated at the film’s opening that this will not be a thriller, and
with regards to that designation’s standard definition, this is
obviously true. But Pickpocket is thrilling. Though we are
oftentimes left to infer as much as we are actually shown, this omission
of various elements is more captivating than it is distancing. And
despite the intentionally stilted performances, we are genuinely
concerned about these people and wonder how they will ultimately turn
out. When it’s revealed that the morally superior Jacques is not all he
seemed to be, the suggestion that perhaps Michel can also change gives
the film a previously lacking optimism. His respite from crime may be
short-lived, but there is still by film’s end a glimmer of hope. It was a
“strange path” Michel traveled, but the destination appears to have
been worth the trip. “Appears to” being the key here, for rarely in the
film are motivations and outcomes made unequivocal, which was always
part of Bresson’s intent. As he puts it, “I’d rather people feel a film
before understanding it.”
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Directed by Michelangelo Antonioni
Written by Michelangelo Antonioni, Giorgio Bassani, Suso Cecchi D’Amico, Diego Fabbri, Roger Nimier, Turi Vasile
Italy/France, 1953
In 1953, Michelangelo Antonioni directed the episodic I vinti (The Vanquished),
quite possibly the least “Antonioni-esque” feature he ever made (the
roster of credited writers above is some indication of the impersonal
nature of the film). Comprised of three vignettes about troubled youth
in France, Italy, and England, the film at times comes across almost as a
moralizing after school special, whereby it attempts to draw attention
to the desperate and destructive state of young people during this
period. But while the film’s obvious didacticism is its least laudable
characteristic, I vinti is nevertheless a fascinating examination of this “burnt out generation.”
These
young people were just children during World War II. They’ve grown up
in a time of upheaval and violence, and now as society has progressed
and begun to stabilize, they vainly cope with a new post-war modernity.
They act out in this violent world by committing their own acts of
violence, sometimes for egotistical achievement, sometimes for ideology,
sometimes out of sheer greed or boredom. The youth are blinded by a
mentality of personal gain and selfishness, which is further blurred by
political and social conditioning. They paradoxically seek an adult form
of independence, but are in many ways reliant upon, and restrained by, a
familial and collective trust. The parents in the film, as well as the
film’s opening narration, seek to pin down the aggressive behavior,
attributing their misdeeds to factors ranging from gangster films to
“boogie-woogie” music.
The
three stories were ripped from the headlines, and their subsequent
adherence to what really happened was the cause of considerable acrimony
when the film came out, not only from the families of those involved,
but also from various sociopolitical factions. The Italian episode in
particular was subject to censorial demands and alterations. However, it
is presented uncut in the new Blu-ray of the film. This release also
includes interviews with actor Franco Interlenghi (from the Italian
segment) and writer/producer Turi Vasile, each sharing some background
on the production along with their personal recollections. There is also
Tentato Suicidio, Antonioni’s contribution to the omnibus feature Love in the City, which itself will be released on Blu-ray July 22.
The first segment of I vinti
is set in France and revolves around a group of young people who decide
to kill one of their supposed friends. The violent act is all part of
their general preoccupation with doing something simply for the hell of
it, ignorant of any potential repercussions. Many are only concerned
with good times and a worldly life of wealth. Their cruel ambitions lead
them to the countryside, an ironically idyllic backdrop for the murder.
The second portion of the film, the controversial Italian episode, has
its main protagonist acting out for ideological purposes, his confused
politics matching his youthful heedlessness. This segment seems
especially born of World War II’s aftermath, with a focus on the black
market that was then something of a necessity and is now a more
stringently patrolled offense. Finally, the English segment concerns a
young writer who for his own whimsy, and later publicity, kills an aged
prostitute and toys with the police as they conduct their investigation.
Widely considered the best of the three segments (Vasile says it also
illustrates “Antonioni’s Anglo-Saxon bent” that would emerge in Blow-Up), this story is the most enduringly relevant, with contemporary media more obsessed than ever over self-made stars and scandal.
While
Antonioni’s work frequently focuses on the role ambiguous emotions play
in defining characters and their actions, this is one of his few films
where motivation is derived more overtly from political and economic
foundations. I vinti expressly stresses the fluctuating times
as being a catalyst for these lives of misdirection. Similarly, the use
of location in this film, an otherwise key facet of Antonioni’s
methodology, serves essentially no more a purpose than being where the
action happens to take place, aesthetically reflecting or suggesting
little about the characters and their decisions.
Such a cinematic assessment of these troubling concerns was prevalent in Italy during this time (see Fellini’s I Vitelloni of the same year, with its assortment of aimless layabouts, or, later, Pasolini’s Accattone). But part of the point of I vinti,
with its Europe-spanning division, is the universality of these issues:
the inflated value of effortlessly earned money, the disdain for hard
work, the obsession over celebrity and sensationalism, and the complex
youthful desire for self-determination. Still, despite its diverse
settings, one can’t help but think of Italian cinema in particular while
watching the film, and not just because of its director. In many ways, I vinti represents what happened to characters like young Bruno in Bicycle Thieves or the world-weary children in Paisan, as they make their way to the self-indulgence of Marcello Rubini in La Dolce Vita. I vinti is perhaps what comes between.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Max Ophüls’ third feature in America, Caught,
from 1949, is an evocative amalgam of a domesticated melodramatic
tragedy and a dynamic film noir sensibility. The picture stars Barbara
Bel Geddes as Leonora Eames, a studious adherent to charm school
principles who dreams of becoming a glamorous model, or at least
marrying a young, handsome millionaire. She gets the latter when she
meets Smith Ohlrig (Robert Ryan), a wealthy “international something”
who gives her the superficial materials she desires but little else.
Their marriage is an arduous sham. He works late hours on unclear
projects while she is left to dwell uselessly in their extravagant
mansion. He’s cruel to her and careless. A way out of the stifling
relationship comes in the form of a job as a doctor’s receptionist.
Leonora leaves Ohlrig and moves into Manhattan, where she eventually
shows a knack for her newfound profession. There she also falls for
pediatrician Larry Quinada (James Mason, in his first Hollywood role).
As the film’s title suggests, Leonora finds herself emotionally and
ethically caught: caught between who she is and what she tried to be,
and what she’s become and what she now hopes for. A confrontation is
inevitable, but what isn’t expected is the shocking conclusion of the
film. A forbidding decision provocatively questions the morals of these
characters and our subsequent judgment of their actions, and the final
minutes of the film contains the makings of one of Hollywood’s most
bizarre “happy endings.”
The
Dorothy Dale School of Charm gives Leonora a superficial “social
education,” where she learns diction and posture and how to handle
herself when out and about with society’s elites. It’s on her way to a
swanky yacht party that she meets Ohlrig. He’s heard before he’s seen,
as he’s below the pier and out of her and our view. Such an introduction
foreshadows their marriage, itself marred by each of them being out of
sight and out of mind. She is suspicious about his invitation to ride
with him — men, after all, have only one idea — and he is vague about
who he is and where he’s going. After this first meeting, they continue
seeing each other, despite apparent coldness and tension. He thinks
she’s only after his money, but they marry anyway. (Admittedly, in the
beginning, though she doesn’t always have money for lunch, she does
dream of mink and chinchilla.)
With
the settings of their initial meeting being a foggy pier and outside a
dimly lit warehouse, our noir sixth sense tells us things are not going
to go well for this romance. Once married, Leonora clearly doesn’t fit
in her new life, and we never feel satisfied either. Her anxiety feeds
our own trepidation about what she’s gotten herself into. Ohlrig’s large
house feels paradoxically more claustrophobic than her old, cramped
apartment. It has an empty fullness, reminiscent of Charles Foster
Kane’s Xanadu. She complains she never sees her husband and he counters
with insinuations: “You got what you wanted,” he tells her, obviously
still under the impression she is after his wealth, “You’re wearing it.”
She’s a wreck, and he’s insecure, careless, and irrationally explosive.
Her charm school pretense couldn’t have prepared her for this.
When
she finally gets the nerve to leave and meets Larry, it’s a different
world. He and his partner are in over their heads with their busy
practice. It’s in a rather poor section of the city; it’s hectic and not
at all glamorous. But there’s life there, and indeed, life there soon
shall be. Larry initially criticizes Leonora for being too fancy, but
their mutual attraction grows more and more pronounced, just as she
discovers she’s pregnant … with Ohlrig’s child. She now faces compassion
or coldness, secrets or the truth, divorce or a child.
Romantic passions run high throughout Caught,
yet all three leads reign in any overtly theatrical excess, maintaining
a balanced degree of emotional expressiveness even in times of
scandalous behavior. There is also a significant level of socioeconomic
concern, which drives a considerable portion of the drama. The genuine
or perceived importance of money is related throughout, and the
placement of an individual comfortably into an appropriate class is but
one conveyed anxiety, at least for Leonora, with Ohlrig and Larry
representing opposite poles of economic standing.
Ophüls’
renowned camera work is on full display (it was while working on this
film that Mason penned an amusing poem regarding, “A shot that does not
call for tracks” being “agony for poor old Max”). Even in Leonora’s
constrictive apartment early on, or later in Larry’s office, the camera
glides in all directions, in continually impressive and original
patterns. One particularly striking shot has the two doctors talking to
each other from across the office. The camera establishes a central
focal point and as if a pendulum, it oscillates from side to side,
resting on either man in matching compositions. What also stands out
visually is the meticulousness of formal design in terms of
corresponding cuts, noirish illumination, deep focus compositions, and
the movement of characters in and out of frame, all of this lending
itself to a notable cinematic choreography beyond just moving the
camera.
Caught’s screenplay is by Arthur Laurents, who had the year before written Hitchcock’s Rope and would go on to pen David Lean’s Summertime (1955) and Otto Preminger’s underrated Bonjour Tristesse (1958). As for Ophüls, as good as Caught is, his greatest work still lay ahead: La Ronde (1950), Le Plaisir (1952), The Earrings of Madame de… (1953) and Lola Montès (1955).
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
L’eclisse is the third film in Michelangelo Antonioni’s so-called “Trilogy of Alienation,” the preceding works having been L’avventura and La notte. (With justification, some would argue that Red Desert,
his next film, truly rounds out what would then be considered a
tetralogy). While the three films taken together do explore many of the
same themes relating to spiritual emptiness, the disbanding of
relationships, and a struggle to communicate in an increasingly modern
and alienating world, L’eclisse differs from the two earlier
works most notably in its increasingly experimental style and its
blatant departures from conventional storytelling and formal design.
A tumultuous relationship begins L’eclisse,
as we arrive in medias res, near the end of the rather unpleasantly
crumbling relationship between Riccardo (Francisco Rabal) and Vittoria
(Monica Vitti). Inside Riccardo’s claustrophobic home, Antonioni packs
the frame in a remarkable fashion, with furniture, accessories, and
pieces of miscellaneous bric-a-brac invading and protruding through
nearly every corner of any given composition. Coupled with a deafening
silence (“Many things can be said during silence,” Antonioni once said)
and a stifling atmosphere (an oscillating fan stresses the suffocating
warmth), this creates an intimately uncomfortable portrait of an affair
in ruins, of things clearly having taken a turn for the worse. Vittoria
fidgets around anxiously; Riccardo at times just sits and stares. While
he is persistent in his attempts at reconciliation, there seems to be no
hope. Whatever existed between these two has been sadly severed.
Isolation
is a key theme in Antonioni’s work, highlighted frequently through the
use of location. Here, after Vittoria leaves Riccardo’s home, she walks
along the desolate streets. It’s early and there is barely anyone else
around. In this setting, Vittoria’s solitude is underlined by her
isolated figure placed in these sterile surroundings. This would stand
in contrast to the next key location of the film, one unlike any other
previously approached by Antonioni in his films to this point — the
Italian stock exchange, where Piero (Alain Delon), who is soon to be
Vittoria’s new love, works. This is a hectic, crowded, and noisy
location, one of bustling energy that relates to, and feeds off of, the
individuals who make up this trade; as they yell and bid and curse, one
wonders if they are spurring on this confusion and chaos, or if it the
other way around. Either way, this particular locale is quite revealing,
not only as far as the characters are concerned, but here we also see
Antonioni making a larger commentary on this specific venue as part of
Italy as a whole. Men and women shout over each other and violence is
primed to erupt at any moment. There is much at stake here, and the
attempts to make deals and sell and buy stocks are complicated by all
the noise. The earlier silence between Riccardo and Vittoria, which
makes their dialogue strained, is paralleled here where the raucousness
makes attempts at communication also a struggle. This exchange of
currency and property seems utterly uncivilized, yet modern civilization
as these people know it is heavily dependent on what goes on in this
site. It’s a kind of post-war, consumerist, capitalistic paradox, where
big business and stock traders are made to appear unscrupulous and
overly aggressive, but are, in many ways, what makes the whole thing
move. In a strategy at this point rare in his career, Antonioni is using
the market location as instigation for a larger societal critique. When
Piero and his associates observe a moment of silence to remember a
recently deceased colleague, the anxiety of missing out on potential
money earned is excruciating. “One minute here costs billions,” Piero
tells Vittoria.
L’eclisse
would go on to make use of a location only existing in photographs to
further comment on the personal struggles of these characters in their
contemporary existence. Following the break up with Riccardo, Vittoria
later that evening finds herself in the home of a neighbor, essentially a
stranger. There, she marvels at the pictures and artifacts taken from
this neighbor’s time spent in Africa. Though never actually in this
geographic location, the way the images of the exotic land work on
Vittoria’s psyche is nevertheless revealing. She loosens up and becomes
uninhibited, going so far as to don blackface, wear a robe, and yell and
hop around in the apparent fashion of an “African savage.” What may
seem like blatant racism now (and the neighbor seems to view the
behavior as disrespectful at the very least), in the film it signals a
change in behavior and mentality that Vittoria otherwise never finds the
motivation for. The pictures of the African landscapes inform
considerably, even if briefly, a retreat from her suffocating, banal,
and, to her, difficult way of life. Kenya represents freedom, an escape
from modernity, a less difficult place where “things just unfold on
their own.”
In
another example of an alternate environment playing a part in character
development, a major location for Piero also reveals a perhaps latent
desire for a return to a simpler existence, here a return to the past.
Despite his role in an ever enveloping and evolving contemporary
lifestyle, Piero lives in a house populated by antiques. Though he is in
no way old fashioned, and actually seems to revel in modern times with
the emphasis on prosperity, speed, and progress, these relics
surrounding him in this domestic setting hint at a man who once was, or
still is, a product of a totally different life than what he is leading.
Taking
these two locations together, they both demonstrate why Piero and
Vittoria may indeed make a suitable couple — neither are seemingly
content with where they are in life or in setting; both maybe even feel
more at home, literally and figuratively, in spaces not inundated by the
complexities, falsities, and artificialities of a modern reality. If
they are a good match, however, then how does one explain the film’s
famous final sequence, which amounts to, as Seymour Chatman has
described it, “a kind of disestablishing shot”?
Having
agreed to meet later one evening, neither character shows, and
Antonioni’s camera is left to comb the area and its animate and
inanimate occupiers. A sequence lasting nearly seven minutes provides
one of Antonioni’s most stunning moments of landscape examination and
ambiguous narrative provocation. Abstract compositions of spatial
elements — people, buildings, trees, debris, etc. — give a sense of
disturbing estrangement. We see people waiting, watching, walking … but
waiting for what, watching what, walking where? It’s an aimless, dreamy,
even haunting montage of incongruous features. In Elements of Landscape, a short documentary featured on the Criterion Collection disc, critic Adriano Aprà likens L’eclisse
to a science fiction film, particularly with its odd, ultramodern
architecture, and at one point, Piero states that he feels like he’s in a
foreign country. Throughout the entire film, there is a strong feeling
of strangeness, but never more so than in this final sequence. The
evocative imagery and Giovanni Fusco’s tremendously effective ambient
score suggests an alarming finality, but to what? A newspaper headline
mentions the nuclear arms race. A possible clue? Antonioni’s
compositions in and of themselves are normal enough (stunningly shot
though — Aprà calls the filmmaker a “photographer/director”), but taken
together like they are here, and juxtaposed in their content and form,
the result is quite unsettling.
And
what of Piero and Vittoria? Why are they together prior to this, and
where are they now? It’s clear when they first meet that there is an
attraction (it’s Monica Vitti and Alain Delon, how could there not be
attraction?), but their initial attempts at physical affection are
awkward at best. This improves some as the film goes on, but there is
never a hint of true devotion. Vittoria says at one point she wishes she
didn’t love him, but then she wonders if she wishes she loved him more.
Their union is half-hearted from the start. Neither is reliant on the
other for security, nor are they necessarily looking for commitment.
Unexpressed ambivalence is not unusual for Antonioni’s couples, but the
way their relationship concludes here, at least as far as what we
actually see in the film, is an innovative approach. By agreeing on the
meeting time and location, and neither showing, we are at once not
surprised (did they really care for each other anyway) and shocked
(because we stay in the area, without them, for so long).
There has been debate about what exactly L’eclisse is referring to. There is no actual eclipse in the picture, so like Red Desert,
which features nothing close to a desert, to say nothing of a red one,
one has to assume that the title is illusory or metaphoric. In this
case, it would seem that there is actually an eclipse of sorts, but it’s
one of the landscape over the characters. The setting in this film has
become so important that it now outweighs our protagonists. From
Riccardo’s home to the stock exchange to the austere streets,
Antonioni’s characters are never quite in a place where they seem fully
at ease. And by the end, why haven’t Piero and Vittoria met? Where could
they be? It’s ultimately inconsequential, because the surroundings have
taken center stage. In Antonioni’s work to this point, going as far
back as his first documentary, People of the Po, settings have
told a great deal about their inhabitants. But now, it seems people are
losing their relevance. This is just one facet of L’eclisse, a film that truly rewards, if not demands, multiple viewings.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
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
