How good was Billy Wilder? So good that this film, Kiss Me, Stupid—largely
entertaining, frequently witty, beautifully shot, and with at least two
noteworthy performances—probably wouldn’t figure in most lists of his
top 10 movies. Yet it is a good Billy Wilder film, if not a great one.
Starting
in Las Vegas, we are introduced to Dino, a womanizer, a drunk, an
accomplished singer, and a clever jokester. Dean Martin, in a bit of
curiously inspired and rather daring casting, plays the rapscallion; not
surprisingly, he does so very well. On his way to Los Angeles, he stops
in Climax, Nevada (with all the sexual innuendo built into this film,
the town’s name almost seems the least obvious). There he encounters
Orville (Ray Walston), a nebbish piano teacher and amateur songwriter
who is irrationally jealous of his wife, Zelda (Felicia Farr), whom he
assumes everyone, from the milkman to the dentist, is trying to flirt
with. Orville’s musical collaborator is Barney (Cliff Osmond), a gas
station attendant. With the arrival of Dino seen as their big break,
Orville and Barney arrange to have him stuck in their one-horse town
just long enough to convince him of their own musical talents. But when
Dino’s philandering ways put him at odds with Orville’s marital
paranoia, especially when it’s revealed that Zelda harbors a crush on
the singer and was even the president of his fan club, Orville schemes
to get her out of the house while keeping Dino in. As part of this
process, he and Barney enlist the help of waitress-cum-prostitute Polly
the Pistol (Kim Novak) to pretend to be Orville’s wife, thus providing
the requisite female companionship for Dino without actually subjecting
Zelda to Dino’s amorous advances. None of this, of course, goes quite as
planned, and as this summary probably indicates, the events that
transpire are somewhat ridiculous and erratic. By and large though, it’s
great fun to watch.
Martin
is the main attraction here, as is obvious by his self-conscious
characterization alone, but while his trademark cool and his casual
quips may be some of the best parts of Kiss Me, Stupid, the
continual scenes of his relentlessly aggressive one-track-mind are some
of the worst. I love Dean Martin—his songs and his movies—but I surely
hope this degree of sleazily obsessive sexual avariciousness is at least
mostly a creative liberty. Nevertheless, he and Novak are the acting
highlights. Novak plays Polly as a tragically heartbreaking character,
with a low self-esteem but an endearingly charming resilience. She
assumes the life she lives is as good as it gets, only because she
doesn’t know any better, and though she has to deal with Dino
incessantly pawing at her throughout the evening, she takes a liking to
the feigned domesticity she embodies in Zelda’s absence. Farr is
generally appealing—pretty, playful, and the object of considerable
sympathy as Orville cruelly abuses her in order to drive her out of the
house—and Osmond, a Wilder regular, essentially just serves his
co-conspirator/sidekick role only to the degree absolutely necessary.
Written with his brilliant collaborator, I.A.L. Diamond, Wilder’s script for Kiss Me, Stupid
functions on three levels, two of them successfully. What works is
primarily the dialogue. As evidenced in their past four consecutive
films together—Irma la Douce (1963), One, Two, Three (1961), The Apartment (1960), and Some Like It Hot
(1959)—Diamond and Wilder had a way with words. One-liners, snappy
banter, and double entendres were par for the course, and here they’re
top notch. This then leads to the second positive element of the film’s
script: the audaciousness. By 1964 standards, this is a rather
suggestive liberal-minded film (little surprise it was condemned by the
Catholic Legion of Decency). Novak the clear sex symbol of the picture
dresses at times in very little, and even Farr, playing the dutifully
modest housewife, albeit the most beautiful one in Climax, appears in
her bra. The sexuality of the film—repressed or on full display—never
really ceases, and by the end, morals are tried and tested and some
surprisingly waver. There may be lessons learned by the conclusion, but
there’s no real remorse or censure. Just as One, Two, Three took on the contemporary politics of the time, Kiss Me, Stupid is a bold exploration of the changing sexual mores of the 1960s.
Where
the film’s screenplay falters, however, is in its basic premise. At
slightly over two hours, the novelty of Martin knowingly having some fun
with his recklessly informal persona grows a little tired. The
on-again, off-again theme career advancement for Orville and Barney is a
shaky one; for a fair amount of time, that motivating factor goes by
the wayside altogether, with the focus instead on the sexual comedy of
manners. When Polly questions how Orville could let Dino go after his
(fake) wife like he does, right in front of him, we’re kind of wondering
the same thing. And doesn’t Dino, even as much of a horndog as he is,
find it unusual that this woman’s husband would just sit idly by through
all of his advances? Finally, while it seems odd that the role of Zelda
rather than Polly was apparently written for Marilyn Monroe, in many of
Novak’s scenes with Walston, the two seem to be clearly playing on the
Monroe-Tom Ewell relationship from Wilder’s The Seven Year Itch (1955). It’s occasionally funny, but it’s a little too familiar.
Music and the movies play a large part in Kiss Me, Stupid’s appeal.
André Previn, who had by this point amassed five Academy Award
nominations and three wins for his musical work (including on Irma la Douce),
provided the film’s score. The original songs were by none other than
the Ira and the late George Gershwin. Movie references come from several
prior films, most notably a nod to the famous grapefruit scene from The Public Enemy (1931). Then there are the constant references to Martin’s Rat Pack cronies. Kiss Me, Stupid
ultimately exists in a strange sort of metafilmic world where real life
is merging with on-screen personas and preceding cinematic models.
Kiss Me, Stupid
is an enjoyable movie, a crude farce with several laughs and worthwhile
performances. If it doesn’t live up to some of Billy Wilder’s finer
films, it’s his own fault. Few directors have set their own bar so
incredibly high.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Bruno
Cortona (Vittorio Gassman) zips along deserted Roman streets in his
Lancia Aurelia B24. In search of a telephone, he is a high-speed
automotive speck dwarfed by towering housing complexes and businesses.
Bruno maintains this frenetic pace whether he’s on foot, in his car, or
speaking. He talks fast and barks orders, assuming everyone else is on
his own wavelength. He’s a tornado personified, seeming to barge in
wherever he goes, making noise, making a scene, making an entrance.
According to his estranged wife, for Bruno, the “first impression says
it all.” He is also self-obsessed and self-assured, with an apparent
disregard for others and with no social filter: “Who’s this fatty?” he
asks Roberto Mariani (Jean-Louis Trintignant), whom he just met, picking
up a photograph from the stranger’s desk. It’s Roberto’s mother.
Bruno’s behavior is marked by reckless irresponsibility, a freewheeling
egotism and arrogance that borders on outright charm. “He is, to be
blunt, a jerk,” writes Phillip Lopate, “but a strangely sympathetic
one.” He likes fast cars and flirting with girls, and his rambling
pontifications cover any and every topic that pops into his head.
Frankly, he’s a little exhausting.
But the character of Bruno also embodies the dynamism that runs through the entirety of Dino Risi 1962 comedy, Il sorpasso.
This was Risi’s 15th feature, after nearly a decade’s worth of
documentaries and short films, and it probably remains his most famous
and widely acclaimed. Like Alberto Lattuada and Pietro Germi, Risi had
his roots in Neorealism, and like these other directors, he was doing
what he could to break away from that tradition. Ravaged by war and
burdened by 20 years of prior Fascist reign, Italians in the early 1960s
were ready to laugh. Neorealism had its place and its undeniable
influence, but this “Neorealismo Rosa” expressed its own social
commentary with some of the devastation scaled back. A burgeoning
modernity was nailing tight the coffin of Neorealist austerity, in the
form of pop music, recreational activities, wealth, casual even caustic
language, and in the broad sense of a loosened morality. This to say
nothing of a physical Italy shown a million miles from the remnants of
World War II.
Il sorpasso’s
co-writer Ettore Scola refers to Risi’s “light touch,” his ability to
coolly turn the critical camera on Italy itself, without any
condemnation or contempt; in the finest Commedia all’italiana
tradition, Risi points to the foibles and follies of his fellow
countrymen, but does so with a pleasant, good humor. Looking at the film
years later, Trintignant identifies Il sorpasso as something
of an historical film, in that it captures the economic and social state
of the nation during a booming era potentially spoiled by a newfound
fascination for all things modern and materialistic. As Scola cautions,
alluding to the film’s finale, “There’s no boom without a crash.”
Here’s
where a more literal translation of the film’s title comes
in—”overtaking.” That is, passing, full speed ahead, heedless. And this
comes back to Bruno and his bombast. Of course, his bravado is most
striking in contrast to others, particularly in contrast to the meek,
awkward, and arguably studious to a fault Roberto. In the time spent
with this extrovert among extroverts, Roberto’s façade of strained
seriousness begins to crack, and his reluctant impatience begins to
waver as he comes out of his shell. Roberto isn’t the only one to
succumb to Bruno’s ways though; his brash exuberance brings out the same
in anyone willing to be complicit in his zest for life. He apparently
has a respectable job of some sort, and he can certainly turn on the
charm when necessary, yet he comments on others, most notably country
folk, with a mocking derision—they dance the “clodhopper twist,” he
says. But even then, when he’s at his most acerbic, one does not sense
any genuine malice. A surprising moment comes when it’s incidentally
revealed, almost as an unexceptional after thought, that Bruno has a
wife and teenage daughter. With the introduction of these two also come
sudden moral standard—he chides his daughter for dating a much older man
and for her smoking.
Make
no mistake though, Bruno is hazardous, particularly behind the wheel.
It’s mainly played for laughs, as he overtakes other drivers at
breakneck speed and drives the wrong way down a one-way street, all
while blaring his irritating horn. But the full extent to his vehicular
negligence results in the film’s controversial conclusion. Without
revealing any spoilers, Il sorpasso’s dénouement is indeed a
startling one, which producer Mario Cecchi Gori, for one, was completely
against. “It’s a bit cruel,” acknowledged Risi, “but that’s how life
is.”
In
many ways, it also leaves the audience to rethink the film and
everything that came before it, not in the sense of a mystery with its
last-minute reveal, but in the way it causes one to flash back to what
had transpired over the course of the previous 100 minutes or so. Where
had Bruno and Roberto arrived psychologically by this point? Were their
respective moments of enlightenment and enjoyment worthwhile? Are they,
in these final moments, satisfied with life? The ending is undeniably
the film’s most unsettling sequence, due to its abrupt change in tone
and the shockingly tragic halt in the picture’s general merriment. Its
significance remains up for debate. Lopate, in his essay, “Il sorpasso:
The Joys of Disillusionment,” says in light of the conclusion, “it
would be wrong to interpret the film as a morality tale,” yet in his
article, “Il sorpasso: Italy, Dark and Light,” Antonio Monda argues that by the end of the film, “Il sorpasso reveals itself to be a harsh, uncomfortable moral fable.” Similarly, Rémi Fournier Lanzoni speaks of Il sorpasso’s
dual indictment: On the one hand, ridiculing to a degree the
pre-planning, stagnant, conformist tradition of Roberto; on the other,
clearly deriding the frivolous and avaricious life of the more modern
individuals.
As a road trip film, an exemplary modern cinematic model in itself, Il sorpasso
is a breezy, scenic tour of the Italian countryside on the Assumption
holiday, shot in gorgeous detail by Alfio Contini. In this by now
familiar form, the trope of self-discovery is expected, as is its
episodic structure (episodic here, yes, but exceptionally aimless—a
largely improvisational adventure). In a brilliantly subtle tonal shift,
Bruno even starts to question himself to a certain extent. He, like
Roberto, is at something of an existential crossroads. Both men maintain
a still lingering youth that hasn’t quite caught up with adulthood, and
their respective solitude has them each reflecting on an acute identity
crisis. As night falls, Risi takes an understated and precarious breath
from the overkill as Roberto and Bruno discuss these issues, each
acknowledging their own shortcomings (Bruno considers himself a “stray
dog”). But this sober introspection is short lived, and though Gassman
in particular does an extraordinary job of changing the tenor of the
film, which is remarkable given just how high-pitched he is otherwise,
we know such a deviation is fleeting.
Aside
from these scenes of explicit contemplation, Risi remains generally
unobtrusive. His camera placement is optimal for the action—well
composed but rarely self-conscious—and the imagery is frequently quite
picturesque as he chronicles this impromptu Italian travelogue. When set
on the performers, especially Gassman, he films frontally, with an
almost deadpan camera placement: Here’s what’s happening. Look at it.
Can you believe this guy? Let’s just let it play out. Still though, Risi
imbues in the film a strong Italian personality, with an authentic
cinematic taste of the region. Moreover, he likewise packs the picture
with strong Italian personalities, single shots occupied by all sorts of
people, some highlighted for occasionally imprecise reasons, some
simply on the periphery of the primary drama—all, in any case, integral
to the atmospheric totality of the film.
Not an outright metafilm in the sense of Fellini’s 8 1/2, Il sorpasso
does, nevertheless, have its finger on the pulse of Italian filmmaking
circa 1962, particularly as it was representative of Italian culture at
the time. The English title of the film, “The Easy Life,” at once
suggests the fancy-free nature of the picture and no doubt attempted to
capitalize on Fellini’s “Sweet Life.” Risi and similar filmmakers were
broaching a type of Italian cinema that also deviated from the films of
Fellini, as well as Visconti, Antonioni, and Pasolini, among others.
Monda alludes to the work of these directors as points of comparison
(and as points of more prominent standing). Certainly, Il sorpasso
is of a different mold than these “highbrow,” intellectual examples of
overt cinematic artiness. Risi’s most obvious filmic commentary comes
when Bruno voices his ambivalence toward Michelangelo Antonioni, whom he
still considers a great director. He talks with Roberto about
“loneliness, inability to communicate, and that stuff that’s all the
rage now—alienation, like in Antonioni’s films.” On L’eclisse: “I fell asleep. Had a nice snooze.” Ironically, of course, all these traits are to a degree present throughout Il sorpasso.
But Bruno would probably like this film. With its tempo, its humor, and
its comical slice of leisurely life, there is no room for such
perceived cinematic fatigue.
REVIEW from FILM INTERNATIONAL
It’s somewhat surprising that in 1971, Federico Fellini was nominated for a best director Academy Award for Fellini Satyricon.
To say the least, it’s a very un-Oscar type of film, especially by
today’s standards. But it is a film, an exceptional one, that truly from
start to finish conveys the creative imagination of its directorial
guiding force. So perhaps in that regard, the nomination makes sense.
This very rationale is also the reason why Fellini remains one of the
greatest of all film directors, and why Fellini Satyricon,
though not at all his best work, nevertheless remains so fascinating and
precious. As its title suggests, the movie explicitly expresses the
personal vision of its director—more than his name above the title,
Fellini’s name was the title. (It also had to do with some
legal wrangling concerning the rights to the title). See also the
movie’s tagline: “Rome. Before Christ. After Fellini.” How many recent
films have had this type of promotion or identification solely on the
basis of its director? There is a lot that happens in Fellini Satyricon, and multiple collaborators made it possible, but in the end, Fellini is the star of the show here. And what a show it is.
“Freely adapted” from portions of Petronius’s Roman novel of the first century AD, Fellini Satyricon
is an episodic chronicle that has as its primary narrative thrust the
ill-fated romance between Encolpius (Martin Potter) and the young Gitone
(Max Born). Into this drama enters Ascyltus (Hiram Keller), who also
has affection for the boy. Over the course of more than two hours,
Fellini essentially follows the three on their various paths, while
making more than a few digressions along the way, none of which attain
this basic plot’s albeit minor emotional resonance. The other
individuals who appear are essentially “types” more than fully-formed
characters, their generic, basically illustrative purpose evident in
their broad uncredited roles: Transvestite, Black Slave, Fat Woman,
Brothel Girl, Participant in Orgy Sequence, Nymphomaniac.
I can’t pretend to suggest that everything that occurs throughout Fellini Satyricon
actually makes sense. In an interview on the new Criterion Blu-ray,
classicist Joanna Paul remarks on the intentionally complex
fragmentation of the film and its source. But more often than not, and
even if it doesn’t all add up, it still looks wonderful.
Arguably
the most remarkable aspects of the film are the costumes and especially
the sets, both by renowned designer Danilo Donati. These glorious
constructions are astonishing in their intricate, picturesque design.
Monuments and statues pop with expressive adornment of every conceivable
color. The claustrophobic darkness that shrouds labyrinthine
underground corridors gives way to stunning exteriors, both natural and
fabricated. The geographic layout of these sets may belie any logical
sense of space, but it’s an arrangement that emerges all the more
pronounced and impressive when you see just how people actually do
inhabit the locales, with heads and bodies peeking in and out of
portal-like frames.
In
classic Fellini style, there is recurrent singular imagery, that is,
carefully and clearly arranged images of prominent aesthetic value; a
shot that may not have narrative necessity or significance, but is
nevertheless still striking. One sees this in any number of forms, from
some of the aforementioned structures that look amazing simply because
they are so extravagant (giant stone heads, towering facades, ornate
murals), to quick, random inserts of particular people and their
flamboyant makeup and attire. In Fellini Satyricon, we see as
clearly as in any other Fellini film the director’s cartoonist
background still informing his visual sensibilities. The landscapes and
sets, some genuine, some clearly created via matte processes, and, even
more than that, the cast of characters, are all colorful (in every sense
of the word) and they radiate with exaggerated animation. Many of the
people—disfigured, grotesque, strange, captivating, beautiful—have a
physical presence that can only be described as “Felliniesque.”
There
is, especially at the start of the film, but resurfacing throughout,
crude and occasionally gallows humor, complete with fart jokes and all
sorts of randy behavior. The decadence depicted includes unbridled
sexuality and gluttonous ingestion, with unabashed exuberance in both
cases. Everything is flesh and fornication and voracious desire. In
speaking about the film, Fellini proposes that he sees true morality in
vitality. If this is the case, Fellini Satyricon is a notably
moral film, as rarely does any character do anything without great
gusto. Along these lines, and not at all uncommon with Fellini’s
carnivalesque sense spectacle, there is an emphasis on showmanship, on
theatricality and storytelling; stories within stories and performances
that lead to extraneous plot lines while simultaneously illuminating the
narrative proper.
The
dialogue, while often admittedly opaque in terms of substance and
meaning, does on occasion allude to more profound issues regarding the
power and class struggles of the period, as well as a general
recognition of the times these individual live in, for better or worse.
Art and economy are at odds, slavery (sexual and otherwise) is rampant,
and looming destruction (an earthquake) causes concern. It’s also a
world of superstition, cruelty, and violence, a world that seems so
foreign and otherworldly—thanks in large part to Fellini’s envisioning
of it—that the film is frequently spoken of in terms of a science
fiction picture.
Federico
Fellini was never one to hide the artificiality of his films; indeed,
at times he seemed to revel in it. And this is certainly the case here.
Just how synthetic Fellini Satyricon is can be seen in Ciao, Federico!,
probably the highlight bonus feature of the Blu-ray. This hour-long
documentary shows with candid insight what went on behind the scenes,
how the settings were actually assembled, and how Fellini himself
directed: barking instructions, physically dynamic, humorous, and very
hands-on. (You even see Roman Polanski drop in on set for a visit.)
Where other elements of the movie may falter, the scope of the film’s
pure creation never does. According to director of photography Giuseppe
Rotunno, Fellini Satyricon was one of two films Fellini regarded as “fully realized” (the other being Casanova, 1976). Even Rotunno admits he’s not quite sure what the director was saying with this comment, but in rewatching Fellini Satyricon, and
with the benefit of the new 4K digital restoration, one can reasonably
surmise that Fellini was alluding to how intricately and elaborately
crafted each and every element of the film was, and how fully it came to
express his own distinctive vision, a vision unlike any other.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
From VCI Entertainment comes the odd and only moderately interesting Silent Discoveries double feature, containing After Six Days, a 62-minute 1920 Biblical epic, and Yesterday and Today,
a nearly hour-long 1953 documentary. As noted by VCI, the former was
“Touted at the time as a ‘$3,000,000 Entertainment for the Hundred
Millions,'” and this edition was made from the only complete copy known
to exist, a mint 16mm print of the 1929 7-reel sound reissue. The second
title here features actor, comedian, and famous vaudevillian George
Jessel as he hosts a random assortment of clips from early silent film
releases, most of which were, and are, rarely otherwise seen. Neither
portion is particularly good, or even consistently entertaining, but
both—and this is the reason the DVD is worthwhile—are unique and scarce,
and are therefore significant entries into the growing library of
archived films made available for mass consumption.
To start with After Six Days, this film is a precursor to the DeMille epics soon to follow and harkens back to the classics of silent Italian cinema like Quo Vadis? (1913) and Cabiria
(1914). Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite have the visual scope to match
its narrative ambitions. The Old Testament chronicle covers everything
from “Adam and Eve to the days of Solomon,” and it does so briskly,
arriving at Sodom and Gomorrah by the 10-minute mark. Directed and
produced by Pier Antonio Gariazzo (11 directorial credits, this one his
second to last) and Armando Vey (this his sole credit), After Six Days is a generally slipshod Italian feature.
Whatever
its budget may have been, much of it appears cheaply made. There are a
few decent special effect shots—a giant sword-wielding God in the Adam
and Eve sequence—and the depiction of the tower of Babel construction is
a decently staged grandiose piece of filmmaking. But at other times, we
see action carelessly repeated, still frames haphazardly inserted
(which may or may not be the result of the film’s poor state of
preservation), and certain sequences are downright paltry: the poorly
executed parting of the Red Sea, for example. With English narration by
Donald Douglas, After Six Days is an episodic Biblical greatest
hits, showcasing many of the visual conventions we now associate with
such films: the ornate sets, the clichéd costumes, the death and
destruction of classic Old Testament yarns, and the now comic suggestion
of what an orgy consists of.
Yesterday and Today,
produced and directed by Abner J. Greshler and written by Jessel, is,
as film historian Richard M. Roberts describes in his commentary track, a
“compilation of compilations,” as much of the material was obtained
from two separate British collections. Those British collections, as
Roberts also humorously notes, managed to misidentify nearly every film
shown: incorrect titles, actors, years of production, countries of
origin, etc. Brought together for this 1953 assemblage, it seems no
effort was made to rectify the errors even then, so they still stand.
And that’s where Roberts comes in.
Clips are from such obscure shorts as Sneezing Powder, The Living Head, The Professor’s Mistake, Little Jimmy’s Nightmare, and Asleep at the Switch. No, scratch that. Thanks to the research of Roberts and his fellow historians, we find out those films are actually That Fatal Sneeze, The Mysterious Black Board/Knight, Liquid Electricity, Le Petit Jules Verne, and The President’s Special,
respectively. If nothing else, these inaccuracies, the corrections, and
even the times when Roberts himself is stumped, are testament to the
fluid uncertainty of early film history, and the nearly limitless
potential for the (re)discovery of cinematic treasures.
In hosting the program, Jessel, who we find out apparently turned down the lead in the screen version of The Jazz Singer,
which he played on Broadway, tries his best to be amusing, but much of
that humor was lost, at least on me. For some strange reason, he
frequently looks away from the camera when reading his cue cards (in
sequences shot, surprisingly, by the great Stanley Cortez), and though
he seems to genuinely believe that what he is recounting is “the story
of the world’s greatest entertainment,” his narration falls flat. His
quips range from jabs at Russia (this was 1953 after all), to off-color
comments about the women shown in these turn of the century movies, to
remarks about contemporaries Eddie Cantor and Bob Hope. Clips cover
chapters of film history such as Edison and Méliès and Linder and
Chaplin, and include newsreels highlighting fashion of the period and
international dignitaries; there are also slapstick comedies, chase
films, trick films, and a few early fantasy works.
Like
most of the titles released by VCI, Silent Discoveries is a valuable
asset in terms of film history, if not necessarily in quality film
entertainment. But movies like these are important, and one hopes VCI
and similar companies continue to make a name for themselves in this
realm of uncommon motion pictures made readily accessible. Good or bad,
these films at least need to be saved and, when possible, seen.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Jean Renoir’s A Day in the Country
comes at a curious point in the director’s career. In 1936, he had
several exceptional silent films to his credit, as well as such classics
of early French sound cinema as La Chienne (1931), Boudu Saved from Drowning (1932), and The Crime of Monsieur Lange
(1936), among others. But he had still not yet achieved his singular
place on world cinema’s pre-war stage. That he would do just a year
later, with La Grande Illusion (1937). As noted on the new Criterion Blu-ray, A Day in the Country was “conceived as a short feature…[and] nearly finished production in 1936 when Renoir was called away for The Lower Depths.
Shooting was abandoned then, but the film was completed with the
existing footage by Renoir’s team and released in its current form in
1946, after the director had already moved on to Hollywood.” Still,
despite its unorthodox production and release, this little gem—little
only because of its 41-minute runtime—is something special.
Based on a short story by Guy de Maupassant, the plot of A Day in the Country
is admittedly slight. All aboard a borrowed milk cart, a Parisian
hardware store owner and his family travel to the country, seeking rest
and relaxation, seeking, as an opening title card states, to “commune
with nature.” While there, little dramas unfold as they lazily lounge,
play, and mingle with the residents and workers of a quaint provincial
inn. The most prominent aspect of the narrative is the fleeting love
that blooms between daughter Henriette Dufour (the beautiful Sylvia
Bataille), and one of the young men employed at the inn, Henri (Georges
D’Arnoux).
Henriette’s
presence sends Henri reeling, and he and his associate in work and
romantic conquest, Rodolphe (Jacques B. Brunius), lustily leer at the
girl as she elegantly and captivatingly swings. The audience too is
enamored—this image of Bataille swinging is one of the most glorious in
cinema history. For his part, Rodolphe sets his sights on the voluptuous
and giddy mother, played by Jane Marken. Henriette is initially averse
to Henri’s amorous advances, but Madame Dufour seems excitedly
complicit, or perhaps just naive. It’s innocent enough in any case, and
besides, the boisterous Monsieur Dufour (André Gabriello) is busy with
his assistant, Anatole (Paul Temps), spouting off his words of wisdom,
mostly about fishing. The analogy between these two and their sport and
Rodolphe and Henri and theirs is a pointed one, with echoes of bait,
tactic, and the ultimate attainment of their objects of desire.
A
storm interrupts the pleasant summer weather, and it metaphorically
signals an end to the romantic idyll. It was also noted in the opening
title card that Anatole would soon be Monsieur Dufour’s son-in-law, and
so it is. In the epilogue, we see that indeed Henriette has married the
assistant and the two have returned to the country setting. There she
again meets Henri and it becomes tragically clear that there was
genuinely something meaningful in their one and only afternoon together.
This heartrending witness to a romance that could have been were it not
for the almost predestined marriage between Anatole and Henriette, is
powerful, and as Renoir noted, “The theme is so important that it could
very well have been a full-length film. A tale of disappointed love,
followed by a ruined life could furnish matter for a long novel.”
Throughout
the film, contributing to a sense that whatever transpires during this
excursion is not meant to be, or at least not meant to last, is the
constant discussion of the country and its foreignness, in general and
compared to the urban Paris. That alone seems to be a sort of barrier
for the transpiring romance, as if distance from the city, or a
difference in surroundings, automatically hinders a relationship. There
is also talk of nature and her secrets, of the insects and their own
potential love lives; Henriette speaks of feeling funny in nature,
having a “tenderness,” a “vague sort of yearning.” This setting may as
well be another planet for the city-dwellers.
On
the one hand, there are the obvious physical contrasts between the city
and the country, with the trees, rivers, and open air, and the city,
where, according to the characters, there isn’t enough oxygen. On the
other hand, the contrast illustrates the romantic view with which the
country is observed, by the characters and by Renoir. To the Dufour
family, there is something ethereal about the dirt, the cherries, and
the foliage. Similarly, Renoir lovingly shoots the water, the plants,
the earth. Like the earliest Lumière films, there is an intrinsic
cinematic fascination with the mere depiction of nature’s movements and
details. This imagery is all the more pronounced thanks to the quality
of this Blu-ray transfer.
There
can be little doubt that Renoir’s treatment of nature is also under the
influence of his father. In an interview on the Criterion disc,
Christopher Faulkner goes into great detail about the aesthetic
similarities between the art of Renoir the father and Renoir the son,
and some rather revealing examples of Pierre-Auguste’s work are shown in
convincing comparison. Even the Forest of Fontainebleau setting for A Day in the Country
was likewise a favored backdrop for Impressionist painters. And as
Gilberto Perez notes in his essay, “The film version of Maupassant’s
story made by Renoir … conducts something of a dialogue between the
painter and the writer.”
The connection to his father notwithstanding, Renoir made A Day in the Country
something of a family affair in other respects as well. He himself
appears alongside his lover and partner, Marguerite Renoir, who also
edited the film in Renoir’s absence, and credited elsewhere are nephew,
Claude Renoir, as cinematographer, and son, Alain, as the young boy
fishing at the start of the movie. Not related by blood but by cinema,
assistants on the film included Jacques Becker (who directed potions of
the film while Renoir was away), Henri Cartier-Bresson, and Luchino
Visconti. Nearly everyone above is seen in Un tournage à la campagne, a
nearly 90-minute compilation of outtakes from the film. This is a
fascinating historical document, revealing rare glimpses of Renoir’s
working methods and the candid behavior of those involved (one also sees
young Alain holding the clapperboard).
In
his introduction to the film, Renoir says he wanted to make “a short
film that was as well-made as a feature film.” While that in itself
isn’t overly exceptional, especially given that, among other examples,
Renoir’s fellow countryman Jean Vigo had directed the wonderful Zero for Conduct
(41 minutes) just three years prior, he does also allude to having had
in mind potential omnibus programs made up of several such high quality
shorts. That farsighted notion did reach a point of popularity and
uneven success in the 1950s and ’60s.
Renoir
also speaks about the benefits of using preexisting material, like the
Guy de Maupassant story, as a place from which to launch a film. In
favor of plagiarism, Renoir views source material as a “framework to
embellishments.” By using a story from another, Renoir contends that the
filmmaker is free from unimportant details—details, he says, like the
story. To follow his line of thinking then, if A Day in the Country is what such cinematic freedom looks like, long live plagiarism.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Jean-Luc Godard’s 1980 feature, Sauve qui peut (la vie), or Every Man for Himself,
was something of a return to form for the director (if one can really
say Godard ever had a typical form to return to). It was, as he
declared, and as is often quoted, his “second first film.” As far as his
most recent releases were concerned, there was certainly a break from
those heavily divisive, politicized, and formally experimental works of
the 1970s. This film, comparatively speaking, is indeed more mainstream
than that. In its general reliance on narrative, it goes back to
Godard’s pre-’67 work, with a beginning, middle, and end (even if not
always in that order, as he once commented). But it’s not quite accurate
to say that Every Man for Himself is necessarily picking up where a film like Made in U.S.A. or Masculin Féminin left off.
That’s where the “second first film” is interesting. Every Man for Himself
isn’t so much like Godard’s 1960s output any more than it’s like his
work from the 1970s. At the same time though, it’s not as if he was
really starting over, or starting from scratch. Every Man for Himself, and the reason why it’s such a pivotal film in Godard’s cannon, is a continuation of certain themes and styles, and
a sign of new things to come. It’s a film that has both similarities
and divergences from what went before it, but it’s also one that
simultaneously marks the beginning of yet another path for this
ever-evolving filmmaker. Nevertheless, when we see “Cain and Able”
written correspondingly on a chalkboard with “Cinema and Video,” the
analogy plainly indicates that Godard was indeed seeking to make a break
from at least his latest output.
To start with story, which is something not usually associated with Godard’s immediately preceding work, Every Man for Himself
follows three main characters, all of whom are at a sort of crossroads
in their lives (perhaps autobiographical on Godard’s part?). Jacques
Dutronc is the cigar-chomping Paul Godard (yes, probably
autobiographical), a television director who is in the midst of a
tumultuous relationship with a colleague, Denise Rimbaud (Nathalie
Baye), who is herself struggling to find a suitable career. Paul is also
frequently at odds with his ex-wife, usually shown with their young
daughter in tow. The third primary protagonist is Isabelle Rivière
(Isabelle Huppert), a prostitute Paul picks up one evening and who the
film likewise then follows. With these basic narrative elements
notwithstanding, and aside from its more conventional form, the most
obvious sign of Godard’s variance with Every Man for Himself is
that politics are kept to a minimum, at least as far as global affairs
are concerned. He is now back in the territory of a more intimate,
individual drama. We come into the lives of these individuals as they
seek, or seek to maintain, a lifestyle change. This can be a change in
profession, or a change in scenery; work less demanding and demeaning, a
setting more naturally appealing. The chaos and unpleasantness of their
current state—their distressing jobs and the vicious city—frequently
placed against the opposite—jobs people seem to care about and an
idyllic countryside.
As in some of his more current features, Godard gives Every Man for Himself
narrative chapters—The Imaginary, Fear, Commerce, Music—but as usual,
these titles serve only a general, debatable, and indistinct purpose,
with themes and imagery associated with one permeating through to
others. One theme, prostitution, an oft-analyzed Godard (pre)occupation,
is here depicted in all its cruelty, banality, and absurdity. But it
is, as the Godard argument goes, a job like any other, one which
individuals are nonetheless slave to in order to make ends meet.
While
this is all grounds for a rather straightforward story of crisis, and
by the end of the film, the various narrative threads are connected
somewhat, there is, no question, typically Godardian randomness, notably
in this case involving his newfound fascination with slow motion (in
fact, a previously issued British DVD strangely calls the film Slow Motion).
In interviews, Godard notes his intent with the slow motion—to allow
for audiences to look at something longer and subsequently see something
they perhaps couldn’t or didn’t otherwise—but the sequences he chooses
to slow down are in many cases inconsistent and not exactly brimming
with substance. Still, some, like Paul’s assault on Denise, a frequently
shown example, are quite dynamic. But it’s a choppy slow motion, which
Godard even acknowledges. It doesn’t always flow smoothly, as in a
sports replay for instance; it’s almost like stop motion, single frame
punctuations.
Similarly
arbitrary is the peripheral drama shown with little to no apparent
correlation to the main characters or the story at hand. If there’s an
exceptional degree of randomness, one could perhaps assign some
attribution to Bunuel’s master coconspirator, screenwriter Jean-Claude
Carrière, who, along with Godard faithful Anne-Marie Miéville, receives
scenario credit on Every Man for Himself. Some of this formal
craziness, however, begins to make sense if you give it time. For
example, at the end of one sequence, the camera pans left, leaving the
main characters, and starts to follow a stranger. Why? It’s not
immediately clear. But soon we see Denise enter the frame and depart. In
other words, the camera’s/Godard’s apparent wandering was actually an
anticipation of action to come. Entire sequences are like this. Some of
the randomness also extends to the unabashed sexuality of the
characters, in their words and deeds. Sometimes, this can be amusing,
sometimes it can be shocking, sometimes it’s both: the role-playing that
goes along with Isabelle’s job ranges from incest to intricate sexual
coordination. One of the film’s funniest sequences comes as she is in a
hallway waiting on a customer to call her into his room. A former
classmate greets her and offers her a job. They exchange pleasantries
for a while. Then she’s back into character as the john’s daughter
pretending to strip for him and his imaginary wife.
Godard always devotes as much thought and cinematic representation to the aural as the visual, and Every Man for Himself
boasts extensive audio exploration. With this in mind, and it’s a
wonder it doesn’t appear more often in Godard’s work, the credit of “a
film composed by” Jean-Luc Godard stands to reason. There is, on the one
hand, the visual compositions for which Godard was and remains
extraordinarily inventive and stimulating: views are obstructed, nature
is beautifully presented, individual shots are abstractly divided, and
sunlit backgrounds are blown out, keeping the foreground in silhouette.
But then there is the audible potpourri, the way Godard mixes disparate
sound elements. There is overlapping dialogue and abrupt musical cues,
neither atypical of Godard (the dated synthesizer, however, is). Not
content to simply have the music play through though, Godard has the
varying sounds go in and out indiscriminately. Some characters seem to
hear the non-diegetic music, and near the end, we see characters walk by
the orchestra producing the score. Taken together, the full-length
arrangement is an elaborately crafted opus itself.
Godard’s
1980 appearance on The Dick Cavett Show is included as part of the
newly released Criterion Blu-ray of the film. First of all, this is
rather funny, since you don’t really think of Godard making the talk
show circuit these days. Nevertheless, he first sets the record straight
about his supposed comeback: “I never went away.” He prefers, rightly,
to think of Every Man for Himself as a continuation. Through
the rest of the two-part broadcast (shot at the same time but aired
separately), Godard discusses assorted subject matter. Some highlights
include his suggestion to “listen to the image” and “look at the sound”
and his surprisingly personal—and curiously cryptic—admission that he is
less anguished than he has been and that Every Man for Himself
is the “first movie which is coming out of [him].” Less surprisingly,
he also makes provocative statements about the linking between art and
economy and argues that Coppola’s Apocalypse Now needed more
money behind it; that is, if it was to equal the American cost of the
Vietnam War. Cavett also has some fun at the expense of Godard’s
unorthodox screenwriting methods. Godard pulls out two small
notebooks—the scripts for his next films—which Cavett looks at, then
laughs when he sees there are sometimes only three words on a page.
Perhaps
the key part of the Cavett discussion is when Godard states his now
famous declaration about cinema—or at least his cinema—being the train
not the station. This statement remains crucial to understanding and
appreciating his work. So many times, one looks at Godard with the
unambiguous view applied to any other director. While there is nothing
wrong with such an association for the sake of comparison, it is often
inadequate and unproductive to cast judgment on a Godard film on this
basis. Godard is interested in doing something different with his
cinema, something less concrete. The notion of an easily achieved and
clearly indicated beginning or end, in terms of the film’s actual
plotline or in terms of a film’s effortlessly progressing flow, is not
going to mesh with Godard. His films aren’t going to go for a simple
start and finish; his are more concerned with what’s in between: what’s
in between the characters, what’s in between the start and finish of a
film, what’s in between each shot, scene, or sound.
In the accompanying Scénario de “Sauve qui peut (la vie),”
a video piece Godard made to secure financing for the feature, he
attempts to illuminate, in a classically Godardian way, his intentions
for Every Man for Himself . Of course, some of it makes more
sense viewed after having actually seen the finished product, but it’s
still fascinating to hear Godard speak of ideograms, of “the system that
will give birth to the forms,” of potential characters and scenes,
motivations, and even the suggestion that Werner Herzog may somehow be
involved or at least alluded to. (This last prospect is all the more
amusing given Herzog’s statement that Godard is “intellectual
counterfeit money when compared to a good kung-fu film.”) Either way,
the companion piece, or preceding piece, as it were, is an interesting
Godard work in itself, displaying his continued video experimentation
and his own unique way of spontaneously thinking through a film. “I
don’t feel like having ideas anymore,” says Paul’s ex-wife at one point
in Every Man for Himself. When it comes to Godard, that much at least is clearly not autobiographical.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
As
the opening credits soar across the sky, shown as flapping aerial
announcements pulled along by the Goodyear blimp, the talent behind A Hole in the Head
is clear. The major players in this Frank Capra film include Frank
Sinatra, Edward G. Robinson, Eleanor Parker, Carolyn Jones, Thelma
Ritter, and Keenan Wynn. Behind the scenes, shown in a more typical
credit scrawl, there is renowned cinematographer William H. Daniels and
the equally legendary costumer designer Edith Head. To say A Hole in the Head
has much in its favor is quite the understatement. Yet while it may not
live up to the expectations one associates with such individuals, the
picture is nonetheless thoroughly enjoyable, even if it feels something
like an effortless throwaway from these key contributors.
Written
by Arnold Schulman, based on his own play, the film tracks a few days
in the topsy-turvy life of Tony Manetta (Sinatra), whose second-rate
Miami Beach hotel and rather erratic love life are both going bust, the
former ironically named Garden of Eden, the latter involving the kind of
girl who, in his own words, “would have made the serpent eat the
apple.” Adding to Tony’s trouble, and to the film’s charm, is his son,
Ally (Eddie Hodges, a little Ronny Howard lookalike). This poor kid puts
up with a lot from his dad—like Gin games at four in the morning—but he
loves him dearly. When Tony is served an eviction notice, he struggles
to find a way to receive (not necessarily earn) the requisite funds.
Enter his wealthy brother, Mario (Robinson). Fearing the worst when it
comes to Ally’s well-being, Mario and wife Sophie (Ritter) head to
Florida. Made aware of Tony’s financial straits, they cut him a deal:
get a nice girl, get married, and get a more reliable job, then they’ll
get him some money. Though Tony has been cavorting with Shirl (Jones),
the footloose and fancy-free temptress alluded to earlier, his in-laws
have a more respectable suitor in mind. Eloise Rogers (Parker) is the
straight-laced widow they deem to be just what the errant Tony needs.
Now, all Tony has to do is decide what’s best, for him, his son, his
aspirations, his brother, and the two women in his life. Piece of cake.
In
his quest for the illusive Easy Street, Tony is irresponsible though
charismatically optimistic, far from his “square” brother and his life
of bourgeois complacency. Unlike Tony, Mario is also frankly earnest and
at times heartlessly practical. The notion that if Tony is married he
will automatically earn propriety and stability, and presumably the same
goes for Eloise, is not the most romantic or realistic set up there is.
Tony sees the value in the proposal, sure, and their initial courtship,
even if based on artifice, is amusing; she’s as awkward as he is cool.
But since he is a decent man at heart, Tony to his credit is up front
with her about the arrangement. The thing is, she might not care.
Sinatra,
the definition of the word “entertainer,” doesn’t seem to get the
credit he deserves as an Oscar-winning actor, and he still gets a good
deal of credit. This may not be his finest performance (certainly not
compared to the extraordinary Some Came Running from the
previous year), but he has a range and screen presence that is quite
something, especially when you think about acting as his “other” job.
However, his overly stressed “wassa matta wit choo” Brooklynese grows a
little tired here. Robinson and Ritter as man and wife—brilliantly
inspired casting that is—manage to steal the scene every time one or
both appear. Parker as the beauty who seemingly stuns young Ally and
Tony is regrettably forgettable, while Jones, on the other hand, even
with her excruciating squeal of delight, leaves a more lasting
impression.
A Hole in the Head
is the lone movie released as a SinCap Production, the brief venture,
as the name suggests, between Sinatra and Capra. More Capra than Sinatra
though, the film bears much of what one associates with the director.
Recurring comedic touches give the film a pleasantly delicate humor,
from the habitual boxing quizzes (to Tony and Ally’s delight, Eloise
knows an answer), to the “crazy chair” that seems to only function
properly for Tony, to the disreputable state of the hotel and its
equally disreputable tenants. This is Frank Capra doing what he does
best. The sentimental sequences ring true, with several genuinely
emotional moments, and the film is even relatively light on the
(in)famous “Capri-corn” of the director’s earlier features.
Perhaps
the clearest signal of this being a Capra movie comes in the closing
exchange between Mario and Sophie as they watch Tony, Ally and Eloise
joyfully sing the film’s Oscar-winning original song, “High Hopes.” “The
poor things,” remarks Sophie. “They’re so happy and so poor.” “Broke,
yes,” contends Mario, “but they’re not poor. We’re poor.” A perfect
summation of so many Capra classics in this, his penultimate feature
film.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Since its release in 2007, a good deal of the conversation surrounding Guy Maddin’s My Winnipeg
has been how exactly to define the film. Is it, as Maddin himself has
dubbed the picture, a “docu-fantasia,” or is that not even accurate?
During an interview between Maddin and critic Robert Enright, as part of
the newly released Criterion Blu-ray, the two evoke a number of
references in hopes of situating the film: Werner Herzog, melodrama,
Chris Marker, city symphonies of the silent era, Fellini’s I Vitelloni.
Yes, it is like these, but also not quite. An essay by Wayne
Koestenbaum, also included with the disc, likewise alludes to everything
from Hitchcock and James Joyce to Andy Warhol’s Blow Job and Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah.
So what does it say about a film that can draw such parallels, however
obscure, to this wide array of preexisting works? It says that My Winnipeg, even with these correlations, is something wholly unique.
At
the beginning of the movie, The Swinging Strings sing, “It’s no Eden
that you would seek, but it’s home sweet home to me.” More than words to
the song “Wonderful Winnipeg,” it is home sweet home to Maddin, who has
lived there his entire life. Yet in the film, he, or at least the actor
playing him (Darcy Fehr), is trying desperately to escape. Maddin, who
“conceived” the film as well as having directed it, attempts to sift
through his memories, recorded history, and what can only be considered
dubious stories of days gone by, all in order to arrive at what
distinguishes this city, and why it possesses such an indomitable hold
on him. Through a series of staged reenactments from his life and from
the city’s past, juxtaposed with anecdotes and trivia of varying degrees
of believability, Maddin creates a hilarious, haunting, and
kaleidoscopic survey of roughly 100 years of Winnipeg, and how he
relates to it all.
In
the course of a far too brief 80 minutes, Maddin discusses the
geographical anomalies of Winnipeg, as well as the unusual, yet
integral, moments that have shaped his city: worker strikes and elderly
ladies locking arms to save a tree; horses frozen in a river, their
heads jutting through the ice like twisted animal pillars; alleyways,
waterways, and railways; hockey, of course hockey; and perverse “Golden
Boy” contests. More intimately, and with the help of actors standing in
for his family (Ann Savage, of Detour fame, playing his
mother), Maddin also recalls familial drama and childhood anxieties.
Everything is told as an exaggerated reminiscence, like in Woody Allen’s
Annie Hall, to draw another cinematic comparison. And
everything is shown in a jittery, dizzying montage that characterizes
Maddin’s filmmaking style: rapid editing, fast/slow motion, blurred
focus, superimposition, a fluid camera, stock footage, you name it.
Through the relentlessly convulsive incorporation of spasmodic imagery
and text, Maddin ties together any number of the film’s various segments
to create a mythological medley of connectivity and causation.
The
memories and these accounts, however, should not be taken at face
value. What Maddin covers in the film—the tales of Winnipeg and his
life—is just bizarre enough to be fabricated and just ridiculous enough
to be true. “Everything that happens in this city is a euphemism,” he
states in his narration, and everything about the film is as if in a
deceiving dream-state, which is fitting, given the emphasis on sleep.
Maddin notes that the city apparently has 10 times the sleepwalking rate
of any other city, that trains are “sleep chugging,” that Winnipeg is,
he says, “always sleepy.” The tone of the film, and its accompanying
surreal manner, conveys this sensation, like a drowsy David Lynch, on
acid.
In a self-conscious declaration of intent, Maddin notes that with My Winnipeg,
he hoped to develop a “whole new genre of film.” Originally
commissioned by the Discovery Channel in Winnipeg, and thankfully given
little instruction, Maddin does just that. If he was supposed to do a
straightforward documentary, the result is anything but, at least by any
conventional definition. But if the goal was to give a personal,
eccentric, and inspired account of the city of his birth and residence,
to that aim, he more than succeeds.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
“Fassbinder
is Petra von Kant.” So says frequent star and muse Hanna Schygulla as
she discusses Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s working methods and his
identification with his characters, both male and female. The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant
is a notable case in point. Based on Fassbinder’s own complicated
relationship with Günther Kaufmann, the genders are reversed for what
became this tale of passion and despair between a successful fashion
designer and the younger beauty who enters and upends her personal and
professional life. Originally written for the stage, specifically for
Margit Carstensen, who would take on the title role in the play and
film, Bitter Tears is a fascinating examination of sexual intensity and infatuation gradually undercut by acrimony and deceit.
Though
Fassbinder’s play was generally unsuccessful, he nevertheless moved
full speed ahead with the film adaptation, and the exceptionally fast
production (a 10-day shoot—100 hours according to cinematographer
Michael Ballhaus) was surprising and challenging to even those already
accustomed to the director’s breakneck speed. One would never suspect
such a hurried pace by looking at the film itself though. Unfolding over
slightly more than two hours, this meticulous and malicious battle of
wills between a few individuals in a singular location resembles a
Polanski-esque power play. There is likewise a breakdown of pretense, as
falsities of behavior and speech give way to oppression and jealous
resentment. In a film so reliant on dialogue, words take on particular
significance, not only in their obvious meanings, but also in their
insinuations and interpretations. Sidonie von Grasenabbsays (Katrin
Schaake), the first individual who visits Petra, calls the designer
“hardened,” but Petra contends she’s just using her brain. But couldn’t
that be the same thing?
As
Karin Thimm (Schygulla) enters the picture, literally, she does so cast
in flattering light (see Sidonie’s entrance for a contrast).
Immediately, the dynamic of the film changes. Petra is instantly taken
by the beautiful newcomer, so she invites Karin to meet her the next
evening. When she does, both are elaborately costumed (Petra in what
Carstensen describes as a “monstrous” dress), and the whole act of
seduction feels like an affected performance. In this sequence, what
develops into an unsteady conquest and eventual affair becomes, in the
second act, a relationship already plagued by condescension and
animosity. The bitterness between Petra and Karin, which quickly causes
the relationship to sever, is a duel between dependency and autonomy,
and the loathing that grows between a breadwinner with financial control
and one in a more reliant position.
Each of Bitter Tears’
five acts function as confessional, sermon, and testament all at the
same time, with Petra especially professing her feeling and imparting
her beliefs. But Karin mocks Petra’s maternal “pearls of wisdom” and
accuses her of thriving on suffering. (Curiously, in an interview on the
new Criterion Blu-ray, professor Jane Shattuc likewise notes
Fassbinder’s fondness for looking “at beautiful women suffering.”) Petra
denies this, but there’s probably something to the claim. At least as
far as we can gather, she is indeed what in modern parlance could be
dubbed a “drama queen.” In particular, she plays the scorned lover
remarkably well. We know she has just recently divorced (shockingly to
Sidonie, Petra is the one who instigated it). Perhaps that breakup was a
rehearsal for this latest one? Or perhaps this is just one of several
such scenes in her life?
In
any case, by the end of the film, Petra is a cliché of despair: alone
by the phone, drunk on the floor, talking to herself … all on her
birthday no less. Her frame of mind is made explicit by her placement of
two unclothed female mannequins embracing each other in bed, while
another stands looking over them. The breakup with Karin leads to an
inevitable outburst, and it happens in full view of Sidonie as well as
Petra’s mother, Valerie (Gisela Fackeldey), and daughter, Gabriele (Eva
Mattes). When we first saw Petra at the beginning of the film, she was
just waking up, with no makeup, no costume, no wig; she was void of the
façade that defines her as the film progresses, at least until this
emotionally raw final breakdown. In her defense though, it’s safe to say
Petra is not surrounded by the strongest support system. Her mother,
for instance, is totally oblivious to her daughter’s bisexuality, so
she’s not going to be of much help.
In
the shadows through it all, frequently and powerfully singled out by
Fassbinder’s camera, has been the silent servant Marlene (Irm Hermann),
bearing witness to the humiliation and cruelty as she herself is the
neglected constant. “Don’t take any notice of Marlene,” says Petra, who
is at once referring to her servant’s already existing knowledge of the
household dramatics while also suggesting her irrelevance. Marlene
herself is brought to tears at one point, but her misery goes unnoticed
by all but the audience. Though her devotion and love toward Petra is
evident, one expects her to snap at any time, especially as the verbal
abuse becomes increasingly harsh.
Due
to Fassbinder’s restriction on the spatial possibilities, the audience
is stuck in a single confining room as this disturbing series of events
plays out. We are left with nowhere to go, no respite from the emotional
carnage—it’s little wonder Mattes speaks of the film’s inherent
imprisonment. With this setting constraint in mind, Kurt Raab’s
extraordinary production design becomes something of a character itself,
subtly changing as the scenes shift, time passes, and characters
develop; a fluctuating treatment of the backdrop proves essential. The
room of Bitter Tears is bursting with ornamentation and
decorative clutter; there seems to be something everywhere. Though
Ballhaus acknowledged the difficulty of shooting in such an enclosed
space, which he describes as long but with little depth, he and
Fassbinder incorporate smooth and often understated camera movements,
along with creative camera angles, using the multitude of fore and
background elements to break up the space and keep the compositions
unique and interesting. Actor positioning works the same way, as the
women assume both self-consciously posed stances and more naturalistic
poises of relaxation.
Like
pieces on a chessboard, Schygulla says Fassbinder took she and the
other actresses and had them “stylized and arranged for a desired
effect.” She also comments on Fassbinder’s frequent “combination of
seriousness and kitsch,” and one certainly gets this duality with Bitter Tears.
From The Platters to Verdi, Sirk to Brecht, the film spans the so
called high and low cultures that so fascinated Fassbinder. The image
vs. content clash, which is another key aspect of Fassbinder’s work, and
which is further remarked upon by Shattuc, similarly juxtaposes
gorgeously shot imagery that nonetheless depicts the brutal realities of
life.
Much
is often made of Fassbinder as a great director of women, and
rightfully so. As with filmmakers as wide-ranging as D.W. Griffith,
Ingmar Bergman, George Cukor, and Lars von Trier, Fassbinder had a knack
for eliciting strong female performances. As the supplemental materials
for the Criterion disc illustrate, his cinema would not have been the
same were it not for these collaborators. From Carstensen and Schygulla
to Hermann, Schaake, and Mattes, Fassbinder’s notable stock of female
players often turned in their finest performances under his direction.
Those performances, however, were as much the result of the actress’ own
individual skills as they were Fassbinder’s. And The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant, as much as any other Fassbinder film, is a minimalist showcase for the talents of all involved.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
1. Goodbye to Language
“The idea is simple.” So begins the official summary of Jean-Luc Godard’s 43rd feature film, his first in 3-D. And indeed, Goodbye to Language,
the 84-year-old’s award-winning audio/visual extravaganza, does have a
rather simplistic premise. A man and woman meet, fall in love, discuss
life, and quarrel. There’s a dog in there too, watching things and
walking around. That’s about it in terms of narrative (and even this
much is never quite straightforward or easily discernable). But why Goodbye to Language
is one of the year’s best films has little to do with its “story.” Like
so much of Godard’s work, the film is more than its ostensible plot;
the idea may be simple, the ideas are not. There are arguments made and
questions posed—about relationships, politics, technology,
communication, society, and concepts of cinema itself—and Godard’s
provocative take on conventional film form thrives in this thematic
mosaic. Added to the mixture of topical concerns is an incomparable
visual strategy that coalesces Godard’s penchant for natural beauty,
abstract imagery, and color and light experimentation with, new this
time, and most notably, three-dimensional composition. Godard’s
self-consciously inventive use of 3-D as an aesthetic and theoretical
tool goes beyond any previously instituted use of the format. Many 3-D
films benefit from the technology; this is the first time where 3-D is
imperative to a film’s objective and total impact.
In 1967, Godard concluded Week End
with titles declaring “End of Cinema,” but that was just the beginning
of one of his most audacious periods of filmmaking. If this, then, is
how he says “goodbye to language,” one can only imagine what he will
greet next.
2. Noah
3. Under the Skin
4. The Rover
5. Two Days, One Night
6. Ida
7. Nightcrawler
8. Mr. Turner
9. Enemy
10. Borgman
11. We Are The Best!
12. Only Lovers Left Alive
13. Birdman
14. Fury
15. Winter Sleep
For more on the top films of the year, visit Sound on Sight
The holdup that begins the 1972 film Across 110th Street
pits a trio of low-level amateurs against an established, well
organized and, up to this point, efficient group of professional
criminals. The end game is a case full of money, but what is ultimately
achieved, more than monetary gain, is a scandalous affront to recognized
power and unlawful street-level respectability. The bloody heist has
two of the three hoods dressed as cops, and white gangsters
collaborating with black gangsters (before they are unceremoniously
mowed down by machine gun fire). And in this, the catalyst opening
sequence serves to get the narrative moving and illustrates the blurred
lines—cultural, political, racial, occupational—that will be repeatedly
manipulated and confronted as the film progresses.
Anthony
Quinn (who was also an executive producer, thus giving the modest
production some star power, credibility, and a wider, white audience)
costars as Capt. Mattelli, an old school cop who has earned street
reverence and recognition as well as a blatantly racist reputation.
Though apparently competent, his corrupt nature is also clear, from the
way a witness instantly flinches when Quinn raises his hand to his own
stated acceptance of criminal payoffs. Much to his chagrin, his partner,
who is actually in charge of the case, is the African American Lt. Pope
(Yaphet Kotto), a far more straight and narrow officer who nonetheless
plays second fiddle in most sequences. Concurrently, there is Nick
D’Salvio (Anthony Franciosa), a top Italian gangster, and Doc Johnson
(Richard Ward), the head of the black mob prominent in Harlem. Their
unsteady alliance is further threatened by the opening robbery, with
each of their sides suffering losses (personnel and financial). The
third narrative strand follows the lives of the three men behind the
theft: Jim Harris (Paul Benjamin), Joe Logart (Ed Bernard), and Henry J.
Jackson (Antonio Fargas).
These
independent hoods are more complicated and roundly fleshed out than
their peripheral placement would suggest. They are clearly in over their
heads, and Henry J. is tragically and fatally careless in his
post-robbery behavior (there’s always one), but there is a real humanity
behind these three, a sympathetically pathetic quality. As Jean Renior
famously noted, “everyone has his reasons” and screenwriter Luther Davis
(working from a novel by Wally Ferris) does a fine job establishing the
reasons behind the men: their hopes, dreams, and damaging foibles.
Joe’s background is exceptionally developed and effectively potent. We
bare witness to his dire straits and realize why he felt compelled to
resort to this type of endeavor in the first place. He is a decent man
driven to unfortunate action by racial and economic barriers. A scene in
which Mattelli and Pope visit Henry J.’s estranged wife to inform her
of his passing is quite touching as well. He was hit by a car, Pope
tells her, wanting to spare her the harsh truth of her husband’s seedy
demise: he was killed by gangsters while surrounded by drunks and
whores.
The
above and below 110th Street line is one of sharp racial divide, so in
its very title, the film alerts to the breaching of such a partition.
The power shifts between the police, the Italians, and the African
Americans has as much to do with their literal strength, numbers, and
spread as it does with the recognized influence of their respective
ethnicities. In other words, they are only as powerful as their genetic
makeup allows, which then, in turn, frequently dictates their placement
in any given specific setting. By that same token, the tensions that
mount often derive from their occupational endeavors as well as their
social standing. And then, of course, race changes the game even more.
That a black cop was killed during the opening raid is startling to many
of the African Americans (killed by one of his own!); that white and
black gangsters were also gunned down (while working together!) likewise
stands out. Some even question why whites would even be in this part of
Manhattan, that is, if not for some professional purpose: “What else
brings whites to Harlem but business?” asks Pope.
Among its finer points, the way Across 110th Street
deals with the racial realities of this locale, in a comparatively more
adult and pragmatic fashion than its generic counterparts, is
commendable and rather unexpected. The coincidence of the seemingly
random robbery brings together cops and crooks all going after the same
crew as well as each other, and, consequently, there is a fairly
intricate exploration of a precarious and capricious quest for vengeance
and punishment. Across 110th Street also raises some
significant issues regarding the political and economic implications of
this racial integration and the disputes between rival gangs and
criminal control over various factions of the city. The racially divided
power struggle within the police (embodied by Mattelli and Pope)
mirrors the racial criminal divide of the gangsters, with parallel
consequences of ulterior motives and secretive methods.
If one places Across 110th Street
into the Blaxploitation category (a reasonable fit, if not a perfect
one), the racial undertones are not surprising. However, what is usually
self-evident yet in many ways taken for granted in films like Shaft (1971), The Mack (1973), and Super Fly (1972),
is a point of crucial concern with this film. Indeed, the racial
anxiety here is at the crux of the narrative; it is not simply raised in
a passing reference to injustice (though make no mistake, there are
moments of fleeting commentary, neighbors reluctant to cooperate with
the police, refusing to “say anything to the man,” for example). Nor is
the race related tumult the result of an African American action star
adopting previously white genre types, something as obvious to the
viewer as to the other characters in the film, both white and black.
Those in Across 110th Street appear to be more realistically grounded and motivated than that.
That
said, there is still a degree of stereotypical characterization in the
film, from the brutal and corrupt police to the ethnic portrayals and
their clichéd mannerisms (Henry J., in particular, is a ridiculously
degrading archetype). It’s a common and unfortunate aspect of genre
pictures like this: blanket molds standing in for well-defined
characters. However, in the case of Across 110th Street we do
often get personality behind the formulaic projection, as noted above,
and what is more, where there are these conventional attributes they
actually serve a meaningful purpose. Insofar as the film concerns the
varying dividing lines of the city and its diverse enterprises and
individuals, the character types act as icons of their respective ethnic
associations. Their emblematic illustration opens the film’s narrative
to a level of a sweeping symbolic examination. As localized as the film
is, its themes, concerns, and characters are wide-ranging and applicable
elsewhere.
The Internet Movie Database states that the Western film Doc watches at one point is Duel at Diablo
(1966), “a western by Ralph Nelson, which also deals with an ethnic
conflict (White soldiers against American Indians).” Granting this
similarity, it would seem that the placement of a Western is otherwise
in a somewhat ironic contrast. Generally, most conventional Westerns
tend to revel in a clear good/bad dichotomy, so with that in mind, the
stance of Across 110th Street is dissimilar to that of the
standard cowboy vs. Indian trope. This film functions on the basis of
dynamic and fluctuating notions of “good guys” and “bad guys.” After
all, it is just prior to this that we find out Mattelli has been
receiving kick-backs from Doc (“Dirty money, clean Money. It’s all the
same,” says the gangster). Other than Pope, who seems to have no
apparent shortcomings, the rest of the primary characters all reveal
more ambiguous and wavering moral stances, or at least they run a
precarious balance between audience appeal and disdain.
Barry Shear, best known in the movies for Wild in the Streets (1968) and for taking over The Deadly Trackers from Samuel Fuller in 1973, directed Across 110th Street. More prominently though, and more fitting in terms of Across 110th Street similarities, was his prolific career in television, especially crime dramas: one episode of Hawaii Five-O, two episodes of Mod Squad, six episodes of Ironside, the pilot episode of Starsky and Hutch, and one episode of The Streets of San Francisco, among others. Simply put, Shear knew his way around this type of material, and it shows.
The
tangible 1970s grain of the cinematography (by Jack Priestley) and the
diffused interior lighting mesh with Bobby Womack’s excellent music,
most notably the title track (a better version of which opens Quentin
Tarantino’s Jackie Brown (1997), to create a film unquestionably representative of its time of production. Across 110th Street
and similar 70s crime films have always had something of an
ethnographic and anthropologic appeal, in that their use of actual
locations, street-wise jargon, and contemporary fashion and music are
oftentimes vivid snapshots of a very specific people, location, and era.
These consistently pronounced features of films during this
period—particularly crime films, particularly crime films set in New
York City—expose a certain sense of unadulterated popular reality, the
grit and grime of a culture and setting wholly distinct and totally
foreign to others.
There are a number of ways to look at Across 110th Street.
Rough and raw and on occasion shockingly violent, it’s an exceptional
police procedural. In tone, dialogue, and in many of its
characterizations, it’s an exemplary entry into the Blaxploitation
cycle. And in its realistic examination of the complexities of racial
identification and significance, it’s a reasonably sophisticated drama.
It is violent, sometimes graphically so, but never in an exploitative
fashion. And though its final shot is heavy-handed (no pun intended),
the depiction of this slice of street life is clever, entertaining, and
perceptive.
REVIEW from FILM INTERNATIONAL
