Nearly every mention of Jean-Pierre Melville’s cinema inevitably
alludes to his crime films, and for good reason. Of his 13 features,
nine fall under this general heading, and for the most part, they are
his best and most admired. Amongst the rest of his filmography, slightly
varying and further distinguishing his career, are his occasional
forays into the war film—or, more precisely, the wartime film, for
typical battleground scenarios are negligible. This is the case with Léon Morin, Priest (1961), with The Army of Shadows (1969), his extraordinary ode to the French resistance, of which he was a member, and this is the case with his debut, Le silence de la mer. (His 1950 feature, Les Enfants Terribles, defies generic categorization.)
“The war years were the best years of my life.” Such comments from
Melville often got a rise out of those around him, especially when he
wasn’t allowed time for explanation. It was during this period, as he
would clarify, that he found remarkable admiration in the virtue of
those who fought, on the front lines and behind the scenes with the
underground. These men and women had a job to do, and they were
determined to do it and do it well. Like a monk, Melville would contend
that the life of a soldier is similarly identified by a brotherhood, by
an admirable camaraderie that is central to an order as it strives
toward a common goal. Such characterization, of course, aptly applies to
the gangster as well, and thus one can see why Melville so effortlessly
fluctuated between the two genres (The Army of Shadows is probably the best example of the merger of the two, particularly with these descriptions in mind). Le silence de la mer,
however, doesn’t quite meet these broad qualifications, at least not
explicitly. Though very much a testament to the perseverance of the
oppressed French people during World War II, their pride and resilience,
it’s a more insulated and individualized work, with a very narrow
spatial focus and just three primary players. It’s a unique wartime film
that doesn’t necessarily depict any common generic trait aside from its
background war milieu.
The
1941 novel of the same name, which was clandestinely written and
published during the Nazi occupation of Paris by Vercors (real name
Jean-Marcel de Brullers) was in its very existence a powerful force of
French resistance. In turn, Le silence de la mer, the movie, is
a daring experiment in restrained plotting and minimal
characterization. Melville was partially drawn to the text in the first
place because of the “anti-cinematic aspect of the narrative,” which he
then hoped to adapt into an “anti-cinematic film.” In some ways, Le silence de la mer,
as a motion picture, works best as an expression of a philosophical
idea or as the origin of a larger work. Standing alone, certain aspects
occasionally fall short of total development, as if the film could have
benefited from another half-hour or so (it’s just 88 minutes as is), but
the provocative implications that it nonetheless poses make for
fascinating and thoughtful viewing.
There isn’t much to Le silence de la mer’s story in terms of
active external conflict, but the basic scenario is one that leads to
great tension. The home of an unnamed uncle and his niece (Jean-Marie
Robain and Nicole Stéphane) is designated the temporary residence of
German Lieutenant Werner von Ebrennac (Howard Vernon). As the whole
arrangement was decided without their consent, the two are obviously
displeased. They undergo a silent protest, neither uttering a word in
the presence of the German. But this proves to be no hostile takeover,
and the uncle even admits via voiceover that von Ebrennac seems to be a
reasonable officer (no doubt the bar was set comparatively low). On this
point, one critique with the film is that there is far too much
explanatory voiceover, frequently describing that which we can easily
see. Presumably, this was retained in deference to the heralded source,
but for a movie, where we don’t need a constant narrative to relay what
is apparent, it occasionally becomes redundant.
For
his part, von Ebrennac is cordial as he exchanges initial pleasantries,
complimenting the house and asking his reluctant hosts each morning if
they slept well the night before. Still the uncle and niece never speak;
they barely acknowledge the officer’s existence. It’s a phenomenal
demonstration of their will and the strength of their convictions. This
goes on for months, and despite the presumed latent hostility, von
Ebrennac nevertheless becomes an unspoken part of their lives. Though
they are quiet, he speaks unrestrained. His revealing ramblings divulge
his beliefs and interests. He is, much to their surprise, a devoted
Francophile, professing his deep love and respect for French literature
in particular (Germany, he says, still claims the great musicians). Yet
despite his personable nature, doubts remain. He is, after all, a Nazi.
Von Ebrennac is not at all disheartened by the silence. His one-sided
interaction with the uncle and niece becomes an oddly contented
routine. In time, and not at all sardonically, the uncle actually refers
to von Ebrennac as their “guest.” And at one point, he feels his
conviction waver as he wonders if it’s inhumane to not speak to the
officer. But no sooner does he contemplate this shifting moral stance
than he admits the private thought made him feel like blushing. Still,
he has no problem admiring the dogged persistence of von Ebrennac. “He
never gave up and never tried to tear us from our silence with violent
language,” says the uncle. “On the contrary, when sometimes he let
silence invade the room, filling it from corner to corner like a heavy,
suffocating gas, he seemed the most comfortable of the three of us.” Of
course, however decent this man may seem, and no matter the apparent
lack of ill will toward the French family, his mere presence keeps the
obstacles of the war constantly in the forefront, even if the more
dramatic results of the fighting are relegated beyond the walls of the
house. What complicates this even further is that von Ebrennac naively
and confidently states a desire for the prosperous marriage between
France and Germany. He believes in French freedom and in the maintenance
of—or at least restoration of—its national integrity.
Away for a while in Paris, von Ebrennac views the icons of French
military history, appreciating their storied greatness and the monuments
erected in their honor. Nothing is quite the same after this trip. Upon
his return, the uncle and niece hear the German and sense his presence,
but they don’t see him for several days. He has been coming and going
via a back entrance. The uncle grows apprehensive. Having previously
entered the rooms of the house without any invitation, von Ebrennac
suddenly knocks one evening. They wait. He doesn’t automatically enter.
He waits for the welcome, the first words spoken by the uncle to the
lieutenant: “Come in, sir.”
One
of the film’s most poignant moments is as the uncle first sees von
Ebrennac away from the house, in his official capacity. It’s an uneasy
encounter. To a certain extent, the uncle retained something of the
upper hand at the house; it was his terrain and his comfort zone. Von
Ebrennac may have been forced upon him, but he was there absent of Nazi
regalia save for his uniform, eventually even donning civilian clothes.
Now, the uncle sees him with other Germans and is jarred by the
unequivocal reminder of oppressiveness. Von Ebrennac makes a slight
gesture toward the uncle, and seems as if he’s going to speak, but he
hesitates. What could he say? Is friendship even possible? Who would get
in worse trouble should he acknowledge the uncle in an amiable manner?
Now the uncle sees Von Ebrennac more than ever as who he really is. The
positions of power are altered—now they each know their true place.
In the claustrophobic confines of this French house, Melville creates
a brooding tension between the begrudging threesome; after being in
these narrow interiors, it’s a genuine relief when scenes shift
outdoors. So much time is spent with the camera fixing its gaze upon the
uncle and the niece as they hesitantly watch over Von Ebrennac, it
would seem about two-thirds of the picture is the depiction of the
aforementioned routine with the uncle commenting on the same. This drags
the film somewhat, the point made clear quite soon. Subsequently, time
could have been allotted for the expansion of other sequences. For
example, at the end of the film, as von Ebrennac comes to realize the
futility of his naive belief for peace; or as the niece, who has
harbored the most intense resentment toward the German, allows a minor
acceptance and even a hint of attraction: these are interesting
character developments that, though effective in their suggestion, are
nevertheless cut short of potential complexity.
It’s
not constant (at least not as constant as it perhaps could have been),
but under the influence of Welles and Wyler, Melville does give the film
visual variation within this restricted, largely one room setting,
punctuating certain sequences with light and shadow embellishment,
oftentimes employing a backlighting effect to create vivid character
profiles, especially of the niece. Close-ups reveal subtle shifts in
reactive expression, as evolving nonverbal communication is made
physically perceptible. Crucial here is Henri Decaë, making his debut as
cinematographer. Aside from continual work with Melville as their
careers progressed, Decaë also manned the camera on such New Wave
classics as Elevator to the Gallows, Le Beau Serge, Les Cousins (all 1958) and The 400 Blows (1959).
Though Le silence de la mer is a lesser-known Melville
title, Criterion has gone all out with supplementary materials to
compliment the film. The production of Le silence de la mer,
which is filled with stealthy, low-budget filmmaking and its fair share
of real life drama, is thoroughly covered. A printed interview with
Melville provides his own chronicle of the film’s making, and the
documentary, Melville Steps Out of the Shadows, likewise goes into detail about how the movie came to be. Code Name Melville,
an in-depth 76-minute documentary about the director and his
relationship with the cinema and World War II (and how the two
inevitably coalesced), is the most informative feature on the disc,
packing in so much—newspaper clippings, speakers, and other
documentation—that the subtitles can’t always keep up. There is also an
interview with film scholar Ginette Vincendeau, a very short 1959
interview with Melville, and an essay by Geoffrey O’Brien.
Rounding out the disc is a peculiar 18-minute short Melville directed in 1946, his first film. 24 Hours in the Life of a Clown
is exactly what its title says: a brief look at roughly a day’s worth
of average activity for Beby the clown. The most prolonged moment of
focus is as Beby gets ready for bed. Apparently as he does every night,
he shuffles through boxes of photos, pictures of his past, his idols and
friends. His is, it seems, a solitary existence. Though married (his
wife sleeps in another room, he gets their dog), he is a loner. But
that’s part of the life. And in this, it becomes clear what possibly
drew Melville to the topic, for most of his films—war and crime—are
about similarly lonely figures living remote lives of habit.
Despite the seeming incongruity of its subject matter, this odd, sad,
and slightly haunting short does a good deal to point toward Melville’s
features to follow. Visually this is only partly so, with little time
or space for what one would think of as classically Melvillian imagery.
The exception to this is the striking shot of an unidentified man
checking his watch, mysteriously enveloped in shadow—as if an enigmatic
resistance fighter or a malicious gangster. A cinematic sign of things
to come either way.
As the camera looks down upon an ornamental design created from rice
powder and water, the narrator (voiced by June Hillman), who speaks
throughout the film, welcomes us to the world of The River.
This is Bengal, “where the story really happened,” and this is Harriet
speaking, reflecting back on her life at a very confusing and
significant time. For all intents and purposes, The River is primarily her story. And in this, the film is an intimately personal cinematic memoir. But The River
is also something else. In its depiction of the “river people” who
inhabit this region of India, the film also takes on an ethnographic
appeal, capturing the “flavor” of the setting and its inhabitants.
Guiding this journey is the great French director Jean Renoir, fresh
off a tumultuous sojourn in Hollywood, and writer Rumer Godden, who grew
up in India and thus lends The River a further degree of
autobiography. Renoir became fascinated with Godden’s novel when he
first read it in 1946, and for her part, Godden was no stranger to the
movies, having seen two of her works previously adapted for the screen,
including the brilliant Black Narcissus (1947), the film version of which she was evidently not a fan.
As
the film is primarily concerned with Harriet as a young girl (played by
Patricia Walters), it charts her precarious tween encounter with first
love as a chief narrative thread. Not a child, not yet a woman, Harriet
is at an impetuous age, bristling with curiosity, infatuation, and
awkwardness. She is a self-described “ugly ducking,” and while that
seems an extreme evaluation as far as Walters’ physical appearance, her
unexceptional looks do give her a charming presentation of normalcy; in
fact, many in the film are not conventional-looking performers, which
further underscores a broad and easily relatable identification with
their various personalities and concerns.
Joining Harriet are her mother and father (Nora Swinburne and Esmond
Knight), four siblings—three other girls and a boy, Bogey (Richard R.
Foster)—their maid, Nan (Suprova Mukerjee), and her two neighbors, the
English-Indian Melanie (Radha), recently returned from studying abroad,
and the wealthy Valerie (Adrienne Corri), a beautiful if temperamental
young woman. All is relatively calm and idyllic until Captain John
(Thomas E. Breen) arrives and sends the girls—and some of the women—into
a tizzy. Their flirtatiousness manifests itself in a variety of ways,
from timidity and naive sweetness to moments of childish posturing and
even cruelty.
The final character in the film is the Ganges River, which mirrors
and influences the lives of those that surround it. The narration and,
subsequently, Renoir’s visual focus, spends considerable time expounding
upon the river in a documentary-style survey: its natural genesis, its
purpose, the animals that populate it, and those individuals who share
with the body of water a mutually dependent connection.
While there are many individual dramas in The River,
there remains no grand narrative. The film progresses episodically as
the lives of these characters realistically play out over the course of
several weeks. Though the stories are simple, these particular
variations on common incidents could not be told anywhere else quite as
they are here. This local flavor is what makes the film so unique. Many
events in The River, particularly the special occasions like
the Hindu Diwali festival of lights, come alive with great joy and
buoyancy, celebrating the passion of the indigenous people. At the same
time, the narration covers a good deal of Hindu history, providing
background and explanation concerning the religious imagery and rituals
observed. In the life of The River, it’s all about small
moments and details—small moments such as when Harriet breaks down
crying in jealously and Bogey first kisses her arm then hugs his sister
while patting her on the back, and details such as the inner workings of
the jute press, which appears to be extraordinarily hard work.
It’s not a point Renoir seems especially concerned with hammering
home—though it is powerfully shown in at least one scene—but by way of
contrast to the giddiness of young love and all of its fleeting
silliness, Captain John’s story arc touches on the “bitter reality” and
torment of his war ravaged body. John (and Breen in reality) only has
one leg, and is a post-war reminder of the brutal truths that otherwise
appear to have no place in this serene Indian village. Still, there is a
truly sorrowful death near the end of the film. And yet while certainly
sad, it is an example of the inevitable natural process of life, which
is paramount to The River—and the river. Everything goes full
circle, continuously flowing. As the older Harriet recites: “The river
runs. The round world spins. Dawn and lamplight, Midnight, noon. Sun
follows day – Night, stars, and moon. The day ends; The end begins.”
Even with this tragic death, after all, it is a birth that ultimately
concludes the film.
Godden wrote the script with Renoir and they each deserve the utmost
credit for their respective contributions. That Godden was able to put
these complex emotions into words is as remarkable as it is that Renoir
was able to further translate them into images and atmosphere. See, for
example, the sequences of romantic drama, wafting in and out of the plot
as if by a serene wind, emerging as the main plot point one minute,
receding to the background the next. An overall ethereal tone is
enhanced by surrounding music continuously emanating from unseen sources
and a leisurely pace given its best representation during a montage of
peaceful afternoon naps.
In a 2004 interview included as part of the newly released Criterion Collection Blu-ray, Martin Scorsese counts The River with The Red Shoes
(1948) as the two most beautiful color films ever made. The Technicolor
photography by Renoir’s nephew, Claude, is indeed astonishing. The River
was the first color film shot in India (a country that demands to be
seen in color) and the first color film from Renoir, who was right at
home with the format and would become a master of stunning color with
pictures to follow, like The Golden Coach (1952), French Cancan (1954), and Elena and Her Men
(1956). Taking place mostly during the fall and winter seasons, there
is not so much an abundance of natural color in the landscape; rather,
the color is from that which is created by the people through their
innate artistic expression, via decorations, clothing, and celebrations.
Only at the end of the film, with the arrival of spring, does nature
itself begin to bloom in full expressive vibrancy.
In addition to this Scorsese segment, just about everything you could want to know about The River
and its unorthodox production is covered in the assortment of bonus
features compiled by Criterion. This includes Renoir’s own 1962
introduction to the film as well as an interview with producer Ken
McEldowney, Jean Renoir: A Passage Through India, a new video essay by film writer Paul Ryan, an essay by Ian Christie, and, most informative of all, Around the River, a thorough documentary by Arnaud Mandagaran.
Cast largely with amateurs (though apparently Mel Ferrer was originally signed on to play Capt. John), The River
favors style and characterization over any major storyline. But its
multifaceted slice-of-life chronicle is a beautiful one, a distinct and
universal one, and one that is all so gloriously realized.
At the start of Sullivan’s Travels, movie director John L.
Sullivan (Joel McCrea) has been screening his latest effort. The picture
within the picture concludes with an intense rooftop fight aboard a
train. It’s almost absurd in its inflated action and Sullivan is not at
all pleased with his creation. This type of escapist entertainment may
be all right for some, but it’s social commentary he now seeks. These
are troubling times, he argues, with war in Europe and strikes on the
home front, and the ambitious, idealistic filmmaker wants something
beyond mere cinematic frivolity. Apparently, so did the director of Sullivan’s Travels, the great Preston Sturges. At least that’s what he ended up with anyway.
Sullivan’s Travels, “By” Preston Sturges, as the opening
credit proclaims, lending the filmic fable something of a storybook
quality that matches the design of its titles, is dedicated, “To the
memory of those who made us laugh: the motley mountebanks, the clowns,
the buffoons…” In other words, to comedians. In its witty way, Sullivan’s Travels is
an ode to the simplicity and purity of laughter, and laughter it has in
spades. Writer/director Sturges (one of the first in America to tout
the dual designation) has never been funnier, and the film, especially
at the start, bustles with a breakneck pace of one-liners.
With
Sullivan’s privileged upbringing, it’s decided that he can’t really
know about hard luck. What authority does he have to make a film about
socioeconomic troubles and human suffering? Concluding that the only way
to know and understand is to jump head first into the life of the
American destitute, he dons the appropriate hobo garb and is all set to
get into character. At first, he tries to escape his managerial PR crew,
who follow closely behind his wanderings, safely documenting his
earnest if ridiculous plight, but it doesn’t take long for him to
finally accept a dependency on their security.
Along the way, Sullivan encounters “The Girl,” played by the
absolutely stunning Veronica Lake. She’s a down-on-her-luck actress
about to throw in the towel and give up her Hollywood dreams. Not yet
revealing his true identity, Sullivan finds that she knows his films but
doesn’t know much about him. When he brings up a few titles, ones he
casually dismisses, he discovers she likes just the type of movie he’s
trying to get away from. A romance blossoms between the two, and he
eventually lets her into his real life. The chemistry is obvious, and as
much as anything, in this perceptive, world-weary girl, Sullivan has
met his match. She is quick-witted and calls his bluff; she knows
trouble and can see beyond his good-natured affectation. Also seeing the
potential adventure in it all, she agrees to accompany him on his
educational/philosophical journey.
Sullivan embarks on this escapade with the best of
intentions—attempting to walk in the shoes of the tramps (literally at
one point), thus gaining the expertise and qualification needed to make
an accurate film—but through it all, there is the underlying realization
that he can always go home. Though he may not see the correlation, his
trouble escaping his own life parallels the vagrants and their struggles
with social mobility. In some ways, he gets an idea about their
hardships, but really, he has no idea. That is, until he is attacked, presumed dead by those back in
Hollywood, and subsequently arrested. With no way to prove his identity,
he is sentenced to toil away in a hard labor camp where he is told
there is “no privilege” amongst the convicts. Suddenly, this is the real
deal; he is trapped with apparently no reprieve.
It’s
during Sullivan’s incarceration that the film hammers its point home.
Taken to see a “picture show” (some Walt Disney cartoons), the
downtrodden prisoners laugh uproariously at the silly, animated hijinks.
Much to his surprise, so does Sullivan. Maybe there’s nothing quite so
wrong with amusing fluff after all, particularly for those whose real
lives are marred by the adversity he so heedlessly tried to recreate on
screen. Despite his high-minded ideals, Sullivan discovers, and we come
to appreciate, that comedies and light entertainment indeed have their
place, often serving a more profound purpose than they get credit for.
Ultimately then, Sullivan’s Travels brilliantly has it both
ways. Like John Sullivan, Sturges at first seems to similarly seek a
film with an ethical standing, something expressing the rigors of
everyman Americana. Sullivan—and by association Sturges—is ostensibly
looking for something “like Capra,” as Sullivan’s producing partner
quips. (Perhaps so, but this is a slyer, more sarcastic, sharper Capra.)
Yet by the end of the film, Sullivan—and, again, by association
Sturges—derides to a degree those films with a moral pretense, a stance
made all the more comical, complex, and effective when it becomes
apparent that Sullivan’s Travels had a message of its own all along.
It’s little wonder Sullivan’s Travels
came in at number 61 on the American Film Institute’s 2007 list of the
top 100 motion pictures. This is a great, great film. Sturges, who had
started writing for the movies in 1930, would end up directing only 13
features from 1940-1955. But in 1941, he was in the midst of a meteoric
rise to renown, having just the year prior released The Great McGinty, Christmas in July, and The Lady Eve (the first title earning him an Oscar for his screenplay). John F. Seitz, who shot Sullivan’s Travels,
was one of Hollywood’s best cinematographers and had already received
one Oscar nomination (with six more to follow). While Sturges’ visuals
aren’t typically the aspects of his films most commonly lauded, in some
cases, as in here when Sullivan and The Girl walk down by a lake in the
moonlight, his imagery can sure look spectacular when he wants it to.
Seitz undoubtedly had an integral role in this, and he would work again
with Sturges on The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek and Hail the Conquering Hero (both 1944).
Then there’s the cast. Joel McCrea already has an extensive body of work behind him, including Foreign Correspondent
with Alfred Hitchcock the year before. In the title role of this
picture, he is endearingly affable in his naïve yet undeniably genuine
endeavor. But though he gets the top billing, it’s Veronica Lake who
steals the show. This was just her fourth credited role in a feature
film (and her second not under her real name, Constance Keane), but her
presence is instantly—and spectacularly—dazzling. She was surely a
remarkable beauty (there’s a reason why she is highlighted in so many
posters for the film), but as she would show here and in movies to
follow, she was quite the actress as well.
Out now on a new Criterion Collection Blu-ray, Sullivan’s Travels
is an essential American film, which, in case there is any doubt after
watching the movie itself, the supplements accompanying the release
certainly attest to. First of all, the new restoration looks fantastic,
and among the extra features are a somewhat crowded audio commentary
featuring Noah Baumbach, Kenneth Bowser, Christopher Guest, and Michael
McKean, as well as interviews with Sandy Sturges, the director’s widow,
and the director himself, from 1951. Critic David Cairns puts together a
video essay featuring Bill Forsyth, who counts Sturges as a major
influence, and Preston Sturges: The Rise and Fall of an American Dreamer
(1990), a feature-length documentary for which its writer, Variety film
critic Todd McCarthy, won an Emmy, is an additional highlight.
In this latter supplement, it’s Paul Schrader who perhaps best puts
Preston Sturges’ exceptional career into perspective, declaring he was,
“to comedy what John Ford was to the Western.” Or, to summarize another
way, as Sullivan notes at the end of the film, “There’s a lot to be said
for making people laugh. Did you know that that’s all some people have?
It isn’t much, but it’s better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan.”
Imitation of Life
Written by William Hurlbut
Directed by John M. Stahl
USA, 1934
Written by Eleanore Griffin and Allan Scott
Directed by Douglas Sirk
USA, 1959
The
debate about the necessity and worth of continual remakes rages on
every year. Will the new version be as good as the original? Or even
better? Should it have even been made to begin with? While we do seem to
hear more about this recently, the concept of a remark is, of course,
nothing new. Examples go back to the very dawn of cinema. What makes a
remake particularly worthwhile, however, is when the films involved are
dissimilar in certain aspects yet notably congruent in other areas: just
enough to keep the basic premise or theme consistent, but varied enough
to keep it up to date and original in one way or another. If both
versions have their merits, a considerate comparison and contrast can be
a fascinating critical opportunity and enjoyable entertainment.
This is where the newly released Imitation of Life
(1934/1959) two-disc set from Universal Studios comes in. The two
versions of this film (both based on the 1933 novel by Fannie Hurst)
have their own respective strengths and weaknesses, with each
encapsulating perfectly their years of production and each showcasing
the talents of those involved with their creation. Both films are
presented in gorgeously remastered form, with each film containing a
commentary track by a noted scholar. There is also Lasting Legacy—An Imitation of Life, a documentary exploring the shared history of the two movies and the insightful social statements they each made.
The
1934 version, though credited to writer William Hurlbut, had eight
others contributing uncredited to its screenplay, including the great
Preston Sturges. It stars Claudette Colbert holding court as Beatrice
Pullman, a recently widowed mother of one who is desperately trying to
take care of her precocious young daughter, Jessie, and her late
husband’s maple syrup business. When Delilah Johnson (Louise Beavers)
mistakenly shows up at Beatrice’s door in search of a housekeeping job,
she sees that though Beatrice didn’t ask for help, she clearly needs it.
Delilah offers to work for no more than room and board for herself and
her own young daughter, Peola. This begins a strong and lasting
relationship between the white businesswoman and the African-American
maid.
It
turns out Delilah make great pancakes, and since Beatrice has the
syrup, the two go into business together. Beatrice enlists Delilah to
not only be her partner, but to literally be the face of the business,
with her dotty smile adorning the image of their new pancake enterprise,
which is spurred on by customer Elmer Smith (the perpetually cranky Ned
Sparks, a stalwart 1930s actor), who offers up two simple words of
advice: “box it.” That they do and success follows.
While
the film to this point seems to be primarily concerned with the
financial gain of these unlikely associates, quite sharply at about the
30-minute mark, the picture’s social consciousness kicks in. When Jessie
innocently calls the lighter skinned Peola “black,” the latter girl
begins to cry and emotionally express her desire not to be identified
with the race. In a further scene that is repeated in the later version
of Imitation of Life, Peola is embarrassed when her mother
visits her class to drop off some wet weather clothing. As Peola has
been passing herself off as white, the teacher argues that she doesn’t
have a “colored” child in her class. In many ways, this is the final
straw for Peola, and it initiates a more determined quest to distance
herself from her race and her mother.
Ten
years down the road, Beatrice and Delilah have made a tidy sum and the
girls are grown. Yet with enough money to presumably go her own way,
Delilah remains naively loyal to Beatrice, even as they cruise along
so-called easy street. In the meantime, two distinct narratives develop,
one concerning Beatrice and her business and romantic interests and one
concerning Peola and her continued racial anxiety.
Beatrice
is the epitome of a 1930’s strong, independent woman. She is motivated
and ambitious, perky and competent. She confidently drives a hard
bargain when first renting the shop room and she makes no excuse for her
enterprising ways, even if they conflict with her potential love life.
“I’m a working woman,” she states one evening, refusing to stay up any
later for a suitor. “There’s tomorrow morning, you know.” That suitor is
Stephen Archer (Warren William), an ichthyologist (!)—a scientist
devoted to the study of fish. As the relationship between Beatrice and
Stephen develops, his reticence toward his new girlfriend has a good
deal to do with the fear of just such a capable businesswoman and her
own individuality.
While
undoubtedly dated, with black stereotypes that sit uncomfortably today,
that this film would even attempt to confront the racial issues that it
does should be admired. And that it explicitly calls attention to the
unfair treatment of African-Americans in a variety of venues—and
proceeds to condemn such prejudice—makes the film truly special. This
was, after all, 15 years before Elia Kazan’s daring Pinky,
which took on similar issues. It is surprisingly brash for its time, so
much so that apparently the censorship office didn’t give their official
approval until shooting was well underway.
Even
with its commendable intentions though, it’s difficult to watch the
demeaning submissive nature of the Beatrice/Delilah relationship. Scenes
such as when Delilah rubs Beatrice’s feet (which she does not once but
twice through the course of the film), and the stereotypical dialogue
and dialect (“Does we get to stay?”) are appalling even if historically
accurate. Many times, Delilah is also insultingly dim-witted, though she
does get a few amusing lines of dialogue, as when the 240-pound maid
quips, “I don’t eat like I look,” and when she acknowledges the quality
of music being played by some jazz musicians, noting that they, “play
good for white boys.”
The
more profound racial dilemma is that of Peola (played at age 19 by the
groundbreaking Fredi Washington), as she struggles to accept her
identity well into adulthood. She and her mother speak of race along the
lines of blame or fault, a tragic way to somehow reconcile their unjust
treatment because of their natural skin color. Perhaps more than when
she denies her race, Peola’s most heartbreaking renunciation is when she
refuses to acknowledge her own mother, to her face.
An
additional drama that plays a part in later sequences involves a love
triangle between mother and daughter and Stephen. This subplot is rather
shocking in itself, especially in its subtle reveal, but it is
casually—and surprisingly—brushed aside.
Directing Imitation of Life
was John Stahl, whose largely unassuming style here is crisp and clear
and is essentially at the service of trying to contain Claudette
Colbert, who is extraordinary. For her part, Colbert was having a banner
year, with this film, Cleopatra, Four Frightened People, and It Happened One Night, for which she won an Academy Award.
This version of Imitation of Life
successfully balances the role of a woman in an increasingly modern
society with the conflicts concerning racial disharmony; its racial
element is as socially profound as its sharp analysis of the struggles
of a mother, lover, and professional.
Screenwriters Eleanore Griffin and Allan Scott were behind bringing Imitation of Life
back to the big screen in the late 1950s, but it’s director Douglas
Sirk who is responsible for bringing the story to life. This version of
the story starts in 1947 Coney Island. This time, Lana Turner is Lora
Meredith, the white female lead. She is again a distraught mother,
having lost track of her daughter, Susie. When she finds her, the girl
has already met and befriended Annie Johnson (Juanita Moore, in an
Oscar-nominated performance) and her daughter, Sarah Jane. The issue of
Sarah Jane’s lighter skin is immediately broached when Lora asks Annie
how long she has taken care of the girl, assuming the black woman is the
white-looking girl’s caretaker. “All my life,” she responds, before
explaining the paternal influence on the girl’s color. After exchanging
some pleasantries, Annie offers to help around Lora’s house. Apparently
homeless, she is, in fact, desperate to do so. This begins a bond
between the two women that is essentially the same as the 1934 film.
One
key difference between the two movies is that now Lora is an aspiring
actress, rather than a business woman, and she is confronted by multiple
men of unreliable repute. Her initial love interest is with Steve
Archer (John Gavin), a budding photographer. He, too, is an idealistic
dreamer: “Don’t you believe in chasing rainbows?” he asks Lora. But
there is also Allen Loomis (Robert Alda), a sleazy theatrical agent,
equally ambitious and with his own shady motivations. His sordid
suggestions question Lora’s moral character, but she remains steadfast
and stands up for herself despite his offerings of career advancement;
again, as in the earlier version of the film, her independence and
strong will is a key character emphasis. The third relationship is
between Lora and renowned writer David Edwards (Dan O’Herlihy), who
becomes integral to Lora’s path to stardom, which, also like in the 1934
film, takes about 10 years to reach its peak. Through it all, Steve is
the comparably more decent companion, but even he is domineering,
something that comes up against the career-minded Lora.
As
far as the racial themes in this version, the daughter (Susan
Kohner—not a black actress—as the grown-up Sarah Jane) again has
corresponding issues with her identity, and there is again the
uncomfortable depiction of Annie’s servitude (more feet rubbing). But
there is, in general, a less demeaning presentation of Annie, though
there is still no denying the troublesome notion of such blind
obedience.
Kohner,
who also received an Academy Award nomination, is by far the acting
highlight here. Hers is the most complex, interesting, and attractive
character. She also carries the more engaging storyline, the full extent
of its combustible nature seen in an explosive confrontation with her
boyfriend, which results in outrageous verbal and physical abuse. In the
greatest contrast to Kohner is Sandra Dee as the 16-year-old Susie, a
simple minded, boy-crazy ditz. The degree of separation in terms of
maturity is extreme, for while Dee never seems to really age (at least
not mentally), Kohner conveys a range of emotional reactions, especially
in her distain toward her mother, as well as an unexpected sexuality,
as when Annie discovers her daughter seductively dancing in a nightclub.
Though
certainly present in the sequences that focus on Sarah Jane, the social
commentary here is rather less pronounced, for two possible reasons.
First, the melodrama—either in the narrative of Lora and her troubles or
Susie and her silly concerns—borders on sheer frivolity, yet it seems
to be a primary focal point. Then there is the context of the year the
film was made, when the racial issues, though still an obvious problem,
were not so rare on screen. As important as the subjects of racism and
racial identity were and still are, by 1959, prior films had at least
attempted to tackle the topic.
It’s
only briefly suggested, but new to this version is a neglectful mother
dynamic that arises toward the end, when it’s made clear just how little
Lora has been there for Susie. Though Sirk’s take on the tale runs a
little long and could have easily been trimmed down to the 111-minute
length of the original version, this subplot could have been
interestingly developed.
Stylistically,
while Sirk keeps the Eastmancolor palette relatively restrained for the
early portions of the film, with the more fashionable surroundings and
clothing that result from Lora’s success comes the director’s trademark
hyper stylization, which looks frequently, and not surprisingly,
fantastic. Sirk does what he does best in the more decorative post-1958
sequences. In the end, this version of Imitation of Life is far
more romantic than the earlier one, but not nearly as funny. And in
classically Sirk fashion (this was his final film in Hollywood),
emotions run high and run often.
Taken together, the two versions of Imitation of Life
are equally worthwhile for their historical significance, their
aesthetic divergences, and their narrative variations. It’s a great
cinematic case study in adaptation and modernization. What might be most
striking, though, is to look at these films in 2015 and scrutinize
their presentation of racial unrest. Having both been made so long ago,
it would be nice to see the issues related to prejudice and say, “Well,
how awful. Can you imagine a time where people were so racist?” It seems
so obvious that the racism in these two films is tremendously unjust,
and it was obvious to audiences at the time. Yet here we are, decades
later, and has so much changed? Or has the progress just been an
imitation?
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
It’s
not uncommon for a science fiction film to prophesy the future, in
terms of technology, the social state of humanity, or even certain
global scenarios. It is, however, relatively rare for a film to have as
its basic premise particular subject matter that, while relevant in its
year of production, grows increasingly pertinent and frighteningly
accurate as years go on. This is the case with Videodrome,
David Cronenberg’s extraordinary 1983 film starring James Woods as Max
Renn, a sleazy television programmer who has grown sensorially flaccid
by the stale material he peddles on air.
The
shows that run on his Civic TV Channel 83 just aren’t cutting it. Max
is not content with straight porn, not even niche markets that cater to
particular fetishes. Samurai Dreams, which we see a few seconds
of, is just too soft. Yes, as Max puts it, “Oriental sex is a natural,”
but is it tacky enough? After all, “Too much class is bad for sex.”
Viewing these films with his associates, all of them paralyzed in their
detached bottom line stress on commodity, Max seeks out something new,
something different, something that will “break through” … “something
tough.”
Meanwhile,
Harlan (Peter Dvorsky), a partner of Max’s, trolls the high seas of
pirate satellite transmissions. He happily shows Max a program he
recently stumbled upon: “Videodrome.” Initially thought to be from
somewhere exotic (like Malaysia), “Videodrome” turns out to be more
regionally based (Pittsburgh). Max is transfixed and enlists a producer
friend, Masha (Lynne Gorman), to track down the makers of the show. When
she returns, she quickly and vehemently warns Max to stay away from the
series, as well as those behind it.
Of course, he doesn’t, and the duration of Videodrome
follows his pursuit and his ultimate destruction, all at the hands of
this twisted, dangerous, and mind-altering program. This being a David
Cronenberg film, there is much going on throughout the picture, at
various narrative and stylistic levels, with his trademark incorporation
of pitch black humor, a sense of paranoia, and absolutely stunning
special effects. But what is perhaps most interesting, and what gives Videodrome its keen futuristic forecast, derives from its themes of media manipulation, saturation, and dependency.
What
constitutes “Videodrome” is nothing more than nudity, torture, and
murder: no plot, no characters. It is, according to Max, in his best
promotional salesman’s pitch, what’s next. It’s something viewers can’t
get anywhere else, though Masha cautions him that it may very well not
be for public consumption at all.
Seeing Videodrome
today, in particular those figures who in the show within the movie
perform the torture and murder, one can’t help but think of the hooded
figures of ISIS, and their own shockingly graphic videos of beheadings,
burnings, and mass executions. Similarly, twenty-four hour news cycles
keep viewers abreast of the situation—always “breaking news”—with
round-the-clock footage of riots, protests, and standoffs. Like with Max
and the others who have poured over the “Videodrome” content, part of
the draw is the safety and the perverse thrill, or at least acceptance,
of a voyeuristic violence: it’s OK to watch as long as we’re only just
watching.
As
rare and bizarre and “Videodrome” is in fictional 1983, today, in the
real 2015, when even the underground has gone viral, the Internet has
made it possible for anyone to see almost anything, and accessible
quality technology has made it possible for anyone to make almost
anything. If the era of the film was an over stimulated time, as radio
show host Nicki Brand (Deborah Harry) contends, where are we now? Max’s
blind passion toward the potential of something he has never seen,
something that affects the viewer on a profound level, mirrors today’s
more implicit insatiable quest for provocative content: more and more
and more, more extreme, more violence, more sex—more.
Early
on in the film, Max is a guest on the Rena King show, along with Nicki
and the mysterious Brian O’Blivion (Jack Creley), who is joining the
panel by a presumed satellite transmission. Rena (Lally Cadeau) poses
questions concerning “television and social responsibility.” She asks
Max if the shows he puts on the air “contribute to a social climate of
violence and sexual malaise.” Max argues that it’s a harmless outlet,
but when Professor O’Blivion is asked about erotic and violent TV shows
leading to desensitization, his response is to make the parallel between
real life and the media, and where the overlaps falls. O’Blivion
stresses the importance and potency of media (in this case television)
and its impact on the general populace. “The battle for the mind of
North America will be fought in the video arena: the ‘Videodrome,'” he
states. “The television screen is the retina of the mind’s eye.
Therefore, the television screen is part of the physical structure of
the brain. Therefore, whatever appears on the television screen emerges
as raw experience for those who watch it. Therefore, television is
reality, and reality is less than television.” Part of Max’s skepticism
when he first sees “Videodrome” comes from this validity, whether the
show is real or fake. But if the effect is the same, does it matter?
As
a relationship develops between Max and Nicki, he discovers complicity
on her part far beyond his profit-driven interests. Not knowing if
“Videodrome” is genuine or not (and not really caring), Nicki wants to
audition and be a “contestant.” Her words suggesting that the program is
in some way a game or mere entertainment goes a long way to stress her
unorthodox drives that in some ways seem to alarm even Max. It’s also a
curious foreshadowing of today’s reality TV, where interested parties go
through the rigors of the varying trial processes all in order to land a
coveted spot on a show where they will then be subjected to
humiliation, disgusting challenges, physical agony, and maybe even a
Kardashian.
To
draw a further contemporary parallel, like today’s TV talking heads,
O’Blivion seems to exist only in his given media, as a (pre)recorded
personality. He sits behind his remote, televised pulpit and espouses
his proclamations and condemnations. He has his legion of followers and a
legacy maintained by disconnected reproductions, catchphrases and
recurring points of easily profitable concern, and his own sense of
self-propagation. Rush, Bill, I’m looking at you.
Another connection between Videodrome
and our modern world comes with the reveal that Spectacular Optical is
not only the manufacturer of “Videodrome,” but is also behind
“inexpensive glasses for the Third World and missile guidance systems
for NATO.” That a company could clandestinely produce the good and the
bad, the helpful and the deadly, the personal and the governmental, is
an astute commentary on the blurred lines between wartime politics and
capitalistic, corporate production. Without getting too politically
contentious here, think of Halliburton and its alleged and actual role
in the Middle East and the various conflicts that were born from the
region. In the end, it’s all about following the profit and playing
into—while also manipulating or ignoring—the “optics” of the
arrangement.
In the Sci-Fi realm of Videodrome,
and within the design of Cronenberg’s fertile imagination, the
technologies at the heart of the film are so much more than mere
devices. Tapes and television sets become breathing beings, creatures
with a life of their own: their own will, their own desires. There are
moments when the physical presence of the formats mesh with those of the
consumer, in a way that—and this may be a stretch—isn’t far off from
our own body/world boundary breakdown with Google Glasses, Apple
Watches, Bluetooth accessibility, and even the assorted digital devices
that oftentimes appear to be obsessively melded with one’s palm. In Videodrome,
these absorptive mediums are literally so, and what they convey
produces subliminal and occasionally downright terrifying
psychological/physiological outcomes.
But
ultimately, the film’s narrative emphasis, if not its thematic one, is
primarily on the effects of said imagery. It’s not necessarily its
format or technology (those could be easily adaptable and updated), but
its social construction and impact. Max’s steady exposure to
“Videodrome” leads to a complete mental and physical transformation. The
debate about violence in the media and the subsequent effect on the
viewer is manifest to the extreme here. At various points, Max has
videotapes forcefully trust into his body, but later, he reaches into
his stomach and when he pulls his hand out he is holding a gun: in goes
the media, out comes the weapon. And with that, he embodies a curious
cyclical example of media informing behavior, which in turn counters the
media itself. With his revolutionary pronouncement, “Death to
‘Videodrome!’ Long live the new flesh!'” he seeks to abolish the very
form that gave birth to his newfound capabilities. It’s a final
statement that, again, mirrors a similar contradictory relationship
today. Certain forms of media may manipulate us, harm us, and even
distort our conception of the world and our selves, but their
significance and, at this point, their almost necessity, is profound.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Directed
by Carol Reed and presented by the legendary J. Arthur Rank, both of
whom were at the height of their careers with still more great films to
come, Odd Man Out is one of the pinnacle achievements in
post-war British cinema. And with James Mason in the lead, a major
British star at the time, the film had everything going for it: superb
direction, a solid screenplay, terrific performances, and stunning
cinematography by Robert Krasker. The final result was named best film
of the year by the British Academy of Film and Television Arts and was
chosen as one of the ten best films of 1947 by the National Board of
Review. Certainly, Odd Man Out was widely seen and well
regarded in its time. But now, with a newly released Criterion Blu-ray
of the picture, it’s hard to think of a more glorious presentation.
Reed opens Odd Man Out
with an overhead helicopter shot traveling atop the Belfast cityscape,
slowing cutting downward to the streets and buildings below. This choice
of an introductory vantage point is significant, for as a film, Odd Man Out
is most fascinating as it hones in on individual dramas—one in
particular but many on the periphery—in a time and place of wider
turmoil and strife. While there are undeniably the sociopolitical
motivations behind the film and its storyline, for the most part,
particularly as the picture progresses, the driving ideology goes out
the window. Far more than the politics that serve as the instigation for
Mason’s Johnny McQueen character and his cohorts, the film is primarily
concerned with average folks in extraordinary, uneasy circumstances.
At
the start, Johnny, a recently escaped convict, is smooth, soft-spoken,
and confident. He is the leader of an ambiguous and ambitious Irish
“organization” in need of funding. It is decided that said funds are to
come from a mill, which Johnny and his crew plan to rob. While Johnny
seems cool and collected, if not wholly enthused, others have their
doubts about his competency (perhaps he should sit this one out, they
propose, having just fled from prison after all), but they are
nevertheless assured. In these opening sequences, where the men lay out
their strategy for the heist, what stands out in a strange and prominent
way is that though they are planning an obviously criminal act, these
men aren’t like criminals. All of the performers—Robert Newton, with
Mason, the most famous among them—are so comfortable and relatable that
their down-to-earth personalities never once seem malicious. A lot of
this also has to do with Reed’s direction, which, especially in these
early scenes, captures the workaday environment of this Irish town, and
how this desperate action seems to be born from blue-collar necessity.
With
the other women who move about the circle of accomplices, Kathleen
Sullivan (Kathleen Ryan), Johnny’s love interest, never really questions
the actions of the men. By nearly all accounts, what they plan to do
has to be done. But she does cast doubt on the ultimate aim of the their
mission. “Will you ever be free?” she asks Johnny. Not just from
prison, her question suggests, but from the dogma that drives his
actions. Indeed, even if and when he and the others rob the mill and
attain the money, what then? Where do they go from there? Toward what
will those funds go? And how far will it take them?
Giving
credence to the other men and their doubts, and concurrently setting up
the suspense of the theft, Reed conveys Johnny’s mental unease and
physical distress via a brief sequence on the way to the mill. Through
quick cutting, erratic camera movement, oblique angles, and a simulation
of his blurred vision, Johnny’s anxiety is visually apparent. It’s an
effective way of punctuating the narrative with expressive imagery, and
later, Reed and Krasker will similarly utilize sharp contrasts of black
and white with deep focus photography to do the same. In general, Reed
does for this Irish town what he and Krasker would do for the streets of
Vienna in The Third Man two years later. Their representation
of the city places equal focus on the weather-beaten setting as well as
the faces that populate it.
Sure
enough, the concerns of the other men and Johnny’s own evident
reticence prove fatally prophetic. Johnny is shot during the escape and
subsequently shoots and kills a cashier. Though Johnny is rescued as
they speed away, he slips (or is let go, depending on who recalls the
story; those who escape safely are quick to pass the blame). He falls
from the car and is left behind. He manages to run off, but is now left
wounded, alone, hunted, and hallucinating.
Once
the drama of the heist itself becomes secondary, the film becomes an
almost allegorical character study of the citizenry, with attention
shifting to the diverse lives of those in the town. Throughout the film,
Reed and writers F.L. Green and R.C. Sherriff highlight the alliance
between like-minded individuals, with many encountered by Johnny in
particular having a bond united by similar views on their shared social
condition. Others, however, and there are just as many who sympathize
with Johnny as those who don’t, have their own selfish motivations. Some
are quick to care for the injured convict, no matter what he did, but
some are equally quick to sell him out for their own personal gains.
Some are caring, some are conniving, some are ambivalent to the whole
ordeal and are content to just live and let live. But in all cases, the
point is that people will do what they do, and despite initial
appearances and actions, one shouldn’t judge too harshly. There is often
more to these people than we first see. Just as in the opening we are
surprised to hear these decent men talk of robbery as they pack their
guns, through other portions of the film, we are similarly surprised to
see the goodness that arises from apparent scoundrels and the cruelty
from those who appear to be upright. Though a minor character, Grannie
(Kitty Kirwan) identifies this dichotomy and stresses a need for
objectivity and an avoidance of blanket judgment, thus verbalizing a key
theme of the film. When she comments on the decency of even one of the
questioning policemen, she gives those around her, as well as the
audience, something to consider. A different inspector later hammers the
point home in his own way: “In my profession, there is neither good nor
bad. There is innocence and guilt. That’s all.”
See,
for example, Lukey’s (Newton) apparently crass obsession with painting
Johnny as he nears death. It’s not so much that he is an unfeeling
bastard (though it is some of that), but it’s that he is after something
profound, something that applies to everyone, another example of how
Reed and company present with subtle accuracy the ties that bind all in
this community, and beyond. In painting Johnny in this condition, Lukey
is seeking to capture the “truth about us all…he’s doomed.” By this
point, Johnny has come to be more than a single man; his plight and
current state represent that which faces so many others: entrapment,
helplessness, sorrow, confusion, angst.
The
famous images of Johnny staring down into the bubbles of his spilled
drink make for an evocative sequence. In a desperate state, he sees and
hears many of those whom he has encountered in the course of the
evening, and he and we become aware of just how interconnected they all
are. Each of these individuals, in one way or another, played a part in
sealing his fate, and in doing so, their own characters were markedly
transformed.
Odd Man Out
is broken into three distinct visual segments, each signaled by a
change in the weather. The earlier portions of the film—overcast and
still—are only minimally decorative, shot in bland grays that scale back
to give room for the narrative. But when night falls and rain pours,
the city comes alive with atmospheric glistening streets and deep
shadows, lending the film a touch of the noirish thriller. As
the night goes on and temperatures drop, the rain is replaced by
snowfall, and for a time, the film itself slows down for several
sequences of somber reflection, as characters are given a chance to
question their own values and their own morality. Most intensely moving
is the steadfastly loyal Kathleen. Her love toward Johnny is clear from
the beginning, but it’s only at the film’s tragic conclusion that we see
the full extent of her devotion. Against the bars of a fence as the
police close in, Johnny is finally trapped, imprisoned after all. But
what happens next proves to be the most surprising and heartbreaking
scene of the entire film.
With a motley crew of rag-tag Irish rebels and delinquents, alongside some purely innocent and honest folk, Odd Man Out
is an emotional film illustrated by Carol Reed’s first-rate direction.
Without ever making a case for its inherent politics, the film presents
people, just plain people, caught up in one exceptional night that may
or may not have any lasting consequences, but will, in any case, be one
remembered by those who played a part in it. In a way, this is true of
the film itself. Though still lauded by many, it isn’t typically among
those hallmarks of world cinema now held up with the utmost esteem in
the pantheon of film history. But for those who have seen it, it’s not
easily forgotten.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
As
diverse as his career has been, there is arguably one key feature that
best defines a David Cronenberg film. There are, of course, exceptions
(in some cases, great exceptions: A History of Violence [2005]), but from Rabid (1977) to A Dangerous Method
(2011), the relationship between science and the human body and mind
has been a prevalent and powerfully expressive theme in much of the
great Canadian filmmaker’s work. Of his films that deal with the
repercussions of this relationship, and their unique, often disturbing
manifestations, The Fly (1986) may be his finest achievement.
In
this horror/sci-fi classic, Jeff Goldblum plays Seth Brundle, a
brilliant if socially awkward and rather eccentric scientific mind. His
newest invention, a teleportation device that can move inanimate objects
from one pod to another, seems innocuous enough, in theory anyway. And
at least as he tells it, he seems to have genuinely developed the
machine with the best of intentions, touting the mobility benefits of
the world-changing technology. Somewhat intoxicated, and more than a
little smitten, he is eager to show off his creation to journalist
Veronica Quaife (Geena Davis). Brundle lets his guard down and divulges
more than he wishes he had about the contraption. Though he is initially
angered by the compromising situation, he and Veronica reach a
stalemate and, more than that, begin a romantic relationship. With all
going well on that front, Brundle is further enthused when he discovers
how to transport a living being—in this case, a chimp who unfortunately
had his brother become the initial, and eventually mangled, guinea pig.
When
Veronica suddenly leaves one evening (in reality to stop her editor and
former lover from running a story about Brundle’s work), Brundle
assumes she is still involved with the sleazy ex. In a drunken stupor,
he transports himself from pod to pod, and though that in itself is
successful, a fly inadvertently landed inside the starting container and
subsequently has its genetic makeup merged with Brundle’s, the result
being a single being the scientist later dryly dubs “Brundlefly.”
Through the duration of the film, Brundle’s body and, to varying
degrees, his mental state, begin to go through progressively more
disturbing and destructive alterations.
As
he begins to lose his humanity and identity, so too does his external
being start to increasingly dissipate. While Brundle’s personality is
undeniably altered, becoming hostile and aggressive though never without
fully escaping a sense of his true self, it’s his physical
transformation that is most prominent and most drastically disastrous.
At first, the manipulations prove to be favorable, with increased
strength and stamina, but the ostensible positives are short lived and
he is soon falling apart—literally so, as chunks of his flesh,
fingernails, and teeth detach from his body with darkly comic ease and
regularity. As his body begins to deteriorate and evolve, with each new
passing ability comes a horrific abandonment of his human form, often
shown in graphic detail by Cronenberg via some truly extraordinary
make-up and special effects. The pain of these changes, and the extent
to which each passing phase takes him further and further from being
human, is agonizing to behold.
One could read easily into The Fly
a cautionary tale about taking science too far. Certainly, it paints a
vivid picture of what can happen when science is used to alter mankind
in unnatural ways. But that Brundle’s modification happens in this film
is, in the grand scheme of things, largely incidental. His physical
transformation is accidental, and that such a thing could have happened
was never part of the plan. If anything, the warning comes as Brundle
begins to take for granted the physical perks that are initially
produced by the genetic merging. He enjoys the newfound sexual vigor and
his superhuman strength, and he playfully revels in the fly-related
abilities—crawling on walls and hanging from ceilings—but with each new
and exciting endowment comes those unavoidable, though perfectly natural
(for a fly) shortcomings: bodily contortions, gruesome digestion, and
structural disfigurement. The good and the bad balance out for a time,
but eventually, the corruptive and fatal metamorphosis begins to
outweigh any superficial benefits.
In
depicting the changes that sweep over Brundle, Cronenberg ventures into
his trademark body horror, with an oftentimes gruesomely detailed and
prolonged depiction of the corporeal alterations. Undeniably apropos
given this film’s emphasis on the transformation of one being into
another, it similarly returns to a bodily emphasis that the director has
explored in a number of venues. Brundle voices the vivid power and
potential of flesh and blood— in terms of cinematic presentation and
natural function—as he chides Veronica for not wanting to “dive into the
plasma pool.” Seeing what is obviously happening to Brundle, she
refuses to likewise teleport, which he takes as a personal affront and
cowardice. “You’re afraid to be destroyed and recreated, aren’t you?” he
angrily asks her. “I’ll bet you think that you woke me up about the
flesh, don’t you? But you only know society’s straight line about the
flesh. You can’t penetrate beyond society’s sick, gray, fear of the
flesh.” More than just the ramblings of a madman, these comments get to
the heart of The Fly’s own repulsive imagery. To see this film
with an audience, one truly gets a sense of how collectively repulsive
Brundle’s transformation is. As body parts mutate and orifices open to
oozy fluids, it is indeed a ghastly sight. But it’s not only because how
extraordinary the transformation is (from man into fly), and in that
sense how out of the realm of reality it is, but it’s also how relatable
the disfigurement actually is. We may not be able to wrap our heads
around the reality of turning into an insect, but we can definitely
emphasize with teeth falling out, fingernails falling off, and pores of
puss bursting on our faces.
This is why David Cronenberg’s particular brand of body horror works so well, and it’s also a primary reason why The Fly
is so memorable. Through a brilliance of creative conception and
technical execution, the effects created and rendered on screen are
utterly disgusting, yet are also wholly believable. What is more, if
standing back and seen from the vantage point of “it’s only a movie,”
one also marvels at the design and construction. Cronenberg’s body
horror, and The Fly may indeed be the best case in point, rides
a fine line between aesthetic admiration and psychological and
physiological identification. We may never see a Brundlefly, but thanks
to David Cronenberg, we can easily appreciate what it takes to make
one—both in the fictional story of The Fly and in the film’s actual production.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
