It could arguably be the most underrated movie ever made. Robert Altman’s Popeye,
released in 1980, was widely panned upon its opening and still to this
day is seen by many as one of the great filmmaker’s lesser works and one
that, just in general, seems rather odd (at best) or simply bad (at
worst). But it’s none of this. Altman’s Popeye is one of the
director’s most enjoyable pictures and, as some of the more recent
Internet comments point out, this film is far from bad and has in time
perhaps gained much deserved popular appeal.
That said though, it’s easy to see why Popeye
opened in such a pessimistic way. First, you had Altman’s output in the
previous decade to contend with. Altman, like Coppola, Scorsese and De
Palma, saw some of his best films come out in the 1970s: MASH (1970), McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971), Images (1972), The Long Goodbye (1973), Nashville (1975), Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull's History Lesson (1976), 3 Women (1977) and A Wedding
(1978), just to name a few. How do you compete with that kind of
cinematic quality? How does a filmmaker maintain that kind of
exceptional productivity? Unfortunately for Altman, this was indeed a
tough act to follow, and Popeye was not the kind of movie audiences were expecting from this iconoclastic director (ironically, I think Popeye was seen as too unusual and too unclassifiable, even by though who appreciated Altman for being just that).
Related
to this, and also as related to the fate of Scorsese and company,
Altman was a filmmaker working against the newly accepted and
anticipated norm of Hollywood. This was now the cinema of Jaws (1975), of Star Wars (1977), Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), Superman (1978), and Moonraker
(1979). These were big budget action films driven by special effects
and predictable characters in a convoluted plot. Now these films
certainly have their merits, and many of this type are undoubtedly quite
good, but this was a harsh climate for the likes of Robert Altman, for
whom things only got worse in the 1980s, when production of these movies
grew and grew in size and scope (and cost) and Altman went in the
opposite direction.
In any event, amidst this is Popeye,
with a mumbling one-eye-closed Robin Williams in the titular role and
Altman regular Shelley Duvall in the part she was born to play (indeed
it is her best performance), as Olive Oyl. The plot is simple, like one
of its source comics. Popeye arrives in a dilapidated seaside town
called Sweet Haven – the production design and set decoration of this
place, done by Wolf Kroeger and Jack Stephen, respectively, is one of
the most astonishing of the film’s features. There he meets the
hamburger loving Wimpy (Paul Doooley), among the town’s other eccentric
but likable inhabitants. He has arrived just prior to the wedding
between Bluto (Paul L. Smith) and Olive. While Bluto may have his
qualities (one of which Olive rather naughtily sings about), the
relationship seems far from idyllic. After Popeye and Olive become
friendlier, their association is only accentuated by the sudden arrival
of abandoned baby Swee'pea (Wesley Ivan Hurt - Robert Altman's
grandson). All bets are off on the marriage. Of course, Bluto’s not
happy about this, and after learning of Swee'pea’s uncanny clairvoyance
he manages to kidnap the baby. Added to this storyline is the reveal of
Popeye’s long lost father, Poopdeck Pappy (Ray Walston).
Popeye
is directed and acted like a live-action cartoon, and as such several
sequences are obviously exaggerated and preposterous. Similarly, the
characters are erratic and unorthodox in the extreme and certain scenes
become at times simply bizarre. These qualities are not negatives
though; in fact, they’re what gives Popeye much of its charm,
its delightful playfulness. It’s just a goofy, fun movie. It’s
over-the-top and amusingly absurd, but it’s extremely likable and
fascinating and Williams’ nearly inaudible one-liners are frequently
hilarious.
It’s
also a musical of sorts, a Robert Altman musical. Altman, known for his
innovative use of sound (overlapping dialogue especially), here also
experiments with the conventions of the genre. The songs – music and
lyrics by Harry Nilsson – float in and out of certain sequences, many
without the clear breaks in narrative that you see in other musicals.
There’s not always a obvious indication saying, “Ok, now we have a
musical break.” Sometimes we simply hear the music start, the characters
sing, and then they just go about their business. Sometimes the music
plays for an exceptionally long time and the characters carry on like
normal, with their regular dialogue taking on a musical quality, mixed
with the actual lyrics. Many of the songs are very good: "I Yam What I
Yam," "Sweethaven," and "Sail with Me" are among the most catchy and
pleasant. The highlight for me though is Duvall signing "He Needs Me."
It’s simply a great song, one that counts among its admirers Paul Thomas
Anderson, who used the tune in his 2002 film Punch-Drunk Love, and Duvall does a wonderful job with it. There’s a lot of heart in Popeye, and you certainly see it here.
As mentioned, Popeye’s
poor reception would signal the beginning of some tumultuous, though
nonetheless productive, times for Robert Altman. After more than a
decade of lower-key film and television work, work that is still
noteworthy, Altman would burst back onto the Hollywood scene with a film
that, oddly enough, sharply jabbed the superficial and ridiculous
mechanics of Hollywood itself, The Player, in 1992. From there it was on-again, off-again for Altman. For every recognized masterpiece like Short Cuts (1993) and Gosford Park (2001), he had comparatively lackluster films like Prêt-à-Porter (1994) and The Gingerbread Man (1998). And in the middle of these poles were solidly entertaining pictures like Dr T and the Women (2000).
Altman’s final film would be one of his better recent productions. A Prairie Home Companion
was released June 9, 2006. Robert Altman, one of the greatest and most
original of American filmmakers, passed away Nov. 20 of the same year,
at the age of 81.
At the very beginning of Beyond the Hills (2012, Dupa dealuri),
Voichita, played by Cosmina Stratan, struggles to make her way through
an onslaught of people as they get off their respective trains and head
down the platform. Everyone seems to be going the opposite direction of
Voichita and she’s forced to awkwardly cut through the crowd. This is a
fitting shot to open this excellent film, which is very much about going
in a path different from that of the majority. (A brief scene later in a
gas station also gives the impression of this girl being torn by the
appeals of moden life.)
Voichita
is a young nun living in an ultra-Orthodox Romanian convent: isolated,
no electricity, rustic. She has left behind all remnants of her previous
life, indeed all remnants of modernity in general. If you didn't know
any better, you'd think the scenes at the convent were from a period
piece, not a film set in contemporary times. So then, with this opening
at the train station (trains always a popular cinematic symbol of
modernity), we see a girl who is not going with the crowd; she is a
solitary figure in this swarm of hustling and bustling urban life. But
she is soon not alone. She's at the station to meet a friend, Alina
(Cristina Flutur). The girls grew up together in the same orphanage, and
strong hints suggest a lesbian relationship at some point. Alina, who
has been living in Germany, is here to visit her friend. With this
reemergence of a key part of her past, and with the introduction of this
secular individual into her religious existence, the trouble for
Voichita and the world she now inhabits starts.
Back
at the monastery, Alina, to say the least, has trouble adjusting. She
makes advances on Voichita, she acts out, she simply doesn't belong
there, and she doesn't understand why Voichita finds the place suitable.
Couldn't they just leave together? There's a possible job lined up,
working on a boat. All they need are the appropriate papers and they can
go away, two friends reunited. Voichita, however, is comfortable where
she is. She's not crazy about leaving. Her heart is now with God, not
Alina. The nuns and priest try to work with Alina, but their efforts are
to no avail. Even if she tries, Alina is there to be with Voichita,
nothing more. She can't adapt to their ways and she doesn't really want
to. Everyone is patient with her behavior, giving considerable leeway to
Voichita, hoping that she will soon realize that her friend doesn't
belong. Either that or she herself may have to go. A back and forth of
progress and compliance and a reversion back to misbehavior follows,
until at one point Alina becomes mentally distraught and potentially
dangerous. A stay at the hospital reveals no major physical ailment, so
once back at the convent, and after another outburst, the internal
presence of the devil is assumed.
It's here that Beyond the Hills
gets into the most prominent and troubling of its thematic concerns.
Voichita, the nuns, and the priest take drastic steps to “cure” Alina's
apparent affliction: she’s tied down, not given food, kept isolated. To
them, this is the necessary process when dealing with the bodily
inhabitation of satanic evil. Does it, however, the film asks, have a
place in modern society? Are they doing what's right, or just what's
right to them? Should this kind of treatment be administered when
existing, more contemporary psychiatric means are available? It's a
drama we've seen played out in real life, where a child deprived of
medical attention and instead treated with prayer passes away. That, of
course, is the negative side; but some still swear by the power of faith
and point to miraculous healing as proof. It goes both ways, and this
is what Beyond the Hills explores.
Romanian writer/director Cristian Mungiu is no stranger to controversial topics. His 2007 film 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days
(one of the best movies in recent years) was a gritty and powerful tale
of a woman's struggle to have an illegal abortion, and the same sort of
objective honesty displayed in that film is shown in Beyond the Hills.
Mungiu has a striking style whereby the camera is placed in an optimal
location to best cover the scene and highlight the emotional resonance,
and each set-up is notably intentional in its formal design. We are
seeing things from an observational and unobtrusive vantage point, and
at the same time everything about each shot is remarkably well composed.
A non-judgmental presentation of the characters also runs through both of these films. In Beyond the Hills,
we are simply shown these religious figures and are dropped into their
lives. There is no ulterior motive on the part of the filmmaker or the
characters. Alina might see Voichita's decision as a foolish one, but we
don't necessarily agree. Voichita does, after all, seem content and at
peace. And even if one finds their methods archaic and in the end
potentially dangerous, the nuns and priest are not "bad guys." In fact,
it's quite the opposite. Their intentions are so good that when their
tactics fail we feel as sorry for them as we do Alina and Voichita. They
did what they thought was best; they're not malicious, stupid, or
inconsiderate. The final shot of the film, like the first, perfectly
captures this mixed emotion. Without giving too much plot detail away:
The shot is on a group of the nuns and the priest seated in the back of a
cramped vehicle; the camera steadily moves forward to the driver’s seat
and focuses through the windshield on the outside world, a world of
cell phones, traffic noise and congestion, road construction, etc. They
are clearly out of their element. This is not their world. Are
they, then, totally at fault? Similarly, we can identify with both
girls: Voichita does seem genuinely happy at the convent and her
confusion and conflict is understandable; on the other hand, Alina's
desperation to reunite with her friend/lover is terribly heartbreaking,
her uncertainty also reasonable.
Beyond the Hills
has been extremely well received since its initial showing at last
year’s Cannes Film Festival, where it won a well-deserved actress prize
for Flutur and Stratan and took home the award for best screenplay (it
was also nominated for the Palme d’Or, the festival’s most prestigious
prize). It went on to be recognized at numerous other international
festivals last year and yet is just now getting its theatrical release
in the United States. As such, it could be seen as one of the best films
of 2012 and, if going by release date in America, it’s certainly one of
the best so far in 2013.
The
1960s were a time of drastic change in American film. Established
studios and their structures were breaking down, and with films like The Graduate, Bonnie and Clyde, Midnight Cowboy, Easy Rider and The Wild Bunch
(quite a time, wasn’t it?) the ratings system was faltering and both
the look and subject matter of American cinema was undergoing a total
overhaul. But this was just in the arena of mainstream narrative cinema.
What was happening underground, in the avant-garde, on the more
explicitly experimental filmmaking scene?
Two of my favorite films of the era that would fall into this latter category were Scorpio Rising (1964), a 28-minute short directed by Kenneth Anger, and Andy Warhol’s 210-minute Chelsea Girls
(1966), made in collaboration with Paul Morrissey. There were many
other great experimental works during this period (Michael Snow’s
45-minute Wavelength
(1967), which is basically, though not only, a slow zoom within a room
as various incidents occur, would be another top contender), but these
two have always stood out.
Anger’s
short is a tour-de-force of image and sound. It’s one of the first
films ever to incorporate a predominantly rock and roll soundtrack:
"Fools Rush In (Where Angels Fear to Tread)," "My Boyfriend's Back,"
"(You're the) Devil in Disguise," and "Leader of the Pack" are just a
sampling of the tracks included. These selections give the film a unique
musical quality, as opposed to a more typical all instrumental score,
and they also create a keen sense of time, a time associated with this
type of music. Scorpio Rising’s imaginatively edited
construction combines one striking image after another, building to a
frenzy. Color, light, camera placement, montage, it leaves no stylistic
stone unturned. And in terms of what is actually shown, Scorpio Rising
is also remarkably revolutionary. The film follows a group of bikers,
all filmed in lingering homoerotic detail, as they prep themselves and
assemble. Nazi and religious imagery abounds, and we are left to draw
our own conclusions about this juxtaposition. It’s certainly an
examination of the fetishized male body (Anger himself was gay, at a
time when such openness was unquestionably more taboo than it is now).
It’s also an examination of iconographic idolatry – the comparison
between Nazism and Christianity is and was notoriously provocative.
Since Scorpio Rising, like nearly all of these types of films,
is loose on narrative, one can extrapolate more and more from the
picture with each viewing, without the constraints of overt formal
guidance. It’s a rapidly paced film, full of ambiguity and astonishing
imagery, so you’re left coming away with multiple questions regarding
potential meaning, which is, of course, a sign of any great experimental
work.
While Scorpio Rising is comprised of aural/visual bombardment, Warhol’s Chelsea Girls
is a more subdued, though nonetheless challenging, film. It records a
group of people in New York City as they basically just hang out, talk,
drink, ramble, do drugs, etc. While the film was initially around six
hours long, Warhol decided to combine certain segments into a continuous
split-screen. So now we have, for the entirety of the film, one image,
one “story,” next to another, the audio track going back and forth, the
segments visually and thematically contrasting against each other (some
are in color, some black and white; some seem uncomfortably volatile,
some simplistically innocent). It’s a brilliant experiment in film form,
film spectatorship, and film exhibition. In these last two categories,
the innovation comes from the fact that when theatrically shown the
vignettes were projected separately, even randomly; thus they oftentimes
didn’t synch up perfectly and the screenings would subsequently vary
from theater to theater, from showing to showing. Like Scorpio Rising,
the people and the places here also serve a sort of ethnographic
function. We are bearing witness to an essentially authentic assemblage
of people during a very precise time and place. It’s little surprise
that of all people it would be Andy Warhol who would craft such a
culture-specific masterpiece of cinema.
Taken together, Scorpio Rising and Chelsea Girls
are two markedly dissimilar experimental films, in terms of tone, form
and content, but they’re both perfectly representative of the best of
what avant-garde American cinema had to offer in the 1960s. While this
type of filmic experimentation may seem somewhat unappealing to a
moviegoer not accustomed to such unorthodox methods, these two are well
worth a shot. They’re comparatively more digestible than other
experimental titles out there (no less dazzling and remarkable, but
perhaps more off-putting, would be the work of Stan Brakhage
from the same period). For those interested in this epoch of American
society, these two films are also worthwhile simply as cultural
artifacts. And for those who simply want to see something new, something
that will challenge preconceived stale notions of cinema and standard
film convention, they are not to be missed.
David Lean is probably best known for large-scale super productions like Bridge on the Rive Kwai (1957), Lawrence of Arabia (1962) and Doctor Zhivago (1965), and this is of course not without due reason; these, especially Lawrence,
are tremendous films. But when you look at Lean’s body of work you see
that there was so much more to his career than these massive, sweeping
works of grandeur. Before he became primarily associated with Hollywood
achievement (Kwai and Lawrence would both win him Best
Director Oscars), Lean directed a number of more unassuming pictures
that, in many ways, are even more remarkable.
While
these later films were all international co-productions, it’s some of
Lean’s strictly British work that is really striking on a more emotional
and deeply resonant level. Lawrence for sheer spectacle, excitement and scope is hard to rival, but films like This Happy Breed (1944) and Brief Encounter (1945) strike at the heart, and at the soul.
Both
films were based on plays by Noel Coward, and both star Celia Johnson.
In the former, Johnson plays mother to three children and wife to Robert
Newton. The film follows her family over the course of 20 tumultuous
years between the two World Wars. There are family squabbles, issues
with the kids growing up and whatnot, confrontations with death on one
hand and the joys of marriage on the other, and there are the general
stresses of everyday life. The glorious thing about This Happy Breed
is the way Lean and the performers quickly establish the locale and the
characters then set us off on a touching and profoundly authentic
whirlwind of real life drama. We’re with this family for a short time in
terms of film duration (not quite two hours) but we rapidly cover so
much territory and so many poignant situations that by the end our
relationship to the whole gang is considerable. They are average folks
and they are delightful. There’s not really a single character we don’t
care for, and there’s nary a moment that passes that doesn’t hold some
sort of significance for them, us, and the bond developed between the
film and audience. Each sequence steadily adds to the impact of the
film’s entirety, so that by the end we feel like we’ve been with them
every step of the way, at a level of intimacy more notable than most
cinematic dramas.
Similarly, Brief Encounter
is also about average and perfectly genuine people in an average and
perfectly genuine situation. Here love, more than the grandness of life
in total, is the cause for dramatic tension and identification. Johnson
is the happily married Laura Jesson. But is she really happy? A chance
meeting with Dr. Alec Harvey (Trevor Howard) sends her emotions reeling.
She loves her husband; they don’t really have any major domestic
issues. But this brief encounter becomes something she never could have
imagined. Indeed, she probably never dared. He too is married, but they
continue to meet several times. The temptation to have a full-fledged
illicit affair grows and grows. They are truly smitten with each other,
but it’s complicated. They are also decent and devoted spouses. So what
to do? Unlike many films that deal with marital infidelity, including
many of those made today, nothing here seems exceptionally tawdry. These
are genuinely good people. We can understand their relationship and
their dilemma. They are so happy together we see how it’s difficult to
conclude this ever-evolving relationship. Brief Encounter is also a beautiful film to watch. Shot by Robert Krasker (who would photograph Carol Reed’s The Third Man (1949) and Luchino Visconti’s Senso
(1954) – two other gorgeous looking movies), the images only add to the
dream state of the characters. For Laura, this is exactly what’s it’s
like – a dream, a fantasy. But can it be real, can she ever really leave
her husband, or is this love only to be a fleeting one? Will she
eventually just wake up? Either way, it’s extraordinarily romantic.
While
we certainly care for the characters in the trio of films mentioned
above (Peter O'Toole's T.E. Lawrence is one of the most appealing screen
characters of all time), David Lean’s true gift as far as creating
individuals who invite strong and immediate association is most evident
in these earlier movies. The world of the later pictures is magnificent
and arresting, but the world in these others is more comprehensible and
reasonable and easier to relate to. I’m not especially well-informed on
David Lean’s biography, so I can’t say where this turning point in film
aesthetic occurred, or why. Perhaps we saw a sign of things to come in Summertime
(1955), with its exotic setting and lush cinematography. Films made
just before this production were somewhat more practical and reserved,
films like the hilarious Hobson's Choice (1954) and even the literary adaptations Great Expectations (1946) and Oliver Twist
(1948). Maybe it’s just the natural evolution of an artist. Lean
broadens his scope of subject matter and in doing so naturally expands
his creative canvas. What’s extraordinary is that he skillfully handles
both so well.
Ultimately
what matters though, is that one of cinema’s greatest filmmakers made
film after film of tremendous quality and impact. Even with two Oscars
and with the global fame of at least two of his more than 15 feature
films, I still think “underrated” aptly describes Lean and his work.
Everyone should see Lawrence of Arabia, there’s no question about that, but for completely different reasons, all just as imperative, everyone should also seek out This Happy Breed and Brief Encounter, two delightfully powerful dramas that have lingered in my mind long after my initial viewings.
Just
what was, or still is, "it"? According to British novelist Elinor Glyn,
who coined the term, at least as far as it's referred to here, the
phenomenon can mean various things: "a strange magnetism that attracts
both sexes," for example. Well, whatever "it" is, Clara Bow had it, and that's why she was ideal to play the part of Betty Lou in Clarence G. Badger's 1927 film titled - fittingly enough - It.
Based
on the ideas put forth by Glyn in her writing (though the storylines
are totally distinct), Bow personifies this enigmatic quality. In the
film, when the author makes a rather random appearance, she is asked
about this "it," and what "it" designates. "'It' is that quality
possessed by some which draws all others with its magnetic force. With
'It' you win all men if you are a woman and all women if you are a man,"
she states. "It" is "Self-confidence and indifference whether you are
pleasing or not and something in you that gives the impression that you
are not at all cold." Yes, "it" is all of that. With Clara Bow in this
role that is now inseparable for her on-screen persona and, in many ways
erroneously, her off-screen self, she is a jubilant being of
exuberance, sexuality, playfulness and she is a figure of the times. Bow
is one of the most underrated and frequently neglected female stars of
Hollywood's silent era, and this is easily her most recognizable
performance.
In It,
Bow's Betty Lou works in a department store. Monty (William Austin),
friend of the store's wealthy owner, Cyrus Waltham (Antonio Moreno),
notices her. In a unique self-referential way, Monty becomes infatuated
with this craze surrounding "it." He tries to find "it" in the various
girls employed at the store, and he does in Betty. He develops a liking
for the girl, but she has her eyes set on Waltham. In a daring way for
the time, Betty is the scheming and assertive woman; she makes a plan
and ambitiously goes for it. Is it superficial? Is it purely for money?
Maybe, at first anyway. But her decision to be her own woman and do
everything in her power to succeed in her goal positions her as a
powerfully independent female force.
What
makes this film noteworthy, beyond this audacity, is Bow's screen
presence. She's certainly not "America's Sweetheart," little Mary
Pickford, and she's no demur Lillian Gish. Bow is closer in spirit to
Louise Brooks as a sort of emblematic free spirit of the flapper era.
She is immensely attractive and her alluring personality is enchanting.
However, she does indeed possess something else, something special. She
has that "it" factor. It's somewhat of a copout to say there aren't
really words to describe how Bow is presented in this film, but it's
true. She did exude a unique quality that had to be dubbed simply "it."
Aside from all this, It
is itself a pretty good film, one of the funniest silents I've seen not
involving the usual suspects of Chaplin, Keaton, Lloyd, etc. There are
some hilarious bits of dialogue, much of it in the slang specific to the
period, and some of it just plain goofy in its phrasing: "Sweet Santa
Claus, give me him" … "I feel so low, old chap, that I could get on
stilts and walk under a daschund." And the situations our main trio of
characters find themselves in are quite amusing, especially given the
customs of the 1920s.
It
was another of the films shown at the TCM festival, my fourth of five
seen on that particular day, and to see it there was special for two
reasons. One was the live orchestral accompaniment. Silent films were
never really silent. There was nearly always music, sometimes even sound
effects and narration, so to see the film with the score being
performed right in front of you was a tremendous experience. The second
major highlight was just to see the film on the big screen, in 35 mm.
Say what you will about Blu-ray restorations you can see on your 70 inch
television, but nothing matches a sharp film print projected in the
Egyptian Theatre. You can see stills of Bow on the internet or in film
books, and you can watch her movies from the comfort of your living
room, but you've never really seen Clara Bow, and you've never really
experienced how she radiates, until you've seen her look, her smile, and
her coy suggestiveness and delight on the big screen.
That being said though, I can't recommend It enough. So in the end see It however you can, and enjoy the delightful charm that was Clara Bow.
