As
if his British films weren’t evidence enough of his talent, Alfred
Hitchcock made quite the impression when he came to Hollywood in 1940.
His first picture in the states, Rebecca, was nominated for Best Picture at the 1941 Academy Awards. So was his second, Foreign Correspondent, also released in 1940. While Rebecca
would ultimately win, many – then and now – consider the achievement as
belonging more to producer David O. Selznick than to the director. This
is not without some justification. Though Rebecca bears more than a few notably Hitchcockian touches, between the two features, Foreign Correspondent
looks and feels more appropriately like Hitchcock’s previous and later
works. The Criterion Collection, recently very kind to Hitchcock on
Blu-ray, now gives this latter feature a suitably well-rounded
treatment, with a documentary on the film’s visual effects, an hour-long
interview with Hitchcock from The Dick Cavett Show, Joseph
Cotten’s radio adaptation, an excellent essay by scholar James Naremore,
and two features that focus on the film’s war-time resonance.
America had not yet entered World War II when Foreign Correspondent
was released, and there’s more than a little insinuation – particular
toward the end of the picture – that maybe it should. Set in Europe and
following essentially just one American character, the propaganda isn’t
as explicit as in films being made in more directly affected European
countries at the time. Even though the movie opens with a dedication to
real foreign correspondents (the “eyes and ears of America”), the
audience is initially at a distance from the global troubles. There’s
something happening Over There, and it’s probably not good, but for now,
let’s just keep an eye on it. This is basically the sentiment of the
New York newspaper editor Mr. Powers, played by Harry Davenport. He’s
suspicious about this Hitler fellow, his rise to power, and the
inevitable war that’s no doubt soon to follow. On the other hand, crime
reporter Johnny Jones (Joel McCrea) is less concerned. Asked what he
knows about the crisis in Europe, he responds, “What crisis?” The editor
needs a man in Europe reporting on the situation, but he doesn’t want
someone sending out indefinite telegrams. He wants facts, not “a
guessing game.” Despite his international ignorance, Jones might be the
man for the job. He’s an average guy who recently beat up a policeman
while covering a story (“Sounds ideal for Europe,” says Powers). He
seems careless, but he’s apparently good at what he does.
Jones
gets the assignment – give him an expense account and he’ll cover
anything, he quips. Under the alias “Huntley Haverstock,” Jones first
arrives in London to interview Dutch diplomat Van Meer (Albert
Bassermann), a man who may hold the key to European peace talks. Van
Meer is associated with the Universal Peace Party, which is headed by
Stephen Fisher (Herbert Marshall). This being a Hitchcock film, and
Hitchcock knowing that it often takes two to tango in thrillers (from The 39 Steps to Family Plot,
an opposite-sex pair of protagonists is frequently prominent in his
work), Fisher’s daughter, Carol (Laraine Day), soon catches Jones’ eye.
They exchange barbs and banter; they are, of course, clearly in love.
Hitchcock somewhat recreates his proposal to his wife when Jones and
Carol talk marriage as they’re huddled together during a cold, damp, and
bumpy boat ride. In real life, when Hitchcock asked his wife to marry
him she burped due to seasickness; he took that as a yes.
Before
he knows it, Jones is in Amsterdam and Van Meer is apparently
assassinated in a wonderfully staged sequence that concludes with a
swarm of umbrellas shot from above, enveloping the crime scene (Brian De
Palma thought this overhead shot looked good, too; see The Bonfire of the Vanities).
But when Jones, Carol, and a newfound colleague, ffolliott (George
Sanders), follow the assassin into the countryside, the assailant’s car
disappears. Jones investigates and discovers the real Van Meer hidden in
a windmill. The captors escape with the hostage and Jones is left
trying to convince others of what he saw. Fortunately, Carol believes
him. However, unbeknownst to both of them at the time, her love and
allegiance to Jones is going to get dramatically tested by a life – and a
father – she previously thought she knew. Their relationship faces
conflict as all involved attempt to unravel the mysteries of who’s up to
what and to what aim. In the screenplay’s successful alternation
between the points of view of Jones, Carol, and Fisher, emotional
tension is well-integrated as the audience gradually knows more than
each of the characters, and we’re left to suspensefully wonder when they
too will ultimately get the full breadth of information.
Van
Meer, for his part, knows something about a mysterious and apparently
quite critical clause in the peace treaty, and that, as the famous
Hitchcock “MacGuffin,” is what drives the film’s narrative on a basic,
superfluous level. More important is the general scheming and suspicion
surrounding those who make war, those who profit from it, and those who
have the power to manipulate it. Jones is clearly in over his head in
this world of foreign intrigue, but due in large part to Joel McCrea’s
humorous charm, it’s tremendous fun to watch him go from the wrong man
for the job to the man who knows too much.
Aside from McCrea’s nonchalant performance (it’s hard to imagine original choice Gary Cooper in the role), Foreign Correspondent
also contains other strong comedic features throughout. There are more
subtle bits of amusement, such as the menacing baddies being obvious
stand-ins for Nazis, though the word “Nazi,” or even “German,” is never
used. There’s also Alfred Newman’s jaunty score which, in the beginning,
keeps the film happily and lightly moving along. And the sudden death
of a complaining woman near the end of the film is one of Hitchcock’s
funniest and darkest inclusions. Perhaps more than anything though, it’s
George Sanders who comically steals the show. He’s not our main hero,
but he might be the most entertaining and appealing; he blends a sharp
wit with a degree of daring that Jones doesn’t quite possess.
Known for stunning set pieces and action sequences, Hitchcock takes to the skies for Foreign Correspondent’s most
famous special effects spectacular. Even if you do inadvertently see
studio lights, the film’s concluding plane crash is pretty remarkable.
Hitchcock goes into some detail about this scene during the Cavett
interview, which, with the director being hilariously droll, is the most
insightful and enjoyable bonus feature included.
Throughout
the film, Hitchcock masterfully creates a number of other scenes that
benefit considerably from their setting. The aforementioned
assassination is brilliantly aided by the rain and necessary umbrellas,
the search amidst the windmills gets much of its visual value from its
unusual locale, and there are multiple scenes played out from great
heights, all quite effectively shot (was Hitch already thinking of Vertigo?).
In all of these sequences, the location is both visually striking and
functional. It’s more than just a backdrop to the action: the umbrellas,
the windmills, the hotel rooms, the towering cathedral each serve a
crucial narrative purpose in addition to their cinematically potent
presentation. Among his many other filmic talents, this use of place was
one thing Hitchcock did better than almost anybody.
As
informatively pointed out in “Hollywood Propaganda and World War II,”
the interview with writer Mark Harris on this disc, the gestation of Foreign Correspondent
did not begin with Hitchcock. The film was more the brainchild of
maverick producer Walter Wanger. Ever socially and politically minded,
Wanger took the film, which first got his interest in 1936, and added
considerable topicality. The impending war in Europe was a hot-button
issue in America prior to Pearl Harbor, with many feeling that
isolationism was imperative. As production went on, Wanger did what he
could to slightly sway this idea by bringing the film up to speed, with
the latest real-world developments added when possible. This is
generally minimal throughout the film, but it’s nonetheless done
efficiently. It’s fascinating and terrifying to see characters balancing
on the brink of war, in a precarious situation where there are looming
blackouts and requisite planning based on the inevitability of
destruction, yet there’s still time for drives in the country and
touristy sightseeing.
Explicit
propaganda is only brought in at the very end of the movie. It starts
when America’s then-neutrality is somewhat mocked; during the film’s
most hilarious scene, Jones attempts to secretly report to his paper
about what has transpired (he’s not allowed to discuss such war matters
aboard the American ship he’s calling from). The great Ben Hecht was
brought in to write Jones’ final speech. Over the radio, Jones
passionately pleads for America’s strength and perseverance in the face
of the approaching war and the anticipated need for participation. Carol
declares, “They’re listening in America, Johnny,” and he proceeds:
“Don’t tune me out, hang on a while. This is a big story, and you’re
part of it. It’s too late to do anything here now except stand in the
dark and let them come, as if the lights were all out everywhere, except
in America. Keep those lights burning, cover them with steel, ring them
with guns, build a canopy of battleships and bombing planes around
them. Hello, America, hang on to your lights. They’re the only lights
left in the world.”
As
is pointed out on the disc, this wasn’t Hitchcock’s only war-related
work. He made a number of shorts for the US and British governments, and
films like Saboteur and Lifeboat are strongly
connected to World War II dramatics, but this, in Mark Harris’ words, is
the “closest thing he ever made to a message movie.” Be that as it may,
with the filmmaker’s customary humor, characterizations, staging,
editing tricks, and a variety of camera effects, Foreign Correspondent is quintessentially, and unmistakably, a classic Hitchcock movie, whatever its motives.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
In François Truffaut’s debut feature, The 400 Blows, widely seen as the flagship production of the French Nouvelle Vague,
or “New Wave,” he was able to convey a representation of youth in a
very specific era and, at that time, in a very unique way.
Autobiographical as the 1959 film was, it also featured a notable
vitality and honesty, two traits that would distinguish several of these
French films from the late 1950s and into the ’60s. While The 400 Blows was an earnest and refreshing portrayal of adolescence, in some ways, Truffaut’s 1962 feature, Jules and Jim,
his third, feels even more youthful, in terms of stylistic daring and
energetic exuberance. Though dealing with adults and serious adult
situations, Jules and Jim exhibits a formal sense of unbridled glee, with brisk editing, amusing asides, and a sinuously mobile camera. Jules and Jim
is alive like few films are. It’s a movie by a young cinephile
(Truffaut wasn’t quite 30 when it was released) as he explores and
exploits the medium he loves.
As befits a film of this quality and esteem, The Criterion Collection release of Jules and Jim
is one of their most impressive. Essentially carrying over the
supplemental materials from the previous DVD release, the recent
Blu-ray/DVD combo does boast a new digital restoration and retains two
commentaries (one with co-screenwriter Jean Gruault, Truffaut
collaborator Suzanne Schiffman, editor Claudine Bouché, and film
scholar Annette Insdorf, the other with Jeanne Moreau and Truffaut
biographer Serge Toubiana). There is also a documentary about the author
of the film’s source novel, Henri-Pierre Roché; interviews with
Gruault and cinematographer Raoul Coutard; a conversation between
scholars Robert Stam and Dudley Andrew; and several excellent and
insightful interviews with Truffaut, one also featuring Moreau and Jean
Renoir.
A classic love triangle motivates the drama of Jules and Jim.
Each making their way through various women like they would packs of
Gauloises cigarettes, Jules (Oskar Werner) and Jim (Henri Serre)
struggle to find “the one” amidst the bevy of beauties they bed and
abandon. Suddenly, into their lives bursts forth Catherine (Moreau), a
girl even more erratic and spiritedly unpredictable than they are, first
seen in a stunningly cut montage that ranks among the best character
introductions in film history. She’s a perfect match — but for which
guy? Both, apparently. Jules falls first and falls the hardest, and Jim
does his best to maintain a respectful distance — this is Jules’ girl —
but when Catherine inexplicably and purposefully plunges into a river,
far from being unnerved by this action, Jim becomes further enamored by
this reckless young woman. Despite her impulsiveness (or perhaps because
of it), Jules marries Catherine. He loves her; however, he possibly
also hopes that the institution of marriage and family will remedy her
unconventional behavior. “Less the grasshopper and more the ant,” is how
he puts it later in the film. In any event, it doesn’t work. And still,
Jim harbors feelings for Catherine.
With
Jules on the German side and Jim on the French, World War I distances
all three from each other, and through it all — the battles in the
trenches and the emotional turmoil at home — Jules and Jim maintain,
above all else, their unyielding friendship. Even when it becomes
painfully obvious that Catherine no longer loves Jules (by his count,
she has had at least three lovers and only just recently returned after
having randomly left for 6 months), and even after she unashamedly
transfers her affections to Jim, the two men remain respectful and
cordial to one another. As the film’s narrator concludes, their
“friendship had no equivalence in love.” Nevertheless, this inconsistent
fluctuation of affection, as well as the resulting despair, paranoia,
and frustration, cannot last. A breaking point for the trio is
inevitable.
Upon subsequent viewings of Jules and Jim,
knowing how the film ultimately turns out, it becomes obvious early on
that this three-part relationship is not destined to succeed. One
notices skeptical glances from Jim; regardless that he ends up falling
for Catherine, he clearly senses something is askew with this
potentially unstable charmer. Georges Delerue’s outstanding soundtrack
also signals trouble on the horizon; even sequences of apparent elation
are underscored by a particular piece that reappears throughout the
film, a song tinged with impending doom, casting an audible cloud over
the visual bliss. To be sure, Jules should know what he’s getting in
for. No matter how one views Catherine, there can be no denying that she
is who she is; she’s true to herself, if no one else. So when Jules
insists that a woman’s fidelity is the most important thing in a
relationship, we (and Jim) instantly have our doubts.
This
is nonetheless all quite tragic, for despite their faults — and no one
here is more or less guilty or innocent than another — Jules, Jim, and
Catherine are relatively likable and sympathetic characters, especially
when things are going good and one wishes to be the fourth member of
this joyous assembly. Jules gets hit the hardest, though. He goes from
pleading “not this one,” asking Jim to refrain from encroaching on his
budding relationship with Catherine, to “be careful,” when he becomes
resigned to the fact that Catherine now loves his friend. And it’s Jules
who, at the end of the film, clearly elicits our deepest sympathies.
Jim, envious of the apparent (though illusory) stability of Jules’ life
with Catherine and their daughter, Sabine, tells Jules that while France
may have won the war, he would have rather “won all this.” This type of
domesticity is, for now, beyond the gallivanting Jim. And thanks in no
small part to Moreau’s appeal, it’s continually easy to forgive and
forget Catherine’s transgressions. Truffaut, in one of the interviews on
the Criterion disc, describes the film as one about a woman who “loves
two men with equal passion.” She may be heedless in her other relations,
but it’s hard to really blame her for what she seems to think is a
perfectly legitimate arrangement among the three of them. If they’re all
good with it, or at least pretend to be, well, why couldn’t this work?
Like so many other films of the Nouvelle Vague, Jules and Jim
is largely lauded and remembered for individual sequences, most of
which highlight the incomparable Moreau. (This movement was nothing if
not a showcase for beautiful and talented actresses.) According to John
Powers, in an essay included here, Moreau was “a pop-eyed siren with the
ferocity of Bette Davis and the kitty-cat wiles of Tuesday Weld.” From
Catherine as “Thomas,” to the footrace on the bridge, to her musical
interlude as she sings “Le Tourbillon,” there are many remarkable
moments to take away from Jules and Jim. Already established as an attractive and gifted performer, it’s Moreau who generally steals the show. Having appeared in Touchez Pas au Grisbi, Louis Malle’s Elevator to the Gallows and The Lovers, and Michelangelo Antonioni’s La Notte,
Moreau was a familiar and breathtaking screen presence, but usually a
somber one. Aware of this, she and Truffaut have some fun with the
brooding convention, making sure that Moreau smiled more often than
normal (one scene in particular alludes to this). Their collaboration
and friendship would grow from this film forward. They would remain
close and work together again 6 years later on The Bride Wore Black.
At the time prior to Jules and Jim, Truffaut’s career was anything but secure. The financial failure of his second feature, Shoot the Piano Player,
which is now a beloved film, led to some notable shifts in Truffaut’s
production methods, namely a required bankable cast and a solid
screenplay that was to be followed, his improvisatory tendencies
temporarily put on hold. Whatever it took to get it completed, Jules and Jim
is now one of the greats. It was enough to make Jean Renior jealous for
not having made it himself, and–as noted by renowned New Wave
cinematographer Coutard, who does exquisite work on this picture–it’s “a
film that leaves one speechless.” Truffaut thought the film was perhaps
“too decorative” in its depiction of a complex love affair: “not cruel
enough,” he says in one of the interviews here. This could have been the
result of a young man’s naiveté, but in any case, he sought to rectify
the approach with Two English Girls in 1971, also, like Jules and Jim,
adapted from a Roché novel with Gruault. This tale of a lovestruck
threesome instead features, as the title implies, two girls and one boy
and is much less buoyant than its predecessor.
Before
his untimely passing at the age of just 52, François Truffaut covered a
lot of cinematic territory, as a hugely influential critic (he speaks
on the auteur theory in one interview on the disc) and as a filmmaker.
He surely pulls out all the filmic stops here. Jules and Jim
begins with a breakneck opening and never lets up in its barrage of
technical tricks: rapid cutting, flowing camera maneuvers, tracks,
dollies, zooms, irises, superimpositions, stock footage, and some superb
freeze frames that perfectly, yet fleetingly, capture that Moreau
essence. Few cineastes, in whatever form they choose to work in, wear
their love of the medium so obviously on their sleeve. As a result,
Truffaut is something of a film lover’s filmmaker. A quote from him gets
to the heart of this. It perhaps helps to explain how he was able to
make so many tremendous movies, movies that embodied and projected a
passionate love of the cinema, and why he appreciated the art as he did.
Asked in an interview which he preferred, seeing sights in real life or
in the movies, he said, “I think I like the image of life better than
life itself, because I don’t think real life is as satisfying as a
film.” After watching Jules and Jim, it’s hard to necessarily disagree.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Director
Robert Altman had his fair share of ups and downs. The oscillation
between works widely lauded and those typically forgotten is prevalent
throughout his exceptionally diverse career. This was — and still is —
certainly the case with his 1970s output. This decade of remarkable work
saw the release of now established classics like M*A*S*H, Nashville, and McCabe & Mrs. Miller, as well as a picture like 3 Women,
which would gradually gain a cult following of sorts and subsequently
be regarded as a quality movie despite its initial dismissal. But
couched between and around these features are more electric and
generally more unorthodox films. There are multiple titles from this,
arguably Altman’s most creative of decades, that remain generally
unheralded to all but his most ardent of admirers.
For Altman, the 1970s began with this disparity. The first year of the decade saw the release of M*A*S*H, one of his most instantly provocative and popular films, and one of his most enduring. Later that same year though, there was Brewster McCloud,
easily one of his most eccentric. The titular main character, played by
the quirky, owl-eyed Bud Cort, resides in the Houston Astrodome and
pines to one day fly, which he ultimately does by means of a mechanical
wing device he has constructed. (Sounds reasonable enough so far.) Along
the way, the film, supposedly Altman’s favorite of his own movies,
brings in the following: the opening credits, shown twice; bumbling cops
trying to solve mysterious murders; multiple references to The Wizard of Oz (the
film even features Margaret Hamilton, AKA the Wicked Witch of the
West); an assortment of peculiar characters (for example, Altman regular
Shelley Duvall in her first film role, and Sally Kellerman as a
guardian angel of sorts who wears only a trench coat); some of Altman’s
most random dialogue (Suzanne: “Have you ever had diarrhea from eating
Mexican food before?” Brewster: “I like your car.”); and, well, a lot of
bird excrement. After the timely and trendy M*A*S*H, a film like Brewster McCloud
as a follow-up was certainly a change of pace, one that baffled
audiences, most critics, and studio bosses. Now though, it feels
charmingly unconventional. “It was my boldest work,” said Altman a few
years later, “by far my most ambitious.”
While 1971′s McCabe & Mrs. Miller has
rightfully been read as a key revisionist Western, where notions of
generic heroism, setting, and imagery were subverted, Altman similarly
deconstructed the Western film’s superficial ideas pertaining to mythic
heroism with Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull’s History Lesson in
1976. In this case though, the results are more combative, not
necessarily just toward the characters (McCabe is definitely not
presented as a “hero” either), but chiefly in its general approach to
the genre’s penchant for distorted and exaggerated historical
reconstruction; there’s a reason “history lesson” is part of the film’s
subtitle. This Buffalo Bill is not the uncontested legend of the west;
this Buffalo Bill is a questionable legend of his own making, a
scheming, egotistic, shameless self-promoter. As played by Paul Newman
(and like with Warren Beatty in McCabe), there’s an obvious
thesis regarding the nature of celebrity in the casting here, commenting
on image-centric star constructions. The film is very much about show
business, according to Altman. “Buffalo Bill Cody was the first movie
star, in one sense, the first totally manufactured American hero,” he
noted in 1976. “That’s why we needed a movie star … to play the role.”
Beyond that, the film’s larger concerns are those of the Western’s very
essence: myth vs. reality, truth vs. fiction, and heroes vs. villains.
Black and white distinctions are fine for John Ford; Altman works in
shades of grey.
Between McCabe & Mrs. Miller and what is perhaps his best film, Nashville, Altman continued to broach new and ever varied filmic territory, with Images, The Long Goodbye, Thieves Like Us, and California Split. While each have their qualities, the former two stand out for this uniqueness. Images (1972), one of Altman’s most enigmatic features (along with 3 Women
five years later), is also his lone venture into horror filmmaking. The
results, predictably when Altman goes genre, are fascinating. Susannah
York gives a stunning performance as a women plagued by continuous and
increasingly disturbing visions (she would win best actress at Cannes).
Her paranoia and schizophrenia seep into the film itself — in its
cryptic narrative exposition and its equally ambiguous visuals — and we
are never quite sure of what is real and what isn’t. We’re left to
wonder, with York, what is developing, why, and if it even really is.
The film makes excellent use of contrasts. There’s the idyllic rural
Irish setting, but played against its serenity is John Williams’
unnerving, Oscar-nominated score, his most exciting, if not most
memorable, movie music. There’s also the relatively stable and secure
life of the film’s main characters. The husband and wife have money,
mobility, and a weekend cottage, but beneath this veneer of comfort, the
mysteries and doubts lurk. Images, then, is a perfect title for this ominous film that questions the illusory surface of people and places.
Though
not a genre in itself, no fewer than ten films have featured
hard-boiled detective Philip Marlowe as he adroitly solved crimes and
treaded through the criminal underworld. Altman’s inclusion in this, The Long Goodbye (1973),
is something a little different. Never having finished the source
(“It’s almost impossible to comprehend”), Altman took considerable
liberties with this 1953 Raymond Chandler novel. (Credit should also be
given to screenwriter Leigh Brackett, who additionally penned the
classic Howard Hawks Marlowe picture The Big Sleep, in
1946.) While still on the trail of a murderer, this Marlowe, played by
Elliott Gould, is a chain-smoking, cynical, lackadaisical,
too-cool-for-school smartass. As such, while there’s detective work to
be done, in Altman’s hands there’s also more than a little fun to be
had. That fun is as much a part of the performances — Gould especially
has considerable time for amusing asides, ticks, and character-building
habits (the bits with his cat, for instance) — as it is with the Marlowe
mystique. Those expecting a Bogart-esque slickness and tough-guy
persona were sorely thwarted by this jaded incarnation. Altman the
audio-innovator also takes the idea of a musical theme to another level,
bringing in the title song in a variety of styles, popping up
throughout the picture, even as grocery store music. A minor touch
perhaps, but one that only adds to The Long Goodbye’s singularity.
Speaking
of Altman’s aural techniques, much has been made of his innovative use
of multi-track sound recording, and the full impact of this fascinating
system is usually most appreciated in his films compiling a large number
of speaking roles. In most cases, Nashvilleis seen as the
crème de la crème of this method; its characters constantly talking over
each other leaving audiences to — quite realistically — pick up the
pieces of audible dialogue. But it was with A Wedding in 1978 that Altman arguably outdid himself with this audio construction. The interiors were far more constricted than in Nashville(there’s
essentially only one location), making for more people in less space in
any given scene, thus more talk to sift through. Not only that, Altman
upped the ante by including no less than 48 featured characters in this
film. Apparently, Altman jokingly told a reporter that after 3 Women
he was planning to film a wedding — what a demotion for such a
filmmaker! However, upon reflection, Altman realized the drama that was
inherent in weddings and his next film, his next real film, was set.
Certainly, other movies have centered on weddings and the catastrophes
that abound, but none come close to equaling the hectic yet perfectly
plausible mingling of people and their individual tragedies and comedies
as A Wedding.
Altman’s next foray into genre territory was the 1979 science fiction film Quintet,
again with Paul Newman. This movie isn’t quite like any other in the
Altman cannon or in the wider category of sci-fi/fantasy. “It’s set
probably in the future, or else in the present in a parallel world,”
stated Altman, and this type of obscure description perfectly suits the
film’s unconventional visuals and narrative. The titular ‘Quintet’ is
the name of a game played amongst the inhabitants of an inhospitable
arctic wasteland; some play with a dire and deadly seriousness, thus
forming the crux of the film’s suspenseful and mysterious plot. The
setting is a city dying out, the result of an impending ice age set to
eradicate human existence. This idea of a frozen reality dooming
humanity is more than an additional narrative catalyst though, it’s a
stylistic device. Aided by a genuinely frigid location (at one point,
the temperature reached 60 below), the film looks and feels cold. The
icy conditions are palpably present in every stark, grey, dismal scene.
It gives the performances and the story credibility, and it all forms
the despairingly bleak visual palette of the picture. In some ways, it
similarly reflects the glacial pace of the film, certainly one of
Altman’s most trying in terms of typically swift story progression. And
if the locale looks barren yet somehow futuristic, it’s most likely
because the film was shot on the dilapidated site of the 1967
International and Universal Exposition in Montréal, which perfectly
matched the desired sense of prior vibrancy now in decline. Lastly with Quintet
is one of Altman’s most curious stylistic choices. For some reason (and
the reasons are quite debatable), the edges of the frame are obscured
with a Vaseline-like substance, essentially creating a blurred border
around the central image not unlike masking effects from the silent era.
A further part of the film’s overall visual appearance? (Something to
do with the cold maybe… or symbolic of surroundings closing in?) Or
simply an empty and ineffectual gimmick? This is but one point of
discussion raised by this truly distinct Altman movie.
Altman would begin the next decade with what may be his most underrated movie. Popeye
was widely panned upon its opening and is still seen by many as one of
the great filmmaker’s lesser works, one that, just in general, seems
rather odd (at best) or simply bad (at worst). But Altman’s Popeye
is actually one of the director’s most purely enjoyable pictures and,
as some more recent Internet comments point out, the film is newly
gaining much deserved popular appeal. When released, Popeye was not the kind of movie audiences were expecting from this rebel director (ironically, it appears Popeye
was seen as too unusual and too unclassifiable, even by those who
appreciated Altman for being just these things). In any event, with a
mumbling one-eye-closed Robin Williams in the title role and Shelley
Duvall as Olive Oyl (the part she was born to play; indeed it’s her best
performance), the plot is as delightfully unassuming as one of its
source comics. It’s directed and acted like a live-action cartoon, with
sequences obviously exaggerated and preposterous, the characters
similarly erratic and unorthodox in the extreme, and some moments at
times simply bizarre. It’s over-the-top and amusingly absurd, but it’s
extremely likable and fascinating, and Williams’ nearly inaudible
one-liners are frequently hilarious.
Nevertheless, Popeye’s
poor reception would signal the beginning of further 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 ridiculous mechanics of
Hollywood itself: The Player in 1992. As opposed to his work in
the 1970s, from this point on even his lesser features were paid some
attention, based solely on his previous record of accomplishment if
nothing else. Then into the new millennium, Altman was generally
heralded as one of America’s great filmmakers, an iconoclast who was
still doing things his own way. An honorary Oscar in 2006 sealed the
deal.
From his first feature (Countdown, 1967) to his last (A Prairie Home Companion,
2006), it is surely indicative of Altman’s talent and place in cinema
history that so many of his films are worth a second look and critical
reevaluation; not only worth it, but benefiting from it, their merits
justly revealed. In so doing, as hindsight remains 20/20, no doubt more
unsung Altman films originally dismissed will be newly minted as
classics.
This piece is part of the Robert Altman Spotlight at Sound on Sight
More than his fellow giallo
maestros (Bava, Fulci, Martino, and others), Dario Argento has had to
live and work in the burdensome shadow of his earlier successes. After
nearly two decades of exceptional films boasting glorious cinematic
artistry and blood-soaked thrills, Argento established quite the
reputation. In recent years, though, since 1993′s Trauma, these
prior landmarks of genre perfection have become a distressing caveat
added to nearly every negative criticism of his newest release: “Ah,
Argento, how far he’s fallen. Remember when….” His latest offering, Dracula 3D,
now available on an American-issued 3D Blu-ray (an Italian disc, still
playable in the US, has been out for while), is no exception. Does it
rank with Suspiria, Tenebre, Deep Red, or Opera?
No. But is it as bad as some detractors would suggest? Certainly not.
If one is going to place the film within Argento’s canon, this picture
stands somewhere within the lower third: not great, though still with
enough to distinguish it on its own merits. Dracula 3D, despite
its shortcomings, is a rather sardonic, pleasantly schlocky, and at
times visually dazzling take on the familiar Dracula tale. Argento’s
previous masterpieces don’t hinder the film; in some ways, they provide
key points of reference. If it’s not horror sacrilege to say so, Dracula 3D has some of Argento’s best use of color since Suspiria, and it includes brutal sequences among his most outlandish. And that’s just the start of more pluses than minuses.
Before
getting to the plot (admittedly one of the lesser elements of
distinction here), a note on the 3D: Obviously, since it’s in the title,
Argento working in this format is a primary selling point. For the most
part, it doesn’t disappoint. Perhaps less than one would think, given
his penchant for overt visual bombast, there are relatively few moments
of in-your-face, things-coming-at-the-screen 3D exploitation (though
there is certainly some of that). There are times when the 3D provides a
more subtle sense of depth, playing off the vibrant color palette of
the picture. Where the 3D fails most is in the scenes featuring heavy
CGI. There’s no doubt about it, most of the CGI here is atrocious.
Presumably (hopefully) a matter of budgetary constraints and not because
Argento honestly thought they looked good, certain effects shots range
from laughably cheesy to head-scratchingly bad. Viewing the film in 2D,
where there isn’t the addition of 3D to augment the imagery, the
cartoonish effects are even more pronounced and unattractive. It’s also
worth pointing out that, as with all 3D home viewing, and even with as
sharp as this disc is otherwise, the result isn’t going to be nearly as
impeccable as in a theatrical setting.
Jonathan
Harker (Unax Ugalde) arrives in the Transylvanian town of Passo Borgo.
He’s there to organize Count Dracula’s extensive library and, while
there, he visits Lucy Kisslinger (Asia Argento), a friend of he and his
wife, Mina (Marta Gastini), who arrives later. Dracula (Thomas
Kretschmann) discovers that Mina resembles his 400-years dead lost love
and so captures Jonathan, setting his sights on this apparent
reincarnation. In the meantime, others fall victim to Dracula and his
“brides,” and those who had been tolerating in willful ignorance
Dracula’s horrific deeds (he’s something of a town benefactor) begin
considering rebellion. Eventually, Van Helsing (Rutger Hauer) arrives to
clean up the mess. Throughout all this, Mina functions as a stand-in
for the viewer as she questions the behavior and deaths of the residents
and seeks to uncover the mystery of her missing husband. An ominous
tone is set immediately, the result of Argento’s natural talents as a
horror filmmaker as well as a general familiarity with the Dracula
story. It’s soon discovered that Dracula has lackeys amongst the
townsfolk and it’s established early that behind the apparent local
prosperity lurks a terrifying catalyst.
Thanks
in no small part to the dubbing, the acting is largely stiff and
unaffecting, and the dialogue is stilted at best. The performers seem to
move and behave convincingly enough, but their expressions and
verbalizations are less than credible by comparison. All of this remains
tolerable in light of the movie’s outstanding visual accomplishments.
Argento is clearly in love with capturing images on film, occasionally
letting several sequences go on longer than necessary, especially given
their predictability, but that’s of minor concern. There’s also the
sense, not exactly positive or negative, that Dracula 3D
strives to hit all the requisite sub-generic notes. There’s the garlic,
there’s Dracula’s lack of reflection, stakes through the heart, animal
shape-shifting (at one point as a huge mantis – why not?), and so on,
and like all good over-the-top, occasionally tawdry horror films,
there’s equal parts blood and breasts. The latter does include Asia
(again, Dario’s nude depiction of his daughter still managing to ruffle
some feathers), and the former includes a standout sequence where
Dracula gloriously dispatches some of the rebellious residents in
classically gory Argento fashion.
Of all the features of Dracula 3D,
it’s the film’s photographic quality that is most satisfying. When
conveying a tangible reality (as opposed to the CGI, effect-driven
sequences), Argento crafts some astonishingly beautiful moments. With
cinematographer Luciano Tovoli (who was also behind the camera on Suspiria and Tenebre as well as Antonioni’s fascinating video work The Mystery of Oberwald),
the effervescent imagery is impressive, with bold colors bursting to
create an overall look of dreamlike florescence. The sets, while
evidently economical by big-budget Hollywood standards, are nonetheless
appealing and realistic enough to give the movie some semblance of being
a period piece.
The
Blu-ray includes the film in both 2D and 3D, and aside from the
dreadful “Kiss Me, Dracula” music video by the Simonetti Project, the
major extra is an hour-long behind the scenes documentary. While
featuring an assortment of cast and crew, most of whom go into
insightful detail about their contributions on the picture, noticeably
absent is Argento. There’s plenty of great footage of him on set, but we
never hear from the man himself.
Dracula 3D
defies the critical black and white distinction of “good” or “bad” (or
“fresh” or “rotten”). It has its obvious faults, granted, but there’s so
much simultaneously positive and enjoyable that one has to give it the
benefit of the doubt and accept it for what it is, without necessarily
predicating evaluations on other works.
In
the 1990s, violent films with dashes of comedy were very much in vogue.
While Quentin Tarantino is widely seen as the preeminent purveyor of
this formal juxtaposition, it’s arguably Joel and Ethan Coen’s Fargo
that most skillfully balances the shifting between, and integration of,
equal parts bloodshed and laugh-out-loud hilarity. The film – “based on
a true story” (not really) – is immediately and frequently amusing,
while it also maintains tension to the very end. The picture opens with a
blindingly white, snow-enveloped tundra that is North Dakota; a vehicle
slowly comes into view like a character emerging in the Arabian Desert.
First, there’s the awkwardly devious, yet largely good-natured, Jerry
Lundegaard (William H. Macy), clearly and constantly in over his head
when dealing with goons Carl Showalter and Gaear Grimsrud (Steve Buscemi
and Peter Stormare) or when trying to sell the benefits of TruCoat
protection. And then, more than 30 minutes in, there’s pregnant police
officer Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand, quite rightly winning an
Oscar), waddling along, solving crimes, stealing the show. But on the
brutal other hand, there’s comedic kidnapping, geysers of blood, and
bodies in wood chippers. Still, in the brothers’ body of work, full of
unusually quirky characters, these folks are among the most authentic …
or at least most authentically quirky. Maybe it’s because of the
terrific performances across the board, maybe it’s the Coens’ personal
identification with the region and its regional eccentricities (they
were born in Minneapolis — how else could they nail the “yas,” “you
betchas,” and prowlers needing jumps?). Either way, there are moments of
genuine down-to-earth heart here that don’t always surface in the rest
of their films. It might be a murder story, but at least it’s a
“homespun” murder story. With the exception of the professional and
proficient Marge (she knows what DLR means on license plates; her
partner, Lou, not so much), the otherwise incompetent characters can be
quite dastardly. Why then do we enjoy watching them so much, and why is
it often so funny when they do these dastardly things? Fargo is
also endlessly quotable (IMDb’s “Quotes” page shows why dialogue alone
warranted the Academy Award for original screenplay). Ultimately, Fargo
is profoundly and pleasantly engaging in its depiction of simple people
caught up in not-so-simple schemes. It’s all this, and here they are,
and it’s a beautiful day.
This piece was part of Ranking the Films of The Coen Bros. on Sound on Sight
Nostalghia
was Andrei Tarkovsky’s penultimate film, and the 1983 movie, made for
Italian television, has the tone and scope of a work of contemplation
and austere topicality, not at all uncommon for an artist in his or her
later portions of life. The notion of this frequent tendency, to broach
issues of dire seriousness in concluding creations, doesn’t work
seamlessly with Tarkovsky, though. To begin with, while Nostalghia
may have been his second-to-last feature, he was only 51 at the time
(he tragically passed away just 3 years and one film later). In
addition, this type of weighty subject matter had been common thematic
territory for Tarkovsky since his first films in the early 1960s. And
though only having made seven feature films, each approach was a
spiritual level of visual, verbal, and atmospheric transcendence not
regularly attempted by many other filmmakers, save for the likes of
Bresson, Dreyer, and Bergman, and even they at least started with some
frivolity. While Nostalghia is distinctly divergent from some
of Tarkovsky’s previous works (certainly his shooting out of the USSR
was a crucial factor), it is, nevertheless, unmistakably one of his own,
a fine addition to his remarkable, though limited, body of work.
Nostalghia’s
basic plot is established clearly and early. This sets the broad
narrative wheels in motion while allowing time for the characters and
the film to carry on with more substantial concerns beyond a surface
story. Andrei Gorchakov (Oleg Yankovskiy) is a Russian writer traveling
through Italy to research the life and work of an Italian composer.
Married with children, he is conflicted by his growing attachment to his
traveling companion and translator, Eugenia (Domiziana Giordano). Her
romantic intentions are more obvious than his relatively internalized
feelings, but in any case, it’s the cause of initial friction when the
two arrive in a small Italian town. The film’s next major narrative
thrust, the more significant one, comes when the two encounter Domenico
(Bergman regular Erland Josephson, who would star in Tarkovsky’s final
film, The Sacrifice). Townsfolk ridicule the old man, for some time ago, fearing an impending apocalyptic event (a prime plot point of The Sacrifice),
Domenico kept his family locked up for 7 years. Once freed, his family
fled and he was left alone, deemed crazy and potentially dangerous.
There doesn’t seem to have been much attempt to understand his
reasoning, but Andrei is less quick to judge. What’s more, he’s in some
way inspired, or at least intrigued, by Domenico’s conviction. Where
others see madness, Andrei sees (and hopes for) faith.
Here begins Nostalghia’s
more abstract interests. While these story elements infuse the duration
of the film, for the most part, the primary ideas, actions, and images
are expressly preoccupied by larger dilemmas pertaining to memories,
fears, and spiritual voids. Upon first arriving in the town, Tarkovsky’s
visual magnificence as manifest in natural exteriors is readily
apparent. A foggy, damp majesty sweeps around the characters and
envelops the screen. Anyone familiar with Tarkovsky’s films from Ivan’s Childhood
onward knows that weather and the natural elements are of major
aesthetic importance. The climate is literally and cinematically one of
somberness. Rain, or the remnants of, soaks through nearly every frame,
exteriors and, in some cases, interiors alike — “Water is a mysterious
element,” said Tarkovsky, “a single molecule of which is very
photogenic.”
Eugenia
enters a church, where a devotion to initiate childbirth is underway.
She speaks with a priest but she’s awkwardly out of place when
surrounded by such belief (she can’t even kneel). This is where we first
encounter some of the film’s religious application, and for the first
time, one also sees common Tarkovsky compositions of observation; she’s
not there to pray, she’s there “just to have a look.” Be it through the
point of view of his characters, or just a general position of authorial
commentary, lingering gazes of contemplation signal the thoughts and
feelings of Eugenia (in this case) and assist in guiding the spectator
toward the film’s own deliberations. This observational positioning
continues throughout the film, moving back and forth between vantage
points owned by the characters and unattached views resulting from
Tarkovsky’s lateral tracks and slow dollies forward.
The
emphasis on the written word, particularly poetry (Tarkovsky’s father
was a well-regarded and quite famous poet), alludes to another of the
film’s preoccupations, that of translating texts and, subsequently,
cultures. Can an Italian ever really understand Russian poems or novels?
Conversely, how can a Russian fully grasp someone like Dante? As much
on Tarkovsky’s mind as Andrei’s (the director was, after all, working
for the first time away from home), this question boils down to a
difficulty in understanding. Tarkovsky said the film “is about the
impossibility of people living together without really knowing one
another … there is an aspect of the film … concerning the impossibility
of importing or exporting culture.” This carries over to Domenico, and
Andrei’s attempts to come to terms with what the man did and why. In the
same way that one tries to understand a culture and a country through
its art, Andrei seeks to make sense of Domenico’s seemingly inexplicable
actions. This is where the titular notion of the film is most
prescient. As Tarkovsky stated, “I wanted to speak about that which is
called ‘nostalgia,’ but I mean the word in its Russian sense, that is to
say, a fatal disease. I wanted to show psychological traits typically
Russian … The Russian term is difficult to translate: it could be
compassion, but it’s even stronger than that. It’s identifying oneself
with the suffering of another man, in a passionate way.”
These
attempts at a clear personal or cultural understanding, on the part of
the character Andrei and the filmmaker Tarkovsky, are complicated by Nostalghia’s multifaceted overlay of audio/visual construction. Like most of Tarkovsky’s work, Nostalghia
progresses slowly, often holding a shot much longer than is normally
the custom in today’s cinema (certainly in America), with only gradually
perceptible shifts in light or camera movement. Elsewhere, disembodied
voices discuss characters and actions, yet it’s not always fully clear
who is speaking or, at least at first, who or what they’re speaking
about. Tarkovsky’s graceful and supremely controlled tracking shots
bring people in and out of frame, at times tracing the path of a
particular character, at times simply scanning the territory. Poetic
musings further add to the intricate patchwork of aural components.
Visually, aside from the basic veneer of lushly soggy settings, Tarkovsky’s exceptional skill at composition gives Nostalghia
a dominant and continual beauty. Every frame, if stopped, is a still
photo of tremendous splendor. It’s a quality obvious to see yet
difficult to explain when a filmmaker is able to craft such carefully
executed imagery. Like Stanley Kubrick (a former photographer whose
similarly meticulous arrangements are frequently breathtaking),
Tarkovsky’s Polaroid photos give the same impressions as his films;
perhaps this talent is derived from this photogenic pastime? With the
recently released Kino-Lorber Blu-ray of Nostalghia, this
striking imagery is more prominent than it had ever been before on home
video. (The quality of the visual and audio transfer had better be good,
as the disc offers nothing else in the way bonus features. Not that
they’re necessary, but when compared to Criterion’s Ivan’s Childhood and Solaris, a few additions would have been nice; Kino-Lorber’s release of The Sacrifice was similarly bare-bones, but did contain the documentary Directed by Andrei Tarkovsky.) As he did with Solaris,
Tarkovsky also shifts to sepia-toned sequences, here in the times of
memory or dream (or fantasy). It’s not always apparent what sequences
fall under what category, and at times, these scenes overlap with sights
and sounds from the actual events of the individuals’ real life.
Water has already been mentioned, but with Nostalghia,
the elemental opposite occurs with some frequency and, presumably,
significance. Fire, which first beautifully illuminated the church
interior at the start of the film, by the end emerges during the two
final scenes in pivotal though inconclusive ways. The first involves
Domenico and a particularly shocking performance upon a statue. The last
involves Andrei as he struggles to cross a drained pool without
extinguishing the flame of a candle he’s holding. This latter sequence
suggests a ritualistic test of sorts, a challenge that ultimately, when
accomplished, leads to a sacred triumph yet also to Andrei’s apparent
demise. Without making it explicit, Tarkovsky seems to be making a
connection between death and fire, in opposition to water and life. “Our
life is a metaphor, from the beginning until the end,” he has said.
“Everything that surrounds us is a metaphor.” With this on his mind,
it’s little wonder that so many of Andrei Tarkovsky’s films contained
images if not entire sequences that seemed to be about more than just
what they were simply showing. Reoccurring visual motifs point to
narrative components that dictate something other than a momentary
glance. And this is one of the joys with Tarkovsky’s work — frequently
bewildering at first, if given the time and attention, mysteries unravel
as further ambiguities are revealed, and, as in the case of Nostalghia, this fluctuation results in an extraordinary viewing experience.
