When rating a film I ask myself these three questions: What is the director’s goal or purpose? How does the director try to achieve it? Is the director successful? Hence a big box office hit may get a “5” while a Eurosleaze sexploitation flick gets a “7”. My rating system in a nutshell:
10 = Brilliant!
9 = Exceptional
8 = Very Good
7 = Good
6 = Average
5 = Forgettable
4 = Bad
3 = Dismal
2 = Dog Barf
1 = Beyond Awful
~ ~ ~ ~
I Met Him in Paris (USA 1937) (5): New York fashion designer Kay Denham (Claudette Colbert either smiling or frowning) leaves her drippy simp of a boyfriend behind in order to fulfill her lifelong dream of going wild in Paris. Once there, however, she becomes the amorous target of American ex-pat Gene (Robert Young), a struggling author who whisks her off for a week of fun and frolic in the Swiss alps (Sun Valley, Idaho). But Gene’s contrary friend, sullen playwright George (Melvyn Douglas), proves to be the proverbial third wheel as he invites himself along and then proceeds to interrupt Kay and Gene’s budding relationship every chance he gets. Why are the two men constantly at each other’s throats and what is it they’re not telling Kay? The answer finally arrives in the form of a very unexpected guest and then, just to stir things up even further, Kay’s ex decides he needs to see the City of Lights for himself… Despite its trio of big name stars director Wesley Ruggles' “sparkling screwball comedy” has neither pop nor fizz but rather just flops about on the screen looking cute until the closing credits finally put it to sleep. The jokes and slapstick elements—centred mainly on crossed purposes and skiing mishaps—fall flat while the three leads are more obnoxious than engaging as they take turns growling and hissing at each other. Contrived from start to finish with no big payoff in the end—either romantic or comedic—and the film’s somewhat racy (for the time) storyline ultimately comes across as quaint.
Soldier Blue (USA 1970) (7): In the wild west of 1864 a raiding party of Cheyenne warriors wipe out a platoon of U.S. cavalrymen hired to guard a transport of gold leaving two lone survivors: Honus, a terribly naïve private (Peter Strauss), and Cresta (Candice Bergen), an outspoken young woman kidnapped by the Cheyenne a few years earlier and now being returned to a military outpost several miles away. Enduring native scouts, white profiteers, and the elements themselves, the pair make their way toward the outpost in a cross-country trek that will challenge everything Honus has come to believe about both the “savage” Indians and the moral superiority of the fledgling United States of America. Broken treaties, the imbalance of power, and wanton acts of violence perpetrated by the military are but a few of the realities Cresta has witnessed during her time with the tribe, and as she heatedly shoots down Honus’ attempts at defending America’s position animosity and dissent gradually turn into something else. However, when they finally reach their destination and discover plans are already underway to avenge the platoon that was killed earlier they realize their words must now be put into action if disaster is to be averted. In much the same vein as Arthur Penn’s Little Big Man, released the same year, director Ralph Nelson’s contentious “anti-western” (based on Theodore V. Olsen’s novel) gives us yet another problematic take on how the West was won. But whereas Penn’s classic approached Custer’s Battle of Little Bighorn with a cheekiness sometimes bordering on parody Nelson’s treatment of Colorado’s Sand Creek massacre is presented as an unembellished and grisly chapter of American history. Bergen and Strauss work well together, her decidedly unladylike vocabulary and derisive pragmatism playing well against his stuffed shirt morality. His is the patriotic voice conventional history texts would like us to believe, hers is the cold contradictory voice of uncomfortable facts. Likewise, Robert B. Hauser’s widescreen cinematography creates a romantic terrain of sunbaked plains and majestic cliffs only to have it abruptly undone by a final onslaught of graphic violence so intense that even after the studio trimmed it by 20 minutes its rapid fire images of death and depravity still divided audiences and critics alike. Undermining the genre’s orthodox assumptions (John Wayne saves the day and all that) this is definitely not your father’s oater. Buffy Sainte-Marie belts out the theme song and Donald Pleasance is almost unrecognizable as a sociopathic arms dealer, his sales to the enemy tribes adding yet another moral conundrum to the mix—is he a traitor or a necessary evil?
Blonde Venus (USA 1932) (7): Penned by an uncredited Marlene Dietrich and directed by European ex-pat Josef von Sternberg, this scandalous early Hollywood shocker titillated audiences with its themes of adultery, prostitution, kidnapping, and…skinny-dipping? Unfortunately, by the time the Hays Office censors were done watering down the screenplay it was but a shadow of what Dietrich must have envisioned. After her husband Edward (Herbert Marshall) is diagnosed with a serious illness necessitating a prolonged and expensive stay at an overseas clinic, former European stage sensation turned American housewife Helen Faraday (Dietrich) decides to resume her career in order to raise the necessary funds. But when dashing Manhattan millionaire Nick Townsend (Cary Grant) becomes smitten with her, Helen finds an easier way to make a buck—several bucks in fact. Dirty secrets can’t stay hidden for long however and when a newly returned Edward discovers how his wife’s been paying the bills while he was being treated abroad storm clouds gather over their marriage with custody of their 5-year old son (Dickie Moore) directly in the eye of the hurricane. Surprisingly for the time, von Sternberg handles the issue of sex and infidelity with a delicacy that avoids the usual tawdriness and moral grandstanding. Neither Helen nor the audience is asked to approve of her actions but when faced with two impossible choices (sell your biggest asset or watch your loved one die) is any decision the right one? And later, what lengths would you go to if you were faced with the prospect of never seeing your child again? Reflecting the plight of his female protagonist, Von Sternberg’s sets likewise go from homey kitsch to opulent stage lights (a “jungle voodoo” dance routine with Dietrich in simian drag is beyond camp) to fleabags and flophouses before returning full circle just in time for a ridiculously sentimental final fade no doubt written in by the censors. Dietrich is Dietrich of course, her shadowed eyes and seductive voice working both for and against her as Helen’s meteoric fall from grace takes her from sultry chanteuse to raggedy barfly on the lam with a little kid in tow (that voice and those eyes not quite fitting into her increasingly squalid surroundings). Marshall, on the other hand, is a bit of a cold fish with his clipped British accent and stiff upper lip while Grant gives us a sexy playboy whose heart may not be golden but at least it beats when compared to Marshall’s clockwork passion. But it’s child sensation Dickie Moore who winds up dominating his co-stars, his natural performance treading that fine line between pathos and preciousness—to this day he remains one of Hollywood’s more bearable child stars. Despite being hamstrung by the morality watchdogs (gee everyone, Cancel Culture is older than you think!) Blonde Venus remains a testament to Dietrich’s star power both on the screen and behind it.
Honey [Miele] (Italy/France 2013) (7): Irene, alias “Honey”, has a unique sideline—she helps terminally ill people end their lives at home by supplying them with a deadly cocktail of alcohol and illegal barbiturates which she smuggles into the country. But she is forced to confront her own personal problems after she hooks up with Carlo, a perfectly healthy and financially secure middle-aged client who has simply grown tired of life. Suddenly the issue of assisted suicide which seemed so black and white to her in the past takes on several shades of grey causing Irene to not only rethink what she is doing but to examine her own motivations for doing it in the first place. Director Valeria Golino’s low-key examination of backdoor euthanasia in a country where Catholicism still holds sway is a compelling hybrid of verité realism and arthouse flourishes perfectly played out by leads Jasmine Trinca and Carlo Cecchi. Her role as Honey a conflicted mix of complacent altruism and unspoken moral reservations, and his a grumpy old man whose growing discontent with the tediousness of it all ignites a series of fiery clashes between him and his would-be angel of mercy—clashes which eventually lead them both to a place they weren’t expecting. Working with cinematographer Gergely Pohárnok, Golino colours her drama with touches of the surreal which turn everyday sights and sounds into spiritual metaphors: planes land or take off like departing souls; little ballerinas race down the sidewalk like frilly cherubs; and a group of windsurfers head to the beach, their boards and sails fluttering against the sky like angels’ wings. Shadows also figure prominently—more specifically hands and ghostlike silhouettes—while an undiagnosed heart condition leaves Honey with a tingling in her chest every time she takes on a new assignment (guilt? compassion? both?) or else goes swimming in the deep blue sea, her wetsuit clinging like a shroud. Even a discarded scrap of paper takes on a metaphysical dimension in the unlikeliest of places and a pair of ear buds replace the sound and fury of the real world with revealing ballads. Staunchly refusing to take a moral stance on this contentious issue the director instead allows her characters to show, by example, that it is more complex than either side is willing to admit.
Steamboat Bill, Jr. (USA 1928) (7): One of Buster Keaton’s last “great” films, this romp along the banks of the Mississippi is notable for its painful looking physical comedy and impressive special effects. When the estranged son whom he hasn’t seen in years comes to visit him, rough and gruff riverboat captain William “Steamboat Bill” Canfield is disappointed to say the least. Not following in his father’s footsteps at all, Bill Jr. (Keaton) is a short, scrawny, and somewhat fey misfit who immediately gets under his dad’s nerves—cue a barrage of slapstick pratfalls, backflips, and mechanical mayhem as the younger Canfield tries (unsuccessfully) to learn the ins and out of a paddlewheel ship. And just to make matters worse, he’s also in love with the petite daughter of a rival captain who aims to put Bill Sr. out of business. The usual silent comedy hijinks ensue as the young lovers go to ridiculous lengths in order to see each other, including walking a plank, while their mule-headed fathers hurl insults and physical abuse at one another. It’s a wonder Keaton didn’t break his neck with all those tumbles and leaps between decks made without the benefit of a stunt double or a CGI department, all the while maintaining his signature hangdog expression. A stint at a haberdashery is pure schtick as his father tries to butch him up with just the right hat, an attempted jailbreak is foiled by a loaf of bread, and a walk in the rain is milked for all the yucks it can generate. But Keaton’s genius for comic timing is put to the test for the film’s stormy climax in which industrial cranes and a half dozen high-powered airplane propellers were used to simulate a hurricane. Life-sized sets are blown to shreds, houses are tossed into the river, and an uprooted tree becomes airborne with Keaton clinging to its trunk—all accomplished with split second precision and no miniatures. One scene which has now become iconic has an actual wall falling onto an oblivious Keaton who manages to escape harm because he just happens to be standing right where the wall’s solitary open window lands…if his calculations had been off by just a few inches he would have been killed in real life. An impressive, occasionally breathtaking offering from Hollywood’s hazy crazy early years before talkies changed the landscape forever.
Life of Pi (USA 2012) (8): Ang Lee’s adaptation of Yann Martel’s novel is a beautifully realized adventure with universal appeal. Growing up in rural India, little Pi Patel developed a fascination with the Divine starting with his native Hindu pantheon and gradually encompassing the theologies of neighbouring Christians and Moslems with a bit of Judaism thrown in. But what the young lad was able to accept in theory is put to the test when, en route to a new home in Canada, his ship sinks in a violent storm leaving him the sole human survivor aboard a lifeboat with a couple of zoo animals that were being transported in the hold—including an adult Bengal tiger. Now orphaned and very much alone on the open sea, an adolescent Pi (Suraj Sharma, absolutely convincing) must learn to survive despite hungry sharks in the water, a hungry cat as a shipmate, and his own mounting fears. Nominated for eleven Oscars and winning four including cinematography, special effects, and directing, Pi’s predicament is turned into a surreal psychodrama (or metaphysical journey if that is your preference) rife with dazzling metaphors: interactions with a furry man-eating carnivore shed light on the human psyche, an idyllic island underscores the perils of temptation after the sun goes down, and “God” (or human resilience) is to be found in the details from thunderstorms and schools of flying fish to a most unusual tropical skyline and lessons gleaned from a survival handbook. Told in flashback as an adult Pi (Irrfan Khan, mesmerizing) recounts his tale to an author eager for ideas, Lee muddies the psycho-theological waters even further when Pi, all too aware of the author’s mounting skepticism regarding the tale’s more fanciful elements, offers a more mundane account of what actually happened aboard that boat—an alternate truth which still doesn’t quite jibe with the “official report” filed by the lost ship’s owners. So where does the truth lie, and how can we ever be sure? In the end it really doesn't matter for the film’s sheer scope and visual impact will have as many interpretations as there are audience members to see it…even the significance of the protagonist’s name is open for debate. Shot against a background of burning sunsets and rolling seascapes (actually filmed in a Taiwanese wave tank?!) and containing some of recent cinema’s more striking images—the CGI tiger seems so real you’ll want to pet it and an underwater sequence showing a submerged Pi watching as his ship sinks to the ocean floor, its lights still shining through the murk, was as horrifying as it was beautiful—this is one of those rare “spiritual films” which will leave both believers and non-believers with something to ponder.
Poor Things (Ireland/UK 2023) (6): Once upon a time there was a mad scientist named Godwin (Willem Dafoe in grotesque Halloween make-up) who found the body of a suicide victim (Emma Stone, Best Actress) floating down the Thames. Piqued by the possibilities he brought the corpse home and through the miracle of 1940s special effects brought her back to life. Now, with the figure of a mature woman but the brain of a newborn—quite literally, for this scientist is mad—“Bella” must grow up all over again from petulant toddler to impulsive adolescent and beyond. But things don’t quite roll out as planned after Bella develops a mind of her own and begins to question the status quo of a Victorian society rife with misogyny, inequality, and sexual repression at every turn… Loosely based on Alasdair Gray’s 1992 novel of the same name, director Yorgos Lanthimos’ morality tale certainly dazzles the eye with intricate studio sets that make his 19th century steampunk world unfold like so many children’s pop-up books. Using camera techniques, colour, and dialogue to denote his protagonist’s maturation—scenes go from narrowly focused B&W shots often delivered through a warped fish eye lens to expansive panoramas teeming with bright crayon shades while Bella’s vocabulary likewise increases exponentially—Lanthimos also employs his usual bag of tricks, namely graphic sex and oddball peccadilloes, to give us a sardonic fairy tale in which Frankenstein gets a radical feminist makeover. Liberated in everything from sexual mores to socialist ideals long before it would become fashionable, Bella graduates from enthusiastic masturbation to taking a lover to turning tricks with nary a moral qualm yet her first sight of abject poverty almost destroys her. But her natural predilection for optimism and justice will prove more than a fair match for those who would own her (a jealous lover implodes, an old ex fares even worse) or otherwise force her to conform (a self-confessed cynic finds himself at a loss for words when she challenges his dim worldview). Her somewhat facile epiphany in a nutshell: what’s between a woman’s legs controls men, what’s between her ears terrifies them. There’s a lot of meat to process but, alas, the director spends so much time painting the screen with fantastical vistas that it becomes distracting and one can only shove so much meaning into an already inflated script before even the cleverest ideas start to fly by unnoticed—I did appreciate Bella’s nickname for her creator however…”God”…LOL! In the end the movie poses a tired but still worthwhile argument (DEI and all that) but only if we’re able to move past some of its more eye-popping diversions. Mark Ruffalo is sexy-crazy as Bella’s first sexual casualty, Ramy Youssef is the epitome of self-control and self-doubt as the man who truly loves her, and Kathryn Hunter gives a brief but masterful performance as a dwarf-like Parisian madame whose fragile stature belies an enormous power.
Kinds of Kindness (Ireland/UK 2024) (7): Be forewarned, when a film is written and directed by modern day Greek Oracle, Yorgos Lanthimos, you can assume a few things: it will be odd, its purpose will be obscure at best, and he’s going to fuck with you. That being said, this triptych of contemporary fables starring Emma Stone, Jesse Plemons, Hong Chau, and Willem Dafoe, is pretty much a standard example of the artist at work. First tale: a highly paid salaryman’s good fortune is wholly dependant on whether or not he can satisfy the demands of his tyrannical boss who takes sadistic delight in overseeing every aspect of his life from the clothes he wears and how much he weighs to what he eats and how many times he screws his wife. But when the boss issues an unspeakable order the employee rebels…only to discover that free will is more terrifying than he thought. Second tale: when his wife, who was believed lost at sea, returns home a heartbroken policeman is at first delighted. However, the woman’s strange behaviour gradually leads him to suspect that she has been replaced by a doppelgänger, and as his paranoia increases his demands that she prove herself lead to horrific consequences. Third tale: a charismatic cult leader sends a pair of acolytes into the world to search for a woman who, according to prophesy, possesses great spiritual power. But the two uncover nothing but dead ends and false messiahs until the female acolyte—battered, disillusioned, and fallen to despair—follows up on a promising lead… So, whether it be in the form of corporate autocracy, the unreasonable and often hurtful ultimatums we inflict on those we love, or the empty promises and meaningless rituals of religion, it’s all about…manipulation and control? Tinged by Lanthimos’ signature absurdities (both amusing and grotesque, erotic and frightening), with Jerskin Fendrix’s score following along using solitary piano notes and funereal choirs, this is definitely not a Saturday afternoon crowd-pleaser. Domestic abuse turns macabre as a woman serves up her pan-fried thumb with a side of cauliflower; managerial overreach turns homicidal; and a fervent search for the Second Coming leads to a breakdance routine followed by an ironic coda so caustic you can only shake your head and giggle. Not the director’s best effort given that those little cinematic tricks seem more studied this time around (off-kilter cameras, stilted dialogue, eccentric characters etc. etc.) but if thoughts were arrows he still manages to score a few bullseyes and his cast light up the screen like a chain of Roman candles.
Trois fois rien [Three Times Nothing] (France/Canada 2022) (5): When three homeless men wind up with a winning lottery ticket they discover that what should have been a dream come true turns out to be more of a nightmare starting with the fact that without ID cards, fixed addresses, and established bank accounts they can’t even cash their prize cheque in the first place. The resulting reality shock and subsequent clash of personalities are what drive this tepid comedy as the three friends learn that money really can’t buy happiness (though it can buy lots of booze and consumer goods). But it’s a joke that doesn’t go very far before turning into a sappy series of heart-tugs and life-affirming groups hugs. Canada’s Antoine Bertrand flaunts his Quebecois accent as the bearish “Twiggy”, the group’s de facto leader and loud voice of reason whose impatient outbursts hide the fact that the cause of his homelessness is still very much an open wound. A grizzled Phillip Rebbot plays “Captain”, a gay alcoholic and embodiment of misplaced compassion, his small acts of kindness too often backfiring. And Côme Levin gives an athletic performance as “Arrow”, a pathologically manic runaway whose extremely annoying bursts of lunacy are meant to represent…youthful zeal?…hope springing eternal? The three actors do generate sparks as an Odd Trio thrown together by fate and circumstance but their pratfalls fail to elicit more than a stifled yawn and the jokes generally fall flat. Furthermore, their stagey tantrums followed by sober reconciliations and male bonding moments quickly become tiresome. Just to be charitable I will say that the film’s three eventual resolutions are more or less believable and a closing sequence of stills, including an unexpected group photo, is handled well. Special shout out to Max, the pooch who played Arrow’s pet dog affectionately named “Asshole”. His slobbering performance lending credence to the idea that casting a cute animal can elevate any film from bad to mediocre.
The Girl Can’t Help It (USA 1956) (7): A hot-tempered New York mobster (Edmond O’Brien) tasks a washed-out alcoholic talent agent (Tom Ewell) with turning his busty platinum blonde moll (Jayne Mansfield) into the next big jukebox sensation. Unfortunately, the deal quickly sours for all involved when the girl proves she has neither talent nor ambition; the agent begins to fall for her ample charms (a feeling which appears mutual); and the suspicious mobster, sensing infidelity in the air, inches ever closer toward a jealous rage. Presented in widescreen Cinemascope and eye-searing DeLuxe Color, 20th Century Fox’s sexy rock ’n roll comedy certainly cashes in on Mansfield’s boobs and tightly cinched hourglass figure (could she even breathe in those dresses?) However, whereas Marilyn Monroe made the “ditzy blonde” into something of a trademark, Mansfield imbues her curvaceous character with a bit more brains and a few less squeaks, a twist which gives the script’s sexual innuendos and naughty sight gags (as she strolls by the milkman his bottle erupts into a white fountain…ahem) an ironic edge. In comparison the rest of the cast just seem to be along for the ride: Ewell pines away and trips over himself, O’Brien blusters and scowls, and Henry Jones (playing O’Brien’s right hand man) goes from cynical abettor to sentimental sap as true love begins to bloom. The real attraction though is the numerous musical cameos from such popular artists as Little Richard, Fats Domino, Eddie Cochran, and a ghostly Julie London crooning her hit single “Cry Me a River” as Ewell’s drunken agent goes through the DTs. In fact, the musical interludes were so popular they apparently inspired impressionable youngsters like Paul McCartney, John Lennon, and Jimmy Page. In the end it’s so much sparkly fluff and cartoonish drama—including those opening and closing segments in which the actors walk off the screen to address the audience directly—but as a breezy cinematic postcard from a bygone era it has glitter to spare. And who doesn’t appreciate a bit of glitter now and again?
1408 (USA 2007) (7): Yet another Stephen King short story gets padded out to a feature length film and the finished product, while not jaw-dropping, does manage to get under your skin. Popular writer Mike Enslin (John Cusack) makes a living debunking stories of supposed hauntings so it comes as no surprise that he eventually finds his way to New York’s faded Dolphin hotel where he plans to spend one night in room 1408—scene to dozens of suicides and suspicious “natural deaths” since the building was first opened almost a century ago. Ignoring stern warnings from the Dolphin’s secretive manager (Samuel L. Jackson) who warns the author that no one has managed to last more than an hour in that “evil room”, Enslin checks in and so the countdown begins. Starting with bad vibes and a few odd turns (paintings suddenly hang crooked, the plumbing turns nasty, the radio takes on a life of its own) and progressing into increasingly elaborate CGI territory with heaving walls and ghostly visitations, Enslin gets caught up in an existential stand-off against an invisible enemy who seems to know his every weakness… Grief and despair get a gruesome makeover in director Mikael Håfström’s special effects extravaganza wherein one man’s private pain is translated into mounting scenes of chaos and mayhem. There’s a sad reason behind Enslin’s cynical bravado toward all things spiritual and as his evening from Hell progresses it begins to haunt him in several devilishly inventive ways from melting telephones to migrating brick walls. Will he make it to checkout time? Cusack is in fine athletic form as he leaps and rolls with the supernatural punches, his initial skepticism giving way to shocked disbelief and gaping horror before finally registering something far more humane. And although the part is relatively small, Jackson’s enigmatic administrator is open to more than one interpretation especially given his final line. Lastly, despite some overblown effects and gimmicky devices (the number 13 crops up in various guises) there is a cerebral dimension lurking just beneath Håfström’s incendiary free-for-all which, depending on one’s leaning, can be interpreted as either pure psychodrama or mystical journey.
The Curse [Nocebo] (Ireland/UK/Philippines 2022) (4): Subtlety goes out the window in this shrill lecture on the evils of globalization disguised as a supernatural thriller whose heavy-handed approach manages to undermine its own message while insulting its audience. All is not well in the sprawling mansion owned by UK fashion designer Christine (Eva Green screaming her damn head off), her brutish husband Felix (a scowling Mark Strong), and their adorably slappable daughter “Bobs” (Billie Gadson…smack!) Due to a tragic incident in her past an emotionally fragile Christine is now suffering from anxiety attacks, bouts of amnesia, and terrifying hallucinations—all of which place a strain on her personal and professional life. And then mysterious Filipina housekeeper Diana (Chai Fonacier all smiles and creepiness) shows up and proceeds to disrupt the household even further with her unsettling stares and homespun voodoo rituals. But is she interested in healing the distraught Christine as she claims to be…or has she come to twist the knife even further? In the overdone horror show that follows—featuring guilty consciences, malevolent parasites, and a zombie dog—third world exploitation will haunt the hallways of white privilege with a tormented Christine seeking solace in the gentle ministrations of an increasingly dominant Diana while both head toward a climactic twist that can be seen from a mile away thanks to all those flashbacks. Director Lorcan Finnegan wears his heart on his fist, punching his way towards the film’s big reveal while his otherwise talented cast are reduced to hysterics or, in the case of Fonancier, a stereotyped Hollywood witch doctor. It’s not that the movie’s sympathies are without merit—a dedication in the closing credits is well placed and those evil parasites represent the best kind of irony—but sometimes less is more and had the director allowed viewers to figure out the message for themselves instead of rubbing their faces in it the results could have been far more powerful.
Some Kind of Heaven (USA 2020) (7): Just north of Orlando, Florida lies “The Villages”, home to 120,000 elderly residents who together make up America’s largest planned retirement community. Lined with palm trees, golf courses, and meticulously manicured lawns this pre-packaged urban Shangri-La, dubbed a “Disneyland for Adults” by one resident, is filled with retro architecture—including a town hall that looks like part of a theme park—and offers everything from singles bars and yoga classes to acting workshops, dance lessons, and nightly concerts. For this documentary however director Lance Oppenheim digs below the marketing hype and forced bonhomie to tell the story of four locals who thought they were buying into a twilight version of the American Dream but found something else entirely. Anne and Reggie’s relationship is beginning to disintegrate after 47 years of marriage thanks to his recreational drug use and increasingly erratic behaviour (possible dementia?). With her life savings depleted, recently widowed Barbara finds herself having to take on a full-time job while at the same time desperately seeking a love connection in a community where eligible bachelors are already pitifully scarce. And Dennis, an 81-year old grifter who’s living out of his van, has come to realize that the flippant mantra from his youth—“Live Fast! Die Poor!”—has come true with a vengeance as he searches for a wealthy widow he can shack up with. With an unapologetic camera and subjects who are shockingly frank in their interviews, Oppenheim contrasts the promises inferred by “The Villages” with the real experiences of his chosen four resulting in a doc both engrossing and very sad. “We live in a bubble…” says Anne at one point referring to the manufactured joy of a community sheltered in large part from the real world outside their gates, and indeed brochure-like scenes of arthritic joints hopping on the dance floor, motorized golf carts zipping past neat rows of identical houses, and rose-tinted headlines splashed across the community’s homegrown newspaper begin to take on a satirical edge. Of course concentrating his attention on four disillusioned people out of a population of thousands is hardly objective, but in allowing them to tell their stories Oppenheim shows with unsettling clarity how existential crises are universal in scope and epiphanies can occur at any age: Dennis finally sees where his life has always been heading; Anne and Reggie have an honest discussion backlit by a setting sun; and alone on a crowded dance floor Barbara quietly sways to her own beat. Sobering.
The Wreck of the Mary Deare (USA 1959) (7): There’s something for everyone in director Michael Anderson’s adaptation of Hammond Innes’ seafaring novel: it’s a mystery, a thriller, an underwater adventure, and a courtroom drama. And it’s all splashed across the screen in watery Cinemascope! It was a dark and stormy night on the English Channel when the crew of the salvage vessel Sea Witch came across the badly damaged, apparently abandoned hulk of the cargo ship Mary Deare. But when crewman John Sands (Charlton Heston) boards the floundering vessel he comes face to face with the only man left on board, ship’s captain Gideon Patch (Gary Cooper doing most of his own stunts despite his failing health), and a mystery quickly develops. Where is the rest of the crew? Why is Patch so evasive when questioned about what happened? And how did the Mary Deare wind up in such a sorry state with evidence of fires and explosions throughout? With suspicion falling on Patch himself it will take a court of inquiry to get to the awful truth… The special effects—most notably a harrowing nighttime dive into the half-submerged Deare’s underbelly—are quite good for 1959 and the opening storm-tossed scenes are enough to make landlubbers a bit queasy even though they were actually filmed in a studio water tank. Cooper plays his usual straight-faced monotone character but teamed up with the more volatile Heston the two generate enough masculine chemistry to keep the film afloat especially with a supporting cast that includes Michael Redgrave as a dour barrister, Richard Harris as a slimy bad guy, and Virginia McKenna as an estranged daughter who may hold the biggest clue of all. Tightly edited with hardly a lull in the onscreen action and buoyed by crisp dialogue and glorious widescreen cinematography that bobs above and below the waterline, this is one maritime drama that doesn’t go down with the ship.
I Remember Mama (USA 1948) (9): Norwegian immigrants Martha and Lars Hanson (Irene Dunn, Philip Dorn) and their four American-born children live in a modest house in San Francisco circa 1910. Although woefully short on cash the Hansons get by thanks to Papa’s keen work ethic, Mama’s frugal sensibilities, and the strong familial bonds which fill their home and extended family (including a couple of dour aunts and an overbearing uncle) with love. Told in flashback as eldest daughter Katrin (Barbara Bel Geddes) breaks the fourth wall while writing her memoirs, director George Stevens turns Kathryn Forbes’ novel into a small heartwarming family tale which tugs at the emotions using strong, likeable characters and a credible script instead of the syrupy schmaltz these types of movies so often resort to. Dunn received an Oscar nomination for her role as the lovingly indomitable matriarch whose broken English can’t hamper her underlying wisdom and Best Supporting Actress nominations went to Bel Geddes as the sensitive Katrin whose transition to adolescence brought its own wisdom and Ellen Corby (Grandma Walton!) playing Aunt Trina, a neurotic spinster who believes she’s finally found true love in the arms of a fellow social misfit. Legendary character actor Oscar Homolka received the film’s fourth acting nomination for his role as Uncle Chris, the loud domineering head of the clan—his frightening tirades constantly undone by the mischievous twinkle in his eye. And rounding out the Academy Award nominations is Nicholas Musuraca’s superb B&W cinematography which turns the Hanson’s cramped living room into a cozy nest of small disappointments, celebratory triumphs, and the kind of everyday dramas that make for lasting memories while in the background antique vistas of old San Francisco drift in and out of the fog. Unfolding like a series of short stories, Steven’s film wrings great pleasure out of life’s simpler twists be it an unexpected boon or a quiet death and that final scene, mirroring the first, brings it all to a satisfying close. The great Cedric Hardwicke co-stars as the Hanson’s live-in boarder, an aging, somewhat irresponsible thespian whose nightly kitchen table readings from the works of classic literature keep the family spellbound.
Othello (USA/Morocco 1951) (7): Despite budgetary problems which caused filming to be delayed on and off for three years and prompted director/producer/star Orson Welles to literally beg, borrow, and steal everything from props to film stock, this truncated version of Shakespeare’s grand tragedy nevertheless went on to win the grand prize at Cannes that year. The story is familiar to anyone who took high school English: Moorish general Othello (Welles) makes an enemy of his underling Iago (Irish stage legend Micheál MacLiammóir) when he passes him over for a military promotion in favour of the stalwart Cassio (Michael Laurence). Vowing revenge, the psychopathic Iago proceeds to destroy Othello’s life and reputation beginning with his happy marriage to the gracious and ever faithful Desdemona (Suzanne Cloutier) giving rise to one of the Bard’s more gut-wrenching final curtains. Filmed on location in Venice and Morocco (standing in for Cyprus) Welles’ eye for lighting effects, eccentric camera angles, and asymmetrical framing is highly effective giving us a series of B&W canvases which are tightly controlled yet also reminiscent of the free forms seen in early German Expressionist cinema—shadows loom across stone masonry, a funeral procession along castle ramparts seems to hover between heaven and earth, and a murderous fit of jealousy enters into the realm of pure horror. Pared down to a mere 90 minutes from the usual three hours, Welles was only able to present the play’s bare bones resulting in some abrupt editing and more than a couple of narrative holes. His cast, however, is in top notch form—special mention to Fay Compton as Iago’s wife and unwitting accomplice—and Welles’ slide from doting husband to enraged cuckold is terrible to behold. With stormy seas crashing outside Othello’s fortress and dark tempests brewing within this is not a subtle film (can any of Welles’ films be labelled as such?) but for pure stagecraft Shakespeare’s fiery tale of betrayal and “unlucky deeds” couldn’t have found a more fitting outlet. NB: there are two main versions of the film, I viewed the superior “European” restored version in B&W with the original dialogue (no dubbing) and with Orson Welles himself reciting the opening credits.
Lamb (USA 2015) (7): Stories about two unhappy souls connecting with one another are not new, but writer/director Ross Partridge adds a very contentious element to the script by pairing a 47-year old divorcé with an 11-year old urchin found haunting a grocery store parking lot. David Lamb (Partridge himself) is slowly coming undone—his marriage is on the rocks, his estranged father has just died, his employment is uncertain, and his current girlfriend is having mixed feelings. Neglected by her apathetic mother, “Tommie” (Oona Laurence) has been looking for a sense of camaraderie with some of the neighbourhood’s rougher girls. When David and Tommie cross paths one day a hesitant friendship eventually leads to the older man enticing the minor to accompany him on a road trip to the remains of his childhood home deep in the midwest. Convincing himself that he merely wants to open the disadvantaged girl’s eyes to the potential beauty of the world around her, their co-dependency gradually moves into darker territory… To his credit, Partridge handles the story’s arc with utmost caution and sensitivity—this is NOT a tale of sexual abuse (although statutory kidnapping and emotional manipulation are bad enough) but rather the heart-rending study of one man’s psychological disintegration and its effect on the wide-eyed youngster who’s along for the ride. Both Partridge and Laurence are phenomenal together. His character’s misplaced reliance upon a child to buoy up his sinking life both profoundly disturbing and terribly pathetic—he persuades her to lie (“tell people I’m your father”) by convincing her that they’ll both be in trouble if they’re found out and at one point clings to her as if she were suddenly the only adult in the room. For her part, Laurence gives us a small girl on the brink of adolescence whose childlike worldview hints at a nascent wisdom and whose initial enthusiasm for a friendly drive in the country gives way to confusion, resentment, and fear. Lamb is unable to deal effectively with adults, Tommie no longer wishes to be treated like a child, and regardless of the initial support they appear to receive from one another Lamb’s downward spiral will ultimately force him to confront a few horrifying truths about himself. Partridge makes great use of his Colorado and Wyoming locations, contrasting big skies and boundless grasslands with the cramped ruins of Lamb’s childhood home while a pastoral background score adds a touch of irony to the bleak onscreen drama. This is not a Lolita rewrite, there is no pre-pubescent seductress in Tommie’s innocent need to feel wanted nor is there a dirty old man lurking behind Lamb’s attentions—although an incident with a shotgun and a teary roadside conversation reveal far more about his character than we’re being told. What Partridge has given us is a disquieting contemporary tragedy revolving around an impossible relationship and rooted in a sense of disconnect and near pathological loneliness right up to that pitifully ambiguous ending.
My Secret Cache (Japan 1997) (5): Ever since she was a child, fledgling bank teller Sakiko has had an unnatural obsession with money, even reading her father’s bank statements was enough to send her into orbit. So when she’s taken hostage by a couple of robbers and thrown into the back of a car along with a suitcase filled with millions of yen it would seem like a dream come true—that is until a traffic accident kills her abductors and lands her floating unconscious in a raging river while all that money sinks to the bottom. Determined to retrieve the suitcase before anyone else finds it, Sakiko resorts to increasingly outrageous lengths, including getting a degree in geology and taking up rock climbing, to do just that. But all her hard work will come with unexpected consequences… Hailed by fans as being a “live action anime”, writer/director Shinobu Yaguchi’s supremely silly teenage farce certainly revels in cartoonish excess with ridiculous sight gags, exaggerated sound effects, and hammy performances consisting mainly of actors grimacing wide-eyed and open-mouthed directly into the camera lens. However, the half dozen or so chuckles at the film’s beginning eventually give way to tedious, repetitive schtick routines (cue wacky driving lessons and climbing mishaps) while lead Naomi Nishida’s pathological ebullience begins to wear on the nerves. There certainly is enough comedic fodder to be found in Sakiko’s somewhat strained relationship with her long-suffering family and a few slapstick moments were as funny as they were unexpected, but unfortunately it feels as if a great deal was lost in translation—both linguistically and culturally—leaving the film’s unspoken central message, “The Real Treasure Lies Within!”, dangling from a rope.
Crisis [Kris] (Sweden 1946) (6): Nelly has spent her entire life in a small provincial town being raised by her plain but loving foster mother, Ingeborg. Now, at the age of eighteen, she is growing restless and wants to see something of the world. Enter Jenny, Nelly’s birth mother, a flashy, successful, and irresponsible businesswoman who now wants to reclaim her daughter and take her back to the big city despite a frail Ingeborg’s protests. Further complicating matters is Jenny’s lothario boy toy Jack who has taken a liking to Nelly, and Ulf, a reliable and sincere older man who has always carried a torch for her and is not prepared to see her go… The most you can say about this unremarkable directorial debut from Ingmar Bergman is that it hints at greater things to come. Within its emotionally laden five-way drama—the naïve, somewhat vain Nelly and her two very different suitors as well as the two mothers (one biological, one de facto) who love her—we can see the beginnings of Bergman’s lifelong passion for the stage. An offscreen narrator breaks the fourth wall to inform us that we are about to witness a comedy of sorts; Jack, a failed actor, drones on about his “ghost life”; and raucous laughter mixed with applause from a nearby theatre intrude upon the film’s melodramatic climax with ironic effect. Even the fashion mannequins at Jenny’s beauty salon where Nelly finds employment look on like a dispassionate audience. Chockfull of soliloquies on fate and the choices we make this modest kick-off to Bergman’s long and illustrious career is competent enough though unlikely to be of much interest to anyone but aficionados.
Cat People (USA 1942) (7): In New York City, Serbian immigrant Irena Dubrovna (a sultry Simone Simon) meets and falls in love with dashing engineer Oliver Reed (Kent Smith). But a major obstacle stands in their way for Irena believes she carries an ancient curse which will cause her to turn into a murderous cat creature if she engages in any intimacy. Is there a grain of truth to the old wives’ tales she learned as a child or is her awakening libido slowly driving her mad? Director Jacques Tourneur’s slow-burning psychosexual thriller relies on a few narrative stretches—Oliver and Irena’s five-minute romance for instance—but these lapses in credibility are more than compensated by its creepy atmosphere, a pall of menace heightened by very clever lighting effects. Calling to mind the innovative techniques of early German Expressionism, cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca makes great use of shadows and gothic trappings—a darkened swimming pool throws twisting veils of light across the encircling walls; a city bus bursts from the gloom like a midnight monster; and something growls and prowls in the dark on clawed feet (or is that merely the click of high heels on pavement?) Furthermore, his choice of severe camera angles borders on the surreal with a raised ruler casting a huge cross-like shadow and a jet black statue of Anubis, Egyptian god of the dead, dwarfing Irena as she descends a museum staircase. Shot mainly in the twilight hours, often accompanied by falling snow and the sound of muffled yowling from a nearby zoo, Tourneur doesn’t keep you guessing for long (the film runs only 73 minutes after all), yet despite a rather pat ending he still manages to hold your attention right up to that grim closing quote. Alice Moore co-stars as “the other woman” who earns the cougar’s wrath and Tom Conway does a Basil Rathbone impression playing a seedy psychiatrist in need of professional boundaries.
