Monkey Business: Norman Z. McLeod

Norman Z. McLeod's Monkey Business has the Marx Brothers in their purest form. There isn't a story, just a set-up: Groucho, Harpo, Chico, and Zeppo are stowaways on an Atlantic cruise ship. From there they are loosed upon the unsuspecting crew and passengers to wreak havoc in their trademark manner until they get ashore. There's a short subplot about rival gangsters trying to hire the Brothers to be foot-soldiers in their war, but these interludes are mercifully brief. Most of the movie is pure Marx Brothers anarchy: Groucho and Chico invading the captain's quarters, Harpo running from the authorities (including a rightfully legendary scene involving a puppet show), and Zeppo striking up an affair with a beautiful passenger. A word, then, about Zeppo: Monkey Business is one of the only Marx Brothers films that I've ever seen where he is actually allowed to participate in the gags. He isn't the stoic straight-man to the other Brothers, although his solo scenes are few and far between. His storyline involving the passenger is at times charming (they have one of the most genuinely sweet meet cutes that I can ever remember witnessing) and hilarious (watch how he drops her like a hat when the authorities show up). If Monkey Business did one thing for Zeppo, it was to demonstrate that he had enough sincere comedic potential that he could conceivably hold his own amongst his brothers.

8/10

Roadblock: Harold Daniels

I doubt if Harold Daniels' Roadblock, the story of a straight-laced insurance investigator named Joe Peters (Charles McGraw) who abandons his principles and organizes a massive robbery so he can financially support his new wife, could have ever been a "good" movie. Daniels' direction was too bland and Nicholas Musuraca's cinematography too static, too bland, and too one-dimensional for Roadblock to have been anything other than mediocre. But what kills this film is how unbelievable the characters act and how quickly they change allegiances at the drop of a hat. The film takes great pains to establish how devoted Peters is to justice and the law. Concurrently, the film emphasizes how his eventual wife Diane (Joan Dixon) is originally a money-hungry cynic who would sooner drop a man than a pay-off. And yet by the second act both Peters and Diane have inexplicably become completely different people: Peters hardly thinks twice before deciding to organize the heist and Diane sheds her femme fatale exterior to become a devoted wife who is vocally content with poverty for the sake of love. The heart and soul of film noir isn't the actual character changes or betrayals, but the pain, suffering, and agony that the characters undergo either during their transformations or while they are still trying to decide whether or not to go through with it. Roadblock contains neither. If it had, the film could have joined the ranks of other sincere yet unfortunately incompetent film noir like Lady in the Lake (1947) and I, the Jury (1953).

4/10

Show Boat: James Whale

One of the great tragedies surrounding the career of director James Whale is that he is usually only remembered for his horror films. And to a certain degree that is understandable. After all, Frankenstein (1931), The Old Dark House (1932), The Invisible Man (1933) and Bride of Frankenstein (1935) are some of the most influential and beloved horror films ever made. But Whale did not just make horror films. Some of his best work was outside that genre. And, sadly, many of these films have become neglected and forgotten. Chief among them is his magnificent 1936 adaptation of the Kern and Hammerstein musical Show Boat. Unlike the misguided 1951 adaptation, Whale had the good sense to keep the story focused on both the big and little people involved with the Cotton Palace. The second half dispenses with much of the cast in order to focus on the tragic romance between Magnolia Hawks and Gaylord Ravenal. As a result, the first half of the film which actually concerns itself with life aboard the show boat is far superior. Seemingly pointless songs, sequences, and subplots which don't advance the plot give the film a life of its own. See, Show Boat is a story about life itself. The legendary tune Ol' Man River sets this tone with its lyrics which simultaneously mourn the impossibility escaping life's torments, the indifference of life towards the suffering of mankind (i.e. the Mississippi River being oblivious to the struggles of the black workers living on it), and the strange sense of comfort that that kind of stability provides. Not everybody in this story gets a happy ending. Why? Because not everybody in real life gets one. Show Boat is a reflection of life with all its tragedies, triumphs, and frivolities. And thankfully, Whale understood this.

8/10

Show Boat: George Sidney

If I had to think of a tag-line for George Sidney's Show Boat, it would probably be along the lines of: The Classic American Musical...Now Without Black People! With the exception of the 'Ol Man River number, the film almost completely dispenses with the sub-plots and character arcs that aren't directly related to the romance between gambler-turned-actor-turned-gambler Gaylord Ravenal (Howard Keel) and Magnolia Hawks (Kathryn Grayson). Whereas the 1936 adaptation of the classic musical wisely contained their married life within the space of a few minutes, this film devotes almost the entire second act to their rise and fall. And this is the film's biggest flaw: it transforms a story about life itself as told through a menagerie of characters from all different social classes and racial backgrounds into a generic romantic melodrama. Even Magnolia's pregnancy is re-written in this film to act as a further tragic twist to her life after Gaylord leaves her. For a moment, I thought Grayson was going to magically transform into Mary Pickford or Lillian Gish. Even the tragic character of Julie LaVerne (Ava Gardner) is given closure in the end, thereby stripping her sacrifice of some of its meaning. This version of Show Boat isn't a bad film. There is enough talent and skill throughout to make the film worth a watch. And, truth be told, I think Joe E. Brown was a better Cap'n Andy Hawks than Charles Winninger (blasphemy, I know). The scene where he is accidentally re-united with Magnolia is far superior to its 1936 counter-part in emotional weight and impact. But in trying to make the film more focused and compact, it inadvertently strips the story of much of the power that made the original one of the most important and influential American musicals in history.

6/10

East of Eden: Elia Kazan

If the scholars of the world would continue to argue that the strength of Elia Kazan's films are in their acting performances, then they would rightly recognize East of Eden, a loose adaptation of the second half of John Steinbeck's novel of the same name, as one of his greatest triumphs. James Dean's haunting (and haunted) performance as Cal Trask, a young man desperate to win his father's love and acceptance in the face of his more favored brother, Aron, is pure electricity. His acting may have been dismissed as histrionics when the film was first released, but we know better today. But if scholars assume that the only true value to be found in East of Eden is the acting, then they are sorely mistaken. Ted D. McCord's jaw-dropping wide-screen cinematography marks one of the cinema's greatest syntheses of content (the acting) and form (the photography). One scene where Cal confronts his father while on a swing set and McCord's camera tilts back and forth as Dean swings forwards and backwards is brilliant in its audacity, flawless in its execution, and serves to accentuate the scene instead of merely drawing attention away from it towards itself like so much other flowery, hyper-stylized cinematography. Immaculate in its artistic vision, East of Eden may be the greatest argument for Kazan's status as a great director, not just one who managed to catch lightning in a bottle over and over again with the right performers.

9/10

House on Haunted Hill: William Castle

William Castle's House on Haunted Hill is not a good movie. It relies on two big twists which in turn rely on extremely convoluted plans undertaken by different characters that make no logical sense. And yet I loved every minute of it. House on Haunted Hill, the story of five guests who are invited by an eccentric millionaire played by Vincent Price to stay locked overnight in a reputedly haunted house for a cash prize, is the stuff of exploitation legend. It is most notable for a famous gimmick when first released where the theater owners would rig up a skeleton to fly across the audiences' heads during screenings. But it's worth pointing out that the film sans skeletons does have its positives which make watching it a rewarding experience. Vincent Price is delicious as always. I don't think I've ever seen Vincent Price give a bad performance. He's been in bad movies, of course. But he could somehow breathe life into even the stupidest material. The other thing that House on Haunted Hill has working for it is how methodical it is. Murder weapons, victims, and potentially murderous scenarios (e.g. a vat of acid) are revealed and presented like pieces of evidence in a hard-boiled police procedural. This is a film that has no delusions of artistic grandeur. It knows itself and its audience. We know that the guests are going to die, so the film revels in teasing us about it. And though the film itself might not make sense, there is enough style and macabre panache to satisfy any movie-goer looking for a good time.

7/10

At Play in the Fields of the Lord: Héctor Babenco

When Héctor Babenco's At Play in the Fields of the Lord, a sweeping 3-hour epic about missionaries working in the Amazonian River Basin, was released, it was coolly received by American critics. One theory put forward by scholars as to why the film was met with such confusion and displeasure by American critics was that it didn't contain any redeemable Western characters. And the film's central thesis confirms this: any contact with Native Brazilians, regardless of good or bad intentions, will only lead to their death and destruction. There are three forces at play in the film that try to interact with the Natives. The first are Christian missionaries. Though they claim their intentions are good, Martin Quarrier and his family only serve to further alienate the Natives. Of course, with the exception of Martin, all of the other Western missionaries are blatantly depicted as racist xenophobes who make no secret of their disdain for the local "savages." But Martin's ultimate failure proves that even the most sincere and altruistic missionaries are hazardous. Lewis Moon, a half-Native American pilot who is accepted into the Amazonian tribe and starts a new life with them, represents secular, possibly Atheistic interests which seek to engage the Natives on their own terms. I say "Atheistic" because Moon makes a point of mocking all religion early in the film. But despite "becoming one of them" he dooms the tribe by infecting them with the flu. By the end of the film, his sickness has directly resulted in the deaths of a massive part of their population. And then there is the local Brazilian government which wishes to "re-locate" the Natives by any means necessary. Babenco's film can be difficult for Westerners to watch. But it is an important cinematic document from a distinctly Brazilian cultural paradigm. And for that reason it cannot, it should not, be ignored.

8/10

The Seven Year Itch: Billy Wilder

Billy Wilder's The Seven Year Itch plays like a collision between the spontaneity and aesthetic of Frank Tashlin and the imaginary harem from Federico Fellini's 8 1/2 (1963). Flights of fancy blur the lines surrounding the diegetic space of the narrative. Here is a universe where vegetarian waitresses will go off on diatribes about the benefits of nudism, daydreams become reality, and Marilyn Monroe materializes out of nothing to tempt poor, unfortunate married men who have sent their wife and children to Maine for the summer. Richard Sherman is one such sap. Determined to stick to the straight and narrow while his family is away, his willpower is tested when the Blonde Bombshell herself moves into the apartment above his. The film is essentially about infidelity, a topic which was banned by the Production Code. But the genius of the film is that it is about Sherman's increasingly futile attempts to not cheat on his wife. Wilder is perhaps more well known for his later collaboration with Monroe in Some Like It Hot (1959). But despite a plot that was preordained to end in the triumph of traditional morals and marriage, the film is no less revolutionary an examination of sexual norms and gender roles. Aided in great part by Milton R. Krasner's candy-coated cinematography,  Tom Ewell's frantic performance as Sherman, and, of course, the immortal presence of Ms. Monroe, The Seven Year Itch is a magnificent comedy and an irreplaceable part of American pop culture.

8/10

Born Yesterday: George Cukor

George Cukor has long been derided as a director who cleaved too closely to his literary sources. Some accused him of not working hard enough to translate his sources into the language of cinema. His 1950 film Born Yesterday doesn't help his case, but there are other reasons why the film fails besides his literalist translation of the original play by Garson Kanin. The film, a kind of updated Pygmalion, follows the education of Emma 'Billie' Dawn (Judy Holliday), the fiance of corrupt tycoon Harry Brock (Broderick Crawford) by journalist Paul Verrall (William Holden) while the couple are in DC to "influence" politicians. Despite her uncouth mannerisms, Billie reveals a ferocious intellect after applying herself to her studies. By the end of the film, she has so educated herself that she manages to blackmail Harry to prevent him from bribing US Congressmen. She also falls in love with Paul, but her transformation is the most important part of the film, not her fledgling romance. Herein lies one of the film's main problems: it resorts to cheap moralization. While Billie is partially transformed by her exposure to great works of literature by writers like Alexander Pope, the majority of her conversion takes place during prolonged sequences where Blake takes her on tours of Washington DC to visit such nationalistic shrines as the Jefferson Memorial and the US Constitution. As a result, her metamorphosis is less intellectual than moral. She thwarts Harry's plans in the end primarily because of morale outrage that he would pervert the noble and honorable system of American government. What should have been the story of an individual's salvation through the application of her own talents and intelligence (it is subtly implied during a scene where she and Harry play gin rummy that she harbors a latent genius-level intellect) is tossed aside in favor of a deification of the US political system. She blossoms not because of her own talents, but because of her exposure to the forces of justice that birthed America. As a result, a potentially empowering piece of feminist cinema is spoiled.

6/10

The Wild One: László Benedek

László Benedek's The Wild One is a film that has been eclipsed by its own legend. The image of Marlon Brando in his biker get-up as Johnny Strabler, the leader of the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club, has become so ingrained in pop culture iconography that it is even recognizable to people who have never seen the movie, much like Marilyn Monroe's up-skirt shot in Billy Wilder's The Seven Year Itch (1955). But there is much more to The Wild One than Brando's legendary performance. It is also a magnificently written and wonderfully photographed expression of teenage rebellion. Very loosely based on the real-life 1947 Hollister riot, the film follows the BRMC as they invade Wrightsville, California and take de facto control over the community. Locals are harassed, property is trashed, an old man is accidentally killed, and a fight breaks out when a rival biker played by Lee Marvin roles into town. The film can be enjoyed as a simple biker flick, but it also operates as a metaphorical text: Wrightsville is run by a cowardly, indecisive sheriff, populated almost exclusively by angry men forced to relocate into civilian life after World War Two (the only women in town that I can recall seeing were the same age as the bikers), and gives expression to a culture so indoctrinated by war-era machismo and histrionics that violence is the only conceivable method of expression and reconciliation. Hal Mohr's cinematography has never been sharper or crisper. Even nighttime scenes shine brightly without any of the picture being swallowed up by unnecessary shadows. One scene where the bikers intimidate the locals by creating a wall of light by shining their headlights in unison is particularly memorable. Benedek demonstrates a considerable acumen in directing large crowds without them descending into sheer chaos. The crowds sway, pulse, and undulate as if they had been meticulously choreographed by dance instructors. The Wild One is an iconic film. But it deserves to be remembered as a triumph of cinematic storytelling in its own right as well.

9/10

The Hole: Tsai Ming-liang

Tsai Ming-liang's The Hole isn't necessarily the easiest film to watch, particularly for those brought up in a deluge of Hollywood filmmaking. There are long passages of stillness and quiet without any action. There is almost no narrative. And yet, The Hole is an intensely rewarding experience. Set in the last days before the year 2000, most of Taiwan has been evacuated after the outbreak of a terrible disease which causes people to become "human cockroaches." Two people remain after much of the population has left: an unnamed man and an unnamed woman who lives in the apartment below his. One day a plumber breaks a hole in the man's floor, thereby creating a portal between their apartments and their very lives. Ming-liang uses these characters and their apartments to paint powerful portraits of isolation, loneliness, and emptiness. The film is interspersed with musical numbers set to the songs of Grace Chang. Seemingly materializing out of the ether, these upbeat numbers seem like tulpas of the man and woman's inner desperation, hopes, and dreams. Just as musical numbers are used in musicals to give voice to their characters' most powerful emotions and feelings, the musical numbers in The Hole illustrate the emotions and feelings that the characters cannot express. These scenes are admittedly jarring, but as the film goes on the spectator begins to understand their role in the overall technique of the film. The Hole is a touching film that exists purely on its own terms, both ugly and beautiful, wise and enigmatic.

8/10

The King and I: Walter Lang

Walter Lang's The King and I has not aged well, and not just because of its cringe-worthy Orientalism, colonialist undertones, and yellow-faced actors (although they certainly don't help). There are several things about The King and I, the film adaptation of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical of the same name about an English schoolteacher who travels to Siam in the 1860s to tutor the children of King Mongkut, that seem dated. King Mongkut may have been the role Yul Brynner was born to play, but he doesn't deliver a cinematic performance in this film. Instead, he delivers a somewhat stilted stage performance. Listen how the pauses in between his lines seem to clunk with the weight of a stage actor waiting for his audience to react. My praises for Deborah Kerr as Anna Leonowens, the schoolteacher, are diluted by the fact that her singing was overdubbed in the final cut by a voice actress who was only paid $420 for the gig. The one aspect of The King and I that cannot be faulted is Leon Shamroy's magnificent cinematography. I wish that a print of its original CinemaScope 55 aspect ratio existed. But that is the only circumstance under which I would choose to revisit this film.

6/10

Witness for the Prosecution: Billy Wilder

Billy Wilder was always a director who gave meticulous attention to the writing in his films. So the idea that Wilder would adapt a short story from Agatha Christie, one of the most widely loved, respected, and read writers of the era, seems like a stroke of genius. The result was Witness for the Prosecution, a courtroom drama following the grouchy English barrister Sir Wilfrid Robarts (played by the delightfully acerbic Charles Laughton) as he takes on his first murder cast after suffering a heart attack. Accompanied by his ever-cheerful private nurse Miss Plimsoll (Elsa Lanchester), he must defend his client Leonard Vole (Tyrone Power) from a charge of murdering a wealthy widow after getting her to make him the main beneficiary of her will. The case is complicated when Vole's German wife Christine (Marlene Dietrich) appears as a witness for the prosecution and claims that he did commit the murder. Wilder's subdued style that sought to not draw attention to itself away from the writing aided in bringing Christie's story to life. Although the film seems carried by Laughton, in the end we are shocked by the revelation that Dietrich has been stealing the show from him the entire time without the audience noticing until the very end. I won't spoil the twist ending, but suffice it to say that it was one of the few times that I didn't see a major plot twist coming.

7/10

Escape from Tomorrow: Randy Moore

Randy Moore's Escape from Tomorrow is one of the only films of 2013 that took true courage to make. I don't just mean the courage of conviction or the courage to take a gamble at the box office. No, Escape from Tomorrow was courageous for how it was made. The film, a Lynchian nightmare about a father slowly losing his mind during a family trip to the Walt Disney World Resort, was shot on-location at Disney World and Disneyland guerilla-style with no permission from The Walt Disney Company. The film paints a less than flattering portrait of Disney: the princesses are prostitutes for rich Asian businessmen, the park is contaminated with a dangerous disease that literally turns people into cats, and everything is run by Orwellian overlords capable of brainwashing visitors with a single touch. Ultimately, The Walt Disney Company chose not to take legal action against Moore despite the film's blatant violations of copyright and its highly libelous message. Perhaps they wanted to avoid the PR nightmare of the Streisand effect. But despite the lack of legal action, Moore's audacity in making Escape from Tomorrow isn't diminished. The film isn't entirely perfect. There were times when Moore had to use green-screens matched with stock footage of the parks so he could compose certain complex shots. They aren't frequent, but they are nonetheless noticeable and jarring. One shot where the father lifts his violently ill son to vomit into a trash can is particularly obvious. But the film's faults can be easily ignored or forgiven in the face of its boldness and bravery.

8/10

A Face in the Crowd: Elia Kazan

Elia Kazan was always at his best when he was working with characters with a lower-case "c." The times when he worked with Characters bore witness to moments of brilliance nonetheless mired in otherwise uneven productions. Such is the case with A Face in the Crowd, the story of a drifter named Larry "Lonesome" Rhodes who is recruited as a radio personality from a county jail. His down-home, easy-going charm makes him a celebrity overnight. Within months ol' Lonesome becomes one of the most powerful cultural and political figures in the entire country. The problem is that Lonesome was in jail at the beginning of the film for a reason: he is an amoral, lecherous, power-hungry sociopath. At times Kazan seems to be going for a Billy Wilder-like cynicism. The film has much to say about America and the poor, dumb people who inhabit it. But the film never stings quite like it should. I found Lonesome's transformation into a political adviser to be too far-fetched. It's not that I couldn't believe that a yokel entertainer could become someone of political import. It's just that the transition in this particular film isn't convincing. The best scenes have nothing to do with politics or society. Instead, they involve moments where Lonesome drops his persona, whether it be while with a woman he supposedly loves or when he grabs butlers and shrieks for them to "love him." But these moments are too few and far between. The only thing to truly keep the film from collapsing is Andy Griffith's harrowing performance as Lonesome. How fascinating it is that Griffith would go on to super-stardom in The Andy Griffith Show where he would play the exact type of character that A Face in the Crowd revealed to be a sham.

6/10

He Walked By Night: Alfred L. Werker, Anthony Mann

Years ago, I watched films for actors. Then I watched films for directors. Now I increasingly find myself watching for cinematographers. My love for the cinematography of John Alton probably had just as much to do with my watching He Walked By Night as the direction by Anthony Mann. Much to my satisfaction, the team that gave us such classic film noir as T-Men (1947) and Raw Deal delivered once again in this film. A true crime police procedural, the film follows the Los Angeles police department as they try and track down a burglar and killer who was responsible for the death of a police officer. Complicating the investigation is the fact that the killer is both diabolically clever and resourceful, even going so far as to own a custom-made radio to keep track of police broadcasts. Mann's stripped-down, hard-boiled narrative style complements Alton's virtuoso hard-lighting cinematography. The entire film is excellent, but the last two sequences are particularly amazing. The first involves the police trying to surround the killer's house without him noticing. The entire sequence is silent except for the nervous whining and barking of the killer's pet dog. The suspense is as palpable as it is unnerving. Afterwards the killer leads the police on a chase through the Los Angeles sewer system. The claustrophobic, almost surreal cinematography during this sequence made me think of the similar climax from Carol Reed's The Third Man (1949). So imagine my surprise when I discovered that this chase scene predated its British counterpart by almost a year! Stylistically magnificent and visually dazzling, He Walked By Night may be the best collaboration between the team that helped define the film noir movement.

8/10

Lust for Life: Vincente Minnelli, George Cukor

I see much of myself in Vincent van Gogh. Or, at the very least, in how he is portrayed in Vincente Minnelli's Lust for Life, a heartbreaking, rapturous celebration of life and love and art. Charting the Dutchman's days from his disastrous ministry in a poor mining town to his tumultuous co-habitation with Paul Gauguin in Arles to his eventual suicide in northern France, the film is a portrait of a tortured man driven by little more than his desire to express an undefinable something deep within his soul. Kirk Douglas has never been more raw and emotive than he was here as van Gogh. And, yes, I say that fully aware of the other performances contained within his illustrious career. Watch him cry alone in the background of a massive festival where everyone else is singing and dancing. Watch him knead his face like dough while experiencing a mental breakdown. Watch him become possessed by bright-eyed hopefulness when he thinks of Christ, his family, and above all, his work. Minnelli's experience with musicals must have helped him capture the larger-than-life emotions and outbursts that propel the film forward. Russell Harlan's cinematography has never been better. Look at the blue sky, the brown-yellow countryside, the green absinthe, the paints splashed across the canvases that line his rooms! The film features several passages wherein photos of van Gogh's works fill the entire screen, punctuating the brief moments in his life when he was allowed (and able) to devote himself entirely to his work. Though the film ends with his death, Lust for Life is an incredibly life-affirming experience. Van Gogh suffered, yes. But during his brief life he managed to achieve something that most people can only dream of; something transcendent and spiritual, holy and divine. His art gave him life. And he shared with the world nothing less than his very soul.

8/10

Port of New York: László Benedek

Years before he made an indelible imprint on American pop culture with The Wild One (1953), director László Benedek made Port of New York, a dreary, predictable film about federal agents trying to capture the leader of a drug ring running narcotics into New York City. Largely unremarkable, the film has only two points of interest. The first is George E. Diskant's shot on location cinematography. The footage of New York City's dark streets and shadowy docks helps give the film some visual weight. But his interior cinematography is wildly uneven. Sometimes rooms will be lit with harsh, jagged shadows. But other times rooms will be flooded with flat light. Even worse, there doesn't seem to be any method behind which technique is used for which scene. There were also several unfortunate scenes where Diskant's camera clips the tops of his actors' heads off. I thought that I may have just been watching a transfer which distorted the original aspect ratio. But after I checked another source, I was confronted with the conclusion that these scenes were just framed poorly. The other point of interest in Port of New York was that it contained the debut of actor Yul Brynner. Playing the head of the drug ring, he manages to pull off an effective if predictable performance as a mastermind crook who isn't afraid of getting his hands dirty to shut up witnesses. Everything else about Port of New York is trite and mercilessly formulaic, from the devoted cops to Brynner's frustrated girlfriend who tries to help the cops only to flee at the last moment so she can be murdered in the next scene.

5/10

A Fugitive from the Past: Tomu Uchida

Tomu Uchida's A Fugitive from the Past has been celebrated by many Japanese publications as one of the crowning achievements of their nation's cinema. A sprawling 3-hour drama about crime, fate, and karma, A Fugitive from the Past is stylistically dazzling and aesthetically hypnotic. At least for the first two hours. In the last third of the film it collapses into a contrived mess. Allow me to explain. During the first two hours, the audience is treated to a succession of sequences that follow different characters. Each sequence is stylistically distinct. The first part where a trio of robbers elude capture during a ferry accident is full of hasty compositions and frenetic energy. In a sense, the camera becomes a fourth member of their team. Then the film follows a group of policemen who investigate the discovery of the bodies of two of the aforementioned robbers. These sequences feel like an Akira Kurosawa police procedural complete with sparse, hard-boiled shots that quickly propel the narrative through their initial investigation. The next sequence follows the surviving robber as he flees from the authorities and takes shelter with a slightly unhinged prostitute. Fascinating sequences full of non-deigetic sound (such as one where he runs from a temple and the soundtrack contains nothing but the sound of the priestess' chanting), disjointed cinematography, and moments where the film negative flash onscreen are reminiscent of the hypnotizing works of Hiroshi Teshigahara. Then the film flashes forwards ten years. The prostitute seeks out the robber, now a reformed businessman with a new identity, and tries to thank him for giving her enough money all those years ago to leave the sex industry. But the robber rebukes her before killing her and a witness in a moment of panic. The scenes immediately before the double murder seem taken from a Kenji Mizoguchi melodrama, complete with stylistically subdued shots and a strong emphasis on the suffering of women. But the last third of the film where the police track the robber down consists almost entirely of the investigators slowly pondering over every single plot point and story connection in excruciating detail. Because of this, the narrative, which had been so expertly expressed visually for most of the film, becomes a slave of tedious exposition. Whereas the first two hours of the film were expressed subjectively from the point of view of the different characters, the last hour is objective. I can only attribute this stylistic discrepancy to two things: directorial incompetence or an artistic miscalculation. Being familiar with some of Uchida's past work, particularly the wonderful Bloody Spear at Mount Fuji (1955), I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and suspect the latter.

6/10

The Purple Plain: Robert Parrish

One of the most frequent tropes in war cinema is the idea that when things get tough, the biggest thing that can be relied upon to drive you forward is your family waiting back home. Robert Parrish's The Purple Plain, on the other hand, argues that it is not love for one's family or even the support of one's brothers-in-arms that ultimately matters. Instead, it takes something more internal, something that each man can only know, experience, and comprehend for themselves. For Canadian pilot Bill Forrester, a self-destructive member of the Royal Air Force fighting in Burma who lost his newlywed wife during the London Blitz, that unknowable something is the ability to let go of the past and to find value in the possibility of a future after the war. After being shot down behind enemy lines, he has to face the perils of survival, the difficulties of tending for a wounded comrade, and dealing with a suicidal survivor who, despite actually having a family waiting for him at home, seems convinced that there is no point in going on. Forrester's story becomes one of self-redemption and re-definition. This arc takes place primarily in the last half of The Purple Plain. The first half effectively establishes Forrester and the depths of his suffering after the death of his wife. Gregory Peck turns in a predictably excellent performance as the tortured Forrester. One of the more understated of classical Hollywood leading men, Peck could make stretches of silence as meaningful as any tortured screech by Brando or overzealous outburst by Cagney. Parrish also demonstrates considerable directorial acumen, turning a simple story about a recovering soldier into a genuinely powerful exploration of man's will to Be. I particularly enjoyed two sequences, one near the beginning and one near the end, where incidental noises are magnified by monstrous degrees on the soundtrack to highlight a character's deteriorating state of mind.

8/10

The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting: Raúl Ruiz

After watching Raúl Ruiz's The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting, I wanted to put my brain in a bell jar and take a long nap. It has been a long, long time since a film has challenged me so thoroughly. On the surface, the film explores the mystery of seven paintings by the mysterious Impressionist-era painter Tonnerre. When they were first revealed, they caused such a scandal that they were hidden away. Soon after one of the paintings was stolen. With the absence of the whole set, the surviving paintings leave only whispers and clues as to their original unifying nature, the same nature which apparently devastated audiences. After a lifetime of study, an aging Collector guides the audience on a tour of his Parisian apartment where the paintings have been reconstructed as a series of tableaux complete with living actors. As the Collector explains possible connections between the paintings, he is accompanied by an unseen, omnipotent second narrator who furthers the investigation. Watching Ruiz's exploration of symbology and hidden meanings is nothing short of hypnotic. Regard, for example, how a reflected beam of light from one painting seems to appear in another painting! Look how the forced perspective of a painting of Templars playing chess seems to suggest that they are associated with a secret cult echoing from ages past! Of course, the actual mystery in question only accounts for a portion of what makes The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting so feverishly mesmerizing. The unsettling soundtrack's bizarre instrumentation and choral pieces seem to prophesize madness and the enveloping of civilization into archaic confusion. The Collector's apartment becomes a four-dimensional sculpture of time and space under the expert cinematography of Sacha Vierny. Notice how so many interior shots seem to begin before the Collector enters and end after he has left the room and carefully closed the door behind him. For Ruiz, the act of movement itself becomes a pregnant mediation. The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting is an impossible riddle that asks questions that may not exist for answers too unthinkable to rediscover.

9/10

Girl Crazy: Norman Taurog, Busby Berkeley

I love musicals set in spaces that are traditionally defined as masculine, whether it be the wilderness of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (1954) or the mean streets of New York City in West Side Story (1961). Norman Taurog's Girl Crazy transplants the vaudevillian energy of Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland to the wastes of the American West. Unlike many of Rooney and Garland's other musical collaborations, Girl Crazy has a plot beyond the basic "underdogs beat the odds by putting on a successful show." That's not to say that an aforementioned show doesn't take place. But instead of merely framing Rooney and Garland as hopeful upstarts from the very beginning, they are given unique characterizations and story arcs. Rooney plays Danny Churchill, a spoiled rich boy who is sent to "Cody College" in the West by his father in an attempt to toughen him up. Danny soon meets Ginger (Judy Garland), the local postal mistress who doubles as the only woman for (literally) miles around. Much of the film follows Danny trying to accustom himself to the cowboy lifestyle while he tries to woo Ginger. And eventually the inevitable plot point rears its head: Cody College is failing and only a "rodeo" can help save it from being closed by local authorities. The musical numbers aren't spaced as evenly as they are in other Garland/Rooney musicals, but when they show up they are thoroughly enjoyable. Of particular note is the Busby Berkeley-directed "I've Got Rhythm" finale.

7/10

Babes on Broadway: Busby Berkeley, Vincente Minnelli

Even by Rooney/Garland/Berkeley standards, Babes on Broadway is hollow and carries very little weight. There's only one true stand-out number: a ghost theater sequence where Rooney and Garland don different costumes and characters representing great stage performers of the past. Other than that, Babes on Broadway is forgettable. At first it seems like a traditional "A Star is Born" narrative wherein Rooney and Garland rise up from being nobodies to becoming great Broadway stars. But then it gets sidetracked by a campaign to help raise money to send poor children on a vacation to the countryside. From there it's anyone's guess. Garland's characters have never been bastions of feminism in Berkeley's films, but in Babes in Arms she exists almost solely to cry and be consoled/encouraged by Rooney. The film also ends with yet another minstrel show number, just like the one in Babes in Arms. So after watching Babes on Broadway, you will be left with just two memories: a single great duet and a horrifically racist show-closer. The film demonstrates promising energy in the opening scenes when Rooney is just a nobody performing for peanuts in a New York cellar. But that energy completely dissipates barely a third of the way through the run-time.

5/10

Ski Troop Attack: Roger Corman

Roger Corman's Ski Troop Attack has a surprisingly cynical view of American soldiers in World War Two. The story of a group of American ski troopers behind enemy lines during a conflict loosely based on the Battle of Hürtgen Forest, Corman includes a truly unsettling sequence where the soldiers invade a German woman's cabin. By the time they leave, her chickens have been devoured and her dead body lies riddled with bullets in the floor. In all fairness, she did try to pull a gun on them. But again, in all fairness, they had been making her life miserable. Predictably, the film is full of World War Two stock footage. But to Corman's credit, he comes up with a plausible explanation for these sequences: the troopers have been ordered to perform reconnaissance on the advancing German forces. It's amazing what a few quick shots of his actors looking through binoculars and speaking into radios can do to add credibility to a stock footage extravaganza. Corman also gives his already short narrative -- the film is barely over an hour long -- breathing room in dialogue scenes where the soldiers discuss things like the meaning of life and the nature of warfare. It's hokey and about as tonally ridiculous as the infamous speech that closes out Corman's earlier film It Conquered the World (1956). But the character development is appreciated. The last twenty minutes or so are quite chaotic and it is easy to lose track of what's happening onscreen. But to enjoy the climax, you just have to remember that Americans are fighting and Nazis are dying. There's not much more to it than that.

6/10

Strike Up the Band: Busby Berkeley

If Busby Berkeley's films can only be evaluated based on the strength of their musical production numbers, then Strike Up the Band stands as one of his triumphs. Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney are back, this time trying to win a national contest looking for the best high school musical group. Of course Rooney is the idealist, representative of America's can-do war-era spirit, and Garland is his long-suffering admirer who will eventually become his gal. June Preisser shows up again as more or less the same character she played in Busby's earlier Garland/Rooney musical Babes in Arms (1939), i.e. a self-absorbed, wanna-be actress who temporarily snares Rooney away from Garland with her charms. But, with no disrespect to the very talented Ms. Preisser, the film keeps her scenes mercifully short. Strike Up the Band features some of the most infectious and enjoyable production numbers of early 1940s musicals. Mickey Rooney had a passion for the drums in real life, so his casting as a drummer was a stroke of genius that allowed him to demonstrate his animalistic energy over and over again during the band scenes. "Do the La Conga" may be the best Garland and Rooney have ever been together. In that scene Berkeley manages to complement their personal magnetism with his trademark, massive-scale choreography. A prolonged theatrical sequence where Garland and Rooney put on a "melodrama" complete with a Temperance morale and a rescue sequence where a caped villain ties Garland to train tracks is simply superb. And anytime that Rooney leads his big brass band is pure cinematic magic.

8/10

Babes in Arms: Busby Berkeley

Busby Berkeley's Babes in Arms is a snapshot of a time in American history when it was believed that a bit of gusto, enthusiasm, and commitment was all it would take to achieve success. When their cash-strapped Vaudevillian parents go on a reunion tour and refuse to take them along, Mickey Moran (Mickey Rooney) and Patsy Barton (Judy Garland) decide to write, direct, and put on a show of their own along with the other local "babes" to prove that they shouldn't be ignored or discounted merely because of their age. The framing device of a group of performers putting on a show is as good an excuse as any for Berkeley to lavish the audience with lengthy musical numbers, the best of which is the triumphant "Babes in Arms" that ends with a crowd of "babes" forming an impromptu rally and starting a massive bonfire. A long shot that captures the crowd throwing huge wooden crates and lit torches into a pile is more visually stimulating and expertly choreographed than any of the other numbers which range from the undeniably charming "Good Morning," the dreary "Where or When," and the cringingly unfortunate "Daddy Was a Minstrel Man." Rooney and Garland are adorable together, particularly during their duets where Rooney frequently becomes infected with a vivacious energy. But like with many of Berkeley's films, the moments of greatness fail to redeem the film as a whole. The plot and supporting characters are formulaic to the point of parody and the cinematography in many sequences seems almost overexposed, sandblasting the screen of shadows and depth.

6/10

Sahara: Zoltán Korda

When watching Zoltán Korda's Sahara, it's important to remember that at the time of its production and release victory against the Axis was not a sure thing. So if it seems unusually vigorous in its chest-thumping patriotism, keep in mind that the film was intended to help inspire a war-weary American public. Set around the time of the Battle of Gazala, the film follows an American tank crew led by U.S. Army Master Sergeant Joe Gunn (Humphrey Bogart) as they meet up with other Allied survivors, take Axis prisoners, and set up camp around the only well with any water within dozens of miles. As a massive group of dehydrated Nazis surround them, Gunn and the other survivors concoct a scheme to keep them occupied and distracted until Allied reinforcements can reach them. I will give the film a bit of credit: while the one Italian character, a prisoner named Giuseppe, is rather stereotyped, he is revealed to be rather noble, even sacrificing his life near the end to help the Allied soldiers. Overall, the film is a solid piece of adventure entertainment. If macho war heroics aren't your thing, then at the very least Sahara serves as an interesting glimpse into the psyche of 1943 American society.

7/10

Shoeshine: Vittorio De Sica

Vittorio De Sica's Shoeshine is a sobering allegory for how post-war Italian society destroyed people by forcing them into situations from which they couldn’t escape or win. Take the case of Guiseppe and Pasquale, two young homeless friends who eke out a living shining shoes on the street. Their dream is to buy a horse of their very own. They collect the money necessary to buy the horse by unwittingly participating in a crime partially orchestrated by Guiseppe's older brother. Betrayed by their families, they are sent to a juvenile prison where the previously inseparable friends are arbitrarily shoved into different cells on different floors. Pasquale is then tricked and coerced into betraying Guiseppe by informing on his older brother. Guiseppe's new friends then convince him to take violent retribution by planting a file under Pasquale's bed so that he will be beaten by the prison employees. And when Guiseppe and some of his friends manage to escape from prison, Pasquale feels so betrayed and wounded that he helps the prison officials hunt the escapees down. The film ends with Pasquale crying over Guiseppe's dead body as their horse runs off into the night. Italy's destruction of its children has been completed. Shoeshine is a powerful film that is frequently difficult to sit through. It's one thing to see the scars of post-war Italy's psyche reflected in the struggles of fathers -- Bicycle Thieves (1948) -- or old men -- Umberto D. (1952). But to see young children cheated, conspired against, and annihilated? That is another. But perhaps we have a duty to witness this film and experience the truth it reveals, much in the same way that De Sica had a duty to make it.

9/10

Rock All Night: Roger Corman

1957 was a huge year for director-producer Roger Corman. He directed a jaw-dropping nine full-length features. One of them, Carnival Rock, was a charming little film that mixed extended musical performance numbers with a trite yet effective framing story that involved crime and abduction. Later that year, Corman would directer another little film that featured extended musical performance numbers with a framing story concerning criminals. It was entitled Rock All Night and was remembered by Corman years later as one of his personal favorites. The story of a group of people held hostage by two criminals in a dive-bar, Rock All Night featured impressive musical numbers by The Platters and The Blockbusters. However, its framing story wasn't executed competently enough to make the film congeal into an effective whole. The whole concept of the film was that it was a kind of limited-setting story à la Alfred Hitchcock's Lifeboat (1944). As such, the dynamics between the different characters are supposed to carry the film. But it is almost impossible to become invested in the characters for several reasons. First, there are too many different characters to properly develop within the span of the film's 62-minute run-time. The only characters who receive proper development is the morose bartender, a potential singer with stage-fright, and a cynical asshole who has the uncanny ability to see right through people (coincidentally, he was my favorite character). The other main characters -- two robbers, a down-and-out boxer, his wife, the singer's manager, a gangster and his girlfriend, and an extortionist -- remain bland and two-dimensional. Second, Corman's opportunities to develop the characters was further stymied by the fact that large chunks of the film's run-time was devoted to musical numbers! And third, the film only gets the hostage-taking plot development rolling in the last twenty-or-so minutes. So the film paradoxically spends too much time developing characters who aren't able to be developed due to the film's paltry length. I will give Rock All Night some credit: it doesn't look or blatantly feel like a film that was written and shot in just a few days. Too bad I can't say the same thing for its central narrative.

5/10

Kings Row: Sam Wood

A word, then, on Production Code censorship and Sam Wood's Kings Row: I think the mandated changes to the story were for the benefit of the film. Based on the novel of the same name by Henry Bellamann, Kings Row tells the story of a group of youths growing up in a tiny American town at the turn of the century. One of the major characters is Parris Mitchell, a good-natured young man who wants to become a doctor. So he studies with Dr. Tower, a local man with an insane wife and a young daughter named Cassie that he keeps locked up. Parris loves Cassie, but Dr. Tower refuses to let their relationship develop. Later in the film Dr. Tower kills Cassie and then commits suicide after he begins to see symptoms of the same mental illness in his daughter that afflicted his wife. This tragedy inspires Parris to study the new field of psychology in Europe so that he can prevent such things from ever happening again. In the book it is revealed that Dr. Tower had an incestuous relationship with Cassie. Not only would including this plot revelation have seemed incongruous with the rest of the film, which for the most part was played as an occasionally dour melodrama, I don't know if Sam Wood or the actors involved could have done it justice without resorting to emotional hysterics or unnecessary moralization. The change also helps explain Parris' extreme motivation to become a psychiatrist. But overall, Kings Row is a competent melodrama featuring fantastic cinematography by James Wong Howe and a few noteworthy performances, particularly Ronald Reagan as the playboy-turned-invalid Drake McHugh.

7/10

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug: Peter Jackson

I'm still not sure whether or not I'm sold on the whole "48 fps" thing. During normal dialogue scenes in Peter Jackson's The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, I was fascinated by how the frame-rate made everything look as realistic and clear as a documentary. But during the action scenes the frame-rate became somewhat of a distraction. The picture began to chug and clip like a video on Netflix that hasn't fully loaded. Jackson's Tolkien films have always featured some of the best visual effects in the industry, but the frame-rate makes makes the computer-generated images seem...well...artificial. I'm not sure if computer graphics are up to snuff for 48 fps. Anyhow, The Desolation of Smaug is an enjoyable, if padded, affair. Since the first movie has set the plot and characters up, Jackson was free to have a bit of fun with the proceedings. Two of the best sequences in the film demonstrate his trade-mark slapstick and sense of humor that was somewhat lacking in the first film: the battle against a horde or giant spiders and the escape from the realm of the wood elves via river-barrel. One scene where eight Dwarves each grab a spider's leg and pull them off leaving a twitching torso was a delightful reminder that Jackson was, in fact, the director of Bad Taste (1987) and Braindead (1992). These sequences worked because they allowed Jackson to be Jackson. I briefly revisited Jackson's early Lord of the Rings films and was reminded how visually clever, disturbingly intense, and warmly humorous they were. His Hobbit films, on the other hand, contain too many passages that feel like he was simply on auto-pilot. A mercilessly padded action finale where Smaug is almost drowned in liquid gold felt too contrived, too unrealistic, and too forced for even a franchise involving dragons and wizards. It felt unnecessary because it was unnecessary. Jackson just needed to end the second film on a high point. I wish he would have limited his Hobbit adaptation to just two films. There is too much in them that doesn't need to be there. In addition to making the films overlong, they sap the stylistic sparkle that makes Jackson's best films so damn enjoyable.

6/10

The Brasher Doubloon: John Brahm

John Brahm's The Brasher Doubloon has one of the single worst pieces of acting that I have ever encountered from the days of the classic Hollywood studio system. It involves a scene where private dick Philip Marlowe (George Montgomery) is being held hostage at gunpoint by a beautiful young woman. She orders him to strip (to make sure he isn't armed, of course) and he suddenly lets loose a strained, painful laugh that wouldn't have past muster in a Middle School theatrical production. He incredulously informs her that the gun isn't loaded. And, of course, she falls for it. In seconds they are passionately kissing. Did I miss a scene? Did the editor accidentally insert the wrong daily into the final cut? George Montgomery's turn as Marlowe in The Brasher Doubloon has always been reviled as one of the worst portrayals of the infamous character ever put to screen. But until that scene late in the film, his performance is passable. Too bad the rest of the film fails to live up to even Montgomery's level. The weak script about a missing coin, several corrupt owners/collectors, and a mentally scarred secretary seems unfinished and unpolished. I never quite understood why one of the characters, an old crone who first contacts Marlowe about the missing coin, is so vicious to her secretary. And when she is carried off by the police at the end triumphantly screaming that at the very least she has reduced the secretary to a "loony," I can't help but feel that the writer stumbled over a very important piece of exposition (yes, I know that she was blackmailing said secretary, but that still doesn't answer my question). The cinematography is appropriately moody, but ultimately forgettable. The film staggers from contrived scenario to contrived scenario, desperately seeking a purpose that refuses to reveal itself. And then, of course, there is Montgomery's flaccid performance and his hollow, constipated laugh.

4/10

Strange Impersonation: Anthony Mann

There are only two kind things that I can say about Anthony Mann's Strange Impersonation, a tedious film about a scientist who is horrifically disfigured during a sabotaged experiment and who sets out to get her revenge after receiving a new face via plastic surgery. First, the film does an admirable job hiding its meager budget. Cinematographer Robert Pittack did a fine job photographing the relatively few sets in such a manner that they never become too over-exposed or bland. Second, the film sees Mann begin to come into his own stylistically: moody atmospheres accentuated by hard lighting, skilled camera movements that nevertheless don't draw too much attention to themselves, and a handful of scenes that are stripped of narrative fat and excess such as the interrogation scene finale. A montage of over-exposed faces that falsely accuse a young woman of murder near the end is particularly fascinating. This sequence remains as one of the most grotesquely stylized (in a bizarre, pseudo-German Expressionist sense) of Mann's entire career. In this moment Strange Impersonation almost flirts with the horror genre. But it is to no avail. The film is too contrived, too predictable to hold any interest for viewers uninterested in the development of Mann's early career. Too many scenes are bloated with repetitive, melodramatic dialogue exchanges about love, devotion, and relationships. More than once I found myself yelling at the screen for the characters to get on with it. In a normal length film such passages are troublesome. In a 68 minute feature like Strange Impersonation such inane frivolities are fatal. Here is a film too belabored with melodrama to reach the heights of horror and suspense that it so desperately strove for. It also commits one of the cardinal crimes of narrative storytelling: It Was All Just a Dream...I probably would have been angrier at this twist if I hadn't figured it out literally 10-15 minutes into the film.

4/10

The Great Flamarion: Anthony Mann

If The Great Flamarion seems unnecessarily turgid and dour even by that great master of hard-boiled cinema Anthony Mann's standards, it can perhaps be forgiven on account of the director's relative inexperience and the meagerness of the production. A (very) poor man's Double Indemnity, the film tells the story of the Great Flamarion, a callous and cold vaudevillian performer with a trick gunshot act. He is eventually approached by his lovely female assistant Connie who seduces him with promises of happiness in exchange for "accidentally" shooting and killing her husband, another one of Flamarion's on-stage assistants, during his act. The deed is done, Flamarion is cleared by a grand jury, and, predictably, Connie suggests that they "spend some time apart." The last few scenes are an effective rehash of the opening sequence where Connie is murdered backstage by the heart-broken Flamarion. If there is one good thing to take away from The Great Flamarion, it is a truly virtuosic tracking shot that opens the film. It enters a theater from the outside behind a thick crowd and glides down the center row until it halts with the stage performers in tight focus. The shot continues until off-stage (and off-screen) gunshots bring the performance to a screeching halt. Truly, this tracking shot is a moment of artistic clarity in an otherwise forgettable film. The performances range from the competent (Mary Beth Hughes as the femme fatale Connie), to the amateurish (Dan Duryea is rather one-note even by his own 1940s standards as Connie's doomed husband), to the unfortunate (the mighty Erich von Stroheim has been reduced to literally doing parlor tricks as Flamarion). One scene where Stroheim does a little jig while anticipating the arrival of Connie is particularly grotesque and cringe-worthy. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

5/10