Scattered Clouds: Mikio Naruse

What is he supposed to say? What can he say to the grieving family that he ripped asunder? Though the courts may have found him not guilty, he can hardly cope with the guilt of his actions. So against the advice of his colleagues, he attends the wake. After bowing to the portrait of the deceased, he turns to the man’s family.

“Mrs. Eda...I am Shiro Mishima, of Meiji Commercial. I’m very sorry about the accident.”

The father balks indignantly. “You? Are you the driver? Are you the one who killed my son?" Silence. Yes, Mishima was the driver who, while entertaining company guests, accidentally ran over Hiroshi Eda. But he didn't just kill Hiroshi that fateful day, he destroyed the happy plans he had made with his wife Yumiko to move to the United States and start a new life. Now Yumiko is merely an expectant widow. As Mishima is quickly escorted from the wake by a colleague, she blasts him with a look filled with all the hatred, contempt, and impotent fury that her soul can muster.

So begins Mikio Naruse's Scattered Clouds, a melodrama of impossible love that marked the end of one of Japan's greatest filmmakers. In two years Naruse, director of 87 feature films, would be dead. Though usually overshadowed by contemporaries like Akira Kurosawa and Kenji Mizoguchi, Naruse gained a reputation over four decades of work as one of the definitive early Japanese filmmakers. And if Scattered Clouds was his curtain call, it stands as nothing less than his apotheosis.

After the wake, Yumiko and Mishima coincidentally end up in the same small town in rural Japan. Yumiko’s name (and inheritance) was revoked by her family, forcing her to move in with her sister Ayako who runs a country hotel. Meiji Commercial, seeking to avoid further scandal, unknowingly transfers Mishima to the same location. It is the kind of twist that can only occur in the most extravagant of melodrama. Yet for Naruse, who devoted much of his career directing shomin-geki, or films about the lower middle classes (particularly concerning women facing incredible adversity), such a development serves as a dramatic catalyst instead of as a convenient method to further the plot.

Indeed, Naruse’s protagonists frequently retreat to the countryside where they discover great insights into their own personal struggles. In Floating Clouds (1955), an obsessed woman follows the object of her affection to the countryside after he is transferred. In Yearning (1964), the roles are reversed: a young woman is pursued by her brother-in-law to Northern Japan after she romantically rejects him. But in these films, the movement to the countryside precedes the rejection of affections. In the end, both the woman from Floating Clouds and the brother-in-law from Yearning are abandoned. But the opposite occurs in Scattered Clouds: the movement to the countryside serves as the impetus for Yumiko and Mishima to fall in love. And if not for a cruel twist of fate, we could fully believe that they could have lived happily ever after.

At first, Yumiko is understandably distant from Mishima. Both have been terribly wounded: Mishima by his inconsolable guilt and Yumiko by the loss of her future. But they slowly become drawn to each other. Visits to Ayako’s inn lead to lunches which in turn lead to afternoons spent together in the countryside. During one outing, Mishima catches a fever and Yumiko spends the night taking care of him. As Mishima fades in and out of consciousness, he repeatedly tries to convince Yumiko that he is better and that she should leave. It is here that we see the true brilliance behind Naruse’s restrained direction: as Mishima suffers and Yumiko stands vigil, their internal emotional turmoil is expressed by the sounds of a terrible thunderstorm. Though frequently experimental in his early years, by his later career Naruse had developed a very subdued style, utilizing simplistic frame compositions and unobtrusive filming/editing techniques. His sparse screenplays relied chiefly on the actors’ abilities to physically emote their unspoken emotions. Therefore, the physical inaction of the actors juxtaposed with the violence of the storm outside results in a scene of overwhelming power.

But in the end their love can never be. News comes that Meiji Commercial is transferring Mishima to Pakistan for a minimum of three years. Mishima tries to convince Yumiko to come with him. But just before they can leave, they witness a car accident almost identical to the one that killed Hiroshi. In that moment, they realize deep inside themselves that their love if futile. The film ends with them sharing a meal at an inn. Mishima says that he will sing her a local song that supposedly will bring happiness to whoever hears it. As he sings, Yumiko gently weeps. And then, the film ends.

While some may find such an anti-climax jarring, it is essential to understanding Naruse’s work. Naruse once mentioned of his characters that “if they move even a little they quickly hit the wall. From the youngest age, I have thought that the world we live in betrays us; this thought still remains with me.” Such ingrained pessimism makes sense when examined from the perspective of Naruse’s life: his parents died when he was young, he struggled his whole life against poverty, and he was often delegated to thankless jobs while working for major studios. Through his films, Naruse evoked feelings and emotions inaccessible to most filmmakers...and audiences. As Michael Koresky once wrote: “[Naruse’s] stories are inhabited by people, generally women, imprisoned in their domestic and professional circumstances by the status quo, and hinge on tragic accidents and other twists of fate...[They are] reflections of everyday life, with vivid material presence and indelible figures who remain outwardly serene even as battles rage within. Naruse’s characters’ acquiescence to the way things are exemplifies the Japanese term mono no aware, which describes a resignation to life’s sadness.”

Let me leave you with one final story. While Naruse was near-death, he expressed his desire to make “a film to be shot with only white curtain backdrops, no real sets, no exteriors, all concentration on the nuances of human movement expressing feeling carved down to the quick.” Naruse never got to make that film. But then again, he rarely got what he wanted. Much like his protagonists, he was cheated out of his dream at the last minute. But such is life.

Such is life...

7/10

L.A. Story: Mick Jackson

Los Angeles has never been a very optimistic place within the realm of American cinema. If Los Angeles isn't being depicted as the throne of empty Hollywood dreams and materialistic ennui, then it is the home of horrific gang violence, racial unrest, and uncontrollable crime. Mick Jackson's L.A. Story, on the other hand, looks at all of the city's flaws and suggests that there still might be something great, or dare I say beautiful, within. Even though L.A. Story is directed by Jackson, it is really Steve Martin's film. As both writer and star, Martin's comedic and dramatic sensibilities, at once extravagant and deadpan, give the film its soul. The film follows TV meteorologist Harris K. Telemacher (Martin) as he falls in and out of love with different women while navigating the absurd L.A. cultural landscape. Soon Telemacher starts receiving advice from a seemingly sentient freeway traffic condition sign. Why? Because Los Angeles wants to help him. And therein lies the film's brilliance: despite L.A.'s problems (like fancy restaurants that require potential diners to undergo lengthy audits, muggers who literally line up next to ATM's to rob people who make withdrawals, and gun-totting, trigger-happy freeway motorists), there is still much to love there. Where else can you roller-blade through art museums? Where else can you accurately predict the weather 5 days in advance (72 degrees and sunny)? Where else can you find impossible love and romance ripped from the screen of a Hollywood movie? I'll tell you where: Los Angeles.

9/10

Less Than Zero: Marek Kanievska

I can't help but question the logic behind adapting the work of Bret Easton Ellis onto film. I mean, Mary Harron's American Psycho (2000) was a decent film, but it wasn't Ellis' American Psycho. So imagine my reluctance to watch Marek Kanievska's adaptation of Less Than Zero, a film which Ellis himself famously decried as unfaithful to his novel of the same name. The film follows a trio of estranged friends who re-unite a few months after they graduated from high school. Clay Easton is a college freshman with a bright future ahead of him. The other two friends, Blair and Julian, are not so lucky. Both of them have become hopelessly addicted to drugs. Julian is particularly messed up considering the fact that he has a $50,000 debt to his drug dealer and has been cut off from his rich family. Eventually Julian's dealer forces him into prostitution. These scenes are extremely disturbing and Robert Downey, Jr. blows them away as the doomed Julian (in fact, RDJ's performance was one of the only things about the film that Ellis liked). In fact, they save the film from mediocrity. But Less Than Zero still left me with some lingering questions. For one, I'm still unsure as to why Clay returned to Los Angeles and his friends. I think it had something to do with a business deal, but if the film explained more I missed it. Another question I had was who would pay money to sleep with a half-dead junkie like Julian? I mean, I guess everyone has their kinks. But, personally, if I had the money to get my drug dealer to provide me with prostitutes, I would want somebody who wasn't perpetually covered in his own vomit. I'm just sayin'...

7/10

Mi Vida Loca: Allison Anders

"We girls need new skills 'cause by the time our boys are twenty-one they're either in prison or disabled...or dead." This quote from Allison Anders' Mi Vida Loca is key to understanding the film and its depiction of Hispanic-American culture. In a culture where the men are destined for crime and the women to early motherhood, the organization of girls into gangs is nothing less than a survival mechanism. In Mi Vida Loca, Anders gives dives into the world of one of these gangs made up of women who grew up in Echo Park, Los Angeles. There's Mousie and Sad Girl, two best friends who almost killed each other over a man before reconciling. There's Whisper, a witness to a terrible murder who is brushed off by the authorities. And then there's Giggles, an ex-convict who just ended a four-year prison stint who has big plans for her homegirls. The film is a fascinating glimpse into female spaces in a culture dominated by depictions of (male) gang-bangers and (male) drug-dealers. However, the film loses focus in the second half when it stops centering on just the girls and concerns itself with gang politics amongst the men. Near the end there is a series of gangland murders and executions involving male characters which leaves the audience confused. Just who were these guys again? Why are they being killed? It would be one thing if Anders managed to successfully balance the male and female characters, but she doesn't. This is clearly a film about Hispanic women, so when it changes gears so drastically towards the men the effect is disorienting. But despite these flaws, Mi Vida Loca is an indispensable piece of filmmaking.

7/10

Repo Man: Alex Cox

One of the biggest sources of charm in Alex Cox's Repo Man is the fact that it throws so many different genres, characters, and plots together in a blender and purées them to the sound of early 80s L.A. punk. It is cacophonous, loud, unpredictable, and deliriously absurd. Quite simply, there has never been a film before or since quite like it. It (alternatively) focuses on a young punk named Otto Maddox who becomes a repossession agent, his adventures in the line of duty, a mad scientist with radioactive aliens in the trunk of his car, a government cover-up, and turf wars between different repo agencies. Unfortunately, the bizarre irreverence with which these narratives are intertwined is also its greatest flaw. By the end, it is almost impossible to follow exactly what is going on in the film. Instead, we are barraged with a volley of violence, drama, and delightfully low-fi special effects. But I suspect that this was a creative choice instead of merely poor cinematic craftsmanship. It almost seems like the ending of Repo Man was trying more to invoke an alternative state of mind rather than effectively tie up the plot. But Cox doesn't strike the right balance between chaos and order which made his masterpiece Walker (1987) cohere successfully. So Repo Man collapses in on itself. But, again, that is the film's charm. So watch Repo Man. It's a glorious, ugly, beautiful, nightmarish mess of a movie.

6/10

Target: Arthur Penn

Arthur Penn's Target is a half-realized, poorly executed mess of a spy thriller weighed down by sub-par family drama, an abusive run-time, and a truly awful performance by Matt Dillon. The story, centered around a retired CIA agent who travels to Europe with his son to rescue his kidnapped wife, is tired and predictable. Though directed by the man who rocked the world with such revolutionary films as Bonnie and Clyde (1967), Target is a film bereft of the formalistic techniques of cinema. It comes, therefore, as no surprise to learn that it was produced by CBS Theatrical Films. This isn't a film, it's a long television episode shot on film. For the first twenty or so minutes Target feels like a Lifetime original drama about father-son relationships. If Penn's intent was to juxtapose the tranquility of civilian life with the danger and intrigue of espionage, he failed miserably, resulting in a flat narrative devoid of tension and suspense. Gene Hackman (the lead actor in one of Penn's greatest films, 1975's Night Moves) does his damndest to bring some semblance of life and emotion to a film which clearly didn't deserve his talents. But these attempts are thwarted by an obese script that lilts from one spy cliché to another. Target doesn't have a story. It has a checklist of scenes strung together on a clothesline.

4/10

Friday: F. Gary Gray

F. Gary Gray's Friday would make a fascinating double-feature with Kevin Smith's Clerks (1994). Both films center around mid-90's twenty-somethings trapped in menial lives. Both films feature two close friends who spend most of the run-time in a very specific location interacting with a host of bizarre characters and odd personalities. But if Clerks captured the East Coast white middle-class zeitgeist, Friday traveled to the West Coast to peek into the lower-class black experience. The "plot" of Friday concerns two young, unemployed black men, Craig Jones (Ice Cube) and Smokey (Chris Tucker), who have until 10:00 PM Friday night to pay a drug dealer $200. But this set-up is frequently set aside in favor of vignettes that see Craig and Smokey encounter different stock characters from South Central: the hoochie mama, the local crackhead, fast-talking preachers, bastard bicycle-riding kids, etc, etc. The film's best moment comes late in the film when Craig squares off with Deebo, a local thieving bully, and brandishes a gun in his face. Craig's father (played by the always fantastic John Witherspoon) talks him down and convinces him to fight fair. For most of the film Craig's father had been portrayed as a loudmouth buffoon (similar to Witherspoon's character "Grandad" on The Boondocks). But in this scene it becomes deathly serious. It is a nice moment of dramatic relief in what was otherwise a very rapid-fire, easy-going comedy. It also functions as an extra-filmic rebuke against the gang violence which had devastated South Central Los Angeles for years. So Friday is not only a great comedy, it is a living document that captures part of the soul of urban African-American culture.

8/10

Argo: Ben Affleck

Yes, yes...I finally saw Ben Affleck's Argo. A fictionalized account of a secret operation between the CIA and the Canadian government to rescue six U.S. diplomats trapped in Tehran during the 1979 Iran hostage crisis, Argo hit film critic circles like a storm last year, winning many awards including the coveted Academy Award for Best Picture. So what did I think of it? Well, I thought it was good. Not Best Picture quality, but good. I wonder if the film would have been so well-received if it hadn't been directed by Ben Affleck. I think a lot of the positive press surrounding Argo had less to do with its merits as a motion picture and more with Affleck's emergence as a credible director. And, to Affleck's credit, Argo is a well-written, expertly shot film. Obviously taking cues from 70's cinema (even using the old Warner Bros. logo in the opening credits), Argo plays like one of the era's great political dramas like All the President's Men (1976). This is a dense, dialogue heavy film that relies on character development and tension more than action and special effects. The opening scene where Iranians storm the American Embassy is particularly masterful. At first there is only a small trickle of people. But then it swells and swells until the Embassy's hallways are flooded with armed protestors like a furious river. Argo is a damn fine film. Did it deserve Best Picture? I don't think so. But I'm not angry that it won, either.

8/10

She Killed in Ecstasy: Jesús Franco

There are two ways to examine Jesús Franco's She Killed in Ecstasy: via its technical qualities and via its strength as a story. From a technical stand-point, She Killed in Ecstasy may be Franco's most beautiful and stunningly realized film. Cinematographer Manuel Merino's perpetually floating camera and sharp eye for surrealistic frame compositions create an indulgent, lurid atmosphere that complements the shocking story. The images are frequently matched with bizarrely upbeat music which gives the film a sense of feverish detachment. And yet, from a story stand-point, She Killed in Ecstasy has issues. The plot is essentially a reversal of the rape-revenge formula: after a scientist who illegally experimented on human embryos commits suicide after being expelled from the academic community, his heart-broken wife sexually seduces and murders the four members of the medical committee responsible. So whereas rape-revenge films involve women responding to sexual violence with physical violence, She Killed in Ecstasy has its protagonist respond to physical violence with sexual violence. But here's the main problem: we are supposed to empathize with the wife's quest for revenge. But allow me to point a few things out. First, the four committee members were needlessly cruel in their personal attacks on the scientist, but they were still technically justified considering the fact that he was illegally experimenting on humans. And second, any feelings of sympathy we might feel for the wife are immediately abandoned when she starts to kill innocent bystanders who were uninvolved with her husband's death. Taken simply as a stylistic exercise, She Killed in Ecstasy is exquisite. But as a story, it doesn't past muster.

5/10

Devil in a Blue Dress: Carl Franklin

Carl Franklin's Devil in a Blue Dress presents the world with a potentially new sub-genre of film noir: Negro noir. In essence, it examines the role of African-Americans during the 40s and 50s when the great noir stories and films were made. While Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe stuck to white neighborhoods, Ezekiel "Easy" Rawlins, an African-American private (and unlicensed) detective created by mystery writer Walter Mosley, roamed ghettos, nightclubs, and back alleys populated by the minorities that Hollywood always seemed to "forget" also lived in densely urban areas. In Devil in a Blue Dress, Easy finds himself in a sinister plot involving mayoral candidates, crooked cops, pedophiles, and America's tumultuous racial landscape. The set-up for the film is so simple and ingenious that I am legitimately angry that I didn't come up with it myself: when an important white woman goes missing, her fiance's employees get Easy to look for her. Why Easy? Because this young woman has a "predilection" for black men. And Easy can go places in Los Angeles where white people (or more specifically white men) can't. Denzel Washington turns in a phenomenal performance as Easy, bringing a weary charm to the famous character. But Don Cheadle simply steals the show as Mouse, a psychopathic thug from Houston with an almost sexual attachment to his handguns who helps Easy in his search. Negro noir...somebody else needs to invest in this idea.

8/10

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I recently rewatched Devil in a Blue Dress and wrote about it over at TheRetroSet.com. I was a bit less impressed with it this time around. Read my article here:

http://theretroset.com/dvd-review-carl-franklins-devil-in-a-blue-dress-1995/

7/10

Fletch Lives: Michael Ritchie

If the original Fletch reminded me of The Big Sleep (1946), then the sequel Fletch Lives reminds me of Norman Jewison's In the Heat of the Night (1967). But whereas that was a ground-breaking film that helped redefine cinematic race relations, Fletch Lives almost retroactively sets them back. Fletch Lives follows the eponymous fast-thinking newspaper reporter to Louisiana after he is bequeathed an antique Southern plantation from his aunt. However, things quickly go wrong after his attorney is found dead in his bed after a night of passion. Whereas Fletch had an intriguing mystery at its core, the mystery in Fletch Lives is rather lukewarm and uninspired. No joke, at some point in the film Fletch's new mansion burns to the ground. Yet later in the movie I had completely forgotten that I had seen a gigantic building go up in flames. It was just that forgettable. There's a holy-roller televangelist involved in the plot, but when Fletch messes with them, it seems cruel and mean-spirited. In the original Fletch, he messed with people because, well, they deserved it. But in Fletch Lives he publicly humiliates innocent people on national television for kicks. This isn't the Fletch that I fell in love with. It doesn't help that he is saddled with a terrible comic-relief partner in Cleavon Little who plays Calculus Entrophy, a hokum caretaker who hovers somewhere between Amos 'n' Andy and Stepin Fetchit.

5/10

Fletch: Michael Ritchie

Chevy Chase's Irwin "Fletch" Fletcher is the inheritor of not just one, but two great cinematic traditions. The first is the wise-ass comic leading man, able to get into and out of any situation conceivable. In Michael Ritchie's Fletch, we see the eponymous character dive into what must be over a dozen different characters, persona, and personalities all so he can get to the truth surrounding a strange millionaire who asked him (while he was pretending to be a junkie so he could do research on the local drug trade) to murder him. I won't divulge too much more of the plot because it relates to the second tradition that Fletch is heir to: the hard-boiled private dick. Yes, beneath the jokes, wisecracks, and outrageous comic set-pieces, Fletch is practically a neo-noir. This is due in no small part to the fact that the film was based on a novel by noted mystery writer Gregory Mcdonald. In fact, Chase's performance as Fletch seems almost like a response to Elliott Gould's turn as Philip Marlowe in Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye (1973). Both are California detectives with generally amiable attitudes who respond to threats of violence and intimidation with wise-cracks and sarcasm. But there are other similarities between the two films. Both feature similar noir-influenced story beats such as duplicity lurking within the upper social classes and corrupt public officials. And remarkably, both films have plots that are satisfactorily labyrinthine yet simultaneously comprehensible enough that they don't leave the audience in a confused stupor like in Howard Hawks' The Big Sleep (1946). So perhaps a new classification is needed for Fletch: neo-noir comedy.

9/10

City of the Living Dead: Lucio Fulci

I'm willing to bet that most of Europe's zombie problems could be fixed by actually burying their dead in coffins and not just covering up their corpses with half an inch of topsoil. Take Lucio Fulci's City of the Living Dead. After a Dunwich priest commits suicide in a cemetery, the Gates of Hell are opened and the undead begin to walk the earth. Of course, they don't have to work very hard to get out of the cemetery. They basically just have to dust off a thin layer of dirt and mulch and they're ready to go. I understand that this was probably a stylistic choice on Fulci's part. After all, Fulci was always one of the most cerebral gore-oriented horror directors. So in the context of the film, it doesn't matter how they get out of their graves, just that they do. But I digress. City of the Living Dead is a film that relies on imagery and atmosphere to engage the audience. However, he wouldn't perfect this technique until 1981's The Beyond. So City of the Living Dead is unevenly paced and at times borders on the ridiculous. Take the scene where the re-animated priest uses psychic powers to make a female victim throw up her internal organs. The film never establishes that the zombies have psychic powers, instead only hinting at it in the final scenes. As a result, the aforementioned scene seems silly and inexplicable when it should have been terrifying. And what's with Fulci's belief that the human skull can be popped like a zit with just a hand squeezing it? I know that zombies are supposed to have supernatural strength, but there's a difference between something being plausible and something being physically impossible. 

6/10

To Live and Die in L.A.: William Friedkin

William Friedkin's To Live and Die in L.A. may be a movie of cliches, but its execution and implementation of them are done with such style, such skill, such panache that they are impossible not to enjoy. The film follows two Secret Service agents who investigate a highly dangerous counterfeiter. This counterfeiter was responsible for the death of one of the agent's previous partners (who was, of course, only a few days away from retirement). Obsessed with catching his partner's killer, Richard Chance doesn't hesitate to break the law, extort helpless women for sex and information, and risk the lives of countless other law enforcers. The other agent, Jimmy Hart, wants to catch the counterfeiter by the book. But Los Angeles is a heartless, merciless city and by the time the film is over one of the agents will be dead and the other corrupted beyond recognition. The centerpiece of the film is the phenomenal against-traffic car chase where Chance and Hart flee from a surprisingly well-armed group of criminals after stealing $50,000 in order to finance their own investigations. This scene is a perfect example of an action set-piece that functions just as much to progress the plot as it is to titillate the audience. To Live and Die in L.A. is just another reason why Friedkin is one of America's most innovative, captivating, and unfairly overlooked filmmakers.

9/10

Love and Death: Woody Allen

Originally published at Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear in 2010.

Boris: I have no fear of the gallows.
Father: No?
Boris: No. Why should I? They're going to shoot me.

Woody Allen’s films have always been relatively easy to categorize. You have your screwball romcoms (Annie Hall, A Midsummer Night’s Sex Dream, The Purple Rose of Cairo), your more subdued dramedies (Manhattan, Hannah and Her Sisters, Broadway Danny Rose), and even starkly serious dramas inspired by his idol Ingmar Bergman (Interiors, September, Another Woman). And yet throughout all of these films, the persona of Woody Allen dominates. Even in films where he doesn’t act, you can feel him nervously twitching and wringing his hands somewhere closely off-screen. To see his films is to share in his neuroses, his thoughts, his anxieties, and his fears. Some of his films don’t feel like entertainments, but cries for help. But things were not always that way. There was a time when Allen didn’t bring his problems to the front of his work. There was actually a time when his only goal was to entertain and make the audience laugh.

In the late 60s and early 70s, Allen wrote and directed a number of comedic spoofs that represented the purest concentration of his comedic talents and acerbic wit. Inspired by the works of the Marx Brothers and Bob Hope, they were free-form comedies that didn’t so much have a plot, but merely a sparse storyline that allowed Allen to progress from joke to gag. The first, Take the Money and Run (1969), was a mockumentary of the life of a notorious, and yet painfully incompetent, petty criminal. The plot was straightforward enough and the humor seemed to come naturally (if not a tad surreally) from the subject matter. Then you had such notorious films as Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask) (1972) and Sleeper (1973) which resembled what might have happened if Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali ever did comedy. Overall, they were funny, but uneven, casually cluttered messes of one-liners and gags. The movies were entertaining, all right, but they felt like movies made by a comedian, not a comedic filmmaker. The movies worked as long as Allen’s gags held up. Perhaps that is why in hindsight they may not have aged quite as well as his later work.

Then came 1975 and Allen’s film Love and Death. Easily his best early work, it also is easily the funniest of his entire career. A calculated balance of gags, character and plot development, and emotional whimsy made Love and Death his first genuine masterpiece. It would later be forgotten when Allen released his next, and arguably his greatest, film Annie Hall (1977) which won him critical acclaim, Oscars, box office success, and an adoring fan base. But to those in the know, Love and Death was where Allen’s true career as a filmmaker started. It was the film that saw him embrace his role as not just a comedian, but also as a director.

Looking back over the film, I estimate that only about a paragraph is needed to explain the plot.

It follows as such: Allen plays Boris Grushenko, a cowardly Russian peasant who is forced to enlist in the army along with his brothers after Napoleon invades their country. Through a series of mishaps, he becomes a decorated war hero, marries his childhood sweetheart and cousin, the lovely Sonja (Diane Keaton), and settles down. But it isn’t long before he becomes involved in a plot to assassinate Napoleon. He is captured, tried, and executed. The end.

Do you feel like I spoiled the movie? Trust me, I didn’t. What matters are the jokes, puns, setups, and payoffs. As long as I don’t give them all away, your experience watching the film will not be diminished.

Those familiar with Allen’s oeuvre know that he is an avid fan of philosophy. This predilection shines brightly in this movie. The plot itself is a conglomeration of various philosophical Russian epic novels by Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. Allen indulges in several tongue-and-cheek conversations with Keaton where they spout off meaningless philosophical techno-babble like college professors on caffeine. Take the following exchange:

Sonja: Judgment of any system, or a priori relationship or phenomenon exists in an irrational, or metaphysical, or at least epistemological contradiction to an abstract empirical concept such as being, or to be, or to occur in the thing itself, or of the thing itself.

Boris: [Deadpan] Yes, I've said that many times.

We aren’t meant to follow it, but simply to marvel. And what else can you do in such a film? Allen keeps the one liners coming as fast as he can think them up. Even Groucho would have trouble keeping up with Allen in this film. Take the following examples:

Countess Alexandrovna: You are the greatest lover I've ever had.
Boris: Well, I practice a lot when I'm alone.

Boris: Isn't all mankind ultimately executed for a crime it never committed? The difference is that all men go eventually, but I go six o'clock tomorrow morning. I was supposed to go at five o'clock, but I have a smart lawyer. Got leniency.

Sonja: There are many different kinds of love, Boris. There's love between a man and a woman; between a mother and son...
Boris: Two women. Let's not forget my favorite.

Anton Inbedkov: Shall we say pistols at dawn?
Boris Grushenko: Well, we can say it. I don't know what it means, but we can say it.

Sonja: Oh don't, Boris, please. Sex without love is an empty experience.
Boris: Yes, but as empty experiences go, it's one of the best.

Sonja: What are you suggesting, passive resistance?
Boris: No, I'm suggesting active fleeing.

Sonja: Boris is trying to commit suicide - last week he contemplated inhaling next to an Armenian.
 
But Love and Death does not merely rely on fancy wordplay. Five years before Airplane! (1980), Allen was inventing and perfecting the art of the spoof with witty one-liners, blatant historical anachronisms, and unrestrained absurdity. Whether he is ordering red hots from a vendor in the middle of a battle or watching a public service announcement skit on venereal diseases, Allen breezes through more comedic setups in fifteen minutes than most films do within their entire duration.

But remember, I said that this was more than just a comedic smorgasbord. It was the dawning of a new age of Woody Allen. Suddenly, he wasn’t just about the jokes anymore. Philosophy and insights on the human condition (some of which are startlingly beautiful) creep into the film. For perhaps the first time we see glimpses of Ingmar Bergman’s influence creeping into Allen’s work. Take an early scene where a child version of Boris is walking in the woods and has a holy vision of Death. Cloaked in a white robe and carrying a vicious scythe, the figure is an obvious tribute to Bergman’s The Seventh Seal (1957). But pay attention, dear readers. There are many other sly references scattered through-out. A duel scene between Boris and a rival play out like a similar scene from Bergman’s Smiles of a Summer Night (1955). And in one scene Sonja converses with a woman servant and suddenly positions her face perpendicular to the other, creating an unmistakable reference to Persona (1966).

But Allen did more than just homage Bergman’s work. For the first time, his characters began to suffer conflicts that arose from internal dilemmas. For example, it is well established that Boris is a coward and doesn’t want to go off to war. But notice that he spends his precious leave time going to the opera. Could it be that Boris does not fear death as much as he fears missing out on life and all its beauty? It’s not that he is afraid of dying (although he most certainly is). He is afraid of not living. When Boris wins a duel for Sonja’s hand in marriage, she is originally opposed to it. This provides many funny gags representing their early home life. But eventually Sonja develops love for Boris. In another comedy by another director, Sonja would hate Boris up until the credits. But not here. Although the situations they become involved in are absurd, although they represent comedic extremes, the characters here are Characters with a capital C. They are people, not just crash test dummies designed for bouncing joke after joke on.

At heart, Love and Death is a comedy of the highest pedigree. It represents Allen at the height of his comedic genius. His films would get more serious in the following years, and it is generally agreed that he became a better filmmaker for it. But Love and Death gives us a glimpse at a young director coming to terms with his own creative forces.

Let me leave you with one last thought. The last scene of the film has Boris returning as a ghost (he was executed, remember?) to Sonja. He is accompanied once again by the spectre of Death. Of course, Allen manages to pull some laughs from the scene:

Sonja: You were my one great love.
Boris: Oh, thank you very much. I appreciate that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm dead.
Sonja: What's it like?
Boris: What's it like? You know the chicken at Tresky's Restaurant? It's worse.

That exchange alone is funny enough, but notice that Allen doesn’t end the film there. He ends it with this soliloquy:

Boris: The question is have I learned anything about life. Only that human being are divided into mind and body. The mind embraces all the nobler aspirations, like poetry and philosophy, but the body has all the fun. The important thing, I think, is not to be bitter... if it turns out that there IS a God, I don't think that He's evil. I think that the worst you can say about Him is that basically He's an underachiever. After all, there are worse things in life than death. If you've ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman, you know what I'm talking about. The key is, to not think of death as an end, but as more of a very effective way to cut down on your expenses. Regarding love, heh, what can you say? It's not the quantity of your sexual relations that counts. It's the quality. On the other hand if the quantity drops below once every eight months, I would definitely look into. Well, that's about it for me folks. Goodbye. 

I think that quote speaks for itself. It contains an unbelievable balance of humor, introspection, and insight. Not content to leave us like that, Allen then dances down a lane surrounded by flowering trees to the triumphant tune of Prokofiev’s Troika. Truly, this was a man who had not yet been consumed by the neuroses that would trouble him for the rest of his life. He knew that his whole career was ahead of him and that he could afford to be optimistic. Never again would Woody Allen be so charming, so delightful, so funny, and so hopeful for the future.

9/10

The Round-Up: Miklós Jancsó

Originally published at Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear in 2010.

In the hot sun on the Hungarian puszta, a prison stands silently erect. Its walls are a piercing white that hurts the eyes and serves to contrast against the huddled mass of prisoners within. The men inside are silent. They refrain from even talking to themselves. They just stand around and avoid each others’ glances. Both prisoner and guards partake of this communion of silence. When the interrogators ask questions, they don’t raise their voices. When prisoners are executed, they don’t make a sound. In fact, the only things that can be heard are birds which are never seen. It’s strange, considering that there are not any trees in the area. Their sweet songs seem to mock the prisoners who appear to have accepted the fact that they will never leave the prison.

Such is the setting for this great Hungarian masterpiece. The fourth work of cinematic master Miklós Jancsó’s career, it firmly established him as a major player in international film. Made for only half a million $US, it is a marvel of cinematic simplicity. In addition to being an international success, it was well-received in Hungary, with over a million people seeing it. To put that in perspective, there were only about 10 million Hungarians at the time of this film’s release.

Key to its success is its powerful use of allegory. Jancsó would join the ranks of many other great Eastern European directors like Jiří Menzel and Miloš Forman in using the cinema as a metaphor for Soviet occupation and oppression. Just like the bumbling firemen in The Firemen’s Ball (1967) were a metaphor for a failed Soviet bureaucracy, the inmates and prison guards in The Round-Up have their real world counterparts. In fact, the entire film is an allegory for the failed 1956 Hungarian uprising against Russian-imposed Communism.

The setting is a prison camp for those suspected of following Lajos Kossuth who led the 1848 revolution again Habsburg rule in Hungary. The revolution crushed, all that remained were guerrillas. One such group, led by a highwayman named Sándor Rózsa, was captured. The trouble is, not all of the prisoners were rebels. Desperate to find out if Sándor is among those captured, the guards begin to employ devastating tactics against the prisoners in order to make them break their silence.

A breakthrough for the prison staff comes in the form of a murdered family of wealthy shepherds named the Kis Balogs. They were strangled in their home and had many of their sheep stolen. Suspecting one of the inmates to be involved, the guards pick out one named János Gajdar. Why they pick him is never explained, but the guards have an aura about them that suggests that they know more than they let on. Maybe they already know that he is guilty, but they want him to confess. Whatever the reason behind their selection, their methods of gaining a confession are brutal. They lock him in a cell with the dead bodies of the Kis Balogs and force him to wear the halter used to strangle them around his neck like a bowtie. It isn’t long before he confesses that he killed the Kis Balogs and three other people. The interrogator lays down a chilling ultimatum, “If at the earthworks, you find anyone more guilty than you, someone who killed more people, then you’ll be pardoned. We won’t hang you.”

It is unclear whether or not János can trust them to keep their word, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. He goes about betraying several prisoners secretly, hoping that they have killed enough people so he can be reprieved. Prisoners are brought out in long lines with sacks over their heads like human cattle so János can try and identify them. Eventually, János accidentally reveals his position as a traitor in front of the entire prison. He is then strangled one night in solitary confinement.

With their snitch gone, the guards employ other tricks to sniff out the conspirators. They quickly find out who murdered János. It turns out that they left a few cells unlocked the night that he was murdered, so finding the culprits was not a difficult job. But even after unmasking them, they are no closer to discovering the rebels. So they employ one of the greatest tricks that I have ever encountered. They allow the prisoners to form a military unit out of former bandits. After they have all been grouped together, they are informed that Sándor has been officially pardoned. The rebels begin cheering, thus revealing themselves. The guards are quick to tell the happy inmates that those who fought under Sándor will still face execution. The stunned men try to escape, but the guards trap them and begin shoving their heads into large sacks, trapping them once and for all.

Maybe I have portrayed this movie incorrectly. It is not a tight thriller that might be constructed by men like David Mamet. Instead, it is a powerful psychological drama. The prison evokes a system reminiscent of Kafka’s most paranoid dreams. One inmate is asked what they did to warrant being in prison. He replies, “They questioned me a lot and I said nothing.” It’s a system where the guards ask the prisoners questions that they already know the answers to. They have condemned people and yet they still interrogate them. Actions are carried out, but rarely explained. It is a movie where a look or a glance is more powerful than a line of dialogue. Take the film’s best scene as an example.

After János’ first attempt at turning in a criminal who has killed more people than he has fails, he quickly meets another inmate with a rap sheet longer than his. In his excitement, he runs to a door behind which guards are stationed and starts banging on it, screaming that he has found someone. When they ignore him, he turns around to see the prisoners staring at him. Not a line is spoken, but it is clear that every single person has figured out that he is a traitor. He starts to walk around the prison yard looking at the other inmates. We get close-ups of their faces which quickly look at him, and then look away. In every face is a look of disgust. Without a word of dialogue, we know János’ fate is sealed. It is in such details that The Round-Up excels. It is why after so many years The Round-Up maintains its power. While words and phrases may lose meaning over the ages, looks, subtle glances, and unspoken communications never lose their impact. It is a film that all peoples of all cultures could understand. The fact that it is in Hungarian is just incidental. It is a story of lies and betrayals, of feelings and not words. Whatever the real life incident that may have inspired it, The Round-Up could draw parallels to untold numbers of stories throughout the world. In this way, Miklós Jancsó has directed a film that is a timeless testament to the darker side of the human spirit. It is, in a sense, an eternal film.

8/10

The Shootist: Don Siegel

 Originally published at Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear in 2009.

John Bernard Books: I won't be wronged. I won't be insulted. I won't be laid a-hand on. I don't do these things to other people, and I require the same from them.

Vittorio De Sica, the genius director of Bicycle Thieves (1949) and Umberto D (1952), said that everyone can only play one role: themselves. This was one of the key attributes of Italian neorealism, a genre that strove to bring a new sense of authenticity and social awareness to the cinema. If De Sica is right, then I would like to nominate John Wayne as one of the greatest actors of all time.

Yes, yes, he DID play practically the same role in every movie he was ever in. But that was because we didn't want to see him do anything else. He WAS the West. He was THE cowboy. He represented everything that Americans wanted to be: tough, self-reliant, calm under pressure, and a good shot in a pinch. I read somewhere that when John Wayne enters a movie, it is like a force of nature. And I believe that. When John Wayne is on the screen, you have to force yourself to notice the other actors. His legend was forged from countless Westerns shot by some of the greatest directors who ever touched a camera. His look, his swagger, his voice, and his height has entered modern American folklore. Famous quotes such as “Pilgrim” have entered the American lexicon. A true man's man, he represented the ultimate of masculinity. John Wayne's name has become synonymous with the American image of the cowboy.

But why? The best answer would be that when John Wayne played a role, it felt authentic. When he scowled, we felt like it was John Wayne the man, not John Wayne the actor, who was angry. Whatever he did on camera felt believable. This is probably because John Wayne didn't really act. His characters were a projection of his persona. In real life, John Wayne WAS a tough old sonuvabitch. He frequently turned down roles that he thought were un-American. He also turned down roles that he didn't believe were family friendly. When Mel Brooks originally offered the part of the Waco Kid in Blazing Saddles to Wayne, he famously said that he couldn't because it was too dirty. But, he added, he would be first in line to see it. When we see Wayne make moral decisions in his movies, there was always the impression that the real John Wayne would make the same one in real life. He was a staunch conservative. But he didn't do so out of disdain for the poor or because he was particularly fond of the free market. John Wayne truly believed in self-reliance and the virtue of hard work. I wonder what he would think of the Republican Party today?

But no matter. The fact remains that John Wayne is one of America's most cherished celebrities and icons. He has starred in many of the greatest Westerns ever made. But one of his best movies is usually forgotten about. It was his last role, and quite frankly, his most personal. He may have won the Oscar for True Grit (1969), but the role that Wayne should have won the Academy Award for was as John Bernard Books in The Shootist. Why is it his most personal role? Well, there are many reasons, but I suppose that they would only make sense within the context of the movie's plot. This will be difficult, because I could easily do a shot-by-shot analysis of this film and have something important and meaningful to say concerning each shot. That is one of the magnificent aspects of this movie: it plays like a visual book. It is drenched in metaphors and symbols that most moviegoers would take for granted. Every line has an important meaning to it. Every prop has some symbolic or thematic property to it. Every character is a composite of ideas and mannerisms, instead of just your typical Hollywood archetypes. It only adds to the power of the film that these themes, symbols, and metaphors all play a duel role: one for the character of J. B. Books, and the other for John Wayne in real life.

The plot in a nutshell: J. B. Books is the last of the famous Old West gunmen. He goes to Carson City, Nevada where he gets diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer. So, he moves into a boarding home to live out his last few days in peace. However, the past will not leave him alone. Well, now I should mention that at the time of filming, John Wayne was sick from stomach cancer. Well, that's not quite true. He had previously suffered from cancer that resulted in him having his left lung and several ribs removed. Three years after this film was made, the cancer returned. But he was still sick. And it showed. When we see him on his horse riding into town, we can't help but think that he looks tired. Turns out that the man who jumped onto horses in Stagecoach (1939) now has to ride sitting on a red pillow that he “stole form a whorehouse.” He goes into the doctor's office of his old friend, E.W. Hostetler, played here by a similarly ancient Jimmy Stewart. When he tells Wayne that he has “a cancer” the look of pain and disappointment that enter Wayne's face is so real that it hurts us. We know that at some point in his life, a real doctor told him that he was going to die of cancer. And now, he is given the same diagnosis in a movie. Wayne isn't the only one suffering in this scene. We too are suffering. We suffer at the thought of Books dying because that means that Wayne will die.

But in true Wayne style, he just shoves off after the diagnosis. He goes to rent a room from “Bond” Rogers, played here by Lauren Bacall. From the minute we see the two in the same frame, we know that they are destined to be together. The fact that she can't stand him at first is only an obstacle in our eyes, because we know, Wayne ALWAYS gets the girl. When their relationship begins to develop, and the truth about his condition is revealed, her pain seems real too. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Lauren Bacall's first husband, the incomparable Humphrey Bogart, died of cancer as well. I like to think that when Bacall acted sad over the character Books' illness, she was sad for two reasons. One, because of dear old Bogie. Two, because in real life she knew that John Wayne would suffer the same way. Keep this in mind when watching the scene where they say their final goodbyes. It really adds a new layer of meaning to an already powerful scene. But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. I haven't even mentioned Bond's son, Gillom Rogers, played by Ron Howard. My friends, he gets his own paragraph.

Simply put, Ron Howard plays the audience. No, seriously. His reactions to the appearance of John Wayne are the same that we have. When he discovers that J. B. Books, he can't believe it. Then, he freaks out. He is amazed and delighted to have such a man living in his house. He even mimics an old-school shootout with Moses Brown (Scatman Crothers), one of the local townsfolk. They fake shooting each other and falling over. Think about this for a minute. Wouldn't you act the exact same way if you knew that John Wayne was in your house? Eventually, he asks Books for a shooting lesson. And then, finally, he begins to see Wayne as a father figure. How many young boys have dreamed that John Wayne could be their father?

Ah, but I'm forgetting the plot. He is approached by several people who want to take advantage of his death. A newspaper man wants to get the “real story” about his life and sell it. An old lover comes back and tries to marry him. It turns out that all she wants is his name so that she can write a tell-all about him and label it “By Mrs. Books.” He harshly rejects them all. His rational: it's his death. It doesn't belong to anyone else. He won't let anybody take advantage of him. Of course, throughout the course of the film, he meets other people who try to take advantage of him in a more passive aggressive way. The barber hordes his hair clippings so that he can sell it. The undertaker tries to trick Wayne into letting him become a display so that he can charge people to see his body after he dies. Of course, Wayne sees through this. He asks for a small stone with a simple inscription. Nothing else.

All the while, Wayne begins to act suspiciously. The doctor prescribes him a bottle of laudanum for the pain. The bottle is only a temporary dosage. And yet, when people ask if he will refill it, he refuses. “This'll do,” he says. He gets his best clothes cleaned. He gets his hair cut. Slowly it dawns upon that he is preparing for something....Something which he doesn't intend to survive. We then remember something that Stewart said earlier. He said, “If I had your courage, I wouldn't die like that.” He is referring to his diagnosis of Wayne's cancer. He said that at the end, it will be so painful that he will scream. It looks like Wayne is going to go out on his own terms.

It turns out that Wayne wants to go out by cleaning out the town of its worst criminals. He invitees three of the town's worst criminals to a saloon where he engages in an epic battle. He is shot, but manages to kill all three. Alas, the barkeeper appears out of nowhere and shoots him in the back with a shotgun. Howard enters and dispatches the barkeeper with Wayne's pistols. Once again, Howard has acted out the fantasy of the audience. As Wayne dies, Howard throws the gun away. Wayne smiles and closes his eyes. His death is tragic. Not only for the fact that he was killed. It was the WAY that he was killed that was so significant. He was shot in the back. Shooting somebody in the back is one of the worst taboos in Western culture. It is a coward's method of killing. When he was told that he would have to shoot somebody in the back during the final shootout scene, Wayne said on the set of the movie, "I've made over 250 pictures and have never shot a guy in the back. Change it." And change it they did. Wayne may have been killed by a coward, but he didn't kill as one.

And that's why we love John Wayne. Even as a villain, he didn't shoot people in the back. I wish I could go on about this movie, but if I don't stop now, I will be rambling on about it for several more pages. I could explore so many other interpretations of The Shootist: Wayne vs. Hollywood in his twilight years, romantic Westerns vs. revisionist Westerns, even the classic struggle of old vs. new. But I'm concerned with just one thing. The Duke. The Man himself. The man who still rode horses after losing a lung. The man who never shot a man in the back. The man who was a scoundrel, saint, and gentleman all rolled into one. The American icon. The American hero. The American legend.

9/10

Sugar: Anna Boden, Ryan Fleck

Originally published at Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear in 2010.

I can literally point my finger to the exact moment when I knew that Sugar would be a great film. It was a scene about 20-30 minutes into the film where the protagonist, a Dominican baseball player named Miguel “Sugar” Santos, sits alone at a diner in the wee hours of the morning. Equipped with only a few clumsy words of English, Sugar tries to order eggs. The waitress asks how he would like them. Fried? Scrambled? Sunny side up? Not understanding, Sugar bows his head and quietly asks for the only item on the menu that he is familiar with: French toast. Having worked in the food industry for several years, I thought to myself, “A real waitress would understand and bring him eggs anyway.” And what do you know, she did! Gobsmacked, I sat and watched as she brought Sugar three different kinds of eggs and taught him how to order them. It was as if the film had literally read my mind.

It was right there that I realized that I was not watching an average film. From there on I started watching a little bit more closely. I was amazed to realize that not a single character, no matter how small, was one-dimensional or flat. These were real humans with genuine motivations, hopes, dreams, and fears. They were not just mannequins designed to spout dialogue or progress the plot. The people in this film were not characters, they were human beings.

Perhaps you may think that I am over-reacting. I disagree. As I look out over the state of popular cinema these days, I am disappointed to find that more and more films are content to let stereotypes and archetypes define their characters and their actions. It has gotten to a point where you can predict how characters will react to certain situations. But in Sugar, we don’t know what the characters will do next. They aren’t preordained to succeed or fail. Instead, we are given the pleasure of watching them interact with their world, make decisions, and develop.

We first meet our protagonist Sugar as a young Dominican baseball pitcher trying to get signed by an American baseball team. Dreaming of one day playing for the New York Yankees, Sugar attends a baseball training camp where he learns such essentials as how to say “You’re out” in English. But Sugar is not alone. He is surrounded by dozens upon dozens of other hopefuls with dreams of purple waves of grain. After all, to the young men of the Dominican Republic, getting signed represents one of the only guaranteed sources of upward social mobility. One wonders if half of them even enjoy playing baseball. For Sugar, the siren call of the United States is a piercing shriek. Miraculously, Sugar is invited to spring training in the states, courtesy of the Kansas City Knights.

It isn’t long before Sugar gets noticed for his devastating knuckle curve and is signed for a Single A affiliate in Iowa. The wide plains of Middle America are as foreign as the surface of Mars to Sugar, having grown up in crowded, urban squalor. Even more bizarre is his foster family who takes him in, the Higgins. Sugar would be hard pressed to find a more red-meat-and-potatoes, salt of the earth American family even if he dived into a Norman Rockwell painting. While they desperately try to be loving and accommodating, the language and cultural gap only serve to increase Sugar’s uncontrollable sense of isolation.

Indeed, in his pursuit of the American Dream, Sugar falls into the American Wasteland. He watches as one by one his friends are cut from the team and sent back to the Dominican Republic. When he injures himself during a game, a new Dominican pitcher almost immediately pops up to take his place. He finds himself attracted to the Higgin’s grand-daughter, who encapsulates everything that American women are renowned for. But her staunch conservative values prevent her from pursuing a pre-marital relationship. He comes to rely on drugs to give him the edge needed to overcome his injury and pitch.

Eventually, he realizes that he is living the American Nightmare. So one day he jumps off the team bus and travels to New York City. As he careens from one hotel to another, he slowly starts to rebuild his life, first taking a job at a dinner before gaining a better job as a carpenter. As he reconstructs his life from the ground up, he comes to realize true personal fulfillment. Is it any surprise that at the end of the film he picks up baseball again? He joins up with a league of immigrants who had all come to the States with dreams of playing baseball, only to be cut. He becomes one more face in the crowd of baseball’s rejects. And yet, in doing so he finds a new place in life. This time, he plays because he wants to.

Sugar is a true gem of a film. Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck, who both wrote and directed the film, based the film off the experiences of real Dominican immigrants who came to the States to play baseball. They said, “The stories we heard were so fascinating that it became what we were writing before we'd even decided it was our next project.” Perhaps that is why the universe of the film feels so real and alive. Or perhaps it has something to do with the design of the film itself. Much like Bresson and Ozu, the film seems interested in the character and inner humanity of its titular character. It seems to almost disregard the plot in preference of focusing on his inner struggles and turmoil. The film is more interested in how difficult it is for him to order breakfast in English than it is for him to succeed in the Minors. And much like Bresson and Ozu, Sugar is not afraid to take its time. The film is two hours long and let me tell say, you feel every one of those minutes. But that isn’t a bad thing. Here is a movie that is unafraid of boring its audience. It has a story to tell and it is going to tell it on its own terms. If you don’t like it then you can leave.

But for those of you who wish to stay and watch, you will be treated to one of the greatest films of the last ten years that nobody has seen. Perhaps its unwillingness to compromise its artistic integrity in favor of audience-oriented flair and style was responsible for its poor distribution. Outside of a few film festivals, almost nobody has heard of it. And that is a true shame. Sugar hearkens back to a time when directors and storytellers actually had something that they wanted to say. It single-handedly defies the concept that they don’t make them like they used to.

8/10

Changeling: Clint Eastwood

Originally published at Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear in 2010.

Arthur Hutchins: 'Night, mommy.
Christine Collins: [yelling] Stop calling me that! I'm not your mother! I want my son back! Damn you!

The first time that I saw Changeling was with my father in a Regal 22 cinema. We were both excited to see it. Well, truth be told, I was excited because it was a Clint Eastwood production. My father needed a little convincing. But after I showed him another one of Eastwood's projects, a little Western named Unforgiven (1992), he consented. Two and a half hours later, we both emerged from the theater visibly shaken. I cautiously asked my father what he thought about it. “It was great,” he told me, “I'm glad that I saw it. But I never want to see it again.” I totally understood what he meant. Truth be told, neither one of us were expecting what Clint Eastwood had in store for us. It was a disturbing masterpiece. It was disturbing because it told the horrifying true stories of a woman being violated by an all powerful police department and one of the worst serial killers in American history. It was a masterpiece because every frame, every shot, and every scene was flawlessly and brilliantly executed. And yet, it was largely ignored. It received a couple of Academy Award nominations, but no wins. It was in the lead for the Palme d'Or at the 61st Cannes Film Festival, but lost because two of the judges refused to believe that such an incredible story was true. Critics didn't know how to handle it. Audiences didn't know how to react to it. And so, it was largely forgotten in the light of Eastwood's other 2008 project, Gran Torino. But it shouldn't have. Changeling was the natural successor to a long line of powerful Eastwood dramas like Mystic River (2003), Million Dollar Baby (2004), and his twin war epics: Flags of Our Fathers (2006) and Letters from Iwo Jima (2006). In all of those movies, the story centered on male characters. Even Million Dollar Baby was told from the point of view of the main male character. But not Changeling. No, Changeling focuses its story on a woman.

The woman in question is Christine Collins (played by a stunning Angelina Jolie), a single mother living in 1928 Los Angeles. She lives alone with her nine-year old son Walter. They share a difficult, but ultimately happy, life. Times are not easy for single women in this day and age, nor is it easy for their children, as Walter is picked on at school for not having a father. But they love each other and support each other as time goes by. Then, one day the unthinkable happens: Walter goes missing. She frantically calls the Los Angeles Police Department who tell her that it is protocol to not investigate missing children cases until 24 hours go by. Their reason is that the children usually show up on their own. But the day turns into months as Walter does not come home. Finally, one day, the police department, led by Chief James E. Davis (Colm Feore) tells her that they have found her son and that they will be reunited at the train station. This event is a perfect opportunity to score some good press for the LAPD, who has come under fire as one of the most corrupt organizations in America. As Reverend Gustav Briegleb (played by John Malkovich who at times seems to be channeling his performance as Tom Ripley from Ripley's Game) points out on his radio broadcasts, the LAPD is involved with gambling, prostitution, bootlegging, and extra-judicial punishment. By extra-judicial punishment, it means that they have a “Gun Squad” who has no reservations to ruthlessly kill anyone who gets in their way. So maybe it isn't any surprise that at the train station, the boy that they give Christine is not her son. Oh, the boy claims that he is her son and the police department claim that he is her son, but Christine knows better. He is several inches shorter than her Walter. Also, in one particularly poignant scene, she discovers that he is circumcised. Her Walter wasn't. But this means bad press, so Captain J.J. Jones, the head of the LAPD's Juvenile Division, pressures Christine to take him home on what he calls a “trial basis.”

The rest of the movie details her struggle against the LAPD who see Christine as a threat. They send over doctors and specialists to confirm that he is, in fact, Walter Collins. All, of course, are under contract with the police office. Although they cannot come up with any reasonable explanations as to why Walter has suddenly shrunk and changed appearance, they are certain that he is Walter. But Christine doesn't back down. She checks with her son's dentist and teacher to confirm that this boy isn't her son. Even Reverend Briegleb comes to her aid. But the police will not tolerate her going to the press and exposing their mistake. So they have her committed to a mental hospital under Code Twelve. This is a system that the police have worked out so they can dump their “undesirables” into an institution where they won't be a liability anymore. It turns out that almost all of the women there are Code Twelves who happened to fall into the LAPD's bad graces. As fellow inmate Carol Dexter tells her, “The more you try to act sane, the crazier you start to look. If you smile too much, you're delusional or you're stifling hysteria. And if you don't smile, you're depressed. If you remain neutral, you're emotionally withdrawn, potentially catatonic.” Indeed, one of the film's most intense scenes is when she meets with the resident doctor who gives her a psychological evaluation. Everything she says is twisted by the doctor into a reason why she is crazy. Notice how early in the interview when he asks her questions, everything she says is met with a terrifying scratch on the doctor's notepad. The sound and motion becomes maddening as she slowly realizes that she is doomed. Such subtlety is rare in today's films, but Eastwood pulls it off with devastating power.

But Walter Briegleb and his church bust her out. In fact, with the help of the best attorney in the city, who decides to do the case pro bono, all of the women who were institutionalized under Code Twelve are released. And so they begin to fight back against the LAPD. But this isn't the only story being told. While Christine faces the horrors of the asylum, the film cuts to a ranch in Wineville, Riverside County where a young boy named Sanford Clark is arrested by the police. As he is being prepared for deportation back to Canada, he suddenly wants to speak to a police officer. He confesses that while he was at the ranch, his uncle, Gordon Northcott, forced him to help kidnap and murder around twenty young boys. From here on, a manhunt is launched for Gordon, leading to his arrest and trial.

The movie handles both plot threads with precision. But where it really shines is when the two collide in a brilliant scene that alternates between two court cases: the city council hearing of LAPD abuse against Christine and Gordon's trial. Because Gordon could be responsible for Walter's disappearance, Christine attends his trial while her own is in recess. The two trials operate in tandem: both present evidence at the same time, both reach verdicts at the same time. To reveal the ending would be to spoil the movie, but suffice to say it is difficult to classify. It isn't necessarily a happy ending, but it isn't a sad ending, either. But it does provide a measure of closure and finality that such a demanding movie entails.

I like to think that as directors age, their work gets better. I earnestly believe that Akira Kurosawa's Ran (1985) is his best film, even though most believe that Seven Samurai (1954) was his best. But when I watch Ran, I see the result of a master craftsman who has devoted his entire life to his trade. Each frame seems as inspired and perfectly designed as every brush-stroke from a Monet. In Changeling, we see a film that could only have been made by a director such as Clint Eastwood, who has been an actor for over fifty years and a director for over thirty. It is a testament to his power that some of the most devastating scenes are the most subtle. For instance, the scene where Sanford confesses to the police that he has murdered twenty kids. The officer hands him a group of pictures of various missing boys. Slowly, he begins to put down each one on the table. With each photo, the officer begins to grow paler. Crying, he ends up putting down almost all of the photos. He is responsible for them. A lesser director would have ordered a dramatic scene with a tearful confession. But not here. The boy just puts down the photos and whimpers.

There are many scenes that I have left out that deserve mention: Christine's preliminary examination at the institution, the chicken coup escape scene, Gordon's hanging. However, I am not sure if I could ever stop ranting about them. All I can say is that each of them are flawlessly constructed. That is part of Changeling's charm: they don't make movies like this anymore. Maybe that is why it didn't do very well in theaters. Maybe we have forgotten how to react to good movies. No, not good, but great movies. Because that is what Changeling is, a great movie.

Now, before I finish this review, I'd like to take a moment to talk about Angelina Jolie. I think that she is a great actor and her performance in this movie is exceptional. But I feel sorry for her. I feel sorry that she picks such bad movie roles. As I look at her screen credits on wikipedia, I am overcome by the number of cheesy action flicks that she has starred in: Wanted (2008), Beowulf (2007), Mr. and Mrs. Smith (2005), Alexander (2004), Lara Croft: Tomb Raider (2001), and Gone in Sixty Seconds (2000). There is a reason why she won an Oscar for Girl, Interrupted (1999): she is a genuinely talented actress. If she picked better roles, she could easily go down as one of the world's greatest actresses. One can only hope.....

9/10

C.S.A.: The Confederate States of America: Kevin Willmott

Originally published at Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear in 2010.

Children: I pledge allegiance to the flag of the Confederate States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all white people, Amen.

I find that one of the hardest things to write about, at least in the format of a review, is comedy. After all, different people have different perspectives on what works in terms of humor. So how do I acknowledge a great comedy without isolating its potential audience? Well, probably the best way is to limit myself to three descriptive categories: premise, execution, and individual examples of humor. For instance, let me describe a scene from the 2004 mockumentary C.S.A.: The Confederate States of America. It shows a bunch of cowboys driving some doggies in front of a classical American Western landscape. Patriotic music is playing, wild horses are galloping, and cowboys wearily ride into the frame. Suddenly, a narrator speaks, “It’s a time when horses come down from the high pasture, and a man prepares for another tough winter. It’s time…for a Niggerhair: An American cigarette.” Now, I wonder how many of you laughed at that image and how many of you got offended. Now, I wonder how many of you would change your reactions to this scene if I told you that it is a fake commercial in a fake documentary about the history of the United States if the Confederacy won the Civil War?

I imagine that some of you instantly found it funnier with the added context. Of course, others will probably be even more offended. But that’s the nature of comedy. So in describing this movie, I will try to limit myself to why it works instead of how it works. It works because it takes a relatively simple concept, a distorted time-line, and runs with it to an extreme. It doesn’t just predict the future, it extrapolates it. No matter how ludicrous things may become, there is always a little nagging feeling in our minds that make us feel like it could really happen.

So how does the Confederacy win the Civil War? Well, because they get France and England to support their cause. In reality, this isn’t very far-fetched. The only reason why France and England eventually supported the North was because of their military victories late in the war. So, we are given a historically plausible reason for why the South would win. But, what next? Well, this is where the fun starts. Instead of just skipping ahead to the 20th Century, we are given a retrospective on post-war American history. How does the South deal with Northern abolitionists? By passing an outrageous tax on Northerners that can be voided with the purchase of one piece of human “chattel.” Where do all the abolitionists and freed slaves go? To Canada. What happens to America after they have been reconstructed? They invade Mexico and South America in order to expand the American Empire. What about the Stock Market crash? They reinstate the slave trade, driving stocks up and replenishing the economy. See a pattern here?

Kevin Willmott, a film professor from the University of Kansas, has done a remarkable job creating a compelling documentary. There are fake historians called in to explain important events in American history. It’s important to mention that C.S.A. is meant to be a British documentary within the film. How else could such controversial topics be so readily explored? After all, dissent has never been very appreciated in post-War America. All religious groups with the exceptions of Christians, Catholics (as the narrator points out was only accepted as “Christian” after a lengthy debate), and Jews (for their contributions during the Civil War) are outlawed. Abolitionist literature is banned. You are either with the Confederacy, or against it.

Scattered throughout the film are scenes from fake movies that have supposedly come out during this alternate time-line. One of the best is a silent film “directed” by D.W. Griffith about the capture of Abraham Lincoln after the surrender of the North. Willmott should receive major credit for perfectly mimicking so many different styles of film making. Even the period acting is dead on: exaggerated during the silent era, melodramatic in the 40s, and bolder in the 50s and 60s. Even his stab at the horror genre with I Married an Abolitionist works perfectly.

The film is broken up into several sections, each divided by commercial breaks. A majority of the humor comes from these commercials. Often, we laugh at the sheer audacity of some of the advertised products, like the aforementioned Niggerhair tobacco or Sambo motor oil. The mascots are frequently actors in blackface or real “chattel” who go around with a smiling face. But there are more to these commercials than sheer shock value. After the documentary proper is finished, we are told that a majority of the products advertised in the film are based off real life products. Even Niggerhair cigarettes were real. In fact, it was only recently that they changed the name. This brings up what is probably this film’s greatest strength: underneath all of the humor is a constant undertone of dead seriousness.

Allow me to explain. One of the many “experts” who are brought in is an old man. He talks about the wars in South America and beyond. And yet, he seems to be enjoying these stories. Even when the Americans were getting whipped in South America he seems to be getting great pleasure from them. And then, he smiles and says it: “It taught them to stay in their place.” And then, it becomes clear as day. For a nation to condone slavery for two and a half hundred years, it would have to condone racism, too. The belief that all men are NOT created equal would have to be prevalent. And that is when the film really begins to shine. It doesn’t just make you laugh; it makes you feel sick to your stomach by the reality that this is who we could have become. When we hear that in this alternative reality Abraham Lincoln is a convicted war criminal exiled to Canada, we gasp. When we discover that with the influx of black immigrants into Canada caused them to give birth to rock and roll and win more gold medals in the Olympics, we are startled by our indignation. Those are OUR accomplishments.

You see, Willmott has created something more than just a funny documentary. He has created a testament to black accomplishments in America. I remember watching it and thinking, “Thank God that this isn’t true. Thank God that we ended slavery. Thank God that we became the nation we did.” It makes the audience more thankful for the mixing pot that America has become. More than a cautionary warning, C.S.A. is a celebration. A celebration of freedom. A celebration of free speech. And a celebration of how far we as a nation have come, and how close we came to missing it altogether.

9/10

Blue Steel: Kathryn Bigelow

Kathryn Bigelow's Blue Steel is a decent film. But it would have been a great one if the characters weren’t so deliberately idiotic that you root AGAINST them. It’s rare to see a film start off SO GOOD only to collapse under the weight of plot holes, non-existent character motivations, and unbelievable narrative twists in the second act. The film is about Megan Turner, a rookie New York City policewoman who, on her first night, confronts and kills a criminal holding up a grocery store. However, the criminal's gun was never recovered. Why? Because it was picked up by Eugene Hunt, a mentally ill commodities trader who uses it to go on a killing spree. But he also develops an unhealthy obsession with Turner, even going so far as to date her. The moment where Turner discovers Hunt's true identity, the plot loses all credibility. It's obvious that Bigelow is trying something very ambitious in this film: create a kind of Silence of the Lambs intrigue between policewoman and killer. But it is executed so poorly and inconsistently that we aren't enraptured by the tension, but by the characters' stupidity. If I start describing all of the plot holes here, I won't be able to stop until I write a 5,000 word essay. But here's the biggest one: why doesn't the police chief believe Turner's story that Hunt is a killer when all of her friends and family either end up dead or attacked and Hunt is ALWAYS NEARBY AT THE TIME OF THE ASSAULTS? I think Bigelow may have been trying to make a commentary about how women professionals aren't taken seriously by their male bosses, but it doesn't work. Even if a character is irrational, there has to be a RATIONAL explanation for their irrationality. But the characters in Blue Steel aren't given decent explanations for why they act the way they do. We are only given half-realized hints and suggestions that seem like relics from past screenplay drafts. This is just proof that Bigelow needs to stop writing her own films. And, thankfully, she seems to have realized this all on her own over a decade ago.

6/10

Above the Law: Andrew Davis

Do you know why I love early Steven Seagal movies? It's not because they're full of action and great fight scenes. It's because they are some of the only films of its kind from the late 80s, early 90s that prominently feature minorities as more than just villains or love interests. These films dive into the American immigrant experience of the late 20th century. Seagal and his co-stars delve into ethnic slums, ghettos, and neighborhoods even when there aren't action beats planned. Seagal is frequently multilingual, speaking both English and a handful of other languages used by immigrant communities. It's a fascinating development in the action film hero archetype: foreign villains (particularly from Europe) were everywhere, but they always spoke English and interacted with American culture, at least to a certain extent. But the Seagal persona realized that to truly bring justice to foreign communities, he needed to approach them on their terms: learn their language, learn their customs, learn their struggles. Nowhere is this better demonstrated than in Andrew Davis' Above the Law, Seagal's debut film. Sergeant plays Nicolo "Nico" Toscani, an ex-CIA agent who now works for the Chicago Police Department. When a drug ring (led by one of his former CIA superiors) starts bombing Catholic churches to kill priests and congressmen who could harm their business, Toscani snaps into action. There are two scenes in particular that really drive home the progressive nature of Above the Law: when Toscani and his partner, Detective Jackson (Pam Grier in a chameleon-esque performance), are asked by a local Catholic priest to help a group of illegal South American refugees living in their church's basement, they agree and don't turn them in to the authorities. They recognize the struggle these (illegal) immigrants are facing. The second is when Detective Jackson is inevitably shot by a criminal near the end. In a regular film, the ethnic partner would be dead meat. But Jackson reveals that she was wearing a vest and will be alright. Let me re-iterate that: in an 80s action movie, the ethnic partner isn't killed to create dramatic tension. Don't let the presence of Seagal confuse you: Above the Law is more than just a great action film.

8/10