"What's Up Doc?": A Review Of 1950's Harvey

Harvey

Directed by Henry Koster

Starring: James Stewart, Josephine Hull, Victoria Horne, Peggy Dow, Jesse White, Charles Drake, Cecil Kellaway, William H. Lynn

Grade: B

In order to relate to this film you must first regress to your childhood; did you at any time have an imaginary friend? If the answer is yes, and said friend was a six-feet-three-inches tall rabbit called Harvey, there is much in this film for you. If not, and the idea of a forty-two year old man talking to an invisible mythical creature is somehow not drawing on your experiences, then never fear, Harvey has enough bite and wisdom to make for raucously fun viewing.

Elwood P. Dowd, and his hearty feelings for friend Harvey, drive his sister Veta up the wall, and force her into a difficult decision about the future of their lives together. This leads to a frantic, sprawling chase, with many others being drawn into the family's troubles. Amidst this talk about Harvey, Henry Koster resists the temptation to dress a tall man in a bunny outfit. Harvey remains invisible for the entire film, only depicted visually once, in a portrait of Elwood and the rabbit together. By not drawing attention to the fantasy elements of the film, Elwood's reverence and insistence upon Harvey is conceded as a natural fixture of a worrisome equilibrious state. This isn't "normal" behaviour, but it is normality for Elwood and his family, who appear to have lived with the situation as it is for long enough.

For all of the implications about mental illness and the need to understand it, Harvey's presence as a legitimate figure is introduced too early, and the film's overall rationalisation of him instigates inconsistencies within the narrative. The problem therein lies in Veta's journey to the sanitarium to have her brother committed. The long appointment she has with the chief psychiatric advisor Dr. Sanderson encompasses hysterical remonstrations of how she simply can't cope with her brother's wild affection for a transparent creature, how it prevents Veta from entertaining guests, and her daughter Myrtle Mae from attracting suitors. The increasingly erratic tone of Veta leads the Doctor to assess that she herself is the insane one. During Veta's initial discussion with the Doctor she confesses to having sometimes seen Harvey, allaying the impression that she believes that he exists. Veta's turmoil in deciding between her brother's happiness and her social status is halted by her wrongful imprisonment, which feels as much of a punishment for her attempted actions as it does a trigger for the film's galavanting antics to be thrust into life. The regret that filters through Josephine Hull as Veta takes shape with every disappearing second of Elwood's impending hospitalisation. She shows such canny ability in using her roundabout hesitancy to demonstrate the impetuous nature of Veta as a loveable fusspot, in her way trying to please everybody even though she really can't. I don't think that Harvey creates enough of a predicament for Veta to allow us to understand why she intends to commit Elwood for believing in someone she knows herself is actually there, even if Hull does an excellent job in making this fact seem like something that Veta is desperate to banish to her sub-conscious.

As Elwood, James Stewart surveys the ratpack of unnecessary commotion before him like an infant watching older children play games he can't quite understand yet. He suppresses the wide-eyed goofiness of his persona to accomodate Elwood's studious pleasantries, since, after all, he is the most capable of seeing past the surface of life. Elwood never once speaks out-of-turn and yet exists to be out-of-turn, and Stewart recognises that the role calls for efficiency and dynamism as much as it does neutrality, encouraging understanding without appearing to, even though you sense that he needs people to like him to survive.

Harvey occasionally takes on this more self-important role as an indictment of how the mentally ill are treated, as a social embarassment that can only be remedied by imprisonment and pill-popping. While John Cromwell's Caged was dealing with the prison system in a much more damning fervour that year, Harvey rather shrewdly skirts about the issue by portraying Elwood as the most utterly harmless, easy-going, pleasant person you could ever wish to meet. It's an easy way of gaining sympathy for Dowd, and works mainly because the film's absence of a fiercely opposing, authoritarian character allows for everyone in Harvey to interact on a similar level. As Capra's You Can't Take It With You reinforced the importance of family and the triviality of finance, Harvey sends a message that generosity, kindness, and imagination supercede social reputation and traditional views of "normality". It reads as a screwball view of stability as culturally-rigid, cruel even, and a celebration of people's weaknesses as an integral, unashamed part of their character.

"Do Unto Others" is an old religious philosophy, but a lovely one, even more prominent than the ears of a giant imaginary rabbit, or Josephine Hull's interesting collection of hats. The beguiling energies of Harvey's stage heritage often assume the task of hurtling us towards an accepting conclusion, but I feel keenly subserviant towards its demands to be liked, since what it offers is so ultimately special. Harvey owes more to the nuances of James Stewart's rich portrayal than some will attest, but there's much to be said for its inimitable brand of faith.

The Killer Inside Me (Winterbottom, 2010)

The Killer Inside Me

Directed by Michael Winterbottom

Starring: Casey Affleck, Jessica Alba, Kate Hudson, Simon Baker, Ned Beatty

Grade: B –

It’s not often that a film comes along with the mindset of a Black Widow, eager to lure you in, chew you up, and spit you out as if it were second nature. Michael Winterbottom’s “The Killer Inside Me” is that edacious arachnid, a primed provider of psychopathy in its most lurid form, and has unsurprisingly come under criticism for its reluctance to succumb to genre expectation, and a fiercely obstinate approach towards character analysis. Assigned to play another guy by the name of Ford, Casey Affleck’s Lou is the Deputy Sheriff of a small American settlement, who gets embroiled in an affair with the prostitute he’s supposed to be ridding the town of. As the title may suggest, Lou’s indiscretions don’t cease at adultery, and soon he has the blood of more than one unfortunate soul on his hands.

One of the accusations levelled at Killer is that it glorifies violence towards women, and it’s true that Lou’s intertwined sexuality and aggression is a dominant feature. His first scene with prostitute Joyce (Alba), for instance, ends in sexual masochism, which I imagine had a fair few rolling their eyes. I’m inclined to believe that this scene asserts the film’s observations about sexual dependency, the idea of violence as erotic and indulgent. Joyce’s expectations of Lou are so inherently languid that she projects her self-objectification as a means of survival, as a confirmation of her ideas about what/who men are supposed to be. In one scene “The Killer Inside Me” says more about prostitution and its psychosexuality – about a secondary character no less – than something like 1971’s Klute does in its entire running time – and that’s without the likes of a knockout performance by Jane Fonda to anchor it. It does, however, contain a menacing turn from Casey Affleck, who digs deep to give a performance that mutates on a fine, deadening scale. The moment at which his feelings of solemnity, realisation, and relief at the death of his mistress confluence into a look that spells smugness and dread all-at-once, one of the most insightful, brilliant scenes Killer has on its roster. He even deals excellently with the mirroring of his characters statuses as husband and bachelor, more attuned to his environment than he is to any one of the people he has a relationship with. Just what, or who, is this man connected to?

Killer is astute even as, and perhaps despite of, its perpetually enforced impression of attraction as a more powerful proposition than morality or lifestyle. The ideological implications of the film are so thoroughly inordinate; Winterbottom won’t punish his character or even disguise his behaviour as a parodied brand of meticulous villainy, the like of which defined American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman. Lou’s spurned redemption leaves a bitter taste, but as an audience should we even be expecting redemption? By and large, the characters associated with Lou – from his girlfriend, to his mistress, to his colleagues – allow him to indulge in sex and violence by offering scant challenge to his authority. One wonders whether the lenience towards his faults somewhat obliges us to attempt identification with the man, as if there are swathes of doubt beneath his angular, imposing surface that are otherwise muted. Does his behaviour derive from an uncontrollable hindrance? Is he a passive component of the dastardly, in conflict with a true nature?

“The Killer Inside Me” is deceptive to a degree because the first-person narrative voice-over of Lou, and its cognizant approach towards moral ambiguity, intersperses the film with initial anecdotal fever. Affleck delivers Lou’s plotting so matter-of-factly, rattling off the line “I knew I had to kill him” as if he were discussing the weather, or about to perform the most minimal of misdemeanours. The filtering tone of the first act encourages us to gauge Lou’s behaviour and attempt to understand it, before the first gruesome act of violence he partakes in dismisses ideas that Lou’s crimes come from circumstantial necessity. For a while the film plays the part of an infidel in a bad romance, alienating us with Lou’s violence, but encouraging us to hold onto his day-to-day commentary as the ounce of humanism that prevents him from being totally inaccessible, even suggesting he might eventually be rescuable. The implication that Lou can, to some extent, step back from his own actions is cynically contravened by his late act of betrayal towards a character close to him. Deliberate in its intent to stir, the antagonism of this technique debilitates the film’s impact as an assessment of psychosis, and Winterbottom’s late move to make his provocation more brazen and cynical fails to temper the feeling that “The Killer Inside Me” has lost its narrative drive a good half-hour before the credits come up.

Many of a film’s most rewarding features can manifest themselves in retrospect. We should be more suspicious of Lou’s strange avoidance of discussing drive and emotion, of his lack of real motive, but Winterbottom does such a good job in distracting from what should essentially be clear to see. It reads more of a reflection of mainstream cinema as a moral crusade to say that people don’t take lightly to investing their evening into a character that’s been built up as an anti-hero, but who ends the film in such a blaze of unfathomable disgrace. If the film ends with the presence of a messy inferno, it isn’t without a hint of irony. “The Killer Inside Me” challenges as much as it manipulates, and on balance redeems itself more than the killer it depicts.

1952, Year in Review: 5 Fingers

5 Fingers

Directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz

Starring: James Mason, Danielle Darrieux, Michael Rennie, Walter Hampden

Grade: B+

I've always thought of James Mason as the Bond that never was, since he ably possesses all of the characteristics attributed to 007 (suave sophistication, dynamism, fiendish charm, an air of invincibility). Had the franchise began a decade earlier it's very possible that he may have shaken and stirred a few continental bikini babes, but as it stands his foray into the world of espionage appears to begin and end with Joseph L. Mankiewicz's less-gratuitous "5 Fingers".

The opening credits of "5 Fingers" have the typical allusory grandeur of classic movies, but as they rest there is a momentary pause before the film for a courtroom prologue proclaiming that the events we are about to see are Adapted From a Biographical Novel. It's a self-important feature that barely litters "5 Fingers" but nonetheless detracts from the cautionary fable-esqueness that courses through the picture. The early exchanges James Mason's Ulysses has with officials and the Countess Staviska (Darrieux) seeking to network, but stuffy, drab, and muted. Mankiewicz's film feels hung-up on historical detail and convention in a way that, say, Viva Zapata! refreshingly wasn't. Still, "5 Fingers" achieves more impact as a melodrama because of a more hard-line approach, and the production feels altogether Ophülsian for more than the presence of the charming Darrieux.

Nicknamed "Cicero" for his ability to elude, Ulysses is working for the British government during World War II, but secretly copying important documents and selling them to German fascists. Mason's self-assurance is perfectly suited to Ulysses' flawed sense of status and amoral approach to war and profession. The lack of moral conscience in the film doesn't mean to say that there isn't discussion of espionage as a viable career path, and if anything Mason makes Ulysses such a pillar of officiality that you somehow take him more seriously than a Tom Ripley, even though they essentially stand for the same thing. Mankiewicz refrains from aligning us with the British government, and so the gall of Ulysses is generally something to be observed and admired, his introspective plotting immersively played by Mason. "5 Fingers" is infinitely more successful when it becomes less intent on detail and more reverent of Mason's canny abilities, developing into a fascinating character study and a fable about what can happen to personalities that show such flagrant disregard for loyalty. The film is reliant and indulgent of Ulysses as a rogue and addresses the uncertainty of the period, the desire for control in whatever form.

One can assume that the title "5 Fingers" refers to an outstretched palm, an oath of allegiance to a monarch, republic etc. that is so clearly contravened by the film's cavalier anti-hero. Like Bogart's Rick in Casablanca, Cicero has no real allegiance or concern for the two sides of war that are bombing, shooting, slaying each other mere miles away. The elitist nature of both Rick and Ulysses in pursuing their own affairs - financial or otherwise - ambivalent, exploitative of war and the people embroiled in it, reads as some kind of denouncement of Nationalism as a forgotten entity. "Casablanca" may well be ahead of its time in that regard, but "5 Fingers" certainly emerged in an American period of crisis towards the fading sense of Nationalism, and in the midst of a desperate movement to retrieve it.

Ulysses' relationship with the Countess forms the only real context in which we can view him as anything other than selfish and single-minded. The nature of their tryst feels more business-orientated than romantic, but their shared capitalist mentality allows them to connect in a way they otherwise wouldn't have. It's a relationship that works because of the pair's clinical approach, and one that reveals Ulysses' complex for measuring his own success against others'. One almost feels he has come from an impoverished background and worked his way up to diplomacy (a la Joe Lampton in Room at the Top) as his thirst for competitiveness and a sense of victory seem to precede his own self-preservation. The film's final scene affords Mason the opportunity to demonstrate this, which he does with such wildly committed affectation.

"5 Fingers" appears to be both lamenting and critiquing the increasing hybridity of nationalism, an undoubted inflection of the American moment. Despite a laboured start it's difficult to imagine the film without either the deft touch of Mankiewicz or the delicious character work of Mason. Its sensibilities creep up on you like a concerto; watching someone lie, steal, and cheat has never been quite this much of a resonant, finally fleeting disgrace.

Academy Awards

Nominations:
Best Director: Joseph L. Mankiewicz
Best Writing, Screenplay: Michael Wilson

1952, Year in Review: The Narrow Margin

The Narrow Margin

Directed by Richard Fleischer

Starring: Charles McGraw, Jacqueline White, Marie Windsor, Gordon Gebert

Grade: C

In nearly every sense Richard Fleischer's thriller, "The Narrow Margin" is a poor man's Hitchcock, and when discussing it one can't help but draw comparisons to 1938's The Lady Vanishes, given that both films are set on board a train. It has all the makings of a great film, beginning with Mrs. Frankie Neal (a fiery Marie Windsor) and her fierce altercation with police. As the wife of a late gangster she has unwillingly agreed to testify against his shady assailants, but the harrowing murder of one of the men employed to escort her across the country puts the case (and her life) in danger. The planned train journey from Chicago to LA goes ahead, and Detective Seargeant Walter Brown (McGraw) has the unenviable job of being her bodyguard. The journey is further complicated, however, when Walter becomes drawn to one of the female passengers and her feisty son, and unwillingly makes them a target.

While Vanishes set a huge precedent for thrillers that could be funny, witty, breezy and deadly all-in-one, "The Narrow Margin" is less of a fledgling success than a pale imitation. There's little doubt that the film contains a substantial amount of intrigue, but as a 71-minute exercise there is precious little opportunity to flesh out either the characters or the narrative. It's a relatively tight little story, but one that can't ingratiate itself from better, similarly-plotted films, and remains rather slight in its approach to what had promised to be a much pulpier setup. The "narrow margins" in question are also scarce, as Fleischer is content to settle for faceless, standard, wandering villains to demonstrate the danger that beholds Mrs. Neal, and doesn't create many situations where we feel she's legitimately in danger enough to care. There are elements to engage with but these rarely feel dynamic, and as the film exhibits many of the hallmarks of a successful compact thriller (general mistrust, near-misses, a late twist) it neglects any real atmospheric flair and lacks the dolorous fervour essential to this form of genre picture.

Mrs. Neal as a character develops more importance as the film goes on so that the late deception of what or who she is doesn't come completely out-of-the-blue. Many harp on about Hitchcock's decision to show a flashback of an event in his 1950 film Stage Fright which proves never to have occurred, despite there being no attempt to allude to its authenticity at the time. Fleischer isn't quite on that level of directorial deceit, but while I appreciate how Hitchcock's decision affects our perceptions of the characters to valuable lengths, "The Narrow Margin" doesn't have any real desire to use its twist beyond effect, and this narrative shift is the only one that feels in any way a surprise.

"The Narrow Margin" is an easy watch, primarily because nobody feels overly concerned with bringing something new into an overly familiar arrangement. It's a shame because  the film's Oscar-nominated story and relative cult B-movie status hint at more ambition, grit, and bite than is on display. As light lunches go, "The Narrow Margin" is perfect to digest, but the promise it generates heavily outweighs the reward, and the result is sadly a stingy, forgettable production.

Academy Awards

Nominations:

Best Writing, Motion Picture Story

1952, Year in Review: Viva Zapata!

Viva Zapata!

Directed by Elia Kazan

Starring: Marlon Brando, Jean Peters, Anthony Quinn

Grade: B -

Despite the film's exclamatory title I have to confess that I was more curious than excitable about the prospect of "Viva Zapata!". Marlon Brando as a Mexican bandit hardly suggests savvy casting direction for a start, and the titular-championed Emiliano Zapata, an Indian revolutionary in turn-of-the-century Mexico, is someone I'm very unfamiliar with. It's to the film's credit that it manages to sustain interest in both Zapata and his compact political struggle against the smear campaign of a power-hungry President.

Upon reflection, as a self-made pariah Brando suits the part of such a dissident, but I'm not convinced that his presence is beneficial to "Viva Zapata!". Kazan is trying to portray Zapata as a lone wolf, a macho revolutionary, and a smouldering seductor (sometimes all at once) which in turn makes Brando's task rather difficult. Either way, his performance is a little too constrained and methodical for the often frenetic, celebratory lack of substance that filters through the picture. Method acting often works for Brando when he's in a serious piece, but "Viva Zapata!" is so wildly shifting from an historical drama to a flimsy romance to a booze-fuelled union of social outcasts that his character work can feel pedantic and fussy, as if he's approaching the material rather too seriously, or at least more so than Kazan.

While not uncommon for historical dramas to be diluted with romance and comedy, "Viva Zapata!" ploughs on with a flawed sense of generosity, badly setting up Emiliano's relationship with Josefa, a pallid-looking Jean Peters. Their strangely-played first scene together (in a church no less) exemplifies the token necessity of the film's romance. Emiliano and Josefa engage in a conversation where she berates him for being a tearaway fiend while he salivates over her like a wide-eyed puppy. As a local woman hung up on manners, protocol, and empty words, she's placed at the politically-opposing polar of Zapata's world, and surely represents everything he's eager to shun. Throughout this scene Peters and Brando unsurprisingly appear thoroughly disinterested in each other and the odd direction of their written interplay. After Zapata departs, Josefa's friend remarks that she likes the man (why we do not know), before Josefa herself makes the most unfathomable about-turn and agrees. As a way of constructing their predicament as a "couple" this immediately asserted to me that "Viva Zapata!" is made to be observed and not understood, which is a little unfair considering how adept it is at generating action and intrigue.

The presence of the effortlessly light and amiable Anthony Quinn does little to distill the aroma of frivolity in "Viva Zapata!", his trademark crowing an aide to the film's lively tone, and a nice parallel to the rumbunctious score from Alex North. Kazan manages to create a believeable core in Zapata's revolutionary community, who are all reverent of a man that never appears to be as emotionally involved as they. There is a history of portraying activism as passive escape, a stern look here, a swig of rum there, organisation as a secondary, trivial afterthought. Rather like my last 1952 foray into John Ford's The Quiet Man tradition is given higher status than mobility, since Zapata feels to be trying to resurrect a time that's since passed, resisting social and cultural transition. It can be argued then that Kazan's style is a trusty colleague to his subject's shun of infrastructure as a means of control, but to me unlikely, given that "Viva Zapata!" tends to project a single-minded view of the period. Carpetbagging and capitalism had saddled the small-town world with a choice between a seemingly permanent state of regression and a change in ideals and expectations. Nobody in "Viva Zapata!" has a great sense of nationalism, and the hypocrisy of Zapata's politics is demonstrated through overblown, carnivalesque drama and Shakespearian levels of tomfoolery. This is a story about people doing what they want, when they want, because they can.

"Viva Zapata!" is a film I'm more comfortable being a fan of than an advocate of, considering it doesn't really say an awful lot about either the man or the political situation of the moment. There appears to be an unimposed cap on what can be said, given the resounding view of its characters as a cavalcade of lost souls. It's ultimately apt that this film has its heralded title since it's a redundant championing of an utterly free-spirited disciple of life, so blithely unconcerned with reciting turning points in history, a carefree permanent struggle. To all intents and purposes "Viva Zapata!" really isn't an historical drama at all, but rather a daringly positive view of life in a mournful time for Mexico. It's just as well; the show must go on, and all that jazz.

Academy Awards

Wins:
Best Actor in a Supporting Role: Anthony Quinn

Nominations:
Best Actor in a Leading Role: Marlon Brando
Best Writing, Story and Screenplay
Best Art Direction
Best Music, Scoring of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture

Personal Canon: 21. À Bout de souffle (1960)

À Bout de souffle, aka Breathless (1960)

Directed by Jean-Luc Godard

Starring: Jean Paul Belmondo, Jean Seberg

Grade: A
**Read this retrospective review and others like it at InRo**

The opening line of dialogue in "Breathless" is "After all, I'm an arsehole", the first of one of many admissions by Jean-Paul Belmondo's Michel that he isn't the perfect guy to be in a relationship with. It's not the only confession on show; Jean-Luc Godard may have gotten more overtly political with age but his debut, as part of a trio of films dedicated to revolutionising French cinema, is well and truly throwing down the gauntlet. The restless bravado and adrenaline-fuelled antics of leading man Belmondo may lay claim to the film's enticing title, but only form part of the nature of "Breathless" as a crash course in rebellion.

After stealing a car, Michel proceeds to speed wildly through the French countryside, culminating in a police chase which he settles by shooting and killing a uniformed officer. He reacts to this with not an inkling of consideration or regret (Godard's cinematic style is often too brisk to allow for that anyway) and moves onto yet more shady dealings in the heart of Paris's criminal underworld. You get the impression that he isn't exactly dealing with the crème de la crème of the city's amoral hierarchy, as their exchange is a tad amateurish and very nearly foiled. Nevertheless, he hopes to obtain a wad of money from the venture and run away to Italy with an American woman he met in Nice three weeks previously.

Jean Seberg, as the American twenty year-old Patricia, knows that Michel is no good, despite all of her entertaining to the contrary, testing his commitment to her by questioning his feelings even though she knows that the preferred response isn't coming. At one point she even steps onto a balcony Juliet-style to illicit romantic affection from her would-be Romeo, only to be admonished and told to come down. For all of their flirting it becomes painfully obvious that Michel and Patricia are completely unsuited to each other. As well as being recklessly uncommitted to any one girl or goal, Michel is hopelessly unable to guage anyone else's feelings or opinions, content to measure their tryst through physical, sexual intimacy.

The feeling I get from "Breathless" is that Godard intended to create a more crime-based noir setup, with the forefront of the story coming from Michel's misadventures as a tearaway villain rather than his connection to Patricia. The film's sudden shift from the opening act of hooliganism to a more intuitive, romantic drama feels so sincere and immersive to be even slightly orchestrated, and their relationship is interrogated to the extent that it becomes so lucidly sadistic to watch. Godard's entry into the era of the French New Wave is undoubtedly antagonistic and provocative, mirroring the discord of filmmakers towards mainstream cinema at this time. Michel speaks directly at the camera, a vessel for the authorial intention of Godard as he spouts the lines, "If you don't like the countryside, if you don't like the mountains, if you don't like the city.... get stuffed". Godard's style of direction and its disregard for cinematic protocol defines "Breathless" to a point, but doesn't deter from what is a scintillating, profound study of a man and woman drawn together through primal necessity. Like Bertolucci later did with Last Tango in Paris, Godard instigates a situation where we aren't necessarily involved with either proponent of the romance, but captivated by their desire to live in the moment, regardless of their future life and loves.

Perhaps there's something about "Breathless" that appeals to my romantic sensibilities, the feeling that when you're young you aren't bound to commitment even though you secretly crave it, and that when tested loyalty counts for very little. One can mistake love for sex, physical attraction, the need to rebel, but when push comes to shove we know what we don't want. Michel, as a dreamer, has a very narrow concept of success and failure, and doesn't recognise that Patricia is keen enough on him to try and construct a more positive image of the guy as a loveable rogue. Patricia is most identifiable from an audience standpoint in her introspective infuriation with Michel, and thankfully Godard never pertains to iconise Michel as a matryr of anarchism, and if anything portrays France as a haven for exploitation and deceit.

The French New Wave is often characterised by the sharp cuts and jazzy accompinament that peppers "Breathless" and its superficial glamourisation of Paris and its citizens. "Breathless" bears many similarities to thirties crime dramas like John Cromwell's Algiers and Howard Hawks' blistering, original Scarface, in that it discourages empathy for its leading man, charting his downfall through a sprawling, neo-noir setup. Godard can get away with re-interpreting thirties gangster pictures/forties noir cinema as a desperate, tragic waste because Michel is such a profligated, disconcerting presence, so unconcerned with getting caught in the first place. Unlike Hawks' film "Breathless" isn't consciously delivering an impression of Michel so much as allowing Belmondo the freedom to be indefensibly fearless (the worst kind of courage?) and is a much more impacting feat because of this. That's perhaps why Patricia's pressured role as an informant to the police doesn't have the melodramatic caveat of a Raymond Chandler novel, and why the lack of real devotion towards any character or story strand works so well.

This Paris, like thirties Algiers, is a ruse for grubbier disgrace. The wrenching sadness about "Breathless" is in its confirmation of life as unfulfilled, and Michel's late proclaim that he's "had enough" sums up the film's dogged independence as an entity eager to shun rules as much as Michel himself. A rapid, slightly abrupt finale reads as if Godard had just put the phone down on a call that was somehow getting out of hand. He's said all he needs to say, and even though "Breathless" won't always amount to everyone's idea of polish, the result is so much meatier than the sum of its parts.


*A digitally restored version of "Breathless" was shown at the TCM Classic Film Festival last month, and is released in cinemas from May 28th*

1952, Year in Review: The Quiet Man

The Quiet Man

Directed by John Ford

Starring: John Wayne, Maureen O'Hara, Victor McLaglen, Barry Fitzgerald

Grade: B

There's something permanently lovely about John Ford's "The Quiet Man", even if watching regressive sexual politics and unending traditionalism isn't exactly my cup of tea. If there's one knack Ford had it's for capturing community spirit and togetherness through the internal conflict of an ingrained collective. In two of his Oscar wins, The Informer and How Green Was My Valley, the Irish and Welsh villages debate over how to solve the problems of betrayal and capitalism respectively, and the approach towards the conflict in "The Quiet Man" doesn't differ greatly from that of these pictures.

Set in Innisfree, a village in Ireland, the film is a romantic comedy of sorts, devoted to the relationship between a disgraced Irish-American boxer (Wayne) and the sister of the village's chief land-owner, 'Red' Will Danaher (McLaglen). Sean Thornton's return to the town after a lengthy absence instigates resentment in Will, who wanted to buy the Thornton property. Moreover, the newfound Americanised ideology of Sean angers Danaher, and exacerbates their relationship considerably. Through the help of the townsfolk Thornton is finally able to court Maureen O'Hara's Mary Kate, despite the remonstrations of brother Will, but in the process further complicates his and her position within the community.

Essentially "The Quiet Man" is about the difficulty of cultural convergence, and the problems one faces when encountering a very concentrated way of life. Mary Kate is in love with Sean but she's also fiercely protective of her background and tradition, to the extent where she'd give him up to preserve a level of perceived dignity. I don't necessarily feel that Thornton was that cavalier a presence for audiences at the time, since post-war American life seems, by all accounts, a period in which people wanted to negate tradition. Still, it is mostly left up to Sean to do the converging, since Ford is evidently keen to reinforce those core cultural values and woo us into buying into Innisfree as a home from home.

Despite the undeniable candor "The Quiet Man" feels too reverent of Ireland's salt-of-the-earth, brazen, simplistic life (considering Ford's Irish heritage, it's little surprise) that it often distracts us from considering whether that's an appealing option to Sean. The indiscretion which forced him to give up physical confrontation altogether reveals a more sinister element to his character, yet this other persona is referred to so sparingly that Sean comes across as little other than a charming, quiet man marooned in an environment that feels specifically designed to test his patience. A late decision to show his fists acts as a realisation of the conviction of his earlier actions, but is a fundamental encouragement of unhealthy, needless aggression and curbs the ambitions of an otherwise successful fighter.

But then, the film works so well at crafting humanist qualities in its characters that I feel a tad guilty about denouncing it for neglecting Thornton's perspective. After all, he's rather like the only visitor in a circus of attention-seeking souls that court petty playground feuds and rollercoaster romances. Maureen O'Hara too indulges in Innisfree's salutation of drama as a fixture of rural insularity, and even as Mary Kate often forms the serious obstruction to happiness for both herself and Sean, it's telling that she isn't silly enough to think that he won't eventually come across to her way of thinking. Sean is only an outsider as much as the town will allow, and the majority of Innisfree's gala parade are always on his side.

Showcasing a celebratory attitude towards resistance to change, "The Quiet Man" doesn't comprehensively address the resentment estrangement often leads to. Still, the impressive ease with which Ford establishes a commonality that appear so wholly self-governing and sustainable ensures that it ranks as a fetching achievement. Bruises come with building bridges but the strain ends there.

Academy Awards

Wins:
Best Director: John Ford
Best Cinematography, Colour

Nominations:
Best Picture
Best Actor in a Supporting Role: Victor McLaglen
Best Writing, Screenplay
Best Art Direction, Colour
Best Sound, Recording

1952, Year in Review: The Bad and the Beautiful

The Bad and the Beautiful

Directed by Vincente Minelli

Starring: Kirk Douglas, Lana Turner, Walter Pidgeon, Dick Powell, Gloria Grahame

Grade: C+

There's a moment in "The Bad and the Beautiful" where in the midst of a heated argument Lana Turner launches a glass bottle at Kirk Douglas, very nearly clocking him square on that famously-chiselled chin of his. I remain clueless as to the level of intent behind this moment; if it amounts to a bout of needless melodrama, a lesson in method acting, or some kind of meditation on life imitating art and vice versa. In short, that foible summarises my feelings about the sketchy extent of the film's satire, and whether Minelli is aware of the difference between brave filmmaking and savvy filmmaking. He certainly scores points for a deftly cynical attitude towards the film industry and its fickle, frivolous cultivation of disloyalty.

Dogulas' Jonathan Shields starts off as a reckless gambler, indebted to a Hollywood Producer who then gives him a job that a million guys would kill for. First blood to Minelli in the "be shameless to succeed" stakes, a point that's re-iterated later through promiscuity and betrayal of the highest order. "Beautiful" is also heavily critical of men and male-dominated big business in a way that was surely novel for the fifties, rarely encouraging empathy for Shields or his achievements. His stormy relationship with Actress Georgia Lorrison dominates as a makeshift connection that works wonders for both their careers but does nothing for their personal life. They're an engaging enough partnership, no doubt, but because Minelli is too keen to maintain a prehensile perspective Douglas and Turner often feel coldly demonstrative of his chastise. The succession of soap opera-esque tiffs, while aesthetically brutal and bare on the screen, don't give us enough of an insight into the pair and become a repetitive fixture.

After ninety minutes "Beautiful" hastily veers from Jonathan and Georgia to focus on Dick Powell as a screenwriter and Gloria Grahame as his neurotic wife, a move that confirmed to me that Minelli really isn't sure of how to manipulate his ideas into the film's narrative. Mirrored with the previous story strand this sudden attempt to introduce an alternative avenue feels tacked on to give the allusion that "Beautiful" is more of a rounded drama with Shields at its centre. Joseph L. Mankiewicz's The Barefoot Contessa, with all it had to say about the movie business, was made three years after this film, and works better by chronicling the rise of one particular Actress.

If you didn't already know that Hollywood is the haven of a ruthless juggernaut of commerce, you certainly will after watching "The Bad and the Beautiful". Yet, for all of the freshness in the approach towards its subject, the film is much too disjointed to achieve the impact as a sniping commentary that its dramatic title and glitzy cast-list might suggest. 

Academy Awards

Wins:

Best Actress in a Supporting Role: Gloria Grahame

Best Writing (Screenplay)

Best Art Direction, Black and White

Best Cinematography, Black and White

Best Costume Design, Black and White

Nominations:

Best Actor in a Leading Role: Kirk Douglas

"Agora": Review

Agora (2009)

Directed by Alejandro Amenábar

Starring: Rachel Weisz, Max Minghella, Oscar Isaac, Rupert Evans, Ashraf Barhom

Grade: C -

*Head on over to In Review Online to read this piece, along with reviews of other current releases*

It's become commonplace for Rachel Weisz to emerge from conflict with supreme dignity, whether she's battling Egyptian mummies, political corruption, or—in this case—pesky Christians. She's the voice of reason and there’s not much to question in her serene gaze. In his latest project, Alejandro Amenábar (“The Others,” “The Sea Inside”) casts Weisz in the role of Roman philosopher Hypatia, who becomes caught in the tide of an early Christian uprising in 4th-century Alexandria. Amenábar fetishizes the period, flaunting the visual splendor of temples and statues that were specifically reconstructed for the film, and littering the production with swooping aerial shots and lengthy pans that enhance its sense of scope. But his indulgent approach lessens the movie's impact as a historical drama, and his tendency to glorify neatly placed props and ultra-clean lines distract us from Alexandria’s volatile populous. Its citizens are engulfed by his set, never seeming to truly inhabit it, consigned to the status of images on a postcard or guests at a costume party.

A rather long prelude of events leads to the collapse of Alexandria’s Roman temple, setting in motion a tumultuous future for Hypatia’s pagan community, which must now deal with the pressures of conforming to Christian ideology. While more traditional religious “epics” (e.g. “Ben Hur” or “Spartacus”) deal with a community's active rebellion against change, “Agora” feels like a meditative overview, much freer in structure. Amenábar isn’t preoccupied with displaying battles and laying down definitive plot points, so he's able to address the principal theme of faith versus philosophy through Hypatia’s passive brand of resistance. She navigates the sparse streets while contemplating whether the Earth orbits the Sun or vice versa, blithely unconcerned with religion and intellectually superior to the peripheral squabble. As a critique of society’s general intolerance towards nonconformity, there is at least something to say here, but it soon becomes clear that “Agora” isn't the film to say it.

So Amenábar must resort to exploiting Hypatia’s status as a virgin and all-around savior to juice up an otherwise languid affair. Openly courted by resident poser Orestes (Oscar Isaac) and secretly courted by lowly slave Davus (Max Minghella), Hypatia remains cold to the advances of both. After each man lays down an ultimate display of affection, she gives one the “gift” of her menstrual blood and frees the other from slavery. Her relative softness towards Davus suggests that she might care enough about a man to spurn a life of study and chastity, but Weisz's reluctance to portray Hypatia as anything other than an untouchable beacon neutralizes any glimmer of real desire. When introduced, the romance in “Agora” is theatrical and hollow, over-dramatized to mitigate the fact that the inherent munificence of its radiant subject does not extend to two-and-a-quarter-hours of solid entertainment.

Weisz is perhaps too old to play her part convincingly—not in any cosmetic sense, but rather in the sense that her intellectual assuredness prevents Hypatia's dreamer characteristics from being fully realized onscreen. The film would have been better served if Amenábar had allowed Weisz to exercise some creative license with Hypatia, finding conflict within herself and the transitory state of Roman life rather than pitting herself against the rest of the world. “Agora” falls hesitantly into the middle ground either because Amenábar is unwilling to make a film about a virgin who doesn’t entertain the idea of sex, or (more likely) because he’s unable to concede fault or doubt in his heroine. Likewise, the redundancy of picturesque visuals is telling. The ante is upped, but there’s a tentative refusal on the filmmakers' parts to let the history speak for itself, a sensational endeavor to fashion a love triangle out of very little, and a suppression of any concrete discussion that briefly emerges. Christianity conquers, Roman culture teeters on the brink of extinction, and “Agora” creeps into the realm of the disingenuous.

1952, Year in Review: Moulin Rouge

Moulin Rouge

Directed by John Huston

Starring: Jose Ferrer, Collette Marchand, Suzanne Flon, Zsa Zsa Gabor

Grade: C -

In his 1950 Oscar-winning turn as Cyrano De Bergerac Jose Ferrer must sport a nose that even Pinocchio would balk at, and yet that didn't deter him from returning two years later to an even bigger physical handicap in John Huston's Moulin Rouge. He waddles along with tiny legs that "stopped growing" for reasons never fully explained, and as tortured artist Henri Tolouse-Lautrec he bears the burden of this handicap for stretches of the film's lengthy running time.

Was Ferrer going for Oscar numero deux? C'est possible. More likely he felt that the period prestige suited his well-spoken sensibilites, and I'll concede that he'd largely be justified in that assumption. He's much more impressive in Cyrano, but oddly charming here, even as the film becomes increasingly repetitive in the to-and-fro of his desperate relationship with local whore Marie Charlet.

Marlene Dietrich showed in Josef Von Sternberg's The Devil is a Woman that as a devious Spanish temptress she could pout and allure better than anyone else in the Thirties (save for maybe Greta Garbo). Collette Marchand's efforts -- while admittedly marooned in a lesser vehicle -- amount to whining and flailing, understandably unsure of whether Marie is supposed to hold any flicker of a torch for Lautrec, and therefore reluctant to commit to any course of action regarding the character. Much of the early narrative is saturated with this thoroughly disinteresting relationship, and offers little real insight into the motivations of Tolouse-Lautrec, failing to detail why either Charlet or the period instilled the man with such a prolific degree of inspiration.

There's a hint of a character study jumbled somewhere inside Moulin Rouge; the desire to chronicle a man trying to find himself inside his work. Late moments concerning his romance with Suzanne Flon offer mild recompense to a strangely throttled middle portion, but otherwise the plotline trundles arduously along, worsened considerably by the occasional introduction of needless, clunkily-directed montages of colourful etchings to demonstrate a severe passing of time. Despite all of the lavish cosmetics afforded to Huston's picture it never manages to get a handle on the particular brand of plastered Paris in which Lautrec reigned, a crime which finally renders Moulin Rouge a crashing failure.

Academy Awards

Wins:

Best Art Direction, Colour

Best Costume Design, Colour

Nominations:

Best Picture

Best Director: John Huston

Best Actor in a Leading Role: Jose Ferrer

Best Actress in a Supporting Role: Collette Marchand

Best Film Editing

1952, Year in Review: The Greatest Show on Earth

The Greatest Show on Earth

Directed by Cecil B. DeMille

Starring: Betty Hutton, James Stewart, Charlton Heston, Gloria Grahame, Cornel Wilde

Grade: C -

The closest modern equivalent to Cecil B. DeMille's oft-criticised Best Picture winner is probably 2008's The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Not really because of any crossover with regard to plot (one film is about backstage tension among a circus troupe, the other about a man ageing backwards) but because the two pictures share a level of self-importance synonymous with Oscar Bait. While Button was beaten by Danny Boyle's Slumdog piledriver The Greatest Show managed to hold on for victory, amidst stiff competition from John Ford's The Quiet Man and legendary anti-Western High Noon.

Most frustrating about DeMille's picture is the feigned sense of grandeur that filters through it, spelled out by an intrusive booming narration that stresses the sensational and urges you to absorb the Serious Spectacle. The impetuous immediacy of DeMille's emphasis on scale -- not necessarily even style -- over substance feels all the more redundant as the narrative comparatively dwindles in complexity and ambition. The troupe of performers (the likes of which include Betty Hutton as a vivacious trapeze artist and James Stewart as a depressed clown) engage in some seriously unconvincing, self-conscious scenery, strewn with storm-in-a-teacup-style issues that feel extracted from films like William Wyler's The Best Years of Our Lives, but with no consideration for thematic relevance or involvement.

It's certainly true that The Greatest Show on Earth hasn't aged at all well - not least because the emphasis on technicolour showmanship and general business is so motivated towards seeming innovative for the early Fifties. With relative retrospective enlightenment the coarsely theatrical set-pieces that intersperse the film's misjudged melodrama are strangely laboured, and fail to engage enough to warrant their lengthy sojourn.

I do wonder how much influence DeMille had in Hollywood at this period. Just two years previous to this Norma Desmond had clamoured for his attention in the delicious Sunset Blvd. and he's still regarded as one of the most famous Producers of all time. I can't help but think though that Oscar made a cardinal error in bowing down to The Greatest Show on Earth, since every frame reads of arrogant, lazy filmmaking, to the extent where I don't see how anybody could ever believe that it attains the level of expectation and ambition that it purports to have.

Academy Awards

Wins:

Best Picture

Best Writing, Motion Picture Story

Nominations:

Best Director

Best Costume Design, Colour

Best Film Editing

1952, Year in Review: My Cousin Rachel

My Cousin Rachel

Directed by Henry Koster

Starring: Richard Burton, Olivia De Havilland, George Dolenz, Audrey Dalton

Grade: B

In 1952 it was the turn of someone other than Alfred Hitchcock to adapt a Daphne Du Maurier novel. More than a decade after The Second Mrs. De Winter questioned her beloved, shifty Max in Rebecca, it was Richard Burton's Phillip Ashley falling in love with somebody clouded in doubt. The final scrawled words of Ashley's cousin Ambrose, "Rachel my torment", is an unanswerable denunciation of a woman Phillip has never met, but while he looks ready to fight tooth and nail to find out how and why Ambrose died, it doesn't take long for cousin Rachel (De Havilland) to curb these protestations and soften his gaze.

The film's gothic prologue, consisting of a motionless body dangling from gallows, all but guarantees that Henry Koster will grasp at every opportunity to up the dramatic ante of My Cousin Rachel. As it is Du Maurier's already-packed novel sacrificially lends itself to the screen, schematically plotting to deliver the outcome of the tenuous relationship between the besotted Phillip Ashley and his resplendent object of affection. The creakily framed narrative offers less room for Du Maurier's themes to breathe, and so that may discourage some from fully committing to the film's central relationship. Still, even as My Cousin Rachel so brazenly opts for the linear, Du Maurier and Koster ensure that the primary interrogation of Rachel's true motives makes for enthralling viewing.

A broody Richard Burton skulks through most of the running time --unquestionably leading, but clearly not experienced enough to be taken seriously in that category at this point-- like a bratty, fickle simpleton. He inhabits the character's devolved foolishness in moving erratically from extreme concession to resentment, even though not a whole lot around him changes. Upon reflection My Cousin Rachel is unnervingly accurate in its judgment of character, Koster and Burton all the more effective for fuelling paranoia that doesn't fully pay off.

My Cousin Rachel will mostly be remembered for a final twist that rather knocked my socks off. Once divulged it's clear that the film has always been working towards this payoff, but functionally results in a triumph for all involved. This embittered about-turn makes you reconsider much of what you had already taken for granted, and only made me hanker for a repeat viewing. Rachel my torment.

Academy Awards

Nominations:

Best Actor in a Supporting Role: Richard Burton

Best Art Direction (B & W)

Best Cinematography (B & W)

Best Costume Design (B &W)

Un Autre Project, aka Glutton For Punishment

Yes, it's true that I am barely a tenth of the way through a personal canon, and not even close to finishing my 2009 Addict awards. Still, I figure that more projects can surely only help to increase the frequency of posts on the blog.

Lately, I've been hearing the number 52 an awful lot. I have no idea why. It seems as if it has probably sub-consciously affected my film viewing though, since four of the last ten viewed flicks have been from that particular year. Thus, I've decided to turn this into a project, and am going to attempt to continue with '52 viewing, providing reviews for each film, inclusive of those four to which I earlier referred.

So watch this space for some serious retrospective action. Or better still, watch Gloria.

Hottest Track: LCD Soundsystem - I Can Change