The Berkleys of Broadway (1949)

Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers left an indelible mark on 1930s cinema with the nine films they did together, from their unforgettable second billing in 1933's "Flying Down to Rio" through "The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle" (1939).  In fact Fred only appeared in one other movie during their six-year collaboration, 1937's rather jolly "A Damsel in Distress" (a far more entertaining confection than Whit Stillman's new "Damsels in Distress"). While rumours abounded that they didn't really get on together, they managed to create some truly magical moments still remembered by many.   The partnership broke up when Fred's financial demands were considered over-excessive by RKO and Ginger craved the opportunity to prove that she could make it as a 'serious' dramatic actress.  She actually won a best actress Oscar in 1940, but I have never been too keen on her in most of her subsequent roles, whereas Fred appeared in a variety of OK musicals with a selection of different partners, some memorable, some not.


By the mid 1940s, Fred was just about ready to retire from the film business when he was asked to replace an ailing Gene Kelly in "Easter Parade" with Judy Garland in 1948.  That pairing was so successful that plans were made for them to star together again in the above movie.  However, as luck would have it, her own health problems precluded her taking the role of Mrs. Berkley, and Fred and Ginger ended up together again, their tenth and final film together, after a gap of ten years.  Produced by the Arthur Freed Unit at MGM, it was their first film in colour and proved an enormous hit with the public, largely because of their accrued good will.  However I must disagree with the movie's many fans and mark it as something of a disaster -- or perhaps something of a 'Parson's Egg', with a few tasty bits outweighed by some embarrassing business.


In an occasionally witty script from ace writers Comden and Greene, they begin the film as a rather mature and highly successful married couple (something they never were initially in their 30s' films) top of the pecking order in their musical comedy stardom.  However Dinah Berkley always feels that Josh Berkley is too much of a perfectionist and occasionally too critical of her prowess.  When she meets a French playwright-director played by Jacques Francois (an actor with a long but not particularly distinguished career in French cinema), he encourages her dramatic aspirations in his new play about young Sarah Bernhardt and the couple split.. Now part of the problem with this movie is that Rogers is no longer the fresh-faced ingenue from their original films and she is certainly too old to play the young Sarah.  Also pairing the now slightly hard-faced actress as a peppy dancer slightly strains credibility; Astaire on the other hand always looked older than his years, but remained lithe and dapper with it, and although 50 here to Rogers' 38 he is definitely the more likeable.


Freed places this pair in a overly-contrived and fluffy tale which amounts to 'boy' loses 'girl', 'boy' gets 'girl' back, as Fred pretends to be the Frenchman over the 'phone, coaching Ginger to give the performance that he knows her to be capable of.  A significant part of this movie's lack of charm lies with the musical score from Harry Warren and Ira Gershwin, which is not a patch on the previous nine films with scores from the like of Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern, Cole Porter, and George Gershwin.  In fact their only successful duet together, capturing a remnant of the old magic, is a reprise of "They Can't Take That Away from Me" from 1937's "Shall We Dance".  They 'treat' us to an absolutely horrendous pseudo-accented Scottish "Highland Fling" number which is little short of embarrassing, although nowhere near as cringe-making as Rogers' emoting at her young Sarah audition in the play, where she begins with Juliet's potion speech and segues into an OTT recitation of "La Marseillaise" (in French no less!)  Astaire does have one wonderful number in this film -- let it be said without Rogers: "I've Got Shoes with Wings On". Through the skill of trick photography and Astaire's own imagination, we are treated to a turn where it really does seem that a pair of self-dancing shoes are actually controlling Fred's own feet when he tries them on.  Enchanting! 


The cast is rounded out with Oscar Levant's usual smart-ass turn as the pair's friend and confidante, much like his role in "An American in Paris", and he helps to pad out the film's running time with two of his very able piano performances.  Billy Burke as a flighty society type and would-be patron of the arts is as hard to take as ever.  Gale Robbins as Dinah's understudy looking to usurp her stage role and her role as Mrs. Josh only proves that she is no Ann Baxter from "All About Eve".


Like I said, something of a Parson's Egg. 

The Cabin in the Woods (2012)

I said a few entries back that the cinema-going choice was to see "Headhunters" or the above film; the slick Norwegian contender won the day, but as suspected I have now caught up with "Cabin" which seems to have horror buffs (and I must count myself among them) wetting their pants with joy. The movie was actually made in 2009 as a collaboration between Joss Whedon (with his "Buffy", "Angel", and "Firefly"cult following) and his writing partner Drew Goddard (best known for "Cloverfield" which I must confess left me cold). It then sat on a shelf while MGM went into meltdown, until Lionsgate rescued it for a festival premiere at the end of 2011.  Now that it has finally had its widespread release, it had the fans chomping at the bit in anticipation and is being hyped as the ultimate horror experience.


Well, not quite!  Co-written by the pair, produced by Whedon, and directed by Goddard, they themselves have described the film as their 'loving hate letter' to horror movies.  Despite an unusual beginning which introduces jobsworths Richard Jenkins and Bradley Whitford in their high-tech laboratory jokily overseeing some technological experiments, the film soon morphs into stereotypical horror film territory and we temporarily forget these two boffins.  We are introduced to the five college students who might have migrated from any number of horror genre films into this movie -- the slightly promiscuous co-ed (the whore), the jock, the student, the joker, and the good-girl (the virgin) -- although none of them completely fit into the category into which they've been slotted, and guess what?, they are off to the proverbial cabin in the woods for a weekend of fun and games.  We even have them encountering the standard red-neck gas station attendant en route who prophesises their doom. All of the cliches seem to be in place right through to a game of 'truth or dare' leading the friends into the cabin's spooky cellar.  However, all of a sudden we are back in Jenkins' and Whitford's gleaming lab, with their co-workers betting on which monsters might appear, and we know that we are in the middle of a different sort of horror experience.


Whedon and Goddard are out to play havoc with pulp horror conventions turning expectations on their heads and throwing in just about everything but the proverbial kitchen sink, leaving the viewer with the sort of overkill that can only be reconciled by the totally unexpected denouement. Reviewers have been careful about not letting spoilers mar new viewers potential enjoyment of this confection and I, of course, must do the same, since the finale when it comes is nearly, if not entirely, out of left field. The film's creators are having fun at our willing expense and have given us a thoroughly entertaining movie, as long as we have remembered to park all logic and rational expectations at the door.  References are made to numerous other films from the genre, and at times it feels as if one is sitting some sort of college entrance exam on horror history. This of course makes the film fun, if not particularly consistently great film-making.  It is largely a mixture of self-aware laughter cushioned by oh-my-god goofiness, the only scary part being not knowing what to expect before the you-must-be-kidding ending.


Apart from a star cameo appearance towards the end (which I won't spoil), the cast are a pretty mixed bunch.  Jenkins and Whitford, as puppet-masters going through their usual boring paces, make the film continuously watchable as a kind of ghoulish Greek chorus, watching gleefully as all possible horror antagonists are unleashed.  Others in the cast will be immediately recognised by Whedon groupies, but only Chris Hemsworth, by his subsequent Thor incarnation, is now well known. However both Kristen Connolly as the spunky (maybe) heroine and Fran Kranz as the stoner fighting zombies with his bong deserve special mention.


This film's eventual release coincides with Whedon's personal journey into the stratosphere with his new Avengers movie, but he has not let down his acolytes in the process. 




  

Kid Creole (1958)

Elvis Presley goes to the Movies might have been a better heading. Between 1956 and 1969 "The King" made (or was forced to make) an incredible 31 movies, pushed on ruthlessly by his so-called 'Colonel' manager.  I would not like to claim that I have actually seen all of them, although I may have, since the cheap-jack plots are pretty interchangeable. They were churned out relentlessly to coin pots of money, based on Elvis' fame and appeal to pubescent females and other gullible ladies.  It must have been a soul-destroying exercise for the young man.


His first few movies were actually pretty decent, featuring able supporting actors and a sprinkling of classic tunes: "Love Me Tender", "Loving You", and "Jailhouse Rock".  "Kid Creole" was his fourth film and quite possibly his very best -- it was certainly his own favourite among the dreck that the studio vomited forth with their colourful locations, interchangeable leading ladies, and a star that was obviously not enjoying himself.  While one would be hard-pressed to claim that "Kid" is anything more than a competent piece of film making, it is one of the few films in his filmography which suggest that Elvis could actually act and emote, given the chance -- rather than just playing a troubled juvenile who could wiggle his hips and sing.  For a start it was directed by the more-than-able Michael Curtiz of "Casablanca" fame and it boasts probably the best cast of any Elvis flick: Walter Matthau in full-on villain mode (he didn't begin his film career as a comic actor), TV's Morticia Addams, Carolyn Jones as Matthau's troubled mistress and an unsuitable love interest, a very young Vic Morrow as a street tough, Dean Jagger as his pathetic father, Paul Stewart as a seedy nightclub owner who gives the youngster a break, and Dolores Hart (with whom he co-starred in two movies and subsequently a convent Mother Superior) as his more innocent love interest.


The film is based on Harold Robbins' novel "A Stone for Danny Fisher", once considered as a suitable vehicle for James Dean, reset on the mean streets of New Orleans.  Elvis is no Jimmy Dean, but he does throw himself into the story of a young man who rebels against authority, who reluctantly gets involved with Morrow's street gang, who wants to earn money to save his family, and who challenges Matthau's iron grip on both the nightclub scene and sassy Jones. Elvis was 21 when he made his first film and 23 here, but still playing a high school student. However the mixture of a fairly solid screenplay, crisp black and white photography, and the chance to spotlight some of his best-loved tunes make this film a winner and Elvis' character rather more believable than was often the case.  Too often in the later movies he comes across as a surly thug, and when the attempt was made to soften this image, he seems to morph into something of a soppy lunk.  While the later films have their occasional pleasures, if one wants to remember Elvis for his musical talent, one is far better off searching out his various late concert films, rather than sitting through the technicolor glories and insipid storylines of the likes of "Blue Hawaii", "Girls Girls Girls", or "Fun in Acapulco".


"Kid Creole" reminds us that he just might have had a respectable film career had he been given something of a real chance, rather than just funnelled into the next available production-line fancy.

Headhunters (2011)

Having decided to go to the movies, the choice was between the above Norwegian film which has been attracting rave reviews and the new modern horror "Cabin in the Woods".  For various reasons "Headhunters" won the toss, since I have a sneaking feeling that "Cabin" will prove to be less 'smart' than it thinks it is.  Anyhow, being the newer release, we can probably catch up with it next week if we still feel so inclined.


Scandinavian mysteries and dramas have been having a good run here, starting with "Wallander" and of course the Stieg Larsson trilogy, and taking in "The Killing" (not the U.S. remake), "Borgen", and the new "Bridge".  I must confess to not yet having read anything by the author Jo Nesbo on whose thriller the above film is based, but if his writing is anything near as exciting as this film version, it seems well worth pursuing.  The hero of the tale, with the very English-sounding name of Roger Brown, is a corporate head-hunter, played by Aksel Hennie -- a slightly weaselly-looking young Christopher Walken.  He suffers from something of a Napoleon complex by being over-sensitive about his less than average height and compensates by spoiling his extremely tall, blonde Amazon of a wife Diana.  To supplement his earnings from the employment agency, he indulges in a sideline of art thefts to subsidise their extravagant life style. All she really wants from him is a baby, but he procrastinates fearing that she would love any child more than him.


Into their lives comes corporate big-shot Clas Greve, played by Nikolaj Coster-Waldau (the spitting image of Aaron Eckhart), a Dane who has sold his Dutch-based surveillance corporation and who has inherited his grandmother's Oslo flat.  He tells Brown's wife that his inheritance includes a missing Rubens stolen by the Nazis during World War II and given to granny by an old lover  This is far too big a temptation for Brown and his  low-life accomplice, thinking that one big score will set them up permanently -- and so a trap is set, since Greve, it transpires, has other fish to fry.  Add to the equation evidence that the Dane has also been enjoying sexual trysts with Diana.  Brown's paranoia escalates when he finds his sidekick 'dead' in his car, pierced by a poisoned syringe obviously intended for him; however when he tries to dispose of the body in a nearby lake, the live 'corpse' bounces back to the surface.  From this point to the film's final denouement we are treated to 'edge-of-one's-seat' excitement, as the crafty Greve murderously pursues his prey.  Meanwhile our poor anti-hero Brown is subjected to a variety of degradations including being covered all over by the contents of a disgusting outhouse, being savaged by a scary dog, being framed for a murder he did not commit, and surviving a crash off a cliff engineered by the wily Dane.  Greve seems to be everywhere he turns and he no longer knows whom to trust.  The fascinating part of this chase is that one reluctantly begins rooting for the little worm to win; dislike becomes sympathy.


The story is full of unexpected twists and turns and the viewer, like Brown, does not know whom to trust.  Is Diana in cahoots with her lover?  Is Brown's own rejected mistress part of the plot?  Can one determined man outwit a highly-trained and resourceful villain?  While one could argue that one or two bits of the plot don't quite hold together, the film that directer Morten Tyldum has crafted is a tightly-knit entertainment and one well worth viewing.  But do it fast before the inevitable Hollywood remake; Mark Wahlberg has bought the rights and like "The Killing", I fear it will be a very different animal   

Law and Disorder (1940)

I have always had an extremely soft spot for the eccentric Scottish character actor Alastair Sim.  Although he appeared in more than 60 films, less than half of these are classics. However, his lugubrious presence, with his great bald head, lidded eyes, and gangling gait added a memorable presence to even the worst of his movies -- nearly making each of them worth watching just for his turn.  His best years known as his 'green period' were bookended by "Green for Danger" (1946) and "The Green Man" (1956); he also made his mark during these years in "Geordie", "Laughter in Paradise", "Hue and Cry", "The Happiest Days of Your Life", the unflappable Miss Frinton in the original "The Belles of St. Trinian's", and of course as the absolutely definitive Scrooge. Early indelible roles included the incompetent police sergeant in the "Inspector Hornleigh" films and he was still a wonder to behold as the batty bishop in 1972's "The Ruling Class".


When I noticed that the National Film Theatre had unearthed the above little-known film from its archives for a single showing, I immediately booked tickets. The movie is so obscure that the Halliwell film guide cross-references it to the 1939 B-flick "Spies in the Air", which has the same writer and director and much the same cast, but in which Sim definitely does not appear.  We were surprised to find that the largest of the NFT's three screens was jam-packed (mainly, let it be said, with a rather elderly audience -- who obviously hold Sim in as much affection as we do). Pity that the film wasn't better!!!  Despite the fact that his name was prominently above the title (the film was re-released in 1951 when Sim's was a name to reckon), he is only a supporting player here.  The main lead is one Barry K. Barnes, a 30s' matinee idol, with whom Sim had appeared earlier in "This Man is News" (1936).  Barnes plays the junior partner in Sim's law firm. He and his wife (Diana Churchill) have a joshing relationship, with is very sub-Nick and Nora Charles, as he tries to unmask a nest of German spies by representing them in court appearances.  Sim only gets to act flustered,  be flirtatious with a dumpy female client, and protestingly land up behind bars on trumped up charges (Barnes believes his partner's life is in danger and has done this to protect him -- none of which made much sense.)


The film was directed by David Macdonald, known only for the so-called 'quota quickies' with nothing terribly distinguished in his filmography.  The screenplay by Roger MacDougall was also not much cop, although he did go on to scribe "The Man in the White Suit" (1951) and "The Mouse that Roared" (1959). The playing of most of the cast was both dated and stilted, and without Sim's support the movie would have been a complete waste of time, although the actor playing police inspector Edward Chapman's side-kick was mildly amusing (not that I have any idea who he was) and one of the spies provided an early role for Leo Genn who went on to a much more distinguished career.  This is a film that only completists need seek out.


The evening, however, was not a complete waste of time since the showing was preceded by a fifteen minute short from the BBC's archives from a series called "Speaking Personally".  Here Sim delivers a monologue to the camera concerning the difficulties of delivering a monologue to camera.  We were regaled with fifteen minutes of his wonderful body language, his array of wry faces as he demonstrated camera poses, and his absolutely deadpan humour.  Wonderful!

Ping please

Best of the Bunch

As seems to happen more and more frequently, I find that no single film watched within the last week manages to ascend to the top of the list and demand its day in the sun review-wise and that most of the week's so-called attractions have been disappointments at best. However rather than my commenting on a bunch of feeble (and now largely forgotten) movies, let me delight you with three winners:


Gribiche (1925):  I missed the first showing of this restored silent on the French/German arts channel Arte last August and they have at long last programmed it again.  It's an interesting, if not dazzling, offering from the Belgian director, Jacques Feyder, who worked largely in France, but who also had productive employment in the States (the Garbo vehicles "The Kiss" and "Anna Christie" -- 1929 and 1931)) and Britain (the rather strange anti-revolutionary drama "Knight without Armour" pairing Robert Donat and Marlene Dietrich in 1937).  He is probably best-known for the Foreign Legion flick "Le Grand Jeu" (1934) and especially the period romp "Carnival in Flanders" (1935). There is nothing particularly special about "Gribiche", but it is a competent and involving drama which doesn't seem over-long even at two hours plus.  Like most of Feyder's films it stars his wife Francoise Rosay as a war-widow, scraping a living to look after her growing son known as Gribiche, and putting off any commitment to her latest suitor.  A chance meeting in a department store brings the boy to the attention of an American-born do-gooder, now acting the role of Lady Bountiful in Paris, when he returns her lost purse and refuses a cash reward.  She decides that she will adopt the lad and tutor him in the knowledge and manners of a gentleman.


His mother is horrified at the suggestion that she 'give away' her son, but the boy readily agrees, both as a way of bettering his lot and also to allow his mother to find some happiness with her beau.  He is introduced into the hothouse atmosphere of the grande dame's mansion, and given a non-stop timetable of lessons, sport, grooming, and etiquette.  As her new pet project, the lady brags to her friends about her largesse, and each time she tells the tale, the boy's background poverty and deprivation become more and more exaggerated.  Finally the lad rebels and craves a night out -- having fun, as boys will -- at a local carnival, but the lady resents this sign of independence and decides to forego the experiment.  Ultimately it all works out with both mother and benefactress satisfied and the boy's return to his bourgeois milieu is symbolised by his tucking into a plate of snails with his napkin tucked firmly into his collar -- 'like what' the lower classes do!


Millionaire Tour (2011): I will probably never stop complaining at the dearth of interesting movies that come to the Sky Premiere Channel each week.  Especially annoying is when they cut back from five new films to four on the dubious grounds that one of these is so very good that it deserves to be shown twice a day.  This week's 'gem' was the barely watchable "Honey 2" (2011) which was exactly like every other dance competition film ever shot and didn't even cameo the delectable star of the first "Honey" (Jessica Alba). On the other hand, every so often, a dark horse sneaks into the line-up and produces an interesting treat.  "Millionaire Tour" is so very new that it is not even yet rated on IMFb (which suggests that it did not get a Stateside cinema release).  It is the first feature from writer-director Inon Shampanier and is co-produced by and stars Dominic Monaghan of hobbit and "Lost" fame.  The supposedly simple story revolves around businessman Jordan Belfi (very good in his first non-TV role) who accepts a cut-price offer from taxi driver Rick Gomez at the airport.  The vehicle is soon hijacked by Monaghan and his sidekick Agnes Bruckner, who decide to take Belfi on a tour of cash-points, forcing him to draw the maximum that each of his credit cards can provide, before delivering him to a gangster known as 'The Roman' who wants revenge on the renegade businessman.  The trouble is that they have picked up the wrong fellow (Belfi claims to be a holy water salesman, believe it or not) and the taxi-driver comes across as too much of a coward to help him escape. Bruce Davison has second billing as Mr. Big and his screen time amounts to about ten seconds and one line of dialogue! However, the film snakes on with a satisfying combination of twists and turns and an unexpectedly happy -- if not just -- ending.


Time of Your Life (1948);  Finally a few words about this James Cagney starrer which was a treat for me insofar as it is one of very few of his movies that I had not seen previously.  It was the first feature from his own production company, run with his brother, and it was also their first box-office flop.  Based on a wordy script taken from a play by William Saroyan, it features Cagney in an atypical role as a good-natured Joe who holds court in a local tavern run by William Bendix.  There he gets involved in being some sort of 'deus ex machina' to the bar's regulars, including Wayne Morris as his sidekick cum stooge who pines after a local lovely (played by sister Jean Cagney).  The film also gives meaty parts to cops Broderick Crawford and Ward Bond, lovelorn youth Jimmy Lydon, and Tom Powers as a menacing tough.  Although Cagney finally uses his fists to sort out the latter, his is primarily a very gentle and whimsical role here.  I understand that he was very proud of the production, even if the general public chose to ignore it.     

The Hunger Games (2012)

It makes the news when a film manages to make 155 million dollars Stateside in its first three days of release, which makes the opening for the above movie the third highest gross ever.  So, we may ask, what kind of fantastic film spins gold so readily?  Believe you me, I am stymied to give you a rational answer to this question.


Through a series of circumstances rather than active planning or desire, we found ourselves at the 2pm showing of this movie on Saturday afternoon, along with a crowded cinema of noisy teenagers and a fair sprinkling of much younger children accompanied by a token adult.  Reader, they seemed to lap it up and this scenario was duplicated, I understand, world-wide.  So we have something of a phenomenon to unravel.  To say that this film is better than the soppy "Twilight" series beloved by its legions of fans is to damn it with faint praise.  Yes, it has more meat on its bones than that saga of teen angst, yet there is probably insufficient substance to nourish the adult appetite.


Apparently this ever-so-long flick is fairly faithful to the book, the first of a trilogy from writer Suzanne Collins, who also had a firm hand in the screenplay.  That leaves two follow-up films to come and indications are that both the writer and the studio have unleashed a goldmine. The story has been sufficiently hyped to be well-known: In a post-apocalyptic America the workers (or drones) have been herded into twelve enclosed districts to support the decadent life-style of the Capital city, whose denizens dress and act in sybaritic splendour.  These districts are portrayed as grey and undernourished slums, like something out of Depression-era black and white photos, and they hardly seem large or vital enough to support the fat cats of the city-state.  Each year there is a 'reaping' in these regions to choose a boy and a girl between the ages of 12 and 18 as 'tributes' to be brought to a large wooded arena in the capital to flight to the death, a modern-day Coliseum of bread and circuses.  While the viewer is given some gobbledegook as to the reasoning behind these games which have been held for yonks, there is no clear reason why twenty-three youngsters should be sacrificed each year to keep the nation in thrall as they watch the televised slaughter.


The heroine of this saga is strongly embodied in Jennifer Lawrence, still in her hillbilly heroine mode from "Winter's Bone". There is never any doubt that, as the lead player, she will be the ultimate survivor, although the rules are changed midstream to a possible second survivor to play up the would-be 'romance' between her character, Katniss, and her area's second tribute, Peeta the baker's son (a somewhat more feeble Josh Hutcherson). Even the character names both locally and in the city suggest a parallel world to ours and one that is both foreign to us and hard to comprehend.  With her survivalist skills and her fearsome bow and arrow, Katniss is possibly an admirable role model for teen-aged girls, that is if one wants to encourage them in the way of the warrior, as it were. The cream of the supporting cast is reserved for the bizarrely dressed and made-up 'patricians': Stanley Tucci and Toby Jones as lavishly coiffed M.C.s, an unrecognizable Elizabeth Banks as an androgynous liaison, Donald Sutherland as the chief tyrant, an ornately bearded Wes Bentley (where has he been in recent memory?) as the games organizer, and a very good Woody Harrelson as the pair's laid-back mentor who glams them up for the audience to obtain the necessary sponsorship.


This business of youngsters killing each other for their own survival was handled more graphically in the Japanese "Battle Royale", and in keeping with this film's certification, scenes of horror and blood-letting are mitigated by fast-cutting and a shaky camera.  Most of the massacre is a bit of a blur! This first movie avoids the philosophical questions that need to be answered -- perhaps the next two films will deal with them more fully.  There is far too much emphasis on the 'hunt' rather than any real rebellion against a corrupt system.  The film-makers avoid developing the characters as rounded human beings or focusing on the real conflict between the 'haves' and the 'have-nots'. They prefer to give us an example of Reality TV taken to its extremes without the requisite dose of social comment.   

Round Ireland with a Fridge (2010)

Some films sound so bizarre that they demand to be watched 'just in case'.  So it was that I viewed this movie about a struggling and stale comedian, one of whose oft-told routines was to relate how on his first trip to Ireland he saw an old man trying to hitch with a refrigerator in tow, and how as a result of a drunken bet he found himself attempting to hitch all the way around the coast of Ireland, within one month, with his own fridge for company.


The idiot in question is one Tony Hawks, a writer, comedian, and television 'personality' -- completely unknown to me -- who actually published a humorous book with the above title in 1998, telling the true story of this challenge.  Apparently the book has had massive sales both in Britain and overseas, and the film version has now been made.  A number of the comments on IMDb suggest that the book is far, far superior to the movie which is really 'a pile of shite' to use the Irish vernacular. Hawks plays himself in this film, directed by Ed Bye -- mainly a television director, but also responsible for some bummer feature films like "Kevin and Perry Go Large" and "Fat Slags" (I kid you not).  Hawks begins this silly story of a silly person doing something silly as a somewhat wooden and unappealing personality, ready to pack in the whole futile exercise after a few days of not getting lifts and staying in unappetising guest houses.  However he is encouraged to carry on after his story is picked up by a radio 'personality' and he meets the DJ's dishy assistant, Roisin (Valerie O'Connor), and her tracking radio car.  Gradually through a series of vignettes we follow his purportedly amusing journey and see that his character is getting a new lease on life, as he meets a selection of yokels and finds that he is giving them something to smile about.  The world-weary Hawks who starts the movie as an English 'eedjit' gradually learns more about the meaning of life from the laid-back Irish.


That he stands to win £100 from the bet and has already spent £130 to buy the small fridge and its trolley, plus of course his actual travel expenses are neither here nor there in this saga.  So he finds his pet fridge blessed by nuns, baptised "Saoirse" (like the actress), covered in graffiti by friends met en route, and even taken for a ride on a surfboard.  One night he is forced to sleep in a vacated doghouse when no other accommodation is available, and his now budding romance with Roisin goes adrift when she finds him kipping there with a local 'Australian slut' ("I'm a Kiwi slut" the young lady protests).  None of this is even remotely funny although small parts of his trek are mildly amusing.  The funniest gag is reserved for the name of the film's production company -- Fridge d'or -- think about it. Meanwhile the radio host who has been monitoring his exploits plans a triumphal march on the day he is due to return to Dublin, urging crowds to turn out carrying their own domestic appliance, to escort him back to the shopping centre where his pilgrimage began.  In actuality about twenty people turn up, but the 'magic of radio' makes their cheers sound "like the Pope's visit". 


It wasn't particularly painful to watch 90 minutes of this nonsense, but I can hardly recommend it to your attention.  I gather Mr. Hawks has now written another book called "Beating the Moldovans at Tennis", which is also being made into a film.  It seems that the gist of this one is that he tracks down the former members of a Moldovan football squad and challenges each of them to a game of tennis.  I think I just might manage to avoid watching that movie if ever it comes my way!

Born to be Bad (1934)

In the entry below, I refer to the actress Loretta Young as 'dewy-eyed' and in fact she made a long career of playing goody-two-shoes leading ladies and angelic heroines.  It is therefore a rather shocking change of pace to find her as the no-good, more than somewhat whorish lead in this early film.  Made as the pre-code era drew to an end, but not yet quite as restricted as movies would become, the film did face some cuts before it was released -- namely in respect of the full details of Young's character and her somewhat revealing gowns. It remains an interesting product of its time, if not a particularly important film for any of its cast.  Parenthetically it is interesting to consider Young's saintly transformation in the light of her later hushed-up affair with Clark Gable which produced an illegitimate daughter whom Young raised as her 'niece'.


Here she plays an unwed mother who became pregnant at fifteen and who was taken in by kindly bookshop owner Henry Travers (everyone's favourite angel Clarence) before moving out on her own with her now eight or nine year old son and finding that there was a better living to be made as a high class escort, waiting for the opportunity to snare a sugar-daddy. The son, a singularly unwinning brat played by one Jackie Kelk is an early version of one of the Dead End Kids and plays hookey from school, smokes, and drinks -- all with his mother's knowledge.  She seems to love her son, but has absolutely no idea how to raise him.  When he is recklessly roller skating in the street, he is hit by a  truck owned by dairy magnate Cary Grant.  Mother and her shyster lawyer ( a singularly unappealing and very Semitic turn by an actor called Harry Green) see this as an opportunity to play the son's supposed injuries for all they are worth and to sue for huge damages.  In court, however, Grant's lawyers show recent film evidence of the so-called 'crippled' boy skating and leaping about.  Mom loses custody and son Mickey is taken into care.


Neither Young nor her son are happy with this turn of events and she persuades Grant to intervene.  He is happily married to actress Marion Burns (nor me! - not that she had much of a subsequent career) who is unable to have children and Mickey is sent to live with them as a surrogate son.  Despite his new lavish surroundings, the unappealing child keeps trying to run away, packing whatever loot from the household he can swag until he finally begins to be won over by Grant and wife's loving care.  So lawyer Green suggests to Young that if she can seduce Grant and get evidence on a secret recording device, her future will be secured.  She insinuates herself into the household for a few days and uses her wiles to come on strong to her host.  Grant, who is still not quite the dashing Cary Grant we all love from subsequent years, succumbs to her trampy behaviour and is ready to confess his new 'love' to his devoted wife. For once we really hope that Young will receive her comeuppance from a noble Grant, but no such luck.  Mind you all of this action is squeezed into a scant 59-minute running time and we never get to see much of Grant's change from benefactor to besotted lover.


However something happens that finally causes Young to see the light -- or at least a small glimmer -- and she finally realises that it is best to leave her son with this potentially caring couple, telling Grant that he was just another fling and that she is ready for more with other men.  Very like "Stella Dallas" some years on.  Noble mother-love or some such! Although characters at various stages of the film comment on how beautiful Young is, she didn't look all that great to me, and her acting as a tough, streetwise floozy frankly did seem a little forced.  The film was directed by erstwhile silent screen actor Lowell Sherman, who died shortly after it was made, again for 20th Century under Zanuck's watchful eye.  As an example of the cusp of the 30s' film-censorship production, it is historically interesting, but both Young and Grant would go on to far more memorable roles.

The Story of Alexander Graham Bell (1939)

A scary feature of today's cityscape is seeing crowds of people shuffling about talking into their mobile phones, with slightly glazed eyes, occasionally reminiscent of a bunch of Romero's zombies.  So who, we may ask, is initially to blame for the invention of the telephone?  Well, Don Ameche of course!  Or rather Alexander G. B. as embodied by this actor, to the extent that it threatened to become his signature role and slang of the following years did call the phone an Ameche. 


The 1930s were a landmark period for the various studios churning out biopics of 'great' men from "Young Tom Edison" to "Edison the Man", from "The Story of Louis Pasteur" to "Doctor Ehrlich's Magic Bullet".  The above movie was 20th Century Fox's prestige entry in this field.  All of these films share the objective of making what is largely a history lesson into a popular entertainment and this movie is as good an example as any.  While the facts of Bell's life were roughly adhered to, they were simplified and condensed to produce a rattling good yarn under the aegis of the legendary Daryl F. Zanuck.  Set in Boston in 1875, it's the story of a teacher of the deaf struggling to invent a better telegraph until he became captivated with the idea of 'sending sound over a wire', of his falling in love with a woman left deaf after an early bout of scarlet fever, and of his staving off the breach of his patent by wealthy rival Western Union.  It may not sound exciting stuff, and the film does have the occasional longueur, but an accomplished cast make it all worthwhile.


Ameche was a stalwart at 20th Century, but studio contractee Tyrone Power was offered the cream of lead roles -- and yes, he was far prettier than Ameche.  However while Power's looks hardened with age and while he unfortunately died young, Ameche's career went on until the early 1990s and included such late career highpoints as the popular 1980s' flicks "Trading Places" and "Cocoon".  He plays Bell with great conviction and earnestness and it is just as well that his sidekick Henry Fonda, just before his elevation to leading man status, brings some humanity and humour to their inventive struggle. The dewy-eyed Loretta Young plays the object of his affections and parenthetically it is the only movie in which Young and her three actress sisters (Sally Blane, Polly Ann Young, and Georgiana Young) all appear in the same film.  They play the daughters of prolific character actors Charles Coburn and Spring Byington, where Daddy discourages Bell's affections for his daughter until he can provide her with a secure life and Mommy knows that her deaf daughter is lucky to have found a suitor.  A big deal is made of the fact that Young is able to lip-read so her character is graced with plenty of dialogue.  The cast is rounded out by other recognizable faces including Gene Lockhart, Harry Davenport, Elizabeth Patterson, and Beryl Mercer as Queen Victoria, who agrees to have Bell's newfangled invention installed at Buckingham Palace.


Despite contrived heart-tugging moments like Bell's teaching Lockhart's deaf son to speak his first word -- 'father' --, the film's excellent production values and art decoration ensure that this is a polished production, and it continues to be more than watchable today.  The movie was later renamed "The Modern Miracle" according to IMDb, but somehow I doubt that Bell could have guessed that his original invention would morph into the indispensable attachment of today's cellphone shufflers. 

The 84th Annual Academy Awards

The Oscars!  After the mushrooming number of award shows that now precede this annual bash, one wonders whether they still provide any excitement or relevance.  Well, I remain a sucker for the annual show although as returned host Billy Crystal quipped: In this time of economic downturn, is there anything more comforting than watching a bunch of millionaires present each other with little gold statues?  Good point, Billy, and one of the better pieces of shtick in your routine, which despite its occasional excess was an improvement on certain other efforts of recent years. (Hang your head in shame, James Franco).


As usual I have not yet seen many of the contesting movies and performances, although I have indeed seen the three that most mattered on the night: "The Artist", "Hugo", and "Midnight in Paris".  I have however seen enough clips and read enough reviews of most of the remaining features to be secure in my own opinions on the films in general.  Let me say up front that I agree 100% with the awards doled out.  Kate Muir, the recently appointed Times main film critic (who is a fine writer but regrettably a little ignorant when it comes to film history) probably thought she was echoing the zeitgeist when she reported that it is no wonder that movies celebrating cinema history won the main awards, since the majority of the Academy voters are white males over 60.  True as this may be in principle, the films that won big were the ones that deserved to win and her argument is little more than a slightly worn cliche.


I am delighted that Michel Hazanavicius' "The Artist" took home its five Oscars, since it is undoubtedly one of the most charming films I have seen in ages.  I wouldn't necessarily predict a looming stateside career for either the director or its star Jean Dujardin, but it is fine with me that their brilliant work has received the recognition it deserves.  I would have been happy to see Berenice Bejo take home the best supporting actress award but I can understand the prevailing political correctness in recognizing the black actress Octavia Spencer for what I understand was a riveting performance; I am only glad that this same attitude did not prevent Meryl Streep from receiving her richly deserved third Oscar.  Similarly, honouring the 82-year old Christopher Plummer for best supporting actor was a long overdue acknowledgement of his talent (and he gave, I thought, the most heartfelt and appropriate thank-you speech).


As for the five 'technical' awards won by "Hugo", these were all spot-on as I found the movie one of the most thrilling visual experiences of recent years.  In another year Scorsese and his right-hand editor Thelma Schoonmaker might have reaped even more honours were "The Artist" not providing such stiff competition. Schoonmaker lost out to "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" which indeed was awash with some of the flashiest editing of the film year.  Good old Woody Allen won the award for best original screenplay (probably deservedly beating the largely silent "The Artist") and it was indeed a clever and amusing conceit.  Again Ms. Muir gets the wrong end of the stick by writing that anyone who has actually lived in Paris -- as she has -- would dismiss his film as a touristy hotchpotch; bah!!!


I was pleased to see the more-for-adults-than-kids "Rango" take the best animation Oscar, although personal prejudices prevented my warming to its super-scaly creatures.  I have yet to catch up with the short animations or the short and full-length documentaries, so I have nothing to add here.


As for the rest of the show Cirque Soleil provided an energetic mid-evening entertainment, making a change from listening to the nominated best songs -- more of a problem this year since only two were nominated.  What does this say about the general state of things?  I thought that much of the double-presenter introductions should have dropped their comic (and very unfunny) bits of business like Robert Downey Jr. pretending that he was shooting a documentary, Jay-Lo and Cameron D. showing off their backsides, Emma Stone striving to 'make a mark' in her first presenting gig, and Will Ferrell and Zach G. dressed as bandsmen, banging and dropping huge cymbals as they announced the music awards. What's wrong with just getting on with it?


Finally in response to the Twitter hoo-hah now going on about Angelina Jolie's leg, let me just finish by saying that there is nothing wrong with an unbronzed shapely white leg, but the rest of her body looked hideously unhealthy as if she was one of the starving orphans she befriends. 

Boring Boring Boring

It's hardly a case of my not having viewed a ridiculous number of movies in the last few weeks or indeed since last posting, but there is virtually nothing among them that encourages me to get particularly enthused.  Often when this is the case, I give you a run-down of most of what has filled my screen, but this week nearly all of it has been just too boring for words.


For a start let's briefly consider the dire selection of premiere screenings from Sky.  Big yawn here.  The first up was "Country Strong" (2010) a vanity piece from Gwyneth Paltrow who obviously fancies herself as a would-be country singer.  Here she plays a famous singer attempting a comeback after rehab for drink and various other problems.  It does not end happily!!!  Talking about not ending happily, another offering was an ensemble piece called believe it or not "Another Happy Day" (2011) produced by Ellen Barkin (among some 25 producers) and featuring her as a neurotic female returning with her second family to her parents' home for her estranged son's wedding.  Despite a potentially starry cast including Ellen Burstyn, George Kennedy, Thomas Haden Church, Demi Moore, Kate Bosworth, Ezra Miller, et. al., the problems of this dysfunctional family were embarrassingly dull and what was meant to be a happy day turned into a miserable one both for the family and we viewers.  No one could accuse "No Strings Attached" (2011) featuring mismatched couple Ashton Kutcher and Natalie Portman of setting out to be boring, but the inevitable ending of their falling in love despite themselves, rather than remaining 'sex-buddies', was predictable from the get-go. (I do wonder sometimes why Portman -- again a producer -- thinks that this kind of candyfloss will add to her reputation).


That leaves two more 'gems' from Sky this week.  The first of these was "Faster" (2010) starring Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson as an ex-con out for revenge, and although I only watched it a few days ago the details have slipped into a memory abyss -- perhaps I really slept through it! Finally there was the Australian concoction with the intriguing (but stupid) title of "Tomorrow When the War Began" (2010).  A diverse group of rural teenagers go camping to a remote beauty spot one weekend and return home to find their families missing, homes devastated, and the country invaded by a ruthless (but anonymous) enemy who need Australia's natural resources.  Yeah, yeah, yeah!  So this mismatched group become freedom fighters, managing to evade detection and sabotaging the enemy's resources. No ending to the film of course, since any final conclusion would be as unlikely as the whole scenario preceding it.


Even recently viewed foreign language films were something of a disappointment.  "Treeless Mountain" a Korean flick from 2008 sounded promising, but was rather uninvolving in its tale of two young sisters dumped on their somewhat cold aunt as their mother goes off in search of her ne'er do well husband, who in turn dumps them on their aged grandparents when the mother who had faithfully promised to return decides that she can no longer look after them. Somewhat better but far too long was the French film "Little White Lies" (2010) about a group of friends who always spend their holidays together going off as usual despite one of their number lying desperately ill in hospital after a motorcycle crash; it ended predictably in tears but was way too long in the telling. Then there was a Swedish vampire film called "Not Like Others" (2008) which was so very bad that I have now given away the recently acquired disc to bore someone else.


OK, there were a few re-views of oldies in the equation which are usually guaranteed to lift the ante.  "Murder He Says" a 1945 Fred MacMurray " 'hillbilly comedy' (a popular if improbable genre once upon a time) retained the odd amusing bit of business but was by and large too dated. "Knight without Armour" paired Marlene Dietrich and Robert Donat as a Russian aristo and an Englishman pretending to be a Russian revolutionary back in 1917, well put together with excellent production values, but now largely forgotten. Clint Eastwood is always entertaining in his Dirty Harry persona and continued as such in "Sudden Impact" (1983), the first time he directed himself in this role and featuring his love interest of the time, Sandra Locke (whatever happened to her?).  This is the film in which he first says 'Make my day' -- in fact he is so taken with the phrase that he says it twice!  The best of the bunch was "The Country Girl" (1954) which won Grace Kelly an Oscar for portraying the dowdy wife of alcoholic ex-bigtime crooner Bing Crosby as he attempts a comeback in William Holden's new play.  This was possibly Bing's best dramatic role ever, and although Oscar-nominated, he lost out to Marlon Brando's "On the Waterfront" that year.  If anything his performance was more Oscar-worthy than Kelly's which now seems just a tad over-affected and trying to impress by playing against type.  The whole enterprise based on an Odets stageplay was somewhat overblown but surprisingly popular at the time.


I won't even mention any of the disposable television movies that filled in the remainder of my viewing since none of them are really worthy of mention,  Like I said: BORING.

  

You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger (2010)

Rumour has it that most Hollywood 'stars' await a sometimes elusive phone call, the siren summons to appear in a Woody Allen film, much the same as they previously coveted a role in one of Robert Altman's marvelous ensemble dramas.  Despite paying well below their expected regular fees, there was always a certain cache to working with these two directors -- however uncommercial the resulting movie.  Consider the main cast in the above London-set film: Anthony Hopkins, Naomi Watts, Josh Brolin (looking rather pudgy), Antonio Banderas, Freida Pinto as well as a host of highly respected -- if not internationally starry -- British actors.  You would have every reason to expect something special. 

Now if you check back my reviews, you will find that I have always been an Allen advocate, always finding something worthwhile amongst his output even as they have become less and less fashionable.  A critical rallying cry for many of his more recent films has been "a return to form", a standard critique for nearly every other release, e.g. "Melinda and Melinda", "Vicky Christina Barcelona", "Midnight in Paris".    Whereas I have consistently enjoyed nearly all of them apart from the exception that proves the rule: "Hollywood Ending" (2002), a misfire which has just about disappeared off the earth.  However I am sorry to have to add the above film to the very short list of Allen confections which just haven't worked for me.

Despite the sparkling cast with their master-class acting, the movie is unusually cynically sour, very low on any sort of joy factor.  Gemma Jones plays wealthy Hopkins' discarded, but financially well-off wife, who finds her only comfort in the advice proffered by quack fortuneteller Pauline Collins.  He in turn is striving to recapture the virility of his youth by exercise and diet and is easily roped in by Lucy Punch's uncultured and scheming golddigger.  Their daughter Sally (Watts) is married to one-trick author Brolin who is unable to repeat the success of his first novel, forcing the couple into a hand-to-mouth existence, subsidised by Jones.  Watts works for established art gallery supremo Banderas whilst dreaming of opening her own gallery and possibly creating a spark in her boss' heart as well.  Brolin meanwhile becomes obsessed with the woman in red (Pinto) who has newly moved in across the block and works to establish a relationship with her although she is engaged to be married shortly; he also appropriates the scintillating manuscript that only he has read, written by a close friend 'killed' in a car accident, planning to pass it off as his own brilliant breakthrough.

Spoiler alert: everthing goes disastrously wrong for all of them bar Jones, as one by one their dreams are smashed.  Jones does not meet the tall, dark stranger promised by her guru, but she does meet a dumpy, widower who shares her interest in the occult and they eventually get it on once he has received approval from beyond the grave from his late wife.  Pinto breaks her engagement after falling for the soon-to-be successful Brolin who then discovers that his friend isn't in fact dead, but about to emerge from a coma.  The now separated Watts learns that Banderas isn't at all interested in her, but ready to divorce his wife for her close friend Anna Friel, and that Collins has advised Jones not to invest any money in the gallery her daughter demands.  Poor old Hopkins who sorely wants a son to replace one that he lost, soon discovers that his new bride may be pregnant but that the baby she is carrying is unlikely to be his.  He now realises what he has lost in Jones and begs her to take him back to provide the comfort he needs in his final years -- but too late, for she has found her own soulmate.  Yes, it's all about hopes and relationships, but the unusually bitter Allen seems to take pleasure here in smashing everyone's dreams into increasingly small smithereens.

This leaves the elusive, and I understand purportedly dreadful ,"Cassandra's Dream' (2007) as the only Allen movie I've not seen.  However, I have every confidence that each of his next annual releases will continue to rekindle my affections for a very long time to come.

The Five Pennies (1959)

It's probably a lifetime since I last watched this movie and I had forgotten what an effective combination of joyous music and tear-wrenching drama it is.  While it is almost certainly a bowdlerised biopic and not just a loosely-based recreation of the life of musician Loring 'Red' Nichols, it makes for a more than enjoyable film.  Now nearly totally forgotten, Nichols' touring jazz band in the 1930s furnished the first major gigs, if the movie is to be believed, for Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Benny Goodman, Gene Krupa, and many more legendary performers. However, at the height of his success, he packed it all in, while his former bandmates went on to great and enduring glory.

Nichols is played by Danny Kaye, one of moviedom's memorable clowns with his double-talking verbal facility and happy persona, but more is expected from him here.  We meet up with him as he arrives in New York from the wilds of Utah, his golden cornet at the ready, and his vaulting self-belief and ambition.  He marries the showgirl chanteuse Bobbie (actually called Willa with a mother in Brooklyn) played by a pert and resourceful Barbara Bel Geddes and seeks to support her by taking part in a number of novelty radio quartets -- gypsy, Russian, Hawaiian -- each of which he disrupts with his irrepressible musical talent.  Then he forms his first band and goes on the road with his now pregnant wife.  When their daughter Dorothy is born, she too joins the travelling circus with its late-night poker games and unsettled home life.  Eventually the couple reluctantly decide that she would be better off in a boarding-school while they continue their vagabond existence.  The net result is that birthdays and Christmas celebrations are missed and the sad little girl pines away.  One rainswept evening she runs into the school garden and becomes ill, developing polio (a child-killer with a vengeance back then).  Red and Bobbie are racked with guilt and rush to her side; over her iron lung doctors say the prognosis is poor and that even if she does recover, she will never walk again.  Red dissolves the band, stressing to his manager Tony (Harry Guardino) that nobody should be told the facts of the matter, and on a bridge he commits musical suicide by casting his beloved cornet into the murky waters below.

The little girl still loves her mother but blames her father for her misery, resisting all rehabilitative therapy, until the prospect of their own home -- "with our own towels" -- is promised.   This is where Kaye is called upon to prove that he can be a serious actor; he sacrifices his talent to take any number of ill-paid manual jobs to give his wife and growing daughter security -- but his underlying bitterness occasionally surfaces despite himself.  Mention should be made here of the young actress Susan Gordon, who plays Dorothy between the ages of six and eight; she gives a winning and refreshingly natural performance.  That she grows up to morph into Tuesday Weld as the 14-year old Dorothy is less interesting.  The teenaged Dorothy walks with a stick but is largely recovered and hardly knows anything about her dad's past.

And what a past it was!  The film resounds with renditions of popular hits from the period, although the Oscar-nominated song "Five Pennies" was written by Kaye's wife Sylvia Fine for this movie.  The highlights however revolve around Red's many meetings with Louis Armstrong (here playing himself) and their terrific duets with Kaye miming the sound performed by the real Nichols, but adding his own jazzy voice to his and Louis' verbal duets.  "When the Saints Come Marching In" has seldom been such a happy sound as it segues into "Frere Jacques" or "The Battle Hymn of the Republic".  Smiles all round!

Eventually Tony persuades Red to try a comeback in a small way, even if he is worried that he has lost his 'lip'.  His new quintet is booked into a small club and it looks like there will be no audience for this forgotten legend.  That's until all the old gang, led by Louis, come marching in -- and Dorothy casts aside her cane.  OK, it's a schmaltzy four-tissue ending, but none the less moving for all that.

The First Born (1928)

The above silent film was recently restored from an old nitrate print in the BFI's Archives fleshed out with missing footage from a George Eastman House 16mm print and it premiered at the last London Film Festival.  We thought about applying for tickets, but our experience with previous similar premieres put us off -- namely waiting for ages while all the invited so-called VIPs drifted in to take the best seats and then suffering through a plethora of self-congratulatory speeches before the film was actually screened.  So we waited for its first subsequent showing at the National Film Theatre.  Even so, the trio providing the music wandered in some many minutes late and we were then 'blessed' by some nearly inaudible remarks from one of the curators, which seemed to go on ad nauseum.  How one must suffer for one's pleasures -- ha! 

Anyhow, how was the film?  The answer is interesting but more than a little flawed despite the hoo-hah on its re-emergence.  The film was co-written and directed by Miles Mander, based on his own novel and play.  Mander was a colourful character who enjoyed a varied selection of careers, from sheepfarming in New Zealand in his twenties, then novelist, aviator, radio journalist, playwright, would-be politician, and actor.  He is probably best known as the latter when he relocated to Hollywood in the late 1930s and took on a number of showy roles often as a somewhat slimy villain. The other two leads in this movie also went on to Hollywood careers: Madeleine Carroll -- here dark-haired but best known as the blonde female lead in "The 39 Steps" (1935) -- and John Loder amongst the more wooden handsome leading men of his day.

The film's co-writer was Alma Reville, aka Mrs. Alfred Hitchock, and a flawed case could be made that this movie is on a par with Hitchcock's own early films.  It isn't!  Mander's directing debut has occasional inventive touches in the telling with the odd effective use of the camera, but by and large it is statically lensed in the old theatrical style.  The story concerns wealthy cad Mander married to Carroll; he goes off to Africa in disgust because she has been unable to provide him with a yearned-for man-child and enjoys his liaisons with dusky maidens.  In his absence she begins a flirtation with Loder and is encouraged by a vampish friend to do whatever might be necessary to furnish an heir for Mander and re-win his affections.  As luck would have it, her manicurist is 'in trouble' having been left in the lurch by the fellow who claimed he would marry her and Carroll convinces her to let her pass off the newborn child as her own.  Mander is immediately enthralled with the news and rushes back to the family home. Even after the couple subsequently manage to produce a second son, he is only interested in 'his' first-born.

However he is far from a reformed character and soon begins an affair with their mutual vampy friend, who knowingly hints that he may not be the child's father. Despite his decision to stand for Parliament in the area's "safe" seat, he and Carroll become more estranged and things come to the breaking point just before the election.  His sudden death down an open elevator shaft after an argument with his mistress is just about the only jump-in-your seat moment in this fairly stodgy film.  Carroll still refuses Loder's overtures thinking that Mander did truly love her in his heart of hearts, until the final (not unexpected) twist drives her into his arms.

This was another film-going experience in the category of "glad to have seen it, but once is enough".  One major problem is that despite his many would-be talents, Mander was just too inexpressive an actor to rise to the role he had written for himself -- fine in support, but not good enough for a lead.  Carroll was adequate, if not exciting, in the skimpy role provided, while Loder was well just Loderish.  Stephen Horne who wrote and performed the new score for the film showed his usual talent for bringing the silent screen to life -- except in this instance it was all just a bit too fortissimo and distracting to make the perfect merger of sound and image.

The Boy Friend (1971)

Since his death a few weeks ago, the BBC (but not any of the other channels) have shown several films, two of his brilliant musical biopics made for television, and a documentary in tribute to the flamboyant British director Ken Russell.  I have had mixed feelings about his feature films, previously only having acquired copies of "Billion Dollar Brain" (1967), "The Devils" (1971), and "Tommy" (1975) from his best British period, plus two unusual and fascinating movies from his brief flirtation with Hollywood: "Altered States" (1980) and "Crimes of Passion" (1984).  I did, not long ago for curiosity only, acquire a copy of "Lisztomania"(1975) which I found nearly unwatchable.  He remained prolific, against the odds, but unfortunately most of his more recent output, like "Fall of the Louse of Usher" (not a typo!) in 2002, was underfunded and amateurish. However I took the opportunity during the recent showings to revisit "Women in Love" (1969) -- Oscar glory for Glenda Jackson -- and the above film which I'd not seen in years.

Gosh I was pleasantly surprised.  On its release the critics turned against him en masse, accusing him of not only ruining Sandy Wilson's nostalgic, period stage musical (the breakout performance for Julie Andrews), but of singlehandedly jeopardizing the progress of British filmmaking.  It's actually a fine piece of work, as Russell opened out the original script to incorporate his own peculiar tribute to Hollywood musicals in general.  One reviewer on IMDb said that this movie is to musicals as "Blazing Saddles" is to westerns -- a good analogy. The basic story of a fourth-rate seaside troupe in the 1920s performing their cliched drama to a scant audience is supplanted by dreams of the lavish production that it might have been under the eye of someone like Busby Berkeley.  One critic went so far to criticise having Berkeley-like extravaganzas with their synchronised patterns in a period before they were 'invented'.  What nonsense, since Russell's dipping into the Busby heritage is nearly every bit as good as the work of the Master.

MGM originally acquired the rights to the stage show for a straight movie adaptation which was never made and no one was prepared for what the imaginative Mr. Russell could do with the same basic material.  While possibly a little too long with one too many musical numbers (the film was cut by nearly half an hour for its original release -- now thankfully restored), it is vintage and typical Russell with blazing wit and ultimately charm.  He was also criticised for his choice of cast, but model of the day Twiggy is actually remarkably good with a fine singing voice and not overly clumpy dancing when accompanied by the Royal Ballet dancer Christopher Gable, who also did the choreography. The larger than life stage actor Max Adrian is great fun as a has-been pompous performer.  The charismatic (normally villain) Polish actor Vladek Sheybal -- also showcased in "Women in Love"-- plays a visiting Hollywood producer whom the players strive to seduce with their not-so-remarkable talent.  The long-legged American dancer Tommy Tune is here part of the minor cast which also includes a number of British stalwarts, with only 'National Treasure' Barbara Windsor being a grating presence.  Finally as  favour to Russell, having refused a role in "The Devils" Glenda Jackson has a priceless cameo as the injured diva whose accident gives the assistant stage manager cum understudy Twiggy her first stage role.  You know the saying -- "go out there a youngster, but come back a star" or somesuch. 

All of the 30s musical cliches are present and correct, but Russell gives them such a cheerful spin that the movie ranks with his very best.  The man was capable of taking nearly any subject and presenting it in ways that would just never occur to lesser talents.  He may have been somewhat underestimated and dismissed in the past, but I think his creative reputation will continue to grow. 

Cold Fish (2010)

If you go back in my archives you will find a review in June 2011 for director Shion Sono's previous film "Love Exposure".  http://pppatty.blogspot.com/2011/06/not-in-english-language.html

I said at the time that I had only previously seen the director's weird 2007 flick "Hair Extensions" about mutant murderous hair (!) and that I really needed to explore his back catalogue, especially the well-thought of "Suicide Club" from 2000.  Well, I never did do anything about this, although I made a point of finding a copy of the above movie which carries on his particular brand of especially Japanese weirdness.  If the story were not loosely inspired by actual events, namely the so-called "Saitami serial murders of dog lovers", one would not begin to believe the perversities on display.

Instead of dog-lovers,  tropical fish enthusiasts have been substituted -- which is pretty strange for starters.  Our so-called hero Shamoto lives with his teenaged daughter and second young wife, whom he hastily wooed and married after his first wife's death; other than fish, his main interest is in the peace and tranquility that the local planetarium provides.  The two women hate each other with a vengeance and periodically come to violent blows.  They live and work in a small tropical fish store which Shamoto's wife faithfully tends, while the surly daughter shows her contempt both for the 'whore' that her father has married and for her dad as well.  One evening they receive a call that the youngster has been caught shoplifting and they hie off to the shop to try to resolve this embarrassing situation.  The shop manager is intransigent that the police should be called, but a persuasive customer called Yukio Murata convinces him to show lenience.  Murata is the proprietor of a rather swish tropical fish emporium and insists that the family, there and then, come with him to view his spectacular new species.  Partly because they are grateful that he has intervened on their daughter's behalf and partly because they are genuinely interested, they go with him.  And so begins a very bloody saga of manipulation and intimidation by the imposing and charismatic Murata.

For a start he convinces the pair to let the daughter come to live and work at his emporium together with an assortment of scantily-clad wayward young girls, looked after by his own attractive and nubile wife Aiko.  He next not so much seduces but rapes Shamoto's ripe wife, who it turns out actually likes a bit of masochistic violence. He tells her that he can make her husband rich if he becomes a partner in his enterprises, and eager to please her, Shamoto arranges to meet with him. At his office he finds Murata's slimy lawyer and a would-be client whom they convince to give them 10 million yen for a very exotic specimen.  Although the client is dubious, he is impressed with Shamoto's appearance and earnestness and hands over the dosh; no sooner is this done than Aiko brings in a poisoned drink and the four of them stand by and watch the punter slowly die in agonising pain.  Shamoto is horrified, but he is too weak a character and too intimidated by Murata's threatening behaviour, that he not only does not contact the police, but timidly helps to wrap the body, load it in his car, and drive Murata and Aiko to their family cottage in the woods (loaded inexplicably with Christian religious statuary and icons).  There he watches in horror as the two of them joyfully dismember the corpse in rivers of blood, strip and burn the bones to ash, and cut the flesh into meat-size chunks (a treat for gore-whores) to feed to the fish in a nearby stream -- making the corpse "invisible" according to Murata, who adds that this is the 58th time he has done this.  

Worried for his wife and daughter he is truly at Murata's beck and call, and again assists with the disposal of the murdered lawyer (he had become too greedy) and his driver, who are dispatched after Aiko lures the fat and ugly man into an extended session of kinky nooky which the driver is ordered to watch. On the return journey -- after feeding the local fishes -- Murata forces Shamoto to have sex with Aiko. As he climaxes, something snaps and he stabs her in the neck, then turning the force of his repressed fury on her husband.  He returns the wounded woman to the cottage to dispose of this new corpse in the usual bloody way.  He goes home a changed and violent man, forcing himself on his wife knowing that she has been with Murata and bashing his daughter about, before telling the police to meet them at the cottage for the film's thundering and gory denouement.

I was not at all familiar with any of the actors, but they all gave themselves over to the perversities called for with apparent abandon.  I have never seen so much gratuitous nudity in a mainstream film and somewhat unusually both of the lead actresses were more generously endowed than one expects Japanese ladies to be and the director merrily exploited their buxomness.  I do not think that this movie could have been made in anything but its Far Eastern setting, so a Hollywood remake is thankfully unlikely. However, I must confess that the film certainly worked its perverse charm for me, despite its leisurely running time.  I really MUST look more closely at the director's other work... 

Hereafter (2010)

One hardly knows what to expect from a Clint Eastwood-directed film.  The 81-year old director seems to have no trouble keeping up his incredible pace of roughly one new movie per year -- but unlike his earlier output of westerns and thrillers, he now seems eager to try his hand on a surprising variety of subjects.  Since his geriatric comedy "Space Cowboys" in 2000, he has given us the impressive Pacific war diptych of "Flags of our Fathers" and "Letters from Iwo Jima", a Nelson Mandela biopic "Invictus", and now this meditation on mortality -- possibly not a surprising subject for a man of his years.  It has, however, proved to be something of a disappointment to his faithful fans, being a leisurely and somewhat flawed examination of the afterlife,  presented with a minimum of mysticism and a maximum of matter-of-factness.

The film reunites Eastwood with one of his previous film's leads, the ever-so-busy Matt Damon, who plays blue-collar worker George in San Francisco, running away from his previous notoriety and troubling career as a pyschic able to communicate with the past and the deceased.  Meanwhile in Paris, we have hotshot television  journalist Marie, Cecile De France, becoming increasingly troubled by her miraculous escape from death during a Far Eastern tsunami while on holiday with her lover/producer, where she experienced visions of near-death.  While in London we have the sad tale of devoted young twins Marcus and Jason, trying to avoid being taken into care as they scheme to protect their beloved drug-addicted mother.  When Jason -- the more voluble of the two -- is killed by a car trying to escape from a street gang after his mobile phone, Magnus is placed with foster parents.

Meanwhile back in San Francisco George is made redundant and is pressured by his brother, Jay Mohr, to resume his lucrative career as a psychic.  In Paris, Marie is encouraged to take leave from her stressful job to write a book -- purportedly on Mitterand but ultimately on her fascination with life after death.  And in London poor little Magnus wants to reconnect with his dead brother, but finds no help from the psychic charletons that abound.  About the only thing that keeps this film moving is wondering how in the world the three strands of the tale will ever merge, and Eastwood certainly takes his time doing this -- which is where he lost so many of his viewers who found the procedings tedious.  For example, we follow George's attendance at a evening-school cookery class where a potential romance with fellow student Bryce Dallas Howard becomes something of a McGuffin after she pesters him for a psychic reading and he reveals parts of her past which she would prefer to forget. Marie becomes totally absorbed in her research, driving off to Switzerland to interview Marthe Keller's clinician, and ultimately finds that her publishers are not the least bit interested in the book that she has produced and that her boyfriend has found a new squeeze in the meantime.  And Magnus who keeps running away from his foster home, finds himself narrowly escaping a bombing on the London Underground when Jason's hat which he has taken to wearing blows off on the crowded platform and in his need to retrieve it just misses getting on the fatal carriage.

So how does this all pull together after some 100 minutes of exposition?  George escapes from his greedy brother's scheme and uses his redundancy money to visit London, it previously having been established that he is a big Charles Dickens fan.  Claire finds an English publisher for her manuscript and goes to London to promote the volume at a major book fair, which George is also visiting to hear Derek Jacobi read Dickens.  And poor old Magnus is dragged to the same venue by his foster parents to see one of their previous foster children who is now a successful author; there he recognizes George from the photo on his defunct website and follows him back to his hotel, standing outside in the cold until George takes pity on him, touches his hand, and gives him the will to carry on living without Jason.  The grateful child uses his computer skills to find out where Claire is staying in London, having observed that George was very taken with her at the fair, and sets up the final action for a boy-gets-girl happy ending -- all something of a dramatic contrivance from the writer of the original screenplay, Peter Morgan.

While it is largely an intelligent movie, which held my interest despite its longeurs, on balance it seems like something of a misfire from Eastwood, who also composed the film's not so special music. He makes interesting use of the locations in the three cities, particularly in London, although he slightly ruined the reality for us natives by fabricating a non-existent entrance to the tube station at Charing Cross -- which incidentally was not one of the stations hit by terrorist explosions.  After some impressive early scenes of the devastating tsunami (played out in French with subtitles!), the action slows down to a leisurely stroll into the problems of our three geographically separate protagonists and I can understand why only the more forgiving viewer would stick with the slow plod toward the movie's denouement.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)

Having seen the original Swedish film from 2009 twice, as well as the two sequels, and having read all three books, I expected David Fincher's American remake to verge on the superfluous.  I must confess, however, that he has made a thoroughly enjoyable film.  I have liked but not gone overboard on his previous films, with the possible exception of "Benjamin Button" in 2008, but he has brought a professional gloss to this remake which was somehow lacking in the Swedish original.  The first film was very involving and completely entertaining, but as I said at the time not exactly a particularly fine example of moviemaking -- rather more like a long and definitely superior television movie.  What Fincher has accomplished is to bring his cinematic skills to the tale's exposition, as well as providing a product for those cinema-goers who either don't like reading or who definitely don't like reading subtitles.

His version often benefits from having more recognizable actors in the main cast.  Frankly, while he does a perfectly adequate job, Daniel Craig -- despite his James Bond popularity -- brings nothing new to the lead role of Blomkvist the disgraced journalist hired to solve the Vanger family mystery.  Rooney Mara, on the other hand, gives a daring spin to Noomi Rapace's excellent punk hacker Lisbeth Salander -- not that she was widely known before this role -- and it should be a career-boosting performance.  It is with the major supporting roles that familiarity helps, particularly with Stellan Skarsgard's snarling villain, as well as starry turns from Christopher Plummer, Robin Wright, and Joely Richardson.  Interestingly enough Fincher chose to film the flick in its original Swedish setting, rather than moving the action Stateside, and the bulk of the supporting cast are indeed Swedish, although there is little consistency amongst the large cast as to who would and who would not speak the dialogue accented.

Fincher and his screenwriter Steven Zaillian have taken certain liberties with the original text, which need not upset the purists in the audience.  In particular they have ignored the fact that Blomkvist is awaiting a prison sentence for libel.  Secondly they have included some add-nothing scenes with the daughter from his dissolved marriage -- apparently as a result of discovering that one of the actresses on set was the real daughter of the original lead Michael Nyqvist.  Most importantly they have changed the ending of the mystery, although surprisingly this does not seem to detract in any way.  They could also be accused of having glammed up the locations -- the Millennium magazine offices in particular are a heck of a lot swisher than the rather basic original setting.  They have also included some rather more explicit sexual scenes than are perhaps needed, but together with the flashy cutting between scenes of the ongoing action, these keep the viewer riveted to the exposition. The only complete misfire was the strange attempt to link the serial killer's victims to anti-Semitism, since not only Jewish females have biblical-sounding names.

I understand that the movie has been doing patchy business in the States and may not be considered sufficiently successful to warrant the two sequels.  In a way this is a shame, since Fincher has done a commendable job at liberating the story from its arthouse audience.  Part of the problem seems to be that the movie was released during the run-up to Christmas, where less black and more family-friendly films are the popular norm.  It is also possibly too long for holiday viewing and suffers from an absence of big marquee names to draw in the punters.  A different release date might have found the wider audience that this movie definitely deserves.

A review of re-views

Since there was so little new of interest on the box I found myself re-watching a number of previously seen flicks with surprisingly mixed reactions -- some movies seem to age reasonably well (and not just the so-called 'classics') while others are even more boring the second time around.  Let's consider one from each category:

Love Actually (2003):  I asked my house guests if there was any one movie from my sprawling collection that they would like to see and the l2-year old in the party asked for this title which I gather she had seen previously at a friend's house.  It turns out that the film actually has a 15 certificate and should not be viewed by anyone under that age.  Ha!  One forgets that most 12-year-olds nowadays are 12 going on 25...  Incidentally her younger sister put on a pair of earphones to block out the many 'naughty' words.

Anyhow the film has held up reasonably well although in the great scheme of things it could be considered a contemporary movie.  Like so many subsequent and lesser films like "Valentine's Day" and the dreadful "New Year's Eve", it is a compendium of a number of 'love' stories in the broadest sense of the term;  we follow the paths of the various characters as they cross and interact in the run-up to Christmas week.  Some of these stories are far better than others and one or two were so dreary that I had forgotten about them completely like the nude couple pretending to make love in increasingly convoluted positions for a sex education video.  (Not what I would have selected for l2-year viewing).  Some tales verged on the stupid like the sex-starved Australian who decides to spend the holidays in Milwaukee where he thinks all the nubile young American chicks will fall for his 'cute English accent'.  However there were sufficient strands amongst the balance to make happy viewing.

In particular, veteran actor Bill Nighy found a break-out role as a washed-up pop singer trying to flog one of his old hits as a potential Christmas Number One.  Each time his story was picked up smiles were guaranteed.  Then there was the rather sweet tale of writer Colin Firth discovering that his live-in girlfriend has been having it away with his brother, going off to write at a cottage in Provence, and falling for his Portuguese housekeeper -- and she for him although neither could communicate in the other's language.  Amusement too could be found in the strand of  floppy-haired Hugh Grant's newly-elected bachelor Prime Minister falling for one of his staff but appalled to catch her in an embrace with the visiting U.S. President -- Billy Bob Thornton eschewing Bill Clinton.  Then there was another heart-warming tale as recently widowed Liam Neeson bonds with his young son who is desperate to make an impression on a girl in his class who is about to return to America. Not all of the stories were light-hearted: there was Emma Thompson discovering that hubby Alan Rickman has succumbed to the office minx and poor old Laura Linney desperate to connect with one of her co-workers but forever at the beck and call of her mentally ill brother.  On balance, however, this was an inspired choice for all of us -- except probably the children!

The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964):  I have never been terribly taken with any of the run of Epic sagas that were spawned in the '50s and '60s as the studios' response to the threat of television.  Their theory was to look to historical subjects on the wide, wide screen, with lush costuming, big music, extravagant set pieces, and a cast of 1000s.  Initially such films did well and were considered suitable viewing for a family day out, but as tastes changed and movie-going gradually became the preserve of the younger generation, the studios began to find diminishing returns.  A notorious example was the out-of-control cost-spiraling extravaganza that became Elizabeth Taylor's "Cleopatra" (1963).  The crunch finally came with this movie which cost somewhere between 16 and 20 million dollars (big bucks in those days) and took a mere 2 million at the U.S. box office.

However with a cast that includes Alec Guinness, James Mason, Omar Sharif, and Christopher Plummer, I thought to myself 'how bad can it be?'.  I noted that it was directed by Anthony Mann who was responsible for a wonderful run of James Stewart westerns and normally a very reliable helmsman.  Well, all I can tell you is that it was something of an overblown snorefest.  Despite having one of the largest sets ever built and inhabiting it with a gazillion extras (real people in the days before CGI crowds), it was about as exciting as watching gladiators fight a flock of sheep or goats rather than lions. Added to the distinguished names above whose histrionics ranged from superb (Guinness) to autopilot (Mason and Sharif) to towering over the top (Plummer's new Caesar declares himself to be an infallible god),  we have Sophia Loren substantially out of her depth as the virtuous love interest and the ever-so bland Stephen Boyd as our goody-two-shoes hero, very much the poor man's Charlton Heston (and I even find Heston hard to take).  No point my going into the ins and outs of the story except to say that it took some three hours to relate and left me thankful that the Roman Empire was very definitely about to fall.  Hopefully forever...

On a cheery note, let me close with my best wishes for a happy, healthy, and peaceful New Year with a lot of more satisfying movie-viewing to come.